Friday, August 29th, 2042, Soraya's private chat room, Virtual Reality.

Sitting cross-legged on the cushion, Emmy stretched and leaned back with a quiet sigh. She was in virtual reality, inhabiting her lithe Wind sylvani body, and thus could not literally eat too much—but the simulated feedback of satiation pressed against her ribs with uncanny fidelity. Her virtual body insisted she was full.

Before her, all plates had been picked clean. The last of the sabzi polo had vanished, the fish reduced to neat, polite bones, the teacups empty. Even the copper kettle had stopped steaming.

"Gods," Emmy murmured, letting a hand rest against her stomach. "I haven't felt full in days."

The room's ambient sunlight softened, casting long honeyed streaks across the patterned rugs. Soraya's blue scales glinted in the sun as she watched her with a suspiciously pleased smile, the kind someone wore when they were about to get away with something.

"What's going on?" Emmy asked, narrowing her eyes just a fraction.

"Nothing," Soraya said, far too casually. "Just… don't stand up just yet."

Emmy blinked. "Soraya, no. I'm done. My brain is convinced I've just eaten a banquet. If you conjure more food, I swear—"

Soraya snapped her fingers with theatrical flourish.

A delicate glass bowl materialised on the low table between them, crystalline and frosted. Nestled inside was a coil of pale gold ice cream, flecks of saffron visible like sunlit threads, crowned with crushed pistachio and a single wafer-thin shard of frozen cream.

Emmy stared. "You didn't."

"Oh, but I did." Soraya leaned forward, smug, eyes sparkling. "Bastani sonnati. And not the cheap VR knock-off that tastes like vanilla wearing a yellow hat. This—" she tapped the bowl proudly "—is as authentic as it gets."

Emmy groaned, torn between horror and delight. "Soraya. I just told you I'm full."

"And I heard you," Soraya said, already conjuring a second glass bowl for herself. "But there's always room for ice cream."

Emmy sputtered, then laughed—helplessly, warmly.

Soraya handed her a spoon.

"And," she continued, slipping into that enthusiastic, slightly too-fast cadence she got when she geeked out, "you just have to try this one. It took me four days to get the saffron profile just right. Four. Days."

Emmy raised an eyebrow. "Really?"

"Yes!" Soraya's tail flicked behind her in Kohana's dracan body. "The problem is that VR scent mapping doesn't handle saffron well—it either overshoots into perfume or undershoots into 'tea someone forgot to steep.' I had to model the aromatic volatiles manually, then override the default gustatory curve just to keep it from flattening into generic floral."

Emmy blinked slowly. "So you programmed your own flavour profile?"

"Modelled," Soraya corrected. "Procedurally model. There's a difference. Also, don't eat the top layer too fast—the way the saffron expresses is supposed to bloom after the first cold shock."

"That's amazing," Emmy said, taking the offered spoon.

Soraya's smile gentled. "I'm sure you'll agree it was worth the effort."

Emmy took a bite.

Cold, floral. The deep honeyed warmth of real saffron unfurling in slow, soft waves beneath the cream. Pistachio for texture, rosewater trailing faintly at the edges.

Her eyes fluttered shut.

"Okay," she admitted, defeated. "Fine. It's perfect."

"I know," Soraya said, pleased with herself in a way that somehow did not come off arrogant. "I made it especially for you."

That did something embarrassingly destabilising to Emmy's chest. She focused very intently on her dessert to avoid showing it.

They ate the ice cream in silence and with each bite, Emmy felt herself settling—not merely full, but… steadied. Soraya had a talent for that, apparently.

Only once both bowls were scraped clean did Soraya check the corner of her interface and grimace at the flashing orange reminder.

"That's my cue," she said reluctantly. "I've got to go back."

"Thank you. For all of this," Emmy said, feeling herself blush, hopefully not enough for Soraya to notice.

"See you later?" Emmy asked softly.

Soraya stood, brushing nonexistent crumbs from her lap. Her expression softened, losing some of that charismatic bravado.

"I'll see you soon," she said. "Not… 'later.' Soon. I promise."

Emmy swallowed. "Okay."

A faint blush crept over Soraya's pale cheeks, as if she had not meant to say it that earnestly. The logout shimmer coiled around her ankles.

She managed one last smile—warm, sure and a little nervous—before dissolving into gold light.

The moment Soraya vanished, the room seemed to exhale.

The lounge's warm sunlight thinned into something gentler, diffused, like late afternoon after a guest leaves and the house settles around the absence.

Emmy stayed where she was, hands folded in her lap, spoon still loose between her fingers. A faint saffron chill lingered on her tongue.

She relaxed as she let the quiet envelop her.

She closed her eyes and let her avatar breathe.

Warmth pooled behind her ribs, slow and steady. Not romantic—she refused to even name it that—but something adjacent. Something simple. A belonging she had not allowed herself to feel in years because real life had taught her, repeatedly, that these things were fragile. That the moment you took comfort for granted, life snapped it away.

But Soraya… God, Soraya had this reckless ease with people. She gave affection the way other people offered napkins—casually, abundantly, without rationing it like a scarce resource. She created entire rooms for it.

Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

Maybe that was why it hit Emmy so hard. She had forgotten what it was like to be cared for without strings, without performance, without a partner waiting for her to be someone else.

She had certainly forgotten what it was like to be seen.

She traced that thought as if walking a thin thread. Not seen as a caregiver, an inconvenience, or a problem to solve. Seen as Emmy.

Her chest tightened. She inhaled until it eased.

The VR lounge dimmed imperceptibly, the system interpreting her stillness as a cue. Lanterns along the walls brightened to compensate, shimmering gold across the copper bowls and patterned rugs. It made the space look more like a memory than a room.

She stayed another minute, just enough to let the moment settle somewhere inside her where she could reach for it later—after her return to Umbraholme, after meeting the guard captain, after dealing with Esen, after supporting Ryan, after—

She stopped the spiral with a quiet shake of her head.

One thing—one breath—at a time.

Emmy placed the spoon gently on the low table. The lounge flickered in acknowledgment. She pulled open her virtual interface, finger floating over the button to return to the game.

She gave the room one last, steady look.

"Thank you," she murmured—whether to Soraya, to Kohana, to the game, or to the brief peace she had been granted, she was not sure herself.

Then she tapped the button.

The saffron warmth dissolved into silver pixels, and the dark woods of Myrknar reformed around her, cool air brushing against her skin like reality snapping back into place. She had logged out just out of town.

Emmy squared her shoulders and started walking.

Time to be Elyssia again.

A flick of her fingers brought up her party list.

Vaelith was the only one online, watching over Esen.

Ryan and Leoric were both offline, which did not surprise her. She had just called for a break, after all.

She tapped the message icon beside Vaelith's name.

"Elyssia: Back from lunch. Where are you and Esen? I'll come to you."

The reply came quicker than she expected.

"Vaelith: We're in the Weaver's Hall! Just finishing something that might help Ryan."

"Elyssia: I'll be there in two minutes."

She dismissed the interface with a flick, adjusting the drape of her gi so it would not snag on low branches. Her body shifted instinctively into motion—heels light, balance forward, the familiar hum of magic priming at her calves.

Then she activated Sprint.

Air surged around her, cool and sharp. The forest trails blurred into streaks of moss and shadow as she shot down the winding path toward Umbraholme's distant glow.

The trees thinned, replaced by woven branches and anchored platforms suspended over the dirt floor. Lanterns swayed gently on chains overhead, their fungal lights casting drifting constellations across the stone. Her Sprint faded just as the Weaver's Guildhall came into view.

It was not at all how she had pictured it.

A broad façade of darkwood beams, plain double doors, and a single understated sign. Yet the lanternlight caught on silk banners hanging above the beams, glints of gold and moss-green woven into their edges.

Elyssia paused.

The place was not ostentatious or showy—if anything, its restraint made it feel older. Grounded. Like a landmark that did not need to demand reverence because it had earned it centuries ago.

Her throat tightened unexpectedly.

She took a grounding breath, smoothed her gi, and pushed open the heavy door.

Warmth and scent washed over her in a wave. Wool. Oil. Steam drifting from dye cauldrons. Thread drying on racks overhead. The temperature rose immediately, carrying with it the hum of craft—looms clattering, wheels spinning, apprentices murmuring over patterns and enchantments.

It was… soothing.

Behind a long, polished counter, a tall Noble burrovian woman looked up from her ledger, her ears angling forward with polite curiosity. She offered a small, courteous smile.

"Welcome, traveller," she said, voice low and warm. "First visit to our hall?"

Elyssia dipped her head respectfully. "Yes. I'm looking for a friend—a Kindred dracan named Vaelith. She should be here with someone."

One of the burrovian's ears twitched with amusement. "Ah. Your companion is in the back workshop with a customer. The girl has been very industrious."

"If you'd like, I can show you to them," she continued.

"Please."

The burrovian turned. "Liranel, mind the counter."

A Shadow sylvani stepped out of the dim corner to take her place—appearing so silently that Elyssia's breath hitched. Slender, pale-haired, with that ghostlike grace only sylvani ever truly mastered.

The burrovian beckoned Elyssia to follow through the tall double doors at the back.

As they walked deeper into the guild, the scents thickened. Warm wool. Fresh dye. Sun-dried linens. Hushed conversation drifted through open archways—arguments over warp density, debates about thread quality, whispers from apprentices crowded around a loom whose shuttle zipped faster than seemed physically possible.

The air vibrated with motion and purpose. It reminded Elyssia of a time, long ago, when she still slipped quietly into her wife's sewing room to watch her work, just for the comfort of it.

Another life. Another world.

A few twists and turns later, the burrovian halted beside an archway of silver-dyed threads. "They are just beyond."

Elyssia thanked her with a nod and stepped through—

—and stopped.

Vaelith turned at once, grinning brightly, excitement radiating off her like sparks. Esen stood beside her at a workbench, dressed in—

Nothing like himself.

The plague doctor garb was gone, replaced by an elegant coat of layered charcoal and silver embroidery. His greying hair and long Burrovian ears were unobscured, his features sharp and composed—handsome, in a quiet, academic way. He looked less like a disease cultist and more like a Highborne scholar from an illustrated tale.

Elyssia blinked. "You look…"

"Less alarming," Esen supplied calmly.

"I was going to say 'normal,'" she corrected.

Vaelith snorted into her sleeves.

Esen inclined his head, utterly unbothered. "I am told it is an improvement. Your dracan friend insisted that a less sinister appearance might… facilitate communication."

Vaelith stepped forward, already grabbing Elyssia's wrist. "Never mind that—look! Come see!"

She dragged Elyssia to a far table where a small mountain of folded fabric waited.

Clothes. A lot of them.

Loose tunics in soft cotton. Oversized sweaters. Baggy trousers with forgiving waistbands. Layered tops designed to blur silhouettes. Linen wraps dyed in muted lapis. A long, dark hooded shawl lined with velvety softness.

Elyssia felt her breath catch.

"Oh," she murmured. "Vaelith… this is…"

"It's all for Ryan." Vaelith's tail flicked anxiously. "He's really struggling, you know?"

Elyssia touched the edge of a tunic—soft-weave cotton, gentle stretch, a cut designed not to cling to chest or hips. Her fingers paused on the fabric.

A familiar ache stirred in her sternum.

Not pain exactly—recognition. Memory. All those years of pretending oversized black hoodies were about fashion, when really they were the only thing standing between her and the feeling of crawling out of her own skin.

She swallowed carefully.

"These should work," she said quietly. "I think they'll help."

Vaelith exhaled in a shaky little puff, relief flooding her face. "You think? I really hope so…"

"Vaelith." Elyssia rested a steadying hand on her shoulder. "This is… deeply kind. Thoughtful. He'll feel that, whether he says so or not."

A flush spread across Vaelith's cheeks—part embarrassment, part pride.

But as soon as it came, the colour dropped from her face.

"So… I've been chatting with the folks from Club Weirdo," she mumbled, rubbing the scales on her forearms.

Club Weirdo. The private chat group Leoric had asked her to join. Elyssia still had not forwarded the invites to Vanessa, Elliot, or their teammates.

"You've joined, then?" Elyssia asked. "I should do that as well."

Vaelith nodded. "Yeah. And I spoke with one of them—a Half-blood felinae named Neva."

At the name, Vaelith's fins drooped.

"Her situation's similar to Ryan's," Vaelith said quietly. "Except, well, she's taking it better… And she warned me about the Shifter class."

Elyssia's head snapped up. "Oh?"

"Yeah. She said… well, short version? It won't fix Ryan. Not the way he's hoping. She was really gentle about it, but…" Vaelith made a helpless motion. "I don't want him to get crushed."

"Neither do I," Elyssia said softly. "But better we know now."

Esen cleared his throat delicately behind them.

"It is unlikely one can correct a psychological incompatibility," he said in his dry, clinical tone, "by altering the external container. Body and mind require different remedies."

Vaelith bristled. "I refuse to believe that."

Esen merely inclined his head. "And I hope you are right."

Elyssia had a lot of counterarguments—starting with HRT and half a dozen major studies on embodiment and identity—but she was not about to turn Umbraholme's Weaver's Hall into a lecture hall.

She pinched the bridge of her nose. "We'll… return to that discussion later."

Esen accepted this with a scholar's patience.

Elyssia returned her attention to the clothes—to what they represented.

Care and understanding. A lifeline thrown to someone drowning in his own skin.

She let out a slow breath.

"Let's pack these for him," she said. "He'll need them sooner than he thinks."

Vaelith nodded fiercely, and together, they began folding.

By the time they were done, Elyssia hoped the rest of their party would be back online. Then it would be time to turn in their quest—and figure out what in the world they were supposed to do with Esen.

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