And then, Lima's words. They hammered a final, shattering nail into what little strength Nott had left. After fighting Trogvir the Fae Hunter in the woods, Lima, her voice laced with venom and grief, had blamed Nott for Grimma's sacrifice. All you will ever be is calamity, Lima had hissed.
The memory hit Nott with the force of a physical blow. She crumbled to her knees on the rough earth, a raw, guttural sob tearing from her chest. Tears, now not just of sorrow but of a sadness beyond comprehension, poured down her face. The bluffs, the sharp rocks below, beckoned with a terrifying, seductive peace. The world didn't want her, not truly. And perhaps, for everyone's sake, it was better if she simply ceased to be the calamity she truly was.
Fell, a kitsune cadet from the academy, had been in the bustling market when Nott streaked past him, a blur of black braids and raw anguish. He was one of the many who had, in ignorance, hurled cruel rumors at her after the war. But that had changed profoundly when Nott had shown him—magically, viscerally—her harrowing battle with the Mad Queen Nyx. He had witnessed the immense sacrifice, the terrifying power, and the sheer, unyielding will it had taken. He knew Nott as strong, stoic, and burdened, but never had he seen her so utterly broken. This raw, public display of despair sent a jolt of alarm through him.
"Nott!" he called out, but she was already too far gone, a fleeing shadow. Worry gnawed at him, sharp and immediate. He pushed through the market crowd, ignoring vendors and shoppers alike, his legs burning as he gave chase. Nott's wolfkin speed was legendary, and keeping up was a brutal challenge, but Fell pushed his limits, his own fear propelling him forward. He saw her pass the last buildings, saw her silhouette against the darkening sky as she reached the edge of the bluffs.
When he finally arrived, gasping for breath, the sight before him stole what little air remained in his lungs. Nott was on her knees, curled into a tight fetal position, her body wracked with silent sobs. The wind whipped around her, tearing at her clothes and hair, but she seemed oblivious. Then, she slowly lifted her head, and her eyes, devoid of their usual fierce spark, locked onto the churning expanse of the sea below. What Fell saw in those dark, vacant depths terrified him more than any monstrous power. There was a chilling resolve there, a profound emptiness that spoke of a decision already made. This wasn't a moment of doubt or consideration; it was a final, desperate act. This raw, unrestrained burst of emotion, this complete unraveling, was her last silent scream into a world that had demanded everything of her, watched her save it from annihilation, and then utterly forsaken her.
Fell approached Nott carefully, each step measured on the loose scree. She was profoundly close to the edge of the bluffs, her form a stark silhouette against the tumultuous sky and the hungry void below. He didn't want to startle her, knowing a sudden movement might send her tumbling.
"Nott," he murmured, his voice soft, almost swallowed by the wind. He repeated it, a little louder, "Nott."
Slowly, she turned her head. Her amber eyes, usually burning with an untamed fire, now held a sorrow so profound, so utterly vacant, that Fell felt a chill deeper than the biting wind. He had witnessed her power, had seen her fight with a ferocity that defied belief. She had changed him forever, shattering his preconceived notions and inspiring him to start a unit in her honor to help others. Yet, even with that, he hadn't fully grasped the corrosive effect of the rumors, the decade of fear and whispered accusations that had plagued her. Could he have withstood such relentless scrutiny? He doubted it.
Nott looked at him, her gaze flat, devoid of even the strength to be angry that he was there. She hadn't heard of the profound effect she'd had on him, nor the unit he'd founded in her name. Her fingers, trembling slightly, began to sign.
Come to gloat? she asked, the question laced with a bitter resignation.
Fell shook his head, his own voice tight with emotion. "No. I'm not even sure why I followed you."
Nott's gaze drifted back to the churning abyss, her wolf ears twitching in the wind. Her hands moved, the signs raw with self-loathing. All of you were right. Her words, though silent, were filled with such potent spite and overwhelming sadness, a testament to her complete surrender to the cruel narratives. All I am is calamity.
Fell took another careful step closer, the wind tugging at his kitsune fur. "That's what I thought at first, Nott," he said, his voice soft but firm, "but not anymore." He watched her, seeing the minute tremble in her shoulders.
Nott took a shuddering breath, a broken sound in the vast silence of the bluffs. Her head remained bowed for a moment, then she slowly raised it, turning her sorrow-filled amber eyes to him. Her hands, still moving with weary precision, began to sign the words that had shattered her world.
She recounted Elara's chilling discovery: the ancient tome, the primordial Void, and Emma not born but violently torn from existence. Then came the true horror, the part that had utterly destroyed her: Soot, not a counterpart, but Void's vengeful destruction, born of Emma's very being. And finally, the crushing blow, the words that resonated with her deepest fears: her own destructive powers, a direct manifestation of Soot, a conduit for annihilation.
Her hands fell to her sides, trembling. She looked at Fell, her gaze raw and exposed, her entire being questioning. "And now?" she signed, the unspoken weight of her despair hanging heavy in the air between them.
Fell couldn't respond. The words caught in his throat, a tangled knot of inadequacy. How could he comfort someone so utterly broken by the very fabric of existence? What words could possibly mend a spirit shattered by cosmic truth? He just stood there, helpless, his kitsune ears drooping.
Nott watched him, her amber eyes narrowing slightly, a flicker of the old fire returning, quickly replaced by a weary understanding. That's what I thought, she signed, her movements slow, deliberate.
Her next words came with such chilling conviction they might have been inspiring, a declaration of defiant self-acceptance, if not for what followed immediately after. All I am is calamity, she signed, her gaze fixed on the churning sea below. And then, with a profound, terrifying calm, she let herself fall backward, off the edge of the bluff.
"Nott!" Fell screamed, his voice raw, tearing itself from his lungs. He sprinted forward, a frantic blur of fur and fear, but by the time he reached the precipice, she was gone. The waves below, dark and unforgiving, had already claimed her. He staggered to the very edge, peering down into the churning expanse, tears flowing freely down his face, mirroring the relentless crashing of the ocean.
Just then, the thud of running footsteps sounded behind him. Asha, Torren, Elara, and Kallen burst onto the bluffs, their faces etched with frantic concern. Asha saw Fell at the cliff edge, his hand outstretched, a silent scream of agony contorting his features. Her gaze followed his, dropping to the churning sea, and a choked gasp escaped her lips. Her hand flew to her mouth, stifling a cry that tore from her soul.
"My god, no," Asha whispered, the words barely audible against the roar of the wind and waves.
Asha had the Lore Ashen Academy guards scour the bottom of the bluffs at Nan du Tua for days, meticulously searching every crevice and rock when the tide was low. They found nothing. No sign, no trace. The ocean had claimed Nott entirely.
The air in the teleportation gate shimmered with a familiar hum, a stark contrast to the hollow ache in Asha's chest. She and Torren stepped through, the scent of saltwater still clinging to their clothes, replaced instantly by the earthy, ancient smell of Varashroova. Waiting for them just beyond the shimmering portal was Stransa, a being of shadow and primordial essence, Nott's oldest and dearest friend.
Stransa’s form, usually a study in fluid grace, stiffened the moment Asha and Torren appeared. Her luminous eyes, accustomed to seeing beyond the veil, immediately registered the profound wrongness. The raw grief clinging to Asha like a shroud, the utter desolation etched on Torren's face – it hit Stransa with the force of a physical blow. Her usual calm demeanor fractured.
"What... what happened?" Stransa's voice, a low resonance that usually comforted, was now a strained whisper, fear coiling in her gut. Her gaze swept between them, finally settling on the absence that screamed louder than any presence. "Where is Nott?"
Asha took a shaky breath, the words catching in her throat. Torren, her own eyes red-rimmed and swollen, reached out a hand to Stransa, her fingers trembling. "Stransa," Torren began, her voice cracking, "it's Nott..."
Asha finished, her voice flat, devoid of its usual regal authority, heavy with the impossible truth. "She's gone. She... she fell from the bluffs at Nan du Tua. We couldn't stop her."
For a moment, Stransa remained frozen, her shadowy form unnaturally still. The words seemed to echo, meaningless and horrific. Then, as the full, crushing weight of their meaning settled, a guttural cry tore from her. Her legs gave out beneath her, and she collapsed to the ground, her ethereal form rippling like disturbed water. Tears, not of shadow but of raw, shimmering light, streamed from her eyes, dissolving into the very air. She doubled over, clutching at her chest as if to contain a pain too vast to bear, her body wracked with silent, profound grief for the friend she had lost. The ancient silence of Varashroova was shattered by the sound of a primordial being utterly broken.
The teleportation gate in Varashroova was a kaleidoscope of perpetual motion. Wolfkin, with their powerful builds and keen senses, bustled through, their conversations a low hum of growls and barks. The air, usually thick with the scent of ore and industrious activity, felt strangely muted to Stransa. She stood, a dark silhouette amidst the vibrant hues of the city, but an oppressive stillness remained within her.
Asha, her stripes almost camouflaged against the shifting crowd, placed a gentle paw on Stransa’s shadowy arm. Nott’s half-sister stood a little behind them, her emerald eyes scanning the crowd, a nervous twitch in her tail.
"She's here somewhere," Asha murmured, her voice barely audible above the city's din. "Errin would never miss an opportunity to play a new tune for the miners, or discover a rare gem herself."
Stransa’s form wavered slightly. The mere thought of Errin, Nott's vibrant batkin wife, brought a fresh wave of grief. Errin, with her melodious laughter and the way her eyes would light up when Nott so much as glanced her way. How could they tell that light it had been extinguished, not by an outside force, but by Nott's own hand?
"The Nocturne's Call," Stransa rasped, her voice a dry whisper. "She'll be at the bar." The name of Errin's establishment, a familiar comfort for so long, was now a lead weight in her chest. It was a place Errin poured her heart into, a public extension of the joy she brought to their shared cottage outside the city walls. The thought of stepping into that lively space, knowing Nott would never be there again, twisted something cold inside her.
"Yes, of course," Asha said, a new direction solidifying in her eyes. "It's perfect. Quiet enough now, likely, before the evening rush. And it’s her own space."
"It's better than here," Nott's half-sister agreed, visibly relieved by the shift in plan. "We can… prepare her. As best we can."
Stransa gave a silent, jerky nod. The prospect of facing Errin, of delivering the news that would shatter her world, was a torment worse than any physical pain she had ever known. How do you tell someone their song has ended when they still believe it's playing? How do you explain the inexplicable?