Chapter Text
Sciel closes a chapter of her life on a sunny day at the harbour.
The waves lap gently against the stone, a mockery of the storm in her chest. In the distance, children laugh as they chase each other down Lumière’s revitalized streets, the cry of gulls overhead as they try to steal fresh pastries.
Somewhere behind her, Pierre is teary-eyed while walking back to their apartment— his apartment, really. She’d given it up to him, a gift for all her folly.
They’re still living together—that hasn’t changed.
It’s just everything else that has.
She doesn’t turn around, doesn’t want to see his retreating back. She only breathes—deeply, carefully, as if her ribs might collapse if she doesn’t. Her fingers twitch at her sides, restless without her scythe, without purpose.
The salty air somehow tastes too still.
Verso stands beside her, having materialized the moment she’d been left alone. He says nothing at first, only watches her with that maddeningly perceptive gaze of his—like he’s reading the ink off pages she’s trying to burn.
“It just felt different,” she finally says, feeling pathetic about it all.
“Different how?” Verso prods. When she doesn't respond immediately, he nudges a bit further. “As in, he’d changed since Maelle—”
“Not him,” Sciel blurts out, hands balling into the fabric of her skirt, and it’s strange, but it still feels so foreign—wearing a skirt again, on the daily, after all this time. Clean, flowy fabric. Impractical to run in, jump in, fight in. “He’s—He’s exactly as I remember him.”
“Then…?”
“It’s me,” Sciel breathes. “I’m the one who’s different.”
Because she had reunited with Pierre, and he was gentle in ways that she no longer knew how to respond to. And at some point, her heart began to break a little more every time the realization hit, stunning her into an abrupt silence without fail.
But perhaps the most damning thing of all was that he did not question it. Any of it. And why would he? Why would any of them? Trapped for so long on Lumière, surrounded by sea. The furthest any of them had went—the furthest her husband had ever ventured—had been to the small islands off the coast, and even then, they had always returned.
Until Pierre hadn’t. His accident occurred long before he ever had the chance to set sail to the Continent. And that had eaten away at Sciel for years, mourning the time they were promised but never had.
But the truth was, she’d already lived that missing time—just not with him.
She’d crossed mountains and oceans, battled monsters and watched gods die. She’d bled under foreign skies, held grieving friends in the aftermath of chaos, and fallen asleep beside someone who saw her not as a memory, but as she was—raw, reckless, real.
Yet—
“You don’t have to be anyone but who you are,” Pierre had told her once, after she’d welcomed him back into the realm of the living.
And she’d kissed him for it.
But later that night, lying in bed with his arm over her waist, she’d stared at the ceiling. That’s the problem, isn’t it? I don’t know who I am anymore.
No longer just a widow. No longer just a farmer. No longer just a teacher. No longer just someone’s partner.
Sciel of Expedition 33. A weapon, a lover, a dreamer, a contradiction.
And there was no room for that woman in the life Pierre had so sweetly waited to welcome her back into.
“Hey, what’s wrong with being different?” Verso nudges her out of her reverie, his smile roguish and charming, and Sciel chokes out a laugh. But then she's thinking back to that night, when she'd spotted Verso leaving the woods all spent, directing that charming smile towards— “You were part of the Disaster Expedition, the greatest band of misfits this world had ever seen. And they saved Lumière—that band of misfits did.”
Sciel chuckles at his attempt to make her feel better. “I appreciate the sentiment, but you know I don't mean different in that way.”
“Yeah.” Verso grows solemn. “I do.”
“You would know best, wouldn't you?”
“I bet you can't even fathom how much a person can change over the course of a century.” Verso grins again, but it doesn't reach his eyes this time. Sciel both loves and hates him for it—a young and old man stuck in the same body, a glimpse into the exhaustion beneath his attempts at being casual.
At least Maelle had restored his ability to age, although the signs of maturity hadn't settled in yet. As far as Sciel could tell, their Verso still looked exactly as he always had.
“I'm only a third of the way there and I hardly recognize myself,” Sciel murmurs.
Verso says nothing.
But then a familiar tune wafts out to the docks, a melody that Sciel had become well-acquainted with.
On their expedition. The Greatest Expedition, as the papers had touted.
Sciel draws in a breath, holds it. Immediately, she's looking around, trying to find the familiar melody's source.
She feels Verso’s knowing gaze more than sees it.
“The radios seem to love Lune’s stuff recently,” he comments. “It's a bit surreal, knowing she worked on it during late nights while we were camping.”
Didn't you compose with her? Sit side-by-side at the fire with her? Sciel doesn't dare ask him. And that night I saw the two of you after—
“It's beautiful,” she agrees aloud, her heart squeezing something awful at the sound of Lune's name.
Verso nods slowly. “The two of you haven't spoken recently, have you?”
“...We haven't.” Sciel keeps her eyes fixated on the waves below. She no longer feels dread at the sight of water, no longer goes still at the prospect of being near it. Instead, her gut churns for completely different reasons—one of which being: “I think she's avoiding me.”
“She might just be giving you space.”
“I dunno… She's avoided me before.”
“You won't know for sure unless you ask.”
The prospect is mortifying.
But then she thinks about those late nights during Expedition 33. A mere three months ago, their nights had been spent curled up together under the stars, because they'd snuggled one single time and Sciel had realized she slept best with Lune's arms around her.
She'd never asked for Lune's thoughts on the arrangement. Just knew that at some point, it had become their new normal—Sciel tucked beneath Lune's chin, Lune's fingers drumming silent melodies at the swell of Sciel’s hip. It hadn’t mattered where they were or what tomorrow would bring—only that constant companionship bleeding into something dangerously personal.
Three months later, and Sciel had instead grown used to falling asleep with guilt every night Pierre would toss an arm over her waist. She'd lie still and pretend to fall asleep until the early hours of the morning, when she'd be too exhausted to pretend anymore.
“You miss her,” Verso concludes, having intently watched the myriad of emotions cross her face.
“I do,” Sciel admits.
“You need to talk to her.”
“I know. I’m going to look for her today, but I'm not sure she'll let herself be found.”
“When I was a child and I'd lost my favorite Esquie stuffed toy around the manor, I'd distract myself until I'd completely forgotten I'd lost it. Before I knew it, Esquie would be in my arms again.”
“Pardon?”
“I'm just saying.” Verso chuckles. “Sometimes, you find what you want the most when you're no longer looking for it.”
Sciel takes that advice and pockets it for later.
///
The wind at this height tastes familiar.
Sciel hadn’t meant to climb so far—just to walk, to think, to escape the ache that had settled behind her ribcage after an entire day spent combing the city for someone who apparently refused to be found.
She’d checked the cafés Lune used to frequent, the square where she’d play her music, even the boulangerie whose pastries Lune used to reminisce on during the expedition. But there’d been no sign of her—no familiar silhouette beneath the archways, no shimmer of gold chroma tattoos, no glimmer of raven-dark hair in the crowd.
Eventually, the weight of it—of not finding her, of not knowing what she’d say even if she did—grew too heavy to carry. And so, without realizing where her feet were taking her, she’d found herself at the base of the Crooked Tower.
The climb is steeper than she remembers. The metal groans softly beneath her as she ascends the final ladder. Her hand ghosts along rusted beams warped by time and ink, passing the old scratched initials—lovers used to come up here, the letterings long since faded into oxidation.
She almost laughs at herself. What was she hoping for? That the room might still feel the same? That she might feel the same?
Then she steps inside.
There’s someone already there, seated cross-legged in the warped crescent of windowlight, half in shadow.
And the moment her eyes adjust—
“Sciel,” Lune says in a breath caught somewhere in between. Her guitar disappears in a flurry of chroma particles. “Of course you’d run into me up here.”
Sciel swallows. “Figures I’d stumble upon you the moment I decide to give up for the day.”
Just like Verso said.
When she’s the furthest from being mentally prepared. Because there’s no easy way to say Hi, Lune! I’ve been sleeping poorly ever since we settled back in, and I think it’s because I became too used to your arms without causing some degree of emotional whiplash.
Lune tilts her head, catlike. “You were looking for me?”
Sciel laughs hoarsely. “When am I not? You’ve been avoiding me.”
“I was giving you space,” Lune says defensively. “After we defeated Renoir, things were moving so fast. Suddenly your husband was back, and your parents were back, and then almost everyone was back. You were going through so much. I didn’t want to make things harder.”
“I needed you,” Sciel says quietly. Not accusatory. Just a fact, bare and aching. “I didn’t even realize how much until you weren’t there.”
Lune’s eyes flicker at that—something complicated and guarded curling at the edges of her mouth. “I wasn’t sure if you wanted me to be.”
Sciel shifts her gaze to the floor, to the rust-framed window, to anywhere but Lune’s face. The dying sunlight slants in like it’s trying to draw a line between them.
A long silence stretches—until Sciel finally breaks it.
“I broke things off with Pierre today,” she blurts out.
“You— what?” Lune gapes.
Sciel nods, rubbing at her barren ring finger with her thumb. “He’s no longer my husband. And I’m no longer his wife.”
“That’s—Sciel, I don’t even know what to—” Lune’s mouth opens and closes, her voice catching on the weight of it.
“You don’t need to say anything,” Sciel murmurs, wrapping her arms around herself. “I just… needed you to know.”
Lune watches her for a moment, eyes softening.
“Can I… Can I ask why?” she says carefully. “Only if you want to share.”
“I—just,” Sciel exhales, dragging a hand through her hair. She hasn’t been wearing it up recently—she misses it. She can’t quite remember why she ever stopped. “Pierre would talk of the dreams of the future we planned. Of gardens, and children, and quiet dinners. I knew that something was wrong the day I realized that I could no longer see myself in those images.”
Lune doesn’t respond right away, simply listening.
Sciel’s voice hitches on a laugh. “We tried, you know. To make it work. But I was already drifting. Thinking about everything I couldn’t tell him. Everything I couldn’t explain. How could I, when he’s never set foot on the Continent? When he doesn’t know what it’s like to be absolutely helpless, watching from the bottom of a cliff and then suddenly, someone’s just… gone.”
She looks up, tears brimming—not quite falling.
“I didn’t want to lie to him, and I didn’t want to keep pretending. That I wasn’t… That I’m not exhausted.”
Lune’s gaze lowers, her lashes dark against her cheek. “And now?”
“I don’t know,” Sciel admits. “But I’m trying to figure it out. I want to learn to be happy again.”
The silence that follows is gentler than before. Less like a chasm, more like a breath. Relief.
Then Sciel shifts, rubbing the back of her neck. “We’re still living in the same apartment for the time being. It’s a two-bedroom, thankfully, so it’ll have to do while I look for—”
Lune looks at her, alarmed.
“Sciel,” she says hesitantly. “Two-bedroom or not, are you sure that’s healthy?”
Sciel winces. “No, most definitely not. But with the population spiking back up again, Lumière’s pressed enough for space as is.” Feeling that familiar anxiety welling up again, she rises to her feet, pacing from one side of the room to the other. “The alternative is moving back in with my parents, but they live out on the farms, and I need to be near the school for my students, so—”
“Move in with me.”
Sciel stumbles backwards, her pacing abruptly interrupted.
“What?”
“Move in with me,” Lune repeats, casual. Like it's the easiest thing in the world. “Just like you, I was given my choice of residence after we restored Lumière. I ended up reclaiming my parents’ old place, and truthfully, it’s too big for just me.”
“Your siblings aren’t living with you?”
Stella and Sol had been amongst those returned by Maelle, having been Gommaged rather than dying as expeditioners to the Nevrons.
“They have their own lives,” Lune says dismissively. “And I have mine.”
Sciel stares at her. “You’re serious.”
Lune shrugs, but it’s the kind that’s anything but flippant. “You need a place. I have a place. We’ve lived together before—in open fields, by rivers, in Nevron-haunted ruins. What’s one roof compared to that?”
“But this wouldn’t be temporary,” Sciel says. “This wouldn’t be survival.”
“No,” Lune agrees, voice low. “It wouldn’t.”
Something in her eyes glimmers, soft but unflinching.
Sciel doesn’t answer right away. She presses a hand to the rust-warped wall beside her, grounding herself against the sudden flood of emotions. The thought of living with Lune again—of waking up in her arms, to that music, to the rhythm of two lives slowly syncing—feels dangerous.
It feels like home.
“You don’t have to decide now,” Lune says, gentler this time. “But the offer’s real.”
And then, more tentative: “I missed you, too.”
Sciel closes her eyes.
Lets the weight of the day slide off her shoulders, just for a moment.
She opens them again.
“...What’s the address?”
And Lune smiles. It’s a small thing, but bright enough to light the metal beams gold.
///
Sciel loves Lune’s apartment from the very moment she steps foot in it.
It’s not particularly large, nor small. But it’s more than spacious enough and it feels lived in—sunlight pooling in wide panes across the hardwood, Lune’s sheet music and research notes scattered across the dining table, potted plants climbing stubbornly up the walls like they’ve made a pact to bloom no matter what. A short hallway leads to the bedrooms, and there’s a study that Lune undoubtedly grew up in, learning how to take notes under her parents’ strict eye.
There’s also a piano tucked away in the corner—a battered old thing that Lune insists still plays beautifully.
“I saved it from an old couple before their Gommage,” Lune explains almost reverently. “My mother hated it. Said I was wasting space, and I never truly learned how to play, not as well as my guitar, but… I loved it. I could never bring myself to give it up, and I’m glad it stayed here, even after all that happened.”
Sciel nods, too full of emotion to speak. She crosses the room slowly, trailing her fingers across the instrument’s edge, then across the back of the worn-in couch—no doubt it had been passed from family to family, one Gommage and then another.
“You can still say no,” Lune offers, leaning against the doorframe.
Sciel turns to her, smiling. “I’d rather not sleep in the guest room at my ex-husband’s place.”
That earns a small laugh.
The very next morning, Pierre sets out with his Outdome team, bound for the outer islands to resurvey some of the shorelines. He doesn’t ask where she’s going, and Sciel doesn’t volunteer it. They part with a mutual, quiet understanding—and that’s the last she thinks of him all day.
Because then she’s busy. Very busy.
It doesn’t take long for the apartment to fill with sound—boxes sliding across hardwood, the dull thud of books being reshelved, Emma muttering about alphabetization while Sophie flits between rooms, helping unpack and decorate Sciel’s new room with her belongings.
“Leave that one closed,” Sciel says, waving Sophie away from one box marked with a dark ‘X’. “The stuff in there is basically unwearable.”
“Basically?” Sophie raises an eyebrow.
“Clothes gifted to me by the Gestrals,” Sciel clarifies, thinking back to the comical straw Gestral outfit she’d shoved in there against her own behest. She’d been ready to throw the thing away, only for Lune to spot it while helping her pack. The raven-haired woman had taken one look at the garment before barking out a loud laugh, demanding that Sciel take it with her. “Some are very talented while others… Let’s just say they have a more interesting fashion sense.”
Sophie laughs, and not for the first time, Sciel is glad that she has more time with her old friend.
“I’d like to meet them one day—the Gestrals. Well, other than Monoco, that is.”
“We’ll take you sometime,” Sciel promises. “I’m sure Esquie would love the trip.”
They fall into a comfortable silence after that, Sciel grabbing one end of a linen sheet while Sophie grabs the other.
But then from the hallway, Maelle’s cough cuts through the quiet.
Sciel turns instantly, leaving the bedroom with Sophie by her side. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” Maelle answers a little too fast. She straightens up, arms crossed. “You try lugging boxes up four flights of stairs and see how perky you sound.”
“You only carried one,” Emma calls from the kitchen. She exits a moment later, a pitcher of water and several glasses balanced on the tray she holds. Placing it atop a small table in the living room, she begins pouring water for the others.
Maelle ignores her. She’s standing in the center of the living room now, surveying the space like she owns it.
“So…” Her eyes flick towards the short hallway. “You’re not sharing a room with her?”
Sciel, caught mid-sip of water, pauses. “What?”
“You and Lune,” Maelle repeats, frowning like this is a logical oversight. “You’re not sharing a room?”
“...No,” Sciel says slowly, setting her cup down. “We’re not.”
Maelle pouts. “And why not?”
Sciel blinks at her, startled by the sheer audacity of the question.
“Well—because,” she starts, then falters. She glances towards Sophie and Emma for support, only to find Emma very suddenly engrossed in setting down the pitcher just so and Sophie trying to look like she hasn’t been desperately wondering the same.
“It just didn’t come up,” Sciel finally says.
Maelle snorts. “That’s the worst excuse I’ve ever heard.”
“We both have our own rooms,” Sciel tries again, carefully. She tries to think like Lune. “It’s practical.”
“Oh yes,” Maelle deadpans. “Very practical. Nothing says platonic like sleeping a hallway apart after spending several months straight wrapped around each other under the stars.”
Sciel’s face goes crimson.
“Maelle—” Emma warns, but it’s already too late.
“So,” Maelle barrels on, hands on her hips like she’s delivering a thesis. “Why don’t you two just date each other already?”
Sciel promptly breaks into a fit of coughs, doubling over and pounding on her chest with a fist.
“Maelle!” Emma hisses, smacking her arm.
“What?” Maelle exclaims defensively. “We were all thinking it! The two of you used to sleep next to each other every night.”
“Maelle, Sciel just separated from—” Emma clamps her mouth shut, shooting her friend a heavily apologetic look.
Sciel simply chuckles, her lungs burning but it's impossible not to see the irony here—Maelle, a whole teenager, slicing through the unspoken questions as swiftly as she slices with her rapier, and the rest of the adults who love to dance around every topic until they find a convenient opening.
It's why she loves working with children—there's much to learn from the youth. Too much, really.
“It's alright, Emma. I—”
“What happened here?” Lune chooses this exact moment to walk back into the living room, Gustave in tow.
Sciel straightens so fast it makes her cough again. “Nothing.”
“Absolutely nothing,” Sophie says quickly.
“Just Maelle being Maelle,” Emma says with a sigh.
The corner of Lune’s mouth quirks upwards, amused but suspicious. She sets down a bag by the door and dusts off her hands. “If Maelle was just being Maelle, then I’m guessing at least one scandalous comment was made?”
Maelle doesn’t miss a beat. “Oh, I was just asking Sciel why she isn’t sharing a room with you.”
Lune’s expression doesn’t waver, but Gustave nearly drops the box he’s holding.
“Oh,” Gustave says, blinking as his gaze flits from Lune to Sciel. He bends to set the box down. “Bold of you.”
“You’re not helping,” Sciel mutters under her breath, heat rising to her ears.
“I mean, I’m not disagreeing,” Gustave says cheerfully, nudging the box into position by the wall. “But I know better than to voice things like that around Lune.”
“You have voiced things like that around me,” Lune says, dry as ever.
“Yes,” Gustave says, turning to grin at her, Sophie now at his side. “And I’m still apologizing.”
They share a look so exasperated and familiar, so effortlessly synced that Sciel feels something sharp tug in her chest before she can tamp it down. She knows it’s stupid—Gustave’s soulmate is literally on his arm, Sophie laughing at the way Lune rolls her eyes while leaning into Gustave’s touch. But Lune’s been quiet lately. Withdrawn, at least from Sciel. And if she talks to anyone at length, it’s usually Gustave. They’re both researchers speaking the same language—half data, half instinct, full of references that Sciel can’t always follow.
Half of Expedition 33 had placed bets on them, too.
Not that she’s bitter about that. Not really.
She doesn’t notice Lune watching her until their eyes meet, and something in Lune’s gaze grows tender.
“We’re almost done unpacking,” Lune says casually, but her voice has a warmth to it that makes the ache in Sciel’s chest ease a little. “After that, I figured we could all grab something to eat. The restaurant near the plaza’s opened back up again. Why not relive the pre-expedition days and see if they’re still as good as we remember?”
Sciel nods, grateful for the outstretched hand. An anchor.
“That sounds great.”
“Good,” Lune replies, before turning to help Gustave again.
Maelle mouths told you so from across the room.
Sciel pretends not to see her.
///
The morning after the move-in is gentle, almost suspiciously so.
Sunlight filters in through sheer curtains, painting golden lines across Sciel’s new bedroom floor. She sits on the edge of the bed, fastening her boots, and hesitates for a moment before tying her hair up.
Her muscles ache from all the lifting the day before, but it’s a good ache. The kind that promises a new chapter.
She’d taken Monday off to move, but today, she returns to teaching.
Outside, Lumière’s streets are alive with chatter. Gulls wheel overhead, cawing at children already skipping out of their homes in mismatched uniforms. In the months since the end of the Gommage, since the final battle, the city has swelled with life—every schoolhouse stretched thin, every scheduled revised again and again to make room for the teenagers who had been given up to apprenticeships far too early.
The old classrooms weren’t built for this—they were made for quiet, dwindling numbers.
Not for this new kind of life.
The building that houses Sciel’s class is technically a repurposed city hall office, the paint still flaking off the crown molding. The room is cramped, with tall windows and scuffed floors and desks that had to be repaired when they cracked under the weight of teenaged limbs. She’s never minded, though. There’s a kind of poetry to it.
She’s already at the door when she hears soft footsteps trailing behind her.
“You forgot your satchel,” Lune says, holding it out. She’s barefoot in the doorway, hair still damp from her morning rinse, and Sciel has to resist the sudden, overwhelming urge to pull her in by the waist and kiss her square on the mouth.
She snuffs out that dream immediately, dousing it in water with a reminder to return to reality.
“Thanks,” Sciel says instead, shouldering the satchel. “Don’t wait up for me—Tuesdays are always busy.”
“I never do,” Lune replies, but there’s fondness in her voice, like a promise.
Sciel makes it to the schoolhouse twenty minutes before the first bell.
She steps through the front gates, the worn metal creaking behind her, and is immediately greeted by a blur of children—some as young as six, some well into adolescence.
“Maîtresse, bonjour!” one of the younger ones shouts, throwing their arms around her in greeting.
“Good morning, Mira,” Sciel says, ruffling her hair.
It had taken a miracle—or perhaps just Emma’s sheer persistence—for the school to reopen at all. Officially, it’s a “blended cohort” —ages ten to sixteen, grouped more by emotional maturity and general learning needs than anything else. It had been Gustave’s request to send all the apprentices back to formal schooling, though. Without the Gommage and expeditions, there was no need to send the children to work so early.
Sciel simply does her best to teach them all.
Inside, the classroom is already half-full. A cluster of younger kids crowd around the back window, trying to catch a glimpse of the bakery cart across the street, while two older boys argue in hushed voices about whether or not their desk counts as “reserved” if one of them leaves a hat on it before recess.
At the front of the room, Amélie is already sorting the lesson packets—each stack perfectly aligned, divided by reading level, and color-coded in the corner. She doesn’t glance up as Sciel enters.
“Welcome back,” she says instead, in her usual dry tone that somehow still sounds amused. “I had the younger ones do warm-up exercises in your absence. Hope you don’t mind.”
“Only if you made them practice handwriting again.” Sciel stares at the dark waves cascading down Amélie’s back.
“I did,” Amélie replies, unfazed. “We nearly lost Julien to a meltdown about lowercase ‘g.’ But otherwise, no casualties.”
Sciel snorts as she shrugs off her coat and sets her satchel down. “I’ll take it.”
She starts weaving through the room—adjusting chairs, greeting students, intercepting a paper ball midair with one hand and a practiced, playful glare. Her classroom may be small and overfull, but it hums with the children.
And Amélie—cool, unreadable Amélie—moves through it all with a quiet ease.
Sciel’s always had a feeling about her.
The way she never stumbled when learning new names. The way she handled disruptions with swift precision, like someone who’d commanded attention in far more dire settings. The way she’d share the vast knowledge she seemed to have about the Continent to the children, a captive audience. The way she never seemed surprised by anything.
Amélie wore a ponytail most days.
She has her hair down today, a familiar black hairband keeping her bangs tidily in place.
///
Sciel finally confronts her at lunchtime, when the children are outside and it’s finally just the two of them, alone.
“You’re Clea,” Sciel says, standing over the other woman’s desk. “The real one.”
From where she’d been unwrapping a sandwich from one of the newly reopened food stalls, Amélie blinks.
Then, slowly, a smile makes its way across her face. Silver eyes gleam. The same silver eyes Sciel had stared into time and time again—Maelle’s eyes.
Alicia Dessendre’s eyes.
“My,” Clea Dessendre says, humored. “Honestly, it took you long enough.”
“I had a hunch the first week you joined my classroom,” Sciel confesses, chewing on her lower lip. “I’ve seen your family portrait before, and… Well, we once paid a visit to the Flying Manor.”
“Maman got the eyes wrong,” Clea remarks, pulling out the lettuce in her lunch. “And the posture. She made me look so meek.”
Sciel frowns. “The… Painted version?”
“Mm.” Clea hums. “I couldn’t bear to look at her for more than five minutes, the utter sob story. So I fixed her.”
“You repainted her.”
“Well, someone had to.” Clea picks up her sandwich again, inspecting the crust. “And I’m not sorry about it. Instead of helping me in our own world, she ran away to Verso’s Canvas to hide in her delusion. That Painted mockery of me was just a slap in the face to my own sacrifices.”
Sciel doesn’t know what to say to that.
Clea shrugs, unbothered. “She served her purpose, preventing the chroma from returning to Maman.”
The Nevrons.
There’s a quiet moment as Clea bites and chews, unhurried. Then—
“Was it hard?” Sciel questions. She sits down, pushes her chair towards Clea’s desk and pulls out her own lunch. “Being out there alone?”
“Oh, terribly.” Clea tips her head, considering. “And it’s not over yet, either.”
“And yet, you’re here in the Canvas?”
“Well, with both Aline and Renoir finally out of the Canvas, I had some time for myself for once. Why not pay a visit to the last remnant of my beloved brother?”
She takes another bite of her sandwich, chews slowly.
“I didn’t expect to linger,” she adds, tone almost wry. “I thought I’d stay a week. Maybe two. But then I saw you teaching.”
Sciel blinks, the forkful of pasta Lune had made this morning halfway to her mouth.
“Me?”
“You were always fascinating to watch,” Clea admits, crossing her arms and sighing. Sciel’s fingers curl slightly around her fork. She’s not sure if it’s praise, or just another line in whatever game this woman plays. “Even just from my brief glimpses at your expedition from outside the Canvas. One of Maman’s best creations, I’d say. How she managed to birth such an emotionally intelligent being while simultaneously drowning in her own grief, I have no idea. And yet.” Clea looks her up and down. “Here you are.”
“Here I am,” Sciel echoes. Then, belatedly, the strange woman’s words finally register. Her brow furrows. “Emotionally intelligent?”
“Your acceptance of what does and does not matter. Your ability to continue onwards. Your relationship with death—well, at least, back when death still rang true in this place. The foolish girl—” Clea waves her hand dismissively. “No matter. If I hadn't had more important things to do, maybe I would've paid you a visit sooner.”
Frowning, Sciel shifts her weight to her other leg, crossing her arms in turn. Suddenly, despite only being back at their apartment, she misses Lune terribly.
Lune, and her steadfast presence, and constant intrigue. Lune, who absolutely would've jumped at the opportunity to bombard Clea with questions about this world and the large one beyond.
Meanwhile, she’s not even sure if she’s being admired or assessed—and either way, it’s exhausting.
“If you'd come sooner, would you have even helped us?” Sciel asks instead.
The corner of Clea’s mouth twitches upward. “I’m not sure you or your friends would've considered it ‘help,’ but perhaps in my own way.”
“That's fair.”
“Is it?” Clea clicks her tongue. “Has any of this been fair to you?”
The shriek of recess laughter filters in through the open windows, distant and unbothered.
“Perhaps not,” Sciel relents, then shrugs. “Yet, what can we do but make the most of the hand we were dealt?”
And in an abrupt change of pace, Clea barks out a laugh.
“That,” the eldest Dessendre daughter says, smiling, “is the emotional intelligence I spoke of earlier. Fascinating.” Then, under her breath, “Maman’s powers are something else.”
Sciel eyes her warily. “You would get along horrifically well with Lune.”
Well, after she'd curse you for the Nevrons, probably.
Sciel doesn’t reply immediately. She shifts her gaze to the classroom windows, where dust float in slanted light. A student’s hat goes flying past outside, chased by laughter and footfalls.
Clea follows her gaze but says nothing.
The moment feels almost normal, despite a Paintress seated across from her. But there’s a quiet dissonance about it, a familiar melody being played just slightly off-key.
She clears her throat.
“So,” Sciel says cautiously, feeling very much like prey observing their predator, “you’re really not here to force Maelle out of the Canvas?”
“Truthfully, I don't care if she stays or leaves.” Clea stares out the window at the empty Monolith, looking thoroughly uninterested, and Sciel knows she is telling the truth. “A prolonged stay will have its consequences, but Alicia will be pushed out on her own accord eventually. Else, she’ll have to actually deal with the consequences of her own actions.”
Clea’s words ring like fact, clinical and unsurprised.
Sciel watches her carefully. The glint in her eyes isn’t cruel—just distant. The eyes of someone who cannot afford to rest. Not heartless, no. Just… resigned.
She shifts forward, the remains of her lunch forgotten.
“You say one thing,” Sciel says quietly, deciding to push her luck one final time, “but all I'm hearing is a tired eldest daughter, with the weight of worlds on her shoulders, who just wants the best for her baby sister.”
And for a heartbeat, Clea stiffens. Then, her shoulders relax and she laughs—a hollow, resonant sound.
“Merde. Too smart for your own good.”
///
Clea had asked her not to tell anyone.
So Sciel doesn’t.
But she thinks about it, at the door. Thinks about the silver eyes, the glint of something sharp beneath them. Thinks about the weight in Clea’s voice— I don’t care if she stays or leaves.
Lune is on the floor in her study, half-swallowed by old notebooks, small orbs of light hovering around the room in lieu of the oldened lights from the building—Lune’s wondrous elemental pictos at work yet again.
So Sciel decides that the truth can sit for just one more day.
She steps inside.
“If I say you look like a mad scientist, will you be flattered or offended?”
Lune looks up from a sea of parchment and leather-bound volumes. Her hair is swept back in a low ponytail this time, the tattoo running down the right side of her face completely unobscured. There’s ink smudged at the corner of her mouth, and she tilts her head all feline when she finally notices Sciel’s arrival.
It’s perfect, so incredibly Lune. Sciel tramples down on the fluttering in her stomach.
“Depends on your tone,” the raven-haired woman replies dryly. “But I’d assume flattered for now.”
Sciel smiles and sinks into one of the cushions Lune had laid out on the floor. “Need help?”
“I’m trying to put my notes in order before I begin transcribing them.” Lune motions to the mountains of notebooks—Sciel recognizes them all. Lune had been the most meticulous with her record-keeping, and most nights had ended with Sciel crawling wearily up to Lune’s side, poking her incessantly until the other woman agreed to end her writing for the day. “I know the expeditions to the Monolith aren’t needed anymore, but—”
“For those who come after, right?” Sciel murmurs, poking at Lune’s shoulder for old time’s sake. Then she cracks a small smile. “Even if we’re still around to see them.”
Lune nods. “You get it.”
“I do.”
“I thought I’d finally sort through the ones I kept from our expedition… but also the ones my parents left behind.”
Lune gestures to a smaller, dust-covered stack near the fireplace, the spines cracked and frayed. “These are the notebooks they didn’t bring with them on Expedition 46.”
Sciel nods and picks one up, letting the scent of paper and old ink curl in her nose.
“Do you want them grouped by decade, field site, level of emotional trauma, or paper thickness?”
Lune huffs out a laugh. “Chronologically, if we can manage. I’ve been… putting it off.”
And so they get to work.
The study remains quiet except for the occasional rustle of pages. Outside, a clock tower bell tolls the hour—soft and low.
Sciel thumbs through an older notebook, expecting neat, clinical entries.
Instead, she finds a page filled top to bottom with music.
Scored treble lines curve through the margins, notes stitched between topographical diagrams. A melodic theme trails off into a survey of rock strata. In one volume, a folk melody has been written around a list of sedimentary compositions, and in another, a lullaby scribbled into the negative space of a weather chart.
Sciel holds it up.
“You composed these during fieldwork?”
Lune glances over. “Mhm. My parents disapproved—said it cluttered my focus.” She rolls her eyes. “We were just out on one of the surrounding islands, and yet they were still so strict.”
She flips a page in another book before casually plucking a ribbon-marked one from the pile. “They used to mark my margins with red ink, but I was dedicated to my little hobby. Eventually, they gave up—I was still the best apprentice they’d ever had, so there was nothing they could say about my music.”
Picking up another notebook, Sciel lingers on a page where a chord progression weaves between descriptions of Nevron crystal samples—a recent journal, from their time as Expedition 33. The notes aren’t just decoration, but a part of the entry.
Lune’s world, unseparated.
“You let them live on the same page.”
Lune chuckles quietly. “Do you see why I have to transcribe my notes now? These are borderline unreadable.”
“I feel like it would be a shame,” Sciel breathes, fingers skimming across worn pages. “This is an artform in of itself.”
“Tell that to the Outdome and Exploration teams who want to visit the Continent,” Lune says wryly.
They share a laugh at that.
“God, Lune… If all this is what you were journaling about, what does that make mine?” Sciel grins, teasing. “My journal is absolutely worthless in comparison.”
“Nonsense,” Lune shushes her. “There’s no true way to quantify art, just as there is no true way to quantify the weight of a life.” Then she smiles. “I’m sure your journal is full of wondrous insights into your mind, Sciel. And that’s something not even I could ever hope to capture in its entirety.”
The next notebook she sorts is marked Monolith Year 37, Winter. Sciel places it next to the notebook labeled Monolith Year 37, Fall.
Lune exhales, content. “Almost halfway.”
“And then what?”
Lune hums, brushing dust from a cover. “Then, I keep going.”
Sciel presses her thumb into a water-stained page, feels the ghost of Lune’s handwriting beneath her skin.
“Good,” she says. “I’d like to see what comes next.”
///
Maelle’s cough gets worse.
It’s a disservice to call it a cough anymore, actually—it’s a deep, rattling thing that lingers for whole minutes, leaving her breathless and pale-lipped. Still worried, Sciel had begrudgingly chalked it up to fatigue that first day, heavy boxes and flights of stairs coupled with Maelle’s stubborn refusal to rest. Painting is taxing, and the young girl had been using her powers to help rebuild entire parts of the city.
But Lune had noticed too. And if Lune was worried—really worried—then so was Sciel, triplefold.
“You should see a doctor,” Sciel had gently told her the other day.
“I’ve seen worse,” Maelle had insisted with a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “We’ve all seen worse.”
And the topic had been dropped. Who was she, Sciel had wondered, to order around someone like a Paintress?
But she’d let herself worry a bit more, the topic never truly being let down—not in Sciel’s mind.
Not when Maelle showed up a few days later looking worse for wear, her smile sharp around the edges, her voice hoarse.
And not now, as they sit on a bench at the edge of the main plaza, waiting for Lune and Gustave to return with pastries, the sun warm on stone and Maelle’s breathing a little too shallow for comfort.
“Sciel,” Maelle eventually says, breaking the silence.
“What is it, darling?”
“Can you talk to me?” The question comes in between deep breaths. “Just ask me things. Anything.” Just not about Alicia, comes the unspoken caveat. “To take my mind off it all.”
“Sure, love. How is it, living with Gustave and Emma again?”
“Really great.” Maelle bobs her head left and right. “It’s really nice, having such a busy house. Gustave’s apprentices are always around, and Sophie visits every single day. I’ve never seen him so happy, honestly.”
“That’s good. Really good.”
“Verso stops by sometimes, too,” she continues. “When he’s not at the conservatory, that is. He and Gustave get along—Gustave was too quick to forgive him, in my opinion, but I’m glad they get along. They’re both my brothers, in a way.”
Maelle seems to stop herself there, as if it hit a bit too close to Alicia territory. She shakes her head, and keeps speaking, Sciel nodding encouragingly.
The silver-haired girl clears her throat. “I even get to see Lune a fair bit. Sometimes she’s at the house with Gustave. Other times, we go to her apartment to hang out. I’m glad you moved in with her, Sciel—it’s easier to see the both of you more.”
“Do… Lune and Gustave hang out often?” Sciel asks hesitantly.
“A good amount,” Maelle relays, appearing to have regained her bearings. “They're both scholars, after all, and Gustave trusts Lune’s observations more than his own. He likes comparing notes, so he's always dragging me over to her place during the day—though, he’s toned it down recently. I wonder why that could be?”
Sciel picks up on the teasing tone instantly, and she laughs nervously, opting wisely not to rise to the bait. Although she'd kept to herself for most of her childhood, Maelle had always been far too perceptive.
“I wonder, indeed,” Sciel says, purposely keeping her tone distant.
“He's been thinking of joining one of Lune’s outings to the Continent one of these days,” Maelle tells her, very clearly feeling better as she nudges Sciel’s arm with a grin. “She's been going with Verso, Monoco, and Esquie every so often for proper surveying efforts and to collect samples.”
“Gustave is?” Sciel says, surprised. “With Lune and Verso?”
“It's in the talks,” Maelle explains, straightening in her seat. “Sophie wants to come with, but Gustave thinks it might be too dangerous.”
“Like a double date, huh?”
Her attempt at a joke comes out more bitter than Sciel would've liked. Thankfully, the tone either flies over Maelle's head, or the young girl simply ignores it.
It's most likely the latter.
“What, Gustave and Sophie, and Lune with who? Verso?” Maelle scrunches her nose, sticking out her tongue in distaste. “I doubt Lune’s actually interested.”
But you don't understand, Maelle. You didn't see them that night, their smiles, the glow on Lune’s face—
“If Lune was to be interested in anyone out of that group,” Maelle contemplates, “it would probably be Gustave. Nearly everyone on the expedition had been silently rooting for them, although with Sophie back in the picture, that's clearly not happening.”
“Maelle!” Sciel immediately scolds, her face aflame at how openly the younger girl was talking about their friends. “You can't just say that!”
Maelle’s lips twist in amusement, but she doesn’t press further. Not yet, at least. Instead, she leans back on the bench, tipping her face toward the sunlight like a cat indulging in a moment of warmth.
Sciel tries not to let anything show on her face.
“She doesn’t mind talking about it, by the way,” Maelle adds, eyes still closed. “She knows people wondered. About her and Gustave, I mean. But that’s not how it turned out.”
Sciel hums, noncommittal.
“And you?” Maelle says lightly. “Do you ever talk about it?”
Sciel keeps her expression neutral. “Talk about what?”
Maelle’s grin turns sly—but before she can say another word, a voice cuts cleanly through the air.
“Talk about what, indeed?”
Sciel shoots up from her seat the same moment Maelle shrieks, topples over completely startled.
“Lune!” Maelle cries from where she’d landed on the ground. “How did we not hear you?”
Lune arches her brow, chuckling as she passes over a paper bag from the boulangerie as Maelle brushes herself off, standing. “I can float, remember?”
As Maelle brightens, eagerly turning her attention to her newly acquired macarons, Sciel’s heart does a little leap at the sight of her—Lune’s dark hair, sea breeze-tousled, dyed a stunningly deep wine red in the bright afternoon sunlight.
“How long were you standing there?” Sciel asks, trying to sound unperturbed.
“Long enough,” Lune says, entirely too amused. She offers Sciel the second bag—this one heavier, warm at the bottom. “I got you the berry galette you like.”
“Thanks.” Sciel takes it, fingers brushing briefly, accidentally, against Lune’s.
Maelle groans theatrically. “I look away for ten seconds…”
“You’re the one who asked me to fetch us afternoon snacks,” Lune points out, nudging her lightly with a knee.
“Yeah, yeah.” Maelle beams, fixing her collar around her neck. “I’m always the responsible one.”
“You’re the one who fell off the bench.”
“I was startled!”
And then—
Maelle stiffens.
A sharp sound cuts through the air like a crack of flint. One cough, then another—violent, unrelenting, the sound scraping up her throat as if clawing to get free.
“Maelle!”
Sciel is beside her in an instant, one hand on the silver-haired girl's back while the other grips her shoulder. Lune, too, hovers protectively, ushering them towards a quiet alleyway as Maelle doubles over from her coughing fit.
She bends nearly in half, a sleeve pressed to her mouth. Her whole frame trembles with effort.
Sciel feels her gut twist. This isn’t normal. This isn’t a tired teenager pushing herself too far anymore—this is something else entirely.
“Breathe, Maelle,” Lune says firmly, not panicked but close. “Slowly, with me. In—out.”
For a long moment, the only sound is the echo of Maelle’s breath struggling to stabilize.
Eventually, the fit fades. Maelle pulls back, blinking as if dazed, face gone ashen under her freckles.
“Sorry,” she rasps, forcing a smile. “That one caught me off-guard.”
“That’s enough for you today,” Lune says, already helping her upright. Her voice is clipped. Final. “We’re bringing you home to rest, and then we're going to get you to a doctor tomorrow. No more arguments.”
Maelle opens her mouth—probably to argue.
Sciel glares at her before she can. “Lune’s right.”
And Maelle deflates on the spot. For once, she doesn’t push back.
///
Maelle is fine the very next day.
They don’t see a doctor, the silver-haired teenager insisting that bedrest had been more than enough.
Lune and Sciel exchange worried glances but back off, Gustave, Emma, and Sophie promising to keep a close eye on her for the next few days.
Maelle is fine the day after that. And the day after that. And the day after that.
And between it all, Sciel can’t help but wonder if she’d hallucinated that coughing fit on that sunny afternoon. If, maybe, it had been a mirage from the bright, bright sun.
///
“The children here are strange.” Clea rests her cheek on a propped hand, leaning leisurely against a wooden desk. “Especially the youngest ones.”
Sciel, in the middle of wiping down her blackboard, raises an eyebrow.
“How so?”
“They lack passion.”
“Clea, they're children.”
“For anything,” Clea emphasizes, scrunching her nose. “They’re happy to be alive, sure. But they’re complacent. I'm not asking for great ambition, but you'd at least think they'd have some kind of dream. Even childish ones.”
“Wow,” Sciel marvels, and she’s actually impressed. “You’re taking this temporary teaching stint pretty seriously.”
“If I have to see these children every day,” Clea scoffs, “I can't just stay idle.”
“You could’ve stuck to only teaching lessons,” Sciel points out gently. “I’m glad you didn't.”
Clea makes a face. “I‘ve just… never been the type to remain still. I suppose that’s why I find these students so discerning. Even while I’m here, away from the conflict outside the Canvas, there’s this need to feel useful.”
Sciel studies her for a moment, unsure if she’s talking about the children or herself.
“You know…” Sciel says slowly, “there’s someone else in this city who’s also been refusing to rest.” Until recently, that is.
Clea’s gaze sharpens, but she doesn’t ask. She doesn’t have to.
“Maelle’s health has been worsening,” Sciel continues, voice low. “Even if she tries not to let us see it.”
“Has it, now?”
“You hardly sound surprised.”
“Because I'm not.” Clea sighs, reaching up to massage her temple with two fingers. “She's been in the Canvas for too long, and now she's reaching her limit. While it's true that time passes differently here, my handful of in-Canvas months are nothing compared to Alicia’s years.”
“Your mother also deteriorated, right?” Sciel asks hesitantly, unsure whether she wants to hear it despite already knowing the answer. “Because she stayed for too long as the Paintress?”
“Correct.”
“So this is what you meant by how she’d be pushed out one way or another.”
“At least, she'll let herself get pushed out if she’s smart enough,” Clea mutters. Then she pauses. “You'd get infinitely more time, though. If she stayed.”
“Infinitely is pushing it, isn't it? We can't be immortal if Maelle is on a time limit.”
Clea offers a shrug. “There's an infinite amount of numbers between zero and one. Even a single additional day is an infinite amount more than you would have received otherwise.”
Sciel grows quiet at that. Yet another possibility to work through.
“Do you think it's worth it?” Clea finally asks. “Infinitely more days for Lumièrans at the cost of one girl’s livelihood?”
Sciel picks at her sleeve, frowning. “Lune told me that there's no true way to quantify the weight of a life. Sometimes I wish there was, though.”
For when the lines blur and the water is too murky to see anything with crystal clarity. For when the answers conceal themselves behind layers of introspection, when the only key is the willingness to sit in silence and think.
“It sure would be easier.”
“It would be. But I doubt Lune would like that much.”
///
The kitchen smells faintly of garlic and basil, the kind that clings to your clothes long after you’ve left. Outside, the streets of Lumière hum with the muted bustle of the evening—snippets of a song from the café across the way (they’ve been loving Lune’s recordings), the rattle of cart wheels over cobblestone.
Sciel sits opposite Lune at the small round table by the window, steam curling up from their bowls.
She tries to focus on the meal in front of her, on the way Lune stirs absentmindedly before taking a bite, but Clea’s voice lingers in her head like a half-finished thought.
“My coworker, Amélie,” Sciel starts, jabbing her fork into one particularly testy piece of pasta, “told me that she thought the youngest children are strange.”
“Oh?” Lune chews slowly, cocking her head. “How so?”
“She called them complacent.” Sciel’s brow furrows, remembering the world Clea had used. “Happy, but without ambition. The teenagers, they're at that age where they're experiencing their first existential crisis.” They share a laugh at that. “So I get their distracted natures. But the youngest children…”
She twirls her fork, gaze drifting past Lune. “They don’t talk about what they want to be when they grow up. No far-fetched dreams of repainting the Monolith, or finding the Gestral arenas, or exploring the sea with the Esquie. Just… acceptance. They’re content to stay where they are. It’s not bad, exactly, just…”
Lune waits, watching her. Then, seeing the other woman at a loss for words, chimes in. “Weirdly stagnant, right? Like the world already feels small to them.”
“That’s what Clea basically said, yes.”
Lune pauses the very same moment Sciel realizes her mistake.
She freezes mid-bite, pasta sliding off her fork.
Fuck, fuck, fuck—
“Clea?”
Sciel winces. “Amélie. I meant Amélie.”
Lune sets down her fork, slow and deliberate. “You slipped.”
“Just a little—”
“Sciel.”
“I’m not trying to keep secrets,” Sciel finally says, soft. “She’s just… she asked me not to say anything. To anyone.”
Lune’s gaze sharpens. “Does Maelle know?”
Sciel hesitates. “No. When Clea said ‘anyone,’ she really meant anyone. ”
Lune leans back in her chair, lips pressing into a thin line. “You do realize this is Maelle’s sister, right? A Dessendre. And if she’s walking around Lumière pretending to be someone else—”
“She’s not a threat.”
“I didn’t say that she was.”
But her tone suggests otherwise—not because Lune suspects Clea of doing harm, but because this isn’t something she can just file away. She’s Lune. She catalogs the world. She builds theories. She confronts said theories head on. Sciel loves her endlessly for it.
“I don’t know what she’s here for,” Sciel admits, quieter now. “Not really. She told me she just wanted to visit the Canvas and understand her mother’s creations. But she’s… she’s not passive, Lune. She’s trying. I’ve seen it. She teaches the kids, she helps me grade, she’s worried about them even though she doesn’t want to admit it.”
Lune’s expression softens. “And you care about her.”
Sciel glances down. “I care about all of us.”
And there’s silence again. Thoughtful this time.
“I want to meet her,” Lune says eventually, tone even. “So I can judge for myself.”
Sciel exhales a slow breath, smiling tiredly. “You might want to spring a surprise visit. I get the feeling she’d magically be out if she caught wind of you coming.”
“Noted.” Then, quieter: “I understand what she means, though. About the kids. I’m seeing it in our own comrades. All those former expeditioners, content to laze around all day, drinking and having merriment.” Lune pokes at her food contemplatively. “I understand wanting to celebrate being alive but… It’s been months. Months used to mean something to us.”
“I know.” Sciel thinks back to her old apartment with Pierre, thinks back to those nights when she’d look out the window, out at the Monolith with Papa Va t'en! still etched in gold. Thinks about how she’d pretended her skin hadn’t itched to leap out into the moonlight. “I know.”
///
(“Lune, was it?”
“So you’re the real Clea.”
Out of all the times she'd expected to come into contact with a certain raven-haired expeditioner, Clea hadn't exactly anticipated a random Tuesday during the middle of the school day.
She glances around her quickly, catching a glimpse of Sciel out the window. The other woman was out in the schoolyard with the children, corralling them to the garden in the far corner to deliver an interactive lesson on flora and fauna.
And apparently completely unaware of the interaction about to transpire within her own emptied classroom.
Clea rises from her own desk in the back, setting down the book she’d been reading to slowly make her way to the front of the classroom.
“Was it Sciel?” she asks, the rhythm of her steps deliberate.
“She let your name slip by accident.”
Clea smothers down a low groan, pinching the bridge of her nose. “Of course she did.”
“I was surprised,” Lune continues, crossing her arms and leaning against the doorframe. “She’s usually pretty good at keeping secrets.”
“You seem to be her exception.”
“What gave you that impression?”
Clea hums, gingerly pushing in a chair one of the students had left out.
“Wouldn’t you like to know?”
“Alright, first real question then.” Lune’s eyes narrow. “What do you want with Sciel?”
Clea’s brow shoots up. “Seriously? That’s your first question?”
“What,” Lune emphasizes, voice dropping low and threatening, “are your intentions with Sciel?”
“I have none.” And it’s true. Clea allows a smirk to pull at the corner of her mouth. Might as well have a bit of fun. “She’s not my type, so you don’t have to worry.”
Also not a lie.
“That’s—” Lune sputters, her mask of neutrality successfully shattered. She pushes off the doorframe, her mouth opening and closing like a fish for a moment before finding her words again. “That’s not what I meant and you know it!”
Clea shrugs. “Could’ve fooled me.”
“Please.” Lune sighs, shoulders sagging. “Just answer the question.”
“I really am just visiting.” Clea wrings out her hands in front of her, her eyes straying towards Sciel and the children outside once more. From the corner of her gaze, she sees Lune do the same. “I finally had some time for myself outside the Canvases. With nothing better to do, I figured I might as well check out my mother’s creations with my own eyes.”
“Your creations killed my parents,” Lune says, mouth set in a thin line.
Clea meets her stare evenly. “You had your mission, and I had mine. If you were in my shoes and had my powers, you'd choose an efficient strategy, too.”
A pause. Neither looks away.
Then Lune sighs, nods once.
“I hate how that’s fair.”
Another beat.
“I don't forgive you,” she adds.
“I'm not asking you to,” Clea replies immediately.
“And you’re not going away any time soon, are you?”
“The length of my stay has no definitive end. But you don’t have to worry. I have no wish to meddle in the state of this Canvas any further.” Then she pauses. “Or bring any trouble to Sciel.”
“You better not.”
“Is this why you came today?” Clea gestures between the two of them before putting her hands on her hips. “So you could interrogate me?”
“Partially. It was a good opportunity, I will admit.”
And then Lune’s summoning chroma to her fingertips with a wave of a hand. Clea watches her in interest—it’s always fascinated her, how her mother’s creations had picked up the usage of chroma so rapidly.
“Sciel left her lunch,” Lune explains with a shrug of her own, gingerly placing a paper bag down on the corner of Sciel’s well-worn wooden desk. “I had some free time, so I decided to bring it to her.”
“You two live near each other?” Clea asks, trying for polite.
“Together,” Lune corrects, some shade of a protective edge coating the singular word. “She moved in with me recently.”
Clea nods, slow and processing. “Right. I noticed she no longer wears her wedding ring.”
Outside, Sciel has begun to steer the children back towards the schoolhouse.
Lune grows tense, a tint of yearning shining at the farsight of her gaze. “Whatever it is that you're thinking, we're not.”
“Right,” Clea says again, scoffing incredulously. “For now, maybe. But anyway,” she shoves a stack of papers into Lune’s hands. “Help me distribute these across all the desks, would you? If you’re going to wait around like a lovesick puppy for Sciel, might as well make yourself useful.”)