The morning light filtered in through the wide-set windows of the tavern, catching dust motes that drifted lazily through the air like tired dancers. The scent of old embers, dried herbs, and spiced mead still lingered faintly, clinging to the worn wooden beams overhead. It was a quiet time—the hush that came after a night of laughter, stories, and stomping boots.
Renata moved through it like a shadow.
Tall, with the same broad shoulders and squared jaw that marked her as kin to Brux, though her frame bore a more elven grace—refined, sinewy, sharp. Her movements were methodical, efficient, and near silent as she worked, collecting abandoned mugs and sweeping up the remnants of celebration from the night before. Her dark hair had been pulled back in a braid that coiled low at her back, and not once did she pause to fidget or fuss.
There was a stillness to her, the kind that filled a room rather than shrank into it. She didn’t hum, didn’t sigh, didn’t mutter to herself like many did during morning chores. Her presence was steady and grounding, like the tavern itself recognized her as one of its bones.
As she righted the chairs and scrubbed down the long wooden bar, her thoughts were already drifting ahead.
Second day of High Tide, she thought. Should be a busy one.
She paused briefly near the front windows, wiping down the glass with the hem of a cloth and glancing out toward the boardwalk just beyond. The lanterns from the night before had long since drifted away into the sky or been scooped up by the bay winds. Already, vendors were beginning to set up anew, and the faint sound of strings being tuned hinted that music wouldn’t be far behind. This night would be her chance to go out and explore seeing as Nova was due to cover the shift. Each of them taking turns doing so.
Already one knew what the evening would bring—more laughter, more revelry, more spilled drinks and exhausted feet seeking a quiet stool to rest upon. There would be messes, of course. There always were. But she didn’t mind.
With a small huff of breath, she turned back to her work, rolling up her sleeves as she returned to wiping down the last of the tables. The tavern needed to be spotless before the crowd arrived. Before the magic and madness of another night set in.
Renata didn’t smile—but there was a flicker of something satisfied in her eyes. Knowing that she would have to put the coffee on shortly for those patron’s that would rise and would be looking for the means of hot drink to ripen their slumbering selves back into existence.
At least morning didn’t come with a hangover.
It didn’t come with Archimedes either.
As she lay there with the morning sun creeping in through the open window, lending dust mote and shadow to cast interesting shapes all across the room, Calia came to some quick decisions. She was not a woman who would sit around twiddling her thumbs and waiting to see what would happen next. Damn, she’d never been had she? Calia would wake up and pick herself up from where ever she landed and she would charge forward. She would find a way.
In this case, in this moment she knew something was wrong. With those echoed words of that sparkling fae tree, living wild and free in the forest, she’d said to fear when she didn’t notice the connection at all and look what happened. Coincidence, maybe, but this was a problem.
Without the tether, Calia couldn’t access his demon magic or the arcane, but it didn’t mean she was without some natural talents. It seemed like every other day she was starting to recognize little hidden parts of herself, gifts that came from what she was, not the magic she was able to wield. She could fast travel – albeit with consequences. She could tap into the magic of a fae tree freely given. In theory all she had to do was find a sort of magic she could physically touch and use. Then she could track him down.
Worst case? She could reach and use the magic of her own heart, then deal with the pain that followed.
And if it turned out he wasn’t in trouble at all, at least she would know instead of being in this flux of nowhere space.
Calia rose herself out of bed and the first thing she did was wash off all that damn sand. Off her body, out of her clothes, free of her hair. It did leave her just a little bit damp, but all would dry quick enough in the warm salty sea air. On setting herself straight again, she headed on down the stairs to the tavern proper, intending to just leave directly, but a robust scent of something brewing was an alluring thing, especially when it could fuel what was going to be a very interesting day.
The tavern had begun to stir. Though it was still early, the scent of roasted beans and wood polish filled the air, and a small handful of early risers—mostly fishermen and weary festivalgoers—clustered at tables near the windows. The morning light slanted through the glass, casting long golden bars across the floor.
Renata moved among them like mist over the forest. She carried a tray of earthenware mugs with practiced ease, the rich steam of fresh-brewed coffee curling up into the air in lazy wisps. Her quiet footsteps made barely a sound as she approached a table of regulars, nodding once to a toothless man who lifted a shaky hand in greeting. With a calm grace, she set down their drinks, refilled an empty cup, and moved on with a small dip of her head.
It was then that her eyes caught a flicker of movement near the back corner.
The human girl that Nova had taken out the night prior. And the one her father mentioned vaguely wasn’t just someone that was no one. Not entirely sure what he had meant about that but hadn’t found the desire or the nerve to ask. He tended to know things that likely people shouldn’t.
As the woman had become the newest patron in the tavern, it was up to her to approach. With a tin canister of the heady brew, it was only natural to of course query whether the young black haired woman wanted something. General hospitality of the Driftwood Haven.
There was something highly curious about Calia. Outside the fact that she was quite stunning looking woman. It was something more, a hush just beneath her usual energy, like a firebank left smoldering. Renata didn’t speak immediately. She simply watched for a moment—measured, without judgement—then stepped closer with that same untold grace.
She didn’t ask about the festival, or what mischief had passed under starlight. Instead, her voice was barely above a whisper, low and soft and warm in the morning air.
“Would you like some coffee?” she asked, as though the offer were a gentle kindness meant only for Calia. Her dark eyes held something quiet, something calm. Like she understood that sometimes, the best start to a morning was simply a cup of coffee offered without a single expectation.
Calia was not one who tended to think ahead, to plan, plot or scheme. She came down the inn side of the tavern steps looking as she always did, dressed in those all black traveling clothes and leather armor pieces, having the look of a person who was doing their darndest to puzzle together her only two braincells to make some sort of sense of the world. Moments like this had her thinking the universe was cruel indeed giving all this power to someone that was too stupid to figure their way out of simple problems, but at least she was aware that was more frustration talking than anything else.
She followed her nose to the fresh brewed coffee, giving a bright smile to the daughter of Brux.
“Yes, thank you,” she greeted, accepting the cup and taking an immediate drink, following it with a soft sigh. Migrating herself to a seat while casually watching the woman going about her morning work. Having no real reason to do so, other than her appearance reminding her of the tavern’s owner liking for discovered info.
There was a starting point she could work with, Calia thought. When she was young and trying to figure out why she was a magical little weirdo, her first means of searching had been snooping around the capitol into anything and anywhere she could get her hands and body into. There hadn’t been much magical in those discoveries, but she sure did uncover all kinds of hidden back allies, gossip, and other queer findings. Here in Edelguard, in a seaport town, she was bound to find a lot more useful things. Multitasking as it were, to bring tidbits of offerings for those that were kindly treating her well, while looking for what she needed.
And with one idea came another, likely not to lead anywhere, but she did turn in her chair, draping her arm over the back of it while she glanced for the girl.
“Renata?” she called out in question. “Would the temple here have a faerie tree in their gardens?”
Renata paused mid-step, Calia’s question making her glance over with a thoughtful expression. The morning buzz carries on around them—murmured greetings, the scrape of a chair, a bit of laughter from the back where someone’s already on their second cup.
Folding a cloth over her arm, speaking softly as she made her way back behind the counter.
“The temple doesn’t have a fae tree,” she spoke gently. “It’s not Gaia’s place, really. It’s… more for the sea. Isyn.” With a quiet voice, almost in a state of reverance. “Salt, tides, and stone more than roots and green things.”
Renata glanced toward the window, watching the pale morning light stretch across the docked boats.
“I wish I could say where the nearest fae tree is. Maybe further inland, or… deep woods past the ridge. Father may know more if you want to know. Or Nova. My apologies.” She offered Calia a small, apologetic smile and while drifting back out to set down a fresh mug to one of the patrons that had been waiting patiently.
“No, it’s okay. I was just curious.”
It’d been a longshot, Calia knew. So it was no surprise to hear that there wasn’t a fae tree directly associated with this sea town. However, as she sat there sipping on the hot brew, cradling the mug between her hands, it did make her consider what made this place so different from the other elven villages she’d visited so far.
Everywhere else the magic resided in the trees and the earth. Deep ancient forests and within the roots buried in the ground. Here on the coast where forest met the sea, there was a different sort of feel to it. The ocean more massive than anything she’d ever seen, just as ancient as the trees and teeming with it’s own life hidden there under the waves.
Just as natural as any other element she’d ever touched finger too and it was huge.
Calia just didn’t know where she was going with those thoughts yet.
Maybe a new vantage point would help her figure it out. That lighthouse was starting to sound like a good idea again.
A little less disgruntled now that she had something in her stomach and finally grasping at something concrete to work with, the mountain princess sat back in her seat to finish off her mug of coffee with a smug little smile.
Renata listened, her gaze soft and thoughtful, but when no clear answer comes, she just offerred Calia a gentle shrug. Her shoulders lift barely an inch, hands already busy with wiping down the counter, setting out clean plates for the next wave of early risers.
She didn’t speak again—just gave a quiet little nod, the kind that says sorry, wish I could help, before turning away to check the kitchen.
The front door creaked itself open, temporarily pulling Renata’s attention. Short as it was due to the broad man stepping through, letting in a burst of cool morning air and the scent of sea brine.
“Ah, there she is,” comes a voice, low and gravel-warmed—Brux, unmistakable in both size and presence, stomping a bit of salt from his boots as he enters. “Bright and early, Calia. Or just never went to bed?”
Schooling her expression so she didn’t look like some rowdy child about to skip her lessons and go menacing the town, Calia greeted Brux with a smile. Already finishing up her mug of coffee to be bringing herself to a stand.
“An early rise. I’ve had my day on the ocean, now it’s time to… browse the town.” Of course with the way she said it, it absolutely sounded like she was going to get up to trouble and at the moment she didn’t have a care on whether or not she alarmed anyone. Until she figured out how to reach her stupid missing demon, Calia was very much about to be a new kind of problem. Like a big fat raccoon running around digging in everyone’s trash and business.
“Maybe visit a few shops looking for mantle knick-knacks… visit that temple garden. Find out smugglers keep all the good stuff. That sort of thing.”
It was a joke… at first. Hunting down where smugglers were running their operations also could turn up something useful too. What a wonder coffee could do for waking up the brain and letting new ideas slip through!
Not bothering to duck behind the bar just yet, he slouched against a support beam and scrubbed a hand down his face. Renata passed behind him with a tray and an arched brow, muttering something under her breath that sounded suspiciously like “You’re late.” Brux waved her off without looking.
“‘Browse the town,’ you say?” he repeated, mimicking her tone with a smirk curling at the corner of his mouth. “That sounds… suspiciously vague. But sure. If you’re looking for mantle knick-knacks, I’d suggest old Virmel down by the docks—his shop’s half barnacle, half curse, but he’s got trinkets that bite back. Very charming. Or—there’s the sisters near the mill, the ones who carve faces into teacups. Very unsettling. You’d love it.” Pretending to be the ever so helpful barkeep that knew his in’s and out’s of the town. Nothing more than aiding a tourist!
He shifted his weight, eyes narrowing slightly in mock thought.
“And if you’re set on temple gardens and potentially pissing off smugglers before noon, I imagine your day’s already better than mine. Just don’t trade your boots for a cursed spoon or start a cult.” He gave her a lazy, lopsided grin.
“Let the town tremble before your curiosity. I’ll pretend I don’t know you until someone comes asking. I ain’t really the storyteller or fabricator. So if yah need an alibi for later, you ought to wait for Nova. Sure as hell she could create some masterpiece of nonsense that someone would buy.”
Well those all sounded like a bunch of weird suggestions, that honestly did pique her interest just for the sake of being strange and igniting her imagination. Leaving the mountain princess to examine him with curiosity along with his interactions with Renata before her face bloomed into the very picture of false innocence.
“Luckily I am not intending to get up to any crime,” she mused out loud. Calia had no intentions of breaking in anywhere or stealing anything. Now, if doors were unlocked and no one was watching, it wouldn’t hurt to do a little wandering. Maybe a little mischief at most if it were necessary.
Without any more reasons to linger, Calia gave a wiggle of her fingers as a goodbye. Making a completely average exit out the door, despite the fact there was this lingering want to be a little theatrical about it. Wondering to herself if Nova’s nonsense and Arc’s drama was starting to rub off on her and now she was going to grow into one of those mages that went around billowing their capes and making lightning strike every time they passed through a threshold.
Her first objective would be the lighthouse, partially for curiosity’s sake but mostly because she wanted that bird’s eye view of the sea and to see just how far she could stretch her senses. The same might be done simply by climbing up one of the giant redwoods, but Calia figured the lighthouse would be much closer to the ocean itself and surly the view would be worth it even if it inevitable came to nothing.
The cell reeked of rot, sulfur, and the iron-sweet tang of dried blood. Chains bound his limbs, biting into skin and muscle with runes designed to suppress lesser demons. It had taken him far too long to clue into that. Heart demons were in fact lesser demons. If they didn’t take and devour other demon’s hearts. Typically higher rank. And this bastard had assumed, he hadn’t done that. It went to tell that he had successfully been so unremarkable in the hells that someone wasn’t paying attention, or they assumed he hadn’t climbed to at least a third rank.
The shackles pulsed dimly around Arc’s wrists, sizzling faintly where they touched his skin—designed to break power, bind magic, sever bonds.
And they had, mostly. He couldn’t feel Calia. Couldn’t feel much of anything, really. His elven blood made pain burn slow and deep, and his demon half… well, that part of him didn’t bleed. It simmered. It waited. It watched.
Arc lay sprawled in the dark corner of the cell like a discarded trophy. Bruised. Bloodied. Left horn broken. Eye swollen shut. Ribs caved in just enough to remind him of every breath. But the other eye—sharp, wicked, ancient—was smiling.
“Y’know,” he muttered, voice hoarse, dry as cracked stone. “For a second-rank demon, yer really leanin’ hard on the brute force thing. What, did no one teach yah subtlety from whatever asshole yah crawled out of?” The creature across the room—eight feet of muscle, bone plating, and hate—growled. Deep and low. It understood enough to be insulted. Seeming to take his sass as that indication that they had not yet beaten him enough to comply. Or even to shut up.
Arc shifted slightly, wincing. The movement drew attention, just as he wanted. The creature approached. Heavy footfalls echoing like war drums. It reached for him again with one clawed hand, slow and cruel.
That was the mistake. They’d spent so long doing this song and dance that clearly, the bastard hadn’t thought about the fact that one would be wise to notice how this all was almost repetitive. It wasn’t getting answers from him and he wasn’t about to give in either. No matter how much he wanted too. With it approaching, he moved.
Not with magic—it was still severed—but with something older. A flick of his foot, drawing the shard of bone he’d pried loose from a previous ribcage visit. Hidden beneath his own leg, soaked in blood to mask scent. The demon didn’t see it. It didn’t feel it, not until Arc jammed it up and under the soft joint behind the knee, where the chitin didn’t quite cover.
The howl was deafening. And he was using it as the opening he needed. Lunging forward, dragging the weight of his body against the chain just enough to snap the runes over his wrist—he’d spent time weakening the silver with his own blood, acidic and subtle from his demonic lineage.
The moment it cracked, he felt it. The flow of magic. Not a river, not yet—but a stream. Just enough.
With a hiss of words moving in his skull, formed in the old tongue—sharp and snapping like lightning—he called to the stone. The iron shackles rusted instantly, crumbling like dried leaves. He rose.
Barefoot. Blood running in trails down his stomach. Eyes like molten energy, bright and hungry. “Yah be lookin’ like a nightmare,” Arc rasped, spitting blood to the side. “Unfortunately for yah, we share the same demonic heritage.”
With no further warning, the beast lunged.
The first blow shook the room. The demon’s fist slammed into the stone where he’d had been a heartbeat before, pulverizing the floor. Arc twisted, ribs shrieking in protest, and rolled under the creature’s leg. Planting his bare feet and launched upward, delivering a vicious elbow into the soft joint beneath its jaw. Rewarded with a deliciously wondrous sound of bone cracking.
The demon snarled and retaliated with a backhanded swing. Catching it with his forearm—magic surging back just enough to let create a small barrier to absorb the impact—but it still however, launched him across the room. He hit the wall hard, the sound sharp and wet, and dropped to his knees.
Everything hurt.
But he grinned, blood slicking his teeth. “Did that one hurt yah, too? Or just yer pride?”
The demon bellowed and charged.
Arc raised both hands, finding the incantation within his thoughts. Giving it life. Vines erupted from the walls—not natural ones, but ones made of jagged ironwood and glowing sigils. They caught the demon mid-charge, coiling around limbs and torso like constricting serpents. The creature thrashed, snarling, fire spilling from its mouth and eyes.
“Didn’t think I noticed yer weak point,” Arc murmured, staggering to his feet, every step agony. “Right below that third rib on the left—armor’s thin there. Probably where that sorry excuse for a heart beats.” He conjured a blade—not steel, but bone grown from his own forearm. Black and veined with red light, curved like a fang. He limped forward, fast as he could manage, ignoring the taste of copper in his mouth and the dizziness clouding his vision.
The demon broke free. With a screaming roar that rattled the air, it surged forward, claws extended, eyes burning. He didn’t dodge, not like there was time too anyways. So one had to meet it head-on. Forcing them to collided like thunder. The demon slammed into him, claws renting into his side, but he in reply, plunged the bone blade into the precise gap in its ribs. A burst of fire erupted from the wound, and Arc roared through gritted teeth as the creature dragged him with it, slamming him into the floor.
But he didn’t let go.
Instead, he drove claws down deep into the wound, forcing it open, elbow-deep now in molten blood and boiling flesh. The beast shrieked—an unholy sound that shook the walls—as he wrenched.
And there it was. The heart.
Burning. Pulsing. Alive.
With a roar of his own, Arc twisted, used his full weight, and tore the thing free with a sickening rip. Blood, thick as tar and hot as a forge, sprayed across his chest and face.
The demon gurgled, staggered, and dropped like a mountain falling. Limbs twitched once. Twice. Then silence.
Arc collapsed to his knees beside the corpse, the heart still pulsing in his hand, searing into his palm—but he held it, eyes wild, teeth bared in a grin that wasn’t sane anymore. “That’s the difference,” he whispered to the empty room, chest heaving. “Yah beat me like a mortal. I killed yah like a demon.” And this… was going to be a fine little reward for the utter torture that had been submitted against him.
It would’ve been nice to truly appreciate this seaside town for what it was. With summer soon around the corner, the air was pleasantly warm with a nice salty breeze. Not a single cloud marred the day’s sky, which had to be good luck for sailors and fishermen who were setting out onto their ocean journeys. Being the second day of this High Tide Festival, plenty of people were out and about walking the docks to enjoy the sorts of crafts and activities that weren’t usually part of the daily fare.
Calia found breakfast there in the form of some sort of steam fish dumpling, strange but satisfying and sure to give her enough of a boost of energy to do her snooping. With a little bit of chatting along the boardwalk she’d learned that the place she thought would be the lighthouse was actually the temple to Isyn, with it’s big tower being reminiscent of a lighthouse for obvious reasons. The place she wanted to visit would require a good walk down the beachside and then up some steep stone stairway, else if she didn’t mind the scenic route, she could follow a road that was meant for carts and elders with old creaky joints for a much less grueling incline.
Of course she went by way of stone steps. Calia was young and had stamina for days.
It was a lot of gods be damned steps, though and she found out very quickly that it wasn’t likely that anyone really used them anymore at all. Many were slippery from sea spray until she got high enough, and then she simply had to watch her step and be wary of loose rocks. With no guard rail along one side, the entire stairway felt like a death trap waiting to happen. Was this once supposed to be the fast way up? The ritualistic way? Hell if Calia could tell and by the time she finally reached the top, she didn’t much care anymore.
The lighthouse itself sat perfectly on the edge of this grand hill and cliffside. A perfect vantage point for ships out at sea to be able to see the glowing light. In the evenings prior she’d been able to just barely see it glowing from the town, when there wasn’t buildings in the way of the view. Here in the day time it was just a tall, imposing figure made of stone and plaster, with a little home and a few sheds attached. Likely for the Keeper who maintained the light all night.
Brux had mentioned that the place would be busy due to items needed for the festival being stored here and she could see the signs of it. The deep groves in the ground where carts came up and down. Things weren’t so bustling now, when most had already been taken down to the docks, though she could see barrels and boxes and smell a small hint of gunpower in the air. It dawning on her that they must’ve kept things like firework displays up here just in case of accidents to prevent all the docks and ships down below from going up in flames should some idiot be too loose with fire.
Calia kept herself out of the way and out of sight, not intending to be a disturbance for anyone or cause trouble. Knowing easy enough how to move and where to step behind something to remain unnoticed. Not skulking around like some creeper out to cause mayhem, because that was never inconspicuous! Simply behaving as she belonged there while making sure she didn’t cross into anyone’s line of sights either.
Sneaking into the place would’ve been far too tricky, so the mountain princess rounded the base of the lighthouse until she found a good angle where no one was likely to notice her. Then with very careful means of grip and step, she found little groves in the stone and plaster to help climb her way up. Not a simple feat by any means as many times she had to pause, regroup, and shimmy herself around to different places to keep heading upwards. A strong ocean wind whipped up the higher she got and that began to make things difficult as well. Luckily, someone climbing up the side of the lighthouse was such a crazy possibility that no one even thought to look up and catch her there.
Once Calia finally made it to the top and climbed herself onto flat steady ground, she let out a relieved sigh. Muscles a bit aching from such a strange climb and fingers protesting, but she was well and fine. It took half the blasted day to get herself up there!
When she stood up and wandered over to the ocean side edge to lean on the railing, that climbed prove to be more than worth it.
Out on the fishing boat, Calia could not see as far and as clear as this. Too close to the water, maybe, so it’d dominate her vision with the waves and bobbing. Up here it was an entirely different experience. Being stationary and ground as she preferred, with the wind whipping her braided hair and the beautiful warm sunshine. Now she could see how people fell in love with a place like this. Calia didn’t belong out on the waters itself, but there was no denying the enormity of it nor how gorgeous it was. When she closed her eyes and listened, the roaring waves were gentle music.
Calia shifted to sit there on the edge, feet dangling and resting her arms on the railings. She stayed there for a long while, eyes closed just soaking in the sun and listening to the sea. Using senses she now understood were fae to reach herself outwards and connect to these comforting natural spaces. To sun and wind and cloud. To ocean spray and swimming fish. Buzzing insects and swaying grass. Seeking out where magic lay hidden, finding herself surprised in what vessels she stumble over, while being frustrated that the one thing she wanted was still out of reach.
Eventually the sun shifted enough that any more time lingering up there was bound to get her caught and in trouble, Calia had to admit defeat. Shifting to begin her climb back down and to think of where else she could search.
Halfway down there was a shift. At first it wasn’t anything more than a tiny little twinge. An itch. Once Calia finally recognized it for what it was, she let out a staggering relieved breath. Barely more than a pinprick of a star in the night sky, that was still more than nothing. A sign that Archimedes was at least alive and somewhere, even if she could not seem to grasp at the threads to do anything about it.
Not that she should, clinging to the side of a lighthouse like a bandit!
Calia climbed all the way down and it was oh so tempting to immediately latch onto that tiny spark and run to it. Run at the speed of fae and if necessary pull her sword and cleave any problems in half. She was debating it still even as she slipped away from the lighthouse itself to head towards the giant redwood treeline to take the easier way back to the village. Using the dirt road and the scenic green route instead of those crumbling stone stairs.
In the end, she did realize that’d be foolish. Calia was liable to pass out as soon as she got there and wouldn’t be any help at all.
Instead she deviated away from the dirt road to head deeper into the wood. Somewhere far enough away there wouldn’t be any passing towns people or exploring tourists that might wander into something strange or potentially dangerous. Until she found a suitable place that felt safe enough.
With a long deep breath she stood there, not screaming his name into the void as that sure hadn’t gotten her anywhere before. This time reaching out ever so gentle with those senses, practically visualizing that single spark in her mind. A soft touch to cradle it within hand and thoughts to draw it to her. Not grabbing and squeezing, nor a violent jerking and dragging. Taking inspiration from the very sea to bring it all back to her like an ocean current.
The air was dry. Dusty. Thin, like it hadn’t been breathed in a hundred years. Arc dragged himself out of the ruins on hands and knees, dirt crunching under blood-crusted fingers, until he finally slumped against a crumbling pillar.
His mouth still tasted like fire and ash.
He’d eaten the heart. Not just consumed it through ritual or binding—he had devoured the thing, raw and burning, torn straight from the beast’s chest. It had nearly cooked him from the inside, scorching through every nerve and vessel like molten iron. It was terrible how much that very sensation had been so thrilling. Delightful.
But now it was his. The power, the pulse, the core of that second-rank horror throbbed low in his gut, beating like a second heart. It would take a bit of time till it was properly digested and he’d be able to tell just what prowess the monstrous demon had possessed at all.
Arc sat up slowly, eyes sweeping the land beyond the shattered doorway. Black hills. Twisted trees with no leaves. A dull, reddish glow on the horizon like a bruise over the sky.
He didn’t recognize it.
This wasn’t Edelguard. Not any corner of it. No misty borders, no veil of fae or lowland cliffs. The scent was all wrong—too dry, too dead. Like the world had been bled out and forgotten. A half-laugh cracked from his throat, raw and bitter.
“Great. Just another demonic godsdamns apocalypse.”
He pushed himself to his feet, staggered once, then caught his balance. Every part of him ached, bruises blooming like wine under his skin. But he stood. Alive. His mind was still reeling from the fight, from the hunger that had followed after he tore that thing open like a wild animal.
But then—it hit.
The pull.
So sudden he staggered, one foot slipping in loose gravel. The summoning dug into him like a buried knife twisted without warning. Arc’s spine arched and a snarl escaped before he could bite it down. His eyes widened, flicking around the clearing like someone had physically grabbed him. It wasn’t an attack. Not chains, not another cell.
A summon.
Calia.
It was entirely involuntary. The growling through gritted teeth, as the pull strengthened, wrapping tight around the center of his being. “I just got out. I’m held together with spit and spite!” But the bond answered back with nothing but force. There was no time to resist, no breath to prepare. His body locked, magic responding whether he wanted it to or not. Of course he knew well enough that Calia had no idea what transpired. Though he also didn’t expect any sort of consideration, care or thought. He’d not been exactly lying when he told the other demon that Calia wouldn’t be assed to care about coming to the place. Rightly so, but she was probably safely enjoying her freedom. Only that surely she was beckoning now because she had enough of his absence. Liable to get a proper earful.
The air sparked around his feet. Runes blazed. The world lurched sideways. The summoning took. Not about to care or bother with the fact he was hardly in the state for such request. Shortly vanishing, pulled through the void like a thread on fire, dragged across planes towards the call—injured, bloodied, and properly broken once more.
Arc slammed into existence with a sound like thunder cracking through bone.
He landed hard, knees crashing into the dirt, hands barely catching him as he hit the ground with a ragged gasp. Smoke curled off his skin. Blood smeared from the wounds that hadn’t yet healed—ribs wrapped in purpled bruises, his shoulder torn, his back lined with claw marks old and fresh. Head pounding, unsure if it was from the abuse, the broken horn or just absolutely everything. He coughed, once—wet, sharp—and spat crimson into the moss.
A few strands of navy blue hair clung to his face, sweat-slick and tangled. He was trembling, every muscle wired too tight. Not from fear. From exhaustion. From too much power forced through a vessel that hadn’t yet stabilized.
Arc didn’t look up right away. Couldn’t. His fingers clawed into the forest floor like he needed to anchor himself, to feel something real after being dragged through screaming void and molten smoke.
Finally, he rasped, voice barely audible.
“Lia…?” A beat. Then a shaky laugh, bitter and half-delirious. “Tell me this isn’t your idea of a date… I’m underdressed, bleeding, and pretty sure I ate the entrée on the way here.” He lifted his head just enough to meet her eyes, purple iris to green, flickering faintly like coals. His smile was bloodied and worn, but there. “I made it,” he muttered, coughing. “Only took one demonic buffet and a scenic trip through hell. Real smooth ride.”
And then, with a soft, broken exhale, Arc slumped forward—still conscious, barely—but unwilling to stand. The forest around them began to breathe again. Quietly. Warily. As if it, too, knew something old and dangerous had just touched down on sacred ground.
From where he lay, face half-buried in moss, Arc muttered, voice muffled and bone-tired, “Don’t be obliged to stay… I’ll just lie here and photosynthesize for, I don’t know… three to five business days.”
“Shit,” the explicit was breathed out in a short gasp the moment she laid eyes on him. Horrified in that moment that maybe she had still pulled too hard, that the state of him had been her own doing because she couldn’t fucking leave it long enough for the binding to strengthen! He looked almost as bad as he did under Starling’s oh-so-gentle care, at least this time only seeming to be missing a piece of horn instead of limbs and flesh.
Then he finally spoke and it wasn’t much of an explanation, but at least there was that sense of relief in knowing she hadn’t been the one to rip him to shreds. A brief relief, for a sudden burning anger was there too, for who the hell had the brass balls to dared snatch him again. What direction did she need to aim her sword and make sure that if anyone ever dared to even think about it, they were going to erupted into a flurry of pain.
A problem for later.
With a soft sigh she stepped around him, practically face flat in the dirt, to kneel on a knee. Calia reached out with a gentle hand to touch his shoulder – he was burning hot at this point, and there was no telling the hows and whys – then brushed a bit of that sweaty, bloody navy strands away from his face. Contemplating a bit of healing, only to decide quickly it wouldn’t be wise to use his magic while he was weak like this. Liable to do more damage to him than help.
“Let me take care of you, Archimedes,” she finally responded just as soft, though with a tonal hint that she wasn’t about to let him argue about it. “Can you shift or will I need to carry you like this?”
It wasn’t clear to him how long it had been. It could have been a few hours, or months truthfully. There had been no measure of time. Personally, he wasn’t that interested in finding out anyways. It seemed like a surefire way for him to just add on a sort of melodramatic amusement at the whole thing. Preferring to relish in the whole soft moss rather than cold rune labeled shackles. This was nice. That was not.
There was a low, pained grunt as her touch had brushed over shoulder. Wanting to recoil merely out of the pain but couldn’t really muster up the energy for that either. Accepting the heat rolling off his form as though he had been baked in the sun for days. Surprisingly her touch was gentle, grounding – too gentle, maybe. Forcing him to crack the eye open at the sound of her calling him by his full name. Pulling a ghost of a smirk. “Archimedes? Guess I’m either dying or you’ve officially run out of nicknames. At least a good ol, asshole or idiot, or maybe add some more oomph behind it. Dream smasher perhaps.”
Though the idea of shifting was probably the smartest thing. Fingers digging into the dirt as he tried to focus. The familiar hum of magic was weak, like trying to start a fire with wet matches. It wasn’t of any use and he knew it was because he was past the point of exhaustion. The means of abyssal and arcane magic were tempered due to the restraints. Needing time to replenish and that wasn’t now. “Great. I’m too weak to shift, too strong to die. I’m basically just… a really tired elf now.” Slumping back down, cheek pressing into the moss again.
“…So that’s a no on shiftin’. But if yah do carry me, I expect dramatic fanfare. Maybe a parade. A banner or two. I’ll be dead weight, but with flair.” Truly trying not to let her really bother with him. In his own way. “Yer fine Lia… just leave me here.” He lifted an arm to feebly wave, “Go spend more time enjoyin’ yerself. Just come check on me in a few days time. If we’re lucky, I might have moved an inch.”
“Yeah, okay, Dream Smasher,” she murmured back just as soft, with the tiniest hint of amusement. Seemed he was not so much in bad shape that he couldn’t be a pain in the ass still. Still, she was catching small hints on where the pain and problem lie. Under the palace he’d been bound only as a demon, harvested from, but not bound and sealed in such a way where his power couldn’t heal him to be harvested all all over. This had cut him off from all manner of his magic, demon, arcane… even from her. It still hadn’t returned beyond it’s present burning ember, leaving this sort of aura about it that Calia could still feel.
With a quick glance around, she did consider if making camp here was a better choice. Only to soon grimace and toss that idea aside altogether. He needed a proper washing up and somewhere soft to sleep. A real meal, something to drink. Fresh clothes. She was most certainly not going to leave him here bloody and beaten to fend for himself.
“Your choice. Piggyback or lifted up on my shoulders like a big sack of potatoes. Either way, you’re going to have to work with me a little so I don’t make it worse.”
God, how bad was it that she was being nice to him. It was surely short lived and she’d return to her own ways. The ones that really only considered herself and her own desires rather than really knowing what real work and give and take went into friendship. Mentally guessing she was only being gentle because the font of his magic had been so drastically limited that she was probably feeling effects. Once he got it back, she’d be back as well. Hard, rough. Sharp as a knife and just her usual measure of just mean enough to be considered a bully to one and all. Nothing gentle about her.
Honestly, he’d prefer if she just left him here. To just lay there and slowly regain himself. By comparison, this was an oasis!
“If I can’t shift, I can’t glamour.” Arc stated then. His tone was a little muted in the whole wise-crackery, “Yah’d be taking a demon… somewhere?” He realized far too late that this was moss. And trees around them. So not the port but also close enough that the smell of the sea was obvious. “It’s unwise.” He wasn’t trying to tell her how to do anything, just pointing out the necessary information.
Moving to tuck hands underneath himself to force himself to move. And by every god there ever was, the challenge it turned out to be. Groaning, every muscle screaming in protest as he pushed his palms into the dirt, trying to lift himself from the ground. His arms shook with the effort, barely able to support his weight as he attempted to rise, but his body felt like it was made of lead—heavy, brittle, and unwilling. The steady ebb of blood leaked from the gaping wound on his side, staining the moss beneath him a deeper crimson. The blood pooled slowly, mixing with the dirt as it clung to his skin, forming sticky patches of grime that made every movement feel like he was dragging himself through tar.
As his breath hitched, forcing a sharp cough to escape as the pressure of movement stretched the torn flesh, sending waves of pain that nearly broke his concentration. His vision blurred, dizziness tugging at the edges of his mind, and yet still he tried to push up, his fingers slipping through the wet earth. “Come on, yah miserable… thin’…” Muttering the fail personal words of encouragement through gritted teeth, as strained as they were.
His breath came in shallow, labored gasps as he winced from the pressure on his injuries. Managing to get himself to at least sit, though the whole effort was truly akin to three marathons in a row! “Lovely,” he muttered through gritted teeth, blinking through the haze of pain. “Sitting’s a new level of fun.”
His body was covered in the slick mess of blood and dirt, and his hands, stained and trembling, dug into the earth just to stay upright. The rawness of his exhaustion pressed down on him like a weight, threatening to pull him back to the ground with every breath.
He leaned forward slightly, his chest tight, face pale, but still, he managed a dry, crooked smile. “Well, at least I’m not face-first in the dirt anymore… progress, right?” Of course that grin faltered and he was shaking his head, trying to stop it from slumping and tugging the rest of him forward back down. All that way he had made! “Lia, I don’t think I’ve got it in me right now. Yer guna have to accept that. I just… I need time. Please…”
Calia remained silent, but she was watching like an eagle-eyed hawk. Catching where blood pooled and oozed. Noting each scratch, puncture, and gash on him. Counting the bruises and mentally naming the bones that were likely shattered underneath. Broken ribs meant she was going to have to be very careful. Fingers itchin to grasp at him and help him at least in the slightest bit to shift back to his knees, but he had this sense of pride in him. Did he even know he was that prideful? With every word he muttered, that crooked smile, even down to the please. That was stubborn pride and a willfull avoidance of any potential kindness towards him.
“Let me worry about the glamouring,” she told him simply, shifting where she knelt to reach up and brush her thumbs across his cheeks. Exhailing a long breath and making sure there was no tentative barrier between herself and him when it came to the binding.
After all, he was forgetting some vital parts of this contract she’d dictated. Or simply assuming, was more likely. An assumption that everything he was would be hers to take, without recognizing he could take from her. And while right now she did not have her heart and magic, there was still plenty within Calia that was there for the support. Her unwavering stamina, her own stubbornness, or even just simply ability to take a damn beating like it was nothing and still stand back up again to spit in the face of demons!
She had all the strength in the world that was his to have now too and if he weren’t going to take it, Calia was simply going to siphon away some of his pain on her own.
Then, she was quick to move. Deliberately so he wouldn’t try to protest again. It was a slip of her leg and a twist to turn around. That snatching of his hands and arms to pull him over her shoulders and a swift motion of bending forward and rising up to her feet with the man on her back.
Making a soft grunting squeak when he ended up being a lot heavier than she was expecting! What was he, damn near seven feet tall and weighing as much as a horse?! But they were doing this now! Too late to change her mind and she nearly huffed out a laugh. Giving a little stumble as she reached to rebalance and get his legs. Displaying in a not so elegant fashion what years worth of knight’s training could teach someone, both in body strength and in fast maneuvers.
She ought to count her lucky stars that the rest of the way was downhill.
It wasn’t exactly intentional but sitting there. Feeling like well… a sack of something that was worse than even shit; he didn’t have all his defenses up. Some but that was coming from the torture chamber of whatever house of horrors he had been at. Still unclear to where he had been but grateful to be back in Edelguard. Not that he would breath that outloud. Sure he might combust into pure flames if he did.
No less, the gentle touch did invoke him to react. To lean into it instead of pulling away. A first, a quite sense of comfort. Making good of being a verbal show of pushed dry sarcasm and jesting at his own self in vain hopes to just be left alone to suffer in that of his own cocoon of a body, he was still raw. Rife with pain and had there been a guestbook upon his departure, he might have written a remark about how many stars he’d give the dead demon for his level of beating, torture and abuse. Nine out of ten at least.
Honestly, if she had just let him sit there. Or flop over again whenever the chance arose, he’d have been as happy as a pig in shit. Just the thing was, Calia didn’t allow that. Or whatever it was. Finding that she was about to do that whole proving thing all over again and he only could wish to be more helpful. Just his body was at its limit and decided that state of being a limp noodle was far more preferred than actually anything else.
Arc let out a strained chuckle, even through the sharp ache that seared through his body. His face shortly was buried in her shoulder, and he couldn’t help but find the whole situation absurd.
“Really? Yah’ve gotta be kiddin’ me,” he gasped, wincing at the pressure. “Yer goin to need a chiropractor after this one.” His voice was weak, laced with that dry humor he never seemed to lose, no matter the circumstances. He shifted, trying to adjust himself on her back, though he wasn’t sure what good it would do at this point.
his breathing ragged, and it seemed like his entire body had turned into a limp, barely-conscious heap. His head rolled back as she stumbled, and he let out a pained exhale as his weight shifted again. “Y’know,” he rasped, “if I wasn’t in so much pain, I might actually enjoy this. Almost.“
But there was no denying it: he was dead weight. Every move Calia made, whether it was a stumble or a step forward, he was like a living, breathing sack of bones and bruises slumped across her back, uselessly shifting with every step she took. He winced as his legs dragged a little more and his arms flopped sideways, “Yah sure yah don’t want me to crawl? I’ve got a solid three inches of movement left in me. ” If he was about to be embarrassed about any of this, his amusement truly won out. If not a bit of awe at her whole sheer stubborn tenacity that decided she was going to do this at all. “I’m really good at this whole ‘dead weight’ thin’,” Arc managed, his voice muffled by the slouch of his head. “I could’ve been an expert in the field if I weren’t so busy gettin’ myself nearly killed.”
His legs didn’t seem to understand that they were supposed to help. Instead, they flopped behind her like ragged dolls. Each time she moved, his feet seemed to have a mind of their own, dragging across the ground like they were being dragged through a mud pit. A soft groan left him as his head rolled to the side, his voice weak but still humorously defiant. “So, uh, maybe don’t get used to this, alright? I’m not normally this much of a burden. Just—just a little bit.”
“A solid three inches…? Is that all?” she teased in a gasp of breath. Calia had learned how to do this very same thing with knights in half their armor and they surely did not weight as much as this. They definitely didn’t have as long of legs! Not to say that carrying them had been easy at all, but in the here and now it felt as if he weight at least thrice as much and was four times as wrigglie.
He’d certainly be easier to carry if he’d stop cracking these silly jokes, only Calia was so glad to actually be hearing them that she didn’t have the heart to tell him to shut up so it’d be easier to walk down the hill without him slipping this way and that.
Once she’d gotten a steady grip and found her stride, it became far less tumultuous and a good pace of progress. Most of it coming straight from her relentless focus, one step at a time, always forward. The only other option would’ve been to leave him somewhere, and there was no way Calia would do that now. Not after he’d picked her own battered self off the ground several times already.
“How about,” she took in a deep breath, as a steady breath kept her from stumbling around. “You tell me what happened. Instead of whispering sweet nothing in my ear.”
This route back to the town proper was going to take a good walk, which in this case was good only for the reason that it was going to take her a minute to weave a glamour over him. Glamours were such simple easy things that it usually would be nothing, only this was on someone who wasn’t herself and his magic was still weak. It was going to need a little extra rigging. So while he went on about his nonsense, Calia bit down hard into her tongue to draw a bit of blood. A fae’s blood was magic itself, wasn’t it? It’d be just enough to help her make those horns of his disappear. That was about as good as she could get put together under the circumstances.
The rest? She’d bullshit her way through it.
Oh there was absolutely a bit of word play in her teasing breathless retort to three inches. One he could have effortlessly grabbed and continued with. Just, it didn’t really feel like it was the best time to start waxing phrases when he was no more than a bag of jelly and she was struggling along having to manage that very vat of existence. Instead making the active choice to avoid and press forward on the better self depreciation ones that were absolutely poking fun at how utterly useless he was. Fairly, he’d used up the last resource of strength both to fight that towering armoured beast and to get out.
All in all, he’d say he was doing better than he could be. Having no use of his body wasn’t fun, but it was better than collapsing, vomiting and then dying officially. Not even sure if that would cease the binding or not!
It was equally good that he didn’t embarrass easy cause this, was an absolute circus.
Naturally Calia had given him something else to focus on whilst she was proving how hardy and battle worn she was. Not sure if he ought to be impressed that she was literally carrying around his dead weight or not. Leaning towards the first.
Amongst the asking of what happened, silence became a third companion. Mind working in ample protest that it really didn’t want to have to think and detail much of anything right now. Settling it’s want for no more than to just lay down for a few days. That anything more, was extremely labour intensive. His only solace was having being misjudged. Assumed to be lesser than he was but that would also come back to bite him. As well, whomever master was –Derrick surely- they’d get a good idea that he was hardly a low demon rank as most starting heart demons were.
Fine.
They could figure him out. But he hadn’t and wouldn’t give any details about Calia. Needing not to be heroic about it, just simply, they didn’t need to know. If they were curious, they ought to come find her themselves. Only so they could see with their own eyes how the fae princess was doing. If they weren’t too busy running for their lives since she was liable to greet them like a barbaric warrior than any host in a tea house.
“Yah left. As expected.” Arc started quietly, “Since I can’t use any of my abyssal spells without yer permission or the blood stone, and spatial jumpin’ isn’t easy to do when the bindin’ is leagues away surprisingly,” The man was pointing out that when there was a great distance between them, apparently his magic became strained. Like a cord of rope going far too taunt trying to support two life-forms on either side. A game of tug-o-war and Calia being the owner, got the benefit of control. “I walked.”
More silence. An obvious sense of growing tension as he wasn’t exactly excited to explain much. “There must have been a uninvited follower around us. One neither of us could sense.” Not exactly unbelievable. There were all sorts of demons after all and some were particularly suited for extreme and un-trackable stealth. “They’d been waitin’. A chance. Somethin’ I’m guessin’ about yer fae heritage makes it either difficult for them to approach yah or I when in close proxy. Or some other voodoo magic. I ain’t got it figured out yet.” The demon struck when Calia was the furthest away. It was either something to do with her, or exactly what he said. His magic would lend to her side of the rope over his when there was great distance.
Whatever it was, he’d been easy enough to snatch. “A trap. Got caught and hauled somewhere else. Ain’t sure where. Just know it wasn’t here in Edelguard.”
He really wished he had use of his body now. Just so he could stand! Feeling her working the ties of magic around himself. Glamour, lighter version. Nothing grand which was a good idea. “It was sent by its Master. To get me to talk about yah. I be assumin’ it had to be the wannabe warlock, but could be somethin’ else. Regardless, it was easy to piss off when one doesn’t answer any question.” He’d gesture at his state if he could but she probably got the picture. “They know yer fae, kept callin’ yah the fae girl. But outside that, they’d seemed… clueless. Prolly had hoped being a demon like me, we’d have some unspoken loyalty… I’m shruggin’ my shoulders if yah didn’t know.” Offering the suggestion of what he would be doing since he wasn’t exactly doingit.
“It didn’t get what it wanted and I got a very shitty first date. That’s it thus far.”
The silence had stretched on long enough that for a moment Calia was worried he might’ve passed out. It would’ve been okay, if a little concerning, but the less he wiggled the easier it was to keep walking without having to weave and wobble to rebalance.
When he did speak, his first revelation caused her to let out a frustrated breath. Obviously, he hadn’t known that the binding would draw thin and actually make it harder for himself to use his own magic, so she couldn’t be pissed off at him for it. Still, it would’ve been nice to figure that out in a way that didn’t involve him getting snatched out of the woods and used as someone’s personal punching bag.
With his renewed silence, he certainly didn’t like knowing this either. Especially seeing that in his slow continuance, that it wasn’t just a moment of chance – this was someone actively stalking after them. Having waited, biding their time until they’d found an opportunity to strike.
At him and not her. But it was about her and that had her grunting out another frustrated, guilty sound.
Calia knew that as soon as Derrick realized she wasn’t locked in that dungeon cell, he was going to do something about it. The demons in Caeldalmor to block her way were a standard expectation. She figured too that eventually they’d follow her into Edelguard or where ever else she went. Having her heart squeezed to death was a pretty clear indication that he knew now, without any shadow of a doubt that she was coming for him.
…but in that, he’d also know now she had access to new magic now. Could he tell that it was a binding? It seemed way too fast for him to know enough details about Archimedes to have someone lying in wait for him. But then, she didn’t know how many eyes and connections he had now. Nor how far he’d managed to learn and grow with her magic in his hands.
Either way, this was her fault.
“I’m sorry,” she deemed to say. He didn’t deserve to be suffering the consequences of her own choices and actions. Arc had enough of his own without piling hers on top of him. “I’d enchant you like I did the sword so no one else could touch you, but that’d make fooling around with pretty ladies a little tricky.”
Calia would have to figure something else out. Something other than making sure he never left her side, as that wouldn’t be any good for either of them.
At least through all of those long silences and the tale to tell the walk back to the port town didn’t feel agonizingly long. Dirt road shifted to sandy earth, the copse of redwoods stopped to open up to the winding root paths and constructed wooden decking of the town proper. There was no avoiding the curious looks in their direction, as who would ever expect a woman to be carrying a tall ass man on her back! Let alone one that looked like he’d been through hell! Thankfully they weren’t seeing a demon, just a very battered elf and an entire spectacle.
“For what?” Arc blinked at her, genuinely baffled. She hadn’t dropped him, dragged him face-first across gravel, or used him as an improvised battering ram—which, frankly, felt more her style. And as far as he was aware, she hadn’t done anything else that might’ve warranted an apology. So her sudden guilt trip caught him off guard.
Apparently, it was because she would enchant him if she could. Turn him into some kind of no-touch zone. A walking, talking anti-hug field. Which, if he was being honest, sounded like a pretty tragic curse. Especially for someone who occasionally liked the company of the fairer sex. It would be quite the depressing tell if he wasn’t able to at least entertain such things. Appreciative she wasn’t putting together ways to in fact, enchant him. “So… yer apologizin’ for somethin’ yah might’ve done… that yah didn’t do… because yah feel bad?” He stared at her, deadpan. “That’s a dumb reason to apologize.”
He didn’t sugarcoat it, didn’t bother to ease into it—just served it up raw. “Yah can’t take blame for somethin’ yah didn’t know about. That’s like saying sorry ’cause the sun decided to shine. Bit of a reach, yeah? Also not your fault unless you’ve secretly been pulling cosmic strings.”
Still, it rubbed him the wrong way. Not the apology itself—but that it came from her. Calia wasn’t the type. She was bold, loud, a walking embodiment of “me first.” Selfish in a way that was oddly efficient. She didn’t hand out apologies. Not unless there was a dagger in it somewhere.
Now, their current setup? That felt more accurate. Her, carrying his half-conscious weight like some dramatic widow hauling a body through the street, and him? Slumped across her back like an overstuffed sack of regret. They were definitely drawing stares. Had he the energy, he might’ve leaned into it—offered a jaunty wave, a crooked grin, maybe even a wink for good measure. Really sell the image.
Instead, he just hung there. A mostly decorative corpse.
“High Tide Festival,” he muttered, recognition dawning with a sigh so weary it could have filed paperwork. “Of course it is.” Because why not. It would be festival season. People dancing in the streets, laughing, drinking, flinging confetti like it was war. A great time for everyone except, you know, the man being hauled around like fresh catch of the day. Perfect.
He wasn’t even sure where they were headed anymore. He’d left that part of the planning up to Calia—because nothing said survival like entrusting your well-being to a chaos goblin in leather boots. Still, his hearing hadn’t failed him yet. His ears gave a twitch at the sudden sharp gasp and the distinct thudding of urgent footsteps.
“Calia!” came a woman’s voice—breathless, dramatic, and loaded with more emotions than Arc had energy to catalog. Concern, panic, curiosity… maybe a pinch of judgment, just to round out the bouquet.
“By the seas, love! What happened? How—on earth?” The silver-haired woman had apparently been out among the revelers, her path back to the tavern miraculously crossing theirs. Arc, hanging like a poorly hung curtain, could only imagine the look on her face. “I know I joked about us makin’ our own stories,” the woman continued, somewhere between incredulous and impressed, “but isn’t this a bit…” he could hear the shrug in her voice, “…overcommitted?”
Had he the strength, he might’ve raised a hand and said something witty. But as it stood, he’d settle for internal screaming and whatever leftover dignity he had left clinging to his belt.
“I’m sorry that you are getting targeted because of me. Though now I’m tempted to go drop you in the sea.” This man was occasionally as dense a cliffside full of rocks. Glad he couldn’t see her expression as she was so done with him arguing with her every time she was trying to say something nice or do something for him!
Calia was still debating doing just that when the musical voice of the moonbeam elf called out in alarm. Approaching in such a wild dramatic frenzy, that she was worried the girl was about to launch into startled screaming. Only to instead to blathering out a bunch of nonsense that had Calia furrowing her brow in confusion.
“…what?” she breath out first as an immediate reaction. Before the context came in slow dawning realization that this slip of a girl probably thought Calia went out a kidnapped herself a man. For which… well… that would be one way to go about it, wouldn’t it!
Calia choked out a laugh, nearly stumbling and dropping the man altogether. Having to right her feet quick and somehow still herself from huffing out any more giggles.
“This is my missing companion,” she explained as quickly as she could, already continuing in her walking as stopping now was going to be a surefire way of dropping him on the boardwalk and being too tired to pick him back up again. There was already too many curious eyeballs staring their way. “It’ll be alright, I’mma just get him back to my room. I’d appreciate if you could open some doors for me, though, he is not light.”
“Lia,” Arc muttered, breath low and raspy against the weight of being carried, “It doesn’t matter if it was because of yah or not. Shit happens.” He paused, a twitch of something like resignation pulling at his mouth. Her little joke about dunking him in the ocean might have sounded playful to the casual ear—but honestly? He wouldn’t put it past her. Not really. She had that look in her eye sometimes—the one that said, ‘I absolutely could, and I’d sleep just fine after.’
“Awful lotta effort to drag my sorry carcass all this way just to let me drown,” he added, tone dry as a desert bone. “Could’ve just left me in the forest. Saved yah back the strain and let a scavenger handle the cleanup. Far less dramatic.”
Truly, it all felt like a waste of effort.
And yet… here he was. Draped over her like an overgrown cloak, half-alive and vaguely offended, being carted through a sunlit port like some twisted festival attraction.
The port bustled with the kind of life that made Arc feel particularly corpse-like in comparison—brightly dressed vendors barking over fresh-caught fish and grilled skewers, children weaving between carts with festival streamers trailing behind them like comet tails, and townsfolk pausing mid-step to openly gawk at the sight before them. He didn’t blame them, really. He was an odd sight.
But the moment got a little more interesting when someone called out to Calia—female voice, quick-footed, trotting up with the kind of concern that came from knowing someone a bit too well.
Ah, so she’d been enjoying herself while he was being used as some demon’s chew toy. Lovely.
The irritation flared low in his gut, crawling up his ribs like a slow burn. Of course she had. It fit perfectly into his theory that Calia’s world revolved on her own self-made axis. If she had thought about him at all, he’d wager her first guess was that he’d pulled some underhanded trick to escape or betray her. Worry wasn’t typically in her top five reactions.
Figures.
The approaching woman’s voice cut through his thoughts. “Yah said elf,” she said, giving Calia an incredulous look before turning her attention to the half-limp man slung over her back. “Yah didn’t say titan. He’d have been far more recognizable if yah had.”
Arc resisted the urge to groan. Titan? That word always made it sound like he was some wandering colossus instead of a tired, aching man who wanted a cup of something strong and maybe ten hours of sleep. The woman wasn’t wrong, though. They were drawing attention like a parade float gone sideways. Stares, murmurs, even a kid trying to discreetly sketch the scene with charcoal on the back of a bread wrapper.
Nova, unbothered by the spectators, arched a brow at Calia. “Hmm, alright. But yah know Brux is gonna have a whole mess of questions. Ain’t every day a lady’s draggin’ a half-dead man through the port in broad daylight.”
Arc bit back the sarcastic retort crawling up his throat and kept his mouth shut. No need to feed the fire. Not when Calia could do that perfectly well on her own. Still, as his gaze drifted over the clusters of strangers whispering and pointing, he couldn’t help but think: This is what passes for subtle now?
Of course shit happens, that didn’t mean she couldn’t apologize for things that she was responsible for. Of course, he himself did not know the meaning of an apology as she doubted one ever came out of his own mouth before! Calia was still stewing on this even while Nova declared that Brux was going to have all sorts of questions.
Yeah, she didn’t doubt that. The tavern owner had a keen eye and Calia was starting to suspect he knew about more about her than he was letting on. She wouldn’t expect any less out of a man that cared so much about his business and wanted to be sure it was well maintained, safe, and nothing blew back on himself or his family. Calia on her own just existing tended to make people feel ever so slightly uncomfortable. Showing up with Archimedes like this wouldn’t help.
She’d deal with it, though. The demon needed to get cleaned up and to sleep, that was best done in a quiet room with a bed and privacy.
“If I gave you some money, do you think you could fetch us a change of clothes?” she asked the pixie of a girl. Noticing very quickly that now Archimedes was unusually quiet, in which she hoped was because the elven miss was as pretty as any storybook princess and could stun a man silent on sight. And not because he was bleeding out so bad that he was on the brink of death!
All the more reason to pick up her feet a little. To grit her teeth, shuffle him a bit and get moving. Having no need to weave herself around the crowd as people seemed to get the hint just by look alone to get out of the damn way. Having no concerns at all what others were thinking in this moment, as aside from her being a lady and him being a massive bloody lump, didn’t injured men always end up carted off one way or another? Accidents and ambushes and bar fights happen all the time!
Once she’d reached the tavern there was a brief curse under her breath of taking those first upward steps inside. Adjusting her vision from the super bright sunlight to the slightly more dim shaded building, with another quiet curse about having to get up a much long set of stairs to her room. Having to take a deep breath to prepare for it!
If Nova could claim a crown, it would be for the art of quiet waiting. Regal in her patience, if not in stature, she seemed perfectly content to trail behind the procession like some patient, glimmering ghost. Arc, on the other hand, finally got a good look at her—and promptly forgot about the small crowd gawking at the walking disaster Calia was hauling.
A moment of gratitude, perhaps, that he wasn’t currently mouthy. His usual wit might’ve betrayed the way he stared a little too long at Nova’s serene features.
“I could. I can,” she said, gentle but firm, in reference to Calia’s earlier request. “After the first favour you asked me, that is.” Ah yes. Favour-stacking. The eternal debt. Nova had agreed to come along, joining the parade of “half-dead man and his long-suffering handler.” At this point, all they needed was a marching band and a banner that read ‘Regret: Now Mobile!’
The tavern, however, was the real tragedy.
The Driftwood Haven.
A place older than dirt and twice as salty. Arc knew it—unfortunately. It was a homey, barnacled thing carved out of memory and salt air, but mostly memory. Generations had passed through it, ale had been spilled in oceans, and he knew the family that ran it better than he cared to admit.
Ashdrel. He could’ve winced at the name alone. If he was doing the math right—and his brain wasn’t completely jelly from being beaten to such a pulpy state—then the Bruxian Ashdrel mentioned earlier was the Brux. Manager. Owner. Lifelong bruiser and mood incarnate.
This was why elves lived too long. They remembered everything. They knew your bloodline, your bedtime stories, your embarrassing nickname as a child—and in Arc’s case, exactly which Silverstone man he resembled. Because of course, he looked far too much like his father. Blue hair. Violet eyes. Legendary misfortune now available in demon packaging.
By the time Calia dragged him through the doorway—announced by the usual tavern clatter turning into suspicious silence—he already knew what was coming. The heavy footfalls confirmed it. Not hurried. Not slow. The kind of walk that said ‘I’ve seen too much and I’m about to see one more thing I’ll regret.’
“The gods be damned,” came the hoarse, gravel-dragged voice of the man himself. Bruxian Ashdrel. Molten-red eyes dragged across Arc’s sorry form like he was personally offended by his continued existence. Arc, for his part, could only offer a faint lift of his brows in the universal language of ‘I didn’t ask to be here either, pal.’
Brux made a dismissive shooing motion at Calia. “I think I would’ve preferred if you had broken into the lighthouse.”
Arc’s lips quirked in a dry smirk. “Nice to see yah too, Bruxian. Still using the same welcome mat, I see. Charred remains of goodwill and a side of soul-crushing disappointment.” He didn’t wait for a reply—just sighed theatrically. “Tell me there’s still rum. Or are yah rationin’ sarcasm and alcohol in equal measure these days?”
Brux’s eyes didn’t narrow, but his expression flattened like a wave meeting stone. That long, low breath through his nose was the kind of quiet that usually came before a bartender told you to pay your tab or get out. “Still got rum,” he replied, voice dry enough to parch wood. “But I don’t pour it for half-dead smartasses. Or ghosts who think they’re owed a drink.”
He gave Arc a slow once-over—eyeing the bruises, the limp posture, the ‘I’ve-been-possessed-by-a-demon-and-dragged-through-a-forest’ energy—and let the silence settle thick between them before adding: “If I’d known you were coming, I’d have salted the threshold and called in pest control.”
Then, with a rough sigh and a muttered curse under his breath, Brux stepped forward and—somewhat gently, but not without muttering—eased Arc’s arm off of Calia’s back and over his own broader shoulder. “Stars above, you’re heavier than your mouth, and that’s saying something,” he grunted. “Come on. Up the stairs with yah.” He flicked a glance to the two women. “You too. Might as well drag this parade upstairs before you finish ruining the atmosphere. Drinks come after I make sure this one doesn’t die on the floor and wreck my varnish.”
Then, as they made their way toward the steps, he added under his breath to Arc, “You owe me. Again. And this time, it ain’t a tab—it’s a mop.”
Oof. Calia really should’ve remembered that elves had long long lives and even longer memories. If she had, she might’ve thought twice about brining him back to the tavern, having assumed it would be a perfectly safe place to go and be… Not even once considering that Arc had in fact been familiar with this town and there’d be a high chance others could know him personally, if not just by reputation!
Lucky too that she was still struggling to hold the man up on her back, so when Brux mentioned the lighthouse she didn’t have that stupid raccoon mischief face on. Technically she hadn’t broken in at all, so she really hadn’t done anything wrong there.
However if they were just going to keep quipping back and forth she was about to collapse on the floor herself!
Thank all of the stars that Brux had swiftly stolen the demon from her, Calia immediately bending forward to rest her hands on her knees with a long hissing breath. Rolling her shoulders to loosen herself back up again before returning to standing straight. Quick to be on their heels and following up the stairs.
“I’m sorry,” came another quick apology. “I didn’t know the two of you had history. Nor did I want to make a big spectacle of it, but this is the way he arrived and I wasn’t going to leave him in the woods.”
“Maybe you should’ve left him out there. Even squirrels need something to eat,” Brux muttered, not bothering to hide the sharp edge of sentiment. Still, he had at least taken the half-dead former elf off Calia’s hands—probably somewhere between surprised and begrudgingly impressed by her sheer stubbornness to drag a man-sized corpse through town like it was nothing more than a sack of potatoes.
To be fair, it was impressive. A little stupid, but impressive.
Then again, maybe she forgot that Arc had been alive thrice her age. He wasn’t exactly spry himself considering the overall scheme of things, and had surely mentioned once or twice that he’d been born here in good ol’ Tír Élas. Although fairly, he couldn’t remember. Which, if possible to be known, Brux would argue, was absolutely on him.
People knew Arc. Not just as the demon with the “don’t ask” reputation, but once upon a time as a mage’s advisor-in-waiting. Let alone the more reserved information that he had been Atticus Silverstone’s first born and promptly abandoned family from a woman that no one seemed to know the name of! There was a whole novel’s worth of description to dig through, but lucky for everyone involved, neither of them were in the mood for storytelling. At least not the sappy kind.
“Nova!” Brux barked over his shoulder, eyes flicking toward the stairwell. “Get some water. Bring it up.” A pause. “And a few other things—you’ll know what.”
That sweet, syrupy voice chirped back a cheerful, “Aye, Brux!” And then Nova passed into view—bright smile, silver hair catching the light just so—and Arc promptly forgot how to blink.
Brux didn’t miss it.
With all the grace of a brick wall, the innkeeper gave Arc a sudden jostle that knocked a hiss from his throat. A low grunt escaped, followed by a borderline animalistic growl that had no business coming from a man with visible ribs. “I wasn’t thinkin’ nothin’!” Arc wheezed, shooting a mournful glance toward Nova’s retreating form. She moved through the tavern like moonlight through smoke—quiet, silver, and soft-edged. With that hair like spun starlight, blue-silver and catching the light just right, she looked almost untouchable. And yet, she’d been right there, offering help with a smile that could’ve made lesser men forget they were half-bleeding out. Arc wasn’t lesser, but damn if he wasn’t distracted.
“Sure you weren’t,” Brux deadpanned, exhaling the way only a man who’d lived too long and dealt with too many idiots could. “And I haven’t been running this place since you were no more than a pair of pointy ears and a bad attitude.” voice was dry as kindling, threaded with the sort of weariness that came from decades of watching people like Arc stagger in half-dead, flirt with the barmaids, and then bleed on his floors anyway.
“Yah are pretty damn old,” Arc muttered, not missing a beat—even as Brux gave him another none-too-gentle shake for good measure. That earned a pained whine from Arc, followed by a wheezy giggle that said he was amused, annoyed, and maybe a little delirious all at once. Thankfully, the innkeeper-slash-beer-slinger-slash-legendary-grouch didn’t just toss him back onto the cobbles. Instead, he hoisted Arc toward the stairs, muttering curses under his breath as though moving him was some grave cosmic punishment.
“Yah really shouldn’t be sharin’ yer space, lass,” Arc half-groaned toward Calia as they reached the door. Brux didn’t wait for permission—he just kicked it open with the enthusiasm of a man too old for patience and too tired to ask nicely. He deposited Arc into the nearest chair with all the care of dropping off a sack of wet laundry. “It’s guna make it hard for yah to get eager men in the room if there’s a corpse inside.” Probably because he didn’t want blood on the bed. Which, to be fair, was practical. Arc had heard blood was murder on linens.
Brux turned just to take in the room as if he didn’t know what it looked like, giving Calia a once-over with a raised brow and a scoff, “Then again—lookin’ like that, you could probably still pull a few in. Some folks got strange tastes.” He paused, dry as dust. “Wouldn’t be the first time a girl had admirers lined up with a half-dead ex in the corner. Ain’t my place to judge.”
Arc snorted, wincing immediately after. “Remind me to haunt this place when I die. At least I’d be in good company.”
Brux grumbled something that sounded suspiciously like, “If only hauntin’ came with rent,”
“Ohhh, by the mercies of the seas…” he sighed, already fishing fingers into the gaping wound at his side with a grimace. It wasn’t pretty in there—meat, bone, and that alarming squish-sound that said something wasn’t where it should be.
“I had hoped, when you gave me just a bare name, that it wasn’t actually tied to Atticus’s once upon a time, ragamuffin,” Brux groaned, rubbing at his temples like Arc’s mere existence gave him a headache. “And you weren’t the princess that’s got half my patrons wagging their tongues over mugs of ale. How no refugee has recognized you yet is beyond me.”
Arc blinked up at him, grin half-broken and tired as hell. “Hey, now. Don’t go gettin’ all muttery and rough on the lass. She came here for a little fun, not a bloody lecture.”
“She came here for a vacation. She got a disaster.” Brux gestured at Arc’s sorry state. “I’d say it balances out.”
There was absolutely no surprise to see Arc go starry-eyed and daffy at the mere sight of the moonlit haired elf. Everything about that girl was precisely his type, and it irritated her for such a variety of reasons that Calia didn’t want to think about right now. She did warn the girl that her companion was a flirt, so if that ended up being a thing later, it was their business. So long as Calia didn’t have to watch.
Didn’t stop her from cringing though, every time Brux jostled the man. He didn’t need to be shaken around when his own bones were trying to escape!
She might’ve protested about the chair instead of the bed, but at least in this instance she realized the whys pretty quick. Glad now that it hadn’t been her who hauled him all the way up the stairs, as she would’ve flung him right on the bed before collapsing on the floor herself. Still pressing hand to aching back – one now covered in blood too, so she was also going to need to switch her clothes and have a bath once all of this was managed.
“Only people who lived or visited the capitol would’ve ever seen me, and they were the first to die, so…” A morbid thing to blurt out. It was the simple truth, though. Aside from being a little taller than the average woman, Calia’s features weren’t all that special. A basic description of the princesses of Caeldalmor could’ve been any lass in the kingdom. Nor would anyone expect a princess to be wandering around dressed like a shadow assassin and strapped with a dozen weapons.
What Calia did not understand was Arc fussing at her one moment to defend her the next so there was a bit of a curious look at him before she was turning back to Brux, crossing her arms lightly.
“Thank you for bringing him up, regardless. I can handle the rest from here. You won’t have to worry about any more potential trouble out of me now that I’ve found him.”
Had Arc not been one bad cough away from becoming a very artistic splatter on Calia’s rug, he might’ve actually found Brux’s renewed irritation with his entire existence somewhat enjoyable. No—who was he kidding—he would’ve found it hilarious. The old mule could sour milk with a glance and had a voice like sandpaper dragged over a confession booth floor. But in this moment, with his innards trying to escape in slow motion and his muscles wound tighter than harp strings, he was a bit short on chuckles.
Still, he didn’t appreciate the way Brux was grinding Calia through the mortar for circumstances she hadn’t even ordered off the menu. She hadn’t asked to play babysitter to his near-corpse. If anything, Arc was the stray she should’ve left outside with a sign that said “Do not feed.”
His loyalty to her, however unrequited or unnoticed, was solid. Like an idiot dog loyal to the boot that kicked it.
“I suppose that is fair,” Brux finally grunted, giving Calia the kind of look usually reserved for spilled drinks and people who ask for warm beer. His eye roll at the whole princess revelation had enough torque to cause a minor wind disturbance, especially with how word had spread. Of course it had—small town, big mouths, and the novelty of royalty walking among them during a festival. Add in the fleeing Caeldalmor refugees, and it was no surprise the tavern had become a gossip mill churning out tales more exaggerated than a bard on five pints and a dare.
Arc would’ve liked to hear some of those tales. Maybe one claimed she rode into town on a flaming elk. That’d be neat.
But for now, slouched and bleeding in what he hoped wasn’t the good chair, Arc focused on Brux’s face—lined deeper than a war map and carrying the exhaustion of every barkeep forced to hear five versions of the same story every night. Arc reached inward for magic and found… almost nothing. Barely a flicker. Less a spark and more like someone had licked their thumb and snuffed out a candle.
Damn those shackles. Meant for lesser demons, sure, but whoever designed them had really wanted to ruin someone’s day. He almost respected it. Might even look into getting a set, if he survived this, just as a parting gift for a certain parasite using Calia’s power like it was party confetti.
“Potential trouble?” Brux’s grating voice snapped him out of it. The man leaned slightly, eyeing the torn side of Arc’s frame like it might explode into confetti itself. “Girl, you dragged a whole man-shaped corpse through a festival. A festival. During daylight hours. I promise you every elf with a pulse and a functioning memory is now whispering about the very-much-former-citizen you lugged through the square like a forgotten piece of furniture. ‘Potential trouble’ doesn’t quite cover it.”
He looked like he wanted to pinch the bridge of his nose but had resisted out of sheer stubbornness—or because he knew Arc would call him out for the dramatics.
“I dare say,” Brux continued, waving vaguely toward the door, “we’ll be lucky if the tavern isn’t shoulder to shoulder with gawkers pretending not to gawk. I’m half-tempted to put a curtain over the window and charge admission.”
“Lay off her,” Arc muttered, voice raw but steady. “If anythin’ happens, it’s on me. Let her enjoy whatever peace she’s got left.” He gave a half-hearted wave of his hand, which hurt more than he expected. “Anyone’s got a problem with me, they’re welcome to line up in an orderly fashion and announce their grievances. Preferably alphabetically.”
Brux gave him a long, unreadable look. Then, with all the flatness of a well-skipped stone, he replied, “What, you want me to set out a sign-up sheet?”
Arc cracked a crooked smile. “Yah’ve already got the pen, old man.”
“Only if I can charge entry.”
“Think of it as performance art,” Arc wheezed.
Brux grunted, shook his head, and moved toward the door, grumbling something like, “This place was quieter when all I had to deal with were drunken fishermen and lovelorn idiots.” He was enjoying this, even just a little bit. The back and forth, surely. “Just try to clean him up and watch that mouth. It’s dangerous.”
Arc exhaled a breath that might’ve been a laugh if it weren’t ragged. “Only thing dangerous about it is how charming I can be.” He winced. “Eventually.”
Another soft cringe escape, unbidden, as the large half orcish man did have a point, didn’t he, about her beyond-potential trouble. It honestly hadn’t seemed like such a big deal! Anyone having to carry a wounded man home would of course draw some curious stares, yet of course she hadn’t considered how much worse it was when that one being carried could be recognized by sight and reputation. All she’d considered was his horns and not letting anyone panic over seeing a demon. She really didn’t think about Archimedes’ chaotic history,
Nor her own, honestly. She really didn’t think anyone had put two and two together yet about her own identity. She supposed she’d now put a swift end to that anonymity.
Calia opened her mouth to reassure the tavern owner that Arc was going to be too tired to go wandering about, and she herself was plenty fine with staying out of sight to prevent any more gawkers, only for Arc to be piping in on her behalf again. …which really had her wondering if he was completely delirious by now!
Proven so easily by the quick back and forth of rapport they seemed to have together. Old acquaintances well used to this kind of chatter.
Well, Calia was glad they were entertained. Leaving her giving a soft sigh and a nod of affirmation until Brux had left the room.
She shifted then to make quick work of removing harness and belted weapons, along with that top outer layer of leather armor and black shirt. Blood had plenty soaked through to the shift underneath too, but she paid it no mind as she moved over to the basin where she still had a little water left in her pitcher to pour out into the bowl. Dipping one of the extra washing rags in there to swish around and ring out before she was crossing the floor, fast to tilt his head with gentle finger to see about clearing away some of that blood.
Making him more presentable for Nova’s return, she supposed!
“Would you like me to stich you up or do you heal better without it?” she asked, almost sounding a bit weary herself now. Dragging him into town was tiring, but whether he realized it or not she was feeding him what energy of her own she could get away with and the consequence was now feeling a bit of a dull ache in her bones. And if she could feel that, Calia was certain he had to be hurting severely enough she was surprised he was even still awake enough to be bright-eyed and bushy-tailed.
There was something about the back-and-forth with Brux that was both oddly calming and strangely fun. It wasn’t just the snark, though that was certainly a good time—it was the ease with which they fell into their verbal sparring. The kind of sparring you only got with years of shared history, whether they liked it or not. Arc couldn’t say exactly when or how it had come about, but Tir Elas had been his stomping ground more times than he could count as a younger man, and Drifthaven was as familiar as an old pair of boots.
But now? They were both older. One of them had effectively sold his soul to be a demon, the other was still a crusty, sarcastic old goat with a sharp tongue that made getting under someone’s skin almost too easy.
And Arc wasn’t complaining. In fact, the moment Brux exited, leaving the door to swing closed with more grace than it had opened, a weird sort of silence settled. One where the only sounds left were his own pained breath and the distant noise of bustling outside.
He took a moment, wincing as he mentally ticked off the list of things that didn’t hurt. Spoiler: the toes seemed to be fine. But that was about it. Everything else felt like it had been rearranged by an enthusiastic blacksmith.
As the soft sounds of Calia moving behind him reached his ears—removing her harness and weapons, then gently setting them aside—he couldn’t help but watch her, though his eyes felt heavy with exhaustion. He had seen women of her age care about modesty—hell, most women made a point of hiding everything with the world’s finest silks—but Calia was as at ease with herself as a breeze through the trees. No awkwardness, no shyness, just a presence that felt steady and warm.
He leaned back in the chair, half contemplating sinking into the thing like a lump, just to escape how everything seemed to hurt, but then she was there, a pitcher in hand and a rag in the other. The tenderness with which she reached for him, moving his head to wash away the blood from his face, stopped him in his tracks. That softness, that care, it tugged at something deep in his chest—something old, forgotten, and quietly longing. For a second, he didn’t mind the pain in his ribs, the ache in his muscles. He was too focused on her hands—gentle, methodical, but with an unspoken strength behind them.
Arc kept his violet eyes on her, watching, not with his usual cynicism, but with something more… thoughtful. Something softer.
“I’d say stitchin’, but…” He shifted carefully, wincing as he did. “I don’t want the runes to get marred with fine lines once my skin mends itself back up.” His chest, his ribs, his back—all covered in runes, intricate and layered like a personal map of magic that had cost him plenty. “I don’t need fancy sutures to make it work. Just wrappin’ it up should be enough. I’ll heal. Slowly.”
He was still looking at her, the expression on his face far from the usual hardened exterior. Something raw flickered there, even if he didn’t want to admit it. “Thank yah,” he said quietly, genuinely. “Yah didn’t have to… but I appreciate it no less.”
He was about to say more, but a soft knock at the door interrupted him, followed by a slight creak of wood. A voice, smooth and warm, drifted in.
“Everything safe in there? May I come in, love? Got fresh warm water, and some first aid stuff.”
Arc’s attention snapped to the door faster than any pain in his body could catch up. The moment the door creaked open, there she stood. Nova. She was hard to miss. Arc might have been a demon-blooded bastard on the verge of falling apart physically, but there was no denying that she was beautiful, with an air of confidence that was impossible to ignore. Her presence filled the space, and for a moment, he was too distracted by the way the light seemed to catch the sharp edges of her features, the way her movements were fluid and graceful, to notice the state he was in.
The damn woman glowed. It wasn’t just her beauty—it was how effortlessly she commanded attention, how her aura seemed to brighten the room without even trying. Even Arc, battered as he was, felt a strange pull.
He let his gaze linger a moment too long, his lips parting as if he might say something, but he just ended up blinking instead, trying to mask the unexpected stir of interest. His pulse seemed to pick up, even in his beaten state.
There was something about Nova that made him a little more aware of himself, something he wasn’t used to. “I’d hate to miss out on warm water… can’t say I’ve ever been this thrilled to see a first aid kit.” His gaze flickered to Calia, sure she would appreciate not having herself further covered in gore anyways.
“Hmn, I’ll try to make sure it’s all wrapped up tight then,” she answered. Pausing only when he actually dug up the will to say thank you, with an expression so strange it had her blinking in confusion. About to open her mouth and say something herself, when Nova’s knock and gentle voice drew her attention.
And there she was, the gentle moonbeam pixie that honestly even made Calia’s stolen heart pitter-patter a little the first time she’d seen her, just by the serene natural beauty and those soft features. Just like that Archimedes was enchanted, head to toe, on the hook, completely and utterly gone to the vision of silvery elegance before him.
Calia merely sighed and rolled her eyes to the ceiling. Perfectly his type. If Calia were another woman, she’d likely be seethingly jealous, even violently insecure that Nova could so effortlessly command attention just by the art of existing. Her sweet and kind nature just twisting the knife ever more, because you couldn’t hate her for it either. Luckily for everyone, Calia had no need for that kind of envy. There was no comparison between them, they were as different as night and day.
He was going to bleed himself out faster if he didn’t calm that beating heart of his though.
“You can set it here on the table,” she instructed the girl. Moving enough to lean and seek out a few coins from various pockets to drop onto the table herself and slide over. First she made a soft gesture at Archimedes, who was in the most obvious of need. Then she turned a bit to show Nova the back of her shirt where there was a good sized streak of stained blood, that she may as well had been bathing in it.
“Anything that fits good enough for the two of us would be fine. I do very much appreciate you running out for us and I’ll make it up to you. Two whole favors and counting.”
One could truly appreciate that Calia understood—respected—his wishes about not disturbing the runes. Anyone else would’ve likely waved a hand at his concerns, muttered something about “it’ll heal the same,” and jabbed him with a needle until his skin was full of tiny stitched regrets. But not her. Calia knew better. She understood magic. Respected it. And more importantly, respected him enough to ask instead of assume.
He was grateful. Not just for that, but for everything. For dragging his sorry hide here, for bothering to wipe the gore off his face instead of leaving him to crust over like a sun-dried corpse. It wasn’t gratitude born of obligation, either. Arc wasn’t as heartless as some might whisper. He knew when thanks were due. He knew when care should be acknowledged. And Calia, well—she was going to get something thoughtful in return. He just hadn’t figured out what yet.
His brain might have wandered there longer, if not for the interruption of something utterly divine.
A voice—light, cheerful, full of warmth and lilt—fluttered in like birdsong at dawn. Accompanied by the promise of warm water and medical supplies, it might as well have been a vision sent from whatever gods hadn’t given up on him yet.
The door creaked open, and there she was. Nova.
She didn’t enter the room so much as grace it. It would’ve been an insult to call it a walk. She practically glided, and Arc, broken as he was, couldn’t stop the slow rise of a half-lidded look of quiet admiration. She was… hard to miss. Not just beautiful, though she certainly had that in abundance—but radiant. Utterly, disarmingly radiant. Like the sun had whispered all its secrets to her and she’d promised not to tell, but let it reflect in her smile anyway.
He very nearly purred. Held it back—barely. No one needed to hear how much he wanted to curl around that brightness like a cat in a sunbeam.
Nova set down the bowl and rags, her bronze eyes lifting to Calia with that easy, heart-squeezing sort of sweetness. “Mmm, well we can wash it. See if we get that blood out before it sets in too deep.” Thoughtful fingers pressed to her chin before she gave a confident nod. “Naw, don’t worry about it. What are friends for? If I was in the business of collectin’ favours, I’d have a tidy little fortune. But that’s not what I’m about. Forget countin’ favours, love. I’m just happy to help.”
She gave Calia’s arm a squeeze—a touch that lingered with comfort—and then those luminous eyes landed on him. Bright as firelight. Warm as a hearth. “Any particular colours yah like?” she asked, casual. Making it clear she was asking both of them rather than one.
Arc’s voice dropped to something low and smooth, a velvet rumble from somewhere deep in his chest. “I’ll leave it to yer keen eye, darlin’,” he said, voice rich with charm. His eyes never left her. “Figure I’d trust whatever color a vision like you decided looked best.”
Nova beamed—beamed—and the light from that smile could’ve set a chapel alight. She winked, effortless and bright. “We’ll see how keen my eye is.”
Her attention flicked back to Calia, and her hand gave another quick, grounding squeeze. “I’ll be back as quick as I can. Might be a bit busy due to the festival goers, but yah should try and wash up. Just give a holler and I’m sure Brux can ready some hot water for yah, love. Get some food too—Alden’s getting some lobster put together. Maybe yah can sneak a first plate!”
And with that—and a final bounce of energy that was somehow both elegant and adorable—she was gone, closing the door gently behind her.
He waited. Just long enough to hear the soft retreat of her steps down the hall. Like the world was exhaling around her absence. Then, with a low breath and the faintest curve of a dazed, crooked smile, he murmured—quiet, reverent, and absolutely smitten: “…Stars help me, I think I’m already gone.” And this time, the purr wasn’t just audible—it wrapped through the words like velvet, warm and spellbound.
“Anything that isn’t pink,” she did murmur to the girl, pretending not to notice the bloodied up demon was practically crooning to the woman. Had he actually been in good health and properly dressed, he might’ve actually had a chance to woo and charm her. Although, Calia had a slight suspicion that Nova was so used to this sort of treatment from men, that it might not be as effective as Arc would hope.
Even when the little moonbeam elf left the room, here he was swooning as if he’d just fallen in love for the first time!
Calia actually laughed!
“Gone to heaven? Or about to leap up out of this chair, chase her down and propose? At least let me get this blood off you first.”
He was going to get more of that cold water first, cause he clearly needed it. Scoffing a bit, even if there was a hint of a smile at the crook of her mouth when she resumed to soft prodding clean away blood from neck and shoulders. Examining scratches and gouges to make sure there wasn’t anything ugly stuck in those wounds and liable to fester. Methodical, slow, always very careful.
“She’s been a kind friend while I’ve been here, so you ought to be careful with her, Arc. I have a feeling she is more liable to break your heart than you breaking hers.”
“If I could, I might. Just… not so much on the proposin’ side of things.” Arc met her bright green eyes with a spark of playful intent, lips twitching into something close to a grin.
Battered, bruised, and halfway held together with sheer will, he still wasn’t so far gone that he couldn’t conjure up a dozen elaborate ways to steal the little dove’s attention for a day—or hell, maybe two. Nova was radiant, the kind of beautiful that didn’t just catch a man’s eye, but held it. He’d gladly suffer another round of broken ribs just to see those bronze eyes flutter in his direction. Would’ve limped across coals for the chance to flirt properly.
Somewhere deep in the hollow of his chest—right alongside that cursed, demon’s heart in one gut—there was something warm. Not fire. Not magic. Just… warm.
A contrast to the cool water Calia pressed gently against his skin. And gods, wasn’t that a shock all on its own.
He didn’t dare flinch, didn’t dare ruin the strange, unfamiliar softness she offered in her movements. There was no jab. No bite. No warning elbow to a cracked rib just because she could. Only calm hands and a silence that unsettled him more than her usual threats ever could.
She could be gentle. That was the strangest discovery of the day. He wasn’t about to say that aloud though. Mostly because he liked having all his bones unbroken. And if he even hinted that he was touched by her tenderness, she might just take that as an invitation to punch sincerity back out of him.
His ears twitched subtly at her warning—to tread carefully where Nova was concerned. He hummed low, thoughtful. “Well, I’ll just add it to the pile. What’s one more scar to the masterpiece?” He didn’t dare shrug—his ribs would protest—but lifted his brows in a lazy mimic instead.
“Sounds like yah finally got what yah were needing from here at least.” he said, quieter now. “Someplace calm. That’s somethin’, I suppose.”
He let that hang. Let the words linger like smoke in the room, even though they scratched at something raw. Because whether she knew it or not—whether she cared or not—she’d left him to rot, and he hadn’t exactly enjoyed the taste of that solitude. Not when it came seasoned with betrayal and silence. Still, she hadn’t mentioned the weakened bond. Hadn’t reamed him out for the toll it took or the damage it left. Maybe she hadn’t noticed. Or maybe she had… and it just didn’t matter. Of course he did know he couldn’t blame her entirely. But emotions weren’t always logical.
“So…” Arc exhaled, slow and steady, violet eyes ringed with heliotrope sliding up to meet her jade stare. “What now? Aside from the whole—I need to not bleed out thin’. And don’t worry, I promise not to be an annoyin’ pest.” He gave her a lopsided grin. It was a little crooked, a little tired, but still entirely him.
Her warning had clearly fallen onto deaf elven ears. That was alright, though. If he wanted to try his luck chasing after Nova, he was welcome to it. The girl was looking for a real and true love and would hopefully see right through his nonsense, and even if she did want to have herself a little fling, she bet Nova would have a grand time. Taking full delight in the way he tended to be so grand and romanticizing. It would be a lovely story for her to hold and tell.
…maybe there was a little envy in Calia after all. For wasn’t it always those gentle whimsical girls that others wanted. Soft and sweet and delicate. Full of warmth and light and everything comforting. That just wasn’t anything Calia was ever going to be. There wasn’t any sense in being upset about it, but that little twinge of knowing she was not something anyone wanted was rooted deep down in her.
“I’d say she was the only one keeping me from tearing this town topsy-turvy trying to find a source of magic to tap into so I could track you down,” she answered, stepping away for a moment to dip that rag back into the cold water bowl to rinse and rinse. Before coming back to gentle tap his shoulder and give a small gesturing push that he was going to have to suffer through bending forward for a few moments so she could get his back first.
“Half of the time, anyway,” she murmured with a huff. “There was a great deal of time just waiting and feeling stupid because I did not know what else to do. Although by the look of you, I should’ve just come to you the second I felt it return. I could’ve gotten in a few good stabs to your unwanted date before I passed out.”
Finally she just sighed, meeting that violet stare and grin of his with a soft frown. Devoid of any ire or frustration, just concerned weariness.
“For now I bandage you up like a mummy and then you go to bed and sleep until you can’t anymore. I’ll stay close so you can heal properly. I suppose you can shoo me away when you’re strong enough to go chasing skirts.”
There she went.
In a manner of unspoken seconds that had him privately brooding and attempting to cool down the ire that was well known and suitably misplaced about the whole means of their dynamic, –oh he was more than aware of how his thoughts weren’t being particularly fair- Calia spoke up. Laying comfort on one singular woman’s head that had provided shelter in the sense of keeping the mountain princess calm.
Not because of anyone. Not because of the mood. But because apparently she was ready to go looking for a line of magic in a hope to locate him.
Her hand guided him gently to lean forward. The gesture looked simple—felt impossible. He clenched his teeth, stifled the low rasp of pain that tried to crawl its way out. His body screamed in protest, every inch aching from the time spent as a demon’s personal punching bag.
But he moved. Inch by miserable inch.
And he listened.
Almost convinced moving a an entire landmass would be easier than just moving the few inches. His ribs protesting, his innards shrieking and everything in between of being a fine former punching bag for the second rank demon. But he managed and was listening to Calia murmuring about how she spent half the other time feeling foolish. Suggesting she was stupid –oh he knew she wasn’t. Wild and untamed as a tempest wind, absolutely. But she was anything but stupid. “I’m far more content that yah didn’t try comin’ after me.” Arc admitted, his tone authentic. “I didn’t even know where I was and honestly, that was somethin’ I think it was hopin’ for.” Vision flitted across the ground as a vain distraction. “I’d rather yah stay safe than gettin’ into clutches that just want to tear yah apart further. I’d rather be the punchin’ bag than lettin’ yah get hurt or snatched just so that bastard could try whatever else with yah.”
Oh he heard himself, smiled a little softer than usual. “Loyalty is a funny thin’ and yah’ve got mine in spades.”
Tensing lids shut as she worked, muffling down the involuntary pangs of agony wanting to pull through lips, he did huff a little in a laugh at her expression of telling him he could shoo her away. “I wouldn’t actually do that, yah know. It might be hard to believe, but yah put yer back out today to lumber my titan ass around. I appreciate yer help, severely. Nor would I be selfish to the point of shooin’, or takin’ over yer space. Yah wanted to come here for enjoyment. Yah should do so. Still do so. Who knows how long yah have till someone or the rest of the universe comes knockin’ demandin’ yah do what it wants. Take the time offered now, Lia. Take care of yerself, first and foremost. Yah hear me?”
The amount of damage to him was impressive. Perhaps not as horrifying as seeing whole chunks carved off him, yet there was no doubt in her mind having the ever loving shit beat out of him. What wasn’t scratched and bleeding were big violently purple bruises, that she was taking very delicate care not to press into as it had to be a nightmare of pain! Repeating the process of swiping away blood, sweat and grime until her rag was too bloodied, to rinse, wring and repeat.
And to have endured all of this for her sake sat like a heavy weight in her stomach. Snatched up because of her and having the gall to say he’d rather it be him than herself. Such an impossible thing to believe that Calia was trying her best to just take it with a grain of salt – of course anyone would be singing praises once they were safe and free.
Only to have him mentioning loyalty so casually she wasn’t sure she heard him right. Loyalty. A foreign word, really! At least when it came in reference to herself. People spoke of it in terms of crown and country and title. Wrote stories and sonnets about it, thought about it in abstract terms.
This though? This was so very personal. A gift more precious than the sword he’d given her. For all of the times of picking her up off the ground and now to defend her as an actual physical shield.
And just like that it was forged deep. Strong and unwavering loyalty, to be cradled gently in her chest and protected to her dying day.
“Then who is going to take care of you, Arc,” she countered softly. Suddenly finding anything in the world to look at other than his face, as she really did not know how to handle this fierce new understanding of a loyalty to someone. It was embarrassing! Calia ought to have laughed though at the comment of throwing out her back, as she was definitely now having to shift down to a knee when it was time to tilt him back and deal with the worst of his wounds across chest, ribs and side. Bending over him was making her back ache and lending him her strength wasn’t helping.
“I’d prefer if you didn’t keep getting yourself kidnapped and having the hell beat out of you, but if you’re going to be so determined, then at least let me take care of you. Let me protect and shield you when you can’t do it for yourself. I want to.”
He was a demon. Hard to kill—but apparently delightful to beat to a pulp.
Not that that was news to anyone. Demons were notoriously durable, and he healed like a bad decision—fast, stubborn, and just when you thought it was over, right back again. Honestly, it worked out well enough if your idea of stress relief was throwing someone through a wall. Which, clearly, had been the case here. He just hoped no one got any ideas about doing it again any time soon. He was all full up on the rip-tear-shred buffet, thanks. No seconds, please.
First Starling, now the demon. Yeah, he was pretty good on a third attempt.
The silence that settled between them wasn’t awkward, thankfully. But it was heavy—pregnant with something unsaid. Calia’s side of it was taut, like she was still deciding whether or not to speak it into life.
Arc didn’t mind silence. And he sure as hell didn’t mind saying what was on his mind. One of the few perks of being him: he didn’t dress things up, didn’t bend for approval. Between the two of them, he’d said nothing he’d regret. He hadn’t lied, hadn’t softened the edges. And if that made him the shield between her and the horrors some of his kind could unleash, so be it. Calia was strong—no doubt about it. But strength didn’t mean she needed to face cruelty alone just to prove a point.
He’d heal. He always did.
His brows quirked slightly at her question. “Myself?” he echoed, more puzzled than anything else. No edge to it. Just honest confusion that someone might expect him to need—let alone want—care. Arc was used to saving himself.
It wasn’t a declaration he made with flair, and it sure as hell wasn’t some badge of honor he wore to impress anyone. He’d said it aloud to the demon with blood bubbling in his throat, not for effect, but because it had always been true. Longer than he’d ever been an elf, he’d been a demon—shaped by claw and fire and the endless, grinding machinery of necessity. In the pits of survival, there were no hands reaching out to help. No soft words. Just the sharp edge of instinct and the understanding that weakness, even for a moment, meant you might not see the next sunrise.
He hadn’t survived this long by hoping someone might give a damn. Dependence had been a luxury others could afford, but not him. From the moment he could walk in this new skin, he’d been taught—by cruelty, by circumstance—that his well-being was his burden alone. He learned to patch his own wounds, to fight with broken fingers, to laugh with cracked ribs if only to keep the fear from settling too deep. And when it got bad—really bad—he grit his teeth and crawled until it wasn’t anymore.
He didn’t ask for help because he’d never expected any. He didn’t need pity. Didn’t believe in it. And care? Real care, not the transactional kind that came with strings or secrets—that was a thing of stories, reserved for people who were meant to be protected. He had never thought himself one of them.
So no, this wasn’t brooding, wasn’t some ‘lone warrior’ monologue. It was just reality. Arc’s reality. And in that reality, survival was something he did alone—again, and again, and again.
Until now. And even now… he didn’t quite know what to do with the weight of someone else’s hands reaching toward him. But then she moved toward him again, tending to bloodied skin with a focus that should’ve belonged to a battlefield surgeon. Most folk would’ve bolted at the sight of the damage—skin peeled back like badly wrapped parchment, tendons exposed like ribbon. A walking horror show. But not her.
She just kept working.
“Yah and me both, lass,” he muttered, voice dry with humor, though lacking any heat. “I might be able to take a beatin’ like it’s part of me daily cardio, but I’d be real happy if the next century came quiet, yah know?” He chuckled, but it gentled into a hiss the moment her cloth touched another torn bit of flesh. His jaw clenched through the pain, but he didn’t jerk away. No about to give her more work.
Then she said it—wanted to return the favor. Wanted to take some of it from him.
And gods, that hit stranger than the pain did.
It didn’t sound like the Calia he thought he knew—like hearing thunder on a cloudless day. Not that she was heartless. Far from it. But this was different. This was giving when she had no reason to, when she shouldn’t have to. It was wrong. Not because of what it said about her—but because of what it asked of her.
“You shouldn’t be drainin’ yerself dry either,” he said at last, voice low, wearied but firm. “Whatever’s drivin’ yah to take my wounds for yers… it ain’t worth both of us crawlin’ outta this like we got trampled by drunk goblin tap dancers.”
If he could’ve stopped the binding from leeching from her, he would’ve. But it was lopsided by design—benefitting the owner more than the bound. Still, he met her gaze with something steadier than usual. “If I say I’ll let yah tend me, will yah stop feedin’ strength into me like it’s water from a cracked jug? One of us oughta be able to stand by the end of this, and I ain’t willin’ for it not to be yah, love.”
Not a single shock or surprise was had that he still insisted she ought to stop her lending of strength, even so far as to try and make a deal with her about it. As if he somehow deserved less. As if she would ever give lesser than her entire full self when she was capable.
“Nope!” she chirped back. Immediately striking a wide youthful smile when she did finally look up at him, eye to eye. Full of every bit of stubbornness and willful refusal, as if tending to him was all spiteful mischief and torture instead of her genuine concern and care. Practically daring him in that expression to fight her, knowing fully well who was going to win that fight and not feeling an ounce of shame about it.
“Save your worrying for when I actually need it,” she told him, moving back to her feet again now that she’d swiped away the vast majority of blood and grime free from his upper body to switch over to the fresh basin of warm water and the clean rags. Ready to begin the tedious task of bandaging up wounds to keep him from bleeding out all over the place or getting an infection. Starting with the worst of them where she could actually see the gore and bone.
Calia might have to do a little magic just to make sure those tattooed runes of his did have the best chance of healing back to where they needed to be. A magic stitch wouldn’t take the kind of energy healing magic did, and it would fade away without leaving scars that could mar the runes.
Plus a little bit of biting into her cheek for the blood meant she wouldn’t have to draw anything from him.
“I’ll have a good meal and rest as you rest. Sleep will do us both well, and lounging around doing a bunch of nothing suits me just fine.”
Now she’d begun a new sort of focused work, all in methodical clearly thought out steps. The fresh warm water to clear away any newly seeped blood. Dabbing with a dry cloth to dry the skin. Taking a bit of salve from the medical kit to cover the worst of the wounds and a soft blow of breath to be sure it didn’t sting as bad and that it dried in better. Then it was the faintest weaving of magic stitching with the thumb to close what could be closed before applying a good amount of gauzing to protect the wound. Repeat, repeat, repeat.
Well, if she wanted to see him in full awkward, uncomfortable mode, she found the trigger for it. Arc’s discomfort hit him like a wave, a sudden, sharp pang of irritation he couldn’t shake off. The moment she refused to listen, the moment she chose to push forward with this nonsense, he felt his entire body stiffen. It was like trying to stop an avalanche with his bare hands—completely out of his control, and he hated every second of it.
He grew uncharacteristically quiet, an uncomfortable stillness settling over him. Normally, Arc could talk about anything—anything at all—but now, he was so tightly wound that every breath felt like a struggle. The binding… that damnable tether… it was like a noose around his throat, squeezing tighter with every word she said, every choice she made without his say.
It wasn’t about pride. It wasn’t about being too proud to accept help. It was the fact that he couldn’t refuse. That he couldn’t stop her. That she could dictate his every move, his every breath, without him having a damn thing to say about it. His pain, his struggle, his every instinct screamed that it wasn’t right, but the binding… it overpowered him. He was helpless, a spectator in his own life, caught in a cycle where every move, every step was dictated by forces beyond his control.
And worse, he could feel that discomfort growing inside of him. Like something was breaking—some inner barrier—some part of himself that used to believe he had some semblance of control. Now, he was being told, forced, to accept things that made him feel smaller than he had in years. Childlike. Dependent. Reliant on someone else for something as basic as survival.
This feeling was suffocating, worse than any physical pain. The sensation of being bound, of being powerless in the face of her kindness, of her insistence on doing things for him, it made his skin crawl. He wanted to push it away, wanted to throw off that sense of helplessness like a heavy cloak, but the binding wouldn’t let him. It tethered him. It wouldn’t let him have the choice to refuse. And it felt wrong—wrong in the core of his being.
A flash of frustration sparked within him. The old instinct kicked in, the one that told him to bite back, to snap, to refuse to be treated like some project that someone else had the right to fix. But no matter how hard he clenched his jaw, swallowed his fury, the truth remained: he was trapped.
The silence stretched between them, heavy and thick. It was suffocating. The weight of his own thoughts pressed against his skull, and he hated it. He hated the way his mind kept circling back to the same helpless truth—that he had no choice, that his body was hers to command. No matter how much he tried to rationalize it, tried to convince himself it was just for the moment, just a temporary thing, it didn’t change the fact that he hated being dependent. Hated being treated like a patient in someone else’s care.
What the hell had happened to him? The Arc that he used to be didn’t have to rely on anyone. He’d been the one to survive, to fight, to take the hits and walk away. But now? Now he was nothing more than a passenger in his own life, forced to comply and accept the situation he didn’t want. Regardless if her intentions were kind, the agency for him to choose was no longer his own.
He had to acknowledge it. Even if he was loathed too. He was just a familiar to her. That was all. She dominated the will, ignored even his attempts to try and be reasonable with her relenting and letting him take what was rightfully his. It might be painful but it was his pain.
He swallowed back the sting of his discomfort, biting down on any comments or protests that bubbled up inside of him. He couldn’t speak out—couldn’t dare to show how truly resentful this whole situation made him feel.
But even as he kept quiet, the room seemed to press in around him, as if everything in his mind had gone silent but the discomfort still churned in his chest.
Something about him had shifted in those quiet moments. There’d been awkwardness, strangeness, a few brief peeks into something that could even be easy and comfortable. Then somewhere something flipped and it was palpable. Thick and heavy, hinted in the way his body held tension and how he seemed to breathe. Leaving Calia scrabbling to search over the past few minutes trying to think of what she’d said and how any of it could have set him off, and truly finding nothing. Wondering then if it was simply something in his own head, a more personal problem.
Having to then wrestle with the fact that it didn’t matter which it could be, what could Calia even do about it? She couldn’t force the man to be comfortable with her care any more than she could fight her own dark and terrible thoughts. This is how it went with them, hot and cold, stumbling and fumbling. Difficult, exhausting, ever so often getting the tiniest glimmer of a relationship that could be easy, only to fall right back down again.
She was too tired to be hurt or mad about it this time. He needed rest. Things would not feel so dire once he was back to himself again.
Calia let him have his silence, not piping in another thing further save for a murmur here and there when she needed him to move. Repeating the process of applying salve and placing secure bandages, until it was necessary to do the wrapping that would keep them all in place. Once he did very much look the role of a mummy over upper torso, she set about cleaning up the mess of rags and filthy water on the table.
“I’ll step into the hall so you can finish washing up, then you need to climb into bed. Nova should be back soon enough anyway.”
It was only a matter of time before the realization hit him with blinding clarity.
A familiar. That was what he was. Bound to live, to die, to behave in every way she saw fit. The thoughts that had once bloomed in his mind withered in an instant, leaving nothing but a stark emptiness where rebellion once stirred. He had been wise to hold his tongue, to bury the sharp edges of his dissatisfaction beneath layers of forced compliance. He had learned to root his new life into this shallow dirt of contract, discomfort, and suffocation—stripped of his own agency, unable to speak or ask for anything that might give him a semblance of control.
As she finished tending to her overgrown demonic familiar, he nodded to her instructions.
Wash up. Lay down. And the soundless addition: stay put.
“Of course.” The words left his lips without hesitation, the finality of them sinking into his chest. If this was his fate, then it was time to behave like a familiar was expected to—obedient, nonplussed, and always awaiting the next command, as if his life had been reduced to a series of motions dictated by someone else. Waiting to either be freed from this existence or… slaughtered. The latter had nearly come to pass, and now, with bitter clarity, he wondered if it might’ve been easier if it had.
When she departed, he moved mechanically, following her instructions without protest. There was no room for complaint—only the stifled frustration of his own helplessness. He tucked those feelings away, locked them in tidy mental boxes where they could no longer interfere with his task. He would do what was asked of him, even if his body screamed in rebellion. Eventually, he managed to clean up, and, with a sigh that carried all the weight of his resignation, he followed the next instruction: lie down.
It wasn’t easy—his body screamed at him, every fiber of his being protesting the movement. But he obeyed, nonetheless, collapsing onto the bed as if it were a command he couldn’t refuse, even though every bone ached in protest.
Meanwhile, in the taproom below, Brux had managed to keep the festival crowd distracted enough to return unnoticed. She cast a quick glance toward the man, only for him to shoot her a barely perceptible glance before dismissing her with a wave, urging her to avoid explanation. With a small, mischievous giggle, she hurried into the kitchen, sidling up to Alden to ask him to prepare a few dishes ahead of time—telling him, with a wink, not to tell Brux. Of course, the mute elf leveled her a knowing, unamused look, but Brux simply grinned, tucking the bags into her arms as if she were carrying something precious.
She floated back out of the kitchen, ready to impart her findings on the two souls waiting for her upstairs, her steps light and purposeful, despite the undercurrent of tension that lingered just beneath her cheerful exterior.
Calia had done as promised, stepped outside the door and closed it softly behind her. Leaning her back against it before sinking down to plant her ass on the floor and just sit there to wait. A silent, quiet guardian to his privacy and sticking close so their bonded tether could be strong and allow him that chance to heal faster.
Things were always such a sharp up and down thing with him, where she never really knew where she stood. One moment feeling like they’d broken through to something genuine and true, then the next it seemed like he couldn’t get away from her fast enough. Where he’d become this unscalable brick wall she was just throwing herself against. He spoke about feeling a loyalty to her and pushed her away in that very same breath. It was madness, wasn’t it? To keep trying? The contract hadn’t yet dissolved itself, so obviously there was still some need of each other.
They weren’t fighting. Yet Calia wasn’t sure if this was any better. Having to just ride the wave and hope they both made it out on the otherwise without drowning beneath it.
That is where she remained, quietly thinking until she heard the steady footsteps coming up the tavern stairs. Giving a flicker of a glance towards the moonbeam gilded woman before sighing and climbing back up to her feet. Then to open up hands to accept the bundles from her.
“Thank you. I would have gone out to get it myself, but I guess I made a bloody scene enough for the day.”
The grin that bloomed across Nova’s soft features was effortless—sweet as honey and just as golden. Even with Calia clearly worn to the bone, Nova’s warmth didn’t falter. Most folk would’ve crumpled like crushed ants under the sheer weight of what Calia had marched into town with. The fact that she was upright, breathing, and still managing full sentences was downright awe-inspiring. Marvelous, even. Worthy of praise and admiration—and all the dramatic ooh’s and aah’s that would undoubtedly echo through the festival by nightfall.
Calia’s comment earned a light laugh from Nova, one hand gesturing as if to sweep away the very idea of shame. “Oh, what’s a little chaos at a festival, eh? Yah just brought in a fresh bit of curious wonder that’s bound to turn into a fish tale before the candles burn down. I say we park ourselves at the bar later and listen to what nonsense spins out of it, hmm?”
Because it wouldn’t be the truth they remembered. Oh no. People never cared much for facts when a better story was ripe for the picking. The scene would grow wilder with each telling—twisted, stretched, turned inside out until it was no longer a worn-out girl dragging a half-dead elf into town, but some grand tale about a fearless human who marched into the dark woods, hunted down a centuries-old manticore plaguing the coast, and bested it with nothing but a stick and a glare.
That part? Nova was very much looking forward to.
“I picked up a few things myself—wheeled and dealed, as it were.” With a mischievous sparkle in her bronze eyes, she offered up the bag, stuffed full with all manner of goods: tunics, shirts, supple leathers, a few pairs of gloves, some scarves. Even a dress had found its way in there—because when the shopping bug bites and there’s no rule besides no pink, a girl’s gotta live a little.
“Honestly, might make a job of it,” she mused. “People give me a list, I bat my lashes, charm a few stallkeepers, and see how many coins I save while lookin’ cute doin’ it. Could make a decent trade outta that, don’t yah think?”
Nova bounced lightly on the balls of her feet, excitement tapering into a soft gentleness as she looked at Calia again, her tone growing tender.
“Yah look like you need a good soak, love. Hot water, bubbles, the whole thing. You’ve had a day—gods, a day—of bein’ an absolute force of nature.” She stepped a little closer, tilting her head. “Wanna trot over to my little hut and splash around a bit? I’ll keep an eye on the place for yah if you’re frettin’. I’m sure Loiren wouldn’t mind sittin’ on a lap that isn’t mine for a wee bit, either.”
“I see that you are already looking forward to the tall tales,” commented Calia, not really being able to help smiling back at the smaller woman’s limitless joy and spirit. It came so natural to Nova, seeing the good and possibilities in everything and it really was a talent worth admiring. Soon to bring a full laugh out of her when she’d taken the mass of a bundle for a quick peep inside.
“I sincerely doubt I gave you enough money to get all of this. Does Brux know he has himself a market fox working in his tavern?” Most of it was plenty practical, even the scarves would be useful once they travel back into the mountains as it could be cold there even during the summer months depending on the elevations. A dress, though? What was Calia supposed to do with that!
The suggestion of a proper bath, did draw her to a pause. An actual full bath full of bubbles and time to soak now that she no longer had to fear and worry about the unknowns of what happened with Archimedes? Hard to resist. She gave a small glance towards the door.
“I hate to leave him here alone,” she murmured. Contemplating how much of that feeling was just her own worry and concern or if she actually even needed to be there with him. “…I suppose he does want me to leave him be. He’d probably appreciate a sunshiny dame checking on him more.”
That’s what he asked for, after all. For Calia to stop lending him her strength and focus on herself. What a soft and gentle way of telling her to mind her own business and leave him alone.
Shaking those thoughts out of her head, she shifted to open up the door allowing herself and Nova by proxy inside. Moving first to take the bundle of things over to one of the dressing tables, to sift out the things she’d need for herself and to arrange the items for Archimedes where he could have them when he was ready.
Stepping over to the bed to give him a quick, eagle-eyed glance over, unsure if he was playing possum or if he’d actually fallen asleep. Either way she reached to tug the blanket over him.
“I’m going to have a bath at Nova’s. She’ll check in on you and I’ll be back soon.”
Calia didn’t wait for any replies, certain that it was all going to be more of the same anyway. Waiting until she was back out the door before she reigned herself in, stopped trying to push that means of strength through their tentative tether so he could have that distance and separation he wanted. Giving the elven girl a soft shrug of her shoulders and a nod to hint she was ready to head off.
“Don’t yah dare tell me you’re not curious,” Nova grinned, light dancing in her bronze eyes. “Especially when it’s about you. Those are the best stories—utterly nonsensical. That’s the magic of it. Yah get to hear all the wild, twisted things folk are convinced you did. Swearin’ on their grandmother’s grave they saw it all with their own two eyes, even if it’s stuffed full of lies and fantasy.”
She gave a little shrug, utterly unbothered. There were two ways to handle that sort of thing—be sour about it, or laugh yourself silly. Nova always went with the latter.
And with the handover of goodies, as Calia laughed about how she certainly didn’t give her enough coin for this much, Nova simply smiled, folding her hands behind her back and swaying on her heels like some picture of sugar-spun innocence. Her gentle features were so bright, so honest, that no one would’ve dared think her capable of anything sly.
Because truly—she was innocent. She’d only done a bit of haggling, that was all. If things happened to end in her favor? Well, that was just good sport, wasn’t it?
“Let’s not give him even an inklin’,” she added, pressing a finger to her lips with mock secrecy. “He might start wonderin’ just how Alden always gets his fresh vegetables.” Her bright eyes sparkled with mischief, then softened into something more sincere as she turned her attention back to Calia.
She was offering more than just a soak and a smile now. She was offering space, and the stillness to settle.
Nova didn’t miss the hesitation in Calia’s expression, the reluctance to leave her companion alone. “Brux is here. I’m here,” she reassured gently. “And let’s be honest—after the sort of scrapes he’s been through, I reckon he might appreciate a little quiet to ruminate. Bit o’ peace. Not so much he’s forgotten, mind, but just enough that if anythin’ did go sideways, someone’s nearby to lend a hand.”
She arched a brow at the “sunshiny dame” comment, not entirely sure what it meant, but she let it pass with an amused smirk. The most important part was that Calia seemed to be leaning toward yes, and that was all Nova needed.
The air in the room needed clearing, that much was certain. The tang of blood lingered, stubborn and sour. So she stayed by the doorway, a polite guest, watching as Calia gave quiet instructions and stepped out. The big man didn’t stir, which Nova took as a good sign—rest was doing its work.
When Calia emerged and the door clicked shut behind her, Nova met her with a bright, handcrafted smile that could melt stone.
“When yah wander back, there’ll be lobster rolls waitin’—fresh as the tide,” she chirped. “Make sure yah bring yer appetite. We can sit out back, pick at ’em like a couple of rabid little squirrels. And if yah need anythin’ at the house, just help yerself! What are friends for, after all?”