Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Slique and Kyborg walked side by side, moving through the familiar streets, when something made them stop in their tracks.

The city centre was as lively as ever, filled with the usual chatter, merchants calling out their wares, and the rhythmic beat of footsteps on stone. But that wasn’t what had caught their attention. That was all background noise, a normal part of the city’s heartbeat.

No, it was the woman standing in the middle of it all.

Her skin was fair, and her long hair—though mostly concealed beneath the hood of her cloak—was so pale it was nearly white, yet still unmistakably blonde. Shadows from the hood obscured much of her face, leaving her expression unreadable. From this distance, they couldn’t even see her eyes.

Slique’s gaze drifted to her clothing. The fabric was fine—just as fine as the garments he had worn as an Infinight. She had money, that much was certain. But while they were travelling clothes, they were of such high quality that they would grant her entry to any noble’s halls without question.

And yet, something about her told him that she would move just as easily through a crowded tavern, a back alley, or a humble village hut without drawing suspicion.

That was the truly fascinating part. Most wealthy travellers valued appearance over practicality, wearing outfits that boasted their status but did little to serve them. But this woman had chosen function without sacrificing form. Every seam, every cut of fabric, was tailored for movement. She could fight in those clothes—fight well. There wasn’t a single piece that would hinder her.

Only someone who had spent years on the road, who had seen real danger, would make such a choice.

Still, despite the way he studied her, she never once looked their way. Her gaze remained fixed on the Infinights’ headquarters atop the hill. Whether she was too focused on the sight of it or if they were too far, their presence lost in the shifting crowd, Slique couldn’t tell. But something about her made him certain—whoever she was, she hadn’t come here by chance.

“Do we know her?” Slique asked, glancing at Kyborg.

The elf turned towards him, frowning in thought.

“I don’t know. I don’t think so. But she looks... familiar.” Kyborg turned his gaze back to the woman as if staring harder would help him remember.

Slique followed his lead, studying her once more. There was something about her—something he couldn’t quite place. She wasn’t a stranger, not entirely, yet he had no memory of ever meeting her. It was an odd feeling, like recognising the shape of a song without remembering the melody. And from the way Kyborg was staring, he was feeling the same.

Slique searched his mind, trying to pinpoint what made her seem so familiar. Was it her clothing, her features, her posture?

The clothes were distinct, but not in a way that stood out enough to leave a lasting impression. He admired her choice, the practicality of it, but it wasn’t something that would make him remember a person. Not unless they were utterly unique.

Her features, then? He tried to catch a glimpse of her eyes, but the shadows of her hood concealed them entirely. The rest of her face was striking, undeniably beautiful, but not in a way that set her apart from countless others he had met. She wasn’t, for instance, a towering purple worm like Smarsh.

Then there was her posture.

That, more than anything, intrigued him.

She was relaxed, completely at ease, standing as if she had all the time in the world. But there was confidence in it too—not arrogance, not the forced bravado of the young and untested. No, it was the confidence of someone who knew exactly who they were. Someone who didn’t need to prove themselves to anyone.

It was the kind of confidence Slique had once faked—the mask he had worn when trying to be a hero, when he had fought so hard to silence the doubts clawing at his mind. But this woman… this wasn’t a mask. This was something earned.

And yet, despite her ease, Slique got the distinct impression that she was aware of everything around her. She wasn’t scanning the crowd with the paranoid wariness of someone expecting an attack, but he had no doubt that sneaking up on her would be nearly impossible.

His suspicions were confirmed when a young boy, lost in his own excitement, ran straight into her. For the first time, she tore her gaze away from the Infinights’ headquarters to glance down at the child.

She didn’t scowl, didn’t shove him aside. Instead, she offered a small, gentle smile before reaching into her bag and handing him an apple. The boy’s face lit up as he took it, beaming at her before running off.

It was a simple act, a small kindness, but Slique felt his understanding of her shift. She wasn’t cold. She wasn’t cruel. But something in the back of his mind whispered that crossing her would be a grave mistake. It wasn’t just the way she carried herself—it was something deeper, something unspoken.

There was no naïveté in her kindness. She was not the type of person who could be pushed around, walked over, or manipulated. If someone wronged her, she wouldn’t hesitate.

It was a strange realisation, considering how little she had actually done to suggest it. But Slique trusted his instincts. And as he continued watching, he saw her gaze return to the Infinights’ headquarters. But this time, her lips curled into a faint scowl.

“Bart, Brink.”

Slique pulled his gaze away from the woman as Kyborg called out, waving the other two over. The men had been walking along a nearby street, close enough to hear him. Both turned towards them, Bart grinning as always—ever eager to see his friends—while Brink’s expression wavered between curiosity and the temptation to argue with Kyborg for the sake of it. Bantering with the elf was a pastime he rarely passed up.

But before either of them could speak, Kyborg got straight to the point.

“Do you recognise that woman? Do you know who she is?”

Brink raised an eyebrow. “Well, hello to you too.” But even as he said it, both he and Bart followed Kyborg’s gaze—and immediately, their expressions shifted.

It was that same feeling. Familiarity without recognition, like looking at a stranger they were certain they had met before.

Bart was the first to voice it. “She feels familiar, but I can’t place her.”

“Does she live here?” Brink asked, frowning. That would explain why she looked familiar—but not why they couldn’t place her.

“Doubt it,” Kyborg said. “We’d know her. Or at least know of her.”

The city had grown over the years, that much was true. It wasn’t the small town it had once been. But it still wasn’t so large that they wouldn’t at least be able to place someone.

“Maybe we met her on our travels?” Bart suggested. “What if she’s someone we saved?”

“If it was someone you saved while looking for us, I wouldn’t know her,” Slique pointed out. “Because the only people we saved together were the Ishbjorn and the Valrossians, and she isn’t either.”

He folded his arms, thinking. “And if she was someone me and the others saved, you wouldn’t know her. Furthermore, if she was someone we saved recently, we wouldn’t have forgotten her.”

Brink hummed in thought. “Could she be a wanted criminal?” He tried to recall the posters pinned in his office, rifling through the list of names and faces he had memorised. But even if he couldn’t see the woman’s face fully, nothing about her struck a chord. No bounty, no criminal past—at least, not one they had been made aware of. And yet, she still felt so damn familiar.

Bart, ever the optimist, simply smiled. “Why don’t we just ask her? She’s looking at the Infinights’ headquarters, so she’s probably looking for us.”

Brink turned to him, unimpressed. “Right. Because there’s no chance at all she’s here to kill you. Are you always this dense?”

Bart shrugged. “You can’t just assume people are trying to kill you.”

Kyborg snorted. “You thought Meld was trying to kill you, and she wasn’t.”

“She could have been after me!” Brink shot back.

Kyborg rolled his eyes. “She wasn’t.”

“Besides,” Brink continued, ignoring him, “does none of your knuckleheads feel the magic coming from her? What if she worked with Luce or Entropa? What if she’s here for revenge?”

The conversation fell into brief silence as they all turned their eyes back to the woman. Slique could feel the magic radiating from the woman. It was strong—undeniably powerful. He wasn’t sure if it was something anyone could sense, but to him, it was obvious. And just like everything else about her, there was something familiar in it. Yet, at the same time, it was unlike anything he had encountered before.

It wasn’t like his own magic. Nor was it like the magic wielded by any of his friends.

Her magic felt calm, warm—welcoming, even. Just as kind and open as she had seemed when she smiled at the child. But Slique had the distinct feeling that, like everything else about her, that could change in an instant. That the same warmth that made it feel inviting could turn into a raging storm, as fierce and merciless as the sea in the middle of a tempest. Magic was always unpredictable—always dangerous. It all depended on the one who wielded it.

But this was different.

She was different.

For him, magic was a tool—something he used. But this woman… it felt like magic was part of her. It was difficult to explain, but it made him just as uneasy as everything else about her. He should know who she was. Every part of him screamed that he should. But he didn’t.

“I feel it,” Bart said suddenly, and Slique nodded in agreement.

So did Kyborg. That meant it wasn’t just any ordinary magic—it was powerful enough for even Kyborg to notice.

“So what do we do?” Brink asked, scratching Hannibal absentmindedly.

“Talk to her?” Bart suggested with a grin.

Brink rolled his eyes. “Yes, brilliant idea. Walk right up to the possibly very dangerous woman and introduce ourselves. If she worked with Entropa, I’m sure that’ll end splendidly.”

“If she was looking for revenge and was strong enough for us to feel her magic from here, do you really think she’d just be standing there?” Slique countered.

Brink frowned but didn’t interrupt.

“If she was after us, she would have attacked by now,” Slique continued. “Or at the very least, tried to sneak up on us. She’s done neither. She hasn’t even looked at us.”

Brink hated to admit it—but that did make sense.

“Well then,” Bart grinned, clapping his hands together. “That settles it. I’ll go talk to her.”

Before anyone could protest, he was already moving.

“Bart—”

“Relax,” Bart called over his shoulder. “You do have my back, don’t you?”

The others exchanged glances before sighing and following a few steps behind.

“Hello, fair lady!” Bart called out as he stepped closer, flashing his usual charming grin.

The woman turned toward them for the first time, a polite smile gracing her lips.

“Excuse me if I seem rude,” Bart continued, “but my friends and I thought you looked familiar. Do we know you?”

For the briefest moment, her smile faltered. It was subtle—so quick and measured that it was barely noticeable. But Slique noticed, and he recognised it. It wasn’t the kind of hurt that came from insults or cruelty—it was the sting of something unintentional. A wound inflicted by words meant to be harmless.

He knew because he had felt it himself. More times than he could count. Words had cut him before. Not in ways that left scars, but in ways that left echoes. He had learned to mask it. To force an easy smile, to make it seem as though nothing had touched him. And for a long time, he had believed he was good at it.

But this woman—she was better.

The moment of vulnerability vanished as quickly as it had appeared, replaced by effortless composure. Her smile returned, warm and polished, as if nothing had ever shaken it. If Slique hadn’t lived through that same moment a hundred times over, he never would have caught it.

“I don’t believe so,” she said, her voice smooth and refined. “Perhaps I simply remind you of someone.”

There was an elegance to the way she spoke, the kind that came from someone well-educated and well-travelled. It was not arrogance, not superiority—just an innate confidence, a practiced poise. And yet, there was something else beneath it, something sharp.

Not in her tone, not yet, but there. Waiting.

Slique had no reason to believe it—no logic behind the thought—but he was certain that this woman could put Brink in his place with just a few words, without ever raising her voice. That if she wanted to, she could tear someone apart with nothing but the precision of her speech. Not cruel. Not cruel at all. Just dangerously clever, and he had no idea why he felt so sure of that.

“Are you certain?” Bart pressed, ever polite, ever charismatic. “We haven’t saved you before?”

The woman tilted her head slightly, as if amused by the idea.

“Saved me?” she echoed, a light laugh escaping her lips. “From what?”

It was such a simple response, but something about it unsettled Slique. The way she said it, as if entertaining the notion rather than outright dismissing it. Like she already knew the answer but was letting them reach their own conclusions.

“That’s the thing,” Bart admitted. “We don’t know. We’re just trying to figure out if we’ve know you.”

Something flickered across her face. Not surprise. Not discomfort. Something real.

“Sadly, you don’t,” she said at last.

The way she said it… It wasn’t a polite deflection; it was the kind of truth that had already settled inside her. Like she wished they knew her. And then, just as quickly, the moment passed. She offered a small, graceful shrug. “I think you must have me confused with someone else.”

Kyborg hesitated. It wasn’t that he believed her, exactly, but what could he say? It would feel strange to argue that they did know her when she was standing right in front of them, calmly insisting otherwise.

“Maybe,” Kyborg admitted. “Perhaps you just resemble someone we’ve met before.”

He let out a breath, shaking his head slightly before continuing, “Are you looking for us?”

The woman blinked, tilting her head in a way that almost looked too natural. Too calculated.

Slique’s unease grew.

“You were looking at our headquarters,” Kyborg clarified, gesturing toward the building atop the hill.

“Oh,” she said, her expression shifting just slightly—just enough for Slique to know.

They had caught her; she hadn’t expected them to notice. Why did it feel like he could read her so well, yet not at all? His head ached just trying to piece it together.

“I was simply admiring it,” the woman finally said, her voice as smooth as ever. “It is a beautiful building.”

There was nothing in her tone to suggest she was lying. But Slique knew she was. Slique didn’t know what the lie was, but he knew one thing—she hadn’t just been admiring the building.

“Okay, missy, I don’t know who you are, but there is no way you were just standing there appreciating the architecture,” Brink stated, arms crossed, suspicion clear in his voice.

The woman turned her attention to him, and this time, Slique caught it—the faintest flicker of amusement. Not the kind that mocked, but the kind that found this entire situation oddly entertaining. As if she had expected this reaction. As if Brink’s outburst was following a script she had already read.

There was no unease in her posture, no tension in her shoulders. Slique had met plenty of powerful people, the arrogant kind who looked down on others, and the foolish kind who dismissed their opponents too easily. She was neither. He could tell she knew exactly what kind of fighters they were, but she wasn’t intimidated. Not by Brink, not by any of them.

“There’s something going on here,” Brink pressed, his glare sharp. “There is no way we all recognise you but don’t know you! So who are you, and what do you want with our town?”

The woman didn’t flinch. If she had any strong reaction to his words, she didn’t let it show.

“My name is Cara,” she said smoothly. “And I don’t want anything from your town.”

Cara.

Slique didn’t know that name. He was sure of it. And yet, the moment it left her lips, it settled into his mind like it had always belonged there. As if it was a name he had spoken a hundred times before. As if it should mean something.

It didn’t make sense.

“Oh, don’t try that with me,” Brink scoffed. “You were glaring at our headquarters, we all recognise you, and you’re standing here radiating magic. So who are you? Who are you working for?”

Slique sighed inwardly. Brink had officially shifted into his defensive mode.

As mayor, Brink was fiercely protective of the city and its people. It wasn’t surprising—this was his home, his family was here. But Slique always found it amusing how quickly the man could shift from cautious to outright confrontational in a matter of minutes. Though, in this case, he supposed it was the woman’s lie that had set him off.

Cara regarded Brink, tilting her head slightly, as if considering how much effort he was worth. And then—there it was, that razor-sharp wit. Her voice was light, polite even, but the words cut through the air like a blade.

“Would it help if I stood perfectly still while you squinted at me harder?” she mused. “Perhaps if you tilt your head to the side and glare just right, the answer will reveal itself?”

Bart let out a snort.

Brink, for a moment, had no response.

Then, instead of acknowledging the fact that she had effortlessly thrown him off, he defaulted to the only thing he could think of.

“We don’t want you here!” he declared. “Leave Boulderay at once!”

Slique frowned. That didn’t sit right with him. The woman had done nothing wrong, so why was Brink so quick to drive her away?

Kyborg and Bart exchanged uncertain glances, clearly feeling the same. Yet none of them spoke up. And Slique… he didn’t either. Not because he agreed, but because he had no reason to defend her, just as he had no reason to cast her out.

Cara let the silence stretch, taking her time to look at each of them in turn. Then, for the first time, Slique saw her eyes.

Her eyes were a striking ice blue, sharp and unwavering, yet carrying no warmth and no hostility. Slique knew, somehow, that they could be both—piercing and cold or filled with warmth—but now they were neither. Now, they were simply empty. Not in the way of someone heartless or cruel, but of someone who had lost something they could never get back. There was sorrow in them, not raw or overwhelming, but settled deep, like it had been carried for a long time. And though he couldn’t explain how, he knew that sorrow shouldn’t be there. Something that made Slique feel as though he was missing a piece of a puzzle he should have already solved.

Without a word, she turned and disappeared into the shadows. They lost track of her within seconds, and the others turned towards each other.

“This doesn’t feel right,” Kyborg admitted, and for once, none of them could argue—not even Brink.

Yet, no one chastised Brink either. Telling her to leave hadn’t seemed entirely unreasonable. She had powerful magic, she had lied to them, and there was something undeniably strange about her.

“Do you think any of the others remember her?” Bart asked.

“Maybe. We should at least ask,” Kyborg said. “Because this just doesn’t sit right. We all feel like we should know her, but we don’t. And she said she didn’t know us.”

His frown deepened as the thought lingered. This had to be magic. Stupid magic.

Magic always made things more complicated than they needed to be. If this had been any other problem—something tangible, something he could solve with a well-placed arrow—he would have dealt with it already. Not that he would have shot the woman. She had given him no reason to. But at least with a fight, there was clarity. Either you won, or you lost. But this? This uncertainty, this feeling of something being just out of reach—it was maddening.

“She could have lied about that too,” Brink pointed out.

Kyborg and Bart both nodded, considering the possibility, but Slique wasn’t convinced. That faltering smile, it had been brief, barely a flicker, but he had seen it. And he knew exactly what it meant. She hadn’t lied to manipulate them. She hadn’t lied to hide a scheme. She had lied because the truth hurt.

Because they had looked at her—the way they had spoken, questioned her—and there had been no recognition in their voices. And that had hurt her. The realisation settled heavily in Slique’s chest.

Was that why she hadn’t told them the truth? Because admitting she knew them—knew them well—would only make it worse when they didn’t remember her in return?

Would it have been better if she had said, “You saved me at…,” or “We had a fun during…,” only for them to stare at her blankly? For them to ask, “When? Where?” and realise they had no memories to match her words?

Would they have believed her? Or would that only have made the distance between them feel even greater? Maybe the lie wasn’t about deceiving them. Maybe it was about protecting herself. And wasn’t that something Slique understood all too well?

The thought left him unsettled.

“Let’s contact the others,” Kyborg said firmly, breaking the silence.

Without another word, they turned toward the headquarters.

“So, let me get this straight—you met someone with powerful magic, and because she lied to you for some reason, you decided the best course of action was to send her away? Brilliant strategy, Mr. Mayor. If she wasn’t hostile before, she might be now,” Luce said dryly, shooting Brink a pointed look.

“Oh, and you’d know all about that, wouldn’t you?” Brink shot back, his voice laced with irritation.

“You two aren’t helping! So cut it out,” Mudd snapped before Luce could retort, rubbing his temples. “Honestly, it’s like dealing with children.”

The dining hall was filled with both the old and new Infinights, their families scattered across the room.

Bart’s twins darted after Terry and George—Brink’s son—who shrieked in mock terror, dramatically stumbling to the floor. Everly giggled from her spot where she sat playing, watching the game unfold with amusement.

On the other side of the room, Spectril’s three children lay on the floor, entirely focused on their drawings. Lynn and Hops sat nearby, deep in conversation with Andi, who rarely had the chance to meet up with them. They were catching up on everything—family, happenings, the latest gossip—listening with only one ear to the discussion happening at the table. They didn’t seem particularly invested, not yet at least.

“So, all of you recognised this woman?” Spectril asked, seated next to Slique.

“Yes, but none of us could place her. It was like looking at someone we’d known all our lives, but she was a complete stranger,” Bart explained.

“And she claimed she didn’t know you?” Grislee asked, frowning.

“Maybe she was just embarrassed that you didn’t recognise her,” Hops suggested, barely glancing up from her conversation. “Maybe you saved her, and she expected you to remember her as well as she remembered you.”

“Hm,” Mudd murmured, considering it.

“Yes, what if she had built up this whole idea in her head?” Elleve chimed in. “Maybe she was excited to meet you again, expecting a heartfelt reunion, only for you to have no idea who she was.”

It was a reasonable theory. But something about it didn’t sit right with Slique. The sorrow in her eyes. He had met fans who had done exactly that before, had seen their disappointment when they realised he didn’t remember them the way they remembered him. But this… this was different.

The sadness he had glimpsed in her eyes wasn’t just the sting of unmet expectations. It had been raw. Real.

Mudd leaned forward, his gaze sharp. “Describe her to me. Exactly.”

“Her hair was long, pale blonde—almost white,” Kyborg said. “Not silver, not platinum. Just light enough that, in certain lighting, you could mistake it for both.”

“She was beautiful,” Bart added, his tone matter-of-fact. “Lean, but not delicate. She carried herself like someone who knew how to fight but didn’t feel the need to prove it.”

Brink crossed his arms. “Her magic was strong. Stronger than most.”

Slique hesitated, then exhaled slowly.

“Her eyes,” he said, the memory settling deep in his chest. “Ice blue. Not sharp, not cold—just… piercing. They drew you in, like they held something you should understand. Something you should already know.” He ran a hand through his hair, frowning.

The room fell silent.

Spectril’s brow furrowed. “That sounds so familiar.”

“And yet, I can’t remember ever meeting anyone like that,” Grislee admitted, just as puzzled.

“Same,” Elleve added, her expression clouded with uncertainty.

Slique glanced around the room, feeling the weight of something unspoken hanging between them. They were all thinking it, they should know her.

So why didn’t they?

“Could she be a deity?” Luce asked, breaking the silence.

That made them all turn towards Andi.

“Yes, is she someone we should know about? A goddess long forgotten?” Bart asked, his gaze fixed on her.

Andi tilted her head slightly, deep in thought.

“Her description does feel familiar,” she admitted. “But it doesn’t seem like I know her from Mount Celestia. However, there are many goddesses I’ve never met.”

“Mom would know,” GumGum chimed in, beaming. “We can ask her!”

The others nodded. Why hadn’t any of them thought of that?

They knew why. They tried not to rely on GumGum’s connection to Dia for every question they couldn’t answer. And after learning who she truly was, it still felt… overwhelming. She wasn’t just a deity. She was the deity. The creator of their world. Respected, revered, kind, and beloved.

But GumGum never thought of her as a goddess first. To him, she was just Mom. Without hesitation, the half-orc closed his eyes and whispered her name. Within seconds, a soft golden light filled the room, warm and familiar. And then she was there.

Dia.

She stood in the centre of the hall, radiant as always, with an aura of warmth and love that settled over them like a comforting embrace. She smiled at her son, her expression filled with nothing but pure adoration.

“Hello,” she greeted, pulling him into a gentle hug. GumGum melted into the embrace without hesitation, his arms wrapping tightly around her.

“Mom, we need help,” he said as soon as he pulled back.

She turned to the rest of them, her presence as effortless as the rising sun, her gaze holding infinite kindness. She waved at them, her smile soft and knowing.

“What can I help you with, my dears?”

Bart grinned, stepping forward. “Hello.”

“Hello, Bart,” she greeted warmly, her eyes crinkling with fondness as he walked over to hug her.

She embraced him as if he were her own, as she often did with all of them.

Once they pulled away, she sat beside GumGum, folding her hands in her lap.

“So,” she said, her voice calm and patient. “Tell me.”

Bart took a breath. “We met a woman earlier today. We all felt like we should know her, but none of us could remember how. She didn’t seem to know us either—or at least, that’s what she claimed. It was… strange.”

“We were wondering if she might be a deity,” Kyborg added. “Someone we’re all familiar with but don’t actually know.”

Dia hummed in thought. “Describe her to me.”

Bart nodded and recounted everything—her appearance, the odd familiarity, the controlled magic, the way she spoke, and the lingering feeling she left behind. As he spoke, Dia listened, her expression never changing, though something deep in her gaze flickered.

“I also feel as though I should know her,” Dia said slowly, her voice softer than before. “But I can tell you this—she is not a deity. She does not reside in Mount Celestia.”

Silence fell over the room. It wasn’t just the revelation itself that caught them off guard—it was the fact that Dia admitted to feeling the same strange familiarity they did. If even she felt it… then something was very wrong.

“Can you look for her, Mom?” GumGum asked, hopeful. “Maybe you’ll be able to tell us more if you find her?”

Dia rarely used her powers in such a way. She loved her people deeply, but she respected their privacy. Yet now, even she felt the weight of this mystery pressing down on them. Something wasn’t right. And if there was an answer to be found, she would find it.

“Of course,” she reassured her son, closing her eyes.

She reached out, seeking the woman’s presence, extending her awareness across the world as effortlessly as one might draw breath. It didn’t take long before she opened her eyes again, turning back to them.

“I cannot find her.”

A heavy pause. That was not the answer they had been expecting.

“What?” Kyborg frowned.

“Why not?” GumGum asked, confusion creasing his brow. He didn’t fully understand the limits of his mother’s powers—mostly because she had never seemed to have any.

Dia’s expression remained calm, but there was something unreadable in her eyes.

“It feels as though there is a magical barrier preventing me from locating her,” she said at last.

“I knew she was up to no good!” Brink declared triumphantly.

“And you sent her away. Brilliant,” Luce muttered under his breath.

That was all it took. With a lazy flick of his fingers, Mudd conjured two large octopuses, their tentacles immediately wrapping around Brink and Luce—not tight enough to harm them, but enough to keep them from talking.

They both shot him identical glares, but Mudd only smirked and took a slow sip of his coffee.

“It’s not her magic,” Dia continued, unbothered by the exchange. “I do not know what her magic feels like, but I do know that this barrier was created by someone else.”

“Hm,” Slique hummed, his mind racing. “Could that be why we can’t remember her?”

Dia nodded. “It is possible. Whatever this is, it is powerful—and it is blocking something.”

“Is that something good or bad?” Bart asked.

Dia tilted her head slightly. “How do you mean?”

Bart sighed. “I mean… is someone hiding her because she’s dangerous and planning to attack us? Or is someone punishing her?”

Dia considered the question, closing her eyes once more as she reached out again, searching for the intent behind the spell. When she spoke again, her voice was measured.

“I cannot say for certain,” she admitted. “But the barrier is not of her choosing.”

That one sentence changed everything.

“It is an unwilling block,” she clarified. “Which leads me to believe she did not choose this. The magic ensures that none of us can remember her, but the why remains unclear.”

Slique exhaled slowly. That… would explain the sorrow he had seen in her eyes. And suddenly, he knew. This was not done to protect them from her. This was done to hurt her. Or maybe… to hurt them.

“Can’t you remove the magic?” GumGum asked his mother. He didn’t know this woman, even if her description sounded strangely familiar. But the situation felt sad, and he didn’t like that.

“Not from here,” Dia admitted. “Perhaps if I meet her. Or if she knows how it was cast. If she knows.”

“Do you know who did it?” Spectril asked.

Dia closed her eyes again, reaching out with her divine sight. But when she spoke, there was a quiet weight to her words.

“That is blocked as well,” she said, her voice gentle but unwavering. “Whoever did this is very powerful.”

“Could it be Entropa?” Kyborg asked.

“He was certainly powerful enough,” Dia said thoughtfully. “And his magic was unlike most. He did not wield a single source but many, bending them to his will in ways I have not seen before. There are aspects of his power that I still do not fully understand. So yes, it is a reasonable guess.”

“But why would we just be meeting her now?” Bart frowned. “It’s been five years since we defeated Entropa. If this is his doing, why did it take so long?”

Dia had no answer for that.

“Is she dangerous?” Grislee asked after a moment.

“In what way?” Dia asked.

“Towards us,” Grislee clarified. “Does she seek revenge?”

“I cannot answer that,” Dia said, still calm. “Not without seeing her for myself. But you four met her. What do you think?”

Brink gave a sharp nod, but the others hesitated.

“She didn’t try to attack us,” Bart pointed out.

“And she wasn’t hostile,” Kyborg added. “She didn’t even argue when Brink told her to leave.”

They turned to Slique. He had sensed something about her, something sharp and deliberate. She could be dangerous—he was certain of that. But not in a reckless or chaotic way. It was protective. She was the kind of person who would do whatever it took to keep what she loved safe. If that meant crossing lines others wouldn’t, she would. Without hesitation. Without regret. That kind of danger was not wild or uncontrolled. It was precise.

Calculated.

He had felt it, just as he had felt that she had no desire to turn it on them. If she had wanted to harm them, she would not have stood in the street so openly, watching their headquarters in plain sight. She wouldn’t have answered their questions so smoothly, nor left without protest.

She hadn’t been there to hurt them. She had been there because she knew them. And when they didn’t remember her…

It had hurt her.

Slique exhaled. “I don’t think she was dangerous to us,” he admitted. “If anything… I think she was sad that we didn’t remember her.”

“If she was sad,” Elleve mused, “then we must have known her well.”

“Not necessarily,” Lynn pointed out. “She may have felt like she knew us well.”

Lynn wasn’t dismissing the possibility that they had known her, only offering a different perspective.

Maybe this woman had been around them often, believing herself to be close to them even if they hadn’t seen it the same way. Maybe they had been acquaintances—merchants who had traded with her, fellow travellers who had crossed paths with her time and time again. Maybe she was a friend, or maybe she was someone who had believed she was a friend, even if they hadn’t been as close as she had thought.

There was no way to know.

Slique understood the reasoning behind it. But something in him rebelled against the idea. He wasn’t sure how, but he knew—this woman wasn’t just some passing acquaintance. The sorrow in her eyes… it had been too deep, too real, for that.

“What if it’s a trick?” Spectril asked, and the conversation halted.

GumGum tilted his head. “A trick?”

“Yes,” Spectril said carefully. “We assume the magic was placed on her unwillingly. But what if she was working her way toward us for another reason? What if she meant to harm us, but something went wrong, and now she has to start over?” He sighed. “There’s no way to know if she’s a friend or foe. Not unless we break the spell. And we don’t even know if that’s possible.”

“So what should we do?” Bart asked. “Ignore her?”

Spectril hesitated.

“Maybe…” he said at last, his voice quiet. “Maybe it’s for the best.”

All of them fell silent.

Spectril’s words weren’t unreasonable. The truth was, they knew nothing about her. And even if she hadn’t attacked them today, that didn’t mean she wouldn’t.

“Well… maybe we’ll never see her again,” Bart offered, though his voice lacked its usual confidence. “Brink told her to leave. Maybe it really is that simple, and we can just… forget about her.”

His hesitation was obvious, but no one argued.

“Let’s do that,” Kyborg agreed. “At least until we figure out more.”

The others nodded, and with that, they let the matter rest—for now.

Instead, they gathered to eat together, something they rarely had the chance to do anymore.

The quill rested against Slique’s forehead. The others had chosen to let it go, to try and forget the woman. He couldn’t. It wasn’t just that she felt familiar. It wasn’t just that something about her was wrong. It was those eyes.

And the way he had known things about her without her ever needing to say a word. It hadn’t felt right.

Slique hadn’t gone out looking for her—he wasn’t reckless. Spectril could be right. Maybe she was dangerous. Maybe she was tricking them. And Slique had no interest in dying over something he should just let go.

So instead, he had searched his own mind, trying to find something—anything—that could help him remember. There were moments—flashes—where he almost felt like he was on the edge of something. Then, without fail, the pain would start.

A sharp, searing headache that made his vision blur and his thoughts scatter like broken glass.

That alone told him everything he needed to know. This wasn’t just some lapse in memory. This was magic. Magic so strong, so deeply woven into them, that not even Dia—the goddess who created the world—had been able to undo it.

And if she couldn’t, Slique doubted any of them ever would.

Silique’s eyes darted to the paper in front of him, another song: Echoes of a Name

I see her face, but there’s no past,

A fleeting ghost I can’t hold fast.

Like a song I’ve never sung,

Yet the melody clings to my tongue.

I chase the shadows in my mind,

Threads unravel, left behind.

A name that lingers on the air,

But when I reach—there’s nothing there.

Who are you, standing in the rain?

A whisper lost, a half-heard name.

Your eyes—they call, they pull me near,

Like something I should hold so dear.

But I don’t know you… do I?

Fingers trace a memory’s shell,

Hollow echoes where truths once dwelled.

A thread unspooled, a tale untold,

Yet still I know—your hands weren’t cold.

I chase the shadows in my mind,

Threads unravel, left behind.

A name that lingers on the air,

But when I reach—there’s nothing there.

Who are you, standing in the rain?

A whisper lost, a half-heard name.

Your eyes—they call, they pull me near,

Like something I should hold so dear.

But I don’t know you… do I?

Ice blue sorrow, frozen deep,

Eyes that promise, eyes that weep.

Like a fire long burned out,

Yet I feel the warmth, the doubt.

Tell me, stranger, tell me true—

Why does my soul remember you?

Who are you, standing in the rain?

A whisper lost, a half-heard name…

Your eyes—they call, they pull me near,

Like something I should hold so dear…

But I don’t know you… do I?

"You can't forget about her either?"

Kyborg’s voice pulled Slique from his thoughts. Had he been standing there long? Probably. Slique had been too lost in his own mind to notice.

“Did I sneak up on you?” Kyborg grinned as he sat down beside him.

Slique nodded, seeing no reason to deny it. “You did. Have you been learning from Everly?” he teased.

“I know you’re the one teaching her to sneak!” Kyborg shot back, pointing an accusing finger at him. He couldn’t prove it, but he just knew.

“And help her scare you? Never,” Slique said, completely unconvincing.

Kyborg huffed but let it slide, his gaze falling on the parchment in front of Slique. "New song?"

Slique hesitated, then nodded. "Trying, at least."

“And?”

Slique exhaled, running a hand through his hair. “And... I still can’t shake this feeling. Forgetting her feels wrong.”

Kyborg nodded grimly. “I feel the same. It’s like we’re abandoning her.”

Slique didn’t answer, but he agreed.

“Have you remembered anything?” Kyborg asked.

“No. I just get a headache every time I try.”

Kyborg scoffed. “Same.”

Slique thought about teasing him—something about Kyborg not being much of a thinker anyway—but the situation felt too serious.

“I’ve tried pushing through it," Slique admitted. "But the pain becomes too much.”

Kyborg let out a frustrated sigh. “Then what do we do? Not even Dia could undo the magic. And Entropa is gone—if it was him.”

“A part of me hopes it was him,” Slique said. “Because I don’t have the energy to deal with another madman trying to destroy the world.” His tone was light, but the exhaustion behind it was real. They had barely survived that battle.

Kyborg looked out over Slique’s small garden. “Do you think she was there?”

Slique’s fingers drummed lightly against the table. “…A part of me wish she was. Because that would mean she was close to us. Unless…” He trailed off, a thought he didn’t want to voice creeping in. “Unless she was on Inku and Hugh’s side.”

Silence stretched between them for a moment, both unsettled by the idea.

“Another part of me hopes she wasn’t there,” Slique finally admitted. “Because if she fought with us, if she helped save the world and no one remembers her—that’s just sad.”

Kyborg nodded, staring out into the distance. “And if she was there… where has she been all these years? If we knew her, do you think she thinks we abandoned her?”

Slique’s stomach twisted at the thought.

“If she really knew us,” Kyborg continued, “then came back, saw us all together, heard about our lives now… and then had Brink send her away—” He exhaled sharply, shaking his head. “I wouldn’t be surprised if she hates us now.”

A heavy silence settled between them, the weight of uncertainty pressing down.

“Should we look for her?” Kyborg finally asked.

Slique exhaled, his fingers tapping absently against the table. “I’ve thought about it. But if Spectril is right, it could be dangerous. And if Luce is right—if she is after revenge because we sent her away—that could be just as bad.”

“I just wish I knew,” Kyborg muttered. “If she was a friend or an enemy. If we knew that, it’d be obvious what to do. If she’s a friend we can’t remember, then of course we should help her. But if she’s an enemy…” He trailed off, his jaw tightening. “I can’t walk into a trap. Not when I have Everly.”

Slique nodded. “I get it. And I don’t think we should take that risk.” He leaned back, staring up at the ceiling as if the answer might be written there. “All we can do is try to remember her. And hope we find a way to break the spell.”

He wasn’t optimistic. But he wasn’t willing to gamble his life—or anyone else’s—on a feeling he couldn’t explain. The two friends fell into silence again, each sinking deep into their thoughts, lost in questions with no answers.

“I should join you more often,” Kyborg grinned as they walked side by side.

Slique had just finished another show in a dimly lit alleyway. Kyborg hadn’t been there from the start—he’d been called to the city to mediate a dispute between two groups of elves.

Diplomacy wasn’t exactly his strong suit, but the groups had refused to speak to anyone who wasn’t an elf. To his surprise, it had gone better than expected. Not as smoothly as it would have if Bart had handled it, but at least the conflict was resolved—and in Kyborg’s book, that counted as a win.

As he walked through the city afterward, he had heard a familiar voice—Slique’s. It hadn’t taken him long to find him, mostly because of the large crowd gathered around.

Slique still chose to remain anonymous when he performed. There were no tickets, no advertisements—he simply appeared, played, and vanished again. No one knew who he was, except for his friends.

So when Kyborg spotted him, he did the only reasonable thing: he started singing along. Loudly. And horribly. The people around him had immediately turned, ready to throw him out for ruining the performance—until they recognized who he was. Kyborg hadn’t cared. He only hoped he hadn’t actually ruined the show for Slique. But when the dwarf smiled and waved him forward, he knew Slique didn’t mind.

He just liked spending time with him. So they finished the show together—Slique singing beautifully, Kyborg absolutely butchering every note. But it was fun. And that was all that mattered.

“I wouldn’t earn any money then,” Slique teased.

“Oh no, what a tragedy.”

“I assume that means you’ll cover all my expenses, then?”

“Maybe I’ll just put you in a home for the elderly—since you’re so old.”

“And how would you explain that to Everly?”

Kyborg opened his mouth to respond, determined to win the argument, but he was too focused on Slique to see where he was walking. The next thing he knew, he collided with someone. The hooded figure had tried to step aside, but Kyborg had walked straight into her. He turned, ready to apologise—only to freeze.

Cara.

For a split second, her expression was open—caught off guard, unguarded. Then, in the blink of an eye, she shut everything down. Her face smoothed into something unreadable, as if flipping a switch.

Slique hated seeing that.

It wasn’t just that she hid her emotions—it was the way she did it. The way it happened too quickly, too automatically, as if she had learned long ago that showing emotion only led to pain. And worse, it wasn’t just a wall she put up. It was a void.

There was something disturbingly familiar about that. He knew what it was like to fake a smile, to mask a wound before anyone could see it. He had done it for years. But Cara wasn’t even pretending. She had simply shut everything off.

And that made him ache.

“I apologise,” she said, her voice flat, already turning away.

“Wait!” Kyborg shouted—louder than necessary, since she was standing right there.

She turned back slowly, her movements deliberate, her expression still perfectly composed. But when she met Kyborg’s gaze, her eyes were like ice.

“Are you planning to exile me from this city too, or do I have to get a formal decree for that?”

Slique could hear the sharpness in her tone, but he felt the sadness beneath it. And that unsettled him more than anything. Why was he so attuned to her emotions? He had met plenty of people in his life, but no one had ever felt this familiar without reason. And yet, he had no reason. No memory. The way she guarded herself, the way she anticipated Kyborg’s reaction, the way she spoke with just enough bite to hold her ground but not enough to start a fight—it was all so specific.

Too specific.

If she was their enemy, why did it feel like he knew her?

Not just recognised her. Knew her. That didn’t make sense. He wouldn’t have been able to read an enemy this well. No one could fake something like that—not this deeply, not this naturally.

Kyborg blinked, thrown by her words. “No, of course not. You can be wherever you want.”

Cara’s lips quirked slightly—not a smile, but something edged with wry amusement. “Except Boulderay, but good to know that I can be here. Maybe I’ll start keeping track of which places I am allowed in, just to be safe.”

Kyborg opened his mouth, then closed it again. Because she wasn’t wrong.

“We are sorry,” Slique stepped in.

Cara’s blue eyes flicked to him, locking onto his gaze. For a moment, she studied him, as if weighing his words—testing them for sincerity. The coldness she had given Kyborg was gone. What remained was something softer, heavier. Sadness. And something else buried beneath it.

Longing.

That settled it. She had definitely known them as something other than enemies. Either that, or she was the greatest actress to ever live. And if that were the case, he doubted they would ever know they were enemies.

“We shouldn’t have told you to leave Boulderay,” he admitted.

“It’s Brink’s city,” she replied, her tone as flat as before.

“He’s not a dictator. We have a say in it too,” Kyborg added.

Her eyes slid toward him, her expression unreadable. “Right. And you all made your opinions very clear.”

Kyborg shifted awkwardly. “We should have. We just… don’t know what to do. We can’t remember you.”

She let out a slow, measured sigh.

“I know,” she murmured, voice barely above a whisper. “I figured that out already.”

“But you remember us?” Slique asked, though he already knew the answer.

“Yes.”

“Then why didn’t you say that?” Kyborg asked.

Cara let out a humorless chuckle. “Oh, right. I should’ve just walked up to you and said, ‘Hey, you don’t remember me, but I know everything about you. No need to be suspicious.’ That would’ve gone great.”

Kyborg opened his mouth, but she cut him off before he could speak.

“Let’s be honest here,” she continued. “It didn’t take much for Brink to throw me out. What do you think would’ve happened if I started claiming things no one could verify?”

“You could have given us proof,” Kyborg pressed, his voice lacking hostility—just quiet, desperate hope.

Cara tilted her head, a slow, knowing look crossing her face. “Oh? And if I had? If I had said something only a close friend would know? Then what, Kyborg?” Her voice sharpened, laced with something raw and bitter. “Would you have believed me? Or would you have just wondered how I knew? Thought I was some manipulative stranger digging into your past?”

Silence stretched between them.

Slique hated this.

He understood her, felt the weight of her words in his chest. And yet—he didn’t know why. Didn’t know her. And the thought of hearing her stories, of listening to her say things he should feel but wouldn’t—it made him feel sick. Because if she was telling the truth… if they had really known her…  Then not remembering her was worse than anything else. Yet after a few seconds, Slique decided this was worse.

Far worse.

She was standing right in front of them—sad, lost, alone—remembering them when they didn’t remember her. It didn’t matter if they couldn’t recall, if even Dia didn’t have an answer. Maybe knowing they didn’t remember would hurt her, but maybe speaking it would help. Maybe saying something out loud would prove that she knew them.

Maybe it would give her something to hold on to.

He was lost here, completely out of his depth. He had no idea how to handle this—none of them did. But they couldn’t just let this moment slip away. She was here, in front of them, in a city far from Boulderay.

She hadn't planned to return there. He didn’t know how he knew that, but he did. And that made this moment feel even more urgent—like a fleeting chance he could not let slip through his fingers.

Slique swallowed, his throat suddenly dry. “Can you… can you tell us something?” His voice was softer than he meant it to be, almost pleading. “Something that proves you know us?”

Cara’s eyes flicked to him, and for a moment, he swore she softened—just a little—before she closed them. A long silence stretched between them.

Then, finally, she exhaled and met his gaze once more.

“Your mother used to sing to you when you were a child,” she said, her voice laced with something heavier than sorrow. “That’s where your love for music started, and you only got your first lute because it was her dying wish.”

Slique’s breath caught in his throat.

“If it had been up to your father,” she continued, “you would have never had it.”

The weight in her voice—the sadness—was the same grief Kyborg carried whenever he spoke of Slique’s father. The same hurt that only those who knew could understand. Slique staggered under the words. This wasn’t something people knew about him. It wasn’t some common story told over drinks or passed between acquaintances. He had told very few people—trusted people.

She turned then, her gaze landing on Kyborg.

“You do backflips all the time because your mother did them,” she said. “In battle, in training—everywhere. You said it didn’t matter if it was a risk, because if she could do it, then so could you.”

Kyborg blinked, caught completely off guard.

“But that’s only part of the truth,” Cara added, her voice quieter now, sharper. “You also did them because you didn’t care if you lived or died. Because if something went wrong, if you fell, at least you’d be with your family again.”

Silence crashed over them.

Kyborg stared at her in open shock. Slique felt his chest tighten, his throat closing around words he couldn’t form. He wanted to speak—to say something—but his mind was reeling, struggling to process it all.

This wasn’t information she could have picked up in passing. This wasn’t the kind of thing you learned through rumours or distant stories. She had known them. Truly known them.

And still, Slique couldn’t remember her.

Desperation clawed at him as he tried, as he forced himself to remember—but the pain struck fast, sharp and punishing. The familiar, unbearable ache that always came when he got too close to something real.

He saw the moment Cara registered their silence. Her expression shifted—her eyes went cold, her face unreadable—but Slique saw the pain. This was exactly what she had feared. They did not remember her. Her fingers twitched like she was about to turn, about to walk away, and Slique—without thinking—reached out, grabbing her hand.

“Don’t go,” he pleaded.

Her eyes met his, and Slique felt it—a sharp, undeniable pull, like an invisible thread yanking him toward something unseen, something he should know but couldn’t grasp. For a fleeting moment, the mask she wore cracked, just enough for him to glimpse what lay beneath. And in that single heartbeat, he saw everything. Sadness, heavy and aching. Fear, lingering just beneath the surface. Longing, raw and unspoken. A loneliness so deep it made his chest tighten. And underneath it all, friendship, love—real and familiar, something that should be his to claim but wasn’t. It hit him harder than he expected, like an impact he hadn’t braced for, knocking the breath from his lungs.

Then, just as quickly as it had appeared, it was gone. Walls slammed back into place, shutting him out completely, and he hated it. It was wrong, unnatural, like watching someone hold their breath underwater for too long. He wanted to drag her back, to make her let him in again, but the words wouldn’t come.

“What do you expect me to do?” Cara’s voice was steady, but there was an edge to it, a sharpness honed by hurt. “Stand here and look at you both, knowing you don’t remember me? Knowing I’m nothing more than a stranger to you now? Pretend this doesn’t feel like someone ripped a part of me away and left me staring at the empty space where you used to be?”

Slique had no answer. Because yes. Yes, he would want to know. He wanted to remember. But every time he tried, pain lanced through his skull, sharp and unforgiving, as if something—someone—was keeping the truth just out of reach.

Kyborg clenched his fists, his frustration simmering beneath the surface, threatening to boil over. Every word she spoke stoked the fire inside him, an anger he couldn’t explain, a rage at how wrong all of this felt. “So that’s it?” His voice was harder now, cutting through the space between them. “You’re just walking away?”

Her lips pressed into a thin line, her gaze unreadable, but Slique saw the way her fingers curled slightly, like she was bracing herself. When she finally spoke, her voice was quieter, but no less firm. “I’ll forgive you for saying that,” she murmured, and there was no venom in it—only exhaustion. “Because you don’t know me. You have no idea what I’ve been through. How much I lost. How hard it was just to stand here in front of you, only to realise you don’t remember me at all.”

Kyborg flinched, the anger draining from him as quickly as it had come. Because she was right. He didn’t know. He had no idea what she had been through, what it had cost her just to be standing there now.

“But you must have been our friend,” he said, his voice softer now, hesitant. “And if you were, then we don’t want to lose you again.”

Cara closed her eyes, exhaling slowly, as if forcing herself to process his words, to let herself believe them. Slique could feel the war inside her, the way she was measuring the risk against the reward, weighing whether it was worth it to let them in again. He didn’t know what he would have done in her place. He didn’t know how she was handling it at all. But the fact that she had to know how to handle this—that she had needed to—felt deeply, achingly wrong.

When she finally spoke again, her voice was quieter, like she was afraid to say the words out loud. “What do you want me to do?” she asked. “Pretend I don’t know you?”

“Yes,” Kyborg said instantly, his usual confidence creeping back in. “We can just get to know each other again.”

Slique felt his chest tighten at how easy he made it sound. As if this wasn’t something that had already been stolen from them once. But even so, he nodded. “We want to,” he said, meeting her gaze. “We’d gladly get to know you again.”

She looked at him then, really looked, as if trying to decide whether she could trust him with this, with herself. And for the first time, Slique saw something new in her expression. Fear. Not of them, not of what they might do—but of hoping. Of believing that this could work, only to lose them again.

Then, she glanced down. Only then did Slique realise he was still holding her hand. He hadn’t even noticed. He was about to let go, but then—just for a second—she squeezed his fingers, as if grounding herself, as if convincing herself this was real.

After another long pause, she finally lifted her gaze and gave a small nod.

Kyborg grinned. “Awesome. Now let’s go before you remember how much of an idiot I was back in the day and change your mind.”

Cara exhaled softly, something almost like a chuckle escaping her lips. “That isn’t something you forget,” she said teasingly, releasing Slique’s hand. “All I need to say is apawthecary.”

Kyborg groaned. “If just one person could forget that story…” he muttered, as Slique chuckled.

The tavern sat on a quiet street corner, its wooden beams weathered from years of service, the scent of roasted meat and fresh bread wafting through the air. A handful of lanterns flickered against the encroaching evening, casting a warm glow over the outdoor seating area. It wasn’t a rowdy place, not like the ones they sometimes found themselves in after a mission. This was the kind of tavern where conversations remained hushed, where travellers stopped for respite rather than revelry.

Slique took a slow sip of his wine, his gaze flicking to the cup in Cara’s hands. Tea. It wasn’t as if he knew, not truly, but somehow it felt… right. He had no memory to explain it, no recollection of sitting across from her before, watching her drink tea, but still, the association was there. A quiet certainty, buried beneath all the unknowns. She didn’t always drink tea—he knew that, somehow—but often enough that it felt familiar. And familiar, these days, was worth holding onto.

Kyborg, on the other hand, was nursing an ale, though he seemed far more focused on filling the silence than actually drinking it.

“So… where do we even start?” He shifted in his chair, glancing between them before throwing up his hands. “I mean, honestly, this is ridiculous. We’ve got a woman sitting here who knows everything about us, but we don’t know a bloody thing about her! Do we just… ask her where she’s from? What she does in her spare time? ‘Hey, Cara, what’s your favourite colour?’”

His voice took on a mockingly serious tone, as if he were conducting some sort of formal interview.

“Or do we go for the bigger questions? ‘Have you ever killed anyone? Are you secretly working for some grand evil force bent on destroying the world?’” He took a sip of his ale, then immediately pointed at her. “That last one isn’t a joke, by the way. If you are, now’s the time to come clean.”

Still met with silence, he huffed and looked to Slique.

“Oh, come on! I am not the charismatic talker here. You—” he jabbed a finger at Cara “—clearly have a sharp tongue, and you—” now at Slique “—are literally a bard. One of you say something before I start talking about the weather!”

“Maybe we simply like to see you squirm,” Cara said smoothly, taking a sip of her tea.

Slique’s lips curled into a smile before he could stop himself.

“How long do you think he will continue rambling if we say nothing?” he mused, casting Cara a sidelong glance.

A flicker of amusement crossed her face, and just like that, the moment felt… natural. As if they had done this countless times before—teasing Kyborg, making him dig himself deeper into his own frantic monologues. And judging by the flicker of recognition in Kyborg’s eyes, he felt it too.

“Absolutely not!” Kyborg huffed, pointing a finger at them both. “You are not ganging up on me! This is a conversation, all three of us, not just me!”

And then it hit him.

That feeling. That knowledge.

The certainty that these two had a tendency to tease him—that this was something they had always done. And unlike before, the thought came without pain. No headache, no stabbing sensation like something trying to break free of his mind. Just a truth, sitting there as if it had never been taken from him in the first place.

That alone was enough to lift his spirits.

Cara, however, remained quiet for a few more moments, her fingers idly tracing the rim of her teacup. Just as Kyborg was about to crack and start talking again, she finally spoke.

“I simply don’t know what to say.”

“That would be a first,” Kyborg shot back without thinking.

The words left his mouth before he even considered them, as natural as breathing. He didn’t know if it was true, but it felt true. And judging by the flicker of surprise in Cara’s expression, followed by the warmth of her smile, it was.

“Salvage the moment,” she murmured, her gaze flicking back down to her tea. A moment passed before she sighed. “I can’t tell you our full story.”

“Then don’t,” Kyborg said with a shrug. “We’re supposed to get to know you again, right? So let’s do it properly. Start fresh. Tell us the things people usually say at the beginning. Age, family, work—all that fun stuff.”

“Favourite colour is green,” she finally said. A small, simple truth, but an honest one, and it was enough to make both men smile.

“I do not work for an evil organisation set on destroying the world,” she continued, fingers idly tracing patterns on the wooden surface of the table. “If I’m not running them, it’s far too much effort to work for someone else.”

Kyborg, who had been taking a sip of his ale, nearly choked. “If you’re not running them?” he repeated incredulously, setting his tankard down with a thunk.

Cara smirked into her tea, eyes glinting with amusement. “You heard me.”

Slique leaned back in his chair, watching the exchange with amusement. There was a confidence in the way she spoke, a dry humour laced between her words that felt… right. As if this was how she had always been, sharp-witted and effortlessly composed.

Kyborg, however, wasn’t about to let that slide. “And how long has it been since you last ran an evil organisation, then?” he asked, narrowing his eyes.

Cara bit her lip, as if debating whether to answer. “Hm… at least four hundred years, I think,” she mused. “I lost count somewhere along the way.”

“Four hundred?” Kyborg sat up straighter, eyeing her with renewed scrutiny. “So you’re not human?”

That was what puzzled him most. She didn’t have elven ears, nor the stature of a dwarf or the presence of a dragon. She looked human. So how could she be that old?

“This is the problem,” Cara sighed, rubbing her temple. “Everything is so complicated, and you two know nothing.”

“Then tell us,” Slique said simply. “We might not understand, but we won’t judge.”

She met his eyes, her lips twitching into a small, almost reluctant smile. “No, you never do,” she murmured. Then, with a teasing glance towards Kyborg, she added, “The one over there might, though.”

Kyborg huffed, placing a hand on his chest in mock offence. “I am an incredibly open-minded individual, thank you very much.”

Cara let out a soft chuckle before taking another sip of tea. “At this time, I believe I’m around thirteen hundred years old,” she said at last. “But honestly, you stop counting after a while.”

Kyborg gawked at her. “Thirteen hundred?”

“You don’t look a day over twelve hundred,” Slique quipped, his tone so casual that Cara let out an unexpected laugh.

“The secret is a good night cream,” she replied dryly, shaking her head.

Then, her expression softened slightly, becoming more thoughtful. “I’m not originally from here. I can travel between different worlds. Have been since I was seventeen. My magic helped me stay alive longer than most humans.”

Kyborg, still trying to wrap his head around it all, muttered, “I’ll say so.” He ran a hand through his hair. “So, does that mean you can live forever, or what?”

The question seemed to strike something deeper. Cara’s fingers stilled against her teacup, her gaze flickering with something unreadable. She hesitated—not in the playful, teasing way she had before, but as if she were considering the weight of her answer.

Slique noticed the shift immediately. She trusted them—at least, she trusted the versions of them she remembered. But they weren’t those people anymore, not fully, and it was as though she feared that whatever she said next could push them away.

“You don’t have to tell us,” Slique said gently.

Cara exhaled softly, nodding once. “I might, one day.”

And though she didn’t say more, the way she held her cup a little tighter, the way she averted her gaze just slightly, told him everything he needed to know.

“So, oooookay—favourite food?” Kyborg asked, drawing out the word as if the longer he made it, the more time he could buy to steer the conversation into something easy.

“Everything from the sea or wild meat, like—”

“Boar or reindeer,” Slique finished automatically.

Cara’s head turned to him, surprise flashing in her eyes, and he felt it too. The words had just slipped out, unbidden, like a muscle memory of the mind. And yet, unlike every other time he had tried to grasp at something buried in the haze, this one came without pain. No sharp sting behind his eyes, no dull ache clawing at his skull. Just... knowledge. Familiarity.

But the best part wasn’t that he remembered—it was the way Cara smiled at him. Bright, warm, like a tiny flicker of hope had reignited inside her. And Slique found himself wanting to see that smile again, to keep pulling at the frayed edges of this missing piece between them until it unravelled entirely.

Kyborg, of course, had no patience for sentiment. He snorted, giving Slique a pointed look. “Ohhh, so you’re a fancy noble type, huh? Strange that Brink didn’t like you. You two probably would’ve got along well, sitting around in some grand hall, drinking fine wine, talking about how uncultured the rest of us are.” His eyes flicked back to Slique with a dramatic glare. “And you—I swear, you would have been there with them. You also look way too pleased about that.”

Slique raised his cup with an exaggerated air of sophistication. “Well, obviously, Kyborg, we noble types simply have more refined palates. It’s not our fault you cannot recognising the difference between fine cuisine and whatever half-cooked disaster you usually throw over a fire.”

“Oh, come on! I cook just fine,” Kyborg shot back. “I just like my food simple. Meat. Fire. Done.”

“You char everything beyond recognition.”

“That’s flavour.”

“That’s carbon.”

Cara chuckled, shaking her head. “You haven’t changed a bit.”

Kyborg smirked. “Perfect just the way I am.”

Slique rolled his eyes, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that this was right. The banter, the warmth, the effortless way their conversation flowed. Like they had done this a hundred times before. And judging by the way Kyborg was grinning, he felt it too.

“So,” Kyborg continued, eager to keep the light-hearted momentum going, “favourite animal? Weather? Day of the week? Infinight?”

Cara tilted her head in thought. “Polar bears, horses, and dogs.”

“You know how to ride, then?” Kyborg asked, cutting in before she had even finished.

She arched a brow. “Was that a question, or were you just narrating the obvious?”

Slique smothered a laugh behind his cup, while Kyborg groaned. “Oh, come on.”

“I’m just saying,” she teased, a smirk playing at her lips. “At this rate, next you’ll ask if I know how to swim just because I like the sea.”

Kyborg muttered something under his breath about being bullied as Cara took another sip of tea. Then, glancing between them, she added, “And for the record, it’s rude to interrupt people.”

Kyborg grinned. “I was raised in the woods, y’know. No one taught me any better.”

Her gaze flicked to Slique before she could stop herself, an old habit resurfacing. “Shouldn’t you be the one to teach him some manners?”

Slique blinked, caught off guard. It was such a casual statement, laced with teasing familiarity—but the second the words left her lips, she faltered. Because she saw the moment it hit him. The moment he realised he should know that. That this was something he would have done, had probably always done.

Then he saw it.

The brief flicker of realisation in her eyes. She had spoken without thinking, without remembering that he didn’t remember. And now, the sorrow was back.

“Right,” she murmured, her voice softer now. “You don’t remember that.”

Slique’s chest tightened. “I don’t,” he admitted. “But… it feels like something I should have done, even if I don’t recall it.” He forced a smirk, trying to ease the moment. “That said, I fear Kyborg is a hopeless case.”

“I am sitting right here!” Kyborg huffed.

They ignored him.

Cara hesitated for just a second, then gave a small nod, accepting the answer for what it was.

“Favourite weather is storms,” Cara eventually continued, as if nothing had happened. “Especially thunderstorms. Favourite day of the week? Monday.”

Kyborg made a face. “Monday? That’s the worst answer.”

Cara smirked. “Then you’ll hate this one—favourite Infinight is not you, Kyborg, no matter how much you want it to be.”

“It’s Mudd, isn’t it?” Kyborg accused, narrowing his eyes. “It’s because he can turn into animals, isn’t it? Stupid magic.”

Cara chuckled, shaking her head. “It’s not Mudd either. But I’m not going to tell you who.”

Slique watched her closely, taking in the way she had relaxed just a little more. How, for the first time, she looked almost at ease. And yet, beneath all the teasing and light conversation, he could still feel the weight of something unspoken.

Something just out of reach.

“Come on, tell me! I can handle it!” Kyborg insisted, leaning forward eagerly.

Cara lifted her teacup, glancing at him with an almost amused look before smirking. “It’s Slique.”

That took both men by surprise.

For Kyborg, it was a rush of pure delight. Not because it was a competition, not because he thought Slique needed validation, but because he knew how much Slique had struggled to see himself as worthy. He had watched his brother drown in self-loathing, had seen how hard it had been for him to accept that he deserved to be liked, to be wanted. And yet, here was someone who had known them for so long, someone who had always seen Slique as the best of them. Kyborg wasn’t just happy—he was relieved. It felt like a weight had been lifted, like maybe, just maybe, Slique would start to believe what Kyborg had been trying to tell him all these years.

For Slique, it was different. He stared at her, uncertain, because he truly didn’t understand how or why he was her favourite. He had come to terms with who he was now, had learned to like himself—most of the time—but the idea that someone had chosen him back then, before he had found that self-acceptance, was overwhelming. His entire identity as an Infinight had been built on a lie. Did she know that? Had she believed in the version of him that the world had seen, or had she known the truth? A part of him almost hoped she hadn’t, because the idea that she had known and still felt this way made his chest tighten in a way he didn’t know how to deal with.

Kyborg, ever the troublemaker, tried to pry further. “He isn’t an Infinight anymore,” he pointed out, smirking, as if trying to bait her into changing her answer.

Cara didn’t so much as blink. “He was when I got to know you all, and I’m not changing my answer just to make you feel better.”

Slique latched onto that feeling. It was something small, but it mattered. “We’ve known each other that long?” His voice was quieter now, almost hesitant, afraid of the answer.

Cara turned toward him, nodding. “We have. I met you all a few months before the cave-in, and I saw you become the Infinights.”

The weight of those words settled over him like a thick fog. He had no memories to grasp onto, nothing to pull from, but the truth in her voice made his stomach twist. “Then you know…”

“What you and Luce did?” she finished for him, as if she had anticipated the question. “Yeah. I didn’t then, but I know now.”

Slique exhaled slowly, bracing himself, waiting for the judgment—the resentment. But none of it came.

“I don’t care,” she said simply.

His breath caught. “You don’t care?”

She shook her head. “Nope. Not at all. I didn’t care when I got to know, not like Kyborg, who spat on you.”

Kyborg tensed at the reminder, shifting uncomfortably in his chair. It had been years. Slique had forgiven him. But Cara? Cara clearly hadn’t.

Her expression sharpened, ice creeping into her gaze, and for the first time, Kyborg felt a very real chill settle over him. She might have been teasing a moment ago, but the steel behind her words was real. It didn’t matter how much time had passed—she still wasn’t over it. And for some reason, that stung.

Something flickered in his mind. A sensation. A memory just out of reach.

“You punched me,” he said suddenly, blinking in surprise. He wasn’t sure how he remembered, but he did. He could almost feel the sharp snap of her fist against his jaw, the way it had rattled him.

Cara smirked, entirely unapologetic. “I did. And I’d do it again.”

Kyborg chuckled, rubbing his chin as if expecting to find an old bruise. “Dia, I think I actually remember that.”

The fact that he could recall anything without pain sent a flicker of hope through him.

Slique, meanwhile, had gone quiet, staring at Cara in something close to awe. He could not remember this at all, and he hated it. Someone had stood up for him. Someone had punched Kyborg for him. And yet, he had forgotten her.

"Why?" It was all Slique could ask.

Cara exhaled, a slow, measured breath—not frustration, but something deeper. A weight she had carried for too long.

“You were my friend,” she said, steady but quiet. “And I cared about you. What happened to you wasn’t fair, and while the foundation of it all may have been a lie, the good you did was real. I watched you all grow into the roles the world needed you to play. I saw the people you saved, the lives you changed. But I also saw the cost.”

Her fingers traced absently along the rim of her cup. “There was something eating away at you, long before the truth came out. I could see it, but you never spoke about it. I told you that you could, but you never did. And I never pushed, because I don’t believe in forcing people to share things they aren’t ready to say.” She paused, letting the words settle before continuing, her voice dipping softer. “Then we saw your memories. And finally, I understood. Everything you had hidden, everything you had refused to let anyone else carry. And I wasn’t angry. I wasn’t disappointed. I was just… sad. Sad that you never let me help you, because I would have. Without judgment, without hesitation.”

Slique believed her. He didn’t remember, but he believed her. And somehow, that regret—the regret of not telling her when he had the chance—settled deeper than anything else.

Cara’s expression hardened. Not cold, not emotionless, but firm. The kind of quiet, burning anger that didn’t fade with time. “The others were furious when the truth came out, and I understood that. I understood Acutarious’ disappointment, because his anger wasn’t about betrayal—it was about grief. He wasn’t angry at you, he was angry at the situation, at the pain of knowing what you did, that you lied, what happened later and what could have been different. And that, I could respect.”

Then her fingers curled tighter around her cup, and her voice sharpened ever so slightly. “But the others?” A breath, measured but carrying a dangerous edge. “They weren’t just angry. They spat at you. Spat at you. Like everything you had done, everything you had fought for, everything you had suffered, meant nothing. They wanted someone to blame, and you were the easiest choice.”

Then, at last, she turned her gaze on Kyborg.

“And then there was you,” she said, her voice deceptively smooth. “From the moment we pulled Slique out of Ürbloom, to the moment we thought he was dead, you hated him. You loathed him. You refused to see him as anything but a mistake. You didn’t even hesitate when you spat at him.”

Kyborg stiffened, but she didn’t let up.

“And you had the audacity to act like you were the victim when the truth came out,” she continued, her voice still eerily composed, but now carrying something colder beneath it. “You, who thought leaving him behind to be tortured was just a difficult but reasonable decision. Do you know what torture does to a person, Kyborg?” She didn’t raise her voice, but there was something in her tone—something that made it clear that she did.

A silence stretched between them, heavy and unyielding.

Then, at last, she exhaled, rolling her shoulders back slightly, as if shaking off the weight of old anger. And when she spoke again, her voice was softer. “But I also know you aren’t that person anymore. I know that this version of you would never make that choice again. I know that Slique forgave you, and I know you’ve been there for each other since then.” Her lips curled slightly, not quite a smirk, but something warmer, something genuine. “And I am glad. Genuinely.”

Then, she leaned back slightly, taking a small sip of her tea before continuing, almost too casually.

“But if you ever treat him like that again, Kyborg, I will feed you to something with more teeth than sense.”

And just like that, the tension in the air shattered.

Kyborg let out a breath he hadn’t realised he’d been holding, then shook his head with a half-laugh. “You really punched me, didn’t you?”

Cara raised a single, elegant brow. “Oh, I decked you.”

Kyborg groaned, rubbing his jaw, as if the memory might come flooding back through sheer force of will. “Great. I bet I deserved it.”

“You did,” she said smoothly. “And if you ever forget that, I’d be happy to remind you.”

“So… were you with us from the beginning? When we first became interns?” Kyborg asked, tilting his head slightly as he studied Cara.

She shook her head. “No, I was away travelling. But when I came back, Felix told me the Infinights were gone.” Her fingers curled lightly around her teacup, her grip just a little too firm. “I don’t think he kept it from me because he didn’t trust me. I think he kept it from me because he knew exactly how I would react. And he wasn’t ready for that.”

She exhaled slowly, a quiet huff of breath that carried the weight of something restrained. “And he was right. Because the moment he told me, I was furious.” Her jaw tightened slightly. “Not just at Luce—because I didn’t even know what she had done yet—but at him, at all of them, for acting as if this was just… the way things were now.”

Her gaze darkened slightly, but there was something else beneath it. Something quieter. “Acutarious was the one who finally said it. That you were gone. But they knew where you were. And that he needed me.” Her voice softened, but only slightly. “He was relieved that I was back—not because he wanted to hand over responsibility, but because we could help each other. We could help you. And he knew I wasn’t going to stand by and let you all suffer for someone else’s choices.”

Kyborg frowned slightly. “But you weren’t an Infinight?”

Cara smirked. “No. Not my kind of role. Heroes follow rules, and I prefer to do what actually needs to be done. People like their heroes to act a certain way, to fit a mould, to make them feel good about the world. I’ve never been very good at that.”

Slique studied her, something settling inside him as she spoke. He had suspected from the start that she was dangerous, but he wasn’t afraid of her. Maybe because, for the first time in this entire conversation, he felt sure of one thing—she was not dangerous to him.

And that certainty was a strange kind of comfort.

Cara continued, her voice quieter now. “When we got to Ürbloom, I knew something was wrong. It didn’t take me long to see it. You weren’t you. I didn’t know how or why, but I knew something had a hold on you.” Her fingers tensed slightly around the handle of her cup. “But none of that mattered, because before I could do anything about it, Luce came to the tower.”

Slique felt something shift inside him, something sharp and sudden. The words left his mouth before he could stop them. “She put a collar on you.”

Cara nodded, expression unreadable, though Slique could feel the tension that rolled beneath her composed exterior. “She did. So I wouldn’t be able to use my magic. So I couldn’t teleport us out when we were trapped in Kaltburg. I could still fight, but she made sure I couldn’t ruin her plans.”

Slique’s hands curled into fists. The thought of anyone restraining Cara that way made something burn in his chest. He barely knew her—at least, not in the way he should—but even now, it felt wrong.

Cara’s fingers tapped idly against her cup, as if feeling his anger. “At the very least, we found Spectril,” she mused. “Should’ve punched him for wanting to start a war, though.”

Her voice was lighter, but only just.

“Anyhow you four were set on stopping it. And you—” she glanced at Slique, “—you wouldn’t let it go. You insisted on going after them, on protecting them.”

Slique didn’t know how he knew it, but it felt right.

Cara studied him for a long moment before exhaling, almost like she was letting something go. “I didn’t follow because I believed in some grand cause,” she admitted. “I followed because I wasn’t going to let you walk into that alone.”

She didn’t say the words outright, but Slique heard them all the same.

She had stayed. Because he mattered.

This was the worst part. Not because he doubted her words—no, every syllable she spoke carried a truth he felt, even if he couldn’t remember it—but because the more she spoke, the more it became clear just how much he had lost.

They had been close. She had been there for him. She had stood beside him through things he no longer remembered, and that hurt in a way he didn’t know how to describe. It was as if a part of his soul had been carved away, leaving behind only a hollow space where something important should have been.

The thought made him feel sick.

It was almost impossible to comprehend. The idea of forgetting her—whoever she had been to him—felt as wrong as the thought of forgetting Kyborg and everything they had been through together. The very idea that someone could have ripped those memories away from him, that there was a time when he had known her, trusted her, relied on her, and now… nothing. Just absence. Just a painful void where something vital had once existed.

His fingers curled against the table, gripping the edge as if trying to ground himself. His voice, when it came, was quiet, but not weak—controlled.

“This isn’t just magic,” he said, forcing himself to meet her eyes. “It’s something more. Someone did this to us. Who?”

The silence that followed stretched thick and heavy between them.

Slique watched her carefully, searching for something—hesitation, uncertainty, even shock. Did she know this would happen? Had she expected to return and be forgotten? Or had it struck her like a knife to the gut, the moment Bart looked her in the eye and asked, Who are you?

That thought unsettled him more than he wanted to admit.

Had she walked into Boulderay believing she still had a place there, only to realise she had been erased? Had she spent days—weeks—wandering through familiar streets, looking at people she once called friends, waiting for recognition that never came? Had she stood there, heart pounding, watching them talk and laugh as if she had never been a part of it?

Had she spent five years thinking of them, only to return and find that they hadn’t spent even a second thinking of her?

His throat tightened at the thought.

Maybe she hadn’t known. Maybe she had returned expecting to pick up where they left off, only to realise that the life she had once been part of was gone. That the people she had fought for, bled for, didn’t even know she existed.

And maybe that was the worst part of all.

“Entropa did,” she finally said.

The weight of her words settled over them like a heavy fog, thick and suffocating. Kyborg frowned, his fingers tapping restlessly against the table. He tried—really tried—to force a memory to surface, but the harder he reached for it, the more elusive it became. It wasn’t just forgetting. It was something deeper, something unnatural. And he hated it.

“So you were there with us?” he asked, frustration creeping into his voice. “During the last fight?”

Cara’s fingers curled around her cup, gaze lowering slightly before she nodded. “I was. I went with you after Slique and Spectril told me to.”

Kyborg blinked. “Wait—so we knew they survived? Or at least, you did?”

A small, humourless smile crossed her lips. “I did,” she admitted. “Because I refused to let Slique sacrifice himself. I wasn’t about to watch both him and Spectril die.”

Slique felt something tighten in his chest. He didn’t remember any of this, but the way she said it—so certain, so steady—it wasn’t something he could doubt.

“How did we survive?” he asked quietly. “All I remember is waking up in some hut in the middle of nowhere.”

“All I remember,” Kyborg muttered, running a hand through his hair, “is thinking they were dead.”

Cara studied them both, something unreadable in her gaze. When she finally spoke, her voice was even, but there was an edge to it.

“You survived because I wasn’t willing to watch my friends burn to death.”

She set her teacup down, her fingers resting against the rim. “After Paralyth had made Spectril stab you, and then, through him, trying to kill the others. You—” she turned to Slique, her voice softer now, but no less intense, “you were barely standing, but you still came back. I saw you—lute in hand, slowing down time just enough for the others to escape.”

Slique swallowed. He did remember that, just not her being there. It was as it every memory was missing something, they just hadn’t known about it. He could not remember her being there, but it felt right that she was.

“The others ran for the door,” Cara continued. “But I wasn’t going to leave you both behind. So I pushed Spectril and you out of the window. The tree base exploded just as we hit the vines.”

Her hands clenched slightly, as if she could still feel the impact. “I held onto you, both of you, and fought to get you down. You were injured—badly. Spectril was barely conscious after what Luce had done to him. But I managed. Somehow, I got us out of there. Found an abandoned hut. And then spent three months fighting to keep you alive.”

Slique exhaled slowly, absorbing every word. The weight of it settled over him, pressing down on something he didn’t even realise had been hollow.

Cara gave a small shake of her head. “It would’ve been easier without that damned collar,” she muttered, almost to herself. “But I managed. I had to.”

Kyborg finally found his voice. “And then?”

Cara’s gaze flickered toward him. “Then, we made it back to Boulderay. And things had… changed.” Her voice wasn’t bitter, just matter-of-fact. “Brink was mayor. The four of you were already gone, searching for the Dia gems. And I didn’t see you again until after you freed Bart’s fathers.”

“That was almost right before we met Entropa,” Kyborg remarked, his brow furrowing as he tried to piece together fragments of memory that refused to align.

Cara nodded. “It was. Slique and Spectril insisted that I accompany you—to watch your backs.”

Kyborg turned to Slique with an exaggerated grin, his voice light with affection. “Aww, were you looking out for us?”

“They always were,” Cara interjected smoothly, her gaze flickering toward Slique. “That’s why he made sure the guards went after him—why he let himself be taken and tortured—because he believed he could handle it better than the rest of you.” Her voice, while even, carried a weight beneath it. One that had clearly been there for a long time. She turned her attention fully to Slique then, her expression sharp but not unkind. “Which, might I add, was an incredibly foolish decision.”

Slique met her stare, something stirring deep inside him, an instinct more than a memory. The words left him before he could stop them. “Better me than you.”

Cara’s lips parted slightly, and for the briefest moment, something unreadable flashed across her face—recognition, understanding, maybe even frustration. Then her expression shifted, and she let out a dry, unimpressed laugh. “Oh, of course. Better you than the woman with healing abilities.” Her voice dripped with sarcasm as she arched an eyebrow at him. “A flawless plan, truly.”

Slique had no rebuttal for that.

Before he could respond, Cara turned back to Kyborg, shaking her head. “So yes, they were looking out for you. As always.” She exhaled, as if shaking off something heavier, before continuing, “So off we went. And truthfully, I never imagined they would join us. And certainly not with Smarsh.”

Kyborg’s face lit up, his eyes practically gleaming with excitement. “That was such an awesome moment!”

This time, Cara actually chuckled. “I’ll admit, I was surprised. But it was one hell of an entrance.”

“So what happened? Why have we forgotten that you were there?” Kyborg asked, frustration seeping into his voice. Stupid magic—always needlessly complicated.

“Entropa happened,” Cara replied simply, her voice calm but firm. “He came to end you.” A quiet breath escaped her, measured but heavy. “The last thing I saw was a blinding light, and from what I’ve gathered, Dia saved you.”

Kyborg frowned. “Then why not you?” He couldn’t fathom a reason for Dia to leave her behind if she had been their friend. GumGum’s mother wasn’t the type to abandon people.

Cara regarded him steadily, not offended by the question but unsurprised by it. “Because Entropa reached me first,” she explained. “I still hadn’t removed the collar. I had tried, but those things are insidiously complex—designed to suppress every ounce of magic. Perhaps he sensed that I was a threat. That if Dia got to me, I would have been able to help you all stop him. Or maybe he acted on instinct, removing a piece from the board before it could interfere.” Her lips curled slightly, almost wryly. “Regardless of his reasoning, he succeeded. Before she had the chance to reach me, he cast me out of your world.”

Slique’s fingers tightened around his cup. “Where did you end up?” His voice was quiet, but the concern beneath it was unmistakable.

For the first time, something softened in Cara’s expression. She turned toward him with a small, almost reassuring smile. “Fortunately, I had just enough control to choose my destination,” she said. “I returned to someone I trusted—someone capable of removing the collar. That, at least, was simple.” She paused for a moment, gaze flickering downward as she traced the rim of her cup. “The hard part was finding my way back.”

She exhaled, her voice taking on a quieter, weightier tone. “It took years. Entropa’s magic fought me at every turn, holding me outside of this world like an impenetrable barrier. And the worst part?” She lifted her eyes again, something unreadable in them. “I had no way of knowing if any of you had survived. Or how much time had passed. Time is fluid between worlds. What is years in one place may be only moments in another.”

Slique’s chest tightened at the thought. The isolation. The uncertainty.

“But I did return,” she continued, her voice regaining some of its composure. “And as I made my way to Boulderay, I began hearing stories—tales of your triumph over Entropa, of what each of you had accomplished since. I was relieved. Overjoyed, even.” A faint smile ghosted across her lips, but there was something fragile about it. “I never questioned why none of those stories included me. I simply assumed that, as I had never been an Infinight, my name had no place in their retellings.”

Her expression darkened slightly, the small smile fading. “It wasn’t until Bart looked at me and asked who I was that I realised the truth.” She glanced down, fingers tightening around her cup. “No one mentioned me… because no one remembered me.”

A beat of silence.

She inhaled, steadying herself before meeting their gazes once more. “And when I saw all of you staring back at me as though I were a stranger, I knew.”

“This sucks!” Kyborg burst out, his frustration clear in every word. He hated this—hated that magic had once again made things unnecessarily complicated. Hated that there was nothing he could do to fix it. His hands clenched into fists, and he had to resist the urge to hit something, just to let out some of the anger boiling inside him.

Slique, however, wasn’t angry—he just felt hollow. A deep, aching sadness settled in his chest as he looked at Cara, seeing the weight of everything she had been through. She had come back to them, eager, relieved, expecting familiarity. And they had given her nothing. The first thing she had faced was Brink’s rejection, and none of them had done a damn thing to stop it. She had been thrilled to see them alive, only to watch them turn away from her as if she was no one.

“I am sorry,” Slique said, his voice low but firm. Cara turned toward him, blue eyes meeting his as she tilted her head slightly, questioning.

“That we didn’t ask you to stay,” he clarified, guilt pressing heavy on him. “When Brink told you to leave.”

“Oh gods, we were idiots,” Kyborg groaned, running a hand through his hair, the weight of it finally hitting him. “I am so sorry, Cara.”

She was silent for a few moments, her gaze steady but unreadable. Then, with a calmness that felt almost practiced, she spoke.

“I won’t pretend it didn’t hurt—because it did,” she admitted, her voice measured, controlled. “But I understand. I know what it is to have someone tamper with your mind, to have reality twisted into something unrecognisable. I cannot say with certainty that I would have reacted any differently in your position. You cannot remember me, and that is not your fault.”

Slique swallowed, the weight of her words settling deep. “Yet we hurt you,” he murmured. He reached out, placing his hand gently on her arm, an unspoken apology in the gesture. She hesitated only for a second before covering his hand with her own. The motion was so instinctive, so natural, that it sent a pang of longing through him—longing for something he couldn’t even recall.

“I cannot blame you for something beyond your control,” she said softly. “You did not choose to forget me. And at least… at least I am speaking to you now.”

Kyborg, never one to let a solemn moment settle for too long, squared his shoulders with determination. “Well, we’re not letting you disappear again! There has to be a way to fix this.”

Cara turned her gaze toward him, her expression unreadable. “Perhaps,” she conceded. “I have been searching for a way since I returned, but nothing has worked so far. Undoing someone else’s magic is never a simple matter—especially when that someone possesses greater power than you.”

Kyborg scoffed. “Oh, come on. Entropa must have been afraid of your magic if he threw you out of this world. Maybe you’re stronger than him—you just don’t know it yet.”

That, at least, drew a small chuckle from her.

“I have great skills, but I know my limitations,” Cara said, her tone measured yet unwavering. “Some magic is beyond me—not because I lack strength, but because it operates under different rules. Entropa's magic is one such case. I have spent every moment since my return trying to undo it, but so far, it has resisted every attempt.” She exhaled through her nose, her expression unreadable, before glancing at Kyborg with something almost like amusement. “But I do appreciate the attempt to cheer me up.”

Kyborg grinned. “Always! Someone’s got to be the loudest cheerleader.”

Her lips quirked slightly, but she said nothing.

“Hm, I have to ask, though,” Kyborg went on, leaning forward. “When did we actually become friends? Because from the way it sounds, you weren’t exactly my biggest fan at first.”

Cara tilted her head slightly, as if considering the question. “You made quite the impression,” she admitted, her voice smooth but pointed. “Though not necessarily a good one. I found your treatment of Slique... frustrating, to put it mildly. But time changes things, and so do shared experiences. Somewhere along the way, you stopped being insufferable.”

Kyborg scoffed. “Wow. Thanks.”

Cara smirked but continued. “It was when we traveled together, searching for Entropa. I saw different sides of you. You weren’t just loud and reckless. You had conviction, loyalty—even to those you once doubted.” Her eyes flickered toward Slique. “And when he returned, you accepted him without hesitation. No excuses, no justifications—just pure, unshakable certainty. That is when I knew, but seeing your excitement when Slique arrived with Spectril and Smarsh? That was when I finally admitted it.”

Slique listened, but he wasn’t focused on the words. He was listening to her voice—the way it carried a warmth when she spoke to Kyborg, familiar and fond. But when she spoke to him, it was different. There was something deeper there, something unspoken yet unmistakable.

He wasn’t sure why that stood out so much, but when he tried to remember—

Pain.

A sharp, piercing pain tore through Slique’s skull, sudden and unforgiving. He sucked in a breath, his grip on Cara’s arm tightening instinctively. It was there—just beyond reach—a flicker of something real, something important. But the moment he tried to hold onto it, it was ripped away, leaving only pain in its place.

Cara noticed immediately.

“What is it?” Her voice was calm, but there was an urgency beneath it, something sharp and dangerous. Not fear, not worry—anger.

Slique blinked, forcing his breath to steady as the pain slowly faded. “Every time we try to remember you,” he said quietly, his fingers still pressed against her arm, “it hurts.”

The shift in Cara was instant. The frustration in her expression hardened into something else—something fierce. She could endure being forgotten. She could endure their blank stares, their hesitation, their lost memories of her. That pain was hers alone to bear. But this? Watching them suffer for something they had no control over? That was unacceptable.

Her blue eyes darkened, her jaw tightening. For a brief moment, it looked as though she wanted to hunt Entropa down and bring him back to life, only to tear him apart for this—just to make him feel even a fraction of the anger burning inside her.

“Then stop trying,” she said, voice measured but firm. It wasn’t an order, but it wasn’t a request either.

Kyborg frowned. “That’s not gonna happen. We want to remember you.”

Slique nodded, his hand still on her arm, unwilling to let go.

Cara exhaled slowly, pressing her own hand lightly over his. “And I want that too. More than anything.” Her fingers curled slightly against his wrist, grounding both of them. “But not like this. Not if it causes you pain.” She looked between them, her voice softer now, but unyielding. “I will not stand by and watch either of you suffer for something you had no say in.”

“So what do we do? Just… not think about it?” Kyborg asked, arms crossed, frustration evident in the furrow of his brow. He almost looked like he was pouting.

Cara exhaled through her nose, tilting her head with faux sympathy. “That is quite the sacrifice. You, going through life without a single profound thought.” She pressed a hand to her chest, shaking her head. “Tragic, really.”

Slique chuckled, shaking his head as Kyborg huffed.

“I do think,” Kyborg argued.

“Sure,” Cara mused. “On occasion.”

The banter felt so easy, so natural. Like they’d done this hundreds of times before. And maybe they had. Maybe, once, teasing Kyborg like this had been second nature. Slique wanted—needed—to remember. But if he couldn’t, at the very least, he would hold onto this. This effortless familiarity, this connection that seemed to defy whatever spell had torn their memories apart.

“Come back with us to Boulderay?” The words left him softer than he intended, hesitant, as if saying them too plainly might shatter the delicate moment.

Cara’s blue eyes met his, and he saw her weighing it, calculating the risks, the pain.

“If Brink tries to say anything,” Kyborg cut in before she could answer, “we’ll just kick him out.”

Cara raised a brow, her lips curving at the edges. “Oh? Planning a coup d'état, are we?”

“I’m just saying,” Kyborg shrugged. “We might not be able to fix this on our own, but together? Maybe we can. Maybe Dia can help. Or maybe, bit by bit, the memories will come back. I mean, we’ve already remembered some things just by talking, haven’t we?”

Cara was silent for a moment, her gaze flickering between them. Then, after what felt like an eternity, she nodded.

“I will return with you.”

Something inside Slique eased at her words, a tension he hadn’t fully realised he was holding. A strange mix of relief and something deeper, something he couldn’t quite name, settled in his chest. He didn’t remember her—not fully, not yet—but he knew, without question, that he didn’t want to lose her again.

And until the memories returned, that would have to be enough.