Pacaluna is a haven shaped by hands that once knew hardship and now tend only to peace. Nestled in a highland glade where mist drifts softly between trees, the land opens into a mosaic of shaded groves and sun-dappled clearings. Wildflowers bloom freely along narrow trails, and low stone terraces guide rainwater into quiet pools. Each corner of the land seems to answer a need—Lucius has cleared and marked the trails, Amanellus tends to herb plots and dye-stones warmed by sunlight, and Velkorim has hung singing bells between branches, tuned to chime with every breeze. The three work not to survive, but to harmonize with the land, each motion an act of gratitude.
At the heart of Pacaluna stands their home, crafted not as a monument, but as a retreat. The structure curves slightly with the slope of the hill, its smooth wooden walls fitted with care, sealed with moss and resin. Wide eaves shelter the entrance, and the roof—woven with reed and bark—whispers softly in the wind. Inside, the space is open and warm, with places for silence as well as music. Lucius's carvings line one wall, tools neatly hung and often shared. A low hearth, framed with etched stones, serves as both kitchen and gathering point, where Amanellus prepares scents and blends oils that infuse the space with lavender, clove, and sweet fern.
Beyond the house lies a shared courtyard, open to the sky but enclosed by the reach of trees. Here, they eat together, rest in hammocks, and trade verses by firelight. Velkorim often performs under the stars, his etched chimes shimmering beside him, while Lucius listens with quiet pride and Amanellus stirs tea or crushes blossoms nearby. A narrow path leads from the courtyard to a spring-fed pool lined with smooth stones—used for bathing, dyeing, or simply watching the sky ripple on the surface.
To one side of the home, a thicket of tall pines and larches gives way to a grove they call the hush. It is not marked or named aloud, but each of them wanders there alone when the day is heavy or the world too quiet. In this grove, they do not speak. Instead, they breathe the silence together.
Pacaluna is not just a refuge—it is a release. A place where swords are forgotten, chains are melted down into music, and exile becomes arrival. In the rhythm of the land, the three have found a new kind of belonging—crafted not from what they left behind, but from what they choose to build together.
Living Spaces
