Weeping moss was a peculiar thing.

  Grown only in the sprawling forests of the Midnight Silence, the plant itself was nothing special. Many tales are told of children eating some on their adventures outside, but that was the case with every plant. Where weeping moss differed was its properties once mixed with various seed oils. When left to infuse in cool, dark places, weeping moss oil became a perfect potion for surface level wounds. Its effects were near instant, mending skin damaged by cuts, burns, punctures, bruises and more. It would rapidly speed up the healing process, turning a once mundane plant into a hot commodity. Only, it carried one drawback; a flaw that made using it a more calculated measure.

  It always, without fail, resulted in intense drowsiness. Not the sort of sleep one had through the night, but a hibernation. The greater the wound, the longer the duration of sleep. Fully waking from its coma is difficult for some and impossible for others. Only brief episodes of consciousness could be achieved. Thus, when employing the use of weeping moss oil, one needed to consider the ability to care for a wounded individual after the fact. They may not be able to wake for several days, and as such the body could suffer in other ways.

  That is to say, when Tifalla awoke, her whole body was sore.

  She neither tossed nor turned, and she could feel it in the tingle of her legs. Her mouth was dry, her eyes were crusted shut, and her stomach groaned painfully. She was disoriented and confused. Babbling nonsense to herself, she felt around with her hands in scattered and frantic movements. When she reached too far, her weight fell forward, sending her to the floor of her bedroom. Pain shot through her wrist, and she promptly curled in on herself to nurse the pain. It did a remarkable job in waking her from her sleep.

  Once settled on her knees, she rubbed her eyes to try and clear the blurry spots from her vision. She blinked slowly, for she was still held up in the grasp of exhaustion.

  Everything felt strange. Her heart rate and breathing were eerily slow for someone supposedly awake. When she tried to stand, her legs wobbled beneath. She licked the insides of her mouth, trying to promote moisture, but only succeeded in scraping her dehydrated tongue against even dryer teeth. She coughed, a dry and labored noise. She needed water.

  Tifalla slowly made her way to the door. It opened with little resistance, allowing her to fall through it, landing on her wrist again. She bit back a howl and curled in on herself once more. When she felt nothing was damaged beyond repair, she crawled a few paces forward to reach the wall across from her door. She used it to stand. She would then continue to lean against the wall as she walked through the dorm halls.

  She struggled to fully regain control of her feet, but she eventually picked up her pace. From residential halls to connecting corridors, she walked with only the working memory she had to guide her forward. It carried her, but an obstruction stopped her before she could transition into the canteen.

  No, it didn't look tangible. It couldn't have been.

  In the shape of people, one stood behind while the other knelt onto the ground with a slumped body, Tifalla stared at what she could only describe as specters. They were a soft, powdery gold, faintly giving off a light she thought familiar to herself.

  Then, a piece of it flecked off from one of the bodies. From scrap to wing, the pieces of the apparitions transformed into butterflies. Another piece fell from the specters and turned into another butterfly. More and more fell.

  They were the butterflies of her dream.

  Tifalla stumbled forward, drawn in by their light. What brought them into her reality? Her dreams weren't just dreams, were they? Was this related to her Coda? Was this the work of—

  BANG.

  The strike was sudden and raw. Left in its wake an intense, throbbing pain. Tifalla was immediately sent to her knees, slumped over. She was dazed for a moment, head spinning as she tried to regain her senses. She nearly tumbled over outright, but held herself up with her arms. When she turned her head, she saw a figure standing over her. The shadows over their face prevented her from identifying her attacker, but that was the least of her worries; a mere blip in the back of her mind.

  What took precedence was her position.

  It mimicked the forms she saw just moments ago. One action put her in the exact spot she witnessed from afar.

  Another one soon followed.

  The figure, pallid and ghostly, was lying on the ground in front of her. A second figure, likely the same, stood behind once again.

  Would that be her soon?

  Her hesitation earned another strike. Sudden, painful, and disorienting, Tifalla was knocked to the floor.

  Her hands lie exactly where she saw they would.

  The pieces fell in place.

  Her eyes rolled, flying back to see her assailant holding something high in the air.

  The apparition returned. A shape was still on the ground. Its color was not the light gold it once was.

  It was a stark white.

  Tifalla shuddered.

  Something needed to be done. Anything. She couldn't stay there any longer. She was going to die. She could feel her head splitting, a cracked mess of viscera painting the floors. She could feel her heart stop, and her brain go quiet. It was real. The claw of death wrapped around her throat.

  Move.

  Move.

  MOVE.

  Her legs kicked out, sweeping across the floor until they caught her attacker’s. The force of her swing knocked them down hard and fast. Their back hit the floor with a resolute slam.

  When she looked, the pale apparition faded. Along with it came the overwhelming feeling of death's approach disappearing.

  Tifalla could not hold back her harsh breathing. Adrenaline pumped through her body, leaving her a twitching, shaking mess. She— she had to move. Again. She was still in danger and her assailant wouldn't remain down for long. She forced herself to her feet, running through the corridors away from the canteen. It was a dead-end. She would only be trapped inside if she went there. She needed to circle back to her room. There, she could lock herself inside until dawn.

  As she ran, butterflies crowded her. They surged past her, slotting into places like puzzle pieces building toward an image. They completed their first image in mere seconds.

  Tifalla saw a white figure lying on the ground with another standing over it. In its hand was an object.

  She felt a piercing pain in her back. An agonizing intrusion, something twisting in her spine rendering her immobile.

  Death was near.

  She sucked in a breath. Knowing she couldn't turn back, she ran headfirst towards it.

  At the last second, she stepped onto her right foot and pushed herself to the side, dodging her attacker. The blade managed to cut through her clothes and graze the skin of her ribs, but Tifalla was safe. The butterflies disappeared.

  The attacker, failing to realize where Tifalla was, continued to rush past her with blade in hand. It surely would have plunged into her back had she not moved.

  Tifalla just had to move faster.

  Her hand, like the claw of a beast, shot forth towards the assailant. When fingers connected with hair and scalp, Tifalla put all of her strength into her arm. She grabbed their head and threw them into the ground face first. A crack sounded when they hit the ground, followed by a high pitched, mangled, cry. Their weapon fell to the ground with a harsh clatter. When Tifalla stumbled away from them, she briefly stopped to pick up their weapon. Better for her to have it than them.

  She turned again and ran.

  Though she stole their weapon, Tifalla fumbled with it in her hands. She had no confidence. She was practiced in cutting skin for ceremonies, but those were never meant to cause irreversible harm. The act was sacred. If it came down to it, could she maim another? Was it the same process? What were the vital points of a human?

  No, what was she thinking!? She didn't want to stab anyone!

  But what if someone else was hurt by them? What if they were outsiders? Where were the guards at such an hour?!

  She heard footsteps approaching from the front. Though no butterflies formed, she felt a surge of panic.

  Tifalla had to act first. It was either her or them.

  She didn't want to die.

  She stopped just before the approaching figure. With the knife pointed, she began to slash into the darkness with her remaining strength. Her swings were weighted and sloppy, but miraculously, a single slice connected with skin. It elicited a shout that sounded masculine.

  Tifalla immediately gasped, stopping all of her movements.

  There were no butterflies; no claw of death around her throat.

  What had she done?

  Her supposed assailant stepped into the dim lantern lights.

  It was Tawhale.

  “I- I didn't– no, I did! I'm so sorry!” she cried.

  Her legs never shook harder. Unable to withstand the pressure, fear, and guilt, Tifalla fell onto her rear, blade still clutched in her hands. She could smell the blood dripping from it. She just hurt a councilman. She slashed him without thinking, and his blood— Lords above, his blood was on her.

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  She couldn't breathe. Her vision was spinning in circles. She was so tired, her wounds burned, her head wouldn't stop throbbing, and, oh Lord, she truly messed up. There was no excuse. If she wasn't dead before, she would certainly be now, and—

  “Tifalla!” A shout.

  She immediately sobbed aloud. The knife she held hit the ground as she grabbed her head instead. It hurt so badly, and his voice was so loud. All she could hear was her heartbeat, rapid, snappy, and her erratic breathing.

  “I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry…” she whimpered

  When her hands were pulled from her head, she flinched. It was just her and Tawhale, both staring at one another with widened eyes. Tifalla could see the cut across his face. It was shallow, but large, spanning ear to ear. She felt nauseous.

  “Are you alright?!” he asked firmly.

  Did that matter? He clearly wasn't. Tifalla tried to express as much, but every word was punctuated with unsteady breaths.

  “I was– I mean– someone tried to… a-and that's why I had that! I didn't mean to hurt you, I'm so sorry!” she heaved, tears falling in waves down her face.

  Tawhale momentarily looked away. Something must have caught his eye in the darkness. Tifalla immediately grew alarmed.

  Movements wild like an animal, she attempted to jump past Tawhale and escape. He stopped her with his arms, eliciting a cry from her.

  “No, no, no! Please–! Don't let them!”

  “I'm not going to let anyone hurt you,” he said. “Just calm down and rest. The moss oil is still under effect.”

  He was right. Tifalla felt exhausted. A sleepiness hung over her like days worth of deprivation. Her words were jumbled and incoherent. The fact she made it to him at all was a miracle. Still, she couldn't rest. Not with danger lurking. She searched for the butterflies, desperate for their answers.

  None were present.

  “They aren't here…” she whispered.

  Tawhale let her talk. Talk she did. As he picked up her limp body, he carried her down the corridors of Cantabile. Not towards the residence halls, but elsewhere.

  Without the butterflies, she couldn't tell if she needed to worry or not.

  “This is my error,” he began. “I should have taken you here to begin with. Lord Eiwar's blessing is a cruel one.”

  Though he was the one hurt, his sorrow was placed elsewhere.

  “It shouldn't have been you. It shouldn't have been anyone.”

  Tifalla couldn't say anymore. She was much too busy fighting her own sleep. Still, she wondered what troubled him so. Her hand reached up and wiped away the droplets of blood.

  “I'm sorry,” she uttered again. “I didn't mean it...”

  Tawhale shook his head.

  Tifalla was taken to a room in a pocket of Cantabile she didn't recognize. It was similar to the dorm halls, but different; final. He set her down on a cot far more plush than what she was used to. There, her body felt too heavy to protest or fight. A mere twitch felt like overexertion. She could hear the sounds of a chair scraping against stone. It was near her head. Tawhale took a seat.

  “Rest. No one will hurt you in this room.”

  Tifalla relaxed. Not by will, but by force. The strength was now gone from her body. Sleep became her only option. Her eyes shut and dreams took hold.

  Tifalla felt herself fall, a gentle descent with a gentle landing.

  When her eyes “opened”, she saw that man once again. It was as if she never left.

  The flowers still swayed under a lukewarm wind, and the butterflies danced amongst themselves.

  He remained a constant as well. The same spot, but only a slightly different position undergoing a slightly different task. Surrounding his disembodied hands were multiple wheels; rings. They spun like gears or shackles moving around the fixed point. Though she knew not what it was for, Tifalla was nevertheless entranced by every action. He did not seem to notice her.

  She once thought of him as a figment of dreams. An amalgamation of feverish medicine induced sleep. Now, she had clarity; an understanding of her situation.

  “Lord Eiwar?”

  The wheels ceased their spin. Once again, his lavender eye landed upon her figure. Tifalla tensed up, preparing for the worst.

  Only, she remained on her feet. There was no crushing pressure or organ popping pain. She was able to meet his gaze completely.

  When she realized this, she relaxed and let out a sigh.

  “Ahhh…” she shuddered. The tension in her legs snapped, sending her to the ground.

  Whether waking or dreaming, Tifalla was overwhelmed with fear ever since she was branded. Finding a solace, however small, left her relieved beyond belief.

  When she looked up, the Lord looked at her with an expression not too dissimilar to confusion. His single eye parted, wide, and his lips did much the same. He said nothing to her, so Tifalla remained the only one to fill the silence with noise.

  “M-My apologies!” she said. “I was…”

  Afraid? Confused? What? It was hard to choose just one. Tifalla fell silent, her gaze lowering to the ground.

  To think she would see another day. To think she would meet her Lord.

  But the circumstances were less than ideal.

  The look on Eiwar's face slowly faded. In its place came a tranquil curiosity. He raised his hands above his head and every ring, one by one, slipped and faded from view. In its wake, unrestrained hands fall down.

  “It is you… You have not changed…? How long has it been since we last convened…?” he asked.

  Tifalla cocked her head to the side in response. By her estimate, the Lord was confused. Though his voice was gentle, he spoke with the tone of one meeting someone after a long time apart. His first question confused her, but his final question was a bit more clear to her.

  “Not for terribly long. I was awake for a time. Has it been long for you?” she asked in turn.

  Eiwar shut his eye in a manner Tifalla presumed thoughtful. When he opened it once more, his position shifted to that of a resting corpse.

  “With minimal deviations… I have found you in… one hundred years time.”

  Tifalla leaned back, bewildered. No deviations? One hundred years? They only parted for a spell barely lasting even an hour. She was no savant when it came to time, but even she could tell that the space between their meetings was short.

  She supposed, at that moment, it had truly set in that she was not meeting with another person. This was Lord Eiwar, the keeper of time itself. Of course a mere moment for her would be an eternity to him. Still, clumsy words of awe tumbled forth, a question meant only for herself.

  “What is this?” she asked, breathlessly.

  He heard. Not that her question was posed in silence. When he did, Eiwar's hand extended and reached. He touched her hands, taking one into his. The warmth was still there.

  “This is my realm… a creation of my own… If you have returned as you are, you are still alive…”

  Tifalla looked down at their joined hands. As she did, hers were lifted up to her chest by Eiwar. His expression was vacant and unreadable. Despite the tender touch, nothing reflected in his eyes. His actions seemed practiced, but Tifalla hesitated to think of what that implied.

  “I was attacked. Earlier– while I was awake.” she admitted. She clung to his warmth to stave off her lingering tremors.

  Eiwar's hand remained a quiet anchor, but his expression was a blank canvas.

  “Your dysfunctions should be resolved… An offering's body is durable… more so than any human. If there remains a fault in your body… shall I conduct personal repairs…?”

  Tifalla looked up, her expression betraying her confusion.

  “A repair?”

  She only blinked once. There Eiwar was, suddenly right in front of her face. His lone eye bore into hers in search of something wrong. When Tifalla tried to lean back, he pulled her forward until their noses nearly touched. His grip on her hands, the entire time, remained light. Even so, Tifalla couldn't pull back. His strength was far greater.

  “M-My Lord?” she then asked.

  His other hand began to “inspect” her. A tug on the cheek, the spreading of her eyelids, the rustling of her hair. Like the bits and bobs of a child's toy, Eiwar checked over Tifalla with exploratory hands. They never strayed from her head, but it certainly tickled. She had to stop herself from laughing.

  In truth, she couldn't understand his intentions very well. Nevertheless, he made no attempt at hurting her. Past their first meeting, and the strange wave of pressure he emitted, his every touch was gentle. She no longer held the belief that she was in danger near him.

  He was just as she thought of him. She always believed he was a gentle Lord.

  Though, she couldn't have imagined he was this odd.

  “My offering is not a fragile one…” he murmured. “No fractures, no distortions… where do they lie…?”

  With their proximity came more warmth, but that alone didn't describe it. It was pure heat pulsating from his form. Every breath she took was hot just by being near him. When she looked into the cavity of his face, she quickly understood why.

  What she thought was a void turned out to be false. Something was there, it was just distant and far. A small dot, a mere pinpoint within the vast nothingness, sat inside him. Just what was it?

  “You are as I knew you…” the Lord soon said.

  Before Tifalla could reach towards that light, Eiwar had already pulled away from her. The sweltering trance she had fallen under was broken, and she realized he was done conducting “repairs.” Her face remained fuzzy and heated.

  Her Lord had just stared at her and all she could do was gape like a fish out of water. If she were just a little younger and a little more foolish, she would have screamed her own head off.

  “I-I feel alright. Thank you,” she said with a bow.

  She truly did. Her head didn't bother her once as she sat before him. It was strange. The moment she thought of it, she realized the pain she felt was nonexistent. She rubbed what should have been her sore spot. Nothing was there. Did it heal already?

  When she looked at Eiwar once more, he had returned to where he was and left only a single hand behind. His eye was closed, and all around them had fallen silent.

  Tifalla tentatively held his hand like a prized object. It felt a bit strange having it on her person.

  Eiwar was the Lord of time itself. Her studies about him were extensive. She recalled that he, like the other Lords, once interacted with mankind. Back then, he was described as kind and particular. He always seemed busy, hastily acting to maintain the delicate balance nature lived under.

  But humans and Lords no longer interact. The priestesses of old once transcribed the Lords’ words for all to hear. Such a task no longer exists. The Lords no longer descend to mankind. They haven't in thousands of years. Their touch is nonexistent and their only influence remains the careful maintenance of what was already created. The age of collaboration was no more.

  It all stemmed from him; The Chaos Lord.

  His actions, his rule, his Aria, changed how humans lived forever.

  Tifalla was not a fool to mistrust such stories. The evidence of his sins were clear.

  But she couldn't understand why? Why would such a Lord, calm and merciful as he was described, do such a thing? Her knowledge clashed with her beliefs. Such was common for priestesses of time. Was it wrong of her to believe in her Lord?

  Tifalla saw everything she believed in right before her eyes. She held it in her hands. She knew what so many did not.

  Only one Virtuosa of time ever survived The Fall, however. It was the first and last time.

  Though she had what so many did not, Tifalla had also found herself in the shoes of fifty-four others.

  She had two choices in this position. She could either fall to the wayside, or become the second.

  But that entailed something horrible.

  How could anyone come up with an answer so soon?

  Her grip tightened. It did not go unnoticed by Eiwar.

  He looked at her once more.

  “Will you return here… as you are now?” he asked.

  Tifalla didn't know.

  But, she would answer. She answered with hope. A silly, childish, hope. It was all she had. It was the only thing that allowed her to continue breathing.

  “I will return, my Lord,” she said. “But, I cannot promise I will be the same.”

  She did not know what would become of her. As she sat in the fields of pale flora, she thought of those just like her who spoke the very same words; the fifty-three who never returned.

  She gripped his hand harder. Her gaze lowered.

  Was hope enough? If it was, what if she became something she couldn't stand? Could hope still save her?

  “Then I will await the new you who greets me…” Eiwar said.

  Tifalla looked up.

  “What shall I call you…? Who will I wait for…?” he asked.

  She had to answer her Lord. Her grandmother often told her keeping others waiting was rude.

  “Call me Tifalla, if you will.”

  Eiwar raised his free hand to his chest. In any other, a heart would be waiting. All that he had was a maw. Still, the motion was no different to a swear that humans did. His body tipped forward, hair and veil alike falling like drapes around his features.

  “Tifalla… by your side I shall remain. I will not abandon you… I will not scorn you... The path you choose is my path as well…” he said.

  Tifalla didn't know if she could choose. When all options seemed so grave, what could someone like her manage?

  “What if I don't know what to do?” she asked.

  What if her decision was wrong?

  “But you do,” he said.

  Eiwar rose up and watched her with his lone, piercing gaze.

  “You determined as much the moment you employed my power…”

  The rush of it all was hard to forget, but memories between the spaces slipped by. Tifalla tried to remember what she felt amidst the sea of fear and panic.

  All she had was instinct. The primal drive to keep going.

  “Remain steady… always keep sight of your purpose…”

  She didn't want to die.

  “I will wait to see you… If my aid is needed, and my realm is too distant… find me within your heart. You need only speak my name…”

  Tifalla wanted to say more, but when she tried, nothing came forth. Eiwar made it clear. Any requests for guidance would be declined. His path was her path. A Lord he may be, he was still a spectator in her fight; her bid for power. From this moment onward, all she had was her own resolution to follow.

  What a horrifying thought.

  Tifalla could hear the distinct shattering of her world collapsing. With nothing to hold her still, she fell eternally in a deep, dreamless sleep.