The Dust Pavilion didn't hum.
It listened.
The air inside was dense—not with heat, but with memory. Every breath Ivy took felt like inhaling someone else's story. The scent of old parchment, dried herbs, and faintly burnt spell ink clung to the walls like ghosts.
The ceiling arched high above them, stitched with floating lanterns that flickered like memory threads. Shelves curved like ribs around the room, packed with books that shimmered, hummed, or wept softly. Some hovered midair. Others were chained shut.
Ivy walked slowly, her boots crunching on fragments of scrolls and broken spell tags. Her seal pulsed low, steady, catching the rhythm of the Pavilion's breath.
Tieran followed beside her, his cloak brushing the floor, eyes scanning the shelves with quiet intensity. His jaw was tight. His seal flickered—not with magic, but with irritation.
Because behind them—
The manifestations followed.
The gossipy girl twirled her braid, practically skipping between shelves, her eyes darting between Ivy and Tieran like she was watching a slow-burn romance unfold in real time.
The note-taker hovered just behind Tieran's shoulder, scribbling furiously into a floating scroll that glowed faintly with ink runes.
"Subject A (Ivy): curious, cautious, emotionally layered. Subject B (Tieran): brooding, protective, easily flustered. Chemistry: simmering."
Tieran stopped walking.
Turned.
Stared.
"Do you have to narrate us like we're a potion recipe?"
The note-taker didn't look up.
"Documentation is essential. You're in a living archive. Everything matters."
The gossipy girl leaned toward Ivy.
"Don't mind him. He's just obsessed with structure. I'm here for the vibes."
Ivy blinked.
Then smiled—awkward, polite, tired.
Tieran groaned.
Grabbed Ivy's hand.
"Come on," he muttered. "Before they start describing our breathing patterns."
Ivy let him pull her forward.
Her fingers curled around his.
Her seal pulsed—soft, surprised.
They moved toward a tall shelf near the center of the Pavilion.
It was veined with silver runes and layered in dust so thick it looked like ash. The books here were older—stitched with griefstone, bound with memory thread, some sealed with wax that shimmered faintly.
Tieran stopped in front of it.
Let go of Ivy's hand.
Cleared his throat.
"Okay," he said. "Let's find something useful before the gate starts asking for a kiss scene again."
Ivy snorted.
"Too late. She's already writing fanfiction in her head."
Behind them, the gossipy girl giggled.
The note-taker scribbled.
"Subject B initiated hand-holding. Subject A did not resist. Emotional tension rising. Possible breakthrough imminent."
Tieran turned.
Deadpan.
"I will cast a silence thread on your scroll."
The note-taker didn't flinch.
"Already warded."
Ivy stepped closer to the shelf.
Her fingers brushed the spine of a book labeled Cures That Cost Too Much.
It pulsed.
Faintly.
She looked at Tieran.
He nodded.
She tried to open it.
Pressed the spine.
Traced the runes.
Whispered a soft cast.
Nothing.
Not even a shimmer.
Tieran stepped forward.
Gripped the edges.
Pulled.
Grunted.
The book didn't budge.
Tieran stepped back.
Hands on hips.
Seal flickering with frustration.
"Okay," he muttered. "Is it cursed? Or just rude?"
Ivy stared at it.
"Maybe it's shy. Or judging us. Like everyone else in this room."
The gossipy girl twirled her braid.
"Oh, that one? Yeah, it won't open. The bookkeeper's on vacation."
Tieran blinked.
"…Excuse me?"
Ivy groaned.
"Of course. Of course the sentient library has a vacation schedule."
The note-taker didn't look up.
"Technically, we can open it."
Tieran's eyes lit up.
"Then do it!"
Ivy stepped forward.
"Please. We're trying to save someone's life."
The gossipy girl shrugged.
"Can't. Not unless we have a plot."
Silence.
Tieran blinked.
Ivy stared.
"A plot?" Tieran repeated.
The girl nodded.
"Yep. Emotional stakes. Rising tension. Maybe a twist. Otherwise the Pavilion won't engage."
Ivy rubbed her temples.
"I'm going to scream into a scroll."
The note-taker scribbled.
"Subject A: nearing emotional collapse. Subject B: simmering sarcasm. Stakes: medium-high."
Ivy turned to Tieran.
Voice low.
Dry.
"Do we fake a breakup? Or summon a ghost?"
Tieran leaned in.
Mock-serious.
"Or pretend you're secretly Iva's daughter and I'm the cure?"
The gossipy girl gasped.
"Wait. That's good. Forbidden lineage! Star-crossed healing!"
Ivy rolled his eyes.
"No. That's deranged. And weirdly flattering."
Tieran smirked.
"I'm flattered you think I could be a cure."
Ivy grinned.
"You're more like a side effect."
The book pulsed faintly.
As if listening.
Ivy sighed.
"Fine. We'll give you a plot. But if this turns into a musical, I'm leaving." slightly behind, her eyes narrowed at a floating scroll that kept drifting too close to her shoulder.
She stepped sideways to avoid it.
Her boot caught on a loose thread of memory silk coiled on the floor.
And she slipped.
It wasn't dramatic.
Not at first.
Just a quick, startled gasp and a stumble.
But the floor was slick with dust and old ink, and her balance tipped too far back.
Her arms flailed.
Her braid whipped over her shoulder.
Her seal flared in alarm.
Tieran turned at the sound—just in time to see her falling.
He moved without thinking.
One step. Two. Arms out.
He caught her mid-air.
One arm around her back. The other under her knees. Her cloak fluttered like a startled bird.
For a moment, they didn't breathe.
Ivy's hands clutched his shoulders, fingers digging into the fabric of his cloak. Her eyes were wide, pupils blown, lips parted in a silent oh. Her seal pulsed wildly against his chest.
Tieran's heart was hammering.
He looked down at her.
She looked up at him.
The Pavilion held its breath.
Then—
Tieran raised an eyebrow.
Voice low.
Dry.
"…Did you do that on purpose?"
Ivy blinked.
Her mouth opened.
Then closed.
Then opened again.
"I—no," she said quickly, turning her face away. "Obviously not."
Tieran tilted his head.
"You sure? Because your face is red."
Ivy groaned.
"Put me down."
"Not until you admit it."
"I tripped on a scroll thread, Tieran."
"Uh-huh."
Behind them, the gossipy girl gasped.
Clapped her hands.
Her braid bounced with excitement.
"Oh my gods, the chemistry! The tension! The accidental fall into his arms? Classic!"
The note-taker didn't even look up.
"Common scene. Overused. Nothing new."
Tieran glanced at Ivy.
Still holding her.
Still close.
Still warm.
"You're still red," he said.
"I'm going to hex your eyebrows off."
He grinned.
"Worth it."
Ivy shoved at his chest.
He let her down—slowly, carefully, like she was made of something fragile.
She straightened her cloak.
Avoided his eyes.
Her seal was still glowing.
Tieran stepped back.
Cleared his throat.
The Pavilion exhaled.
The lanterns flickered.
The books rustled louder.
The gossipy girl leaned toward the note-taker.
"Come on, that was adorable. You're telling me you didn't feel anything?"
The note-taker sighed.
"Fine. I'll bump the chemistry rating. But only by half a point."
Tieran turned to Ivy.
"You okay?"
She nodded.
Still not looking at him.
"Fine. Just… humiliated in front of a sentient library."
He smiled.
"Could've been worse."
"How?"
"You could've fallen into a romance subplot."
Ivy looked at him then.
Eyes narrowed.
Lips twitching.
"Shut up."
The book on the shelf pulsed.
Once.
Twice.
Listening.
Tieran was leaning against the edge of the shelf, arms crossed, seal flickering lazily at his collarbone. His cloak had slipped slightly off one shoulder, revealing the edge of a cast scar that shimmered faintly in the lantern light.
Ivy stood beside him, arms folded, weight shifted to one leg. Her braid was loose now, a few strands curling around her cheek. Her seal pulsed low, steady, like a heartbeat trying not to speed up.
She turned to him suddenly.
Eyes narrowed.
Voice soft, but sharp.
"Why do I feel like you've gotten bolder and shameless ever since your emotions got unsealed?"
Tieran blinked.
Then smirked.
"Maybe I'm just overloaded," he said. "Too much emotional food. No digestion."
Ivy stared at him.
Then blinked.
Then groaned.
"That's disgusting."
Tieran shrugged.
"Accurate."
Ivy punched his shoulder.
Not hard.
But enough to make him flinch.
"Stop being weird," she muttered, cheeks flushing.
Tieran rubbed his arm, mock-wounded.
"Was that necessary?"
Ivy didn't answer.
She was looking down now, at the floor, at the dust, at anything but him.
Her seal flickered.
Her fingers curled into the edge of her cloak.
Tieran tilted his head.
Watched her.
"You're blushing."
"I am not."
"You are."
"Shut up."
The lanterns above flickered brighter.
The book pulsed again.
The Pavilion leaned closer.
Tieran stepped toward her.
Just slightly.
Enough to close the space between them.
"I'm not trying to be bold," he said, voice lower now. "I just… feel more like myself. Less locked up."
Ivy looked up.
Met his eyes.
Her own were wide, uncertain, threaded with something soft.
"I liked you locked up," she said.
Tieran smiled.
"You liked me quiet."
"I liked you manageable."
He laughed.
Soft.
Real.
"I'm still manageable."
She raised an eyebrow.
"You just compared your feelings to food."
"Exactly. I'm digestible."
Ivy groaned again.
Turned away.
Her braid swung behind her like punctuation.
The gossipy girl peeked around the shelf.
Eyes wide.
"Did I miss a confession?"
The note-taker sighed.
"Still subtext. No breakthrough."
Ivy turned back to Tieran.
Her cheeks still pink.
Her seal still glowing.
"Next time you say something like that," she said, "I'm punching harder."
Tieran nodded.
"Fair."
The Pavilion pulsed.
The book shimmered.
And somewhere in the archive—
A page turned.
The Pavilion had grown too quiet.
Not the curious hush of a library, but the kind of silence that comes before a storm. The floating lanterns above dimmed slightly, their golden glow flickering like candlelight caught in a draft. The dust in the air thickened, swirling in slow spirals, as if the room itself was holding its breath.
Tieran stood still.
His back straight. His jaw tight. His seal pulsing low and steady at his throat like a warning drum.
He wasn't smiling anymore.
The gossipy girl had just finished giggling over Ivy's blush. The note-taker was still scribbling, muttering something about "emotional arcs" and "predictable beats." The book on the shelf continued to pulse faintly, as if amused by the drama but unmoved by the stakes.
Tieran's voice cut through the air like a blade.
Low. Even. Dead serious.
"Open the book."
The gossipy girl blinked.
Paused mid-twirl.
The note-taker looked up, startled.
His quill froze mid-word.
Tieran didn't raise his voice.
He didn't need to.
There was something in his tone—something sharp and final—that made the Pavilion itself seem to lean back.
"I'm not asking anymore," he said. "Open it. Now."
The gossipy girl tilted her head.
Her smile didn't fade.
But her eyes—
They changed.
Gone was the playful sparkle.
In its place: something ancient. Something sharp. Something dangerous.
She raised her arm.
Her sleeve shimmered—stitched with ink and thread and something that looked like starlight.
Then she swung it.
A gust of wind tore through the Pavilion.
The lanterns above flared. The dust scattered. The shelves groaned.
And one of the far walls—
Exploded.
Not cracked. Not crumbled.
Exploded.
Stone shattered. Scrolls flew. A wave of heat and light rippled through the room like a cast gone wrong.
Ivy gasped.
Stumbled back.
Her hand shot out—
And grabbed Tieran's arm.
Tight.
Fingers digging into the fabric of his sleeve.
Her seal flared.
Her eyes wide.
Mouth parted.
Tieran didn't move.
Didn't flinch.
His eyes were locked on the girl.
The gossipy girl lowered her arm.
The dust settled.
She smiled.
"Better not spoil my mood," she said sweetly. "Or you'll end up like that wall."
Ivy's grip tightened.
Her voice was barely a whisper.
"Tieran…"
He shifted slightly.
Just enough to angle himself between her and the girl.
His seal pulsed brighter now—silver and steady.
The gossipy girl turned to Ivy.
Her smile softened.
Her voice dropped to something almost kind.
"Don't be scared," she said. "I can be nice. I just need… stories. Secrets. Gossips."
She twirled her braid again.
The dust sparkled around her like glitter caught in a storm.
"Give me something juicy," she added. "And I'll be so helpful."
The note-taker finally spoke.
His voice was flat.
Unimpressed.
"Overreaction. Power flex. Classic manifestation tantrum. Noted."
The girl shot him a glare.
He shrugged.
Tieran exhaled slowly.
Then looked down at Ivy.
Her hand was still on his arm.
Her eyes still wide.
"You okay?" he asked, voice low.
She nodded.
But didn't let go.
The Pavilion was quiet again.
But not calm.
The books rustled nervously. The lanterns flickered. The broken wall smoked faintly in the distance.
The Pavilion was still trembling.
Not visibly. Not loudly. But in the way old places do—when something has shifted beneath the surface.
The broken wall smoked faintly in the distance, griefstone shards scattered across the floor like spilled secrets. The floating lanterns above flickered erratically, casting long, uneven shadows that danced across the shelves. The books had gone quiet again. Not asleep—watching.
Ivy hadn't moved.
Her hand was still curled around Tieran's arm, fingers tight, seal pulsing faintly against his sleeve. Her breath was shallow. Her eyes wide. Her body tense.
Tieran turned to her.
His expression softened.
The sharpness in his jaw eased.
His seal dimmed to a low, steady glow.
He reached up.
Gently.
And patted her hand.
Twice.
"Hey," he said, voice low. "It's fine. It's fine."
Ivy didn't respond.
Not right away.
Her brow twitched.
Just slightly.
Like something inside her had been nudged.
Then—
Her head went light.
Not dizzy.
Not faint.
Just… numb.
The dust around her seemed to slow.
The lanterns dimmed.
The shelves blurred.
And suddenly—
She wasn't in the Pavilion anymore.
She was small.
Tiny.
Three years old, maybe.
Her knees scraped. Her cheeks wet. Her voice hoarse from crying.
She remembered the floor—cold stone. The smell of ink and moss. The ache in her chest.
And then—
Footsteps.
Soft.
Quick.
A boy.
Nine, maybe ten.
Silver eyes.
Messy hair.
A cast mark glowing faintly at his wrist.
He knelt beside her.
Picked her up.
Held her close.
"It's fine," he whispered. "It's fine."
The same words.
The same tone.
The same warmth.
Her memory pulsed.
Her seal flared.
And she was back.
Back in the Pavilion.
Back in the dust.
Back in Tieran's arms.
Her eyes were teary now.
Not sobbing.
Not broken.
Just… full.
She blinked.
Once.
Twice.
Her breath caught.
Tieran was still watching her.
His hand still on hers.
His eyes steady.
"You okay?" he asked again.
Ivy nodded.
Barely.
Her voice was a whisper.
"I remembered something."
Tieran tilted his head.
"What?"
She looked up.
Met his eyes.
Her own were glassy.
Soft.
"You said that to me once," she said. "When I was little. I was crying. You picked me up. You said… 'It's fine.'"
Tieran blinked.
Then smiled.
Slow.
Gentle.
"I say that a lot."
"No," she said. "You said it exactly like that."
He didn't speak.
Just looked at her.
Like he was seeing something old.
Something buried.
Something true.
The Pavilion was still humming.
Not loudly. Not musically. But in that strange, breathless way that old places do when something important has just happened.
The broken wall still smoked faintly in the distance, griefstone shards scattered like punctuation marks across the floor. The lanterns above flickered with a soft, golden light, casting long shadows that curled around Ivy and Tieran like vines.
Ivy's eyes were still glassy.
Her hand still rested on Tieran's arm.
Her breath was slow, uneven.
The gossipy girl stepped forward.
Her braid bounced with curiosity.
Her eyes sparkled.
"Was that a flashback?" she asked, voice high and delighted. "Quite interesting. Tell us more."
The note-taker didn't look up.
Just scribbled.
"Possible memory thread. Emotional resonance: high. Potential subplot: unlocked."
Tieran shifted slightly.
His seal pulsed low.
His voice was calm, but firm.
"Her memories aren't clear."
Ivy blinked.
Then looked up.
Her voice was quiet.
But steady.
"I saw myself," she said. "Small. Crying. Maybe three years old. And Tieran… older. Nine, maybe. He picked me up. Said it was fine."
The gossipy girl gasped.
Clapped her hands.
"Perfect! Write that down. That's Chapter 34."
The note-taker nodded.
"Noted. Title suggestion: The Boy Who Said It Was Fine."
Ivy turned to the girl.
Her eyes still wet.
Her voice soft.
"Can you open the book now?"
The girl tilted her head.
Smiled.
"Why?"
Ivy blinked.
Then sniffled.
Faked a tear.
Let her voice wobble.
"Because I'm emotionally fragile and desperate for answers."
Tieran leaned in.
Murmured.
"You're smart."
Ivy didn't look at him.
Just sniffled again.
The gossipy girl sighed.
Dramatically.
"Fine. But only because you gave me a flashback and a fake tear."
She stepped forward.
Her sleeve shimmered—stitched with ink and thread and something that looked like starlight.
She reached out.
Touched the book's spine.
The runes flared.
The seal pulsed.
And the book—
Opened.
Not gently.
Not politely.
But like a door kicked in by a storm.
Pages spilled out.
Not just one or two.
But hundreds.
The book was massive.
Too large for the shelf.
Too large for the table.
It unfolded like a map of grief and memory, spilling across the floor in waves of parchment and ink.
Ivy gasped.
Then dropped to her knees.
Her cloak pooled around her like a shadow.
Her fingers flew to the pages.
She slipped through them.
Fast.
Desperate.
Her seal pulsing with urgency.
The pages were warm.
Alive.
Some whispered.
Some wept.
Some shimmered with half-cast spells and broken cures.
Tieran knelt beside her.
Not touching.
Just watching.
His eyes scanning the pages.
His seal glowing faintly.
The gossipy girl leaned against a shelf.
Grinning.
"This is so dramatic," she whispered.
The note-taker scribbled.
"Chapter 35: The Book That Needed a Plot."
Ivy's fingers paused on a page.
Her breath caught.
Her eyes widened.
The page before her was darker than the others—its ink a deep, rusted red, its edges singed as if it had been pulled from a fire. The runes shimmered faintly, pulsing in time with her seal.
She read aloud, voice low.
Almost a whisper.
"Burning Darkness… darkest and deadly… swallows life… burns blood…"
Her voice faltered.
She swallowed.
Continued.
"Aftereffects include… memory erosion, seal corruption, emotional bleed, and… soul tethering."
Tieran's eyes narrowed.
He leaned closer.
"Soul tethering?"
Ivy nodded.
Her fingers trembled slightly as she traced the final line.
"And the cure…"
She paused.
Brows furrowing.
"The cure is in Part Two of Bloody Classics."
Silence.
Ivy blinked.
Looked up.
"Wait. Part two of what? Doesn't this book have the cure?"
Tieran exhaled slowly.
His voice was calm.
Measured.
But there was steel beneath it.
"Where is Bloody Classics?"
The gossipy girl perked up.
"Oh! That's easy."
She turned to the note-taker.
Snapped her fingers.
"Tell them."
The note-taker didn't look up.
Just pointed.
Up.
Ivy and Tieran followed his finger.
Their eyes rose.
Past the shelves. Past the lanterns. To the very top of the Pavilion.
There it was.
A single, thick volume.
Bound in red leather. Veined with silver thread. Its spine glowing faintly.
Bloody Classics, Vol. II.
It sat on the highest shelf.
Twelve feet up.
No ladder. No floating platforms. No obvious way to reach it.
Ivy stood slowly.
Her cloak rustled.
She craned her neck.
Squinted.
"You've got to be kidding me."
Tieran rose beside her.
His eyes narrowed.
"No ladder?"
The gossipy girl shrugged.
"Pavilion rules. If you want the good stuff, you have to earn it."
The note-taker added, without looking up:
"Symbolic elevation. The cure is always just out of reach. Classic metaphor."
Ivy groaned.
Rubbed her temples.
"I hate metaphors."
Tieran stepped forward.
Stared up at the shelf.
His seal pulsed brighter now—silver and steady.
The Pavilion was not cooperating.
The lanterns above flickered like they were laughing. The shelves pulsed faintly, their runes glowing with smugness. The book Ivy had just opened lay sprawled across the floor like a drama queen fainting on stage, its pages fluttering in slow, deliberate sighs.
And the cure?
Still twelve feet up.
Still unreachable.
Still sitting on the highest shelf like a smug little secret.
Tieran stood beneath it, arms crossed, seal pulsing low and steady. He squinted up at Bloody Classics, Vol. II, calculating angles, shelf strength, and the likelihood of Ivy trying to climb him like a ladder.
Ivy, meanwhile, was already scheming.
"No magic allowed for outsiders," The note taker said bluntly spoiling ivy's scheme. "Fine. We'll go along." Said ivy.
She grabbed a stack of books from a nearby shelf.
Heavy ones.
Thick ones.
The kind bound in griefstone and stitched with memory thread.
She began stacking them.
One by one.
A tower of knowledge.
A ladder of desperation.
Tieran watched silently.
The gossipy girl leaned against a shelf, sipping from a floating teacup that hadn't existed five minutes ago.
The note-taker scribbled.
"Subject A: improvising. Subject B: skeptical. Stakes: mildly absurd."
Ivy climbed onto the first book.
It groaned.
She stepped onto the second.
It hissed.
By the third—
They flew.
The entire stack scattered like startled birds, pages flapping, runes sparking. Ivy stumbled back, arms flailing, cloak whipping around her like a storm.
She landed on her feet.
Barely.
"Books don't like being stepped on," Tieran said dryly.
Ivy glared at him.
"I noticed."
She turned to the shelf again.
Then to the ceiling.
Then to the floor.
Then—
Her stomach growled.
Loudly.
Tieran raised an eyebrow.
The gossipy girl perked up.
The note-taker scribbled.
"Subject A: hunger-induced emotional collapse imminent."
Ivy sighed.
Her shoulders slumped.
Her braid drooped.
She turned to Tieran.
Eyes wide.
Voice soft.
"I'm hungry."
Tieran blinked.
She blinked back.
"I'm really hungry."
She tilted her head.
Let her seal flicker faintly.
Her eyes shimmered.
"Please?"
Tieran groaned.
"You're doing the puppy eyes."
"I'm starving."
He turned to the manifestations.
"Can we cook here?"
The gossipy girl grinned.
"Of course! Behind the broken wall. Pavilion kitchen. Very aesthetic."
The note-taker pointed.
"Coordinates: 12 steps east, 3 steps north, past the smoldering griefstone."
Ivy didn't move.
She was now lying on the floor.
Flat.
Face pressed to the parchment.
"I can't cast with hunger," she mumbled. "My emotions are in my stomach. They're hiding my magic."
Tieran stared.
Then snorted.
"Or maybe your brain is in your stomach."
Ivy didn't respond.
Just groaned.
Tieran sighed.
Knelt.
Turned.
"Get on."
Ivy blinked.
"What?"
"Back. Now. I'm carrying you."
She hesitated.
Then climbed onto his back.
Her arms looped around his shoulders.
Her seal pulsed faintly against his spine.
"You're warm," she murmured.
"You're heavy."
"I'm emotionally dense."
He stood.
Adjusted her weight.
Started walking.
The Pavilion watched.
The lanterns flickered.
The books whispered.
The gossipy girl gasped.
"Wait! I need to see this."
She floated after them.
Literally.
Her feet didn't touch the ground.
Her braid sparkled.
The note-taker followed.
Still scribbling.
"Chapter 24: Emotional Collapse and Culinary Recovery."
They passed the broken wall.
Smoke curled around their ankles.
The griefstone floor shifted beneath their feet.
And then—
The kitchen.
It was carved into the Pavilion itself.
Stone counters veined with silver. Floating spice jars labeled in ancient runes. A cauldron bubbling with something that smelled like cinnamon and chaos.
Tieran stepped inside.
Ivy slid off his back.Collapsed onto a cushioned bench.
"I'm dying," she said.
"You're dramatic."
"I'm starving."
"You're still dramatic."
The gossipy girl clapped.
"Let's cook!"
The note-taker sighed.
"Chapter 25: The Soup of Emotional Rebirth."
And the Pavilion—
Exhaled.