Kion's POV
Scriptorium, Public Wing, Tenzurah Buried Library
Writ hadn’t attacked.
Kion had expected a blade to the throat. A punch, a snarl, maybe even a bolt of lightning to the wings if she was truly in a mood.
But she didn’t.
Instead, she watched. Bladed, wary, silent.
And then let him wander beside her.
No binding glyph. No interrogation. Not even a command to leave.
It should’ve been comforting.
It wasn’t.
Because something in the tether, in the moments just after he landed, felt wrong.
It wasn’t anger. Or fear. Or simple wariness. Writ had sent entire spectrums of emotion through the tether before, but meeting an unexpected stranger didn’t normally register like this. Not for her.
What he felt then was closer to panic. Sharp. Cold. Rattling through the tether like a snare that missed its spring.
Why panic?
That was the question that wouldn’t leave him.
She let him stay.
He’d offered to refill her flask with riverwater. She agreed, only after checking the hole’s depth and concluding she couldn’t reach it herself.
But she agreed. She accepted his help.
So he hovered beside her, dripping, slightly dazed, as she catalogued ancient etchings like he wasn’t leaking riverwater across half a ruin.
His gaze drifted past the glyphs and caught on something etched across the wall. A mural.
Stylized and sharp. A waterfall carved in sweeping lines split the mural, crashing into a basin where robed figures knelt with arms raised. Smoke rose from shallow bowls at their feet, curling toward a moon carved like a closed eye.
"Waterfall...," he muttered.
Earlier.
He’d barely left Fenwick’s quarters before heading straight to Seraithe’s.
He didn’t knock. Just barged in with a pouch of pink tourmaline.
"I need to borrow you. There’s someone I need to reach."
She raised one brow.
Then took the tourmaline.
Through the tether, he had a general sense of Writ’s location. Not a map, no coordinate, but a direction. A pull. A quiet thrum pointing away from Virelen. A lighthouse, if he focused.
So they went.
A dust-flat nowhere. Endless ochre under a white-hot sky. Ground cracked and brittle, sharp with sun-baked stone and wind-scattered grit. The heat shimmered, thick and breathless. No ruins. No shade. Just silence.
The tether wasn’t precise. Just a steady thrum beneath his ribs, guiding him like a lodestar. Faint. Muffled. But unmistakably alive.
Below.
Kion stood still, boots crunching faintly. Closed his eyes. The pull pointed downward.
“She’s below,” he said, “too far for direct entry.”
Panic nipped at him. Was she buried? But she was alive. The tether still thrummed with life. He refused to believe otherwise.
Seraithe frowned, “if she's that far beneath, there’s no way to drop in direct. Not without teleportation anchors or controlled descent.”
But neither of them can teleport, and controlled descent only worked on open caverns.
Which left one option.
"Let’s ask the locals," he said, "there has to be something down here we can’t see from the surface."
Seraithe sighed, "if you say so."
But he didn’t follow too close. Not when she sent mana-nudges to the fairfolk around.
If they sensed him near her, they might not answer. Not with the mark he bore. That was half the reason he dragged Seraithe along, aside from fast travel.
A gnome appeared from the sands. Kion kept his distance.
When Seraithe returned, she looked half-wry, half-exasperated.
"There’s an old ruin. Buried. Entry collapsed decades ago."
Something coiled tight in his gut, "can it be accessed?"
"Underground river," she said. "connected to one nearby. He only told me after I promised him sweets. You owe them."
He handed over a pouch of honey ginger cookies.
Seraithe waved to the gnome and led him toward the river.
She mana-nudged the currents again.
An Undine rose from the water, sleek, unimpressed, visibly irritated the second she spotted Kion hovering nearby.
He didn’t protest.
They talked. Then Seraithe gestured him closer.
"You brought him," the Undine scowled.
"He’s the one with the problem. He should hear it. And he’s got the sweets. So bear with it."
The Undine turned to him, "yes, the river runs beneath. Some current diverts underground, but most stays above. It’s violent."
She motioned "he’ll need to enter from above the waterfall. For momentum. Start too low and he’ll miss the split."
"Where’s the waterfall?"
"Ten minutes if our sylph friend lends her wind."
Kion exhaled. Fished out a jar of snow cookies, "can you show me?"
The Undine rolled her eyes. But agreed.
Seraithe nodded and grabbed both their hands. Wind carried them.
They followed the riverbend until he saw them.
Desert otters. A full family. Sunning on warm stones.
He tried to reach them.
"Don’t," the Undine warned, "territorial. They will bite."
He stopped. Hands up.
Then he saw the waterfall.
The path curved, then dropped.
And beyond it, sound.
Not just loud. Overwhelming.
Like the world itself cracked.
It wasn’t wind or water or thunder. It was all of it, blended and breaking into a roar that swallowed his breath whole.
Mist rose like breath from the gorge. Rock curved dark and moss-slick. And then the water, plunging in a silver torrent that made the sky feel small.
It wasn’t falling. It was slamming.
Fury. Volume. Air. Stone. Water.
Hurling itself off the cliff with a fury that churned the air, shook the ground, and left the river below frothing like it was trying to climb back up.
He stood still before it all. Mist clung to his face. Wind pressed into his wings.
Every instinct screamed that this was a bad idea. A terrible idea.
But the tether pulsed. An ache of suspicion and steeled will.
She’s down there.
He swallowed. Jaw tight.
No one should survive a drop like that.
But if she was there...
He would try.
Seraithe stared, then looked at him.
"We should find another entrance. Or better yet, go back."
Kion didn’t answer.
The waterfall was monstrous. Water crashed in spirals. Loud enough to shake ribs.
He was already running survival math. Trajectory. Depth. Current split.
"Maybe we should find another way," Seraithe whispered again.
He shook his head. Turned to the Undine, "this can reach the ruins?"
"Yes. Under, not into. You’ll have to break through the stone."
Kion gulped.
Seraithe hesitated, then asked, “If he fails to break through... will he be able to get out?”
The Undine gave her a long, unimpressed look, “well, the river comes back out. Further south, near a broken ridge. If he floats right, he’ll get spat out there. Eventually.”
Kion’s eyes sharpened, “there’s another opening?”
“More like a crack it found to escape. Starting there would feel like swimming upstream into a waterfall,” Her expression darkened, “most likely, you’ll get swallowed by a dead pocket, smashed into a stone shelf, or eaten by cave fish.”
Kion nodded. Sobering, but not enough to stop him.
The Undine stared like he was already halfway dead.
He turned to Seraithe, "you can go back now. Tell Veska to give you what I prepared. She’ll understand."
He stepped forward.
"You’re insane," Seraithe grabbed his sleeve, "are you trying to die? Even my tethered parents wouldn’t go this far."
He raised his hands. Grinned, sheepish.
"His tethered is down there?" the Undine asked, "how? Why?"
Kion slipped from Seraithe’s grip and took another step.
"That’s a long story."
The Undine narrowed her eyes, "did the humans take her?"
He looked at the waterfall.
"Welp. Gotta go! Miss you, Seraithe!"
Then jumped.
Air caught his wings.
Then water.
He slammed into the falls.
The world went white.
He barely shaped a water bubble in time, telekinesis packed tight, holding a breathable sphere.
He practiced shaping air often, mostly to manipulate illusions or adjust human-sized tools. Making a bubble underwater? Easy. Holding it mid-plunge through a raging waterslam? Less so.
He sank. Fast. Current tore past him like claws.
Too strong to fight. That was the point.
He let it take him. One hand on the bubble. One on the satchel. Mind on breath.
Darkness swallowed him. But the current changed. Still flowing strong, but softer.
The underground river.
He surfaced briefly. Caught a breath in a carved stone pocket.
Pushed forward again.
Let the current drive him. Minutes blurred.
Until he felt it.
She’s above.
He surfaced. Searched for a perch.
He shifted sideways.
Didn’t want the eruption to knock her off balance.
Then focused his mana.
Raised a hand.
Telekinesis surged. He forced the current upward, a narrow stream.
It scoured the earth above. Washed away soil. Exposed stone.
He searched. Cracks. Weakness. Something.
He found a crack. A circular hole. Smooth. Deliberate.
He didn’t think much. Just aimed the current into it.
Repeatedly hit by strong current, The glyph flared. Light. Pulse.
A defense rune. Meant to eject intruders and alert guards.
He only realized what's the hole was about when it's too late.
Boom.
Stone shattered.
The glyph fired.
And flung him up like a slingshot.
And that's how he had managed to find her.
And actually, he hadn’t planned this far.
Yes, he planned to come to her. But not what came after. Not in detail.
She had finished combing every corner of the scriptorium, now pacing the only open antechamber, the rest were filled with earth and sand. Her eyes scanned for hidden paths, fingers brushing the stone, searching for concealed doors.
She still hadn’t spoken. Not a word since the panic. Not even a flicker of explanation. Just silence. Guarded, brittle.
So Kion filled the quiet with talk. About everything.
About his graceful entrance. About how the defense mechanisms didn’t technically forbid entry. About the sand otter colony. Even every mural they passed.
Writ barely responded. Just glanced at the ones he mentioned.
But he knew she was listening. Especially when he talked about the murals. Soaking up each detail he offered.
The tether pulsed faintly. A sense of 'I see', maybe. Or he hoped.
So he kept talking. Especially about the murals.
His gaze caught on one etched deeper than the rest, just beyond the water basin.
It wasn’t grand, no sweeping arch, no gilded flourish. Just clean, deliberate lines carved into pale sandstone. Sharp as knife scores, weathered soft by time.
A desert otter family.
Stylized, but not abstract. One was mid-lunge, fangs bared toward a serpent. Another reared protectively over pups. A third crouched, half-submerged, bleeding as it wrestled something out of frame.
And above it all: the sun. Wide. Glaring.
With eyelashes.
Kion blinked.
“They really said: violence, parenting, and mascara,” he muttered, “priorities.”
Writ glanced, briefly, then returned to scanning the wall in front of her.
He leaned in, “actually, wait, blood or pomegranate juice? ...You know what, I respect the ambiguity.”
Writ found a glyph and pressed her palm to it. The stone slid open.
They moved into the next chamber.
Writ's footsteps barely stirred the sand. She moved like shadow through the desolate gallery, high arches bleached by time. Glyphs faded. Mosaics cracked. The air tasted like magic long since bled dry.
Kion fluttered a few paces ahead, wings stirring glittering dust into the shafts of light.
“Oh, oh! Hold up,” he chirped, “look at this one!”
Writ slowed. Not stopped. But glanced.
He hovered anyway, arms wide like a child showing off a painting.
Before them: a wall relief. Figures raised slightly, shaped from clay and crystal. A faint shimmer pulsed through it, like breath.
A gathering. Not a ritual. Just life.
People worked beneath a carved sunburst. Picking fruit. Laughing near jars. A child handed something to an elder. Woven baskets lined their backs.
Kion brushed dust from the edge.
“I think they’re harvesting firebulbs,” he said, “they open like flowers, burn like lanterns. My mom called them glow-beets. The spicy ones were for grown-ups.”
Writ tilted her head, brief and unreadable.
“You don’t know them, huh?” he smiled, “they float over hot ground, too bright to touch for long. That’s why it takes so many hands.”
He stared at the mural.
“My forest’s different. More vines. Less heat. But it felt like this. Helping hands. Everyone doing something together.”
A pause.
“You can do things alone,” he added, quieter now. “You do. But it’s nicer when someone’s there. Even just to pass the basket.”
She tapped the wall twice, testing for hollowness.
Crystals beneath his feet pulsed with his mana, gold and soft red, like sunset through leaves.
The glow radiated not just warmth, but memory. Like the tether humming through stone.
Kion sat beside the light, leaning into it.
“Man... I missed them so much...”
Another beat.
“It’s stupid, isn’t it?” he asked, voice softer still, “missing a place like that. Like murals and memories make it real again.”
He drifted to the next relief. The glow flickered against his wings.
“This one’s something, huh?” he murmured. “You can see the warmth. That table? That’s a celebration. Someone turned ninety. Or gave birth to twins. Or won a pepperfruit bet with the elders.”
Writ glanced at a symbol when he said pepperfruit, then quietly slipped along the room’s edge, fingers trailing a seam. Already cataloging five possible entrances and two pressure glyphs. None had moved.
“My uncle used to do that,” Kion chuckled, “slip pepperfruit into your food. Act innocent. We hated him at lunch. Loved him the rest of the time.”
He blinked. She was gone from his side.
“Wait, where--?”
He twisted mid-air and slammed headfirst into a loose beam.
CLANG. CRACK.
Writ froze. Ruined sigil stone in hand. Eyes sharp. Alert.
The sound echoed like a war drum. Dust rained down.
Kion froze.
“…That wasn’t me,” he said, “Okay. It was me. But I didn’t mean it like that.”
A hiss. Grinding stone. The mural shifted.
Something clicked.
A tunnel opened behind the wall. Windless. Silent.
“You triggered something,” Writ said flatly.
He spun toward her. “You spoke! That’s progress!”
Another click. And another. Dust trembled. Cracks raced across the ceiling.
“You triggered everything.”
“Oh no.”
A column opened. Three launch traps extended. Runes sparked to life.
“OH NO NO NO-- wait--I can fix this!”
He zipped to the nearest trap, scanning frantically.
“Okay if I just---there’s a sigil anchor-- maybe behind the-- NOPE! Nope nope nope. That made it worse!”
More grinding. The floor shook.
Writ was already moving.
“RUN,” she snapped, bolting for the open tunnel.
Kion zipped after, wings folding tight. A trap launched, missed, shattered a pillar.
The floor cracked wide. Sand poured in.
“I know I said I missed my family,” he shouted, “but this was not the reunion I meant!”
Writ ducked under a falling beam. Slid across a collapsing ledge. Pivoted toward what looked like a dead end.
Kion surged ahead, scanning. The wall was lined with Ancient Morthen glyphs.
“THERE!” he shouted, slapping his palm to a sun-split sigil.
The wall groaned. Sank. Light flared. A tunnel opened. Sloped. Dim. Stable.
“Safe zone! Safe zone! Definitely probably not cursed!”
Writ dove inside. Kion followed.
The wall sealed behind them. Boom.
Silence.
They stood in a narrow corridor now, glyphs carved into every wall. The air cooler. Still.
Kion exhaled, dropping to the floor.
“Phew... okay. Okay. I knew that would work.”
Writ just stared at him.
He grinned. “Hey. You trusted me. Jumped right in. No hesitation!”
He laughed lightly, but there was something quieter behind it.
“You didn’t even flinch.”
She walked past him without a word.
“I’m counting it as a win,” he said to himself, trailing behind, wings stirring quiet motes of dust.
And this silence, this one wasn’t brittle.
Just quiet.
