Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The forest stretched endlessly ahead, dark trunks blurring past as Scar urged his horse into a steady walk. The deeper he went, the more the shadows thickened, curling around the trunks like dark smoke. The rhythmic sound of hooves against the earth should have been calming, grounding, a tether to reality. Tonight, it did nothing but amplify the turmoil within him. Every step seemed to echo against the hollow in his chest, reminding him that peace was nowhere to be found.

The night air tugged at his cloak, cool and sharp, stirring the fine hairs along his neck. It whispered through the leaves, teasing him, almost as if the forest itself had grown sentient, guiding him toward a place he had not known he sought. There was a strange logic to it, a silent insistence that the path ahead was meant to lead somewhere, and that somewhere was not empty.

The bramble underfoot crunched softly, and somewhere in the shadows, tiny eyes gleamed at him. He could feel them, not in the sense of fear, but in the undeniable weight of being watched. Scar had learned to trust his instincts; the forest, in its quiet persistence, had brought him here, and here was where he would find something—or someone—that would shift everything.

The giggling came first, soft and breathless, carrying a melody of intimacy that was not meant for him. He didn’t want to follow it, yet he did, because some part of him needed to see, to understand. And then the scene unfolded.

Grian. BigB. Too close. Far too close.

Scar’s grip on the reins tightened, knuckles whitening. The light of the moon caught the glint of Grian’s hair, the subtle flare of his wings as he leaned into BigB. Their laughter was careless, unguarded. The intimacy of it cut deeper than any blade could.

Then came the kiss.

Lingering. Real.

Every instinct screamed at him to look away, to escape, but he couldn’t. He couldn’t move.

His heart sank with each syllable, realizing how blind he had been. He had wanted to believe, to rewrite reality into something more bearable. But the truth was unyielding.

Ren’s presence was steady behind him. Scar reached instinctively, helping him onto the horse. Ren’s grip was desperate, almost fearful that he might vanish if let go. Scar’s own hands trembled but stayed firm.

“Let’s go,” Scar whispered, voice quiet but iron-edged. Ren didn’t speak. He didn’t need to.

The forest receded behind them, yet the feeling of being watched lingered, eyes in the shadows that were more than just forest creatures—like the weight of judgment, guilt, and shared pain pressing on them.

The horse’s hooves rang hollow against stone as the familiar structures of the base came into view, warm lantern light spilling out into the night.

The place belonged to the so-called Divorced Quartet, though the name no longer fit.

Pearl was already there by the time the horse slowed. Her wings fluttered sharply as she crossed her arms, eyes glowing faintly in the dark.

There was a stillness to her that always came before the storm.

“Well,” she said flatly, gaze flicking between Scar and Ren. “You look like hell.”

Scar slid off first and immediately turned to help Ren down, hands lingering longer than necessary at Ren’s sides, steadying him even after his feet hit the ground.

Ren leaned into it without thinking, shoulders slumped, tail low.

Scott followed more calmly, turquoise hair catching the lantern light like scattered stars. One look at their faces, and his expression softened.

“You can stay,” Scott said at once. “No questions. No expectations.”

Cleo emerged next, slower, eyes scanning them carefully. Scar’s tight jaw, the way Ren’s hands kept clenching at his sleeves.

“Do you need anything?” she asked gently. “Water? Food? Space?”

Scar opened his mouth. Closed it again.

Ren answered instead, voice cracked. “I don’t think I can be alone tonight.”

Cleo nodded. “Then you won’t be.”

Martyn hovered a little behind the others, hands shoved into his pockets. His eyes lingered on Ren longer than strictly necessary.

“Wow,” Martyn said lightly. “Did I miss a dramatic breakup, or is this a group crying session I wasn’t invited to?”

Ren huffed a weak, humorless laugh despite himself.

Scar sighed. “We’re not crying for the same reason.”

Martyn raised a brow. “Oh?”

Ren swallowed. “I thought BigB and I…even if it was platonic, I thought we told each other the truth.” His claws flexed uselessly. “Turns out that wasn’t really a thing.”

Scar followed quietly, voice low. “And I just found out Grian was with other man relationship while still telling me I was his.”

Martyn’s grin faded. Completely.

“…Oh,” he said, softer this time.

Ren dropped beside Scar at once, close enough that their shoulders pressed together. Scar’s arm wrapped around Ren automatically, pulling him in. Ren curled against him, forehead pressing into Scar’s shoulder, a broken sound slipping free.

The tears came quietly at first.

Pearl scoffed and shoved a blanket at them. “Cry properly if you’re going to do it.”

“If they hurt you,” she added sharply, “ruin them.”

“No,” Scar said immediately.

Pearl blinked. “No?”

“That’s not who I am,” Scar replied. “Not even now.”

Scott hummed thoughtfully. “I still don’t like revenge,” he said slowly. “…But manipulating them a little? Might be useful.”

Cleo laughed softly. “That’s a lot for someone who was just against revenge.”

Scott shrugged. “They’re too non-problematic to deserve that kind of betrayal.”

Ren shook his head. “I won’t do that. But I’m not going back to the base I share with BigB. Not yet.”

Scar hesitated. “I won’t shut the idea down completely,” he admitted. “But I do have to go back eventually. I need to take care of my pandas.”

That earned a weak smile.

They admitted, quietly, that neither of them had confronted their partners.

Not yet.

The night stretched on—fragmented conversations, long silences.

Martyn stayed close, brushing Ren’s hair back when his breathing hitched, making small jokes that didn’t quite land but helped anyway.

Eventually, exhaustion won.

They ended up tangled together on the floor.

Just people choosing not to let each other fall apart alone.

And for the first time that night, Scar slept.

Chapter Text

Dawn came pale and colorless, the kind of morning that felt unfinished. Mist still clung to the ground as Scar guided his horse back toward the base he shared with Grian. The path was familiar, almost painfully so—stone, moss, the quiet rustle of bamboo in the distance. Every step of the horse echoed with something heavy in his chest. He had slept, yes, but grief didn’t leave with sleep. It only settled deeper.

Ren had stayed behind with the others. Scar had insisted on going alone.

The base came into view just as the sky shifted from gray to gold. Smoke curled lazily from the chimney. Lights were still on.

Scar could tell instantly: Grian hadn’t left.

He had spent the night here. Somehow, that simple fact weighed more than Scar expected.

He dismounted slowly, brushing a hand along the horse’s neck before he tied the reins. He gathered the flowers he had collected—bright poppies, delicate lilacs—and smiled despite the ache in his chest. Not for himself. For Grian. It was always for Grian.

He pushed the door open.

Grian was already inside, wings half-flared in agitation, feathers ruffled. Crumbs dusted his hands. He had clearly been up late—or early—eating cookies, because the warm scent lingered everywhere.

Grian spun the moment Scar entered.

“There you are,” he snapped, voice sharp with exhaustion. “Where have you been?”

Scar smiled automatically, soft and open, as if the edges of his heart weren’t raw. “Good morning, sunshine,” he said lightly. “I was picking flowers. It got late, so I stayed with Scott.”

He held out the bouquet.

Poppies and lilacs.

For a moment, something in Grian’s expression fractured. His shoulders went rigid, wings drawing in tight, and his good eye narrowed ever so slightly.

The color drained from his face as if those flowers meant something Scar didn’t understand.

“Don’t—” Grian cut himself off, swallowing. “Don’t do that again.”

Scar blinked. “Do what?”

“Stay out,” Grian said abruptly, turning away, voice clipped and final. “Without telling me. Just don’t do it again.”

“I don’t explain when I get back late,” Scar said before he could stop himself, the words slipping free like a bruise pressed too hard. “And you don’t explain when you do either.”

Grian froze.

Only for a heartbeat.

Then he ignored the comment entirely.

“I’m busy,” he muttered, already walking away, the smell of cookies growing stronger with each step. “Just—just don’t.”

Scar watched him go, still smiling. He always smiled. That was habit, armor, instinct.

But his hands tightened involuntarily around the flowers until petals crumpled.

He could smell the cookies. He didn’t need to follow to know exactly where Grian was headed.

He let out a long, quiet sigh.

The sanctuary of pandas waited just beyond the main hall, its bamboo forest green and peaceful and completely indifferent to heartbreak. Scar stepped inside, breathing in the familiar sweetness of leaves and soft animal sound.

Normally, this place calmed him.

Normally...

Today...

Today, something felt wrong.

Cold brushed against his skin...

Gentle.

But entirely out of place.

Not morning chill.

Not weather.

Something else.

It wrapped around him like a thin layer of frost beneath the sunlight.

The pandas had stopped moving.

That was the first thing he noticed.

Every single one of them stared at him with round, unblinking eyes. No chewing. No rolling. No clumsy waddling. Just stillness.

Scar’s smile faltered at last.

“Hey, little guys,” he murmured automatically, voice unsteady. “It’s just me.”

He glanced around, searching for the familiar soft paw-steps of Jellie.

Nothing.

No bell, no tail, no sleepy meow.

“Jellie?” His voice wavered. “Where are you, darling?”

Silence answered.

The cold deepened.

The feeling crept in then...the sensation of being watched.

Not casually.

Not passively.

Precisely.

Deliberately.

It was the same thick awareness that had settled on his shoulders in the forest before he’d found Grian and BigB.

The same unseen gaze. The same invisible hand nudging him toward truth he hadn’t wanted.

Was it better that he’d seen it? Or worse? He still didn’t know.

His knees gave way.

Scar fell forward onto the bamboo floor, palms catching the earth as his breath came shorter, heavier, like something was pressing down on him from above. His head spun. His body felt too heavy to move.

One of the smallest pandas rose up onto its hind legs.

Slowly.

Purposefully.

It walked toward him—not the clumsy swaying waddle of a panda, but something controlled, balanced. Something that watched him as if weighing him.

Scar’s pulse roared in his ears.

“That’s… not funny,” he whispered under his breath. “You can’t do that. You shouldn’t do that. Players move like that. Not pandas.”

The panda came closer.

Scar tried to stand, but his limbs felt drained, like something had reached inside him and pulled the strength loose. His lungs burned. Instinct screamed.

Danger.

He looked up.

The sky above the sanctuary had darkened—not the whole horizon, not the world. Just here. Just directly above him. A swirling bruise-colored cloud hovered, deep violet, almost luminous. The shade struck something buried in his mind. Familiar. Wrong. Old.

He thought of another world.

Blood...Zombies...

Just him...

A place he had chosen to forget.

Memories scratched at the locked doors of his mind, shapes with teeth, voices with edges. He had shoved them away for years, buried them, smothered them with sunlight and laughter and builds and pandas. But the color in the clouds—he knew it. Even if he couldn’t drag the memory fully into daylight.

The panda’s skin began to peel.

Not transform—no, this wasn’t transformation. This was tearing. A loose, grotesque slipping away of fur and flesh as something beneath it pushed outward. Pale. Wrong. Moving with intent that had nothing to do with bamboo or playfulness or nature.

Scar’s stomach twisted.

He couldn’t look away.

Then Jellie appeared.

Out of nowhere—like she had stepped through a seam in the air itself. Her fur bristled, tail puffed to twice its size, back arched into a trembling curve.

She planted herself between Scar and the thing wearing panda skin.

She hissed.

Then she began to yowl.

Louder than he had ever heard her.

Not panicked.

Not afraid.

Furious.

The sound reverberated through the sanctuary—sharp, cutting, alive. It sliced through the thick purple light, through the creeping cold, through the thing that had dared to step into his sanctuary wearing one of his pandas like clothing.

The creature recoiled.

It shuddered—twisted—and then bolted, dragging false skin with it, vanishing beyond the bamboo as the sky above split back to blue as if someone had exhaled.

Warmth returned.

The pandas blinked, one by one, shaking their heads and resuming their simple, gentle sounds—snorts, chirps, the rustle of leaves. The world resumed as if nothing had happened.

Scar stayed kneeling, breath shaking.

Jellie pressed against him immediately, her small body warm and grounding. She pushed her head into his chest, meowing softly now, urgently, as if insisting he stay here, stay real, stay with her.

He wrapped trembling arms around her.

“Okay,” he whispered hoarsely. “Okay. I believe you.”

Because she was telling him something with every nudge, every rumble of her throat:

It happened.
You’re not imagining it.
It was real.

Scar looked around slowly at the pandas, at the bamboo, at the sky that pretended innocence again.

For the first time, unease coiled deeply in him—not about betrayal, not about Grian, but about the place he had considered safest.

He had trusted this sanctuary.

Now he wasn’t sure if he could.

Something had worn one of his pandas like a costume. Something had watched him through their gentle eyes. Something had known how to find him here, of all places.

He swallowed, stroking Jellie’s fur.

“I’m fine,” he whispered to the pandas, to the air, to himself. “Everything’s fine.”

The sound of approaching footsteps cut through his racing thoughts.

Scar lifted his head toward the gate of the sanctuary and saw Scott standing there, visibly shaken, breathing too fast, turquoise hair with its star-like shimmer mussed by the wind.

A second figure appeared behind him—Martyn—who didn’t bother with greetings or hesitation. He pushed through the gate and ran straight to Scar, crossing the space in seconds.

He knelt and helped him up from the ground.

Scar could feel Martyn’s hands trembling.

Martyn didn’t waste time with pleasantries. His voice came out tight, rushed. “Scar, are you okay? Are you hurt? Talk to me—please.”

Scar smiled.

He always did, even when fear was thudding in his chest.

The smile stretched too wide, nervous around the edges, the kind that didn’t reach his eyes.

He didn’t even know why he smiled in moments like this.

It was automatic—an instinct.

Was he okay?

He didn’t know. Maybe nothing was okay.

Martyn’s gaze flicked toward Jellie. The cat calmly licked her paws with exaggerated indifference, as though she wanted to distract them from something, to hide it. She looked composed, but her ears were angled sharply, muscles coiled just beneath the fur.

Scar only thought she was being a normal cat.

Cats protected their owners from bad things, right?

Yes. Right.

Martyn’s voice came again, firmer, almost pleading. “Scar, talk to me. What happened?”

Before Scar answered, Scott stepped closer. He laid a steadying hand on Martyn’s shoulder.

“Hey,” Scott said, voice low but cutting cleanly through the tension. “Let him breathe. You’re gripping him too hard. You won’t get answers like this—you’re just scaring him more.”

Martyn blinked, as if dragged suddenly back into his own body. He loosened his hands, though he didn’t move far away, hovering just close enough to catch Scar should he fall.

Scott stayed in front of them, calm, eyes sharp, posture protective despite the gentleness of his tone.

Both turned toward Scar then.

Waiting.

Scar exhaled and gently removed Martyn’s hands from his shoulders. The smile stayed, nervous, fragile. He considered denying everything, shoving it all into the quiet space inside him where he kept things no one believed.

He had grown used to not being believed.

So what was the point in telling the truth?

He was about to dismiss it when Jellie meowed. Clear. Intentional. She pressed her head against his arm and stared up at him, as if saying:

Say it. You can.

He sighed, lifted her in his arms, and nodded faintly.

“Okay,” he said softly. “I’ll tell the truth.”

Scar spoke in first person then—his voice shaking at first, then growing steadier as words poured out, unfiltered and detailed the way they always did when he tried to make people believe him.

“I was here,” he began, “and everything felt wrong before anything actually happened. The air got cold—the kind of cold that doesn’t touch your skin first, but goes straight to your bones. There were purple clouds hanging low over the sanctuary, like they were looking down on me instead of just floating there. The pandas weren’t acting normal. One of them stood up straighter than it should have—too straight—and its head moved like something inside was pulling its strings instead of it just being… a panda.”

He swallowed, still smiling nervously.

“I felt watched. Really watched. Like eyes were just out of sight, right behind the corners of things. Then one of the pandas started… peeling. Not the skin, exactly—more like the idea of it. Like something underneath was pushing to get out and the panda was just a suit. Jellie got between us, fur standing up, growling in a way cats normally don’t, like she was ready to fight whatever that was. She saved me. If she hadn’t stepped in, it would have gotten closer. I could feel it reaching for me without moving.”

He kept going, because once he started, he didn’t know how to stop.

“And yesterday,” he said, voice thinning, “I went into the forest. I didn’t mean to find anything. The forest just kind of… took me there. The wind pushed me along paths I didn’t plan to walk. I kept feeling like there was somewhere I needed to be, like the trees were nudging me. And then I saw them. Grian and BigB. They didn’t see me at first. I heard them laughing—close, easy, like they belonged in a world I wasn’t part of anymore. And then I realized what they were doing, how close they were. It… it hurt. Like something in my chest cracked. I didn’t mean to spy. I just—arrived.”

He went quiet for a moment. The smile stayed, shaking faintly.

“I’ve felt watched before,” he murmured, voice dropping to almost nothing. “Not just today. Not just here. Long before Hermitcraft. Like something has been following me for a long time. Like it’s waiting for something from me, but I don’t know what.”

Silence followed.

Scott’s expression turned tight, thoughtful, eyes sharpening. Martyn paled visibly. Scott patted Martyn’s back and whispered something too soft for Scar to hear.

Jellie heard it, though—her ears twitched, tail flicking—and she gave Scar a slow blink, reassuring, as if saying:

You can trust them.

Scar chose not to question it.

Instead, he asked quietly, “So… why did you come to my base?”

They exchanged a glance.

Scott answered first. “We saw the strange clouds above your sanctuary. And we saw one of your pandas leaving—on its own. It closed the gate behind it.”

“Pandas don’t close gates,” Martyn added hoarsely. “That’s why we ran here.”

Scar nodded.

His voice shifted, almost a whisper intended more for himself than for them. “The Shadow People might be behind this…”

Jellie stiffened in his arms, ears snapping upright. Both Scott and Martyn looked at him sharply.

“What do you mean by the Shadow People?” Martyn asked carefully.

Scar shook his head with another thin smile. “It isn’t important.”

Scott stepped closer, gaze unwavering. “Scar. What do you mean? Who are they?”

Scar opened his mouth to answer—but his throat locked. Words stuck painfully, as if something unseen had wrapped around his voice and squeezed. He tried again, but only a rasp escaped.

“I… can’t.”

Jellie hissed, loud and furious.

This time, her focus locked on one of the biggest pandas at the far side of the enclosure. Its head was turned toward them, eyes too still, too knowing. The others followed her gaze. The panda took one step forward—smooth, wrong. Another panda shifted. Then another. Soon several had angled toward them.

The gate was closed.

Pandas couldn’t open gates.

And yet they began to move.

“Run,” Scott whispered.

They bolted.

Scar swung onto his horse, Jellie pressed tight to his chest. He tossed the reins of the second horse—the one he had once raised for Grian—to Scott and Martyn.

“Take it!” he called, smiling that same nervous smile even with panic burning in him. “Go, go!”

Scott mounted quickly, taking control of the horse. Martyn climbed up behind him, arms wrapping around Scott’s waist, head snapping back again and again to watch what followed.

The pandas were running.

Huge shapes thundered across the ground—far too fast, almost keeping pace with riders.

Not as fast as horses, but close enough to make safety feel like a thin thread ready to snap.

Jellie kept hissing, but she couldn’t muster the deep growl she’d had before. There were too many now, too big. She could frighten one—maybe whatever lived inside it—but not this many.

Wind whipped tears from Scar’s eyes as they fled, his smile still pinned to his face, fragile and unsteady, as if stitched there by habit. Even at the height of fear, he smiled—at danger, grief, and the suffocating feeling of being watched.

Scott and Martyn didn’t need more words.

They knew who watched from the spaces between worlds.

They just didn’t know why it had chosen Scar.

Why him? Why now?

They didn’t have time to question anything.

The moment they crossed the treeline, the forest swallowed sound and direction the way it always did—shifting paths, bending light, breathing confusion into every player who dared enter it. Leaves whispered in voices that weren’t quite wind. The branches leaned inward, guiding and trapping at the same time. And somewhere in that suffocating green maze… they lost Scar.

They lost the pandas too.

Scott yanked the reins and stopped the horse long enough for Martyn to hear him clearly. Martyn leaned forward, tense, gripping Scott’s waist so tightly Scott could feel his knuckles through the fabric.

“I heard something,” Martyn whispered, pointing toward a narrow path. “Movement. Something went that way.”

Scott nodded, trusting him, turning the horse in that direction. The trees opened into a clearing—and both of them immediately recognized it.

It was the place Scar and Ren had once described with aching voices.

The place where they had found their soulmates.

The place where betrayal had taken root.

And there they were.

Exactly as Pearl always called them.

The two bastards.

Even knowing it was a game, sometimes people forgot. Especially now, when Scar was missing, chased by… whatever those pandas truly were. And Grian—his soulmate—had no idea. He was too busy standing there, too close to BigB, fingers intertwined.

Scott felt heat crawl up his chest. For a brief, sharp moment, he wanted to get off the horse and punch him. He never resorted to violence, never liked chaos—but fury burned bright and raw under the calm surface.

Behind him, Martyn’s fists tightened against Scott’s sides, knuckles grinding. Scott could feel the tremor of barely contained anger.

“Not now,” Scott murmured to him through clenched teeth. “We are not in the position to confront them. Not about… that. Not right now.”

Martyn exhaled shakily but nodded.

Grian finally noticed them. His eyes widened, and he quickly let go of BigB’s hand, smiling nervously as if that would make it lighter, easier, invisible.

“Uh—hey!” he called. “Fancy seeing you two out here. You, uh—didn’t see anything… weird. Right?”

Martyn slid off the horse before Scott could stop him.

Grian blinked, brow furrowing. “Wait—why do you have that horse? That’s the one Scar raised for me, isn’t it? Why are you—”

“That’s rich,” Martyn snapped, voice sharper than steel. “Funny of you to worry about a horse you’ve never even ridden.”

Grian froze.

BigB shifted uncomfortably beside him.

Martyn stepped forward, voice steady but burning. “We were running from Scar’s sanctuary. Something got in. Something that shouldn’t even exist inside the game. You know exactly what I’m talking about.”

Silence.

Grian’s eyes darkened.

The wind shifted.

“Don’t,” Scott said quietly. “We all know who we mean.”

The name didn’t need to be spoken.

But Martyn said it anyway.

“The Watchers.”

They all stiffened.

BigB swallowed hard. “You’re sure?”

“They moved the pandas like puppets,” Scott said. “Opened gates. Followed Scar. They chased us through the forest.”

Martyn nodded grimly. “They’ve been talking to me again. Whispering. Laughing. They love this pain. But they’ve never centered so much on one player. Not like this. Not unless someone had defied them first.”

His eyes flicked to Scott knowingly.

Scott didn’t deny it. His jaw clenched.

No one questioned how they remembered. They remembered everything.

Every season.

Every world.

Every loss.

Grian had been the creator. The first winner.

Scott had defied fate and won the second.

Martyn and BigB had both seen too much, known too much, felt too much.

Others knew too. Jimmy. Pearl. They needed to talk to them. Soon.

But right now—

“Where’s Scar?” Grian demanded, voice cracking. “Where is he? He was with you!”

His soulmate bond should have been screaming his presence into his bones but…

He felt nothing.

The answer came not from any of them.

But from a broken sound.

A scream that was part meow, part cry.

Jellie burst into the clearing.

She stumbled—running on shaking legs—yelping and crying out in a way no normal cat should ever sound. Her fur was ruffled and scorched. Her tail was scratched. Along her back were deep claw marks like something had grabbed her and thrown her hard.

Scott’s heart lurched.

“Jellie!” he shouted, jumping from the horse and sprinting to her.

She collapsed near them, gasping shallow little breaths. There was no Scar behind her. No hoofbeats. No laugh. No frantic voice calling out for help.

Nothing.

Grian’s face went pale.

“I can’t—” he whispered, hands trembling. “I can’t feel him. I should feel him. He’s my soulmate—I should know where he is—I should—”

But the bond was silent.

Empty.

Scott knelt beside Jellie, hands already moving. He rummaged through his items and pulled out a splash potion of regeneration.

“Easy, sweetheart,” he murmured gently. “Hold on. We’ve got you.”

He threw the potion. Healing magic washed over her. Jellie let out one last weak cry before her body went limp, unconscious, breathing at least steadier.

She was the only link they had left.

Their only witness.

Their only hope.

Scott looked at the others, voice solid, steady, holding the fear down with sheer will.

“We need everyone who knows about the Watchers,” he said. “Now. Jimmy. Pearl. Anyone who remembers. This isn’t just another game. They’ve taken Scar.”

Martyn’s jaw tightened. BigB’s eyes hardened. Grian stared at the ground, shaking.

The forest shifted around them, darker, quieter.

Somewhere far away, something laughed.

None of them could tell whether it was the wind…or eyes watching from between worlds.

Chapter Text

The soft, uneven sound of hooves reached them first.

It was slow.
Dragging.
Tired in a way that spoke of long distance and longer fear.

Martyn was the first to turn.

Scott followed a heartbeat later, his ears flicking instinctively, the faint shimmer in his hair dimming as his focus snapped forward.

The horse emerged from between the trees, head low, flanks damp with sweat.

And on its back—

“Scar,” Martyn breathed.

Scott froze.

Scar was slumped forward, arms loose, body unmoving, his head resting against the horse’s neck as if gravity itself had finally won.
Jellie was curled against his chest, claws lightly dug into his shirt, her small body trembling as she let out a weak, broken mewl.

Martyn bolted.

He reached the horse first, hands immediately gripping the reins, steadying the exhausted animal while his eyes scanned Scar’s form for blood, burns, anything.

“Scott—help me get him down.”

Scott took one step forward—

Then stopped.

Jellie’s cry sharpened, desperate now, her tail flicking weakly as she looked up at Scott with glassy eyes.

“…Fish,” Scott murmured, almost instinctively.

Martyn shot him a look. “Scott.”

“She’s hurt,” Scott said, voice tight. He knelt quickly, fumbling through his inventory, pulling out raw fish and holding it up gently. “Jellie, sweetheart—hey. I’ve got you.”

The cat shifted, clearly torn, her eyes darting between Scar’s unmoving face and the offered food. She let out a soft, broken sound before carefully climbing down Scar’s chest, landing shakily on Scott’s arm.

Martyn swallowed his irritation and refocused.

Grian hadn’t moved at all.

He stood rooted a few steps back, wings half-flared without him even realizing it, feathers ruffling sharply along his arms and shoulders.

His gaze was locked on Scar.

On the bond.
On the absence.

“…No,” Grian whispered.

He checked his hearts.

Full.

Every single one.

A sharp, icy panic slid straight through his chest.

He staggered back a step, shaking his head, wings tucking in tight as if that might make the truth rearrange itself. “That’s not—this isn’t—”

He turned blindly and collided with BigB.

BigB's arms immediately encircled him, strong and familiar, his arm against Grian's cheek, holding him firmly as a way of showing him that he was safe.

“It’s okay,” BigB murmured low. “I’ve got you.”

But Grian’s breath came uneven.

The embrace felt…wrong.

Not dangerous.
Not hostile.

Just empty.

Like leaning against a wall that looked solid but didn’t quite exist.

His claws curled into BigB’s sleeve anyway, more out of reflex than comfort.
He could feel Martyn’s stare on him—sharp, disappointed, unspoken.

Martyn didn’t say it.

He didn’t have to.

With careful hands, Martyn lifted Scar, checking again—neck, wrists, torso, legs.

No wounds.
No burns.
No arrows.
Not even the faintest scratch.

“…There’s nothing,” Martyn said slowly. “No damage at all.”

“That’s worse,” Scott said quietly, still focused on Jellie as she ate weakly from his hand.

Martyn swung up onto the horse, settling Scar properly against him, one arm wrapped securely around Scar’s chest to keep him upright.

“I’m taking him to the Divorced Quartet base,” Martyn said. “It’s closer. Safer.”

Scott nodded. “I’ll follow right behind you.”

The horse turned and began its slow path away.

Grian took a step forward.

“I—I should—”

Something firm caught his wrist.

BigB.

The wolf hybrid met his eyes, golden and unreadable, ears angled slightly back.

“Do you really think that’s a good idea?” BigB asked quietly.

The question landed heavy.

Before Grian could answer, Scott spoke.

“BigB’s right.”

Grian’s head snapped up. “Scott—”

Scott sighed, straightening, Jellie now cradled carefully in his arms.

He looked tired.
Older, somehow. “Scar doesn’t know,” he said evenly.

Grian stiffened.

“He doesn’t know about… any of it,” Scott continued, voice deliberate. “Not the cheating. Not the lying. Nothing.”

Grian opened his mouth, closed it again.

“So,” Scott went on, eyes flicking between Grian and BigB, “there’s still a chance to fix this. If you don’t make it worse.”

Martyn was already gone from sight.

Scott hesitated, then added more calmly, "That said, neither Scar nor Ren have much faith in the two of you at the moment."

Grian flinched.

"Not because you two were filthy cheaters," Scott clarified. "But because you weren't honest. Betraying the trust of a wolf like Ren and an elf like Scar is simply the worst insult they could receive."

He paused.

“With you and Scar…” Scott looked directly at Grian now. “You’re friends. That’s how Scar sees it. He calls you his friend.”

Grian swallowed.

"Just friends," Scott repeated. "Unless you like him and this whole Bigb thing is your way of avoiding admitting it."

The words cut deep.

“That’s dangerous,” Scott continued, softer but firmer. “Because if you keep lying—to Scar, to Ren, to yourselves—you’re going to hurt all four of you. Badly.”

BigB’s grip tightened just slightly.

“And there’s something else,” Scott added.

He hesitated, then said it anyway.

“Strong negative emotions attract Watchers.”

Grian’s breath hitched.

“Guilt. Jealousy. Fear. Self-loathing,” Scott listed quietly. “In someone like Scar? That kind of emotional weight is…incredibly sweet to them.”

Silence stretched.

“Look at what’s already happened,” Scott said. “Scar was attacked. The pandas he loved were killed. Jellie was hurt.”

Grian’s claws trembled.

“And now,” Scott finished, voice low, “you can’t feel his pain.”

Grian shook his head sharply. “That doesn’t mean it’s my fault.”

“It means one of two things,” Scott replied calmly. “Either the Watchers interfered directly…or your soulbond is weaker than it should be.”

Weaker.

“Even weaker,” Scott added gently, “than the bond I have with Pearl.”

That did it.

Grian’s wings flared defensively, feathers bristling as he stepped back, voice sharp. “You don’t know that. You’re assuming. It could be anything—Scar could’ve done something, or the game could’ve glitched, or—”

“Grian,” BigB said quietly.

Grian kept going. “Why is this suddenly on me? Martyn was there. Pearl shot him last week. Ren—”

He stopped.

Realized.

BigB watched him steadily, ears low.

Scott exhaled slowly. “You’re deflecting.”

Grian’s jaw clenched.

“I was protecting him,” he snapped.

"And how does that end?" Scott said, without meaning any harm.

The silence that followed was heavy, thick with everything unsaid.

Pearl and Cleo were working side by side at the entrance between their bases, reinforcing stone and wood alike—an unspoken but deliberate act.

A truce, solidified not with words, but with shared labor.

Pearl’s moth wings fluttered faintly as she adjusted a beam, the soft dust clinging to the fine scales along her arms.

Cleo tightened a support and leaned back to inspect their work.

“Well,” Cleo said dryly, “if nothing else, this should stop anyone from accidentally declaring war by tripping over a fence.”

Pearl huffed a quiet laugh. “Give it a week.”

Not far from them, Ren was tending to the animals.
He moved with practiced ease, tail swaying lazily as he checked troughs and fencing.

Then he froze.

A shiver ran down his spine, fur bristling along his arms and neck.

“…Nope,” Ren muttered. “Don’t like that.”

Almost at the same time, Pearl’s antennae stiffened. She turned sharply toward the entrance, eyes narrowing.

“Something’s wrong,” she said.

They didn’t have time to question it.

Martyn appeared at the edge of the path—half dragging, half supporting Scar.

Scar was limp.

That was enough.

Pearl dropped what she was holding and ran.
Cleo was already moving, skirts gathered, potion satchel swinging. Ren reached them first, catching Scar’s other side without a word.

“What happened?” Cleo demanded.

“Later,” Martyn said, breathless. “Please. Just—help him first.”

They didn’t argue.

Scar was laid carefully in a bed inside Pearl’s base.
His breathing was shallow but steady.
Cleo uncorked a regeneration potion, guiding it gently past his lips.

“Come on,” she murmured. “Stay with us.”

Minutes stretched.

Scar didn’t wake.

“He’s alive,” Cleo said finally, checking again. “Just… gone. It’ll take time.”

Ren stayed close, seated on the floor beside the bed, one hand resting near Scar’s wrist like he could will him back through contact alone.

Scott arrived shortly after, horn dim, eyes wide with restrained panic. He stopped dead the moment he saw Scar.

“…Oh,” he breathed.

Pearl pulled Martyn into the next room before Scott could ask anything.

Martyn explained everything in a low voice—the watchers, the attack, the escape, losing Scar in the chaos.

“And then,” Martyn continued, rubbing his face, “we ran into Grian. And BigB.”

Pearl’s wings flared.

Just the mention was enough. The armrest beneath her hand cracked audibly.

Martyn winced. “Pearl—”

“I know,” she said sharply. “I know what you’re going to say.”

She turned to him, eyes glowing faintly. “But Grian could have felt it. Watchers feel each other. He could have known they were coming for Scar.”

Martyn hesitated. “That’s…probably true.”

“He could have helped,” Pearl went on, voice trembling with controlled fury. “He could have protected him. But he didn’t. Because he was too busy sneaking around with BigB.”

She laughed once, bitter. “And Scar was alone.”

Martyn fell silent.

Pearl noticed immediately.

“…You’re holding something back,” she said.

“No,” Martyn replied too fast.

Pearl reached behind her and pulled out an iron axe.

Martyn’s eyes widened. “Pearl—okay—first of all, please put that away, and second—”

She embedded the axe into the wall right behind his head.

Martyn stopped breathing.

“Talk,” Pearl said calmly.

Martyn swallowed. “…Fine.”

He stepped back slightly. “Grian said he didn’t feel anything.”

Pearl stiffened.

“He didn’t feel Scar’s pain,” Martyn clarified. “Not even faintly. Scott and I—we’ve had weak bonds before. Even then, you still feel something.”

Pearl’s hands curled into fists. “And Grian felt nothing.”

“Nothing,” Martyn confirmed.

Silence.

.

.

Then screaming.

Pearl and Martyn bolted back into the room.

Scott was standing rigid at the foot of the bed, staring.

Scar was awake.

He looked…better. Color had returned to his face.

But his appearance—

His ears were still pointed, but now the tips had a faint blue tinge, as if kissed by frost.
His eyes glowed softly, not brightly, but unmistakably unnaturally.
The outline of his body shimmered with subtle blue hues; his presence seemed a little larger than it should be, as if reality itself struggled to contain him.
And then there were the wings and tail: translucent, edged with crackling light, unmistakably Vex.
They moved and flickered, half solid, half ethereal, making it clear that whatever Scar was now, he was no longer entirely bound to a single form.

Jellie sat calmly on his chest, purring.

“…Okay,” Scott whispered. “That’s new.”

Scar lifted a hand weakly, petting Jellie. “Hey, guys.”

Ren surged forward. “Scar—!”

“I’m okay,” Scar said softly. “Promise.”

Pearl stared at him. “…What are you.”

Scar winced. “Right. That.”

He took a breath.

“I’m a Vex,” he said simply.

The room went still.

Scar continued quickly, voice steady despite the tension. “I knew what that would mean. The discrimination. The assumptions. So…I accepted help.”

“A Voidwalker,” Scott murmured, realization dawning.

Scar nodded. “They helped me hold an elven form. Stable. Safe.”

Pearl’s wings trembled. “And the watchers.”

“They hate Voidwalkers,” Scar said lightly. “Old feud. Very dramatic.”

Ren growled softly.

“They took me,” Scar went on. “Stripped the Void magic out. Left me like this.”

Silence returned—thick and heavy.

Scar sighed, focusing. His form shimmered, shifting back into his familiar elven appearance.

“I’d rather keep this between us,” he said gently. “For now.”

Ren studied him for a long moment. “…So you’re just going to lie to everyone?”

Scar smiled faintly. “Gaslight, technically.”

Ren snorted despite himself.

Everyone else sighed—reluctantly accepting.

Scar tried to sit up.

Every single person stopped him.

Even Jellie placed a paw on his chest.

“…Okay,” Scar said, surrendering. “I’ll rest.”

Ren lay down beside the bed, eyes never leaving him.

And for now—

That was enough.