Xian Xiao
Elementalist
Morning on Bastion never truly felt still. Even this far from the Citadel, tucked into a multi‑room flat above the lower markets, there was always a hum beneath the quiet: vendors calling out prices, speeders threading through narrow lanes, the distant clatter of crates being unloaded below. The sound rose through the open balcony door in a steady rhythm that felt familiar and predictable, a kind of background pulse she had long ago learned to trust.
Xian stood at the sink with her sleeves pushed up, warm water running over her hands as she rinsed the last of the breakfast plates. Steam curled upward, catching in the pale light that filtered through the tall windows, and she moved with an unhurried ease that made the small kitchen feel softer than usual. The dishes were hers—the ceramic plates she had bargained for near the textile stalls, the mismatched mugs she'd collected one at a time simply because she liked the way none of them matched, the kettle, the small tin of cocoa she kept near the stove, the wooden spoon with the faint scorch mark she had never bothered to sand down. Every object her fingers touched carried its own quiet memory.
I chose this. I paid for this. I brought this home. Alone.
She set the last mug carefully into the drying rack and turned off the water, drying her hands before resting them against the counter. Two nights. That was how long Veyran had been here. The first had felt quiet and careful, as if the flat itself was aware of the change and unsure how to settle around it. The second had been easier, less cautious, as though the space had begun to accept him without needing permission.
Now it was morning again.
She looked past the kitchen into the main room. His boots were by the door—new, unexpected, heavier than anything else in the entryway. Dark, practical, out of place against the clean lines of the space. For a fleeting moment, she imagined picking them up and tucking them neatly aside, but she didn't move. Her gaze drifted farther: the couch sat where it always had, the shelves still held her books in careful rows, the blanket folded over the armrest was the one she'd chosen for herself during a winter spent entirely alone. There was no trace of him beyond the boots. No jacket draped over a chair, no belongings claiming corners, no mug that was distinctly his.
He had slept here. He had eaten here. He had stood beside her in this kitchen minutes ago.
And yet the flat still felt hers entirely.
Xian inhaled slowly, then pushed away from the counter and crossed the room in soft steps. She paused near the entryway, her eyes settling on the boots again.
"You can leave them there," she said gently, her voice carrying easily through the flat. "I don't mind."
It wasn't about the boots, and she knew he would hear that.
She folded her arms loosely, letting her gaze move over the room with a thoughtful calm.
After a quiet moment, she added, "We should go to the market later."
Her eyes lifted to find him, a hint of shyness threading through her next words.
"Not for groceries. For something else."
A small pause lingered, warm and deliberate.
"So it doesn't look like I live here alone."
She didn't say the rest aloud, though it settled between them with its own quiet certainty.
So it looks like you do too.
The light shifted through the windows again, warm against the walls she had once chosen simply because they were affordable and close to everything she needed. For the first time since she'd signed the lease and claimed this place as her own, she found herself thinking about where someone else might fit.
And she wasn't afraid of the answer.
Veyran Solis
Xian stood at the sink with her sleeves pushed up, warm water running over her hands as she rinsed the last of the breakfast plates. Steam curled upward, catching in the pale light that filtered through the tall windows, and she moved with an unhurried ease that made the small kitchen feel softer than usual. The dishes were hers—the ceramic plates she had bargained for near the textile stalls, the mismatched mugs she'd collected one at a time simply because she liked the way none of them matched, the kettle, the small tin of cocoa she kept near the stove, the wooden spoon with the faint scorch mark she had never bothered to sand down. Every object her fingers touched carried its own quiet memory.
I chose this. I paid for this. I brought this home. Alone.
She set the last mug carefully into the drying rack and turned off the water, drying her hands before resting them against the counter. Two nights. That was how long Veyran had been here. The first had felt quiet and careful, as if the flat itself was aware of the change and unsure how to settle around it. The second had been easier, less cautious, as though the space had begun to accept him without needing permission.
Now it was morning again.
She looked past the kitchen into the main room. His boots were by the door—new, unexpected, heavier than anything else in the entryway. Dark, practical, out of place against the clean lines of the space. For a fleeting moment, she imagined picking them up and tucking them neatly aside, but she didn't move. Her gaze drifted farther: the couch sat where it always had, the shelves still held her books in careful rows, the blanket folded over the armrest was the one she'd chosen for herself during a winter spent entirely alone. There was no trace of him beyond the boots. No jacket draped over a chair, no belongings claiming corners, no mug that was distinctly his.
He had slept here. He had eaten here. He had stood beside her in this kitchen minutes ago.
And yet the flat still felt hers entirely.
Xian inhaled slowly, then pushed away from the counter and crossed the room in soft steps. She paused near the entryway, her eyes settling on the boots again.
"You can leave them there," she said gently, her voice carrying easily through the flat. "I don't mind."
It wasn't about the boots, and she knew he would hear that.
She folded her arms loosely, letting her gaze move over the room with a thoughtful calm.
After a quiet moment, she added, "We should go to the market later."
Her eyes lifted to find him, a hint of shyness threading through her next words.
"Not for groceries. For something else."
A small pause lingered, warm and deliberate.
"So it doesn't look like I live here alone."
She didn't say the rest aloud, though it settled between them with its own quiet certainty.
So it looks like you do too.
The light shifted through the windows again, warm against the walls she had once chosen simply because they were affordable and close to everything she needed. For the first time since she'd signed the lease and claimed this place as her own, she found herself thinking about where someone else might fit.
And she wasn't afraid of the answer.
Veyran Solis
