-Tan'Thalon, Lower Rings-
The lower rings of Tan'Thalon never truly slept. Even at night, the city breathed. Steam hissed from vents beneath the streets. Somewhere beyond the narrow alleyways, machinery groaned behind stone walls. Voices drifted through open windows, followed by laughter, arguments, music played badly and without apology. It was nothing like the quiet of the desert. Calenelda preferred it. The noise gave her something else to listen to. She moved through the darkness with her cloak pulled close around her shoulders, though it barely hid the light glow still present in the runes on her skin. One hand trailed occasionally along the walls beside her. The city unfolded beneath her senses in familiar patterns—iron nails in timber, pipes beneath the streets, the pulse of footsteps travelling through stone. And beneath all of it—
Nothing. No Talia.
Calenelda stopped walking. Her jaw tightened.
This is ridiculous.
Talia was somewhere in the city. Probably in her quarters. Or training. She had been training more lately. Calenelda had noticed. Of course she had noticed. She noticed everything about Talia. The way her footsteps changed when she was angry. The difference between the rhythm of her breathing when she slept and when she only pretended to. The faint hesitation in her heartbeat whenever Calenelda stepped too close. And lately—
That hesitation had become something else. Something softer. Something dangerous. Calenelda exhaled sharply through her nose.
"She asked you for time," she muttered to herself.
A voice answered from the darkness.
"And you've spent the entire evening stalking around the city because you're apparently incapable of giving it to her."
Calenelda stopped. Then sighed.
"Charlotte."
A low growl of amusement came from somewhere above her. A moment later, something heavy landed on the stone. Charlotte Snarlfang straightened from her crouch. Even beneath the hooded cloak she wore, there was no disguising what she was. Tall. Broad-shouldered. Fur as light as moonlight. Her ears twitched toward every sound in the alley. A Veydran.
And, in Tan'Thalon, that made her existence something best kept hidden.
Charlotte pulled back her hood. "You're being foolish."
Calenelda folded her arms. "You always begin conversations so kindly."
"I've known you too long to waste kindness when stupidity will do."
Calenelda's lips twitched despite herself. Charlotte stepped closer, studying her.
"You're thinking about the paladin."
"No."
Charlotte stared at her. Calenelda held the stare for several seconds. Then her shoulders dropped.
"Yes."
"Obviously."
"She asked for time."
"And?"
"And I told her I would give it to her."
Charlotte tilted her head. "And now?"
Calenelda looked away. Charlotte waited. Calenelda hated that. Charlotte had always been good at waiting. Calenelda had not. It was one of the reasons Calenelda trusted her.
Eventually, Calenelda muttered, "I don't know what to do with myself."
Charlotte blinked. That answer clearly hadn't been what she expected.
"You?"
"Yes."
"The woman who once spent three days buried beneath a collapsed ruin because she wanted to understand the magnetic properties of the stone?"
"It was an interesting ruin."
"You nearly starved."
"I learned things."
Charlotte folded her arms. "And yet you cannot survive one evening without seeing Talia?"
Calenelda's expression darkened. "That isn't what I said."
Charlotte's ears lifted. "It is exactly what you said."
Calenelda turned away. The alley fell quiet. For once, Charlotte didn't immediately make another joke. She knew her too well. Calenelda pressed her palm against the wall. Stone. Iron. Water moving somewhere beneath the streets. Anything except—
Her thoughts always returned to Talia. The desert had changed something between them. No. That wasn't true. The desert hadn't changed anything. It had simply made pretending impossible. Talia had kissed her. They had spoken about it. Talia had admitted—
Calenelda's breath caught.
Charlotte noticed. "Ah."
Calenelda frowned. "What?"
"You're remembering something."
"No."
"You're terrible at lying."
"I am not."
"You're smiling."
Calenelda immediately stopped. Charlotte laughed. A deep, rumbling sound.
Calenelda glared in Charlotte's general direction. "I hate you."
"No, you don't."
"No."
Charlotte's expression softened. "I know."
For a moment, neither spoke.
Then Calenelda said quietly, "She suggested a date."
Charlotte went completely still. Calenelda immediately regretted saying it. Charlotte slowly turned her head.
"She what?"
"Don't make it strange."
"Calenelda."
"Charlotte."
"She suggested a date?"
"Yes."
"And you are wandering around the lower rings looking like someone sentenced you to death?"
"She also asked for time."
Charlotte stared at her. Calenelda could practically feel the judgment radiating from her.
"What?"
"You're impossible."
Calenelda frowned. "I said I would wait."
"Yes."
"And?"
"And you mean it." Calenelda relaxed slightly. Then Charlotte continued. "But you hate every moment of it."
Calenelda's expression tightened again. Charlotte stepped closer.
"You're trying to convince yourself that because you promised to wait, you aren't allowed to want anything." Calenelda said nothing. "You're allowed to miss her." Still nothing. "You're allowed to want to see her."
Calenelda's fingers curled against the stone. Charlotte's voice softened.
"You're allowed to love her."
That one hurt. Not because it was wrong. Because it was too easy when Charlotte said it.
Calenelda lowered her head. "I know."
"No," Charlotte said quietly. "You know it when you're standing beside her. When she's holding your hand. When she looks at you like the rest of the world has disappeared."
Calenelda swallowed. "But the moment she's gone, you start wondering whether you imagined it."
Her breath stopped. Charlotte sighed. "There she is."
Calenelda's voice came quieter now. "She kissed me."
"I know."
"She told me she—"
Her voice failed. Charlotte waited. Calenelda had faced storms without flinching. She had walked into ruins filled with monsters. She had stood before the Council while men twice her age questioned whether she was still human. But these words—
These were harder. "She loves me."
Charlotte's expression changed. Not surprise. Not amusement. Something warmer.
"Yes," she said.
Calenelda's throat tightened. "And she still ran."
Charlotte nodded.
"Yes."
"Why?"
"Because loving you doesn't erase everything she has been taught to fear."
Calenelda turned toward her. "I know that."
"Do you?" The question landed harder than expected. Charlotte continued. "You understand Talia's fear. You understand why she hides behind duty. Why the Council makes her put her armor back on." Calenelda's jaw tightened. "But understanding it doesn't mean you are patient enough to live with it."
Calenelda looked away. Charlotte smiled faintly. "There."
"Don't."
"You've never been patient."
"I can be patient."
Charlotte barked out a laugh. "You once challenged a mountain because it wouldn't move."
"It was blocking the road."
"You were in the wrong valley."
Calenelda opened her mouth. Then closed it. Charlotte's grin widened.
"You can wait because you promised Talia you would." Her expression softened again. "But that doesn't mean you aren't going to spend every miserable second of it wishing she would come back."
Calenelda breathed out. A sound somewhere between frustration and surrender.
"I don't want to pressure her."
"Then don't."
"I don't want her to think I expect something from her."
"Then tell her that."
Calenelda frowned. "She knows."
Charlotte stared at her. Calenelda sighed. "She probably doesn't."
"No." Charlotte stepped forward and placed one clawed hand gently against Calenelda's shoulder. "Because you're both doing the same thing."
Calenelda tilted her head. "What?"
Charlotte's voice became quieter. "Talia is afraid that if she tells you everything she feels, she'll lose control of herself."
Calenelda listened. "And you're afraid that if you tell her how badly you want her, you'll become another thing she has to run from."
Calenelda went still. Charlotte smiled sadly. "So both of you are trying to protect each other." A pause. "And both of you are miserable."
Calenelda groaned. Charlotte laughed again. "That sounds about right."
Calenelda leaned her back against the wall. "She told me she wanted a date."
"Yes."
"And then she stood in front of the Council and looked like she wanted to murder Eldarion when he implied there was something between us."
Charlotte's ears flicked. "Because there is something between you."
"I know."
"And she knows."
"I know."
"And apparently Eldarion knows enough to be suspicious."
Calenelda's expression hardened. Charlotte noticed immediately. The warmth vanished from her face.
"What?"
Calenelda pushed herself away from the wall. "That's different."
"How?"
"Eldarion knew things he shouldn't."
Charlotte's ears flattened. "The temple?"
Calenelda nodded slowly. The shift in her was immediate. Charlotte had seen it before. Calenelda could move from reckless emotion to terrifying focus in the space of a breath.
"He knew enough to speak about what happened beneath the sands," Calenelda continued. "Things that weren't in our reports."
"Talia told him?"
Calenelda shook her head. "No."
The answer came instantly. Too instantly. Charlotte noticed.
"You trust her that much?"
Calenelda's expression softened. "Yes."
There was no hesitation. No uncertainty. Charlotte studied her for a moment. Then nodded.
"Good."
Calenelda turned back toward the city. "Something is feeding him information."
"Or someone."
"Maybe."
Charlotte watched her carefully. "You're thinking about Ba'Ham again."
Calenelda's fingers tightened. "When Eldarion passed me in the Council chamber, my aura reacted."
Charlotte's expression became serious. "How?"
"Like smoke." Calenelda lifted a hand unconsciously toward her chest. "Something clinging to him. Something I felt beneath the temple."
Charlotte was silent. "That doesn't mean he knows anything about you and Talia."
"No." Calenelda frowned. "It doesn't."
But she wasn't convinced. Charlotte stepped closer.
"Then find out."
Calenelda smiled faintly. "That sounds suspiciously like bad advice."
"I'm a terrible influence."
"You're my oldest friend."
"Which means you should have known that already."
For the first time that night, Calenelda laughed properly. Charlotte's tail flicked behind her. Then she stepped back.
"And now you are going to do something difficult."
Calenelda immediately frowned. "What?"
"You're going to leave Talia alone tonight."
Calenelda's smile vanished. Charlotte grinned.
"See? Impossible."
"I was not going to see her."
"Of course not."
"I wasn't."
"You were walking toward the Paladin training grounds." Calenelda froze. Charlotte pointed down the alley. "The training grounds are that way."
Calenelda slowly turned her head. Charlotte's grin became unbearable.
"I hate you."
"No, you don't."
"No." Calenelda sighed. "I don't."
Charlotte pulled her hood back over her head. "Give her time."
Calenelda's expression tightened. "I said I would."
"I know." Charlotte paused. Then looked back. "But don't disappear while you're waiting."
Calenelda went quiet. Charlotte's voice softened. "Waiting doesn't mean pretending you don't exist."
Then she disappeared back into the darkness. Calenelda remained alone beneath the restless sounds of Tan'Thalon. For several minutes, she didn't move. She thought about Talia. Of course she did. About the kiss. The desert. The way Talia had looked at her when she suggested that ridiculous date as though asking Calenelda to walk into another storm. Calenelda smiled faintly. Then the smile faded.
Give her time.
She could do that. She had promised. But patience had never meant absence. And somewhere above them, beneath the marble towers and golden banners of the city, Talia was building her walls again. Calenelda turned toward the upper rings. Not toward the training grounds. Not yet. But she knew, eventually, she would have to find her. Because waiting for someone did not mean allowing silence to become another wall between them. And Calenelda had never been particularly good at letting walls stand.
-Tan'Thalon: The Moon-Glass Salon-
That same late evening in the Moon-Glass Salon, the opal windows glowed with soft blue light. Music drifted from the main hall, but the private alcove — curtained in indigo velvet — was reserved for Selvara. She stood in the middle of the booth, head slightly tilted, eyes narrowed in concentration. Her two lieutenants, Marrek and Sillis, hovered nearby. A Lazulli sconce flickered as Selvara gestured. Shadows rippled unnaturally across the fabric.
Selvara gave a quiet command. "Begin."
Marrek lifted both palms. Thin threads of violet light spooled outward, settling over the booth like a web. The air shivered — a subtle glamour overlaying the space.
"Fear dampened. Pride heightening. Judgment softened."
Sillis had her eyes half rolled, sensing the currents.
"His jealousy is a ready ember. One touch will make it blaze."
Selvara stepped to the table, touching a delicate wine glass. The reflection within it shifted — showing not the room, but Talia laughing with someone unseen, her expression relaxed, at ease. An illusion, meant to stir insecurity.
Selvara was cold, but pleased. "Good. Place this where he'll see it first."
She then turned toward the candle at the center of the table.
"And the whispers?"
Silis nodded, placing two fingers to the Lazulli candleholder. A faint harmonic vibration hummed — too quiet for any conscious ear to detect.
"Amplified vulnerability. Touch of longing. A seed of righteous anger."
"Not too much. Just enough to make him believe these emotions are his own." Selvara requested.
Silis smirked. "They already are. We only… tune them."
Selvara glided to the side curtain and pinched the fabric. It darkened — deep purple flowing into black — creating the illusion that the booth is more private, more intimate, more full of secrets.
"He seeks validation. Give him a sense of being… chosen."
Marrek adjusted the glamour. The air warmed slightly, as if welcoming him. The opal window catched the light in a way that framed Selvara like a vision. She allowed herself a small, predatory smile.
"And now… weaken his defenses toward me."
Marrek hesitated — barely. Selvara's gaze cut him to stillness.
"Understood."
He traced a sigil. A faint scent curled into the space — something like old cedar and smoldering incense, a smell that evoked trust, authority… and the comfort Eldarion never received from the council he sought to dominate. Selvara stepped back into the center of the booth. Her composure shifted. She softened her posture, lowered her chin, allowed a knowing, welcoming expression to settle onto her face. Her voice dropped into a velvet-smooth tone.
"Ah, Eldarion. You look… pleased with yourself." She said in a perfectly rehearsed tone.
Silis bowed her head, satisfied. "He will believe you see him. Truly see him."
Selvara's voice was edged with satisfaction. "And that is why he never notices the hand behind his ambition."
She drew one long breath, tasting the illusion-laden air.
"Leave me. I want him to think I have been waiting for him — and only him."
Marrek and Silis withdrew without a sound, slipping through the side exit. Selvara sat with regal poise, folding her hands gently over one another, and gazed toward the curtain. A soft tapping of armored footsteps approached the booth. Her smile bloomed — slow, sweet, venomous. Her voice a whisper.
"Right on time, my paladin."
The curtain stirred. Eldarion entered.
-Tan'Thalon: Barracks-
Talia didn't sleep that night. She sat rigidly in her quarters, armor half-shed, a sword resting across her knees. The blade was already spotless, yet the cloth continued to move over it in slow, methodical strokes.
The paladin whose light flares only when she looks at her.
Eldarion's words refused to leave her alone. Not because they were true. Because they were close enough to the truth to frighten her. Her grip tightened around the cloth. She had told Calenelda she wanted a date. She had kissed her. They had spoken about it afterward, honestly — awkwardly, painfully, but honestly. Talia had admitted that she wanted to know what this could become. And Calenelda had smiled. She had told her she could wait. That should have made everything easier.
Instead, standing before the council with dozens of eyes upon them, Talia had felt every fragile wall she had rebuilt around herself snap back into place. She couldn't admit it there. Not in front of Eldarion. Not in front of the council. Not in front of the priests who had spent years telling her what she was supposed to be. So she had done what she had always done. She had denied. She had straightened her back, hardened her voice, and hidden behind the armor of the Captain Suri-Farah everyone knew. And Calenelda had seen straight through it.
That was the worst part. Talia dropped the cloth onto the table and covered her face with both hands.
"She knows."
The admission came out barely louder than a whisper. Of course she knew. Calenelda always knew. That woman could sense the tremor in the ground beneath her feet, the rhythm of a heartbeat through stone. Talia had no hope of hiding from her. And yet Calenelda hadn't confronted her. She hadn't demanded an explanation. She had simply stood beside her.
I can wait.
Talia lowered her hands. "Damn you."
There was no anger behind it. Only affection. And fear. She loved her. The realization no longer felt like something she could outrun. But saying it aloud was different. Saying it aloud meant accepting that the life everyone had expected her to live might not be the life she wanted. And Talia wasn't ready for that. Not yet.
Across the keep, Calenelda was having considerably less success with the concept of waiting. She sat cross-legged on the floor of her chamber, one hand pressed against the boards. The earth beneath the keep whispered back to her. Footsteps. Guard rotations. Servants carrying dishes through distant corridors. The faint vibration of Lazulli conduits running through the walls. Normally, the countless little movements of the world were comforting. Tonight they only gave her more things to listen to. Her own heartbeat was too fast.
She exhaled sharply. "Calm down."
The floor offered no advice. She leaned back against the bed and rubbed both hands over her face. She had faced storms. She had held back collapsing stone. She had stood between Talia and things that could have killed them both without thinking twice. But a frightened woman she loved?
That was apparently where her courage failed her.
Calenelda let out a frustrated groan. "I said I could wait."
The words sounded ridiculous in the empty room. Because she could. She would. If Talia needed time, she would give it to her. But that didn't mean she had to enjoy it. Her mind returned to the council chamber. Talia's voice. The hesitation. The flush creeping across her face when Eldarion implied something existed between them. And then the denial. Calenelda's chest tightened. For one brief, ugly moment, something wounded and childish rose inside her.
You said you wanted a date.
She immediately hated herself for thinking it. Talia hadn't lied. She was afraid. Calenelda understood that. She understood it better than almost anyone. But understanding fear didn't make it hurt less.
Her fingers curled against the floorboards.
"I can wait," she whispered again.
This time, the words were softer. Less like a promise to Talia. More like a promise she was trying to make to herself. She lowered her head until her forehead touched her knees. The calm, fearless Diviner the council had seen was gone. There was no serene smile now. No teasing remark. No effortless confidence. Only a young woman who had finally allowed herself to love someone — and had discovered that love gave the other person the power to hurt her without ever meaning to. Calenelda drew a slow breath. She loved Talia. That part was no longer frightening. What frightened her was how badly she wanted to be chosen. Not as a partner in battle. Not as a witness. Not as the Diviner the council had decided Talia was responsible for. As her.
And for the first time since the temple had stripped away so many of her old fears, Calenelda understood something she had never been particularly good at. Being free did not mean getting what she wanted. Sometimes it meant having the strength to let someone else choose when they were ready. She hated that lesson. She suspected she was going to hate it for quite some time.