The city outside Kibby's window was swallowed by fog, thick and disinterested. Rain tapped the

  glass with the rhythmic patience of time passing her by. She sat on the kitchen floor, half-curled

  around a lukewarm mug of ginger tea, wearing the same shirt she’d thrown on that morning. It

  still smelled faintly of Zin—cinnamon, old parchment, whatever incense she burned when Kibby

  wasn’t paying attention.

  She hadn’t touched her sketchbook in hours.

  Kibby thought about Zin. How something about her felt off. How something about so trivial

  made her leave without explanation. She hadn’t chased after Zin. Kibby was too used to the

  world stepping out of the room without asking if she was okay.

  But still—

  Still, something about today felt wrong. There was a weight behind Zin’s silence that Kibby

  couldn’t shake. She took a sip of the now-bitter tea, scrunched her nose, and stood. Her eyes

  flicked toward the wall where Zin’s coat had hung for the last two days, now gone. So was the

  lingering feeling of her presence.

  Maybe she’d gone back to her place. Maybe she just needed space.

  But something else itched behind Kibby’s ribs, a quiet pressure she didn’t have a name for.

  She sighed and grabbed her bag.

  “Just a check-in,” she muttered. “I’ll feel stupid otherwise.”

  * * *

  Zin woke with a shiver.

  The room was dark— and her neck ached from the angle she’d passed out on the couch. For a

  few dazed seconds, she didn’t move. The rain tapped steadily on the windows, quiet but insistent.

  Her stomach twisted. Not from hunger, but something heavier.

  Lunch had been… awful. She couldn’t even remember what she’d said to Kibby. Just that her

  voice felt like it didn’t belong to her anymore.

  She sat up slowly, brushing a hand over her face, and murmured a word in Elunari. A soft-blue

  orb of light shimmered into being, floating up to nest near the ceiling, casting gentle light into

  the corners of the room.

  She silently gestured towards the wall.

  “Thelein.”

  And with a hiss, her apartment lights flicked on.

  Everything looked like a still-life painting of exhaustion: a chipped mug on the table, her satchel

  half-unpacked, an old Chinese tapestry slung across the armchair. She exhaled through her nose

  and reached for her phone, intending to call Kibby. She deserved an explanation.

  Then came the sound.

  Thud.

  She froze.

  Another, louder this time. From the closet.

  Zin narrowed her eyes. The closet was always closed—she kept it closed. A reflex, born of years

  in places where closets were never just closets. She stood, carefully, one hand raised and already

  warm with spellcharge.

  Then the door flung open with a wet crash, and two hunky figures tumbled out, tangled in

  cloaks, soaked to the bone and panting like half-drowned dogs.

  “Oh Gods. I think we’re here!” Greeb sputtered, face red and hair plastered to his brow. “Right in

  her room!”

  “I hoped we’d land somewhere less private. And spacious,” Tulli coughed, pushing herself

  upright and flicking water off her ears.

  Zin blinked. For a heartbeat, she just stared at them. Then her mouth twitched into the barest

  hint of relief.

  “Greeb,” she said.

  “ Greetings, Zin,” he beamed.

  She stepped forward and hugged him. Not a stiff formal gesture, but a tight, honest pull. He

  flailed for a second before grinning and hugging her back with equal force.

  Behind them, Tulli just gave a half-salute. “Lady Zin’kael.”

  Zin raised a brow. “You’re not going to hug me?”

  “I would, but I’m soaked, and that blouse looks expensive.”

  Zin snorted. “It’s not. And since when did you care about fashion, Tulli?”

  Tulli squinted at her. “Since you butchered your hair. What in the great creaking void happened

  to it?”

  Zin ran her fingers through the short, choppy black strands. “It’s a Terran style, thank you. Very

  popular.”

  “It used to be majestic. Like a banner of raven silk,” Tulli muttered.

  “Now it’s efficient,” Zin said, unbothered. “And rainproof.”

  Tulli rolled her eyes.

  Zin stepped back, nodding at the puddle forming under them. “You both look like you crawled

  This story is posted elsewhere by the author. Help them out by reading the authentic version.

  through a storm sewer.”

  “That’s basically what happened,” Greeb admitted. “We had to improvise. Tulli stitched a portal

  with about half a vial of unstable riftfuel and your pendant.”

  “We weren’t aiming for your closet,” Tulli added. “Just hoped to land somewhere safe around you.

  I’m glad it worked.”

  Zin crossed her arms, smiling. “What brings you two to my humble abode?”

  Greeb’s smile thinned.

  The mood shifted—like something pulling tight between them.

  Zin waited.

  “There’s been a veya’rath,” he said at last. “A well planned coup. Maldrik Thorne has betrayed the

  throne. The High Court’s overrun. We don’t know if the Hevel’dan made it out.”

  Zin’s breath caught.

  She didn’t speak for several seconds.

  Then: “You're sure?”

  Tulli nodded. “We saw it ourselves. Fire in the council wing. Thorne’s men were everywhere.”

  “Zin,” Greeb said gently, “We need you back. It’s not just Solsthenar. If they consolidate power, it’s

  the whole realm.”

  Zin didn’t argue.

  She was already moving toward her satchel, flipping open the buckles with a flick of her hand.

  But halfway through, her fingers stopped.

  She stared at the bag.

  “I didn’t say goodbye.”

  Greeb tilted his head. “To Mavis?”

  “She hates being called that.”

  “Yeah,” he said. “You mentioned that.”

  Zin straightened, but didn’t turn.

  “She’s good, right?” Greeb asked.

  Zin hesitated. “She’s…” Her voice faltered. “She’s better. And I-I dont think I’ve helped in any

  way.”

  Tulli leaned against the open closet door. “Terran relationships. Messier than war councils.”

  Zin glanced back at her phone on the floor.

  She didn’t pick it up.

  “She’ll understand,” Zin murmured. “I hope.”

  Greeb nodded toward Tulli, who was readying up to jump into the portal in the closet again. It

  shimmered like frayed cloth in the air, sparking at the edges. Only a few more moments before it

  closed up for good.

  Zin stepped toward it. “We’ll be back before Kibby knows it.”

  Tulli raised a brow, but said nothing.

  The three of them stepped through the portal, the air warping behind them.

  It remained wide open for a few seconds—then slowly, softly, fizzled shut.

  * * *

  Kibby stood outside Zin’s apartment door, one hand resting on the frame, the other holding a

  paper bag with lukewarm takeout. The walk over had been longer than usual—her feet unwilling,

  her thoughts noisy. She had no plan, not really. Just a vague hope that a shared dinner might fix

  what words couldn’t.

  She exhaled.

  Then knocked.

  The sound echoed, soft but unanswered. She waited. Nothing.

  Zin’s apartment always had this odd stillness, like the walls were holding their breath. Kibby

  knocked again, gentler this time.

  Still no answer.

  She tried the handle, expecting resistance.

  It turned easily.

  “…Zin?”

  The door creaked open.

  The lights were on, but the space felt hollow. Not abandoned, not yet—but as if someone had just

  left and hadn’t thought to close the book behind them.

  Kibby stepped in slowly, letting the door fall shut behind her.

  The living room looked exactly as she remembered it —except the couch cushions were askew,

  and there was a faint smell of ozone and damp air, like the aftermath of a summer storm. A few

  drops of water trailed from the closet across the hardwood floor, vanishing somewhere near the

  balcony.

  She placed the food on the table, eyes scanning the room.

  “Zin?”

  No answer. No movement.

  That’s when she saw it: Zin’s phone. Abandoned on the kitchen counter, screen dark.

  Zin never left without her phone. It was always close at hand, half-used, half-ignored.

  Kibby picked it up. The screen lit at her touch—no password.

  Just a single missed call.

  From her.

  “…Weird.”

  She set it back down and moved to the closet.

  It was closed, but something about it looked off. A little too clean around the frame, as if it had

  been wiped. She opened it gently and found nothing inside except Zin’s usual collection of coats,

  and a spare umbrella. The floor was dry now, but the faintest scent of moss and damp still

  lingered in the air. She shut it again.

  Something wasn't right.

  Kibby sat on the edge of the couch and stared at the far wall, where a faint shimmer still lingered

  in the air—too subtle for anyone else to notice, maybe.

  She leaned back and closed her eyes.

  You didn't even take your phone.

  That wasn't like Zin. For all her aloofness, she didn’t vanish without reason. Or without warning.

  And yet—

  Kibby just sighed.

  Outside, the rain had stopped. But inside Zin’s apartment, the silence felt louder than ever.

  She decided to wait. Just for a little while. She didn’t call anyone. Didn’t pace or scroll or distract

  herself.

  Instead, she leaned back against the armrest, legs curled beneath her, and let her mind settle into

  that slow, quiet space Zin always seemed to inhabit. A place between worlds. Between thoughts.

  A place, maybe, Zin had left behind too quickly.

  * * *

  * * *

  Solsthenar High Court

  The High Elder’s Chambers

  The tremors came first.

  A quiet clatter of glass. The shudder of polished stone. Then a single, distant scream that tore the

  silence like cloth.

  High Elder Thalen Vaerra lifted his head from the scroll he’d been reading and frowned. That

  scream was too close. Another tremor followed, sharper. Then came the clang of steel. The

  unmistakable roar of fire magic blooming against stone. The scents: burnt fabric and scorched

  flesh—found him before the sounds even reached the chamber doors.

  Thalen rose, every inch of his tall frame radiating sudden tension. His long, jet black hair fell

  around his shoulders as he extended one hand. A blade formed in the air before

  him: shimmering, pure magic, crackling faintly with a blue hue.

  He did not bother with his ceremonial robes. He swept open the chamber doors and strode into

  the hall. The corridor was empty, too empty. The guards who normally stood at each post were

  gone. Blood trailed along the marble floor like ink. Thalen followed it.

  By the time he reached the throne hall, the battle was already raging.

  The High Court’s grand hall had been turned into a warzone.

  Golden banners lay burning on the ground. Shattered glass from the sky dome windows rained

  down like lethal snow. Soldiers of Solsthenar—mages, blade-dancers, spellbinders—fought

  desperately against figures clad in dark steel, their armor marked with the sigil of the Council.

  His Council.

  Thalen’s heart twisted as he saw Lord Breknor fall, a blade through the chest. Lady Surava cried

  out as flames engulfed her, her protective runes failing under sheer force.

  “No,” Thalen whispered—and then roared, “To me! Hold the court! For Solsthenar!”

  His conjured blade flared brighter as he joined the fray. With every strike, he turned a traitor

  back. He moved like a storm—fluid, ancient, relentless. His presence alone rallied his people. For

  a moment, the tide began to shift.

  And then the shadows lengthened behind the dais.

  Maldrik Thorne emerged, calm and unhurried. His black robes were unscathed. His eyes

  gleamed with something cold.

  Thalen froze. “You.”

  Thorne gave a low, mocking bow. “My Lord.”

  “You were my brother in counsel,” Thalen spat, voice filled with rage and heartbreak. “You ate at

  my table. You advised me. You dare spill blood in this sacred hall?”

  “I advised you,” Thorne said smoothly, “until you stopped listening.”

  The words cracked like a whip.

  “This realm stagnates. You’d rather protect your golden throne than prepare for what’s coming.

  My master doesn’t have time for your traditions.”

  Thalen’s eyes flared with magic.

  “Your master,” he hissed, stepping forward, “will find nothing but ruin here.

  The High Elder lunged with every ounce of his strength, his magic clashing against Thorne’s with

  a brutal force. His conjured sword blazed with radiant light, cutting through the dark air as he

  struck, his magic sending ripples across the floor. He was powerful—one of the greatest sorcerers

  of his age. But even his might could not halt the tide of betrayal sweeping over him.

  Thorne’s laughter echoed through the chaos, a cruel, taunting sound. His own magic was dark

  and destructive, a devastating counter to the Elder’s brilliance. The two battled with deadly

  precision, each strike from Thorne a calculated blow aimed at dismantling everything Thalen

  stood for. But the High Elder was relentless, his spells striking like lightning, the very air around

  them crackling with arcane power.

  It seemed, for a moment, that Thalen was gaining the upper hand. He forced Thorne back with a

  surge of raw magic, pushing the traitor battlemage off-balance. The people loyal to Solsthenar—

  those few still standing—fought back with renewed vigor, their hope fueled by Thalen’s

  unyielding power. For a brief instant, the High Elder stood victorious.

  But then, a cold knife of betrayal sank deep into his side.

  Mesmera—once thought to be his loyal ally—stepped from the shadows, her dagger gleaming

  with malice. She didn’t hesitate. She drove the blade deep into Thalen’s ribcage, her eyes cold and

  empty.

  Thalen gasped, his power faltering as his magic flickered and died. He looked at her, disbelief

  written across his bloodied face.

  “You…” he whispered, his voice thick with pain. “You too?”

  Mesmera’s lips trembled. “I’m sorry. You should’ve seen it coming.”

  The High Elder dropped to his knees, weak, the world around him spinning. His heart

  hammered in his chest, blood pooling beneath him. The last of his strength seemed to drain

  from him, leaving him a broken, crumpled figure before the man who had once been his most

  trusted ally.

  Thorne stood tall, his back straight as he surveyed the scene. The blood of his enemies and allies

  alike painted the floor red. There was no pride in his eyes—only cold, calculating resolve. He

  gave Mesmera an understanding nod, and then stepped forward, his gaze fixed on the crumpled

  figure of Thalen Vaerra.

  “I don’t have time for your gods and your traditions anymore,” Thorne spat, his voice a venomous

  hiss. “There is only power, Vaerra. Only me.”

  With that, Thorne dropped his robe, revealing an armored physique honed through years of

  brutal combat and arcane mastery. His body was a weapon—muscles rippling beneath the

  surface, every movement purposeful, precise.

  He pumped his chest twice, a primal roar tearing through the silence as he closed the distance

  between them. The High Elder’s weakened form didn’t even have time to respond before Thorne

  seized him by the throat.

  In an instant, Thorne lifted Thalen off the ground, his grip like iron, crushing the air from his

  lungs. With a single, savage motion, he drove his fist into Thalen’s face, the blow landing with a

  sickening crack.

  Blood sprayed, staining Thalen’s lips as his head jerked back. His vision swam, the world tilting

  and spinning as his body was slammed again and again into the stone floor. The noise of the

  ongoing battle started ringing in his ears now. Friends and family. Screaming and wailing.

  Thorne’s fists were relentless. They struck again with brutal force—blows that shattered bones,

  crushed blood and marrow. Another hit. Thalen’s ribs cracked under the pressure, a sharp,

  violent crack that echoed through the hall. He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t move. The pain was

  overwhelming, drowning everything else out. Thorne’s voice, dark and filled with contempt,

  came from above, his eyes cold as he delivered the final blow.

  “The gods will make you pay. She— ,” Thalen paused,“-will come for you.”, his voice barely a

  whisper through bloodied lips. His words were hollow, a final, desperate hope.

  Thorne’s lip curled into a smirk. He leaned in close, his breath hot on the High Elder’s face.

  “Your daughter? Let her come.”

  With that, Thorne dropped Thalen’s weak body to the floor like a discarded rag. He turned

  without a second glance, the sound of his boots ringing out as he left Thalen crumpled and

  defeated. Mesmera, watching from the sidelines, trembled for a moment, her eyes flicking toward

  Thorne, the cold steel of her resolve wavering ever so slightly. She was nothing more than a

  footsoldier, a pawn in a game she thought she understood. She’d sided with Thorne for power, for

  survival. But for a fleeting second, she saw the man she’d once respected—the man she’d believed

  in—brought so low.

  Still, she did nothing. She moved only to follow Thorne as he strode off to cut down more

  innocent people, leaving Thalen’s body to be trampled by the remnants of the battle.