Nocturne's First Darksday of Emberfall, 1438, Sousiane's cottage, Nogoon Steppes.

Kaelyn stood barefoot in a dark room. She had no memory of how she got here. The air smelled of copper and herbs, nauseating and sterile. Shadows clung to the walls, the small flame of a lone candle illuminating a modest area.

Defying all logic, before her sat her mother.

Sousiane lay propped in her bed, skin ashen, sweat beading on her brow. Her breathing rattled like pebbles in a jar. Yet her eyes were clear—shining with the steady calm Kaelyn remembered and dreaded.

Beside the bed stood the doctor, Esen, wearing his crow-faced mask, hands folded. "Are you certain?" he asked. "You wish to donate your body? You ask me—following your death—to collect your body, to study the cause and eventually counter this disease?"

Sousiane smiled faintly, even as another cough tore at her chest. "Only once I die. If it helps you find a cure and spare other mothers and children the same fate." Her gaze flicked in Kaelyn's direction, whose heart stopped. She thought herself hidden in the darkness. "My daughters are still so young. But Kaelyn here will have to step up and watch over her little sister. Fill in for me."

Me? Watch over her?

"I'm—" she began, but her voice came out raw, small, wrong. She looked down at her arms, and confusion filled her mind. She was paradoxically both older and younger, the adult priestess and the soon-to-be-orphan child, caught in a loop she could not untangle.

Esen shifted. "She's only a child." His tone was sharp, almost a reprimand. "She should be allowed to remain one. Not forced into the role of a mother before her time."

Sousiane's smile dimmed. Her hand twitched, reaching for Kaelyn's. "You will do this, won't you, my precious little lady? Remain strong, for both of you."

The eldest's burden. In felinae society, it was an expression akin to noblesse oblige—the responsibility to look after one's younger siblings, should the mother pass.

The words felt like iron chains wrapping around Kaelyn's wrists, yanking her down into the shape she had carried ever since. She flinched, because she knew what came next—the orphanage, the bullying, the mask of confidence, the seductress, the priestess—had all stemmed from this moment.

"She might at first. But she will break, eventually," Esen muttered. His crow-mask dipped low. "Everyone does when they're denied the chance to be young."

"No, not her. She won't let me down." Sousiane's laugh was soft, but final. "Not until after they're both safe."

Kaelyn tried to cry out, to tell them no, to tell them she could not. She was not ready—but her throat locked. The words never came, and soon the memory faded into darkness, leaving her alone. Floating empty in a void of guilt and regret.

I had forgotten.

This had been it. The day when it had happened. When she had lost her youthful innocence, childish dreams and hopes. Her childhood denied and locked away.

This had not been a mere dream or product of her imagination. It had been a recollection—she had really been there on that day. She had stood there, had listened in on their conversation, and heard Sousiane's wishes for both her and the doctor. She had known all along that her mother was at death's door.

Yet on the night that claimed her, she had stormed out, refusing to accept the truth. That it was her mother's time, and that it would be up to her to raise herself and her little sister.

I refused to accept it because of what it meant for my future.

Kaelyn had not been as strong as her mother had hoped. She resented the doctor for failing to find a cure, and her mother for the impossible sacrifice she had asked.

Worst of all, she resented herself for everything.

For running and missing her mother's last moments. For following her mother's instructions despite the costs. For giving up and moving to the orphanage in Luminara, when it became obvious she did not know how to take care of their house and pay for their expenses. For ruining her childhood.

She had never been the self-sacrificing noble her mother had seen in her.

And now, with all the doctor's guilt filling her mind, she felt it harder and harder to breathe, to think straight. All she could feel was the spiral of self-hatred and regret crushing her from all sides.

The void pressed in, thick and cloying, heavier than the copper air of the sickroom. Kaelyn wrapped her arms around herself protectively, as if she could protect herself against something akin to gravity.

"You were supposed to be strong." The thought gnawed at her. Sousiane's voice, Esen's warning, her own silence—all of them clanged in her skull like mismatched bells.

But she was not. She ran, masked, hid, and painted a new coat over the problem. Even her abilities as a priestess were all a lie—she drew in darkness rather than brought out light.

Everything had been a deception.

Her entire life since that day centred around the illusion of control, of strength, of confidence.

And now, with the flood of emotions stolen from the plague doctor, she finally saw it clearly.

Kaelyn was never real.

That was not even her real name. Ryan had borrowed it from the real one, the kind and sheltered girl who lived as a silent witness to all of his life.

Vervaine had named her Moonshadow. That was probably her truest name. Just like the hidden side of the moon, it was an appropriate name for someone who never showed her entire self.

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Because that day, she had followed her mother's wishes. And to do so, she had locked away a big part of herself.

That part had remained in stasis, in darkness, unheard, unseen, for all those years. The child who had been denied her childhood.

The void pressed closer, a tide of black that licked at her skinless form, eager to swallow her whole.

She wanted to scream, but no voice carried here. Wanted to run, but there was no ground beneath her feet.

And yet—something stirred against the weight.

Not a voice. Not a word. Just a faint decrease in the ambient darkness—if only barely. It came with a ripple of air where there should be none.

Kaelyn shivered, and for a heartbeat she was not sure if the tremor was hers or borrowed. The suffocating dark recoiled, only slightly, as though another hand had pressed back against it from the other side.

She clutched at that sensation with both arms, desperate.

It was not light exactly. More like a presence by her side. The familiar sense of being watched, not by enemies, not by shadows, but by someone who cared enough to stay.

Her chest ached. She had lived her whole life pretending she was strong enough to stand on her own. Now, in this empty place, she could feel she was not.

Whoever it was—whatever it was—it had not abandoned her.

But who could it be? Who could help her, here, in this strange place?

The touch had felt familiar, like a hand she had held once before, in dreams she never admitted were real.

She could tell Ryan was not with her in this mind space—he felt far, focused. He was probably busy piloting their shared body. And quite probably drowning in dysphoria, too.

So really, there was only one person it could be. Lyn—the real Kaelyn.

But if that name belonged to the girl, then the priestess would need a new one. A real one, as Moonshadow would simply not do.

Both because of who gave it to her and what it stood for. But also, perhaps, because a part of her wanted to shed herself of her old ways. Of living in lies and in darkness.

She had the chance to pick something new, she reminded herself. So she should pick a name that spoke of truth and light.

"Alba?"

To be named after dawn? Could she be that? The first light that breaks the night, the moment shadows soften into colour? Perhaps. Perhaps it would be enough.

And then she heard a voice behind her.

"It's not your fault, you know."

Alba's head snapped up. She turned around, and from the darkness, a pale figure emerged—familiar and wrong all at once. Her hair fell in loose waves, her eyes steady and unblinking. She looked similar to Kaelyn's in-game body, without the felinae features. A little softer, gentler, younger, less lacquered with charm.

"Lyn?" The word caught in Alba's throat. She hated how brittle her voice sounded.

The girl smiled warmly. "Hello, Alba. Looks like you and Ryan have something in common." Her gaze flicked sideways, toward a faint shimmer forming in the dark—small, crouched, like a child hugging her knees. "You're not alone in here."

Alba followed her gaze, and her breath froze. The girl there, barely perceptible, looked just like her—yet she did not. She was smaller, eyes red from weeping, lips pressed into a defiant line. Little lady, Sousiane had called her.

Lyn tilted her head. "Is that who she is, then?" she asked, as if she could hear Alba's musings as loud as words. "If you are the one who grew up too fas and learned to wear masks in order to survive, then who is she? The manifestations of your regrets? The girl you could have been, but were denied? Is she the truest you?"

"No! She isn't!" Alba snapped, too fast, too sharp. The words echoed, hollow.

The child-shadow raised her head then, and her voice was a whisper of iron. "You kept me locked away, and never let me out."

The void rang with that accusation, and Alba stumbled back.

Lyn floated backwards and watched, calm and unsettling, like someone at the edge of a stage who already knew how the play would end.

The child's whisper hung in the void like a blade.

And suddenly Alba could see it: Lyn and the little girl, both of them children who had been pushed into corners. One locked away in Ryan's head, never allowed to be real. The other, locked away in Alba's heart, never allowed to grow up.

Different prisons, same silence.

Lyn had survived by watching. This one had survived, frozen in time.

And Alba… Alba had survived by pretending.

"I'm sorry…" It took everything Alba had to admit this. "But believe me when I say I wish I'd noticed you sooner… I never wanted this, I never chose this…"

The child straightened, rising to her feet. Though her body looked small, her shadow stretched impossibly long across the void.

"You wish?" she echoed, the words bitter on her tongue. "That's all you've got?" Her lips trembled, but her eyes burned. "How about you give me the life you denied me?"

Alba took a step back, bumping into Lyn's shoulder. "I can't." She shook her head. "Those years are gone… It's too late for that."

Lyn nodded in silent approval, but the other girl glared.

The surrounding atmosphere grew darker, as if fuelled by her anger. "How are you going to make up for it, then?"

Alba bit her lip. "I don't know how to fix this…"

Lyn placed one hand on her shoulder. "Maybe… you can offer her a seat at the table? Treat her like an equal? How does that sound?"

"Would you like that?" Alba asked, hopeful. "Would that help?"

The darkness receded slightly as the girl crossed her arms and lowered her head, as if thinking it over.

"A name might help," Lyn added. "What should we call you?"

She lifted her chin. "Nola," she said, each syllable sharp. "That's who I am. The noble one. The little lady who never got to be a child. If you won't carry it, then I will."

Nola's words hit harder than any blow.

Alba flinched. She wanted to shout back, to insist she never asked for this, that she never chose any of it—Sousiane's last request, the orphanage, the mask, the priestess. All of it had been forced upon her.

And suddenly, she realised the irony of it all. She had accused Ryan of the same thing. Of giving her this life, filled with pain and cruelty.

She had cursed him, repeatedly, for forging her from scraps of tragedy, for making her suffer the sneers and torments of her peers. For writing her into pain she never chose.

Now here Nola stood, small and furious, casting the same accusation back at her.

Alba's legs buckled. She sank to her knees, trembling. "I… I never wanted this for you. I never wanted this for me, either." For the first time, Alba was not speaking as a mask or a priestess, but as herself.

"It doesn't matter," Nola hissed. "It's not what you wanted; it's what happened."

As Nora spoke, Alba's throat tightened, the familiar cadence of a past conversation with Ryan now a painful echo.

The void trembled, but Lyn's hand pressed steadily on her shoulder. "Now you understand," she said, voice filled with compassion. "None of us asked for the lives we were given. But maybe… we can stop blaming each other for them."

The silence after Lyn's words felt endless, the void holding its breath. Nola stood stiffly, her arms crossed tight, jaw trembling with unshed fury. Alba knelt, feeling empty, as if the echoes of Esen and Sousiane's presence still pressed against her chest.

Between them, the air quivered with all the things left unsaid.

Lyn spoke up, her voice quiet but steady, the kind of calm that could part storms. "You don't have to fix this today."

Both Alba and Nola looked at her, waiting for her to continue.

"You're both raw," Lyn continued. "And that's alright. Maybe the best thing isn't to keep clawing at each other right now, but to take some space. Breathe. Let the edges cool before they cut any deeper."

Nola scowled but said nothing. The surrounding darkness flickered, no longer swelling, no longer shrinking.

"And that guilt?" Lyn added, eyes flicking between them. "The doctor's, Sousiane's, your own—it's in here with us now. We can't ignore it, and we can't carry it alone. We'll have to decide what to do with it, how to channel it, or get rid of it. Together. But not this minute."

"With us all here, sorting this—what'll happen to our body?" Alba asked.

"Ryan's in charge right now. He hates it, but he'll just have to bear it a little longer."

Alba bowed her head, relief and sorrow twisting in her chest. Nola huffed a sharp exhale, but she did not argue.

For the first time, the void felt less like a prison and more like a waiting room.

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