Chapter Text
Bubbles stream from a young ghoul’s mouth as he speeds through the shadowy depths of the healing halls, eyes wide with urgency. He clutches a scroll in a trembling hand, sealed with gold and heavy with the weight of something far beyond him. Something sacred. Something terrifying.
The Hall of the Depths is quiet, filled with an overwhelming scent of medicine. Clean algae, crushed coral, resin and ink. Reeds rise tall around each nest, swaying gently with the currents. Light is scarce here, swallowed by brackish water. The only glow is his own bioluminescence, reflecting off the shimmer of sleeping ghouls’ breaths. He inhales deeply and steadies himself. Searching.
There.
He catches a swift movement ahead, a flash of elegant deep blue, violet-dipped fins pulsating with a calming green light. He surges forward.
“My lady,” he calls, louder than intended, voice echoing through the still.
She turns, her graceful form curling back. “Jasper? Are you alright?”
He can feel his whole body betraying him, skin lit with every nervous hue, flickering in time with his racing heart.
“Urgent,” he says, handing over the scroll with a bow of his head. “From the Prince Himself.”
She examines it carefully, gills flaring for heartbeat when she examines the golden seal. Despite settling back into calm neutrality, Jasper feels the tension bloom in her silence like blood in water. She turns it again, small flickers of yellow present in the webbing between her fingers.
“For me?” she finally asks quietly.
“No,” he murmurs, avoiding her gaze. “It’s for Rain.”
She hums, and turns towards the two younger ghoulettes that had been working beside her.
“Tend the patients,” she says quietly, “and don't hesitate to let me know if you need anything.”
She stills for a moment, recentering herself as she clutches the warm scroll.
“Let us make haste. He should be in the upper hall.”
Jasper nods, unable to keep his glowing skin from betraying the swirl of emotions he carries; duty, confusion, and dread. He follows close beside her, their tails slicing silently through the water as they leave the Hall of the Depths behind. That place, sacred and heavy with sorrow, is where the weakest were nurtured back from the brink. He always admired the ghouls that worked there.
As they swim upward through the ascending tunnels, Jasper can’t help but glance at her. She moves with purpose, but her silence speaks louder than words. He can see it in the subtle twitch of her fin, the ever-so-slight tremble of her gill slits. The seal had rattled her, and that scares him more than anything. .
⋆⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺⋆
Rain always possessed a deep calm, similar to his mother. But rather than working towards long term, more palliative care, he performed exceptionally in the emergency hall. Quick-witted and sure of his own skill, he has seen a plethora of ill and injured ghouls in the hundreds of years he has practiced alongside the members of his clan.
He nearly barrels into his mother and her page, having darted out at the first opportunity when he felt the brief wave of her distress.
“Mama? Are you well?” Rain’s voice is soft and calm, but Jasper can see the way his shoulders tighten, how his fingers twitch at his sides, bracing for bad news.
She smiles faintly and reaches out to brush her thumb across his cheek. Jasper observes the color shift below his skin, the telltale flicker of yellow - nervousness - tightly coiled and barely hidden. But if fades with her touch, grounding, as it always has been.
“There is to be a summoning,” she states plainly.
“I see,” Rain hums. He tilts his head slightly, processing. Always assessing, always calm.
“For someone in the clan?” He studies her face and searches her eyes and she hates the flash of fear she sees in his. Her silence speaks volumes.
“For you, then?”
She shakes her head and presses the elegant scroll into his palm with quiet reverence.
“For you,” she whispers.
Rain stares at the scroll in his hands, heavy despite the fine parchment. His name isn’t marked on the outside but it feels like it had been written for him long before now. He turns it over once, then once again. The seal shimmers with Infernal gold, the Prince’s signature mark pulsating gently.
“Is it Infernal magic, or are my hands just that cold,” Rain says softly, more to himself than anyone else. It feels warm against his skin, a magic that is old and sure. Final, in a way.
She doesn’t answer, doesn’t need to. Rain feels the current shift in the water around her. She watches him, heart breaking quietly behind her calm exterior. He finds a moss-covered rock and perches there, like he had so many times as a child. It grounds him, makes him feel small in a comforting way.
“Perhaps there's a mistake?”
“He doesn't make mistakes, my child.”
He knows she’s right, she always is. With an exhale that was probably more forceful than necessary he slowly, reverently peels back the seal.
He unfurls the parchment and begins to read aloud.
Corentin Tempestas of the Great Salt River Clan,
Rain blinks. No one ever uses his full name. The formality is chilling, and he finds himself swallowing hard before continuing.
Your presence is required on the surface, for the grand Ghost project. One trunk will be sent after your arrival, through a separate portal. Consider one set of ceremonial clothing.
Summoning will take place after moonrise tomorrow.
A drop of blood pressed with your thumbprint will bind you to this contract.
Your Infernal Majesty,
L
Rain shakes his head a few times, reading and reading again, processing. The words are heavier than reef stones, immoveable, undeniable.
He’s caught somewhere between defiance and disbelief. “Isn't summoning supposed to be a request?”
“Typically,” his mother agrees, scanning over the document. “But this is different. He’s not asking, Rain. He’s calling.”
Rain’s jaw tightens and he shakes his head, trying to cast the weight of the words off of it.
“But I am needed here. This is where I belong. I save people, I don’t -” His voice cracks, which startles him. He recenters with a deep breath. “What do they even want from me up there? To play in a band?”
His mother sighs and places a hand on his shoulder, and it's then that he realizes his gills are flaring. He's sure his face is bright yellow.
“If He is calling you directly, there is a purpose. One only you can serve.”
“Signed it ‘L' too,” Rain grumbles, stopping mid eyeroll after catching his mother's quirked brow. “Sorry, mama, I just don’t understand.”
“You don’t have to. Not yet.” Her hand still rests on his shoulder and she squeezes at him in a way that has always been reassuring. “The path will reveal itself to those that walk it.”
Rain thinks of the other summoned ghouls, the haunted looks they return with. There is fire in their eyes. Pride. A clear cost that weighs on their shoulders upon their return. He’s not met anyone that has come back from this ‘Ghost project,’ and that only serves to heighten his anxiety.
But perhaps that is his purpose, to aid the suffering on the other side. Summoning is not easy, and neither is returning.
Rain lets out a breath, long and low. Then, without ceremony, he brings his thumb to his lips, draws blood with a sharp fang, and presses it to the parchment.
It hisses and the seal flares once - the summons is complete.
“This is a great honor, sweet sprat. I know you will make your clan proud.”
Rain smiles as best he can and squeezes at his mother's hand. He knows she'll sit with him as he packs, probably slip a few extra trinkets into his trunk after he leaves.
Leaves.
He's hardly even been on the dry land of the Pits, let alone ever considered going beyond. He thought he'd follow the path of his clan, remaining in the Halls of Healing until he was needed elsewhere.
And he supposes he has done exactly that.
He just never imagined that the call would come so soon.
⋆⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺⋆
Mountain leans on the doorframe of Dewdrop's room, watching him flit about to pack away his various belongings. He's only going across the hall, but the boxes will surely make the change easier. Fewer trips and all. His arms are crossed but there is no judgment in his stance, only quiet observation tinged with sadness.
Dew is everywhere all at once, fluttering from a trunk to a shelf to a pile of clothes and back again. A ribbon of nervous energy trails behind him despite his grin. His tail flicks in nervous bursts, betraying the thrum of adrenaline in his bloodstream.
“Sure about this, then?” Mountain’s voice is low, rough around the edges with worry.
Dew pauses his frantic movements, an old hoodie in his hands, and looks up. His sky-blue eyes meet Mountain’s dark green, and for a moment the room seems to still.
“‘Course Mounty, never been so sure.” His voice is quiet, more deliberate. He sits on the edge of his nest, rubbing the old worn fabric like it will give him the words he needs.His voice always makes Mountain smile, he doesn't have the two-toned metallic thrum that the other water ghouls do. Just one scratchy tenor that makes his heart thump a bit harder. “I just don’t know how to explain it.”
“You don't have to,” he rumbles, stepping further inside and filling the whole door frame. “Not to me.”
Dew looks down at the short webs between his fingers. “Does the Earth talk to you?”
Mountain nods, of course it does. The Earth is his lifeblood, his lullaby. It whispers through roots and rock, through ancient rivers carved in stone. He sings back to it, day in, day out, ancient magic flowing deep in his veins. He doesn’t have to listen for it. It’s simply part of him.
“The water doesn't talk to me,” Dew confesses, his voice steady but with a raw edge. “Not really. Not the way it talks to the others. I get echoes, now and then, when the moon’s full. But that’s it. She’s never felt like home.”
Mountain makes a low sound in his throat, understanding if not quite empathy. He can never claim to know the ache of that silence, but can honor it.
“And fire does?”
Dew’s face brightens with something deep and his tail swishes behind him with excitement rather than nerves.
“Yes,” Dew smiles, big and broad. “I can't wait to feel it in my fingertips. I watched Ifrit and Alpha for hours, practicing, channeling all that passion. Not just into the guitar, but into the Ministry. Keeping hearths warm, leading. It speaks to me in a way the water never did. There is purpose in fire, it makes me feel… seen.”
Mountain tilts his head slightly and his voice, though gruff, holds a softness that only Dewdrop can ever draw out of him.
“As long as you're sure, waterlily.” He pauses, then smiles gently. “Or maybe firelily, now.”
Dew’s tail wags at that, his laugh bubbling out of him like a burst of air during a deep dive.
“I've never been more sure of anything. This is it. This is who I'm meant to be.”
Mountain hesitates, scratches at the back of his neck. “Wha'd'ya think is gonna happen to… her?”
Dew raises his eyebrow.
“You seriously asking about my tentacle at a time like this?”
Mountain flushes an earthy green, the mossy color spreading quickly across his cheeks and nose. He opens his mouth to stumble through an apology but stops when Dew’s warm laughter fills the room again.
“I'm just fuckin' with ya big guy,” he grind. “I honestly don't know. We can all shift, so I've been hoping since I started with her, I get to keep her. I'm really gonna miss her if I don't.”
Mountain nods, still feeling sheepish. “We could ask Delta, if you want.”
Dew stands then, crosses his room to wrap his arms around Mountain's waist, pulling himself close until he can rest his cheek against his chest.
“Rather not. They've got real Haunting of Hill House vibes, you know?”
Mountain laughs, a deep echoing thing, and holds Dew tighter. He knows exactly what he means.
Everyone knew Delta was strange, still water deep and dark. He moves through the Ministry like a shadow, always where he wasn’t expected and somehow never where he should be. His voice was quiet, but carried, and no one could remember exactly what his face looked like after they looked away.
“Once,” Mountain rumbled, “I saw them whisper to a stone wall that leads to the catacombs. It started bleeding.”
Dew blinked, then shuddered. “Exactly. I’m not asking them about my tentacle.”
“Besides,” he continues, nuzzling in close, “what could possibly go wrong?”
The memory of exactly that possibility drifts between them like a slow-moving current, unspoken but vivid.
The Air summoning.
It was supposed to be routing; ceremonial, calculated, precise. The Circle has been drawn in silver dust and bone ink, ancient sigils and lines humming with purpose: to summon one air ghoul. One.
But the veil between realms had a sense of humor.
The portal shimmered like a mirror cracking underwater, refracting reality. Wind howled through the stillness of the summoning chamber, bringing with it the scent of ozone and something far older, storm slick stone, high peaks, and lightning that had never touched the ground.
Two ghouls stepped through.
Not one.
Two.
The first was intended: a willowy ghoulette with eyes like pale grey clouds and short hair that drifted upwards like she had never even heard of gravity. She blinked, startled, but still poised. Confused, but composed.
Her hand was wrapped around that of another ghoulette, this one with eyes like a storm and fluffy, curly hair that seemed to float like a cloud. She was shorter, stockier, and looked more afraid than the ghoulette that came through first.
It caused a bit of a fuss, really, this second figure coming through. There was an urgent need for more: another blanket, a mask, more hands outstretched in comfort, endless voices offering explanations while others searched for answers.
So much chaos, in fact, that no one noticed when a third came through. No one saw the smoke. To be fair, at first, it was just a tendril. Then a slow, spiraling column that spun in silence at the edge of the open gate. It twisted like it was looking, learning, remembering. Before anyone knew what was happening it compressed, sharply, folding in on itself like a breath being held.
And from that breath, he formed.
A figure, tall and lean, wrapped in a glamour so fine it might as well have been his skin. Dark hair bundled at the top of his head, windblown ever so slightly. His eyes were like the eye of a storm, calm only because of the chaos they held in the center.
He stepped forward casually, his glamour finishing its subtle shimmer as his bare feet touched the edge of the circle. No one had seen him until he spoke.
“A mated pair huh?”
Every head turned.
A beat of silence, and then absolute chaos.
There were shouts, gasps. Someone dropped the mask they had found for the extra ghoulette and it dented when it hit the ground. One Sister screamed. And the Cardinal, who had been so steady throughout the initial mess, met the ground with a quiet thud when he passed out in a mostly dignified way.
The ghoul at the center of it all ginned, showing off his perfect row of sharp, gleaming teeth. Nothing hostile, just knowing. Like he understood something no one else in the room had realized.
“Good luck with that,” he muttered, and then turned like he was already bored.
That had been about two weeks ago, and Dew couldn’t remember now without laughing.
Dew chuffs at the memory and affectionately headbutts Mountain's chest.
“You just like his shiny teeth.”
“Yeah,” Mountain says fondly, and Dew can practically hear the hearts in his eyes.
“Freak.”
Mountain laughs and leans back in Dew's arms, taking in his water features for the last time. The clarity of his horns, his wide sky-blue eyes, the pretty green freckles and stripes that decorate his blue-grey skin. Dew comes from the shallows, with shorter webbing between his fingers and toes. More land-like adaptations, due to the proximity.
He's certain Dew will look just as striking once fire takes hold, if not more so with all the confidence he is sure to find in his new element.
“C'mon firelily, Aether should be about ready with the movie.”
Dew purrs and lets himself be pulled out of his room and down the hall, anxiety kept at bay by rising anticipation.
Tomorrow will be the start of the rest of his life.
So, what could possibly go wrong?
⋆⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺⋆
As the soft sounds of laughter echo down the hallway, a long shadow slinks back into a darker wing of the Ministry. Delta watches them go, unreadable eyes gleaming faintly in the gloom.
They don't sigh, or smile, or even blink, just turn, the beads and chains woven into their robes whispering with their movement. With quiet steps, they slip down a hidden corridor few even know exists anymore.
The Ministry Archives are not closed, exactly, but few bother to visit the deepest stacks where the oldest scrolls are kept in locked drawers, sealed with wax and cursed glyphs. Delta moves with familiarity, not needing light, their fingers brushing across labels written in a dozen dead languages. They find the drawer they want without hesitation.
Inside is a single folder, its contents humming faintly with trapped magic.
He removes a page. Faded, water-stained, but the name still shines faintly under enchantment:
Corentin Tempestas.
Delta’s scarred gills flutter once. Not with surprise, but anticipation.
They fold the paper with reverent care, then open a narrow cabinet hidden in the stone. Inside sit dozens of files. Some are marked with a red sigil. Others are burned around the edges. He files Rain’s under a new section: ACTIVE.
A whisper echoes through the corridor. The same word, over and over:
"convergence."
Delta smiles, just barely. The glamour flickers on his form for a second, revealing something far less aquatic, far more skeletal beneath.
Then it’s gone.
They close the cabinet, seal it with a murmur only the stones understand, and walk back into the halls above.