The Pavilion's kitchen was not what Ivy expected.
She'd imagined something rustic. Quiet. Maybe a cauldron or two.
Instead—
It was alive.
The walls were carved from griefstone, veined with silver and pulsing faintly with heat. Floating spice jars spun slowly in midair, labeled in ancient runes that translated themselves depending on mood. A long counter shimmered with embedded cast threads, and the stove—if it could be called that—looked like a sentient forge that judged your seasoning choices.
The gossipy girl floated in, braid bouncing, eyes wide.
"Ooh, this is so domestic. I love it. Are we cooking together? Is this a bonding scene?"
The note-taker followed, already scribbling.
"Chapter 24: No Magic, Just Meals. Subtext: simmering tension, emotional hunger, possible soup-based confession."
Tieran rolled up his sleeves.
Approached the forge-stove.
It flared slightly.
Judged him.
He ignored it.
Ivy watched from the bench.
Her eyes half-lidded.
Her seal pulsing faintly.
The forge-stove flared again.
A low, rumbling puff of heat rolled out from its iron mouth, curling around Tieran's boots like a warning. The embedded runes along its base shimmered—red, then gold, then a faint, judgmental blue.
Tieran ignored it.
He reached for a ladle that had begun hovering nearby, its handle twitching like it was unsure whether to help or slap his hand away. The counter beneath his fingers was warm, humming faintly with cast-thread energy. It felt like cooking on a living thing's spine.
Behind him, Ivy shifted on the bench.
Her cloak had slipped off one shoulder. Her braid was half undone, a few strands curling around her cheek like lazy vines. She was curled sideways now, one leg tucked beneath her, the other dangling just above the floor. Her seal pulsed faintly at her collarbone, a soft, silvery glow that matched the flicker in her eyes.
She watched him.
Head tilted.
Voice soft.
"You're really cooking."
Tieran didn't look back.
"I'm really cooking."
There was a pause.
A flicker of warmth in the air.
Then Ivy smiled—slow, sleepy, and just a little mischievous.
"Good," she said. "You're the best cook in the world."
Tieran snorted.
The forge-stove flared again, as if offended.
Ivy kept going, her voice lilting now, teasing.
"I've never gotten bored of the porridge. Eating it every day. Every. Single. Morning."
Tieran turned slightly, one eyebrow raised.
"But you complain."
"I do," Ivy said, stretching her arms overhead like a cat. "Because you can cook other delicious things too. But you always give me porridge for breakfast."
Tieran stirred something in the pot—something thick and golden and starting to smell like cinnamon and defiance.
"That's because," he said, "you never buy proper ingredients."
Ivy gasped.
Mock-offended.
"I buy things!"
"You buy vibes," Tieran said. "You come home with starfruit, edible glitter, and a single haunted onion."
"It was aesthetic."
"It was useless."
"It whispered to me."
"It molded in two days."
Ivy flopped dramatically onto the bench, one arm over her eyes.
"I'm an artist, Tieran. I don't shop with logic. I shop with feeling."
Tieran ladled the soup into a floating bowl. The bowl hovered uncertainly, then drifted toward Ivy like it was afraid of being judged.
The gossipy girl clapped from the corner.
"This is so domestic. I'm dying. Can I write this into a romance subplot?"
The note-taker didn't look up.
"Already did. Chapter 26: The Porridge Betrayal."
Ivy sat up slowly.
Took the bowl.
Sniffed it.
Her eyes widened.
"You added nutmeg."
Tieran shrugged.
"You like nutmeg."
Ivy blinked.
Then smiled.
Soft.
Real.
"I do."
The forge-stove flared again.
This time, it purred.
The Pavilion exhaled.
And the soup—
Was perfect.
The soup was warm.
Not just in temperature, but in feeling. It tasted like cinnamon and nutmeg and something older—like memory, like comfort, like the kind of meal that didn't just fill your stomach but stitched something back together inside you.
Ivy finished her bowl in slow, sleepy spoonfuls, her eyes half-lidded, her movements growing slower with each bite. Her seal, which had been flickering erratically all day, now pulsed in a soft, steady rhythm—like a lullaby.
She set the empty bowl down on the bench beside her.
Let out a tiny sigh.
And curled up.
Her head rested on her folded arms. Her braid slipped over her shoulder, trailing across the cushion like a ribbon of dusk. Her boots dangled just off the edge of the bench, one toe twitching once, then going still.
Her breath evened out.
Her seal dimmed.
And she was asleep.
Just like that.
Tieran turned from the stove, ladle still in hand.
He blinked.
Stared.
"…Seriously?"
No answer.
Just the soft sound of Ivy's breathing.
The gossipy girl floated closer, peering over Tieran's shoulder into the pot. Her braid bounced with curiosity, and her eyes sparkled like she'd just witnessed the final scene of a romance drama.
"She fell asleep?" she whispered, delighted.
Tieran nodded slowly.
"She fell asleep."
The note-taker hovered beside them, scribbling furiously.
"Subject A: unconscious. Subject B: resigned. Emotional saturation: complete. Narrative arc: closed for the day."
Tieran sighed.
Set the ladle down with a soft clink.
He reached for a bowl—plain, wide, rimmed with silver—and filled it with the remaining soup. The forge-stove purred in approval, its runes glowing a soft amber.
He turned to the manifestations.
Voice low. Dry.
"Rest is yours. Dig in."
The gossipy girl clapped her hands.
"Oh, finally. I've been emotionally starving."
The note-taker didn't respond.
Just kept writing.
Even as he reached for a bowl with one hand, his quill never stopped moving.
Tieran walked back to the bench.
Sat down beside Ivy.
Carefully.
Quietly.
His cloak rustled as he settled in, folding one leg beneath him, the other stretched out toward the warm hearthlight of the forge-stove. He set his bowl on the floor beside him, untouched for now.
He looked at Ivy.
She was still asleep.
Her brow was relaxed now. Her lips parted slightly. A faint smudge of soup clung to the corner of her mouth. Her fingers twitched once, then curled into the fabric of her cloak.
Tieran exhaled.
Ran a hand through his hair.
His seal pulsed low, steady.
He leaned back against the wall, eyes half-closed.
"Let the worries shift to tomorrow," he murmured.
The Pavilion seemed to agree.
The lanterns above dimmed, casting a soft, golden glow across the kitchen. The floating spice jars slowed their spinning, drifting into a gentle hover. The forge-stove settled into a low, steady hum, like a heartbeat beneath the stone.
The gossipy girl sat cross-legged on the counter, sipping from a floating teacup that hadn't existed a moment ago. Her braid shimmered in the low light, and her eyes were fixed on the broken wall she'd shattered earlier.
She raised a hand.
Snapped her fingers.
A ripple of magic shimmered through the air—soft, pink, and glittering like stardust. The broken wall began to knit itself back together, griefstone shards lifting from the floor and slotting into place like puzzle pieces. The cracks sealed with silver thread. The scorch marks faded.
The wall was whole again.
Better than before.
The gossipy girl smiled.
"See? I can be helpful."
The note-taker didn't look up.
"Chapter 25: Restoration and Rest. Subtext: emotional digestion, literal and metaphorical."
Tieran's head tilted back.
His eyes closed.
His breathing slowed.
And beside him, Ivy slept on.
The Pavilion exhaled.
The dust settled.
And for the first time in what felt like days—
There was peace.
The Pavilion's kitchen was quiet.
Not silent—settled.
The forge-stove hummed softly, its runes glowing a gentle amber. The floating spice jars had drifted into a slow, synchronized orbit above the counter, casting faint shadows that danced across the griefstone walls. The lanterns overhead flickered with a warm, golden light, like sunlight filtered through memory.
Ivy stirred.
Her breath hitched once, then evened out.
She blinked slowly, eyes adjusting to the soft glow. Her cheek was pressed against the cushion, her braid tangled across her shoulder, and her cloak had slipped halfway off, pooling around her like a blanket made of dusk.
She sat up.
Stretched.
Her seal pulsed faintly at her collarbone, a soft silver glow that matched the flicker in her eyes.
Across the room, Tieran stood at the stove.
His back was to her.
He was stirring something in the pot—slow, steady circles, the kind that meant he'd been doing it for a while. His cloak was folded neatly on a nearby stool. His sleeves were rolled up. His hair was slightly tousled, like he'd run a hand through it too many times.
The scent of porridge filled the air.
Warm.
Nutmeg.
Cinnamon.
Comfort.
Ivy stood.
Barefoot now, her boots forgotten beside the bench.
She padded across the stone floor, her steps soft, her seal flickering with each movement.
She stopped beside him.
Tilted her head.
Voice soft.
Sleepy.
Teasing.
"Porridge again?"
Tieran didn't look up.
Just stirred.
"Don't you like it?"
Ivy smiled.
"Sure. But there are other foods too."
Tieran finally glanced at her.
His eyes were steady.
Warm.
Dry.
"But porridge is gentle on the stomach. And nutritious."
Ivy leaned against the counter.
Her braid slipped over her shoulder.
Her fingers brushed the edge of the pot.
"I'm emotionally hungry."
Tieran raised an eyebrow.
"Your body needs nutrition."
He paused.
Then added, with a sigh:
"Sometimes I feel like I'm with a kid."
Ivy gasped.
Mock-offended.
"Because you're old."
Tieran turned fully now.
Faced her.
His seal pulsed.
His expression was somewhere between amused and exasperated.
"Come on. I'm not that old."
Ivy grinned.
"Your porridge says otherwise."
Tieran rolled his eyes.
"I'll make something else tomorrow."
"Promise?"
"Maybe."
"Swear on your seal."
"I'm not swearing on anything until you buy proper ingredients."
Ivy laughed.
Soft.
Real.
The gossipy girl giggled from the doorway.
Her braid bounced.
Her eyes sparkled.
"This is so domestic. I'm obsessed."
The note-taker didn't look up.
Still writing.
"Chapter 26: The Morning Stir. Subtext: emotional nutrition, age denial, porridge diplomacy."
Ivy turned back to Tieran.
Her voice dropped.
Softer now.
"Thanks for cooking."
Tieran shrugged.
"You were tired."
"I was starving."
"You're always starving."
"I'm always dramatic."
Tieran smiled.
"True."
Ivy leaned her head against his shoulder.
Just for a moment.
Her seal pulsed.
His did too.
The forge-stove purred.
The Pavilion exhaled.
And the morning—
Was warm.
The Pavilion's kitchen was quiet.
Not silent—settled.
The forge-stove hummed softly, casting a warm amber glow across the griefstone floor. The floating spice jars drifted in slow, lazy circles above the counter, their runes dimmed to a sleepy shimmer. The lanterns overhead flickered gently, like candlelight caught in a dream.
Ivy stood beside Tieran, her fingers brushing the edge of the counter, her braid trailing down her back in loose, sleepy waves. Her seal pulsed faintly at her collarbone, a soft silver glow that matched the flicker in her eyes.
She was smiling.
Teasing.
Warm.
But then—
Her brow twitched.
Just slightly.
Her hand slipped from the counter.
Her breath hitched.
And the world—
Tilted.
She swayed.
One step back.
Then two.
Her knees buckled.
Her seal flared—erratic, sharp.
Tieran moved instantly.
His arm shot out.
Caught her around the waist.
Held her steady.
"Ivy—"
She didn't answer.
Not yet.
Her eyes were wide.
Unfocused.
Her head tilted slightly, as if listening to something far away.
Then—
The memory.
She was small.
Tiny.
Three years old.
Her feet bare on cold stone.
Her arms reaching—up, up—toward a shelf too tall, too far.
A jar of candy glimmered at the top.
Red wrappers.
Gold ribbons.
Sweetness.
She reached.
Stumbled.
Almost fell.
And then—
Arms.
Strong.
Warm.
A boy.
Nine years old.
Silver eyes.
Messy hair.
A cast mark glowing faintly at his wrist.
He lifted her.
Carried her on his shoulders.
Her laughter echoed through the room.
High.
Bright.
Safe.
"I'll get it for you," he said.
She giggled.
Held his head.
Reached again.
Then—
The present.
The memory snapped.
The warmth faded.
The candy jar vanished.
She was back.
In the Pavilion.
In Tieran's arms.
Her breath shallow.
Her seal flickering.
Tieran's voice was low.
Steady.
Concerned.
"You okay?"
Ivy blinked.
Nodded.
Barely.
"Maybe I'm too weak," she whispered. "I'm seeing things."
Tieran didn't let go.
Just held her a moment longer.
Then guided her gently to the bench.
She sat.
Slowly.
Her cloak pooled around her like dusk.
Her fingers trembled.
Her eyes were glassy.
Tieran turned to the stove.
Ladled porridge into bowls.
Warm.
Thick.
Nutmeg.
Cinnamon.
Comfort.
He handed Ivy her bowl.
She took it.
Held it.
Let the warmth seep into her fingers.
The gossipy girl floated closer.
Her braid bounced.
Her eyes sparkled.
"You're in full spirit now," she said.
The note-taker scribbled.
"Chapter 27: Memory Surge and Nutritional Recovery."
Ivy ate slowly.
Spoonful by spoonful.
Her seal steadied.
Her breath evened.
Her eyes cleared.
Tieran sat beside her.
His bowl half-finished.
His gaze steady.
The forge-stove purred.
The lanterns glowed.
The Pavilion exhaled.
Ivy set her bowl down.
Stood.
Straightened her cloak.
Her braid swung behind her like punctuation.
She turned to Tieran.
Grabbed his hand.
Then her satchel.
"Now," she said, voice clear. "Let's get the book."
Tieran blinked.
Then smiled.
Soft.
Real.
"Let's."
The gossipy girl clapped.
The note-taker scribbled.
The Pavilion leaned in.
The Pavilion's archive was quiet.
Not silent—expectant.
The lanterns above flickered with a soft, golden glow, casting long shadows across the griefstone floor. Dust hung in the air like breath held too long, swirling in slow spirals that caught the light like memory threads.
Ivy and Tieran stood before the twelve-foot shelf.
It loomed.
Tall. Smug. Unreachable.
At the very top, nestled between two volumes bound in grief-thread and sealed with wax, sat Bloody Classics, Vol. II.
Its spine shimmered faintly.
Its runes pulsed.
It waited.
Tieran squinted up at it.
Then turned.
Walked back to the kitchen.
Returned with a chair.
Two feet tall.
Sturdy-looking.
He placed it beneath the shelf.
Stepped up.
Stretched.
His fingers reached—
Almost.
Then—
Crack.
The chair splintered.
Collapsed beneath him.
But Tieran—
Moved like water.
He twisted midair.
Landed on his feet.
Boots skidding slightly on the dust-slick floor.
Cloak flaring behind him like a curtain caught in wind.
The gossipy girl gasped.
"Ten out of ten landing!"
The note-taker didn't look up.
"Forget using anything inside. The spirits keep you away. You must do it yourself."
Ivy stood still.
Her seal pulsed faintly.
Her braid curled around her shoulder.
She tilted her head.
Thought.
Then—
Something shifted.
A flicker.
A thread.
Her brain did something.
Not magic.
Not memory.
Just… connection.
She looked at Tieran.
Head to toe.
Then stepped forward.
"Stand beside the shelf," she said.
Tieran blinked.
"Okay…"
She smiled.
Soft.
Playful.
"I've got an idea."
He raised an eyebrow.
"Let's see it."
She stepped closer.
Her voice dropped.
Gentle.
Warm.
"Can you carry me?"
Tieran stared.
"What?"
"Like once," Ivy said. "When I was small. You carried me to reach the candy jar on the high shelf."
Tieran's eyes widened.
"You started to remember?"
Ivy nodded.
"A bit. But let's get the book first."
Tieran exhaled.
Then knelt.
Turned.
Let her climb onto his back.
Her arms looped around his shoulders.
Her seal pulsed against his spine.
His hands gripped her legs.
He stood.
Carefully.
Slowly.
Ivy rose with him.
Her braid trailing behind her like a banner.
Her eyes locked on the shelf.
Her fingers twitching.
The book was close.
Two inches away.
She stretched.
Her fingers brushed the air.
"Just a bit away," she whispered. "Can you hold me higher?"
Tieran nodded.
Shifted.
Stood on his toes.
His boots slid slightly.
His seal flared.
Ivy reached.
Her fingers brushed the spine.
Then gripped it.
Pulled.
The book came free.
And then—
Boom.
They fell.
Not hard.
Not fast.
But enough.
Tieran twisted midair.
His arms wrapped around Ivy.
His hand cradled her head.
They landed in a heap.
Dust spiraled around them.
The book skidded across the floor.
Came to rest in a corner.
Its pages fluttered.
Silence.
Then—
Tieran's voice.
Low.
Breathless.
"Are you okay?"
Ivy blinked.
Nodded.
"Are you okay?"
He smiled.
"Didn't think it would be this simple."
Ivy laughed.
Soft.
Real.
"It was quite fun."
They lay there a moment longer.
Breathing.
Smiling.
Dust settling around them like confetti.
The gossipy girl clapped.
"I ship this so hard."
The note-taker scribbled.
"Chapter 25: The Book That Needed a Shoulder. Subtext: memory recovery, emotional trust, romantic potential."
Tieran sat up.
Helped Ivy to her feet.
She brushed dust from her cloak.
He retrieved the book.
Held it out.
"Ready?"
Ivy nodded.
Her seal pulsed.
Her eyes sparkled.
"Let's open it."
The book was heavier than it looked.
Bound in grief-thread and veined with silver, Bloody Classics, Vol. II pulsed faintly in Ivy's hands. Dust clung to its cover like memory, and the runes etched into its spine shimmered with a quiet, unreadable rhythm.
Ivy brushed the dust away.
Slowly.
Deliberately.
Her fingers trembled slightly as she opened the cover.
The pages whispered.
Some curled.
Some shimmered.
Some wept.
She flipped through them—one by one—until her eyes caught the title.
Burning Darkness: Cure
She stilled.
The page was blank.
No instructions.
No runes.
No diagrams.
Just a title.
And silence.
Tieran leaned over her shoulder.
Brows furrowed.
"Why is it empty?"
The note-taker, still scribbling, didn't look up.
"It needs a blood sacrifice."
Ivy froze.
Her breath hitched.
Her seal flared.
"Blood?" she whispered.
The gossipy girl floated closer, braid bouncing.
"Relax. It doesn't take life. Just a few drops. Like a signature."
Ivy exhaled.
Shaky.
"Gods, it scared me."
She turned to Tieran.
Eyes wide.
Uncertain.
He didn't hesitate.
He pulled his sword from its sheath.
The blade shimmered—silver, sharp, quiet.
He turned his hand.
Pressed the edge against his finger.
A clean cut.
Three drops.
Dark red.
They fell onto the page.
The runes flared.
The book pulsed.
And then—
Light.
Blinding.
Warm.
Alive.
The page shimmered.
Expanded.
Swallowed.
Ivy gasped.
Tieran reached for her.
Their seals flared.
And they were—
Gone.
The gossipy girl blinked.
"Did they just—?"
The note-taker scribbled.
"Chapter 26: The Page That Swallowed Them. Subtext: blood, trust, dimensional shift."
On the Other Side
Tieran opened his eyes.
Slowly.
Blinking against the light.
But there was no sun.
No moon.
No sky.
No land.
No floor.
Just light.
Soft.
Pale.
Endless.
He was lying on something that wasn't ground.
It held him.
But didn't exist.
Like standing on memory.
Or floating on breath.
Beside him—
Ivy.
Her braid was splayed across the not-floor like a ribbon of dusk.
Her cloak fluttered slightly, though there was no wind.
Her seal pulsed faintly.
Her eyes were closed.
Tieran sat up.
His boots didn't scrape.
His cloak didn't rustle.
Sound was… muted.
Like everything was underwater.
He reached out.
Touched Ivy's shoulder.
Gently.
"Ivy."
She stirred.
Brows furrowed.
Eyes fluttering.
Then—
She opened them.
Silver.
Wide.
Scared.
She sat up.
Quickly.
Her breath hitched.
Her hands clutched his arm.
"What—what is this?"
Tieran looked around.
No horizon.
No color.
Just light.
Soft.
Endless.
"I don't know," he said.
Ivy's fingers tightened.
Her seal flared.
She looked around.
Eyes darting.
Searching.
"There's nothing here."
"No floor," Tieran said. "No sky. But still light."
Ivy swallowed.
Her voice was small.
"What now?"
Tieran looked at her.
Then at the light.
Then back.
"Let's see."
They stood.
Together.
The light shifted around them.
Not brighter.Not darker.Just… aware.
And somewhere—
The cure waited.