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Dyvim wakes up with his hand instinctively placed on the hilt of his sword.
Immediately, he looks for a Goliath. An Apiary guard. A mantis wielding her scythe. Any kind of bug to accompany the chittering in his ear, but there’s nothing. The room is empty, save for him and the bed in which he lays. A moment passes before he begins fiercely rubbing at his eyes to come back to the present.
That damned chittering is still there.
Dyvim pulls himself from bed, moving slowly across the floor to what he assumes is a window. There is a sliver of dark orange light peeking from behind a curtain. Carefully, he lifts it— anticipating the worst. What he’s met with is a limited view of two mantises battling a block or two away under the dim sky.
It hits him then, all at once: he and the Spellbinder are in the city of Sardonyx.
Under the request of both Zaltanna and Ezekiel the Lucent, Zarozinia the Deathsong had arranged for them to stay in an unoccupied home (its owners having all moved to the Hive) for the night to conserve energy before breaching the Kondha Desert at sunrise.
The chittering is a result of the city’s now-uncovered Fifth Column members clashing with those loyal to the Umbra Legion. Such battles would not have been possible without the Spellbinder’s good work. Dyvim drops the curtain, briefly wondering if she’s succeeded so far in sleeping through the night. He can’t think of anyone who deserves a quick rest more.
But, if he had to pick a runner up for that position, he’d pick himself.
“By Mourningsword,” he murmurs. “Pull yourself together,”
Before waking, he’d been trapped in that tomb again, only this time he was wide awake. As his fists pounded against the amber that encased him, the bees taunted him from above, their eyes beadier and crueler than he remembered. They were joined then by the Broodmother, who uttered no words and opted instead to scream at a pitch so loud he thought he might go deaf. Her warped voice grew more and more hysteric the harder he worked to free himself.
And then he was running down the Moon Cliffs at full speed. His armor, however, was so heavy he began to sag to the ground. One limb at a time, Dyvim fell to the dirt, his head the last thing to remain unbowed before dropping into the sand. He continued to try and scramble despite this, all-too aware of the sound of a Goliath gnashing its pincers in the distance, ready to tear him apart in the name of the Shadow Queen. In the distance, the Eclipse Tower began to crumble into the lake.
But soon he came to in a cell. All around him, the Broken Tower shook with what he could only justify as some kind of earthquake. Roze the Mousehunter, by name, paid no attention to him this time. This blossomed not hope, but deep confusion within him. As he stepped to the edge of his prison, fingers wrapping around the bars, he saw her far across the room moving at an absolutely erratic pace. Once his ears caught up with the rest of his body, he heard it: the unmistakable sound of a Burrower wailing for help, accompanied by the repeated strike of a scythe.
Finally, when he thought he could go back no further in his journey, he was a statue. He stood still in the Silent Market, accompanied only by the others who had been turned to stone. Who had failed to escape when the Shadow Queen’s dark magic swept over their land. His ancestors were safe, but they would bear no heroic descendant. And the more he attempted to move, to scream— the quieter things became.
Awake now, he takes special care to listen to his breathing.
Though he is proud to be the sworn sword of the king sent across the sea, Dyvim can’t help but wonder if simply being in Sardonyx had triggered such horrific scenes. Then again, this isn’t an uncommon occurrence. It's just one he’d rather have an explanation for. That makes it easier to press on.
He remembers then, a hand to his chest to feel his heartbeat, that he’d purposefully fallen asleep with his armor on. Call it a force of habit from the nights he and the Spellbinder would spend camping in caves and at the bases of trees. Though he is fortified, he lacks comfort, and one glance in the direction of his bed confirms to him that he won’t be falling back under anytime soon.
His nose twitches. His stomach growls. He wonders if those traitorous mantises left any food behind.
With his sword still at the ready, Dyvim gingerly opens the door to the common area, anticipating an equally quiet scene. What he finds is a candle on the kitchen table, still burning. Curious, he approaches it. A sheet of paper is illuminated by the light. Before he can make out the symbols scrawled upon it, he hears a soft, yet concerned voice.
“Dyvim?”
He looks up to see the Spellbinder’s silhouette approaching. The closer she gets, the easier it is to make out her face. Her dark brows are knit in what could be interpreted as frustration, maybe even anger— but Dyvim knows her well enough to see the worry in her eyes. To avoid intruding, he takes a step back from her work.
“Forgive me. I thought you may be asleep,”
“And I thought the same of you,” she says simply.
“Then it appears we both thought wrong. I think that makes us even, don’t you?”
He thinks he sees the flicker of a smile ghost across her face as she takes her seat.
“May I sit?”
“Of course,”
A sense of relief floods him as he pulls another chair out. Not that she has the authority to send him back to bed, but he’d be disappointed if she didn’t want his company. And that disappointment alone would’ve at least been enough to send him to the other end of the room.
They sit in silence for a moment. He watches intently as she waves a hand, causing a pen to rise into the air. She continues her notetaking in this hands-off way, a small section of brunette hair cascading from the braid she hasn’t bothered to fix in hours. It frames the one side of her face sweetly, accentuated by the candlelight.
Its been a long road to this point. Dyvim admitted to himself ages ago that he felt some kind of yearning when he saw her. Those feelings have little place in their current set of affairs, however. It would be deeply unfair of him to unload that on her when her plate is so unimaginably full already.
Still, in moments like this, his courtly nature almost falters. They’re hidden away from the world they have to save. If not for the sparring on their doorstep, maybe it could all melt away in the depth of her eyes.
“What are you sketching?” he asks, a selfish attempt to hear her voice, to delve into her thoughts.
Her gaze reaches him for a moment before returning to her work. “It's not so much sketching as it is… studying.”
“Ah, well then, may I ask what you’re studying?”
She hesitates, the pen hovering in midair for a moment.
“Shadow magic,”
Amber doesn’t so much as slide the paper toward him as she does move her arm in a way that he can see it if he wants to. With the added context, he recognizes the Shadow symbol immediately, accompanied by what he thinks is the symbol for Necromancy. He’s seen her draw and cast it many times before.
She seems like she’s waiting for him to say something, like she’s holding her breath. Dyvim keeps from pouring over the paper and gives a nod.
“Its been some time now since you captured the Eclipse Tower. How are you feeling?”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, I’m not a spellbinder myself. Maybe I’m just making an assumption here, but I’d imagine wielding such powerful magic has somewhat of a physical and mental impact. Especially…”
“Dark magic?”
He blinks, not wanting to imply anything. There simply isn't any other way to put it. But a dark power doesn’t automatically mean a dark hand. He knew this long before meeting the Spellbinder, but seeing her wield the same magic as the Shadow Queen in such a noble way only cemented his beliefs further. One of his ears twitches, and he shakes his head.
“I didn’t mean—”
“It is dark magic, you’re correct. That’s why it’s important for me to seek to understand it further.”
There’s an unspoken end to her words that hang heavy in the air. Something akin to… so I don’t end up corrupt and vile like Morganthe . It occurs to him then that he may have a deeper faith in her than she has in herself. Dyvim sits up a little taller, each second they spend together making his role in all this clearer. He’s always been there to stand beside her, even when he didn’t think she needed him. Now it’s becoming apparent that she does. Not because she’s weak, but because she’s a tad too strong.
His eyes are still heavy, but he fears another chapter of the nightmare: venturing to the end of this world just to lose her to the destruction of them all.
“You are still a student, yes? Back in your home world?”
“I am,” she begins writing again. “But not a classic one. My studies are more… field work based. I’m rarely ever in a classroom. Hence, well, my being here now.”
“Are your teachers reasonably lenient with you? Considering all the world-saving,” he attempts to joke.
“Well, my Necromancy professor usually can’t keep track of the days of the week, let alone my work. And there’s one who is on the Council of Light that guides me, so I suppose she reports back to the rest,” Before he can respond, she speaks again, causing his ears to jump. “They don’t offer Shadowmancy at Ravenwood,”
“Because it’s a dark magic?”
She wiggles her fingers in his direction, causing the pen to spike up and down. “It’s entirely forbidden,”
“So what shall they do when you are set to return to them?”
“You say that so optimistically,”
“I am optimistic,”
Amber shrugs. “I guess I would have a bone to pick with them if they refused to let me graduate after all I’ve done. But I don’t seek their approval, necessarily. I just seek… whatever I have to do to stop the Song of Creation from being sung. And if that means becoming a Shadowmancer…”
She has little choice now, it appears. Actually, it sounds like she’s always had little choice. This Council of Light she speaks of does most of her decision making. In a way, she is their sworn sword. Perhaps it’s an honor for her like it is for him under King Pyat. But when he speaks of the king, he never sounds so exhausted.
“So how does it feel? You never answered me,” He pushes the envelope only because she’s been more open tonight so far than ever. Dyvim blames it on the combination of fatigue, duty, and candlelight.
“You’re asking me a lot of questions tonight,”
The knight in him wants to step back, to bid her goodnight alongside an apology. But the heart in him…
“Would you rather I not?”
“Why are you interested? If you aren’t a spellbinder yourself,” the word rolls off her tongue almost teasingly. Perhaps he’s taking this more seriously than she is.
“Because you are my… companion. And I, yours. And if this weighs heavily upon you, I wish to help you carry the burden. It’s no secret to me how those who occupy this land view the Shadow. It’s unfair of them to view you similarly when you are only here to help,”
It’s not until he finishes rambling that he sees the small smirk across her face. She brushes that loose section of hair back behind her ear before returning to her work. He doesn’t dare to wonder if the warmth across her cheeks is simply heat from the fire, or…
“It makes me dizzy when I use it. Or when I’m struck by it. Like I’ve got a cloudy head, or I’m about to pass out…” she begins tracing the Shadow symbol again upon her paper. “The better I get at it, the less it impacts me. But it does feel heavier than my Death magic. My trip through the Eclipse Tower wasn’t exactly relaxing. Sofia Darkside is an exceptional, but brutal teacher,”
His skin itches, still touched somewhat by the tomb the bees had placed him in— the coffin he’d been cheering her on from, whether she knew it then or not.
“You have an exceptional gift,” Dyvim continues to speak before she can accuse him of buttering her up extra. “All heroes are powerful, but not all of them are smart. That’s what sets you apart. Your desire to understand and respect your magic,”
“I’ve been trusted with it. It’s only my responsibility to do so,”
A task many have failed, he thinks. His desire to bring up the Shadow Queen again, however, is nonexistent.
Apparently tired of having the heat on her, Amber sets her pen down completely and turns to face him. “What about you?”
“What about me are you asking?”
“You know what’s keeping me awake. It’s only fair that you tell me why you’re up. If we’re to stay even, that is.”
Dyvim shakes his head, scooting his chair back slightly. “Ah, well, before you captivated me, I was looking for a midnight snack,”
Her eyes widen, giving him the impression that he may have stood up a bit too hastily. He glances from side to side before realizing his sword is still in his hand. As if she can’t see it, he sets it down on the table and turns to head for the other end of the kitchen.
“I suppose those mantises wouldn’t have good enough taste to keep some aged cheese around, eh?”
The Burrower knight opens a cabinet, nose twitching wildly, searching for a scent. The Spellbinder continues watching him from her seat with no intention of moving.
“Dyvim,”
“I suppose we could try our luck with the market in the morning, stock up on food for the desert. It would be horrible to end up with only the meat-eaters’ menu available.”
“Dyvim, I get them too,”
He stalls then before an open drawer. Her eyes bore into his back, rendering his armor useless. Slowly, he turns to face her, ears drooping and eyes soft. She’s similarly vulnerable, a state normally so difficult to unearth.
“You do?”
Amber laughs, though there’s no real amusement in it. “I do. It would be concerning if I didn’t when you consider… what I’ve seen. What I’ve done,”
Dyvim wonders how many people would guess that about her. A Death wizard’s heart being set to race in the dark doesn’t sound right. And she’s so composed, so straight-faced and unafraid. He’s not unwise enough to fall into such a trap, but can see many interpreting her as above such a thing. But she suffers those nightmares face-to-face so they won’t have to, those endless people she’s saved.
Like her, he suffers for generations of people he will never meet. The long dead, the never born, the gone too soon— any and all of the Burrower ghost statues that give the Silent Market its name. The misery of his people compounds on his brain and, on occasions like this, keep him up at night.
“I didn’t mean for you to hear,” his tail falls between his legs.
“And I didn’t mean to dance around it. But I sleep with my wand on me. In times like this, it’s hard to tell what’s real and what isn’t,”
“Until you wake up,” he glances at her face, at each feature in the dim light. “And even then, it takes a moment.”
The Spellbinder nods. Her eyes are weighed down by hours of rest she hasn’t gotten. Whether she even tried to sleep or not is a mystery to him, but he approaches the table again, hand nearing the base of the candle.
“Can I help you, Spellbinder? In any way? Perhaps if I keep watch, like before,”
“You mean sit out here?”
“Wherever you need me. At the table, the foot of your bed…”
She stands, looking around the room before wordlessly crossing it. Dyvim watches her take a seat on a couch beside another window bleeding dark orange light from the Sardonyx sky.
“Or we could both sit here. And I’ll… try to close my eyes,”
Dyvim picks his sword up and joins her. At first, he takes the far side, but as Amber settles her legs on the latter end, he scoots closer so she’ll have a place to rest her head. She accepts his shoulder despite the armor covering it. He’s stoic to start, but upon growing accustomed to her weight, exhales and sinks further into the plush of the cushions himself.
They don’t speak beyond that. There isn’t much to say, or much they feel they can do without inviting complication. Instead, she does just as she said she would, shutting her eyes and focusing on leveling out her breathing.
Like this, she looks cherubic. She looks the antithesis of what the public would assume an apprentice of dark magic to be. She looks so tired, so young.
And Dyvim supposes he is the same, though he stays up the rest of the night, hand ghosting her forearm though his sword sits beside him.