The light was endless.
Soft. Pale. Alive.
It wrapped around Ivy and Tieran like a breath held too long, like a spell cast without words. There was no floor beneath their feet, no sky above their heads—just light, and the echo of their own heartbeats.
Then—
A voice.
Not loud.
Not sharp.
But everywhere.
"What do you seek?"
It came from above.
Below.
Inside.
Outside.
It wasn't a question. It was a summons.
Tieran's hand tightened around Ivy's.
His voice was steady.
Low.
"A cure," he said. "For me. For us."
The light pulsed.
Once.
Twice.
Then—
Shattered.
The world around them cracked like glass.
The light fractured.
Split.
Fell away.
And the floor—
Returned.
But it wasn't stone.
Or grief-thread.
Or memory.
It was wood.
Old. Warped. Groaning beneath their feet like it remembered too much.
They were standing in a hallway.
Narrow.
Dim.
The walls were lined with peeling wallpaper—faded roses and curling vines. The ceiling sagged. The air was thick with dust and something older. Something watching.
A door creaked open down the hall.
A draft whispered past them.
The lanterns flickered.
But there were no lanterns.
Just sconces.
Candlelit.
Flickering.
The voice returned.
"The cure is right beside you."
Silence.
Ivy turned to Tieran.
Brows furrowed.
Eyes wide.
"What does that mean?"
Tieran shook his head.
"I don't know."
Then—
Ivy's brow twitched.
Her breath caught.
Her knees buckled.
Tieran caught her.
Arms around her.
Seal flaring.
"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.
Nia knelt before her.
Hands warm.
Eyes tired.
Voice soft.
She said something ivy couldn't hear
She pressed something into Ivy's forehead.
Not an object.
Not a spell.
A thread.
Woven from memory.
Bound with blood.
Planted beneath her skin.
Ivy gasped.
Snapped back.
Tieran's arms were still around her.
His eyes searching hers.
"Are you okay?"
She nodded.
Breathless.
"I remembered something. My mother… she planted something in me. A thread."
Tieran's brow furrowed.
"What are we supposed to do here?"
Ivy looked around.
The hallway stretched endlessly in both directions.
Doors lined the walls—some open, some shut, some breathing.
The wallpaper pulsed.
The floor creaked.
The air was thick with memory.
She turned to Tieran.
Took his hand.
Held it tight.
"Let's see."
They walked.
Slowly.
Carefully.
Their boots creaked on the wooden floor.
Their seals pulsed in rhythm.
Their shadows stretched behind them—long, uncertain, flickering.
They passed a mirror.
It didn't reflect them.
Only the hallway behind.
But in the mirror—
The hallway was empty.
Ivy shivered.
Tieran squeezed her hand.
They didn't speak.
Just moved.
Together.
A door opened as they passed.
Inside: a room filled with threads.
Floating.
Glowing.
Whispering.
Another door.
A nursery.
Empty crib.
A lullaby playing on a loop.
Out of tune.
Another.
A library.
Books with no titles.
Pages that bled ink.
Shelves that watched.
They kept walking.
Never letting go.
Their hands stayed clasped.
Their seals glowed.
Their breath synced.
The hallway groaned beneath their feet.
The wallpaper pulsed faintly, vines curling and uncurling like breath. The sconces flickered with candlelight that didn't burn, casting long shadows that stretched and twisted across the warped wooden floor.
Ivy frowned.
Her braid bounced as she turned sharply toward Tieran, cloak swishing behind her like a storm cloud.
"Is this a cure or some treasure hunt?" she muttered. "Because I'm starting to feel like we're just chasing riddles in a haunted attic."
Tieran smiled.
Soft.
Amused.
"You're laughing at me," Ivy accused, narrowing her eyes.
Tieran reached into his satchel.
Pulled out a dried pancake—slightly crumbled, wrapped in cloth, still warm from the forge-stove's memory.
He handed it to her.
Ivy blinked.
Then grinned.
Took it.
Bit into it.
"Okay," she mumbled through a mouthful. "You're forgiven."
Then—
The air shifted.
A ripple.
A pulse.
A silence that wasn't empty.
And in front of them—
A figure.
White.
Tall.
Shimmering.
Not glowing—glinting. Like moonlight on frost. Like memory wrapped in silk.
It didn't walk.
It didn't float.
It appeared.
Ivy choked.
Literally.
Coughed.
Bent forward.
Tieran moved instantly.
Patting her back.
His hand firm, steady, warm.
Her seal flared.
Her breath returned.
The figure spoke.
Voice like wind through thread.
"You seek the cure?"
Tieran nodded.
"Yes."
Ivy straightened.
Still chewing.
Eyes wide.
"Tell us."
The figure tilted its head.
No face.
Just light.
Just presence.
"It's been with you all along."
Ivy blinked.
"What?"
Tieran frowned.
"Why don't I know if I have the cure?"
The figure turned.
Lifted a hand.
Pointed.
Not at Tieran.
At Ivy.
"Not you. Her."
Ivy froze.
Her fingers tightened around the pancake.
Her seal pulsed.
"Me?" she whispered. "When did I have the cure?"
The figure stepped closer.
The air shimmered.
The hallway dimmed.
The wallpaper curled.
"It's Mystic Mellow."
Ivy blinked.
"What?"
Tieran stepped forward.
"How do we use it?"
The figure reached into the folds of its robe.
Pulled out a book.
Shiny.
Sealed.
Bound in silver thread.
Its cover shimmered with runes that pulsed in time with Ivy's seal.
It handed it to Tieran.
"Figure it out yourself."
Then—
The figure paused.
Turned.
Its voice dropped.
"But what belongs here… must come back."
And then—
It vanished.
The hallway cracked.
The wallpaper peeled.
The floor split.
The light shattered.
And the world—
Shifted.
They were falling.
Not fast.
Not hard.
Just… returning.
The book pulsed in Tieran's hands.
Ivy's seal flared.
Their fingers clasped.
Their breath synced.
And then—
The Pavilion.
Dust swirled.
Lanterns flickered.
Shelves pulsed.
The griefstone floor hummed beneath their boots.
They were back.
Where it started.
Where it always waited.
The gossipy girl rushed forward.
Her braid bouncing.
Her eyes wide.
"What happened? Did you kiss? Did you cry? Did you die?"
The note-taker didn't look up.
Just scribbled.
"Chapter 26: The Cure That Was Always There. Subtext: memory, identity, emotional inheritance."
Ivy looked at Tieran.
He looked at her.
The book shimmered between them.
The Dust Pavilion was exactly as they'd left it.
And yet—
Everything felt different.
The griefstone floor shimmered faintly beneath their boots, pulsing with the memory of their absence. The lanterns overhead flickered in slow, thoughtful rhythms, casting long shadows across the parchment-strewn ground. The shelves loomed quietly, their runes dimmed, their spines whispering.
Dust hung in the air like breath held too long.
Ivy stood still.
Her braid was slightly frizzed from the fall, her cloak dust-streaked, her seal pulsing low and steady. In her hand, she still clutched the half-eaten dry pancake—crumbs trailing from her fingers like a breadcrumb trail through memory.
Tieran stood beside her.
His cloak was rumpled, his boots scuffed, and tucked discreetly inside the folds of his coat was the sealed book—the one handed to him by the white figure. It pulsed faintly against his chest, warm and unread.
They looked at each other.
Eyes wide.
Hearts full.
Questions swirling.
But they didn't speak them.
Not yet.
Because somehow—
They felt each other.
The bond was quiet.
But present.
Like a thread stitched between their ribs.
Ivy tilted her head.
Tieran raised an eyebrow.
They both spoke at once.
"Let's go back first."
They turned.
Ready to leave.
Ready to breathe.
Ready to think.
But—
A voice.
Sharp.
Bright.
"Hold it!"
The gossipy girl floated in from the side, braid bouncing, eyes wide with dramatic horror.
"You can't just leave! Look at this place!"
They turned.
Looked.
The pages.
Everywhere.
Sprawled across the floor like fallen leaves.
Some curled.
Some glowing.
Some whispering.
Some still mid-sentence.
The note-taker hovered nearby.
Still scribbling.
His voice was dry.
Unimpressed.
"If you enter the Dust Pavilion, you must return it to the state it was before you entered."
He gestured vaguely toward the far wall.
"Besides, the cleaner retired. He won't come. So… clean up."
Ivy blinked.
Then gasped.
Clutched her chest.
Staggered.
"I'm fainting," she declared.
Tieran caught her instantly.
One arm around her waist.
The other steadying her shoulder.
"You're not fainting," he muttered.
"I am! Emotionally. Spiritually. Dustily."
Tieran sighed.
Looked around.
Then looked at her.
"Listen," he said. "We made this mess together. So we'll clean it."
Ivy pouted.
"But you threw the book."
"You threw the pages in the air."
Ivy blinked.
"Artistic expression."
Tieran raised an eyebrow.
"Chaos."
The gossipy girl clapped.
"This is so domestic. I'm obsessed."
The note-taker scribbled.
"Chapter 27: The Mess That Waited. Subtext: emotional accountability, pancake diplomacy, romantic tension via parchment."
They began to clean.
Slowly.
Together.
Ivy knelt beside a pile of pages, gathering them with careful fingers. Her seal pulsed softly, syncing with the runes on the parchment. She hummed under her breath—something old, something her mother used to sing.
Tieran moved methodically.
Stacking books.
Straightening scrolls.
His movements were quiet, precise, almost reverent.
They didn't speak much.
But their hands brushed often.
Their eyes met.
Their breath synced.
The Pavilion watched.
The lanterns flickered.
The dust settled.
The Dust Pavilion had settled into its usual hush.
But it wasn't the same hush as before.
It was deeper now. More knowing. Like the walls had listened. Like the shelves had watched. Like the dust itself had held its breath.
The griefstone floor shimmered faintly beneath Ivy and Tieran's boots, pulsing with the memory of their journey. The lanterns overhead flickered in slow, golden rhythms, casting soft pools of light across the parchment-strewn ground. The air was warm. Still. Expectant.
Beside them, Bloody Classics, Vol. II lay heavy and quiet.
Its spine shimmered faintly.
Its runes pulsed.
It waited.
Ivy stared up at the twelve-foot shelf.
Brows furrowed.
Arms crossed.
Her braid curled around her shoulder like a question mark.
"Can't we just leave it down?" she asked, voice hopeful.
The note-taker didn't look up.
Just scribbled.
"No."
The gossipy girl floated closer, braid bouncing, eyes wide.
"Rules are rules. If you take it down, you put it back."
Tieran sighed.
Turned to Ivy.
Smiled.
"Let's put it back the way we got it."
Ivy narrowed her eyes.
"No way. You'll drop me again."
Tieran raised an eyebrow.
"I won't."
Ivy hesitated.
Then—
Smiled.
Soft.
Playful.
"Fine. But if you drop me, I haunt you."
Tieran knelt.
Turned.
Let her climb onto his shoulders.
Her arms looped around his head.
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 heavy.
Thick.
Bound in grief-thread and veined with silver.
She held it close.
Lifted it.
Stretched.
Her fingers brushed the shelf.
Then gripped it.
She slid the book into place.
It pulsed once.
Then settled.
Tieran tiptoed.
Wobbled.
Just slightly.
Ivy gasped.
"Don't you dare—!"
Tieran laughed.
Steadying.
Lowering her gently.
His hands careful.
His breath warm.
Ivy landed softly.
Her boots touched griefstone.
Her braid bounced.
She turned.
Poked his chest.
"Don't tease me like that again."
Tieran grinned.
"Okay. But I won't cook for you then."
Ivy blinked.
Paused.
Then—
Smiled.
"Okay. Tease me as much as you want. Just don't cut off my life power."
They both laughed.
Soft.
Real.
Warm.
The Pavilion exhaled.
The lanterns dimmed.
The dust settled.
Tieran turned.
"Should we get going?"
Ivy nodded.
Then—
Reached out.
Hugged his hand.
Held it.
They turned to the note-taker and the gossipy girl.
Nodded.
Grateful.
Silent.
The gossipy girl clapped.
Her braid sparkled.
Her eyes shimmered.
"They're so bonded. I'm obsessed."
The note-taker scribbled.
"Chapter 26: The Shelf That Waited. Subtext: emotional closure, romantic teasing, rule-bound tenderness."
Ivy and Tieran stepped toward the gates.
The griefstone hummed beneath them.
The lanterns flickered.
The Pavilion watched.
And as they crossed the threshold—
The gates of the Dust Pavilion shut.
Soft.
The path to Iris Valley was quiet.
The air was crisp, carrying the faint scent of dew-soaked grass and wildflowers that lined the trail. The horizon glowed with the first blush of dawn—soft pinks and golds spilling across the sky, painting the valley in hues of warmth. The rising sun stretched its light over the hills, chasing away the shadows that had clung to them for what felt like months, though in truth it had been less than two days.
Ivy walked beside Tieran.
Her cloak brushed against his, the fabric whispering with each step. Her braid swayed gently, catching the morning light, and her seal pulsed faintly at her collarbone, silver threads glowing in rhythm with her heartbeat. She closed her eyes, tilted her head back, and let the cold wind wash over her face. It carried the scent of earth, the promise of safety, and the memory of home.
Through the bond, Tieran felt her.
Not just her breath, not just her warmth—her feeling. The way the wind soothed her, the way the dawn wrapped her in comfort. And somewhere, quietly, he fell for her again. Deeper. Not with sudden fire, but with steady embers that glowed beneath his ribs.
Ivy felt it.
Through the bond, she sensed the shift in him—the quiet ache, the warmth, the way his heart leaned toward hers. She opened her eyes, turned her head, and smiled at him. Soft. Knowing. Her seal pulsed brighter, as if echoing the smile.
Tieran's hand brushed against his coat.
He pulled out a small vial—the pain-relieving pill Illan had given him before they left. His poison was stirring again, a dull ache threading through his veins. He couldn't bear the thought of Ivy feeling it through the bond. He swallowed the pill quickly, quietly, before the flare could reach her.
But she knew.
She always knew.
Her seal flickered faintly, catching the echo of his pain. She didn't speak it aloud. Just walked closer. Her shoulder brushed his. Her smile lingered.
Minutes later, the valley opened before them.
Iris Valley was alive.
The grass shimmered with dew, each blade catching the morning light like threads of silver. The flowers bloomed in clusters of violet and gold, their petals trembling in the breeze. The air was warm now, touched by sunlight, and the hills curved gently around the valley like arms holding them close.
From the far side, voices.
Movement.
Thimble came running.
His small frame darted across the grass, cloak flapping behind him like a banner. His face was lit with joy, his eyes wide, his grin unrestrained.
He skidded to a stop in front of Ivy, breathless, laughing.
"Gals! You're back!"
Behind him, Aldi padded forward.
The creature's paws pressed into the grass, tail swishing, ears twitching. He looked both proud and exhausted, his fur slightly ruffled, his eyes gleaming with relief. He leaned down, nudging Thimble with his nose.
Thimble groaned.
"Aldi squeezed me so much my paws and tail are sore!"
Ivy laughed.
The sound was soft, musical, carrying across the valley like a bell. She knelt, reaching out to ruffle Thimble's hair, her braid slipping over her shoulder. Her seal pulsed warmly, syncing with the joy around her.
Tieran stood beside her.
His cloak caught the wind, his boots pressed into the grass, his eyes softened. He watched Ivy laugh, watched Thimble grin, watched Aldi nudge them both. And for a moment, the ache in his veins eased. The bond pulsed steady. The valley felt like home.
Illan and Annel appeared from the far side.
Their seals pulsed faintly, echoing the reunion.
Ivy stood.
Turned to Tieran.
Her hand brushed his.
She smiled again.
"Feels like months," she whispered.
Tieran nodded.
"Feels like forever."
The valley exhaled.
The sun rose higher.
The bond pulsed steady.
And for the first time in days, they were home.
Aldi padded forward
Her boots pressed into the grass with steady rhythm, her fur coat catching the sunlight in soft glimmers. Thimble wriggled in his grip, arms flailing, tail fluttering like a flag of protest.
"Put me down!" Thimble squeaked, voice high, indignant. "I'm a rabbit fairy, not your pet! Ivy, save me!"
Ivy laughed, her braid bouncing as she turned to watch. Her seal pulsed faintly, silver threads glowing in rhythm with her amusement. Tieran smiled beside her, cloak brushing against hers, his eyes softened by the sight.
"Let him be," Tieran murmured. "Aunt Aldi's just happy we're back."
Thimble groaned dramatically, tail twitching. "Happy? She squeezed me so much my paws and tail are sore!"
Ivy shook her head, still smiling, and turned back toward the path. Tieran walked beside her, their steps in sync, their seals pulsing faintly. The bond between them hummed quietly, steady, alive.
Ahead, Annel and Illan waited.
Annel stood tall, Broad-shouldered. Robes stitched with silver thread and dried herbs.
His hair was streaked with gray.
Illan stood beside him, hands folded behind his back, his expression playful, his gaze sharp but warm. His ears red probably pulled by his father Annel.
Tieran stepped forward.
His boots pressed into the grass. His cloak caught the wind. His seal pulsed faintly.
He smiled.
"Uncle Annel."
Annel's eyes softened further. He nodded, His seal glowing faintly in response.
But Ivy stepped forward quickly, her braid swinging, her eyes bright.
"We found it," she said. "The cure."
Illan's brows lifted.
His seal pulsed.
He turned to Annel.
"Inside," he said. "Right, Dad?"
Annel nodded.
"Sure."
Together, they walked.
The path curved gently toward Annel's residence—a house built of griefstone and wood, its walls veined with silver, its roof lined with ivy that shimmered faintly in the sunlight. The door was carved with runes that pulsed softly, welcoming them home.
They entered.
The air inside was warm.
The walls glowed faintly, lined with shelves of books and scrolls. Lanterns flickered with golden light, casting soft shadows across the room. The floor was polished wood, smooth beneath their boots, humming faintly with memory.
They moved into the main room.
A long table stood at the center, carved from griefstone and wood, its surface etched with runes that pulsed faintly. Cushioned chairs lined the table, their fabric soft, their frames sturdy. The air smelled faintly of herbs and parchment, of tea brewing somewhere nearby.
They took their seats.
Ivy sat beside Tieran, her cloak pooling around her, her braid slipping over her shoulder. She still held the half-eaten pancake in one hand, crumbs trailing faintly across the table. Her seal pulsed softly, syncing with Tieran's.
Tieran sat close, his cloak brushing hers, the sealed book tucked discreetly inside his coat. His eyes were steady, his breath calm, his seal glowing faintly. He glanced at Ivy, then at Annel, then at Illan.
Illan sat across from them, his hands folded, his cloak trailing, his eyes steady.
The room settled.The air was warm.
The lanterns flickered.The seals pulsed.