PillowHorror watched his expression with a glint of teeth. "You sense it, don’t you?" they asked, folding their many-fingered hands. “Tlekaneth is a border bloom, a polite outpost for the Abovefolk and their dust-footed distractions. An ambassador city—serene on the surface, exquisitely veiled below.”
Prolix turned toward them. “So there’s more?”
PillowHorror laughed—a sound like silk being torn underwater. “Oh, little fox, you’ve not seen even a fifth of our fathoms. If you want truth, if you want to taste the marrow of what the Quang truly are, you must go deeper. Inland. Downward. Inward.”
They leaned in slightly, tail coiling like a question mark.
“The capital of our people lies in the drowned jewel of Quoris’thehn. It does not rise like Tlekaneth, it subsumes. There, coral is carved with memory. Song is law. And the light? The light bends itself to our will.”
Prolix’s mouth parted slightly. “And the Emperor?”
PillowHorror gave a theatrical bow, sardonic but not mocking. “Ah, yes. His Radiant Threnody, the Emperor of Coral and Collapse. And beside him, Her Depthless Benevolence, the Empress whose silence is feared more than war.”
Their tone shifted, almost reverent. “If you seek understanding of our covenant with the tides, if you wish to know how a people survive empire without building one on bones alone—then yes. Pay them homage. The Empress may speak with you, if you prove more than merely... fascinating.”
Prolix tilted his head. “And the Emprince?”
PillowHorror’s expression soured like brine left too long in the sun.
“The Emprince,” they said flatly, “is an insufferable trinket sculpted from ego and perfumes. A preening regret wrapped in brocade and soft threats. His name is Athqurel. And if you have any love for your sanity or time, avoid him unless you enjoy melodrama and diplomatic migraines.”
Prolix chuckled before he could stop himself.
“Unfortunately,” PillowHorror added, voice silk-thin, “he adores charming anomalies. You, for example.”
“Oh no.”
“Oh yes.”
The platform slowed, settling at a viewing arch beneath an enormous vault of glass-beaded nacre. Beyond it lay an aquatic theater of light and darkness—an underwater gate shrouded in kelp-veils and singing stones. Creatures drifted in and out, each one bearing sigils across their bodies like living calligraphy. A procession of pearl-armored Quang drifted through the lower streets below, accompanied by swaying banner-creatures with dozens of undulating limbs.
“The capital will see you before you see it,” PillowHorror murmured. “So if you go, go intentionally. Don’t bring war unless you wish to leave parts of yourself behind. And never, ever, lie to the Empress.”
A long pause passed between them. Then Prolix spoke, quietly.
“What about the Ember?”
PillowHorror’s eyes narrowed slightly, not with anger, but consideration. “It burns cleaner down there. Purer. Closer to the Root. And if you're asking whether it will change how they treat you...”
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They turned toward him fully now, gaze heavy with some unreadable emotion.
“Everything changes in Quoris’thehn. Even the air dreams differently.”
The platform lowered gently, depositing them beside a spiral corridor filled with soft bioluminescence and the sound of distant chant. PillowHorror extended an arm, inviting Prolix to follow once more.
“Shall we prepare you for deeper water, Paragon of Sparks?”
Prolix lingered at the edge of the spiral corridor, gaze drifting to where the sea-wrought skyline of Tlekaneth gave way to the promise of deeper tides and denser truths. His hand brushed the faint shimmer of the Ember along his wrist—still warm from the ritual, pulsing faintly beneath his fur like a second heartbeat.
Was he ready to go deeper?
Was there another choice?
He turned slowly. “If I went to Quoris’thehn… would I be able to come back?”
PillowHorror tilted their head, their thousand-threaded mane flowing behind them like slow ink in water. “Of course,” they said smoothly. “The Quang do not cage curiosity—we entice it. But be warned: return is not the same as reversion. You may come back, Paragon, but you will not be who you were when you left.”
ProlixalParagon swallowed hard, the taste of salt and something sweeter on his tongue.
He nodded. “Then I’ll go.”
PillowHorror smiled, all coral-polish and teeth. “Delightful.”
They gestured, and a ripple passed through the glass-veined wall beside them. A scroll unfolded midair—formed of spooled kelp threads and crystalline inlays, each glyph refracting meaning directly into Prolix’s mind as he looked.
“But before we delve deeper,” PillowHorror said, voice lowering into something almost conspiratorial, “I must offer you a request. A... polite proposal. Technically a guild quest, though this one is delicate, and you are under no obligation.”
The scroll stilled in the air between them, and Prolix read:
>UNOFFICIAL QUEST: “A Prince’s Quiet Escape”<
Assist the Draggor Crown Prince, human male, in faking his death and fleeing from imperial duties.>
The prince seeks asylum with his Altacian lover and their child, whose existence is not acknowledged by Draggor law. This act, if discovered, would destabilize succession and incite conflict.>
Guild favor with the Quang Court. Access to Inner Coral archives. Optional Altacian factional debt marker.>
None—unless you try and fail.>
Avoid notice from Draggor Inquisitors. Do not speak to the Emprince about this.>
Prolix looked up sharply. “He wants to... fake his death?”
ProlixalParagon stared at the floating quest scroll, its sea-glyphs shimmering with layered meanings far beyond the surface. He furrowed his brow, flicking an ear. “You... want to help a human prince?”
His tone carried no small amount of incredulity. “After what the Draggor Kingdom’s done? After what they are?”
PillowHorror’s coral smile remained, but something in their gaze sharpened—like barnacles beneath silk.
“Not for the prince,” they said. “For what his escape will mean.”
They turned, drift-slow, to gaze out through a curtain of membranous kelp glass. Tlekaneth shimmered in the abyssal blue beyond, all soft domes and pulsating coral towers, radiant beneath shifting tide-lamps.
“This... disruption,” PillowHorror continued, “will ripple beyond Draggor’s borders. Succession stirs tides. Legacies rot. What follows will not be war—but change. And change,” they murmured, glancing back over their shoulder at Prolix, “opens doors long sealed against the sea.”
Prolix squinted, trying to follow. “What kind of change?”
But PillowHorror simply smiled wider, enigmatic as a spiral shell. “A better current for those willing to swim it.”
He turned back toward Prolix fully, arms folding behind his back in a gesture more diplomatic than deferential.
“I know you are not one for crowns and cloaks, Paragon. You carry people, not thrones. So allow me to make the stakes clearer.”
He snapped his fingers, and a second thread of script unfurled beside the first—this one shorter, but weightier somehow. More personal.
This offer includes secure passage, diplomatic clearance through Soohan waters, and full quarter provisions.>
This offer is backed by the sigil of the Quang Lunar Guild and cannot be revoked.
Prolix inhaled sharply. “You’d... do that?”
“I can do that,” PillowHorror said. “My name opens certain vaults. And the Emperor and Empress—unlike their son—listen.”
He stepped closer, expression now gentler, more solemn.
“Get the prince out cleanly, and I will see your people across the sea. Not smuggled. Not hidden. Seen. With their wagons, their names intact, and without fear at their backs.”
Prolix looked down at the pair of floating quests. The scales in his mind were already tipping—between personal risk and communal hope, between the weight of a kingdom and the pull of a promise.
“I’ll need to talk to Lyra,” he murmured. “And the others. If we do this... it won’t be quiet for long.”
“No,” PillowHorror said. “But tides were never meant to whisper.”
And with that, the scrolls folded back into shimmering script, vanishing like breath through water. PillowHorror offered a parting bow, their form dissolving into misted threads of light.
“Come to the Dreaming Tower when you’ve decided,” his voice echoed faintly. “Before the moon changes phase.”
Left alone, Prolix closed his eyes, and for the first time, he didn’t see fire or steel—but the image of a ship at sea, its sails full and its decks crowded with home.