Stransa’s dark eyes, usually so placid, held a flicker of ancient pain. She understood the unspoken question behind Nott’s signs: How do you live with such a thing? How do you not break?
A long sigh escaped Stransa, a sound like wind through ancient stones. “For centuries,” she rumbled, her voice quiet but firm, “I held onto the rage.” Her gaze drifted to the dappled sunlight on the forest floor, seeing not the peaceful woods but perhaps the echoes of a devastating past. “The pain of losing my kin to their conceptual prisons, the cruelty inflicted upon my mortal friends by the fae… it consumed me.”
She paused, her hand coming to rest gently on Nott’s shoulder. “I was angry, Nott. So incredibly angry. It was a fire that burned ceaselessly within me, fueling every thought, every step.” Stransa’s eyes met Nott’s, a profound depth in their dark pools. “But then,” she said, her voice softening, a warmth entering it that made Nott lean into her touch, “I met you, little wolf.”
A faint, almost imperceptible smile touched Stransa’s lips. “And I realized… that all of that rage, all that pain I clung to, was wasted energy. It would make me no better than those who inflicted the harm. In all actuality,” Stransa’s gaze grew solemn, “it would have killed me in the end.” She squeezed Nott’s shoulder, a silent promise of support. “Holding onto the hate, Nott, leaves no room for anything else.”
Nott looked down at her hands, still trembling slightly, then signed with a renewed urgency, her movements sharp with self-reproach. "I don't hate the fae," she expressed, shaking Nott looked up at Stransa, her eyes raw and vulnerable. "I can still see it," she signed, her hands shaking as she mimicked a receding light, then a collapse. "The light leaving Vidar’s eyes." Her hands then moved to her own, clenching and unclenching. "And I can feel his blood on my hands, sometimes." She shivered, drawing her arms around herself. "And sometimes, in the dark, while I lie next to my wife, Errin, I can hear his voice blaming me for not saving him." A single tear escaped, tracing a path down her cheek. "Even with all that power… I couldn't save him."
Her gaze dropped to the ground, a profound weariness settling over her. "I understand why the world looks at me with fear," she signed, her movements slow and heavy. "And why they blame me for the destruction of Varashroova." Her voice, though silent, conveyed a crushing self-condemnation. "I was never a hero, Stransa. Just an abomination with a pretty face."
her head. "Not really. I hate myself, or at least what I am when I use my magic. I can’t hold back, and I’m so afraid that it will hurt the ones I love."
Stransa’s expression remained gentle, understanding. She squeezed Nott’s shoulder, a silent acknowledgment of the terrifying burden Nott carried. "Do you remember what Asha taught you?" Stransa asked softly, her voice a warm current in the quiet forest. "On the ship, on the way to Nan Du Tua?"
Nott nodded, her gaze lifting to meet Stransa’s. A flicker of recognition, then deep pain, crossed her features.
"The meditation," Stransa continued, her voice even, calming. "The one that soothed your fears? That helped you control the emotions that governed your powers?"
Nott nodded again, a slow, heavy motion. Her hands moved to sign, the motions more hesitant now. "I remember it," she signed, her eyes welling up again, unshed tears making them glisten. "But since Vidar’s death, I can’t quiet them." The unspoken truth hung in the air: her brother’s death had broken something essential within her, leaving her vulnerable to the very chaos she feared.
Stransa listened, her posture still, her dark eyes never leaving Nott's face. When Nott finished, the shadow woman's jaw tightened, a flash of something uncharacteristic—anger, sharp and cold—flickering in her gaze. She took a deep breath, her own voice sounding rougher than intended, the raw emotion just beneath the surface.
"Nott, you are wrong," Stransa stated, her voice resonating with an unyielding conviction. "You were the only person who could have stopped Nyx." She shifted, placing both hands firmly on Nott's shoulders, her grip steady and reassuring. "People are fools. They fear what they can't understand, what they can't control. They fear the earthquake when it is merely the ground shifting, not the earth's malice. Varashroova would have fallen entirely, every stone crumbled, every life extinguished, if not for you. Do you truly believe that is the burden of an abomination?"
Stransa’s voice softened, though the underlying strength remained. "I understand primordial power, Nott. Not to the scale of yours, perhaps, but I know it with every bit of my being. I know the overwhelming surge, the terrifying potential, the sheer, raw force it commands. And I know, with every fiber of my being, that you are a blessing on this world." Her thumbs stroked Nott's arms gently. "Your light, Nott, is a beacon. Everyone who truly knows you, truly sees you, looks for that light in the storm. They don't see an abomination; they see a protector, a kind soul, a friend. Errin sees it. I see it. Even in the deepest shadows, your light shines, drawing others to safety."
She leaned in slightly, her gaze piercing Nott’s, demanding to be believed. "Do you think I would willingly spend my days, my centuries, beside an abomination? Do you think I would mourn your brother's loss if I believed you were responsible? No. I choose to be here, with you, because you are good, Nott. You are pure, despite the formidable power you wield. The world’s fear is their weakness, not yours."
Nott sighed deeply, a long, shuddering breath that seemed to release some of the tension from her body. She pulled Stransa back into a tighter embrace, clinging to the shadow woman like a lifeline. "Maybe you are right," she signed, a wry, almost self-deprecating humor finally touching her features. "Or maybe Errin and you are just crazy. Or just fools."
A low, rumbling laugh escaped Stransa, a sound like shifting earth that resonated deeply within Nott's chest. "There's the Nott I know," Stransa murmured, her voice warm with affection and relief. She gently patted Nott's back. "Now, should we go back home? I'll brew some tea."
As they began to walk, the familiar path leading them deeper into the comforting embrace of the woods, Nott's gaze drifted. Through a break in the trees, she caught sight of it: Vidar’s grave. It was a simple mound of earth, marked by his war axe plunged into the ground, its steel head weathered but still resolute. A silver pendant of the wolfkin goddess, the Nightwolf, glinted faintly at its pommel, catching the dappled sunlight. A small, silent ache bloomed in Nott's chest, a lingering tenderness that never truly faded. She watched it recede from view, a poignant reminder of her loss, before turning her attention back to Stransa, and the path home.
The quiet crunch of leaves underfoot was the only sound for a long moment, a gentle rhythm accompanying their steps. The setting sun began to paint the sky in hues of orange and purple, casting long, dancing shadows through the trees. Stransa walked a comfortable pace, her presence a steady, reassuring anchor beside Nott. She didn’t speak, allowing Nott to process her thoughts in silence, knowing that sometimes, quiet companionship was the greatest comfort.
Soon, the faint scent of woodsmoke reached them, a warm, inviting aroma that signaled their approach. The cottage, nestled snugly amongst the pines, emerged into view, its single window glowing with a soft, inviting light. It was a simple structure, built from rough-hewn logs, but within its walls lay safety, love, and a fragile peace Nott fought daily to maintain.
As they reached the small porch, Stransa pushed the door open, the creak of the hinges a familiar sound. The warmth of the hearth immediately enveloped them, chased by the even warmer presence of Errin, Nott's wife, who looked up from where she sat by the fire, mending a tear in a worn tunic. Her eyes, sharp and loving, immediately settled on Nott’s tear-streaked face.
Errin, a batkin with delicate wings folded neatly against her back, sprang to her feet. She rushed to Nott, embracing her fiercely. She didn't need words; the lingering tremor in Nott's frame, the scent of fear, and the distant, familiar scent of raw magic spoke volumes. Errin offered Stransa a sad, grateful smile over Nott's shoulder, a silent thank you for bringing her back. Then, pulling back just enough to look into Nott's eyes, Errin asked, her voice soft with concern, "Are you alright?"
Nott smiled warmly at Errin, a genuine love shining in her eyes that chased away the last vestiges of her panic. "I am now," she signed, her hands moving with a fluid grace born of deep affection. "I just needed reminding what I fought for, and what was truly important."
As their lips met in a tender kiss, a silent promise of enduring love, Stransa moved quietly to the small stone hearth and reached for the tea kettle, the gentle clink of ceramic against stone a small, comforting sound in the warm, quiet cottage.
Princess Varnia sat hunched over a polished mahogany desk in her private quarters within the towering spires of Shadowfeign. Gears whirred softly, the intricate symphony of a clockwork heart beating within the delicate frame of the automaton bird she was meticulously adjusting. Its brass feathers gleamed under the soft glow of the newly installed gas lamps – a marvel of imported mainland technology powered by carefully metered magic stones.
Ten years. Ten years since the Great War had ripped through the Fae Lands, a conflict ignited by her own kin's insatiable lust for power. She still saw the cold, triumphant glint in her sister Nyx's eyes as the mad queen struck down their siblings, leaving Varnia the unlikely, and unwilling, heir. Then had come the silence, the terrifying absence of inherent fae magic when the goddess Soot, or Emma as some now whispered, had claimed it as recompense for the Lore’s imprisonment.
But from that void had sprung innovation. Shadowfeign, once a city steeped in ancient enchantments, was reborn as a testament to ingenuity. Clockwork mechanisms whirred in place of spells, automatons performed tasks once relegated to charmed servants, and the city hummed with the industrious energy of inventors and engineers, many recruited from across the newly opened borders. Importing condensed magic stones was costly, a constant drain on their resources, yet Varnia ensured her people prospered. They lacked the effortless magic of old, but they possessed a newfound resilience and a shared purpose.
Varnia tightened a tiny screw on the bird’s wing, her brow furrowed in concentration. She was no sorceress, never had been. Her talents lay in understanding intricate mechanisms, in seeing the potential in gears and springs where her sisters had seen only the ebb and flow of arcane energy. This difference, once a source of quiet shame, was now her strength.
She looked out through the towering arched window at the city sprawling below. Shadowfeign was a kaleidoscope of gleaming metal and polished stone, its streets bustling with a diverse populace – fae, humans, dwarves, even the occasional cautious wolfkin trader. Gone were the haughty pronouncements of fae superiority, the disdainful glances towards the lesser races. Varnia had decreed it so. The darkness of their past, the arrogance and cruelty that had led to Nyx’s madness and the subsequent devastation, would not take root again. Her reign would be one of progress, of understanding, of acknowledging the shared threads of existence that bound all the peoples of the world. The clockwork bird in her hands chirped softly, a miniature marvel of their new reality, a symbol of hope crafted from the ashes of a magical past.
Varnia leaned back, admiring the clockwork bird. Its intricate gears and polished brass feathers shimmered under the lamplight. This wasn't just another automaton; it was a testament to a dream.