Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The Council, that was what they called it. A large space which seemed to exist and not at the same time, only permitting those beyond mortality to enter. The large table seated the 6 most powerful beings in the known universe.
Two of them were Watchers, seraphic entities of radiant wings and shifting eyes. Forms of moving shadows and their voices a choir of whispers. They fed not on flesh nor flame, but on the negative emotions of mortals: Fear, grief, despair. It all tasted like wine to them.

Opposite them were the Listeners; calm spirits, draped in flowing gold, crowned in silence. Where the Watchers consumed, the Listeners remembered. Every weeping prayer, every final breath, every unspoken truth. They heard it all. They loathed the Watchers, viewing them as desecrators, cosmic parasites with silver halos and wicked hungers.
The final chairs sat two more beings, their titles unknown, though they were rumoured to be the Speakers. They kept the balance, made sure not even a bickering fight between the groups would destroy the universe.

Most meetings were dull repetitions. The watchers explaining some petty thing they did to a group of mortals and how they suffered. The listeners scolding them for their unjust approach, and the Speakers ending the session with a single, resonant word that echoed across planes.

But not this time. This time, the Watchers had summoned the council in haste. Urgency thick in the air like storm clouds before a war.

“This better be good,” Listener One chimed as they found their seat.

“It is.” Watcher One said, a wing extended, hiding something from view.

“We seem to have gathered another member,” Watcher Two explained, resting a dark hand on the back of their empty chair.

“You get new watchers all the time,” Listener Two complained, “What's so special about this one?”

“This one listens,” Watcher One said plainly, moving its wing to reveal the child that stood behind it. Small. Silent.

Dark feathers shimmered down her back. Her eyes, impossibly large and violet like nebulae, watched everything with unnerving stillness. Beneath her hood, faintly pointed ears peeked through the fabric, each adorned with a glowing green gem that pulsed in time with her breath.

“We think the universe must have made a mistake,” Watcher Two concluded.

“The universe doesn't make mistakes,” Speaker One's voice bellowed from the other end of the table. Their gaze remained fixed on the small girl.

“Then what is she?” Listener One asked, leaning forward, their gaze sharp and cautious.

“She is both,” the second Speaker answered. “Watcher and Listener.”

“Well, what would you have us do?” Watcher Two grumbled. “Surely we don't just…keep her?”

“You will treat her as your own,” came the reply, now cold and final. “She will attend all councils, alternating between you. Maybe this way the four of you will learn to cooperate.”

A long silence fell across the hall, ancient and absolute.
Watcher Two broke it with a sigh, “Very well. She’s your problem first,” they said, nudging the girl toward the Listeners.
“It's a shame we can't feed off of her, the emotions of kids from broken families always tasted better,” Watcher one muttered to the other, before vanishing, with a sound like folding wings and unravelling time.

Left alone with her, Listener One knelt. Their gaze drifted up, reading the name faintly etched in light above her head.
“Irah,” they murmured.

She smiled, a flash of white in her shadowed face. “Ear-ah,” she repeated softly. “The Watchers pronounced it like ‘Eye-rah’. I like yours more.”

The Listener reached for her hand, which was warm and trembling. “Come, little one,” they said. “Let us show you the home your ears have always heard calling.”

And together, they vanished into the mists of the Listener’s realm. Leaving the Tome silent behind them.

Chapter Text

Diamonds rained from the dark skies of the End dimension as Grian finally delivered the killing shot to the powerful dragon with his bow. Around him, the Endermen had gone still. Their unblinking eyes glimmered faintly, no longer filled with rage, only a strange, watchful silence.

He had completed his quest. Now all he had left to do was head home. Home to find his friends.

Grian didn't understand why they separated when they stepped through that portal. Nor why he had to fight the battle alone? But right now, that didn't matter. He needed to get to the portal.

Ahead, at the very centre of the island, the Dragon’s Nest glowed faintly. In its centre shimmered the gateway home, and above it, a trophy of its egg, suspended upon a bedrock altar. The portal pulsed softly, calling to him.

Home.

Sleep.

Freedom.

He took a step forward, boots crunching over loose fragments of obsidian. His heart slowed, the tension bleeding out of his body with every pace. Soon, he told himself, he’d wake in his bed, surrounded by the familiar scent of wood and wool. No more void. No more fear.

Then the light dimmed.

The portal’s glow flickered. Once, twice. Then snuffed out like a candle.

A large figure stood on the dragon's nest. Blocking his exit.

The figure would have been difficult to see if it weren't for its piercing purple eyes, which stared at him from under its dark hood. The creature matched the statue Grian had found in the village square back home. The ones dedicated to the powerful beings who watched over their land. A Watcher.

Grian stood frozen to the spot, his muscles, that just moments ago were pumping with adrenaline and relief, were now drained, leaving only his weighted fear behind. He had always joked with his best friend, Taurtis, about how the watchers would never do anything to him. So what if he took more than permitted from their shrines and temples? The worst thing they would do was destroy a building or bury his things. All of which he argued wouldn't take long to repair.

Oh, how he regretted his actions in this moment.

The Watcher glided forward towards him, its cloak waving in the non-existent wind.

“Grian.” The watcher finally spoke, “I think it's time for you to come with us now.”

A cloaked arm reached out towards him, but Grian didn't take it. Instead, he wrapped his own arms around himself in a desperate need for comfort.

“W-what? Why?” he asked, his voice shaky as he finally found the words. “You know what you did, Grian.” The watcher said, and Grian lowered his head. “W-where are you taking me? And. And what about my friends?”

“Your story with them ends now. You need a new role to fill.”

Grian backed away slowly. Trying to buy himself time as he calculated his next move. Maybe if he were fast enough, he could curve behind the creature and throw himself through the portal. Head home. But even that he wasn't curtain of.

His back bumped into something before he could even try. He froze, knowing what he had just done. His eyes slowly looked up to see another cloaked figure staring down at him. Grian tried to scream, but his mouth was quickly covered by the watcher's strong hands as they marched him over to his partner.

“Nice catch, Two,” The watcher said with a chuckle before disappearing into the darkness, taking Grian with them.

_____

The Watcher Realm did not belong to the living world. Instead, it existed in a pocket of reality, a prison of sky and stone where the stars never shifted and the moon never waned.

The land itself was barren and grey, carved into cliffs that spiralled downward like the inside of a crater. Jagged rock rose from the earth in twisting spires, as if even the ground was reaching desperately toward the freedom it could never touch.

At the centre loomed the Watcher Tower, a fortress that had clawed its way up from the abyss. Its stone was black, slick as obsidian, reflecting the dull purple light of the void. Long spindling bridges wound around its walls like spiderwebs, windows were long and narrow, like the eyes of predators. Inside, the halls twisted in impossible geometry, doors that opened into staircases that spiralled upward but ended beneath the floor you began on.

Dragged through the rift, Grian’s body crashed against the smooth stone floor of the tower’s lower chambers. Hands pulled him upright, and the voices of the Watchers echoed without mouths to speak them.

“The little fledgling has strayed too far.”

“He will be useful to us.”

He was flung upward, weightless for a heartbeat, before iron bars snapped into place around him. A cage. It was enormous, domed like an aviary, but with no perch, no rest. Just endless bars and endless sky through which the stars refused to move.

Chains rattled as the floor beneath him shifted. The cage hung suspended over a bottomless drop within the tower’s core. Grian staggered to the bars, clutching them, eyes wide as he saw nothing but the purple haze swirling beneath the glass floors under him.

The Watchers gathered in the shadows, their glowing eyes fixed on him like pinpricks of light in a vast void.

“You are ours now, little bird.”

“Here you will watch.”

And the cage shuddered, rising slowly toward the upper chambers. The great hall around him twisted into silence except for the faint creak of iron. Grian gritted his teeth, dragged his pointed hat over his eyes, and tried not to let the fear show.

_____

Luckily for him, the watchers didn't take too long to get bored and had escorted him down a dark hall into a large room with a small empty cell in the middle of it.

Grian was a mess. He had curled himself into a tiny green ball the moment the watcher let go of him and shut the barred door. He was trapped, and there was nothing he could do. The watchers' unreadable eyes only frightened him more while they debated on what to do with him.

"We need someone to watch over him,” one voice said, standing against the barred door of his cell.

The other watcher, whom she was talking to, was standing in the doorway of the large room, her violet eyes flicking between the corridor and her fellow watcher.

“What about Irah? Maybe that pathetic excuse for a watcher could be useful after all.”

There was a brief silence while they pondered the idea.

“I suppose you do have a point, plus she won't have to take frequent breaks as she doesn't need to feed off of the mortals”, the watcher at Grian's door approved, glancing back at Grian as the other shouted down the hall. The sound echoed against the tall stone walls, making Grian’s ears ache.

“Irah!”

A moment later, a small watcher came into view beside them. She was barely half the size of the other two. Though still wore the same dark cloak and large wings. Her smooth, pale skin contrasted softly with her dark, flowing hair, which framed her face in gentle waves. She shared the same large purple eyes as the other watchers, though hers housed more emotion; hers were readable. Her most prominent difference, however, was her large, pointy ears that were hidden beneath her hood, with large emeralds dangling from them.

“I’m here, Two,” Irah said calmly as she approached. “What do you need?”

Grian wasn't expecting such submission, though he quickly realised the stupidity. Who knows what these creatures could do?

“Switch places with One,” the watcher said from beside her, pointing towards the cell, “You will be on prisoner duty from now on.”

Irah’s gaze set upon Grian. A slight sadness in her eyes.However, the large watcher quickly interrupted her gaze as they moved, following behind Two, who had already disappeared down the corridor. One stopped when she reached the corridor, turning back to face them.

“Don't try any funny business, Irah,” she muttered, and she was gone. Leaving only Grian and the young watcher, who was now at his cell, peering through the bars.

“Hello.” She said softly, “Sorry about them. They can be- intimidating”

Her large eyes glancing over her shoulder before she turned back around to face him. "It's nice to finally meet you, Grian, despite the unideal circumstances."

Grian just stared at her from the back of his cell, his arms still wrapped around his knees for protection. He had no reason to trust this girl. She was a watcher, for crying out loud, yet for some reason felt different. She felt safe.

“You know my name,” Grian said, his muscles relaxing slightly as he spoke.

"Of course, why wouldn’t I? We have been watching you for a while, G.”

Irah smiled as she sat down on the stone bench, which was placed outside.

“Your childhood. Your pranks. Your friends. And don't get me started on high school.”

She continued, her voice quietening at the memory. “I'm sorry about all that.”

“You weren't kidding when you said a long time then,” Grian said, looking at the floor, his own memories of his past flashing in the back of his mind. “Why me?”

“I wish I knew,” Irah sighed, “I have been trying to work out their obsession for years now, yet had no such luck; they wouldn't tell anything like that to an outsider like me.”

Grian stared at her intently as she glanced back up the corridor. “I don't know why they have brought you here, but I will sure as hell help you get out.”

Her eyes returned to him. He had sat up properly now, his head leaning against the back wall of the cell. “You would do that?” he asked, surprise hinting at his words.

“Absolutely, I may have no idea what they have planned for you, but if I know anything about watchers, it can't be good.”

“Thank you, Irah,” He said quietly as he picked at his hands. He emphasised the ‘eye’ part of her name the same way the watchers did, unaware of the discomfort it caused her.

“It's pronounced ‘ear-ah’ actually, and it's no problem.” She corrected politely, quickly moving on. “I wouldn't want that for anyone. Especially you.”

They were quiet for a while before a yawn escaped Grian. He couldn't tell how long he was trapped, or if time was relevant there. Regardless, Grian’s body ached with exhaustion.

“You should get some sleep,” Irah whispered. “You’ve had a long day.”

Now that he thought about it, he had. Grian had started his morning with a quest to kill a dragon alongside his friends, only for him to be separated from them once he had gone through that damned portal. And now he had no idea where he was.

The thought of sleeping in a place like this frightened him. Yet he felt strangely safe with Irah at his door. Eventually, Grian nodded and laid down against the hard stone of his cell, his aching muscles welcoming the cold as his bright amber eyes slowly closed shut.

_____

A few days had passed, and Irah never left his door. Grian wasn't sure if watchers needed to sleep, but figured it was best not to ask. He had seen the ways the other watchers had treated her whenever they came to check on them and how the watchers had addressed the young girl as a ‘pathetic excuse’ who ‘didn't need breaks,’ so he decided not to bring up the topic.

Irah really did know everything about him. The way his parents had left him and his troubling experiences during his many high schools, yet Irah still found things to ask him. She was most curious about his life in Evo, though less about the buildings and pranks like he expected. She wanted to know more about his friends. Almost as though if she asked enough, she too could feel what it felt like to have those people around her.

“You have been talking about Taurtis all day. What about Jimmy? And Martyn?” Irah said, practically on the edge of her seat as Grian told her about their decision to make the Property Police and all the annoying rules they tried to make him follow. He wished now that he had. That he had listened to the laws and rules of not only the watchers but also his friends.

“Where are they?” Grian asked as he finished his story. His voice was quieter than before, and a deep longing flashed across his eyes.

“They are safe,” Irah assured him, “They survived their dragons and have returned to Evo, I'll watch over them.”

Grian looked up at her as her cloaked arm reached through the bars to touch his shoulder. He had known Irah long enough now that he knew he wouldn't hurt him, and even if she wanted to, he had a feeling her fellow watchers would do something far worse to her.

Just as he closed his eyes to find peace, there was a loud voice from the corridor. “Irah!” it called, still just as loud as the first time.

“I'm here, Two!” she called back. Letting go of Grian’s shoulder to face the doorway. A hint of fear in her voice.

“It's council day,” the voice said, calmer now as it approached her. “We need to go.”

“But what about-” Irah said, turning her head back towards Grian, but the watcher's hand grabbed her face, cutting her off quickly.

“I said we need to go; the prisoner will remain in his cell. I have someone else to sub for you while you are gone.”

Irah glanced back at Grian, a look of defeat in her eyes. For once, she didn't want to leave the watcher realm. She had always waited for the next council meeting, the next time she would be able to go somewhere that actually felt like a home to her. With the listeners. But this time was different. She needed to stay with Grian. She had promised him that she would get him out of there, and now she was leaving? The guilt of it all filled her as she was dragged away by the watcher's strong arm. Another replacing her.

This watcher was taller. Not as tall as One and Two, but still far taller than he and Irah. Her eyes were not as kind-hearted, which caused Grian to sink back into the corner, anxiously waiting.

—---

The listeners could sense Irah’s change in mood as she stood beside them during the council meeting. The council hall was large. A room Irah knew only too well since her first arrival in the Watchers' realm. The hall she would attend their monthly meetings in, only to be passed around like a child, moving between the two homes of her divorced parents. Passed between the Watchers and the Listeners.

The first meeting she ever attended would never leave her mind. The way the two watchers whisked her away, only for her to be displayed in front of the six omnipotent beings as a mistake.

The groups were arguing once again during their meeting. This time, over the classic ‘Watchers need to stop interfering with mortals for fun’ which never got resolved, no matter how many times it was brought up.

Irah sat in silence until the meeting had finally met its conclusion, when the speakers had to once again stop the other four beings from tearing one another apart. Irah wanted to say something. To ask to go back to the watcher realm. Back to Grian. But she couldn't. She had already lost that battle too many times when attempting to stay with the listeners. So Irah just followed in silence as the listeners escorted her out of the hall. Back home.

“Are you alright, Irah?” Listener One said as she rested a loving hand on her shoulder, "You seemed off during our meeting.”

Irah smiled at the listener's use of her name. She was finally back. Back in the Verdant Hush.

The listeners' realm was a land of endless green, but not in the way mortals imagined it. Here, the forests were alive with memory, and the wind did not blow, instead, it whispered.

Towering trees, their bark veined with silver and their leaves like translucent emerald glass, stretched into a sky that shimmered between twilight and dawn. The air was thick with the smell of moss and rain, though it never truly rained. Dew formed not from clouds, but from the quiet breath of the land itself. Rivers ran in silence, no babbling, no roar, only soft glimmers of light threading through the underbrush like veins of thought.

The Listener’s tower rose from the ground as if grown, vast, spiralling tower of whitewood and ivy, crowned with luminous spires that caught starlight and sang it back at dusk. In the deepest groves, Echo Trees stood alone, immense, ancient beings said to remember every sound ever spoken in their presence. Their bark bore runes formed not by hand, but by melody: the laughter of a child, the scream of a fallen angel, the last word of a dying god. Only the most attuned Listeners could press their hands to the bark and hear the past breathe.

Birds with feathers like green fire flitted through the canopy, never crying out, but vibrating with harmonic frequencies only a Listener could perceive. And through all of it, the Soundless Song pulsed, a kind of presence, not music exactly, but a rhythm beneath the world. It guided the Listeners, pulling them to echoes that needed hearing, memories that must be held, and truths no one else dared speak.

Only those who truly listened could find their way into the hush. And only those who belonged could remain. For here, silence was sacred. Not absence, but presence. And in every rustle of leaf, every creak of wood, every heartbeat in the moss, there was a voice.

Waiting to be heard.

“I’m fine, One. Don't worry,” Irah said, shrugging her shoulders as she sat on her favourite wooden bench and stared out into the greenery of the Listening realm. She closed her watchful eyes and finally allowed herself to listen. Listen to all peaceful things in the world, blocking out the others. She didn't need to worry about that right now.

“As long as you are sure,” Two said as she sat beside Irah. “So who’s this Grian fellow?”

Irah looked at Two in surprise before remembering what she meant. The Listeners had always been more worried and protective of Irah since her appearance and had got into a habit of eavesdropping on her conversations whenever she was away in the watcher realm. Although it was invasive, Irah knew that it was just because they cared. And in a land like the watchers' realm, Irah understood their concern.

“A Mortal,” Irah replied with a soft smile. “The watchers are having me look after him. At least they were...” Her smile faded as the realisation hit. She wasn't the one to look after him anymore. Grian was left alone with the watchers.

An arm wrapped around her shoulders, its warmth comforting her.

“I’m sure he will be fine. It’s only a month, Irah.”

"I hope you are right. A lot can happen in that time.”

Over the next couple of weeks, Irah worked hard. She decided that if she was unable to help Grian while in this realm, there was something she could help with. And that was his friends.

She did her best to subtly communicate with those she knew, hoping to get them as far away from Evo as possible.

First, she tried to communicate with Jimmy, separating him from the rest of the group and leaving him 9 magical chests, which allowed them to carry less during their trek. She knew she could trust him. Grian had told her all about his work at their police station, and she knew that he was aware of the existence of the listeners. He seemed like the perfect person for the job.

Irah had a feeling Martyn would trek back to Evo along with everyone else and discover the watcher's message, so to keep discreet and easy, she snuck a letter into each of the enchanted chests to help them on their journey.

Satisfied with the way things turned out after her hidden loophole in the watcher's plan, there was no sweeter sound than that of the Listeners informing her of her upcoming meeting later that day.

Chapter Text

Although the Council meeting had turned out the same as they always did, it felt like the longest meeting in the history of all meetings to Irah. She sat quietly beside the watchers, anxiously waiting to get back and see Grian. Her ears welcomed the sound of “That will be all for today” and the quiet scraping of chairs as they exited the hall. It was over.

Irah had never been so excited to be back in the darkness of the Watcher Realm. She had always mocked the watchers for getting so attached to that one mortal, yet now that she had finally met him and got to know the real him. She understood why they were always drawn.

She sprinted down the corridor to his cell, her cloak flowing out from behind her as her now loose dark hair broke free from her hood. When she finally got to the door of his cell, her heart stopped.

The iron door was open. Wide open.

Her steps faltered. The torchlight flickered erratically against the wall, casting long shadows like reaching hands.

Gone was the faint warmth of his presence. Gone was the steady, weary breathing that had once echoed against these walls. It was empty.

All that remained was his hat.

That ridiculous pointed green thing.

It lay there, abandoned in the centre of the room like a severed memory. Irah stared at it, her throat tightening. She stepped forward slowly, dropped to her knees, and picked it up with trembling hands.

They had taken him.

Her fingers curled into the fabric of Grian’s hat as a storm ignited behind her ribs—slow at first, like a match catching kindling, then rising, roaring into flame.

He was never supposed to be here. They had waited for her to leave. They had known he was waiting for her and now who knows what they had done to him.

She stood slowly.

Stone cracked beneath her feet. The torchlight in the corridor flared as if stirred by the heat of her rage. Her wings unfurled behind her, feathers shivering with restrained power. Her vision blurred at the edges, not with tears, but with the seething clarity of purpose.

They had taken someone under her protection, and she wasn't about to stand by and do nothing.

Irah flung open the large doors of the watcher's hall. The sound startled even the largest of the watchers.

“Where is he?!” she shouted with a voice louder than even she knew she could make. “Where. Is. Gr-” She stopped as the watchers parted the way, giving her a clear view of the birdcage they had kept him in on his arrival. It was a sight she would never forget.

Grian laid on the floor of the cage. Large watcher wings had sprouted from behind his ears and across his back. Inky feathers much like her own, covered in spying purple eyes that stared directly at her. The most startling sight was the man’s face. One that used to be full of life and wonder now completely drained. Tears stained his face in a vibrant shade of purple, and through his slow, weak blinks she could see his dark eyes. His pupils now square with a hint of violet.

“WHAT HAVE YOU DONE TO HIM!” she screamed, rushing forward but was quickly pulled back before she could reach him. “Y-You MONSTERS!”

“Get her out of here.” One said, spreading their wings and cloak to hide the cage from view.

“No!” Irah cried out frantically, trying to break free from the many arms that were dragging her from the room. But it was no use.

The doors shut with a large bang, and Irah was left alone in the dark hallway. She bashed her shoulder against the door, disregarding the pain she felt as she tried again. This time using her wings to propel herself forwards faster.

With one final shove Irah collapsed against the door, white shimmering tears streaming down her face.

“No no no NO! You have to let me in! You have to-” She wept, her fists still banging against the door. “It’s all my fault, I never should have left you…”

Her ears twitched as a soft voice was heard, “Irah, what's wrong darling?”

Irah could recognise the calming voices of the listeners anywhere, and now more than ever she was grateful for their presence. She slowly got up and walked down the corridor, taking extra caution not to be overheard as she crumbled on the floor of the nearest room and shut the door behind her.

“I-its Grian. They have done something to him and it’s all my fault. I-I should have fought harder to stay.”

“Irah-” The soft voices responded, desperate to comfort her, "It's not your fault. The watchers are monsters and even if you said something you know the council would have never agreed to it.”

“But they might have done something to force them to set him free.” She snapped.

A silence fell across the hall before finally the listeners spoke.

“That doesn't matter now. Right now, you need to be there for him. He trusts you right? Give him a reason to continue doing so.”

Irah’s ears twitched once again, and she knew they were gone. She also knew they were right. It was all in the past now and she needed to focus on getting him out.

Irah looked around to find herself in the watcher's observatory. The walls lined from floor to ceiling with shelves, each storing bottles full of strange colourful liquid. A large dish was illuminated in the centre of the room. It was filled with crystal clear water which the watchers used to observe specific places and moments.

Irah scanned the shelves until she found the bottle she was looking for. It was filled with pitch black liquid and a label tied to the neck that read “Watcher's realm”

She popped open the cork and dropped a few drops into the large dish. The dark spiralled about the clear water turning it all into a dark void. Irah spread her wings and focused her eyes on the water below.

Below her, Irah could see the Watchers tower and all the winding corridors and halls. She had the map of their world at her fingertips, and she wasn't going to let it go to waste. She exhaled in relief when her eyes finally found the portal room, it wasn't far from Grian’s cell but far enough it would be risky. It was worth taking that risk. She memorised the route the best she could and headed back to the dungeon to await Grian’s return.

The door behind her clicked open as a watcher entered the room, a bundle of violet feathers in her arms. The watcher laid him down on the floor of the cell and left without saying a word. Leaving the cell door wide open.

Irah rushed to Grian’s side, carefully moving him to rest his head on her lap. She watched the slow rise and fall of his chest as he lay there, worried he may stop breathing at any moment. “What have they done to you?”

They stayed there for hours. Irah running her fingers through his blonde hair, waiting for him to wake up.

Grian moved slightly, his now dark eyes slowly blinking open. His whole body screamed as though every nerve had been pulled apart and stitched back together with fire. The world around him was blurry and distant, a muffled memory not fully returned. He was freezing and burning all at once, skin too tight, muscles heavy and aching like unfamiliar limbs.

But then... warmth.

He realized he wasn’t alone. Strong arms cradled him, careful but firm, holding him together as though she feared he might fall apart if she let go.

Irah.

Her cloak was wrapped partly around them both, her breath fogging in the cold room. She sat with her back against the wall; wings furled behind her.

“You’re alright,” she whispered, though her voice cracked slightly. “You’re okay, Grian. You’re going to be okay.”

He tried to speak, but only a broken sound escaped. His throat burned. His wings twitched, too large, too sensitive.

“Shhh,” Irah said, brushing damp curls from his forehead. “I know it hurts.”

He closed his eyes again, not in sleep, but surrender. He could feel it now—the shift. Something ancient and vast curled inside him. A heartbeat no longer wholly his. The Watcher’s mark pulsed in his veins like a second soul.

“I-Irah?” he rasped, finally.

“I’m right here.” She said holding him tighter. “And I’m so sorry.”

Silence settled around them, fragile and heavy. And though his body trembled, and every breath still ached with change, Grian let himself lean into her hold. For now. Just for now, he would rest.

_____

Grian’s recovery was slow, cruel, and shrouded in shadow.

The Watchers did not speak to him. Not in words, at least. They whispered in pulses of energy, flashes of memory not his own, illusions in the corners of his cell that vanished when he blinked.

He lay curled against the far side of the room, wings twitching faintly under the weight of exhaustion, his breath shallow and uneven. Every part of him ached. Not just his body, but deeper, somewhere in the marrow of his being, like his soul itself was trying to knit back together.

And Irah sat beside him through all of it.

She hadn’t left his side once.

There were no guards. The Watchers didn’t think she could do anything. She wasn’t one of them, not in the way they respected. To them, she was a crack in the system. An anomaly. Barely tolerated. Certainly not feared.

That would be their mistake.

Grian stirred slightly, his brow furrowing in pain. Irah reached over and gently rested a hand against his temple, whispering, “It’s alright. You’re still here.”

He flinched, just a little, but relaxed at her voice. It seemed to bring him back. Even now, when he barely knew where “here” was, her voice was a tether.

On the ninth day, Grian sat up on his own.

His shoulders hunched forward from the strain, and sweat beaded at his brow, but he was upright. His wings twitched behind him, not quite steady, but responsive.

Irah didn’t rush, she waited, watching him claim that small victory.

He looked at her.

And for the first time in days, he smiled. Weak. But real.

“I think I’m ready,” his voice hoarse like broken glass.

Irah leaned forward, reaching a hand out toward him. “Then let’s get you out of here.”

Grian’s fingers curled around hers. His hand trembled, but there was strength there too. Just enough.

Outside the door, the cracks in the walls pulsed like they sensed something shifting. A quiet warning.

Irah didn't care.

She had made a promise, and she was going to keep it.

With Grian’s arm round her shoulder she snuck into the dark corridor, her ears listening for any hint at the watchers.

Once they reached the edge, they were met with a spiral staircase leading them down to a large room. The portal room.

Grian leaned heavily on the wall as they began the descent. Every step sent a jolt of dull pain up his legs, wings dragging slightly behind him like dead weight. He hadn’t spoken since they left the cell, but Irah could feel the storm in him.

The staircase curved like a serpent, narrow and seemingly endless. Down and down. No windows, no torches, only the faint gleam of magic and the sound of their feet against the stone.

They had finally reached the bottom when Grian’s knees buckled. Luckily falling into Irah’s arms. He had pushed too hard and his body couldn't take it anymore.

“Hey, hey, It’s okay. We are almost there.” She said as she led him through the archway, leaning him against the wall. “You rest. I can worry about the portal, alright?”

Grian nodded, not wanting to argue. He hated feeling this useless, but he just didn't have the energy to protest.

Irah had headed to the other end of the room where the remains of an unlit portal were found. She rummaged through cupboards and drawers until she let out a small squeak when she finally found what she was after. It was a large leatherbound book which she flicked through memorising something on one of the pages. Before Grian could ask what, she was up to she tucked the book into her cloak and stood in front of the portal. Wings outstretched and covered with glowing eyes. She took a deep breath and muttered words not meant for mortal tongues as the portal slowly began to glow a magnificent purple.

She stepped back and admired her work before running over to him.

“You ready? I sure hope so to cause I don't know how long we have left till that thing closes or we get spotted” she said, extending an arm towards him.

“Let’s get out of here,” Grian said with a smile. Grabbing Irah's hand and pulling himself up against her. They shared a deep breath as they disappeared into the void. Hoping for something better when they reached the other side.

Chapter Text

Grian had already left Irah’s side when she emerged from the portal. She wasn’t sure if it was the magic pulsing from it or just the adrenaline pumping through Grian’s now frantic body which allowed him to run from building to building. Desperate to find any kind of sign that his friends were okay.

The damaged sight of his old home filled Grian with dread as he weaved his way through the overgrown vines to get inside the remains of the Property Police station.

“Grian.” Irah said following behind him slowly as the hope slowly drained from his face. She recognised the look on his face from a previous encounter with another resident of Evo when he too saw the damages.

“Where are they?” He asked, finally stopping to stare at her, “You said they were okay. T-that they had made it back safely. Please don’t tell me you only said that-”

“What? No. Grian, I was trying to tell you that they aren’t here. After they defeated their dragons they moved, I did what I could to help them get away from the watchers' tasks.”

Grian slowly walked over to her, eyes still searching the discarded building.

“I wouldn’t lie to you Grian.” She said sternly as Grian's gaze slowly returned to hers.

“So where are they now?”

Irah turned and pointed behind them, past the remains of Netty’s treehouse and across the fields.

“It's not too far from here, I didn't want to tire them too much.”

“Then what are we waiting for!” Grian said, turning round and beginning his trek across the fields.

“Are you sure? You could hardly stand back in the watchers tavern and now you want to take a hike?”

But Grian was already gone.

The sun hung low over the grasslands, casting long golden shadows across the fields as the pair moved steadily through the highland passes. The landscape rolled before them, green meadows giving way to jagged cliffs and wind-bitten rock. Wildflowers swayed beneath the hush of wind, and distant mountain peaks still glistened with snow.

They had been walking for hours.

At first, Grian had kept up easily, driven by the adrenaline of escape and the drive to find his friends. But now, as twilight crept closer, his steps were faltering. His breaths were ragged. Sweat clung to his brow beneath messy blonde hair, his wings dragging behind him, unused to the weight. His legs trembled with each step uphill.

Irah had been watching him silently, her strides strong and purposeful. But when he stumbled again—this time catching himself on a boulder with a soft curse—she finally stopped.

“Okay,” she said gently, turning to him. “That’s enough walking.”

Grian straightened with effort. “I’m fine. I just need a second.”

Journey shook her head. “You’re not. You’re still recovering. You’ve barely been out of that dungeon for two days, and you’ve never carried those wings before.”

He glanced back at the foreign weight on his back. The shifting violet and Inky feathers that felt too big, too heavy, too wrong. “I don’t even know how to use them,” he admitted quietly. “They’re just... there.”

Irah stepped closer, a smile flickering across her face. “Why don't we fix that?”

She reached for his hand. “Come with me.”

He let her lead him toward a grassy rise where the land dropped into a sweeping valley below. The wind picked up there, cooler and stronger, tugging at his clothes and tousling her dark curls.

Irah stopped at the edge of the drop and spread her wings slowly. Her feathers catching hints of purple and green in the light. She closed her eyes and let the wind move through them.

Grian watched in quiet awe.

“It’s not just about strength,” she said. “Flying, I mean. Your wings are part of you now. They’ll catch the wind if you let them.”

Grian hesitated. “What if I fall?”

Irah opened her eyes and looked at him. “Then I’ll catch you.”

He breathed slowly, nodded once, then stepped to the edge beside her.

His own wings unfurled. Shaky at first, stiff and unsure, but radiant in the fading light.

“Good,” Irah said softly. “Now lean into the wind. Let it lift you.”

He felt it then. A current catching the underside of his wings, tugging him upward like the wind knew him.

He stepped off the ledge.

For a breathless second, he dropped. Panic gripping his chest. But then, he rose.

The wind carried him.

Clumsy at first, tilting and dipping too far to the left, but he was in the air.

Grian laughed genuinely, breathlessly as he wobbled above the grass. “I’m flying! I’m actually—!”

Irah soared up beside him with ease, her eyes sparkling in the dusk, “You’re doing better than I did on my first try.”

They circled the valley together, the world below turning gold and crimson in the setting sun. For the first time in days, there was no pain in Grian’s body, only the wind in his feathers and the sky opening above them like a promise.

When they finally touched down again on a gentler slope farther ahead, Grian collapsed into the grass, laughing through the exhaustion.

Irah sat beside him, her smile soft. “You’re getting stronger.”

He looked at her, truly looked, and for a long moment.

“Thank you,” he said finally.

She glanced up at the stars beginning to blink above them. “Come on,” she murmured. “We’ll camp here for the night. You can fly more tomorrow.”

And with that, they settled under the vast open sky, two winged figures silhouetted against the edge of twilight.

_____

The wind howled high in the mountains as Irah hovered in the open air above the ridge. Below, Grian stood on the jagged edge, wings spread, boots braced against the stones.

The air caught him like a hand. For a breathless second, he dipped. Then instinct kicked in, wings flaring wide. He wobbled, dropped slightly again but held.

He wasn’t flying exactly, more like gliding with intention. But the sheer sensation of it stole the air from his lungs. Cold wind tore at his coat, and his heart thundered like war drums. Every inch of him screamed with energy.

“I can’t feel my face,” he wheezed. “Or anything else. This- this is insane.”

She laughed and reached a hand out to guide him higher. “Told you it was worth trying.”

They flew for miles. Wings flapping, adrenaline fading. Irah watched him closely, noticing how after a while his flaps began to slow. The effort, the pain, he was still healing, even if he didn’t admit it.

But something else had changed.

The first time she saw it was when they crested a hill, and sunlight caught him full-on. She turned to say something and stopped.

The edges of Grian’s wings shimmered, catching like fire. It could have easily been a trick of light but then the sun hit fully, and the colour unfurled.

Scarlet.

What had once been the dark, starless plumage of the Watchers was now fading. Feather by feather, the dark bled into red, into sunset orange, into the rich vermilion of a scarlet macaw’s wing. A colour not born of the void but of life.

“Grian,” she whispered.

He looked back, eyes narrowed. “What?”

“Your wings.”

He blinked, then turned slowly to glance over his shoulder. For a moment, all he did was stare. His hand lifted, brushing a thumb along one new crimson feather.

“They’re… changing.” He was quiet for a moment. “That’s terrifying.”

She smiled. “That’s freedom.”

They moved on, the wind carrying petals and leaves across the sky. And though the climb ahead was steep, and the shadows still chased them, Grian no longer felt like something half-alive. He was no longer a prisoner of the Watchers. But something new.

_____

The air over New Evo was still. Too still.
Grian had expected to hear the distant bustle of life; footsteps on cobblestone, voices echoing between buildings, the crackle of campfires. It should have been alive with voices, banners fluttering in the wind, the clatter of tools, and the laughter of friends. Instead… silence. Houses stood empty, doors ajar. Fields were overgrown. The only sound was the wind curling through the empty streets.

Grian slowed, crimson wings folding as his boots touched the cobblestones. His eyes, those dark, watcher-touched pools, scanned the hollow town.
“...Irah?” he muttered.

Irah landed beside him, her face carefully neutral. “I… don’t know. Maybe they,”

“You don’t know?” His voice was sharp now, breaking the silence. “This is where they sent them, right? This is where my friends were supposed to be while I was—” His throat tightened. “While I was rotting in a cage because of you.”

Irah’s jaw tightened. “That’s not fair, Grian-”

“Not fair? Irah, they’re gone! All of them! And you’ve been hiding things from me since the moment we stepped out of the Watcher realm!”

His voice rose, echoing down the empty street. Grian’s hands clenched, his gaze darting from one abandoned building to the next. “Where did they go? What did you do?”

Somewhere nearby, a window creaked open.

From a modest oak-and-stone house at the end of the lane, Big B stepped out onto the porch, brow furrowed.
“Uh… Grian?”

Grian spun around, and for the first time since stepping into New Evo, his voice was breathy with relief.
“…B?”

Big B blinked, slowly walking forward. “You’re- You’re alive. I thought-” His eyes flicked to the spot where Irah stood but didn’t register her at all.

Grian realised in that moment: B couldn’t see her. Irah had crossed into the mortal realm, and here, she was invisible to everyone else.

“You were shouting at the wall, man,” B said with a faint, uneasy laugh. “You, okay?”

Grian closed the distance, gripping B’s shoulder. “I’m fine. Just— I’m fine.”

B gestured toward his house. “Come inside, man. You look like you’ve been through hell.”

_____

The house was warm, the air faintly scented with bread and parchment. Grian sat at the table, wings folded tight. Irah lingered in the corner, silent, her eyes fixed on the floor.

B studied him openly. “What happened? And… the wings. Your eyes. You sure have changed quite a bit.”

Grian forced a half-smile, leaning back in his chair. “Survived the dragon. Couldn’t leave the End for a long time. That’s all.”

“That’s all?” B raised a brow, unconvinced, but didn’t press. “Everyone thought we’d lost you.”

Grian’s gaze drifted toward the window. “Where are they? The rest of the group?”

B’s expression shifted. “Most of them left. We all got these notes in magical chests and they told us how to get away from the Watchers. I stayed, but the others… they thought it felt too planned. Too convenient. So they split. Tried to get further away.”

Grian’s eyes flicked to Irah in the corner. She met his gaze and gave a quiet nod.
So she had sent the notes.

“Pearl was the one who organised most of it,” B continued. “If you need answers, she’s the one to find. I’m afraid you just missed her. She came back only two days ago but left again pretty quick.”

Grian straightened. “Where to?”

B pointed toward the window, at a tall red tower piercing the skyline. “Her place is still as she left it. You might find something there.”

The tower was exactly as B described, tall, scarlet, and eerily silent. They let themselves in. Dust motes swirled in the light as they rifled through drawers, checked shelves, opened chests.

It was in the kitchen that they found it.

A large map covered the dining table, black marker lines scrawled across it. Beside it, a neat row of rolled scrolls.

The map was studded with pins of various colours. A red one marked Pearl’s location, arrows pointing west toward a land labelled Empires. A small empty hole still in the paper from where she removed her pin. Next to the small tear, a blue pin marked another location.

Grian’s breath caught. “Jimmy.”

Irah traced the arrows with her finger. “She must have left with him… but look — she came back here. And now…”

Her fingertip stopped at a large black circle far to the east. Large black letters scrawled across it:
HERMITCRAFT

Irah unrolled one of the scrolls, scanning the pages. “Research. She’s been studying the Hermits — how they move every few years, how they take in new members when they settle somewhere fresh. Their next move is only a few days from here.”

“She wants to join them,” Grian said quietly.

“Then that’s where we go,” Irah replied. “If B’s right, Pearl will know what to do.”

They returned to B’s home for quick goodbyes. He clasped Grian’s hand tightly. “It’s good to have you back, man. Don’t be a stranger.”

Then they were in the air again, wings slicing through the wind, the red tower shrinking below.

This time, Grian wasn’t flying aimlessly.
He had a lead.

Chapter Text

Grian and Irah soared through the dense jungle, weaving skilfully between vines and branches. Grian had become something of an expert at navigating the tangled canopy. Quite the leap from his graceless beginnings just a few days ago.

Irah flew just behind, watching him with a soft smile. His now vibrant crimson feathers shimmered in the dappled sunlight that broke through the leaves. Almost indistinguishable from the scarlet macaws calling out in greeting. It suits him, she thought.

Gradually, the jungle gave way to gentler terrain. Oaks and birches replaced the towering trees, and the murmur of voices filtered through the leaves. Grian and Irah landed lightly near the edge of a clearing where a large group had gathered in animated discussion.

“This must be the meeting Pearl wrote about,” Irah whispered, her tone cautious.

Grian nodded, his eyes scanning the crowd until he spotted her, standing confidently among a group of strangers, her dark brunette hair catching the sunlight. She chatted easily, already weaving herself into the group as if she’d known them all her life.

As the gathering split into smaller clusters, Pearl walked off with two men beside her, engaged in friendly conversation. A third man trailed a little behind. He moved differently, his attention snagged by every bush and bramble. He gathered sticks and twigs that scattered the ground as he walked. He was dressed in surprising elegance: black waistcoat, crisp white sleeves rolled to the elbow, neatly tailored trousers, and a moustache that practically gleamed.

Grian walked toward him, glancing at Irah who gave a quiet, eager nod before melting back into the shadows.

The man crouched beside a shrub, studying its berries before reaching toward the bush.

“I wouldn’t eat those if I were you,” Grian called out, stopping a few paces away. “Nightshade. Pretty deadly.”

The man blinked, then laughed softly. “Ah, thank you. I was trying to remember which ones were toxic. Name’s Mumbo. You here to join Hermitcraft?”

Grian hesitated. “I was hoping to. Bit late, so I wasn't sure if I still could.”

Mumbo stood, brushing his hands off on his trousers. “I’m sure it’s fine. Everyone’s still settling in. We’re thinking of setting up just east of here. You should come with us.”

Grian found himself relaxing as they talked, following the path Pearl and the others had just walked. Mumbo explained that he’d been with Hermitcraft for a while and enjoyed how the group moved every few years. It kept things fresh, let people meet new faces and try new things. This time, he was planning to live a little differently: replant what he took, eat more plants (especially potatoes) and live gently. He called it “Peace, Love, and Plants.”

Grian smirked, his mischievous nature stirring. “I’ll try not to make that too difficult for you.”

“I’m counting on it,” Mumbo replied, grinning. At one point, Mumbo studied him with quiet curiosity. “Your wings. Scarlet macaw, right? They’re amazing. Your eyes too… just fascinating.”

Grian smiled, a little uneasy. He'd almost forgotten about his now dark purple eyes, especially after his wings faded. They still see too much, he thought. Though said nothing.

Mumbo eventually moved to stack his gathered logs by the fire. When he turned back, Grian had vanished. But from the corner of his eye, he caught a flash of red slipping into a cave beyond the trees.

______

Inside the cave, Grian paced.

Irah had waved him over. Her face was calm, but her voice was laced with goodbye. One Grian wasn’t expecting so soon.

“I should go,” she said quietly. “You’ll be safe here. You’re free now, Grian. And I need to make sure it stays that way.”

“You’re leaving?” Grian stopped to stare at her, wings falling behind him against the cold floor of the cave.

“I broke their rules. I helped you escape. They’ll know eventually. But that’s not your worry.”

“Exactly. You saved me, Irah. You think they’ll forgive that?”

“No,” she said, almost fondly. “I know they won’t. That’s why I must go. I can’t stay without risking them finding you again.”

Panic tightened in Grian's chest. “...What will they do to you?”

“That’s my problem. I’m still theirs, Grian. I’m still part Watcher. If I stay too long, they’ll track us. I’m sorry.”

She raised a hand and tore open a shimmering hole in space and time, the edges crackling with light. She gave him a small, sorrowful smile.

“Goodbye, Grian.”

She stepped through, and the rift closed with a faint gust of wind.

Grian stood still for a moment, then slowly sank to the cave floor, his back against the stone. Water dripped from a dripstone stalactite into a puddle beside him, each droplet sending tiny ripples across the surface. He stared into them, her words echoing in his head.

“I’m still theirs. I’m still part Watcher.”

He looked at his reflection.

The wings had changed. They weren’t watcher anymore. They were vibrant, beautiful even.

But his eyes… his eyes had never changed.

They still saw the threads, the truths between truths. They still burned with that rectangular, magenta glow. They watched. His eyes were still theirs. And he couldn’t stand it.

“I-I can't be like them. I won't!" He shouted, slamming his fists into the cave floor, once, twice, over and over until his knuckles stung.

Without thinking, his hands were at his face, nails digging into skin, clawing at the eyes that refused to change.

Agony tore through him as he dragged his nails across his eyes. He screamed, the sound raw and guttural, echoing through the stone. Blood streamed down his cheeks, but it wasn’t red.

It was purple.

Even with ruined eyes, he could still see.

Shapes. Light. His vision was untainted. The Watcher’s sight still lingered.

He curled in on himself, sobbing in the dark.

Then, faint footsteps, gradually getting louder in the echoing cave. Followed by a gasp.

“Grian?!”

Grian turned his head slowly. Where once his eyes had been sharp and violet, now they were bottomless black pools. No color. Just void. And yet…

“I can still see,” Grian whispered, trembling. “Why can I still see?”

Mumbo crouched beside him, hesitant but steady. He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and gently wiped at his face.

“What did you do?! Grian. Your eyes—”

“I didn’t want them anymore,” Grian mumbled, barely audible. “I didn’t want to see anymore.”

Mumbo reached for him gently, trying not to startle him. “You’re hurt. You’re… you’re bleeding purple, I don’t—okay, that’s okay. We can do this.”

Grian didn’t fight as Mumbo pulled him up, holding onto his arm as they walked.

“But I can still see,” Grian whispered, terrified. “Even after what I did. I can still see…”

The night was thick around them as they stepped outside, moonlight filtering faintly through the trees. And yet, Grian could see every leaf, every stone, every shift in shadow.

“That’s… okay,” Mumbo said softly. “You don’t have to understand it all now. You just have to come with me. We’ll figure it out. Together.”

They walked in silence, the only sound their footsteps in the grass and Grian’s ragged breaths. When they reached camp, everyone was asleep.

Mumbo led him to his own tent. “You can stay with me. Until your place is built. Or longer. As long as you need.”

Grian said nothing as Mumbo helped him inside, laying out a spare bedroll, fetching water, making sure he had everything. His hands moved calmly, but his eyes kept flicking to Grian’s ruined face, the blood now crusting purple on his cheeks.

“Whatever’s going on with you... whatever this is… I’m here, okay?”

Finally, Grian spoke, voice hoarse and exhausted.

“Thank you.”

Chapter Text

Martyn had always liked the quiet of the woods. They had been kind to him. 

The tall pines didn’t ask questions. The wind didn’t demand anything. The stream by his campfire whispered softly at night, and in that quiet, he found something dangerously close to peace. 

But peace doesn’t last long in worlds haunted by watchers. Martyn knew that. 

It had been four years since the dragon fell. Since Grian fell. 

Or vanished. 

Martyn never bought the final story, ashes in the wind, lost in the void. Grian had always been too sharp, too present to disappear like that. Still, hope was hard to hold onto, and grief had carved out a permanent corner in his chest. 

So he built a life for himself deep in the woods. Spent weeks carving out a camp tucked under the dense canopy. Gathering logs to build his modest cabin. It was his place. A place that wasn’t soaked in the ever-watching sky. 

_____

It happened before sundown. 

That morning, Martyn had carved the last of the logs into a bench. Now, with his axe slung over his shoulder, he wandered to the forest’s edge to gather more wood for the fire. 

The sun had barely dipped below the ridge when it all changed. A pulse of magic rippled through the air like a dropped stone in a river.  

Martyn looked up, watching the first stars blink awake. He leaned back against an old pine to rest, the scent of sap heavy in the cooling air. He didn’t hear them coming. 

The ground quivered. A low hum rose around him as the wind whipped through the trees. Cold, wrong. By the time he turned, it was already too late. 

A column of white light split the clearing. The air cracked like thunder, and the world tore itself apart. 

Smoky vines lashed from the rift, curling around his legs. They pulled once. Hard and fast, and the forest vanished. 

He didn’t scream. He never got the chance. 

_____

When Martyn woke, the world swayed. 

He was suspended high above an endless void in a vast birdcage made of glowing silver. A thousand feet below, nothing but silence and cloud existed. A thousand eyes watched from beyond the veil, some curious, some bored, others hungry. 

They didn’t speak to him, not in words. They whispered into his mind. Slivers of thought like needles under the skin. 

“We’ll make you beautiful.” 
“Eyes that see beyond time.” 
“Wings that never falter” 

"you have so much potential, Martyn” 

They began the process on the second day. 

It started with burning between his shoulder blades, unwanted and foreign, growing like invasive roots. Magic clawed at his spine, but he fought it. Every moment, he fought. Determined not to give in. 

And the eyes. 

They would reach through the bars and press cold fingers against his lids, murmuring of insight, of enlightenment. Of shedding the mortal lens for the divine gaze. 

He spat at them. Cursed until his throat hurt. 

On the sixth day, they came with silver gloves and cold instruments, scalpels made of memory. He thrashed when they reached for him. Gave it everything he had. 

Shouts echoed across the cage, followed by silence. 

In the end, they managed only to take his left eye. 

Blood soaked into the cage floor, Martyn collapsed, breathing ragged, heart defiant. He had done it. He didn't know how. Just that he did. Maybe it was rage. Maybe the gods had slipped. But what he did know was that he was fooling their plans once again. 

The watchers stepped back from his cage. Some evaporated in the chaos, their bodies crumbling into forgotten thoughts. Others subdued him, furious, silent. 

“No wings,” one hissed. “He’s rejecting it.” 

“He is flawed,” said another. 

“Let him rot. Tomorrow, we try again.” 

They dragged him down long, winding corridors lit by starless lanterns. The stone beneath his feet pulsed like it was breathing. 

Martyn’s strength was gone. He stumbled, fell, and was yanked upright again. Eventually, they threw him into a cell with no bed, no warmth. Just walls, the cold walls that marked the days of someone before him. The door slammed with finality as Martyn lay there, eye throbbing, body broken, but heart still his own. 

The sound of his own ragged breath was deafening in the silence that followed. His body shook, muscles twitching with the aftershock of adrenaline draining away. For a moment, he thought he could still hear them. The Watchers’ voices, sharp and cruel, echoing in his skull. But it was only a memory.  

His hand moved instinctively to his face, fingertips brushing the blood-covered hollow where his left eye had been. The pressure made him hiss, his teeth grinding as a wave of white-hot agony coursed through him. 

“Gods…” he gasped, voice hoarse. He curled onto his side, cradling his head in his hands as the nausea hit. “What have I done? C-Can you ever forgive me-” he cried, only increasing his discomfort.  

He stayed that way for hours, having no choice but to wait till the watchers returned to finish what they had started. How many times would he survive something impossible? 

That was until there was a click at the door. 

Martyn’s body tensed. 

The door slowly opened to reveal a silhouette. Small. Winged. Slim hands tucked into her sleeves. A hood too large for her shoulders. And robes that shimmered like starlight and shadows. 

“Martyn?” she whispered. 

He didn't say anything. 

“My name is Irah,” she said. “I’m here to help you.” 

Still, he said nothing.  

Determined to get something out of him, she stepped forward. Lighting the torch beside her with a dazzling violet flame. 

“I know who Grian was to you,”  

That got a reaction.  

“Grian's dead,” he rasped. “He died three years ago.” 

She hesitated before kneeling beside him, wrappings of white cloth in hand. 

“No,” Irah said, gently dabbing the blood from his brow. “He didn’t. They took him before he could get out of the end.” 

He looked at her, blinking with his good eye, vision swimming. “So what are you even doing here? You here to finish the job?” 

She laughed. "No. I’m here to get you out, silly.” 

Irah leaned back, allowing Martyn to have a clearer view of her. Her features were soft. Watcher robes, swallowing her frame. Her violet eyes looking back at him. 

He scoffed, short and bitter. “Right. A Watcher, here to help me escape Watchers. That’s rich.” 

“Not exactly,” she said, hesitantly removing her hood to reveal her pointed ears, the large emeralds dangling from her lobes. “I’m also a listener.” 

Martyn blinked at her in surprise, all the memories of the letters and side quests he had been given alongside Jimmy returning to him. He was told to keep their existence a secret, and now there was one sitting right before him. 

“...Pick a side, maybe,” he mumbled, still uncertain if he could trust her. Despite everything the listeners had done for him, he knew the watchers were a threat, and Irah being both only complicated things. 

Another small laugh escaped her, light and fragile. She gathered the white cloth from beside her and leaned over, covering his eye and tying it around the back of his head. “Believe me, I've tried.” 

He hesitated, gaging her sincerity through the fog of pain. “Why help me?” 

“Because I refuse to make the same mistakes I made with Grian.” 

Martyn’s body tensed at the name. “You really did know him.” 

“I did,” she smiled sadly. “I still do, in some ways. He was the first friend I ever had. But when they changed him, turned him into what they wanted, I knew he wasn't safe here.” 

“I still can't believe he’s alive,” Martyn muttered, gaze looking up at the stone ceilings. “I guessed. After the dragon. When he… vanished. It all seemed too perfect. We all… we all thought he died.” 

“They made sure you would.” 

He clenched his jaw. 

Irah rose, holding out her hand. “I can get you out. But you have to move.” 

“I can’t-” he started. Then looked at her again. 

No cruelty. No hunger in her gaze. Just hope. Sad, fragile hope. 

“...I don’t know if I can fight again,” Martyn admitted. 

“You don’t need to,” Irah said. “Not this time. I have a plan. You just need to stay quiet.” 

Martyn nodded, finally accepting her outstretched hand. “This doesn't mean I trust you.” 

“I know,” she said softly. “But you don’t have any better options.” 

A breath of a laugh escaped him. Half-broken. Sharp. 

He didn’t trust her. Not entirely. 

But she wasn’t lying. 

And she wasn’t one of them. Not really. 

“Alright,” he said. “Lead the way, half-god.” 

_____

They slipped into the shadows together, half-limping, half-gliding through the tunnels. Irah led as Martyn followed, pain slowing him, but not stopping him.  

He should’ve been unconscious. 

His body screamed for sleep, for stillness, for the nothingness that comes after. But adrenaline had carved a second wind into his bones, and Irah didn’t give him much time to rest. 

“Im sorry about all this,” she whispered. “But, we don’t have long.” 

Suddenly, she stopped, holding her arm out and pinning Martyn against the wall as she peered around a corner. When she believed the coast to be clear, she turned to him, moving her hand gently onto his shoulder. “They’ll try again tomorrow,” she said. “And they’ll make sure you’re too weak to fight next time. So we must leave now. And you just have to trust me.” 

Martyn didn't respond; he only shifted, wincing at the ache in his ribs.  

_____ 

“Okay, here’s where things get tricky,” she whispered as they ducked into a tunnel lined with shifting light. “Just keep close and don’t speak unless I tell you we are safe and everything will be fine.” 

“Not planning on reciting poetry,” Martyn muttered. 

Irah gave him a small glare before continuing down the corridor, walls shimmering as they passed. 

Chapter Text

Martyn wasn’t sure what he expected when Irah shoved him beneath her cloak and ordered him not to breathe too loudly, but this... wasn’t it. 

He had imagined the Council Realm as a chaotic battlefield of words. Instead, the hall they stepped into was quiet. Too quiet. The kind where even thoughts echoed if you weren’t careful.  

“Irah,” came the familiar, impassive voice of Watcher One. She stood at the end of the corridor with Watcher Two beside her, both cloaked in time and menace. 

“You’re late,” Two added. “Come. The council convenes.” 

Irah dipped her head in acknowledgement “Yes, One. Two.” 

Martyn, cloaked in illusion and shadow just behind her, didn’t dare move. The shimmer around him prickled. He wasn’t invisible, just unnoticed. He wasn’t sure how long the illusion would last, or if the Watchers could feel his mortal heartbeat just by standing near. 

He followed silently behind as they walked through an arch of fractured stone and into the Between. 

_____

The chamber was everything and nothing. A meeting point crafted in a realm outside of time, suspended in the crack between what was seen and what was heard. Six thrones, two for each force: Watcher, Listener, and Speaker surrounded a central circle of woven starlight and glass. 

Irah moved fluidly, as she always did in these spaces. She took her place off-centre, neither beside the Watchers nor the Listeners, but slightly between, close enough to both to belong to neither. 

Martyn remained hidden, unmoving, unspeaking, l just praying he wouldn’t be sensed. 

The meeting began, full of decrees and reports of minor disturbances in reality. Threads untethered. Speaker One spoke in riddles while Listener Two simply responded with silence. The Watchers  judged. 

Martyn’s head spun. The meeting went on longer than Martyn could follow. He couldn’t tell how long the meeting lasted. Time here seemed to move like oil through water. 

When the final decision was handed down about some cosmic boundary line between realms of flame and ice, The council finally ended their meeting. 

As the chamber dissolved around them, Irah grabbed his wrist once more. She was moving again, tugging Martyn along. “Come. Before someone senses you.” 

They stepped through a ripple in the air, and reality bled into something softer, warmer. 

_____

It felt like walking into a song. 

Trees taller than towers hummed with memory. Wind carried scent, sound, and soul. The world itself seemed to inhale and exhale, steady and serene. The Listener Realm was not a place, it was a conversation. Martyn nearly forgot his pain. Nearly. 

Martyn stumbled, breath catching in his chest. “Is this?” 

Irah nodded. “The Listener realm, where words become truth, and silence becomes power.” 

Two figures emerged from the grove ahead. Listener One and Listener Two, nearly indistinguishable in their long robes of green and mist-grey, eyes ancient and knowing. Their presence was calm, but powerful. 

“Martyn,” Listener One greeted with a nod. “We were expecting you.” 

“You... were?” he blinked. 

“Yes,” Listener Two replied. “Irah is never truly subtle.” 

“Especially when it comes to you mortals” 

Irah simply shrugged, “I couldn’t let them ruin another innocent mortal's life.” 

Her gaze met Martyns as he moved his mouth to speak before stopping himself. “What happened to him?” he said finally. 

“Three years ago. When Grian was taken during the battle with the dragon...  I was assigned as his guard during his transformation. They thought it would be a good way to get me out of their way as I am part Listener.” 

She swallowed. “But I listened too well. I got to know him. And I couldn't stand by and let them tear his already difficult life apart like that.” 

Martyn stared. 

Silence fell again, broken only by the soft hum of the wind. 

“Now,” Listener One said gently, “we offer you a gift.” 

Martyn looked up. 

Listener Two stepped forward and reached toward him. “You may return. But take this as an apology.” 

They pressed two fingers to his temple. 

“A bridge. Between our world and yours. Should you ever be lost again, close your eyes. And listen.” 

The air grew still. The ground hummed beneath his boots. 

“And we will whisper back to you,” they said in unison, “like a prayer.” 

Martyn felt the warmth in his bones, the hum of something ancient stitched into him now. 

He turned to Irah. 

She nodded. “This is where I leave you.” 

“Will I ever see you again?” 

Her cloak rippled, a small smile pulling at her lips. “Only if you listen hard enough.” 

And then the path opened. A door made of light and memory. Martyn turned back to the three of them one last time. “Thank you.” 

The Listener grove faded behind him like a dream half-remembered and he was gone. 

Chapter Text

Martyn hit the ground hard. 

He coughed as dust rose up around him, gritty and dry, clinging to his skin and clothes. The air was heavy. He was underground. Darkness stretched in every direction, broken only by the faint glow of some phosphorescent lichen on the damp cave walls. His ears rang with the fading echo of the Listeners’ blessing. 

“All you need to do is listen.” 

So, he did. 

And in the hush, something stirred. 

“Hngh. c’mon now, just one more—” 

The voice was muffled, but unmistakable. 

Martyn froze. “...Jimmy?” 

The clink of a pickaxe striking stone rang sharp and rhythmic. He spun, squinting toward the source, heart hammering. “Jimmy?!” 

He shouted louder, scrambling to his feet. “Jimmy, is that you?!” 

From the other side of the wall, the digging stopped. 

Silence. 

Then— 

“...Martyn?” 

A crack split through the stone. 

The wall began to shake. Chunks of rock and gravel tumbled outward as a hole was chiselled into the cave, light pouring in from a torch behind the figure. And there, framed by lantern glow and dust, stood Jimmy, dressed in a faded cowboy get-up. His hat tilted askew, sheriff badge glinting on his chest. 

He blinked. “You’ve got to be kiddin’ me.” 

Martyn let out a stunned laugh. “You—you’re wearing chaps.” 

Jimmy scoffed. “And you’re covered in blood and dirt! What the heck happened to your eye?!” 

But before Martyn could answer, Jimmy crossed the threshold and pulled him into a tight hug. Martyn winced, part pain, part surprise, but didn’t pull away. 

“Thought I’d never see your face again,” Jimmy muttered, voice cracking just a little. 

Martyn grinned. “Missed you too, Sheriff.” 

_____ 

They emerged from the mine into golden evening light. Martyn stared in disbelief. 

The land stretched out in dusty oranges and warm browns, dotted with sparse trees and jagged plateaus. Wooden buildings lined a single long street below the hill where they stood, framed by the silhouette of a canyon. A worn sign read “Welcome to Tumble Town.” 

Jimmy adjusted his hat proudly. “Whole thing’s mine—well, mostly. Got a couple people livin’ here, a new baker movin’ in, and a saloon that actually makes a decent cider.” 

Martyn turned to face his old friend. “Is this… where you live now?” 

“Yep. I’m The Sheriff,” he said, puffing out his chest. “And you’re welcome to stay, partner. Got a spare rental down by the windmill. Little fixer-upper, but it’s got a good porch.” 

Martyn blinked at the setting sun, at the odd peace in his chest. After everything. The wings, the watchers, the shadows between stars. This dusty, ridiculous western town felt… perfect. 

He nodded. “I’d like that.” 

_____

Later that evening, they sat side by side in the dim light of the saloon. Wooden beams above. A soft player piano chugging away in the corner. Bartender nodded as they were handed mugs of something fizzy. 

“To old friends,” Jimmy said, raising his glass. 

Martyn clinked his against it. “And new towns.” 

They drank in silence for a moment, letting the years fall away. 

Jimmy offered a sad smile. “So now you’re here. Maybe... this time we get to stick around a bit longer, huh?” 

Martyn glanced at his reflection in the saloon’s window, half in shadow, eye bandaged, smile tired but genuine. 

“Yeah,” he said. “I think I will.” 

Jimmy’s face lit up at his words as he quickly took a sip of his drink while he tried to choose what to tell Martyn first. 

“We try not to keep it too rule-heavy round here, just the basics” Jimmy placed his drink on the bar as he turned to face Martyn, “Though the most important being Respect. I get far too many folks coming over here just to insult me. Calling me a ‘toy’ just cause I resemble some characteristics of that stupid woody character and I'm sick of it.” 

Martyn smirked as he lifted his cup to his lips in a desperate attempt to hide his amusement.  

“Ugh not you too.” Jimmy wined, leaning back against the bar, “Martyn. I. Am. Not. A. Toy!” 

“I wasn't saying anything Sheriff.”  

The stars were beginning to settle over Tumble Town when Martyn stepped out of the saloon, the warm laughter and clinking glasses behind him fading into the evening air. The town was quieter now. Lanterns glowed on porches, casting soft amber pools across the dusty street. Somewhere, a wind chime clinked lazily in the breeze. 

Jimmy led the way, boots crunching on gravel. 

“I told you it’s not much,” he said, gesturing ahead as they reached a small wooden cabin tucked just beside the windmill. “But it’s yours, if you want it. Rents cheap. Free, actually, since I doubt you’ve got any money.” 

Martyn huffed a tired laugh. “Bit hard to hold on to currency when you’re being stuffed in a giant bird cage.” 

“A what?.” 

“Never mind.” 

The house was simple. Two rooms, a creaky front step, and a crooked chimney, but it had a window that looked out over the plains, and the windmill’s turning blades made a peaceful consistent rhythm like a lullaby. The roof was slanted, the boards worn, but there was something about it that already felt like his. 

Jimmy handed him an old brass key. “She’s a little drafty, and you’ll probably find some cobwebs in the cupboards, but it’s solid. Strong bones.” 

Martyn took the key. “Just like you, huh?” 

Jimmy scoffed. “Careful, or I’ll make you pay double the rent.” 

They stood in companionable silence a moment longer, side by side on the porch, watching the moon rise between the canyons. The air smelled like warm dust and old wood. Something simple. Something safe. 

“Well,” Jimmy said, tugging at his hat, “I’ll let you settle in. G’night, Martyn.” 

Martyn gave a small wave as his friend turned and began walking back down the path. “G’night, Sheriff.” 

Jimmy paused, glanced over his shoulder with a smirk. “It’s good to have you back, partner.” 

The door creaked as Martyn stepped inside. 

The air was still, the room dimly lit by the moon filtering through thin curtains. He kicked off his boots, letting the cool floorboards press against his feet, and dropped into the old armchair near the window. 

It felt strange, being still. 

His fingers reached instinctively for the bandage over his left eye. It ached. Still raw, still strange, but considerably less than before. Like the pain was slowly stepping aside to make room for something new. 

Martyn let his head fall back. 

He thought about Irah, her wide watcher eyes and soft voice. About the Listener realm, and the whispers of comfort they'd offered. About Grian; alive, changed, and free. 

And he thought about Jimmy, pickaxe in hand, pulling him out of the dark without hesitation. 

His eyes fluttered closed. 

The Listeners’ words came back to him then, gentle, distant. 

“Just close your eyes and listen...” 

Martyn breathed in. 

He wasn’t sure what tomorrow would bring. Maybe a job. Maybe new friends. Maybe peace, finally. He didn’t know how long it would last. But for now? 

He had a roof over his head. A friend next door. And, for the first time in a long while, hope curling quietly in his chest. 

He smiled, eyes still shut. 

“I think I’m gonna love it here.” 

Chapter Text

Grian sat outside the tent, watching the sun rise over the hills. He hadn’t slept. How could he? Even without light, even with his eyes clawed into dark voids, he could see everything. 

Grian was snapped out of his thoughts due to the sound of a zipper opening behind him. 

“Good Morning.” 

“Hey,” Grian replied, voice hoarse. 

“I made tea,” Mumbo said, holding out a tin cup. “Figured you could use something warm.” 

Grian took it with a nod, his hands trembling slightly. He sipped it in silence. 

“Did you sleep?” Mumbo asked gently. 

“No. But I rested. That’s enough.” 

Mumbo sat down across from him, cross-legged. “Do they still hurt? Your eyes?” 

“No. Not really.” Grian glancing down at the blades of grass at his feet, before returning to meet Mumbo's troubled gaze. 

Mumbo was quiet for a long moment. “That’s good. We have a busy day ahead of us. There is never time for dilly dallying during the early days of settlement” 

Grian smiled down into the tea. It reflected nothing. 

“Thanks, Mumbo,” he said quietly. “I really mean that.” 

Mumbo offered a smile. “Well, Let’s go find you a proper plot of land. I’ll even help you set up and maybe you could help me with planting my potatoes.” 

That earned a small laugh from Grian, the first in a while. “Deal.” 

_____ 

Sunlight filtered through the birch leaves, casting dappled shadows across the clearing. The air was thick with the scent of tilled soil and budding green. Grian and Mumbo knelt side by side in the freshly dug rows, planting seeds in neat lines. The repetitive work was calming, steady, and grounding. Grian didn’t mind the dirt under his fingernails, and he enjoyed the distraction. 

“Potatoes here,” Mumbo muttered, tossing a few into the furrows. “Beets over there. And if we’re lucky, Pearl said someone’s got carrots to trade.” 

Grian smiled softly, wings folded behind him, his crimson feathers catching the sun. “Look at you, proper farmer now.” 

“Oh, don’t tempt me. I’m one step away from building a potato shrine.” 

Their laughter echoed across the fields, warm and real, until a familiar voice cut across the field. 

“…Grian?” 

Grian froze, fingers still buried in the soil. He turned his head slowly. 

Pearl stood at the edge of the plot, wide-eyed, hands limp by her sides with a pile of carrots scattered at her feet. Her gaze swept over him, lingering on his wings, his eyes, the unmistakable truth of him. 

He rose to his feet, brushing off his hands. 

“Hey, Pearl,” he said, smiling softly. 

“You guys know each other?” Mumbo asked, confused as he straightened up beside him. 

Grian gave a small nod. “Yeah. I’ll catch you in a bit. If that’s alright, Mumbo.” 

Mumbo blinked, then shrugged. “Sure. I’ll, uh, keep the potats company.” 

Grian stepped over the row and led Pearl away through the grass, past the edge of the camp to a quieter spot near a broken fence and a tree stump. Pearl followed wordlessly, only stopping once they were alone. 

She stared at him for a long moment, then stepped forward and wrapped her arms around him. 

“I… I can’t believe you’re alive,” she whispered into his shoulder. “We thought you died. Everyone did.” 

“I almost did,” Grian said quietly. 

She leaned back, eyes scanning him in detail now. His crimson wings shifting lightly in the wind, his eyes dark pools of shadow with faint cracks of purple scarring along the edges. She reached out, almost hesitantly, and touched the crimson feathers behind his ears. 

“Your eyes…” she breathed. “Grian, they’re—” 

“Yeah, I know. Mumbo already gave me the lecture,” he finished for her with a small, tired smile. “They didn’t heal right. But I can still see just fine.” 

“What... happened to you?” Her voice was small. Shaken. 

Grian let out a long breath and sat down on the tree stump, gesturing for her to do the same. He wanted to lie. Make up some story that would ease his sisters worrying, but he knew whatever he said, she would know. Pearl deserved the truth. He owed her that much. 

“The watchers happened. After I killed the dragon, I was taken hostage. They wanted to make me one of them.” He gestured to the wings. “They gave me these. And my eyes...” 

Pearl’s mouth dropped slightly, hand covering her lips in horror. “Oh, Grian…” 

“A girl helped me,” he added quietly. “Half-watcher herself, but she… saved me. Got me out. I have no idea what would have happened if she didn’t...” 

Pearl kept staring into his eyes, watching the faint, still-healing scarring where his irises once were, glimpses of purple in the void-like black, as though starlight was trapped behind shattered glass. 

“Grian…” she said gently, “are you sure that’s all that happened?” 

He looked away, ashamed. 

“I didn’t want their eyes,” he said. “So, I tried to be free of them. But I can still see everything.” 

Pearl reached for his hand but didn’t press further. “You’re here now. That’s what matters.” 

They sat a little longer, talking about the past. About Evo, the dragon, the skies Grian had flown through on the way over. 

Eventually, Grian stood and dusted off his trousers. “Come on. Mumbo’s going to start naming the potatoes if we leave him alone too long.” 

Pearl laughed. “Too late. I saw him talking to one earlier.” 

They returned together to the field, arms full of seeds, preparing the soil before nightfall. 

_____ 

The stars blinked quietly overhead, scattered like spilled sugar across a velvet sky. A low fire crackled in the heart of the clearing, its warm glow casting shadows on the gathered faces. Pearl sat cross-legged, poking the fire with a stick, while Grian lounged back against a log, wings curled behind him like a makeshift cushion. Mumbo sat nearby, keeping watch over the potatoes so they didn’t burn. And now two new figures completed the circle. 

“Alright, alright,” the taller one said, spreading his arms wide as if to announce his own arrival, “the party has officially begun! Scar is here!” 

Scar, with his wild smile and ridiculous magician’s cloak that somehow managed to stay mostly intact through the jungle terrain, flopped onto a nearby log with dramatic flair. His eyes sparkled as he looked at the large red wings beside him. “So, you must be Grian,”  

“That depends,” Grian replied, cocking a brow. “What have you heard?” 

“Oh, only that you vanished mid-dragon fight and now have wings like a parrot.” Scar flashed a grin. “Very mysterious. I like it.” 

Grian chuckled. “Not exactly the comeback I was expecting, but I’ll take it.” 

“And I’m Impulse,” the other man chimed in with a warm grin, settling in beside Mumbo. He had a softer presence than Scar. Broad-shouldered and calm-eyed, with a voice that grounded the conversation as soon as he spoke. “Glad you’re here. Anyone my friends trust is good in my books.” 

“Pleasure,” Grian said, offering a handshake across the fire. “Nice to meet you both.” 

They chatted long into the night, swapping stories about their builds, past bases, and strange redstone contraptions that had either blown up or inexplicably functioned on sheer luck. Pearl contributed the occasional snarky remark, while Mumbo launched into a hopeful monologue about a “fully organic, potato-based transit system.” 

Scar eventually suggesting the group bring their lands together. 

“I’m just saying,” Scar added with exaggerated flair, “this land deserves a name! A monument to the chaos we’re clearly already cultivating.” 

“Agreed,” Impulse nodded. “I mean, this group feels like something special. It’s different.” 

Pearl perked up. “I'm with Scar. We should name our town. Make it official.” 

“well, every base starts with a crafting bench” Mumbo declared, placing the bench beside the camp in the centre of their new town. 

Scar gasped theatrically, already rummaging through his satchel. “What if we put a torch on it! It's like a birthday cake but wood!”  

“and a boat on it!” Mumbo said with a laugh as that too was added to the pile. 

“And a Scar on it” Pearl chuckled as Scar, being Scar, hopped into the boat with a cheer. 

Grian headed over to the bench, rummaging through his satchel for the materials he had collected on the way over, crafting something. “Well, every base also needs a bed,"  

“What else can we put on?” Pearl asked between gasps.  

“Another boat!” Scar declared, as the tower slowly grew. More and more odd blocks were added; random wool, beds, amethyst, and… was that a grindstone? Each with a small wooden rowboat on top to represent each of the town's members. 

They all stared at the mess he began assembling. 

“What have we just created?” Impulse asked as he stepped back to admire their work.  

“A totem,” he replied proudly. “Of our friendship. Of our eventual empire.” 

“Of Boatem!” Mumbo shouted, a smile still plastered on his face 

“Boatem?” Grian repeated, blinking. 

“We did talk about boats on our trip over,” Impulse mused. “And it’s got a ring to it.” 

“To the Boatem Pole!”  Pearl cheered, raising her hand. 

“To Boatem,” Grian repeated, rolling the new name off his tongue.  

The fire crackled low as they stood around their new totem, silhouetted against the dark horizon. Grian looked at the new faces, familiar and new alike, and felt warmth spreading across his chest.  

The beginning of something strange and wonderful. 

The beginning of Boatem. 

Chapter Text

Boatem grew. Slowly at first, then all at once.  

By the end of the first month, Mumbo had moved out of the tent entirely in favor of a blue and white campervan, retrofitted with piston-powered windows and fancy storage compartments.  

 “The future of off-grid living!” he’d declared.   

Grian had tried to question the solar panels powered by glowstone, but eventually gave up and simply claimed full ownership of the now-abandoned tent.  

Not long after, Mumbo began construction of his primary home, a grand build, perched dramatically on the edge of the mountain east of their new town.  

“I still don’t see what’s so special about this particular mountain,” Grian had said.  

“It looks like an armchair!” he’d explained, gesturing to the jagged, lopsided cliff face with wild enthusiasm.  

Grian had squinted up at the rock. “I mean… maybe if you squint. And tilt your head. And also lie.”  

“You have no vision,” Mumbo huffed.  

Despite his teasing, Grian admired the scale and intricacy of Mumbo’s work. His own home, meanwhile, had taken a different shape. He’d carved deeper into the cave system where he’d once sat shaking in the dark, transforming it into an alleyway. High-walled and shadowed, lined with tall, mismatched buildings crammed into every available space. Each filled with little treasures: animals, half-built redstone contraptions, plants, lanterns of every colour.  

A space uniquely his.  

Time passed. Projects were built. Farms were expanded. Pearl worked on her palace, Scar discussed ambitious ideas for extensions to his swaggon and Impulse worked hard to keep his new factory running smoothly. Everything felt… peaceful. Good.  

Except for the moon.  

At first, it was subtle. Just a little larger on the horizon. No one questioned it. They were busy, and it was the moon. The moon didn’t change. Right?  

But then it grew. And kept growing.  

They noticed how tides shifted in nearby rivers. How animals stopped sleeping at certain times. Grian tried not to stare at it for too long. It made his watcher-marked eyes ache in a way he couldn’t explain.  

“Maybe we’re just imagining it?” Pearl had offered once.  

But by month four, it wasn’t imagination. The moon loomed, bloated and pale, its edges almost brushing the sky itself.  

They began testing.  

Grian built an observatory on top of his mountain, trying to keep track of the moons increasing size.  

Impulse enforced a sleeping schedule, “Maybe resetting the days will keep things stable!” but it made no difference.  

Mumbo worried the moon felt lonely whenever people slept through its night, so he started a small cult he called the “mooners” and declared that they never sleep, which only left them delirious and paranoid.  

Refusing to give up and ever inventive, he had finally built what he dubbed the “Lunar Obliterating Launcher, It’s The Fastest Astronautical Interspace Long-Range Explosion Device.” Which Grian shortened to “LOL IT FAILED”. The machine was a behemoth of redstone wires and TNT cannons angled skyward. When fired, it lit the sky with explosions and... missed the moon entirely.  

“Okay,” Mumbo admitted, brushing soot off his shirt. “Maybe I need to adjust for wind resistance.”  

“The moon doesn’t have wind resistance,” Grian faceplanted, finally taking his eyes off the looming moon above them.  

“Then clearly that’s the problem!”  

_____  

By month eight, Boatem had begun to suffer. Crops grew strangely. Animals behaved erratically. The moon was no longer a passive object in the sky. It pulled at the earth like a great unseen hand. Stones shifted in the night. Shorelines cracked and fell into the sea. Even the air felt heavier, charged with pressure and presence.  

And still it grew.  

Grian laid back in his observatory one night, wings tucked tightly against his back and stared at the moon so long it felt as though it stared back.  

He felt something stir within him. some ancient tether still buried in his chest from the days he’d spent with the Watchers. The moon didn’t just look wrong. It was wrong. Reminding him of the feeling when the Watchers once carried their voices and whispered into his mind.  

“Grian?” Mumbo’s voice behind him broke the silence. “You alright?”  

“Yeah,” Grian said without turning. “Just thinking.”  

“We’ll figure it out,” Mumbo said, laying beside him on the floor. “We always do.”  

“I know.” But the chill didn’t leave him.  

_____  

By the time the moon blocked out the sun, Boatem had stopped pretending things were fine.  

Trees leaned toward the sky at odd angles, their roots tearing from the soil. Crops refused to grow. Animals had all but vanished. The land cracked and buckled, stone splitting apart beneath their feet like glass under pressure. The gravitational pull of the moon wasn’t just affecting the tides anymore, it was unravelling the world.  

And it was close.  

Too close.  

They watched the sky each day in silent horror as the moon hung, massive and suffocating, over the landscape. No one joked anymore. Not even Scar.  

That’s when Pearl called the meeting.  

“We have to leave,” she said, firmly. “This place... it’s not going to last much longer.”  

Impulse nodded grimly. “It’s affecting the other hermits too! I’ve never seen something like this.”  

“But where would we even go?” Mumbo asked, dark circles under his eyes. “Everywhere being pulled apart. The sky’s falling, and—”  

“We leave this world,” Scar cut in, stepping forward with a glint in his eye. “We go... to the stars.”  

Everyone blinked.  

“Scar,” Grian said slowly, “what does that even mean?”  

Scar grinned and threw out his arms dramatically. “Gentlemen and lady of Boatem, I present to you... the Swaggon Rocket!”  

They followed him to the edge of town, where Scar had constructed a towering, chaotic monstrosity of metal, redstone, warped wood, and buttons. So many buttons. The rocket shimmered in the low light, haphazard and clearly built with a concerning amount of whimsy and optimism.  

“...Does it work?” Mumbo asked sceptically.  

“Define ‘work,’” Scar replied, already ushering them toward the hatch.  

With no time to waste, they all climbed aboard. The ground behind them beginning to crack and split in terrifying waves. Grian cast one last glance at the moon through the porthole. It filled the entire sky now, shining and trembling with power. His stomach churned.  

Scar sealed the hatch, Jellie the cat curled round his shoulders “Alright everyone, buckle up! This is gonna be a smooth, chaotic, completely questionably legal ride!”  

Impulse grabbed the nearest handle. “What kind of rocket is this?”  

“The Boatem kind,” Scar said proudly, slamming a massive red button with no label.  

There was a beat of silence.  

The an impossible large Bang was heard, ringing in their ears.   

A mechanical clunk echoed through the rocket’s frame, and suddenly the entire floor dropped open with a sharp clatter, revealing a now gaping hole beneath their feet where the botem pole had once been. There was no thrust. No flame. No countdown.  

Only the endless drop.  

“SCAR!” they screamed as one, then they were falling, tumbling down into the never-ending darkness of the Boatem Hole.  

The void swallowed them.  

Down they went, deeper and deeper, past the crumbling foundation of their world, past the deep bedrock, past reality. There was no wind. No stars. Just the void, stretched out beneath them like a hungry mouth.