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Neutral
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Vessaria blinked at the chef’s sudden materialization, her spine going taut for a heartbeat before she relaxed again, tracking the elegant motion of the tray with a cautious kind of interest. The smell hit her first—roast and herbs, bright citrus softened by something unfamiliar and colder beneath it. Her stomach, still sore from travel but long empty, made a polite suggestion that perhaps this was worth her attention. She said nothing at first. Not to Ciaran, not to the chef, not even to herself. Only observed. The cloth was peeled back with slow, precise fingers, and her brows lifted faintly at the contents. Familiar things. Half-familiar, anyway. Thalorian breads, soft and warm enough still to steam slightly where they touched. Grains she recognized by smell if not name. A roast bird, cut with quiet precision. No blood pooling beneath it, no strange appendages curled like mockery on the plate. She leaned closer, cautious again, and then caught the unmistakable chill of the water beside it. The way it refracted light made her hesitate—but she picked it up anyway, lifting the glass to her lips and taking a sip. Her lips tingled faintly. Not unpleasantly. Just… differently. She placed the glass down again with care.“…You really did listen,” she said at last, gaze flicking to him from beneath her lashes. There was a trace of surprise there, and not the mocking kind. “I expected at least one hidden cherry. Just to see if I’d shriek.” She tore a bit of bread and popped it into her mouth, chewing thoughtfully, watching him all the while. “No priest ever told me you’d feed me warm bread and imported spring water. The legends missed that part.”Another bite. Then another. And soon her fingers were lightly stained with oil and seasoning, her posture softening, her guardedness settling—not gone, never gone, but she no longer looked like a girl expecting to be devoured on the spot. Only after several mouthfuls did she speak again, voice lower now, more contemplative than sharp. “You said mortals weren’t made for this realm. That we die.” She didn’t say it with fear. She said it like she was reciting a rule already known to her. “But I’m not them, am I?” She tore a small piece from the meat, turning it over between her fingers. “I wonder if you’d know if someone was…endowed,” she added, a wry note to her voice, the barest edge of something veiled just beneath it. “Or if you’re just assuming I’ll fall apart like all the others.” She didn’t look at him then—didn’t need to. Just smiled faintly to herself as she popped the meat into her mouth and said around it,“Seems like the kind of mistake someone very old might make.” Vessaria ate in steady silence, though not with the urgency of someone starved. No—hers was a thoughtful, almost graceful sort of hunger, like a woman cataloging the differences between her past and present one bite at a time. Her fingertips brushed lightly over the edge of the tray as she sampled each piece: a sliver of roast fowl, torn delicately from the bone with her fingers; a spoonful of the sun-dried grain dish that carried the scent of lemongrass and ash; a flatbread folded in half and held like something precious between her hands before it vanished in small, efficient bites. She never once asked what anything was. Whether from pride or trust—or a more dangerous blend of both—she simply accepted what had been given. The water she returned to more than once, lips brushing the rim of the glass with reverence. The chill made her jaw tighten, but she did not stop. Her eyes drifted to the strange shimmer in the liquid, the way it refused to be still. “It looks like it remembers things,” she murmured once under her breath, perhaps not even intending for him to hear. Then she finished the rest. By the end of the meal, the sharpness in her bones had dulled, and her limbs no longer held that stiff, ready tension she’d worn since entering the castle. She let herself lean back in the chair, just slightly, exhaling a quiet breath that might have been contentment—or simply the sound of her exhaustion catching up to her. She wiped her fingers on a cloth and stood. Not all at once. There was no dramatic sweeping motion. She rose slowly, with the easy, cautious grace of a creature still alert in unfamiliar territory. One hand went to her side, brushing the fabric of her tunic smooth, while the other reached back to collect a few curls that had slipped loose from her braid. “Well,” she said, tilting her head and offering him a look that hovered somewhere between sardonic amusement and brittle formality, “If this is what you serve before the bombardment begins, I’d almost say you’re trying to lull me into staying.” She turned toward the door then but paused before stepping away entirely. Her voice, when it came again, was quieter, less pointed. “I’ll find the bed, or the storm will find me first.” She didn’t wait for a farewell. Didn’t expect one, really. Just let her fingertips trail over the doorframe as she passed through, shoulders straight, head high—already vanishing down the corridor like smoke curling back into shadow. |
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Darkseeker
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The room held its silence long after she was gone. Her footsteps faded down the corridor like the afterimage of a candle extinguished, soft, but lingering. Ciaran didn’t move. The silver flames lining the walls flickered faintly, casting strange shadows over the curve of the crescent table, over the place where she had sat, where her warmth still subtly clung to the air. He remained standing at the head of the room, gaze fixed on the space she had occupied in unblinking concentration. The Night King exhaled and waved a hand, and the shadows at the wall stirred and thickened. The spectral chef emerged again, bowing with quiet deference. The remains of the meal were quickly and efficiently cleared away in silence. The chef knew better than to linger. He vanished into the veil between realms as easily as mist, and the chamber was empty again. Still, Ciaran did not leave. For a moment, he simply stood there, one hand curled loosely behind his back, the other resting on the table’s edge. His fingers flexed once. I am not like them, she had said. He had inclined his head in quiet agreement, albeit ever so slightly. Now, with no one left to witness it, he let that small motion unfurl into thought. She was right, of course. The difference in her was apparent from the moment she’d stepped into his presence. There was no shying away or trembling lips. Not even fear disguised as arrogance. Her crescent offering had pulsated with a warmth and light that was strange to Ciaran. She had arrived like someone who had already endured the worst. Whether that made her a threat or something else, he could not yet say. He turned finally, leaving the hall without haste. The shadows folded around him as he passed, recognizing his presence as part of their own. The castle bent to his will not through command, but through memory. It had known him for too long to require words. When he reached his private chambers, the air grew colder and thinner, as he preferred it to be. The ceilings were high and the walls bare save for the etched constellations that moved only when no one watched. Light seeped in through the obsidian-glass windows. There, folded over the bench beneath the tallest window, was the cloak. It had returned to him, just as he knew it would. When he’d cast it aside in the library, letting it sink into the shadow seams, he hadn’t meant for it to return. But Umbrythar remembered its master, and it returned what it chose, and this -- apparently -- it had deemed necessary. Ciaran stepped forward, the fabric catching faint starlight as he lifted it. The weight was familiar. The scent of frost still clung to it. He did not put it on; instead, he set it aside and stripped out of the last of his formal attire, pausing only once to run his fingers through the folds of silver at his collar. A habit, nothing more. When he was down to his pants and a thin shirt the color of winter moons, he crossed to the window. The stars beyond were in slow motion, their glimmer more pulse than twinkle. Ciaran's gaze tracked the sky without focus, but not without meaning. He knew the paths they traveled, and he had once known their names -- before language changed, before worship fractured into superstition. A single star blinked out on the horizon, and yet another had already begun to dim. His hand tightened once again around his wrist behind his back. His thoughts drifted, not to the girl exactly, but to the weight she had brought with her. She had walked willingly into shadow and an endless midnight, and when she spoke of it, she had not spoken with regret. He had not expected that. She would not last. She couldn’t. No mortal ever did. Yet, in the wake of her presence, in the echo of her footsteps, Ciaran stood before the stars and felt the old thoughts rising again. Many brides before Vissaria had come and fought against death's lullaby, dared to believe they could survive this realm’s ruin, but each of them had eventually slipped into the crooning song. He closed his eyes, just once, and let the starlight press against his skin like memory. She was not like the others. But then again, neither were they -- until they broke. He stood in the cold of his chambers, surrounded by silence, and watched the sky. |
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Neutral
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The corridor was quiet as Vessaria made her way back through the maze of soft shadows and flickering sconces. The castle didn’t creak like a normal place might. It breathed—soundless and vast, with cold air threading its way along her skin in gentle pulses. Each footstep echoed too far, yet somehow never enough. It was disorienting, like walking through a painting someone had long since stopped believing in. Her chambers, when she reached them, were as she’d left them: vast, silent, filled with that strange dreamlike hush. The long, arched windows remained unshuttered, and the endless night sky beyond pressed up against the glass like a forgotten god, pale stars smoldering in constellations she didn’t yet know how to read. She undressed in small movements, unpinning the few remaining bits of her travel-worn braid and slipping out of the layered tunic and soft trousers she had been given. A robe hung waiting on the edge of the bed—silver-threaded and pale as fog. She slid into it without ceremony, the fabric whispering across her skin, too fine for comfort and too smooth to feel real. For a long moment, Vessaria stood at the foot of the bed and simply stared at it. The sheets were heavy, cool to the touch, with that faint luminescent shimmer Umbrythar seemed to favor. She turned her gaze toward the hearth instead, where a low, smokeless fire burned, casting the illusion of warmth without ever raising the temperature. And yet her thoughts refused to quiet. Ciaran. She had not expected him to be funny. Or at least—not in that dry, bone-deep way that left her uncertain if he was amused or simply exasperated with her entire existence. There was an ancient sort of discipline in him, like a cathedral built of iron and frost. But beneath it, something watched. Something that listened when she spoke. Something that remembered. He hadn’t lied. Not once. And when he said he didn’t touch the brides—that he never had—there’d been no evasion. Just cold honesty, bitter and immediate as winter air. Still, something about the way his hand clenched behind his back when he spoke of restraint… Something about that smallest, invisible hesitation when she asked if he would know if a mortal were different— It lodged itself in her chest like a seed. Vessaria let out a breath and crawled into the bed at last, sinking into the cold sheets with a shiver. It took her longer than she cared to admit to get warm. She curled in on herself beneath the heavy covers, listening to the whisper of her own thoughts bouncing around the inside of her skull. Thoughts of glowing eyes and glacier water. Of shadows that moved like living things. Of a god-king who asked if humans truly bit each other. She smiled to herself in the dark. Eventually, slowly, sleep took her. The next morning arrived without ceremony. There was no dawn in Umbrythar. No warm sunlight creeping across the floor to wake her. Instead, the stillness in the air shifted subtly, and the darkness beyond the windows faded from star-scattered obsidian to a dusky slate gray. The cold didn’t vanish, but it retreated slightly, as if the castle itself had taken a breath. Vessaria stirred. At first, she wasn’t sure where she was. The bed was too large, the sheets too strange, the silence too deep. But then she rolled over and caught sight of the sky beyond the window, those unfamiliar constellations watching her with ageless patience, and it all came rushing back. Her fingers curled into the sheets. Her body ached faintly from the tension of travel, but it was not pain—just the memory of weariness beginning to wear off. She rose slowly, pushing the covers aside and swinging her legs over the edge of the bed. Her feet met cold stone, and she hissed through her teeth before finding the slippers tucked just beneath the edge of the frame. Pale, fur-lined, and far too luxurious for someone like her. She wore them anyway. At the vanity, she found a basin of water—still faintly steaming—and a cloth that had been set out at some point while she slept. She didn’t want to imagine how or by whom. She dipped her hands, splashed her face, and breathed in deeply. Then she began to get ready. It was a slow, meticulous process. Not out of vanity, but out of necessity. She was still learning what was expected of her in this strange place. So she dressed carefully in another robe left out for her—this one darker, lined in deep violet embroidery and bound with a sash at the waist. Her hair she left down, but combed and smoothed as best she could. The color looked strange in this realm’s dim light—less gold than moon-washed brass. Her skin, pale already, had taken on the faint cool tone of someone half-belonging to the shadow realm. She looked at herself in the mirror for a long moment. No priestess. No sacrifice. No trembling girl in white. Just Vessaria. When she left her rooms, the halls were quiet once again—but not empty. The shadows no longer felt foreign. They moved around her like silk now, like they’d taken her measure and allowed her passage. She walked without rushing, retracing the path from the night before, passing glimmering murals and ancient statues that seemed to shift when she wasn’t looking directly at them. There were no signs. No servants to lead her. But somehow, she knew where to go. Down one corridor, and then another. Past a spiral staircase, through an arch shaped like a crescent moon. And then—there. A tall, arched doorway led into the same room she had dined in the night before. It was different now. The light had changed—softer, more diffused. A faint silver fog curled around the floor, and the table had been reset for morning. No long banquet. Just a smaller spread of delicacies arranged for one. A warm basket of morning bread, sliced and dusted with powdered fruit; a soft white cheese paired with candied roots; a small ceramic bowl of golden-yellow fruit slices steeped in syrup that glowed faintly in the dimness. And the water again—glacial, glowing. Vessaria stood just inside the doorway and blinked once. “…Well,” she muttered. “Either someone is trying to impress me, or the castle’s trying to make me fat.” She stepped forward and took a seat at the table again. No one greeted her. No one needed to. She could feel the unseen gaze of the place itself settling around her, waiting to see what she would do next. So she picked up a slice of fruit, inspected it, and took a bite. Then, to the empty room, to the cold fog curling around her ankles, to the taste of sugar and shadow and myth on her tongue, she whispered— “Good morning, Umbrythar.” |
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Darkseeker
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The palace did not wake with a sun. Instead, the world gently unfurled itself into the muted silver of Umbrythar's version of morning, a pale and dusky hush that filtered through the sky like diluted ink. Shadows stretched lazily along frost-kissed marble, and the chill in the air held the scent of stillness, as though time itself held its breath. The stars above faded into velvet gray, and the sky remained dappled with soft constellations, slowly retreating into the beginnings of the day. Ciaran stood in the dim stillness, pulling at the sleeves of a new silvery shirt that covered him fairly loosely. Dark breeches melted into his boots. He didn't feel like putting on anything else; it felt too warm for the jerkin or coat that he would usually don. He supposed he could blame it on Vissaria's presence. Sleep was for mortals, a luxury of the living and the breathing. Still, he had stretched out on his side atop the velvet cushions of a narrow daybed near one of the long glass walls of his chambers, eyes half-lidded, body still. An experiment. A distraction. A vain attempt to feign the rhythm of mortals, to quiet the ceaseless pull in his chest, the constant tug of the stars and the voice that whispered that she was here, in his realm, pacing, breathing, thinking. He’d given up after an hour. Or maybe two. Instead, Ciaran had spent the deepest part of the night reading, a book opened on one knee and a candle burning low with its silver flame beside him. The text was simple, written in the older dialects of a long-forgotten tongue, and it held knowledge about humans -- about their patterns, their rhythms, their needs. He skimmed until he reached the section about food. “Three meals daily,” he murmured aloud, tapping a long, star-spangled finger to the passage. “Unless ill, in mourning, or deeply annoyed.” His mouth curled faintly at that last point, uncertain whether it had been a mistranslation or intentional wit. Either way, it matched perfectly with the girl's talk of flat-out biting people. At once, he summoned a thread of shadow from his fingertips and spoke through it in the old tongue, directing it to the kitchens. The chef, still adjusting to the presence of a mortal guest, would receive the instruction clearly: She must be fed. Three times, or more, depending on what humans call appetite. Ensure variety. Ensure warmth. He did not include pleasantries. He rarely did. Now, hours later, he stood in the shadow of a vaulted archway overlooking the long dining hall, dim and soft with the cold gray light of Umbrythar’s morning. The long table was set, a number of covered platters arranged neatly across its center, steam curling from beneath silver lids. The chefs had obeyed, of course. Ciaran watched in silence from behind a column, eyes fixed on the arrangement. Eggs and breads and cheeses, he thought. Perhaps tea. Maybe something sweeter, though he hardly remembered what counted as “sweet” for mortals. He felt the prickle of her presence before he saw her. Vissaria approached the table and inspected the food with a subtle wariness, though that was to be expected. Ciaran stepped back, retreating from the edge of the archway, letting the shadows close in behind him once more. He had no desire to disturb her. Let her eat. Let her gather her thoughts, and her strength. Instead, he walked the outer corridor and slipped through one of the side entrances that led to the gardens. A soft hush followed him as he stepped outside. Even here, Umbrythar was timeless. The gardens were sprawling and silent, made not of the usual green and gold of a sunlit court, but silver-leafed hedges and dark, barkless trees that shimmered faintly with frost. Pale blossoms bloomed in defiance of the cold, petals tinted blue, violet, and black. They did not wilt. Umbrythar’s magic preserved them in still, eternal bloom. Ciaran paced among them slowly. His boots made almost no sound on the frost-hard stone paths, and he trailed his fingers across the edge of a flowering vine that reached like veins toward a trellis. Mist curled between the hedgerows, not quite touching him. The cold never did. Here in this place, built from his own essence and born of ancient will, nothing ever dared. His mind wandered despite himself. He thought of how she had looked the night before, that flicker of resistance in her eyes, the tension in her spine. She had not pushed him away. In fact, she almost seemed welcoming, which would be backwards, as he was the host. She was not like the others. Not the scared, pitiful diplomats sent by trembling kings. Not the spellbound maidens who crumbled before his eyes. No. She met his gaze as an equal, something older than the years on her skin. Something strange and scarred and quietly defiant. And she was his bride. The thought lingered bitterly on his tongue. Bride. The word meant nothing anymore. Not when spoken by the priests. Not when written in the stars. It was a bond forged in fear and in prophecy. Well, except she claimed to have picked him of her own volition. Crazy girl. Ciaran exhaled slowly, hand resting on the twisted bark of a silver-bloomed tree. A crow stirred nearby, its feathers flecked with shadow. It tilted its head, blinking at him. “She’s survived a night,” he said aloud to the bird, as if to himself. The crow cawed softly, unimpressed, and took flight. Ciaran turned back toward the palace but did not yet enter. He would give her time. He would give himself time. There were things to be discussed, certainly, but not over breakfast. Humans needed to... ruminate. No, that was a word for cattle. Digest! Talking formally would cause indigestion, and she'd die faster. Besides, she'd found him scarily easily the previous night, and he wanted to at least try to outwit his castle. He sighed and looked up at the pale sky, where the stars were beginning to retreat fully from view, leaving only the veiled light of Umbrythar’s false dawn. |
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Neutral
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The bread was still warm. Vessaria tore off a piece of it and brought it to her mouth, savoring the softness, the way it melted slightly against the heat of her tongue. The powdered fruit dust left the faintest trace of rose and citrus on her lips—floral, sweet, strangely familiar. She chewed slowly, her elbow resting on the table as she studied the morning spread, trying to understand the message behind it. Because it was a message. Every plate was arranged with purpose: the cheeses were cut into perfect wedges, garnished with translucent slices of candied root and herbs she couldn’t name. The fruit—golden-yellow and pearlescent—glimmered faintly in the shallow bowl of syrup. Nothing here was random. Someone, or something, had learned quickly what she would eat and what she wouldn’t, and taken the time to arrange it into something beautiful. She dipped her fingers into the bowl, plucking one of the fruit slices free. It was soft and juicy, yet held its shape. The taste was light, almost effervescent. She didn’t recognize it at all. It reminded her of honeyed rain. There were no servants. No chefs. No clinking of silver from behind a curtain, no faint steps from another chamber. Just silence—soft, dense, velvet silence—and the occasional whisper of mist curling along the edges of the floor like lace being pulled across marble. Vessaria took her time. She didn’t gorge herself, but she didn’t rush either. This breakfast felt like a ritual, or at least a test. And in some strange way, she felt watched—not by eyes, but by presence. The castle was paying attention. That realization no longer unsettled her. When she finished the last bite of soft cheese and polished off the bread, she sat back in her chair with a small sigh, brushing her hands against the cloth of her robe. Her fingers still carried the faint sweetness of the fruit, and her lips tingled faintly from the citrus syrup. She considered returning to her chambers. She could take a book, rest a little longer, gather her thoughts. But no. The idea didn’t appeal to her. Instead, she stood, pulling her robe tighter at the waist. The cool air of the dining room swirled gently against her skin, but her body had already begun to adjust to the temperature of this strange realm. Her slippers made no sound as she walked across the floor and stepped back into the hall. The castle was different in the lightless hours of its perpetual not-morning. The shadows were less oppressive, no longer crowding the corners but instead peeling back like a receding tide. What little glow remained came from sconces shaped like crescent moons, and veins of faintly luminescent crystal that lined the edges of certain arches and stone patterns. There were no signs. No maps. But there was direction.Vessaria couldn’t explain it. Her steps were not random. She followed her instincts, and her instincts led her deeper into the castle. She passed through halls of veined obsidian and moonstone, their walls etched with silver script in a language her eyes couldn’t decipher but her breath somehow recognized. Statues lined one corridor, each carved from salt-colored marble with inlaid gemstone eyes. One had an owl’s face and a woman’s body; another, tall and serpentine, held a bowl from which starlight trickled in steady drops to the floor before disappearing into the stone. There were windows too—though not many—and each one showed only the outside sky: endless stars, a horizon of mist, and mountains that should have been impossibly far, yet seemed to lean close when she looked too long. Eventually, she reached a long, curved passage lined with arched glass. For the first time, she saw the true edge of the castle—where it met the outer world. She paused at the end of the hallway, pressing a palm to the chilled glass. Beyond it was a terrace, and past the terrace, a garden of sorts. Or at least, she thought it was a garden. It was hard to tell what belonged in this place. Trees grew, black-barked and silver-leafed, but they leaned as if caught in an eternal wind. Pools of water dotted the dark ground, some shallow, others seemingly bottomless. Lights flitted above them like fireflies made of memory. Without hesitation, she found the door and stepped outside. The cold bit more sharply here, but not cruelly. It was the kind of cold that cleared the mind—crisp and holy, like air in a sacred place. The terrace floor was carved in long arcs of silver-veined stone, and wide stairs led down into what could only be called the castle’s grounds. She descended. Grass—if that was the word for it—grew in shades of dusky blue and violet. It shimmered faintly beneath her feet, as though catching light from somewhere far below the earth. The trees were spaced with purpose, their branches tall and curved, creating narrow tunnels of arching foliage. Between them, great stones jutted from the earth, wrapped in old chains or thick with ancient vines. Vessaria walked slowly, one hand trailing along a low-hanging bough. The leaves were cool and soft, and left a faint trace of silver powder against her fingers. She rubbed it away and moved on. There were no birds. No wind. But still, it didn’t feel lifeless. The garden was watching her, the way a great beast watches something small and interesting move across its flank. And yet, she did not feel afraid. Only… observed. As if the land, like the castle, had never quite known what to do with a mortal who looked it directly in the face. At one bend in the path, she came across a half-sunken statue. It depicted a woman kneeling, her hands outstretched, a bowl resting between them. But the face had eroded—either through time or magic—and only the hollow of her eyes remained. The bowl still held water. It rippled gently, despite the still air. Vessaria knelt beside it and touched the surface. Visions didn’t come. Prophecies didn’t rise. The water was just water—cold, clean, impossibly clear. But her reflection shimmered in a way that unnerved her, her eyes catching light that wasn’t there, her hair seeming to float even though she was still. She stood again and left it behind. The further she walked, the more she realized how vast the grounds truly were. The garden became a forest. The forest became a field of low mist, punctuated by strange stone spires that jutted from the earth like ribs. Eventually, she found a small structure—a shrine, perhaps—tucked between two steep slopes. Its door was open, but the inside was shrouded in velvet black, and she could hear something within. Not a sound exactly. More like… waiting. She didn’t enter. Not yet. Instead, she turned back, choosing another path, one that looped up around a craggy bluff that gave her a high view of the garden’s edge. From there, she could see the castle more clearly—how its spires reached impossibly high, how its wings stretched like arms to cradle the surrounding land. And somewhere—she was certain—he watched. Ciaran. She imagined him in one of those towers, standing at the window, arms folded, eyes like eclipsed stars scanning the horizon, seeing her even now. Maybe he didn’t bother. Maybe he was too ancient, too removed. But something in her whispered that no matter how far she wandered, she would never truly be alone here. Not in this realm. Not in his presence. Vessaria stood there for a long time, the windless silence pressing against her, the scent of frost and distant herbs lingering on her skin. Then she turned back toward the castle, toward the long walk through the stone-lined path, through trees that whispered as she passed, toward whatever would come next. Whatever this place expected of her, she would meet it head on. After all, she had already eaten its bread. And no one fed a bride unless they planned for her to stay. |
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Darkseeker
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Ciaran saw her before she saw him. The shadows had whispered her path, curling in on themselves with subtle shifts the way mist clings to footsteps before sound even arrives. He stood at the far edge of the great terrace above the garden, body angled in stillness. He caught a flicker of motion below as her form moved between the silver-touched trees, and then he stepped back and was gone. The shadows absorbed him in an instant, and a breath later, he was within his chambers again. The room was silent but for the faint resonance of the ceiling above, where the stars drifted and shimmered in their unending arcs. But as Ciaran’s eyes lifted to study them, one flared red and suddenly trailed across the dark like a gash torn in the sky. Unlike the two yesterday, this one seemed to break free of the dawn and scream down through the world outside. He froze. It fell like a dying thing, a message hurled from beyond. The red trail lingered a moment longer than the last two had, and then it vanished. Pain followed, sharp and sudden, lancing through the space behind his eyes and driving deeper as if a shard of ancient ice had embedded itself in the core of his thoughts. He hissed softly, fingers clenching the edge of his forehead until his knuckles paled. His vision blurred, then cleared, and for a single, fractured heartbeat, he saw a face next to his own in the window. A man grinned beside him, bloodless skin like porcelain, white and smooth as sun bleached bones. His fine hair was pale as unlit ash, and his pale eyes flared with a bloodthirsty hunger. They did not reflect starlight like any of the beings in Umbrythar; they consumed it. The vision vanished, leaving only the echo of its presence and the tail-end of the pain that birthed it. Ciaran breathed deeply, straightening. A low growl slipped past his lips, ancient and weary and venom-laced. He muttered curses beneath his breath, switching languages with every word. Words from the Forgotten Coast. From the Deep Vaults of the Hollow Reaches. From the old dialect of the lunar courts, back before even Lunareth named his silence. Each curse felt right. None of them helped. “The veil is thinning again,” he murmured, voice quiet, but thrumming with old frustration. “Or something is stirring.” Still dressed only in his silver-threaded shirt and dark breeches, Ciaran stalked from the chamber with a cloak in hand. The castle did not impede him; it knew better than to try anything when he was in a mood. Shadows opened before him, curving corridors where none had been, redirecting doors that would’ve led elsewhere. He did not need to ask. He wanted the library. And so the library came. The doors groaned open, not from resistance but from anticipation. Inside, the air pulsed faintly, scented with old parchment, iron ink, and candle ash long extinguished. Rows upon rows of towering shelves spiraled and stacked like ribs, disappearing upward into dim reaches. Between them drifted loose motes of light, knowledge undone from form, searching for names to bind themselves to. Ciaran crossed the polished floor with grim intent. He passed untouched tomes, chained books, and breathing vaults locked behind glass. His mind focused, peeling away distraction, hunting one title: The Elder Gods. It was not kept where mortal scholars might reach it. It rested on a shelf held high above the mortal histories and mundane arcana. He ascended without climbing, the shadows lifting him like obedient hands until he reached the section carved in language that even the stones below had ceased to remember. His fingers closed around the spine; there was no title visible, but the leather felt warm, pulsing faintly, as though it knew it had been summoned. Rather than opening it, as he dreaded to do so, Ciaran descended again and strode to the long central table beneath the glass ceiling. Above, the stars remained steady -- no further streaks, no further messages. But the absence of movement was not reassuring. It felt as though it were the kind of stillness that came just before a scream. He set the book down, hand hovering over it. That face haunted him still, all too familiar. Wrong, yes. Terribly wrong. But known. Wyddah and Latayel were chaotic gods who had been locked away for millenia; while Ciaran was slightly relieved to see Wyddah's face in place of the fiery amber of the ice god's sister, neither sibling was a good omen. It meant only one thing: something was returning, or had never fully been banished in the first place. He turned his head slightly toward the vast window carved like a broken crescent behind the reading table. From this height, one could see the castle’s outer gardens. Though Vessaria had already moved on from the crumbling fountain, he could feel where she had been. The vision had come not long after she stepped into the garden, and three stars had fallen since the girl had stepped foot into his domain. Coincidence was not something Ciaran believed in. The book throbbed once beneath his palm, eager to be opened. He exhaled once, slow and deliberate, and pulled his hand back. Later. First, he would send a request to the castle itself -- let it gather records from before the last fall. The old war. The pre-Lunareth age. The names that hadn’t been spoken in eons. He needed it all at once. |
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Neutral
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Vessaria Nemea paused on the edge of the hedged path, her fingers brushing the velvet petals of a pale bloom swaying in the windless air. The gardens were too still for her liking—no birdsong, no rustling leaves, not even the hum of insects. It was as though everything waited, breath held, watching. The thin hush curled at the edges of her awareness like cold mist. She didn’t belong here, not truly. And yet the castle seemed to know her name already. She turned her face up to the sky, eyes squinting at the ceiling of stars veiled behind high clouds. Since arriving, she’d felt the weight of the place press against her bones, like an invisible current pulling her toward something deep beneath the surface. She hadn’t yet decided if it was fate or doom. With a deep breath, she lowered herself onto the edge of the old fountain she’d found hours ago, crumbling and veined with vines. Her fingers traced its weather-worn edge, and her mind began to drift—not asleep, not entirely awake, but lulled by the unnatural silence. Then something shifted. Not in the air, not in the castle. Inside her. Vessaria blinked—and the world was gone. It was cold. Far colder than the castle.And utterly dark. She stood barefoot on black water that did not ripple beneath her weight. All around her, towers jutted from the surface like shattered teeth, half-drowned ruins of things too vast to understand. Above, the stars blazed wrong. Too many. Too bright. They moved like they knew she was watching. A shadow shifted at the edge of her vision. It did not move so much as unfold—like wings stretching after eons of stillness. Vessaria turned. She did not remember deciding to. A figure stood before her now. Not Ciaran—not the Night King, though this one, too, radiated power ancient and feral. But this presence was all wrong. It crackled with chaos. Her breath caught in her throat. Wyddah. The vision she had seen earlier, half-formed and buried behind the veil, now stood before her in full. Not male. Not female. Not anything she had words for. A face that shimmered and twisted with too many features, shifting like a dream struggling to stay whole. Eyes like smoking mirrors. A mouth that grinned but did not smile. “Bride.” The voice came from all directions at once. “She who bears the silver thread. You’ve wandered far.” Vessaria could not move. Her hands had gone numb. Her heart stammered in her chest. “Where—” Her voice cracked. “Where am I?” Wyddah tilted their head. The water rippled now, though she still did not feel it beneath her feet. “Not where. When.” The god reached out, and Vessaria’s entire body recoiled, though her feet refused to budge. “You are dreaming. Or perhaps not. It matters little. The Moon has chosen poorly, child of the sun.” Something in her bristled at that. “I am not a child of the sun,” she said, stronger now. Wyddah’s smile widened. Or perhaps it fractured. “No. You’re not. You are something else entirely. A little ember left in the ash. And someone… remembers.” The god stepped closer. Vessaria’s hands flinched open, every instinct screaming to run—but where could she go? The sky itself felt like it would swallow her if she so much as blinked wrong. “Do you know what sleeps below this castle, Bride?” Wyddah’s voice lowered, curling in her ear. “Do you know what he was made to keep beneath lock and star?” The stars above flickered. One winked out. Vessaria’s lips parted, her mouth dry. “No,” she whispered. “But I think I’m starting to.” Wyddah bent forward, breathless laughter drifting from their many mouths. “Then you are already too close.” And with that, they reached out—and touched her forehead with a single black claw. Vessaria screamed— Her eyes flew open. The fountain. The garden. She clutched her chest, gasping for air. Her skin was slick with sweat, her dress damp at the collar. Her legs trembled beneath her as she forced herself to stand, staggering backward from the fountain as though it had burned her. The stars above were steady again. But the weight had changed. The air pulsed faintly, a rhythm she could feel in her blood now. As if something ancient had taken notice of her, and in doing so, had marked her. She didn’t know how long she had been unconscious, or if time had passed at all. But the garden no longer felt empty. The castle’s many halls called to her—not with warmth or welcome, but with a kind of watchfulness. She didn’t need a guide to know where to go next. Her feet already knew the way. Some part of her was certain: Ciaran would feel it, too. The veil hadn’t simply thinned—it had been touched. And she was now tangled in its fraying threads. The castle stirred. It was subtle—barely perceptible to the untrained mind. But to Vessaria, freshly returned from whatever nightmare realm had held her breath hostage, it was like the stone itself had become aware of her. Each step echoed back at her wrong. Too loud. Too sharp. The wind was breathless; the shadows held too still. She didn’t call his name. She didn’t want to. Ciaran would feel it. That’s what she told herself, even as the tremble in her knees spread upward like a sickness. But something in her chest—some primal heat that had always guided her—was flickering now. Struggling. Her arms wrapped tightly around herself as she pushed through the edge of the garden, breath short, feet crunching over half-dead ivy curling along the inner courtyard path. The castle’s walls reared up around her, dark and breathing. Towers leaned like they were eavesdropping. Arched windows glowed faintly, but not with light. Only presence. “Please…” she muttered, voice rasping. The doors ahead groaned open—too fast, too wide—and for once, not in invitation. The castle was not warning her away. But it also did not guide. She didn’t belong to it yet. Not fully. And so, she stumbled. Her hand shot out, grasping for the nearest column to steady herself—but the stone shimmered like smoke, no longer solid. Her palm passed through it. Her ankle caught the lip of a step. Pain flared sharp and white as she went down hard—shoulder first, then hip, then elbow—tumbling into the grand corridor’s black marble with a cry that cracked out into the void. She tried to sit up, but her right arm crumpled beneath her. Her head struck the floor with a dull, final thud. The world spun. Silence swallowed everything. Even the walls flinched, or so it felt. Her breath hitched. A sob tore loose—ugly, raw, born from something deeper than pain. She felt exposed. Not just to the Night King or the castle—but to something else that was watching. Wyddah. The claw. The smile. The stars. She curled in on herself, teeth clenched as the ache in her shoulder bloomed hot and full. It wasn’t broken. Probably. But the fall had jarred her already fragile tether to reality. She pressed her forehead to the cold floor and whispered his name. Just once. “Ciaran.” It wasn’t a plea. It was an anchor. Far above, in the highest wing of the castle, the library’s shadows shifted. And deep beneath the castle—beneath even the Night King’s reach—something… listened. And music began to play; soft yet filled with harsh notes. |
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Darkseeker
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Books flew to their king from all over the room, summoned by will and necessity. Volume after volume tore themselves from their resting places -- some with a whimper of displaced dust, others with the hiss of unlatching seals or the rustle of ancient vellum resisting its own unraveling. They gathered beside Ciaran in a stack of impossible geometry: spines too wide for their pages, titles written in tongues that curled and split the mind, covers etched with celestial constellations long banished from mortal sky. He sat, opening The Elder Gods. Each page unraveled layers of history not meant to survive the first turning of the world. Names came like echoes through water: Azhek’nar, Lirun, Vassoth, Wyddah and Latayel -- ancient entities locked away not by chains or flame, but by the pattern of stars themselves. The prisons. The Hallow had never held cages in the usual sense. They were cosmic alignments -- constellations designed by Umbrythar’s architects in the era before memory. Each point of light was a ward. Each shifting of the sky caused a shackle to tighten. But the stars… the stars were falling. Ciaran’s jaw tightened, teeth grinding together as he turned the next page. His hand hovered over a diagram -- an ancient sigil resembling the fortress itself, lines arcing out like orbital pathways, marking constellations. His breath caught. “If enough fall,” he murmured aloud, “they’ll open again.” He winced, a sharp throb behind his sternum cutting off the words. His hand flew to his chest, pressing hard, but the pressure did little to dull the ache. The pain wasn’t physical, it was memory -- of the last war, and what it cost to lock them away. He could recall the chanting of ten thousand celestial tongues. The weight of sealing the chaos not with keys, but with himself. The others had long since crumbled into nothing. Only he remained. He bore the map of the lock in his very being. Before he could process the next thought, agony, white-hot and sudden, seared through his spine and dragged him to one knee. A gasp tore itself from his throat, too primal to be called a cry. The book hit the floor with a hollow sound, its pages flaring open around him like wings of parchment. His eyes took him elsewhere, zipping his conscious through the garden and diving into the fountain after Vessaria. Her body still lay in the garden, breath shallow, but her soul was somewhere else. Ciaran saw it: the black water, the ruined towers jutting like broken promises, and that pesky thing. Wyddah. That face didn’t exist. It was too fluid, too wrong -- Wyddah rarely took a humanoid form as he had done in Ciaran's window. And yet it grinned at Vessaria like it had known her name since before she ever took her first breath. His fists clenched. He could not risk entering the Hallow now, as he was, and with the Bride of the Moon dancing the line between life and death. So he watched. When she screamed and shot back into herself, Ciaran’s body finally responded. The library’s shadows leapt to meet him, stretching like claws. He forced himself to stand, breath heaving, pain still lancing through his core like a hook embedded in his divine sinew, but he didn’t wait for it to fade. His power surged around him, cold and sharp. In one blink he was gone from the library, and in the next, he was at the entrance to the garden. She lay crumpled at the edge of the stone walkway just inside the castle, curled in pain, body trembling as though even the earth recoiled from her suffering. For one second, he didn’t move. He had to regain his own strength before he'd be of any use to her. Squeezing his eyes shut, he exhaled sharply to rid himself of the remainder of the pains. Then he stepped forward and scooped her up with careful strength, cradling her against his chest. Her skin was cold, soaked with sweat. Her pulse fluttered against his wrist like a trapped bird, but it was there; she had survived a dip into the world of the Hallow. He did not speak. There was no point to asking some stupid question -- "are you alright?" -- when she was so obviously out of sorts. Instead, the shadows rose around them again and in a breath, they were in her room. The fire flared to life as his boots hit the floor. With a snap of his fingers, a basin and towel appeared beside the bed. He laid her down carefully, brushing damp strands of hair from her cheek with the back of his knuckles. The scowl that settled over his face was not for her. It was for that pest, Wyddah. The music had already begun, low, crawling up from some hidden, hollow place, threaded with warped strings and dissonant tones. It sounded like a lullaby meant to keep the dead dreaming. He muttered under his breath, switching tongues without thinking. “Quorash vel himaresh… Undan’thial… Sûn vae norith…” None of it helped, of course. Ciaran dipped the cloth into the basin and wiped her brow with careful, cautious movements. Her breath had steadied somewhat, but her body twitched now and then, like the last dregs of that dark divine touch were still burning through her system. He said nothing outside of his occasional obscene curse words, but his eyes never left her, and the moment her breath hitched again, he was already bracing for the next war. |
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Neutral
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Vessaria drifted between layers of shadow and breath, suspended in the aftermath of a storm that had ravaged her from the inside out. Every limb felt like it belonged to someone else. Her body was a cage that barely remembered how to move, how to inhale. The only certainty—besides the dread still curled tight in her gut—was warmth. Not her own. Something steadier. Stronger. She clung to it without knowing why, her mind swimming in a blur of broken towers and black water, of that face— Wyddah. Even thinking the name made her ribs ache. A soft groan slipped past her lips as her senses tried to anchor themselves. The air was warm. Fire crackled nearby. She knew this room now—it smelled faintly of ash and lavender oil, her scent mixed with something old and deep that clung to the stones of Umbrythar’s keep. Her bed. Her chambers. But none of it felt right just yet. Her lids fluttered, the light too sharp. The ceiling above her seemed to spin—too far away, then suddenly too close. Her throat was dry, cracked. She wanted to speak, to ask where she was, what had happened, but her mouth was too heavy to move. Her hand twitched, brushing against linen sheets. Something damp dabbed at her forehead, and when she shifted, she felt it again: fingers. Not just any fingers. His. Vessaria forced her eyes to focus. Ciaran’s silhouette came into view slowly, as though her soul had to climb through fog to find him. He sat beside her, sleeves rolled, shadows shivering behind his spine like the echo of wings. His face was drawn tight in thought—or was it fury? The fire’s flicker made it hard to tell. His brow was furrowed. His jaw locked. That pale silver hair had fallen slightly into his eyes. He was angry. Not at her—no, he never looked at her like that. But at something else. Someone. She swallowed with effort. “I saw it,” she rasped. Her voice sounded like it had been dragged backward through broken glass. She grimaced. Her chest ached when she inhaled too sharply, as though something foreign still clung to her ribs. She didn’t know what she expected—mockery, maybe, or cool dismissal—but his eyes only searched hers, deep and sharp and unreadable as ever. She licked her lips, tried again. “The thing in the fountain. It—it wasn’t just a vision. It was… deeper. Realer than real.” Her hand curled weakly in the bedding. “It knew my name. Like it had been waiting." Her eyes flicked up to his, uncertain. Her voice lowered. “Was it Wyddah?” The moment she spoke the name aloud, the shadows in the room tightened. She felt it again—that same throb in the air, like pressure mounting behind an invisible veil. Vessaria knew better now than to mistake silence for inaction. She hated that she already knew the answer. “It was,” she whispered. “I saw it once before. Not clearly, but—it looked different this time. Too human. Too… wrong.” Her voice faltered, her lips trembling as she pushed herself up slightly, propped on her elbow. She winced. Her body protested, legs tingling, head pounding. She still felt tainted, like something had run its hands beneath her skin and then disappeared, leaving the mess behind. Vessaria turned her face slightly toward him, searching his profile in the firelight. He looked older in that moment. Not in years, but in weight. In silence. As though he’d carried this war far longer than he let on. “You’ve been there before, haven’t you?” she asked softly. “To the Hallow. The real one. Not just visions and shadows. You’ve seen them.” A beat of silence. “I saw the towers,” she continued, voice gentler now, quieter. “The ones that looked like broken bones. The water tasted like iron and nightmares. Everything there wanted me. Not in any way that makes sense. Like it wanted to break me open and wear my skin just to mock whatever made me.” She reached out and found his hand, resting on the edge of the bed. She gripped it with trembling fingers, surprising even herself. His skin was cold, as always, but solid. Real. She held onto it anyway. “I’m not strong enough for this,” she admitted in a whisper. “I pretended I was. I thought because I’d survived the choosing, the ceremony, the first night here—I thought I could face anything else. But this? That thing? It reached inside me and… I don’t even know if it left.” She shook her head, as if trying to dislodge the lingering pieces of Wyddah from her mind. Her hand fell away from his. Her strength was fading again, as if just speaking had drained whatever fire was left in her bones. Her shoulders sagged against the bed. She blinked slowly, lashes brushing her cheeks. “I was so scared,” she admitted. A simple truth, barely breathed. She wasn’t used to saying it aloud. She didn’t know if he’d mock her for it—or worse, look at her with pity. But it didn’t matter. The words were already out. A confession cracked open between them like a raw nerve. She glanced toward the fire, eyes distant. “The thing is… it felt like I’d seen that place before. In dreams I forgot. In nightmares I never fully remembered. Like a song I used to hum as a child but never knew the words. And when Wyddah spoke… I almost remembered it. Something old. Something that hurt.” Her voice faltered again. “I don’t want to go back there.” She turned her face into the pillow, hiding half of it from view, though her voice still carried through the warmth of the chamber. "I don’t care what destiny says. I don’t care what the gods want. If the Hallow’s opening—if those stars are falling—then we need to find another way. Because I will not let them take me again. Not like that. Not ever.” Her breath was steadier now, the tremble in her limbs easing, but her soul still felt bruised. Still marked. She wasn’t sure if Ciaran would stay, or if he’d vanish again into books and corridors and memories too large for her to hold. But for now, he was here. Solid. Cold. Watching over her like the last ward standing between her and the dark. She exhaled softly, not a prayer—but something close to one. “Thank you… for finding me.” |
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Darkseeker
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Ciaran sat still, elbows on his knees, chin resting lightly on the back of one folded hand. The fire cracked, and in its glow, his memory of the Hallow stirred in his eyes. Not of the Hallow as it was now, but as it had been -- before the sealing, well before the stars fell to lock the gates. He remembered a plain of blackened earth, ash drifting like snow through air that never warmed. He remembered screams carried on windless void, clawed towers rising from pits of shattered time, gods dragging their dying bodies toward him, laughing even as they bled. He had sealed them, pushed them, one by one, into the fractures of the sky, anchoring them behind constellations and ancient names. He remembered the way Wyddah had turned, not resisting or begging as some of the others did -- even Latayel had attempted to barter her way out of the pits -- just smiling, like he knew the seal would not last forever. And now, Wyddah's voice echoed again. Through her. Ciaran’s jaw flexed once. He said nothing, not even when Vessaria spoke his name. She was pale against the bedding, but alive. Breathing. The weight of the vision had not killed her. That truth alone pulsed loud in his chest like an old drumbeat. Alive. When she said Wyddah’s name, he only grimaced, the expression barely flickering across his face, but she confirmed the voice's identity for herself, without the Night King having to offer up an introduction. The shadows in the room quivered. The fire hissed. Ciaran remained seated, unmoving, as if by sheer stillness he could keep something worse from rising. When she asked if he had been to the Hallow, he nodded once. As Vissaria confessed her perceived weakness, her fear -- her trembling, cracked voice filling the warm hush between them -- his eyes never left her. He watched, as a creature who had seen mortals rise and fall and scatter like leaves, but had never once watched one walk out of the Hallow whole. And yet… she had. Vessaria’s fingers had sought his once. Now, they were curled into the blankets again, her body curling with them, turned partially away. Her voice grew quieter, smaller. She was not weeping, but the pain in her voice was its own kind of unraveling. When she said thank you, his eyes narrowed slightly as he wondered yet again how such a small human had beat back the buffetings of the ice god. No mortal should have. Not from that. "On the contrary," he finally said, emphasizing each word subconsciously, "it seems you are the strongest mortal to ever draw breath. Several Brides of the Moon -- those with divine blood, blessings, or incredible stubbornness -- have witnessed visions like yours, but not a single one woke from them. That you claim to have seen glimpses of the Hallow while still in your own world further suggests that the imprisoned gods have tried, and failed, to snuff you out from existence." Ciaran leaned forward, thumbing his chin and lower lip. "Wyddah is a weak god, but he has an immense hold over the dream world -- illusions, hallucinations, nightmares. We never did figure out how to properly keep his mind locked up. He has always acted as a sort of messenger for his superiors, so I must know-" The Night King brought his hands down, watching the princess with a hard gaze that held the entirety of the situation's gravity within it. "Vissaria of Thaloria, if you know something regarding the stability of the Hallows, I need to know." He leaned away again, closing his eyes for a moment. "But not now, if it is too much. I'd rather you recuperate from that weasel's antics first." Catan reluctantly decided that he would abandon his library for the time being, opting instead to sit by the bedside of a very peculiar stranger, acting as a sentinel of sorts. The last ward between her and the dark. |
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Summer Month: 2 
Day 
Earthquake
