Damien
there's some good in this
world worth fighting for
world worth fighting for
Damien hadn’t planned on the floatie.
Coffee beans—yes. Torchline had the freshest, and he wasn’t about to leave without them. A walk on the beach to stretch Aria’s legs before the next skyship—sure. But a bright-blue shark-fin vest, bobbing the cub around like some bargain-bin predator? That was someone else’s idea of a fair trade, and his own lapse in judgment.
Aria didn’t care. She paddled in slow, lopsided circles, paws flailing while the fin carved across the glassy surface of the Miana Pool. From a distance she looked like the ocean’s least convincing killer. Up close, she looked thrilled.
She gave a throaty grr-yowl, slapped at the surface, and sent a spray scattering light.
“Oh yeah, you’re terrifying,” Damien called out, crouching at the water’s edge. “Real scourge of the deep. Fish'll be jumping into your paws any minute now.”
He might cut an odd figure against the Torchline coast. Where locals might've pulled on sweaters or light jackets for Deepfrost’s chill, his sleeves were shoved to the elbow, forearms thick and scar-laced, skin weathered by northern frost instead of salt and sun. His dark curls clung stubbornly in the humidity, his boots were still crusted with travel dust, and the hard planes of his shoulders spoke more to axes and crossbows than fishing nets or surfboards. He looked like he belonged more in the Fangs than by a Pool where people came to whisper wishes.
He turned a stone over in his hand, smooth and green; it reminded him of pine needles after rain. Somebody had told him to toss it in the Pool, make a wish, let the sea gods sort it out. Fishermen swore by it. Kids dared each other to try. He wasn’t sure if he believed in any of it, but his thumb kept running the length of the stone all the same.
Aria lunged at her reflection, growling at the “other cub” daring to mimic her. The floatie squeaked.
Damien snorted. “You look ridiculous. You know that, right?”
The Pool didn’t laugh. The Pool didn’t ripple. It just sat there, unnaturally still, like it had been waiting on him. Torchline’s noise carried faintly from the docks, but here, the air pressed in close. Salt, sun, and underneath it—something faint and metallic, like blood rusting on old iron.
He rolled the stone between his fingers. Thought about tossing it. Thought about what he’d even ask for, if he believed anyone was listening. Food, work, a roof over his head—he already had those. More than he’d had in years. The cub was alive, loud, and growing bolder every day. But wishes weren’t for what you had. They were for what was missing. And Damien, for all his practicality, wasn’t sure he even knew what that was.
The stone slipped once, sweat-slick against his palm. He caught it before it fell, frowning down like it had betrayed him.
Aria let out a sharp mrrow, ears pricked, head tilted—not at her reflection this time. At something else.
Damien’s gaze followed hers across the still water.
Coffee beans—yes. Torchline had the freshest, and he wasn’t about to leave without them. A walk on the beach to stretch Aria’s legs before the next skyship—sure. But a bright-blue shark-fin vest, bobbing the cub around like some bargain-bin predator? That was someone else’s idea of a fair trade, and his own lapse in judgment.
Aria didn’t care. She paddled in slow, lopsided circles, paws flailing while the fin carved across the glassy surface of the Miana Pool. From a distance she looked like the ocean’s least convincing killer. Up close, she looked thrilled.
She gave a throaty grr-yowl, slapped at the surface, and sent a spray scattering light.
“Oh yeah, you’re terrifying,” Damien called out, crouching at the water’s edge. “Real scourge of the deep. Fish'll be jumping into your paws any minute now.”
He might cut an odd figure against the Torchline coast. Where locals might've pulled on sweaters or light jackets for Deepfrost’s chill, his sleeves were shoved to the elbow, forearms thick and scar-laced, skin weathered by northern frost instead of salt and sun. His dark curls clung stubbornly in the humidity, his boots were still crusted with travel dust, and the hard planes of his shoulders spoke more to axes and crossbows than fishing nets or surfboards. He looked like he belonged more in the Fangs than by a Pool where people came to whisper wishes.
He turned a stone over in his hand, smooth and green; it reminded him of pine needles after rain. Somebody had told him to toss it in the Pool, make a wish, let the sea gods sort it out. Fishermen swore by it. Kids dared each other to try. He wasn’t sure if he believed in any of it, but his thumb kept running the length of the stone all the same.
Aria lunged at her reflection, growling at the “other cub” daring to mimic her. The floatie squeaked.
Damien snorted. “You look ridiculous. You know that, right?”
The Pool didn’t laugh. The Pool didn’t ripple. It just sat there, unnaturally still, like it had been waiting on him. Torchline’s noise carried faintly from the docks, but here, the air pressed in close. Salt, sun, and underneath it—something faint and metallic, like blood rusting on old iron.
He rolled the stone between his fingers. Thought about tossing it. Thought about what he’d even ask for, if he believed anyone was listening. Food, work, a roof over his head—he already had those. More than he’d had in years. The cub was alive, loud, and growing bolder every day. But wishes weren’t for what you had. They were for what was missing. And Damien, for all his practicality, wasn’t sure he even knew what that was.
The stone slipped once, sweat-slick against his palm. He caught it before it fell, frowning down like it had betrayed him.
Aria let out a sharp mrrow, ears pricked, head tilted—not at her reflection this time. At something else.
Damien’s gaze followed hers across the still water.
