When dusk made it’s appearance and fireflies were beginning to ignite everywhere in the forest to create a beautiful dancing glow, it was high time for them to search for a nice cozy spot to nest for the evening. With Calia glancing upwards at high branches before giving her demon companion that unspoken, feral fae smile suggesting they could make their night up in the canopies if he felt daring enough.
By the time evening crept up on them like an uninvited third companion, dragging long shadows across the underbrush and cooling the air beneath the ancient canopy, Arc knew exactly what Calia was thinking. He didn’t need to hear her say it. He could tell from the way she looked up—head tilted, eyes glittering in that particular mischief-laced reverence she reserved for towering things she had no business trying to climb. She was precisely the sort of stories that spawned Jack and the Beanstalk, he was certain of it.
He turned his head and stared at her. Slowly. Deliberately. The kind of look one might give a creature at the zoo right before it did something predictably feral. “You’ve got monkey feet, don’t yah,” he said flatly. “Yah were born with ’em. Just kept it quiet all this time.”
He followed her gaze upward, toward the redwoods—those ancient, sky-kissing giants with bark like timeworn armour and limbs wide enough to house staircases. Truthfully, they could’ve built an entire settlement in the branches without risking a tumble. Even so, he remained skeptical.
It wasn’t the height that bothered him. It was the inevitability of it all. Because whether or not he liked it, she was going to climb one. Of course she was.
At some point, she’d vanish halfway up a trunk, reappear as the crowned mistress of the wild with a tiara made of leaves and moss, and declare herself queen of some moss-draped woodland creature kingdom.
And he?
He’d be sitting below like a brooding troll at the tree’s roots, wondering what spiritual curse kept him tethered to such woodland royalty. “I’m beginnin’ to think buyin’ yah a bedroll was a waste,” Arc muttered, arms crossing loosely over his chest. “Should’ve gotten yah a hammock and a squirrel buddy to help pitch it.” He arched a brow at her, unimpressed and but amused. “And while we’re on the topic—how exactly d’you plan to cook if yer nestin’ up there? Last I checked, fire and tree don’t usually get along. Unless you’re tryin’ to smoke yerself out like a very fashionable raccoon.”
“Didn’t your kind used to live in trees?” she asked, with that cheeky little movement of taking a side step as if she’d said something most profound. Even tapping her finger to her chin as she tilted her head back to look, up, up, up at the nearest redwood. Almost like she was truly considering climbing right on up there.
It wouldn’t be practical for the two of them. Otherwise, one could bet she’d spend at least one night up there.
That false serious pondering broke, however, into a gentle laugh and a soft shrug of her shoulders. Gesturing with a sweep of her hands with another wordless reply of well, then where, with just enough of a flourish of wrist that there might’ve even a been a dear sir tacked onto those silent words. Allowing him the means of deciding the space for their night’s rest. Having a pretty good idea that his last choosing had been very particular, because he’d been making sure there were no stray yellow blossoms tucked behind roots.
Calia would incinerate them on sight now, of course, but she didn’t need to tell him that. Let them disappear upon the wind in a wisp of ash never to be seen.
“Well then, if you are so particular, you’re now in charge of making our nest cozy. I’ll tend to the food and we’ll have ourselves a lovely little evening under the stars.”
“How old d’you think I am?” Arc asked, eyes narrowing with theatrical suspicion as he tracked her cheeky smirk. “Surely not old enough to be tossed in with the olden sorts that used to swin’ through the trees and grunt about territory. That’s well beyond my years. And from what I understand, they were a right mess—lanky cavemen who only booga’d but never unga’d.“
His stare stayed fixed on her like he expected her to lunge at the nearest redwood, scale it like a sugar-mad raccoon, and vanish into the upper canopy with squirrel royalty awaiting her coronation.But then, of course, came the gesture—that grand little flick of fingers indicating it was now his turn to sort out shelter. Paired with a verbal offering to do it all so she could focus on the means of turning beast to meal.
Arc cracked his knuckles with ceremony. “Easy.” He stepped forward, surveying the forest floor with the haughty precision of someone about to dramatically outdo nature itself. “I might not be a woodsman,” he declared, “But I am a mage. A damn good one.”
The dying light painted long shadows across the trunks, the air cool and heavy with earth-scent and the breath of leaves. He inhaled once, deeply, then knelt. He pressed one palm to the soil. “Alright then,” Arc murmured. “Let’s do this proper.”
The ground beneath his hand thrummed in answer—faint, but willing. From the forest floor, the magic drew only what the land gave freely: the bones of fallen branches, the patient threads of moss, the curve of limbs already shed. They didn’t cut or break anything living; they invited it. Coaxed the forest’s remnants into shape.
Nearby twigs slithered together, aligning into latticework ribs like a basket being woven in reverse. Bark folded and shaped itself like pliant leather, curling into walls reinforced with vine. A natural overhang of redwood roots was gently reshaped—no harm, no severing—just bent and persuaded into a partial arch. Ferns rustled and tucked themselves into the walls, a layer of cool green against the twilight chill.
Arc moved his fingers like a conductor pulling each note from the woods.
Overhead, wide leaves floated down from the high canopy—spun into place by a whisper of wind he shaped just so. They pressed themselves into a tight thatch for a roof, sealing against rain, with a small circular opening left above for heat to escape.
And then, with a flick of his fingers, the clearing’s ambient moisture lifted—pulled from the moss, from the bark, from the air itself—and caught as suspended beads, swirling once before being banished with a snap.
“Driest patch in the forest, guaranteed,” Arc said smugly, dusting his hands and straightening with a flourish. “We’ve got airflow, insulation, no bugs—at least none I didn’t banish to the next postcode—and a firepit that won’t catch the trees. All made from the leftovers of the forest floor. Look at that. I’m bloody eco-conscious.”
He stepped back, admiring his handiwork with crossed arms and a slow nod. “Cozy enough for yah, yer majesty of moss?” Then, a pause. “…Don’t go climbin’ the roof. It’s still settlin’.”
“I’m not sure, you sounded old before you became a demon and now you’re twice as much, so a thousand at least,” she mused with all due humor. Truthfully, she’d still not gotten the hang being able to tell at all, for most appeared to be around her own age even though they were plenty old enough to be her grandparent. Then those that actually looked like grandparents were ancient indeed!
None of that mattered in the moment, though, as he seemed to take his new job to mean he needed to do a bit more than just pick a spot to plant their rear ends. Making the exaggerated motions of preparing for magic, which immediately had her grinning all too wide. There was absolutely no reason to use magic at all just to make camp for the night.
But was she going to point that out? Absolutely not!
What started as amused giggling watching him charm the surrounding landscape to move and shape, soon faded into this soft wistful reverse. More than that, it was pure unbridled admiration. Love. Calia was surely in love with every whisper that shaped wood, every layer of green moss that crept and climbed. From nature itself he’d shaped what was truly a beautiful little nest simply with magic alone.
There was nothing in the world more wonderful than magic.
“Stunning,” she breathed out, genuine and appreciative. A gentle smile that hide nothing followed, before she paused. Taking the briefest of moments to give a soft blow towards the shelter, where soon creeping out from the bits of wound vine and dried wood faintly glowing lichen of a soothing blue speckled under the inner roof. Every forest shelter needed some ambient light, after all!
“If you’ll make up a fire and get a pan nice and hot waiting for me, I’ll see what the forest wants to offer us today.”
His mouth dropped open.
Absolutely unguarded. Shocked. Offended.
The very audacity—no, the crime—of this punky little mountain-born menace insinuating he was a thousand years old. A thousand! As if he were some ancient relic dusted off from the bottom of a tomb! As if he were older than Omal, who practically creaked when he walked! He didn’t even have a comeback! Not right away. He just stared at her, lips parted in speechless scandal, while she carried on with that smug little smirk like she’d just committed casual arson and didn’t even feel bad about it.
Sure, he knew she was teasing. But that didn’t stop the existential crisis from blooming behind his eyes as he followed her movements with the slow, unblinking stare of someone trying to remember when their knees had started creaking.
He wasn’t old. He was in his early thirties. Fresh thirties, in human terms. Spry! Vibrant! Full of life!
…Right?
Rather than fall down a rabbit hole of self-explaining mortality and time dilation, Arc instead chose to pour his existential distress into the most overdramatic display of magic he could muster.
The forest responded in kind. With a low hum and swirling rustle, he coaxed the materials of the redwood floor into a shelter that was more ritual than necessity—overdesigned, overly sculpted, and positively smug in its presence. Moss lining, windward angles, leaf-laced sloping roof, dry-root support—all of it formed with a flourish and a glowing, smug little showman’s finish.
He dusted his hands like he’d spent hours physically assembling the thing, then glanced sideways at Calia with a satisfied smirk already locked and loaded. She, of course, immediately moved to adjust the structure with her own touches—because she couldn’t help herself—and Arc just lifted a brow, as if to say really? before smoothing his expression into exaggerated grace.
“I know,” he declared, theatric and smug. Then—with zero hair to justify it—he threw his head back and gave his bangs the kind of toss reserved for opera divas. The lack of payoff didn’t stop him in the least. But the grand performance faded slightly when she reminded him that, yes, he was also on fire duty. And yes, she’d be cooking.
Arc sighed as if she’d personally deflated him.
“Fine,” he grumbled, already summoning the hollow open with a flourish. “But if I see even one twitchin’ tail or a roasted acorn stuffed inside somethin’ fuzzy, I’m absolutely callin’ it—I’m travelin’ with a bog witch.” He pulled out the pan with a clang of finality. “No squirrels, Lia.”
“I’m not so cruel to feed you a furry lump, love, I’d at least skin it first!” That ominous statement was followed by a smile so sweet, so innocent, so obviously full of bullshit that even she couldn’t hold onto it for longer than the briefest of moments. Erupting into a cackling laugh even as she gave a little salute of temporary goodbye and turned off to head deep into the dusk lit forest.
He got wrapped up in the silliest of things – not that she was helping matters in the slightest.
As long as he didn’t get kidnapped again, all would be well… the small thought making her give at least one glance back before she pushed it out of her mind. Archimedes wasn’t helpless, Calia knew that through personal experience! A hunt was not going to take her so long that he’d be snatched up by devils and mages. Yet this was now going to be an annoying little worry in the back of her mind, it seemed.
Thankfully the forest was always good for giving Calia something else to focus on. The towering redwood trees were not just impressive by how high in the sky they’d grow, nor by the massive width the expanded to. Their roots could come up to jut and curl and crawl along the forest floor, covered in thickets and ferns. Fallen redwoods, long felled and decaying made for climbing obstacles and impressive homes to various plants and wildlife. There were sloping hills and small freshwater streams with little watering hole ponds.
Fireflies were in full, gleaming their merry little way all through the forest as a perfect proclamation that it was in fact summer now. Giving her that soft wonder if the heatwave Brux was predicting would make it all the way to the Edelguard north. Not that it really mattered, she and Arc would still have to walk through muggy summer days on their way to get there. Putting in mind that she might need to remove some of these traveling leathers just to make herself more comfortable. Calia didn’t need the armor when she had magic, it just came in handy. Truthfully, she hoped they weren’t going to end up physically fighting some new problem every other day!
There was no telling though, just how many demons had spilled out into the mountains. Once they left Edelguard, Calia had a feeling it would not be days of peaceful travel.
Deciding against anything furry just to ease that of Arc’s mind about tasty squirrel nuggets, Calia set her focus on something more avian. Pheasants were easier to get in these twilight hours, though not as daffy as quail so her simple drop traps would take too long. She fashioned herself a temporary bow with a couple of twiggy arrows. Favoring the means of hunting fairly instead of just popping a bird with a bolt of magic. It took some time to track a small flock, and a little more to wait for the right moment.
Then it was done, quick as that. A sharp shot, a quick kill. Her quiet apologies and gracious thanks for the life given.
When Calia made her return to their not-so-humble camp she had a cleanly dressed bird carried along by a sturdy dried vine and a few very pretty pheasant feathers. Unsure what she’d want to do with those just yet, but there was no sense in letting them go to waste!
“All the squirrels were busy,” she announced with such a heavy sigh.
As she sauntered off with perhaps the most bullshit line he’d heard all day—something dramatic and smug about becoming the epic huntress of the redwood wilds—Arc remained motionless for a beat, staring at her retreating form with a single, deeply unamused blink.
Then, very quietly, under his breath: “Gaia, if yer listenin’… keep the woodland littles outta reach. Just this once.” Not that he’d ever admit to that.
With a sigh, he set to work pulling items from the hollow like some half-hearted circus act. The pocket dimension technically had no limit, but he still dug through it with the dramatic flair of someone inconvenienced by the idea of searching. And while his outward expression was all grim duty, internally he was already calculating pan placement angles like a mage engineering a siege tower.
He got the fire going—properly hot and crackling—and even rigged a makeshift cooking stand using a few branches and a flattened stone base. The pan sat slightly above the flames, suspended just right to avoid outright scorching whatever sacrifice Calia returned with.
And looking at it now, Arc almost dared to think he looked like a natural camper. Which, of course, was a complete lie. He was the farthest thing from it. Sure, he didn’t hate the forest. Or bugs. Or sleeping under a sky full of stars. But the truth was, even as an elf, he’d always preferred comfort. Blankets. Soft beds. Walls. Pillows.
He would never—never—be one of those back-to-nature types who rubbed moss on their faces and called it skincare. If anything, he used magic to cheat nature into luxury. As evidenced by the lovingly crafted shelter now glowing in the firelight behind him.
Eventually, the underbrush rustled, and Calia emerged—something triumphant in her posture even before she spoke. Arc looked up from where he’d stripped off his coat and rolled up the sleeves of his tunic. One brow raised in anticipation.
Then came her deadpan delivery: the squirrels had all been busy. His lips pursed. “Oh no,” he said flatly, eyes wide in mock horror. “How terrible.” One hand rose to his chest with a dramatically wounded expression. “I’ll be mournin’ this travesty for years, surely.” And then, just as easily, the solemnity vanished. “Anywho.” He gestured to the fire with a vague flourish. “Pan’s ready. Hot as yah asked. See?” A crooked little smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. “I can be helpful. Occasionally. On Tuesdays.”
It was quite a lovely scene to come back to, if she were honest. Not that Archimedes looked like he belonged there in the slightest, or that he was even content and comfortable! Which in itself was an amusement, just not the part that have her this warm and fuzzy sense of… appreciation. A strange clarifying moment of realizing just how much she’d missed returning to something. To someone. Calia would’ve been just fine out on her own, magic or not, making a cozy little camp and preparing a meal. Companionship had not been anything she believed was all that vital, as why even think about it when she’d always had her family to go back to.
There was something uniquely special about this, though. Even if he was completely unimpressed with her teasing.
“This is good, thank you,” she answered with a grin that was genuine, although maybe a bit of that amused mirth was still shining through. “Didn’t know it was Tuesday.”
It wasn’t. She resisted laughing.
Instead Calia passed him the pheasant feathers, he could do with them as he wished, murmuring a soft, pass the butter, please, as she crouched by the fire and used her dagger to trim up that bird to fit nicely in the pan. That sizzle was immediate even without a little of the butter fat to help it along. She had a couple wild carrots, garlic and a little thyme too so while it wasn’t going to be a culinary show, it was all going to smell quite lovely and taste just as satisfying once it was all good and done.
Truly anyone watching would find it all an odd scene for sure! A demon elf, better made for giant musky libraries or rolling around fist fighting brutes in an ally depending on how he was dressed. A mountain princess garbed like an assassin, hunting up woodland creatures and cooking them over a fire. There was truly nothing normal or expected about either of them!
Calia was a lot more comfortable out here than she was in the elven palace, that was for damn sure!
“Well,” Arc declared, not missing a beat, “it is now.” Did it matter that it wasn’t Tuesday? Not even a little. If he was going to claim “helpful demon status,” it might as well be under a completely fabricated schedule of his own invention. Tuesdays. Helpful. Done. Anything more frequent than that, and the world might start to expect things.
And gods forbid that.
Then came the feathers.
He took them in-hand, blinking slowly like she’d just handed him a bundle of moral responsibility and said here, make stew. His expression shifted in two distinct beats—from what the hell do I do with these? to a more dangerous …no wait, what can I do with these?
Still, without complaint (and maybe with a twinge of genuine curiosity), he passed over whatever she’d asked for in return. His hands were quick, graceful, and preoccupied—but his mind had clearly begun to slip sideways into a spiral of feather-based possibilities.
And then, silence.
A rare thing.
The scents from the pan were beginning to swirl—herbed and wild, sharp with fat and woodsmoke—and Arc paced. Thoughtful. Deliberate. One slow circle around the fire, his boots brushing dry moss and pine needles, eyes occasionally darting up to check on her like a cat pretending not to be invested in something.
Eventually, on his second pass, he stopped with a little nod—decision made.
A ripple of magic stirred the air, coaxing pieces of the forest into motion. Roots curved upward from the ground, vines snaked together like twisting rope, and flat slabs of bark shaped into a kind of thrown-together throne. It wasn’t elegant, but it had intent. A lounging thing. Back leaned. Elbow perfect. A chair for a king of mischief, forged from forest leftovers and ego.
Arc flopped into it like a bored lord returning from war. One leg slung over the arm. Head tilted just so. Claws lifted to brush over the feathers with excessive deliberation—stroking the barbs like a scholar inspecting lost scripture. “Y’know,” he said after a moment, entirely unprompted, “I could probably make these into something real ominous. A warning crown. Or a collar. Bit of blood, bit of bone. Feathers always get attention when they’re in the wrong place.”
Then he looked up at her with a glimmer of amusement. “Or I could tie ’em into yer braid. Let the locals whisper that yah keep bird familiars in yer hair for listenin’.” The glowing violets found her, “But I suspect yah might want me to do somethin’ constructive with them?”
A curious thing about the princess from Caeldalmor, who tended to seem like all she ever cared about was fighting things, running like a wild heathen in the woods, or taking a flirty tumble. While she didn’t tend to believe she was very smart (life had a frustrating way of reinforcing that), she was very very observant of tiny little details. How she’d watched the shadows of flying imps to know when she needed to move or attack. How she’d put gossipy details together with asking simple questions to find out his traitorous reputation long before ever reaching the elven capitol.
Here and now, she was observing all sorts of interesting things.
Calia hadn’t given the feathers with any sort of reason or purpose, mostly assuming he’d stash them away without commentary. It seemed to bamboozle him, though, and that led to a very entertaining display of nonsense and a few new things for her to learn about this elf turned demon.
Archimedes did not like to be idle. At least not the way Calia was comfortable with doing a whole lot of nothing. He was always talking, always moving, needing to do something with his hands or his mind. A scholar’s mind for certain, so his once upon a life of getting a mage’s education must’ve kept him well busy between diving deep into a magical education and then having to learn how to be a future king’s advisor on top of it. Calia could bet his life as a demon had been purely dedicated to discovering every way out of the hells he could possibly find. Relentless cunning, liable to have gotten him in all sorts of trouble.
In the here and now, he was trapped with Calia who…. well, she couldn’t say she wasn’t trouble. There was plenty of that. Only she was solitary and self sufficient, generally content with quiet and doing things herself. There was no need for someone to take care of her. So while Arc made his fussing, he still jumped at the chance to do things.
As here he was, a self made demon king on a throne of bark petting those feathers like a man looking for purpose. Offering up all sorts of wild ideas, and damn if she didn’t find every bit of it amusing.
“I’m not sure crowns and such accessories are my style,” she mused out loud. Shooting him a quick grin. “But seeing as you’ve lost my leafy pig, and squished my kazoo fish, perhaps third time’s the charm and I can make something frightfully feathery?”
Let him ponder on that one for a bit, Calia was curious enough to see where it went!
Had she said it aloud, he’d have agreed without a hint of hesitation.
Arc was not someone who did well with stillness. Not truly. Not for long. He had to be doing something—touching, constructing, talking, prodding, fidgeting, listening, scheming. Always in motion. A hundred threads running in tandem beneath the surface, a mind that rarely sat still long enough to catch its breath. It wasn’t nervousness. Not exactly.
It was simply how he was. Blame it on how he was raised—pushed early into study, practice, refinement, ritual. Always one step ahead of the next lesson. Always doing. And even now, as a demon with a blood-deep itch for action and chaos, that rhythm had stuck. Something primal in him demanded movement, connection, interaction.
So the lounging might look casual—but it was really just the only kind of stillness he could manage: coiled, self-staged, ready to flick into motion at a moment’s spark. Even the feather proposal—his miniature brainstorm of ominous décor—was more about filling the space than actual artistic ambition. And when she gave her predictable, unimpressed no thanks, Arc merely shrugged. Not offended. Not even remotely.
He was already onto the next thing anyway.
Probably because she’d mentioned her leaf pig and her suspiciously abstract fish, and that was enough to spark a new round of dry commentary. “I don’t think third time’s the charm,” he said, lounging deeper into his thrown-together bark-and-vine throne with a long-suffering exhale. “I think that pig might’ve cursed me in its time followin’ after me. It was probably a forest deity in disguise. Or a failed cryptid.”
He laced his hands behind his head, stretching slightly, then let his gaze wander. Idly. Lazily. Too casually. Of course, it landed on her. And of course, that sparked an idea.
With the exaggerated shift of a bored teenager stuck in a room without stimulation, Arc rolled over in his throne. Chin in hands. Elbows on armrest. Legs still slung sideways.
He stared at her. Wide-eyed. Curious. Absolutely impish. “So…” he began, drawing the word out like it was bait. “Whatcha thinkin’?” It was the tone of someone who knew they were annoying and was leaning in anyway. Not out of malice—never that. Just… out of pure, chaotic boredom. The demon equivalent of you’re my favourite show, so entertain me now.
It was a slow revealing smile at the accusation of curses – maybe it was! Her little trinkets had been made purely to follow him, to entice him, make him think, wonder, a small token of magic to inspire something out of him. Maybe even impress him a little, to which she was never going to admit even if he asked. A love for magic was one of the few very precious things they shared a passion for, so naturally it was through magic she’d made her attempts at reaching him when her words and actions failed.
While she fashioned herself a nice spoon with the nearest twig, so she might make sure their dinner was being well basted and coming along, he was over there rolling around on that throne doing his best impression of a bored cat. Somehow taking everything in her power not to acknowledge, because Calia got the distinct impression that was exactly what he wanted.
They both seemed to have their own ways of trying to get each other’s attentions. In the most ridiculous ways possible.
And while she was expecting him to seek entertainment from her through some sort of prodding, Calia hadn’t expected the impish, wicked little question of what she was thinking and the look that came with it. She had enough siblings to know what that tone was all about, and now she ought to be concerned for her safety and peace of mind, shouldn’t she!
Lending her to giving him a suspicious sort of side glance, debating if she were going to play this game. …or perhaps more specifically of how she was going to play it.
Because of course she was going to take the bait. How enticing it was.
“Oh, not thinking much of anything really, beyond the usual. Murderous revenge. Running bare assed naked through the forest for sport. Although, now that you’ve mentioned cryptids, I was wondering if it counts as necromancy if I use animal bones to make a non sentient creature? Or does it have to actually be given a soul to be necromancy?”
It hadn’t been meant as a serious question that she was seeking an answer to… although now that it was out of her mouth, she did actually want to know! Her expression swiftly shifting from that impassive means of disinterest to shifting a genuinely curious stare in his direction.
“What are the lines of necromancy? There’s a difference between just animating a skeleton ad bringing one to life, right? Or is there a rule to living formerly living things? To which, seems a little unfair considering people are making weapons of bones, and aren’t plants and trees living things themselves? If I give this tree legs, no one is going to call that necromancy, are they?”
He’d leaned into it on purpose, of course.
That insufferable lounging posture—chin in hands, legs draped, grin crooked just enough to walk the line between flirt and menace. It was no secret he was poking the bear, dangling the bait with a knowing glint in his eye. Anything to get a spark out of her. Something sharp. Something ridiculous. Something.
They weren’t at each other’s throats anymore, after all. That had to count for something. He was allowed a little fun. What he was not prepared for, however, was her casual, entirely unflinching mention of running bare-assed through the forest.
His face went still.
Just… blank.
Not even dramatic indignation. Just Arc.exe shutting down for a solid three seconds while his mind frantically tried to decide which part of that statement to chase first. By the time he found words, she had already pivoted—because of course she had—straight into an unsolicited philosophical unpacking of necromancy and the ethics of animating squirrels.
He blinked, blinked again, and then sat up. Just a little. Just enough to show he was listening now. Because then, then, she turned toward him—head slightly tilted, features thoughtful, and posed a real question. One with weight. Structure. Complexity. The kind of question that tripped open every lock in a mage’s brain. “Oh, well now—that’s a bloody question,” he said, eyes lighting up with the kind of joy that only comes from being invited to explain something complicated and vaguely forbidden.
The performance kicked in like breath.
He stood, flicking his wrist idly, feathers vanishing from his lap in a harmless puff as he began pacing the fire’s edge. “See, necromancy’s lines aren’t drawn in bone or blood, like people think. It ain’t about what you’re touchin’—it’s about why, and how deep.“
Expression caught somewhere between amused and impressed, and twirled one clawed finger through the air as if conjuring invisible diagrams. “Yah’re not wrong—there’s a hell of a difference between animatin’ a skeleton and bringin’ somethin’ back. The former is a trick of motion—like puppet strings. The latter? That’s diggin’ around in the soul bin and yankin’ somethin’ out that should be at rest.”
He stopped pacing just long enough to raise a brow at her. “Necromancy’s line doesn’t sit on what yer moving—but why and how. It ain’t about bones or bodies or rot. It’s about intention. Raise a skeleton to fight? Animation. Bind it with soul, memory, identity? Now we’re toein’ resurrection. Necromancy proper. That’s where the eyebrows go up and the paladins start twitchin’.”
He gestured lazily toward a tree. “Now givin’ a tree legs? That’s transmutation. Fun one too—especially if you make it sprint like it owes you money. Not necromancy though, ’cause the tree ain’t dead. Yer just changin’ its form, not yankin’ it from the grave.” Arc gave a crooked grin, eyes gleaming. “But yah hit a good point, lass. We carve bones into weapons, burn forests for war machines, pull oil from the earth—and no one bats an eye. Animate a femur, and suddenly you’re a dark wizard who needs to be smote before breakfast.”
He clicked his tongue. “It’s all hypocrisy, really. Magic’s just a tool. It ain’t evil ’til the bastard wieldin’ it decides to play god.” A pause, then a toothy smirk. “‘Course, if yah do give this tree legs and it starts screamin’ about existential dread, then I might step in. Just outta professional courtesy.”
Somehow they had accidentally fell into setting each other off – and for once not in an explosive way that ended up with both of them with hurt feelings or pissed off. Simply a poke there and a prod here and suddenly they were discussing something fascinating. Granted, getting him engrossed into thoughts had indeed been Calia’s intention. To give him a juicy tidbit to latch his brain onto so he wouldn’t be squirming in boredom. …she just hadn’t expected to accidentally wrap herself up in it too.
Now he was pacing there at the side of the fire, in his full professorial explanation on what made necromancy necromancy, and Calia was on the hook. Keeping an eye on their still simmering meal for sure, but the vast majority of her attention was now on him. Taking in information with that thoughtful look of twisted mouth and furrowed brow.
Until he mentioned transmutation and that must’ve been a new word for her, for it was mouthed under her breath along with that tilt of her head as if he’d just given her some brilliant new ideas.
“Trees like where they are most of the time, they don’t really want legs…” was her ominous first reply, only to see point her spoon at him while her wheels started turning.
“So then if it is all of the soul binding and resurrecting that everyone takes the most objection with, then – in theory – I could pull all of the bones I wish up out of the ground, cover them up in wood, dirt and stone, and create myself an entire army of things without ever having to harm a living soul. …aside from the ones I’m attacking, anyway. It could be as large as I myself am capable of manipulating and controlling all at once? That would be my only limit?”
Arc froze. Like a man who’d just realized the adorable little raccoon he’d been feeding marshmallows under the moonlight was about to lead an uprising. His lips parted. No sound came out at first.Then, slowly—so slowly—he leaned back into his wooden throne, one hand dragging down his face like he’d just aged a decade in real time.
“She’s spoon-pointin’,” he muttered under his breath, voice tinged with both awe and despair. “This is how it starts.”
He sat upright with a snap, arms flaring wide as if addressing an invisible council. “Theoretically,” he said, in his best let me explain the magical horror you’ve just invented voice, “Yes. Yah could raise every skeleton in a three-mile radius, wrap ’em in bark and stone like nature’s little war puppets, and technically not break a single necromantic law.”
His clawed hand wagged in her direction. “No soul binding? No resurrection? No spiritual anchor? Then yah’re not summonin’ the dead—yer just… recycling with intent.” He rose to pace – again-, firelight flickering off his teeth as he grinned too wide. “It ain’t necromancy anymore—it’s construct working. Golem theory. Mud-and-bone amalgams driven by arcane matrices. Think fleshless homunculi but without the squish.”
He whirled back toward her, finger raised like he was about to write it on the bark of a tree.
“See, golems run on direct will. Magical signature acts as the instruction set. No soul. No autonomy. Just raw force shaped by yer control. That’s the limit. The more yah try to pilot at once, the more yer mind splits like a meat pie at a bar fight.”
Arc paused mid-stride, raised a brow. “And let me be crystal, lass—people get twitchy about necromancy, sure. But try walkin’ into a village with fifty soil-drenched skeleton golems trailin’ behind yah like lost puppies and see if the mob waits to ask what school of magic yer practicin’.”
He gestured broadly. “Yah’ll still get pitchforked. Just… bureaucratically.” A beat passed. He made a face. “Though I will say, if yer gonna lead a morally grey forest death parade, yah might as well do it in style. Carve some antlers onto the bone helms. Toss in some moss. Maybe a flower crown.” Arc began waggling a finger again. “But yah start givin’ them names or dreams or the capacity to write poetry and we are back to necromancy—and I will snitch if it looks like they’re startin’ to unionize.”
Finally, he flopped back into his chair, arms folded behind his head. “Anyway. Yes. Absolutely. Go wild. Just… maybe test the theory away from my campfire, yeah?”
By the way he said theoretically alone, Calia blossomed into this wide and wicked sort of smile, for oh so many different reasons. First and foremost how delightful it was to watch him get exasperated with her, having a feeling he was like this himself with all of his own teachers, and what a beautiful karma it was that he was getting it back threefold. She was self aware enough to know that she was… a problem. Powerful. Creative. The world could thank it’s lucky stars that Calia had a sense of natural law, otherwise she might very well be the monster everyone feared someone like her could be.
…honestly, sometimes that inner voice of hers begged for it. Wished for it.
Funnily enough, Archimedes was a living example of why one should be careful. He’d made poor choices and he’d been the victim of other people’s poor choices. Calia had no wish to continue that cycle of mayhem.
Didn’t mean she wouldn’t skirt the boundaries, though.
Secondarily, Calia just plain and simple enjoyed seeing him like this. Maybe Arc was a natural teacher and advisor, but he was never meant to be trapped in the Edelguard palace having to follow the rigid expectations of the royal family. He really was meant for far bigger things.
“I see,” she answered with understanding – actual understanding, not just placating words. It was there in how she paused, reconsidered the idea altogether from top to bottom. “I wouldn’t be marching into villages with the damn things. …but I suppose I couldn’t split my attention through so many all at once. They’d have to be enchanted to act on their own and that does get a little dodgy. I’m not interested in making golems. …I’ll stick with practicing the Arcanum Hollow for now.”
That was that. No grand designs on creating a not-so-necromantic army to march on towards the bastard that stole her heart, to let bone skeletons take out the demons for her while she focused on the man himself. Which, to be fair, she was powerful of mind, she just didn’t think splitting her attentions would be very wise. The mind could only hold so much, no matter how powerful you were.
In a split second she paused, suddenly eyes on him again. Narrowing as they raked over his slightly exasperated form from tip of horn down to toes and it was like a light had burst to life in her head. Sudden excitement when she rose to her feet rubbing her hands together to warm up the threads of magic with a gleeful little giggle.
“It’s in the mind,” she revealed, so unhelpfully. “That’s where it is. That’s why no one else can just break into it and steal things. Why living things can’t go inside it! And why it all disappears when one dies, unless you have the blood and permission to take it! Why it’s everywhere with you instead of a stationary place. Of course that’s where it is.”
And just like that she was pulling a silvery thread nice and taunt, easy, gentle, soft. Coaxing it just long enough to hover there in the air until she bent it at the corners to form a square little window. Then she flicked it with her finger and made a little POP! like a soapy bubble bursting. Opening up a perfect little window into a whole lot of nothing, but swirly grey mist and an icy cold breeze.
Her following laughter was maniacal at best! Oh so pleased with herself and shameless on top of it.
For a moment, Arc said nothing. Just sat there, a little stunned and blinking—watching as she giggled her way through the misty miracle she’d just tugged out of the weave like it owed her rent. Then, with a low whistle, he leaned back in his throne of roots and bark and ego, hands behind his head like a smug but genuinely proud bastard. “Well, fuck me runnin’,” he murmured, a grin slowly crawling its way across his face. “Look at you.”
There was no trace of mockery in his voice. Not a scrap of teasing. Just honest, warm amusement cut through with the sharp gleam of admiration. He tilted his head, eyes tracking the silvery thread she’d bent like a ribbon, the portal bubble still hissing cold into the fire lit air.
“Hit the nail square on, didn’t yah,” he said, voice softening with sincerity. “Aye, it’s in the mind. Not the body, not the air—you. That’s why it bends to yer hand and not another’s. Why it follows, why it closes, why it vanishes the moment a soul slips loose from its hold. The Hollow isn’t a vault. It’s a memory palace. An echo loop. And yah just bloody threaded it like yah were born with the pattern in yer bones.”
His grin widened. “And y’haven’t even burnt yer eyebrows off. Yet.”
He sat up now, brushing his palms on his thighs as if to clap but stopping just shy. “I’ve watched full-grown apprentices with titles longer than a wine list that couldn’t grasp that in five years, let alone one bloody conversation and a manic giggle fit.”
Then he gestured to the swirling little window of mist she’d left open, the wind still hissing gently out from its curled edges. “And that,” he said, “I’m impressed, Calia,” Arc said, sincerely now. “Truly. That was textbook breakthrough magic—and yah did it like it was a parlour trick.”
He paused, then added with a flicker of mischief returning to his tone, “Now close the damn thing before the cold leaks in and ruins the ambiance. Or worse—pulls in some frost nymph who starts askin’ questions we don’t wanna answer.”
Calia stood there for a moment, proudly and even ever so slightly smugly admiring her handiwork. Taking in his well deserved admiration of something that really was impressive wasn’t it! All she’d been missing was the understanding of that one little piece. To know that it wasn’t something created brand new out of thin air, but something that was a part of herself that could be shifted and shaped. Making something new from scratch was a great deal of difficulty and layered magic… this though? A breeze. Just opening a door – or rather, a window in this example.
Only it took a small turn into sheepish embarrassment when he pointed out her manic giggling. That small flush of features in realizing that getting that recognition for a magical task well done also meant being seen for all things. Everything. That wasn’t terrible, in fact it was what she’d wanted… It was just going to take some getting used to.
For some reason it wasn’t easy transitioning between always receiving people’s disdain and horror, to these actual moments of genuine acknowledgement.
Calia shrugged off her harness with her beautiful gifted sword to stash away in her own personal hollow, and repeated the process with every other weapon she’d had stashed on her person. An impressive amount of small daggers tucked here and there that now she wouldn’t need to have all over her, when she could just draw it out of the hollow whenever she needed. Leaving only the silver hairpins in her hair, as those were functional regardless of needing to stab someone. Along with her weapons went much of her leather armor as well, the pieces on her wrists, her shoulders. She’d even pulled off the tight fitting leather jerkin to leave her in the loose white shirt that had been underneath.
Less layers, just Calia. For the summer heat, really, but there was this lingering satisfaction that left her feeling lighter even as she swished her fingers and closed up the hollow. Standing there for a silent moment to savor the satisfaction of learning something fantastically new.
Long enough, before she was tilting her head in that curious, beckoning way. Those silent words coming in loud and clear with the grin that crept it’s way across her features. What’s the next lesson.
He leaned back with theatrical ease, limbs folding into his thrown-together woodland throne like he belonged in it—one leg slung lazily over the armrest, chin tilted, expression smug.
She’d done it. Figured it out clean. Threaded her will through the Arcanum Hollow like she’d always known how. And now she was using it like it was second nature—tucking away a scatter of weapons, his sister’s blade, even peeling off bits of her leather gear that would suffocate her under summer sun. Everything precise. Intentional. Secure.
He should’ve been smug. He was smug.
For a moment, he basked in it. Let the pride roll off his shoulders like sun-warmed silk. It wasn’t every day someone understood the Hollow so quickly—hells, he’d known mages who theorized about it for years and never even managed a spark.
But then she looked at him.
That kind of look. Head tilted, brows barely lifted, but eyes sharp and full of something expectant. Curious. Hungry.
She didn’t say anything—but she didn’t have to. He felt it like a pull on the thread of silence stretched between them. And just like that, the pride puffed into something quieter. Warmer. Uncertain, even. Arc blinked at her, not moving. Just watching. Not irritated—not even close—but caught off guard in that rare way that made his voice lose some of its sarcastic lilt.
She wanted more.
And that?
That genuinely surprised him.
Because why would she? Calia was a wildfire with a spine of spellwork and silver. Magic hummed through her like a second language. If she didn’t know something, she discovered it. Dug it out. Bent it to her whim. What use did she have for him as a teacher? What could he possibly show her that she wouldn’t just unearth on her own?
Arc didn’t see himself as someone worth learning from. So when she looked at him like that, and he realized she meant it—meant him—all he could do was open a hand in a quiet, empty gesture. “What?” he asked, the word soft and curious. No edge to it. No theatrics. Just honest bewilderment.
Well that was a who, me? sort of look if she’d ever seen one. Almost prompting Calia to turn around to glance at the woods and ask, who the hell else would she be looking towards! Ever so slightly baffled that even after everything – not just his time with her, but even his life long before – that he did not seem realize he had something valuable to share that wasn’t just him being a frightening menace. He had a lifetime of knowledge in that head of his, the kind of things Calia had never in her own life been given he chance to know existed, let alone be able to have a conversation about or even learn.
“What indeed,” was her mysterious rejoinder. Not meant to be that way, but it was such an amuse smile that she couldn’t help. Having to at least pause there a moment to check on their meal with a bend of her body and a quick bit of basting to urge it along in it’s cooking.
Soon, though, she was holding up a hand and counting off questions from her fingers.
“You said that to house living things, it’s an entirely different kind of spellwork. Would that be like creating an entirely new realm? It’s something both demons and fae do, isn’t it, making personal pocket realms? So how big could one grow those before it is too large to exist on their own mere power alone? Also, transmutation, does that only apply to inanimate objects or is that also what makes shapeshifting work? Why is easier to conjure marshmallows in the sky than it is to summon the meteor spell when both of them involve items flying out of the sky?”
These were just the first few things to pop into her mind, and even with them spoken out loud, Calia already had another dozen or more lined up ready to go, already bringing up her second hand to start rambling those off as well!
Brows lifted at her vague reply—which, to his credit, he gave a full second to develop before offering an open-palmed gesture of complete confusion. It wasn’t that he was annoyed—far from it. He just genuinely wasn’t sure what she’d been waiting for, or what she thought he’d done.
He had no idea that his every gesture—his glances, his weight shifts, his dramatic sprawls—had become a silent lexicon she was learning. He wasn’t aware of any expressive ticks beyond his natural gift for being a pest. But when the questions started really coming—ones with weight, structure, theory—Arc blinked. And then he hummed low, like something in his chest had just clicked into place.
She wasn’t just poking at the edges of wonder. She was delving. Not with the easy, aimless curiosity of someone who took magic for granted—but with sharpness. With intent. These weren’t idle thoughts. They were the kind of questions most didn’t ask unless they’d either studied for decades… or burned to understand.
With a grin curling into place, Arc sat up straighter, one elbow perched on his throne’s armrest, chin in hand, his entire body radiating smug, proud professor energy. “Oh, look at you,” he said, practically gleaming. “That’s a hell of a bundle, Calia. And colour me all sorts of intrigued.“
He rolled his shoulders, then leaned forward, fingers lacing like he was about to give a lecture in the middle of the gods-damned woods. “Right—first off. Pocket realms.” The demon gave a wrinkle to his brow before starting; “Yer bang on. That’s demon and fae territory both. But it ain’t just ‘spellwork.’ It’s dimensional architecture. A Hollow’s like a bag of holdin’, right? Little thread of space. But housein’ the living? Now yer makin’ a realm. A space with rules. Boundaries. Pressure. Time.”
He waved a hand vaguely at the sky. “Every one of ’em needs an anchor—soul, bloodline, demiplane. In the fae’s case? Usually some smug, enchanted forest that doesn’t know how to mind its own business. Demons? We use blood contracts, leyline fractures, or pure brute-force binding.” Arc paused for a breath, tone cooling into something more serious. “But the bigger the space, the heavier the anchor has to be. Make it too big on yer own, and the whole thing’ll collapse like a drunkard in church. Older fae lords, demon princes—they’ve got stockpiles of power. They can stitch together whole palaces. Mortals? Yer lucky if yah get a field without roastin’ yer spine.” He tapped his temple with a smirk. “It ain’t about will—it’s about sustainability.“
He flowed into the next topic without missing a beat, clearly in his element. “Now—transmutation. It’s broader than people think. Yah turn a rock into bread? Transmutation. Mend a shattered sword? Transmutation. Turn a tree into a chair? Same deal.” Then he pointed a single clawed finger at her, mock gravity in his gaze. “Shapeshiftin’? Also transmutation. But livin’ transmutation—that’s the tricky bastard. Biological stuff’s got systems that fight yah. Muscles, bones, instincts, memory. Try changin’ it on the fly, and it’ll buck like a wild horse.”
A pause. “And if yer changin’ someone without permission?” He let out a long, theatrical whistle. “Now yer in the moral boglands. That’s a fast track to three war crimes and a visit from someone wearin’ holy plate.” He lifted his brows. “But you didn’t ask that—so! Onward.”
“Marshmallows versus meteors.” Arc leaned back with a groan and raised one hand lazily, conjuring a sparkling illusion of soft marshmallows raining gently overhead like sleepy snow. “Marshmallows are light. Harmless. The arcane doesn’t care. The weave lets it slide. Reality doesn’t even blink.” The illusion fizzled—replaced by the low roar of a miniature flaming rock crashing into the earth. “But a meteor? Oh, now yer pickin’ a fight. Gravity, heat, pressure, the whole damn sky is involved. Whether yer callin’ it from space or conjurin’ a replica, the world remembers it. It’s heavy magic. Loud magic.”
He waggled a finger like a stern uncle. “Big cost. Big flare. Big consequences. Yah leave a signature that hums through the ground for days.“
While Calia tended to move through life without all the grand expressions and outward enthusiasm and expression of interest others seemed to show when they were truly invested, it sure didn’t mean she wasn’t full of that same passionate drive for learning more. She’d asked each question like she was reciting it off a list, as if it were just random things she was thinking about – but it truly wasn’t random at all. Calia breathed magic, lived magic, and it came so naturally to her maybe it seemed like she already knew all she needed to know. Only, just because your body could breathe it didn’t mean you understood how it did so!
Calia wanted to know and understand it all down to the very tiny little details that most never thought of at all.
Of course when he finally picked up that she wasn’t just asking questions to fill the air with sound, that awkward feeling had returned again. At least this time it didn’t come with praise and compliments, simply him finally checking in, getting his own wheels turning to be invested. While he spoke she listened, keeping her hands busy with the means of cooking.
Repeating under her breath, dimensional architecture. Oh! That was a fun new term! That inspired all kinds of new imagery in her imagination and what she could do with that. As if that by itself was a brand new form of magic that she could work with now that it’d been brought to her attention. The rest following? Well, that gave her some foundation to work with. Calia wasn’t a fan of rules and boundaries, but that didn’t mean she failed to understand they still existed. Even in magic.
One just had to learn to work with them and around them. Natural law.
Transmutation, that had it’s place in her new ideas of other planes and building spaces. The shapeshifting not as much, more just… this lingering frustration of her inner fears. Something to be tackled later when she was ready to deal with it. Especially when she cast him a narrow-eyed glance about shapeshifting others. That was absolutely going to be a conversation later – didn’t he once threaten to sheer her like a sheep? Did she imagine that?
Nevertheless, it was his final bits on marshmallows and meteors that had her shifting. Opening up in that ponderous expression, mulling over the words and putting it into contexts that made sense for her.
“So it is between gentle magic and loud magic. Or rather, It’s more between creation and destruction, isn’t it? Creating things tends to give life and sustains itself, even if it’s just an object. It exists. It lives. But magic made to destroy, that’s taking something away. That’s death, basically. And end of something. It’s how magic is balancing itself out through natural law, I suppose. The price you pay in magic is less when you create things than when you destroy them.”
There was a pause there, a curious contemplative hum with a furrow of her brow.
“Except it is a little more complicated outside of the life and death cycle. Making a creature instead of birthing it. Or bringing something back from the dead. That’s the grey area where people start manipulating how the price is paid. Soul stealing, sacrifices…”
“Well said,” he declared, the sound echoing like it belonged in a candlelit lecture hall, not a redwood forest. “Not just whimsical Calia with her forest-honed intuition—no, now she’s gettin’ philosophical.” He leaned forward again, hands steepled like a warlock court jester and a university lecturer had a very haughty baby. “Yah’ve hit the axis, lass. Creation versus destruction. Gentle versus loud. Magic that gives and magic that takes. And y’know what the tragedy is?” He gave her a grin, full of teeth and secrets. “It’s easier to break a window than to build one. Always has been. Always will be. Same with spells. That’s where the cost comes in.”
He spun his fingers in the air, conjuring a swirl of golden dust into the shape of a flower. “Conjurin’ this? Just takes mana. It doesn’t defy anythin’. Yer addin’ to the world. Even if it’s temporary, even if it vanishes in an hour—it existed. A kindness, a note in the song.” Fingers snapped—and the flower blackened, withered, and crumbled to ash. “That? That’s erasure. That’s final. Takes more outta the world—and outta yah. Because every act of destruction leaves a scar. On the ground. On the arcane. On yah, if yah do it long enough.”
His voice dropped—quiet now, but no less intense. “But yer right, too—life and death don’t hold all the cards. The grey stuff? That’s where the bastards play.” Once more Arc took to standing, conjuring a thread of spectral blue light and coiling it between his fingers like twine.
“Buildin’ a creature outta magic? That ain’t birth—it’s blueprint. Magic copied into motion. It exists, sure, but it’s more puppet than person. Unless yah give it thought. Will. Soul.” He looked at her then, dead serious. “And that’s where it gets dodgy.” A slow curl of smoke coiled behind him as he kept talking, conjured from nothing. “Bringin’ the dead back—true resurrection—costs everythin’. Because now yer not just conjurin’ mass or form, yer reachin’ through time and soulstuff and sayin’ to the universe, ‘I’m not done with this one.’ And the universe?” He gave a long, meaningful pause. “It usually wants a receipt.”
He tapped his chest once. “Soul magic is the oldest form. That’s why it’s feared. That’s why it’s used. People learn quick that if yah can’t pay the price with yer own power—” he snapped again, and a ghostly set of scales appeared above his palm, already tipping under invisible weight, “—yah take it from someone else.”
A beat. A flick of his brow. “Soul stealin’. Sacrifice. Bindin’. It’s all about shiftin’ the debt onto another poor bastard.” Then, finally, he relaxed again—settling back into his throne like none of what he’d said was even remotely disturbing. “But yah got the heart of it, Calia. Magic don’t come free. Not ever. Creation is generous. Destruction always calls in the tab.”
He smirked, devilish and proud, one clawed finger lazily tracing the curve of the wooden throne he’d conjured—its gnarled roots twisted like something half-grown, half-commanded into place. One leg still draped over the armrest in casual defiance of all things formal, the other bouncing ever so slightly as though his own magic were still humming through his bones.
Leaning back with the ease of a man entirely at home in chaos, Arc let his head tip just so, violet eyes gleaming beneath the shadowed flicker of firelight. His voice curled with a low, indulgent drawl. “And manipulatin’ how that tab gets paid?” His fingers drummed once on the bark beside him. “That’s what separates the clever…” A pause. A wicked little grin. “From the cursed.”
Whimsical Calia? He’d received quite the unimpressed look for that one, not that it really lasted for long. She was fairly certain everything she did was actually perfectly practical in every way. Out of the box sometimes and not necessarily the right and ‘proper’ way people expected things to be done, yet it was always with purpose.
…even her little silly creatures. There was reason there, no whimsy.
Okay a little whimsy. Only because HE needed whimsy to help shake him out of his down swinging moods of misery and she quite like the results where he lit up just a little bit to be seeing magic use for something other than just beating the shit out of someone. If anyone was full of whimsical theatrics, a mage’s grand flair, that was entirely him. Look at him, he was shifting and propping on that thrown like a demon king of this one tiny forest patch!
Of course, she wasn’t going to interrupt when he was using that professorial tone of voice and affirming the things she’d surmised. That creating things, making life, that was a simple thing that magic craved. Magic wanted to live and thrive just as much as anything else. Trying to bend it and wield it, use it as a force of destruction, that is where the costs grew high and it began to fight back on you. Death itself was a natural thing, but trying to force it in any form, to manipulate and evade it, disrespect it’s place… it was offensive. Magic would take it’s revenge for such disrespect, one way or another.
And as he lounged there, stating that manipulating how the tab gets paid brings about what separates the clever from the cursed? That had her wheels turning again.
“Then you and I, with this binding we’ve found ourselves in, may not be so much a trick played by destiny as… karma coming to fruition for those that twisted what magic was meant for. A storm is coming for someone and I am not so sure it’s some halfwit wannabe sorcerer. Why else give a problem like me such an all too clever prolific mage turned demon. Seems a bit overkill.”
Arc went still.
Not the playful kind of still he used when pretending to ignore something only to strike with a quip—but the real kind. The kind that came when something hit deeper than expected, like a chord strummed in an old instrument he didn’t realize still worked.
His fingers stilled where they’d been lazily tracing patterns into the bark of his throne. The firelight caught on the sharp edge of his jaw, on the curve of one horn, flickering like something was shifting inside him.
He looked at her—really looked. No smirk. No raised brow. Just the quiet weight of someone listening far beyond the words. “Karma, huh,” he murmured, voice softer than usual. “Not some tangled prophecy. Not fate. Just balance. After everything that’s been twisted.” Leaning back slowly, eyes on the fire now, one hand resting open on his thigh. “Makes sense,” he admitted. “But don’t you dare go callin’ yerself a problem.” Arc said it gently. Not in protest. In fact.
“Whatever this mess is—this binding, this path we’ve landed on—yah aren’t the problem in it.”
He gave her a look then, something earnest and a little weathered. “If anythin’… yer the one piece that makes sense. Magic didn’t toss yah into this just to be poetic. It knew what it was doin’. Maybe we’re not here to play clean-up for some halfwit spell-flinger. Maybe it’s bigger. Older. Deeper. But don’t think for a second it’s some punishment to have yah in it.”
A breath. The faintest smile. “And if it turns out we are the storm someone’s been tryin’ to keep at bay…?” He reached down and flicked a stray leaf off the side of his throne. “Well. Then I reckon they’ve had it comin’ a long while.”
Calia gave a soft hum and the sort of smile that wasn’t self deprecating. It had all the confidence and simple knowledge of fact that was similar to when she spoke about her power. She knew without a shadow of doubt how powerful she could be if she truly wanted, what she could be capable of with the freedom to just run with the stars. Beyond that, there was a darkness that lived inside her. That small, tiny voice that grew louder and louder in those moments she felt oh so empty. One that begged for blood, chaos, and fire. Urged her to let go of everything she still clung so fervently too and just give in. It couldn’t even be called malice, because malice meant it craved suffering and that was not it’s wish.
It wanted nothing. It wanted silence. For everything on this world to never be again. A beautiful void of pure nothing.
How could she ever deny that she herself was the problem when even her dreams saw her on this throne of cold, empty death? Derrick had, in his grand schemes for power, accidentally set her loose into the world as something shattered and broken. Visible to every wicked thing that could see the weakness in her, and had the ambition to think they could control her.
After all, the faerie tree had not necessarily warned her of the dangers that were to come. She’d given that warning to Archimedes.
Calia was the problem.
None of this she could bare to tell him, however. A little bit out of fear, a little bit out of hope. Whatever reckoning was to happen, it sure as hell wasn’t going to be in the here and now over a pan roasted pheasant.
“Well, if you’re trying to take up the role as problem in this duo I guess I’ll have to feed you better than squirrel bone stew and frog eggs on toast. If you’re done being King of the Wood, this is ready enough for plates. Nova’s garlic rolls will be a nice addition too.”
His gaze scrolled toward her with slow, deliberate grace—like royalty surveying a petitioner from atop his wooden throne. Down the carved ridges of bark and vine, past one lazily slung leg, until he caught her eye with all the weight of someone very used to being looked at… and dreaded.
Her question—if he was going to be the problem one, then she’d best start feeding him better—earned no immediate reply. Just a slow lift of his hand, motioning broadly to himself in a showy, unapologetic flourish. A gesture that said, Please. I’m not just a problem. I’m the syllabus.
“When yah’ve gotten a reputation like mine,” Arc drawled, reclining a touch more into the throne with theatrical pride, “Then yah can call yerself that. Until then—that’s mine. And I’ve rightfully earned it, mind you. With bone. Blood. Tears and screams.” He said it like a toast at his own funeral, voice steeped in melodrama and grim amusement. A demon, yes—but not merely of flame and fang. A plague, as far as the elves were concerned. Something terrible and reviled. A whispered curse with a name and a grin. So yes. He was the problem. And gods help him, he wore it well. For it was his with no one else to claim it.
Still, her next remark floated up in that too sweet to be innocent tone—asking if he was quite done being a dramatic woodland bitch on his throne.
Arc exhaled through his nose. Deep. Long. Suffering. “I suppose,” he muttered, drawing out the word like it physically pained him, then rose from his seat with the kind of reluctant grandeur reserved for stage exits. The throne unraveled behind him with a lazy flick of his fingers, roots curling back into soil, bark folding down like a bowing curtain. He stepped forward, flipping open the Arcanum Hollow with a casual twist of the wrist. Out came the basket.
Another flick—wrist loose, expression bored—and he conjured plates from woven leaves and bark, sturdy and shaped with elegance. He even offered utensils—none of that grubby, tear-it-with-your-teeth barbarism. Oh no. They were having standards this evening.
With a flourish only slightly mocking, he laid the cloth back on the wicker basket. The buns, still steaming, gave off a soft, yeasty warmth. Proof enough that time and temperature were suggestions the Hollow ignored.
Arc dipped into a half-bow as he presented it all to her, hand sweeping out as if introducing a royal feast. “Is that all, yer majesty?” he purred. “Or will there be somethin’ else yer loyal, starvin’, tragically underfed helper might attend to before he dares sit on the ground?” He paused just long enough to shoot her a sly wink.
“You made the nest, beetlebug, it is your own fault forgetting seats,” came her reply, as sweet as honey and a charming smile to match. If she was meant to take his looks at evidence that he was the one meant to be feared, well, that was going right over her head.
Not to say she didn’t have a healthy respect for the man in moments he should be feared – she’d seen it. The potential there in moments where even she felt a little shaken inside. Yet, for once in his life, he’d landed with someone who might just accidentally be his magical equal.
Calia served him up a plate first, of butter soaked pheasant, so wonderfully fried in fragrant garlic and herbs, tender to the fork enough to slip off the bone without having to fight it. Some of the carrots that’d been stewing in that butter with he whole lumps of garlic, along with those fresh rolls from Nova. The girl had truly given them a wonderful treat, something Calia herself deeply appreciated when she piled up her own plate. Finding that need to replenish her body so much more important now that she had to wield magic second hand.
Proper meals and good sleep was going to be so much more necessary now, and while she was loathed to admit it, having an actual bedroll and all the fluffing stuffs of a good bed was going to do her better than rolling around in the dirt or propping herself up in the trees. Calia needed that deep sleep, troubling dreams and all.
“Couldn’t use the Arcanum Hollow as a wine cellar,” she mentioned then, one of those random strings of thoughts coming to her in the moment as she settled down with her own meal. “If nothing ages in there. A clever mage hoping to keep a fine collection would need something else. An arcanum cellar.”
His gaze slid toward her, a slow sidelong glance in reply to her honey-sweet observation that he, in all his theatrics, had forgotten to make seats for the glorious woodland setup he’d conjured. Arc didn’t answer right away. Instead, he began studying the shelter—wood, moss, the careful lattice of branches—rubbing his jaw with thumb and forefinger in a way that suggested he was debating whether or not to take it personally.
Then, at last, a languid drawl: “Well… next time I suppose I’ll just have to make it a hut. Floor. Walls. Table. Chairs. Hell, maybe throw in a chandelier made from owl feathers and good intentions.” He cast her a sly look from the corner of his eye, just to see if she’d take the bait. Whether she’d laugh, scoff, or somehow demand it next time. With Arc, there was always the lingering question of whether his dramatic promises were empty bluster—or foreshadowing.
Knowing him? It was likely the latter.
But before he could sink further into architectural daydreams, the smell of food drifted through the night air, curling around the trees and into his senses. The plate appeared first—presented without pomp, and yet somehow still carrying more care than he was used to. His mouth shut instinctively, letting the moment breathe. He didn’t need to eat. Not anymore. But that didn’t mean he wouldn’t. Especially not when someone had gone out of their way to include him in something so mundane. So… mortal.
He plopped onto the forest floor with only mild fanfare, picking up the crafted utensils with the grace of a man who could be barbaric but was choosing not to be. The food was good. The ambience? Better than any tavern, honestly.
By his third or fourth bite of the pheasant, Calia’s remark about the Hollow not being fit for cellaring wine stirred something contemplative in him. He looked up at her, chewing slowly, before giving a nod.
Shoulders rose and fell in a casual rhythm. “One or many have found a way to alter the Hollow’s function. Let time inside run like normal—or even faster. It’s not a preservation chamber anymore, it’s… well.” He trailed off for a beat, glancing down at the bun. He hesitated, as if by instinct, before pulling it open. Smelled fine. Warm still. But old habits were old habits.
He set the plate on his lap and continued. “They call it Vael’s Lantern. Or the Warded Womb, if yer studyin’ somewhere that charges too much for dusty old scrolls.”
Taking another bite, he chewed, swallowed, and leaned forward. His voice shifted—warmer now. Smoother. That tone he got when he enjoyed explaining things, when knowledge wasn’t a shield or a smirk but something he genuinely wanted to pass along. “Yah build it like a seed chamber. Bound space. Finite. Yah choose the time ratio—an hour out here could be a whole day in there. Use it to grow rare plants. Brew stubborn potions. Heal. Train.”
His brow lifted slightly. “But no pause means no forgiveness. No cheatin’ time. Inside that lantern, things age. Rot. Fall apart just like they would anywhere else. Leave bread in there?” He scoffed. “Yah’ll come back to stone. Leave meat? Better hope yer fond of maggots.”
He paused then, the humour in his voice curling down into something quieter. “Leave someone alive in there… they’ll live every second of it. Even if yah forget.”
A long breath through his nose, followed by a shrug of those broad shoulders. “Most don’t use it. Too wild. Too easy to lose control. But the more obsessive types?” He tilted his head with a smirk. “They’ll seal themselves inside for years. Step out lookin’ half-starved, eyes full of new spells and dangerous thoughts.”
He gave a low chuckle, voice curling like smoke. “Useful? Oh, gods, yes. Dangerous?” He clicked his tongue. “Always.” Then, after a pause just long enough to let that weight settle— “But if yah ever want to age cheese, or write the next history of the arcane world in a weekend… well.” A playful glint sparkled in his eye. “Just don’t forget yah put somethin’ in there. Nothin’ worse than openin’ yer Lantern and findin’ yer past self’s bad decisions waitin’ on the doorstep.”
Oh, Calia would for certain love to see just what all he could construct through magic. Not even trying to hide that sudden delighted grin, youthful, ridiculous, almost daring in the way she lit up. Why not travel in style, in whatever way they wish? It would honestly suit her just fine to have these chances to practice magic in a whole multiple of ways – things that actually interested her instead of destruction and mayhem.
If she noticed him being a little awkward to the means of having someone server him dinner, she said nothing about it. It’d be no surprise to her that he’d not had a lot of kindnesses aimed in his direction as a demon. By the hells, not even just kindnesses, many were not even treating him as a person who at least deserved a certain level of respect as a living being, and not something to be carved up like a ham. Calia was not some sweet and motherly little protective hen, but if she could help ease some of that hurt just by small actions she was glad to do so.
Naturally by means of her own curiosity, she’d tapped into his love of sharing knowledgeable tidbits. Finding herself quickly rewarded with some new magical construction she could begin to wrap her mind around and toy about with.
“…there wouldn’t maggots.” she pointed out between bites. “Not unless bugs had been introduce there in the first place. It’d just… dry up. Fossilize. Mummify.”
What a damnable grim way to go. It answered her thoughts, though! Pocket spaces of different sorts besides the hollow. That one not as useful for her, as Calia couldn’t think of anything beyond aged wine, really, and that was more for her own benefit of making herself a nice little treat to have on quiet nights.
“Were you ever really able to explore the limits of your magic?” she asked. It hadn’t been the first time she wondered, but now was as good of a time as any to delve into his past as a mage. “You had the structured education, and clearly were trouble for them all… but did you ever stretch it? See just how far you could go?”
“Semantics,” Arc declared, flicking his fork with all the weight of a man avoiding a lecture. The utensil made a lazy arc in the air, dismissing the idea that he was getting into the real mechanics of the Lantern. No godsdamned footnotes. No dusty theory. He wasn’t Omal with a scroll jammed up his backside.
She was right, and his explanation had served its purpose—he’d said what it did, not how it ticked. The how was boring. And frankly? He was far too busy enjoying dinner to go elbow-deep into the arcane blueprints of time-folding space pockets. The pheasant was good. The air was crisp. And for once, he wasn’t explaining things to prove a point.
So when she asked her question, the fork was mid-bite—half-lifted to his mouth. His eyes cut toward her with a blink and a twitch of open bewilderment. He hadn’t expected it.
Not from her.
Not now.
There were probably a few reasons why it gave him pause—one of which was the faint realization that she might actually care about the answer. He chewed slowly, deliberately. Took his time. Used the fork like a metronome, tapping gently on the side of the plate while his brain caught up to his heart.
Finally: “All the time,” he said. It was honest. Unflinching. And then, just as quickly, the certainty wavered. “Well… eventually all the time.” The fork lowered. The bravado didn’t vanish, but something in him dimmed just a little. Like a light adjusting to a quieter room.
“As a kid? Less so,” he admitted. “My Vara was the only one teachin’ me, and he knew our magics weren’t the same. Couldn’t be. He had structure. I had… storms.” His ears tilted back, not in shame, but in thoughtfulness—flicking once like a reflex from the memory. “It was only when I hit my teens that I started getting’ all loosey-goosey with it,” he added, tapping the air vaguely. “Omal would drone on about fundamentals, and I’d vanish halfway through to teleport myself into Tir Elas for a mug of cider and a bad decision or five.”
He smirked faintly. No guilt. Just history. “Or I’d go pokin’ into other villages after hearin’ some poor soul had come to the Bladerift askin’ for help. They’d get turned away, and my Vara’d have to fight the tower’s ‘noble’ leadership about it. I’d save him the argument and go do it m’self.” His voice didn’t hold pride exactly, but neither did it hold regret.
“I did what I wanted. And yah learn pretty quick when yer power starts outgrowin’ yer teachers. Boredom’s a nasty companion when there’s nothin’ in yer path strong enough to stop yah.”
His eyes drifted to her then, the fork paused once more over his plate. “Half the shit I know? Ain’t from scrolls. It’s from fuckin’ about. Testin’ edges. Blowin’ up barns and battlements.” He swept a hand over his brows. “Spent an entire year without eyebrows.” Then, a short chuckle. “They grew back. Mostly.” That familiar flicker of mischief dulled as he went on.
“Magic’s in my blood. I get… twitchy if I don’t stretch it. Vara understood. He let me run wild so long as I didn’t get myself or anyone else killed.”
A pause. “Omal, though…” he trailed off, gaze flickering sideways. “The old king didn’t have the patience. Or the humility. Didn’t like havin’ a spark they couldn’t contain or control.” Arc’s tone didn’t shift, but something cooled in it. Settled. “The horn on my head’s not just for show, y’know. Stretchin’ yer limits? That don’t always earn applause. If I’d stayed an elf, I’d probably be wearin’ more of the scars from their punishment and retribution.” He popped another bite into his mouth, chewing with the quiet, unbothered air of a man long since past the point of mourning it. “Eh, don’t much matter in the end.”
No one ever remembered the half-decent things.
That thought crept in as he chewed, slow and unbothered on the surface, but somewhere beneath it all—buried under the smirk and the slouch—was the familiar sting. Didn’t matter that I healed a village full of children with spells they were too proud to ask for. Didn’t matter that I warned a dozen fools off rituals that would’ve hollowed them out from the inside. That I fixed things quiet, clean, and left before anyone could say thank you—or spit on my boots. They never remembered that.
“Good grub, that woodsy thin’ yah did, is pretty grand. Colour me impressed, though I can’t really cook, so it might not be a compliment. Ain’t sure, but appreciate the meal no less. Tasty, tasty.”
Had she asked something strange? Not at all, but with his almost bewildered look Calia did second guess it for a moment, only to come to the understanding that Arc still hadn’t clued in that she was actually interested in the things he had to say. In who he was then and who he is in the present. With the strange incidents they seemed to have in common, naturally she’d want to know how he himself learned to be someone who breathed magic.
There was just the hint of a smile at the corner of her mouth when he did finally start divulging, hiding it away with the few bites of her food. When he spoke of his father having to raise a child who had a very different means of magic that… put a little pin in her thoughts. A curious notion of wonderment if part of Archimedes had come from his mother. That woman who was naught but the tiniest of painful footnotes in his childhood because she’d abandoned both husband and son.
That. however, was not going to be a question she dared to ask any time soon. Their tumultuous relationship was rocky enough as it was, Calia was not going to stumble over something painful just by asking the wrong question at the wrong time.
She did listen, though, amused at the fact that he was just a pain in the ass back then with getting intro trouble. That boredom he spoke of, boy had she felt it too sometimes. Wishing and craving to be able to spread out and do things, learn things, get away and run away just so she could finally do as she wish and exist as herself. Observing in her silence where there was that hint of bitterness to his tone…
Those elves and their uppity self righteousness and beaurocracy – they hadn’t known or realized the special sort of person they had at the time. And honestly? It was that very thing that likely helped led him into making those hasty, terrible decisions. They were still his choices in the end, but they were all responsible for helping make that monster.
And she? She needed to remember that. If she were going to be a queen, she really needed to remember that.
“I hope you’re going to teach me better than they did for you, then,” she pointed out, that smile blooming into something that looked more like a wild fox about to bounce on a rabbit than anything else. “Heaven forbid I get bored during lessons and pop off the menace small villages. I would very much like to see how far I can go without blowing one of us up.”
In the meantime, she handed him her finished plate, grin sweet as can be. Calia made dinner, after all, he got to mind the mess.
Arc squinted at her with a theatrically pained expression, nose scrunching as if her hope had physically offended his carefully curated delinquent aesthetic. “I mean—I ain’t gonna stuff yah in a schoolroom if that’s what yer frettin’ about,” he replied with a half-hearted shudder, using his fork to sweep in a wide gesture around the forest like it was the grandest of lecture halls. “Yah got a whole wide world to be a menace in. Preferably away from the tiny villages as yah expressed” He angled the prongs back toward himself with a cocky flick. “That’s my thing by the way. Find yer own. I’m the boogeyman of Edelguard, sweetheart—yer gonna have to cook up yer own bedtime terror.”
And with that, he popped another bite into his mouth like he was devouring compliments and notoriety in equal measure. Preening just a little, like he was waiting for someone to come pin a sash across his chest that read “Most Likely to Be Exorcised in Public.”
Then she had the gall—the audacity—to hand him the empty plate with a all too sugary sweet smile that had no place on her pretty little face!
He stared at it like she’d given him a dead rat.
Then at her.
Then at the fire.
Oh.
Fine.
With the exaggerated, martyred air of a man whose grand arcane knowledge was being squandered on domestic labour, he waited until her eyes met his. Deadpan. Soulful. Like a man betrayed. And tossed the damn plates into the fire.
Poof! Fire licked them away in a clean little shimmer of dissolving magic. Hands dusted. Job done. But her question lingered in the air longer than the smell of cooked pheasant.
He didn’t answer right away. That flicker of surprise behind the usual smirk—the quiet flick of his eyes to her and back again—said more than he probably meant it to. “Why d’you wanna learn from me, anyway?” he asked eventually, voice slower, softer at the edge. He cocked a brow. “I mean—yah already are magic. Like… the real sort. Old-world. Starlit.” He twirled a claw vaguely, as if trying to conjure the right word from the mist. “Ain’t I supposed to be the bad influence? With the idea that blowin’ stuff up or seducin’ a demon was the wrong path. Not the curriculum.”
There was a pause so his grin could curl up again—lopsided and wicked. “Unless yah just like the view from the wrong side of the world wide classroom.”
He looked her dead in the eyes and just tossed those plates into the fire. Calia had expected him to fuss, make a scene, anything really – but not that. Simple and fiery all at once. To which she immediately erupted into a loud, musical sort of laughter, as really she should’ve seen it coming. When it softened away and she shot a glance to him, there was a small shifting shrug of her shoulder. Not failing to catch his own subtle means of surprise that she intended to get her magical education from him.
Calia could be an ass and say he was the only one there, so who else? Yet she knew that wasn’t the truth. The reality was deeply complicated in ways even Calia didn’t care to understand.
“I do like trouble,” she admitted with that wide mysterious smile. No doubts there! The wrong side of learning had all kinds of appeal. But instead of leaning on that, she turned the question back around.
“How about you try to picture the sort of teacher than can manage me. Someone knowledgeable enough to teach me both what I wish to know and what I need to know. They better have the right temperament too, because if I can’t respect them you can bet I’m not going to listen. And then? They better strong of will and of magic, as one day I am going to get so pissed off there’s not going to be any reasoning with me. Now then who in this world can handle all that, hmm?”
Calia would be damned surprised if he could think of anyone else!
Shifting his body so he could prop his chin into both palms, Arc wasn’t the least bit surprised when she admitted she liked trouble. That much was a given—they’d both danced through enough of it recently to prove the point. But that wasn’t what he meant, and she damn well knew it.
Instead of a straight answer, she spiralled through some layered, royal-branded philosophy that made him do the thinking himself. Typical. If he ever needed proof she had noble blood in her veins, it was this—the sheer unwillingness to hand over an answer without first making him wade through the theatrics of her reasoning. All flowery nonsense and sideways meanings. She was clever, no doubt, and maddeningly fond of the long route.
Still, as she carried on in her roundabout way, he caught what she wasn’t saying aloud: that she had seen something in him—not just strength, not just magic, but something worth learning from. That she’d seen how he never tried to change her, chain her, or scold her for being angry or wild or too much of anything. That out of everyone, he was the only one who could meet her chaos head-on and not blink.
And that was a strange feeling. Stranger still was the part of him that wanted to ask if she respected him. Really respected him. But that kind of question didn’t fit in his mouth without tasting vulnerable, and his pride wasn’t quite willing to let it surface—not yet. Not when the answer might sting if it wasn’t the one he quietly hoped for.
“Okay,” he said at last, one hand flipping lazily from under his chin. “So yah, yer pointin’ at me. Loud and clear. I got that.” A pause, and then with less bravado, “Just… consider me one part naïve, the other parts confused and bewildered, ’cause I don’t get why.”
He tried to keep the usual tone, light and impish, even as his brows furrowed slightly in thought. “I’m not a teacher by any stretch. Not unless flirtin’ counts—and let’s be fair, yah’ve already got that down just fine.” Smirking faintly, he tried to hide the fact that the question still dug a little deeper than he liked. Because the truth of it was… he’d seen what she could do. The raw, terrifying potential she wielded like it was instinct. She picked up spells like they were crumbs on the path, learned faster than anyone he’d ever met, and wrapped magic around her fingers like thread.
“Yer magic, Lia,” he said at last, softer now. “Seems a bit ass-backwards for a mage to be teachin’ magic itself. Especially fae magic.”
It was honestly nice having some recognize her magic for the complex and powerful mess it actually was. Truly, Calia did not need a teacher to show her how to use magic, as one could bet she’d figure it all out on her own. While it was easier having someone tell her about a spell and how it worked, of course that was information to get anywhere, from anyone else. Find some fae that wasn’t trying to manipulate her and learn from them.
It wasn’t about the magic itself, though, and Calia was struggling with trying to explain what the differences were. Considering it while he gave her the sort of look as if he were trying to dig out some secret from her and was afraid of what the answer might be.
“If you don’t realize you sound like a university professor every time you start instructing…” she said first, evading answering at first. Leaning slightly off to the side as she gave him her usual cool up and down glance. A little twist of the mouth and her own kind of reluctance of admitting too much of a vulnerable truth when she wasn’t sure if she was ready to even allow such a thing.
Finally it was a soft shrug of her shoulder.
“Maybe it’s just nice having someone I can learn with. No fear, no worries. The skies the limits, and I don’t have to worry about being too smart, learning too fast, or accidentally killing you in the process. More than just learning the names of fancy spells and the theory behind magic. There’s navigating people, reputations… it’s more than just magic.”
No, he didn’t realize he sounded preachy and dusty—like some crusty old scholar waxing on with a dry tongue about magical theory. And he certainly didn’t think he was coming off like one of those stiff-collared professors droning on in their crumbling towers. “I see,” Arc muttered, shifting his chin off his palm with the sort of offended air of someone trying to taste the insult in his own words. He clearly didn’t love the notion.
Because truthfully? He wasn’t a teacher. Never claimed to be. Never wanted to be. And being lumped in with the kind of lectures he used to fall asleep through was far from flattering. If anything, he was probably so resistant to the idea of instructing because the very act of being taught had always bored him out of his skull. Outside of his father—who made things interesting—everyone else made it feel like shoving moss down his ears and calling it enlightenment.
And now here she was, painting him as helpful, in a weirdly backwards sort of compliment, admitting she didn’t give two damns about the fundamentals but apparently found use in his ramblings anyway. The implication that he might actually be good at guiding someone—or at least tolerable enough for her to lean on—wasn’t exactly a bad thing, but Arc couldn’t help but squint at it like it was a trap. Loathing it entirely.
Still, he rolled with it. “Suppose it’s nice knowin’ that if yah do kill me in the process, I’ll just come back,” he offered dryly, giving a half-cocked smile that sat too easily on his face. “One less thin’ to worry about, yeah?” The grin stayed put, light as ever. “Boons well, don’t it.”
He folded his arms back behind his head, leaning into the casual posture as if this entire conversation hadn’t mildly tripped him up. “Guess if I’m good for somethin’, might as well lean into it. Not sure why me, but…” He shrugged. “Keep doin’ yer thin, Lia. Ask away. I’ll just sit here and natter like a beaver on a tree.”
“Oh? You think I’m going to let you escape off to hell now?” she asked, turning the entire tide of the conversation to something perfectly wicked. Comfortable. “After all of this, for you to go have a vacation with fires and chaos? You can be I’ll be following you there.”
A threat? A warning? A promise? There was no telling which way she meant it, but damned it if weren’t the truth. As at least Calia knew it wouldn’t be her who put an end to him, it’d be someone else making the attempt. And she’d be literally damned if anyone else ever dared to try and kill him now. That was the shape of her loyalty – the hells and back.
Not that she was going to say even a hint of that out loud, choosing to laugh instead and gently tilt her head towards the means of the night’s fancy shelter.
“I’ll ask a hundred more questions tomorrow, we should sleep while no one is presently chasing us down. There’s no telling how long the peace will last.”
If Calia had known any better, she wouldn’t have said such a thing out loud.
A slow tilt of expression marked his reaction as she declared—with all the brightness of someone stepping into a festival square rather than speaking of abyssal hells—that she’d enter the hells at all! Arc had opened his mouth, ready to fire back with something smart and theatrical, something about how he was too pretty to be banished below again without fanfare or how the locals would miss his charming menace…
But the words never came. They slipped from thought like water through his fingers.
Instead, he just rolled his eyes with a slow, dramatic exhale. “Go on, then,” he muttered, waving her off with a flick of his fingers as though brushing away smoke. “I’ve still got a bit of fire left in the bones, so yah go ahead and rest that brilliant little noggin. Gotta keep it sharp for tomorrow’s inevitable inquisition, yeah?”
His gaze drifted, lifting to the tall sweep of the redwoods around them. Their quiet stillness somehow unnerving after a day of relative calm. That calm—it lingered like a soft cloak pulled too tight, like something in the air had paused, waiting.
He huffed again, quietly. Irritated not by her, but by the awareness that peace had overstayed its welcome. They shouldn’t trust it. Not for long. There was always something—always someone—waiting just beyond the tree line, in the corners of shadow or between the folds of stars.