Vaeliyan stopped and looked into the unblinking, unseeing eyes of the old woman everyone called the Moth, who was standing behind him in his daughter’s room. The sight made every hair on his arms rise. If it hadn’t been for the soft rhythm of his daughter’s breathing beside him, he would have shouted or drawn a weapon on instinct. Not out of anger, but from the sheer, heart-attack-inducing shock of soone appearing where no one should have been, especially here, after he had checked every corner before tucking her in. The room slled faintly of soap, damp linen, and the sleep of a child. Now it carried the scent of dust, the dry stillness of tomb air, as though soone had opened a forgotten crypt inside his ho.
The Moth was motionless, her withered hands folded neatly before her. Her face was a map of ti itself, creased and shadowed, each wrinkle like the mark of a century. Lines of active code scrolled across her eyes, cascading down like rain made of blue light, shifting in strange rhythms as if responding to thoughts older than speech. When she finally spoke, her voice rasped through the quiet like dry pages turning.
“You are not the Ghost in the Mist, nor the Son of the Shine,” she said. “But you stand in the room of the Daughter of the Ghost, singing songs to her as a father should.”
Vaeliyan froze for a heartbeat, then steadied his voice. “Moth, I am the Son of the Shine.” His tone was careful, soft, half to protect his sleeping daughter. Half to calm his own heart.
“No, you are not,” the Moth replied. Her words landed with the weight of ages, her tone neither cruel nor kind, only certain.
“Moth, I am Mara’s son,” he tried again, confusion threading his words.
The Moth’s head tilted, the shifting light in her eyes pausing mid-scroll. “No, you are not,” she said heavily. “You are the Eclipse of the Rain. Where is the Son of the Shine? Show him to .”
The title struck him like a blow. Eclipse of the Rain. The phrase clung to his mind like a dream he could not wake from. He had heard sothing like it before, though the words had been in a different order. Switch had once called him Rain of the Eclipse, and now the Moth had reversed it. The sa words, but a different truth. He exhaled, glancing toward the bed where his daughter slept. “All right.”
He stepped back, and in the sa instant, Warren stepped forward. There was no flicker, no movent between. One presence vanished, another took its place. Where Vaeliyan had stood, Warren now stood, breathing the sa air, his shadow falling the sa way, yet everything felt different.
“Ah, there you are,” the Moth murmured, her head lifting slightly. “I see you now, Son of the Shine. You have sothing that belongs to the Moth, a fla that calls her. But it is not here. I was told by the Storyteller that it would be here.”
Warren’s brow furrowed, though his expression stayed asured. “It is here,” he said quietly. “Let just call for it.”
“Good,” the Moth answered. “The Moth shall wait.”
The room felt too small for both of them. Warren glanced at the sleeping form under the blanket, then back to the old woman. “Can we not do this in my daughter’s room?” His voice tightened, though he kept it even. “Because, first off, how did you do that? I can literally see everything in human vision, and you were not here when I walked in.”
The Moth tilted her head again, the code in her eyes shimring like data through water. “I took the old roads,” she said.
He blinked. “What does that an? What are the old roads?”
The Moth’s lips twitched in what might have been a smile. “They are not paths you can see. They are the turns left between monts, the spaces where mory hides when no one is looking. They are where gods walk when they have forgotten who they are.”
Warren hesitated, weighing her words. “You are talking about ti,” he said slowly.
“I am talking about what ti forgot,” she replied, almost gently.
He lifted a hand out of habit, then stopped, rembering it was pointless because she could not see him. “Can we put a hold on this for a few minutes and leave this room, at least? My daughter is sleeping, and I would rather not have her wake up.” He paused, then muttered, “What even is the sound of a Moth’s wings?”
The Moth’s head turned slightly toward him, her tone unchanging. “I would not wake the darling child. She cannot even hear this conversation.”
Warren exhaled through his nose, the sound halfway between irritation and disbelief. “Well, fine. Can we please go outside?”
“Yes,” the Moth said simply.
He gestured toward the doorway, voice lowering as he found the thread of his composure again. “Would you like so tea, or sothing to eat?”
“That would be lovely,” the Moth replied, as serene as ever, as though standing uninvited in a man’s ho at midnight were the most ordinary thing in the world.
Warren called out over the bond, asking Styll to et him in the kitchen as he and the Moth made their way down the hall. The house was quiet, heavy with the sound of night and distant machines breathing through the walls. The hum of hidden vents and the rhythmic pulse of the ho’s living systems echoed faintly, giving the silence a heartbeat of its own. As they turned the corner, the faint overhead light caught the soft reflection of code in the Moth’s eyes. Her steps were slow, deliberate, as though each movent was a lesson in patience. The hallway felt longer than usual, the air bending around her in subtle ways that made the world seem thinner, less real.
When they reached the kitchen, l, Tasina, Wren, and Calra were already waiting. Steam from a pot left on the counter twisted upward like ghostly threads. Their laughter died instantly when they saw the Moth. The silence that followed was sharp enough to cut.
Wren’s eyes went wide. “It’s you!” she said, fury breaking through her confusion. Her voice trembled, not from fear but from the shock of seeing sothing she had only ever heard of in stories.
“Ah,” the Moth replied, tilting her head in that slow, uncanny way that suggested she was listening to sothing far away. “Is that the Last Kindness. I heard you but I can not see you. This is… odd.” Her fingers twitched as if she were adjusting to her own body. “I am not used to walking as you all do. It’s refreshing. The weight of centuries on my bones makes walking the old roads cut deeper than walking with flesh.” Her words drifted through the air like dust caught in a shaft of light.
Wren frowned, still glaring. “What do you an? What is this, Warren? What? I thought we were going out to et the instructors.” Her tone cracked between anger and disbelief. She kept glancing between Warren and the Moth, as though waiting for one of them to explain why reality had suddenly taken a step to the side.
l looked at her, then at the Moth, her usual bluntness dulled by the weight in the room. “Who is this old lady?” she asked, her voice quieter than usual.
Wren hesitated, searching for words. “That’s the Moth.”
“What the hells is a Moth?” l asked, her brow furrowing. “You an like a giant bug?”
“No,” Wren said quickly. “She’s not a bug. I don’t actually know why they call her that. Nobody does. She just… is.”
“It’s because I’m the Moth,” the Moth said, her tone almost playful though her face did not change. “I’ve always been this way.” She paused, her head tilting as if listening for an answer that never ca. “Wow. I can’t see anything. This is the first ti I’ve been out of the… What is going on?” Her head turned sharply, scanning the room though her eyes were clouded with scrolling code. The lines of data flickered faster, panicked. “Sothing is happening. What is happening here? I was not supposed to have left that room. Now that I have, sothing has changed.”
The tension broke when Styll bounded up the steps, silver fur slicked flat and glistening as if she had just swum through rain. Her movents carried both excitent and purpose, droplets of water-like light trailing from her coat and vanishing before they touched the floor. She looked both soaked and delighted.
“Stylls holds for Moths,” she chirped, lifting a small cube in her paws. “Moths, this is from gods!”
“Sorry,” the Moth said softly. “Who is speaking? I cannot see you.”
“Stylls is speakings!” she answered proudly. “Stylls seen Moths before. You is sa Moths.”
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“Oh, the little one,” the Moth murmured, her expression softening with sothing almost human. “I’m sorry, child. I cannot see you. Whatever is happening, I am blind to the world. Not just blind to sight, but blind to everything.”
Warren stepped closer, his expression unreadable. He moved slowly, the way one might when approaching an unstable relic, though his voice carried warmth. “I think this belongs to you,” he said gently, taking the Moth’s hand and placing it on the cube.
The mont her fingers brushed the surface, the cube pulsed with faint light. For a heartbeat, the room seed to hold its breath.
The world blood into light, a sharp and brilliant flare that swallowed the room whole. A horrible cracking sound followed, a fracture of air and reality itself, like glass splitting beneath impossible pressure. The brightness clawed at every surface, bending shadows until even darkness seed to scream. When the light finally thinned, trembling and gasping out of existence, the Moth was gone.
In her place stood a woman. Slim, aquiline, her skin smooth and pale like marble washed clean of ti. Her head was bare, not a strand of hair to break the clean curve of her skull, and her eyes, clear and fierce, burned with intelligence and grief. She no longer hunched beneath the weight of age or blindness. The crooked spine was gone, the trembling hands steady. A white and red robe draped around her, embroidered with faint symbols that shimred as if rembering the light that had just died away. She looked young, impossibly young, and yet sothing in the air carried her age like scent, ancient sorrow wrapped in rebirth.
Warren slid backward on instinct, boots catching the edge of a chair. His hand went to the lance dispenser mounted beside the kitchen door, one of the extra weapons he kept there for ergencies. He pulled the weapon from its cradle. His body knew what his mind didn’t yet accept: sothing vast had shifted in his ho. He raised the lance, finger brushing the trigger guard, ready to fire a burst of flechettes through whatever this thing was. But before he could shoot, she spoke.
“I can see again.” Her voice trembled, soft with disbelief and sothing like joy. The sound cracked, then rose, threaded with laughter that was not quite human. It carried faint whistles, the echoes of a language that no human throat should be able to form. It wasn’t the full tongue, but its cadence was unmistakable, a rhythm born from lungs shaped for thinner air.
Warren froze, the weapon still raised. “Moth… is that you?”
She turned toward him, tears sliding down her cheeks. Her laughter broke apart into sobs that seed too raw to belong to soone reborn. “This is more than I could have asked for,” she whispered, sinking to her knees as though her new legs couldn’t bear her weight. “You have no idea how long it’s been since I walked in my own flesh. How long it’s been since I saw the world through eyes instead of code.”
“You’re… a Neuman?” Warren asked. The word felt wrong, like a curse he shouldn’t speak. His grip on the lance tightened, the weight of it steadying him.
“No,” she said, shaking her head, her voice soft but sure. “Neuman is what they call themselves. I am human.” She looked up, eyes bright with defiance. “I am an exile who walks upon the world because I do not eat the flesh of those I see as kin. I chose to learn from you, to live among you, to be part of what you’ve made. They cast out because I knew you were not the lessers they claid. You were the proof that they had lost their way.”
Her tears hit the floor, dark against the light. “For a hundred years, I have waited to see again, to see the faces of those I once called my own. To rember what it ant to be a person and not a vessel.” She looked toward him, the faintest hint of a smile touching her mouth. “And now, I see.”
House’s voice filled the space a heartbeat later, calm but strained, carrying that peculiar edge that always ant the system was confused. “I know this is a terrible ti because I’m not sure what just happened,” it said. “My sensors cannot determine the cause. I have scanned, recalibrated, and rescanned. The readings make no sense. All I know is that this person is a guest, as far as you have stated. So, we’re not going to burn her to a crisp?”
Warren exhaled slowly through his nose, lowering the lance slightly but not enough to suggest comfort. His attention stayed fixed on the woman who had once been the Moth. Her presence filled the room like pressure building before a storm. “Yes, House. She’s a guest,” he said finally, his tone steady but tired.
The silence stretched for a mont, filled only by the faint hum of the house’s active systems adjusting to the strange anomaly still rippling through the air. Then House hesitated, the pause thick with hesitation and computational strain. “I have more news,” it said at last, voice dropping into sothing almost apologetic. “Deck is attempting to open the main door. I can’t stop him. I’m trying to reroute the control signals, but he’s better at this than I am. Isol was asking to co in, and I was willing to allow him until this incident began. But now that I’ve locked the entryway, Deck is overriding my systems. He’s… rewriting in real ti.”
Warren frowned, a cold pit settling in his chest. “How long until he forces his way through?”
“Seconds,” House replied. “He’s already inside the buffer zone. The magnetic locks are failing. I can delay him for perhaps eight seconds, ten if he argues with the door first.” A brief electronic sigh followed, like static fading. “So either you let them in, or we’re going to have a problem with that termite.”
“Just let them in,” Warren said at last. “They’re guests too, but I really didn’t want Deck getting into your systems.”
“I understand why,” House said pitifully. “But I can’t. I’ve lost access to the door controls. And well, I think now, looking back, I should have just let them in in the first place.”
The words barely finished before the tallic thud echoed from the front of the house. The door opened, then fell forward with a groaning crash that sent vibrations through the floor. Dust billowed, and sparks traced through the air as damaged circuits tried to reset.
Deck was on his knees, staring in disbelief at where the door had been. Standing in the doorway was Lisa, her fist still extended, the tal panel she’d destroyed hanging off its hinges. The edges of the shattered fra smoked faintly from the impact.
Isol slapped his own face in embarrassnt, muttering sothing under his breath before looking at her. “Really? That was your plan?”
Lisa turned toward him, half-defiant, half-bewildered, and wiped a bit of soot off her knuckles. “What? I just knocked.” Her tone was so casual that for a mont no one spoke. The faint hum of House’s environntal systems tried to stabilize the air pressure, and Warren could hear a faint static mutter that sounded suspiciously like the system groaning in pain.
Imujin was the first to recover. He stepped through the broken fra, graceful even as he sidestepped the pieces of the fallen door. His expression was composed, but his eyes flicked from Warren to the woman standing behind him and then back to the ruined entryway. “We apologize,” he said evenly. “Lisa will be paying for the damage to your ho. But we saw a flash of light, sothing like a bomb going off, and since you hadn’t been replying to your ssages, we thought it would be best to co inside.”
Lisa opened her mouth to speak but stopped when Warren lifted one hand, motioning for silence. He lowered the lance fully, setting it aside against the wall. His shoulders sagged, the tension leaving him in waves. “Of course you did,” he muttered, glancing at the destruction. “Next ti, maybe try the doorbell first.”
The lights above flickered once before House’s voice returned, quieter now, almost sulking. “I will have to add ‘reinforce front entry’ to our maintenance schedule,” it said. “Assuming there is still a front entry to reinforce.”
Warren rubbed the bridge of his nose and looked toward his unexpected guests. “Yeah,” he said wearily. “Welco in. You might as well see what all the trouble was about.”
Deck walked in slowly, boots thudding against the floor. His eyes swept over the room, taking in the unfamiliar figure standing near Warren. “That’s not one of the Neuman kids you pulled out,” he said finally, his tone cautious but edged with curiosity. “But you aren’t killing it, so what’s happening?” He folded his arms, glancing at the others gathering behind him.
Jim followed a few steps later, gaze sharp enough to slice through pretense. He stopped beside Deck and studied the stranger in silence before asking, “You an exile?” His voice carried a strange calm, one that ca from experience with things that didn’t fit into easy categories.
The woman who had once been the Moth nodded once, slow and deliberate. Her expression remained quiet, neither fearful nor proud, her movents graceful in their restraint.
Jim tilted his head slightly, his expression softening just a fraction. “I thought you lot always hid yourselves,” he said. “You’re not exactly the kind that enjoys company.” His voice carried sothing between disbelief and respect.
She nodded again, still silent, but the weight of it seed to say more than words could.
The room filled as more people arrived, drawn by the noise and the impossible light still lingering in the air. Josephine was the next to appear, her usual calm shifting toward unease as her eyes fell on the woman. She was followed closely by Dr. Lambet and Dr. Wirk, both wearing their coats open, their curiosity visible before their caution caught up. The two doctors froze upon seeing the woman, exchanging a look that was equal parts awe and alarm. Josephine adjusted his lenses, scanning her face for signs of recognition or a trace of technology. “So why is there a Neuman exile in your ho, Warren?” he asked, voice caught between accusation and genuine confusion.
Behind them, the faint murmur of conversation grew. The rest of the Instructors began to gather in the doorway. Wren whispered sothing to Calra, her voice tight with uncertainty. Lessa stood near the wall, arms crossed, Momo sitting at her feet, rumbling softly. Even Bastard had slinked into the room, his silver eyes fixed on the stranger. The rest of the Complaints Departnt had started filtering in from the adjoining rooms, their voices low, full of confusion.
Warren exhaled slowly, rubbing at his temple with one hand. The tension in his voice didn’t disguise the fatigue creeping in. “Because she was once the contender of the god of stories,” he said. “And maybe she was so sort of prophet. Now, I think she’s just a young woman who’s been through too much.” He looked toward the gathered instructors who had started to file in behind the rest, each face marked with disbelief.
He turned toward her, his voice gentler. “Should I still call you the Moth?”
She lifted her chin slightly, her tone carrying that strange, musical cadence, her words threaded with faint whistles. “Can you please call Keha?”
Warren nodded slowly. “Well, Keha, are you still a contender?”
She hesitated, then nodded once, the movent small but certain.
Warren looked back at the others. “All right. She’s the contender of Switch, the god of stories, and once known as the legendary oracle called the Moth. She walked through the Yellow, telling people their futures.”
“Not the Moth anymore,” Keha said quietly. “That truth is gone from my eyes, thanks to the gift you bestowed upon from my god.” Her voice softened at the end, the words carrying both gratitude and sorrow.
Warren frowned, his thoughts flickering to Switch. “Switch told that I would be rewarded with prophecy,” he said slowly, as if still trying to make sense of it.
Keha’s gaze lowered, her hands clasped in front of her. “I have one prophecy left,” she said. “But I know not what it ans, nor do I rember those of the past. My god took them from so that I could live without them maddening my mind.”
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