Another prophecy.

Fucking great.

Plans that had stretched years, decades before Nivara herself was even born, heck even before her grandmother’s time had just been unravelled within a single meeting. 

The scale of it was…unfathomable.

True Keeper’s of Trait. That word. Twisted into so many meanings no matter how simple the definition, by such a troubling concept. Belief. These leaders all believed. In one way or another. In the Laia, in their Trait. In themselves. They all believed they were right and those who were right tended to force change, force their beliefs until they were the truth. People like the Mist Maiden’s. People like the Council of Names. People like the Timekeeper. People…like her.

But Nivara knew there was one, undeniable truth that made her want to run from the world.

She and Kaldra were now trapped in this fucking mess.

All of this mess, all of this bullshit doctrine of the First Law, the destruction of the Seven Scripts were based on the whims of a stubborn, biassed, old man who was probably long dead in the ground. If he was a necromancer then she’d hoped he’d at least be ashes by now. But Anirri wasn’t.

Part of Nivara simply refused to believe in the Council of Names' motives, her stubbornness towards the Laia’s justice seeking warriors had poisoned the taste of Anirri’s assured words. But the last words the Fatekeeper spoke wouldn’t leave her head. Together or alone. Was that what it would all come down to? Bonds of trust that were more fragile than ever? She didn’t need to live among the Mist Maiden’s chains to know that was unlikely. But,,,she couldn’t deny the ember of hope in such a lofty goal.

Nivara bit her lip, not wanting to linger on her wavering trust for the Tinker Mole.

To think in only a few months she, the granddaughter of Aidari had gone from an overachieving priestess to a cynical revolutionist and back again. She didn’t know what the other Stormkeeper’s would think of that. The Silt Pillar incident hadn’t helped things but now hearing all of it was far bigger than Nivara ever thought possible. 

How many Stormkeeper’s had fallen before her? Who had struggled with their Trait, their home, their friends, how many of them had failed just as she had and had now…been forgotten. Some powerful crackpot leaders had decided to steal not only her memories but the entire populations all for the slim, vague chance at ending the curse of the Eternal Death. Yet no one here gave a shit.

“Can’t you see? We're on the right path!” Calvaros insisted, rising to his feet despite the force of power in front of him.

Havalog’s threw their warhammers into the air in retaliation, waving them like flags of outrage at the Tinker Moles attempting to block them from Lady Anirri’s sight, Hack’s long, lizard-like tail sweeping his charge close so as not to harm her further. Anirri’s eyes were closed tight, barely clinging to her treasured staff without keeling over, her once immaculate fur stained with soot and sweat from the sheer effort it took to stand. Still, she did not sit and offer herself rest. Not when there was work to do.

“No, she could’ve lied! Just like the Timekeeper-“

“You’d want to believe in that, wouldn’t you? My Master did not lie to suit himself! Can you truly say the same about a stolen title?” Kalaris hissed, sneering beneath the brim of her hat, a hidden dagger in her expression alone.

Nivara turned away, caught between the strain on Calvaros’ face, Tuskarr’s screams of indignation and Sashio’s backlash against his attempts to defend the Fatekeeper’s leadership. A leadership that was now being put into question. Nivara sighed, more to herself than anything else as she tried not to listen to any more fanatical screamings about paths and the Laia’s will. The private moment between Hack and Anirri was long soured, the Fatekeeper’s voice barely audible to get anything more about this so-called prophecy.

“How dare you discredit the Fatekeeper’s words!”

Calavaros brandished a chair like a battering ram to protect his Fatekeeper from the Havalog leader despite Hack’s capabilities, the Ravenback leader clearly torn between his duty to the Raven Lord and his Tinker Mole kin. Nivara fidgeted in her seat, caught between wanting to help her friend and being angry at all the bullshit he had caused. He was the Captain of that damn Raven Lord’s forces and he had used her as a damn gossip den. She’d find better information elsewhere.

“I’ll discredit whoever I want, prophecy or not!”

A shadow fell across the sand swept room.

“Silence.”

The Caithsee leader did not raise her voice.

She did not brandish a weapon or a chair.

The only weapon she needed was her voice.

Stepping away from the safety of the wall, the leader of the Perishers kicked the dust off her boots, the front partially open as if a threat to any of her clawed brethren. Her sharp eyes scanned the room in a second, her tall, willowy frame hidden by the void created by her dark fur concealing the long, circular like blades on her back.

“Let us not waste anymore time with this…prophecy. We know the stakes. We do not need to tread over old ground…as it were. Lady Anirri needs time to rest. I suggest we grant her that time by moving on.” 

Like stepping into a warm bath, harsh voices softened into silence, the wave of anger fading into an uneasy calm. The crouched battle stances of fellow warriors relaxed into awkward apologetic stances that could even be considered casual or bashful like telling an awkward joke at a party. But one particular Havalog was not amused.

“Then what do we do? Wait? The more we wait the more that Dominion thing takes our minds! Yet she says we work together? Typical Tinker Moles. Scared of their own fur. No wonder the Sandfurs left you for Caldor. At least the Morrosai have a spine. Then again I’m not sure that applies to Shadow Traited kin.”

Rizelle was eerily still, not even her tail moved and the only signs she was remotely perturbed was the ears tucked close to her head. She drew in a much needed breath of irritation and tried to flatten her fur from its spiked position atop her head. It was almost a cowlick in shape, matching the crescent moon of the weapons at her side.

Shadow Traited. Of course she was Traited. She was a Guardian…former Keeper of Trait. Which meant she had a grimoire hidden in that fur of hers. And was just as at risk as she was. That was…a perturbing thought.

“That’s enough.”

The Caithsee leader bristled, shimmering with ultra violet and silver and ignoring his challenge, turned to Quilla instead. Nivara fought back a grin. That would certainly piss off Tuskarr. The Shadow Cavalry’s leader shrivelled back into his seat before his outburst could begin. Tuskarr however, refused to meet the Caithsee’s sharp glare, obnoxiously scratching his arm despite still gripping his emerald glassy warhammer. 

“If I may, Sentinel?”

In an attempt to redirect the meeting into something resembling order, Rizelle looked to the only dragon with enough backbone to do anything about the current crisis. Or at least she had been willing to if it wasn’t for a certain distraction in the form of her Oathed. Quilla nodded silently at the Caithsee leader, half heartedly engaging in what was supposed to be a heated debate in favour of nudging her daughter closer to her protective wingspan. She almost felt sorry for Kaldra. Almost.

“Continue.”

The Caithsee bristled at the lack of direction but said nothing even as they basked in the shade crafted from her own Shadow Trait. Here, beneath the earth where heat stifled every corner, what Rizelle had summoned was not a curse but a blessing within the stuffy corridor. Nivara had created a freak snowstorm but the Shadow Traited? It was like finding an oasis in a wasteland and they were all the more willing to listen.

“Very well, then. I have no doubt our own clans shall decide what this means in due time but allow me to reiterate. We are all now responsible for the lives of Storm, Fire, Light and now Shadow Traited. Do not forget this. No matter which side of the border you reside on.”

The threat was barely perceptible, more of an attempt at small talk that stated the obvious rather than doing something predictable. Like commenting on the weather or asking how your kids were doing even though you didn’t really like kids and would really prefer to remain in stark silence than hear another anecdote about what they were actually doing. Bitter fact. Biting kindness. 

It was what Nivara needed to learn, desperately, ravenously, gripping the handles of her slightly sodden chair as if it would help burn the knowledge into her brain. Her lungs expanded and exhaled but she barely felt the motion, blinking rapidly to try and prevent herself from missing a second. If only she had been the Deathkeeper, she might’ve had Rizelle at her side to teach her. Perhaps, things would have been different had she been born a Shadow Traited. Perhaps all of this…would’ve been unnecessary.

“We Caithsee will watch over the new Deathkeeper in the current one’s absence. That was agreed upon in our last meeting, yes?”

The dutiful murmurs of agreement reminded Nivara of a bunch of children being scolded, raising her eyebrows at the sheer notion of this Council actually having a solid plan in place. Rain in the desert would’ve been more likely. Especially with the Raven Lords current lackadaisical attitude. 

The Wildspell elf had opted to calmly sit back and enjoy the chaos despite his General’s attempts to defend his honour. At least the rest had remained silent. The gossiping Goldclaw dragon and her hypocrite of a badly dressed Shadecaller companion hadn’t said a word despite their perchance for one liners but their eagle eyes never left the back of the room. 

There, slinking away from her now busy captor Reina had been cornered. Sybil might not have been very intimidating but despite his duties a certain colour changing Sand Wraith unceremoniously dumped her back into her seat without so much as a peep. How Rizelle didn’t even flinch Nivara would never understand.

“Well then. May the spirit of Lady Nemera rest knowing we have her successor in our thoughts. Whoever they may be. Shuriken’s loss was a great one but we will not falter in our search.” Rizelle began mournfully, adjusting her stance from a casual to a more respectful one.

The cyclical blades that had been attached securely on her back whipped around with the speed of a windstorm, crossed over her arms in a salute so tight Nivara expected her to draw blood.The wraps of cloth tightly bound around her wrists seemed to meld into the hilts of her blades, the strange bottles that hung at the Caithsee’s hip began to rattle excitedly. Whether it was full of poisons, herbs or ashes she didn’t know for sure but it hid the majority of Rizelle’s fur except for a few white and grey patches on her neck.

There was no doubt. The Perisher leader was no longer in her prime. 

Nivara couldn’t help but connect the details the Caithsee was so desperate to hide. Her lack of whiskers on her right side. The slight limp in her left leg. Parts of her fur were missing, her shoulders hidden by intricate chains that wound their way in a long, coiling belt held together by a dull, silver cross colliding with a crescent moon and a strange, long handed weapon. A scythe. 

It wasn’t just the Fatekeeper’s and Raven Lord’s actions that had surprised their clans. If she saw the pattern for what it was…the Perishers were also lacking a successor. Noirr was not the only one being chosen for the role. Anirri was being far more secretive about hers and Rizelle? For all Nivara knew she was refusing to even acknowledge it.

“By the Breath, by the Pulse, by the Blade.”

Nivara jumped at the sudden rise in voices joining Rizelle in response, the grip on her chair slacked just enough to send it thumping in the sand. Rizelle’s sharp eyed gaze met hers, Nivara’s face blazing with embarrassment despite no one being able to see it beneath her Tempest mask. A wry smile became morose in a second, time ticking by molasses slowly the moment everything fell to a hush. 

“Let our aim be true and reach them in time.”

The ceremonial way the Caithsee leader carried herself made Nivara ache for the old traditions of the Caldorian Ashes of the Fallen. Nivara didn’t know much about other clans or guilds outside of Caldor but something that itched in the back of her mind told her the emblem was old, far older than she had seen before. Perhaps it was something to do with Rizelle’s dedication towards the Deathkeeper or maybe, the Divide had taken that knowledge from her too. It had already taken Shuriken.

“Even the most unlikely of kin can be Keeper’s of Trait. Lady Nivara has been gracious enough to share what she knows despite the risk. Do not waste it.” Rizelle continued, reminding the group within the mourning silence of the vigil's end.

Eyes still lowered in prayer Nivara couldn’t help but linger on Rizelle, a blush still stained across her face until she too squeezed her eyes shut and tried to mimic the devout leaders around her. Feeling the urge to down a copious amount of alcohol the earlier drink of water she had been offered felt like days ago. Maybe being part of the Council of Names could get her discounts on Blackwing rum. 

The wry attempt at humour made her chuckle, half wishing for Kaldra’s attention only to be reminded of Creed’s awkward laughter every time Willow tried to lighten the mood. Her head hurt. Like diving into a frozen lake, longing for him to be safe above everything else. The uncomfortable pain in her temple made her stomach twist in anxiety, Rizelle’s attempt to soothe her woes only adding to them with the reveal that not even the power of the Perisher’s might knew where to find the current Deathkeeper. Or who they might be.

“We were aware of your presence in Caldor, Tempest. Your Guardian was supposed to be a Mist Maiden but it seems we were unaware of how…dictatorial she was becoming. Had I known directly that Lady Aphia herself was involved…well, for what it is worth, I give my sincerest apologies.”

Nivara blinked hazily, clearing her eyes as if waking up from a dream instead of a potently emotional ceremony and tried to hide her shock. Everyone was staring at her. Surreal wasn’t even the word to describe it. It wasn’t the fact Rizelle admitted to knowing Aphia whether she was a Keeper, a Guardian or what Nivara didn’t care. It was the first time anyone outside of Anirri herself had apologised for what happened to her.

“Thank you, Rizelle.”

Raising her chin to stop herself from crying the lump in her throat grew larger but she gripped her knees tight and let out a deep breath before nodding rapidly to at least provide a coherent response. Despite the Perisher’s reclusiveness and how far they had travelled, heck Nocturus was two entire continents and across the Cerucian sea they still had the decency to recognise they fucked up. Not a single Caldorian would ever dare to do such a thing but that…was a start.

“The High Priestess….I mean, Lady Aphia taught me how to…well, do everything. With my irregular control over my Trait, I assisted mostly in triaging patients, spotting irregular grimoires, monitoring Trait outputs and eventually…staying by a Traited side when they inevitably faded to ash.”

Rizelle’s stern expression softened just for a second, the flicker of something mournful in her eyes Nivara could only place as…regret. Whether it was remorse for what she did in the past or a quiet attempt to hold her resolve in front of Tuskarr’s grandstanding it didn’t matter. She knew.

“Aphia taught all of us by reciting the Seven Scripts and how the Eternal Death provides a connection to the Trait we use. Or at least, that’s what I thought at the time. She…saved me from the Taishin’s clutches but had I known the deal she struck with them in return I would have never joined the Mist Maiden’s. I would never have…”

Nivara didn’t hear her own voice break. 

She expected the tears to fall. She expected her throat to close up, to scream bloody raw about someone she had seen as a surrogate mother, a longing family she had clung to in her darkest nights. But that was all gone and she was the last. After all, it was all her fault.

A familiar warmth at her side set her breath at ease. 

Opening her eyes, half expecting the same carnage from before all she could see was the soft flurry of falling snow and a dragon curled up wordlessly beside her. Her Oathed.

“It is alright, Nessy. Let me tell them.”

A smile tweaked at her lips at the memory of Kaldra rolling around in the gossamer covered chest only moments ago, minutes stretching into hours that felt days longer than this meeting. Perhaps it was the company she now kept but Kaldra had settled beneath the reams of indigo, flicking her tail like a cat tempted to wriggle all over the soft material. But she didn’t.

It was just an Everchange cloak. That’s all it was.

But this was more than just a simple retelling of events. 

It was a memory, far greater than anything she had seen before or since.

And for Traited, memories were everything.

“I take it you have all heard of the Oracle drug epidemic?” Kaldra began, far more sombre than Nivara had ever heard her Oathed before.

Sashio yelped in surprise, the back of a chair slammed haphazardly into her tail. Sybil, the alleged former Sunstress of Neridia vacated her seat with the speed of a Talonslash dragon. Nivara was barely able to catch the sidestep of Hackerby and the solemn nod of understanding that followed. She didn’t have the heart to ask if she was OK. 

Kaldra’s voice had been low, sincerely trying to avoid startling anyone while insisting the gravity of the situation but not even that could prevent the negative murmurs from reaching her ears. Blazing with anger, Nivara clawed at her knees to stop herself from following suit, wanting nothing more than to escape the earthen chamber but despite the Oracle’s horrid connotations she had to stay.

Tuskarr’s snort broke through the anxious group.

“Of course we have. It's decimated the remaining Neridian allies we have in favour of following the Taishin’s fear mongering regime. You of all people should know what they did to the House of Caldor-“

“Well, Lady Aphia: the High Priestess of the Mist Maiden’s was the one who helped them perfect it.” Kaldra snapped bluntly, her attempt at being diplomatic lasting only a single conversation.

The Havalog’s jaw clamped shut, its tusks quivering even as the golden, rust coloured gems and bangles rattled an ominous tune. Nivara couldn’t blame him. The Mist Maiden’s prowess reached every corner of Para Dormus, from the largest city in Neridia to the shadiest knock in the Undercity but the Oracle epidemic was just as infamous. It was the disaster that put them in public view and to know that they had caused it themselves? No aspiring healer would ever be safe again and the House of Caldor was no exception.

Once overrun by the Claret Order of shieldmen resorting to offering aid behind the scenes now the Mist Maiden became the front lines at every disaster imaginable, combining the defensive grit and might of the former religious order that shunned them with the unbiased kindness that was sorely lacking in many a war. They turned their scarlet shields into an indigo spear capable of felling a dragon.

They travelled along the Cerucian sea's tide, rising and falling like the mists beneath the Emerald Isles divided between Tarragon and Nocturus. No kin shall hold domain over others be it mole or sea beast, Traited or Caster, demon or necromancer. The Mist Maiden’s held no contempt over any race or creed regardless of who started what in the name of the Laia. At least, that’s how it was during Lady Telari’s time.

Before the Divide, demons roamed the lands and every Mist Maiden who took up the cloak swore to serve every realm, even those closed off to them. From light skirmishes in taverns to gang wars lasting generations, the travelling healers had the faith and respect of every kin even the wary Nightspell elves. Oracle destroyed all of that within a single year.

“We had presumed the Taishin had created a way to make the drug but the Mist Maiden’s did not have any connection to-“

“She tested it on her members. All her members.” Kaldra bit back, the Caithsee leader’s factual regurgitation easily irritating the emerald dragon.

The Talonslash’s heavy breathing felt like she had just ran a marathon but sometimes convincing an entire room of doubting leaders was even more exhausting. People like Rizelle and Rayner had resources, influence, other Traited and they had dragons for Laia’s sake. They were the leaders of their clans and surely the groups they guided weren’t too busy or as incompetent as someone like Noirr.

Nivara counted the audible silence in her head.

She couldn’t blame them. She really, really wanted to but despite knowing the lack of visits to her Watchtower it was because of how little the Mist Maidens remained in the same place. They normally ventured along the Shifting Sands current from the Snake Pits at the edge of the Divide and all the way to Elm’s Rest to the edge of the Dominion. From the edge of the Caldorian border with Opalis to the other in Nocturus all in a matter of months. Mist was not an easy thing to detect and their route was only known by a select few.

“Including…you?”

The most simple question in the world had never felt so damning.

Kaldra gave her mother an unmistakable nod.

Quilla’s wail shook the sand beneath their feet, caught between her petite size on top of the Ironwood table and surrounding the room to crush the puny object beneath her feet. The dragon refused to muffle the strangled roar of outrage and grief for the sake of baseless pride but her shame at being the very source of the Lockbind’s history soon sobred the Sentinel of the Silverwings. 

That no matter how wounded she felt by the revelation, her daughter was here and had clawed her way back to her.

 “Aphia knew I had no memory of my time as a child. I’m not sure she knew the cause behind it but she wanted to replicate what we now know the Divide does…on a more permanent basis.” Nivara said, continuing her partner's train of thought as calmly as she could despite her shaking knees.

She didn’t know how Kaldra had kept herself from losing her memories but the only semblence of reason she could cling to was the same reason why she was here. It was why her family had been targeted. It was what had set her on this path from the very beginning. Retribution.

“Then why-“

“The reason you didn’t find a connection was because not a single member other than the High Priestess knew Oracle was being filtered into their grimoires. Not…even me. None of them remembered anything outside of the Mist Maiden’s cause. To heal Truancy. To heal something that according to this council does not exist.”

Nivara closed her eyes in frustration but in reality it was an attempt to steady her pounding heartbeat, the smell of burnt flesh and blood covered sludge of sand sending her right back to the day of her assessment. The day she became Nivara Cross. The day the Tempest of Caldor was born.

“Every single Mist Maiden before that…begged me to release them from its hold. The same way the Eternal Death does now. Retribution…demanded I remain alive. The Indigo grimoire couldn't bear to have its pages taken a second time. So it forged itself out of Oracle’s mist. It became my reason…for everything. Justice from those who would be denied rest. Once it had Aphia’s ashes…nothing else mattered.”

The hollow feeling in Nivara’s chest magnified within the silence of the room. Her vision blurred even as she tried to gauge the reactions from the Council, a mix of sombre disbelief and confusion. It wasn’t unheard of for a Traited to be fixated by a single minded goal but judging from Rayner’s fish eyed expression not even the esteemed Raven Lord had heard of such a dictatorial Abnormal grimoire.

“There’s no reversing it. When a Mist Maiden would use their Trait to heal…the patient would turn to ash mere days later after they left our compound. We’d exhaust ourselves in the hopes that our Trait would be enough but…the Laia’s will was all Aphia spoke of. So it was all we believed in.” Nivara added, knowing what would come next within all the silence.

Taking a deep breath she tried to divert her thoughts from Aphia but she couldn’t help but feel like a naughty child being scolded for doing something out of turn. Looking down she hadn’t noticed her foot tapping against the packed earth, her hands constantly fidgeting with the hem of her sleeve. No matter how hard she tried Nivara couldn’t convince herself they would believe her. So she did the only thing she could and kept talking.

”We thought we were healing them but in reality…we killed them. Our Trait killed them. It carried Oracle like a virus eating away at their mind and our grimoires did the rest. We didn’t just collect the ashes for burial. We collected them because we forgot what we had truly done with them. What Aphia…intended to do with them.”

Her voice broke suddenly, unable to admit the truth, eyes tearing up at the thought of so many lives tainted by the green mist that was so familiar yet so different to the mists that strangled her family. The mental block that soon followed Aphia’s death had been so damning Nivara had almost forgotten it happened. 

Her mist refused to manifest after that day, too broken to continue on with her crusade as Tempest. Until Creed. She had almost perished rescuing Creed from his monstrous father but he got her Trait back, he brought back that spark when it had all but died but now, now it was dwindling again and Nivara…was lost since the Silt Pillars. And now she was stuck here. Recanting her most intimate memories for all to see.

“You used your own kin as a battery?”

Tuskarr’s outcry broke Nivara out of her stupor, blazing hot with shame even as her head lowered even further to the floor. She couldn’t look at the wide eyed stares of pity and fury burning a hole in her grimoire. Counting every grain of sand clinging to her raggedy shoes the clear, ocre specks becoming darker, a greyish black that refused to be wiped away.

“It wasn’t her fault!“

Nivara couldn’t hear her dragon’s voice.

“Do you see any other Mist Maiden here?”

Nivara flinched, the voice warping into the no nonsense tone of the High Priestess, Aphia Laugher. The snide comment seemed to echo and duplicate around the room, the pounding rhythm of war drums made her body wretch, her brain fixated on every wheezy breath she took. Faster. Faster. Faster.

The ashes poured at her feet, faster and faster consuming her vision until all she could see was grey. Once pooled at her feet buried her legs in ash, leaving her skin stained with more than the blue of her cloak. Her hands pressed against her ears but there was no weight to her fingers, the thought of becoming just a speck on the floor just like the others made her want to scream. All she could hear was the sound of rushing sand.

“Sashio. Let her finish.”

Kaldra’s worried face burst into view. 

Still curled up on her lap surrounded by her bright green scales meshing with the blinding blue cloak, Kalaris' quiet beration of her dragon triggered the thought of her own. The Talonslash peered up at her worriedly, flicking her tail nervously and whirring a trail of ash into a frenzy. 

“Apologies, Stormkeeper. My Trait tends to have a mind of its own. Bad memories….and all that. I’ll try to keep it under control. Please. Continue.” Kalaris said briskly, curtly apologising far more than she had before but not for her dragon.

The golden dragon sniffed, bounding off her shoulder and deciding to set her claws down onto the Ironwood table nearest the Tinker Mole. Quilla glared at her but said nothing, Kalaris’ polite gesture cutting through the tension as best as the Shadecaller could.

Nivara didn’t respond for several seconds.

Still stunned by the trail of ash her eyes moved at a snail's pace, following the haphazard line until it settled like fallen snow, beneath a pair of faded greyish black boots sprayed with flecks of mud. Nivara’s eyes travelled upwards, settling on Kalaris’ upturned smile, her mouth in an awkward line that matched her eyes as if hesitant to act so stern towards a creature who kept her alive.

Nivara blinked, the motion effortlessly slow until she could clear her eyes with her hand. It felt like her mind was full of sand, her muscles aching with exhaustion akin to trudging with the weight of another person on her back. Kaldra was strangely weightless on her lap, centring her feet forwards and giving her legs a much needed reminder she was not within the confines of the Watchtower or chained to the Silt Pillars dunes.

”The more we used our Trait around the High Priestess the more susceptible we were to its…side effects. We were all taught by her…we didn’t notice hours, days at a time were missing. I remember…being so tired that all we could do to stay awake was…to pray to the Laia to help us dream.” Nivara admitted, wincing at the last sentence made her throat dry up.

The Laia. She had almost forgotten how much comfort praying had given her during her lowest moments. When there was no candlelight to guide her through reciting scriptures she knew it was better than the chained existence of her childhood. Her life had depended on summoning hellish windstorms and endless rains at the crack of a whip. 

The promise of the Laia’s light and the Mist Maiden’s vows had brought back her purpose, her hope, her everything. She stayed up all night caring for those with the same burns as she, never doubting once that her face could be healed she embraced the ways of the mist and sand like Lady Telari had done. Until that very lightning she tried to control stabbed her in the back. There was no light left to cling to. Only ashes. 

Nivara’s hand clenched over the bridge of her nose, hot tears burning into her mask as if to melt it all away. Retribution refused to give her any more of the relief Oracle dared to provide after so much struggle to fight against it, forcing her bit by bit to push through the blaze of heat that ripped through her vision every time she thought of that man. He wasn’t even the Timekeeper yet she remained. Her childish triumph. Her victory left hollow.

“The Oracle drug's properties are made stronger by latching onto and sacrificing the memories, the very essence that binds a grimoire and immerses it into an object. A Sactorio, it was once called. In this case…it was reversed by the addiction.” Quilla said, after some pressing from her daughter’s reproachful glance.

The Sentinel kept her description very brief, very clinical compared to Nivara’s more emotive retelling but despite her earlier attempts to appeal to their sense of empathy this was somehow far more effective. Perhaps she should have mental breakdowns more often or perhaps, it was the active leadership of a certain Caithsee that was endearing them towards her. Oracle hadn’t just torn apart the Mist Maiden’s after all.

But that word…Sanctorio. It felt old, older than anything Nivara had learned so far like it was a trigger word for a door in her memory she couldn’t unlock. Just as familiar as being with Kaldra on a cold night, as important as restoring her mind to the mysteries her grandmother’s memory left her. As important as her fleeting time as Tempest truly was.

“Neridia initially used arkalite, the Light Traited and Sunspell elves to create a crystallised version of Oracle. The light drinking stone paired with the strength of sunlight…I don’t know how they did it and I wouldn’t know the first thing about turning it into a powder. Arkalite…is unbreakable.” Quilla continued, far more apprehensive than before.

Like a flash of candlelight searing across her vision, the half smile her grandmother’s visitor had given her blazed in Nivara’s mind warping the much older Aidari into a much younger face. Clutching another's hand tightly they trekked among the dunes with ease with the same reassuring smile that met her eyes. 

Darker skin with bright eyes hidden by reams of cloth and a hesitant look in her eyes, Aidari beamed up at the tattooed woman with an unrestrained pride Nivara had ever seen before. Ah. Master Basra. Nivara’s mother’s light tone drifted into her mind, the strong Caldorian accent helping her recall the brief conversation she got to witness while moonlighting as Aidari in her older years. Fiora’s voice faded, being replaced by Rizelle’s less than discernible accent. 

“But we do know how easy it is to trick people into thinking your Trait is something else.” Rizelle added, ominously the shade within the hollowed out pit growing lighter by the second.

Mesmerised, the glass reflected Rizelle’s green eyes back at Nivara. 

Nivara couldn’t help but envy the Caithsee. Caldorian accents were quite strong and despite her attempts to muffle her voice she could not deny where she came from every time she spoke. It wasn’t the ancient calls of Ixian or the widely renowned Nocturian languages from long ago. The Mist Maiden’s were taught to converse from the highest Madrian royals to the depths of the Bloodrock Ravine where they only communicated in Srigil; long, droning calls paired with pictures akin to a five year olds scribble. 

There was no way to truly place Rizelle's origin. 

It was a smart way for an assassin to be. 

And part of Nivara hated that.

“So, we have reason to believe Aphia combined this Neridian research with the Traited itself…leaving only an empty vessel behind. It’s understandable if children who were never taught how their grimoires worked were oblivious to that fact…but could it have inspired the Divide itself?” Kalaris interrupted callously, smugly reminding the Council of Nivara’s childhood amnesia.

The Mist Maiden stared back at the Shadecaller blankly, attempting to avoid smiling as the glint of silver claws soon matched Rizelle’s cutting gaze. It seemed Kalaris had more enemies than friends within this council. Fists clenched, the Perisher leader said nothing, her eyes boring enough fresh claw marks to shred whatever that hat represented to pieces.

“Lightning in a bottle.”

Anirri’s soft, lilting voice grew strong despite her weakened frame as if possessed by some great storm. Her gaze refused to leave the gaping hole of the entrance cutting into the perfectly moulded sand. But much like how the Fatekeeper looked beyond the flame, Nivara tried to look beyond the doorway in the hopes of finding something more within the cluttered hallway.

“Fatekeeper?”

Hack’s concerned tone fell into the background of warbled mutters of worry and concern growing louder the moment a certain, skittish Sunspell elf re-emerged gingerly from view. Nivara blinked rapidly, completely stunned by the display of invisibility despite her hovering constantly beside the door. 

“Lady Sybil? Are you alright?”

Hack stood up in retaliation to Quilla’s voice, almost apologetically trying to convince the girl not to bolt like a scared gazelle. Caught in the act, her haggard eyes darted between Anirri’s strange accusation and down towards her shaking hands as if longing to rejoin the conversation.

“You know as well as I do, Sybil. Aphia was a Lightning Traited. Not a Light Traited. The Endless Storms over Tarragon. It will happen again. With or without your wayward jackalope to guide them.” Anirri continued ominously, a gnarled claw seemingly pointing in the general direction of her scars.

Nivara winced at the strange insult, unsurprised by Sybil’s reaction to sign just as furiously as when she confronted the Raven Lord but her fingers froze mid sentence as if blocked by her lack of confidence. All she gave was a brief, hesitant nod.

“Are you saying Aphia…wanted to recreate them?”

Like the damning of the gavel Nivara’s stomach plummeted.

She couldn’t place who had uttered those horrifying words but she didn’t really care. Nivara clenched her eyes shut but the grinding sounds of sand and the smell of burning flesh would not leave her. The green flash of the Taishin would never leave her. After all, they was the one’s who forced her to create the Endless Storms.

“No. She didn’t need to. She created them. It matches the prior False Prophets goals. To amass power beyond Trait itself. Nivara’s memories…could have been muddled by them. A Sunstress could untangle the threads...”

Sashio tittered before the Sentinel could even finish.

“Not a broken one.”

Nivara didn’t need to look. All the fight in her was gone.