Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

one

They are in a campus gallery looking at a bland exhibition on the history of solar calendars. Even dimmed the fluorescent lights are so flaming hot, and the didactics and displays are so overcrowded, that the pristine white paint performs more like an outline than a wall. 

“There isn’t any evidence that our universe is affected by the gravitational pull of another,” Ellana Laverly mumbled under her breath. 

She silences as Jack approaches. She’s trying not to ignite the same argument they’ve passed back and forth over the past decade. It’s not because Ellana lacks conviction, but because she wants a glass of sauvignon blanc to toast its revival. A glass Jack will pay for in boast given that her institution is less prestigious and didn’t send her with a generous stipend like his. 

Jack shakes his head in pretend disapproval, “Are we really going to have this argument? Here? Now?”

Ellana knows he wants the opportunity to be right. Especially here, in this space, where others from the conference might also happen to be passing through. It’s been their habit for him to be right, and for her to let him be right since undergrad orientation. 

“Isn’t that why you brought us here?” 

“If you spent less time thinking about telescope mechanics you might understand–” 

Ellana immediately stops listening. She hasn’t advanced very far in the field of astrophysics, but the momentum she’s gained has been enabled by her ability to ignore the drawl of male voices subtly undermining her interests.  

Instead, her attention drifts back to the display in front of her. It’s a gigantic xerox copy of an ancient Egyptian manuscript. Ellana doesn’t know how to interpret the iconography, but recognizes the unmistakable ordering of figures in stiff profile. The skyline is a woman’s nude body tenderly curves over rows of marching figures with varying degrees of ornamentation. None are looking upwards. 

Ellana counts out exactly five stars on the woman’s belly as Jack’s conversation turns back to his posting in Switzerland. How, he’s been struggling in his search for an apartment given that he wants a furnished one-bedroom in a city of studios. 

"The Book of Nut, originally called The Fundamentals of the Course of the Stars, focuses on the cycles of stars of the decans, the phases of the moon, the revolutions of the sun and the known planets.”

“Ellana? Are you listening?” 

“Yes, Jack.” Always. 

She doesn’t say the half truth out loud. Despite her anticipation to meet him that morning, Ellana is having a hard time concentrating. There is something about Jack’s presence that is redundant. He’s as handsome as he always has been, but the repetition of their sexual tension–the game of will they or won’t they–makes her feel distinctly claustrophobic. 

As if Ellana’s unknowingly caught in a revolving door incapable of stopping. 

“–you would think that your own research would make you more open to the idea of multiple dimensions given the recent findings about the possibility of bubble collisions.” 

“–the egyptian text examines how different astrological tools were used to promote the idea that the sunrise was a source of mythological rebirth.” 

Ellana steps forward to another wall display. It’s a detailed didactic of the Egyptian calendar and a reconstruction of a sundial. She’s starting to see why Jack insisted they visit while they met up for the colloquia. There’s a small favor in it that quickly turns into a perversion. 

Ellana’s never had any interest in the solar calendar, only the movements of its cousins in the night sky. The presence of one precludes the other and she thinks Jack should be more sensitive to that fact given how low his voice got when he called her the month prior after immediately changing his facebook status from “in a relationship” to “single”. 

“What is the paper you are presenting on?” 

“I’m not,” Ellana says decisively. “I’m here to consult on–” 

“Wow, check this out,” Jack breaks off to go look at a collection of reconstructed models of metal sundials laid out on a plinth. 

Ellana doesn’t follow in soft refusal.Instead she continues on in the curator’s intended sequence, gazing on a chart of Egyptian calendar norms. The hieroglyphs demarcating each month congeal together and she’s reminded of how strange her dreams have been lately. 

How in them space, time, matter, energy, and the physical laws are regularly undermined. 

If Jack wants to claim a territory of parallel worlds or alternate worlds, Ellana thinks he might consider the weight of dreams. Something a scientist would never do; something, Ellana as a scientist would never do. 

Ellana glances again at Jack in her periphery. 

His toned form subverts many of the stereotypes of theoretical physicists. His artful stubble and maroon shirt are stylish instead of dumpy. She supposes his skill to bring out the warm brown of his eyes has made her lust after him the moment they met at freshman orientation. 

Not for the first time, Ellana wonders if they’ll cross the Rubicon from the hotel bar to her room. She smooths down her hair as she catches him looking back at her. There isn’t any passion in the gaze, only hazy acceptance.

Maybe she’ll visit him in Switzerland. 

A flash of gold and a sudden clang–

Ellana’s attention is captured by the object at the center of the room. It’s an orb on a brass stand no larger than a clenched hand. She’s never seen light refract the way it does as it hits its oily surface. Almost as if the beam is absorbed and recapitulated like a chewed up prism; almost as if it can morph a reflection into a hum. 

“What is that?” 

“The label says it is a map of the sun made out of a magma—” 

Ellana goes to the display as if it asked her politely to do so. She’s aware of Jack grinning stupidly in the periphery and that she doesn’t want him to think the joy of what’s in front of her belongs to him in any small way. 

It will be her turn to tease and refuse him. 

Break his heart and pretend not to notice. 

“I’m glad you are enjoying the exhibition–” 

There is an obscenity to the object.

The surface is so dense to appear fleshy like the inside of a tangerine except it floats over the ring of brass. 

Almost as if it is pretending to conform to gravity to escape any firm placement within it.

Ellana lowers her face to be even closer. 

She wants to touch it. 

 “What are you doing?” Jack snaps, as he pulls Ellana’s hand urgently back. 

She blinks once. The alarms begin to flash. A small part of her consciousness registers that she shouldn’t touch the artifact, while another argues that if the curators didn’t want anyone to, they would have placed the orb under glass.    

Ellana hadn’t been certain of much in her twenty-eight years. She had merely made choices based on the whims of funding and employment. She had moved from the East Coast to the West Coast. It didn’t particularly matter; however, given that she calibrated telescopes remotely. The coaxial cable that connects her mind to the machine isn’t so much umbilical cord, but a leash that pulls her along.

There is certainty in her gesture that makes it clear: Ellana chose to pick up the orb.

_______________________  

First, there is fog. 

Ellana panics when it doesn’t separate from the horizon. 

Then there are shadows that dance in the cloudy smoke. 

She finds herself on her knees. Her long blonde braid clutched in claw-like fingers that pull her forward until she whimpers. A chuckle follows. 

“Jack?” Ellana knows it’s not him, but there isn’t a logical alternative. 

A woman with lips painted blood-red looks down at her with great disinterest. Her red eyebrows are arched upwards. Ellana has never seen a face like this; skin pale as a fairytale. She turns and Ellana gasps when she sots pointed ears. No matter how she scans their surface, there is no evidence of glue lines or plastic. 

Ellana insists to herself this is some elaborate prank. 

That Jack has hired a retinue of Renaissance Fair enthusiasts.  

A voice speaks in a lulling tone in a language that Ellana has never heard before. Another pull of her hair prevents her from determining its source, so instead she focuses on the indistinct ground. She can’t tell if she’s below ground or high up.  The discombobulation makes her shake uncontrollably. 

“Wha–” A finger is jammed in Ellana’s mouth. She clenches her teeth down until a yelp erupts.

A honeyed voice laughs as the woman yells at the figure clutching the waist-long braid. It’s male in sound, low and baritone. 

A new face suddenly enters Ellana’s sight line. It’s a man, with more angles than curves. She feels some untraceable sadness when his piercing blue eyes are not turned in her direction, rather the sphere cradled in her hands. There is a clarity to the hue that makes her want their full attention, even if her gut twists when she realizes the possible darkness of that desire. 

She pulls the orb back towards her chest, but the man touches it with a grin. 

“I thought I lost that years ago,” There is an accent to the words. Almost as if they are too heavy, “So very kind of you to personally return it to me.” 

Another heartbeat, and then the stranger’s expression shifts from ruthlessness to curiosity. He reaches out a single finger and–despite her protests–traces it over the slope of Ellana’s ears. 

She trembles when he speaks in a voice that brokers no disobedience. The question mirroring Ellana’s own in painful symmetry:  “What are you?” 

Chapter Text

two

“What are you?” The blue-eyed man repeats. 

Ellana recalled her argument with Jack about the nature of the multiverse. Her conviction had always been that traveling between dimensions would be impossible. 

The longer she stared at the group's pointed ears, the more positive she is that her current predicament is paid for by Jack’s trust fund. 

The theoretical physicist was a Tolkien aficionado and had spent more than a few afternoons in the Bodleian Libraries to view the author’s paintings for The Lord of the Rings. Of course he’d choose elves to signify the impossible. 

Ellana relaxed into the notion that the indistinct barrier between the sky and ground is the work of elaborate stagecraft, as is the incandescent whack of white permeating every surface like the inside of an abalone shell. 

Her only wish was that the man clasping her braid would release the clump of blonde hair so she could study the eccentric qualities of its luminescence. 

“Did Jack set you up to do this?” Ellana waits for her friend to hop out from behind a green screen and yell ‘surprise’. 

“What is a Jack?” 

 “That’s not funny.” She means it. 

The side of the man’s mouth curled upwards in amusement and then back into a flat line. His eyes glint as he uses a thumb to brush the tips of her ears again. Ellana resists when he twists her chin side-to-side with focused scrutiny. Clenches her eyes shut and then opens them. 

He’s handsome. Startling so–with a finely-sculpted face that is reminiscent of a Greek or Roman sculpture, almost as pale as clear marble except for where his skin is dotted with freckles and something like sun-damage. Ellana thinks the topography of smile lines around his eyes and mouth place him squarely in middle age. At least fifteen years older than her. 

“What are you?” He demands again. 

The man doesn’t yell, but the authority present in his inflection renders the question terrifying. He cocks his head and his expression softens with pity. It’s strange to feel oppressed in such an open expanse, but Ellana does. 

Her vision narrows as her mind tries to grab hold of the present. 

“Let me go!” 

“You should never hesitate to answer me. For your own benefit,” his voice lowers in warning. His words are understandable but he struggles on the hard syllables. 

“Stop joking! You’re hurting me.” 

“A joke? this is no joke, little thing.” 

Ellana’s eyes flicker as she tries to get a clear view of her surroundings to build a new hypothesis about where she is. Any theory she can come up with leads to a dark and twisted outcome with her maimed, or even worse: dead. 

Multiple fingers prod her pointless-ear and the corners of her body, while the strangers chatter in their strange language. It rises and falls like a gentle tide, it isn’t harsh, and if Ellana weren’t in such dire circumstances, she would find the cadence beautiful. 

An experimental squeeze of her breast causes her to cry out. A line drawn up the seam of her legs makes her kick and curse. 

Even in the haze of panic, Ellana recognizes that the strangers are bigger than she is. She is of middle height and weight. If there were only one, she’d be able to escape. For a moment she considers getting up to run, but it is then she recognizes the heat of the object in her hand. 

Ellana clutches the orb. Tries to will its strange powers to carry her home. It flashes gold and then immediately dulls. The man twisting her braid laughs in cruel glee, while the woman responds as if to chastise. 

“You shouldn’t be playing with that,” the blue-eyed man taunts as he pries the object from her loose fingers. It doesn’t take long, because even though Ellana is a regular at the gym and holds onto the orb with all her available strength, the man is considerably bigger and stronger. 

Ellana is prevented from grabbing the orb back by where she’s fixed in place by the other stranger’s grip. 

She shakes with panic when the blue-eyed man tips his head forward and puts his warm mouth to hers. Ellana refuses to move her lips and balks with her whole body when he breathes in hot air. 

He playfully leans into the kiss and Ellana sputters when he lingers, threatening the cold slip of his tongue with teeth. A smile is present on his breath, and she's confused to discover some sweetness in it. 

Violated, Ellana falls to the ground when he jolts away. Panic fully takes over, and she can do nothing but lay there at eye level with a field of bare feet tied with fine velvet wrappings with embroidered edges. 

She finds some ineffable metaphor in the strange footwear and altitude. As if both accentuate her transformation into an object of prey. 

The woman snaps and a force that Ellana doesn’t understand snakes around her arms and hands. Another snap and she is floating in midair.  She twists in an attempt to lower her body, but the effort only has her spinning in free fall over a cloud-like ground.   

The panic at discovering that gravity can be subverted in this world makes Ellana bite back a scream. She wants her feet to be squarely back on the ground. She wants to be able to pinch her arm and wake up. 

“Can it understand us now?” The woman asks in the direction of the blue-eyed man, who nods with enthusiasm. 

“I’m not an it,” Ellana growls. She tugs at her invisible bonds again. She twists her limbs back as they tighten with each attempt she makes to slip through them. 

No matter what happens, she will fight,“Let me go!” 

“Calm down, little thing,” the blue-eyed man says with a dismissive pet of her head. It contrasts with the soothing honey of his voice. 

The basic concept of thing-ness was not an unusual consideration for a physicist who dealt with the language of atoms. Even one like Ellana who specialized in star maps. In a recent paper she had read regarding quantum energy, Ellana  had learned about the quirks of atoms.

How an electron never wavered from their dependable dance around their perpetual orbit of a nucleus. 

Had all her electrons simultaneously fallen away from their nuclei at the behest of the orb? 

 If so, why had the artifact brought her here? 

Ellana’s firm study in the reliability of regular order made what was happening in front of her so fearful. 

If not, dangerous. 

Her mind races, all her thoughts unravel and pull apart like jumping electrons that have learned a new routine. 

At least, whatever the blue-eyed had done allowed her to understand what was going around her in more detail. If they were just going to kill her, they wouldn’t grant her that capability. 

Right. Right? 

“I’ve never seen garb such as this before. The fabric is so rough and poorly made,” The man who had initially captured her breathes a few centimeters from her face as he twists her loose black polyester pants. 

There is no sweetness in the gesture. 

She’s able to see his face now. It’s like the blue-eyed man, but with rounder cheeks and a sinister glint to the slope of his face absent of smile lines. His expression is hard to read given pale red eyebrows; brown eyes instead of blue. 

“Yes,” the woman agrees, “what is it wearing?” 

Ellana finds his comment comical, given that their outfits are outrageous; a combination of gauzy white fabric with gold armor layered over. The woman’s dress is translucent and revealing except where what look like leaves are sewn over her chest and groin area.  Her full breasts are almost bare, each held into place by a band of fabric that is stitched to a tube-like dress that flattens her curves. 

It’s the wigs the men wear that Ellana finds so baffling. Long black hair wired into intricate patterns with beads and combs, a line of stubble is visible around the edges. 

Ellana happens upon blue eyes staring back at her with curiosity as she examines the animal skull placed at the very top like a crown. It looks like a wolf except that the bone is ebony rather than egg white. 

The woman yank Ellana’s ears again, as the man with blue eyes strokes her cheek. His touch would be tender if she weren’t whimpering. His lips pucker in a subtle shush that Ellana finds stabilizing.

“Do you think it’s from below? Which would imply Ellana is above? 

“I don’t…” A small hesitation flickers in his voice. “She doesn’t have magic.” 

“No,” the other man agrees. “I don’t sense any magic either. Even the lowest slave has a small bit of magic. What is it?” 

“ Slaves ?” Ellana gasps. 

The word ignites her panic. Solidifies for Ellana that she’s stuck somewhere terrible given the abhorrent practice. The analytical part of her mind that is constantly sorting the world also argues that if she’s not as capable as society’s lowest, then what will happen to her? 

“Fiery,” the man with the cruel gaze mutters. “I rather want it?” 

The blue-eyed man glides over to stand in front of her, brings his free hand up to his lips. Throws the orb up and down like a juggler in the other. “If she is not from below then the orb must have brought her to me, June.” 

“Her?” The man newly revealed as June bristles. “You are too kind to your conscripts, Fen’Harel. One day the whole indiscipline lot will take up arms against you.” 

Ellana trips over the name. It’s strange with a guttural stop in the middle. At least the word June is familiar.   

“Ha,” The man named Fen’Harel responds with a dry wave of his hand. “At least I don’t take joy in abusing them.” 

“Careful, you children,” the woman warns. “We came here to make truce–” 

“You should give this to me as a sign of goodwill. After all it is I that must take on the burden of this fight.” 

“We should discuss the intricacies in front of…” The woman's honey-eyed gaze to where Ellana is watching, mouth-agape. “It could have been sent by the twins.” 

“I think you have enough toys to play with, June,” Fen’Harel interjects with a bored flip of his wig. There’s a strained element in his expression that betrays the casualness of his voice. “Andruil, speak some sense into your brother that I should have this creature.” 

“This conversation bores me,” Andruil shakes her head. “Maybe we should put it out of its misery.” 

Ellana whimpers. Audibly this time. 

“You don’t want it?” June asks, ignoring Ellana twisting in her magical bonds. “Even as a gift for your beloved?” 

“Ghilan’nain has plenty. Besides, I don’t need another thing to keep track of given my upcoming role in the so-called misunderstanding. June, wouldn’t sister-wife not take kindly to you bringing another pet home? 

“You both pain me,” The man answers with a dramatic flourish, pinching his nose. “I have a headache.” 

“Well, then I’ll take–” 

“No!” June snaps, shoulders rising to full attention. “I demand a trial.” 

“Only if Andruil participates.” 

“I’m surprised that you’d bet with me, Fen’Harel, given that last time I bested you resulted in a year of service in my bed.” 

“You act as if that was a punishment, my fair lady.” 

Andruil laughs, “Well, I’ll not take place, but I will judge.” 

“So what is our trial, sister?” 

The woman makes a stern face of concentration. Hums while twirling a red ringlet in between index finger and thumb. The silence drifts off long enough for Ellana to shake. The restrictions of her magical bonds severely restricts her movement, and her limbs are starting to prickle. 

“It should decide who it belongs to,” Andruil declares. 

Without explanation, Ellana falls to the ground. The impact hits hard to bruise and she can barely make sense of being pulled up to her feet. Nails dig into her skin and she’s staring at the two men. 

The calculation of who to leave with is as baffling to Ellana as the current terms of her reality. She’s unwilling to go with either, but is stifled from answering as a piece of fabric is wrapped around her eyes. 

The woman's hand guides Ellana in a spin and she trips and falls again. 

Ellana had always felt outside of herself. As though life was going on elsewhere and now that she was elsewhere, all she wanted to be was where she had been beforehand. The repetition of that, parallel to the figurative choice she had in front of her made Ellana choke back a bevy of tears. 

She would remain feral and stiffens her body as if to run. 

“It must choose,” Andruil repeats and picks her up. Gives her a shove and then pinches her ear. The pain earns her a shout. 

Ellana doesn’t respond. She’s trying to reconcile the idea that she might not go home. She wonders if Jack is searching for her, and if he cares. He’d probably call the police, who would alert her parents. Perhaps they’d fly out to Colorado with her four siblings and launch a nationwide search? 

It’s doubtful anyone will find her where she is. Even if they tried.

Her mother had warned her last Thanksgiving–the first time Ellana had been home in two years–that venturing into space would have dire consequences. At the outer rim of the solar system, past the dark void, were certainly aliens ready to annihilate humankind. 

Was this karma or punishment for Ellana’s complacency in such a quest? 

The part of Ellana that had always needed to be analytical tries to force the fear into productivity. If the orb led her here, then the orb would lead her home. 

At least there is repetition in her choice. Ellana had actively chosen to pick up the orb in the museum exhibition, and now she’d choose it again even if it had an owner. 

“Fen’Harel?” She asks, in resignation.“Will you take me?”  

“Come here little thing.”

She does and looks upon his comely face when he unties her blindfold. 

“Fen’Harel wins.” Andruil declares. 

“I’ll sulk for at least an age,” June says. There’s a bite to it that rings honestly. 

Ellana doesn’t have much time to process the outcome. She finds her binds loosened, but not entirely removed. The man named Fen’Harel grasps her arm and pulls her adjacent to him, waist-to-waist. 

“I guess we’ll let you enjoy your prize,” Andruil says. 

Ellana blinks and a bird is where the red-head Andruil stood. Snow-white and owl-shaped with the wingspan of an eagle. Before she can grasp the trick, the bird flies upwards and vanishes. 

“You’ll grow bored eventually, Dread Wolf,” June says with a wicked grin. “I don’t mind leftovers.” 

Ellana opens her mouth in protest. She’s about to spit in June’s face when Fen’Harel clasps her by the arm and pulls her away with ruthless efficiency. She’s surprised to feel a quality like anxiety in his touch as he pulls her floating body along with him. 

June laughs and smoke wafts through the air in thick globes that cause her to cough. 

The man named Fen’Harel silently guides Ellana to a long plane of glass-like material that offers a sense of scale that she appreciates given that she’s often viewed her life’s work to be about placing her present scenery in context of the broader cosmos. 

The plane in front of her is not star-size, but feels like it in their current sense of limbo. Its icy surface reflects nothing, but shimmers aimlessly in a marbled pattern.  

“Walk forward,” Fen’Harel commands. 

“Now,” he urges at a whisper when Ellana does not budge.

In this abnormal dimension, Ellana observes that space and time operate the way she is accustomed to, but her mind intuits that moving forward brings her further away from home. It is the only place she wants to be right now. 

“Send me home.”  Ellana makes one more attempt at the ultimatum, reaching out to gain leverage by fisting a handful of fabric, her hand burns as if shocked with a low level of electricity. 

Her anxiety turns to despair when Fen’Harel shoves her through the gossamer plane that gives too easily when Ellana makes impact. 

Chapter Text

three

The man named Fen’Harel places Ellana in a golden room like a trophy.  

Then, without word or explanation he vanishes. 

In the immediate aftermath, Ellana's first recollection is the myth of Persephone and Hades. Her only memory of it is an illustration in a World Lit textbook of a maiden suggestively plucking wild geranium while the god of the underworld, Hades, stalks her along a river bed. 

Ellana attempts to repress her fears about the present similarities while simultaneously promising herself not to eat any pomegranate seeds if offered. 

A flicker of hope bubbles in Ellana’s chest when she runs a hand over the bulge in the cell phone in her front pocket. According to her rudimentary knowledge of inter-dimensional travel, she should be able to use it if there is any overlap between her world and this one. 

She’d call Jack and he’ll alert the entire international community of physicists who won’t be able to resist saving her given the promise of experiment. 

There is no dial tone Instead, Ellana finds a cracked, blackened screen as if the device has burned from the inside out. 

Diminished, Ellana crumples onto the bed. 

It’s softer than expected, but the sensation of stillness does nothing to quell the shaking in her limbs. It is only the idea that her survival is contingent on her ability to stay coherent that allows her to swallow down a bevy of hot tears. 

She can do nothing else but concentrate on the impossible task. After all, traveling between worlds was a violation of Ellana’s core beliefs, even if her studies of physics specialized in the phenomena of distant celestial bodies. 

Ellana can no more reconcile the events of the past few hours, than she can beckon objects or persons to ignore the laws of gravity. 

The burnished gold walls shrink around her like cellophane. The decoration is not solid, but gleams like fish scales. 

She recalls the strange trio of elves. Ellana wasn’t sure if they would call themselves that, but it was an easy classification to make given their pointed ears and magic tricks.  

The places where their finger probed still burned, as does their use of the word “it”. 

A blush rises to Ellana’s cheeks when she thinks back to Fen’Harel’s lips on hers.

Her captor is handsome, as he is frightening. Mysterious as he is powerful. 

Dangerous combinations. 

Ellana begins to wonder more concretely where she is. 

The walls glow with their own, internal light. It would be a marvel if Ellana weren’t drowning with panic.  Despite the grandeur of the gold surface, the rest of the room is simple like a prison cell. The floor plan is a perfect square and unfurnished except for the bed and a simple table made out of bent copper wire and sea foam glass. 

Manifesting all of her training as a scientist, Ellana continues to examine her surroundings for clues about her captor and his culture. 

She starts by running her hands over the bed's blankets. They are tightly  woven knits made out of fine animal hair. Undyed, but soft.  A roll stretches the entire length of the bed. It’s stiff unlike the downy pillows Ellana favors. 

Ellana buries her face into the surface of the fabric. There’s a floral smell, one she’s never inhaled before. Sweet like roses, but herbaceous like pine.  

It is this scent that calms her. 

She counts her breaths in and out, leaving a circle of drool on the pillow as she endeavors not to hyperventilate. 

It takes all her willpower, especially when she can make out a low hum of whispers in the adjacent hallway. When the silence returns, she dares to flip onto her back and stare up at the ceiling. Large carved beams transect chalky plaster. 

The recognition that the beams are fashioned out of wood suggests to Ellana that something like a tree must grow in this world. The idea of plants, roots, and growth is somehow the most reassuring she’s had that there are some identical rules in place as to the order of things. 

A few deep breaths and Ellana finds herself sitting up. The solidness of the surrounding objects assures her further; the peace in turn, reminds her of her ability to walk. 

Tentative steps over a tile floor and Ellana is at the door. It’s made of smooth white stone with no handle. She can hear a creeping sound on the other side, a shadow casts itself through the crack and whispers too soft to hear clearly follow. 

For a second Ellana thinks it might open. She braces herself only for eerie silence to return. 

The idea of escape occurs to her then. It would be good to find a route even if she undertakes it at a later date. She hits a fist against the door. Runs her fingers across the entire reachable surface.  

When it doesn’t reveal its trick, Ellana begins to circle the room.  

There’s an alcove on the opposite wall, next to a large window. The gold walls light up the moment she steps in revealing a porcelain bowl inset into the floor and another tall table with a bowl of water and rag. It looks like a squatting toilet she once saw while traveling in rural Japan, with a drain at the center. 

She picks up a little dish of lavender-colored powder and smells soap. 

At least she won’t have to soil herself? 

Ellana’s attention returns to the window. Hope reignites when she notices that the window is without glass. Only, when she looks out, no landscape greets her, only expanse. Something like a sky that flickers between heaven and fog almost as if the entire space is floating with no horizon line. 

No matter where she looks, there is no indication of a ground.  Or a breeze for that matter. 

It makes her head circle with fatigue. An ache radiating throughout her body causes Ellana to lay down on the bed again.  The walls dim and the shadows from the not-quite sky make eerie shadows dance. 

It would be less threatening if she had seen a sun. 

Against her better judgment, Ellana closes her heavy eyelids and pictures a clip on the nightly news displaying her staff photograph. She assumes that the exhibition would have security footage of her disappearing from the museum exhibition. Then, she imagines Reddit forums filled with vigorous debate about what happened to the physicist who seemingly evaporated.

It's harder to guess what her parents might do. She's the third of four other children. The quietest and strangest of them all who left as soon as she could for studies that none of her family finds interesting or useful. Ellana knows her parents will be sad, but given their Midwestern practicality will make quick peace with the situation. 

It will be Jack who will monopolize the situation. Use it as proof as he makes bombastic statements at conferences relishing the suspicion of being the last person to see her. 

She doesn’t think the lab she’s working at will miss her. She’s a technician lower than even a graduate student on the hierarchy. Glad for the employment because she hasn’t even finished her dissertation on mechanisms used to measure gravitational waves. 

Are there stars in this world? 

It’s the last thing Ellana thinks about before falling asleep. 

Chapter Text

four

Women with beautiful, young faces hover of Ellana’s bed. 

One of the women, with hazel eyes and long wavy brown hair like a nuthatch, shakes her awake. The touch of her hand is urgent, but kind and Ellana blinks open, body snapping back to full alert from dreamless sleep as she remembers her current predicament. 

“My name is Amathiral, I serve the great lord Fen’Harel,” Ellana swears she sees an eye roll at the end of the sentence. “I have come at his behest of him to ready you.” 

The other two women nod in solidarity. Mouths shut in firm lines.  Their gowns are plainer than Andruil's,but cut in a similar fashion so that their breasts plump over the generous necklines. The waves of their hair are drawn back in plain gold circlets that frame their pointed ears. 

Other than the ears, their bodies are similar to Ellana’s. Taller, more willowy, but the resemblance is close enough for her to relax a bit more. She may be in a different culture, but the physical kinship offers the additional recognition in each other’s thoughts, moods, and feelings. 

Ellana is nervous, decides a joke is a good method to test out the boundaries of this unknown world.

“For ritual sacrifice?” She asks as she steps off the bed in a wry voice. 

Wrly enough that anyone in the United States would recognize the sarcasm. She doesn’t expect the women to flinch. The earnestness of which convinces Ellana she’s in a violent world where such a thing is regular practice.

‘’His lord, Fen’Harel is unlike his brethren. No, he has invited you to join him to break the fast.” 

“As a guest or as an entree?” Ellana can’t help herself as she slides off the bed. Smoothes a hand down her ruined pantsuit. 

In the silence, Ellana can feel it fully now. The buzz of something like electricity touching her skin. It’s indistinct but constant: A threat of something other than her willpower shaping the world around her.  It hisses at the edge of her periphery with something like uneasiness. 

Ellana recalls what June had said, that she was without magic. She supposes this must be the unknown quality she senses from the women. 

“It is a great honor to dine with Fen’Harel the Dread Wolf, beloved of Mythal,” one of the other women to Amathiral’s left chimes in. Her dress is identical, but she lacks a broad necklace fashioned out of emerald faience beads that the woman who introduced herself wears. 

“Beloved?” Ellana presses. She assumes the name to be a spouse. 

“Her great general,” the woman on the right offers with another dip of her head. 

“If Fen’Harel wants to dine with me, he can come here and personally invite me himself.”

“That is impossible,” Amathiral says with a strained smile. “Given that it is uncommon to be a guest of the Dread Wolf, I am to remind one that his requests are to be complied with.” 

Ellana balks. She’s used to being given directives in the lab, but none so forceful as these. 

“Not to mention,” Amathiral trails off with a strained smile, “I understand you are not of Arlathan…” The casualness with which she makes the pronouncement reveals to Ellana that fact might be not be extraordinary,  “So I would like to invite you to make active use of our lord’s hospitality and allow us to help you dress appropriately for the occasion.” 

“Arlathan, is that where I am?” 

Amathiral cocks her head, eyes widening and narrowing pointedly at her rounded ears. “Shouldn’t you know? After all, you are a child of stone?” 

“A child of what?” 

“From the dwarven kingdom?” 

“Dwarf? No.” Ellana resents the insinuation that she’s short and ungainly. “I’m a child of…a human born in Winona, Minnesota. More recently, Tucson, Arizona.” 

The impromptu rhyme bolsters Ellana’s flippantness further, “Or, you can just call me by my name, Ellana.” 

“Um,” Amathiral twists her hands, dismissively scans Ellana’s rumpled clothes and unraveling braid. She lowers her body in an insincere courtesy, “Well, Ellana, child…of human…of Winona, it is my pleasure to accompany you to the baths.” 

Ellana acquiesces not out of fear, but curiosity. She wants to study the place where she’s landed. She expects that because Fen’Harel is referred to as a lord, that he must live in the equivalent of a castle and that it will be beautiful. 

It is an accurate assumption. 

The door opens and Ellana gapes. Wooden walkways connect around patches of green that are more light than plant. Occasionally the verdant green lawn is broken up by flowers of all shades that open and close at whim or a large statue carved into the shape of an animal like a dog or horse-like creature with winding horns. 

Ellana walks sanwiched between Amathiral and her two nameless helpers, trying her best to remember the intricate twists and stairways in and out doors. 

It’s the material that baffles her most. A whole stretch of hallway will be constructed out of wood, while the next will appear like a phantom of green light until she makes contact with it. 

“What is that?” Ellana gasps the first time she steps along a ghostly ridge. 

“Half of the estate is created of memory,” Amathiral observes casually. Forcefully catching Ellana’s wrist to pull her forward, “His Lord is a Master of the Fade.” 

Fade? Memory?  Ellana wants to ask about how to connect each concept to what she is seeing, but Amathiral's palm begins to buzz with stinging electricity; it's enough of a threat to silence her. 

Eventually they arrive at a room somewhere Ellana thinks is near the center of the estate. The room is even simpler than the one she had arrived in, entirely fashioned out of snow-white stone with no visible grout lines. 

A rectangular hole is cut through the wall and reminds Ellana of visiting a public pool. Instead of the smell of chlorine, there is only a sensation of heat and something like sulfur. 

The renewed sense of hands fondling her makes Ellana shrink again. She’s never considered herself to be affectionate, or docile for that matter, and it’s upsetting to be so freely handled. 

“Well,” Amathiral says with a pointed stare, sensing her reticence. “Do they not have baths in Minn-a-shoda?”  

Ellana gives a strained laugh at the mispronunciation.  “We usually bathe alone–” 

She breaks off mid sentence, when one of the women strips off her suit jacket, while another grasps uncertainty at the zipper of her pants. Both are soaked through with sweat and she’s glad to be rid of them, but she’d prefer to undress herself and believe that such an assertion should be common sense. 

Amathiral raises a judging eyebrow when she sees the tawdry red lace underwear purchased on discount earlier that week at a budget lingerie shop. 

She doesn’t want to explain the complicated series of decisions that led her to prepare for an equally cheap evening with Jack in his hotel room, but is glad to understand that the lustfulness translates. 

“I can handle bathing myself,” Ellana protests again when one of her handlers tugs at the elastic waistband. The way she allows it to snap against her is clue enough she’s never seen fabric like this. 

“Why would you want to?” Amathiral asks with a curious cock of her head. 

“Haven’t you ever heard of modesty?” 

Amathiral repeats the word back in a clumsy fashion. Ellana thinks it must demonstrate that whatever language skills Fen’Harel had granted to her didn’t translate mismatched words. The lack of inclusion of this one reignites her nervousness. 

“Privacy when naked?” 

“Would you be more comfortable if we were naked too?” Amathiral bites back churlishly. 

Ellana gives another strained laugh, this one more awkward. On Earth, there are plenty of cultures that bathe together, but it's hard for her to get over the shame inspired by a strict christian upbringing. She had watched an anime once, Tenchi Muyo, where alien women form an impromptu harem around a young Shinto priest.   A running gag was for him to stumble upon the eager group in the communal baths. 

She had found it squeamish to imagine herself naked in a group. 

It wasn’t any different now. 

“No, but I assure you I’m–” She doesn’t finish because she finds herself entirely naked without preamble or warning. A crack in the air and her thong panties and bra are flung against the wall in a tatter. 

Powerless, Ellana wraps her arms around herself. Glad it isn’t her skull that’s been dashed against the stone.  

Amathiral nudges her to move forward on a plane of hand-painted ceramic tile. The decoration is not figural, but rather a series of geometric navy circles that when stepped upon release a torrent of water. 

It doesn’t last long until Amathiral pulls her out with a shriek, “Who did that to you?” 

“Who did what?” Ellana asks, scanning the area around her for new threats. 

“The mark on your shoulder? Who did that to you? Was it one of the twins?” 

“My tattoo?” 

“Your what?” 

She had been a little over nineteen when she got the cartoon of the solar system circling around a sun imprinted permanently on to her skin. At the time she had thought it clever, but now she knew the mediocre work needed a few touch ups, if not an entire cover up. 

Considering that sometimes she struggled to buy groceries, it didn’t seem to be a luxury Ellana could afford. 

Still Ellana can’t place the woman’s fear, as much as the demonstration  bolsters her own sense of safety that no one currently means her harm. 

“I got it when I was young. It’s a sign of my…work.” 

“As a slave?” 

“No,” Ellana bristles, gathering up her patience, “I am an astrophysicist.” 

“A what?” 

“I read the stars. These are the…a picture of where I come from.” 

“So no one did this to you?” Amathiral sighs with relief. There’s a darkness to her tone and Ellana notices the other women staring at her with concern. 

“No, it's ok. It's a…meaningful symbol.” 

"So none of the Eluvian branded you?" 

"What, no.." 

Ellana gasps in surprise when she’s shoved unceremoniously forward again under the shower faunt trying to keep the liquid from splashing into her nose or mouth. 

The shock brings back the panic, and with that a sense of listlessness. She doesn’t pay attention to the women, except they whisper gently among themselves, rubbing sandy exfoliant over her skin followed by floral-smelling powder that broke into suds when it made contact. 

There’s a sense of comfort in it. Their storm of fingers are deft and occasionally find a swath of knotted muscle and massage out the tension that’s been imprinted there by academia. 

By the time she steps out from the fountain of water, she’s boneless and limp and it's the first time Ellana’s let go of the tension of the past few years of unstable funding and disappointment. 

When she lowers herself into the bath, more an elaborate series of mosaic pools enclosed in stone archways, Ellana decides that she could grow used to such a place. The water is hot and comforting, cements her weary body into something like relief. 

It doesn’t take long for Ellana to balk at the admittance. Surely, that would mean never seeing her family again? To finish her dissertation? Even eat at her favorite restaurant. 

If staying were an option, it would be giving an awful lot up. 

Chapter Text

five

The gown Ellana has on should function as camouflage, but she knows the unsteadiness in her gait as she stalks behind Amathiral identifies her as an interloper.                                                                                                               

It’s an outfit unlike anything Ellana has ever worn before. Invisible stitches gather clever horizontal pleats to cling along her bust and waist giving her square torso the illusion of curves. It’s simple, but fine, and the density of the white knit is not completely see-through but translucent enough that it felt as if Ellana were wearing nothing. 

Mostly, because underneath the dress Ellana was, in fact, wearing nothing. 

The perception of nakedness and Ellana’s continuing discomfort with it further amplified the terror and vulnerability she was experiencing at the prospect of dining wth a man who had demonstrated himself to be a churlish magician.

What would the alternative be? 

Fleeing would only invite more unknown variables for Ellana to overcome.  If anything, she should see the meal ahead as an opportunity to make the argument that she should be sent back home to her own world. 

The one she belonged to by nature. 

Ellana’s struggles to stay upright. Partially out of fear; partially out of the continuously incomprehensible act of traversing another world.  All the while Amathiral whispers orders, hand firmly clasping her waist. Don’t rise until the lord dismisses you. Don’t eat until the Dread Wolf does. 

Each directive breaks up her concentration. Their butcher knife rhythm is persistent enough that Ellana suspects that Amithiral’s real intent is to prevent her from counting the turns and twists of their path towards the estate’s center. 

Ellana has the impression that night was near given a pervasive dimness in the ambiguous sky.  Not dark enough for stars, but dark enough that the blue streaking it was more navy than azure. 

The landscape is dotted by paper lanterns floating in hazy order over wooden walkways that cleave elaborate greenery. The lights they pass by shrink quickly in the distance. It’s an odd effect, almost as if all of the solidness of Ellana’s surroundings is as transient as a season. It makes her more dizzy, more uncertain. Almost as if she’s about to careen off a cliff.  

Ellana halts at a garden spilling over a large stone dog. Tries to gather her bearings. Flowers and shrubbery curl in knots, bobbing their leaves like sleeping heads knelt down on pillows. It’s not the answer she was searching for. 

Part of her thinks she’s struggling because she doesn’t know what the value of this exercise is. Dinner, that is. The bath had transformed her, in part, into a new creature, but Ellana isn’t sure what or who that creature is. Certainly, not its value. 

Simple novelty, probably. 

As she slows, Amathiral clicks her tongue impatiently and grabs her hand and pulls her through a doorway to reveal a large interior hallway that’s too large for the outside structure. The surface of the passage is fashioned out of gold stones that shimmer similarly to the ones in her room. 

Or more accurately the room Ellana had been placed in as a holding cell.

Another heartbeat and Amathiral slides a plain oak door open to reveal a small room taken up by a large table. She pushes more than guides Ellana inside. The interior walls are painted with murals of bucolic landscapes of varied greens caked in fog whose realism is both convincing and enviable. 

Ellana barely gets a look at them because the great lord, Fen’Harel sits dead center in her view. His placement is too intentional to be happenstance and there is a totality to his posture that causes her to pay full attention as if he were a radio wave from Vega. 

He is no longer wearing a wig and underneath his head is shaved smooth. An effect Ellana finds to render him even more untouchable given that it removes any possibility of softness in his features.  He’s wiry, but underneath the open he wears she can see a swath of chiseled muscle pale as moonlight, dotted by cinnamon freckles lined by gold pants that match the open robe.

It’s not an outfit that she would call stereotypical to a warrior, but the hardness reflected back at her in his expression is unquestionable. Ellana hopes for a smile, or even a true frown, to understand if she should identify fully as prey. 

 “Sit, please,” the great lord, Fen’Harel, entreats Ellana with a casualness that is belied by boredom. An authority so absolute that it’s never been tested. 

The chair he reclines upon is more lounge than chair and the position of his body reflects this in the comfortable slump of his head resting on the palm of hand, expression opaque as his piercing blue eyes lined in smoky kohl glitter with childlike curiosity and then settle into coldness. 

Ellana had never been one to simply do what others wanted her to do. At seventeen–against the wishes of her parents–she had graduated high school early and moved across the country by herself as an undergraduate to study the hidden secrets of the universe. 

If only they could see her now. 

“I invite you to sit,” Fen’Harel insists again, tapping the upholstery of the seat next to him. 

He’s different here than he had been. Relaxed, maybe?  Ellana sees a smile flash on his lips when she finally sets herself down next to him. Her back is ramrod straight, hands clasped dutifully in her lap. Despite not knowing what to do with it, she’s trying to tame the excess fabric gathered around her feet. 

Ellana doesn’t look back towards the door sliding shut as Amathiral’s forceful walk echoes in the adjacent hallway. Doesn’t want to think about being alone again with a strange man, in a distant world who could rob her of bodily autonomy with a snap of his fingers. 

“Do you have a name?” He asks after a thoughtful pause. Ellana doesn’t realize that she’s trembling until he lays a soothing hand on her elbow. The kind touch shocks her more than any spell good. 

“Ellana Laverly.” If it were any other question she wouldn’t be able to answer. 

“Ee-leena La-vell-ee-yen,” Fen’Harel repeats, “It is my pleasure to welcome you as a guest to my household.” 

His pronunciation of her first name is close enough.  The second is not, but Ellana doesn’t think it matters given that she doesn’t plan to stay. Nor does she want to use the time of her allotted audience explaining the intricacies of what it means to be a descendent of Catholic, Irish farmers marrying a first-generation Norwegian woman from the Twin Cities. 

Nor does the word guest distract Ellana from the notion that she is in actuality a prisoner. Certainly, the wardrobe change hadn’t been for her benefit. 

“Yes, and–” 

The paper door slides open again with a soft rustling sound and another man with pointed ears and violet-colored eyes walks in carrying a tray of earthenware vessels that he sets out in front of them one-by-one. Ellana catches his gaze on her face. It’s clear he’s surreptitiously staring at her ears. 

She guesses by the white kilt that he wears that he’s a servant, maybe even a slave and she recoils at the thought and wonders if the next night it will be she that is serving dinner in another skimpy costume. 

“Thank you, Felassan.” Fen’Harel dismisses him when he stands there too long, mouth agape. 

“Felassan is my squire when in war,” he explains with a soft laugh when the door slides back shut. Says the sentence slowly as if to convey that the title is worthy of respect. It should be calming for Ellana to hear that the Dread Wolf doesn’t employ slaves, but the prospect of eating fills her with another twist of unknowing. 

The dish in front of Ellana is filled with a clear broth with green bits floating in it. Her stomach rumbles as the aromatic scent wafts in the air. Fen’Harel lifts the bowl to his lips and drinks eyes closed.

“Why will you not eat, little thing?” Fen’Harel cajoles when she does not mirror his gesture. It’s a little mocking. Both the tone and the diminutive. 

Ellana hesitates. She wants to liken her current predicament to a fairytale and in those stories consuming any food or drink is a sentence of eternal confinement. After all, the man sitting next to her has pointed ears and rules a castle with unearthly qualities. 

“Will it…” Ellana stumbles as the idea of inquiring if his great lord Fen’Harel if he’s aware of his resemblance to Fionnbharr is ridiculous at best. Even more so, she doesn’t want to risk offense. 

Do we not both hunger? That soup is best hot.” Fen’Harel lifts his bowl up to his lips again and sets it down as if to instruct on the basic act of eating. 

Ellana’s mouth waters at the smell’s wafting up from the cup in front of her and her stomach rumbles. It’s probably been hours since she choked down a dry bagel at the hotel’s measly continental breakfast and washed it down with syrupy cranberry juice. Who knows what time she’s existed in here? All she has to mark it is an empty stomach. 

Illness is worth the risk of strange food given that she’s starving. 

Blue-eyes intently watch as Ellana lifts the bowl to her lips and cautiously sips. Fen’Harel is right, the soup is good hot. Salty, like miso, but with a spice like lemongrass. Two gulps and it's gone. 

A sweet drink like riesling follows. Too late, Ellana tastes alcohol. 

“Felessan,” Fen’Harel summons not unkindly. “The next course.” 

The door opens and shuts and another serving is placed in front of them in repetition. This time expeditiously. The plate is piled with root vegetables that range from orange to red covered in a nutty looking sauce. A tool like a spork is placed along the edge and it takes all of Ellana’s discipline not to shove the entire thing in her mouth. 

She’s not sure what the proper etiquette is to dine with a great lord, but Ellana does her best to imitate the tiny, delicate bites that Fen’Harel makes. It’s a lot to concentrate on, so she barely manages to taste the food except that it is flavorful. 

“Where do you come from, Ee-leena Lav-ell-yeen?” 

She doesn’t want to give him the answer. Wants to keep it for herself, but a dark part of Ellana understands it to be her single currency. “I’m from planet Earth, recently Arizona.” A pause and she imitates Amathiral. “You can call me Ellana. My lord…” 

“Yes,” Fen’Harel confirms with an almost disinterested sigh. She notes he doesn’t protest her use of his title.  “What are you in Are-zon-ah?” 

“I’m an astrophysicist.” The flash of surprise Ellana receives at the mention of her occupation makes it feel almost like an awkward first date. She clarifies immediately out of habit, “I study outer space….and how it works.” 

“Outer space?” 

“I map stars?” 

“To read the future?” Fen'Harel’s face brightens unexpectedly at the prospect. Enough that Ellana wonders if such a skill is obtainable in his world. 

“No,” She takes another drink of wine. She shouldn’t have more alcohol, but she’s nervous. “I observe how they move and then develop tools to see them more clearly.” 

“Why?” 

“I’m a...scholar at a university.” Or really a lab manager masquerading as a post-grad fellow. 

“A position worthy of honor, Ee-leena of Ar-e-zhona.”  

It’s a relief not to be entirely obsolete. 

“I suppose you would like me to send you home?” Fen’Harel announces with a hazy smile.  He picks up his glass right away. Ellana has rarely played politics but senses that there are stakes for her answers. That this question is indexical to a test. 

“Wouldn’t you think that best?” Ellana copies his strange diction in an effort to be more convincing. There is part of the game she’s beginning to enjoy despite how dangerous the prospect of losing is. 

“Would you not want to see more of Arlathan first?” 

The invitation makes Ellana’s longing for home and familiarity multiply, “I hadn’t considered it.” 

“It would be an easy pleasure .” 

“Wouldn’t your wife not like that…” Ellana isn’t sure why she brings this up except that maybe it’s the only convincing play she could make. 

“My what?” Fen’Harel cocks his head with unrepentant amusement. 

“The person you are married to?” Ellana picks up her wine glass to appear coy, “A romantic partner. Mythal?” 

Fen’Harel cackles. Slaps the surface of the table which causes Felassan to misread the signal, open the door again and bring in another tray laden with another course. Ellana blushes throughout the entire serving. She’s not sure what the error is. 

“I know what a wife is,” Fen’Harel says when Felassan leaves.  “However, Mythal is the empress of the gods. Our leader.” 

Ellana chokes on her own wine wondering if she should do something dramatic like lay down on the floor in supplication. A thousand questions simultaneously occur to her to ask. How did she get here and why is Fen’Harel so unsurprised at her arrival? There must be many visitors from other worlds here. 

The single question she manages seems unsubstantial. Young-sounding and naive: “Does that make you a…god?” 

“Some may call me one. I might suggest you think of me that way.” 

Ellana blanches and looks down at the new plate in front of her. It’s a hot pie made with thin dough with another sauce. The presentation is beautiful and she can’t imagine how to begin the process of cutting it apart. The part of her that’s always envied her more affluent cohort members that dine at famous restaurants bristles further. She knows that however she lifts up her spoon will disappoint his Lord. 

“It’s interesting,” Fen’Harel says too quietly for the topics at hand. Ellana registers he’s admitting a secret but can’t understand if the gesture is tactical or not. His face is still expressionless, but she notices that his pupils widen with excitement. 

What is?” Ellana says forgetting herself as she locks eyes with her captor once again. The trail of his gaze over her face tingles and she’s suddenly aware of the ever-present power percolating in the room and how it thrums in her head like her pounding heartbeat. It’s stronger than Amathiral's. Stronger than anything she’s encountered before in a lab. 

“You have no magic.” 

“Why is that interesting?” 

“It has… potential.”   

Ellana would counter that argument but the moment she’s about to she realizes she’s been making random cuts to her food without eating. Fen’Harel’s plate remains smooth and untouched. She’s broken a rule not to touch her food before he does but the Dread Wolf hasn’t noticed. He’s studying her and doesn’t hide it. 

A flash and the orb from the museum is in his hands changing shape as he twists it over his palms and fingers. Ellana has to will her body not to reach for it. “It was kind of you to return this to me, I have had a need of it.” 

“For what?” Ellana braves to ask. 

“There are…events ahead.”  

“I’d say a good thank you would be sending me back to Arizona.”  

It’s bold enough that Fen’Harel narrows his eyes with surprise. She expects him to be angry, only he grins instead with cruel amusement. Only too late does Ellana realize that she’s given him the upper hand as now he knows she’ll do a number of unspeakable things to get what she wants. 

“I will make you a bargain.” 

“Do I have a choice?”

“At the moment, yes.” 

“Later?” 

Fen’harel chuckles and doesn’t answer, “Given your more unique qualities, I need your help retrieving another item that once belonged to me.” 

“What item?” 

“The details aren’t important at the moment,” Fen’Harel raises a hand as if to silence her. “This upcoming winter court will reconvene, and you will help me take back what was rightfully mine.” 

“Court?” 

“Yes, little thing. When the gods gather.”  

Ellana shivers with surrender. She can only use what she has experienced to map out the future of this bargain. The image that comes to her is a pastiche of bearded men in togas standing around high tops as plainly dressed academics look at badly designed posters in a hotel banquet hall.  

Ellana doubts this is what Fen’Harel’s court is like. 

“Ok. Fine. I’ll get this thing for you. Whatever it is.” 

“Such a surly mouth you have Ell-ena Lav-ell-yeen,” Fen’Harel observes in a not-quite warning.  There’s a playfulness to the way he elegantly raises his glass up to his lips and then places it back down. “There are few that would speak to the Dread Wolf in such a brazen way.” 

Ellana opens her mouth to argue, but then snaps it shut. Most of her wants to escape from this conversation. From the idea of the bargain she’s made and what it will eventually cost her. She looks towards the door and Fen’Harel gives her a professional nod and rises as if to understand the inherent desire in where her eyes fall. The understanding conveys to Ellana that he’ll give her this, if only to take in the future. 

He offers Ellana his hand and accepts it. She thinks the gesture is strange from a so-called god, but is too tired to parse out it's meaning. 

“One last item,” Fen’Harel announces when she’s looking up towards his strong jaw. Their bodies are close enough she can feel the heat wafting up from him. “Amathiral told me of the writing on your shoulder.” 

“My tattoo?” 

“It is best if I remove it.” 

“I want to keep it.”  

Ellana recognizes that they are no longer arguing about the mark on her shoulder as Fen'Harel’s face sours for the first time that evening, “You and Amathiral have something in common, Allow me to explain why you should do what I say–”

“Yes?” Ellana interjects expectantly when he doesn’t speak. His kohl-rimmed eyes bend with sorrow.

 “I won you both in games of chance.” 

“You didn’t win me." I chose.  

“June would say I won you both.”  Fen’Harel clears his throat in the silence that lingers. It’s a dark noise, almost human,  filled with warning that Ellana is sharp enough to heed, especially when she recalls the cruel line of the other god’s face and how hunger had filled his eyes. 

Not that she had considered it, but Ellana suspects if she had chosen to go with him instead they wouldn’t be having dinner together let alone making bargains. The imaginations of that alternative future are too terrible to picture. 

“I don't understand how that’s relevant to a drawing on my shoulder.” 

“You’ll discover soon enough,” Fen’Harel responds, tone sinister enough that Ellana decides that she doesn’t want to know at that very moment; enough that she freezes as he circles behind her.

My one true beauty Jo March had described in Little Women of her own brunette locks. It’s a statement that Ellana has always found solidarity in given that her face is more recognized as oddly proportioned than beautiful, with wide-set eyes and a jaw that curves too soon.  It’s her own hair, platinum and long, that she’s always been known by.  The brassy effects of cheap shampoo recently reversed by a comb  and oils. 

Ellana wants to believe the subtle intake of breath as Fen’Harel’s fingers brush her waist-long hair aside is hers. Only she’s positive it’s not and the energy transfixes her to stand perfectly still as he pulls her dress down enough to drag the flat of his thumb over the edges of the planets lining her shoulder.  She clenches her eyes expecting pain, and when there is none opens them to a section of painted hill ombré that melts from emerald to key lime green. 

“Welcome to Arlathan, little thing.” Fen’Harel whispers as he rights the sleeve of her dress and vanishes once more. 

Chapter Text

six

The bedroom door was unlocked 

Truthfully, it had been unlocked since her first night. 

Ellana didn’t interpret the unlocked door as negligence or approval. There had been no urging for her to explore outside. It was indifference, Maybe? 

Probably. As even if Ellana were to theoretically strike one of her captors and try to escape, even the lowest ranking of the household could render her immobile with a wave of their hand. 

Besides, where would she go? 

Her only known alternative was to find the cruel-eyed others, June and Andruil, she had met upon arrival. Either of those options made her shiver in fear. 

So, instead, Ellana haunted the window from wake until sleep watching the days congealing like jelly.. Not for the first time Ellana wonders at what “unique qualities” the Dread Wolf had alluded to desiring. It certainly wasn’t her ability to read the stars given that there are none. No sun, or moon, marked the passage of days

Instead, the fog shimmered from orange light to blue darkness in harmony with the three plain meals that were brought for her to eat on a slate tray by silent women in matching linen dresses. 

If there was a ground below the atmosphere, Ellana had yet to find it. 

Although she tried. 

Earnestly. 

Until the boredom set in. 

Abstract shapes emerged on the surface of the clouds. Ellana located a swirl that resembled a dragon, and then another lion-shaped cluster. Picking out images was the closest thing she had to an activity. 

What else was she to do in Arlathan?  Lab work had always grounded Ellana when confronting ambiguous subjects, and the lack of tools and routine had left her drifting aimlessly like space trash. 

A feeling Ellana often had, but resented. 

She supposed she was on a quest, not only to complete whatever challenge the Dread Wolf had offered her in bargain, but to also put her life into motion. Although she might have failed to do so in Arizona, Ellana tried to convince herself that she might be able to find purpose here. 

It would start by walking out the door, powered by her own willpower. 

It wasn’t that she hadn’t left her room either. Every night one of Amathiral's silent women gathers her, and guides Ellana to the baths. She’s left alone to soak, and then promptly brought back in a new wispy gown until the next night. 

No matter what questions she asks, the women shake their heads somewhere between yes and no. Ellana knows they understand what she’s saying because sometimes they giggle and knowingly glance at each other. 

Although, the bright afternoon light is starting to lose potency. Her meal of flat bread and cloudy broth has been gulped down a reasonably short time ago. There will be enough time for Ellana to return for dinner if she’s strategic. 

Ellana turns away and faces the door. It’s not so much a choice that prompts her to push against its flat frame, but a compulsion to learn more. To verify her hypothesis at the very least that she can be something other than fearful. 

She’s only had glimpses of the gardens and the first one she comes across is uncanny not because the plants are unfamiliar to Ellana, but because the mud doesn’t stick to her bare feet. She stalks along the edge at first, expecting for the gritty sensation of dirt to define her steps, only to meet a softness of something like a bed of cotton. 

Ellana crouches down to be eye level with a bush with bursting flowers with golden centers. They would be identical to peonies except that their petals are clear and iridescent like an insect wing.  Red buds a short distance away break out like defiant bursts of flames amongst cool, green layers of dense foliage. 

Their quality isn’t the only newness Ellana finds. There are curling vines that curl and uncurl as she passes by–and of course there is the carved stone statue that is decisively wolf shaped.  An homage, if not the sigil, of the strange man who had done his best to claim her. 

Staring up at its sightless eyes, Ellana puzzles out the circumstances she’s found herself in. The iconography of the world is so familiar, yet distinct. Unlike the sprawl of Tucson, it has an ancient sensibility. It makes it all the more uncanny to find the same sort of inhabiting creatures in Arlathan as there are in her world. 

Ellana recalls an article she read on a populist news site about the limitations of DNA which claimed that if met, aliens would bear the same sets of features and problems. Her hands drift to trace the round curves of her ears as her gaze lands on the statue’s snout. It is unbelievable except for the fact that Ellana is living the impossible. 

What was it that Carl Jung had argued? That all beings share a collective unconscious? Ellana’s experience of Arlathan was certainly a testament to that. The realization causes her to sort once again through the different myths and legends where mortals make bargains with the gods. 

They barely end well. 

Mostly, she’s angry to have lost the argument with Jack. That he had been right all along about the multiverse. 

Not only that it existed, but that it was traversible. 

The sound of humming causes her to look up. It’s a welcome distraction. 

The estate is mostly empty. Or at least, has been on the short walks Ellana’s taken from her room to the baths. Besides Amathiral, and the Dread Wolf, the only other person she knows by name is Felessan. She’s not even sure if the silent women have names, although she wants them to. 

It's a shock to see yet another face. One so much like her own, but neon green and barely stable in composition. The figure bobbed up and down above the ground, arms waving as it came closer. 

Ellana doesn’t think, but screams. 

So loud, it echos.

Chapter Text

seven

The specter confronting Ellana mutates from emerald green to traffic cone orange and emits a piercing cry that competes with her own alarm. 

A clattering sound which causes Ellana to freeze and then tremble. She sinks to the ground in one fluid motion when she locates only void staring back at her where eyes usually appear.

Should appear. 

Ellana clutches her face in terror, and the specter does so in perfect facsimile, the outlines of the garden duplicated in sylvan shadows which dapple strangely through oily ectoplasm. 

It’s a dance Ellana wishes to decline. 

A horror that is easily separated from the one that she has about being marooned in a magical realm full of elves and dwarfs. At least the entities Ellana had encountered in Arlathan thus far had shared enough kinship to be similar.  Corporality, for instance. 

“Your work struggles whenever confronted with ambiguity,” Her thesis adviser had said last time they had met to review Ellana’s in-progress data on categorizing the bolometric luminosity of supergiants. 

The rest of the department had undertaken what they termed “big questions.” Dark Matter. Cosmic Radiation. Exoplanets. All the things that were unseen and ineffable. Theoretical, if not theatrical. 

There was no point, Ellana thought, in chasing after the cosmic censorship of black hole singularities and event horizons. You couldn’t, after all, image that phenomenon—only imagine it. 

“It isn’t too late to rework this data,” Her adviser had suggested with a strained smile that twerks with disapproval, “Consider the ends or beginnings of different star types?” 

“That’s the problem? Supergiants are too mid-plot?” 

Perhaps that’s why Ellana’s life in Arizona was so stagnant.

A career once promising undone by a reputation to stubbornly document the concrete and tangible heaven.

Besides, Ellana always argued what was so unfortunate about wanting to be a scholar of light? 

Entities like the one she was confronting now.

What had Ellana been thinking to leave and explore by herself?

Certainly, she hadn’t expected ghosts to pop up like tulip bulbs. 

A creature that undermines her carefully held beliefs of what was and wasn’t possible. She’d acquiesced to the idea of another universe—and acknowledged that there was math to prove such a state—but proof of life after death? 

That was asking too much. 

Not for the first time, Ellana pleads for her current circumstances to be a dream. The body opposite hers mimics the gurgling sounds that escape her mouth in rapid escalation. 

Ellana needs to flee. Needs to bolt. Abscond. Dart. Whatever verb that will allow escap. She doesn’t so much decide to run, but to jump up and swing her arms wildly.  Her jerking movements pass through the central body and jolts Ellana with a thousand tiny static charges. 

It’s enough to propel her out of the garden, back onto the wooden ramps weaving through the gardens.

Ellana’s body is one of a scholar. Reasonably fit given her youth, but rarely pushed more than a mediocre session in the gym. 

When she’s had access to one. 

Ellana clutches her burning sides and urges herself to pace up sets of stairs and winding walk walks.  The creak of wooden slats underneath her feet meets the sound of her hands pulling a screen door open and then closed behind her. 

The whole estate is emptier than Ellana guesses it should be. The still, if not silent passage she finds herself in serves no purpose except to connect points together. With no sign of the ghost or another person, Ellana rises and drags fingers over the raised edges of the gold and jade mosaic pieces surrounding her. 

They don’t form an representational image, but she senses the power underneath the material and draws back towards the exterior wall of plain, white plaster.

Memory and Fade. Ellana recalled Amithiral’s description of the castle’s building materials. Not that either term made much sense to her despite several hypotheses at the definitions.  Given the encounter she’s had with the garden ghost, she resolves to be more careful and touch less unknown things.

A stomach rumble, and Ellana realizes that she has an even more immediate problem. How will she get back to her room in time for dinner? 

Turning backwards would mean contending with the ghost, so she continues moving forward through the dim hallways. Besides, there is something ancient and eternal in the way the space curves, something calming in sensation of the circular floor plan as the muscles in her legs twitch with recent exertion. 

A short distance, and arrives at a silver door that reaches from floor to ceiling.  Her attempt to open it is based more in whimsy than a belief that it will budge. Much to her surprise, it does. Easily. 

The grandeur of the room confirms to Ellana for the first time that she's indeed the plaything of Arlathan’s gods. 

A ballroom of sorts certainly constructed out of magic given its cavernous size, larger than the hallways that cradle it. A ceiling held up by columns so high that it’s foggy and gloves of blinking yellow highlighter erupt as Ellana enters. 

She startled once she looks down at the tile underneath her bare feet. Painted trompe l’oeil style to resemble beds of roses so convincing that Ellana must kneel down to feel its smoothness before walking any further. 

However, it’s the murals that Ellana admires the most. The style matches the pictures she had seen in the room where she had dined with Fen’Harel. Flat landscapes combine in undulating sea-foam greens and darker patches of brown and dirt.  Unlike the dining room, however, there is more to the paintings in terms of subject. Wolves stalking deer with curved antlers. Men and women in profile tending to fields of tiny purple buds with stoic faces. 

Ellana walks along the circumference of the frescos with wonder. Does her best to study the scene, using the same gaze she does when she analyzes undyed spots of copy paper print outs of the night sky; each unbleached dot representing a star thousands of light years away. 

She pauses when she sees a set of moons, red instead of silver. There are a series of nude dancers underneath, mouths open in such rich detail that Ellana swears she can hear the ululation of their tongues.  

A few paces away and she spots a familiar face: Fen’Harel, the Dread Wolf. 

He’s larger than all the rest, but he doesn’t need the competency of hierarchical scale to amplify his comparative power to the background characters. Astride a wolf, which Ellana knows now to  interpret as his sigil, a staff held above his head as if to strike down a foe.  The blue iris of his eyes stare back at hers, and Ellana can’t help but feel lucky to study the determination absent of the man himself.  

It’s less intimidating, certainly, but the continued severity causes Ellana to reconsider the barter she’s made with him. 

“Ellana,” a voice shouts through the hallways. It repeats her name more loudly even if the echo marks it as distant. “Where are you?” 

Amathiral, Ellana recognizes. Shouting out the woman's name in return. A sense of senseless shame erupts in her chest at the realization that she wants to be found. 

She does her best to walk towards the noise, but like so much else in the estate the noise carries differently than the laws of physics should allow. The echo is incalculable, amplified from several disparate directions. 

“ I’m in the—” Ellana thinks she’s in a ballroom, but the moment she terms the space this, she waivers with uncertainty. Who knows what this space is for? 

Another step and another gigantic, silver door appears in front of her. 

“ Ellana?” Amathiral’s voice grows louder and more insistent. 

With a hopeful push, Ellana shoves at the door. This time, it’s harder to open, and she uses her whole body weight to inch it slowly forward. She’s out of breath when she finally does and the sound of regular breathing mixed with Amathiral’s shouts reignites Ellana’s optimism. 

Only, where there should be two brown eyes, there are six red pupils blinking at her. As if it has walked out of the mural in the adjacent room, Fen’Harel’s mount snarls at Ellana, spine curved, ready to pounce, if not devour.

Chapter Text

 eight

The beast snarls. All six eyes glitter. 

Ellana cowers. Planting her hands firmly over her face as she prepared to be devoured only for another set of fingers to intertwine with hers. Gently. There’s something stabilizing in the grip that, when it doesn’t release, turns into an acknowledgement. 

The feral heat in the room dissipates as the six-eyed wolf vanishes. Cold air follows, filling the concrete edges of the room until the low temperature has Ellana shivering in her gauzy gown with no underthings.

“However, did you find this room, little thing?”  There is a smile on Fen'Harel’s greeting. As handsome as the face gazing down at her is, his amusement confirms how powerless she is in this new universe. Her autonomy made flimsy like a membrane being ripped off. 

It isn’t fair. 

Ellana wants to understand the space she’s in, but her vision blurs to green. It’s not a room, but another garden. The foliage is more varied than the one outside with the ghost; more cluttered like the inside of a terrarium.  So dense that the clusters of leaves melt into one another like a collection of ombre swatches drenched in bright sun. 

A few more blinks and Ellana determines that the light source is a silvery mirror that reaches from floor to ceiling. It is a twin to the one Fen’Harel pulled her through shortly after arrival. Complete with the same gilt frame and pointed top. 

The whip of a long bushy tail flashes on the surface. Flat, but energetic. The silhouette of the six-eyed wolf floats by. Small as if at a distance, it roars before out of frame into an unknown horizon. The shape of its body arching like a laugh. 

It’s impossible. All of it. 

Ellana’s legs give out as she falls forward only for her to be scooped up in one seamless motion. Her eyelids flutter against a bare chest speckled with freckles and then shut to complete darkness. 

            ____________

Ellana struggles to move, only for her limbs to be twisted in the fabric of her white linen dress that falls above her ankles. She grasps at the air, finding herself struggling to be upright once more from where she lays on a tufted bench low to the ground. 

“I’ve never traveled to another world before,” Fen’Harel observes. The wry smile is gone. 

The smell of citrus and balmy mint awakens Ellana further, as does the casual tone her captor uses to discuss multiverse travel.  Down the line of her nose the god holds up an earthenware mug.  The steam hits her lips. 

“I suppose it must be fascinating,” the Dread Wolf postulates in a quiet voice Ellana chooses to ignore. Fascinating is not the adjective that she’d use. 

The fresh scent wafting from the cup is at odds with the surrounding room. It appears to be a library of sorts. A collection of wooden furniture, mostly low tables and fabric structures that resemble chairs. Books and scrolls and paper are piled on every available surface.  All the objects are tied together by a fine layer of undisturbed dust. 

Ellana doesn’t protest as the Dread Wolf helps her up. It takes a few seconds for her startle at the recognition that a supposed god is nursing her. It should be comforting, but instead it rankles her. 

She is not a passive woman. It is not her practice to be faint and horizontal as a man mops hair from her brow. In fact, Ellana has long held this type of woman in disdain, rolling her eyes whenever one of her fellow female scientists used a baby voice to be perceived as less aggressive in staff meetings. 

However, it’s difficult to muster a feeling of strength. Her body feels faint, her head pounds as if she hasn’t eaten today. 

“Drink,” the Dread Wolf commands. “It will help.” 

“I don’t want to.” 

“ Drink .”

Fen’Harel lifts the beverage to Ellana’s lips, tipping it forward. There’s something forceful in the gesture that causes her to feel even smaller in a manner that she finds worthy of rebellion. 

“It’s too hot,” she sputters, crossing her arms again in protest. 

“Is it so common to be disagreeable in your world?” The comment would be playful, but Fen’Harel ends it with a weary sigh. As if he regrets his momentary kindness. 

Electric blue erupts from Fen’Harel’s fingers. It looks like a static spark but is longer lasting. Another reminder that he is the one that can bend the elements. 

A fulcrum of power with no recognizable limits. 

Unlike her. 

The steam dissipates and. Ellana lifts the bowl-sized cup to her lips. The liquid's taste does not match the pleasant smell and there’s a flavor like strong anise and fermentation–all punctuated with strong floral notes. Ellana chokes but drinks down the entire thing as Fen’Harel chuckles at her theatrics. 

“Do you not feel improved?” 

Ellana does, but won’t admit it. A joke is better. One that misfires immediately as Fen’Harel reacts with an arch of his brows upwards. Deep, unrelenting sorrow: “If you’re a god shouldn’t your staff of thousands be tending to me?” 

“I had more kinsmen once, yes.” 

Chastened, Ellana doesn’t respond. Instead she gulps down the liquid doing her best to suppress her disgust at the flavor. She tries to remind herself that this isn’t her world and that she doesn’t have a stake in other than participating enough to go home.  

Fen’Harel stands and walks over to the largest table in the center of the room. Paper rustles underneath his knuckles as Ellana gauges what response might have her labeled as something other than difficult while another part of her conscience chides her for caring what her captors might think. 

He doesn’t look so much like a god in this room. Bare foot, head shorn. Naked except for a white kilt of pleated fabric wrapped around a slender waist. Mundane and accessible. Unlike the mural in the ballroom. 

“You’ve arrived in Arlathan at a significant instance. So significant I can’t find it coincidental.” 

Ellana doesn’t comment. The tips of her fingers pulse with the memory of the orb. It had called to her to pick it up and she had chosen to answer. Only what could an unsuccessful astrophysicist offer to this world of magic and intrigue? There weren’t even stars for her to study. 

Fen’Harel beckons to the opposite side of the table and Ellana wills herself to rise and join him. She looks down at the table covered in a single layer of paper covered with intricate drawings of round spheres shaded with white and green. 

It takes Ellana another moment to realize it's a map given that the outline of towns and buildings mark various parts of its illustrated topography. Clay pyramids like game pieces are scattered in formation around the outsides. 

Fen’Harel picks one up and moves it off the board and places it in a jade-cut chalice. Then another. 

What each piece indicates, Ellana can only guess. The part of her brain that regularly picks apart star data does her best only to be rebuffed by a series of complicated glyphs. Birds are mixed in with curved lines, and there are small series of various squares and shapes with figures knelt next to them.  

If either character has any ability to be read, Ellana doubts she’ll ever learn their secrets. 

“We were at war for an age. Now it threatens to erupt again.” Fen’Harel pauses dramatically and then captures Ellana’s gaze. “This castle we are in was once a bustling part of my kingdom, and now it is reduced to a few bodies and spirits who tend lonely gardens.” 

“--the ghosts?” 

Fen'Harel mouth goes thin with confusion and then turns quickly to laughter that Ellana is glad breaks the tension of his explanation. She’s only observed bits and pieces of the full extent of his and his colleague’s powers, but she imagines their unrestrained might to be akin to ripping an atom apart. 

“What is a ga-hast?” 

“The soul of a person after they die…to haunt you?”  

Ellana struggles to define the entity while mentally teasing out why the word spirit might translate but ghost does not. She’s not sure she believes in life after death, even if she’s never thought of it in great detail. Until today she had scoffed at the rituals of spooky stories around campfires or reality shows that went into rooms with flashlights flickering. 

“I’ve never heard of a soul…but perhaps that is because one does not die in the above,” Fen’harel observes with a finality that leaves Ellana trembling. “You can be killed, but the body will not die unless an outside force wills it.” 

“That’s impossible,” Ellana repeats in refrain. 

Fen’Harel shrugs in clear dismissal, outstretches a hand and shakes it up and down when Ellana doesn’t immediately accept it. His eyes narrow as if to say that she’s amused him enough for the day and she takes it making sure to make her displeasure known. 

The god drags more than leads her out a set of doors onto a long balcony. The view is not so different from her own room except for a sliver of green along the edge that is instantly recognizable to Ellana to bear weight and density. Mossy ringlets amongst billowy clouds. 

Fen’Harel stands close enough to Ellana so that she can see the exact movement of his pupils scanning the landscape before them. His hand raised, palm up in the direction of the green swatch. 

“Arlathan is not so much a single land but different pockets that chime together. Except for below which is the anchor of each of these worlds. Each of the Evanurius, or the chosen of Mythal, has a purpose. Or did until several rose up to rule instead.” 

“Mythal?”  That name, at least, is familiar. 

“Yes, you should refer to her as the first among us.”  Fen’Harel pauses. “A great honorific here.” 

“Ok…the first among you.” 

Fen’Harel ignores Ellana’s snideness, his finger emitting a bright white light that draws a circle around the edge of green as easily as a marker on a whiteboard, “My kingdom is located in the middle. It is the only one that touches both above and below. I manage the crossroads. Do you follow?” 

“I guess?” Ellana realizes she’s drifted off as Fen’Harel talks. She’s been distracted with the feeling of wind on her skin. The first time she’s felt evidence of weather since touching the orb in the gallery. A glimmer of realness she had been craving. 

If her attention is going to focus on anything, Ellana wants it to be that. 

“Why guess when you can know?” Fen’Harel chides, the blue of his eyes lightning up half-way between jest and disapproval.  The hint of the latter causes Ellana to straighten her stance. A part of her she’s never successfully suppressed always wants to be a good student. 

“I’m doing my best.” 

“Little thing.”  Fen'Harel’s voice turns to a growl as he clenches his teeth. 

Ellana thinks he might admonish her further, only to gasp when he wraps a muscular arm around her waist. The suddenness of the touch, not to mention its intimacy, has her squirming to be free. 

Before she can loosen herself, the room spins and dissolves. Her feet teeter upon landing on a raised platform above a lush terrain of orchards. Green bodies flicker through, some circling red fruits that have fallen to the soft grass of the ground. 

“The spirits are of this world. Formed out of the very air, they congregate like whispers along the edges of this castle because their curiosity compels them to participate in life here. To mimic our gestures.” 

“How do you manage that? Asking nicely?” 

“No, what draws the spirits here is the opportunity to mimic us. It offers purpose.” Fen’Harel pauses, “Spirits are nothing to be afraid of. Their only desire is to be helpful.” 

“They don’t have magic?” 

“No.” Fen’Harel blinks, turns his chin slightly to the side. “Magic can only do so much, I expect you’ll learn that among us.”

“You sound as if I’ll be here a long time.” 

'’Did we not bargain that you would be in my employ until the gods gather?’

“For court, so I can get you back…an item of great importance.”

“Yes.” 

“Are you going to tell me about this object?” 

“When the time is right.” 

“I’m still…struggling to understand what you want from me. I’m useless here compared to you.” 

“Did I not say you have potential?” Fen’Harel responds in confusion. “You are essential to me preventing another war.” 

He straightens his shoulders to their full broadness at the statement, muscles tensing. A resumption of grandeur that Ellana has come to associate with him. It’s a repeat of their conversation over dinner, but she’s feeling bolder. Particularly because she can’t see herself staying here longer than necessary. 

Not for the first time she thinks of her parents and siblings. Of Jack and her other friends from college scattered around the world. She had felt untethered and misunderstood in her life in Arizona, but she missed the simplicity of shared humanity. 

Whatever this war is, it isn’t hers to prevent.” 

“You say I am essential to your cause?”  

“You are.” Fen’Harel says barely above a whisper. 

Desire strikes his eyes a blazing blue. Ellana knows better than to think of his interest is in her person rather than her supposed utility, but it’s heavy enough that to make her stutter, “If you aren’t going to send me home, I can’t just sit around in my room waiting….for whatever you want me to do.” 

“So you are asking for a purpose?” 

“Yes, a job. To do.” 

“Alright, I will bring you one tomorrow.” 

Chapter Text

nine

The ballroom is filled with sheets of colored tissue-like paper and tangled bits of metal thread.  Ellana’s task is to form them into bouquets. When she began, the materials were orderly, but over the steady flow of weeks, they melted into a blanket of scraps that resemble New Years Eve confetti. 

Ellana was given the explanation that this particular collective effort is not only to welcome spring, but to summon it. 

A statement she’s decided not to pick apart entirely. 

If anything, the effort has taught Ellana how little importance time has in this world. How days can be dedicated to something as whimsical as forming artificial flowers for a gigantic fete. That deadlines flow rather than smash into being. 

Rumplestiltskin 

It is this fairytale that comes to mind. There is no spinning wheel or straw. The colors of the pulpy paper are not vibrant like gold, but marbled with earthy greens, blues, and reds. Nor does the Dread Wolf appear and demand for her to call him by his true name. However, the piles they collectively fashion are still unthinkable—and Ellana is now more sure than ever that there are secrets. 

The other occupants of Fen’Harel’s houses surface intermittently and give regular updates to a churlish Amathiral while Ellana winds a strip of green around a thread to make a stem, and cuts out each individual petals with a silver knife. Dots the edges with glue from crystal cut vials. 

There is T'alisdorf, a steely silver-haired general with one eye who talks about troop movement and reserves of supplies that are being shepherded in case of assault. He sits cross-legged in the afternoons, sometimes staring at Ellana’s rounded ear as he whispers to Amathiral. 

A woman–referred simply to the quartermaster–with flame-red hair and a large abacus strapped to her back reviews intricate diagrams a few times a week with Amathiral. Mentions of wool and harvests reiterate that underneath the otherworldly quality of the estate–of spirits tending gardens–there is an economy of the concrete goods and labor. 

Ellana’s own productivity is contingent on Amathiral’s patience in conjunction with the silent, nameless women. The two handmaidens never speak but to gesture, sometimes one reaching to place a warm hand on her own and nudge the clumsiness away. 

There’s some elation in the making, but also grief. She knows that with each cut, snip, and fold that her history is drifting away. She is no longer the failed postdoc that sorts other scholars’ data. The sullen researcher who has a folder of rejection letters in her email inbox. Conferences. Grants. Teaching opportunities. 

Whose parents and siblings suggest she gives it all up do something stable like get a certificate to teach high school science in the Twin Cities. 

Those are the parts that are easy to forget about. 

Less so, the wonder that came with thinking about stars such as Betelgeuse, diameters expanding, pushing at the limits of supernovae. How she’d love to be able to look up at the naked sky in this world to see if there is still any purpose for her skills.  

Instead she is now a woman who Amathiral teaches how to spoon up tiny grains and broth in elegant gestures. To whisk yards of soft, white fabric around her waist and fasten it with silver pins. 

Eating. Dressing. Ellana doesn’t have to be told that the world she’s found herself is ancient. Each gesture and ritual demand the sort of intricate attention to have been practiced a thousand times. 

The days and months that wind themselves around the chore of folding paper flowers for Spring is older than the stone-carved buildings encrusted with glowing gold tiles. 

Fingers perpetually stained with rainbow pigment. Ellana soaks them at the end of the day as Amathiral chats about estate business. There is a rhythm to it now, and she keeps a notebook with different clues as to where things are. A map hangs on her wall with diagrams of rooms. They aren’t so much connected by doorways, but clustered by function. 

“You have to will yourself through the landscape,” Fen’Harel had instructed before he left for some indeterminable quest. “Pick a spot and wander towards it while keeping in mind your goal.” 

It’s almost silent in the doomed room that Ellana spends most of the afternoon fashioning pink buds, but she’s glad for the occupation. How the small pile in the ballroom grows into a veritable greenhouse. A satisfaction blossoming. 

That is until Felassan brings Ellana a set of curved blades that shine with the same kind of light that represents the top tier of the Hertzsprung-Russell diagram. 

Chapter Text

ten

On the first day of her training, Ellana hadn’t been able to pick up a broadsword.  As punishment, Fellassan commanded her to run a gauntlet around the outside of a practice ring. Barefoot and in a skirt, her thighs had rubbed and chaffed until she collapsed.

From then on, before the strange, sunless dawn, Amanthiral laced Ellana into fine leather leggings and a matching jacket, buttery to the touch and so tight that when she took it off at night she pictured a snake sloughing off its summer skin.  

“Given that your kind doesn't possess magic,” Fellessan instructed, “you’ll have to learn how to be invisible.” 

“Like an assassin?” Ellana had asked innocently enough. 

“What is an oh-sa-sey-in?”  He had asked, only to wave away her explanation of a hire-for-murder to be an impossible occupation. 

A fact that was oddly reassuring to Ellana given the subsequent time they spent discussing how to hide knives in the folds of her clothes for easy retrieval. 

Felessan was relentless and Ellana resented how his violet eyes never failed to catch the mistaken hold of her fingers on the haft of a blade, or to correct her stance when sneaking or throwing. 

“Faster!” Was a favorite command. 

"Not good enough!"  Felessan would shout. 

“Again!” When Ellana hit the target. 

Fellessan taught Ellana steps so quick that she wouldn’t disrupt the thick layer of sand in the practice ring. How to move weightless and without sound when shimming over piles of rubbish he used to construct daily obstacle courses. Brutal instructions. A choreography of stiff muscles that would be difficult for a dancer to follow. 

Impossible for a body like hers that had never housed grace. 

Yet, Ellana found herself compelled to try At first, out of a surprising preference of throwing blades over folding paper flowers–and then over time, to prove herself capable. 

Not to the Dread Wolf or his minions. Not to her mother in another universe whose fictional interviews with Minnesota news crews haunted her dreams.  Or to her thesis adviser whose emails requesting chapters go ignored. Not even Jack lounging on the expanse of a red coverlet entreating her to join him. 

No, it was to herself. 

A feeling Ellana hadn’t quite had since receiving her undergraduate college acceptance letter.  The only time she could recall, ever receiving her first choice. 

 Felessan kept repeating the same steps until Ellana’s movements became automatic. Until the set of blades Ellana pulled from hidden pockets were far more than just weapons; they were extensions of the arm. 

Until she no longer hurts. 

“What is the point of me learning to fight?” She asked Fellessan when he was in a good mood given Ellana had successfully parried his attack. Finally, 

“How else will you serve Fen’Harel?”   He replied with the disinterest one might give a telling someone they had something stuck in their teeth. 

Ellana found the statement utilitarian enough to be comforting.  

After all, she had requested a purpose. 

Until in the dense part of night, Ellana’s eyes flung open the vision of herself as a fiery specter ripping out throats. 

Killing was not an alien concept to her. Annually, her father and brothers filled ice chests with cuts of deer and pheasant. The butchery of which was immortalized with taxidermy trophies in the basement rec room.  However, she couldn’t deny the contrast between the proposition of sustenance, rather than fulfilling the behest of a churlish god. 

Or could she? 

Women and violence . What mythology wasn’t complete without such an instance? Ellana couldn’t help but skim through her measly mental encyclopedia. An archeological dig that brought up villains like Medea and Hera and damsels like Peresphone and Eurydice. Archetypes that quickly grew more ambigious the longer she thought about it. 

The part that Ellana resented most was the idea she was simply an instrument of his dear lord, Fen’Harel. And what of the lord? He’d vanished and left her here with no explanation for what she was doing and what might follow. 

It could have been years and Ellana couldn’t have argued otherwise. 

Chapter Text

                          eleven

“You’ve taught Ee-leena of Ar-e-zhona admirably, Felassan.”   

The praise in the Dread Wolf’s voice is thick and undeniable.

A honey that didn’t lack for sticky or sweet. 

As is the Arlathian fashion, he grasps Ellana’s elbow in greeting. The touch distracting her from crouching down and pouncing on a stuffed beige dummy with a painted face. 

She finds It’s uncanny for Fen’Harel to be standing in the practice ring after a prolonged absence equating to what might be years–and his sudden appearance make Ellana jittery. Almost analogous, even, to her scattered experiences with celebrities in airports. 

The hint of a smirk on Fen’Harel’s lips reminds Ellana of his mouth on hers when they first met. The phantom sensation of the heat of his tongue mirrors the sweat and heat of the practice ring. 

Ellana has to fight the urge not to drop her bronze blade to touch the corner of her mouth. 

In an undergraduate survey of abnormal psychology She had learned about the phenomena, l’appel du vide, or the call of the void. The mysterious, momentary urge to throw oneself off a cliff and plummet into the great nothing.

A sensation that she had, until this very moment interpreted more as metaphor. 

“Rude of you to interrupt my lesson. Don’t you think?” Ellana says in a poor imitation of the god’s diction as she stabs at the dummy hard enough to begin breaking the threads.

“Rude?” The Dread Wolf’s eyebrow arches up.  Ellana can feel his body stiffens like a beast ruffling fur. It’s not ire that defines his expression, so much as amusement. 

“Do I need to define the word rude for you?” 

That question is at least, half-earnest. 

Momentarily, Ellana considers adding a demand he send her home, only to hesitate. Despite the frequent wondering how time might relate in her world, she’s not quite sure that’s what she wants. A thought that shatters her, and is swept away when she finds herself flung into the air with the blade thrown from her grasp.  Hovering and then freefall directly into the hard ground. 

Mouth full of dirt, Ellana lands belly-up. She’s unsteady on her feet when she rises. The distance between her offers a panoramic view. Felessan gaping at her from the sidelines. There’s concern fixed in his face. If not, fear. 

Ellana’s vision narrows as she clenches her jaw. Injuries are different in Arlathan. Whatever magic the world is made of causes each bruise and cut to heal quickly, but there is still pain. She’s hit a shoulder, and she can already feel her rump purpling. 

It’s been some time since she’s felt uneasy dressed with knives. The prowling and sneaking does little for her in the face of magic. Or at least, a god. 

FenHarel’s attired in the same brocade gold jacket as he had been the last time she had seen him. The jacket and pants he wears underneath are the only source of color in the fleshy brown landscape. Ellana doesn’t apprehend his exact movements, as much as see the reflection of the floral threads as he glimmers and then disappears. 

A crack like lightning echoes followed by the subtle sensation of breath clinging to Ellana’s skin. 

“Do you think yourself so generous?” Fen’Harel mocks in a whisper behind her as he grasps her wrist and A whisper that she wants to describe as a twinkle even if it is made of sound, not light. 

Ellana doesn’t answer, instead twisting her arms into a pose that’s hard to hold onto. A method that Felessan had taught her to evade capture. She wriggles and then is free stepping back, stopping close enough to hear a notch of surprise echoing in the Dread Wolf’s throat. 

Part of her is smug to demonstrate the strength of Fen’Harel’s investment, while another scolds herself for being so foolish. Logically Ellana understands she’s vital enough to whatever mysterious cause he has in mind  that he can’t maim her so she’s willing to take a few risks to assess the grace he’s willing to give her. 

She blinks in disbelief when the large blade she had been holding is wrenched from the ground to float in front of her. 

“Again,” Fen’Harel commands with a sinister grin. “Strike me.”

Chapter Text

twelve

Scale had always been at the forefront of Ellana’s mind. It isn’t so much that she studies the stars as much as she categorizes them by their relationship to one another. In her collection of data, there is one central rule: larger cosmic bodies attract smaller bodies.

Ellana doesn’t want to be a planet to Fen’Harel’s star. She’d prefer to be her own astronomical object. A luminous sphere of plasma held together by self-gravity; if not, a comet whipping carefree around the edge of the milky way. 

She and Jack had once talked about living long enough to see the return of Halley’s Comet in mid-2061 having both been born the year after its most recent visitation. 

An unlikely anniversary to keep considering Ellana’s current circumstances. 

She’ll be lucky to be alive.

Felessan had experimented with parrying with magic. He’ll manifest a gold blade and swing it half-heartedly at Ellana. On occasion he’ll twitch his fingers and a bolt of energy like static will shoot out for her to dodge.

That experience allows her to put into further perspective the power of a god. There is something terrible in the sensation of the air changing. An ineffable element Ellana is certain would cause a cat or dog to hide under the bed hours prior to casting. Even more terrible given that she’s even more certain that the Dread Wolf isn’t trying. 

Blackened clouds like plague swirl around the practice ring. Unseeable forces sweep her off her feet which sometimes are heavy as stone. An effect Ellana can’t quite decide to blame on magic or her own nerves.  

She’s on her belly. Slithering like a snake in the mud clutching for a hidden blade when she’s wrenched up in the air and back in free fall, suspended a thumb’s length up from the ground and raised up again choppy as if born from whim. 

The first thing Ellana can see when her vision clears is Fen’Harel’s blue eyes gazing down at her. She expects the piercing quality of their blueness to chill her. 

They don’t. 

A hand passes over the edge of her forehead, brushing strands of escaped, sweat-stained hair out of her face. A touch that would be less sinister if she were able to move. Even the ability to wince would be a relief given that only the steady hum of her lungs and thump of her heart reminds Ellana that she is, indeed, alive. 

“Don’t you think I should be doing the teaching?” Fen’Harel paces around her. Pausing long enough to lace up Ellana’s boot where it comes loose below the knee. Makes a great show of it.

Ellana finds her limbs loosening, and huffs with relief when she’s set lightly onto the ground. Fen’Harel crouches in front of her, cocks his head to the side and smiles in equal parts threatening to bemused. 

“I asked you a question.” He repeats when she’s caught her breath. 

The repetition, she supposes, is his gesture of generosity. 

Ellana rises without answer. Brushes off the smooth leather of her gear and stretches out her arms in a form that usually marks the start of her morning.  She gives a sidelong glance at where she knows Felessan is standing. Amathiral has joined him, biting down on the knuckle of her hand. 

It’s another world, but by the shock reflecting back at her on both their faces, Ellana’s gauges she’s already gained the same reputation. Troublesome. Resistant to Authority. Lucky to be employed. 

She flashes back to the dinner where she told her parents that a year at the community college wasn’t going to be enough to satiate her before turning eighteen. It had been good enough for her brothers for all four years, why not her? 

Anger pulsates in her chest like a radio wave from Taurus.  Isn't that an Adrienne Rich poem? 

She decides not to be pushed back down and packed into a small compartment like laundry into a suitcase; decides that offering that kind of ease 

Ellana hears the soft patter of sand where Fen’Harel stands and then vanishes. She locates a satchel of blades tucked into a belt compartment; each is no longer than the palm of her hand. 

Trails erupt in the surrounding sand in miscellaneous pathways. Circling. A whirl of blue announcing their transection of the previously calm surface.  Ellana hypothesizes herself to be at the center, trying to convince herself it is an orbit to be calculated like any other. 

She readies her blade and plunges it downwards into nothing. 

Chapter Text

thirteen

The bronze tile that lines the underground baths is reflective enough for Ellana to study the recent mangling of her body. There are patches of purple mixed in with red cuts on her face from where the Dread Wolf had hurled her against a weapons rack earlier in the afternoon. 

She hadn’t managed to strike him several days in a row–each failing meriting some sort of magical reaction that flung her pitifully across the sand. 

Tomorrow morning, Ellana knows the Dread Wolf will be there grinning in the practice ring to greet her. 

Granting her yet another opportunity to best him. 

An opportunity that, so far, has been met with violence. 

She has a stiff black eye and a broken nose. 

It would be startling except she knows an unknown quality in the air heals her at a rapid rate. That unlike Earth, where she’d require stitches and antibiotics, that her skin will knit as she sleeps. A sort of stasis that keeps her body from changing except like a stone in a slow running stream.   

Menstruation? Amathiral says it only happens in the below, waving off any other explanation.

Childbirth? Aging? None of that either. 

Ellana studies her face in the fuzzy reflection. It’s thinned which makes her eyes feel larger. Her skin is dewier. The lack of true light has allowed it to pale into a marble without sunburn underneath the injuries. 

The baths are salve for all of Ellana’s thoughts. She understands why the whole castle gathers there at night to soak for the better half of the evening. At first she bristled at the time commitment. Now, she understands what the water offers her aching body.

It happened gradually. 

Her joining the others. 

A mark of equality that’s uneasy at times, but if Ellana is to be stuck here for indeterminable length of time, she’s relented to learning about this world, if not to make a few friends. 

It’s late after dinner. 

T’Alisdorf camps in the steam with the quartermaster and a few other nameless staff members reporting on numbers and supplies. 

Amathiral and Felessan whisper together a few arm lengths away, floating around each other in a traveling circle, feet kicking in the water.

Always close, but never touching. 

Occasionally Amathiral will laugh in the echoey chamber. It’s the warmest sound that Ellana’s heard here in Arlathan. 

Whatever war recently took place here, there are wounds everywhere. 

No music is ever played. 

Ellana will float a bit before joining them and make her way to the center of the bath, a round shaped pool that splits off into smaller clusters.  The largest of them all, where the water is deepest, about three lengths of her body down, and broad enough to swim laps around in sport. 

She’s mid-swimming when Ellana hears a splashing sound which is a prelude to his lord, Fen’Harel lowering his muscular body down into the depths on the opposite side of the pool. 

Ellana isn’t sure how to react. As far as she’s observed, the god has never joined his staff there. A boundary she’s not sure upon realization that should make his presence now more shocking or not than it had been that morning when he arrived in the practice ring. 

Still, it’s something for her to parse out the blue of his eyes looking back at her.  The intensity of which is made heavier by the maze of flesh glimmering underneath the surface of the water, broken up like a Cubist painting. 

Is this how Picasso got his best ideas? In the bathtub?

Ellana’s already seen, if not admired, the hard lines of Fen’Harel’s chest, but the prudish parts of her Midwestern upbringing is flummoxed at the prospect of his total nudity. She can almost hear her mother’s voice telling her that men have appetites that shouldn't be trusted. 

The Dread Wolf doesn’t approach her, instead sinks into the warm belly of the pool, arms outstretched along the edge to keep himself anchored. Acknowledging her with a wry smile that makes him appear less like a god. Mortal almost, except for the pointed ears. 

He clicks his tongue when she balks. “Are you angry little thing? As far as I can remember, you are the one who challenged me to duel.” 

Ellana is hesitant to swim over given the taunt, but she does. A force like a thrall prompts her to slowly approach and rest her cheek near where his hand ends. 

The silence lingers as they size one another up as they do in the practice ring. For a moment, Ellana expects him to engage her in knife play, only for him to offer a desolate sight that reverberates into the arched vault. 

She swears that the floating flames that are somewhere between fireflies and candles flicker in time with the Dread Wolf’s breathing. 

“What do you want from me?” She’s insistent in the ask and wants to make it clear that she is of the understanding that she’s earned an answer with her blood, sweat, and tears. 

A primal offering worthy enough for a god. 

“Do you remember when I told you that my kingdom manages the cross roads?” Fen’Harel offers without hesitation.

Ellana nods trying not to balk as the Dread Wolf twists his shoulders and lowers his face eye-level with hers. So close that she can make out the finer details of his freckles and stubble, each of his features more harsh in the illumination of the alcove. 

“I was appointed by Mythal to my position. Each year, I’d unloose the veil to allow the world below to thrive again. Now, all I can offer Arlathan is a trickle of what the Evanuris hoard for themselves to do more harm to each other.” 

“The Fade?” 

“It’s the heartbeat of Arlathan and the People.” 

“Oh,” Ellana responds. She’s not quite sure she can intuit the meaning. 

Fen’Harel breaks off in explanation, raises a hand and sweeps it unannounced over the swelling of Ellana’s cheekbone. The concern in his gaze, mixed in with interest, as he rolls the flat of a thumb over her brow, causes her gut to roil with anticipation. 

“The Fade is what lets the People live and fight with honor,  to build and to grow–'' He cocks his head and brushes a few strands of Ellana’s hair out of her face to touch a cut on her forehead. “It’s the source of power which allows me to heal you now.” 

“Magic.” She supplies, trying not to lean into the pressure of Fen'Harel's touch as he traces her split lip. 

“If you want to call it that,” Fen’Harel shrugs in return. 

“Why don’t you just let more Fade out?” It’s a simple question that Ellana regrets immediately given the dark, pointed look that Fen’Harel flashes her. 

“After the war, Elgar’nan–the leader of the Evanurius, took from each of his pledges their greatest gift. He carved from me the part which allows me to control the flow of the Fade at the crossroads.” He pauses to draw Ellana’s chin up to look him directly in the eyes. “I need you to bring it back to me.” 

“Why me?” She asks.

“You were the one who brought me the other half.” 

Chapter Text

     fourteen

The ritual makes sense. 

Amathiral lingers at the edge of Ellana’s doorway and brings in a box of combs and unguents. They spend the next hour taking turns to brush out their long hair and then rubbing scented oils from root to end. Ellana’s blonde-white waves and Amathiral’s a thick chestnut brown. 

At first, the silence had been heavy unless one woman comforted the other over something simple like a knot or burr to untangle. Then something like a shared experience of loneliness cracked open like an egg.

Gossip and giggling followed. 

The stuff that usually rises to the top in a description of women’s friendship. 

Not that there is much to talk about at the barren estate that Ellana’s beginning to gather is thick with secrets. 

That night after the baths, she doesn’t pick up on the undercurrent of tension until she is sitting in the chair and Amathiral leaks out a tiny hum that’s barely a sigh. The air hitting the back of Ellana’s neck like a pinch, jostling her to full attention. 

“The Dread Wolf has many monikers.”  Amathiral announces. Voice thick with warning. “He is one of the great mothers' favorites, blessed by Mythal.” .

“Oh?” Is all Ellana can manage.

“He Who Hunts Alone. The Great Wolf.” Amathiral’s voice goes soft at the end. “The Lord of Tricksters.” 

“Why?” Ellana asks with a shudder. A question that has so far been forbidden in these conversations.

Amathiral walks around and crouches down to stare Ellana directly in the face. Her brows are turned upwards, jaw clenched with uncharacteristic worry. 

“He is always willing to offer aid to those below, but always for a price. Always on his terms even if he argues that the exchange confirms the sort of equality that his other godly brethren do not offer their wards.” 

Ellana doesn’t know how to respond so she doesn’t, only nods along as if she is fully comprehending the subtext. 

“There is kindness in his lord. He refused to take a side in the war and did what he could to ease the killing, but there is only one thing you can trust in him–” 

“What’s that?” 

“He’ll always get what he wants.” 

Chapter Text

fifteen

Ellana wants pub food. Greasy and cheap.  She imagines what she’d order from the menu. A steak quesadilla with individual plastic cups for sour cream, pico de gallo, and hot sauce. She’d wash it all down with a cheap lager and then afterwards order a chocolate milkshake. 

Or a juicy cheeseburger and fries. 

Extra pickles. No onion.

Instead she’s seated at Fen’Harel’s table. Daintily spooning a nutty soup into her mouth. It’s the third of the tiny course that she’s swallowed down. The first was a glass dish of orange vegetables cut into flowers, the second, a bread smeared with honey-butter and fruit. 

Ellana is making her best effort to sit quietly and not spill down the extravagant outfit she’s been dressed in for the evening. A gauzy white dress with an elaborately tied gold chain belt that leaves little of her side-boob obscured. 

Or stare at the tattooed faces of Andruil and Ghilan'nain's retinue who scurry in and out of the sliding doors with platters of small bits of food.  Ellana’s figured out Amathiral’s horror at the marks on her shoulder given the frightened expressions permanently etched into their faces alongside curved floral lines that flow entirely over their entire visage. 

Slaves. She remembers the word with derision. Wants to think that Fen’Harel’s dismissive mood is in solidarity with her feelings of disgust. 

He’s sitting to her right. Food largely untouched, wine glass rising and falling, as he nods along without a set rhythm to the red-haired woman talking about a recent tourney in their kingdom. It’s very feudal, with multiple noble houses and old grudges. 

You should have seen Sylaise tie a string of blooms around the blade. They opened and closed as the blood spurted out. Andruil explains. 

Occasionally her lover interjects with a small, if not terrible, detail. Oh, yes, at the very end Abelas dismounted and decapitated the young boy.  Mythal didn’t even try to stop him.  

It’s harsh. This world. 

Ellana goes back to considering the imaginary diner menu. Thinks about a stack of thick pancakes with whipped cream, strawberries, and powdered sugar.  Her mouth starts watering at the thought. 

Really, all she wants is a bottomless cup of coffee and a book she can read. 

Preferentially something light and romantic, yet well written.

Fen’Harel begins to twist his fingers around the stem of his goblet. He’s tapping his foot, the vibration jostling her to stare at his cryptic expression

She’s not sure what to make of this particular expression. Amathiral’s warning was still lingering at the back of Ellana’s mind. Punctuating every thought she had about the body sitting next to her. Only, given the current churlish curl of his mouth, she’s having a hard time arguing he possesses any godlike qualities. 

Lord of Tricksters. Ellana can’t help but think falling stars fall into a similar category. 

She’d not expected to leave Fen’Harel’s estate. For him to take her by the waist again and half-shove her through a plane of glass. 

They’d walked through a hallway made of trees. Gold clusters float in the sky, crackling like a child’s sparkler on the Fourth of July. There is some exhilaration in seeing something new, but also fear in what comes next. 

A dinner, nothing more . Fen’Harel consoles her. General diplomacy. 

At first, there’s something casual about it. As if they are attending a dinner party with friends. That is until Andruill’s red-painted lips greet her in surprise, eyes widening. Clearly, Fen’Harel had not prepared the host for a human guest. 

Red, everything is red.  

The walls in the room they are dining in and the flowers that adorn the table. All red like a juiced beet. The varied crimson and burnt rose of the hand-woven carpets her bare feet glide across. 

Bright, vibrant red. So vivid it feels like it's covering her skin like cling wrap. 

Ellana’s not sure what to make of it. 

Or why she’s there. 

Except that she wants a club salad teaming with crusty bacon bits and halved hard-boiled eggs. 

“--and what do you think of our world?” Amathiral interrupts Ellana’s vision of ranch dressing and cherry tomatoes. 

“What?” Shit, she should say pardon. 

Ghilan'nain snickers while Andruil’s gaze hardens, ruthless and cruel. “This world your lord is so invested in saving. What do you think?” 

“It’s, um. . .” Ellana has barely seen Arlathan. 

“This is who you are trusting to undermine the twins?” 

“Imagine, Andruill,” Fen’Harel suppresses an eye roll, speaking in a dry voice, “If you had a little hope now and again.” 

“I had hope and that was squandered.” Andruil shot back. Fist banging on the table. 

Ellana’s mind is reeling. It’s more information she’s had access to in months. She recalls her scattered clues about the war and its cost. She wants to intuit she’s sitting on the right side of things, only to realize that was an impossible choice for her to make. Not in regards to her own morals, but because it wasn’t really a choice for her to make at all. 

“Isn't it better to avoid fighting?” Ellana stumbles. It’s not a convincing argument and she finds herself weary that her greatest satisfaction is making one. 

“What do you know about war?” Andruil says with another pound on the table. 

Ellana doesn’t know much. Her current hardships on Earth are a lack of funding and unstable employment. It hardly seems fair to compare her times analyzing data sets in a sterile lab in business casual to the images of violence she’s absorbed from historical documentaries. 

“You really believe, Wolf, that this plan will restore hope?” Andruil says, fixing her entire attention on the man seated to Ellana’s left. 

“Imagine if you had your bow returned, and Ghilanan her horns.” Fen’Harel announces with a grin. “The things we could accomplish.” 

“. . .and the twins wouldn’t be fully restored.” Ghilan'nain interjects, “Which would mean we could overpower them.” 

“This thing you brought to dinner doesn’t have–” Andruil begins with a dismissive wave of her hand. 

“I’m not a thing,” Ellana interrupted. More forcefully than was probably smart. 

She’s surprised to hear Fen’Harel say her name in his idiosyncratic accent, followed by a shushing sound at odds with the snarl of his face reminiscent of his namesake. 

“Creature, then.” Andruil digs in stubbornly, “Who cannot comprehend entire generations of elves born simply to be slaughtered and turned to hoards of shadow.” 

Ellana wasn’t sure what to make of the word shadow. If it was figurative or literal, or what the scale of an event might be. She was certain, however, that she’d chosen very little in her life thus far, and that a purpose, even if it wasn’t the purpose she had for the past decade of her adult life she set out with, was alluring. 

“I can help.” Ellana insists despite not knowing if she can. Brave, on one hand. Foolish, on the other hand. 

“Yes,” Solas affirms. “You can go where Elgar’non has forbidden us.”

Chapter Text

         sixteen

The gods tell Ellana their terrible story full of darkness and broken things. Battlefields so dense with fallen soldiers that the air is filled with mists of blood, the sounds of scream mixing with blades swinging  in the air as they hack and maim in a bleak song.

Andruil and Ghilan’nain do most of the talking in quick excited whispers. Occasionally pausing to draw a breath and pluck up the stem of a hand-blown wine glass filled with clear liquid that tastes like mead. 

The dining room dimmed as the meal progressed despite the lack of windows as the floating orbs of light did little to dull the bright red of the walls. Each glimmer of glass and metal refracting in abstract shapes to punctuate each terrible unfurling of the Fall of Arlathan. 

Ellana barely tastes her lavish food. 

Stops trying when the carnage is described in gruesome detail. 

Andruil still doesn’t know what motivated the twins, Falon’Din and Dirthamen to rise up. Fitting, maybe given that Dirthamen is the keeper of secrets, and Falon’Din the dead.  The eldest of Elgar’nan and Mythal.  

Ghilan’nai claims it's a churlish response to a slight at a party. 

“--power, greed, infamy,” Fen’Harel interjects with a bitter snarl. “Qualities that rarely require reason other than consumption.” 

It’s the first time he’s spoken in a number of minutes, if not an entire hour. 

Not that Ellana’s observed any regular time habits in Arlathan. 

“One day Falon’Din crossed the line from shadow into sun and with him brought a terrible army that grew larger with each tide of slaughter.” 

“Why didn’t…your parents intervene? This, um, Mythal and Elgar'nan?” Ellana drifts off as she tries to make sense of the complex genealogy of the Evanurius. As far as she can tell, some of the gods are relatives, while others like Fen’Harel, are of more mysterious origins. 

A type of dramatic configuration that only mythology can dream up. 

“The twins are the most beloved first sons of Elgar'nan.” Andruil says with a churlish uptick of her lips. An expression that Ellana recognizes despite the distance in their histories, as the long-suffering member of a male-dominated profession. 

“Elgar’nan, the god of justice did arrange a truce.” Fen’Harel says with a careful voice. Eyes darting up to study Andruil’s face opposite his own. 

“That was Mythal,” Andruil snaps. 

“Yes, but he was the arbitrar.” Fen’Harel insists. 

“The sigils?” Ellana asks putting more of the pieces together. The question is more an effort on her part to triage her role in the unraveling of this particular cosmos. 

“Yes, confiscating them was an act of great equality,” Ghilan’nain sneers. “Punishment for all of us to reconsider our actions.” 

“So…what does that mean?”

“Elgar'nan must die.” Andruil and Ghilan'nain say at the same time. Both women clench their hands, white-knuckled fists hitting the table in an off-kilter song.

Ellana doesn’t react. 

As far as she knows there isn’t a specific word to define the act of killing a god. In her vocabulary there were adjacent words, like patricide or matricide. The type of word that she would avoid except in an abstract sense. 

She certainly hasn’t lost her sense of morality that any of those actions aren’t things she wants to enact or participate in. Not even in terms of a conversation on ethics. 

Instead she stares at Fen’Harel as to a clue of what to do.

His attention is everywhere except on her.  An enigmatic gaze that drifs to the darkened corner of the room, the god drawing a hand up to his chin in an contemplative expression that wouldn’t have been out of place in a physics conference.  

A calm that unnerves Ellana even further as she triangulates the more rigorous parts of her training with knives. Upon reflection, she supposes there is some comfort in her ability to yet land a blow on the Dread Wolf if that’s the end goal.

“That’s certainly an option to consider,” the Dread Wolf nods before slinking down in his tufted seat. His obnoxious wig of gold beads falling askew over his finely chiseled face. 

__________________________

“Let’s take the long way on our return,” Fen’Harel announces after the meal comes to a close, grabbing Ellana’s arm with the casualness akin to walking ten city blocks rather than taking a cab. 

She’s not sure what to make of it, considering the gate at the front of the castle opens out to a large meadow dotted with wildflowers.  The transition from red to green that Ellana interprets with the same symbolism as a traffic light signaling go. 

Her feet are bare and the touch of grass underneath each step startles her to full attention. There’s something solid in this domain that isn’t like Fen’Harel’s castle. Each rise and fall of her feet grounded in something Ellana wants to call real. 

A sensation that quickly turns into homesickness. Not for any specific place or people, but for a world fashioned out of matter that adheres to the scientific rubrics she’s dedicated her life to studying. 

“Come,” Fen’Harel orders, grasping Ellana’s elbow gently. 

The command urges her back to full attention to figuring out their destination. 

They haven’t been walking long, but everything has vanished except for a giant field that stretches out. Still reflecting on Amathiral’s warning, Ellana finds it strange to be alone in this space with the Dread Wolf as part of her wants to suggest they linger while another part wants to urge the moment to go even faster. 

“Why aren’t we taking the mirror back?” 

“The Eluvian?” Fen’Harel clarifies. 

“Yes, the giant glass thing.” 

Fen’Harel chuckles. It’s a light sound. 

Mirthful, even. 

“I thought you might like to see some of Arlathan given that you’ve joined the collective effort to save it from a dismal future.” 

“Sure. Thanks.” Ellana says before another thoughtful pause. “This is a great field. Not too muddy.” 

Another chuckle and the Dread Wolf waves his hand with a small bow. A dimple Ellana’s never observed before pops in his cheek which adds to the impishness of the gesture.

Along the line of green magic Fen’Harel traces soft rolling hills appear out of nowhere. A river follows that cuts through the landscape as the sky explodes with night.  Clouds of stars twinkling in the dark expanse. 

Stars. A veritable cornucopia. 

Silent tears stream down Ellana’s face at the shock of seeing something so familiar. Her body drifted away from Fen’Harel to gaze upwards. It’s unlike her to be so emotional, but Ellana can’t help it after this reunification with her life’s desire. 

Chapter Text

       seventeen

Arlathan vanishes. 

At least, in Ellana’s mind.  

She’s sitting at an expensive high-top table that betrays the cultivated dinginess of the surrounding bar. The condensation from her beer can has collected across the newly stained oak surface and Ellana drifts off to drag a cheap paper napkin over the path she’s made in the half-an-hour that Jack has been talking about his pot-doc. 

He’d flown in from Paris to visit. Not her personally, but the institution where she was completing her PhD. A guest lecture in the physics department. 

“Why haven’t you finished writing your dissertation?” He breaks off suddenly mid-monologue. “Aren’t you past the deadline?”

Ellana’s known the question is coming. It’s been months since she passed her comps and oral exams. All she has to do is round up her data and make her final conclusions. However, something darker is lingering underneath that final step. 

It had only taken the discipline of physics three hundred years to break apart the universe and reduce it to its most basic parts. She wasn’t sure she wanted to participate in that particular endeavor. 

“I don’t know if my committee believed in my research.”

It’s a facile statement; nonetheless true when Ellana further recalls the bored faces that defined her defense. It would have been better, she suspects, to encounter a note of dissent. Not even her adviser seemed to care. At least not in the way she did for her other students with flashier subjects. 

“That’s absurd,” Jack says with painful attention on the corner of Ellana’s lip gloss-covered mouth. She’d purchased the too-pink shade on whim before arrival. 

“They want me to push the more theoretical aspects.” Ellana huffed recalling the bored expressions that had followed her from her oral defense to the conferences that she was admitted to. More because of her educational credentials than the arguments defining her scholarship. 

“Shouldn’t you?” 

“I don’t…know.” Even if she does. 

“Don’t be ridiculous, Ellana. Finish your dissertation and–” 

Ellana doesn’t respond. Takes a sip of her craft IPA. Wrinkles her face in displeasure at the hoppy taste. She’d always preferred lagers–if not a glass of sauvignon blanc–and wished she’d been more forceful in articulating that opinion to Jack when he’d gone up to the bar. 

“Do you think the value of a star is only when it collapses?” She interrupts Jack after another brave gulp. 

“It’s almost like your obsession with brightness makes you an astro-magpie,” Jack quips with another glance towards the door as if he is waiting for something. 

Ellana doesn’t take the bait. She’s not going to argue about this again. Her fondness for yellow supergiants. Her desire to understand its more luminous qualities and her appreciation of Polaris, in particular. How it’s giant body rotating three-hundred and twenty-three light years from Earth was powerful enough to be seen with the naked eye by poets and scientists alike. 

“Do you think there are stars in those pseudo-universes you always calculate?” Ellana asks instead. Strategic enough to distract him. 

“I don’t think an alternative universe is anything like we can imagine,” Jack drifts off. The inflection of his voice rising to gather the attention from another group of scientists on the other side of the campus dive. 

________________________

“Little thing,” The Dread Wolf interrupts Ellana’s recollection. 

His voice is soft, barely above a whisper. 

Ellana’s tears don’t pause in their silent descent down her cheeks. Her attention towards the blanket of tiny bits of light unbreaking. The spectacle seemingly confirms for her that her life’s work isn’t useless after all. 

That even here–wherever Ellana is–can be just as inconsequential when put into scale with the cosmos. Even when faced with magic that nullifies the laws of physics. 

“You cry because it is beautiful.” the God insists with a keen understanding that cuts Ellana clear to the bone. 

“It’s as if I felt the whole world changed,” Ellana breathes, as she tries to pick apart the sky-scape. So far, there are no familiar patterns or constellations–but there is something grounding in the weightless experience of standing in a muddy field looking upwards.  

“You felt the whole world change?” Fen’Harel cocks his head with a soft smile. 

The pale blue of his irises captures her attention. The color mirroring the sky above her so much that Ellana works to hold his gaze.  As if doing so makes it possible for her to grasp beauty by the root of a maine. 

“A figure of speech,” she automatically corrects. 

“Sweet talker.” 

The touch of the Dread Wolf’s fingertips wiping away tears increases with curiosity. Ellana reaches upwards to rest her palm on the top of his hands as her heart skips a beat with wonder at the tactility of it. 

There’s something burning in her chest. A feeling that is not unlike the two of them wrestling in the sand pit with knives and sparks. Only without Felessan or Amathiral to chaperone there’s a rawness blossoming that Ellana realizes is inevitable. 

A planet capturing a moon; a comet circling the outer span of a solar system. 

It’s the metaphor of orbit that’s important to Ellana’s current calculations. 

It’s quick. The sensation of skin on skin, and then mouth on mouth. Fen’Harel sweeps his hands over the surface of her cheeks again and clicks his tongue. Ellana tries to offer him an answer as to what her reaction is. She’s not normally this melodramatic. She doesn’t get a word out as Fen’Harel presses a forehead against hers. A gesture she responds to by curving her entire body upwards, landing her lips on his with the ferocity of an asteroid hurtling to the moon’s surface. 

Ellana is surprised when he doesn’t pull away. Her last few kisses had ended as suddenly as they started. A brush of lips and rejection. Fen’Harel returns her embrace with a fiery response that is such the opposite of what she’s experienced before that Ellana can barely stay upright. 

What was it? She thinks to herself that Adrienne Rich had written in her poem Planetarium. 

There was a print out of the words on Ellana’s bedroom wall. Placed right above the nightstand lamp for her to read before sleep. Heart beat of the pulsar/heat sweating through my body.  

Fen’Harel’s hands dip along the curve of her ass. He pulls away with a nod, only to rejoin her with more enthusiasm, bodies flattening in pure eclipse.  

Ellana continues reciting the poem in her mind: The radio impulse pouring in from Taurus. /I am bombarded yet/ I stand. 

Chapter Text

       eighteen

The kiss is a star collapsing. 

Multitudes are present in the grasp of Fen'Harel’s hands sliding around Ellana’s rump pulling her flush against him. Neutrons and electrons collide into one continuous strand of matter. 

Ellana has never felt such want. 

It bursts within her. 

“We shouldn’t,” Fen’Harel insists with a sudden gasp. His eyes darted around the empty meadow. There’s a vulnerability in his palpable worry; one that is almost mortal. 

Ellana balks, even if she welcomes the pause. 

It wasn’t that she hadn’t wanted the kiss, but now that the initial adrenaline was wearing off, she didn’t need anyone to tell her that kissing a god is complicated. If anything, because it gave him more power over her. 

Fen’Harel lifts a gentle hand to graze her cheek. “Not here, at least.” 

“What—” 

“A subject better left for when we aren’t so close to the below.” 

“Why not?”

“Impossible to know who’s listening.” 

She’s about to protest that the meadow is as empty as it has been their entire walk. All verdant green and stalks of lonely grass—but Fen’Harel urges her to step forward with a nod of his head. Lips drawn into a firm, determined line. 

Ellana surveys the landscape again–-only to discover it shifting rapidly from flat expanse to a winding river. It’s content not of water, but of a substance similar to the iridescent expanses of Fen'Harel’s estate. Sea-foam colored liquid swirling like gas, but solid to the touch–the sensation something other than “wetness.” 

Another blink and a boat out of nowhere appears. A thin wooden structure that curved upwards at both ends like a smile. A sail at the side Ellana interpreted as “front” tugged at phantom wind slowly propelling it forward. It’s narrow, but long enough to be an imposing craft. 

“How did you do that?” 

The Dread Wolf grins like the predator of his namesake. 

“Is there really not magic in your world?” 

“Decisively not.” 

“Come with me,” he grabs her by the hand and guides her to board. Its decoration mirrors his estate. Thick piles of emerald green pillows lay at the center with a tray of smoky glass vessels at the center. 

Fen’Harel gives a satisfied stretch, and sprawls out on the ground, propped up on his elbow. He flashes Ellana a meaningful stare across from him to indicate her spot.  Not an insignificant distance away–but not close enough to signal any expectation of intimacy.

The gesture adds to Ellana’s uncertainty. It’s as if the last few moments are blurring together in a centrifuge. Her memories flashing between Jack’s bark in the gallery not to touch the orb and all that’s happened since. Folding paper flowers, strapping knives to her body, and most recently, the feel of Fen’Harel’s lips on her own. 

There isn’t much to make sense of the plot. It’s a dislocated vignette except for Ellana at the center as the days drift further and further until she’s not sure she’s entirely human. 

At least, not anymore. 

“You can stand if you wish, but I might encourage you to sit given that it’s a long ride.” 

Ellana doesn’t answer. Blushes and sweeps her skirts to the side and crouches down. Sitting cross-legged at first, only to slouch back on her side when Fen’Harel flashes her a bemused smile. 

He’s dressed in finery for the dinner with Andruil. A wig with beads adorning his usually shorn head that he sweeps off with a sigh of relief. Throwing it dismissively so it slides across the wooden floor boards with a soft clatter.

“I liked it better when the fashion favored braids for everyone. Although I suppose it is easier to wage war clean shaven and pretend otherwise on occasion.” 

Ellana’s not sure how to respond. Her hand raises towards where Amathiral had spent what had felt like hours winding her hair into an elaborate updo held together by gold pins adorned with glass flowers. 

“It was hard not to kiss you,” Fen’Harel says at a near whisper, “Although, you must think me impulsive.” 

The heat of Ellana’s blush deepens. There is an intensity in the look that the Dread Wolf gives her that is anything but chaste. Her gut twists remembering Amathiral’s warning, conflicting with her desire to reach across to where Fen’Harel is sitting and repeat the embrace. 

Simple lust, Ellana is sure. 

After all, hadn’t her entire life been a dry spell in the bedroom?

“It was less complicated before the war,” Fen’Harel continues. “Tonight felt almost normal. Dining over fancy visuals as Andruil gossips with her lover. Richly embroidered robes surrounded by richly painted walls. Your tears reflecting star light. What did you say? That the whole world changed? An accurate statement.” 

Fen’Harel nods in affirmation. His attention momentarily drifts to the carafe in-between them. Red liquid appears in the glass. He picks it up and pours it, holding the carafe high up with an exaggerated sweep. Filling his glass first, then Ellana’s. 

She had barely touched the drinks at Andruil's, not wanting to lower her guard. It probably isn’t a good idea to do that here either. Still, she takes a sip and then another. It’s easy considering how sweet the wine is. 

“Your arrival gave me hope that something might have changed in this grim world.” 

“I haven’t really done anything.” 

“--and yet, I can’t help but believe you will.” 

Stillness follows. Ellana doesn’t know what to say, so she leans fully back against the bed of pillows—runs her hands against their velvety surface. The sky is still full of stars and for a moment she lets go of the pressure of the evenings and lets her breath relax. A deep inhale followed by an equally deep exhale. 

She sits up with a sudden thought. 

“Do you really want me to kill Elmer-non?” 

“Elgar’non. That is another discussion for another time.” 

She skims the surrounding expanse. The landscape has changed again. Rolling hills replace the flat meadows. There’s actual earth below and it takes a few heartbeats for her to realize that they are floating amongst the clouds. 

“Oh my god.” 

Fen’Harel cocks his head. Confusion present in the turn of his eyebrows.

“No, not you.” Ellana says clasping a hand over her mouth. She’s doing her best not to laugh. “I mean, it’s a phrase from…my world. When you’re surprised.” 

“Is this surprising?” Fen’Harel asks.

The pace of Ellana’s heartbeat hastens into a crash as he comes to sit next to her. A thumbs-length away, but still close enough to feel the heat radiating off of him. She doesn’t need to turn in his direction to know his attention is wholly fixed upon her–more than it has ever been in the practice ring. 

“I thought I’d show you what I fight for.” 

She gasps when a crystal spire appears. There are floating buildings fashioned out of crystal and marble spurting upwards through the heavens. Thick trees weave in and out the glass structures and little dots of color move along suspended roads. 

It’s a city. A living, glittering city. 

Here in the clouds. 

A place fashioned out of dream and legend. 

They are high up as if in an airplane. The people below milling like small insects, but there’s something light to the movement, like swimmers at a beach. There are clusters of color in different squares. Ellana tries to imagine what they’re doing. Attending plays? Dining out? 

“Welcome to Arlathan,  little thing.” 

Ellana’s about to gasp out of wonder–only for a blinding, pulsating light to cloud her vision. First, there is light and then sound. A deep rumble that shakes her so hard she cannot move. 

She’s aware of Fen’Harel clutching her. The sound of glass breaking as the boat spins out of control, followed by the deep groan of floorboards falling apart from the core. 

Ellana shuts her eyes given how much it hurts to keep them open. Her fingers dig into the Dread Wolf’s shoulders. 

Their two bodies hurtle downwards towards an unknown rocky bottom. 

Chapter Text

       nineteen

Ellana didn’t witness the crystal spire disappearing. The moment impact was made with the boat, she clenched her eyes shut. The only sensation–other than the force of plummeting down and down–is where Fen’Harel’s arms tighten around her middle. Long fingers digging into her bones. Her own clawing into his shoulders. 

Certainly, she was about to perish in this strange world. 

Die alone with an unfinished dissertation. 

Never to be found. 

Faces whirl before Ellana. Her parents, followed by her brothers.  She’d like to share one more homemade apple pie at Thanksgiving with them as they teased her about Ancient Aliens. She’d like the satisfaction to argue with Jack that she had experienced another universe–and make peace with her thesis adviser.  

Is everyone still searching for her? 

Or is it like she never left at all? Maybe her being has split into infinite parts in an infinite number of universes. Or, maybe her memories of Earth are the false ones. 

The thoughts hurtle as quickly as the laws of physics allow. 

Faster even, Ellana wants to argue, then the speed of light. She’s trying to calculate how quickly it might be. She is surprised her mind is still working. Hopeful, even, that the span of the fall will mean her neck will snap. Or that she’ll go unconscious before the rocky mountain pits below impale her whole body.  

Neither happened. 

A wail escapes Ellana’s mouth. 

The desperate sound vanished in the accelerating wind. 

Then there is stillness. 

A view of nothing but dark Almost as if Ellana is hoovering in static, incapable of movement as simple as bending her elbows or wiggling her fingers. 

Is she dead? 

“You can let go now.” Fen’Harel whispers. Ellana can feel the smile on his breath but continues clinging to him. Her cry that started in the descent vibrates against his chest, where she’s buried her face. 

“Little one–” he urges again, loosening his grip around her waist. 

Ellana can barely think. Her body is pulsating with adrenaline and shock. A shake rips through her form as if out of the void. Her eyes spring open and all she can see is shades of dark green. Her entire frame of vision is the color until Fen’Harel’s blue eyes met hers. Something soft in his gaze relaxes her enough to realize that she’s wrapped around him standing securely on the ground. 

Ellana tries to ask what happened. Tries to will her body to be made of flesh and muscle again, instead of a jello. The words don’t come. 

“Sit,” the Dread Wolf commands, helping gently slip Ellana to soft ground.

The sudden sensation of cold and wet rouses her a bit, as does the touch of grass behind her hands. She thinks she might be in a meadow again until she realizes they’ve fallen through a dense canopy of trees. The crackle of dry leaves sounding off whenever she shakes. 

“It’s alright,” Fen’Harel whispers crouching in front of her. He takes her chin in his hand to tip it up towards him. The kohl he’s used to rim his eyes has smudge across his face in an uneven graffiti. 

“It’s alright,” he repeats when Ellana stutters. “You don’t need to talk. You’re in shock.” 

She clenched her eyes shut again. Something has changed in the air, and she chokes on a deep inhale. Almost as if her lungs have forgotten to breathe. In the background a dense soundtrack of chirps adds to the vertigo. It’s almost like she’s camping in the Minnesota woods again. 

“You’re safe,” the Dread Wolf proclaims slightly above a whisper. 

“Am I?” 

“Yes, with me.” 

He helps her rise again. The thin robe she wore for dinner is slathered in a thick layer of dirt and confusion sets in again. 

“The veil is thin here,” Fen’Harel begins to explain. “There is less magic so there is a solidness.” 

“A solidness? What--How do we get back?” 

“More likely Felassan will find us,” he responds as if the statement is the most logical assumption.

"Can't you use magic?" 

“I can cast some spells, but nothing strong enough to teleport.” 

“Oh good,” Ellana quips sarcastically. Glad to know you're a useful deity. 

She’s peering out into the surrounding forest. Unlike Fen’Harel’s estate each discrete trunk looks individual–there’s no other way to put it. Almost as if the past few months, if not years, are a mirror of what she’s seeing now. 

“We should find shelter,” the Dread Wolf interrupts.  “It will be night soon.” 

Ellana looks upwards. The sky is muddied with vivid pinks and oranges. Dark threatening to overtake them on the edge of the horizon. She doesn’t like to think about what else she might encounter, cursing silently to herself given that it seemed that the danger and complication of her predicament had intensified once again.

Chapter Text

      twenty 

The red moon in the sky hung bright and low. A full orb that Ellana couldn’t help but be grateful for as she struggled to keep up with the Dread Wolf’s wide steps. 

In the hours they had been walking, Ellana had given up trying to keep her gown from ripping or tucking the braids slapping her cheeks behind her ears. It had been a long time–if not years–since she’s been dirty and unkempt. Or shivered with cold and there is a novelty in the mortality of it. 

The dark is thick and intractable. The stars illuminate only the tops of dense foliage that move in a summer-like breeze. Ellana finds some contradiction in the landscape; that the amorphous dark is more powerful than the concrete. That she walks beside a god whose shoulders slump with fatigue. 

Once again, something in the makeup of the world had changed.  Ellana isn’t sure what to call it except solid and dense. As if the mass surrounding her is actual instead of speculative. For instance, there is a stone path they follow. Overgrown with small flowering buds and grass, but chalk-white and smooth enough for their bare feet to step over confidently and without pain. 

Real. is the world that Ellana lands on. Things to touch. 

“Where are we?” Ellana pressed again. She doesn’t expect to receive an answer. Fen’Harel has evaded any of her questions. His patience has long fled, now he doesn’t even bother to shush her with a hiss. 

Whenever Ellana pauses to gaze at a shadowy figure in the distance or open her mouth, the god grips her waist and urges her forward. 

She’s starting to believe that she’s imagined his earlier tenderness, has all but convinced herself that the kiss was hallucination. 

By the time they reach the edge of a village the sky is smeared with dawn. Ellana hadn’t expected it to be a gradual arrival, so used now to the suddenness in which things appeared. As the blue of the sky brightened the outline of the buildings appeared curled at the center of a blue stone wall waist-high. 

At first, Ellana is relieved. What she can make out of the village is bucolic. It would be almost medieval except that each of the buildings matches the bleached stone of the walkway her feet are dragging along. 

She wants to sleep. Wants to lay down somewhere warm. If not change. Her stomach is rumbling. At least rest for a moment. Unlike the crystal spires Fen’Harel had flown over earlier that evening, the village is empty. Abandoned. The buildings stand silent, devoid of any signs of life.

The Dread Wolf leads her through the narrow stone streets, and as they pass, Ellana notices doors ajar and windows left open. There's a stillness that hangs in the air, unsettling and heavy. The only sounds are their footsteps echoing off the stone walls, creating a haunting cadence.

“Where is everyone?” Ellana's voice carries a sense of urgency. The eerie quiet makes her uneasy, and she grips the edges of her torn gown, feeling a mix of vulnerability and confusion.

Fen’Harel remains silent, his expression unreadable. Ellana glances at him, searching for any hint of an answer in his eyes, but they remain distant and enigmatic.

As they reach the center of the village, a large stone well stands in the middle of a cobbled square. Ellana's gaze is drawn to it, and she notices a soft glow emanating from its depths. 

Fen’Harel finally speaks, his voice low and measured. “This is a place between places. A realm untouched by time, where reality and dreams converge.” He pauses once more, tone lowering as if imparting a secret. “Welcome to the Crossroads.” 

Chapter Text

twenty-one

It is raining by the time Fen’Harel guides Ellana to a house at the center of the village. It’s not so much a house but a small castle, pushed off on its own at the center of a spiral pathway that progresses from chopped rock to mosaic the closer it gets in proximity to the front gate.

The white surface of the stonewalls is obscured by an overgrown garden that has flourished for at least a season without intervention. Ellana isn’t sure what to concentrate on first. There is rain falling from the sky, a light drizzle that’s more mist than droplet, or the familiar sound mixing with the low hum of insects.

Ellana had never expected to be so dazzled by the regular routines of the atmosphere, even if it soaks her dress through to transparency.

Regular to her, at least.

The pause on the threshold leaves her shivering, even if there is hotness on her cheek as Fen’Harel twists the door handle; the movements are too akin to returning home after a date for her not to blush. 

A feeling Ellana shoves down deep.

“We will rest here until Felassan locates us.”

“Aren’t we breaking and entering?”

“What is a break and enter?”

“You know, trespassing? Entering someone’s home without permission?”

There is a hint of a grin when the god answers, his brow arching up with amusement. “What makes you believe this house doesn’t belong to me, little thing?”

Ellana is too tired to come up with a quip—or rigorously examine the concept of property in Arlathan—so she slumps into the entryway to find a warm interior akin to a townhouse.

Abstract Frescoes of varied green with gold shapes flank a circular stairway that runs from floor to ceiling. There’s a handmade quality to the interior that startles Ellana to full attention.

The objects that form the space don’t shimmer with the same perfection that has marked her previous time in Arlathan. Chisel marks and asymmetrical application are everywhere the closer she looks. Her stomach drops when she wonders what happened to their makers.

“Where is everyone?” Ellana repeats.

Fen’Harel gives a churlish shrug. “They live elsewhere to follow the tide. That is until I am able to release it.”

“The tide?” Ellana sighs at one more mystery and sinks to the floor. Wraps her arms around her frame and shivers. Mostly, she’s tired of trying to constantly figure out the laws of physics that govern this world.

Fen’Harel flashes her a bemused smile before pulling her upwards towards one of the doors, which upon opening reveals a large study of sorts that is almost identical to the one she had woken up in after running away from the spirit.

Ellana hovers next to a green armchair low to the ground and paces around it while Fen’Harel ambles without direction, head upturned at the ceiling like a penitent churchgoer.

“Should we eat or bathe first?” Fen’Harel asks, eyes sweeping the room.

Ellana balks as the question is startling. Startling because it’s the most mundane thing she’s encountered in this world. Even more surprising is that the choice is being offered to her by a ruler of the cosmos.

“Um, you can cook? Without magic?”

The god screws his face up, and for a moment, Ellana thinks he might admonish her, but instead, Fen’Harel laughs. The echo bounces off the walls and jolts Ellana to full attention. She wants to blame the cacophony, but instead, it's the way the Dread Wolf’s expression lights up and softens.

“You doubt me?”

“Shouldn’t I?” The question is earnest, but Ellana can’t help but tease.

She thinks he ignores the comment, picking up and putting down books left on a hefty desk. That is until she sees the breath in his chest quicken betraying a self-conscious murmur. 

“Not good to doubt a god, little thing” Fen’Harel quips under his breath before changing the subject; voice rising “We could eat in the bath if you were feeling adventurous.”

Ellana can’t decide if he’s flirting or playing enigmatic god. “I have yet to see any evidence of food or a bath.”

The blue of Fen’Harel’s eyes shifts from ice to ocean. A dimple appears out of nowhere. Ellana had seen the god laugh before, but never like this. The amusement causes her to recognize the pain etched into his usual countenance; the way two contrasting colors might in a mid-century painting. 

“Come. Follow me,” the Dread Wolf commands. An open palm gestures for her to stand.

Ellana complies more out of curosity than duty. Matches Fen'Harel's steps over mosical tiles;the journey halts when hetwists a lock in a wooden sliding door. A square alcove reveals itself, a large pool at its center. The water is flanked by trees laden with red fruits, their branches dip close to the water’s surface. 

Steam spreads like a cloud over the surface. The heat comforts her chilled skin, stopping Ellana’s shivering. The room would be dark, except for at the center a barrel-vaulted ceiling there is an oculus.

Droplets of rain escape through, hissing when they hit the heated water.

Ellana is distracted from its beauty as she attaches herself to the view of Fen’Harel unwinding the white cloth tied around his waist. Throwing off his vestments in one easy gesture before stalking to the edge of a pool and dipping a tentative foot in.

The light is dim, almost moonlike, as it illuminates Fen’Harel’s toned body. Ellana isn’t sure where to look, her gaze landing at the shadows differentiating the small of his back to the ridge of tightly toned ass that would make any romance author faint. 

It’s not that she hasn’t seen her share of his flesh, but the sight juxtaposed with the memory of their heated kiss fills her with vulnerability. A feeling she doesn’t want to confront. 

Refuses to even. 

But, if Ellana were being truthful, she would welcome a repeat of those activities, but she doesn’t know what further entanglement might mean. She’s not interested in being a plaything–especially not to a god she’s made an unknown bargain with. 

“The pool is sourced by hot springs so you should be careful, Ee-lee-na Lee-vell-an. Give your skin time to adjust.” There’s a knowing quality to his voice that’s reflected in the confidence of his stance as he shifts his weight from one leg to another. 

Ellana stands frozen watching as Fen’Harel gradually sinks a limb in. His movement is slow. Deliberate. 

“Do you not want to swim, little thing?” Fen’Harel calls out, “I can hear your teeth chatter.” 

As Fen’Harel gracefully steps into the pool, the ripples of water follow the contours of his body, casting shimmering reflections on the mosaic tiles. Ellana glances down at her mud-stained dress. The outside rain has soaked the thin linen through. If there was any illusion of modesty Ellana hoped to cling to, it vanished hours ago. 

Besides, as this world’s etiquette demands, Fen’Harel’s gaze is elsewhere. His back turned to hers as he continued lowering himself into the water.

And yet, a subtle invitation hangs in the air, and Ellana, captivated by the allure, begins the ritual of untying the straps of her dress, letting it fall to the ground. Goosebumps erupt over her body, and the chill prickles against the heightened pace of her heart.

Ellana takes a few tentative steps forward. Pauses to tug out the pins holding up her deteriorating braids. 

She’s trying not to make her admiration of Fen’Harel’s sinewy shoulders noticeable, comforted by the fact that he’s turned away from her, busying himself with collecting palmful after palmful of the red fruit. A small pile he lays at the side of the pool. 

The Dread Wolf was right. The water is hot. Borderline painful except it balms her aching joints. The warmth seeps into Ellana’s muscles as she gradually immerses herself and she sighs as her feet hit the smooth bottom tile. 

Ellana closes her eyes and allows the heat to soothe her. There’s enough room in the pool she can swim over to one side and there is room for at least half-a-dozen bodies to the other. 

For once her mind doesn’t spiral thinking about what unknown, if not terrible, thing or event might cross her way in this world or her own. Allows herself to sink her head back and comb her fingers through the knots in her waist long hair so it is slicked out of her face. 

She hears Fen’Harel swimming over towards her first and opens her eyes. The reticulation of the water obscures his lower half. Something that irks her as much as offers her one last protective boundary. 

He stops an arms’ length away and begins to peel the red fruit. Its surface. Sinks his thumb into the top and pushes down, revealing segments beneath like an orange. Only crimson. 

The scent, a heady mix of sweetness and spice, weaves through the steam-laden air.

rel’s voice carries the weight of command as he offers, “Would you care for a taste, Ee-lee-na Lee-vell-an?”

Ellana nods. She hears the subtle splashes as he moves closer, and the water dances around her vision. Fen'Harel extends a peeled section toward her. Refusing her hands so she has to accept the offering directly with her mouth. 

“It’s like a lemon or a lime maybe,” Ellana observes after swallowing. 

“What is a leeman?” Fen’Harel asks, hands busy peeling another fruit. 

“It’s a type of citrus, but sour.” 

The tension breaks for a moment. “Are there many similarities between our world and yours?”

Ellana shakes her head neither yes or no. “Maybe, but almost varied. There’s a scholar in my world, Richard Dawkins, who thinks that there’s only so many outcomes for–” Ellana admits the word DNA knowing it won’t translate. “That is, so many ways that life can form in the universe.” 

Fen’Harel doesn’t react immediately. She can see him processing the thought. His blinking increased as he formulated another question, “Yet, no magic.” 

“No, no magic.” 

Chapter Text

      twenty-two 

Fen’Harel offers Ellana another segment of fruit. 

She should resist it, but can’t help but give in to this endless drifting of desire. Eventually, she knows that there will be consequences to her actions of accepting this strange ritual of a god feeding her fruit naked in a pool as if she were a captured nymph. 

The Dread Wolf’s nymph. 

Persephone plunging into Hades’ web. 

Fen’Harel doesn’t pause and ask another question. Ellana knows this is because he wants her to take what he gives. Is testing the theory that she’ll obey like one of his supplicants. 

Ellana can’t blame him after all.

It’s what gods do in terms of profession. 

And at this moment she has been caught willing; if not, wanting. 

Not because she’s simply hungry. 

Not because she’d call what’s transpiring worship Even if she grew up Catholic and was well aware of the intricacies of communion and the eroticism associated with the practice. 

One that’s amplified here and now. 

Her heart is beating so loudly she’s sure those on Earth can hear it. 

Ellana isn’t sure if she has a word for what’s transpiring between her and the Dread Wolf. She likens it to a snake sloughing off skin. Bleached bits on a black t-shirt. An unwinding ribbon. Always aware that she desires to categorize the exchange more than to realize it bodily. 

It is, after all, her usual pattern. Ellana wants to know something rather than understand it. To analyze it fully before she assigns meaning to it: stars or relationships. An ontological dance that’s constantly alternating between humming and stinging like honey bees pollinating wisteria. 

Still, Ellana knows that the scientific method can’t be applied to the well of senses she’s currently apprehending. That any hypothesis she develops will cause her to confront her main fear that something is unable to be dissected and fit neatly into a rubric. 

Juice is running down Ellana’s chin. Sticky and overflowing. Fen’Harel reaches and brushes his thumb over the spill. His fingers skim the pink outline of Ellana’s mouth and for a brief moment she considers allowing them to trespass over her bottom lip. 

Fen’Harel’s gaze dips towards her throat and the soft scallop shapes of the top of Ellana’s breasts floating in the water.  His pupils blew open, the pressure of his touch increasing slightly. Frustratingly slight.  

Ellana reaches to touch her hand on his only to find absence as the Dread Wolf shivers as if waking and swims backwards in the pool towards his pile of strange, red fruits like a dragon tending its treasure. 

It’s not rejection. Merely a progression from one scene to the next. 

Chapter Text

twenty-three

Fen’Harel hoists his body up over the edge of the pool. Ellana hesitates and then commits to watching his shoulder muscles strain to lift up his sinewy form. The light flickering in from the ceiling catches the droplets of water that splash away from his skin to the stone mosaic floor leaving a sheen of reflection. 

Freckles dot his back. Close enough to stars in pattern that she has to prevent herself from taking a step forward to trace out constellations. 

By the time Ellana resolves to do so, the Dread Wolf has slid the door to the hallway open and shut and exited as if vanishing. She floats with uncertainly in the water. Dips her head backwards and clenches her eyes shut. Whiplash, that’s the feeling beating in her chest. 

She hears Fen’Harel’s pace before the scrape of the door joints. Ellana opens her eyes to see him fully dressed in a soft white linen. A look that wouldn’t be out of place at an all inclusive Mediterranean resort. 

Not that Ellana had ever been to the Mediterranean, but she’d dreamed about it doom scrolling through Instagram. 

“I brought you some clothes to wear and a cloth to dry off with,” Fen’Harel announces. 

For a moment, Ellana balks. She’s making a mental inventory of what she interprets the last forty-eight hours. The ghoulish dinner party, the boat ride through the clouds, tumbling to the ground. It goes on. 

If she thought her evening would end with a god offering her a towel she would have considered it a punchline in some cosmic joke. 

Yet, here she is. 

Fen’Harel turns and exits and Ellana collects herself. 

The clothes he’s brought her–hand me downs–are clearly too large, but the fatigue she’s been pushing away hits her in a single blow. Ellana gives up on the pants right away given their length, but appreciates the soft touch of the tunic top as a makeshift nightdress. 

Her chest pounds as she opens the door and finds Fen’Harel expectantly gazing up at her. His arms crossed over his chest, the soft linen of his attire billowing in a light breeze. Ellana feels a pang of self-consciousness as she stands before the god, clad in clothes that hang loosely on her frame.

Fen’Harel's eyes, however, betray no judgment. Instead, a flicker of something unreadable crosses his expression. "It suits you," he comments, his tone almost detached, yet with a subtle hint of approval.

Ellana isn’t sure what to make of it. The desire to sleep quickly is replaced by the anxiety about sleeping arrangements. Would Fen’Harel invite her to join him?  

More urgently, would she accept? 

She doesn’t speak as she follows behind him a short distance to a heavy paneled doorway. Fen’Harel faces her as he pushes it open. Expression softening as he reveals a bedroom that’s almost an exact replica as the one she’s been staying in at his other estate. 

“The kiss earlier,” he begins. Sorrow cuts through his intense gaze brimming with yearning. “Was impulsive and ill-considered. I shouldn’t have encouraged it.” 

Ellana’s stomach twists. Her face burns with embarrassment. Cools at the touch of his palm on her cheek. Enough salve to make eye contact again. 

“That is to say,” he continues, “It’s been a long time and it was easier for me before the war.” 

Ellana nods. It’s soft enough not to be a true rejection. Allows herself the luxury of leaning a bit more firmly into his touch as he presses his forehead to hers and bids her goodnight.

Chapter Text

twenty-four

The cold air from Fen’Harel withdrawing backwards cuts like a knife. 

Ellana thinks that’s the end of it, purses her lips about to roll out another timid good night off her tongue when the Dread Wolf turns sharply around to face her once more. 

Vulnerability glimmered in his expression. Worried and precarious like a door left accidentally open to allow a cat to escape. 

Ellana recalled a New Year’s Eve Party she had attended with Jack sometime before his last girlfriend. She had been visiting the area on a research trip and he had been happy to host her. Anticipation defined the visit; ending abruptly when Jack had shown her the couch to sleep upon. 

A single kiss. Sloppy drunk but electric. Jack had put his hand on the small of her back while fumbling for keys. Dropping his keys to the moldy carpet with a muffled clatter. Out of polite instinct Elanna had knelt down to pick them up, her face colliding with Jack’s own. 

Years of tension erased in a single moment. Somehow they made it into the apartment. Jack pushed her up against the wall to kiss her harder. The urgency of it was enough to prompt Ellana to take late night phone calls to catch up when his girlfriends were out of town. 

Jack, like Fen’Harel, had drawn back and given her an almost identical look before announcing apropos of nothing: I shouldn’t do this…I don’t want to ruin our friendship. 

The alignment of these moments proved to Ellana that despite finding herself in another universe that the basic structure of the multiverse rippled. A hypothesis she had read once and dismissed, preferring to believe in heterogeneous constructs. 

“I do not claim to know who is responsible for shooting us out of the sky.” 

“What?” 

“Over Arlathan.” 

“Yes, I remember…” 

She’s surprised to feel the god move towards her again. His blinking accelerated as he tilted his head to the side as if calculating an indeterminate number of consequences. Ellana can’t help but notice how bleary his expression is, the mirrored fatigue causing her to recognize her own wobbliness. 

“It could be any number of…” He shakes his head, snapping into focus. “I want to keep you safe.” 

“That’s…nice?” Ellana stuttered even if she’s overcome with emotion at the declaration. Confusion being the primary, elation being the secondary. “Only we aren't alone?” 

The Dread Wolf stalks gently past her. Standing in the middle of the room. Shucking off his shirt to reveal sinewy muscles in the soft moonlight. Ellana stutters in surprise, tries not to gasp as he steps out of his loose pants. 

Ellana doesn’t get to debate what the gesture means for long. A few seconds later, silver fur replaces pale skin. Six glittering red eyes stare back at her, softening when they observe her shock, if not fear as the wolf-like creature before her waggles its tail. It is not an unfriendly movement despite the fact that the beast almost reaches the ceiling. 

A familiar voice interrupts her pattering thoughts. This is why they call me the Dread Wolf. None will threaten us here if I am in this form. 

Before Ellana can react to this additional twist in the evening, the Wolf shrinks in size to that of a gigantic dog, spinning in a circle and then laying down at the foot of the bed, tucking its drooling jaw between two clawed paws. A head tilt causes the beast to appear more puppy than monster. 

Ellana takes a deep inhale and exhales. Her instincts tell her that she’s safe, and so she takes a few hesitant steps towards the bed and crawls in.  Her mind circles like a vulture around the events of the evening. Wants to sort each supernatural event into tidy categories. 

Impossible given how easily her mind goes to dreams.

Chapter Text

 twenty-five

What is this story that Ellana has found herself in? 

For her, a world–inhabitable or not–could always be defined by its proximity to a star. A system that was based on light years and parsecs. As far as she knew, there was no clear star she circled and therefore, no exact unit of measure for the crumbling of walls that surrounded her. She wouldn’t even call the enclosed spaces gardens, as any hand that had been present in its growth had vanished long ago.

How long since you were last here? Ellana had asked Fen’Harel that morning only to receive a shrug. How old is the castle? Was the follow-up question, one that the god had whistled at, a laugh hidden among his answer Cassile? What is a cassile? All things progress. 

Ellana had initially taken Fen’Harel’s words figuratively, only to quickly realize her mistake in not taking him literally. A task she finds difficult given that she’s always conceptualized time as less material and more theoretical. Not because she doesn’t believe in entropy, but because the evidence surrounding her is bottomless; her mind reeling as she made a constant inventory of her new surroundings: What lasts longer: a star or a stone? 

“This one is edible, although bitter” Fen’Harel interrupted, holding up a branch drooping with the weight of heavy green fruits with intricate grooves. 

There is a layer of mythology that Ellana continues trying to tease out as she dutifully follows behind the Dread Wolf with a woven basket. Occasionally, he stops to bid her to suck on a juicy fruit, feeding her directly from the palm of his hand. 

Do you like the taste, Eee-leena?

She does. It’s sweet. 

The air is warm and thick. There was still a dreamlike quality to everything Ellana touched. It wasn’t as palpable; the light, for instance, bounced from matter as it should rather than scintillated. Fen’Harel was no longer a wolf, but a man, and had been since she had awakened. 

She likes this sun. It sears her skin.  It would hurt, except whatever magic binds her together overnight tickles underneath the burn. Fen’Harel is brave enough to wear a white kilt around his hips, and nothing else. Ellana fixated on the curve of his bare shoulders rooting about the dirt; his skin dotted equally by dirt and freckles. The view distracted her from fully absorbing the impromptu biological science lecture as he names each plant they come across.

“You are not new to harvesting, Ee-lena,” the Dread Wolf observes with a smug smile as she uses her hands to dig out a root vegetable. 

“My parents have a hobby farm with a huge vegetable garden. My brothers and I had to help every summer.” 

“Summer?”

“You know, the season?” 

The Dread Wolf shakes his head, sinking beside her to curl his fingers into the ground and pluck out a red body that resembles a potato. “I have never heard of seasons.” 

“The weather changes…” Ellana looks upwards towards a clear blue sky. “Last night, it was raining. You know when plants grow.” 

Fen’Harel shrugs again, “Not in any particular order or pattern.” 

“Oh,” Ellana says, pausing as she sorts through possible follow-up questions. Turning again to stare upwards at the strong angles of Fen'Harel’s face. It’s expression softening as she makes eye contact.  There’s something equalizing at being at eye level with one another. 

“This is the first opportunity in a long while I have not thought of the war and its aftermath,” He admits. “For an entire morning.” 

Ellana isn’t sure what to say, so she silences. Allowing her body to sink a bit, shoulders drooping. Her life, while not progressing the way she had hoped, did not bear any similarity to the horrors that had been described to her. Her gaze drifts anywhere but the crease in Fen’Harel’s forehead. She’s certain if she makes eye contact she’ll relive everything he has. 

Instead, she grabs hold of a vine of orange flowers, shaped like peonies, but larger. Her fingers absently tracing the petal edges while Fen’Harel issues a deep, nostalgic sigh. 

“Before the war, women would string these together into nets to make dresses for balls. I encouraged the fashion growing fields of these plants. A fortunate coincidence as it is a powerful healing agent.” 

Ellana’s face heats red, picturing the gown, the flush intensifying as the Dread Wolf flashed her a wicked grin. She’s lived long enough in Arlathan to know what a dress made of knotted stems would look like. Bare skin and all. 

“You’re so funny about these things,” he clicks his teeth, rising to his full height. A few small fruits escaped over the corner of his basket. “All this squeamishness about beauty, it makes me wonder about your world.” 

He’s teasing, but Ellana can’t help but internally debate his point. There’s part of her that’s been changed by her experiences here that’s continuing to unravel, but another part of her that is nostalgic for watermelon pickles at the Minnesota state fair. 

“Come, little thing,” he commands, pointing towards the stone archway that leads into the house. “I desire to eat." 

Chapter Text

 twenty-six

Ellana follows Fen’Harel through the empty hallways like a cat batting a feather toy. She gasps when they enter a large atrium. The walls are covered in frescos composed of flat planes. The colors blare like horns. She  stops to gaze at the scene in front of her. She can sense the Dread Wolf’s amusement, a ghost of breath in the shape of a smile hits the back of her neck while she pauses to make an inventory.

There at the center is the beast she has come to recognize as the god’s other form. Not a monster, but more dog like, his snout beant in benediction. The Dread Wolf himself, the humanoid, hosts a parade of what can only be described as penitents. Their faces etched with cruel patterns that Ellana has learned mark them as enslaved people to the gods. 

She steps forward with a small gasp that echoes in the large chamber. Gold concentric circles mark the upturned palms of Fen’Harel’s hands. he color story of the murals is not subtle. Fiery red drifts into a calm blue as the parade moves forward past the god–both humanoid and beast–their faces clear of any tattooed lines. 

Ellana can sense the Dread Wolf’s movement near her. Realizing that as she’s unraveled the room’s iconography that she’s dropped her basket. The fruits escaping, rolling across the uneven floor. The sound is distant in comparison to the soft rise and fall of Fen’Harel’s breathing that accelerates as he draws closer. 

“And now they are free,” he whispers in her ear. His voice filled with sorrow. 

“This is what the war was about?” She asks not to turn to face him, knowing the answer; understanding herself a convert to a cause of which she does not know the name. 

“Yes, this is what the war was about.” 

Chapter Text

 twenty-seven

Another morning sprouts like an orchid in a sunroom. It's followed by another with rain, and then another with fog that breaks into fluorescent sun.  

They spend their early hours foraging in the garden and feast throughout the afternoon into early evening. Fen’Harel rigs up cooking equipment in the giant kitchen, the clatter of clay pots and pans echoes in a room clearly intended to stew gigantic platters for feasts. 

The setting is so domestic that Ellana could almost forget she's in the presence of a god, were it not for Fen'Harel's nightly transformation into a wolf with glittering red eyes. 

There’s always a stab of shock to it. 

How easily he sloughs of his flesh for fur as if casting off clothes. 

Until, on the fourth day, Ellana finds him sitting cross legged on the floor of an empty room with blank white walls. The kind of harsh, bleached surface that hurts to look at. A whack of snow where there should be ground–and just as cold. 

A solitary figure, seemingly lost in the void, filled the room with the presence of the Dread Wolf. His angular features appeared even more stark against the surrounding blank canvas, making them seem stronger than ever. Yet, paradoxically, he seemed more distant than she had ever found him.

He does not wear gold robes here. Only soft beige and green tunics covered in stains Ellina now recognized as paint. 

Flanking the Dread Wolf were little pans holding a veritable rainbow of rocks and pigmented dust. The sound of him grinding a mortar and pestle surprised her as she slinked along the edge of the room to study the new activity, a sharp contrast to the otherwise still room.

“What are you planning?” Ellana asks when she catches his full attention.

A look that settles into a smile. Bemused and slightly cruel. It cuts a little until he holds up a porcelain bowl of granular blue for her to examine; withdrawing it once it gets close enough to her nose to threaten a sneeze

“Stay,” the Dread Wolf says, gesturing to a spot opposite him. His firm intonation hinting that the statement is more an order than an invitation. 

Ellana doesn’t question it, even if part of her thinks to. Sinks down on the floor across from him on her knees, and runs her hand along the rims of the lined up bowls. She tries to name the colors gathered in front of her as if categorizing them is an accomplishment. 

Mostly, because she needs one, and secondarily because it is her ever-present habit. 

She wishes she knew more about art. It wasn’t that Ellana was ignorant, no;  but her study of it was limited to a single undergraduate course and a few scattered visits to museums. Biopics. Trade press fiction.. The facts she remembers from her undergraduate professor frantically trying to keep the classroom engaged surface in her mind. How Claude Monet could barely see towards the end of his life due to cataracts, followed by Caravaggio assaulting someone in a tavern over artichokes and killing a man in a brawl. 

Boiled instead of steamed. 

Ellana can taste the garlic in her mouth as she nervously chews on her lip. 

Images swirl behind her eyes. The iconic smile of the Mona Lisa melts together with a wolf with six red eyes. Van Gogh’s Starry Night swirls in concentric circles outward in a star map she once generated from lines of code. And somewhere in it all is the gigantic cherry on an oversized white spoon outside the Walker Art Center in Minneapolis. 

None seem to match what’s in front of her. 

“I will fill this room, and if by the end, Felessan does not appear, we will walk to where we need to be.” 

Ellana stumbles over the statement. Tries to regain a sense of the present. “What?” 

“It’s far enough that it is worth waiting–” Fen’Harel responds. 

Ellana's curiosity was piqued as she brought her attention back to the small pans surrounding her. There was a clear jug of oil and flat palette knives spread out in a meticulous row. A plate of glass already had a large mound of ochre piled up, ready to be mixed into a vibrant hue.

Fen’Harel glanced towards the wall behind her, his gaze intense and focused, as if tracing out an unknown pattern that eluded her. His eyes then swept to the sides of her cheeks, studying her face with a keenness that made her want to squirm. She struggled to keep her expression neutral, doing her best to deconstruct the individual sitting across from her.

“I'm not angry, little thing.” Fen’Harel leans back, the light from the windows highlighting the top of his throat as it bobs, as if swallowing, while he catches a line of sun streaming in. The expression on his face is almost as if he’s concentrating to peel back time like an apple skin. “It is difficult to synthesize a history that drifts back to a different age.”

There's a fragile, mortal quality in his voice, a resonance that draws Ellana closer to the person behind the god. As she gazes more intently, she observes freckles scattered across his skin mixed in with a few thin scars dotting his forehead and chin. 

How had she never noticed these features before?

Hadn't she felt the rough touch of the calluses on his hands as he pulled her in for a kiss?Ellana’s hand rises to her lips at the memory. 

“I once was an artist who shaped this world with my own hands and then somewhere in the depths I learned I could do the same with magic. There weren’t gods then, only—” 

Ellana’s eyes widened as Fen’harel continued, “ I began with shaping stone and creating structures the likes no one had seen before. Monuments, castles, roads. I carved into mountains and then began to uncover the alchemy of paint. Of color and its essence. Then somehow along the way I learned the skill to pull the Fade around me like a cloak until I became the one who binds the worlds, ensuring they stay in harmony.” 

He breaks off mid sentence, looking towards Ellana who confirms she’s listening with a nod, “It has been a long while since I have had the simple pleasure of coloring in a wall. I wish it was a task asked of me more often”  

“Since before the war,” Ellana offered, sensing the weight of his words.

“Yes,” Fen'Harel confirmed with a weary sigh. He leaned forward again, his movements deliberate and focused, as he resumed mixing a line of oil in with the brown paint in front of him. Ellana watched him intently, her eyes tracing the lines of his face, trying to decipher a deep sorrow that echoed in the god’s movements. 

“I want to paint you,” Fen'Harel announces suddenly, as if the thought had only just occurred to him; his voice breaking the silence like happy matter spiraling into a black hole,

Chapter Text

 twenty-eight

Girl with a Pearl Earring.  

The book, not the painting. Although, Ellana’s stomach had twisted with desire when she saw Colin Firth touching the ridges of Scarlett Johansen’s plump lips on the big screen. 

There’s no pattern to the pop culture she recalls. The memories grow more distant with each passing moment. Once she got the song Wrecking Ball stuck in her head for the entire afternoon of folding paper flowers. It’s no mystery to Ellana why this book occurs to her on this day. She recalls the part where the painter slid a needle through the maid’s earlobe, and strung it with a heavy pearl. 

Her hand reaches up to touch a phantom pain, brushing ever so briefly against Fen'Harel fingers. A soft huff of air from his surprised mouth collides with her cheek. 

“I’ve rarely seen hair this color before,” Fen’Harel says while moving Ellana’s hair away from her face. He stops for a moment, appraising her features, and she can’t help but lean into the flutter of his touch. He notes her response, rubbing a thumb over the span of her brow under the pretense of brushing away another stray strand. 

“Look at me,”  a command that Vermeer gave his subject as he painted her portrait “Open your mouth. Lick your lips.”  

Hadn’t Ellana seen the movie with her mother in the theater? Sometime in high school in an attempt to bond. Her mother hadn’t liked it. Thought it was too sad, and undermined the artists’ works.

  “Sauce for the goose, not for the gander,” her mother had muttered, shaking her head in the theater parking lot. Ellana didn’t quite understand the phrase then, but she knew it meant something about fairness, or the lack thereof. “ Not everything has to be a romance novel to be interesting.”

“No one knows what Vermeer was trying to say, mom.” She had argued. “Let alone anything about him.” 

“I think it could have had a happier ending.” Her mother argued in a clipped voice, clicking the button to open the family’s Honda Odyssey. “Or simply being a pretty picture.” 

Is that what Ellana was now? A pretty picture. 

She wants to believe there is something more going on. 

In any event, Ellana didn’t think to refuse the Dread Wolf’s summons. He had told her to follow him, and so she did. Wound, at his direction, a length of pristine white linen around herself for him to pin with ornate gold pins on her shoulder into a dress. 

“Why do you want to paint me?” She asks for the first time. 

“A visitor from another world?” That would be an occasion to commemorate,” he tsks playfully as he gently pulls her chin up. “A situation without precedent must be painted.” 

“If you say so.” 

It’s been like this between them for the last while. Easy. As if some sort of shared tension had cracked like an egg. 

Fen’Harel laughs under his breath and turns. He’s rigged up an elaborate setting. Already filling in an architectural background of heavily stylized buildings . The colors are muted except where he’s allowed the white to soak through as an outline. The absence of the shapes of equal importance to those that are directly applied. 

Ellana holds herself still. Her chin wobbles as she tries not to follow Fen’Harel’s graceful movements around the world. She wonders at Vermeer’s models and if there is kinship between them.  Fen’Harel looks to the side, holds his thumb up to roughly measure her proportions. She blushes, acutely aware of where his glacier-colored eyes trace over her features. 

“Look at me,” he commands as if quoting Vermeer. The god’s voice is soft, yet urgent. 

Not for the first time, Ellana wonders if her dreams are prompting this world to change. Wonders if the whole situation isn’t some sort of gigantic fantasy akin to Dorothy waking up in the fields of Kansas. 

There is something grounding when Fen’Harel speaks again. He opens his mouth as if to speak and shuts it firmly closed. His eyes burning with emotion. 

“What? Say it.” 

“I wanted to remember...” 

“Remember what?” 

“You after you left.” 

Chapter Text

 twenty-nine

Fen’Harel wraps Ellana’s feet tightly with a long embroidered strip of ribbon. Pulls it into tight intricate knots. When he’s done, he adds another layer. This time a rubberized fabric almost like canvas dipped in wax. 

“Aren’t you going to cover the toes?” She asks, flexing the digits as emphasis. 

“How would you walk if you can’t feel the ground beneath you?” 

“Aren’t you worried about mangling your feet?” 

The Dread Wolf laughed under his breath as if the idea is the most preposterous thing he’s heard, “Tell me little thing, what do you wear in your world?” 

“Shoes.” 

“Chu-eez,” he repeats. 

“Shoes. You know, it surrounds the whole foot…like a protective container.” 

“You don’t fall over in Shuush?” 

“Um, no?” 

“Of that I am very skeptical.” 

Ellana rolls her eyes as she lifts her carefully packed bag onto her shoulders. Does her best to suppress a smile as Fen’Harel clucks his tongue in mock disapproval. She circulates the front room in an unsteady circle around the front room, her toes cold on the smooth tile floor. 

She couldn't help but feel a sense of unease about what lay behind the heavy wooden door that Fen’harel traced his hand over, strange glyphs lighting up in unison like firefly bellies. 

The sound of its opening made a painful screech as unadulterated sunlight flickered in from the empty city.   

“Ready to go?” She asked with more urgency than the situation warranted. 

A nod from the god was her only answer. Smile vanishing. 

Walking through the city was eerie in its emptiness. The paved streets, flanked by rows of quaint, blue-painted houses, were devoid of life. It had been night when they first stumbled upon this seemingly abandoned place, and now, in the early dawn, the empty streets and silent houses took on a surreal quality. The blue tiled roofs, usually a vibrant contrast to the pink hues of dawn, now stood stark against the empty sky. The absence of bustling activity and the lack of any signs of life made the city feel frozen in time, as if its inhabitants had vanished into thin air, leaving behind only their silent, empty homes.

“They’ll return when I release the tide.” Fen”Harel mentions when Ellana halts at an open garden filled with weeds. “The people.” 

“Will you?” She asks, uncertain where the question comes from. 

He shrugs in response. 

"Will you?" she asks again, her voice barely a whisper. 

Ellana doesn’t expect an answer. 

He turns to her, his expression unreadable. "I don't know," he replies, his voice as uncertain as hers.

She’s sweating by the time they exit from a gate fashioned out of ancient iron, the metal twisted into intricate patterns by a long-forgotten artisan. The air outside is thick with humidity, a stark contrast to the cool shadows of the city's interior. As they step into the sunlight, she feels a shiver run down her spine, a sense of foreboding that she can't quite shake.

Together, they stand before the gate, its twisted iron bars reaching towards the sky like skeletal fingers. Beyond it, a meadow dotted with small violet flowers stretches out endlessly,

Taking a deep breath, she reaches out and pushes open the gate, the metal groaning in protest. As they step through, she feels a strange sense of both fear and exhilaration, 

Somewhere inside, she knows that this is the last time she'll see this strange city.

She thinks of the portrait Fen’Harel made of her. Revealed only a few nights prior. Ellana isn't sure that she fully understands the significance of the portrait, or if she even wants to. The memory of his intense gaze as he painted her, capturing every detail with a precision that bordered on obsession.

The eyes were what she remembered most. Tiny flecks of color outlining the painter's reflection. 

What was she leaving behind? 

Chapter Text

       thirty

There is no forest, only meadow. Ellana had not expected this particular,  flat terrain. Had, instead, expected to simply walk the opposite way of their arrival. A day passes; and then another. Her leg muscles scream from the effort of walking for hours. 

If the Dread Wolf tires, he does not show it. His face implacable and unyielding. The only indication he’s ever smiled are the fine lines bordering his ice-cold eyes that remain fixed on the horizon. 

As they continued forward, Ellana couldn't shake the feeling of being watched. She glanced around, but saw nothing but the endless meadow stretching out in all directions. The sun beat down relentlessly, casting harsh shadows on the ground that didn’t fall in reaction to any particular object. 

Another of this world’s tricks. 

What does the Dread Wolf always call it? The Fade. 

Ellana stutters when a gigantic complex of buildings appears out of nowhere even if she should have used apparitions by now. The outside walls are made out of what appears to be chiseled glass. Foggy, like smoothed sea glass.  Twin statues stand guard at the entryway, their immense size dwarfing the structure beyond. Their metallic bodies gleam silver, while their heads resemble monstrous creatures, golden and fearsome, with teeth like dragons.

“Welcome to The Temple of Mythal's Sorrows,” Fen’Harel announces. 

There is a feeling of static in the air, one that Ellana has learned to recognize signals that air is thick with magic. She steps cautiously, her eyes scanning the area for any sign of danger.  Her gaze turned to Fen’harel asking, hopeful for an explanation of what will follow. 

The stories Amathiral has told her about this particular god are sparse, but terrifying. Mythal renders judgment and her vengeance is severe. She has a collection of eyes she’s plucked out of her enemies’ skulls. 

And yet, she loves Fen”Harel. 

Ellana wants an explanation of what the temple’s purpose is, but when the Dread Wolf offers none she steps backwards.. Startled further when Fen’Harel grabbed her arm, pulling her gently close. The touch was the only softness she had known from him since departing the abandoned city. 

“You shouldn’t wander off when we enter,” he warns, “and if we meet anyone there you must immediately tell them you belong to me.” 

“I don’t belong to you.” 

Fen'Harel's gaze sharpens, a flicker of something unreadable passing across his face, his voice low and commanding. "You are under my protection, and those who would harm you will answer to me."

Ellana bristles at the notion of belonging to anyone, even him.  But she also knows that she is far from home, in a world where she must rely on him to survive. 

“Fine,” she agrees in a tone more appropriate to a teeanger than a woman nearing thirty. 

She was certainly a hundred or more years given how many days had passed in this strange world. 

The Dread Wolf flashes her another warning look, and then struts forward. He’d discarded a travel tunic for a white kilt again. A gold necklace, more like armor than jewelry, slung low on his bare chest. Grand again. Shoulders pushed back, almost definat. 

“We’ll complete the rituals and then we can go through the Eluvian–” Fen’Harel explains more to himself than Ellana. 

"Rituals?" Ellana's voice squeaked, her mind flickering to horror movies filled with human sacrifice and unspeakable curses. For a brief second, she wondered if the god would force her into something unsavory or painful.

"Come, little thing" he demanded, unlistening, repeating the order when Ellana faltered, his voice calms when she didn’t move. "Ee-leena?"

"Is it dangerous? The ritual?" she asked, her voice quivering.

He laughed, shaking his head, "Not this one."

She’s surprised when the Dread Wolf reaches for her hand. He doesn’t hold it tenderly, but it's more of a firm grasp, as if he's leading her through a crowd. Ellana follows, her heart pounding in her chest.

Ellana finds the temple walls devoid of roofs. The whole temple complex is more a series of walls turning in uncertain order. A labyrinth maybe. The walls twist and turn in uncertain patterns, creating a maze-like structure that seems to defy logic. Without roofs, the sky above is visible, casting an eerie light over the gold mosaic walls. 

Fen’Harel doesn’t pause to gaze directly at any of the intricate mosaics. When Ellana slows, he pulls her forward. The glimpses she manages show her a different facet of the world. Whereas the Dread Wolf’s paintings are colorful, with harmonic shapes, the place he has brought her to is all hard angles. Distant and cold. 

Enough for Ellana to shiver. Surprised an image can have this effect. 

“Here,” the Dread Wolf instructs, pointing to a fountain “We must wash our hands.” 

Ellana mimics his movements. Running each finger under a trail of water. She scoops a palmful to soak her face in the same aggressive sweep that he does. A dance, of what meaning, she grows uncertain of. Trying to be grateful, at the very least, to clean the film of dust from her skin. 

Fen’Harel shushes her when she asks what comes next. He bows his head slightly forward and Ellana assumes a similar pose. Turning a corner to find a raised platform with steps. 

Fen’Harel grabbed her firmly again, and without explanation. 

The ritual begins with a walk, a precise pattern of steps on the tiles that cover the floor. Each step must land on a specific tile, following a sequence that only Fen'Harel seems to know. Ellana watches him intently, trying to mimic his movements as closely as possible.

Each one is intricately decorated with elven glyphs and symbols, glowing softly with a faint, ethereal ligh the moment they are stepped upon. They seem to pulse with magic, resonating with power that Ellana can almost feel thrumming beneath her feet.

As they move through the temple, the pattern of tiles becomes more complex, requiring Ellana to concentrate deeply to keep up. Fen'Harel moves with a fluid grace, his steps sure and steady, never faltering. Ellana, on the other hand, struggles to maintain the rhythm, stumbling occasionally as she tries to keep pace.

Here she was, a woman from Earth walking through a temple with a god. It was all so surreal, so far removed from the life she had known.She stumbled again, cursing under her breath as Fen'Harel shot her a glance, his expression unreadable. She felt out of place, out of her depth, like a child trying to keep up with an adult.

The Dread Wolf speaks no words of encouragement. Does not negotiate.

 "Close your eyes,” he commands when Ellana steps on the wrong tile. A consequence of which, she learns, is needing to start the puzzle over. 

"Trust me, close your eyes," Fen'Harel's voice whispered into the shell of her ear, his breath warm against her skin. 

The order is worrying. Not because Ellana doesn’t trust him. She knows that she's losing her skepticism.  Doubt lingered in the back of her mind, a nagging reminder of the uncertainty of her circumstances. She clung to her sense of self, to the belief that she was more than just a pawn in someone else's game.

May the Dread Wolf Take You. 

Ellana hesitated for a moment, her heart pounding in her chest, before finally closing her eyes as Fen'Harel had commanded. She felt a strange sensation wash over her, like a gentle breeze caressing her skin. It was dizzying, disorienting, as if the world around her was shifting and changing. 

She felt the Dread Wolf's hand on her shoulder, guiding her forward. His touch was firm but not unkind, a steady presence in the swirling chaos of her mind. She felt the scrape of her bare toes on the stone floors, the cool touch of the air against her skin.

As they moved, Fen'Harel touches became more intimate, more familiar. She felt his hand on her back, guiding her through a turn. For only a second, his fingers intertwine with hers. 

And then, suddenly, the touches were gone. Ellana opened her eyes to find herself standing in a different place, a different time. The world around her had changed, transformed by the magic of the temple. She looked to Fen'Harel, who stood beside her, his expression unreadable.

"What now?" she asked, her voice barely a whisper.

Chapter Text

Part Two

There is a myth that the sky is a goddess, Nut, who stretches herself across the heavens, her body a canopy of stars. The ancient Egyptians depicted her in celestial blue, her limbs arching over the earth, a protective arc holding the chaos at bay. In the Book of Nut, this divine being swallows the sun every evening and births it anew each dawn, an eternal cycle of light and darkness, life and death.

Chapter Text

       thirty-one

Ellana gasps when they pass through the Eluvian. 

The sensation is unlike anything she’s ever experienced—a disorienting swirl of colors and light that feels as if she’s being pulled apart and put back together all at once. Her lungs burn as if she is breathing fire in and out

She blinks, and in front of her is the golden orb she reached for in the museum exhibition. Ellana grabs it and the surface runs through her fingers like molten lava. There is a metallic taste in her mouth with a foul aftertaste. Instinctively, she reaches a hand up to wipe away the drool from her mouth only for the heat to intensify. 

“Ellana?” a worried voice calls to her. It is faint as if originating from a great distance. It’s juxtaposed with sinister laughing. A discordant crescendo that immediately slips into silence. 

She tries to move her arms to help prop up her body. Her muscles don’t strain, only freeze into place. Her cheek is rough against brown patterned carpet. Floaters permeate her vision. White dots like grains of salt. Bruise purple lines her periphery. 

It takes her a few seconds for Ellana to realize that she’s laying on the gallery floor. Her body shakes. From what? Her heart is pounding and limbs shaking. Ellana blinks trying to remember how she got here. She was about to reach for the orb and–

“Ellana?” A voice desperately speaks her name. 

“Jack?” She tries to mutter. It comes out more like an off-key chord than a name. 

It is him. The brown hair, the maroon sweater pushing against the black and white text surrounding them. Ellana wants to wipe away the bead of sweat on his forehead. He’s pulled out his phone, the conversation blurs. 

Ellana’s body jerks and she’s gazing up at the gigantic xerox copy of a woman’s nude body bending over marching figures. She recognizes the image from reading the didactic. Nut, the ancient Egyptian sky goddess. What is the text? Star Fundamentals? Cycle of the Stars? 

“Arlathan?” The word comes to her mind. Appearing out of nowhere. The syllables seem so odd, but familiar. 

“Ellana?” Jack interjects desperately. The glow of his IPhone accentuates the curated crop of stubble on his jaw. “Can you hear me?” 

“Yes, Jack.”   Always. 

Another flash of nameless pain and Ellana tries to grab hold of whatever clarity her mind is capable of. She doesn’t think the landscape surrounding her is right. There’s a ghost of a face she half remembers. Angular is like a sculpture. Pale blue eyes that make her want to list anything adjacent to that specific type of hue. 

Ellana begins to count the stars on the goddess’ stomach.

  One. She’s never particularly cared for the pyramids at Giza. Likes the step pyramid simply because a colleague of her’s told her that it was dedicated to star worship. 

Two. Jack is talking again. He’s turning her to her side again. LIquid escapes her mouth. Water and tastes of bile. Three. The orb she was about to touch mocks her from its square podium. It’s almost as if the object is staring at her. Gold and oily. 

Four.  The sound of laughter returns again. Ha. Ha. Ha. Ha. 

Five. Ellana is levitating as if possessed. She thinks a priest might arrive any moment. The blare of red lights and then: nothing. Not even a dream. 

Chapter Text

       thirty-two

A gigantic wolf prowls on the edge of Ellana’s periphery. Wherever she is standing it is the golden hour, and its thick fur has an equally thick sheen of gold. It appears almost like someone has poured a thick layer of maple syrup over the cumulative landscape.

Ellana wants to simultaneously bury her face in its fur and run away, but is prevented from moving. She looks down and there are thick chains attached to her wrists and ankles. They should be heavy, but Ellana cannot feel the strain of lifting them up a millimeter. Even if her effort remains useless.

The beast twists its wiry body and howls. It’s a yearning sound. High pitched and dripping with whine. Ellana chokes down a scream when it faces her with six red eyes. She tucks her chin down as if to tumble. A long-buried instruction from childhood gymnastics.

Hell, Ellana would drop and roll if she could manage it.

She might as well be on fire.

Hot steam hits her clenched jaw. 

“Squeeze my hand if you can hear me?” A voice intrudes like a broken window.

Ellana doesn’t react to the order immediately. She clenches her jaw, determined to face the beast that stalks her. Her eyes open and the entire room is white. White, like beached whale bone on a shore. There’s a regular beeping sound next to her head. It takes her a few prolonged breaths to realize that it’s her heartbeat. The sound matching the rhythm contained in her chest.

A choking breath, and she’s fighting to rise. The movements are easy except for when she raises an arm to find it bound to a hospital bed by a strong velcro strap. Her eyes continue to flutter open as unknown hands unbind her.

“You gave us quite a scare,” a woman with a round face peers down at her. “We had to restrain you because you were thrashing. We thought you were having a seizure.”

“A seizure” Ellana gasps. Her mouth is dry. Brittle like sandpaper. She’s relieved when a plastic straw is thrust into her mouth and room-temperature water slides down her throat.

Voices murmur around her. The words a distant, unintelligible hum. The faces staring down at her blur, shifting in and out of focus, like a dream Ellana can't quite grasp. One of the figures, their features indistinct, reaches down and loosens the straps, pulling the blanket up around Ellana gently as she turns on her side.

Underneath it all, Ellana senses the wolf’s gaze. Goosebumps erupt over her skin where she feels eyes tracing over her. 

It should be frightening, but the sensation comforts her.

She blinks slowly, trying to clear her vision, but the effort is exhausting. Her eyelids flutter, heavy and reluctant to stay open, and close again. She goes easily into a dark, endless meadow of dream. The atmosphere of which is neither too hot, nor too cold; if not, a simple nothing. 

The sun is out when Ellana’s eyes open again. 

She runs her hands over her chest. The paper hospital bracelet she wears scraping against the papery hospital gown. The cheap fabric makes her feel like a fish being cooked in a brown paper bag in the oven–scales and skin sizzling. 

“Jack?” Ellana sees him curled up in a chair adjacent to her bed. He’s covered himself in a gray tweed blazer. His long limbs working hard to stay contained by the chair’s boundaries.A confused sound erupts from his mouth, followed by a long exhale. Brown eyes rimmed with red stare back at her. 

“Ellana? How are you–” She’d never seen Jack frightened before, and the terror in his face had transformed him into an unknowable figure. LIke she’s ripped away a layer of surface like tearing out a page in a magazine. 

“What is it you always say about the multiverse?” The question comes to her from out of nowhere. Appears like an apparition of the Virgin Mary in the sky. Fiery and prophetic. 

“This is what you want to talk about here, in the hospital?”

“Yes.”

Chapter Text

       thirty-three

Jack doesn’t answer. Instead he adjusts his long body in the chair and pulls it towards the edge of Ellana’s bed. He clasps his hands in front of him, the knuckles tightening to white. His mouth is about to open again but clamps shut halfway through opening when a body hurls itself at Ellana.

So quickly that she jerks away in response. A gesture that is met with a hurt cry.  A long white braid flops over her shoulder and hits Ellana on the cheek in reubuke. It takes some haphazard rearrangement of limbs for Ellana to realize that her mother is clinging to her like a person would a cavern ledge.

The entire scene around Ellana continues to play like a movie. Jack shoots up and takes a few steps backwards, shoulders dropping, as Ellana’s father moves in closer. Everyone speaks at once. Ellana can barely make sense of what is being said. The only thing she knows for sure is that extra attention makes her feel uncomfortable. 

“The doctor says your heart stopped!”  Ellana’s mother exhales at a near whisper. “Are you doing drugs?”

 “Mom, what?” She chokes in reply as Jack stifles a laugh in her periphery as her father slaps him on the back.  Ellana feels her face heat bright red at the realization that this isn’t the first time her mother has made an identical claim in front of Jack. She’s always had strange ideas about what they do in the “big city.” 

“Your father and I spoke and we think you need to come home and recover.” Her mother demands. 

“Recover from what?” Ellana insists. She wants to argue that it was only moments ago she woke up. Instead, she lays back down, lips stretched in a firm line of defiance. 

“Your heart stopped.” 

“News to me.” 

“Let’s get the doctor to explain, Cheryl,” her father insists. He makes an attempt to grab her mother back from Ellana, but she holds on. 

“Mom,” Ellana mumbles, “I’m fine.” 

The sound of her mother sobbing into her shoulder does nothing to alleviate the tension brewing in the room. Ellana wants to be sympathetic but the reaction makes her gasp for air as she feels acutely like drowning in the tiny slivers of water soaking into the shoulder of her paper gown. 

“Cheryl,” Her father attempts again. His voice drifted off hopelessly. 

“I can get the doctor,” Jack says reassuringly while Ellana’s mother continues sobbing. Ellana wants to ask him to stay, but is too slow to make the request, watching in dread as he vanishes with efficient footsteps into the fluorescent hallway. 

She’s done her best to avoid her parents after failing to complete her dissertation. The holidays were easy because there were enough planned activities to disappear as her mother and sister-in-laws toiled in the kitchen, lining up crock pot stations as men in purple Viking jerseys screamed at the football game. After all, as a single adult, Ellana was normally sat at the kids table to entertain her ever growing brood of nieces and nephews. 

Her parents staring up expectantly as if to offer an answer–for the lack of achievement, for the current situation–felt to Ellana like a car crash. 

Underneath all that was something uncanny. Her gaze drifted up at the popcorn ceiling, the beeping monitors at the periphery of her vision. The walls were painted a soft, naive pink. Not baby pink. More like a toasted salmon color. It was all too solid. 

What had she been doing before she was in the hospital? A dream came to her. Too long, and too ambiguous to make sense. She remembers six red eyes turning into a piercing blue. So easily as if to make the juxtaposition of any other colors transforming to be vulgar.  

“Ellena,” Her mother says, gathering herself up to sit at the edge of the bed.  Ellana note the strange pronunciation, realizing that her mother is repeating her name correctly and that she is mishearing. Almost as if out of habit. 

“Yeah, mom.” 

“I was so worried.” 

Ellana reaches for her hand knowing that she’s not only referring to the mysterious arrival in the hospital, but the cumulative moments that led them here. 

“I know, mom.” 

“Anything we can do for you?” Her father asks. His hands played nervously with his baseball cap. Flipping it backwards and forwards again. The logo on the front worn away by sun. 

Ellana takes a deep breath in and then exhales. Allows her body to relax and sink into the thick stack of fluffed up pillows. Wrinkled her nose at the constant smell of ammonia. Her stomach growls as if it hasn’t been filled for months. The weakness overwhelming. “Yeah, I really want a cheeseburger.” 

Chapter Text

       thirty-four

Ellana wasn’t a regular meat eater. She, like many other scientists she knew, had concerns about climate change. Although she had spent her life thinking about the stars, the idea of endless consumption made her gut shrivel. 

Still, she had to admit something primal to the sensation of bloody liquid running down her chin. Her hungry bite earned the ire of her mother who starred with a furrowed brow  as Ellana devoured a five inch stack of bread-wrapped flesh. 

She can’t pay attention to the surrounding conversation. Jack and her father are talking about something, laughing on and off again while her mother occasionally interjects.  Ellana can’t really motivate herself to care about the reality of it. Or the meaning. Only her body’s desire for a cheeseburger and plate full of fries that she dips into a small plastic cup of ranch dressing. 

Hadn’t she had a cheeseburger last week? It wasn’t as juicy as this one. 

Ellana’s never eaten like this before. Like her life depended on it and there is great confliction in herself about it. It’s like her whole self doesn’t belong here. That the overall quantity of substances required to keep Ellana present in this exact moment is overwhelming.

“John,” Ellana’s mother interjects, “Did you want to–” 

“Um, yeah hun?” Her father asks, halting mid sentence. Jack’s deep laugh abruptly ends as the table goes silent. 

“We think you should move home.” Ellana’s mother begins after a lengthy sigh, “I can help you get a certificate to teach science classes at the high school while you sort out your paper.” 

“My dissertation? ” 

“Cheryl–” Her father tries to interrupt. 

“You almost died .”  Is her mother’s rebuke. 

“Nobody knows that for sure,” Ellana definitely retorts. She replays the conversations with the team of doctors who had poked and prodded her with any number of tests. Medically unexplained symptoms, one doctor had finally written on her chart when the results that were returned demonstrated she was normal, if not healthy. 

“Your heart stopped.” 

“Not for long.” 

“You need to be reasonable.” 

“You know the fastest way to kill me, mom? Having me move back to Minnesota and teach high school–” 

“Cheryl,” Her father tries to interrupt, placing a hand on her mother’s pale-pink linen sleeve while Jack takes a conspicuous slug of his diet coke. His free hand drifts to Ellana’s knee underneath the table. The following squeeze prompts a soft, surprised sign to escape her mouth. 

“I have a job, mom,” Ellana counters. Trying not to notice the heat erupting from Jack’s body next to hers in the booth. It’s presence confuses her as much as it riles her. 

“Family should be close,” Ellana’s mother continues. “Your father and I think you should consider–” 

“And a lease,” Ellana continues. Dramatically beginning to count off the reasons she should stay in Arizona on greasy fingers. “A contract, not to mention data access necessary to–” 

“You’ve been writing that paper for three years now, and very little to show for it, maybe it’s time to admit–” 

“Admit what, mom?” Ellana says. 

“That you need help,” her mother said, her voice trembling. “. You’re sick, Ellana. You need to come home and let us take care of you.”

Ellana insisted, her voice rising. She’s still unsure why this is the argument. “Moving back would just set me back even more.”

“Is that what you think?” her mother shot back, her eyes glistening with unshed tears. “That we’re just trying to hold you back?”

Ellana felt Jack’s hand tighten on her knee, a silent plea for calm. She took a deep breath, trying to steady her racing heart. Her mother looked like she wanted to argue further, but her father gently squeezed her shoulder. “What your mother is trying to say–” he said quietly. “Is that receiving a phone call that your only daughter is in the hospital–” 

“I know,” Ellana said, her voice softening. 

There was a heavy silence at the table, the weight of unspoken fears and unresolved tension hanging in the air. Ellana took another bite of her cheeseburger. There isn’t as much relish to it as there was before. 

“There is another option,” Jack says. His usual bravada melted away for a moment. A slight shake present in the sentence that follows. “Ellana could come work for me in Switzerland.” 

Chapter Text

       thirty-five

Ellana goes back to Jack’s hotel room despite her mothers disapproval with the promise to think about his offer along with another promise to consider getting on the plane and flying back to Minnesota with them tomorrow. 

“You didn’t have to stay,” she announces weakly the moment they make it up to his room. It’s a suite, the type of premium space only a large trust fund can purchase. It overlooks what one might call a large college town, a few blinking buildings doing their best imitation of skyscrapers. 

She’s certain he’s spent a fortune on the last minute booking and flight change tickets. A realization that reminds Ellana of her own precarious situation with a steep hospital bill. She has insurance, but the deductible is three times her monthly salary. Fuck. 

“I was worried,” He says. The words sound truthful even if his expression is non-reactive. Blank, until his voice falters further. “It was scary to see you upright one moment, I wasn’t sure if you were having a seizure or what.” 

“I’m sorry,” Ellana begins out of habit. Trying to process the idea again that she almost died. It’s not something she’s sure she wants to believe. 

“Don’t say you’re sorry.” 

Ellana doesn’t respond. Watches as Jack drops his wallet and keys on a credenza facing an oversized king sized bed which he promptly flops down upon with an exuberant exhale. 

She’s not sure what to make of the scene. There’s an intimacy she’s been craving from Jack since the moment they met a little over a decade ago buttressed by a sense of dislocation. An ineffable feeling of wanting to be elsewhere. A type of hunger that hurts to realize. 

A sensation that Ellana thinks should be the opposite of what she should be feeling in this single, definitive moment.  

She retaliates by sitting on the edge of bed. Folding her hands in her lap while Jack looks up at her expectantly.  His face softens as he pushes his weight onto his elbows. 

“I was going to offer you a job at dinner the first night of the conference.” 

“I’m the wrong kind of scientist.” 

This statement, at least, is true. As much as Ellana’s really motivated to decline participating in the efforts to unravel the makeup of the universe like pulling a loose thread. She’s more certain than ever that she wants to keep the whole cosmos safe from devouring. 

What was that old song? 

Catch a falling star and put it in your pocket. 

“You can process the data and I need a research professional to help manage the lab. That’s not so different from what you are doing in Arizona and I have this grant.” 

“I have to think about it.” 

Ellana’s phone buzzes in her lap. She picks it up and groans, immediately throwing the phone back down. 

“What?” 

“My mother asked if I remembered my room key. She doesn’t want to lock me out of our room. Jesus, I wish you hadn’t called them or if it were just dad. I know she means well, but you’d think I needed constant watch so I don’t lose my virginity.Again.” 

“Good thing she never met Nate.” Jack laughs. “He was such a moron.” 

“Oh come on. You just didn’t like him because he got a higher grade in our intro to Humanities course than you.” 

“Why did I end up home for Thanksgiving instead of him?” 

“Your parents were vacationing in Paris.” 

“Oh right.” Jack says, flashing her a thousand dollar smile. Literally given that Ellana knows he’s broken his two front teeth twice in cycling accidents. 

Another detail only a lover should know. 

“Besides,” Ellana says, changing the subject, “Where would I live in Geneva? I can barely even afford my rent–and I’d have to break my lease.” 

“You could live with me.” 

“Jack, you know that–”  Ellana freezes. There’s nothing but temptation in the offer, but she’s been a student of confliction her entire life; ping ponging between options. The only consistent anchor of which that drives her is that flickering bright orb in the sky and its meaning. Stereotypical Libra. 

“I don’t know if that’s a good idea.” She mutters, shaking her head before resting it on the palm of her hand. Her heart is thumping. “It’s not a good idea–” 

The sensation of Jack’s hand softly grazing her leg causes her to drift off. She thinks he might kiss her surprised instead when he slaps the space next to him on the bed, pulling her down so she’s positioned in the crook of his elbow. 

It’s ambiguous enough, except that Ellana is enjoying the comfort of it. Again, a feeling that is at odds with Jack’s  accelerating heartbeat she gleans from her ear pressed to his chest, their bodies flushed together in what Ellana might term the Goldilocks zone. Not too cold; not too hot. 

Here again she was reminded of her vocation. The image of one of the museum’s didactics coming back to her. An Egyptian goddess charged with the phases of the moon and stars. Their cyclical dance of never being able to touch. 

An eclipse, after all only an illusion of relative proximity. 

If she reaches for Jack, logic follows that he’d pull away. 

“Do you think it’s possible to go to another world?” She asks out of nowhere. A subject that Ellana knows Jack loves. This she can give him. “What do you think it would be like?” 

“We’re already in other worlds.” 

“You sound high.” 

“No, really, the math proves that every time a quantum event occurs, the universe splits into multiple, non-interacting branches. In another world you’ve already accepted my offer to go to Geneva–and in yet another we’ve never met.” 

“Maybe in another I’m dining alone with an elven god.” 

Jack laughs at the joke, the rise and fall of his chest jostling out a similar sound from Ellana doesn’t quite muster the necessary momentum. A number of fantastical images are floating in her mind. Glimmers she can’t quite make out. A golden castle floating in space. Pale blue eyes that transform into six red rubies. She wants them to stop as much as she wants them to continue. 

"Seriously, though," Jack continues, his tone shifting to a more earnest note. "Think about it. Every decision, every random event, creates a new branch. There's a universe out there where everything you've ever dreamed of has happened, and another where the opposite is true. In one, you're a renowned scientist leading groundbreaking research, and in another, maybe you're a poet living by the sea. The possibilities are endless."

Ellana tilts her head, trying to wrap her mind around the vastness of it all. "So, in some universe, I took that job, moved to Geneva, and we're living together. But how do we know which universe we're in?"

"We don't," Jack admits. His hand gently brushes a strand of hair away from her face. 

As Jack leans in, his eyes searching hers for permission, Ellana’s heart pounds in her chest. The room seems to blur, and almost instantly Jack’s presence fades to the background. For a moment, Ellana is lost in a meadow. Of a sky so black as if made out of paper, each discrete star poked through. 

She doesn’t want to ruin the image. Feels a distinct need to hold out a little longer to try and figure out where this memory of fire pools in the center of her belly. She can almost smell the night-blooming flowers, and hear the whisper of the wind through the tall grasses. The fire from a long-forgotten kiss lingers on her lips, a reminder of something otherworldly and profound. 

“Jack?” She springs up with sudden urgency.  

“Yes?”

“I smell like a hospital, I think I need to shower. Do you mind?” 

Chapter Text

        thirty-six

Suppose Ellana were to go down to the room she was sharing with parents. 

Suppose she were to go down and announce that they were right and she should move back home and get a teaching certificate to teach high school science at the same school her mother retired from. 

Her father would diligently offer to fly out with her and pack up her studio, doing everything possible not to comment on the cockroaches that sneak up at night from the sink plumbing. A scorpion scuttling across the table was not entirely out of the question.

Another option was for her to go down and flop on the full bed. Refuse to speak, and slip into the shower as her mother questions what she and Jack were doing. Say what a nice boy he was. The same script she’d been reading for the past decade. 

Ellana would slip off her jeans and long-sleeve t-shirt. There’s something comforting in the idea of lathering suds over her skin and allowing the hot water to wash her clean. 

It would be a good ritual to preempt her return to Arizona. To toil over telescope lenses and data and calibrations. She’d finally resolve to finish her dissertation. Make all the necessary changes. Add something to the sauce. 

Suppose she did all of these things simultaneously. The rubix cube in her hand turned again and again and again. 

And yet, Ellana hesitated to realize any of it. 

She’d never thought of her indecision as a positive quality. Ellana waffled over the most basic components of her life like a fly stuck on sticky paper. Thinking about Jack’s explanation of the universe, however,. Ellana couldn’t help but think her hesitation was rooted in something greater. A self-protective measure in managing to keep her rightful cosmos in order. 

She hoovered in the outside hallway. Got on the elevator and hit the button to her parents floor. 

Stopped on the sixth floor to change her mind. 

Got back in again. Hit another selection of random numbers to see if she could toss fate up in the air and make it choose for her deciding that was not to be the way of things. 

Then she hit the button to the downstairs bar. Thinking that she’d order an oversized glass of expensive champagne and watch the meandering crowds of guests. Listen to their business instead of hers, and wonder how their lives split into an infinite number of facets like a diamond with no borders.

She paused again in the lobby to collect herself. Only to find the opposite. Her entire body is faint with the endless possibility. It was as if she was holding it inside of herself. A glowing ember burning where her heart should be. 

There is flame and it burns. 

St. Teresa in Ecstasy. 

No wonder the hospital thought it had stopped. 

Each unfurling moment stood before her. Opening and closing their blooms like a field of tulips swaying in the wind. 

In another universe she and Jack are already fucking. Consummating the years of tension that had been fermenting between them. Ellana has pictured it before. More times than she wants to admit to in the liminal hours between her head hitting the pillow and dreams that haunted her with another world with yet another thickening layer of overwhelming options. 

It was hard for Ellana to decide one path. 

She may or may not have gone back to the bar. Had a drink and then another. Gotten too  drunk that her parents had to claim her after the bar closed. 

She may have only had one. Relished the experience and gotten a slice of cheesecake drenched in strawberries. 

 She may or may not have walked up to Jack’s room and been greeted at the door by his shirtless body. 

Her sense of time is distorted. 

Ellana glances down at her phone. It’s still early. Enough that she could live out an inordinate number of possibilities and still go to bed at a reasonable hour.  Counting the seconds makes her again calculate how they amass like a flock of birds, swirling in air and then dissipating. 

Seasons. Tides. Moons. Stars. 

A breath inhaling and exhaling. 

She sinks down in one of the hidden corners of the hotel. The wallpaper is textured floral with metallic flecks; the chairs stripped and faded. A bouquet of fake flowers is materially at odds with the layer of fine dust that surrounds it. Plastic and decay. Ellana drags a finger through it in a straight line and then scribbles. Uses her palm to wipe away the whole of the detritus. 

What did Ellana want? 

There’s pain in the question because she couldn’t articulate it clearly. Felt it deeply. All the while knowing that it would elude her. Not to mention some fear in the realization.  Her face is reflected in the glass of a print hanging on the opposite wall. It’s of Monet’s haystacks glowing orange. 

The image of her face painted by another comes to her, but where and when? Her irises do not reflect any other but herself which does not seem to be the right equation. 

The automatic door opens ahead of her as another group rushes in with luggage to check in. The clerk greets them with a chipper smile. Through the window is a blackened sky with red edges. Ellana makes out a single dot of light that she at first takes for a star, only to realize it is a plane dipping through the atmosphere. 

Ellana resolves to stand up and move through this present world. 

She was at the start of something. 

Chapter Text

        thirty-seven

Ellana pulled out her phone. Her screen was cracked from her fall in the gallery.  A thin line transects the vivid colors of a Hubble space photograph of the Crab Nebula. 

She felt like an automation pulling up the Uber app, stepping out into the humid air, and waiting. Her phone buzzed–another text from her mother.  Rather than reading it, Ellana minimized the notification and slid into a midsized Subaru with a guy named Mark in a backwards baseball cap. 

There is relief that her driver is the sort of man who doesn’t engage in small talk. In fact, after Ellana fastens her seatbelt, he turns up the radio to play a station playing pop songs from when she was in middle school. We only said goodbye with words / I died a hundred times/ You go back to her. 

There is a strange comfort in being just another passenger, anonymous among the many. To the driver, she is simply one more face, a fleeting presence that won’t linger in memory beyond the ride. After a week saturated with attention, where her name seemed to echo in every room, this anonymity feels like a balm. A medical miracle , they had called her. She had only smiled, quietly defiant, when the doctor dismissed her skepticism with a chuckle, insisting that miracles do exist. 

But Ellana knew better. Miracles were just stories we told ourselves, illusions we clung to in moments of desperation. Was she desperate enough? 

You go back to her/ And I go back to / And I go back to us.  

The lyrics hardly register on Ellana’s heavy mind as she slumps to the side in her seat. Forehead cold pressed against the window glass.  There is something thick lurking in the air. A memory that Ellana can’t quite believe of a golden city floating amongst the stars. 

It is in contrast to what she can directly observe along the barren stretch of highway. A flat terrain of rocky hills dotted with storefronts. Tourists in cargo shorts and cover-ups enter and exit sports bars laughing. 

A fountain at the center of the square is covered in bright green algae. The color is at least close to what she’s trying to remember. This shade, nearly fluorescent, carries an uncanny familiarity, like a fragment of a forgotten dream.

“Did you want to be dropped off anywhere particular at the school?” Mark interrupts. If he’s curious, his voice does not indicate so. “You just plugged in the destination.” 

“Maybe near the student union?” 

“Ok,” He confirms, pulling on to the highway towards the state university that had hosted the conference Ellana hadn’t had a chance to attend. 

She supposes that in another world she had.  

What was she doing in this one? Something turned in her gut like a moth to a flame. A magpie to a diamond. The barren plants–more weed than tree–twist to resemble a muddy paint palette. There wasn’t really a plan, but Ellana felt that she was being pulled forward by a siren song. Alluring as it is dangerous. 

Her phone rang. It was Jack. She picked up, more out of habit than desire. Her gut clenched hearing his eager hello. 

“Hi, I just went for a quick walk,” she interrupts his inevitable question about where she is. Ellana can sense Mark’s eyes on her face in the rearview mirror. She’s not dressed for the activity, her flip flops unsubstantial. A sleeveless paisley romper is the last clean outfit in her suitcase; one of Jack’s white button-downs stolen as an improvised jacket. 

“Do you want me to come join you?” Jack asks, his voice lowering. 

“No, I’ll be back in about half-an-hour—” 

“Ellana,” Jack interrupts. “Come to Geneva. I’ll go with you to Arizona and get everything packed up…don’t worry about the bills. I can help.” 

“It’s a good idea.” Ellana offers. Something in her can’t quite deny the opportunity outright even if she has no plans to accept. “I’ll be right back. I need a few moments to process everything” 

In the course of the conversation, the traffic halts to a standstill. A cacophony of horns erupts. 

“Where are you?” Jack asks again, more insistently. “It’s really loud–” 

“Oh, traffic accident. Look, I’ll start heading back to the hotel and we can talk then.” 

“Ellana?” 

“Yes, Jack?” 

The pause lingers, a palpable presence, like fingers creeping up a spine. Ellana feels a sudden urge to ask the driver to turn the car around, to reverse this path she’s on. The temptation flickers, brief and intense. Yet, as she opens her mouth to speak, a wave of dread crashes over her, silencing the words before they can form.

“I’m happy you…want to come to Geneva. I’ve been thinking about us a lot lately and–”  

Ellana’s phone begins to buzz. She lowers it to read the screen. Her mother is texting her again, ::Can us, we are worried::

“Jack, I’m sorry I have to call my mother. She’s freaking out.” 

“Ok, I’ll—” 

“Yeah?” 

“Please don’t make me wait too long.”  

Ellana clicks the call off and takes a deep breath. She hits her mother's number, watching the scenery blur past. The phone rings twice before her mother's voice, high-pitched and frantic, fills her ear.

“Ellana, thank God! Are you okay? Where are you?”

“I’m fine, Mom. Just...on a walk. I’ll be back soon.”

“Are you sure you're alright?”

“Yes, I promise.”

“Okay, sweetheart. Please be careful. Your father and I are worried.”

“I know, I love you mom.” She tries to keep her tone casual. Almost as if it isn’t a goodbye but a continuation of their ongoing communication. Her mother is perceptive, despite never forming a systematic hypothesis, and Ellana doesn’t want to spook her into an irrational response . 

Mark pulls off the highway and slows down along a neighborhood filled with ranch style houses. Ellana does her best to appear unremarkable and small. Holding her phone up and clicking randomly at a news app. She’s not concentrating enough to read the headlines. Instead, she’s hyper aware of Mark’s gaze on her face. There is worry in his expression. Almost like he is calculating an intervention. 

“Family vacation–” Ellana announces. “My mom wonders why we never want to join her.” 

Mark nods and laughs, turns left onto the edge of a sprawling campus. The architecture is a blend of modern and historic architecture, featuring wide, tree-lined avenues, lush lawns, and vibrant flowerbeds. The central quad is flanked by red-brick buildings and sleek glass structures, with the imposing library and iconic bell tower as focal points.

Ellana had barely gotten to look at them the morning of her arrival. She doesn’t recognize the student union when Mark pulls up, but assumes it to be correct when he pulls to the side. She mutters thanks and does her best to make a smooth exit. 

The student union’s doors loomed ahead, their glass reflecting a version of herself she hardly recognized.

Chapter Text

        thirty-eight

"Sorry, I forgot my bag in the gallery. Can you help me get it? Please? " Ellana's voice broke through the quiet hum of the empty hallway, addressing a janitor navigating the space with a neon yellow mop and bucket. The woman, her recently dyed bleach blonde hair stark against cornflower blue scrubs, looked visibly alarmed at the unexpected request. 

Ellana understood her hesitation all too well.

It’s not her habit to lie, but in the course of walking over from the student union to the library gallery she finds that she is, in fact, desperate. Especially after finding the glass door to the solar exhibit closed. The objects outlined in shabby dim light. 

A memory haunts her. Flashes of a siren song that brings her to an edge, to a precipice where desire meets destruction. A melody that Ellana can’t refuse even if she knows she won’t refuse even if it leads to her undoing. 

“Um, I’m not supposed to—”

“ Please, I know right where I left it.” 

The woman stills, frozen like a deer spotting a moment of fluorescent orange movement. 

“I’m supposed to catch a flight with my parents tomorrow, and I tried to call. Please, I know right where I left it–and I don’t have my ID.” 

Ellana hopes she won’t have to continue making excuses. She’s straining to keep herself still, consciously keeping her posture relaxed, though her mind raced with the urgency of her situation.

The woman gives a long, heavy sigh. She pulls out a set of keys attached to a worn lanyard, her fingers trembling slightly. Ellana’s gut twists with guilt while endorphins flood her system. 

"Alright, but we have to be quick," she says, her voice low and wary. 

The instruction adds unexpected tension. Ellana’s aware of her heartbeat pounding. It is a strange sensation as she watches the janitor move the lock. She does her best to be patient. Counts to ten in her mind and repeats the exercise. She halts her foot from tapping. Halts herself from spinning in a circle–any nervous habit that might give her away. 

The woman opens the door and ushers Ellana in with a wave. The lights turn on, almost as suddenly as a popcorn kernel in the microwave. 

As Ellana steps into the gallery, her gaze is immediately captivated by the model of the Egyptian calendar. From her previous visit, she recalls the scene of the night goddess, identifiable by the strict profile of her stretched body, her back arching gracefully over a series of smaller figures aligned beneath her.

Ellana reaches out and touches the image, her fingers brushing against the cheap plastic covering it. The texture feels wrong, a disconnect from depiction. 

The janitor's voice breaks the moment, urging her to hurry up. It borders on a yell, but Ellana can’t make out the words; instead she reads: The Book of Nut, originally called The Fundamentals of the Course of the Stars, focuses on the cycles of stars of the decans, the phases of the moon, the revolutions of the sun and the known planets.

She turns behind her. Repeating her initial movements in the gallery. 

“What are you doing?” The janitor yells. A background noise. 

It is still there.

The orb where Ellana first saw it. In her memory, it had been a strange gold, almost as if it sucked in the surrounding colors and transmuted them into light. Her immediate perception is different now. 

Her phone buzzes. Jack again. 

The Crab Nebula of her cellophane wallpaper faces Ellana. A rainbow of purples and blues that are all painted by hand. The initial photo from the Hubble Space Telescope transmitting only black and white data. Ellana’s certain that if she could see the celestial body in person it would be the color of the orb.  It’s golden surface shifts and pulses with hidden colors. 

"Come on, we don't have all night," the janitor says, her tone edging towards impatience.

Ellana nods absently, her attention still fixated on the orb. She takes a deep breath, steeling herself for whatever comes next. The siren song in her memory echoes faintly, a reminder of the unknown forces at play.

She’s thinking of her research. The knowledge that all stars appear white to the human gaze, but in reality they are a rainbow of hidden colors. It’s that hope to see them that has kept her there all those years. 

With a final, resolute breath, Ellaba begins to reach out towards the orb. She can feel the latent energy humming beneath it. The room around her seems to fade, and all she can see is the golden light. Somewhere in the distance the janitor is screaming. Angry now. 

Ellana made a choice and reached out to grasp the orb. 

Chapter Text

Part Three

In the Book of Nut, a hidden tale speaks of the secret colors of stars. Nut, the celestial goddess, gave each star a true hue, unseen by mortal eyes. Though they seem white or gold, their real colors hide in darkness, like the bruises of the universe, silent and unyielding. The night sky, a canvas of grief, holds these truths in its black expanse. To see them is to know the the burden of eternal cycles. those who glimpse the true hues, find their dreams haunted by colors too vivid to name, too terrible to forget.

Chapter Text

        thirty-nine

“Where did you go, little thing?” 

Ellana rises from a hard spot on the ground. Her body is stiff as if it has been crumpled in the same shape for an extended period of time. Looking down, she sees that she’s dressed much the same as she had been at the hotel, except Jack’s shirt is covered in a thick layer of dust. Her initial confusion was replaced by a rush of memories. Foremost of those: Blue eyes.  

“I’m not sure if I was dreaming or not.” 

“I often have that confusion,” Fen’Harel answers wryly.  

Ellana doesn’t fully register the statement. Instead, she stumbles forward a few steps. More at a crawl than a walk. It’s clumsy, the way she moves. Falling in front of the Dread Wolf. Almost on her knees, but not quite. 

She’s not sure what she’s doing except that every cogent thought is undermined by feelings of desire. It hurts for her to do otherwise, and so Ellana doesn’t bother doing the opposite. Rejects it, even. 

She’s barely aware of the startled moan that erupts from Fen’Harel’s lips as she smashes her face to us in a demonstration of exuberance. It’s hot and full of teeth. Visceral. There’s a hesitation and then the God's whole body is being pushed up against hers in a maze of limbs. It’s needful and Ellana’s all the more certain that she’s waited centuries for this exact moment. 

What was there to say about the kiss that hadn’t been said before except that Ellana was ready to devour? 

Ellana recalls a brief trip in her undergraduate study abroad to Rome, Italy. Her professor had insisted on bringing the class to see Bernini’s marble statue of St. Teresa in Ecstasy. 

St. Teresa’s body contorted in divine pleasure, mouth agape. Everywhere around her a celestial shower of gold. 

In their lecture, Ellana’s professor had pointed out the folds of her robe, the exquisite detail in her fingers, the angel’s poised arrow, ready to strike again. Ellana’s never felt kinship with a saint, but she can’t help to in this moment. After all, wasn’t her body configured into the same swoon? 

Fen’Harel's hands grip her tightly. 

Ellana presses closer. 

Her mind flickers back to the gallery, the hushed whispers of tourists, the sterile light that did little to diminish the raw, human intensity of Bernini’s work. The image doesn’t leave her. If she were coherent, she’d say she was in the space between the angel's arrow and Teresa’s pounding chest. The threat of the rod piercing the surface of her heart; a wound both fatal and particular. The miracle of the story being that despite all that fervor that the saint still survives the encounter. 

A parable Ellana wanted to very much rely on at that moment. 

Fen’Harel’s back breath is hot against her neck. He’s sucking at a pulse, muttering words that she doesn’t comprehend, except that there's an urgent quality to the uttering. They aren’t rutting up against each other yet, but it’s about to happen. 

The god is tipping her forward against the ground, pulling her legs open. The flat of his thumb rough on the inside of her thigh. 

A sharp, mocking laugh breaks through the haze of desire, snapping Ellana back to the present. The sound is jarring. 

Ellana turns her head, eyes wide, to see the god June standing at the edge of the room, his form bathed in the eerie red glow. He watches them with an animalistic smirk, his laughter silent but ever present. 

"I do feel a bit guilty,” June the God says above her. There's a cruel elation to his voice's inflection. “Interrupting that is.” 

The world around Ellana feels like it’s on fire, but as her vision clears, she realizes the walls are glowing red, as if neon lights had spilled and bled around them. 

Chapter Text

 forty

The bath is not restorative, even though Ellana is encrusted in grime. 

Alien hands invade the water, scrubbing her scraped skin with a coarse sponge. The water has already run dark with dirt, been dumped out, and refilled, but no amount of cleansing seems to erase the filth that now coats her pores. 

The walls surrounding her are draped in green fabric, embroidered sporadically with tiny flowers, each stitch echoing her growing sense of suffocation. The room’s oppressive atmosphere presses in on her, and though no one has been overtly cruel, she can feel the shadow of it ever present and looming. 

The women attending her are silent, dressed in white gowns identical to those she saw at Fen’Harel’s estate. But unlike the familiar brown-haired women she’s grown used to, these have faces marred by dark lines that trace from their hairlines down to their chins, creating a haunting symmetry. 

The eerie quiet among them is as thick as the water she soaks in, and it binds them in an unsettling unity.. Ellana had already tried to resist, but a nameless magic had seized her limbs, freezing them in place and forcing her into submission. 

She could only watch in despair as June laughed, his arm draped casually around another god’s waist. He leaned in to whisper something, and whatever he said made the Dread Wolf glance back at her, his glittering blue eyes betraying no discernable feeling. 

Two jewels that watched unblinking as she was dragged away. 

Why hadn’t he tried to save her? 

The question burned in her mind in tandem with memories of their frenzied rutting on the ground in the seconds prior to their capture. 

Was she nothing more than a pawn in a game she didn’t understand?

All she knew for sure was she wanted to survive—if only to have the chance to knock some sense into the Dread Wolf. The thought of delivering a well-deserved blow to his head fueled what little was left of her resolve. 

Her attention snapped back to the hands guiding her out of the bath. She didn’t need to steady herself; an unseen force lifted her like a raft adrift on the sea, carrying her effortlessly before depositing her in the center of the room. Water droplets splattered against the cold stone floor as her feet touched down, a shiver rippling through her as a rash of goosebumps transformed her into a wrinkled, vulnerable creature in desperate need of solace.

Ellana was familiar enough to know when the magic loosened. She quickly scanned the room, her eyes darting from wall to wall, searching for any possible escape route, but couldn’t find an entrance of any kind. That and the idea of running naked down the hallways ended that desperate quest. 

A hand tugged gently at her ear, tracing the rounded edge. Another hand followed, mirroring the motion. Ellana’s gaze followed the women’s, noticing the subtle, wordless exchange between them as their eyes met—a silent communication that made her stomach heave with unease.

She did her best to swallow her fear. 

A pit in her stomach deepened with every breath. 

Her arms rose, devoid of her own willpower, and Ellana clenched her eyes shut. She tried to ignore the fresh wave of panic tightening her chest, making it difficult to breathe, especially as a dry cloth was rubbed over every inch of her skin, followed by the slick application of perfumed oil with a rough brush. 

It was hard not to feel like she was being prepared for something, molded into a form that wasn’t her own. The precise strokes and delicate touches from the women only heightened her dread. 

Ellana would have preferred a blow to the head—or even the cold, damp isolation of a dungeon—over this bizarre ritual. She wasn’t naive, and the way June had leered at her upon her arrival in Arlathan still haunted her.

Truly, If she had stumbled into a fairytale, she knew how this story ended. 

And it was not with a happily ever after. 

Her unease deepened as the women began to whisper softly, their voices low and melodic as they unrolled lengths of cloth. Ellana strained to catch the words, but quickly realized she couldn’t understand the language. She found the new cadence unsettling. 

Had the magic not held her upright, Ellana was certain she would have collapsed into a helpless heap with the same momentum of an iceberg breaking into a deadly sea. 

One of the women pills her ankles upward so she’s floating a few inches off the ground. A silky slip was drawn up over her calves, then her knees, sliding smoothly over the curve of her hips. 

She landed with a small huff as jet-black beads were pulled over her head, one of the women working diligently to untangle the strands from her hair. It took Ellana only a few moments to realize that the dress she was now wearing was a transparent net. Large pockets of air brushed against her skin, making her acutely aware of just how exposed she truly was.

It was hard not to despise her body at that moment—the flimsy garment exposing her fear, her shivering skin marked by goosebumps. The cold caused her nipples to tighten involuntarily, making her feel as though she were nothing more than an object on display.

A sensation that was heightened as one of the women held up a circular bronze mirror. The metal reflecting back Ellana’s face. Calm, only because when she furrowed her brow, a magical force righted her brow back smooth. 

One of the women began with a fine white powder, its texture nearly weightless as it brushed Ellana’s skin with a featherlight touch. The powder sculpted her face into a porcelain mask. 

Eye paint followed. 

Each stroke erases more of Ellana’s autonomy. 

A single tear escapes from the corner of Ellana’s eye, and before it even has a chance to fall, one of the women swiftly wipes it away. The gesture is almost mechanical and expected. 

Well-practiced even. 

As if dressing Ellana were as effortless as slotting a giant puzzle piece into a child’s toy

Once the paint settled, the women turned to her hair. Their hands, deft and sure, gathered her dark strands and wove them with gold threads, each twist and pin biting into her scalp,  

Ellana tried to resist, shaking her head in a vain attempt to delay the inevitable, hoping that stretching this brief moment might somehow forestall what was to come. A sharp tug on her chin made it clear what role the women expected her to play. 

She allows them to pull her still, but her gaze drifts again. 

At least this movement still belongs to her

A door opens, fabric parts. Light spills into the room, slicing through the dimness like a blade. A woman emerges, not merely a presence but a proclamation.

Her face is an austere masterpiece, framed by waves of dark hair that cascade like shadows over her shoulders. High cheekbones and a sculpted jawline confer an air of uncompromising authority, while her eyes, deep and unreadable, carve through the air with a cold gaze.  

Her gaze is initially uncanny for its familiarity, as Ellana soon recognizes features strikingly similar to June's. They settle on Ellana with a cruelty that feels almost tangible, a weight pressing down with the precision of an artist’s final stroke. 

With a single, imperious nod, the women who had been tending to Ellana scatter from the room like ravens around carrion fleeing a hawk.The sudden silence is heavy, the air thick with the residue of their fear.

“It will come for dinner,” the woman says, 

Chapter Text

     forty one 

There is a thin silver chain stretching from the woman’s hand to an anchor at Ellana’s neck. She doesn’t walk so much as glide through the mirrored hallways, her movements disturbingly fluid.

 Every time Ellana attempts to lower her body and plant her feet on the ground the distance between her and the floor grows. She’d try to speak, but the same mysterious force that holds her aloft silences her. Her jaw opens and closes, tongue twists futilely. Yet no sound escapes.

She should be angry or frightened, but instead, a simmering annoyance bubbles up within her. Fen’Harel’s edict echoes in her mind—that her power lies in having no magic. A soundless scream forms in her throat, cursing his absent form. 

What a day.

She hasn't given up—no, far from it—but there’s power in observation, and knowledge is her weapon. Each turn of the corridor pulls her deeper into a labyrinthine palace carved from gold and madness. Ellana will not let it defeat her. 

The woman’s smile breaks into a grin when Ellana stops fighting. Allows her to guide her like a dingy in a storm.  

Eventually the gold hallways turn to frescos of nude bodies. At first, Ellana thinks they are wrestling, but a few more glances and she can confirm they are fucking. At first glance, she had thought the figures were engaged in some struggle, a grotesque fight, but no—this was no struggle for dominance. These were lovers, bodies shaped into an orgy. 

She feels the heat rise in her cheeks, her blood rushing with a strange mix of embarrassment interlaced with something darker. The figures, men and women, gods and mortals, are caught in every position imaginable—mouths open in silent ecstasy, hands gripping thighs, breasts, and hips with a feral need. 

Fucking. That’s the only word for it. Fucking. 

Each figure is sculpted to perfection, their bodies almost too ideal, too symmetrical—marble skin stretched over divine muscle, impossibly smooth. They are gods in every sense, reduced to their most primal urges, and the craftsmanship is immaculate, bordering on the obscene. Ellana can almost hear them now—the wet slap of flesh against flesh, the low groans of pleasure, the sharp gasps of release. 

Ellana tries not to stare, but it’s impossible. There is no escaping the art that surrounds her, closing in on her like a storm of lust. There are couples, trios, entire groups entangled in one another. A pair of men lie on a bed of gold, their bodies coiled together as one grips the other’s hair, pulling him into a kiss that could almost be violent, were it not so sensual. Further down, a woman kneels between the thighs of a god, her lips parted, her hands resting on his hips as he reclines in pleasure/

There is no shame in this place, only indulgence.

The hallway shifts again, the air growing heavier, thicker with the scent of sex. The golden walls seem to ripple as she passes, the figures becoming more animated in her mind’s eye. She can almost hear them now—the wet slap of flesh against flesh, the low groans of pleasure, the sharp gasps of release. 

What did Fen’Harel call June? The God of Craft.

This was his creation, his interpretation of craft—pleasure made into art. 

Desire turned into a prison.

A narrow slit of the world that opens into a large room like an explosion. 

The hall of June's court sprawls out before her in overwhelming decadence. It’s a cavernous space, larger than any cathedral Ellana has ever seen, yet dense with opulence. The walls, smooth and polished like dark mirrors, seem to hum with magic, casting back distorted reflections of those within the room. The air smells of myrrh and honey, thick enough to taste, and every surface gleams with gold. Gold threads shimmer through the tapestries that hang high, while golden braziers cast flickering light over the figures gathered at the long tables lining the hall.

Men and women sit at these tables, but they do not speak. They are draped in silks and velvet, their bodies adorned with intricate jewelry, necks and fingers heavy with golden rings. Their faces are impassive beneath towering wigs of black and white, hairpieces piled high in unnatural spirals, decorated with gemstones and feathers. Their eyes, outlined in kohl, are sharp and still, watching without expression as Ellana is dragged into their midst.

They do not blink.

Golden goblets filled with dark, viscous wine rest in their hands, but no one drinks. The liquid swirls in the cups, thicker than wine should be, almost like blood. Elaborate platters of food stretch down the tables—roasted animals, fruits carved into impossible shapes, sweetmeats drizzled in honey—but they remain untouched. It’s as though the feast is a mere decoration, a show of wealth rather than sustenance. The people here do not eat, they do not drink, they only watch.

And then there are the dancers.

Bare-skinned women writhe at the center of the hall, their bodies painted with gold and red, moving in time to a music that Ellana cannot hear but can feel, pulsing through the floor. Their limbs twist and stretch like snakes, sinuous and unsettling, their faces blank as they spin and coil around each other. Some of them wear masks—silver, gold, and ivory—crafted to look like the faces of animals: lions, birds, jackals. Others wear nothing but their hair, long and unbound, flowing like rivers over their bodies as they sway to the invisible rhythm.

A single woman with sun-bright skin raises her arms high above her head, balancing on the tips of her toes, then falls to the ground, bending like water, her body curving into impossible shapes. The others follow her lead, dancing without joy, without expression. They are empty vessels, moving only because they are commanded to.

Ellana’s stomach churns. This is not a court—it’s a stage. And everyone here is locked in some kind of performance for June’s amusement. 

What does that mean for her? 

At the far end of the hall, in front of the throne, June stands, watching her. His face is calm, but there’s something cold in his eyes, something predatory. He lifts a hand, and the dancers freeze. The whole room seems to hold its breath.

"It belongs to Fen'Harel, doesn’t it?" he says, his voice echoing off the walls. He doesn’t look at Fen’Harel when he speaks, only at her. His dark eyes rake over her, assessing, judging, as if she is no more than an object, a curiosity. "Pity. It’s such a fragile thing for him to claim."

Ellana’s skin prickles at the way he calls her "it," as though she has no name, no identity of her own. Just an object—Fen’Harel’s object.

At the edge of her vision, she sees Fen’Harel still kneeling, his hands bound, his expression unreadable. The weight of his presence presses on her, but it is distant, disconnected. He doesn’t move, doesn’t react, not even when June speaks of her like this.

June takes a step forward, his gaze still fixed on her. "I wonder why he keeps such a powerless thing." His voice is soft, like silk sliding over sharp steel. "What does he see in it?"

The chain around her neck tightens, the woman at her side tugging it hard, forcing her to stand straight. Ellana tries to keep her face neutral, but her body feels like it’s on fire, every nerve in her screaming to fight back. She knows she can’t—not here, not against him—but the simmering annoyance, the fury she felt earlier, boils beneath her skin.

"Tell me.," June says, circling her slowly, his footsteps soundless on the polished floor. " Do you understand what this place is?"

She says nothing. Even if she could speak, she wouldn’t.

June stops in front of her again, his smile widening. "No? It doesn’t matter. You’ll learn soon enough."

He turns his back to her, addressing the silent court. "It won’t dance."

The room seems to tighten around her, the air growing heavier. The dancers begin to move again, their bodies resuming their serpentine rhythms, but now their movements feel different—more aggressive, more desperate. The courtiers at the tables remain unmoved, their eyes still trained on her, unblinking.

Ellana feels the chain tug again, this time dragging her forward. She stumbles, the distance between her and the floor stretching impossibly as the force lifts her higher. She doesn’t scream—there’s no sound—but the pressure at her neck is relentless. Her mind races, trying to find a way out, some way to resist, but there’s nothing she can do.

June glances over his shoulder, his smile cruel and cold. "Perhaps it needs more time to learn its place."

Chapter Text

     forty two 

It went on longer than it should.

Longer than what? she wonders, again. Longer than she could bear? Longer than anyone could? Longer than logic allowed? Time here is a thing bent out of shape, painted blank and left to dry. Gesso on canvas, stretched too thin. Something pale, unrecognizable. All the edges smudged.

Traveling to another world—something people fantasize about, dream about. She’d done it, hadn’t she? The multiverse, endless potential.
But what did it matter if this was the arrangement?

Each night, the same ritual.

The mute women take her, hands methodical, washing her body like she is an object they have to return in pristine condition. Her hair is tugged, her skin rubbed raw. Then the dressing. Thin, translucent fabric, like fog, but colder. Paint on her eyelids, her fingers dipped in reddish pigment, ringed in gold.

She is paraded.

Faces, powdered white and indifferent, sharp eyes that are more like windows, reflect back only what is in front of them. They watch. She wonders if she bled in front of them, if they’d blink. Would they register it? Or would it pass through them like the remnants of a dying star, long after the light has gone? Swallowed by space, swallowed by silence.

No cruelty here. Just emptiness.

“What is it?” someone asks, as if she isn’t there. “Where did it come from?”

And after the parade, the room. Small. Featureless. A place designed not to trap her, but to erase her. No windows, no view, no time. There is no outside anymore. Only these four walls that press in tighter with each breath. The cold floor beneath her, the weight of the chain around her neck. Waiting.

Escape? Once, she thought of it. Imagined it. But escape to where? The walls, the stone—they are part of her now. A framework. A relativity that turns everything into a mirror.

So, she waits.

And then the shift.

Subtle, but there. The air changes first, tightens. Something unseen, just out of reach, curls in on her, and she knows. Her eyes open before she’s fully awake.

June is there.

He doesn’t speak at first. He doesn’t have to. His presence is enough. Like something sharp wrapped in velvet. Quiet, but cutting. He stands in the corner, watching her with that strange detachment, as if she were some curiosity in a glass case, a rare specimen to be studied, but not touched.

He never touches her.

It’s worse than if he did.

His gaze moves lazily over her, catching on where her gown has slipped, just enough to expose her skin. A flicker of interest, but it passes. He doesn’t look away out of respect. He looks away because he’s already seen everything.

The weight of his silence is worse than any words he could have said. She knows what it means. Something is coming. Something is changing.

Finally, he speaks, his voice calm, almost pleasant. Like they’re old friends catching up.

"Do you know what the gods are doing right now?"

She doesn’t answer. What answer could there be? She doesn’t trust her voice anyway. It’s too full of things it shouldn’t be full of—fear, anger, a scream caught between her teeth.

June smiles, but it’s a flat thing, empty like the rest of him. "Nothing," he says. "They are doing nothing. Because they can’t. Not anymore."

A small step forward, nothing dramatic. But it’s enough. Enough to make her feel the space between them shrink, enough to remind her how easily he could close it.

"Fen'Harel," he continues, voice as soft as silk slipping over a blade, "is the reason for that. He refuses to comply." A faint edge of amusement, like this is all some grand, tedious game to him. A game he’s watched for too long.

Ellana’s throat is dry. She forces herself to speak. "Why are you telling me this?"

June tilts his head, curious. Always curious. "Because you’re here. Because he knows you’re here. And I wonder," his voice drops, like a secret passed between them, "what it will take for him to change his mind."

His words hang in the air, thick and heavy, like smoke that refuses to clear. It’s not a question meant for her. It’s for Fen'Harel.

She clenches her fists, the chain around her neck suddenly tighter, as if it feels her pulse quickening. "You think you can use me to make him comply," she says, sharper than she intended.

June doesn’t flinch. His smile widens, but it doesn’t warm. "You do present an interesting variable."

He moves closer, each step soundless. Closer, but still just out of reach. His hands are clasped behind his back, posture relaxed. Like they’re discussing a puzzle they both want to solve.

"Let me tell you a story," he says, crouching now, his eyes level with hers. "Once, Fen'Harel sat at the table with the rest of us. We were gods then. Or something like it." He pauses, a glint of something—nostalgia, perhaps? No, too cold for that. "But he grew tired of us. Thought we were too drunk on our own power. He began to play his little games. Stirring distrust, feeding us lies wrapped in half-truths." A smile again, a flicker of something cruel. "He was so good at it. Always so convincing."

Ellana feels her breath catch in her throat. The stories, the legends—they never sounded like this.

"And when the time came to act, when we stood at the brink of destruction, he refused to stand with us."

She swallows, hard. "And now?"

June’s smile fades. His eyes darken. "Now we are locked in a stalemate. And he thinks, dear Fen'Harel, that if he waits long enough, we’ll tear each other apart."

"And you think you can break him?" she asks, even though she already knows the answer.

"Perhaps." June stands again, slowly, his gaze never leaving hers. "Or perhaps I’m simply curious to see if he will break on his own. If your presence here will be the thing that finally makes him bend."

His voice softens, the words slipping through the cracks between them. "Because even gods have limits."

She doesn’t move. She can’t.

"I’m in no rush," he adds, almost absent-mindedly.

Then he turns, walking toward the door, not waiting for her to speak or react. He doesn’t need to. The door clicks shut behind him, and the silence rushes back in.

But this time, the silence felt heavier. More permanent.

Like the crushing stillness of space, endless and unfeeling

Chapter Text

     Forty-three

It started without her noticing.

The air tightened, pulled inward as though the room had held its breath. The silence became louder somehow, pushing against her ears. It wasn't the first time she'd felt this, the room breathing with her, or against her.

The air went taut, like a string pulled too tight.

Her vision blurred, then clarified. Mars. Red dust everywhere.  Matt Damon as Mark Watney moving across the landscape, calm, deliberate. He wasn’t hurrying. He wasn’t desperate. He was working. Collecting, cataloging, solving. There was always something to solve. She watched him move, methodical. His suit caught the thin light of a sun too distant to matter.

Ellana stood there, but not really. She was floating above it, outside it, not part of the scene. Just watching. But it was real. It felt real.

The red landscape flickered. Then the Hab—Watney at his desk. His voice somewhere in the background, faint, as if coming through a crack in reality. This is a numbers game. I’m just working the math.

But she wasn’t on Mars. She was here, in this cell, on this cold floor, in this endless silence. A world beyond worlds. She wasn’t a stranded astronaut. No problem to solve with duct tape and ingenuity. But the silence pressed in, as if reminding her that here, in this place, there were no boundaries between what was real and what wasn’t.

The scene flickered again, fading out, and she was somewhere else. A memory now. Something buried deep in her mind. Orfield Laboratories, the anechoic chamber. The quietest place on Earth. She had read about it years ago—how the silence was so complete, so total, that people could hear the sound of their own blood moving, their hearts beating. How no one had lasted longer than 58 minutes inside before they had to leave. Before the silence became unbearable.

This cell was like that, she realized. A silence so deep it went beyond sound, beyond stillness. It wrapped around her, smothering, until all that was left was her heartbeat, her blood moving beneath her skin. She could hear it, feel it—pulsing, steady. The only thing reminding her she was still here. Still alive.

She listened to it for a while. She had no choice.

But the thought of the chamber stuck. The idea of people driven out by the quiet. The idea of listening too closely, hearing too much. How silence becomes noise when it lasts long enough. How isolation bends the mind.

No one had lasted more than 58 minutes.

How long had it been for her?

She could feel herself slipping, unraveling, but not yet gone. Her mind offered her these visions as a lifeline. Watney, Mars, the numbers, the silence. All of it to remind her of something.

Work the problem.

The phrase floated up out of nowhere, a scrap from the movie. Something Watney had said over and over. Survive by solving one problem. Then the next. Then the one after that.

Ellana closed her eyes, the cell sharpening around her, the silence filling every corner. Solve the next problem.

What was the problem?

She sat up slowly, her hands pressing into the cold stone. Felt her heartbeat in her fingertips. She let the silence rush over her like the anechoic chamber. Let it press in until all she could hear was her own body. Her heart. Her blood. The numbers were different here, but the problems were the same. Survive.

She wasn’t on Mars. She wasn’t an astronaut, and this cell wasn’t a barren planet. But Watney survived because he didn’t waste time mourning his situation. He solved it. He calculated. He took what little he had and worked it.

So what do I have?

And then it hit her, sharper than any vision: I might not have magic, but I have science.

She breathed deeply, the thought coming alive within her like a spark. The other gods—Fen’Harel, June—they played with magic, bent reality with it. And what was magic, really? Power. Raw, volatile, uncertain. Always shifting, always changing. Unstable.

Physics wasn’t a trick, wasn’t a game. It was fact. It was truth, constant and unwavering. She had spent her life unraveling the secrets of the stars, calculating their trajectories, predicting their fates. There was a structure to everything. Rules. Even here. Even now.

Magic might bend the world, but logic held the world together.

Work the problem. She could survive this. 

No, she could more than survive. 

She could solve this.

Chapter Text

forty-four

Ellana lets them take her. She doesn’t resist.

For a while, she had thought resistance was the key to breaking the cycle—tightening her muscles, breathing heavier, fighting every step. But now, it’s as though she’s slipping beneath the surface of it all, sinking into a rhythm she no longer struggles against. The routine becomes a steady cadence that she follows without hesitation. Her body, a marionette under their control, but her mind free to drift. She orbits the routine like a dead star, endlessly circling without ever truly touching.

They strip her, scrubbing her skin until it’s pink and raw in places. Dress her in the same translucent gown that clings to her bones, marking her body as a boundary. She watches the women’s hands moving with mechanical precision, touching her but never seeing her. The silence in the room is thick and oily, suffocating in its weight.

But now, Ellana understands. Energy can’t be created or destroyed—only rerouted. So she expends none. There’s nothing for them to push against, no resistance to provoke. She lets them move her, lets them treat her like an object. They think they’ve learned how to break her, how to wear her down. But they don’t understand the new variables she’s quietly introduced.

Each day, she studies the room. Each movement, each step in their ritual brings her closer to something. What, she isn’t sure yet. But it’s there, at the edges of her awareness, waiting to be revealed.

Today, as they take her to the hall, she lets her mind drift even further. Her body moves in perfect sync with their expectations, but her thoughts are elsewhere, calculating, testing. She doesn’t just play the role of their puppet. She plays it deliberately.

The magical force pulls her body into a ballerina’s grace, a memory of the years of training forced upon her by Felessan. The muscle memory is still there. If only she had a knife.

As always, June’s voice cuts through the air, smooth and familiar. His cruelty is casual, wrapped in the softness of his tone.

“It will dance for us,” he says, barely even glancing at her. The command is an afterthought, part of the unspoken rules that govern this place.

Her gaze flickers to the far end of the hall, to where Fen'Harel kneels, watching, silent as ever. His presence fills the room, quiet but heavy, a constant reminder of power unspoken.

Ellana wonders, When was the last time I danced?

Not in high school. She had been the quiet girl, the one who sat in the back of class scribbling equations in notebooks instead of doodles. Her classmates barely noticed her—too smart to be cool, too shy to be seen. While others partied, played sports, and tangled themselves in drama, Ellana stayed hidden.

She graduated early. Skipped homecoming. Skipped prom. What was a dance compared to the universe? What was a night in a dress compared to the thrill of mapping galaxies?

Now, in this surreal, gilded hall with her body twisted by invisible forces, Ellana can’t help but think about how she never learned to dance. Not properly. Always too focused, too serious, too busy looking up at the stars.

The only dance she ever learned was the Macarena.

The absurdity of the memory makes her smirk.

They had taught it in gym class of all places. An ironic twist for someone more inclined to astrophysics than physical education. But she learned it anyway, standing awkwardly in the gym, moving through the steps with classmates who didn’t understand her. It was just a silly dance. A thing everyone did.

Here, in this hall full of gods, Ellana makes a decision.

She’s going to do it. The Macarena.

Ellana begins to move, letting her body fall into the familiar rhythm. She doesn’t care if it looks ridiculous—it does. That’s the point. She steps side to side, crosses her arms, sways her hips just enough to mimic the awkward motions she remembers from years ago. The hall is silent as the gods watch, unsure of what to make of her strange, new dance.

But this dance is hers. It’s something she chose, something real. A dance that means nothing in a place where everything is supposed to mean something.

She crosses her arms again, clapping her hands at the end of the sequence just as she remembers. The sound echoes in the thick silence. The court remains still, their powdered faces frozen in impassive curiosity. Even June’s expression falters, his eyes narrowing, trying to decode her actions.

What does this mean? he must be wondering.

But Ellana knows. It means nothing.

And that’s where the power lies.

It’s a disruption—a new variable thrown into the carefully controlled system they’ve built around her. A dance that defies their world, that strips away their control, even if just for a moment.

Her hands come together in a final clap. She stands still, breathing slightly heavier, waiting. The hall is deathly quiet. The gods watch her, still trying to understand what just happened. June’s eyes are locked on her, but there’s something new in them—curiosity, maybe even confusion.

For the first time since arriving here, Ellana feels like she’s taken something back. A piece of control in a world that has stolen it at every turn.

She’s introduced a new variable.

Chapter Text

     forty-five

The effect is immediate. Applause. Roaring clapping and shouting. Ellana isn’t sure what she’s done except comply, but there is a twinkle reflected back to her in June’s eye that causes her stomach to flip. 

She has his undivided attention. A fact which does not escape her as she is guided to his table at the helm of the room. He grabs her hand as though she is a sailor lost to sea, and she accepts it, trying to unravel the feelings of shock.

 It should feel routine, another moment in this endless series of displays, but the energy in the hall is different tonight. The clapping doesn’t die. It swells, wrapping around her heavy like a rolling ocean. 

Ellana might drown with the attention. Tries to crane her neck back to where she believes Fen’Harel to be kneeling, only to find him absent. 

Her skin prickles under the weight of the applause, under the weight of June’s gaze, which is no longer casual or detached. There’s something sharper in it now, something that pins her in place as if she’s being dissected, each part of her laid bare for his amusement. Literally not metaphorically. 

For a moment she regrets her decision, only because she is the center of everyone’s heavy attention. A sea of powdered faces and elaborate wigs scream back at her. 

Ellana’s body is still humming from the dance, her mind spinning, grasping at any strategy. As she steps back toward the table, she scans the room, her heart pounding. Applause still rings out, but it feels distant, muffled by the pressure in her chest. She needs to find him—Fen’Harel.

Her gaze sweeps the edges of the room until it finally lands on him.

There, in the far corner of the hall, half-obscured by shadows, Fen’Harel kneels. His head is bowed, his face hidden, and around his neck, barely visible in the dim light, is a thin, glowing blue metal chain. The chain wraps tightly around his throat, its eerie, faint light pulsing like a heartbeat. It snakes down his chest, the glow flickering as if tethering him to something unseen.

Ellana’s stomach lurches. He's not free.

She takes a step toward him, instinctively reaching out, but before she can react, the chain flashes—a sharp, unnatural light—and Fen’Harel vanishes. Gone. The space where he knelt is empty, as though he was never there at all.

Her heart stammers, confusion gripping her. How is this happening? What kind of magic could bind even him?

Before she can process the thought, a sharp yank on her own neck pulls her back, reminding her of her own bondage. The cold metal chain around her throat tugs painfully, forcing her back into her seat. She winces, her hand instinctively reaching up to touch the thin silver collar she’s worn since June captured her. It tightens slightly as June, seated beside her, pulls on the chain, his face impassive.

“You belong here,” he says, without looking at her, his tone flat, matter-of-fact.

Ellana suppresses a shudder as the chain loosens, the cool metal still biting into her skin. She lowers her hand and forces herself to remain composed. Her mind flickers back to Fen’Harel, but the weight of June’s presence grounds her to the spot.

June reaches for a platter of food, his movements measured. He selects a piece of fruit—round, ripe, and dripping with juice—and holds it up between his fingers, examining it. He brings it to her lips.

“Open.”

His voice leaves no room for hesitation. Ellana obeys, parting her lips. The fruit is soft, sweet, and slightly cold as it enters her mouth. The texture is smooth, but as she bites down, juice spills over her tongue. She feels a drop slide down the corner of her mouth, tracing the curve of her chin. Her heart skips, but she doesn’t dare wipe it away.

June watches her with the same steady gaze, his fingers brushing her lips as he feeds her, calm and controlled. The moment stretches unbearably long as the juice drips from her chin. Without breaking eye contact, June reaches out with his other hand, wiping the stray liquid from her skin with the pad of his thumb. The touch is light but precise, cold and unsettling in its carefulness.

Another piece of fruit, another command. “Open.”

Ellana swallows the lump in her throat, feeling the tension in her body grow with each bite. Her skin tingles from the intimate pressure of his thumb, the way he controls even this simple act. The next bite comes, and this time the sweetness overwhelms her senses—the juice is more tart, and it floods her mouth, almost too much at once.

She barely has time to react before more liquid dribbles down her chin, running down the side of her neck. June, as if anticipating it, wipes it away again, slower this time, his thumb lingering just slightly longer.

When he’s satisfied, he sits back, his fingers no longer touching her. Ellana is acutely aware of the cold metal chain still around her neck, the faint pull of it reminding her that he holds the power here.

“You think Fen’Harel would care for you this way?” June’s voice is even, without emotion. He looks at her, but there’s no malice in his eyes. Only control.

Ellana feels the weight of the question, but says nothing. She can’t trust her voice right now, not when everything feels so twisted. Her chest is tight, her mind still reeling from the vision of Fen’Harel vanishing with that chain around his neck.

June watches her for a moment, then continues, his tone steady. “He wouldn’t. He wouldn’t bother with you. Not with who you are, where you’ve come from. Your world, your science, your knowledge—it means nothing to him.”

His words cut through her like a cold wind. He speaks without passion, without anger. It’s simply fact to him.

“Let me tell you a story,” June says, setting the platter down with a soft click. He leans back slightly, his gaze thoughtful as if recalling something from deep memory. “There was a time, long before your kind knew of the stars, when Fen’Harel and I fought on the same side.”

Ellana’s heart beats faster, but she stays silent, listening, her body tense.

“We were not like this then,” June continues. “We fought for something larger than power, larger than territory. We fought for existence itself. He was... capable. Brilliant, even. But when the moment came for us to do what was necessary, he faltered.”

Ellana’s hands grip the arms of the chair, her thoughts swirling with the half-truths June is feeding her. She wants to reject his words, but they creep under her skin, sticking in her mind.

“Fen’Harel believed that he knew better than the rest of us,” June says, his tone never wavering. “He refused to act, to make the hard choices. That’s why we are here now. All of this? Because of his failure. His refusal.”

June’s gaze sharpens, his eyes locking onto hers. “You think you understand him, but you don’t. You can’t. He will use you, just as he’s used so many before you. He doesn’t see you as anything more than a tool.”

Ellana’s chest tightens. June’s voice is cold, without passion, but it slices through her with surgical precision. She wants to push back, to deny it, but his words gnaw at her mind.

Before she can find a response, June claps his hands, the sharp sound startling her. The chains around her neck feel heavier as if responding to his command.

“Rise.”

Ellana’s body obeys before her mind can catch up. She stands, her legs shaky beneath her, the weight of the collar and chain a constant reminder of her situation. The hall is silent now, the air thick with expectation.

June stands as well, his movements slow, deliberate. He steps toward her, his eyes never leaving hers, and the cold distance between them seems to shrink with each step.

He stops just before her, his presence overwhelming in its calm intensity.

“And now,” he says softly, his voice controlled and steady, “we begin.”

Chapter Text

forty-six

Bill Murray. Groundhog Day (1993).

How long did Phil Connors drift aimlessly in Punxsutawney, Pennsylvania? Ellana read some pop culture think pieces arguing once for 10,000 years. She thinks she might have spent the same amount of time in June’s court.

She hates it.

The days are indistinguishable from one another, and the conversations around her bleed together like spilled ink. Always the same faces, the same games, the same rituals. The same cold, calculating gaze watching her from across the hall. Every moment is drawn out in painful detail, and yet somehow, none of it matters.

It doesn’t matter because she’s expected to demonstrate the Macarena each night. It’s not the kind of lesson plan she ever thought she’d take part in. No. Ellana had imagined herself standing in front of a classroom, guiding eager students through the mysteries of the universe, explaining the intricacies of stars, black holes, and the expanding cosmos. She wanted to teach about the vastness of space, to make people feel small in the grand beauty of it all.

But instead, here she was, trapped in June’s court, teaching the Macarena—over and over again.

Each step of the ridiculous dance felt like a mockery of what her life could have been, the elegance of the universe reduced to empty movements and hollow rituals. The stars she loved so much seemed farther away than ever.That’s the absurdity of it all—immortality, eternal beings—all eager to do these stupid steps. A dance that once echoed in clubs and weddings, now echoing through the hollow halls of a god's court. The gods, with their elaborate robes and jewels, try to mimic her movements, their expressions blank and vaguely curious, as if the act of learning this dance is a novelty that will soon pass.

And yet, it never does.

Each night, she stands at the center of the marble floor, demonstrating the same tired motions. Arms out, arms in, hips swing left, hips swing right. A smile that is no longer hers, plastered on her face as she tries to ignore the weight of June’s gaze from across the room. His presence is suffocating, yet he never joins the dance. He just observes, a quiet reminder of her captivity.

But something’s missing. Every night, she expects to see a figure kneeling at the back of the room, shackled and bound by a chain no one else seems to acknowledge. Fen’Harel.

His absence gnaws at her. Once, she’d glance back and find him there—his powerful form reduced to a prisoner’s kneel, his eyes locked on hers in a wordless promise of resistance. The thin, blue chain around his neck shimmered faintly in the dim light, a subtle reminder of his imprisonment. But he hasn’t been there for days. Or has it been weeks? Time is slippery here. The days blur together like ink in water, and yet his absence feels sharp, defined.

Where is he? What has become of him? 

Ellana doesn’t ask—she knows better than to draw attention to the fact that he’s gone. June’s court is not a place for questions, and certainly not for ones about Fen’Harel, the god of rebellion. But the absence haunts her. She used to feel his presence like a steady pulse in the background, a reminder that someone, somewhere, was resisting. Now, without him, the court feels colder, more oppressive.

Without Fen’Harel, she feels utterly alone.

Ellana isn’t the only one June watches, though. Out of the corner of her eye, she sees Sylaise, seated in a throne next to June’s, her hands folded neatly in her lap. The Lady of Hearth and Healing, they call her. Sister-wife to June, the caretaker, the protector. In this court, she wears her titles like a veil—smiling and serene, a mask over something far more troubled.

Ellana catches Sylaise’s gaze for the briefest of moments, and in those eyes, she sees something different. There’s knowledge there, and beneath it, a quiet rebellion, one that’s gone unnoticed by most. It’s the same look she’s given Ellana for months now, one that suggests they are both trapped in this place, both watching and waiting for something to break.

The gods finish their awkward rendition of the Macarena, their movements mechanical and out of sync. Ellana claps her hands, signaling the end, and watches as they drift back into their seats, all except June, who remains standing, his gaze heavy on her.

As the silence stretches, Sylaise shifts beside him, her eyes still on Ellana. There’s a tension between them—something unspoken, ancient, and fragile.

“You’ve taught them well, Ellana,” Sylaise says, her voice soft, but it carries through the hall. “Though I wonder how long we’ll continue this charade. Don’t you ever wonder, June?” Her eyes slide to her husband, sharp and calculating. “How long can we pretend these little games are enough?”

June’s expression remains calm, but Ellana can feel the ripple of power in the air. His magic presses down on the room, heavy, warning.

Sylaise continues, undeterred. “It’s strange, isn’t it? That we should be here, playing with this thing…” She looks away from June, her voice dropping to a lower, more dangerous tone.

“I remember,” Sylaise continues, her voice just above a whisper, “the day you decided it was better to retreat, to hide from the chaos. And we did. We hid. But not all of us agreed, did we, June?”

Ellana’s heart quickens, and she sees June’s fingers flex at his side. There’s something dangerous in the way he watches Sylaise now, his calm demeanor fraying at the edges.

She wants to ask—What does she mean? What chaos? But the chain tightens around her neck, and the breath is choked from her throat before the words can escape.

“Sylaise,” June says quietly, his voice a thread of warning. But Sylaise meets his gaze, unblinking.

“There are still secrets, June,” she presses, her tone sharper now. “Things even you refuse to speak of. What do you think will happen when they come to light? When—”

“Enough.”

The word snaps through the room like a whip, cutting off Sylaise mid-sentence. The chain around Ellana’s neck tightens sharply, and she gasps, her body jerking in response to June’s magic. It’s not aimed at her, but the sudden flare of power is enough to send a shock through her entire being.

Sylaise falls silent, her eyes narrowing slightly as she holds her husband’s gaze. For a long, tense moment, neither of them speaks. The court, usually so filled with hollow noise, is utterly still, watching, waiting.

Ellana struggles to breathe, the chain loosening slightly but still choking off her air. Her thoughts race back to Fen’Harel—where is he? Does June know? Could it be connected to the secrets Sylaise speaks of? The tension in her chest is no longer just the chain but the suffocating sense that something deeper is unraveling in this place. Something dangerous.

“I said,” June repeats, his voice cold and controlled, “enough.”

Sylaise lowers her gaze, but the defiance hasn’t left her eyes. “Of course,” she murmurs, her voice a quiet concession. “For now.”

Ellana’s chest burns as she finally takes a full breath, the pressure of the chain easing as June releases his hold on her. He doesn’t look at her—his eyes are still on Sylaise, a silent threat hanging in the air between them.

The moment stretches on, the tension in the room almost unbearable, and then June turns, walking slowly toward Ellana. His movements are calm, deliberate, but there’s an undercurrent of fury simmering just beneath the surface.

He stops in front of her, close enough that she can feel the coldness radiating from him.

“She will regret that,” he says softly,

Ellana doesn’t respond. She knows there’s no point. The chain around her neck tightens again, a reminder of his control, of the power he holds over her, and she fights to keep her breath steady, her heart racing in her chest. But all she can think of now is Fen’Harel’s disappearance, the empty space where he should have been, the blue chain that bound him now vanished without explanation.

Sylaise watches silently from her seat, her face unreadable, but Ellana can still feel the weight of her earlier words hanging in the air.

Secrets. Wars. Rebellion. Fen’Harel.

There is so much she doesn’t know. So much she hasn’t been told. And the more she learns, the more she understands just how dangerous this place really is.

Chapter Text

forty-six

It creeps up on Ellana more slowly than it should. That she is being led through the hallway by June. By a chain. Not quite dragging. 

That she is walking along a hallway and her muscles can still respond to gravity.  

The cruel god in front of her doesn’t use his magic for her to float. Instead, he lets her feel every step. The cold stone beneath her bare feet, the strain in her legs, the weight of the chain still around her neck—each sensation is magnified by the silence of the hallway. 

Ellana becomes acutely aware of the distance they are traveling, of the deliberate pace he sets. He could lift her, carry her with a thought, but instead, he chooses this. He wants her to walk.

The air here is damp, thick with the scent of stone and something old, something Ellana can’t place. Every now and then, the dull clink of her chain echoes off the walls, the sound swallowed.

Her muscles ache, but she keeps walking, following June's steady pace, her body reacting to the simple force of gravity. She tries to focus on that—the weight—reminding her of her own physical reality, even as her mind spins with the unreality of everything around her.

Ahead of Ellana, June moves with controlled grace, his footsteps soundless despite the hard stone beneath them. His hands are clasped behind his back, his posture calm, as if this moment were nothing more than a stroll. 

June doesn’t speak, doesn’t look back at her, but Ellana feels the tension between them, hanging thick in the air. She wants to speak, to ask where he’s taking her. The words stick in her throat instead. 

Like resin. Or the backside of duct tape. 

Ahead of Ellana, June slows, just enough to make her notice. They approach a heavy door at the end of the corridor, its surface dark and polished, reflecting the faint light.. It’s different from the other doors they’ve passed—larger, more imposing. Ellana’s heart quickens.

June stops in front of the door, his hand hovering just above its surface. For a long moment, he does nothing. Despite her resolve, Ellana quivers. 

The darkness that follows the tremor is short-lived. A moment later, the torches lining the walls flicker back to life, their flames casting a dim, golden glow over the stone hallway. Ellana’s heart pounds. She swallows hard, unsure of what comes next, but June remains calm, watching her with that same measured gaze.

“Come,” he says, his voice smooth, quiet. Almost well-practiced. 

June turns and walks ahead, leading her down a different corridor. The chain around her neck remains, its presence a constant reminder of her situation, though it doesn’t pull as sharply this time. Ellana follows, her steps hesitant, her mind racing with questions. The hall grows warmer as they walk, and she becomes aware of a faint, sweet scent in the air—floral, with a hint of something else she can’t quite place.

They come to another door, smaller than the others, but ornately carved with flowing patterns that seem to shift in the firelight. Without a word, June pushes the door open and gestures for her to step inside. Ellana hesitates for a moment, but then steps across the threshold, her breath catching in her throat as she takes in the sight before her.

The room is large, its walls lined with smooth stone, but it’s the details that make it clear what kind of space this is. At the far end, a low pool of steaming water is surrounded by plush seating—rich fabrics in deep shades of red and gold, their surfaces soft and inviting. The air is heavy with the scent of perfume and incense, clinging to her skin like a second layer. Soft music plays from somewhere, the melody light and seductive, wrapping around her senses like a slow-moving current.

She notices movement to her left. A group of nude women, their skin glowing in the low light, lounge near the edge of the pool. Some bathe in the steaming water, their bare shoulders glistening in the flickering torchlight, while others recline on the cushions, their laughter soft and distant. They seem unaware of her presence—or perhaps they don’t care.

Ellana’s pulse quickens. The message is clear, even if nothing explicit is said. This room wasn’t built for politics or war or strategy. It was built for indulgence, for pleasure.

June steps forward, moving toward a long, low table set with bowls of fruit, decanters of wine, and other delicacies. He picks up a single piece of fruit, its skin gleaming with moisture, and turns back to face her.

“This,” he says, his voice quiet but firm, “is where you could stay.”

Ellana blinks, her thoughts scrambling to keep up. “What do you mean?”

June takes a step closer, holding the fruit out toward her. She hesitates but doesn’t reach for it. His eyes remain fixed on her, calm, patient.

“I can offer you a place here,” he says, his tone smooth, measured. “Away from the conflicts, away from the questions. Here, you wouldn’t have to think about Fen’Harel. You wouldn’t have to wonder what’s true and what isn’t. You wouldn’t have to fight.”

Ellana feels her breath catch in her throat. She glances again at the women, their carefree movements, their soft smiles. For a moment, she imagines herself among them, sinking into the warmth of the water, forgetting the weight of everything she’s been through—the chains, the manipulation, the lies.

But then the image dissolves, and her chest tightens. This isn’t freedom. It’s another kind of prison.

June seems to sense her hesitation. He steps closer, close enough that she can feel the warmth of his body, and presses the fruit into her hand. His fingers brush hers, and though the touch is brief, it lingers in the air between them.

“You don’t have to decide now,” he says, his voice low. “But know that this is an option. A life without struggle. Without pain.”

Ellana swallows, her fingers curling around the fruit. Its skin is smooth, its weight solid in her hand. For a moment, she’s tempted. She could let go. She could sink into the comfort, the indulgence, the oblivion.

But then she thinks of Fen’Harel, still bound, still waiting. She thinks of the thin blue chain that holds him, and the cold truth settles over her like a shadow.

“What do you want from me?” she asks quietly, her voice barely more than a whisper.

June’s smile fades, replaced by something darker. “Only for you to make the choice. You can stay here, or you can continue the path you’ve started. But know this—once you leave this room, there is no turning back.”

Ellana’s heart pounds in her chest. The weight of the decision presses down on her, heavy and suffocating. She glances again at the pool, at the women, their laughter soft and distant, their lives simple and unburdened.

But deep down, she knows the truth. This place—this room—is a trap. A beautifully crafted prison designed to lull her into submission. She cannot stay here. She will not.

Her breath tightens, and she steps back, shaking her head slightly. “I don’t belong here,” she murmurs, more to herself than to him.

June’s expression hardens. His patience, once so carefully measured, begins to thin. Without warning, he steps forward, his hand closing around the chain at her throat. His grip is stronger now, no longer gentle, and he yanks her toward him with enough force to make her stumble.

“Before she can protest, before she can even draw breath to speak, June presses a finger hard against her lips, silencing her.

"Shhh."

The pressure is firm, demanding her silence. His other hand moves to her ear, tracing the curve with a predatory touch. Ellana’s breath hitches, her body shaking slightly as she tries to pull away, but the chain tightens further, making it impossible to move.

June lowers his hand slowly, deliberately, as if testing the boundaries of his control. His fingers curl into a tight fist at his side, his jaw clenched. He takes a step back, and the tension between them coils tighter, a dark storm brewing in the silence.

And then, he speaks.

"You will regret that."

Chapter Text

forty-eight

The meadow shimmers goldenrod yellow under the afternoon sun. 

There is a rage to the beauty. Ellana can’t help but look at the scene around her and picture it wilting. The flowers bounce whimsically, but she imagines them disintegrating to black as she sits on the edge of a picnic blanket feigning a demure exterior. Everything is opulent. The fabric beneath her fingers is velvety and covered in crystal-cut goblets filled with dark, heady wine. 

However, there is something predatory in her surrounding perfection, as though the very abundance of this display was meant to remind her of her place as an outsider considering she can’t even begin to name the still life in front of her–or catalog what she is eating. 

June lounges nearby, reclining with an elegance that looks unstudied, yet everything about his posture speaks of possession. He picks up a fruit, a dark plum-like pit in his hand, holding it for a moment as he studies it with lazy, calculating eyes. 

He doesn’t speak, doesn’t break the silence. Instead, he leans forward and holds the fruit out to Ellana. His fingers mere inches from her lips, expectant and unyielding.

Ellana’s breath catches, her lips pressing into a thin line. Refusing him won’t accomplish anything, she knows that, but every instinct within her rebels at the way he treats her like a passive object, something pliant, pliable. 

The defiance she’s learned to hide flares up within her, heating her cheeks, but reluctantly, she leans forward, the interior of her mouth brushing against his fingers as she takes the plum. His touch lingers, deliberate and slow, his fingers pressing just a bit too long against her lips, a claiming touch that unsettles her more deeply than she lets show. 

She bites into the fruit, the sweet juice filling her mouth, but it sours almost instantly, tainted by the knowledge that this, too, is an exercise of control.

June watches her with a faint, knowing smile as Ellena lowers the plum from her mouth, he leans forward again, his hand drifting with that same slow intent, his fingers brushing against the soft fabric near her chest. He lingers there, pressing just enough to make her freeze, her breath catching as he tweaks the fabric, brushing the sensitive skin underneath her open top. 

She feels her cheeks burn flame. Her heart tightens with a sense of dread. The air between them seems charged, each small gesture from him a test, a boundary he is pushing further and further, and Ellana realizes, with cold certainty: this is only the beginning.

From across the meadow, the soft, melancholy hum of music fills the air, played by a small group of musicians seated in a half-circle, their fingers gliding over harps and flutes with a quiet, practiced ease. Their faces are impassive, focused only on the movements of their hands plucking strings. Their music weaves through the air. 

At the edge of the meadow, dancers move in synchrony, their bodies adorned only with thin chains of gold, bare skin catching the sun with each turn and twist.They twirl in and out of shadows cast by the low branches of the trees, as though performing for an audience that isn’t meant to care, an endless dance meant to amuse but never engage.

Sylaise reclines beside June, her golden gown draped around her like molten sunlight. She holds a goblet of wine in one hand, lifting it to her lips with a languid ease as her gaze drifts over Ellana with a faint look of indifference as  her eyes fix on where June fondles Ellana under her gown. 

Ellana’s thoughts race, her body tensing as she realizes how deeply she’s become entangled in this web. Each small concession seems to tighten the threads around her. She can sense the slow shift in June’s attention, a slide from passive observation to something far more personal, more invasive. 

As if sensing her thoughts, June’s hand moves again, his fingers lifting to brush against the curve of her ear, lingering at the rounded edge. His gaze sharpens as he traces the delicate lines of her ear, a glint of fascination in his eyes, as though he’s examining something foreign, something that doesn’t quite belong.

“It’s fragile,” he murmurs, more to himself than to her, his voice soft and edged with a quiet satisfaction. “But perhaps it serves its purpose.”

The casual way he speaks, the detached tone of his words, sends a shiver down Ellan’s spine. There is always something chilling about the way he reduces her to an “it.” Her stomach tightens, anger simmering beneath the surface, but she forces herself to remain still.

Sylaise’s gaze flickers with a faint, indulgent amusement as she watches June’s display, her own hand lifting the goblet lazily to her lips. Her expression is one of quiet disdain, her eyes gleaming as she turns her attention back to Ellana, assessing her with the same detached curiosity one might show an artifact that has lost its novelty.

“Yes,” Sylaise replies softly, her voice laced with a faint, mocking disinterest. “Though I doubt it could withstand much more.” She lets the words hang in the air, her gaze drifting over Ellana with a look that speaks of both pity and boredom. Her fingers trace the rim of the goblet, her nails catching the light, throwing small flecks of red across her fingers, each movement slow and deliberate.

Ellana’s throat tightens, her pulse quickening. Anger surges within her, but she forces it down, her face impassive, refusing to let them see the flicker of defiance that burns beneath her calm exterior.

Nearby, a coterie of June’s court toss glowing orbs of light back and forth, each orb shifting in color with every toss—blue, green, gold, each color brighter than the last. Their magic is effortless, each motion perfectly timed, a display of skill honed to an art, yet there is something performative about it, a sense that it, too, is part of the larger illusion meant to distract her, to keep her placated.Ellana’s gaze falls back to Sylaise, who seems to have grown tired of the idle display. The goddess’s lips curve into a faint, cruel smile, her eyes gleaming with a quiet amusement as she leans forward, her voice dropping to a soft, almost intimate whisper.

“And what of the wolf?” she murmurs, her tone so low that only Ellana can hear. “I wonder how much more he can withstand. Even the strongest minds have their limits.”

Ellana’s breath catches, her pulse quickening as an image of Fen’Harel flashes through her mind—bound, bloodied. She feels a sharp ache in her chest, a shared pain that cuts deeper than she cares to admit. Her jaw clenches, her resolve only hardening. She cannot stay here, not while he suffers, not while these gods play their twisted games. 

June’s hand drifts lower, his fingers grazing her arm in a touch so light it feels mocking, his eyes sliding back to Sylaise with a glint of amusement. “Perhaps it serves a purpose for now,” he says idly, his gaze lingering on Ellana. “But I suspect its usefulness will fade soon enough.”

Sylaise’s lips curl into a faint smile, her eyes narrowing as she watches Ellana’s reaction, as though savoring every flicker of discomfort, every involuntary shift in her posture. “Yes,” she murmurs, her tone lazy, detached, a soft murmur against the fading light. 

The goddess picks up a piece of fruit, a dark berry that glistens between her fingers, pressing it delicately to her lips as her gaze drifts lazily over Ellana, a look that’s as cold as it is indulgent. “But who knows,” she continues, her voice musing, thoughtful. “Perhaps it will surprise us.”

Ellana sits still, her hands clenched tightly in her lap, fighting the urge to pull away, to flee from the blanket, from their eyes, their touch. She knows that any act of defiance would be punished, yet the fire of her anger, her determination, refuses to die out.

Ellana breaths in. Reminds herself of the basic truth of a longer exhale than inhale as a calming salve. She blinks and takes in her surroundings one more time. The tension in her shoulders softens, and she blinks, letting herself focus on her own heartbeat, the rhythm that reminds her she’s still here, still herself.

When she opens her eyes, she takes in the scene before her once more, a study in unsettling beauty. The light of the mages’ orbs flickers, their glow ebbing as the day wanes, casting long shadows that stretch across the meadow, each shadow extending like fingers, reaching for something just beyond the light.

Chapter Text

     forty-eight 

The air is thick with wine, red and deep as blood, filling the room with a cloying, heady warmth. The light glows dim and amber, casting an almost feverish haze over everything as if the room is flushed with drunk. 

It matches the velvet upholstery of the chair Ellana has been placed on—a wide, sprawling platform that invites her to lie back, her body draped and displayed as though she were a figure in a painting rather than a person. S

They’re feeding her, but they never give her a full meal. Just small, deliberate bites, pressed to her lips in careful intervals, pieces of strange fruit she doesn’t recognize.

Her stomach churns with a dull ache, kept just on the edge of hunger, desperate enough to need each new morsel. Her face holds the practiced blankness she’s learned to perfect. Her mouth opens and closes in response to each bite. Her compliance is like a quiet poem of endurance.

The dress they’ve given her only makes it worse. A gown made entirely of flowers, little buds arranged like a fine net of petals and stems across her body.

It’s a marvel of magic, and Ellana resents it for the delicate beauty it imposes on her. The buds are green but shortly explode to white petals with gold centers. Every time she moves, a strand breaks, and another petal drifts down, leaving her a little more exposed. The dress feels both like a cover and a trap, more a reminder of her vulnerability than a protection against it.

Ellana’s discomfort is no secret.

The crowd’s attention drifts over her now and again, eyes catching on her with faint curiosity, like the odd glance one gives to a creature on display. Not admiration—she can feel that much—more a curiosity, a sense that her role here is simply to amuse.

She’s the outsider, the strange creature in a gilded cage, something to study rather than truly see.

She remembers the lines from Eliot: “Your arms full, and your hair wet, I could not speak, and my eyes failed, I was neither living nor dead, and I knew nothing.” The Waste Land was full of lines that now feel prophetic to this strange place. Nymphs in cages, kept behind glass for amusement. That’s what they want from her—to make her strange beauty shatter into something worth watching.

And then, with a laziness that seems almost rehearsed, June reaches out, his fingers plucking a single petal from her shoulder.

He holds it briefly between his thumb and forefinger, watching it drift to the floor, then returns his attention to the crowd, where he exchanges a few words with a courtier nearby.

She hears a low laugh from him, the careless sound sharp in her ears, and then he returns to her, his fingers brushing over her shoulder again before lifting another petal.

The flowers scatter around her feet, soft and soundless. She can feel her skin warming, an involuntary reaction that rises with each petal that falls away, but she keeps her face impassive, her gaze fixed somewhere beyond the room.

Her cheeks burn, the warmth spreading down her neck, over her chest, a steady flush that matches the color of the wine in her goblet. She hates how visible it must be, her embarrassment catching the light in every exposed inch of skin.

Each time his hand reaches for her, each soft, seemingly careless pluck of a petal, it feels more deliberate.

She can feel herself reddening, but she doesn’t move, doesn’t allow herself to shrink away. Sylaise sits nearby, reclining with a glass of wine in her hand, her expression unreadable as she watches the slow unveiling with an amused sort of detachment. Her mouth curves into a faint smile when she sees Ellana’s flush, a hint of pleasure that Ellana finds somehow worse than outright cruelty.

Ellana glances at the crowd, catching fragments of interest here and there—a man in a golden wig observing her with vague amusement, a woman in a gown of rose petals glancing her way with an almost mocking smile.

They seem to enjoy the way her skin reddens with each touch, each petal lost. They’re entertained by her, fascinated by the slow, careful unraveling of her body beneath the delicate arrangement of flowers.

As another petal falls, brushing her collarbone as it flutters to the floor, she feels the subtle prickle of exposed skin, the slight chill that comes with each new gap in the dress. June continues, his hand moving with a kind of lazy precision, his touch light and impersonal, yet relentless.

She knows he’s doing it for their benefit as much as for hers, a performance meant to remind her of her own insignificance. 

Her shoulder is bare now, and then her collarbone, and eventually, the curve of her breast. She can feel each part of herself revealed, exposed in increments, a slow, calculated unraveling.

When she finally glances up at him, her expression carefully controlled, she sees his eyes fixed on her, his fingers paused just above her skin, as though waiting for something to change in her, for her to break or give in.

But she doesn’t.

She lets herself feel the weight of every eye on her, lets herself absorb the whispers, the muted laughter, the way her body has become another item on display. And then, with a dry, bitter humor, she clears her throat and says, “At least I’m not bored.”

Ellana doesn’t look at June, but she can feel him pause, his fingers stilling for the briefest moment before resuming. There’s a shift, a slight tension that hangs between them, and she knows he’s noticed the defiance in her tone, however small.

Sylaise lets out a quiet, nearly inaudible laugh, a soft sound that’s more a breath than a laugh. Her hand covers her mouth, as though she’s genuinely amused, though Ellana can’t tell if it’s at June’s expense or hers.

Chapter Text

     forty-eight 

It is inevitable, Ellana thinks, that she will arrive at this scene.

She knows the gods have spared her from the full measure of their lechery only because a single day to them is nothing but a grain of sand or a hydrogen particle floating in the furnace of a star. That they can take the luxury of a century to break her. 

Ellana’s real horror is the thought that she is starting to understand this. The slipping of herself into the same paradigm. That a moment can uncoil into infinity and that her mind can stretch to comprehend it.

That this might be the rest of her eternity. 

To be June’s plaything.

It’s not that he hasn’t already degraded her. Sylaise, for that matter, does as well. They forget her for days—though “days” is hardly accurate; there is only the rise and fall of light, flickering in a darkness with no beginning and no end. Other times, demand churliish she sit still or smile, or some other task equally absurd and unendurable as nameless courtiers fondle her rounded ears. 

Whatever is happening now is different. June leads her through a golden hallway by a bejeweled chain–this at least is no longer heavy–his step giddy as it is imposing. He never speaks, only leads.

There’s a strange joy in his movements, a delight that, for all his towering presence, has the air of a small boy discovering the thrill of life and death, pissing on an anthill with wicked laughter. 

Ellana stumbles after him, each tug of the jeweled chain pulling her deeper into his private kingdom. The air grows thick as they walk, heavy with perfume that clings to her skin, damp and sweet; flowers rotting in their own decadence.

The corridor spills open into a clearing, a garden without sunlight, where dark leaves drape from above, and leaves litter the ground like old offerings. A humid haze settles over everything, blurring bodies that lie in equal parts vine and darkness. It takes Ellana a few horrifying moments to realize what she is looking at. She counts petals, thorns, vines, tries to find patterns, to order the chaos around her. Anything to anchor herself in the madness.

Here, bodies are laid bare, limbs stretched and slack, exposed to the heat and dampness of a twisted Eden. Men and women alike, their skin painted with flowers, petals pressed into their flesh like wounds, edges curling and darkening in the humid air. Some lie sprawled in pairs, joined in eternal copulation, others alone, bodies open and vulnerable, draped over cushions and sprawled across beds of moss. 

They are stripped to their bones, their nakedness a kind of shrine. 

To what, Ellana can only guess. 

The scent intensifies, rich and sickly. Flowers crushed underfoot release their perfume, thickening the air with something cloying, unnatural. Her head swims, her senses overwhelmed. She forces herself to breathe slowly, to keep her mind sharp, clear, to see each detail for what it is. 

One figure catches her eye—a man, lying on a bed of crimson flowers, his skin pale in comparison to the dark petals. Vines have wrapped around his limbs, pinning him in place. His head is tilted back, lips parted, eyes closed. His body is bare, save for a tangle of thorny branches that coil around his knelt legs to spread him open. He is motionless, serene, his chest rising and falling in slow, shallow breaths.

They pass him, and June’s fingers press into her shoulder, urging her onward, through clusters of bodies strewn like abandoned dolls. Some figures are entangled with others, limbs entwined, skin pressed to skin. The vines have woven through them, binding them together, flowers blooming where their bodies touch. She sees a woman’s hand curled around another’s breasts, fingers dug into flesh as if caught in a final, desperate grasp. Their faces are turned toward each other, mouths close, eyes half-lidded, their expressions tuned to the exact moment between pleasure and pain.

June stops beside a low stone altar, slick with moisture, and gestures to the figure sprawled across it. A young woman, her hair spread out like dark silk, her body painted in intricate gold designs, their edges bruised and curling. Her arms are bound above her head, wrists encased in a thick coil of vines. Her skin is marked with faint scratches, a map of thorn-pricks trailing down her stomach, continuing down between her spread legs. 

That, Ellana supposes, is to be the focal point he wants her to study. 

June’s hand slides from her shoulder to her neck, fingers brushing the edge of the chain. He leans in close, his mouth near her ear.

“Do you see?” he whispers, his voice soft, almost reverent. “The beauty of surrender. The purity of it.”

His fingers trace a line down her collarbone, light, barely a touch, as he watches her .Ellana keeps her face blank, her breathing steady, her gaze fixed on the figure before her. She cannot allow herself to react, to recoil. She must remain still, unyielding.

He moves closer, his hand sliding lower, tracing the line of her spine. She feels the heat of his breath against her skin, the weight of his gaze as he watches her, waiting for a flicker of fear or disgust. She refuses him that satisfaction. 

June guides her through another archway, and she feels the air grow thicker, heavier, the scent of decay mingling with something sharp, metallic. The light is dim, casting long shadows across the chamber. Figures line the walls, bodies arranged in poses of repose and abandon. Some unambiguously straddle beds of moss, others form a pyramid of limbs draped over one another, skin pressed to skin.

Her eyes drift over the bodies, each one locked in some imitation of desire, suspended as if longing itself could be stilled. She knows she’s meant to find something here—something beautiful, something erotic, perhaps even something sacred. But it is only a study in contrasts: limbs held too tightly, flesh marked by the grip of vines, the bruised smears of flower petals like afterthoughts on bare skin. 

There is violence here, yes, but it’s a soft kind, distilled, diffused, curdled almost beyond recognition.A pantomime of ecstasy stretched past its breaking point. A version of beauty she can see but not feel, like a song heard through water—blurred, aching, distant.

Ellana’s skin prickles as she feels June’s gaze on her, his hand resting lightly at her waist, his fingers pressing into her skin. He moves closer, his breath warm against her neck.

“You could be one of them,” he murmurs, his voice low, dark. “A part of this garden. Adored. Worshiped.”

She feels his hand slide down her side, slow, deliberate, his fingers tracing the curve of her hip. Her body remains still, rigid, her gaze fixed on the scene before her, refusing to acknowledge his touch. Her mind races, searching for patterns, equations, something to ground her, to distract her from the closeness of his body, the heat of his hand.

June watches her, his eyes dark, intense, a faint smile playing at the corner of his lips.

“This could be you,” he whispers, his fingers tracing a line along her jaw. “Just one word, and you’d join them. You’d forget everything—your questions, your fears. You’d be free.”

She meets his gaze, her face impassive, her eyes dark with silent defiance. She doesn’t move, doesn’t speak. She lets the silence stretch between them, thick and tense, her body still and unyielding.

Finally, she speaks, her voice a quiet whisper, each word deliberate, sharp.

“Never.”

He doesn’t react. Doesn’t so much as glance at her. Instead, he nudges her forward, his hand firm at her back, guiding her deeper down another dim hallway. She can feel the tension in his touch, the quiet insistence, as if her defiance is simply one more step in a game he has already won. 

June, the God of Creation. The artist at his gallery opening.

Ellana feels a revulsion she cannot shake, a horror that pulses within her. Yet the scene feels close, invasive, a terrible kind of intimacy she can neither define nor evade. His hand is warm at her back, an extension of him moving into her, the careful hand of a painter shaping a canvas. She is sickened by his touch, yes, but there’s something in it that holds her, that captures her like light in a photograph—preserved, already contained.

The new landscape confronting her is different. A room full of bodies, alive with a slow, languid rhythm that pulls her in despite herself. Women only—painted, jeweled, skin glistening with oils. Gems pressed into their flesh catch the low light and sparkle, tiny, intricate constellations on bare skin. Gold and crimson streaks wind over their bodies, around collarbones, hips, breasts, as if they were marked for some holy offering.

Ellana tries not to look, but her gaze lingers, tracing the line of a jeweled spine, the sharp curve of a shoulder blade. She feels the warmth rise in her chest, up to her throat when she imagines taking their place even if the pulse of interest is a betrayal. 

 She should turn away, pull back, but she doesn’t. There’s something in this closeness, in their unselfconsciousness. 

In the center, two women are locked in an embrace. One tilts the other’s head back, exposing her neck, where lips press against skin in soft, slow movements that seem to consume everything else in the room. Each touch is measured, each caress lingers.. Around them, other women form a circle, hands on backs, shoulders, the curve of hips. They move together in an unbroken chain of touch and breath. 

It is intimate, yes, and she feels something clench inside her, a mix of shock and fascination, a pulse she doesn’t know how to name as she watches fingers and tongues meander to hidden places. 

June’s hand rests at her back, steady, as if he’s watching her more closely than he’s watching the display. He leans in, his voice low, like a whisper only meant for her. “I should have guessed you’d want something more special,” he says, the faintest hint of a smile in his tone. “Given that you’re unique.”

Ellana doesn’t move, doesn’t react as June drags her forward once more. 

“Good thing I have already thought of this scenario. Generous, even.” He whispers. 

The space dissolves and reforms, a room emerging out of nowhere, as if it exists outside of itself. Cavernous, yet close. Shadows gather here, clinging like dust to surfaces that gleam, smooth and unmarked, polished to an unnatural shine. Light drifts down from no origin she can see, soft and gold, brushing against her skin, scattering over the floor like shattered starlight. Every surface catches her reflection, then lets it go, shapes appearing and vanishing in quick flashes—a figure here, a movement there—flickering ghosts she cannot hold, slipping away before she can make sense of them.

Around the edges of the room, she can see sculptures—figures carved with meticulous precision, each one locked in a frozen, beautiful agony, their expressions caught in half-smiles, eyes downcast, chins lifted in a pose of eternal submission. Bodies intertwined, twisted together in spirals of limbs and torsos, held in delicate balances, posed as if each were on the verge of motion, but never quite moving. They are his creations, his work, and they fill the room with an energy that hums, almost audible, something just beyond her reach, as if their trapped voices linger still.

June steps back, his gaze sweeping over her like a craftsman assessing his materials, a sculptor contemplating marble that hasn’t yet given in to his chisel.

"At first, I could not decide what form you might take," he says, his voice resonant, distant, as though he were speaking from some higher plane. “To understand the vessel I could make of you. What you could become in my hands.”

The words land with a quiet finality, settling over her, pressing down until she feels them in her bones. They’re cold, detached, spoken with a certainty that feels almost dismissive. He isn’t interested in her objections or her resistance. 

To him, she’s just something to be worked with—an outline, a rough draft, something raw and unfinished. Ellana thought her resistance was a boundary, a last piece of her he couldn’t touch. But now, bound here, held by his design, she feels it all unraveling, slipping out of reach. She realizes she is not the player she imagined herself to be. 

To him, it’s all just material, a shape to mold, something to fix until it fits.

“We begin now,” June announces, his voice calm, almost cheerful, as he snaps the end of her chain into a lock. The sound is sharp. Final. She feels the weight shift, a pull tightening around her throat and shoulders.

Cold metal presses into her skin almost as if melting. 

Chapter Text

Fifty

Ellana refuses.

In the multiverse, wouldn’t the will to refuse fracture reality? She imagines it: one sharp intake of breath could spawn a new branch—a different her, one who holds her refusal a fraction longer, or less visibly, or maybe not at all. She pictures each version of herself layered in some other place, each built on a foundation of tiny refusals, each one splitting her just a little further from the last.

The sensations at the corner of her periphery counter this. June’s fingers trace the curve of her collarbone before sliding down to her waist. There is no subtlety to it. A characteristic Ellana has come to expect from him.

The clarity lights up her body like a supernova. His body presses flush against hers, and the unmistakable, weighted heat of him hits her with an unrepentant wave.

She’s silent, her face held carefully still, even as she feels that familiar coil of dread beginning to tighten low in her belly. June is savoring the way she pulls herself inward, the way she has to focus on each steadying breath.

Ellana knows what he’s planning to do. And that’s what unsettles her the most—that he has enough time to perfect this. His intention is to work her like a craftsman shaping clay, with the certainty that there’s no end to this moment.

She doubts any rescue. That she’ll be kept here in wave after wave of mutilation.

But beneath the dread, a memory surfaces, sharp and strange—a dim room filled with smoke and shadows, Jack’s voice calm, low, talking about parallel worlds. Universes within universes, endless layers, each one a different version of reality, each one stacked over the next like echoes in a cavern.

“There are other worlds,” he’d said. “Other versions of us. Other versions of this.”

For a fleeting moment, Ellana lets herself imagine it. Maybe in another world, another version of her stands here, unchained, untouched. She lets the idea flicker through her, a fleeting anchor to something larger than this room, than his hands, than his eyes that linger on her skin like they’re carving into her.

June moves with that strange focus of his, as if he’s creating—not destroying. His touch slides over her hips, his fingers brushing bare skin. Ellana feels his fingers close around her wrist and grab the chain.

This is it.

Until it’s not.

June’s hand lingers on her shoulder, then glides down, deliberate and heavy, finding the sharp edge of her hip bone. Her flower dress hangs in shreds, its delicate remnants clinging to her skin, a few stubborn vines trapped in the soft, hiddencreases of her body.

He leans in, and she feels the weight of his breath, warm and steady, against her cheek. Her body tenses instinctively, a sharp inhale betraying her stillness. His hand tightens slightly on her hip, and then his mouth is on hers. His lips press against hers, firm and possessive, and just as her mind catches up to the shock of it, his teeth close sharply around her bottom lip.

Ellana squirms. She doesn’t mean to; she knows the motion will feed him more than it relieves her, but her body reacts before her mind catches up. His hands have weight—literal, crushing, palpable. The kind of weight she suspects could fracture bone if it wasn’t meted out in such deliberate increments.

She breathes sharply through her nose and thinks, fleetingly, how this might be punishment. That this exact moment—her dress shredded, June’s jocular tongue tracing hers—is karmic justice for how she once laughed at Jack. His theories. His insistence that the multiverse was more than theoretical posturing. “There’s no empirical proof,” she’d said, arms crossed, chin tilted up with the casual confidence of someone tethered to what they thought was solid ground.

And now here Ellana is, unmoored, thinking bitterly how, of all the infinite possibilities Jack waxed on about, this one must have been crafted especially for her. She presses her teeth together to stop herself from laughing. 

What would Jack say now? 

“Ellana, you’re proof,” maybe. 

“You’re the lucky one who landed here. What are the odds?”

But her mind splits from her body, slipping away from this room, from his hands, from his weight pressing against her. Her thoughts reach outward, into a place she knows so well—the dark expanse of space, the endless weight of stars orbiting something they can’t escape. She lets herself drift into the knowledge of it, the physics of orbit, the forces that bind even the stars.

Nothing is fixed. Ellana knows this.

The stars are born, and then they collapse.

Or they escape.

June releases her and turns, his attention shifting to another statue, its image carved with the same detachment he brings to her. A brief glance elsewhere, a moment where she is not the center of his focus.

Ellana’s thoughts spiral into the layered possibilities of other worlds, each one holding her body in some state of submission or resistance. In one, June has already broken her, his patient silence dissolving her will until her thoughts are no longer her own. She can see it, feel it: the quiet, mechanical existence of herself bent to his design. In another, it is Sylaise—her touch clinical, her methods exacting—who has hollowed her out, made her into nothing but a vessel, filled and emptied at whim. Then there’s the Ellana who never crossed into this realm. She sits instead in Jack’s shadow, a mind left half-realized, while his name claims the legacy, the funding, the brilliance. And in the end, she has already given herself to June, laid bare and spread across the table.

Who is she to say that she is not a worth sacrifice? 

The enormity of it is too much to grasp, the way each version of herself exists alongside her like echoes. She snaps into focus as her knees buckle. June’s hand presses her down, forcing her to kneel. The cold stone scrapes against her, grounding her, but not enough to quiet the rising hum of him in the air.

For a moment, she is struck by the sheer magnitude of his power. He doesn’t just think he’s a god—he knows it. The space around him seems to vibrate with his certainty, filling every breath she takes. She hates him for it, hates the oppressive weight of his presence. But more than that, she hates herself for the flicker of awe rising unbidden.

Her body meets the ground, her knees scraping against the stone as he presses her into position. He kicks her thighs open, distracted by the chains scattered on the ground. He reaches downwards to gather one up.

And then Ellana sees it.

Her free hand brushes against the sharp curve of something hidden beneath the heavy folds of June’s robes. The edge bites into her palm, a sudden bloom of pain and warmth spreading across her skin, but her grip tightens instinctively. It’s smooth and cold, curved like an ornamental blade, but its weight is undeniable—solid, real, a weapon.

She doesn’t hesitate.

Like a mirror to June’s magic, she moves purely on instinct.

Ellana wrenches the knife free, the motion clumsy, raw, desperate. June’s head snaps toward her, his gaze sharp with confusion, as though interrupted mid-thought. There’s no fear in his eyes, only a brief, almost irritated pause. She doesn’t give him the time to finish whatever it is he’s calculating.

Ellana arcs the blade upward, dragging it through a thick layer of cheek and flesh.

Blood spurts from the wound, hot and thick, painting her hand, her arm, her cheek. June jerks back, his body spasming, and she feels the grind of bone against metal as the blade lodges deeper. He spits, a wet, garbled noise that sprays blood across her face in a warm, metallic wave. She gasps, choking, as it fills her mouth, the sharp taste burning her throat.

His body doesn’t collapse. It leans toward her, a moan escaping his lips, low and guttural, vibrating through the air like a hymn. But it is enough. She stumbles back, her legs catching on the vines beneath her, her chest heaving as her trembling hand rises instinctively in defense.

Her voice is barely a whisper, raw and quiet but steady, her words whispered on the shell of June’s ear. Like a lover might. A vindictive one, but a lover nonetheless: “May the Dread Wolf take you.”

The room dissolves.

For a moment, she feels the pulse of something vast and cold, a light that doesn’t blind but consumes, erasing the heat, the weight, the very air around her. She collapses to the ground, her knees hitting the cold stone, her breath shallow and ragged.

When she looks down, the palm of her hand is slick with blood, a single line of it dripping onto the floor below. The room is dark now, silent, her body trembling as the metallic tang lingers on her tongue. 

Her hand is empty—no blade, no weapon—only the jagged slice across her palm.

Chapter Text

fifty-one

“What are you?”

The question carries a sharp edge of disdain.  Heavy and accusing. She doesn’t need to see the speaker to know it belongs to a figure standing above her. Fear wells up, but it fades almost as quickly as it comes when her eyes adjust to the dim light, catching the faint, tree-like lines that unfurl across the man’s forehead. 

Ellana’s confusion quickly displaces her fear. The sight of those intricate marks stirs something in her memory—familiar, but distant. He kneels, his golden gaze meeting hers at eye level, steady and unrelenting.

There is something condescending in his glare, but not hostile—not entirely. His lowered stance is enough for Ellana to believe, or perhaps hope, that whoever he is, he doesn’t intend to harm her.

Her lips part, but no sound escapes. Her throat feels raw, as if scraped clean of its voice, and her body trembles with exhaustion. The iron tang of her own blood lingers on her tongue—a bitter reminder of how survival has been a series of borrowed breaths and stolen moments.

“Who are you?” Ellana finally counters, her voice hoarse but resolute.

The man’s golden eyes narrow, his expression flickering between amusement and disdain, as if her question is both foolish and beneath him. “Abelas,” he says flatly, the name dropping like a stone into still water. It carries a weight, as though his very existence should be self-evident. “First of Mythal’s children.” He straightens slightly, studying her with the precision of a scholar examining a specimen. “And you—” he gestures toward her, fingers flicking dismissively—“what are you?”

Ellana blinks, struggling to center herself as her mind fights through the lingering haze. “What am I?” she echoes, tired of the question and the game it implies.

“You speak our tongue, yet you are not…” Abelas pauses, his expression shifting into something almost feral. He leans forward slightly and inhales deeply, as if scenting the air for answers. “…a child of stone.”

“I am Ellana Laverty of Minnesota,” she says, her voice gaining a shred of strength. “Most recently of Arizona.”

The act of reclaiming her name is equally horrifying as it is comforting. There is a ghost of June’s tongue on hers along with the taste of his blood in her mouth. An intimacy that she doesn’t want to carry. 

“Eh-lane Lavellan of Minne-a-sota,” Abelas repeats, the unfamiliar cadence twisting her name into something alien. The sound tugs at her heart, a faint ache rising as she thinks of Fen'Harel and where he is. 

For all she knows, this might be his doing. That he bartered her and lost her in some strange bet with Sylaise and June. 

Her thoughts spiral for a moment, but they are snapped back into focus as Abelas rises abruptly. He shakes his arms, a sharp motion of irritation, as though her very presence disrupts the order of his world.

“You reek of foreign places,” he says, his tone layered with disgust and curiosity. “You do not belong here and yet you speak the Dread Wolf’s name. Where is he?” 

Ellana opens her mouth in annoyance when Abelas interjects again. 

“Why don’t you have any clothing on? Are you some sort of conjuring or thrall of the Wolf–” 

“Listen, Dude–” 

“Doodie? What is a doo-dee?” 

Ellana pinches the bridge of her nose, exhaling a shaky breath as she tries to gather her thoughts. She’d been stripped of nearly everything—her voice, her dignity, her sense of place—and now she had to explain modern colloquialisms to a man who looked at her like she was something scraped off his boot.

Abelas’s frown deepens. “You speak nonsense,” he declares, folding his arms across his chest. The golden light in his eyes flickers like embers, and he regards her as though she is some riddle left unsolved. “If you are not a thrall, nor a child of stone, then what claim do you have to Mythal’s great general?”

Ellana meets his gaze, her raw throat aching as she forces herself to speak. “What claim do you have?” she counters, feeling the weight of her exhaustion hitting her in a single towering wave. She glances below at the flowers that still cling to her wet skin. They are beginning to wilt. 

“I–” 

The light shifts in the room and a doorway opens where there was none. Ellana flinches when she recognizes the silhouette entering. It is Sylaise. 

She is draped in liquid gold, her impossibly perfect form bared underneath, her steps languid, unhurried. Her presence fills the chamber like a tide, warm but suffocating, wrapping around everything and leaving no room to breathe.

Her gaze locks onto Ellana as she circles her slowly, her movements predatory, assessing. The light that clings to Sylaise’s body is not metaphorical—it ripples and shifts, alive in its brilliance, spooling from her fingers. Her eyes flicker with an almost rapturous glow as she speaks, her voice soft, velvety, but edged with something sharp and unknowable.

“June’s wound,” she begins, precise and reverent, as though discussing art, “was… exquisite. A mark that speaks of fire, fracture, loss.. He will come for you, of course. But I shall enjoy watching what he does of you.”

Sylaise stops behind Ellana, and the light in her hands flows forward, pooling and folding like liquid silk. With languid, deliberate movements, she traces a long set of fingers up her sternum, as if to reach into a breast pocket and draws out a single gold ribbon to drape over Ellana’s shoulders. The result is more cocoon than dress. 

Ellana’s breath hitches sharply, her pulse loud in her ears, but she doesn’t pull away.

Sylaise leans closer, the warmth of her breath brushing against the shell of Ellana’s ear. Her lips curve, her voice soft but precise, each word a blade pressing deeper.

“Oh yes, the Wolf told me of your deal and what he’ll have you do. In great detail in fact when I had him dance across my bed.” 

Ellana freezes, her body caught between the cold edge of Sylaise’s words and the unbearable heat where her hand lingers low, hovering near the seam between her thighs. She doesn’t have to touch Ellana—doesn’t need to. The weight of her intention cuts deeper than any action might.

“I would have taken you for my curiosity,” Sylaise murmurs, her words sweet and sharp as glass, “had you not had a bargain to fulfill.”

Ellana squirms to look at the goddess’ face, but her free hand catches her chin and pulls it upwards. “You survive because I will it.”

A thumb swipes upwards.

Abelas shifts uncomfortably, his expression hardening, though his golden gaze falters. His eyes dart downward briefly, catching on where Sylaise’s hand lingers, before snapping back up. His discomfort is palpable in the slight tightening of his jaw, the way his arms fold stiffly across his chest.

Ellana’s blush deepens, the weight of Sylaise’s proximity and Abelas’ judgment pressing into her ribs. She tries to push away the thoughts clawing at her—of Fen’Harel, of the bargain she’d made, and of her own uncertainty.

Her breath shakes as Sylaise’s fingers withdraw, the absence of touch a greater punishment than the presence could have been. 

t’s worse than anything June managed to do to her.

Sylaise steps back, collecting the ribbons of light that form her sleeves with deliberate grace, as though they belong to her and her alone.

“Do not confuse this with mercy,” she says, her voice low, final. “For while June has had you to play with, I have had Fen’Harel.  He is lucky that  I’ve taught him to be a better dog.”

Ellana’s breath catches sharply at the name, her mind fracturing further under the weight of Sylaise’s words. The mention of Fen’Harel feels like a blow she can’t brace for, her thoughts swirling with fragments of promises and bargains, truths and deceptions.

“Come,” Sylaise says, her tone lightening to something almost cheerful as she gestures toward the darkened corridor. “We’ve wasted enough time. Let’s go collect him.”

Abelas is the first to move, his steps sharp, precise, though his shoulders remain stiff with the tension lingering in the air. He pauses, his gaze lingering briefly on Ellana before he draws an arm around her waist to steady her.

Chapter Text

fifty-two 

The hallway is dark, broken only by the faint glow of Sylaise as she steps forward, her light flickering like a dying ember. Ellana tries not to notice how the fabric draping her body has turned white, as if she has been made handmaiden to the cruel beauty leading the procession.

Shadows gather on the rock beneath her feet, pierced only by fleeting flashes of light. She stumbles, her steps faltering, but Abelas’ hand steadies her, his grip firm at her waist.

Sylaise halts, her nails dragging slowly across a smooth expanse of stone. The sound is deliberate, slow, scraping like bones across a taut string. Ellana holds her breath, her chest tight, as the nails carve their rhythm into the silence.

Then—

The doors groan open.

Fen’Harel.

Is that his name on Ellana’s lips? Does she not cry it out loud? 

He is barely recognizable. Red and raw, his body looks as though it has been peeled back too soon, fragile and unfinished. Blood streaks his face, dark rivulets tracing the angles of his bones like the remnants of a storm. His head hangs low, His shoulders sag, misaligned, as though even keeping his limbs in their sockets is a burden. 

His body trembles, caught in a cruel cycle where wounds knit themselves together only to tear open again, the threads of repair unraveling as fast as they are woven.

The floor beneath him is stark white, but it is not untouched. Rust-red streaks mar its surface, blooming jagged like flowers torn too violently from their stems. The stains pool beneath his chest, spreading outward in uneven lines, like rivers that have forgotten their course.

Some lines are sharp and purposeful, as if etched by the weight of his collapse, while others blur and fade into delicate smudges, too faint to trace. The blood maps his ruin, a record of where he has lain, where he has tried to rise, and where he has fallen again. 

How long has he been kept here? Ellana begins to shake with the calculation. 

Sylaise steps forward, her presence warm, suffocating, her voice a mockery of sweetness. “Every wolf deserves a collar,” she says, her tone lilting, almost playful.

Ellana tenses, trying to lunge forward, but Abelas’ grip tightens, his hand holding her firmly in warning. 

Sylaise reaches for the blue strand wrapped around Fen’Harel’s neck, her fingers gliding over it with the practiced ease of someone unwrapping a gift. Ellana sees it then—the way the strand is tied into a neat bow, simple and precise, almost decorative. It strikes her as absurd, almost mocking, this ornamental knot securing something so boundless, so dangerous.

The goddess’ golden light glints against the strand as her fingers work, unhurried, coaxing it free. The faint hum of its unraveling fills the chamber, soft but insistent, like the last note of a song that has no resolution. The strand slides loose, its light dimming as it slips from her grasp, falling to the ground with the weightless finality of an extinguished flame.

For a moment, nothing happens.

Then Fen’Harel moves.

It is fury given form, sudden and violent. Pale flesh pours over his wounds like liquid light, too smooth, too perfect, consuming the ruin of his body. It is not healing but reclamation, as though he is remaking himself in defiance of the damage done.

Ellana’s breath catches. 

This is more terrifying than his brokenness. 

There is something in the way the light glistens across his skin, the way the seams of his body vanish too completely, too cleanly, that feels unnatural, unkind. The perfection is unnerving, a denial of mortality, of fault, of fragility. It is not life returning to him—it is power, raw and unbridled, forcing itself back into form.

For the first time, truly, she believes he might be a god.

A growl reverberates through the chamber, low and primal, twisting his form with rage. His hand shoots out, faster than Ellana can track, clamping around Sylaise’s throat. The air shudders with the force of it, her breath catching sharp and brittle.

But Sylaise only laughs.

It is a laugh that bites, high and mocking, as if Fen’Harel’s rage is a joke only she can understand. Her hands stay limp at her sides, her smile sharp and bright. “Good,” she taunts, her voice low and cutting. “You still have teeth, wolf. But you should save them for what will come.”

Fen’Harel’s grip tightens, his body trembling with effort, but before he can strike, Abelas steps forward, his voice sharp and deliberate, cutting through the tension.

“Enough, Sylaise,” he says coldly. “Mythal will ask for contrition if you do not honor her.”

Sylaise’s laugh softens, bitter and low, a sound like a blade dragged across stone. She tilts her head, her golden light shifting as she looks at Abelas. “Contrition?” she repeats, the word rolling off her tongue like an insult. “I have honored her more than you know. I only agreed to release the Dread Wolf, not let him escape.”

She leans in toward Fen’Harel, unhurried, as though she has all the time in the world. Her cheek brushes against his, the gesture intimate, possessive—like a lover’s touch, but colder, hollow. Her light flickers against his bloodied skin, a cruel mimicry of tenderness.

The smile never leaves her lips, even as he stiffens and tries to pull away. Her amusement lingers, sharp and mocking, as though his resistance only delights her.

And then, without ceremony, she vanishes.

The room collapses with her, light and stone dissolving into nothingness. Darkness rushes in, thick and suffocating, and Ellana stumbles, her hands reaching out into the void. Abelas steadies her again, his grip firm, his golden eyes glowing faintly in the blackness.

Fen’Harel stands motionless, still trembling, his gaze fixed on the space where Sylaise had been. His fury lingers, palpable, his breath ragged in the silence.

Then it comes—a scream, tearing through the dark like a beast dragging its prey into an unseen abyss. It is a terrible sound, primal and raw. Ellana freezes. It is unmistakable: June.

The scream splits the air again, jagged and unrelenting, reverberating through the emptiness. It feels old, older than the stones beneath her feet, older than the walls that had surrounded them.

It might not even be a scream at all. It might be what follows—a cry too vast, too ancient, to name.

Ellana will not try to understand it. Only to escape it.

Chapter Text

fifty-three

The corridors twist and shift as they run, the palace itself seeming to conspire against them. Walls close in and doorways vanish. Any sense of solidity is undermined by a shifting horizon. 

Ellana thinks this must be what the landscape of a collapsing star is like. 

 All the while June 'screams ricocheting through the halls. A soundtrack that shifts between a death rattle and war chant.  The two sounds meld and split. The force of which thrums in Ellana’s chest as she pants with exhaustion, running as her body allows. 

Past what is capable or should be. 

Her legs threaten to give out, but Fen’Harel’s hand clamps tightly around her wrist, pulling her forward with relentless strength. His voice is a low growl, more animal than man. “Do not stop.”

Ellana glances back despite herself, her body turning instinctively toward the source of the sound. A wave of golden energy surges down the corridor behind them, obliterating everything in its path. Mosaic pieces fall off the wall, their faces falling into dust and ash. 

“Please!” Fen’Harel begs, his voice snapping her back.

The fear lingering along the edges of his urging pulls Ellana forward, yet her mind struggles to reconcile it—a god pleading. With her. What could be more terrifying? 

Her foot catches on uneven stone, and she stumbles, nearly falling. 

The Dread Wolf’sarm loops around her waist without hesitation. 

Ahead of them, Abelas moves with sharp, calculated precision. His golden eyes scan the space with a hunter’s focus, his body poised, every movement purposeful. The chaos around them seems unable to touch him. He gestures toward an open doorway ahead, a fleeting moment of clarity in the madness.

“This way!”

They follow, their footsteps pounding against the marble floor as the walls around them groan and splinter, great fissures spider webbing through the stone. The air grows hotter, heavier, thick with the acrid scent of something ancient and powerful burning. The glow of June’s power and rage looms closer.

The walls ahead grow tighter, converging into a dead end. Fen’Harel slows, pulling Ellana behind him as his magic flares, the sharp scent of ozone filling the air.

“We’re trapped,” Ellana breathes, her voice trembling. Her heart pounds as the golden glow of June’s fury pulses closer, throwing long, jagged shadows over them.

Fen’Harel steps forward, rolling his shoulders. His magic begins to coil around him, green and black threads sparking like fireflies in the growing dark. His stance shifts, low and poised, his hand lifting toward the encroaching light.

“No,” Abelas says sharply, cutting through the suffocating tension.

Ellana’s head jerks toward him. He stands to the side, already pulling a small piece of chalk from a leather pouch on his belt.

“Abelas?” Fen’Harel growls, his magic flickering as he glances back.

Abelas doesn’t respond immediately. His movements are precise, hurried yet deliberate, as he crouches and drags the chalk against the floor. A soft glow ignites where the chalk touches, the lines of his drawing sparking to life with faint silver light.

Ellana blinks, her confusion mounting as Abelas stands and draws the final line across the wall in front of them. “What is he—?”

“A door,” Abelas says, his voice strained. “I can sense the Vir'abelasan, beyond.” He presses his hand flat against the glowing lines and gives a single confident push. 

The wall before them shimmers, then begins to ripple like water. The glow intensifies, spreading outward in intricate patterns, forming a doorway of light.

“Go!” Abelas barks, turning to Fen’Harel.

Ellana looks at Fen’Harel, her chest tight with the weight of the moment. His magic still crackles at his fingertips, his body taut, but he nods sharply.

“Through the doorway,” Fen’Harel orders Ellana, his voice leaving no room for argument.

Fen’Harel grips Ellana’s arm and pushes her forward, and she stumbles through the glowing portal. The sensation is instantaneous—her body pulled through, her skin tingling with the hum of magic. 

The doorway deposits them into an expanse of velvet darkness, thick and stifling. At first, Ellana’s vision struggles to adjust, but soon shapes emerge from the gloom—powdered bodies, pale as marble, glistening with sweat and oil, writhing in chaotic unity on a landscape of jeweled contraptions that pry hidden openings into holes. The air is cloying, saturated with the sickly-sweet scent of incense and something more primal. Moans ripple through the space, mingling with choked sobs and sharp cries, a symphony of ecstasy and despair.

The bodies writhe together, indistinguishable where one ends and another begins. Flesh, red and raw, rubs against flesh, smeared with the rouge of excess and bruises blooming like dark flowers. Ellana catches flashes of faces—too beautiful, too perfect—twisting with exaggerated bliss or contorted in grimaces of agony. 

It is their eyes devoid of any humanity that haunt her the most. 

Eyes that should burn with want hold only emptiness. All body, all lust, stripped of desire. Movements rhythmic but hollow, obscene in their vacancy. The absence is its own violence—grotesque, a parody of yearning stretched so thin it tears, collapsing into something beyond death. Not death itself, but the echo of it, repeating endlessly, a terrible reminder that even emptiness can take a form. 

A hand clamps around Ellana’s wrist again, guiding her forward. She turns to see Fen’Harel’s face, set in a grim mask of determination. Streaks of blood still outline his regal features. 

Abelas moves beside him, silent but resolute, his golden eyes fixed ahead. They’ve steeled themselves to this, their lack of surprise heavier than the sight itself.

That they expected this, that they’ve seen it before, gnaws at Ellana  in a way the scene itself cannot. It feels sadder than all the moans and murmurs of the grotesque tableau that surrounds them. 

Curtains of gauzy black hang from the invisible ceiling, framing the twisted theater. Spirits flit along the edges of the scene, their forms half-real, shimmering and indistinct, as if they could dissolve into the darkness at any moment. Masks obscure their features—golden, porcelain, feathered—and their presence hangs heavy in the air, a weight of judgment and detached arousal.

A few sip from goblets that seem to float in the air, their mouths stained red with something that is not wine. Their gestures are languid, deliberate, as though choreographing the obscene spectacle before them. They do not seem to see Fen’Harel, Abelas, or Ellana, their gaze fixed inward, utterly absorbed in the macabre theater of flesh and indulgence.

Ellana’s skin crawls as one of the masked figures leans close to a participant, their ghostly fingers trailing across slick, reddened skin, leaving no trace. The spirit murmurs something inaudible, and the mortal beneath them collapses into convulsions of ecstasy—or agony.

“They don’t even notice us,” she whispers, her voice shaking.

“They won’t,” Fen’Harel replies, his tone sardonic. “They are spirits of lust and longing, caught in Sylaise’s cage. They have no sense of the world beyond their masks and their roles.”

Abelas’s jaw tightens, his hand gripping the chalk as though it is the only thing anchoring him. “This is worse than I imagined,” he mutters,. “They are… trapped.” 

Fen’Harel’s expression darkens, his humor twisted into something bitter. “Trapped? Perhaps. Or perhaps they prefer it this way. Better to lose themselves in pleasure than to face eternity’s cold, empty halls. Or so Sylaise thought.”

Ellana’s stomach churns. There’s no joy here, no freedom—only compulsion, a grim parody of hedonism. “What is this?” she breathes, her voice barely audible.

“Sylaise’s sanctuary,” Fen’Harel says flatly, his tone laced with bitter amusement.

Ellana studies, her gaze lingering on his battered face—healed, but still broken i. The faint scars and hollows in his expression betray stories she cannot bear to ask for. She notices, for the first time, how completely bare he is. Stripped of armor, stripped of protection. Not physically, but in a way that feels rawer, more brutal.

Ellana resists the urge to comfort him. Or ask him if he’s been here before to watch what these spirits and bodies had turned into. She doesn't want to imagine what he’s endured, the things that could break a being like him.

“This is Sylaise’s doing?” Ellana’s voice shakes, her words fragile, nearly swallowed by the obscene murmurs of the space around her.

She is surprised, not because Sylaise’s darkness exists, but because it is worse than June’s. Somehow, beyond the raw, destructive fury of June’s power.  A violence that isn’t just an action but a state of being, a principle. 

If June’s cruelty is the peel of a fruit; Syalise’s is the center pit of which the flesh is hanged from. A skeleton maquette for clay muscles to rest upon. 

Her mind flashes back, to Sylaise’s touch threatening to dig between her legs. Warm, invasive, clinical in its precision. It hadn’t been tender or violent but something else entirely—calculated, claiming.  

It is impossible not to think of herself here. The conquering of her mind was the main event for at least a century or more. Silent tears flow down her skin as she watches a woman collapse into a heap, her skin raw and glistening around the edge of a machine.  Another steps over her as though she were furniture. 

They are furniture. Bodies as chairs and tables. 

“Her answer to despair,” Fen’Harel replies, stepping forward with a measured calm. “When creation no longer sustains you, indulge until it destroys you. Immortality doesn’t lend itself well to moderation.” 

Ellana begins to shake as she recalls each horror she's endured here. Each performance she gave in that splendid hall. June commands her to jump up and down so her small breasts might bounce harder while the courtiers applaud. The way fingers probed her ears as if she were not a being. Laughing as her flower garments were plucked to nothing. 

Each ounce of exploitation merges into one another. The memories blur and merge, drawn inexorably into that singularity, a point of infinite density where time itself feels stretched and distorted. She feels herself caught in its event horizon, unable to escape the pull, every fragment of her captivity spiraling inward toward annihilation.

Ellana begins to sob. 

Silent, whole-body sobbing. 

Fen’Harel turns back to her, his expression softening as he steps closer. He brushes the damp strands of hair from her face, his fingers careful but unhesitating. His hand lingers for a moment, then retreats, as though touching her is an instinct he can’t quite shake.

“Little thing,” he says quietly, his voice low and even, meant only for her. “We’ll leave this place, and we’ll never come back. I swear it.”

The words are simple, unadorned, but they settle somewhere deep in her, grounding her. He doesn’t say them like a grand promise, but like a truth he has already decided on, one that requires no embellishment.

She nods, though her body is still trembling, and tears slip down her cheeks in slow, uncontrollable streams that still when Fen’Harel’s hand brushes her face again, this time less carefully, tucking her hair behind her ear with a kind of quiet determination.

Abelas steps near where Fen’Harel and Ellana stand. His golden eyes dark with disgust. “Did Mythal know what they have become?” His voice is quiet, the words heavy with accusation.

Fen’Harel lets out a short, dry laugh. “Of course she knew. What do you think gods discuss in their infinite boredom? The shape of the cosmos? The meaning of life? No, Abelas. They gossip about lovers, bet on each other’s failings, and compare notes on how to fuck immortality out of their bones.” He gestures broadly at the scene, his smile razor-thin. “And sometimes, this happens. A grand unraveling. Too much pleasure becomes its own kind of punishment.”

Abelas grimaces, his lips curling as he turns from the spectacle. He kneels pulling the chalk from his pouch with a grim resolve. “Enough of this.” He drags the chalk against the ground, his hand steady despite the tremor in his voice. “We leave. Now.”

The line he draws sparks against the polished floor, the glow reflecting in the tear-streaked faces of the masked spectators. Ellana watches as the portal forms, the chaotic soundscape fading beneath the hum of magic.

“It is close,” Abelas urges, his voice sharp with urgency.

Ellana doesn’t need to be told twice. As she steps through the shimmering doorway, the sounds of Sylaise’s nightmare press against her ears one last time—moans, laughter, and the soft, wet slapping of flesh against flesh.

Then they are gone, the scene sealed behind them.

. 

Chapter Text

Fifty-four

The chamber Abelas leads them to is unlike all the others. Vast, cavernous, impossibly quiet. The stillness feels deliberate, as though the room itself is holding its breath, waiting. The air is lighter here, stripped of the density that weighed down the spaces claimed by June and Sylaise. 

It feels, strangely, like absence—not peace exactly, but the removal of whatever violence the other rooms carried. Yet, there is also sadness here. This space feels like a forgotten corner, a place meant to hold something sacred that has since withered away. An emptiness that aches because it remembers what it once contained.

Ellana steps forward hesitantly, her footsteps muted against the smooth stone floor. Her eyes wander across the space, drawn to the piles of withered paper flowers scattered across the ground. They are muted now, their once-bright colors faded into soft grays and browns, petals curling inward, edges fraying, as though they have been left here for centuries.

The room feels complicit.

 She can’t tell if it was built to hold the flowers or if the flowers shaped the room. 

Ellana crouches beside a pile, tracing her fingers over one of the brittle edges of a single stalk. The petals feel like the edge of a scab, fragile yet holding fast, not from strength but from inertia. They threaten to crumble under her touch, but they don’t.She had folded paper flowers identical to these. She remembers the quiet, the heavy awkwardness between herself and Amathiral, her fingers fumbling over stiff paper as the sun slanted gold across the terrace. A task he had given her at her own request—something to give her a semblance of purpose in an unfamiliar world.

It had felt useless at the time, even patronizing, but now the memory presses against her in unexpected ways. Here they are, those small acts of folding, multiplied, left to decay. 

Ellana can’t help but wonder what’s worse—enduring not out of resilience but out of sheer refusal to let go, even as the shape of yourself slips further and further from what you were.

“What are these doing here?” she asks, her voice soft but sharp at the edges. She doesn’t look Fen’Harel directly in the eye.  Not yet.

He lingers at the edge of the room, his gaze sweeping across the piles of flowers with a faint, inscrutable expression. 

“They are offerings,” he says finally, his voice low, steady. He kneels, plucks one from the pile, and holds it delicately between his fingers, studying it. Then, almost carelessly, he tosses it over his shoulder.

“To what?” Ellana insists, her tone rising, though she’s unsure whether her frustration is with the flowers, Fen’Harel, or herself wanting some additional purpose to look forward to. 

Abelas mutters something under his breath, weaving around the stacks like a pig nosing for truffles. His movements are quick, methodical, utterly indifferent to whatever unspoken weight the room carries.

Fen’Harel exhales through his nose, as though considering how much he should say. “They were to the tides,” he says at last, turning the words over carefully. “To the rise and fall of all things. To the unseen forces that move beneath what we can name. The currents that pull the world forward, not by will, but by necessity. Patterns that shape themselves, folding endlessly into the unseen.”

Ellana stares at him, her fingers tightening around the brittle stem of the flower in her hand. It is, she realizes, not an answer. Or perhaps it is the only answer he will give. She feels as though she is on the cusp of understanding, but it is slippery like a moon beam. 

Fen’Harel straightens, brushing imaginary dust from his palms, his gaze now sharp and distant. “It’s meaningless now. Let it rest.”

Abelas snorts, his golden eyes fixed ahead. “The Vir’abelasan is there,” he says, pointing toward the faint shimmer of a mirror at the far end of the chamber. Its surface ripples like water, reflecting nothing and everything at once, an endless depth that seems to pull the eye and push it away in the same breath.

Ellana hesitates, the word unfamiliar, but the object isn’t. She recognizes the mirror, its presence unmistakable even in this strange, quiet space. It is an Eluvian—or at least, she thinks it is. The ripple of its surface is unmistakable, a promise of passage, of elsewhere.

As they approach, she feels the heaviness of the chamber begin to lift. The strange, gnostic stillness remains, dense and inscrutable, but there’s a new lightness beneath it, like the air shifting before a storm breaks. Her muscles, clenched and taut for what feels like hours, begin to release, though the tension doesn’t disappear completely—it lingers, coiled deep inside her, unwilling to trust the reprieve.

The faint shimmer of the Vir’abelasan draws her gaze, its motion hypnotic, and for the first time in what feels like an eternity, the thought of leaving doesn’t seem like a distant fantasy. It feels possible, close enough to touch. A way out, if they can reach it.

The faint ripple of the Eluvian’s surface draws her gaze, mesmerizing in its quiet motion, and for the first time in what feels like an eternity, the idea of leaving doesn’t seem so impossible. It feels close, tangible

Abelas moves ahead, his usually rigid shoulders easing as the shimmer of the mirror grows closer. The faintest flicker of something like relief crosses his face, a shadow of what once might have been hope. Even Fen’Harel, ever watchful, seems less severe as he steps beside her.

Ellana inhales deeply, her hand brushing the flower she still clutches. She dares to let herself believe, just for a moment, that they might escape.

The sound comes first—a roar, deep and guttural, reverberating off the walls and sweeping up waves of flowers like a hurricane. 

Then June emerges, limping but unstoppable, his body twisted with fury. His face is barely recognizable, mangled and torn, one eye gleaming with golden rage, the other an unseeing ruin. His breath is ragged, each exhale laced with something primal, and his magic crackles around him, a chaotic storm barely contained.

Before Ellana can move, he is on her. His hand tangles in her hair, yanking her off her feet and dragging her across the stone floor. Pain shoots through her scalp, her hands scrambling to claw at his grip, but his strength is unyielding.

“You,” June snarls, his voice a low, venomous growl. “You dare to injure a God?” He lifts the knife she had used against him, its blade still stained faintly with his blood. His grip tightens in her hair as he leans down, his mangled face inches from hers.

“Let me educate you on where I’ll put this knife,” June hisses, his voice thick with venom. Before Ellana can react, his grip shifts, and he flings her across the chamber like a discarded pebble. Her body hits the ground with a sickening thud, the impact forcing the air from her lungs in a single, agonizing rush.

The blade grazes her neck, its edge cold and unrelenting, a whispered promise of pain. Ellana struggles, clawing at his grip, but his hold is unyielding, his strength crushing.

June continues to whisper in Ellana’s ear, “You will exalt in the marks I make upon you–” 

“June! Enough!” Fen’Harel’s voice slices through the tension, raw and furious, his command ringing with the kind of authority that should stop even the most feral of creatures. He and Abelas surge forward, their magic flaring to life, brilliant and crackling.

But June is ready. With a violent sweep of his free hand, a surge of golden energy explodes from him, sending them hurtling backward. Their bodies slam into the chamber walls with brutal force. Fen’Harel growls, shaking off the blow as his magic sparks wildly around him, a storm barely contained.

The paper flowers swirl like multicolor confetting in the air. 

“Enough!” Fen’Harel’ repeats warping into something darker, more primal. His body begins to shift, muscles rippling, his form elongating and twisting. Within moments, the Dread Wolf emerges, massive and snarling, his eyes glowing with predatory fury. Without hesitation, he lunges for June’s throat, jaws snapping with lethal precision.

For a heartbeat, Fen’Harel prevails. His teeth sink deep into June’s shoulder, the sound of tearing flesh and a sickening crunch filling the chamber. Blood sprays across the stone floor, thick and vivid, and June roars in pain, his golden magic faltering under the onslaught.

But June is relentless. With a feral scream, he twists his body violently, his free hand blazing with golden light. He presses it into Fen’Harel’s chest, the searing magic forcing a howl of pain from the Wolf. The power radiates outward, and June shoves Fen’Harel back, slamming him into the ground with a strength that defies reason.

The body of a man appears. Fen’Harel flat against the cold slab floor. 

Ellana watches, frozen, her body trembling as the chaos unfolds before her. Her mind races, but her body feels trapped in place until her eyes catch the glint of metal on the stone—the knife. In the struggle, June has loosened his grip on it, and the blade lies just out of reach.

Her breath hitches, sharp and shallow, and she forces herself to move. Crawling toward the knife, each inch feels like an eternity, her hands trembling but determined. The sounds of battle rage around her, growls and screams reverberating through the chamber, but she shuts them out, her focus narrowing to the cold steel ahead.

Ellana’s fingers brush the knife’s hilt, but before she can grasp it, June is on her again. His magic crackles, pinning her to the ground with an unnatural force that feels like a thousand hands pressing against her body. His weight follows, pressing her into the cold stone as he straddles her, his twisted face looming close enough for her to feel the heat of his breath.

“Did you really think you could escape?” His voice is low, venomous, dripping with mockery. His free hand snakes through her hair, yanking her head back. “I could spill you right here,” he hisses, bringing the knife to her stomach, the blade’s edge grazing her skin. “Gut you and empty you until you’re nothing but pulp.”

He drags the blade lower, just above her pelvis, the pressure deliberate but not yet piercing. His laughter is deep, guttural, a sound that vibrates through her ribs.Ellana struggles, her body twisting under him, but his grip is iron, his weight suffocating. She can feel the cold kiss of the blade, the threat of it, and her breath comes in short, panicked gasps.

“June!” Fen’Harel’s voice is a snarl, raw and commanding. He steps forward, his magic flickering like wildfire around him, but his tone shifts, taking on a calculated calm. “What do you want? Name it, and I will give it.”

June freezes, his grip tightening briefly in Ellana’s hair. He turns his mangled face toward Fen’Harel, golden light blazing in his one intact eye. “What do I want?” he repeats, his tone mocking. “For this thing, Wolf?” He jerks Ellana’s head back further, forcing her to meet his gaze.

Fen’Harel’s lips curl, his expression unreadable. “Anything,” he says, his voice like a blade cutting through the tension. “Whatever you desire. Name it.” 

June tilts his head, his laughter rising again, grotesque and wet. The sound is amplified by the hole in his jaw, and Ellana catches a glimpse of his tongue flapping grotesquely within it, slick and pink against the darkness.

“You’d bargain for this?” June sneers, leaning close to Ellana’s ear. His voice lowers, almost a whisper. 

Ellana’s heart pounds, but even through her fear, she sees it—the glint of desire in his one good eye. Not the lust of mortals, but something worse. She is a novelty to him. Something different. Something that does not belong to him.

 Novelty, she realizes, is the currency of the gods.

 It is what they crave when eternity strips everything else bare.

Ellana squirms beneath him, her hands trembling, trying to push him away, but he presses the knife harder against her thigh. A single bead of blood erupts, warm and sharp, tracing a line down her side.

“Release her,” Fen’Harel growls, his body coiled with restrained fury.

“Or what, Wolf?” June taunts, his grin splitting his ruined face.

Before Fen’Harel can respond, Abelas’s voice cuts through the chaos, calm but laced with menace. “Let her go, or face Mythal’s wrath.”

June pauses, his laughter faltering, though his grip remains tight. He turns his gaze to Abelas, his lips twitching as if to form another insult, but the mention of Mythal hangs heavy in the air, its weight undeniable.

“Mythal,” June repeats, his tone mocking, but there’s a flicker of unease behind his words. “What would she do for this one?”

“You think you can escape her judgment?” Abelas’s voice sharpens, his golden eyes blazing. “You know what awaits you if you refuse.”

June hesitates, his tongue flicking unconsciously in the grotesque hole Ellana had made in his face. The sight of it, the way his jaw works unnaturally, makes her stomach turn, but she keeps her gaze locked on him, waiting for the moment the tension might break.

“What makes you so special?” he murmurs lips dragging across Ellana’s cheek.  The knife grazed her skin again, a cruel line drawn without care. “Do you even know?”

Before Ellana can respond, Fen’Harel steps forward, his body radiating fury. His voice is low, commanding, each word deliberate. “You want power, June?” he asks, his tone dark and mocking. “You think you know its shape?”

June turns his ruined face toward the Wolf, his twisted grin widening. “And what would you offer, Wolf?”

“I will release the tides,” Fen’Harel says, his voice booming, each syllable ringing like a tolling bell. The air in the chamber seems to shift, as though the weight of the words themselves bends the world around them.

June’s laughter falters, his grin slipping as unease flickers across his mangled face. “The tides,” he repeats, his voice a mix of curiosity and disbelief. “You would unleash them for this thing that is barely an insect.” 

Fen’Harel’s gaze burns, the sharp green of his eyes like emerald fire. “For her,” he says, his tone a mix of fury and resignation. “For this moment, I would.”

The room feels heavier, as if Fen’Harel’s words have summoned the unseen forces of the world. Even Abelas glances at the Wolf, his expression tight, his golden eyes flickering with something between caution and disbelief.

June’s grip tightens for a moment, the knife biting slightly deeper into Ellana’s skin. She tenses, her breath hitching, but then something changes. The raw heat of his fury ebbs, shifting into something quieter, colder. His body relaxes, and though he doesn’t release her entirely, she can feel the shift—the way his energy pulls inward, becoming sharp and calculating.

Ellana doesn’t dare move, but her senses are acute, her awareness heightened. She can feel his mind working, turning over Fen’Harel’s words. The feral edge of his rage dulls, replaced by something more dangerous—thought.

His breathing slows, and his hand loosens slightly in her hair. She doesn’t know why, but she takes the opportunity to rise, her movements careful and deliberate, like standing in the shadow of a beast that could strike at any moment.

Her legs feel unsteady beneath her, and the knife still hovers too close, but she is upright now, her gaze flicking between June and Fen’Harel. She doesn’t understand what is happening, what silent calculus is playing out between the two of them, but the tension in the room feels electric, crackling with unspoken possibilities.

June’s eye, golden and blazing, flickers toward Fen’Harel, his mangled grin tightening. “For this thing?” he asks, his voice low and cutting.

Fen’Harel meets his gaze, steady and unflinching. His expression is unreadable, his lips set in a thin line. He doesn’t hesitate. “Yes.”

June’s gaze shifts back to her, his grip still firm but less suffocating now. She doesn’t know what he sees in her, what calculation might tilt the balance of whatever game he is playing. Her breath comes shallow and uneven, her pulse roaring in her ears as she waits, suspended between the tension of two forces far greater than her.

“Alright,” June relents. 

His grip loosens further, and though the knife still hovers near her, its presence feels less immediate, less urgent. The shift in him is almost imperceptible, but she can feel it—the coiled violence slackening, the raw fury giving way to something quieter, more deliberate.

Ellana doesn’t move, doesn’t breathe, as she watches him. The golden glow of his eye dims slightly, the blazing intensity softening into something more calculating. His twisted grin lingers, but it no longer feels unhinged. It feels like a mask, one he wears as he tilts his head, glancing back at Fen’Harel.

Fen’Harel steps forward, his magic still humming faintly in the air, and grabs Ellana without hesitation. His arm wraps firmly around her waist, steadying her as her legs threaten to give out beneath her.

“Stay close,” he mutters, his voice low and urgent. Without looking back, he begins walking toward the Eluvian. Abelas moves alongside them, his expression tight, already reaching for the chalk at his belt.

Behind them, June’s laughter erupts, echoing through the chamber, low and mocking. It grates against Ellana’s nerves, each sound curling inside her like a cold knife. She glances back despite herself, her eyes drawn to the mangled shape of him. His golden eye gleams, his twisted grin stretching wider as if he knows something they do not.

 June smirks, his tone sharp and cutting, every word deliberately placed. “For this thing—” he gestures toward Ellana with the faintest tilt of his head, his disdain palpable—“you would relent? After an entire era of your stubbornness?”

His voice is calm, almost conversational, but each word drips with scorn, the weight of his calculation pressing down on the room. “You finally broke for something so... small?”

The air between them grows heavier, charged with unspoken meaning. Ellana feels Fen’Harel’s grip tighten slightly around her waist, his silence a tension coiling in the space between him and June. She doesn’t dare move, the room itself seeming to hold its breath, waiting for the next strike.

As Fen’Harel pulls her closer, his arm firm around her waist, June takes a deliberate step forward. The sound of his boots against the stone echoes faintly, a counterpoint to Abelas’s hurried movements as he draws his chalk lines on the floor.

June clicks his tongue, a slow, deliberate sound, and raises his hand, his fingers curling into the shape of a pistol. His thumb moves, mimicking the cock of a hammer. A golden light explodes from his hand, sharp and unerring, streaking across the chamber.

“Fen’Harel!” Ellana screams, her voice tearing through the stillness as she wrenches herself free of his grasp. She throws herself into the path of the light, the force of it slamming into her chest like a hammer.

The world shifts violently, her body crumpling as the searing pain spreads outward, consuming her. She feels Fen’Harel’s arms catch her as she falls. Ellana’s gaze drifts upward, past him, past June, to the faint shimmer of the Eluvian. Its surface ripples like water, reflecting the dim light of the chamber.

 For a moment, it looks like the night sky—shifting, infinite. 

If only she could reach up, Ellana could pluck a star from its depths. 

Tuck it into her pocket 

. 

Chapter Text

part four

Nut arches her body across an entire globe, vast and unyielding, her body a horizon swallowing the sun whole. There is something obscene in it, the slick pull of her cycles, the way she devours not from malice but from need, her want endless and wet with inevitability. To swallow is to claim, to take something deep into yourself, to dissolve it, obliterate it, and return it—altered, shining, hers. Tothink of her is to think of hunger stretched to breaking, of love so raw it is all mouth and teeth, consuming and consumed. 

A season must always contain a love story for this reason. 

Chapter Text

Fifty-five

“You stupid thing,” Fen’Harel says, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth as Ellana’s eyes flutter open. “What were you thinking?”

His hand is splayed over her heart, five fingers pressed lightly against her chest, his palm warm against her skin. The pressure is firm but not overbearing, teasing her back into herself, reminding her she’s still here. Warmth spreads where he drags his fingers. Magic, she is sure. The sensation cuts throught he pain. It has been so long since anyone had touched her with tenderness. Fen’Harel’s hand lingers, warm and steady, and for the first time in longer than she can remember, Ellana feels seen—not as a weapon, not as a means to an end, but simply as herself.

She looks at him, and for a moment, the world feels very small, contained in the space between his hand and her heart.

“You’re lucky you’re so stubborn,” he adds, the sharpness in his voice softened by something that almost sounds like amusement. “Throwing yourself in front of a god. Was that courage or idiocy?”

Ellana blinks at him, the haze in her mind clearing just enough to catch the glimmer of mischief in his eyes. Her lips twitch, almost forming a smile, but she winces instead, the ache in her chest flaring as she tries to move.

Fen’Harel doesn’t pull his hand away. If anything, his touch steadies, a quiet reassurance beneath the teasing. “Brave little thing,” he murmurs, the words softer now, barely more than a whisper. “I might suggest you’ve had enough of being a hero for today. For my sake, if not yours.”

Ellana shifts, her chest aching as she pushes herself upright. The surface beneath her is soft—unexpectedly so. She glances down and realizes she’s lying on a kind of mattress, its fabric shimmering faintly in the sunlight.

It is real light. Not the simulation of it. Ellana doesn’t know how she feels about being able to categorize this—about having the knowledge to distinguish what is real from what has only ever pretended to be. The light presses against her skin, warm and unfiltered, and it feels foreign, intrusive, as though it doesn’t belong to her anymore.

Her breath catches as she looks beyond the edges of the bed. They’re in a boat, sleek and gilded, gliding silently through the air. The expanse of the world below stretches out in dizzying detail—rolling hills, rivers that glint like silver threads, and vast patches of shadowed forests that seem to stretch endlessly toward the horizon.

At the prow of the boat, Abelas stands, his figure motionless, his posture straight and composed as he gazes out at the scenery below. Beside him, a golden mechanism hums faintly, intricate and gleaming, its parts shifting and clicking with a delicate precision. The soft glow of its workings bathes his profile in light, making him seem almost otherworldly.

Ellana blinks, trying to piece together how they had arrived here. The last thing she remembers is pain, Fen’Harel’s arms, and then nothing but a blur of light and heat.

“You were sleeping for a great while,” Fen’Harel says, his tone light but his eyes searching hers. “I was starting to think I’d have to drag you back to wakefulness myself.”

Ellana shifts again, wincing as the ache in her chest sharpens. “You’re awfully smug for someone who nearly got himself blasted to pieces,” she murmurs, her voice dry, though weaker than she’d like.

His smirk softens into something more genuine, his hand still resting over her heart. “Me?” he says, feigning offense. “I’m Fen’Harel. A god. A being of magic. I don’t get blasted to pieces. I simply… redirect myself temporarily.”

Ellana almost laughs, but the pain flares again, cutting her short. She groans instead, pressing a hand to her side. “You’re insufferable,” she mutters.

“And you’re reckless,” he counters, his gaze narrowing slightly, though the warmth never leaves his voice. “You could have died.”

“You could have too,” she says, tilting her chin up in defiance.

His expression flickers, something unspoken passing through his eyes, but he shakes his head. “We’re not talking about me.” He brushes her hair back from her face, his fingers lingering briefly against her temple.

At the prow, Abelas turns slightly, his gaze flicking toward them. His expression doesn’t change, but there’s a hesitation in the way he lingers, as if unsure whether he’s intruding. Ellana catches the glance and feels a flush rise to her cheeks. She’s not ready to confront what this moment looks like, what it means.

Fen’Harel notices too. Without a word, he stands, moving to one side of the boat. His hand brushes against a thick, sheer curtain hanging from a golden rod. With a deliberate motion, he draws it closed, shielding them from Abelas’s view.

Ellana watches Abelas from the corner of her eye. He turns back to the prow, his posture stiffening slightly, but he doesn’t comment.

Fen’Harel kneels beside her again, his expression softening as his gaze meets hers. “Ellana,” he says quietly, her name a careful, deliberate thing. “May I treat your wounds?”

She hesitates, feeling raw and exposed, but the warmth in his voice is impossible to deny. She nods.

He waits until she gives the smallest nod, then moves closer, kneeling beside her. His hands hover, uncertain, near the edge of the roughspun tunic she awoke in. “I need to see,” he murmurs, not quite looking at her. “Is that all right?”

Ellana swallows hard but nods again.

Gently, reverently, he eases the fabric away from her leg, his fingers brushing against her skin with a care that makes her chest ache. When the gash comes into view—a jagged, angry wound running from her knee to her thigh—he exhales sharply, his jaw tightening.

“This must hurt,” he murmurs, more to himself than to her. His voice carries no judgment, only quiet frustration at the damage left behind.

“It’s fine,” she says, though it isn’t, and they both know it.

Fen’Harel shakes his head, his gaze flicking to hers briefly. “Tell me if it’s too much. If you need me to stop.”

“I’m fine,” she says again, softer this time.

He nods but doesn’t move right away. “May I touch it?” he asks, his eyes meeting hers.

Her throat tightens, but she forces herself to nod.

His fingers trail lightly over the edge of the wound, his touch warm and steady, the glow of his magic soft and pulsing. She feels the ache begin to dull, the sharp edges of the pain easing into something gentler.

“So tough.” he murmurs after a moment, his voice low and heavy with something she can’t quite name. “And yet, here you are.”

She doesn’t respond, but her gaze drifts to his face. The faint scratches along his jaw catch the light, the tension in his brow softening as he works. There’s a quiet care in every movement that feels almost out of place, and yet it draws a smile out of her. 

“May I move higher?” he asks, breaking the silence, his voice steady but impossibly gentle.

She nods again, the gesture small but deliberate.

His touch shifts, his fingers gliding carefully upward, never straying from their purpose. She feels the magic settle deeper into her skin, knitting flesh and easing pain, and for the first time in what feels like forever, she doesn’t flinch.

“You’re brave,” he says quietly, almost to himself. “Too brave, sometimes.”

“And you’re too careful,” she replies, though her voice trembles.

“Maybe,” he says, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “But you deserve careful.”

Fen’Harel’s pulls the fabric of her tunic back down over her leg, smoothing it gently, his movements slow and deliberate. As if to make it clear that he is non-threatening. Ellana hates that he feels the need to do that even if she understands it necessary as she shakes from the aftershocks of abuse. 

“Does anything else hurt?” he asks, his voice quiet, almost steady, though there’s something in it that pulls at her. “Tell me the truth. Don’t lie to save me worry—I have plenty to spare.”

Ellana shakes her head faintly, though she’s not sure it’s entirely true. Her body aches all over. 

“I feel lucky I didn’t break any bones.” 

“You did” he says, his lips twitching into something close to a smile. “They were a mess, you know. Broken clean through in places, splintered in others. I thought about rearranging them just to keep you still for a while, but I decided against it.”

She lets out a weak laugh, wincing at the way it pulls at her chest. “You’re awful,” she mutters, though there’s a flicker of warmth in her voice.

“And you’re reckless,” he counters lightly, though his gaze remains fixed on her, searching. “Throwing yourself in front of a god like that. Do you think you’re invincible?”

“I was thinking about your long term wellbeing.” she says, tilting her chin slightly, though the words feel too bold in the quiet.

He pauses at that, his expression flickering for a moment before smoothing again. “And I was thinking about you,” he replies simply. “You see where that’s gotten us.”

His hand trails absently over the fabric he’d just smoothed, a gesture more thoughtful than necessary. “June will take longer to heal,” he says after a moment, his tone lighter. “He’ll hate that.”

“Are all gods like that?” she asks softly, her gaze studying him.

His shoulders rise and fall in a slow breath, and his hand drifts to his scalp, dragging over the faint stubble there. She notices for the first time the dark shadows under his eyes, the way his skin looks drained, taut with exhaustion.

“No,” he says finally, his voice even but heavy with thought. “Not all. But most have… tendencies. Vices. Some are consumed by indulgence, others by cruelty. The twins, for instance, find joy in the act of murder—not the aftermath, not the reasons, just the doing of it. They would call it artistry. Others just fixate on their own vanity. I knew of June's proclivities...but”

There’s a pause, and when he speaks again, his voice is lower, tinged with something close to regret. “I should have seen Sylaise’s trap. The magic collar—it was clever, well-laid. I thought myself too clever to fall for such a thing.” He shakes his head, looking down for a moment. “I wasn’t. And because of it, you suffered. I should have stopped it.”

“You couldn’t have known,” Ellana begins, but he cuts her off with a faint shake of his head.

“That doesn’t matter,” he says firmly. “I should have done more. You should not have been left to endure them.”

Her chest tightens at the weight of his words, at the way he seems to carry them like something he knows he can never put down. She starts to speak, to tell him it isn’t his fault, but the thought dissolves when she realizes his arms are around her.

At some point, he had drawn her close, His hands rested lightly at her back, their touch so natural, so steady, that she hadn’t even noticed it until now. Ellana pushes a cheek to his chest, surprised to feel his embrace tighten around her. She doesn’t know when it happened between them this quiet intimacy that feels like it belongs in another world, one without gods and their games. Now that she’s noticed it, she doesn’t want to move, afraid that shifting will break the spell of it. 

Fen’Harel shifts slightly, his arms still around her, and murmurs, almost absently, “We’ll be home soon.”

Home. 

The word hangs between them, charged with a weight Ellana can’t quite grasp. She doesn’t ask him what he means by it—whether it’s the boat they sit in now, gliding through skies unknown, or some place she has never seen but he holds in his mind. She doesn’t ask because a part of her fears the answer, and a part of her already knows.

Chapter Text

 fifty-six

Ellana stood at the bow of the vessel, her fingers curling tightly around the railing as though it might steady the storm within her. The wood felt smooth but insubstantial beneath her hands, its solidity undermined by the way her thoughts churned. Beside her, Fen’Harel lingered, their shoulders barely brushing—a quiet tether in the fading light, unspoken but unyielding.

She had expected a fortress rising against the horizon, something vast and immovable, a testament to power. Instead, what greeted her was a series of golden blocks, suspended among the clouds in a plank-like formation. They shimmered faintly, as though not entirely solid. As if they might drift away if the magic holding them faltered.The light was a dreamy haze of gold and pink, the sun dragging the horizon reluctantly into night.

Amathiral saw them first.

She stood at the end of the platform, her figure backlit by the dying sun. For a moment, she didn’t move, just watched them with an expression Ellana couldn’t name. Then something shifted in her, and she ran. Her steps were quick, precise, though there was something desperate about the way her body moved, her long hair flowing like a dark river behind her.

When she reached them, she stopped, breathless. “Lord,” she said softly. Her voice trembled. “We were so worried. Felessan returned from Andruil’s estate and began convening the guard—”

Then her eyes moved to Ellana, and her composure shattered.

Ellana felt the shift immediately. Amathiral’s gaze moved over her face, her tunic that was more rag than shirt. She felt her body reflexively tighten under the weight of that scrutiny. She didn’t need to see her reflection to know what Amathiral was looking at— the raw, carved marks up the inside of  her thighs that even Fen’Harel’s magic hadn’t erased.

Amathiral’s lips moved as though she were about to speak, but no sound came. Her shoulders trembled, but she forced herself to stay upright. Instead, she turned to Fen’Harel, her expression wide open and searching. “What happened?” she asked. Her voice was barely audibl.

Fen’Harel’s pause was so small it might not have existed, but Ellana caught it. It wasn’t hesitation so much as the crack of something heavy shifting under strain. “June. Sylaise,” he said.

Amathiral inhaled sharply. Her eyes fell to the ground. Silent tears streaked her cheeks, catching the last of the sunlight. Her eyes flickered as if recalling a memory, her hand trailing towards her neck. 

Ellana watched, detached, as Fen’Harel stepped forward. He moved slowly, deliberate in every motion, ignoring the blood that had seeped through his shirt in faint red blooms. When he reached Amathiral, he knelt in front of her and pulled her into an embrace. He whispered something into her ear, his voice too low for Ellana to hear.

She wanted to look away but didn’t.

Her stomach twisted. It was a small thing, a gesture meant to comfort, but it burned. The feeling was sharp, irrational, and so completely consuming it left her breathless. She told herself it didn’t matter. He owed her nothing. 

And yet—after everything they had been through—was she only a novelty to him?

The sound of boots scuffing against stone cut through her spiraling thoughts. Ellana turned just as Abelas stumbled out of the boat, his sharp features shadowed by the dim light. He stopped short at the scene before him, his brow furrowing in a mix of confusion and unease.He cast a glance between Ellana, Amathiral, and Fen’Harel, his frown deepening.

The moment stretched uncomfortably before he cleared his throat, gesturing stiffly toward the estate. “There are important matters to discuss, Wolf. Move this reunion inside. .”

Ellana blinked, the sharp edges of her jealousy softening as Abelas’ words pulled her back to the present. Fen’Harel rose slowly, his movements deliberate, the weight of unspoken weariness pressing on his frame. Amathiral stepped back, brushing away tears she seemed almost ashamed to shed. 

Abelas turned and began leading the way without waiting for a response, his posture taut with the discomfort of having walked into something far more personal than he would have liked.

Ellana followed, her legs unsteady beneath her until she felt the firm hands of Amathiral reaching around her waist. The lean of their bodies supported each other as they moved through the clouds. 

The dock beneath their feet gave way to solid stone, the smooth, rock cool and unyielding underfoot. Gold turning to more ordinary gray. Large steps had been cut into the mountainside, leading upward to another Eluvian.

Ellana paused at the base of it, her breath catching in her throat as her eyes traced the shimmering surface before she stepped in. It was as if she were suspended.The world around her dissolved, leaving only the rushing hum of magic.

The feeling of it reminded her of a dream she’d once had, the kind that felt like drowning and flying at once. In it, her body had been weightless, but she couldn’t move, her limbs pinned by something invisible. There had been light—golden, searing, spilling from the cracks in her chest. She had woken gasping, as though she’d surfaced too quickly from somewhere deep and unknowable.

When Ellana opened her eyes, however, the scene was familiar.

 Vast green gardens stretched out before her, connected by elegant, arching bridges. Floating lanterns hovered softly in the air, their glow faint against the deepening sky. She remembered her first arrival here—the fear that had gripped her, the overwhelming strangeness of it all. Now, though, the sight felt almost comforting, a rare moment of stillness in the chaos.

The quiet didn’t last.

Felassan appeared first, sprinting across one of the bridges, his armor clanking loudly as he skidded to a halt. Behind him, Andruil followed, moving with an eerie, unsettling grace. Her composure was such a sharp contrast to Felassan’s urgency that it felt dissonant, as though they had come from entirely different realities.

“What happened here?” Andruil asked, her voice soft but firm, the kind of tone that demanded answers without raising itself. Her gaze flicked briefly to Felassan, then back to Fen’Harel, suspicion lingering in her golden eyes before it faded into something resembling concern. “Where have you been?”

Fen’Harel stepped forward, his movements deliberate, controlled. “June. Sylaise,” he repeated simply.

Andruil’s breath hitched. Her composure slipped for a fraction of a second, her golden eyes widening before narrowing again. One hand drifted toward the bow on her back, a reflex more than a threat. “June,” she repeated, her voice quiet but taut. “And Sylaise.”

Her fingers twitched, as though she wanted to reach for Fen’Harel or stop herself from reaching at all. Instead, she stilled, folding her hands tightly in front of her. “How long?” she asked, her tone sharper now.

“A long time,” Fen’Harel said quietly shrugging. “For us.”

“Not here,” Felessan interjected, his tone sharp, cutting through the building tension. “He must have—”

“—twisted the time,” Amathiral finished, her voice steady but laced with unease.

Twisted the time. The words settled in Ellana’s mind like a splinter, sharp but buried too deep to reach. She turned them over, again and again, knotting her thoughts into something jagged. Something raw.It explained the gaps—the spaces she could never quite reconcile. 

Memories that felt as if they belonged to someone else, yet sat too closely to be dismissed. Immediate and distant, present and impossibly gone.

Fen’Harel inclined his head slightly, his expression grim. “Yes,” he said, his voice quieter now, taut with calculation. “I believe he planned this. But how did he know I was with Andruil?” His gaze flicked between them, searching. “I cleared the path—ensured no trace remained.”

Andruil inhaled sharply, her golden armor catching the dim light as she drew herself straighter. The weight of his words settled over her, heavy and suffocating. The silence stretched, brittle and tense, until footsteps broke it.

Abelas approached with measured precision, his sharp features unreadable. He stopped a few paces away, his gaze moving quickly across the group. “There are more pressing matters,” he said, his voice clipped, almost dispassionate. He turned to Fen’Harel, his expression tightening. “As usual the Wolf is not forthcoming he has agreed to release the Tides.”

The reaction was immediate. A collective gasp rippled through the group—Andruil’s sharp inhale, Felassan’s barely audible curse, even Amathiral’s soft murmur of disbelief. Yet Ellana remained still, her focus locked on Fen’Harel, the rest of the room fading into a muted blur.

Fen’Harel’s jaw tightened, the muscles flickering beneath his skin. He didn’t look away, his gaze unwavering, heavy with unspoken weight.

His hand moved to Ellana’s arm. It was small, deliberate, like a thought made physical. It could have been steadiness. It could have been reassurance. She couldn’t tell. She only knew the warmth of it, how it seeped through the thin fabric of her sleeve, how it made her feel momentarily less adrift.

Amathiral saw. Her sharp eyes caught the motion. She said nothing, but her gaze stayed on Ellana, heavy and searching, lingering just a beat too long. Long enough for Ellana to feel it—not judgment, not approval, just the weight of being noticed.

Andruil, however, seemed not to notice. Her arms crossed over her chest, her expression hardening. “Releasing the Tides,” she murmured, almost to herself. Her tone was measured, but there was an edge to it—sharp and dangerous.

Felassan broke the silence. “Then we cannot wait,” he said, his voice low, insistent. “We need to strike June now.”

“And risk another war?” Amathiral countered. Her tone was calm, but her tension was clear. “If we moAndruil’s golden eyes snapped to Ellana, as though noticing her for the first time. There was something calculating in her gaze, but she said nothing.

Fen’Harel laughed then, the sound low and cutting, like a blade sliding back into its sheath. It wasn’t humor, not really—it was sharper than that, edged with something bitter. “Careful, Felassan,” he said dryly, his gaze flicking briefly to Ellana. “Your training’s effective enough. Effective enough that El-eena struck June. Tore his face with a crescent blade.”

The air in the room stilled. Amathiral’s breath hitched, her sharp eyes darting toward Ellana as if to confirm what she’d heard. Even Felassan’s usual composure cracked, his frown deepening as he glanced between them.

Ellana felt the weight of their stares pressing against her skin. Her fingers twitched at her sides, the memory of it rising unbidden: the blade in her hand, its curved edge catching the light, the sickening give of it as it bit into flesh. June’s shock, his face contorted not with pain but fury. She hadn’t hesitated. That was the part that lingered, the part she couldn’t reconcile. 

She hadn’t hesitated.

Fen’Harel continued, his tone as sharp as the smile that barely touched his lips. “It seems she learned something in her time here. Or perhaps she just has better instincts than we gave her credit for.”

“Is this true?” Andruil’s asked. 

Ellana opened her mouth, but the words stuck in her throat. True? What did that even mean? Yes, she had struck June. Yes, it had been necessary—or had it? Was it instinct, or something else? She wasn’t sure anymore.

Fen’Harel’s gaze lingered on her, unreadable. “It’s true,” he said, answering for her. “And it’s why we’re still standing here instead of somewhere far worse.”

Before the silence could grow heavier, Abelas stepped forward. His eyes were steady, sharp, and unforgiving as they locked on Fen’Harel. “The Tides are already in motion. There is no undoing what has been done. That is the barter he made for freedom.”

A fresh wave of silence settled over them, heavier than the last.

Andruil’s expression darkened. Her voice, when she spoke, was low and lethal. “An agreement?” she asked, her tone simmering with restrained fury. “Without consulting us? Without considering the consequences?”

Fen’Harel’s hand dropped from Ellana’s arm as he turned to face Andruil. His posture was rigid, his voice even. “I considered the consequences.”

“And now you’ve delivered the entire realm into chaos,” Abelas said coldly.

The words struck like a hammer, the weight of them rippling through the air. Ellana felt it in her chest, a pressure building, tightening, though she remained silent. The group around her moved with precision, their words cutting through the stillness, sharp and deliberate.

Andruil turned sharply to Felassan, her tone brisk, edged with authority. “We move immediately,” she commanded, her golden eyes narrowing like blades. “I want a full report on the guard’s readiness by nightfall. Tell Ghilan’nain we ready.”

Abelas stepped closer, his tone clipped and firm. “And someone needs to contact Mythal. She’ll want to know what’s been set in motion here.” He didn’t look at Fen’Harel as he spoke, but the weight of his words pressed into the air between them, sharp and unrelenting.

Ellana stood frozen at the edge of the scene, her thoughts a tangled mess. Words passed between the others with rapid precision, their efficiency cutting through the heavy silence. But her focus had narrowed to Fen’Harel. He was just a few steps ahead, his back rigid, his fists curled at his sides as if holding something back.

“You’re leaving?” Ellana asked, her voice slipping out before she could stop it. It wasn’t sharp or accusing, but it hung there, soft and exposed.

Fen’Harel stilled. The others quieted. His shoulders tensed, and for a moment, he didn’t turn. When he did, his pale blue eyes met hers, and something shifted. It wasn’t hesitation exactly, but a pause, small and significant, as though he were recalculating something he hadn’t expected.

“You need to go with Amathiral,” he said finally, his voice softer than before, lacking the sharp edges he so often wielded. The warmth in his tone was subtle, but it was enough to make the others notice. Enough to make Ellana’s chest tighten.

“Fen’Harel—” she began, but he shook his head, cutting her off gently.

“You need rest,” he continued, his gaze steady on hers. “This isn’t your burden right now.”

The quiet affection in his voice slipped through, unguarded for just a moment. It wasn’t loud or dramatic, but it lingered in the air, unmistakable. Andruil’s gaze flicked to Ellana, her golden eyes narrowing slightly, though she said nothing. Felassan shifted, glancing away, his expression unreadable. Even Abelas’s jaw tightened almost imperceptibly.

Ellana wanted to argue, to tell him she was stronger than he thought, but something in his tone stilled her. There was care in his words, something tender woven into the command. It wasn’t weakness. It was something else, something harder to define.

“Go with her,” Fen’Harel said again, quieter now, his gaze dropping for just a moment before he straightened, the mask sliding back into place. “Please.”

That single word— please —unraveled whatever protest she might have made. There was no argument strong enough to pierce the softness in it.

Amathiral was suddenly at her side, her hand light but firm on Ellana’s arm. “Come,” she said, her voice gentle but leaving no room for resistance.

Ellana allowed herself to be guided away, her legs moving on instinct while her mind remained locked on Fen’Harel. He hadn’t moved, his posture still tense, his attention already shifting to the others. But she caught the briefest glance he gave her before she turned fully toward the estate. It was fleeting, but enough to leave a weight in her chest.

Behind her, the voices resumed—Andruil’s brisk commands, Felassan’s measured responses, Abelas’s quiet precision—but Ellana heard none of it. All she could feel was the warmth of Fen’Harel’s words, the quiet tenderness he rarely let slip, and the way it had shifted something in the air around them.

She could still feel the weight of his hand on her arm.

Amathiral appeared at Ellana’s side. “Come,” she said gently, her hand brushing against Ellana’s shoulder. “Let’s get you cleaned up.”

Ellana hesitated as Amathiral guided her toward the estate, her legs moving on instinct while her thoughts dragged behind. Everything around her felt too sharp, too fast—the clipped voices of Andruil and Abelas, the commanding urgency of Felassan, the quiet hum of magic that saturated the air.

Ellana glanced at her, the familiar profile of the woman who had once made this place feel almost like home. There was a warmth in Amathiral’s presence that cut through the cold knot in Ellana’s stomach. She hadn’t realized how much she’d missed it—how much she’d missed having someone to lean on, someone who wasn’t tangled in her confusion about what Fen’Harel meant to her, or what she meant to him.

As they reached the wide arch leading into the estate, Ellana let her eyes wander. The golden light of the gardens flickered against the long, elegant bridges, and for a moment, she almost felt safe. 

Almost.

Chapter Text

fifty-seven

Ellana had forgotten how to be touched.

When Amathiral’s fingers grazed her shoulder, light, tentative, Ellana felt the recoil surge before she fought it back. The touch wasn’t searching, wasn’t insistent, but still, her body locked itself against it.

They were in a small room off the main baths. An incised pool cut into the floor, deep enough that the water would reach mid-chest. The steam curled around them, the faint scent of herbs laced through the air. Amathiral had sat Ellana on a side bench, clucking over her wounds and blood covered skin. The clothes she had been wearing cut away on the floor in tatters. 

Amathiral’s fingers brushed over the jagged slice across Ellana’s palm, the torn edges of skin puckering slightly as they began their slow, imperfect knitting. Her brow furrowed, her lips pressing into a thin, grim line as she traced the wound with delicate care. The sharp scent of dried blood still lingered faintly in the air.

“This was deep,” she murmured, not to Ellana. It was as if she spoke to the wound itself. 

Ellana’s breath hitched as Amathiral tilted her hand, the motion catching the wound in the light. Her fingers were steady but firm, as though she could will Ellana’s body to cooperate through touch alone.

“It should have been stitched,” Amathiral said, her voice soft, holding no reproach, only a quiet regret. She reached for a jar of salve, its herbal scent sharp and bracing. Dipping her fingers into the thick balm, she warmed it between her hands before smoothing it over the wound in slow, methodical strokes.

Ellana hissed as the salve touched her skin, the sting sharper than she’d expected. Her fingers twitched, but Amathiral’s grip didn’t falter. “Let me finish.”

Her fingers moved next to Ellana’s thigh. Amathiral’s breath caught as she revealed the long, clean slice running along the soft, vulnerable interior. Any magic Fen’Harel had expelled had simply been a staunching method.  The bruising that surrounded it spoke of something harsher—a fall. 

A blade forced deep,

For a moment, Amathiral’s hands hovered over the wound, her expression shadowed. 

“You were lucky,” she murmured, her voice low, almost too quiet to hear. “Another inch, and this could have…” She let the words trail off, smoothing salve over the cut with the same deliberate care.

Ellana’s muscles trembled beneath Amathiral’s touch. “You don’t have to—”

“I do,” Amathiral interrupted, her tone resolute. Her fingers lingered over the wound as though she could will the body to heal faster.

The salve left the skin glossy and raw, the cut still red but sealed enough to keep the water from deepening the damage. Amathiral sat back on her heels for a moment, her gaze skimming over Ellana’s body as though cataloging the marks, weighing their meaning.

“Step in,” she said finally, her voice soft but firm. She helped Ellana to her feet, her hands steady at Ellana’s arms as she guided her toward the pool. “I’ve added herbs to the water to numb the pain.” 

Ellana hesitated, her body heavy and unfamiliar as Amathiral steadied her at the edge. The water steamed below, curling in ghostly tendrils that rose to meet her. Slowly, she stepped in, the heat climbing up her calves, her thighs, until she sank into the water with a low, shuddering breath.

As the warmth enveloped her, soothing the raw edges of her cuts, her mind began to wander. The pool’s surface rippled faintly, distorting her reflection into fragments, and she thought of other versions of herself—echoes stretched thin across the multiverse.

She imagined them: one holding her refusal a little longer, her voice sharper, clearer; another who hadn’t refused at all, her body unbroken but her will frayed to nothing. And yet another who had never been brought here, never crossed into this world. Ellana might be walking a campus now, her footsteps echoing in the clean fluorescence of a sterile hallway, calibrating telescopes and debating with Jack about the nature of bubble collisions.

And this one—this version of her, with her bruises and trembling muscles, her torn skin and hesitant breaths.

 Did she prefer this one? 

Amathiral knelt beside the tub, dipping a cloth into the water and wringing it out. Her movements were deliberate, the cloth smoothing over Ellana’s arms, her shoulders, the curve of her neck. When she reached the cuts, she worked carefully, her touch intimate in a way that made Ellana’s chest tighten.

When she paused, dipping her hands into the water to rinse away the salve, Amathiral made a low clucking sound, soft but sharp.

Ellana wanted to laugh at the absurdity of it, but the sound caught in her throat. Her fingers curled against her thighs beneath the water, the warm ripple of it doing little to quiet the unease building in her chest. She wasn’t used to this—the quiet kindness, the steady care. It unspooled inside her like a slow ache, unfamiliar and almost unbearable.

To someone tending to her like she was fragile. 

Like she was something worth repairing.

Amathiral’s hand lingered on her shoulder, the warmth of her touch a strange counterpoint to the cool air brushing her damp skin. She knelt by the tub, her expression soft but searching, her eyes skimming over the cuts and bruises that painted Ellana’s body.

“You don’t have to tell me,” Amathiral said softly, her voice steady but gentle. “But if you do, I’ll listen.”

Ellana opened her mouth, the beginnings of a word catching on her lips. “I—” she started, but stopped, startled by the sound of her own voice. Her fingers traced the edge of the tub, grounding herself in the solid curve of it, unable to say more.

What words could she offer? How do you explain the things you’ve endured when even your own mind struggles to shape them into sense? Pain has no syntax. Ellana thought, fleetingly, of something she’d once read—that pain demands witnesses, but it cannot be shared. It can only be borne.

Her fingers stilled, gripping the tub’s rim tighter.. She thought of June, his laugh wet and heavy in the air, the slice of his magic cutting through the spaces between her ribs. She thought of the sharp edges of herself, how they had been dulled and remade, how her body still carried his fingerprints like invisible ink.

Ellana inhaled, her chest rising slowly, as though she could fill the hollows with air.

The fragments of her escape came to her like flashes of light—sharp, bright, incomplete. The way June's Face had twisted, his eyes wide with shock as she drove the blade into him. The wet give of flesh meeting steel. The spray of blood, hot against her cheek, as his body jerked and howled and staggered.

She could still hear the rasp of his breath, the gurgle of the blood spray. 

Then there was the run. The mad, blind sprint through the twisting halls, her body driven forward by something primal and desperate. Her legs had felt like they might give out at any moment, her muscles trembling, she would have stopped had the Dread Wolf not urged her forward. 

And then—the room.

She didn’t know why the Eluvian was there. But she remembered it clearly: the stillness, the quiet after the chaos. 

The piles of paper flowers. 

They had been everywhere, scattered across the floor like fallen stars. Pale and fragile, their petals curled inward like fists, their edges frayed with time. Some were stacked in loose piles, others spilled across the room as though abandoned in a rush.They weren’t flowers, not really. Paper, brittle and ancient, their colors muted into soft shades of gray and sepia. But in the dim light of the chamber, they glowed faintly, as though the air itself hummed around them.

“They were in the room when we left,” she said suddenly, her voice quiet but pointed.

Amathiral’s hands stilled, her movements pausing mid-motion as she looked up at Ellana. Her expression remained calm, but her eyes sharpened slightly as Ellana continued in her explanation.

“The flowers we folded,” Ellana continued, her fingers tightening against the edge of the tub. “They were... everywhere in the room where we escaped. On the floor, in piles. She trailed off, searching for the right word. “What is the importance of the flowers?”

Amathiral’s hands paused briefly in their work, the cloth stilling as she tilted her head, studying Ellana with a sharpness that made her chest tighten. The moment stretched, silent and taut, before Amathiral set the cloth aside and leaned back slightly on her heels.

“The flowers were offerings,” she said finally, her voice quiet but deliberate. “Once.”

“To what?” Ellana asked, though she wasn’t entirely sure she wanted the answer.

Amathiral’s gaze flickered to the water, her expression unreadable. “To forces we thought we understood, but never really did.”

“You mean the Tides, don’t you?”

“You’re asking the wrong questions,” Amathiral interrupted gently, her tone carefully neutral. “And maybe the answers wouldn’t help you, even if I gave them.”

Ellana’s frustration bubbled beneath her skin, mingling with the heat of the water. “Then why did everyone react like that? When Fen’Harel said he’d release them?”

Amathiral’s lips pressed into a thin line. She picked up the cloth again, dipping it into the water and wringing it out with slow, deliberate motions. “Because the thought of power without limits frightens anyone who has lived too long,” she said softly, her voice distant.“What did the Lord say to you, Ellana? Why are you asking me this?”

The question hit like a blow, and Ellana froze, her breath catching in her chest. “He didn’t say anything,” she said quickly, too quickly. “I just... I want to understand.”

Amathiral’s hands stilled again, her gaze steady and piercing. “Do you?” she asked softly. There was no accusation in her voice, but the weight of the question made Ellana shift uncomfortably under the water.

Ellana’s lips pressed together, the weight of the statement sinking into her chest like a stone. But her thoughts, sloppy and restless, refused to stay in one place. They wound back to that moment, sharp and vivid, the image of Fen’Harel sprawled on the stone floor.

He’d been broken. Not in the figurative way she might have imagined before, but truly—physically—broken. His body a mess of red and raw, the outlines of his form blurred and grotesque, like something had tried to make him into pulp and only half-succeeded. She had stood over him, breathless, her chest heaving from the effort of her own survival, and for a moment, she’d felt the sharp edge of a question she hadn’t dared to voice.

Had he not suffered, too?

Amathiral exhaled through her nose, a faint sound that wasn’t quite a sigh. Her hands moved again, brushing over Ellana’s arm with quiet efficiency. “You don’t need to understand him,” she said, her voice soft but firm. “You need to think about yourself.”

Ellana glanced up sharply, her mouth opening to respond, but Amathiral wasn’t looking at her. The other woman’s hands were steady, focused, as though the conversation had already ended.

“Let’s get this cleaned,” Amathiral murmured, her tone turning practical as she dipped the cloth into the water again. “And then you can rest. You’re still healing.”

Ellana’s lips pressed together, her chest tight as she let the silence settle again. She knew what Amathiral was doing—shifting the subject, pulling her away from questions that wouldn’t be answered. But she was too tired to press further, too worn down to summon the energy to argue.

Her mind felt hazy, the memories of the flowers, of June, of the blade in her hand, blurring together in a tangle of sharp edges and faded colors. She let her fingers drift along the surface of the water, feeling the ripples they created, small and aimless.

The towel was soft and warm as Amathiral draped it around her shoulders, drying her arms and legs with quiet efficiency. Ellana didn’t resist, her body pliant in Amathiral’s hands, her mind floating somewhere distant and untouchable.

Her thoughts drifted to her dissertation—a meticulous, aching work on supernova stars, written years ago in the stark quiet of a university library. She had charted gigantic things and knew their weight intimately. She’d framed it clinically, of course—papers filled with graphs and equations, a language that masked the poetry of what she was really describing. 

Was her current circumstances truly anything different? 

The soft white fabric of the pajamas was cool against her skin as Amathiral dressed her, the motions precise and practiced. The tunic tied loosely at her waist, the pants pooling slightly at her ankles, both garments light as air.

Amathiral’s touch lingered briefly on Ellana’s face  as she finished, her fingers brushing the faint lines of fading bruises on her skin Her gaze flickered, but she didn’t comment. Instead, she guided Ellana out of the bathing room, her hand steady at Ellana’s elbow as though afraid she might falter.

The bedroom was small, dimly lit by the glow of the gold ornaments lining the wall. The sheets were clean and cool, their scent faintly herbal, like the bathwater. Amathiral pulled them back, her movements deliberate and unhurried, before helping Ellana ease onto the mattress.

Ellana sank into the softness with a sigh, her body heavy and uncooperative. She barely noticed when Amathiral slipped in beside her, the mattress dipping slightly under her weight.

“I was his once, June’s.” Amathiral said suddenly, her voice low and steady, as though the words had been waiting for the right moment to emerge.

Ellana’s eyes opened slowly, but she didn’t turn her head. She stared at the faint shadows on the ceiling, her body too tired to do anything but listen.

“Not by choice,” Amathiral continued, her tone even but carrying the weight of years. “He dressed me in gold and jewels, painted me with obscene lines and commanded me to do the most–” She paused.  “And when I wasn’t entertaining, I was...” She trailed off, the words hanging like a jagged edge in the air.

Ellana didn’t move, barely breathed, as though any motion might break whatever fragile resolve Amathiral had summoned to speak.

“It went on long enough that I don’t remember any of my life before arriving there” Amathiral continued, her tone more even now, as though recounting a story not her own. “Until the lordwon me in a card game.”

Ellana’s eyes opened, her breath catching at the stark simplicity of the statement.

“He never looked at me as he played,” Amathiral said, her voice growing softer. “Not once. June, of course, relished the game. He thought himself invincible. He wagered me as though I were a trinket, a thing to be passed from one hand to another. And the Lord let him think he was winning. Until he wasn’t.”

Another silence stretched between them, long and unbroken.

Amathiral shifted slightly, her arm brushing against Ellana’s as she settled deeper into the bed. “You don’t have to tell me what happened,” she murmured, her voice softer now, almost a whisper. “But I will stay with you tonight and any other until–” 

Ellana’s lips parted, but no words came. She closed her eyes instead, letting the quiet wrap around her. She felt Amathiral’s warmth beside her, solid and steady, and for the first time in what felt like an eternity, she let herself drift.

And then, without thinking, she reached out. Her arm moved slowly, hesitantly, until her hand found Amathiral’s. Her fingers brushed lightly over the older woman’s, trembling slightly, before curling around her waist in a quiet resolve to pull her close. 

Amathiral stilled, her breath catching faintly in the silence.

Chapter Text

fifty-eight 

It was difficult for Ellana to be active.

Not in the physical sense. 

More as the owner of her own life. 

She supposed this was to be the way of it in Arlathan, even if she had hoped for something—anything—that might shift the balance. The optimism, small and fragile as it was, had been rooted in the belief that she might find a shred of autonomy here. That instead of being wholly reactive to her circumstances, she might carve out some space to act of her own will.

It was easier now, though. For her to do simple things that reminded her of that tenuous sense of control: combing her hair, twisting it into elaborate braids, and pinning it with gold. 

Amathiral, watching from a corner of the room, seemed cheered by this. If anything, she found relief in seeing the clumsiness evaporate from Ellana’s hands. The sharp, awkward movements that had once betrayed her unease now softened into something more deliberate, more sure.

“Better,” Amathiral remarked softly, her voice carrying the faintest hint of approval.

Ellana didn’t look up, her fingers still busy with the final braid. “Better?” she echoed, her tone neutral but tinged with curiosity.

The two silent women that followed Amathiral everywhere smiled quietly. Covering their mouths as if to swallow their worlds. 

Still, Ellana longed. 

This was a simpler feeling.

Mostly, she realized, it was the want—a craving, really—for a sighting of Fen’Harel.

The thought unfurled slowly, soft and unsteady, as though afraid of being seen too clearly. Her fingers brushed the edge of the thin, white blonde, braid she’d finished, smoothing the strands, but her mind had already drifted elsewhere. She tried to frame it clinically, as she might have when writing her dissertation: a simple curiosity, a need for clarity, a lingering question unanswered.

But the truth, raw and unsettling, had nothing to do with clarity.

She wanted to see him.

To measure the lines of his face against the weight of the decisions he carried. To see if the exhaustion she imagined in him matched the ache she carried in herself. A type of closure maybe. Intimacy? Certainly. 

She hadn’t seen him for days. Meals were eaten in silence, shared only with Amathiral, who had taken to pulling Ellana along the estate’s endless lines of quiet labor. The rhythm of chores became their conversation—sorting dried herbs, polishing brass fixtures, moving small baskets of fruit from one shaded spot to another.

Her lips pressed together as her thoughts spiraled inward, tightening around the image of him—wounded and raw, sprawled across the cold stone floor, a mess of red and ruin. She remembered the way he’d looked up at her, something fierce and desperate in his gaze that surpassed a simple need of survival. 

“Eee-llena?”

Amathiral’s voice pulled her back, steady and firm, but not unkind.

Ellana blinked, her focus snapping back to the room, to the mirror, to the faint reflection of Amathiral standing behind her. The older woman’s expression was calm but watchful, her gaze sharp enough to cut through whatever fog had settled over Ellana’s mind.

“I’m fine,” Ellana said quickly, too quickly. Her voice cracked slightly on the second word, and she winced. 

“Tomorrow, Felessan thought that you might resume training.” 

“Oh, right—” Ellana breathed. She shifted her weight, as if trying to ground herself. “I suppose that’s a good idea.” 

Amathiral tilted her head slightly, her gaze unwavering. “What do you want to do today? We could–”

“I want to go for a walk,” Ellana interrupted, her voice firmer than she expected. She straightened slightly, meeting Amathiral’s gaze in the mirror.

“A walk? We walk all the time,” Amathiral said, one eyebrow arching.

“No, it’s like... moving, but with purpose,” Ellana explained, gesturing vaguely, as if this would clarify her point.

“Yes. No. I don’t know. I just need to move,” Ellana said, exasperation creeping into her voice. She threw her hands in the air. “I want to see the gardens and enjoy them.” 

Amathiral’s brows lifted just a fraction, but she didn’t immediately respond. Her silence felt heavy, not with disapproval, but with something quieter, more contemplative.  “Alone?”

Ellana nodded, brushing a stray strand of hair back from her face. “I need to clear my head. I just—” She paused, searching for the right words. 

Amathiral studied her for a moment longer before stepping back, folding her arms loosely. “Very well,” she said softly. 

Ellana hesitated, then inclined her head in a small nod. It wasn’t freedom, but it was motion—the kind of slow drift galaxies make when they collide. A constant folding of one thing into another, the chaos too vast to notice in the moment. She was still caught in this gravity well, but the movement mattered, however imperceptible.

Amathiral offered a faint smile, through her eyes lingered on Ellana’s reflection. “His Lord Fen’Harel is meeting with Abelas.”

In the reflection, Ellana could see the small, betraying tremor of her hands smoothing the edges of her dress, the way her shoulders hunched slightly forward as if warding off a chill that wasn’t there. 

“I know,” Ellana interrupted gently, her voice steady. “I’ll be fine.”

Amathiral’s gaze didn’t shift, but her silence lingered, the moment stretching like a thread pulled taut. “What they are discussing is important.” she said finally, her tone light but deliberate. “I would not recommend–” 

Ellana’s lips pressed together. “I wouldn’t dare interrupt his Lord.” 

Amathiral inclined her head, a small, almost imperceptible motion, before she turned toward the door. Her hand rested briefly on the frame as though considering something, but she said nothing more. When the door clicked shut behind her, the silence felt heavier than before.

Ellana exhaled, her shoulders relaxing slightly. For the first time in what felt like days, she felt the faintest stirrings of ease. 

She walked out along the wooden bridgeway that cut through verdant stretches of plantlife. She couldn’t help but compare the last time she had ventured out. The hazy forms of spirits dancing along the edges didn’t strike any fear in her now. In fact, she welcomed them.

One hovered near her, its presence a faint shimmer of light that trailed just beyond her reach. It tilted its head—or what she thought was its head—before drifting away, dissolving into the foliage.

Ellana paused, resting her hands on the smooth wooden rail of the bridge, her gaze drawn to the lush expanse of the garden below. Vines twisted in intricate patterns, flowers blooming in bursts of vivid color that seemed almost too bright for reality. The air was thick with the mingling scents of earth and blossoms. 

There was beauty here. Not the kind you could name, not the kind that waited to be claimed. It moved in the air, hung heavy on the breath, a kind of sweetness that choked if you thought too long about it. 

A beauty that pulsed, that demanded nothing, but somehow, everything. 

It sat in the shadows, in the hazy edges where spirits flickered and whispered, where the green didn’t soften but sharpened, unruly. 

A beauty so full it hurt–and Ellana thought–fleetingly, that perhaps this was all beauty ever did. 

Back on Earth, herlife had been measurable. It had been telescopes and charts, coffee that was too bitter but kept her awake, late-night arguments with Jack over theories she barely cared about anymore. There had been gravity there, in every sense of the word. Rules she understood, forces she could navigate. A life tethered to something.

Here, everything shifted. Even the ground beneath breathed with a kind of intent she couldn’t trust. Her days in Arlathan were marked by the strange, the uncanny—gods that walked like men, flowers that hummed in the dark, the weight of magic pressing against her ribs like a hand that wouldn’t let go.

Did she want to hang on? 

The garden shifted around her, spilling into a patch of golden light that dappled the soft, uneven ground. There, among the wild and humming expanse, she saw them—Fen’Harel’s workers. Men and women, though their shapes glimmered faintly as if reality didn’t entirely hold them. Spirits, she realized again, or something close enough. They moved with practiced ease, pulling heavy fruit from the trees that hung low with the weight of their bounty.

The fruit glistened, dark and glossy, its skins catching the sunlight like polished glass. One worker knelt to gather what had fallen, brushing soil from the rounded surfaces with a care that felt reverent. Another hefted a woven basket, already brimming with fruit, its edges stained faintly from the juices that seeped through.

Ellana lingered, watching the quiet rhythm of their labor. One of them—barely more than a shimmer of gold and pale green—turned, catching sight of her. It waved, a broad, welcoming motion, as though she were an old friend.

Startled, she raised a hand in return, the gesture awkward at first but softening into something genuine. The worker smiled—or at least, she thought it smiled. Its features rippled faintly, the edges blurred, but the warmth was unmistakable. It bent again to its task, its movements fluid and unhurried, and Ellana turned away, her steps carrying her toward the estate’s main section.

She drifted more than walked, her thoughts tugging her in strange directions. The gardens fell away behind her, their hum quieting as the path widened into the familiar stone walkways. The estate rose around her like a quiet tide.

Her feet carried her without direction, but she knew where she was going. The Eluvian. It loomed in her mind before it came into view, its surface shimmering faintly even in memory. She wasn’t sure if her steps slowed when she finally saw it, or if the air itself grew heavier, holding her in place.

The mirror rippled, its surface too alive for glass. It didn’t reflect her face as she approached, though her movements caused faint disturbances in its depths. The edges of it seemed almost soft, as though the portal might fold inward at any moment and disappear entirely.

She stopped just short of the frame, her breath catching. The thought pressed against her like a living thing: home.

Back on Earth, this would have been the moment for calculation. A weighing of risks and possibilities. But here, in the charged quiet of Arlathan, the Eluvian didn’t feel like a portal. It felt like a question.

She remembered the last time she had passed through it—or rather, been pulled through. The dizzying blur of shapes and colors, the unmooring of herself from gravity, from reality as she knew it. When she had landed on the other side, she’d been scraped raw, her body and mind reeling from the transition. Could she survive it again? 

Would it even lead her back to Earth?

Ellana’s hand lifted, almost unconsciously, her fingers hovering just above the surface. The light beneath it shifted, as though reacting to her presence, but it held firm, unyielding.

Could she go back? Did she want to?

Her hand dropped, her fingers brushing against the edge of the frame. It was cold, colder than she expected. The chill was sharp and immediate, grounding her in a way she didn’t want to admit. The weight of the Eluvian’s surface, shimmering faintly, felt like the weight of a question too large to answer.

“You’ve been staring at it for a while,” came a voice, smooth and rich, from behind her.

Ellana turned sharply, her heart leaping to her throat. Andruil leaned casually against the doorway, her antlered mask casting jagged shadows across the walls. Her arms were crossed, her posture relaxed, but there was something in the tilt of her head, the glint in her eyes, that felt anything but idle.

“You’ll burn your fingers off if you touch it,” came Andruil’s voice, rich with humor, from the doorway.

Ellana’s pulse quickened, her chest tightening as the room seemed to shrink around her. She turned back toward the Eluvian, her reflection fractured and distorted in its surface. For a fleeting moment, she thought she could slip away, leaving the moment unfinished.

But then another presence filled the room.

Andruil’s soft laughter faded as Fen’Harel stepped forward, his blue eyes gleaming like something distant and untouchable. He stood there, a figure cut from silence, his gaze tracing the arc from her to the Eluvian and back again. His stillness was louder than any words; the way he looked at her felt like a hand pressed to her back, pushing her closer to the edge of something she couldn’t yet name. 

Ellana’s hand twitched at her side, as though reaching for something she couldn’t name. She wanted to speak, to explain, but what could she say? 

She had already been caught.

Chapter Text

               fifty-nine

Andruil laughed, the sound low and lilting, threading through the still air like silk unraveling. It was the kind of laughter that belonged to someone utterly untroubled by consequence, a sound that seemed to linger in places it didn’t belong.

“I didn’t mean to frighten you. Well,” Andruil added with a flick of her wrist, “not entirely.”

Fen’Harel didn’t react. His entire attention was fixed on Ellana, his expression unreadable beneath the shadow of dangling beads that obscured his forehead. The faint flicker of amusement in his pale blue eyes was the only clue that he was listening at all. As always, Ellana found herself struggling to gauge what he was thinking, as if his thoughts existed just beyond her reach, an unfinished line of text she could almost—but not quite—read.

Her fingers brushed absently against the edge of the Eluvian’s frame. The surface was cold, biting, but steady enough to ground her, at least a little. “I wasn’t—” she began, her voice faltering faintly before she stopped herself.

What had she been about to say? 

That she wasn’t trying to escape? 

Not that she even knew how to navigate the Eluvian, let alone activate it without magic. But that wasn’t what stopped her. That wasn’t what made her voice catch.

It wasn’t fear of punishment, surprising herself. What struck her most sharply was the sudden, inexplicable fear of leaving without explanation. The idea of hurting Fen’Harel clawed at her chest in a way she couldn’t name or place, a sensation more instinct than thought.

The last time she had stood before this particular Eluvian—if such a thing could even be said to happen—her mind had been consumed with escape. She had burned with the need to find her way home, spurred by the horrors she’d witnessed in June and Sylaise’s estate. The writhing bodies pierced through with thorns like grotesque pincushions haunted her still.

But now? She couldn’t deny it. She understood Fen’Harel’s cause.

More than that, she believed in it. Belief: quiet, invasive, like a low tide creeping in before you notice your feet are wet. It wasn’t something she chose so much as something she let happen—an unspoken agreement between what she had seen and what she couldn’t unsee.

“I was—” The words stuck in her throat.

“It’s alright, little thing,” Fen’Harel interjected, his tone soft, soothing, though his expression remained carefully neutral. His gaze hadn’t left her, steady and unyielding, like he was cataloging her response.

Andruil tilted her head, a sly smile curling at her lips. She stepped closer, circling Ellana with the deliberate grace of a predator. Her sharp eyes flitted over every corner of Ellana’s face. She did her best to allow her expression to soften, but could feel the heat of her face remaining from when the Dread Wolf spoke to her. 

“You were thinking of him,” Andruil said, her voice carrying a teasing lilt as she gestured lazily toward Fen’Harel. “Of course you were. It’s endearing, really. Almost tragic.”

“Andruil,” Fen’Harel warned, though a note of humor threaded through his voice, like a wolf amused by the antics of a cub.

“Oh, don’t look at me like that, Dread Wolf,” Andruil replied, her smile widening as she turned to him, hands clasped loosely behind her back. “I’m merely making an observation. She’s so very devoted, isn’t she? Like a little bird caught in your net, too frightened to fly away.”

Ellana’s cheeks heated up further, but she didn’t lower her gaze. Her grip on the Eluvian frame tightened, though her fingers didn’t tremble.

Andruil arched an eyebrow, her sharp smile softening slightly. “Defiant, too. No wonder you struck my brother so decisively.”

Ellana flinched, the memory flashing through her with the sharpness of a blade. The angry, jagged line carved up her thigh seemed to smart anew, a phantom ache that made her shift her weight. She could still feel the heat of the blood trickling down her leg

“Enough, Andruil,” Fen’Harel said, “You’ve had your fun.”

Andruil’s smile didn’t waver, though something darker glittered in her eyes—mischief, or maybe curiosity. She stepped back toward the Eluvian, her movements as fluid as water, never hurried.

“As you wish,” she said, her tone lilting with mock respect. “But don’t forget, old friend—the threads you weave have a way of tangling.”

She turned to the shimmering surface of the Eluvian and lifted a hand, her fingers brushing the glass-like frame. The portal flared to life, its silvery light illuminating her sharp features in stark relief.

She paused, glancing over her shoulder at Ellana one last time. “Take care, little bird. Nets have teeth.”

Andruil stepped through the Eluvian, the light swallowing her whole. The room fell silent, save for the faint hum of magic that lingered in the air, like an aftertaste.

Ellana let out a slow breath she hadn’t realized she was holding, her fingers still clutching the edge of the Eluvian’s frame. Fen’Harel finally moved, stepping closer to her, his pale blue eyes thoughtful and calm.

“She enjoys her games,” he said quietly, his voice gentler now. “Don’t let her get under your skin.”

“I won’t,” Ellana replied, though her voice sounded uncertain even to her own ears.

The Eluvian dimmed, its light fading until only their reflections stared back at them, faint and fractured. For a moment, Fen’Harel said nothing, his gaze lingering on her reflection as if it held answers he wasn’t ready to share.

The room was quiet now, save for the faint hum of the Eluvian fading into silence. Fen’Harel stepped past Ellana, his movements slower, less deliberate than usual. He reached up and removed the wig of beads from his head, letting it fall to the ground with a muted thud. Without it, he looked different. Softer. Less imposing. His shoulders relaxed, and the sharpness in his expression dulled as if a mask had been set aside.

Ellana watched him, uncertain. He seemed younger like this, more like the wolf-shaped man who had first offered her answers, rather than the Dread Wolf who commanded gods.

“I should have spoken with you sooner,” he said, his voice low and raspier than before. It startled her, this change in tone. She wondered if it was the sound of his real voice, unfiltered, or if it was just another layer of him she hadn’t seen before.

“It’s fine,” Ellana said quickly, her voice thin, the words escaping her before she could stop them.

“No, it’s not,” he replied, stepping closer. He reached out, his hand brushing her chin, lifting it gently. The touch was warm, deliberate, but light, as if he was afraid she might shatter. “You’ve been through so much—more than anyone should have to bear. I should have—”

Ellana pulled back, the motion instinctive, sharp as a flinch. His touch lingered like a faint echo before his hand fell to his side.

“I didn’t mean—” Fen’Harel said softly, his eyes flicking away from hers. For a moment, he looked uncertain, his hand curling loosely into a fist before he relaxed it again. He let the silence stretch between them, his gaze drifting to the dim surface of the Eluvian, as though seeking answers in its reflection.

She didn’t let him finish. Before she could think better of it, she moved forward, her hands gripping the edges of his silky tunic as she buried her face against his chest. His scent—like old wood and something sharp, almost electric—surrounded her. He stiffened, surprised, but only for a moment. His arms came around her, hesitant at first, and then tighter, steadying her as she began to shake.

For a brief second, he froze, as if unsure of what to do. Then his grip steadied, one hand splaying against her back, the other settling lightly at the base of her neck. He let out a slow, quiet breath, his chest rising and falling beneath her cheek.

Ellana sobbed into him, her body trembling as the weight of everything she’d held back poured out. The sound of it startled her, the rawness of it, but she couldn’t stop. She clung to him as though letting go would pull her apart completely.

Fen’Harel’s grip tightened imperceptibly. “It’s alright,” he murmured, his voice soft and quiet against her hair. “It’s alright, little thing. I’m here.”

His words barely registered. Her sobs filled the quiet room, breaking the stillness like cracks in glass. She hadn’t expected to cry. She hadn’t expected to feel this—vulnerable, raw, as though her skin had been peeled back to expose everything she tried to hide. The noise she made was foreign to her ears, too loud, too fractured, but she couldn’t seem to care.

Fen’Harel’s expression shifted, softening in a way that was almost imperceptible. His hand moved slightly against her back, a subtle motion, slow and grounding. He didn’t speak again, didn’t offer her platitudes or assurances, only held her as if it was the only thing he could do.

When the tears finally slowed, she didn’t pull away right away. She stayed there, her face pressed to his chest, her breath coming in uneven gasps. His hand stayed on her back, his touch steady but never heavy.

Ellana was the first to break the silence, her voice hoarse and almost a whisper. “I’m sorry.”

“There’s nothing to apologize for,” he said simply, his voice low, as if her breaking open was the most natural thing in the world.

Ellana stayed where she was, letting the quiet settle over them again. For once, she didn’t feel the need to say anything, and Fen’Harel didn’t push her to speak. He only held her, steady as stone, while the storm inside her finally began to quiet.

The Dread Wolf studied her, not just as though he were searching for answers, but as though he were waiting for permission to ask the question forming on his lips.

Then, quietly, “Were you trying to go home?”

Ellana’s breath hitched, the words striking her like an echo of something she hadn’t realized she feared. She blinked at him, startled, before shaking her head quickly. “No,” she said, her voice steadying as she forced the truth out. “I wasn’t. I mean… I wouldn’t even know how. And—” She faltered, dropping her gaze to the floor before finishing, “That’s not what I want.”

Fen’Harel watched her closely, his expression unreadable but achingly patient. When he spoke, his voice was quieter still, like a whisper carried through the Veil. “If you did, I would understand. You’ve been swept into something vast, something you did not choose. Something I did not mean for you.”

She frowned, shaking her head again. “You didn’t force me to be here.” This time she didn’t flinch when Fen’Harel reached to wipe away a tear. “Actually, I have no clue how I ended up here.” 

The god hesitated, his words careful and precise, the way he spoke when something truly mattered. “It was never my intention for you to be caught in this.”

“I don’t want to leave,” she said, and the truth of it steadied her. “Not yet.” 

He blinked, the faintest flicker of surprise passing over his face, like sunlight breaking through a clouded sky. His lips parted, but for a moment, no words came. Then, slowly, a smile began to curve at the edges of his mouth. Not a sly grin or a smirk of victory, but something warmer.

“You don’t even know what I ask of you,” Fen’Harel said, his voice low and rough, as if shaped by the weight of centuries. “And yet you make such a commitment.”

“Then show me.” 

Chapter Text

sixty

“It’s alright,” Fen’Harel urged, his voice low and soothing. “This Eluvian hasn’t been corrupted by June.”

Ellana stared at the shimmering surface of the Eluvian, its faint light casting fractured reflections onto the stone floor. Her fingers brushed against the frame again, the cold biting against her skin. “Are you sure?” she asked, the words slipping out before she could stop herself.

It wasn’t exactly prudent to question a god, she thought, but her doubts outweighed her caution.

“I am sure,” he said simply, his tone patient, as if he had expected her hesitation. He raised a hand, letting it hover just above the Eluvian’s surface. “Its magic remains untouched. It will be easier if we use this to travel to another one of my estates.”

Her stomach twisted at the mention of another estate. She hadn’t forgotten the horrors she’d witnessed at the last one—June’s warped creations, the endless echoes of pain woven into the very walls. But she nodded, swallowing her discomfort.

Okay,” she said, her voice tighter than she intended. She took a slow breath, forcing a neutral tone that landed more passive aggressive than anything else, “Whatever you think is best.”

Fen’Harel’s lips curved faintly at the edges, a ghost of amusement in his otherwise unreadable expression. “I hear the bite in your words, little thing,” he said, his voice low with something that almost sounded like humor. “But I promise you, this is the best course.”

His hand moved, his fingers brushing lightly against her waist. The touch was grounding, not possessive, but it still sent a jolt through her. 

“Let me show you instead,” he said, his voice dipping into something softer. “Some things are better understood through direct experience.”

Ellana nodded, unwilling to argue further, though the knot in her stomach hadn’t entirely eased. The Eluvian shimmered as Fen’Harel activated it, its light blooming outward in silvery ripples. She thought of Andruil’s teasing words, the faint taunt of nets have teeth, and shivered despite herself.

“We’ll step through together,” Fen’Harel said, as if sensing her hesitation. “I’ll guide you.”

She cast one last glance at him before turning to the glowing portal. “Alright,” she murmured, her voice steadier this time. She placed her hand against the cool glass, feeling the magic hum faintly beneath her fingertips.

And with a deep breath, she stepped forward.

The air changed the moment Ellana stepped through the Eluvian. The faint hum of magic faded into a dense, weighty silence, punctuated only by the faint crackle of torches lining the walls. She staggered slightly, her balance thrown by the shift, but Fen’Harel’s hand on her waist steadied her.

“Easy,” he murmured, his voice low, grounding.

She blinked, taking in her surroundings. They stood in the center of a vast hall, its ceilings arched and vaulted, supported by massive stone pillars carved with intricate patterns. The walls were lined with glowing sconces, their light casting long, flickering shadows across the marble floors. Everything felt heavier here.

Ellana’s gaze traveled upward, where faint figures moved in and out of sight, like ripples on the edge of her vision. Spirits, she realized, flickering in and out of existence. Some floated high above the room, their forms translucent and weightless, while others seemed to linger near the edges of the hall, their watchful eyes turned towards the windows. 

At the far end of the hall, a group of figures stood in a loose formation, their posture both alert and reverent. Their clothing was unlike anything Ellana had seen before—loose, flowing garments made of gauzy fabric that shimmered faintly in the torchlight. They wore collars and belts of gleaming metal, etched with runes, and golden circlets adorned their brows. Their skin, ranging from sun-bronzed to pale, seemed to glint faintly in the light as though touched by starlight itself.

When they saw Fen’Harel, they moved as one, bowing deeply, their arms crossed over their chests. The motion was fluid, practiced, and reverent, as though the act itself was a ritual. The silence deepened, as if the castle itself had paused to acknowledge his presence.

Ellana glanced at Fen’Harel, whose expression remained calm, almost indifferent. He inclined his head slightly toward the group, a gesture so subtle it might have been missed if she weren’t watching him closely.

“They weren’t expecting us,” Fen’Harel said quietly as they stepped into the vast hall. His voice was steady, almost casual, but there was a faint note of satisfaction in it, like someone returning to a space that had always belonged to them.

Ellana said nothing at first, her gaze sweeping the room. The ceilings soared high above them, held aloft by massive columns carved with intricate floral patterns, their surfaces gleaming faintly in the light of floating sconces. The air felt dense, alive with magic that hummed just on the edge of her awareness. 

She couldn’t decide if it was comforting or unnerving.

At the far end of the hall, figures stood at attention, their presence both silent and commanding. They were tall, their bearing proud, and their clothing gleamed faintly in the flickering light. Long, flowing robes draped over their lean frames, secured by wide belts of hammered metal etched with runes. Circlets adorned some of their brows, while others wore narrow collars that caught the light with every movement. There was a sharpness to their discipline that made her think of soldiers rather than priests.

When they noticed Fen’Harel, they moved as one, bowing deeply in a way that spoke of long-practiced reverence. Their arms crossed over their chests, and their heads inclined with a precision that seemed to mark their every motion.

Ellana hesitated, caught off guard by the weight of their focus, even though it wasn’t directed at her. She still felt the tension, like an interloper in a sacred space she didn’t understand. One of the figures stepped forward, their movements smooth and deliberate. Their face was sharp and symmetrical, framed by dark, curling hair, and a sash of golden fabric draped elegantly across one shoulder.

“My lord, Fen’Harel,” they said, their voice carrying the precise clarity of someone unaccustomed to speaking out of turn. “Your arrival was unanticipated.”

“Things rarely go as planned, Varathen,” Fen’Harel replied smoothly, inclining his head slightly. His tone was calm, almost disarming, but there was an edge beneath it that Ellana couldn’t quite name. “Is everything in place?”

“Everything remains as you left it,” Varathen replied, but their gaze flicked briefly to Ellana, curiosity breaking through their practiced composure. Their eyes lingered on her ears for the barest moment before they returned their focus to Fen’Harel. 

Whatever thoughts they had, he kept it to himself. 

“Good,” Fen’Harel said. “See that we are not disturbed.”

The figure bowed deeply again, retreating to rejoin the others. Ellana let out a slow breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. The silence in the hall seemed to press down on her, magnifying every small sound, every movement.

“What is this place?” she asked, her voice soft, as they began walking again.

“My largest estate,” Fen’Harel replied, his tone quieter now, as if speaking anything louder might disturb the air itself. “It lies deep in Arlathan, beyond the reach of the others. The protections here ensure no one but me can enter.”

“No one?” she repeated, glancing up at him.

“Not even Andruil. Although she tried once while drunk, that was an easier time,” he joked, the words soft but heavy with implication. He leaned closer, his voice dropping to a near-whisper. 

They ascended a wide staircase, the sound of their steps muffled by thick, woven rugs that covered the polished stone. Ellana couldn’t help but glance back at the figures below, still standing in their disciplined formation, unmoving except for the faint ripple of fabric in the unseen breeze.

At the top of the staircase, a pair of heavy double doors awaited them, carved with intricate designs that seemed to shimmer faintly in the torchlight. Fen’Harel pushed one of the doors open with ease, revealing a gigantic room empty of furniture. 

Ceilings soared high above them, disappearing into shadow, their height emphasized by the faint glow of silver inlaid patterns that crisscrossed like constellations across the arches. Great columns of dark stone supported the structure, their surfaces carved with glyphs that flickered subtly across the surface as if reaffirming their solidness.

Ellana couldn’t help but spin in a circle. Her eyes take in the luxurious surroundings. 

 The far side of the room was lined with floor-to-ceiling windows, their sheer expanse framed by columns of dark stone that seemed to stretch endlessly upward. Through them Ellana could see a sea of flickering lights. The terraces were alive with movement—figures drifting between the gardens and open spaces, their forms graceful, indistinct from this height. Beyond them, the landscape of Arlathan sprawled in all directions. 

From somewhere below, faint strains of music rose, threading their way through the still air of the room. It wasn’t loud, but it carried—a soft, melodic hum. The sound was hauntingly beautiful, with a rhythm that felt ancient, like it belonged to a time before words. It prickled at the edges of Ellana’s senses, filling her chest with a strange ache she couldn’t quite name.

The music grew clearer as she focused on it, and she could pick out fragments of voices, high and lilting, blending seamlessly with the ethereal strings and low, resonant hum of something deeper.

"It's beautiful," she murmured, more to herself than to Fen'Harel, though she wasn’t certain the word was enough.

He had followed her, his steps soundless as he came to stand beside her. “It is,” he said softly, his gaze fixed on the view below. His voice carried no surprise, only a quiet acknowledgment, as though the beauty of it was an inevitable truth. “The stewards play each evening. It is tradition.”

She frowned. “And what does it represent?”

“Freedom,” he answered, but the word carried a bittersweet edge, as if it had cost him more than she could imagine.

“For everyone?” she asked quietly.

He turned his gaze toward the horizon. “For those who survive to claim it.”

Ellana turned back to the window, her eyes drawn to the faint figures moving below, their steps graceful, their forms illuminated by the soft glow of the lights around them. The music seemed to rise and fall with their movements, as though the two were inextricably linked.

Fen’Harel gestured for Ellana to follow.  The floor-to-ceiling windows stretched endlessly,  revealing the breathtaking sprawl of Arlathan’s landscape beyond. Ellana trailed after him, the faint strains of music from below following her like an echo.

Half of her expected him to urge her into a dance. However, when they reached the windows, Fen’Harel stopped and inclined his head toward the horizon, where the lights of the estate began to fade into the natural contours of the land.

“Look there,” Fen’Harel said, his voice low but insistent, a thread of something unspoken winding through the words. Hand rising to point across the expanse. 

Ellana stepped closer, her brow knitting as her eyes locked on the horizon. The circles radiated a faint, otherworldly glow, their arrangement too precise, too deliberate, to be natural. The earth around them was charred and darkened, as if scorched by some ancient cataclysm. They resembled the aftermath of a great impact—concentric rings rippling outward, etched into the land like scars left by a celestial collision. The eerie glow spilled along the edges of the rings, tracing jagged fissures that split the ground, their depths vanishing into shadow as though the very earth had been torn apart by an unfathomable force.

“What are they?” she asked, her voice quiet, hesitant.

Fen’Harel didn’t answer immediately. His gaze remained fixed on the distant shapes, the moonlight carving his profile into something sharp, otherworldly. “Do you remember the string of metal Sylaise placed around my neck?” he asked at last, his tone measured, each word precise. “It comes from the same metal that composes that land.” 

Ellana stiffened. The memory rose unbidden—the glint of the chain catching the firelight, Fen’Harel’s shoulders held rigid under its weight, his expression an unbearable mixture of defiance and resignation. She had felt the wrongness of it.“I remember,” she said softly.

“Good.” Fen’Harel turned to her then, his pale eyes meeting hers. The moonlight softened his face, making it less severe. He almost looked vulnerable, though the sharp edges of his presence remained. “It was meant to bind me. Render me silent. It was Sylaise’s way of ensuring control.”

Ellana frowned, the weight of his words pressing against her chest. “And that chain came from there,” she said, her voice quieter now, as if speaking louder might solidify the terrible truth.

“Yes,” he said, his voice darker, quieter, like an echo from something far below. “Elgar’nan took something from each of us. A token of our power, a symbol of our vulnerability. He placed them there.” Fen’Harel gestured to the glowing circles, their faint light spilling out across the darkened land. “He called down a great stone from the heavens to shield it. Beneath that stone lies a place where no magic can reach. A cage of metal that strips even the most powerful of us bare. Flays us alive, leaving nothing behind. Not even a soul.”

Ellana closed her eyes, and the image took shape in her mind—a vast asteroid tumbling through the void, its jagged surface glinting with the light of distant stars. It burned as it tore into Earth’s atmosphere, a trail of fire streaking the sky like a wound torn across the heavens. The sound would come next, she imagined, deafening and cataclysmic, shaking the earth to its core. Cities crumbled beneath its unstoppable descent, forests ignited in an instant, and oceans rose in towering walls of water, futile in their attempts to drown the destruction.

“Why would he do that?” Ellana asked, her voice barely audible.

“To ensure loyalty,” Fen’Harel replied, his tone sharp, clipped. “To remind us, in no uncertain terms, that even gods have their masters.”

The words hung between them, the air around them heavy with their weight. Ellana looked back to the circles. What had seemed like soft light before now felt menacing, the kind of glow that came before a strike of lightning.

“All I need from you,” Fen’Harel said, his voice soft but unwavering, “is to walk into that cave and retrieve my token.”

Ellana blinked, her gaze snapping to him. “That’s it?” she said, the words spilling out before she could stop them. It sounded so simple, absurdly so.

“That’s it,” he confirmed. A faint smile tugged at the corners of his mouth, but his eyes remained unreadable, shadows shifting behind them. “When the gods gather, after the tides shift, you will go unnoticed. They will not expect you. And unlike me, you will not be stripped of your strength. You will walk in, retrieve the token, and walk out.”

Ellana hesitated. It wasn’t the simplicity of his request—it was the emptiness around it, the unspoken risks lingering in the spaces he didn’t fill. She thought of Andruil, her sharp laughter laced with warning. Nets have teeth. And Amathiral’s steady voice: Beware of powerful men .

Her chest tightened. She thought about her dissertation, the unfinished chapters she’d left behind in Thedas. Equations half-solved, conclusions unformed. A lifetime of studying distant worlds and dying stars, of framing the universe into neat, explainable patterns. And here she was, staring at something infinitely older, infinitely more complex. How could she solve this puzzle when she hadn’t even finished the ones she’d started?

“What happens if I fail?” she asked, her voice smaller than she wanted it to be.

“You won’t,” Fen’Harel said, the certainty in his tone unsettling her more than the question of failure itself.

Her eyes flicked back to the circles. Their light pulsed steadily, implacable, like they were waiting for her. She pressed her fingers against the cold glass, her mind trying to find some pattern, some explanation that could ease the twisting in her stomach.

“How will I know which token is yours?” she asked, finally. “Or know where to find it?” 

“You’ll know,” he said simply. His voice dipped lower, softer, like he was whispering a secret just for her. “It will call to you.”

The silence that followed was broken only by the faint strains of music rising from the terraces below, a haunting melody that threaded itself through the still air like a tether. Ellana closed her eyes for a moment, the weight of his presence beside her grounding and suffocating all at once.

She opened them again, turning to meet his gaze. “Alright,” she said, her voice steadying. The word felt heavier than she expected, like a promise to herself more than to him. “I’ll do it.”

Fen’Harel’s faint smile returned, but this time, it held something warmer, something closer to relief. “Good,” he said, his gaze lingering on her like he could see the decision settling into her bones.

Below them, the music swelled. 

Chapter Text

                 sixty-one

Ellana barely touched her dinner. The plate sat in front of her, untouched, its warmth long since dissipated. Amathiral hovered nearby, clucking softly as she nudged a cup of sweet tea closer. The steam curled upward in thin tendrils, but Ellana’s focus stayed distant.

The gesture reminded her of a nursemaid coaxing a child, though she doubted Amathiral would appreciate the comparison.

A plate of fruit followed. Red berries glistening with a sheen of nut butter, a recent indulgence she’d admitted to enjoying. It felt calculated—an attempt to pull her into the present. Bribery, even.

It didn’t work.

“You encountered his lord, the Dread Wolf, on your walk.” Amathiral’s voice was low, her words less inquiry than assertion. A statement edged with the faintest note of warning.

Ellana’s gaze lifted briefly, startled but unwilling to betray it. “It was good to see him. There was much—” The sentence fractured, trailing into silence. She didn’t finish. She couldn’t.

Amathiral made a soft sound, not quite disapproving, not quite understanding. Ellana let it pass.

Her thoughts drifted, slipping away from the room and back to Fen’Harel’s puzzle. He didn’t understand what an astrophysicist was—how could he? Yet the riddle he’d given her straddled both their worlds. It felt deliberate, as though he had plucked a thread from her life and woven it into his labyrinth of schemes.

She thought of star cores, the unimaginable power they held. Metal forged in the hearts of collapsing giants, scattered across the void. The image of the meteorite flashed in her mind—those glowing circles, like scars etched into the earth by a celestial collision. She thought of the weight of that metal, the way it could strip gods of their essence.

King Tut’s knife.

Buried on his body in the neverending stacking dolls of sarcophagi in his misbegotten tomb in the Valley of the Kings. Deir-el-Medina.

She could see it clearly: the grainy image her undergraduate suitemate—now a bonafide Egyptologist—had sent her back in 2016, a welcome break from her doctoral lab. An article detailing the ancient dagger’s origins, its blade forged from meteoric iron. She remembered the text bubbling with academic enthusiasm, the marvel of discovering that the weapon of a boy-king had fallen to Earth from the heavens.

“It’s literally made from the stars,” the email read, the words alive with her excitement. “ They used to call it ‘iron from heaven’ or just ‘the stars.’ Isn’t that wild? They thought they were holding pieces of the gods! Whoever thought our research would have crossover appeal.”

Ellana had stared at the picture then, intrigued but detached, mulling over the absurdity of it. The thought of a pharaoh wielding a blade born from the stars had seemed almost laughable. A cosmic accident, dressed up as divine providence. She’d joked about it with her suitemate over email, teased her about how the ancients might have prayed to the stars for rain while holding a literal piece of the cosmos in their hands.

It doesn’t seem funny now.

If Ellana did return to Earth, she’d make sure to write to Allison and let her know. Might even make the journey to the Egyptian Museum in Cairo as a type of apologetic pilgrimage.

Amathiral’s sharp gaze snapped away from Ellana, shifting to the doorway. The change in focus was palpable, almost like relief, though Ellana wasn’t sure if it was hers or Amathiral’s.

“Did you eat?” Amathiral asked, her voice softening in a way that seemed almost out of character for her. The words were hopeful, almost tender. The caregiver in her, Ellana noted, was ever-present.

Felessan stepped into the room, his gaze flicking briefly to Ellana before settling on Amathiral. There was something in the way they regarded each other—subtle, restrained, but impossible to miss if you were paying attention.

Ellana was paying attention.

She wished they would kiss. A thought that came to her without mockery, only hope.

“Let me—” Amathiral rose and poked her head out into the empty hallway. Her muffled request for more dinner manifested quickly.

Ellana’s gaze fell to the spirit’s hands—or the suggestion of hands—where it held a plate balanced with deliberate care. The spirit stepped inside with a quiet, ethereal grace, presenting its offering without hesitation. The plate was a repeat of Ellana’s untouched meal: green vegetables arranged artfully but uninvitingly, a refrain of everything she hadn’t eaten earlier.

Amathiral poured a glass of red wine-like liquid for herself and offered a generous pour to Felessan. Their conversation unfolded between them, smooth and inconsequential. A melody of sound meant to fill the space. Ellana let herself sink into the rhythm, her thoughts circling back to Fen’Harel’s task.

Her gaze drifted to the edges of the fresco that surrounded them. The hand that painted it was now known to her. The Dread Wolf’s flat planes of color were unmistakable. At first, she had assumed it to be an imagined landscape, only now she could recognize the shapes that defined it. White lines forming circles along the edge of a meadow.

She still had trouble reconciling the story he had told her that afternoon.

Her training made her want to catalog the possibilities. Meteorite. Comet. Asteroid. All were different forms with different possibilities.

What had Allison written? “ They think it was meant for rituals. Maybe consecrating something—or someone? The pharaohs thought iron from meteors was divine, connected to the heavens. They didn’t just see it as metal. It was power. Imagine holding a piece of the cosmos in your hands and believing it gave you the right to rule!”

Ellana had rolled her eyes at the time, jokingly replying via text message: “Ah, yes. Space metal: the ultimate flex.”

“You were gone longer than expected,” Felessan said suddenly, pulling her back into the room. His voice was calm, but his words carried a quiet precision. He sat with the stillness of someone used to waiting, his gaze steady but non intrusive. “Where did you go with Fen’Harel?” 

“Nowhere in particular. We talked about…June’s.” The lie didn’t come easily to her even if it was partially based in truth. “He asked how my recovery was going.” 

Ellana’s fingers traced the rim of her cup, grounding her against the hum of the room. The silence between them buzzed with unspoken questions, heavier than any conversation. They wanted answers, though she couldn’t quite discern what they were after.

Amathiral rested her hands on the table, her posture relaxed but her eyes sharp. “We’re relieved you’ve returned for dinner,” she said, her tone light but probing.

 The image of Fen’Harel surged back, stark against a sky split wide—a figure who seemed capable of pulling the heavens down with his hands. A man wielding metal born in the heart of collapsing stars, its cosmic origins hammered into purpose. The absurdity of King Tut’s dagger rose to meet it, but the memory had shifted, reshaped into something solemn and sharp. Power restrained, power unleashed. The circles etched into the earth flickered at the edge of her mind, their glow pulsing with menace, and her stomach coiled in response.

Should she tell them? 

Amathiral and Felessan sat before her, poised and watchful, their intentions veiled. They spoke lightly, their words pleasant, but Ellana felt the undercurrent of their curiosity. She debated, the thought turning over and over like a coin in her mind.

If she told them, would it make the task easier? 

Fen’Harel’s certainty unsettled her. Walking in and out—it sounded simple, absurdly so. But nothing about the Dread Wolf was ever simple. 

And nothing about this felt right.

Even if she wanted to believe the best in him. Their spare kisses had meant something, hadn’t they? Those fleeting moments, stolen and delicate, had felt real in a way that nothing else did. The brush of his lips, the fleeting warmth of his hand at her waist—those weren’t the gestures of indifference. They had to mean something. Didn’t they?

And yet, meaning wasn’t the same as trust.

Her chest tightened at the thought, the weight of his request pressing against her ribs like a stone. She lifted her gaze, meeting Amathiral’s eyes briefly. There was no warmth there, no maternal softness—only a sharpness, tempered but unyielding, that spoke of someone who had learned to read others motivations like open books. Ellana glanced at Felessan next. He was quieter, less probing, but no less observant. His stillness made her uneasy, as though he could sense the currents of her hesitation without her saying a word.

They wanted answers, but Ellana wasn’t ready to give them.

 Not yet.

So instead, she said nothing. Somewhere out there, past the gardens and the whispering trees, the scars of a star’s death glimmered faintly, patient and eternal, as if waiting for her to claim what lay within them. The thought coiled in her chest, heavy and unshakable, the kind of weight that could only be carried alone.

Chapter Text

                 sixty-one

Ellana stared at her hands in the water. They were raw, blistered. The callouses she'd built up before had disappeared, replaced by a tender ache that spread like fire each time she flexed her fingers. The new set of knives Felessan had given her had been unforgiving.

Her muscles floated loose in the hot water, everything reduced to jelly. She wasn’t sure she’d manage to stand when it was time to get out and dry off. She missed books. The kind that pulled you under, deep enough to forget everything. She used to read anything, really—fiction, nonfiction. Nonfiction was her favorite, but she had a soft spot for women’s fiction, even the sappy kind. Back in her post-doc, she’d devoured entire novels in one night. Predictable plots, impossible love stories, neat little happy endings. She didn’t believe in them, not really, but she wanted to.

She would’ve killed for something like that now. Or at least mortally wounded someone.

Joking, obviously.

Maybe.

If she ever went home—and she wasn’t entirely sure she would—she’d spend a solid quarter of her paycheck at library sales, buying up used books by the box.

Maybe she’d even write a book one day. Something about Arlathan. A terrible one. She’d make it spicy.

An easy feat, considering how he looked at her.

Her mind caught on the thought like a loose thread. It had been days since she’d seen Fen’Harel, but the memory of his gaze lingered, sharp and heavy, like a mark burned into her skin. She could still feel the way his golden eyes had locked on hers, as if he were seeing something in her that even she didn’t understand.

Ridiculous.

She leaned back in the steaming water, willing herself to forget the weight of that moment. But it was no use. Her mind spun out an idea anyway, a story taking shape unbidden: a cloaked figure in the shadows, a forbidden glance, a slow burn of tension that unraveled into something inevitable.

Spicy, indeed.

She shook her head, laughing softly at herself. She didn’t have time for impossible love stories—not here, not now. And yet, the thought refused to let go, stubborn as a weed.

If she ever wrote a book, it wouldn’t have a happy ending. But it might have him in it.

“We need to prepare.” 

The words came out of nowhere and Ellana startled. Amathiral was staring at her from the adjacent seat.. Her face was red from the steam, her nut-brown hair plastered against her temples, making her look sharp and severe. 

“Prepare for what?” Ellana said. Her voice sounded dull even to her own ears.

“Court,” Amathiral replied. “You’ll be part of his entourage now.”

Ellana let her head fall back against the edge of the tub, her body sinking deeper into the water. Amathiral’s words settled in her chest like a stone, heavy and cold. Court. Expectations.

She stared at the rippling surface of the water, letting her mind drift. She thought about June’s estate, about the things she’d seen there, the things she still couldn’t name. Would the court be the same?

Amathiral stepped further into the room. Her gaze was sharp but thoughtful. “You’ll need more than knives and quick reflexes. The court is a performance. You’ll have to look the part, move like you belong.”

“I don’t know how to do that,” Ellana muttered, lowering herself into the water until it lapped at her chin.

“That’s why you have me,” Amathiral said simply. Her voice had softened, but her expression hadn’t. “We’ll start tomorrow. Dancing, poise, etiquette. And you’ll need clothes that don’t make you look like a stray pulled from the woods.”

Ellana shot her a tired glare. “Thanks for that.”

Amathiral didn’t react, except for a faint twitch at the corner of her mouth. “Time is running out, Ellana. If you want to survive court, you need to become someone they respect. And someone they fear.”

Ellana closed her eyes. The words weighed on her, pressing down like the heat in the room. Clothes, dancing, poise—it all sounded ridiculous, like a twisted version of a fairy tale she didn’t ask to be part of. But she didn’t have a choice.

“Fine,” she said eventually. “But don’t expect me to enjoy it.”

“I wouldn’t dare” Amathiral said.

_________________

The estate was in chaos. Ellana wasn’t used to it. For weeks, the place had been silent, subdued, a sprawling, empty thing she could navigate in peace. Now it was full—full of noise, full of people, full of purpose.

Servants moved in and out of rooms, carrying trays and bolts of fabric and strange, glittering objects Ellana didn’t recognize. Meals arrived like clockwork, and the dining hall was no longer quiet. She sat at the edge of it, listening to the clatter of plates and the rise and fall of voices that didn’t include her.

Amathiral, of course, thrived in it. She directed workers with a flick of her hand, her voice cutting through the chaos like a blade. She was everywhere at once, watching, commanding, ensuring everything was perfect.

Ellana wandered aimlessly one afternoon, trying to avoid the noise. She stumbled into a room she hadn’t seen before, one filled with fabric—racks of it, bolts of silk and velvet in every shade imaginable. Seamstresses worked in clusters, pinning and stitching, their hands moving quickly and confidently. The room smelled like dye and something faintly metallic.

“There you are,” Amathiral said, not looking up from where she stood beside a mannequin. “Come here.”

Ellana approached hesitantly, her arms folded across her chest.

Amathiral handed her a length of gauze, so light it barely felt like fabric. It shimmered faintly in the dim light, almost translucent.

“What am I supposed to do with this?” Ellana asked, holding it up. It was see-through—completely see-through.

“You’ll wear it,” Amathiral said matter-of-factly.

Ellana stared at her. “Could I maybe—cover myself?” She gestured vaguely toward her chest.

The seamstresses laughed, and Amathiral’s lips twitched into what might have been a smile. “Why would you want to do that?”

Ellana didn’t answer. She just held the fabric, feeling it slip through her fingers, light and fragile and impossible. She wanted to explain that an outfit like this would make it impossible to traverse the imprint to complete her quest. The words bubbled up, but she didn’t let them out. 

The next few evenings passed with Ellana standing in the center of a room, having fabric swatches thrusted up at her face. 

The next few evenings passed with Ellana standing in the center of a room, fabric swatches thrust at her face, and seamstresses pulling and pinning garments around her like she was a doll. They spoke to one another in clipped, hurried tones, each decision somehow more urgent than the last. She tried to tune them out, focusing instead on keeping her balance as pins pricked her skin.

Amathiral loomed nearby, silent but ever-watchful, her eyes sharp as knives. When she spoke, it was only to issue instructions, her voice cutting through the room like a blade.

Ellana’s patience had worn thin, her nerves raw. Each night she told herself she’d push through, but her exhaustion felt like an ache in her very bones.

And then, on the fifth evening, the air changed.The seamstresses paused, their chatter dying mid-sentence. The light dimmed ever so slightly, as if the very walls of the estate were holding their breath. A ripple of awareness spread through the room.

Ellana turned toward the doorway just as he appeared.

Fen’Harel.

He stepped into view, his movements fluid and deliberate, his presence filling the space like a storm cloud rolling in. His black cloak hung from his shoulders, brushing the ground, and his blue eyes seemed to catch every flicker of light.

The seamstresses shrank back, bowing their heads. Even Amathiral stiffened, her posture straightening as though she were bracing for a blow.

Ellana stood frozen, her heart pounding in her chest. Her gaze locked with his, and for a moment, the rest of the room fell away.

His eyes—sharp and unyielding, burning with some emotion she couldn’t name—bore into hers. It wasn’t anger, exactly, but it wasn’t kindness either. It was something darker, something older, like a shadow that lingered even after the sun had set.

She felt her breath hitch, the weight of his attention pinning her in place. She wanted to say something, anything, but her throat felt dry, the words caught somewhere between her thoughts and her tongue.

Fen’Harel’s gaze flicked down briefly, taking in the unfinished garment pinned to her frame, before rising again to meet her eyes. There was something almost imperceptible in his expression—a faint twitch at the corner of his mouth, a spark of recognition or amusement, gone as quickly as it came.

And then he moved on.

Without a word, without a pause, he turned and walked away, his steps silent but deliberate. His cloak swept behind him as he disappeared down the corridor, leaving the room in a stunned silence.

Ellana let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. Her heart still raced, her skin prickling from where his gaze had lingered. She glanced down at her hands, surprised to find them trembling.

Amathiral stepped closer, her movements careful, her voice dropping to a whisper. “Remember this moment, Ellana.”

Ellana looked at her, still shaken. “Why?”

Amathiral leaned in slightly, her words barely audible, her breath warm against Ellana’s ear. “When the Dread Wolf looks at you,” she whispered, “it’s never without reason.”

The weight of those words sent a shiver down Ellana’s spine. She glanced back at the empty doorway, her thoughts a tangle of fear and questions.

She could still feel the intensity of his gaze, the way it seemed to strip her bare, as though he were searching for something hidden deep within her. What had he seen? And why did it feel as if she were caught in the first act of a story she didn’t understand?

Amathiral’s hand brushed her shoulder, firm and grounding. “Be careful,” she whispered, so low that Ellana almost didn’t hear it. “Whatever he’s planning, it will change you. That much is certain.”

The seamstresses began to stir, resuming their work in hushed tones, as though they feared their voices might still carry to him. The tension in the room lingered, thick and suffocating, long after he was gone.

Ellana turned back to the fabric in her hands, but her thoughts remained far away. His presence clung to the air like the echo of a storm, impossible to ignore.

Somewhere deep in her chest, something stirred. She couldn’t tell if it was fear, anger, or something else entirely. But she knew, without a doubt, that her life had shifted.

Not with him watching.

Not anymore.

Chapter Text

Part 5

In the folds of dusk, the world tips toward silence. There is a moment—just after the sun has died but before the stars take their places—when the sky wears no color at all. Not black, not blue, but a tender nothingness, stretched thin over the horizon. It is said that in this brief absence, the gods pause their warring, their hearts hollow with the ache of their own design. Mortals, unaware, call it twilight.

Chapter Text

     sixty-three

Ellana wore a dress unlike any she had ever seen before. Jet-black beads were woven into intricate strands, forming a lattice that shimmered with webs of iridescent petals, each glimmering like trapped moonlight in the spaces between.

Amathiral stood beside her, her presence sharp and commanding. Behind her, the two silent women hovered like shadows, their expressions unreadable, their movements quiet as the air itself.

The ritual was underway. Long boats floated above the ground, their edges carved with faintly glowing runes that pulsed like slow heartbeats. Around them, people–physical bodies and spirits–moved deliberately, carrying mountains of paper flowers. 

Each flower was folded with precision—pristine white, deep red, gold, and soft lavender. They looked fragile, almost weightless, but the attendants cradled them as if they might shatter.

Ellana watched, her arms folded tightly across her chest. The flowers were loaded onto the boats in careful, spiraling patterns that seemed significant, though their meaning escaped her. Shestopped counting the boats, stopped trying to track the endless procession of flowers, the rise and fall of hands offering their delicate burdens. It reminded her, faintly, of the Iliad’s endless catalog of ships—a tally that stretched on so long it became meaningless, a blur of names and fates lost to time. 

She didn’t ask; nor had anyone explained. Amathiral had only told her, in clipped tones, that her job was to observe . She had done so, silently, for hours, trying to ignore the nagging feeling that she was missing something essential.

Standing there, she felt untethered, as if the ritual itself had unraveled time, leaving her adrift in something vast and unknowable.

The air smelled faintly of wax and ink, sharp and unfamiliar. The only sounds were the rustling of paper and the low hum of a chant. The boats themselves were otherworldly. They didn’t move so much as hover, suspended in the air by something unseen. As the flowers were added, they shifted slightly, lifting higher, as if the blooms made them lighter rather than heavier.

It was beautiful. 

Ellana couldn’t deny that.

 But it also felt strange and distant, as though she were an intruder watching a story unfold that wasn’t meant for her. Amathiral stood beside her, still and watchful, the two silent women at her back like shadows. Each of them carried a small bundle of flowers bound tightly with black cord.

Ellana tried to focus on the details—the colors of the petals, the faint shimmer of the boats, the rhythm of the chanting—but her mind kept returning to a single word: mystified.

She hated that word. It felt like an admission of defeat, a crack in the armor of logic she relied on to make sense of things. And yet, there it was, unavoidable. She didn’t understand the ritual, didn’t understand its purpose or its meaning, and that unsettled her more than she wanted to admit.

The chanting grew louder, and the attendants’ movements slowed, as though they were wading through water. Pale smoke began to rise from the boats, thin and curling, as if the flowers themselves were exhaling. The first boat started to ascend, drifting upward with eerie smoothness. The flowers on board glowed faintly, their colors softening into something luminous.

One by one, the boats followed, vanishing into the dimming sky. The smoke lingered, curling upward like it was chasing something.

And then, he appeared.

Fen’Harel stepped out of the shadows, a handful of paper flowers clutched in his hands. The blooms spilled over his fingers—white, crimson, gold—folded so delicately they looked as though they might dissolve under his touch. He was dressed in a quilted gold coat that shimmered faintly, catching the light of the runes.

The weight of his presence filled the space, drawing every eye, though no one dared to meet his gaze. Even Amathiral straightened, her expression sharpening with something unreadable.

Ellana’s breath hitched. She froze, her body rigid, her hands curling into fists at her sides. He didn’t look at her, didn’t acknowledge anyone, his focus entirely on the flowers in his hands.

She watched as he approached the last boat. His movements were deliberate, almost reverent, as he leaned forward and placed the flowers onto the mound already piled high. They settled into place as if drawn by some unseen force, their colors bright against the dark wood.

Her chest tightened. She hated herself for noticing the graceful way he moved, for the way her memory betrayed her. She thought of his hands—how they had touched her once, gentle and knowing. She thought of his kiss, the way it lingered, how it had felt like he was unearthing something in her she hadn’t known existed.

Fen’Harel extended his hand without a word. The flowers in the boat shimmered softly, their colors blending with the rising smoke. Ellana stared at his hand for a moment, hesitant, her thoughts tangled. 

Ellanafelt the others watching, but it was his gaze that pressed down on her, steady and impossible to avoid.

She reached out. His hand closed around hers. The wood of the boat was solid beneath her feet, but it felt impossibly light, as if it might dissolve if she shifted too quickly.

Amathiral followed next, her movements precise and deliberate, with Felessan stepping on board after her. The two silent women took their places at the back of the boat, their presence as steady and unobtrusive as ever.

Ellana stood near the edge, her fingers brushing the rail, and for a moment, she let herself breathe. The world below seemed to shrink as the boat began to lift, the hum of the runes growing faintly louder, wrapping around them like a heartbeat.

She felt weightless. Not just in body, but in the strange, inexplicable lightness that had begun to creep into her chest. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d felt something like this—not relief, exactly, but something adjacent to it.

Fen’Harel moved past her, his coat catching the light in rippling patterns, the golden quilting shifting like liquid. He stopped at the front of the boat, his back to her, one hand resting lightly on the rail. She watched him, waiting for some indication of what was to come, but he offered nothing.

She wanted to say something—to ask, to accuse, to know—but the silence in the boat felt sacred, unbreakable. Instead, she focused on the scene around her: the faint glow of the flowers, the smoke trailing upward, the world below fading into the distance.

The boat rose higher, and she glanced back at Fen’Harel. He hadn’t moved, but something about the set of his shoulders, the slight tilt of his head, made it seem as though he was aware of her watching.

The ache in her chest eased, just slightly, and she let herself breathe again. For now, she would focus on the flowers, on the way the smoke moved, on the feeling of the air growing thinner as they climbed.

 She wouldn’t think about his hand.

At least, not yet.

Chapter Text

     sixty-four

Ellana walks slightly behind Fen’Harel. Amathiral had prepared her for this. The gods would want to see the visitor from another world. Not because they cared about her—because they didn’t—but because she was a curiosity, a disruption in the order of their realm. A fissure.

She repeated the gods’ names silently to herself, her lips, some more or less familiar: Ghilan’nain, Andruil, Elgar’nan, Dirhamen, Falon’din…

…Sylaise and June. 

It didn’t seem fair to Ellana that she’d have to face them. Even more unfair that no one had acknowledged it as such. Even now, the Dread Wolf’s focus was entirely forward. Almost painfully. Shoulders square. Movements deliverted. 

Ellana wondered if this was his way of trying to make invisible, to fold her into his shadow and hope no one 

 Or maybe it was easier for him to pretend she wasn’t there at all.

Anxiety pulled at her chest in a painful burst. 

Where am I? 

The question rattled her back into focus. They had exited the boats and were in foggy terrain. Ahead of them, the mist seemed to part reluctantly, curling back like something alive. She couldn’t see what waited beyond, but she felt it: a dense, ancient stillness, heavy with expectation. It pressed down on her like a hand at her back, urging her forward while every instinct screamed at her to stop.

Fen’Harel slowed slightly, glancing over his shoulder. His expression remained unreadable, though his eyes lingered on her for just a moment longer than necessary. She thought she saw something in them—something close to hesitation—but it was gone before she could name it.

And then all of a sudden the world opened up. 

Not gradually, not like the slow peeling away of mist she had expected, but violently, all at once, like a curtain torn down in a single motion. One moment she was walking in the dense gray, her feet uncertain on uneven ground, the sound of her breath and Fen’Harel’s steps the only things tethering her to the present. The next, everything was light and air and space—too much of it, so much that she felt herself recoil, instinctively pulling back as if from a sudden drop.

The fog didn’t dissipate; it shattered. Fragments of it broke apart and scattered into the air, glinting faintly like shards of glass before vanishing. What lay beyond was vast, almost incomprehensible, like something that didn’t belong to any world she’d ever known.

Ellana blinked hard, her eyes struggling to adjust to the sudden brightness, the sharp contrast between the solid stone beneath her feet and the infinite void beyond. She felt as if she were standing on the edge of a precipice, the air around her impossibly still and heavy with expectation.

Fen’Harel stopped ahead of her, his figure stark against the overwhelming openness. For a moment, she thought he would keep walking, that he might leave her there to fend for herself. But then, slowly, he turned.

His gaze met hers, sharp and piercing, and for the first time since they’d stepped into this new realm, there was something in his expression that wasn’t guarded. His jaw tightened, and his voice, when it came, was low, almost a whisper.

“Ee-lena” The god interjected so quietly she couldn’t believe he was speaking. “They are watching,” he murmured, his words barely louder than the hum of the air around them. “Not all, but enough. They know you’re here.”

Her heart lurched at the thought, at the weight of invisible eyes fixed on her, picking her apart, judging every part of her that didn’t belong.

“But,” Fen’Harel continued, his voice softer now, intimate in a way that felt out of place against the vastness, “I am here, too. And I will not leave you.”

“Ok,” Ellana nodded. The other words wouldn’t come. “ Ok.” She repeated as the panic escalated. 

“Ok?” Fen’Harel repeated. It sounded like a question, but when she didn’t respond any further, he continued relentlessly onward and she obediently followed behind. 

Gods. The word bounced around her mind, absurdly small against the enormity of the moment. She was an astrophysicist—a scientist, someone who built her understanding of the universe through data, observation, equations. And now she was being paraded in front of beings described with a word that carried so much human weight but meant nothing to her work, her world. Again. 

She tried to parse it logically, because that’s what she did. Gods. What did that even mean ? 

She pictured gigantism first, the idea of massive bodies crammed into inadequate containers—like large men stuffed into small rooms, their elbows jutting awkwardly, their beards so comically long they swept the floor. Or the Shinto kami, which she respected in theory: gods of rivers and storms, quiet and diffuse, but never tangible, never this.

Because what was it, exactly? Not a man with a beard. 

Not something that could be painted in a Renaissance chapel or carved from stone. This was the opposite of logical, the antithesis of her tidy little equations and formulas, her comforting charts of stars and wavelengths.

Her work revolved around the observable, the measurable. A star collapsed into a black hole? Observable. The delicate interplay of gravity and dark energy? Measurable. But this? She couldn’t put it in a lab, couldn’t point a telescope at it. It didn’t fit into any framework she had, and that made her want to laugh—or scream.

And then, as if summoned by her spiraling thoughts, a golden castle emerged, stretching impossibly from the ground to the sky.

It was as if the world had folded in on itself, revealing this place that had been waiting just beyond the veil. The mist parted abruptly, like fabric torn by unseen hands, and the palace appeared—blinding, radiant, and utterly incomprehensible.

And yet, maddeningly, entirely observable.

The walls shimmered with a golden light that seemed to come from within, a liquid brilliance that shifted and flowed as if alive. The palace soared upward in impossible spirals, its towers twisting delicately into the sky, their edges so thin they seemed to cut into the clouds. The structure was both solid and ephemeral, every surface refracting light like it had been carved from molten metal and frozen in time.

Bridges arched between the towers, impossibly suspended, delicate as spider silk but holding steady against the vastness. At the base, grand staircases and arches folded into one another in intricate patterns that defied geometry. The air itself was heavier here, laden with something Ellana could only describe as presence.

Ellana stopped at the threshold, her breath catching. The gates were no gates at all—just an arch of shimmering gold, its edges alive with faint, undulating carvings. When she tried to focus on the details, they shifted, rearranging themselves in patterns her mind couldn’t track. It wasn’t just beautiful; it was disorienting, even hostile.

Fen’Harel didn’t falter. He moved through the arch as if he belonged here, his pace steady, his shoulders unyielding. For all his careful steps earlier, he seemed different now—bolder, sharper, as though something about this place demanded it.

Ellana hesitated, her legs refusing to move. The enormity of the palace pressed down on her, not just in scale but in meaning. It felt like stepping into a story, into a myth that had no place for her. But Fen’Harel had already crossed the threshold, his figure receding into the golden glow.

She forced herself forward, each step feeling heavier than the last.

Inside, the palace opened into a chamber that swallowed her whole. The ceiling stretched so high it disappeared into a haze of golden light. The walls shimmered and shifted like water, reflecting not her image but faint, flickering shapes—shadows of things she couldn’t recognize. The floor was smooth and cold beneath her feet, a perfect mirror that made it feel as though she were walking on air.

The chamber was vast and empty, save for a semi-circle of thrones set upon a raised dais. Each throne was carved from a different material—obsidian, crystal, ivory, metals she couldn’t name—and each seemed to pulse faintly, as if alive.

Fen’Harel stopped at the edge of the chamber, his posture rigid. He didn’t take a seat, didn’t even approach the thrones. Instead, he lingered in the space between them and Ellana; a silent figure in a place that seemed to reject silence.

At the center of the dais, one throne stood out above the rest—larger, darker, its surface catching and holding light in a way that felt deliberate. 

The green-black shimmer reminded Ellana of deep water, the kind that looks still on the surface but moves endlessly underneath, hiding everything it touches.

A woman sat there. 

Or at least a form resembling a woman. 

 She was the only other figure in the room, her presence so absolute that Ellana didn’t even notice the emptiness surrounding her until now. It felt like the space had been carved out around this one figure, as if the room existed only to hold her, contain her, keep her in place.

The figure didn’t move, but Ellana could feel her watching, the weight of her gaze pressing down without kindness or malice, just observation. Her skin seemed to glow faintly, catching the dim light and throwing it back in strange shades of bronze and gold, like metal heated just to the point of melting. Her hair fell in long, dark waves, shot through with streaks of green that looked alive somehow, moving faintly as though in response to some invisible current.

She was beautiful, but not in a way Ellana could process. Her features were sharp, symmetrical to the point of discomfort, as if a hand had sculpted her with precision that bordered on cruelty. Her stillness felt unnatural, like it wasn’t a lack of movement but the refusal of it, a denial of something Ellana couldn’t name.

With a sense of finality, the woman’s gaze fell on Ellana, sharp and deliberate, like the slow pull of a blade. It didn’t sweep over her, didn’t graze her, didn’t waver. It landed, rooted, as though it had always been there, waiting for her to notice.

The figure didn’t speak. She didn’t need to. The air between them thickened, grew heavy, an almost tangible thing pressing against Ellana’s chest, forcing her breath into shallow, uneven rhythms. It wasn’t malice, or curiosity, or anything so easily named—it was just the act of being seen, stripped bare and held still.

And for the first time, Ellana truly understood what it meant to stand before a god.

Chapter Text

sixty-four

The woman–goddess–Mythal–stepped down from her throne. Not as Ellana had expected—no gradual shift of weight, no subtle shift of breath—but in a single, seamless motion, stepping down from the throne as if gravity were merely a suggestion.

One moment, the figure was a statue carved from the idea of a woman, unreal in her symmetry, her stillness; the next, she was flesh and blood, unbearably present.

Ellana began to shake with it, struggling to decide what it was she was seeing.

Mythal’s gown moved first. The liquid sheen of it pooled over her body, shifting and folding like water over stone, like the surface of a lake disturbed by unseen fingers. And within it—reflected in the undulating ripples—Ellana glimpsed something in the reflection that should not be there.

Not this world. Not the golden palace. 

But a thousand fragments of somewhere else: flashes of towering trees with silver bark, of a sea dark as ink, of stars arranged in constellations Ellana did not recognize. The fabric bled through possibilities, absorbing and rejecting realities–never deciding which to keep.

Ellana should have stepped back. 

She knew this instinctively. 

This was a being that did not move toward others unless she intended something of them.

 And yet, Ellana remained rooted, caught between the desire to flee and the pull of something older, something that whispered, Stay.  Or was it the Dread Wolf’s voice whispering to the shell of her ear? Was that his hand gripping her arm in support, or an anchor? 

Mythal—because it could be no one else—stopped before her, close enough that Ellana felt the weight of her presence settle against her skin. Her hair, streaked with green that pulsed like veins of living light, drifted faintly as if stirred by an unseen current.

Then, without hesitation, Mythal reached out.

Ellana flinched, but the goddess’s fingers only brushed against her ear—tracing the soft curve where it should have tapered to a point. Her touch was impossibly light, colder than it should have been. 

Not entirely flesh. 

“Not ours,” Mythal murmured, and Ellana swore she felt the words slip beneath her skin, sinking into her bones. The goddess’s gaze was unyielding, sharp as a blade as she peered into Ellana’s eyes. “And yet—”

And yet—  The unfinished sentence pressed against Ellana’s ribs, deep and insidious. Recognition. Not ours. The words rang through her like a bell struck off-center, warping as they settled in her bones. She did not know what they meant, not fully, but she felt the judgment in them. She had spent her life chasing fragments of a lost past, a name carved in broken stone, a history told only in whispers. And here was the mother of all things, gazing upon her as something foreign. Something apart.

Then, just as suddenly as she had examined Ellana, Mythal turned.

To him.

The Dread Wolf had not moved since they had entered the chamber. His stance had remained rigid, his expression unreadable. But as Mythal closed the space between them, something flickered across his face. An expression broken open. 

Mythal did not hesitate. She reached for him, pressing her hands to either side of his face as though memorizing him through touch alone. And then, without ceremony, she pulled him into an embrace.

Ellana had seen Fen’Harel endure battles that would shatter others, bear wounds without flinching, and shoulder the weight of a thousand betrayals in silence. But she had never seen him like this.

It was like witnessing a lunar eclipse—sudden, inescapable, the moment when shadow devours light. Two planetary bodies passing in the endless night. 

At first, his hands did not reach for her. Then—slowly, almost unwillingly—his fingers curled into the fabric of Mythal’s impossible gown, sinking into its shifting patterns as though grasping at something already slipping away.

Mythal’s voice was quiet, yet it carried through the stillness. “ Are you ready to unleash the tides?”

Fen’Harel did not answer at once. His jaw tensed, his shoulders stiff with the weight of what was to come. For a moment, it seemed as though he might refuse, that the trickster would slip free from fate’s grasp one last time.

Ellana had known this moment would come. And yet, as she stood there, watching the inevitability of it unfold, she realized—

She had never truly believed he would say yes.

Chapter Text

     sixty-four

The ceremony doesn’t start right away. 

Or, at least, Ellana doesn’t think so. 

She has the distinct feeling that it has already begun, somewhere beneath the surface of things, where she cannot quite see. There is no clear declaration, no moment where silence falls and all eyes turn toward a central figure.

Narrative in Arlathan, Ellana has learned, isn’t linear but swirls. 

For whatever it is worth. 

The story begins not with cause and effect but with an image, a feeling, a name whispered through stone corridors. Memory does not hold steady. It unspools in loops, reshapes itself in the telling, obscures as much as it reveals.

She thinks of this when she tries to understand where she is, what she has become. One moment, she is standing in the golden hush of the Hall of Mythal, dust motes thick as pollen in the air. Next, she is elsewhere—another hall, another world, a place where time hums and contracts, where she is both seen and unseen.

Fen’Harel speaks, but she does not trust the order of things. The past and present fold into each other, his voice familiar and strange all at once. He has been here before. So has she. But when? Before the war, or after? Before she knew him, or long after Ellana has forgotten?

There is no answer. Only motion, only the churn of story.

The Sapir-Whorf hypothesis of traveling to another dimension. 

Transgressing time, maybe? 

Or maybe in this spectacle, Ellana no longer cared. 

The ballroom she’s found herself in is vast—so impossibly large that any type of measurement she tries to assign it to fail  Frescoes stretch across the ceilings, painted in pigments that shimmer and then dim. They do not depict a single story but an ever-changing cycle of them, a mythos shifting in and out of comprehension. 

Ellana looks up, and in one moment she sees a hunt—the Dread Wolf in his towering lupine form, his maw wet with blood. In the next, the scene has changed. Now there is only a woman, radiant and cold, standing at the center of a walled city as it crumbles in slow collapse. In yet another, something like a dragon. A beast’s claws curling around an entire village. Here–that might be possible. 

Mythal steps into the ballroom. Her gown pools behind her, a moving current of liquid metal and black silk, shifting as if spun from ink. She is resplendent, but Ellana’s gaze does not catch on her at first. 

No, it is the man at her side that she cannot look away from.

Elgar’nan , Fen’harel had whispered to her when he first came to stand at her side. The eternal father to Mythal’s mother. 

Her husband is caked in gold like lichen growing thick over the ruins of something once living. It has been applied to every inch of him, his bare chest cracked with the weight of it, as if he has been pulled from a tomb and dusted in wealth, something both decayed and eternal. And atop his head, he wears a horned helmet—so vast, so weighty, that no man should be able to hold it upright.  It curves like the ancient remains of some long-dead beast, curling over his shoulders.

Dancing erupts in a fevered frenzy. There is no measured formality, no slow bows and careful steps. It is something wilder. closer to ritual than performance. 

The room is packed with participants. Gods and their subjects. They do not move within the confines of rhythm. They break it.

Bodies twist and arc, bending time as they bend themselves, their movements untethered from gravity, from sequence. A woman spins too fast, and for a breathless moment, she does not land—she remains suspended, her silk-trailing hands painting whorls in the air before she vanishes into the next step, into another shape entirely. A man collapses into himself, becomes shadow, and then unfurls in the arms of another partner, now laughing, now gone.

Ellana sees the music instead of hearing it, ribbons of gold unraveling from fingers, from bare throats, from luminous eyes that hold too many reflections. A god catches her gaze and smiles, sharp as a knife’s edge, their lips parting to whisper something—except it is not sound that leaves them but a ripple in the air, a change in scent, a taste of honey and something burnt on her tongue.

The dance consumes the room. 

It consumes the night. 

Ellana isn’t sure she belongs here, except the Dread Wolf has latched his hand to hers, pulled her into his side. 

Watching, it undoes her to admit this kind of motion is possible. She has always thought in the language of mass and orbits, of gravity as law, of movement as the predictable arc of celestial bodies—fixed paths, measurable distances, a universe governed by forces she could name. But this—this is something else. The dance does not follow equations; it does not obey momentum or inertia.

And Fen’Harel—

He is laughing as he watches. 

Not the wry amusement she has seen in him before. He is giddy with no kindness. He moves through the revelry like a creature unleashed, his body a fluid extension of the madness around him. And in that moment, she remembers his wolf form. The way his shoulders had bowed forward, how his mouth had stretched too wide over glinting teeth. The way his fur had caught the moonlight, a figure pulled from the nightmare of a child’s story.

Was that his true form? 

Ellana thinks at this moment, it might be. 

She feels watching as the world blurs around her, as bodies twine together in the whirling dance of something too old, too powerful to name. And then—

A mask.

Not just any mask, but an imitation of a face she knows too well. Layered stone over an immortal visage.  June across the ballroom, standing among the dancers but unmoving. The mask obscures everything but his eyes, dark and fathomless, watching her with a patience that unravels something inside of her. A single thread pulled loose.

Her breath catches. The walls close in.

But before the panic can seize her, Fen’Harel hand moves up her spine. A steadying force. Fingers pressing lightly against the fabric of her gown, grounding her in the here and now.

Fen’Harel has not stopped laughing, not fully, but the sharpness of it has faded. When he speaks, it is not to ask if she is all right. He whispers instead, his voice curling around her like smoke.

“He cannot touch you here,” he says, his breath ghosting against her temple as he answers:. Almost pitying. “For all his hunger, here you are mine.”

Ellana’s fingers tighten in Fen’Harel’s grip. For an instant, she thinks of pulling away from the claim, but finds herself unable to. She’s unsure if it is from want or desire–his or hers. Or if the simple sentence is a spell of sorts. 

The music continues pressing against her skin like the warmth of a fever, the air thick with the scent of wine, sweat, something sweet and overripe. Across the ballroom, June remains still, an unmoving shadow in the churn of bodies, his mask impassive, unreadable.

She wants to pretend she has not seen him. But Fen’Harel’s words settle against her bones, unsettling in their certainty.

For all his hunger, here you are mine.

The claim lingers. It coils around her spine, cold and possessive, but there is something else buried within it—something that causes the space between her thighs to clench with want, mirroring the surrounding crowd. 

A goblet crashes to the floor, sending shards of glass skidding across the marble. The gods do not care. The servers step through the mess without hesitation, their marked faces impassive, their hands steady as they move with platters of golden fruit, of meats that glisten in the low light. More cups follow, discarded as soon as they are emptied. Ellana watches the liquid seep into the cracks, dark like old blood.

Fen’Harel releases her hand only to take up a glass from a passing tray. The movement is practiced as if he has done this a hundred times before. 

Perhaps he has. 

He turns it in his fingers, watching the way the thick, amber-colored liquid catches the light before offering it to her.

“Drink,” he says, amusement still laced through his tone. “Or do you think it will turn you into something else?”

She hesitates. Not because she fears poison. No, that would be too mundane. She hesitates because she doesn't know what she is in this place. 

What will the wine do to her if she is already unraveling?

Fen’Harel only smirks. “It won’t bite.” A flicker of something crosses his face—mockery, maybe, or something else. Something softer. “Unless you want it to.”

The pulse of the music swells again, a tide pulling them further in. The gods continue their dance, their movement a language all its own. Ellana sees Andruil’s lover presses her to the marble columns, mouths mapping the curve of her throat, fingers drawing lines of possession down her ribs. 

Another golden-skinned god with too many rings on his fingers leans back against a couch, a woman kneeling at his feet, her laughter sharp and bright. The walls flicker, the frescoes shifting—what was a hunt is now a burning, a city set alight, the figures within it frozen in their final moments.

Ellana turns the goblet in her hand. The weight of it is solid, heavy. The choice is hers, isn’t it?

She lifts it to her lips and drinks.

Chapter Text

sixty-five

..and drinks

Chapter Text

sixty-six

...and drinks

Chapter Text

sixty-seven

...and drinks

Chapter Text

sixty-eight

...and drinks

She had swallowed something she wasn’t meant to.

It slips through the cracks of Ellana's teeth. 

It tastes of honey and saffron, of figs left too long in the sun, of something darker beneath—like old wine, like rust. It coats her throat, seeping inward, sinking down. The world tilts, its edges fraying, a breath caught in the throat of the universe. Heat pools under her skin, slow and thick, curling in the hollows between bone and sinew. The taste lingers, an afterimage, too sweet, too sharp.

Something ancient moves beneath it—metal in the mouth, the taste of an old key, of a promise broken centuries ago.

Her pulse staggers.

Time splits like a fault line.

The ballroom is gone.

Or maybe it was never there at all.

She does not fall so much as she is unmoored. The floor is no longer beneath her feet, the walls no longer hold shape. The air is thick, dense, pressing in and pulling away in the same breath. Everything is dark, not with the absence of light but with the fullness of something vast, something so deep it swallows the very idea of space.

Then—above her, stretching across the heavens—a figure.

She’s back in the gallery where this all started, standing in front of a didactic.

The shift is so sudden, so complete, it almost doesn’t feel like a shift at all—more like a loop closing in on itself. The same fluorescent glare, too bright despite being dimmed. The same crowded displays, the pristine white walls suffocating beneath the weight of text panels and reproductions. The same stifling heat pressing against her skin, making the fabric of her dress cling.

She inhales sharply, her throat still thick with the taste of something sweet and metallic, something not meant for human tongues.

Jack is nowhere.

There is no trace of him, no murmur of his voice arguing about gravitational anomalies, no low chuckle at her expense. But she remembers. Remembers the way he had stood at her side earlier, all too pleased with himself, half-listening to her as he toyed with the idea of proving her wrong.

Remembers the moment she stopped listening to him entirely.

Remembers this exact display.

Nut, vast and arching, her body the curve of the sky itself. Deep blue, scattered with stars, a river of light pooling in the hollows of her limbs. Her fingers and toes press against the earth, her spine bending in an eternal bridge between worlds. The gold of her skin is faded in places, flaked away by time, but the vastness remains. A mother, a vault, a boundary between order and the unknown.

The text beside the image hums at the edges of her vision: The Book of Nut, originally called The Fundamentals of the Course of the Stars, focuses on the cycles of stars of the decans, the phases of the moon, the revolutions of the sun and the known planets.

The words feel different now. Heavier. As if they were never meant to be skimmed over in passing, never meant to be merely read but understood . As if she is only now seeing the shape of something that had always been there, waiting.

It is not a person. It is not a god, at least not in any way she has ever conceived of one. It is too large, too endless. Its skin is deep cobalt, shifting with the pulse of something alive, something greater than breath. It is covered in points of light, pinpricks of burning white and gold, like the night sky woven into flesh.

Ellana stares.

Her body—if she still has a body—drifts in the pull of something immense, something gravitational. 

She should be afraid, but there is no room for fear here. 

The figure is stretched impossibly, its hands and feet pressed against the edges of the unseen world. Its spine arches, a curve that follows no earthly form, bridging the horizon itself. The stars move across it—slowly, imperceptibly, a cosmic tide rolling in.Breasts rise like twin moons, luminous and distant, casting faint shadows against the celestial glow. The stars move across its skin—slowly, imperceptibly—a cosmic tide rolling in, spilling light over collarbones, down the gentle slope of ribs, pooling in the hollow spaces where breath should be.

Then, its mouth opens.

At first, she does not see what spills forth, only feels the weight of something descending, something being released from between celestial lips.

And then, it is light.

A drop of gold, no larger than a bead of molten glass, falling from above.

She knows instinctively that it is a star.

She watches it descend, watches as it grows, a furnace expanding in the abyss. The brightness is unbearable, its edges licking hungrily at the dark. It should consume everything. It should consume her.

But Ellana does not burn.

The star does not stop.

It passes through her.

And suddenly—

There had been six of them in the room, seated around the long, battered oak table that had been witness to countless defenses before hers.

Ellana had sat at the head, her laptop open before her, the glow of the presentation screen flickering in her periphery.

It had already gone badly.

She knew it the moment her adviser leaned back in her chair, one hand rubbing at her chin, her second reader flipping through her dissertation pages as though expecting to find something different, something better than what she had spent years assembling.

"Your work struggles whenever confronted with ambiguity," she had said last time they met to review her in-progress data.

Now, she said it again.

This time, in front of an audience.

Ellana exhaled sharply through her nose. “I don’t struggle with ambiguity,” she corrected, her voice tight. “I just don’t see the point in pretending we can measure what we can’t even observe.”

Her adviser’s lips twitched in what might have been amusement, though she suspected it was irritation barely dressed as patience. “Then why astronomy at all?”

A few of the others chuckled—lightly, almost reflexively. She is being ridiculous, the sound implied. She is being difficult.

Ellana bristled. “Because some things are observable,” she snapped. “Bolometric luminosity is measurable. We can map it, categorize it. Unlike, say, hunting for Dark Matter’s fingerprints in the cosmic microwave background like it’s some astrophysical ghost story.”

She wasn’t wrong.

She knew she wasn’t wrong.

But the looks exchanged across the table, the tight, professional smiles, the silent calculations happening behind practiced expressions—all of it told her she had already lost.

"Ellana," one of the committee members, a senior cosmologist, sighed. "No one is questioning your ability to quantify what’s there. The concern is that your approach is—” He hesitated, choosing his words. “Narrow.”

"Not broad enough," another chimed in.

"Not ambitious enough," her adviser added.

Ellana clenched her jaw.

She had spent five years building this dataset, combing through spectral readings, cross-referencing luminosity curves, perfecting the calibrations of thermal output. Her numbers were airtight, her methodology sound. She was not going to pivot at the eleventh hour because they wanted something bigger, something shinier, something more theoretical.

"It isn’t too late to rework this data," her adviser had suggested, smiling her usual tight smile. "Consider the ends or beginnings of different star types?”

"That’s the problem?" Ellana had said, her fingers digging into the edge of the table. “Supergiants are too mid-plot?”

A longer silence.

Her adviser’s smile did not waver, but the strain at the corners of her mouth deepened. Sh e flipped the cover page of her dissertation closed.

The tension in the room thickened, a shift in gravity.

Ellana already knew what would happen here.

She could map it as easily as stellar evolution. There was a pattern, a lifecycle. Stars were born, they burned, they dimmed, they collapsed. And when they collapsed, they did not always become something new.

She saw it unfold. The way her words would crack and splinter 

in the coming moments.

 A supernova’s death rattle.

She knew what would happen here, because it had already happened.

The star collapses.

The edges of her Ellana’s life curled like paper touched to a flame.

Chapter Text

sixty-nine

Ellana opens her eyes.

She recalls the gallery's harsh fluorescents, the white walls reflecting light until it became oppressive, like the weight of cathedral tunes.But this is different. This white is boundless, without shadow or contour. A blank canvas stretching infinitely, erasing the distinction between herself and the space around her.

Jack is speaking . "Infinite versions of us," he says, gesturing toward the painting. "Every possible choice, every variable—each one branches out."

Ellana isn't listening. Her breath catches.

She flexes her fingers. For a moment, they seem to glitch, not entirely here.

"Imagine," he says, "an infinite universe, as predicted by cosmic inflation. In such a universe, every possible configuration of matter occurs somewhere. This means there are regions, far beyond our observable horizon, where copies of us exist—living out every conceivable variation of our lives."

He gestures, as if mapping the cosmos in the air.

"Then there's the quantum perspective," he continues. "The many-worlds interpretation suggests that all possible outcomes of quantum events occur, but in separate, parallel universes. Every decision, every action, spawns a new reality. So, there are countless versions of us, each experiencing different paths."

His voice is steady, immersed in the explanation.

"And if we consider the ultimate mathematical multiverse," he adds, "every possible mathematical structure corresponds to its own universe. This encompasses all conceivable physical laws and constants, leading to an even broader spectrum of realities."

He pauses, letting the enormity of it settle.

"Infinite versions of us," he muses. "Each living out different possibilities, shaped by different choices and circumstances."

The ballroom is burning with pleasure.

The air is thick with incense, sweat, and the sweet tang of crushed fruit. Each breath she takes is laden with these mingling scents, grounding her in the present moment.

A hand clasps her arm—cold as the moon's blind side, sharp as the edge of a shattered vow, unyielding as fate's own grip. The world convulses—and Ellana wants to let it. Take her; smash her–whatever it wants. 

And then—

Fen’Harel extracts her from the fevered throng.

The echo of bodies pressed against bodies, a mosaic of limbs, lips, wet mouths parting in gasps. A slick heat still lingers on her skin, phantom touches imprinting themselves in ghostly rhythms. The scent of sweat and flowers flow in the air. Strings and cloth littering the ground. 

Fen’Harel’s grip does not loosen.

Ellana’s breath comes shallow.. She sways slightly, the absence of hands anchoring her suddenly unbearable. The room behind them writhes. A woman with braids heavy as chains arches against a broad-shouldered figure, her head thrown back in a mute offering. A pair of twins whisper into the hollow of a man’s throat, their fingers moving like water, like flame.

Ellana tilts her chin up, meets Fen’Harel’s gaze.

The muscles in his jaw are taut, restrained. 

The expression in his eyes is something unreadable—resentment, possession, or simple inevitability. He is still holding her. He has not let her go.

Her lips part, and she nearly speaks—nearly asks why —but then he moves. A single, deliberate step. His hand ghosts from her wrist to the bare curve of her elbow, and for the first time, his fingers press. Firm. Insistent. As though testing whether she will dissolve beneath him as she did beneath the others.

Fen’Harel exhales, something low and edged. His pupils are blown, dark pools swallowing the gold. A tendril of her hair is stuck to the damp of her collarbone, and before she can move, he reaches—tugs it free, slow and precise. 

His fingers graze her throat. 

Ellana does not look away.

His fingers linger for a beat too long against her throat, the whisper of touch more damning than any claim. Then, his gaze sharpens. Something shifts. His jaw tightens, his fingers flex against her skin, and he exhales as if extinguishing a flame.

“Not for us,” he says. “Not now.” 

His voice is quiet, resolute and then the whole world changes. 

Chapter Text

seventy

Ellana's eyes flutter open.

Morning light spills in, soft and unhurried, weaving threads of gold through the blinds. The air is the kind spit out by an air conditioner cranked too high. A window unit groans, and Ellana does too, rolling in a chenille blanket. The soft fibers brush her bare cheek, warm and comforting.

Arizona, she realizes.

Her studio apartment in Tucson.

She doesn't want to get out of bed, but her throat is parched. Dry as old parchment. The desert always smells of scorched earth and creosote—bitter and sharp, clean in a way that cuts like broken bone. Outside, a car drives by, blasting in a shrill discordant melody that doesn’t resemble music. 

Ellana closes her eyes again, letting the memory settle: cracked sidewalks radiating heat, cacti lined up like sentinels. Later, she’ll go to the store for a collection of sparkling water flavors. Maybe she’ll even brave the heat, open the window to feel the sun bake the sill—the breeze dry and gritty, stealing moisture from her skin.

Her fingers twist beneath the sheets, twisting. Her pulse thrums, quick and disoriented when she turns and collides with another warm body.

She turns cautiously—

Fen’Harel.

Not a breath away, lying on his side, one arm pillowed beneath his head which is bare of stubble–recently shaved—eyes closed, lashes dark. A faded Smashing Pumpkins T-shirt hangs loose on his frame, softened by wear, collar slipping to expose a field of pale freckles. 

Her breath catches. He looks—peaceful, almost. Human. Like any other scholar who’d fallen asleep after an evening of books and lamplight.

The thought slips in, absurd in its mundanity, and Ellana almost laughs.

She sits up too quickly, the world tilting, sunlight filtering through the curtains in pale, translucent veils. The sheet—white and sheer, embroidered with silver—pulls taut across her chest, pressing into the soft swells of her breasts. The fabric clings, half-transparent in the light, the coolness sharp against her warm skin. Her robe slips from her shoulders, baring the line of her collarbone, and her breath catches, shallow and uneven.

This is not her apartment in Tucson.

Her eyes flickered, breath quickening. No cracked sidewalks or rows of cacti, no dry breeze laced with dust. Instead, beyond the open window, a garden stretches wide—lush and fragrant, draped in morning mist. The air is thick with the scent of night-blooming flowers and salt, warm and oppressive. Her skin is damp, hair sticking to the nape of her neck.

She presses a palm to her forehead, breath hitching. Her head pounds, temples tight with the ghosts of too much wine, too many half-formed memories. 

The ache is real, solid, an absence that swallows—like a name forgotten mid-sentence, the gap between memory and loss yawning wide and hungry.

And then—

“Ee-leena?”

The Dread Wolf’s voice is low, rough with sleep.

Her spine goes rigid. She doesn’t turn.

The bed shifts with his weight. His warmth presses at her back.  Ellana draws in a breath, throat tight, and forces herself to look at him. His eyes are sharp, fixed on her face, cataloguing every detail—the tension in her shoulders, the way her hands tremble where they clutch the robe, the pulse beating too quickly at the hollow of her throat.

“You’re awake,” he murmurs, voice quiet and even, but there’s something raw beneath it—unsteady

Ellana's lips part. She swallows, her gaze skittering away—out the window, where sunlight filters through leaves, casting fractured patterns of amber and shade across the floor.

Her pulse flutters when she realizes—their hands are still touching. His fingers are curled loosely around hers, palm warm and solid, thumb brushing the inside of her wrist where her pulse thrums quick and uneven. 

She hadn’t noticed it before, too dazed by the dissonance of where and when and how, but now it’s all she can feel—his skin against hers, the faint, steady rhythm of his heartbeat where their arms touch. She doesn’t pull away, can’t seem to move at all, her breath caught somewhere between her ribs.

“I—” Her voice cracks, hoarse. She clears it, steadies herself. “Yes.”

A beat of silence stretches, taut and brittle.

He shifts, the sheets rustling, and for a moment, his hand moves—like he means to reach for her, to pull her back to the bed, to reality. But he stops, fingers curling into the blankets instead, jaw tight.

“Did you—” He hesitates, lashes lowering. When he speaks, his voice is quieter, softer. “Did you dream?”

For an instant—Ellana is surrounded by her Tucson apartment, morning light slicing through blinds. Books are stacked haphazardly by the bed, half-read, spines cracked. Her phone buzzes on the table, a reminder of some forgotten task at the lab.

And Fen’Harel—or a man who looks just like him–comes to her in a sudden vision. 

Spectacles slipping down the bridge of his nose, a scholar’s robes neat and immaculate. His fingers ink-stained, lips quirked in that faint, absentminded way. He lectures on the Sibylline Oracles over the rim of a chipped coffee mug, glasses glinting in the sun—the part about blazing stars raining sparks upon the earth, the sea boiling, and cities crumbling into dust, a world teetering on the edge of darkness. His voice is soft, almost wistful, tracing the verses about divine judgment and the silence that follows when the gods turn their faces away.

She blinks, and it’s gone.

Fen’Harel’s eyes catch the light—gold and endless, old as the sea. His head tilts, just slightly, brow furrowing.

“Little thing?” he presses, softer.

She exhales, slow and shuddering. Her fingers tighten on the robe, nails digging into silk. The world sways, light and shadow bleeding at the edges, and the realization hits—dizzying and cold. She’s never dreamed in Arlathan before. Not once. Every night has been a blank expanse, dark and endless, consciousness slipping away and returning without a single fragment to cling to. Until now.

“Yes,” she whispers. “I think—I think I did.”

Chapter Text

seventy-one 

Ellana knew the language of precisely mapping the cosmos

There was a particular beauty in the work, in the way something vast and lumbering—planets, nebulae, entire galaxies—could be reduced to numbers, transformed into something the mind could grasp. A flicker of movement across a spectrum, a shift in wavelength, a set of figures on a screen. To measure was to know, to make the infinite legible.

That instinct, that fluency, was what had her recognizing the lines being drawn over Fen’Harel’s body. The strokes were careful, deliberate, a script she did not know but could almost read. Amathiral and Felessan worked in silence, their hands steady as they painted, their attention wholly on him.

She was surprised to be here, to be permitted to witness it. And yet, she was incidental to the moment, as distant as an astronomer observing a celestial event—present, but unseen

Fen’Harel stood as they worked, his body a scaffold for the story being written over him. He had always been a creature of sinew and restraint, muscle coiled tight over bone, but now he was becoming something else. Not a man. Not a wolf. Not even a god, but the idea of one.

Gold first, dragged in long, deliberate strokes over the ridges of his ribs, the jut of his collarbone, the slope of his back. Not applied, but imposed. It caught in the hollows of his skin, in the places where shadows pooled, molten in the dim light. A script she did not know, but recognized. The shape of old things, made new.

Then red, richer, wetter, sinking into him as if drawn from inside rather than painted on. A pulse of color where his spine dipped, a spill of it at his throat. The pigments layering like sediment, like lacquer, like a second skin forming over the first. She thought of planets wreathed in dust, of nebulae bleeding out across a dark field, of how the act of looking could shape a thing, could change its name.

She should not be here. She knew that. This moment was not for her, and yet no one turned her away. No one looked at her at all. She was incidental, peripheral, the space around the event rather than the event itself. Like an astronomer staring into deep time, reading the past in order to guess at the future.

Fen’Harel lifted his head, and she saw it then—what they had made of him. A thing that had already been and was now being made again.

Amathiral’s hand found her wrist, light but insistent. A summons, not a command.

Ellana did not move at first. This was not hers. This ritual, this moment, the gold and red drying against his skin, the weight of what they were making him into. She had spent her life reducing vastness into something legible, but this—this was not for understanding. It was for becoming.

Amathiral said nothing. She did not need to. The silence between them was weighted, full of things that could not be spoken. Resignation, yes, but also recognition. A thread pulled taut between them, fragile but unbroken.

Ellana stepped forward, and Amathiral guided her fingers to the bowl of pigment. The red was still warm, thick as blood, clotted at the edges where it had begun to dry. It carried a scent—iron, something faintly acrid, something that did not belong to the world of ceremony but to the world of wounds. It clung to her skin, slick and final, like a seal that could not be broken.

She lifted her hand, weight dragging in her wrist, hesitation tightening in her throat. The muscles beneath her touch did not shift, did not yield. They were rigid, sculpted by tension, a body forged by war, by hunger, by a violence that lived inside him as much as it had ever been inflicted upon him. He was still as stone, as prey caught in the moment before the jaws close. Breath controlled. Waiting.

For what, she did not know.

She pressed her fingers against his ribs, against the place where the red had already begun to sink into gold. The color spread, bleeding through the cracks of the paint, merging in a way that was neither natural nor meant to be undone. The warmth of him beneath her hand was deceptive, like something breathing in the heart of a dying star. A slow burn. A collapse waiting to happen.

No one spoke. No one told her what it meant.

But she knew.

They were finishing something. They were undoing something.

He was being taken. Piece by piece, stroke by stroke, written over like a palimpsest. What had been a man, what had been a god, was becoming something else entirely.

And he would no longer belong to himself.

Or her

Ellana stepped back, breath shallow, fingers stained. Fen’Harel’s ribs rose and fell beneath the layers of gold and red, but his stillness remained—something held in place by force, by will.

Then he looked at her.

Not past her. Not through her. But at her.

The shift was imperceptible, a fault line widening beneath the surface. She felt it before she saw it—the change, the pull, the slow emergence of something wicked and wanting. His gaze settled on her like a hand at the base of her throat, not pressing, not yet, but present. He did not move, but she felt undone, the heat blooming low in her stomach before she could stop it.

She had read about this. Skimmed medieval texts written by men with ink-stained fingers, men who feared what they could not name. The body is a crucible. Desire is a transmutation. They believed in humors, in bile and blood, in the slow alchemy of heat transforming matter. But this—this was something else. Something colder.

His hand lifted. A single finger dragging upward, beneath her cheek. The pigment streaked across her skin, wet and warm, leaving a trace of red behind. It burned, briefly, or maybe she imagined it. A brand, a claim, an afterthought.

Then it was gone.

His hand fell back to his side. The wickedness disappeared. The god returned.

She had imagined it. Or she had not. Either way, it was over.

The headdress was lowered onto him—gold and black, heavy with meaning, the edges razor-thin, catching the dim light like the blade of a sickle. It framed his face, shadowed the angles of his jaw, transformed him further into something ancient, something distant. A metal band pressed against his brow, forcing his head high, as if demanding reverence even from the body that bore it. The weight of it was absolute. A coronation, a burial.

The scepter followed, long and lacquered, its dark wood inlaid with strips of ivory, glyphs carved so deep they seemed to pulse beneath his grip. A relic, a weapon, a key to something she did not yet understand. His fingers curled around it without hesitation. Not as if he were receiving it, but as if he had always held it.

And then they moved.

The doors opened. The air beyond them thickened, charged with something more than waiting. The whole estate had gathered. Bodies pressed close, shoulder to shoulder, murmuring low, their voices a tide pulling in. But they were not the only ones. The air shimmered with presences just beyond sight, the spirits and the living standing together in witness.

They led him down the stairs.

At first, the movement was slow, deliberate, a procession. The hem of his robes swept the stone, the air shifting as he passed. Then the pressure changed, like a held breath releasing. The crowd stirred—not forward, not back, but inward, drawn to the event unfolding before them. Some whispered his name, others knelt, others simply watched, their eyes wide, unblinking.

Ellana walked at a distance, unsure if she was meant to follow or merely observe. She felt the same slow pull that rippled through the gathered bodies, but she resisted it, feeling the wrongness of her presence now more than ever.

She thought of the manuscripts she had skimmed, the medieval diagrams, the tangled alchemical equations meant to transmute one thing into another. Matter is mutable. Divinity is a process. There was no single moment when lead became gold, when flesh became something greater, only a slow, unbearable shift until what once was could never be reclaimed.

The steps stretched long, endless. With each one, something was stripped away. His shoulders set harder. His grip tightened on the scepter. The weight of the headdress did not bow him, but it bound him. She saw the moment when the last of him—of the Fen’Harel she had known—slipped beneath the lacquer, the gold, the red.

She had the sudden thought that she was watching something be sealed shut—stone set over an open tomb, a door closing against the past.

He did not turn back.

He could not

Chapter Text

seventy-one

Ellana had expected a lecture from Amathiral. 

It did not come immediately. 

Instead, the woman—now her friend—had offered only a knowing, almost indulgent smile the moment Fen’Harel and Felessan had departed.

She could still remember how Amathiral had found her that morning: how her gaze had flicked over the tangled sheets, the shadowed imprint of another body in the space Ellana had left behind.

A single brow lifted. A wry twist of her lips. Nothing more.  Then, with a small, almost lazy shake of her head, she’d turned away, beckoning Ellana to follow— down corridors where morning light slanted through latticed windows, where the air smelled of incense and crushed petals,  into a room draped in white, its floor strewn with bright paper flowers.

The flowers were still there, scattered in baskets beside her. Amathiral had braided them into her hair, weaving strands of red, deep blue, and gold through the nearly white. The colors caught in the dim light and clashed with the weight still pressing against her ribs—the lingering remnants of the night before. 

Was she still dreaming?

She wasn’t sure she could tell.

Her eyes drifted to the paper flowers scattered across every surface. Their meaning remained unclear.

Ellana’s fingers curled as she looked at them, remembering the crisp folds and the slow precision of hands shaping paper into something weightless yet insistent—a structure meant to hold its form, but never truly hold. It was easy to believe in that promise: the permanence of a crease, the sharpness of an edge. But time unspooled it. Moisture softened it. A careless hand pressed too hard, and the whole thing collapsed. 

It was always like that. 

Even the most careful folds betrayed you in the end.

Just like the space between one world and the next.

One minute you were an astrophysicist on Earth, running models, measuring light, mapping certainty. Next, you were partying with the gods of another world.

“You look beautiful," Amathiral murmured as she loosened the tie of Ellana’s sash.

They were both dressed in white—identical in color, different in shape.

Amathiral’s gown was simple: a linen sheath that clung to the slim lines of her hips, held in place by two thin straps pressed flat against her chest. The starkness of it—the purity—made her seem more priestess than politician as she reached for another flower, turning it once between her fingers before setting it aside.

She stepped forward again, wrapping the white dress around Ellana’s frame—a match in color, but not in form. Ellana’s being softer. Its fabric draped rather than fitted. The thin linen gathered lightly at her waist before falling in loose, flowing layers to her ankles.

“Should I ask why you were in his Lord’s bed this morning?” Amathiral asked. Her eyes cast downward, voice tense. 

Ellana stilled. Her breath caught, but she didn’t respond.

Amathiral didn’t press. She turned back to the table, fingertips grazing the rim of a shallow bowl filled with petals. Her voice was even when she spoke again.

“Will you meet this evening?”

Ellana hesitated. “I’m not sure.”

A beat of silence stretched between them. Then Amathiral gave a small nod, as though that were the answer she expected—or the one she feared.

“All sorts of things happen during this ceremony,” she said quietly. “Old things. Binding things.” She looked at Ellana then, her expression unreadable. “It’s easy to lose track of what’s yours and what isn’t.”

Ellana turned to face her fully. “Are you warning me?”

Amathiral didn’t answer right away. She picked up a petal that had fallen to the floor, examined it briefly, then set it on the table with the others.

“I’m reminding you,” she said at last, not looking at her. “That not everything said under moonlight carries into morning.”

Ellana watched her, unsure if she felt chastised or protected.

Amathiral finally met her gaze. “That’s not a warning,” she added, her tone unreadable. “It’s just something I’ve learned.”

“We’ll watch the procession from the center of Arlathan,” she said, a brightness in her tone that felt strangely out of place.

Before Ellana could respond, Amathiral caught her hand and gave it a quick squeeze. A soft, girlish laugh escaped her—light, sudden, and unlike anything Ellana had heard from her before. It startled her more than the words had.

Without waiting, Amathiral tugged her gently forward, and Ellana followed.

They moved through the castle's winding halls, past tapestries rippling in a soft, summoned breeze, past servants in ceremonial white. Then the great doors opened, and the sound hit her first—not loud, but layered. Music, faint and strange, drifted on the wind: flutes, strings, and voices not quite human in their pitch.

She stepped out into the street and stopped.

The city was unrecognizable.

Bodies pressed together in slow, swaying movement—common folk, artisans, the old and young. Everyone dressed in shades of white or gold, faces painted or masked, eyes glowing faintly with reflected spirit-light. Flowers bloomed from baskets, doorways, braids. Incense burned at every corner—sweet and spiced, mixed with the salt of sweat, the smoke of cooking fires, and something older, metallic and sharp.

She had never been among them like this. Her time in this world had been stone corridors and guarded balconies, private gardens and whispered counsel. This—this was alive in a way she wasn’t prepared for.

She clung a little tighter to Amathiral’s hand.

Spirits moved among the crowd. Some shaped like animals, some like people, and others that flickered, half-seen—glimpsed only in the corner of the eye, then gone. The veil here felt thinner, more volatile.

Amathiral glanced back at her, still smiling, as if this were all perfectly natural.

Ellana said nothing. Her heart beat high in her throat.

As they stepped farther into the street, the crowd shifted. Not dramatically. Not like in stories. No trumpets, no gasps. Just a quiet, instinctive motion—bodies edging aside, conversations pausing mid-sentence, eyes flicking up and holding.

They recognized Amathiral. That much Ellana could discern. 

She didn’t announce herself. She didn’t need to. She walked as though the way would clear, and it did.

A pair of musicians stopped playing as they passed. One lowered his instrument mid-note, the bow still raised. Another woman—older, wrapped in layered cloth the color of bone—touched her fingers to her brow and dipped her head. No one said her name, but it hung there in the silence like incense—pervasive, half-sweet.

Ellana could feel the shift ripple out ahead of them, the knowledge passed hand to hand without a word: She’s here. She’s watching.

But then the attention turned, almost imperceptibly, to Ellana.

It wasn’t the same.

They didn’t recognize her. Not exactly. Not as a person. Not even as a figure of authority. She wasn’t a queen or a priestess or someone they feared. And yet—

People looked at her like they were trying to place something. Like she reminded them of someone they’d only seen in dreams. Or paintings. Or the last pages of old books no one read anymore.

A child—barefoot, face smudged—tugged at his mother’s skirt and whispered something. The woman looked up sharply and pulled him close, as though unsure whether to offer a bow or take a step back.

There’d been no singularity, no fixed point she could trace it back to. No prophecy, no ceremony to mark her as other. The shift hadn’t come from within—there was no flicker of magic, no sudden weight anchoring her to something larger. And yet, here she was, watched by people who saw something she couldn’t name, couldn’t calibrate.

She felt it pressing against her skin like static, like the charge before a storm. She understood enough of observation to know: sometimes the act of being seen changed the thing itself.

Maybe that was all this was. A different frame of reference. A different world, and she is the anomaly inside it. Ellana kept her face still. Not expressionless, exactly, but careful. 

Let them look. 

Even if such a concession was difficult. 

Ellana was used to watching, not being watched.

Amathiral tugged her hand, lightly, and they turned down another street—narrower, more crowded. A market lane. It surprised her. She hadn’t known a space like this existed within the city walls.

Here, the air shifted again, thick with smells—spiced oils, powdered roots, something gamey roasting over an open flame. The colors overwhelmed her at first. Dye-soaked fabrics in blood-orange and deepest violet rippled from tall racks. Tiny glass bottles lined vendor carts, each one glowing faintly with an inner light, like fireflies trapped inside.

A man crouched on a mat displaying scrolls—not vellum, not papyrus, but something that shimmered when it caught the sun. She couldn’t read the script. It pulsed faintly, like breath.

There were jars filled with pale blue ash. Carved bones wrapped in copper wire. Live insects in cages that clicked in unison, as if trying to speak.

She passed a stall where an old woman burned dried petals over charcoal, whispering into the smoke. Another where spices were heaped into shallow bowls—reds, blacks, ochres—each labeled in a language she almost understood, then didn’t.

And still, the people stepped aside for them.

Still, the stares followed.

Then the buildings began to change.

The shift was subtle at first: fewer hanging cloths, fewer open doors. The walls grew taller, smoother. Stone gave way to something almost translucent. Glass, maybe. Or something older pretending to be glass.

Ellana glanced up and felt her breath catch. Towers rose ahead of them, narrow as needles, glowing from within. Spires curved like branches made of frozen light. Arlathan’s center.

She had seen the city from above. Paintings the Dread Wolf had made on his walls. 

The crowd thinned. The air quieted. Every sound felt slower here, more deliberate, as though the city itself had become aware of their approach.

Ellana let go of Amathiral’s hand without realizing it. She took a half-step back and looked around, trying to anchor herself to something solid.

The crowd thinned. The air quieted. Every sound felt slower here, more deliberate, as though the city itself had become aware of their approach.

It reminded her, absurdly, of the Fourth of July.

Not the fireworks, but the hush just before—the crowd going still, heads tilted up, everyone waiting for the sky to break open. That moment suspended in possibility, heavy with heat and breath and the faint scent of burned grass.

She used to stand shoulder to shoulder with strangers on the lakefront, sandals sinking into the sand, the dark water behind her and the city lights flickering like an audience. That familiar ache in her ribs—the one that always came when something was about to begin and there was no turning back.

This felt like that.

Except now, the air smelled of incense and ozone.

There was no countdown, no shared anthem, no flash of red-white-blue to remind her who she was. Only the press of spirit and shadow, the glint of glass spires rising around her like frozen lightning. 

 The people beside her weren’t strangers, but neither were they hers.

 And the sky above wasn’t waiting to break open—it already had.

Chapter Text

seventy-three

The sky did not darken.

It split.

Not like thunder or weather. Not like anything she could name. A single, sudden fracture—clean, green, almost luminous—ripped across the upper air as if someone had drawn a blade through silk and let it hang open. It wasn’t violent or loud, but it changed the quality of light.

It was magic. Ellana didn’t need to be told. Not power—not spellwork—not command. But the raw, ambient presence of it. Her body recognized it before her mind could catch up—heart tripping sideways, breath shallowing, the skin of her palms tingling as if she'd just clutched a live wire.

Above her, the green light pulsed again—fissures widening, spreading outward like cracks in glass. No fire, no wind. Just light. Pure, unnatural, and exacting.

She felt herself sway. Not with fear, but with a kind of awful recognition. Somewhere inside her, something answered.

Ellana couldn’t move.

The sensation along her skin had sharpened into something stranger: a series of tiny, aching pinpricks, like desire reversed. Like the memory of being touched. Her whole body prickled, alive in the wrong places. A current coiled low in her spine.

She was beginning to float—she was sure of it—lifted from the crowd, from her body, from this world—

Then a hand closed hard around her arm.

Amathiral stood beside her, her breath visible in the thickening air. Her hair had come loose, strands clinging to her neck. The braid that had wound so precisely around her crown had unraveled, slipping down in wet curls. Her gown—white and modest—now clung damp to her chest and thighs, translucent in patches, stained by some strange dew. She looked like she had become a snake and molted.

Whatever remained was raw.

She held Ellana’s arm tightly. Her fingers dug in—not in panic, but certainty. Their faces were inches apart. Ellana could see the faint shimmer of sweat at Amathiral’s temple, the dilation of her pupils. Her lips parted like she meant to say more but couldn’t find the words.

Ellana’s breath caught.

This is when the parade began.

Not with trumpets, but with silence.

A breathless pause, heavy and full, as if the city itself had gone still. Then—slowly, inevitably—came the first note. A drum, low and resonant. Not struck but summoned, as though the sound had risen from the stone beneath their feet.

Another followed. Then another. Until the rhythm grew—pulsing, tidal, ancient.

A column of flame spiraled upward in the distance, signaling the procession’s start.

It began with dancers.

Dozens of them, bare-footed and cloaked in strips of gauze that shimmered with spiritlight, their skin painted in swirling glyphs. They moved in waves—bodies arching, curling, rising—arms sweeping like wind through tall grass. No two moved the same way, yet they were impossibly synchronized, bound by something older than choreography.

Behind them came the banners.

Silk the height of towers, dyed with symbols Ellana didn’t recognize—some fluid and floral, others stark and geometric. They caught the fractured green light and bled color into the sky. Each was carried by a masked attendant dressed in mirrored armor, reflecting the crowd back upon itself, distorted and luminous.

Then came the first float.

A platform shaped like a crescent moon, pulled by six horned elk with opal eyes. Upon it sat a spirit made of glass and fire, her form shifting between woman and flame with each sway of the elk’s gait. Around her, attendants cast petals—real, paper, and spectral—into the air. They hung there, suspended, before dissolving.

A chorus followed.

Their voices rose like incense—layered, echoing, sung in a language that bypassed the ear and struck straight at the bone. They wore masks shaped like bird skulls, their robes feathered, their mouths hidden, but their song filled the avenue like water pouring into a deep bowl.

Then another float. And another.

A golden serpent coiled around a tree whose branches dripped molten light. A garden carried on the backs of silent golems, each step leaving moss in its wake. A silver stag wreathed in a crown of thorns, its antlers lit with dozens of flickering candles.

Ellana watched, stunned. Each new vision eclipsed the last. The procession wasn’t moving forward so much as unfolding, like pages turning in a story too vast to be held in a single mind.

People danced in the street—some part of the spectacle, others swept up in it. Women balanced urns of smoke on their heads. Children rolled glowing hoops etched with sigils. Two men spun long silk ribbons that traced constellations through the air.

And then came the boats.

Hundreds of them. Thousands, maybe. Rising from nowhere, drifting on invisible currents above the crowd. They were made from reeds and lacquered parchment, shaped like swans, like leaves, like the ribs of ancient ships. Each one overflowed with paper flowers—red, gold, cobalt, violet. Some so intricately folded they seemed alive. Others crude but earnest, as though made by smaller hands.

They passed overhead like a river of memory. A fleet of offerings. Some burned quietly at their edges, never consumed. Some shed petals that fell on the watchers like snow.

Ellana felt one land against her chest. She caught it without thinking. It was warm.

And then, through the haze and heat and rising color, the parade parted.

The dancers stilled. The music slowed.

And the wolf arrived.

It towered above the crowd, its paws the size of wagon wheels, its body made of dark stone veined with light—green, gold, and something deeper, like old blood. It moved like a beast with breath, each step unnervingly soft, its joints flexing with eerie precision.

Upon its back sat Fen’Harel.

He was regal No crown. No mask. His skin painted in delicate traceries of red and ochre. But his skin--his glimmeringsskin—remained dusted with gold. Not in great sweeps or heavy layers, but brushed across the planes of his body like a benediction. It caught in the hollows of his collarbone, along his throat, across the long muscles of his arms. It turned him incandescent. His feet were bare. But there was nothing plain about him

As he passed, the crowd did not cheer. They watched. Like witnesses to something sacred. Or dangerous.

He did not look to the sides. Not yet.

The wolf climbed the ceremonial dais that had emerged at the far end of the avenue—sculpted from light and glass, it seemed, too perfect to have been built by hands.

And there stood Mythal.

She was still. Veiled in fabric so fine it looked like mist drawn over her body. Her hands were ringless, her gaze unreadable. At her side stood Elgar’nan, all rigid majesty and restrained power, his armor made of some metal Ellana had never seen, dark as oil with veins of burning amber.

They did not step forward.

They waited.

Fen’Harel descended.

He moved slowly, deliberately, bare feet silent on the luminous stone. The silence in the crowd deepened. Even the spirits hovering overhead seemed to pause, their forms flickering uncertainly.

He bowed to Mythal—not a nod, not a token gesture, but low and deep, one hand against his chest, the other extended.

In his open palm: a single red flower.

Paper. Flawless. Creased with painful precision.

He offered it like an oath.

Mythal took it.

And the moment shattered.

The crowd erupted—not in wild joy, but in exhale. Voices cried out. Instruments flared. Spirits spiraled into the air. Dancers dropped to their knees or burst into renewed movement, laughing or weeping or singing.

Fen"harel had touched her like he was memorizing her. Not with greed. With purpose. As though he knew this was the last time he would be allowed to.She had woken in his bed that morning. She had watched him dress in the half-dark. She had felt the drag of his fingers along her hipbone. A pause at the base of her spine. Something unspoken passing between them that neither had the language for.

And now, here, he bowed before a goddess. He offered her a flower--perhaps one of his own making.

Or hers. 

Ellana couldn’t move.

Somewhere in the heat and silence of it, a memory stirred. A classroom. Chalk squeaking against a board. She hadn’t wanted to be there. It had been a required course—Intro to Western Civilization. Classics and Translation. The professor had a voice like gravel and wore elbow patches.

She remembered how he wrote it out slowly, dramatically, as if it were revelation: Ille mi par esse deo videtur...

Catullus 51.

She’d been half-listening. Skimming notes on stellar drift under the desk. That day they read about a man watching a woman across the room, undone by the way she laughed. Pulse gone. Tongue numb. Limbs flooded with heat. Blind and deaf with longing.

At the time, she’d rolled her eyes.

Now it sat inside her, real and unbearable.

He seems to me equal to the gods, the man who sits across from you and hears you laugh...

Ellana swayed where she stood, overcome.

Beside her, Amathiral let out a sound—half-breath, half-sob—and whispered, "It’s done."

Chapter Text

seventy-four

Ellana wandered the meadows beyond Fen’Harel’s estate. Though calling it a meadow implied stasis. It was more like living terrain, shifting gently beneath itself, always on the verge of becoming something else. Wildflowers cracked open like novas across a too-green canvas. 

Bonfires dotted the unfurling meadow, each fed by bundles of meticulously folded paper flowers. As they burned, they released not ash but brief glimmers—gold sparks that hovered too long in the air before vanishing. Someone was laughing. Someone else spun in a slow, spiraling step, trailing ribbons of light from their fingers like thread pulled from the dark. 

No one came looking for her, and so Ellana let herself merge into the landscape. Became part of it, drifting like a dislodged astronaut. 

That afternoon, she had learned about magic. 

Not the sleight-of-hand of a conjurer, not the cheap thrill of a dove from a hat. Stranger. It moved like pollen or grief.  The euphoria was palpable. It felt less like revelation and more like remembering something your body already knew. She couldn’t help a half-hearted attempt that afternoon, watching the revelers, to summon light—but her body stayed dark. Still, she could feel the charge of it skimming her skin, as if the magic knew her even if it wouldn’t obey her.

And she understood, almost without thinking, how it powered the bodies around her into ecstasy.

At first, Ellana had silently protested the burning of the flowers. They seemed endless—too delicate, too carefully made to be tossed into flame. She herself had spent hours on them. Maybe days. Watching them catch fire felt violent. Wasteful. Like destroying a library for warmth. 

No one else seemed to care. 

That was the worst part.

Elllana had fought back tears as the fields glowed with heat. Paper blossoms curled and blackened, and still more arrived in armfuls—stems twisted with wire or blood-red thread. They burned easily, rising in quick, brilliant bouquets of light.

Then the field transformed.

Chiaroscuro embodied: light blooming out of flame, shadow pressed into every fold of silk and skin. The revelers moved like figures in a painting where the darkness wasn’t absence, but presence—just as alive, just as demanding, as the glow. Where the ash fell, the long grass twisted and curled into bloom—thick-petaled flowers in colors Ellana had no name for, humming faintly in the heat. 

She wasn’t sure what she was looking at. 

Only the knowledge that it wasn't an illusion. 

Ellana stayed where she was, half-dreaming. She wasn’t sure if the magic was good or if it only seemed that way from a distance.

 People danced closer to the flames, laughing, their bare feet smudged with soot and pollen. Someone poured wine over the fire and it roared skyward, red and gold, and for a moment the whole field smelled like honey.

Amathiral approached, brushing pollen from her hands. Her eyes fever-bright. She looked like a high teenager trying to explain the universe.Pupils burst open like an upturned urn. 

“It’s time to seed the earth,” she said, the words hurried. “You should find a partner—”

Her friend gestured toward the ruins, where spirit-lights drifted in the mist. “It’s not... it’s not like how they describe it in the texts,” Amathiral continued as if struggling with words. “It’s messier. Sweeter. Sometimes it’s just about giving yourself to the ground. Or to each other. Or—I don’t know.”

She laughed, unsteady, eyes clouded.  “Maybe it’s just fucking with flowers in your hair. Who cares?”

Ellana blinked. That last line— Maybe it’s just fucking with flowers in your hair. Who cares? —startled her. 

She hadn’t expected it. Not from Amathiral, who usually spoke in riddles or rituals. Who washed her hands with milk and lit candles without blinking. Who said things like the earth remembers with a straight face.

Now Amaithral was grinning, loose and half-luminous, high on wine and starlight. 

Everyone, Ellana realized, was probably a little drunk. 

Maybe a little enchanted. 

It was hard to tell the difference out here.

Amathiral tilted her head back and laughed. A petal stuck to her sweaty neck. 

Ellana still said nothing. Her fingers curled loosely at her side.

Around her, the field had changed. Pairs were forming—slowly at first, then with more heat, more intention. Laughter softened into murmurs. People pressed together beneath ruined archways, hands in hair, fingers grazing shoulders. Spirit-lights circled them like lazy moons. Even the air seemed to lean toward touch.

Ellana stood apart. 

Untouched.

She hadn’t expected to feel anything about that. But there it was: the ache. Small at first, then everywhere. She remembered, suddenly and completely, that she was a single speck dislodged from her own world, drifting through someone else’s ritual with no understanding of the script. 

The flowers kept blooming in the ash.

She felt not jealousy exactly, but hunger. The soft, terrible kind. The kind that curled low in the belly and whispered of skin and gravity, of being seen. She had been so long without it—without weight . 

And still: no sign of him.

Where was Fen’Harel?

That’s when he passed between them: a young man with long  hair, sun-bleached and coarse, tousled as if by sleep or ritual. He wore no shirt—only a fox-skin slung low at his hip, the pelt catching the firelight in quicksilver flashes. His chest was lean, dusted with sweat and ash, a shallow scar curving just beneath his ribs

Felessan.

Amathiral’s eyes caught fire. “Wait,” she breathed, already turning, her bare feet light in the soot and blooming grass. “Wait—”

And she was gone.

She moved like someone chasing a vision—half joy, half hunger. Ellana watched her weave through the dancers, sidestep a knot of spirit-lights, her white sleeves trailing streaks of ash. The fire cast her in gold and umber as she caught up to him.

Ellana watched as Amathiral reached for him, but before her hand could find his, he was already moving. Not away from her, but into something: the fog, the flowers, the curve of the ruins. He didn’t run. He simply stepped deeper into the world, and she followed without hesitation.

One blink, and they were both gone.

All that remained was the afterimage of motion—two shapes dissolving into the haze, as if the field had swallowed them whole.

And Ellana was alone again, standing still in her soft, white dress, listening for something that didn’t come.

Then, without deciding to, she began to walk.

It seemed simple all of a sudden. No mythic weight, no ceremonial cue. Just motion. Her bare feet pressed into the soft grass, through heat-cracked earth and ash. She passed a cluster of dancers near another bonfire—this one lower, smoldering, surrounded by limbs. A woman with blue-painted lips leaned back into someone’s lap, laughing with her whole throat. A pair kissed so deeply they forgot their hands were still casting light.

The air thickened with fog and sweat and smoke. Spirits drifted lazily between the figures like drunk moths. One brushed against Ellana’s shoulder and kept going. She didn’t flinch.

She wasn’t afraid of them anymore. She’d been here long enough to grow used to the hauntings—the soft-hovering presences, the scent of lilac and burning. Sometimes she even felt fond of them, like recurring footnotes in a long book.

She passed another fire, and another. The magic was wilder here. Less reverent. She saw someone vanish into a column of smoke and reappear laughing behind a veil of dark green leaves. Someone else was drawing glyphs in spit and gold powder on another’s stomach.

At the far edge of the clearing, just before the field gave way to slope and shadow, she found it: a sort of gazebo—cracked marble and open beams, half-grown over with flowering vines. It had no roof, only the suggestion of one. A ruin with the memory of purpose.

Ellana stepped inside and sat on the low stone edge.

From here, the whole field opened before her. Firelight. Flesh. Fog. Spirits like faint punctuation marks, drifting between scenes.

She stepped inside and sat on the low stone edge.

From here, the field opened before her like a page—bonfires pulsing like breathing lungs, bodies pressed close, spirit-lights drifting like pale comet tails through the dusk. Everything shimmered with heat, hunger, smoke. A ritual with no set liturgy, but a rhythm all the same.

Ellana rested her hands on her knees and tried not to disappear into it.

She thought of Betelgeuse—of red supergiants collapsing inward, their cores burning helium into carbon and heavier things. She had once written: They do not go quietly. Even in death, they perform. The outer layers swell and glow. They throw light for millions of years, long after the fusion begins to fail. Beauty, she had argued, was often a side effect of instability.

Watching the revelry below, she wondered if that applied to people, too.

Another fire flared. Someone sang into someone else’s mouth. A spirit arched above them like a ribbon caught in the wind.

She had no notes. No instruments. Just her body, soft and still in the white dress, and the steady knowledge that she was a speck—lightyears from the world she came from, touch-starved and slightly amused by the absurdity of it all.

Somewhere behind her, a footstep pressed into the grass. Steady. Unhurried.

Ellana didn’t need to turn.

She knew it was him by the weight in the air, the way the field seemed to bend slightly, subtly, as if making room. He didn’t announce himself. Didn’t shimmer or vanish or grin with too many teeth. He just sat beside her, his thigh brushing hers.

She had become accustomed to his heat.

Fen’Harel.

Not the Dread Wolf, not the trickster behind the veil. Just the mortal parts. She could smell the ash on him, the faint edge of sweat and night flowers. His face, when she glanced at it, looked newly scrubbed, as if he’d washed it too hard. The subtle layer of sun spots revealing that his body could, in fact, age. 

When he spoke, his voice was low like it hurt a little to use it.

“I told Amathiral to watch after you tonight,” he said. “Yet I find you alone?” 

Ellana snorted before she could stop herself.

Fen’Harel turned toward her, brow lifted.

“Well?” he asked. 

“Do you think I need a chaperone?”

“A chap-ee-rone?”

“Someone to watch me?” 

“Don’t you?” 

She tried to compose her face, failed, and laughed softly into her sleeve. “She was doing fine until a shirtless Felessan walked by.”

Fen’Harel blinked. “Ah.”

Ellana added, cheeks warm. “Didn’t even say goodbye.”

He exhaled through his nose—something between a sigh and the hint of a laugh. “Finally. That is good.” 

“I think she said something about seeding the earth,” Ellana muttered.

There was a beat. Then—

“Had you not thought of joining them?” he asked, his voice rough—too rough, like it cost him something to sound indifferent. 

Ellana didn’t answer right away. Below, a fire flared. Someone cried out—ecstasy or pain, it hardly mattered. The sound coiled upward like heat in her belly. The whole night shimmered with want—undirected, unashamed. 

“Why?” Her throat tightened. “Would it bother you if I did?”

The god didn’t answer. Only shrugged. 

When Ellana turned to glance at him, just barely, she saw it: the set of his jaw, the faint muscle twitch in his cheek. The jealousy wasn’t loud. But it was there. And it made something in her go very still.

“No one invited me to join them.” She teased. “All night.” 

Fen’Harel said nothing. But something in him was leaning, just slightly—like a star slipping toward orbit, helpless to its pull. Ellana wanted to reach across the distance. Just two inches. Maybe less.

“That is a shame.” 

“Shouldn’t a god be busy sowing?” she asked, thinking—wickedly, irreverently—of Zeus in heat, Zeus rutting in a field somewhere in the shape of a bull, chasing after virgins with thunder in his loins and the scent of ambrosia on his breath. A god’s appetite. Endless and unseemly. 

“There are no gods tonight,” he said—softly, almost to himself. “An old tradition. But perhaps a good one since even I tire.” 

She didn’t press him. Instead:  “Will you miss it?”

He turned to her, slowly. “Miss what?”

“Being worshipped.”

That crooked smile—barely there. “No,” he said. “But I miss being wanted without question.”

She let the silence settle between them like breath held just too long. 

It wasn’t uncomfortable.

Instead, it throbbed. 

“Join me,” he said, his voice a rasp, all gravel and starlight. A pause on the last syllable as though he wasn’t convinced she’d say yes. 

It made her want to even more. 

Ellana looked away and Fen’Harel  brought his hand to her cheek, slow and deliberate, letting the backs of his fingers graze the line of her jaw. It wasn’t a caress exactly. More like careful study–as if he might paint her portrait again. 

Ellana gasped at the contact—quiet, involuntary. The sound caught between them like a drawn breath.

His fingers stopped just beneath her ear, and she felt the warmth of his palm without it ever settling. Her pulse fluttered. Her whole body went still except for the tremble in her throat, the one she couldn’t will away.

“I’ve seen you blush before,” he added, his eyes still on her. “But not like this.”

Her whole body flushed. She hated how warm her ears felt.

“Maybe I’m not blushing,” she said, unconvincing.

“No?” he asked. “Then why won’t you look at me?”

She did. And he smiled like a man starving in the presence of fruit.

Chapter Text

seventy-five*

Suddenly, they were kissing.

It shocked Ellana how instinctively her body remembered: to rub up against him, to make his exhale stutter like he hadn’t meant to let it out. A sound that, in turn, hit her somewhere deep—low in the belly.

"Please," she said, pulling back.

The word erupted from her, half-invitation, half-plea.

Fen’Harel laughed, low and rough. The sound dissolved as his teeth grazed her jaw.

Ellana looked toward him. His face was flushed from her lips, which had torn along a field of freckles. There was a tightness in his jaw—not from anger, but restraint—like he was holding something in his mouth he hadn’t yet decided to release.

"Please, now," she repeated—the words greedy, automatic, like a trigger pulled. Her hands slipped beneath his tunic, fingertips skimming the warm skin just above his hips. She tugged at the fabric, trying to pull it over his head, but it caught at his shoulders.

She startled when Fen’Harel didn’t help.

His eyes tracked her hands but didn’t move. The corner of his mouth lifted—not quite a smile. A flicker, more breath than expression. His brows tilted upward the smallest amount, like a shrug he’d thought better of.

Amusement. Yes. But not unkind. Older than that. The kind of patience that came from having seen centuries of wanting.

Letting her think she was the one making demands.

And maybe she was.

But he was the one who allowed them.

Even stripped of the title for the evening, the Dread Wolf still radiated something vast—something that bent the moment toward him without effort. A god pretending, briefly, to be a man.

A supergiant pretending to flicker.

"So impatient, little thing," Fen’Harel chided. His voice was light, the air bouncing against the pulse at her neck. Ellana paused, hands still on him.

And in that pause, she felt it: the central difference between them, acutely.

To her, this moment burned. Immediate. Finite.

Time didn’t press in the same way for him.

There would be no immediate crescendo.

Fen’Harel lifted a hand—slow and deliberate—and brushed a strand of hair from her cheek. His fingers lingered, just barely, like he was taking the temperature of the moment—like he was deciding something. Then he stood. It was subtle. A subtraction. Like light leaving a room before your eyes adjust, or the ghost of a hand still felt after it’s gone. The space between them cooled—not just in temperature, but in texture. A thinning.

And Ellana—who moments before had been all mouth, all nerve, all forward movement—her body didn’t retreat with him. It hovered in want, caught mid-thought. Muscles tense with the shape of what they’d expected.

For a moment, she worried he’d changed his mind.

Or that the moment had passed. That she’d misread it.

"Does the stone not bruise you, little thing?" he asked.

Ellana blinked. Swallowed. Only then did she register discomfort: the twist of her spine along the uneven rise of the stairs, the cold bite of stone pressed hard beneath her shoulder blade. A dull ache blooming where she hadn’t noticed it gathering.

"I didn’t..." she began, but the words drifted, unfinished. "I didn’t notice."

And it was true. Until he asked, she hadn’t. Not because the pain wasn’t there—but because something else had eclipsed it.

She took his hand. Let him pull her to her feet.

Effortless. As if gravity answered to him.

It probably did.

They vanished and reappeared inside a shimmer: a soft, iridescent frame like oil on water. Everything around them flickered with color—blues and violets bleeding into gold. Specks of light drifted upward like ash in reverse. The surrounding air inside the rainbow shimmer was impossibly soft. Like dusk, distilled.

Ellana blinked. The bonfires. Beneath her feet. Tiny bonfires scattered through the field below, their sparks catching on whatever spell held them here, suspended above it all. The pigment from the flowers melting upwards into something approximate to a translucent glass floor.

Fen’Harel kissed her. Again.

It wasn’t gentle.

Ellana’s knees gave out.

He caught her easily—one hand firm at her waist, the other sliding up to cup the back of her neck, fingers threading into her hair. His mouth opened against hers, and his tongue slid in, tasting her like he intended to memorize it.

She moaned into him.

Couldn’t help it.

Everything was sensation: the crush of his body against hers, the warmth of his mouth, the pressure of his fingers. There was no question of who was leading, and for the first time in her recent memory—if not her life—Ellana felt entirely chosen.

She clung to him, one hand fisting in his tunic. Her body arched into his like it couldn’t bear the distance, not even a breath of it. And still—he didn’t rush.

He devoured. And when he finally broke the kiss, it was with a slow drag of his lips against hers.

Below, the bonfires danced in quiet celebration. Laughter, music, the scent of flowers and smoke rising into the sky. The others were scattered through the fields, lost in their own rites, their own intoxications.

Ellana glanced toward the horizon, then quickly back to him.

There was color in her cheeks now. Real color. She could feel it burning her up.

"So," she said, clearing her throat, "I understand this is an important part of the rite."

Fen’Harel’s grin spread slowly. Wicked.

He stepped closer again, and the air between them grew warmer. "Flesh in service of field. Pleasure in service of plenty."

She arched a brow. Her face was on fire. "Ancient wisdom, I assume."

"The oldest," he said, deadpan, as if the words meant nothing—except her beneath him. "Very respected."

A pause. Her lips curved, but the breath she took was shallow. The space between them had thinned. He hadn’t touched her again—not yet—but he didn’t need to.

She glanced at his chest, then away. "You’re taking this very seriously."

"It’s sacred work," he murmured, eyes never leaving her.

She laughed—too quickly. Then went still.

There was no language left for this. Not between them. Not now. They came from different worlds, and here, in this suspended shimmer of light and heat and magic, words only scraped the surface of what they both wanted.

Fen’Harel grasped her firmly.

Hands that had redrawn borders, rewritten histories, unmade kings. Now pressing into the soft meat of her hips.

Ellana felt it in her chest—how seriously he was taking this.

Not just the prospect of sex, but the surrender.

Hers and his.

Ellana’s legs were still trembling. An earthquake that threatened to unfurl throughout her entire body. A contagion of want threading through muscle and breath, threatening to unravel her entirely. It reminded her, absurdly, of gravitational waves—ripples in spacetime released by collision. Two massive bodies drawn toward each other, distorting everything around them just by touching.

She wanted him closer. Wanted to feel skin, not cloth. And maybe Fen’Harel sensed that, because he stepped back just enough for her fingers to find the hem of his shirt.

Ellana tugged, but the fabric resisted—caught on his shoulders, twisted where her grip fumbled.

"Sorry," she muttered, cheeks flushed with sudden embarrassment.

He didn’t laugh—just bent slightly, arms loose, letting her try again. She tugged his shirt off in clumsy fits, bumping into him, unsteady.

Fen’Harel stood bare to the waist, his shirt at his feet. Ellana had seen him like this before, but never like this. The light traced lean muscle, old scars, the pale map of a body shaped by purpose, not vanity. He wasn’t offering himself—just letting her look. And he was beautiful. Her gaze lingered, caught on the rise of his breath. The want hit low and hard. She looked away.

It didn’t help.

The scale of the moment hit Ellana all at once. If she turned and walked away, he wouldn’t follow. Not because she was unimportant—but because he was vast, and did not need to move to remain present.

And she would carry this moment in her body for the rest of her life.

Ellana startled. Her breath snagged in her throat, every muscle drawing tight as she realized her feet were no longer touching the ground. She wasn’t falling—he was holding her. Lifting her. It was subtle, effortless, like being caught in a current she hadn’t noticed until it carried her upward. Her body felt unmoored, suspended by Fen’Harel’s will alone, the world tilting into a slow, surreal float—like the weightlessness of dreaming, when direction loses meaning, and you rise without resistance or gravity to pull you back.

"Wait—" she gasped, voice sharp, instinctive.

"Let me," he murmured.

Ellana’s dress had tipped upwards. It clung to her in places—barely. Loose as breath. The rest gathered behind her hips like an afterthought, the fabric still pretending at modesty even as her body gave up every part of it.

Fen’Harel hadn’t pushed it away.

He let it hang there, reverent in its uselessness. Like a veil after a ritual. Like a curtain pulled open but not removed. She was half-covered, half-exposed, which somehow felt more dangerous than being naked.

His mouth moved lower, tracing the underside of her breast, his breath teasing the skin that her dress had failed to guard.

She felt the contrast—cloth and heat, silk and mouth. The tender geometry of being undone in increments.

Fen’Harel kissed along the edge where fabric met skin, tongue dipping beneath the loosened strap as if tasting the border of permission. Not tearing it away. Not yet. Just testing the tension.

He kept her there. Suspended.

Ellana froze—then flared. Every nerve surged to the surface. Fen’Harel bit just beneath the curve of her hip, slow and claiming, then licked over it with a softness that made her jolt. Not from pain, but from how quickly her body turned to heat. Wet. Wanting. His mouth was patient, almost cruel in its curiosity, like he was mapping out what would make her break.

Her head fell back.

The magic cradled her, warm and unseen, holding her aloft with uncanny precision—like the air itself answered to him. She floated just above him, limbs weightless, the folds of her dress falling away from her hips.

Then his hands slid behind her knees—Ellana felt her thighs spreading as he drew them up, folding her gently, deliberately, over his shoulders. The fabric of her dress rode higher with every movement, baring more of her skin to the shimmered air. Her breath hitched as the cool kissed her inner thighs, only to be replaced by the heat of his mouth

She looked down the length of her body and saw his head between her legs. Jaw taut, mouth relentless, as if this was what he'd wanted all .along.

The sight shattered something in her. Her hips bucked. Her hands scrambled for anything only to meet air. 

And when he began—tongue slow, deliberate, calculated—her whole body jolted.

It was restraint giving way. Fen’Harel licked into her like a man who’d rehearsed this in silence. Who’d memorized each fault line. His tongue dragged through her with devastating focus. She gasped—sharp, guttural—and his grip locked her in place, legs quaking against his shoulders.

He tracked every tremor. Not out of tenderness—but the ruthless intent of someone determined to dismantle her slowly, and remember how she broke.

He glanced up, once. Eyes black with hunger. And then he sank back in.

A finger slid into her. Smooth. Unyielding.

She moaned. Her knees kicked. Another finger followed—deeper, stretching her open just enough to draw a raw cry from her throat. His mouth never left her. His tongue circled her clit with merciless rhythm, drawing her toward it.

And then he backed off.

Just a little. Just enough.

His mouth paused. His fingers softened—pulling her back from the edge with surgical control. Her whole body pitched forward, hips lifting in protest, a broken whimper slipping out before she could catch it.

"Please—" she gasped.

He didn’t answer. Just pressed one kiss to her thigh like punctuation. Then started again.

Not enough. Then too much. Then nothing again.

She writhed. Shook. Her hands clawed uselessly at the air, at the folds of her dress, at his hair. Every nerve sparked, lit, then left wanting. He edged her like he was drawing a map—pushing her right to it, letting her glimpse the fall, then pulling her back, making her feel the absence of it like loss.

"You're—" she tried, but the words caught.

He looked up at her then—just briefly—and she saw it: the concentration, the restraint, the pleasure he took in holding her there, vibrating just under climax, her whole body begging.

Another flick of his tongue. A curl of his fingers.

And still, he didn’t let her come.

Not yet.

He pulled back—not cruelly, but carefully. Just enough to let the edge recede. To make her feel the drop. Her hips lifted in protest, a helpless sound escaping her throat before she could stop it.

“Easy,” he murmured, voice low, full of heat and gravity. “I’ve got you.”

Then his mouth returned.

He worked her up again. Slowly. Diligently. Like it mattered. Like this was something sacred in its own right—the art of keeping her just barely there, suspended in that golden, aching place where want becomes need.

A stroke. A pause.

A flick of his tongue so perfect her hands fisted in the air, her thighs tensing around him before falling open again, trembling.

Fen’Harel learned her. Watched how she moved, how she gasped, how her breath caught at the same place every time. He adjusted. Tuned himself to her rhythm and then rewrote it. Until she couldn’t tell whether she was climbing or falling. Only that she was his to hold in the in-between.

“Please,” she whispered—raw, reverent, wrecked.

Fen’Harel didn’t answer with words. Just kissed her hip. Let his cheek rest against her thigh for a breath, grounding her. Then started again.

And again.

Ellana didn’t know how long it went on.

Time thinned. Disappeared. Became nothing but sensation and breath and the unbearable sweetness of almost.

And when Fen'Harel finally gave it to her it was not a release but an invocation.

Her thighs began to shake. Ellana’s hips bucked—instinct—and Fen’Harel’s arms locked her down, holding her exactly where he wanted her, not letting her run. Ellana came hard—loud, messy, shattering. Her body clamped down around his fingers, spasming through the intensity.

But he didn’t stop.

And under it all—beneath the magic, the air, the shaking heat of it—Ellana could feel it:

He wasn’t done with her.

Not even close.

Chapter Text

seventy-six

Fen’Harel tasted like honey.

Or maybe Ellana was just overwhelmed by how sweet the whole thing felt. Sweet like honey poured backwards. Not golden and light, but amber-red and thick with forgetting. As if desire were not a progression, but a reversal. A way of slipping backward through time, of unlearning the body before learning it again.

The Dread Wolf's mouth was heat and salt and old rites. Ellana let him drag it over her entire body, slowly, with the kind of attention that made her forget the shape of her breath. He kissed like someone trying to remember the origin of fire. 

The god touched her like her body held meaning that required study. The back of her knee. The ridge of her hip. His hands moved with the patience of someone who had been waiting centuries for permission. She let him have it all. Let him map her with his mouth, his tongue, his teeth.

Ellana was quiet, but it wasn’t silence. It was focus. It was surrender with intent. She tilted her head when he wanted more of her throat. Lifted her hips when he sought the heat between her thighs. Her body knew him before her mind caught up.

He didn’t move quickly. Fen'Harel moved like someone who had been starving. His mouth trailed from her chest to her stomach to the soft place between her legs, and when he parted her, Ellana felt it everywhere at once. 

By the time he finally entered her, Ellana was already trembling. It didn’t feel sudden. It felt earned. Her whole body softened to meet him. Soaked and aching. 

She wrapped her legs around him and pulled him deeper, not because she needed more, but because she wanted all of him. 

Some part of her brain, the part that still spoke in formulas and thermodynamic laws, began describing the process of stellar formation. Not metaphorically, but in actual terms.

Perhaps because her body had tipped into something too large, too molten, too ancient for language. Perhaps because Ellana needed a frame of reference for this kind of heat.

A star begins in collapse. A cold molecular cloud, mostly hydrogen and helium, loses its equilibrium and gives in to gravity. Not suddenly, but slowly. Inevitable.

Like the moment Fen'Harel opened her legs.

Like the way her hips tilted up to meet him.

The collapse is quiet. Dense. The beginning of something luminous. Ellana had once explained this with confidence to a room of graduate students, hands steady over a lightboard.

But no one had told her then that becoming light requires surrendering shape.

As the gas compresses, the core heats. Particles collide and energy spikes. Infrared radiation escapes in pulses. She remembered calling it inefficient cooling in a lecture once. But now she questioned that. Maybe it was just what the body did when it got too close to ignition. Maybe it was a form of soft warning. He moved inside her with the same slow heat, each thrust coaxing a new layer of sensation. Her breath caught in a rhythm that wasn’t quite her own.

Ellana thought about the protostar. How it formed a spinning disk, pulling mass inward, building pressure with every turn. That was how it felt now. Her body no longer passive but magnetic, a core drawing everything to itself. She could feel herself tightening around the Dread Wolf, not to hold him back, but to hold him closer. As if she were the one forming. As if he were building her.

Gravity inward, pressure outward.

Stability, but only for a moment.

The illusion of stillness. Her limbs locked around him.

Her skin hot. Her mouth slack and open. Inside, fusion had already begun.

Something irreversible.

Hydrogen into helium. 

Body into light.

Fen’Harel was making sounds Ellana had never heard from him before. Deep, raw noises pulled from the base of his throat, shaped by a type of pleading that intensified the heat. His breath came in broken fragments, wet against her skin, catching each time he drove into her.

He was rutting into her without shame, without silence, the slick sound of their bodies meeting joined by his gasps, his half-formed moans, his voice unraveling into longing in its most physical form. It came from the part of him untouched by language, the part that remembered desire as an animal act, as devotion without theology.

Ellana could feel it vibrating in his chest, feel it breaking apart each time he sank deeper, each time she clenched around him like she was trying to keep some essential piece of him inside her.

And maybe she was.

Maybe that was what this was contact at a molecular level, fusion without metaphor, the kind of burning that left no part untouched.

Time lost coherence. Hours slipped sideways, uncounted, unmeasured. The sky outside never settled on one color. Gravity felt unreliable.

Ellana wasn’t sure if they ever stopped. Sleep came only in short, shimmering intervals, like solar flares breaking across her mind. He took her in every configuration a body could bear—folded forward, straddled in his lap, pressed to the floor, laid out against the wall, her legs shaking, her breath sharp and high.

Sometimes it was slow and orbital, each thrust like the steady pull of a satellite. Other times it was pure combustion, friction building faster than she could contain. Her thighs bruised. Her ribs marked with the shape of Fen’Harel’s grip.


There were moments Ellana forgot whether she was coming or crying or both. The ache became permanent, a kind of hum under her skin, like background radiation left over from something cataclysmic. 

Ellana wanted Fen’Harel constantly. Eternally.

And he answered, without question, without pause, like a law of physics that refused to be suspended.

___________

They were still connected. His body resting over hers, his chest rising and falling against her breasts, Fen'Harel's cock still inside her, softened but not withdrawn. Everything had slowed. The thrusting had stopped long ago, but neither of them had moved.

They lay tangled in sweat and breath and the thin quiet that comes after something enormous has passed. Fen’Harel’s weight pressed Ellana into the mattress in a way that felt steady, not heavy. Her legs were still curled around him, lazy, loose. One of his hands cupped the side of her face. The other rested at her waist, fingers barely flexing now and then. 

Ellana’s eyes had drifted open. The smell of cedar and skin. She turned her head slightly and caught the flicker of something on the horizon. Fires. Small, contained, scattered across the distance like fallen stars. The sky above them was dark blue, almost black, rimmed with light at the edges like a dying sun behind a veil.

Ellana didn’t know how long they had been here. A day. A week. A month. She didn’t know if the fires were remnants of the world they had left behind or warnings of the one they would have to return to. But here, in this moment, with him still inside her and the room steeped in heat, she felt held. Not safe, exactly. But caught.

Fen’Harel shifted slightly above her. Then he looked up at her, eyes half-lidded, voice low and rough.

“Solas,” he said.

The word slipped into the room like a current, soft but strangely dense. Ellana blinked, unsure if she’d heard him correctly. Her body was still molten from the inside out. Her mind tried to grasp it, but the name felt unfamiliar. Unplaceable. Not a title. Not a command. Just a single word, spoken like it meant something.

“What?” she asked, her voice quiet, raw from overuse.

He didn’t move. He just looked at her, and repeated it.

“Solas.”

The word was strange.

It hung between them, unclaimed. Ellana didn’t know what it was, not exactly, but something in the way he said it made her chest tighten.

Like it wasn’t meant for anyone else.

Like it had been buried for a long time, and this was the moment it surfaced.

Chapter Text

seventy-seven

Ellana blinked once, twice. Vision returned in fragments: the edge of a curtain, the dull red of spent firelight. Sweat cooled on her collarbone, tacky.

“Solas,” she said, testing the word. It didn’t sound like a title. It felt smaller. The kind of name that belonged in a mouth, not a prayer.

He didn’t look away. His thumb traced the corner of her jaw, deliberate, as if confirming shape against memory.

“It was my name,” he said. “Before they called me anything else.”

She let the sentence run through her like current. Beneath her palms the supposed god felt more like a body.

“What does it mean?”

He hesitated. “Pride.”

The answer landed without decoration.

She studied him. “That’s not the same as the Dread Wolf.”

“No,” he said. “The Wolf is what happens when pride forgets what it’s for.”

They sat in the low blue of exhaustion, breathing leveled.

“So why tell me?”

His eyes flicked to hers. “Because you make me remember the kind that isn’t ruin.”

He kissed her before she could respond.

Not desire — weight. A compression of breath, the brief contact of two contradictions attempting equilibrium. When he drew back, it felt subatomic, something collapsed rather than finished.

He didn’t speak. Just touched her lower lip once, a gesture of editing. Then he shifted and helped her sit upright. The horizon through the window was the color of cooled metal; the fires had thinned to smoke. His hand stayed at her back, stabilizing her spine as gravity reasserted itself.

She stayed still. The air tasted of skin, salt, and spent magic. Muscles trembled from use. Her hair stuck to her neck. Every part of her ached in the mild, documentary way a body does when it has been both tested and tended to.

The room already felt too small. What had filled it a moment ago had burned through and left residue. Outside, light was changing — a pre-dawn smudge across the edge of the world.

She knew they couldn’t stay. This pocket of stillness existed between crises, and she was already grieving its evaporation.

Solas moved first. His palm, again, at the small of her back. The warmth of it triggered obedience before comprehension.

The air in front of them trembled.

She expected a corridor, a bath, the usual stone geometry of his spaces. Instead, the surface peeled open. Light poured through, thin and vertical, without source.

When she stepped forward, the temperature dropped.

There was no ceiling, no floor she could name. The ground was made of light dense enough to hold weight. The horizon had dissolved. Everything glowed — an ambient gold that felt clinical, like the inside of an equation.

Orbs hovered at varying distances. Some burned steady; others rotated with faint, internal storms. The silence had mass. It pressed on her ears until she could hear her pulse.

“They’re stars,” she said. The words barely carried.

Solas watched her move among them. She felt every step in her thighs, soreness balancing awe. The physicist in her measured trajectories, brightness, oscillation. The rest of her just tried to keep breathing.

She reached toward one. It was warm, resistant, then soft — like touching the meniscus of water without breaking it. Color folded across its surface, blue to gold.

“I thought we’d just go back,” she said.

“I know,” he said. “But I wanted you to see this first.”

“What is it?”

“Where form is still deciding what it wants to be.” His eyes tracked the orbiting lights. Rearrange them. Name them. Erase them.”

Ellana looked around. The stars seemed attentive, the way instruments hum before calibration.

“Why?”

“Because I want you to understand how I see you,” he said. “What you could build, if the world stopped resisting.”

She didn’t answer. Her fingers flexed once. One sphere shifted, slow, obedient. Its light bled over her knuckles — gold, then rose, then the sterile white of laboratory bulbs.

“This shouldn’t be possible,” she said.

He smiled, slight. “Possibility is overrated.”

She exhaled. Pain, fatigue, wonder—all the same temperature now. Another star drifted when she moved. Then another. Soon she was tracing patterns without naming them, letting the muscle memory of symmetry decide.

He watched. She felt the weight of his observation, the way scientists watch reactions they can’t predict.

When she stepped back, the configuration had changed. Imperfect, asymmetric, but deliberate.

Solas stood behind her, his reflection doubled in every orbiting surface.

She turned. Her hands still glowed faintly from contact.

“I wanted to show you what you meant to me,” she said.

The light recalibrated—subtle, responsive—and every star brightened by a measurable degree.

For a moment neither spoke. Then he reached for her hand, grounding her again in gravity. The stars continued their slow, silent drift around them, as if recording data from a transient event.

Chapter Text

part six

There are those who believe the stars could be rearranged, that love might shift their order, if only for a breath. That the constellations themselves were born of longing—an act of tracing what could not be touched.Love makes a map; betrayal redraws it. Between the two lies the faint shimmer of correction, as if the sky were editing itself.Nut, watching from her infinite arch, knows better. Stars do not move for affection. They burn through it. Their arrangement is both wound and witness—each point of light a testament to what was once nearly changed.

In some versions of the story, a mortal lover begged to be remade among them. The goddess refused, and still the plea hangs there, refracted endlessly: a desire to reorder the heavens, to make grief symmetrical.