Cold Reflection

Arabess did not sleep.

The night stretched long and thin across the jungle canopy of Chult, heavy with heat and the distant hum of insects—but around her, the air remained cold. It always did when her thoughts turned inward like this. Frost gathered in delicate veins along the edge of her bedroll, creeping over leather and cloth as if her magic itself refused rest.

Her eyes were open, staring into the darkness. Jataya’s voice would not leave her.

“You are not cold by nature… you choose to be.”

Her jaw tightened.

The undead priest’s hollow gaze had seen too much. That had unsettled her more than his power, more than the aura of his vampiric master looming behind him like a shadow over the jungle.

He had spoken with certainty. With understanding.

That was what made it unbearable.

Arabess exhaled slowly, and the breath curled in pale silver mist before her face.

Cold.

Always cold.

That was what people said about her. What they believed about her.

She leaned into it. Cultivated it. The distant, controlled tone. The measured expressions.The careful distance.It was easier that way. Safer. But Jataya had peeled it back with cruel precision.

“You push them away before they can leave you.”

Her fingers curled slightly against the blanket.

“…That’s not true,” she whispered into the dark.

But the words felt… weak.

Because part of her knew they weren’t entirely a lie.

The Esoterica Magica had been her whole world.

A place of arcane brilliance, yes—but also a place where children without families learned one very simple truth:

Nothing was permanent.

Students came and went. Patrons changed. Teachers died, vanished, or moved on to greater pursuits. Even friendships… shifted with time.

Except for them.

Cal. Evalise. An’ric.

The four of them had been constants in a place that offered none. And because of that… they mattered more than anything. Which was exactly why she could never afford to lose them.

Her eyes closed briefly.

That fear—the quiet, gnawing certainty that one day they might not be there—had shaped her more than any spell or divine gift ever had.

So she built walls. Not out of cruelty. Out of preservation.

Her fingers flexed, faint arcs of pale-blue energy dancing between them before fading.

Power had always come easily to her. Divine magic. Sorcery. The blessing—and burden—of something greater flowing through her veins.

And later… something else.

Her pact with Miirym had only deepened that connection. The ghostly silver dragon had seen into her as well—though where Jataya accused, Miirym had simply observed.

“You bind yourself tighter than any ward, child,” the dragon had once said.

Control was safety.

If she controlled her emotions, they could not betray her.
If she controlled her relationships, they could not surprise her.
If she never gave too much… she could never lose everything.

At least, that was what she told herself.

Until her thoughts drifted to Cal

Her breath hitched slightly at the thought.

Cal…Calixtus Firebrand.

He had always been there. Always. She had no memory of a time when he wasn’t, almost as if they had been joined since birth. His laughing. Talking. Filling the silence she left behind.

He never seemed bothered by her distance—not truly. If anything, he leaned into it, dancing along the edges of her coldness with warmth and wit.

Their bickering.
Their shared meals.
The way he would casually steal food from her plate—and how she never stopped him. The sip from his cup she had snatched from his grasp that went unchallenged.

A faint, almost imperceptible smile touched her lips.

Then faded.

Because Jataya’s words cut deepest there.

“You deny yourself what you already have.”

Her chest tightened.

She knew.

Gods, she knew.

Every glance. Every moment. Every quiet understanding between them—it was obvious to anyone with eyes.

Except they never said it.

Because saying it would make it real.

And real things could be taken away.

Her stomach twisted.

What if she lost him?

What if she let herself have that—and it was ripped from her like everything else? Leaving a gaping hole like the emptiness of never knowing who your parents were and why they had left you behind.

Her eyes flickered open again, glowing faintly with that icy blue light. The temperature dropped further, the air biting now.

But another thought followed, unbidden.

What if she lost him anyway… without ever knowing what could have been?

That possibility felt… worse.

She tried to clear her mind but more intrusive thoughts emerged.

Evalise had always seen through her.

Not completely—but enough.

Her fiery, stubborn friend never accepted the cold façade at face value. She challenged it. Pushed it. Stood beside Arabess regardless.

She didn’t have things as easy as her or Cal. Though orphans, She and Cal had always been taken care of. As if some quiet unseen benefactor had left money for their comfort. They weren’t rich but never felt need or the disappointment that accompanied financial struggle. Ev wasn’t so lucky. Yet she worked harder than most, certainly more than the “gifted Arabess” who had magic in her blood. And still she found time to be a friend. To listen when she complained about Cal, to join her in mocking An’ric

An’ric…

A faint huff of breath escaped her—almost a laugh.

Sarcastic. Irritating. Loyal to the point of recklessness.

He masked his devotion in humor, but she knew. She always knew.

They all cared. They had stayed.

And now he was in trouble. Her magic had brought him back but something wasn’t quite right. Something was slowly siphoning the life force she had returned to him. She had to fix it. She couldn’t lose him. She knew they would.

So why did she still act like they might leave at any moment? She buried those thoughts as well but something else emerged as she churned the soil of her mind. Another name.

Tavril

That complicated things.

Arabess shifted slightly, staring up at the unseen sky.

Tavril’s presence was… different.

Earnest. Devoted. Intense in a way that felt both comforting and unsettling.

His interest in her was not subtle. Not to her at least.

And unlike with Cal, there was no long history to soften it—no shared childhood to anchor it in familiarity.

Just something new.

Something uncertain.

Something that asked her to respond.

And she… hadn’t.

Not really.

Because she didn’t know how.

Or perhaps because acknowledging it would force her to confront everything she had avoided with Cal.

That realization settled heavily in her chest.

Her breath slowed.

Jataya had been cruel—but not entirely wrong.

She wasn’t cold because she didn’t feel.

She was cold because she felt too much.

Fear of loss.
Fear of rejection.
Fear of being abandoned again.

And beneath all of that…

A desire for control.

If she never fully gave herself to anyone, then no one could take that from her.

But that came with a cost.

Distance.

Misunderstanding.

Loneliness—even among those she loved most.

Her eyes dimmed slightly, the glow fading.

“…Is it worth it?” she whispered.

The question lingered. 

Was she running out of time?

Adventurers did not live quiet, predictable lives. They fought monsters. Gods. Fate itself. Death was never far away. She had seen it. Felt it. How many chances would she have? How many moments had she already let slip past because she chose silence over vulnerability?

Her fingers tightened in the blanket.

Jataya’s final words echoed again:

“You will lose them… not because they leave you, but because you never let them truly reach you.”

A slow breath left her.

“…I don’t want that.”

The admission was quiet. Barely audible.

But it was real.

Arabess sat up slowly.

The frost around her receded just slightly, though the air remained cool.

She wasn’t going to change overnight. She knew that.

Walls built over years did not crumble in a single night.

But perhaps…

She could start with something small.

A word.
A gesture.
An honesty she had long avoided.

Her gaze drifted toward where Cal slept, somewhere beyond the darkness.

A faint, almost shy uncertainty flickered across her usually composed expression.

“…Maybe,” she murmured, “I can try.”

Not perfection.

Not complete openness.

Just… trying.

For them.

For him.

For herself.

And for the first time that night, the cold around her softened—not gone, but gentler.

Like ice beginning, at last, to thaw.