Helios stepped from a corridor of darkness into the loft above the Moogle workshop. The air smelled of metal and warm sugar, and the faint sound of rain against the window mixed with the rhythmic tick of cooling machinery. Thalen was asleep, sprawled half off the cot, while Kurai sat by the terrace door with her arms folded, watching the horizonless night.
She didn't move when he emerged from the shadow. Her eyes glowed faintly in the dim light.
Helios pressed a finger to his lips, signaling for silence, then tilted his head toward the terrace. The motion earned him a small, irritated sigh, but she rose anyway.
They stepped outside. The rain had softened to a mist, and the world was wrapped in silver and shadow. Down below, steam curled from the pipes of the accessory shop, the streets glistening like glass. Kurai leaned against the rail, eyes following his reflection in the wet metal.
"What took you so long?" she asked, voice low but edged with mock impatience.
Helios brushed the moisture from his coat before answering. "Cid agreed to help. He's meeting the Moogles now—already arguing about energy harmonics and field compression."
Kurai smirked. "And you left them to tear each other apart."
"Of course," he said with a faint smile. "It's how progress is made."
Her gaze sharpened. "This project of yours—your 'New Heart'—you really think you can pull it off? When I saw the idea in your mind, I thought you were insane."
"I don't think," he replied softly. "I've seen the odds and am act accordingly. Besides, Ansem the Wise did most of the work for us already, we just need to take it to a new level."
That earned a quiet chuckle. "You're always so clinical yet childish."
"Someone has to be." He turned toward her, eyes half-lidded, tone teasing. "You're emotional enough for both of us."
Her smile vanished instantly. "Careful. Of the two of us, you have more emotions than I do."
Helios only grinned, stepping past her to sit by a small table half-covered in spare parts and a half-eaten pastry one of the Moogles had forgotten. From his jacket pocket, he produced a small deck of worn cards and began to shuffle. The sound of the cards snapping together was oddly comforting in the still air.
Kurai arched an eyebrow. "And that's for?"
"Humor me," he said.
"No."
"Please?" he asked, in a tone that was half a challenge and half an apology.
She sighed, every motion deliberate, and sat opposite him. "Fine. If this turns into another one of your tests, I'm walking out."
"It's not a test." He dealt five cards to her and five to himself. "It's the game I learned from Sweets and the others in Atlantis. He called it Bluff. Think poker, but with twice the nonsense."
Her stare didn't soften. "Explain."
"The goal," he said, "is to either win by points or by lying convincingly enough that the other person folds."
Kurai gave him a flat look. "So, lying."
"Yes," he said cheerfully. "Something you're good at."
"Watch it."
The first round lasted a minute. The second, thirty seconds. By the third, she'd figured out the mechanics and was already reading his patterns—too well. When the final hand hit the table, she leaned back, arms crossed. "You're bluffing."
Helios raised an eyebrow. "You sound confident."
"I am."
He revealed his hand—four-of-a-kind. Her eyes narrowed. "You cheated."
"I lied," he corrected, smirking. "You were watching my left hand the entire time."
Kurai glared, but her tone softened slightly. "This was pointless."
He shrugged lightly, gathering the cards. "Maybe. But in Atlantis, I joked I'd make you play a hand someday. You refused. Consider this me keeping my word."
Her expression froze for a moment, memories flickering behind her eyes. The tension in her shoulders eased, though her tone stayed guarded. "You really remember every promise you make?"
"Only the ones that matter. Like the ones I make involving you."
Silence hung between them, filled with the sound of rain tapping the railing. She studied him for a moment—his stillness, his slight exhaustion hidden behind the calm mask.
"What do you need from me?" she asked at last.
He nodded toward the room inside, where Thalen slept soundly, one arm dangling off the bed. "Train him. He needs to open a corridor on his own."
She tilted her head. "So you can split us up right?"
He didn't answer immediately. "Yes, he'll go with Aqua, so having him be able to do so will be a great help."
That earned him a long, unreadable look before she gave a small nod. "Fine. But if he falls into the darkness, the fault lies with you."
"I wouldn't expect less," he said with a faint grin, rising from the table. "Don't go easy on him."
"I never have and never will."
He left her there, leaning against the terrace rail, the fog swirling like silver ribbons around her silhouette.
Traverse Town's Third District was quieter than usual as he stepped through the corridor. He crossed the square, boots echoing faintly on the damp stone, and made his way toward the Mystical House.
The door was already open when he arrived. Inside, the air shimmered faintly with magic—warm and charged like the breath before a storm. The room pulsed with contained energy, paper and ink swirling in suspended patterns as if gravity had politely excused itself.
At the center of the chaos stood Merlin, beard glowing faintly from static discharge, and beside him, Circe and Helga—each clutching a wand that looked seconds from catching fire. Between them spun two spheres of emerald light, wind compressed into near-visible pressure.
"Focus, my dear!" Merlin said, stepping back as one of the spheres veered dangerously close to his hat. "Aero requires finesse, not brute strength!"
Circe squinted, eyes fierce. "Finesse doesn't stop wind from exploding!"
"Neither does panic!" Merlin countered.
Helga, standing to the side, tried to steady her breathing, but her spell slipped again—sending a gust that toppled a stack of books and nearly took the Fairy Godmother off her feet.
"Oh, my!" the Fairy Godmother exclaimed, catching herself with a shimmer of light. "I do appreciate enthusiasm, but perhaps smaller gusts for now, hmm?"
Helios leaned against the doorway, arms crossed, watching with a small, amused smile. "He never use to let me cast indoors."
Merlin turned without missing a beat. "Yes, well, the last place wasn't fortified by six layers of enchantment."
Helios stepped further inside, glancing at the still-whirling spheres. "And here I thought you were just getting soft."
"Ha!" Merlin barked. "I've outlived softness! Now hush. You're distracting my new students."
"Your students," Helios said dryly. "Interesting claim. Even I wasn't considered a student."
Circe caught her breath and managed a steady pulse of Aero that lifted a nearby feather quill into orbit. "I did it!" she said, triumphant.
Helga smiled faintly but then snapped her fingers—and her gust collapsed, blowing ink across the table.
Merlin clapped his hands once. "Progress! Uncontrolled and dangerous progress—but progress nonetheless."
Helios gave a low chuckle, hands in his pockets. "You sound proud."
"I am," Merlin said, straightening his hat. "Magic's not about perfection. It's about intent. Even failure teaches the rhythm of it."
"Wise words," Fairy Godmother added, flicking her wand. The spilled ink rewound itself into the bottle, and the books returned to their shelves. "And far less destructive this time, dear."
Circe exhaled, cheeks flushed, hair slightly frayed. "We'll get it right tomorrow."
Helga nodded in agreement, steadying her wand. "Next time, I'll aim at hitting you. If I do that, I'm sure I'll get it."
"That would be most unfortunate because I'd be forced to retaliate," Circe said.