Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“Ms. Windsong, I can’t believe you’re really hiking again,” Sonetto says for the thousandth time, voice echoing through the phone pressed against her ear. Windsong watches mountains and fields fly by the window of the train, serene and beautiful, like she’s looking at an oil painting rather than a real landscape. “I know leyhunting requires you outdoors, but not particularly resting up in between excursions can’t make it a pleasant journey.” 

“I can’t believe you willingly chose somewhere so far out of the city for your vacation either,” Windsong retorts, her automatic response at this point. “I must admit though, the beautiful trail is worth it.”  

“I agree, I’m accustomed to our uprooted lifestyle in Vertin’s suitcase, but settling down somewhere with earth under my feet and a view worthy of my poetry invigorates me,” Sonetto says. “But, we’re still a little up on the mountain, so, yeah, pretty, but dangerous.” 

“How dangerous can it be?” Windsong reasons. “I know enough survival tactics, and this region hasn’t seen a bad critter outbreak in years.” 

Someone else’s voice interrupts in the background, but with words too muffled for Windsong to make out. Knowing the position of Sonetto’s partner as a freelance journalist (for the season, at least), and the congeniality between them, Windsong is used to these interruptions, so she waits patiently for Vertin to run an idea through Sonetto for a project. 

“Sorry, Vertin is convinced she’s just come up with the ultimate guide to winter vacation spots, eager to share it with the world. I helped her condense her bullet list down so she makes deadlines and isn’t too lost in her daydreams.” Sonetto clears her throat upon her return to the phone. “Anyhow, please make sure you exercise caution. We’ll meet you at the end of the trail at four. It shouldn’t take you more than two hours.” 

“Copy that,” Windsong replies. “See you soon.” 

She hangs up, drops her head back against the seat. Waves of fog start popping in and out of her view, the barest hint of the mountainous atmosphere glinting through. The train flashes its arrival warning across the screen, and she grabs her bag from the seat beside her, ties up her hair. It has come across as a refreshing idea at the time to derive a project to be conducted in the middle of nowhere as an excuse to visit her friends, who appear to be happy in their instability, their always-transient lifestyle, their constantly-evolving careers. Her research has been stagnating as of late, even after those who have faith in her have given them all into wrangling herself out of a pool of self deprecation and back on her own two feet. She’s looking for inspiration, maybe – a topic worthy of restoring ley lines to the spotlight; a prettier path to walk on after Lisov, after years of devoting to an institution besieged by petty politics left and right. Maybe she’s looking for herself, for the dedication she’s given away before recognizing just how badly she needs it for her own sake. Maybe she’s looking for a sign. 

She sighs, memories of the day she adopted her codename flooding her mind – Windsong . She’s been heeding the whispers of nature forever – to dive into the clouds, soak into the soil, move dizzyingly back and forth between the earth and sky. She develops a lightheaded sense that today of all days, it’s going to talk back to her, put her life into perspective, give her the freedom she needs to be who she wants with neither rejection nor control.

And she’s pretty sure the thing nature is trying to tell her is to hold fast. 

🐟📏

She’s an hour in and it arguably is one of the most tranquil, picturesque landscapes she’s born witness to. The myriad of yellows, oranges, and greens of the broadleaf trees are giving way to conifer-dominated woods, and that’s how she knows she’s officially nearing Vertin and Sonetto’s cabin. Windsong swings her caliper around when she arrives at a clearing of the forest, charting some preliminary information about the local biome with her ley observations down into a notebook. She rounds a small bend of trees, following the worn path, and falters on a step as she beholds a lake that stretches on and on before her sight. 

There’s a woman who seems to be dipping and kicking her legs into the water just ahead while humming an upbeat melody to herself, eyes closed, long blonde hair spilling over her shoulders. Windsong is startled back to her senses by the appearance of another person, let alone one that is unfazed by what has to be a freezing temperature of the lake, that she stops treading immediately, caught off-guard. 

Windsong doesn’t know what spell – what arcane skill – pins her to the ground, unable to move, to speak, to breathe; the gold surrounding the stranger outshines the sun, sticks out like a fire, vacating the oxygen from her lungs. 

Then the angle of the sun shifts, drips between the leaves, tangles itself on Windsong’s light curls, drapes over her face; she blinks against the sudden eye contact, raising an arm automatically, and the woman is on her feet in an instant (but not before a flash of light that the leyhunter swears isn’t the sun), head whipping around like she’s expecting an uninvited guest. 

Instead, she finds Windsong, still standing there dumbfounded, and apparently she has judged her unthreatening enough on a whim since the stranger straightens up, gaze zeroing in on her. 

She actually looks around Windsong’s age, give or take a few years, and isn’t at all dressed for the weather, which only adds to the evergrowing list of her intriguing qualities; she’s wearing an off-white, flowing gown with layers and tassels hanging from the sleeves and lower areas of the dress, but especially with a neckline that stops just below the collarbone. Compared to Windsong’s button up, fur collared coat, and cargo pants, this woman looks like she’s on a hike to a different world entirely. 

She seems to be observing the leyhunter closely now, waiting for a move to be made, the first words; her eyes trail over Windsong’s attire, landing on her face —

Her expression falls open, suddenly raw and vulnerable. “ Oh, ” she exhales, pale turquoise irises peering into Windsong’s own lilac, the sound of her voice pours over the leyhunter’s skin like water. “You’re a better surprise than what I usually run into around here. Where have you been?” She asks, but she may as well be asking if Windsong is expecting something, awaiting someone. 

Windsong is a field researcher, and much like the present, she often embarks on trips for extended periods of time, so she’s used to finding herself on the receiving end of that question – yet, she’s never heard anyone say it like this woman does. The emphasis is in the wrong spot, the tone out of place, the sentiment behind it incomprehensible. 

Her instinctive reply – most bewildering of it all – is ‘looking for you.’  

She shakes her head, unable to catch up with the bizarre situation and the weirder response on the tip of her tongue yet; she opts to deflect the matter at hand with her former train of thought instead, “Uh… Aren’t you cold?” 

“People generally describe me as warm, not cold,” the woman chuckles. “Or even hot, if you’re asking.” 

“No, you know I meant the way you dres–” but Windsong’s sentence is punctuated out of surprise when the stranger suddenly inches closer and starts sniffing at the air around her. 

“I was just joking, comrade,” She flicks her hand. “But, really, you should worry more about yourself than me, I don’t get cold easily. Though considering that you smell like a mixture of hard rocks, a lighthouse by the sea, and rainwater in a humid summer, you must travel often, so I wouldn’t worry either.” 

Windsong stares unblinkingly at her for a second, like she’s debating not only what to say but whether it’s worth entertaining the woman’s silly behavior at all. Ultimately, she gives in, “Miss, do you usually sniff every stranger you meet?” 

“Perhaps, especially if they’re gorgeous girls,” she honest to god winks. “Speaking of which, what’s a gorgeous girl like you doing in a place like this?” 

Windsong’s eyebrows raise into a single point, confused at the phrasing more than anything else. “‘A place like this’?” She repeats, torn between flustered for being called pretty and annoyed for being deemed unfit for the wilderness. “Didn’t you just conclude that I’m well-traveled?” 

“Still, it’s a more dangerous peak to hike all alone than most,” the woman says, whimsically waving a hand. “There may be critters lurking in the shadows…” 

“ You’re the only thing lurking in the shadows,” Windsong points out.

“Excuse me, I was definitely out in broad daylight,” she argues mildly, “I love sunbathing when I’m…” – above the lake – “...by the lakeside.” She’s already running for one of the strangest people Windsong’s ever encountered, and that speaks volume because she’s well acquainted with the antics of her fellow Laplace coworkers; nonetheless, despite herself, Windsong feels as if she’s in no danger and continues engaging her. 

“Sure,” the leyhunter says. 

“Look, it’s sunny –” but the woman cuts herself off as she glances up where a lump of clouds have obscured the sun. “Oh, that’s no fun.” She tilts her head toward the sky, stretches out a hand lazily, almost like a wave, and Windsong watches with wide eyes and open mouth as the clouds don’t cruise onward but somehow dissipate entirely. “There, back with the sun I love so much.” 

“Whoa!” Windsong exhales brilliantly, furrowing her brow. “You didn’t do that.” Evaporation, perhaps. A gust of wind so strong the clouds scattered the exact moment she blinked. “Or… did you really? If so, I’ve never seen an arcane skill that potent before!” 

“I did,” she confirms with a smirk, “I don’t normally show off on my first encounters, but for someone as interesting as you, it’s called for.” 

“Miss, you keep flattering me like you’ve known me,” Windsong counters, raising a hand, “I don’t even know your name.” 

The woman giggles again as she takes a step closer, extending a hand. “Well, you can call me Vila.” 

Windsong reaches out, grasps Vila’s fingers in hers. “Vila.” She echoes the name, more for herself than Vila, like it’s a vital piece of information she can’t quite place in her memory. “I’m Windsong.” 

But Windsong seems to recall her priorities as their conversation draws on. “As much as I’d love to get to know you and your impressive arcanum more, I must go meet up with my friends. They’d worry if I were late since this isn’t quite an easy hike to make.” She pulls her coat closer to her body, stretching the second out longer before turning on her heels, “Will I… see you again? Do you happen to live nearby?” 

“I suppose you could say that.” Vila answers mysteriously, and when she smiles, she smiles with her whole face. “Until then, I’ll give you something to remember me by. Or my arcanum for that matter, since it captivates your endearingly curious mind very much.” 

“Okay?” Windsong perks up. 

“Keep walking,” Vila orders. 

“What?” 

“Keep walking,” Vila repeats. “I’ll show you.” 

Windsong turns around slowly, eyeing Vila cautiously with bated breath. She takes a step, and a step, and another step; nothing shifts in front of her: the sun still shines down, the breeze sweeps through the trees, the path stretches on in front of her. But she still hears Vila following behind, so she stops, whirls around, and –

Behind her are outlines of footprints, but they’re surrounded by a sudden spring of bouquets all around her – but not of any typical flowers, flowers made out of ice . Vila is grinning, entirely too pleased with herself – Windsong’s marvel is exactly the targeted reaction. 

Her smile eventually bubbles into a laugh as Windsong stands rooted in place for too long like the very flowers she sculpted onto the ground. “Please get going, comrade Windsong. Don’t miss me too much,” she says. “You’re in my neck of the forest now, so you’ll be seeing lots of me around. Promise.” 

Windsong smiles without even realizing she’s doing it, and quickly snaps the expression away when she does. She wonders if Vila’s keen sense of smell translates to the other four as well, if her ears would be able to pick up her thundering heartbeat. Timidly, she throws a last glance over her shoulder, but when she looks back, Vila is already gone; in her place is an icy five-foot tall sunflower, the temperature at this altitude enough to preserve it in full just for the next few minutes the leyhunter takes to depart. 

🐟📏

Vertin and Sonetto are lounging at a table under an umbrella’s shade with drinks in their hands upon Windsong’s arrival. The cabin behind them is quaint, which in itself is part of an even quainter town with the business of the main street, the shops and bars and restaurants; the kind where every patron is a regular, where not everybody knows each other but knows enough. 

As Windsong trudges down the trail, snow crunching under her boots, Vertin notices her first, lifting her hat off her eye in a gesture of acknowledgement. “Ms. Windsong!” She calls, waving her over with a warm grin as a limb-shaped gadget on the table too offers a literal ‘wave’ of its own, said hand then proceeds to break a bar of chocolate into a steaming cup of coffee. “Isn’t it convenient? I’m prototyping for X as his benefactor,” she elaborates. “Here, I thought you may need it after all that wandering around in this cold.” 

She accepts it with a smile of her own, but despite the temperature, it soon melts into a scoff. “I’ve already assured you the wilderness doesn’t concern me as much,” she rolls her eyes. “What did bother me though, is although I’ve only focused on surface level mapping, the ley lines in this region are elusive. It’s like they’re…evolving.” Shift by an interval, tilt by an angle. Windsong knows in her heart she’s long gotten over the infamous ley line sickness; in fact, she was the first of her colleagues to grow accustomed to it in her formative years. Yet, she’s been hit with a dizzying spell, and she’s starting to suspect it has nothing to do with her line of work and everything to do with her trip, but not in the way her friends would’ve expected.

“Are you sure it isn’t simply the altitude messing with your readings?” Sonetto tilts her head, “Weakening magnetic field? Or other barriers? I’m aware there’s a village bustling with arcanists near the foot of this peak, and in order to scale this temperature, their arcanum may be able to tamper with the environment.”  

“Oh, no,” Vertin chimes in. “What if the ley lines here know you’re prying into their secrets and are actively resisting. Better yet, what if something – an invisible force – bestowed them with their sentience.” She perks up, eyes gleaming. “You could study them to harness their power, build a machine! I’m taking notes for X.” 

Windsong shakes her head, “I hope you’re joking, or I’ll take that as you, too, aren’t taking my subject seriously. Ley lines aren’t tangible, per se – they’re the tell-tale attributes of an object, not its nature. Our discipline is observation, not to create, intervene, or impose our will on the environment.” 

“My apologies, Ms. Windsong,” Sonetto comments offhandedly, “As much as I want to rein her focus back into class, Vertin’s habits die hard.” 

“No offense taken, besides,” Windsong adds, halfway through Vertin’s “What’s that about?”; she rolls the words on her tongue, debating on how much she should let her friends in on, “I might have stranger mysteries to ponder about.” 

Vertin raises an eyebrow. “Oh?”

“I met…someone,” Windsong continues, the words rolling out as slowly as her footsteps after the woman in question departed, spell-bounded. “On my way here. Alone.” 

Sonetto furrows her brows. “Someone? Up here? All alone?” She covers her mouth with her hands. “Were they floating? Glowing? Did it snow where they walked? Did they control the weather? You see, I’ve been inspired by solitary nymphs –” 

“No to the first two descriptions,” Windsong interrupts with a laugh. “But, surprisingly enough, yes to the rest. I…don’t know how to explain her behavior. She was just… there, hanging out by the lakeside. And then – well, she appeared to hit on me.” 

Vertin chuckles over the surface of her hot chocolate, “You sure she wasn’t just a very forward hiker?” 

Rose blush dusts Windsong’s cheeks as she remembers the woman’s piercing gaze, her effortless grace, and the way water responded to her sway. “No,” she says, voice barely above a whisper. “She wasn’t just another hiker. She said she’d see me around, like she knew something I didn’t.” 

“I’m going to make an assumption that,” Sonetto muses, “the lady then vanished into thin air, survived only by the scent of ocean spray and a lone flower.”

Windsong blinks, almost startled by how close she is to the truth, but she quickly brushes it off. “She didn’t vanish. Well, she didn’t exactly walk away, either.” 

“A water apparition! A weather witch! Something out of a fairy tale, tethered to earth by arcane forces beyond our comprehension!” Sonetto drums her fingers gently on the table, practically vibrating with curiosity. “A cryptic woman who will find you when the time is right. My poems can work with this.”

 “So, what do you think?” Vertin gives Windsong a knowing look. “Does she at least act normal, beyond going out her way to show off? Like she isn’t out drowning a corpse into the water, right?” 

“Honestly?” Windsong glances back around at the trail, her thoughts softening like the way Vila’s frosty flowers shimmer under the sun. It’s all she has reminisced on the last half hour of her hike, the unearthliness of Vila’s appearance, her otherworldly allure, her charm, her attraction. She hasn’t been able to focus on Vila’s every move at the time, hasn’t been able to to quantify, to comprehend it, but the distance gave her clarity, and, well – “No, not even close.”

🐟📏

The foliage of one of the few remaining trees that hasn’t shed for winter rustle in a sharp gust of wind, flurrying about in the air before forming a trail on a path beneath Vila’s feet. “Are you here yet?!” The leaves spell out in a rearrangement, and Vila swears she can make out the unheard yawn and the unspoken “You’re not the only one who’s busy and important” statement that accompany the message. 

She sighs as she dives into a rapid, but the rusalka isn’t carried away in its direction despite the steep, gushing current; instead, she emerges from the water on the other side to a river that bends along a quiet garden where a treehouse with wood enchanted to form rooms within the bark springs up in the middle of it, the owner of the place a fan of the high ground, literally and figuratively. 

As Vila takes a moment to enjoy the stillness, but the wind overhead picks up into deafening gusts, electricity sizzles in the air. Vila raises her head with a budding awareness of who it is. 

“You’re late!” a voice booms like the engine sound beloved by its owner, vibrating with mock authority. “The ice’s been melting, but I suppose that’s no longer a problem with you around.” 

Vila rolls her eyes, “Lilya, is this really necessary?” 

The clouds part and the air quiets down, leaving only a shadow hovering ominously above. In a flash of red, Lilya descends, landing with dramatic flair and cracking her neck. 

“As much as I love splitting the sky open with Lady Su-01вe, levitating on my own is exhausting,” Lilya sighs, shaking out her arms. 

“Any reason for the theatrics?” Vila asks, readjusting her scarf that Lilya’s wind has messed up. 

“Regulus blew up on me earlier,” Lilya exclaims as she invites Vila in, “I deserve to blow off some steam after handling her foul temper too!” 

“Oh, so I’ve heard.” Vila says, accepting a bottle Lilya hands her from a cooler of beer, effectively cooling its content back down at her touch. “She did message me, but only in bouts. She must’ve been preoccupied.”

“It’s Iverson from New Humans again,” Lilya explains lazily. “He debuted this new line of security robots, claiming they’re foolproof. Not only do they disrupt the public’s recreation – and you know how Regulus is about freedom – he also framed the Ramirez family over the theft of the Rimet Cup to drum up the importance of his enterprise, a treasure later revealed to be forged to machinate the scam himself.” 

Vila shifts into an expression of concern. “And how is Regulus going about it?” 

“She was furious, honestly. They set up this whole show of protecting the Rimet Cup in the London Museum. Iverson even tricked the museum board into hiring his company.” Lilya stretches, taking a seat on one of the garden’s stone benches. “Regulus was running interference – trying to keep things from boiling over in case the robots were up to anything funny, which Iverson ultimately ordered them to violate the safety conduct over a pack of dogs. A thief we were absolutely sure was Melania, the daughter of Mr. Ramirez himself, took advantage of the ruckus and swept in to steal the displayed Rimet Cup, targeting Iverson’s massive security blunder in revenge.” Lilya uncaps and takes a swig of her drink out of sheer schadenfreude. “Regulus, ever the radio wiz herself, takes over the broadcast to expose the truth of Iverson’s shamelessness. I told her she could’ve just disabled the robots remotely, made it look like the overdependent tech farce it is.” 

Vila chuckles, joining in her satisfaction. “Too bad we can’t actually mess with the machines… not directly, anyway. They’re an invention of mankind.” 

Lilya grins with her teeth. “Technically speaking, Regulus could still set fire to their batteries, albeit it would endanger the visitors. Oh, imagine if she’d messed with the electricity in the robots’ control modules and started a rumor that his whole product line was haunted. That’d take him down a peg or two.” 

“Count me into the idea,” Vila joins in on the laughing, “I always love a tale where an offender reaps what they’ve sown.” 

“You should reach back out to Regulus,” the pilot recommends. “She’d be delighted at your presence, not just my ideas for frightening a company into humility.” 

“Hm, perhaps I may.” Vila nods thoughtfully. “Again, chaos has been brewing in London. Between Diggers’s ‘artistic’ anarchy and Iverson’s stunt, everyone’s on edge. The city needs to catch its breath.” But then she tilts her head in response to a thought surfacing. “Lilya, do you think Zeno is behind New Humans, or at least is a shareholder? They’ve been down in manpower in their mission to clean up the last remnants of Manus Vindictae, who’ve now gone into hiding and resorted to evasive guerrilla tactics. Funding the development of automated and prospectively sentient robots in the guise of security is not a reach for them.” 

“As much as my day job and cover involve my work under Zeno, I’m not always privy to classified information from the higher-ups.” Lilya shakes her head. “It’s an even better idea for you to pay London a visit to further investigate Iverson’s business then.” Lilya comments. “Personally though, I’ve had enough of contacting Regulus for the rest of the week. She can be too much for me to handle solo at times, and I’m speaking as her best friend.” 

Vila smirks. “She probably prefers to deal with me in serious affairs anyway, I keep her hot head cool, pun intended. Remember in the last life – actually, a last life, I can’t keep up – when seafaring was all the rage, how all manners of bounty hunters sought after the heads of the formidable, man-eating gorgon? As a pirate captain herself who was concerned about the fellow crews’ safety, she stormed them inland for months.” 

“Regulus acts like she’d die if she went a day without being irrational , but I’m all here for her dedication to the job.” Lilya remarks. 

“I agree,” Vila clinks her bottle with Lilya’s in camaraderie, “but you’re speaking as though death is ever the end of our problems.” 

🐟📏

“Here,” Vertin offers, pushing open the first door in the hallway. “We dedicate this room to you, please feel at home.” She leans on the door frame, drumming her fingers on it to an afterthought. “Actually, if you dislike it, I can always invite you to my suitcase.”

Windsong blinks, somewhat surprised at the hominess of the cabin in such a short time Vertin and Sonetto have settled in, the charming decoration almost tailored to her preferences – the bedspread is a shade of beige they might’ve picked out specifically for her, so is a multi-tiered work desk with her papers and calibrators in mind, the rest of the furniture more modern than traditional. Vertin continues, “Your bathroom’s through here,” she points to another doorway, “and our room is at the end of the hall. Sonetto’s study room is next to yours. We also passed the living room and the kitchen on our way here, so that’s about it.” 

Windsong steps in, dropping her bag near the foot of the bed. Idly, she realizes they must be planning on actually staying put for a while to splurge on an immaculate property like this; it’s certainly a step-up – or three – from her current living conditions since the ley line institute’s disband. “I’m fine here – actually, I’m more than okay, I love this room!” She turns to address Vertin. “But is it really okay if I stay here over the winter?” 

“Absolutely!” Vertin says, Sonetto nodding agreeably beside her. “Winter’s the best season to savor the homey atmosphere and communal celebrations in this town. Besides, consider this a favor repaid for your last summer mapping a ley energy map for my suitcase’s wilderness – it is particularly helpful in its weather forecast now.” 

“I just don’t want to be a burden,” Windsong shares, glancing between the two of them. “I don’t want to feel like I’m disrupting your stay, or your artistic inspirations.” 

Vertin giggles. “Windsong, our lifestyle literally revolves around disruption.” 

“Yeah,” Sonetto chimes in, “it’s because someone can’t settle on a career path.” 

“I’ve decided!” Vertin protests. “I’m writing.” 

“That was what you said about photography.” 

“That was never a career – it was a fleeting interest at best,” Vertin argues. “I need variety. I have to sample my options. How else will I know what I truly love to do?” 

“Take me with a grain of salt, but sometimes, even figuring out what profession you put your whole heart into can still instill all sorts of doubt in you.” Windsong sighs, balling her right hand into a fist. 

“Is this about the celebrity of your institute being outed as a fraud?” Vertin and Sonetto exchange a look of disgust. “Don’t worry, we won’t pry.” 

“Well,” Sonetto attempts to steer the conversation into a heartier direction, “I admire your strength to make your way back to who you were. I recognize how much your passion fuels you, and how unjust it might feel that it was the very same devotion that left you to hold down the fort after the numerous wrong decisions Lisov exacted for his own gain, even though you explicitly turned down a chance to ever meet nor work with him,” she reflects after deep contemplation. “Seriously, you can stay with us for as long as you’d like, we’re glad to offer as much help as we could.”

“Okay,” Windsong relents. “But the minute you start thinking about how much nicer it was before I got here, don’t keep it to yourself but tell me, and I’m out. Promise.” 

Vertin actually snickers and goes on tip-toe to pat her shoulders.

“Oh, you need to work on your self esteem, Windsong,” she says loftily. “You’re the one who’s always in your head.” 

“Is there somewhere else I’m supposed to be?” Windsong calls after her as she leaves with a single wink thrown back, Sonetto trailing behind. But it’s not until the sentence leaves her mouth that Windsong is hit with a pang of cosmic ache in her chest, calling out for her to be somewhere, look for something – a home, a heart – in this mountain, and it’s not simply this cabin.

🐟📏

They order in for dinner – Vertin says she refuses to cook for Windsong when she isn’t awake enough to appreciate it after a long day of hiking. The trio winds up spread across the couch, eating spaghetti and watching a critter habitation documentary that only Sonetto really pays attention to, Vertin humoring her with questions every once in a while. Windsong drifts off for a bit listening to their voices, their jokes and jabs, and she realizes that if there’s anything she’s missed, it’s simply having friends who care about her. 

🐟📏

Vila’s sitting on a fallen log, waiting boredly for the sun to set before heading home; there’d been strange activities in the forests, but she wasn’t clear if they were human or critter related, so she’s determined to stay put and wait for signs of timber poachers leaving for the night, if any. She absentmindedly plays with bubbles of water from the nearby river, grows visions of fish and imagines grilling them over a fire, but her head is preoccupied with the one and only thing she’s been thinking about all day: Windsong, her bang over one eye and her lips in an arch, breathtaking but forlorn. 

Suddenly, a trail of blue light glides along the current and into the orb of water in her hands, sparkling rhythmically as if it’s breathing. Vila takes immediate notice of it and stands up decisively as she morphs the water in her hands into a cold, hard ice barrier that blocks an icicle sailing her way just in time. 

“Aren’t you a pretty little thing?” A voice croons from beneath the river’s surface. 

Vila blinks dazedly; well, that’s what she gets for dreaming about a girl with pretty eyes and a prettier smile alone in the middle of the trail, she hasn’t even noticed a shadow undulating under the current. “Seriously?” She asks, grimacing as the hostile rusalka shows himself. “I suppose better me than any other half-blood,” she taunts. 

“What?” The voice snarls, confused and annoyed. “What are you talking about, mongrel?” He summons another volley of icicles twirling around in midair, but it’s not until he aims the tips at Vila that he gleans a clearer view of her face. His expression suddenly contorts to an age-old instinct warning him of danger, but he’s clearly trying to push past it for show. 

“What’s wrong?” Vila asks dangerously, staring him down. “Do I look familiar?” 

He raises his eyebrows, swallows. “No,” he spits out, though she catches him shivering. “Why?” 

She meets his eyes and smiles widely with her teeth, frost emanating from her eyes; she raises a hand as he fires his shots, curls her fingers, evaporating the icicles in midair. Before his mind catches up to summon another barrage, Vila clenches her hand into a fist and freezes the portion of water around him, trapping his limbs in place. 

The only available part left on his body is his head whose mouth starts screaming. Vila too lets out a sound similar to a scream erupting from her core, one that’s melodious but dark and irritated; the sound of an ancient language, one she never mastered. It’s a warning too loud to ignore, and with it, the water swirls into a tornado and washes him ashore, effectively severing his tie to power and mobility. 

Tendrils of water loop around his neck and lift his head, face to face with Vila. The offender’s eyes are wide, tears streaming from frostbite and the constriction; he strains his muscles violently to escape her grip but won’t budge an inch. 

“Do I look familiar now?” She asks sinisterly, irises a piercing teal, several shades darker than her usual turquoise. 

“Oh, fuck!” The rusalka on the ground lets out a strangled yell. “It’s fucking – it’s – fuck – the Winter Guardian.” 

“I’ve had a long day,” Vila murmurs, every syllable enunciated like the threat of death. “And if this is how you normally pick up women, I’m not going to let it slide.”

🐟📏

She tosses his body like a ragdoll back into the river but doesn’t bother thawing him; she figures he at least deserves a punishment shy of death to go deliver her message loud and clear. She glares at him one last time and warns, “Tell Samodiva that if he still sends his minions out on a hunt for half-bloods, I’ll kill them all. I don’t care if we share a bloodline, the likes of you mean nothing to me,” before kicking off the current to gradually send him back to sea.  She pauses, waiting for the words to hit their marks. “Am I clear?” 

“Y–yes,” the male rusalka stammers, face paler than the snow around them. 

“Don’t think I won’t be watching,” Vila’s stare bores into him until he disappears off into the distance, and turns back around to go thank a friend who sent her an alarm. 

🐟📏

“Nothing like family,” Yenisei greets her as Vila approaches a nearby bridge, the bottom half of her outfit still wet, suggesting she’s been out casting her arcane skill. 

“Tell me about it,” Vila says, lip curling in disgust. “As much as I try my best to make peace with my rusalka half, I do not wish to be related to blood purists.” Her eyes fade back to turquoise as she hugs her dear friend from behind. “Anyway, thank you, Yeni. I would’ve missed him creeping up on me completely if it hadn’t been for your alert.” 

“Don’t think too much about it,” Yenisei pauses her notetaking to focus on Vila. “I was fortunate to be close enough to see you visibly distracted and a humanoid shadow swimming underwater. I figured you would’ve dealt with it alright without me, albeit with a few extra scars, so a signal was still better than nothing. You can pay me back by drying my skirt now.”

Vila flicks her wrist to fulfill her wish. “Vila, I worry more about you than him, you know,” Yenisei continues. “Want to share with me what’s wrong? That wasn’t a normal outburst from you, and we both know you’re not going to kill anyone.”

The Winter Guardian sighs. Yenisei always manages to see straight into her soul from their very first encounter – perhaps it’s why she deems it safe enough to let her into their circle. She folds her hands onto the bridge’s railings, leaning on it with her legs crossed. 

“I don’t know, sometimes I wish people could see me for who I am, not as half of something, but as one whole Vila.” Vila shares, staring out into the river and to the horizon where the sun is disappearing behind faraway peaks. 

Vila recalls the appearance of her recent pursuer, then the worst of their bunch– Samodiva. She’s held a grudge against purists for longer than she remembers her name. It isn’t that they are generally rude, ill-tempered, have sharp eyes, a hoarse voice, or a hideous face that inevitably arouses disgust in their beholders. They are all facts, but not causes. These are mere external appearances, even if they purposely perform most of them to take pride in savagery. Samodiva intentionally speaks from deep in his throat, letting out guttural sounds, eats raw food, does not clean his teeth, chews meat with bones or shells, prefers to use nails instead of tools to disembowel preys, and allows algae and seaweed to hang off his hair and fins. 

But Vila’s kind of contempt has less to do with personal feelings and more with an ideological battle. In the eye of purists like Samodiva, if you are born a Rusalka, you must live like a Rusalka; you have to kill humans – not to hunt for food, but as a declaration of war, an act of honor marking who you are, where you’re from, and where you’ll go. This is why those who once treated her as family now regard her as a traitor after discovering the other half of her lineage; they hate every half-blood and human in their territories to the core, vowing to pursue her to the ends of the earth to cleanse their bloodline, although she actually did nothing during her childhood, and she doesn’t remotely act like human pirates who they come into contact with often. Beyond the disgust, Vila secretly thinks it’s quite ridiculous, considering their family is far away in the depths of the ocean. If they don’t take the initiative to dock, they won’t be able to see any humans, let alone wage a war against them. Yet, their racism has lasted for thousands of years and shows no sign of declining in the future; any shape or form of reconciliation cannot be tolerated and is not needed. 

Their philosophy is also flawed in more ways than one. Today’s rusalki, despite the drift between pure-blooded and mixed-blooded individuals, are no longer the original – the high creatures of folklore – as their arcanum dwindled over time with little to no exposure to technological advancement. They use the word “family” to refer to their little kingdom simply because they consider each other to be the same species and consequently, as kin . From the bottom of her heart, Vila does not feel that their society is conducted any differently from mankind’s. She is amused every time the rusalki curse and revile humans as “scaleless wretches” on the shore. The difference between them and humans is by no means as simple as whether they have scales or fins. They intrinsically hate humans, she thinks, not because humans are so different from them, but because humans are so eerily similar. They, therefore, must hold onto this hatred and regard it as a reward, because once it is lost, the two will soon become interchangeable in terms of intelligence and behaviors. 

“Even so,” Yenisei prompts cautiously, distracting Vila from her train of thought, “does it anger you that people could only see you at all as the Winter Guardian? Where, deep down, they’re afraid of you, yet outwardly bow and scrape – only to turn around and betray you with fabricated whispers and lies?”

Likewise, Vila ponders her role as the almighty Winter Guardian of legend, its similarities to her status as a half-blooded rusalka. It’s in line with self-preservation to isolate beings of power beyond mortal comprehension into a separate category, to consider them for their differences before their similarities, to treat them as borderline gods than fellow individuals who too feel, struggle, and long for connection just as much as everyone else. As much as the rusalki purists draw a line between themselves and mankind with hatred, so do humans to Guardians, but through reverence; they sing her praises but don’t dare look her in the eyes, hang her like an artwork to admire but never touch, absolving themselves of the burden of empathy, either out of jealousy or fear. 

“Perhaps you’re right,” she’s surprised at the ease she relinquished to Yenisei. “As much as I try my best to act as the bridge between both worlds, sometimes I wish I could lead an ordinary life, too.” 

Her mind automatically drifts to Windsong again, her heart pounding throughout her entire body, traveling down the roots and into the core of the earth, running wild. Running away, or maybe running towards. “I guess I’m just… lonely,” she shrugs. 

“It’s a good thing you trust me to have your back, then,” Yenisei places her palm over Vila’s hands on the railings. “Which reminds me, you could look for more connections with the world outside of your Guardian circle. I hope the kids at school are a welcoming start for you. Tomorrow is a Monday, you should head home and rest for the night now because they’ll be excited to see us.” 

“Alright, thanks again, comrade Yenisei,” and in a blink of an eye Vila is gone, jumping off the bridge and into the river.

Chapter Text

[Several months ago, montage begins.]

[Yenisei had been on the move for years, drawn to the rhythm of the world’s currents and the nomadic lifestyle just as much as generations after generations of her family have been. As an arcanist first and a hydrologist second, she was prodigious in her field of gauging water not just as a resource to be studied and utilized, but as a living, breathing entity whose currents whispered secrets, ripples carried memories, and depths that cradled more secrets than anyone could ever fully know. She had followed rivers like scars of the earth to the ends of the land, tracing their twists and turns through mountains, valleys, and forests buzzing with arcane activities; but for this winter, something about these remote snow-capped mountain ranges of the north had captured her attention. Perhaps it was the only season where the snow and ice came out to play a role in shaping the flow here, creating pockets of magic, singing its stories – if only someone listens to it. 

Her project has taken her deep into the heart of the region. Yet, even in this faraway land, she couldn’t ignore the human need for socialization; the cold and isolation of the villages could drive one to madness, she suspected. While Yenisei was a traveler at heart, her research required stability — a place where she could secure the resources necessary to sustain her studies. Her department’s funding was limited, and as much as she loved the solitude of her work, she also needed a steady income to keep her research alive and her stomach full. 

That was how she found herself applying for a part-time teaching job at the local elementary school. The research grant she’d received was contingent on her staying for an extended period, and what better way to integrate herself into the community than through introducing the young generation to the wonders of her work? The village children, with their untamed curiosity and boundless energy, proved to be a perfect distraction from the freezing silence that often enveloped her. 

It was an unexpected move that brought her to the humble Rayashki elementary, and even more unexpected was the discovery of Vila – her strange, albeit captivating colleague. Vila, with her worn brown jacket, red scarf, and sturdy boots that give the impression of a hardworking woman, suggesting nothing beyond the life of a simple, rural art teacher. But as their first few weeks together passed and they grew closer to one another, Yenisei’s keen scientist intuition has picked up a thing or two beneath her new friend’s demeanor – the way Vila’s eyes seemed to shimmer like the water itself, or during their outdoors projects that Yenisei helps supervise the children to paint landscapes, how Vila would speak of the land as though she were a part of it. 

After all, as much as Yenisei had sought human connections to get her through her stay, she had a sneaking suspicion she’d gotten more than she signed up for ever since her bizarre encounter with Vila at work, just the first of multiple enigmatic instances surrounding her comrade. 

🐟📏

On that fateful day, the sky above was a flawless shade of winter gray, heavy with the unspoken promise of snow. Yenisei had ventured to the lake that morning, a place she frequented for its solitude. 

Today, she was there for something more personal. She had a task to complete, an arcane skill to refine – a delicate operation that required her to commune with the water’s soul by submerging herself into the lake’s icy embrace. Her arcanum would then allow her to send out signals to locate hidden water bodies and ensure she drew correct conclusions about the area’s unique flow patterns, which was crucial for understanding the complex underground networks before the lake froze completely over. 

The cold didn’t bother her, not in the way it should have. But she knew that magic, like nature, had its own temperaments. The water demanded submission, and she was prepared to give it. She closed her eyes, took a steadying breath, and walked into the lake. 

The water was frigid – colder than she’d expected – but she trusted herself. She could hear it in the quiet hum of the deep, feel it in the way the water surged around her. Her fingers moved instinctively, tracing invisible lines as the patterns began to reveal themselves in her mind’s eye. The pulse of the lake, slow and powerful, synced up with her own heartbeat, guiding her.

But then, an unexpected surge. The lake roared – a wall of water, sudden and wild, crashing into her. Her vision blurred, her arcane attachment fractured, and before she knew it, she was falling. The icy water cut through her like a knife, and for a moment, she lost herself. Her breath was stolen by the chill, the pressure, the shock of it all. She couldn’t hear the hum anymore. She couldn’t feel the magic.

As the water closed in around her, Yenisei could only wonder why, for all her control, it was this way. Why was the lake so unforgiving today? Even as doubt began to cloud her thoughts, a presence broke through Yenisei’s world that the liquid progressively drowned out by the second. 

A strong, graceful hand reached out, pulling her above the water surface with ease. Yenisei’s shivering body was lifted, her chest burning with desperate, gasping breaths. She blinked, still disoriented, and took a closer look at the woman before her. 

Vila.

She was a vision of serene grace, waist-deep in the water. Despite the sharp cold, she stood unfazed. Vila’s skin seemed to glow faintly, as if kissed by the very sunlight that touched the snow; her long hair, tangled with strands of ice, drifted effortlessly in the water. At that very moment, her presence was like the lake itself – timeless, motionless, yet channeling a mystical energy – but as Yenisei blinked the water out of her eyes for the fifth time, her friend had guided her back onto the shore and along with the soft touch of land beneath their feet, Vila’s aura dwindled down. 

“You’re safe,” Vila’s voice was a soft murmur. “I know what you’re thinking, but please don’t worry about me,” she added, as though the water held no sway over her. 

Yenisei’s teeth chattered as she blinked up at her friend, confused, still shivering, her mind racing with questions. “Did... did you save me just now?” she managed, her voice trembling.

Vila looked at her for a moment as if amused by the perceived necessity of that question, before giving a slight nod. “Yes. You were casting your arcane skill, weren’t you? As a teacher, what I’d say is that during this time of year, lakes sometimes have a way of teaching lessons.”

Yenisei managed a shaky nod. Her eyes were wide with disbelief. “How did you –?” But she couldn’t finish the question. The answer seemed too impossible, too... intimate. Vila wasn’t just someone who had pulled her from the water. She had known what was happening.

Vila looked at her, her expression unreadable. “You’ll be fine, I’ve seen it happen before. Next time though, you might want to wait for calmer waters,” she said, her tone quiet, but with an underlying warmth. “Now, I have to go because I don’t want to miss my lesson in fifteen minutes. Please dry yourself up and keep warm; won’t want you to catch a cold before your afternoon class, right?” 

As Yenisei stood there as she took off her coat heavy with water, she couldn’t shake the feeling that there was more to Vila’s words than just a warning about the lake. The mystery of it only deepened as her friend headed back to town, her footsteps muffled by the thick blanket of snow, leaving faint traces of frost that lingered in the air long after she had passed, like the faintest whisper of a spell too delicate to catch.

🐟📏

The weeks following their encounter by the lake passed like winter’s breath – slow, deliberate, and deeply felt. Their classroom was a sanctuary of sorts, where Vila and Yenisei settled into a rhythm. Vila’s art lessons, with their emphasis on creativity and self-expression, stood out in stark contrast to Yenisei’s methodical geology lectures, as well as her meticulous equipment organization and sketching instructions during periods where she serves as Vila’s TA. Both of them, in their own way, were teaching the children the same thing: to see the world with open eyes, to grasp its patterns, and to explore it fearlessly. 

Nonetheless, Yenisei, ever a keen spectator, began to piece together the puzzle in her head with little details to quell her curious inquiries. Subtle, borderline imperceptible acts from her colleague, she notices, as if Vila didn’t mind letting others in on the enigmas surrounding her, if only they were observant enough. Almost like it isn’t a big deal for her to hide what she can do and who she is daily, not in Rayashki. 

One afternoon, during a watercolor lesson, a kid carelessly knocked over a cup of water, splashing its content all across the table as he walked over to look at his friend’s painting. Yenisei’s instincts kicked in as she motioned toward the mess, but before she could react, Vila was already there. The hydrologist swore she didn’t touch the water, didn’t move a muscle – yet, the liquid seemed to defy gravity. It swirled back into the cup as if it had never been spilled, the faintest flicker of blue light dancing in the air around the teacher’s fingers. 

Yenisei stopped mid-step, blinking her eyes, her mind racing. The children had all had their eyes elsewhere at the moment, rendering her without a witness to back up her sight. 

“Don’t worry, it’s a quick fix. It’s all in the hands, you know?” Vila teased when she caught Yenisei staring, but it came out as if she was vaguing about an entirely different topic completely. “What I’m saying is,” she chuckles at the furrowing of Yenisei’s brows, “I need to teach the kids to be more careful with their hands.” 

Yenisei would have given her coworker the benefit of a doubt if Vila had let her forget about the strange detail as class proceeded. Nevertheless, when the bell rang and the children were dismissed to their final class of the day, Yenisei volunteered to stay behind to help Vila prepare for their last period. She was washing supplies and sorting them back into where they belonged as Vila stood by the window, looking out at the snow. The wind was howling outside, but inside the art room, there was no chill, and a comfortable silence settled over them like the sun that just began to set faraway. 

As soon as Yenisei was done with her task, she walked over to plug in a hairdryer in an attempt to speed up the drying of the children’s artworks. Vila, interrupted from her trance by the whirring sound of the device coming to life, finally paid attention to her colleague; suddenly, the wet paints seemed to shift and settle, as though an arcane breeze had swept through the room, cooling the papers instantly. 

Yenisei couldn’t hide her surprise, but less about the occurrence in itself and more so about why Vila had never shared stories of her arcanum with her despite them having grown into a close-knit pair at a humble school out in the wilderness. Especially when it obviously pertains to water, which is right up Yenisei’s alley.

As a scientist, she would just have to make the first move, ask the first question, “Did you… dry the paintings with an arcane skill?” 

Vila gave a small, knowing smile at her friend’s reaction. “I’m surprised it took you this long to ask me. All in a teacher’s trick, Yenisei. You never let a lesson stall.” Her tone was light, but there was an edge of a challenge in her eyes. “Do you have a better way of drying all of them before next class?” 

Yenisei’s mind buzzed. She couldn’t let the topic drop now. “Why did you always go about it so surreptitiously? We’ve eased up around each other after a month now, and you know I work as a hydrologist. That morning in the lake… You saved me with your control over water, right?” 

Vila wet her upper lip with her tongue; she opened and closed her mouth several times in deep contemplation of what words to choose, seconds of which Yenisei swore she caught sight of sharp fangs poking out. “Perhaps,” Vila starts, “It’s because I’ve been here long enough to know the right time to intervene. You see, the world wasn’t used to be kind to me – until I came here, so I grew up around it, like a vine on a trellis.” Yenisei listens, noting how speech seemed to have become her friend’s occupational habit with her penchant to obscure layers and layers of interpretations beneath her figurative language. “Water, and everything else in nature – only when they adhere to a flow of time do they birth the earth’s seasons where its inhabitants thrive. I’m not excluded from this cycle, especially with my arcane tie to the planet – I wait for the right time to act, and I don’t show off to respect this very order of nature.” She holds eye contact with Yenisei, expression suddenly hardening. “But back to the point – you, Yenisei. I’d be happy to assist you in charting the hydrographic network, one day. You respect its patterns too. That’s something few people do. Rarer yet if they’re made aware of my arcanum and origin.” 

Yenisei felt the need to swallow, the weight of Vila’s words settling over her. “Of course I respect it. I feel it.”

Vila nods, as if she was awaiting this exact response. “That’s why I trust you,” she said softly. “And why I trust that the right time for you to know is soon.”

🐟📏

As much as the art classroom at the Rayashki elementary is a sanctuary, it’s also a place of chaos, but the kind that felt natural, unrestrained, like the slow winding of the river on its course. Paintbrushes and pencils scattered across tables, some of them abandoned, others still in use. The walls were decorated with vibrant depictions of creatures, landscapes, and the impossible made possible through the whimsicality of youth. To Yenisei, it was a space where stories came to life, where the mundane melted away, especially under the guidance of a peculiar teacher like Vila.

Today’s assignment was deceptively simple: paint your favorite fairy tale. The students were excited, lost in their own chatter to brainstorm for ideas as the room buzzed with energy. As Yenisei watched them, she found herself pondering about the nature of fairy tales – the way they dance between the real and the fantastical, often grounded in truth, yet twisted into something surreal, often as a cautionary tale. 

She walked around the class to whoever raised a question, and she stopped by a little boy wearing an ushanka with his grey hair poking out from beneath it, several wayward strands falling over his bright eyes that conveyed an imagination far too big for his small stature. He had chosen the tale of the mermaid for his project. As the mermaid materialized under his brushstrokes, her flowing silver hair seemed to blend into the water where she emerged from itself, almost liquid in their motion. Her tail, half-hidden beneath the waves, shimmered in specks of green and blue. Yet, the mermaid’s arms were outstretched, reaching for something beyond the canvas, as if longing for a world she couldn’t quite touch. The mermaid’s body, elongated and graceful, was adorned with delicate features – her posture regal, yet her gaze was full of quiet sorrow. The air she rose into was calm, but the waves didn’t seem inviting, either; they curled inward, pulling her back, trapping her from where she originated. The boy’s interpretation was less of a traditional fairy tale and more of a personal myth – a creature who was both empowered and imprisoned by water. She was on a quest for belonging, even if the mind of an eight-year-old couldn’t possibly gauge the weight of an ocean that never stopped tugging at the mermaid’s heart.

Vila approached them after noticing the surprise written all over Yenisei’s face, and she observed the piece of art with an inscrutable expression. 

“Little Avgust,” she asked and Yenisei was made aware of the student’s name, her teacher’s voice soft and encouraging, like the first notes of a song stirring in the air, “Why did you choose the mermaid for your work?”

Avgust tilted his head, a strand of his grey hair falling into his eyes. He blew it away with a puff of breath before looking up at her. “Because I love Rayashki, and I like to imagine how mermaids aren’t much different from how water hides beneath the snow I’m surrounded with.” His words tumbled out like pebbles skipping across a still pond. “You can’t see it, but you know it’s there, shifting between phases. Ms. Yenisei has taught us about the water cycle recently. Water’s like a secret that only the earth knows, and the mermaids are its guardians – watching, waiting, and keeping what’s hidden safe.”

Yenisei was both intrigued by the boy’s response and flattered that he held her lesson fresh in memories. Avgust was an oddball in class, a dreamer who painted not just with his hands but also with the metaphors of his speech; his words left her wondering what quiet corners of the world his mind wandered through. 

“Besides,” Avgust continued, swirling his brush through the diluted blue paint, “I saw you, Ms. Vila, sitting by our swimming pool one evening. She didn’t know I was there – don’t worry, I didn’t spy! – but I thought she looked like she belonged there with her feet dangling and her eyes bearing into the water. Sort of how the moon belongs to the night sky, you know? I wonder if you were trying to converse with the pool, Ms. Vila?” He asked, then brought a finger to his chin as he gave an afterthought. “I thought since I’m in Ms. Vila’s lesson, I should take inspiration from her. I also remember that one time when you read us ‘The Little Mermaid’ in class. I believe Andersen wrote it because he felt the mermaid is trapped between two worlds? Her underwater kinship and her love for the human prince? It’s sad at the end when she failed at her objective and dissolved into sea foam. Maybe all mermaids, if they exist, feel the same way, like they’re stuck in a story they can’t rewrite.”

Vila’s expression shifted at his words. She leaned in close, her voice barely above a whisper. “And what do you think the mermaid is looking for, Avgust? In your painting.”

He grinned, his eyes bright as he dipped his brush into a can of water to clean it off its old color. “She’s looking for the place where the river meets the sea, inching ever forward to a union with humans. That’s where all the stories mix together, where she can be anything she wants to be. The waves don’t want to let her go. But she’s brave, see? Even if it hurts, she keeps swimming. Because there’s always a chance someone on the other side will reach back for her hand.”

The complexity of his answer struck Yenisei like a thunderclap. She found herself glancing at Vila whose eyes never left the boy’s painting, as though each brushstroke was unraveling her thoughts. Vila didn’t respond immediately, but there was something about the way her fingers brushed the edge of the table to ground herself in the moment.

Yenisei stepped closer, unable to shake the growing feeling that there was something more to this exchange. Avgust’s artistic choices and description of Vila’s moment by the pool lingered in her mind, kicking the gears in her head into spin. With the mountain of mysteries piling up around Vila, her connection to her students was the cherry on top – it was deeper than most teachers yet tinged with an otherworldly detachment, always keeping the gears in their heads spinning.

“How do you feel about it?” Yenisei asked her colleague, sensing the moment unfolding. 

Vila blinked as if pulled from a deep reverie. “It’s… an attentive portrayal,” she responded quietly. “Fairy tales can resonate with vastly different individuals than what they mean to. Our interpretations of them come forth based on our experiences, which we would otherwise be unable to express in words.” 

Yenisei studied her carefully, watching for any crack in Vila’s cheerful in-class demeanor. “I agree,” she said, her mind still furiously working to connect the dots. “Fairy tales construct a simple narrative for their audience to make sense of the parts of us embodied by the fantastical yet universal themes. Perhaps some fairy tales aren’t about the end, but the journey. The choices we could make if we were in the characters’ positions – what we could succeed or fail at, and explore the aftermath.” 

A flicker passed over Vila’s turquoise eyes, like the shadow of a bird flying over a lake, fleeting but it was there. She straightened, her fingers adjusting her scarf as if shielding herself. 

“You’ve given us a lot to think about, Avgust,” Vila offered him a warm smile. “You should be proud of this piece. It carries more truth than many grown-ups could manage.”

Avgust beamed at the praise, but Yenisei didn’t focus on him. Truth, she mused. Yenisei knew, with a certainty that rang out like a bell, that Vila was already confessing something, true to her promise a while ago. 

The classroom continued buzzing around her, the children’s chatter filling the space. But Yenisei felt caught in the undertow, the quiet current of understanding sending her closer to a profound revelation. The teacher before her had more secrets than Avgust believed the water could hold, and that Yenisei was destined to eventually lend an ear to them, as improbable as it was.

Their fairy tale together had only just begun. 

🐟📏

The school day had lulled into evening quietly, as if the world were tucking itself in beneath the blanket of soft snow; the sky tinged with soft oranges and purples. Yenisei had let her mind lead her feet to the edge of Rayashki elementary’s property, her breath rising in delicate clouds as she wandered. The energy of the classroom had left her reeling, from Avgust’s peculiarly perceptive words to Vila’s inexplicable reaction. It was the very same sanctuary for Vila Yenisei had heard about in passing that caught her attention: a heated pool tucked away in the school’s back courtyard, a tiny luxury in the heart of the snowy wilderness. Beside from her duties as a hydrologist that involved submerging in water, Yenisei didn’t usually indulge in such comforts, but tonight, she was drawn to swim; the icy lakes and streams of the mountain range were no place for her to reflect, but the liquid stillness here could cradle the answers to her feverish curiosity. 

She didn’t even bother changing out as she approached, the faint ripple of water was the only sound breaking the silence. From afar, the water shimmered faintly under the dimming light of dusk, like a mirror that reflected not just the world around it, but the questions within her. When she rounded a corner to reveal the pool in sight, surprisingly enough, her breath caught in her throat. 

An unexpected scene froze her in place. Vila – Vila – was already there, swimming with effortless grace, her form gliding like a sleek fish cutting through the surface. A sleek fish?  Yenisei’s mind tumbled into overdrive and her eyes widened upon her realization that Vila wasn’t just swimming – she had a tail; better yet, a shimmering fishtail flicking beneath the water, an iridescent arc of green tinted silver scale, unlike anything Yenisei had ever seen, except in art. And an artwork it was, as memories of the mermaid in Avgust’s imagination flooded her mind.

Yenisei stepped closer, her heart racing, a thousand questions swirling in her head. “Vila?” She wasn’t sure if the figure before her was even the Vila she knew anymore, Vila the humble art teacher at a humbler town. Her call was barely above a whisper, almost afraid to break the strange spell in the air.

Vila turned toward her voice, eyes locking onto Yenisei’s, a flicker of recognition passed between them. She rose to the surface with a slow, deliberate movement; she didn’t need to rely on the handrails as her tail propped her up onto the edge of the pool. 

Vila shot her a sly smile, “I can practically hear your thoughts from here, comrade Yenisei. Wondering if you’ve stumbled into the pages of a fairy tale, are we?” The faint glow of scales on her skin, even in the dim moonlight, reflected the eerie luminescence of the water. “Don’t worry, go ahead – I’ve quite anticipated this when I decided to take a swim in my own skin at school.” she gestured lightly to herself, a playful grin tugging at her lips. “What’s running through that clever scientist’s mind of yours? The tail, the scales, the whole package?”

Yenisei blinked, only registering the question directed her way. “What…you? Vila, you’re a mermaid? As in what Avgust drew for class?” 

Vila tilted her head, her lips curling into a half smile. “In this part of the world, I’m actually a Rusalka. Well, a half Rusalka, I’m half human, as you’ve seen of me on land.” As if to prove her point, a glimmer of light enveloped her tails and in the blink of an eye, it transformed back into her human legs, still kicking at the water. “Before I answer any more of your questions though, please join me on the floor.” She patted the space next to her on the edge of the pool. “Don’t worry about getting your clothes wet,” she added as an afterthought, “I’m capable of far more than transforming between my rusalka and human form. Here,” she waved her hand, and the perimeter of the pool dried off in an instant, “come sit.” 

Yenisei approached her friend, but wasn’t as steady in her words as her feet. “Is this what you’ve been meaning to tell me? Don’t get me wrong – I respect your eventual trust in me and your belief on what is natural, but… why hide it from the children? This is Rayashki. A town that welcomes you with open arms despite your background, even if it is a lineage of vengeful water spirits that drown young women and sailors, and are considered souls trapped between the living and the dead. Yes, I’ve read about your race in legends – I prefer to be well equipped against arcane creatures.” Yenisei’s thoughts stumbled over each other, but at least they tumbled out in earnest. “But Vila, I won’t peg you to live up to the malevolent portrayal with how many expectations you’ve defied.” 

Vila’s gaze softened as she watched Yenisei piece the truth together. “You see, being a half Rusalka isn’t about acceptance or shame – it’s about responsibilities.” But then her expression tightened, gaze drifting toward the distant horizon. “What surprised me earlier is how well little Avgust captured this – water flows where it will, but I? I’m bound to it. To both its power and its curse.” She paused, the soft sound of the waves lapping against the pool’s edge filling the space between them. “I keep my secret because if people knew… it would change their impressions of me. I would not be able to, dare I say, ‘flow’ as freely among human society any further. Not as a teacher, not as a woman, but as something more, something… unreachable.” Her voice dropped to a murmur, barely above the quiet hum of the water. 

Yenisei looked at her – really took a good look at her friend – and for the first time, the hydrologist understood the full weight of Vila’s burdens in her eyes. Something else nagged at Yenisei’s mind about how exactly Vila’s power tied to her origin. Before she could open her mouth –  but you’re not just power or a curse, Vila, you’re my friend – Vila stood up in one sharp motion, and with startling strength, she pushed Yenisei headfirst into the water. 

Yenisei coughed up water as buoyancy propelled her back to the surface, and suddenly, she too was propelled by another force upwards – this time, above the pool; Yenisei was levitating . She shook her head back and forth to register her height relative to the floor, reclining back onto the mass of pool water supporting her form. Her vantage allowed her to spot Vila below with one hand raised, her hair flying in all directions, free from her braids; her eyes emitted the type of frost that you breath out in the winter weather, except the mist was illuminating the pupils that have dilated to half the size of her irises. As quickly as the surprise started – as soon as Yenisei’s brain registered that this was all her friend’s doing – Vila already lowered the surge of water back whence it came as a bulk of water morphed itself into a palm that deposited Yenisei back on solid ground. She had half a mind to shake the water off herself to prevent the cold from kicking in, but in a blink of an eye, Yenisei already found herself dry. 

“Do you think a simple Rusalka, let alone a half-blood, can do this?” Vila’s voice broke into an echo, one Yenisei believed stemmed from her arcanum. 

“This… who are you?” She whispered, awestruck at the display of power. 

“I’m sung by many – ‘The Frostbinder’, ‘The Snow Sovereign’, the ‘Harbinger of Twilight’s End’, but you could refer to me simply as the Winter Guardian.” She explained quietly, voice returning to her gentle, demure self. “I’m part of the Four Seasonal Guardians who reincarnate together through every timeline, ancient entities born from The First Circle meant to oversee the rotation of the earth. Personally, I ensure the cold comes when it’s needed and retreats when the world demands growth. We don’t recall more than a few of our recent lifetimes – but surprisingly enough, I’ve been reborn as a Rusalka at least twice now. Water is in the Rusalka’s blood, as it is my element, while Earth, Fire, Air are to the other three respective seasons preceding me.” 

“As much as the seasons change in plain sight, our duty is kept out of sight. Mankind would go to war over control of our power. Therefore, they’re only allowed to hear about our deeds in myths; even then, education meant to bridge individuals with their history and weave a rich tapestry of human experiences dwindles in the face of our advancing, scientific world. This is why I encourage an exploration of fairy tales in my class.” Her voice was colder now, taking on the edge of her seasonal domain. “Loneliness is the byproduct of our roles. We’re removed from ordinary people’s lives, as those who respect us with neither fear nor condition are far and few in between.” 

“I could never have guessed…” Yenisei mused, suddenly unsure of what to do after she received every piece to the puzzle. “Does this mean… I’m not ‘ordinary’?” She asked unsatisfactorily. “If I’m not, how may I help you?” 

Vila gave a quiet, almost rueful laugh. “Help? You’ve already done more than enough by listening.” She turned to face her friend. “I’ll tell you this, Yenisei: not everyone who encounters a Guardian is welcomed into their life. For me, it takes someone who sees the beauty in the cold, who endures the isolation, and bears the weight of knowledge without cracking like ice.”

As if on cue, a janitor who stayed after hours arrived at the pool to sweep away the leaves and other trash that littered the area, preparing them for a brand new school day. He saw Yenisei and curtly greeted her, but completely ghosted over Vila. 

“He couldn’t see me, could he?” Vila disclosed. “He won’t be able to hear us either. I’m draped over by a layer of mist. I’m not quite sure how it works exactly, but this enables us to hide from mortals on field missions. You can only see me because the mist has deemed you a comrade with a heart of gold. At least, I trust that I won’t have to wipe your memory after our conversation, whether it be that you’ve betrayed my secret or it gets too much to handle, witnessing my true form.” She teased, but there was an underlying sincerity beneath her words. “An ace up a Guardian’s sleeves.”

Yenisei chuckled, her heart light for the first time in their heartfelt exchange. “You’re not getting rid of me that easily,” she admitted. “I’m here now – I won’t let your duty get between our friendship. Besides, I befriended a Rusalka in flesh and blood, and above all an entity who can shape water to her wishes? That’s news to me! Not that I’ll ever publish about you in research, but you can certainly assist me to conduct experiments in the depths of water where I cannot access.”

“Never change, Yenisei. Never change.” Vila was in full blown laughter, reverberating through the quiet night air. “It’s the hydrologist in you, Yeni,” – long after this, Yenisei would look back and see it was the origin of Vila’s nickname for her – “that puts me at ease around you. You see my world not just as a power, but as a way of life. Blood runs thicker than water, but your love for water runs deeper than blood. I feel more of a kinship with you than my own rusalka side of the family.”

Yenisei joined in the laughing fit too, but promptly steeled herself with a quiet determination. “I think… With my research, step by step, I connect more with the world every day, in all its corners and crevices. And I think that’s exactly why I’m drawn to Rayashki. With you.” 

Vila nodded. “Perhaps we’re both starting to look for something we’ve yearned to find for so long.”]

[Several months ago, montage ends.]

🐟📏

For Windsong though, perhaps what she’s been yearning for at this moment is her first decent homemade dinner with her loved ones after months. Vertin does cook that night – she sears salmon with garlic-lemon butter sauce, and clearly her one year at culinary school in her ever transient lifestyle paid off; though over dinner Windsong promises she’ll take over the next night, so they’d better give her some recommendations. Vertin waves her away – as long as it’s because you want to, she says, and not because you feel obligated to. Besides, she jabs, I didn’t know you can cook anything besides instant noodles.

She’s hit with the reminder again that they really do enjoy her company, care about her as a person – not another step towards glory, fame – and thinks about telling Vertin she loves her, loves them both. Her throat closes on itself. She doesn’t say anything, only smiles genuinely at the couple in the kitchen. They read between the lines. 

She steps outside afterward to clear her head, puts some space between herself and the four walls of a place she’s not sure she should inhabit despite the consistent insistence otherwise. She recognizes where the influence comes from, why she’s her own opposition; it’s the institute, it’s Lisov – his frame, his fraud. Off you go, you’re still young and free, echoed professor Ivanov, despite already knowing how it’d pave a path for her own shackle. She still hears the footsteps of Old Nik and the light of his cigarette as he walks into the night. She replays the disappointment of former leyhunters at the institute a thousand times over in her five senses, their success scaled on not how much they pioneered but how much they took advantage of a field – take advantage of her – and internalizes the fear of belonging. 

No, she corrects herself; I wasn’t my field to begin with, wasn’t a subject of interest. It’s almost a daily mantra that she’s her own person who’s allowed time to grieve and time to pick up the pieces. Who’s allowed to be hers, not the institute’s. 

She walks aimlessly along the road, passing by the neighboring houses, and absentmindedly follows a path leading off their street towards the treeline. The mountain’s famous for its landscape, scenic trails peppering every route out, and she doesn’t think too much of it, doesn’t fear the darkness of the forest. Something about it comforts her, the broken canopy of trees keeping her safe, slices of moonlight guiding her path. Vertin has mentioned a type of border security around the actual village itself, anyway, so she shakes the fear of any kind of attack, the idea barely crossing her mind. 

The path eventually fizzles out, leading her into a vibrant clearing that seems to call to her, offering a peace she’s longed for but never found. She moves forward into the grass, taking a deep breath, tilting her head back, her gaze lifting skyward. 

The stars here seem more vivid, scattered across the heavens like precious jewels – rings, necklaces, and loose gems tumbling through a jewelry box. There’s a quiet serenity in their presence, an essence that doesn’t demand her tether to the earth. She loosens her clenched fists and jaw, rolls her shoulders back, and releases the tension that’s held her captive.

The sounds are softer here, too; the gentle murmur of insects, the distant hum of the town behind her, the wind caressing the leaves and the grass. She feels a faint touch against her ankle and looks down automatically, only to see –

Flowers – actual living flora, not ice meticulously sculpted this time – have sprouted around her feet, so natural to the landscape that they seem like a coincidence. But she knows better, and her eyes quickly scan the clearing, searching for something.

“Vila?” Windsong instinctively calls. 

“Yes?” A voice answers whimsically. 

Windsong’s eyes narrow. She casts an arcane skill to enhance the clarity of her surroundings, and Vila still isn’t anywhere instantly visible. “Where are you?” 

“Up here,” Vila says, and waves to get her attention; Windsong automatically zeroes in on her, sitting casually amongst the branches of a tall tree like it’s a mundane, everyday occurrence. 

Windsong blinks, more taken aback by the sight than anything else. Vila lazily kicks her foot, leaning back against the trunk. “What are you doing up there?” 

“Thinking,” Vila replies. “I could ask you the same thing down there.” 

“Are you following me?” Windsong asks, her brain catching up to her words. Vila rolls her eyes, a gesture Windsong somehow can tell even from a distance. 

“No,” she answers. “If anything, it looks like you’re the one following me.” 

“Oh, right, my mistake,” Windsong remarks with a hint of sarcasm. “Should’ve known you’d be here, of all places.” 

Vila laughs and sits up, rests her hands against the bark, her other leg swinging over the side. Windsong realizes what she’s about to do the second before she does it, and her eyes widen, arm raising, strangled yell sticking to her throat as Vila slips out of the tree– 

She lands gracefully on both feet, as if she’d floated down rather than dropped, and Windsong takes a panicked step forward, her mouth still open in warning. Flowers sprout around her heels. Vila looks at her with a curious expression. “What?” she asks, grinning. “Thought I was going to hurt myself?”

“Most people can’t just leap out of trees,” Windsong says, her heart still racing, not from fear of Vila – who seems practically indestructible with her uncanny abilities and possibly stalker-ish ways – but from the almost overwhelming fear of seeing her get hurt.

Vila grins, stepping closer. She’s ditched the gown from yesterday by the lake, now wearing a soft brown cardigan over a grey shirt, dark pleated pants tucked into brown boots. A necklace rests around her neck, and her hair is loosely braided over her shoulder. “Well, I’m not most people.”

Windsong takes a quick look at her, but Vila appears as unscathed as she claims to be. She also looks… looks good, but what Windsong probably looks at is her unbecoming because she can’t help but notice it.

“Obviously.” Windsong exclaims to prevent her mind from going off track, and the ever spinning gears of her researcher head kick back in. “Normal people won’t have flowers spring from their feet when they touch the ground either. Which I find peculiar – considering your arcanum should pertain to water.” 

Vila’s smile widens mischievously. She lifts her weight, leaning back to the trunk slightly, and lets out  a dramatic sigh. “Curiosity never seems to cease in that mind of yours, does it?” She says, the edge of her voice light but teasing. “Always asking, always thinking.” 

Windsong sighs, frustrated, but intrigued, and wordlessly she turns to scan the clearing, then back at Vila with a knowing look. “Come on, Vila, don’t deflect. You do appear to have an affinity for flowers – you meticulously sculpted them out of ice last we met. How do you do it?” 

Vila chuckles and waves her hand. “Oh, I don’t know. I could tell you... but I’d rather see you gather clues for yourself. Maybe it’ll give you more to think about next time you’re wandering off into the wild.” Vila shrugs. “Speaking of which, what are you doing out here, anyway?” 

“Thinking. That – you’re right about how I always do.”

“About what?” Vila asks, her gaze drifting to the patch of sky Windsong had been studying earlier.

“What I’m doing here,” Windsong admits, the words spilling out almost like a confession. “I’m not sure it was the right decision, but I didn’t have many options, and I’m not really used to… having people look out for me.” She stops, surprised by how easily the truth slipped out, and wonders why she’s telling Vila. “What about you?” she asks, eager to deflect. “What were you thinking about?”

But Vila only says, “You.”

Windsong scowls, throwing a mild glare her way. “You’re pulling my leg again.” 

“I’m not,” she says, shrugging her shoulders like she’s recognizing she’s revealing something she shouldn’t. “I was thinking about you.”

It’s hard for Windsong to doubt the admission when it’s uttered so inadvertently. “Why?”

“Do I scare you?” Vila asks unexpectedly, and Windsong finally meets her eyes, surprised. There’s a vulnerability in them she hadn’t expected to find, an uncertainty. “Seriously.”

Windsong bites the inside of her lip, the answer pushing at the backs of her teeth. Vila waits patiently in front of her, wild blonde hair curling gently in the breeze, turquoise of her irises so delicate of a color in the starlight Windsong gets the impression they may shatter into pieces at any given moment. Her mouth rests in a worried line, though it looks as if she’s trying to hide it, keeping her expression neutral and unassuming.

That’s the thing, Windsong thinks; the answer should be yes. Vila’s popped into her life twice in two days, seemingly serendipitous, with power Windsong can’t even comprehend, let alone reconcile exists in the first place. The answer should be yes, but it’s not.

“No,” she admits, and Vila visibly relaxes, brushing off a weight she'd apparently been angsting over. “You don’t. You’re – you’re strange, but I don’t feel like I’m in danger, or anything.”

Vila smiles cutely; the moon glows just a little brighter. “You aren’t,” she says, and adds cryptically, “You’re actually safest when you’re with me.”

“And why’s that?” Windsong asks.

Her smile shifts in a way Windsong can’t put into words, can’t peg down; not threatening, but not nice, either. It’s a sultry kind of knowing. “Because,” she says, “I’m the most powerful thing out here.”

Windsong swallows, desperately fighting back against the sexiness of the statement; she digs her nails into her palm, stops herself from the brief, flashing instinct to grab Vila and kiss her, push her back against the tree, wrap her hands in her hair. Vila quirks an eyebrow, examining her expression.

“You okay?” she asks. “Did that freak you out?”

“No,” Windsong manages, realizing she’d been staring, daydreaming. “It didn’t… freak me out.” Her tongue sweeps over her bottom lip. “I think I’m just tired.”

“It’s late,” Vila says, still a bit concerned. “You’ve been traveling, right?”

“Yeah,” Windsong says. “I’m staying with friends for the winter.”

“That’s exhausting for anyone,” Vila reasons. “Let me walk you home.”

Windsong doesn’t decline Vila’s offer, but she doesn’t accept it, either; Vila comes along of her own will - for her own peace of mind, she says - and the conversation flows easily like it’s natural, both of them talking openly and laughing. Windsong can’t remember giggling so much, can’t remember the last time she felt so comfortable outside of herself, wasn’t afraid of being seen.

Vila doesn’t follow her right up to the door, just waits patiently on the pavement underneath a streetlight, watching her; she waves adorably when Windsong unlocks the door, and Windsong smiles over her shoulder. As she unlocks the door and glances back at the soft glow of Vila’s smile, all thoughts of how flowers sprouted around her feet earlier seem distant, erased by the quiet pull of her thoughts into a new focus. Just for it to resurface in full swing when Windsong’s footprints are marked in the yard by outlines of flowers, the same as in the clearing, a little scaled down so as to not attract attention.

Windsong rolls her eyes, but secretly, she hopes they’re still there in the morning.

🐟📏

Windsong dreams about Vila that night, a sea in the color of her eyes and the crisp of the winter air over the shore; the ocean recedes, rises high, and Vila stands underneath the towering waves with a smile and glowing irises, still their usual hue of turquoise but with flecks of blinding gold. She walks up to Vila standing at a port, the sea waving behind her like a kite. Windsong feels like crying, her throat shut tight and choking, her heart ramming itself against her ribcage. 

Don’t worry, Vila says, and presses her lips to Windsong’s ear. Nothing can take you away from me. Not while I’m here. Not again. 

She wakes up to the taste of salt, and all she remembers is the color gold. 

🐟📏

“This is your wake-up call, Ms. Windsong,” Sonetto announces, cheerily knocking on her door; fortunately, she’s already awake or she would’ve repaid her hospitality by mercilessly murdering her. “You promised to join Vertin and I for a picnic this morning. It’s unprofessional to bail on us now, no matter how late you might’ve stayed up last night to work on your papers.” 

“I’m coming,” she calls back, tying her hair into a ponytail. “One minute.” 

“Meet you outside,” Sonetto says as she runs off. Windsong can hear her feet skittering across the floor and immediately gets the sense that this picnic may just be more humorous than relaxing. 

She steps out of her room, passing Vertin in the kitchen, who’s still half asleep, cooking bacon and sausages in nothing but her boxers and an oversized t-shirt. “Are you ever going to change out to real clothes?” Windsong mutters, raising an eyebrow as she grabs some fruit from the counter.

“Hey, it’s a breakfast of champions,” Vertin mumbles, flipping a sausage with a yawn. “Besides, I’m comfy.

Sonetto, on the other hand, is already up and about as she’s packing everything from a checklist into a basket when Windsong emerges into the living room. She tosses her a water bottle as soon as she spots her; “You’ll need it for the walk,” she adds as Windsong catches it effortlessly. 

The morning is crisp, the sun casting soft rays over the snowy landscape, as the trio makes their way to the perfect spot uphill for a morning picnic. Windsong has somehow insisted they bring exactly the right kind of blanket, the perfect assortment of cheeses, and the precise mix of sandwiches even though Vertin was on food duty. 

Upon their arrival and as Windsong fusses about the setup again, Sonetto can’t help but finally laugh at her meticulousness. “You know, Windsong, you can just relax. It’s a picnic, not a ley energy map.” 

“I’m just trying to make sure nothing can go wrong now that I have the luxury of enjoying real food, especially outdoors,” Windsong replies, her voice edged with the tiniest hint of exasperation as she smooths out a wrinkle in the blanket. “You two wouldn’t understand. You’re all about flexibility.” 

Vertin, half-distracted by the sizzling bacon Sonetto is starting up, chuckles under her breath before tossing a playful look toward Windsong. “Right, because nothing says cutting-edge research like ensuring your picnic blanket is wrinkle-free and your food has the perfect balance of mustard and mayo,” she comments at how Windsong is doing exactly that to her sandwiches after a longer than necessary while that she took to be satisfied with their setup. “I bet your leyhunting is equally meticulous – measuring every breeze and marking every leaf like it’s the last discovery that’ll finally prove its credibility and revive a dying field.”

She raises an eyebrow, her smirk widening as she continues, “Who needs groundbreaking work when you’ve got the ‘perfect picnic’ formula? I’m sure the public will love the ‘precision’ of your research... once they’ve finished dissecting the cheese board.” A handkerchief is tossed Vertin’s way upon her statement, and she hunches over laughing as she too reaches for the sauce bottle that Windsong puts down, except –

It slips right out of her hand as everyone realizes its content has been frozen all over, smacking against the dirt and rolling away. “What?” Vertin is stunned, gazing at the bottle from a near distance. “How?” 

She glances down, sighs heavily at the familiar sight of flowers sculpted from ice bubbling up around their checkered blanket. “Vila,” she pouts, “knock it off.” 

Vertin stares and stares and stares. Her eyes widen continuously, the effect somewhat frightening after a few seconds, like they may pop from their sockets at any given moment. Someone laughs in the trees, voice lost to the wind. 

“Um,” Sonetto says in Vertin’s stead. “Excuse me?”

“It’s just Vila,” Windsong says, more blasé with Vertin and Sonetto around. “She’s the woman I ran into in the woods on my way here, and now I think she’s stalking me.”

Laughter rings out again. Vertin glances around, mouth hanging open, searching for the source of the noise. She rests her hands on her shoulders, finally lowering her eyes to hers.

“Windsong,” she says slowly, each syllable carefully enunciated. “Are you trying to tell me that you met the Winter Guardian?” 

“The what?” She asks, bewildered and a little uncomfortable at the weight of her intensity. 

“Vila,” Vertin repeats. “The current reincarnation of the Winter Guardian. As her name would’ve suggested, she oversees nature this time of the year to ensure everything is in order.” 

“I’m not following.” 

“Of course you aren’t, you shouldn’t be.” Vertin expresses vehemently. “Her soul possesses arcanum dating all the way back to The First Circle that at this point we should redefine the term magic to distinguish her from meager arcanists. To keep people from vying for such ancient power, the guardians either distort passersby’s memories regarding their existence, cloak in varying illusions of appearances to different people, or even attempt to fabricate multiple versions of their legend.” 

“Certainly their tricks aren’t foolproof, because how else are you able to know so much about them?” Windsong folds her arms, skepticism written all over her face. 

“Because we’re actually friends with the Spring, Summer, and Fall Guardians!” Sonetto exclaims. “Apparently, in one of their lives, so long ago that not even the three Guardians can recall them in detail – our souls tangled with theirs by virtue of being allies and close friends, a bond wherein they promise to find us again in every timeline to remind us of our companionship. From what we gathered, Guardians are pretty lonely from concealing their identities from the public.” Sonetto clears her throat. “Especially the Winter Guardian – the most elusive of them all, at least to us. I’ve never seen or remembered seeing Vila’s true form again since one time when we were hanging out just for her to summon the other three for an emergency, let alone see Vila with friends trusted with her secret. And you’re telling us she’s made your acquaintance?” 

“I… guess?” Windsong answers unsatisfactorily, not quite understanding Vertin and Sonetto’s theatrical behaviors. “If you count her following me as trying to get to know me.” 

“Silly you,” Vertin says. “She’s not following you. This is – this is all hers.” She gestures all around her. “Every lifeform on Earth owes her. She could wipe us all out if she so wished, but she protects us instead.” 

“Oh, come on,” a voice suddenly rings from the treeline. “I would not consider myself a psychopath more than a generally demure school teacher. I’m not going to, say, kill a population of innocent mortals.” 

Vertin whips her head towards the source of the noise and flinches; Windsong follows her gaze, and promptly rolls her eyes at the sight of Vila sitting casually on a tree trunk, grinning widely, legs spread and hands resting between her thighs on the wood. 

“What are you doing here?” Windsong asks. “Aside from butting in on private conversations?” 

Vila laughs again, standing up and dusting off her hands. “Like Vertin said,” she says, “all of the land is mine. So technically speaking, you’re on private property.”

“Ha- ha,” Windsong flicks her hand sarcastically.

Vila ignores her obvious sarcastic undertone, and walks deliberately towards Windsong; she’s a few steps away when the soil starts to shift around her, and a flower the leyhunter recognizes vaguely as a type of edelweiss croons up, bulb opening, petals curving around each other. Vila doesn’t look at it, but reaches out and picks it as she passes by, though even that wording isn’t quite right - it looks more like the flower cuts itself delicately and heals its stem, tosses itself into her waiting hands. She extends her arm to Windsong, twirling the flower between her fingers.

“An edelweiss?” Windsong asks, amused despite herself. “As much as I often scale this locale, I’m actually a bit allergic to edelweiss.” 

Vila smiles. “You aren’t to anything I grow.”

“Oh, and why’s that?”

“Because I’m growing them that way.”

“That’s impressive.”

Vila only shrugs, a hand playing with her braid. “Well, what’s the perk of being omnipotent if I can’t grow an allergy-free garden?” She honest to god winks at Windsong. “If it’s you who’s asking, I can even make the entire population of edelweiss on this mountain allergy-free.” 

Windsong giggles, though every acknowledgment is somewhat against her will, like she doesn’t want Vila to know she’s genuinely enjoying her company, especially in front of Vertin and Sonetto. “I suppose that’s fair.”

“Oh my!” Sonetto suddenly interjects, like she’s just been slapped awake from a dream only to find she hadn’t been asleep in the first place. “It’s an honor to meet you again under… more favorable circumstances, Ms. Vila!” She dramatically brings a hand to her chest and takes a bow. 

“I’m always happy to meet a fan I trust, but sit up Sonetto, just Vila is fine,” Vila smiles sincerely. Windsong snickers; Sonetto can’t help but be polite to everyone she meets, though she’s still confused on Vila’s status. “I don’t give out autographs, but I’ll make an exception for any friend of Windsong.”

“Hey!” Vertin breathes out. “And not because we’ve actually met each other before by virtue of us being friends with your fellow Guardians?” 

Vila laughs, turning back to Vertin. “No, I’m kidding. It’s actually a pleasant surprise that you two are accommodating Windsong, so I – uh – want to pay you my thanks for that.” It’s clear she doesn’t spend a lot of time interacting with people who follow her; she seems more surprised at the reaction than anything, like she hasn’t put much thought into her public renown.

“I have to tell Druvis, Regulus, and Lilya about this! The Winter Guardian, exposing her true form? This is news.” Vertin says, still starstruck, and reaches for her phone. “Can I take a selfie with you, Vila?” 

“No,” Vila says apologetically, grimacing. “I’m still pulling an illusion. It’ll be you and a blur, spots of different colors.” 

Vertin almost drops her phone. “Woah,” she exhales, astonished. “Really? This never happens to our Guardian friends.”

“No,” Vila says with a shit-eating grin, and Windsong bursts out laughing. “I’m just playing with you, comrade. Come here!” 

She drags Vertin in, arm around her shoulders, and throws up a peace sign. She snaps it quickly, ducking away from her and smiling. “Oh,” she says. “We both look great!” (Publicly, Windsong does agree. Privately though, she’s somehow made up her mind that Vila looking just great in the photo is an understatement, and that she is determined to make her smile again at any chance she gets.) 

“Let’s see,” she says, waving for the phone. She hands it over, like she’s suddenly just another one of Vertin’s friends and not a living legend. Vila examines it for a second. "You’re right,” she says appreciatively. “Send that to Windsong.”

“What, why?” Windsong asks.

“So you can send it to me,” Vila says, as if it should’ve been obvious.

“I don’t have your number,” Windsong points out.

Vila fakes surprise, lifts a hand, tapping a finger against her chin like she’s thinking. “Hm,” she says. “I suppose I’ll have to give it to you.”

Vertin chokes on a laugh bubbling from her throat before it turns raucous and Sonetto blushes like she’s experiencing second-handed fluster. A few seconds pass before Vertin recovers enough to utter, “That was the smoothest way of getting a girl’s number I’ve ever seen.”

“Not very subtle, though,” Windsong adds, because she can’t just let her have this one.

Vila winks. “I can be straightforward if I so wish.” 

Windsong digs her phone out of her back pocket, opens her contacts, and hands it over to Vila, who quickly inputs her number like she’s nervous Windsong is going to change her mind midway through. Windsong tries to hide her smile, but doesn’t succeed; Vertin glances down at her and smirks. Oh, she’s never going to hear the end of it.

“There,” Vila says, handing her the device back. “Now you have my number. Feel free to use it any time.”

“I can’t believe the Winter Guardian is hitting on you, ” Vertin says, like Vila’s not literally standing right there. She seems amused by it more than anything else, though, so Windsong doesn’t bother correcting her rudeness. “You, who doesn’t even know their names, let alone what they can do.”

“It’s alright,” Vila says, reaching out and brushing Windsong’s bangs away from her forehead. Windsong’s pretty sure the touch lights her on fire, like a line of ash is about to fall from her skin, her breath getting lost in her lungs. “It’s different. I like it.”

Windsong can’t respond, and there’s that feeling again, like she’s rooted to the ground, like she’s just another thing Vila’s growing from the earth, her face falling open; Vila’s expression shifts the barest hint, and for a moment, Windsong swears she can see her, see into her soul, not like a book but like a window, a doorway, a home.

Sonetto jokes, “You wouldn’t have anything left to like if you accidentally killed her with your touches, Ms. Vila,” when another few seconds go by without a word.

“I hope not,” Vila says, but her voice isn’t as steady as it was previously. “Otherwise I can’t ask her to dinner.” 

“Um, what?” Windsong says, oddly affected. “I mean,” she coughs, “sure, I can be up for that.”

It’s not a rejection, and Vila doesn’t seem to take it as one; she nods, taking a step back. “Sure thing,” she says casually. “I’ve got some business to take care of, anyway. I’ll see you later, comrade Windsong. Message me.”

“Definitely,” Windsong says, her mouth dry.

“Echoing your sentiment, it’s nice to see you again under more favorable circumstances, Vertin and Sonetto,” Vila acknowledges. “Even if those circumstances are you two tag-teaming my dear Windsong.” Windsong’s mouth seems to fall open in an attempt to refute that, but promptly closes when she realizes she has nothing to say. 

Vila promptly turns, walking back towards the treeline mending along a river’s course. She dips her legs into the water, and the water spirals in a way Windsong isn’t sure how to describe – the waves fold on themselves, almost as if creating a tunnel. The Winter Guardian throws them a last look back and a wave, leaps into the vortex, and with that, she is gone as quickly as when she arrives. 

The three of them all stand unmoving, stunned. The breeze falters and dies; flowers still unravel against her calves.

“Well, yeah,” Windsong lets out, preoccupied.

“That was an insane sequence of events?!” Vertin exclaims, removing her hat with one hand to hold her head with the other. “You’re dating the Winter Guardian!”

“I’m not dating her,” Windsong says, her yelling snapping her from her daze.

“You will be,” she says. “My dear Katya, she’s gorgeous. Out-of-this-world beautiful. How will you ever manage to say no to that? ”

Windsong pouts, both from the nickname and also because she isn’t wrong; Vila seems to only get more attractive every time Windsong sees her, like wildfire, thunder rolling around her heart in a warning sign. There’s something in her that can’t be contained, something Windsong’s inexplicably drawn to.

She sighs. “I’m not,” she says, and finally remembers to take the last few bites of her sandwiches. “But I don’t want to talk about it.”

Vertin and Sonetto both exchange a knowing look, but they decide they’ll give the leyhunter this one as they resume their picnic, pretending Vila’s visit didn’t exist, much like the public perception of the myth from whence she steps out of. 

Chapter Text

"I'm here, I'm here," Vila exclaims, dropping to the chair beside Regulus at the table before Lilya can open her mouth to complain. "Apologies. Have you ordered already?" 

"No, it's fine," Druvis on the opposite seat from hers says nicely. "We were all running a little behind today. Here's your water," She nods to a glass beside Vila's hand on the table. 

"I see, thanks," Vila says appreciatively. She then raises her eyebrows, turns to address Lilya with the corners of her mouth twitching. " You were late?" She echoed Lilya's earlier jab towards her, but there's no venom behind her words. "Don't you think we're also very busy and important, comrade Lilya?" 

Lilya rolls her eyes. "Yes," she admits irritatedly, an answer to both questions, taking a sip of her own drink. Lilya has a streak of slacking off on the clock unless it's commitments she deems worth her substance; in which case, nothing gets under her skin like tardiness. "Bertolt's mobilizing something at his post that I haven't managed to get a scoop on and it's causing a spike in critter aggression. It's a nightmare." 

"Is it dangerous?" Regulus asks. 

"It's a classified Zeno operation, so probably," Druvis chimes in. "I don't know why Bertolt specifically is always trying to slip things by us." 

"Hubris," Lilya says, sneering delicately. "Zeno topdogs like to think they're the most powerful men out there. Which can be true," she adds as an afterthought, "as we aren't men ." 

Vila smirks at her, her fang flashing for a minute. "I'll cheers to that," she says, and Lilya offers her a sort of lopsided grin, allowing it. She and Lilya tend to be the most resolute, meaning they often agree the most but clash the most too; Vila's historically more circumspect and a born pacifist, rolling with the punches and throwing them when necessary, but Lilya is nothing if not born from pride, and her instinct is to defend it. 

"Anyway," Lilya continues, "I've requested a temporary transfer to Bertolt's team, but he doesn't quite trust me enough yet for full clearance, so we're working on something together. From what I know, they're experimenting on critters." 

"Hm," Druvis's eyes narrow. "I'll admit I don't like the sound of that." 

"Neither do I," Regulus agrees. "Do you need this Captain's help to storm him inside his house? Though I do feel like more drastic action needs to be taken." 

"We were just talking about that!" Lilya laughs. "Vila and I met up the other day, she's good company for the headaches Zeno's been causing me lately. I need a break from all this bad news." 

"Lilya, you know you can always count on me to heal your minor inconveniences with my Rusalka magic, right?" Vila says, but not even as a question as she's already twirling her finger to whip a stream of water from her glass to apply onto Lilya's forehead. "But if you want a change of topic… Well, let's say, I met a girl." 

They all turn to look at her, staring with various expressions of surprise; fortunately, they're saved by the waiter, who approaches politely with a pen tucked behind his ear. "Ready to order?" he asks, pulling out his pad. He blinks a little hazily as he looks at them, like he can't quite see that they're there.

"Yes," Lilya says without a pause. "I'll have pelmeni and vodka please, thank you." She orders, to which the other three also nod in agreement and call servings of pelmeni for themselves as well. 

"I'll also have some rum," Regulus finishes, beaming brightly and handing the man her menu. He writes it all down, turns and walks away without another word. 

"Alcohol so early in the morning," Vila comments, "I hope you still keep up your spirit – pun not intended – to work for the rest of the day." 

"You should be used to her habits by now," Druvis chuckles with a hand over her mouth. "But Lilya, my dear, you're starting to become a bad influence on Regulus." 

"Hey now," Lilya retaliates, "Let's not move on from the fact that Vila admits she met a girl." All eyes dart back to the Winter Guardian who is now suddenly finding the details of her glass very interesting. 

" You met a girl?" Lilya repeats, a cross between disbelieving and accusing. 

"Maybe," Vila says defensively. 

"What is she like?" Druvis inquires. "Is she your – you know – is it her?" 

"She's beautiful," Vila answers, "and smart, albeit a little shy. She's a researcher, so she treats me more like a regular person… or occasionally a case study. I got her number, so I'm asking her out later." 

"And the other question?" Lilya asks, gaze probing. " Is it her?" 

"I don't know," Vila shrugs, deliberately avoiding her stare. "I mean, how would I know?" 

They deflate slightly at the answer, Lilya and Druvis exchanging a look they think Vila doesn't catch. Regulus only swirls the liquid in her glass that the waiter just arrives to give her, expression blank. 

Lilya murmurs, "You'd know," and the pity can't keep itself from her tone. "You'd know." 

🐟📏

Windsong gets home, steps right into the shower before Vertin has a chance to pester her about what’s happened. She turns on the water, shuts the door, and cuts her voice off. She runs her hands through her hair, wipes off her face, and she can only think of Vila's smile, her fingertips sweeping across Windsong's forehead, how her touch hurts like a bruise, painful to press down on but in a good way, relief rushing after blood. She's never felt anything like it. She's never felt anything even remotely close.

She drops her head under the water, letting it run down her neck, her back, her legs. Vertin's right; she's not going to reject Vila, not sure she even could, knows she doesn't want to. But she's not sure when the shift occurred, like she's been talking to herself in her sleep and can't quite remember the conversation.

Twenty minutes later, she walks out of her room, determined, resigned, compelled. Whatever it is between them, she thinks, is a different kind of magic.

"Okay," she says, approaching Vertin now lounging on the couch, chewing on a piece of bacon. "Tell me everything you know about the Guardians."

She sits up with a speed that vaguely concerns Windsong, hat tilting lower into her eye. "Really?"

"Yeah." She might as well know what she's getting herself into. "Everything."

🐟📏

As it turns out, Vertin doesn't know much, and neither does Sonetto when she finally joins in.

Not for lack of trying, though; information regarding anything beyond surface-level knowledge isn't exactly publicly available. For obvious reasons, Vertin says, rolling her eyes. Even people who've set out to study them can't get close enough. It's a good point, one she hadn't thought about; if they're as powerful as they say they are, there must be people who oppose them, who'd die to know how to control their gifts. 

The most interesting thing Vertin mentions though is that she and Sonetto seem to know of them as ordinary people, not figures of myth. "Regulus is a pirate captain who used to be on the blacklist of every radio frequency and the entire city of London before settling down in the Foundation. So did Druvis, but before that she was the daughter of the famed Weyerhausers who bankrupted themselves after a forest fire. Lilya is her girlfriend who grew up under the Zeno Armament branch of the Foundation."

"On the day I met her, Vila vanished without a trace, so I assumed she urgently needed to go somewhere," Windsong comments. "Now that I know the Guardians all have their job covers, it makes sense why she'd be in such a hurry if she were going to meet up with her colleague."

"God, that's so cool," Vertin says, starry-eyed again. "You're getting, like, an inside-look at the most exclusive, secretive people in history." 

"What I've also gleaned from our friendship is that the Guardians are natural born figureheads who inspire people to listen to them," Sonetto continues, interrupting. "Druvis once revolted against the policy of the Foundation by bursting open every door at one of their buildings with her branches. Lilya trains the new Zeno recruits in the art of broom riding and strategic mapping. Regulus doesn't slot into any conventional leader position but she's a team player through and through, always ready to risk her life for the greater cause, even if her justification is to join the 27 club where all rock stars die at or before 27."

"How about Vila?" Windsong probes. 

"That's the thing," Vertin emphasizes, tapping her fingers against her knee. "Vila's like… she's so removed from it all , I guess. She's not unapproachable or anything, yet she chooses to live as a kindergarten teacher out in the middle of nowhere." She glances at Sonetto for help. 

"We're only friends with the first three Guardians now because we've somehow bonded with them in one of their past lives, so they once conducted a ritual to mark our souls in order for us to find each other again in every reincarnation of theirs. The Winter Guardian won't be able to recognize us in any given life until the other three have found us first, but to be fair, the Winter Guardian doesn't seem to socialize much in the first place. I always wonder if it's a characteristic of her season that rubs off on her personality.” Sonetto picks up, rubbing her fingers against her jaw. “Vila exudes a certain charisma that singles her out as a beacon of hope to whoever seeks it, but she's also the most distant; she has fans more than she has followers. People in the know are really into her – she's just so mystifying and unpredictable."

"And she likes you, " Sonetto adds to Windsong, placing a weight atop the sentiment that makes her shiver. "Out of everyone in the world, she likes you ."

"This is unheard of for her, Ms. Windsong," Vertin says gently, watching her expression slip into a blankness she's familiar with, a way of masking how she truly feels. "I'd think about that before getting involved with her, if you aren't sure it's something you actually want."

That's the thing, Windsong thinks later, staring aimlessly out her window, arms resting on her knees. Somehow, wanting Vila is the only thing she is sure of.

She picks up her phone, finding Vila's contact details; she opens her DM, and before she can stop herself, sends Vila the picture of her with Vertin and Sonetto from the picnic.

You're right, she types, you do look good.

🐟📏

"What do you feel like doing this time?" Lilya asks her companion, cocking her head. The two of them are standing on the outskirts of a wasteland, steel beams and stone rising behind them like the degrading corpses of a city that once flourished. A large pack of rogue critters wander in front of them, oblivious to the threat approaching from behind. The ruins stretch down toward a wide, rushing river that cuts through the landscape like a silver wound. "Are we going physical, or magical?"

"Let's do physical," Vila says, rolling her shoulders. The scales along her forearms shimmer faintly in the dim light, barely visible unless you know what to look for. "I haven't had a good workout in awhile."

"Okay," Lilya agrees, cracking her knuckles. "I'm gonna go airborne."

Vila watches Lilya extend her hand as electrical energy swirls around her fingers. The air shimmers and a sleek, metallic contraption materializes – shaped like a streamlined missile but wide enough to stand on, with handle grips and small stabilizing fins. The burnished surface gleams with built-in weaponry ports along its sides. Lady Su-01вe. 

"So we'll clear this out, and figure out the source after. Shouldn't be difficult. I think they're in the caves by the river." Vila points. 

"Sounds good." Lilya steps onto Su-01вe, testing her balance as her Guardian magic swirls around her ankles, lifting her a few inches off the ground. "What are you gonna do?"

Vila smiles darkly, raising her hand as ice blue energy crackles between her fingers. Water vapor in the air condenses and hardens, forming into a long, wickedly barbed harpoon. The shaft extends nearly six feet, perfect for close combat, while magical threads of water shimmer along its length – ready to extend its reach when needed.

"Harpoon," she says, spinning the weapon expertly in her grip.

Lilya holds a hand up to her chest, fluttering her eyelashes, mouth in an 'o' shape. "As a pacifist, you can be pretty barbaric when you want," she says, mimicking Druvis's voice, and Vila laughs.

"I'm telling her you did that."

"Please don't," Lilya says, snickering as she rises higher into the air, wind whipping around her. "She'll kick my ass."

"Yeah, of course," Vila says, rolling her eyes. "Let's get on with it, comrade."

There's a subtle shift in the air, and a critter's head lifts, ears perking up, nose sniffing; it turns towards them, the rest of the pack following. Lilya hovers about twenty feet above, Su-01вe humming with contained energy.

"Here, boy," Lilya whistles, like she's calling a dog. "Come and get it."

Vila grins as they start to run; Lilya shoots forward through the air, wind magic propelling her faster than any normal flight. Vila only steps forward slowly, one foot after the other, shoulders strong and spine straight, harpoon held low and ready. The first critter leaps at her with slavering jaws, but Vila pivots smoothly, driving the barbed point up through its chest in a practiced thrust. The creature howls as she twists the weapon, then dissolves into dust. 

"Oh," she breathes out, her eyes flashing with frost. "I really needed this."

Above them, Lilya banks sharply, Su-01вe's weapon ports glowing red-hot. She extends her hand and fire erupts from the contraption's sides, raining down like meteors on a cluster of Grimm. The creatures shriek as they're engulfed, their forms dissolving under the barrage.

"Nice shots!" Vila calls up, then spins as two more critters flank her from either side. She extends her harpoon horizontally, clotheslining one while the magical water-thread attached to the weapon's base snakes out like a whip, wrapping around the second creature's neck. With a sharp tug, she yanks it forward onto the harpoon's point.

Lilya swoops low, wind creating a downdraft that staggers several targets. "They're starting to scatter!" she shouts over the rushing air.

Indeed, the remaining pack members are backing toward the river, their red eyes darting between the aerial bombardment and Vila's relentless advance. A massive critter roars its defiance, but even it seems to recognize the losing battle.

Vila's phone suddenly vibrates in her pocket; she blinks briefly, reaching for it as three more enemies rush her position. Without looking away from the device, she plants her harpoon in the ground and sweeps her free hand in a wide arc. Water from the nearby river responds to her call, rising in a protective barrier that crashes into the attacking creatures, sending them tumbling back.

"Windsong texted me," she says, so surprised that she forgets herself, a faint pattern of scales appearing along her neck.

"Vila – watch out!" Lilya starts from above, but Vila reacts just in time, grabbing her harpoon and driving it deep into the chest of a critter that had tried to take advantage of her distraction. The arcanum-powered thread glows as she channels power through it, freezing the creature from the inside out.

"Now, please," Vila murmurs softly, her eyes now fully the color of deep ocean water, pulling her weapon free as the critter shatters like ice. "I have a very important message to answer."

But the remaining critters have had enough. As one, they turn and flee toward the river, plunging into the rushing water with desperate splashes.

"They're going aquatic!" Lilya calls, pulling up higher to track their movement from above.

Vila's grin turns predatory. "Perfect." She pockets her phone and strides toward the water's edge. As she reaches the riverbank, her form begins to shift – her legs merging and elongating into a powerful silver tail, gills opening along her neck, her harpoon adjusting to underwater combat as the threads extend and strengthen.

She dives in with barely a splash, her Rusalka form cutting through the water like she was born for it. The critters thrash frantically in the deeper currents, but Vila moves through their element better than they do.

Above, Lilya adjusts her flight path to follow the river's course, her broom's weapons reconfiguring for precision shots into the water. "I've got overwatch!" she shouts down.

Vila surfaces briefly, her harpoon now crackling with concentrated arcanum. "The big one's trying to reach the deep pools!" She calls back, then dives again.

Underwater, Vila's harpoon becomes a ranged weapon as deadly as any surface spear. She hurls it with tremendous force, the watery thread allowing her to guide its path and retrieve it instantly. The weapon punches through the water with devastating accuracy, striking a fleeing enemy that had tried to dive-bomb Lilya from below the surface.

The thread glows as Vila yanks the harpoon back to her hand, already lining up her next shot. Above, Lilya's fire attacks create steam clouds where they hit the water, disorienting the pack and herding them into Vila's killing zone.

"This is actually kind of fun," Lilya whoops, executing a sharp turn to avoid a leaping carbuncle that had tried to drag her down.

Vila surfaces with a laugh, water streaming from her hair as she spins her harpoon overhead. "Just like old times," she agrees, then notices her phone's screen lighting up again through its waterproof case.

"Vila, focus!" Lilya calls, but Vila is already moving, her tail propelling her forward as she drives the harpoon through the last target's skull with one final, decisive strike.

As the creature dissolves, Vila floats in the now-peaceful water, immediately checking her phone while Lilya circles overhead, keeping watch.

🐟📏

Are you hitting on me? is the reply Windsong receives, her phone lighting up. She smiles, opening the text instantly. 

No, definitely not… I think? 

Windsong watches her type back, the three dots appearing and disappearing out of sight with lulls and pauses in between like she's not sure what to say. Uh huh. Just randomly letting me know how good I look? 

First of all, I am just affirming what you started. Second of all, I'm trying to boost your confidence. You're clearly lacking in it, if the past few days have been any indication. 

Thank you, it's true. I am certainly not admired enough. 

Windsong's cheeks burn more than Vertin's cooking skill, yet she doesn't know what force animates her fingers to message back immediately – Takes one to know one. Guess you're going to have to find someone to help you with that, like how Vertin and Sonetto help me be more self assured. 

Vila is even quicker, like it's her natural instinct to lean straightforward. Fortunately, I have just the candidate in mind. 

You're pretty smooth for someone who doesn't get a lot of practice, Windsong answers, as if she's not sitting there, blushing. She draws closer to herself, resting her chin on her knees, staring at her screen, waiting.

Only with you.  

Also, I got some business to attend to, but can I see you tomorrow? We can finish our conversation. 

Okay, Windsong types, already way in over her head. Where should I meet you?

Oh, I'm sure you'll find me. Vila replies vaguely. Goodnight gorgeous 💛

Windsong tosses her phone behind her on the bed, buries her face in her arms, stomach tying itself into a knot. The statement should concern her more, should confuse her, deter her; instead, she remembers Vila's laughter in the trees, the way they seem to cross paths without premeditation, like they're drawn to the same places at the same times, and she thinks –

Yeah. She'll find her.

🐟📏

It's really a hunch Vila has.

Well, maybe it's a little more than that; a hypothesis, accidentally tested and proven, three for three. She rests by the riverbank, lying on her back in the grass, staring up at the sparse clouds crawling lazily by. The tips of her fingers tingle, her bones shivering underneath her skin, her heart impatient and anxious. She closes her eyes, breathes steadily, attempts to quiet her soul. Just give it a minute, she tells herself; give it a minute – 

"Hey," a voice says from above her, behind her, sounding oddly unfazed.

Vila opens her eyes, blinking up at Windsong's face, leaning over her. Her mouth spreads into a grin. Four for four. "Hey," she says, sitting up. "You found me."

"I did," Windsong confirms, taking a seat next to her, leaning back on her hands. "Though I'm not sure exactly how. "

"Fate," Vila says ominously, but Windsong doesn't laugh like it's a joke, and Vila didn't mean it as one in the first place; she only smiles, legs stretched out, boots crossed at the ankles. Vila sneakily checks her out, her pulse already an earthquake in her veins, and fights to contain a sigh; Windsong's so beautiful that it's almost a form of torture to have her close; she's wearing light denim shorts and another white button up shirt loosely tucked in that Vila's starting to suspect she owns a wardrobe worth of copies. Today she swapped her fur coat for a black leather jacket, with an object poking out from its pocket whose color matches the gold of her necklace of a certain scientific symbol Vila can't make out in the brief time she examines her. 

"Magic?" Windsong guesses dryly.

"Yeah," Vila says, attempting to mirror her tone, mouth like a desert. "Magic."

"You know," Windsong starts, staring out at the methodical current of the river, "for someone who watches over the entire world, you sure spend a lot of your time here ."

Vila looks over at her, mildly amused. "Well, I live here."

The idea that Vila lives somewhere seems to strike her more than the idea of an otherworldly compass, and she meets Vila's eyes, obviously taken aback at the revelation. "You do?"

"Yeah," Vila says, biting back a giggle at her amazement. "What, did you think I just, like, had a hovel in the forest or something? Like a witch, or –"

Windsong raises a hand and shoves her shoulder lightly. " No, " she laughs openly. "I don't know. Maybe a little bit."

"I live high up on this peak because I'm unaffected by the cold," she says. "Helps with my cover and the peace, and I can teleport to anywhere the water flows so distance isn't an obstacle."

Windsong nods, lips fading into a smile. The wind picks up the barest amount, the water lapping gently at the riverbank. She says, "So, what were you up to last night?"

"Working." Vila digs the heels of her boots into the grass, her palms on her knees, resting her cheek against the back of her hand. She stares at Windsong, grinning, and tells her playfully, "You're bad for my focus, you know."

"How?"

"I keep getting distracted in places I shouldn't be distracted in."

"What do you mean?"

"Like the middle of fights," Vila says. "I was out controlling a critter outbreak with Lilya – the Fall Guardian – when you texted me; it's this abandoned suburb near a major metropolis, and there's always a shady undercurrent going on, so we have to clear it out often before the threats endanger the city dwellers. Anyway," she shakes herself off her tangent, "I was gearing up to get a workout in, fight physically, but I wanted to text you, so I resorted to magic half the time. Lilya kept making fun of me." She grimaces.

Windsong mimics her position, rests her chin on her hand, her smile half-hidden behind her fingers. "And when else?"

"Hm?"

"You said you keep getting distracted," Windsong points out, "implying you've done it more than once."

"Oh." Vila sort of regrets letting that slip, though it's too late for excuses. She admits, "The reason I was up in that tree the other night was so I could think about you without being attacked," and she can almost see Windsong's mind doubling into overdrive, trying to process all the bits and pieces of information.

" Attacked? " she repeats, concern lacing her voice.

"Yeah. I was spacing out and was such an easy target." Vila only rolls her eyes, still berating herself for making such a stupid mistake. "Windsong, I've played around with you enough about my Guardian antics, and I'm sure many questions are still bouncing around in your head, so I may as well make time to answer one by one." Vila's skin suddenly starts to glimmer in patches and so do Windsong's eyes in curiosity. "First of all, what you're seeing isn't a skin condition of mine… it's my scales, a proof of my heritage as a half rusalka. On the day we met, I was attacked by a hostile pureblood dead set on cleansing all those who 'dirty' their kingdom underwater." 

"A… rusalka?" Windsong marvels at Vila's scales aloud but it sounds off like she's doing it more for her sake of comprehension. "I've seen your species in UTTU journals! Is that why you were chilling by the lakeside when we first met? May I take a photo of your scales – I promise I won't show anyone! – they're just… very beautiful under the sunlight." Just like you , the words catch in her throat. 

Of course, Vila wants to pick up on the buried sentiment, wants to fill the silence worth more than words with her own kind of quiet, I feel like I've been born for your sole admiration. Instead, she says "Whatever that sates your interest, researcher," and struggles to hold back her laughter from how Windsong grapples with her phone. 

She zooms the photo in and out when she's done, fiddling with the filters but inevitably reverts to its original, deeming its natural shade the prettiest under the sunkissed day. When she meets Vila's eyes again and realizes she's been watched for all that duration, Windsong makes a move to turn away and hurriedly digresses, "Though I must agree from what I've read that our kinds don't coexist with one another peacefully. I don't mean to offend, I just can't help but wonder if you've ever had to… resort to violent measures to protect yourself?" 

"Comrade Windsong," Vila raises her eyebrows at the intrigued tone, and hopes Windsong can't see the debate over whether or not to lie; she knows the question is answered before she even speaks. "Yes," she relinquishes the truth, "I'm always one to mediate first, but violence is part of my job, if not for my halfblood status then for my Guardian title. If what you… really want to ask is whether I've killed someone – I did. But only those who don't have a soul to return. There's a point some get to where we deem it the best course of action."

Everything she's saying must be nonsensical to Windsong, even if it's fascinating; the desire for more is leaping from her eyes, her mouth, and Vila starts to plan. "'The soul to return'?" Windsong quotes.

Vila observes her for a moment, doesn't answer; her lips twist up into a smile a second later, tone impish. "Interested, huh?" she asks. "Despite yourself."

"Yeah."

"I'll make you a deal," Vila says, leaning closer. Being in Windsong's space is enough for holding breath. "You go to dinner with me, and I'll answer any question you want."

"Really?" Windsong asks, like she's certain something must be out-of-bounds. " Any question?"

"Yep," Vila agrees cheerfully, like she's talking to one of her wide-eyed students. "No holds barred. Rapid fire. Essay questions. I'll do it all."

"Okay," Windsong answers easily; almost too easily, as if she'd never planned on saying no in the first place. "I'll go to dinner with you."

Vila smiles genuinely, her face relaxing into something softer; without realizing it, she'd been preparing for rejection. "Seriously?" she says.

"Seriously," Windsong confirms. "I'll go out with you."

Vila laughs a little breathlessly. "Oh, great," she says, grin blowing wide, and then pauses, flashing with a spark of hesitation. "Wait, as long as you don't agree because you're, like, afraid of me now or something. I swear I only kill people who are irredeemably evil –"

Windsong laughs softly, and with a gentleness that betrays the storm in her chest, she lifts her thumb to Vila's lips – tracing the curve like a memory, then down to her chin, catching it between her fingers like a secret she means to keep. Vila falls silent, the moment folding in on itself. Her pulse flares up into her mouth, heartbeat blooming beneath her tongue, arrested by the gleam in Windsong's eyes – like dusk pouring through stained glass.

"I'm saying yes because you're impossible not to talk to," Windsong murmurs, smiling like it costs her something. (She's always thought of herself as shy – but somehow, Vila unties all the knots in her throat, leaves her confessions spilling clean and sudden, like snow melting down a mountainside.)

"And because I can't seem to stop thinking about you." 

She drops her hand, releasing Vila's jaw. "Wow," Vila exhales. "Okay." 

"Won't people recognize you?" Windsong asks, looking for a true answer this time. "Isn't it going to be like I'm out with a celebrity?"

Vila grins, still a little dazed. "No," she says. "We can make ourselves… I don't have the right word for it, but I guess invisible at a spiritual level . At most, people will think I look vaguely familiar, but they probably won't be able to place me until much later. Like we're disorienting to be around, when we want to be," she says, the right turn of phrase finally coming to her.

"Huh," Windsong says. "Even to me?"

The phrasing catches Vila off-guard. "Why wouldn't it?"

Windsong blinks, her cheeks going a slight pink like she hadn't processed her own question. "I don't know," she says, stumbling over herself. "I just feel like – like I'd know you anywhere."

🐟📏

Windsong's not sure why she says it, and even less why it's something she actually feels; Vila only looks at her with a carefully-disguised shrewdness, and Windsong swears the current of the river accelerates, like the rhythm of a drum, a heartbeat.

"Maybe you would," Vila responds finally, gaze falling back to the water; it quiets, calms. Her lips are tilted, and she drops a hand to the grass, fingers curving; a second later and a stem creeps up from between her thumb and index, bud enlarging, pink petals billowing out.

It's a pink carnation; Vila plucks it from the ground, hands it to her abashedly. Windsong takes it, lifts it to her nose, breathes. It's more fragrant than she remembers, but she imagines anything Vila grows is probably the pinnacle of what it should be, the essence of the earth itself. It's a way for Vila to communicate, she's realizing; when perhaps she can't say exactly what she'd like to.

"Why flowers?" Windsong asks. "If you're Winter, the season of dormancy?"

"Huh? Oh." Vila rubs the back of her neck, flustered. "We all have the same abilities beyond our mastery of one element to certain extents, with a few changes due to personal preferences," she explains. "I just feel like… like I've seen enough destruction, been through enough isolation. Sometimes it's nice to just grow someone flowers."

They sit in silence for a moment, letting the sentiment settle between them. Windsong says, "Yeah," and a vision of the ley institute scourges her mind, burning everything she touches. "I know what that's like."

Vila doesn't ask, doesn't pry, and Windsong appreciates her all the more for it. Except, she says suddenly, "You don't have to hide your caliper if you don't want to," and her eyes flicker toward the brass instrument barely visible in Windsong's jacket pocket. "I want you to feel comfortable about your study around me." 

Windsong blinks, lips parting unexpectedly. "How did you – ?"

Vila laughs. "Sweetheart," she says breezily, "give me a little more credit."

"How about you exchange your stories with me as I did with my background?" She adds as an afterthought. "Takes one to know one, your words, comrade." 

Windsong contemplates her, her mouth in a line. Ultimately, "I'm a ley line researcher, a discipline which is fast fading out of relevance ever since our former leader was jailed for a scandal," she confesses, confession tumbling out as easily as water like she's known Vila forever. "I wallowed in its aftermath for months, evicted out of the institute and abandoned by my own mentor in the night. I was breaking down on the floor over my fifty-first rejection letter, clutching the bulletin board once posted with our achievements I never realized were conducted by soulless 'parasites' leeching off the field for their career advances over genuine inquiry. I didn't believe I could turn my life around until Vertin reached out after a bout of radio silence from me, and now I'm here, still searching for a new ingenious spark, maybe – new recruits, probably, someone to educate about the essence of ley lines all over again, stripped bare of marketing scams." She's used to the acceptance of Vertin and Sonetto due to their lifestyle revolving around novelties, but the academic world has always been hostile; she's not sure she wants to test it out on a first 'date'. "But I still… don't know where to start." 

Vila hums pensively, studying Windsong's face with those sharp turquoise eyes. "Does it bother you?" Windsong asks, realizing she's just unloaded months of academic trauma on someone she barely knows. "That I'm basically a failed scientist clinging to a discredited field?"

"Bother me?" Vila echoes, uncomprehending, and then –"Oh," she says, darkening. "No, Windsong. It doesn't bother me. And it won't bother anyone else as long as I'm with you." She smiles again, but the undercurrent of her mouth is dangerous, threatening; Windsong swears she sees her eyes flash with frost, but she blinks and it's gone. "Trust me."

Vila's somehow more attractive when she's simmering protectively, the truth of her power waiting to be unleashed, and, well, now Windsong's probably in love with her or something.

"You say that like it's nothing," Windsong says, grimacing, "but most people now think ley lines are pseudoscience at best, fraud at worst. Even though – " She catches herself before she starts lecturing, then notices Vila's expectant expression. 

"Go on," Vila says, shifting to face her more fully. "I want to hear about it. What were you going to say?"

Windsong pulls the calibrator from her pocket, its weight familiar and comforting in her palm. "Even though it's actually invaluable as a supporting field as long as it is no longer promoted as an end-all-be-all discipline. We can map migration patterns, predict resource locations, identify new mineral deposits..." She extends the instrument toward the rushing water, watching the measurements shift and dance. "The study of ley lines is about observation – revealing hidden clues in nature that lead to answers. We can briefly transform one thing into another by changing the attributes of their ley lines, but the object's nature remains unchanged." 

Vila watches with genuine fascination as Windsong traces invisible patterns in the air. "Show me," she says simply.

"I – " Windsong glances at the crown of daisies Vila has been weaving as she listens intently, their white petals catching the afternoon light. "Well, if you don't mind me borrowing these..."

Vila lifts the braid of daisies, offering it with a smile. "Be my guest."

Windsong accepts the crown, holding her caliper steady as she focuses on the energy lines threading through the flowers. "Ley energy is like a food web," she explains, her voice growing more confident as she falls into teaching mode. "It flows from underground into the biosphere, circulating through everything. These daisies have their own energy signature, their own pattern..."

She adjusts the caliper's settings, and slowly, the white petals begin to shift – first to pale pink, then to deep coral, finally settling into a vibrant purple – the hue of her irises – that seems to glow in the sunlight.

"Oh my god," Vila breathes, reaching out to touch one of the transformed blooms. "That's incredible."

"It's temporary," Windsong says quickly, cheeks flushing. "They'll revert back in a few hours. And there are side effects – nausea, dizziness, sometimes worse. The first time my colleagues tried it, half of them ended up on medical stretchers..." She realizes she's infodumping and trails off. "Sorry, I'm rambling, am I?"

"Perhaps you are." Vila just smiles and nudges her gently. "But I find it fascinating."

Something warm and grateful unfurls in Windsong's chest. It's been months since anyone asked her to continue rather than stop. "Really?"

"Really," Vila says, settling the purple daisy crown atop Windsong's head with careful hands. "You're the first person to explain something to me that I didn't already know in... well, a very long time."

Windsong feels tears prick at her eyes unexpectedly. "I used to think ley line maps should be in circulation everywhere. They're more useful to human travelers than regular maps – they show creature migration patterns, identify which animals are herbivores or carnivores, give recommendations for dealing with them." She looks down at her caliper, voice softening. "But now nobody wants to hear it."

Vila reaches over and covers Windsong's free hand with her own. "I do," she says simply. "Your work matters, Windsong. Don't let anyone make you think otherwise."

The sincerity in her voice makes Windsong's breath catch. Vila's fingers are cool against her skin, and where they touch, she swears she can feel something like electricity – not ley energy, but something deeper, more personal.

"Is Tuesday okay with you?" Vila asks, her thumb tracing gentle circles over Windsong's knuckles. "I'll take you out on that dinner I promised. Maybe you can show me more of what you do."

Windsong smiles, stretches back against the grass, caliper still in hand and purple flowers crowning her head. "Yeah," she says. "Tuesday's perfect."

Vila stays upright, cross-legged beside her, never letting go of her hand. The wind carries the scent of the transformed daisies – somehow more fragrant than before, as if the ley lines have concentrated their essence.

"Thank you," Windsong whispers to the sky, to Vila, to whatever force brought them together.

"For what?" Vila asks softly.

"For listening. For being my first audience in months."

Vila's smile is radiant. "I have a feeling I won't be your last, as long as your heart is still in it."

It sounds deeper than it should, breathes like a promise rather than an afternoon; your heart, Windsong wants to say, I can keep that safe in return. She lets the sky lull her into tranquility, the turquoise of Vila's eyes washing over her in waves, cool earth below her an embrace instead of a grave.

Give me your heart, she wants to say, but somehow she feels as if she already has it.

🐟📏

Vila sends messages intermittently over the weekend, appearing at virtually random intervals of day and night, making Windsong question whether she operates on some supernatural sleep schedule; it's a nagging worry – if Vila really faces the kind of dangers her status implies, shouldn't she be getting proper rest?

Do you even need sleep? Windsong types one evening after receiving a text at 2 AM.

Of course I sleep, comes the reply minutes later. Just not always when humans expect me to.

Well, I don't want to distract you.

Trust me, you already do that just by existing. 

Windsong drops her phone like it's burned her, heat flooding her cheeks so intensely she's surprised steam doesn't rise from her skin. The sudden movement startles Vertin on the couch. 

"Everything alright?" Vertin asks, glancing up with concern; some herpetology documentary is on TV that she's been watching with rapt interest. "You look like you've seen a ghost."

"She's just..." Windsong struggles for words, gesturing helplessly at her abandoned phone. "She says things like they're nothing." 

"We've known each other less than a week," Windsong adds, as if this explains everything.

"Ah,  texting Vila? May I?" Vertin reaches for the phone; Windsong nods, allowing it. After reading the exchange, she lets out a soft whistle. "Well, she certainly doesn't mince words."

"Right? It should be terrifying," Windsong says, flopping back against the couch cushions. "But instead it feels like... like coming home. And that's what terrifies me."

Vertin considers this, tossing the device back to her friend. "Perhaps," she says carefully, "terror isn't always a warning. Sometimes it's just recognition wearing an unfamiliar face."

"You sound like one of your girlfriend's poems," Windsong mutters.

"I'll take that as a compliment," Vertin grins. "But honestly, if it feels right, why question it so hard? Perhaps you're soulmates, if you believe in those kinds of stories." 

"That’s ridiculous." 

"That's what you said about the Guardians," Vertin points out, amused. 

Windsong groans, covering her face with a pillow. "Oh come on, something's gotta give."

🐟📏

It’s always hotter where Regulus is, but that day is particularly blistering, the heatwave suffocating and searing. Vila only sighs, flares up the air around her, steam evaporating from her skin. It isn't all Regulus’s doing – they don't actually control the weather, only intervening when absolutely necessary – but it's definitely influenced by her foul temper. 

She unlocks Regulus's door and steps inside, takes her shoes off and sets them by the front mat. Her house is small, which only makes the hoard of her various collections from seafaring equipment, alchemical vials, to rock and roll records more of a clutter, a thorn in the eyes of a characteristically tidy Vila. Vila shakes her hair out of her coat, checks her phone, types out a quick message to Windsong as she pads down the hall, littered with signed autographs at rock concerts, and even a few of their Guardian meetups. She's more sentimental than she lets on.

"Hey," Vila says, when she finds Regulus sitting at her kitchen table on her phone, the screen blown up in front of her, half-filled Dr. Pepper glass to her left. Regulus glances over, corner of her mouth twitching into something between a smirk and a snort. Vila holds up her hands, already sensing the question. “Druvis is busy, so you’re stuck with me.” 

Regulus rolls her eyes, but gestures for Vila to take a seat. "It's fine," she says reluctantly. "Lilya talks to her partner all the time, it’s about time we get you more involved, anyway.” 

"She'll be here in about ten," Regulus continus, closes her phone, the screen fading away. She finally stares over at Vila directly, studying her. "So. How’s life in the slow lane? We haven’t had a solo episode in a while.”

"Fine." Vila shrugs; her life sometimes seems tame compared to Lilya's and Regulus's. Druvis’s is more along her lines, preferring her solitary in the woods. "I can't complain. I'm going on a date tomorrow."

Regulus’s chair screeches as she stands up way too fast, alerting Vila to her uneasiness; Regulus has never been one to hold a poker face. "With Windsong?" she asks, feigning casual so badly it could be a parody. "Also, would you like a drink?"

"Yes and yes," Vila says as she opens the refrigerator. "Schnapps, chilled"

Regulus retrieves the bottle and tosses it underhand toward her. “I should charge you rent for that, considering you’re the reason I have it in my house at all. It’s been in there so long it’s practically family. But hey – if you want nicer alcohol, I’ve also got a bottle of wine open.” 

Vila grins; she's almost too predictable. "No, thanks."

Regulus sits back down, draws her own glass towards her, arms crossed against the tabletop. She's giving Vila a look , scrutinizing, examining, probing. Finally, Vila says impatiently, "Spit it out."

Regulus leans in, then hesitates more than Vila’s used to from her. “I’m just saying,” she starts carefully, “Lilya brought it up before, and I think she’s annoyingly correct. Are you sure you know what you’re doing?”

"What's that supposed to mean?"

“With Windsong.” Regulus lets it hang. “Is this something you’re actually ready for, or are you just... bungee jumping with your feelings and no cord?”

"She's a girl, Regulus, not a monster." Vila can't exactly see where she's coming from, like going on a single date is somehow going to send Vila spiraling over the edge, descending into chaos. "Last time I checked, the person whose side you’re on is dating a girl, too."

"That's different."

"How?"

Regulus bites the inside of her lip briefly. "You can't tell her anything, Vila," she says quietly, actually regretful. "I'm not trying to be a bitch. I'm… we’re just worried about you."

Oh. Oh. "Why?" she asks, playing avoidance.

"Because it seems like you like her," Regulus says delicately. "Perhaps more than you should, considering she isn't..."

Vila shifts uncomfortably, planting her feet against the floor. "I'm fine."

"Vila –"

"I said, I'm fine, " Vila snaps uncharacteristically of her. "I know I'm not allowed to tell her anything. Can you three mind your own business for once?"

Vila can see her fighting the instinct to snap back, holding her tongue, biting down on words between her teeth. Her jaw tightens, lips tilting down; her eyes flash in anger. They both wait in heavy silence, unrelenting, furious, wanting the other to back down first. Vila hopes it doesn't come to blows, but, well, that's the only stress relief they manage, sometimes –

– but Regulus softens, tension dropping from her shoulders, fingers relaxing from fists. She says, "You're right," and sighs, reaching for her glass.

Vila only blinks. "What?"

"You're right," Regulus repeats. "It's none of my business. Doesn’t mean I’m not gonna keep an eye on you, but I’ll zip it."

Vila's quiet for a second; her phone vibrates in her pocket. "I'm sorry," she murmurs, meeting Regulus halfway. "I know you're just...trying to look out for me, considering I don’t open up to lots of folks. But I promise I’m trying. Okay?"

It's clear Regulus doesn't really believe her, and she doesn't have a reason to; there's a knowledge she possesses Vila doesn't have, age-old and ancient, a soul complete. But she says, "Okay," and smiles.

"Anyway," Vila says, taking a long sip of her beer, "what are we expecting from Lilya?"

Regulus perks up again, mood shifting like a radio dial. “The good stuff. Turns out we were right – those bastards are injecting critters with raw minerals to mess with their arcanum. Frankly, it's like Frankenstein but dumber. Lilya finally accessed clearance for the details.”

"They still think she's loyal to them?"

"They'd better, after all the public performances we put on to fuel that perception," Regulus answers, irritated. "Zeno goons do nothing but test my patience; I don’t have a good track record with authorities. I need Lilya in that den of snakes until I’m ready to blow the whole place up.”

"Are the implications of Bertolt’s research that bad?" Vila asks, toying with the tab idly.

"Worse, I believe." She taps her fingers against the wood. "Might kill someone on his team to send a memo," Regulus deadpans. "It'll set an example."

Vila laughs, shaking her head. "Wishful thinking," she says. "Unless you can 'set an example’ of some soulless scoundrel."

"Oh, it's the military, " Regulus says, waving a hand dismissively. "They're hardly clean. In a time of peace, the only reason for joining is power over people. It's not like they help push for peaceful resolutions between humans and arcanists."

"What a lovely way to greet your best friend, Regulus," Lilya’s voice drawls from the doorway, and whatever lingers from the previous conversation is gone.

🐟📏

The tap at her window isn’t a surprise. Not really. It's the kind of thing you feel coming before it happens – like pressure before rain, like your heart remembering something your brain forgot. Windsong had been restless all evening, fingers twitching against the hem of her shirt, mind stuck in a loop with no audio, just tension. The kind of ache that doesn’t hurt so much as hum. Like her body knew someone was coming before her eyes could confirm it.

She parts the curtains.

Vila is there, standing just outside the glass with that look on her face – the one that says sorry, and tired, and I didn’t know where else to go. Windsong slides the window up, lets the night air and the girl in.

“Hey,” she says. And just like that, the coil inside her eases. Like unclenching a fist she didn’t know she was making. “What are you doing here? Are you okay?”

“Hey.” Vila’s voice is soft, uneven, like it took a long walk to get to her throat. She glances down, then up again – fast, nervous, like her gaze might give her away. “Sorry. I know we’re supposed to go out tomorrow. I just – ”
A pause. A breath.

“I had a really long day.”

I had a really long day. I’m so tired I forgot how to be a person. I saw you and remembered.
She doesn’t say that. But Windsong hears them anyway, layered underneath the syllables like petals pressed between pages.

“It’s okay,” Windsong murmurs, reaching up, brushing Vila’s bangs back, fingers drifting down the side of her face like they belong there. Vila doesn’t flinch. Just leans into the touch like it’s home. Like she’s been waiting for it all day.

“Do you want to come in?”

“No,” Vila says, immediately, and it sounds like a lie she’s trying very hard to make true. “I mean – yes. Of course I do. But I’m tired. And I’m afraid I’ll do something stupid.”

“Like what?”

She doesn’t answer at first. Just gives her a half-smile, eyes flicking away. Then, quietly, like it’s something fragile: “Windsong,” she says, “I think you know.”

She does. Of course she does.

Windsong’s gaze falls to Vila’s mouth – just for a second – and back. She nods.

“I’m okay,” Vila says, and the smile tilts up, a little crooked, a little worn at the edges. “I just wanted to see you. Just for a second. I should go.”

“If you’re sure,” Windsong says, because she has to say something. But Vila doesn’t look in danger – not the urgent kind. She looks like someone who needed to touch base with the earth again, just to remind herself it was still here.

“Yeah.” Vila takes a step back. “Thanks.”

But Windsong stops her, a half-step forward, voice low and a little too honest. “I wanted to see you too.”

Vila pauses. Eyes narrow a little – not suspicious, just studying her, slow and careful. “Why?”

“I don’t know.” Windsong shrugs, helpless. “I was… anxious. But I knew if I saw you, I’d feel better. I just knew.”

Vila doesn’t say anything for a beat. Then she smiles – soft, a little broken, like someone handling an old letter. “Do you feel better?”

Windsong doesn’t answer right away. She wants to. She wants to lean out of the window, grab Vila by the collar, and kiss her like punctuation. Like a full stop to everything else. She wants to press every word she doesn’t know how to say into her skin.

But the night is cool. The world is quiet. Her heart is a lake, not a wildfire. Still, it beats a little louder in her chest.

“Yeah,” she says, and means it. “I feel better.”

“Good.” Vila lifts her hand in a wave that’s more awkward than anything, like her body doesn’t know how to say goodbye when it doesn’t want to.

“I’ll see you tomorrow.”

And then she’s gone, her footsteps soft in the grass, the air folding back around the space she leaves behind.

Windsong stares up at the sky for a long moment after, fingers still tingling from where they’d touched. She wants to write something into the stars. Something Vila might feel in her bones even if she never reads it out loud.

I love you, she thinks. I love you like the tide loves the moon. Constant. Ancient. Always have. 

🐟📏

That night, Windsong dreams of soot and snow.

The sky hangs low, thick with coal-dark clouds, stained at the edges with rust-orange light. It’s a twilight that never ends, caught somewhere between shift changes and seasons. The air is heavy with iron and something sweeter underneath – steam, maybe, or the breath of furnaces still glowing with stubborn warmth. The ground beneath her boots is packed and frozen, pockmarked with bootprints and the faint impression of flower petals long since crumbled.

There’s a town around her. She somehow knows this the way one knows their own heartbeat. Red-bricked walls tower above like guardians, their surfaces painted in layers of history and hand-scrawled chalk. A line of smokestacks cut across the skyline. Faded murals stretch across cement walls – women in bandanas and children singing a choir together to an accordion’s tune, their paint chipped but proud. Beyond the last row of buildings, a sunflower field blooms defiantly through frost, golden heads tilted toward a sun that rarely shows.

Children run between the buildings, shrieking with laughter – not in fear, not yet – scarves trailing like banners behind them. She watches them pass and feels something clench in her chest. Some of them are carrying notebooks. Some of them are holding up crumpled maps. One turns back, holding a scrap of paper to the wind, and it flutters like a flag bearing a name she can’t read anymore.

She taught them something, once.

Ley lines, maybe. Or how to see nature like a living thing. Her hands ache with the memory of chalk dust and ink stains, of drawing out invisible networks on blackboard and making them real. The cold here never stopped her. Nor did the laughter. It filled the halls like breaths.

There had been others, too. Adults. Workers in patched uniforms and oil-smudged coats, their backs bent not from defeat but determination. They shared stories and flasks. Shared tools, shared burdens. She remembers the worn edge of a metal catwalk under her palms, the flicker of lamplight as someone passed her a thermos, not asking anything in return.

They had been trying to build something. Or save it. She isn’t sure which. But she knows this: they did it together. They patched their lives across factory floors and ley lines and children’s stories. They did not wait for rescue.

And she – she had helped. Once.

That part surprises her most.

She remembers shame. The bitter taste of rejection, of a discipline, laughed out of the room. An empty institute. Letters unopened. The slow erosion of certainty. But here – wherever this place is – her ideas mattered. They mattered enough that she stayed longer than she should have.

She should have left. That thought pulses through her like a heartbeat.

And yet.

There is someone at her side in the dream. She doesn't need to see her face. She knows who it is. The presence is unmistakable: calm beneath the storm, distant warmth edged in frost. The touch of winter that never bit too hard.

Vila.

She feels her before she remembers her. Like a lighthouse glimpsed through fog. Like a song she once knew by heart and can now only hum.

There had been late nights. Diagrams inked by lamplight, sketched across scrap metal and frost-covered walls. Theory layered with instinct, rune with root. Vila had helped. Not just listened – believed. Her faith had not been loud. It never needed to be.

She had looked at Windsong like she was worth saving. Like her field wasn’t dying but dormant. Winter awaits spring.

The dream suddenly falters.

The factory walls flicker. The snow grows too quiet. The light drains from the air in slow pulses, like breath holding itself. She reaches for something – a map? a hand? a memory? – and finds only the echo of her own heartbeat. The town, the laughter, the warmth: they recede, not with violence, but with quiet inevitability. Like something overdue being returned to the dark.

And then – a sound.

Low and thunderless, like a mountain shifting. Like the breath of the earth drawing in just once, never to exhale. Somewhere deep beneath the ground, the floor buckles. Not enough to shake her awake, only enough to make her sway, like the dream itself is breaking under her feet.

The catwalk is gone. The diagrams vanish. The laughter thins. The cold, at last, feels like cold.

And she understands – or almost understands – that she stayed too long. That the crumble was not a sudden thing but a slow, familiar hush. That she was meant to leave, and didn’t.

And that’s why the hand slips from hers.

She wakes before she can follow.

Her pillow is damp with sweat. Her fingertips are cold. The echo of a smile rests on her lips, and it aches – not with joy, but with absence.

She doesn’t know where she went. She doesn’t know what she lost.

But when she looks out the window, when she sees the stillness in the world before dawn breaks, she whispers a name under her breath.

It is Vila’s.

Even if she doesn’t know why.

🐟📏

In the morning, she assumes she must have been overwhelmingly tired to think and dream of such things, or drugged, or maybe she'd hallucinated the entire encounter, anyway. She lies in bed, fingers curling around her pillow, staring at the ceiling. Love is a word that shouldn't even have been forming in her mind, and there it'd been, waiting, unearthed. She shakes herself out of it, chalks it up to temporary insanity, and gets on with her day.

She and Sonetto are running errands, and their morning is mostly uneventful. She tells her about the plot of the poem she's writing, her plans for a series, and she listens intently, captivated; it's not totally up her alley – she prefers the hard and cold empiricism of science – but it's refreshing nonetheless.

"Here," she says, guiding her around the back of the bookstore with the help wanted sign and into a park, "this is a shortcut to the market district.” 

She makes it three paces down the dirt path when Sonetto says, "Uh..."

She stops, turns around to find her stalled, staring; she glances down, knowing what she'll find before she sees it for herself – 

It's the similar combination she's used to seeing, ice petals sprouting up around her shoes, growing from her previous steps. She sighs. "It's just Vila," she tells her, though she's internally more perplexed than the sight has made her previously.

Sonetto glances around hesitantly. "Is she… here?"

"No," Windsong says, confident in the answer; it's what's fueling her confusion. She knows Vila isn't near, can't sense her at all, can't feel her. "She's not."

"So why's it happening?" she asks curiously, bending down to watch them grow.

"I don't know," she says, and continues walking. "But maybe we'd better stick to the roads on our way back."

She laughs, following her. "Fair enough. We don’t want to arouse suspicion, now, do we?" She raises her hands, framing a headline. "'Girlfriend of the Winter Guardian, Found at Last.' You'll be famous."

"I'm not her girlfriend," Windsong points out.

" Yet. "

She bites down on her tongue, knowing any denial is definitely a lie; she isn't one to jump to action, dive headfirst into spontaneity, but with Vila, it's like it's an inevitability rather than a choice. She's struggling more with the existence of that fact rather than the fact itself, with predetermination, fate. It all seems so far-fetched, and yet –

"Sonetto, do you believe in fate?" Windsong asks her friend candidly.

"Perhaps," Sonetto replies, unfazed. "I was enrolled in a semester of philosophy where destiny made up sixty percent of all discussions. And I mean, I don't believe in it for everything – as in, I don't think every single thing we do is determined by fate somehow – but I like to think it exists."

"Hm." Windsong considers the response. "How so?"

"Like, for people," she continues. "I think it'd be nice if there were people we always found our way back to." He gazes aimlessly out at the path in front of them, the bridge over the canal, the rushing water, the array of homes and shops and cafes littering the other side. She wonders if she’s thinking about Vertin, wonders if what they have feels anything like what she does. "It's comforting, I suppose."

"No, I know what you mean," she says.

"What about you?"

She glances back to the flowers trailing her steps, following like her own shadow, and says, "I didn't used to."

Their feet hit the stone of the bridge and nothing grows. Sonetto runs her fingers along the short wall idly, also lost in thought; people pass by in front of them, unconcerned, carefree, simple. She hums in her throat, and finally says, "This is why I love literature, it leaves things up for interpretation. Some things are just a little beyond concrete explanation, aren’t they?” 

"Yeah," Windsong says, more to herself than her friend. "I guess they are."

🐟📏

Vila shows up at seven sharp, knocking like she means it. Windsong’s halfway through tearing apart her bag for her wallet, yelling “Be right there!” like it’s a prayer and a threat both. She hears the door creak open. Then –  silence.

“Good evening, Ms. Vila– oh, wow ,” Sonetto says, voice tipping fast into trouble. “Yeah. She’s doomed.”

“ Wow is right,” Vertin adds, dry. Judging.

Then Vila laughs, low and a little awkward. “I’m barely dressed up,” she says. Windsong hears her, and then she’s stepping out of her room, still patting down her pockets like a fool.

She only sees the backs of Vertin and Sonetto blocking the doorway. Vertin tilts her head. “You don’t have to be,” she says. “Not at all.”

“That’s enough,” Windsong mutters, brushing past them –  and then she sees her.

The rest of the world just kind of folds.

Not silence, not blackout, not drama. Just –  everything else feels like static. Like her brain’s buffering and all that makes it through is Vila . Navy dress, soft cardigan, casual like a lie. Like she didn’t know exactly what she was doing. And Windsong –  God. She looks too long and too hard and has to tear her eyes away like they’ll say something she’s not ready to say.

“Oh yeah,” Vertin says, still lurking, because she’s evil. “You couldn’t be more Windsong’s type if she dreamt you up herself.”

“Okay, shut up,” Windsong breathes, too fast, already halfway out the door. “We’re leaving.”

She grabs Vila’s arm. Vila’s a little slow to follow, still blinking, like she hadn’t expected that much contact. She waves vaguely back at the other two. “Hello to you too, comrades.”

Windsong checks over her shoulder as they walk. No eyes in the windows. No taunts echoing from the porch. She lets out a breath, stops at the curb. Turns. Smiles. Just –  

“Hi,” Vila says, hand brushing from Windsong’s elbow down to her fingers, grazing light. It drops.

“Hello,” Windsong says back, still spinning a little. “You look –  You look – ”

“You can do this,” Vila says seriously. “It’s just a compliment.”

Windsong laughs. Glances down at herself like it’s a good excuse to get her bearings. “I can,” she murmurs, “but I probably shouldn’t. Let’s just go.”

Vila hums, something unreadable in her expression. Something like don’t say it unless you mean it , and say it anyway . Windsong clears her throat, ignoring the way her pulse is doing gymnastics under her skin.

She takes a last look back at the house. The lawn. Her footprints in the grass –  

“Is this really necessary?” she says suddenly, motioning down. The trail behind her’s blooming with tiny ice flowers. “This has been happening all day. The second I touch dirt or anything –  ”

“Wait,” Vila cuts in, staring. “What do you mean, all day ?”

Windsong frowns. “All day,” she repeats. “I thought you were just teasing me.”

Vila stares, gaze darting around behind her, the small violets, daisies, dandelions sculpted meticulously from water. "Oh my God," Vila says, and raises her hands to her face, covering her eyes, her cheeks. She seems to be struggling to collect herself, Windsong can't quite place the emotion. She mumbles something Windsong doesn't understand. 

"Did I… say something wrong?" Windsong asks, still befuddled by the reaction. 

"I said," Vila admits, dropping her arms, and Windsong's surprised to find that she's actually blushing furiously, her eyes averted down, "that I'm not doing it on purpose." 

"Wait," Windsong says comically. " What? " 

Vila exhales loudly, turning slightly away from her, trying to hide her face. "I guess I'm just, like, thinking about you too much, or something. I don't know," she says, tone obviously morified. "This has never happened to me before." 

"But the first few times –" Windsong starts. 

"That was supposed to be a joke!" she groans. "But – I don't know!" She raises and drops her arms dramatically, turning back to face her. "I guess it stuck, somehow. I've been thinking about you all day. I didn't know you'd actually be able to tell. Oh my god! I need to dive into a river. I need to leave the country. "

And the concept of it – some part of Vila’s magic responding just to the idea of her, the memory of her, enough to leave flowers in her wake is so unbelievably sweet that it’s borderline dangerous and for a moment the only appropriate reaction should be to kiss her. Windsong shakes her head and snuffs the urge out. She takes her hand instead, thumb brushing lightly against her knuckles.

“I can tell you’re already embarrassed,” she says gently. “I won’t make it worse.”

Vila exhales, hands finally stilling. Her fingers squeeze back. “Is it at least –  like, cute instead of weird?”

Windsong smiles, unable to ignore her earnestness.

“Yeah,” she says. “It’s… endearing.”

🐟📏

You don't understand , Vila thinks of telling her, not letting go of her hand. I swear I made this world for you.

🐟📏

Vila takes her to a ramen house; she's passed it a few times, but never gone inside. It's cool, casual, dim; the atmosphere is vibrant and buzzing, and there's a full bar situated against the back wall with patrons gathered around, chatting and drinking. The lights above are a type of hanging lantern, their bulbs flickering like flames, tables made of dark polished wood. Vila steps up to the hostess, who blinks oddly at her, smile faltering just slightly.

"Name?" she asks, tone strangely vacant.

"Windsong," Vila says smoothly, hands in her pockets. 

The hostess looks down at the screen, still blinking like she's trying to wake herself from a dream. "Oh, yes," she says. "Table for two?"

"Yep."

"Right this way," she says, her smile set in place, glued and frozen. It's a little unnerving – or it would be, if Vila hadn't prepared her for it beforehand – to see people glance at them and then immediately away, faces going slack, blank for the briefest of moments. Disoriented, disarmed.

The hostess seats them upstairs by a window, walks away, and almost trips on a step, shaking her head. She doesn't look back.

It's much the same with their waitress, who strolls over to their table with a wide grin that doesn't fade, but alters, like she isn't quite sure what she's staring at, or who she's talking to.

"Can I start you off with some drinks?" she asks as if reading from a script.

"Something fruity with tequila," Vila requests charmingly. "Surprise me." She nods, looks over at Windsong, who says, "A sea breeze is fine, thanks." She doesn't card them, which Windsong had slightly expected.

She heads off to the bar, and she has much of the same pattern as their hostess; she pauses, cracks her neck, continues on like nothing has happened. It's a little creepy, Vila had said, but at least it allows us to live our lives normally.

"Well, that's one question answered," Windsong says. Vila raises an eyebrow, hums curiously. Windsong continues, "You're of legal drinking age."

"Oh." Vila laughs, arms crossed against the table, one leg stretched out. "Yeah. I'm, uh, definitely legal."

" How legal, exactly?" Windsong asks, leaning forward. "This is a make or break answer. If you're a thousand years old or something, I’m leaving."

Vila rolls her eyes, but her grin sits, amused. "I'm twenty six," she says. "Do I pass?"

"You’re older than me?" Somehow the information shocks Windsong more. Vila doesn't seem twenty six; she’s radiant and timeless like the rising sun, but in hindsight, Windsong chalks it up to her borderline goddess status. 

"How old are you? " Vila asks. 

"I just turned twenty two."

"Oh, that's a relief," she says, faking seriousness. She pauses, like she's just comprehended Windsong's response. "Wait, did I miss it?"

"No," Windsong says, finding her concern overwhelmingly adorable. "It was in October, two weeks before I got here. When's yours?"

"In Spring. April 6th."

"We'll have to celebrate," she says without thinking, temporarily forgetting that her plan only lasts through February. Like it's become a given that she'll be wherever Vila is.

Vila lifts her hand to her mouth, elbow resting on the table, covering her smile. "I'd like that very much," Vila says, eyes averted down. "I don't usually...celebrate my birthday."

Their waitress returns, their drinks set in front of them; yours is blackberry and lime , she tells Vila, but if you aren't a fan we'll come up with something else ; she takes a sip and waves her on, satisfied. She pulls out her notepad, takes their orders, and walks away again, not as unbalanced as the first time.

"Thanks for starting me off easy," Vila says, her eyes bright and teasing. "Go ahead and get to the bottom of your thirst for knowledge, though. What do you want to know?"

"What do you all do? " is the first thing out of her mouth, curiosity overwhelming. She understands that they watch over the seasons, but not to what extent, not how. "Like, I get that you keep us safe, but I heard from Vertin and Sonetto that Druvis, Regulus, Lilya are practically celebrities in the Foundation – what do you actually do? "

Vila dips an eyebrow, deciphering her question. "Do you mean day-to-day, or…?"

"Both, actually," Windsong says, somewhat surprised she doesn't already know the answer to Vila's daily life.

"So, I don't know how much you know about the history of arcanists," Vila starts, twirling her straw in her glass, "and frankly, we can't remember it too clearly, so we don't really know either. All we're sure of is that arcanum emanated from the first magic circle as an antithesis to science – something ancient and stubborn, a rebellion against predictability. The spark gave way to centuries of conflict between preservation and entropy, with some factions trying to keep arcanist bloodlines pure, others intermingling with humanity to adapt. Universal magic used to be everywhere – so natural that even children could adjust the weather – but it fragmented. Broke off into disciplines, specialties, rules, and now wielders are constrained to their individual arcane skills. And somewhere in that mess, the souls of the first Guardians emerged – not born, but formed, molded by the flow of time itself, meant to carry remnants of old magic through a world increasingly ruled by cause and effect. People started calling us after the seasons because that’s what they understood – cyclical, elemental, inevitable.”

She takes a sip and shrugs. “We aren’t really based on seasons. That stuck more out of poetry than prophecy.”

"I see.” 

"It’s not like chaos ever really goes away,” Vila continues, making loose circles with her finger over the rim of her glass. “Energy like that doesn't vanish – it just gets locked out, pushed to the edges of reality. Kind of like... another world brushing up against ours. But when we let disorder fester – like what ferments in the hearts of the pureblood rusalki – it becomes a breach. A way for that chaos to press back in, slip through the cracks. And what we do, what we feel, all of that either stabilizes the boundary or pulls it thin.”

She smiles without mirth. “That’s the gig, I suppose. Keep the threads from unraveling.”

"Okay," Windsong says, enraptured. She feels like she should be writing this down for her own personal reference, but simultaneously, strangely, knows it's something she isn't going to forget, like the wick of a candle, relit. "That makes sense."

Vila nods. "Right. Anyway, my daily life is uneventful, I just teach art part-time at an elementary school. Until you get here, at least."

Windsong flushes but grins, taking a sip of her own drink. Vila’s tongue darts out, catching a trace of salt on her bottom lip, and Windsong has to work not to let the sigh slip from her throat.

Vila continues, “Each of us has a region we’re tied to, kind of like a ward. If something flares up that tips the balance – like a violent outbreak between arcanists and humans, or a misuse of arcanum that threatens to spiral – we’re expected to respond. If there’s a problem in one of the cities, like what Regulus is facing now with a cultural riot, I may or may not intervene depending on the politics of it, and the repercussions it causes to the local arcane biome. But the line’s pretty clear: if power is taking lives, we don’t wait for permission. We act.”

Windsong grimaces. "Ugh," she says. "I hated getting caught in between politics."

"So do I," Vila agrees. "Regulus and Lilya tend to deal with it way more than Druvis and I, but Druvis because she opts not to get involved unless there’s absolutely no way around it.” Vila drums her fingers on her face as something suddenly clicks. “Hold on, did you say that due to the fallout of the ley line institute?” 

"Yes…" Windsong says, pained. "It’s – I feel stupid for not having realized what was right in front of my eyes.” 

Vila examines her for a second, tongue poking against her fangs thoughtfully. "Should I kill him?" she asks, and Windsong chokes on her drink, not expecting it. Either Vila’s too good at joking with a straight face, or Windsong’s too far gone to notice – but for a split second, the urge to say yes flares up so instinctively it catches her off guard.

"He's not worth it," she says, sighing. "Though after his sentence, if he ever sets foot anywhere in your domain, be my guest."

“I was pulling your leg, comrade! As I’ve mentioned before, taking people’s lives that’s not as a last resort goes against my morals.” Despite herself, Vila’s eyes shimmer, not with light, but with the tension of the ocean retreating from shore, poised to crash forward. “Yet, your flair for self-pity is pitching a strong case. Name?” 

"Tristan Lisov," Windsong tells her, leaning forward on her chair, hopelessly drawn to the threat of her eyes. 

Vila says cooly, "Duly noted."

The subtle transformation of sweet to menacing is enough; Windsong murmurs, "God, please stop," and Vila crooks an eyebrow again. "You’re doing that to me again, it’s unfair!"

Vila almost says it – I’m the only one worth considered a god in the room; perhaps you ought to pray to me instead – but thinks better of it. Windsong’s already unraveling fast enough. Vila usually wears her power humbly, modest in a way that reassures more than it unnerves, but something about Windsong keeps dragging it to the surface. Not to intimidate. To dazzle. This is what I am. I only want your eyes on me. 

There, Vila lets the moment pass, danger dying from her face, and the spell over Windsong diminishes. She knows it's not actually magic, knows herself well enough to understand exactly what about Vila is flustering her, has her on edge. She tries to steady herself by reaching for logic – letting her mind speak first, before her heart can say things it shouldn’t. “Speaking of which, is that why you didn’t kill the rusalka who attacked you?”

Vila's eyebrows raise, the question not at all what she'd been expecting; their server chooses that moment to set their bowls down between them, allowing Vila a moment to choose her words carefully. She sets her glass down, looks at Windsong as if she's impressed by her, intrigued. Finally, she says, "I'm not technically… allowed," and pauses again, thinking. "Again, we can't really… get involved in human affairs like that, unless the people involved are totally soulless. We aren't vigilantes. We can't entirely stop people from hurting each other – but we can stop it on a grander scale, preventing the first few dominoes from tipping over.” 

Vila smirks, her eyes darkening a shade again for a hint of a moment; Windsong shivers, not out of fear but of want . "Oh, but if I ever run into him again," Vila pitches her voice low, "I'd kill him."

"I want to argue that’s crossing a line, even for you, but I think I crossed it with you five minutes ago.” Windsong breathes out, enticed, “Especially after what happened to me, god, do I like to see people get what’s coming for them.” 

Windsong’s voice fades to be replaced by the quiet clink of silverware, suddenly self conscious of the weight of her last statement and refuses to meet Vila’s eyes. Vila herself picks up her chopsticks, stirring her chicken into the broth. Windsong gives her a minute to eat between questions, as she'd already started while Vila was talking, absorbed.

"Aren't you ever worried about people coming for you in turn?" Windsong asks, genuinely curious. The Guardians’ existence isn't a secret, but they still seem to keep to themselves barring special occasions; Windsong's not sure if it's for their own safety or because they enjoy their solitude.

Vila only grins, shrugs her shoulders. "Not really ," she says dismissively. "It doesn't exactly do anyone any good to get rid of us. Not like they actually can, anyway."

"What," Windsong says, eyebrows raising high, "like you're immortal? "

"In a sense," Vila says, considering her words. "Our powers are tied to our souls. It's always been that way. When we die, we're not gone for long; we're just reincarnated."

"I’ve heard of this," Windsong repeats; she'd noticed Vila's use of 'we' but hadn't taken it down that road. "So, you're you, but in a different body?"

"Kind of," Vila says, pursing her lips. "Yeah, actually, I guess. There are never any big changes to our personalities or anything."

"So do you remember it?" Windsong says. "Being other people?"

Vila can't seem to resist her earnestness; she crinkles her nose at Windsong's innocent, sincere lines of questioning, brushing her fingers lightly over Windsong's cheek with her free hand. "You're cute," she says, smiling. "And only one. We only retain bits and pieces of our most recent lives."

"Huh," Windsong says, resting her chin in her palm, gazing at Vila in a form of awe. "That's fascinating." She pauses, a thought striking her. "If people can’t put you out but fear remains, has anyone ever experimented to mimic a fraction of your power?” 

Vila takes her hand across the table, links their fingers like it's a source of strength for her; Windsong's noticed that Vila's an interesting cross of overly casual and intermittently awkward in her tactileness, a combination stemming from a lack of intimacy but a familiarity with it, like she's done this before, done this with Windsong. She starts, "We were older yet more naive in one of our early lives. We usually live a little longer than the average, anyway, if we're left alone. A woman thought she'd found a way to channel our powers – some kind of dark magic from the first few wars – a remnant of it, an echo. These things went how they always go – she wound up with a group of followers, people who wanted to disrupt the balance, take power for themselves. Darkness will always have an audience," Vila adds grimly. "And she was able to strip us of our powers – as she killed us. She struck me first, then Druvis, then Lilya.” 

Windsong breathes out, "And then?" and Vila actually laughs at her enthrallment, like she's hanging on the edge of Vila's every word, fingers dragging them out of her mouth. Windsong flushes. "I know it was probably traumatic," she defends, "but you're here in front of me, so I'm pretty sure it worked out alright in the end."

Vila gazes adoringly at her, lips curled into a smile. She runs her thumb over the back of Windsong's. "It did, though it was a little more gruesome than anyone expected," Vila says, continuing. "The powers are bound to us – so our bodies are built to adapt to them, our souls are already... wired, I guess, to contain that kind of power. And this woman tried to take all of it, from all of us." Vila pauses, apparently trying to think of a less sickening way to phrase the conclusion. "Ultimately, Regulus bided her time to destroy her – that’s why she is the youngest among us now – but she didn't have to do much: the power was… corrupting her from the inside out. It didn't belong there, and she couldn't handle it. There was barely even a body left. Like it had turned her into acid, fire, and poison. Regulus says the woman didn't have bones or skin, like she was made of ash and tar when she killed her."

Windsong just sits, staring at her blankly, processing. Vila lifts her hand, fingers pressing underneath Windsong's chin and pushing her jaw back up, grinning.

"That's insane," Windsong whispers, eyes still wide. “Holy smokes."

"Apparently, I'm a good storyteller," Vila says, entertained by her reaction. She raises her glass back to her lips. "Maybe that’s why I’m good with kids.” 

"So nobody else can actually wield your powers, even if they were to obtain them somehow," Windsong concludes. "Is that right?"

"Yes."

"And there's dark magic?"

"All magic can be dark magic in the hands of a wrong person," Vila explains, largely unconcerned. "If you try to seal us into a single lifetime, cut the soul from its path, then what came out of it was something warped: power with no place to return to, like memory without a mind. That’s what dark magic is. It's the rot from breaking what was meant to move in circles. And any enemies we have – who can harness that kind of power – don't come back the same way we do, because it dilutes your soul. Can't reincarnate something that doesn't exist anymore."

"But the four of you are still bound to this infinitely," Windsong says.

"We keep peace," Vila says. "That's our true purpose. We can't leave humanity entirely to their own devices because they'll do something stupid and and blow themselves up, pretty much like Zeno now. That's why the uprisings tend to take place when we're in-between forms.” 

"Well, thanks for your service," Windsong tells her seriously. "I don't know where we'd be without you here, growing me flowers and taking me out to dinner."

Vila laughs, her shoe knocking against one of Windsong's. She snatches her hand back dramatically and says, "Okay, shut up."

Windsong scoops noodles into her mouth unattractively, holding back a giggle, lips in a grin. Vila mirrors her, slurps one up jokingly.

Windsong still doesn’t know what Vila is to her yet – only that she’s dangerous in the way warmth is dangerous in winter. And maybe, for tonight, that’s enough.

🐟📏

They stay out for another hour after dinner, half by decision and half by excuse – Windsong had mumbled something about the air being “good for digestion,” which Vila had accepted with an overly solemn nod and then proceeded to not let go of her hand.

Their fingers stay laced as they walk along the canal path, trading stories. Windsong talks more than she expects herself to, about her childhood and the funny shape of her father’s ears, and that one time she got stuck in a cupboard trying to play hide and seek with herself. Vila listens with a quiet, fond smile, her thumb brushing faintly across Windsong’s knuckles, and when Windsong laughs too hard, she lifts her other hand to cover her face like that will somehow stuff the feelings back in. 

She finds it strange, the concept of having to explain any of it at all to Vila, like she should already know, like she should've been there.

“Well,” Vila says, “I wish I could have been.” Her voice is gentler than the wind off the water. 

Windsong’s breath catches, and before she can decide what to do with that – hug her? elbow her in the ribs? – Vila stops walking. Tugs lightly at her hand to bring her closer. Windsong stumbles a little, startled, but doesn’t pull away.

Vila steps into her space, and Windsong lets her, tilting her head up, her heart sprinting and stuttering in her chest like it doesn’t know which part of her body it belongs to anymore. Vila’s hands find her waist first – warm, grounding – and then her face, tentative like she’s afraid Windsong might flinch.

“I want to,” Vila whispers. Her forehead touches Windsong’s like a blessing. “I’d do almost anything.”

Windsong makes a small, embarrassing noise in the back of her throat. “So – so why don’t you?” she asks, and oh, she hears herself, hears the way it comes out too breathless, too much. Her brain is helpfully supplying ten reasons to regret speaking, but Vila’s breath is hot against her lips and it’s hard to think at all.

"I think… you have a lot to process," Vila says slowly, trending the fine line between rejection and delay. "And I think I should give you time to, before I…"

She skims her bottom lip nervously with her teeth, unsure of how to continue, of how to end; before I kiss you, before I touch you, before I love you. She flutters her eyelashes as if she's attempting to hold back the barest break of tears, and Windsong understands; she's afraid and it's an emotion she's unused to, like she's in conflict with herself for even feeling it at all. She's afraid Windsong will walk away and see her for what she is and find herself repulsed, horrified.

Windsong slips her fingers between Vila's. She pulls back and says, "Okay," and Vila releases a breath. "I'll take some time."

"I want you to be sure," Vila murmurs. "I want you to know. "

But she says know like there's a story behind it, a secret Windsong's already in on and hasn't put together. She says know like she's waiting for Windsong to catch up, and the fear stems from wondering if she ever will.

Know what, Windsong wants to ask, but she thinks maybe that's not a question she's ready to have answered just yet.

🐟📏

Vila walks her home, watches her head inside, flowers following her to the porch. Windsong doesn't make a joke, doesn't roll her eyes; she stands on the step and looks down at a single red rose, voluminous, vibrant in its color, overpowering in its scent. Windsong reaches for it, picks it, lifts it to her nose; she smiles cutely at Vila one last time, and then she is gone.

🐟📏

Vila goes to Druvis because she can't take another pitying look from Regulus, and Lilya isn't exactly known for her advice or empathy. Not that she isn't sincere; more like she never knows what to say about it.

Hey, are you home? Can I come over? She texts, already on her way. Druvis is dependable like that.

I am, and yes, of course. 

Be there in a sec

It takes her more like a few minutes – she takes advantage of the empty nighttime swimming pool at Rayashki elementary, opens a portal, and steps through into the sun beating down on the familiar treehouse, blinking against the heat. Druvis is lounging on top of a branch as she waves to the approaching Vila, settling down the wand that she’s halfway through carving. 

“Hello,” she greets as she descends in one smooth motion, the folds of her gown falling gently to catch up with her body on solid ground. "Have a seat by the garden. I brew Celtic ale today, unless you want Schnapps. We have it in the house just for you."

"Regulus said the same thing!" Vila exclaims, taking off her cardigan. “Ale is fine. I will drink other stuff, you know.” 

"Sure," Druvis says. "So, to what do I owe the pleasure?"

"Well, it's nine at my place, and my date just ended, so…" Druvis pours her drink into a pint glass; she takes and raises it in a toast, grinning. "You're my best option."

Druvis smiles widely, her head rolling to face her. "How did it go?" She asks. "I won't tell Lilya that you came to me first, by the way."

The sun hammers down on them, hot and strong despite it being three in the afternoon during a period that’d be considered winter in most places. Vila grimaces, already feeling the sweat prickling at her neck and lower back. She thinks about calling up a breeze, maybe even icing the air around her a little – but after such a nice night of being normal, she doesn’t want to end it. 

She shifts awkwardly on the sun-warmed bench. “I’m pretty sure your place isn’t always this hot, but now I’m seriously considering taking my dress off.”

“Does being a Rusalka mean your clothing etiquette is… a touch more fluid?” Druvis blinks once, not quite sure she heard that right. “I have a girlfriend, Vila.” 

“Yeah, clearly she’s made you funnier,” Vila snarks back, and Druvis chuckles. 

“Anyway, the weather is because it’s good for the herbs,” Druvis says serenely, sipping her ale. 

Vila fans herself with a coaster. “Do you have a parasol or something? An umbrella? An entire glacier?”

“I have a bigger hat.”

“Then why are you not wearing it?”

Druvis shrugs. “Because I’m not the one being dramatic.”

Vila groans. “Great. I’ll just melt and become part of the compost heap, then. Tell Lilya I died with dignity.”

“You? Never,” Druvis deadpans, passing her the hat anyway.

Vila plops it on her head without shame, the wide brim flopping slightly over her eyes. She adjusts it and sighs in exaggerated relief. “Perfect. Now I can perish in style.”

Druvis watches her settle in with the oversized hat sliding slightly sideways on her head. Vila adjusts it with some dignity, then clasps her glass in both hands, as if the ale might anchor her like trees to the earth, channeling the essence of its maker. 

Druvis doesn’t push, only takes a sip and says, “You’re glowing, you know? Even more than the last time you came back from battle.”

“Well, my date did feel like a battle,” Vila says dryly, eyes flicking skyward, “against my own self-control.”

“Mm. I assume Windsong won?”

Vila exhales a quiet laugh. “She wouldn’t know it. She talks like she doesn’t think she’s ever flustered anyone in her life. But she kept doing this thing with her hand – lifting it to her mouth whenever she smiled. Like it was instinct. Like the feelings were too much, and she was trying to press them back in.”

“She’s shy.”

“She’s devastating,” Vila corrects, voice soft. “And sharp. She asked real questions. About our history. About dark magic, about balance. I don’t usually like talking about what we are – but with her it didn’t feel like… explaining. It felt like remembering.”

Druvis leans her cheek against her hand, thoughtful. “I assume she makes you feel your power is safe within your skin. She tried to keep the fantastical real.”

“She did,” Vila murmurs. “And when she said she hated politics, I believed her. She has this honesty about her, even when she’s awkward. Especially when she’s awkward.”

A pause.

“She said we’d celebrate my birthday,” Vila adds, almost like she’s just realized it. “And then immediately looked like she regretted it. But I liked the sound of it anyway.”

“You’re easy to please,” Druvis remarks lightly.

“I think I’m just pleased.”

There’s a pause while a dragonfly skips across the rim of Druvis’s teacup. Vila brushes her thumb over the condensation on her own glass.

Vila’s eyes soften. “Later, when we’re out of the restaurant, she told me about her childhood. Hid in a cupboard once, trying to play hide-and-seek by herself.”

“She laughed so hard she had to cover her face,” Vila continues. “It almost made me want to – ” her voice drops a little, reverent now, “I almost kissed her.”

Druvis doesn't press further, just smiles faintly, like she’s cataloging the story to cherish later – tucking it into the soft green corners of her heart like the first sprout after frost, a tender thing not yet named but already reaching for the light. To the Spring Guardian herself, it sounds like the quiet beginning of something in bloom: not yet a garden, but promise enough.

Vila’s phone suddenly vibrates by her thigh, and she reaches over, grabs it. Windsong's name pops across her screen with a message that reads –

We should do this again sometime. I'm not going to change my mind.

Vila grins widely, lifts her other arm, dropping it over her eyes. She doesn't hide the turn of her lips; Druvis doesn’t want her to. 

"Overall," Vila says, her mouth as dry as the air they're under. "Probably the best night of my life. Any life."

🐟📏

Give it a day, Vila had said. Windsong understands, but doesn't need it. She sets an alarm for ten-fifteen the following evening, and spends the majority of her day cleaning; Sonetto is actually pretty neat, but there are a few random things her hostesses miss on – unpacking the dishwasher, actually pressing the start button on the laundry, and remembering to replace the trashbags. Vila flashes through her mind every other step, a fixture, a fire. No, not simply a fire, she corrects herself. Something that grows.

She does her own room from top to bottom; the windows look as if they've never seen a day of rain, and the rose sits in a thin, tall glass vase, blooming brilliantly on the windowsill, along with the lily, the carnation, every other flower Vila's ever grown and handed to her; the hardwood floor shines underneath her feet. She glances down, catches the brown of it, and for a moment is startled when she doesn't find flowers sprouting around her.

An idea strikes her suddenly; she pries her door open, rushes by Sonetto in the kitchen, cleaning out the refrigerator. She glances at her but doesn't ask, only smiles quietly to herself like she's following her plan.

She steps out front, furtively looks up and down the street – just on the crazy, off-chance this happens to work, she doesn't want the neighbors catching her – and deems it clear, stepping off the porch and into the grass. She waits a second, and then –

Today, they're organic peonies, red chrysanthemums, and something she thinks is freesia; she watches them bud and blossom, her heart unfolding like their petals, and laughs.

🐟📏

Vila's actually at home when she gets the text, an unusual occurrence for her. It's not that she doesn't enjoy being alone, but more as if she'd rather be alone with something beautiful. Something that can speak to her, flourish beneath her hands. It's late, just after nine, but not late enough that she can't justify going out again if the silence starts to eat at her.

Her phone keeps vibrating, and she vaguely realizes she's being called; it's such a foreign concept to her that it takes her a moment of fumbling to answer, barely even checking the caller I.D. "Hello?"

"Hey," Windsong's voice echoes through the speaker. "It's been a day. I haven't changed my mind."

Vila smiles widely, teeth digging into her bottom lip, trying not to scream. Her chest feels like it may blow itself open. She says, "Hey," happiness evident in her tone, and then, "I'm coming over."

"Okay," Windsong says, voice betraying her excitement.

"Okay," Vila answers, already slipping on her shoes. "I'll be there in like, two minutes."

She hangs up, nearly runs outside into the night, and she swears the grass is talking to her, the moon is laughing, every star is lit in an applause.

Windsong is leaning out her window when Vila arrives, chin resting in her palm, elbow propped up against the windowsill. She smiles when she catches sight of Vila emerging from the water, and Vila mirrors her expression, crooking a finger teasingly and beckoning her forward.

"Come with me," Windsong offers the second she meets Vila’s eyes, reaching for her sweater. 

"Where?"

"Does it matter?"

"Hm, no," Vila says. "It doesn't matter at all."

🐟📏

"Where are you going?" Vertin says accusatorily, keeping her voice somewhat lowered; Sonetto is passed out on her chest. "It's pretty late, Ms. Windsong."

"Nowhere," she says, shoving her feet into her boots.

"Going to see your girlfriend? " Vertin teases. The leyhunter rolls her eyes.

"She's not my girlfriend," she says, clearly not having the time for her. "But yes."

"Don't do anything I wouldn't do."

Windsong actually offers her a smirk at that. "You actually would do a lot of things, so I’m taking that as a blanket permission for everything,” she answers, and opens the door quietly, slipping out into the night. Sonetto stirs as the door shuts, not as gentle as the unlock.

She yawns, adjusting her head slightly. "What's going on?" she asks sleepily.

"You know, I think letting Windsong live here was a smart move," Vertin says, her gaze focused back on the television, airing an urban exploration game show. "We've probably got the safest house in the entire world."

🐟📏

Windsong takes her hand, leading her back through the woods behind the house, following a similar path to the one she'd followed the night after meeting Vila the first time. They empty into the same clearing, though in about half the time; Vila guesses she must’ve been weaving originally, bobbing through the trees, dragging out their goodbye.

Windsong steps forward, Vila’s hand slipping from her grasp, and raises her arms, stretching. She exhales contentedly, peaceful, landscape unfurling in front of them like a still-held breath. She turns back, jerks her head to the side, gesturing the Guardian over.

Then she hesitates, eyes surveying the patch of grass. “I want to take a seat, but it’s wet.”

"I'll grow you some nice new grass," Vila says sarcastically, already dropping down into it without a care. "Now take a seat and show me what it is you’re so excited for, high maintenance."

Windsong scoffs, lowering herself beside her. “I am not high maintenance,” she says. “I just did my laundry, and I don’t own lots of pants.”

Vila snickers, but secretly considers taking her shopping – partly to see Windsong in outfits that bring out her eyes, her silhouette, her every adorable little expression, but more importantly to spoil her rotten without letting her spend a single cent. After all, if Windsong’s going to steal her heart, the least Vila can do is cover the cost of a few simpler indulgences.

She wraps an arm around Windsong’s waist, pulling her close until her back is half-resting against the leyhunter’s chest. Vila sighs before she can stop herself, relaxing into her embrace automatically, head lolling back against Windsong’s shoulder.

“Okay,” Vila says, instantly calm, soothed. “I’m waiting.”

Windsong lowers her lips to the shell of Vila’s ear and starts to count. “Five,” she murmurs, Vila shuddering at the warmth of her breath. “Four, three, two…”

Then, just past the treetops, the sky begins to breathe.

First a shimmer, pale and tremulous, like moonlight caught in frost. Then a ribbon of color peels across the heavens – green, violet, blue. Like ink unfurling across parchment. Then more. Layers. Strands. The entire sky shimmers, waves folding into one another with slow, aching grace, like a heartbeat stitched into the clouds. The clearing glows with their echo – not just above them, but around them, like the air itself remembers how to dream.

Vila’s lips part, not in surprise – though she lets it look that way – but because she didn’t expect it to feel this beautiful. Her pulse stutters in her throat. She’s seen the aurora before. But never like this. Not like this .

She slides her arm more firmly over Windsong’s, their hands joined against her stomach. She doesn’t speak. She knows this is Windsong’s moment to lead.

Windsong inhales like she’s been waiting to breathe all evening. “I mapped the ley lines here last week,” she says, voice low and giddy. “There was a knot – a real knot, not a false convergence. They pulse differently, and this one’s been dormant for years, maybe decades. But I tracked the fluctuations through the soil temperature, the local magnetic fields… and I thought maybe it was aligning again, just barely. Right place, right time. If it was going to happen anywhere, it’d be here.”

Vila turns just slightly to look up at her, eyes wide with practiced awe. “You tracked the northern lights,” she whispers, “using ley lines ?”

Windsong flushes. “Well. Auroras are just ionized solar particles reacting to magnetic force,” she says, quick. “Ley lines are ambient magic currents. I thought… they might enhance the visibility window. If the sky cooperates.”

“It did,” Vila murmurs. “You found it.”

Windsong swallows. Her voice is suddenly quiet, almost shy. “I haven’t really tried to impress anyone in a while. It’s been… a long time since I felt like someone might actually care about the things I care about.”

Vila’s throat tightens unexpectedly. She leans forward and presses a kiss to Windsong’s temple, gentle and reverent. “Thank you,” she murmurs. “This is perfect.”

“You’re right, I should never give up,” Windsong smiles into the moment, her hand resting over Vila’s heart. “The study of ley lines will return, I’m sure. Just like the aurora. It isn’t always visible, but even on the coldest, darkest nights, it’s there, waiting for the moment to shine again, as beautiful… as ever.” 

She doesn’t know that Vila already knew this clearing by instinct, by centuries, by the breath of the land itself. She doesn’t know that Vila had stood here before, watched the aurora flicker across the same sky through other eyes, other winters. And still it has never looked so lovely – not until Windsong lit it with her intention. Vila doesn’t tell her. That’s her gift in return: to let Windsong believe she was the first to find it, because in every way that matters, she is.

They sit like that for a long time, wrapped in silence. Not a still silence – a full one. A silence that breathes.

“Actually,” Windsong says eventually, tilting her head to study Vila’s profile, cast in soft violet light. “I thought of another question.”

Vila hums, not looking away from the sky. “Go ahead.”

“Why me?” Windsong asks. “People literally worship you. You could have anyone. Why me ?”

Vila is quiet for a while, watching the aurora shift and dance – ribbons of magic rippling like thoughts across the heavens.

She doesn’t answer right away, because she wants to say it right. Windsong deserves that.

Finally, she leans in, rests her cheek against Windsong’s head, and says softly, “I think…when I’m with you, I don’t feel like a Guardian. Or a Rusalka. Or anything ancient or dangerous or difficult. I just feel like someone who’s allowed to want things. Small things. Soft things.”

To be known is to be loved. And to be loved is to be changed.

Windsong doesn’t speak, but Vila can feel the breath catch in her chest, the way her hand stills faintly beneath her own.

“And I believe,” Vila adds, quieter still, “even if I had lifetimes ahead of me, I’d still want to spend them relearning you. Again and again. Because somehow you make it feel new every time.”

Windsong turns her face slightly into Vila’s hair, the scent of earth and warmth curling in her lungs.

She doesn’t kiss her. Vila doesn’t expect her to.

And it’s somehow perfect anyway.

🐟📏

It's Saturday when she sees Vila again, though she almost misses the knock at her window over the pattering of drizzle on the roof. Not quite a storm – more like the world holding its breath, rain feathering against the glass in threads too gentle to threaten. She pulls back the curtains and cracks the window open. Vila stands outside, damp only in the aesthetic sense. Her hair curls from the air’s moisture, but her skin and coat are untouched, like water dares not touch her unless given permission.

"Come outside," Vila says. Her voice is almost smug with how confident she is in Windsong saying yes. "I want to show you something."

Windsong crosses her arms. "In this weather?!"

“That seems to be a trend with you.” Vila’s eyes light up with that annoying, familiar spark. “I have Guardian powers and a girl still doesn’t trust me not to ruin her blowout."

"You’re ridiculous."

"I’m serious!" Vila leans against the sill. "It’s safe. It’s pretty. It’s going to blow your mind."

Windsong raises an eyebrow. "If I get wet, I’m stealing one of your jackets."

"You can have all of them," Vila says, like it’s nothing. Like Windsong hasn’t already claimed parts of her, whether she knows it or not.

She still grumbles while pulling on boots and a jacket. Vertin and Sonetto shout jokes from the living room again – “Tell your girlfriend thanks for the weather, it’s great writing ambiance” – and Windsong ignores them with the dignity of someone trying not to blush. She steps out and follows Vila into the forest, the canopy dripping around them like the trees are trying not to laugh.

The hike’s short – just long enough for Vila to brag about how she’s “not even using magic right now,” which Windsong suspects is a lie. Eventually, they reach the mouth of a wide, still lake – the very location of their first meeting.

Vila stops at the edge, biting her lip like she’s trying to hide a grin. “Okay. So. I had this whole thing planned, you know. A little tour of the lake bed, some bioluminescent kelp blooms, maybe a dance or two under a curtain of glowing algae. Very tasteful. I even brought snacks.”

Windsong squints at her. “Snacks. Underwater.”

Vila shrugs. “I had logistics. Don’t question the snacks. Point is, I was going to impress you.”

“You’re doing a decent job so far.”

“Only decent?” Vila groans. “Tragic.”

She steps into the water with that usual supernatural grace – bare feet slicing through the surface like it’s offering her passage. Windsong, stubbornly human, stays dry on the edge.

“You trust me, right?” Vila asks, glancing over her shoulder.

“No,” Windsong answers immediately, arms crossed.

“Fair.” Vila offers her hand anyway. “Come on. I’ll keep you dry and breathing. You won’t even feel it.”

Windsong sighs like a martyr but kicks off her boots anyway, stepping forward to meet Vila’s outstretched hand. The moment they touch, the water changes – softens. When she steps in, it’s like slipping into warm air that just happens to shimmer. No splash. No wet clothes. No chill. Just the soft hum of Vila’s magic, steady and encompassing.

As they sink, the lake opens around them like a secret – quiet and luminous, strewn with threads of light curling from stone and silt. It’s like falling into a different sky. Vila keeps them protected, a clear bubble of breath and dry skin gliding down into silence.

Windsong blinks up at her. “Woah…”

“I know,” Vila says softly, her voice low and echoing through the bubble. “The air pocket spell doesn’t just keep you from getting wet – it keeps the pressure off your chest. You’re still breathing surface air. Kind of like holding a glass upside down in a pool. But prettier. Me-er.”

“I would have understood it without the metaphor,” Windsong murmurs, half-smiling.

“Would you have been charmed without the metaphor?”

“Hm,” she taps her fingers to her chin, pretending to puzzle it out, “No.”

Vila grins. “Didn’t think so.”

They sink slowly, Vila guiding her like it’s second nature, and it probably is. Water slips around them, parting without protest. Light glimmers from above, and the deeper they go, the more the lake transforms – phosphorescent blooms flicker from stones, suspended particles float like stars. It’s quiet. Holy. 

“Okay,” Windsong breathes, voice muffled but clear through Vila’s spell. “I’ll admit it. This is… a lot.” 

Vila squeezes her fingers, eyes crinkling with delight. "You’re not even wet.” 

“You keep saying that like it’s a win.” 

“It is a win,” Vila says, floating slightly above her, smiling in that annoyingly adorable way that makes Windsong’s stomach twist. “I'm shielding you. I can do this all day.” 

Windsong huffs. “Actually, drop it.”

Vila tilts her head. “Drop what?”

“The air bubble,” Windsong says, face flushing despite the temperature being perfect. “This would make a better story if we were both – just – drenched.”

“You’re serious?”

Windsong doesn’t answer. She’s looking at Vila’s mouth like it’s something worth rewriting the rules of her world for.

And Vila gets it.

The spell drops like a silk curtain falling, sudden and soft. The water rushes in – not cold, but present now, hugging every inch of skin; the air bubble shrinking to only enough to keep her breathing. Windsong gasps at the sensation and Vila steadies her, arms slipping around her waist.

Windsong doesn’t waste time.

She surges forward and kisses her.

It isn’t tentative but it’s gentle; her lips press softly against Vila’s for a brief moment, and then she pulls away and ghosts over her, mouths barely brushing until Windsong works up the nerve to kiss her again. Vila seems to go slack from the shock, unmoving, but her eyelids flutter closed automatically; another second and her palms slip across Windsong’s cheeks, wet and damp from the water, and then she’s kissing Windsong back, lips tender and yielding. It doesn’t feel like a first kiss, barely even feels like a second or a third; there’s something painfully familiar about it, the way Vila sighs into her mouth, Windsong’s fingers moving to tangle in Vila’s hair, how she tastes like mist and honey and sea salt, her heartbeat rattling like thunder.

The lake glows around them, refracting light like a thousand floating lanterns caught in glass. Vila pulls her closer, keeps kissing her, and Windsong barely notices the water at all.

She’s too busy learning the shape of this – this impossible, inevitable thing – the way Vila fits against her like she’s been waiting her whole life to be held like this. Vila breathes against her mouth like she’s come home to something she hadn’t realized she missed, and in the back of her mind, somewhere between one heartbeat and the next, Windsong realizes:

The tour is cancelled.

The algae can wait. The snacks can rot. Vila’s whole plan went to hell in the best possible way.

And all she wants is to kiss her again.