but that was then, and this is now
The mist is an old kind of silence, thick and aching. It clings like memory, curling into the folds of Remi’s coat, draping soft across his shoulders until even the warmth of movement seems muffled by it. Somewhere beneath his boots, the black sand of Svaturis Bay has faded into brittle grass and frostbitten earth, though the boundary between one and the other is lost now in the grey, not that he minds terribly.
The Family’s reach might’ve thinned for now, but peace was never something Remi expected to be permanent. Deimos had given more than his fair share—season after season—and though the Warden hadn’t asked for help, gods knew he had enough on his plate. So here Remi is: not summoned, not needed, and not about to let Halo stumble unguarded into LongNight’s waiting teeth.
A branch cracks beneath his boot, crisp as bone. Remi glances down at the scattered deadfall littering the hoarfrost, strands of silver grass poking like whiskers through the ice. He crouches, cold air sinking into his lungs, and gathers what he can from the tangled heap—limbs stripped by wind, bark worn pale by time.
The deadfall crunches beneath his gloves as he bends to gather it, frost flaking off brittle bark. He’s sorted three piles already—one for larger beams that might make the bones of a lean-to, one for dry kindling, one for everything in between. It's slow work, cold work, but honest.
Somewhere in the fog, something crunches.
Remi doesn’t reach for his claws just yet. But his eyes narrow, his curls already twisting into feathers with the edge of awareness, and the calm in him begins to settle into readiness. There are things that get lost in the mist, after all. And not all of them are trying to be found.
The Family’s reach might’ve thinned for now, but peace was never something Remi expected to be permanent. Deimos had given more than his fair share—season after season—and though the Warden hadn’t asked for help, gods knew he had enough on his plate. So here Remi is: not summoned, not needed, and not about to let Halo stumble unguarded into LongNight’s waiting teeth.
A branch cracks beneath his boot, crisp as bone. Remi glances down at the scattered deadfall littering the hoarfrost, strands of silver grass poking like whiskers through the ice. He crouches, cold air sinking into his lungs, and gathers what he can from the tangled heap—limbs stripped by wind, bark worn pale by time.
The deadfall crunches beneath his gloves as he bends to gather it, frost flaking off brittle bark. He’s sorted three piles already—one for larger beams that might make the bones of a lean-to, one for dry kindling, one for everything in between. It's slow work, cold work, but honest.
Somewhere in the fog, something crunches.
Remi doesn’t reach for his claws just yet. But his eyes narrow, his curls already twisting into feathers with the edge of awareness, and the calm in him begins to settle into readiness. There are things that get lost in the mist, after all. And not all of them are trying to be found.
the bastion
