#Shroud of the Avatar

[ultimacodex]

Check Out Scriven, a Custom Medieval/Ultima-Inspired Font

Scriven is a custom, open-source, medieval-style font that incorporates the various languages that feature in the "Ultima" games.

A GitHub user who goes by the handle smithkm — also known by the Dragon Name Hai-Etlik Dragon — has been developing a custom medieval-style font, which he calls Scriven, that will support most of the languages that feature in the Ultima games…and possibly, eventually, other languages as well: It will support English written with Latin script as well as the Runes from the Unicode Runic block for…

[callmeuwunt]

Omg levidia on the street!? (They are going to buy mangas)

[raven-at-the-writing-desk]

Hey um, what if the Overblot boys told each other their backstories?

Mmm… Well firstly, I think it would take a lot of effort to arrive at a point where all of the OB boys would even feel comfortable being that emotionally intimate with the others. Many of the OB boys are highly guarded and resistant to putting themselves in compromising positions. For example, I can easily see Azul being paranoid that the others would use his background as blackmail; he would not risk having his own vulnerabilities becoming public knowledge. Would Leona really be okay with being sentimental in front of various people he dislikes, especially Malleus and Vil? Would Idia feel safe unpacking his trauma and grief in front of his peers? Etc, etc, etc.

Secondly, I think that even if the OB boys were hypothetically at the point where they were okay sharing their backstories with the others, it wouldn’t change much about their immediate circumstances?? The OB boys generally don’t strike me as particularly… empathetic? At least not automatically empathetic. It’s something they would need to put effort into and actively work on. I imagine that they’d otherwise just pull a Zuko-style “That’s rough, buddy” or potentially even say something tactless that rubs their peers the wrong way (for example, not fully understanding the situation or even downplaying one another’s trauma). Riddle (someone with very little to no experience with social media and entertainment mediums) might not get how being a celebrity influences Vil’s life, Leona might insult Malleus (someone whom he has a bone to pick with), everyone might still be upset with Malleus for what he did to them in book 7. etc. Each OB boy only has their own experiences as the lens through which they see and interact with the world, and it’s not that easy for just anyone to put themselves in the shoes of another person.

Hearing a (for lack of a better term) traumadump doesn’t necessarily mean you’ll connect with it or understand just how grueling it was for the person who experienced said trauma. It would usually take a significant amount of time and reflection (ideally facilitated by a licensed mediator or professional) to digest those stories in group therapy and to make sure that everyone actually understands one another. A surface-level story retelling alone in most cases isn’t (again, for lack of a better term) “enough”, especially with how self-centered, emotionally immature, and different many of the OB boys are.

Think of empathy like a skill or a muscle. It isn’t innate. You need to develop it and train it, and not putting it to use can lead to atrophy. And given how arrogant and independent your usual NRC student is… yeah, it’s definitely going to be something for them all to work on.

If you want to think of it another way, it’s like how different players will react differently to reading the OB boys’s backstories. Someone who experienced bullying similar to Azul could more easily empathize with him while also not fully “getting” the full scope of other stories they hear. Maybe they can’t understand why Riddle still cares about the mother who mistreated him. Maybe they don’t see why Jamil sacrifices so much for his family. It doesn’t make the player a bad person for not understanding all the stories, it simply means they have a limited perspective. The same is true of the TWST characters; they, too, have incomplete perspectives and rely predominantly on their own points of views to make sense of the world.

Maybe knowing their backstories in advance would change some scenes in small ways (such as book 6, when they split up and then butt heads with each other). They’d know where the other boys were coming from, and how that informs how they act in present day. However, I maintain that I think not much would change from the original. In a stressful situation like book 6, they could easily slip up and say something insensitive/make assumptions about their behavior based on their background/overlook or not even consider their background in the first place since they’re so focused on the current task. For example, Azul, feeling insulted that Riddle is underestimating him, could make a snide remark that just because his mother was a control freak doesn’t mean Riddle also has to be. Jamil could still see Leona as a spoiled prince because, despite being treated like an outcast, he still grew up in immense privilege as royalty. They can so easily fixate on their own interpretations of events that it colors how they perceive others, rather than how they can relate to others no matter how similar or dissimilar their experiences were.

In other ways, I think the OB boys sharing their backstories with one another stifles potentially meaningful development. Character growth in TWST isn’t a sprint, it’s a marathon, and we’re here for the long haul. What does depositing all the backstories in their laps achieve for the OB boys? It artificially puts them in a situation to “better know” their peers rather than let it happen organically or allowing them to grow closer through their own efforts. Let’s look at the Deuce-Epel beach scene from book 5. Do you think it would have been as impactful of a scene if Epel explained his life in the countryside and how he got his traditional views on gender norms to Deuce? Personally, I don’t think so. The scene we currently have has them bonding and connecting through a shared activity (shouting at the sea), then having a heart-to-heart without a heavy backstory exposition. It’s through that, not explicit backstory sharing, that the two form an attachment and become genuine friends.

Those are all my thoughts!! ^^

[briry18]

DANGER FLOOF!!!

Yuuki: Down Boy! HEEL! Idia: He's a chimera not a puppy! Yuuki: Chimera, Puppy, what's the difference, he's still a danger floof who needs pets and love! Idia: ... we're all gonna die.

[luxthestrange]

Lux ARTBLOCK

[entering--hyperspace]

10, 11, 14 for leo? 👀

10. What weapons do they generally use? Are they particularly proficient with anything specific or have a preference of any kind?

Leo is Particularly skilled with greatswords which is why he primarily uses them! He's good with swords, and axes, but another honorable mention would be daggers since he's pretty quick on his feet! Scythes arent things he uses outside of his shroud But I like to think that it was because of his pact with grenth's reaper that he gained an inherent muscle memory with them in his shroud so he was able to pick it up quicker than what should've been normal...just pact things.

11: Weapons he's unfamiliar using was just any ranged weapons my man CANNOT aim

14 can be found here!

[bryan-writes]

In the quiet of your arms Mammon x reader

Summary: Mammon has a nightmare where he loses you, and wakes up to find his bed empty— you come back and find him in a state of panic.

Nightmare, happy ending!, established relationship, hurt/lots of comfort, mentions of blood/death, soft mammon

Credit to @steddiecameraroll-graphics for the beautiful dividers :)

The nightmare clung to Mammon like a vice, tightening with every breath he took. Dark tendrils wrapped around his thoughts, choking the air from his lungs. But as hard as he tried, Mammon couldn’t break free.

He was running, always running— his breath ragged, his heart slamming against his ribs— but no matter how fast his legs moved, you were slipping further away. Y/N— his human, his everything— lay before him, broken. Blood stained the earth beneath you like spilled ink, dark and endless, as if it might swallow him whole.

“Stay with me!” His voice cracked, desperate and raw. He dropped to his knees beside you, trembling fingers brushing your skin, but your warmth was quickly fading— slipping between his fingers like sand. He could see it in your eyes, the light that you shone with was dimming.

You were leaving him.

A scream clawed its way out of his throat, but when he tried to hold you closer, his arms passed through empty air.

Mammon awoke, heart hammering, drenched in cold sweat.

The darkness of his room greeted him like a heavy shroud, suffocating and oppressive. He felt the remnants of the nightmare lingering, curling in the corners of his room. He sat up, panting, eyes wildly searching— but you weren’t there.

His bed was empty, his room silent.

A void opened inside of him, deep and gnawing, a primal fear clawing at his chest. His hands shook as he fumbled for his D.D.D., calling out your name into the silence, but the device slipped from his grip, clattering to the floor.

“No, no, no…” Panic rushed through him, an icy torrent sweeping him away. He stood, stumbled, nearly tripping over his own feet as he checked every inch of his room, heart slamming against his ribs, breath coming in shallow, desperate gasps.

The world was spinning, closing in, pressing against his chest until it hurt. He could still see you— broken and lifeless— when he closed his eyes. He couldn’t lose you.

Not you.

When you returned from your trip to the bathroom, the scene you found stole the breath from your lungs.

Mammon was on the floor, knees pulled up to his chest, hands gripping fistfuls of his hair as though trying to keep himself from unraveling completely. His golden eyes— usually gleaming with mischief or arrogance— were wide and wild, filled with a terror you’d never seen before. The great Mammon, the Avatar of Greed, reduced to something fragile, something broken.

You knelt beside him, touch feather-light against his shaking form. “Mam’s… I’m here.”

He flinched at the sound of your voice, his breath catching in his throat. Slowly, he lifted his head, his gaze locking onto yours, searching your face in disbelief.

“You… you’re here,” he whispered, voice hoarse, as if he couldn’t quite trust his own eyes. His hand reached out, trembling, brushing against your cheek as though testing whether you were real, whether you would disappear the moment he blinked.

Tears finally broke through, rolling down his cheeks in heavy silence as he realized you were really there.

“You were gone—” His voice cracked, raw and vulnerable in a way he rarely let anyone see. “I-I couldn’t find ya… I thought—“ His words broke off into a choked sob, and he pulled you against him, holding you tightly, burying his face into the crook of your neck.

You wrapped your arms around him, grounding him in your warmth. You could feel the weight of his fear in the way his hands shook against your back, the way his breathing came in shallow, uneven bursts. You slowly stroked his hair, your fingers weaving through soft strands, whispering reassurances into the quiet. You tangled yourself into him on the ground, letting him press closer, as if the heat of your skin could melt away the lingering traces of his nightmare.

“I’m here, Mammon,” you whispered again, firmer this time, “I’m not going anywhere.”

His breathing slowed, but the trembling didn’t stop entirely. You could feel his heartbeat, frantic and uneven, as if he was still trapped in that dark dream. You stayed still, holding him even closer, letting him find solace in the steady rhythm of your heart. Your fingers kept brushing through his hair, over his back, each touch a promise: I’m with you.

Minutes seemed to stretch into an eternity, the room so silent that your breathing seemed to echo. Gradually, the chaos in Mammon began to ebb. His grip on you loosened, just enough to be able to look at you— really look at you. He studied you like you were a lifeline, his gaze tracing every soft curve of your face, every shimmer of warmth in your eyes, every rise and fall of your chest.

“You’re… really here,” he murmured, disbelief and awe threading through his voice. “I thought I lost ya..”

“You’ll never lose me,” you replied, fingers brushing through his hair slowly, soothingly. “I promise, I’m right here. And I always will be.”

The softness of your voice, the certainty of your words, seemed to chip away at the last of his fear. He closed his eyes, leaning forward to press his forehead against yours. “Ya don’t get it,” he whispered, voice barely audible. “I… I can’t lose ya. I don’t know what I’d do without ya.

Your heart swelled at his confession. Gently, you cupped his face, guiding him to look at you again. “You won’t,” you said, each word a promise sealed with the warmth in your gaze. “I’m here, and I’m staying.”

He leaned into your touch, hands slipping from your waist to tangle with yours, fingers intertwining as if he were holding onto something sacred. He breathed out slowly, the last traces of his fear fading with each exhale.

For a moment, neither of you moved, time slowing as you remained wrapped up in each other. The storm in his heart has passed, and all that was left was you— steady, constant, and real.

You pressed a kiss to his forehead, soft and lingering, and he closed his eyes at the feel of your lips against his skin. “Mams,” you whispered softly, your voice warm as a summer breeze, “I adore you.”

He opened his eyes, the golden warmth in them softening as he gazed at you. Slowly, he lifted his hand to cradle your face, his thumb brushing lightly over your cheek. “I adore everythin’ about ya,” he murmured, voice quiet but filled with a sincerity that made your heart flutter. “And I’m never letting’ ya go.”

You smiled, leaning into his touch, and before you knew it, his lips brushed against yours— a kiss that was gentle, tentative, and full of unspoken promises. He kissed you as though you were the most precious thing in his world, a reverence in the way he held you close.

The kiss lingered, soft and slow, before he pulled back just enough to rest his forehead against yours.

Time seemed to melt away, the two of you wrapped in each other's presence, his fears now just a distant echo. You rested your head against his chest, feeling the steady rise and fall of his breaths, the warmth that now filled the room.

For that moment, you were safe.

And you knew that, as long as you had each other, you always would be.

[himasgod]

Sharing Valentine's Day with NRC

IGNYHIDE VER.

HEARSTLABYUL VER SAVANACLAW VER OCTAVINELLE VER POMEFIORE VER SCARABIA VER DIASOMNIA VER

SCENARIO: The morning sun shone down on Night Raven College as students prepared for Valentine’s Day. Classes had ended earlier than usual, and the hallways were filled with rumors of chocolates, a few confessions, and secret dates. Despite the general excitement for that day of remembering and sharing, you hadn’t planned anything special for that day. Or at least, that’s what you thought.

But he had been acting oddly suspicious since the night before. You’d noticed his furtive glances and failed attempts at hiding smiles whenever you came near. You knew he was up to something.

With Idia Shroud

Idia Shroud

Valentine's Day at Night Raven College had never been Idia Shroud's cup of tea. The thought of confessing feelings in person or dealing with public displays of affection was simply terrifying. This year, however, was different. He'd spent months building up the courage to do something special for you.

That morning, you received an unexpected message on your magic device. It was from Idia:

"Can you come to my room? I have something for you. If you're not busy, that is."

Curious, you headed to Ignihyde's dorm. The door opened automatically upon detecting you, and you were met by a visibly nervous Idia. His hair glowed with pink hues, something uncommon even for him.

"This is weird, isn't it? Ugh, sorry, I'm so clumsy with these things…"

Idia led you to his gaming console, where a huge screen displayed a game you'd never seen before.

“I spent weeks designing it,” he confessed, looking down at his feet. “It’s a two-player game… well, only you and I can play it.”

You took the controller he offered you, and soon found yourself in a picturesque virtual world filled with warm colors and adorable details. There were flower-filled bridges, shimmering lakes, and starry skies. As you progressed through the game together, you discovered little messages hidden in the landscapes:

“Thank you for always being with me.”

“Having you around makes even the darkest days a little brighter.”

“You’re my happy place.”

Your heart filled with tenderness with each message.

Finally, you reached the final level, a night scene under a giant tree lit by golden lights. In the center of the clearing, an avatar representing Idia awaited you.

On the screen, the avatar began typing a message:

“You are my first thought in the morning and the last before I sleep. Thank you for accepting me as I am. Would you like to spend this Valentine's Day and all future ones with me?”

You turned to Idia, who was now red to the tips of his hair.

“Was it too much? Sorry, I can reset the game if you didn't like it!”

You took his hand gently, smiling.

“It was perfect, Idia. I would love to spend Valentine's Day with you.”

Idia's eyes widened, and his hair sparkled with flashes of happiness.

You spent the rest of the day exploring the virtual world together, laughing and sharing moments that only you would understand. Idia felt, for the first time in a long time, completely at peace.

“Thank you for giving me a chance,” he said later, when night came.

“Thank you for creating a world just for us.”

[heartfullofleeches]

Miller [Streamer Yan] and Vtuber Darling that's a regular 110% human being just like them :). Darling's model is pretty average, yet cute looking, but it's their gimmick that really pulls people in.

"Ah, I'm a little thirsty. Excuse me while I drink water with my human mouth... which I have only one of."

"Do you like when I play horror games? I. Like. Them. Too. But I prefer the ones where the main character befriends the monsters at the end :)"

"Oh... Is that really what people look like instead?... I. Am full of meat too. We have so much more in common than I thought."

Quite the oddball, but their chat finds their behaviors adorable. Miller does too. They're over the moon when Darling accepts their friend requests and even more thrilled when darling mentions Miller is their first companion and streaming buddy. They've never been able to make friends before and was lonely because of it, but since they've gained a following it feels like they're never alone.

There are a few hiccups on the day Miller and Darling first stream together. Static drowns out darling's voice when they call and Miller can faintly hear what sounds like...purring? in the background. Darling apologies for the strange sounds once they're finally able to get through to Miller - their pet cat was happy they finally made a friend.

Miller is crushing hard from day one. They've never seen darling's face, but if they're half as cute as their voice they might be too far out of Miller's league. They've tried scrolling through darling's social media pages for photos of them, but all they were able to find was old selfies taken in the worst lighting imaginable... Pretty blurry too.

Darling likes Miller too. They feel as though they can trust the streamer. Trust them with anything.

"Mill...er? I. Have a confession."

"I'm all ears- Lay it on me, baby."

"Can you promise? Promise. Not to be.. Afraid?"

"Afraid? Who'd ever be scared of someone like you? You don't really scream serial killer from the conversations we've had so far."

"If that's is the case... Join the call. See. Me. I. Trust you, Miller."

Call? Oh, darling invited them to a video call. It's crazy that it's the first one after all the time, but Miller respects their privacy....a little. Miller can't see much of anything when they join in. Small, white lights greet them shrouded by the darkness of darling's room as their end connects. Looking closer, Miller realizes....

Those are eyes.

"I'm. So sorry for deceiving you.... and everyone else. Miller.... Thank you for being so kind to me. I couldn't lie to you anymore. I'm sorry. I understand. If you hate me now ...."

"Hate you?.... I'm trying to figure out when our first date is-"

"Ah?"

"You like pork chops? Steak? I remember you talking a lot about meat in earlier streams. I like a person who can really eat, y'know?"

Are they.... flirting? Darling is vaguely aware of the practice. Miller can see them right? Why are they acting so nonchalant about their appearance?

"Hm? It's still you, isn't it? A few more eyes or rows of teeth don't change the fact you're one of the chillest people I've met online. Cutest too. Even now.... So, when can we meet up?"

Miller is strange.... but Darling is strange too. They're happy they met them.

-

Miller: So you're telling me you've been this sexy monster person this entire time?

Vtuber Darling: i... suppose?

Miller: And you choose that boring ass design as your avatar?! Actually that was probably better for me personally - weeds out some of the competition.

[simplyreveries]

Playin with Gloomurai and Muscle Red except you don't know who they are, and they don't know who you are and you're a surprisingly pro player despite how funky the character looks (pls headcannon?)

playing with them online; idia and lilia

I LOVE THIS CONCEPT??

idia shroud

at first idia laughed at your silly avatar and just thought you were some newbie or something to the game... when you requested to fight him, he was like "hehehe this person is an idiot...easy win" until you absolutely demolished him with some of the best items idia had been trying to get since forever!! he's spent hours grinding trying to get. since then, he kinda took it as his own personal mission to surpass you but it just turned into him enjoying playing with you and it turns into some playful rivalry.

he finds himself waiting for you to be online sometimes... since he's probably a lot more online than you. he'll groan when it takes you a while and complain to ortho about it. this is usually the time you are online!! idia sometimes spams your dms. they're pretty stupid too since he's just trying to be annoying, he thinks it's so funny. though, what is funny is if you knew how different his typing quirks and online personality is different in comparison to his actual real-life self. hes so much more talkative chatting online.

idia loves just going on quests with you in the game and fighting monsters and bosses together. he thinks you two are such a powerful duo together. you two stay up until laaate hours of the night playing together.

he still makes an effort to one up you, like whenever there's special events in the game and golden opportunities for him to get rare and special items, he's all over it. he gets all smug and proud of himself only to be once again for you to one up him.

lilia vanrouge

he finds himself quite impressed with how far you are in this game, lilia enjoys that he gets an opportunity to play with someone like you. and soon enough you two are always playing together. he always playfully tells you that you take up so much of his time! as he finds himself spending more and more time on that game to play with not only Gloomurai but you as well.

lilia totally customizes his character so it matches yours, he thinks it's cute. but that also meant he just had to play some more to actually get some those said items... because you've got the rare, good stuff in this game. but that's fine he made you come along and help him get those items anyway. you two roam around the game fighting enemies and completing quests in your silly matching outfits.

has a habit of telling silver about this friend of his he found through the game, he seems so happy talking about you two and your little game endeavors.

he always praises you whenever you get yet another powerful item, he once again just thinks it's highly impressive with how far you are! he doesn't exactly take that game overly serious he's just content with enjoying playing it with others. besides he already is pretty good in the game. it confuses both you and idia sometimes because he just gets so lucky without even trying half the time.

[ultimacodex]

Chris Spears and Starr Long Are Working On a New Game

Can we treat this as evidence that "Shroud of the Avatar" is basically dead?

It’s been a while since we’ve bothered to post any news about Shroud of the Avatar on the Codex, mostly because there has been precious little newsworthy development on that game in quite some time (asset drops and additional player housing lots manifestly do not count). And to be fair, I’m not entirely certain that this news about Chris Spears and Starr Long’s newest studio & game project is…

[callmeuwunt]

Playing games👾

I really love drawing these two, hope u like it!!

I struggled drawing idia’s hair, I’m kinda blocked with my art rn so it makes sense but I think I kinda pulled it out 😓.

[cloudcountry]

pudding filled dirt cupcake + mostro lounge™ sponsored collaboration cup of bubble tea perhaps? (I don’t know if I’m doing this right, I’m so sorry 🥲)

you did it right dont worry!! <3 i love giving the reader flaws mwah

an order of romantic fluff with idia shroud!

“Shouldn’t the sofa go over there? I think it would look better with the fireplace that way.” you comment, moving your avatar towards the virtual sofa you and Idia were attempting to place.

“You’re right lol. My inventory is so full, I need to get this stuff out of it.” he hums, picking the sofa back up and moving it to your desired location.

“If it makes you feel better, I’ll let you pick out the wallpaper and flooring.” you compromise, narrowing your eyes as you peruse the furniture catalog.

“Yeah right, you’d just change it if it didn’t fit your taste.” Idia snorts, his snarky tone not lost on you, “You’re so particular about the way your house is decorated. You always have been.”

“Someone has to be worried about it!” you protest, throwing a balled up piece of paper at his head. It bounces off his flames and he grunts in acknowledgment, his eyes not moving from the screen.

A few beats of silence fill the room as you two gather and place furniture, working out which designs suit your tastes the best. Idia has always bowed to you in this game, since you were the one to introduce it to him (and the one that actually decorated...if you left him up to his own devices, you’d come back to a total Halloween-fest of a house. Which, to be fair...wouldn’t be all that bad.)

“Idia, did you seriously move the sofa back?” you groan, coming across the arrangement you’d just fixed.

He giggles madly, and that’s enough of a response.

“You’re so petty.” you huff, staring at your screen in contemplation.

It’s easy to get caught in the game, Idia knows that all too well. Maybe, instead of being so bossy, you should let him decorate how he likes to sometimes.

“...you know what, we’ll keep it like that.” you nod thoughtfully.

[the-voice-beckons-below]

Not All Is Lost

neytiri (james cameron avatar) x gn! navi reader

summary: after losing your father to the hands of the sky people, you're lost, and vulnerable, and may have to finally face the feelings long overbrewed for the princess of the omatikaya; who already seems preoccupied choosing between her betrothed and the new warrior dreamwalker within the clan.

warnings: miscommunication, grief, mention of death, supposed unrequited feelings, accidental mating, some mention of violence, jealousy, reader thinks neytiri is a goddess btw, because she is fr, two idiots in love.

word count : 1,792

neytiri was to be courted and eventually mated to tsu’tey. they would become a mated pair, neytiri would be the next tsahik and tsu’tey would follow as ole’ekytan. it was the way. you had known this ever since you were small.

so why did it matter now? was it the way the demon named jake sully stared at her, like she was the most precious thing he’d seen? or was it the fact time was closing in until Tsu’tey would have Neytiri as his?

you had known, you had known this. Neytiri was untouchable, dutifully paired off with Tsu’tey because he was a warrior, a leader, a provider. and yet your skin burned at the thought, a selfish voice prodded at your head, that you could be better.

you would tear the flesh of jake sully’s skin if you were permitted, you would carve out tsu’tey’s heart and hand it to her if she so requested.

your envy, your burning jealousy grew by the day, it was gnarly and rough as you trained. your sparring partners were all but thrown about in your silent rage, you spent more time hitting bullseyes than sleeping at this point. several sleepless nights spent glaring at the ceiling were not doing wonders for your health, it seemed Neytiri had snugly plagued every corner of your brain.

it had always been her.

it wasn’t this infatuation that had sprouted one day or a crush that had formed recently. no, this yearning had been prevalent ever since you were children. practicing english after Dr Augastine’s lessons at school, healing your wounds after a difficult hunt, dancing at celebrations, running through the forest while it was raining, watching the wild animals of pandora trot around from afar.

your admiration only grew throughout the years, starting from a curious flame to an aching fire.

and the opportunity to finally confess arrived at the most unfortunate time in your life. grief wasn’t unknown to the omatikaya, in recent years it seemed to have trebled, and you had been lucky enough to dodge the bullet. so far, at least up until now. your father’s body didn’t look real, it looked fake. eywa you wished it was, that his cold body was warm. that maybe he was still breathing, that life welcomed him once more.

but no matter how long you stared, at his now dull skin, that used to shine the brightest cobalt. he did not awaken. he did not budge, he never would again. so you cupped your hands and shakily let a seed from the spirit tree float down, down into the crevice in the ground he would forever be nestled in from now on.

and that’s when she knelt next to you, green eyes scanning your slumped frame. before she could even whisper the words, “i’m sorry.” you had grasped her hand tightly, swallowing the lump in your throat and not bothering to mask the tears. her body had jolted slightly before her own grasp tightened on yours, squeezing your hand in support.

you were friends after all. friends. you suppose that’s all you’d ever be. and what is grief but an accelerant to show your love for others?

your turn had been slow, facing her shakily, the others sharing their condolences had left a long while ago. you had been frozen, sitting there for hours, just staring at his still corpse, shrouded in flora and seeds from the sacred tree. “neytiri.”

“yes. i am here, i am here.” a part of you melted at just that, eywa how lucky you were for her to be here, cosied up next to you. cradling your hand in hers, it was a blessing, that would’ve been appropriately savoured at any other time than this.

“i wish you’d never have to leave.” the admission was almost bitter, the tears cascading down only ran thicker, trailing down the slopes of your cheeks with abandon.

“what do you mean friend?” she shifted closer, dipping her head down so your gaze landed on hers. her beautiful eyes, speckled with green and yellow, so unique, so breathtaking.

“i don’t want to be your friend.” her mouth parted in a silent gasp, a look of offence rushing over her features, but she stayed in place, stubborn for an explanation. “the day sylwanin passed, i had made you a courting gift.”

“…what?”

“it was a necklace, it was clumsy. i was so excited to make it, there were feathers and parts of fractured crystals and my ikran’s tooth. she had broken it, i thought it would symbolise giving you my soul and even more after that.”

“i don’t, i don’t understand.” her grip had faltered and her eyes were frantically blinking.

“my heart broke when i found out sylwanin passed, it broke even more with the news of your betrothal. if i had, talked to you the day before, i- i don’t know. i have loved you, always, the first time i looked at you, i just knew. i can’t, i can’t go the rest of my life pretending that my heart doesn’t belong to you. it does. it will for the rest of eternity. i will lose you, you will never be my mate but i just need you to know neytiri, i know that you will not choose me, you cannot, tsu’tey is good, so is jake, i see the way they look at you. i-“

“you fool.” but the insult held no malice, it held endearment. it took everything within you not to shudder with the sudden movement of your face being cupped, so gently, so..lovingly. “i have wanted to fulfil my duty. i have two men that are courting me, one because he has to, the other because he has fallen in love with me.” one moment the both of you were sitting at the open grave, and the next, she had pulled you up and silently beckoned you to follow until you arrived at the trees of voices.

it was an ethereal sight, people would commonly visit in dark times, in times of struggle, or even, when mating. she spoke again, softly. “these two men, they are strong, very strong.” you sucked in a breath, your wet eyes leaking once again. “no no, do not cry, please do not cry. they are not you.”

“they’re not me? i don’t- i don’t understand.” it had been a long day, so it didn’t take much for your knees to buckle, the confusion and pain of it all was too much to candle. but sweet, perfect neytiri caught you, settling on her knees with her arms wrapped around your torso. keeping you grounded.

“why should i not be allowed to choose from my heart? i have been chasing duty for so what? what would it be worth if i do not have a mate i adore? i respect jake and tsu’tey.”

you held your breath.

“but i adore you.” she crooned, and your slumped posture from earlier returned, this time you leant purely into her. head slotting in the crook of her neck.

“please, tell me this is real.”

“i see you, i love you too.” she whispered in the crown of your head, “i thought that, that it could never happen. you became so cold after i was betrothed, always training, always busy. i missed you.”

“i’m sorry, im so sorry. i was trying to distract myself, but you were always the highlight of my day. whenever i saw or spoke to you, my heart beamed.”

“it is okay yawne, do not apologise.” she pulled you closer, incredibly so, both warm and moulded together. any semblance of control drifted away, the sigh you let out was pure contentment, happiness and giddiness.

“can, can we-“ you were unable to get the words out, shifting slightly and in doing so, accidentally pushed your kurus that had been laying at your sides, together. they wrapped around each other eagerly, intensely interlocking and in doing so, you and neytiri cried out brokenly. equally as startled at the hundreds of sensations now invading your senses.

you locked eyes frantically, and after a moment’s long silent pause. both laughed, airy and disbelieving. tsaheylu had been made, your kurus had practically sought each other, intertwining desperately. you felt her, the potency of her emotions weren’t like any other. it coursed through you, love, adoration, endless bouts of affection hurtled straight towards you.

“my mate.” you breathed, cocooning into whatever skin of hers you could reach. “my glorious mate.” attentive fingers caressed her soft cheeks, they ran down her cobalt chest, pressing deeply against a bare breast. right above her beating heart. “i will protect this, your soul. i vow it.”

neytiri’s smile was bound to hurt from how wide it stretched her pink gums. “it was not how i expected this to go.” she admitted sheepishly, a rare sight. the colour in her face saturated, blooming into a warm plum. “this day, it has been long for you.”

you nodded, still shaken up. “yes.” you thumbed her intricate braids, “yes it has. but i would not trade it. i have lost, and i have gained.” slowly, you pulled her close, enough so that you both were enveloped. “tsu’tey and jake will kill me.”

“they would be foolish to try.” she hissed, quietly. warmth seeping into you.

“what about your mother? your father? will your title be strippe-“

“do not worry. all is as it should be.” neytiri nuzzled deeper, melting into her newfound mate. “we will get through it. rest.”

sleep chased you, and right there, at the tree of souls, you drifted off. grief tucked behind your ribs and love driven into your guarded heart. her own arms went slack, but the loose hold remained, two new lovers bathing under sacred light, ready to defy the odds. to go against tradition.

love was never easy.

“what if, i don’t deserve this? deserve you?” you had tentatively said the next morning, caressing the curves of her face. unsure if you were prepared to walk into hometree, to see the judging stares towards you. undoubtedly towards you, because neytiri was the heavens plucked from the sky, would you be deemed worthy enough to settle by her side?

“you worry too much.” her lips found purchase on your temple, pressing so delicately that they might’ve not been felt at all if you weren’t paying attention. “eywa has willed it so, you are meant for me. you are mine, mine. and i am yours, i wouldn’t want to be anyone else’s.” she smiled, challengingly, “if anyone dares to disagree, they will face my bow.”

you laughed disbelievingly, how could someone so sweet be equally as deadly? it was, intoxicating. cupping the strongest and the most beautiful person in all of existence. “then, i shall be your arrow.”

author's note: dude, first of all what do we think of the dividers? (i made them myself!!), i think theyre beautiful and i think ill put them up for others to use with credit. honestly glad i finally finished this one shot, the feeling of it to me is very beautiful, theres grief, sadness, jealousy and so much love. above all when i write, i prioritise emotion and i hope people are able to see that.

i also hope my depiction of neytiri isnt too mischaracterised, shes such a beautiful character, one of my favourites actually. this is also a hard launch for my blog and first fic. i cant wait to write more!! anyway to show youve enjoyed this like likes, comments and reblogs are so appreciated and motivate me to continue writing. it goes for all authors, dont be quiet or silent if you really enjoy something!! ive rambled enough LMAO (my bad my bad), let me know your thoughts :]

[disneytva]

DARKWING DUCK #3

(W) Daniel Kibblesmith (A) Ted Brandt, Ro Stein (CA) Tad Stones

CROUCHING GANDER, HIDDEN MALLARD! As a costumed crimefighter with years of experience safeguarding the streets of St. Canard, Darkwing Duck is, of course, a seasoned master of wing-to-wing combat. But how, exactly, did this avian avatar of justice become so proficient in the ways of the fist and (webbed) feet? For years the full story has been shrouded in mystery – until now! In this special Untold Tale of Darkwing Duck, readers will be transported back to DW's earliest days at the Training Temple of the Venerable One, where the Old Master imparted wisdom and takedowns in equal measure – and where a young Darkwing learned the value of patience, self-control, and standing up to bullies!

In Shops: Apr 02, 2025

[slowd1ving]

✦ V. HE IS THE MOST PITIFUL OF MEN

'The stagnancy was broken once more. Lips pursed in displeasure, and the face shrouded by the shadows of the night disappeared back into the darkness. He who remained asleep was none the wiser—caught in the throes of surgeless rest.  In the morning, the sculptor would stumble into the chilly studio—waking up with strangely light shoulders and an unclouded mind—only to find his magnum opus gone. Within the chalky base remained the imprints of footsteps, as though the statue had merely walked away. The cold glass skin of juice shattered against the flagstones: seeping a bleeding red into a pristine pathway. Just like in his restless dreams, that figure left him far behind once again.' • . * cursed prince ratio + alchemist m reader rough design for minoan fashion ratio here warnings: video game violence, death? kind of? tyranny (are we surprised), male-coded reader (or at least the in-game avatar is) wc: 11.4k

LAMENT OF OUROBOROS MASTERLIST

HONKAI STAR RAIL MASTERLIST

MASTERLIST ・゜・NAVIGATION

Night fell over the Borderlands: still and cold and silent. It crept in with the blank grace of an assassin, slated only with the condensed breath of the sculptor who quietly shut his book and swilled the last dregs of tepid tea into his mouth. Tapping against the worn, leather cover was the blunt—almost sleepy—thump of the pen, while a lazy hand mindlessly traced formulae into the soft material of the couch. 

The final line of a sonnet seeped into his mind. 

The spectre of lavender ghosted his mouth. 

In the end, the evening consumed him once more. It was a night like any other—the bound poems collapsed against the tranquil rise and fall of his chest, and his eyes fluttered closed. The clatter of a pen against floorboards broke the hush, but slumber already cradled him. Like hands dragging souls to the underworld, the descent into unconsciousness was as easy as it was natural: something he was unaccustomed to. 

Something had shifted. 

There was no herald leading him to the cliff sides in the pitch of night. The dreams no longer featured his muse wandering the lonely fields under an equally lonely moon: a crescent smile lighting the deep jet curtain of the sky. Scenes that used to be coherent had fragmented: the smooth coils of a scaled behemoth flashed past in his mind; the scent of a laboratory and teaching a certain apprentice the fundamental tenets of chemistry; and finally, the few good memories of a life left long behind. Cigarettes on a misty afternoon. Rich coffee, and a stack of books. Relaxed conversations with people he’d never see again. 

Something had changed. 

Those hands, once so eager to sculpt and sketch, to rid himself of the incessant being who plagued his thoughts, had become placid and unmoving. The chain of cognition that shackled him to the pursuit of creation had shattered; Atlas passed on the burden of the sky to somebody else. No longer did his fingers stretch after the flashes of damson locks, and neither did he picture the frigid stare of a man who barely ever glanced behind himself. 

Who altered the tapestry of his mind?

It was a question he could not answer; at least, not while he slept peacefully. Only his steady breathing stirred the otherwise silent space, and even the clumsy pad of footsteps failed to break the serenity of the scene. 

A hand reached out, tentatively. In the waning moonlight, it was illuminated like the palest of jades—just as cold too, for when a thumb brushed past the sculptor’s cheek, the sleeping man shivered minutely but ultimately did not wake. The hand retreated, startled—as skittish as a foal, as if it hadn’t quite adjusted to this world. 

“Mmh, Aventurine, always make sure to take at least three trials.” The stagnancy was broken once more. Lips pursed in displeasure, and the face shrouded by the shadows of the night disappeared back into the darkness. He who remained asleep was none the wiser—caught in the throes of surgeless rest. 

In the morning, the sculptor would stumble into the chilly studio—waking up with strangely light shoulders and an unclouded mind—only to find his magnum opus gone. Within the chalky base remained the imprints of footsteps, as though the statue had merely walked away. The cold glass skin of juice shattered against the flagstones: seeping a bleeding red into a pristine pathway.

Just like in his restless dreams, that figure left him far behind once again. 

. 　⁺ ✦

Senator Anastasia loves playing with guns—shot his wife and two kids dead he did,

Senator Anastasia loves his guns. 

Senator Demetrios secretly funded drug trafficking—against all pursuit of amoral alchemy he is,

Senator Demetrios loves his drugs.

Senator Leander has rather sticky fingers—-rigged the vote he did,

Senator Leander loves his dirty tricks. 

—Excerpt from a street ditty sung in the 1435 Second Amber Age, modern New Metis, a month before the elections

(Origins uncertain. Appears to have been spread, either intentionally or unintentionally, following the mass exposé released by anonymous whistleblower writing piece after piece on high profile politicians who run the nation.)

. 　⁺ ✦

‘New Metis is on the verge of irreversible decay: the last vestiges of an empire that should’ve been reforged a whole Amber Age ago.  

The apt metaphor often used to describe the Metis of old is the fable of the rotten seed—that which is spoiled shall too bloom spoiled. Old Metis was addled with corruption, bribery, and a gross misuse of power which was supposed to be carefully checked and balanced by its governmental system. Poor considerations of its citizens led to a desperate fight for rights that had gone wholly ignored—the famed, retold and dramatised Scholar’s March of 786 of the Attican Calendar that forged a new path for Metis to travel on, free from the despair of the past. 

Or so the plan was written as. 

New Metis has attempted fruitlessly to distance itself from its brutal past. 

It forgets that its reins never changed hands. 

Who makes the legislation? Who debates on the fate of our scholars sent to study in the capital of learning? Who dictates the politics, thus the future, of this city-state? 

It is not the people who marched who forge our path. It is the people who lingered in the shadow of a scapegoat to seize power once more.

Never forget this truth, Metis, for the drums are starting to beat once more.’

— Inana, P. (1435 2AA). Rotten Seeds of Metis: Witnesses of the Fall. Realpolitik Magazine, Issue 307.  

. 　⁺ ✦

“Must feel liberating,” the matron commented. For once, the gleaming measuring rod rested on HER lap as SHE rested a chin on HER marked palm. “He no longer feels the burden of two fates.”

“He lost art he poured his soul into,” the maiden snipped. For once, HER face lacked its youthful cheer, but rather contained a twisted sense of rue. It was out of character, but neither older nor the oldest commented on it, for THEY too felt the same strange regretfulness. “I don’t think he’s feeling any of that lightness right now.”

“It’s better than the prince’s fate,” the matron muttered, though HER voice wavered slightly. “Now he has taken on the path of setting right the sins of his forefathers.”

“Lack of closure is damning too,” the hag interjected. “Look where it led him.”

“They aren’t the same,” SHE argued back. “The sculptor can finally focus on himself.”

“Both had their lives forever rerouted,” the youth snapped. “Don’t attempt to assuage your guilt over it. It was fair, but the chance they’ve been allotted is tough—no sophistry will change that.”

The space was silent: a lull in the tapestry. 

“There are new winds in the learnéd city,” the crone finally spoke up. “At long last the change the prince hoped for will be catalysed by none other than himself. That’s all we could ask for—he’s no longer stuck in limbo, and Metis can have its age of heroes.”

THEY were silent again; for when had the three started caring about how humans felt? 

“That foolish boy,” SHE murmured. “It’s finally been set right, but he won’t be happy for a long time.”

. 　⁺ ✦

Time moved on. The sand in the hourglass marked the bittersweet end of summer: a tumultuous thing, filled with both the elation of creating art and the tragedy of losing it. You were incredulous at first, filled with a denial of reality as you sank to the floor of your studio. Only the base of the sculpture remained; oh so lonely without its muse upon it. Kakavasha couldn’t have touched it, no matter how much he glared and gritted his teeth. It was unyielding to all but you, after all.  

It simply… walked away. Trod a path far from the tranquil garden it was situated in, on the road of absurdity in this stupid game. You found it hard to suppress the anger; nay, it was more like stewing irritation. Calloused fingers spent months—night and day, morning and evening—hungering for something other than food, absorbed wholly to your craft. All that time, gone. For naught. You sat in the empty studio, surrounded only by fluttering pages upon pages of sketches: charcoal lines that seemed to mock you, to remind you this was in fact reality and not some twisted dream. 

You bargained. Pleaded with the lines on your body to cooperate, wishing for you to figure out what exactly happened to your hard work. Nothing—not a whisper, nor any hint, emerged from the crime scene, still flaked with the residual stone. There was no thread tying the two of you, nor a map that could possibly show you the sculpture’s location. Only a single conclusion emerged from a murky cesspit of confusion: something was blocking you, something even more powerful than yourself.

It was easy to fall into despair. You couldn’t bring yourself to rid the space of the stone, but piece by piece you swept the shards into a box—then finally worked up the courage to muster a spell to move the plinth to the attic. It hurt slightly less when you could no longer see it: carefully filing away the leagues of sketches into a cabinet, 

Acceptance betrayed you when you woke up one morning and realised the itch in your hands to carve was gone. Vanished, like it never existed. As if you were a marionette with its strings cut, you’d never quite felt so light before—and it made you wonder: why did I make this in the first place? Were you finally in possession of your senses? Were you free from the fog in your mind?

True to his character, Aventurine didn’t question you (you wouldn’t exactly know how to explain it even if he did ask). He eyed you as you spent an hour sewing on the couch, he shot you a glance when you came back after re-renovating the studio, and he only coughed once or twice in surprise as you hauled in boxes of fragile equipment. He seemed more relieved than not, at how short-lived his sculpting apprenticeship had been: staring down at the spot where your art had been with a strange, vindictive sort of look on his face. Though, his brows wore a look of confused, yet pleasant surprise—for him, it seemed to be an unexpected, though not unwelcome, boon. 

You ignored it, just like he ignored the dust settling on your chisels as you picked up your goggles once more. 

It seemed you couldn’t quite deny your roots. 

The lab coat fit like a second skin, stitched by hands made deft from a decade or so of odd work. It was pristine; thick white synthetic material developed by the scholars in Metis, embroidered with your name: bright against the blank coat, and a reminder of the life you left behind. Your hands stopped smelling of clay and began trailing behind caustic acid while you worked, mixed with arenes and the artificial scent of organic molecules. 

Within the forest, you took apart plants—systematically disassembling them and breaking them down on a molecular level as you tried to unravel this world. Shipments after shipments of textbooks came and went, and you pored over each one with a fervour unseen since you sculpted: jotting information, culminating in writing paper after paper on materials, molecules, quantum phenomena and everything in between. 

Kakavasha seemed to appreciate the change—dutifully assisting you in your analyses as a shadow would—and soon he too began leaving a trail of chemicals behind. 

A late night turned into two, two turned into weeks of restless evenings as you worked in the laboratory to collate the work into a journal on concepts you’d already mastered on Earth, but hadn’t been explored in Ouroboros. If Aventurine saw the dark circles marring your face, then he sure as hell didn’t say anything. 

A burden had been swapped for another, but this one felt lighter than air. 

Over in the mainland, things too were changing—at an unprecedented rate. 

. 　⁺ ✦

In the shadows of an alleyway—pristine despite the darkness lurking in the city—a figure leaned against a wall, tracing graceful fingers across his bracers as he examined the people milling about. His eyes grazed the way they dressed, the way they carried themselves—some furtive, some bright and cheerful, but all with the intrinsic quality of wanting to move on from the broadly lit street. 

It was the same as it had been a millennium ago.

Strike one.

He gazed at the law enforcer coldly as the man forced him into the sweltering sun—only harsh utterances escaped his mouth. Shady characters like you deserve arrest, he heard; words tangling in his ears like cobwebs, just as fragile as whatever the officer was compensating for. The silence seemed to only irritate the man more, who sharply marched—paraded—him straight to an office where a stern supervisor lectured him on laws he had seen his own brother write. 

Strike two. 

And still, the officer—though trigger happy as he was—had that odd look in his eyes. He wanted to punish the long-deposed prince, he wanted to keep him in the Metis city gaol for the night for loitering, but couldn’t— that would be drawing attention to the officer’s existence. 

Strike three. 

The newspapers and books had all been carefully monitored. Entry to the library was free, and he chose an alcove near a slightly dilapidated section, pressing the crystal-powered tablet on the table—after curiously examining the mechanisms with a cursory enchantment that was far more ancient than the very building he sat in. 

Scholar’s March, uprising against the corrupt royal family, power to the government and noble archontes. He scrolled through the device with apprehension—the database containing all available texts in this place—and concluded there was no information here worth his time.

It took him approximately three hours, combing meticulously through each shelf while steadily building almost imperceptible tendrils of enchantments to aid him in his search. Not a student spared an eye, while the machines built to combat magic that surrounded the place didn’t so much as jolt. He almost sneered. 

A revolution had been encoded in his simulations of the future. It had been inevitable. Yet, nothing had changed. The quality of magic had degraded, education was still not allowed to develop and flourish naturally, and in the end, nothing had really changed. 

Strike four. 

He left in a pensive sort of silence. The wiretap he’d set around the city told him all he needed to say. 

Changing how Metis worked was long overdue. 

. 　⁺ ✦

“I think you’ll finally be able to present your papers in person,” Aventurine waved a thick sheaf of papers in front of you while you carefully decanted an aldehyde into a boiling tube; you could only stare at him through the warped glass as he spoke whatever information he’d gleaned. “Metis has officially begun the repeal of its heresy laws and censorship policy—this is the first issue of a brand new Metisian newspaper, over here is another one, there’s a few administrative letters from the index of banned books and texts, one of which was your own.”

The studies and articles you’d written, on material sciences, quantitative chemistry, and everything in between, had been receiving attention everywhere but Metis—for the sole reason of their references to alchemy in chemistry. It had been a year since you switched focus to your specialty once more, a year since your magnum opus had disappeared, and a year since you vowed to contribute to the world you were put in. 

The scientist based in the treacherous Borderlands. A mind far undervalued by Metis. The brain behind the legendary element discoveries of mirthium and erdium. What new theories will he propose now?

It wasn’t front page news, though, certainly, on the scientific papers it had been. You glanced at the wads of soggy newsprint, then at the neat folders containing medical proposals behind him, then gave a faint smile. “You think they’ll accept me as a Sophos?”

“Yes.” His words left no room for argument—a firm, resolute tone that belied none of his honeyed tongue. “They’ve been fools far too long, masquerading as geniuses.”

“I suppose,” you conceded, adjusting the temperature dial on the heater. “Though the limitations on their study have produced some incredibly advanced specialisation in science, I’m glad the scholars are free from the shackles that bound them.”

“So who’s going to teach them what they previously couldn’t learn?” His neon gaze was firmly locked onto yours. There was a deeper question hidden within his relentless stare: are you going to step foot in the place you’ve avoided? Will you leave the memories of this place behind?

“Those who have relevant expertise,” you answered neutrally. Diplomatically. You’d considered the idea, toyed around with it in your brain. Tasted it, even —rolling it in your mouth this way and that as you contemplated exactly what to say if you were ever asked this. In the end, your words came out grey and foggy—totally impersonal. You frowned, and Aventurine caught the slight furrow between your brows. “I won’t live there, ever. If I get invited as a lecturer or student, I’ll remain here. It’s high time they upgraded their transport between there and the Borderlands regardless.”

And if worse comes to worse, I could finally finish working on those high-grade teleportation rings, you added silently, though Kakavasha had known you long enough by now to recognise the wanderlust in your eyes that indicated a new project was brewing in your mind. There were several formulae decorating your legs that indicated flight, or at least travel, and you simply hadn’t the opportunity to decrypt the letters. 

“Right. You’ve already received degrees of knowing from several other universities, and then some awards,” he murmured. “If anyone’s qualified to speak on these groundbreaking concepts…”

The revolution had been bloodless and quick. It suited the scholastic city, based on the fast dissemination of information and logs that had forced those in charge to abruptly resign. In fact, it had been so rapid that the ripples barely had time to reach you—the ink on your manuscripts had only just dried—when news of the fall of the government and the implementation of an almost mechanical, algorithmic government had been brought to you by Aventurine. New officials were elected almost instantaneously, driven by masses of students that had crammed into booths that had long fallen to disuse, over disillusionment with politics. The youth and elders alike had voted for each member of a temporary Council that seemed to be watched over by the benevolent whistleblower who’d first triggered the first falls of grace. 

You hadn’t quite seen anything like it—waiting with baited breath for either the tempering or the brutal collapse of the rejuvenated city. And surprisingly, it held. There was no external influence, no devastation as Metis erupted in civil war. This was not Earth, you reminded yourself, and it truly wasn’t. 

A heavy envelope came only a week later into your locker that you reserved at the small post office in Metis. It was cream-coloured, and faintly fragranced of vermouth and atrament. You sliced it open with the bone-sword that hung by the mantle, ignoring Kakavasha’s wide-eyed stare as you did so. The contents inside were typed in neat print, and all but one line stood out to you.

We invite you freely to earn your distinction as Sophos in an abbreviated period, and cordially wish you stay on to teach integrated enchantment through alchemico-chemistry. 

You smiled, but it was a strange, hollow thing. 

“You… got it? You got the job?” he murmured, a selcouth blend of apprehension and a little, manic grin. 

“It’s likely, though…” you trailed off as a second letter caught your eye, tucked in between the thick stack of a contract and a printed copy of one of your works—which you swore hadn’t been there before. On the mauve paper, there was no return address, though on the front there was ‘doctor’ printed. You frowned, and it faded from view—so fast you might’ve imagined it. Doctor had no equivalent in this world, after all. There was Sophos, there was Tibel, there was Speaker, but there were no doctors. 

The contract forgotten, you set the remainders down on the workbench and quickly slid the purple envelope open. This one didn't smell like the faint traces of alcohol, but rather something abandoned. Slightly dusty. Like a lost terrace, or even an old, hidden path. Mildly entranced, you slipped the small card out from the inside and read the elegant script. 

Your theses were captivating to read through. 

Nothing more. You turned the card, yet the blank side taunted you. Quickly, your eyes darted back to the bound pages of your work, and upon opening it, it seemed the sender had left you something else to mull over. 

Each page had bloomed with flowering, delicate script.

 . 　⁺ ✦

No mauve letters came again. 

You didn’t anticipate them, nor did you feel any particular pang of regret that you didn’t see that elegant curl of font again. In fact, you forgot about it: laying in a drawer, slowly gathering dust. It was only a month or so later—after publishing a riveting piece on capturing sunlight from the two suns to mass convert to energy, rather than relying on finite crystals, and then perhaps a paper or two on reusing consumed crystals for crystallography using various waveforms—that you finally remembered the letter, as well as the invitation from Metis. 

Acclaim was good, but there was something about seeing Sp. in front of a name: a weight that was comforting, like the solid thud of a footstep rather than the burden of a sky on your shoulders. 

One particularly foggy evening, when the moon and stars were hidden from view and the only thing that remained was a grey, motionless sky, you stared at the letter for a long while. The drawer had only been opened to shove another newspaper—A Look Into The Mind of the Crystal Scientist—inside. Situated alongside the edges was a pamphlet: Real Estate in the Borderlands, as though it was some inspiring location. Frowning, you tossed both rags aside, picking up the card once more. 

As the faint flavour of stone still emanated from it, you thoughtfully gazed out of the window West-ward towards Metis. The great city loomed, invisible through the distance and fog and in your scattered mind. 

You thought about your garden. A small little haven, where you enjoyed tea only with one other soul in your company. Even the monsters here had long learnt to tread carefully after you’d left the carcass of the giant snake deep by the river—other than the steady chirp of birds, the fauna didn’t bother you. 

It was tranquil, but the sudden emphasis of your base in the Borderlands irked you. The more you mulled over it, the faster your pace quickened upstairs: where bound volumes of your works now sprawled over most of your bookshelves, where you wove a bag into existence complete with space-warping. 

“Aventurine,” you announced, and the man startled from where he was busy polishing a conical flask. “I’m going to Metis.”

“Excuse me?”

 . 　⁺ ✦

Excuse me?

Despite his incredulity, Aventurine dutifully put the flask away and packed himself a bag too, rather than offering to stay behind. Despite him glaring in the direction of the city-state, as though it was stealing you away from him, he only wore a cheerful smile whenever you glanced in his direction. And despite the occasional, colourful imprecations he muttered under his breath as he boarded the train (first class, courtesy of the heavy gold hidden within the jade pendant), he only had good things to say about your search for distinction. In all honesty, you found his disguised pettiness extremely amusing.

His eyes searched you, like he was making sure you were truly on board with the sudden change. You didn’t comment, electing to watch the countryside flash past—interspersed only with surreptitious glances at your winding tattoos. 

He noticed. Of course he did.

“Are you worried?”

He’d muttered the words as though he was afraid the great planet and two suns would hear him. You shook your head, though you still wondered silently if this would go like the last time you visited Metis. Getting stared at as the tattoos branded you as something other: an easily identifiable trademark you weren’t quite ready to sport. At least, not until you reviewed the situation in the city. 

“I can hide them for you, for a bit,” he offered, and it was then that you finally met his eyes. He was squinting them, almost—lids low against the spheres, while a smile crested upside down in the fold beneath them.

“How?” Curiosity piqued your expression when you felt an almost-familiar wisp of something curl in the air. Almost-familiar, because the faintest idea of it seemed to be something you’d witnessed only once. With a start, you realised you could see the smoky substance as it coiled and interacted with the medium that surrounded it. In fact, the intangible matter that accompanied the strange power this world had given you, too, was batting and toying with the plumes, entranced. 

Kakavasha flinched, though only slightly. “You can see it?”

“Slightly,” you murmured, and the alchemy that bound you in this plane accepted the gift he brought, dulling the vibrance of the lines on your skin until they melded into flesh and dermis. The patterns thrummed, invisible and inconceivable to all but you—a merge between his glamour arts and your unique ability. “It’s pretty.”

A smattering of pink cast his face into a rosy hue as he watched you watch your own hand—clearly fascinated by the change. “It’s a glamour.”

He whispered the words in the tongue of honey: dissipating into the light rays like dust motes, and cascading into your mind as you wondered at the implications behind each syllable. 

A secret, the root of the word conveyed.  Deceit. 

. 　⁺ ✦

The tiles paving the roads seemed off. Different. People walking by had a cheer in their step they didn’t have previously. You said hello to nobody, yet three vendors shoved mountains of fruits, spices, and sheer, silky cloth into your hands that felt far too exquisite to touch this casually. Dumbfounded, you glanced around, only to see others going through the same predicament too—wares being passed freely—as if the fall of the corrupt government was something to be celebrated weekly. Understandable. 

It almost distracted you from the very thing you first noticed when you stepped foot on land. Stone. Not any sort of stone, but one that still lingered in your memory—waking or otherwise—and one you could almost taste, gritty and chalky and everything tangible. You swallowed, suddenly, storing the gifts in your bead (though not before heaping money into the protesting vendors’ hands). 

“What?” Kakavasha, who’d previously been snickering at your troubled expression, sobered as your eyes meandered the roads. Your focus settled on the distance, and you could feel something shift. Along the city skyline, you thought your alchemy finally gave you the answer to your long-asked question—where did my statue go?—though it was vague and incoherent. 

You returned to reality after a long pause, glancing back at the golden-haired man beside you. In that split second, you decided to keep your peace and wait for night to fall. 

“Nothing.” 

He didn’t reply, staring long and hard at you instead. 

. 　⁺ ✦

Metis doesn’t sleep. Anyone who came to the fabled scholars’ city knew this: returning to their homelands with tales of the whirring urban centre, like a massive brain that simply didn’t rest. The artificer’s lamps quietly burning in each home and study centre had long since replaced the stars in the sky: lit up with the aspirations and dreams of students who desperately longed to etch their names on the lengthy annals of history. 

It was—and would always be—the perfect time to sneak out. Under the cover of darkness, scrutiny was lax as ever; nobody spared the scholar meandering through the streets a second glance, especially as the rules had been completely abolished and rewritten by the new Council and Adviser. Your steps carried urgency despite your outward languor, and you half-wondered if Kakavasha had noticed you’d slipped out of the hotel room. 

The source of the signal was weak. It pulsed feebly, like a dying heart feverishly (and foolishly) clinging to a life that was sliding quickly out of reach. 

On the paved white tiles, your feet left behind firm, resolute footsteps as you headed to the ring of buildings directly behind the sprawling university. Upon observation during the day, it had been where the faculty allegedly worked. Where you’d work in a few months, if your extensive research qualified you for an early Sophos distinction. Mixed feelings shot through you at the thought: bittersweetness at the sudden change, anticipation at having greater resources, and finally fear that you’d be found out as an alchemist. 

The sector hummed with activity, though it was subdued by the setting of the two suns. You could still vaguely feel the traces of the statue through the extra noise, and the purpose in each step dissuaded anyone who didn’t recognise your face from asking you what exactly you were doing there. Remnants of the glamour still hid your tattoos, but silently, you reshaped the veil to be extra unnoticeable—and those looks thrown your way suddenly disappeared, as though you were never there in the first place. 

You observed. In the second building, where the modest exterior belied not the opulent marble in the interior, you watched the researchers and professors tap crystals to pass through the locked gates and beyond, where the real work began. With a jolt, you realised this was part of the product of your research—using crystals to detect specific magic waveforms through crystallography—and your shoulders relaxed. A magic footprint resembled a fingerprint, but this sensor could be bypassed with the right formula—something something activation energy something something. A beam of neutrality, and the master key that only the creator could devise. 

Waiting for the foyer to empty to only one or two people milling around by the chairs in the front, you quickly murmured the string of thought under your breath, feeling your palm heat with some wasted energy (though what you had sufficed). The moment your fingers grazed the sensor, the gate swung open with extra gusto—and you could only blink, feeling that this was perhaps too easy. 

The job was supposed to be simple, after all. Go in, make a preliminary observation as to what could possibly be triggering the gut feeling of familiarity you had, and get out. That was it. The independent variable was your location changing, the dependent was measuring the intensity of your gut feeling, and your control variable was remaining in this half-impermeable state in which you essentially became a wallflower, and hoped by some miracle that your statue wasn’t being transported. 

Just your typical experiment. 

It did, in fact, start off simply. Past two in the morning, even the mighty brain that the city was began to quietly shut down to its most basic functions—nary a ghost, let alone a person, passed you by as you walked purposefully through the winding corridors. The presence did nothing as you slipped into the first office, glancing briefly in the storage room behind it. You scanned the messy piles of documents on a polished desk, resisting the urge to methodically sort them out into neater sections. 

No results, and it appeared it hadn’t registered your presence on the waveform detection crystal at all. Perfect. 

The next room, too, as well as the next, bore little fruit. You didn’t expect significant results. You’d been hunting a spectre, after all: a piece of stone that, inexplicably and improbably, had vanished into thin air. It was ghostbusting at its finest, without the special effects. 

You frowned. 

It became a wild goose chase, peeking into empty halls and lecture theatres and everything in between—yet your yield only came with a stronger gut feeling that elsewhere you’d find something. Anything, if not to make this night worth sneaking out for. Sighing, you trod on the carpet to find the very last door tucked away in the shadows of a flickering artificer’s lamp. A golden hue was cast on the handle; it gleamed bright as you reached for it, only to find…

Nothing. Not in the literal sense, for the floors to ceilings were packed with bookshelves, and a desk in the middle of the room heaved with weighty papers, journals, and all sorts of tools. Scrutinising the parchments and texts, you picked out a couple of titles: Alchemy and the Suppression of Magic, How to find an Alchemist, The Discoverie of the Witch-Alchemist, Myths Debunked: Alchemists and Wizards, How to Know if an Alchemist has Bewitched You. Your eyes flew to the journal on the desk of some Sophos Hopkins, mouth suddenly dry. The placard, too, was embedded with the same name. That name had been printed on an article from a trashy magazine you’d seen just a few weeks ago, where he was interviewed as a citizen who still supported the old regime staunchly. 

Another paper caught your eye, and now with a mouth that felt like sandpaper, you read your alias at the top. It had been circled with bright red ink, and scrawled as a label was the words ‘possible subversive, affiliated with alchemists or potentially one himself—investigate’. You laughed, but it was dry and humourless. Had this been the true motive of the university for inviting you, or was he just a deep supporter of the past?

You wanted nothing more than to leave this accursed room behind. You wanted it, by all the fates and gods you wanted it, but there was something that seemed to be anchoring you to the luxurious carpet. Taking a deep breath, you waited for the feeling to subside—but it wouldn’t. Trying to be inconspicuous, you carefully riffled through your paper as if it could possibly provide you with an answer instead: it had been highlighted copiously—not with the scrupulous commentary that the sender of the purple letter used, but with a harsh treatise underlining exactly where you were a danger to the scholars of Metis. Your eyes flung from one adjective to another, each more critical than the last. 

Gingerly, you placed the paper exactly where you’d found it and opened the journal instead—locked with a waveform-registering crystal that you easily cast aside (how dare he use your research to benefit himself, after all). You smiled, but it emanated the behaviour of a scowl. Reading the lines, you were easily hooked in with disgust as you thumbed through each page—detailing his hatred for the new government, the ‘woke’ scholars who were slowly ‘taking over’ the ‘pure’ brain of the academia. It was… laughable, in every sense of the word. It made things clear: he was a minority amongst the scholars who’d yearned for change these past millenia. 

You scoffed, turning to the last page. It was left blank, and with a frown, you held it up to the artificer’s lamp to check if it had been hidden from view.

“Ah—got it!” Lines had been heat activated, and were slowly spreading when—

Something sharp pricked your throat. You froze, unable to breathe. 

You’d already died once. Was this how you’d die again—at the hands of a man who so clearly hated you?

A silver knife gleamed at your throat. The hand holding it was steady, and you could feel the calm breathing of the one behind it. In, out, in, out, as if the heartbeat accompanying it was tranquil: unlike yours, which seemed to beat not only in the gaping cavity of your chest, but your mouth, your stomach, and your clenched hand. 

“Who are you?” A voice reverberated, brushing past your ears along with the fluttering material of a veil that seemed to be covering the face of whoever threatened you. “Why are you here?”

Silently, you thought of a formula you knew by heart—one you’d recited countless times as you hauled bags of stone and heavy ornaments, one you’d relied on when hunting the game that roamed the forest, and one you’d whispered when killing that basilisk. A prayer of strength. Kinetic energy, coupled with a heightened Young’s Modulus for your human muscles to manage the expulsion of force. The air, used to your ways, began thrumming: ozonic in its smell, tainting the faint soap and sandalwood scent that exuded from the stranger behind you. 

But before you could finish, your body was whirled through the air and slammed into the plush carpet. It was red, just like blood that would inevitably spill from you as you gasped for oxygen—but you couldn’t focus on that as he finally saw your face, and you saw his. The first thing you noticed was the thin veil covering his nose and mouth, though not his eyes: a striking pair of amber ones that seemed familiar, but were now widened in disbelief as they searched your face. 

He was straddling you with his razor-sharp weapon still pressed to your throat; not a single drop of sanguine had been drawn yet, belying his impeccable control of the weapon. You breathed rapidly, feeling the heavy warmth of his body press against yours—wondering if you’d still feel the same cold you did the last time you died. 

Purple locks were pulled back sharply in a long braid that swung past his shoulders, and your own brows furrowed as you felt an indescribable familiarity well up in your chest. That’s nonsense, you scoffed. Can’t be. Instead of thinking the impossible, your eyes scanned his clothes: dark robes that belied low-level scholars, yet they were immaculately cut, stitched and embroidered. 

He was still gazing at you with intensity, but then those same eyes hardened, almost imperceptibly. “So it’s not him…” It was a murmur under his breath. The clay smell he had been so used to was long gone, replaced by the faint astringency of chemicals, smoke, and the wispy scent of oranges right beneath it. The tattoos, too, he had memorised in their shifting patterns, weren’t there—dermis unmarked by the variegated, chromatic lines. “You’re not Hopkins. Who the hell are you?”

“I could ask you the same question,” you scowled, mentally drawing up the same formulae again, though adjusted this time. You’re not Hopkins. As though he himself wasn’t either. 

So who was he?

You stared, as his concentration shifted to the journal, which had been cracked open with no alarm to betray entry of anyone but its owner. Incredulously, he plucked it up; it was… open. With all of Sophos Hopkin’s transgressions written plain as day, for him to see. Between you and the journal, his gaze darted—roving across you while his knife remained firmly about to stab into your carotid artery. 

“Are you secretly Hopkins?” he questioned, though it seemed more of a musing thought to himself rather than an inquiry towards you. You coughed, violently, shaking with suppressed rage. That’s it. You weren’t about to die to this deranged pretty-boy.

You added a third and forth formula to the long chain in your brain, reciting and enunciating each silently in the tongue of thought. 

“What do you think?” you retorted, biding time for the formulae to come to fruition. Velocity, strengthening the body, heat, summon. You could feel your heart beat slightly more sluggishly, which, ironically, made you far more lucid. The voice speaking to the man was rough and cold, nothing like the eclectic murmurings his sculptor had left behind for him. Yes, the intruder beneath him couldn’t possibly be his maker. 

The two beings who’d once been entwined for the span of a year no longer recognised who the other had become. 

He glared at you, and the frigid set of his eyes sent another death-chill through your body. “I’m the one asking the questions here. Don’t forget who’s holding the knife.” 

“How could I possibly…” you murmured, and there was something in that soft croon that caused him to stiffen and the grasp on the dagger to slip. “…forget that’s all that matters.”

“What do you—” 

His lips parted beneath the veil, and the material fluttered gently as you completed each formula. Bizarrely, the weapon he was just holding—that thin, engraved blade—inexplicably began to melt. He floundered, clearly caught off guard, but you were ready for that variable. The melted weapon dripped onto flesh and burned, burned so badly, but you had already died once. You could take it. 

With inhuman speed and strength, you slammed the man into the floor below you and plunged your arm into the subspace next to you to draw the basilisk-bone sword you’d etched all those months ago. Stabbing the sword into the blood-red carpet you admired just minutes ago, it was now his turn to have his neck right next to a razor-edge, while your weight easily enveloped his own. 

It was gracefully that you leaned your head towards his, and his eyes flicked desperately between your irritated gaze and the deep burns on your shoulders that still weren’t closing. Who are you? Who are you? Who are you?

Despite him extending all his senses, he couldn’t feel a shred of anything being used—magic, alchemy, anything. Had the gods sent you here to taunt him? Ratio’s fingers flexed against the ground, and for the first time in a year, he swallowed nervously. It couldn’t end like this, with an unidentified person killing him. That sword didn’t help with your identification, and he wondered if you were as powerful as his sculptor. No, impossible. He gritted his teeth. 

Who are you?

The words died on his lips as you drew close, and beneath his veil his lips stammered. After all these years, this millennium, and this is all he amounted to? Being bested by a greenhorn, someone who was far beneath his maker? Ludicrous.

“My turn to ask the questions,” you said softly. Quietly. “Are you Hopkins?” 

“No,” he spat out, angry at himself, you, and the stupid Sophos who had landed him in this situation in the first place. “You didn’t realise?”

After a millennium, your temper has not yet been quenched, the voice of Nous rang out in his mind. He dug his nails into the crimson, where the loathsome Hopkins had doubtlessly stood, and grinded his teeth. 

“Do you wish to take Hopkins down?” your voice rang out even softer, betraying no signs of pain even as the metal began cooling into the silver it was originally, leaving behind the charred smell of flesh behind. He fought the bile rising in his throat. 

“I can work alone on that,” he muttered, already agitated by the influx of variables he hadn’t predicted—taking Hopkins out was supposed to be his easiest target amongst the faculty. You, similarly, were experiencing a strange turmoil as your gut feeling simmered alongside the deep anger you felt. He was a variable you hadn’t accounted for either—one that looked vaguely like the figure in your dreams, but the cognitive dissonance upon trying to see them as the same person was startling, so you couldn’t even begin to attempt that rationalisation. This was what your gut feeling had been banking upon? “Don’t involve yourself.”

You sneered, looking down at the man whose eyes still contained that arrogant gaze. You hadn’t planned on anything at all on this reconnaissance mission, but this guy was severely testing your patience. No matter how much he looked like the person in your dreams, they clearly were two different people. 

“Magus, taking him out hastily will only result in the escape of his accomplices,” the man muttered, cowed by the sword still held at his neck and in the face of overwhelming power. Magus. A title reserved for the highest of magicians, which he was on the cusp of achieving. He could be deferential—Nous was wrong, he had to be. He met your gaze, and regained the cool impassiveness in the hardened amber. This man, who’d interfered with your gut feeling and who’d burned you to the bone, had made a good point. 

“I wasn’t planning to,” you laughed, but it was a mirthless thing. “My business is elsewhere, little assassin—”

The sound of firm footsteps down the corridor froze the two of you, and swiftly, you pulled the basilisk bone back into the subspace: poised with a long-crafted incantation already on your lips. It was a modification of the gravitational attraction one, anchored to a specific location you’d be immediately drawn towards—undulating into particles of matter then coiling back into a human body. This time, it was to a certain golden-haired man who declared himself your apprentice. You took a deep breath, and began reciting it mentally even as the man’s features turned ashen beneath you. 

He stared at the closed door, mentally working out three different escape roots he could use, as well as a hiding place in which he could easily eavesdrop. But you, on the other hand, looked nonplussed as you stared at the door with a certain look in your eye.

“You need to get out before you ruin both our chances,” he hissed, hastily gazing back at the door, then towards you again. 

But there was no use in that.

You’d already disappeared, leaving behind an opened journal and the faint scent of chemicals behind. 

For the first time in a millennium, Veritas swore: a colourful word he’d heard his sculptor use enough to gauge the meaning behind; with a reeling mind, he sat up. 

“Shit.”

. 　⁺ ✦

Gasping, you tumbled into the hotel bathroom—desperately trying to keep your guts from hurling. Fuck, what a disgusting mode of transport. Being disassembled so meticulously and put back together again had been a revolting experience, though at least, from what you gathered with your shoulder regaining its feeling again, it had assembled you imperfectly—into the state you were in before you burned your shoulder to shit. Or at least, partially. Glancing nervously at the flesh, it wasn’t the same charred mess it had been moments prior: only a furiously shiny thing, free from metal and seeping blood sporadically. You couldn’t always be a winner, it seemed. 

Hurts like a bitch, you thought grimly. Peeling off your shirt, you compartmentalised what you knew about the man who interfered with your objective. Not on Hopkins’ side, planning to get rid of him. Hopkins isn’t alone in wanting to rid alchemists. Disguised himself as a low-level scholar. Skilled in magic. 

Now that the adrenaline had worn off, your hands seemed to remember something else as you pressed a palm against his sternum to steady yourself. Something, though you didn’t know what. 

With a scowl, you flung the shirt to the waste bin in the corner and buried your face in a hand. The other rummaged in the hotel cabinet for a first aid kit—and you dug your nails into your face to reprimand your fumbling fingers while you struggled taking out the ointment neatly labelled as ‘for burns’. 

Behind you, the larger light suddenly flooded the bathroom, and you froze. 

“Kakavasha,” you murmured quietly, locking eyes with him in the mirror. He looked… furious, glaring hard at you from where he stood. His fingers were tightly curled into shaking fists, and his mouth was a compressed line, as though he didn’t even know when to begin with his beratement. He was silent as he strode up to you, silent when he snatched the ointment from your hand, and silent as you lowered your hand from your face to gaze at his own properly in the reflection. 

His eyes flicked to meet yours for a mere second, before he harshly uncapped the bottle and poured the sticky ointment onto his hand. It was only when he looked back at your shoulder that his face began developing a strange sort of conflict, and he finally spoke, or rather, snapped. “Stop staring.” 

Sheepishly, you turned your head the other way: missing how his face grew slightly more red as he slathered the liquid where the metal had dripped onto your shoulder and chest. Wherever his hand spread it, the cooling began almost immediately—leaving behind nothing but a tingle. You heard a firm clink as he set the bottle down, then a rustle as he picked up a cloth and dampened it. 

“Your neck, as well?” he laughed bitterly. The cold water seeping into your skin forced your face downwards to turn to his, and you held your breath at his sudden proximity. 

He took his time, running the bloodstained cloth against the cut against your neck (that bastard really had nicked you, after all!) and standing on his toes to reach the side. You couldn’t bring yourself to comment, even when he turned away to pick two bandages out to wrap the wounds in. 

“Was it worth it?” 

You let out a sudden exhale as he forced you to sit on the edge of the bathtub: watching his furrowed brows, his hands as he carefully rolled the bandages onto your flesh, and the trembling of his mouth. You didn’t miss the irony of how almost two years ago, it had been him you were patching up.

“Kakavasha, I’m sorry,” you tried, gazing up at him with eyes filled with sincerity. How could you even begin to explain it? 

“For what?” He didn’t waver as he hooked his finger under the cloth to tuck the end in, lingering unnecessarily long against your too-warm skin. He turned around, and you stood up, staring at his frame as he binned the bloodied cloths and wrappers. “Leaving me without a single word? Getting hurt? Smelling like someone else while I was worrying the hell away here?” 

The last part was muttered under his breath, and you couldn’t properly make it out from where you stood. “I was gathering information to check just how safe the university would be, and for clues related to a gut feeling I had. I’m sorry, Aventurine.”

“A gut feeling? You beat a basilisk single-handedly, and didn’t care to defend yourself from another person? How expendable do you think you are?” he uttered coldly, but you could see the slow cracks starting to show in his expression. 

You froze. Expendable? Had you thought yourself expendable? The more you thought about it, the more you realised just how much you’d let your death stagnate in your head when that knife was at your throat. “I…”

He strode out past you, but just a few steps away from the door, you saw him pause in the mirror and square his shoulders. Turning, he finally met your conflicted stare, but before you could even begin to guess what he’d say, he rushed up to you, wrapping his arms around your waist and despairingly burying his face in the planes of your back. You lurched forward in surprise, grasping the sides of the sink, but he didn’t budge. 

He’s warm, you thought, unlike the death that had enveloped you in its cool embrace. Something blurred in your vision. 

“Please, stay alive,” he whispered, and his lips were directly on your exposed spine as he spoke. Each syllable travelled along the nerves and went directly to your brain, in an earnest plea. With each syllable, the veil of his glamour strengthened, until only he could see the vibrant patterns that seemed to integrate with your very soul. “You can’t die.”

You swallowed. 

I already have. 

. 　⁺ ✦

That night, the warm coastal winds blew over the city of Metis, enveloping a chemist and his student in a cradle far gentler than the harsh winds of the Borderlands. Though the injured man succumbed to sleep easily, the same could not be said for his apprentice, who sat quietly under the lonely light of the moon: watching the restless rise and fall of the slumbering man’s chest. 

Kakavasha knitted his hands together with a lump in his throat, burning the sight into his bright eyes as though the man before him would slip away at any moment. Please, he murmured. Don’t leave me behind in this world. It was perhaps this urgent prayer that determined the flavour of the scientist’s dream. 

For the first time in many moons you dreamt of the pitch-dark canvas of the sky. Like curtains over the vast stage, they stretched over a familiar scene: grass that was washed in grey, a lone pathway which your feet mechanically trod on, and finally, the lonesome moon hung bright in the distance. 

But there was nobody in the distance.

Nobody for you to reach, nor to run after. No one. 

It seemed the phantasm haunting you had disappeared into the sepulchral depths of the night. 

In that dream you were trapped in, you walked many miles. The landscape didn’t change, remaining the same endless loop of change, as though you were in some video game or simulation. The exact same rock formation you must’ve passed at least eleven times, while you’d stopped counting the small shrubs with the same startled bird sitting within them. 

You supposed this was a video game, after all, but even with that acknowledgement there were still no signs of the man you’d so painstakingly brought to life. 

Though, after an inconceivable length of time, something began to change. The path’s winding trajectory began to differ, and you finally saw the cliff’s edge for the first time ever. There was a calm wind that blew across from the sea, and you felt yourself at ease—a selcouth experience in any sort of dream of yours, let alone this one. 

It was then that you felt the familiar sensation of coldness at your neck that you whirled around—and those piercing amber eyes flashed at you.

“You—” The man with damson locks held the same engraved dagger to your vulnerable throat, sneering at your stupidity. “Stop behaving the same way as that fool!”

“Fool?” He spoke for the first time, and his rich voice was piqued with amusement. The familiarity chilled you to your very bones. 

“But we’re the same person, are we not?”

. 　⁺ ✦

What the hell? You awoke with a gasp: chest heaving rapidly while your clothes stuck to your skin with sweat. There was the pungent taste of bile in your dry mouth, but the cup offered to you smelled only of the most fragrant of orange blossoms—wafting into the air as if dispelling your nightmare. Kakavasha’s hand outstretched with the ceramic; you recognised the vibrant patterns from a mug he’d painstakingly shaped and glazed himself. The etchings on the face seemed familiar, and with a start you realised he’d transcribed blurry remnants of your formulae onto it. You took the drink and blew on it, watching him watch your face for any further discomfort. 

“Must’ve been some dream,” he murmured, eyes flickering with concern and quiet contemplation. “You’ve got your appointment with the Adviser later today—do you still feel up for it?”

Pointedly, his fingers trailed over the bandages over your neck and shoulder, and you swallowed—citrus and florals seeping down your throat. You might’ve coughed up a petal in surprise, in some parallel universe. 

“I’ll be fine,” you replied, albeit somewhat awkwardly. “This is just a meeting for them to discuss re-release of my papers into Metis, and the distinction process. Are you coming as my assistant?”

“They don’t quite know my face yet,” he stood up and stretched, pulling several garments out of the armoire speculatively. “I’ll continue where you left off with your… recon.”

The jab was poignant. You almost laughed. 

“Noted,” you stood up too, shucking off the thin shirt you wore and selecting a high-necked, long sleeved robe you could drape more cloth around. Carefully, slowly, you washed up and dressed, making sure not to aggravate your burns any further. It was disorienting to keep your tattoos hidden away, but you didn’t want to become a bigger target than you already were. Nobody knew the scientist’s face, after all, and you weren’t about to make yourself even more identifiable. 

The facade you put on was convincing, if you said so yourself. Subconsciously, you’d picked out similar clothes to the ones you wore when you first came here—jewel-tones richly embroidered, yet arranged to form a modest silhouette. It was a loose style, perfect for the scorching heat that blazed in Metis year-round. 

“How is it?” 

He took you in, scrutinising every fold, every chain of jewelry, and every layer of your scent. There was a brief pause, then he took out a half-veil from the large cabinet by his bed, and gently attached it with a chain that coldly passed behind your ears and jingled on the way down. 

“This is in style nowadays—” his hands lingered, sweeping another layer of the glamour on you for good measure. “—so don’t captivate them too much.”

His words left you at a loss. 

“See you,” he added, and the door closed firmly with a click. 

You touched your face. 

“Huh?”

. 　⁺ ✦

The sitting room you were led to felt far too opulent for this sort of ruckus that followed. Rubbing your temples, you glanced briefly at the various trinkets and statues that decorated the packed shelves of books and manuscripts (noting with faint amusement that some of those said statues were the early prototypes you’d sold in the market all those months ago). Various paintings and gadgets, too, decorated this space; but despite how grand it was, you could still tell this space was lived in. 

You’d taken a seat on the soft couch, eyeing the refreshments set on the low table yet not touching them, and waited for the minutes to tick by towards your appointed meeting time. None of the newspapers had ever shown the Adviser, and you were surprised they even deigned to meet personally with wronged authors and scientists. 

It was strange, but you did suppose Metis was taking the steps to right its wrongs. 

Your musings were interrupted with the indignant voice of a student who wore an owl insignia on their robes. “Show respect to the most esteemed Sophos Ratio—”

Ratio? Your gaze swivelled to the door, but only the student remained—a herald, of sorts, to lay the petals for the Adviser to walk on. You almost scoffed. Behind them, you heard the firm, purposeful steps of someone you assumed was this Sophos Ratio, a name that had not been circulated quite yet in the papers, but a name whose works you’d read before. 

“He is the assistant to the Adviser, please show respect!” they repeated, and this time their brows drew together imperiously. You remained sitting. So he won't show himself after all.

“At ease, Aten,” Ratio spoke, muffled by an elegant mask that covered his face—all but his eyes, which seemed to widen imperceptibly upon seeing you still lounging on that couch of his. “I have asked him here as part of acknowledging the transgressions this city has done against scholars, and to offer a proposal. We are equals in this.”

“But, Arkho-Sophos, sir—” Aten, unable to accept this, opened their mouth and was interrupted yet again.

“Please leave us, Aten,” he repeated, and the student practically wilted like an aged cabbage at the rebuke. You remained sitting. 

Shutting the door behind him, he slowly stepped into the light. Behind the mask, the rays caught his irises and lit them into a fiery amber, and something stirred within you. His hair, too, transfigured from that rich black in the shadows to the damson shade that struck you in its familiarity.

What are the odds?

You stood then, extending your hand to his, and his gaze flickered between your own, neutral expression, and the outstretched palm you offered. Though your mind wasn’t from here, your body remembered the motions as he hesitantly placed his hand in yours, and you pressed your lips through the veil to the back of it as a respectful greeting. He watched you with sharp eyes, trying to discern just where he saw you, when you finally looked up with that stare of yours and he almost flinched. Almost. 

You still hadn’t spoken, and the practised boredom in each gesture suggested you didn’t quite recognise him. Ratio breathed a sigh of relief, then wondered at the absurdity of it all. The scientist whose papers he’d pored over was you? It was inconceivable. He could not say anything about it either, lest his own cover be blown.

He'd worn long white robes today, the symbol of a high-ranking scholar—the very opposite of yesterday. 

You sat down, still silent. 

“Arkho-Sophos, the chief,” you translated. Your fingers traced the rim of your shallow cup, not yet filled with the steeped tea waiting on the table. It would grow cold soon. “The assistant to the Adviser is rather qualified, are you not?”

Frigid as ever. 

The implications behind your words were many. He took a seat, replying neutrally as he poured from the teapot an azure tea into his cup and yours. “The position requires such.” 

“I’ve read your works. Biology, natural medicine, natural theology, philosophy, engineering, physics…” You took a sip of the flavoured tea, tasting the astringent layers of fruit you did not recognise. It might’ve perhaps been a kiwi, back on earth, blended alongside slightly unripe strawberries. “...Mathematics. In less than a year, you’ve enthralled academia with how blended your disciplines are with passion. Your understanding of how knowledge should be distributed to everyone, too, fits in with the new model of wisdom the city hopes to integrate after millennia of repression.”

“Spare the platitudes,” he replied mildly. The less you scrutinise me, the better. There was no sycophantic look in your eyes as you recited an empty analysis of him, but one that held a silent intensity. “I could say the same about your articles. Discussions about our work can wait for a time outside this meeting.”

He hoped you wouldn’t actually take him up on that. This meeting was simply a formality for you to either accept or reject the contract, and he sincerely prayed it would remain as such. 

“Oh? This is yours, then?” The mauve letter you slid across the table sent an unpleasant flicker of recognition across him, but his mask didn’t betray his expression. 

Your theses were captivating. 

Unfortunately. 

“Ah, yes,” he murmured, clearing his throat. “They were good papers. Could we move on to the objective of this meeting?”

“I’ve accepted. One year of research continuing crystallography and medical applications, and further alchemico-chemistry integration into chemical reactions,” you replied matter-of-factly. “I’ve already notarised the contract and forwarded a copy to the university’s current dean. That’ll earn me the Sophos distinction, correct?”

“Yes. I’m glad you’ve taken the offer from the university.” (He wasn’t.) “If there are no more questions…”

“I do have a question,” you interjected with practised ease. “Several, actually.”

“Oh?” Ratio leaned back, appearing perfectly intrigued. “Pray tell.”

“You’re fond of mystery, aren’t you?” It was a roundabout question.

“I’m not quite sure what you mean, sir.” You received a roundabout answer. “Keep the questions relevant. I don’t have all day for this.”

His voice was even, you’d give his acting that. “Sophos Ratio, don’t play stupid. Your work values honesty, therefore I’d prefer you to be honest as well. Did we not see each other yesterday?”

He was silent, carefully weighing his options before him. You, too, debated whether to pull your sword out against him. 

“I have a personal stake in this.” You took another sip of the fragrant tea, mulling over your next words. In fact, you pulled your sleeve aside briefly to show him the clear dressing you applied, where his dagger had melted into flesh. “Sure, you may argue that there’s no empirical evidence to suggest you crossed my path yesterday, but I think we both know how it’ll go if I pull out my sword again.”

Honesty is always the best policy. 

He looked at you for a long while, trying to deduce what you were machinating. There was a sudden release of tension in his shoulders—he was caught now, after all, but you weren’t drawing your sword out again like yesterday. Yet. “What exactly do you want?” 

“Like I said, you’ve just learned I have a personal stake in this—” you plucked a dried fig off the table and placed it on your plate, drizzling honey onto it. His gaze became particularly intense as you did so, and you couldn’t help but wonder why. “—and as of yesterday that’s given me incentive for involvement.”

“I disagree,” he interjected, picking up his own honeyed fig (and you wondered if he’d take off his mask). “In fact, it just means you don’t truly know what you’re dealing with. It is not simply an ill intentioned individual, but a complex political web far too easy to upset. I understand you learned you were a target yesterday, but there’s a reason others who have been targeted haven’t been told yet.”

“Some knowledge is better off being left unknown for the time being,” he added, and his words were faintly laced with regret. 

It was a good point. However…

“You’re working alone.” You bit into the fruit, letting the caramel taste wash over your tongue. The mellifluous notes contrasted with the blunt words drawn out of your mouth. 

“You don’t know that,” Ratio leaned back in his seat, but his faintly widened eyes betrayed his surprise. 

“I can’t prove it, but anyone in my shoes could deduce it.” You licked your fingers clean, etiquette be damned. All those presentations in front of your superiors had moulded your social anxiety-ridden self into being able to think on the spot when in a panic. “You’re currently acting in at least three roles, suggesting you’re the one doing all the work. The assistant to the Adviser…” You lifted your index finger in the air—one. “...a second-rate assassin…” You lifted your middle finger to join the first, and you sensed the scowl behind the mask—two. “…and the Adviser.” You lifted your ring finger, but quickly added your pinky—three, four. “Actually, scholar, too.”

“So, you can play detective, too,” he muttered with a particular boreal chill. He didn’t seem particularly defeated; rather, he gazed through you as though determining your worth to him. “How did you conclude the third?”

“A whistleblower who has reshaped the government,” you replied, resting your chin on your hand. “And a vigilante slowly weeding out the university faculty, the second power in Metis. You’ve already proved you prefer your own agency by shifting into a—ah—side character, and you just implicitly confirmed it now.”

“Impressive,” he commented, and nothing else to confirm or deny what you said. It was clear he was still assessing you, therefore you ventured further. 

“You’re good at magic, but contingency plans like however you escaped from Hopkins yesterday—” here, a poignant glare was shot at you. “—make your life more difficult.”

“Yes, it’s a complex political situation, and there’s always a risk in trusting someone else, but I’m probably the most serendipitous partner you have ever met,” you added. You could feel the disgust at your chosen adjective emanating from his mask. “Besides, I’m working on a subject which correlates to one of your fields. We might have to work somewhat closely regardless.”

He stared at you with mild incredulity. You were so obnoxious, so why the hell was he being swayed by your callous words? He didn’t think he’d ever been this irked by someone before, but you were holding your hand out and he was leaning towards it for some reason unbeknownst to him.

No one can shoulder the whole world, Sophos Nous had once told him.

“Don’t mess this up,” he said, finally. Against his own, your palm felt painfully familiar, and he froze. Couldn’t be him. 

“I’m glad you made this easy,” you shrugged. “I don’t think you could’ve realistically stopped me.” 

His face soured. Definitely not him. 

As you left the room with a ditty being hummed under your breath (one he recognised, ironically, as the one he’d started all those months back), he finally slipped the mask off his face and downed his tea and the fig that had grown unfortunately cloying on his plate. Chewing with an incensed expression, he finally spoke with a clear voice:

“What an egregious man.”

. 　⁺ ✦