Moonlight spilled silver through the high branches, catching in the woven bridges stretched from trunk to trunk. Lanterns burned low, their glow drowned beneath the hush that falls only after midnight.
The Shadow Gate hung open before him, rimmed in faint starlight. Every blanket and keepsake—what little he had—had already vanished into its silence. All but one thing remained.
[Balance: 351 Motes]
Purchase Confirmed: Twilight Mage Set — Cost: 350 Motes
Remaining: 1 Mote
[Transaction Complete]
Sovereign Soul Gem Sold — 319 Den Credited to Shadow Gate
The Gate folded shut, leaving the robes draped across his arms.
[Starbriar Item Acquired]
Item: Twilight Mage Set
Grade: Rare
Those who walk between star and shadow receive these robes woven in silence and flecked with dusklight.
First purchased by: Aurelian Darkfall, youngest Starbriar.
Record marked: Eight centuries since the last.
Properties:
– HP +50
– Mana +100
– Mana Regeneration +10%
– Spell Sustain -10%
– Resistances: Shadow +10%, Radiance +10%
– Set Bonus: Twilight Veil — While channeling, gain a ward equal to 5% of max HP.
Stats Updated:
Health: 27 → 77
Mana: 54 → 154
Stamina: 22
The pane dissolved, but the numbers pressed like iron in his chest. No system screen measured the weight of failure. Numbers didn't bleed when you burned too close. Numbers didn't cry when you lost control.
The robes slid over his shoulders. Dusk itself clung to his frame—indigo fading to violet, threads of pale gold stitched like starlight. The hood shadowed his face until he lowered it, and then his golden eyes and half-moon branding burned brighter beneath it.
He fastened the sash with trembling fingers. The cloth hummed faintly, alive, a reminder and a warning. The dark in him stirred—Take. Break. Consume.—and he pressed a hand to his chest.
"Not them," he whispered. "Not here."
He slipped into the sleeping corridors, quiet as held breath. Rope bridges swayed and stilled behind him. He didn't call Fayte. Better he didn't see. He would be better off staying safe in the grove.
At the forest's edge, he drew a long breath and let the moose form take him.
Bones rolled beneath skin; antlers spread in crescent arcs; his hooves struck loam. His reflection in the loam was still wrong—shadow bending where it shouldn't. He lowered his head and started forward.
The cries came.
Fayte's call split the hush like thunder. He stumbled out of the trees, storm-eyed and desperate to reach him.
Feather and fur seared through his spectral coat. The tether between them flared hot and undeniable.
Truth struck him through their touch—You are home.
Aurelian staggered. The moose's knees buckled, and he bent his antlered head, tears soaking his muzzle. Fayte pressed his beak to him, crest quivering in fierce refusal. He had tried to leave. He had failed.
Maybe that was right.
If he was home to him, then maybe this was the only anchor strong enough to keep him from unraveling.
They ran together—long, steady strides through the night, a gigantic moose and arch-griffin, white cub at his flank. Rain gathered and fell silver through the canopy, drumming soft apologies. The air sweetened; thunder stitched the horizon.
By the time the trees thinned into the salt-sour edge of the coast, lanterns burned ahead—a crescent of light by the bay. Inkwood.
At the village's far edge, a hall glowed steadily. Lanterns hung like caught stars. On its veranda nestled baskets of rice, salted fish, fruit slick with rain.
Script brushed the lintel: For the gods. For the hungry.
A figure moved in the doorway.
Jasmine, rain, rice flour, and stone. A girl stepped out beneath a paper umbrella, unstartled by the figures on her veranda.
"Come in out of that," she said. It sounded like a phrase muttered thousands of times. "You'll drown standing."
She tipped the umbrella to roof them and walked backward, guiding them over the sill. The room smelled of clean wood and prayer smoke. Shelves held fox idols—moonstone, obsidian, jade, quartz. Humble offerings glowed with the holiness of care.
"Dusk House is for wanderers as much as gods," she said. Her gaze lingered on the idols, then returned. "And all are under my protection."
The words loosened something inside him he hadn't realized he was clenching.
"Towels," she added, vanishing and returning with rough sailor's cloth. She approached first, as gentle as the dawn. She pressed a towel into Aurelian's hands. "You too, sky-king," she told Fayte. She knelt, showing him how to wipe the bars of his beak. He copied solemnly, proud of the effort.
"Hungry?" She moved toward the baskets. She set her palm lightly on the lid of a rice jar, as if asking permission of the gods themselves. Only then did she look back to them. "Take from the offerings if you're hungry. Leave something of your own, and the balance holds."
She glanced at Fayte. "Fish for you?"
Fayte didn't even try to pretend indifference. She laid out two rice triangles wrapped in glossy leaves, topped with salted fish, a bowl of ginger that snapped bright and clean between them.
Aurelian's hand hovered near the shadow gate. A silver coin rolled into his hand. He extended it toward the bowl for donations and deposited it.
The girl's eyes warmed. "Perfect," she said. "Blessings upon thee, Starbriar." She glanced back at the shelf, where an obsidian two-tail seemed to look away on purpose. "I'm Rana," she added, as if it were part of the blessing. "And this is Dusk House."
"Aurelian," he said.
"Starbriar," she whispered. Her bow was deep with respect.
They ate—not like starving things, but like guests. Fayte inhaled his and eyed the second until Aurelian nudged it toward him.
"You came from the woods," Rana said. Not a question. "The rain is good for the woods," she went on. "It's good for loud places, if they're willing."
He smiled, but she may not have been able to see it beneath his hood.
"Rules—" Her tone eased, almost playful. She gestured with the damp towel toward the icons on the shelf. "No hunting inside, or blood on the threshold. No lies before the idols."
Her eyes softened, creasing at the edges. "They're not bureaucrats. They care about where we speak the words."
Fayte assumed a regal lion's loaf, preening one immaculate feather as if the act itself kept the world in order. The heat rolling from his wings turned the rain to steam, drying him faster than any towel.
"The back room," Rana said. "There's a brazier and mats."
It was small and perfect. Coal-beds glowed, a kettle hung above, mats folded, robes on hooks, a basin catching rain. She set water to warm and looked over her shoulder. "Choose what feels true, then sleep. Dusk House will hold."
Aurelian lowered onto a mat, and steam drifted from his robes.
"Do you prefer your hood?" she asked. "Either way, you're safe."
He lowered it.
Rana looked and did not look away. "You're very beautiful," she said, as if naming the weather.
Heat touched his ears despite the brazier. Fayte's crest flicked—smug agreement.
Rana poured tea—toasted rice and green—and set a cup by his knee. "A trading vessel leaves at first light," she said. "Coast road. He owes the gods for a winter we carried him through, so he stops here. If you want another place to run, the tide will be with him."
"You'd point me away from your protection?" Aurelian asked.
"I'd point you where you decide to go," she said simply. "If you stay, you'll help cut roots for the willow out back. If you leave, you'll carry this." She slid a bundle of rice triangles, dried fish, candied ginger, and a pinch of salt. "So you don't steal breakfast from the gods."
A surprised laugh escaped him. "Thank you."
She gathered the empty cup, lantern-light sliding over her hair. "Sleep?" Her voice softened to match the rain.
He looked up.
Her smile was small and bright. She let the silence stretch, rain whispering against the eaves. She spoke as if naming something simple and true. "The rain doesn't love you less because you carry shadow. It asks only that you come out to meet it."
Light followed her to the door, then settled back into corners. Fayte's breathing smoothed and deepened; the storm thinned to a whisper.
Aurelian sat with the cup warming his hands. Behind his eyes, the grove lingered—Velma's voice, Eden's steadiness, the bonfire's roar, then silence. The dark shifted, testing. He didn't starve it, didn't feed it. He told it once, twice, and a third time…Lie down.
For a long moment, it did.
He eased onto the mat. Fayte draped a wing over his legs like a blanket; the brazier ticked. Icons watched with their carved eyes. Beyond the eaves, Rana's broom whispered, keeping the house's quiet rhythm.
At some hour, though the rain persisted, the storm thinned to nothing.
He slept.
And when the dock bell tolled once at gray dawn, he woke with his mind clear as a rinsed window, a bundle at his elbow, a friend at his side—and a choice he thought he could live with.