Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Mona groaned as the sunlight hit her pillow. Again. 

Too bright, too early, too... there.

She rolled to the edge of her modest Sumeru dorm, blanket tangled around one leg like it had tried to escape the night with more success than she had. Her eyes opened halfway, scanning the floating figure hovering just above her cluttered desk, its ethereal form curled, arms crossed, glaring at her in wordless judgment.

“Oh good. You’re still here,” she muttered, rubbing her temples. “Because I just love starting every morning with an audience.”

The ghost didn’t flinch.

Dragging herself to the kitchenette, she half-sleepwalked through the motions of making breakfast: eggs, flatbread, something she hoped was still tea. She wasn’t picky. As long as it was hot and mildly caffeinated, it could be boiled paint water and she wouldn’t complain.

She took a sip. Not paint. Probably.

Then, facing the ghost, she let out a long, tired sigh and sat down at her small round table.

“Alright. Let’s try again.”

She gestured vaguely at it with her teacup.

“You’re a ghost. Or a spirit. Or some hurt creature somehow bound to the talisman-”

The ghost nodded midair, but very much with the vibe of "Okay, sure, let’s just ignore the last ten millennia of cultural nuance, shall we?"

“I know, I know,” she said, waving one hand dismissively. “Oversimplification. Cry about it. Oh wait! You already have. For three days.” The spirit opened its mouth, silent as ever, but clearly mouthing something fervently. Mona watched it babble in frustration and shook her head. “Reminder: I can’t hear you,” she snapped. “So maybe cut the dramatic monologue.”

It pulled back, floating in a tight spiral, agitated.

“Look,” Mona said, setting down her mug with more force than necessary. “So let me get this straight. I’m cursed now. Because that scumbag -” she jabbed a finger in the air toward the ghost, as though it somehow stood in for Wanderer, “-couldn’t let go of a necklace. And thanks to his god complex and my unfortunate reflexes, your lil’ home got pulverized?” The ghost’s form stiffened, furious. Mona leaned back, arms crossed. “What do you even want from me? You haunt me, you float through my notes, you covered my telescope lens last night. And for what? Punishment? Guidance? Therapy?!”

The ghost flew in increasingly tight, frustrated loops, like it was cursing her out in interpretive dance.

“Okay, great, you’re mad. I’m mad. We’re all very emotionally productive.” She stood, scraping her chair back. “But for your information, I’m not going to the library again today.” The ghost froze. “No, as delightful as it was yesterday - me hauling out every ancient civilization book I could find, and you shaking your ghostly little head like I was offering you toddler alphabet flashcards - some of us have real work to do.”

She grabbed her notes off the shelf, muttering, “Stupid unpaid commissions...”

The ghost followed her. She ignored it.

“I don’t care how ancient your civilization was,” she added over her shoulder. “If your ‘sacred wisdom’ doesn't include paying rent, you’re not helpful today.”

The ghost’s shoulders slumped. For the first time in three days... it actually looked empathetic.

The lecture hall buzzed faintly with a dozen half-awake minds, scribbling notes at varying levels of coherence. Mona sat near the back, elbow propped up, chin resting in her palm, eyes glazed and fighting a losing war against sleep. Her pen dragged across the page in mostly-legible loops. She’d told herself she’d focus today. Truly. But the combination of three ghost-haunted nights and a professor with the cadence of a lullaby was an ambush she hadn’t stood a chance against.

The spirit, at least, had been surprisingly well-behaved.

It floated silently above the projector, swaying with mild interest every time the professor gestured at something vaguely ancient. Not at the content, it wasn’t the history lesson that caught its attention, but the glyphs, the decorative borders, the way humans shaped their understanding of things now. It stared at each diagram like someone flipping through a family album 5,000 years after everyone had died.

Mona didn’t mind the ghost for once. Honestly, it felt almost considerate.

And even though she was sharing the same room as someone arguably responsible for her current predicament, she could live with this . For now.

Or she hoped so.

Wanderer’s voice cut into the air like a blade, sharp, uninvited, and utterly without apology.

“I wouldn’t say that theorem holds, unless we’re ignoring the correlation bias in early desert inscriptions entirely.” The professor paused, startled. Mona froze mid-sentence.

She turned slightly in her seat, already dreading what she knew she’d see.

There he was. Arms crossed. Leaning casually against the side of the row just two up from hers, eyes half-lidded with disdain and disinterest. A listener who wasn’t a student. Not enrolled, not technically even invited to attend. But who was going to stop him?

No one. That’s who.

Especially not when the professors kept letting him interrupt.

Mona watched with horror as he drifted closer, confidently derailing the lecture and getting into a mini-debate with a group of advanced students down front.

She prayed to every celestial alignment he wouldn’t notice her.

He noticed her.

“Oh, you’re here,” he said, tone flat, eyes catching hers mid-blink like it was a casual greeting and not the equivalent of kicking her chair in a library.

Mona offered him the tightest, politest smile she could muster without snapping her pen in half. “Observing the intellectually inclined,” she replied, “must be a refreshing change of pace for you.”

He ignored that, eyes flicking up. “You seem distracted, too much stargazing last ni-ght?.”

She blinked.

It was subtle. A twitch of his brow, a slight turn of his head. But he was doing it again - looking around, scanning the room like he was chasing a sound or a shadow no one else noticed.

And the ghost... It floated just behind her now, staring at him with sudden intensity.

Mona’s blood ran cold.

The ghost mouthed something.

Wanderer’s eyes narrowed.

Mona blinked slowly, pen still in hand, the words on her notes blurring.

She didn’t move, but tested the waters. “What is it, Hat Guy?”

He glanced down at her, his expression unreadable, but sharper than before.

“Nothing,” he said, his tone easy, smooth. “ Megistus. ”

But as he spoke, the ghost made a slow circle around him, insistent. Its mouth moved again - silent to her, as always - but her eyes tracked every syllable. And then…

He jolted.

It was tiny. Barely perceptible. But she caught it. The slight twitch of his shoulders, the almost-invisible tilt of his head, like he was following a sound. He was pretending not to react. But he heard it. She knew it.

She stood up so fast her chair screeched like a dying bird. “Excuse me,” she announced flatly to no one in particular. She didn’t wait. In one motion, she snatched her notes, grabbed him by the robes , and started dragging him up the aisle.

“You. With me. Now.”

“Wha-? Hey-! You-” His usual protests were half-hearted at best. His boots skidded once against the floor but he didn’t resist.

He wasn’t stupid. He knew she’d seen something.

And even if he didn’t admit it out loud yet, she could feel it, the shift in his steps, the calculating silence. He wouldn’t fight this.

The ghost followed close behind, absolutely glowing with delight.

She didn’t stop until they were hidden behind one of the towering Akademiya columns, in a quiet side corridor that smelled faintly of old parchment and heat-scorched stone. Her fingers were still clenched in the fabric of his coat when she turned to face him.

"You can hear it."

Wanderer narrowed his eyes. “What are you talking about?”

“Don’t play dumb.” She jabbed a finger at his chest. “You jolted when it mouthed something. You twitched. ”

“I had an itch.”

“On the inside of your skull? ” His glare sharpened, but not fast enough to cover the flicker of something else, something closer to alarm. “You’ve been hearing it,” she said, lower now. He didn’t respond. “Not before,” she guessed, watching him. “But today… you started hearing something.”

His jaw tightened, a muscle ticking as realisation bloomed in his posture.

“I thought it was…” He glanced away. “A noisy person or... Static. I didn’t realize it was real until you dragged me out here and confirmed it.”

Mona folded her arms, relieved. “So. Not just me.”

He scoffed. “Congratulations. We’re both cursed.”

“ Thank you, Captain Obvious.” The ghost hovered nearby, smugly mouthing something with exaggerated slowness. Wanderer twitched again, subtly. “What did they say?”

He huffed. “They’re upset. About the talisman. Something about their home being broken and needing resolution.” His fingers twitched as if resisting the urge to rub his temples. “And it wants us to fix it.”

Mona’s eyes widened. “Wait, you understood it?”

“Barely,” he muttered. “It doesn’t… talk like we do. It’s fragmented. Old. Keeps repeating things. And it won’t shut up.” The man was clearly annoyed.

“Lucky you. I don’t even get subtitles.”

“You kept the pieces,” he said flatly, stepping to the side.“This is your mess.”

“ Our mess. You yanked on it too!”

“And who walked out with the fragments stuffed in her bag?” He crossed his arms, tone cold and smug. “I walked away, leaving it alone.”

She glared. “You coward.”

He turned on his heel, already retreating. “Enjoy being haunted, Megistus.”

She threw her hands up. “Oh sure, just dump the metaphysical baggage on me -!”

But then she stopped.

Because the ghost didn’t.

She watched it slowly drift after him, trailing like a loose ribbon on the wind. Wanderer paused, sensing it, glancing back with a scowl, but said nothing.

Mona crossed her arms, victorious. “…That’s what I thought.”

A knock.

Mona didn’t even flinch. She sipped her tea, eyes half-lidded, reclining against a tower of cushions. Her apartment was dimly lit, filled with a low hum of strings from an old Sumeru music box in the corner. Candles flickered against constellations scrawled across parchment, wax dripping beside the half-read tome on her lap. After three chaotic days… Peace. At last.

Another knock - sharp, impatient .

She sighed. “So much for that.”

She made him wait an extra three seconds before pulling open the door with the poise of a stage magician and the smile of a devil.

“Well, well. Wanderer. Such a late-night visit? What would Nahida think?”

He looked awful. Not in a physical sense - his face was still irritatingly symmetrical - but there were dark smudges under his eyes, and a faint twitch in his left brow like he hadn’t stopped clenching his jaw since noon.

“It wouldn’t stop talking,” he said.

Mona tilted her head. “Hmm?”

“The ghost.” His voice was flat. “It’s still talking.”

“Sounds unfortunate,” she said sweetly, leaning against the frame. “You must be tired.” He stared at her, deadpan, not moving. She could practically feel his teeth grinding. “So?” she said, feigning polite curiosity. “How may I help you?”

His hands flexed into fists at his sides. “Stop playing stupid, Megistus. ”

“Oh, but believe me, I don’t.”

The ghost behind him gestured dramatically, folding its arms, mouthing silent threats, pointing exaggeratedly at Mona, like: ‘ You. Fix. This.’

“Are you here to wish me goodnight?” she asked innocently, finger twirling at the sash of her robe. “How thoughtful. Should I fetch you a lullaby scroll?”

“Megistus.” His voice was low and strained.

“Alright, alright.” She folded her arms, teasing smile softening just a touch. “Say it.”

He scowled. “Say what.”

“That you need my help.”

The ghost glared at him now.

“…Fine,” he hissed. “ We need to figure this out. Together.”

She exhaled through her nose, victorious. “See? That wasn’t so hard.” She stepped aside. “Come in, Wanderer.”

He entered reluctantly, glancing around her home like it might bite him.

It was... chaos. Books stacked in corners and balanced precariously on furniture. Charts hanging from the ceiling, trinkets dangling in glass casings, candles decorated with moons and stars. There was a general scent of aged parchment and lavender oil, with undertones of black tea and - annoyingly -warmth.

The kind of warmth that crawled under his skin and stayed there. It was too much, like trying to sleep under three blankets in a humid tent. Her space was cluttered and unbalanced, overly personal. A reflection of her mind: brilliant, obsessive, and utterly devoid of structural logic.

He hated how quickly he stopped hating it.

Mona’s voice floated in from the kitchen. “Tea? You don’t strike me as a chamomile type. What is it, jasmine? Or something bitter and cryptic, like wormwood?” The ghost, now sitting smugly atop one of her stacks of books, pretended to sip imaginary tea from an invisible cup.

He exhaled slowly. “Just bring me whatever you’re having.”

“Brave,” she called back. “I like that.”

He sat, cautiously, on the edge of her low-set couch. The cushion dipped beneath him. The ghost hovered overhead, satisfied. And for the first time in days, despite the haunting, the noise, the infuriating astrologist - he felt like maybe he wasn’t going completely mad.

Not yet, anyway.

The sound of clinking porcelain came from the kitchen, along with the low hum of Mona murmuring something to herself, probably steeping times.

Left alone in the room, Wanderer eyed the clutter like a soldier in enemy territory. Scrolls and half-melted candles littered the floor. Diagrams of ley lines spiraled across parchment pinned to the wall. There were four cups on the table and only one chair.

He didn’t dare stand there looking like he didn’t belong, so he sat further, uneasily, on the couch and picked up the book beside him, more to busy his hands than out of any real curiosity.

It was some over-romanticized tome on ancient celestial relics, part fiction, part half-remembered history. He scoffed - until he noticed the margins.

Pencil scribbles, sharp and small. Notes correcting the text. Crossed-out sentences. And commentary. Some of it surprisingly biting, even funny .

“That’s not how constellations work, you absolute imbecile.”

“Sick metaphor. Zero substance.”

“Bold of you to assume the heavens have your standards.”

His brow twitched, half a breath from a chuckle. He’d seen her notes before in academia: messy, rushed, always written as if she was arguing with the page. But these… these had the edge of someone who still enjoyed the debate, even when no one was watching.

He quickly schooled his expression into one of mild disdain as she returned, tray balanced expertly, two cups and a small dish of cookies. She plopped down beside him, biting into one like she’d earned it.

“You’re reading my book?” she asked casually, handing him tea.

“It’s wildly inaccurate.”

“So is half of what you say.” She didn’t even look at him as she said it, already sipping. He made a face and opened his mouth to retort, but she beat him to it, brushing crumbs off her lap. “Well?” she prompted. “What did it say?”

He rolled his eyes. “First? Complaints. That we broke its precious little necklace.” He held up a finger. “Then more complaints. About how nothing in this era makes sense. Something about ‘clocks being evil’ and ‘buildings being wrong.’”

Mona huffed a laugh, clearly picturing it. “Well, it did get yanked out of whatever ancient century it died in. You’d be disoriented too.”

“I’d be quiet about it,” he muttered, sipping his tea. “It wouldn’t stop talking. Flying back and forth. Yelling about ‘ritual misalignment’ and ‘spiritual imbalance’... I don’t know.”

“Sounds like a cleric stuck in the wrong millennium.”

He made a face like he’d swallowed the tea wrong. “More like a priest who flunked metaphysics.”

“Same thing.”

The ghost hovered nearby, grumbling into the ether. Mona could tell from the way its hands moved like it was delivering a sermon no one wanted.

She took another cookie. “So. It wants us to do what, exactly? Build it a new talisman? That’s impossible. These weren’t just decorative.”

“They didn’t say build.” He leaned back, annoyed but thinking. “...There’s an old workshop. In Inazuma. Traditional metallurgy, talismanic bonding included. I doubt they see much business now, but…”

“But you think they might be able to repair something like this?” she finished.

“It’s not a certainty,” he muttered. “But it’s more than your tea leaves will tell us.”

She smirked. “Actually, they said you’d drop by tonight, all grumpy and desperate.”

He shot her a look. “I should’ve left the ghost with you.”

“You tried. It followed you , remember?”

They both fell silent for a moment. The ghost stared down at them, unreadable and ancient and deeply unimpressed.

Mona sipped her tea. The ghost hovered nearby, still doing its silent grumbling pantomime. She followed its path with her eyes.

“Does that suit you? Fixing the talisman?” she asked it, tone measured. Wanderer’s eyes flicked to where her gaze landed, even though there was nothing visible to him. “What did it say?”

“That it’s worth a shot... although it doubts our measly times can match the craftsmanship of its era.”

Mona scoffed. “How rude.”

“Well, it was stuck with you and your den for three days. I can’t blame it,” he teased, smirking faintly behind his teacup.

She shot him a look. “You know, hospitality has its limits, and it will rain soon, so if you don’t want to be stuck outside, you’d better learn some manners.”

Wanderer frowned, mostly because the ghost started giggling - giggling - behind him. It even wiggled its eyebrows dramatically. “Bossy, ” it muttered under its breath. “A good match.”

Mona leaned forward. “What did it say now?”

“…Nonsense,” he huffed quickly. Her grin was suspicious. “So are we doing this?” he asked.

“Do we have a choice?” She bit into another cookie, entirely too comfortable with the situation now. “Are we going tomorrow?”

“Evening,” he said, already mentally calculating. “I need to make arrangements.”

She hummed. “So do I. Think we’ll be back sooner than three days?”

He was about to answer when the ghost interrupted again, chattering low, tone unmistakably amused.

Wanderer clicked his tongue.

“What is it?”

“…It says it doubts it’ll go that fast.”

Mona groaned and rolled her eyes, clearly unimpressed. “Fantastic.” And just went back to her book.

She hadn’t said anything for several minutes now, and Wanderer was grateful. He didn’t like being pushed. He didn’t like being stared at. He didn’t like being made to feel like something needed to happen. Mona, surprisingly, didn’t do any of that.

She simply let him exist in her space.

She sat curled in her chair, book balanced in one hand, teacup steaming beside her. The ghost hovered lazily between them, watching her read, then drifting toward him again like it was still sizing him up.

Wanderer shifted. He sat up a little more comfortably on the cushion, the robe of his cloak pooled beside him. The tea wasn’t bad. The cookies looked stale but edible. The music was some stringed Sumeru nonsense but soft, and not unwelcome. A gentle tap of rain had begun to prick against the window.

The ghost drifted nearer. Its mouth moved silently: Do you like it here?

Wanderer exhaled through his nose, low and unimpressed. “I don’t care,” he muttered without looking at its direction.

Mona glanced over her book at that. She didn’t say anything, only raised one brow - not at him, but at the space next to him. She recognized the rhythm of a conversation he wasn’t having with her.

She didn’t press.

A moment later, he asked without looking at her, “Why did you reach for it?”

She blinked. “What?”

“The talisman,” he clarified. “You were awfully persistent. Even after we got shouted at by Lisa.”

A smile twitched at her mouth. “Same reason as you,” she hummed. “I felt it was special.”

“It clearly was,” he muttered, watching where the ghost probably bobbed across the ceiling.

Mona glanced at the spirit. “Was it your choice?” she asked aloud. “To tie yourself to the talisman?”

The ghost floated a little closer, tilting its head. Its mouth moved in some elegant formation, and Wanderer listened, arms crossed.

“It says it was tradition,” he translated after a pause. “Something about their people believing objects carried resonance longer than flesh. That a well-forged talisman could carry the soul to stillness.”

Mona nodded slowly. “But what about after that? Is there… anything else?”

The ghost only gave a smug little shrug, then spun in a lazy loop, avoiding her gaze entirely.

“Unhelpful,” she muttered.

“I think it’s being deliberately vague,” Wanderer said, voice flat.

“Or proud.”

“Or annoying.”

That earned the ghost’s version of a raspberry, whatever noise it made was untranslatable but irritating.

Mona hid a small smile behind her teacup. “I guess we’ll see if fixing it helps.”

Another beat of silence.

“…Why were you in Sumeru anyway?” he asked.

She hummed again. “I never turn down the opportunity to poke through a ruin. Especially one Nahida flagged as ‘resonating unusually.’” She waggled her fingers in the air. “Unusual resonance means secrets.”

Wanderer leaned his head back against the pillow, just listening to the sound of rain and the scratch of her page-turning.

The ghost hummed again. It wasn’t unpleasant. It hovered closer to him, this time, quieter than before. And for one strange moment, he didn’t entirely mind.

Mona stretched, marking her page with a lazy flick of a ribbon before she stood. “Well,” she sighed, voice lilting with the comfort of a quiet evening, “I’m off to bed.”

Wanderer looked up, halfway through a retort, but before he could get a word in, she turned, rummaged through a nearby cabinet, and without ceremony threw a thick blanket at him.

It hit him in the chest.

She followed that with a soft cushion, tossed onto the couch beside him.

“The couch is at your service, prince of the night,” she said with a wink, already ascending the stairs.

He blinked after her, momentarily stunned. Surely she wasn’t serious.

She was.

He heard the door to her room close gently upstairs.

For a second, he just stared. The blanket still rested over his lap, the cushion untouched. She let him stay. He could have easily left, vanished into the night like fog, and yet she assumed he wouldn’t. Offered him warmth without demanding anything. She’d even known to keep it wordless. No fuss, no explanation. No prying.

Was she stupid ?

Letting someone like him , someone she barely knew and barely tolerated, stay under her roof? The ghost hovered nearby, its silent presence almost curious.

‘A friend?’ it mouthed.

“Not even close,” he muttered, eyes narrowing.

The ghost made a soft, uncertain sound. A kind of breathless puff. Not quite judgment. Not quite approval.

‘But kind.’

Wanderer had no answer for that.

She was. She was kind.

Annoying. Reckless. Difficult.

But kind, undeniably.

And so he lay back on the couch, pulling the blanket over himself, staring at the ceiling lit by soft candlelight and the distant shimmer of starlight through the window.

Chapter Text

Mona yawned as she padded downstairs, brushing her hair over one shoulder, still tying the sash on her robe.

“Tea first,” mumbled to no one. She stopped in the middle of the room. The couch was empty, blanket folded with meticulous precision.

On the kitchen counter, however, sat a small wooden box - neatly wrapped and still warm. Inside rice, a fried egg, skewers of glazed grilled meat with vegetables, and a touch of pickled greens on the side. Beside it, a small card, folded once.

The calligraphy was precise. Almost unnervingly straight.

‘For hospitality.’

No signature.

Mona smiled slightly, eyes soft. “Hmm-m-m~,” she murmured, setting the note aside and picking up the chopsticks. “Nahida teaches him well.”

The afternoon air at the port was cool, the kind that came off the sea and bit just enough to be refreshing. Sunlight skimmed over the water, soft gold against the waves, and the ferry rocked gently in its moorings, steam rising from the chimneys.

Wanderer stood at the edge of the dock, arms crossed, the ghost drifting lazily near his shoulder - today it had chosen him as its primary haunt. It circled slowly, like a curious cat sniffing at seagulls, occasionally peering into barrels or floating close to the ferry crew’s ears, unnoticed and unheard. Mona approached with ease, her bag slung over her shoulder, hair tied back against the wind. She didn’t bother with greetings.

“Done with arrangements?” she asked instead, eyeing him with narrowed eyes and raised brows.

“You could say that.” He didn’t look at her directly. “Nahida’s informed. Any of my previous plans have been… postponed.” He said it with a sigh that tried very hard to sound resentful. It almost succeeded.

Mona though smirked knowingly. “How tragic for your ever-busy social calendar.” He didn’t dignify that with a reply. The ghost, however, giggled. Loudly. Right in his ear.

He winced.

They boarded the ferry without ceremony, Mona nodding politely at the crew, Wanderer keeping to himself. They found a quiet spot along the deck railing. The ferry horn sounded once, then began to pull from the dock.

The ghost zipped away almost instantly, making laps around the ship with childlike curiosity, inspecting the ropes, poking at sails, even hovering a moment in front of the ship's cat before being hissed at.

“They're very excited,” Mona commented, watching it spin above the chimney stack. “Like a tourist who doesn’t understand personal space.”

“I can tell,” Wanderer muttered, rubbing the bridge of his nose as a second ghostly giggle echoed from somewhere above. “It’s like being haunted by a windchime.”

Mona chuckled, but sobered after a beat. “You said Nahida had some insight?”

He nodded, voice quieter now. “I asked what she knew about soul-binding enchantments. As expected, etching a soul onto an object wasn’t that unheard of - at least in ancient civilizations. They used all kinds of vessels.”

“Well, then a chest, a sword, even a wall painting would make more sense for longevity or reverence” Mona mused, tapping her chin. “Why a necklace?” she glanced toward the ghost, who had now perched midair above them, watching the captain.

“Maybe it was meant to be carried,” Wanderer said, frowning. “Whoever it was needed to pass something on.”

“Or,” Mona offered, “they were important. And the talisman wasn’t just a vessel? A key, or a seal.”

Wanderer’s brow furrowed, the ghost letting out a sharp puff - half laughter.

“She’s theorizing,” he muttered at the spirit. “Try being less judgmental.”

Mona arched a brow. “What did they say?”

“That you’re making a lot of assumptions for someone who nearly broke it in half.”

She scowled. “Tell it to blame you too. My grip alone wasn’t that strong.”

“It says your pride is showing.”

She gasped, theatrical. “Rude!” The ghost did a roll in amusement.

Wanderer sighed and looked back out over the ocean, the distant silhouette of Inazuma beginning to rise against the horizon.

“Well,” he muttered, “let’s just hope whatever metalsmiths are left at that workshop, can deal with this mess.”

Mona leaned on the rail beside him, watching the sea foam trail, form around the ferry.

“If not,” she said breezily, “we’re bringing back one very disappointed antique.”

The ghost sighed deep, exasperated.

Mona hummed quietly, a tune only half-formed, carried off by the sea breeze. Stray strands of hair escaped her ponytails, dancing around her cheeks, curling in the salty wind. Her eyes stayed closed, face turned to the sky in enjoyment, just quiet.

Wanderer watched her from the corner of his eye. As one might expect from a Hydro user, she looked comfortable, balanced on a moving deck soaked in ocean spray. Maybe it suited her, charting constellations with salt in her hair.

“How many times have you been in Inazuma?” she asked, casual, eyes still closed.

It wasn’t casual.

She had been trying to read him since day one. Every stare, every challenge, every eyebrow raise. It wasn't just curiosity, Mona's instincts didn't work that simply. When they’d met, she looked at him like someone who had glimpsed a contradiction in the stars.

And in her worldview, contradictions begged to be solved.

He shrugged. “Briefly. A long time ago.”

The ghost hovered nearby, tracing invisible lines in the air with idle fingers. Its voice drifted, soft but clear enough to reach his ears: “Inazuma, called so now, was prized for metallurgy even in my time.”

His head tilted a little. That piqued his interest. Mona cracked one eye open, catching the shift. “What did they say?”

“That Inazuma’s always been good with metal,” he replied, voice thoughtful, distracted. She gave him a stubborn look, and he sighed, relenting. “I was there for a short while. Made some connections... most of them long gone now. But some people, and some crafts don’t change, not even across centuries.”

She hummed, quietly pleased he answered more than a sentence. But she didn’t press. Didn’t prod. That surprised him. The ghost, however, didn’t leave it alone. It floated near him and whispered again: “She’s anxious.” Wanderer frowned, barely moving. “She doesn’t know Inazuma well.”

His gaze shifted slightly. She was traveling to an archipelago famed for storms and swords, led only by a half-silent ghost and a near-stranger she barely trusted. 

He studied her profile, the way her jaw stayed set. The wind picked up.

“What’s it saying?” Mona asked, suspicious now.

He smirked. “That you’re afraid of thunder.”

“I am not,” she said firmly.

And as if summoned by her  pride, the sky cracked, lightning lanced down into the sea with a boom that rattled the ferry's railing. Mona flinched, just a little but that's all, she didn’t step back either.

The ghost chuckled. Wanderer, for once, didn’t join it. His gaze lingered on her a beat longer than necessary, a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes. Then he turned back to the water.

"Good," he muttered. "You'll fit right in."

Wanderer leaned one elbow on the railing, brows twitching in frustration.

“What do you mean the ‘iron-breathed shrine near the spine of the fox’? That’s not a real place. You’re making this up,” he muttered low, directing his voice just off to the side of where the ghost hovered.

Mona, lounging comfortably with her cape drawn tight around her, cracked one eye open again. He shot her a withering look. The ghost, unfazed, twirled slowly midair and gestured again, fingers painting unseen maps, tracing lines only it remembered.

“The shrine,” it insisted, frustrated. “With copper dragons on the gate. The river that runs hot in winter. The place where we folded moonlight into the steel.”

Wanderer scowled. “I’m not a cartographer.”

“It’s clearly talking about the mountains,” Mona offered. “Maybe an old hot spring forge? Some of the sacred shrines used them for tempering rare weapons.”

He didn’t dignify her help with a thank you, but the way his frown tightened made it obvious she was right.

“It says there were copper dragons?” she added, tilting her head. “I don’t think any of those remain. If there were metalwork sculptures from before the Vision Hunt Decree, they were probably-”

“-melted down or buried in debris.” Wanderer finished the thought. “Yeah. I know.”

The ghost whirled, impatient again. It gestured up, then down, then drew a square with its fingers before pressing its palm outward. The movements were elegant, like a forgotten dance, but ultimately incomprehensible.

Wanderer groaned softly into his hand. “What does that mean?”

Mona tried not to laugh. “It looked like it told you to... climb something and turn a few times.”

He stared at her. “You’re not helping.”

“Oh, I am. Just not in the way you want.”

The ghost made a proud twirl and landed hovering like a crown above Wanderer’s head.

“I think it likes you,” Mona said, smug.

“It has terrible taste.”

She snorted. “Maybe. But it's not like you can stop it.”

Wanderer didn’t respond to that, his eyes stayed on the rising outline of Inazuma on the horizon. For all the joking and snapping, she was right. This wasn’t just her problem.

The ghost leaned closer to him, whispering again.“Is the temple of the sun still standing?”

He blinked. “No idea what that is.”

“And the women who wore gold cords in their hair?”

He hesitated. His mind shuffled through dim recollections, legends of the Konda region, old songs. “Maybe.”

“Hmph.”

Wanderer glanced sideways. “Why do you want to know?”

The ghost said nothing. Only turned, watching Inazuma draw closer with an unreadable expression.

Mona studied them both. Somewhere under her coat, the broken talisman sat with weight. And the ferry pushed forward, toward old soil, and older ghosts.

The mage didn’t look at him as she murmured, “I would be looking for remnants of my life too.” Her voice was soft, absorbed into the sea breeze. “I would hope that even millennia apart, there were at least a few things that stayed the same.”

The ghost hovered between them in thoughtful stillness. Then it smiled. ‘Smart.’
‘Kind.’

Wanderer didn’t repeat the compliments aloud.

They disembarked into a blur of color.

The portside village was alive, paper lanterns bobbing overhead, stalls crowded with sweets and grilled skewers, children weaving through the legs of distracted adults. Somewhere, someone was playing a shamisen, slightly off-key but heartfelt.

Mona lit up immediately. “Ohh,” she breathed, turning in a slow circle. “What’s this? A local holiday?”

Wanderer stiffened beside her. “Looks like one of those seasonal flower festivals.” He grimaced, already walking with his arms folded tighter. “Cheerful.”

The ghost zipped ahead, already spinning between the lanterns, laughing silently as it pushed through streamers and stopped to admire the simplest displays. It poked a mask vendor, then tried to juggle invisible fruit with a street performer. No one noticed, of course, except Mona “It’s acting like this is the height of our civilization,” Wanderer muttered.

“Let them enjoy themselves,” Mona said lightly, though she was already eyeing a stall with bright mochi shaped like frogs. “You’re one to talk.”

He scoffed. “This-” he gestured vaguely, at the crowd “-is what happens when traditions forget their roots. There used to be purpose behind celebrations. Temple dances. Seasonal rites. Firewalks. Sacrifices that meant something.”

“Oh yes,” she said dryly, licking sugar off her thumb. “Nothing like a good ol’ human sacrifice to lighten the mood.”

He side-eyed her. “I meant sacred ones. Symbolic.”

The ghost, spinning lazily above them, suddenly perked up at the mention of dance. It floated down fast, right in front of Wanderer, and began to move, delicate hands, precise footwork traced midair, rhythms that had no sound but carried their own memory. It turned once, twice - an arc of motion that passed right through him.

He startled at the feeling of humming reverberating through his body, blinking fast.

Mona watched closely, even setting her mochi aside. “That was... interesting. That form had structure.”

The ghost glowed brighter, puffed up with pride.

“They say,” Wanderer muttered, “that dancing wasn’t just sacred. It was fun too. For celebration, not only prayer.”

Mona smiled at that. “That would explain their elegance.” She tucked her hands behind her back. “You used to be a temple dancer?” The ghost twirled again in answer, mimicking the outline of a temple arch overhead, then tapping its own chest proudly. “Shrine maiden from an era lost to dust,” Mona said softly, more to herself.

Wanderer didn’t comment. But he noticed the slight change in her expression, the way curiosity softened to something warmer. Respectful. Even if this spirit had nearly haunted her to exhaustion... it was still something rare. Ancient. Real.

Behind them, the village music picked up tempo. A few brave locals had gathered into impromptu steps, laughing as they mimicked some regional dance. The ghost tried to join again, whispering rhythm into Wanderer’s ear, urging him to follow.

He refused, of course. 

Mona walked ahead, weaving between stalls. She glanced back just once, catching them together. And despite what he said, he looked a little less like a stranger in this land.

The ghost drifted ahead, then circled back urgently, tugging at Mona’s sleeve like a child with a secret.

“What now?” she asked softly.

It beckoned.

Mona followed without question, letting herself be led past flower wreaths and paper fortunes, down a less-crowded lane. Tucked into a quieter corner of the festival was a humble wooden stall. The scent hit her first, warm flour and roasted sugar. A row of simple baked sweets lay on display, slightly uneven in shape, the kind of food made by hand and memory, not by recipe.

The ghost hovered over one with unmistakable focus, then looked at her expectantly.

“You want me to buy one?” she guessed.

It nodded and somehow managed to mime: ‘Tell me what it tastes like.’

She blinked. “Right. You can’t eat anymore.” She reached into her pouch. “Alright. For the sake of culinary archaeology.”

Mona took a bite, thoughtful as it crumbled under her teeth. “Hmm. Soft... not too sweet. It’s got... chestnut, I think? And something... like sesame. A bit earthy. Toasted.” She paused. “It reminds me of something traditional. Like... something you'd eat by a brazier in winter.”

The ghost’s expression turned thoughtful - in melancholy. But satisfied.

A second clink of coins.
Wanderer stood beside her now, already biting into his own piece. “You have the worst palate metaphors I’ve ever heard.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Oh? Do enlighten us.”

He chewed, then paused. A flicker of memory crossed his face.

“This was a commoner’s sweet. Cheap ingredients, but-” he swallowed, slower now, “-warm. I remember having this, a very long time ago.”

The ghost turned to him, pleased. Mona noticed.

“You remember a lot more than you let on,” she murmured.

He rolled his eyes. “And we didn’t come here to snack through the past.” Before she could tease him, he already pivoted away. “Let’s move. The metallurgy shop should be in the artisan quarter, near the slope.”

The ghost barely gave them a moment’s peace, fluttering around each shrine and statue they passed, pausing reverently at larger ones, inspecting smaller figures with intense scrutiny.

Mona trailed just behind Wanderer. “Think she's looking for someone?”

He didn’t glance back. “Aren’t we all?” His tone was ironically mystic.

She eyed a statue they were passing - a graceful figure holding a polished orb. One of the older-style depictions of the Electro Archon, stylized with elongated limbs and a soft expression.

Wanderer picked up his pace.

“Do you recognize any of these?” she asked, her tone casual but watching him too closely for it to be truly offhand.

He shrugged, knowing her game. “About as much as you do.”

He didn’t look at the archon statues. His steps tightened. But she didn’t push.

The shop was nestled near the edge of the craftsman’s district, its wooden shutters dark and tightly closed. A faded sign above the doorway read Matsuda & Sons: Artisan Metals.

Closed.

Mona knocked anyway. No answer.

Wanderer frowned. “Great.”

The ghost, instead of frustrated, floated upward toward a wind chime hanging near the roof, staring at its soft swaying glint.

“Well,” Mona sighed. “I suppose we’ll have to stay a little longer than expected.”

The wind picked up again, bringing with it the scent of roasted chestnuts and the distant sound of festival drums. The ghost swirled once, catching the breeze, then looked back at them. As if it knew from the start, that they wouldn't be done yet.

Their lodgings were modest, worn wooden floors, rice paper walls, a faint smell of cedar and soap. After a brief exchange with the old innkeeper, Wanderer dropped his things with the detachment of someone who never planned to unpack.

“I’m going for a walk,” Mona announced as she slipped back on her cape.

He didn’t look up. “Good riddance.”

The door slid shut behind her.

The ghost hovered by the window a moment longer, then drifted to Wanderer, its presence lingering. It didn’t follow her.

“Not going?” he asked flatly, half-lolling on his futon.

The night air was cooler now, but not unpleasant. Mona strolled through the lantern-lit streets, her pace unhurried. The celebration hadn’t waned - children still chased paper lanterns on sticks, their parents pretending not to worry. Musicians laughed between sets, tuning wooden flutes and stringed zithers. Somewhere, something deep-fried crackled in oil.

Mona soaked in the warmth of it. She watched an old man try to pop balloons with a dart, cheered on by a group of women his age. A street performer was blowing bubbles that had lost their sheen, each orb sagging in the damp air. Mona passed a noodle vendor where a cat sat at attention like a guardian deity.

She turned when a small wooden stand caught her eye, tucked between a lantern seller and a booth of old knives. It was lined with booklets, pamphlets, and meticulously inked postcards. Stars, temples, old poems, illustrated bits of folklore. The woman tending it had greying hair pulled back in a loose braid and a book in her lap.

“Looking for something?” the vendor asked, peering up with friendly eyes.

Mona hesitated. Then, “Stories. Old ones. Maybe from before... Raiden Shogun unified the isles.”

The woman tilted her head, thinking. “That far back, hmm… You’re not the first to ask, but it’s rare.”

“I’m interested in... instances where people bound themselves to objects. Soul transference.”

“Ah.” The woman nodded slowly. “Yes. There’s a tale of a warrior who bled into their sword on the battlefield, swearing to continue the fight. That blade they say, was cursed for generations. Heavy with rage.”

Mona took mental notes.

“There’s another I love more,” the woman continued. “Someone who tied their spirit to a tree. Said they wanted to live forever through roots and leaves. Be reborn each time in new growth. Peaceful one, that story. Less told.”

Mona smiled, moved by the idea. “Thank you. Do you have anything like that?”

The vendor handed her a postcard from a nearby rack. “Unfortunately not... but this one’s special.”

The design surprised her - a detailed, lovingly drawn star chart of the Inazuman night sky. She traced the constellations with her eyes, recognizing only a few. So much of the world’s skies were shaped by regional myths.

She purchased it and tucked it into her bag with care.

When she stepped out into the street again, a breeze lifted her robe. She turned and instinctively braced, expecting to bump into someone.

But there was nothing.

Except the ghost, spinning with joy in front of her, apparently waiting. Mona laughed.

“You scared me.” It twirled, proud.

And then she noticed him.

Wanderer leaned lazily against a nearby post, holding a half-eaten meat skewer, his eyes, usually sharp, were... quieter tonight. He nodded once.

“She,” he gestured to the ghost, “was worried. Kept murmuring that you’d be eaten by midnight beasts or whatever nonsense she remembers from her times.”

Mona smiled brightly. “Thank you for the concern, friend.” She dipped her head to the ghost, who clapped in delight.

Wanderer remained neutral, but watched her longer than usual. She could feel his stare, analyzing something he wouldn’t ask aloud.

So she didn’t answer.

A firework exploded high above, its sound cracking open the sky. Blue and gold sparks trailed down in dancing trails.

The ghost looked up, wide-eyed, then spun with childlike delight.

“What powers them?” it asked, fascinated yet with a recognisable hint of knowing. “Magic? Science?”

Wanderer watched the fading glow. “Bit of both. Magic to make it brilliant. Science to keep it cheap.”

The ghost hummed thoughtfully. ‘Better than what we had.’ Then added, ‘So many shrines burned down.’

Wanderer shrugged “Sounds about right.”

The three of them moved slowly through the streets, drifting in no particular direction. The firework show had ebbed into scattered sparks, the crowds were thinning, but music still pulsed in corners - faint drums and stringed rhythms, distant voices singing old refrains.

Wanderer didn’t speak. Mona walked a few paces ahead, pausing every so often. She swayed faintly when a group of musicians passed by, a troupe dressed in indigo and gold, their sleeves catching the wind as they marched in tight, synchronized circles. She didn’t dance exactly, but her body responded. A subtle weight shift, a small shoulder roll, letting the music pass through her. Firelight caught the shimmer of stars on her clothes. The pattern across her back, constellations old as time, reflected in glints of red and silver as the last fireworks burst behind her.

Wanderer watched without meaning to.

He turned his gaze away just as the ghost floated uncomfortably close to his head, like a whisper that refused to stay behind. “Is she a priestess?” it asked, its expression unreadable. “Or an oracle?” Wanderer didn’t respond. “She has the signs. The rhythm. The sky-fingers. She watches the stars, doesn’t she?”

He huffed. “Why are you asking me?”

The ghost stilled. “Because you fear her.”

“I do not.”

“Then you like her.”

His eyes snapped to it, narrow. “You’re ridiculous.”

“You watch her more than others.” The ghost’s voice was soft, drifting on some uncanny breath. “And you are careful. More careful than I saw earlier. Even with me.”

He tensed, jaw ticking.

“I’m not careful,” he muttered. “She’s just... particular. She notices things.”

“So do I.”

He looked away. Up ahead, Mona had paused beside a small wishing tree, reading the tags fluttering in the breeze. She didn’t turn, but she called over her shoulder:

“You coming, or are you plotting something back there?”

Wanderer didn’t answer. His expression unreadable, his posture defensive. Then he started walking again, brushing past the ghost without another word.

They walked in silence, streets quieter now as the festival wound down. Paper lanterns fluttered on strings above the alleys, casting pale gold flickers across stone and wood. Mona trailed behind this time, hands tucked into her sleeves, a warm puff of breath fogging in the cooler night air.

Wanderer walked a pace ahead. Not leading exactly but not willing to fall behind. The ghost looped around him like a silken ribbon unraveling in air. It made theatrical spins, floated upside down, mimicked performers they’d seen earlier.

Mona giggled softly, more to herself than to be heard. The ghost noticed. It drifted back to her side, expression shifting. Then it pointed a slow, deliberate gesture between the two of them. Back and forth. As if asking a question without words.

Mona raised an eyebrow, her lips quirking. “What is it?” she asked lightly.

The ghost made a series of odd motions. A vague tether between chests, a questioning tilt of the head, a flick toward Wanderer who was too far ahead to hear or see.

Mona caught on. “Oh,” she laughed under her breath. “That.” She waved a dismissive hand. “It’s nothing. Mischievous coincidence. A few badly timed alignments of fate and curiosity.” She glanced at the ghost. “Don’t read too far into it.”

The ghost didn’t seem convinced. It hovered closer, movements tighter now. It gestured again, more pointed this time. Its fingers pantomimed wide eyes, then pointed to her. Then at Wanderer’s back. Back and forth. Watching.

Mona’s amusement cooled into something quieter.

She hummed, voice low. “I know.”

Because she did.

Wanderer didn’t always hide his gaze fast enough. And when he did she felt it anyway. The pressure of awareness. Not hostile. Not exactly curious either. Analytical. Cautious.

Respectful in the way that made her teeth grit and her spine straighten.

He knew she was smart. That’s what she’d decided early on. That’s why he was careful. Which was… both infuriating and satisfying.

Ahead, Wanderer slowed as if he’d noticed their voices had gone quiet.

“Coming, stargazer?” he called without turning.

Mona rolled her eyes, but her voice carried lightly.

“Don’t flatter yourself, ‘prince of the night.’ I’m just enjoying the ghost’s company.”

The ghost did a delighted spin, then zipped ahead past Wanderer, trailing invisible laughter.

He frowned faintly, sensing something unspoken behind him. But he didn’t ask.

They walked the rest of the way in silence, the kind that pressed between them like an unopened letter, sealed, weighty, and not yet meant to be read.

Back at the inn, paper walls creaked in the wind, floors whispered beneath their steps. Their rooms were across from each other, but somehow they ended up in the common room that night, where the ghost floated lazily over a low table stacked with maps and notes.

Mona had her cards out. The candlelight danced across the lacquered images as she performed a soft-spoken reading, not asking questions, just describing patterns in the cards, interpreting energies. The ghost hovered, fascinated.

Wanderer, for once, didn’t interrupt. He sat a few feet away, curled on a floor cushion with a thick blanket. He faced away from her, but the candle’s flicker revealed the tilt of his head, angled slightly toward her voice. Listening, not watching.

The ghost made occasional questions in gesture and giggle and Mona humored it, explaining astrological alignments, the difference between predictive and reflective readings. 

Eventually, one by one, they drifted into stillness.

It rained during the night, leaving behind petrichor and puddles that caught the sun like mirrors. Mona rubbed her eyes and shuffled into the shared kitchenette area to find breakfast already waiting wrapped up neatly in paper, still warm.

“Early morning?” she asked as she sat across from him.

Wanderer nodded, feigning annoyance in contradiction to how comfortable he looked. “The ghost bullied me”

Said ghost hummed proudly, circling overhead. Mona smirked, unwrapping the rice and vegetable buns. “I’m not complaining.”

They ate without much talk. It was comfortable, in the way that both of them were starting to accept. Somewhere between truce and habit.

The metallurgy shop was tucked at the edge of the island, an old establishment with black columns and charmingly intricate wind-chimes of scrap metal. Inside, the air was warm, smelling of burnt oil, powdered iron, and rice glue. The smith was younger than expected, late thirties maybe, sleeves rolled to the elbows, fingers stained black with forge soot.

Wanderer produced the talisman from a cloth wrap. Mona did the talking first, trying to explain the situation in vague, careful terms - that this was a sensitive item, possibly old-world craftsmanship, may involve delicate mechanisms.

The smith gave them a long, skeptical look.

Wanderer sighed. “Just look at it.”

He did. Adjusted his glasses. Turned it over, tapping at the hinge with a small tool. For a long moment, the only sound was the tink of metal against metal.

Then the man chuckled. “This is weird.”

Mona leaned in. “Weird?”

“Yeah,” the smith flipped it around. “See this? This hinge mechanism? It’s not standard at all. Actually, it reminds me of old prank boxes. You know, the ones where the lid pops off if you press too hard? Spring-tension built to fail. Someone made this to look secure, but it was always meant to break.”

Wanderer frowned. “So it isn't just fragile by age, it was designed that way?”

“Exactly. Deliberate. The clasp has a recoil pattern, too. This was meant to fly apart under little stress. But the funny part-” he tapped again“-It’s engineered well. As if someone put a lot of effort into building a thing meant to fall apart.”

Mona exchanged a glance with Wanderer.

“Can you fix it?” she asked.

“I can do better,” the smith grinned. “I can show you how to fix it. Won’t take long. Might be better that way, since you’re dealing with something weird, right?” Wanderer’s brows pulled together. He didn’t answer, but he nodded. The smith motioned them over and laid the talisman on a soft cloth. “Alright. You see this groove here? That’s the trick. You have to realign the hinge with the base using this sliver-thin pin. Then compress this notch until the spring clicks back into tension. Too much pressure and you’ll snap it again. It’s like setting a trap - delicate hands.”

The ghost floated near the ceiling, unusually quiet, watching the whole process intently.

It took exactly two minutes for the bickering to begin.

“No, not like that - you’re bending the pin.”

“I’m not bending anything, Megistus, your fingers are too twitchy to hold it still.”

“Then stop breathing so loud, you’re throwing me off.”

They were hunched shoulder to shoulder at the workbench, the talisman glinting under the soft forge light. The smith had retreated to the back, wisely deciding that guidance was best offered from a distance.

Wanderer grabbed the delicate base, trying not to twitch while Mona attempted to slide the hair-thin hinge pin into place. The ghost floated above like a supervisor.

“You’re trembling,” Mona muttered, narrowing her eyes as she lined up the pin.

“I am not,” he hissed. “That’s your hand quivering like a candle in a draft.”

“Please. My grip is steady as a star chart. You’re the one twitching like a spoiled noble about to faint at manual labor.”

“At least I don’t over-dramatize every movement like I’m auditioning for the heavens’ grand stage play.”

Her nostrils flared. “Better than standing there like a decorative lamp - entirely useless, just looking smug.”

He smirked “And yet without me, you’d still be here crying over a crooked hinge.”

“Without you,” she shot back, teeth flashing, “I wouldn’t even have a hinge to complain about.”

Still, despite the banter, their hands were steady. They passed the spring tension rod between them in quick succession, easing it into the latch with the sort of precise control neither would ever admit the other had.

The final click of the spring resetting into place was so crisp, so sharp, that both of them froze for half a breath.

“Ha!” Mona sat up, triumphant. “I told you it was right-side-first!”

“You nearly broke the clasp twice.”

“But who got the hinge seated?”

Wanderer didn’t answer, just let out a huff that might have been a laugh, and bumped a loose palm lightly against her shoulder.

It was spontaneous, not planned, a sudden flush of victory - and she responded with an automatic high-five, fingers smacking his with a satisfying clap. The ghost clapped too, spinning midair in joy.

The tension, for a moment, cracked into something lighter. They solved a stubborn puzzle together - not enemies, not even rivals. Just clever minds in sync.

As they were packing up, Mona turned to the smith. “Do you have any of those old prank boxes you mentioned? Or anything with a similar hinge?”

The man raised a brow but nodded. “Couple, yeah. Small stuff, gimmicks mostly. Want to see?”

She did. He returned a moment later with a couple of weird items, one of which - a dusty wooden box the size of a key chain, painted in peeling reds and golds, hinge nearly invisible.

Mona opened it carefully. Inside was nothing but a fake spider on a spring. She smiled.

“I’ll take it,” she said, dropping mora into the smith’s palm. 

On their way out, she casually passed the box to Wanderer without looking at him. “Here. Souvenir.” slipping an identical box into her bag as if it were nothing.“So next time you break something, you know how to put it back together~.”

Wanderer blinked at the object in his hand, the absurd little prank box with its ancient hinge and a leaping spider. Then, very faintly, the corner of his mouth twitched upward. “Sentimental,” he muttered.

“Shut up and take it.”

“Hilarious then.” he deadpanned, pocketing it anyway.

Behind them, the ghost twirled in glee, mimicking their triumphant high-five with exaggerated drama, then spiraling into mock-bickering poses that somehow managed to capture Mona’s scoff and Wanderer’s scowl with uncanny precision.

It didn’t get away with it for long.

Mona stepped into its path, arms crossed. “We have a lot to talk about, I’m afraid.”

Wanderer matched her stance, brow furrowing. “Like what’s really your deal, for starters.” He looked straight at it now, with the talisman repaired, its form finally visible to the both of them.

It was, objectively, a ridiculous sight - two people squaring off with invisible air. But the ghost paused, floating awkwardly between them.

‘I didn’t lie,’ it huffed. ‘The talisman needed fixing.’

Wanderer growled “Still doesn’t explain why you’re bound to something so fragile.”

Its movement stilled, the air around it seeming heavier. Mona squinted slightly, head tilting in curiosity.

‘We have to go back to Sumeru,’ it whispered. ‘So you can use the soul-etching mechanism.’

He blinked. “So we’re doing a big circle now? For what?”

There was a pause, strange, quiet, unusually… bashful. The ghost drifted backward slightly, avoiding their gazes.

‘…I like traveling,’ it admitted, in a small tone.

Then, without waiting, it floated off toward the road, pretending to examine festival lanterns as if the conversation hadn’t happened.

Wanderer and Mona exchanged a long, confused glance.

“She’s definitely hiding something,” Mona muttered as they walked, her steps light but her thoughts clearly not.

Wanderer grunted. “No kidding.”

They walked a few paces in silence, the ghost had floated far ahead again, conveniently out of earshot, or pretending to be.

“What do you make of that? ‘I like traveling’?” Mona asked.

Wanderer didn’t answer right away. He kicked a loose pebble into the street. “She etched herself into a talisman designed to break at the lightest touch. You don’t do that if you want to stay somewhere. The whole design is flimsy. Almost like a trap waiting to be sprung. Just waiting for the right idiot to come along and tug it.”

“Well,” Mona sighed, “lucky us.”

“Luck or farce.” Wanderer shrugged. “Either way, it wanted out. And now it’s tagging along like it’s on vacation.”

“That’s so weird, though,” she frowned, eyes narrowing. “Why go to all that trouble? Why not just move on? Or haunt a nice empty shrine and call it a day?”

“I don’t know.” He looked ahead. “You saw the tantrums. The screaming. The drama. All of it-”

“-was an act,” she finished for him.

Wanderer side-eyed her, a smirk curling at his mouth, like he couldn't help himself. “Reminds me of someone.”

Mona didn’t miss a beat. “Oh, please. If anything, it’s you. All the mysterious brooding and refusing to ask for anything directly? Classic you.”

He scoffed. “I don’t brood.”

“You radiate brood. It’s your default state.”

“And you deflect,” he said, nodding toward her, “like it’s a sport.”

“I’m not the one who threatened to bolt at least six times before agreeing to this trip.”

“I didn’t threaten. I considered my options.”

“You pouted.”

“I scowled. With dignity.”

Mona laughed, pushing his shoulder lightly “Right. Dignified scowling. How noble…” she huffed ”Still weird, though. To go through all that just to break out and pretend to be angry.”

“Some people don’t know how to ask for what they want.”

“Or don’t know what they want until it’s in front of them.”

They both looked forward again.

The ghost, still ahead, now hovered at the inn door like it had been waiting for hours, arms folded, weightless and overdramatic. When the pair caught up, it stomped once in mock impatience before darting inside through the wooden frame.

Wanderer raised a brow. “How long do you think she was practicing that pose?”

“Long enough to make a statement,” Mona said, pushing the door open after it.

They didn’t linger. Both knew the rhythm of sudden departures well enough by now. They swept through the room, packing in efficient silence. Mona stuffed a few notebooks and her star map into her satchel; Wanderer folded the cloth pouch with the repaired talisman carefully, then shoved it into his inner coat. Only to hear it click and shift. 

Great. Well, they will fix it again on the ferry.

Within minutes, they were out again, innkeeper mildly surprised by the early check-out.

As they made their way toward the ferry docks, the ghost zipped ahead again, only to slow near a row of food stalls just outside the port’s main gates. It stopped mid-air, then spun dramatically with theatrical flair.

“What now?” Wanderer muttered.

The ghost’s gestures got more intense pointing to Mona, then to its imaginary stomach, then flailing as if it were going to faint.

Mona tilted her head. “Is it… telling me to eat?”

The ghost nodded furiously, pointing to the sky, then to her again. It formed a travel-bundle shape with its hands, clearly pantomiming a long journey ahead.

“You know,” Mona said, crossing her arms with an amused look, “for a spirit without a stomach, it’s very concerned about mine.”

Wanderer sighed like someone ten seconds from walking off, then stopped. He glanced at Mona, then back at the stalls. His lips flattened. “Fine.”

Mona blinked. “Really?”

“You get cranky when you're hungry,” he said flatly. “And that’s my problem when I’m stuck on a ferry with you for hours.”

“You’re projecting,” she said sweetly, already heading toward the food.

They picked a small stall with grilled skewers, rice bowls, and miso soup. Something simple, easy to pack if needed. They sat on a bench under the awning while the ghost hovered nearby.

Mona took her first bite and hummed contentedly. “Stars, this hits.”

Wanderer picked at his food with less flair but didn’t complain. He wasn’t the kind to mention it, but he hadn’t eaten since morning either.

The ghost made a satisfied loop in the air, then floated down between them like a smug mediator.

“You happy now?” Mona asked dryly.

It gave her a thumbs up.

“I can’t believe I’m being bullied into meal schedules by a soul-etched ancient.”

They finished eating, surrounded by the sounds of sizzling skewers and the chatter of a city sliding into afternoon calm. Mona wiped her fingers on a napkin, then squinted across the table.

“You’ve got sauce,” she said matter-of-factly, pointing to the edge of Wanderer’s jaw.

He blinked, untrusting. “No, I don’t.”

“Yes, you do. Hold still.”

Before he could argue, she leaned across and brushed the smear away with a swift press of her napkin. He went rigid, not from the touch itself, but because the ghost, hovering nearby, suddenly gave a sharp, delighted gasp.

Mona leaned back, stood up oblivious, and went to toss the napkin away. Wanderer, meanwhile, caught the ghost’s giggle, like it had just witnessed a secret revealed. It floated lower, hands steepled in mock gravity. ‘In my time,’ it intoned in that old, curling cadence only he could hear, ‘such gestures belonged to intimacy. Courting’

Wanderer’s face darkened instantly.
“Good for you.”

The ghost only tilted its head, smug and unrelenting. ‘Unless, of course, I misread, and she is not the one.’

Wanderer grit his teeth, refusing to look Mona’s way. “You misread.”

Mona noticed anyway. She narrowed her eyes. “What did it say?”

“Nothing,” he said too quickly, almost biting the word. “Absolutely nothing worth repeating.”

The ghost spun lazily, circling above him. ‘Then perhaps she already belongs to another? The star-eyed one. Does she have a mate?’

And that against his better judgment made his gaze flick to her, if only for a breath. It was enough.

“I don’t know,” he snapped “Ask her yourself.”

Mona crossed her arms, brow arched. “Alright. Out with it. What is it going on about now?”

Wanderer finally looked at her, tone flattened into mockery like armor. “Apparently, it’s very invested in your dating life.”

Mona blinked. Then snorted. “What. That thing really spends a lot of time in other people’s business for something that dodges every question about its own.”

The ghost twirled in place innocently, then floated over to hover just behind her shoulder. With exaggerated gestures, it raised its incorporeal brows wiggling them suggestively at Wanderer.

Mona followed the movement and burst out laughing. “Oh, please.” She gathered up her bag and stood “No, I don’t have my eyes set on anyone,” she added, tone flippant.

The ghost mimed wiping sweat off its nonexistent forehead, then spun in a dramatic loop before drifting toward Wanderer, clearly with another question brewing.

Wanderer groaned. “What now.” The ghost whispered near his ear again, prompting a reluctant sigh. “She wants to know, if you were to set your eyes on someone, what kind of person would that be. What are the standards in this… ‘era,’ apparently.”

Mona blinked, then looked genuinely thoughtful. “That’s… kind of a complicated question. I guess I’d-”

“You’d what?” Wanderer cut in with a smirk. “Pick someone whose standards are as outdated as yours?”

She turned slowly to glare at him, one hand on her hip. “At least I have standards. You? I imagine the only person you could stand for longer than five minutes is - well… you.”

He smirked, with cocky pride. “You’re not entirely wrong. I make excellent company.”

“Oh, I don’t doubt that. No interruptions, no conflicting opinions, no one telling you you’re wrong.”

“Exactly,” he barked. The ghost hovered between them, amused. Wanderer narrowed his eyes in its vague direction. “Actually, given how much interest you’re taking in that,” he provoked, “maybe you’re the one with feelings. Is that it? Are you bewitched?”

The ghost gasped theatrically then shook its head. ‘Already had one,’ it whispered solemnly, ‘Once. Long ago.’ The tone shifted just slightly, quiet enough that both Mona and Wanderer went still. But the ghost twirled again, this time slower, its mood unreadable. ‘But it’s fun to watch new ones grow,’ it added after a moment, the whisper curling with slyness again. ‘Even if they’re too proud to notice.’

Wanderer gave it a sideways glare, brushing past toward the street. “Insufferable.”

“You say that to everyone,” Mona teased, stepping in beside him. “But I’m starting to think that’s your version of affection.”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” he muttered.

The ferry rocked gently as they settled near the side railing, the sea spread wide and gleaming under the afternoon sun. The breeze was softer, tasting faintly of brine and something older. Mona leaned over the edge slightly, arms folded against the wooden railing, her gaze focused on the way the water shimmered and broke in curling foam.

The ghost hovered near like it, too, was lost in thought.

"You said you had a lover?" Mona asked suddenly, voice low but steady.

Wanderer, slouched against a nearby post with his arms crossed, turned toward her with a sharp frown. “You think I’m going to translate a sappy love story?”

She turned her head just enough to shoot him a flat, unimpressed look. The unspoken part of her glare said, Maybe we’ll get some real information out of her for once.

He groaned, but rolled his eyes and relented. “Fine.”

The ghost perked up, floating closer, and its voice curled softly through Wanderer’s ear.

“Yes,” he translated, grudgingly. “She had a lover. A long-lived species, apparently. Stumbled into her village during a holiday festival. And, as we established, she was a Miko back then.”

Mona hummed, intrigued. “So he fell for your elegance?”

Wanderer muttered under his breath, “Curious how your dramatic flare didn’t scare him off.”

The ghost spun with a smug flourish.

“He did fall for that dramatic flare,” Wanderer added with reluctance, then blinked. He hesitated at that part, not quite expecting it. “Well, not at first,” he continued after a pause, eyes narrowing as he focused on the ghost’s next words. “They didn’t have the best start.”

“Oh?” Mona tilted her head, curiosity blooming across her face like an instinct she didn’t bother masking.

“He offended the god of her temple. Provoked the guardians. To his credit,” Wanderer muttered, “he held off quite well. Had foreign tools and tricks. Might have even won.”

“But?” Mona asked quickly, already leaning in, that thoughtful smile tugging at her lips.

The ghost lifted itself with a proud, flourishing spin.

“But he didn’t take into account her abilities,” Wanderer said, side-eyeing the ghost with growing suspicion. “As a Miko, she had a close bond with their god. Could channel divine power and dismantle his tricks.”

Mona grinned wide. “Ooh. So you crushed him?”

The ghost tilted and hummed. ‘He vanished after that. But I insisted on keeping the remnants of his tools. I studied them. It sparked my curiosity about foreign lands.’

Mona’s expression softened into something more fascinated than amused. She watched the ghost in quiet thought, chin propped in her palm, letting the story spin its thread through her imagination.

Wanderer said nothing for a moment, brow furrowed. He looked at the sea instead, like the tide might distract him from the shape of the story. It didn't. There was something too close in the way it unfolded, something he was choosing not to catch.

He shifted then, suddenly impatient. “That’s it? End of the grand romance?”

Mona narrowed her eyes at him. “If you’re going to be our translator, at least pretend to enjoy it.”

“I am enjoying it. Like a dentist enjoys pulling teeth.”

The ghost twirled in the air, its expression unreadable for a moment. But when it spoke again, its tone was gentler.

‘He returned some time later… changed.’

Wanderer stilled. There was something in the cadence of that line, something that felt like it echoed too closely to memory. His jaw tightened, but he kept translating, monotone now.

“Not in attitude,” he said flatly. “He was still… bigheaded - that’s not editorializing, that’s direct quote.”

The ghost mimed a dramatic stomp, though its gaze softened mid-motion. ‘But his intentions had changed. He asked for forgiveness. He asked for recommendations, ways to help. He was tasked with errands around our village for a year.’

Mona blinked, eyebrows rising. “A year? That’s dedication or stupidity.”

Wanderer snorted. “Or penance. Depends if you think offending a temple deserves community service.”

They glanced at each other. A pause hung there. Neither conceded their point, but they didn’t press it either.

‘In between trying to outsmart all our traditional methods, we kept meeting. Usually by accident, if accidents really exist.’

That line earned another pause from both of them.

Mona rested her chin in her palm. “Huh. That sounds familiar.”

“Don’t start,” Wanderer warned, already sensing where she was going.

And she smirked, not saying anything more 

He continued, grudgingly, as the ghost went on. “He noticed her curiosity… started bringing gifts. Food. Started making excuses to borrow her on expeditions.”

“Ohh,” Mona teased lightly, “So now it’s courting-by-fieldwork.”

“Romantic,” Wanderer drawled. “Swapping rations under a tree.”

She elbowed him gently, and for once he didn’t swat her away. He just rolled his eyes, but the tension in his shoulders softened.

The ghost hummed again, slower this time. Thoughtful.

‘He refused godly powers, always did,’ it admitted. ‘But he was fascinated by someone who had them… and still wanted to understand the world. Who wanted to study it, not just take it on faith.’

Mona’s expression grew unreadable for a moment. She didn’t say anything, but the way she traced the grain of the ferry railing with her thumb spoke volumes.

Wanderer side-eyed her. Something in that part of the story unsettled him in a different way, he couldn’t quite place it, but the ghost’s tale was starting to sound suspiciously, uncomfortably, parallel.

He shook his head.

“So what happened?” he muttered. “Did you fall into some grand, tragic love? Flee your responsibilities? Run off and cause chaos together?”

The ghost dipped below the deck like mist through cracks in wood, whispering, “Enough for now. Will continue the story later.” And just like that it was gone.

Silence followed. Or, not silence - not really. The ferry rocked gently underfoot, its wooden bones creaking softly. Seabirds shrieked above. Water lapped lazily against the hull, and voices from the other passengers drifted around them like mist. But between Mona and Wanderer, there was a hush. The kind of quiet that didn’t press to be broken.

Mona leaned her elbows on the rail and looked out over the ocean, eyes unfocused but glinting in the afternoon sun. The sea shimmered, endless, like a great sheet of ever-changing glass, and something about it reminded her of the ghost’s story. Not the drama of it. Not the power clashes or the temple fights.

But the intimacy. The quietness. The way it didn’t need to be grand to be important.

It surprised her how touched she was by the whole thing.

It was the kind of romance she hadn’t expected from something so ancient, a tale without royalty or curses or dramatic death vows. Just... connection. Curiosity. Two people colliding like stars on accident, then choosing to meet again. And again. And again.

She liked that the ghost’s partner hadn’t been swept away by her beauty or mysticism. No, it was her mind he’d returned for. Her curiosity. Her obsession with understanding - which he’d noticed.

Mona’s fingers curled slightly against the wood. She tried not to dwell too long on how deeply that echoed with something in her. But it was hard to ignore. She always hoped - quietly, fiercely - that if someone were to love her, it would be because of her intellect, not in spite of it. That they’d look at the stars with her and want to name them all, not just marvel at their shine. That they’d understand that knowledge wasn’t pride, it was her compass.

And the “long-lived species” part…

That bit lingered with her, snagged behind the ribs like a netted fish. There was something fragile and powerful about that idea - someone who’d lived lifetimes, seen cities rise and fall, still stumbling into a remote festival and falling for a single person. Choosing them. Not for politics or prophecy.

Romantic. Painfully so. And possibly doomed. But perhaps that’s why it felt so profound.

She wondered if the ghost had mourned. If it still was. If telling this story meant something. Maybe it was a kind of offering.

She glanced sideways, just briefly.

Wanderer was resting his chin on his knuckles, clearly lost in thought. His eyes weren’t really focused on anything. Maybe the ghost’s tale had gotten to him, too.

Not that he’d ever say it.

She smirked faintly to herself.

She didn't know what she expected from this journey. Answers, maybe. A challenge. Something extraordinary.

She hadn’t expected to be sitting on a ferry, picking apart a centuries-old love story and realizing she might, in some small way, want the same. Maybe not the lover who offends gods and storms temples. (Well, actually, that kind of chaos did sound like her type.)

But someone who sees her.

Like the ghost had been seen.

Mona folded her arms and exhaled slowly, letting her eyes fall closed for just a moment. When she opened them again, she kept her gaze on the horizon. But her thoughts were far from it. Despite herself, her thoughts circled back to him.

Wanderer.

She didn’t want to draw the parallel. It felt too easy. But parts of the ghost’s story, especially the dry bits, those clipped, sarcastic remarks about god-cursing and clever arrogance - felt eerily familiar.

A long-lived species, wandering across lands with no real roots but a trail of cracked foundations behind him? Yeah. That checked out.

Picking fights with shrines and systems. Offending people just for breathing wrong. “Bigheaded,” the ghost had said. Mona huffed softly to herself. Understatement of the century.

Still, there was something undeniably human in the way the ghost had described her old flame. The way he learned to fold into a place he didn’t understand. The way he came back changed - not because the world demanded it, but because he chose to. Out of remorse. Or curiosity. Or - Mona squinted against the sun - love.

And what a strange thing that was to picture.

Wanderer. In love.

She couldn’t help it. The image bloomed in her mind, sharp-edged and ridiculous. She almost laughed out loud. Him? The walking thundercloud? The man who looked like compliments were death threats and affection was a contagious disease?

She teased him often enough - called him cold, ego-maniacal, emotionally constipated. She called him a lot of things, really. But even as she said them, she saw more than he meant to show.

Cracks.

Slivers of softness he tried to seal over too fast.

The way his hands hesitated before brushing something away from his path. The way his voice lowered when speaking to children, even when they weren’t listening. The way his expression shifted, too quick for most to notice, when Nahida was mentioned.

Nahida, who trusted him.

The Traveler, who adventured with him.

Mona wasn't naïve. She’d seen enough of the world and its stars, to know that people wore masks. But his weren’t just masks. They were armor. Thorns. Barbed wire wrapped around a house built out of guilt and pride.

And yet…

Yet she knew that something was there. A beating heart, maybe not made of the same things as hers, but something. And it struck her, uncomfortably, how human he could be in his quiet moments.

And that made her wonder. Would he fall for someone like the ghost, too?

Someone brilliant. Mysterious. Fierce enough to challenge him, curious enough to keep up, powerful enough to be worth his time, but soft enough to meet him halfway.

It wasn’t the romance that intrigued her. It was the idea that even someone like him could find stability. Sanity. That chasing knowledge and cursing gods didn’t have to end in ruin. That maybe there was a path for someone like him. Or… someone like her.

Because gods knew, the idea of Mona Megistus - renowned astrologist, seeker of cosmic truth, self-declared peerless intellect - falling for a person was just as absurd. Her love was for the stars. For the things that couldn’t lie.

How could she feel for someone the way she did when her telescope was trained on something unknowable? How could anyone match that awe?

But then, the ghost’s partner hadn’t matched her awe. He’d fed it. Challenged it. Teased it into burning brighter.

Mona’s lips twitched, thoughtful.

Maybe she wasn’t so different from the ghost, after all. Maybe that was the real reason she couldn’t stop thinking about the story.

Or… about Wanderer.

She looked at him again - arms crossed, face tilted into the wind, entirely unaware of her gaze.

Thank the stars for that.

She wasn’t ready to start asking herself these questions, let alone answering them.

There was one last thought - passing, sharp, and maddening in its intimacy - that tugged at Mona’s throat like a silk thread drawn too tight.

What made you fall for him?

What was it, really?

It couldn’t have been just the exoticness. That wore off quickly, even in the most curious of minds. Or knowledge - people admire intellect all the time, respect it, even feel kinship with it. But admiration didn’t make you speak someone’s name like it warmed your chest just to remember. It didn’t make your eyes soften in the precise, unguarded way the ghost’s did.

Mona had genius friends. Plenty. She had sparred wits with the sharpest minds of her age, walked beside people of unspeakable power and uncanny vision. None of them made her lips twitch unconsciously in their absence. None made her bristle in their presence just to keep up the illusion of indifference.

None made her feel.

And the ghost, for all its flare and mischief and dramatic detours, had spoken of her lover not like a girl reciting poetry - but like a storm recalling where it first struck. With bite. With stubborn affection. With a fondness that was fierce and indelible and real.

But-

She wouldn't dare ask the ghost, now, what it fell for.

Not because the question was taboo. But because he would be the one to say the words. He, with that maddening deadpan, that occasional glint of something unreadable just under the surface.

He would say it.

He would see her asking.

He would see her reacting.

And Mona Megistus would not allow that.

She busied her eyes with the sea, feigning a casualness that she didn’t feel, anchoring herself to the motion of the waves and pretending - so very hard - that her thoughts hadn’t drifted far from the shore of sense.

Wanderer’s thoughts didn’t sit still. They rarely did, but this time they didn’t even try to pretend.

They bounced between nothing and annoying curiosity, jittering like a bird too proud to land. He told himself - firmly - that he didn’t care for the mushy parts of the ghost’s story. Love was a glitch in people’s emotional matrix, a detour from reason. He had no time, no interest, no place for it.

But the rest? The dry parts? The odd details? They stuck.

A long-life species.

Wanderer had met very few of those. Fewer still who weren’t immediately grating or absurdly cryptic. There was something about endless time that made people talk sideways. Maybe that’s why the story rubbed a part of his brain raw - the parallels were too easy to notice, too hard to ignore.

He wasn’t about to start drawing red strings on the wall about it, but still. An outsider who stumbled into sacred grounds and offended everyone in a hundred-yard radius? Yeah, that tracked. Someone who put more stock in logic than belief, in intellect than devotion? Again suspiciously familiar.

He would never say it aloud, but when the ghost described how her lover used foreign tools, tricks, knowledge... how he got curious, how he started sharing what he knew, how he listened - Wanderer caught the edges of himself in the silhouette.

But that last part?

The caring?

He didn’t get that part. Not really.

Not in the way most people seemed to. He saw the impulse, sure. That flicker that made you want to keep something near, or protect it from stupid decisions. But he didn’t understand how people let that flicker grow into fire. Why didn't they just… stamp it out before it consumed anything.

Still.

The traveler in the ghost’s story had done it. Walked into a place full of things he didn’t respect, broke rules, got punished - and returned.

Stayed.

That part was hard to look at directly.

Especially if the guy knew what he was doing. If he understood that whatever connection had sparked between them couldn’t last. That their timelines were crooked in opposite directions. That it would end.

And still, he did it.

Still, he came back.

Wanderer leaned forward slightly, arms braced on the railing, his gaze unseeing past the surface of the water. He felt the talisman’s weight in his coat pocket. Cold. Light. Too easy to break. A device that was meant to fail. Like it wanted to. Like it needed to.

He didn’t care about romance.

But he was curious about that.

About what came after.

About what you did when something precious could only be borrowed, not owned. When it existed on borrowed time and still - still - meant something to you.

And whether that kind of grief… was worth it.

He didn’t know.

But the ghost’s silence left the question hanging anyway.

The boat rocked suddenly, jostled by a mischievous wave. It wasn’t violent, just enough to throw them slightly off balance, just enough for their shoulders to bump together.

They sprang apart instantly.

The movement sliced clean through the silence, snapping the threads of their thoughts like a taut string.

Mona cleared her throat, a bit too fast. “Well. That’s enough brooding.”

“Speak for yourself,” Wanderer muttered, brushing off his coat like the contact had left an imprint. “You’re probably neck-deep in poetic allegories. Trying to guess their star signs to match them to your own tragic ideology.”

Mona raised a sharp eyebrow. “I wasn’t thinking about anything, actually. Except how I can’t wait for this whole ordeal to be over.”

“Mm-hm,” he said, too dry to be convinced.

She laughed lightly, one of those amused, half-genuine ones. “Sure, sure. Bigheaded Wanderer, ever indifferent to meaningful historical parallels, adamantly refuses to call it brooding.”

He shot her a sideways smirk. “Better that than a stubborn astrologist getting dreamy over a dramatically theatrical Miko.”

They both rolled their eyes, synchronised in exasperation as they headed below deck toward the sleeping area.

Pff. As if.

Chapter Text

The ferry docked just after dawn, a soft warmth spilling over the harbor as the sun crested the hills beyond Sumeru. Morning light kissed the stone streets in gold, the sounds of market vendors beginning to rise like an overture to the day.

Wanderer adjusted the strap of his bag as they stepped off. The ghost flickered overhead like a lazy paper lantern, seemingly less interested in directing them for now.

“We should head out before noon, so the stop will be midway” he said, glancing around for the road they needed.

“Let’s get some supplies first,” Mona countered. “No telling how long we’ll be up there.” 

They wandered through the soft buzz of early vendors opening shops. Fruit stands, scroll stalls, woven charm carts. Sumeru always had a sense of motion, even in stillness, spices in the air, petals in the wind.

Mona paused, visibly tugged to a stall displaying aged tomes behind glass. Her fingers twitched before she even spoke. He recognized the type of longing in her expression - obsession was something he understood intimately.

“These are genuine!” she gasped, peering in close. “Licensed star-mapping archives compiled during the pre-regression era…”

“Fascinating,” Wanderer deadpanned. “Truly. I’ve never seen anyone vibrate so much over old ink before.”

“I do not vibrate,” she said indignantly, already half-ignoring him. “Do you know what these go for in Fontaine black markets? And they’re all in Sumerian dialects, just look at this!- oh no.” She faltered, eyeing the prices.

Wanderer stepped up, peering over her shoulder. Close enough to lean in without thinking, and he let his voice drop into a mock-whisper:

“Your budgeting habits are truly tragic, Megistus. I’ve seen starving rats make more disciplined financial decisions.”

She jolted at the nearness of his voice. Her spine straightened, a startled breath caught in her chest. The proximity did something unfair to her - an electric little spike she swallowed down with a glare.

He didn’t seem to notice. Too busy inspecting the spine of one book, humming faintly.

“I’ve seen these,” he murmured, pointing to the majority of the collection. “Nahida has a set in the Akademiya vaults. She wouldn’t mind letting you study them. I can ask.”

Mona blinked. “You’d do that?”

“Better than dragging you out of debt when you inevitably try to buy the whole stall.”

Mona lit up despite herself, the weight of price tags melting off her shoulders. “In that case-”

She reached for the one book that wasn’t in Nahida’s collection, fingers brushing the corner just as another hand slid ahead of hers and tapped the vendor.

She froze. “You didn’t.” He handed over the mora. “YOU? buying me, astrology books?”

“Singular,” he corrected with a lift of his brow. “Call it a souvenir.”

He pulled the tiny spider prank box from his pocket with flair, turning it over in his palm like a magician before slipping back, and the book into her arms.

Mona stared down at it like it was on fire.

“I- what kind of souvenir is that supposed to be?”

“A thematically consistent one, you buy me useless crap, I buy you something with practical purpose” he said smoothly, already walking away. “You’re welcome.”

The ghost circled above, wriggling its translucent brows dramatically before flitting down between them and gesturing between the gift exchange.

Mona rolled her eyes, cheeks slightly warm. “Don’t even start.”

But the ghost only grinned and pirouetted mid-air like it had scored a point in a game no one else was playing. It twirled once more, humming as it floated ahead of them down the market path.

Wanderer didn’t comment, just turned toward a food stall, giving Mona the space she needed when she inevitably started tailing behind, nose already buried in the book.

He wasn’t wrong.

Two minutes later, Mona was trailing a full five steps behind, barely aware of where they were, murmuring to herself about constellation ratios and temporal inaccuracies in the footnotes. She didn’t notice when he turned left into a quieter row, where ration stalls stood in neat lines - dried fruit, pressed rice packets, medicinal tea flasks.

Wanderer ran his fingers over the labels, comparing weights and ingredients. The ghost hovered beside him again, arms loosely crossed behind its back. 

‘She likes it,’ it said casually.

Wanderer didn’t look up. “She’s easy to please.”

The ghost gave him a side-eye that was all-too-human for a spectral creature. ‘What’s the occasion?’

He shrugged, selecting a packet of long-preserved rice. “No occasion. Just equilibrium. I don’t like owing people favors.”

‘Still…’ the ghost drifted in a slow circle around him. ‘That’s very generous of a payback on your side.’

“I don’t half-ass things.”

“She likes it.”

“You already said tha-”

“About you.”

That made him pause.

Wanderer’s fingers stilled on a jar of fermented vegetables. He didn’t turn to the ghost, but his voice was flatter now. Cautious. “You’re seeing things.”

“Am I?” the ghost said, voice soft but insistent, no longer teasing. “You have your walls up so high, you can't see when someone starts peeking over.” He said nothing. The ghost lowered its voice even more, almost a murmur lost between jars. “She challenges you. She doesn’t fear you, but she doesn’t treat you like a project, either. You think that’s rare. You like that.”

Wanderer quietly put the jar in the basket.

“You’re overreaching,” he said finally.

The ghost tilted its head, faintly glowing eyes fixed on his face. “Maybe. But maybe not.”

He glanced over his shoulder then, just briefly.

Mona was still a few steps behind, leaning on a railing now, the book held open in her hands. Sunlight caught the strands of hair framing her face, her lips moved slightly as she read, mouthing an equation. When the breeze shifted, she looked up - spotted him watching - and immediately looked back down, pretending she hadn’t.

Wanderer turned back around. “None of it matters,” he said, his tone clipped but not as sharp as usual.

The ghost smiled knowingly. “Not yet.”

Wanderer rolled his eyes again, but this time he didn’t bother to deny it. Instead, he glanced once more at the jars, weighing his options, when a familiar rustle of fabric beside him drew his attention. Mona had finally caught up, basket now slung in the crook of her elbow, fingers plucking absentmindedly at a cluster of figs. “Done making out with literature?” he smirked, flicking his gaze to the tome still nestled under her arm. 

“Yeah,” she said coolly, not missing a beat. “I’m leaving the steamy parts for when we set camp for the night.” 

Wanderer blinked and scoffed. “You’re disgusting.” 

“Jealous?" she smiled - courtesy of a new acquisition.

Archons she's helpless

“Of your depravity?” His mouth curved into a slow, condescending grin. “Some people keep their desires to themselves.” 

“Nothing shameful about craving knowledge,” she murmured, chin tilted up in that challenge he was getting entirely too familiar with. 

He gave a low whistle. “But there should be shame about making it so explicit.” 

Mona plucked a date from the vendor’s sample bowl and bit into it, savoring it with a dramatic hum. “You say that,” she said between chews, “but you’re still listening.” 

“I don't have a choice,” he drawled. “It’s like watching someone try to seduce a textbook. Morbidly fascinating.” he looked at her suggestively 

“Better than seducing thin air. When’s the last time you touched something with emotion?” he followed the movement of her lips. She paused mid bite. 

He did everything not to flinch. 

Slowly she took out another date, offering it to him suspiciously. 

He took the fruit and the excuse it provided, bit into it while turning and shrugging “I just bought you a book.” 

“As payback.” 

“That’s more emotion than I’ve shown anyone in at least a hundred years.” not counting Nahida of course 

She grinned, triumphantly biting into another date. “Oh, are you getting soft?” 

“Hopelessly." He barked with irony. "And you’re getting cocky.” 

The ghost hovered nearby, eating up the exchange with amused glances between them. Eventually it leaned in, whispering just for Wanderer to hear: “In our culture, feeding someone fruit with barbed words like that… definitely counted as foreplay.” 

Wanderer nearly dropped the tea bag he was holding. Mona blinked then immediately squinted at the ghost, questioning what it did this time. “Don’t,” Wanderer snapped before she could speak. “Don’t even ask.” 

“But-” she started. 

“No.” The ghost, of course, looked smug. Mona laughed, not pressing further, though she did toss an extra packet of figs into her bag, just for the hell of it. 

They wrapped up the rest of the shopping with  efficiency, maybe because neither wanted to linger too long under the heat of their earlier exchange… or maybe because Mona had already blown most of her mora on snacks and could no longer afford to be distracted.

Wanderer handled the practicalities, dried meats, travel-safe bread, spice pouches, and medicinal herbs, while Mona trailed him, occasionally interjecting with a thoughtful hum or an unnecessary critique of his taste in tea.

The ghost, drifting overhead, offered insight whenever local vendors tried to swindle them or when a certain fruit stall was actually hiding a cache of rare medicinal plants behind crates of bruised bananas. Mona bartered that down with charm, Wanderer just glared until prices lowered.

Once stocked, they returned to the familiar road leading to the temple ruins. The path felt easier this time, less unknown, more deliberate. The woods knew them now, or at least tolerated them. With the talisman restored again, the ghost flitted closer, a more active third party in the journey. Several times it warned them of movement ahead - an aggressive ruin sentinel, a pocket of mutated fungi - and with a bit of coordination and wordless trust, Mona and Wanderer handled them with surprising synergy.

A few of the fights ended with not-quite-planned hybrid attacks, her water-shaping magic flash-scattering after an updraft of his Anemo burst, or his strikes latching onto her summoned constellations like they were tethered. Neither of them said it aloud, but it felt satisfying. Like the rhythm of shared knowledge meeting raw instinct.

By the time the sun dipped below the tree line, and shadows turned thick across the abandoned tracks, they agreed to set up camp.

Just the bare essentials: two mats rolled out near a firepit, the scent of pine thick in the evening air. Mona pulled clean water from the atmosphere, filled their flasks and boiled a kettle - still muttering under her breath about his weird standards for tea, even as she handed him a steaming cup.

He accepted it with a nod that might’ve meant thank you.

She curled up with her new tome, cracked it open with a reverence that made Wanderer roll his eyes, but not without some amusement. She sent him a sidelong smirk over the pages, full of silent gloating.

He groaned and leaned back onto his hands, glaring at the fire.

“Alright already,” he muttered, nudging the air with a flick of his fingers. “Continue the damn story.”

The ghost emerged from the edge of the trees, drawn to the firelight with that same faint shimmer it always carried and grinned like it had been waiting to be asked. It hummed, settling cross-legged just above the firelight, mock-comfortable, like an elder spinning tales by a hearth that no longer burned. 

“Ah… now this is a setting that stirs old echoes,” it said, voice soft as ash on wind, gaze swept over the two of them, mischief curling at the corners of its mouth. “So then - shall I speak of our honeymoon, or regale you with tales of our children?”

Mona and Wanderer both froze. A moment passed in taut silence before Wanderer’s voice cut through, annoyed and decisive.

“The ending,” he said.

The ghost laughed, the sound airy, not unkind. “Very well, very well. A quiet and private ceremony, in the end. No fanfare. No sacred vows boomed from temple rooftops. Just the two of us, beneath the trees, our oaths whispered where only the wind might hear.” A wistful little smile bloomed across its face. “And that was that.”

Mona frowned. “That’s it? Happily ever after?”

“More or less,” the ghost replied, beaming like a rascal. “Isn’t that what all of you mortals pine for?”

“Maybe you,” Wanderer muttered, his voice laced with a quiet frost. He stared into the flames, jaw taut.

Mona turned slightly, her brow tightening. The shift hadn’t escaped her.

But the ghost - ever perceptive, ever ancient - tilted its head and addressed him gently. “You’d be surprised,” it said, with a knowingness that pricked just beneath the skin. “I did not jest about the children.”

Wanderer stilled.

The fire popped, wood cracking as embers swirled.

He hadn’t considered it, not truly. The long-living creature, the traveler of forgotten centuries… that he might have left something behind. That his legacy might live not in feats or memory or crumbling murals, but in people. In family. In inherited glances. In stories passed down from knee-height to kitchen table. In stubbornness and fierce protectiveness. In a tilt of the chin. A cadence of speech. A brilliant mind and a biting tongue, gifted down generations like a secret weapon.

It shouldn’t matter. And yet.

Something in his chest shifted - something slow and unfamiliar. Like ice cracking, but beneath it, something rang warmer than it had any right to be. He didn’t say anything. But he didn’t look away from the ghost either.

And the ghost, as if aware of the threads it had just tugged loose, offered him nothing more than a simple, solemn smile.

A silence settled over the camp again. Softer, this time. 

Mona didn't dare interrupt the moment. She wasn't sure exactly what quiet battle was hiding under those old glances, but she recognised the weight behind it. So she stayed silent.  A vision of a private ceremony, meant only for two stubborn minds bloomed in warm sunlight at the back of her mind, unnervingly resonating with her. Once again a craving she was unaware of, clawing through her mind with it's simplicity. Children... Such a distant concept. But to her surprise, not unwanted.

\A passing thought of her teacher, scratched past the vision, but faded just as quickly. She didn’t want to let it in. Not now. Not here.

The man beside her cleared his throat, unintentionally grounding her again.

“I understand” He reached into his cloak and withdrew the talisman “So then… What brought you here?” the strange little thing they’d repaired again not long ago. It dangled from his palm, a question waiting to be answered.

The ghost’s entire shape slumped slightly.

“Oh. That.”

“Yes, that,” Mona echoed, folding her arms. “Care to explain?”

The ghost offered a sheepish smile. “I may have... misled you, somewhat.” Wanderer rolled his eyes in the exact way one might roll them at a ten-thousand-year-old headache. “Not all of our kind choose to etch themselves into objects. Most of us pass on cleanly, straight to the next world. Some don’t even believe in lingering.”

“So we didn’t interrupt your peace,” Mona deadpanned.

“Not quite,” the ghost replied, a little apologetically. “The technique is sacred, and rare. Etching one’s essence into a vessel requires... soul-energy. Most use it on weapons - staves, blades. You’ve heard of them, I’m sure. Relics that retain personality. Power.” The ghost glanced at the talisman, fondness curling around the corners of its eyes. “But me…?” A long pause followed.

“It was a petty move,” it admitted.

Mona narrowed her eyes. “Why?”

“You see… I was content. My life was quiet. I stayed behind to protect our village. I didn’t need adventures or monuments. My beloved still roamed - he was never one for stillness - but he always returned. And that necklace…it was a gift. A trinket. Something he gave me to ‘keep surprising me’ in his absence.” It chuckled, warmth clear in the sound. “The bigheaded scumbag.”

Mona almost smiled. That did track. She tilted her head. “So... was the talisman designed with this in mind from the start?”

The ghost nodded, wistful. “Not exactly... He had it originally made with clever mechanisms, hidden compartments, strange shifting patterns. He was always fond of little mysteries. Said he wanted to give me something to study him, while he was away. But the soul-etching? That was my doing.”

Wanderer arched a brow. “And why, exactly, would you trap yourself inside a necklace?”

The ghost’s expression sharpened with satisfaction. “For equilibrium,” it said, echoing his earlier words like a challenge.

Wanderer frowned, unimpressed by the mirroring. “That’s not a real answer.”

“It is,” the ghost insisted, lifting its chin. “The soul etching lasts thousands of years, until our god collects what’s left of us. It was a sacred cheat, a delay. I did it so I could follow him - be with him - in a way the heavens would not normally allow.” It smirked. “It was, admittedly, a very us move.”

Both mortals blinked at that.

“Wait - what?” Mona and Wanderer said in unison.

The ghost giggled. “Instead of merging with a weapon, something made to be used and discarded, I merged with something meant to break and be rebuilt.”

Mona’s eyes lit up, the pieces snapping into place. “You used an object meant to be reassembled. Something delicate, personal, endlessly fixable.” She gave a short laugh. “That way you could be awakened, again and again. Never really gone.”

“Precisely,” the ghost nodded. “A bit of trickery, a bit of trust. And it has worked.”

The talisman, cradled in Wanderer’s palm, pulsed once with a low glow. He said nothing, but his fingers curled around it slightly tighter. And just above the firelight, the ghost watched them both with a look that was half memory, half confession.

Suddenly, Wanderer started laughing.

It wasn’t joyful. It wasn’t even amused. It was sharp-edged and incredulous. Part mockery and part disbelieving awe. The kind of laugh that came when the world stopped pretending to make sense.

Mona blinked. “Are you- are you going crazy?”

“I might be,” he said between dry chuckles, waving a dismissive hand. “But that one?” He jabbed a finger toward the ghost. “That one is long past sanity.” The ghost grinned, entirely unbothered, eyes gleaming like someone who’d finally won a centuries-old game. “There is one more facet to the sacrilegious little trick she pulled,” he said, out of breath.

Mona turned, brow furrowed. Her pride smarted just a little, Wanderer catching on faster than her, while she’d been swept in sentiment. She folded her arms, quietly listening.

The ghost, to no one’s surprise, basked in the attention. “He saw through me too,” it said, almost wistfully. “That man. He lived long before I was born. And I thought... well. It’s only fair I live long after he’s gone.”

Mona’s heart skipped a beat.

That was insane.

That was heretical.

That was so petty.

“So now,” the ghost said, hovering higher with theatrical flair, “when I finally cross over, I’ll bring him tales of futures he couldn’t dream of. Civilizations. Inventions. Ruins rebuilt and lost again. All the chaos and beauty he missed.”

It grinned. Absolutely insufferable. Proud.

“You’re cruel,” Mona whispered, though there was no venom in it. If anything, there was wonder - and maybe even longing- curled just beneath her voice.

Wanderer noticed. He didn’t comment, but he heard it.

The ghost tilted its head, pretending to consider. “He can wait a few more centuries,” it said airily. “It’s his turn to babysit until I get there.” It winked.

Wanderer groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “Archons help that poor man’s afterlife.”

Mona laughed quietly, gaze soft despite herself. The fire crackled between them, warm and steady.

And for just a moment, eternity didn’t seem so far away.

The ghost stretched, figuratively of course, arms folded behind its translucent head as it hovered upright.

“Well then,” it said lightly, “I’ll take first watch.”

Wanderer raised an eyebrow. “You’re what, playing night patrol now?”

I sniffed, then smirked. “You two need privacy. You’re wound up like spring-loaded traps.” and vanished into the dark, fading into moonlight with a mischievous ripple. Mona and Wanderer sat in stunned silence.

A cricket chirped. Somewhere in the woods, a firefly blinked.

“Are all ancient people insane?” Mona asked, genuinely baffled.

Wanderer huffed, propping an arm on his bent knee. “Apparently. And petty. Unbelievably petty.”

“Petty with the skill and knowledge to bend sacred practices and death itself just to win a pride contest,” she muttered.

“Honestly impressive,” he admitted.

They looked at each other. And then, to their mutual horror, they both started grinning.

“I didn’t think I’d care this much,” Mona admitted after a beat, curling her legs underneath her as she sat closer to the fire. Her new book lay beside her, unopened. “But there’s something… compelling about it. Not just the romance part.”

Wanderer nodded, picking at a loose thread on his sleeve. “It’s the long game. The intentionality of it.”

Mona tilted her head, interested. “You like it because of how well it was planned?”

“I like that someone used their millennia for something other than being revered,” he said. “It’s selfish. And personal. It’s not about legacy or power. Just…” He trailed off, frowning.

Mona finished for him, softer: “...about someone else.”

He didn’t answer but he didn’t deny it.

“And you?” he asked, almost bored, though the flick of his gaze toward her said otherwise.

“I like that she was loved for her mind,” Mona said without hesitation. “That it lasted. That it wasn't about appearances or being revered either. Just her being - her curiosity, her ideas. Someone wanted to witness that, even when it wasn't convenient.”

Wanderer gave a short, dry laugh. “You’re just happy someone out there fell in love with a bossy, over-intellectual, obsessively curious lunatic.”

She pointed a finger at him. “Says the emotionally-constipated nihilist who’s suddenly enthralled with an afterlife-long love story.”

They both leaned back at the same time, mirroring postures without noticing. The fire crackled, catching the tips of their hair in soft amber light.

There was a moment of silence, not heavy, just... full. Of too many things neither wanted to admit. Not yet.

“Still think the talisman’s cursed?” Mona asked lightly.

“Oh, absolutely,” Wanderer said, closing his eyes. “Just not in the way we expected.”

She didn’t argue.

They sat like that, letting the warmth linger. Letting the thought of eternity shift slightly in tone - less like a threat, more like a dare.

Mona took out her scrying mirror and a circle with runes appeared in front of her- she almost forgot to do the reading tonight. Not that anyone could blame her with the revelations she's been through. But what one could question was her unfocused mind. It was going back to the ghost of course but... It also felt his stare. And probably due to adrenaline it distracted her more than usually. Her eyes kept darting down from the sky, throwing side glances he anticipated with infuriating precision, looking away with impeccable timing. 

Eventually he asked, as if he wasn't playing a game with her for the past 20 minutes "so -  how is the weather looking tomorrow?" She eyerolled

"Sunny, hot and windy" 

"In Sumeru?" Wanderer gasped with a bite " you truly are an oracle, Mona Megistus" 

"And you truly are a nuisance Wanderer no-last-name-declared" he chuckled "or first, for that matter" 

"Wanderer is all that I am" he hummed, mock modesty, fake bow.

"Bulshit, is all that you are" she mumbled, returning to her scrying 

Her mind still refusing to focus. Because... He was a mystery too. She put a break to the pursue of unraveling the mystery that was the man, giving her headaches over echoes of deja vu. After months of trying she kept hitting a wall. She didn't give up. She never does. But she waited for more information. Which this trip provided plenty of. She would definitely resume it, after it all was over. Still... 

"Hey Wanderer..." He didn't like that tone. "How old are you?" 

"Nice try" he chuckled "Too old for you" he added with confidence.

"Too shady,” she scoffed, narrowing her eyes. “That’s your only consistent trait.”

He gave a theatrical sigh, hands behind his head as he leaned back, staring at the stars as if they might answer for him. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

“It is a bad thing,” she jabbed, turning back to her scrying mirror. The glowing ring of runes pulsed faintly with celestial rhythm, but her focus was long gone.

He wasn’t even trying to look at her now, and somehow that was worse. The weight of his attention came and went like an invisible tide - just enough to rattle her concentration but not enough to confront.

Mona cleared her throat. “You know, if you just told me, I’d stop asking.”

“No, you wouldn’t.” he said, maddeningly calm.

She paused. “Yeah. Fair.”

The sky shimmered briefly in the mirror, constellations warping across its surface like ripples on water. She could name every one of them. But the stars had lost their usual clarity tonight, warped by some undercurrent she couldn’t pin down.

Maybe it was the ghost’s story, still echoing in her head like a whisper.

Or maybe it was the man beside her. Not quite cold, not quite warm. A contradiction wrapped in sarcasm and secrets, with fleeting moments of something else underneath. Something real.

“I’ve met ageless people before, you know,” she said, conversationally. “The ones who’ve seen centuries, even eons. Most of them are... slow. Detached. Worn out. You’re not like that.”

He didn’t answer. The fire popped.

“You’re fast. Sharp. You’ve still got teeth,” she added, throwing him a sideways glance.

Wanderer exhaled slowly through his nose, something caught between amusement and recognition in the corner of his mouth. “You’re trying to flatter me into slipping up. It’s almost cute.”

“I don’t flatter,” she sniffed.

“No, you’re right. You needle, like a sandstorm with vocabulary.”

She smiled despite herself, then dropped her voice. “But I’m right, aren’t I? You’re old. Older than I think.”

He was quiet for a breath too long. “Does it change anything?”

Mona looked at him, properly this time. No teasing, no biting tone.

“No,” she said. “But it explains a few things.” Their eyes met. Neither looked away this time. The runes of the mirror dimmed softly beside her, forgotten again. The fire crackled, wind whispering through the grass beyond the circle of light. “…You’re not the only one who can read people, you know,” she said finally.

He smirked again, but it was different this time. Softer maybe. Fainter.

“I’d expect nothing less from the great Mona Megistus.”

She rolled her eyes, but her lips curved anyway.

“Go to sleep,” she told him, finally turning back to her mirror.

“You’re terrible at readings when you’re distracted,” he muttered, settling into his mat.

“You’re the reason I’m distracted.”

He didn’t argue that one. Didn’t need to. She heard his quiet chuckle as he rolled onto his side.

And despite the stillness that followed, sleep didn’t come easily for either of them.

Chapter Text

He wasn't asleep when the ghost returned. It hoovered above him knowingly 

"Enough watching for the night?" He grumbled sitting up. 

Mona didn't stir, curled up, close to the dying fire. Wanderer eyerolled. A precise gust of wind, added a few twigs and a log to the ambers. Not enough to burn, but enough to bring it back to life. The ghost clapped silently.

"Did I propose again?" He huffed annoyed. 

It smirked watching her thoughtful for a moment "You should tell her" said, as if Wanderer had any idea of it's nonsense 

"Excuse me?" 

He stood up, having a feeling this talk shouldn't take place near her. He wouldn't be surprised if she listened even in her sleep.

"Do you remember how my lover mysteriously disappeared and came back changed?" 

"...Yes." he kept his tone even entering the forest nearby, far enough to not be heard, close enough to keep watch.

"I kept parts of the story vague on purpose. I think it's obvious I would know my husband's past." 

"How does that have anything to do with me?" he barked. The ghost huffed, annoyed.

"Cheating established systems comes with bugs and errors within it." it rings around him " I am an error. I'm not taken into account sometimes" Wanderer furrowed his brows, cold lacing his bones "I can tell  when something has been erased-" Its smug tone softened at the sight of Wanderers barely hidden fear "-I'm not threatening you." 

"Then what do you want." 

"To spare you trouble," it shook its head "but I can tell my effort is for naught" Something... Weirdly knowing and exasperated in its tone.

"It's none of her business" he cut short.

"You know she will make it hers. She already did." 

"Her mistake" 

"She will find out" the ghost shrugged, letting go of the topic "sooner or later."

Wanderer’s arms folded tightly across his chest, jaw tight. “Let her try.”

The ghost looked at him, old light dimmed to something closer to pity than scorn. “And when she does? What then? Will you run again? Or destroy the thread before she pulls it?” He didn’t answer. His hand twitched at his side, briefly clenching and unclenching. “I’ve seen many like you,” the ghost murmured, quieter now. “Holding yourself together with bitterness and borrowed names. But she’s already seen the cracks, hasn’t she?”

Wanderer scoffed, sharp and hollow. “She’s seen nothing.”

“She’s felt it.”

He turned away, deeper into the shadows of the trees. The moonlight dappled unevenly across his back.

“I don’t need her pity.”

“That’s not what she offers,” the ghost said gently. “She doesn’t follow your past with a net. She follows it with curiosity.”

Silence hung between them, interrupted only by the subtle stir of leaves and the quiet hiss of the rekindled fire back at camp.

Wanderer didn’t move, didn’t speak.

“You think this is wise?” the ghost finally asked, its voice like a breeze weaving through old branches. “Keeping her outside the walls like that?”

“She doesn’t need to know,” he said flatly. “It’s not her burden.”

“It’s not about burden.” The ghost circled him slowly, its glow pale and patient. “It’s about trust. About being seen.”

“I’ve been seen,” he snapped. “And look where that got me.”

“Not every eye is cruel. Not every heart wants to own you.”

“I’m not interested in hearts.”

“Then why do you hesitate?” the ghost challenged. “Why haven’t you pushed her away? You’ve had time.”

Wanderer’s jaw clenched.

“I haven’t pushed her away because she's not close.,” he said stiffly. “I’ve already burned what was.”

“Not all of it.” The ghost floated down. “Something’s still smoldering. And she fans the ashes just by being near you.”

“She doesn’t need to be dragged into - into that.”

“And if she wants to be?” The ghost tilted its head. “Would that be so wrong?”

Wanderer shook his head sharply, stepping back. “You don’t understand. If she finds out, if she knows-”

“She’ll decide what to do with that, not you.”

“She’s not like you,” he growled.

“She’s not like you either,” the ghost said gently. “That’s the point.”

Wanderer turned away, fists curling, ready to lash out again but something shifted. Not between them. In the quiet.

The fire back at camp hissed too sharply.

Then - crackling. The wrong kind. Fast. Too fast.

The ghost blew off, “Mona-” racing back to camp with a shout that sliced through the night like a blade. “Wake up! Protect yourself!”

Wanderer’s eyes widened, then the world sharpened.

He blurred.

A sickening snarl echoed from the dark just as a hulking shape lunged toward the glowing firelight where Mona had been curled. By then, the ghost was in front of her, light flaring.

Too late.

The beast raised a clawed arm.

Until it wasn’t there anymore.

Wanderers magic arced through the air, silent, merciless. The mob was cleaved clean in two. The trees behind it weren’t spared either, two entire rows fell in the same breath, trunks sheared like paper under stormwind.

Ash scattered. The echo of the cut lingered.

Mona’s eyes had snapped open just in time to throw up a dense water barrier, her heart thundering, confused, disoriented. Her breath caught at the crackle of burnt ozone, the scent of split bark, the gleam of his powers still dissolving in the air.

The ghost hovered over her protectively, pale and still, watching her face with alarm.

Wanderer stood ahead of them silent, deadly, wind curling around him like a feral thing.

His voice, when it came, was razor-calm.

“I’m sorry.”

Mona hadn’t expected those words to come from him - ever. They landed heavy in the space between them, cutting through the smoke.

She nodded - slowly, wordlessly - accepting the apology without pressing further. He turned, his gaze scanned her quickly, not lingering, but thorough in its way. Smoke still curled gently around her from the nearly-doused fire.

“Wh… what happened?” she murmured, her voice thin with the aftershock.

He crouched beside her, one hand slicing the air. Anemo swept the scattered embers back into the pit, pushing the smoke away from her face.

“Watch out for embers.”

“Wanderer.” Her tone stopped him low, firm.

He stiffened. He hated everything packed into her voice in that moment: concern, confusion, maybe even care.

“I got distracted by nonsense,” he bit, the words directed toward the ghost, who hovered silently nearby. He wasn’t just cold now. He was freezing.

And worse - he was shaking.

Mona inhaled slowly through her nose, gathering herself, her limbs, her thoughts. Then, without comment, she knelt beside the fire and began quietly rearranging the scattered kindling. She didn’t speak. Didn’t push.

She just… helped.

When the flames began to rebuild, soft and low, she settled beside him. Not close. But close enough. A respectful distance. A deliberate choice.

He didn’t look at her. But he didn’t move away either. The ghost said nothing, for once, and the forest fell into a hush again, as if the violence never came.

But the tension? The ache in the air? That lingered.

By the time Mona fell asleep again, he had calmed.

The fire crackled low, and Wanderer sat with his back against a tree, glancing sideways. He hadn’t expected her to sleep again so easily. Not after that. Not after nearly being ripped from the world by a creature in the night.

But there she was, breathing steady, lashes resting against smoke-shadowed cheeks, curled into the blanket like nothing had happened. As if she trusted him.

The ghost hovered nearby. Its gaze lingered on Mona for a moment, then drifted to Wanderer.

“The topic is finished,” he rasped.

“Okay,” the ghost nodded, gentle but not pleased. It faded back into the woods.

Morning came suddenly.

Mona said nothing about the night. She merely boiled some rice, offering a small pouch of dried fruit for him to scatter in, like it was just a normal step on their trip. He accepted without comment, fingers stiff around the bowl, shoulders still trying to remember how to relax.

They walked in silence, dew clinging to their boots, the ghost drifting ahead in slow, thoughtful circles as they closed in on their destination. The temple’s location hovered on the border between Sumeru’s jungles and the creeping sands beyond, tucked slyly behind twin ridges of golden dunes and wild-rooted fig trees. Hidden - thus protected.

“Okay, so returning you to your original place will sever the curse?” Mona asked, voice practical now, tone crisp from sleep and travel.

“Yes.”

“And you’re fine with that?” Her brow furrowed, gears clicking in real time. “Didn’t you do all of this because you wanted to travel? To learn?”

The ghost hummed, as if smiling. “I was awakened less than a century ago. When you’ve lived as long as I have, that’s hardly more than a breath. Not much has evolved beyond what I expected. I don’t mind waiting longer… for a proper awakening.”

Wanderer huffed, rolled his eyes, and kicked off the ground. With one gust, he rose into the canopy, scouting above for glimpses of stone where trees gave way to sand.

Below, Mona watched him go, then glanced at the ghost, her voice slipping quieter.

“Hey… in that last awakening, did you hear anything about-”

“You’ll figure it out,” the ghost said with maddening warmth.

Mona’s step caught slightly. “...I… I know that,” she scoffed quickly.

The ghost tilted its head, drifting beside her.  “There’s something else you want to ask.”

She bit the inside of her cheek. It felt foolish. But she asked anyway - because it was now or never.

“Why did you fall for him?” A pause. Then quieter, more wonder than demand “How?”

The ghost’s glow dimmed slightly, a thoughtful hue. Then it smiled, slow and sly.

“Who said I fell for the dunderhead?” it mused with regal mischief, tone lifting like a dry breeze over ancient stones. “I did not fall. I drowned. Willingly. Fully.” It continued, eyes half-lidded in memory. “He made my blood boil with everything. Curiosity, ire, joy, wretched satisfaction. He vexed me at every turn. A never-ceasing storm wrapped in quiet, a challenge, an unchanging equal. I never had the high ground, nor he the low. We circled each other like gods playing mortals.” 

Mona blinked, startled at the ghost’s intensity. But the spirit wasn’t done.

“You’ll know.” The ghost’s voice turned softer, almost prophetic, floating closer with a look that pinned her gently in place. “When sleep abandons you for the sake of absurdities. When you swear you hate, and know you ache. When the stars you chart become traitors, tempting you to break all rules, just to unravel one truth. One person.” It tilted its head. “Then you’ll know you are lost. And gladly so.”

Mona said nothing.

What a terrifying answer that was.
A mind like hers glad to be lost, not in the stars, but in a mess of a man.
Absurd. Ridiculous.
And yet... undeniably-

“We’re close,” he landed beside her, all nonchalance, oblivious to the quiet storm behind her eyes.

“Let’s go then!” she replied a touch too quickly, already striding ahead, grateful her hat hid the flush blooming across her ears.

They stepped into the familiar chamber - the stone air still, the dust largely undisturbed. The old stool in the center remained empty, like a stage awaiting its final act.

“You sure someone’s going to find you here?” Wanderer asked dryly, eyeing the bare room. “Not much loot left.”

The ghost smiled, faint and fond. “Worry not. Human curiosity is more certain to reach me than the afterlife ever was.”

It cast him one last look - something gentle in its timeless eyes - and then turned to Mona, hovering just as she stepped forward to place the talisman on its original pedestal. Wanderer remained behind, distant by design.

“One last thing,” Mona said softly, her fingers grazing the chain, reverent. “What’s your name?”

The ghost giggled - light, fleeting, and full of something too old for words, then vanished into the talisman.

From his place by the door, Wanderer didn’t move. Didn’t ask. Didn’t want to know.

Yet as Mona gently released the chain, he caught it, faint like echo sliding between the cracks of stone: “–stos.”

He didn’t flinch.
Didn’t react.
Refused to.

He threw the name fragment away the moment he heard it.

But Mona turned toward him anyway, fire behind her eyes, demanding what she already half knew.

Beneath the boughs of a sprawling tree heavy with purple blossoms, petals drifted like lazy confetti on a breeze that smelled of spring. The light filtered gold through the canopy, dappling the ground in aurum celebration.

There, in the hush between birdsong and breath, Kabukimono and Megistos stood facing one another. Two fools, two storms, two hearts far too proud to ever admit they were trembling.

The ceremony was private, witnessed only by wind, flowers, and the very earth that had watched them circle each other for years.

Their vows came not as sweet poetry, but as sharp-edged banter, flung like blades too well-worn to wound.

"Kabukimono," she said, eyes sharp as flint and gleaming with love, "you are a calamity to this world. An absurdity that has no right to haunt my dreams with the audacity rivaled only by your wretched real form."

He smirked like a man walking willingly into a storm.

"Megistos," he returned, voice smooth and brutal, "my audacity pales before your recklessness. You crash through every mystery like a meteor, your survival owed only to the fact that your soul runs on pure spite."

She stepped forward as he lifted a necklace - simple, silver, sentimental, and clasped it around her neck with hands that had ruined and rebuilt a thousand things. 

In return, she took a hairpin, etched in incantations, and wove it gently into the knot of his indigo hair.

Under a night sky too quiet for what stirred between them, Mona Megistus stood on the edge of a moment she hadn't prepared for, would never be prepared for.

"Wanderer, Scaramuche, Kunikuzushi, Hat Guy-" she said at last, stepping close, voice a razor wrapped in silk, "-you are an existential problem masquerading as a man. You make me lose sleep over nonsense, and I despise that you know it."

A breath passed, caught somewhere in his chest.

"Mona Megistus," he replied, tone measured like a dagger set on a table, "your obsession with truth is only rivaled by your ability to bury yourself in chaos. You make every rule look like a dare, and every conversation feel like war. My peace died the day I met you."

There was no laughter. Just knowing quiet surrender.

He reached out and lifted a necklace, similar to the one she hadn't seen in years - a glimmer of past lives, old promises, strange sacred defiance - and fastened it around her neck.

She responded by lifting her hands to his chest, fingers deftly securing a single midnight-blue pin between layers of fabric over his sternum.

"All that to say-" His voice barely a breath. "-you drive me mad." 

Her fingers trembled at his neck. His hands mended at her waist.

"Serves you right," she whispered, pulling him in, "for making me insane."

Their lips met.