High above the world, where clouds give way to jagged stone and wind whistles through the teeth of the Cordillera, a shadow slices through the alpine sky.
Remi flies in his pixui form, vast and silent but for the deep sweep of his wings. The air is thin, cold enough to sting even divine skin, but he doesn’t feel it. His eyes scan the sharp horizon, wary for the flicker of wings other than his own. Dragons roam here still—guardians of something no one has ever found—but it isn’t Caido’s home the Bastion is after.
It’s theirs.
Below, nestled near the roar of the impossible, the weightless waterfall tumbles skyward and down in a loop of glacial defiance, surrounded by wildflower-dappled meadow and stones long forgotten by time. The Tramezzino sits just beyond the spray, half-tilted against the slope like a dream left behind. He shifts as he lands—bare feet pressing into damp, blooming grass, curls wind-wild and breath caught somewhere in the back of his throat.
The houseboat is overgrown, almost consumed by creeping vines and alpine moss, its lookout tower half-collapsed and the herb garden overtaken by wild mint and ghost thistle. He swallows. It shouldn't be this hard to look at it. But it is. They had built it to be temporary. A place for breath between battles when he'd wanted nothing else than to run away from the world. But what bloomed here had always felt permanent in a way the rest of the world hadn’t.
Remi steps up onto the porch with a creak of long-forgotten boards. The door hangs open slightly, weather-swollen and reluctant. Inside, dust and wildflowers have made uneasy peace. The air smells like old wood and distant rain. He doesn’t go far. Doesn’t look for mementos. He’s here for something simple—a piece of it. His fingers brush against a broken railing post near the lookout, where they used to sit and drink tea in silence, where Ronin had once fallen asleep against his shoulder with paint-stained fingers and wind in his dark hair. With a quiet pull, Remi breaks off a sliver of the railing—clean, square, weather-softened.
He tucks the piece of wood into the pocket of his coat and backs away from the porch. No time to linger. No time to mourn what’s already buried beneath rot and root and memory. With one last look at the Tramezzino, the house that tried to sail into the sky, Remi shifts. Feathers stretch, claws flex, and the wind catches him once more as he launches into the open air.
Up. Down. And up again. Until the mountain and its ghosts are far behind.
~FIN
Remi flies in his pixui form, vast and silent but for the deep sweep of his wings. The air is thin, cold enough to sting even divine skin, but he doesn’t feel it. His eyes scan the sharp horizon, wary for the flicker of wings other than his own. Dragons roam here still—guardians of something no one has ever found—but it isn’t Caido’s home the Bastion is after.
It’s theirs.
Below, nestled near the roar of the impossible, the weightless waterfall tumbles skyward and down in a loop of glacial defiance, surrounded by wildflower-dappled meadow and stones long forgotten by time. The Tramezzino sits just beyond the spray, half-tilted against the slope like a dream left behind. He shifts as he lands—bare feet pressing into damp, blooming grass, curls wind-wild and breath caught somewhere in the back of his throat.
The houseboat is overgrown, almost consumed by creeping vines and alpine moss, its lookout tower half-collapsed and the herb garden overtaken by wild mint and ghost thistle. He swallows. It shouldn't be this hard to look at it. But it is. They had built it to be temporary. A place for breath between battles when he'd wanted nothing else than to run away from the world. But what bloomed here had always felt permanent in a way the rest of the world hadn’t.
Remi steps up onto the porch with a creak of long-forgotten boards. The door hangs open slightly, weather-swollen and reluctant. Inside, dust and wildflowers have made uneasy peace. The air smells like old wood and distant rain. He doesn’t go far. Doesn’t look for mementos. He’s here for something simple—a piece of it. His fingers brush against a broken railing post near the lookout, where they used to sit and drink tea in silence, where Ronin had once fallen asleep against his shoulder with paint-stained fingers and wind in his dark hair. With a quiet pull, Remi breaks off a sliver of the railing—clean, square, weather-softened.
He tucks the piece of wood into the pocket of his coat and backs away from the porch. No time to linger. No time to mourn what’s already buried beneath rot and root and memory. With one last look at the Tramezzino, the house that tried to sail into the sky, Remi shifts. Feathers stretch, claws flex, and the wind catches him once more as he launches into the open air.
Up. Down. And up again. Until the mountain and its ghosts are far behind.
~FIN
the bastion
Speaks with a thick Italian accent.
Force and magic can be used against Remi without permission.
Force and magic can be used against Remi without permission.
