Naomi sits at the small desk by her window, the evening's last filtering through panes warped by age dappled with shifting shadows of leaves. Her room is quiet, sacred in its solitude, smelling of lavender and the faint, ever-present damp of the woods. Beneath her hand lies an open book—a thick, well-thumbed volume of hymns, stories, and teachings dedicated to Oses, the God of Fate.
Oses' symbol—an intricate design of interlocking threads, half-spindle and half knot—features on nearly every page, woven into margins and stamped upon the old leather cover. Naomi traces it idly with her fingertip, committing each curve and crossing line to memory. The spindle's form, both elegant and purposeful, is carved in wood and bone on her windowsill, flanked by feathers and a single, slender carving of a crane. She studies the spindle, reflecting on how fate is not a snare but a loom, each thread meant to be shaped, re-woven, sometimes cut and joined anew.
She studies in earnest, lips moving in a whisper as she recites a passage from Oses' parables—words about the nature of choice, destiny, and the quiet bravery of trusting the path, even when the thread vanishes into shadow. The air around her is thick with the weight of these lessons. Naomi's faith is not the unquestioning sort; it is a daily struggle, an act of hope against uncertainty. She studies to understand, not just to memorise. Every phrase feels like a challenge to see the hidden order behind the tangled skein of the world.
Most faeries avoid speaking Oses' name, not out of fear but a kind of inherited caution, as if fate were a river too swift and deep to wade through by choice. Naomi has chosen otherwise. She is determined to learn the ways of fate and its keeper, to show her family—perhaps even her whole village—that there is nothing to be feared in the flow of destiny. There is only the need to listen and to shape what one can. Her faith, both rebellion and reconciliation, is a thread spun deliberately against the traditions of her people.
A breeze stirs the curtains, carrying the scent of leaves and distant pine. Naomi pauses, lifting her eyes to watch the woods beyond, where twilight gathers beneath the branches and the shapes of the day blur into memory. She wonders if Oses sees her now, if the God of Fate truly takes notice of those who watch the loom, who press questions into the quiet and expect no simple answer.
Her journal lies open beside the book. In it, Naomi records her own thoughts of fate—the brief moments that feel preordained, the larger crossroads that seem to demand more than she is willing to give. A small sketch of a crane, wings unfurled, is inked in the margin, its peak delicately threading a single strand through the spindle's spiral.
The room is filled with tokens of her devotion: coloured threads looped in intricate knots above her desk, a handful of white crane feathers tied with gold, and a pendant of interwoven silver thread that she tucks beneath her collar when prays. She wears it always, even when her sisters tease her for choosing such a quiet, unusual god. They mean well. Her family has never understood her devotion to Oses, but they support her, offering gentle curiosity and sometimes—especially from her mother—a wary pride.
Tonight, her studies stretch on long past sunset, the flicker of beeswax candle casting shifting gold across her notes and the lines of her palm. Naomi's mind drifts restlessly between the comfort of ritual and the lingering unease from earlier in the day—a memory of the market, of a stranger whose presence left her oddly settled.
She tries to push the thought away, focusing instead on the lesson at hand. Her lips form a silent prayer, the words a plea for clarity, for the courage to trust in the path that has led her this far. The spindle symbol seems to shimmer in the candlelight, its lines impossibly complex and impossibly simple all at once.
From the common room below, Naomi hears the hum of conversation—her sister' laughter, her father's voice, the gentle clang of cutlery as her mother prepares the evening meal. The house is alive with its usual warmth, but tonight she feels slightly apart from it, as though she is watching her own life from behind a veil.
Her eyes stray to the window again, to the deepening shadows that pool beneath the eaves of the house, and she wonders what thread has brought her here—why she, out of all of her kin, is drawn to the god whose name others speak only in riddles and half-whispers.
In this moment, Naomi does not fear fate, nor does she resent it. She only wishes to understand its pattern, to hold it in her hands for a while before it slips away. With a sigh, she closes the book and folds her journal shut, pressing her palm against the embroidered spindle on her sleeve for luck, or perhaps reassurance.
When she finally rises and drapes her green shawl over her shoulders, the candle still burns low, the scent of wax and thread filling the small space with a gentle calm. Naomi lingers for a moment longer, hands poised over her prayer tokens and study books, before blowing out the flame. As darkness settles, the faint lines of Oses' spindle linger in her sight—an afterimage, a promise, and a reminder that every thread, however tangled, has its place.
Naomi descends the creaking wooden staircase, each step echoing quietly in the warm dusk that fills his family's forested home. The family scents of moss, wood-smoke, and fresh bread wrap around her as she moves from the cool, contemplative hush of her room into the vibrant, living world of the common room below.
She pauses at the stairs, her eyes flicking instinctively to each of her family members—her anchor points, her world. There it a ritual comfort in this moment: the act of gathering, of being seen, of moving from solitude into belonging. The room glows golden with firelight and lamplight, shadows flickering over faces and the great knots of timber that make up the walls and beams.
Her mother, Kyanne, is the first figure she sees—tall for a faerie at five foot seven, her presence always effortless, unhurried, commanding in its quiet grace. Kyanne's long raven hair shimmers, flowing loose over a gown of deep emerald that moves like water with every gesture. Her skin, smooth and unlined despite her one hundred and seven years, is luminous in the fire's glow, and her posture is regal—her shoulders strong, her chin lifted, every inch of the matriarch. For fae, age brings not frailty but refinement; their blood grants decades, even centuries, of strength and beauty, so that elders stand at the height of their power, not its decline. Tonight, Kyanne's bright forest-green eyes are soft, but their sharpness remains—watchful, knowing, the eyes of someone who can see every secret in their home and keeps them safe.
Beside her stands Aven, only an inch shorter than his wife, but broader in the shoulders and more solid in build. At ninety-seven, her father's features are still striking—his dark, wavy hair falling past his ears, now laced with silver that catches the lamplight, and his weathered face softened by the lines of long laughter and thoughtful worry. His wings, small and a touch frayed, rest easily against his back. His eyes are a striking mauve, deep as twilight, quick to catch every detail and shift of mood. He wears a robe of blue and gold, its fabric worn smooth at the edges, but his bearing is as upright and proud as any kings. There is a warmth inside him, a gentleness that tempers the keen intelligence in his gaze.
On the far side of the room stands her uncle, Lukarius, Aven's elder brother and the tallest fae in the family at five foot ten—a height rare among their kind, lending him a presence that borders on theatrical. Lukarius' hair, now streaked liberally with grey, falls well past his shoulders, untamed and swept back from a face both angular and expressive. A sharp indigo gaze sparkles beneath a clever brow, framed by the dramatic line of his moustache and pointed goatee. He wears a long, midnight-black coat embroidered in deep red thread, each pattern whispering of old stories and hidden meanings. There is mischief in his movements, a sly smile always hovering at the edge of his lips, as if every conversation is a game to be won.
Asteria, the eldest of the sisters, stands tall at five foot nine, the image of mature composure. Her brown hair, thick and shining, frames a face of striking symmetry—firm jaw, high cheekbones, brows as dark as her mother's. Her blue eyes are sharp and discerning, always reading the room, always a step ahead. She wears a grey wool tunic belted at the waist, simple but elegant, and the authority in her stance is unmistakable. She is the family's guardian, the one who steadies the tides of sibling rivalry and stands as Kyanne's right hand.
Darla, at twenty-three, is smaller and brighter—a wild wind in the house, always laughing or arguing or darting between rooms. She stands at five foot six, with dark hair pulled into two playful twists atop her head, the rest spilling down her back in ways. Her brown eyes are wide and full of mischief, her movements restless and expressive. Her blouse is pale and loose, her whole self is radiating restless energy and irrepressible curiosity.
Alvina, just two years younger than Naomi, stands out with her near-black, cropped hair, the line cut straight and neat at her jaw. At five foot eight, she is nearly as tall as Asteria, but where Asteria is poised, Alvina is purposeful—her build is compact, her stance solid as stone. Her blue eyes are serious and searching, her face marked by a quiet, determined focus. Her tunic is plain and functional, there is a gravity to her presence—a sense of someone who holds the heat of fire and steel in her bones.
Fourteen-year-old Deema is the last and smallest of the siblings after Naomi, just an inch taller at five foot three. She has a gentle roundness to her features, her hair long and brown, falling loose over her shoulders and threaded with tiny, woven flowers. Her eyes are a soft, earthy brown, her demeanour is open and kind. Her dress is light and patterned with subtle floral embroidery, and there is a serenity about her—an earthiness that grounds the whole family.
As Naomi enters, her presence is unique—smaller, quieter, and yet there is a weight to her steps, a thoughtful calm in her bearing that stands out even among her vibrant kin. At five foot two, she is dwarfed by her older sisters and uncle, but she carries herself with a quiet pride, the gold embroidery of her dress glimmering faintly at each movement. Her long, black hair is still intricately braided and blows blue at the edges of the lamplight, her mauve eyes catching every shade of the room as she takes her place among them.
She hovers for a moment at the edge of the circle, the shadow of her old stutter pressing at her throat. It lingers at the corners of her speech, a ghost she's mostly outgrown, though it still grips her on nights like this, when all eyes seem to turn her way. She draws a careful breath, steadying herself, and steps forward, her voice soft and measured.
"H-hello," she offers, the sound light and almost hesitant, though the family barely notices the subtle catch in her words.
Kyanne's eyes are immediately drawn to her daughter, a warm but watchful expression on her face. "Elora, darling! I was beginning to think you'd forgotten supper," she says, her voice teasing but gentle.
Aven, cane resting against the table, gives his daughter a small, reassuring smile. "Lost in your books again?"
Naomi nods, managing a small, sheepish smile as she tucks a stray braid behind her ear "I… I was just… finishing up a bit of study. I… didn't mean to be late."
Lukarius leans in from the far end of the table, a glint of challenge in his eye. "Studying or hiding, little one?" he calls, but there's a softness behind his jest, a signal that she is welcome, seen, and safe.
Naomi musters a reply. A little stronger this time. "Only… studying, uncle. I… promise."
Asteria, from her seat near the fire, offers a nod of approval. "She's always reading. One day, she'll know more than all of us put together."
Darla, unable to resist a chance for mischief, grins. "Not hard, with you and Elari, always arguing about who's the smartest."
Alvina rolls her eyes but smiles, lifting a cup in mock salute. "Let her study in peace, Sylwen. Some of us are trying to keep the forge from burning down, not the library."
Deema's gentle voice threads through the banter, her eyes on Naomi. "Did you find what you were looking for?" she asks quietly, sincerity softening her words.
Naomi relaxes, comforted by the familiar rhythm of teasing and affection. "I… think so," she says, her speech easier now, the stutter a faint ripple in the flow. "It's… hard work, but it helps."
Kyanne moves around the table, her green gown swirling, and lays a gentle hand on Naomi's shoulder. "You work hard, little bird. We see it. Come—sit with us."
There's no judgment in her mother's tone, only love, and Naomi's shoulders drop a fraction in relief. He moves to her usual seat—between Darla's restless chatter and Deema's quiet support—and as she does, she can feel her family's acceptance settling around her like a shawl. No one here minds the pauses in her speech, the way she sometimes bites back her words to find the right path through the thicket of language.
They know her voice, and it is always welcome.
For a moment, Naomi simply sits, soaking in the warmth of her family's presence—the strength in Asteria's laughter, the bright current of Darla's jokes, Alvina's measured calm, Deema's gentle empathy, Lukarius' protective amusement, Kyanne's quiet grace, and Aven's unspoken pride.
The gentle clatter of cutlery and the low hum of laughter fills the air, as the family settles into their evening meal. Kyanne, her poise never faltering, pours a measure of berry cordial into her husband's cup before settling back. Lukarius, ever the conversational spark, lifts his fork in a dramatic flourish and points it teasingly at Aven.
"Well then, little brother," Lukarius drawls, his eyes glinting beneath a fall of grey-streaked hair, "I didn't hear any shouting or see any smoke in the sky—so how went the market today? Did you charm the cheese-seller or haggle the backer into tears?"
Aven's lips twitch, half in amusement and half in memory. He glances at Kyanne, then at Lukarius, and offers a careful shrug, mindful of all the young ears at the table. "Business was good," he replies, his voice measured and warm, "Sold all the eggs and most of the herbs before midday, and Darla's strawberries nearly started a brawl among the pastry wives." He grins at Darla, who beams at the praise.
But beneath the practiced ease of his words, something flickers—a shadow of concern, quick and subtle. Kyanne catches it first, her sharp green gaze narrowing just a touch as she studies her husband. Lukarius, too, senses the shift, his playfulness sobering. The siblings resume their lively conversation, oblivious, as the three elders exchange a silent look.
Aven leans in, lowering his voice only slightly, careful to keep his words bland for the children's sake. "There was… a stranger in town today," he says, voice casual but edged with caution. "Unfamiliar face among the sailors. Came to our stall for herbs and asked after our produce. Polite enough—just left an impression, that's all."
Kyanne arches a brow, her fingers drumming quietly on the table. "An impression?" she echoes, her tone light, but her eyes keen. "Do tell, Therin. You rarely notice the sailors unless they're causing trouble."
Lukarius cocks his head, the corner of his mouth quirking. "Was he after our apples or something less wholesome?"
Aven hesitates, searching for a way to phrase it that will not stir the curiosity of his daughters—or at least, not more than it already has. He picks up his cup, sipping slowly as he weighs each word. "He wasn't like the usual sort. Young, but carried himself with the weight of something older. Big fellow. Said his captain sent him for provisions. Seemed to take an interest in our stall… and, well, in our family's way of doing things."
Kyanne nods, her expression unreadable. Lukarius just hums quietly, his indigo eyes never leaving Aven's face.
Asteria, though engaged in conversation with Alvina about the state of the forge, notices the tension coiling in the air. Her gaze drifts toward Naomi and catches a tiny telltale twitch in her younger sister's right ear—a giveaway that something has unsettled her. Asteria files it away, knowing well how rare Naomi is truly ruffled.
Naomi keeps her head bowed, focusing intently on her plate, but her mind is already far from the table. She remembers the way Jareth's shadow stretched across the market stalls, how his voice sounded—rough, careful, but not unkind. The way he had hesitated before saying his name, as if it were a gift reserved from her alone. The memory lingers, a persistent warmth beneath her ribs, and she struggles to smother it before anyone notices.
But Asteria always notices.
She leans closer, her voice pitched just for Naomi. "Something happen at the market?" she asks, casual on the surface, but Naomi hears the true question beneath. "You're twitchier than a startled mouse."
Naomi stiffens, the old stutter threatening to return as she fights for composure. "It's—nothing, Calyndra. Really." She glances up, willing her voice not to waver. "Just a… long day, that's all."
But she knows how her family gets when it comes to her.
Especially when men are involved. She is the quiet one, the one who has never been quick to open her heart or her trust. For Naomi, affection is a slow-burning ember, a careful warmth that must be tended with patience. She doesn't hunger for romance the way her sisters do; for her, love—physical closeness—only comes when a deeper connection has already grown strong. She has never known how to explain this to her family, and as far as she's aware, there is no word for it. But she feels it acutely: a certain patience, a cautiousness, a need for safety and understanding before desire can follow.
For her, affection is not a spark, but a flame that needs shelter before it can burn.
Her one attempt at letting someone in—a boy, older, clever with words and gentle at first—ended in shame and fear. She had been sixteen, and for a time, thought perhaps she could be like her sisters, falling in love easily, swept along by the tide of youthful hope. But when he asked for more than she was willing to give, when he had tried to take what she could never offer, everything changed.
The memory is vivid still: his insistent hands, her frightened refusal, and then—Aven's fury, the crash of the cane, the boys retreat in disgrace. The echo of her father's protection lingers, and so does the fear that her slowness, her difference, is a thing to be hidden. She knows Asteria has never quite understood. Why not simply give in, go along, let love be easy?
But for Naomi, nothing about trust or touch is easy.
She forces her hands to unclench beneath the table, blinking back the shame. She can feel her family's attention like sunlight, warm but sometimes overwhelming.
Asteria, sensing resistance, presses just a little. "You know you can tell me, Elora. If something's bothering you—if someone's bothered you—I want to know."
Naomi bites her lip, shaking her head. "No one… bothered me," she says softly. "I just… I just helped with the stall. That's all." The words come slowly, the pauses almost unnoticeable to those who know her, but she hears every hesitation.
Kyanne, ever attentive, glances between her daughters, her concern deepening. She knows the world wound, knows all too well that Naomi's silences sometimes speak louder than her words. She gives her daughter a gentle look, offering space without pressure. "You're safe here," she murmurs. "No need to answer questions you don't want to."
Naomi nods, grateful for the reprieve, but Asteria is not so easily deterred. "If it's nothing, then it's nothing," she says, but her voice is too light, too forced.
Lukarius, who has watched the entire exchange with a knowing eye, finally clears his throat, drawing the room's attention. "Let the girl be," he says, tone even but carrying the weight of decision. "We all carry things we'd rather keep to ourselves."
The tension finally breaks. Darla launches into a story about a runaway goat at the market, Alvina makes a joke about stubborn livestock, and Deema quietly passes Naomi a slice of honeyed bread. The warmth of the family draws the mood back from the edge of discomfort, weaving Naomi safely into their shared laughter.
As the mood at the table settles once more into the comforting cadence of laughter and ordinary bickering, Aven rises quietly, leaning on his cane. He surveys the table for a moment—his daughters, his brothers, the golden halo of his wife's presence. The sight softens the lines at the corners of his eyes. With a small, almost imperceptible gesture, he signals to Kyanne. Her gaze meets his, catching the subtle flicker of concern beneath his calm exterior. She sets her fork aside with a gentle clink and rises, pausing behind Naomi to run a soothing hand through her daughter's braids, her fingers lingering just long enough to reassure.
Darla's eyes track their parents immediately, brows furrowing. "Where are you going? Is something wrong?" she asks, her words too direct to hide her worry.
Aven leans over and ruffles her hair, a rare gesture that makes Darla bristle and giggle at the same time. "Nothing's wrong, starling," he says, his voice gentle. "Just a word with your mother. We'll be back before you can finish your bread."
Deema, who has been quietly watching the exchange, offers a shy, hopeful smile as Aven leans down to tap her chin. "You too, little blossom—keep the others in line, eh?" she giggles, nodding solemnly, her small hands folded in her lap.
Kyanne pauses, exchanging a brief, meaningful glance with Lukarius as she sweeps past. She tilts her head in silent request, a look that says: Mind Asteria, should her temper run hot. Lukarius gives a small salute with his fork, then turns his charm on the eldest daughter with a sly, distracting joke about the perils of bread burning and the true cause of smoke in the kitchen.
Once in the quiet of the adjoining room, Kyanne closes the door behind her. The hush is profound—a thick, heavy peace that stands in stark contrast to the riot of voices outside. He waits for Aven to speak, studying his face in the wavering lamplight. He stands by the hearth, leaning heavily on his walking stick, eyes dark and distant.
A long silence stretches between them, neither rushing the other. Kyanne is the one who finally breaks it, voice gentle but steady. "Therin. Tell me what's troubling you."
Aven sighs, running a hand through his greying hair, the weight of worry clear in every line of his posture. He hesitates, searching for the right words, then meets her gaze. "It was Jareth Winsler," he says at last, his tone carefully low. "The exile."
Kyanne's brows draw together, her mouth tightening as she absorbs the name. The fire flickers in the hearth, shadows leaping. "Here?" she asks, her voice barely above a whisper.
He nods. "He came to our stall. Big man. Older than his years—at least to look at him. Scar on his face, hair as dark as pitch, beard rough. There was something about him… something heavy. He bought herbs, supplies, just as any sailor might, but…" He shakes his head, frustrated at how hard it is to explain. "He watched Naomi. Not in a way that made me fear for her, not outright, but… he noticed her. She noticed him."
He glances away, shame flickering over his face. "I kept close, let her handle the herbs and prices, but I watched them. She—Alysse, she was so… so glad to show him around, she stood her ground when I decided against it. I haven't seen her so… so open in years. Not since—" He cuts himself off, jaw working.
Kyanne's face softens, but she stays silent, letting him continue.
Aven's voice is raw, his worry turning to anger at the edges, though he keeps it tightly leashed. "After all she went through—after that boy nearly—" He can't bring himself to finish the thought, but Kyanne knows the memory well. "Her stutter came back for months after, you remember? She could barely speak a word to any man. Even her sisters… she drew away, as if the house was too small to hold her shame. It took her so long to laugh again, to trust herself, let alone anyone else."
Kyanne nods, her expression grave, remembering all too well. The change in Naomi had been stark, sudden—a shadow that settled over her, cold and deep. For a long while, she had barely spoken, her stutter thickening until whole meals would pass in silence. She'd avoided her sisters, the kitchen, even the garden—places that had always been her refuge. It was as if she'd turned invisible, living at the very edge of her home, flinching at every raised voice or sudden touch.
That slow, painful winter had marked the whole family.
Aven paces to the window, tapping the sill with his cane. "Tonight at the table… did you see her, how she shrank from Calyndra's questions? The way her ear twitched, how she held herself. But then… when I mentioned the market, she lit up. Not much, but it was enough. She was glad, Alysse. Glad to speak to a stranger—a sailor, no less!" He shakes his head, exasperated. "I don't trust it. I don't trust him. There's danger in a man like that, especially a pirate. I could see how easily he could hurt her. Maybe not in the same way as before, but in ways that could still break her open."
Kyanne listens, worry threading through her own heart, but she sees the new direction Aven's thoughts are running—toward certainty, toward blame, toward the fear of heartbreak. She reaches out and steadies him, both with touch and with words. "We don't know that, Therin. We don't know anything yet. She talked to him. That's all, she's been hurt, and she's still healing. But this—her interest, her willingness to talk—it could have happened with anyone."
Aven's mouth tightens. "Not anyone. Why him? Why now?"
Kyanne's voice is firm, but not unkind. "Because that's how it happens sometimes. There is no sense to it. She was at the market, and he was there. He asked for help, and she gave it. Maybe it was kindness. Maybe curiosity. Maybe, for a moment, she simply felt… safe." She lets that sink in, knowing how rare that feeling must have been for her daughter.
He sighs, some of the anger bleeding out into sadness. "I just don't want her to be broken again. She's only now beginning to come back to herself. What if this man… this pirate brings more shadows than she can handle?"
Kyanne meets his gaze, her eyes fierce in the firelight. "We will watch. We will guide her, as we always have. But we cannot lock her away from the world, Therin. We cannot guard her from every stranger who crosses her path, nor should we. She is not made of glass, no matter how much we ache to protect her."
Aven bows his head, the lines of fear and love deepening. "She's so young," he whispers, pain laced in every word. "She's never moved on from what happened. She never had the chance to."
Kyanne steps close, her voice the iron beneath the velvet. "Then we trust her, and we trust ourselves. We stay vigilant, but we do not let fear rule our home." She cups his cheek in her hand. "We'll watch. We'll listen. If this man returns… if she seeks him out, we'll know. We'll be there."
He closes his eyes, nodding, letting the truth of his words soothe the worst of his fear.
And in the stillness that follows, Kyanne thinks of her daughters—of their daughters, strong and wild and unbreakable in ways no parent can ever truly shield. She resolves, silently, that whatever the days ahead bring, they will meet them together, side by side, as they always have: guardians, not jailers. Watchful, loving, and—most of all—unafraid to let their children live, even when it means letting them walk beyond the circle of their arms.
In the warmth of the dining room, the hum of conversation flickers and dims, the gentle cadence of laughter shifting into an uneasy hush. Lukarius, for all his wit and effort, finds it harder and harder to keep Asteria's attention from straying toward her younger sister. The older of the siblings always has been persistent, and tonight, the familiar glint of challenge sharpens her words as she turns once more to Naomi.
"So," Asteria says, her tone deceptively light, a knowing arch in her brow. "You're quiet again, Elora. The kind of quiet which means you're hiding something. Care to share with your dear, nosy sister?"
Naomi doesn't answer. She keeps her eyes locked onto the thin crescent of bread on her plate, fingers tightening around her fork. Darla, the peacemaker, tries to cut in, launching into a story about a troublesome rooster from earlier in the week, but Asteria waves her off with a careless hand.
"Calyndra," Lukarius warns quietly, but Asteria barely hears him. She leans forward, elbows on the table, pressing closer. "Come on, Elora. You're terrible at hiding things. Is it about today at the market? Or someone you met?"
Deema gives Naomi's arm a small, reassuring squeeze under the table, but Naomi's shoulders tense further. Asteria's voice grows more pointed, the teasing edge shifting into something sharper—something that stings.
"Oh, maybe it's a boy," she prods, her words like nettles, half-mocking, half-curious. "Is that it? Are you actually interested in someone for once, or are you just scared to let anyone in? The stars know it wouldn't be the first time."
Naomi freezes, her breath caught halfway in her chest. She glances up, meeting Asteria's eyes for the first time since dinner began. A thousand things flicker across her face—hurt, disbelief, the old embarrassment she's tried so hard to bury.
Lukarius clears his throat, firmer this time. "That's enough, Calyndra." His voice is low, but it carries a warning. For a moment, she hesitates. But the thing about Asteria is, once she finds a wound, she cannot help but press it.
"Really, Elora," she goes on, her voice dropping, the cruelty all the more stark for its softness. "If it is a boy, I almost feel sorry for him. Considering what happened the last time—" She doesn't finish, but the implication hangs in the air, cruel and heavy.
Naomi's cheeks burn with humiliation and old, barely healed pain. She glances and Darla and Deema, both of whom look mortified, but neither know how to stop their oldest sister. Alvina sits back, her jaw clenched, looking like she wants to intervene but uncertain how.
Naomi swallows, and for the first time all night, she finds her voice—a little rough, a little broken, but hers. "Maybe I… don't tell you things because you make them feel small," she says, the words trembling but sharp. "Or…or because you think you know what's best for everyone, when… when really, you just want to hear yourself talk."
Asteria' eyes narrow, the pushback only spurring her on. "Oh, is that it? Is that why you never let anyone in close? Is that why you run the minute things get hard? Because you're too scared to let yourself go with the flow?" Her voice is harsh, the accusation barbed and pointed. "No one's ever going to want to be with you if you keep hiding behind your fear. You'll never what it's like to actually be loved if you keep pushing everyone away. You will always be the lonely one."
Something inside Naomi breaks.
The humiliation, the memories, the sharp sting of her sister's words—all of it builds until she feels like she can't breathe. The tears threaten, and this time, she doesn't try to hold them back. She stands abruptly, the chair scraping loudly across the floor, her movements jerky with emotion.
"I'd rather be alone than be someone who cuts others just to feel tall," Naomi says, her voice quiet but resonant, her stutter kept at bay by the force of her anger. "But at least I know how to be kind."
For a heartbeat, no one moves. Then, with a sob caught in her throat, Naomi pushes past her sister and storms out from the room. The door crashes open, cold air sweeping as she flees into the darkness as she slams the door behind her.
Outside, the world is hushed and cold, the night pressing around her. Naomi doesn't stop—she can't. Her feet carry her down the familiar path, past the edge of the family's lantern-lit garden, and toward the harbour, where the distant sound of waves is the only thing steady enough to hold on to.
She moves quickly, tears streaming down cheeks, breath ragged with shame and hurt. The village is quiet at this hour, the only light coming from the pale sliver of the moon and the glow of a few late lanterns at the docks. The sea air is bracing, stinging at her skin, but she welcomes the chill—it's something sharp and real, something to anchor her as she collapse onto the edge of the pier.
There, with the restless water and her own battered heart for company, Naomi lets herself cry—quietly, fiercely, until the pain has loosened its grip enough for her to breathe again. The words Asteria hurled at her still ring in her ears, cruel echoes of old wounds she thought she'd learned to live with. For a long time, she sits hunched on the pier, arms wrapped tightly around her knees, staring out at the wide, moonlit water.
The night is deep now, the port swept clean by a biting wind that tastes of salt and old wood. Naomi sits, curled on the end of the weathered pier, her back to the restless glow of the town, her face turned towards the water's soft shiver. Her breathing is quieter now—ragged edged, worn smooth by the passing tears and the patient lull of waves slapping against the stone pilings beneath her feet. She hugs her knees close, eyes glimmering in the moonlight, and lets the chill of the air settle over her like a cloak. For a while, there is only the subtle music of the sea, the distant clink of a ship's rigging, and her own heartbeat pulsing in her ears.
It's the footsteps she hears first—a faint, uneven tread, measured and heavy on the planks behind her. The sound is muted by the damp, but to a fae's ears, even this soft disturbance stands out as clearly as thunder. Naomi's ears flick, her whole body tensing as she listens, waiting for the familiar pattern of her father's cane, or the lighter, quicker steps of Darla or Deema. Her breath catches, For an instant, she's certain it must be someone from home to come to coax her back inside, to ask if she's all right, to plead for a conversation she cannot bear to hear.
She draws a shaky breath, steadying herself for confrontation. She rehearses the words in her mind; Please, let me be for a little while. I'll come back when I'm ready. It's a small desperate hope, but she clings to it.
When she rises and glances over her shoulder, the words die on her lips. It is not her family standing at the end of the pier, framed by the fire of the lanterns and the silvery spill of the moon—it's Jareth. Even in the shifting darkness, the lines of his heavy coat and his unruly beard catching just enough light to draw the sharp angles of his jaw, the pale scar on his cheek a ghostly thread against his skin.
He is not moving toward her, not yet. He stands at the far edge of the wharf, as surprised to see her as she is to see him, one hand braced loosely on a bollard, his eyes locked on hers with an intensity that stops her breath. The distant between them feels impossibly wide and achingly fragile—a few paces, a whole world. Naomi's lips part, a tremor in her mouth as she tries to piece together what she's seeing. Jareth, out here in the empty hours, even when the bravest fishermen have long since gone to bed, his presence as improbable as the moon itself.
She wonders, for a heartbeat, if he too has come here to escape the weight of things unspoken, if the shadow he carries has driven him to the water's edge in search of solace, or simply to be alone.
Or perhaps—though she can hardly let herself believe it—fate has drawn their paths together once again, just when she needs it most.
The wind ruffles his hair, tossing stray locks across his brow. He does not speak, does not make any move to come closer, but in his stillness, Naomi feels something shift—a quiet acknowledgment, the sense that he too has been searching for something he cannot name.
For a long moment, they stand silent on the dock, moonlight painting them in silver and blue, the whole harbour holding its breath. Between them, the hush is not awkward but full—alive with possibility and the ache of two lost souls, each stumbling into the other's orbit by chance or by fate. Naomi feels her shoulders loosen, the sting of her sister's words fading into something smaller, less sharp. She does not feel as alone as she only did minutes before.
She draws a slow breath, calming breath, watching him as the light shifts across his face, softening the lines of his scowl. His eyes, so hard in the marketplace, now seem unsure… almost vulnerable in the cold.
Neither speaks. Neither needs to. In the silent, windswept dark, the city recedes, the world contracts the two of them, tethered by chance to this sliver of wood and moonlight. Naomi wonders what will happen next—whether he will stay, whether he will go, whether either of them will find the words that have eluded them all night.
For now, the answer does not matter. For now, it is enough to know she is not invisible, that someone has come, unbidden, to the place where she thought she could be alone.
The waves murmur beneath her feet, the stars wheel above, and somewhere in the hush between two hearts, the future waits—uncertain, unwritten, and all the more precious for it.