About whether separation might bring liberation rather than loss.
Tomorrow we'll continue toward the Academy. We'll face whatever trials remain, whatever guardianship means in its final form. But tonight, under a blanket woven from protective shadows, I offer forgiveness to someone who's been drowning in guilt.
"Little Solstice," he murmurs in his sleep, the nickname now sounding like a promise rather than past.
Maybe that's how healing begins—not with grand gestures or perfect apologies, but with shadow-blankets and whispered forgiveness and the choice to stay when leaving would be easier.
I close my eyes, letting sleep take me while wrapped in darkness that feels like home and holding someone who's learning what belonging might mean.
Tomorrow will bring new trials.
Tonight, we rest in the safety of shadows and second chances.
Waters Of Separation
~GWENIEVERE~
The sea stretches before us like liquid obsidian, its surface too still to be natural.
No waves lap at the shore. No current disturbs the perfect mirror that reflects our approach. The water simplyexists—dark, patient, waiting with the particular hunger of things that know their prey must eventually come to them.
My small hand tightens in Cassius's larger one, seeking comfort in the familiar coolness of his skin. His shadows respond to my anxiety, wrapping around my wrist like protective bracelets that pulse with reassurance I desperately need.
The platform floats in the distance—an island of carved stone that hovers above the water's surface as if repelled by what lies beneath. Even from here, I can see it: the pedestal at its center, the soft glow that can only be the third key, the final piece needed to unlock the Academy's gates.
"That's where the final key is," I announce, pointing with my free hand across the impossible expanse.
The gesture is childlike in its certainty—as if identifying the destination somehow solves the problem of reaching it. But even as the words leave my mouth, a more pressing concernsurfaces. I look up at Cassius, having to crane my neck at an uncomfortable angle to meet his eyes.
"I don't know how to swim yet."
The admission emerges with perfect six-year-old innocence, complete with the implied assumption that swimming is simply a skill I haven't gotten around to learning rather than a potentially fatal gap in my abilities. The 'yet' carries such optimism—as if given a few swimming lessons, I'd master this too.
Cassius's expression shifts through several emotions too quickly to catalog, but I catch the moment of soft appreciation—not mockery but something almost tender. Like I've reminded him that beneath the Guardian powers and ancient memories, I'm currently, functionally, a child with a child's limitations.
He's not alone in his reaction.
Atticus's lips twitch with what might be suppressed laughter or concern. Mortimer's scholarly expression softens into something paternal. Even Zeke's perpetual calm cracks enough to show a flicker of what might be fondness.
They look at me like I'm something precious. Fragile. Worth protecting.
Part of me wants to rebel against it—I'm not actually a child, just temporarily shaped like one. But another part, the part that's learning to accept care after centuries of only knowing survival, leans into the warmth of their collective concern.
"We need a plan," Mortimer states, his golden eyes already calculating distances and possibilities. "The expanse is too wide to traverse through shadow or blood manipulation alone."
"And I doubt my frost would create stable enough platforms for all of us," Zeke adds, those extraordinary eyes studying the water with feline suspicion. "Something about this water feels... wrong."
Atticus crouches at the shore's edge, extending one finger toward the surface. He stops just before making contact, pulling back with a frown that speaks of instinct overriding curiosity.
"It's not responding to my blood call. Water usually carries at least trace amounts of iron, minerals I can manipulate. This is... empty."
They begin discussing options—each proposal more complex than the last. Magic woven with magic, powers combined in ways that might bridge the gap between shore and key. Their voices overlap, building plans on plans like architectural sketches drawn in air.
"What do you think, Nikolai?" Mortimer asks, turning to include the Fae prince in their strategy session.
But Nikolai doesn't respond.
He stands apart from our group, his golden eyes fixed on the water with an intensity that makes my skin prickle. His body language has shifted from his usual performed confidence to something rawer. Warier. Like prey recognizing a predator it can't quite see.
