"You make chairs," Azareel said, stubborn in the way gentle people are when they choose the word that heals, his silver shimmering with quiet resolve, his torn white tunic catching the faint glow of the bioluminescent fungus on the cavern walls.
Across the den, Zathra's skull tower listed a final degree and collapsed with a clatter that startled the lantern-moths into a brighter pulse, their glassy sparks scattering like stars.
"Art is a liar," she declared to the ceiling, her sun-kissed skin marked by faint scale patterns, her white-blonde hair messy and streaked, her red-orange eyes glinting with mock indignation.
"I'm starting a new medium. Rocks."
"You've used rocks," Azareel offered, deadpan, his voice gentle but teasing, and Zathra froze, squinting as if weighing whether praise from a soft thing counted, then grinned like teeth remembering joy, her small reptilian tail flicking as she began stacking smooth stones with deliberate care.
