Morning arrived in its usual, unbothered fashion—golden light creeping through the curtains as if it hadn’t interrupted anyone’s dreams or business. Nova took to it with quiet purpose, gently coaxing her guest—who had thus far behaved with the saintly restraint of a statue—to take advantage of the tub and wash up proper. She hadn’t expected much resistance, but the total absence of it was still a little surprising. No fuss, no grumble, not even a sarcastic quip. He just… did as he was told. Like the words dropped from her lips and simply rooted into action. Obedient to a fault.
She tried not to read into that.
What did catch her attention, however, was Loiren—already enthusiastically engaging in her morning cardio by assaulting the driftwood critter for the second, third, or fifth round. Hard to say. Nova knocked on the screen separating the washroom, calling out in case her unusually quiet guest had drowned himself out of politeness. There was no reply, but a low, vaguely agreeable sound floated out—a wordless I’m not dead, which she chose to accept at face value.
By the time he emerged—less bruised than the night before, though with no mention of healing or how—he looked more composed, if still half-draped in silence. She didn’t press. Sometimes not asking was the kindest thing.
They returned to the tavern late in the morning, just after the hangover crowd had either shuffled out or died in their chairs. Nova clutched the strange creation in her arms, not so much out of affection, but to keep it away from Loiren’s ever-hungry paws. Whether it was magical, important, or just plain weird, she figured Calia might want it back before it got turned into feline confetti.
Naturally, Brux was at the bar—where else would he be? His red eyes found them the moment the door creaked open, and he gave them the kind of slow, practiced once-over only someone paid to watch people could manage. Nova offered him a sugary grin—too sweet to be innocent—and, as expected, he softened. If only for a heartbeat.
But then the noise started. The driftwood creature chirped, squeaked, or did whatever unnatural thing it did with its twiggy limbs, immediately drawing attention. Brux’s eyes narrowed like he was witnessing a crime in real time.
“In Isyn’s mercy,” he muttered, “what is that?”
Nova lifted the thing like a strange offering, its little legs doing their best to run in place in her palm. “No idea. But Loiren tried to eat it twice. Figured I’d better bring it here before she discovers how to unhinge her jaw like a snake.” Brux gave a grunt that was probably the tavern equivalent of makes sense and let it drop. He didn’t need to understand the why—just that it was out of his hair now.
Nova turned toward her quiet companion, who had so far proven remarkably adept at being mistaken for background furniture. “Mind if I grab us some coffee?” she asked, already halfway expecting no answer.
Brux, meanwhile, weighed her request with the gravity of a king deciding the fate of his kingdom. After a dramatic pause: “Yeah, sure. You know where everything is. Just don’t go stomping around and waking the corpses. Place is full of half-dead drunks from last night.”
“As if I’d ever,” she murmured, already shushing the driftwood goblin in her hands and giving Arc a little nod to follow. He did so without hesitation, floating after her like he had nowhere else to be.
She guided him to a seat and gently placed the odd little creature on the table in front of him. “Don’t swat it,” she warned, half-teasing, half-serious.
Arc raised a brow, as though briefly weighing the idea. He didn’t seem to make a decision, but also didn’t reach for it, which she counted as a win. “I’ll get us some mugs and an urn. You take anything in your coffee? Milk? Honey? Sugar?” Nova paused just long enough to flash a grin over her shoulder. “I could always stick my finger in it to sweeten it up.”
She’d heard the line far too many times, and never once taken it seriously. Predictably, Arc didn’t even blink. Just turned to stare out the window, chin propped in his hand like he was pondering something far more profound than her terrible attempt at flirting.
Honestly, she didn’t blame him. It was a terrible pickup line.
Calia slept in late and it wasn’t even the tiniest bit deliberate. Having shoved as much of herself as she could at Archimedes before she’d cut it off, without realizing just how much that could actually be. She slept deep enough to dream all manner of strange things. Of big beautiful trees made of ice, growing gorgeous black roses that seemed to seep and drip blood to stain the snowy ground below. Seeing herself in that dream again, the queen garbed in obsidian silk and a golden crown with that sound of a beating heart thundering at first, until tapered slower and slower… coming to a full stop as she just. Smiled. A smile so cold even the ice around her felt warm in comparison.
When Calia awoke it wasn’t with a start, just a disgruntled hum. Glancing towards the window where the morning sun was already beaming in oh so cheerfully. There was no visible sign of the demon, but he was near enough by that she could feel that ominous presence. Suffocating.
Something had to break today, she couldn’t stand it.
The mountain princess forced herself out of bed and in a flurry of motion through off the dress of yesterday to tug on the simplest thing she could snatch. A tunic of a soft sky blue and some brown pants, grateful again that Nova chose things that were plain enough that Calia wouldn’t feel as if she stood out. She stuffed on her shoes and brushed through her hair to leave down and loose around her shoulders. Not bothering to pull on a single belt, harness of weapon to leave behind. Today she was just Calia. Not princess, not warrior, not witch. Just a very concerned and frustrated Calia.
Then off she went down the inn steps to the tavern proper, where it was strangely devoid of it’s usual boisterous morning patrons. Making her pause there at the bottom for a moment to catch her bearings and green eyes sought out just whom she was seeking.
She crossed the room in an instant. Sliding easily into the chair across from Archimedes to fold her hands on the table, dark fir green eyes doing the routine of examining every visual inch of him and maybe even deeper still. Calia didn’t say a single word, though her vision did drop briefly to the driftwood fish on the table.
It gave a pitiful little kazoo.
A squint of her eyes and she continued her staring.
The blustering sit-down at least earned a glance from Arc—just a flicker from the corner of his eye, settling on the space Calia had claimed. It was the same sort of quiet glance Nova had gotten plenty of already: just enough to show he was conscious, but nothing more. His gaze drifted right back to the window, as if the view beyond—some sleepy rooftops and festival flags lazily catching the breeze—was far more compelling than any conversation nearby.
The town outside was already shifting, like a pot beginning to bubble. The last night of the festival was always the loudest, brightest, and most obnoxiously determined to burn itself into memory before fading out for another year.
Nova didn’t bother trying to pull Arc into the moment. She knew better. Instead, she breezed over with two mugs, the clink of ceramic punctuating her chipper tone.
“Morning!” she sang out, dropping down into her seat beside Calia. The mugs slid across the table with a practiced hand and exactly zero ceremony. “Two mugs now—but I’m wonderin’ if I should’ve brought another.”
Her lips curled in a grin, teeth flashing like polished pearls. “Yah havin’ a bit of coffee, love? Or nursin’ a hangover?” A playful squint followed. “Or… should I have grabbed a couple more mugs? Someone still upstairs who’ll need somethin’ warm before yah send ’em off with a kiss and a fond memory?”
It was said with a wink, nothing mean about it—just that cheeky edge Nova wielded so well when she was in a mood.
Then, a glance at the twitchy driftwood creature on the table, still wobbling slightly with its wings half-raised like it wasn’t sure whether to fly or panic. “Eh—sorry ’bout that,” Nova added with a shrug. “Pretty sure Loiren gave it the full treatment last night. Bapped it, chased it, might’ve tried to marry it—I stopped askin’ questions after a while.”
The creature clicked twice. Offended, clearly.
Arc, as expected, offered no commentary. He lifted his mug, took a sip, and stared right out the window like someone practicing to be part of the furniture. Nova didn’t seem to mind. Not her first rodeo now with him being the silent type.
“I slept alone,” was Calia’s reply, keeping those dark green eyes on Archimedes, up until it felt too rude not to at least glance over at the bubbly elf. Shaking her head softly about the coffee. The princess had one singular focus now… and it looked like it was going to require every braincell in her had to try and figure this one out.
On mention of the wee enchanted trinket, she did reach out with gentle hands to gather it close. Using thumbs to smooth out it’s gossamer wings and it’s little tail fin. Made sure it’s legs were all still properly attached and it’s glassy eyes facing irrational directions. With a gentle tap to it’s head, she sent it back to do it’s job of skittering across the table.
Her hands folded once more and it was back to staring.
“Did you have a good evening?” she did deem to ask, though it was unclear exactly who it was directed to until once again she managed to tear gaze away to tilt head towards the moonbeam elf. “I succeeded in spitefully not having any fun. Did have a few drinks, though. Built and destroyed and city. Tried stepping foot in the ocean and nearly died.”
Nova considered Calia quietly, even in the face of her short, clipped response about how she hadn’t swept some lucky soul off their feet and into a night of raucous sheets-and-thrills. It wasn’t devastating. Not really. Sometimes the mood didn’t come, and Nova was the last person to judge how anyone spent their night. Sleep was sacred. And if Calia had gotten some—then that was all that mattered.
She smiled, warm and without pity. “Their loss,” she echoed gently, sliding into the chair opposite her with that same honeyed tone. With practiced ease, she poured the steaming brew into their mugs. The man beside them still hadn’t touched it, nor made any indication that he ever would.
His silence was an art form now.
Calia reached for the odd, jittery little creature Nova had brought with her—an apologetic offering of sorts—and as her fingers wrapped around its twig-thin body, Nova could feel the tension spike. The air, thick enough to taste. There was no outward flare of magic, no crackle or snap of power—but she knew a storm when she sat in the middle of one. And Calia was bracing for it.
Arc, meanwhile, had not budged. His eyes stayed glued to something beyond the window, utterly captivated by what must have been the most spiritually enlightening seagull in the known realms. Nova didn’t bother insisting he take the cup. If anything, she admired his commitment to becoming one with the wall.
She stirred a bit of sweet into her own mug, watching the coffee turn a soft, golden brown.
“Nothing too outrageous,” she said lightly, tone slipping into the conversational warmth she always carried. “A bit of wanderin’. A lot of me talkin’ to the quiet one here—’bout anything that flitted across my mind.” She took a sip, gauging its sweetness, and tilted her head slightly as though still debating if it needed a pinch more honey.
“And then,” she went on, resting an elbow on the table, “we ended up at the hut. Loiren made herself the self-declared queen of Arc’s lap for, oh, hours. I did some needlepoint. Real domestic scene. Then that thing—” she gestured with her cup toward the critter, “—startled me half to death and Arc did his hero bit, saved me from faintin’ like a true damsel in distress.”
She didn’t look at him, of course. Just painted the dramatics in broad strokes, grinning into her mug. It was a performance. One she had no expectation of actually landing. But sometimes you had to test the waters—see if the statue would blink.
The skittering of twig-legs on wood grew louder, drawing eyes and giving away Calia’s guilt with all the grace of a parade announcement.
Nova raised a brow at her, clearly amused. “Nearly died?” she said, tone rising in mock offense. “Please. I highly doubt it. Though now I’m curious—did yah at least name yer city before yah leveled it to ash and cinders? ‘Cause yah sound like yah had fun doin’ it, no matter what yah claim.”
She leaned back with a playful huff, sipping again. “Yer spite may’ve had more flair than you’re willin’ to admit, love.”
Calia was doing everything in her power to avoid acting on her stronger impulses. To slip into a panic because the man was just sitting there, as if his own soul had flown out of his body. How do you put a soul back into a demon! She was liable to flip the table and set fire to the place or… or well any manner of insane things because clearly she was an out of control goblin that didn’t know how these relationships were supposed to work.
Of course she knew a friend shouldn’t be pitching temper tantrums because things weren’t exactly smooth sailing at the moment. It was just a little bit scary, though, to see him like this and not the person she had grown to know.
…and she didn’t want to do anything that was going to startle Nova. Especially as it seemed Calia’s little enchanted trinket had given her a small scare. It was just a little silly thing, it wasn’t made to be scary. Just look at it, it didn’t have a single braincell and still had anxiety!
Then again when had Calia ever done anything that hadn’t eventually turned into someone’s nightmare.
She was going to spiral out at this rate!
Calia took in a deep breath and tried to repeat the mantra in her head. Be calm, be calm, be calm.
“It was no hail of flaming marshmallows, but I suppose it was something to do,” Calia did admit. It had all kept her busy and occupied doing something at least constructive. Today was going to be an entirely different problem, it seemed. Already hearing Renus lecturing her in her head about how she couldn’t just run away because something was difficult and hard. So sitting it was. Sitting and staring, and squinting her eyes in unspoken questions and silent frustration.
It was almost like Nova had read Calia’s mind.
Not that she had, of course. But the way her eyes narrowed in curiosity before reaching out to poke the odd little creature on the head gave the distinct impression she was tugging at the same thread of thought. The poor thing, persistent as ever, was marching over and over into Arc’s elbow—propped against the table like an immovable pillar of silent resistance. The critter bumped against it again and again, a tiny would-be explorer determined to conquer a mountain with sheer stubborn will.
Where Nova had flinched from it last night—because it had been dark, and she hadn’t known what it was, and it had moved in the shadows—now it just looked absurd. Endearing in its futility. Silly in a way that made her smile rather than shiver.
Once she decided it wasn’t going to change course or take the hint, she withdrew her finger, wrapping her hand around the mug’s ear with a content sigh. A sip followed, warm and mellow, her lips curved faintly with amusement at the memory of flaming marshmallows arcing through the sky like tiny, sugary comets.
“Well, it’s the last day of the festival now,” she said casually, her voice light as she shifted her gaze to Calia. “Yah got any remainin’ plans?”
She leaned back slightly, the rhythm of her words easy and familiar now. “Yah went sailin’. Had yer first merry night here and got to warm yer bed. Then we lit lanterns, danced barefoot on the sands, and drank until I was singin’ with sea birds.” A playful twinkle lit her bronze eyes. “Last night, yah tried not to have fun outta spite—which, by the way, was a noble attempt but a failed one. ‘Cause I was tryin’ to make yah enjoy it, y’know. Like a proper tourist.”
She raised her mug in salute, grinning. “So, explain it to me—how’s it all look from a tourist’s eyes?”
Then, as if the mischief in her voice couldn’t be helped, she added, “And tonight? Hmm. We could always break into the lighthouse and play peek-a-boo with the beacon. See if we can make any ships steer clear just in time. Could be a grand experiment in karma.”
She looked utterly unbothered by the idea, sipping her drink like she’d just suggested a nature walk instead of minor maritime sabotage.
This was all so futile wasn’t it. Twisting and fretting and… fuck Renus’ opinion anyway! If she didn’t get out of here and run as far as she could, Calia was liable to do something real stupid. Something wild and feral and completely wrong. Because she was not like Nova, all sweetness and comforting cheer. Calia was made to be a violent terror, to bend and break things until they weren’t problems anymore.
Nova truly was the crux here, though. The woman had been too kind and lovely and even now, could she not tell that pure unbridled mayhem was sitting right next to her? She’d been so nice and Calia wouldn’t dare spit in the face of that. Wholesome things in the world had to be protected and treasured.
Another deep breath and a careful reply.
“…as a tourist I did like the lanterns. That was my favorite part. I did enjoy dancing around the fires with you too. The festival experience is far better sharing it with someone than without.” An honest reply complete with a shrug of her shoulder. Festivals were certainly one of those things that were better done with a companion, and Calia had a chance to experience nights both with one and without.
This suggestion of the lighthouse…! That did break the impassive expression Calia had been holding since coming downstairs. Giving Nova a bit of a suspicious dubious look before checking to see if Brux was anywhere nearby lurking and listening. Then she leaned in close to whisper to the elven girl.
“I already climbed up the side of it and sat at the top for a few hours. Don’t tell Brux.”
Nova nodded along, humming in bright little agreements that matched the sparkle in her eyes—fond recollections of lanterns, dancing around the fire, and the thrill of something new. Something free. Something alive.
“I agree,” she said warmly, cradling her cup between both hands. “It’s not nearly as fun without someone to share it with—even if it’s just nonsense conversation.”
If that was a pointed jab at the ghost-quiet man seated nearby, she gave no indication. Her smile was sunshine-soft, her tone breezy, but the timing was suspiciously perfect.
“Though…” she added with a sly little glint, “being alone’s not all bad either. Means yah can slip into a crowd and just become part of it. The sorta mischief yah can pull off when everyone assumes you belong? Delicious.“
She sipped her coffee like a guilty saint, her practiced nonchalance flawless. Nova, of course, had never joined a random group of revelers mid-party, spun a web of tall tales, and danced her way into a hundred memories only to vanish by sunrise—leaving everyone to ask, “Who was that girl?” Surely not.
Even now, as she casually floated the idea of a little light mayhem to cap off Calia’s last festival night, her grin turned devilish—especially when she leaned in with a whispery lilt, talking about having climbed the off-limits lighthouse. “Not a word shall leave my lips,” she vowed solemnly, pressing a hand to her heart. “He won’t even get a peep of it.”
She meant every syllable, too. Secret-keeping came as naturally to Nova as storm-chasing or stealing the last piece of fruit pie from a windowsill.
The moment lingered until the soft pat-pat of fingers on the counter caught her ear. She turned her head, ears twitching toward the sound, and caught sight of Alden. He stood behind the bar, expression as mild as morning light, but his gesture was unmistakable: Come here. I need you.
Nova snorted, grinning at Calia before rising. “Not even on the clock yet and already gettin’ summoned.” She giggled, rising with theatrical reluctance. “Be back in a moment. Probably just need to help Alden figure out what culinary masterpiece is gonna grace the evenin’ menu.”
The chair scraped back with a protesting little squeak as she hopped down, breezing off with a vague wave of her hand and the echo of her laughter trailing behind.
And then, silence.
The kind that settled in like a fog, thick and awkward. Left behind were Calia and Arc—the former used to words, the latter seemingly allergic to them. Normally, Nova would be the one to break it with something silly or absurd.
But she was gone now.
Leaving the two of them to sit in the quiet—one of them likely stewing in thoughts, and the other still determined to blend into the furniture like an oddly shaped, very tall potted plant.
Nova wasn’t wrong about being alone having it’s advantages, even Calia couldn’t deny that. After all, she’d spent most of her life taking advantage of such things. Enjoying every minute of visiting places and being the mysterious stranger. Taking part in social circles to listen to stories and share little facts and just be present. Just as much as she enjoyed being alone out in natural places doing a whole lot of nothing and just existing and lounging in her own skin.
But being alone had it’s disadvantages too. It started to sneak up on you. It let thoughts and feelings creep in that didn’t belong. It went from being comfortable with the silence, to feeling isolated and small and forgotten.
Best that Nova never knew what it was like and Calia sure wasn’t going to be the one to tell her. Let the girl carry the world’s hope instead.
Then she was off, summoned by the other elven man that was actually mute, leaving Calia with this empty shell of a demon.
Back to staring, then. A heavy sigh and a pleading expression that quickly faded into quiet frustration.
One last try.
Calia leaned across the table reaching out her finger to go for that gentle boop to his nose.
It was there—in the profile of his features, the angle of his jaw, and the fixed point of his gaze. He’d felt her finger tap his nose again, but this time there were no theatrics. No exaggerated flinch. No rambling commentary to fill the silence with tired humor. No collapsing backward off a tree root because she startled him into scurrying like some spooked creature. No breathless laughter from the ground, arms splayed, defeated and vaguely amused. That version of him had air to breathe—had space to exist.
Now, that part of him had been tempered, sealed, and tucked away like something fossilized. Still present, maybe. But far out of reach.
The difference was this: he could compartmentalize everything he’d once thought, wanted, or maybe even hoped for when it came to the girl who insisted on reaching for him again and again. Nova could be ignored. Not because he wanted to—far from it—but because silence could be a sanctuary. He could live in the echo chamber of his own thoughts, let them spin and monologue inside his head while the exterior reduced itself to a soft, dull imitation of life. Breathing, blinking, being—but only just. Like the embodiment of beige.
He wasn’t ignoring them out of cruelty. He was listening. Paying attention. Respecting every word, every cue. Doing what was asked of him. He’d chosen a deliberate detachment—something clean, something safe—so he wouldn’t endanger anyone or anything. He made himself physically present but emotionally distant. Following the quiet terms of a bond made, offering what was expected without offering anything more.
Because he had to heal. Both physically and refill the manna reserves for obvious reasons of use.
Words weren’t always necessary. Food and drink, even less so. And the night before, he’d taken his leave because Nova had said she managed to get Calia out to enjoy herself. There was a chance she’d want space, or company and he would clearly be an obvious deterrent. So, he complied. He stayed nearby, keeping to Nova’s followings. And as always, he kept her confidences. He didn’t mention the strange little fish-creature—not because it wasn’t worth talking about, but because it wasn’t his to explain. Especially not when Calia had once made a leaf pig. Nothing surprised him anymore.
But ignoring Nova? That stung a little. Because he was still flesh and breath and bruised heart.
Calia, though… she was different. He couldn’t ignore her. Not even if he tried.
So when he looked at her—truly looked—there was no heat, no accusation. Just a hollow kind of calm. And quietly, evenly, he said: “If yah want me to leave. I’ll go. All yah gotta do is say it.”
Calia held her breath and waited, watching him with that concerned stare of evergreen, picking every single lack of movement. Of expression. Of freaking life. Not sure she could consider the movement he did make something to be relieved about, or if she should be even more worried because it wasn’t how a living person should be existing.
He spoke, at least, but even it sounded hollow inside. Not his voice, not his words. Some stranger sitting there staring at her with this look that was so… stony. Like the eyes of a marble statue.
Still, he was speaking and now and Calia grasped onto that with the single tiny hope she had left.
“I don’t want you to leave, I just want you to be okay,” she expressed with a pleading breath. Leaning forward on her arms with fingers wriggling to dig into her palms. All of the earnest wanting of someone who was desperately grasping at whatever straws she could.
“What can I do? What do you need me to do? I know I can’t fix it, but I can help? You just have to tell me what it is and I’ll do it. Anything.”
Oh, he was fine.
He had long made his peace with the undeniable reality that whatever illusion he once held of personal agency—of being something with freedom, with will—had been just that. An illusion. A trick of light. He was no longer demon, no longer elf. Whatever name or title he once held had dissolved. Now? He was something else entirely. A sentient familiar—bound, obedient, alive in body but subdued in every other measure. And yet still, still, doing exactly as expected of him.
And truthfully, that wasn’t a cruel fate. Not anymore.
He wasn’t angry. Not bitter. Not even disappointed. He was simply… aware. Aware that power—real power—was always followed by constraint. By rule. And by the inevitable collar. It was something he’d been trained to understand for a long time. From the days he served as advisor to a prince who didn’t want a throne, to the years he wielded his rare magic for the good of Edelguard and its people without so much as a whispered complaint. He’d always known: anything exceptional had to be controlled. He just changed collars over time. From elf, to demon, to this.
And now? The bind. The contract. The new shape of his submission.
It wasn’t Calia’s fault. Not even remotely. She hadn’t forced this with cruelty or malice. She was simply doing what came naturally to her. Wild. Fae. Unbound. She had every right to wield what strength she had however she chose, because that was the nature of her blood and being. He didn’t resent her for that. If anything, he understood it better than most.
Calia had suffered her own unfairness—seen her potential twisted and stolen by Derrick for dark, abhorrent purposes. If anyone had the right to rage, to lash out, to take back her control in whatever way she could, it was her. She was fire and edge and freedom in motion.
So no, Arc did not blame her. Not for the contract. Not for the control. Not even for the fact that she now sat across from him with a confused softness in her expression, asking if he was okay—as though she didn’t know she held complete authority over every breath he took. As though this wasn’t exactly what she had the right to claim. As though she didn’t expect him to be behaving—when he was.
Wasn’t he?
He’d done everything right.
No sharp words.
No sarcasm.
No mischief or teasing.
No magic flares. No demonic edge.
No flirting, no resistance.
No chaos.
Just silence. Compliance. Stillness.
He was behaving. He was calm. He was present. He was good.
He was the very definition of a respectful familiar, perfectly bound, utterly non-hostile. Waiting. Listening. Offering no challenge, just the patient stillness of someone doing precisely as they were asked—and nothing more.
When he finally spoke, his voice was low, smooth, even. Without edge, without mockery. Just sincere neutrality.
“I am complyin’ with the bindin’. Bein’ of no disruption or interest. I do not understand yer phrasin’ and apologize if I’m missin’ the mark. If yah could explain more clearly what it is yah wish me to do, I’ll do it.”
No fire behind the words. No hidden thorns. Just a creature trying to do right by the one he was bound to.
Brows furrowed as she watched him sitting there in such a long agonizing silence. Searching his features for some hint of feeling. If he were mad at her, she could deal with that. That was something she was so used to, she’d accept the yelling and get back up again. If he was just exhausted from everything that happened and needed his space and time alone, that was so perfectly understandable. All Calia needed was for him to just tell her so, to talk to her and tell her what it was he needed. Space. Time. Fight her! Any sort of indication that he was at least himself and trying to work through it.
Then he did finally speak and something about it was chilling. Meek and lifeless obedience. To her.
Soulless.
Something in her chest lurched and Calia had to blink for a few moments against this sudden dimming of her vision. Her lungs felt like ice and she couldn’t breathe.
“I don’t want this,” she whispered. “I don’t want this. …I don’t want this binding!”
Calia stood so quickly the chair screaked backwards and tumbled to the floor, a look of pure horror across her features. Not thoughts left in her head anymore, just that pure icy panic taking over.
She was out the tavern doors in a matter of seconds, into the broad beautiful sunlight of the High Tide’s last festival day and she couldn’t see it. Taking off into a run only skidding to a stop when she had to make a choice between running straight into the ocean or heading for the trees.
To the trees it was. Calia ran. Digging her nail into her chest as if she thought she could rip out her own heart to throw the binding aside, but there was no heart there to remove! Only drawing blood and seeking some way to sever herself from him even if it was just something temporary. End the binding now, the contract was fulfilled, she didn’t need him! Calia didn’t want his magic. She did not want his life. If this was what he was going to become, Calia wanted nothing to do with it!
So she ran and she ran. He could keep his sister’s sword. He could have everything, Calia didn’t need it! The contract was done! Done.
If only that was all it took.
To say it was over. To name the end like it were a door one could simply walk through. If that were true, they both would’ve been freed long ago. As if a snap of fingers could undo what was woven in shadow and syllable. But the truth was far crueler—far more intricate.
The binding wasn’t physical. It couldn’t be torn in half, or cast away like a letter unsent. It was something older. Rooted in the very language that shaped it. A contract spoken into being with the careful weight of magic, of will, of unseen forces that moved like wind between trees.
Surely the fae tree had known. Had chosen its phrasing with deliberate intent—every word a lock, every syllable a hinge. That no end would come until the magic had been satisfied. Until the purpose had been fulfilled. Until every corner of that mystic agreement had played itself out.
And the queen, wherever she now stood in her far-off court, had known it too.
Magical bindings were never simple. Like a Djinn’s wish, they twisted, curled, found new shapes and new meanings when no one was looking. They obeyed the letter of the law while spiting the spirit. Full of hidden thorns and forked roads, each possibility more tangled than the last. To chase every thread of its design was to go mad.
One could run, sure. Pretend to be free. But until the words were spoken—truly spoken—until the contract itself deemed the need between them fulfilled, it would not break.
And perhaps… just perhaps…
That need had only grown.
Now, more than ever before.
Calia ran just as fast as she could through the towering evergreen redwood trees until the forest became so dense there was no roads, no paths, no easy means of running. Until the woods were full of brush and thickets and fallen logs she was forced to climb over or fall flat onto her face. She hadn’t used any sort of faerie flight or speed, too much in her frenzied panic to even think of it. The princess just kept going until her chest had tightened so much she could no longer breathe.
A small glade opened up and her legs finally gave way to collapse from beneath her. Shaking out this choked sob while she braced a hand against the earth. Reaching inside herself to try and snap every single thread of that magical tether. When that didn’t work she pushed it as far away from herself as she could possibly get it. Calia would not touch it ever again. She’d not even speak his name. If he was away from her maybe he could get back to his senses and be a living person again, and not that terrifying docile shadow meant to be a slave to her hands!
There was no telling how long she’d sat there on her knees, letting tears fall as freely as they wished. Barely any sun seemed to peek through this dark part of the forest. No people roamed around out here, just the twittering chirp of birds and the quiet scurries of smaller animals in the brush.
Until she heard the humming sounds of a woman’s gentle singing. Distant at first, drawing ever closer. Calia didn’t move, hoping that this forest forager would just wander on by without taking any notice of her at all.
“Oh dear me, what are yah doing all the way out here, sweetheart?” Light warm and friendly the voice called out. When Calia didn’t answered the figure drew closer until this incredibly large woman was kneeling down in front of her. With a bust that was trying it’s damndest to escape her dress, a faun’s velvety button nose and short antlers sticking out through bright red hair. She was beautiful and peculiar, with such warm motherly features that Calia almost missed that this woman was most certainly fae.
“Yah poor sweet dove, been through a bit of hell haven’t yah?” she crooned, taking Calia’s chin in a gentle manner to look her over and giving a tut-tut sort of sound. “Come along with Auntie, sweetheart. No sense in crying out here in the bushes. C’mon now, get up.”
It was slow moving, but Calia did bring herself to stand. Feeling far too numb to bother with being argumentative, too tired to run any farther. As soon as she was gathered up to standing a big loaded basket full of herbs and forest tubers was pressed into her hands, while the larger woman who’d now stood up on her own two cloven hooves appeared to somehow be a good foot or two taller than even Calia. Such an impressively big woman that Calia would’ve been too dumbfounded to speak even if she had the ability to in that moment.
An arm curled around her shoulders, guiding her along a path she’d not noticed before. Weaving them through the thick cover of the trees until they came upon the cutest, most cozy little cottage there could be. With an overgrown wild garden in the front, loose chickens and goats wandering about. The woman guided her up the mossy stone steps into the place where it smelled of freshly made bread and sweet honey.
“Here we go, sweetheart. Why don’t yah have a seat at the table and yah old Auntie what happened while I make yah a warm cup of tea.” Ushering Calia into one of the kitchen chairs that felt just a little bit too big for her, the woman took the basket of goodies to set aside on one of the counters and started bustling about to fill up a kettle of water and set it to boil. In the mean time she prepared a plate with a small selection of snacks. Little cucumber sandwiches cut into triangles, petite square cakes, and ripe forest blackberries.
Calia did not have much of an appetite but she picked up one of the sandwiches to nibble on.
“It’s… nothing I really want to talk about.” Talking about it meant saying his name, which mean acknowledging the binding. That binding was done. Over. “…who are you?”
The woman just laughed a hearty, warming melody, chest heaving as she did. Waving her hand at the question like Calia had made the funniest of jokes.
“I’m yah Auntie, yah silly thing. Auntie Fawna? Yah haven’t been out in the woods so long that yah forgot yah own Auntie. Have another bite, dove. Yah starving.”
Calia hadn’t been out in the woods for long at all, but she for certain had ran for so long that she wasn’t quite sure where she was now. Looking around again at the small cottage space with some mild confusion, but taking another bite of that cucumber sandwich until there wasn’t a bite left. Starting on the second while Aunt Fawna put some herbs into a tea ball and then poured hot water over it to steep. She brought the cup right over to Calia along with a small jar of honey. Being kindly enough to spoon some out for her and stir it in to sweeten the drink.
“Yah have yahself a good drink of that, sweetheart, and yah’ll forget all about those troubles. Auntie’s own special blend. It’s yah favorite, after all!”
At her beckoning Calia did have a drink, and she could quickly see why it was her favorite. Robustly flowery like rose petals with pomegranate, sweetened so nicely with the honey that it was instantly soothing to her sob sore throat and the icyness that permeated in her lungs. Having no need to be encouraged to continuing drinking and soon finish it all together with Aunt Fawna standing there looking oh so proud.
“Better now, dove?” she asked with a gentle query, stroking her massive hand over Calia’s hair with affection.
Calia nodded, somehow it was better. Honestly, she was having a hard time remembering why she’d been so upset in the first place.
“Wonderful. Yah can finish up yah lunch then we’ll go tending the garden. Them goats been eating up all the tulips again, the wily things.”
There was no explanation he could offer Nova for Calia’s sudden, hasty departure. Of course, she had asked—again and again. But he had nothing to give. Because he knew nothing. Only that Calia had run, and as little more than a sentient shadow bound by expectation, he could offer no answers that were never his to begin with.
Even if he could, the truth eluded him.
The blunt fact remained: he would not and could not speak on matters belonging to the master of his bond. And he had accepted that. Without protest. Without fire. Arc understood that all he could do now was wait.
Even if she never came back.
The bond held. Stretched thin with distance—tight as a fishing line, cruel as a blood-wet noose. Somewhere in the hollow of himself, he might’ve laughed at the absurdity. Because feeling her pull fade further was just confirmation of something he’d long suspected: he had been discarded. Left behind like refuse.
If only he could fall back into the quiet rhythm of solitude—the one constant in his life since memory began. He’d done it before. He could do it again.
But for now, he simply stood.
He moved to help right a chair, and with no choice left to him, waited.
Because what did a familiar do…
when they were bound—
but unwanted?
The more Calia ate, the more that tightness and tension faded out of her chest and shoulders. Few things were as refreshing and light as little cucumber sandwiches and petite tea cakes. Blackberries too had always been a favorite so they were a nice treat to go along with the tea that warmed her down to her bones. Enough that Calia asked for a second cup and Aunt Fawna was oh so happy to supply. Of course, with everything being sized perfectly to cater to Aunt Fawna, portions were large enough to make Calia feel all sloshy and sleepy inside.
“Ah-ah, sweetheart! Don’t yah go dozing, we have some work in the garden to do!” warned the elder woman.
With a wrinkle of her nose Calia slid out of her chair and helped with the washing of the dishes. Weirdly feeling as if she was such a young small thing again, not so much as a child but certainly younger where she was not quite yet grown. Still being fussed at to attend her lessons and not much else.
They walked out into the back gardens after, where there was all manner of curated garden beds with so many different types of flowers there was no way Calia could ever name them all! A big stone wall seemed to surround the space – she’d not remembered that when they’d came to the cottage, but it seem to stretch all the way around to the front as well. The chickens and the goats were still there, of course, wandering around doing as animals did.
Aunt Fawna handed her an apron that thankfully fit her just fine and they both strolled over to one of the beds that was in dire need of a good weeding. As they took to their knees to start this gardening work, Aunt Fawna pointed out the weeds they were supposed to be pulling. Happily chattering away about how summer was going to bring in the best of blossoms. That the first batch of radishes should be ready for the picking now.
Calia worked at plucking weeds until she paused for a break, trying to dust her hands free of the dark black soil to notice the grit that was stuck all in her signet ring. She brushed dirt off it with her thumb, sitting back on her haunches for a moment with a frown.
“What’s the matter dove? Did yah have too many tea cakes?” asked the woman, breezily. “What yah have there?”
“No, I just… It’s my family ring. I can’t stay here, I’ll have to go back.”
Aunt Fawna just laughed, reaching over to pat her gently on the shoulder.
“Sweetheart, I’m yah family, remember? See?” she leaned to gesture at the antlers that twirled from her skull and wriggled her velvet button nose. “Just like that noble stag in the ring. Oh my, it’s gotten a bit of this old dirt all in it’s crevices though! Here, hand it over to Auntie and I’ll get that cleaned up so it doesn’t stain.”
An open palm held out with wiggling beckoning fingers and waited patiently, even when Calia gave her a dubious look, Auntie Fawna just smiled kindly. Until finally the princess twisted the ring off her finger and dropped it into her palm. It disappeared into the woman’s apron pocket in a heartbeat.
“Yah silly thing, first crying in the forest because of that lost heart and now forgetting yah own family. Don’t yah fret a bit, my sweet dove. Yah home now with Auntie Fawna, we’re going to fix yah up right as rain and fill up that hole in yah chest so yah never have to be afraid again. Yah safe here.”
That sounded nice to Calia. Better than nice, everything here did in fact feel so warm, calm and inviting. A cozy blanket of magic laid over everything from the cottage to this strange stone wall. The gorgeous flowers swaying in the breeze. It appealed to her senses and called her to rest in ways so irresistible. For Calia was so, so tired of struggling.
What did it hurt to stay here safe with family?
It was probably miraculous timing that she’d managed to whisk the large fellow back to Calia’s room. As though the very act of crossing that threshold had triggered something—some hidden seam in reality peeling back. The hollow thing Arc had become seemed to shift subtly, letting slip pieces of whatever he was now.
It didn’t surprise her. Not really. She’d already had her suspicions—just without the blood-soaked dramatics one usually expected from demons. No horned frenzy, no flaming sigils or declarations of doom. Just a very tired, very bleak Arc. One and a barely-there quarter horn of him.
Frankly, she was just grateful she’d gotten him into the room before someone else clocked what he was. Because even if she wasn’t losing her mind over the fact that he was—confirmed—Archimedes Silverstone, the infamous traitor of the elven realm… she knew plenty of others wouldn’t be so forgiving.
He sat when she told him to. That was something. She’d glanced around Calia’s room, hoping for a clue as to what had driven her out of the tavern like her backside was ablaze, but there was nothing. No notes. No mess. Just a lingering, uneasy stillness. Arc, when questioned, simply blinked at her. Not even a shrug. Just a hollow, vacant look that said more than she wanted to hear.
“I think there’s somethin’ wrong,” she muttered under her breath to Brux as she stepped back into the warmth and clatter of the taproom downstairs.
Brux, ever unbothered and balancing three thoughts at once, shot her a glance as he pushed a plate of steaming hashbrowns and eggs across the counter for Renata. “Mm. What gave you that little inkling?” he asked, tone as dry as dust. His interest, she noted, was clearly on life support.
Her lips pressed into a thin line. She glanced toward where the commotion had been. The overturned chair. The echo of Calia’s vanishing act. And upstairs, the demon, just sitting there. “I’m serious. Somethin’s off. Calia bolted like a fire had lit under her and Arc—he’s just… he’s gone, Brux. There’s nothin’ behind his eyes.”
With the plate retrieved and whisked away, Brux finally turned toward her properly. Thick arms folded across his chest like slabs of stone, his expression caught somewhere between ‘mildly annoyed’ and ‘deeply inconvenienced’. “And then there’s the matter of you harboring a demon upstairs in a building full of drunk, easily startled patrons,” she added with a pointed look, keeping her voice low of course. A flash of real concern crossed his face—more for the tavern than the existential implications. His eyes flicked toward the main room, where his daughter worked the tables.
He sighed and leaned against the counter, motioning her in closer with a twitch of his brow. “Right, then. What’s your plan?”
“I don’t have one,” Nova admitted, frustration simmering in her voice. “Calia ran off like debt collectors were at the door and Arc is… he’s like a husk. A shadow. I figured maybe yah’d have some idea—don’t you have history with him?”
Brux scratched his jaw, a rare moment of real thought creasing his brow. “Some,” he said vaguely. “Not the kind you want dragging up in polite company.”
She exhaled, leaning forward with him, voice low. “I’m really worried, Brux.”
“Let me think, lass,” he replied, serious now, but his tone still bearing that signature Brux dryness. “If this ends with my bar getting burned down, I’d at least like it to be over something dramatic enough for the story.”
Nova huffed out a humorless breath, something like a laugh buried under exhaustion. Whatever the hell was going on, she just wanted it solved. And preferably before things got worse.
Time here at the cottage truly had no rhyme or reason. Somehow moving at the laziest of a snail’s pace where no time was passing at all, yet to Calia it was a series of several long, uneventful, relaxing days spent with Aunt Fawna.
First they weeded out the garden beds and tidied them up so all the flowers could grow well and bloom beautiful. Taking up most of the day until the evening where they gathered up all the weeds to toss in the mulch pile, at least the ones that weren’t getting munched by the goats. Aunt Fawna worked on preparing a lovely meal while Calia was sent out to toss seed and grain for the chickens. Dinner was a big amazing meal of roasted chicken, with whole potatoes and wild carrots fresh out of the forest. Dessert came in the form of a gorgeous blackberry pie topped with sweet cream. All washed down with that rose and pomegranate tea that left her head feeling light and unburdened.
Off Calia was sent to a bath, heavily scented with a special herbal brew Auntie Fawna put together for her, and then she was sent off to her room for a good night of sleep. Somehow the only place in the cottage that was actually proportioned to Calia’s stature, with a soft mattress complete with the exact right amount of pillows and a good heavy blanket. As if it had always been her room.
A false new day started and it was much of the same.
A hearty breakfast with toasts and marmalade and eggs and hot tea, then it was off to start the day’s chores. Auntie Fawna was delightfully good conversation, doing most of the speaking herself of course with Calia being such a quiet girl. Those conversations were never about anything specific, in fact they stayed very narrowed down to the space of the cottage. About her vegetable gardens. The mischief the animals got into. How much wood that’d need to be chopped that day so they’d have enough to make dinner.
Sometimes Calia would pause as something would catch her attention. A painting on the wall reminded her of something. A pillow cushion sparked a thought. Of course, when she’d turned around and glanced back to it, it was not there at all. Disappeared away with Auntie Fawna just laughing and telling her that she was thinking far too hard on unimportant things, then redirect to her to a new sort of chore. Planting bulbs. Sweeping cobwebs. Chopping wood.
By the third or forth of these sped up strange days, there was nothing left anywhere within the walls that surrounded the gardens and the cottage itself that whispered to Calia about the world beyond this safe and inviting space. And if by chance she got this distance lonely sort of look, Auntie Fawna was always right there with a soft pat and a cup of tea. Reminding her with a comforting croon that is was just her heart she was missing and not to worry, because Auntie Fawna was just waiting for the right one to be delivered.
Everything was perfectly fine now that her sweet darling had come home!
It was going to take pressure. Heavy and direct. Brux wasn’t about to knock. He just hoped Nova wasn’t about to come rushing up here to temper down what needed to be said.
The door creaked open like it had waited too long to be forced, like even the inn was tired of the silence. He stood in the frame for a beat, red gaze scanning the dim room, until it landed on the figure by the window—still as bone, barely breathing.
He blinked once. Scoffed, low and bitter. “Can’t believe this is what’s left of you.”
No response. He didn’t expect one. Stepping in, he shut the door behind him and let the silence swell, just long enough to make his entrance felt.
“I told myself I’d try to be gentle,” Brux said, voice like iron tapping against old stone. “But gentle never worked on you, Arc. You didn’t listen to soft. You needed sharp. Always did.”
He took another step in. “So I’m not going to stand here and pretend I don’t see the corpse you’re trying to wear like it still fits.”
Still nothing. Not a word. But Brux watched him like a hawk—watching for that twitch, that flinch, anything beneath the stillness.
“You’re sittin’ there like a sack of potatoes with a name tag,” he muttered, slow and biting. “The once-great Archimedes Silverstone—mage prodigy, scholar scourge, walking headache for a half-dozen governments. And now look at you. Hiding behind a window like the world ended.”
Arc didn’t move. Not properly. But the corner of his mouth tightened—barely. A twitch in the jaw. A flicker.
Brux stepped forward. “You were too young and too strong, and the whole damn world hated you for it. They tried to stuff you into a mold before you even finished growing. But you—” he exhaled through his nose, sharp. “You smiled through it. Played their games better than they did. Broke every chain they gave you and called it a necklace.”
He gave a sharp laugh. “You remember what you used to be? You rewrote spellwork in back alleys for the sick because the sanctioned healers charged gold. You used to charm guards just to sneak bread into the starving wards outside the south gate. Against your father’s warnings. Against Omal’s scoldings. You didn’t give a damn what the rulebook said—you cared what it meant. You did better, even when it wasn’t allowed.”
Arc’s eyes shifted. Barely, but enough. They lifted. Unfocused. But watching.
“And I remember,” Brux pressed on, “when you conjured a false star in the middle of the capital, just so the market kids could sell light-glass and keep their homes lit through winter. You ruined a whole council meeting. Omal wanted to skin you. Called you an ‘imp with delusions of grandeur.’ And what did you say?” He smirked bitterly. “‘Then stop makin’ the grandeur so easy to steal.’ You got grounded for two bloody seasons.”
He leaned on the table now, face inches from Arc’s. “You didn’t break the rules because you were reckless, Arc. You broke them because they didn’t help anyone but the ones already sittin’ comfortable.”
Arc’s jaw clenched again. The flicker was sharper this time. A spark trying to find kindling.
“You think being a demon means you’re done choosing?” Brux’s voice dropped, now barely above a growl. “That you’re hers now—Calia’s? She ran, Arc. She’s not your keeper. She was scared and fled. And instead of standing, you folded. You started waiting for permission to matter again.”
He paused, watching him, tone turning cold. “If this husk is what you’ve chosen, if this quiet fade is what’s left of Archimedes Silverstone… then have the dignity to vanish entirely.”
There was no air left in the room.
Brux shook his head slowly. “I knew your father, Arc. I knew Atticus. And don’t get it twisted—he wasn’t just proud of you. He fought for you. Defended you. When the high mages wanted you exiled, he was the one who kept you home. You don’t get to use him as an excuse to disappear now.”
He took a breath, the next words heavy. “Even now, you still have a choice. You always had one. Becoming hollow? Giving up?” His gaze locked, sharp and brutal. “That’s a coward’s way. And that ain’t the Arc I knew.”
Arc hadn’t blinked in some time. Brux noticed. Noticed the slow curling of fingers, the slight pull in his shoulders. Something deep was stirring.
“You think you’re protecting people now by hiding?” Brux’s voice cut like a whetstone. “You’re not. You’re abandoning them. You’re abandoning yourself. You want to stay like this? Then do it. Just have the courage to say so, and go. Be gone. Stop wasting space.”
He turned, palm on the doorframe. “But if there’s even one spark left in that cursed body—then get up. Fight. Even if it’s only for yourself.”
The quiet was so sharp, it felt like something would break.
And then it did.
A sharp scrape—wood on stone—screamed through the room as Arc shoved the chair back and stood. His breath came hot and fast. His claws flared, lit with seething veins of abyssal fire. Eyes no longer dull, but glowing—violet threaded with black, like bruises lit from within.
“Enough!” Arc snarled, voice like stone cracking under pressure.
Brux stopped in his tracks. Turned slowly.
“Yah think I don’t know who I used to be?” Arc spat, every word charged with something that had waited too long to be let out. “Yah think I need another ghost from my past to show up and lecture me? Yah think I don’t hear it already, every second of every day—what I was, what I failed to be?”
The flames danced higher, inching up his arms like serpents. He didn’t move to attack—he could have—but he didn’t. It wasn’t for that. This was fire without direction, heat without a target.
“I’m sick of it. Sick of being someone’s project. Someone’s regret. Someone’s disappointment waiting to happen!” He took a step forward. “Yah. Calia. The rest of them. Always tryin’ to mold me. To fix me. As if the only version of me that’s worth lovin’ is the one they remember! The one they craft into what fits them best. Practically barkin’ and demandin’ I dance to their tempo without the gods damn decency to realize that I’m not a fuckin’ puppet!” His voice cracked, just slightly. And he hated it. Hated the sound of it betraying him.
“I tried to be good. I tried, Brux. I broke myself open tryin’ to help, tryin’ to fit, tryin’ to make it mean somethin’. And every time—it ended with me bleedin’, and everyone else walking away whole. Even now, how fuckin’ easy is it for everyone else to just heap the god damn blame onto me. It’s my fault that I’m not perfect. Bound to a god damn psychopath that just wants it her fuckin’ way all the time but can’t even give a shred of earnest decency either.” Arc growled, deep. Monstrous and pained, “I’m tired of tryin’ to be everyone’s perfect image…”
The fire spiked—then stopped. Drew back. Not extinguished, but held.
He stood there. Claws twitching. Jaw locked. Alive.
And Brux—he smiled. Not wide. Not smug. But that quiet, familiar grin of a man who had finally struck the nerve he’d been digging for.
“There you are,” he said softly. “About time you came home.”
Calia eventually fell into a steady routine, day after day after day the same repeated things. So many days that she couldn’t remember what her life was like before the cottage. In fact, there was no before the cottage. As far as Calia was concerned, this was where she’d always grown and lived here with Aunt Fawna in their humble cottage with their array of stupid chickens and problematic goats.
Strange, though, that they always seemed to have plenty of meat and none of these animals ever disappeared. Calia had named them all, counted and fed them every day. They’d become her little zoo of companions as she weeded out in the gardens, or sat in the grass working on a piece of embroidered needlework. She actually really liked the intricate delicate work of making beautiful embroidered things, and she’d started on this long piece covered in goofy looking chickens and goats. Fish and piglets and beetles. Big trees and leaves and roses.
One day she was sitting there, soaking in the warmth of the sun and just staring at bugs crawling up the garden wall when she frowned.
“Auntie, where is the door out to the forest?” she asked, turning to glance over her shoulder at the large robust woman working away at putting together an arrangement of flowers.
Aunt Fawna paused there, looking completely surprise. “Well, it is right out front where it always is, dove. Yah not be needing to worry about that. Ain’t nothing for yah out there.”
Calia made a soft humming sound of agreement. She was happy here with Aunt Fawna, where everything was peaceful and predictable. Where she was loved and well cared for, got to keep her hands busy and tend to things that were happy to be tended.
Still… there was a restlessness in her. A curiosity. Something in her that was so much bigger than this beautiful, humble garden.
The woman behind her seemed to sense this, shifting away from her workspace to come give Calia a big squeezing hug.
“Ah, yah silly little thing. I did not want to tell yah, but yah gonna ruin my surprise if yah start climbing up the walls!” she giggled with that squeeze, petting the girls hair in an affectionate stroke. “All yah have to do is wait until the dusk.”
“You’ve said that before,” mused Calia with a dubious look. “It’s been many dusks now.”
Aunt Fawna gave a mysterious smile. “Yes, but not the right dusk. This very special dusk is the end of special time. I have a heart all ready for yah, the magic just has to be right. Here, let’s go make yah another nice cup of tea, sweetheart. Yah looking parched out here in the sun!”
Meanwhile oh so far away, yet not as far as it seemed, there was a tiny driftwood fish. Clacking it’s way across a boisterous tavern. Struggling to fly it’s way up inn steps, one step at a time. Skittering across the wooden floor to slip inside a room seeking it’s quarry with relentless determination. Enchanted as it was, after all, to go an sit on a single One. It did not matter how far away it’s creator was, or how much she’d forgotten. It was a feisty, kazooing stubborn bit of magic. Marching across the floor until it could flap on top of a demon’s foot and clung there like a barnacle.
“Now don’t get yer head in a twist,” Brux tried, gesturing with both hands in the kind of soft, placating manner one might use to soothe a growling dog. It wasn’t helping. Not when Arc’s magic was already starting to rise again—hot and dry, curling in the air like the heat that danced above a battlefield before the slaughter.
It didn’t calm him. If anything, it set that simmering wrath on a steadier boil, coiled and quiet but far from gone.
“Nova’s got herself all twisted up,” Brux continued, “fretting over that frantic hundred-yard dash Calia made out the door. Liable to work herself into a blithering thither.”
If it was supposed to inspire compassion, it missed the mark by miles. Arc’s focus was already inward, reaching. Feeling. The binding stretched out like a thread of spider-silk pulled taut between mountaintops—present but murky. Obscured. Not frayed, not broken… but buried beneath fog. Something was interfering.
His lip curled, sharp and humorless. “And?” he sneered. “What the greater fuck do I care that she went off again like some godsdamn frightened doe. Not the first time. Won’t be the last.”
He flicked a hand, as if brushing aside the entire conversation—Calia, her dramatics, her cowardice. The room rippled faintly as the gesture stirred latent energy, a shiver in the magic surrounding him like a predator raking claws through velvet.
Who was she kidding?
Calia, with her thunderous speeches and brittle spine, who couldn’t even stand long enough to comfort Nova—who had shown her nothing but kindness. Who had offered softness where none was deserved. If Calia couldn’t even meet that with grace, then she wasn’t fit to be anyone’s savior. Let alone Nova’s. Let alone his.
She was a mask. A playact of righteousness dressed in silk and sorrow, a child running from shadows she pretended she’d mastered. Arc had been the idiot. The fool who thought she was something more than the gilded shell she wore.
Well. That would change.
Binding or not—it was going to change.
Brux’s voice intruded again. “Someone’s gotta go find her. Ain’t gonna do Edelguard any good if the last Caeldalmor princess ends up dead on their land.”
Arc didn’t even blink. Didn’t flinch. The utter lack of interest on his face was answer enough. Brux pressed, “Arc, yah can’t just flip from hot to cold like it’s a challenge.”
He chuckled, but there was no warmth in it. Just mockery. Bitter and deep. “My concern is Nova. If she’s a wreck, she won’t be able to work. And that is a problem I actually give a damn about.”
His gaze dropped. Brux had already seen it. That stupid little magical thing—the trinket Calia had made with her ridiculous whimsy—perched on his boot like a lost dog. Arc bent and snatched it up, not gently. The thing squirmed in his hand like it still thought it could escape, but Arc squeezed until the air hissed out of it.
“What is that?” Brux asked, frowning. Arc didn’t answer. He stared at the thing with a slow, wicked smile that spread across his face like ink bleeding into parchment.
“A fun little toy,” he murmured. Then, his voice dropped into something colder, edged in steel. “A beacon.”
With deliberate force, Arc twisted the construct in his hands—bones snapping under pressure, threads of glowing magic pulling loose like sinew. The pieces collapsed in on themselves, and from within he grasped the lingering spark left behind. A thread of Calia’s magic. Delicate. Naive. Unprotected.
He didn’t need to be at full power to work with it.
With a breath, he anchored his own magic to it. No gentle tether, but a spike hammered into its core. He layered it with spellwork—return, burn, remind. Abyssal syllables cracked in the air as he wove them into the recoil. The room dimmed. Shadows lengthened. The light itself seemed to hesitate.
“Old trader’s market still tucked under the docks?” he asked, gaze still locked on the thing he was weaponizing.
Brux blinked. “Uh—yeah. Why?”
“Good.” The spark flared between his hands and then shot out, a whip-crack of light that screamed through the air like a comet, vanishing beyond the walls.
She’d feel it.
Oh, she’d feel it.
Arc reached through the binding, clawed metaphor wrapped around the fragile link that bound her to him. He grabbed it—not gently, but like a man hauling a creature back from flight.
And then, he snapped it.
A vicious jolt of pain and clarity sent down the tether like a lash across the soul.
She would remember—what it meant to bind a demon. That it wasn’t a game of wildflowers and promises. That he wasn’t some pretty thing she could coax and forget. She’d learn the cost of a contract. One didn’t get to leave their familiar and act like it was all ended. Especially him. She wanted him to be a nightmare, she was about to get it.
Behind him, Brux stepped back as Arc turned toward the bundle Nova had left for him. “What was that? What was that thing, and what did you just send out like it was nothing?”
Arc didn’t even pause. He pulled the clothing into his arms and glanced toward the door. “Yah might wanna clear your taproom,” he said, voice low and sharp. “Unless yah want customers to see a demon crawl out the front door.”
Let her run. Let her try.
But the universe had rules, and magic had memory. And he was done being the one left behind to clean up her mess.
Auntie Fawna, being the clever thing she was, had a perfect setup here in her glade. A perfect pocket of faerie wood that could be where ever she wanted it to be. Far more powerful than any simple faun – after all she was deer and not goat – she had created the perfect space for a lost daughter, the very seconds echoes of her had touched the first fae wood of Edelguard.
A highblood daughter returned to the wood. That sort of thing didn’t happen every day.
Like the mortal world, the faerie courts did love a good bit of gossip and there was no lacking in whispers about this child. Even the realm of demons now had piqued interest, which made her threefold of value. A race of sorts to see just whom could get their hands on the one who was broken and shattered in such a perfect way to reshape her into something extraordinary.
Fawna, of course, cared not about what the mortal world wanted, nor the demons. Her own goals were essentially self serving. A highblood daughter with such a natural gift could shake the faerie courts down to their core. A new court could be forged, with Fawna’s gentle hands there to guide her. Her words to lead her. The girl would be the face and crown to a court designed and curated under Fawna’s control.
All the girl needed was her heart. The original would be too much time and trouble to achieve. Off in the hands of some halfwit human with ambitions of grandeur. Whatever this connection she had with her little demon pet also needed to be removed, but that couldn’t exactly be done by her own hands. Calia must be given a fresh heart, preferably one belonging to a powerful fae so that she might remain strong and within the realm she truly belonged.
Her own heart, in fact. Not the whole piece, simply half. But it would be plenty enough to connect them both forever and achieve her goals.
One would just need to wait and take advantage of the High Tide, when local magic was at it’s peak. All of that magic gathered and casted into the air, all those hopes and dreams and wishes to come together and create something potent. A new binding between Auntie and a little Future Queen.
However, it seemed that demon was soon to interfere after all.
Out in the gardens Calia let out a loud yelp and a scream of Ow! Sonofabitch!, dropping to her knees again with a string of confused pained curses. Sharp and aching, burning like rage fueled fire and it was so damned familiar she let out a snarling Fuck to go along with it.
Aunt Fawna was there in an instant, placing gentle hands on her shoulders and crooning soft platitudes. “Oh dove, yah poor thing. He is after yah again is he?”
“Wh-what…?” stammered Calia while trying to gasp fo a breath.
“That monster that’s been so cruel to yah. Yah remember, don’t yah. Vicious and cruel, shattered yah to yah core. I won’t let him take yah away from me, dear sweet girl. Yah hear? Yah safe here with me, and if anybody does come to take yah, we’re gonna show them fae might. Fae fury. Yeah.”
Calia nodded fervently. Fucking fury was absolutely going to be right.
He really did have to give old Brux some credit—hadn’t seen the man move that fast in years. The second Arc’s temper snapped, Brux was already halfway out of the room, hair flapping like he was a mother cat chasing her kittens from a burning barn. If Arc wasn’t so close to detonating, it might’ve been good for a laugh.
But there was no showy exit. No fire trailing his heels. No dramatic magic display. Just a distinct, bone-deep lack of care.
He stormed out the inn’s front door like a walking threat, flinging it wide open—startling a group of festival-goers mid-step. They shrieked, nearly falling over one another in their scramble to backpedal, crashing into a fruit stand with terrified cries. One woman wailed something about demons and children, while another fumbled for a charm around her neck, lips muttering half-formed prayers.
The panic rippled. Like dropped ink in clear water, it spread quickly.
And still—Arc didn’t stop.
“Arc!” A familiar voice rang out behind him, light and clear as a bell. He glanced over his shoulder at the silver-crowned sprite barreling toward him, her fingers catching around his wrist. Nova looked flushed and frantic, flustered from weaving through the startled crowd. “Have yah gone mad?” she hissed, trying to pull him aside, already apologizing to wide-eyed bystanders with every step. “They’re scared, Arc—”
“Hmm. That’s well within the cards, love,” he said, voice low and edged in steel. “And after the fuckin’ week I’ve had, one might say I’ve been gracious not to lose my top ’til now.”
His eyes flicked toward a gawking man who was loudly announcing “Oh my Isyn, it’s a demon—he’s not even hiding—”
“Right in yer ear, fuckhole,” Arc snarled, tugging free from Nova’s grip.
His boots clacked hard against the wooden boards, each step measured but heavy with restrained violence. Festival-goers gave him a wide berth, more cries rising in his wake as Nova rushed after him. “Go on back to Brux’s dusty old nest,” he said over his shoulder, not even bothering to look at her. “I ain’t handin’ out autographs.”
She blew a raspberry at him, close on his heels despite the chaos. “Yah’re not funny.”
He didn’t respond. Just stormed through Tir Élas like a blade set loose, his presence drawing stares, prayers, and a fresh tide of fear. More calls followed Nova, who was already apologizing again—He’s not hostile—really! Just a bit… dramatic—! It was like trying to calm a stampede. “Is yer plan to rile up all of Tir Élas?” she asked breathlessly.
“I need a mana potion,” Arc snapped. “Few of ’em. Docks used to sell the good stuff. I intend to reclaim what’s rightfully mine. So a couple people’re pissin’ themselves over old fairytales is not my damn problem.”
He took a sharp turn into a narrow alleyway—promptly interrupting a would-be couple tangled in each other’s arms. The man fumbled to pull his trousers up as they both scrambled in opposite directions. Nova hollered after them, half scandalized, half amused. “Get a room, for stars’ sake!” Then she launched forward, grabbing his arm like a monkey swinging off a tree. “Don’t tell me to shoo like some bug, Arc. There’s a better way to do this, and yah’re real bad at findin’ it!”
“There is,” he admitted, completely unbothered by her hanging off him. “But I’m not exactly flush with options right now. And the best way isn’t readily available.”
The pulse in the binding twitched—delayed, muffled. Distant. Calia wasn’t alone. But it wasn’t the same demon from before. Good, maybe. Didn’t feel better. “What do yah mean?” Nova asked, bouncing slightly as she struggled to keep pace with his longer strides. Using his arm as a sort of lever to help catapult her along seeing as she didn’t seem to want to let go.
“Blood.” Arc cast her a glance. “A demon’s currency. It heals, replenishes, pays debts. It’s a fuckin’ lifeline to the mundane world. All-encompassin’.” He spat the next words like venom. “And since my ever-so-gracious master decided to flee like a kicked dog, I have to play this a little less chaotic.”
They burst out the other end of the alley—and startled another cluster of citizens. A mother clutched her child to her chest. A street bard fumbled his lute, eyes huge. Nova sighed loudly, muttering something about curses and bad omens. As if his mention of less chaotic was just a jest. “Take mine then.” He froze. Turned to find her still clinging to him—bronze eyes shining with something brave, foolish, and heartbreakingly pure. “Unless it’s gotta be special?”
“Yer fuckin’ daft.” Arc blinked. “Yah don’t just offer blood like yah’re orderin’ lunch. Yah don’t know what that does—what I could do to yah.” She didn’t flinch. Just stared at him too long—too soft. “Yah keep lookin’ like that, I’m gonna think yah’ve got brain damage,” he muttered.
“I’ve spent time with yah,” she said simply. “Even now, stompin’ around like the big bad wolf… yah haven’t hurt anyone. Scared people plenty, but no one has died. Or been maimed. And if blood helps bring Calia back—or helps you—then maybe I am daft. But better that than havin’ the whole port terrified.”
He scowled. Hard. “All this, for her? She abandoned yah—same way she abandoned me. She’s a flaky tart that only thinks of herself!”
Nova gave him a small smile. “Maybe. But I don’t think she’s ever had a real friend, so how could she know that yah gotta handle the bad, with the good. And maybe that’s why she ran.” She stepped forward, reaching for his hand. “I think you just need someone to believe you’re more than this, as well. That you’re not just a monster. Someone who sees yah as still flesh and blood. Someone who’d give yah a hug instead of a holy ward.” He looked down at her hand in his. “It doesn’t have to be scary, Arc. And yah don’t have to be the idea of a villain either.”
By the Nine Hells… Calia had been right. Nova was going to break his heart. And damn him—he was going to let her.
“So… blood? How’s one g—?”
It happened like the snap of a spell. One moment he was glaring, the next, he had her. After all, he was not one to repeat himself needlessly.
His arms closed around her waist and his mouth crashed into hers, fierce and unrelenting. No gentle lead-in, just hunger—wild and scorched with everything he couldn’t say. Their lips collided with a force that stole breath, his stubble scraping her skin as he tilted her face up with a clawed hand.
And she surprisingly melted into it—sweet and golden and godsdamned delicious. Probably far better than he could have imagined even in his more impish thoughts. Spurring a growl to rumbled in his chest, deep and feral, as his teeth caught her lip and bit.
Hard.
Not enough to hurt—but enough to bleed.
Inhaling sharply as the taste hit, pupils flaring wide. Then he leaned in again, slower this time, tongue gliding across the wound, suckling faintly like he could sip her soul through that little cut. He kissed her like she was everything he’d been forbidden not to touch—and the only thing he still wanted. When he finally broke away, lips slick with blood and breath, his eyes burned vibrant violet.
He didn’t smile.
He smirked—dangerous and drenched in promise as he leaned in one last time, whispering against her mouth.
“Yah’d better savor that, sweetheart,” he rasped, “because next time I come back—I’m makin’ those pretty legs of yours quake ’til yah forget yer own fuckin’ name.”
Nova blinked, dazed, lips parted and pink and stained with red. Her fingers brushed the bite like it wasn’t real, eyes hazy with heat and wonder. She gave a slow, dumb nod. Couldn’t speak. Could barely breathe. Temporarily stunned to held reverie.
Arc chuckled darkly, already turning away—back straight, jaw tight. Feeling the heat burn low in the space where blood existed and magic thrummed.
Calia wanted to run. Well, he could seek, just as well.
“Auntie, what’s going on?” Calia asked, watching the ginormous woman pace the gardens, seeming to be fretting, planning, pondering. That scathing pain had subsided, though not without a whole lot of personal pushing and stomping and tearing herself away from it, as if it was some unwanted thing lodged into her side. Familiar as it was, it was the sort of familiar that you didn’t want to remember. Didn’t want to acknowledge. Which made her current confusion so frustrating as Calia was certain that things weren’t right here anymore.
To acknowledge it would mean shattering this warm safe space she’d found. Her subconscious knew that and wanted to cling to it for all it was worth.
“Oh, dove. Nothing for yah worry that mind about. Yah come along here with me,” she said quickly, grasping the girl by the wrist and pulling her off towards the cottage. “Yah so very special, yah know that? Powerful and precious. As rare as a comet. Yah not meant to wander, yah meant to do a great many things.”
A slow sigh slipped out of Calia, as that was a familiar bit of expectation too, wasn’t it. Something weighted and soul crushing she didn’t want to think about either. Still, right this moment Aunt Fawna seemed to be a huge rush. Leading them into the cottage itself, pulling Calia off to the room she’d spent all these weeks in and pushing her in.
“There’s a demon coming for yah, dove. Yah feel it? A real monster, that one. And if he gets to yah, he’s gonna pull out all yah organs and devour them up. Hates yah down to yah bones, because yah bound him. Auntie is going to keep yah safe. Don’t leave this room no matter what yah hear. If I scream for yah, dove, yah come out and put that demon in his grave. Yah hear me?”
That… sounded pretty close to accurate, honestly. If that pain was forewarning of a demon coming, then Calia most surely believed her. She nodded quickly her affirmation. Stay here, stay safe. It’s all Calia had ever wanted. She clung to it.
Fawna closed up the door to her room and with a blink of magic made that door disappear. Made the windows of the room disappear too, making it effectively a stone closet. Dusting off her hands she trudged off back into the garden, where the veneer of everything being so beautifully summery, a blooming garden… it all seemed a little cracked. Dimmer, darker. Something sinister hiding there in the shadows. All those chickens and goats crawling out of their own skins and changing shape until the were twisted, garbled versions of themselves.
Even Fawna herself shifted appearance to something more true. Less kindly, not at all motherly. More of a nightmarish deer with fangs. Raising her hands out to fortify the stone wall that was protecting her small pocket space of fae wood. Growing up higher and higher and higher, thorn bushes springing out of the ground in gnarled branches.
Then, with all the ego of any old fae, she planted her rump on a stump in her garden and waited with baited smile.
Typically, Arc would’ve taken time to study a newly acquired spell—especially one acquired from a demon’s heart. But time wasn’t exactly playing nice. And if it had been, the little loach who’d fed him empty promises while masquerading as some touch untouchable force, wouldn’t have taken kindly to him acquiring spells this way.
Sure, she’d said as long as the demons weren’t actively doing anything, he could rip out their organs to his heart’s content. But looking back?
The girl was a two-faced liar. Through and through.
She’d say one thing, do another. Over and over. Rinse. Repeat.
Now, though? Now was the perfect time to understand exactly how that second-rank demon had stayed hidden for so long—assuming it had been tracking them for a while.
Velamentis Requiro.
An abyssal-arcane tracking spell, old and brutal in its simplicity. It didn’t just follow magical traces—it hid the caster’s presence while tracking others. Arc and Calia had been reckless, flinging magic around like confetti from the moment they left the elven capital. Even before then. Neither had considered that their own spells could leave trails—breadcrumbs painted in blood-red against a pristine white world. Every flicker of energy they cast lit the path right to them.
And they never even realized.
The spell was ancient. So deeply buried in arcane history that most modern mages wouldn’t even feel it. Only beings who’d lived long enough to remember its creation could sense it—elders like archdemons, archfae, or liches. Those older than time, with magic etched into their very bones. The kind of power Arc was only just beginning to scratch.
Because every spellcaster leaves a signature. A magical heartbeat. Whether divine, fae, abyssal, or elemental—it didn’t matter. Even a simple light spell could leave enough of a pulse to be followed.
And now… now he could see those threads.
All Velamentis Requiro required was for the target to have cast a spell once—just once—within his range, or within sixty feet of where he stood. Generous parameters for something so invasive. It was no wonder the demon had tracked them so easily. Once locked in, the spell traced movement, presence, even plane-hopping and cloaking. Wards couldn’t block it.
No hiding. No mercy.
And worse—while tracking, the demon’s aura shifted with the ambient magical noise. Signature-phased camouflage. A trick to make him invisible to anyone not actively, deliberately looking.
It explained a lot.
Of course, it had its limits. Arc couldn’t use it to track beings above its rank—true elders were beyond its reach. But most weren’t.
And Calia… well, she was no elder.
She’d made that creature he’d just sent back to the void. Even if he hadn’t, she’d used so much magic around him recently that he’d have to be dead not to feel her spell signature. The thread pointed straight through the redwood forest.
So he followed.
Nova’s blood had helped. Not potent, but effective enough to refill the well faster than rest alone could. It wasn’t a mana potion, but it kept him going—a sustained recharge at a higher rate. And he needed it, given the tracking was still sluggish. The first flare he’d sent down the tether had only recently returned, too dulled to be relied on.
Which meant Calia had likely run into someone well-trained. Someone who knew what they were doing.
He’d lost respect for her. Whatever loyalty might’ve existed—it had frayed. Burned. She’d left him just as easily as she’d left everyone else. And now he saw her clearly: a self-absorbed brat who never listened, even when warned. A girl who dished out commands like royalty but crumbled when faced with consequences. It was always her way, her rules. The world bent to her, or it burned.
And he stupidly tried to be the good little familiar. The compliant demon. And for what?
Nothing.
He’d own his mistake. Apologize when the moment came. But he also knew this girl wasn’t going to learn a damn thing. She wanted and wanted, but never gave. Never offered anything in return. Just took. A child who never had her hand slapped hard enough to learn she wasn’t the center of the damn universe.
So, that was it.
The contract might bind them—but from here on out, no more bending. No more playing by her rules. No more letting people use him.
But first, he had to find the foolish girl.
Drag her back.
And then? That would be the moment the line got drawn in the sand.
No more demon.
No more elf.
Just Arc. One hundred percent.
He didn’t find the fae slipstream.
He dissected it.
Wove through its illusions with the surgical calm of someone who had studied far more ancient, far more dangerous things. This kind of glamour—this pretty veil draped over rotting bark and secrets—was ornamental at best. A child’s lock. A riddle spoken with shaking hands. Arc didn’t speak. He didn’t chant. He simply moved. Fingers outstretched, his palm turned just so, and the boundary between worlds peeled back as if afraid to displease him. No resistance. Just quiet, seamless compliance. A fault line made visible under the weight of his attention.
The air grew thin as he stepped through.
Magic responded—not defensively, not boldly—but like it recognized something dangerous had entered its domain. Something not meant to be here. Something that didn’t belong, and yet belonged everywhere. As the breath itself.
Every step carried consequence.
His presence left a tension in the roots, in the very dirt, like even the trees wanted to shy away from him. There was no fire, no storm, no performance. Just inevitability. The kind of magic that didn’t announce itself—it informed. Arc moved with precision, cutting through the layered tricks and folded spaces like a scalpel parting flesh. Fae enchantments were clever, certainly. But clever wasn’t the same as impenetrable. Not to him.
He stopped when the spell structure bent inward on itself. The heart of the pocket.
A soft scoff escaped his lips.
He glanced around—not with wonder, but with a scholar’s detachment. He had dissected older sanctuaries than this. Played in darker realms. Danced with monsters that didn’t hide their fangs behind deer antlers and woodland perfume. And surely this faeling, she ought to feel it now. That cold, heavy sensation that pressed in around the lungs. Not just the knowledge that someone had entered, but that something had.
Not a mage.
Not a man.
Something else.
Something worse.
He looked toward the center of the garden, his tone as dry as sun-bleached bone. “Well. If this is what passes for beauty among your kind, I can only assume yer mirrors lie to yah daily. Or perhaps yah ate the last creature that told the truth.”
He smiled. Barely. Cold. Clinical. “And judging by the aesthetic choices, I imagine it screamed first.” His eye held time. Unmoving. “I’m surprised Calia didn’t tear yer fuckin’ ugly face in. Or did she help yah look like that?”
Fawna drew up from her perch, standing her full height of some near ten feet tall, big and robustly beautiful even despite the way her antlers had grown longer and more curled. How her perfect teeth had become sharpened fangs. Even that light busty gown of hers that’d been all wispy cottage fabric was tinted this shadowy muted grey. Perhaps at one time she’d been the bright a shining example of a faeling creature, close to nature and mischievous sweetness. But she’d stepped over the line, long, long, long ago towards the dark ends. The thin line that took one away from being fae and far closer to being demon.
Dark fae. Proudly so.
“The highblood daughter came here for sanctuary. From yah,” she answered, smug about it too. “A fool yah are, not knowing what yah had gifted to yah hands. Can’t say I am much surprised. Yah kind don’t know how to handle nothing with a soft touch. Too busy fighting each other than to realize when yah got real power in yah hands.”
Fawna was not here to have a quick banter, nor was she a fool. An old fark dae was she were understood a real danger when it appeared. So just as quick as she was for a comeback, she was throwing up hands as well, summoning up her many beasts. Those chickens and goats that were no longer sweet little farm animals, that were now in goblinesque states of demonic monsters themselves. Skin and scales and feathers. Stretched out limbs that’d become arms and legs, and grotesque faces. She sent them at him like a ravenous pack, all at once to rip him limb from limb.
Nor was she so foolish as to stand there waiting for a next move. Calling up her garden of thorned vines to come whip and slash at whatever her beasts couldn’t snap.
If he was supposed to be impressed—or intimidated—the memo never reached him.
Arc stood like the reaper’s shadow, spine loose, hands relaxed, not an ounce of tension in his limbs. But the air coiled tighter with every breath he took. The stillness wasn’t peace—it was a silence before slaughter.
That clinical, sharp-fanged smile curved across his lips, cruel in its calm.
“Sanctuary,” he echoed flatly, as if tasting the word and finding it bitter. “Right. Sure. Yer one of the self-important sack of yesterday’s breath the bleedin’ tree warned her about, then. Congratulations.”
His boots scraped against the ground, slow and deliberate as he moved another step forward. Not a threat—an inevitability.
“Blame me if it makes yah feel better. I don’t lose sleep over being the villain in some sanctimonious dark fae’s bedtime story.” His voice dropped, just a hair. “But don’t pretend Calia’s yer prisoner by virtue of kindness. She’s runnin’ from her own shadow, sure—but if this is where she wants to be, she could’ve said so.”
He gestured vaguely in the direction of the old fae’s presence, dismissive. “A word. A sentence. I’d have walked away. The contract would have melted away if she were truly at the point where she didn’t need me and I, her.”
“But she didn’t.”
His smile widened just slightly—mocking. Empty. Predatory.
“What you fail to realize,” he went on, voice a low hum now, “is that girl isn’t some caged bird. She’s a storm wrapped in skin. And I’m real tired of people—things—like yah, always tryin’ to script her story. Write the endin’. Shove her into a neat little fate like she’s too soft to make her own. To tell her how it ought to be rather than lettin’ her decide her own damn truth!” His arms opened wide, like welcoming an execution. “But she ain’t here by choice, is she? No. She’s not here because deep down, yah know the truth.”
A pause. That smile dropped.
“If she was given the choice, it wouldn’t be yah.” A flick of fingers, careless. “So save the sermons. Shut that thing yah have the unfortunate fate of calling a face… and crawl back to whatever rotten fissure of a moss-covered hole spat yah out.”
His gaze narrowed, voice sinking into something colder than death itself. “Because if I have to burn this pretty little pocket realm to get her back—just to ease the heart of the girl who actually gives a damn—I will. And I’ll do it in seconds.” Then a slight tilt of his head, sardonic and cruel.
“And for the record… if yer were trying to impress me with that half-shifted deer nightmare look—don’t. I’ve seen more charm in rotted toadstools.”
His smile twisted into something predatory, his eyes narrowing as the ancient fae summoned her beasts. Minding churned with the force of a storm, the air thick with the crackling of magic, as he calculated every possibility with surgical precision. The creatures—demonic and twisted mockeries of their former selves—came at him in a frenzied swarm, their savage forms hungry for blood. But they were nothing to him.
With a lazy flick of his fingers, Arc shattered the space between them, weaving a translucent ward around his body. It pulsed with the iridescent shimmer of raw arcane energy. The beasts collided with the barrier in a chorus of gnashing teeth and howls, but the barrier held, rippling in response to their violent strikes. The air hummed with the suppressed force of their assault as they attempted to claw through, only to be thrown back by invisible shockwaves that ripped their limbs apart.
He wasn’t even looking at them. Arc had no need to. He was not going to fight her as a demon, that was likely what one expected. No, he was going to fight her as exactly as he was. The damn arch mage that people had tried to tame.
No. More.
The ground beneath his feet split in a violent burst of light. He wove the spell with quiet detachment—Vibratum Sine, a silent spell of magic manipulation that vibrated the fabric of the earth. It tore the ground in jagged lines, opening deep rifts into the space beneath them. Tendrils of white-hot arcane energy lanced through the cracks, swirling around him like a storm of pure force, and in the chaos, the first beast fell, its body shredded into ribbons of flesh and bone.
A heavy sigh of boredom escaped his lips, and his hand raised again, this time with a fluid grace, as if casting in the air itself was nothing but a triviality. The thorns that the dark fae had summoned snapped in midair as if cut by an invisible blade. Arc’s eyes gleamed with a dangerous hunger as he completed the incantation in an elegant arc of his fingers—Exactus Domina, a devastating cutting spell designed for one purpose: annihilation.
Vines and brambles disintegrated, their plant matter scattering into a fine dust. The shrill screeching of the remaining beasts echoed in his ears, a sound he ignored as he raised his hand, and with another effortless motion, the beasts’ forms began to warp in midair. A shriek of agony rent the air as their bodies were torn apart by invisible forces, their bones snapping under the weight of pure destruction. He didn’t even need to look at them. They were insignificant.
Still, it wasn’t enough. There was a precise reason why the demons had sought to stop him from completing the creation of the holy weapons. Had succeeded in bending him to their own realm. Remaking him in their horned image and it wasn’t because he could be a foul mouthed imp.
Arc’s eyes flickered to the mother of beasts. A final movement of his hand, and a massive circle of sigils appeared beneath him, glowing with a fierce, molten light. A barrier formed over him, a dome of cascading energy that shimmered like liquid glass. It hummed, vibrating with the pulse of the magic he had woven together—a culmination of his might.
He had allowed her beasts to fight—had let them think they had the chance to stop him. Now, he would show her why she had made the mistake of underestimating him.
The sky overhead shifted as Arc’s power ignited. With a single thought, he unleashed Ruinus Obsidian, a spell that collapsed the air itself inwards—a gravity well that twisted the laws of nature, pulling at everything around it. The beasts that remained were crushed by the sheer force of the magic, their forms twisting into blackened shapes before being completely obliterated in seconds. The ground began to cracked open as well, but this wasn’t mere destruction—it was a calculated assault on her very realm. Ruinus Obsidian didn’t just destroy—it twisted the fabric of the realm itself, leaving scars where reality had once been whole.
Arc’s grin never faltered as the final threads of the spell dissolved into nothingness. The air around him pulsed with the aftershocks of the destructive hex, and the remaining creatures collapsed, turned to dust in an instant. The quiet after the storm settled like a suffocating blanket. Only she remained, and Arc looked at her with a dead, emotionless gaze.
He didn’t even care to waste more words on her. His eyes locked on her, unblinking. He wanted to know where Calia was. He wanted her back, to stop Nova from worry over her friend, and he would not hesitate to burn this entire pocket realm to ash if she didn’t answer.
In the space where the sky had could have been a tranquil blue, Arc’s voice was a low growl, a threat with no hidden meaning. “Tell me where she is. Or I’ll happily turn yer little kingdom into dust in a matter of seconds. Yer fuckin’ choice.” The dark fae might have thought she could play games with him. She was wrong. Arc was far beyond games. And he was ready to nuke it all with a orchestration of more reasons why people had tried to put restraints on him.
Fawna had thought that what was coming would be some brow-beaten, bound demon that didn’t have any real fangs.
She’d thought at best there would be flash and fire, necromantic damage, blistering words.
This destructive thing that had appeared into her realm was sure as hell not that! Reducing her minions down to ashes with nothing but arcane magic. Cracking the foundations of her very personal pocket space of faerie wood. Like it was nothing to him.
How extraordinary the girl must be to have such a monster bound by magic, for it truly did take one strong of will and of spirit to even survive such a contract. Even for a fae.
Unlike her predecessor, the fool who wasted his life corrupting a fae wood tree, Fawna was not about to die in the here and now. Seeing why now the girl had ran, there was plenty for her to run from. Better yet, this demon with his unrelenting flare for violence was going to drive the girl exactly in the direction Fawna wanted.
Time to play a waiting game. Intelligence knew when to leave it be, walk away, and try again another day.
“My mistake,” she purred, blossoming into a wide, toothy smile. “Yah take her. Treat her real well.”
A wrapping of black thorned vines shot up from the ground to wrap around her, squeezing her rotund form until she vanished in a ploof of obsidian smoke. With her, the entire glade and garden started to shift and crumble. The stone wall around the properly rotted away back to the earth. The beautiful flower gardens shriveled back up into naught but gnarled bushes and a thick mass of thickets. Her cozy sweet cottage melted back to it’s natural state of being nothing more than an abandoned wooded cabin in the middle of the woods. Covered in layers of moss and old leaves to be half buried under ivy vines and rotted wood.
Inside the cottage had shifted as well, with Calia there in the single small room, watching as the warm and lovely plastered walls fell away to reveal naught but rotting wood covered in moss and molds. Leaving her sitting on a bedframe that had nothing left but the wood, as feathered mattress had long since been shredded and decayed away.
Awareness had come back, if not memory yet. A grim acceptance that the safe warm space never had been real at all. Oh, she’d hoped it to be so. Wished it to be. But just like everything did around her, it was pretend. Not real.
Something waited for her outside. The monster. The demon. Calia could not bring herself to go and meet him. Mostly hoping he’d incinerate the place with her still inside it, but that was not likely to happen at all, was it. With a tilt of her head and a spark at her fingertip, she seriously considering doing it herself!
That… was not what he expected.
Maybe, deep down, he should have known better. Even a dark fae—especially a dark fae—could turn tail the second they met someone bigger than the bedtime stories they whispered to scare children. They talked big. All riddles and draped in their own bullshit mystique. But when it came time to actually stand their ground? They just hiked up their skirts and bolted like squawking chickens.
Arc snarled as the remnants of her magic scattered like ash on the wind. He took a slow, deliberate step forward, the earth beneath his boots blackened with residual power. His voice roared, cracking the still air like a god’s hammer thrown down:
“Cowardly, twig-twisted hag! Run back to whatever rotting root spat yah out—next time I catch yer moldy bark-face, I’ll peel the glamours off yer bones and let the Void gnaw what’s left!”
The woods trembled. Trees groaned. Even the birds refused to sing. His words rippled outward, magic laced into every syllable like poison dipped in honey. The glamour snapped—melted away—revealing the once-ensnared forest of Edelguard in its rightful shape. The place of soft memory, of peace, now fouled by the stench of cowardice and rotting illusions.
He stood in the aftermath, growling low, teeth bared in frustration. His claws flexed, clicking together like a warning. His singular horn caught a shard of golden light slicing down through the canopy. The creature of raw spellcraft and eldritch menace turned his gaze toward the last remnants of the pocket realm’s structure—half-warped, barely standing.
That’s where it was. The tether. Singing through his mind like a wire stretched too tight.
She was here. Calia.
And she had heard him.
He didn’t move closer. Not yet. Instead, his voice cut through the silence like a blade:
“If yer plannin’ to run again—choose wisely, girl. Yah better say it clear, clean, and honest. That yer happy here. That yer a selfish, empty, little brat, and yer proud of it. ‘Cause I’m done with this game of tag. I’m done bein’ made into whatever suits yer fancy. Where each effort made is thrown back in response and my agency is yers. And I’m sure as hell not about to try and help or fix whatever yer cold dead chest is missin’ anymore.”
His tone turned sharp, brutal—freezing cold beneath the fury. “I ain’t comin’ to pull yah back again. Not a third time. Not ever. That moldy dark fae can chew yah to the bone for all I care. So—” He opened his arms, wide and dangerous, magic stirring in the air again as if a storm was ready to descend. It wouldn’t. As pissed off and loathing he was to her for her own actions and the general hot and cold reception that was their existence, he didn’t want to kill her.
She wasn’t worth his time. And those people like Nova that had grown to care about her, had more weight. It was a damn good thing she equally didn’t give two shits about him, because that would certainly make this awkward. But fleeing from someone made it pretty clear how low they were on one’s list.
“—what’s it gonna be, Calia? Yah gonna stay curled up in this lie like a bug in a rug, pretendin’ yah ain’t runnin’? Or are yah gonna face me, give me back my magic and own just how much of a coward and a hypocrite yah really are? Coz yer a real shit of a friend, I wouldn’t even call yah an acquaintance.”
The air around him crackled. He meant it.
And the forest held its breath. “Choose.”
Aunt Fawna… that woman who was most certainly not any real family of hers had disappeared and abandoned her here! What a harsh drop back down to reality. Always promises that Calia was important, Calia was special, Calia would be safe and protected.
Now this demon was out there calling her every insult under the sun. Selfish, brat, empty and cold. A coward and a hypocrite. A shitty friend.
And that missing bit of memory came flooding back in, washing over her like a waved of goddamned bricks. Every single word hitting her with a sharpened knife. This was what she’d wanted was him to talk to her, and these were the words he’d decided on.
He’d struck her with the fucking tether itself.
Calia dust off her knees and rose from the old wooden bedframe, oh so calming walking to the door to push it open. Creaking through the old abandoned cabin to the front door that needed to be full booted kicked open just to get it to budge. That was fine, she did it with a splintering of wood, stepping out into the glade that no longer looked like a warm inviting garden, curated by a loving family member.
All of it had been a glamour. Pretend niceness during a moment she was weak and frightened. Scared about him who was now standing there all crackling fury and spitting verbal acid.
“Why don’t you tell me exactly where I was the bad friend,” she dared to ask him. “When did I attack you. Hurt you. Actually abandon you. Hmm? You got kidnapped by some snatchy demon because of me, I owned that. You told me not to blame myself. I searched for you the only way I knew how. I patched you up and tried to take care of you. Then you shut down and cut me off. I didn’t know what the fuck I did wrong this time, so I backed off and gave you the space you wanted.”
Calia shrugged her shoulders with a grim expression. “You decided your goddamned own self to start acting like some braindead zombie servant, how exactly was I supposed to take that? Gleefully? Dance a little jig because the person I have been trying and trying and trying to actually make a connection with was now my lifeless little minion? You don’t want a friend. I am nothing to you but a cage, and I don’t want to be your cage.”
It’d been brewing the moment she’d stepped out of the now derelict cabin, swirling up above as a dark blackened cloud. The temperature going from the warm late spring heat to drop considerably to something frigid. Those clouds began to glow with something a feiry blue as she pointed her two fingers towards the sky.
“You’re the one that lied! You’re the one that keeps saying everything is okay and turns around to betray my trust and my sanity! And you fucking hit me first, so I choose mutual destruction you lying bastard!”
With a twist of her hands she dug her own nails deep down into her wrists to drag along the skin and draw the blood. The storm clouds above flashed with a roar of thunder and down came ginormous balls of ice so frigid they burned.
There she was. In all her haughty, almighty glory that only now showed her face. After it all. As if now she could rule the roost because the first hag had flew the coop. Laying his gaze upon her with a malice so cold and surprisingly hurt. He knew it was there and didn’t bother trying to hide it any longer. Scoffing at her when she asked him to describe to her how she was the bad friend. “Let me name all the fuckin’ ways.” Unfurling his fingers out, “Yah ran out not only on yer fuckin’ gods damn bound and binded demon that has no god damn choice but to be stuck to yah, but yah bolted out the door and left Nova fretting and worryin’ herself damn sick. To the god damn point that she willin’ offered up her blood to me just to find yah. But that doesn’t matter, does it? She’s no one. Not someone that spent how ever many god damn days just being there. Even takin’ my healin’ ass out because she wanted yah to have a unhindered, unbridled night.” Lips curled into a cold smile, “Let me ask yah this, what was yer first thought when yah felt the binding drop when I was trapped. I bet it wasn’t oh shit, I wonder what’s happened to Arc!“
A finger pointed at her, “I bet yah thought only the worst. Yeah, that’s what a friend does. But lets not even focus on that part. What do yah know of me, Calia? Beside what others have told yah. What rumours and tales and stories yah’ve been told? Hmm, lets see. No, I told yah about my sister, yah didn’t ask. About my brother, a bit about my family. Yah know what I used to be, that my closest friend killed himself after I revealed it because Renus was up my ass. Riiight hmm very interestin’. Suffered through memory recollection, only Aien hung around me those few days because sometime’s being present is what one needs to feel close to another not fuckin’ distance.” Fingers stroked across his chin. “Yah wanna know what I know about yah because I asked. Yah have two elder brothers. And elder sister. Yer eldest brother was the crowned prince that was married to a lady he loved. Yer second brother was a known flirt and yer sister was as sweet as pie. Yer parents married out of love after yer father did some wandering, soul searching and learning.”
He stepped a bit sideways as though he were delving into a fantasy tale. “Yer magic is only known to yerself. Yah visited the crazy ass mage tower out of curiosity in Caeldalmor to discover that the people in there are highly nuts and do thin’s that yah don’t wanna even think about. Yer a flirt, yah glamour yerself to be amongst the masses and yah enjoy rompin’ older men because they are less likely to get attached and more willin’ to let yah go as a passing fun memory.”
His eyes flattened on her, “I also know that yah like the colour blue because I’ve seen how yah gravitate towards it for clothin’ choices if the option is there. Yah like chocolate because I was tryin’ to be nice and apologetic when I hurt yer feelin’s by not understandin’ in the courtyard at the palace that I didn’t want to walk with yah. Also went out to look for yah with Renus because we were both worried about yah. Hmmm yeah, I’m startin’ to see a pattern here.”
Eyes flickered over to her once more. Feeling the change in the weather. “Lets not forget that the only thing yah seem to ever notice about me, is magic. That night I opened my Arcanum hollow, yah didn’t ask about what I could have in there as I got yah a blanket because I worried yah might get cold. Yah wanted me to teach yah then and there. Then recently my whole fiasco of realizin’ that while yah can be so sweet and kind, yah fuckin’ don’t respect any one’s wishes besides yer own. I told yah bluntly that I did not want yah to expend yer strength on me, that yah ought to converse yer strength. And yah disregarded it. Yah fuckin’ choose yer way over me statin’ no. So yes, I apologize that I took that as a sign that yah only want me to be the fuckin’ perfect little familiar. No emotion, no talkin’, nothing. Because fuck yah sideways. Yer just as fuckin’ bad as the rest of them!”
Arc barked at her, his voice jagged with fury, “Yah don’t treat me like I’m fuckin’ alive. Disrespecting every word I say, even when it’s a goddamn ‘stop.’ Yah bulldoze over it, never even seein’ me for who I am. I’m fuckin’ sufferin’, bein’ stuck here. And it was you—you—that didn’t even stop to ask if I was comfortable in Tír Élas. This is where I was born, where that fucking cunt of a woman abandoned me, left me like I was some burden she couldn’t deal with as her child! Do you think I wanted to be here? No. Did you even ask? No!” His hands flung out, sending black abyssal flames tearing across the ground in a fiery arc. “I’m fuckin’ tired! I’m not perfect! I gave up everything for everyone!”
His lips curled back into a snarl, the heat in his throat rising like a furnace, stinging and raw. “So don’t yah stand there whippin’ up yer damn storm at me, Calia! Yah don’t give a shit about anyone but yerself, ’cause that means trustin’ ’em, and you ain’t capable of that. Yer so high on yer goddamn horse that it’s suffocating, stuck jammed up yer own ass. And I never fuckin’ lied! Things are supposed to be okay—but only if yah trust people! Not use ’em, and then throw ’em away when they don’t serve yer petty little needs anymore!”
Pressing a hand to his chest, “I’m a livin’ breathin’ person. Flesh and blood and bone and I’m so god damn tired of yah and everyone else havin’ these god damn self imposed expectations. And don’t even get me started because yah did abandon me. To here.” Gesturing around them to the ruined glade. “Yah ran right into the arms of another one of the dark fae instead of sittin’ at that table with me. Where one word,” A finger lifted up, “One stupid simple word would have been so easy to say. When I asked yah to elaborate, all yah had to say was, you. Yah could have just asked me to be me. Instead yah ran away. Abandonin’ me there because it was easier. Just like every fucking one else. I’d rather be fuckin’ alone than bein’ near someone that treats me as a item to be used at her whim. Without ever actually talkin’ to me, or gettin’ to know me.”
He looked up at the storm clouds, his glare cutting through the swirling chaos above. The rolling thunder cracked like the snap of a whip, and the hail came down with a fury, pelting the earth around them. But Arc stood unmoved, his eyes burning with defiance. With a flick of his hand, an arcane barrier formed above them, shimmering with power, shielding her from the biting ice and keeping the tempest at bay, though he made no effort to shield himself. His posture was as cold and calculated as the storm, a subtle reminder of just who he was—dangerous, unyielding, and never to be underestimated.
“Yah were in a fog. The tether was weak. Yeah, I pulled too hard, too angry, ’cause I’m fuckin’ hurtin’, and I am sorry for that.” His head shook, his eyes blinking rapidly, fighting the sting in his chest. His fingers brushed over the jagged edge of his missing horn, a silent testament to the cost of his pain. “Nova’s worried about yah. That’s the only thing that matters now. As of right now, don’t summon me. Don’t think of me. Don’t even breathe my name in passing. Just… let me be alone, ’cause it’s a fuckton easier than bein’ around yah.” His words were final, carrying the weight of someone who had given too much and couldn’t take any more. The air between them thickened, heavy with unspoken hurt, and Arc turned his back on her, the storm still raging in his wake.
“You are just like everyone else” she hissed back at him. Glancing upwards where he had neutralized her hailstorm, and with a snarl, she stomped hard on the ground, splitting the surface and pulled hard with all of her might to send cracks shooting outwards in all directions. Heating molten rock from deep down belong to yank up to the surface to come bubbling out in a circle around them.
“Poor little Nova. It’s easy to love her isn’t it. She is sweetness and light, everything good in this world. Kind and gentle, full of hope.”
Calia laughed, harsh and ugly. Biting as she followed it with a snarl.
“I took that binding to save you. Everyone else was calling you a traitor and a monster, but it wasn’t the truth. I met you as a demon and even I could see the truth that you were no monster. I heard the stories about you and the fall of Edelguard and all I saw was a man that loved people too much, so I fucking accepted the binding so you could have a second chance to show them who you are.”
“What a mistake that was,” she spat. “I focused on the magic because it was thing I knew we had in common. You love magic and all it can be, and no one has ever let you just play with freely! You had always been forced to follow their lessons and their rules, and I thought maybe I could be the one person you could finally be your true self with! To play with it, to learn it, to heal from every horrible thing that happened because of it!”
With a hard wave of her hand towards the ground, she broke it up and crumbled it away into the rising magma now pooling in encroaching swirls. Made herself a nice little solitary island, because that’s where she always ended up anyway.
“You want me to open up and trust you! I gave it! I tried over and over to have conversations with you, to spend time with you! YOU are the one that suggested this town and I trusted you wouldn’t steer me somewhere you wouldn’t want to go! Oh, but I am supposed to be psychic too on top of being your master, right? I am supposed to just know the right times when to approach you to ask you out on walks? Know when I’m supposed to pry and prod for important details so I don’t fuck it all up?”
“Fuck you, Archimedes!” she cheered with another bit of dark laughter. “Fuck me too I guess, for caring about you enough to want to help you even when you tell me not to! Fuck me for getting scared because I thought I’d broken you the same way I break everything else. Fuck me, the villainous bitch that was so horrified at the thought of making you a mindless slave that I ran.”
That laughter died in an instance, Calia dropping her hands to her sides, that weary tiredness coming back into full force again.
“You’e not sorry for anything. You never wanted to be my friend. You never even tried, you just pretended to with every single pretend kindness you’ve done. Defending me to others only to turn around and accuse me of the same things. Throwing those kindnesses back in my face the very second you perceived a slight from me, one that never even happened cause you did it to your own goddamned self. I’m not the picture perfect noble girl with a kind sweet heart and gentle hands, spinning hope and goodness in the world that you get to feel all warm and cozy about saving. I’m heartless, and cold, careless and cruel. Finally, I’ll meet someone’s expectations.”
Fuck him. Fuck this. Fuck living. Let that damned strange fae come back and get her, Calia was done. Nova’s little magic lantern of hope had failed it’s one job… but then Calia never really believed in it anyway, so she only had her own self to blame.
She sank down with a plop on her little island surrounded by the red hot flow.
“Go be free, you win. I won’t talk to you again.”
So this was it. They were never going to understand each other. Never going to reach that quiet middle ground where two broken beings could admit they were hurting. Instead, it was blame. It was guilt. Thrown back and forth like weapons, because that was easier than facing the mirror.
He scowled at the way she’d reduced Nova—like she was something foul, something beneath her. Just a soul who had wanted to be close, who had chosen to see the best in her. But maybe that was the heart of it—Calia couldn’t bear being seen unless it was in the perfect light.
She told him to speak, to list what weighed on him. But the floor had never been truly open. She boiled over with her own justifications, her own carefully built excuses. And when he’d asked—really asked—what she felt when the tether dropped? Nothing. She’d dodged it. Evaded it like a curse she couldn’t bear to name.
No, it wasn’t going to change. And in her refusal, in that quiet denial, he saw it clearly for the first time. “It has to end,” he said, voice low and flat, calm in the way only finality could be. “The bindin’ won’t break unless it meets yer perfect terms.” And that wasn’t going to happen. But he wasn’t blind. Years of drafting contracts, of watching the fine print of magic and intent twist like wire, had taught him where the loopholes lived. This wasn’t demoncraft, but close enough.
And he was tired. “Then,” Arc said, turning to face her, “it’s time yah killed yer familiar.” He tapped the center of his chest, slow and deliberate. “Right here. Send me back to the hells. That’ll snap the contract. Long as it’s yer hand, you’ll walk free. The magic’ll buckle. And I’ll be dead.”
No bitterness. No drama. Just truth.
“I don’t want to fight with yah anymore,” he added, eyes steady on her. “Just end it.”
Calia let out a soft sobbing laugh.
“You built me up to where I finally thought I had someone who hears me, that I can rely on. I actually had hope that we were getting somewhere and then you crushed me. All it took was one sentence from me for you to shut down and cut me off. I could have sat with you the way she did, but it wouldn’t have mattered, would it? You already decided who I am. You were just waiting for the moment where you had the perfect excuse to push me away.”
A long sigh followed and Calia didn’t know why she was wasting the breath. Reaching to drag her nails across the ground to dispel the magic there, letting the hot pools of molten rock to cool into solid black rivers. A sweep of her fingers near her head to send away her futile storm back to misty cloud of nothing.
“You hate me so much that you’d rather die. That’s… that’s just great, Archimedes. Really puts my whole life into perspective. Remember when you said I was worth the effort? You fucking lied. You’re so damn good at lying, you even have yourself fooled.”
Calia did finally pick herself up off the ground but she couldn’t even stand to look at him. Staggering a little on her feet she went marching the way back to Tír Élas.
“Someone has to die, but it’s not going to be you.”
That was surely an ominous statement, but she wasn’t exactly thinking with the best of clarity. The true irony was that Calia had been about to say the same thing to him. Kill her. Beg him to kill her, order him to kill her. If anything, Calia could see now there was no purpose for her in this world other than to make other people suffer. A curse to him and a curse to everyone.
Maybe it was time for her to be the monster everyone wanted her to be.
Well he was finally at a loss of what to do. She wasn’t going to listen and he was honestly too exhausted at this point to keep fighting. There was nothing left.
So even as she cooled her magma and declared that death wasn’t going to be his own, he didn’t know what to do. Speaking had been useless. Being present had been useless. Everything was useless and he was officially stuck.
And now? What now.