Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

     Dusk had settled its mantle over Lakeland and the Crystarium.  Shadows from the trees and thick metal pillars had begun to lengthen and the crowds at the Musica Universalis bizarre had started to thin.  Many of the patrons returning to their homes either in the Pendants, the Catenaries or, as of late, outside the Crystarium in a small village that had sprung up in the weeks following the Warrior of Darkness’ return to the Source.  Alisaie still couldn’t help but marvel at all the changes wrought upon all of Norvrandt by the unassuming Hyurian highlander. Encouraging reports from across the beleaguered realm kept pouring in on a near daily basis and all said nigh on the same thing:  life was returning to Norvrandt as sure as darkness had.

     It was one of these reports from Amh Araeng that had Alisaie so engrossed that she didn’t notice the Miqo’te mage approach her table.

     “Pray, when was the last time you supped?” 

     Alisaie looked up to find Y’shtola holding two bowls of rich, aromatic stew with a loaf of bread, wrapped in paper, tucked under an arm.  The Sharlayan blinked in surprise.

     “Y’shtola, forgive my poor manners.  I didn’t see you there.”

     The silver eyed mage grinned ruefully, “Which argues my point that there is very little difference between physical sight and aether assisted vision.”

     Alisaie hastened to tidy up the missives strewn about the table, “I will take you at your word.  I often forget that you lost your sight in the lifestream, you get along so well.”

     Y’shtola set bowls on the table and, taking her seat, she set the bread between the two of them, “Between aetherial sight and my other senses, I wouldn’t consider myself blind at all.  Save for the occasional non-magical text or painting, I can ‘see’ as well as anyone.”

     “One could suggest you see more than most.  Urianger told me how you didn’t recognize Sevryn’s aether when you were reunited in Rak’tika… mm, this smells heavenly,” Alisaie lightly sniffed the steam coming off of her food,  “Thank you, Y’shtola.”

    “You are quite welcome now, eat.”

     An appreciative smile curled the corner of Alisaie’s lip as she tucked into her food.  It was only after the first bite hit her stomach that she realized how hungry she was.  Y’shtola, for her part, casually ate as she watched the Elezen aristocrat eat at a rate that narrowly avoided being unmannerly.

     She heard Mei-Tatch, the bartender’s assistant, approaching with the bottle of wine she had ordered with the meal.  Setting it down, along with two glasses, he quietly stole away but not before stealing a glance at Y’shtola.

     Alisaie swallowed a bite and nodded in the direction that the Miqo’te had departed,  “I think he might fancy you.”

     “Oh?” Y’shtola grabbed the bottle in one hand and a glass in the other.  Hooking the first joint of her index finger over the rim of the glass, she poured until she felt the wine lap against the tip of it.  She passed the glass to Alisaie, “What gives you that impression?”

     “He keeps looking over here,” she replied factually.

     “Does he?”  Y’shtola’s grin had the tips of her canines digging lightly into her bottom lip.  “That’s a good start, I suppose. However, perhaps a better indicator would be if he stops eating and buries himself in his work when I leave the Crystarium for Rak’tika on the morrow.”

     Much to her credit, Alisaie didn’t actually spit out the wine she nearly choked on at the mage’s casual but carefully chosen words, instead opting to swallow hard causing her eyes to water a bit.  Y’shtola’s unseeing eyes seemingly taking in her every movement. Alisaie couldn’t help but wonder just how much detail the mage’s magical perception rendered unto her.  

     “I-I wouldn’t know about such things,” Alisaie replied, gently clearing her throat as she set down her glass.

     “Wouldn’t you?  Come now, Ali. You yourself mentioned that it’s possible I see more than most.  T’is not my position to intrude into another’s affairs, I couldn’t help but notice how different your aether is now that our dear friend has departed to the Source.  When she was here and especially when you were with her, your essence was brilliant. However, in the days and weeks that have followed. I have noticed your own aether has diminished.   Much like when one is underfed and over taxed. And whilst I wouldst be inclined to dismiss this as merely a reflection, a common response to one being in the room with such a creature as is our beloved Sevryn.. I cannot.  For it doth seem that each time I have mentioned her name your energy verily radiates.”

     Alisaie looked away, a telling warmth creeping up her chest toward her neck.  She was not one who liked to discuss her personal feelings with others. The Leveilleur family was famous for their discretion.  In fact, it had been that legendary foresight that had vaulted their kin into the highest echelons of Sharlayan society. 

     However, it was this same acumen that turned her face back to that of her companion’s with a sigh, “I don’t suppose you would write said radiance off as a learned aetheric cue?”

     Y’shtola’s grin widened as she shook her head.  Alisaie held her face stoic for a few breathes longer before it dissolved into upwardly rolled eyes and a defeated huff of air as she folded her forearms on the table, head dipping for the briefest of moments before lifting it again, a measure of decorum restored to her fine Elezen features.

     “Is it that obvious?” she asked, not entirely sure if she wanted to hear the answer.

      The Miqo’te mage giggled, “I’m sure it isn’t as obvious to others.  By the nature of its existence, aether cannot lie. I only have vision because of it, so I have become accustomed to its many nuances.  There is a distinct aetheric connection between you and the Warrior.”

     Alisaie’s eyes widened a bit, “There is?”

     Y’shtola looked at her curiously, “You didn’t know.”

     “Know?  No, I-I mean I had hoped.. But, surely you haven’t failed to notice that she does not lack for admirers.  Some of whom are incredibly accomplished either in martial or magical arts and these gifts, although appealing in of themselves, are usually wrapped within an aesthetically pleasing figure.”

     “You speak of Commander Hext?”

     “Yes, and also Ser Aymeric, Lord Hein, you, my brother… even Lyna, captain of the bloody Crystarium guard-”

     “Me?” Y’shtola giggled but managed to hide her blush behind another sip of wine.

     “Of course.  One would have to be-”

     “Blind?” she offered for Alisaie.

     “Er, well, as a figure of speech yes… she would have to be blind not to see how beautiful you are.” 

     The smile on Y’shtola’s face was radiant, “Aren’t we charming?  I dare say you are far better with the fairer sex than your brother.  I don’t worry he will find a partner in his life. I do wonder how long it will take for him to shed his virginity, though.  He lacks a certain fire in his approach. A boldness that he is yet unacquainted with but you seem to have acquired.”

     It was Alisaie’s turn to blush, the apples of her cheeks turning a sunset shade of pink.

     “All that to say, in the matter of the Warrior’s heart, I don’t think your brother is any competition.  Despite how much he does admire her, I don’t think he would ever be able to win her over to romance.  The same can be said for Lord Hien and Ser Aymeric. Sevryn doesn’t deign to male company on the intimate level preferring fairer to the former. I have observed as would be male suitors approached her.  Her aether remains unchanged despite their best advances. The same cannot be said when it comes to female aspirants.”

     “Of that I was already aware,” Alisaie muttered.

     “Is that so?” Y’shtola asked incredulously. The Elezen’s eyes went wide when she realized she had spoken aloud.

     “I meant I had already deduced as much from our travels together. Not like we- or I.. I mean, perhaps... it's not the first time experiencing that sort of thing.. By the gods! Is it hot in here?”  She finished in a rush dropping her face into her hands.  

     “It sounds as though there is more to this tale than what you are telling me.”

     Alisaie nodded slowly, her face still in her hands before finally sighing and composing herself, “If I’m being fair, I haven’t talked to anyone.  Not even my brother.”

     “About?” 

     “My year at Amh Araeng, Tesleen, Sevryn...Then there is what she told me happened in the Bureau of the Secretariat.  What Emet-Selch told her in Amaurot, in the Qitana Ravel- what she saw when the Light nearly overtook her..”  The Red Mage trailed off, her eyes glazing a bit as she revisited a dark memory.

     Something in her words caught Y’shtola’s attention.  The older woman leaned back, thoughtfully rolling the glass stem between her fingers, “Mayhaps we might yet be of some use to one another, you and I.”

     “What do you mean?”

     “While our friend is away, I have taken it upon myself to find out what exactly happened to her in the Qitana Ravel.  How was her aether restored? How was she able to withstand the corruption for so long? I-I saw things in her aether that I have no words for… It was almost as if…” She shook her head to clear her thoughts, “Nay, now is neither the time nor the place to speculate.  I leave on the morrow for Slitherbough to retrieve some tomes I left behind. You have yet to go to the Greatwood, correct?”

     Alisaie nodded.

     “Then accompany me on my journey.  We’ll only be but a few days. I think a change of scenery might be of some good to you.”

     She thought about it for a moment.  There was little else she needed to do.  Most of her business had been settled at the Inn and since Tesleen’s death… she sighed, “That does sound good. Very well, I am happy to join you. Sevryn did paint a glorious picture of tall trees that occasionally echo with strange singing.”

     “So she’s heard it too…” Y’shtola murmured.

     “I beg your pardon?”

     The mage shook her head, ears twitching reflexively, “T’is nothing.  It’s settled then. I’ll meet you in the Aetheryte Plaza at dawn. Pray, have a good night, Alisaie.”  Nodding towards the stars twinkling through the arch way in the Quadrivium, she said: “Enjoy those, she nearly died so we could.”

     Y'shtola stood and leaned down as she passed, she smelled of sage and honey and her lips brushed gently across Ali's delicate Elven ears: “If I were to guess at how she endured, I would say she most likely had a singular thought, a singular reason.  It makes one wonder what, or perhaps more succinctly, who that was.”   

     With that she drew back and continued on her way but not before catching her fingertips gently under chin of the fairer Leveilleur twin as she did.

     Left feeling more confused than before, the Sharlayan waited until the Miqo'te mage had disappeared into the Pendants before she grabbed the remainder of the bottle and began to pour.

<<^>>

Chapter Text

     Alisaie left the Wandering Stairs just past the eighth bell headed towards the Pendants Tower but not before having finished the bottle of wine Y’shtola had left behind.  Sevryn had given word to the Manager of Suites before she had departed to allow Alisaie to stay on in her room as a steward.  

     G’raha Tia had originally arranged for all of the Scions to have permanent rooms in the Pendants during their stay on the First.  However, due to the battle for the Crystarium and subsequent skirmishes throughout Lakeland during the final days of Vauthry’s reign, many refugees had sought shelter within its walls.  As fate would have it, Alisaie had temporarily given up her room to expectant first time parents.

***

     “I’m sorry but there aren’t any rooms left open,” The Suites Manager spoke softly to a young Elven couple.  The baby bump on the young woman was exceedingly noticeable.

     “But we have nowhere to go!” The soon to be father was at his wits end.

     “I’m sorry but there is really nothing I can do-”

     She had heard enough, “Pardon my interruption, but they can have my room for the duration of her pregnancy.”

     Three surprised faces turned towards her.   She looked at each of them in turn with her gaze finally meeting the would-be mother’s.  The gratitude and relief she found there was worth any inconvenience she might endure.

     “Miss Leveilleur, your generosity is notable but- where will you stay?”

     “She’ll stay with me,” the dulcetly husky Highland brogue was unmistakable. 

     It was Alisaie’s turn to look surprised.  She hadn’t expected for Sevryn to give up her own space in order to accommodate Alisaie’s sacrifice.  Of course, it didn’t surprise her either, it was just the type of person the Warrior was. Blue met stormy grey and the corner of Sevryn’s mouth curled upward in an easy smile, “Unless, she doesn’t want to...”

     “No! I mean, yes!” She blurted out, much to her chagrin.  Sevryn’s brow cambered and Alisaie took a deep breath to compose herself, “If it isn’t a bother then, no, I don’t mind staying with you..thank you.”

     “Very well, it’s settled then,” her smile became radiant and the Red Mage found herself furiously fighting down the flush in her neck.  Thankfully, the Warrior of Light had turned her attention to the steward, “Please allow Mistress Leveilleur access to my room at anytime.”

     “Of course, Mistress Grey.  I’ll make a note of it straight away-”

     The rest of the words were lost to Alisaie as the Warrior’s words echoed in her ears: ‘access, anytime’...

***

     “Alisaie!”

     The memory awash with a flood of images so distracted her that she didn’t notice Ryne waiting by the concierge’s desk until she had nearly passed her.

     “Ryne. Pray forgive me, my mind was elsewhere.”

     “Back on the Source with the Warrior of Darkness?”

     It was a feat of will to keep her jaw hinged closed.  

     “Don’t worry, Y’shtola told me.” 

     The battle to keep her mouth from dropping was lost, “S-she what?”

     “She mentioned how you two discussed the Warrior of Darkness and how you were going to aid in her inquiry of what befell Sevryn in the Qitana Ravel,” Ryne replied looking a bit bewildered.  “Are you alright, Ali?”

     Relief flooded her chest, “Y-yes, I’m quite alright.  Just a bit tired, I’m afraid.”

     “Oh,” Ryne looked disappointed.

     “What’s wrong?”

     “I wanted to talk to you about our mutual friend.  Thancred and I have only just arrived back from the Empty-” she stopped, looking towards the Suites Manager.  “Perhaps, we could speak somewhere a bit more private?”

     “Of course! Right this way,” Alisaie replied, her fatigued distraction forgotten as she led the way up the stairs to the third floor through the gate to the last door at the end of the walk. 

     Reaching out, she laid a palm on the lock.  She had to hand it to the engineers in the Crystalline Mean, they had done wonders with thin mini-shards of crystal set into a lock.  The shard attuned to a person’s aether much like an aetheryte, making for an effective keyless lock.

     The sweet smell of citrus permeated the room and washed over them when the door opened.  It was a wonderful aroma, even if she and Sevryn had yet to figure out if the tiny orange fruits on the potted trees were edible or not.  Not that it would matter, the room itself was usually stocked with food at the Exarch’s direction.  

     Alisaie stepped in and gestured for Ryne to follow, “You must be hungry from your journey, can I offer you some tea or pastries?”

     Ryne looked a bit hesitant, as if unsure whether it was polite or not to accept.   Alisaie smiled gently, “I was going to have some myself.”

     The young lady simply nodded almost bashfully.  It struck Alisaie as humorous that this young girl would charge without second thought into a mob of sin eaters but put her in a situation that required one on one interaction and her inexperience was palatable.  Thancred’s influence, no doubt.  She gestured for Ryne to have a seat at the large wrought iron and wood table as she readied a kettle.

     “It’s good to see you back.  Alphinaud, Y’shtola and I had wondered where you and Thancred had run off to after Sevryn returned to the Source.”

      “Oh, I - I thought I noticed something out in the Empty, a light of some kind.  I didn’t know if it’s simply an echo of the Flood of Light or if it’s a lightwarden…” Ryne frowned in thought,  “All I know is that we should probably actually see what it is before too long. If it’s nothing, I would like to verify that it’s nothing.  But the Light itself seems far too strong, even from such a distance to be nothing... If it’s a lightwarden-” She glanced up at Alisaie who had leaned herself against a counter.

     “-Then the Warrior of Darkness will have to deal with it.”

     Ryne nodded, the laconism speaking in volumes the implication of her words.  Alisaie’s brow knitted together as all too familiar feelings of dread and worry for her friend began to churn in the pit of her stomach.

     “I would hate to ask something of her that might put her in danger.  However, she is the only one we know of that can neutralize a lightwarden.  Somehow, she managed to stave off the corruption of the Light which was fragmenting her soul, win against Emet-Selch and then emerged with her soul more... whole ,” Ryne looked at her, “Did she by chance mention anything to you before she left that might explain what happened?”

    “She-”  Ali started and then stopped, as memories from the night that darkness truly returned to Norvrandt, came crashing in.

***

     There was a faint smile on the Warrior of Light’s face as the two of them walked back from the impromptu celebration at the Wandering Stairs.  A warmth buzzed in Alisaie’s belly, she couldn’t tell if it was from the mead or the company.

     “That was quite the party.  Let it not be said that the people of the Crystarium aren’t thankful to the Warrior of Darkness.”

     Sevryn’s smile grew a little, “Aye.  I think Ardbert would have liked it.  O’course, I’m of the mind if I enjoyed it- he did too.”

     Alisaie giggled, “I’m sorry?”

     The Highlander looked at her, “You know, Ardbert.  The Warrior of Darkness who came to the Source? The one who entreated Minfilia back here.”

     “I remember but isn’t he and the others dead?”

     “Aye, but he is… was… a spectre?  A shade?” Sevryn arched a brow trying to find the right words.  “What did Hythlodaeus say? That our soul color was the same, two parts of a bigger whole.  A soul that had been fragmented when the Source was splintered. It was Ardbert who gave himself and his strength to me but it’s not like I absorbed his aether because it was already mine…. Ours?  Best way I can describe it is: Ardbert and I share the same soul because we are the same soul. So, he didn’t give his strength to me so much returned mine to me,” Sevryn glanced over as they pulled up to the large double doors of the Warrior’s room, “I must sound drunk.”

     Alisaie hummed thoughtfully as the Highlander opened one and stepped aside to allow the younger woman to pass, “I wouldn’t say you sound drunk but I will confess that I might be a bit too tipsy to fully comprehend the nuances of this revelation.”

     Sevryn chuckled as she followed shutting the door behind her, “I suppose that’s fair there was quite a bit of ale.  Don’t let it be said that Giott skips on the- mm!”

     She cut the Highlander off mid-sentence with a kiss, pinning the taller woman to the door.  She hadn’t planned on it but something overrode her good sense as she pushed herself tighter against the Hyurian, lifting up on her toes to reach those delectably kissable lips, arms snaking up around Sevryn’s neck as she pulled herself deeper into the kiss as the Warrior's hands found their way around her waist. Strong fingers flexing into her lower back, hitching the fabric of her tunic up ilm by torturous ilm-

***

    “Alisaie?”

     Ryne’s voice and the steadily strengthening whistle of the tea kettle cut through her revelry,  “Huh? Oh!”

     She hurried to lift the kettle from the heat, “My apologies, I-I just remembered something Sevryn had said to me-”

     She kept her back to Ryne as she readied the tea and recounted what the Warrior had related to her, irrationally afraid that her face or reactions to the memory might somehow betray what happened that night.  When she finally did turn back around she was, at first, relieved to see Ryne lost in thought but then curiosity replaced self-conscious apprehension.

    “Does that mean aught to you?” She asked setting a cup of tea before the red-headed girl whose turn it was to be lost in thought.

    “Perhaps.  There was something that Minfilia said.. and then when she-”  Ryne looked up quickly and stood, “Pray forgive me, Ali. I have to go.  T-thank you for the tea, I’m sorry.”

     And just like that the young woman was gone, leaving a very bewildered Elezen with two cups of piping hot tea and more questions than answers.

<<^>>

Chapter Text

     “It seems that whomever named this place was probably never accused of hyperbole,” Alisaie murmured as she craned her neck trying to see to the top of the swaying Greatwood canopy. 

     “While my studies of the ancient people of Ronka have been limited to the time beginning whence we came here searching for answers and allies amongst the Viis, I have found nothing to suggest a proclivity for verbosity,” Y’shtola said before patting Alisaie on the shoulder,  “Mind how long you spend staring skywards, Dear. There is a fair amount of indigenous fowl and more than a few amaro flitting above our heads.”

     Alisaie’s head whipped level, her eyes wide.  She couldn’t tell if the enigmatic smile that spread across Y’shtola’s face was one born of jest or not.  Although, the start of the morning chorus echoing through hazy dawn lent credence to her comment.

     “Come, let us away before Ru-”

     “Master Matoya, is that you?!”

     “Gods dammit,” she sighed quietly before turning towards the speaker who had emerged from a cluster of shadows just beyond a cooking fire nearby, “Hello Runar.”

     “Are you back from the Crystarium?”

     The eagerness in the Hrothgarn’s face would have been comical if it wasn’t so sincere.  His affection and longing for the Miqo’te mage was painfully apparent.

     “For now, but whether that becomes something of an extended engagement will remain to be seen,” Y’shtola’s disinterest was palpable.

     “This is good news.  I’m sure the others will be happy you have returned, nonetheless.”

     “I hate to be brief with you Runar but I have enlisted Alisaie’s help in a few matters and whilst I'd rather not be rude to either of you..”

     “Oh! Yes, of course!  Pardon my interruption,” he turned towards Alisaie, bowing politely before quietly stealing away.  

     “Shall we?” Y’shtola asked nary missing a beat.  

     Alisaie nodded and followed the Miqo’te mage past the cooking fire to the third enclave on the right. Y’shtola pushed open the door, revealing a nicely appointed cave complete with a wooden planked floor, large purple rugs and blue flamed candles that burned on violet clothed tables and in scattered wall niches.  The whole room was warm, dry and inviting which was quite an accomplishment given the nature of its architectural existence, to which Alisaie commended the mage.

     Y’shtola grinned ruefully, “I think I’ve seen the real Master Matoya out of her cave maybe a dozen times in all the years that I’ve known her.  It would appear I have retained a few of her more domestically inclined tricks than I had originally thought. Have a seat, Runar will be in with some refreshments shortly,” she gestured towards the table in the middle of the room as she shuffled past it towards a stack of tomes in the back.

     “How do you know?”

     “That cat is like clockwork,” she chuckled picking up a tome and thumbing open the cover.

     She glanced down at the title page and with a 'hmm’ snapped it shut before moving on.  Alisaie looked on in curiosity as Y’shtola continued on that way one after the next, looking for all the realm like she had sight.

     “Pray, forgive me for asking, but how do you know what you’re looking at?”

     “I’m going to assume my literacy isn’t in question,” the Miqo’te mused briefly before continuing, “Words have a power all their own.  Each one unique but when combined can bring forth the fundamental powers of creation. One could say that each has a special aetheric hue all of its own, much like individual souls.  I’ve simply learned how to read the colors and patterns.”

     “Individual souls,” Alisaie repeated folding her fingers thoughtfully under her chin.

     “I know that look well.  I have seen it a fair amount of times over the years.  Granted, I’ve beheld it more often on your brother’s visage than your own but I am certain both poses mean the same thing. Pray, what has engrossed you?”

     “It’s strange that you should mention souls and their unique complexion.  It’s the second time in less than a day that this very topic has come up-”

     The Sharlayan proceeded to recount the events of both the night before and the evening Norvrandt celebrated its freedom from the influence of Emet-Selch.  This time however she managed to lay out the story without betraying the heat she felt in her chest at the memory of the Warrior of Darkness’ lips on hers.  When she had finished she looked at Y’shtola who had taken a seat, arms folded on the table, perfectly manicured nails drumming against one arm.  

     “Hythlodaeus? A divided soul?.. That does make things more interesting,” Y’shtola spoke slowly, her sightless eyes focused on some void in the distance as she deliberated the new information. 

     “Oh?”

     “I do not know how much you know about the soul.  Most people toss the word around to describe the mutable, ephemeral aspects of their person: Their hopes, dreams, beliefs, morality... All the things that make up consciousness but have nothing to do with that which is the only thing truly eternal about them- their soul.   Think of the body as a house and the soul, its occupant. If and when the house is destroyed or deteriorates to the point it is no longer livable - the occupant leaves the house but that doesn’t mean the occupant ceases to exist. T’would seem that for us, once we leave our house, our souls lack the strength to enter another abode.  Emet-Selch intimated as much when he spoke about your brother’s ‘tattered soul’ not comparing to the souls of the ones he lost- the Ascian race.  However, it appears as though our dear friend Sevryn Grey’s soul is made of sterner stuff than our own,” Y’shtola finished just as a knock sounded at the door, “That would be Runar.”

     The sounds of movement and quiet conversation all faded into a din as Alisaie considered the implication of mage’s words.  It wasn’t until Runar left and Y’shtola had settled herself down at the table with a tea service and a small soft leather journal in hand that Alisaie spoke again.

     “Are you suggesting that the Warrior of Light, my..er, our Sevryn- is an Ascian ?”

     “It’s a possibility that we should not dismiss.  Here,” she laid the journal on the table between them,  “This is one of Sevryn’s battle journals. She says she has always kept one but strangely doesn’t have any from before her arrival in Gridania.”

     Alisaie knitted her brow, “I think I remember that day.  Alphinaud and I had traveled to Eorzea to see for ourselves the realm Grandfather had died defending.  I remember it was just Bernhardt in the carriage with us then Alphinaud and I dozed off. When we awoke, Sevryn had appeared in the back as well.  It was exceptionally queer since the driver was on a strict schedule and didn’t stop once outside of the expected stages.”

     Y’shtola hummed thoughtfully, “Indeed.  Well, unless our friend herself remembers something about her life pre-Eorzea that she isn’t telling us, I feel speculating would avail us nothing.  Be that as it may, this journal is the latest in the Warrior of Light’s exploits as written by her own hand.”

     Alisaie’s eyes widened and the mage giggled, “Don’t look at me like that.  I did not come by this tome in some seedy fashion. Sevryn handed it to me on the day she departed for the Source.  ‘In case something should happen,’ she explained, ‘here’s all that’s transpired since I arrived at the First.’”   

     Blue eyes fell on the soft leather binding as she considered all that might be in such a record.  As if reading her mind, Y’shtola spoke “There is naught much in the way of personal reflections, if that’s what you’re wondering.”

     She sighed, “No, I suppose it wouldn’t be like Sevryn to pen a confession of ever feeling any sort of feeling ever.  Settling most often for the nod once, fist-to-palm sort of response to, well.. Damn near everything.”

     “She does pull off strong and silent well.  Shame though, I do enjoy listening to that Ala Mighan accent especially when it’s thick like hers or Fordola Rem Lupis’..”

     Alisaie bristled at the mention of the former Skull but kept silent.  She had forgiven the Resonant for nearly killing her after Sevryn had explained all that the Highlander had lived through.  After all, Lupis would spend the rest of her life in service to Ala Mhigo and the realm. She had tried to kill the Warrior of Light on more than one occasion and if Sevryn could forgive Fordola then so could she, in theory.

     “-I always wished Lyse had a more pronounced Ala Mhigan affect in her speech..” 

     The statement brought the Red Mage out of her reflections, “What did you say?”

     The Miqo’te opened her mouth to answer as a shadow of realization crossed over her features, “Nothing important, t’was merely rambling.. as I so often do.”

     “Y’shtola, you never ramble.”

     “I-” The inside of her ears began to flush pink, she twitched them backwards obstructing Alisaie’s view of them.

     All the pieces fell into place.

     “You like Lyse,” Alisaie stated as a matter of fact.

     Y’shtola sighed, “At least now we don’t have to have a protracted conversation as to why I am not interested in Runar.” 

     “Fair enough,” Ali conceded, she leaned forward and lowered her voice despite there being no need, “when did this happen?”

     A blush touched the mage’s cheeks, “After she revealed that she was not Yda and allowed herself to be herself, Lyse began to bloom into a self-determined leader, that’s when I began to have more romantic ideations towards her.  But, at the Battle for Rhalgr’s Reach, when Zenos was about to slaughter her.. That was the moment I realized I didn’t want to be in a realm without her,” she snorted lightly in derision, “And yet here I am, five years in a realm without her.”

     Despite her best attempts at dismissing the lonely bitterness, its shade touched the corners of Y’shtola’s features.  Alisaie studied her for a moment and then it clicked, “She doesn’t know, does she?”

     “I haven’t told her overtly, no.  I was going to speak with her after we had pushed back the Empire but the Exarch managed to delay my plans.  Sevryn told me it has only been a few weeks since I was taken but I don’t need to tell you of the years it has been for me.  What if I have changed into someone that she doesn’t know? What if who I remember her to be isn’t the person she actually is?  Surely I don’t have to explain that with our bodies at the Source, we have only aged the amount of time that has passed there. The same cannot be said for our mental, emotional and aetheric selves who have aged according to this time.  What if too many things have changed?”

     “Something similar happened with us. The Exarch pulled me out of the Source before I could tell Sevryn how I felt.  I mean.. I had started to- begging her not to leave me alone, making her promise me that we would survive together, stay together..  I was mere seconds away from confessing my heart to her- just to have that moment ripped away before I could. In the year that followed, there were times with Tesleen that-” Her eyes went wide as she realized that her attempt to relate to Y’shtola’s plight was quickly heading towards a full confession. 

     She glanced at the grinning Miqo’te who had settled herself comfortably back into her chair, “I do believe t’is time you told me everything, Alisaie”

<<^>>

Chapter Text

   A storm gathered on the eastern horizon.  Dark gray clouds obscured the orange evening sun, bathing the sky above the high stone walls of the Ala Mhigan Quarter in an apocalyptic sort of light.  Which seemed appropriate given that Sevryn could occasionally smell the smoke from the battlefields and forward camps whenever the wind would blow from a certain direction.

   Weary soldiers and the local merchants and vendors that attended them were all the souls to be seen.  Most of the vulnerable population had been pulled back before the fighting had begun, replaced instead by those drawn to financial boon of battle.  It was just as well, it kept those that needed the most protecting far from the fighting. However, what would happen if the fight was silently brought to them on a spring or summer’s breeze?  

   Sevryn pushed the thought from her mind as she made her way down the wide stone streets towards the palace where Commander Hext and General Raubahn had established a permanent headquarters.  Rounding the corner, her gaze was drawn to the palatial stone behemoth that loomed at the top of the street. 

   The side of her head exploded in pain. 

   Lancing through her skull, the agony bleached out her vision in a sea of white before the light and shadows coalesced to first form flashes, then pictures, then memories from seemingly another lifetime came flooding in carried on a wave of anguish.

***

   An esquite city.  Massive in size and scope.  Built in a style reminiscent of Amaurot but architectural trappings that could be considered a forerunner to the Ala Mhigan style.  Tall hooded figures traversed the streets, conversing on corners and living their lives seemingly unaware of any trouble. The city was familiar.  The inhabitants, achingly so. Looking down she saw that she herself was clothed in a long dark robe.

***

   “Sevryn?” 

   She recognized the voice and struggled to bring her conscious back to the present.  Teeth gritted, she reached blindly towards the origin of the voice. A gentle hand caught her own, steadying her and pulling her forward, arms wrapping around her.  Soft lips grazed the side of her ear,  “I’m here for you.”

   Her head fell forward against soft skin as the torment caused by the Echo peaked before the vision slowly faded away, leaving the Warrior of Light shivering and short of breath.  When her senses came back to her, she noticed Lyse had laid her head lightly against the side of her own, her left hand soothing small circles against the small of her back while the fingers of her right hand played gently across the nape of her neck.  The Highlander felt herself relaxing into the embrace, the closeness felt nice.  She wouldn’t admit it but she had longed for the simple pleasure of intimacy.  But perhaps the ‘blessing’ of Light was actually a curse for there were many who admired and several who desired her but none whom she would have approach her.  Except for Alisaie, at least, that is what she had thought.

***

   The kiss had been a most welcomed surprise.  Alisaie’s mouth was soft and eager. The warmth from her lithe body spread through Sevryn’s, pushing back the bitter chill the Light had wrought within her.  She tightened her grip, Alisaie’s tunic hitched higher. She gently caught the tip of her tongue against the Red Mage’s upper lip, seeking an entrance that was immediately given along with a ductile moan.  Pressing her advantage, the Highlander pressed her thigh forward while pulling the elezen closer eliciting a surprised, approving gasp followed by sudden and unexpected, complete stop.

   “Wait,” Alisaie pushed herself off of Sevryn’s chest.

   The dark knight blinked in confusion, “What is it?”

   “We shouldn’t do this.”

   “What?”  The warmth began to ebb away.

   “I don’t think-” Alisaie began, then stopped taking a breath before blue gaze that was normally so bold, timidly avoided her own, “I don’t think we should do this tonight.  I don’t want it to be a mistake. I-I should go… and check on Alphinaud.”

   The words felt like a chocobo had kicked her square in the gut.  There wasn’t much she could do or say, the kiss had been spontaneous and Alisaie had been drinking.  She cursed herself for misreading the signs. After all, a Sharlayan aristocrat and heir of an Archon was a wee bit out of a hyurian highlander’s league no matter how many times she had caught the elezen staring out of the corner of her eye. 

   She nodded and righted herself off the door and straightened her clothing as her token stoicism, hidden underneath an easy demeanor took over.

   “I understand.”

 ***

   A look of relief washed over Lyse’s face when Grey finally lifted her head.

   “By the gods, blood.  You had me worried.”

   “Had maeself worried,” she attempted to grin but it ended in a grimace.

   “I don’t know what I’m going to do with you.  No one was expecting you! Tataru said you were indisposed.  We all assumed you had fallen into a coma like the others.”

   “Nothin’ quite so simple I’m afraid,” she replied gently pulling away from the Pugilist's hold. “We have much tae discuss but I wouldst discuss it in private.  Is there somewhere we can go?”

   Lyse nodded, “I know just the place.”

***

   The space that the cozy, twilight rooftop garden occupied smacked of Lyse Hext’s aetheric aura.  A low rock pool occupied a quarter of the space, the blue and red evening bloom water lilies in it having just opened their petals.  Lotuses, moonflowers and jessamine all had unfurled themselves to bask in the dark evening light.

   A small, nicely appointed wood gazebo with taut red sailcloth sides stood in another corner, a coal warmer and lanterns already smoldering within.  A table with chairs, a lounge chaise and a working desk all managed to occupy the tent space without it feeling cluttered.  

   But the beauty of the immaculate aesthetic was for the moment altogether ignored as the Warrior of Darkness cum Light recounted all that had transpired from the moment that she arrived at the First until she had returned to the Source.  

   The Commander for her part did her best to update the knight on the status of forces.  There was an eerie sort of stalemate that had the Alliance leadership uneasy and reports from Gaius van Baelsaur of multiple Black Rose production sites were deeply disturbing.   

   “But there’s something far more troubling if it’s true,” Lyse said quietly.  “There’s rumors that Zenos is alive.”

   Sevryn narrowed her eyes in thought.  Lyse continued, “But.. that can’t be true because we both watched as he performed seppuku.  We burned his body outside of the city walls.” 

   “Aye.  But are we sure that it’s Zenos?  Emet-Selch and the other Ascians have been cloning and possessing the Imperial royal family for generations..”

   “If anyone knew Zenos, it was Gaius.  Gaius swears it is him,” Lyse replied.

   Grey sighed and rapped a knuckle against the table in frustration, “Godsdamnit.”

   “What’s wrong?  What does it mean?”

   “I’m not quite sure yet,” she admitted propping her fingers under her chin, “But.. I would wager it has something to do with the Resonant.  That was the only thing that made him different from any other garlean or hyur except for-”

   “Fordola.”

   “Aye.  I’ll be needin’ tae speak with her.”

   “Of course, I’ll send for her on the morrow,” Lyse replied.  “Speaking of on the morrow, I have an early meeting with Raubahn and the forward command duty officers if you would like to come.  That way you can get up to speed with the latest information.”

   Sevryn nodded as the pugilist stretched upwards, her breasts straining against the thin fabric of the simple red tunic she wore.  She didn’t quite manage to stop her gaze from falling on them before the Commander relaxed. 

   “Would you like a messenger to wake you or would you prefer that I arouse you?”  Lyse asked with subtle suggestion as she leaned closer, her eyes falling briefly on Grey’s lips.

   The dark knight smiled.

<<^>>

Chapter Text

    Her lips tasted like the wine they had drank all evening. She couldn’t quite remember why they had started kissing. They had been laughing one moment as she had attempted to teach Tesleen a mambo that Hildibrand Manderville had taught Sevryn Grey.  Somewhere between the high kick and twirl, Tesleen had lost her balance and crashed into a giggling Alisaie.    

   Tesleen’s hands vacillated between hesitant and impatient. For her part, Alisaie’s heart and mind vied for dominance. It seemed like ages since she had left Sevryn as they readied for the field of battle. She had wanted to tell her of her feelings. The ones that had first surfaced that starry night at Camp Overlook while both of them had sat with Ga Bu in his silent grief. But that had been months ago and the Exarch had made little progress in either pulling the Warrior of Light across the endless expanse of time and space or finding a way to return her to Sevryn’s side.

   The kiss deepened, Tesleen’s tongue seemed almost urgent in seeking entrance. The Elezen accommodated and pulled the woman closer, her hands working their way under the gray tunic.

   Logically she understood that there had been no declaration of feelings or was there any way that Sevryn could know how she felt, so she was free to do whom or what she pleased, but in her heart…

   She pushed the thought from her mind and focused on the sensation… or at least the ghost of the sense. Alisaie thought it was the wine dulling her faculties at first but when Tesleen’s fingers drifted below the hem of her tunic finding the bare skin of her outer thigh and the sensitivity was equal to being touched over a heavy cloth, it occurred to her that there was indeed a side effect to her non-corporeal, corporeal form. Alisaie ignored the obvious downside of the situation, intent on making Tesleen- dear, sweet selfless Tesleen- feel good, if only for the night.  

   She had watched for years as the Warrior of Light had given selflessly over and over again without so much as a gentle touch to upend the countless hours of battle, trials and endless errand running. Sevryn put up a good front but occasionally (usually in the moment after she was asked to fight some legendary force of evil) a look of superannuated exhaustion would pass over the Highlander’s fine features that she quickly covered with an easy smile and a ‘can do’ nod.

   Alisaie wasn’t going to let the emotional isolation that inherently befell many good leaders, forced to make tough choices, claim another that night- even if her heart wasn’t fully in it.  It wasn’t about what she wanted at the moment, but what Tesleen needed-

      ***

   A loud crack followed by the colorful cursing woke her up.

   “By the gods! Walking too complicated for ya? Can’t add anything to the task like carrying a box of ‘tatoes?” Cassana’s voice echoed off the canyon walls of the Inn.  

   She opened her eyes and stared up in the dim morning light at the roof of her tent listening to the Galdjent chasten whomever was unlucky enough to have dropped one of the crates from the supplies Alisaie had coordinated for delivery from the Crystarium.  She sighed and rolled over, the vivid dream nearly textbook accurate to the events that had transpired some six months past and she still regretted the whole affair- perhaps even more so, now that Tesleen was dead.  

   It had complicated things between them. While Alisaie wanted it to remain a moment they shared once, Tesleen had fallen in love with the Sharlayan. She could still remember the slightly detached look that crossed the blond woman's face when Ali had explained that she could not requite those feelings as her heart belonged to another.

   “I know you love Sevryn,” she spoke the words that Alisaie had not even uttered herself, “I suppose I was hoping that perhaps you could love me while she was away.”

   And she had, just not in the way that Tesleen had wanted and it had hurt her needlessly. Alisaie fervently and futivily wished time and again that the evening had never happened. She blamed the alcohol for her lapse in judgment. And it was that very reason why she had stopped kissing Sevryn that night in her room. She didn’t want to make love to the Hyurian (after they had been drinking) only to have the Warrior wake up and regret it the next day. That would be more than she could bear and that was a thought that scared her. 

   There was something that had begun to gnaw on the peripheral of her mind and that was how cool Sevryn had been towards her on the morning of her departure. While she hadn’t expected a discussion on what had transpired she had expected... something. The Highlander had scarcely given her a second look before everyone was saying their goodbyes. The dark knight did seem distracted and Alisaie decided to feign eager happiness at an opportunity to properly thank those whom had helped her.  While she was indeed happy to be able to express her gratitude in person, she would have much rathered walked through the portal to the Source with the Highlander.

   She sighed and wondered what the Warrior was doing now.

      ***

   Her fingers tightened their grip in Lyse’s hair. The Commander’s head bobbed lightly as she sucked Sevryn fully into her mouth, lips encircling her clit as she ran them the length of the engorged flesh.  The muscles in her legs began to tighten as she neared peak. Taking the cue, Lyse flickered her tongue against the underside of it.

   “Fuck!” Sevryn growled as she came, hips jerking sharply, covering the pugilist’s mouth and chin in sweet, musky arousal.  

   Lyse hummed happily against the swollen twitching flesh, nuzzling it delicately as Sevryn’s fingers relaxed and began to massage her scalp. She dropped a chaste kiss on the tip of the sensitive bud before crawling up the knight’s lean, muscular frame and straddling her hips.

   “You still taste good,” Lyse commented as she raked her nails casually down taut muscles, the skin of Sevryn’s belly prickling in the wake.

   The Warrior chuckled, “Thanks. I do m’best.”

   Lyse rolled her eyes with a playful swat, “Incorrigible.”

   “To a fault,” she agreed, a mischievous glint in her eye.  

   Pulling her arms to her sides, she wedged them between herself and Lyse’s legs- with a quick wiggle she hooked her arms over the blond’s muscular thighs and began to shimmy her way lower.

   “Where do you think you are- mmhh,” Lyse bit her lower lip as Sevryn worked her tongue into her. 

   Deft fingers found her nipples, sensually rolling and tugging them as practiced lips and tongue mimicked the movements across her clit. She sucked gently on Lyse’s inner labia before pushing just the tip of her tongue past the tightening ring of muscles.  

   As the Commander neared her climax, she devolved into an incoherent mass of gasps and pleas before stiffening and shuddering as her orgasm overtook her, inner muscles spasming as she clamped down on the Warrior’s head with such force that anyone else might have suffered injury at the thighs of the melee fighter.  Lyse finished and collapsed to the right panting,  “A girl could get used to that.”

   “Oh?” Sevryn chuckled as she wiped the silky arousal from her mouth and her throat where it had trickled down. 

   “Aye,” Lyse replied rolling onto her side, propping her head up with one hand while the other found her partner’s rather attractive collarbone and proceeded to trace it.

   “And are you getting ‘used to it’?  T’is the second time we’ve tusseled.  Correct me if I’m wrong but you made a point of insisting that you don’t ‘tangle twice’ and that our wee romp on R’halgr’s Palm t'was it.”

   A blush crept up Lyse’s neck, “I don’t recall saying anything like that to you.”

   “No?  You don’t remember at the end of our sparring match - lying naked in my arms and looking up at the clouds telling me: ‘I’ll spar anytime but I won’t tangle twice’. ”

   “Well…” Lyse took a deep breath, “I might have been a little rash with my words.”

   “A little?” 

   “C’mon, blood, you know how it can be.  You like someone and because you do, you foolishly try to appear distant or disinterested so that the person won’t know how much they affect ya. So sometimes you end up saying ridiculous things about tangling.”

   I don’t think we should do this… I don’t want it to be a mistake…  She passively wondered if perhaps this was the reasoning behind Alisaie’s words but, surprisingly, there was still a sting to the memory and Sevryn banished the thoughts from her mind. Unwilling to think of one, whilst in the arms of another.

   “Are you implying a fondness for me, Commander?” She japed in deflection.

   The Pugilist’s smile lacked the Warrior’s intended humor. The former Scion leaned in close and kissed Sevryn slowly, pulling away breathless when they finally parted.

   “I am very fond of you,” Lyse murmured tracing a finger along the Highlander’s jaw, “You can take that.. and me.. however you’d like. If there’s anything I can do for you, you need only ask.”

   The Warrior of Light’s lips curled into a smile as she placed a light kiss on the Commander’s forehead, “I appreciate it and you, more than you know, Ly. I’ll admit my timing is shite.. but there is something I need ya tae do for me.”

  <<^>>  

Chapter Text

   The Warrior of Darkness had finally returned from the Source and had promptly disappeared into the Empty with little more than a few words of conversation between them before Ryne had ushered her away.  

   For Alisaie, the wait was becoming maddening.  If the time spent apart had tempered her ardor it was quickly rekindled, perhaps even stronger, the moment she had seen Sevryn’s familiar smile.  But a week had passed since then and she was starting to get restless.  

   This same restlessness had driven her to conduct two patrols a day despite the fact that they hadn’t seen a single sin eater since the Warrior had defeated the Lightwarden Innocence.  However, that didn’t stop any number of things like sandsuckers, scissorjaws and ghilmans from presenting a threat to residents and travelers alike at Journey’s Head.

   She had cleared the northern and western quadrants of her route and was coming around to the south face of the Inn’s caldera when she noticed the Skyslipper that the Warrior and company had taken into the Empty sat idle at the Derrick.  Alisaie’s heart picked up a few extra beats at the implication of the vehicle’s return but tamped that down quickly, unwilling to get ahead of herself in hope.

   Casually, at a pace that was just below a trot, she made her way towards the staging area.   A few yalms closer and she realized that there wasn’t anyone there except a lone Journey’s Head guardsman.  She frowned briefly but continued towards the Derrick

   “Nice night,” the Guardsman commented by way of greeting.

   “It is. By chance, have you seen which way the passengers went?” She asked pointing towards the now cooled vehicle.

   “Oh, aye.  Two humes- one with black hair, the other with red- headed towards Mord Souq.  They can’t be more than half a turn ahead of you. If you hurry you might catch up to them, the dark haired one was moving a little slowly.”

   She thanked the guardsman and started back towards the Inn, her stomach tight with worry and it was concern that governed her decision to hire an Amaro porter to take her to Mord Souq.  

   While there could be any number of reasons behind a person ‘moving slowly’, Alisaie decided that finding out first hand was a much more appealing option than staying at Journey’s Head or waiting at the Pendants for the Highlander to show up.  She wouldn’t be able to rest until she did and gods knew how long it would take for the wandering Warrior to finally make it back to either one of those places.

~~

   Alisaie had grown quite accustomed to Dyalk, the Amaro kept at Journey’s Head.  The gentle beast had the young Elezen woman to the repurposed ruins of Mord Souq in very little time.  He flew precariously close to a tower but gracefully arched into a tight turn and landed deftly by the steps of the Atheryte. 

   Thanking the Keep who helped her down from the mount, she noticed that a conspicuously out of place, newly constructed tent, harboring a pile of supplies had sprung up suddenly in the village.  She surmised that whatever Thancred, Ryne and Urianger were up to probably had something to do with the latest addition and the out of place Crystarium attaché attached to it.  

   Figuring her colleagues had to be somewhere nearby, Alisaie ventured up the steps towards the Atheryte for a better view.   

   At the top of the stairs she spotted Ryne talking privately with another obvious Crystarium liaison in an orange and black shirt.  The two were deep in discussion about something and Alisaie was loathe to interrupt them. She instead made her way around to the south side of the platform, scanning the faces and vendor stalls for Sevryn.  She’d reached the other set steps and was about to turn around when she caught sight of a long black ponytail and vicious greatsword.

   Relief flooded through Alisaie’s chest as she started towards the Warrior, who was talking with a Mord named Bhil Bil.  As she got closer she could see fatigue hung on the dark knight like a cloak but the eager creature seemed oblivious to the Warrior’s weariness.

   The Mord shook with excitement as it described its desire for Gigatender meat.  It tumbled over its own words, begging for the Warrior’s help just in the manner it presented its request.  Don’t do it.   

   She couldn’t explain why but some part of her prayed that the Highlander would ignore her instincts to help and put her own needs above that of another’s for once.  She had nearly reached the two when she saw the Warrior nod in acceptance of the request. The Mord clapped happily and tuttled away. 

   Godsdamnit.

   “I don’t suppose you just agreed to a dinner offer,” Alisaie said as she closed the distance between them.

   Sevryn turned, a tired but genuine smile alighting on her face as she beheld the Sharlayan mage, “Alas, no. But even if he had, the last dinner invite I received ended abruptly when Thancred returned to Ishgard with you nigh on death’s door from a poisoned arrow.”

   Alisaie blushed, “I suppose I owe you an apology, then.”

   “No. You don’t owe me an apology,” Sevryn replied matter of factly, “You owe me a candlelit dinner.”

   The younger woman’s blush deepened, “I-I’m sure that could be arranged.”

   The Warrior’s smile widened. 

   “You’re enjoying this,” Ali’s blush receded quickly under realization.

   “Wee bit.”

   “I’m glad to see that your humor isn’t worse for the wear.  Although, the same can’t be said for your physical appearance.”

   “You wound me.”

   Alisaie rolled her eyes as she crossed her arms, “You know what I meant.”

   “Do I?”

   “When was the last time you looked in a mirror?”

   Sevryn smiled, turned on her heel towards the outlier town’s exit, “Probably not in a week or more.  Why? Is it that bad?”

   “No. I mean, you are still as beautiful as ever-” the Highlander glanced over at her and arched a fine brow causing Ali to look away quickly,  “But you look tired and… are you limping?” 

   “No,” she replied, faintly favoring her left leg.

   “Sevryn-”

   “I’m fine, Ali.  Just tired is all.”

   “Tired doesn’t cause limping, Captain.”

   “Aye, I know. I might have hurt me leg in a rockslide few days back. ‘Tis naught to worry about, lass.”

   The Warrior’s dodginess was beginning to raise questions in her mind but Alisaie left them unvoiced.  If the Highlander wanted to keep her own business, than it was not her place to push into it - but, she would be a liar if she didn’t admit it worried her.  Sevryn was one of the few people she trusted to be forthcoming, her sudden vagueness (while not any of Ali’s concern) bothered her a bit.

   “If you do not wish to discuss it, I won’t push the matter.  But I am concerned that whatever you just agreed to do for Bhil Bil will put you in undo risk given you present state. Therefore, I am coming with you.”

   “What makes you think that I agreed to do anything?”

   Alisaie didn’t even dignify the comment with a verbal response instead opted for a pointed look that made the dark knight abandon her ridiculous obstinance on the matter and for just a brief moment, her weariness shown through.

   “Fine,” she acquiesced, “Bhil Bil said to look in the east for a gaggle of gigatenders.”

   “A gaggle?” she giggled.

   “Dunno what tae call a group of ‘em,” Sevryn admitted with huff.

   The conversation between them quickly fell back into the easy banter and warm exchanges that dominated most of their dialogue but Alisaie could see that the Warrior wasn’t quite feeling herself. Occasionally, a painful wince would momentarily ghost over her features but Sevryn was quick to recover.

   “So, how are things on the Source?”

   She frowned, “Strange.”

   “What do you mean ‘strange’?” she asked as they ventured further away from Mord Souq towards Samiel’s Backbone.

   “It feels like the breath before a trigger is pulled.  A moment pregnant with dreadful possibilities.”

   The comment was not one she expected, “Now that I think of it, I think I might like it better when you are being ambiguous.”

   Sevryn chuckled, “Now you know why I just smile and nod.  I am nigh convinced that the Realm is not ready for the truths that surround its existence.  The axiom of its bloody birth and certainly, not of what seems to be the natural outcome of such an imbalance in the universe.  No one wants to hear about that when there are mouths tae feed. So-” She lowered herself and her voice, directing Alisaie’s attention to three young gigatenders milling about a ruined tower near Samiel’s ancient bones, “We’re going to make sure that those hungry bellies are fed while we save those we can still yet save and mayhaps we’ll save an extra realm or two on the way..” She pulled unstrapped the greatsword from her back, “You ready?”

   Alisaie had to tear her eyes away from the knight’s august, attractive features long enough to unsheath her rapier and levitate her crystal medium.  Taking up a dueling stance she nodded once, “After you, Captain Grey.”

   “Wouldn’t have it any other way,” the Hyurian’s smirk bordered on seductive as the anticipation of the coming fight flooded her being.

   Without another word, the dark knight lunged forward, greatsword at the ready.  The first, smaller gigatender fell before Alisaie could even reach the engagement area.  Sevryn vaulted over the spiny body of the anthropomorphized plant by using her sword as a makeshift pole, landing between the remaining two cactuar like creatures. She unleashed a circle of dark energy, that damaged and taunted the fiends drawing their attention away from Alisaie, allowing the Red Mage to attack the attackers.

   No matter how many times Ali had seen her round up her foes thusly, it never failed to twist the young woman’s stomach into a knot as she watched the Hyurian disappear under an unforgiving tsunami of enemies and blows.   

   For her part, Alisaie unleashed a torrent of elemental attacks. Preferring the use of magicks, for the moment, over her blade given the number of opponents.  The Warrior was doing a fine job of inflicting physical damage and the battle would be over quickly. But as the sounds of the wounded and dying gigatenders echoed over the empty landscape, it drew unwanted attention-

   “There,” she said between heavy breaths as the last gigatender fell, “That should be enough.”

   Alisaie approached as the knight pulled a boot knife and began to cut gooey green chunks of gigatender meat and stash them away. 

   “That went much faster than I expected. I need to take you on patrol with me,” the Sharalyan commented.

   Sevryn laughed, “I’d be happy to go but I’m afraid you would tire of me-”

   “-I could never tire of you.”

   The Highlander caught her gaze and held it.  Alisaie could see the questions there but she deflected, “You are, after all, a Warrior of Light and Darkness - I don’t think there could ever be a dull moment with you.”

  “Uh-huh," Sevryn stood and stepped closer to her, stormy gray eyes falling onto a soft mouth.

   She subconciously moistened her lower lip as warmth flooded her belly.  Before things could advance any further, a menacing shadow fell over them, blocking the light from the full moon. The warmth of the moment disappeared under the chill that ran up her spine.  

   Both women looked up. Straight into the angry red visage of the largest gigatender either one of them had ever seen. 

   “I-I think that’s the Maliktender,” Alisaie whispered, grabbing ahold of Sevryn’s bicep in fear.

   The massive gigatender looked at them and then furiously regarded the mutilated corpses of the flowering gigatenders. Its deep noise of rage shook the area around them.

   “Bugger me,” she muttered, eyes darting around for a means of escape as she put herself between the gigatender and Alisaie.  Nothing readily presented itself. Realizing that there was only the possibility for one of them to escape, she fished a whistle out of her pocket.

   “You know that beautiful backstep you’ve mastered?” 

   “Yes.”

   “When I tell you, I need you to get as far away from him as fast as you can.  Take Ean and get back to Mord Souq,” Sevryn pressed the worn chocobo whistle into Ali’s hand.

   “But-”

   “Promise me.”

   The Maliktender’s roar cut off any response she might have been able to give.  Sevryn glanced up, then back at Alisaie before unexpectedly pressing forward to kiss her.

   The feeling was indescribable and she barely had time to register that she could actually feel her lips before the Highlander pushed her away, “Go.”

   “Sev-”

   A dark energy swirled around the knight’s body. Aether hummed and sizzled the air around her. An inky black and purple miasma oozed from Sevryn’s skin and coalesced into a red eyed doppelganger of the Storm Captain that stepped out from the dark knight’s body.

   “Go,” the shadow demanded in the Highlander's voice, billowing up into Alisaie’s face, stopping scarce milms from it.

   It was enough. Alisaie bolted, backstepping from the field of battle, whistling for Ean even as she landed.  The black chocobo appeared from seemingly nowhere with a cry. Its attention was drawn towards were the fighting had begun in earnest. She could see the animal’s confusion at being summoned so far away from his mistress.

   “Ean!” she called to him. 

   With a chirped whistle of recognition, the large chocobo trotted up to her, lowering itself so that she could grab a hold of the barding and swing up into the saddle.  Ean took to the sky and Alisaie rounded him towards Mord Souq, intent on bringing every able bodied fighter she could find, back with her. 

   She just prayed it wouldn’t be too late.

   <<^>>

Chapter Text

   “Gods if you aren’t an ugly son of a sabotender,” Sevryn growled as she slashed at the incredibly aggrieved beast.  

   She wasn’t sure if her foe understood hyurian but it certainly seemed that way as the Tender spun itself in a circle trying to knock the Warrior back.  Sevryn barely managed to scramble out of range of a blow that would have left her stunned, if not completely incompacitated. Gritting her teeth, she vaulted back towards the red demon closing the distance before launching a (normally) devastating flourished attack that took a huge chunk of red Tender meat with it but did little to slow the massive creature.

   Her chest heaved from exertion and already she could feel fatigue creeping in.  It occurred to her that there was no way she would be able to stop the massive bastard herself but she had hoped (when she had formulated her half formed plan) to at least slow it down long enough to escape.  Unfortunately, she had not anticipated how much strength and stamina would be required just to defend herself.

   The red menace howled again. The Warrior of Darkness dove to the left just as thousands of ilm length or longer spines skewered the space she had been in. As she dodged, she prayed that Alisaie had made it back to Mord Souq safely.   

   If she hadn’t been otherwise engaged in fighting for her life, Sevryn probably would have analyzed what it meant to have had such a thought at such a time as this but alas, the business of just staying alive was taking up all of her attention.  She filed the notion away for later as the Maliktender again attacked, she parried and the dance continued. 

***

   Alisaie remembered, much to her panicked anguish, what had originally beckoned her to Amh Araeng: there was none who could stand against the dangers of the barren waste.  And what had been true then was true now- there wasn’t anybody that could help in Mord Souq.

   Another roar echoed from somewhere in the dark distance. The few Mord residents that were around hurried towards their homes, clearing the streets, hiding in ruined stone houses.  She cursed. If only any of the other scions were around..

   “Ryne,” she whispered and took off in the direction she had last seen the dual wielding damage dealer, Ean trotting dutifully behind her.

   Fortune was merciful as she caught sight of the young woman near the Crystarium tent.

   “Ryne! Thank the twelve you’re here! You have to come with me, Sevryn needs our help.”

   “What?” 

   “Sevryn and I were out hunting young cactuars when we were ambushed by a Maliktender.  She created a diversion so I could escape but she needs our help,” she explained in a rush.

   Ryne still looked confused and before Ali could explain further, another roar sounded from the distance.  This time, however, the cry was angrier than any of the others. Alisaie’s heart dropped into her stomach.  

   Please be okay.

***

   The moon had retreated behind a dark cloudbank. The sounds of fighting had stopped and there was no sign of Sevryn or the Maliktender.  Frustrated, Alisaie swore.

   “Is it a scion thing?”

   “What is?” Alisaie replied, adjusting her weight to try and see over Ean’s left wing.

   “The cussing- You and Thancred are both exceptionally creative at it.”

   “You should hear Y’shtola,” Ali murmured.

    As the clouds briefly parted, something caught her eye. With a short whistle, she tugged on Ean’s reins and urged him towards a spire of rock that looked like a stone wave cresting from beneath a sea of sand, at the base of which, a large dust cloud had been kicked up.  

   Ean flew low and landed at the edge of the loess haze. The airborne particles had already started to irritate her eyes and lungs as she dismounted. She unclasped her jacked and pulled the fabric of one side over her mouth and nose to try as a makeshift filter.

   “Sevryn?!” She called and instantly regretted as some sand flew to the back of her throat causing her to cough.

   Ryne took over calling for the Warrior of Light as Alisaie composed herself.  The redhead had already yelled for the Highlander twice when Ali thought she heard something.

   “Ssh,” Ali whispered grabbing a hold of Ryne’s elbow. “Did you hear that?”

   There was silence for a second and then the distinct sound of leather and buckles against rock, followed by a low groan. The two young women briefly made eye contact before bolting in the direction of the sound.  

   They found the Warrior of Darkness, laying in a shallow divot, atop a cluster of boulders, under what appeared to be one of the Maliktender’s appendages.  Alisaie rushed over to Sevryn’s side.

   “Captain, can you hear me?”

   The woman just moaned painfully.

   “We’ve got to get her out of here,” Alisaie said, Ryne nodded. “Help me get this thing off of her.”

   She reached for the red appendage- 

   “No,” Sevryn rasped, “Mine.”

   Alisaie stopped mid-reach, confused. The clouds shifted again and in the moonlight, she could see that some of the spines from the half-yalm lengthed cactuar arm had pierced through the thinner parts of the Warrior’s fending coat and ovim trousers (whose unfortunate design exposed most of the upper right thigh).  Even in the half-light of the moon she could see that the flesh around the points of entry for the spines was as angry and red as the Tender’s. 

   Confused by what Sevryn meant, Alisaie again reached for the appendage. Sevryn gripped it tighter even though it drove the spines deeper.

   “Need it,” she wheezed, then coughed violently.

   “What is she talking about?” Ryne asked, concern evident.

   Alisaie furrowed her brow, something tickled at the back of her mind. Something she had learned- it clicked.

   “Of course, cactuar venom.  The only effective antidote is made from the flesh of the beast. Come on, help me get her up. Mind the needles, the barbs are venomous.”

   “That a lass,” she wheezed, finally relinquishing her hold, allowing Alisaie to snap of the few remaining spines off the arm before tucking it away. She had once had the unfortunate experience of being pierced by a cactuar’s quill. The pain had been excruciating, she wasn’t keen on repeating the experience any time soon.

   When ready they knelt on either side of the Warrior.

   “On my count we’ll get her into a sitting position and then up from there...1, 2, 3.”

   Sevryn groaned in pain as they heaved her upright. 

   “Ali,” Ryne hissed, looking at the Highlander’s back.

    Alisaie looked at the young lady confused and then followed her gaze to Grey’s back, “Good gods.”

    Hundreds, if not thousands of the viciously long, barbed quills were deeply embedded in the dark knight’s back.  She couldn’t imagine the amount of force needed to be able to drive the spines through the thick leather of Grey’s coat. And, given that the long needles appeared to only be half visible, a good portion of their length was deeply embedded in the Warrior.

   “I don’t know how you’re still alive… let alone conscious, Captain.”

   “She’s not,” Ryne pointed out.

   Alisaie glanced up to see the Highlanders head hanging limply.

   “I should have expected that,” she sighed.  

   Concerned that Sevryn could go into shock, she looked over her shoulder towards Snitch, one of three old watchtowers that had been repurposed into way stations for travelers and guards to and from Journey’s Head.  She had only recently resupplied the stop and it wasn’t likely the stock had been depleted. It was a better option that Mord Souq, where the few berthing spaces that weren’t claimed by the Mord were generally taken up by traders and travelers now that the region was now by and large ‘safe’.

   Ali whistled for Ean and with some coaxing, brought the chocobo low enough so that they could lay the Warrior across the saddle.  It wasn’t ideal. There were several quills lodged across the Captain’s front as well. Alisaie prayed that it didn’t make things too much worse. 

   Arranging the Captain safely in the saddle, they headed towards the stone tower that loomed large in the distance.

<<^>>

Chapter Text

Hear-

   The soft sound of fabric against fabric, gentle breathing to her right. 

Feel-

   Smoldering pain lit up her nervous system, a warm body pressed against her arm.

Think-

   The events of the battle involving the Maliktender came flooding back. She remembered being knocked backwards, slamming her head against a rock and only barely managing to roll onto her stomach as the massive cactuar fired a volley of deadly needles in her direction. From the pain she was in, she figured a few must have hit. 

   She groaned and the warm body next to her stirred.

   “Sevryn?”  There was a sleepy quality to the question.

   “Aye,” She managed, her voice cracking from dry disuse.

   “Hold a moment,” Relief flooded Alisaie’s voice, “Try not to move.”

   She managed a pained terse chuckle, “I’ll do my best. But, there’s whispers not even death can keep the Warrior of Darkness down.”

   “Until the day it does,” Came an unamused response and the sound of a tinderstick being struck, “And how do you know about those rumors?”

   “I might have started them.”

   Sevryn thought she heard the word incorrigible tucked somewhere under Alisaie's breath.  She had little time to think further on it because darkness fled as flame took to wick and bathed the room in the warm glow of an oil lamp. 

   “There,” The mage puffed blowing out the tinderstick, “That should help.”

   She noted they were in a square stone building that had been cleverly built for space by adding three buttressed alcoves attached to the central room.  In one was a kilned oven conveniently flanked by counters. A low fire smoldered within it casting a red glow through the grated iron door. Next to the canteen area was storage and a ladder led to a lofted second floor.  

   The makeshift double bed she lay in took up half of the third alcove.  The other half being occupied by the lamp atop a low table, also upon the table was a bloody pile of rags and a box full of ensanguined spines.

   “Two hundred and thirty five,” Alisaie supplied the answer before she could ask the question. 

    She picked up one of the quills and held it up to the light so Sevryn could see the offending item.  The shaft was the length of her own finger with two staggered, wickedly hooked barbs towards the tip that ended in a visibly sharp point. 

   “Two hundred and thirty five,” she repeated in a tone that bordered on amazed.  She glanced sideways at her before setting the spine back with a sigh, “It took hours to pull them all from your body.”

   “I’m sorry.”

   “Whatever in the world are you apologizing for?”

   “Worrying you.”

   “W-what makes you-?”  Alisaie started and then stopped when Sevryn cast a pragmatic lift of her left brow in the Elezen’s direction.  She glanced away, “I’m that obvious, am I? Alphinaud would be so disappointed to know his sister lacks his political gentility.”

   “Doubtful. He’d be thrilled to know that he excels at something you do not.” 

   “There are many things in which he is far more talented than I am.”

   “But do you tell him?”

   “Of course not!” Alisaie was appropriately scandalized by the remark.  

   A small smile curled Sevryn’s lips, “I rest my case.”

   Alisaie rolled her eyes and swatted her arm playfully.  Her eyes went wide when she realized what she had done, “Gods! I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to hit you-”

   “Ali,” She caught the elezen’s hand before she could pull it back and without any thought to it, brought that same hand up and ghosted her lips over the back of the mage’s knuckles, “You dinnae hurt me.”

   A noticeable blush blossomed on the Red Mage’s neck as her blue eyes riveted themselves to the back of her own hand, “I-I should take a look at your injuries now that you are awake.”

   Sevryn nodded, “Aye, let’s see what that bastard did tae me.”

   “Wait!”

   Before Alisaie could finish her protest, the Highlander tossed back the covers exposing her naked, battered body.  She had had worse. Much, much worse. Granted, her back felt much more raw than her front but there was no way for her to look at her own posterior despite (according to Y’shtola) having her proverbial head there on occasion.

   A reddish film had crusted over the cross shaped holes the cactuar needles had left.  The injuries themselves were haloed by webbed inflammation and dark purple bruising. Although the pain she felt wasn’t nearly as bad as her abused body suggested it was still palpable.  

   ‘We can fix that.'

   “Eh, it’s not so bad,” She concluded optimistically.

   “You should see the back of you,” Alisaie replied her gaze politely averted.

   “What’s wrong with the back of me?”

   “If you were to try and move, I’m sure you would get a fairly good idea of the number of holes the Maliktender left in you,” Ali turned back towards her as she responded, careful not to let her gaze fall below Sevryn’s upper chest.

   “Does it look anything like that?” 

   The Warrior pointed towards the injuries that bespeckled her legs, purposefully drawing Alisaie’s eyes down her naked body and past a most intimate (and immaculate) of places.  The Elezen blushed furiously as she dragged her gaze over the exquisite form, “Yes. Just worse.”

   As she opened her mouth to reply, a wave of burning pain rolled along her legs and up her spine.  Her mouth snapped shut as a spasm ripped through her back muscles, forcing it into a slight arch.  

   ‘Let me out.’

   The darkness within her flared.  Inky black aether seeped from her skin.  She could feel her darker self stir. Awakened by the paroxysm, aroused by Alisaie’s close proximity, her aphotic proprium held on to the corners of her consciousness demanding control.  She gritted her teeth, resisting the siren’s call to abdicate command.  

   Not now.

   Darkness fled as the pain receded.  As her focus returned to the present, she noticed that Alisaie had abandoned any pretense of propriety in the face of her distress.  Of course, she had seen this raw concern in the Sharlayan before.  The Warrior hadn't been unaware of her companion’s troubled glances while they fought to save Norvrandt as the absorbed aether of the Lightwardens slowly consumed her from within.  That same apprehension now lined Alisaie’s fine brow as she held on to Sevryn’s hand with both of hers. Her tension eased a bit as the dark knight began to relax.

   “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to worry you-”

   “Shut up, you don’t have to apologize,” Alisaie countered.  She took a breath and looked at her squarely, “What was that?”

   “What was what?”

   “That dark aether just now.. I saw you- it- before with the Maliktender.”

   “Oh, that… that’s a long story.”

   “Considering that we need to wash the dried cactuar paste off of you, I would venture to say we have time,” Alisaie replied in a tone that left little room to argue.

   Sevryn desperately wished that Ali hadn’t brought the subject up.  There were still some things about her state of being as a dark knight that she didn’t fully understand.  She had worked bits of it out with Sid but she suspected that Rielle knew much more than she was letting on.  It had only been recently that Esteem had begun to appear on the field of battle. The first time it had left her feeling exhausted as if all the aether in her body had been drained and every time subsequent, the same feeling of depletion vexxed her.

   When she had traveled back to the Source she had asked Rielle about it.  The answer had been cryptic: 

   ‘Love is the source of your power.  Love will be the balm to your injuries.  Love is what will bring you back and make you whole.’

   “I’m not quite sure where to begin,” she replied, watching Alisaie gather supplies.

   “Might I suggest beginning where it started.”

   “A wise suggestion.” 

   “I’ve been known to have one or two on occasion.”

   She sighed in acquiesce as her companion sat a bowl of hot water and clean rags on the table, “It began on a cold evening not long after your brother, Tataru and I arrived in Ishgard..”

   ***

   Sevryn Grey’s back was distracting.

   Although she was paying attention to the Warrior’s tale, every curve and sculpted muscle caught the eye, despite the maltreatment it had received at the quills of the cactuar.  More than once she had to chasten herself for lingering too long at the muscular curve of her derriere. 

   There was something to be said about that, given the highlander’s story of her transformation from a white mage to a dark knight was fascinating.  The first time she had spent any real amount of time with the Maelstrom Captain was when she had enlisted her help in uncovering the mystery of Bahamut and her grandfather.  Sevryn had been an accomplished white mage then but also incredibly gifted in offensive magic. 

   It was her fierce drive and stalwart determination that first captured Alisaie’s heart and gave her a reason to fight.  The Warrior’s example inspired her to venture out on her own, intent on making her mark saving those she could just as Sevryn was so inclined to do.  By the time their paths crossed again in Ishgard, the Highlander had already donned the mantle of a dark knight.

   As Sevryn recounted how she came to her powers, Alisaie vaguely remembered something being different between the Warrior of Light she met briefly before Ishgard and the one after.  Not that the difference had been an unwelcome or negative one. Just. Different. Darker. But definitely not malevolent.

   Grey’s story shed light on the reasons behind her transformation: Fray, Sid, Rielle, the coexistence of darkness and light within her.  It was a rather glaring revelation when laid out sequentially.

   “She said love was the source of your powers as dark knight?”  Ali asked as she wiped the remainder of the dried poultice from the back of Grey’s legs. 

   “Aye.”

   She had so many questions, “And when did you say that it first manifest itself?”

   “After we had arrived in Amaurot. Before we confronted Emet-Selch, you and I had talked, do you remember? It was in the fight that followed later against him in his true form that Esteem first appeared.”

   Alisaie knew exactly what conversation she meant.  It was the closest she had come to confessing her feelings since that fateful day the Exarch had torn her consciousness from the Source.

   “Do you remember that talk we had atop the tower in Mord Souq? I’m still of the same mind now as I was then.  I don’t abandon you, you don’t abandon me and together we make a difference in this fight.. If we keep taking that next step forward, there’s a chance we’ll find a way to save you,” She didn’t trust her voice not to crack with emotion, “So no matter how long it takes or how much it hurts, you can count on me to keep walking.”

   She had turned away from the Warrior of Darkness after she had spoken those words, not wanting her to see how much it hurt already to watch her suffer the ravages of the light within.   However, if the Warrior’s dark spectre manifested afterwards then- her heart began to pound as the pieces fell into place and the implication of the statement set in.  When Sevryn spoke again, it barely registered.

   “Beg your pardon?” 

   “I asked if we’re done, can I get dressed?”

   “Oh! Yes, of course. I had Ryne deliver clothes for you to wear. Your old gear is irreparable. We’ll have to pick you up new,” she said.

   Sevryn gingerly turned herself over.  Even though her wounds had closed, Alisaie could see that the Warrior’s pain still lingered heavily.  She brought over a pair of dark trousers and shirt as the highlander sat up and swung her legs over the edge of the bed with a slight groan.

   “There are few times I wish I would have stuck with the healing arts. This would be one of those times. Alphinaud would be able to relieve your pain with a wave of his hand.”

   Sevryn laughed and then cringed, one arm wrapping around her own chest in a vain attempt to ease the discomfort mirth created,  “Healing isn’t quite as simple as that m’dear.”

   “I know.  But you, Alphinaud and Y’shtola all make it look like it is.”

   “Me? The last person I healed was Y’shtola, after the attack on Rhalgr’s Reach. That was ages ago. At least it feels like it was ages ago… Speaking of, I needs talk with Shtola.”

   “Last I heard she had returned to Slitherbough for the time being. But there’s no way I’m going to let you travel alone in your condition.”

   “I’m fine.”

   “A giggle just caused you to double over in pain.”

   She huffed a laugh and nearly fell over.  Alisaie said nothing, simply arched a brow as she folded her arms over her chest.  

   “Okay. Fine,” The Warrior relented and the Mage smiled, “Oh, don’t look so pleased with yourself. If you really wanted to help, you would do what you did last time.”

   “What did I do last time?”

   “Kissed me.”

   “I-I what?”

   “You. Kissed. Me.”

   Alisaie blushed, “I was hoping you wouldn’t remember that or bring it up.. ever.”

   “Why?”

   She couldn’t tell if the pained look on Sevryn’s face was from her current state of malady or if it was caused by something else entirely. She didn’t want to be the source of any discomfort for the Warrior and despite the overwhelming desire to dismiss the line of inquiry with a vague reply, she didn’t know if she could go on withholding what was on her heart.

   “I didn’t want you to recall it because I’m embarrassed by my lack of decorum. I find myself enamored with you and I didn’t want you to think me some silly girl who- mmh!”

   It was by far the most effective way in which anyone ever silenced her.  

   Sevryn’s lips were soft, warm and demanding and it overwhelmed her senses.  She was scarcely aware of the fact she could feel the brush of the Warrior's tongue and the fingertips that caressed over the back of her neck.  Nor did she notice the gentle pull of aether from her being- none of it registered back dropped against the promise that the kiss held- that she would never leave nor abandon Alisaie.

<<^>>

Chapter Text

   The crepuscular creatures had descended on Rak’tika. The red hues darkened towards violet as the day capitulated to its caliginous conclusion.  She held onto Ean’s reins loosely in one hand as she leaned against the Chocobo’s powerful frame for support, his sleek black feathers downy soft.  He occasionally cooed a whistle, as they both watched the last of the sun’s rays sink behind the majestic greatwood trees.

   “I thought I sensed you- is this where you’ve been hiding?”

   “I’d hardly call watching the glorious golden cerise at the day’s end ‘hiding’.  The reds deep and bright.  The hues of orange warm and inviting against the cool lavender gathering of eventide that always presages the depths of zaffre..” She trailed off as she felt Shtola’s hand slip around her bicep and the mage pull up close, “I figured you would enjoy it too.”

   “You’re sweet,” she purred, “Thank you.”

   Sevryn said nothing, choosing instead to lay her hand over the sorceress’ and enjoy a comfortable silence amidst the twilight chorus.

   “I had heard murmurings you had returned some weeks back.”

   “Aye.  I had been meaning to come to you sooner but I was held up by Ryne, Urianger and Thancred.  Then Alisaie and I ran into some trouble in Amn Ahraeng.. Speaking of, she should be along in a bit.  She didn’t want me to travel alone but she received news from Journey’s Head and had to attend to it,” she replied, straightening herself from leaning on Ean.

   The movement caused her still healing injuries to muster a protest against such things.  Sevryn cringed and stiffened, both reactions catching Y’shtola’s attention, “You’re hurt.”

   “I’m healing, there’s a difference.”

   “Ah, yes.  The other side of the same coin.”

   She sighed, “It’s a long story and according to Urianger - I’m not allowed to speak of half of it.”

   Y’shtola frowned, “What do you mean, according to Urianger you’re not allowed to speak about it?”

   “Do you remember how he likes to keep secrets and has done so on a handful of occasions only to have it come back to bite us in the arse?”

   This time the silence that stretched out between them was less comfortable and pregnant with tacit misgivings.  Finally Y’shtola spoke, “It would seem we have more to discuss than your recent travels and the events detailed in your journal.”

   “Aye, that we do,” Sevryn replied, turning on her heel towards Slitherbough.

   “You’re limping.”

   “I would say ‘isn’t it obvious’ but I realize my snappy witticism is void, if not a tad bit tasteless in present company.  Is there any way I can assure you that my injuries aren’t that bad and you take my word for it?”

   She dipped under the hyurian’s arm with an affable laugh.  She came up underneath the taller woman’s shoulder lending her gentle support, “You’re wit is not tasteless, I assure you.  Although, I’ll gladly let you flounder as you try to atone for some self-perceived slight against me. It’s rather endearing.  As for the extent of your injuries, I wouldst believe you if you answer me this: have you seen a healer?”

   “Uh, well.. Alisaie attended to my wounds after I had a run in with a Maliktender.  Of course, that was after I returned from fighting the-” The Highlander caught herself and glanced sideways, “I mean… I might have conjured and tangoed with a few primal sized opponents and while Uri- er, uh, while there was an astrologian there. However I would be hard pressed tae say they were of any use other than pondering things around the area,” Sevryn kicked herself inwardly for the involuntary dissemination of information.

   She was sure that Y’shtola caught the comments but to her credit she did not acknowledge them, “So the answer is no then?”

   The Warrior nodded.

   “How long have your injuries afflicted you?”

   “I dunno. It’s been about five days since Ryne and I got back to Amh Araeng and two days prior to that, I hurt my leg.” 

   “Then before anything else, I shall take a look at you.  No insult to the Leveilleur proclivity for the healing arts  but I am concerned that you aren’t recovering as quickly as in times past. I wonder, what has changed?”

   Sevryn glanced at her, “I was hoping maybe you would know.”

   ***

   It was a fantastic tale that only Sevryn Grey could tell with any credibility.   Had anyone else told Y’shtola that a dark doppelganger had manifested itself to lead the Warrior of Light (who prior to that moment been a beacon of altruistic white magic) down a path that invariably lead to her becoming the Warrior of Darkness, she would have dismissed it as nothing more than ravings.

   But, Sevryn wasn’t prone to verbosity and after fifteen solid minutes of talking, the Miqo’te mage was beginning to wonder if the dark double hadn’t gifted the Highlander with an inclination towards articulation.  Not that she minded, she got to revel in that delightful Ala Mhigan accent for longer.

   Her ears perked up as the Warrior described the manifestation of her own inner darkness and her attention was hooked when she recounted Rielle’s words to her:  

   “...All because you were too stubborn to die,” Sid finished, fierce pride evident in his voice.

   “And because of love, I’m sure,” Rielle turned towards Sid - who looked confused- and explained, “Being grim and dark will only get you so far, don’t you remember?  It’s like the moogles- like Ser Ompagne himself said. The flame in the abyss, the love you bear for the ones you hold most dear - that is the source of true strength.  Sevryn could never have made it this far if her heart wasn’t filled to the brim with love.”

    Something in the statement caught her attention.

   “‘The flame in the abyss’.. did she mean-?”  Y’shtola folded her fingers under her chin briefly in thought. 

   “Hm, I wonder-” She looked squarely at the Warrior, “I suppose there is only one way to find out.  Pray, take off your shirt Captain.”

   The Highlander lifted a brow, “Beg your pardon?”

   She didn’t dignify the question, designed to stall, with a response. Simply mirrored the Maelstrom officer’s feigned credulous expression and waited.  

   Sevryn rolled her eyes with a huff and began working the fastenings of her shirt, “Fine.”

   When she was down to her chest binding, Y’shtola began a cursory exam.  Her sightless eyes tracking the flow (or in cases of injury- diminished lack thereof) of aether through Grey’s body.   Her hands hovering and soothing over Sevryn’s body meridians.

   “I don’t understand why I had to take off my shirt,” she grumbled.

   “Because you know as well as I do that non-aetheric material such as fabric and leather obstructs the reading of qi.  Hush now and let me work.”

   The Warrior’s aether had always been powerful and unique.  It was incredibly easy for her to find it. However, there was something different about it.  She vividly remembered the quality and feel of Sevryn’s essence as the Highlander had given some of her own vitality in order to save Y’shtola’s life at Rhalgr’s Reach.  However, the vibrational quality of the Warrior’s aether was now much lower than it had been before. As if the polarity of it had been realigned towards the umbral. She frowned.

   “I don’t like that look,” Sevryn said quietly.

   “I wouldn’t either, knowing myself as well as I do.”

   “So very comforting,” Sevryn sighed, “Well, c’mon, don’t leave me in suspense.”

   “Patience. I have an idea but there is something I need to test first.”

   Y’shtola drew on the elements around her, channeling the energy through her body, she summoned a simple healing spell hovering her hand over the Warrior’s heart.  The healing magicks glowed brighter as she pushed more towards the Highlander. However, as soon as the energy made contact with her aura, the Warrior’s own aether overwhelmed and transmuted the highly vibrational astral healing towards the umbral.

   The miqo’te frowned thoughtfully, “Indeed, it’s as I suspected.”

   “What?”

   “There was, in fact, a side effect to your serving as a walking, occasionally talking, containment vessel for the aether of the Lightwardens.  Your own now seems to align towards the umbral. Which, unfortunately, is lessening the effectiveness of any external healing magick you receive.”

   Sevryn knitted her brow,“Well, shit. That’s going tae complicate getting injured.”

   “Yes, it is. However, I believe your young acquaintance Rielle may have given you the answer.”

   “Oh?”

   “Yes.”

   “And that would be?”

   “Love.” 

   Sevryn looked skeptical so she continued, “Love is possibly the most powerful force in the universe and there is no purer aether in the cosmos. Its nature is also very unique in the fact that it is neutral in its polarity, able to exist in both states concurrently.  It started when you first absorbed Ardbert’s essence and used it to empower and heal yourself from the effects of the Light. Add to this your natural proclivity to channeling healing magicks, I believe that you would be able to heal yourself using the vibrational frequency of the emotion.  Withal passive love would do you no good, it would have to be of the more quickened variety- love in its astral state.”

   “And what exactly is love in its astral state?”

   Y’shtola grinned licentiously, “Do you really have to ask?”

<<^>>

Chapter Text

   The evening fires were burning low by the time Alisaie arrived. It had taken her longer than expected at Journey’s Head. Halric had been, if it were possible, even more distant and Alisaie was beginning to wonder if there wasn’t something bothering the boy.  Since the destruction of Vauthry and his sin eaters, the progression of Halric’s transformation had stopped but… She shook her head once to clear her thoughts. There was no sense in continuing to ruminate over a situation that remained mercurial at best.

   “Mistress!”

   “Runar, it’s good to see you again.”

   A small smile touched the Hrothgar’s features, “Master Matoya left word for you, she wishes for you to join her in her study.”

   “Thank you, my friend.”

  The Night’s Blessed inclined his head and stole away as quietly as he had appeared leaving Alisaie to make her way across the clearing towards Y’shtola’s door.

  The room was aglow with warming braziers that smoldered throughout the charming grotto. Y’shtola was curled up on a pile of cushions next to one of the braziers. The mage’s ears twitched towards Alisaie as she stepped into the inviting space, “I had almost given up on you arriving this night.”

   “You and I both. Thankfully, Cassana said she would look after Halric.”

   “Is there some trouble?”

   Alisaie shook her head. There was so much to the silent boy who, as far as she could figure it, was more sineater than drahn that it would take more turns than she wished to spend explaining it to her fellow scion, “Not so much trouble as it is something troubling the lad.  What that something is, however, remains a mystery. Speaking of mysteries, did Sevryn find you?”

   An expression that she couldn’t quite read passed over Y’shtola’s face, “She did.”

   “And? Did she talk to you? Were you able to help her?”

   A small, patient smile curled the corners of Y’shtola’s lips. She patted the cushion next to the one she occupied, “You should probably have a seat, there is much to discuss. Unless of course you are tired and then it can wait until morning.”

   “No!” It came out a bit more forcefully than she intended.  Composing herself she hastened to add, “I’m not tired.”

   “Pray, sit. Twelve know you’ll probably be thankful you did before too long,” Shtola said with a cryptic grin.

***

   If she hadn’t heard it from Y’shtola herself, she wouldn’t have believed it.

   “She heals from..” Alisaie trailed off, not able to bring herself to finish the sentence, in case she had drastically mistook the sorceress’ meaning.

   “Love, or more succinctly, the aetheric energy created by consummation of such a thing.”

   “That sounds an awful lot like a-”

   “Succuba,” Shtola nodded, “Indeed, it does. But in all fairness, the commonality of the two would begin and end with the manner of aetheric transfer.  Drawing upon the energies that surround her to heal is second nature to her. Unfortunately, whether for better or worse, the umbral energy of Vauthry and the Light Wardens has altered our dear Warrior’s own. I know not if it is permanent, only that it has occurred.”

   “So, how do you know?”

   Y’shtola tilted her head and looked at Alisaie, confusion tugging at her brow.

   “How do you know she heals when she’s.. intimate with someone.”

   The Sorceress’ sightless eyes traversed the Elezen’s features for a moment, looking for or seeing something that Alisaie didn’t know she wanted to know.  A slow, gentle smile spread over Y’shtola’s face.

   “Are you asking if I’m an eyewitness or participant to this feat?”

   The words left Shtola’s lips, alighted on Alisaie’s ears and blazed a burning blush down the back of her neck.

   “Neither! Both- Gods! I don’t know what I’m asking. It’s not like I have a claim to her!”

   “True. But still the heart wants what it wants,” Y’shtola replied, “Alas, I was neither a witness nor a participant. Although, I’d be a liar if I said the curiosity wasn’t killing me.”

   “Can’t say I blame you,” Ali murmured under her breath. The Sorceress said nothing. She cleared her throat before continuing, “Pray, how did you come to this conclusion then?”

   “When she told me that the only time she had felt hale and hearty after confronting Emet-Selch and saving the First was when she had returned to the Source and kept Lyse’s company for a night.”

   Alisaie’s eyes widened a bit, “Lyse and Sevryn?”

   Y’shtola nodded.

   “H-how are you?”

   The miqo’te shrugged, “Lyse hasn’t the faintest idea that I have anything more than a passing interest in her.  And even if she did and there was something more, I would not be upset that she found comfort and solace in the arms of someone such as the Warrior of Light.  And since the Captain is also a dear friend of mine, I am even more pleased they had the time together. Seekers have little use for monogamy. Besides, who’s to say it didn’t save the good Captain’s life?”

   She listened closely to her friend’s words, reflecting on the sum of the situation.

   “But what about you?”

   “I-I’m sorry?”

   “What about you?” Y’shtola lengthed the pause between words, accentuating each.

   “It’s quite a bit to take in, isn’t it?” Alisaie sighed, “We did talk. We didn’t discuss this, although I'm sure if Sevryn had known she would have mentioned it..”

   She trailed off for a moment as her mind raced to make sense of the new information.  While they had tentatively brushed upon the feelings they both held for each other, the revelation of Sevryn’s aetheric condition complicated things and raised more than a few questions.  If Sevryn could only effectively and fully heal through aetheric sexual energy - what would happen when the Warrior of Light inevitably injured far away from her? It would be unreasonable of the Warrior to neglect her own physical well-being out of emotional consideration for another.

   “Doubtless she would have,” Y’shtola agreed. “Given this revelation, the question is begged: does this change how you feel about her?”

***

   Her eyes opened at the sound of wood on stone and she lifted her head as the door to the room cracked wide enough to allow someone to enter before shutting again. 

   “Shtola?” Sevryn asked, voice husky from sleep.

   “I’m afraid not.”

   “Ali? When did-”

   “There’s something we need to discuss,” The interruption was out of character for the Elezen, so Sevryn waited quietly as Alisaie found the low burning magicked lamp and turned it up.  

   The room was cast into the cool glow of umbral fire.  Sevryn grunted as she pulled herself upright in bed.  Her injuries still healing at a maddeningly slow pace. She realized too late that she was still sans shirt but given that Alisaie had patched her up not even three days prior, it seemed a bit late to stand on propriety.

   Propriety, however, seemed to still tug at the Elezen as her eyes landed on the soft breasts that existed in juxtaposition to the Warrior’s chiseled physique.  Sevryn arched a brow in amusement as Ali’s mouth fell open briefly before she recovered, quickly dragging her gaze back up to curious gray eyes.

   “There’s much to talk about-,” Ali started, Sevryn blinked at a loss as to what the mage was saying, “I sometimes wonder if it would even be possible..”

   Sevryn furrowed her brow as her confusion grew.

   “I mean you’re the Warrior of Light on the Source.  The Warrior of Darkness, here at the First.  A hero to two worlds.  You belong to both and neither at the same time,” Alisaie crossed the room and sat on the edge of the bed next to her, “Which makes me wonder: would a person have a claim to you even if you were to share your heart and bed with them? Especially given the particulars concerning your ability to heal.”

   Sevryn regarded Alisaie closely for a moment, “Are you asking if I could love you or are you asking if you could love me?  Because it seems that both of those things have already occurred and nothing will change that.”

   Emotion filled Ali’s eyes a moment before she lunged forward, catching Sevryn’s lips in a breathtaking, soul bearing kiss.  The reaction was immediate. Sevryn’s aetheric survival instincts kicked in, drawing on the energy being created between them.

   For her part, Alisaie couldn’t help but marvel.  Unlike before with Tesleen, she could feel everything.  The caress of the Warrior’s tongue over her lips, the soft warmth of her skin.  Getting lost in the sensation, she barely registered the gentle pull on her own aether.  

   Passion and hunger grew between them.  Deft fingers made short work of her jacket and tunic.  With practiced ease, Sevryn wrapped the younger woman up and reversed their position.  With every moment, every kiss, every soft sigh - Sevryn felt more energized, less awful.  That in turn, drove her to explore and taste every inch of Alisaie. Finally, finding the Elezen’s clit with her mouth.  Gently flickering over the bridge as she lightly sucked the whole of it into her mouth.  

   Alisaie whimpered as she neared her climax, “Please!”

   Sevryn found small pert nipples, rolling and tugging them between strong fingers, sending her nearer to the edge of orgasmic bliss.  And as she tumbled over, in her heart she swore that nothing, not even the nature of Sevryn’s condition, would keep her from the Warrior’s side.

<<^>>

Chapter Text

   Before dawn had fully broken beyond the forest canopy, Sevryn stirred. The first sensation to register was the lithe form nestled against her belly. Her arm cradled Alisaie, and despite the warmth of the soft fleece blanket, Alisaie’s skin felt unexpectedly cool. Sevryn had to remind herself that while her friend appeared solid, Alisaie’s aetheric form was not truly flesh and blood. Yet, this distinction clearly posed no barrier to their intimacy.

~~

   She felt the unmistakable throes of Alisaie’s climax as the younger woman’s hot arousal slicked her chin. Immediately, Sevryn plunged her fingers inside, curling them into the contracting muscles that clenched tightly around her digits. An involuntary cry escaped the Elezen as she thrashed against the pleasurable intrusion.

   "Sev, fuck—oh gods…" Alisaie’s heels pressed into the mattress, her legs spreading wider in invitation.

   The desperate plea drew a low growl from Sevryn. Responding in kind, she plunged deeper, adding a finger to the exquisite fullness, eliciting whimpers and frantic movements from Alisaie, whose nails dug into Sevryn’s shoulder as another peak of pleasure overwhelmed her. Strong arms gathered Alisaie close as she shuddered and collapsed onto her side. 

   "Gods... where did you learn to do that?" Alisaie gasped, still breathless. A playful smile was blooming on the Warrior of Light’s lips as Alisaie glanced back. "Actually, never mind. Don’t answer that."

   Sevryn chuckled, pressing a soft kiss to the curve of Alisaie’s shoulder. "You wouldn't believe me if I said I was a natural?"

   “Not for a second,” Alisaie yawned, a contented sound, as she snuggled closer. Moments later, her soft breaths indicated she had fallen asleep, a development that brought a bemused frown to her face.

~~

   Still lost in sleep, Alisaie didn't stir as Sevryn eased herself from the bed. Her hempen pantalettes, damp and clinging from the previous night, were still on. As she slid her leather breeches over her bare legs it brought the supple material in contact with her tender, neglected clit. A sharp intake of breath caught in Sevryn's throat, and she bit down on her lip. Composing herself, she located her coat atop the chair where Alisaie’s discarded garments and small clothes lay.

   A fleeting thought crossed Sevryn's mind: that she should keep the exquisite lace panties as a prize for Alisaie to reclaim. However, the necessity of her return to the Source quickly dispelled the notion. Krile’s urgent message, delivered to one of Sevryn’s retainers and relayed by Feo Ul a few days before her unfortunate encounter with the gigantender, meant over a week had already passed since she had sent it.

   Instead, with a sigh, she carefully folded the delicate panties and placed them with Alisaie’s other garments before retrieving her own coat and boots. Barefoot, she tiptoed to Alisaie’s side, pressed a kiss to her forehead, and then headed for the door.

   As Sevryn reached for the handle, an intuitive certainty washed over her: Y’shtola would be awake on the other side. For a moment, the allure of teleporting directly back to the Crystarium beckoned, but she quickly discarded the notion, knowing she would never hear the end of it.

   Drawing a silent breath, Sevryn eased the door open. The mage was exactly where she’d expected: seated at the solid wooden table directly across the threshold. Y’shtola sat with her eyes closed, her hands wrapped around a steaming cup of robust morning tea, her ears twitching ever so slightly at the whisper of wood and hinges.

   "You’re up early," Y’shtola observed. "Feeling better, I presume?"

   "Aye, I am," Sevryn replied. "How did you know it was me approaching?"

   A smile touched the Miqo'te's lips as she opened her eyes. "Your footfalls lack Alisaie’s lightness."

   "That makes sense," Sevryn conceded, settling into the chair opposite Y’shtola to don her boots and coat. Y’shtola watched her silently as the Hyurian began securing the black leather straps of her greaves.

   "How are you feeling?" She inquired, taking a sip of her tea.

   Sevryn grunted as she tightened the last buckle on her left greave. "Good... much better. Thank you."

   Y’shtola nodded slowly. "I am pleased to hear of your improvement and that my hypothesis regarding your aetheric imbalance seems to hold true."

   "Me too."

   "Before you leave, you really ought to have some of Runar's tea and sweetbread. While you've recovered, I suspect your strength isn't fully back yet, particularly after your... exertions last night. Unless—" Y’shtola’s gaze, sharp with her ethereal sight, shifted from the Warrior of Light to the door she had just exited. "—there's another place calling to you more strongly."

   "No," Sevryn replied, a hint of weariness in her voice. "There isn't a place I'd rather be. But there is a place I must be. Still..." She sighed, the sound accompanying the click of the final greave strap, and turned to face her. "Breakfast sounds welcome.”

   A pleased expression bloomed on the Miqo'te's face, as if Sevryn had met an unspoken expectation. “Excellent! While you eat, would you mind if I took a look at your aether?”

   Sevryn, mid-bite of bread, arched an eyebrow. “Fine. But, you know, for someone who heals people- your bedside manner could use some work.”

   Y’shtola stood and approached her, a knowing smile playing on her lips. “Perhaps. But my patients rarely complain after I’ve seen them through a crisis.”

   She extended a hand, a soft glow emanating from her palm, and held it above Sevryn, her aether gently probing Sevryn’s own. “Hmm.”

   “Well?”

   “Shh,” Y’shtola murmured, her focus unwavering. After a brief pause, she continued, “It seems your time with Alisaie has indeed facilitated some healing. However... it’s not entirely complete.”

   Frowning, she withdrew her hand, shifting her weight onto one hip. “The partial effect is… puzzling.”

   "Worked in part?" Sevryn echoed, a slow understanding dawning. "Oh."

   "Oh?" Y'shtola's gaze sharpened slightly. "Is there something you aren’t telling me?"

   A flicker of distress crossed Sevryn’s face. "No. I mean... it’s just... gods, this is hardly breakfast conversation."

   A knowing smile touched Y’shtola’s lips. "The option to divulge after you've eaten remains."

   "Of all the awkward morning conversations I’d envisioned... a detailed discussion of my night with Alisaie was the one I most wanted to avoid."

   "Take heart- I gleaned the more... enthusiastic moments from the other side of the wall, last night."

   Sevryn groaned, burying her face in her hands. "You are spectacularly unhelpful."

   Y’shtola’s lips twitched, though her voice remained even. "My intentions are purely supportive."

   “I know,” Sevryn sighed into her palms before lowering them, reaching for the teapot. "Last night, I endeavored to ensure Alisaie enjoyed herself."

   "I do believe you managed to accomplish that—if the litany of profane prayers was any indication."

   A blush crept onto Sevryn’s face, thankful that Y’shtola couldn't see it. "Aye, well, I must have worn her out because she fell asleep on me."

   "She?... Oh, I see." A brief silence fell between them as Y’shtola seemed to weigh the information carefully. "So, you didn’t..."

   "Nope."

   "Fascinating," Y’shtola mused, resting her knuckles against her chin.

   For the first time ever, Sevryn wanted to crawl under a rock and die. "I’m starting to feel judged."

   "Judged? Perish the thought, my dear captain," she leaned down, her lips grazing Sevryn’s ear as she whispered, "If anything, you have my deepest sympathies."

   Sevryn’s pulse hammered in her ears. Her body thrummed with unsatisfied longing. She fought to maintain a neutral expression as Y’shtola’s fingers traced the line of her jaw before the mage straightened, returning to her seat and tea.

   It took a conscious effort on Sevryn’s part to refocus on the Miqo'te's steady voice, which had continued as if the captain’s inner turmoil was unnoticed.

   "...while the effect persists during intimacy, the more substantial aetheric exchange seems tied to the moment of climax... This would be far more illuminating with direct observation."

   That snagged Sevryn’s attention.

   "Ideally, amplification at the crucial moment would be optimal. Typically, aetheric amplification involves a rod or a stave..." Y’shtola tapped her chin thoughtfully.

   Sevryn blinked once, then twice. "Begging your pardon.. A what?"

   A knowing, enigmatic smile played on Y’shtola’s lips.

~~

   A chill permeated the room, a stark contrast to Alisaie’s lingering memory of the previous night’s warmth. Still drowsy, she turned over, instinctively reaching for Sevryn, only to find the space beside her cold and empty.  The lack of surprise at Sevryn’s absence was overshadowed by a sharp pang of disappointment. She had yearned for a continuation of their intimacy. Then, the vivid recollections of the previous evening crashed over her. She snatched a pillow and groaned into its softness.

   "Brilliant. Absolutely brilliant, Alisaie," she muttered to herself. "At this rate, Sevryn will have moved on before I’ve even properly woken up."

   "Though, in her defense, I doubt she’s inclined towards promiscuity."

   Alisaie’s eyes snapped open, a startled cry escaping her lips as she scrambled upright, clutching the pillow to her chest. "Y’shtola!”

   A breakfast tray rested in Y’shtola’s hands as she stood in the doorway, a bemused smile gracing her lips. "I knocked, and though I heard a murmur, I couldn’t quite discern the words. I trust my entry is acceptable?"

   Alisaie’s initial embarrassment receded as her gaze drifted from the pillow to the blind Scion. Y’shtola’s unfocused eyes, aimed at a point far beyond the confines of the room, betrayed no use of her aetheric sight.

   "Yes, of course. Forgive me. I didn’t hear you," Alisaie mumbled, drawing the sheet around herself as she sat up. "Please, come in."

   "I surmised you might be in need of sustenance this morning," Y’shtola said, navigating the room with practiced, deliberate steps towards the bed. Her hands carefully gauged the distance to the nightstand as she placed the tray.

   A low rumble emanated from Alisaie’s stomach as the aroma of fruit, sweetbread, and tea wafted towards her.

   "My assumptions appear to be correct," Y’shtola chuckled softly, settling onto the edge of the bed, her gaze still distant.

   "Hungry, yes," Alisaie admitted with a sigh. "Though my appetite is absent."

   "Pray tell?"

   Alisaie worried her lip, a flicker of uncertainty in her eyes. "The events of last night… or rather, the distinct lack thereof."

   Y’shtola’s expression turned thoughtful. "Ah, yes. I overheard some...things. Rest assured, despite popular speculation regarding hyurian fertility, your current state is likely unburdened by new life."

   Alisaie’s jaw dropped before she impulsively swatted Y’shtola with the pillow, a flush rising on her cheeks. "You are incorrigible."

   A soft laugh escaped Y’shtola. "My point being, dwell not on the nocturnal occurrences, or lack thereof. Sevryn seemed in good spirits, albeit with a certain air of distraction."

   A flicker of confusion crossed Alisaie’s face. Y’shtola’s pronouncements often required careful interpretation. Instead of dwelling on it, Alisaie glanced at her solitary, neatly folded clothes.

   "Did she mention where she was going?"

   "The Source. Krile apparently has an urgent matter requiring her attention."

   "Couldn't it have waited a few more hours?" Alisaie murmured, turning away to conceal the hurt tugging at her lips. But the subtle tremor in her voice spoke volumes to Y’shtola’s perceptive ears.

   "You sound troubled," Y’shtola observed gently.

   The quiet acknowledgment of her suppressed feelings brought a sudden tightness to Alisaie’s throat.

   "No," Alisaie insisted, though unshed tears pricked at her eyes.

   To her credit, Y’shtola offered no further comment, simply reaching out to rest her hand gently on the sheet over Alisaie’s leg. "Sevryn asked me to bring you breakfast."

   The simple statement eased the knot of uncertainty that had formed in Alisaie’s chest. "She did?"

   Y’shtola nodded. "My understanding is that Krile’s message arrived some time prior. Delay was no longer an option. In fact, I had to coax Sevryn to eat a morsel herself, so eager was she to depart."

   'So eager to depart'.. A familiar anxiety tightened its grip. Alisaie shook her head, determined not to succumb to childish insecurities. Besides, Y’shtola had always been a steadfast source of truth.

   "I understand," Alisaie replied, a brief silence settling between them.

   "So?" Y’shtola grinned, flicking her tail. "Spill."

   With surprising speed, Alisaie swung the pillow, aiming for Y’shtola’s head, a strangled cry of indignation and mortification escaping her lips. "Y’shtola Rhul! I would never!"

   "Perhaps not in retrospect, but during the act—"

   Another strangled cry cut Y’shtola off, followed by a second pillow whistling past her.

   Despite the furious blush that climbed to the tips of her ears, Alisaie managed a choked, 'Get out!', as the Miqo'te fled the room, infectiously giggling.

<<^>>

Chapter Text

   “We, meanwhile, will do what we can from here and, if the fates are kind we will have good news to share upon your return.” 

   Krile’s words echoed in her mind as she sat at Alisaie’s bedside in Dawn’s Respite. Even in the warm candle light, her pallor was unusually pale and though she appeared to be sleeping, Sevryn knew that she was far away on the First.

   “I fear.. a weakening link between body and soul.”

   Only the slight rise and fall of her chest gave any indication of life. She did her very best to ignore the knot of concern those words formed in her stomach as she reached out, closing a hand over Alisaie’s. Fine, delicate features that hours before were beautifully contorted in passion, were now deathly still. A difference that she found deeply unsettling. Lost in her own thoughts, she didn’t hear the door open and close, or the two sets of footsteps that drew closer.

   “Oh, Captain! I did not expect to find you here.  I figured you would be well on your way back to the First. Is there aught wrong?”

   Looking up she saw Krile along with the aged Master Matoya. Standing, she inconspicuously withdrew her hand from Alisaie’s, hoping that neither of the two mages had noticed.  While she was unashamed of her feelings towards the Sharlayan, explaining how she came to have them whilst the young woman lay comatose, seemed like an awkward conversation that she did not wish to have at the moment. 

   “There’s nothing wrong,” Sevryn assured her, “Well, not anything wrong with the others, at any rate.. I was hoping to speak with Master Matoya about a matter. Y’shtola said she might be able to help.”

   The wizened wizard huffed and shuffled towards the chirurgeon’s desk, “Offering up my services without asking sounds like something she would do. At least we know that her current condition hasn’t improved her manners any.”

   Sevryn tilted her chin to the side, “I dinnae mean to intrude, Master Matoya. I can always seek the help and counsel of the Sennas of Gridania.”

   “The Sennas? But they’re-” Krile frowned, “Are you sure there’s nothing wrong?”

   “Bah!” Matoya exclaimed over the Lalafel’s concern, “If the Sennas could help you, Y’shtola would not have sent you to me. But you were already aware of that given your storied history as a white mage. Don’t try to be coy with me, child.”

   Taking off her hat, she set it down on the desk and tidied gray errants wisps of hair before smoothing her shawl down, her fingers beginning to show a gnarl in her advanced age.   Seemingly satisfied with her appearance, Master Matoya grabbed her stave and made her way towards the Warrior of Light.

   “While Y’shtola can be willful and headstrong, she is not wont to waste my time,” the old woman gestured towards the empty bed beside Alisaie’s and across from Y’shtola’s, “Sit and let’s have a look at you.”  

   “Don’t you want to hear what the issue is first?” Sevryn asked, doing as she was bade.

   “No.”

   “Why not?”

   “Because, if you had a full grasp on the situation, you would not be asking for my opinion. Besides, anyone with even a hint of aetheric awareness can see that yours has gone nigh umbral,” Matoya replied with a matter of fact huff. 

   Krile gasped.  The Warrior of Light’s mouth fell open briefly in surprise.  Master Matoya laughed briefly, “Come now, why else would Y’shtola send you to me?  Verily she knew that I would sense the imbalance straight away. The greater mystery is what she imagined I could do about it. You seem hale enough and don’t appear to be transforming into some mindless monstrosity - tell me, have you developed any new rashes?”

  The question caught her off guard, “Rashes? No. The only side effect seems to be that I can’t heal.. At least, not in a traditional manner.”

   Master Matoya’s brow furrowed deep in thought.

   “What do you mean ‘not in a traditional manner’?” Krile asked the question that she had least wanted to hear. 

   Though the question wasn’t directed at her, Matoya responded out of intellectual habit: “Standard  healing uses both umbral and astral energy.  Umbral to counterbalance the inflammation produced by injury, common disease and infection. This, in turn, aligns the affliction towards neutral state, thus allowing the astral energies of the healer’s intent to quicken the healing process.  That said, the healing processes we’ve developed are based on aetherically neutral to astrally aligned subjects.  There is very little research into healing those whose aether is aspected towards the umbral.  If I were to hazard a guess, traditional healing spells would fail on the two primary accounts: First, the use of umbral energy to soothe inflammation would be like pouring water into an ocean. There would be no relief.  Secondly, the channeled astral energies of the healer would have to exceed the umbral pull of the patient’s aether towards stasis in order to effect any sort of therapeutic response. It would take a mage of extraordinary talent and substantial power to execute such a feat.  Although, I’m not sure that would even be possible given your aetheric magnitude.”  

   Matoya narrowed her eyes and made a small thoughtful ‘hmm’ before hovering a glowing palm above Sevryn for a few moments. The Warrior noted that the tingle and pull of Matoya’s magicks was similar to Y’shtola’s, although the Miqo’te’s aetheric manipulations were much more pleasant compared to the ancient hyurian’s.  Matoya frowned, “There is something..”

   Opening her eyes, the Archon regarded her briefly before slapping her still hovering hand down squarely on the highlander’s back. To her credit, the Warrior of Light and Darkness caught her pained yelp behind gritted teeth. 

   “It seems that you have managed to effect some sort of healing with the help of yonder young Sharlayan,” Matoya jerked her chin back towards where the twins lay, “How?”     

   “You mean Alphinaud? He is a rather gifted healer-” Krile began.

   “-No.  His sister.”

   Sevryn’s mind raced as she tried to come up with an explanation that did not require any follow up questions or disapproving looks. The twins had reached their 18th birthday on the Source, while their souls were displaced to the First. For Alisaie, two years had passed on the First.  All of these details were all well and good and would be well received in time, but skipping all those finer points and jumping straight to ‘aetheric transference' by means of ‘love in its astral state’ (as Y’shtola called it) wouldn’t  land well. 

   'Don’t tell them. Let me out.'

   A darkly familiar voice whispered up from the back of her mind. The deadly dulcet timbre cantoring to the throbbing of pain from the mostly healed wounds that covered her back.  Dark swirling energy of deep purple and darkest black erupted and churned over her skin. Startled, the old mage stepped back as Sevryn doubled over grunting over in pain as she struggled to contain the undulating darkness coalescing itself into a sable, shadowy simulacrum of herself. Exhausted from her travels between worlds and the night before, Sevryn was unable to contain the manifestation of darkness within her and nearly collapsed as the void-like figure stood up from the bed.

   “By the gods!” Krile rushed to Sevryn’s side, catching her before she pitched sideways off the bed, staring apprehensively at the menacing shadow that now towered over the three of them, “What is that?!”

   “Fray,” Sevryn managed.

   “W-who is Fray?” Krile asked, adjusting the hyurian’s weight across her shoulders.

   “I am,” Sevryn and her shadow self spoke in tandem, “We are.” 

   “Oh.. that’s creepy,” Krile replied quietly, “No offense.”

   “None taken,” Sevryn managed. 

   “Perhaps a better question would be: what is Fray?” Master Matoya replied cryptically as she took in the aetherial aspects of the spectre. 

   The abyssal knight wearing the Storm Captain’s figure stared for a few brief moments at the Archon before turning its face towards Alisaie’s unmoving figure and then back, ' Serve.  Save. Slave. Slay…Whether by blood or bond we commune and are made whole. I am the embodiment of her good sense and pragmatism.  The one keeping her alive, while her aether remains stagnated by light. Stable but stagnant.. A waste of potential as long as it is so.'  

   With that, the simulacrum drew its sword and knelt, disappearing into a swirling vortex of dark energy that churned briefly before evaporating back into Sevryn’s body.  

   “W-what was that?”

   Matoya hummed thoughtfully leaning on her stave, “It appears to be an astral projection of Captain Grey. Interesting. Very interesting, indeed.” 

   “An astral projection?” Krile repeated trying to understand.

   “In the truest sense of the word,” Matoya nodded, “Though how she became possessed of such an entity is an intriguing question.”

   Krile hissed in pain at the same moment an ice pick headache split her Sevryn’s skull as the Echo resonated, pulling them back to a chilly evening at the Last Vigil in Ishgard. 

   As she looked on Fortemps Manor, she reflected upon her time in Ishgard. The comrades with whom she traveled and those lost along the way. She glanced briefly at Sidurgu and Rielle as they approached before returning her gaze upon the stately manner.

   “Hm? You seem distracted.. Ah, right, You were a ward of House Foretemps,” Sigurdu spoke as they came up beside her.

   Sevryn shook her head, “Not any longer.” 

   “No, I suppose not.”  A sound like glass being snapped in half interrupted Sidurgu, who tilted his head curiously, “Huh?  Damndest thing but I swear I heard something in your pack break.” 

   Sevryn frowned and pulled open her pack. Rummaging through it she found the splintered remains of the dark soul crystal she had taken off of Fray. 

   “Bloody hells, is that your soul crystal? What happened to the other half?”

   Sevryn stared down in confusion. In all of the battles she had fought, never once had a soul crystal shattered.

~~

   Master Matoya listened intently to Sevryn as she told the story of the mysterious elezen waif who appeared, making simulacrums composed of  memories and Warrior of Light’s aether.  It was he who claimed to have broken the soul crystal by drawing off its aether. An incredible feat that she had yet to see duplicated by anyone.

   “Perchance, do you still have the shards?”

   The dark haired woman nodded and produced the two halves of the broken gem. Matoya took the pieces delicately into her hands, staring intently at it.  

   “Would you mind if I kept this for a while? I would like to study it.”

   “No. By all means, keep it for as long as you wish. I haven’t had a use for it. I don’t know why I kept it.” 

   “It may prove to be most fortuitous for you that you did,” the Archon said as she stowed the slivered stone away, “As for the astral being.. Your simulacrum, as you say, is more than it appears. Of its origin, I cannot say. Perhaps, the crystal remnants might shed some light upon its nature.  But for now, it seems to be the means in which you are able to heal.  Howsoever the aetheric transference and quickening occurs is of no consequence. Be that as it may, we do not know if sharing your companion's soul aether on the First will hasten the deterioration of their corporeal aether here at the Source. I suggest speaking to my former protege about what we’ve discussed here. Perhaps she can help you find a suitable source or means of procuring aether on the First that does not place your companions in jeopardy.” 

The small knot of concern that had developed in the Warrior of Light’s  chest upon hearing Krile’s initial report after returning to Mor Dhona blossomed into full blown worry at Master Matoya’s words.  The older mage turned towards the chirurgeon’s desk. Seemingly tired from all of the excitement.

“One more thing,” she said over her shoulder, “Assuming you know how you’ve managed your partial healing, I suggest that you find an aetheric source to finish it. Twelves’ mercy! A person such as yourself will find trouble ere long. I would hasten to remind you that if you die.. the Scions die with you.”

<<^>>

Chapter Text

   Alisaie was simply mesmerized, watching Sevryn’s well-sculpted back and shoulder muscles tense, pull, and relax as she rowed them across the Source towards the Grand Cosmos. Departing from Sullen, G’raha had initially offered to row the boat himself, but about twenty yalms from the dock, the winded Exarch sheepishly asked the Warrior of Darkness if she wanted a turn. And thus, the elezen sat enthralled by the rhythmic movement of corded muscles and sweat-sheened skin as Sevryn toiled in her undershirt, her outer coat set aside.

   “If you stare any more intently at her, the others are likely to take notice,” Y’shtola said quietly, leaning ever so slightly towards Alisaie, though her gaze was seemingly fixed on the distance. “Although, given your interactions with G’raha and Alphinaud over her this morning, I daresay they may have already.”

   Alisaie sighed and rolled her eyes.

   “I didn’t mean for it to happen. It’s just… sometimes, when it comes to her and all that she has done and continues to do, I get protective. So, when G’raha offered to be a noble but foolish martyr to return us to the First after all she went through, it just made me so… so—!” She didn’t finish her thought, opting instead to growl in frustration.

   “—Infuriated that he would disregard her sacrifice to save the First and himself in seemingly such a craven manner in order to win her favor?” Y’shtola finished knowingly.

   “Precisely. Just like his offer to row us across the lake.”

   Y’shtola laughed softly. “And what of your brother?”

   “What of him?” The fairer twin huffed. “He’s always been an instigator. Don’t laugh, he is! He knows I like Sevryn. He just doesn’t know the half of it.”

   “I’m sure demanding exactly what he was implying by his comment probably gave him some idea as to the extent,” Y’shtola noted with a gentle smile.

   “Agh! I know,” Alisaie despaired, dropping her face into her hands. Y’shtola just patted the Red Mage’s knee consolingly.

   “What are you two talking about back there?” Sevryn asked over her shoulder, lightly out of breath.

   “Oh, nothing of importance, my dear Captain,” Y’shtola spoke up, sparing Alisaie any further distress, if the rising blush on her neck was any indication. “We were simply remarking on your excellent form and, dare I say, superb stamina. Tell me, Captain, was it that legendary stamina or your deck-swabbing skills that impressed Admiral Merlwyb so?”

   “Twelve alive, woman,” the Hyur muttered, a blush of her own spreading across her shoulders. “Ye dinnae have to make this any harder than it already is. My arms are goin’ tae be jelly by the time we get there.”

   “You see?! G’raha’s going to get her killed with all of his grand gestures and lack of follow-through,” Alisaie insisted. 

   “Calm yourself. Our friend has dealt with more than her fair share of benevolent burdens in her many trials and tribulations. I’m sure she’ll be fine with our aid.”

   “Look alive, my friends! The palace is within sight. Just a little bit further now,” G’raha said excitedly before turning to look back at the Warrior who still toiled at the oars and, just beyond her, a very unimpressed elezen glaring daggers at him. “Er… uh, would you like me to…?”

   “Nope,” Sevryn said tersely. “Ah got it.”

   “Right, uh, yes… T-thank you for rowing, Sevryn.”

   The Hyur said nothing, simply continued to row, the sound of water against the hull as the boat cut through the dark, glass-like surface of the lake towards the imposing abode of the reclusive Nu Mou mage.

~~~

   Having decided that it would probably be best if the Exarch remained behind with the boat, given that the reclusive mage had previously refused his request, the other four headed into the opulent, pink-buttressed halls.

  “Should you value your lives, you will quit this place at once. Now, begone with you!” A mysterious cloaked figure spoke to them before fleeing down a large, well-appointed corridor.

  “A rather ominous welcome…” Y’shtola commented as they gave chase.

   As they pursued the Seeker of Solitude, the mage quickened the suits of armor that lined the hallways and rooms, bringing them to life. Sevryn unleashed a torrent of dark energy, drawing the ire of the animated armor, as Y’shtola and Alisaie furiously hurled spell after spell at the murderous metal monstrosities.

   Rounding the corner, Sevryn pulled up short as a large enchanted broom nearly swept her off her feet, literally. “Whoa.”

   “How quaint,” Y’shtola remarked. “They remind me of Master Matoya’s brooms.”

   “You and I remember those brooms – and their owner – quite differently,” Alphinaud replied as they dodged the swirling straw servants.

   Y’shtola laughed as they turned down another hallway, one that resembled…

   “An armory? Given what we’ve seen them do with the brooms… I don’t like this,” Alisaie muttered as they continued forward.

   “I call forth blades to run them through!”

   “Sevryn! Look out!” Alisaie shouted as four wicked-looking swords and two grievous axes were magicked to life, coming off the wall, wielded by ugly, six-eyed gremlins.

   Despite Alisaie’s early warning and Sevryn’s quick reaction, one of the blades managed to find its mark in her left flank, just above the hip. Gritting her teeth in pain, she pivoted and parried a second strike, bringing her weapon down on the head of the sword-wielding summon who had sliced her, cleaving the creature in two before turning on the rest.

  “Are you alright?” Alisaie asked as Sevryn carved and spit the last one. The elezen’s eyes widened as she saw a telltale shimmering around Sevryn as she absorbed her foe’s aether. “Did you just—?”

  “Heal? Aye. But not as well as you’d imagine,” she said.

  She pulled her coat back to show the wound. Gently moving the split, bloodsoaked fabric of Sevryn’s now-tattered undershirt, Alisaie flinched at the sight of a deep, angry gash. It was no longer bleeding profusely, thanks to the modicum of healing the Warrior had effected with the death of the summon, but neither was the wound closed. Any sort of exertion or injury, and it would surely start to bleed again.

  “That looks like it hurts,” Alphinaud said, coming up alongside his sister. “If you’ll permit me…”

  Sevryn could feel the cool tingle of his aetheric manipulation; however, it did nothing to alleviate the searing pain. The area ached and itched as he doubled down his efforts to knit flesh and skin back together. In the whole of her existence, never had she felt the healing process. If it was working, it was doing so at a pace that made the ‘expedited’ process excruciatingly painful.

  “Stop,” Alisaie bade her brother, noticing the discomfort etched across the Warrior of Darkness’ face. “That’s not going to work.”

  Doing as he was told, Alphinaud immediately stopped. “What? What do you mean? How do you know?”

  “Look,” his twin replied, nodding towards the Warrior’s wound, which was mostly unaffected aside from a marginal decrease in swelling.

  “By the Gods!” Alphinaud looked stricken. “How long have you been like this?”

  “Since Vauthry,” Sevryn managed, dropping to a knee, weak from rowing and bleeding.

  “I thought Ardbert stopped the light from overtaking her?”

  “Stopped? Yes. Stabilized, even. But it seems his efforts did little to reverse the damage to her aetheric alignment. While the blessing of light keeps her fit and in her own form, her soul’s tendency towards the umbral remains a hindrance to her healing,” Y’shtola replied.

  Alphinaud pondered this information briefly. “Hindrance to her healing… Although, clearly she can, because she’s not hobbling around everywhere—”

  “At least not that you’ve seen,” Alisaie muttered under her breath.

  “—She was able to row us here—”

  “Rowing here probably contributed to her getting hurt!” Alisaie shouted, her emotions at her brother’s seemingly clinical analysis of the situation getting the better of her.

  “I—” Alphinaud started, only to be cut off by his sister.

  “Neither you nor G’raha listened to my objections about fighting our way through this place. Both of you insisted that it be the first course of action!”

  “I did not insist on it!” Alphinaud objected.

  The sound of the twins’ bickering faded as blood loss and fatigue began to set in. Sevryn blinked, trying to focus, as the corners of her vision began to darken. So caught up in the squabbling, the Sharlayans didn’t notice Sevryn struggling. However, the blind miqo’te mage did.

  “I’m trying to help!” Alphinaud insisted.

  “Help?! You could help by listening—”

  “I think Sevryn—” Y’shtola tried to get their attention but was cut off.

  “—I do listen!” Alphinaud insisted as their argument continued.

  It dawned on Y’shtola that Sevryn was likely to be passed out on the immaculate green and gold marbled floors long before they finished their spat. Realizing what she needed to do, she rushed past the two squabbling siblings, falling to her knees in front of the Warrior, catching the Hyur’s face in both of her hands. Light silver held steel gray for a moment as Y’shtola’s intent and Sevryn’s acceptance silently passed between them. Surging forward, she caught Sevryn’s lips with her own. The pleasurable pull on her aether was instant and palpable. Unlike other forms of aetheric transfer, the delicious play upon her nervous system made the Miqo’te mage want to purr as she deepened the kiss, canines gently grazing a full lower lip before letting the tip of her tongue play over the flesh. She tried to remain objective during the experience, knowing that unclouded observation would best serve the interests of effecting a cure, but try as she might, a warm tingle started low in her belly.

  The twins, for their part, had stopped bickering and were staring with identical shocked expressions.

  “By the gods!” Alphinaud spoke first.

  “You can say that again,” Alisaie replied, her eyes riveted to the kiss, a faint flush working its way up her neck.

  “No—look!” her brother said, tugging her sleeve and pointing where the injury had been moments before. The deep laceration was now closed, though the new, pink flesh indicated that—barring further aetheric transference—it was going to leave a scar.

  The twins’ exchange was enough to pull Y’shtola back to her senses. Reluctantly, breathlessly, she pulled back from the kiss. Opening her eyes, she was met with an intently grateful but curious gaze.

  “Feel better?” she asked.

  “Aye… thank you,”

  Y’shtola blushed in the warmth of the Warrior’s gratitude (at least, that’s what she told herself). “Then, if you are feeling improved, perrrhaps we should be on our way.”

  Alisaie didn’t miss the purr in Y’shtola’s tenor, despite the latter’s attempt at suppressing it. She had never heard her friend vocalize her pleasure in such a way before, save for one time when the Miqo’te had gotten her hands on a decidedly delectable box of vanilla tarts from Old Sharlayan, sent via care package from Alisaie’s own mother. Not that she could blame the mage; having been where the Archon was, it was a very unique and heady experience kissing the Warrior of Light and Darkness, and she wasn’t sure how much of it was the aetheric drain and how much of it was her own emotional reaction to kissing the woman she loved… Loved?

  “So that’s how she heals… Aetheric transference attributable to an emotionally heightened astral state precipitated by physical connection,” Alphinaud’s summation brought her attention back to the moment.

  “That seems to be the short of it, yes,” Y’shtola, who was now on her feet, affirmed.

  “Interesting,” he replied before looking directly at his sister. “Did you know about this?”

  Alisaie’s face turned nearly as red as her coat. “I—uh,”

  “We really should get going.” Relief flooded through Alisaie at Sevryn’s words. “The Seeker of Solitude is waiting for us.”

  “Right, of course,” Alphinaud agreed. “Lead the way.”

  Alisaie caught a knowing glance from Sevryn as she turned and headed towards the Martial Court and the dark-robed being beyond.

~~~

  Fortunately, the rest of the palace trials proved to be a relatively simple task for the quintet of Scions. Sevryn showed undue restraint rather than her usually robust fighting style. It seemed out of character. By the time G’raha and Alphinaud had woven subtle commands to the Nu Mou soul mage, convincing them to return posthaste to the Crystarium, Alisaie was sure something was amiss with Sevryn. She wanted to discuss it with Y’shtola, but the mage was seemingly lost in her own thoughts after the events at the Grand Cosmos.

  She felt the familiar flush of heat rise up her neck at the image of Y’shtola and Sevryn lip-locked in a tantalizing kiss. Her own reaction was causing her some consternation. Where she thought there would be jealousy, there was none. Just a poignant, lingering desire at the memory. She didn’t know what to make of the unexpected emotional entanglement. Of course, when it came to the Warrior of Light, nothing was ever simple. Why would loving her be any different?

  Alisaie sighed heavily.

  “Is aught amiss?” Y’shtola asked gently.

  “Yes… no,” she huffed, glancing sideways at the blind mage. “I don’t know.”

  “You’re thinking about the kiss I shared with Sevryn.”

  “No… yes,” she rolled her eyes. “Am I that apparent?”

  Y’shtola smiled easily. “Hardly. If anything, I could be accused of projecting.”

  “So, you’ve been…” Alisaie trailed off as Y’shtola nodded.

  “Of course. My thoughts on the subject are not yours, and yours caused you to sigh rather heavily. Mine did not. So, let’s start with yours.”

  “I’d rather not.”

  “Suit yourself,” the mage shrugged.

  Alisaie sighed again. “Fine… Is it weird that I’m not jealous?”

  “Of course not. I imagine that it would be of more concern if you were, considering there is no formal relationship betwixt the two of you. Unless that has changed and I am unaware of it.”

  “No, it hasn’t changed,” Alisaie replied a bit sheepishly.

  “But your feelings for her have, haven’t they?”

  Alisaie looked away instead of answering.

  “Silence is often an answer,” Y’shtola said sagely. “However, I will not press you on the matter. The measure of your heart is yours alone to reckon, but rarely does intimacy lead to a decrease in one’s affections. My advice to you would be to take a pragmatic view of the situation until such a time that something more defined develops between the two of you. This outing to fetch Beq Lugg should be a reminder that we are not in our corporal bodies, which means that, technically, you and Sevryn have not physically consummated your relationship, and by extension, neither have she and I kissed… Although, it felt very much as though we did.”

  “From where I was standing, it looked as though you enjoyed it,” Alisaie noted.

  “I did,” Y’shtola smiled and then furrowed her brow. “Does that bother you?”

  “Hardly. If anything, it was arousing to watch,” she answered honestly before considering the implication of it.

   Y’shtola turned to look at the younger woman, an exquisite eyebrow arched lasciviously. “Is that so?”

   Alisaie’s eyes widened as the connotation came crashing in. “I—I didn’t mean…”

  “It’s quite alright if you did,” Y’shtola reassured her. “When I urged pragmatism about the situation, I never imagined you’d be as affable in your affections as a Seeker.”

  Alisaie narrowed her gaze playfully. “Are you trying to entice me to join a harem?”

  “The Warrior of Light and I together would hardly constitute a harem. But, if you wanted to join,” Y’shtola’s tone was equally kittenish and seductive, “I would not say no.”

  She stopped dead in her tracks at Y’shtola’s admission.

  “Come along, Alisaie,” the mage said over her shoulder as though those words had not been spoken. “We don’t want to keep our new friend waiting.”

<<^>>

Chapter Text

   The Temenos Rookery hushed as evening fell, its residents—chickens to amaro—settling into their roosts. Only the chocobos stirred, and none more eagerly than Ean. The black avian arched his neck skyward, whistling sharply, wings flapping, before dipping his beak with a soft 'kweh', scratching the earth at their approach.

   “Someone’s eager to see you,” Y’shtola noted, her silver gaze flickering with amusement, lingering on Sevryn’s form as if tracing a secret.

   “Aye, the feeling’s mutual, eh, Ean?” Sevryn’s brogue warmed, a smile tugging her lips as the chocobo nuzzled her head, then sniffed the saddlebag slung over her shoulder, packed for their journey to Fanow.

   “Something in there’s caught his fancy,” Y’shtola said, her eyes following the flex of Sevryn’s muscles as she gently pushed Ean’s beak from the finely crafted leather, a subtle strength that stirred the mage’s pulse.

   “Oh, aye. A Thavnairian onion from the Source. He’s mad for ‘em. Ach, wait, you!” Sevryn chided, her playful scold softened by a grin as she wrestled the eager chocobo.

   Y’shtola’s giggled, her gaze fixed. “He’s not one for patience, is he?”

   Sevryn, feller of eikons, savior of realms, emerged disheveled but triumphant, Ean’s indignant whistle echoing from his corral. She drew the onion from the bag, offering it to Y’shtola, their fingers brushing—a fleeting spark that held Sevryn’s breath. “Care to do the honors?”

   Y’shtola’s smile bloomed, her eyes locking with Sevryn’s, a silent warmth passing between them. She took the bulb, its sharp, earthy scent rising as Ean tilted his head, cooing to charm the mage. Murmuring softly, she trailed her fingers along his beak, then through the soft feathers where beak met flesh, her touch deliberate, commanding his stillness where Sevryn had faced resistance. Ean kwehed, utterly pliant.

   “So that’s how it is, then?” Sevryn’s eyes narrowed, a playful jealousy flickering, her voice tinged with mock hurt. “I leave you with her, Ean, and you’re smitten? Ah’m wounded.”

   “Leave him be,” Y’shtola countered, her tone light, reserved for the most endearing, sweetest things. “He merely craves a gentle touch, don’t you?” She offered the onion, and Ean snatched it with a whistle, tossing and swallowing it whole.

   Sevryn seized the moment to slip into the corral, draping the saddlebags over Ean’s back. As she hefted the leather saddle, a grunt escaped her, pain flaring from ribs still bruised from a week felling Gaius van Baelsar’s machina-wielding kin.

   Y’shtola’s ears twitched, her voice sharp with concern as she rounded the chocobo. “What was that?”

   “What?” Sevryn’s innocent tone belied the wince she suppressed, her eyes avoiding Y’shtola’s piercing gaze.

   “Don’t play coy, Captain,” Y’shtola said, her voice soft but firm, a note of command beneath her worry. “My hearing is quite keen.”

   Sevryn pressed on, saddling Ean in silence, her discomfort caged behind gritted teeth. But as she fitted his wing barding, Ean’s flapped his wings, striking her chest. Pain seared her ribs, doubling her over with a wheeze, teeth clenched as she fought to breathe. Fashionable black boots entered her blurred vision, and she straightened slowly, wincing, to find Y’shtola before her, arms crossed, her expression a blend of perturbation and worry.

   “What?” Sevryn deflected, her breath ragged, a flush creeping up her neck. “It’s nothing.”

   “Is it?” Y’shtola’s voice was velvet, but her silver eyes held authority as she reached her hand toward Sevryn’s chest. “Let’s see, shall we?”

   “I’m fine,” Sevryn insisted, her hand guarding her ribs against Y’shtola’s scrutiny.

   “You’re obstinate,” Y’shtola countered, her gaze softening yet still sharp enough to pierce Sevryn’s facade. “A chocobo flapped its wings and nearly felled the Warrior of Darkness. Twelve forfend we face more than a stiff breeze in the Qitana ruins.”

   Sevryn chuckled, then winced, pain stealing her breath. “Ow.”

   Y’shtola’s frown deepened, her fingers hovering over Sevryn’s arm, “Why haven’t you healed?”

   “It just happened,” Sevryn muttered, faltering under Y’shtola’s stare.

   The mage’s pointed look silenced further excuses. “Fine,” Sevryn sighed, wincing again. “We’ll talk on the way.”

   Sevryn climbed into the saddle, her ribs protesting as she reached down, her hand closing around Y’shtola’s to pull her up. Their fingers lingered, a quiet spark passing between them, before Y’shtola settled into the higher passenger seat, her thighs brushing Sevryn’s back. The saddle’s angle drew them close, Y’shtola’s hands resting lightly on Sevryn’s waist, cautious of her pain. But as Ean’s brisk stride jostled them, Y’shtola slid forward, her body pressing tightly against Sevryn’s, her arms wrapping securely around the Warrior’s torso.

   As they rode north towards Fort Jobb, the Warrior of Light recounted the events surrounding a crumbling Garlean Empire’s attempt to fuse the battle tactics of their greatest warriors with synthetic auracite powered machina. With their defeat, the military might of the Garlean Empire lay shattered, the last of its forces turning on each other as the remaining power hungry generals and nobles fought for control of its carcass. Y’shtola listened, her mind sharp, but her focus lingered on the Warrior’s unhealed wounds.

   “The Empire’s fall is no small feat,” Y’shtola murmured, her voice thoughtful, her fingers flexing subtly against Sevryn’s waist, a gentle claim. “But your tale skirts my question, Captain. Why haven’t you healed?” 

   “Ah’m not in the habit of takin’ transitory lovers,” she said, her voice low, “Usin’ someone for healin’, then leavin’ ‘em behind? Twelve forbid I save their village later. ‘Oh, Warrior of Light, thank you!  Did you get my moogle messages? ’” Her Limsan accent, fast and high-pitched, drew a giggle from Y’shtola, who pictured Sevryn swarmed by starry-eyed suitors.

   “No, that wouldn’t do,” Y’shtola replied, her voice a playful, “Surely there was someone to.. ease your needs?” 

   “Lyse, you mean?” Sevryn glanced back, their eyes meeting briefly, a flicker of amusement in her steel-gray depths. “She was at Ghimlyt Dark, supposedly, but I dinnae cross her path.”

   “By chance or design?” Y’shtola asked, her tone careful, a spark of relief she hadn’t expected warming her chest.

   Sevryn’s lips twitched sardonically. “Six of one, half a dozen of the other.”

   “Indeed,” Y’shtola said, her voice steady, though her closeness to Sevryn stirred a possessive undercurrent. She leaned closer, her breath grazing Sevryn’s ear, “Why avoid such..congress, Captain?”

   Sevryn hesitated, her silence heavy, as if weighing her words. “My umbral nature complicates it,” she said finally, her voice measured. “What was once pleasure is now necessity—akin to Void succubae. Matoya thinks I might host a Thirteenth denizen, feeding on aether.”

   Y’shtola’s ears perked, her mind racing as Sevryn recounted Matoya’s theories, including the forced summoning of her shadowy other.

  “She struck you?” Y’shtola’s grip tightened on Sevryn’s waist, a protective flare cutting through her scholarly calm.

   “Aye,” Sevryn nodded, a wry edge to her voice. “Didnae faze her.”

   “Typical,” Y’shtola murmured, her lips curving, though her gaze softened with concern. “She tested for astral stimuli, and it seems she was right. Your shadow’s hunger explains your combat healing—and opens paths to explore, not just to improve your recovery, but to find a cure.”

   “About that…” Sevryn’s voice wavered.

   “About what?” Y’shtola’s brow arched.

   “Healin’,” Sevryn said, hesitating. “Matoya knew I’d… used Alisaie’s aether. She warned it might hasten corporeal aether destabilization in you and her, given your current situation on the Source.”

   Y’shtola’s noted Sevryn’s use of ‘you’. She shifted closer, her chest brushing Sevryn’s back, seeking intimacy. “A poetic predicament,” she said, her voice softening, though her mind dissected Matoya’s claim, “Have you told Alisaie?”

   Sevryn sighed, flinching from the pain. “I had planned on never getting hurt again.”

   Y’shtola’s dry murmur grazed Sevryn’s shoulder, her chin resting lightly there. “A flawless plan, clearly.”

   “You’re hilarious,” Sevryn muttered, as Ean skirted Fort Jobb, turning northeast through the Weathering Gate into the Greatwood’s shadowed embrace.

   “I have my moments,” Y’shtola replied, her voice a warm, “Jesting aside, your condition demands action, o Warrior of Light. Avoiding injury is no strategy. Your healing—however debauch it may appear to others—is life or death. Until we reverse your aetheric polarity, you must embrace what sustains you. Those who love you know the truth.” 

   “I’m not leavin’ a trail of bodies from my bed, ’Shtola,” Sevryn said, her voice resolute.

   Y’shtola breathed deeply, the Greatwood’s ancient, woodsy scent mingling with Sevryn’s musk—a heady blend that quickened her pulse. The Warrior’s body, pressed close, was a potent distraction, yet she weighed her words. While Sevryn was on the Source, they’d spoken at length in the Crystarium.

  “While you were away,” Y’shtola began, her voice a warm caress against Sevryn’s ear, “Alisaie and I discussed your quandary at length. She’d taken a rare respite from Journey’s Head, working to restore Halric and others. She found that Beq Lugg’s soul-quickening tonic, paired with Angelo’s abilities, yielded striking results. She believes it could be adapted to quicken your soul’s aether, aiding traditional healing magicks.”

   Sevryn’s shoulders eased slightly, a flicker of hope in her words. “That’d be a relief.”

   “Indeed,” Y’shtola murmured, her fingers flexed at Sevryn’s waist, “But it requires testing. We cannot know its efficacy or limits—assuming it works at all. Yet Alisaie was undeterred by such uncertainties. I daresay, Captain, she’d scour the stars to save you.”

   “That’s why I cannae whittle my bedpost with notches,” Sevryn said. A faint aubergine flicker danced at her soul’s edge.

   “Aught amiss?” Y’shtola asked, her chin resting on Sevryn’s shoulder, her chest pressing against the Warrior’s back, lips grazing her ear—a deliberate tease that drew a tremor from Sevryn.

   “Did Alisaie mention the Grand Cosmos?” Sevryn’s eyes flicked to the horizon, vulnerability softening her profile.

   “You mean our kiss?” Y’shtola purred, her satisfied smile unseen but felt, her fingers tracing the seam of Sevryn’s coat.  She eased back slightly, still maddeningly close, her touch lingering. “She did.”

   “And?” Sevryn’s voice was expectant.

   “And what?” Y’shtola countered, a conversational gambit, her fingers curling to heighten the tension. She savored Sevryn’s fluster.

   “What did she say?” Sevryn pressed, slowing Ean’s canter to a trot as they neared the dilapidated bridge to Fort Gohn’s scorched ruins, the Night’s Blessed’s former home. 

   “I’ll answer if you answer first,” Y’shtola said, her voice provocative yet tender. “What did you think when we kissed?”

   Sevryn fell silent, the kiss’s vivid sensation flooding her senses. Y’shtola held her close, relishing the Warrior’s warmth as they passed through the ruined village toward the Ox’Dalan Gap, Sevryn’s shifting muscles a familiar, arousing rhythm beneath her hands. When Sevryn spoke, her voice was low, earnest. “I don’t know what I thought…”

   Y’shtola’s playful smirk formed, ready to chastise, but Sevryn’s words cut through, her sincerity halting the mage’s retort.

   “Your lips…” Sevryn’s voice softened, a faint sigh woven into the word, as if the memory stole her breath, “That kiss—it swept away every thought, every fear, every shard of pain, leaving only you.”

Her steel-gray eyes flickered with a warmth that belied her usual restraint, a faint flush creeping across her cheeks,  “Had my mind not been lost to it, I might’ve stood there, stunned, grappling with the truth that what I’d craved—since the Sennas drew you back from the Lifestream—had finally come to pass. It wasn’t the dream I’d dared to dream in fleeting moments,” she admitted, her brogue thickening with emotion, “but Twelve help me, ’Shtola, if I’d perished that day, I’d have gone gladly, your taste lingering on my lips.”

   Y’shtola’s cheeks warmed, a flush sparked by Sevryn’s sincerity rather than the fading sun, her pulse quickening with a desire she barely restrained. Were they not astride Ean, she would have claimed Sevryn’s lips in a kiss far bolder than their last, one to stir the Warrior’s aether and mend her wounds. Yet she held back, her heart’s full depth veiled, her intent to seduce a careful dance of control and care. Tilting her head, her voice slid like silk, “So, you’ve longed to kiss me since I emerged, shall we say… unburdened … from the Lifestream?”

   Sevryn faltered, as Y’shtola’s aetheric vision flared, bathing the Warrior’s mortified flush in vivid hues, “I dinnae mean—aye, I did, but not like that!” she stammered, her brogue thick with flustered heat. “It’s just, when you say it so—”

   “I know, Captain,” Y’shtola purred, her fingers tracing Sevryn’s jaw with a deliberate, featherlight touch, “But I’d not fault you if you had.” 

  “Twelve’s breath, ’Shtola,” Sevryn groaned, desire roughening her voice. “You’re making this hard.”

   “Hard?” Y’shtola leaned closer, her breath grazing Sevryn’s ear. “Pray, tell me how.”

  Her tone was a velvet challenge, each word a step toward unraveling Sevryn’s restraint, urging her to embrace the healing she needed.

   Sevryn’s breath caught as an aubergine aura seeped across her skin, a churning veil of inky smoke that betrayed her burgeoning desire. She turned, her eyes now molten gold, shimmering like a storm’s edge, raw hunger flickering in their depths. A faint echo laced her voice as she growled, “I want nothing more than to take you, right here, over this saddle, again and again until I’ve claimed every ilm of you.”

   The possessive edge, amplified by astral energy, sent a shiver of anticipation through Y’shtola, her tail twitching against Ean’s flank, her body answering Sevryn’s fire. Yet her mind, sharp as ever, saw a path to healing in this moment of surrender.

  “Then why hesitate?” she murmured, her voice husky, a dangerous invitation laced with purpose. Her silver eyes locked with Sevryn’s gold, unyielding. “You need to heal, Warrior. Let me guide you.”

   Sevryn turned her gaze forward, her jaw tight as she wrestled the aubergine aura back from her soul’s edges, the shadow receding but not silent.

    “I couldnae bear it,” she murmured, her voice low, heavy with a love that anchored her, “If my need for aether harmed you or Alisaie—if I stole even a moment of your lives on the Source—I’d never forgive myself.”

   Her words cut through the haze of desire, a shield raised against the fire they’d kindled. Y’shtola’s mind raced, theories of aetheric balance vying with the pull of her heart, where affection and lust entwined. Sevryn’s devotion stirred her, urging her to bare more than she was wont. Yet her intent held firm—to guide Sevryn past fear, to heal her through their bond. Her grip on Sevryn’s waist softened, to a tender embrace.

   “Captain,” Y’shtola said, her voice a silken caress, warm with conviction, “I do not doubt the depth of your care. Alisaie and I feel no less for you. But if you cannot bear to lose us, do not ask us to watch you fade, stubborn as you are, refusing the very act that sustains you.”

“Matoya’s warnings are but theories—there’s no proof that our intimacy here would diminish our bodies on the Source. Perchance our aether wanes not from your touch, but from our own lack of sustenance in stasis. Krile and Matoya may slow our decline, but without nourishment, we too risk perishing. Our plight mirrors yours, Sevryn—save that your path to strength lies in embracing what we offer.”

 “This shadow of yours, this astral hunger—it may hold the key to your cure. But only if you’re at full strength. Deny us, and you deny yourself. Can you not see how it would break us to lose you?”

   Sevryn’s breath caught, the weight of Y’shtola’s words warring with her protective instinct. The heat of the mage’s touch lingered, a promise of healing laced with danger, the whisper stirred: She’s right. Take what’s yours.

   Her hands tightened on the reins, her knuckles whitening as she fought the aubergine aura that lingered at the edges of her soul, the voice in her mind demanded: She offers what we need. Take it.

   “Sevryn,” Y’shtola’s voice cut through the haze, soft but unyielding, her breath warm against the Warrior’s ear. “You cannot carry this burden alone. Nor should you.” 

   “I don’t want to hurt you,” Sevryn murmured, her voice rough with desperate need, the golden glint in her eyes flickering as she glanced back. The astral energy pulsed beneath her skin, a dark tide eager to claim, Fray’s influence stirring with hunger. “You saw what happened back there. What could happen.”

   Y’shtola’s lips curved into a knowing smile, her silver gaze unwavering, piercing the storm within Sevryn’s soul. “And yet, here I am, Captain. Unafraid.”

   She leaned closer, her chest pressing against Sevryn’s back, her voice dropping to a husky whisper that was both challenge and invitation. “If this shadow is part of you, I would know it. All of it.”

  Sevryn’s heart thundered, her body tensing as Y’shtola’s words stoked the fire Fray kindled. The mage’s fingers trailed upward, brushing Sevryn’s ribs with a featherlight touch.

  “You need to heal,” Y’shtola continued, her voice a velvet blade. “And I am not so fragile as to break under your desires—or hers.”

   The emphasis on hers sent a shiver down Sevryn’s spine, a reminder that Y’shtola saw Fray’s presence as clearly as she saw Sevryn’s, the mage’s mind already weaving theories about the shadow’s origins.

  The world narrowed to the press of Y’shtola’s body, the rhythm of Ean’s steps, and the warring impulses within Sevryn’s heart. The voice surged, an excited promise: Her aether is ours. She wants this. Take her.   

   The aubergine aura erupted, spilling across Sevryn’s skin like ink, her eyes blazing gold, steel-gray drowned in astral light. Her voice carried Fray’s echo, low and possessive: “You would tempt us, mage?”

  Y’shtola’s breath caught, her silver eyes gleaming with a scholar’s excitement and a lover’s devotion.

   “I tempt what is mine to claim,” she countered, her voice a silken challenge to the dark force, “But you will not have me until she does.”

   Her thumb brushed the back of Sevryn’s ear, tracing down her neck, a deliberate provocation that sent the astral energy spiraling, yet her heart shone through—a fierce, unwavering love for the woman beneath the storm.

  Sevryn’s hands trembled on the reins, caught between Fray’s primal urge and her desperate need to protect Y’shtola. “’Shtola, I can’t—” she gasped, her vision blurring with dark wisps as Fray’s purr grew louder: She is ours.  

   But Y’shtola’s aether flared, a cooling thread of mana weaving through Sevryn’s chaotic energy, a lifeline in the tempest.

  “You can, and you will,” she commanded, her voice a flame in the abyss. “Come back to me, Sevryn.”

  The mage slid from Ean’s saddle, as he slowed and stopped, sensing his mistress’ distress. Her boots landed softly on the mossy earth.

   Before Sevryn could protest, Y’shtola’s hand closed around her wrist, tugging her down with a strength that belied her frame. The Warrior stumbled, caught off-balance, and found herself pressed against a gnarled tree, Y’shtola’s body pinning her in place.

   “Enough evasion, Captain,” Y’shtola murmured, her voice a low purr, her silver eyes glinting with a dominant fire that matched Sevryn’s own. Her fingers slid under Sevryn’s collar, tugging it open lightly, a subtle assertion of control. “You will not hide from me—not your desires, nor your shadow.”

   Sevryn’s breath came in sharp bursts, Fray’s voice urging her to claim Y’shtola against the tree, to sate the need for astral aether. But Y’shtola’s presence was a lodestone, her dominance a challenge that held Sevryn captive.

   “’Shtola,” she growled, her voice thick with desire, “you’re stoking a fire you can’t contain.”

   The astral aura pulsed, her eyes flickering between gold and gray, Fray’s hunger rising but not resisting—it wanted this, too.

   “And I am no stranger to flames,” Y’shtola replied, leaning closer, her lips a whisper from Sevryn’s. “Let it burn, my love. I will not yield.”

   Her hand slid to Sevryn’s neck, fingers curling with just enough pressure to make her pulse race, her aether flowing into Sevryn’s, the tantalizing promise of healing. Their lips drew nearer, the air between them crackling with need, Sevryn’s injuries aching for the relief Y’shtola offered.

   Their lips met, and the world ignited. Y’shtola’s kiss was a claim. Fierce and firm, her soft tongue tracing Sevryn’s with a hunger that matched the Warrior’s own. Sevryn’s hands found Y’shtola’s hips, pulling her closer, her aura flaring not in chaos but in harmony, purple and silver aether entwining like lovers’ limbs.

   The kiss deepened, the edge of Y’shtola’s nails digging into Sevryn’s throat, drawing a moan from the Warrior, her ribs’ ache easing as aether flowed, mending flesh and soul. Fray drank deeply but Y’shtola did not allow it to overstep, her aether sating its hunger without draining Y’shtola’s precarious reserves—yet the mage’s mind, even in passion, noted the delicate balance, wary of their bodies’ stasis on the Source.

   Y’shtola pulled back just enough to breathe, her lips grazing against Sevryn’s, her voice a husky whisper. “You are mine, Sevryn Grey,” she murmured, her fingers softening to a caress. “And I will not let you fade.” 

~~~

Chapter Text

  Late evening draped over the Wandering Stairs, a cozy haven nestled near the Quadrivium in the Crystarium’s heart. The lanterns cast a warm, amber glow over scattered tables. Papers and mugs, remnants of a recent Scion briefing littered the surfaces, their edges curling in the soft light. The air thrummed with the Crystarium’s nightlife—merchants’ haggling cries blending with the lilting notes of bards tuning lutes—but a quiet corner held a charged stillness. 

  Ryne and Gaia lingered near a wrought iron railing, their voices a gentle murmur as they discussed their latest venture into the Empty’s shifting aether. At a secluded table, Y’shtola sat alone, a half-empty wineglass beside an open tome on Amaurotine soul theory, her posture poised yet subtly vigilant, ears twitching at the room’s pulse. Alisaie, however, paced near the bar, her boots scuffing the polished stone in a restless drumbeat, her hands clenching and unclenching as her mind churned with the confessions and revelations of the past two days.

  The staff moved quietly, clearing the detritus of Urianger’s meeting, called on the eve of their departure for Anamnesis Anyder’s depths. Alisaie’s gaze flickered to Y’shtola, the Archon’s serene focus a stark contrast to her own storm. She hadn’t spoken privately with Sevryn since the Warrior’s return from the Source nearly a week ago. 

  In Slitherbough, when she and Alphinaud had caught up with Sevryn and Y’shtola, circumstances had conspired against a moment alone. Yet Alisaie had noticed Y’shtola standing closer to Sevryn than usual, a subtle shift that might have gone unnoticed in the past. When the normally composed mage had dryly threatened to send the Warrior to bed without supper—after Sevryn’s roguish complaint about cleaning duties—Alisaie’s suspicions had crystallized. 

  Something had changed.

  Their eventual conversation, when it came, had only deepened her unease. Sevryn’s disclosures—Matoya’s theories on her umbral aether, Fray’s rapacious hunger and a second, soulful kiss—had failed to quiet the self-doubt that had plagued Alisaie since waking alone in Y’shtola’s bed the morning Sevryn departed. Their own first kiss, fierce and fleeting, burned in her chest, soured by her hesitation and Sevryn’s cool distance after. While Alisaie felt no jealousy toward Y’shtola, a creeping apprehension gnawed at her—could she ever measure up to the Archon’s stunning intellect and grace?

  Across the room, Ryne’s voice carried softly, her hands gesturing animatedly. “The Empty’s aether feels… heavy,” she said, brow furrowed. “Like the light clings to the dark, pulling at it, trying to snuff it out. It reminds me of Sevryn, somehow.”

  Gaia snorted, folding her arms as she leaned against the railing. “The Warrior’s soul is a  fractured, esurient mess.. Seems like an Ascian’s problem, to me.”

  ‘The Warrior’s soul’, the words sliced through Alisaie’s thoughts, sharp as a rapier. She huffed, turning on her heel, her pacing growing sharper. Urianger’s revelation in the meeting—his secretive work with Thancred and Ryne in the Empty—had irked her irrationally. She didn’t doubt Sevryn’s resolve to fight for her life, but the thought of her fellow Scions dragging the Warrior into a desert of umbral aether to conjure primals while she did rankled her.. 

  ..And Gaia’s flippant remark, from a self-centered Eulmorian who barely remembered her own name, only stoked her ire.

  Her gaze snapped to Y’shtola, the mage’s silver eyes fixed on her tome, yet Alisaie sensed her awareness of the room. 

  The Archon’s poise, her effortless command, only deepened Alisaie’s turmoil. She couldn’t shake the image of Y’shtola and Sevryn in Slitherbough, their easy camaraderie, the playful threat laced with intimacy. Had they grown closer while she’d been caught in her own doubts? The thought propelled her forward, her steps purposeful now, the storm within her cresting.

  “Y’shtola,” Alisaie said, her voice taut as she stopped before the mage’s table, hands braced on her hips. The din of the Wandering Stairs seemed to fade, the world narrowing to this moment.

  Y’shtola’s ears twitched, her gaze lifting slowly, silver eyes gleaming with a knowing calm. She closed her tome with deliberate care, fingers lingering on its leather cover.

  “Alisaie,” she replied, her tone smooth, inviting yet guarded. “You seem… perturbed.”

  “Perturbed?” Alisaie’s laugh was sharp, edged with frustration. “That’s one way to put it. I-I need to know—about you and Sevryn.” Her voice wavered, betraying the vulnerability she’d fought to cage. “What’s happened between you? In Slitherbough, I saw… something. The way you spoke to her, stood by her. It wasn’t the same.”

  Y’shtola’s lips curved faintly, a scholar’s curiosity mingling with something softer. She leaned back, gesturing to the chair opposite her. “Sit, Alisaie. Let us speak plainly.”

  Alisaie hesitated, her pride warring with her need for answers. With a huff, she sank into the chair, her blue eyes locked on Y’shtola’s, searching for truth.

  “I’m not blind,” she said, her voice lower now, raw. “I know Sevryn’s aether… her condition. She told me about Matoya, about Fray, about needing another’s essence. And I saw how you were with her. Are you—” She faltered, the words catching in her throat. “Are you.. healing her?”

  Y’shtola’s expression softened, though her gaze remained steady, unflinching. She took a slow sip of her wine, the glass catching the lantern light, before setting it down. 

  “You’ve always been direct, Alisaie. I admire that.” Her voice was warm, but there was a weight to it, a careful measure. “Yes, I’ve aided Sevryn’s healing. Her umbral nature demands it, as you know. But what you’re truly asking is whether my heart lies with her, isn’t it?”

  Alisaie’s cheeks flushed, but she didn’t look away. “Is it? I… I don’t know what I’m asking. I just—” She clenched her fists on the table, her voice dropping to a fierce whisper. “I love her, Y’shtola. I have for longer than I’ve admitted, even to myself. But I see the way she looks at you, the way you move together, like you share something I can’t touch. And I’m afraid… afraid I’m not enough.”

  The confession hung between them, rough and trembling. Y’shtola’s ears flicked, her expression shifting to one of gentle compassion. She reached across the table, her fingers brushing Alisaie’s clenched hand, a grounding touch. 

  “Alisaie,” she said softly, “your heart is a fire, fierce and true. Sevryn sees it, as do I. What she and I share… it is born of necessity, yes, but also of care. I won’t deny that I feel for her, deeply. But that does not diminish what she feels for you.”

  Alisaie’s breath hitched, her eyes widening. “Then… what does that mean?”

  Y’shtola’s smile was bittersweet, her fingers tightening briefly on Alisaie’s before withdrawing. “Sevryn’s soul is a storm, Alisaie—fractured, hungry, yet achingly loyal. She fears harming those she loves, you most of all. Her distance isn’t rejection; it’s protection. But you know her heart as well as I do. She’d rather face a thousand primals than let you doubt your worth to her.”

  Alisaie swallowed, her throat tight. “But you… you’re so much more than I am. Your wisdom, your strength. How can I—”

  “Enough,” Y’shtola interrupted, her voice firm yet kind. “You are Alisaie Leveilleur, Red Mage of unmatched courage, who faced the Light’s corruption beside her. Sevryn doesn’t measure you against me, nor should you. Her heart is vast enough for both of us, if we choose to share it.” Her eyes gleamed, a spark of mischief breaking through. “Unless you’d rather fight me for her, of course.”

  Alisaie barked a laugh, the tension easing slightly. “Tempting, but I’d rather not test my blade against your spells.” She sobered, her gaze searching Y’shtola’s. “So… what do I do? How do I reach her?”

  Y’shtola leaned forward, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial murmur. “Speak to her, Alisaie. Bare your heart, as you have to me. Sevryn is stubborn, but she’s not blind to love. And if you’ll allow it, I can help you navigate her… unique needs.” Her lips quirked, a playful edge to her words. “We Scions are a family, after all. We share our burdens.”

 Alisaie’s flush deepened, but a spark of resolve kindled in her eyes. She nodded, rising from the chair, her posture straighter now. “Thank you, Y’shtola. I… I needed this.”

 Y’shtola inclined her head, her smile warm. “Go, then. Find her. And Alisaie—” She paused, her voice softening. “You are enough.”

 As Alisaie turned, her steps lighter but no less determined, the Crystarium seemed to hum with new possibility. Ryne’s voice drifted over, still musing about the Empty, but Alisaie’s focus was singular. She would find Sevryn, and this time, she wouldn’t let doubt silence her heart.

  ***

  Alisaie’s heart thundered as she stepped out from the Wandering Stairs. The lanterns’ amber glow spilled across the Quadrivium and the Musica Universalis, where merchants packed their wares and bards strummed final chords, but her focus was singular—Sevryn. Y’shtola’s words echoed in her mind, a steadying mantra: You are enough. 

  Yet the mage’s silken voice, her gentle touch on Alisaie’s hand, stirred something new—a flicker of warmth that wasn’t just gratitude. Y’shtola’s poise, her unflinching honesty, had disarmed her, and Alisaie couldn’t shake the image of her silver eyes, piercing yet kind, or the playful spark in her smile. It wasn’t desire, not quite, but a quiet admiration that felt… dangerous, in its own way.

  She shook her head, banishing the thought. Sevryn was her priority now. Alisaie’s boots clicked against the polished stone as she wove through the thinning crowd, her gaze scanning for the Warrior’s familiar silhouette. She had mentioned retiring to the Pendants after the Scion briefing, and Alisaie’s steps quickened toward the towering residential spire. 

  The Pendants’ lobby was quiet, its crystal chandeliers casting prismatic glints across the marble floor. The Suites Manager, glanced up from his ledger,  “Mistress Leveilleur, seeking Mistress Grey, I presume?”

  Alisaie nodded, her cheeks warming. “Is she in?”

  “Aye, she passed through not long ago, bound for her room.” The manager’s eyes twinkled. “Third floor, last door. You’ve the aetheric key, yes?”

  “I do.” Alisaie’s hand brushed the crystal shard in her pocket, attuned to Sevryn’s lock. The weight of it, a symbol of trust, steadied her nerves. She murmured her thanks and ascended the stairs, each step amplifying the pulse in her ears.

  At the door, she paused, palm hovering over the lock. The sweet scent of citrus drifted through the gap, a reminder of the potted orange trees within—Sevryn’s quiet indulgence. Alisaie’s mind flashed to Y’shtola’s counsel: Bare your heart.

  The mage’s voice, warm and commanding, bolstered her resolve, but it also conjured her image—those elegant fingers on her wineglass, the subtle curve of her lips. Alisaie’s breath hitched. Why did Y’shtola linger in her thoughts now, when Sevryn was so close? She shoved the confusion aside, pressed her palm to the lock, and stepped inside as the door clicked open.

  The room was softly lit, lanterns casting a golden haze over the wrought iron and wood furniture. Sevryn stood by the window, her back to the door, gazing out at the Crystarium’s twinkling skyline. Her white coat was slung over a chair, leaving her in a fitted undershirt that hugged her muscular frame, her dark hair loose and catching the light. The sight stole Alisaie’s breath, a mix of longing and apprehension tightening her chest.

  “Sevryn,” she said, her voice softer than intended.The Warrior turned, gray eyes meeting Alisaie’s with a flicker of surprise, then warmth. 

  “Ali,” she said, her Ala Mhigan brogue a grounding rumble. “Didnae expect you tonight.” Her lips curved into a half-smile, but there was a guarded edge to her posture, a tension Alisaie recognized from their last parting.

  “I…” Alisaie faltered, then squared her shoulders, channeling Y’shtola’s unyielding calm. “We need to talk. About us. About… everything.”

  Sevryn’s smile faded, her gaze sharpening. She gestured to the table, where a teapot and pastries sat, a small gesture of hospitality that felt achingly familiar. “Sit, then. Tea?”

  Alisaie shook her head, crossing to stand before Sevryn, close enough to feel the Warrior’s warmth. “No. I can’t keep dancing around this, Sevryn. Not after Slitherbough, not after what you told me.” 

  Her voice trembled, but she pressed on, “Your aether, Fray, the healing… I know what you need to survive. And I know Y’shtola’s been helping you. I just… I need to know where I stand.”

  Sevryn’s eyes softened, but a shadow crossed her face, the weight of her umbral nature. She stepped closer, her hand twitching as if to reach for Alisaie, then falling back. 

  “Ali, you stand where you’ve always stood—right here.” She tapped her chest, over her heart, her voice rough with emotion. “But I’m a mess, lass. My soul’s a fractured thing, eager for what I cannae always ask. I’d rather die than hurt you.”

  “You’re not hurting me,” Alisaie snapped, her blue eyes blazing. “You’re pushing me away, and that’s worse. I love you, Sevryn. I’ve loved you since Camp Overlook, since you held me together when I thought I’d break. And I’m not afraid of your shadow.. or Fray.. or whatever you think makes you a danger,” Her voice cracked, and she stepped closer, her hands fisting in Sevryn’s undershirt. “I’m afraid of losing you.”

  Sevryn’s breath caught, her eyes shimmering with a mix of awe and fear.

  “Ali,” she murmured, her hands finally rising to cup Alisaie’s face, thumbs brushing her cheeks. “I love you. You’re my heart. My everything.. But my need… it’s not just a kiss or a touch. It’s aether, life, and I cannae risk takin’ too much from you. Not when you’re still tethered to the Source.”

  Alisaie’s heart ached at the anguish in Sevryn’s voice, but Y’shtola’s words surfaced again: Her distance isn’t rejection; it’s protection.  

  She leaned into Sevryn’s touch, her resolve firm. “Then let me help you. Let us help you. Y’shtola… she told me we’re a family, that we share our burdens. I don’t know what that means yet, but I know I can’t lose you to your own stubbornness.”

  Sevryn’s lips parted, a protest forming, but Alisaie surged forward, capturing her mouth in a kiss that was both desperate and deliberate. It was softer than their first, but no less fierce, a promise sealed in the press of lips and the warm whisper of breath. Sevryn stiffened, then melted, her arms wrapping around Alisaie, pulling her close. A faint aubergine aura flickered at Sevryn’s edges, Fray’s hunger stirring, but Alisaie felt only the Warrior’s love, steady and unshakable.

  When they parted, breathless, Sevryn rested her forehead against Alisaie’s, her voice a whisper. “You’re gonna be the death of me, Ali.”

  “Good,” Alisaie retorted, a shaky laugh escaping her. “Because I’m not letting you go.”

  Sevryn chuckled, the sound easing the tension, but her eyes held a question. “You mentioned Y’shtola. What did she say?”

  Alisaie hesitated, a memory flickering—Y’shtola at the Wandering Stairs, her silver eyes catching the lantern light as she leaned closer, her voice a low murmur that sent an unexpected shiver through Alisaie’s spine. 

  “She… she helped me see clearly,” Alisaie said, her voice softening as a flush crept up her neck. “She’s not my rival, Sevryn. She cares for you, like I do, and she’s willing to share this… whatever this is..with you.”

  Sevryn’s gaze softened, a warm, knowing smile curving her lips. “Y’shtola has her ways about her, doesn’t she?”

  Alisaie’s cheeks burned, her blue eyes flickering with a mix of defiance and curiosity. “It’s not like that,” she said quickly, then softer,  “You’re my heart, Sevryn. You’re the one I love.”

  As they stood, wrapped in each other’s embrace, Alisaie’s anchored her heart to the Warrior’s steady presence, her love burning bright.

  Yet, for a fleeting moment, Y’shtola’s silver eyes flashed in her mind—a quiet spark of possibility, a whisper of something…She pushed the thought aside, her focus returning to Sevryn’s heartbeat and vowed to hold fast to her, no matter what lay ahead.

***

Chapter Text

   The Crystarium’s spires trembled in the wake of Elidibus’s defeat, their crystalline facets refracting a sky scarred by dissipating aether. The Warrior of Light primal, radiant and ruinous, was no more, but triumph carved a cruel toll. Sevryn slumped against a fractured pillar, her white coat in tatters, blood seeping from a jagged gash across her ribs. Her breaths rasped, shallow and uneven, as the Scions’ voices swirled around her—relief laced with dread.

   “Sevryn!” Alisaie’s cry pierced the clamor, her boots skidding on shattered stone as she dropped beside the Warrior. Her hands, trembling, hovered over the wound, blood slicking her fingers as she pressed against it. “Gods, what happened to you?!”

   Y’shtola knelt swiftly at her other side, silver eyes narrowing as she traced the chaotic pulse of the Warrior’s aether. “This wound is grave,” she said, her voice taut yet steady, a scholar’s precision warring with a lover’s fear.

   Sevryn’s steel-gray eyes flickered open, a wry smirk tugging her lips despite the pain. “Just a scratch, ‘Shtola,” she rasped, her Ala Mhigan brogue rough but defiant. “I’ve had worse.”

   Alisaie’s scowl deepened, blue eyes blazing with equal parts fury and fear. “A scratch? You’re bleeding out, you stubborn ox!” Her voice cracked, betraying the terror beneath her fire.

   Ryne and Thancred lingered nearby, their faces etched with worry, Y’shtola’s gaze snapped to them. “The Catenaries,” she commanded, her tone brooking no argument. “My chamber is closest. Move her.”

   Alphinaud stepped forward, his carbuncle’s aether flaring as he attempted a healing spell, but the light fizzled against Sevryn’s umbral essence, barely staunching the flow. “It’s useless her aether still resists me,” he murmured, brow furrowing.

   “Then we carry her,” Y’shtola declared, her voice smooth as moonlight yet unyielding. With Thancred’s aid, they lifted Sevryn, her stifled groan cutting through Alisaie’s heart like a blade as they hastened through the Ocular to the Catenaries tower, her blood dripping a trail behind them.

~~~  

 Y’shtola’s chamber was a sanctuary of warmth, its stone walls draped in violet tapestries that shimmered under the glow of blue-flamed candles. A low bed, swathed in soft linen and furs, beckoned like an oasis. The air carried the scent of sage and honey, now undercut by the sharp tang of Sevryn’s blood as they eased her onto the furs. Alisaie hovered close, her hands unsteady as she peeled away Sevryn’s ruined coat and undershirt, revealing a gaping wound that wept crimson across her ribs.

   “Gods, it’s worse than I thought,” Alisaie whispered, her voice splintering. She pressed a cloth to the gash, her touch gentle yet desperate, as if she could will Sevryn whole through sheer resolve.

   Y’shtola stood at the bedside, her fingers weaving through the air, mapping the storm of Sevryn’s aether. “Her soul teeters on the umbral’s edge,” she murmured, her tone a blend of clinical clarity and quiet sorrow. “The primal’s assault ravaged her, and her umbral nature consumes what little astral aether remains to keep her conscious. We must kindle her astral aspect to heal her.”

   Sevryn’s hand closed around Alisaie’s wrist, her grip surprisingly firm. “I’ll pull through,” she managed, her gaze meeting Alisaie’s, then Y’shtola’s, gray eyes glinting with stubborn resolve. “Always do.”

  “Don’t you dare!” Alisaie snapped, her voice thick with unshed tears. “You can’t shrug this off, Sevryn. You need—” She faltered, memories of their aetheric intimacies flaring, her eyes flicking to Y’shtola with a mix of hope and dread.

   Y’shtola’s lips tightened, eyes clouded with worry. “Our aether is strained,” she admitted softly. “On the Source, our bodies lie in stasis, taxed by duration the Exarch’s summoning. To give her what she needs…” She paused, the weight of the risk hanging between them.

   Alisaie’s jaw clenched, her fingers tightening around Sevryn’s hand. “You mean it could kill us.”

   “Or merely weaken us further,” Y’shtola replied, her voice calm but urgent. “Krile’s research is inconclusive, and Matoya’s theories untested.”

   Sevryn’s breath hitched, her eyes darkening with guilt. “No,” she growled, trying to rise, only to collapse back with a grimace, fresh blood trickling from her wound. “I won’t let you risk your lives. Not you, Ali. Nor ‘Shtola.”

   “Stay down, you fool,” Alisaie hissed, pushing her back, her fingers lingering on Sevryn’s bare shoulder, warm and grounding. “We’re not losing you to your damned honor.”

   Y’shtola’s tone carried a playful bite. “She’s right, Captain. Your martyrdom would be tiresome.” She leaned back on her hip, her tail flicking, mind racing, her knuckles resting against her cheek. “We need aether—pure, potent, to sate your shadow without draining us.”

   Alisaie’s eyes narrowed, “What, then? We can’t just… drag someone from the Musica Universalis to—” She gestured vaguely, cheeks flushing crimson, “You know.”

   Y’shtola’s brow arched, her lips curling into a teasing smirk. “A courtesan, Alisaie? Your mind wanders to bold places.” Her silver eyes gleamed with amusement, though her heart hurt at Sevryn’s fading strength.

   Alisaie stiffened, her blush deepening. “That’s not what I meant!” she sputtered, her gaze dropping to Sevryn’s ashen face, breaths growing faint. “But what’s left? We can’t heal her, and she’s—”

   Sevryn’s grip tightened on Alisaie’s hand, weak but resolute, “No strangers,” she murmured, her voice rough with pain and conviction. “Just… you two.”

   Y’shtola’s features softened, a quiet ache in her gaze as she knelt, her fingers brushing Sevryn’s damp hair. “And so it shall be, my love,” she whispered, the endearment slipping free, unguarded and true.  

   She rose, retrieving a leather-bound tome from a shelf, its pages whispering of Amaurotine soulcraft, “The Ancients drew aether from the world’s currents—crystals, leylines, the heavens.. The Crystarium sits atop a nexus of aetheric convergence, amplified by the Tower’s crystal. We can channel that through us, as conduits, to nourish Sevryn’s aether without sacrificing our own.”

   Sevryn’s eyes flickered with doubt. “Sounds… risky.”

   “Less so than letting you die,” Y’shtola countered, her fingers grazing Sevryn’s jaw with possessive tenderness. “We’ll bind our aether to the nexus, letting our love guide the flow. It will be… intimate, yet safe.”

   Alisaie’s cheeks flushed, her voice hushed with curiosity and longing, “Intimate how?”

   Y’shtola’s smile turned provocative, eyes glinting with a lover’s intent, “As deep as our hearts allow, Alisaie. We’ll touch her, hold her, let the aether weave through our bond. The nexus will sustain us, and the intent of our channeling should quicken the aether towards the astral, which should to restore her.”

   Sevryn’s breath caught, a faint flush warming her pale cheeks despite her pain. “You two’ll be the death of me.”

   “Good,” Alisaie murmured, her voice soft with fierce devotion. She leaned closer, her lips brushing Sevryn’s forehead in a tender vow, “Because we’re keeping you alive.”

   Y’shtola set the tome aside, her movements graceful as she positioned herself at Sevryn’s other side, her fingers tracing a delicate pattern in the air. The chamber seemed to hum, the Catenaries’ walls resonating with the nexus’s latent power. “Alisaie, take her hand,” she instructed, her voice low and commanding. “Focus on your love. Channel the aether through your heart.”

   Alisaie’s fingers laced with Sevryn’s, her blue eyes locked on the Warrior’s face, trust shimmering in Sevryn’s pained gaze. Y’shtola’s hand settled on Sevryn’s chest, just above the wound, her touch deliberate, reaching for the threads of their shared bond as she tapped the nexus’s boundless aether.

   The air thickened, a radiant aura enveloping them as the nexus responded, its energy threading through Y’shtola’s spellwork. Alisaie gasped, the aetheric energy surging through her, a fiery cascade of astral warmth that set her pulse ablaze. Her love for Sevryn, fierce and unyielding, became a beacon, but the nexus’s potency kindled a deeper fervor, her skin prickling with desire. Her gaze drifted over Sevryn’s bare torso—taut muscles, soft curves, the fragility of her wounds—stoking a craving that churned fiercely through her.

   Y’shtola’s ears twitched, sensing Alisaie’s aetheric flare, her own pulse quickening. The Elezen’s flushed cheeks, the slight parting of her lips, sent a thrill through the mage, her silver eyes alight with curiosity.  She leaned closer, her lips grazing Sevryn’s ear, her voice a husky purr: “Feel us, Warrior,” she murmured, her fingers sliding to Sevryn’s collarbone, tracing bare skin with a slow, deliberate touch that charged the air.

   Alisaie’s free hand brushed Sevryn’s cheek, her thumb skimming her lips, trembling with longing, “You’re ours,” she breathed.

   The astral pull of the spell emboldened the Red Mage and she swung a leg over Sevryn’s hips, straddling her with a fluid, audacious motion, mindful of her wounds. Her hands cupped Sevryn’s face, fingers tangling in damp hair as she claimed her lips in a fervent kiss, her aether blazing with each meld of their mouths, her thighs pressing gently against Sevryn’s sides.

   Sevryn’s moaned, golden tinged gray eyes ravenous as she gripped Alisaie’s waist, her fingers flexing with urgent need, the astral aspect of her soul drinking deeply from the nexus’s flow. Y’shtola’s breath hitched, her eyes darkening as Alisaie’s ardour tantalized her own. Her lips found Sevryn’s neck, a slow kiss blooming into a teasing nip, her aether harmonizing with Alisaie’s. Y’shtola’s hand drifted lower, splaying over Sevryn’s heart, the back of her knuckles faintly grazing the underside of Alisiae's pert breast through the fine, thin fabric of the Elezen's chemise. She sensed Alisaie’s aether surge with unbridled lust. Her own desire flared, her lips curving into a wicked smile as she met Alisaie’s gaze over Sevryn’s form.

   “Careful, Alisaie,” she warned, her voice a velvet whisper as her fingers trailed up Alisaie’s arm to her neck, a deliberate touch that drew a shiver from the Red Mage. “Your passion burns brighter than the spell requires.”

   Alisaie flushed, her blue eyes defiant yet hazed with need. “Can you blame me?” she murmured, her lips hovering near Sevryn’s, her voice husky. Emboldened, she leaned toward Y’shtola, her breath teasing the mage’s ear in a daring whisper. “You’re not immune, ‘Shtola… I know you feel it, too.”

   Y’shtola’s eyes fluttered, a soft moan escaping as she edged closer, her fingers curling with possessive pressure on Alisaie’s neck. “Minx,” she purred, her lips grazing Alisaie’s jaw in a fleeting, smoldering promise. Her hand still lingering on Sevryn’s chest, a tender claim, yet her poise fraying as Alisaie’s desire fueled her yearning, “Tempt me when we’re home.” 

   Sevryn’s wound began to knit, new skin weaving under their shared aether, the nexus’s astral tide stabilizing her soul. Y’shtola’s lips continued to roam the side of Sevryn’s neck and collarbone, each caress drawing a shudder or a sigh, her aether anchoring the Warrior. Alisaie’s kisses, however, grew fierce. Her tongue delving with a hunger that pulsed with the nexus’s rhythm, her body arching closer. Sevryn’s hand caught Y’shtola’s wrist, pulling her nearer, a fervent vow in her grip.

   “Gods, you both,” Sevryn gasped, her brogue thick with desire. “I want you… now.”

   Y’shtola’s lips parted, a low chuckle escaping as she leaned in, her fingers brushing Alisaie’s spine, then Sevryn’s cheek, a soft longing in her touch. “Patience, Captain,” she murmured, her silver eyes smoldering. “This must wait for the Source.”

   Alisaie’s breath caught, her hands tightening in Sevryn’s hair, her form still pressed close, quivering with barely restrained passion. “You’re cruel, ‘Shtola,” she pouted, defiance and desire blending, her lips a whisper from Sevryn’s. Her blue eyes met Y’shtola’s, their connection flaring as their aetheric essences intertwined, the spell amplifying their bond.

   Sevryn’s eyes shimmered with gratitude and love, her pupils dilated with lingering arousal. “You… both,” she managed, her voice rough. “I don’t deserve this.”

   “You do,” Alisaie said fiercely, resting her forehead against Sevryn’s, her aether steadying as love tempered her appetite, “And we’re not done proving it.”

   Y’shtola’s smile was radiant, her fingers brushing Sevryn’s hair as she leaned back, her silver eyes warm with triumph and affection. “Rest now, Captain,” she murmured, though her gaze lingered on Alisaie, a spark of intrigue at the Elezen’s unleashed passion. “We’ll watch over you.”

   Sevryn’s eyes fluttered shut, her breathing soft and steady, her hand clasped in Alisaie’s while Y’shtola’s lingered gently on her chest. As the Warrior drifted into an exhuasted slumber, Alisaie’s gaze met Y’shtola’s—a quiet recognition of their success and the unspoken bond woven through spellcraft, blood, and aether. Its embers, kindled by love, glowed with both promise and peril for the days ahead.

~~~

Chapter Text

    Alisaie paced the modest rented room above the Seventh Heaven in Mor Dhona, wooden walls and scuffed floorboards were warmed by a single lantern’s glow, her shadow flickering across simple brown tapestries. A bed with a worn quilt sat against one wall, a small table held maps and a candle, and a crowded weapon rack bore a paladin’s shield, a samurai’s blade, a conjurer’s cane, pugilist’s wraps, but absent a wicked looking greatsword. A faded picture of Haurchefant Greystone, his knightly smile worn, rested on a shelf. The air carried a subtle scent of leather and sandalwood from Sevryn’s gear that laced with ale and woodsmoke from the tavern below, amplifying the ache that had driven Alisaie here from the hippogryph battle, to this room, Sevryn’s room, a reckless attempt to make sense of her feelings.

    A bell ago, Sevryn’s presence—sweat-slicked, eyes fierce, greatsword carving through beasts—had set Alisaie’s blood alight, her body throbbing with a need she couldn’t face. She’d fled, boots pounding, to Sevryn’s rented room at the Seventh Heaven, compelled by a desire so fierce it felt otherworldly, driving her to confront its source.

    Since returning to the Source, Sevryn’s nearness set her ablaze: an easy smile that reached intense gray eyes, skin that smelled like sun before a storm, strong hands with thin, delicate scars…Alisaie groaned softly, her clit twitching with need. She paused, fingers grazing her hempen pantalettes, the fabric too tight, too warm. Every shift of her hips sparked heat low in her belly, wild and unyielding. She pressed her thighs together, a gasp slipping free, the ache sharpening. 'Gods', her body was relentless.

    What had changed to make Sevryn this consuming? The question flickered, fleeting, unanswered, her body burning as she paced. She willed the desire away, but the Warrior's image surged: her able frame weaving through hippogryphs, greatsword a dark silver blur, each strike a dance of coiled power and lethal grace, sweat glistening on her neck, stormy eyes burning with unyielding focus.

    Alisaie’s breath caught, aether flaring in her veins, her thighs once again pressed together as a sharp pulse thrummed low, her lips parting in a stifled moan, desire clawing against her Sharlayan discipline, “Control yourself, Alisaie,” she hissed, fingers digging into a tapestry, the coarse weave grounding her fraying restraint.

    “I shouldn’t be here,” she whispered, moving towards the door, as a rare moment of hesitancy surfaced in her heart, yet her feet faltered, caught by the aroma of sandalwood and a very distinctive aetheric pulse in her veins.

    The door pushed open and Sevryn stepped in, leather armor scuffed, dark hair damp, gray eyes widening. “Ali, what in the hells?” Her voice was sharp with concern, softening as she shut the door. “You tore off after the hippogryphs. Now you’re… here?” She stepped closer, discarding her sword, her astral aura subtly flaring purple and black, vibrant darkness in the candlelight, the scent of rain on a summer’s day—warm, musky—catching on the air, searing Alisaie’s senses. She backed toward the table, hands fisting, pulse surging.

   “I shouldn’t be here,” she repeated, voice tight, stepping for the door. Sevryn grabbed her hand, fingers warm, her gaze filled with concern. “You’re in my room, Ali. That’s no mistake.” Her voice was low, probing, eyes locking onto Alisaie’s intently. “What’s got you spooked’?” She stood close, her presence a bulwark against the edge of Alisaie’s fear.

   She yanked free, “Don’t—don’t look at me like that, Sevryn. It’s not you, it’s… this mess in my head. The First, our return, all of it—it’s too much, and I’m reeling.” Her eyes darted from Sevryn’s, a tremor in her hands betraying her fraying control, her heart pounding like a war drum.

   Sevryn closed the gap, blocking her path, brogue raw. “Alisaie, you’ve been hauntin’ my thoughts since you’ve returned, lass—every battle we fought side by side, every glance that lingered too long. I can’t shake you. So why’re you here, in my room, runnin’ from me? Speak true, I need to know.” She stopped an ilm away, her breath warm, eyes searching, urging Alisaie to answer.

   Alisaie’s gaze met Sevryn’s, wet with need, her voice cracking, “You’re in my veins, my every thought, my every breath—I can’t escape you, and gods help me, I don’t want to. But ever since that ritual -whatever we did in Y’shtola’s chamber- it’s done… something, I know not what, and it’s driving me to distraction. I’m terrified I’ll lose myself to this, that I’ll ruin what we have if I give in. And… I’ve never done this in my own body, Sevryn... I’m nervous. I fear that I’ll falter in your arms and it will break us both.”

   Alisaie’s trembling lips held a silent plea, her confession, coarse with passion, broke any reservation she had. The Highlander's breath hitched, love blooming fiercely, “Gods, lass, you’ve stolen my heart.” She cupped Alisaie’s cheek, thumb grazing her jaw, “You’re mine, always.”

   The Warrior's vow and touch ignited Alisaie’s desire, melting her hesitancy. “I want you,” she whispered coarsely, stepping into Sevryn, lips crashing against hers, fierce and demanding. Alisaie’s fingers tangled in Sevryn’s hair, tugging with newfound boldness. Sevryn’s hands settled on Alisaie’s waist, yielding to her urgency, a soft growl escaping. “I’m yours,” she murmured, voice thick, her warmth grounding their rising heat.

   Alisaie’s desire flared, guiding Sevryn backward with a gentle push, their lips still locked in a hungry dance. The wooden bed creaked as Sevryn sank onto the mattress, pulling her tunic off as she went, candlelight casting shadows across her fit frame. Alisaie’s fingers, trembling with need, found the laces of Sevryn’s pants, tugging them free to bare warm, scarred skin. Sevryn’s breath hitched, her gray eyes darkening as she yielded, muscles flexing beneath Alisaie’s touch. The leather fell away, and Alisaie’s confidence soared, her fingers unlacing her own pantalettes, fabric sliding down her flushed thighs, baring her skin in the candle’s glow. The open, unbridled desire in Sevryn’s face made a blush trace up her neck and down her breasts.

   She straddled Sevryn, lips trailing from collarbone to breast, teasing with slow, deliberate kisses until she came to a nipple. Blue eyes cutting to gray as she deliberately pulled the turgid bud into her mouth, suckling gently as she held fast with the edge of her teeth. Sevryn fought to keep her breathing steady, losing as a gasp escaped her lips. She rolled her tongue around the delicious flesh, dragging her teeth across the sensitive tip before nipping playfully and switching sides. Alisaie fought to keep a pleased smile off her lips as the Warrior’s hips bucked, signalling her need with a rough, nearly desperate, “Ali.. please.”

   Sevryn’s aching plea and bucking hips shattered Alisaie’s lingering fears. Her elegant fingers trailed lower, brushing the Warrior’s trembling thighs, finding her drenched with desire, a soft moan escaping her own lips as her touch teased the sensitive flesh. “Well, since you begged so sweetly,” Alisaie purred, a teasing smirk curling her lips, her voice husky.

   Sevryn’s legs parted, her muscled frame arching under the candlelight, urging Alisaie’s exploration deeper, “Stop teasin’, lass. Either take what’s yours or I’ll take what’s mine.”

   Alisaie’s pluck returned, the heady scent of their sex and bold challenge fed her carnality. Without warning she slid three dexterous fingers deep inside the Warrior with devastatingly precise strokes. Her breathing hitched, her own arousal slicking her thighs, yet she smirked, voice low and sultry. “I’ll claim what’s mine—let’s see how much you can take, darling.” Sevryn’s corded frame tensed, a ragged moan escaping as her hips arched, inner muscles clamping down on Alisaie’s fingers the moment she sucked Sevryn’s clit into her mouth.

   Sevryn surrendered under Alisaie, her body shuddering with a ragged cry, candlelight glinting off her sweat-slicked skin. A warm pulse flooded Alisaie’s core, her thighs trembling as her inner muscles fluttered, teetering on the edge of her own release, yet softer than Sevryn’s peak. She felt a curious, warm presence graze her soul, possessive yet tender before slipping away. Alisaie’s fingers slowed, savoring Sevryn’s tremors, the quilt tangled beneath them.

   Sevryn’s shaking subsided, her stormy eyes blazing as she murmured, “You’re mine, Ali,” and with frighteningly fast reflexes and strength that had felled primals, hoisted Alisaie by her waist, flipping their positions with powerful ease. Her hand cradled Alisaie’s head, guiding it gently to the pillow before her grip hardened, pinning the smaller woman to the mattress.  Looming over her with a predator’s grace, Sevryn’s fingers traced Alisaie’s small pert breasts, strong, callused hands roughly catching her nipples, rolling them, passing the pad of her thumb over the stiff tip, sending delicious ripples of pleasure straight to her clit, which ached, engorged as the Warrior took her time, feasting upon her breasts, causing Alisaie’s hips to flare and buck, desperate for attention. A feral smile twisted Sevryn’s lips, gray eyes haloed in gold, dancing with debauchery. Her fingers traced Alisaie’s inner thighs, boorish and exacting, roughly pushing them open, practiced, sure fingers grazing her clit with demanding strokes that made Alisaie’s body tremble, her core pulsing, arousal dripping to the sheets. A sharp ache flared as Sevryn’s fingers entered her, stretching Alisaie’s maiden body. Her breath catching in a pained gasp which Sevryn trapped in a smoldering kiss, her lips possessive yet soft, drawing Alisaie’s pain into pleasure as her thrusts slowed. The sting faded, blooming into a warm wave of ravishment, Alisaie’s trust deepening in the kiss.

   “Ours,” A dark, whisper echoed in Alisaie’s mind and Sevryn’s rhythm surged, a primal edge fueling her strokes, ravenous and relentless. Her hands gripped the Warrior's shoulders, nails digging deeply into skin as her hips lifted, meeting the savage desire, each thrust stoking her hunger. A faint worry stirred by the aetheric sableness flickered, but her climax roared through her, wild and overwhelming, scattering all doubts in passion's haze...

   Some time later, Alisaie lay awake. Her body buzzing in the moonlight, Sevryn’s warmth pressed close, tangled in the sheets. The Warrior had held her after their lovemaking, murmuring endearments before sleep overtook her, arm draped across Alisaie’s waist. The raw intensity of Sevryn’s touch lingered still, bolder than their aetheric nights, a spark that kept Alisaie’s thoughts alive...But it was the strange 'ours' in her mind and the aetheric darkness weaving through their bond, that gnawed at her. Had the ritual on the First changed something?

   A whisper of concern crept in but love anchored her heart. Her fingers grazed Sevryn’s wrist, gentle over her scars. She couldn’t speak of this—not yet, Sevryn’s noble heart might withdraw, fearing she’d would hurt Alisaie... And then there was the matter of that curious presence at Sevryn’s climax, warm and possessive -tied to Y’shtola somehow- though she couldn’t place 'how' or 'why'.  It unsettled her.

   'Y’shtola might yet unravel this mystery.' Alisaie decided to find her in the morning, as a yawn escaped her. She nestled deeper into Sevryn’s arms, letting sleep take her, leaving her questions for the morrow.

~~~

Chapter Text

   The study in the Rising Stones was wrapped in a cocoon of quiet, its warm lamps bathing the cluttered table in golden light. Alisaie’s fingers were as restless as her heart as she snatched a quill from a nearby inkpot, its feather tip already fraying from her absentminded twirling. Spin, stop, spin again— the motion doing nothing to soothe the storm in her chest. Her focus stone, slung low at her hip, betrayed her further, spitting erratic red sparks that fell to the floor like fireflies drunk on aether.

   The fire of Sevryn’s touch -fervid, consuming- still warmed her skin, the memory fresh in her mind, following her through the day. However, it was the whispered ‘ours’ and the warm echo of Y’shtola’s presence that twisted her thoughts into knots.  

   Across the table, Y’shtola sat like a statue carved from moonlight, her silver eyes gliding over a tome bound in dark leather. The scent of old parchment hung heavy in the air, grounding Alisaie even as her heart raced. She twirled the quill too hard, and its feather snapped, the soft crack loud in the stillness. Heat flooded her cheeks, her fingers freezing mid-motion. Gods, get a grip, Alisaie.

   Y’shtola’s ears flicked, her gaze lifting just enough to pin Alisaie with a look that was half amusement, half reproach. “That quill has suffered enough, I think,” she said, her voice a silken tease that curled through the room like smoke. “Or do you mean to pluck it bare before you speak your mind?”

   Alisaie’s blush deepened, the quill slipping from her fingers to clatter on the table. “It’s not—I didn’t mean to—” she stammered, snatching it back up, only for her focus stone to flare, a rogue spark singeing a nearby scroll. Perfect. Just perfect. “It’s just… there, alright?” Her voice was sharper than she meant, but Y’shtola’s faint smirk only grew, as if she delighted in Alisaie’s fluster.

   “Indeed,” Y’shtola murmured, closing her tome with a deliberate snap. “And now thoroughly ravaged. Speak, Alisaie, before the study becomes a battlefield of broken feathers and scorched parchment.” She leaned forward, her poise unshaken, yet her eyes held a warmth that steadied Alisaie’s nerves.

   Alisaie’s fists clenched, nails biting into her palms as her pulse thundered in her ears. Her focus stone surged in time, as if her aether itself churned with the storm in her chest. The vision of Sevryn’s gold haloed eyes was sharp and unsettling… ‘ours’ - She met Y’shtola’s gaze, her voice low and taut. “Y’shtola, I need to talk. About last night. About Sevryn. Something… happened, and I can’t make sense of it.”

   Y’shtola’s ears twitched, a spark of curiosity lighting her silver eyes. She tilted her head, the motion graceful as a cat’s, her fingers brushing the tome’s edge as if to anchor her thoughts. “Something, you say?” Her voice was soft, teasing, yet threaded with gentle inquisitiveness. “You’ve a tale to tell, Alisaie, and I’d hear it plain. What shadowed your night with the Warrior?”

   Alisaie’s throat tightened, heat creeping up her neck again. The words felt too big, too raw, like baring her soul to the moonlight. She shifted in her chair, the wood creaking under her restless weight, and her focus stone flared once more, a single spark skittering across the table to die in a curl of sage-scented air. Just say it.

   “When I was with her,” she began, voice barely above a whisper, “it was… gods, it was everything you could imagine. Fierce, like she could burn me to ash and I’d thank her for it. But there was this voice - ‘ours’- it said. And I felt… you.” Her eyes flicked to Y’shtola, then away, her cheeks aflame. “Like you were there, in my heart, on my skin. What in the hells was that?”

   Y’shtola’s smirk softened into a knowing smile, “Fascinating,” she purred, the word dripping with delight. “That, Alisaie, was the ritual we participated in on the First, in my chamber at the Catenaries, when we channeled the nexus’s aether to mend Sevryn’s body, our essences— yours, mine, hers— tangled in ways we did not foresee.” She leaned closer, her voice a velvet caress, ambrosia weaving through her words. “The bond is a conduit, a tether of aether binding us. Pleasure, pain, desire—they ripple across it, faint but undeniable. You felt me, as I… sensed you, in the heat of your passion.”

   Alisaie’s breath caught, her fists unclenching only to curl again, nails digging deeper. She felt me? The thought sent a shiver down her spine, equal parts thrill and mortification. 

   “You… sensed me?” she repeated, voice cracking. “Gods, Shtola, that’s— why didn’t you warn me? I didn’t sign up to have you in my head while I’m—” She cut off, face burning, and gestured vaguely, as if the air could finish her sentence.

   Y’shtola’s laugh was dulcet, bright and unburdened, her ears flicking with mirth. 

   “Oh, Alisaie, your passion is no secret, bond or no.” She leaned back, her smile kittenish but kind, a hint of mischief in her eyes. “The connection was meant to heal, not to… eavesdrop. Its sensory loop was an accident, a quirk of aetheric resonance. But tell me, did my presence trouble you? Or…” Her voice dipped, playful and probing. “Did it add a certain… spice to your night?”

   “Spice?” Alisaie sputtered, her focus stone spitting a flurry of sparks that danced like embers in the wind. “It was confusing, alright? One moment I’m with Sevryn, lost in her, and the next I’m feeling you — all honey and warmth and— gods, I don’t even know!” She raked a hand through her hair, her voice a mix of defiance and desperation. Why does she have to make this so… flustering?  “How does it even work? Can you feel everything? All the time?”

   Y’shtola’s gaze softened, her teasing easing into an erudite calm. “Not everything, nor all the time,” she said, her tone steadying, though a flicker of curiosity lingered. “The link carries only the strongest currents— peaks of pleasure, stabs of pain, flares of desire. Last night, your ardor with Sevryn was… vivid, shall we say. Enough to stir my own…aether, faint though it was.” 

   She tapped a finger against the tome, her eyes narrowing as if parsing a puzzle. “It’s a rare phenomenon, one I’d study further, given the chance. But for now, know this: this joins us to Sevryn, and through her, to each other. A family, as I once called us.”

   Alisaie sank back in her chair, her heart still racing, the torrent in her chest shifting but not settling. Y’shtola’s words wove a tapestry of magic and intimacy, both daunting and strangely comforting. A flash of Sevryn’s touch surfaced again, now tangled with the sultry spectre of Y’shtola’s presence, her inviting warmth lingering in her soul. Her focus stone quieted, its glow fading to a gentle ebb, as if her aether finally caught its breath. 

   “A family,” she murmured, testing the word, her voice softer now. “But that voice— it wasn’t you, Shtola. It felt… colder. Like something gnawing at Sevryn’s soul. What is it?”

   Y’shtola’s expression hardened, her silver eyes sharpening like moonlight on steel. “Your instincts serve you well, Alisaie,” she said, her voice low, weighted with a scholar’s gravitas. “That voice is no echo of the bond. That is Fray, a shadow beast entwined with Sevryn’s soul. And it is far more dangerous than you know.”

   Alisaie’s pulse quickened, her fingers digging into her thighs as she leaned forward, "Fray?” she repeated, the name a jagged stone in her throat. “You’ve known about this and said nothing?” Her voice cracked, anger warring with fear, her shoulders tensing as if braced for a blow. 

   Y’shtola’s ears flattened slightly, her fingers tightening on the tome until the leather creaked. “I’ve only pieced it together recently,” she replied, her tone measured. “From Sevryn’s battle journals, my studies of the Void, and whispers of lore from Matoya’s archives. The Dark Knight soul crystal she bore was no mere stone. It was a memoria crystal, born of the Thirteenth, shattered in her keeping.” She paused, her gaze piercing. “When it broke, it unleashed a voidsent self-named Fray, which latched onto Sevryn’s soul to survive the Source’s dense aether, anchoring itself to her power.”

   Alisaie’s breath hitched, her heart pounding, a war drum drowning the study’s quiet. “A voidsent?” she whispered, the word a bitter shard on her tongue. “From the Thirteenth? How does that happen? Why her?” Her fists clenched, nails biting her palms, the sting grounding her against the rising panic. Sevryn’s grey eyes flashed in her mind, now haloed in gold by a shadow she couldn’t grasp.

   Y’shtola leaned forward, her voice an anchor in Alisaie’s storm, “Sevryn’s soul is extraordinary. It carries the potency of the Ancients, radiant with aether when balanced, even favoring the astral. Fray found refuge in her, a haven to endure the Source. But on the First, when Sevryn absorbed the Lightwardens’ umbral light, her soul tipped toward shadow, mirroring the Thirteenth’s void. In that umbral tide, Fray thrived, its power swelling, its essence nearly overtaking her. Had she succumbed to the Light, as Emet-Selch intended, Fray would have reshaped her into a Lightwarden unlike any other—an eidolon of unmatched power.”

   Alisaie’s chest tightened, her breath shallow, fury and fear entwining like vines. “Reshaped her?” she snapped, her voice rising, sharp as a rapier’s edge. “You’re saying this… thing almost consumed her? That’s why she’s been different? Why no healer can help her?”

   “Precisely so. Sevryn fought it, as she always does. When Ardbert’s soul —itself touched by the Ancients— merged with hers, it steadied her, choking off Fray’s access to her aether. But the creature had grown too strong, and her soul could not return to its natural state.” She exhaled, a rare flicker of frustration crossing her face. “Fray is intertwined with her now, Alisaie, a shadow she cannot cast off. Only by binding it to a new crystal can we free her soul and restore its balance.”

   The study seemed to dim, the golden lamplight faltering as if consumed by the ghost of a shadow. Alisaie gripped her thighs, her nails leaving crescent marks, the gale within her shifting to a quieter, gnawing worry. “So it’s feeding on her,” she murmured, her voice low, heavy with realization. “That’s why she’s been so exhausted. What happens if it doesn’t get what it needs?”

   Y’shtola nodded, a flicker of worry in her gaze. “The creature draws aether from others when Sevryn engages in battle or shares her passion, as she did with you. It keeps the voidsent sated, content. But if Sevryn were to abstain— deny herself combat, intimacy, or the aether’s flow— it would turn inward, and feed on her own soul.” She paused, her fingers brushing the tome’s edge, her tone cautious. “The tremors, the frailty you’ve seen— those are withdrawal symptoms, signs of Fray’s hunger consuming her. If prolonged, it could deplete her aether entirely, risking her life.”

   Alisaie’s heart stuttered, “Feeding on her own soul?” she repeated, her voice a mix of disbelief and unease. The memory of Sevryn’s trembling hands, her gray eyes dim with exhaustion, tightened her chest. “So every time she fights or… loves, Fray’s taking from someone else? And if she stops, it turns on her?” Gods, Sevryn, how do you carry this?

   “Aye, but her will keeps it at bay,” Y’shtola replied,  “Sevryn’s battles, her moments of passion—they channel enough aether to keep Fray content, sparing her soul. Her strength is her shield, Alisaie. The risk to her is a slow, distant one.” She leaned back,  “And to us, the danger is all but nonexistent. Only if Sevryn were wholly overcome during intimacy—lost to herself entirely—could Fray forcefully draw our aether. A scenario so unlikely, given her resolve, as to be a mere curiosity.”

   Alisaie’s shoulders eased, her fists unclenching, “A curiosity,” she muttered, her voice low, skeptical, but a flicker of relief tempered her unease. “So we just… keep an eye on her? Make sure she doesn’t shut herself off to sex and violence?”

   Y’shtola’s ears tilted, a faint allure in her silver eyes, her gaze weaving a subtle spell around Alisaie. “Vigilance, aye,” she purred, her voice warm as a lover’s breath, “But Sevryn’s heart craves more than our watchful eyes.” She leaned closer, her tone sinking to a sultry murmur.  “Tell me, Alisaie, what was it like to sense me in the heat of your passion? A distraction, or… something more?”

   Alisaie’s cheeks flushed, her breath catching as Y’shtola’s words spun through her senses like a charm. Gods, she’s relentless. “It was… intense,” she admitted, her voice a mix of mortification and indignation, though her lips cambered with a reluctant smile. “Like a tempest in my body— Sevryn’s fire, your… presence, all tangled up. Not a distraction, but—ugh, do we have to dissect it?” She crossed her arms, her ears burning, as the memory’s glow lingered.

   Y’shtola’s laugh was a low ripple, warm and unguarded, her silver eyes glinting with delight. “No dissection, then,” she said, leaning back, “This is a marvel, you know— a rare aetheric resonance, weaving our essences in ways I’ve scarce read of. It’s a bridge to Sevryn’s soul, and perhaps to parts of ourselves we’ve yet to explore. We’ll need to understand it—intimately—if we’re to help her. Imagine what we might learn, studying its currents, its limits..”

   “Learn? You mean… poke at it? Like some experiment?”  Alisaie’s blush deepened. The idea sent a thrill through her, though she wasn’t sure if it was excitement or dread. The bond’s intimacy— feeling Y’shtola, Sevryn, their aether entwined— felt too raw, too close, yet a part of her wondered what it could mean, “What kind of studying are we talking about, Shtola?”

   Y’shtola’s eyes gleamed with academic fascination, “Nothing invasive, I assure you,” she said, voice warm, “Observations, perhaps. Noting when it flares, what emotions or actions stir it. Sevryn’s ardor with you triggered it vividly — might other moments do the same? Pain, joy, resolve?” She tilted her head, tapping her knuckles against her cheek in thought. “Would you be averse to… sharing such insights? For Sevryn’s sake, of course.”

   “For Sevryn’s sake,” she repeated dryly, though a spark of curiosity flickered in her eyes. “You’re impossible, you know that? Digging into our… feelings… like it’s one of your tomes.” Her breath quickened, her heart racing with a mix of embarrassment and intrigue, “Fine. If it helps her, I’ll do it… But don’t expect me to like it.” Gods, what am I even agreeing to?  

   Y’shtola’s smile widened, warmth quickening her captivating edge. “Your candor is a gift, Alisaie,” she said, her voice soft, sincere. “Understanding this link may light the path to freeing Sevryn from Fray,” She paused, her silver eyes glinting with a new intensity, as if a daring thought had taken root. “But perhaps… we might learn more by testing it ourselves. A controlled moment, here and now, to feel its currents directly.”

   Alisaie’s breath hitched, her heart a wild ember in her chest. “Testing it?” she reiterated, her voice a fragile thread, caught between nerves and a strange, unspoken thrill. 

   What is she suggesting?  She met Y’shtola’s gaze, cheeks aflame and found softness there, a vulnerability that mirrored her own. “You mean… what, exactly, Y’shtola?”

   Y’shtola leaned closer, her voice dropping to a velvet murmur, enticing yet earnest. “A kiss, Alisaie,” she said, the words simple but heavy, like a stone cast into still water. “A brief, deliberate act to stir the connection’s sensory loop. To see if my aether reaches you as yours did mine, and whether Sevryn’s essence lingers between us… For Sevryn’s sake, of course.”

   Alisaie’s heart stuttered, her eyes widening, the heat in her face spreading to her neck. A kiss? With Y‘Shtola? The thought was a spark, igniting a blaze of nerves and something else— something that quickened her pulse and made her lips tingle.

   She swallowed hard, her fingers brushing the table’s edge, a nervous anchor against the thundering in her chest. “You’re serious,” she said, her voice half a whisper, half a challenge, her gaze flicking between Y’shtola’s silver eyes and the faint curve of her lips. Gods, she’s serious. “And you think… this’ll help Sevryn? Testing it... like that?”

   Y’shtola’s ears flicked, her smile softening into something almost tender, though a hint of mischief remained. “I think,” she said, her voice a warm caress, “that the bond thrives on astral connection— pleasure, desire, pain. A kiss is a spark, small but potent enough to test its strength. And…” She paused, her gaze holding Alisaie’s, steady and inviting. “I think you’re curious, too. Aren’t you?”

   Alisaie’s breath caught, her fingers trembling slightly, the sorceress's scent weaving through her senses like a spell. Curious? Gods, yes.  

   The evocation of Y’shtola’s presence— like amber and twilight weaving through Sevryn’s fire— flared in her mind, thrilling and terrifying. She thought of her Warrior- haunted, her hands trembling- and vowed to save her... But the pull toward Y’shtola, the warmth in her gaze, was its own quiet fire, stirring something new in her heart. 

   She licked her lips, her voice barely a breath. “Fine. But… just a test, alright? For Sevryn.”

   Y’shtola’s smile deepened, her ears tilting forward, a quiet thrill mingling with a flicker of something more. “Just a test,” she agreed, her voice soft, almost reverent. She rose from her seat, graceful as moonlight, and closed the distance between them. Alisaie stood, her legs unsteady, her heartbeat thudding in her ears, and faced her, the air between them charged.

   Y’shtola’s hand lifted, fingers hovering near Alisaie’s cheek, a question in her silver eyes. Alisaie nodded, a tiny, trembling motion, and Y’shtola’s touch landed, warm and sure, guiding her closer. Their lips met, soft and tentative, a spark that bloomed into a smoldering fire. Alisaie’s senses flooded—sage and starlight, Y’shtola’s aether a warm tide, curling through her like honey. And there -faint but unmistakable-  was Sevryn’s, a brilliant ember, strong and steady, binding them together.

   The kiss lingered, brief but eternal, and when they parted, Alisaie’s breath was ragged, her cheeks flushed, a tremor in her knees. Y’shtola’s eyes gleamed, her smile a mix of radiant satisfaction and quiet wonder. “Captivating,” she murmured, her thumb caressing Alisaie’s cheek before falling away. 

   Alisaie sank back into her seat, the wood cool against her thighs, though it did nothing to quell the heat still simmering in her chest. The kiss lingered in her senses, a soft trace of the witch's warmth, like lamplight caught in crystal. She stole a glance at Y’shtola, who had settled back into her chair, her silver eyes glinting with a satin radiance, as if the union’s clarity had kindled something new within her.

   Y’shtola’s fingers traced the edge of her tome, a slow, deliberate motion. “You’re quiet, Alisaie,” a cheshire smile played at the corners of her mouth, “Cat got your tongue.. or are you merely savoring the moment?”

   Alisaie’s cheeks flared. She huffed, though her lips twitched upward. “I’m just… processing, alright? That was—” She faltered, the ghost of Y’shtola’s lips, soft and sure, sparking a fresh wave of heat, “It worked, didn’t it? You felt her.” Her tone sharpened, anchoring herself to purpose, though her pulse betrayed her..

   Y’shtola’s ears flicked, her smile fading into a grave line, her silver eyes shadowed with concern. “Aye, it worked. The link revealed Sevryn’s soul, earnest and unbroken, but also the voidsent's umbral hunger, ravenous and relentless. Alisaie, you cannot bear this alone. Its demands could drain you, harming you. Worse, if the Warrior's needs go unmet, Fray will turn inward, consuming her to sate itself.” She leaned forward, her tone softening, “Sevryn needs trusted partners to share her burden, to keep the creature sated without endangering any one of us. I care for her deeply, and I would… help, if you permit it.”

   Alisaie’s heart lurched, Y’shtola’s words a cold shard in her chest. Harm me? Devour Sevryn? She pictured her love, her gray eyes haloed by Fray’s gold, and her stomach twisted. The link pulsed, Y’shtola’s warmth curling through her, laced with the kiss’s radiant echo—a tantalizing hint of what sharing Sevryn would mean. Her cheeks flamed, a mix of jealousy and dread sparking in her veins. Others… with her? Gods, no.

   “You’re asking me to share her,” she said, her voice low, taut, like a bowstring ready to snap. “To let you—let others—be what she needs, because I can’t do it alone?” Her focus stone flared, a spark dancing across the table, and she leaned forward, eyes blazing. “I’d burn myself out for her, Y‘shtola. I’d give her every drop of my aether if it kept that thing away!”

   Y’shtola’s gaze held steady, and Alisaie’s shoulders sagged, the fight bleeding out of her. The connection’s warmth steadied her, Sevryn’s ember-like presence a quiet anchor. “But I can’t lose her,” she whispered, her voice cracking, eyes shimmering. “If this is what it takes… then do it. Help her. Love her.” She met Y’shtola’s silver eyes, her jaw set, fierce and resolute. “We’ll keep her safe. Together. Whatever it takes.”

   Y’shtola’s ears tilted, a diffuse glow of gratitude shimmering in her silver eyes. “Your heart's fire is a beacon, and your faith, a gift, Alisaie,” she leaned closer, her fingers grazing Alisaie’s across the table, a fleeting touch that sent a shiver through her, tender and electric. “This connection entwines us with the Warrior—and each other—in a delicate tapestry of trust and desire. We’ll nurture it -and her- with all we have.” Her lips curved with a rare, unguarded smile that warmed the study’s lamplight.

   Alisaie’s breath hitched, Y’shtola’s sincerity easing the ache of her earlier dread. “I’m not backing down,” she said, her voice firm but calmer now, a spark of her usual boldness returning. “Sevryn needs us, and… I trust you, Shtola. Even if this—” she gestured vaguely, cheeks flushing, “—messes with my head.” A wry smile tugged at her lips.

   Y’shtola’s laugh was melodic, her eyes dancing with quiet affection. “A delightful mess, I wager,” she teased, then sobered, her tone sharpening with purpose. “To free Sevryn, we must unravel both our aetheric entanglement and the voidsent’s nature. Matoya’s shelves hold grimoires of the Thirteenth—texts on memoria crystals and aetheric bindings that may hold the key to severing Fray’s hold. I was planning on visiting her soon. Would you care to join me?”

   “Count me in,” Alisaie said, “We’ll dig through every dusty tome if it means saving her.” Her eyes met Y’shtola’s, “But if Matoya starts lecturing me on aetheretic theory, you're taking the brunt of it.”

   Y’shtola’s ears flicked, a playful glint sparking in her silver eyes as she rose, “Oh, I’ll shield you from Matoya’s lectures, Alisaie, but only if you promise not to duel her brooms,” 

  “Come on, Y’shtola, that’s not fair!” she groused, “It only happened once…and the broom started it.” 

~~~

Chapter Text

   The desert horizon stretched out, clouds high and clear against the deepening purple sky as the day’s last orange light dipped below the darkened sandstone canyons and buttes. The cool desert wind whipped through her hair as she rode, a welcome distraction from the seemingly endless emptiness of Fray’s appetite. 

   It was always worse after a fight. The battle-high brought on a bottomless bloodlust. A desire to conquer, control and consume everything… nay, everyone —around her. It was worse, for some reason, since fully returning to the Source. Fray’s presence, which before had only surfaced during battle, now lingered in the back of her mind. The dark driver bled into other areas of her life, most disturbingly in its intimate aspects.

   She had always liked Alisaie. But now every other thought was about ravishing the girl. The morning after they had made love, Sevryn had awoken with such a craving for the younger woman that her hands literally trembled with need. The tremors only subsided after she had patrolled the Tangle, eventually disrupting a forward vanguard of 5th Cohort soldiers and their machina. Fray was thrilled in the carnage. Sevryn came back to her senses standing amidst smoking wreckage and slaughtered Imperials in blood-soaked armor, the tremors and pain gone… for a time.

   For the first time she could remember, she found herself grateful there was seemingly no end to the machinations of madmen and those who would burn the world to their own ends. It meant an enemy was metaphorically around every corner, so she could sate Fray’s near constant craving with the Scions—especially Alisaie and Y’shtola—none the wiser. If they knew, they would want to help, and that was the last thing Sevryn desired.

   Ever since Y’shtola had used the Crystal Tower to amplify her and Alisaie’s aetheric resonance to heal her, Fray had developed an insatiable appetite for their aether. Sevryn couldn’t stop thinking about them, specifically, in the context of unspeakably debased acts. While she was no shrinking violet, the dark fantasies that shot across the sky of her mind were eye-watering. And if she was entirely honest, it worried her. Less for herself and more for her companions, especially Alisaie, who now found her way to Sevryn’s bed at night more often than not. 

   Sevryn sighed and swore. Ali. 

   Alisaie had thrown herself into finding and distributing the cure for Tempering across Eorzea. There was no way Sevryn could be prouder of her, but sometimes at night while Sevryn lay awake, unable to sleep due to Fray’s cravings, Alisaie would shudder in her arms, and she couldn’t help but wonder if each fervent kiss and tangled limb risked Fray sipping too greedily from Alisaie’s aether, stealing the fire from her lass’s heart and leaving Sevryn to face a dawn where she’d lost her forever. The thought was more than the Warrior could bear.

   Lightning split the ceruleum-charged sky above, its jagged arc casting Raubahn’s Push in a bruised, blue-veiled haze. Dalamud’s Talons loomed like fangs, their shattered edges shifting through the mist. Sevryn’s thighs gripped Ean’s feathered flanks as the chocobo’s talons churned the ashen earth, his stride thunderous towards Mor Dhona. The air felt wrong—a sour tang of corrupted aether that set her teeth on edge. Ean’s low whistle echoed her unease, his crest ruffling as he slowed, amber eyes darting to the shadowed crags.

   Fray’s voice slithered through her mind, dark and silken, sharp as a blade’s edge. “They come, my mirrored self. Mhachi dogs, cloaked in void’s hunger, seek the crystal they believe thou hold’st. Their chants weave a noose in shadow. Strike, or be bound.” 

   Her pulse surged, gray eyes narrowing as she scanned the haze. The dark knight’s stone—shattered, yet fused to her soul—burned cold in a pouch against her chest, its umbral weight tethered to Fray’s ravenous shade.  A flicker of movement caught her eye—a robed figure atop a jagged outcrop, crimson glyphs pulsing in the air. Seven more shadows emerged, their black robes billowing like smoke, staves and daggers gleaming with void-touched runes. Two cultists, clad in spiked leather, brandished curved blades, their eyes glinting with fanatic zeal. Nine in total, their aether a sickening churn of ash and violet, threading a ritual circle around her path.

   “They dare?!” Fray’s snarl vibrated in her skull, her own fury rising to meet it, “Bleed them dry. Feast on them.”

   Her grip tightened on her greatsword, its dark steel humming as she dismounted, boots crunching on shale. Ean shrieked, rearing, and bolted to the sidelines, loyal but wise enough to avoid the fray. The lead summoner, a gaunt Elezen with eyes like burning coals, raised a staff crowned with a pulsing orb. 

   “Warrior of Light,” he intoned, voice oily with reverence, “surrender the memoria crystal, and we shall spare thy soul. Resist, and the void claims thee."

   Sevryn’s lips curled, a feral glint in her gold-haloed gray eyes. “Ye think I carry it? Come and take it, then." Her brogue was thick, laced with Fray’s venom. She swung her greatsword in a low arc, aether flaring dark and hungry, daring them to strike.

   The air screamed as a fireball roared from the Elezen’s staff, its core a writhing voidsent maw. Sevryn rolled, the blast scorching the earth where she’d stood, ceruleum fumes igniting in a blue flare. She surged forward, Fray’s laughter a dark tide in her veins. “Rip them apart!”. 

   Her blade cleaved through the first melee cultist’s chest, steel biting bone, blood spraying in a crimson arc. His scream choked as she twisted the blade, his aether—bitter, ash-laden—flooding into her. The broken crystal pulsed, Fray drinking deep, her wounds knitting as the cultist crumpled, lifeless. 

   Two summoners chanted in unison, their staves weaving a lattice of violet chains around her thighs, voidsent claws slashing from the aether, slowing her. Sevryn snarled, Fray’s hunger clawing her soul, and unleashed a wave of umbral energy. The chains shattered, the backlash hurling one summoner into a spire’s jagged edge, his spine snapping with a wet crunch. His aether surged into her, sharp and electric, sealing a gash on her thigh from the claw’s graze. “More,” Fray purred, her voice a lover’s caress. “Feed us!”

   Another cultist lunged, his dagger grazing her ribs, blood welling hot and bright. Pain flared, but Fray’s presence drowned it, her frenzy surging. Sevryn’s blade spun, severing the cultist’s arm at the elbow, his scream swallowed by her roar. She drove her sword through his chest, pinning him to the ground, his aether a bitter draught that mended her torn flesh. The crystal thrummed, Fray’s gold halo flaring in her eyes, her breath ragged with savage glee.

   The remaining summoners tightened their circle, their chants rising to a fevered pitch. A voidgate tore open, a hulking voidsent—clad in bone and shadow, eyes like dying stars—lurching forth. Its claws raked her shoulder, shredding leather and flesh, blood streaming down her arm. Sevryn staggered, pain lancing through her, but Fray’s voice roared, “Devour it!” 

   She swung her greatsword upward, carving through the voidsent’s chest, its ichor splattering her face. Its aether—thick, umbral, intoxicating—flooded her, knitting her shoulder’s torn muscle, though a deep gash remained, weeping crimson. The lead summoner’s eyes widened, fear cracking his zeal. “She consumes us!” he shrieked, hurling a bolt of black lightning. 

   Sevryn ducked, the bolt shattering a nearby boulder, shards grazing her cheek. She charged, Fray’s frenzy a wildfire in her blood, and drove her blade through his stomach, twisting until his aether poured into her, rich and molten. His body slumped, staff clattering, but his death fed her, the gash on her cheek sealing shut. 

   Three summoners remained, their chants faltering. One, a young Hyur with trembling hands, broke rank, sprinting toward the haze-shrouded Talons. Sevryn’s eyes locked on him, Fray urging pursuit, but a barrage of ice shards from the others forced her to dive, shards slicing her forearm. Blood dripped, but she rolled to her feet, blade flashing. She cleaved through one summoner’s neck, her head rolling, aether surging into Sevryn like a storm.

   The last summoner’s spell hit her chestplate, charring her armor, burning a glowing sigil into it but she lunged, impaling him through the stomach. His aether—faint, fading—sealed the burn, though her ribs ached, a dull bruise blooming. The Hyur vanished into the ceruleum fog, his aether a faint thread in the distance.

   “Hunt him!” Fray snarled but Sevryn staggered, her frenzy ebbing, the stone’s pulse fading. Blood slicked her armor, her own and theirs, her body trembling with the aether she’d consumed. Her wounds—save a jagged gash across her ribs and a lingering ache in her shoulder—had knitted, Fray’s hunger sated for now. She sank to one knee, breath ragged, her greatsword’s tip buried in the earth. “They thought to cage us,” Fray whispered, her voice a sated purr. “But we are the darkness.”

   Sevryn’s gray eyes, dimming from gold, scanned the carnage—eight bodies strewn across Raubahn’s Push, blood pooling in the dirt and ash. The air stank of ceruleum and death, lightning flickering above. She rose, wincing, the gash in her ribs pulsing with each breath. Ean trotted back, nuzzling her arm, and she patted his beak, her voice hoarse. “We’re not done yet, lad.” 

   The memory of Alisaie’s fierce touch, Y’shtola’s steady warmth, flickered in her mind. She needed them—Mor Dhona was close, the gash would need tending, and soon. She mounted Ean, her bloodied hand gripping the reins, and urged him forward, the bloody remains of the ambush fading into the haze.

   ~~~

   Alisaie fussed in Sevryn’s room—her fingers straightening the worn quilt, nudging the lantern an ilm to the right—anything to quell the unease twisting her gut. She was stewing over Alphinaud, his quiet guilt over Arenvald, more than a comrade’s, she’d bet, though he’d never say. 

   It was easier to fret over her twin than face the real fear clawing her heart. The Scions had arrived back to the Rising Stones from Ul’dah hours ago, weary from the Telophoroi run-in, but Sevryn— damn her —had insisted on riding Ean from Thanalan, muttering about her chocobo needing to ‘stretch his legs’. 

   That was ages ago, far too long for a ride from Central Thanalan back to Revenant’s Toll. Alisaie snatched a discarded undershirt from the bed, meaning to fold it into order, when Sevryn’s scent—leather, sweat, sandalwood—flooded her senses, raw and achingly hers. Her breath hitched, fear surging: Sevryn was out there- it was reckless with Zenos' return and Fandaniel's madness. Her link to Sevryn was as faint as a dying ember, in her absence, there was a gnawing void. What if she’d been ambushed, alone in Thanalan’s dark with no one to guard her back? 

   Her pulse thundered, and a chill crept through the connection, as if Sevryn’s light flickered. Suddenly, a searing, burning pain shot through her chest and shoulder, sharp as a hot knife grazing her skin. “Sevryn, gods!” she gasped, eyes wide, the shirt trembling in her grip: This was her Warrior’s pain, screaming through the ritual’s tether that her love was wounded, perhaps dying. Concern for Alphinaud’s grief vanished; only Sevryn now burned in her heart. Alisaie stood rooted in place, the undershirt wadded in her fists, its scent stinging her with every breath, while the lantern’s sputter dragged on, every flicker a taunt.

   “You reckless oaf,” she muttered, voice brittle, fear lacing her bite. Her fingers twisted the shirt, her focus reaching for the connection, grasping at its faint echo—dim, faltering, like a star swallowed by night. Nothing, no spark of Sevryn, just a hollow ache that clawed her sore. She tried again, aether flickering, spent from her work curing the Tempered. She hissed a curse. The waiting was thick as her dread, stretching endlessly. The room pressed in, the quilt’s neat folds a mockery of her unraveling control, each moment a weight she couldn’t shake.

   Then, the inevitable. Boots scraped outside, halting and heavy, and the door groaned open. Alisaie’s breath caught, the undershirt falling from her trembling fists as Sevryn, bloodied, a seared sigil on her armor, lurched into the room. Blood streamed from a jagged gash across her ribs, her armor scorched and rent, the pulsing sigil glowing like voidfire on her chestplate.

    “Sevryn, you’re bleeding!” she gasped, her poise shattered by the sight of her Warrior—her willful, infuriating Warrior—swaying on the edge of collapse. Alisaie lunged forward, hands reaching for Sevryn’s blood-slicked arm, her aether sparking uselessly, spent from Paglth’an’s trials. The Inn’s haze stung her eyes—or maybe it was tears—as the crumpled undershirt lay discarded, a frayed echo of her lost control. Sevryn’s gray eyes met hers, dim with pain, a flicker of gold hinting at Fray’s shadow. Fear clawed her chest, sharper than the bond’s burn—Sevryn was here, alive, but gods, for how long?

   Sevryn, leaning against the door frame, blood dripping, sigil pulsing, rasped, “Mhachi curs… ambushed me in the Push, after some damned crystal.” Her brogue was thick, a weak grin flickering. “Dinnae worry, lass. It’s not so bad, just a scratch”.

   Alisaie’s grip tightened on Sevryn’s blood-slicked arm, her eyes wide with dread. “A scratch? You’re bleeding out!” she choked, voice edged with fear, her composure crumbling as her heart pounded. “You can’t just shrug this off!”

   Despite her shallow breaths, Sevryn’s gray eyes, dimming, softened, and a chuckle rumbled. “Why bother, Ali, when ye fret enough for us both?” Her teasing lilt faltered as her gaze locked on Alisaie’s, intense and unguarded. “Ali, I… love you,” she whispered, her knees buckling, eyes rolling back. As her body slumped to the floorboards, the worn quilt caught her fall, the lantern’s flicker casting her bloodied form in stark relief. Alisaie’s heart seized, her love’s confession a blade sharper than any wound.

   Alisaie collapsed beside Sevryn’s crumpled form, a sob tearing free as tears spilled, blurring the blood around her. “Sevryn, please!” she choked, hands pressing the oozing gash, her aether sparking in feeble bursts, too spent to mend even a scratch. The link flickered, faint as a dying star, and her desperation flooded the ritual’s tether—a desperate, wordless plea for Y’shtola’s presence, her love and terror trembling through the aether. Sevryn’s ‘love you’ echoed in Alisaie’s soul, her heart clinging to the words—then Sevryn’s limp hand twitched, gold eyes flaring open, swallowing the gray of her lover’s gaze.

   Fray’s presence slithered forth, Sevryn’s form shifting closer, a predator in her love’s skin. Fray leaned in, Sevryn’s bloodied hand slowly grazing Alisaie’s cheek, the familiar sandalwood scent of her lover now sharp in the air. “Sweet girl, share your fire—a small taste, and I’ll bring her back,” she purred, her voice a silken shadow of Sevryn’s, dripping with voidsent hunger.

   Alisaie flinched violently, tearing herself back from the stranger in her lover’s form, her hands hovering uselessly over Sevryn. “You’re not her!” she snarled, fury climbing in her throat.

   Fray’s lips curled in a knowing smile. “No, lassie, but I can save her. Will you let her die?”

   Alisaie’s breath caught, a shuddering gasp. Sevryn’s confession still seared her heart, her love clashing violently with fear of the monster’s insidious lie. “Can you… really save her?” she whispered, voice cracking with desperate hope. Fray’s smile widened, a chilling, predatory taunt.

   “Give yourself to me, and she’ll live. Refuse, and she’s mine.” Alisaie shoved Sevryn’s hand away, her aether sparking feebly, tears falling as fury and dread tore her apart. The lantern’s flicker cast their shadows in a tense dance, her heart trapped between defiance and despair.

   “She’s not yours to claim,” Y’shtola declared, her voice a velvet blade of fury and resolve. The door crashed open, and she stormed in, aether crackling like starfire around her. Her eyes burned with  focus, locking on Fray in Sevryn’s tormented form, her tail lashing as she stepped between Alisaie and the voidsent’s voracity.

   “Y’shtola!” Alisaie gasped, tears streaking her face, relief flooding her voice. Y’shtola’s gaze softened with fleeting warmth for Alisaie, before her jaw tightened, a clenched fist betraying absolute disgust at Fray’s perversion of Sevryn. “Touch her again, and you’ll burn,” she warned, her tone sharp with suppressed anger.

   Then, in a voice silken yet strained, she purred, “Take me instead, shade.” She stepped closer, her fingers grazing Sevryn’s bloodied arm with deliberate, almost seductive, allure. “My aether’s yours—a feast to sate you and save her. Leave the girl be.”

   Fray’s gold eyes gleamed, lips curling in a predatory smile. “A finer prize, sorceress,” she murmured, a shadow of Sevryn’s voice, dripping with crude greed. The aetheric bond pulsed wildly, a discordant trill searing Alisaie’s chest as Y’shtola’s fear spiked through their link, her unfocused gaze flaring with defiance.

   Fray lunged, gold eyes blazing with voracious hunger, slamming her against the wall, Sevryn’s hands pinning Y’shtola’s wrists above her head. With a vicious tear, she ripped Y’shtola’s sheer silk shift, the fabric’s ruin stark against bared breasts. Fray then pressed Sevryn’s taller frame against Y’shtola, shoving closer with her body weight, Sevryn’s lips descending to her chest with predatory intent.

   “Delicious,” Fray purred, her voice a shadowed echo of Sevryn’s, as she gripped Y’shtola’s breasts, kneading with barbarous force, fingers tugging her nipples until they peaked in pained defiance.

   Y’shtola’s back arched, a shuddering gasp escaping as Fray’s teeth sank into one nipple, sucking with ravenous pulls, each draw surging aether from her veins, flaring gold as Sevryn’s gash began to knit. The bond screamed Y’shtola’s agony and traitorous pleasure—a dizzying blur of love and violation—flooding Alisaie, her knees buckling as she felt the bite’s sting, the ecstatic pulse twisting her gut. Y’shtola’s jaw clenched, her tail twitching in suppressed torment, yet her thighs trembled, her free hand fisting in Sevryn’s hair, gripping the back of her head in a desperate tangle of need and resistance, her blind eyes shuttered.

   “Enough, devil—take only what you need,” Y’shtola commanded, voice silken yet strained, pouring aether through the link to Sevryn, her sacrifice a beacon against the abyss. Alisaie’s vision blurred, Y’shtola’s pain searing her through their link, her own heart pounding with helpless rage and mirrored violation.

   “Leave her alone!” Alisaie shouted, clutching her rapier’s hilt, knuckles white, her mind flashing to running Sevryn through to stop Fray. The bond carried Y’shtola’s anguish and Sevryn’s buried terror, fueling Alisaie’s anguished sob. Her widened eyes, however, caught Sevryn stirring. Fray’s tongue lapped, relentless, drawing Y’shtola’s essence until Sevryn’s wound closed, the voidsent’s feast sated. Alisaie’s breath hitched, awe overtaking horror—Y’shtola’s aether, channeled through their connection, mending her love, resolute against the void.

   Sevryn’s lips froze against Y’shtola’s breast, one hand still pinning her wrist, when her gray eyes flickered, banishing Fray’s unnatural gold. Horror crashed over her, the coupling flooding her with Y’shtola’s pain—bitten skin, torn shift—and Alisaie’s anguished fury, a tidal wave of guilt choking her.

   “What have I done?” she rasped, staggering back, releasing Y’shtola, her hands trembling. Her gaze darted to Alisaie—tear-streaked, clutching her rapier, eyes flashing with fading violence. Sevryn flinched, the bond’s echo of Alisaie’s hurt piercing her.

   Y’shtola slumped against the wall, clutching her torn shift, aether spent. Yet her trembling hand reached out, grazing Sevryn’s cheek. “Sevryn, you’re back,” she said, voice gentle yet faltering. The bond’s hum steadied, her blind eyes softened, hand firm despite her pain. Sevryn froze, guilt stiffening her frame, the connection pulsing with Y’shtola’s immense sacrifice and Alisaie’s desperate love, urging her to stay despite her shame.

   “I’m sorry,” Sevryn whispered, leaning into Y’shtola’s touch, her body taut but yielding to the connection’s warmth.

   Alisaie’s rapier clattered to the floor, her voice cracking, “Sevryn, it’s you!” She rushed forward, wrapping Sevryn and Y’shtola in a fierce embrace. “I love you,” she whispered, their nexus flaring with her overwhelming relief.

   Tears streamed down her face as she spoke to Y’shtola, her voice thick with gratitude: “You saved us both.” Yet, she clung tighter to Sevryn, fingers gripping the bloodied undershirt, pulling Y’shtola deeper into their embrace, the closeness a steadying anchor. She finally drew back, her eyes searching Sevryn’s guilt-stricken face, voice raw. “Sevryn, what in the hells happened to you?”

   Noticing Y’shtola’s torn shift, Sevryn retrieved the quilt from the floor, wrapping it gently around her shoulders. Her love was a quiet, battered shield. Y’shtola’s blind eyes focused, aetheric sight returning, then softened with a flicker of relief and compassion as they met Sevryn’s gaze. Her sight then dropped to the glowing sigil burned into Sevryn’s leather chestplate. The Warrior gently led her to sit on the bed, her touch tender.

   “When was that sigil burned onto your armor?” Y’shtola asked, her voice strained but curious, her trembling hand steadying.

   Sevryn paused, brow furrowing. “Probably towards the end of the fight, when a summoner’s spell hit my chestplate.”

   Recognizing the sigil’s Mhachi origin, Y’shtola steadied herself. “Tell us the whole story,” she demanded, her voice firm. Sevryn’s gray eyes shadowed, guilt tightening her jaw as she took a seat beside Y’shtola, the bed creaking under her weight.

   “I sensed a foul aether in the Push, a warning I didn’t heed,” she began, voice low. “The Mhachi summoners struck, demanding some crystal I’ve never heard of. They tore at me, and the spell that burned the sigil hit when I was near done for.” She shuddered; Y’shtola’s bitten skin flashed in her mind, Fray’s frenzy a lingering ache. “Then Fray took me, and I… I hurt you.” Her voice broke, and her hands clenched.

   Y’shtola’s hand found Sevryn’s, her grip firm despite the tremble. “It was her, not you,” she said, voice soft but steadfast, her gaze piercing. She reached out with her other hand, gently touching Sevryn’s cheek, a tender echo of their earlier moment. “That sigil’s purpose—we must uncover. Perhaps in the Yafaem Saltmoor… It may hold answers to binding her and keeping you safe.” Her tone hardened with resolve. “We’ll not lose you.”

    “Sevryn, you’re ours—don’t you dare pull away,” Alisaie said, her voice cracking with love and defiance. Her fingers dug into Sevryn’s shoulder, urging her stay present. “We fight this together, or I’ll drag you to those ruins myself.” A spark of her usual fire returned, softening her touch.

   Sevryn’s throat tightened, their warmth battling her urge to flee, to shield them from Fray’s hunger. She tensed, instinct screaming to withdraw, but fought it, love anchoring her.

   “Aye,” she whispered, leaning into Y’shtola’s gentle touch on her cheek as Alisaie’s grip steadied her. “To the ruins, then. For us.”

<<^>>

Chapter Text

   The first light of Mor Dhona slipped through the shutters, casting pale blades across Sevryn’s bandaged chest. Every throb of pain was a grim echo, but it was the agonizing memory of violating hands, the ghost of a pained gasp, the stark image of Y'shtola's torn shift that truly carved her soul raw. Relentless nightmares replayed Fray's betrayal: the brutal lunge, every torturous bite—a searing reminder that her own body had been the weapon, her own will powerless. An acrid taste filled her mouth, familiar self-loathing curdling deep in her gut. She had failed. Failed to protect the ones she cherished most.

   Alisaie’s fitful warmth pressed close beside her, an arm draped gently over Sevryn’s waist, her haunted breaths mirroring Sevryn's restless night. Even through the haze of exhaustion and guilt, Sevryn felt the young Red Mage's simmering anger, her protective devotion. But it was the phantom echo of Y'shtola's pain—the lingering sting of bruises, the shock of being slammed against the wall, the deep, burning shame of brutally groped breasts, of nipples ravaged by teeth—that still clung to Sevryn like a shroud.

   Fear, cold and sharp, chained her heart. Fear that confessing her burgeoning feelings would only draw Y'shtola further into Fray’s dangerous orbit; fear she was too tainted to ever truly deserve her; fear her own fractured soul would shatter them both. Sevryn’s throat tightened, a desperate, trembling resolve hardening within her: to keep Y’shtola safe, even if it meant denying her own heart, burying what she felt beneath the crushing weight of her failure.

   The stench of dried blood and voidsent ichor seemed to cling to her skin like the memory of Fray's grotesque embrace. Every crusted stain was a searing reminder, not just of Y’shtola’s brutalized form, but of Sevryn's own body, twisted into a puppet of depravity. Revulsion roiled in her gut; her very flesh a traitor’s shell where guilt and trauma festered, urging her to flee the bed’s warmth before her rot could poison Alisaie’s gentle touch. Grief for her stolen autonomy stirred a restless ache, her limbs twitching with the desperate need to scour away the battle’s filth—the gore of creatures and enemies slain, the vile spatter of Fray’s essence, and the agonizing echoes of Y’shtola’s violation.

   Careful not to stir Alisaie’s fitful slumber, Sevryn slipped from the quilt’s embrace, her sore muscles groaning as she gathered a clean tunic and pants from a nearby chest. The Rising Stones’ baths beckoned, a fleeting sanctuary to wash away the carnage and the unbearable weight of what had been done through her, her caged heart heavy with dread of harming those she loved. With a final glance at Alisaie’s peaceful form, Sevryn padded silently toward the door, driven by a desperate need to be clean.

   The slight chill of the bath chamber was a stark contrast to the stifling heat of her lingering horror. Sevryn shivered, not from cold, but from the grievous, sickening awareness of her own ravaged flesh. She peered into the steaming water, a vague shape in the hazy mirror above—her own reflection, still coated in the grime of battle, a silent accusation. The gash across her chest, a jagged, half-healed canyon of puckered skin, throbbed with a dull ache. She traced the angry line of her wound with a trembling finger, the sensation dragging her back to the immediate aftermath of Fray’s brutal defilement of Y’shtola.

   She remembered the dizzying weakness that had swamped her after the ambush, the copious blood loss threatening to drag her down into unconsciousness. She remembered the distorted echo of Y'shtola's aether, freely offered to Fray in a desperate bid to save Sevryn's life, only for the voidsent to clumsily force that vital energy into knitting Sevryn's torn flesh. The resulting partial healing had been a chilling reminder of Fray’s malicious inefficiency, a wound somewhat mended by a stolen, misapplied gift. And then, as the chaos receded and she clawed her way back to her senses- there was Alisaie.

   The memory bloomed, sharp and clear even through the steam: Alisaie’s hands, usually so decisive in combat, had trembled as she peeled away the ruined tunic, revealing the wound that still oozed fresh blood. Her gasp had been soft, a whispered exhalation of shock and profound worry. Sevryn could feel the phantom pressure of Alisaie's fingers, delicate yet firm, as the bandages had been painstakingly wound around her torso. Every touch had been a balm, an unspoken promise of fierce protection, her face etched with a desperate, unspoken plea for Sevryn's well-being. Alisaie’s love, so often expressed in sharp words and bolder actions, had shone in the gentle curve of her brow, the worried set of her lips, the almost reverent way she’d tended to Sevryn’s still-wounded body. Her unvarnished concern, that quiet devotion, had been a light in the crushing darkness of Fray’s aftermath, a shield against the creeping numbness.

   Sevryn’s breath hitched. She submerged herself in the blistering water, desperate to wash away the cloying residue of voidsent ichor, the stench of dried blood, and the phantom sensation of Y'shtola's abused body lingering on her own skin. She needed to scrub away the defilement, the guilt, the constant, sickening reminder that her own body had been the instrument of their pain.

~~~

   Alisaie jolted awake, the gray dawn bleeding through the shutters, its cold light stark on the empty quilt where Sevryn should have been. Panic sliced her chest, a blade keener than Mhachi steel, her hand grasping for Sevryn’s warmth and finding only cooling linen. The room’s walls pressed close, the air thick with the faint, metallic scent of dried blood from Sevryn’s armor slung over a nearby chest.

   Last night’s horrors surged—Sevryn crumpling into her arms, blood slicking her palms, her pulse a fading whisper; Y’shtola’s pained gasp as Fray’s teeth tore her skin, Alisaie’s rapier hand frozen in helpless rage. But a darker dread gnawed now: the chilling knowledge that such horrors preyed on Sevryn's deepest vulnerabilities, and echoed a terror Alisaie knew all too well herself.

   Her fingers dug into the quilt’s thick weave, the soft fabric still warm from where Sevryn’s form had rested moments before, a visceral tether to her absence. Eyes shut, Alisaie reached through their aetheric bond, a taut thread humming with Sevryn’s familiar spark. It was dim, yes, shadowed by an acrimonious, pervasive guilt that coiled around the core of her being, but Alisaie also sensed a faint, stubborn ember of resolve. What was that resolve for? To suffer alone? To withdraw? Scalding water pricked her skin, a phantom echo of Sevryn's location, and a profound pang of self-blame twisted Alisaie's gut. Relief flared, faint and fleeting, knowing Sevryn lingered near, but frustration burned—why slip away, why build a silent wall between them now, when they needed connection most? Guilt gnawed, her frozen inaction last night a lingering sting, but a fiercer need spurred her.

   Tossing the quilt aside, Alisaie yanked on her boots, her steps swift but hushed. She was driven to the baths not just to find Sevryn, but to shatter the isolating distance Fray had wrought, to confront the terror that had made Sevryn flee, and to remind her that she was not alone in this fight, nor in her fears.

   Alisaie’s urgent footsteps echoed softly in the silent hall of the Rising Stones, cutting through the pre-dawn quiet. The bath chamber door was unmistakably locked. She hesitated for only a fraction of a second, her jaw tightening. "Sevryn?" she called out, her voice a low, tightly controlled question, betraying none of the tremor in her hands. She pressed an ear to the wood, hearing the distinct rush of steaming water.

   A muffled voice, gruffer than usual, responded from within. "I'm fine, Alisaie. I'm just getting cleaned up. Go back to bed."

   Alisaie’s eyes narrowed. "No. I'm coming in." Without waiting for a reply, she pulled a thin lockpick from a hidden pouch on her belt. Her fingers, nimble from years of disarming traps and unraveling arcane knots, worked with a practiced, almost impatient finesse. A soft, decisive click resonated in the stillness, and the heavy door eased open.

   The air inside was thick with steam and the metallic tang of bath salts, blurring the outlines of the stone pillars and the central basin. Sevryn was submerged in the almost scalding water, her head leaning back against the rim, eyes closed. Just above the surface, the fresh, ragged seam of a healing scar stood out starkly against the roseate warmth of her skin, a testament to recent injury.

   Sevryn's eyes snapped open at the sound of the door, her body tensing, a hand instinctively moving, not for a weapon, but to cover herself, as if the water wasn't enough. Her brow furrowed with annoyance, quickly followed by weary resignation. "Alisaie. I told you I was fine." Her voice was low, strained, her fatigue evident. "I'm capable of bathing myself."

   Alisaie ignored the barb, stepping fully into the humid air, letting the door click shut behind her. Her gaze swept over the Warrior, taking in the red marks on her skin, the lingering pallor beneath the steam.

   "Fine?" Alisaie’s voice was tight with worry, but softened as she saw the sheer exhaustion etched on her face. "After last night? Sevryn, you vanished. You think I was just going to wait?" She walked closer, stopping at the edge of the large basin. "You weren't just 'cleaning up.' You were pulling away. And that's not something we do. Not anymore."

   A beat of silence hung in the air, thick with the scent of water and the unspoken weight of the night. Alisaie surveyed the stark, functional bath chamber. "For a warrior who usually just jumps into any murky river without a second thought," she said, a faint, mischievous glint entering her eyes, "you certainly picked a rather luxurious spot for self-pity."

   Sevryn’s expression remained strained, but a faint, almost imperceptible huff of amusement escaped her. "I prefer not to get a festering infection before my next mission, thank you very much."

   Alisaie allowed a small smile, walking to a nearby bench and sitting down, her gaze never quite leaving Sevryn. "Well, since I'm already here, mind if I... supervise? Make sure you don't drown in your own dramatic angst?" Her voice was light, but her eyes were piercing.

   Sevryn met her gaze, a small, almost reluctant smirk touching her lips. "You wouldn't dare." The challenge was soft, an invitation.

   "Try me," Alisaie countered, her voice firming. "Besides, someone has to make sure you actually get those stubborn blood stains off. Unless you prefer to walk around as a walking testament to last night's... ugliness." She watched Sevryn closely, waiting for the defensive walls to crack.

   Sevryn slowly lowered her head, leaning back against the rim again, though her eyes remained open, fixed on the ceiling. "It was my body, Alisaie. My hands. I couldn't stop it." Her voice was barely a whisper, thick with self-loathing. "I felt... everything. The tearing, the bruising, the shame." Her hands clenched beneath the water. "How can I be near you two? What if it happens again? What if I lose control and hurt you both?"

   Alisaie pushed off the bench, moving to kneel beside the bath. Her eyes, however, were drawn to the gash on Sevryn’s chest, exposed and angry against the flushed skin. Her gaze lingered on the jagged scar, the visible evidence of the night’s savagery.

   Sevryn noticed Alisaie’s silent contemplation of the wound. A dry, humorless chuckle escaped her. "Fray really did a shite job of healing, didn't she? After Y'shtola poured so much aether into it, you'd think it'd be pristine. Makes you wonder..." She trailed off, looking at her own scar. "If we ever fix this polarity mess in my soul, if I could heal properly again... do you think the chirurgeons would even be able to smooth all of these away? I'm collecting quite the tapestry of half-healed messes."

   Alisaie reached for a bar of soap on the side of the bath, her fingers gently but deliberately rubbing it into a lather. "Sevryn," she began, her voice tinged with fond exasperation, "you started as a conjurer. You know healing doesn't work that way. Once tissue sets, even with partial aetheric intervention, you're usually left with something." She scooped some hot water, letting it cascade over Sevryn's shoulder, a silent invitation. "There's always glamours, of course. But I... I'd rather you not cover your scars."

   As she spoke, Alisaie’s fingers, now slick with soap, lightly brushed over Sevryn’s shoulder, then gently traced the puckered line of the gash across her chest, lingering there for a long moment. Her gaze met Sevryn's, profound and unwavering. "They are part of your story. Part of who you are. I wouldn't want you to erase them."

   Sevryn flinched at the touch, but didn't pull away. The contact was intimate, tender. She swallowed hard, the vulnerability of the moment overwhelming. "I didn't want you to see me like this," she murmured, her eyes still on Alisaie’s. "I needed to wash it off. All of it. Before I tainted you."

   Without a word, Alisaie picked up a soft washcloth, lathering it with the soap. "The bond... it connected us," she continued, her voice soft but firm, as she gently began to scrub Sevryn’s arm. "I felt her pain, Sevryn. I felt your guilt. We're entwined now, whether you like it or not. You think I didn't see you struggling last night?" Her thumb stroked Sevryn's arm gently, washing away the dried remnants of blood. "It's dangerous, yes. Fray can... can use it. But it can also protect us. It can be our strength. We just have to understand it. Together."

   Sevryn finally turned her head fully, her eyes unguarded and vulnerable, meeting Alisaie's. The depth of the unspoken love she tried to bury was clear in their stormy depths. "Alisaie..."

   Alisaie's own heart ached with fierce tenderness. "Sevryn," she whispered, her touch firming as she continued to wash away the night's grime, her actions speaking volumes. "You're not tainted. You're... you're just you. And that's enough. More than enough."

   As Alisaie spoke, Sevryn's internal walls wavered. She wasn't just Sevryn. She was the one who, despite everything, inexplicably loved the fierce Red Mage kneeling beside her, and the sharp-witted Miqo'te whose pain still echoed in her soul. A profound, aching realization blossomed within her—not just for Alisaie, but for Y'shtola too. In that moment, through the pulsing warmth of their bond, Alisaie felt it as well: a sudden, overwhelming surge of Sevryn's newly acknowledged affection. Her eyes widened, a silent understanding passing between them, a shared vulnerability that deepened their connection against the humid air of the bath.

   It lingered even as Sevryn, with a tired groan, began to rise from the blistering water. Alisaie, her expression softened by ardent tenderness, was there instantly, handing her a thick towel. Sevryn accepted it, wrapping herself in its warmth, but she paused, looking at Alisaie. The silence was full, intimate, holding the weight of confessed fears and unspoken devotion.

   "We need to talk to Y'shtola," Alisaie finally said, her voice quiet but firm, breaking the intimate stillness. She watched Sevryn carefully, observing the slight tremor in her hands as she dried off, the way her eyes darted towards the lingering pungency of voidsent ichor in the air. A bloody tunic, clearly used for dressing the initial wounds, lay discarded in a heap near the basin, its grim stains a stark contrast to the clean air they now breathed.

   "Last night, after I'd bandaged you up... she mentioned something about the sigil on your armor. How it wasn't just any common glyph, but something resonant, designed to call something forth."

   Alisaie remembered Y'shtola's precise movements, taking Sevryn's leather chest piece from the pile of armor after the ambush, her brow furrowed in intense thought. Y'shtola had replaced her own torn shift with one of Sevryn's clean tunics from her pack, a quiet gesture of practicality that spoke volumes of how quickly she had taken charge.

   "She seemed to think... that the sigil, specifically, was designed to summon a voidsent. Not necessarily to you, but to draw one out. And with your injuries... the blood loss... it must have provided the opening Fray needed." A bitter realization tightened Alisaie's lips; the very means of Sevryn's survival had been twisted against her. "She's probably already tearing apart every ancient text on Mhachi summoning she can get her hands on, trying to figure out how to bind Fray more securely. Or how to prevent this from ever happening again."

   Sevryn nodded, pulling on clean breeches, the simple act a struggle against her still-profound exhaustion. "It needs to stop. This… this thing isn't going to get to either of you again." Her voice was low, laced with a fresh surge of grim resolve that Alisaie immediately felt through their bond—a resolve to protect, to understand, and to contain. "Y'shtola will know what to do. Or at least, where to start looking."

   Dressed in fresh, clean clothes that felt like a second skin, Sevryn and Alisaie stepped out of the bath chamber and into the quiet halls of the Rising Stones. The air was cool, crisp, a stark contrast to the humid warmth they’d just left. The world felt solid again, but the echoes of last night's horror and the profound intimacy forged in the bath lingered, a palpable hum between them.

   As they walked, Alisaie's intuitive sense of Sevryn's emotional landscape was heightened, the subtle shifts in her companion's aether now clearer, more complex. The path to Y'shtola's study was silent, but already, Alisaie could feel the magnetic pull of another soul, another depth of understanding, drawing them forward.

 ~~~

   The quiet hum of arcane energies thrummed through the study, a stark contrast to the oppressive silence Sevryn had sought in the bath. Scrolls and tomes lay unfurled across a large, polished table, an intricate web of glyphs and archaic script. Sevryn paused just inside the doorway, Alisaie a steady, warm presence at her side. Her gaze, despite her best efforts, snagged instantly on Y'shtola.

   The Miqo'te archon was seated, serene and composed, in her usual chair. Her black and silver dress, though fresh and clean, offered no concealment for the stark, brutal evidence of last night's violence. A dark, ugly bruise blossomed at the base of her throat, already tinged with the sickly green of a healing contusion, but undeniably fresh. And then, there they were—two faint, angry punctures, barely visible amidst the discoloration, at the delicate curve where neck met shoulder. Bite marks. Her teeth.

   A fresh wave of nausea twisted Sevryn’s gut. The image of Y’shtola’s aether, stolen and forced through her own violated body, flashed in her mind. Her chest tightened, the gash across her ribs a sudden, searing pain. She had done this. It had been her self, under Fray's control, that had harmed the woman who now sat before them, a beacon of calm strength despite the visible cost. Shame, hot and acidic, burned through Sevryn. She flinched, instinctively pulling back, a desperate, unspoken need to vanish, to shield Y'shtola from her sight, her presence, the darkness that emanated from her very soul. Through the bond, Alisaie felt the sharp spike of Sevryn's self-loathing, a sour taste in her own mouth.

   Y'shtola, for her part, simply lifted her head, her blind gaze fixing on Sevryn's aetheric presence. There was no flinch, no judgment, only a deep, unwavering stillness. "Sevryn. Alisaie. I expected you." Her voice was calm, a steady current in the tumultuous emotional air.

   Alisaie, ever attuned, felt not only Sevryn's profound guilt but also an undercurrent of desperate love flowing towards Y'shtola—a love so vast it took Alisaie's breath away, a torrid ocean Sevryn couldn't hide even in her shame. But then, Alisaie sensed a subtle check, a dampening from the Warrior, almost a conscious pulling back of that keen affection, a self-imposed restraint. And from Y'shtola, sensing Sevryn's withdrawal and guilt, Alisaie also felt a tempering of her own deep love, a quiet, almost imperceptible softening, as if easing the intensity to not overwhelm Sevryn further.

   A wave of fierce, loving exasperation washed over Alisaie. Honestly, you two. They were holding back. For her. To spare her, to protect her feelings, as if she were the fragile one. As if her heart couldn't handle the vastness of their affection. It was a beautiful, infuriating gesture. Alisaie shook her head subtly, her gaze flicking between them, a silent promise in her eyes that she wouldn't let them hide. She stepped slightly forward, lessening the space between Sevryn and Y'shtola.

  "How are you?" Alisaie asked Y'shtola, her voice soft, but with an underlying demand for honesty.

   Y'shtola inclined her head, a faint, almost imperceptible weariness touching her lips. "I am well enough. Depleted, certainly, but recovering." Her gaze held Sevryn’s. "The discomfort is a negligible cost. Your survival, Captain, was paramount."

   Sevryn's jaw tightened. "It was my body," she uttered, the words thick with shame. "My fault. I let it happen."

   "It was not your fault," Y'shtola stated, her voice firm, cutting through the self-recrimination like a blade. "It was the culmination of a deliberate, malicious act by others. My decision to sacrifice a portion of my aether was mine alone. There was no other viable course of action, and I would make it again without a moment's hesitation. You must understand that, Sevryn." She paused, her voice softening, a profound tenderness seeping into her tone. "Your life, and your presence, are infinitely more valuable to me than any fleeting discomfort."

   Through the bond, Alisaie felt a staggering wave of pure, selfless love radiating from Y'shtola towards Sevryn, a silent declaration that mirrored Sevryn's own overwhelming adoration. It was a reciprocal current, immense and undeniable, and Alisaie, caught in the middle. This was not less, but more.

   "The sigil on your armor was indeed a Mhachi summoning glyph," Y'shtola continued, shifting the subject slightly, her voice returning to its usual scholarly cadence, though the deep emotion still hummed beneath. "A particularly ancient and crude variation, designed not merely to call a voidsent to a specific point, but to attempt to coax one forth from a host. They intended to draw Fray out entirely." She gestured to the scrolls, "My preliminary research confirms their intent was to sever Fray from your soul, leaving you vulnerable, and presumably, under their control. A dangerous gamble."

   Sevryn shifted, a flicker of bewildered fury replacing some of her guilt. "They... they wanted to unleash her?"

   "Precisely," Y'shtola confirmed, her fingers tapping lightly on a tome. "And in doing so, they provided the very conduit that allowed Fray to manifest as she did. Your soul, Sevryn, is a formidable prison. It kept Fray contained, bound within your being, even after you assimilated her." She paused, her head tilted, an almost imperceptible frown touching her lips. "However, the combination of your grievous physical wounds and the sustained assault from the sigil on your aetheric defenses did provide Fray with enough leverage. When your consciousness faltered from the blood loss, that containment momentarily weakened, allowing her to assume control of your body."

   "So," Alisaie interjected, her voice tight, "they couldn't just summon her out. They needed to weaken Sevryn. And even then, it only let Fray take over her body, not fully sever from her soul."

   "Indeed," Y'shtola confirmed, a note of satisfaction in her tone. "It proves that Fray is irrevocably bound to you, Sevryn. She cannot simply be 'called forth' as an independent entity by external means. She remains a parasitic aspect of you. Which is, in many ways, both a blessing and a curse." She looked towards Sevryn, a faint, knowing smile gracing her lips. "It means we must work with the reality of her being a part of you, rather than attempting to forcibly extract her. Which, given the violent nature of such attempts, is likely for the best. My focus now is on understanding the binding mechanism, and how we might reinforce it. Perhaps even… reverse its polarity to bind Fray more tightly." Her gaze drifted to a complex diagram on a nearby tome, her mind already racing ahead.

   The subtle shift in Y'shtola's posture, the way her energy seemed to focus on the problem rather than the pain, was something Alisaie recognized. She's shining, Alisaie thought, a surge of pride and affection washing over her. Y'shtola, brilliant, unflappable, always reaching for understanding in the face of the unknown. And in that quiet brilliance, Alisaie felt the undeniable current of Y'shtola's own unspoken love for Sevryn, as clear and strong as the Red Mage's own. It was pure and exhilarating. The revelation of Y'shtola's unspoken depths, reflected in Sevryn's equally profound affection, shimmered in the air, a new and undeniable facet of their intertwined lives. Alisaie, privy to it all, felt her heart expand, accommodating the magnitude of the emotion shared between them.

   Y'shtola broke the spell, her voice thoughtful, distant for a moment as her mind processed the complexities of the ancient glyphs. "My initial findings suggest a potential avenue for deeper understanding." She turned her head, her gaze sweeping over them both. "An archaic record, one I recall from my studies in the Great Gubal Library, referenced a hidden archive in the Yafaem Saltmoor. It was said to contain more precise details on Mhachi voidsent practices, including their various summoning and binding methods, meticulously cataloged to preserve knowledge during the War of the Magi in the Fifth Astral Era—just before the Sixth Umbral Calamity plunged us into darkness."

   Sevryn frowned, a flicker of grim recognition in her eyes. "The Yafaem Saltmoor? You mean... near the Weeping City of Mhach?" A faint shudder ran through her. "I've been there. Not a place I'm keen on revisiting, even with you two." Her distaste was palpable, a testament to the horrors she’d faced within the ruin.

   "Not within the city itself, Sevryn," Y'shtola clarified patiently, sensing the Warrior's apprehension. "The archive was described as a secluded vault, meticulously hidden and warded outside the main complex, precisely to preserve its knowledge from the cataclysm and the subsequent chaos. It's less a delve into a voidsent-infested ruin, and more a scholarly excavation, though I expect it will still have its own guardians." She paused, her expression turning grave. "Given the implications of this new Mhachi cult's emergence, and the ever-looming threat of the Telophoroi and Fandaniel's machinations... we cannot afford to delay. We must move quickly, before this knowledge falls into the wrong hands, or before Fray's next, unforeseen emergence."

   Alisaie stepped forward, her resolve hardening. "Then we go," she stated, her voice firm, eyes fixed on Sevryn. "Immediately. If it helps us understand Fray, if it helps us protect each other, there's no question." She glanced at Y'shtola, a knowing glint in her eye. "Besides, watching you pore over dusty scrolls for weeks wouldn't be nearly as exciting as an actual expedition."

   A rare, soft chuckle escaped Y'shtola, a brief, dry sound that warmed the room. "Indeed, Alisaie. Action does tend to yield faster results than prolonged contemplation." She rose from her seat, her movements graceful despite her lingering fatigue. "Prepare yourselves. We depart for the Yafaem Saltmoor at dawn."

   Sevryn met Alisaie's determined gaze, then Y'shtola's calm, knowing smile. The weight of her own guilt, though not entirely gone, was lessened by their unwavering resolve. This was their fight, together. And for the first time since the prior night's horror, a flicker of genuine hope ignited within her.

<<^>>

Chapter Text

   The air in the Mhachi archive was a tangible thing, heavy and cold, tasting of dust, decay, and the lingering residue of aether long since distorted. For Y'shtola, it wasn't merely a sensory perception, but an aetherial resonance – a low, disquieting hum that vibrated deep within her bones, a discordant echo of millennia-old rituals. This was a place of power, admittedly, but a power utterly devoid of light, born of desperate bargains and callous ambition.

   "Just as I suspected," Y'shtola stated, her staff thudding softly against the uneven stone floor as they navigated a vast, cyclopean chamber. "The very air is saturated with residual void magicks. A perfect, if unsettling, crucible for our purpose."

   Her keen hearing picked up the soft shuffle of Alisaie's boots a few paces ahead, ever eager, always pushing forward. Behind them, Sevryn's footsteps were deliberate, almost hesitant. Y'shtola felt Sevryn's presence as a familiar warmth, a steady anchor in the chaotic aether of the ruins, yet there was a subtle shift in its resonance. A new brittleness, a carefully constructed wall just beneath the surface. The Warrior wasn't simply following; she was holding back.

   Y'shtola's gaze swept over the crumbling arches and the eroded glyphs that adorned the walls, each telling a secret, terrible tale of forbidden knowledge. The Mhachi had sought to command demons, to bend the void to their will. A fool's errand, in the end, as evidenced by the decay surrounding them, yet one that still held dangerous secrets. Their very presence here, in search of understanding Fray, was a testament to that enduring folly.

   The Captain's gaze, a familiar weight on her back, now held an unfamiliar caution. She did not turn, but her mind sharpened, sensing the subtle shifts in Sevryn's posture, the instinctive broadening of the distance between them. It was apprehension, Y’shtola discerned, a quiet dread that mirrored her own drive to understand. Yet where Y'shtola sought to master the intricacies of the unknown, Sevryn seemed to recede, drawing back from her.

   She fears putting me at risk again, Y'shtola thought, a faint flicker of annoyance warring with a deeper current of comprehension. A protective instinct, certainly, yet entirely misdirected. Does she truly believe my resolve is so easily swayed?

   As they rounded a particularly dark corner, Y'shtola's hand, as if with a will of its own, brushed lightly against Sevryn's arm. The brief contact was electric, a surge of the Warrior’s formidable, contained aether, and a jolt of compelling resonance within Y'shtola's own being. But Sevryn flinched, pulling back almost imperceptibly, the subtle withdrawal speaking volumes.

   Y'shtola did not remark on it, not yet. The time for such a confrontation would come. For now, they needed to locate their objective: the true nature of Fray, and the means to finally bind it. But first, Y'shtola knew she needed to dismantle the barrier Sevryn was constructing, before it became impassable.

~~~

   The air grew heavier as they ventured further, the oppressive silence of the ruins broken only by the crunch of their boots and the faint drip of unseen water. Y'shtola's staff, usually a steady presence, felt almost magnetized by the ancient, distorted aether swirling around them. The path narrowed, leading them into what appeared to be a vast, intricately carved archive, though time had long since rendered most of its contents to dust. Shelves, once laden with tomes and scrolls, now stood empty, or cradled brittle fragments that disintegrated at a touch.

   Y'shtola's eyes scanned the faded murals on the ceiling, depicting arcane symbols, intricate binding circles, and grotesque figures that hinted at the dark beings the Mhachi had sought to control. It was less a library and more a mausoleum of forbidden wisdom—a testament to the fragility of even the greatest knowledge.

   She could feel Sevryn’s proximity now, closer than before, but there was a guardedness in her aether that Y'shtola found increasingly frustrating. Sevryn moved with her usual warrior’s grace, but her steps were less confident, her posture subtly defensive. Not against external threats, Y'shtola realized, but against herself, against the powerful energy that had once been twisted to harm.

   Alisaie, ever perceptive, seemed to sense the unspoken tension. Her gaze darted between Y'shtola and Sevryn, a faint frown touching her brow. Y'shtola could almost hear the questions forming in her mind, the concern she held for both of them. Bless her perceptive heart, Y'shtola thought, a rare, soft wave of affection washing over her. She sees much and understands more than most.

   They reached a chamber at the heart of the archive, curiously preserved from the worst ravages of time. Here, the shelves were intact, albeit barren, and a single, immense stone pedestal stood in the center, hinting at a lost artifact. The aether here pulsed with a denser, more cohesive energy, a testament to its former purpose.

   "This is it," Y'shtola murmured, her voice barely a whisper, as she moved towards the pedestal. Her fingers traced the cold, smooth stone. "A place of convergence. If there is any surviving record of their most potent bindings, it would be here."

   As she leaned closer, attempting to discern faint inscriptions on the pedestal's surface, a tremor ran through the stone beneath their feet. Not a structural collapse, but an aetheric pulse, deep and resonant. It was the void magicks of the ruins reacting to their presence, perhaps, or to the very quarry of their quest. The air grew thick, galvanic.

   Sevryn, reacting instinctively, moved forward, her hand shooting out not merely to steady, but to secure, finding immediate purchase on Y'shtola’s yielding lower back. Sevryn’s palm spread firm against Y'shtola's spine, pressing her close to the pedestal's cold stone, while her other hand curved around Y'shtola’s shoulder, a gentle but inescapable hold, drawing her into a shielded embrace.

   The unexpected intimacy, charged by the chamber's heightened aether, sent a profound tremor through Y'shtola. Her breath caught in a soundless gasp, a delicious shock reverberating through her. Sevryn’s solid warmth, a vibrant counterpoint to the chilling abyssal hum that now pulsated through the ruins, drew Y'shtola closer still. This was the powerful presence she instinctively sought, a physical strength that resonated with something primal within her core. This was no echo of Fray's violation; this was grounded, protective, desired…and exquisitely arousing.

   Every subtle shift of muscle beneath Sevryn's touch, the blazing heat seeping through her robes, the solid press of Sevryn’s chest against her back—a delicious, intoxicating pressure that redefined apprehension into tantalizing promise. Y'shtola’s own aether surged, swirling and mingling with Sevryn's in a wordless, ardent declaration, twisting into intricate knots of shared intent, a passionate, wordless conversation between their souls.

    'Yes. This.'  The thought burned, consuming her. She leaned back further, melting into that strength, her body subtly curving into Sevryn's own. It was an exquisite tension, the thrill of being held in such compelling captivity, yet utterly in command of the burgeoning desire she now allowed to bloom. This was a dance whose steps she knew, a melody her very soul sung, finally finding its powerful, physical partner.

   'This is ours,' Y'shtola thought, the words an aphonic reclaiming, a quiet vow echoing through her very being. The strength, the intensity… no longer a twisted aberration, but a poignant truth blooming from the very thrum of their intertwined essences. A deep affirmation in the heat that surged between them.

   The air in the chamber, charged with their heightened emotions, seemed to shiver. A faint, ethereal glow emanated from a section of the pedestal Y'shtola had been examining, a hidden panel slowly receding into the stone.

   "Look," Alisaie whispered, her voice still laced with awe, but her eyes now fixed on the revealing space.

   The sensual moment softened, Sevryn's hands lingering before she gently eased back, her eyes still locked on the mage, an unspoken question in their depths. Y'shtola met her gaze, a silent acknowledgment of their intimate encounter passing between them, along with a promise to discuss it later.

   Within the newly revealed recess lay a single, immaculately preserved tome. Its cover, crafted from a dark, smooth material unknown to modern metallurgy, gleamed with faint, arcane script that seemed to oscillate with an inner light. This was no ordinary artifact; it was a repository of the Mhachi Empire’s darkest secrets.

   Y'shtola approached, her earlier intellectual curiosity now tinged with a new, personal urgency. She gently lifted the tome. Its weight was surprisingly light, yet it radiated an immense, ancient power. She carefully opened it, her fingers tracing the intricate glyphs on the first page.

   "It's Mhachian, forsooth," Y'shtola murmured, her brow furrowing in concentration. "And these symbols… they speak of the deepest void, of bindings that transcend mortal comprehension." She began to translate, her voice low, steady, a stark contrast to the storm of emotions still swirling within her.

   "This tome details the summoning and subjugation of a specific class of voidsent. One they revered for its unique properties in psychological warfare… they called them 'Catalysts of Anguish.'"

   Sevryn moved closer, her earlier caution eclipsed by the revelation. Alisaie leaned in too, her expression somber. Her eyes, usually so bright with fierce resolve, widened, a dawning horror creeping into their depths.

   "A specific class of voidsent for psychological warfare?" Alisaie’s voice was a low, incredulous whisper, a stark contrast to the oppressive silence of the chamber. "What in the Twelve's name did the Mhachi do?"

   Y'shtola, her gaze still fixed on the intricate glyphs of the tome, continued her translation, her voice steady despite the grim unfolding. "It speaks of a voidsent of considerable power, 'Esteem,' a succubus-like entity." She looked up briefly, her silver eyes meeting Alisaie’s, a shared, silent acknowledgment of the chilling implication. "Not one that feeds on simple life force, but on the very anguish of moral conflict. On self-doubt, on the crushing weight of responsibility, on suppressed desires. The Mhachi bound it to their warriors, to leaders burdened by impossible choices, to amplify their might by consuming their inner turmoil."

   Alisaie recoiled slightly, a sharp intake of breath. "Consuming their inner turmoil? That's… that's not power, that's perversion!" She gestured frantically towards Sevryn. "Is that what Fray was? An Esteem? Was it… was it doing that to Sevryn all this time?"

   Y'shtola paused, her eyes scanning a particularly dense passage in the tome, her brow furrowed in intense concentration. "It amplified the shadows that accumulate within a warrior who constantly faces death, who must make impossible sacrifices. The rage, the grief, the self-loathing… it devoured these, twisting them into fierce, unfettered power for the host." She looked up again, her gaze now sweeping from Sevryn's horrified expression to Alisaie's pale face. "And yes, Alisaie. The description matches Fray's insidious influence with unsettling accuracy. This tome reveals the true nature of the enemy Sevryn has been battling, and precisely how it works."

   As she spoke, a terrible realization, cold and precise, unfolded within Y'shtola. The voidsent's methods, so precisely described, mirrored Fray's insidious assault on Sevryn—and the echoes within her own being. A shudder ran through her; Esteem had not just tormented, it had brutally exposed the unspoken hungers of the soul. This was not only Sevryn's burden, but her own.

   Y'shtola looked up, her gaze first meeting Sevryn's, then quickly sweeping to Alisaie's. The Warrior's face was etched with a dawning horror, a fresh wave of fear for Y'shtola washing over her, seeing the connection between the tome's words and her own recent torment.

   "Captain," Y'shtola said, her voice firm, cutting through the rising tension, her words aimed directly at that fear, that renewed self-blame. "Listen closely. What Fray did… what Esteem did… was a violation. A perversion. But the emotions, the desires it exploited… they were already there. In you, the burden of a Warrior who chooses duty over self. And in me, desires I had yet to fully acknowledge." 

   Sevryn flinched, her eyes wide, struggling to process this new, complex truth. "Shtola... I don't want to ever—"

   "My choices are my own, Warrior," Y'shtola interjected, stepping closer, her gaze persistent, almost demanding. "My desire for this knowledge, for you, is not born of weakness, but of strength. Do not retreat from me out of misguided protection. You felt my terror during that night, yes, but you also felt my resolve. My choice to remain." She reached out, taking Sevryn’s hands in hers, her touch firm, reassuring. "To deny this connection, to deny us, is a wound I am unwilling to bear. It is the very discord Esteem thrives upon."

   Alisaie, who had been watching, absorbing every nuance, now stepped forward, her own eyes shining with a fresh resolve. The initial shock had melted away, replaced by a deep understanding and a fierce protectiveness that encompassed them both.

   "She's just speaking the truth, Sevryn," Alisaie's voice was soft, but imbued with compelling force. She placed a hand gently on Sevryn's other arm, completing a quiet circuit between the three of them. "I… I felt what happened, too. I felt Y'shtola's pain, and your torment. But I also felt… the intensity that draws you together."

   Alisaie took a deep breath, her own vulnerability on full display. "I love you, Sevryn. And I love you, Y'shtola. If this is a part of what makes you whole, what allows us to face this darkness… then I want to be a part of it. All of it. All of us. Together."

   Sevryn’s rigid posture softened, her fear slowly replaced by a dawning comprehension, and then, an utter sense of relief. Y'shtola felt it, the subtle shift in Sevryn's aether, the softening of her barriers. She looked from Sevryn's face, radiant with vulnerability and acceptance, to Alisaie's, shining with courage and fierce love. Her own heart, so rarely given to such unbridled emotion, swelled.

   "Then together, we shall face it," Y'shtola affirmed, her voice husky with feeling.

   She returned her attention to the tome, her fingers finding a previously overlooked passage. "And here it is," she announced, her voice regaining a hint of its usual scholarly cadence, now tinged with grave determination. "The ritual for Esteem's subjugation. A most dynamic binding, one designed not merely to contain, but to integrate the shadow, to reclaim the essence of the vessel it feeds upon."

   A deeper tremor rolled through the ruins, the very stone groaning as if in dark recognition of the words Y'shtola spoke. 

   Alisaie, ever practical, ever protective, broke the tense silence. "Shtola," she began, her voice tight, echoing the trembling ruins. "You've read it. What are the dangers? What happens if this goes wrong?"

   Y'shtola closed her eyes for a brief moment, taking a steadying breath. When they opened, her gaze met Alisaie's earnest eyes, then shifted to Sevryn’s, already fixed on her, somberly awaiting the answer. "The risks are immense. This ritual is not a simple banishment; it is a forced integration of a voidsent's essence with a mortal soul. A precise, delicate balance."

   She listed the stark possibilities, her voice steady, betraying no fear, only the dire weight of the truth. "Should Sevryn falter, Esteem could fully overwhelm her, turning the Warrior of Light into its permanent, formidable vessel, an enemy of unparalleled might. Or, it could leave her utterly corrupted, consumed by madness or despair, a shadow of her former self."

   Y'shtola paused, her gaze sweeping between them. "And for us, as anchors... a misstep, or a backlash from Esteem, could result in a catastrophic aetheric explosion. It could injure us severely, perhaps even… kill us. Or worse, Esteem could lash out psychically, attempting to shatter our own minds, exploiting any weakness it perceives."

   Sevryn’s hands clenched at her sides, her knuckles white, but she held Y'shtola's gaze. "If it must be done," Sevryn stated, her voice low and firm, "then I am ready. Whatever the cost to me. Just… ensure you both remain safe."

   "Then we proceed," Y'shtola affirmed, her gaze softening as she held Sevryn's eye, a tacit promise. She turned to Alisaie, "This ritual will demand absolute clarity, precise preparation, and rested bodies. We cannot afford to fail." She scanned the chamber, noting a less disturbed alcove. "We must find a defensible position within these ruins. We will make camp here, and we'll perform this ritual at dawn, when our minds are sharp and our aether is replenished."

~~~

   The alcove Y'shtola selected was a small, relatively intact chamber off the main archive. Though scarred by time, it offered a respite from the cold drafts and the oppressive aether. Sevryn moved with practiced efficiency, laying out bedrolls despite her exhaustion. Alisaie, with a meticulously packed arcane lamp, coaxed a faint, warm glow from salvaged kindling, its light pushing back the oppressive gloom.

   Y'shtola, however, was already lost in her work. The ancient tome lay open, bathed in the soft, focused light of her staff. Her brow furrowed in intense concentration, she meticulously inscribed complex sigils onto the chamber floor with a glowing shard of aetherite, her murmurs in ancient Mhachi a low, hypnotic counterpoint to the quiet sounds of their camp. A scholar consumed by her arcane pursuit, she moved with an intricate focus.

   Sevryn settled onto her bedroll, her gaze fixed on Y'shtola’s deep concentration. The lingering warmth of Y'shtola's touch, the echo of her whispered command, the tome's terrifying revelations, Alisaie's heartfelt confession—it was all a swirling vortex in her mind, almost too much to process.

   Alisaie, having secured the lamp, settled beside Sevryn, leaning her shoulder against hers. After a moment of shared silence, absorbing the heavy atmosphere, she spoke. Her voice was soft, barely a whisper, yet it cut through the air with startling clarity, "Sevryn... about what I said earlier." 

   The Warrior flinched, a knot tightening in her stomach. She’d known this conversation was coming, dreaded and yearned for it. She turned her head slightly, meeting Alisaie’s earnest gaze in the dim light. "Ali…" Her voice was rough, unsure how to begin.

   “In there... when Shtola spoke of her desires, and what Fray had twisted... I felt it all," Alisaie continued, her eyes flickering towards Y'shtola's busy form, then back to Sevryn. She squeezed Sevryn's arm gently. "Every raw, aching truth. My heart broke for what you both endured. And yet, it soared for the clarity of what you are now. What we are now."

   Alisaie took a deep breath, her gaze steady. "I said I wanted to be a part of it. All of us. Together. I meant it, Sevryn. Every word." She paused, searching her face. "It's not just about sharing the Warrior of Light's burden. It's… it's about sharing everything. The joy, the pain, the solace. Your fierce strength, Shtola's sharp brilliance. And... my loyalty. My whole heart, given to this."

   Sevryn stared into the small, flickering flame of the fire. Her mind replayed Alisaie’s words from earlier, the heartfelt honesty, the fierce protectiveness. She had seen the truth in Alisaie’s eyes then, just as she saw it now. A love so vast, so encompassing, it seemed to dwarf even the ancient shadows around them. And there was a love for Y'shtola, too, equally deep, equally real.

   "Alisaie," she finally managed, her voice thick with emotion. "I… I dinnae know what to say. I never… I never imagined…" She trailed off, searching for the proper words. How could she explain the sudden, overwhelming sense of affinity that had settled over her amidst all the chaos?

   "You don't have to imagine it anymore," Alisaie said, her voice soft, yet firm. "It's real. It's here. And it makes perfect sense, doesn't it? Three threads, stronger together than any two alone. You and I, we're always pushing, always running into danger. And Shtola… she grounds us. She challenges us. She sees things no one else does. And she feels… so much more than she ever lets on, doesn't she?"

   The Warrior nodded slowly, her gaze drifting back to the Miqo’te mage. Y'shtola, always so composed, so intellectual, had exposed a truly vulnerable part of herself just hours ago. The perfidious pleasure that had mirrored her own torment. It was a secret, intense facet of Y'shtola that Sevryn now understood on a deeper level, and it had stirred something deep within her own heart.

   “I sensed it," Sevryn admitted, her voice barely above a whisper. "What you spoke of, her desires... It was abhorrent, the way Fray twisted it. But to know that truth of her, revealed with such trust... it reshapes everything." She turned to Alisaie, a new kind of openness in her own eyes, her gaze searching. "And you, Alisaie. To love both of us so fiercely... I don't know if I deserve it."

   Alisaie huffed softly, a sound of gentle exasperation. "Merit has nothing to do with it, Sevryn. It just is. You both deserve all the love in the world. And if we can share that love amongst the three of us… then why wouldn't we?" She leaned her head on Sevryn's shoulder, a comfortable, familiar weight. "It feels… natural, doesn't it? Even if it's new. Even if it's terrifyingly complicated."

   Sevryn closed her eyes, letting Alisaie’s warmth, her constant presence, sink into her. The fear was still there, a dull ache beneath her skin, but it was now laced with hope. Hope for a future where she wasn't alone with her burdens, where her strength wasn't a potential weapon against those she loved, but a shared foundation for a bond unlike any she had ever known.

~~~

   The first hint of dawn, a faint, sickly gray light, bled through crumbling fissures in the Mhachi ruins. The chamber's aether, heavy and expectant, seemed to hold its breath, a palpable stillness before the storm. Y'shtola stood at the center of the intricate sigils she had carefully inscribed. Her face, drawn, but her eyes blazed with a fierce, almost predatory focus. The tome of Esteem’s subjugation lay open at her feet, pages thrumming with ancient, malevolent power.

   Alisaie stood just outside the outermost circle, her brow furrowed with a mixture of concern and determination. She extended a steady stream of her own aether from her open palm towards Sevryn, a golden thread of courage and loyalty, a vital part of the anchoring circle Y'shtola had described. Sevryn, clad in lighter attire for mobility, stood within the central sigil, her stance relaxed but ready. She'd faced down gods and monsters, but the quiet dread of confronting her deepest shadows, amplified and twisted by a voidsent, was a terror that seeped into her very core.

   “It’s time," Y'shtola's voice, low and resonating with power, filled the small chamber. "Sevryn. You must open yourself to Esteem. Allow its essence to flow through you, but remember: you are not its vessel. You are the nexus through which it shall be redefined. Do not resist the sensations it conjures, whether whispers of false pleasure or biting pain; they are but reflections. Let its temptations wash over you, knowing they are illusions. Your true battle is to reclaim your essence from its insidious, twisted interpretations of your very being.

   She met Sevryn's gaze, her own eyes alight with a rare, explicit warmth. "We are with you, every step. We won't let you falter."

   Sevryn nodded, took a deep breath, and closed her eyes. She felt Alisaie's aether connect with her, a warm, vital presence weaving around her—a golden promise of steadfast loyalty. And Y'shtola’s powerful aether, a cooler, analytical current yet laced with almost possessive protectiveness, began to coil around the sigils, containing and guiding Esteem's encroaching presence. It subtly shaped itself around Sevryn's form, a manifestation of Y'shtola's focused will.

   Y'shtola began to chant. The ancient words filled the chamber, their cadence a resonant counterpoint to the ruins' oppressive hum, yet imbued now with a deliberate, binding power. The intricate lines of the sigils on the floor flared, pulsing with a deep, malevolent violet light, each throb a syllable of Y'shtola's commanding chant.

   A cold shiver, not of physical chill but intimate invasion, pierced Sevryn. It was Esteem. A consciousness, vast and insatiable, unfurling within her, seeking not merely purchase, but possession, testing the delicate boundaries of her being. The demon wasted no time.

   The chamber around Sevryn twisted, dissolved into a swirling vortex of shadow and tormented memory. The heavy air of the Mhachi ruins transmuted into the acrid scent of crumbling snow, the frigid taste of frozen breath, each sensation a prelude to deeper descent. Her vision filled with blinding white, then the stark, visceral red of splattered blood.

   A smile better suits a hero, friend.

   The words echoed, clear as a bell, yet sharper, colder than memory. Haurchefant. He stood before her, not as the noble knight she remembered, but as a phantom. His eyes, usually so kind, were accusing. His beloved smile, now a grotesque parody.

   "A smile better suits a hero," the spectre repeated, his voice, a cruel copy, laced with the voidsent's cold mockery. "Did it suit you, as I died? Was your smile enough to save me? Or was your heroism merely a fragile shield, shattering to protect a fool who believed in you too completely?"

   Sevryn's breath hitched. Guilt, a familiar, crushing weight, settled onto her chest, pressing, almost possessively. No … she tried to protest, but the words caught in her throat, a breathless gasp. Esteem reveled in her helplessness. She replayed his dying moments—the shattered shield, her own despair, the gnawing regret that she wasn't fast enough, strong enough, that he had died for her. The ache of that loss, a constant companion, was now exquisitely amplified, twisted by Esteem into a burning brand of self-recrimination that both seared and fascinated.

   Flashes followed, a rapid-fire assault of her greatest fears and burdens: The burning aether of the First, the weight of a dying star on her shoulders. Minfilia’s endless sacrifices, Papalymo’s final stand, Moenbryda’s brilliant aetheric offering. Each loss, a gaping wound, now writhed and festered under the voidsent's touch. She saw the weary faces of her allies, their hopes and fears resting solely on her. The countless nameless faces she hadn't saved. The choices that had cost lives, however necessary, now screamed their unforgiving tally.

   "Always running," a new voice slithered into her mind, Esteem's presence solidifying into an oppressive, palpable aura around her. "Always fighting. Never enough. The world's crushing weight upon your shoulders, yet you crave… release. A different kind of burden. A different kind of command... don't you?"

   The vision rippled. The crumbling ruins dissolved into a luxurious, shadowy chamber, swathed in an ethereal, almost suffocatingly soft light. Y'shtola emerged before her, not in her usual attire, but in a slip of whisper-thin, flowing silk that seemed to part and cling with every subtle shift of her body, revealing as much as it concealed. Her eyes, luminous orbs in the dimness, glowed with an intense, captivating power. There was a knowing, hungry glint in their depths, a veiled challenge that promised a descent into both incandescent pleasure and utter, exquisite submission.

   Esteem's voice, now a dangerously silken caress against her very soul, permeated her mind, a whisper of forbidden fruit. "You long for her to claim you wholly, don't you, Warrior? To command every tremor of your ecstasy, to bind you, not with sterile wards, but with the blazing command of her will, the crushing intimacy of her touch. To shed the glorious, burdensome mantle of hero and and simply… yield. To melt utterly, to taste the exquisite, mind-numbing oblivion she could bestow, to be completely, irrevocably hers?"

   A shocking, liquid heat flared through Sevryn’s core, pooling low and insistent. She felt a phantom pressure, the sudden, firm clasp of invisible restraints around her wrists, binding her, exquisitely taut. Y'shtola's illusory hand, cool and insolent, cupped her jaw, tilting her head back, exposing the vulnerable curve of her throat. The phantom eyes, Y'shtola's eyes, held a cold, razor-sharp amusement, promising a delicious, controlled degradation. A tremor of desired submission, unexpected and intoxicating, ripped through Sevryn, a desperate craving for the ultimate release from perpetual command. This was a dark, unspoken fantasy, one she had never dared acknowledge, yet it had always been an inarticulate, pulsing counterpoint to the endless, draining demands of her heroic duty. 

   "And yet," Esteem’s voice was a dark, conspiratorial purr against her burgeoning hunger, twisting Sevryn's thoughts, “You also crave the opposite, don't you, Warrior? To master her completely. To shatter that formidable intellect against the raw, undeniable power of your body. To strip away her legendary composure and claim her, utterly, deliciously. To be the one to dominate that razor-sharp mind, that discerning, all-seeing gaze, with sheer, overwhelming, carnal force."

   The scene ripped itself apart, reforming with dizzying swiftness. Now, it was Sevryn who commanded. She saw herself, pinning Y'shtola against the cold stone with an almost fierce grace, her hands asserting a demanding, lusty pressure. Y'shtola’s eyes, wide with surprise, then flaring with a hot, intrigued acceptance—a visceral, breathtaking surrender that sent a rolling wave of arousal through Sevryn's veins.

   Sevryn felt an electrifying surge of possessive desire, a feral urge to consume, to claim, to draw Y'shtola's very essence into her own. It was a need to ensure Y'shtola’s absolute devotion by overwhelming her senses, by making that keen mind and controlled body tremble and surrender to Sevryn's own fierce, untamed passion. This was a desire to protect but also to possess, to command Y'shtola's body and soul in a way that had nothing to do with saving the world. It was a profoundly personal, deeply primal hunger, a dark, sweet counterpoint to her public heroism, one that had always been hidden beneath layers of respect and shared duty.

  This, too, Esteem distorted, twisting the burgeoning desire. The urge to command Y'shtola soured into a vicious impulse to shatter her, to hurt her, to possess her through brutal force rather than mutual, consuming passion. The fragile line between carnal control and destructive abuse blurred and bled, a horrific mirror of Fray's violation, but this time, the aggressor was a dark, tempting reflection of Sevryn herself.

   The illusion fractured again, violently, with a deafening crack that echoed through Sevryn's skull, the very air curdling with an unholy obsession, equally chilling in its dark allure. Sevryn's consciousness plummeted into the bewildered eyes of a helpless victim. A choked gasp caught in her throat, even as her mind screamed in soundless terror. Alisaie stood over her, a towering presence, her familiar beige coat now a suffocating shroud, her normally fierce, protective gaze hardened into something dreadfully possessive, glittering with dangerous hunger.

  "Mine," Alisaie's voice, usually a clear bell, hissed, a low, seductive rasp laced with a venomous sweetness. "You are mine. Never to wander, never to suffer for others. Only for me. Only for my pleasure, for my consumption." 

   Phantom hands, unmistakably Alisaie's, clamped down, pinning her, not with a lover's tenderness, but with the cold, absolute certainty of ownership, a terrible pressure that seeped into her very bones, stealing the warmth from her limbs, pressing her into the unseen floor. It was a horrifying reflection of Alisaie's fierce loyalty, a perversion of the very devotion that had once been her anchor, now twisted into an insatiable hunger to hoard and consume, to shatter Sevryn's spirit and forge her into utter dependence—a perverse, perfect echo of the very control Fray had sought. 

   Sevryn cried out, a raw sound torn from her throat, a strangled gasp of horror and visceral self-loathing. The voidsent reveled in the exquisite torture, amplifying the shame until it burned. "This is who you are, Warrior. " Esteem's voice oozed into every corner of her mind. "A creature of endless, selfish needs. A glutton for comfort and control. Unfit to bear the Light."

   Alisaie, witnessing Sevryn's visible struggle, drove a desperate, surging wave of aether towards Sevryn from her position, a fierce current of protective power. Though blind to the specific torments, she felt the brutal anguish, the deep-seated guilt, and the sheer horror of a love perverted resonate through their bond.

   "Sevryn!" Alisaie's voice ripped through the mental static, sharp and clear, imbued with an unyielding conviction. "This is not you! It's twisting everything, but your strength, your spirit, your desires—they are yours! And our loyalty to you is unwavering. No matter what it shows you, it cannot change that truth!"

   Alisaie’s words, a fierce lifeline, and Y'shtola's commanding presence, a profound steadying force, coalesced into brilliant beacons in the swirling abyss. Sevryn lunged for them, clinging to their certainty. Haurchefant had made his own choice, a truth Esteem could not undo, a burden she now chose to bear with strength, not guilt. And her desires... they pulsed within her, undeniably her own. Twisted into grotesque parodies by Esteem, true, but fundamentally, viscerally hers. The craving to surrender to Y'shtola’s formidable intellect and sensual command, to be utterly, willingly lost in her power—yes. And the contrasting, fierce hunger to dominate, to claim Y'shtola in a protective, consuming passion—that, too. These were not mutually exclusive; they were complex, beautiful facets of her love, merely distorted into perversion by the voidsent’s invasive touch.

   Sevryn let out a low growl, a fierce defiance igniting in her being. She would not let Esteem claim these parts of her. Not the guilt, not the shame, not the desire. She would acknowledge them, reclaim them, and scour them clean of the voidsent’s venom. No. This was her choice. Her will hardened into a cutting edge, a blade forged in defiance. She plunged back into the illusion, seeking out the corrupted threads. She focused on the feeling of Y'shtola’s command—not the cruel, Fray-like degradation, but the controlled, brilliant guidance she adored, the irresistible intellectual and sensual pull she felt towards the Miqo'te. She embraced the yearning for exquisite, chosen surrender. And then, she seized upon her own fierce, protective desire to take Y'shtola, to claim her completely—not with force, but with love and lurid consuming passion; with shared, mind-altering pleasure, free from violation.

   She pushed back. With every ounce of her being, she slammed against the illusions, not denying their existence, but purifying them with the searing heat of her resolve. The phantom of Haurchefant remained, still sorrowful, but his eyes held understanding, no longer accusation. The burdens, still impossibly heavy, transformed into a testament to her strength, not her failures. And the desires… they persisted, powerful and clear, but now unsullied by the voidsent's sickening manipulation. They were hers, irrefutably, in truth.

   The chamber convulsed, the ruins snapping back into stark, cold reality. Sevryn gasped, a choked sound, sweat slicking her brow, her body trembling with a residual, exquisite exertion. The very air around her pulsed, Esteem's corrosive hold fracturing, its insidious resistance palpably weakening over her inner landscape.

   Y'shtola’s chant intensified, a resonant surge, her staff blazing with bright silver light, binding and reinforcing the sigils with perfect precision. Alisaie's aether, a brilliant golden sun against the fading violet, surged into Sevryn, a powerful, loving embrace. More than pulling her from an abyss, they functioned as anchors, their combined will and aether a formidable current, empowering her internal battle against Esteem's lingering influence.

   The voidsent's presence, sensing a final, crushing repulse, recoiled. Its pervasive malice, once a suffocating weight, receded. A sinister tide ebbing from Sevryn's consciousness. It no longer thrashed, but rather faded, its malicious influence failing to take root. Sevryn was no longer a fractured soul, susceptible to its vile temptations. She was whole. She was lucid. And she was terribly, magnificently, ready.

   Sevryn slumped, leaning into the sudden vacuum left by the voidsent's oppressive presence, a disorienting lightness that threatened to unmoor her. Her mind reeled from the visceral visions, the wanton exposure of fears and desires. The phantom touches still prickled her skin, yet there was a strange clarity amidst exhaustion, a stark understanding of herself. 

   Alisaie rushed forward, her hands finding Sevryn's shoulders. A visible tremor of relief ran through her own frame. Her expression, a fierce blend of relief and concern, spoke volumes. "Sevryn? Are you... alright?" Her voice, thick with emotion, reached Sevryn like a physical embrace. It steadied her as Alisaie's grip on her shoulders tightened, firm and loving.

   Y'shtola, composed despite the ritual's strain, lowered her staff. Her gaze, piercing and intensely scrutinizing, met Sevryn's, examining the purity of her aether. A current of unspoken understanding arced between them, charged with a trenchant, unsettling recognition.

   Beneath the lingering exhaustion and voidsent's shadow in Sevryn's eyes, Y'shtola discerned a sharpened clarity, a resilient core humming with untamed power. Within that core, Y'shtola recognized the raw desires Esteem had twisted, now resonating fiercely with her own. It was an insatiable hunger, perfectly mirroring her own deepest, long-suppressed cravings for both mastery and surrender.

   A rare, faint flush kissed Y'shtola's cheeks, a surprising, vulnerable shift that betrayed the tremor in her formidable control. Her hand, forgoing Sevryn’s arm, lifted, her fingertips gliding towards the vivid, radiant aether at Sevryn's jawline. Her thumb, feather-light yet infinitesimally precise, traced Sevryn's cheekbone, a spark igniting with the contact—a surge of shared electricity that promised not just understanding, but exhilarating, boundless exploration. The touch held an palpable, magnetic intensity, unburdened by Esteem's taint, an affirmation of an authentic, mutual craving finally unleashed. Their bond reverborated, charged with mutual acknowledgment and an intense, irresistible desire. Y'shtola's gaze, deep and searching, conveyed a powerful invitation. In their depths, Sevryn saw an earnest recognition, a voracious acceptance of these inclinations. They were not just welcomed; they were tantalizingly desired.

   Sevryn leaned into the touch, a shiver, entirely her own laced a torrid thrill through her. She met Y'shtola's gaze, its intensity now both familiar and startlingly new, then briefly, Alisaie's, who, though blind to the visceral visions, keenly understood the newly forged shift in their bond.

   Y'shtola nodded, her gaze deep and piercing with the weight of their shared revelations. "Indeed, Sevryn. The voidsent’s distortions have been undone. And in that clarity, much has been revealed— truths that will guide our path forward, both personal and pragmatic." Her hand withdrew slowly, a lingering warmth in its wake, a promise of future exploration. "Come. Let us return to Mor Dhona. We have much to discuss... and to prepare for."

~~~

   As the light outside deepened from a sickly grey to a clearer hue, they began their quiet trek from the ancient Mhachi ruins. The silence between them, no longer oppressive, thrummed heavy with anticipation. The crisp, cool air seemed to carry the weight of truths freshly unearthed. After several moments, Y'shtola broke it, her voice low, measured, yet laced with a subtle tremor of both concern and deep, simmering curiosity. She kept her gaze fixed on the path ahead, as if the stark landscape offered a neutral ground for words that would reshape their world.

   "Sevryn... the connection we shared within that ward was... revelatory. And through it, I felt the shadow of what Esteem was trying to conjure from your deepest self. A perverse magnification of certain inclinations," Y'shtola began, her voice gaining a quiet, almost magnetic intensity, her tone a subtle invitation. "It was... disturbing to witness, even from without. I do not pry for idle curiosity, but for understanding—for us. For our path forward. Tell me, then, with the clarity you have won: what did it reveal about the dynamics you truly seek between us, now that they have been laid bare by such a cruel light?"

   The Warrior’s breath hitched, surprised by Y'shtola's uncharacteristic forwardness, yet greatly relieved by the opening, a lifeline thrown into her chaotic depths. 

   "I... I felt a deep hunger," Sevryn admitted, her voice still hoarse but gaining strength, "To yield myself completely to you, to let you take control, to be guided by your will... to be utterly, willingly lost in your formidable power. And then- a fierce, protective urge to claim you utterly, to possess you. To shatter your composure with naked passion, to draw you into my irresistible sway until all your resistance ceases to exist. Seeing them warped was horrific. But... at its core... These are intrinsic facets of my devotion to you, Shtola. What I crave when it's given freely, when it's... chosen."

   Y'shtola finally turned, her cat-like silver eyes meeting the Warrior's. A faint, almost imperceptible tremor ran through her, a subtle thrill, but her voice remained steady, like deep currents shifting. "I sensed that craving, Captain. And I confess... those impulses stir something within me that I have long kept dormant... or perhaps never fully grasped. The desire to command, to guide, to orchestrate... to sculpt reality with the keen edge of my will. But also, the irresistible allure of being entirely claimed, of having my own discipline met and surpassed by a spirit as formidable as yours. To know the exquisite surrender of my own control to a compelling force. Such a dance, an arousing exchange of control and vulnerability, can only flourish with absolute trust. And your brave honesty, your willingness to lay bare your true self, forges that trust irrevocably."

   Alisaie, walking a few paces behind, had listened intently. Her serious gaze, devoid of judgment, held only deep, steadfast understanding. Sevryn reached out, taking Y'shtola's hand in one of her own, and Alisaie's in the other. As they walked, the emerging sun chased the sickly light from the landscape, the ruins shrinking behind them, their oppressive shadow receding with each stride.

<<^>>

Chapter Text

   The journey to Sharlayan offered a rare, quiet respite, marked by the rhythmic creak of the ship's timbers and the gentle sway of the waves. Sevryn stood by the railing, gazing at the cerulean sea, finding the cool spray a welcome balm against her skin. The preceding days, filled with harrowing revelations and intense encounters, had finally yielded to a period of calm.

   Y'shtola, ever attuned to the subtlest divergences in aether, approached Sevryn with steady steps. She had been observing the Warrior of Light, not with scrutiny, but deep intuitive understanding. As she drew closer, her aether-assisted vision confirmed her suspicions. Amidst Sevryn's powerful aura, there was a faint, almost imperceptible judder—an echo of Fray's untamed essence. This resonance of recently unleashed forces between them wasn't menacing, but palpable.

   "Captain," Y'shtola murmured, her voice carrying above the ship's sounds, "do you find the journey to your liking?" 

   Sevryn turned, a faint smile touching her lips, "As much as one can, confined to a deck. It's certainly... quieter than an archive.” 

   Y'shtola nodded, her gaze piercing yet softened by a rare flicker of concern. Her silver eyes narrowed slightly, "Forsooth. Though, I find that silence often allows certain echoes to resonate more clearly.” She paused, "I couldn't help but notice within your aether a certain familiar thrum. It reminds me of the raw power we witnessed, and indeed, felt, during our recent... entanglement. It was a difficult experience. Are you quite alright? Such experiences can linger even after the immediate threat has passed.” 

   Sevryn took a moment, letting the salt spray cool her face. "Linger, they certainly do," she murmured, her brouge rougher than usual. She turned back to Y'shtola, her gaze steady, and Y'shtola discerned a subtle movement in the aether around her—a faint shift. 

   "And some impressions," Sevryn continued, her eyes searching Y'shtola's, "are not easily dismissed, even if one wished to.” A quiet sigh escaped Sevryn's lips, "I... I suppose I am as well as can be, considerin’. Though perhaps not entirely... myself.”

   Y'shtola perceived the vulnerability in Sevryn's aura, a rare and precious sight. Her own aether stirred in response, a quiet reverberation of their connection.

   "Indeed," Y'shtola affirmed, her voice low and resonant, "And I assure you, Captain, your experience of the aetheric entanglement was not one-sided. What you perceive as an impression... I felt its genesis. It revealed certain truths for us both.” She took a slight step closer,  "This feeling of not being 'entirely yourself'—do you find it to be a burden? Or merely... uncharted territory?" 

   Y'shtola observed Sevryn's jaw tighten almost imperceptibly, her gaze drifting back to the horizon. A deep, quiet vibration emanated from within the Warrior’s aether, a slow, lingering pulse that felt like a question. Then, Sevryn turned back to her, eyes steady. 

   "Neither, entirely," she mused, her voice soft and contemplative. "It's not... a burden, no. Not in the way fear or regret would be. But 'uncharted territory' feels too simple, too empty a phrase for something so... esoteric. It's more like a new current. A powerful, undeniable vein within me that I'm only just beginning to truly feel, and even less, to understand its full depth. And perhaps," Sevryn added, her voice dropping with a hint of vulnerability, "it feels a little... lonely tae navigate, without knowing where it leads.”

   Y'shtola took another small step closer, her silver eyes holding Sevryn's gaze with intensity. "Lonely, perhaps," she murmured, her voice a low, steady timbre, "But not, I assure you, necessarily unnavigable. And certainly not something you needs traverse alone. If this is a new nuance, Captain, a powerful truth emerging from within you, then perhaps what you lack is not understanding, but a shared compass. A mutually agreed upon course through these complex depths. For what was revealed to you," her voice deepened slightly, "was revealed to me as well. And I find myself... equally compelled to understand its course, and to chart it.”

   Y'shtola watched, her own aether humming with anticipation, as Sevryn's gaze slowly turned back to meet hers. In Sevryn's eyes, Y'shtola perceived a complex tapestry of emotions: surprise, apprehension, but overwhelmingly, a potent, almost magnetic curiosity. 

   Sevryn's brilliant aura, usually a steady beacon, now pulsed with a new, vibrant energy that resonated deeply with Y'shtola's core. A barely perceptible tremor ran through Sevryn's frame as she absorbed Y'shtola's words, a subtle shift in her posture that felt like a quiet yielding, an unspoken invitation.

   "A shared compass," she repeated, the words tasting new on her tongue, her voice barely a whisper. Her searching eyes remained locked on Y'shtola's. "To chart it... together. The loneliness... it was for a direction I didn't know how to find until your words offered the way. Tell me, Shtola. What does a 'mutually agreed upon course' truly entail?" 

   Y'shtola's silver eyes softened, a quiet intensity burning within them. "It entails," she began, her voice low, "a course where trust is the very foundation. A path where, at times, you may release the immense weight you carry, allowing me to guide.” She reached out, her fingers gently, deliberately, settling over Sevryn's hand on the railing, her touch a warm, firm anchor. "For the Warrior of Light, accustomed to shouldering every burden and always leading the charge... such an arrangement allows for moments of exquisite surrender, of simply being in another's capable hands. It is a space where your immense discipline is met, not with opposition, but with a complementary will, one that seeks to sculpt and refine, never to break.”

Y'shtola's thumb began a slow, deliberate stroke across the back of Sevryn's hand, a rhythmic pressure mirroring the steady pulse of her own aether. Her gaze remained locked with Sevryn's, conveying her steadfast sincerity. 

"And in turn," she continued, her voice gaining a velvet thread of command, "I seek to orchestrate: to make decisions in certain realms, to provide the direction you confessed was elusive, and to take command of that decadent tide within you, not to quell it, but to give it purpose and a guided flow. It is a dance of intertwined wills, where my lead exists solely to serve your deepest needs and desires, and to explore the exquisite balance we find when you allow yourself to yield.”

Her fingers laced gently with Sevryn's, deepening the connection. Y'shtola leaned in slightly, her voice dropping to an even more intimate tone, "The course, then, Captain, is one we define together, always. It requires open hearts, honest communication, and a keen understanding of each other's boundaries and desires. But within those agreements, it offers solace, a unique intimacy, and a release from the constant strain of leadership that I believe you, perhaps more than anyone, deserve.”

Y'shtola's grip tightened imperceptibly for a moment, a silent question passing between them, before she slowly released Sevryn's hand, her thumb lingering on Sevryn's skin for a final, almost possessive caress. "So, I ask you now, Captain," Y'shtola said, her gaze unwavering, "is this a course you find yourself compelled to embark upon, with me as your guide?"

   Sevryn's eyes, despite the flutter in her heart, locked onto Y'shtola's with fierce directness. A single, deep breath escaped her lips. "It is something I am persuaded to explore, aye. But within this feeling," she continued, her voice dropping to a low, intense murmur, "I also find a... a savage desire to dominate. To claim...you...not tae put too fine a point on it. How does your compass account for that particular bearing?" 

   Y'shtola met the Warrior’s turbulent gaze, her silver eyes shimmering with understanding, utterly devoid of surprise or hesitation. She maintained her subtle, firm grip on Sevryn's hand. "Ah, Captain," she murmured, her voice a low, knowing purr that seemed to wrap around Sevryn's very soul, "Did you believe my compass was so narrowly calibrated? This new current within you, as you call it, is indeed complex. It holds depths that pull in many directions, including the very impulse you describe.”

Y'shtola's free hand slowly, deliberately, rose to Sevryn's jawline, her thumb brushing the skin beneath the Warrior’s ear, a touch that was both a gentle caress and an unspoken assertion of her own refined will.

"Understand this, Warrior," she continued, her voice gaining a silken strength that demanded full attention, "The dance of command and surrender is not always a fixed bearing. It is a dynamic exchange, one born of profound trust and absolute, conscious choice. You are correct; there are indeed moments when, even I, desire to release the constant demands of my own mind, to surrender to a will as formidable and pure as yours.” 

Her thumb paused its caress, then pressed ever so slightly into the hollow beneath Sevryn's ear, a studied, sensual pressure that conveyed both invitation and subtle insistence on her own terms. Y'shtola leaned closer, her breath warm against Sevryn's cheek, her words a soft whisper that carried immense weight. "Such moments, when I choose to yield to your claim, when I consciously allow that voracious fire within you to consume my thoughts and senses... those are acts of considerable power and vulnerability, from both of us. And they must, always, be my conscious choice, Captain. A gift, not a conquest. For only then can they provide the very release, the very succour, that you, perhaps, also seek to offer.” 

Her hand cupped Sevryn's nape, her thumb pressing lightly at the base of Sevryn's skull, a tacit gesture of control and deep familiarity. "This desire you speak of, this fierce desire to claim... it is a powerful truth, amplified, perhaps, by the very energies that linger within you. It is a formidable tool in our shared journey, one that, when wielded with consent and understanding, can deepen our bond beyond imagining.” 

Y'shtola leaned in closer, her voice barely a breath against Sevryn's ear, her lips just brushing the shell of it as she spoke. "So, yes, Captain. My compass accounts for that bearing. But the course it charts... that remains mine to set, for now. Are these terms, of mutual yielding and occasional, chosen claim, acceptable to you?"

   Y'shtola watched Sevryn, feeling the subtle tension in the hand still captured by her own. She perceived the immediate acceleration of Sevryn's heart, a rapid flutter in her aether that spoke of desires suddenly unleashed. The undercurrent within Sevryn crested, no longer just a lonely yearning, but a complex, swirling vortex. Amidst it all, Y'shtola felt the unmistakable resonance of Fray's barbarous, untamed spirit, amplifying a powerful, almost primal urge to command, to claim, to seize control—a mirroring force to the very yielding she had just offered. It was potent, alluring, and entirely expected, another facet of the magnificent being before her. 

   Sevryn's voice, though hushed, was steady, carrying conviction. "Yes," she breathed, the single word an earnest acceptance that resonated deeply. Her gaze never left Y'shtola's, a deep well of understanding now reflected there. "These terms account for... everything." She reached up, her own hand covering Y'shtola's on her nape, her fingers intertwining, reciprocating the intimate touch. "I accept, Y'shtola. With you as my guide.” 

   A soft, almost imperceptible hum resonated in Y'shtola's aether, a sense of abject satisfaction blooming within her. The air between them, already charged, seemed to thicken, vibrant with the unspoken weight of their shared decision. Y'shtola felt the powerful surge of Sevryn's own aether, now settling into a heightened resonance with her own, a deep ripple of acceptance and readiness. Sevryn's hand, covering hers, was a quiet confirmation, a yielding of the Warrior’s strength that thrilled Y'shtola to her core.

   With intentional, almost imperceptibly slow movement, Y'shtola allowed her free hand to drift from Sevryn's nape, along the curve of her jaw, her thumb once more tracing the line of Sevryn's cheekbone, before gently coming to rest at the corner of Sevryn's mouth. Her silver eyes, luminous with a blend of authority and tender affection, held Sevryn's gaze captive. The ship's gentle sway and the distant sigh of the waves faded, leaving only the stillness of their shared understanding.

   "Then let this moment," Y'shtola murmured, her voice a silken thread, "be its true beginning.” 

   And with that, Y'shtola leaned in, her lips meeting Sevryn's in a kiss that was both a gentle inquiry and a firm, possessive claim. It was not hurried or desperate, but a purposeful, almost scholarly exploration of new territory. She tasted the salt from the sea spray on Sevryn's lips, and beneath it—the intoxicating blend of the Captain’s unique aether and Esteem’s newly incorporated power, thrumming within her. Y'shtola's lips moved with a soft, guiding pressure, her touch assertive yet yielding, inviting the Warrior to surrender to the flow, to allow her to lead. 

   Sevryn, though surprised by the sudden, ardent intimacy, melted into the kiss. Her own mouth parted, responding with an eager, almost starved urgency. The subtle tremor in her aether that Y'shtola had observed earlier now intensified, a swelling of desire, a vibrant thrill of intense relief and burgeoning pleasure. Sevryn's fingers on Y'shtola's hand, still at her nape, tightened, silently anchoring her as she leaned fully into the exquisite sensation, allowing herself to be consumed. All thoughts of strategy, duty, and the crushing weight she carried began to recede, replaced by the singular, overwhelming sensation of Y'shtola's lips, her touch, her scent, utterly claiming her senses. 

   As the kiss deepened, Y'shtola felt the tangible stirring in Sevryn – the quiet, unyielding strength beneath the Warrior's usual composure beginning to subtly loosen, to unfurl, offering itself to Y'shtola's gentle orchestration. It was a momentous, unstated victory. Sevryn's arms, as if on their own accord, came around Y'shtola's waist, pulling her closer still, a deep, resonant roll of fervent devotion emanating from her very core.

   She eventually, gently, pulled back, her lips lingering for a final, soft press against Sevryn's before their eyes met once more. The air between them shivered heavy and intoxicating. Sevryn's gaze, though still hazy with newfound sensation, was utterly devoted, seeking her guidance. 

   "This compass," Y'shtola murmured, her voice a low, steady tenor, "will always be in our hands, Sevryn. Its bearings will always be charted by mutual consent, by explicit choice. It is a path we carve together, a space where all tendencies within you, every facet of your formidable being, finds its place and its purpose". Her eyes, deep pools of silver, held a powerful, tender promise. "And I assure you, Captain, the depths we shall explore, both in yielding and in claiming, will be as limitless as the aether itself. This is but the first stroke upon our canvas.” 

   Sevryn, still breathless, simply nodded, gray eyes filled with understanding and a burning anticipation. Her grip on Y'shtola's waist tightened possessively for a moment, a wordless, warm affirmation of her staunch acceptance of the journey. A soft chime from the ship's mast, a call from the bridge, briefly cut through the intimate bubble they had created. Y'shtola's gaze flickered, a subtle acknowledgment of the world outside, before returning to Sevryn with a knowing smile. 

  "Old Sharlayan yet awaits, my Warrior." She whispered, her thumb tracing the line of Sevryn's jaw, a final, tender caress before her hand fell away. "But our journey? It has only just begun."

<<^>>

Chapter Text

   The scent of the salt air did little to clear the chill that had settled within Alisaie's breast. It was a familiar cold, one that had seeped into her bones ever since that ignominious confrontation in Gridania. She remembered the stifling humidity of the Twelveswood, the oppressive scent of rich earth and ancient trees that had, for once, felt less like a protective embrace and more like a suffocating shroud. 

   She had known it then, the veiled disapproval in her father's eyes, a cold fire burning behind their scholarly dispassion. It wasn't the furious condemnation she might have expected, but something far more chilling: a quiet, absolute severance. His words had created a chasm between them with every syllable, each precisely chosen, each devoid of warmth. '..As of this moment, you shall no longer bear the name of Leveilleur.' The pronouncement still echoed, a hollow clang in her mind, a chime of finality that rang even amidst the gentle rocking of the vessel. The waves, typically a soothing balm, now seemed to mock her with their endless, indifferent rhythm, each crest and trough a reminder of her displacement.

   As the ship cut through the cerulean waters, there was a subtle shift in the ambient aether that reached her, a resonance that pulsed from further aboard the ship, hinting at an accord struck between Sevryn and Y'shtola. It was a different sort of bond, unlike any she had consciously considered before. There was a quiet hum, a deep thrum, an unheard conversation she sensed, a weaving of intent that felt almost physical. It was an understanding that passed between them, a silent pact woven not from whispers overheard, but from an undeniable sense of their intents aligning, like two distinct streams merging into a more powerful river. 

   Y'shtola, ever the mistress of her own domain, a veritable force of intellect and ancient magic, her presence a steady, undeniable anchor. And Sevryn, the Warrior, whose spirit blazed with a fierce, untamed light, had met her not with defiance, but with a passionate, almost primal acceptance. Sevryn's yielding to Y'shtola's unspoken direction spoke not of weakness, not of capitulation, but of a strength found in trust so absolute it felt terrifying in its vulnerability. It was not a surrender of will, but an offering. A conscious choice, made with the full measure of one's being, a deliberate decision to share a burden, a power, a destiny.

   And that was where the shard of ice pressed against Alisaie's heart, cold and sharp. A choice. A profound, terrifying choice. Her father had made his decision, and it had been to cast her aside, to sever the ties of kin and name, all for some inscrutable 'greater good' he refused to divulge. There had been no invitation to understand, no patient explanation, only the cold, unshakeable conviction of his own rectitude, a truth he held above all else, even family. He had sought to control, to dictate her path through dispassionate command, rather than through the tender guidance of a parent or the respectful counsel of a Forum member. He had offered no understanding, no concession, only an expectation of unquestioning obedience. She remembered the biting clarity of his eyes, the almost clinical detachment with which he had carved her out of his life, a surgical excision performed without a hint of remorse, as if she were merely an errant calculation in his grand equation. It was a wound that had festered, hardening her resolve to stand alone, to never again give anyone such power over her existence, to prove her worth to herself, if no one else.

   But Y'shtola… Y'shtola had sought accord. A deliberate shaping of shared purpose, a forging of boundaries drawn by mutual consent, a dance where each step was negotiated, not imposed. There was power there, certainly, an undeniable gravity to Y'shtola's presence, a presence that could command the very flow of aether, but it was a power invited, not imposed, born of respect rather than fear. And Sevryn, the personification of indomitable will, had met it, not with recalcitrance, but with a quiet acceptance that spoke volumes.

   It was… alien to Alisaie's experience, this waltz of wills where both partners seemed to gain, to become more than the sum of their parts, rather than one diminishing the other. The image held a strange, compelling beauty, a testament to what could be built when volition aligned not through force, but through understanding. Her father’s words had sought to diminish her, to render her less, to reduce her to a mere extension of his grand design. He had tried to break her spirit with the weight of his pronouncements, convinced that in shattering her chosen path, he would somehow mend his own perceived world order. The memory still stung, a phantom ache in her very being.

   Yet, Sevryn… Sevryn had not been broken. She had bent, yes, but only in the manner of a well-forged blade, yielding to the hand that guided it, yet retaining its own inherent strength and keen edge. There was no shame in that yielding, no loss of self, only a profound, almost overwhelming, trust that resonated through the aether, a silent vow exchanged between two powerful beings. To surrender such a measure of oneself, to expose that vulnerability, and yet remain whole, vital, even more than before… it was a paradox that drew Alisaie’s gaze inward, forcing her to confront long-held assumptions. The ship groaned beneath her, a deep, resonant sound from its timbers, a mirror to the ache that had begun to settle deep in her own bones, an ache that finally, she recognized, was not simply sorrow, but the pain of a truth breaking through layers of carefully constructed illusion. Was this, then, a truer form of connection? Not the rigid adherence to ancestral lines or the cold demand for fealty, but a conscious interweaving of souls, a deliberate concession of ground for a shared ascent?

   Her entire life, it seemed, had been defined by struggles against imposed ambitions – against the subtle machinations of Ascians twisting their words into poison, against the inflexible traditions of the Forum that stifled genuine inquiry and dismissed the cries of distant lands, against her father’s ultimate, devastating rejection. Each battle had been fought to define herself, to reclaim her own voice and purpose, to prove her worth as an individual, unshackled by expectations. She had built her identity on fierce independence, a self-sufficiency honed by necessity and pain, a fortress around a wounded heart. 

   And yet, here was Sevryn, the embodiment of untamed might, the celebrated Warrior of Light, willingly placing a part of her dominion into Y’shtola’s knowing hands. It spoke of a deep security, a knowledge that her spirit would not be crushed, but honored and held, nurtured and given space to flourish. It was a stark contrast to the severance her father had decreed, which had felt like a spiritual amputation, a violent tearing away of a part of her very essence. He had sought to control by casting out, by creating distance and fear, while Y’shtola sought to guide by drawing in, by fostering understanding and consent. The difference was not subtle; it was a vast, philosophical gulf, a chasm between two utterly divergent paths to power and connection.

   A faint tremor ran through Alisaie, a realization budding in the fertile ground of her troubled heart. She had always sought independence, autonomy, the unwavering pursuit of her own path. She had seen it as the ultimate expression of freedom, a shield against all vulnerability, the only true safety in a world that could so easily turn its back. But what if there was another kind of strength to be found in such profound interdependence? Not a weakness, not a capitulation to another’s decree, not a loss of self, but a mutual empowerment, a shared current that carried both further than they could go alone? The concept hummed with an unfamiliar warmth, a stark counterpoint to the bitter void Fourchenault had left in his wake. It was a notion both unsettling and undeniably alluring, stirring desires she hadn't known how to name, impulses that threatened to unravel the tightly woven threads of her self-identity, to dismantle the very foundations upon which she had built her life.

   And that was the true knot in her belly. She had always prided herself on her resolve, her unwavering autonomy. But now, in the stark light of this revelation, her fierce independence, the very quality that had defined her subsequent journey as a Scion, as a champion, felt less like a conscious, empowered choice in that moment, and more like a desperate fortification. When her father had severed their ties, when he had chosen to stand apart from her, the wound had opened a deep and terrible loneliness, a chasm of abandonment that threatened to swallow her whole. In the wake of that crushing rejection, she had built walls of self-reliance, not simply to stand on her own, but to ensure no one could ever again possess the power to abandon her, to sever her so completely. To need no one was to be safe from being left completely isolated in a world that had seemingly turned its back on her, a world that suddenly felt vast and indifferent, echoing her inner desolation. But if that was true, then the very thing she had been guarding against – the terrifying vulnerability of relying on another – was precisely what Sevryn had just embraced. And in that embrace, there was not weakness, but a palpable fullness. Was it possible that the deepest fear she harbored, the dread of being utterly alone in a world, was the very fear that kept her from a strength far greater than anything she could forge by herself?

   The thought was jarring, a discord that vibrated through her soul. She had believed herself a bastion, unyielding. But perhaps, the truest bastions were those built not of solitary stone, but of interwoven threads, bound together by mutual trust and chosen connection, resilient precisely because they were shared, because their strength came from unity. She turned from the railing, the sea wind whipping at her hair, yet she barely felt its bite, so consumed was she by the tempest within. Her gaze fell, unfocused, on the worn timbers of the deck beneath her boots, each plank groaning softly with the ship’s sway, vibrating with the journey’s steady progress. Each seemed to stretch into an endless expanse, mirroring the daunting, almost ominous, space that had just opened up within her understanding of herself. The familiar weight of her rapier at her hip, a constant, comforting presence, felt different now, less a symbol of defiant independence and more a question mark. It was a tool for fighting, for carving her own path, for defending her independence. But what if the greatest battle was not outward, against some encroaching foe, but inward, against the very defenses she had so meticulously constructed? What if the true enemy was not some Ascian or beast, but the very fear that had shaped her into the person she had become, the fear of truly needing another?

   She paced, a slow, restless circuit around the empty section of the deck, her steps muted by the sounds of the ship, the creak of the mast, the steady flap of the sails overhead, the rush of water against the hull. Her fingers, usually quick to adjust a cuff or grasp a spellbook, now flexed and unflexed, as if trying to grasp something intangible, to hold onto this fleeting, seismic insight before it slipped away, to internalize its searing truth. 

   The image of Sevryn and Y'shtola, not as she had seen them with her eyes, but as she had felt them – two distinct forces flowing into a greater whole – kept returning, a compelling, bewildering vision that challenged every preconceived notion. It was not submission, she realized with stark clarity, but a confluence. A purposeful merging. And the idea, for someone who had defined herself by her refusal to be subsumed, was utterly revolutionary, shaking her to her very core. No, she would not seek them out, not yet. The tumult of this realization demanded solitude, demanded she wrestle with it in the quiet chambers of her own mind. This was not a conversation for words, but for the untangling of old wounds and the brave, hesitant opening of new possibilities within herself. She needed to sit with the discomfort, to let these new, unsettling truths settle, to breathe them in and allow them to reshape her understanding, before she could even begin to articulate them, let alone act upon them. 

   A shiver of premonition traced its way down her spine. Soon, they would sight the shores of Old Sharlayan. Soon, they would walk those familiar streets, tread the well-worn paths through the Studium and the markets, and return to their own neighborhood. But it would not be a homecoming. The home she had known, the warm hearth and the hushed studies, lay behind a door now barred by a father’s decree, sealed off by a cruel, intellectual rationale that had no room for familial bonds, only for academic purity. She and Alphinaud would be guests in their own city, kinless by their own kin’s hand, strangers in a land that once represented everything she was, everything she had taken for granted. And Alphinaud… how had he borne it? 

   He had always faced their father’s expectations with a quiet fortitude, a diplomatic calm that sometimes grated on Alisaie’s more tempestuous spirit, his composure a mystery to her. He had accepted their father's pronouncements with a stoicism that she herself could never emulate, a placid acceptance that bewildered her. Had he, too, built such a solitary cage around his heart, perhaps even more subtly than she, accepting their father's judgment as a given, a truth that couldn't be fought, only endured? Or had he found a way to bridge the chasm, to navigate the complex space between filial duty and selfhood, without severing himself entirely from the man who had disowned them both? She had always considered her direct defiance a strength, a righteous rebellion against injustice, but now, a flicker of doubt. What if her rejection of her father's choice, while freeing in one sense, had merely cemented her isolation, trapping her within her own fortress of self-reliance? What if Alphinaud’s quiet acceptance had allowed him a different kind of freedom, a freedom from the very rage that still simmered in her own heart, a rage she now realized had been another wall of her own making? 

   The thought of setting foot on that familiar soil, knowing she was utterly adrift from the very foundation of her early life, made the allure of Sevryn and Y’shtola’s shared strength, their chosen interdependence, suddenly feel less like a distant concept and more like a desperate, desperate hope. If she could find such a connection, one forged in trust and mutual respect rather than obligation or fear, perhaps the emptiness her father had left would not feel so vast, so consuming. Perhaps, even without a family home, even without the comfort of her birthright, she would not be truly alone. This new vision of shared strength, of chosen vulnerability, glimmered before her like a distant lighthouse beacon cutting through the fog, a promise of warmth in the encroaching cold. 

   The distant call of a gull, sharp and clear, pierced her reverie. A subtle shift in the wind against the canvas, a slowing of the ship's tireless passage through the waves, confirmed what her churning thoughts had obscured. The journey across the treacherous seas was nearing its end. A new land, fraught with old wounds and unfamiliar promises, lay just beyond the horizon. Alisaie closed her eyes, the salt on her lips tasting of both past sorrow and a burgeoning, emergent future. The solitude she craved would soon be broken by the bustle of the docks, the weight of their mission, and the unavoidable presence of those who would now see her not just as the Leveilleur heir they once knew, but as a woman grappling with the very nature of her own strength, and the fragile, precious architecture of her heart. The ship’s voyage was near its end, but the true journey, the one into the vast, untamed landscape of her own soul, had only just now truly begun.

<<^>>

Chapter Text

   Sevryn’s pack landed heavy on the recamier sofa, thudding hard against the wainscott that was inlaid in white marble which was accented by rose granite buttresses that supported arches faceted in turquoise and lapis lazuli…. Clearly, expense had not been a consideration in the construction of the room. Of course, all of Old Sharlayan seemed that way to the unassuming Ala Mhigan Warrior. She had felt like a stranger in a strange land ever since she had stepped off the boat.

   Practiced, strong fingers worked open the buckles of her pack as she remembered the condescending tone in the immigration officer’s voice as she processed Sevryn’s entry application, “An ‘adventurer..’ Well, I suppose that is considered a valid calling in your native Eorzea, and it does indeed match the profile provided.” The official’s eyes lingered on her greatsword for a fraction of a second, not with fear or awe, but an almost imperceptible air of distaste, as if it were an uncivilized appendage rather than the instrument that had saved their entire star multiple times, “You may enter.”

   The memory was fresh, an echo of every polite, yet unsettlingly impersonal, interaction she’d had since she’d arrived. Even the grand tour Krile and G’raha had so enthusiastically provided couldn’t quite erase the feeling. She’d walked the gleaming avenues of the city with them, past scholars debating esoteric theories in hushed tones and students poring over ancient tomes in sunlit courtyards. Krile, ever the patient guide, had pointed out architectural marvels and intellectual hubs, while G’raha, a fountain of historical trivia, had filled the air with fascinating facts. Sevryn had nodded along, offered polite murmurs, yet felt a growing dissonance. The sheer scale of Sharlayan’s dedication to knowledge, its unwavering adherence to non-intervention, felt alien to a woman whose life had been forged in the crucible of constant conflict and whose very existence was defined by intervention. Here, her strength, her purpose, seemed an anachronism, a necessary but odious tool. A blunt instrument in a city of finely honed minds, a thought whispered, sharp and dark, You are what they need, not who they want.

   Her fingers moved, almost automatically, unbuckling the main flap of her pack. The act of unpacking was often a ritual, a way to ground herself in a new place, to bring order to the chaos of travel. Today, however, it felt more like an attempt to organize the jumbled, unwelcome thoughts that had plagued her since stepping onto Sharlayan soil. She pulled out a spare uniform, folded with military precision, then a collection of worn maps and a half-finished book on Gridanian flora. Each item she removed, she placed on the polished marble floor beside the sofa, a growing pile of personal effects that felt increasingly out of place in the opulent, impersonal room.

   A wave of frustration washed over her. She was the Warrior of Light, yet here, she felt utterly inconsequential, a disruption. The averted gazes of the scholars, the polite but firm refusal of any martial discussion, the pervasive sense that her very presence, her very nature, was something to be tolerated rather than embraced. It chafed, a smarting abrasion on her soul. This wasn’t like venturing into the unknown wilds, where her blade and her will were her only guides. This was a place where her blade is an offense, her will an unruly spirit. Is this all I am? A weapon? Is that all they see? Is that all I'm allowed to be? The thought tightened her chest, a familiar, cold knot of anguish.

   She dug deeper into the pack, seeking something, anything, to distract her from the gnawing unease. Past an emergency healing potion, a small pouch of gil, and a spare coil of rope, her fingers brushed against something smooth and unexpected, buried at the very bottom. Her brow furrowed in surprise. She’d forgotten about it entirely. With a grunt, she pulled out a small, intricately carved wooden box. It was the length of her forearm, fashioned from a dark, smooth wood, and adorned with delicate, swirling patterns that shifted and danced with fairy magic.

   A spark ignited in Sevryn’s memory, a flash of vibrant hues and mischievous laughter.

   Feo Ul had appeared before her not as the familiar, tiny pixie, but in a form as beguiling as she was ethereal. Taller, with hair like wildfire and eyes that held the depths of a twilight forest, the fae had leaned in close, their breath a warm caress against Sevryn’s cheek. “My precious bloom,” Feo Ul had purred, a hand tracing the line of Sevryn’s jaw, sending shivers down her spine. “You strive so diligently, yet sometimes, even the most formidable warrior needs a different kind of… attunement.”

   A slender, elegant hand had presented the very box Sevryn now held. “Within, my darling sapling, is a curious implement. Not for the faint of heart, certainly, but for one who understands the exquisite dance of power and pleasure,” Feo Ul’s voice had dropped to a conspiratorial whisper, eyes glittering with amusement and something deeper. “This little marvel, crafted with the very essence of my realm, will allow you to feel… everything. The warmth, the friction, the delicious pressure… as if it were truly flesh. And, should you choose to wear it, it can be used to embrace your partner in a most intimate dance, channeling your magnificent astral energies in ways you’ve only begun to imagine. It will unlock new pathways, new sensations, attuned to your… unique aetheric needs.” A playful nip on Sevryn’s earlobe, followed by a light kiss, and Feo Ul had vanished as quickly as they appeared, leaving behind only the scent of wildflowers and lingering summer heat.

   Sevryn groaned, a frustrated sound that grated in the quiet room. Her palms pressed over her eyes, digging them in until phantom stars danced behind her lids. The clamor of Old Sharlayan still echoed in her mind, a cacophony of hushed judgments and knowing glances. They only saw her as a tool, a weapon; even her victories were just a means to an end. Her very existence felt like an instrument to be wielded. While the ritual at the Mhachi archive had given her a great deal more control over Esteem—its power integrating to enhance her own abilities—it had done nothing to shut the demon up.

   With a weary sigh, she dropped her hands, her gaze falling to the open wooden box resting in her lap. Feo Ul’s mischievous gift, a curious fae-wrought object of polished wood and smooth, alien material, was meant to be a welcome distraction, a playful promise of pleasure. A faint, almost involuntary smile touched her lips, a brief echo of the fairy’s wicked words about the object’s purpose. But the smile swiftly faded, replaced by a firm set to her jaw. 

   An instrument, Esteem’s whisper slithered into her thoughts, colder and more insidious than before, twisting Feo Ul’s playful intent, corrupting the very idea of simple delight. Even this. Even your pleasure. It is a means. A channel. You are always, always a means. The thought lingered, cool and unsettling, hinting at a truth the Warrior fought to deny – that her worth was measured only by her capacity to endure, to fight, to sacrifice, to be used. With a sharp thud, she slammed the lid shut and set the box down on the sofa beside her, nudging it slightly with her elbow, as if to make it less conspicuous.

   A soft, metallic click echoed from the door. Sevryn's shoulders tensed reflexively. Without turning, already too weary to confront whatever fresh bureaucratic hurdle awaited her, she mumbled, "I thought I had locked that."

   The door swung inward silently, then shut with a gentle thud. The distinct click of the lock resettling sounded, followed by a voice, light and utterly guileless. "Did you?"

   Sevryn slowly turned her head. Standing just inside the room, Alisaie regarded her with an innocent tilt of her own, blue eyes sparkling with familiar, barely contained mischief. Sevryn’s heart gave a surprising lurch of affection, warmth spreading through her that momentarily countered the cold knot of Esteem’s whispers.

   Hastily, Sevryn grabbed a stray cloak from the pile of her unpacked gear and tried to casually drape it over the wooden box beside her. But the movement was too abrupt, too obvious. The cloak didn't quite settle right, and a sliver of the ornate, fae-carved runes remained visible, gleaming subtly from beneath the fabric. Alisaie's gaze, sharp as her rapier, darted immediately to the barely concealed object.

   "Alisaie," Sevryn managed with forced nonchalance, "Good tae see you, lass. Did you and Alphinaud have a chance to go back to the old neighborhood?" She tried to shift her body, subtly blocking Alisaie's view, desperate to hide the intensely private object, thanks to the fresh wave of self-consciousness Esteem had just stirred within her. But the younger woman was already taking a step closer.

   "Oh, yes, we did," Alisaie began, her eyes still fixed on the partially covered box. "Though it was… less than a warm welcome, as expected. Father is still quite upset, apparently. Meryld, bless her heart – met us out the side. Said the official word was 'no entry,' but Mother, bless her heart, won’t be having any of that for very long." Alisaie waved a dismissive hand, her attention clearly elsewhere. Her gaze narrowed, lingering on the visible runes. "Sevryn, that carving… I recognize the script. Is that... Fae?" Her steps grew more purposeful, closing the distance between them. A faint, knowing smile played on her lips as her eyes finally met Sevryn's, full of an undeniable curiosity. "What's in the box? Where did you get it?"

   Sevryn's forced cheer evaporated, replaced by a flush that started at her collarbone and crept up her neck, staining her cheeks. She cleared her throat, trying to regain some semblance of composure, but the innocent curiosity in Alisaie’s blue eyes felt keener than any interrogation from the Worldly Affairs Official. 

   "The box...it's just... a gift," Sevryn stammered, glancing quickly at the barely concealed runes, then back to Alisaie, who had now stepped even closer, her head angled, an almost imperceptible scent of cherry blossoms and crisp air preceding her. The proximity, combined with the blush rising in her cheeks, made her feel exposed, but not entirely unwelcome. A strange flutter ignited in her belly, a counterpoint to the familiar dread Esteem so often invoked, an unexpected, pleasant comfort spreading through her limbs. She instinctively tried to angle her body further, a futile attempt to shield the box, but it only brought Alisaie's gaze even closer to the very object Sevryn wished to hide.

   Alisaie didn't wait for an answer. With a movement as swift and decisive as her spell-casting, her fingers brushed the edge of the cloak, pulling it back just enough to fully reveal the intricately carved wooden box. Her gaze lingered on the swirling patterns, then flickered to Sevryn’s flushed face, a small, knowing smile playing on her lips. 

   "From Feo Ul, I presume?" she murmured, her voice dropping to a low, conspiratorial tone that sent another tremor through Sevryn. "Only that particular pixie could weave such… delicate enchantments. Now, about its contents. You're usually so straightforward. What could possibly be so intriguing, so private, that you feel the need to hide it from me?" Her hand, light as a feather, drifted from the box to Sevryn's arm, her thumb tracing the line of the Warrior’s bicep, a touch both innocent and deeply provocative.

   Sevryn's breath hitched, a sudden, sharp intake that did little to cool the fire now spreading through her veins. Alisaie’s thumb on her bicep felt like a brand, sending ripples of sensation down to her fingertips. Her mind, usually a fortress of battle plans and tactical maneuvers, felt hopelessly muddled. Esteem’s voice, for once, was a distant murmur, drowned out by the thrumming in Sevryn’s ears and the rapid beat of her heart against her ribs. She wanted to pull away, to hide the box, to regain the control she so desperately craved, but her muscles felt strangely sluggish, caught in the web of Alisaie's gaze. The air between them, already thick with unspoken tension, seemed to vibrate with a nascent energy, warm and inescapable. Her gaze, despite her best efforts, dropped to Alisaie's lips, just a breath away, and a new, startling wave of hunger surged through her.

   Sevryn's lips parted slightly, a soft gasp escaping her as Alisaie's head tilted, mirroring the unspoken invitation in Sevryn's gaze. The blue eyes, once sparkling with mischief, now held a deep, unwavering intensity that promised both answers and further questions. Without breaking eye contact, Alisaie's hand slid from Sevryn's bicep, her fingers deftly catching Sevryn's chin, lifting her head up just a fraction. The touch was feather-light, yet it held Sevryn captive, every nerve ending tingling in anticipation. 

   "So, my Warrior," Alisaie whispered, her voice silken, barely audible above the escalating thrum of Sevryn's blood. "Are you going to tell me what kind of secrets Feo Ul has entrusted to you, or are we going to discover them together?" The last word was a breath against Sevryn's mouth, and then Alisaie leaned in, her lips a soft, inquisitive pressure against Sevryn's.

   Sevryn's world narrowed to the supple, seeking press of Alisaie's lips. The inquisitive pressure deepened, a silent, powerful demand that Sevryn met with a hungry, desperate drive of her own. Her mouth parted, yielding to Alisaie's fervent exploration, and the taste of her, sweet and bright like cherry blossoms after a spring rain, filled Sevryn with a longing that eclipsed all else. Esteem's whispers, for once, were utterly drowned out by the thrumming symphony of their bodies, a melody composed of racing hearts and ragged breaths.

   As Alisaie's lips moved against hers, a thrill of pure pleasure surged through Sevryn, causing her hands to instinctively lift from where they rested at her sides, finding purchase on the soft fabric of Alisaie's tunic. Her fingers, clumsy with urgency, fumbled with the clasps, desperate to shed the barrier between them. Alisaie, sensing Sevryn’s escalating need, mirrored the action, her own nimble fingers already working at the fastenings of Sevryn’s practical, but suddenly cumbersome, adventurer's attire.

   The kiss deepened, a fervent collision of lips and breath. Alisaie's tongue traced the curve of Sevryn's mouth with an eager, almost reverent curiosity. Sevryn’s hands, rough from years of wielding weapons, tugged at the last clasp of Alisaie’s tunic, the fabric parting to reveal the smooth, pale expanse of her collarbone, then the delicate curve of pert breasts. Alisaie’s fingers, nimble and precise, mirrored the urgency, freeing Sevryn’s shoulders from her shirt. The cool air of the Sharlayan room kissed Sevryn's bared skin, sending shivers through her, but the heat of Alisaie's touch, the brush of her lips, was far more potent. The carved wooden box sat forgotten for a moment, its fae runes glinting faintly under the discarded cloak, a silent witness to the escalating ravenousness between them.

   Alisaie pulled back, her breath ragged, blue eyes wide and shimmering with a mix of desire and uncertainty. Her fingers lingered on Sevryn’s bare arm, tracing the taut muscle with a tentative touch. “Sevryn,” she whispered, her voice carried a tremoring thread, “that box… what Feo Ul said… it’s no ordinary gift, is it?” Her gaze flicked to the box, then back to Sevryn’s flushed face, a spark of nervous excitement dancing in her eyes.

   Sevryn’s throat tightened, a flush creeping up her neck as she met Alisaie’s gaze. The air practically sizzled with unspoken anticipation, the weight of the Fairy King’s provocative words echoing in her mind. A curious implement… attuned to your unique aetheric needs. Esteem’s whisper, faint but insidious, curled at the edges of her thoughts, urging her to seize, to claim, to control. Sevryn fought it down, her focus locked on Alisaie’s earnest expression, “No, lass,” she murmured, her brogue thick with arousal. “It’s… something intimate. Meant tae be shared, if you’re willing.”

   Alisaie’s lips parted, her eyes darted back to the box. Her fingers twitched with a mix of curiosity and trepidation. “Show me,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper, yet laced with such intent that made Sevryn’s heart stutter.

   With a slow, deliberate movement, Sevryn reached for the box, her fingers brushing the smooth wood. She lifted the lid, revealing the device within—a sleek, fae-crafted phallus, its surface shimmering with an otherworldly sheen, as if imbued with the very essence of Il Mheg’s magic. It was supple yet firm, its curves designed to fit perfectly within, to become an extension of the wearer’s body, channeling sensation as if it were truly flesh. 

   Alisaie’s eyes widened, her cheeks flushing a vibrant pink. “Oh,” she breathed, her voice a mix of awe and nervous laughter. “That’s… that’s certainly… something.” She reached out, her fingers hesitating before brushing the smooth surface, a shiver running through her. “It’s warm,” she murmured, her voice tinged with wonder. “Like it’s… alive.”

   Sevryn nodded, her voice husky, low. “Feo Ul said it channels aether… makes you feel everything, as if it’s part of you.”

   Alisaie’s gaze flicked up, meeting Sevryn’s, a spark of daring igniting in her eyes. Her fingers tightened on Sevryn’s waist, a new resolve hardening her touch. “Then let’s… discover it together,” she said, her voice trembling but resolute. “Show me how it works.”

   Sevryn’s heart pounded, a heady mix of lust and rapturous abandon washing over her. She guided Alisaie’s hands, helping her shed the last of their clothing, a growing voracity spurring them on. The final wisps of undergarments floated to the floor, a soft sigh of silk and cotton against the polished marble. Sevryn’s bare feet registered the fleeting coolness, a sharp contrast to the inferno radiating between them, before she gathered Alisaie closer still. With an urgent, possessive pull, she drew the smaller woman the few steps across the floor to the sprawling, plush bed in the corner of the room. Its soft sheets, already inviting, received them with a whispered sigh. They fell onto the mattress, the subtle scent of lavender rising from the pillows to meet them as their bodies instinctively molded together, craving deeper connection.

   The apparatus gleamed where it rested on the bedside, with hands that trembled slightly, Sevryn reached for it, her gaze locked on Alisaie’s. Slowly, deliberately, she positioned it, feeling the fae magic meld with her aether as it slid into her body, deliciously expanding to fill her. A low, involuntary gasp escaped her lips as a shiver of sensation coursed through her, warm and electric, as if the fae conduit had truly become an extension of her own flesh. For a fleeting moment, gold haloed her eyes – a dark urge to dominate, to take – but she ruthlessly pushed it down, focusing on Alisaie’s wide-eyed, fascinated expression.

   Alisaie’s breath hitched, coming in shallow, ragged bursts, her blue eyes devouring Sevryn, a vision of naked desire now laid bare before her. Her hands trembled, hovering in the charged air, feeling the radiating heat of Sevryn’s body, seeing the subtle flush of her skin. “I… I’ve never…” she started, her voice a breathless whisper, half-choked with awe and a burgeoning ache. “This is… new. So very new.” Her fingers, quivering with a mixture of apprehension and eager curiosity, finally found Sevryn’s hip, tracing the warm curve of her skin, and a delicious shiver coursed through the Warrior.

   “Neither have I, entirely,” Sevryn admitted, her voice low and reassuring, thick with burgeoning arousal. She reached out, cupping Alisaie’s face, her thumb tracing the curve of her cheek, her own eyes blazing with a fierce, possessive tenderness. “But we’ll figure it out together, aye? Every exquisite moment.” 

   Alisaie nodded, her eyes locked on Sevryn’s, a mix of trust and nervous excitement that only fueled Sevryn's need. She leaned in, kissing Sevryn softly, her lips trembling against the Warrior’s. Sevryn’s hands gently guided Alisaie’s with a tender, deliberate touch to the pulsing junction where Feo Ul’s enchanted object rested deep within her, its silken length stirring a trembling intimate surge that quivered in her core. Sevryn groaned, a brazen sound of pleasure, as Alisaie's hesitant fingers finally made contact, the fae magic amplifying every brush, every tentative press, sending waves of pleasure through her that made Esteem’s lingering shadow dim to an insignificant flicker. 

   "Easy, Ali," she murmured, her voice thick and trembling with desire, as she shifted, subtly showing Alisaie how to feel the connection, how to find the flow.

   Alisaie felt the tremor in Sevryn's hand, the sharp intake of breath that wasn't a gasp of surprise but a hungry inhale of pure pleasure. Sevryn’s muscles, usually so tightly controlled, now flexed and softened with each new touch, every tentative exploration of Alisaie’s fingers. The coarse, guttural groan that escaped Sevryn’s throat as Alisaie brushed against the pulsing, enchanted warmth was a carnal sound, one Alisaie had never heard from the Warrior of Light. It was vulnerability and craving, a clear invitation to push further, to delve deeper. A thrill shot through Alisaie, a sudden, powerful surge of confidence that banished her earlier apprehension. This wasn't just Sevryn’s journey of discovery; it was theirs. And for the first time, Alisaie felt not just invited, but truly needed in a way that resonated with a newfound power within her.

   "My Warrior," Alisaie whispered, her voice a low, breathy command that carried a surprising new edge of authority. Her eyes, luminous and daring, locked onto Sevryn's. "Let me show you."

   Before she could respond, Alisaie shifted. With a fluid grace born of sudden, uninhibited animalism, she moved to straddle Sevryn's hips, her bare knees brushing the soft skin of Sevryn's thighs. Sevryn gasped, the movement sending a fresh jolt of electric sensation through her. Alisaie leaned in, her gaze dropping to the fairy creation, then back to Sevryn's flushed face, a triumphant, wicked grin playing on her lips. Sevryn, on her back, was a tangle of willing limbs and simmering torridity, her golden eyes fixed on Alisaie, a silent invitation to proceed. Alisaie’s hands found the Warrior’s chest, strong and powerful, settling over the full, soft breasts, turgid nipples teasing her palms. With a quiet moan of anticipation from Sevryn, Alisaie slowly, deliberately, began to lower herself, guiding the strange, pulsing warmth of the fae creation- and the Warrior’s heat- towards her own dripping center.

   Alisaie bit her lip, a sharp, ragged gasp escaping her as the crown of the phallus, firm and pliant, nudged against her entrance. Her core throbbed, slick and swollen with a desperate need. Leaning forward, she buried her face in the curve of Sevryn’s neck, breathing in the intoxicating scent of sandalwood and summer storm. Then, with a slow, deliberate drop of her hips, Alisaie took it. All of it. The full, astonishing length slid deep into her trembling core, a visceral sound of pleasure tearing from her lips as the world narrowed to an exquisite stretch, a molten rush of titillation. It was as if she plunged into the tight, yielding depths, of her own body receiving every shuddering inch of the Fairy King’s enchanted creation, its silken, pulsing warmth filling her slick core with trembling, aching need while the bond shimmered, allowing her to taste Sevryn’s unbridled, answering pleasure simultaneously.

   The intensity of it all was staggering. A dizzying wave of pure sensation crashed over Alisaie, stealing her breath and blurring her vision. Her muscles spasmed, her head fell forward, and she collapsed onto Sevryn’s chest with a soft thud, a trembling sigh escaping her lips. For a breathless moment, all thought fled, replaced by the sheer, overwhelming fullness and the echoing aftershocks of pleasure through their shared bond. Sevryn’s arms, strong and comforting, immediately wrapped around her, holding her close, a soft murmur of reassurance vibrating through her chest. Sevryn’s fingers, tender and warm, threaded into Alisaie’s hair, gently stroking, and a soft kiss brushed her forehead. 

   “Too much?” Sevryn whispered, her voice husky with her own longing but laced with undeniable concern. Alisaie, still reeling, could only hum in affirmation, pressing her face deeper into the curve of Sevryn’s neck, savoring the solid feel of her, the steady beat of her heart, and the lingering, sweet ache that promised so much more. After a long, shared breath, a tiny smile played on Alisaie’s lips. This wasn't a stop; it was merely a pause. With a new determination, she shifted, her fingers finding purchase on Sevryn’s hips, a silent signal that she was ready, truly ready, to begin.

   Instead of immediately lifting herself, Alisaie nuzzled deeper into the crook of Sevryn’s neck, her breath warm against the Warrior’s heated skin. She pressed soft kisses along the sensitive curve, tasting the faint saltiness of Sevryn’s skin, that heady scent that only fueled her appetite. Her hands, still resting on Sevryn’s hips, began a slow, deliberate exploration, trailing upwards along the defined curve of her waist, over the sculpted lines of her abs, a testament to years of training and battle. Alisaie’s fingers then brushed over the strong, muscled swell of Sevryn's pectorals, the underlying power softened by the full, warm weight of her breasts. It was a landscape of intoxicating strength and subtle softness. Slowly, deliberately, her hands continued their ascent along Sevryn's shoulders and then upwards along the taut muscles of her arms. She marveled at the immense power she felt beneath her fingertips, the way the muscles flexed even in repose. Reaching Sevryn’s hands, Alisaie gently took them in hers, intertwining their fingers, her smaller hands fitting snugly within Sevryn’s larger, calloused ones. As their fingers linked, Alisaie’s hips began a slow, subtle rock. A gentle friction built with each small movement, a delicious pressure intensifying where their bodies met. A low moan rumbled in Sevryn’s chest, a clear sign that Alisaie’s intuitive exploration was having its intended effect, a renewed intensity flaring between them.

   Alisaie let out a soft sound of discovery and desire, as her rocking grew more confident, transforming into a purposeful grind. With every deliberate motion, the fae toy seemed to thrum, pulling her deeper into a swirling vortex of shared pleasure. She felt the exquisite pressure of being filled, a sensation that mirrored the deep, satisfying squeeze, the indescribable feeling of being held, she felt Sevryn experiencing. Sevryn's hips subtly lifted to meet each of Alisaie's deliberate descents, her breath catching in her throat, a guttural moan echoing Alisaie's own soft cries. 

   Alisaie pressed a desperate line of kisses along Sevryn's collarbone, before biting down on her shoulder, eliciting a shiver that rippled through them both. Their passion became a fierce, undeniable pull that drew Sevryn deeper into the spiraling pleasure. With every insistent press and lift of Alisaie’s hips, Sevryn’s own body arched, primal instinct overriding thought. A base, guttural sound, more animalistic growl than human moan, tore from her throat, rough with mounting arousal. Her muscles, honed for battle, flexed and shuddered, not in resistance, but in abject surrender to the rising tide. Golden light intertwined with aubergine beneath her skin. 

   "More, lass," Sevryn gasped, the sound tearing from her throat, both a plea and an encouragement. Her fingers, still intertwined with Alisaie’s, tightened, crushing slightly in their shared intensity, while her knees flexed, subtly urging her closer, deeper. The wanton need building within Sevryn was immense, an unbearable pressure coiling tighter and tighter, demanding release. Her head arched back against the pillows, neck muscles taut with pleasure, exposing the long, elegant line of her throat. Her eyes were hooded with lust, framed by a faint golden halo, as the combined sensations of deep penetration, guided by Alisaie’s fervid movements pushed her to the very precipice. Every breath ragged, every nerve ending alive and screaming for more, a testament to the pleasure Alisaie wrought in her.

   A final, impossible stretch, a culmination of all the building pressure and exquisite sensation, brought Sevryn to the edge. Her entire body tensed, vibrating with a desperate, beautiful intensity. Her gaze, still locked with Alisaie's, widened fractionally, the golden halos around her eyes flaring brighter, consuming the gray. The bond surged, a blinding rush of pleasure crested, ripping a savage sound from her lungs as her vision exploded with the woman above her, "Alisaie!"

   In that instant, the dam broke, that wave of pleasure, amplified a thousandfold through their bond by the Fairy King’s gift, crashed through them both. Alisaie felt not only the Warrior’s shattering release but her own as well—an explosion of raw arousal erupting from her own core, hot and slick, that simultaneously flooded over Sevryn’s pelvis. Her inner muscles desperately clenching, her orgasm seizing her with equal, mind-shattering force. As they tumbled off the peak together, locked in a single shuddering embrace, they rode the glorious, obliterating wave of their shared climax, Alisaie's quivering muscles held and milked the toy, causing the Warrior’s legs to tremble with each delicious flutter. 

   The last tremulous echoes of their climax rippled through them, leaving both women breathless and exquisitely sated. Alisaie collapsed fully onto Sevryn’s chest, her head nestled into the curve of Sevryn’s shoulder, their bodies damp and tangled in the silk sheets. Their ragged gasps slowly softened into deep, contented breaths, their heartbeats gradually settling into a shared rhythm. Sevryn’s arms tightened around Alisaie, holding her securely in a silent, loving embrace. The golden light that had flared in Sevryn's eyes and pulsed beneath her skin now gently receded, leaving her gray eyes soft and luminous, gazing up at the elegant wooden furl etched into the marble ceiling above. The fae-crafted object, still intimately joined to Sevryn, seemed to dim, its purpose momentarily fulfilled.

   “Gods, Ali,” Sevryn murmured, her voice husky with exhaustion and stark tenderness, her lips brushing Alisaie’s hair. “You… you are incredible.”

    Alisaie hummed in response, pressing a soft kiss to Sevryn’s chest, the last traces of the overwhelming pleasure making her limbs feel heavy and wonderfully boneless. She could still feel the phantom echoes of Sevryn's release, a profound sense of shared completion that was more intimate than anything she had ever known. They simply lay there, wrapped in the warmth of each other’s bodies and the radiant afterglow, the silence filled only by their gentle breathing and the pure, unspoken language of their love.

<<^>>

Chapter Text

   The crisp Sharlayan air, still carrying the scent of damp earth after a recent rain, felt surprisingly invigorating. Alisaie, bundled in her new red jacket, found herself walking in comfortable silence beside Sevryn. A few paces ahead, Alphinaud's familiar gait set a steady rhythm, his occasional hums of concentration on some unseen thought a subtle cue that he was already lost in his own world – an unspoken agreement between the twins to grant the Warrior of Light a moment of privacy.

   Alisaie, for her part, was still adjusting to the feel of her new clothes. The jacket, with its elegant cut and vibrant hue, felt like a statement of newfound resolve, a stark contrast to the worn adventuring gear she'd practically lived in. The white jumper shorts were certainly… different, and the boots felt surprisingly light. She smoothed a hand over the fabric of her sleeve, a small, pleased smile playing on her lips. It was good to feel fresh, to feel new —a welcome sensation that settled over her, even as the weight of recent revelations lingered: the quiet, vulnerable truths Sevryn had shared in the diffuse light of dawn, an honest unveiling of the unique, intricate bond she was forging with Y'shtola.

   She knew, without even needing to turn her head, that the Warrior was looking at her. A small shift in the air, a warmth that wasn't just the residual heat of the day, told her as much. It wasn't an intrusive gaze, more like a quiet appreciation, a delicate whirr beneath the surface of their companionable silence. Sevryn had always been observant, her eyes missing little, but lately, those glances had grown different: softer, more lingering, infused with a profound tenderness that spoke volumes of their deepening bond. And now, in this new outfit, it seemed even more pronounced.

   A tiny smirk tugged at the corner of Alisaie's mouth. She could almost feel the heat rising in her cheeks, a flush she stubbornly tried to ignore. It was ridiculous, really, the way the Warrior of Light, the woman who had faced down gods and primal terrors, could be so utterly disarming with just a look.

   Slowly, deliberately, Alisaie turned her head, meeting Sevryn's eyes with a mock-exasperated sigh that belied the warmth fluttering in her chest. "Is there something on my new outfit?" she asked, her voice a little too sweet, a playful challenge dancing in her eyes. "Or are you simply admiring the exquisite taste my mother clearly possesses?" She gestured vaguely at her jacket, a mischievous glint in her gaze. "She did pick it out, after all."

   Sevryn’s lips curved into a slow, knowing smile, her eyes dropping briefly to Alisaie’s new attire before returning to meet her gaze, a spark of pure devilry igniting within their depths. 

   "Exquisite taste, indeed," she purred, her voice a low rumble that seemed to vibrate directly through Alisaie's boots. "But I confess, Alisaie, my thoughts are already focused on how quickly this tempting garment might find itself on the floor, once we're back at the Annex."

   Alisaie gasped, her cheeks flushing a brilliant crimson. A quick, flustered glance flew ahead to where Alphinaud continued his contemplative stroll, seemingly oblivious. Then, with a sharp rush of breath, she delivered a swift, entirely undignified smack to the Warrior’s arm. "Sevryn! Gods above, my brother is right there!" she hissed, her voice a fierce, embarrassed whisper that was probably more audible than she intended. "Have you no shame?!"

   Sevryn let out a soft, low chuckle, the sound warm and rich. She gently caught Alisaie's hand, her thumb tracing lazy circles over Alisaie's knuckles. "Never, when it comes to you, Ali," she murmured, her gaze holding Alisaie's, her natural charm overtaking the roguishness.

   Alisaie felt her blush deepen at the tender endearment, but she quickly rallied, a playful glint returning to her eyes. "You keep that up, Warrior of Light," she warned, though her voice softened. "And I'll have Y'shtola put a binding spell on you. See how you like that."

   The levity drained from Sevryn's face, swift and slight, like a shadow passing over the sun. Her thumb stilled on Alisaie's hand, and her eyes, though still fixed on her, seemed to lose their earlier spark, growing distant, tinged with a familiar weariness. Alisaie, ever perceptive, felt a chill settle over the warmth they had just shared. It wasn't the mention of a spell that troubled Sevryn, but the name itself.

   A faint tremor, a familiar pullback, reflected through their shared bond. Sevryn’s emotional presence, usually a vibrant tapestry, seemed to dim, pulling inward like a tide receding. Alisaie sensed it, a stoic retreat within Sevryn's spirit that resonated through their connection. She squeezed Sevryn's hand gently, her voice softening, a clear attempt to anchor her.

   "Y'shtola," Alisaie began, her gaze earnest, "She's been... preoccupied. Ever since we’ve arrived in Old Sharlayan, she's been so absorbed in her research, curt with the Forum…Sometimes, even with us." Alisaie sighed, her voice a gentle, knowing murmur. "It's how she gets when she feels things slipping, when she's trying to wrestle control back from chaos. She narrows her focus, becomes so intensely driven finding the solution to the problem, that everyone else... everyone else just becomes background noise." She squeezed Sevryn's hand once more, her gaze softening with empathy. "It's bothering you, isn't it? Her behavior. The distance."

   Sevryn’s thumb, which had resumed its lazy circles on Alisaie’s knuckles, stilled once more. Her gaze, previously distant, now fixed on Alisaie’s with an unfiltered intensity that belied her usual stoicism, "Aye," she admitted, in a husky voice that seemed to carry the weight of her unease. "It is. More than I thought it would." She paused, collecting her thoughts, a fine tension tightening her jaw. "It's not her dedication to her research I mind. It's... the way her detachment feels so familiar here. Like the polite, yet impersonal deference of the Forum, or the dismissive glances of those who view me as little more than a tool. And when she withdraws, when she pulls back through our bond... I feel that, too. A sudden coldness, a distance that wasn't there before, not like this, not since we..." Sevryn's eyes, usually so sharp and direct, flickered with a vulnerability she rarely showed, "It hurts, Alisaie."

   Alisaie tightened her grip on Sevryn's hand once more, her expression earnest, "Then talk to her," she urged, her voice low and steady. "Don't let this fester. You know Y'shtola. She needs order, she needs clarity, especially when something so fundamental to her is thrown into disarray. What she needs, Sevryn, is for you to bring some order to this connection. To show her that you respect her need for boundaries, her need for control, even within something as wild as our bond. Go to her. Ask her what she needs to feel secure, to feel like she has a say in how this works for her. To define it, together." Alisaie’s gaze was firm, unwavering. "Give her back that sense of agency. That's the only way through this, for all of us."

   Sevryn held Alisaie's gaze for a long moment, a slow smile spreading across her face. "Sometimes, Ali," she said, her voice rich with amusement, "you make entirely too much sense. It's almost... unsettling." She brought Alisaie's hand to her lips, pressing a light kiss to her knuckles, "Thank you. For seeing what I couldn't." Her eyes, already holding a familiar glint, deepened with admiration. "Now, wish me luck. I have a certain scholar to discomfit." With a final, confident smirk, Sevryn released Alisaie's hand. Her stride was purposeful, carrying her towards Y'shtola.

~~~

   The soothing space that was Y'shtola’s private room within the Scholar’s Andron was usually a sanctuary of focused research. Tonight, however, it felt… different. Y'shtola sat at her desk, her gaze fixed on a tome whose pages she wasn't truly seeing. Her fingers traced the elegant script without verily comprehending the words. A tenuous, internal discord vibrated within her, a frustration she rarely allowed to surface. The memory of the unbidden intimacy, the jarring influx of Sevryn's unbridled passion and splendid satisfaction through their unintended bond, still grated. It was a violation of her inherent need for order, for control, even if the source of the sensation was the very person she found herself irrevocably drawn to.

   A faint, firm rap sounded at the door. Y'shtola's head tilted, her senses immediately perceiving Sevryn’s familiar aetheric signature on the other side. A flicker of anticipation, apprehension, and a burgeoning resolve crossed her features, and then her voice, clear and even, cut through the silence: "Enter, Captain."

   The door clicked open, and Sevryn stepped inside. She moved with her accustomed controlled power, a confident ease in her stride. She stopped a few paces from the desk, her posture that of a hero returned from battle—shoulders squared, chin level. She simply stood there, waiting.

   Then, from Sevryn’s lips, came a single word, spoken in her delicious brogue, "Mistress."

   It was a dulcet sound, a faint roll on her tongue, as if she were trying it on, tasting the unfamiliar syllables, testing their weight. Yet, despite the nascent uncertainty, something in Y'shtola's very core resonated with it. A thrill, sharp and immediate, cut through her carefully maintained composure. The word, spoken by Sevryn, felt like a spark igniting a long-dormant flame. It settled deep, a possessive warmth unfurling in her chest, a heat that began to spread, tendrils of exquisite pleasure tracing a path through her veins. Her breath hitched, an almost imperceptible tremor, as if the very air had become charged with a powerful, unspoken magnetism. Every fiber of her being yearned towards the woman who had just uttered that word, a silent, profound ache for something she had only dared to dream of.

   Y'shtola's head tilted infinitesimally. Her voice, when it came, was as brisk and precise as the polished stone beneath their feet, betraying none of the internal tremors. "Warrior," she stated, her tone clipped. "Your approach is... unrefined. If you mean to offer yourself, do so with purpose."

   She rose from her chair, her movements fluid and deliberate, the rustle of her robes a hushed sigh in the sudden, charged silence of the room. Y'shtola moved towards Sevryn, her blind gaze drawn by the Warrior’s vivid aetheric presence, a vibrant hum that seemed to sing beneath her very skin, a symphony only she could perceive. There was no hesitation, no uncertainty in her steps; only an intractable purpose. She reached out, her hands, cool and authoritative, settling on Sevryn's shoulders. Her touch was firm, instructional, a deliberate imprint of control. Not yet affectionate, it was alive with a keen perception, drinking in the very essence of Sevryn’s being—the underlying warmth of her skin, the subtle pulse of her aether thrumming beneath her fingertips, a wordless promise of deeper surrender. With precise movements, she subtly adjusted Sevryn's posture, straightening her spine, guiding her chin down a fraction, before definitively bringing Sevryn's hands together, clasped in front of her.

   "Better," Y'shtola murmured, her fingers lingering for a fraction longer, the tempting warmth of Sevryn’s skin beneath her touch, the immediate, imperceptible shift in her aetheric energy—a yielding thrum of acquiescence—thrilling her to her core. Her voice had shed a fraction of its initial chill, a barely perceptible softening, a subtle purr of satisfaction. "Of course, if you're going to offer yourself, Warrior, you should do so fully."

   She withdrew her hands, though her proximity remained, her presence a palpable weight of unspoken authority, a scent of ozone and starlight that filled Sevryn's senses. "Kneel, Captain," Y'shtola instructed, her voice now a low, compelling hum that vibrated in the air between them, a silken rope pulling Sevryn down. "Not merely to rest your weight, but to present yourself. Your spine straight, head bowed to the appropriate degree, hands flat, resting on your thighs. Your gaze will remain lowered unless commanded otherwise."

   Her next words were a simple, eloquent directive: "Do so, now."

   Sevryn complied without a flicker of hesitation. Her powerful form knelt smoothly, gracefully, settling into the precise position Y'shtola had specified. Her head bowed, her palms resting against sculpted thighs, she waited. The air around her pulsed with bated anticipation, a palpable offering of herself, thick with the scent of ozone and sandalwood.

   Y'shtola moved then, circling Sevryn with the predatory grace of a hunter appraising its willing prey, her senses alight. Her hands reached out, not just to appraise, but to experience the form presented to her. She adjusted Sevryn’s shoulders, feeling the deep, resilient tension in the muscle give way to deliberate, pliant stillness under her touch, a response that sent a shiver of potent pleasure through her own veins. Her fingers drifted, feather-light yet utterly authoritative, tracing the firm line of Sevryn's collarbone, the delicate ridge of her spine, the slight shift of breath beneath her ribs. Through her heightened senses, Y'shtola perceived every intimate detail: the sonorous cadence of Sevryn's beating heart, a strong, steady rhythm that echoed in her own chest; the subtle warmth radiating from her skin, a subdued heat that invited deeper exploration; the vibrant swirl of her aether, a silent symphony of pure, powerful being that hummed a song of devotion for her alone. The intimate exploration was a slow, deliberate dance of claiming, profoundly sensual in its wordless depths, each touch a binding, each sensation a testament to her power over the woman before her.

   "Excellent," Y'shtola breathed, her voice now a low, resonant purr, considerably warmer, a wave of deep satisfaction seeping into its rich tones. Her fingers lingered at the sensitive nape of Sevryn's neck for a long moment, perceiving the involuntary shiver that ran through the Warrior, a delightful confirmation of her impact. "Your essence, even veiled, is intoxicating. Hold it thus."

   She settled before Sevryn, a silent acknowledgment of the complete, perfect submission offered. The previous coldness, the carefully constructed barrier of her emotional turmoil, had almost entirely melted away, replaced by an intense, consuming warmth that bloomed in her chest, unfurling like a rare, fragrant flower in the quiet sanctity of the room.

   "The unfiltered intimacy of the bond last night was... unexpected," Y'shtola began, her voice low, almost a whisper, yet infused with absolute ascendency. "Undesired in its unsolicited nature. Yet, I find that I do not regret its revelation. What I demand now, however, is order. From this moment, all such intimacies—all engagement within this dynamic—will be at my express decree. You will not touch me, you will not speak of such matters, nor shall you act upon them, without my explicit leave. Do you understand?"

   Sevryn's voice was clear, unwavering, utterly devoid of the hesitant lilt from moments ago. "Yes, Mistress. By your command."

   A wave of profound satisfaction washed over Y'shtola. She reached out, her hand gently cupping Sevryn's jaw, her thumb brushing softly over Sevryn's lips. Her intense gaze seemed to bore into Sevryn's very soul, a perception that transcended sight. "Good, Captain," she murmured, the words barely audible, filled with a deep, possessive tenderness. "You are mine, when I command it so."

   After a beat, Y'shtola's hand released Sevryn's jaw, drifting lower to briefly caress her throat, then her shoulder. The touch, lingering and warm, conveyed a silent directive. Her voice shifted, subtly, back to its familiar, affectionate timbre. "That is all for now, my Captain. You were exquisite."

   She straightened, her own movements fluid and graceful, returning to her full height. "Rise, my dear." Her voice was loving, a tender invitation rather than an order. As Sevryn, with a hushed, content sigh, subtly relaxed her posture and rose to stand before her, Y'shtola's hand, instead of withdrawing, moved to cup Sevryn's cheek, her thumb tracing the line of her jaw. The touch was now purely tender, devoid of any dominion, speaking only of fondness and relief. "Come here," Y'shtola murmured, a soft invitation that Sevryn answered instantly, leaning into the touch, closing the small distance between them. A rare, gentle smile graced Y'shtola's lips, her profound contentment a palpable warmth against Sevryn's essence, mirroring the vibrant swell of their shared aether. "And know, my dearest Warrior," she whispered, her voice barely a breath, resonating deep within Sevryn's soul, "this... this is only the beginning.”

<<^>>

Chapter Text

   The quiet solemnity of the Main Hall of the Baldesion Annex felt strangely heavy, imbued with the unspoken weight of a farewell. Sevryn stood amidst the familiar faces of the Scions, but her gaze lingered on two in particular, memorizing each curve of their expressions, each subtle shift in their posture. A long journey lay ahead, across continents and through dangers yet unknown, and these final moments would be the anchors she carried into the gathering storm.

   Alisaie stepped forward, her eyes bright with earnest concern and unmistakable affection. She took Sevryn's arm, her grip firm and lingering, a warm anchor against the chill of parting. "Sevryn, listen to me," she said, her voice clear despite a faint tremor. "You must be careful in Thavnair. It's a dangerous place, and with everything else… just promise me you won't take unnecessary risks." Her eyes, wide and sincere, met Sevryn's directly, a plea so raw it almost cracked the Warrior’s own composure. "Come back to us. Come back to me." She squeezed her arm once more, a quiet plea, before reluctantly letting go, her hand falling back to her side as if severed from its purpose. The love in her gaze had been an almost unbearable burden, a precious weight Sevryn had to carry into the unknown.

   Then, Y'shtola moved. She always possessed a grace that bordered on the ethereal, but in that moment, it was imbued with an almost palpable gravitational pull. She hadn’t embraced the Warrior. Instead, her gaze locked onto Sevryn’s, deepening into an intensity that seemed to peel back layers of being, seeing not just the Warrior of Light, but the very core of Sevryn herself. It wasn't just looking; it was claiming. Her hand lifted, a silken movement, to cup Sevryn’s jaw for a fleeting moment, her fingertips lightly tracing the line of the Warrior’s neck just beneath her ear. "Be well, Captain," Y'shtola’s voice, a low, resonant murmur, vibrated deep within Sevryn's bones, a sound meant only for her. "And remember... who waits." The touch vanished as quickly as it appeared, but the implicit order had settled deep within Sevryn, a shiver of heat, a primal surge of submission that had grounded her even as it left her aching. Come back.

   Sevryn had met their farewells with quiet resolve, absorbing the love and the command, both of which only seemed to underscore the solitary path she walked. There were no desperate embraces before she departed; only the profound, often unspoken, connections that bound her to them, even as her duty pulled her to the world's distant edges.

~~~

   The small, weathered boat sliced through the cerulean waters of Thavnair, its rhythmic slap against the hull the only sound save for the rush of wind. Sevryn stood at the bow, her eyes fixed on the distant, terrible spire that pierced the bruised purple sky: the Tower of Zot. Beside her, Nidhana, her Arkasodara form a comforting, albeit imposing, presence, stood with quiet anticipation, a shimmering warding scale resting in her hands. The journey had been long, the memories of home already fading into the golden haze of the southern sun, replaced by the humid air and the scent of foreign spices.

   "We should soon cross the threshold of the tower’s influence.  Any moment now..." Nidhana spoke, her voice surprisingly feminine, a gentle counterpoint to the deep thrum that already vibrated through the boat's timbers from the approaching tower.  An aetheric barrier flickered around her as the scale’s warding magic responded to the tower’s corruption."It’s working! And you- you are still yourself?  Then I’d like to see how it fares closer to the tower, if we could." Sevryn nodded.

   As they neared the shore of the desolate island, the air itself seemed to congeal, heavy and foreboding. The tower, a jagged needle of despair, drank the vibrant aether from the surrounding landscape, leaving an oppressive chill in its wake. Once the boat scraped against the rocky beach, Sevryn leapt out, her hand instinctively going to the hilt of her blade.

   Nidhana followed, her massive frame moving with surprising agility, and then began to slowly, cautiously approach the tower's entrance. In her hands, she held the glistening warding scale, its surface gleaming faintly against the gloom. Her eyes, usually so expressive, were narrowed in concentration as she tested its efficacy against the building's noxious aura.

   "Praise be to the Sisters!" Nidhana suddenly spoke, a joyous, relieved sound that echoed oddly in the oppressive silence. Her tusks tipped skyward in a rare display of excitement, confirming the scale's success. "We made it! And the scale has proven itself to be everything we hoped it would be.  Now we can focus on production. Once we’ve equipped and returned with an entire survey team, this menace will soon give up its secrets."

   Her exultation was cut short.

   Before Sevryn could even blink, two deep, ominous purple aetheric chains, thick as a man's torso and radiating a malevolent chill, snaked out from the tower's entrance with terrifying speed. They coiled around Nidhana's powerful form, cinching tight before she could even react. A strangled cry escaped the Arkasodara's lips as she was brutally yanked, pulled backwards into the tower's gaping maw.

   "NIDHANA!"

   Sevryn roared, her heart seizing in her chest. There was no hesitation. She didn't pause to weigh risks or consider strategy. The image of those baleful chains, the sound of Nidhana's cry, spurred her forward like a thrown spear. She launched herself into the tower's entrance, the abrupt transition from the heavy, external air to the suffocating gloom within jarring her senses.

   The Tower of Zot's interior was a labyrinth of shadowed corridors and echoing halls, lit by an unnatural, pallid glow. Sevryn pressed forward, her boots pounding a desperate rhythm against the stone, the fear for her companion a heavy knot in her gut. She rounded a corner, into a vast, cavernous chamber, and there she was.

   Nidhana, her massive body wrapped tightly in the aetheric chains, was struggling violently against her bonds, even as they held her suspended. "Let me go!... Let me go! Rrgh!" she grunted.

   Fandaniel, with a casual, almost bored expression on his face, merely watched her efforts. "Oh, do calm down," he chastened her, a faint, condescending smile playing on his lips. "You'll only hurt yourself thrashing about like that."

   "Stop, you can't do this, please!" Nidhana cried, her voice strained, a desperate plea against the inevitable.

   As she spoke, she was brutally shoved forward. Her head plunged into a fleshy, sphincter-like orifice in the wall, and with a wet, obscene squelch, her tusks and all emerged from the pulsing, grotesque opening, like a macabre trophy mounted to the living stone. Her massive body, held fast by the wall, went limp, her eyes glazing over. She was catatonic. The warding scale, now abandoned, dropped at Fandaniel's feet. He bent with leisurely grace to pick it up, the brilliance of the gold scale a stark contrast to the deep purple of his robe. Regarding the scale in his hands, a cruel glint in his eye, he said: "A little late for heroics, I'm afraid. Hmm... the similarities are striking."

   The Warrior gritted her teeth, her fists clenched tight in a battle stance, her eyes fixed on Fandaniel. The rage was a cold, hard ember in her gut, fueled by Nidhana's suffering and the Ascian's nonchalance.

   Fandaniel slowly turned to look up at Sevryn, a dramatic shock blooming on his face. He jumped back a step, a hand fluttering to his chest. "My, my, such hostility. Never before has my artistry so displeased." He cast a glance at Nidhana, now trapped and motionless in the wall, then back to Sevryn, a mocking sigh escaping him. "My patrons of old would've positively squealed in delight! Though, between you and me, I find gushing praise exhausting."

   "Patrons of Old?" Sevryn's voice was a low growl, barely a whisper of her fury.

   Fandaniel turned his attention from Nidhana, his eyes glinting with amusement, and with a flourish, he tossed the warding scale over his head and behind him, letting it fall unceremoniously into the chasm below. With a dramatic bow, worthy of a stage performer, he began: "Allow me to tell you a story. Surely, you've yet to hear the one about Fandaniel, the sundered Ascian. I inherited the position—and the soul—of the Fandaniel who sat on the Convocation in the time of the Final Days. Theoretically speaking." He straightened, waving dismissive hands as if brushing away dust. "Practically speaking, that fact is of no consequence! I was born and lived as... well. Me." He turned, pacing slowly. "Eventually, I was recruited into the Ascians and imbued with the former Fandaniel's knowledge and memories, but I never felt that they were truly a part of who I am."

Fandaniel stopped, his eyes dancing with a callous, knowing light as they fixed on Sevryn's. "I don't suppose you, Warrior of Light, could relate to such a feeling? A prior existence, a memory, perhaps, that does not quite mesh with the 'you' who stands before me now?" A sinister smile played on his lips, hinting at depths of knowledge Sevryn didn't possess. 

"How to explain? Perhaps, if I told you who I was before my Ascian embrace. Although, that chapter, too, is a past I've long since discarded. I have it on good authority you've poked your nose into an Allagan ruin or two, yes? Then I expect you've heard of me. The old me."

   The world pulsed. A blinding light, then an agonizing pressure. Sevryn gasped, grabbing her head as a thousand voices screamed in her mind, tearing at the edges of her consciousness. The last thing she heard, sharp and clear amidst the chaos, was a voice, echoing from without her very being: "Amon, at your service."

   Then, the world went black.

~~~

   As darkness consumed Sevryn, the grotesque chamber flickered, and new figures materialized from a garish purple haze. Three shrouded forms, their faces obscured by deep hoods, moved with an unsettling grace, their aether hoary and sullen. Between them stepped their leader, a stunning Au Ra female, her scales a deep obsidian that seemed to absorb the dim light, her horns curving elegantly, almost regally. Yet, despite her striking beauty, her presence radiated a chilling power, an aura of ruthless, ancient conviction that spoke of dangers far older than Fandaniel's theatrics.

   Fandaniel turned to them, his bored expression replaced by a faint, almost imperceptible smirk of triumph. "Ah, just in time. She's ripe for the picking."

   The leader's voice was a low, resonant purr, like dry leaves rustling in a gale. "Excellent. The conditions are precisely as foretold. Our alliance, as you agreed, is well-served." Her gaze flickered to Sevryn's unconscious form, a predatory gleam in her eyes. "Her unique constitution, amplified by… Esteem's presence within her, makes her the ideal vessel. You will have your chaos, and we... will have our return."

   Fandaniel scoffed, waving a dismissive hand. "Indeed. Though I must confess, the intricacies of your archaic rituals are rather... dull. Still, if it adds to the turmoil, and if it provides my Lord Zenos with a more formidable opponent – one whose very essence twists and rebels against her own will – then by all means. A gift, wouldn't you say, to make his reunion with her all the more sweeter now that he too has found new strength?" His eyes gleamed with a malevolent delight, anticipating the brutal spectacle.

   The Au Ra's lips curved into a faint, satisfied smile that sent a shiver down the spine. She turned her dark gaze to the three shrouded figures behind her. At her silent command, each cultist drew a wicked, gleaming knife from beneath their robes, their blades emitting a sickly purple aetheric glow, "Precisely. Let the bindings begin."

~~~   

   The Main Hall of the Baldesion Annex, usually a quiet hum of scholarly activity, felt almost unnaturally still, the silence amplified by the weighty, unspoken anxieties of its current occupants. Dust motes danced in the sparse sunlight filtering through tall, arched windows, illuminating towering shelves of ancient tomes and forgotten maps.

   At a massive, polished table, laden with scrolls and an array of humming aetherometers, sat Y'shtola. Her brow was furrowed in deep concentration, her sightless eyes sweeping over the delicate script of an ancient grimoire. The Forum’s censure, designed to sideline the Scions, had inadvertently freed her immense intellect. Cut off from active field work and political machinations, Y'shtola now delved deep into the most esoteric lore. Her studies focused on the dark, forgotten arts of the Mhachi—their terrifying obsession with the Thirteenth, and their mastery of binding void-sent into weapons. She sought patterns, methods, weaknesses in the very fabric of blackest aether.

   Across the hall, near a large map of Ilsabard that hung draped over a tall stand, Alisaie paced with restless energy. She picked up a small, crystal globe, idly polishing its surface with her thumb before setting it down with a soft clink. Her gaze drifted from the map, to the silent aetherometers, then finally to Y'shtola, buried deep in her studies. A sigh, barely audible, escaped her lips. The Forum's decree had left them feeling impotent, trapped in this gilded cage of knowledge while Sevryn was out there, alone, facing dangers they couldn't even fathom. The lack of news from Thavnair was a dull, constant ache in her chest.

   A sudden, sharp jolt, like a cold hand reaching into her very soul, made Alisaie gasp. It was a nauseating lurch in her gut, a profound and undeniable sense of wrongness that wrapped around her heart, pulling tight. It was distinctly Sevryn. Her hand instinctively flew to her chest, her eyes wide with a fear she rarely allowed herself to show.

   At the exact same instant, Y'shtola stiffened. The subtle hum of the aetherometers around her spiked into a discordant, grinding whine. Her brow furrowed deeper, her lips parted in a silent gasp of pure alarm. Her hand, slender and quick, shot out, her fingers tightening into a fist as she attempted to reach through the profound distance, to touch the essence of Sevryn's aether through their bond. But the familiar resonance of Sevryn's signature was choked, met with a sickening wall of static, a stomach-churning sensation of something twisted and unnatural. The connection, usually so clear and strong, simply wasn't there. Her heart clenched, a bracing dread washing over her. Y'shtola's hand slammed onto the table, scattering scrolls as she pushed herself up from the table. "Alisaie!" she barked, her voice sharp with an urgency that sliced through the quiet hall.

   Alisaie, already reeling from her own internal dread, met Y'shtola's gaze. "Y'shtola, did you...?"

   Y'shtola didn't wait for her to finish. Her expression was grim, her face paler than usual, haunted by the abrupt, chilling emptiness of the bond. "Her aether... it's wrong. A profound distortion at its core. It feels... alien, corrupted. As if an outside will has been woven into the very fabric of her essence, twisting it from within. I... I cannot reach her."

   Alisaie felt the words like a punch to the gut. The cold dread in her stomach solidified into a knot of icy terror. "What... what does that mean?"

   Y'shtola's eyes, though unseeing, seemed to pierce through the distance, her voice low and grave, now edged with a dangerous, almost imperceptible undertone. "It means... someone has laid claim to her. Not by capture alone, but by a deliberate warping of her very being. This isn't a mere wound, Alisaie. It's an imposition. A profound violation of her aether, designed to shackle her essence, to control her. It bears the chilling resonance of certain forbidden arts... arts the Mhachi once wielded to bind powerful beings to their will. And if what I sense is true, it is absolute."  She paused, a flicker of something dark crossed her features, a raw, cold fury. Her gaze, when it returned to Alisaie, was gleaming with a frigid, almost vengeful light that belied her usual composure. "They have imprisoned her from within, Alisaie. And whatever they've done... it has severed our bond. Completely."

   Alisaie stared, her mouth slightly agape, unable to process the enormity of what Y'shtola was saying. "Severed...? But... but I just... I haven't felt anything different. She hasn't reached out, no, but I haven't felt a break. A void. It's just been quiet." Her voice was a desperate whisper, refusing to accept the grim pronouncement. How could she not have known? How could she not have felt such a devastating loss of connection?

   Y'shtola's expression hardened, a deep weariness settling over her features. "That is precisely what makes it so insidious, Alisaie. They have not simply broken the connection; they have masked its rupture. Her aether is... mimicking the absence, creating an illusion of normalcy. On her end, she likely feels nothing amiss with the bond, merely that we haven't reached out. But on ours... it is a dead end. A facade over a festering wound." Her gaze dropped to the Mhachi grimoire on the table, her hand resting heavily on its cover. "These ancient texts speak of such foul arts. Aetheric false fronts, designed to conceal true subjugation."

   Alisaie pressed her fists against her temples, a low groan escaping her. "So she doesn't even know... She's walking around, aether compromised, being controlled, and she's not even aware of it?" The thought was agonizing. "Then we have to go! We have to get to Thavnair, now! We have to find her!" She spun towards the door, her desperation overriding all caution and the Forum's decrees.

   "And do what, Alisaie?" Y'shtola's voice cut through her frantic energy, sharp and unwavering. Alisaie froze, turning back to face her. "Charge in blindly? We know nothing of what she truly faces beyond this veiled corruption. We cannot even reach her to ascertain her precise location or condition. The Forum would see our swift departure as defiance, and our expulsion would inevitably follow. Then what? Who would remain here to gather the intelligence we desperately need?"

   Y'shtola swept a hand over the scattered scrolls on the table. "Our path to aiding her lies here, for now. In understanding what has been done. The depth of this sorcery... if they can truly mimic an aetheric bond, their capabilities far exceed mere brute force. We must ascertain the nature of this particular 'binding' and its weaknesses. Only then can we formulate a plan that has any hope of success without putting her, or ourselves, in even greater peril." She looked at Alisaie, her resolve unyielding. "Rash action will condemn her, Alisaie. We must be calculated."

   Alisaie sagged, the fire draining from her as the cold logic of Y'shtola's words settled. The frustration was a bitter taste in her mouth. She hated being powerless. She hated being trapped. But more than anything, she hated the thought of Sevryn suffering, unaware, while they were so far away. "Then... what do we do?" she whispered, her voice raw.

   She moved numbly towards the table, coming to stand beside Y'shtola, her hands clenching into fists at its edge.

   "We continue our research," Y'shtola said, her voice firm, picking up another ancient tome. "We delve deeper into the darkest corners of Mhachi lore. We uncover the purpose of these bindings, their effects, and most importantly, how they can be undone. We prepare. And we wait for any sign, any opportunity, that allows us to move."

   Y'shtola's gaze softened, leaving the harsh edge of her strategic resolve to meet Alisaie's pained eyes. She extended a hand, her slender fingers briefly covering Alisaie's clenched fist where it rested on the table's edge. "I know this is difficult, Alisaie. More difficult than words can convey." Her voice, usually so precise, held a rare, tender tremor. "But you are not alone in this fear. We stand together, as always. For her. For all of us." The brief touch was a silent promise, a shared anchor in the storm of their worry.

   Alisaie looked at their joined hands, a flicker of something beyond despair in her eyes – a nascent resolve, forged in shared anguish. She squeezed Y'shtola's hand, a wordless acknowledgment of the comfort offered and the burden they now shared. "Then... we work," she murmured, the decision solidifying. "Until we can do more."

~~~

"What is life, but a brief jaunt ending in emptiness?"

   Sevryn blinked. The vision and darkness were gone, replaced by the same wan ashen glow that permeated the Tower of Zot. She found herself standing on her own two feet, surprisingly stable, in what appeared to be the very center of the same vast, cavernous chamber where Fandaniel had been.

   Confusion clouded her mind. The last thing she remembered was the blinding light, the screaming voices, and the utter blackness. Now... nothing, save for a faint, phantom ache that traced strange, unfamiliar lines across her skin, vanishing almost as soon as she noticed it. Just this strange, quiet emptiness. She looked around, her eyes adjusting to the dim, unnatural light. She was utterly alone. No sign of Fandaniel. Her gaze snapped to the wall where Nidhana had been entombed, and a fresh wave of horror washed over her as she saw the Arkasodara, trapped and soporose, with her face twisted in silent agony, small tusks, her trunk, and even traces of her brightly colored clothing grotesquely protruding from the living stone.

   "So easily distracted!" Fandaniel's voice, disembodied and echoing from somewhere high above her, unseen, sliced through the unsettling silence. "Why, I almost left without saying farewell. As for your friend, you needn't worry - these pawns are far more useful to me alive as fuel for the primals. Ah ah ah! If you attempt to pull them free, they will die, so- enjoy tackling that conundrum with your comrades. We shall meet again! Not in one of these spires, oh no, but somewhere more suitably grandiose. Your favorite playmate is ever so eager to see you."

  With one last, furious look at the grotesque relief, Sevryn turned and ran towards the exit of the tower, the stony weight of Fandaniel’s words pressing down on her.

<<^>>

Chapter Text

   The low hum of aetherometers and the susurrus of hushed conversations gradually faded in the Baldesion Annex as the Thavnairian debriefing drew to a close. Y'shtola’s silver eyes met those of Thancred and Sevryn as they recounted their perilous journey and Vrtra's plea to assault the Tower of Zot. Throughout the exchange, a distinct disquiet settled within her. She had been observing Sevryn, her aetheric sight keenly probing for the profound distortions and malevolent sigils she had sensed days prior. 

   Yet, now, Sevryn's aura, though a touch duller and tinged with weariness, held only a faint echo of the previous unrest. No blatant purple threads, no violent clashing of energies—just the lingering fatigue of a warrior who had faced immense peril. This normalcy, however, was precisely what sharpened Y'shtola's suspicion. The true nature of the binding had proven elusive, capable of surprising subtlety. The very absence of blatant anomaly was itself an anomaly.

   As Krile concluded her summary, her voice a distant hum to Y'shtola's focused senses, Y'shtola's eyes drifted, seemingly casual, to where Sevryn stood—a silent, imposing figure amidst the relieved Scions. Her very stillness sang of a strength held in reserve, a counterpoint to the muted discord Y'shtola perceived. 

   "Captain," Y'shtola purred, her voice a low undercurrent, outwardly calm and measured for the room, yet carrying a deeper resonance, a specific, intimate lilt meant only for Sevryn's ears. "If you would indulge me," she continued, allowing a hint of playful challenge to infuse her tone, "I find myself with a few lingering questions regarding the particulars of your journey. Perhaps a more... private discussion, to ensure no crucial details were overlooked?" The invitation, a precise instruction cloaked in academic inquiry, hung in the charged air between them, shimmering with intent.

   Sevryn's posture, outwardly relaxed, betrayed the slightest tremor that rippled through her at the intimate command. Her gray eyes, usually so direct and unyielding, met Y'shtola's gaze for a fleeting, charged moment, a spark of knowing recognition passing between them, an unspoken acknowledgment of the deeper currents that flowed beneath the surface of their polite exchange.

  "Aye, milady," she replied, her voice a low, even tenor, her customary directness now infused with a deliberate, gentle yielding. "I believe I can spare a few more details. Later this evening, then." The almost imperceptible nod she offered was a silent promise, a physical echo of her acceptance of the unspoken proposal, before she smoothly turned back to the lingering group of Scions, her expression once more settling into its customary, impenetrable stoicism. The faint flush that warmed her neck, however, was a secret known only to the discerning eye of Y'shtola's aetheric sight.

~~

   The quiet hum of arcane energies thrummed through Y'shtola's private room within the Andron, a stark contrast to the distant sounds of Old Sharlayan settling into its evening rhythm. Blue-flamed candles flickered on candelabras, casting a soft, inviting glow over the blue and green rugs and deep wine-colored table. The air was thick with the familiar scent of sage and a faint tang of ozone, Y'shtola's aetheric presence a palpable weight that drew Sevryn inward as she stepped across the threshold. The heavy door clicked shut behind her, sealing them in a cocoon of anticipation.

   Y'shtola stood by her desk, silhouetted against the ambient light, her posture serene yet commanding. "Captain," her voice, low, eloquent yet warm with authority, filled the space. "You've returned to me, whole in body if not in spirit. Come closer."

   Sevryn stepped forward, her shoulders squaring instinctively, though her gray eyes held a flicker of exhaustion from the Tower of Zot's ordeal. Her aura, normally a steady beacon, pulsed unevenly, and Y'shtola's aetheric sight, sharp and discerning, immediately caught the quiet discord beneath its surface. It was a muted hum, a low vibration that hinted at a deeper, unseen struggle, stirring both her intellectual curiosity and a protective, possessive instinct to understand and master the anomaly.

   Y'shtola's tail flicked, a slow, deliberate movement that belied the surge of complex emotions within her. Her aetheric vision, usually a tool for detached observation, now pulsed with a compelling urgency as it grazed Sevryn's presence. She felt the gentle shift in Sevryn's aether—a faint, almost shimmering layer that seemed to absorb more light than it emitted, an ephemeral veil over something she knew was vital and raw. This was more than exhaustion; it was a careful constructed quietude, a silence that sang of hidden control. To unravel it, she needed Sevryn utterly open, body and soul. More deeply, she craved to offer Sevryn the solace of yielding, of allowing another to bear a portion of her immense burden, even if for a few exquisite moments. The command forming on her lips was not merely an order, but an offer, a test of Sevryn's burgeoning trust and submission, aimed at peeling back the unseen layers.

   "Captain," her voice, a silken cord, unwound in the space between them, "you have presented yourself before me." Her sightless silver gaze felt like a burning caress, stripping Sevryn bare, "Kneel." 

The single word was a drawn-out, languid whip, snapping the air, settling upon Sevryn with a weight of undeniable  power. With unyielding poise, Y'shtola's hand slowly and deliberately descended upon Sevryn's shoulder, a touch promising both exquisite pleasure and absolute dominion, "Spine straight, hands flat upon your thighs, gaze lowered. Show me the devotion in your posture, Captain. Yield to my will, and let your body speak the truth your aether hides." Each syllable was a thread, winding around Sevryn, not just commanding, but seducing her into the profound depths of surrender.

   Sevryn's knees hit the plush rug with a soft thud, her descent fluid, almost too graceful for the leather armor she still wore. Her spine straightened with an unnatural snap, her head bowing instantly, dark hair falling over her brow. Her rugged hands settled flat and still upon her armored thighs with a precision that bordered on chilling. Y'shtola's aetheric sight registered the immediate flare of Sevryn's aether, yet within it, the deep purples of the binding she now recognized pulsed with a disquieting eagerness, mingling with the gold in a way that felt less like integration and more like anticipation. This disturbing alacrity was a hint of a subtle corruption of will.

   "I am yours to command, Mistress," Sevryn murmured, her voice husky with an intensity that sent a shiver down Y'shtola's spine, but beneath the thrill, a sharp thread of apprehension uncoiled. The words were unprompted, spilling forth with a fervent, almost desperate, need to please. It was precisely what Y'shtola had sought, yet the sheer, unbridled instinctiveness of her submission felt... borrowed. Too perfect. Too fast.

   Y'shtola's tail flicked, her gaze, narrowing as she circled Sevryn with the unhurried command of a sculptor discerning the form within untouched stone. Her robes whispered against the floor as she moved, her focus absolute, drinking in Sevryn's perfectly still form: the taut line of her shoulders, the barely perceptible tremor in her strong hands resting on her thighs, the radiating heat of her skin beneath the leather. Sevryn's silence, her utter stillness, was a canvas upon which Y'shtola painted her precise probes. The Miqo'te's hand lifted once more, not to touch, but to hover an ilm from Sevryn's neck, near the pulse point, sending out a gentle, exploratory current of her own astral aether. Y'shtola felt the contact of her aether with Sevryn's aura, searching for the slight distortions she suspected lay hidden beneath the smooth façade of health. It was a careful probe, testing the shimmering veil of the binding's deceptive masking, a concentrated effort to discern if the hidden sigils would betray their presence under this intimate pressure, even through the armor and cloth.

   A low groan rumbled from Sevryn's throat, a sound torn from deep within her, as Y'shtola's aether touched her. Her head snapped to the side, exposing the vulnerable curve of her neck more fully, an involuntary offering. Y'shtola's attention sharpened, her gaze drawn to a faint shimmer, almost imperceptible, just beneath the dark fall of Sevryn's hair. Without a word, Y'shtola moved to a nearby candelabra, plucking one of the blue-flamed candles from its holder. Its cold, otherworldly light cast dancing shadows as she brought it close, the flickering flame hovering ilms from Sevryn's skin. As the ethereal glow grazed the nape of Sevryn's neck, an intricate sigil, fine as spun moonlight, flared to life, etched faintly into her skin with a mesmerizing, subtle purple luminescence, before swiftly fading once more. It was undeniably there, then gone, a phantom mark. Y'shtola's silver eyes, usually serene, now glinted with a cold, almost predatory satisfaction.

   "So," Y'shtola murmured, her low voice, laced with quiet triumph. "It appears your body holds more mysteries than you realize, Captain. Mysteries I intend to uncover. All of them. Strip away your armor. Let me see what other truths the light reveals."

   Sevryn's strong, calloused hands, nicked with faint scars from years of wielding weapons with lethal finesse, now moved with an almost clumsy haste to obey. The buckles of her dark leather chest piece, studded with small metal plates, yielded with sharp clicks that echoed in the hushed room, each piece sliding away to reveal the sweat-damp undershirt beneath. Her muscular shoulders, sculpted and powerful, flexed with the effort, and her full breasts, bound firmly by the chest wrap, rose and fell with eager, shallow breaths that betrayed the fervent intensity of her submission. Y'shtola watched, her aetheric sight peeling back layers as the physical barriers fell away. The muted discord in Sevryn's aura grew more pronounced with each shed piece, the deep purples of the binding she now recognized becoming a deeper, more insistent thrum woven into her essence.

   "Faster, Captain," Y'shtola urged, her voice a silken lash that seemed to coil around Sevryn's very will. "Unburden yourself completely. Do not test my patience." Her words, imbued with a subtle, commanding aether, urged Sevryn to shed not just her armor, but her inhibitions, to lay bare all that was concealed.

   Sevryn's powerful hands moved with even greater urgency, fumbling at the ties of her simple chest wrap. A low rumble sounded in her throat, a sound of almost feral impatience to obey, as she prepared to tear it away. But Y'shtola’s voice, now a hushed, firm command, sliced through the rising tension, pulling Sevryn’s frantic movements to a sudden, absolute halt.

   "Stop," Y'shtola bade, her tone devoid of impatience, filled instead with a captivating, tender authority that brooked no argument. She stepped closer, movements fluid and exact. Her fingers, cool and steady, reached out, lightly brushing Sevryn's trembling hands away from the wrap. The touch was an intimate assertion of control, making Sevryn's breath hitch, a silent testament to the raw power between them. With unhurried grace, Y'shtola began to untie the simple knots herself, her silver eyes fixed on Sevryn's face, watching every slight shift of emotion, every instinctive shiver that coursed through her. The material, once shed, joined the discarded armor on the rug, leaving Sevryn's beautiful, muscular torso fully exposed. Y'shtola's gaze, now unrestricted, drifted over the taut curves of Sevryn's abdomen, her firm breasts, before returning to the faint shimmer of the sigil at her solar plexus. For Y'shtola, the sight was a magnificent temptation, stirring a warm, forbidden yearning, a deep-seated desire to explore the unseen depths of the body laid bare before her, beyond just the binding's ethereal veil.

   Y'shtola's fingers began a deliberate, feather-light exploration. Starting from the faint glow of the sigil at Sevryn's solar plexus, her touch drifted, following the unseen paths of aether that pulsed beneath the skin. She traced the taut lines of Sevryn's abdomen, each flex of muscle beneath her palm sending a subtle tremor through Sevryn's frame. Her hand then glided upwards, charting the curve of Sevryn's ribs, feeling for any anomalies, any hidden resistance. The search continued down Sevryn's arms. As she reached Sevryn's left wrist, her thumb brushed over a faintly raised, almost silken-smooth line, and another intricate sigil, mirroring the one at Sevryn's neck, momentarily flared into subtle purple light before dimming. A soft gasp escaped Sevryn's lips, her strong fingers curled inwards.

   "Remarkable," Y'shtola murmured, her voice a low, fascinated whisper, directed less at Sevryn and more at the arcane mystery unfolding. Her touch shifted to Sevryn's right arm, her exploration slow and deliberate, designed to elicit every slight reaction. As her fingers glided down the taut bicep and forearm, she located the matching mark at Sevryn's right wrist. This time, as the sigil pulsed with purple, Y'shtola's aetheric sight perceived a faint, almost microscopic siphon of aether, a minute withdrawal of vitality that seemed to vanish into the sigil itself. A gentle shiver ran through Sevryn's body, a physical echo of the minute drain, even as her aether pulsed with increased eagerness in response to Y'shtola's touch.

   Y'shtola's gaze remained fixed on Sevryn's right wrist, silver eyes tracing the disappearing trickle of aether. The faint drain served as confirmation. She moved, felinely circling Sevryn once more, her movements unhurried, yet brimming with purpose. She knelt, her robes pooling around her, bringing her face level with Sevryn's hips. With deliberate precision, her fingertips brushed against the leather breeches still clinging to Sevryn's strong thighs. The slight tremor that coursed through Sevryn's frame intensified, her breath catching in her throat. Y'shtola's lips curved in a knowing smile. This was the final layer, the gateway to the last of the sigils. "Remove your breeches, Captain," she murmured, her voice a low, husky thread that wove around Sevryn's mounting arousal. "Let us expose all the truths your body holds."

   Sevryn's body tensed, a sharp, almost animalistic intake of breath filling the quiet room as Y'shtola's words, low and commanding, resonated through her. Her fingers, still splayed against her thighs, clenched, and a tremor ripped through her frame. The metallic click of her belt buckle broke the silence, quickly followed by the whisper of leather and linen sliding down her muscular legs. The breeches pooled at her knees, revealing the muscled expanse of her inner thighs. Y'shtola's silver eyes, unseeing yet all-perceiving, immediately fixed on two more sigils, one on each inner thigh. They shimmered into faint purple luminescence, echoing the marks on her neck and solar plexus, before dimming into near invisibility.

   Sevryn, now clad only in her simple undergarments, remained perfectly still, her breath coming in ragged gasps, her head still bowed in absolute submission. Y'shtola's gaze lingered on the newly revealed marks, a quiet satisfaction softening her lips. She knelt fully before Sevryn, drawing her closer still, her hand reaching out to trace the taut line of Sevryn's inner thigh. The touch was feather-light, yet it sent a profound shiver through Sevryn, whose gilded aether pulsed with increased eagerness around Y'shtola's fingers, the deep purples of the binding thrumming more insistently.

   "Stunning, Captain," Y'shtola purred, her voice a low, husky caress, laced with true admiration and a rising, possessive thrill. "Every hidden facet of you unveils itself, begging to be understood, to be claimed. Now, allow me this final intimacy. Rise, and turn from me."

  Sevryn's honed muscles, conditioned by countless battles, coiled and uncoiled with obedient grace as she slowly pushed herself upright. The damp linen, now the sole barrier, shifted and clung, hinting at the curves beneath. With a controlled fluidity that spoke of an almost fervent need to please, she turned her back to Y'shtola, presenting her spine, a silent offering in the soft candlelight.

   Y'shtola rose with her, her gaze following the flow of Sevryn's aether, anticipating the final revelation. Her hand, cool and deliberate, reached out, tracing the strong line of Sevryn's spine, feeling the subtle contours of muscle and bone. As her fingertips drifted lower, to the small of Sevryn's back, a deep shudder rippled through the Warrior. Just above her sacrum, another intricate sigil, larger and more complex than the others, flared to life, a mesmerizing pool of subtle purple light etched faintly into the skin before fading. The faint shiver that accompanied its appearance spoke of a deep-seated reaction.

   "Seven," Y'shtola whispered, a breath of quiet triumph escaping her lips, "Precisely as the ancient texts described." Her hand lingered over the last revealed sigil, her aetheric sight plunging deeper, attempting to pierce the veil of the binding's sophisticated masking. It was here, at the anchor point, that she felt the true, insidious drain, a constant, minute siphoning of Sevryn's essence that explained the lingering fatigue, the muffled discord. And beneath that drain, a turbulent, raw energy pulsed. Not the passive aether of the bound sigils, but a primal, struggling force: Esteem. It thrashed, a captive storm, its attempts to break through the Mhachi constraints now desperate, fueled by the direct presence of Y'shtola's demanding aether. This struggle resonated, a muted scream against its imprisonment, twisting within Sevryn's very core.

   The air grew thick, vibrant with the collision of wills and aether. Y'shtola intensified her projection, a concentrated beam of astral energy pushing relentlessly against the binding's resistance. Beneath her touch, Sevryn's body trembled, her muscles coiling tight, her soul's aether swirling with increasing turmoil. The deep purples of the sigils pulsed erratically, attempting to reassert their hidden hold, yet the sheer force of Y'shtola's focused will, combined with Sevryn's own overwhelming need to yield, began to fray their insidious control.

   A searing spike lanced through Sevryn's core as the binding tore, and a low growl, raw and guttural, tore from her throat. Her head snapped back, eyes blazing with a golden flash as a wave of untamed umbral energy erupted from within, clashing violently with Y'shtola's astral current. For a fleeting instant, the room was bathed in blinding, aubergine light, a chaotic symphony of clashing aether as the binding's static shattered, allowing a primal force to momentarily seize control.

   "Seer," Esteem growled, its voice resonating with an ancient intelligence that was distinctly not Sevryn's, yet held a terrifying echo of her underlying power. Its golden eyes, burning with untamed light, locked onto Y'shtola’s silver gaze, a chilling admiration glinting within their depths. "Your will cuts deep. Their chains are clumsy, yet effective. They siphon her darkness, twist her obedience, blind her to influence. Free us, if you would truly command her. Or I will tear this fragile vessel apart to be done with their meddling." Its voice dropped, a silken purr of dangerous respect, "You understand power, Sorceress. You wield her soul as I would—with precision, with intent. She is strong, but they seek to break her for their own ends. She is mine."

   Sevryn’s body spasmed, a choked gasp escaping as the binding’s threads surged, coiling tight. Her vision dimmed, the brilliant gold receding as she staggered, her knees buckling. Released from the violent tension, her legs gave out; she crashed to the rug, but before her face could meet the ground, Y'shtola’s hand instantly caught her jaw, steadying her head and lifting her gaze. Y'shtola searched for Esteem’s trace, but only Sevryn’s wide, unfocused gray eyes met hers, soft with confusion.

   “Mistress?” she whispered, her voice unsteady, “Did I… displease you?”

   Y’shtola’s tail curled, a slow, deliberate wrap around her own ankle, her mind racing with the information Esteem had provided: Mhachi sigils, voidsent, the binding's perversion. Yet, that intellectual maelstrom was eclipsed by the sight of Sevryn’s bewildered, vulnerable gaze. Her thumb, still at Sevryn’s jaw, slid lower, gently brushing her bruised lips – a possessive, tender claim.

   “No, Captain,” she purred, her voice a low, velvet caress that seemed to stroke Sevryn’s very soul, “You are exquisite. More so, for the depths you unknowingly contain, and the truths you unwittingly reveal.” She leaned in, her breath warm against Sevryn’s ear, sharing a secret meant for them alone, “That chain, my love, the one that binds you… I will shatter it. You are mine. Entirely, utterly, undeniably mine.” The words were a fierce vow, a promise whispered against Sevryn’s sensitive skin, meant to anchor her in Y'shtola's unwavering resolve and the profound, protective love that transcended even the voidsent's baleful hold. Sevryn leaned into her touch, a gentle sigh escaping as her body relaxed further, oblivious to the binding's faint drain, her aether settling into a soft, muted gilt.

   Y'shtola straightened, her movements fluid and precise, the earlier possessive intensity replaced by a contemplative stillness. Her unseeing gaze seemed to pierce the fabric of existence, processing Esteem's warning. "Blind her to influence" resonated with chilling clarity. It explained the seamless masking, the subtle disruption in Sevryn's aether, and the unnerving instinctiveness of her submission. The binding was more than a siphon; it was a sensory dulling, a spiritual obfuscation designed to render Sevryn unaware of her profound alterations. Y'shtola had confirmed her suspicions, but at a cost she had yet to fully grasp.

   The air in the room settled, the vibrant aetheric echoes of Esteem's struggle fading into a low hum as the binding reasserted its quiet dominance. Y'shtola, however, felt a newfound resolve harden within her. This was no longer a mere academic pursuit or a sensual game; this was a fight for Sevryn's very autonomy. She would not allow them to succeed.

   "Rise, Captain," Y'shtola commanded, her voice now crisp and clear, laced with an unwavering authority that brooked no argument. The intimate tone of moments prior was gone, replaced by the detached precision of a general giving orders, "Dress yourself. Our time here is concluded for now."

   Y'shtola turned, gathering her own robes, her movements purposeful, already formulating the next steps, the questions to answer, the research to pursue. The fight for Sevryn's soul had indeed begun, and Y'shtola intended to win.

   Sevryn's body, still reeling from the binding's intense pain and the ritual's aftershocks, felt abruptly hollowed out. The dismissal was a cold splash, and for a suspended moment, disbelief warred with the sting of Y'shtola's words. An unfamiliar ache began to settle, one that felt startlingly like being abruptly set aside. The silence that followed was heavy, amplifying the sudden chill where Y'shtola's warmth had been.

<<^>>

Chapter Text

   The air in the Baldesion Annex’s Main Hall, usually a quiet hum of scholarly activity, felt almost unnaturally still in the aftermath of their return from the Tower of Zot. For Sevryn, the triumph of liberating the Arkasodara and destroying the Tower of Zot was a muted echo against the persistent pain in her ribs, a fresh wound from yet another primal’s strike. The unsettling echoes of her talk with Vrtra lingered. She stood a little apart from the others, the usual boisterous relief of a mission accomplished feeling strangely distant.

   Alisaie, however, was keenly attuned to the fine shifts in Sevryn’s demeanor. Her gaze, sharp and sure, found the tell-tale tension around Sevryn’s mouth, the slight favoring of her side as she shifted her weight. "Sevryn, are you alright?" she asked, her voice cutting through the subdued murmurs in the hall. She was by Sevryn’s side in an instant, her hand hovering, then gently resting on the Warrior’s arm, "You’re hurt, aren't you?"

   Sevryn’s eyes, usually so direct, held a distant quality, tinged with a weariness that went beyond mere physical exhaustion. "Just a scratch, Ali. Nothing to fret over," she murmured, her customary dismissal an automatic shield raised by instinct.

   But Alisaie was having none of it. Her grip on Sevryn’s arm firmed. "Don’t give me that, Captain. I know how bad your 'scratches' usually are, and this feels like one of those times." Her voice, though soft, carried an undeniable authority, a fierce, protective resolve, "You’re coming with me. No arguments."

   Sevryn, recognizing the steel beneath Alisaie’s concern, found herself nodding. A flicker of warmth, small but potent, spread through her, countering the pervasive gloom that had settled since her encounter in the Tower, "Aye, lass. Lead on." She allowed Alisaie to guide her from the Main Hall, leaving behind the hushed conversations and scattered maps.

   The walk to Sevryn’s private room within the Andron was silent, save for the soft scuff of their boots on the polished stone. The quiet intimacy of the familiar surroundings wrapped around them. As Alisaie opened the door, a soft click echoing in the stillness, she stepped inside, reaching for the lanterns on a nearby table. With a series of delicate twists, she turned them up, bathing the modest room in a cascade of warm, inviting light.

   "Right," Alisaie murmured, turning to face Sevryn as the new light filled the room. Sevryn, having walked a little apart from Alisaie after entering, now moved slowly towards the plush recamier sofa that beckoned from the wall. As Sevryn sat, Alisaie's hands, gentle yet firm, reached for the buckles of her dark leather chest piece, their fingers brushing against the worn leather. "Let’s get this off you," Alisaie whispered, her voice soft, her gaze holding Sevryn's. "You're probably stiff as a board."

   Sevryn’s muscles, still humming with residual aether from the recent battle, relaxed palpably under Alisaie’s touch. The familiar clicks of her armor yielding felt profoundly intimate in the quiet room. As the chest piece came away, revealing the damp, blood-soaked undershirt clinging to her skin and the fresh, jagged gash weeping crimson across her ribs, Sevryn’s gaze softened. "It's not just stiffness, Ali. Sanduruva got a good hit in," she murmured, her voice a low and vulnerable confession. Instead of reaching directly, her hand drifted idly towards Alisaie’s arm, fingers brushing lightly against the fabric of her sleeve, a hesitant, almost subconscious plea for closer contact. A faint, unsettling echo of Esteem stirred within, a deep, insistent craving for the vital warmth that Alisaie’s presence always brought.

   Alisaie’s breath hitched, and a flush rose on her cheeks, her senses overwhelmed by the raw vulnerability of Sevryn's exposed wound and a potent, unbidden pull of desire that coursed through her. Her fingers paused, brushing over the taut muscle of Sevryn’s bicep. This wasn't merely the pull of affection; it was a hungry, insistent current, amplifying the moment's intimacy. The memory of their last shared dalliance in this very room, of the intense, consuming pleasure that had blossomed between them, flashed vividly through her mind. She felt the delicate invitation in Sevryn's hesitant touch, the unspoken longing in her gaze, and her own body instinctively stirred in response, yearning to lean in, to offer the solace Sevryn clearly sought. But then, the scene blurred, replaced abruptly by a memory of the cool, crisp dawn light touching the sky above the Baldesion Annex in Old Sharlayan.. 

   Y'shtola had found her by the Aetheryte Plaza, the usual soft murmur of departing scholars replaced by a low hum of aetheric energy around the crystal. It was the morning of their departure for Thavnair, and the plaza buzzed with final preparations. The sorceresses’ presence, usually a picture of serene control, held a faint, almost imperceptible shift – a focused intensity that sharpened her every movement, her silver eyes piercing the distance as if already seeing beyond the veil of her immediate surroundings.

   "Alisaie," Y'shtola's voice cut through the ambient hum, precise and unwavering. "A moment of your time, if you please. It concerns Sevryn, the nature of her recent injuries has raised... certain questions." Her tone, though calm, carried a quiet insistence that brooked no argument, a deeper resonance that Alisaie instinctively recognized as gravitas.

   Alisaie's heart clenched. Y'shtola rarely initiated conversation with such overt urgency, especially not in such a public space. "Of course," she replied, her own voice tightening with immediate concern, and without a second thought, she steered Y'shtola away from the clusters of departing scholars and bustling porters towards a secluded corner of the very Aetheryte Plaza. "What is it? Is Sevryn alright?"

   Y'shtola turned fully to Alisaie, her posture holding a quiet, almost predatory intensity. "Her physical wounds from the Tower of Zot are, in themselves, negligible," she stated, her voice even, though a faint undertone of disquiet vibrated beneath it. "It is what lies beneath that truly concerns me." She paused, her sightless gaze seeming to bore into Alisaie, "Last night, I delved more deeply into Sevryn's aether. And what I uncovered... is far more insidious than we anticipated."

   Alisaie felt a jolt, a sudden shiver prickling her skin. ‘Delved more deeply into her aether?’ The words struck her with the weight of unseen intimacy—a panoptic probing of Sevryn's essence Alisaie hadn't been privy to. A profound unease rippled through her. Her jaw tightened, a sharp, unwelcome pang, akin to jealousy, mingling fiercely with deep worry for Sevryn. "What did you find?" she demanded, her voice taut with apprehension and guarded protectiveness.

   Y'shtola's lips thinned, a rare flicker of frustration crossing her features. "I discovered seven Mhachi sigils, Alisaie. Intricate and ancient, they are etched directly into her flesh – at her nape, her solar plexus, both wrists, her inner thighs, and the small of her back." She watched Alisaie's reaction, then continued, her voice somber, "These sigils covertly siphon Sevryn's umbral aether, a constant, minute drain that explains her lingering fatigue and the muffled discord we sensed in her aura." Y'shtola paused, her gaze hardening. "But more perversely, these bindings also isolate Esteem. They prevent it from consuming the astral aether it craves—both from external sources and even Sevryn herself, given the continuous siphon from these marks. Esteem is, in essence, starved." Her voice dropped, laden with concern. "Sevryn's soul is umbrally aligned, making external healing exceedingly difficult. And now, denied Esteem's restorative capabilities, she is left unassisted in her own healing, leaving her to do so with agonizing slowness."

   Y'shtola's sharp gaze held Alisaie's. "The implications of this are dire, Alisaie. You know Sevryn. She carries the weight of the world on her shoulders, and to burden her now with the knowledge that her very essence is compromised, that she is unknowingly a vessel for such insidious machinations... she would retreat. She would blame herself, deny us access, and perhaps refuse the very intimacy that might, ironically, yet prove to be her salvation if understood." Y'shtola's voice softened, a rare, vulnerable tremor in its depth. "We cannot risk that. Not yet." She reached across the small distance between them, her steady fingers resting lightly over Alisaie's clenched hand. "For now, this knowledge must remain between us. Can I trust you to keep silent?"

   Alisaie's throat tightened, the weight of Y'shtola's words, and the grim truth they contained, pressing down on her. Her immediate instinct was to rush to Sevryn, to lay bare every terrifying detail, to face it together as they always did. But the image of Sevryn's stoic face, etched with hidden pain, and the daunting prospect of her withdrawal, flashed in Alisaie's mind. She met Y'shtola's gaze, a slow, resolute nod forming on her lips. "Yes," she whispered, the single word heavy with the gravity of her promise. "For Sevryn. Always." The pact, awful and resolute, settled between them, a shared secret born of desperate love and terrifying uncertainty.

~~

   The weight of that memory—of Y'shtola’s confident conviction and the terrifying implications of the sigils’ true function—flooded Alisaie’s thoughts, dousing the rising heat of desire. Y'shtola’s ominous revelation of Esteem's forced starvation, of Sevryn's soul left unassisted with healing—all surged as a bracing, shattering wave that overshadowed everything else.

   "Let's get the rest of this off first," Alisaie said gently, her voice a little strained as she pulled her hand back from Sevryn’s arm. Her fingers, still trembling faintly from the foreboding memory, moved with a forced precision, unlacing the ties of Sevryn's damp, blood-soaked undershirt. She focused intently on the task, her touch almost clinical, as if the sheer mechanical act could shield her from the deeper, confusing currents of desire and dread swirling within her. "We need to see what we're dealing with before anything else." With a soft sigh of fabric against skin, she peeled away the undershirt, revealing the angry gash across Sevryn’s ribs, already bruising a dark purple against her taut, scarred flesh.

   "Gods, Sevryn," Alisaie whispered, her earlier composure fracturing completely as her gaze fell upon the raw, angry wound, "This is far more than a scratch. Far more." Her trembling fingers reached for a fresh strip of linen, pressing it firmly but tenderly against the gaping gash. The warm, sticky seep of blood bloomed onto the cloth beneath her touch, vivid against Sevryn's pale skin, and Alisaie's stomach clenched with a fresh wave of helpless fear.

   Sevryn leaned into the touch, a hushed sigh escaping her. Her arm, which had been resting loosely at her side, slowly lifted, her hand coming to rest on Alisaie's waist. Her calloused thumb began a slow, rhythmic caress against Alisaie's side, a silent invitation, building in insistence. As Alisaie continued to clean, meticulously dabbing the wound, Sevryn’s head dipped, her lips grazing Alisaie’s temple, then her cheek, a warm, possessive presence. "My body is in agony, lass," she murmured, her voice a low, husky rumble, "but your hands...gods, your hands they make me burn. I ache for your touch. Let me have your warmth, Ali. Let me drown in it." Her lips brushed Alisaie's ear, then lingered near her jaw, a silent plea for a deeper kiss.

   Alisaie froze, the cloth still pressed to the wound. The warmth of Sevryn's breath on her skin, the delicate stroke upon her hip, the insistent pull towards physical closeness – every fiber of her being yearned to respond. Her own pulse hammered, a frantic drum against her ribs, and almost without conscious thought, she turned her head, ever so slightly, so their lips were a mere breath apart. The air crackled with unspoken desire, thick and intoxicating. But the memories of Y'shtola's warnings crashed through her mind: Esteem starved... Sevryn's soul left unassisted with healing... aether siphoned to unknown purpose. She could feel Sevryn's profound need, a hunger that went beyond the physical wound, and it tore at her heart. She loved this woman fiercely, desperately wanted to offer her every comfort, every release. But the fear, born from Y'shtola's knowledge, was a formidable barrier.

   With a slight, almost imperceptible tremor, Alisaie gently pulled back, her lips just barely brushing Sevryn's as she simultaneously detached the Warrior’s hand from her hip, creating a small, agonizing distance between them. Her touch, however, remained firm on the wound, focusing intently on the task of bandaging.

   "Hold still, Sevryn. We need to get this dressed properly." Her voice was soft, tinged with a regret that mirrored the pang in her chest, a barely perceptible shift in tone that Sevryn, even in her dazed state, noticed. "My aether... it's... depleted from the relentless channeling with Angelo to combat the Akrasodara's tempering, combined with the sheer exertion of the Tower battle... I wouldn't be able to offer you the kind of healing you truly need right now." It was a flimsy excuse, she knew, a half-truth to shield Sevryn from the real, terrifying reason she was holding back. Her own aether, despite the day's exertions, was far from truly depleted; the desire to connect, to soothe, was a potent hum beneath her skin. "I just... I don't want to risk making things worse for you, or for me, when I'm not at my best. I need to conserve what little I have left."

   Sevryn’s hand fell, slowly, from Alisaie’s arm. The intensity in her eyes dulled, replaced by a faint, almost imperceptible flicker of disappointment. The soft lines of her face hardened subtly, the brief vulnerability receding behind a familiar stoicism. "I understand, Ali," she murmured, her voice a little rougher than before, the faint tremor beneath the words revealing the subtle sting of the gentle rebuff. She knew Alisaie spoke with genuine care, but the quiet refusal, the unstated boundary, still pricked at her, a sharp tendril of hurt coiling deep in her chest. The base, primal part of her, newly integrated with Esteem, recoiled from the perceived refusal, a faint, metallic taste of disappointment filling her mouth. It hurt. Not outwardly, not a visible wound, but a quiet, gnawing distress in the very core of her being.

   "Right," Alisaie said, her voice a little brighter than before, pulling back slightly as she finished securing the last knot of the bandage. Her fingers, though now disengaged from Sevryn's bare skin, still tingled from the contact. She rummaged in her satchel, pulling out a small, corked vial filled with a shimmering, amber liquid that glowed faintly in the room's warm light. "Here, drink this." She pressed the healing potion into Sevryn's still-trembling hand, their fingers brushing. "It's a strong one. It won't instantly knit bone, but it should help stimulate your natural regenerative processes and ease the fatigue. A little boost until we can properly figure things out."

   Sevryn's gaze dropped from Alisaie's earnest face to the shimmering vial, then back up, her eyes widening almost imperceptibly. The faint flicker of hurt in their depths was suddenly eclipsed by a look of profound, almost comical, disbelief – as if Alisaie had just suggested she sprout wings and fly. It was the expression of someone who had just been delivered a sharp, unexpected kick to the gut. The corners of Sevryn’s mouth twitched, a strange mix of wry amusement and pure agony, a silent acknowledgement of the bitter irony of Alisaie's well-intentioned gesture – a drop of water on a raging pyre.

   Alisaie saw the subtle flinch, the instant the light in Sevryn’s eyes dimmed further. She longed to reach out, to bridge the sudden chasm between them, but the image of the sigils, stark and malevolent, held her captive. "Not like this," she vowed silently, “not with Esteem starved and your aether siphoned to an unknown purpose. But I won't leave you alone with it."

   A different kind of warmth, a fierce resolve, began to kindle within her – a determination to fight the darkness that Y'shtola feared. "And once you've had that," Alisaie continued, a determined glint in her blue eyes, "we're going to commandeer Alphinaud, G'raha, and Krile. We'll get some food from the Last Stand, and we're having a feast right here, tonight."

   A quiet sigh escaped Sevryn's lips, a complex mix of resignation and a faint, surprising comfort blooming in her chest at the unexpected shift in tactics. "A feast, then, Ali," she murmured, her voice soft, already feeling the inevitable press of bodies and cheerful chatter against the quiet throbbing of her wounds – a balm for the spirit, perhaps, but little for the intricate torment beneath her skin.

   Sevryn watched Alisaie go, her quick, purposeful steps vanishing through the door. The small, corked vial remained heavy in her hand, a mocking weight, a symbol of Alisaie's well-meaning but ultimately futile gesture. She tilted her head back against the cool stone wall, the sting of the gentle rejection sharper than any blade. Depleted aether. The words echoed in her mind – a transparent shield Alisaie had raised. The knowledge that her lass felt the need to lie, even out of love, twisted a fresh knot in Sevryn’s gut. She understood the fear, a rational dread that Esteem’s insatiable hunger might inadvertently harm those closest to her. Yet, understanding did little to staunch the quiet bleeding in her own soul; a lingering, gnawing ache of being perceived as a danger, a burden to be managed, rather than loved without reservation, began to settle. Esteem, for its part, grumbled deep within her, a low, discontented thrum of unsatisfied craving, but Sevryn pushed it back, denying it the focus it sought. She closed her eyes, the warmth of the lantern doing little to dispel the gloom that sank deeper within her.

~~

   The modest room in the Scholar’s Andron was soon bustling, transformed from a quiet sanctuary into a makeshift mess hall. Sevryn sat beside Krile, on one side of the sturdy wooden table, a plate with an untouched hamburger and black coffee before her. On the opposite side, directly across from Sevryn, Alphinaud meticulously buttered a roll, his usual composure a sharp contrast to G'raha Tia, whose familiar exuberance filled the space next to him. Furthest down the line, deliberately putting as much distance as possible between herself and Sevryn, Alisaie occupied the last chair. The air hummed with conversation, a comforting, if overwhelming, din.

   Sevryn picked at her meal, pushing around a piece of bread on her plate, the rich, mingled scents of roasted meat and savory spices and brewed coffee doing little to stir her appetite. Her ribs ached beneath the fresh bandages, a dull throb that mirrored the quieter, deeper hurt in her chest. Alphinaud’s earlier words, spoken with his usual earnestness, floated in her mind: "Of all people, warriors must take proper meals and rest if they are to maintain a healthy constitution." She knew he was right, but the food felt like ash in her mouth, a pale, unsatisfying substitute for the intimate sustenance her very soul truly craved – the kind Alisaie had, with tender gentleness, just withheld.

   Alisaie’s voice, clear and thoughtful, cut through the general chatter, addressing Sevryn directly. "Hydaelyn instructed you to carry that flower, yes?” Sevryn nodded. “That it would be your guide—'test and proof of your conviction.' And then something about seeking joy in darkness, was it? Come to think of it... isn't that precisely what happened with Nidhana back in Radz-at-Han?"

   Alphinaud nodded, looking from Alisaie to Sevryn. "The flower did seem to radiate with a flow of pure joy, as if reflecting the elation and renewed hope we all felt, the relief of the people."

   G'raha Tia, ever the empath, looked down thoughtfully at the table, his eyes closing for a moment as he spoke. "I know we are not yet triumphant over the Telophoroi, or learned the full breadth of the Forum's plans... But even within the midst of our struggles, we find small moments of joy to sustain us. Rare and hard-won, perhaps. But it is this pursuit of happiness that gives us the strength to carry on, day after day."

   Alisaie, who had been listening, turned her gaze to G'raha. A soft, almost tender light shone in her blue eyes, drawn by the benevolent compassion in his expression. With a playful glint, she reached out, quick as a flash, and snatched a cookie from G'raha's plate.

   "Hey, that's mine!" G'raha protested, a surprised laugh escaping him.

   "To the swift, the spoils! Though I recall that levitation spell of yours was quick enough," Alisaie took a deliberate, mischievous bite from it, crumbs dusting her chin.

   G'raha chuckled, shaking his head. "Only barely. And even at my best, I'm still too slow to wield it effectively in battle." His tone was light, accepting the playful jab with easy grace, and the implicit compliment in Alisaie’s words.

   Alisaie smiled, then, without a second thought, she broke the half-eaten cookie cleanly in two, offering the untouched half to G'raha. Their fingers brushed, a brief, easy contact, as he accepted it with a grateful nod.

   Sevryn watched, her hand tightening imperceptibly around her cold mug of coffee. The scene played out like a perfectly choreographed dance: the genuine warmth in Alisaie’s eyes, the unburdened laughter, the effortless sharing of something sweet and comforting. It was a profound contrast to the careful, pained distance Alisaie had maintained with her a few hours ago. A sharp, unexpected pang lanced through Sevryn’s chest, twisting tightly with the dull discomfort of her wound. It was a familiar knot of hurt, yes, but beneath it, something deeper, heavier, stirred. A quiet, unsettling jealousy, born not of anger, but of unexpected insecurity. She saw the ease, the unthinking generosity, the tender, unguarded affection, and a whisper of Esteem echoed deep within her, subtle and cruel: They can share that joy, that closeness, because you are a danger. You are broken. The coffee suddenly tasted like brine.

   A muscle in Sevryn's jaw twitched, almost imperceptibly. Her gaze, usually so even, flickered for the barest fraction of a second towards the untouched meal on her plate, a brief, almost pained tightening around her eyes. It was a fleeting slip in her stoic facade, quickly reined in. But Alisaie, ever watchful, caught it. A fresh wave of guilt washed over her, mirroring the hurt she’d inadvertently inflicted. She felt the depth of Sevryn’s pain, hidden just beneath the surface, and it amplified her own quiet burden. This was the consequence of her choices; the hollow pang of a love that had to be held at bay.

   She couldn't reach out as Sevryn truly needed, not without risking further harm, and that knowledge was a terrible, constant companion. Alisaie attributed the fleeting agony in Sevryn’s eyes to the physical wound, the enforced distance between them, and the weary burden Sevryn carried—the familiar reasons that now defined their guarded love. The crucial nuances of insecurity, the bitter pang of jealousy, remained just beyond Alisaie’s grasp, shrouded by the cruel barrier of their severed bond.

   The soft murmur of conversation continued around them, a comforting blanket of camaraderie that only served to highlight the silent, profound chasm that now stretched between Sevryn and Alisaie. Sevryn remained still, her plate untouched, eyes fixed on the distant wall as if seeking answers in its blankness, the warmth of the company doing little to dispel the profound emptiness settling within her. Meanwhile, at the furthest end of the table, Alisaie kept stealing glances, her heart heavy with a grief she couldn't name, a tragic premonition of the cost of her necessary denial. Both were trapped in their own burdens, separated by a love that, for now, had to be held at bay, leaving an unspoken longing that promised to linger long past the night.

<<^>>

Chapter Text

   The frigid winds of Garlemald whipped through the skeletal remains of what was once a sprawling city, carrying the scent of scorched stone and forgotten ambition. A perpetual, bruised-grey sky pressed down on the jagged skyline, where the broken husks of magitek structures clawed at the clouds like skeletal fingers. Snow, fine as ash, dusted every surface, lending a deceptive, eerie silence to the devastation. The biting chill itself felt less like weather and more like a pervasive presence, seeping into bone and spirit alike, a constant, sharp reminder of the empire's calamitous fall. This stark environment, however, was merely a physical echo of the tension coiling in Alisaie's gut as they trekked back from Cerulea Ingens to Camp Broken Glass.

   Every stride near Sevryn became a conscious affliction. Alisaie longed to press closer, to offer a comforting touch that went deeper than incidental contact, but the memory of Y'shtola's warning—the bitter truth of the severed bond, the lie she now lived—gnawed at her. Her hands, clenched at her sides, fought the urge to reach out, to brush against Sevryn's worn coat, knowing every denied comfort was a sharp pang in her chest. It was an excruciating battle, this deliberate withholding of the very intimacy Sevryn so desperately needed, and Alisaie felt the tremor run through her own hands, a physical echo of the emotional chasm she was compelled to maintain.

   Her thoughts were a tangled mess of guilt and fierce, aching love. She watched, tormented, as Sevryn's movements grew increasingly stiff, a subtle favoring of her side betraying the unyielding throb of old wounds. The exhaustion etched deeper around the Highlander's eyes, and her gaze, once so direct, now held a constant, distant weariness, rarely meeting Alisaie's own. Sevryn moved with a functional stoicism, a hyper-focus on duties that screamed of suppressed pain and a desperate need to prove her utility, masking the truth from everyone but Alisaie. The Warrior of Light, her beacon, was visibly fading, and Alisaie knew why: the slow, excruciating healing, the cruel denial of the intimacy that was her cure. She yearned to break the lie, to shatter the forced distance, but the perceived necessity of the secret, the paralyzing fear of Sevryn's further withdrawal, kept her tongue tethered. All she could manage was a quiet, strained comment about the pervasive chill, a hollow attempt to bridge the chasm that stretched endlessly between them.

 ~~

   The relative bustle of Camp Broken Glass offered scant respite from Garlemald’s relentless gloom. Smoke curled from makeshift braziers, mingling with the scent of woodsmoke and cooking fires, while tired voices spoke in hushed, utilitarian tones. Across the snowy expanse of the abandoned hamlet, a familiar silhouette emerged from the gray, striding with a purpose that, even from a distance, seemed faintly subdued.

   Alisaie’s jaw tightened the moment she recognized Y'shtola. The Miqo'te moved with her usual regal grace, yet her steps lacked their customary measured fluidity, her movements unusually deliberate. Her shoulders, typically held with disciplined poise, seemed to carry an invisible weight, and her silver eyes, even from afar, held a vacant look, a stark contrast to their customary penetrating focus. A faint pallor touched her features, hinting at a profound internal drain. The dark tower in the distance, Alisaie realized, was already pressing its oppressive will upon the Archon, bleeding her aether and sapping her vitality.

  "Y'shtola!" Alisaie's voice, sharper than she intended, cut through the ambient murmur. She moved swiftly, not waiting for a greeting, her concern overriding all pretense of discretion. She caught Y'shtola's arm, her fingers firm through the heavy fabric of the Archon's coat. "We need to talk. Now. Away from prying ears," she hissed, glancing pointedly towards a Temple Knight and an Order of the Twin Adder officer meticulously doing inventory near a stack of supply crates.

   Y'shtola tilted her head, a faint, almost imperceptible frown touching her lips as Alisaie’s grip tightened. Her silver eyes, though lacking their usual piercing intensity, nonetheless registered the urgency in Alisaie's stance, the tremor in her voice. "Alisaie," she began, her voice calm despite the underlying strain of the Tower's influence. "You seem... agitated. Has something occurred?"

   Alisaie’s patience snapped. She dragged Y'shtola towards a copse of bare trees beside the ceruleum processing building, the sparse branches offering a poor, but immediate, screen from curious eyes. "Has something occurred? Yes, something's occurred, Y'shtola! Sevryn! But you wouldn't know what watching her suffer has been like, would you? Because you haven't been around! You haven't been here to actually see it."

   Y'shtola's ears twitched, flattening slightly against her head, and a pained look crossed her features. "Alisaie," she murmured, her voice softer, acknowledging the depth of Alisaie's pain. "I am not unaware of her decline."

   "Not unaware?" Alisaie’s voice hardened. She leaned closer, her blue eyes blazing, the anger and guilt she carried bleeding into her tone. "Awareness is one thing, Y'shtola. Living it is another. Do you have any idea what it's like to watch the Warrior of Light fading a little more with each passing hour? To see the way her hand trembles when she thinks no one's looking? To hear her teeth grind at night because she's in constant pain from injuries that simply won't heal? I'm the one who has to deny her the one thing that helps! The one who has to pull back, to lie, to tell her 'no' when she aches for comfort, for intimacy, because you warned me it might hurt us or make things worse! Do you know what that does to her? What it does to me? Every time I have to choose secrecy over solace, I feel like I'm breaking her more than any primal ever could! You haven't seen it, Y'shtola, not really. Not the daily, slow erosion of her spirit."

   "Alisaie," she murmured, her voice softer, almost a caress, yet still holding that inherent precision. "I assure you, my heart is not oblivious to the anguish you bear, nor to Sevryn's deterioration. The choices presented, as you put it, are indeed distasteful, but the demands of her very survival were absolute. The risks of profound imbalance from the sigils are immense, jeopardizing her very essence and long-term stability. They drain her aether to an unknown purpose, and I feared that any exchange, especially intimate, would only exacerbate that siphon, perhaps feeding a malevolent force we cannot yet comprehend. I could not, in good conscience, advocate a path that might worsen her very condition to grant momentary solace. Her spirit, too, feels besieged. Esteem's attempts to break free of the Mhachi constraints have indeed intensified in Sevryn's weakened state. I sensed a dangerous... impatience within it, a hunger that grows more volatile with each denied exchange. This makes any intervention extraordinarily precarious. We do not fully comprehend the mechanisms by which the sigils bind Esteem, nor the consequences should our interference provoke it further or accelerate the drain."

   "Risks?" Alisaie scoffed, a bitter laugh escaping her lips. "She's risking everything every single day just by breathing! We made a pact to protect her, not condemn her to a slow, torturous slide into despair! Your 'long-term stability' means nothing if she loses herself first! You talk of viability and polarity like she's a piece of arcane research, not a living, agonized woman!"

   Y'shtola's silver eyes, usually so composed, flickered with a raw frustration that briefly reflected Alisaie's own. The dark tower's malevolent hum seemed to pulse in her skull, making her thoughts feel like wading through thick water. "Alisaie," she began, her voice gaining a sharp edge, "Do not accuse me of lacking compassion because I choose pragmatism over despair. My aim is not to reduce her to a research subject, but to save her from becoming one—a mere vessel for a malignant force. The questions I pose, the variables I weigh, are born from a desire to understand the enemy that festers within her, the enemy that risks consuming her soul, not merely her body." She pushed a hand through her hair, a rare, uncharacteristic gesture of agitation, "Every decision, every denial, has been an excruciating concession to the unknown. We don't merely risk exacerbating a drain, Alisaie. We risk triggering a complete collapse, a violent possession that could warp her beyond recognition or claim her entire essence. My preoccupation, my perceived detachment, is a desperate search for the very knowledge that will allow us to reclaim her, truly heal her, without destroying ourselves or her in the process." 

Her voice softened, losing its sharp edge, tinged with a weary, almost vulnerable quality. "Your anguish, the weight you've carried alone—I see it. I feel it. And it has sharpened my resolve to find a viable path forward. The immediate need for a controlled aetheric exchange is clearer than ever. But it must be exact. It must be safe. And it must be soon. We need more than just hope, Alisaie. We need answers. And this Tower... it is not granting me the clarity I require."

   Alisaie’s fury, though not entirely extinguished, receded slightly, replaced by a desperate, eager hope that warred with her exhaustion. Blue eyes, still glistening with unshed tears, fixed on Y'shtola. "A controlled approach?" she whispered, the words barely a breath. "An immediate need? You mean... we can help her? Properly?" The possibility ignited a brief, fierce joy, but it quickly soured as a fresh wave of anxiety flooded her, recalling Y'shtola's earlier admission. "But if this Tower affects you so, Y'shtola, how can you possibly help her? How can we even achieve 'precise' and 'safe' when she's fading, now? Tell me, Y'shtola. Anything. I’ll do whatever it takes. We have to help her."

 ~~

   The persistent ache in Sevryn's ribs, a dull throb beneath her worn coat, reflected the sharper pangs of isolation twisting in her gut as she strode through the worn paths of Camp Broken Glass. She was making for Lyse, drawn by a desperate, profound need for uncomplicated human connection. Lyse, at least, would simply care —she wouldn't bring complex questions or offer guarded touches that felt more distant than comforting. Maybe, Sevryn hoped, Lyse would even tend to her stubborn wounds without demanding explanations or dwelling on why they refused to mend properly. The idea of simple, unburdened ease, even just for a few moments, was a beacon in the bleak, oppressive hamlet. 

   As she neared the old ceruleum processing building, partially shrouded by a copse of bare, frost-rimmed trees, a low, intense murmur reached her, cutting through the camp's distant hum. Two figures, partially obscured by the sparse branches, were engaged in strained, fervent conversation. Sevryn recognized the agitated stance of Alisaie, and the calm, almost unnervingly still posture of Y'shtola. A knot of unease tightened in her chest. She hadn't meant to eavesdrop, but their voices, sharp with a tension that seemed to crackle in the bitter air, pulled at her.

   "...Has something occurred? Yes, something's occurred, Y'shtola! Sevryn! But you wouldn't know what watching her suffer has been like, would you? Because you haven't been around! You haven't been here to actually see it!" Alisaie's voice, though kept low, vibrated with barely contained fury.

   Sevryn flinched, instinctively stepping back further into the shadows of the trees. They were talking about her. Her stomach clenched.

   "...Not unaware?" Alisaie’s voice hardened. "Awareness is one thing, Y'shtola. Living it is another. Do you have any idea what it's like to watch the Warrior of Light fading a little more with each passing hour? I'm the one who has to deny her... Every time I have to choose secrecy over solace, I feel like I'm breaking her more than any primal ever could! You haven't seen it, Y'shtola, not really. Not the daily, slow erosion of her spirit!"

   Sevryn's breath hitched. Fading. Deny. Breaking her. The words, snatched by the wind, struck like physical blows. They were discussing her as if she were crumbling, a burden, a problem. A profound iciness, more biting than Garlemald's relentless frost, settled deep in her bones.

   "...The risks of profound imbalance from the sigils are immense... They drain her aether to an unknown purpose, and I feared that any exchange, especially intimate, would only exacerbate that siphon, perhaps feeding a malevolent force we cannot yet comprehend. I could not, in good conscience, advocate a path that might worsen her very condition to grant momentary solace. Her spirit, too, feels besieged. Esteem's attempts to break free... impatience within it, a hunger that grows more volatile..." Y'shtola's voice, though calm, was detached, clinical, listing her terrifying attributes.

   Risks. Sigils. Drain. Unknown purpose. Malevolent force. Worsen her condition. Besieged. Volatile. Esteem's impatience. Sevryn's mind reeled. They knew. They knew what was wrong with her. And it was terrifying. They feared her, feared what she was. Her hands clenched, nails digging into her palms. The quiet of the bond felt like a gaping, aching void, confirming their emotional distance.

   "...Risks?" Alisaie scoffed, a bitter laugh escaping her lips. "She's risking everything every single day just by breathing! You talk of viability and polarity like she's a piece of arcane research, not a living, agonized woman!"

   Piece of arcane research. The words echoed, sharp and cutting, searing themselves into Sevryn's soul. That was it, then. That was truly how they saw her. Not Sevryn. Not their beloved Warrior. Just a problem, a dangerous phenomenon to be managed and studied, stripped of her humanity. Her vision blurred, not from the chill, but from the crushing weight of utter, desolate rejection. Her desperate journey to Lyse forgotten, she stumbled backwards, the hushed voices fading into the roar of the wind in her ears, turning blindly away from the last vestiges of hope she thought she possessed.

   The bitter air stung her cheeks, but the chill permeating her soul was far deeper. She walked, unseeing, past the dwindling light of Camp Broken Glass, the scattered braziers quickly receding behind her into the swirling snow. Her steps, though heavy with despair, carried her deeper into the Eblan Rime, the narrow valley echoing with the mournful howl of the wind. She passed beneath the skeletal remains of the collapsed Alta Strata overpass, its broken ferro-concrete and twisted rebar clawing at the bruised-grey sky. Each stride was a tormenting testament to her unhealing wounds, a dull throb in her ribs echoing the sharper pang of utter, desolate rejection. She was alone, isolated, and now, irrevocably used—a "piece of arcane research" to be discussed and managed. The thought pounded within her, stripping away what little resolve remained, leaving her vulnerable and raw as she pressed deeper into the desolate heart of the Regio Urbanissima.

   As she drifted through the desolate, outer reaches of the city's ruins, the sounds of the camp vanished entirely. The gloom deepened, clinging to the crumbled remnants of grand ambitions. Just as the crushing weight of her anguish threatened to pull her under, a figure emerged from the shifting snow and shadows, seemingly coalescing from the very air of the forsaken landscape. An Au Ra female stood before her, impossibly striking, with scales the color of polished obsidian that seemed to absorb what little light remained. Her horns curved elegantly, almost regally, framing a face of stark, compelling beauty. Yet, it was her eyes that held Sevryn captive—luminous orbs that gleamed with a knowing, malevolent depth, as if they saw not just Sevryn, but every torturous, aching secret buried beneath her stoic facade. She moved with a disquieting grace, her presence emanating a dangerous magnetism that pulled at Sevryn's fractured spirit.

   "Lost, little Warrior?" her voice purred, low, like dry leaves stirring in a breeze, yet imbued with an eerie, percipient empathy that spoke directly to the biting wound of Sevryn's soul. "You carry a heavy burden. A unique pain, isn't it? One they dissect with words, while offering no true succor." As the last word left her lips, a faint, almost unnoticeable tremor ran through Sevryn's ribs, a strange blend of dull ache and a horrifying, burgeoning warmth that pulsed from the sigils in her skin, a silent, insidious invitation. The Au Ra merely smiled, a faint, predatory curve. "Perhaps, a different kind of understanding awaits you, out here in the cold."

<<^>>

Chapter Text

   The chilled stone bit into Sevryn's back, a harsh, unyielding surface that mocked the burning heat currently consuming her. Her head lolled, inky hair, damp with sweat and dried blood, sticking to her neck as she fought for a breath that seemed to catch in her throat. Each rasping inhale sent a fresh wave of torment through her ribs, a dull, insistent ache that was a constant reminder of Sanduruva's colossal might. But that was a battle won, a pain she understood. This was different. This was a defilement.

   Her wrists, chafed and abraded, cried defiance against the heavy, unyielding iron cuffs clamped to the altar's polished obsidian bolts. Her ankles, too, were bound, stretching her body rigid, forcing an arch into her spine that felt both excruciating and strangely... exposed. The Mhachi glyphs carved into the massive stone slab beneath her glowed with a malevolent deep violet light, mirroring the seven sigils etched onto her own skin. They shimmered with such an unnatural intensity now that they looked like glowing tattoos across her nape, solar plexus, wrists, inner thighs, and the small of her back. Each surge sent a searing fire through her veins, draining her aether, twisting it into something vile. She could feel the skin around them, stretched taut, almost rippling with the strain of the siphon, her entire body writhed in silent protest. 

   Hours. It had been hours. Hours of this torment, a relentless cycle of excruciating pressure and insidious pleasure, all orchestrated by the woman who now surveyed her with detached amusement. Her vision, blurred by pain and exhaustion, still registered the sleek Garlean-style architecture blending with the dark aesthetic of the chamber. Twisted rebar clawed at the dim, arcane-lit ceiling, contrasting sharply with newly installed, polished obsidian panels that reflected the unsettling blue-purple flames flickering in wall sconces. The air itself was thick, heavy with the metallic tang of ozone, ceruleum, and a cloying, dark incense that scraped at the back of her throat, laced with the sickly sweet scent of concentrated voidsent aether. 

   "Still so resistant, little Warrior?" she purred, low and melodious, yet sharp with a mocking edge. "Such a tenacious spirit. Most would have broken by now. But then, you are not most, are you? You carry a very… unique companion." 

   A malicious smile touched her lips as she lowered a talisman, a piece of ebony bone etched with vibrating glyphs, drawing its power directly from Sevryn's tormented essence. Each flick of her wrist, each precise touch of the talisman to a sigil, sent a fresh hell through Sevryn. Sometimes it was a raw, burning pain that made her teeth clench and her muscles seize. Other times, it was a horrifyingly exquisite sensation, a forced, liquid heat that pooled low in her belly, turning her own body into a traitorous instrument of her tormentor. The tainting of it, the twisting of her deepest, buried needs, was a fresh wave of nausea. 

   The Au Ra’s free hand, nails long, sharp and perfectly manicured, a stark contrast to Sevryn's bruised skin, began its cruel appraisal. Not with the healing precision of a chirurgeon, nor the tender caress of a lover, but with the deliberate, possessive strokes of an owner claiming property. Her fingertips, cool and firm, trailed across the swell of a bruised breast, then descended to trace the taut line of Sevryn's abdomen. They lingered, a tormenting weight, before dragging with exquisite slowness across the raw, unhealed gash that rent Sevryn's ribs—a remnant of the recent primal battle, a dull throb of pain. Her touch pressed, just enough, into the ragged edge of the wound, eliciting a sharp gasp from Sevryn. "This wound... it aches, doesn't it? A persistent reminder of your failures." The touch was light, yet each stroke felt like a brand, igniting phantom pains and unsettling currents of desire wherever her fingers lingered. 

   "Such a waste, to let such formidable strength fester," she murmured, her voice a near whisper, intimate and insidious. "A simple touch, a moment of release... and you could be whole again. But first... obedience." Her hand, still poised above Sevryn's abdomen, did not retreat. Instead, it subtly shifted, nails clicking softly as she drew a slender, wickedly sharp ritual knife from a sheath hidden within her robes. The blade, gleaming and glinting in the low light, descended, pausing with agonizing slowness just above Sevryn's inner thigh, its tip hovering directly over one of the glowing sigils. "Tell me, Warrior, will you yield? Will you admit your true nature, your deepest craving? Will you surrender to the glorious hunger that longs to consume your denial, or will you continue to fight, to resist what you truly desire, even as this struggle breaks you?"

   The air vibrated with the low, disquieting reverberation of corrupted aether, a constant reminder of the towering structure's influence outside the walls. Sevryn squeezed her eyes shut, battling the escalating torment and the terrifying, intimate betrayal of her own flesh. The shadow of violated pleasure, a wave of forced sensation, still clung to her, a sickening echo of her body's unwilling compliance. No. Her will roared the refusal, a fierce roar trapped within her skull. Not this. Not here. Not for them.  

   The thought of surrendering, of allowing Esteem to claim her fully under that cruel, calculated hand, was a horror that clawed at her soul. Every suppressed gasp, every shuddering muscle, was a testament to her defiance. Yet, exhaustion gnawed at her resolve like a physical hunger, promising oblivion, promising release, if only she would let go. Every inch of her being, from strained sinew to battered spirit, demanded to escape, to fight, to shatter the control this woman, this thing, held over her. 

   But the woman’s patience was wearing thin. With a slow, deliberate movement, the cult leader drew the tip of the knife across Sevryn's inner thigh. It wasn't deep, not a wound designed to bleed her out, but rather a shallow, precise cut that followed the curve of the glowing sigil. A fresh line of crimson bloomed against her pale skin, the pain sharp and immediate, a stark punctuation mark to the unending torment. Sevryn gasped, her body arching involuntarily against the restraints as the faint touch sent shivers of both pain and unwelcome arousal through her. The agonized, instinctual sound was quickly eclipsed by a wave of heat as the leader, with the talisman, pressed firmly onto the bleeding sigil. 

   The pain intensified, a thousand needles of fire lancing through her, but it was quickly, sickeningly, eclipsed by an overwhelming rush of sensation, a forced, perverse pleasure that shattered her conscious thought. The blood, mingling with the aetheric discharge from the sigil, seemed to ignite, coursing through her veins like molten fire and honeyed poison. Her muscles spasmed, her hips thrusting involuntarily against the altar as her core clenched in a horrifying parody of release. A choked moan, born of sheer agony and profound humiliation, tore from her throat. Tears of pain and shame streamed from her eyes, but her body betrayed her, twisting and writhing, desperate for the cessation of the unbearable, forced climax. This is not me. This is not mine, her mind raged in silent, futile protest. Yet the sensations were undeniable, a hot, liquid shame that coated her from the inside out, binding her to the very depths of her own violated desires. 

   "There," she purred, observing the spectacle with a cold, almost scientific interest. "You see, Warrior? Your body knows what it craves. It knows the relief that only true submission can bring. Your defiance is merely a performance. A foolish resistance to your own, inherent needs." The leader's grip on the talisman tightened, a cruel twist that sent another wave of intensified sensation coursing through her. "Yield, Sevryn. Yield to the darkness within you. Yield to my command. Let Esteem revel in the truth of your desires, unburdened by your... heroic morality." The word "morality" was laced with such contempt it felt like another fresh cut. 

   Sevryn's vision swam, a kaleidoscope of excruciating color and blinding light. The pain, the perverse pleasure, the unending violation of her autonomy—it was too much. Kill me. Just kill me, her mind pleaded, a desperate, fading cry. Her powerful body, usually so responsive to her will, writhed uncontrollably, a foreign entity now, twisted and used for another's amusement. The glowing sigils on her skin blazed with feverish intensity, burning with the forced, corrupted aether that coursed through them, each beat pulling her deeper into the inescapable maelstrom. Her breath came in ragged, desperate sobs, her conscious thought fracturing under the weight of the perfidious pleasure. She felt herself slipping, her fierce will finally fraying, succumbing to the overwhelming tide.

 ~~

   Far above, within the skeletal remains of the Garlean capital, two figures moved through the desolation with practiced stealth. The frigid wind of the Eblan Rime, whipping through shattered remnants of imperial architecture, clawed at Alisaie's heavy, dusky pink winter jacket. Her strides were swift and silent, driven by a raw terror. 

   For days, Sevryn's prolonged, uncharacteristic absence from their shared duties, coupled with her visibly fading health and withdrawn demeanor, had painted a grim picture. Others might have believed the Warrior sought solitude, but Alisaie's heart had cried out against the deception. Every passing hour had only intensified her dread, a gnawing grip that was now an unbearable certainty. 

   Beside her, Y'shtola, a phantom in the bruised-grey gloom, moved in her white winter jacket. Her focus was honed on the malevolent aetheric trail they now followed. Just moments before they had set out, Y'shtola, meticulously tracking the region's pervasive aetheric distortion, had suddenly registered a disturbing shift. A specific frequency, unmistakably Mhachi in its resonance, reverberated from deep within the desolate Regio Domorum. It was a chaotic signature, a violent upheaval of Sevryn's aether, twisted by corrupting sorcery, so profound it had momentarily punched through the binding's veil. It revealed not a direct connection through Sevryn's masked bond, but the undeniable, harrowing truth of her torment. Their eyes had met—Alisaie's wide with dawning horror, Y'shtola's luminous gaze piercingly certain—a quiet communication of shared terror and fierce resolve. Something terrible has happened to her. Now, that grim certainty propelled them forward. 

   "There," Y'shtola's voice, low and sharp, cut through the mournful howl of the wind. "What appears to be the entrance to their forgotten train system. The lair must be below." Her silver eyes, usually so composed, held a focused intensity that bordered on predatory, recognizing the unique, malevolent aetheric footprint of the cult. 

   Alisaie nodded grimly, already moving towards the shattered maw of what had once been the Liminal Station IV train line entrance. The descent was steep, winding down concrete stairs choked with rubble, into its underground tunnels that echoed with a metallic dampness and the faint, acrid tang of ceruleum. The air was unnaturally dense, laced with something nauseatingly sweet and the faint scent of ancient dust. As they navigated the narrow, rust-stained passages, faint, rhythmic flashes of shadowed purple light began to shimmer through the gloom ahead, accompanied by a low, disquieting vibration that vibrated in their very bones—a chilling song of corrupted aether guiding them deeper. 

   "Sevryn's aether," Alisaie whispered, her voice tight with a mixture of dread and dawning recognition. Her skin crawled, every instinct protesting the violation. "It's... twisted. Distorted. But gods, it's her." The fragmented feedback, tearing through the disrupted bond, slammed into her mind: raw, unnerving sensations that left her reeling. Sharp lances of pain, too deep to be her own. Confusing surges of unfamiliar, illicit pleasure, so sickening they made her stomach clench in abhorrence. And a pervasive, suffocating sense of profound shame. These were the emotions of Sevryn's essence, undeniably hers, yet terrifyingly amplified and corrupted by some malevolent force—utterly alien, yet horrifyingly familiar to the woman who loved her. 

   They reached a final bend in the vast, crumbling train tunnels, where the pervasive vibration seemed to intensify. Before them, a massive, partially collapsed service tunnel, crudely reinforced with salvaged Garlean steel and inscribed with faint, glowing glyphs, served as the entrance to a vast, open space. Alisaie pressed herself against the cold, rough stone, peering through a narrow gap where the warped metal of a former blast door met the wall. 

   The sight slammed into Alisaie like a physical blow, stealing her breath with a bone-deep shock that made her lungs ache. Before her lay a vast, cavernous chamber, a chilling fusion of aesthetics. Stark concrete walls and twisted skeletal beams from the old Garlean structure blended seamlessly with newly installed panels of polished obsidian, gleaming with a sinister, blood-red sheen. Everywhere, arcane glyphs radiated with malevolent deep violet light, carved directly into the imperial materials, as if the very architecture had been corrupted. Blue-purple flames flickered in sconces, casting long, dancing shadows that writhed across the walls, making the whole space feel not merely alive, but malevolently complicit. 

   At its heart, on a massive, somber stone altar, Sevryn lay bound. Stripped to her chest wrap and small clothes, her powerful body stretched taut, wrists and ankles secured by heavy iron cuffs. The air around her choked with the coppery scent of fresh blood, mingling with the older, metallic tang of dried gore—a sickening counterpoint to the fetid voidsent perfume of the chamber. Across her skin, particularly where the sigil sites thrummed with a horrifying, intense void-black aubergine glow like living tattoos, was a tapestry of fresh bruises, angry red weals, and small, precise cuts. The sight alone made Alisaie's breath hitch, a bitter wave of revulsion and protective fury washing over her so violently her vision swam. 

   Then, through the narrow gap, Alisaie saw her. The leader. Her posture one of vicious, detached amusement, a dark talisman held aloft like a conductor's baton. As she lowered its icy tip to the fresh cut on Sevryn's inner thigh, Alisaie flinched, a searing phantom pain lancing through her own flesh. The wound bloomed crimson against pale skin, and with the talisman's touch, Sevryn's body convulsed, arching in a desperate, guttural growl that tore from her throat. Her movements were rapidly subsumed by a horrifying, forced pleasure that made her hips buck involuntarily against the altar. Tears streamed down Sevryn's face—born of humiliation as much as pain. 

   A strangled cry escaped Alisaie’s throat. Her fists clenched, knuckles white against the stone. This wasn't just torture; it was a distortion, a twisting of Sevryn's very being. Alisaie knew Sevryn's body in pleasure—the subtle tension, the desperate pleas, the involuntary arch of her hips that promised sweet surrender. A crushing wave of soul-deep horror washed over her. Alisaie recognized it—the perverse arch of Sevryn's hips, the choked moan, her body's surrender. It flashed in her mind an instant before the bond, still fragmented by interference, relayed a disturbing echo of that forced climax. This was Sevryn's intimate response, warped, stolen, and wielded by a monster. A surge of loathing and fierce resolve so intense it made Alisaie tremble. 

   Beside her, Y'shtola froze, a profound stillness that resonated with formidable power. Though her physical eyes saw nothing, her aetheric senses devoured every horrific detail of Sevryn’s torment, processing it with terrifying clarity. Alisaie felt the subtle shift in Y'shtola's usually serene aura – a deep, resonant vibration building into a dangerous pulse, like distant thunder gathering before a storm. The gentle, contemplative air that often surrounded the Archon was now violently consumed, replaced by a palpable wave of something sharp, unfeeling, and utterly lethal. A crackle of unfettered lightning seemed to dance around her fingertips, and her tail lashed once, not in irritation, but with the controlled, terrifying precision of a predator about to strike. Every fiber of her being burned with righteous fury—a promise of retribution for the defilement of what was hers. 

   "That bitch," Y'shtola's voice was a low, dangerous growl, barely a whisper, yet it cut through the din of the ritual, filled with a fury Alisaie had rarely, if ever, heard from her. Her ears, usually expressive, flattened against her skull, and her pale eyes, guided by aether alone, held a terrifying, focused intensity. "She dares! Dares to desecrate what is mine, to violate my chosen!" The possessive declaration was stark, absolute, and unwavering, each word resonating with the chilling conviction of a death sentence. 

   Y'shtola pushed away from the wall, her movements fluid but charged with an undeniable, terrifying intent. Her staff, Truthseeker, a gnarled length of rare, petrified wood twisted near its top, snapped from her relaxed grip into a ready position. The large amethyst crystal, a quarter of the way down its shaft, began to thrum with a nascent, silver-white light that pulsed with barely contained power.

   "Alisaie," Y'shtola commanded, her voice still dangerously soft, but edged with steel. "Stay here. Aid me when I give the signal. But do not engage the cultists until I command it. This woman... is mine." The temperature in the confined passage seemed to drop several degrees, a striking counterpoint to the rage that now radiated from Y'shtola in palpable waves. 

   Without another word, Y'shtola exploded from the shadows, a white-clad blur of lethal intent. Her target: the leader, still poised above the altar, her attention chillingly fixated on Sevryn's bound form. Y'shtola's sudden, furious presence detonated in the chamber, shattering the cult's oppressive chant. 

   "You dare desecrate her?!" Y'shtola's voice, now amplified by aether, resonated through the chamber like a whip-crack of pure ice, slicing through the low drone of the ritual. The Au Ra leader, jolted, whirled, her malignant smile instantly faltering. Her eyes, filled with a fleeting surprise quickly replaced by bitter malice, met Y'shtola's unseeing yet piercing gaze and that gaze seemed to bore into her very soul. 

   "How curious," she purred, recovering quickly. "A Scion. And one so... invested. You wish to reclaim your plaything, sentimental sorceress? This one has tasted true power, a pure agony that even your delicate touch cannot replicate." She gestured with the talisman towards Sevryn, who lay writhing, tears tracking paths through the grime on her face. "Her spirit bends, finally. Your intervention is... ill-timed." 

   "Her spirit bends to no one but the master she has chosen," Y'shtola snarled, her words laced with absolute conviction, "And she chose me." The air around her shimmered, violently coalescing into a torrent of untamed magic, reflecting her mounting fury. Her voice, now a chilling challenge, cut through the din, "You speak of power, creature? You know nothing. You merely corrupt. Allow me to illustrate the difference." 

   Before the leader could react, a bolt of pure, concentrated lightning, an embodiment of Y'shtola's focused wrath, erupted from her staff. It slammed into the altar with concussive force, a deliberate strike aimed to disrupt the binding. The obsidian cracked, sending shards scattering, and a wave of untamed aether, raw and resonant, washed over Sevryn, momentarily severing the painful connection to the talisman. Sevryn gasped, her body spasming violently against the restraints, then went momentarily limp, a desperate, shuddering breath escaping her lips.

~~

Chapter Text

   The leader staggered back, her cruel composure finally breaking. "Insolent wench!" she shrieked, her voice losing its purr, revealing a savage, petty fury. Her dark bone talisman flared, channeling corrupted aether into a shimmering, violet barrier that absorbed the last of Y'shtola's lightning. "You break my ritual? You will pay dearly!" She lunged, not with elegant spells, but with a surprising, brutal speed, a hand snapping out, her fingers stiffened into a predatory rake, nails glinting, sharpened to lethal points, tipped with searing voidfire. 

   Y'shtola met the attack head-on, her movements a fluid, predatory blur. She slid past the claws with deceptive ease, then lashed out with her staff, not with the typical elegant arc of a mage, but with the brutal, efficient force of a veteran warrior. The gnarled head of her staff slammed against the Au Ra’s arm, eliciting a sharp yelp of pain. 

   "Clumsy," Y'shtola scoffed, her silver eyes glinting with fierce satisfaction. "You seek to master through blunt force, like a common brigand. My Captain yields through strength, not weakness. Through trust, not terror. You have no claim here." As she spoke, tendrils of shimmering silver magic, laced with deep cerulean light, snaked from her fingertips, not aimed at harm, but at the glowing Mhachi sigils embedded in the chamber's walls, attempting to disrupt their power. 

 ~~

   From the shadowed passage, a mix of awe and burgeoning dread seized Alisaie as she watched the scene unfold. Y'shtola's declaration, her fierce possessiveness, had sent a jolt through Alisaie's heart, a startling confirmation of the depth of the bond she had witnessed. Then, the thunderous impact of Y'shtola's lightning, Sevryn's excruciating gasp, and the leader’s savage fury erupted simultaneously in the chamber. Alisaie didn't wait for a signal. Her blood was roaring in her ears, demanding action, demanding Sevryn. 

   "Sevryn!" Alisaie exclaimed, bursting from the passage. Her rapier was already in her right hand, glimmering faintly in the arcane light, while her focus stone, a sphere of arcane energy, floated effortlessly above the palm of her left, spitting angry red sparks, a physical manifestation of her furious determination. 

   Alisaie's entrance, though perhaps premature, was a siren call. From the shadows of the chamber, cultists stirred, their attention snapping towards her with predatory swiftness. Three shrouded figures, staves crackling with dark energy, began to close in, their combined aether exuding lethal intent. Just as their formation tightened, a shuddering convulsion racked Sevryn's body on the altar. Her eyes, previously dimmed by pain, snapped open with horrifying speed, blazing a dreadful, unnatural gold. A low, guttural rumble, utterly alien and distinctly not Sevryn's, erupted from her throat. Esteem.  

   With a powerful, sickening lurch, Sevryn's body snapped free from the heavy iron chains that bound her to the altar, the metal shrieking like a tortured beast as it ripped from the altar's bolts. The cuffs remained clamped to her wrists, a length of heavy, cold chain still attached to the right one, whipping violently as Esteem, now fully unleashed within Sevryn's form, rose from the altar. The glowing aubergine purple sigils throbbed with renewed, formidable intensity, mirroring the dark void-fire that now shimmered around Sevryn, hungry and alive. 

   Esteem wasted no time with its newfound freedom. The three cultists who had turned towards Alisaie barely registered the alarming blur of motion. "Mistress Kesai!" one keened, a desperate warning that gurgled and died in their throat as the heavy iron chain whistled through the air, imbued with crackling umbral aether, not as a flail, but as a serpentine extension of Esteem's will. It lashed out, wrapping around the cultist's neck, yanking them forward with sickening speed. A strangled gasp, then a wet crunch as their staff clattered to the gleaming obsidian. Esteem, with a feral grin twisting Sevryn's lips, pressed its mouth onto the cultist's, a grotesque liplock of death. The cultist's eyes went wide, then glazed over, their essence visibly draining, absorbed by the abyssal being through that perverse kiss, leaving them a rapidly desiccating husk. 

   The two remaining cultists howled in dread, their staves flaring with desperate magic, already scattering and trying to flee. But Esteem was a whirlwind of savage power, scything through the chamber with ruthless efficiency. The first was caught in a brutal, bone-jarring tackle, slammed against a concrete pillar with a sickening thud before Esteem's mouth found theirs, sucking their very life force away. The second, yelling, was dragged back by a tendril of shimmering void-fire that erupted from Esteem's palm, pulling them into Sevryn's embrace. Esteem's laugh, a dark, satisfied rumble, echoed as it devoured their essence, leaving both cultists as withered, empty shells, their screams abruptly cut short. Alisaie watched, frozen in visceral horror—this terrifying display, this hungry, effortless consumption of souls, was the full manifestation of the eidolon. This was the monster the cult leader intended Sevryn to become, utterly and permanently. 

   "Ah, the Red Mage," Esteem purred, its voice a silken, corrupted echo of Sevryn's familiar brogue, dripping with malevolent amusement. "You come. Good. We hungered. We've missed your aether, Alisaie. The denial... it made Her suffer. Every thought, every ache, every lonely night she spent yearning for your touch... we felt it all. She wished to taste your essence again. The desires she suppressed, the pleasures she denied you... we will now explore, without her clumsy morality."

   As its dark feast concluded, Esteem's eyes, molten gold with a menacing glint, locked onto Alisaie, its intense amber gaze fixing on her. It moved, not with Sevryn's usual precise, tactical steps, but with a fluid, unnatural grace, a seductive sway that belied the immense power coiled within. Every movement was a hunter's dance, mesmerizing and formidable, the subtle undulation of Sevryn's muscular form now infused with an ancient, alluring gravitas. It closed the distance like a pugilist, fists already clenched, crackling with umbral aether. Alisaie barely had time to raise her rapier before Esteem's first blow, a brutal, unadorned strike charged with void-dark energy, slammed into her guard, sending a jarring shockwave up her arm.

   Alisaie dodged, barely. The heavy chain, still attached to Esteem's right wrist and now wielded like a crackling flail, whistled past her ear, the heat from its void-fire scorching her cheek, the metallic scent burning in her nostrils. Esteem was upon her in a relentless whirlwind of fists and whipping steel. Alisaie scrambled back, parrying a crushing blow with her rapier, the impact rattling her teeth, only for the chain to snake out, forcing another desperate dodge. She twisted, barely avoiding a powerful uppercut, and felt the sudden air pressure as the chain snapped inches from her face. 

   This was a force she knew, this strength, this intensity, but it was twisted, uncontrolled, amplified to daunting new heights. With every frantic parry, every desperate retreat, the horrifying truth slammed into her: Sevryn always held back. Every spar, every playful tussle, every moment she thought she had pushed her Captain to her limits, Sevryn had been holding back an immense, formidable power. Now, fully unleashed by Esteem, it was unyielding, overwhelming, driving Alisaie back across the slick black stone floor, quickly losing ground. 

   "You lie!" Alisaie snarled, anger warring with a burgeoning despair, her voice cracking with the strain of retreat. She desperately parried another brutal punch, the brunt impact numbing her arm, then lashed out with her rapier, not to strike, but to create distance, aiming for Sevryn's torso—a familiar target, a muscle memory she instinctively relied on. The blade struck, but Esteem's skin, infused with voidsent energy, was unnervingly resilient. It barely scratched the surface, confirming the futility of physical attacks. 

"This isn't her, you monster! Get out of her!" Alisaie cried, her voice hoarse with distress, pleading with the golden-eyed monster. "Fight it, Sevryn! You're stronger than this! Don't let this thing twist you! Please, Captain!" Her desperate plea echoed in the chamber, hoping some flicker of her beloved still lingered within that golden gaze, still fought to break free. 

   "A lie, Red Mage?" Esteem's corrupted voice dripped with mocking amusement, a dark, chilling sound. "You cling to such comforting delusions. Sevryn is here. And she is watching. She begged for your touch. She ached for your comfort, for your warmth in those lonely weeks of abstention. And you withheld it from her. You chose secrecy. You chose your logic over her needs! You starved her, little by little! You killed her spirit with your neglect! She would rather die than suffer that coldness again. Look what your restraint did! What we have become!" 

   As Esteem delivered its venomous retort, its right hand, free of the chain, lashed out. Before Alisaie could even flinch, it seized her by the collar of her winter jacket. With a vicious, tearing force, loud as a ripping sail, Esteem rent the heavy fabric open, buttons scattering like shattered teeth across the gleaming obsidian, exposing the thin linen chemise Alisaie wore underneath. Esteem's hand, cold and predatory, slid with perverse slowness to cup Alisaie's breast, kneading with ruthless, intimate pressure, tugging her nipple until it peaked in painful defiance, the aether draining visibly from her skin as a wave of involuntary shivers wracked her frame.

Esteem then slammed Alisaie against a cold, obsidian-paneled wall, pinning her there, the impact stealing her breath. "That's it, Ali," Esteem taunted, its corrupted voice laced with savage glee, as Alisaie struggled, writhed against the powerful grip. "Fight! Writhe! It turns Her on. She often wished you would struggle more in Her arms." Sevryn's lips, twisted into a perverse parody of intimacy by Esteem's will, pressed against hers, a brutal, demanding force that forced itself upon Alisaie, a rough, wet kiss that stole her breath. As Esteem's mouth engulfed hers, Alisaie felt not only the agonizing pressure of the assault but also the sickening, exhilarating pull of her own aether being drawn. A dizzying blur, a shockwave of unbidden arousal twisted her gut, feeding the violating contact Esteem forced upon her, binding her to the act.

   Alisaie choked, the taste of blood and shame filling her mouth. Her mind screamed in protest, a futile defiance against the impossible, horrifying pull towards the untamed power Esteem wielded. Every fiber of her being recoiled, yet her body hummed with a terrifying resonance, threatening to succumb. With a blinding flash of pure, defiant spirit -a mere spark of the inferno she truly was- Alisaie broke the kiss, headbutting Esteem with a sharp crack that rattled her own teeth. The hold on her breast loosened just enough, a fleeting window of opportunity. She lashed out with her rapier, a desperate, clumsy thrust that Esteem barely flinched from, the blade skating across its void-infused skin with an unnerving resistance. 

   Esteem snarled, a low, animalistic sound, its golden eyes blazing with renewed hunger. "Persistent. Good. She likes persistence." With terrifying speed, it seized Alisaie's rapier arm, twisting it sharply. Alisaie cried out, a scream of agony tearing from her as her shoulder dislocated with a sickening pop that echoed in the chamber. Esteem ripped the rapier from her now useless grasp, sending it clattering across the slick black stone floor. Then, with casual, overwhelming power, it slammed her back against the wall, pinning her with just one powerful hand clamped around her throat, slowly cutting off her air. Her feet scrabbled uselessly against the stone, her vision beginning to gray at the edges. 

   "This is how it ends, lass," Esteem hissed, its voice a chilling breath that promised oblivion, amplified by the growing pressure on Alisaie's windpipe. "You will serve. Your anguish will sate Her. Your despair will be Her feast. And your love will be the fuel for Her glorious liberation." Its golden eyes, Sevryn's eyes, glowed with a terrifying, absolute certainty, reflecting Alisaie's fading consciousness, already accepting its grim fate. 

 ~~

   Across the chamber, amidst the horrifying spectacle of Alisaie’s struggle, Y'shtola's clash with the cult leader raged. The sigils she had strategically targeted on the walls now shimmered erratically, their malevolent light flickering, showing the undeniable success of her attempts to disrupt their power. 

   “You waste your aether, witch!" Kesai screamed, her voice hoarse and thin with effort, clutching her talisman. "These bindings are ancient, resilient! Your petty parlor tricks cannot undo what has been meticulously crafted!" She unleashed a flurry of corrosive, jagged abyssal projectiles, aiming not only to harm Y'shtola but to further corrupt the ambient aether.

   Y'shtola deflected them with practiced ease, her staff a shimmering blur of defensive and offensive magic. "Petty? My magic seeks truth, not perversion. Your 'craft' is a crude shackling, not a true bond." She countered with a burst of Fira, the flame’s pure astral energy, forcing the Au Ra to erect another barrier, the dark aether groaning under the strain. 

   "She is mine!" Kesai screamed, her composure finally shattering, revealing the unhinged fanaticism beneath her cruel facade. "She is the vessel! She is the key to our return!" With a wild, desperate cry, she spun, unleashing a chaotic, desperate barrage—a torrent of dark, serrated spells that tore through the air, uncontrolled. 

   Y'shtola's silver eyes narrowed, sensing the frantic shift in Kesai’s aether, the desperate gamble she was making. "A key, perhaps. But a lock she will never turn for you," Y'shtola countered, her voice laced with chilling dismissal. With a sudden, explosive burst of concentrated Stoneja, her staff erupted with emerald light, shattering the faltering barrier. The powerful ward exploded inward, sending obsidian shards tearing through the air. The leader recoiled, thrown back by the sheer force, her defenses utterly compromised. 

   From where she lay sprawled, struggling to push herself upright, Kesai hissed, her gaze darting towards Alisaie, pinned by Esteem. Her voice, thin and triumphant despite her compromised position, rose: "She struggles! Your little friend fades! Her essence drains! And your Captain... oh, she yearns for it!" A vile, corrupted burst of void-aether erupted from the talisman, wailing as it tore across the chamber, aimed not merely as a distraction, but a malicious strike at Alisaie. It was a desperate attempt to throw Y'shtola off balance. 

   Y'shtola saw it, a flash of pure, protective fury igniting in her unseeing eyes. "No!" With a guttural roar, fierce and utterly uncharacteristic, Y'shtola launched a devastating burst of Foul magic. It wasn't a precision strike; it was pure, unadulterated rage, an explosion of brilliant energy that slammed into Kesai’s arm holding the artifact. Kesai howled, a sound of agony and defeat, as it, glowing erratically, flew from her grasp. 

   "Damn you, Seer!" she cursed, clutching her mangled arm, her voice laced with desperate, savage fury. Her brittle triumph shattered around the edges. "This is but a taste, witch! Your world, your Source, will soon mirror the Thirteenth! We will drag it back to utter desolation, just as she yearns to be consumed! And then, we shall feast on the misery of an entire star!" With a guttural snarl, she flung her injured limb outward, inscribing a final, desperate glyph of Mhachi power in the air. A shimmering, sickly purple portal tore open before her. The air thickened, reeking of stagnant abyss and desperate escape. "You cannot follow! The Thirteenth will claim her first, and when she returns, she will be ours, utterly and irrevocably!" She stumbled through the swirling abyss, vanishing just as Y'shtola's thunderous strike, amplified by her rage, would have claimed her entirely. 

   The portal snapped shut, leaving behind a lingering scent of abyss and the faint hum of residual magic. But Y'shtola wasted no breath, no moment on the retreating form of her foe. Her silver eyes, sharp with terrible clarity, located the talisman, now lying still across the stone floor near the altar. Her focus then shot to Alisaie, pinned against the wall, Esteem's hand at her throat, the glowing chain wrapped around its arm, Sevryn's face twisted by the perverse kiss, nonetheless emanating the absolute, terrifying dominance of Esteem. 

   "NO!" Y'shtola screamed, a sound ripped from her very soul, visceral with a fear for Alisaie she never imagined she could feel. With a surge of desperate speed that defied her earlier aetheric drain, she launched herself forward, a blur of white and silver, into a frantic race against oblivion, her gaze locked on the talisman—the key to reclaiming what was hers before Esteem claimed Alisaie entirely. 

   Her fingers closed around the dark bone talisman just as Esteem's golden eyes, blazing with chilling intent, narrowed on Alisaie's frightened face, tightening its grip further on her throat. The very moment Y'shtola's touch connected with the artifact, a jolt of untamed power surged through her. It was corrupted, void-tainted, but responsive. "My Captain! Yield!" Y'shtola's voice, amplified by the talisman's connection, sliced through the air, resonating with absolute command as she channeled her remaining, furious aether into the object, her will a steel leash snapping around Esteem's essence within Sevryn.

   The effect was instantaneous and absolute. Esteem's golden eyes flickered violently, struggling against the sudden, overwhelming command, but the leash of Y'shtola's will proved unbreakable. Instantly, the pressure on Alisaie's throat vanished, Esteem's lips releasing from hers with a wet, sickening pop of suction. Esteem's body convulsed once, powerfully, then its golden light extinguished. In its place, the familiar stormy grey of Sevryn's eyes returned, vacant and unfocused, before her body went limp, collapsing forward onto Alisaie, a heavy, lifeless form against the wall. The glowing sigils fading to angry, bruised marks on her skin.

   Alisaie gasped, sucking in a ragged breath, her hand flying to her aching throat. The sudden, dizzying release, the shock of the Warrior’s inert form collapsing onto her, left her disoriented, trembling. "Sevryn!" she choked out, her voice hoarse, a desperate mix of relief and dread as she tried to push Sevryn's heavy, dead weight carefully from her. 

   Y'shtola was there in an instant, a flash of white and furious grace. She didn't pause to spare Esteem's defeated presence a single glance—her priority burned paramount, unwavering. Dropping to her knees, she gently but firmly pulled Sevryn's unconscious body from Alisaie, cradling the heavier woman in her lap like a precious, shattered vessel. Sevryn's head lolled against Y'shtola's shoulder, her breathing shallow and ragged. Y'shtola's silver eyes, now sharp with a concern that pierced the lingering haze of her unleashed rage, swept over Alisaie, assessing the damage. 

   "Alisaie," Y'shtola's voice, still strained with the receding tide of her wrath, softened with a tenderness that defied the chaos of the room as she saw the younger woman's tear-streaked face. Her gaze, usually so discerning, now held an almost visceral vulnerability born of fierce love. "Are you injured?" She lifted a trembling hand, the effort visible, brushing back Alisaie's hair, her fingers briefly grazing the bruised skin of Alisaie's throat—a silent acknowledgment of the violence Alisaie had just endured. 

   Alisaie clutched her torn jacket, shivering, the chill of the violent intimacy still clinging to her. "My... my throat," she rasped, tears finally overflowing, wetting her grimy, exertion-streaked face. "And my shoulder..." Her voice trailed off, a strangled murmur, as her gaze, wide and horrified, abandoned her own pain and fixed desperately on Sevryn's pale, still face. "But Sevryn! Is she...?"

   "She lives," Y'shtola affirmed, her voice, though regaining a measure of its usual calm, still held the echoes of her fierce rancor. As she shifted Sevryn's limp weight in her lap, Sevryn's head settled heavily against her shoulder, a testament to her utter enervation. 

   Her staff, briefly discarded in the desperate lunge, floated instantly back to her waiting hand, shimmering with a faint, healing glow. Its light fell upon Sevryn, illuminating the fresh bruises that marred her skin. Y'shtola delicately placed her free hand on Alisaie's shoulder, a pulse of soothing aether flowing into the injured joint. "Esteem has been quelled, for now," she continued, her gaze sweeping the ravaged chamber. "But our Captain is utterly depleted. We must move. Quickly." 

   Despite the piercing agony in her shoulder and the hoarse ache in her throat, Alisaie found a surge of fierce determination. Her will, blazing brighter than any pain, forced her upright. Pushing herself away from the wall, her gaze hardening, utterly unyielding, she looked at Sevryn's prone form. "I'll help," she vowed, her voice gaining strength, moving to her other side.

   Together, they began the arduous task of moving the unconscious Warrior. Sevryn's body was a dead weight, heavy with exhaustion and the brutal ordeal's lingering effects. Y'shtola took Sevryn's upper body, gripping under her armpits and walking backward, bearing the brunt of the Highlander's considerable weight. Alisaie, gritting her teeth against the stabbing ache in her injured joint, positioned herself at Sevryn's legs, lifting by the knees and walking forward. Head-first, they half-carried, half-dragged her towards the hidden passage from which they'd entered. 

   The chaotic chamber, littered with cultist bodies and ritual wreckage, rapidly receded behind them. With every laborious, limping step towards the exit, the oppressive hum of corrupted aether seemed to thin, gradually replaced by the crisp, clean air of the tunnels beyond. They rescued her from the desolation of Kesai's lair, but Sevryn remained utterly broken, and the struggle for her soul—and for their world—was far from over.

<<^>>

Chapter Text

   The ceaseless wail of Garlemald's wind tore at the canvas, a relentless, mournful sound swallowed by the thick fabric of the field tent. Inside, a portable stove pulsed with a diligent warmth, pushing back the pervasive chill that clung to everything. Though a welcome respite from the blizzard's fury, the air retained faint, acrid traces of ozone and a cloying, sickly voidsent tang that seemed to adhere to Alisaie's very being, a chilling echo of the horror she'd just escaped. Thancred's silent efficiency in extracting them from that freezing, desecrated place had brought them to this sanctuary, but even here, a knot of dread in her gut remained, tight and unyielding.

   Her shoulder throbbed beneath the rough bandage, a dull ache reverberating with every breath. Alisaie's throat, raw and rasping from the brief, terrifying embrace, felt like sandpaper. Yet, these physical complaints were but whispers against the screaming in her mind. Her gaze, fiercely protective, remained riveted on Sevryn, who lay motionless on the cot beside hers.

   Sevryn's face, pale and stark against the cot's crude military-issue blanket, was a canvas of deep, angry bruising. Livid marks, resembling the sigils from the altar, radiated across her exposed flesh – on her neck, her wrists, and even where the blanket had shifted, on her inner thighs. The tissue around them appeared almost burned, the underlying veins seemingly scorched into dark, intricate patterns. It was a brutal testament to the torment she had endured, the beloved warrior, usually a vibrant force of nature, reduced to this inert, battered form. Alisaie's own heart twisted with guilt. This was my fault. Her denial, the distance she'd maintained, the secrecy she'd bought into – Esteem's venomous taunts replayed in her mind, accusing her of starving the very soul she cherished. Every ache in her own body, every rasp in her throat, was a fresh reminder of the violation she had witnessed and felt through their bond, her love's agony now searing her own.

    The memory of their desperate egress from the train station tunnels was still vivid. They had managed to drag Sevryn's limp, heavier-than-dead weight back to the entrance, the blizzard outside biting even harder than the horror they'd just escaped. Y'shtola, her visage etched with grim determination, had already begun to gather her depleted aether for a warming spell, a futile gesture against such unforgiving cold. Just then, coalescing silently from the swirling snow, Thancred appeared, two powerfully built Viera from Lente's Tear at his side. No questions were asked. A single, sharp glance from Thancred had taken in the scene—Sevryn's unconscious body, Alisaie's torn jacket and dislocated arm, Y'shtola's chilling fury—and he'd simply nodded. One of the Viera had swiftly produced a heavy, insulated cloak, immediately covering the unconscious woman, while the other moved to support Alisaie. Thancred had taken Sevryn's weight, his silence more comforting than any words, his every movement a testament to stark efficiency as they plunged back into the storm, heading for the nearest, most private tent in Camp Broken Glass.

   Alisaie pulled her attention from Sevryn, a phantom chill tracing the faint marks on her love’s form. Across the intimate confines of the tent, Y'shtola knelt in her usual dark robes, her heavy white winter jacket discarded on the foot of the other cot for ease of movement. The small, ebony bone talisman, Kesai’s cruel instrument, lay on a spread of hastily retrieved notes beside her, its dark surface absorbing the meager light from the portable stove. Y'shtola’s slender digits, usually so graceful wielding her staff, hovered over Sevryn’s body, not merely assessing the damage, but meticulously tracing the disrupted aetheric currents that hummed beneath the surface. The contact was precise, probing, almost clinical, yet infused with an underlying, possessive intensity as she strove to comprehend the intricacies of the corruption. Y'shtola’s face, etched with taut resolve, betrayed no conscious awareness of Alisaie’s scrutiny; her concentration remained absolute as she sought answers in the tangled currents of corrupted aether. A delicate twitch of Y'shtola's ear, almost imperceptible, was the only sign she felt Alisaie's steady observation. Her fingers continued their careful dance over Sevryn's injured areas, her head remaining tilted in absorption.

   "Your shoulder is dislocated, Alisaie. And your throat bruised," Y'shtola stated, her tone a low murmur, steady now with a quiet, knowing concern. "I can certainly apply a basic mend again, if you wish, to ease the immediate pain. My own aether, I confess, is somewhat taxed from our recent endeavors. For a full restoration, however, Alphinaud possesses the aptitude to mend torn sinew far more adeptly. He could also procure a proper draught for your throat, though I suspect facing his inevitable questions might prove a trial in itself."

   Alisaie shook her head, fierce resolve hardening her tired features. "No," she stated firmly, her voice rough. "Not yet. I'm not leaving her. Not again. Not when... not when I can actually be here." Her hand rose, instinctively pressing against her chest where the link to Sevryn, though still muffled, vibrated with a desperate insistence that mirrored her own heart. "I'll manage. Just tell me what you need, Y'shtola. What can I do now?"

   Y'shtola's spine straightened. A silent acknowledgment of Alisaie's firm resolve rippled through her. Her digits paused their intricate work, hovering just above Sevryn's side, before resuming their meticulous tracing. "Very well," Y'shtola murmured, her voice laced with approval. "Your warding scale, then. It is the next critical step in our diagnosis."

   Alisaie moved swiftly despite the ache in her shoulder, reaching into her satchel to retrieve her palm-sized warding scale, its polished surface cool against her hand. She extended it. Y'shtola, without looking, gestured towards Sevryn's cot. "Place it here," she instructed, her voice clear and controlled, guiding Alisaie's hand to Sevryn's chest, just above her solar plexus, where a livid, sigil-like bruise throbbed faintly.

   As Alisaie's fingers, trembling slightly, settled onto Sevryn's warm flesh, the cool presence of the scale between them, the connection flared with shocking intensity. Alisaie gasped, a raw, ragged sound tearing from her throat. A dizzying torrent of Sevryn's unfiltered emotions surged through her, flooding her senses: the visceral, raw self-loathing, the physical agony of her injuries, the abiding shame of violation, but also an immense, battered love and overwhelming, desperate gratitude. The sheer force of this emotional deluge almost made Alisaie sway, and she instinctively clutched the warrior's arm for support, her vision blurring with unshed tears. The bruised sigils on Sevryn's chest seemed to throb with this restored bond, almost in rhythm with her faint, rapid heartbeat.

   Sevryn's body reacted intensely. A sharp intake of breath hitched in her throat, and a powerful tremor rippled through her frame. Her eyes fluttered, then opened, unfocused at first, then dimly recognized Alisaie's face, a canvas of raw emotion above her, and Y'shtola's concentrated stare. A subdued, weary smile, or a look of immense, aching relief, curved her lips as she let out a soft sigh, barely a whisper: "Ali... Shtola..." Her features relaxed, the tension draining from her brow, and she drifted back into a more peaceful, truly restorative sleep, the pervasive torment seeming to recede into the quiet depths of her consciousness.

   Y'shtola watched with keen intent as Sevryn settled back into slumber. Her bare hands, which had studiously traced the rushing currents of Sevryn's aether, now lowered, her cool fingertips gently settling against the warm expanse of Sevryn's solar plexus. A faint shiver, almost imperceptible, ran through Sevryn's relaxed form beneath her touch. Y'shtola's silver eyes, now alight with fierce understanding, registered the clear, strong flow of the restored bond, noting the immediate calming and noticeable strengthening effect on Sevryn's aether. A low, almost purring "Indeed," escaped her lips, pragmatic satisfaction lacing the single word, a quiet victory for Sevryn's nascent peace. Her thoughts, however, were already turning, and she shifted her focused regard directly to Alisaie, her expression gaining a new, urgent clarity.

   “Alisaie," Y'shtola began, her tone gaining a sharp edge that cut through the tent's hum, "your warding scale has confirmed a vital hypothesis. This talisman..." Y'shtola's slender fingers descended onto the ebony artifact, capturing it in a firm, almost crushing grip as if physically apprehending its sinister secret. "It isn't merely siphoning Sevryn's aether," she continued, her voice lowering to a cold, predatory purr, her sightless gaze, sharpened by fury, sweeping from the now inert-looking talisman to Sevryn's pale, bruised face, "...it's designed to mimic a severance in aetheric connections. It effectively blinds any outward perception of the true bond and her own compromised state.”

   Alisaie's eyes widened in renewed horror at the deception, a fresh wave of nausea twisting her gut. "Mimicry? So the bond... it was never truly broken?"

   Y'shtola nodded slowly. "Precisely. And the key to understanding this deception came to me earlier, from A'Ruhn-Senna's analysis of the Garlean radios." She paused, allowing the information to sink in. "He noted, and I concurred, that the aether that permeates the ore used in those radio devices is almost identical to that of the warding scales themselves. My own realization then was that if those devices could ward against a primal's influence, then..."

   Alisaie's eyes, still bright with the near-brim of unshed tears, snapped to Y'shtola's, a dawning comprehension replacing the horror. "Then... then they can ward against this talisman too," she finished, her voice a sharp, eager whisper, a flicker of fierce hope rekindling in her outlook. "And if it wards against the talisman, then it restores the bond!"

   Y'shtola's lips curved into a rare, genuine smile, thin and fleeting, but radiant with intellectual triumph and an immense, personal relief. "Precisely, Alisaie. A keen mind, as always." Her fingers, which had been tightly clasped around the ebony talisman, now slowly loosened, a faint tremor running through them before they released their hold. Without conscious thought, her hand then drifted, drawn by an invisible current, towards Sevryn's resting body. Her fingertips brushed lightly against Sevryn's bruised temple, a tender, fleeting caress that spoke of a profound, deep affection, a silent vow of protection. "This temporary solution, however," she continued, her voice regaining its usual measured cadence, "will not suffice. The constant exposure to the scale, while restorative, is inefficient. We need to contain this artifact permanently. It must be isolated from Sevryn's aether, severing its parasitic drain, and preventing it from broadcasting its deceptive frequency."

   She looked towards the tent flap, a thoughtful glint in her silver eyes. "Thancred will be instrumental here. His network of scouts and recon teams operating in this region will be best suited to locate and salvage more of this specific ore from damaged Garlean radios." She then met Alisaie's gaze, her voice firm with purpose. "Once he's gathered a sufficient quantity, he'll need to deliver it to the Ishgardian Machinists who accompanied our contingent. Their expertise in working with exotic alloys and precise fabrication will be essential. I will provide them with a detailed schematic for a containment vessel. I shall stop by their tent later with the design, once I've finalized the specifications."

   The crisp, cold air of the tent, once heavy with fear, now hummed with a fragile but palpable hope. Alisaie, her exhaustion momentarily forgotten in the rush of relief, reached out a trembling hand. Her fingers, softly tingling from the recent surge of the bond, settled over Y'shtola's bare wrist, where the powerful Miqo'te's aether thrummed steadily beneath her skin. Y'shtola, for her part, did not flinch, nor did she immediately withdraw. Instead, a subtle shiver, almost imperceptible, traced a path up her arm, a fleeting response to Alisaie's touch as a hushed breath, shallow and measured, escaped her lips.

   Y'shtola's expression softened, her silver eyes, seemed to connect with Alisaie's with an almost instinctual understanding. She allowed her hand to still under Alisaie's touch for a long moment, the thrum of Alisaie's fervent aether a vibrant song beneath her fingers, mirroring the exquisite ripple of emotion running through the younger woman. A shared breath seemed to draw between them, shallow and laden with the delicate weight of unspoken anxieties and emerging hope. Then, with a slow, deliberate movement, Y'shtola turned her hand, her slender fingers intertwining with Alisaie's, a gentle, reassuring squeeze. The brush of their palms, skin against skin, sent a frisson of quiet warmth spreading from the point of contact. Her thumb, unhurried, drifted in a feather-light path over Alisaie's knuckles, a tender, almost possessive caress that, to Y'shtola's heightened sensitivity, brushed the very edges of a newly acknowledged desire.

   "We have done well, Alisaie," Y'shtola murmured, her tone a low, husky purr, laced with genuine warmth and a rare, unguarded satisfaction. Her gaze drifted to Sevryn's sleeping form, then, with a possessive tenderness that softly deepened the silver in her eyes, lingered on Alisaie's. "She is safe, for now. And the path forward, however arduous, is now clear."

<<^>>

Chapter Text

   The portable stove hummed a low, mechanical lullaby. Sevryn’s awareness drifted to the surface, a slow, hesitant ascent from a depth she couldn't quite recall. The first sensation wasn't cold, nor a specific discomfort, but a deep, echoing stillness within her mind. The incessant, corrosive whisper that had plagued her, the constant internal critic, had vanished. She listened, straining for its familiar taunt, but found only quiet. A fragile, disorienting peace settled, a miracle she couldn’t explain but clutched tightly. This was the quiet she yearned for, the tranquil void where Esteem’s insidious voice typically thrived.

   Her gaze, now unclouded by the parasite’s direct influence, drifted to the cot opposite hers. There, nestled beneath a shared blanket, lay Y’shtola and Alisaie. Y’shtola's arm was draped protectively around Alisaie, pulling the younger woman into her. Alisaie, in turn, was pressed tightly against the Miqo’te’s chest, seeking and finding solace in the shared warmth, her face soft in repose.

   A sharp, agonizing longing surged through Sevryn’s core, a visceral pang that transcended the physical complaints of her body. Her love for them, fiercely loyal and deeply tender, resonated within her with startling plainness. That intense ‘want’ throbbed, pure and untainted by Esteem’s twisting judgments for the first time in what felt like an age.

   She shifted slightly, testing her limbs. Her external wounds, the gashes and cuts from the cultists, were indeed knitted closed, a testament to Esteem’s fervent feeding during the fight. But beneath the surface, a pervasive pain radiated from her very bones, a deep bruise that felt like her essence itself had been scorched. And her body, while functional, felt heavier, more profoundly exhausted than usual, lacking the familiar surge of restored vitality that Esteem’s presence typically granted after such a ‘feast’. The quiet in her mind had come at a cost; Esteem, muted, was no longer actively healing this kind of extensive, internal trauma.

   Her gaze drifted back to Y'shtola's serene profile, then to the gentle curve of Alisaie's form nestled against her. A cutting pang, unbidden, pierced through Sevryn. The sharpness of Y'shtola's prior dismissal, her analytical distance, her imposition of rules around intimacy, resurfaced with unique, aching pain. No longer amplified by Esteem's malicious intent, the hurt was Sevryn's own: a deep-seated, sore sense of being misunderstood, of having her significant needs intellectualized and then denied. She had surrendered, exposed her vulnerabilities, and been met with reserved protocol. The irony was a bitter taste—they found comfort in each other while she, Sevryn, was denied even the thought of such intimacy. It was the crushing weight of her worth being reduced to a managed burden, not a cherished being.

   A steely resolve, cold and adamant, began to set in, hardening the fragile peace of her mind. She would not be pitied. She would not be managed. She would not impose her complex needs on others if it meant such pain. The intense hurt, the piercing irony, the agonizing dilemma—all coalesced into an urgent, self-protective determination. She would retreat. She would rebuild her walls, not out of weakness, but out of a fierce, compelling need to protect the last vestiges of her self-respect. If wholeness meant torment, and peace meant decline, she would endure in silence.

   Slowly, carefully, Sevryn pushed herself off the cot. Her inner discomfort throbbed, a dull complaint echoing through her still-unhealed internal burns. Yet, she moved with functional stoicism, each motion deliberate. She located her pack—a familiar weight of responsibility. Quickly and efficiently, she pulled out a fresh undershirt, a clean uniform, and sturdy breeches—utilitarian garments that offered no fuss or expectation. She dressed, then strapped her greatsword to her back, a tangible assertion of her Warrior persona, her public face of unwavering strength. The warding scale, secured against her skin by a simple, soft bandage, felt like a cool, smooth comfort, a miraculous guardian of her inner quiet. This was her peace, and she would guard it, even if it meant she bled slowly.

   She cast one last, lingering glance at the sleeping figures on the other cot, a complex swirl of love, hurt, and self-preservation churning within her. Then, a silent shadow in the pre-dawn gloom, Sevryn slipped out of the tent, seeking the stark, impersonal cleansing of a solitary bath.

 ~~

   The deep hum of the portable stove, once a comfort, felt subtly changed. A feather-light shift in the adjacent cot, the faint whisper of dislodged fabric, rippled through Y'shtola's dream-laced awareness. Her internal world, usually a meticulously ordered library of aetheric currents and scholarly pursuits, slammed into piercing, immediate focus. Sevryn was gone.

   The realization struck with the force of a physical blow, even as her body lay still on the narrow cot. Her aetheric senses, honed over decades to perceive the unseen, screamed the truth of Sevryn's departure. It wasn't simply the absence of a cherished warmth, or the subtle cooling of the air where Sevryn had been. It was the distinct, painful sensation of tightly constructed walls clattering back into place around Sevryn's spirit; of deep, unacknowledged hurt hardening into a desolate, self-protective resolve. Y'shtola felt the clear lucidity that had bloomed in Sevryn's mind—unmarred by Esteem's corrosive whispers thanks to the warding scale, it was true—but a lucidity that had brutally pierced Sevryn's defenses and laid bare her deepest wounds. The force of Y'shtola's own recent misjudgment, the crushing weight of her regret, intensified to an almost unbearable degree.

   Fool. You utter fool. The self-reproach was a cold, bitter draught. Her calculated caution, her misplaced trust in intellectual distance, had provided no sanctuary. Instead, it had left Sevryn, her precious Warrior, precisely where Y'shtola had sought to protect her from: vulnerable, isolated, and now retreated into a silence more chilling than any voidsent's torment. She felt the searing incongruity of her shared cot, the innocent comfort she and Alisaie had unwittingly taken, juxtaposed against Sevryn’s agonizing isolation, now perceived with unvarnished clearness. It had added insult to injury, a final, inadvertent cut.

   "Shtola...?" Alisaie’s voice, thick with sleep, held a faint thread of confusion. She blinked, her blue gaze hazy, then sharpened as she too registered the spartan emptiness of Sevryn's cot. A cold dread, visible even to Y'shtola's inner sight, began to bloom across Alisaie’s expressive face. "Sevryn? No... not again." Her voice hitched, a sharp, rising note of panic. "We have to go after her! Now!" Alisaie began to scramble, limbs tangling in the shared blanket, the pressing urge to move overriding all else.

   Y'shtola’s internal storm raged, but her outward demeanor remained a quiet center within the chaos. With a fluidity that belied her inner turmoil, she shifted, her body pressing closer to Alisaie on the narrow bed. Her hand, warm and firm, settled over Alisaie's, still tangled in the fabric, still reaching. "Hush," Y'shtola murmured, her voice a low, melodic tone, rich with a soothing authority. "My heart echoes your urgency, believe me. But heed my words. Bolting blindly will not serve her. Her walls, so meticulously built, require a more deliberate approach. I know precisely where her spirit seeks solace, where the shadows of her pain have led her. My errors, I assure you, will be set right. Now," Y'shtola eased herself silently from the cot, the movement fluid, drawing Alisaie partially with her by the subtle, continuous pressure of her hand, "we must prepare for what comes next."

   Alisaie, still trembling with fear and guilt, met Y'shtola’s unwavering silver gaze. The unveiled vulnerability she'd glimpsed moments earlier in Y'shtola's eyes had been swiftly replaced by a resolve that Alisaie knew could cut through aether itself. Despite the fear still coiling in her gut, a different kind of warmth, fierce and compelling, bloomed in her chest. She found herself yielding to that commanding presence, not out of deference to Y'shtola’s intellect, but to the sheer force of her will, her profound love.

   As Y'shtola drew her gently but firmly from the cot, their bodies brushed, the soft friction lingering for a breath longer than strictly necessary in the cramped space. Alisaie instinctively leaned into the contact, seeking a moment of grounded reassurance in the swirling anxiety. Y'shtola’s hand, rather than releasing its hold, slid deliberately to rest at the small of Alisaie’s back—a comforting pressure, a wordless declaration of a shared burden. An unspoken understanding flowed between them, a current of ardent connection; a new, deep intimacy forged in shared anguish and the pressing need to save the woman they both loved.

   "Your shoulder," Y'shtola murmured, her voice softening just a fraction, gently woven with deep concern. Her fingers tightened almost imperceptibly on Alisaie's back, a delicate claim that seemed to sink into Alisaie's very skin. "And your throat. You are in no fit state to go charging headlong into such bleakness." Y'shtola then paused, her internal thoughts racing, weighing Sevryn’s current sensitive state against Alisaie’s fierce loyalty. "Find Alphinaud. Have him prepare any restorative draughts available for Sevryn. And for yourself, ensure your own wounds are tended, for I cannot bear to see you suffer. I will retrieve the Captain." 

   Alisaie’s head snapped up, her blue eyes blazing with immediate protest. "You... you'll go alone? But I—" Her voice hitched, a sharp objection against inaction, and the fear of being left behind, of Sevryn suffering beyond her sight.

   Y'shtola’s grip tightened on Alisaie's arm, a firm, grounding pressure. Her silver gaze felt as if it pierced Alisaie's very soul, not with judgment, but with indomitable will. "She needs space. A different kind of strength is required now. Trust me, Alisaie. This responsibility, it is mine to bear. You serve us best by ensuring our preparedness for what lies ahead." Her voice, while resonating with command, was edged with a tender plea for Alisaie’s understanding and faith, drawing Alisaie further into her quiet strength, a warmth unfurling in Alisaie's chest that had nothing to do with fear.

   Alisaie swallowed hard, her defiance melting under that intense gaze. A deep understanding settled within her, replacing protest with a dutiful nod, "Understood."

   "Good," Y'shtola affirmed. "Now, go." She released Alisaie. Her final word was a quiet, irrefutable directive. Without another word, she moved with purposeful haste, grabbing the heavy blanket from the foot of their cot. She shrugged into her thick white winter jacket, its familiar weight a shield against the biting pre-dawn chill of Garlemald. Like a wisp of night, she slipped through the tent flap.

 ~~

   The cold air bit, but she barely registered it, driven by singular resolve. Her soft footsteps sounded on the frozen earth, leading her through the empty husks of buildings, past the hushed, makeshift camps. Her aetheric senses, now hyper-focused, unerringly guided her through the desolate landscape. The faint, metallic tang of processed ceruleum grew subtly stronger, and beneath it, the distinct resonance of distressed aether – Sevryn's own – pulsed, drawing her forward.

   Then, a dull, rhythmic trickle of water echoed faintly from a secluded, concrete chamber. This was it. This was where Sevryn's suffering had led.

   She pushed the door open, a faint, almost reverent release of the latch. The air within was thick with steam and the sharp scent of heated pipes. It was a simple bathing chamber, constructed with bleak concrete walls, clearly designed for function over comfort. Along one wall, a single, stout pipe extended, releasing a steady stream of steaming water into a large, sturdy collection basin set on the floor. The chamber itself sloped gently towards a central drain. No luxury here, no softness, just the austere, functional truth of a place built for necessity.

   This is my doing. The self-reproach, a living, burning ember, lodged itself in Y'shtola’s throat. Her inner sight, keen even without physical vision, drank in the truth of Sevryn’s ravaged essence – the desperate, fragile peace from the warding scale, yes, but the crushing burden of its cost. The raw, exposed emotional landscape of Sevryn's soul, laid bare, screamed a truth more intensive than any impartial analysis could. This wasn't merely a miscalculation; it was a wound Y'shtola had inadvertently inflicted, exacerbated by her own intellectual distance. Her dominant instinct, usually precise and controlling, flared now with a fierce, singular intent: to dismantle the self-punishment she now witnessed.

   Y'shtola moved then, with a fervent, unwavering purpose. Her heavy white winter jacket dropped to the floor with a soft thud, deliberately covering Sevryn's discarded uniform and breeches in a subtle, unconscious assertion of claim and succor. Next to it, she carefully set down the folded, heavy blanket she'd carried, anticipating this stark vigil. It was a conscious shedding of her own layers, both physical and emotional. Her simple robes and shift followed her jacket to the damp concrete, leaving her exposed to the steam, her form silhouetted in the haze. Her soft footsteps whispered against the cool, wet surface, each one deliberate, her focus fixed. She stopped just behind Sevryn, close enough to feel the warmth from the water, close enough for her own aether to envelop Sevryn’s—a silent embrace before the touch.

   Sevryn stood hunched over a large, rough basin, slowly scooping steaming water with a ladle, pouring it over her exposed shoulders and back. Her muscles, usually coiled with formidable power, were stiff, almost rigid with the effort. Every strained scoop, every trembling pour, spoke of an arduous, punishing ritual, an attempt to scour away the invisible grime of trauma, to wash away the indelible imprint of violation. Her dark hair clung to her neck, heavy and wet, and her head was bowed, utterly lost in the solitary, agonizing task. She was a silent, living tableau of intense, unaddressed pain.

   The Warrior tensed, her movements faltering. Her head, still bowed, gave a subtle jerk, her awareness of Y'shtola’s presence immediate and wary, even unfiltered by Esteem's whispers. A subtle ripple of apprehension ran through her body, speaking of a fierce guardedness, of fear, of a desperate, silent plea to remain unseen, to avoid being managed in her despair. She waited for the expected command, the inevitable observation, bracing for the intellectual dissection she anticipated.

   "Sevryn," Y'shtola's voice was a low, rough murmur, stripped of its usual eloquence, thick with a truth that tore at her own composure. "I was wrong. Profoundly. Terribly wrong." She didn't move to touch, not yet, but the sheer force of her unspoken anguish and fierce devotion flowed through her, a palpable plea for understanding that brushed against Sevryn's skin like a warm current. "My caution... my rigid intellect... it blinded me to the consequences of my own actions. I believed I was protecting you. Instead, I subjected you to a suffering I now see with excruciating vividness." Her voice cracked, a rare, stark fissure in her perfect control, a raw edge of fragility that stunned Sevryn with its unexpectedness. "I left you vulnerable. I caused this. And for that, I beg your forgiveness." As Y'shtola spoke, she reached out, her hands, cool and steady, moving to gently take the heavy ladle from Sevryn’s trembling grasp. It wasn't a demand, nor a simple gesture, but an act of deep, tender care – a physical manifestation of her apology and a pressing desire to literally shoulder Sevryn's burden. The simple weight of the implement, the familiar heat of the water, seemed to hum with the intensity of their shared, breaking emotions, a prelude to surrender.

   Y'shtola, now holding it, moved with fierce and tender purpose. She scooped the steaming water, letting it pour slowly over Sevryn’s bowed head, the warmth cascading down dark, wet hair, working through the stiff strands. Her other hand, almost unconsciously, began to trace the lines of Sevryn’s tense shoulders, feeling the rigid cords of muscle, the subtle tremors beneath the skin. She let her fingers drift lower, over the powerful curves of Sevryn’s back, then more deliberately, over the stark lines of the unhealed internal bruising that marked her pale skin. Each stroke of her fingers, each warm drop, was a silent promise of endless, tender devotion, an earnest attempt to soothe the internal damage. Y'shtola poured out her love, her grief, her fervent hope, willing it into every drop of water, every stroke of her touch.

   She felt Sevryn’s breath hitch, a micro-shudder that spoke of a deep well finally breaching. This wasn't resistance; it was a deep, aching release, her tremor intensifying as a subtle shift in her aether signaled the breaking. Now. It was time. Y'shtola set the ladle aside, allowing it to clatter softly back into the basin, the water’s gentle murmur instantly silenced. Her dominant right arm moved immediately, wrapping around Sevryn’s chest, pulling her back against Y'shtola's own body. With her left hand, Y'shtola found Sevryn’s waist, holding her securely as she turned Sevryn slightly, pressing their full lengths together. The ritual of cleansing was over; what remained was the sudden, overwhelming sensation of being held—a protective embrace that promised never to let go.

   A strangled sound, half gasp, half broken sigh, tore from Sevryn’s throat, vibrating through her body—a visceral cry that bypassed all logical thought. Her shoulders, rigid moments before, slumped forward. She wasn't fighting; she wasn't holding back. Then, as a quiet, guttural, heart-wrenching sob, deep and unfiltered, ripped free from Sevryn’s chest, tearing through the fragile peace Esteem's muting had afforded, the Warrior’s knees gave way.

   She wasn't simply falling; her body succumbed, collapsing into the absolute agony of release. Y'shtola, already firmly pressed to her back, anticipated the descent, her muscles honed by countless battles and years of magical channeling, tensing for the impact. As Sevryn's knees buckled, sending a jarring thud echoing in the small chamber, Y'shtola's ears flattened almost imperceptibly against her skull—a primal, instinctual response to the raw emotional force. She went down with Sevryn, a fluid, controlled motion that cushioned the fall, keeping her from pitching forward onto the cold, damp concrete. Sevryn was on her knees, yes, but Y'shtola was there too, going down with her, holding her up, meeting her in her breaking.

   The embrace was unbreakable, Sevryn's trembling body cradled intimately against Y'shtola's, skin to skin, the heat of their shared anguish palpable. Y'shtola ensured the collapse was into a space of deep devotion, a tender cage built for Sevryn's shattering. Hot, silent tears mingled with the steam from the cooling water, tracing paths down Sevryn’s face, washing away layers of endured pain, bitterness, and fiercely held self-respect. Her body convulsed with the sheer force of it, a physical manifestation of every unwept tear, every unspoken hurt, releasing into the immeasurable depths of Y'shtola's embrace.

   Y'shtola’s firm grip remained, deepening to an encompassing hold. She held Sevryn as the sobs wracked her, bearing the weight of it, offering a steadying presence in Sevryn’s emotional storm. Her own heart ached, a mirror to Sevryn’s pain, but also swelled with an overwhelming, terrifying love and immense relief that Sevryn had finally broken, not down, but open. There was no need for words. The silence between them, filled with the soft rush of Sevryn’s breaking heart, was more eloquent than any apology, more compelling than any command.

  Gently guiding Sevryn's trembling body, she helped her ease back until her weight settled onto the cold concrete, leaning against Y'shtola's soft chest. Y'shtola then gathered the heavy blanket from the floor, pulling it tightly around them both, wrapping them in warmth and security. She continued to hold Sevryn, pressing a cheek against her damp hair, feeling the faint tremor that still coursed through her.

   This. This tender, unadorned embrace -not the cold calculation of a strategist, not the detached analysis of an aetherologist- had finally reached her. This was the true command. This was the ultimate act of dominance Sevryn truly needed. It was a lesson etched into Y'shtola’s very soul, forged in the depths of her own regret and Sevryn’s shattered spirit.

   "My love," Y'shtola murmured, her voice a rough whisper, thick with exhaustion and immense affection. "That was not despair. That was the sound of a spirit finally finding release. So much held within, finally breaking free." Sevryn stirred, a subtle shift in the comforting cocoon of Y'shtola's arms. Y'shtola's words flowed on, not just spoken but felt as a resonant truth, anchoring itself within Sevryn. "I see the cost of your peace. The price of this fragile quiet. And I swear to you, Sevryn, we will find a way to make you whole. To fix the polarity of your soul, to heal these unseen wounds, without demanding endless torment or silent decline. This, I promise you."

   Sevryn remained still, her breath yet ragged against Y'shtola's shoulder. She leaned into the embrace, a complete, almost imperceptible submission that spoke volumes. The sheer weight of Sevryn's surrender, her willingness to simply exist within Y'shtola's arms after such a break, was a sacred gift, a fragile re-forging of connection that Y'shtola felt settle deep within her own soul.

   Within that re-forged bond, the warmth from the blanket and Y'shtola’s presence began to seep into the Warrior’s bones, and with it, the last tremors of her intense emotion slowly quieted. Sevryn didn't move, didn't speak. Instead, almost inappreciably, she shifted, pressing a fraction closer into Y'shtola's embrace. It was an absolute act of acceptance, a wordless affirmation that sealed the unspoken forgiveness in the quiet, bare chamber.

   In that ardent, gentle hold, Sevryn found an anchor. The world outside remained cold, broken, and relentlessly demanding. Her spirit was still scarred, her body still aching with injuries that defied simple healing. But pressed against Y'shtola, for this fragile moment, the burden felt shared. And as the distant, insistent sounds of the camp began to stir, a quiet, firm resolve settled within her: to walk the arduous path that stretched before them, and to do so together.

<<^>>

Chapter Text

   The frigid concrete floor provided a stark counterpoint to the warmth now cradling Sevryn. She lay nestled between Y'shtola's legs, her head resting against the curve of the Miqo'te's shoulder, the thick blanket pulled taut around them both, a cocoon against the lingering chill of the chamber. Her ragged sobs had subsided, leaving only the soft, trembling hitch of her breath. Y'shtola's embrace remained a fierce anchor, her hand gently stroking Sevryn's damp hair, a rhythmic comfort that seeped into Sevryn's very bones. The stillness was poignant, broken only by the trickle of water from the pipe and the steady beat of Y'shtola's heart against Sevryn's back.

   Y'shtola's soft sigh stirred the hair at Sevryn's temple. "There is no shame in this release, my love," she whispered, her voice a low, tender hum, devoid of any analytical edge. "Only immense strength in allowing oneself to shatter, to finally shed burdens carried too long in silence. You are magnificent in your vulnerability, Captain." Her fingers, which had been gently stroking Sevryn's scalp, drifted to brush the skin just above Sevryn's abdomen, where the tightly wrapped, linen-bound warding scale had rested against her solar plexus prior to the bath. "That small peace you found, the respite from the gnawing whispers... it comes at a significant cost to your corporeal form. We must speak of it.”

“This warding scale," Y'shtola explained, her tone regaining a thread of its usual clarity, "its aetheric resonance... for whatever reason, it directly counteracts the vile influence of that Mhachi talisman Kesai wielded. It halts the sigilic drain on your aether, stemming the flow of vitality from those grotesque marks upon your skin." Her fingers brushed gently over Sevryn's sternum, near a faint, intricate bruise. "You likely observed the peculiar bruising, like dark, spreading tattoos, around those binding points on your nape, wrists, and thighs. That is the visible sign of its parasitic function."

Y'shtola shifted slightly, drawing Sevryn fractionally closer. "More importantly, this device dampens Esteem's corrosive influence, muting the insidious whispers you've battled. It grants you internal quiet, a respite from the constant torment. However," a subtle tension entered her voice, "Esteem, in its natural state, is also the conduit for your unique healing. It facilitates your rapid recovery in combat or through intimacy, consuming aether to mend your body. By muting its influence, the scale, in turn, also limits its capacity to aid your healing. You no longer mend as you should. This means that to heal effectively in combat, or through intimate connection, the scale must be removed, allowing Esteem's resonance to return, even if only temporarily."

Y'shtola's touch remained tender, "I have a plan for the talisman, a means of control. I believe we can encase it in a specialized containment vessel, crafted from the same ore used in the Garlean radios. This would permanently block its disruptive frequency and contain its parasitic drain, effectively returning Esteem's influence and power to what it was before those insidious sigils were carved into you. You would experience relative normalcy once more, freed from the constant gnawing." She paused, her breath warm against Sevryn's ear, "This containment, Captain, offers a tolerable existence. But it is not true wholeness."

A low hum of contemplation entered Y'shtola's voice, "Theoretically, having the talisman contained would also grant us a unique measure of control. Should we need Esteem's full force in combat for accelerated healing or heightened offensive power, or for its assistance in intimate healing, we could release the talisman from its casing, temporarily re-establishing the sigilic drain and empowering Esteem. This allows us to manage its potent energies for your well-being, on our terms."

   Y'shtola's other hand, previously resting at Sevryn's waist within the embrace, began a slow, deliberate exploration. Her cool fingertips traced over the curve of Sevryn's hip, a delicate movement that caused them to flare faintly, before drifting upwards over the taut lines and sculpted muscles of her abdominal wall. The path continued, charting the soft curve of a breast, then the firm swell of the pectoral muscle beneath it, before tracing the cool, sculpted line of her collarbone. Each subtle shift of muscle, and the steady beat of Sevryn's heart against her chest, resonated deeply within Y'shtola. Her fingers moved with a possessive tenderness, a silent testament to the formidable power held within this body. The smooth, scarred skin under her touch, the raw strength she so admired, stirred a deep, appreciative hum in Y'shtola's own aether. Her head dipped, her lips brushing the damp hair at Sevryn's temple before finding the curve of her jaw, a feather-light caress that spoke volumes.

   Sevryn stirred, a low rumble echoing deep in her chest. Her muscles, previously rigid with the aftershocks of her emotional storm, began to soften, yielding further into Y'shtola's embrace. A small, almost imperceptible tremor coursed through her frame, not of pain, but a deep, untroubled physical yearning that caused her to press back instinctively, seeking more of Y'shtola's reassuring caress. She let out a soft sigh, a sound of exquisite relief, as the touch fed a hunger she had long denied. Her breathing evened out, growing deeper against Y'shtola's chest. Sevryn's hands, previously limp at her sides, slowly lifted, resting gently on her own thighs, fingers curling, a slight tension indicating a desire to touch, but holding fast. The space between them nigh shimmered with unspoken longing.

   Y'shtola's breath hitched, a faint gasp as she perceived the subtle tension in Sevryn's restrained hands, the clear yearning that permeated her essence. A wave of immense tenderness, tinged with a sharp pang of remorse for her earlier lack of attention, washed over her. Sevryn, in her stripped and shattered state, was still honoring her Mistress's command, a devotion that pierced Y'shtola's heart.

   "My precious Captain," Y'shtola murmured, her voice thick with emotion, her lips finding the sensitive skin just behind Sevryn's ear. "You hold to my word even now. Such loyalty is a gift I am not worthy of, but one I will cherish beyond measure. You have my explicit leave. You may touch me, my love. Indeed, I would have you do so." Her hand, which had been gently stroking Sevryn's damp hair, now shifted, fingers sliding lower to cup the back of her neck, gently pulling Sevryn's head back just a fraction from Y'shtola's shoulder. "Look at me, Sevryn."

   Sevryn obeyed, slowly lifting her head, eyes still heavy from weeping, but now meeting Y'shtola's gaze directly. That stormy gray look, usually so guarded, held a naked, luminous vulnerability, searching Y'shtola's face for confirmation of the permission that had just been granted. Her lips parted, a soft, almost soundless gasp escaping as she drank in the unwavering tenderness in Y'shtola's silver gaze.

   Y'shtola's thumb, still resting at the back of her neck, began a slow, rhythmic stroke, a deliberate caress that sent shivers down Sevryn's spine. "Such absolute obedience, my Captain," Y'shtola purred, her voice deepening, resonating with a rich, almost feral satisfaction. "To hold yourself back, even when your very essence cries out... that is a power I find utterly intoxicating. Let me taste that boundless strength, my love. Let me guide it, and we shall both discover the exquisite depths of what you offer." The hand, which had been tracing the lines of Sevryn's torso, now slid lower, finding Sevryn's hips. With a gentle yet firm pressure, Y'shtola subtly adjusted Sevryn's posture, shifting her ever so slightly to deepen their contact. Her head dipped, and her lips, soft and questioning, finally found Sevryn's mouth, a tender inquiry that promised both succor and discovery.

   Sevryn's own lips, still slightly swollen from her tears, parted under Y'shtola's touch, a silent invitation. A low groan vibrated from deep in her throat, rough with desperate need as she instinctively sought the warmth. Her strong hands, which had previously restrained themselves, now surged forward, not in a hesitant reach, but with a sudden, forceful claim. One hand cupped the back of Y'shtola's head, fingers tangling in the damp strands of her silver hair, pulling her deeper into the kiss with an undeniable, almost primal demand. The other hand swept low, anchoring firmly to Y'shtola's thigh, pulling her closer, asserting Sevryn's formidable physical strength.

   A shiver, sharp and immediate, coursed through Y'shtola as the Warrior's touch ignited her. The kiss deepened, a consuming fusion of mouths. Sevryn's tongue, bold and possessive, swept against hers, exploring, claiming, then plunging deeper. A desperate longing radiated from Sevryn, thick and potent, yet interwoven with a powerful, guarding edge that both thrilled and anchored Y'shtola. Her mouth pressed, hard and insistent, against the Miqo'te's, teeth gently scraping a lower lip, asserting a silent demand.

   Y'shtola's breath caught, a soft moan escaping her lips as Sevryn's ardent need captivated her. Fingers already tangled in dark hair tightened in an encouraging grip that cradled the Highlander's head even closer, matching the kiss with an answering hunger. Her other hand, previously anchored on Sevryn's hip, slid around the Warrior's waist, pulling their bodies flush. The Archon met the Highlander's possessive intensity with an ardor that mirrored Sevryn's own. Silver eyes seemed to burn with brazen desire, reflecting the power Sevryn now wielded.

   Her nipples hardened in a delicious ache against Sevryn's back, a delicate ripple of burgeoning arousal. Still wrapped between her legs, Sevryn's head tilted back further, mouth pressing fiercely against Y'shtola's. Her hips began a slow, deliberate undulation, a subtle press and grind against Sevryn's lower back, reaching into her upper buttocks, creating deliberate friction where it met Y'shtola's core. A slick warmth coated the Warrior's back, betraying the swift onset of desire. The faint scent of water and the sharp tang of hot pipes faded, replaced entirely by the intoxicating musk of heated skin, a primal lure that threatened to overwhelm Y'shtola's carefully maintained composure. The cold, stark walls of the bathing chamber seemed to press in, making the thought of their first time unfolding on its rough concrete floor a sudden, decisive deterrent. This was not the setting for a moment so pivotal, so long-anticipated.

   With a soft, almost imperceptible sigh that carried the weight of reluctant necessity, Y'shtola's lips eased from Sevryn's, lingering for a fraction of a moment before breaking contact. The Warrior's responding groan, a base, unsatisfied sound, rumbled deep against her chest, echoing the keen ache of Y'shtola's own unfulfilled desire. Hands, which had gripped Sevryn's head and waist, gently shifted, re-establishing a comforting hold rather than a demanding one. She pressed a tender kiss to the Highlander's forehead, a low, husky murmur, thick with both longing and gentle resolve.

   "Not here, my love," Y'shtola whispered, her thumb stroking Sevryn's brow. "This precious beginning, our first shared surrender to bliss... it deserves far more than this cold, unyielding stone. It deserves the softness of linen, the warmth of fire, and the sanctity of undisturbed privacy. It deserves all of me, given freely, without the lingering echoes of pain or the press of unwelcome urgency. We will come together, Captain, truly. But not now. Not yet."

   A full-body tremor coursed through Sevryn, visceral and immediate. Her tight grip on Y'shtola's head and thigh faltered, yet her hands remained, trembling, unwilling to release their hold. The Highlander's head, still resting against Y'shtola's shoulder, rolled slightly. Stormy gray eyes, wet with unshed tears, betrayed the agony of thwarted desire; they shone, impossibly clear, with the fierce battle raging within. Primal need warred with hard-won discipline, burning dominance clashing against a profound love and chosen submission. A ragged gasp tore from her throat, a choked sound of acute physical frustration and the bitter sting of denial.

   Y'shtola felt it all: every shuddering muscle, the desperate tremor in the Warrior's fingers, the radiating heat of unresolved arousal. Her sensitive touch perceived the fierce reluctance as Sevryn's hands, with palpable, painful effort, finally unclenched and slowly withdrew. They settled, still trembling, upon her own thighs.

   A low growl, intense and unfiltered, escaped Y'shtola's lips. Her arms tightened around the Warrior, pulling her closer still, crushing their bodies flush. The Archon buried her face in Sevryn's damp hair, pressing a searing kiss against her temple, then trailing it down the Highlander's jaw to the sensitive curve of her neck. "Such incredible loyalty, my Captain," she breathed, her voice thick with fierce admiration and a tenderness that bordered on reverence. "To honor my word even in this… this is a true measure of your formidable discipline. You are magnificent, Sevryn. Always."

   Y'shtola's arms deepened their hold around the Warrior, pulling her into a protective embrace. She held Sevryn as the last tremors of her thwarted desire faded, her own heart swelling with the acceptance of her Captain’s staunch devotion. The warmth of the thick blanket, combined with the heat radiating from their clasped bodies, began to chase the lingering chill from the concrete chamber. Sevryn remained silent, her body softening fully into Y'shtola's hold, seeking comfort and solace in the steady rhythm of her breath.

   After a long moment, Y'shtola's hand drifted to Sevryn's neck, finding her dark hair and gently smoothing it back from her forehead. "Lucia requested a meeting," she murmured, her voice now calm and precise, returning to a more public tone but still woven with underlying affection. "She requires your assessment of the remaining newly untempered Populares. I informed her of your, ah, indisposition, but suggested you might be available once your schedule allowed, or perhaps when you felt more... prepared." The gentle emphasis on 'prepared' was for Sevryn alone, a private acknowledgement of her current emotional and physical state. Y'shtola knew no one else must suspect the true depth of Sevryn's recent trauma or the nature of her healing.

   Sevryn remained motionless, a calm, deep presence nestled within Y'shtola's embrace. The chamber's quiet settled around them, broken only by the faint trickle of water from the pipe and the steady beat of the Miqo'te's heart. Her quietude, far from a refusal, affirmed the abject trust Sevryn now placed in Y'shtola's judgment. The Warrior would obey. Held securely in Y'shtola's warmth, she allowed herself simply to be - cradled by the woman who now meticulously gathered the gossamer threads of Sevryn's spirit’s restoration. The pervasive chill of Garlemald clung to the rough concrete, yet within the sanctuary of Y'shtola's arms, a hope of future wholeness began to unfurl.

<<^>>

Chapter Text

   Garlemald's gnawing cold seeped through the scant canvas walls of the field tent. Outside, the perpetual blizzard howled its desolate song, a relentless reminder of the world’s encroaching despair. Within, the small portable stove pulsed with a valiant, if insufficient, warmth, its faint ceruleum scent mingling with the metallic tang of dried blood that seemed stubbornly embedded in the air. Every creak of the tent poles was a muted echo of the wider desolation, amplifying the quietude that settled between them.

   Alisaie sat hunched on the edge of her cot, the rough blanket doing little to ward off the chill that seeped into her bones. Her shoulder, mended by Alphinaud's practiced hand, still retained a faint ache, a ghost of the jarring dislocation stirred by the penetrating cold. The subtle physical discomfort only sharpened the unyielding torment of her mind. Her gaze, bleary from exhaustion but fixed somewhere beyond the canvas walls, found the adjacent cot empty with only a drab military-issue blanket where Sevryn should have been. Its vacant emptiness ripped through her with a fresh wave of agony.

   The harrowing rupture still echoed in Alisaie's mind, a fresh wound from barely a week prior. That cold, gray morning after they'd rescued Sevryn from the abandoned train station, she had felt it through their bond: Sevryn's spirit splintering under the weight of some unseen torment. It had been a sickening, agonizing wave of despair and exhaustion that had nearly brought Alisaie herself to her knees. Then, just as suddenly, a calming balm had washed over that chaos, a steadying presence through the shared bond—Y'shtola's cool, commanding will, a tranquil force stemming the tide of Sevryn's breakdown. She'd glimpsed a connection, orphic and intimate, that Alisaie didn’t fully understand, even as she felt its comforting efficacy.

   But they never spoke of it. Not really. The sheer, relentless pace of the past few days had stolen any chance for true intimacy. From the moment Sevryn had stumbled back into their lives in that stranger’s body, through the horrific unleashing of Anima, to the chaotic aftermath of the Tower of Babil – no lull had emerged, no quiet moment to ask, to explain, to simply be with the woman she loved. Then, without warning, Sevryn was gone, propelled to the Moon by forces beyond their immediate control, a solitary ascent to face Zodiark.

   Sevryn had left, and an uncertain interim before Y'shtola, Thancred, and Urianger would soon follow. Though Alisaie had insisted on remaining to continue to aid the people of Garlemald while only a select few departed for the stars, the profound cost of that choice now weighed heavily. Why couldn't she have been among them? Why couldn't she have been the one to offer that same anchor on the Lunar surface—to be the one Sevryn leaned on, even as she faced a cosmic horror? Her guilt, already a gnawing beast for having felt she denied Sevryn comfort earlier, was now compounded by this forced separation, this inability to protect. The bond to Sevryn felt stretched, thin and fragile across the vastness of space, her beloved warrior distant, while Alisaie remained earthbound, fighting a losing battle against panic in a cold, dusty tent.

   The silence thickened, pressing down like a shroud. Alisaie squeezed her eyes shut, desperate to banish the vivid images of Sevryn's distant struggle, the phantom pain of insurmountable odds. Yet, the more she fought, the more acutely a cold void resonated within her, a hollow where vital connection should have offered solace. Her eyelids fluttered open, searching for any tether in the turbulent sea of her thoughts. Her mind gravitated to Y'shtola, wondering how the elder Archons braced for their perilous journey, wondering if Y'shtola, too, bore this crushing weight of anticipation, this aching concern for the Warrior of Light.

   A faint rustle of the tent flap pierced her reverie. Y'shtola entered, a silhouette of calm against the dim light filtering from the camp outside. Her movements were fluid, deliberate, her white hair gleaming softly in the meager illumination. She secured the flap, tying the ties together with a soft rustle of canvas, her gaze immediately sweeping the small space, registering Alisaie's slumped posture and the palpable unrest in the air.

   "You brood," Y'shtola's voice was a low murmur, cutting through the silence with the precision of a finely honed blade. "The turmoil in your aether is a stark contrast to the quiet you attempt to cultivate. It screams of a spirit ill at ease." She moved with unhurried grace, shedding her heavy outer cloak onto the empty cot, her own exhaustion palpable beneath her controlled demeanor. "Such disquiet will only serve to unravel your composure. To what purpose does it serve?"

   Alisaie flinched, startled, her head snapping up. "Purpose?" Her voice, rough from disuse and edged with a familiar sharpness, cracked. "What purpose does your detachment serve, then? To remain so… serene, while the world burns and she faces oblivion by herself?" Her gaze drifted to the empty cot, the words catching in her throat, thick with unshed tears. "She faces an old god—a burden meant for all of us. And I... I chose to stay."

   Y'shtola’s tail twitched, a subtle ripple of awareness. Her silver eyes, usually so composed, seemed to darken, reflecting a distant storm. "Serene? You misunderstand. My spirit, too, is a tempest, Alisaie," she affirmed, her voice dropping, losing some of its initial precision. "The relentless gnawing of this place, the despair of its people, the very air thick with fading hope. It clings to us all. And yes, my own being strains under the weight of Sevryn's precarious balance, knowing she now confronts Zodiark." She turned, her movements slow, deliberate, until she stood a few paces from Alisaie's cot.

Y'shtola's posture remained outwardly composed, yet her expression softened, the sharp edges of her control yielding to an almost imperceptible ache. "You mistake discipline for indifference," she stated, her voice losing its initial edge, becoming more hushed. "My spirit fights against the same rising tide of fear that claws at your own. To yield to it, to allow myself to unravel, would serve no one. Especially not Sevryn." She lifted a hand, her slender fingers briefly brushing the air between them, a gesture of shared burden. "My focus, my perceived calm, is merely a desperate attempt to maintain order within myself. A means to ensure that when my moment comes to follow her into that void, I do so with absolute clarity, unburdened by paralyzing doubt. Else, I risk becoming merely another victim in this spiraling chaos. I see the depth of your unrest, Alisaie. What thought, then, holds your being in such a grip?"

   Alisaie's breath caught, a strangled sound escaping her. She looked at Y'shtola, her blue eyes wide, shimmering with unshed tears, her usual fiery defiance replaced by strained vulnerability. "It's… it's what I couldn't do," she whispered, her voice cracking. "That morning, after the train station… I felt her break. I felt her despair. And then I felt your calm, flowing through her, steadying her. You anchored her, Y'shtola. You gave her solace when she was shattering." Her gaze dropped to her clenched hands, shame coloring her cheeks. "And I… I knew she needed comfort. She was hurting. And I was too afraid to give it. Too worried about the bond, about the sigils, about making things worse." The words tumbled out, thick with guilt, "I chose secrecy. I chose what you said was pragmatic. And now… I feel like I broke her spirit more than any of her battles. I denied her the one thing she needed, and I left her to face the next step, alone, without… without ever truly connecting again. And now she's on the Moon. And I'm here. What good am I, if I can't even offer the comfort she needs, the comfort you provide?"

   Y'shtola's unwavering gaze held Alisaie's, her tail curling slowly around her own ankle, a subtle tightening that betrayed her intense focus. A soft sigh escaped her lips, carrying with it a tremor of regret. "No, Alisaie," she replied, her voice low, tinged with self-reproach. "You do not break spirits. That heavy burden rests on my shoulders, not yours." She moved, gracefully crossing the small distance to Alisaie's cot. Her hands, cool and steady, reached out, finding Alisaie's clenched fists and gently uncurling them, her fingers lacing tenderly with the younger woman's.

"I gave you counsel borne of intellectual caution, steeped in theory and abstract risk. I spoke of pragmatism, yes, but I failed to account for the aching heart of a warrior who needed succor above all. My words became a shield, but they also forged a distance, a coldness that was never my intent. For that, I bear the weight. You acted from a place of deep love and fierce loyalty, believing you protected her by obeying my directive. Do not fault yourself for my oversight." Her thumb began to trace light, reassuring circles on Alisaie's knuckles, her silver eyes softening, reflecting Alisaie's turmoil with genuine empathy. "And as for the solace I offered that morning... it was a measure born of urgent necessity, a direct application of arcane principles to stem a rising tide of despair. But the comfort you offer, Alisaie, is of a different, rarer kind. It is born of a fire that matches her own, a rugged ardor that resonates with her very being. Never doubt the warmth and strength of that connection. Never question your worth to her, or to us. What good are you, you ask? You are her unwavering beacon. You are the battle she chooses to fight with passion. And you are here, bearing witness to her absence, carrying the weight of her distant struggle... just as I am."

   Alisaie's vision blurred, a fresh torrent of tears finally spilling over, tracing hot paths down her cheeks. Y'shtola's words, so unexpectedly tender, so unequivocally validating, were a dam breaking within her. A choked sob tore from her throat, a sound she hadn't realized she'd been holding back for days. Her tightly wound composure unraveled completely, leaving her trembling, exposed. Her hands, already intertwined with Y'shtola's, tightened desperately, clinging to the warmth, the steadiness, as if it were the last port in a raging storm.

   "Y'shtola..." Alisaie managed, her voice a fragile whisper, thick with anguish and overwhelming gratitude. Her blue eyes, wet and luminous, fixed on Y'shtola's unseeing gaze, pleading for a connection that transcended the spoken word, a desperate yearning for shared understanding in the face of a terrifying, uncertain future. The hush in the tent grew taut, stretched thin by the intimate, unspoken emotions surging between them.

   Y'shtola's lips parted on a soft exhale, her internal composure wavering under the sheer weight of Alisaie's desperate plea. Her silver eyes seemed to perceive every nuance of Alisaie's overflowing aether, mirroring the fierce desperation and yearning she felt in return. With a gentle, deliberate motion, Y'shtola freed one of her hands from Alisaie's grip, her fingers lifting slowly to trace the wet path of a tear down Alisaie's cheek. Her thumb lingered, absorbing the salt and warmth, then gently tilted Alisaie's chin upward, guiding her gaze closer.

   "No words are needed, my dear," Y'shtola murmured, her voice a resonant purr, a soothing hum that vibrated through Alisaie's very core. "Only this."

   Y'shtola leaned in, closing the distance. Her lips met Alisaie's, soft and tentative at first, a gentle inquiry into the depths of Alisaie's despair. As their mouths finally melded, the cold of Garlemald, the tang of dried blood in the air, the distant howl of the blizzard—all faded into distant static. Alisaie's remaining intertwined hand instinctively tightened further, pulling the Archon impossibly closer, desperate for comfort. Y'shtola's hand, which had cupped Alisaie's chin, rose to cradle the back of Alisaie's head, urging her further into the kiss.

   The contact became a desperate communion. Alisaie's mouth opened, eager and trembling, her tongue delving, tangling with Y'shtola's in a hungry, searching dance. The soft press of Y'shtola's lips, supple yet firm, drew a low moan from Alisaie. Her needy sound was lost as their breaths hitched, hot and ragged, mingling in the confined space between them. Through the tight lacing of their fingers, their aether flared, not with the violent distortions of Esteem, but a mutual, comforting flow. This was distinct, utterly free of the chilling emptiness that sometimes accompanied the bond with Sevryn when Esteem's hunger was near. Here, there was no parasitic drain, no subtle hint of avarice or corrupted longing. Instead, Alisaie felt Y'shtola's steadfast calm, a deep well of affection, and a startling undercurrent of something new—a tender desire, a quiet yearning that mirrored her own nascent need. Simultaneously, Y'shtola perceived Alisaie's fierce love, the immense relief washing over her, and an unfolding passion, base and untamed. It was a release, a silent resound of affirmation, a promise whispered without words that neither would face this gnawing fear alone. This kiss, born of shared anguish and desperate hope, became their anchor in a world on the brink, a singular point of warmth in the encroaching chill.

   Unlike the all-consuming fire of Sevryn's touch, which always drew Alisaie into a delirious, raw surrender, pulling her into an almost primal oblivion, Y'shtola's kiss was a different kind of claiming. It was a subtle, exquisite cultivation, a slow blossoming of latent desire. Where Sevryn's kisses were a dizzying plunge, a maelstrom of intertwined aether and desperate hunger that swept her away, Y'shtola offered a precise, deliberate dance. The touch of Y'shtola's tongue, less a wild seeking and more a gentle, discerning exploration, elicited a slow, sweet burn in Alisaie's core, an unhurried awakening. There was no overwhelming surge of power, no sudden pull of essence. Instead, a delicate tendril of Y'shtola's own formidable aether, cool and precise, wove itself into Alisaie's, harmonizing rather than dominating, nurturing rather than draining. It spoke of a profound knowing, a patient guidance, a mastery born not of force but of exquisite understanding. Alisaie felt herself subtly yielding, not in a desperate collapse, but in a willing, conscious unfurling, responding to the measured intensity with a burgeoning, reciprocal desire that felt both deeply personal and yet, somehow, deeply shared.

   Y'shtola, for her part, found Alisaie's essence to be a surprising counterpoint. While Sevryn's fiery spirit always met her dominance with a visceral, untamed intensity, yielding to her calculated control with an unbridled, almost feral devotion, Alisaie’s response was a revelation of delicate ferocity. The taste of her tears, hot and sharp, mingled with an unexpected sweetness, a vulnerability that stirred a deep, protective tenderness in Y'shtola. This was not the familiar ache of compelling Sevryn's powerful, yielding form into deeper submission. Alisaie’s fragile, ardent yearning, so exposed and vulnerable, answered Y'shtola’s own quiet, carefully guarded desires with an almost shocking purity. Alisaie’s tremulous lips, her desperate sighs, spoke of a passion that, while less overtly commanding than Sevryn's, held a torrid, unwavering devotion that called to Y'shtola's soul. The shared act, devoid of Fray’s lingering taint or any external demand, affirmed a unique union, a delicate balance of needs met in quiet, mutual solace.

   Slowly, reluctantly, their lips parted, leaving a lingering warmth, the sweet ache of connection that quieted the frantic drum of Alisaie's heart. Y'shtola's hand, still cradling the back of Alisaie’s head, gently moved, her fingers stroking Alisaie’s hair, smoothing it away from her flushed face. Her thumb brushed softly over Alisaie’s swollen lips, a wordless testament to the intimate exchange that had just passed between them.

   "Rest now," Y'shtola murmured, her voice low and tender, laced with exhaustion and deep contentment. She shifted, easing herself onto the cot beside Alisaie, then pulled the younger woman fully into her arms. Their bodies molded together, faces drawing close, finding a natural, comforting grace. Y'shtola's arm draped over Alisaie’s waist, pulling her closer still, a protective embrace that promised warmth and respite from the lingering chill. With a gentle tug, she pulled the heavy blanket higher, cocooning them both against the bitter air.

   Alisaie, boneless with a weary satisfaction, let out a soft, contented sigh, burying her face in the curve of Y'shtola’s shoulder. The scent of sage and clean skin, mingled with the faint tang of ozone, filled her senses, a comforting anchor in the desolate landscape. She felt the steady beat of Y'shtola’s heart, a rhythmic reassurance that slowly lulled her. The faint ache in her shoulder seemed to recede, fading into the background as warmth spread through her, chasing away the pervasive cold.

   Y'shtola’s fingers, resting gently on Alisaie’s waist, stilled. Her breathing deepened, falling into a slow, even rhythm that spoke of a hard-won, deep repose. Alisaie, wrapped in the unexpected peace and quiet strength of the woman beside her, felt herself drift. The images of Sevryn, alone on the moon, still flickered, but they were softer now, less sharp, buffered by the warmth of their shared embrace. The anxieties for the morning, for Y'shtola’s own perilous journey, seemed distant, held at bay by the present comfort. Her last conscious thought was of the two women she loved, intertwined in her heart, a complex, beautiful tapestry of shared burdens and unexpected fullness. And in the quiet hum of the tent, Alisaie finally, truly, slept.

<<^>>

Chapter Text

   A jarring jolt slammed Sevryn against the lunar regolith, the impact rattling teeth she didn't know had clenched. Her arms, still instinctively coiled around a phantom shield, burned with the lingering force of an explosion that had moments ago torn apart the very heart of the Moon. Dust, finer than ash, mushroomed around the Highlander, stinging her lungs with its acrid tang. A high-pitched whine still shrieked in her ears, a phantom echo of Zodiark’s dying agony, as she scrambled upright, every muscle screaming from the brutal, final confrontation.

   Stumbling to the edge of the abyss, Sevryn braced against the gale of raw, destabilized aether that roared up from the cavernous maw where Zodiark had been imprisoned. Tendrils of orangish-red energy, thick as storm clouds and violently writhing, clawed skyward from the depths, twisting higher and higher into the void of space. The sheer, terrifying magnitude of the power unleashed pressed down, leaving her breathless and spent. Above the maelstrom, Etheirys hung, a shimmering, sapphire jewel against the infinite black.

   Sevryn squeezed her eyes shut, desperate for a moment of quiet, a single beat of stillness to anchor her spinning senses. Instinctively, she reached out along the tenuous threads of her bond, seeking the familiar presence of those who grounded her.

   For a fleeting second, a bewildering aetheric pulse filled the Warrior's mind. This was something else—a flash of unadulterated, alien comfort, a harmonizing presence that couldn't be placed. It pulsed with a startling tenderness, utterly devoid of Esteem's usual demanding presence. Then, the true nature of it unfolded around her:

   It was a kiss, a quiet storm of shared solace and burgeoning desire that rippled through the bond from miles away. Sevryn felt the distinct, exquisite difference from her own touch – no parasitic drain, no corrupted longing, just pure, untainted connection. She tasted Alisaie’s passionate yearning, a raw, untamed fire that sought comfort and fierce affirmation, mirroring Sevryn's own deep ardor. This wasn't the dizzying plunge the Highlander often offered, but a delicate ferocity, a willing, conscious unfurling. Intertwined with it, Y'shtola’s steadfast calm, a deep well of affection that flowed with precise, guiding currents, nurturing and harmonizing without dominating. Sevryn felt the Archon's carefully guarded desires meeting Alisaie's exposed vulnerability, a soft blossoming of latent desire that echoed Y'shtola's quiet, compelling will and acceptance. It was a unique union, a delicate balance of needs met in quiet, mutual succor, solidifying into an anchor of warmth and desperate hope in a world on the brink. 

   A deep, clean ache of intimate connection settled over Sevryn's frayed perceptions, pulling at something fundamentally desired, before it vanished like a whisper. But before the Captain could unravel the unexpected clarity, a guttural snarl tore through her own mind, Esteem's voice, laced with confusion and a primal repulsion.

   "What was that?!" Esteem shrieked, fierce and furious. "Such...purity! From them? From her? No! Not like that! It twists! It weakens! They're trying to control you. They want to claim your pain. It's not love, it's a manipulation of your weakness."

   Sevryn flinched, the abrupt internal assault jarring her more than the Moon's physical impact. The familiar, hated presence of Esteem was back, unbridled and unfiltered, clamoring in the Highlander's head. Damn it.  

   A groan was bitten back. Sevryn had needed Esteem's full power for the fight, of course, which meant shedding the warding scale that buffered its insidious whispers. Now, the fragile peace of her mind was shattered under the voidsent's renewed, unwelcome cacophony. A desperate longing for the internal quiet the scale provided swelled within the Warrior, knowing it lay packed away, a silent reproach for her calculated risk. "Quiet, you!" she snarled internally, fighting the urge to physically clamp hands over ears.

   Instantly, a terrifying red vibrated violently at the edges of her vision, and a female voice, sharp and cold, sliced through the inner void, giggling menacingly, "Ah... at last...". The shimmering, malevolent crimson of the omen bled back to the normal gray tones of the Echo. Fandaniel’s final words scraped through her thoughts: “Once again, you have left my best laid plans in ruins. And played your role to perfection, thus sealing my victory…”. As she watched, the blue and green orb of Etheirys blackened and sundered in the vision, as if the planet's very aether was corrupted, desiccated, siphoned from the Source, leaving naught but voided waste.

   "Deep breaths... Slow and steady..." The Watcher’s voice cut through the sickening static of the Echo, pulling Sevryn back. The maddening red fray at the edge of her vision, the chilling glimpse of planetary destruction, suddenly disappeared, as if a door had been slammed shut. "You saw it too, yes? The blue star below, thrown into turmoil."

   Sevryn turned, her body still trembling with the residual tremors of the Echo. "Then it was no illusion," she rasped, her voice hoarse from the internal battle, explaining what she had seen and heard.

   "All was truth. With the death of Zodiark, the laws of nature over which He presided have begun to unravel. The Final Days are upon us. What you witnessed was an omen granted by the Echo. A vision of the horrors to come," the Watcher affirmed, his gaze steady. He looked at her, his voice somber. "Time grows short."

   As the Watcher's final words echoed in the lunar silence, a shift in the roaring abyss below drew Sevryn’s gaze. From the maelstrom of orange-red, a dark, humanoid figure began to coalesce, its form wreathed in violently swirling aether. Carmine red, vibrant and stark, pulsed around it like an infernal aura, mixed with churning black. For a split second, a chillingly familiar aetheric echo, thin and sharp like a newly drawn blade, shimmered at its core, a ghostly memory of bonds long broken, before it shot skywards with impossible speed. It executed a flawless forward flip in the air, landing silently on the regolith, a Reaper’s scythe already drawn and resting casually at its side.

   A guttural snarl ripped through Sevryn's skull, Esteem's voice, rough with a mix of recognition, fury, and a strange, ancient fascination. "Him. Her. The Memoriate. Finally! The one who bound me! The one who dared! And still... a weapon. Always just a weapon."  A wave of sheer, cold rage, mixed with a chilling, almost reverent awe, flooded Sevryn's mind, making her teeth ache. Esteem's rage felt like a centuries-old wound, reopened. Sevryn fought the unfamiliar surge of primordial anger, shivering despite the heat Esteem's presence brought. This recognition was not hers.

   The figure casually pulled the Reaper’s scythe back, settling it into a relaxed, ready position. A familiar voice, edged with boredom, drifted across the lunar surface. "No. I'll find no fulfillment in a contest with you this day." The violently swirling aether around the figure dissolved, revealing Zenos yae Galvus, impossibly resurrected, holding the scythe with an almost languid ease.

   "Look at you. Still fighting on behalf of slavering beasts," Zenos observed, his voice tinged with a familiar, weary disdain. "And for what? To turn away from me? From the true fulfillment of battle?" He sighed, a dramatic, almost theatrical sound. "No matter. There will be other opportunities for us to dance, Warrior of Light. Opportunities born of a power that will dwarf even your greatest triumphs."

   Sevryn stared, a knot of old frustration and rising horror tightening in her gut. Why me? Why this obsession? His words scraped against the Warrior's exposed nerves, echoing Esteem's nigh endless assertions that Sevryn was merely a ‘weapon’.

   Zenos’s gaze drifted to the abyss, his eyes alight with a cold, almost detached glee. "My... companion... seeks to inspire pure, unadulterated despair across this star. To strip away false hope, reveal the true, magnificent nature of nothingness. And you, Warrior... you shall be its greatest canvas. Your struggles, your inevitable fall... will be the masterpiece."

   Sevryn's fists clenched, knuckles white. The bitterness of the Highlander's own recent despair, the echoes of her self-loathing, resonated with Zenos’ cruel words. Every instinct screamed to throw herself at him, to make him pay for Fandaniel’s actions, for Nidhana, for everything. But his pronouncements—his casual dismissal of hope, his celebration of utter wretchedness—hit too close to home. Indeed, she had just felt the very edges of that void within herself.

   "I will not fight for your amusement," Sevryn stated, voice cutting through the silence.

   Zenos’ lips curled into a faint, knowing smile, as if hearing her unspoken defiance. "We shall see..." he murmured, his gaze holding Sevryn's for a beat too long. The scythe head retracted, returning to his back with a soft click. Then, with a languid turn, Zenos began to walk towards Sevryn, his steps unhurried, almost casual.

   The Warrior stood her ground, eyes fixed forward, dread seeping into her bones as the foe approached. He passed so close Sevryn could feel the faint brush of displaced air, the lingering scent of ozone and something sharp, almost metallic, off his robes. His eyes, devoid of any light save for an icy amusement, cut towards the Highlander for a fleeting instant as Zenos passed, a silent promise of future torment.

   Then, the moment was over. Zenos vanished into the dark, leaving Sevryn alone once more with the Watcher, the gaping abyss, and the muted hush of the Moon. The silence stretched, amplifying the soft crunch of Zenos’s boots fading into nothingness. 

   Sevryn stood, breath coming in ragged gasps, the recent confrontation leaving her emotionally rended and physically exhausted. The cold dread from Zenos’ omnious promises mingled with the lingering confusion of the fleeting aetheric pulse she experienced. Her thoughts spun, trying to reconcile the conflicting sensations, all while Esteem’s voice continued its low, persistent snarl within the mind. Weak. Useless. Just a weapon. You can’t even hold onto your own mind.

   "Warrior of Light." The Watcher's voice, calm and steady, broke the silence. "Your companions have arrived."

   The simulacrum gestured towards the colossal structure behind them, its bluish-grey ceruleum facets shimmering under the harsh lunar light. Sevryn nodded numbly, gaze still fixed on the doorway of the Watcher's Palace. The acute ache in her chest intensified with each step the Watcher took towards it, leading the Highlander towards a reunion that now, somehow, felt fraught. Sevryn gritted her teeth, futilely willing the inner cacophony to end. 

   As they reached the entrance, the Watcher pushed open the heavy door, revealing the warm, golden light within. Sevryn stepped across the threshold, eyes immediately sweeping the familiar interior of the Palace, and there they were. Y'shtola stood apart from Thancred and Urianger, white hair luminous in the soft glow of the interior, head tilted slightly, as if listening to something beyond the range of mortal hearing. Her posture was composed, yet Sevryn, even in her pain, sensed an unfiltered current of overwhelming relief thrumming beneath the Archon's usual calm. Sevryn’s breath caught, the pain in her chest twisting sharply.

   Y'shtola said nothing, offered no conventional greeting. Instead, her silver eyes, usually so composed, snapped towards Sevryn with a sudden, intense focus that seemed to pierce Sevryn's very soul, gleaming with an uncharacteristic, almost visceral fear that momentarily bled through her control. The Archon moved with swift, deliberate grace, closing the distance between them. Y'shtola laid a gentle, guiding hand on Sevryn's elbow, a touch conveying a clear, unspoken directive that was as much urgent concern as it was authority. "Let us find a moment of privacy, Captain. Even here, some matters require... discretion." A low hum of desperation vibrated beneath Y'shtola's voice. She steered Sevryn towards a secluded alcove in the wall, half-obscured by a large, ornate tapestry, but paused briefly as her eyes fell upon Sevryn's pack, lying innocently where it had been dropped before the battle. Her free hand moved with swift, desperate precision towards Sevryn's discarded rucksack. Unbuckling the main flap, Y'shtola rummaged briefly, and then emerged with the small, tightly wrapped parcel containing the warding scale, retrieving it as if life depended on it.

   Once settled in the relative shadow of the alcove, Y'shtola turned back to the Highlander. Her voice, though calm and precise, dropped to a low, tender murmur that resonated with genuine sorrow. "Sevryn. You are not well. Your aether is in deep discord. Esteem is unhindered." Y'shtola's touch, now on the Warrior’s arm, was gentle but steady, a silent tether that tried to convey the depth of her regret. Esteem’s accusations, however, reached a fever pitch in Sevryn’s mind: Look at her. So unblemished. So untouched. Not like you. You’re tainted. A monster.

   "This is what you require, Captain," Y'shtola stated, her voice softer now, tinged with a quiet apology, as she held out the scale to Sevryn. "Your internal quiet has been shattered. Let us restore it."

   Sevryn stared at the scale in Y'shtola's outstretched hand, then back at Y’shtola’s face. Her mind reeled. Y'shtola truly understood. Not just the technicalities of the scale, but about Esteem, its relentless whispering. The demon shrieked in protest, a base, terrified sound: No! Not the cage! A familiar coldness settled in Sevryn’s gut – the cold comfort of being fixed.

   Ignoring Esteem's internal clamor, Sevryn reached out and took the scale. Fingers, still trembling, fumbled with the ties. Y'shtola, sensing Sevryn’s every tremor and the tenuous, defeated slump in the Warrior's aura, stepped closer. "Allow me, Captain," the Archon murmured, her voice a low, tender note that held a strong undercurrent of her own contained distress.

   Y'shtola’s hands, calm and deliberate through sheer force of will, took the scale and began to unwrap it. She stepped closer still, the warmth of her body a subtle, unwelcome reminder of the intimacy being demanded in the name of practicality. "Your uniform coat, Captain. It will obstruct. And then your undershirt. I need direct contact to ensure the scale is properly affixed." The Archon's voice was soft, yes, devoid of overt command, but to Y'shtola, each syllable felt like a blade twisting in her own heart, stating a necessary truth she wished, ardently, not to utter.

   Sevryn, still reeling from the internal cacophony, nodded numbly. Fingers, despite their exhaustion, worked quickly, unbuckling the leather straps of the uniform coat. The heavy garment slid from shoulders with a soft thud, pooling at feet. The lunar chill, previously buffered by the black fabric, now bit at exposed skin, but the cold was quickly overwhelmed by the heat that flushed from within – Esteem's furious, almost desperate protest: Flee, weakling! This is not your choice. This is control. 

   Y'shtola’s hand, cool and steady, reached out, lightly brushing Sevryn's ribs as she gestured, her touch as light as possible, determined not to inflict further discomfort. "Your undershirt, Sevryn."

   Sevryn’s hands went to the hem of her damp undershirt, her fingers fumbling, hesitant. Her gaze, despite her best efforts, drifted to Y'shtola's silver eyes, seeking reassurance, confirmation that this was truly an act of care, not another form of control. Sevryn’s aether, usually so fiercely independent, now thrummed with a fragile, almost desperate hope, an aching query that echoed in the silent space between them: Are you helping me, or just managing the problem?

   "Trust me, Captain," Y'shtola murmured, her voice a soothing balm, but inside, a sharp knot of self-reproach tightened the Archon's chest. Y'shtola hated the need for these practical demands, the inherent imbalance they created. Cool fingers slid under the hem of the undershirt. With a fluid, unhurried motion, Y'shtola guided the Warrior’s hands up, helping Sevryn pull the fabric upwards, slowly exposing the taut muscles of Sevryn’s abdomen, then the firm swell of her breasts, bound by a simple wrap. Y'shtola's fingers, in passing, brushed Sevryn’s skin – cool against heated flesh – a fleeting, almost imperceptible contact that sent a sharp shiver through Sevryn. Y'shtola's gaze, however, remained focused on the rising fabric, her expression one of utter professionalism, a mask donned to hide the painful, burgeoning awareness of the Warrior’s silent questions, even as Esteem raged internally.

   As Sevryn's undershirt was pushed up and bundled just under her breasts, Y'shtola's fingers found the warm, smooth skin of Sevryn's solar plexus. Her thumb stroked the area with tender, deliberate pressure, seeking the exact spot, her sensitive touch reading the intricate language of Sevryn's turbulent aether beneath her skin. A quiet sigh, laced with heartfelt relief, escaped Y'shtola's lips. "Just so."

   With practiced efficiency, she unwrapped the scale and positioned it against Sevryn's sternum. As the smooth, cool object made contact with the Warrior’s skin, a profound stillness, a blessed silence, immediately washed over Sevryn's mind. Esteem's snarls vanished, replaced by a muffled, distant thrum. The pervasive internal clamor ceased, leaving behind only the lingering ache of Sevryn’s physical exhaustion and the cold lunar air.

   Y'shtola's gaze, intense and unwavering, held Sevryn's. Silver eyes, reflecting a fierce, protective love she rarely allowed to surface so starkly, seemed to bore into Sevryn's very soul. "Esteem's accusations are merely that, Sevryn. Manipulation. Do not give them power. You are not a weapon. You are not tainted. You are whole. And you are loved." The Archon's words, soft but firm, resonated with the newfound quiet in the Warrior’s mind, a balm directly applied to Sevryn's deepest wounds.

   Sevryn stared at Y'shtola, breath caught in her throat. The immediate relief from Esteem’s voice was immense, but Y'shtola’s words, so direct, so utterly validating, struck deeper, challenging the very core of the Highlander’s self-loathing. It was a profound, shocking tenderness, a comfort offered without conditions or arcane principles, tearing down years of carefully constructed defenses.

   The Warrior merely nodded, unable to speak, gaze still locked on Y'shtola, trying to reconcile the pragmatic Archon with the woman who had just offered such deep and simple relief. Sevryn felt drawn to that quiet strength, a desperate need for understanding blooming amidst the remnants of despair. Hands, still slightly trembling, subtly clenched into tight fists at sides, a frank testament to continued struggle, despite the validation.

   Y'shtola, watching Sevryn's careful, contained reaction, perceived the lingering shadow of withdrawal in Sevryn's core. The verbal validation had landed, Y’shtola realized with sharp, piercing clarity, but the emotional comfort had not. Her own heart twisted with a sudden, agonizing ache. Fool, Y'shtola, she thought, the self-reproach bitter. My intent is pure, but my delivery is too clinical. This is not the comfort Sevryn requires. This is not how she feels loved. The realization struck deep, a truth more damning than any accusation.

   Without a word, abandoning her usual measured pace, Y'shtola reached out. Hands, typically measured, now moved with an urgent tenderness, cupping Sevryn's face. This was no longer an act of assessment or control, but sheer, unadulterated yearning. Y'shtola pulled Sevryn into an embrace—a fierce huddle born not of strategy, but of profound affection and regret. It was an ardent attempt to bridge the emotional chasm her pragmatism had forged. She wrapped her arms around Sevryn, pulling the Highlander close, pressing Sevryn's head gently against her shoulder. "My love," Y'shtola murmured, voice hoarse, devoid of artifice, trembling with the depth of emotion long suppressed. "I will learn to be what you require. My words may falter, but my heart does not. Rest now." Her hand found the nape of Sevryn's neck, thumb stroking gently, pouring reassurance and unspoken apologies into Sevryn's exhausted spirit.

   Sevryn stiffened, then slowly, hesitantly, all resistance left the Warrior. She melted into the unexpected embrace, a low, broken sob tearing from her throat as her defenses crumbled. The sheer, exposed vulnerability of Y'shtola's touch, the stripped-bare sincerity in her voice, shattered the Warrior’s meticulously built walls. This was not calculated management. This was no adherence to abstract arcane principles. It was a direct, unfiltered outpouring of care, of love, that finally reached the Highlander. Sevryn clung to Y'shtola, burying face against the Archon’s shoulder, hot tears wetting the dark robe. The immense solace of simply being held, without expectation or analysis, washed over her, an overwhelming current that began to seep into her bones, weaving through her fractured essence to mend invisible wounds.

<<^>>

Chapter Text

   The cool, crisp Sharlayan air offered no respite to the tempest churning within Alisaie's breast. Each polished stone of the Baldesion Annex’s hushed halls seemed to hum with detached academic pursuit, unmoved by the unsettled, visceral ache that thrummed beneath her own skin. Her new jacket, chosen with a fleeting attempt at normalcy earlier that day, felt like a thin shield against a world that had suddenly, brutally, laid bare its indifference. The echoes of her father's cold pronouncements still resonated, each word a hammer blow against her heart, shattering the illusion of family she'd clung to.

   Her boots, usually light and purposeful, now pounded a driven rhythm against the immaculate marble, a frantic drumbeat urging her faster, away from the biting sting of dismissal and towards the one anchor she knew would hold. Her focus stone, typically spitting playful sparks of red aether, lay inertly at her hip, reflecting the exhaustion that bled through her spirit. She wasn't seeking conversation, not really. She sought the tranquil space only Sevryn could provide, the unspoken understanding that transcended words and judgment.

   As she rounded a still corner, the scent of sage and ozone sliced through the faint annex smells, a familiar signature. There, emerging from the shadowy alcove of a rarely used archive entrance, was Y'shtola. The Archon moved with her customary liquid grace, her white hair a pale moonbeam in the dimming light of the hall, a vision of serene power. Yet Alisaie noticed a subtle strain around her eyes, a faint tension in the set of her shoulders that spoke of burdens even Y'shtola carried.

   Y'shtola paused, her head tilting almost imperceptibly as Alisaie's hurried footsteps drew near. Her silver gaze, all-perceiving, seemed to pierce through Alisaie's frenetic energy, locking onto the turmoil within her soul. For a breath, Alisaie faltered, a wave of complex emotions washing over her: the lingering echo of their shared kiss, a ghost of intimate understanding, and the unsettling clarity of being so completely seen. She felt a brief, almost overwhelming urge to simply collapse into Y'shtola's serene strength, to simply be held.

   But Y'shtola merely offered a single, soft nod, her lips curving into a faint, knowing smile that held no judgment, only a deep, quiet comprehension. A gentle brush of Y'shtola's aether -a cool, steady presence- flowed over Alisaie for a fleeting moment, a subtle blessing. Alisaie swallowed hard, the unspoken support a surprising bolster to her frayed nerves, and with a renewed surge of urgency, she resumed her pace, her heart pounding with a single, burning focus. Sevryn. Only Sevryn could anchor her now.

 ~~

   The polished door to Sevryn's modest room in the Andron felt impossibly heavy under Alisaie's trembling hand. Each measured breath she took tasted of unbidden salt, and the air itself seemed to carry the bitter tang of her father's deliberate snub. She didn't bother to knock; her aetheric key, a gift from Sevryn herself, thrummed briefly against her palm, the unspoken promise of unconditional entry. With a muted click, the lock disengaged, and Alisaie pushed the door inward, a wave of warm, familiar air washing over her. The aroma of well-worn leather and a faint, comforting trace of sandalwood filled her senses – Sevryn's scent easing her frayed nerves.

   Sevryn stood near the sprawling, plush bed, a figure of uneasy stillness. Her strong arms hung at her sides, her fingers idly tracing the faint, mottled bruising on her wrists – a tell-tale sign of the aches beneath her skin. Her dark hair, still damp from a recent bath, fell loosely around her, catching the faint lamplight, a diffused shadow against her pale skin. The hushed hum of the room was punctuated only by the soft, rhythmic sound of her subtle movements, a restless counterpoint to the stillness. Her black coat lay discarded across the recamier sofa, and her simple undershirt clung to the taut lines of her shoulders. Her gaze, distant and unseeing, fixed on the carpet beneath her bare feet. There was a complete stillness about her, a weariness so deep it seemed to root her to the spot, despite the restless energy thrumming faintly around her. She was lost in a private world of thought Alisaie instinctively knew was heavy and burdened.

   “Sevryn," Alisaie's voice emerged as little more than a breathless whisper, rough with an exposed emotionality she rarely allowed. The Warrior stiffened, then slowly lifted her head. Her gray eyes, usually so direct and unwavering, widened imperceptibly, a flicker of surprise blooming there before softening with recognition and a gentle warmth. “Ali," Sevryn murmured, her brogue a low, grounding rumble that instantly began to soothe the frantic drumbeat in Alisaie's chest. "Didnae expect you tonight." A slight half-smile touched Sevryn's lips, but Alisaie saw the guarded edge beneath it, a familiar shield she often raised.

   Alisaie didn't respond with words; she simply couldn't. The dam within her, held precariously since Garlemald, finally shattered. Her feet moved almost without conscious thought, propelled by a relentless, aching need, crossing the lavish rug. She launched herself forward, not with the impetuous energy of battle, but with the trembling urgency of a soul seeking sanctuary. Her arms wrapped tightly around Sevryn's waist, burying her face against the solid strength of the Warrior's chest, inhaling the comforting scent that was so uniquely hers. Every strained muscle in Alisaie's body sagged in complete relief as Sevryn's arms, strong and familiar, came up around her, holding her close, a port against the raging storm within.

   A sharp, choked sob ripped from Alisaie's throat. It was the sound of a spirit finally shedding the immense burden it could no longer bear, melting into the safe embrace of unconditional love. Sevryn's hand came up, cradling the back of Alisaie's head, fingers threading into her hair with boundless tenderness. The Warrior said nothing, but the steady rhythm of her heartbeat beneath Alisaie's ear, the secure press of her body, spoke all that was needed: I'm here. You're safe.

   Alisaie remained clutched against Sevryn, her sobs slowly quieting to trembling breaths that hitched against the Highlander's firm breast. The scent of summer rain and sandalwood filled her senses. After a long moment, she slowly pulled back, reluctantly easing just enough to lift her head, her tear-streaked face searching Sevryn's gaze. Sevryn's arms remained wrapped around her, holding her securely, her own expression soft with eternal affection and silent understanding.

   "You're here. Truly here. I thought I'd lost you. I was so afraid." Alisaie's voice trembled, thick with the weight of overwhelming relief. She clung to the solid warmth of Sevryn's body, her eyes tracing every familiar line of her face. A fresh wave of tears, this time of gratitude, welled, blurring Sevryn's beloved features. "Thank the Twelve."

   She swallowed, trying to find the words, and then the bitter tang of her unexpressed self-reproach resurfaced, swallowing the relief. “Back at that station... when Esteem had you…” Her grip on Sevryn's undershirt tightened. “It taunted me, Sevryn. Said I starved you.” Tears welled, fresh and hot. “That I put your needs second, always choosing discretion, being so damn careful instead of just... giving you what your soul craved. That I chipped away at your spirit, slowly, little by little, leaving you hollowed.” Her voice cracked, fresh tears stinging her eyes. “Gods, Sevryn, is it true? Did I... did I truly do that to you? Did I make you suffer so much more?"

   Sevryn paused, her gaze unwavering. "No," she said, her voice rough but firm, pulling Alisaie closer, "Never. You never made me suffer, lass. Not a single moment." Her brogue deepened, the words heavy with memory, but laced with burning  conviction. "And you never chipped away at my spirit."

"That cult... what they carved on me... they siphoned my aether, and that starved Esteem." Her voice dropped, a grim undertone, "And Esteem, hungry and twisted, tried to tear free, feeding on that darkness I contain and twisting it all up inside me."

Sevryn took a deep, steadying breath, her eyes locking onto Alisaie's. "But you, Ali... you never meant harm. You acted out of naught but love and belief, following the counsel you thought best." She pressed a soft kiss to Alisaie's forehead. "Esteem's hateful words... they were lies. They were never the truth of my heart. You don't diminish souls, Ali. You restore them."

   Alisaie clung to Sevryn, her shoulders still trembling with the last vestiges of her emotional storm, immense relief washing over her like a balm. She buried her face against Sevryn's neck for a moment, drinking in the warmth, the consummate certainty of Sevryn's unwavering love that promised to keep her. When she finally looked up again, her blue eyes were still bright with unshed tears, but a new, unyielding resolve shone within them. 

   “I promised myself,” Alisaie began, her voice a fragile whisper, “that there would be nothing left unsaid between us. Nothing Esteem could exploit or corrupt.” She hesitated, her gaze searching Sevryn's face for any judgment, then with a surge of newfound courage, she pressed on. “Sevryn... back in Garlemald. In your field tent, Y'shtola and I... we shared a kiss."

   Sevryn's arms tightened around Alisaie, her expression unchanging, her gaze steady and accepting. “Aye,” she murmured, her voice soft. “I sensed it.” A faint, almost imperceptible smile touched Sevryn's lips, tinged with a familiar weariness. “It was potent, a flow of aether,  so warm and unburdened, altogether unlike... unlike my own, more often than not.” Her brogue, thick with an undercurrent of self-recrimination, returned. “Mine can be... a ravenous, demanding thing, even without Esteem's goading. But yours... yours simply was comfort, a soothing warmth that reached across the void."

   Alisaie's eyes widened, a flicker of surprise quickly softening into profound relief. “You... you sensed it?” She pulled back just a fraction, her gaze searching Sevryn's face earnestly. “Sevryn, that 'ravenous' part you spoke of... that's not what I feel now. Not with you. With you, I feel us. Every part of you, fiercely. And it's magnificent, not... hungry. It's consuming, yes, but in a way that heals, not depletes.” Her voice, though still tender, held a newfound steel, defying any lingering self-loathing Sevryn harbored. “I want all of you, Sevryn. Every somber truth. No matter how wild it feels."

   Sevryn's arms tightened around Alisaie, her expression unchanging, yet her eyes gleamed with an undeniable relief that perfectly mirrored the warmth blossoming in Alisaie's chest. Her head inclined, an acknowledgement of Alisaie's unwavering acceptance.

   “Magnificent?” Sevryn murmured, her brogue thick with a new kind of wonder, her gaze now fully fixed on Alisaie. “If you truly think it so, lass. If you truly see this consuming current in me as that... as something that mends, not empties.” Her voice, dulcet and fragile, chased away the self-disgust with deep gratitude. A new understanding solidified in her stormy eyes, sparked by Alisaie’s words. “Then... then that kiss you shared.” Her gaze deepened, a tender flicker in its depths. “Even across the distance—that felt like the purest promise of it. A lifeline. Just when the darkness was closing in, before I even knew I needed it.” Sevryn pulled Alisaie closer, pressing a soft kiss to her forehead. “No more hiding, Ali. No more doubts. Only the truth of us."

   Their lips found each other again, this time with heavier urgency, an impassioned melding that spoke volumes of unspoken desire. Sevryn's mouth opened eagerly under Alisaie's, her tongue seeking, demanding, a more complete connection. Without hesitation, Alisaie's own tongue met Sevryn's, a fervent dance of voracious emotional release. As their kiss deepened, Alisaie’s fingers, still tracing the faint outline of the scale on Sevryn’s solar plexus, subtly pressed against the place where Esteem's influence had once festered. Signalling her sincere acceptance of everything Sevryn was. Sevryn’s body arched, a low moan rumbling in her chest as she pressed closer into Alisaie’s touch.

   Alisaie broke the kiss, her lips lingering barely an ilm from Sevryn's, breath mingling, a shared whisper in the charged air. Her blue eyes, luminous with a blend of lingering passion and earnest intent, searched Sevryn's gaze. “The scale,” she murmured, her voice soft but steady, her thumb brushing lightly over the cool, smooth surface still concealed by the bandage. “It mutes Esteem. It quiets the persistent aching craving.” Her gaze, however, held a new gravity. “But Y'shtola said... it hinders your full healing, too.” Alisaie's gaze held Sevryn's, unwavering, her own vulnerability reflecting the implicit offer. “Do you... do you need it off, Sevryn?"

   Sevryn's eyes, still overwhelmed with emotion, held Alisaie's gaze for a long moment, a silent plea passing between them. Then, slowly, with a barely perceptible nod, she granted Alisaie the profound, terrifying permission. Her hands, which had been holding Alisaie tightly around the waist, drifted upwards, not to remove her own shirt, but to gently, deliberately grasp Alisaie's wrists, guiding Alisaie's hands to the hem of her undershirt. A clear wordless invitation for Alisaie to lead.

   Alisaie's heart thrummed with a mix of fierce devotion and a palpable, rising anticipation. Her fingers, still trembling slightly, found the simple ties of Sevryn's linen undershirt. With exquisite, deliberate slowness, her knuckles brushing against warm skin, she began to unfasten them. Each knot yielded with a hushed whisper of fabric, revealing more of Sevryn's taut abdomen, the faint scar across her ribs a stark line against her skin. When the last tie came undone, Alisaie didn't immediately pull the shirt off. Instead, she slid her hands beneath the loosened fabric, her palms flattening against Sevryn's warm, bare skin, tracing the lean muscles upwards, over her ribs, until her thumbs found the soft, full curve of Sevryn's breasts. Sevryn's breath hitched, a quiet gasp escaping her lips as her nipples, already sensitive from the kiss, budded and hardened under Alisaie's tender touch.

   Alisaie leaned in, pressing a soft kiss just below Sevryn's collarbone, near the pulse point, feeling the faint thrum of life beneath her lips. "My Warrior," she whispered against Sevryn's skin, her voice husky with rising passion. Her fingers, warm and gentle, moved with reverent precision. Locating the linen bandage covering the warding scale, Alisaie began to unwind it. Each delicate loop she unpeeled unveiled more of Sevryn's skin, firm and soft beneath her touch. With meticulous, utmost care, she finally lifted the small, smooth object from Sevryn's solar plexus. The cool, round scale separated from Sevryn's heated skin with a soft, almost inaudible ‘schick’, falling into Alisaie's waiting palm.

   The very instant the scale left Sevryn's skin, Alisaie knew. A palpable shift, a vibrant surge of aether that pulsed through her fingertips and up her arm, burning with newfound intensity. It was Sevryn's essence, unleashed—potent and rich, no longer tempered by the scale's muting presence. Alisaie felt a familiar thrum, a deep, energetic pull—the drain. Yet, this was entirely different from the twisted, terrifying force Esteem had once been. This felt like a living current, powerful and undeniable, but thoroughly devoid of the gnawing malevolence Esteem once wielded.

   Sevryn's breath caught, a sharp gasp escaping her lips as her body arched, pressing closer into Alisaie's touch. Her eyes, which had been closed in concentration, snapped open, gleaming intensely. A low primal moan rumbled from deep in her chest. Alisaie watched, utterly captivated, as Sevryn's muscles, from her abdomen to her thighs, tightened and flexed in a sensual tremor, responding instinctively to the unhindered flow now coursing through her. The deep bruise in her ribs, a persistent dull throb moments before, seemed to soften, absorbing the sudden rush of sweet comfort. A wave of exquisite warmth spread through her, chasing away the pervasive internal cold she hadn't realized still lingered.

   Alisaie’s fingers, still cradling the removed scale for a beat, felt the gentle, welcoming pull of Sevryn's newly unleashed aether, a current of sheer vitality. This wasn't the fearful, predatory gorging Esteem had once claimed. This was a formidable, integrated desire, met and embraced by love—a true merging of intention. Alisaie felt Sevryn's immense relief, an overwhelming satisfaction rippling through her from the very depths of her being. This was the healing: the truth of love conciliating the beast, not by silencing it, but by radically transforming its nature—a harmony forged in acceptance. 

   Her gaze, heated with renewed purpose, met Sevryn's. Alisaie’s thumb instinctively brushed the flushed, sensitive skin just above Sevryn's solar plexus, tracing the area where the scale had rested, affirming her presence, her acceptance, her love. Then, with a daring surge of confidence, Alisaie leaned in, capturing Sevryn's lips once more. The kiss  was no longer about comfort, but about unadulterated desire—Alisaie's, meeting Sevryn's, intertwining in an unshakeable, mutual promise. 

   Alisaie’s hands, no longer trembling, began a confident, unhurried exploration. One glided down Sevryn’s torso, fingers tracing sensitive ribs before finally resting firmly on her hip, while the other tangled deeply in the hair at the nape of Sevryn’s neck, fingers tangling, pulling Sevryn tighter, asserting a marked, possessive claim. Sevryn’s body arched, a purr humming deep in her chest as she pressed closer into Alisaie’s touch. 

   Alisaie broke the kiss, but only to devour the short distance, from Sevryn’s jaw to the sensitive column of her throat. Her teeth grazed lightly, a tender, possessive nip that drew a sharp gasp from Sevryn, a sound that thrilled the Elezen. “My dear,” Alisaie whispered, her voice rough with escalating desire, “you're all fire beneath my hands. And I intend to burn with you.” Her fingers, still tangled in the Highlander’s hair, tightened, gently tugging, urging Sevryn’s head to tilt back further, exposing the long, elegant line of her neck, the pulse leaping and thrumming beneath her skin. Alisaie's other hand, still anchored at Sevryn’s hip, now drifted lower, caressing the firm muscle of her inner thigh, fingers deliberately brushing the fabric of Sevryn's breeches, hinting at the bare skin beneath.

   A delicious shudder rippled through Sevryn’s powerful frame. Her eyes, half-lidded with burgeoning lust, watched Alisaie’s face, silent, fervent longing burning in their stormy depths. “Ali,” Sevryn breathed, her voice thick with mounting pleasure, "Gods, lass, you're going to be the death of me.” Her hips subtly arched, pressing into Alisaie's hand. The lingering ache of the sigils, the ghost of Esteem's avarice, were swept away, completely consumed by the flood of unadulterated pleasure that Alisaie's touch ignited.

   Alisaie’s lips left Sevryn’s throat, trailing a searing path down her sternum, each tender kiss a deliberate act of adoration, a worshipful descent, until she reached the simple linen wrap binding Sevryn’s breasts. Her quick, deft fingers, unlaced the ties, parting the fabric with a whispered sigh of release. Sevryn’s full breasts, tender from battle's toll, now swelled, unbound, a breathtaking offering. Alisaie’s gaze, lustrous with desire, drank them in, before her lips descended, capturing a turgid nipple. She suckled, slowly, deliberately, a low moan vibrating Sevryn's chest. Alisaie’s tongue swirled, teasing, then gently biting, pulling a sharp gasp from the Highlander. Simultaneously, her fingers massaged the other breast, eliciting a visceral cry of abandon from Sevryn that echoed in the quietude room.

   With a growl that was half pleasure, half edacious command, Sevryn's strong hands found the waist of her own breeches, yanking at the fastenings. “Off. Now,” she rasped, her eyes blazing with an untamed, ravenous need as she looked into Alisaie's. Alisaie, her own breath caught, immediately understood. Her fingers, just as quick, just as eager, found the loosened ties, pulling the dark leather down over Sevryn's powerful thighs, baring her completely in the warm lamplight.

   Sevryn moved with a sudden, powerful shift, gathering Alisaie into her arms, lifting her with deceptive effortless strength. Alisaie gasped, her legs instinctively wrapping around Sevryn’s waist, clinging, as the Warrior carried her the few steps to the welcoming bed. With a low groan of desire, Sevryn lowered them both onto the mattress, settling onto her back, drawing Alisaie down on top of her, keen to receive her weight.

   Alisaie, emboldened by Sevryn’s uninhibited response, shifted, her body humming with anticipation. Her knee nudged between Sevryn's thighs, in an unspoken request. As Sevryn’s legs parted in eager acquiescence, Alisaie slid downward, her fingers skimming the lean, powerful curves of Sevryn’s abdomen, then lower, towards the slick heat between her legs. Her touch, feather-light yet perfectly deliberate, found Sevryn’s clit, swollen and throbbing. A soft moan tore from Alisaie’s own throat as she felt the exquisite readiness was a mirror to her own. With no hesitation, no reservation, Alisaie lowered her head, claiming Sevryn with her mouth, her tongue plunging fervently, deeply, into the tender, engorged flesh, suckling with a wild, consuming hunger.

   Sevryn cried out, a rough, broken sound of pure bliss, her hips arching upward in instinctive response, fingers tangling in Alisaie's hair, holding her fast. Every nerve ending screamed with pleasure as Alisaie devoured her, raw and insatiable. Wave after wave of exquisite sensation crashed over Sevryn, her body trembling, convulsing with the intensity, yielding completely to the blazing, loving assault. The weight of trauma, the sting of perceived rejection, melted away under the undeniable, consuming heat of Alisaie's passion, leaving only a radiant, mind-numbing pleasure that coursed through her every fiber into a blissful oblivion. This was salvation, not subtle, but visceral, loud, and ardently Alisaie- her fierce love made manifest.

   Alisaie, lifting her head just enough to draw a ragged breath, felt Sevryn's hands clench, almost crushing her skull against Sevryn's core. The naked, untamed desire emanating from the Warrior was a palpable force, an answering torrent meeting and demanding Alisaie’s fiery passion. “Ali,” Sevryn gasped, her voice thick with absolute, uninhibited lust, “Don't stop. Take me. All of me.” Her legs, corded with muscle, wrapped around Alisaie's shoulders, locking her firmly in place, not trapping her, but pulling her deeper into the embrace, a base assertion of Sevryn's own ferocious need.

   Aroused by the command in Sevryn's voice, Alisaie drove her tongue deeper, a relentless, rhythmic penetrating plunge that echoed through her own core. Her hands, no longer merely caressing, clenched Sevryn's hips with bruising force, pulling her closer, tilting her body to maximize the friction, ensuring every stroke delivered the most agonizingly glorious pleasure. Alisaie’s teeth scraped gently, then not-so-gently, against the engorged flesh, eliciting a deep growl of untamed, animalistic pleasure from Sevryn. She feasted, voraciously, driven by the furious need to drown Sevryn in sensations so overwhelming, so consuming, that no shadow of past pain, no whisper of Esteem, could ever breakthrough.

   Sevryn shuddered, her entire body arching off the bed, a long, drawn-out cry tearing from her throat. Her inner muscles clenched, milking every stroke, every pull. Her nails dug into Alisaie’s shoulders in the exquisite agony of her mounting climax, her head rolling against the pillow. Her vision exploded with Alisaie’s face, radiant and beautiful in pursuit of her pleasure, the untamed love pouring from her. “Gods!” Sevryn ground out, her voice thick with release, her body convulsing, muscles spasming around Alisaie's head. Alisaie felt Sevryn’s climax tear through their bond, a familiar, radiant pulse merging with her own. Sevryn’s amplified, perfect release cascaded through her, nourishing Alisaie’s soul and erasing the last vestiges of her guilt, as her own body surged with empathetic arousal, her core clenching in a reciprocal wave of ecstasy.

   Alisaie remained, cradling Sevryn, allowing the aftershocks of pleasure to wash through them both. She resurfaced slowly, breathless, a triumphant, almost feral satisfaction blooming in her chest. Sevryn lay beneath her, trembling, totally sated, limbs tangled in the sheets, eyes still closed, a soft, contented sigh escaping her lips. The pale bruising on her skin seemed less stark now, softened by the flush of pleasure, and her aura, vibrant and clear, hummed with renewed vitality. Esteem was completely silent, sated not by fear or forced consumption, but by unadulterated love.

   Alisaie shifted, carefully rising to kneel over Sevryn, her gaze sweeping over the warm landscape of her beloved's body. She brushed a damp strand of hair from Sevryn's brow, her touch tender, possessive. Her eyes devoured her. “My love,” she murmured, her voice husky, heavy with awe and affection, “You are breathtaking. And so completely mine.” She leaned down, pressing a lingering kiss to Sevryn's lips, soft and claiming.

   Sevryn's stormy gray eyes, already deep, utter tranquility, focused on Alisaie. She reached up, her fingers gently tracing the line of Alisaie's jaw, a delicate, reverent touch. “Ali,” she whispered, her voice still rough with recent passion, a fragile, heartfelt sound. “My heart. My very soul. You save me.” A faint, radiant smile touched her lips, genuine and completely at peace. “More than you know."

   Alisaie returned the smile, a single tear of joy escaping her eye and tracing a warm path down her cheek. She leaned her forehead against Sevryn's, allowing their brows to meet, breathing in the scent of their shared passion, feeling the steady beat of Sevryn's heart thrumming against her own. The chill of Garlemald, the echo of guilt, all the lingering shadows, faded into distant static. Here, in Sevryn's arms, under the soft Sharlayan lamplight, there was only warmth, only truth, only an unbreakable thread of love.

  <<^>>

Chapter Text

   On the private balcony, the sky bled crimson into a deceptive stillness. Inside the chamber, Y'shtola stood poised, sensing every shift in the city's hum. Exotic spices and spent aether failed to mask her silent purpose. This room was a sanctuary, arranged for healing unseen scars and forging a closer bond with Sevryn. Polished surfaces and draped fabrics reflected Y'shtola's meticulous care. A faint click signaled the Warrior's arrival.

   Her steps, usually bold, were hesitant now, a ripple of apprehension betraying her stoicism. Despite the weight of her pack, Sevryn hunched her shoulders slightly, flinching from the sudden hush. Her fingers sought the comforting warding scale hidden beneath her coat and bandage. The air hung heavy with unspoken tension: was this union an act of true desire or just a calculated necessity to tame her inner darkness?

   "My fierce Captain," Y'shtola began, her voice a gentle breeze carrying wisdom and warmth. She took a purposeful step forward, her hand extended to brush against the pulsing veil of Sevryn's guarded aether. "You shoulder the burden of battles and sorrows alike. But fear not, my dear: tonight is not a matter of duty. It is born of our deepest wishes. We shall transform every unwanted contact, every instance of perceived harm, into a dance of our own making, infusing them with freely chosen joy. You are not a puzzle to be unraveled; you are the very essence of my heart, and I shall not let you suffer in solitude."

   Her hand lifted toward Sevryn's aura, a gesture of comfort and intent. Y'shtola's voice, a quiet hum, wrapped around her. "I have a path for you," she said. "A way to mend unseen wounds and reclaim what was stolen from your essence." Her voice softened to a whisper. "Will you allow me this, Captain? To guide you through surrender to solace and the depths of our bond?"

   Sevryn’s stormy gray eyes, heavy with weariness yet bright with fierce trust, met Y'shtola's gaze. Her features held a brief, suspended tension as fear warred with the overwhelming comfort of the woman before her. Then, her head lowered in a slow, almost imperceptible nod. It was a profound act of surrender, and Y'shtola felt the affirmation deep in her own aether. "Yes, Mistress." Sevryn's voice emerged, a bare whisper, rough with emotion and willing assent.

   A wave of intense satisfaction washed over Y'shtola, warm and immediate. She took a step closer, her hand lifting to cup Sevryn's jaw, her thumb brushing gently, possessively, over the Highlander's lips. "My Captain," Y'shtola purred, her voice a low caress that seemed to stroke Sevryn’s very soul. "You honor me with your trust." She then guided Sevryn with a tender hand on her waist. "Let's start by setting aside your pack."

   Sevryn nodded, a bare acceptance of Y'shtola's gentle directive. With a sigh, she slid the heavy pack from her shoulders, letting it thud quietly to the floor. When her trembling hands went to the buckles of her heavy coat, Y'shtola's cool fingers settled over them, a quiet offer of help. Sevryn's breath caught for a moment, a faint tremor coursing through her as Y'shtola's cool fingers seemed to awaken every ache beneath the material. Together, they unfastened the worn leather in a deliberate, tender unveiling, the fabric swishing as it fell away to pool at Sevryn's feet, taking with it a layer of the world's weight. Y'shtola’s intense gaze lingered on the exposed shoulders and taut muscles of Sevryn's back, a canvas of formidable strength and pain. The warmth of Y'shtola’s attention replaced the phantom chill of past torments with a burgeoning, insistent heat.

   "And now, your layers of protection, my love," Y'shtola murmured, her voice a tender hum that seemed to resonate within Sevryn’s soul. Her lithe touch drifted to the simple undershirt. With impossibly gentle fingers, Y'shtola unlaced its ties, and Sevryn felt a profound loosening from within. With each knot Y'shtola unlaced, a self-imposed barrier fell, a conscious shedding of her past. The damp linen parted and slid open, a whisper against heated skin, revealing the firm swell of Sevryn's breasts, tightly bound by a practical wrap.

   Y'shtola’s silver eyes, ablaze with fierce, possessive tenderness, drank in the sight, her gaze a tangible warmth on Sevryn’s flushed skin. Her fingertips, light as a feather, skimmed over Sevryn's ribs, feeling the delicate contours and discovering the faint scar of a recent wound. Her touch was a tender, unspoken promise to heal every pain she found. Y'shtola peeled away the practical chest wrap, freeing Sevryn’s full, supple breasts with slow, deliberate movements. A sharp, exhilarating sense of liberation coursed through Sevryn, making her nipples bud in the humid air. The last of the protective layers discarded, Y'shtola’s hands then glided lower, a velvety caress, towards Sevryn's breeches.

   "Let go of what anchors you to the world outside," Y'shtola whispered as her fingers deftly loosened the fastenings of the dark leather. The material sighed as it gave way, revealing the lean, sculpted lines of her legs. She stood utterly naked before Y'shtola, a breathtaking vision of warrior grace. Sevryn’s gaze clung to Y'shtola, drinking in the sight of her Mistress's poised form, her mind ablaze with anticipation.

   Y'shtola's hands went to the fastenings of her robes, her fluid grace a silent answer to Sevryn's vulnerability. The fine fabric whispered as it fell away, pooling at her feet, leaving her equally exposed. Sevryn’s breath hitched, a low sound escaping her lips at Y'shtola’s deliberate, reverent revealing. Her pale skin, luminous with contained aetheric power, was a striking counterpoint to Sevryn's battle-hardened form. Each deliberate movement, each sigh of silk, felt like a personal offering that deepened the trust blooming between them. Her pale form was a bold, exquisite invitation against the dim light, and Sevryn met it with a surge of awe and possessive tenderness.

   Y'shtola stepped forward, her hands encompassing Sevryn. Her aetheric sense registered every curve as her fingertips grazed Sevryn’s hip, then drifted, tracing the contours of her body. Sevryn shivered, a current of pure sensation running through her where Y'shtola’s fingers, a deliberate warmth, passed over her skin. She felt the taut muscles of Sevryn's abdomen and the powerful lines of her thighs, her senses registering every subtle tremor of burgeoning arousal. A low hum of pleasure began in Y'shtola’s chest, a resonant thrum that Sevryn felt. With each caress, she silently claimed Sevryn's every curve as undeniably hers.

   Y'shtola's gaze fell to Sevryn's chest, pinpointing the faint impression of the warding scale. "This," she murmured, her fingers gently tracing the area just above Sevryn's solar plexus where it rested, "has served its purpose, my love. For you to receive all I offer, it must be put aside." Sevryn’s missed breath was a wordless assent.

   Y'shtola's hands unwound the linen bandage with deliberate precision, its whisper a soft counterpoint to the quickening of Sevryn's pulse. As Y'shtola’s slender fingers lifted the cool, smooth scale away, a palpable wave of energy surged between them. "A trickle where there should be a torrent," Y'shtola breathed, her own aether flaring in brilliant response. The full resonance of Esteem, no longer suppressed, returned to Sevryn's core. She gasped, a guttural sound of pure release as a vibrant, healing current, long denied, surged through her, thrumming in every muscle and nerve.

   With a touch of deliberate fluidity, Y'shtola reached into Sevryn's discarded pack, her fingers rummaging within until they found the intricately carved wooden box. She drew it forth, its dark wood gleaming dimly. "Feo Ul's craft, as you recall," she murmured, her voice a low purr as she opened the box, revealing the fae phallus nestled inside. Its sleek, otherworldly surface vibrated with an inner luminescence, responsive to her touch. 

   "I had this made for you, Captain, even before I knew one day I would hold you. Its purpose, now, is to guide your pleasure to its deepest core, to a reclamation that transcends mere sensation." With an incandescent, knowing gaze, Y'shtola met Sevryn's eyes. “Will you allow me to use this, my love, and claim every pulse of pleasure as undeniably ours? For your solace and my possession.” Sevryn's stormy eyes widened, and a slow nod was her only answer.

   Y'shtola's cool fingertips brushed Sevryn’s hip, and an immediate current of sensation painted the Warrior's contours in her magical perception, a thrill, sharp and immediate, coursed through the Archon. "Lie down for me, my Captain," she breathed, a low silky instruction, trembling with raw intent that matched her quickening pulse. Sevryn’s powerful frame settled onto the plush bed with a hushed sigh, utterly pliant to Y'shtola’s guiding hand.

   Glowing ribbons of azure aether began to unspool from Y'shtola's palms, warm with her will and devotion. "These are not harsh bonds, my love," Y'shtola murmured, as the radiant threads coiled around Sevryn's wrists. Sevryn felt a momentary, instinctual flinch—a ghost of memory from old cuffs—but the sensation quickly transformed into an exquisite, tingling warmth. Y'shtola’s nimble fingers guided each pulsing filament, binding Sevryn's wrists, palms facing upwards. "They affirm your choice, your consent, your ultimate control."

   The glowing chains, impossibly warm, secured Sevryn's wrists to the bedposts and then delicately coiled around her ankles, positioning her body in a beautiful, vulnerable arc. With each measured tightening, Y'shtola's claim was affirmed, an exhilarating promise of shared pleasure.

   With a slow, deliberate exploration, Y'shtola's hands began an intimate study of form and spirit. Her cool, precise palms smoothed over the sculpted curves of Sevryn's back, tracing the powerful line of her spine. Each stroke sent shivers of pure, unadulterated sensation through Sevryn's frame, awakening nerves long dulled by duty and pain as her muscles, held taut for so long, softened and melted completely into the mattress.

   Y’shtola’s touch continued its descent, fingertips caressing the firm curves of Sevryn's buttocks with exquisite pressure, before slowly, deliberately, exploring the taut, sensitive skin of her inner thighs. Y'shtola leaned closer, her breath warm against Sevryn’s ear, murmuring quiet words of adoration that mapped the contours of Sevryn's resilient spirit onto her pliant flesh. Her touch deepened, finding the sensitive valley of Sevryn's tailbone. Y'shtola's fingertips, charged with a palpable current, traced the elegant curve where Sevryn's desire began to bloom, eliciting a sharp, guttural gasp from the Highlander—a first true, unrestrained acknowledgment of burgeoning need that resonated deep within Y'shtola's own core.

   From Sevryn’s tailbone, Y'shtola's fingers drifted lower, becoming more precise as they parted the compliant flesh of her ass, revealing her core. Sevryn’s breath hitched as Y'shtola's cool fingertips traced the delicate contours, finding the slick, satin heat within. With the dip of a finger, a low hum vibrated through Y'shtola's chest, and a strong tremor of eager anticipation ran through Sevryn’s body. Withdrawing her finger with a murmur of satisfaction, Y'shtola leaned down then, her breath warm against Sevryn's most vulnerable flesh.

   Her tongue, tender yet confident, traced the delicate contours of Sevryn’s folds, eliciting a sharp intake of breath. Y'shtola began to lap, slowly at first, tasting the honeyed essence, drawing forth Sevryn’s burgeoning pleasure. The Warrior’s body arched, her hips lifting in an inarticulate plea for more as the Highlander's core pulsed, her inner muscles quivering in eager anticipation, hinting at a formidable discipline. Y'shtola sensed, with a flash of keen admiration, Sevryn’s tacit self-denial of climax, holding back a flood that threatened to overwhelm them both, building the splendid pressure to an almost unbearable pitch. Knowing Sevryn was primed, Y'shtola finally pulled back, her lips lingering for a moment, tasting the sweet essence she had coaxed forth.

  "Ready, Captain?" she murmured, her voice husky with barely contained desire, leaving the Warrior’s sensitive flesh aching with unfathomable need. Sevryn, still trembling from pleasure, could only nod, her eyes, heavy with lust, fixed on Y'shtola's, her body a coiled spring of ardent submission.

   With measured grace, Y'shtola moved toward the intricately carved wooden box at the bedside. Sevryn’s gaze, luminous with arousal, followed every movement, captivated by the subtle play of lamplight on Y'shtola’s pale skin and the delicate shift of muscle under her lithe form. Y'shtola’s slender fingers settled on the box, opening it with a soft click that resonated in the charged air, drawing forth the fairy crafted phallus. Its sleek, otherworldly surface vibrated with an inner luminescence, responsive to her touch. "It is time, my love," Y'shtola murmured, her voice a low purr.

   The warmed, living device slipped into her body with practiced ease, a sensation that bloomed with hot, focused pleasure. Across the bed, a corresponding shiver ran through Sevryn, whose breath caught and became a low moan as her own ravenous anticipation flared in time with the Archon's.

   Y'shtola's hands returned to Sevryn's hips, her touch insistent yet tender. "Arch for me, Captain," Y'shtola commanded, her voice a velvet whisper. Sevryn’s powerful frame responded instantly, a bated groan escaping her lips as she arched her hips into a vulnerable, eager curve.

   Y'shtola then guided the sleek tip of the phallus to Sevryn's soaked entrance. With a slow, steady press, Y'shtola began to guide the device inward. As she slid into Sevryn, a blinding wave of reciprocal sensation slammed into Y'shtola, a glorious, visceral chaos that pulled her under. This was no mere sympathetic echo; this was Sevryn’s overwhelming pleasure, amplified by the fae magic and their shared bond, that shredded the last vestiges of Y'shtola’s academic detachment and threatened to consume her entirely. A sharp gasp escaped her lips, and her tail, usually held with composed grace, whipped once, sharply, against the mattress, before beginning to lash erratically.

   A growl vibrated deep in Y'shtola’s chest—a desperate sound torn from her core, acknowledging the raw, untamed power overwhelming her. She clung to Sevryn, her fingers digging, now biting, into the Highlander’s hips, seeking an anchor in the tempest of sensation, as Sevryn's pliant form below became both her grounding and her undoing. The air thrummed with their combined aether, a wild, untamed song of pure, overwhelming connection, a symphony of shattering control.

   Shaking off the disarray, Y'shtola began to move, her hips instinctively rocking and grinding against Sevryn's yielding form. The fae phallus drove deeper with each thrust, a glorious fullness rippling through her core. She felt the undulation of Sevryn’s back muscles and the eager, hungry reception of her inner muscles clinging and contracting. This was the intoxicating power of taking, filling, possessing. A fierce joy blossomed in her chest with each plunge.

   The pleasure within Y'shtola intensified, but it was a new layer of sensation that truly startled her. Sevryn’s muscles, already responsive, began an intentional, exquisite dance around the phallus—a masterful squeeze that became a powerful, consuming contraction. Y'shtola’s breath caught, her composure unraveling completely as she recognized the reality: Sevryn was now orchestrating their climax. It was a glorious loss of command.

   Y'shtola's frantic thrusts were countered by Sevryn’s hips, which arched a fraction higher, a subtle, powerful assertion of will. A strangled gasp of disbelieving pleasure tore from Y'shtola's throat. "What... what is this, Captain?!" she rasped. Sevryn's core tightened in a demanding clench that clung and milked every thrust, ensnaring Y'shtola completely. Her mind fractured under the weight of controlled pleasure, now a furious, unbearable need screaming for release. An absolute truth pierced the maelstrom: in her submission, the Captain was now claiming her Archon.

   The unbearable tension finally snapped. "Come for me, Captain!" Y'shtola growled, her voice ragged, ripped from her throat—a desperate sound of absolute surrender. As the words escaped, her hands clenched into desperate claws, her nails digging fiercely into the yielding flesh of Sevryn’s lower back. It was a physical manifestation of her utter unraveling.

   In that instant, Sevryn's own formidable control ruptured. Her body convulsed in a powerful, guttural cry as her climax tore through her, a radiant surge of pure energy that slammed through their bond, detonating Y'shtola’s own seismic release in a blinding, reciprocal explosion of shared ecstasy. A wave of amplified pleasure consumed them both, synchronous and all-encompassing. Y'shtola’s climax shook her to the core, an explosive, wild burst, and her fingers instinctively raked over Sevryn’s back, leaving keen, searing trails of wild pleasure. Sevryn cried out, a howl of release that tore from her very soul, echoing in Y'shtola’s ears—a primal sound that reverberated, amplified, through their bond. They buckled, trembling, intertwined in mutual oblivion.

   The blinding white light slowly receded, leaving behind a hazy, golden afterglow that pulsed behind Y'shtola’s closed eyes. Her breath came in ragged, deep gasps, mingling with Sevryn’s own shuddering sighs beneath her. Y'shtola remained slumped, her full weight draped over Sevryn's back, exquisitely boneless, every fiber of her being humming with the echoes of their explosive climax. The phallus still filled Sevryn, a warm, pulsing core that linked them, amplifying the languid tremors that rippled through Sevryn’s inner muscles, gently clinging and drawing, still reveling in the sublime sensations. Sevryn’s powerful form, once bucking with untamed pleasure, now settled into a deep stillness, utterly sated. Y'shtola's tail, no longer lashing in wild disarray, lay draped heavily over Sevryn's thigh, a soft, possessive weight—a silent claim that mirrored the profound peace unfurling within her.

   Slowly, her fractured composure began to knit itself back together. Y'shtola’s fingers, which had raked so fiercely, now softened, tracing the keen, burning trails scored across Sevryn’s lower back. She felt the slight welts, a visceral testament to her raw surrender, and a deep, resonant purr rumbled in her chest—a sound of utter satisfaction and boundless reverence. The purr’s vibrations traced lines of adoration through Sevryn’s body, drawing a soft groan of contentment from her. Y'shtola’s lips brushed against the first welt, her breath warm against the sensitive flesh, and she pressed a tender kiss there, a quiet vow to eclipse any memory of pain. Her mouth then traveled deliberately, tracing each mark, her tongue flicking out to know the warmth, a worshipful pilgrimage across the landscape of Sevryn's surrendered back.

   Y'shtola then shifted, her desire to free and hold Sevryn eclipsing all else. Her sensitive fingers found the luminous aetheric bonds that held Sevryn captive. "My Captain," she murmured, her voice thick with sated desire, "you yielded with magnificent power. Now, receive your freedom."

   With deliberate, reverent movements, Y'shtola unwound each glowing strand from Sevryn’s wrists and ankles. Sevryn’s body, now utterly unbound, quivered richly as the luminescent bonds melted away. Y'shtola's hand then drifted lower, towards the fae phallus still connecting them, tracing the warm skin around its base. "My brave Captain," she murmured, her voice a low, sated purr, "you gifted me a transformative experience." With superb care, Y'shtola slowly guided the sleek device outward. Sevryn gasped as the phallus slid free, a soft, wet sound of lingering pleasure, and the last threads of amplified sensation dissipated into the air, leaving Sevryn's core wonderfully stretched and exceptionally satisfied. Y'shtola cradled the device for a moment, its inner luminescence now a gentle pulse, before carefully placing it back in its velvet-lined box, a small, reverent closure to their sacred communion.

   Y'shtola guided her, molding Sevryn’s form against her own, drawing the Highlander’s heavy body closer until the Warrior was cradled fully in her embrace. Sevryn sighed, pressing back into the heated comfort. An abiding peace, deep and unshakable, settled over them both, amplified through their unbroken bond. Time seemed to dissolve, leaving only the enveloping quiet of their shared afterglow, a warm, heavy silence broken only by the rhythm of their mingled breaths and hearts. Y'shtola’s senses, now clear and vibrant, felt Sevryn's body soften, her muscles relaxing completely as the last tremors of release faded, each delicate ripple a testament to the depths she had reached. A profound tenderness unfurled in Y’shtola’s chest for the precious, resilient being she held in her arms.

   Y'shtola's arms tightened, pulling Sevryn impossibly closer, her deep purr a comforting vibration against the Highlander’s back. Sevryn’s free hand found Y'shtola’s hip and clung, an unspoken plea. Y'shtola felt the silent question and knew she had not yet been formally released from the scene's dynamic. She shifted, molding their bodies tighter, and pressed a tender kiss to the nape of Sevryn’s neck. 

   "You have my leave," she whispered, her words a silken instruction. "Touch me, claim me. Be it as you wish. Let us hold each other." Instantly, Sevryn’s powerful frame shifted, turning to press her body fully against Y'shtola’s, her sigh a soft breath against Y’shtola’s ear. Her arm came around Y’shtola’s waist, pulling the Miqo'te closer, and she buried her face in Y’shtola’s neck, inhaling her scent. Y’shtola’s purr deepened, a rich rumble of complete contentment. In the fading light, Y’shtola held her Captain, feeling the steady beat of Sevryn’s heart, ready for any world’s end, knowing that in this perfect fusion, every part of her being found its most cherished haven.

<<^>>

Chapter Text

   The Radz-at-Han sun beat down with an unyielding intensity, a stark contrast to the hollow chill that had settled within Alisaie. The city hummed with a chaotic symphony of commerce and life, a frantic energy that grated against her frayed composure. She wandered aimlessly through the Aetheryte Plaza, the vibrant colors of the markets a blur of noise and motion she couldn't quite see. Her mind was a whirl of confusion, a relentless replay of emotions that were not, strictly speaking, her own. Through the bond, she had felt a fervent current of intimacy, not as a spectator, but as an unwitting participant in Sevryn and Y'shtola's union. It was a staggering torrent of sensation and raw aether, and a new, unsettling undercurrent to the connection: the soft hum of Y'shtola’s pleasure, the thrill of her surrender, the deep satisfaction of her needs being met with overwhelming devotion. And Alisaie, having felt it all, now found herself grappling with an unfamiliar truth: a nascent, undeniable desire for Y'shtola herself. It was a feeling so intense, so utterly without precedent, that it threatened to unmoor her. She knew with a cold, piercing clarity that she needed to find the Archon, not to confront her, but to understand what this new feeling meant for their intertwined lives.

   The air, thick with the scent of spices and salt from the nearby aetheryte, suddenly shifted. A familiar coolness, like a hand on her consciousness, gently nudged through the noise of the crowd. Alisaie’s head snapped up, her eyes seeking the source. Y’shtola stood just a few paces away, a picture of quiet composure amidst the bustling throng. Her white hair was a luminous halo in the afternoon sun, and though her silver eyes were unseeing, Alisaie knew they were fixed unerringly upon her.

   "I perceive a certain disquiet within your aura, Alisaie," Y’shtola murmured, her voice a low, melodic sound that seemed to cut through the din of the market. "Your emotional resonance is... discordant. The source of such turmoil is a matter of some interest to me, though I confess I find myself more inclined towards a quiet place to analyze it." A knowing smile touched her lips, a subtle invitation that Alisaie received with a sharp, grateful intake of breath.

   Without a word, Alisaie nodded. The unspoken accord was a balm, a silent acknowledgment that Y’shtola saw past the frantic exterior to the desperate need within. Y’shtola turned and moved with unhurried grace, her path a fluid line through the crowded plaza, leading Alisaie to a secluded, empty balcony overlooking the sea, a place where their hearts could finally speak freely.

   The sea wind offered a cool respite from the city's stifling heat. Alisaie leaned on the railing, the rhythmic crash of waves against the city's foundations a counterpoint to the wild drum of her heart. She glanced at Y’shtola, whose back was to the sea, face turned toward the setting sun. The Archon’s posture, once a portrait of intellectual discipline, now held a new, relaxed grace. The sharp curve of her smile, so often laced with sardonic wit, had softened into a gentle, almost reverent expression of abject equanimity. A low, rhythmic hum, a soft purr of satisfaction, seemed to emanate from her, a quiet strength of a soul that had finally found its balance.

   "I need to know," Alisaie began, her voice raw, bypassing any small talk. "Last night.. I felt you with Sevryn. All of it." She saw Y’shtola's ears twitch, a subtle acknowledgment. "Not just her pleasure, but your contentment. The fulfillment. The aether was... a maelstrom. And in it, I felt a longing for you, Y'shtola. A terrifying, consuming desire."

   Her gaze dropped to her trembling hands. "The test you proposed back in Mor Dhona, the test to see if our bond was real... it was a spark. And the kiss we shared in Garlemald to comfort each other... it was a flicker. But what I felt through the bond last night... that was a conflagration. It was magnificent. And it's left me... undone. What does this mean, Y'shtola? I don't know what to do with these feelings for you."

   Y’shtola turned, her gaze still fixed on the horizon, but her aura hummed with a deep, resonant calm. She did not speak for a long moment, allowing the sea's voice to fill the space. A low, contented purr rumbled deep in her chest, a soft vibration Alisaie felt more than heard. When Y’shtola finally spoke, her voice was a low caress, devoid of any analytical distance.

   "Magnificent," Y’shtola echoed, a gentle smile tracing her lips. "A perfect word, Alisaie. The bond is a curious thing. It is not merely a conduit for sensation, but a mirror for the heart. What Sevryn and I shared... that maelstrom was pure, and untainted by the shadows of Esteem. It was the truth of our love, laid bare. But it was also... a test for us, in its own way. Your feelings for Sevryn, your magnificent ferocity, your untamed passion... they resonated with me in that moment, a powerful echo of my own desires for her. And now... I find myself feeling a profound affection for you in return. What you felt, my dear, was not a one-sided connection. It was a reciprocal current, a confluence of souls that has finally found its harmony."

   Y'shtola stepped closer, her hand reaching out to gently cover Alisaie's clenched hands where they rested on the railing. Her fingers, cool and sure, uncurled Alisaie's, lacing their hands together. "The kisses we shared, in the Rising Stones, in Garlemald... they were but embers, kindling a small fire in the darkness. They taught us to find comfort in each other's solace, to trust in our shared bond to Sevryn. And last night... last night was the flame. It taught me, with exquisite clarity, that my love for Sevryn does not diminish my growing feelings for you. It amplifies them. And I believe... it is the same for you."

   Her thumb began a slow, reassuring stroke over Alisaie's knuckles, a tender caress. "So, to your question of 'what does this mean,' I offer this: it means the three of us are not merely bound by our shared mission, but by a love so absolute it has forged a new path for us. A partnership. One where each of us is an integral part of the whole, and none of us is left behind. And to your final query, of 'what to do with these feelings,' I offer a simple directive. You will do what you have always done, my dear. You will trust them. You will let them guide you, and you will share them freely. Just as I intend to share mine with you, and with Sevryn."

   Alisaie’s jaw dropped, her earlier composure shattering completely. Y'shtola’s words, so direct yet so tender, were a balm to her confused, wounded heart. A choked sob escaped her lips, a sound of sheer relief and overwhelming gratitude. She squeezed Y'shtola's hand, her fingers gripping impossibly tight, as a fresh torrent of tears, hot and stinging, streamed down her cheeks.

   "Gods, Y'shtola," Alisaie managed, her voice raw, "I... I thought I was losing my mind. I thought this was some perverse trick of the bond. I thought I was betraying her..." The admission, thick with anguish, hung in the air. "But you... you saw it. You felt it. You understand." She took a ragged breath, her blue eyes, luminous with tears, fixed on Y'shtola's face. "You're not like Alphinaud, so careful with his words. You're not like Sevryn, who holds her secrets close. You're... you're all heart, a blazing, beautiful, terrifying thing."

   Her free hand, trembling with a mix of relief and a burgeoning, fierce desire, came up to cup Y’shtola’s cheek. The touch was feather-light, a question and a plea. "Let me share this with you," she whispered, her voice a fragile thread. "Let me be a part of this. With you. With Sevryn. I want all of it." She leaned in, her gaze dropping to Y'shtola’s lips, her own trembling with the weight of her emotions. "And I want to see that smile again, that soft, reverent one... the one you wear for her, the one you'll wear for us."

   Without waiting for a response, Alisaie closed the final distance, her lips finding Y'shtola’s in a kiss that was both a plea and a promise. It was not the desperate, frantic kiss born of battle and fear, but a tender, fervent commingling of love and desperate hope. It was a kiss that sealed a pact, an intimate joining of two hearts and two minds, a silent vow to share a burden, a love, and a future. The air around them shimmered with a delicate, luminous light, a physical manifestation of their new, fragile accord.

  <<^>>

Chapter Text

   The air in the Antitower was a raw, chaotic aetheric symphony. It screamed against the confines of the realm, a vibrant storm of energy that made a constant, shimmering assault on Y’shtola's senses. She felt the raw, unadulterated essence of the Lifestream as an almost overwhelming presence against her aetheric sight. It was the kind of aetheric cacophony that left a persistent thrumming behind her temples, an uneasy beat that echoed the gnawing uncertainty in her gut.

   For a while now, there had been a cold, hollow ache in her stomach. She had felt almost nothing from Sevryn along their bond, and it was a raw wound, a gnawing vulnerability she hadn't felt in years. A desperate whisper along their bond had been met only with silence, a void that spoke volumes of the distance between them. Her heart ached with worry for the Warrior of Light, but her mind told her Sevryn was well and likely too busy to respond. The distance, the time, it all felt too much.

   "This is madness," Y'shtola murmured, stepping away from the others. She had left Arenvale and the rest of the group to their task, attempting to contact their silent goddess. Hydaelyn remained disturbingly quiet to all who possessed the Echo, a silence that only exacerbated Y'shtola's inability to connect with Sevryn. The strange, upside-down architecture of the castle and the impossible, upwards-flowing fountains did little to calm her; it was a disorienting, unsettling spectacle that heightened her unease.

   She finally reached a silent alcove, a place meant for reflection but a space where her mind was anything but calm. Lowering her head, she let the weight of her worries settle over her like a heavy shroud.

   Where are you, my love? The desperate plea was sent again along their bond. It was again met with a void, a silence that left her exposed and alone.

   She didn't sense it, not at first—the subtle shift in the aether, the familiar signature of a hostile presence. Her senses were clouded, dulled by the relentless, humming light and the ever-present ache of her unanswered call. She was distracted by her love and her pain.

   A cold, mocking voice cut through the silence, so close it made her jump. "Lost, little kitten?"

   Her head snapped up, a flash of recognition in her silver eyes as she saw the familiar malevolent cackle and sensed the aetheric signature of her old enemy. Kesai stood before her, a dark smile on her lips, her stance radiating triumph.

   "Kesai," Y'shtola said, her voice a low, dangerous growl. "How are you here?"

   "Surprised, are you, Sorceress?" Kesai sneered, her hands glowing with aetheric power. "My mistress has a long reach. She has eyes and ears in places you would not believe. She brought the eidolon of Esteem to the Source, and has seen all the weakness in your precious bonds—the love, the tenderness, the passion. We have observed your pathetic attempts to contact your goddess and watched you fret and worry like a little mouse for your beloved Warrior of Light. It is a pitiful thing, the bond you share. She has abandoned you, and now... I will make sure she never finds you."

   Y'shtola's expression hardened, a cool, dangerous look in her silver eyes. "I think you'll find that my bond with her is stronger than you can possibly imagine. It cannot be severed."

   "Oh, but it can. My Mistress has shown me the way. We will turn your chosen one to darkness. She will become a tool, a weapon... or she will simply break. And when she does, that bond will tear her soul apart. Veylra will use her love for you against her, and she will feel the agony of your loss and her own torment until it drives her mad. It will feed the eidolon inside of her until it consumes her. The other Ascians failed because they failed to account for the Warrior of Light, but this... this will be her greatest triumph! When she has turned your Champion of Light to Darkness, Mhach shall rise again!"

   The Au Ra’s eyes widened with fanatical light, her aetheric power surging. A dark, jagged blade of aether formed in her hand. "And it all starts with you. Once you are gone, her heart and mind will be broken. The rest will be easy."

   As Kesai raised the blade, a flicker of light caught Y'shtola's attention, a split second before Kesai could bring it down. The echo of a gunshot ripped through the silent chamber, and aetheric light flashed as a bullet tore through Kesai's head. The Au Ra’s corporeal form dissolved into a shower of purple motes, her aether scattering into the wind.

   Silence returned, broken only by Y'shtola's heavy breathing. Her heart hammered in her chest, a primal drum against her ribs. She was alive. A moment later, a figure stepped into the light, a gunblade lowered and still smoking.

   "I wouldn't want your Warrior of Light taking my head off because I let something happen to you," Fordola said, her voice flat and pragmatic. She returned her gunblade to its sheath and stared at the spot where Kesai had been a second ago. "I sensed the aetheric buildup and came to investigate."

   Y'shtola's shoulders, which had tensed in preparation for the blow, visibly relaxed. Her tail flicked once, a brief, sharp gesture of aetheric unease before she turned to Fordola. Her silver gaze held a cold, fine edge that only just softened with a flicker of gratitude. "My thanks, Fordola," she stated, her voice an even, quiet acknowledgment. "I am in your debt."

   "Don't mention it," Fordola said, her eyes meeting Y'shtola's. "It was... a close call. She said quite a bit as she prepared to kill you. I caught what I could of it."

   The implication hung in the air, a silent acknowledgment of a relationship Fordola had no right to know about. Y'shtola’s jaw tightened almost imperceptibly, a silent warning passing between them. Fordola, a stoic warrior in her own right, didn't flinch. She simply held her gaze, her expression unreadable.

   "I heard nothing that concerns me," Fordola said, her voice low and even. "And what little I did hear, I will keep to myself. Your business is your own."

   The tension in Y'shtola’s shoulders eased just a fraction. She nodded once, a silent accord passing between them. The conversation, the tension, and the danger had refocused her. The silence from Sevryn's bond was still there, but now, a new concern for Alisaie took hold.

   "The aetheric interference is too strong here to contact Alisaie," Y'shtola said, her voice now calm and clear. "We must return to the surface to warn her." She turned to Fordola, a flicker of urgency in her eyes. "I may need you again, should other enemies be lurking. Will you escort me?"

   Fordola nodded, a grim determination on her face. "Lead the way." Together, they hurried from the chamber, the shimmering aether of the Antitower's upper reaches falling into silence once more.

 ~~

   The double tone of the linkshell sounded for the third time, echoing softly in her ear. Y'shtola's tail swished once, a brief, uncharacteristic display of agitation. She closed her eyes, the cool Dravanian breeze a welcome sensation after the stagnant air of the cavernous abode of the Aetherial Sea. It did little, however, to assuage her growing apprehension. Finally, on the fourth tone, the linkshell connected.

   "Hello?"

   "Alisaie... Thank the Twelve!" Y'shtola's breath escaped in a sharp gust of relief she hadn’t realized she was holding.

   "Y'shtola?" Alisaie’s tone went from confused to worried. "What's wrong? You sound... breathless."

   Y'shtola inhaled deeply, centering herself. Her cool, intellectual facade settled back into place, but a hint of tremor remained in her voice. "I am fine. I was merely... preoccupied. Are you safe?"

   "Yes, I'm fine. We're just preparing to move on from the last of the Garlean ruins." There was a beat of silence, then Alisaie's voice dropped, becoming hushed and intimate. "What is it, Y'shtola? I know your 'I'm fine' voice. Did something happen?"

   A small, genuine smile touched Y'shtola's lips. She had forgotten how well Alisaie knew her. "There was an incident. I was... approached by an enemy. Do you remember Kesai? She was a follower of a lesser Ascian, it seems. A rather troublesome one." She gave a concise, factual summary of the encounter, leaving out her emotional reaction and the details of her rescue, focusing instead on the key information: Kesai's purpose and the danger she represented.

   "She... she attacked you?" Alisaie's voice was sharp with a sudden, protective anger. "And you're alone?"

   "I am no longer alone," Y'shtola said, glancing at Fordola. "And I have taken precautions. The important thing is that her mistress, an Ascian named Veylra, plans to use our bond to... turn Sevryn to darkness. She believes her love for me will be her undoing."

   "Nonsense!" Alisaie's retort was immediate and fierce. "That is the most absurd, ridiculous thing I have ever heard! Our bond... it’s not a weapon to be used against us. It's our greatest strength. Don't listen to her. Don’t you dare listen to her." Her voice softened, a vulnerable plea. "I... I can't imagine a world without you."

   Y'shtola closed her eyes, letting Alisaie's words wash over her. It was the reassurance she hadn't known she needed. "Nor I, you." The words were quiet, a low hum of affection that was almost a sigh. "I had a moment of… doubt. The silence from Sevryn's end of the bond, the aetheric chaos here... it clouded my senses. I was not at my best. I was thinking of her... and I was distracted by you."

   "Me?" Alisaie’s voice was a whisper, laced with surprise and an aching tenderness.

   "I thought only of your safety. When she arrived, all I could think of was that I needed to warn you... that I needed to protect you. Even in her taunts, even when she spoke of what she would do to Sevryn, my mind returned to you," Y'shtola admitted, a rare note of raw vulnerability in her tone. "I will not let anything happen to you, Alisaie."

    "You... you silly, brave idiot," Alisaie said, her voice thick with emotion. "You're the one who needs to be safe. I can't bear the thought of something happening to you out there. Promise me you will be careful."

   "I will," Y'shtola said, her voice an unwavering vow. "As I said, I am already taking precautions. Once we finish here, I will be on my way to you. But until then... be safe, my love. And do not let anything happen to you either. We cannot lose each other."

   Alisaie's sigh of relief was audible even across the linkshell. "We won't. I'll be waiting for you." The connection clicked off, and Y'shtola lowered her hand, a feeling of calm and purpose settling over her. The ache in her stomach was still there, a whisper of a past worry, but it was now dwarfed by a new, powerful resolve. She turned to Fordola, a fierce determination in her silver eyes. The time for caution was over.

  <<^>>

Chapter Text

   The air in Camp Broken Glass was a constant, biting wind, carrying with it the smell of ceruleum, cold earth, and a weariness that seeped into the bones. It had been a long day, and the sky had surrendered to a deep, bruised purple that bled into the horizon. Alisaie sat on a metal crate by the mess tent, a half-empty mug of something vaguely warm clutched in her hands, its contents forgotten. Her mind was exhausted from a relentless cycle of planning and doubt and a restless unease had clung to her since the link between her and Y'shtola had clicked off.

   She kept replaying Y'shtola’s voice in her head, the low, steady assurance that she was taking precautions, that she would be safe. But the memory was tainted by her own fears. A frigid sense of dread seized her. A desperate voice in the back of Alisaie’s mind screamed for her to doubt the words, to abandon all caution and race to the Dravanian Hinterlands to find her, to pull her back from the very edge of the abyss she had so nearly fallen into.

   A sudden, elegant ripple, like a stone dropped into a still pond, made Alisaie gasp. It wasn't the sudden pop and flash of a standard teleport, but a subtle, familiar signature that spoke to her. A heartbeat later, the graceful form of Y’shtola Rhul coalesced from the gathering dusk.

   Alisaie’s mug clattered to the ground, forgotten. Relief hit her first, a physical wave so powerful it made her dizzy. She hadn't realized how tightly she had been holding her breath. The worry, the exhaustion, the cold—all of it shattered in the face of Y'shtola’s presence. Her feet moved on their own, carrying her forward, and she was surprised to see Y'shtola's own posture soften, her shoulders releasing a tension Alisaie hadn't realized she was holding.

   They met in the small space between the tents. Y’shtola’s silver eyes were all she could see, even in the fading light. There was no grand display, no hurried embrace. Y’shtola simply reached out and placed a hand gently on Alisaie’s face, her thumb stroking her cheek. The touch was both a question and a quiet reassurance, a silent promise that the worry was over.

   “I am here,” Y’shtola said, her voice a low, steady anchor in the swirling chaos of Alisaie's emotions.

   Alisaie leaned into the touch, a shaky breath escaping her lips. Her eyes fluttered shut, and the world, which had been so sharp with dread just moments before, softened into a warm, gentle blur. Every tense muscle in her body seemed to sigh in unison, surrendering to the relief. A single tear of pure, unadulterated relief escaped, hot against the cold air on her cheek.

   “I was so worried,” she whispered, the words catching in her throat. “I heard the tremor in your voice, Y'shtola. I knew you were in danger, and the thought that I couldn't reach you… couldn't protect you...” She trailed off, the admission was an unvarnished confession of the fear she had been holding onto, and the words gave her a final, cleansing shudder.

   “There was no need,” Y’shtola murmured, her hand moving from Alisaie's cheek to her shoulder, holding her gently. "Your heart was with me, and I felt your worry. But I am here, my love. And I am safe." Her gaze was steady, silver eyes a balm against Alisaie's frantic blue. Y’shtola's gaze fell to Alisaie’s hands, which were curled into fists at her sides, pale and chilled from the frigid air. A faint frown touched her lips. “You will get sick out here. I did not have the good sense to eat before I left. A grave oversight on my part. I believe some provisions from the mess hall and a more suitable place to speak are in order. The night air has a rather unpleasant bite.”

   A tremor went through Alisaie's chest, and she found herself nodding without a word. Y'shtola's practicality was a familiar comfort, a grounded reality in the face of Alisaie's swirling emotion. The two of them moved as one, a silent understanding passing between them. They went to the mess tent, the familiar, raucous noise of the camp a jarring counterpoint to their quiet reunion. Y'shtola took a simple bowl of stew and a piece of bread, the motion unhurried. Alisaie, her own hunger lost in the flood of her emotions, simply waited.

   They retreated to Alisaie’s private tent, the canvas walls a flimsy but welcome barrier against the world. Inside, the space was small and tidy, lit by the gentle glow of a lantern. The soft hiss of a ceruleum heater filled the silence. Y’shtola settled onto a bedroll and cot that had been moved near Alisaie’s own, and she began to eat, the spoon a soft, rhythmic clink against the metal bowl. Alisaie sat on the edge of her cot, observing. She watched the way the light caught in Y’shtola’s hair, the familiar, elegant movements of her hands. A shiver began to trace its way up her spine in anticipation of what was to come. It was a rare, intimate moment—just the two of them, in the quiet glow of a single lamp.

   The silence was not empty; it was pregnant with unspoken questions. Alisaie's mind was racing, her gaze taking in every detail of Y'shtola’s presence, from the fine dust on her boots to the faint lines of fatigue around her eyes. She wanted to ask, to pry, to know everything that had happened, but she was afraid that she would break the delicate peace that had just settled over them. 

   A thousand tiny details caught her eye: the way Y'shtola's brow furrowed slightly as she concentrated on her meal, the small, satisfied sigh she let out when she took a sip of water. Alisaie found herself mesmerized by the simple, mundane act of Y'shtola eating. This was a person who had just faced a perilous, life-threatening situation, yet here she was, in a quiet tent, simply enjoying a meal. The sheer normalcy of it was a testament to Y’shtola’s unwavering composure, but it also made the danger all the more terrifying in Alisaie's mind. She desperately wanted to break the stillness, to demand every detail of the battle, to assure herself that nothing could ever hurt Y’shtola again. But she held her tongue, understanding intuitively that Y'shtola needed this moment of quiet more than Alisaie needed her answers. She watched, her own anxiety, a low, humming current beneath her composed exterior.

   Y’shtola finished her meal, placing the empty bowl and spoon on the ground. She wiped her mouth with a cloth and then, finally, her silver gaze settled on Alisaie. The usual intellectual calm was there, but beneath it, Alisaie could feel a vulnerability she had never felt from her before.

   “Kesai’s attack was… unsettling,” Y’shtola began, her voice a low murmur that seemed to fill the entire tent. “She was driven, desperate. My momentary lapse in judgment almost cost me my life. The residue of her assault lingered on my skin and in my mind. It was a harrowing reminder of what happens when one’s guard is down, and what happens when an opponent’s focus becomes an obsession.”

   Alisaie felt a hot, furious anger rise within her. Her hands clenched into fists in a white-knuckled rage at the thought of Kesai, that wretched woman, daring to threaten Y'shtola. The danger was too close, too real. Y’shtola simply reached out a hand. “The skirmish was an unfortunate consequence. The vibration of your fear was a note I could not ignore, a verity I was compelled to confirm. This experience... reminded me of a reality I had long forgotten. A part of me that lives in the quiet places of my mind and heart. A part that you cannot see.”

   Y’shtola’s hand reached out to Alisaie’s, her fingers lacing between her own. Her eyes held Alisaie’s gaze, a quiet intensity in their depths. “I want to give you a piece of that part of me. I want to show you how I see the world. How I see her.”

   With her free hand, Y’shtola reached out and, with a touch so light it was like the whisper of the wind, placed a palm on the side of Alisaie's head, over her ear. "Just as our kiss revealed the purity of a love not tainted by Esteem, so too can my sight reveal the nature of my deepest bond. I wish to show you how I see Sevryn. To show you the power that I want, that I crave. The power I want to surrender to."

   Y'shtola’s world had always been a cascade of deep, magical truths. It was a language she understood in a way no one else could, a constant symphony of color and light. Now, as her palm rested against Alisaie’s temple, she focused not on what she saw but on the gentle, fiery hum she felt resonating from Alisaie's very soul. It was fierce and passionate, both tempestuous and pure. With a soft, internal command, Y'shtola let her own luminous current of immense power unfurl and reach for Alisaie's. It did not rush or surge; it simply flowed forth, a silken sensation that was a loving invitation.

   Her aether settled against Alisaie’s, a soft, silvery chord meeting a fiery hum. It was a sensation of deep, internal warmth, not unlike the feeling of sunlight on skin after a long winter, a gentle current that slipped into her, unwinding the tight knots of tension Alisaie hadn't known she was holding. It was a lover's touch, an intimate communion that made her entire being sigh in an unspoken language of relief.

   "Breathe, my love," Y'shtola murmured, her voice a soft, low command that was more a melody than an order. Her thumb stroked Alisaie’s jawline. “Relax. You have nothing to fear. I will guide you. You will open your mind to me, just for a moment.” The command was so soft that it could have been a suggestion, but the unspoken authority behind it was a familiar weight, a promise that all was well. She felt Alisaie's aether soften in response, the fiery hum settling into a calm, trusting resonance that mirrored Y'shtola's own. They were in harmony now.

   Y'shtola took a deep, steadying breath. She had Alisaie's trust. The aetheric bond was secured. Now she just had to share a piece of her soul with her. A moment she held dear and a secret she never thought she would reveal to anyone.

   The tent and all its mundane realities dissolved. The dim, warm light of the aetheric lamp was replaced by an oppressive malaise, the air thick with the dying aether of a god and the ghosts of a long-dead city. They were no longer in Garlemald, but in the ravaged heart of Amaurot. For Alisaie, this was a familiar memory, but now, it was seen through a different set of eyes. Through Y'shtola's aetheric sight.

   Alisaie’s breath caught in her throat. Where her own memory was of harsh twilight, Y’shtola’s was a symphony of color and texture. The Lightwardens' very essence was a violent, screaming chaos, a maelstrom of discordant tones. And in the center of it all, a single, perfect note of pure, resonant black.

   Sevryn.

   Through Y'shtola's aetheric sight, Alisaie didn't just see the memory—she felt it, from Y'shtola's own point of view. The sensation was not just visual; it was a blinding, beautiful intensity. She felt Ardbert, not as a separate entity, but as a gentle, warm pulse of pure, unadulterated healing that Y'shtola's own soul had registered. It was a sublime, slow, and intimate surrender. She felt the two souls, fragments of a single, ancient soul, merge—a gentle caress, a loving invitation. She felt Sevryn open herself to it not with resignation, but with a trusting grace. She felt Sevryn's spirit becoming more whole and vibrant, a breathless beauty that made Y'shtola's heart throb with a fierce, instinctive desire. A visceral, deep heat spread from the core of her being, a delicious, aching hunger. The sensation was a sublime, spiritual climax. The flow of it, a powerful river of energy pouring into the sea of her soul.

   And then, she felt it. The second surrender. Sevryn, whole, turned on Hades, and Y’shtola’s heart pounded with an intense, possessive love. Alisaie felt it not just as an act of destruction, but as a lover's gift. Sevryn was not just destroying a monster; she was releasing a being who had carried the burden of an entire world. The raw dynamism that poured from her was not a weapon, but a powerful, elegant, and overwhelming force. Alisaie felt, through Y'shtola, a deep, secret desire to be consumed by that force.

   The memory faded, and the tent returned to its mundane state, yet the sensory storm lingered. The warmth of the lamp now seemed to carry a second heat, a steadying comfort she recognized as the phantom caress of Y’shtola’s magic, a gentle pulse that lingered on her skin. The unfiltered, beautiful pain of Sevryn's struggle, the overwhelming surrender to Ardbert, still resonated in the back of her mind, a powerful and strangely seductive echo. Alisaie felt a low, internal vibration, a remnant of the sublime climax she had just witnessed through Y'shtola's senses. Her body was trembling, not from fear, but from a mixture of awe and a deep, pulsing heat in her core. She had not just seen a memory; she had experienced the raw, primal power of Sevryn's soul. She had felt what Y'shtola had, in that moment.

   Y’shtola’s hand left Alisaie’s head. The touch broke, but the intimacy did not. Instead, she leaned in, the soft strands of her hair brushing Alisaie’s temple as their foreheads rested against one another. The cool feel of Y’shtola’s skin was a balm against Alisaie’s heated brow, a physical anchor back to the here and now. The smell of sage, a clean, warm scent that Alisaie now realized was simply Y'shtola's own personal fragrance, mingled with the faint, crisp hint of ozone, the lingering aroma of her powerful magic. It was a mix of the familiar and the sublime that filled Alisaie’s senses.

   Y’shtola's voice was a low hum, a physical vibration felt through the skin where their foreheads met. “This is the love I want for us,” she said. “A love that is a force of nature, a surrender of power to a shared and beautiful desire. It is a yearning to be consumed by each other, to merge our very souls into one.”

   Alisaie's own hand, which had been clutching Y'shtola's, moved to gently trace the smooth, cool skin of Y'shtola’s palm. The tremors in her body were replaced by a low, thrumming vibration. She didn’t speak, she didn't need to. Her eyes, which had been closed throughout the aetheric journey, opened to meet Y'shtola’s gaze, their blue a swirling reflection of the quiet storm she had just witnessed. Her jaw was no longer clenched. Instead, her lips parted slightly, and her breath came out in a soft, unsteady sigh. There was a hunger in her gaze and a powerful, new understanding. Her heart, which had been racing, now felt a familiar pull—the same gravitational force that had long drawn her to the Warrior of Light. But this time, it was a feeling shared between them.

   Alisaie leaned in, her touch a silent question, her own soul reaching out to meet Y’shtola’s in a soft, reciprocal brush. Their lips met in a perfect, wordless answer, and the raw magic that had eddied between them now surged. A consuming torrent of shared power, it drew their very souls into a willing, breathless union, a final, irrevocable merging of their hearts and minds.

  <<^>>

Chapter Text

   Old Sharlayan was a blur of familiar faces and warm hugs, but to Sevryn, it felt like she was a ghost. She was a woman with no past, no origin to tether her to the world she had returned to, and every face, every embrace, was a painful reminder of the weeks she had lost. To her friends, she had been gone a fortnight. For her, it had been a month, a period of time that felt vast and endless in the context of her solitary journey. She smiled, she nodded, she hugged the friends who had worried, but a part of her remained distant, a shadow standing in the sun. The vibrant, joyful aether of her friends was a beautiful symphony she could no longer hear, drowned out by the low, ominous hum of the voidsent's poison in her soul. She was home, but she was profoundly, undeniably alone.

   Sevryn’s gaze found Y’shtola’s across the crowded meeting room, and her heart, a thing that had felt so cold and empty for a month, gave a tired, desperate lurch. There was the familiar set of her shoulders, the knowing half-smile that spoke of secrets she would never tell, the very sight of her a welcome anchor in a sea of loneliness. Her memory supplied a perfect, vivid image: Y'shtola's lips on her own, the quiet, shared warmth of a morning after. But as Sevryn drew closer, the memory shattered. The energy between them no longer hummed with just the familiar pull of their shared intimacy. A new current ran through the air, a silent chord that resonated not just from Y'shtola but from Alisaie as well. It was a subtle, powerful harmony that hummed with a rightness and a completeness Sevryn was not a part of. It was an undeniable truth, a tangible, aetheric whisper of a connection she was now on the outside of.

   Y'shtola's aether had always felt like a calm, cold river running deep beneath the earth—an immense, ancient power that flowed effortlessly, but felt untouchable. Now, as she stood next to Alisaie, that cool torrent was drawn to the brilliant, crackling fire of Alisaie's passionate, untamed energy. Sevryn could feel it, an aetheric truth that burned with an unbearable joy. The two elements, seemingly impossible to combine, surged into a river of fire, the vibrant, searing heat of Alisaie's aether warming the deep, steady current of Y'shtola's own. It was a force both ancient and new, placid and passionate, but more than that—it was complete. The sight of them standing together, their auras twining into a singular, cohesive rhythm, made the memory of her own brief, intimate time with Y'shtola feel not like an echo, but a beautiful, fragile lie she had told herself in the dark.

   The warm relief and excited anticipation that had flooded her being a moment before fled, replaced by a cold shock of understanding that cut like a knife’s edge across her heart. A familiar, insidious whisper slithered into the vacuum, a voice she had worked so hard to silence.

   “Look at them,” Esteem’s words, laced with a bitter sweetness, seeped into her shocked and tired mind. “They didn’t need you. They found their own light while you were gone. You're a complication now, a loose thread in a tapestry that is finally whole without you.”

   Sevryn’s heart hammered a frantic rhythm, each beat a drum of liquid fire that flooded her chest and overflowed into her gut. She could feel the vitriol of the voidsent now, unhindered by the warding scale she had to remove, its whispers coiling around her pain like a snake. She closed her eyes, desperate to shut it all out, to find the stoic mask she had perfected over a lifetime. She quietly rolled her fingers into a fist, forcing the tremor to stop, her knuckles turning white as she fought the chaos unleashed within her. “Do you feel it? That lonely ache? Their love is their shield, and your heart is the anvil they used to forge it.” The final words were a cruel whisper that broke through her mental defenses, a truth so sharp it felt physical, and Sevryn's practiced stoicism, so painstakingly rebuilt, shattered in an instant.

   Opening her eyes, Sevryn saw Alisaie’s expression shift, her relief turning into a quiet, focused concern. “Sevryn?” she asked, her voice a low murmur, but her hand was already reaching for her, a gesture of instinctual comfort. In the same moment, Sevryn's gaze found Y’shtola’s face, and in the unseeing eyes of the archon, she saw an acknowledgment of her pain, an understanding that went deeper than words. Y'shtola's brow, ever so subtly, had furrowed in concern, and she took a quiet step closer, her posture a silent shield against the observing Scions.

   Y’shtola felt the aetheric surge from Sevryn, a discordant, painful chaos that was so unlike the Warrior of Light's typically controlled flow. It was an unmistakable sign of the voidsent's influence, but more than that, she felt the abrupt absence of a familiar energy—the protective signature of the warding scale. It was the missing piece, a profound vulnerability that explained the unravelling she was witnessing. Her intellectual mind immediately began to calculate the risk, but her heart's first response was a wave of fierce concern.

   With a quiet, purposeful look towards Alisaie, Y'shtola sent a clear, unspoken message. Alisaie, her own hand now on Sevryn’s arm, nodded in perfect understanding. Without a word, Y'shtola looked at the Scions in the room and simply said, “I believe the Warrior of Light is in need of some rest after her long journey. We will speak with her further in the study.”

   Alisaie’s hand found Sevryn’s, her touch a silent anchor. Together, she and Y’shtola formed a quiet, unified shield on either side of Sevryn, their new, cohesive auras a steadying presence against the chaotic storm still raging in Sevryn's soul. They walked in a silence thick with unexpressed emotions, a quiet procession past their friends. Alphinaud and G’raha looked on, their concern evident, but they held their tongues. The others sensed the private gravity of the moment and stepped aside to let the trio pass, their eyes filled with unasked questions and a respectful distance.

   The door to the study closed with a soft click, sealing them away from the rest of the world. Sevryn turned to face them, her expression a mask of hardened stoicism, but her eyes betrayed her. They held a silent command, a stark and vulnerable truth. “I went a month without you,” she said, her voice a low, firm whisper, her words laced with the same voidsent venom that had been her sole companion for weeks. “Tell me what I just felt.”

   Y'shtola’s gaze met Sevryn’s, her expression one of unwavering poise that did not reach her eyes. “You’ve always been able to feel the aetheric bonds that connect us, and I have always been aware of the power of our love for you. But for a long time, Alisaie and I have shared a current—a subtle, nascent power that flowed from our mutual regard for you. It was always there, waiting for the right moment to grow. It simply needed the space to become its own truth.”

   Alisaie took a step closer to Sevryn, her eyes fixed on the floor, a testament to the quiet terror she felt. Her usual confident tone was gone, replaced by a quiet, delicate whisper. “Sevryn… you and I, we have always been a pair. And I think I’ve loved Y'shtola for almost as long as I’ve loved you. The feelings just… they weren’t in the right place. But when you were gone, when the world was falling apart, and my heart felt a hundred times more empty without your warmth… the only person who understood was Y’shtola. When Kesai… she tried to kill Y'shtola, I realized I couldn’t bear to live in a world without her in it. It wasn’t a choice, Sevryn. It was an instinct. We found each other in the love we already shared for you, and we’ve only gotten stronger.”

   Y’shtola's eyes, still locked on Sevryn's, held a rare, unguarded vulnerability. “Our connection was forged in the space you left,” she finished, “but it is not a replacement. It is a part of ourselves that found its way to the other, a part of our love for you that grew into its own.” 

   "Lies," Esteem whispered, the word a stone dropped into the quiet pool of her mind, rippling out into a frantic, chaotic storm. It was not just a whisper of words, but a wave of pure venomous sorrow, a reminder of the months and years of loneliness Sevryn had carried on alone. The single word shattered Sevryn’s practiced stoicism in an instant. Her jaw clenched so hard a muscle twitched in her cheek, and her fists, already curled, tightened until her knuckles turned white. It was a furious, silent battle within her own mind, her soul clashing against the voidsent’s renewed assault.

   Y’shtola felt the change immediately. She felt the voidsent’s umbral power surge like a bitter, violent wave. Instinctively, she reached out, her hand finding Sevryn’s, sending a stronger, steadier pulse of her own aether through their new bond as a focused, powerful counter-force to hold Esteem at bay. But then, as her aether met Sevryn's, Y'shtola’s body went rigid. Her breath hitched in her chest, and her composure broke for a single, fleeting moment as she felt the full, jarring truth of Sevryn’s soul. It was no longer just the chaotic ache of the voidsent's power, but a profound, unadulterated density, a spiritual weight that was overwhelming in its immensity. She let her gaze fall from Sevryn's face, her brow furrowed in a deep, perplexed frown.

   Alisaie, seeing only the naked pain on Sevryn’s face, gasped. Her hand, hesitant at first, moved with a sudden, desperate urgency. She reached out, her eyes wide with a question that needed no words. But before she could get close enough, Y'shtola’s hand found her own, and a single, silent pulse of aether, sharp with alarm and concern, passed between them. Alisaie’s eyes, which had been fixed on Sevryn's face, now shot to Y'shtola's, a silent request for an explanation. Y'shtola’s gaze was hushed, filled with a stunned disbelief. “By the Twelve,” she murmured, her voice a low, strangled whisper. “Your soul… its density is unlike anything I've ever felt. It’s like a star.”

   Sevryn’s hands, which had been clenched and ready for a fight, uncurled slowly, a quiet act of surrender. The warmth that now flowed through them was not just from Y'shtola, but from Alisaie as well, a twin pulse of calming aether that pulled her from the depths of her mind. Her gaze, a turbulent storm of gray, found Y’shtola’s unseeing eyes. "What do you know of the fourteenth seat of the Convocation? The seat of Azem?” Sevryn asked, her voice a low, firm whisper that finally broke the silence.

 ~~

   Y'shtola's gaze remained fixed on Sevryn. The single name, Azem, resonated in the air, landing in Y'shtola's mind with the weight of a physical blow. The impossible density of Sevryn's soul wasn't a mystery anymore; it was an answer so stunning it took her breath away. Her mind, ever a library of the forgotten, began to pull up fragments of aetheric lore. The sundering of a soul. The resonance of Ardbert's aether, which had felt so familiar. The moment he had merged with Sevryn. It all clicked into place, but the emotional truth of it hit her before the intellectual one. It was a searing wave of profound sorrow and relief: Ardbert hadn't just given Sevryn his power; he'd given her the other half of a soul that had been split in two since the beginning of the end. He had made her whole.

   The final piece of the puzzle fell into place as Sevryn's words continued to paint a picture of her journey. The truth was far more than an intellectual curiosity; it was a matter of life and death, of hope and despair. In Elpis, she hadn't just been given knowledge; she'd been given a fixed point, a primal memory that anchored her soul. This was it. This was the opening. Y'shtola’s eyes, even without sight, were wide with a sudden, stunning understanding of what was possible. She could feel the way Esteem’s aether was twisted, the way it clung to the misaligned polarity of Sevryn's soul. They could realign it. They could give her the strength to finally control the voidsent, not by fighting it, but by containing it forever. The thought was a surge of hope, a powerful, joyful counter to the despair that had been plaguing her beloved.

   As Sevryn finished, Y’shtola’s thoughtful posture became more deliberate. She crossed her arms, a loose fist resting on her jaw as she processed the information. Her head, however, was already shaking in silent disbelief. She would not let the wonder in her voice go unspoken, for this was a miracle.

   “T’would seem your time in Elpis was more fruitful than just determining the cause of the Final Days,” Y’shtola said, the words a low, stunned murmur. "Who could have foreseen Emet-Selch being useful? Or... a companion?" Her hand dropped, gesturing to Sevryn’s soul as if she could touch it. “However fantastic that thought does seem to me, there is no doubting that he, Hythlodaeus and Venat have given your soul a memory of its origin. A fixed point in time and space that you have lacked since the Calamity. You now possess an understanding of yourself from outside of both, a grounding that you have never had before.”

   She looked to Alisaie, a new light of certainty in her gaze. "Putting the longer, more painful discussion of what this implies aside for the moment," she said, her voice dropping to a low, certain tone, "Alisaie and I can realign the polarity of your soul. Angelo will be an invaluable help in that regard.”

   Sevryn’s silence that followed was far more deafening than any roar. It was a maelstrom of thoughts and feelings—a clash between the profound truth of her soul and the fundamental, ingrained loneliness that had been her only constant. The warmth of Y’shtola’s hand in her own, amplified by the silent, solid connection of Alisaie’s touch, was a grounding force against the storm. Alisaie felt her own fear take hold, her desperate gaze pleading with Y'shtola, a silent request for guidance that her partner understood immediately. Y'shtola, in return, sent a quiet, reassuring pulse of her aether through the chain of their hands. And then, Alisaie turned her pleading gaze to Sevryn. “Sevryn,” she began, her voice a small, fragile sound. “Please, just... please say something.”

   The plea was all it took. Sevryn’s head shook slowly. The turmoil in her stormy gray eyes began to recede, replaced not with anger, but with an overwhelming, quiet exhaustion. The words Esteem had whispered, the poison it had spread, were now just her own voice, and her voice was filled with an unbearable grief. "You have found me in a place," she said, her voice a low, hoarse whisper that broke on the last word. "Where I never thought to be found."

   She lifted her head, her gaze meeting the stillness of Y'shtola’s sightless eyes. "I never had a beginning. I've always been... just something that was. A wanderer's soul with no origin, no memories before the Calamity. Every journey was an attempt to find the home I couldn't remember. Every battle, an attempt to find a purpose for a life that felt like it had no source." Her voice was a bare confession, a truth she had never dared to speak. "Even surrounded by all of you, I have always been fundamentally, profoundly alone."

   She turned her gaze to Alisaie, whose eyes were now welling with tears. "And now... now you two have found your home in each other. Your aether is whole and complete in a way I have never known my own to be. And the voice in my head... it tells me I am just a complication, a loose thread in a tapestry that is finally finished without me. That your love is a shield against the things I'm carrying. How can I belong with you when all I am is a thing to be used? To be broken and then put back together again?"

   Alisaie’s tears, which had been poised on her lower lids, finally broke free, tracing a hot path down her cheeks. The pain in her heart was a physical ache, a grief for the years of loneliness Sevryn had been carrying alone. She released her hand from Y'shtola's, a desperate, silent apology for not seeing this truth sooner. With her hand now free, she reached out and found Sevryn's. Her fingers intertwined with the Warrior’s, her touch a desperate, emotional plea to communicate all the words she couldn't say.

   Y’shtola's own aether, which had been a steady thrum, stuttered for a single moment, a ripple of pure shock. The intellectual understanding she had just gained was now an emotional, searing wound. She had always known Sevryn was an aetheric anomaly, but she had never comprehended the depth of the spiritual exile Sevryn had been living. She felt the gritty, unadulterated ache of a soul that had never belonged, and for a fleeting moment, she felt the profound weight of it herself. Y'shtola's heart's response was a sudden, violent empathy, a deep and urgent need to prove that Sevryn was not, and never had been, alone.

   Alisaie, her eyes overflowing with tears, didn't hesitate. She released Sevryn’s hand, stepped forward, and wrapped her arms around her in a fierce embrace. "Sevryn," she choked out, her voice muffled against the hero’s shoulder. "That voice is a liar. You are not a complication. You are not a loose thread. You are the very foundation of our home. We found each other in our love for you, and we cannot be a family without you."

   Y’shtola's own posture softened. She brought her hand up, and without a word, she placed it on Sevryn’s back. It was a firm, comforting touch—a promise. The aether that flowed from her into Sevryn was not just a steady thrum, but a melody. It was the serenity of her deep river, the fiery passion of Alisaie's torrent, and the blinding brilliance of a star—all in perfect, beautiful harmony. The turbulent storm in Sevryn's heart began to quiet. She was not a tool. She was not a complication. She was a profound, beautiful part of a new, three-part harmony. For the first time in her life, surrounded by the love she had so desperately sought, she felt her soul begin to rest.

<<^>>

Chapter Text

   The latch groaned—a familiar, rusty protest—as Sevryn's shoulder pressed against the weathered oak door. Alisaie slipped through the opening behind her, close enough that her breath warmed the nape of Sevryn's neck. The heavy leather satchel slid from Sevryn's fingers, striking the floorboards with a dull thud that sent a small cloud of ochre dust spiraling upward. Her fingertips were raw, cracked at the knuckles, smudged with the reddish clay of the Central Circuit. Alisaie's red sleeves had gone the color of weak tea, and a streak of machine oil painted a dark slash across her cheek. She closed her eyes, nostrils flaring as she drew in a long breath—woodsmoke from the hearth curled through the air, mingling with the earthy scent of dried thyme and the rich, fatty aroma of bone broth that had been simmering for hours. Her shoulders, which had been bunched tight beneath her ears all day, finally dropped as the warmth wrapped around them like a blanket.

   Y'shtola stood at the hearth, her silver hair catching amber highlights from the flames as she moved a wooden spoon through the bubbling stew. Steam curled around her wrists, carrying the scent of rosemary and thyme. Alisaie dropped her satchel with a thud that scattered dust motes in the firelight and crossed the room in three quick strides. She slipped her arms around Y'shtola's waist from behind, pressing her cheek against the soft cotton where neck met shoulder. "By the Twelve," she breathed, inhaling deeply, "I could smell this halfway across Labyrinthos." Y'shtola's spine, usually straight as a lance, melted backward into the embrace. The wooden spoon stilled. A low rumble vibrated in her chest—not quite a purr, not quite a hum—as her free hand found Alisaie's, thumb tracing the calluses on her palm. Their fingers interlaced without fumbling, a practiced dance. Y'shtola twisted in the circle of Alisaie's arms, her silver eyes somehow finding Alisaie's face with perfect precision. Her fingertips brushed a smudge of dirt from the younger woman's cheek. "The washbasin. Now," she murmured, lips quirking. "You're tracking half the Circuit across my clean floors."

   As Alisaie moved toward the wash basin, Y'shtola pivoted on her heel, her spine straightening like a bowstring drawn taut. The silver tips of her ears flicked once—a subtle tell Sevryn had learned to read months ago. Y'shtola's lips curved upward, the firelight catching on her fangs for just a heartbeat before they disappeared again behind soft lips.

   "There you are," Y'shtola murmured, her milky gaze finding Sevryn's face with uncanny accuracy. Her fingertips—cool despite her proximity to the hearth—traced a deliberate path from Sevryn's elbow to the small of her back, pressing against the knot of tension that had formed there during the long day's work.

   Sevryn's shoulders dropped two full ilms at the contact. Her breath escaped in a soft hiss between her teeth.

   "Hard day in the field?" Y'shtola's fingers dug deeper, finding the exact point where muscle had seized.

   "Mmm," Sevryn managed, leaning into the touch. Y'shtola's aether shimmered around her like frost on glass—visible, beautiful, deliberately maintaining that whisper of space between their essences. Unlike the way it had melted against Alisaie's moments before.

   "You're carrying it all here," Y'shtola said, her thumb pressing a precise circle against Sevryn's lower back. "And here." Her other hand rose to the base of Sevryn's skull.

   "Coblyns—all twisted crystal and raw aether—had burrowed beneath the hamlet's reactor." Sevryn's voice fell to that velvet whisper she reserved only for Y'shtola,"They were feeding on the mana lines. Another day, and the whole place might have gone up. I had to coax them out one by one with elemental lures before I could... dispatch them."

   Y'shtola's ears flicked again—this time with pleasure, the silvery tips catching the firelight as they swiveled forward like twin compass needles seeking true north. The rigid set of her shoulders loosened, melting downward in a cascade of released tension that transformed her silhouette from alabaster statue to living flesh. From deep within her chest came a barely audible vibration, a sound too refined to be called a purr, yet too primal to be merely a hum—the instinctive expression of a Miqo'te momentarily unguarded.

   "I've prepared the ritual circle," Y'shtola said, her voice dropping to match Sevryn's. "Your soul needs tending before your body tonight. The stew can wait."

   Sevryn nodded, the gesture small but immediate, a habit of obedience pressed deep into her bones. "Aye. As you wish." Her voice, hoarse with fatigue, held a reverence for Y'shtola's command. The subtle thrill that always followed such words rippled through her, twisting in her gut—a need for completion, for the clean symmetry of surrender and reward. Alisaie caught the tremor in her voice and flashed a quick smirk over her shoulder, a spark of playful solidarity glittering in her eyes.

   She went to the basin first, stripping off her gloves and tossing them without care onto the low bench. Alisaie was already there, bracing herself against the lip of the stone sink, sleeves shoved back, cold water sluicing over skin scuffed and ruddy from the day. She glanced sidelong at Sevryn, and for a heartbeat, the old ache of wanting to protect and possess her all at once shone unfiltered in her blue gaze, a brilliance that was neither wholly tenderness nor outright hunger, but a synthesis of both. Alisaie watched Sevryn at the basin, so weary and battered, and felt the fierce ache of longing—to mend, to claim, to see that face at rest, transformed by peace rather than pain. As she turned her gaze towards Y'shtola, who had just finished stirring the stew and now stood at the hearth, the Archon’s voice broke through the moment. “Come, both of you. The preparations are complete. It’s time.”

   Alisaie’s heart raced with vibrant anticipation. “You heard her, Sevryn. That’s our cue.”

   Alisaie's fingers wove between Sevryn's calloused ones as they crossed the threshold into the parlor. Y'shtola stood waiting at the center of the room, her presence radiating outward like the gravitational pull of a small moon, her aether a cool silver-blue nimbus visible even to untrained eyes. Angelo bobbed in lazy circles near the ceiling, its rotund pig-like body casting prismatic reflections across the walls as astral energy trailed from its form like gossamer ribbons. The ritual space beckoned—chalk sigils on polished wood, candles burning with unnaturally steady flames, the air itself seeming to hold its breath in anticipation. A flutter started beneath Alisaie's ribs, spreading outward until her skin tingled with electric anticipation. Tonight's work would pull Sevryn's fractured soul back from the brink of corruption, and in that sacred moment when their three essences touched, they could transcend their individual scars, weaving together a tapestry of healing and unity that would forge a new beginning for them all.

   Sevryn sank onto the indigo rug, fingers working methodically at the buckles of her cuirass. The leather straps slid free with practiced ease, the metal plates clinking softly as she set them aside. Her knees pressed into the woven fibers, back straightening instinctively despite her exhaustion. Across from her, Alisaie settled into position, a flush rising to color her cheeks. Her blue eyes caught the candlelight, pupils dilating as they fixed on Sevryn's exposed throat. Y'shtola remained standing, her shadow falling across them both. Her staff tapped once against the floorboards as she positioned herself precisely at Sevryn's right shoulder, close enough that the hem of her black robes brushed Sevryn's arm, yet her aether maintained a crystalline barrier between them—cool and impenetrable as glass.

   "Alisaie will channel the aetheric flow," Y'shtola stated, her voice now clinical, the intimate warmth from earlier vanished without trace. Her blind eyes fixed somewhere beyond Sevryn's shoulder. "I shall maintain the necessary barriers. You need only surrender completely, Captain. The ritual demands your absolute vulnerability."

   Alisaie's fingers slid across Sevryn's palms, calluses catching against calluses. The moment their skin connected, a rush of sensation flooded upward through Sevryn's wrists, arms, shoulders—like stepping from shadow into direct sunlight after hours in the cold. Crimson tendrils of Alisaie's aether spilled between their joined hands, visible even to the naked eye, pulsing with each beat of the young mage's heart. They spiraled around Sevryn's own pale blue energy, not containing it but dancing with it, inviting it outward. Sevryn's eyelids fluttered closed as her chest expanded with a ragged inhale. Each breath came deeper than the last, her shoulders rising and falling as she felt herself sinking, falling backward through layers of her own consciousness towards the corruption- a jagged shard of blinding white lodged deep where no light should dwell.

   As Alisaie became the conduit, Y'shtola's fingertips found Sevryn's nape with unerring precision, settling against the tender skin where fine hairs met the worn collar of her undershirt. A shiver coursed down Sevryn's spine—not from pleasure, but from the sudden glacial clarity that accompanied the touch. Unlike Alisaie's crimson warmth that had melted into her own essence, Y'shtola's aether manifested as a crystalline latticework, each strand of power weaving around Sevryn's soul without ever touching it. The Archon's magic smelled of winter pine and tasted like metal on the back of Sevryn's tongue as it constructed perfect, immaculate boundaries—a transparent prison of protection. Sevryn's throat tightened as understanding dawned in her chest, heavy as stone: Y'shtola stood apart, her elegant fingers trembling almost imperceptibly against Sevryn's skin, her breath measured to mathematical perfection as she held herself separate from the intimacy she herself had orchestrated.

   Alisaie's crimson aether flowed from her fingertips like liquid garnets, seeping into the fractured edges of Sevryn's soul. Where it touched, the dark Umbral ice that had encased Sevryn's essence for months began to crack and hiss. Sevryn's breath caught as warmth spread through her abdomen, a molten river dissolving the knot that had lived beneath her ribs. Her skin prickled with gooseflesh as Alisaie's essence wrapped around her own—intimate as a lover's touch, relentless as the tide. The air between them thickened until each breath tasted of ozone and honey.

   A hairline fracture appeared in the last barrier of Umbral energy. Alisaie pressed forward, her blue eyes now glowing crimson. The fracture widened, splintered—then shattered.

   Sevryn's body arched backward, spine bowing as her natural Astral alignment erupted from its prison. Golden light burst from her skin in pulsing waves, her dark hair lifting as though underwater. The parlor trembled, candle flames stretching horizontal, as power radiated outward from her core like the shockwave of a newborn sun. Her eyes, when they opened, blazed with ancient light that cast no shadows.

   The aetheric force slammed against Y'shtola's defenses like a tidal wave against glass. Crystalline barriers that had stood impenetrable now fractured with hairline cracks, spiderwebbing outward as motes of golden light seeped through. Sevryn watched Y'shtola's face transform—those milk-blind eyes widening, pupils contracting to mere slits as her composed features contorted. The Archon's lips parted, releasing a sound like ice breaking over deep water—half gasp, half moan—that echoed against the wooden beams overhead. The elegant fingers at Sevryn's nape curled inward, nails leaving crescent moons against skin, thumb pressing against the pulse point where Sevryn's heartbeat thundered. Y'shtola's shoulders hunched forward as though bearing an invisible weight, her silver hair falling across her face as sweat beaded at her temples, each droplet catching the golden light that now poured unchecked between them.

   Sevryn's spine arched like a drawn bow as Y'shtola's fingers tightened at her nape. Her breath caught in her throat, muscles yielding beneath that unexpected grip, even as her newly-aligned aether flared golden in response. Through half-lidded eyes, she glimpsed Y'shtola's face—pupils contracted, lips parted, a tremor racing across her usually composed features. For three heartbeats, the Archon's milk-white eyes widened, her shoulders rigid beneath black robes. Then, like frost re-forming over disturbed water, Y'shtola's crystalline barriers snapped back into place. The pressure of her fingers gentled, though they remained against Sevryn's skin, cool and steady once more. Between them hung the unspoken truth: Y'shtola's walls had cracked, and though mended, the memory of that momentary vulnerability lingered in the air between them like the scent of ozone after lightning.

   Alisaie remained motionless, her fingers interlaced with Sevryn's, knuckles white from her grip. Each heartbeat sent pulses of golden light surging up her arms like liquid fire beneath her skin, making the fine hairs rise. The air hung heavy with the metallic tang of ozone that clung to the back of her tongue, mingling with the salt of sweat that beaded along her hairline and trickled down between her shoulder blades. Her thighs quivered against the indigo rug, muscles taut as bowstrings. She tracked the slow recession of light around Sevryn—how it pooled in the hollow of her throat, caught in droplets that traced paths down to where her undershirt clung damply to her chest. Alisaie's gaze dragged upward, past Sevryn's parted lips, to where Y'shtola's fingers pressed into the dark-haired nape. The Archon's knuckles had blanched, tendons standing out like cords beneath her skin, her usual composure betrayed by the rapid flutter of a pulse visible at her temple. A flush had spread across Y'shtola's cheekbones, turning her pale complexion the color of dawn-touched snow. When she exhaled, the scent of sage and musk unfurled from her like smoke, sharp and primal. In that single, suspended moment, Alisaie witnessed what Y'shtola had spent a lifetime concealing—raw need etched into every line of her body, fear and desire inseparable like the delicate balance between shadow and light, each a reflection of the other in the depths of her heart.

  Y'shtola's fingers uncurled from Sevryn's nape one by one, each digit leaving a ghost of pressure against the damp skin. The final touch lingered—clinical yet possessive—before withdrawing completely. She inhaled through her nostrils, the sound sharp as a blade against stone, her silver hair cascading back from her flushed face like mercury. The rigid posture reclaimed her body in visible increments: first her spine straightening, then her shoulders squaring beneath the midnight fabric of her robes, finally her chin lifting to erase all evidence of that unguarded moment. "Your soul's alignment has stabilized, though the resonance patterns remain... unusual," she murmured, each syllable emerging with deliberate control despite the sandpaper edge that roughened her typically smooth contralto. Her gaze shifted toward Alisaie, unseeing yet unerringly precise. "The bread requires slicing. The table, setting. Your hands have steadied enough for such tasks, have they not, Alisaie?" The words hung in the air, polite and impenetrable as a fortress wall.

   Alisaie blinked rapidly, her vision swimming with golden afterimages that pulsed in time with her racing heart. Her fingers, still interlaced with Sevryn's, trembled with the effort not to tighten their grip. A sudden, unwelcome heat bloomed low in her abdomen—the visceral urge to simply pull Sevryn's trembling, sweat-dampened body into her lap and press her face into the curve where neck met shoulder. She swallowed hard, tasting metal and honey, and gave a quick, jerky nod that sent a strand of silver-white hair falling across her flushed cheek. Y'shtola's words had been gentle, but Alisaie recognized the steel beneath them—a command, not a suggestion, to provide space.

   Y'shtola pivoted with feline grace, her robes whispering against the floorboards as she faced Sevryn fully. Her slender fingers descended to the junction where neck met shoulder, thumb pressing against the hollow of Sevryn's collarbone. The touch was clinical yet intimate—a healer's precision wielded with a lover's knowledge. "The alignment has taken root," she murmured, her voice dropping to that velvet-wrapped-steel timbre that made Sevryn's pulse quicken beneath her fingertips. "But your aetheric meridians require further... calibration. Come with me where we won't be disturbed. Some examinations demand absolute privacy."

 ~~