Wendi Coffman-Porter

A yellow cloud exploded, freezing everyone in place, and Lei leapt up and darted across the room to where her bag had been left resting on a desk. The outside of the bag bore an array of decorative markings; she tapped several of them in a specific and intricate pattern. A copy of herself materialized next to her, and on the desk appeared a copy of the bag. She pointed to the table she had been lying on, and the other version of Lieutenant Amanda Jones nodded and moved to take her place.

“You know more than most, Leilei, that there are complexities on top of complexities on top of complexities. Society exists in layers. You see yourself at the top of your layers because of the nature of your career. You worked for a man that managed thousands of worlds. To some, that is nothing more than a few small cities. We plan for millions of years, not hundreds. I adore the young minds that come to me seeking knowledge, and as the keeper of my knowledge, it is my choice who learns what. But the truth is, I just wanted to stay in my nice, warm bed.”

He pointed out the window to the fae’ana and the ulthari arguing near the call box. “Faetherna is the Fae’ana home world and you’re with one of the few entities that can get inside. Us mortals are banned from from learning anything about it at all, let alone where it is. But if you plan to go in there Lei, be very careful. They genuinely hate outsiders. They will kill you as easily as they will look at you. And if you die in the digi‐net, there’s nothing I can do for you. It’s permanent.”

"Sprits of the mist, give me the sight to find Kevru’tal." She called respectfully into the mist, using the tongue of the spirit world. In the distance the sound of angry humans screaming and yelling grew. She turned in the direction of the sound and saw a feint yellow glow in the mist. Taking another deep breath and letting it out slowly she raised an eyebrow in irritation and began to walk towards the noise and light. The closer she got to the light the more defined the sound grew, it was the sound of a rather angry mob and she wondered what that had to do with the small elaran rogue.

"Why?"
"Honestly, I don't know why. Something about the great one." The dwarf gestured to the stone walls around them and shrugged before walking back towards the tram.
Rain felt and heard a slight hum circle around her, causing her bones to vibrate almost painfully. She wasn't sure, but it almost felt like an agreement of some kind. It faded as quickly as it had come and as she looked around. The older dwarf was settling into a rather comfortable looking padded seat on the tram and she realized that he didn't seem to have heard it.

His mind flashed to the image of her, blade gripped between her teeth, crawling along the rafters like a shadow given form. His skin prickled with memory. That — that had been a rath’viyenne, sure as sunrise. He hadn't wanted to see it then. He hadn’t understood.
Yet when he thought back to the warehouse, to the mercenaries who had hunted her, another puzzle surfaced. They had spoken as if she had escaped her master. As if he had wanted her back alive, and only later decided she was too dangerous to recover whole.
Resshael’s eyes narrowed, the thought clawing its way fully into his consciousness.
Somehow, impossibly, she had broken free.

Setting the bottle aside, she reached for the sheepskin bundle, carefully unwrapping it.
Nestled within the soft folds was a leather-bound book, its cover dyed a deep, burnished orange-brown, the color reminiscent of old autumn leaves or aged wood touched by firelight. At the center of the cover, an indented oval had been carefully stitched into the leather, framing a hand-painted image of a lone tree silhouetted against a rich, fading sunset.
Encircling the oval, embossed in gold lettering, were the words:
The Many Shades of Helagg.

“The mask found its way into a private collection, then briefly into a museum. And then—” The professor’s mouth tightened. “The Great War erupted. In the chaos, the mask vanished. No records of where it went, no certainty of its fate. The tomb Geramaldi sought remains undiscovered, and the mask—if it exists at all—is still missing.”
He drew himself upright once more, his voice resonant. “And this, my students, is what I mean by stewardship. History is fragile. A single careless act, a single greedy hand, and an entire chapter is lost. Ask yourself when you uncover your first artifact—what will you do with it? Will you preserve it, protect it, ensure its story endures? Or will you, like so many before, serve ambition and consign history to silence?”

Every instinct in her begged her to stay right there, in the stillness between breaths, wrapped in warmth and safety and something far more dangerous than either. She wanted to stay and memorize the shape of his arms, the smell of his skin, the weight of his presence.
But she knew better.
Jack wasn’t here for her. He wasn’t here because he wanted to be. He was here because the university—or fate, or some twisted bureaucratic compromise—had placed him in her path. To him, she was an obligation, not a choice. And she wasn’t about to make the mistake of pretending otherwise.