A Quiet Crossroads (Lake Baikal, Siberia)

[Ashavari]

Asha made herself small in the boat, a tiny crouched figure all but drowned in a black coat. She could swim, but the terrifying lash of the waves gave her no hope of survival if she fell in. El had disappeared from her senses, but she knew it was him who caused it; a manifestation of anger she for once couldn’t feel, but which tore physically into the world around them instead. His absence left her no protection from the outside. Fear raced her heart like it might burst. Panic made her shake as though her body was no longer her own. And there was worse too.

It only came into sharper relief the closer he drove them relentlessly to shore. It’s not like they had been the only boat on the lake on such a calm day. Her breathing came in sharp sobs, trying desperately to convince her lungs they were not full of water, as her sentient gift was sure they were. And when they lurched to a sudden stop, she rolled with the motion, unable to stop herself. Her body remained curled into itself in the bottom of the boat. Trembling arms cocooned around her head, and she was soaked through to her icy core. The overload left her almost catatonic. Asha was not aware. Caught still in a storm of her own, she could only feel.

[Sören]

Elias Donovan vaulted from the boat and stormed up the shore like some ancient god dredged from the slimy sea and not the gangly adolescent boy he was, throwing a temper tantrum for a lost toy. Sören waited in kingly silence, but his face was grim. He did not savour confrontation, preferring subtler arts to achieve what he wanted. And while he did not quite feel compassion for the destruction wrought — in all honesty, should it bear fruit, he would upend the lake in a watery tempest himself to find what he needed – he did not approve of needless, violent rage. The boy appeared to be alone, which perhaps accounted for his stupidly emotional response. Should Sören actually possess the fucking shard, did Elias really think he could claim it by strength?

His lips pursed. He did not look down at Kemala, though he was aware of her regard for a name different from the one he had given to her. Alvis was business though. He felt no guilt for his revealed duplicity, only annoyance to have to explain it later.

“You employed me to find it,” he said, voice level. He spoke to Elias like a recalcitrant child, knowing it would probably spiral his temper into a deeper frenzy, but he would not do him the favour of meeting him as an equal. “And it is what I have been doing here – searching.”

He spoke not the details, having never planned to reveal his instinct that the creature would be lured by a woman’s power, nor his knowledge that Roopkund’s guardian had been triggered by a man’s. He thought he had discovered the key today, but it seemed the mystery still persisted. In the back of his mind, he puzzled over why the creature had not been drawn to Kemala’s gifts this second time, until a possessive twist considered that perhaps there was another element at play – a third hunter. And that it was possible Elias was correct that the shard had been claimed, just wrong about by whom.

His hands rested in his pockets, unruffled as he stared Elias down. Any ire was contained behind the calculation of his mild eyes. He wondered if there might be retaliation, and he was primed for the possibility, but he also trusted in the company by his side. Kemala once stood alone against a tsunami, and the winds heeded her call. If there was a storm to fear, it was wearing that shawl. “Stop acting like a child and look at the damage you are causing.”

[Elias Donovan]

Elias sneered at Alvis, his pale lips curling with the certainty that the man was hiding the prize for himself. That smug silence of his, Elias thought bitterly, was a coward’s shield. Yet Elias could see the cracks. The strongman wasn’t as indifferent as he pretended to be. No, not with the storm tearing apart the lake and its people like a wolf shredding its prey. Alvis’s calm was a lie, and Elias would be the one to break it.

The storm roared at Elias’s command, a feral thing eager to please its master. A twisted grin played on his face as he fed more of his will into its fury. The winds howled like demons, snatching at his coat until it flapped wildly around him, more wing than fabric. Thunder rolled through the heavens, a sound so loud it seemed to shake the marrow of the earth. The lake itself answered his call, the water lifting in unnatural waves, spiraling upward as though defying gravity itself.

Elias turned to take it all in—the chaos, the destruction, the raw power that sang in his blood. But his triumph was shattered the moment he spotted the boat. It tilted, pitched violently, and then flipped like a coin. For an instant, he could see Asha, her pale arms flailing on instinct, before the freezing water claimed her.

Shock lanced through him, cold and sharp as a blade. His confidence faltered, a flicker of hesitation cutting through the storm’s relentless rhythm. Manipulating Alvis was the plan—coaxing him, forcing him, into revealing his secrets. But now…

Now, Asha was drowning.

She was just a girl. He told himself that her life meant nothing to him in the grand scheme of things. And yet, as her head vanished beneath the icy waves, a part of Elias he didn’t fully understand rebelled. Was this the cost of victory? Was this what it meant to wield power?

With a snarl, he flung his will outward, and the storm obeyed. The winds died suddenly, and the lake responded with an unnatural stillness, as though holding its breath. The waters shifted under his control, drawn back and away from the shoreline until they rose into a towering wall, higher than any tree, higher than the gods themselves. The pressure of holding it strained every fiber of his being, yet he pressed on, wading through the sucking mud and silt to find her.

There she was, curled in on herself, her body limp and trembling. She looked so small, so fragile, in that moment. He knelt beside her, his scrawny frame trembling with effort as he reached for her. “Ashavari, you will be the death of me,” he croaked, his voice barely audible over the roar of displaced water. She didn’t respond. Panic licked at the edges of his mind as he gathered her into his arms, her soaked form heavier than he expected.

The strain was unbearable. Holding the lake at bay was like trying to restrain a wild animal with his bare hands. Still, he gritted his teeth and hauled her upward. Mud caked his boots, his footing slipping as he stumbled closer to the shoreline. That was when he saw it—the chasm.

It wasn’t just a dip in the lakebed. It was a vast, yawning abyss, its jagged edges plunging into endless darkness. The sight froze him in place. He stared into the void, awestruck by its sheer enormity, its unknowable depths. It whispered to him, called to some deep part of him that longed to understand the mysteries hidden far below. For a moment, he felt weightless, as though the pull of the chasm was stronger than gravity itself.

But Asha shivered violently in his arms, jolting him back to reality. The life clinging to his chest was fragile, too fragile for him to indulge his curiosity now. Swallowing his awe, he tore himself away from the edge and trudged back toward the shore. Each step was harder than the last. The wall of water behind him trembled as his strength waned, droplets beginning to cascade down its surface. He wouldn’t be able to hold it much longer.

At last, he reached solid ground. Alvis stood there, impassive as ever, his sharp features unreadable. Another figure—a woman Elias barely registered—hovered beside him, her dark eyes flicking between the towering wave and the soaked, shivering girl in Elias’s arms. He shoved past them without a word, his boots squelching in the mud as the water behind him collapsed. The wave surged forward, rushing to reclaim the shore with an earth-shaking crash.

“Come on,” Elias snapped, his voice rough with exhaustion. He didn’t wait for a reply. There was no time. If Asha was going to live, she needed help. And as much as he hated to admit it, he couldn’t do this alone.

[Kemala]

Kemala’s reaction when the storm bringer referred to Sören as "Alvis" was sharp but silent, her expression hardening like stone. Judgment flickered in her dark eyes. Which name was the truth? Sören or Alvis? And if he’d lied about that, what else had he lied about? The questions churned in her mind, but there was no time to voice them. The storm was still raging, and it was growing fiercer by the second.

Kemala clenched her fists, trying to steady her breathing. She wanted—needed—to confront him, but this wasn’t the moment for arguments. Her focus turned instead to the storm, its ferocity so overwhelming that she began to doubt whether she could do anything to stop it at all.

The clash between the storm bringer and Sören was nearly as violent as the tempest itself. Tension crackled in the air, raw and electric, as the two exchanged words and willpower in equal measure. Kemala closed her eyes and centered herself, drawing deep into the core of her tenaga dalam. The ancient oneness filled her, threading her soul to the earth, to the sky, to the energy humming in the air around her. She raised her arms, trying to seize the invisible threads of the storm and bend them to her will. But it was like trying to push a boulder uphill—an impossible, grueling effort against a force far stronger than she anticipated.

Her breath hitched when the storm surged again. The wind screamed, the rain pelted down like needles, and the waters churned with a relentless hunger. Kemala threw everything she had into holding the forces back, gritting her teeth as she fought the escalation. But it wasn’t just a battle with the natural world anymore—this was will against will. Hers against his. And the storm bringer was winning. 

When the boat overturned, the scene unfolded in a horrible instant. Kemala’s sharp eyes caught the sight of a girl tumbling into the water, her arms flailing before the icy waves swallowed her whole. Her chest tightened in anger, and her frustration boiled over. He did this. The storm bringer’s recklessness had pushed everything too far. Kemala’s glare shot toward him, and she felt a flicker of satisfaction as his expression faltered.

Still, she focused on the towering wall of water that rose like a monstrous tidal wave, ready to crash down and obliterate them all. Summoning all of her strength, she redirected her efforts, forcing the water to hold its place. Her power pushed against his, barely keeping the deluge at bay. Cold seeped into her bones. She was drenched, exhausted, and shaking from the strain.

And now there was an injured girl to deal with.

When the waters finally calmed and the winds died down, Kemala was trembling—not just with fatigue, but with fury. She shot Sören a glare, one that spoke volumes, assuming he was not innocent in all this. She didn’t need words to convey her thoughts: This is your fault. All of it. For now, though, she swallowed her anger. There was no time for it. She had no choice but to follow the others toward whatever shelter they could find.

The hostel was too far, and the roads were clogged with storm debris. Eventually, they came across a small inn. The storm’s fury had left its mark here as well—shingles were scattered across the ground, and part of the roof sagged dangerously. A worker stood outside, inspecting the damage when they approached.

“We need a room. Right now!” Kemala shouted up at him. Her voice was sharp, cutting through the muffled drizzle of leftover rain. The man didn’t respond beyond a lazy wave of his hand, clearly indifferent to their plight. Kemala didn’t wait for an invitation. She stormed ahead, shoving the door open and searching until she found an empty room. It was small, damp, and smelled faintly of mildew, but it would do.

“This will work,” she called back to the boys. “Get in here.”

When they entered, she was already in action. “Put her on the bed,” she commanded, nodding to the injured girl in their arms. Her voice brooked no argument. “I need to get her dry. If one of you two fool-headed men has any sense, you’ll start that fire. Then get out. Decency, remember?”

Neither of them moved quickly enough for her liking. “Go!” she snapped, her glare like daggers. “And when you’re done playing with matches, find a doctor. She could have water in her lungs, and I’m no miracle worker.”

The storm had dissipated, but Kemala’s frustration had not. She fixed both men with a look that could have stopped the storm itself. “And no more temper tantrums from either of you along the way,” she warned. “We don’t have time for egos.”

Without waiting for a response, she turned her attention to the girl on the bed, peeling away the drenched layers of fabric and replacing anger with determination. If no one else was going to do the right thing, Kemala would.

[Sören]

Sören was largely unmoved by the life which was held in the balance, not through callousness, but because the destruction Elias wrought in his temper was likely to touch far more lives than the single one he appeared to care about. His eyes cast about the lake and the beleaguered shoreline. The damage was meaningless, and he did not like it. But more importantly, the power displayed was of a magnitude Sören had not before comprehended. It would require reassessment.

He glanced at Kemala, seeking her judgement, but only saw the ferocity of her restrained anger. Elias’s idiocy was hardly Sören’s doing, and he resented being categorised alongside such poor self-control. The child raged in a wild tantrum, while Sören had had complete mastery of their encounter on the lake. Yet he recognised the unresolved ill between them, frustrated that his own affairs would now have to wait. A muscle flexed in his jaw.

As Elias limped from the lake he barely looked capable of maintaining his hold on the girl in his arms, let alone carrying her all that way, but Sören did not offer his help. Let the boy feel the weight of that soul; let him feel every miserable, worried step, and perhaps think twice next time.

Kemala herself was soaked and trembling, and it earned a longer look from him as she began to orchestrate them. But he knew better than to say anything.

The inn was poor quality, even without the storm-damage. Kemala was a dervish; one that it was better to allow to run its course. Inside the damp room Sören’s fist tightened, lighting the fire as instructed. “Don’t forget to tend to yourself as well, Kemala,” he said. No doubt his only response would be the fiery arrows of her scorn, but she already suffered the cold of Siberia more than most. He dropped his bag by the door, containing the supplies they had had in the boat. Then he pressed a hand to Elias’s shoulder to guide him out, indifferent to whether he went easily or not.

The door closed. Elias was likewise drenched under his grip, his coat plastered to his scrawny form, and Sören let go before he could shake himself free instead. If he imagined a reckoning he would be disappointed. If anything Sören was pensive. He rubbed his face and headed back out to the inn’s foyer.

[Ashavari]

Such was her stupor, Asha did not notice when her sentient senses instead became her reality. The fear and panic gripped as tightly as the sudden darkness and cold. The leather coat dragged her down quickly, and she didn’t fight it. Then, suddenly, there was absence and silence; a weight that blanketed everything but the speed of her frightened heart, and the short shallow gasps of her struggling breath. She curled into it. But the moment of respite didn’t last. Some small part of her realised it was Elias; that he had dropped the shield of his power now. But the tendrils of his panic were no comfort. It didn’t matter. By now the shock stole the consciousness right from underneath her.

[Elias Donovan]

Elias tore himself free of Alvis’s hand the moment they stepped out of the room, shrugging off the touch as though it burned him. His coat hung from his shoulders like a sodden second skin, dripping water onto the grimy wooden floor. His steps left a trail of muddy imprints behind him, but he didn’t care. Why should he? No one else did. He stopped in the narrow hallway, his chest rising and falling like he’d just fought off a wolf with his bare hands—which, in his mind, wasn’t far from the truth. His focus burned bright and sharp, aimed squarely at Alvis.

"You don’t get to just walk away," Elias said, his voice low at first, but cracking like distant thunder. He pushed himself off the wall and took a step closer, his soaked coat dragging heavily behind him. "Don’t think for one second that what happened out there is finished. It’s not. Not even close.”

Alvis had that infuriatingly calm look again, the one Elias hated more than anything. Detached, measured, untouchable—as if nothing could phase him, not even a storm powerful enough to rip apart the lake. Elias’s lip curled. "You think this is over because you survived it? That you can just light a fire and call it a day?” His voice rose, fueled by the anger boiling inside him. "I made that storm, Alvis. I called it, and I could’ve let it tear the whole damn place apart if I wanted to. Do you know why I didn’t?”

He didn’t wait for an answer. The question wasn’t rhetorical, but Elias didn’t care if Alvis responded or not. He was talking now, and he wasn’t about to stop.

"I didn’t stop because of you, in case you were wondering,” Elias continued, stalking forward like a predator sizing up prey. "It wasn’t even about the girl." He jerked his thumb toward the room Asha lay, though his eyes stayed locked on Alvis. "No, I pulled it back because I needed you alive. Alive and useful, which you’ve thus far proven to be anything but.” His tone dripped with venom on the last word, daring Alvis to contradict him.

Elias’s hand shot out, gripping Alvis’s arm—not hard enough to hurt, but enough to demand his attention. “I want answers, Alvis. I want the device, and I want to know what the hell you’re doing with her.” He jabbed a finger toward the door again. His voice dripped with mocking suspicion as he pressed further. "Who even is she? Huh? I know she was the one fighting me back, and you don’t exactly seem like the type to make friends, so what’s her deal? She doesn’t look like some local you picked up on a whim. And she sure doesn’t look like she trusts you.”

Stepping close enough to invade Alvis’s personal space, his gaze wasn’t mocking anymore. There was still anger, sure, but beneath it was something else—curiosity perhaps. A desperate need to know more, to piece together the puzzle that had been haunting him since they’d crossed paths.

"You’ve been lying to me since the beginning, haven’t you?” Elias said, his voice quieter now, the edge replaced by something more dangerous. "Always holding back, always hiding things. You think I haven’t noticed? I know you’re keeping something from me—about the signal, about everything. So stop stalling and tell me the truth. Why was she out there with you? And where is the shard? The signal disappears and you appear. Maybe I should rip open your belly to see if you swallowed it whole!”

[Sören]

The boy delved into a predictable but not particularly welcome tirade the moment they left the room. Sören glanced back at the closed door, jaw tight, and gave the ghost of a displeased grunt for the disturbance he knew Kemala was bound to hear. But his thoughts were already on the shard and the creature – piecing together what had happened, and considering his next moves. Elias’s angry buzzing was something he was fully prepared to ignore until Elias clamped a skinny hand on his arm.

He sighed, unimpressed to be pulled from the puzzle of it, but he did patiently halt. Elias was not one of his students, but Sören had taught enough of them to understand the bluster and frustration coming off him in waves. It was not his responsibility, nor one he ever took on lightly, but if Sören was ruthless it was not because he was heartless. The carnage and chaos wrecked here today was precisely the reason their kind was hunted, and Sören could easily leave Elias to battle that fate alone. But even in the short term, making an enemy of him now would be careless for the sake of simply sparing him the attention he craved.

“No, I think it is over because our contract has come to an end,” he said. “The trinket you hired me to find here, Elias. It is gone. Perhaps irretrievably given your stunt on the lake. The creature will be long gone by now.”

His arms had folded, and he did not move away from Elias’s crowding. For a moment he watched for signs of a second tantrum, mild-eyed and patient. Inside something suddenly clicked though – the shape of a question, a link, a lead to chase. Because the only thing he knew, or thought he knew, was that the monster was lured by a woman’s gift, and Kemala was not the only channeler he knew lurked in the lake’s vicinity. He had considered even at the time that the creature’s absence to the second summons might mean something had changed in that short time. That victory had been stolen.

Nimeda, he realised suddenly.

The artist she was connected to was a strange woman, flighty as a bird on the wing, and he’d given no real consideration towards why she was now here of all places. Sören had siphoned the prophecies from Thalia’s artwork for years, and had always believed her oblivious to what she did – or how she did it. Yet she left Moscow on a ponderous journey, and he already knew she had stolen the artefact Nimeda had helped him to hide. That was something he fully intended to retrieve, but not in a way that compromised her use to him.

Elias had already proved his disregard for life, even when it came to the girl he was travelling with. Was there really an ally worth cultivating here?

He might have left it there. Elias certainly deserved no more, and this had only ever been a business transaction. But as the layers of anger peeled away to reveal something truer, and far more vulnerable, Sören recognised like a reflection that desperate need for answers. It was a tenacity he could admire, if little else. And thinking of the woman behind the door, and of the ferocity with which she stepped into the breach, he found his trajectory shifting. Not with an intention to soothe, but with a desire to settle a wrong he had played some small part in. If Elias were not too proud.

“Alvis is a name I use for business – and it is business you arranged with me. If you want to talk, we’ll talk – but if you want to do so as equals now, it will not be because you are about to have another tantrum. I’ll not work with a child. What you did today, Elias, it was not calculation, it was pure rage you will wrap up now as a threat because it suits you. Fetch the doctor for your friend, and be glad we were here to take care of her. Then we’ll talk.” Looking down into that dark expression, he was not sure the words would penetrate, but they were not meant for Elias alone. He glanced back at the door.

“And if you wish to know who Kemala is, I suggest you ask her yourself.”

[Elias Donovan]

Elias’s mouth fell open with a stunned scoff, his brow furrowing as though Sören had just slapped him.

“Gone?” he repeated, incredulous. “No. No, no, no, you don’t get to blame me for that.” He stepped back half a pace, then forward again. Circling, pacing like a caged animal, water still dripping from his sleeves. “You think because you decided to show up with your borrowed name and your half-truths that you’re the authority now?”

His voice pitched higher, sharper at his accusations. “I conjured one storm. One. It wasn’t even that bad.” A muscle twitched at his jaw as he waved a hand toward the lake, like the storm’s raw destruction wasn’t still soaking through every stitch of his clothes. “You don’t know what I saw. You don’t know what it felt like. What answered when I called. Something moved out there. I know it. And you can’t just say it’s gone like you speak it and it makes it real.”

He pointed sharply at Sören. “So either you’re lying to get out of the deal, or you’re too proud to admit you lost track of it. Which is it, Alvis?”

He spat the name now, with bitter emphasis. Sören’s correction about aliases barely registered. When he called Elias a child, there was the briefest flinch—small, but real—but Elias masked it with a derisive snort, tilting his head with mocking disbelief.

“You think calling me names is going to change what happened out there? That wasn’t a tantrum. It was control. It was power. And if you ask me, you are scared of it.”

Sören’s expression didn’t move, and Elias hated him for it. Hated how calm he stayed while Elias’s world tilted sideways. But when the older man told him to fetch the doctor, Elias froze for half a breath. His jaw locked tight. He stared at the floor, as if the splintered wood would offer a rebuttal. Then, with a huff through flared nostrils, he turned on his heel and muttered, “Fine.”

The so-called doctor turned out to be a hunched, hunched old man with a sour expression and a satchel that looked like it had seen two world wars. He didn’t speak much, just nodded to Kemala, asked for water in a rasp, and began examining Asha where she lay curled on the bed.

Elias hovered nearby with arms crossed, keeping close but not too close. He didn’t look at her for long, just enough to confirm that she was breathing. That was all he needed to see.

When the doctor finally straightened, he gave his verdict in a few clipped words: she would recover, with rest and warmth. No cracked ribs, no fluid in the lungs. Nothing beyond exhaustion and cold.

He lingered at the door a moment once the old man was gone, his hand on the doorframe, gaze slipping toward the lake beyond the shattered windowpanes. The surface was still now. Too still. His reflection wavered in the glass. Drawn face, bloodshot eyes, expression caught somewhere between bitterness and grief. He looked away before it could solidify into anything he didn’t want to name.

Some time passed. Long enough for the fire to warm the walls, for the storm outside to fully recede. Long enough that the sounds of the village began to return. Shovels scraping debris, doors creaking open, the murmuring suspicion of survival. And then he moved again.

His boots struck the floorboards hard as he crossed the hallway, shoulders stiff beneath a dry coat that didn’t quite fit. The innkeeper’s spare. One sleeve too short, one cuff frayed beyond help. It only added to the indignity of it all. He found Sören alone, standing near the hearth like he was part of the architecture, brooding and quiet. Always quiet. Always unreadable.

Elias didn’t knock. He didn’t wait. “You said we’d talk,” he said, stepping in and letting the door slam behind him. “So talk.”

Sören didn’t turn. Not right away. Elias stood with arms folded across his chest, chin lifted in practiced defiance.

“You say the shard’s gone. Fine. Prove it. Explain it. Something moved out there when I summoned the storm, and I saw it. Felt it. Don’t pretend that wasn’t real. You even referred to a creature.”

He took a few steps closer, voice dropping into something colder.

“And don’t try to walk away from this like it was just some ‘contract.’ That thing was mine. We had a deal, and you owe me more than some half-baked line about a trinket being gone. You were there. You saw it. That power. It answered. So unless you’re going to tell me you’re deaf, you felt it too. And if it left, I want to know why. I want to know where it went. I want to know what you were doing while it was fleeing."