cheshamstreetbreakdowns

[cheshamstreetbreakdowns]

In Your Corner

Mitsuki had thought he’d seen his brother happy before — back when Anubis had been the center of his world. But after Katsuka’s return to Rassua, it was like looking at a stranger wearing the same skin.

Maybe it wasn’t obvious to everyone else. Katsuka had always been good at hiding things, at turning himself into the unreadable, untouchable lord of every room he stepped into. But Mitsuki could see it. The difference was like night and day.

Despite still feeling out of place in this strange palace that hummed with strange magic, despite the lingering sting of a heartache he didn’t talk about — the dreams of a life with Anubis now gone, the guilt of leaving Krau behind — he smiled.

Not the careful, polished smile that had been honed into a weapon. Not the one he wore like armor to keep people at a distance. But a real one. Uncontrolled. Soft around the edges. The kind that crept up on him whenever Kai was near, whispering something that made his shoulders loosen, his eyes light up, his entire guarded frame bend closer.

And when he reached for Kai now, there was no hesitation. No second-guessing himself. His hand always found Kai’s — sometimes halfway, sometimes already waiting — like gravity finally pulling him where he’d always meant to be.

For once, Mitsuki thought with a quiet, grudging fondness, his idiot brother had actually made the right choice. Even if it had started out like an absolute disaster.

Rest for a moment...

Mitsuki said when he caught the familiar dip of Katsuka’s head, the way a yawn caught behind his hand as they strolled through the frost gardens.

Katsuka’s lashes fluttered, heavy with exhaustion. “Thank you, Suki,” he murmured, his voice softened to something vulnerable, almost young, before his body gave out and he drifted into sleep.

Mitsuki surged forward without hesitation, catching him with a practiced ease. He didn’t mind ; Mitsuki had carried him before — through blood, through fire, through the quiet wreckage of heartbreak.

For a moment, he just stood there, unsure of his next steps, and let his shadows stretch outward like phantom limbs.

Rassua was different from Krau. He’d learned that quickly. The palace shifted when it wanted, closing off wings, opening doors only to those it allowed. It was frustrating, not being able to see everything, not being able to guard every inch of space the way he used to. But… maybe there was less need for that now. Maybe, finally, Katsuka didn't need that kind of protection from him anymore.

The path to Katsuka’s rooms curled like a ribbon of familiarity. Mitsuki clicked his tongue as his gaze swept over the state of his brother — yukata half-loose and tied in a rushed knot, hair mussed, the unmistakable disarray of someone thoroughly ruined that morning.

“Disgraceful,” Mitsuki muttered, even as his lips twitched.

Some things, apparently, didn’t change.

He sat Katsuka in front of the tall mirror and reached for the brush without a word. The motion was automatic, his hands deftly sectioning out long, silvery strands and running the bristles through them. He was careful with the tangles — as always — smoothing them free without so much as a tug.

This was different now. His role. He was still here to look after his brother, but the job had shifted — less guardian, more quiet anchor. He kept him presentable, kept his panic at bay when it swelled too sharp, kept him grounded when the noise from his shadows grew too loud.

The soft click of the door opening pulled his ear toward the sound.

“Kitty!”

Mitsuki barely had time to put the brush down before Kai swept in like a storm, arms looping around Katsuka from behind, an impossible grin in the mirror as his lips brushed the side of his neck.

Mitsuki flinched instinctively, jerking away from the unexpected warmth of touch and peeling Kai’s arms loose with sharp precision.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa—” Kai glared at him in indignation for a moment until Mitsuki shot him a wide, foxish grin as he backed up a step. “Easy, tiger. Hands to yourself.”

Mitsuki tilted his head, his illusion flickering just enough to let the truth bleed through. “Sorry to disappoint, he’s asleep,” he said dryly, his voice steady but amused.

Kai froze, blinking once, twice. “...What do you mean, he’s asleep?”

“I mean,” Mitsuki drawled, standing now to level the playing field, “he naps sometimes. Shocking, I know. Would you like me to wake him?”

Kai crossed his arms with a pout sharp enough to rival a spoiled princeling’s. “No. It’s fine.” Then his eyes narrowed, curiosity sparking. “So how does this all work? Are you just… there when we—”

“No,” Mitsuki cut him off with a snort, a sharp grin curving his mouth. “Also, you’re not quite my type.”

“I’m everyone’s type,” Kai shot back without hesitation, his grin feral and smug.

Mitsuki barked a laugh despite himself. They were more similar than he had realised. “For the record,” he said, echoing Kai’s tone with a mocking lilt, “sorry for all the cock-blocking. I was following what I thought he wanted me to do. Didn't think that was actually you.”

Kai squinted at him, clearly debating whether to take offense or bask in the insult. After a beat, he extended a hand. “Truce?”

“Truce,” Mitsuki echoed, shaking his hand with a flash of sharp teeth. “I'm in your corner now, for better or worse. Not that you need me to keep Kit Kat out of trouble. You seem to be able to handle that yourself.”

The grin slipped, just slightly, when Mitsuki’s attention turned inward — shadows rippling as he felt his brother stirring in the quiet of his mind, consciousness clawing its way back through the haze of sleep.

“Time for me to bounce,” Mitsuki said lightly, winking before his form rippled, melting back into the darkness as Katsuka blinked awake, slightly disoriented but returning to himself.

~

Katsuka’s mornings had changed.

No longer was he rudely jolted awake by Mitsuki shoving him beneath an icy spray of water, muttering about discipline and punctuality while Katsuka fought to keep his balance in the shower. There were no endless meetings waiting for him now, no council chambers heavy with incense and whispered schemes.

Here, in Rassua, mornings stretched — slow, quiet, and entirely his.

Sometimes, when sleep hadn’t dragged him under too deeply, he would lie on his side and watch Kai pull on his uniform for the day. The rich gold and navy fabric clung in all the right ways, every polished button catching the soft morning light as Kai adjusted his cuffs. Their eyes would meet in the mirror, and Kai’s lips would curve in that familiar, infuriatingly confident smile — the one that always promised, later, Kitty.

Other times, he slept until his body decided it had rested enough, his hair loose and tangled until Mitsuki appeared with a brush in hand, muttering something under his breath as he worked the knots free or braided it with quiet precision.

Today, Katsuka wanted quiet.

He wandered the gardens as the sun crept higher, the frost-tipped petals glittering under a pale winter light. He trailed his fingers along the tops of snow-dusted hedges, trying to match what he saw to the book on native Rassuan plants he’d been reading. He’d been here for months now, but every new discovery — the sharpness of the cold air, the muted crunch of snow beneath his boots — still reminded him of home.

He was crouched near a frozen pond, trying to match the delicate curling leaves of a low shrub to an illustration, when the shift in the air prickled at the back of his neck.

Someone was watching him.

He turned, already knowing who it would be.

Kai leaned lazily against the trunk of a nearby willow, arms folded across his chest, the winter light tracing soft lines across his sharp features. That quiet smile — the one that was just for him — curved his mouth, and Katsuka felt heat rise to his cheeks despite the cold.

“What is it?” Katsuka asked, voice soft, almost shy.

“Just admiring the view,” Kai said, his words wrapped in a low, lazy drawl that curled around Katsuka like smoke.

Katsuka rolled his eyes, though it lacked any real bite, and crossed the distance between them until Kai’s arms slid around his waist, tugging him in. Against the solid warmth of Kai’s chest, the crisp bite of the winter air seemed to fade.

“My pretty kitty,” Kai murmured, his breath brushing the shell of Katsuka’s ear.

Katsuka’s fingers ghosted over the embroidered golden wolf stitched into Kai’s uniform, following the intricate patterns at his collar before tugging him into a kiss. Gods, he still loved seeing him like this — tall, strong, and wrapped in the quiet authority of his post, like something ripped straight from a romance novel written only for him.

“My wolf,” Katsuka whispered against his lips, smiling despite himself. He tilted his head back, eyes glinting with quiet mischief. “You look like you’ve had a long day. Want me to help you relax?”

Kai laughed, low and knowing, the sound vibrating through his chest. “It’s the uniform, isn’t it?”

“Mhm.” Katsuka hummed, unashamed, threading his fingers into Kai’s curls and kissing him deeper — slow at first, then hungrier as the heat between them built. His hands drifted down the polished buttons of Kai’s jacket, skimming over his belt, feeling the tension ripple through him with every deliberate touch.

Kai kissed him back with quiet restraint, the kind that made Katsuka shiver. When they finally pulled apart, breathless, Kai’s smile curved into something sharp and dark.

“I wouldn’t mind a nice sit in the gardens,” Kai murmured, voice pitched low, every word thick with intent.

Under the weeping willow, Kai sank onto a nearby bench, his hands still hooked in Katsuka’s sash as he tugged him closer.

“Come here,” he coaxed, his voice a husky purr. “I’ve got your seat warmed up for you.”

Katsuka didn’t hesitate. He slid into Kai’s lap, straddling him with practiced ease and obedience, his yukata falling loose around him like spilled silk. He settled there with a quiet sigh, leaning into the heat of him, the world narrowing until it was nothing but the sound of their breaths and the quiet rustle of leaves in the winter breeze.

Kai tilted his head, brushing his lips along Katsuka’s jaw, lingering there before kissing lower — slow, unhurried, like he had all the time in the world. Katsuka’s breath caught, his fingers curling in the thick fabric of Kai’s collar.

“Kai…” It was barely a whisper, a plea and a warning all at once.

Kai hummed in response, tilting Katsuka’s chin up to capture his mouth again. The kiss deepened, losing the softness from before — now sharp with want, threaded with the promise that neither of them had the patience to deny.

Katsuka shifted, the movement making the yukata slip further off his shoulder, baring pale skin and the mark on his neck to the cold air before Kai’s hands smoothed over him, warming every inch they touched.

Under the curtain of willow branches, the world faded — the distant hum of the palace, the soft crunch of frost underfoot, even the sharp bite of the winter air. Here, in their quiet corner of the gardens, it was only the two of them, the heavy hush of snow-muted silence wrapping around their bodies like silk.

Kai’s hands moved with quiet precision, gloved fingers sliding from Katsuka’s waist to the small of his back, tugging him flush against the solid heat of his chest. The rough edge of his uniform brushed against the thin silk of Katsuka’s yukata, every shift sparking a shiver that Kai felt, heard, owned.

“Good,” Kai murmured against the shell of his ear, his breath warm, edged with the dark satisfaction of control. “Always so good for me, Kitty.”

Katsuka exhaled sharply, the sound trembling with something dangerously close to need. The quiet strength in that voice unraveled him — as easily as it always did — leaving no room for thought, only instinct, only obedience. He tipped his head back in silent offering, pale throat bared, mark exposed under the muted winter light.

Kai’s gaze caught there, predatory and patient, before his mouth followed. His teeth grazed the delicate line of Katsuka’s jaw, then lower, until his fangs rested just over the bite mark.

“Say it again,” Kai rumbled, his voice sinking low, intimate.

“I love you,” Katsuka breathed, his hands trembling where they clutched at Kai’s shoulders.

A growl of approval rumbled through Kai’s chest, reverberating against Katsuka as he claimed his mouth in a bruising kiss — slow at first, then deepening until Katsuka melted against him, pliant and eager, yielding to every demand.

Kai guided him down with careful strength, letting him slide down onto him slow so he could feel every inch fill him, stretch him, and claim him with deliberate, devastating care. Katsuka’s back arched, a sound caught in his throat as his fingers curled tighter in his uniform, his body trembling.

“So good for me,” Kai murmured, lips brushing the shell of his ear. “Take me. That’s it. Move for me, Kitty.”

And he did.

He ground his hips back over him, each thrust measured, controlled, designed to worship every inch of him. Every time Katsuka faltered, Kai’s hands were there — steady, unyielding — pressing him back down, forcing him to surrender all over again.

But Kai was never good at holding back. Eventually Katsuka found his back flat on the snowy ground with Kai slamming into him like he had a point to prove. Every thrust hit against that spot that made him see stars and his body clench around him.

When release finally tore through him, it wasn’t loud — just a soft, broken sob that caught in his throat as he shuddered beneath Kai’s weight.

“Mine,” Kai growled against his skin, the word sinking deep, searing into him as surely as the teeth grazing his pulse.

After a monet of silence Katsuka chuckled, hands raking through Kai's hair and tacing down furhter to his shoulders.

"You still feel tense," he said with a wicked smile. "Perhaps we should go somewhere a little more comfortable so I can help you relax more?"

[cheshamstreetbreakdowns]

Finale

The chamber was cold, air sharp with the tang of old wards. The glow of the orb bled through its cabinet—hairline fractures shining like veins of lightning trapped under glass. Matthias stood with his arms folded behind his back, the commander’s mask hard on his face, though his stomach twisted.

Kai was already pacing, red eyes burning, voice frayed at the edges.

Matthias’s silence only sharpened the air. With a flick of his hand, the warded door to the adjoining chamber opened.

And there she was. Tala.

Suspended on her bed of herbs and fern leaves, red hair fanned like flame around her, her hands crossed gently over her stomach. The glow of wards shimmered faintly against her skin. Her belly—impossible, undeniable—rose in quiet proof.

Kai staggered as if struck. His breath caught, his chest heaving. “Gods…” His hand half-rose, then curled into a fist. “That’s —my child.”

The ember-scar over his heart flared hot, visible even through the half-open collar of his coat. He pressed a palm hard against it, teeth gritted.

His eyes blazed, too bright. “We reseal her. Put her back where she belongs. End it!”

But even as he spoke, the orb pulsed violently. The cracks spread like frost racing over glass, light bleeding into the chamber. Kai’s scar flared in answer, his emotional resonance pouring into the air—raw grief, fury, love all tangled until the orb groaned under it.

Matthias’s heart sank. He stepped forward, one hand raised, steady as command. “Inuku—stop. Look at it. Look.”

Kai turned, breath ragged, and saw it: the orb splintering further under his very anguish, the curse feeding on the storm inside him.

Matthias’s voice was a blade. “Do you see now? Sealing is no longer an option. It will crack every time you bleed. Every time you love. Every time you live.”

Kai staggered back, chest heaving, hand clutching the tender scar. His eyes darted between Tala’s still form, the flaring orb, and Matthias’s unyielding face.

For the first time, he had no words. Only the sound of his breath and the hum of the curse breaking in time with his heart.

Matthias’s voice softened, not commander but brother. “The only way forward is through her birth. There is no seal strong enough to hold you, Inuku. Not anymore.”

The orb cracked louder—like a scream swallowed by glass.

Kai closed his eyes, teeth bared against the truth he could no longer deny.

“It has to be hers.”

Matthias frowned. “Inuku—”

Kai shook his head sharply. His jaw was set, but his voice trembled as he forced the words out. “Katsuka… he isn’t ready for something like this. He shouldn’t have to be. He’s only just learned how to love without building walls around it. He deserves better than—” his hand cut a sharp motion toward the glowing orb, toward Tala’s rounded belly, “—this curse bleeding into our life.”

Matthias’s mouth tightened, but he said nothing.

The orb convulsed in its cabinet, veins of light tearing jagged through the glass. Each crack split louder than the last, the sound like mountains breaking, like thunder sealed inside stone. Shards of resonance screamed into the chamber, rattling the iron sconces and throwing sparks into the air.

Kai was the storm’s heart.

His scar blazed like a brand, veins of light flaring out across his chest and throat. His hands clawed at his skin as if he could tear the fire out. His voice came hoarse, ragged with despair and fury.

The orb shrieked in reply, a fissure spiderwebbing across its core, light flaring so violently it scorched the floor in searing lines.

“Inuku—!” Matthias surged forward, catching his brother’s shoulders, shaking him hard enough to make his head snap up. But Kai only thrashed harder, wrenching free, scar glowing hotter, resonance pouring into every stone in the chamber.

“I can’t stop it!” Kai’s cry was animal, torn from a soul cracking open. “It’s not fair, Matthi—it’s—”

The orb screamed again, another fracture tearing wide, shards of energy spitting into the chamber like knives. One more flare, and it would burst, unmaking everything.

Matthias’s heart clenched. He saw it—saw the end rushing toward them. There was no choice.

He lunged, grabbing Kai in a brutal embrace, one arm locking across his chest, the other snapping around to the base of his neck.

Kai fought like a beast, muscles surging, voice breaking into furious sobs. “No—don’t—”

Matthias held him tighter, his own breath sharp, whispering into his curls with a voice that shook only after the words left him.

He drove his thumb into the pressure point with merciless precision.

“Sleep, little brother.”

Kai gasped, eyes wide with anguish, his whole body seizing in Matthias’s arms. For a heartbeat, he looked at him—raw, broken, betrayed. Then his body sagged, the scar still glowing but his resonance collapsing into silence as unconsciousness claimed him.

The orb flickered violently—then dimmed. The shrieking ceased. The fractures still glowed faintly, but the storm had been cut off at its source.

Matthias sank to his knees, holding Kai’s limp body tight against him, his chest heaving as if he had fought a war in one breath. His hand trembled as it smoothed back damp curls from his brother’s face.

“You would have torn yourself apart,” he whispered hoarsely. “Better I bear it than watch you shatter.”

The orb pulsed faintly in the dark, waiting.

Matthias tightened his grip on Kai and lifted his gaze, already knowing what must come next. He would re-anchor the child, cut Kai free, and make sure when his brother woke, this nightmare would be nothing but shadows behind his eyes.

~

The chamber smelled of resin and iron wards, the air heavy with quiet. Turia set the bundle of scrolls on Matthias’s desk with more force than he meant to, voice sharp in the hush.

“You can’t keep him in the dark forever,” Turia said. His eyes were hard, his healer’s calm sharpened into steel.

Matthias didn’t move from where he stood at the window. His reflection in the glass was pale, lined, and cold. “If I tell him, he’ll tear the wards down with his own hands. He’ll throw himself headlong into it as he always has. You think that will keep the anyone safe?”

A voice, low and familiar, cut through the chamber like a knife through cloth.

“Perhaps there is another way.”

Both men froze.

From the shadows by the door, a tall figure stepped into the lamplight. His red hair was bound high, a single firebird feather glinting in it, his pale eyes colder than snowmelt. Pavlin Emberwild.

Matthias’s hand shifted automatically toward his sword, but Pavlin only raised a hand, palm outward. “If I meant to kill you, Tsar, I would not announce myself.”

Turia’s voice was tight. “What do you want?”

Pavlin’s gaze slid past him, landing squarely on Matthias. “The child. She does not belong in Rassua’s halls, not in your brother’s arms, not as the ember of a vow that should never have been. She belongs with me. With the Emberwild.”

“You would take her?” Matthias’s tone was flat, unreadable.

“I would raise her,” Pavlin corrected, stepping closer. His voice softened, but it was no less cutting. “In our ways. She would reignite what is left of our clan. She would not be a curse gnawing at your brother’s chrysalis. She would be a flame tended, not a ghost leaking.”

Turia’s fists clenched. “You think he’d ever let her go?”

Pavlin’s pale eyes narrowed. “He won’t have to. If I take her, I can break the bond between Kai and Tala. Sever the curse at its root. He will be free of the loop that binds him, free to live the life he’s chosen—with the fox, with his kingdom. He won’t come looking, because he won’t feel her anymore.”

The words hung, heavy as lead.

Matthias studied him, expression unreadable. “And you expect me to believe you would not turn her against him?”

“I expect you to believe,” Pavlin said quietly, “that I loved my sister. And that her child is the last ember of her warmth. I will not poison that ember with vengeance. I will not make her a weapon.” He leaned in slightly, pale eyes unwavering. “You, of all people, know I keep my vows.”

Silence stretched. The fire hissed low in the grate.

At last Matthias spoke, his voice barely more than breath. “If you break the curse—if you truly sever him from Tala—then he will never seek her. He will never know she breathes through this child.”

Pavlin inclined his head once, solemn as a blade oath. “That is my promise.”

Turia stepped forward sharply, eyes flashing. “You can’t—”

But Matthias lifted a hand, silencing him. His gaze stayed locked with Pavlin’s. For a long, unbearable moment, the two men simply stood there—one the last flame of Emberwild, the other the last bulwark of Rassua.

Finally, Matthias nodded once. A soldier’s nod. A commander’s surrender.

“So be it,” he said.

Pavlin’s expression did not change, but something in the air shifted—as if the ember of Tala’s vow had stirred and found a new keeper.

~

The fire in Matthias’s study had long since burned down to embers. He hadn’t lit another. The dark suited the thoughts clawing inside him.

Pavlin’s words still hung in the air, echoing like iron struck on stone. I can break the curse between him and Tala. He will never come looking.

For the first time in centuries, Matthias had felt his brother’s freedom within reach—not another patchwork sealing, not another borrowed year—but a clean break. The loop shattered. The vow undone.

And yet, it came at the price of a child he had already seen in Kai’s eyes. Papa, Kai had whispered once, laughing as if the word was a foreign gift.

Matthias lowered himself into the chair behind his desk, gloved hands steepled against his lips. He had commanded armies into slaughter, exiled men to save kingdoms, and silenced truths to guard his brother’s fragile joy. But this…

This was different.

He had already agreed. A commander’s nod, a soldier’s oath: Pavlin would take the child. Vera would be Emberwild’s ember, not Rassua’s ghost. And Kai—Kai would never know.

But gods, how he hated the weight of it.

The door creaked. He didn’t look up.

“Matthi?” Kai’s voice, rough from drink and laughter. “You still awake?”

Matthias schooled his features, smothered the war in his chest, and turned. His brother leaned on the frame, hair untidy from Katsuka’s hands, the shadow of a grin tugging at his mouth.

For a heartbeat, Matthias saw the boy he’d raised—mud on his boots, secrets clutched in his fists, looking at him as if he could fix anything.

And the lie swelled in his throat like blood.

Kai frowned faintly. “What is it? You’re staring like you’ve seen a ghost.”

Matthias forced the words out, steady as ever. “Nothing. Go back to him. I’ll have council at dawn.”

Kai’s eyes lingered on him, searching, but only for a moment. He shrugged, yawned, and gave him a lazy salute. “Don’t work yourself into the grave, big brother.”

The door closed.

Matthias sat alone, staring into the dead fire, the echo of his brother’s footsteps fading down the hall. He could almost hear the child’s whisper in the quiet—Papa—and it cut deeper than any blade.

The choice was made. Kai would live free. The child would live far.

And Matthias, as always, would carry the weight alone.

~

Days passed, and the palace rhythms rolled on. The snow thickened outside the windows, and still Kai wore his careless grin in court, his swagger in the training yards, his teasing in the council chambers. To most eyes he was unchanged, if a little more distracted, a little more restless when silence fell too long.

But Katsuka noticed.

He noticed the nights Kai lingered on the balcony longer than usual, staring at the dark horizon until the fox padded out to find him. He noticed the way Kai’s laugh sometimes came a beat too late, or too sharp, as if he had to force it into being. He noticed when Kai reached for him with unusual hunger, pulling him into long kisses, as though proving something neither of them had spoken aloud.

Katsuka didn’t ask. He didn’t pry. He only observed, tail flicking, eyes sharp but unreadable, letting Kai carry whatever secret he was clutching.

Kai, for his part, carried it like a man caught between two lives. He thought often of the other world—the ghost-thread life where Vera had been theirs, silver-blue hair gleaming under firelight, laughter tying him and Katsuka together in ways words never had. Sometimes he’d wake in the night with her voice in his ears, Papa, and he’d roll over, clutch Katsuka tight against him, and tell himself it was enough.

But that thread was already slipping.

When Tala’s ember was re-anchored, when the soul was bound again to her sleeping flame under the veil of herbs, the whispers stilled. The pull in his chest faded. And with it, the edges of memory softened.

Kai forgot.

Not all at once, but slowly, as though sand were spilling through a glass. The flashes dulled. The voice went quiet. The phantom life with Vera blurred at the edges until it felt less like a memory and more like a dream he once had.

His scar—the tender X over his heart—still ached beneath his shirts, but now, when his half-demon form rose, it vanished beneath the chrysalis. To anyone else, he was whole. Unmarked.

And so, life resumed.

Kai laughed louder again. He teased more sharply, sparring with Katsuka until the fox rolled his eyes and muttered curses under his breath. He returned to the rhythm of late nights and stolen kisses, of warmth by the fire and brash boasts in the halls.

Katsuka never asked what had haunted him in those strange, secretive weeks. He only watched as the weight seemed to lift, as Kai returned fully to him. And if now and then he caught a flicker in Kai’s eyes—something wistful, something hollow—he said nothing.

Because silence, too, was a kind of love.

And Kai, though he no longer remembered the ember-child, clung fiercely to the present, believing he had done the right thing.

~

Snow hissed where it touched the stone ribs of the shrine, melting into thin, steaming threads that wound toward the altar. The cold pyre stood unlit—black wood that could not burn—until Tala’s breath broke like a bell and the flames woke from within her.

Kira’s hand hovered above the Byakite vein, palm nicked, oath still wet on the mosaic. The sacred grounds had answered him—white-blue light thrummed underfoot, the Emberwild wards uncoiling like sleeping wings. He barely heard the wind’s Ash-Tongue whispering Hearth kept. Line kept. His eyes were on his mother.

Tala’s pupils glowed ember-red, then softened to ice blue. “Shh,” she whispered, a smile that trembled at the edges. She reached for Kai.

He came forward as if dragged by a tide. His red eyes, usually so sure, were wide and raw. “Tala—”

“Listen,” she said, and the word itself turned to song. It was the old lullaby—the one Pavlin had sung when the winter storms gnawed at the eaves, the one no one had heard since the clan’s last pyres cooled. The air changed with it. Frost became dew; ash became falling light.

Something inside her brightened.

Something inside him answered.

Kai’s X-shaped scar flared, not the harsh blood-red of rage but a molten gold crossed by red threads—as if a brand had been pressed there from within. His chrysalis bones rang—clear, brittle notes, like a glass choir struck by a single hammer blow.

Tala drew a last breath and exhaled her ember.

It hit him like a sunrise. Not warmth—burning. A thousand lives compressed to one heartbeat. The first time he had laughed against her mouth. The night he chose the blade. Her body going weightless in his arms, again and again across centuries, each death folding into the next until the difference between then and now dissolved. The chrysalis drank and rang and splintered without breaking; the glow climbed his throat, touched his eyes. Kai reeled, convulsed, his hands clawing at his chest as if he could pry the brand free.

“Inuku,” Matthias said, already moving, catching his brother before his knees struck stone. Turia slid in on the other side, breath steady, a mercy of herb and winter-sweet on his palms. They lowered Kai to the mosaic.

The world narrowed to a forge. Kai’s body arched. He saw Tala in every version: healer, ember, enemy, bride. He saw his own face reflected in the wet of her eyes and the smoke of her dying. He saw the blade enter; he watched himself refuse to cry. He cried now. Soundless, shaking. His heart tore along the glowing cross and kept beating because the ember willed it.

Tala’s fingers, already almost light, touched his cheek. “It ends,” she breathed, and he felt the truth of it pour into him with the last of her flame. No curse. No next loop. The song was a door closing softly.

Her body went to ash like a lantern going out.

Kai turned toward the place where she had been and almost followed her into the dark. His breath stuttered. The shrine blurred and unblotted, swimming with gold. When he tried to rise, the burning shoved him back beneath the surface of consciousness. He drifted there—barely aware, held to the world by Matthias’s hands and the ringing of his own bones.

“Now,” Morghana said from the shadow of a pillar, voice low and exacting. Kira flinched and looked to her, then to Pavlin.

The Guardian Flame stepped from the aisle of stone ribs, tall and ash-edged, eyes like pale ice under embers. He did not look at Kai. He went to where Turia knelt beside a small shape hidden in layered feathers and cloth. Turia’s hands moved quick and sure; a veil of scentless smoke curled once and vanished.

Kira’s mouth opened. Matthias’s fingers closed hard around his forearm. A single silent command.

Trust me.

Pavlin gathered the swaddled bundle against his chest. Something inside it sighed—a hush, a spark—and his jaw trembled before it set. He bowed his head to Kira, not in thanks but in recognition: a mantle shared.

Kira swallowed. The Guardian’s mark at his sternum throbbed, a soft heat that wanted to reach. He lifted his palm in the smallest of blessings, tracing the ward-sigil through the air—no light, no sound, only intention. Walk unseen. Be warmed. Be found if you fall.

Morghana whispered a threadbare charm that thinned presence to nothing. Turia scattered a pinch of bitter herb; the scent erased itself as it bloomed. The shrine sighed as if a winter door had shut.

Across the mosaic, Kai groaned, trying to turn toward the vanished flame. The golden cross at his heart pulsed once, twice, then steadied like banked coals. He did not see Pavlin slip between the ribs of stone. He did not hear the wind tuck feathers around a new pulse. All he knew was ash on his hands and a song that kept ringing even after its singer was gone.

Matthias leaned close, letting his brother’s breath fog the fur at his collar. “I’m here,” he said, quiet as the inside of a glove. “It’s over.”

Kai blinked through heat and salt, focusing on the shape of him. “I remember,” he rasped. The words tore him and healed him in the same motion. “All of it. It was always her.”

Matthias shut his eyes once. When he opened them, they were steady. “Yes.”

“Is she—” Kai’s voice failed. He pressed his palm to the glowing X as if to hold the ember in place. “Is she really gone?”

Matthias’s mouth thinned, not from cruelty but from care. “Not truly,” he said, and it was not a lie. The golden light under Kai’s skin answered like a heartbeat to its name.

Kai nodded. The acceptance was not peace so much as surrender to the shape the world had taken. He let his head rest against Matthias’s shoulder and shook, quietly, until the trembling became breath again.

By the Byakite vein, Kira remained kneeling, eyes fixed on nothing. The wind drew a slow spiral of snow through the broken roof, laid it gently across the black wood of the pyre, then let it melt to water as if the fire had never left.

Morghana gathered the last of the ash in a small glass vial and bowed to Matthias without ceremony. Turia checked the pulse at Kai’s throat, then the rhythm of the glow beneath the scar, and gave a bare nod.

“Go,” Matthias said without looking. To Kira: “Walk behind him. Not too close. Not too far.”

Kira stood. For a heartbeat his gaze flicked to the gap between the stone ribs, where the snow already hid any sign of feet. He pressed his palm against his own chest, feeling the Guardian Flame settle into a low, watchful hum.

When they finally rose to leave, Matthias glanced back once at the altar—the Byakite faintly aglow, the pyre dark, the mosaic of the firebird cracked and beautiful. He touched the signet at his finger, sealing a choice no one would ever thank him for.

Outside, the wolves were waiting in the trees, pale shapes in the drift. They did not follow the emperor and his brothers. They followed the vanished wind, where a new ember had been carried, unseen.

In the shrine, the last ash settled. Kai’s scar pulsed warm beneath his hand—gold woven with red—and the lullaby lived on in the cage of his ribs, a flame that would not go out. He would grieve her in full, with all the centuries returned to him, and he would never know what had been taken to spare him.

The cycle had ended. The ember had chosen its vessels.

The snow kept falling.

[cheshamstreetbreakdowns]

Navelk

The library was quiet save for the soft crackle of a fire in the hearth and the occasional rustle of pages turning beneath Katsuka’s fingers. He was nestled on a velvet chaise, legs tucked beneath him, fully immersed in a fairy tale book—though truthfully, his focus had wandered some time ago.

He had been thinking about Kai.

Again.

And sighing.

Again.

Behind him, three of the maids were dusting and shelving books with suspiciously little urgency, whispering in that stage-volume way that was just quiet enough to be deniable, but clearly meant for his fox ears to catch.

“…he carried her again, you know,” the first maid whispered, biting back a grin. “Right through the east corridor. One arm under her legs like a bride.”

“Not even pretending anymore,” the second agreed.

Katsuka’s fingers tensed around the edge of his page.

The third giggled. “Poor Mistress, she looks like he’s going to melt.”

“I think it’s adorable,” the first said, brushing the edge of a shelf. “He may not have proposed yet, but it’s obvious for anyone to see. That wolf is already hers.”

“He has proposed,” the second whispered.

“What?”

“Well, not officially. But have you seen the way the Master looks at her? As if he’s already said every vow he has to give. He’s just waiting for Mistress to realize it.”

Katsuka choked on his own breath and fumbled the page.

They paused, wide-eyed for a second — and then all three burst into giggles.

“Goodness, she is listening,” the third teased, peeking around the stack. “Sorry, Mistress. We just call it like we see it.”

“Trouble sleeping, mistress?” Another one piped up, noticing his tired eyes as he relaxed his illusion unconsciously.

Katsuka startled slightly, glancing up to see three palace maids hovering at the far edge of the room. One carried a stack of polished silver, the other two trailing behind with folded linens, all of them looking far too amused for their own good.

“I’m studying,” he said primly, lifting his chin.

“With a blush like that?” one of them asked sweetly. “Come now. Everyone knows what keeps you up at night—and it isn’t old scrolls.”

He narrowed his eyes, but that only seemed to embolden them.

“You should really turn the tables on him,” another giggled. “He’s always looming over you, growling and pawing and sweeping you off your feet like the beast he is…”

“You’ve got him trained better than you think,” added the third. “He may wear the crown, but he follows you with those eyes like an obedient hound.”

Katsuka flushed a deeper red and returned his gaze stubbornly to the book.

One of the maids stepped closer and leaned in, voice a conspiratorial hush:

“If you really want to make him sit up and behave… try saying Navelk.”

Katsuka blinked. “What?”

“Tease him,” the second grinned. “Tug the leash. That wolf may wear a crown, but he’s half-feral for you.”

“You’ve got him panting at your heels,” said the third. “Might as well make him sit and roll over.”

Katsuka stared blankly at them.

“Just say it,” the maid giggled, glancing at the others. “Next time he’s being a little too… hungry.”

The word lingered oddly in the air, curling in Katsuka’s mind like smoke.

Na-velk.

He opened his mouth to ask—but they were already gone, skirts whispering as they disappeared down the hall, their giggles echoing like fairy bells.

Left alone, Katsuka frowned thoughtfully at the empty doorway, repeating the word under his breath.

“…Navelk…”

He didn’t know what it meant. He’d never come across it in any texts.

But the way they said it—with that smile, that glimmer in their eyes—set his heart racing faster than any passage in his book.

~

The door creaked softly open as Katsuka returned from the palace library, arms full of choice books he’d spirited away. He kicked the door shut behind him with a soft thud, already muttering to himself about the peculiar maids.

But then—he saw him.

Kai, sprawled across the velvet chaise like a glorious mess of a man, head tilted back, curls tousled and unruly, his navy uniform jacket undone at the chest but still clinging to his shoulders as if exhaustion had tackled him mid undress. One boot still on, the other kicked halfway off. His mouth parted faintly in sleep.

Katsuka paused in the doorway and blinked, his fox ears twitching.

“Oh, for the love of stars…” he muttered under his breath, carefully setting the scrolls down. He tiptoed closer, inspecting the scene like a museum exhibit.

There was something shamefully charming about it. The mighty Ice Wolf Tsar, dozing with one arm draped dramatically over his eyes like a fainting noblewoman, buttons half-undone like they’d simply given up trying to restrain him.

Katsuka crouched beside him, lips twitching.

“Silly wolf,” he whispered softly.

Kai stirred, eyes fluttering open with a sleepy hum. His red gaze slowly focused, and the sight of Katsuka’s face hovering so close drew a drowsy smirk to his own.

“Kitty…” he rumbled, voice gravelly from sleep. “Mmm… you’re back.”

“Mhm,” Katsuka poked him in the chest, “and you look like a royal disaster.”

Kai yawned, then caught Katsuka’s wrist before he could pull back. “Didn’t mean to fall asleep.”

Katsuka rolled his eyes. “You got lazy.”

Kai only tugged him down by the collar until Katsuka ended up sitting on his lap, unceremoniously. His head fell back again onto the cushions.

“Mmm. You’re warm. Stay.”

“You’re half-dressed.”

“Then finish the job for me,” Kai murmured with a lopsided grin. “Unless you prefer me like this. A little helpless. Collar unfastened.”

Katsuka let out a huff of laughter. “You wish.”

Kai gave him the most ridiculous, sleepy-eyed puppy face he could muster. “Pretty please?”

“You are shameless,” Katsuka said—but his fingers were already slipping into the folds of Kai’s jacket, smoothing over the firm lines of his chest.

Kai purred. “And you like me best this way.”

Katsuka arched a brow. “Hmm… debatable.”

Kai grinned wider, pulling him down until Katsuka’s back rested against his chest, arms around his waist, breath warm at his neck.

“If you keep teasing me like that,” Kai whispered, “you’re going to wake something you’ll have to take responsibility for.”

Katsuka leaned back into the embrace, sighing with faux resignation.

“Fine. But if you drool on me again, I’m leaving you for the chaise permanently.”

Kai snorted into his hair, squeezing him tighter. “Deal.”

When Kai’s breathing slowed Katsuka managed to wriggle free from Kai’s lap and sat cross-legged on the rug near the fire, a large old book propped open in front of him. The spine cracked as he turned the pages, fingers trailing lightly over diagrams of old crest magics and forgotten bloodlines.

Behind him, Kai stretched like a well-fed wolf, lounging across the chaise once again—except now the rest of his coat had been shrugged off, leaving him in just the loose, half-unbuttoned crimson shirt beneath. His legs were still spread, one boot lazily hanging off a toe he hadn’t bothered to remove.

His gaze hadn’t left Katsuka once.

“You woke up the wolf,” Kai murmured, voice thick and low like velvet laced with fire.

Katsuka didn’t look up.

“Then the wolf can sit,” he replied coolly, flipping a page.

Kai grinned, fangs catching in the golden light.

“Here, wolf,” he said sweetly, curling his finger in a beckoning gesture.

Kai’s brow lifted, amused. “Oh?”

“I said here, wolfie,” Katsuka teased, more firmly, fox ears twitching with mischief.

Kai’s eyes narrowed with amused hunger. He rose slowly, every inch of motion deliberate. “You sure you can handle that, kitty?”

Katsuka arched a brow. “I’m not the one growling every time I’m ignored for five minutes.”

Kai gave a low, rumbling sound in his throat — part laugh, part threat. He took a step forward.

“Navelk,” Katsuka said, testing the word, tilting his head.

The effect was instant. Kai dropped to his knees, eyes still locked on Katsuka’s, grin feral but obedient.

Katsuka’s breath hitched. “You’re—actually—”

“You told me to,” Kai said, tone playful but eyes burning. “You sounded so sure.”

Katsuka swallowed thickly, mouth suddenly dry.

Kai leaned forward and nuzzled against his him with slow deliberation. “Go on then, Mistress. You’ve got me exactly where you want me.”

“I…” Katsuka hesitated. His fingers twitched at his sides. His brain had short-circuited somewhere between Kai kneeling and Kai calling him mistress.

“Didn’t expect that, did you?” Kai murmured, nosing under the hem of Katsuka’s coat, just enough to brush lips along his waist. “You’re adorable when you try to be commanding.”

Katsuka’s lips parted in a soft breath. “You..” he murmured as he fumbled for words, fingertips brushing over his shoulders as if inspecting a well-trained beast.

Kai gave a playful, wolfish growl — deep and low — but didn’t move. The tension in his frame was unmistakable, restrained power waiting for a command.

Katsuka leaned in to him, whispering at his ear. “You want something, wolf?”

Kai’s voice came in a rough purr. “I want you.”

That was all it took for Katsuka’s cheeks to flush — but he held his ground. He turned to face him, resting his hand against his cheek and tilting his face up.

“Then,” he said softly, stroking his thumb across Kai’s bottom lip. “You’ll behave. Won’t you?”

Kai’s tongue flicked out, catching the pad of his thumb with a heated gaze. “Until you beg me not to.”

Katsuka’s breath caught — and the game was only just beginning.

“You wish,” Katsuka said, not missing a beat.

Kai exhaled a chuckle against his neck. “I do,” he purred, sitting obediently on his haunches beside him, hands folded, a picture of playful submission.

Katsuka side-eyed him, clearly not buying the act—but enjoying it nonetheless. “Good.”

Kai leaned in closer, his voice dropping to a husky whisper. “You going to give me a treat now?”

Katsuka tried—tried—not to smirk. “If you behave.”

“But what if I don’t?” Kai murmured, brushing his nose along Katsuka’s jaw, those red eyes glowing with restrained hunger. “What if I growl? Or bare my teeth? What if I pin you again and—”

“Aren’t you supposed to be ‘under my command’?” Katsuka cut in.

Kai held his gaze with exaggerated innocence… but the smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth ruined it.

They both knew the truth.

He could flip Katsuka over in a heartbeat. Could devour him whole if he wished. But right now—he was choosing to play. Letting Katsuka pet the wolf. Pretending he was tamed.

Katsuka turned back to his book with a sniff.

Kai waited a beat, then rested his head dramatically in Katsuka’s lap, arms curled around his waist.

“Wake me when you’re ready to admit you missed me,” he mumbled, already burrowing in.

Katsuka smiled despite himself, brushing his fingers lightly through Kai’s curls.

“I never said I didn’t.”

For a moment, it was still.

But Kai was never still for long.

His lashes fluttered open, and his gaze—those glowing, blood-red eyes—lifted slowly to meet Katsuka’s. He grinned like a beast that had heard the leash jingle.

“Mmm. That’s the thing about wolves,” he whispered, voice thick and low, “they always come back to the ones who scratch behind their ears just right.”

Katsuka snorted softly, but his hand didn’t stop its gentle rhythm. “Flatter me again and I might let you roll over.”

Kai’s lips brushed against the inside of his thigh. “Oh, kitten. I’m already on my back.”

Katsuka gasped as Kai rolled him onto his back, the weight of the Tsar’s body covering him like a velvet storm. The book had long since been discarded. His robe had slipped fully open, and now Kai hovered above him—half-naked, sweat-slick, muscles shifting with every breath.

Kai’s crimson eyes glowed down at him, and his grin was feral.

“So you’re in charge tonight, hmm?” he drawled, voice thick and smug. “Go on then, Mistress. Command me.”

Katsuka’s throat worked around a swallow. His pulse thundered in his ears. His legs were already parted around Kai’s hips, his arms pressed above his head, pinned by one of Kai’s larger hands.

The room swam with heat and firelight. His voice came out shaky.

“…H-here, wolf.”

Kai’s pupils dilated instantly.

And in one powerful, fluid motion, he thrust inside.

Katsuka cried out, head tossing back, eyes flying wide as Kai filled him in a single claiming stroke—deep and sudden and stretching him perfectly.

“Fuck—Kai!”

Kai’s only reply was a long, growled moan against his throat, mouth pressed to the skin just below his jaw as he held himself there, deep, pulsing inside him.

Katsuka’s back arched, his voice catching as Kai began to move—slow at first, like he wanted to make Katsuka feel every inch, every drag. Katsuka trembled beneath him, fingers clenching the furs, panting, overwhelmed.

Kai bit down on his neck—not hard, just enough to make him gasp.

“You want to give orders?” he growled between thrusts. “Then own it, pretty kitty. Say it again.”

Katsuka whimpered. “I—ngh—”

Kai rolled his hips harder, hitting that perfect spot with maddening precision. Katsuka bucked against him, mouth falling open.

“I obeyed,” Kai growled, thrusting deep. “You just didn’t know what to do with me once I did.”

Kai groaned in satisfaction and picked up the pace—slamming into him now with relentless, controlled power, each thrust punctuated by the slap of skin on skin, the rough grind of their bodies. Katsuka was undone—whimpering, writhing, his legs wrapping around Kai’s waist instinctively.

Katsuka came with a cry, clinging to Kai’s shoulders, body shuddering beneath him as pleasure ripped through him. Kai wasn’t far behind—his thrusts turned erratic, hips snapping hard as he buried himself one final time and spilled deep inside with a groan that sounded more beast than man.

For a while, the only sound was their heavy breathing, fire crackling low in the hearth.

Kai collapsed against him, face nuzzled into Katsuka’s neck, sweat cooling between them.

Katsuka finally found his voice again.

“…You followed my command,” he whispered.

Kai chuckled against his skin. “I did.”

“Does that mean I win?”

Kai raised his head slowly, red eyes still dark with afterglow, lips curling in a lazy, wolfish grin.

“Sure, kitty,” he said, kissing his jaw.

[cheshamstreetbreakdowns]

Choices

The air in Morghana’s den was thick with sage smoke, the glow of her cauldron throwing warped shadows across the walls. Matthias and Turia stood silent as the witch circled the table, the bracelets on her arms clinking faintly with every step.

Finally she stopped, turning her pale, sharp gaze on them.

“You’ve come for certainty,” she said, voice like gravel smoothed by years. “But curses are never certain. They claw, they adapt, they survive. This one especially.”

Turia folded his arms, jaw tight. “Then tell us what paths remain.”

Morghana’s pale eyes narrowed, gleaming like knives in the firelight. “There may be a way after all.”

She lowered the first finger. “You may reseal her. Bind the Ghost Thread back into Kai’s chrysalis, smother it in runes and bone, and pray it sleeps again. That is the quicker road. But…” Her lip curled faintly, as if the word itself tasted bitter. “The curse has already cracked once. And you know your brother’s heart, Tsar. He is unpredictable, reckless. His grief, his rage, his joy—any could shatter the seal anew. You rely on your brother’s restraint, and restraint has never been his gift. Resealing would buy time, but nothing more. A crack will always return.”

She lowered the second finger. “Or you can re-anchor her. Let Tala’s flame rise again, guide the soul back into its rightful womb, and let her be born. That is the longer road, the messier one—but the only path that resolves the curse instead of delaying it. Born, she is a soul in truth, no longer a leaking echo.”

The silence tightened like a snare.

Turia leaned forward. “That would stop the adaptation?”

Morghana inclined her head. “Yes. She will resolve as what she was meant to be: their daughter. Whole. Anchored. The curse quiets when given its due.”

“And if we do nothing?” Matthias asked.

Morghana’s eyes gleamed sharper. “Then she finishes what she began. She adapts fully into something else—something neither Emberwild nor Rassua, neither curse nor blessing. And once she has done that, no hand of man or wolf will control what she becomes.”

Her gaze flicked between them both. “Reseal her, and you gamble on Kai’s temper. Anchor her, and you gamble on fate itself. Choose your poison wisely.”

Matthias’s face was unreadable, but his white-knuckled grip on the back of a chair betrayed him. “Resealing risks him breaking again,” he said, almost to himself. “Re-anchoring risks… everything else.”

The fire guttered. The chamber smelled of smoke and bitter herbs.

Matthias’s hands curled behind his back. He had led men into battle, watched empires fall, yet in that moment the choice before him felt heavier than any sword.

~

Snow fell straight, but the shrine still felt like a held breath. Kira stood with his palm on the cold pyre. Pavlin—flesh and breath now—waited in the half-light, stone dust still in the seams of his knuckles.

“Tell me why it took him,” Kira said. “Why the vow hurt my father.”

Pavlin answered in pieces.

“Wrong blood.”

“Our rite.”

“He was not.”

Kira’s jaw tightened. “So the vow bit him.”

“Not love,” Pavlin said. “The form. It rejects what does not fit.”

Kira looked down at the black wood. “Can I end it?”

“Yes.”

“How?”

Pavlin stepped close, set two fingers lightly to the pyre as if taking its pulse with Kira.

“Not binding you,” he said. “Release.”

“Clean break.”

“Your blood opens the jaw. The bite lets go.”

Kira met his eyes. “Cost?”

Pavlin shook his head once.

“No cost.”

“No debt.”

“No taking. Only ending.”

Kira exhaled. “Show me.”

“Four acts,” Pavlin said, crisp as a knife list.

He raised a finger. “Name. Speak the vow by its true Emberwild title. Tala’s tongue. Not his.”

A second. “Sign. Draw the firebird’s feather over the pyre. Small. Single stroke.”

A third. “Blood. One drop from you on the pyre. One on his scar. That is all.”

A fourth. “Breath. Say loosen. Low. Once. Then stand.”

Kira repeated them under his breath. Name. Sign. Blood. Breath.

“And then?” he asked.

Pavlin’s gaze held steady. “Then it lets go.”

“Curse dissolves.”

“Vow unwinds clean.”

“She is not dragged by it.”

“He is free.”

Kira swallowed. “You’re certain.”

Pavlin nodded. “It wanted Emberwild. It never had it. Give it the taste. It releases what it cannot hold.”

“Will it reach for me?” Kira asked.

“No.” A beat. “You are not the cup. You are the key.”

Silence gathered. The firebird mosaic at their feet seemed to brighten along one faded feather, as if pleased.

“What do I say for the name?” Kira asked.

Pavlin shaped the Ash-Tongue—three clipped syllables that tasted like smoke and winter sap. Kira repeated them until the shrine’s pressure eased, as if the room itself approved.

“And the sign?”

Pavlin traced the simple feather in the air: down, slight curve, lift. “Small. Do not carve. Do not brand. A touch is enough.”

Kira set his palm to the pyre, steady. “Where do I stand when I do it?”

“Hearth place.” He touched the floor by Kira’s boots with two knuckles. “Here.”

Kira looked toward the door, where the world waited with Kai’s gold-red scar and Tala’s ember-song held in bone. “When should I do it?”

“When the scar sings,” Pavlin said. “When it burns and will not quiet.”

“Storm night.”

“A hush before dawn.”

“You will know.”

Kira let the list settle into his ribs. “No bindings. No taking. Just release.”

“Release,” Pavlin said again, the word clean and final. “You save them both from the dark of it.”

Kira nodded once. “Then I’ll do it.”

Pavlin’s mouth almost found a smile. He touched two fingers to Kira’s sternum—not to brand, only to anchor the instruction there.

“Again,” he said.

Kira spoke the steps, firm and spare:

“Name the vow.”

“Sign the feather.”

“Drop on wood.”

“Drop on scar.”

“Say loosen.”

“Stand.”

The shrine seemed to breathe out, pleased. Snow at the door hung in the air for a heartbeat, then fell straight again.

Pavlin stepped back into the half-light, teacher and sentinel both. “Go when it calls,” he said. “Do not hurry. Do not fear.”

Kira turned toward the doorway, the world beyond it bright with frost and quiet roofs. He looked back once at the pyre.

“I’ll bring him home,” he said.

The shrine answered with a single, even pulse. Pavlin said nothing more. He didn’t need to. The path was simple now: find the scar when it sang, speak the Emberwild name, give the rite the drop it had always missed, and let the old bite open.

No binding. No backlash. Only a jaw unclenched, a curse undone, and two lives finally loosed from the dark.

~

The orb’s glow threw fractured light across the chamber walls, every pulse like a heartbeat out of rhythm.

Kai pressed both hands over his chest, shoulders shaking as if the scar itself was tearing wider under the strain. His voice came ragged, barely more than breath.

“She was mine, Matthi… through every life, even when I killed her, even when she killed me. She was mine.” His words stumbled into silence, then broke again, softer, almost pleading. “And now I have to lose her all over again.”

Matthias moved forward, steady as a soldier approaching a battlefield, though the battlefield this time was his brother’s grief. He caught Kai’s arms before he could thrash again, holding him fast.

Kai tried to twist free, his eyes blazing red, wet at the corners. “Don’t—you don’t get to hold me like I’m some broken thing—”

“Inuku.” Matthias’s voice cut, firm and low, the voice of command and kin. “Look at me.”

Kai’s chest heaved. His gaze finally snapped to him, raw as an open wound.

“There is no seal strong enough to bind what you are,” Matthias said, quieter now, but just as sure. “Every time you laugh, every time you rage, every time you love—it will split again. You can’t hide her in silence. She must be born. The only question is whether you let the adaptation complete.”

The words landed like steel in Kai’s chest. His face crumpled, the defiance faltering.

Matthias pulled him in then, an embrace that was part restraint, part protection. Kai stiffened against it at first, but the fight bled out of him, leaving only shuddering breaths and muffled curses against his brother’s shoulder.

“I can’t, Matthi,” he rasped. “How would I tell him? That my past won’t stop bleeding into our bed?”

Kai let out a sound caught between a laugh and a sob. His fists curled into Matthias’s cloak, gripping tight, as if afraid the ground would vanish.

The orb flared once more, then dimmed, as if sated by the storm breaking out of Kai’s chest. The cracks still marred its surface, but the light no longer screamed through them.

Matthias closed his eyes, feeling the weight of his brother sag against him. So this is the choice, then, he thought grimly. Better a child born into life than another seal Kai will break with the strength of his own heart.

Kai’s voice broke again, quieter, exhausted. “Promise me you’ll help me through this. I can’t—can’t carry this without you.”

Matthias held him tighter, his throat thick, his eyes burning with words he’d never say. “Always, little brother. Always.”

Kai sighed softly as he leaned into Matthias’s embrace as though he was holding the pieces of his broken heart together. “Don’t be too hard on yourself. You have some time to decide.” Matthias said at last.

~

The chamber was still, the fire in the grate burned low to embers. Kai sat alone at his desk, shoulders hunched forward, a glass untouched by his hand. Before him lay the photograph—edges curled, colour worn, but still so alive it felt like a wound pressed open each time he looked at it.

In the picture he was older, arm looped around his children, grinning with a pride he almost didn’t recognise in himself anymore. Paria stood steady at his side, jaw set, his hand protective on his sister’s shoulder. And Vera—his Vera—leaned against him with her arms wrapped around his waist, blue hair in twin buns, one red eye and one blue sparkling with laughter.

Kai brushed his thumb over her face, tracing the glow in her mismatched eyes.

“You were different,” he murmured into the quiet. “Special. My fire, yes… but more than that.”

The scar beneath his shirt throbbed, ember-hot, as if answering. He ignored it, staring deeper into the glass.

“You were the only one who carried it. The only child who could walk the threads the way I did. My daughter of time. My mirror.”

The ache in his voice sharpened. He remembered the way she had stepped through colours that bled like heatwaves, how she laughed at the chaos of worlds bending beneath her feet, unafraid. She had inherited not just his strength, but his curse—and had made it look like freedom.

His hand closed tighter around the photo, breath ragged. For one sharp, selfish moment, he wanted it back. Wanted her here, with him. Wanted to see her eyes flash red and blue in this world, to know his daughter of time was real again.

But then his gaze slid past the photograph, to the furs where Katsuka sometimes sprawled with his books, tail flicking lazily, ears twitching whenever he thought Kai wasn’t looking. The fox had only just begun to open fully, to let himself be loved without walls.

Kai exhaled long, pressing the photo flat against his chest, over the scar that still pulsed raw.

“No,” he whispered. “I can’t bring her through like that. Not this time. Not at his expense.”

His head bowed, shoulders heavy with decision. “The right thing is to let her be anchored to Tala. To let her flame burn Emberwild, not bleed into the life I’ve built now. Not into him.”

The ember under his scar flared once, sharp as grief, but Kai forced a crooked smile. He set the photo back in its drawer, closing it softly as though laying a ghost to rest.

“Another life,” he murmured. “Not this one.”

He leaned back, staring at the ceiling until his eyes burned, before finally rising and heading toward the warmth of his bed. Toward Katsuka. Toward the life he refused to disturb.

~

The fire in Kai’s chambers had burned low, crackling softly as shadows stretched long across fur rugs. Katsuka was sprawled on the divan in that effortless way only he could manage—long limbs, fox ears twitching lazily, a glass dangling between two fingers as if it weighed nothing.

Kai sat near him but not with him, shoulders hunched, staring into the fire. He swirled his own drink without tasting it, the amber catching red against his eyes.

He had been quiet all evening. Too quiet. Normally he filled the air with laughter, with mischief, with the insufferable teasing that made Katsuka roll his eyes and bite back a smile. Tonight there was none of that.

Katsuka noticed. He always noticed. Blue eyes flicked toward him over the rim of his glass, lingering just a little longer than usual. The fox didn’t say anything—didn’t ask—but he watched. Observed. His tail shifted once against the furs, a small restless movement that told Kai he had been caught.

Kai rubbed his scar absently, fingers lingering on the tender mark over his heart. The ember pulsed there faintly, memory and fire braided tight. He thought of Vera—of another life, another thread—Katsuka laughing with her small hands curled in his, her hair catching the light like spun silver-blue. The warmth of that unreal life pressed against him, heavy as a chain.

But that was then. Another life. Another world.

This fox at his side—this present—was not ready for that weight. He was sharp, guarded, only just beginning to relax into love without claws. To burden him with a child born of a curse, would be to rip that fragile peace apart.

Kai’s jaw tightened. He swallowed hard, keeping his face angled toward the fire. I’m doing the right thing, he told himself. Better that he never knows.

The silence stretched, and he felt Katsuka’s gaze still on him, cool and piercing. He forced himself to smirk, finally glancing sideways.

“Don’t stare too long, kitty,” he drawled, his voice lighter than he felt. “You’ll fall even deeper in love with me.”

Katsuka snorted, tipping his glass back. “As if.” His tone was mocking, dismissive, but his eyes softened—just enough to betray he wasn’t fooled.

Kai grinned, but it cracked at the edges. He reached over, threading his hand through platinum hair, tugging gently until Katsuka leaned closer. Their lips brushed once, heat and habit, enough to make the silence feel normal again.

When they broke apart, Katsuka lounged back as though nothing had shifted.

Kai leaned into the firelight, hiding the storm inside his chest.

This is the right thing, he repeated, even as the ember throbbed against his ribs like a reminder of what he was giving away.

~

The fire had burned steady through the night, painting the walls in warm gold. Furs were piled thick around the hearth, and Kai lay sprawled among them with Katsuka nestled against him, the fox’s sharp profile bent over a book.

Kai had one arm around him, but his eyes weren’t on the pages. They drifted instead to the fire, far-off and distant, the ghost of another life pressing too close at the edges of his thoughts. Vera’s laughter, Paria’s steady gaze—the ember of them burned behind his ribs, heavier than the scar that still pulsed under his shirt.

He thought he was hiding it. He thought his usual smirk, the lazy strokes of his hand down Katsuka’s arm, the occasional careless chuckle would be enough. But the fox noticed. He always noticed.

Katsuka turned a page too slowly, eyes flicking not at the text but at Kai’s reflection in the firelight. His ears shifted, tail curling tighter against his leg. Nothing was said, but the weight of the silence was different. Uneasy. Watching.

Kai caught it. The doubt in Katsuka’s mind, the questions no doubt racing in his mind whether kai was now second guessing his claim on him. His chest tightened, guilt gnawing sharp. He turned suddenly, catching the book and pressing it down into Katsuka’s lap with one large hand. His other came up to cradle the fox’s face, forcing blue eyes to meet red.

“Hey,” Kai said softly, grin lopsided but his gaze steady. “Don’t get the wrong idea here.” His thumbs brushed over freckled skin, firm but gentle. “I told you—when you’ll say yes, I’ll ask you. That hasn’t changed.”

Katsuka arched a brow, skeptical as ever, but his lips twitched like he was biting back a smile.

Kai leaned in, their foreheads brushing, his voice low and rough. “This isn’t about us. Just… some downer political decisions. That’s all. Palace headaches. Not you.”

Katsuka studied him for a moment longer, searching. Then, finally, he exhaled and let himself relax back against Kai’s chest, muttering, “You’re insufferable when you brood.”

Kai chuckled, pressing a kiss into his hair. “Good thing I’ve got you here to keep me honest, huh?”

The unease faded, the fire’s crackle filling the space again. Kai held him tighter, burying the ghosts deeper, keeping them hidden where they belonged—behind his grin, behind the scar, far away from the only person he refused to burden with them.

The furs were warm beneath them, the fire casting molten gold across pale skin and dark curls. Katsuka’s breath hitched as Kai pressed him gently back, the weight of his body settling over him with a reverence that made his chest ache.

Kai kissed him—deep and unhurried—tongue slow, lips soft, devouring every shaky exhale as he slid a hand down Katsuka’s thigh and nudged him open. Their bodies shifted, fitted, as if moulded for each other in the hush between heartbeats.

He entered him in one smooth motion—slow, thick, deliberate.

Katsuka’s back arched, a gasp catching in his throat, fingers fisting into the furs beneath him as Kai sank in fully, hips pressed to his. No words. Just the ragged echo of their breathing, the fire’s crackle, and the sound of skin meeting skin.

Kai didn’t thrust—not at first.

He stayed buried inside, their chests pressed together, their pulses thudding in sync. His forehead brushed Katsuka’s, eyes half-lidded, breath trembling.

Then he began to move.

Long, slow strokes. Each one careful. Deep. Rhythm so steady it felt like waves, cresting and receding, building something sacred in the silence between moans.

Katsuka’s hands slid up Kai’s back, pulling him closer, needing more—needing all of him. He moaned softly, high and breathless, hips rising to meet each thrust as Kai pushed deeper, grinding just enough to make him tremble.

The room filled with heat and breath, the furs rustling beneath them. Every drag of Kai inside him sent sparks up Katsuka’s spine—not rough, not rushed—just full and aching and so close he couldn’t tell where one of them ended and the other began.

Kai’s lips traced his neck, his shoulder, his jaw—kissing between thrusts, every motion an unspoken confession. The way he held Katsuka’s thigh. The slow roll of his hips. The way he shivered when Katsuka moaned into his mouth.

Their bodies moved as one—sweat-slick, flushed, lost.

Katsuka’s gasps grew shorter, sharper, his legs wrapping tighter around Kai’s waist. His nails dragged down Kai’s back, but even that was gentle—anchoring, not demanding. The fire flickered over his chest, over the way his lips parted with every quiet, desperate sound.

Kai was trembling now, hips stuttering, breath caught in his throat as Katsuka clenched around him with every deep thrust.

Kai watched him with burning red eyes, his breath shaking as he leaned closer. He moved his mouth to Katsuka’s neck—lips brushing the pulse, lingering.

Fangs sank deep into the soft, flushed skin of Katsuka’s neck with a soundless growl, his body locking tight as white-hot pleasure exploded through him.

The taste hit him like ecstasy.

Warm, rich, electric.

Kai moaned against the bite—deep, guttural, the kind of sound that came from his soul. He pulsed hard inside Katsuka, spilling deep in hot, desperate waves as he clung to him, grinding through the climax with shaking thighs and trembling breath.

The blood coated his tongue, thick and sweet, and it pushed him into a high so dizzying it stole his thoughts, left only need. Only instinct. Only love.

He lapped at the wound with reverent strokes, moaning again as his hips rocked a few final times, buried to the hilt, riding the aftershocks with slow, instinctive thrusts.

Katsuka gasped beneath him, his back arching.

The sensation of being bitten—of Kai’s release flooding inside him with such helpless, reverent moans—undid him. His fingers clawed at Kai’s back, his eyes fluttering as the heat spread through him, dizzying and full.

He didn’t resist.

He only tilted his head further, offering more of his throat.

Kai licked at the wound between breaths, drunk on him. Still trembling. Still moaning faintly as if the blood alone had broken something inside him. His body had gone slack, yet stayed wrapped around Katsuka, chest to chest, lips against skin.

~

Morning sunlight spilled across the polished floors, soft and drowsy, filtering through gauzy curtains that swayed in the breeze. The fire had long since gone out, leaving behind only the scent of smoke, sex, and lingering heat soaked into the furs.

Katsuka stood before the gilded mirror in nothing but a loose silk robe, loosely belted and hanging open at one shoulder. His pale skin glowed in the light, hair tousled from sleep, lips still a little swollen from too many kisses.

But it wasn’t his face he was looking at.

It was the mark.

The smooth, white imprint of fangs, on the curve of his neck creating the shape of a crescent moon. Impossible to miss. Impossible to cover. Deep enough that the faintest press of his fingers still made him shiver with phantom sensation.

He glared at his reflection, lips twisting into a scoff.

“Of all the places,” he muttered.

Water dripped behind him.

Then—footsteps. Slow. Confident. Unapologetically calm.

Kai appeared in the reflection, fresh from the shower, towel slung low around his hips, his skin gleaming with beads of water. His bright blue curls were damp and mussed, and a smug grin pulled at his mouth the moment he saw where Katsuka was looking.

He padded up behind him, broad chest pressing lightly to his back, still warm from the steam. His hands slid around Katsuka’s waist, and his chin rested lazily on his shoulder.

Kai’s red eyes met Katsuka’s through the mirror.

“You wear it well, kitty.”

Katsuka rolled his eyes and scoffed, but the faint pink rising in his cheeks betrayed him.

“You couldn’t at least make it lower?” he said, folding his arms. “So I could cover it?”

Kai chuckled, low and pleased.

“Why would I want to hide it?”

He leaned in, brushing his nose along Katsuka’s throat—then parted his lips and licked the mark with slow, deliberate pride. His tongue dragged across the tender skin, and Katsuka’s breath hitched just a little too sharply.

Kai grinned.

“I want the whole world to know you’re mine.”

Katsuka scoffed again—but he didn’t move away.

Instead, he let his head tilt slightly, baring more of his neck, lips twitching in reluctant amusement.

“…You’re insufferable.”

Kai nipped gently near the bite, not breaking skin this time—just grazing.

“You love it.”

Katsuka hummed. “Maybe.”

Kai pulled the robe off his shoulder with one hand, exposing more of the mark, then slid his other hand beneath the silk at Katsuka’s waist.

“Want me to bite the other side, too?” he asked, his voice a purr. “Balance it out?”

Katsuka muttered something that sounded like “pervert,” but he leaned into him anyway.

[cheshamstreetbreakdowns]

In The Library

Katsuka had folded back into his life like he had never left. Kai spoiled him endlessly, doting on him at every turn, wrapping him in affection like a favourite cloak. It was relentless in the gentlest way — hands brushing over his hair when he passed, arms encircling him at odd moments, kisses that left him breathless when he least expected them.

It should have been overwhelming, but it wasn’t. It was everything he had once begged for in silence, the attention he’d ached for when no one listened. For the first time in a long time, the part of him that had been screaming for love was being soothed.

And yet — he didn’t sleep.

The insomnia clung to him like an old lover, unwelcome but familiar, pressing in when he least wanted it. He would lie sated in Kai’s arms, heart steady, body warm, but sleep never came. He didn’t complain. He wouldn’t. Kai’s wanting was worth the cost.

Today was one of those days. His body sagged with exhaustion, but his eyes refused to close. His mind gnawed at him, restless, unsettled. At Krau, he would have slipped out to walk the castle grounds until his feet went numb and his thoughts stilled. But here in Rassua, the walls still felt strange, alien. Not yet home — though better than anywhere else he knew.

Go walking… if you get tired, I’ll get you back… I think I know the way…

He snorted softly at Mitsuki’s doubtful encouragement, lips twitching faintly. Carefully, he shifted out of Kai’s embrace, letting the man’s arms fall back against the sheets as he slid soundlessly from the bed. Like a shadow, he slipped into the hall.

He didn’t know how long he walked. Time felt elastic as he ghosted down silent corridors, out into the gardens bathed in silver moonlight. The snow crunched faintly under his feet, the air sharp and cold enough to bite at his lungs. It steadied him, soothed him. For a moment, it almost felt like Krau.

“I still miss it,” he whispered to no one, ears twitching at the stillness. His breath fogged in the air. “Do you think I made a mistake?”

The answer came not in silence but in venom.

You always were a disappointment, boy…

Still weak even now…

You were meant to be his bitch…

dEvOuR hIm wHoLe…

The words came like knives, a hundred jagged voices, overlapping, shrieking. Katsuka gasped, stumbling, hands flying to his ears as though he could block them out. His chest seized, breath ragged, and he spun, fleeing blindly down the path, the vitriol chasing him like wolves.

He didn’t know how he made it back. Only that the next thing he knew he was tumbling into the bedroom, the shadows still hissing curses into his skull as he collapsed into Kai’s warmth.

Kai stirred faintly but didn’t wake, only pulling him closer instinctively, the weight of his arms a tether that anchored him. Katsuka buried himself against his chest, trembling, ears flat, as though he could disappear there.

And then Mitsuki’s shadow brushed over him. Soft, like the touch of a fox tail across his shoulders. A yip sounded in his mind, gentle, grounding. The voices recoiled at once, their snarling cut short.

Sorry, Kit Kat… they all hit me at once… Mitsuki’s voice soothed through the dark. You’re ok... Breathe…

Katsuka obeyed. A gulp of air tore into his lungs, harsh and shaking, but it cleared the weight from his chest. Slowly, he curled tighter against Kai, arms wrapping around him with desperate need, like this was where he had always meant to be.

Does it feel like a mistake…? Mitsuki asked softly.

One ear twitched, acknowledging the question, but Katsuka didn’t answer. His throat was tight. His shadows trembled.

Kai shifted in his sleep, murmuring something low and unintelligible as he tugged Katsuka closer. His lips brushed the crown of his hair, instinctive even in slumber.

“Go back to sleep,” Kai mumbled, voice rough with dreams.

Katsuka managed a faint smile, though his eyes stayed open. The words were enough.

He didn’t need to answer.

He already knew.

~

Katsuka’s favorite place in the palace had quickly become Kai’s library.

It was impossibly vast — floor-to-ceiling shelves that spiraled upward like towers of knowledge, their polished wood gleaming in the soft golden light spilling in from the high arched windows. Rassua’s collection was different from the quiet, orderly archives of Krau; where Krau prized history, Rassua celebrated stories. Strange myths, obscure histories, philosophies written in foreign tongues — every corner whispered to him, tempting him to stay and drown in it all.

He’d started raising the shelves higher, little by little, shadows curling at his fingertips to coax the books within easier reach. Old habits died hard — the hunger to know, to understand, to possess knowledge others overlooked still clung to him like an old lover.

The maids had started noticing. They brought him tea in the afternoons, their soft slippers padding against the marble floors as they settled trays on the reading table. They lingered too, smiling behind their hands, whispering among themselves as their eyes darted between him and the Kai.

“Do you think he’ll propose soon?” one giggled once, not quite quietly enough.

Another had sighed dreamily. “A wolf that devoted? He’ll have the ring custom-forged no doubt.”

Katsuka had only smiled — a soft, sweet thing — and returned to his reading, offering nothing more than a light giggle that only seemed to spur them on.

He had thought it harmless fun. Harmless… until the thought lodged itself in his mind and refused to leave.

Marriage.

The word made something tight twist in his chest. His fingers froze over the edge of the book in his lap, his smile faltering as the ache surfaced — the sharp memory of what he had left behind, the ghost of heartache that clung like smoke. He wasn’t ready for that kind of promise, not when the wounds from leaving Krau were still so raw.

Maybe in the future. Maybe when the ache dulled.

The thought made him pause.

Mitsuki’s laugh rang sharp and smug through the shadows, as if his own thoughts had been bait for mockery.

Oh Kit Kat... the voice teased, wicked amusement bleeding through. Look at you — blushing over wedding gossip like a lovesick maiden...

Katsuka scowled and rose to his feet, muttering sharp curses under his breath as his hand reached for a volume on the top shelf — something to distract himself.

He never heard Kai enter.

Not until arms, strong and warm, slid around his waist, and he was spun around so quickly that the world blurred.

“Kai—!” His startled gasp cracked the quiet just before Kai’s mouth crashed against his — hungry, insistent, the kind of kiss that demanded everything and gave nothing but fire in return.

“I’ve been looking for you,” Kai murmured, the words low and rough as they brushed Katsuka’s lips. “My pretty kitty.”

Katsuka blinked, dazed, his thoughts scattered as the heat of Kai’s body pressed him back against the cool wood of the shelves.

“Kai, I—”

Whatever protest he’d intended melted when Kai’s hands slid lower, fingers teasing at the hem of his yukata, pushing the fabric higher over his thighs with a dangerous slowness that made Katsuka’s breath hitch.

His gaze darted across the room, to one of the maids as she averted her gaze where she’d been clearing away the tea tray, hiding a knowing smile as she ducked her head and scurried toward the door, letting it click shut behind her.

“Kai,” Katsuka hissed, half in protest, half in disbelief. “What are you doing?”

“What?” Kai’s grin was sharp, feral, as his mouth trailed lower, brushing along the curve of Katsuka’s jaw, down the column of his throat. “They already know. I don’t exactly make a secret of what’s mine.”

Heat flared under Katsuka’s skin at the possessive edge in his tone, but he refused to give Kai the satisfaction of admitting it. He tilted his chin stubbornly, though his breath hitched when Kai’s teeth grazed the delicate skin just below his ear.

“You couldn’t wait five minutes?”

“Five minutes is too long,” Kai said simply, and his voice dropped to a husky whisper. “Besides…” His hands traced slowly up Katsuka’s sides, deliberate, maddening. “…you’re the one who keeps hiding away in here. Do you know how how much I restrain myself from taking you the moment I see you?”

Katsuka swallowed hard, trying to ignore the way his pulse roared in his ears, the way every inch of him seemed tuned to Kai’s nearness. “Then maybe,” he said sharply — or tried to — “you should learn to control yourself.”

Kai laughed, low and quiet, the sound vibrating against his skin as his lips found Katsuka’s throat again. “Control myself?” His hands tightened on Katsuka’s hips, pulling him flush against him, leaving no space, no question. “You make that impossible.”

The sharp retort on Katsuka’s tongue dissolved into a broken gasp when Kai’s mouth brushed over the rapid beat of his pulse.

The library, normally his sanctuary, suddenly felt far too small — every inch of space charged with something dangerous, every quiet breath magnified in the hush of the room.

“Wait…” Katsuka tried for warning, but it came out soft, unsteady, more plea than protest. His hands, traitorous, slid up into Kai’s hair, tangling there, pulling him closer instead of pushing him away.

“Mm,” Kai hummed, pleased, the sound curling low in his throat. “That’s better.” His lips ghosted over Katsuka’s ear, voice dark and teasing. “You can try to be quiet, pretty kitty, but we both know I’ll make you forget how.”

“No— not here,” Katsuka managed, but even as the words fell, he was tilting his head back further. Kai didn't waste the opportunity, lips and tongue tracing over the faint mark that still lingered there — a claim Katsuka had once forced him to heal away, but now wore with pride.

“They already know, Kitty,” Kai murmured against his skin, his voice dark with amusement. “You scream my name every time we fuck. You think they haven;t heard it echo down the halls?”

“That's not— I don't scream— ” Katsuka’s cheeks flamed, the tips of his ears surely glowing red as his breath stuttered.

Kai only laughed softly, that low, dangerous sound that always turned Katsuka’s legs to water. His hands moved with deliberate roughness, shoving the silk of his yukata aside as his mouth claimed his again, his kiss deep and consuming.

"Oh, you do," Kai said with mock sweetness, "You sing for me."

“Kai…” Katsuka’s voice cracked, soft and trembling as his fingers curled in the fabric of Kai’s shirt, pulling him closer despite himself. He hated how easily his resolve slipped away around him — how Kai seemed to know exactly how to unravel him until there was nothing left but want and the frantic, unsteady beat of his heart.

Kai only hummed, the sound low and pleased, his smile dangerous against Katsuka’s skin. “And right now,” he whispered, voice hot in his ear. “I want a solo performance.”

Katsuka barely had time to think before Kai was kissing him again, harder this time, until his knees nearly buckled. The shelves dug into his back, the smooth wood a sharp counterpoint to the dizzying heat of Kai’s mouth and hands.

Every press, every movement, was a reminder that they weren’t in the privacy of Kai’s rooms, that anyone could walk in. The thought made his pulse spike.

Kai smirked against his lips, feeling the tremor in Katsuka’s body. “Don't hold back” His voice was a velvet tease, rich and wicked. “Let them hear how much you love it.”

The muffled sound that broke from Katsuka’s throat made Kai’s grin sharpen. He lifted Katsuka effortlessly, and the world tilted until Katsuka was pressed high against the shelves, legs hooked tight around Kai’s waist.

He thrust into him slowly, deeply and Katsuka moaned — louder this time — unable to stop himself. Minutes blurred. There was nothing but the press of heat, the sharp, delicious bite of teeth against skin, and the unbearable ache of Kai’s name caught in his throat as he tried — and failed — to swallow the sounds Kai kept dragging out of him.

“Louder,” Kai growled, voice low against his throat. “Let them all know you're mine.”

And Katsuka did.

Again.

And again.

When it was over, the library was silent again. Too silent.

Katsuka sat slumped against the bookshelf, breath still unsteady, silk clinging to flushed skin. The quiet stretched, and then the weight of it all crashed in — where they were, what they’d just done, how close they’d come to being seen. His ears burned.

“Oh my stars,” he muttered, burying his face in his hands. “I can’t believe you—”

Kai, of course, just laughed. Full and unashamed, the sound rich with satisfaction as he leaned casually against the opposite shelf, still flushed but looking entirely too pleased with himself.

He stepped close to tug Katsuka’s hands away from his face. “They’ll get over it.” He smirked, lowering his voice to a wicked purr. “Shower time?”

Katsuka groaned, shoving at his chest weakly. “You're insufferable.”

Kai only grinned, catching his wrist and pressing a slow, infuriatingly tender kiss to the inside of it. “And you love me for it.”

[cheshamstreetbreakdowns]

[cheshamstreetbreakdowns]

Freedom Has A Price

It had been a difficult day when Katsuka finally decided to leave.

Raki had stood there in the great hall with the twins clinging to his legs, their little fox ears twitching as they sensed the tension they were too young to understand. He had done everything in his power to keep his composure, his jaw set, his hands steady, his voice calm. For the past three years, Katsuka had been an almost constant presence in the castle. His father wasn’t just a shadow at the edge of his world anymore—he had been there in the gardens with the twins, in the library, in the council chamber. He had laughed and fought and even, at times, almost seemed whole.

And now he was gone. Just like that.

The ache of it was worse than Raki had expected.

But he hadn’t been prepared for what came after.

The weeks that followed were chaos, and it was clear something had gone wrong. Horribly wrong.

He had felt it the moment his father cracked. It was like being stabbed from the inside out. A shrill fox cry reverberated through the shadows, sharp and piercing enough to bring Raki to his knees with a gasp. His lungs had seized, his head spun, and for one terrifying heartbeat he thought his father had died.

But death would have been easier.

Instead, he felt the instability spreading through him—shadows snarling, restless, unmoored. Katsuka’s devourer body was slipping further out of his control, fragmenting into something dangerous. And Raki knew then that he couldn’t just stand by. He had to step in.

The redhead came next. His father’s fixation on her burned like a beacon through the shadows. Her laugh, her presence near Kai, it consumed him. Raki could feel the hunger rising, feel his claws flexing, could see the way his father’s shadows began to coil around her like a predator circling prey.

Each time, Raki intervened. His own shadows lashed out like chains, dragging against Katsuka’s hunger, forcing him back, wrapping around him like an unbreakable cage. The fights that followed were brutal—his father thrashing, snarling, shadows striking against his restraints like a beast against bars.

But Raki held firm.

He told himself it was just temporary. That his father needed time. That if he could just keep him from crossing that final line, from spilling blood, he’d gather himself back together. He had to. After everything he’d sacrificed, everything he’d risked, Katsuka wouldn’t throw it away now.

That’s what Raki told himself. Again and again.

Until the night he let himself believe it.

He was at dinner with Marina and the children, the twins chattering loudly, Marina laughing softly at something he’d said. It was so normal, so simple, that when he felt the faint pull of his father prowling at the edges of his awareness, he ignored it. His pulse quickened but he forced himself to breathe, to stay calm. It didn’t feel dangerous. Not yet.

He shouldn’t have ignored it.

The victory cry tore through his chest like claws raking his ribs. He froze mid-breath, fork clattering to the table as his shadows recoiled in horror. His father’s laugh echoed in his mind, not the warm sound that had filled the castle but something guttural, triumphant, monstrous.

By the time he reached through the shadows, it was already too late. He saw it as clearly as if he stood in the alley himself—the devouring swarm tearing into a hapless woman, some innocent who had simply strayed too close to his father’s hunger. Her body crumpled, devoured into nothing, leaving only the echo of her terror in the air.

Raki swore softly, the word barely more than a rasp. And then he saw it: a flicker in his vision. A presence.

A member of the Council. Watching.

The implication slammed into him like ice water. His father had drawn their eyes. And if the Council decided Katsuka was too far gone—if they decided he was beyond saving—there would be no mercy. Not even for him.

Raki closed his eyes and bowed his head, shoulders tight with strain. The twins were laughing in the background, Marina humming gently as if nothing was wrong. And yet inside, the weight of it pressed down so heavily he could hardly breathe.

He had to get his father under control. He had to stop him. Before the shadows dragged him too deep. Before the Council made their move. Before he struck again.

~

Raki had thought long and hard about how to do this. He knew his father too well—Katsuka would vanish the second he sensed a trap, pride bristling and shadows slamming down like a wall. So he waited. Waited until he could feel his father had calmed, until the devourer’s edges weren’t so jagged, until Kai’s presence had soothed him enough that the storm inside him settled into something like stillness.

Then he sent the request. A simple summons, worded like nothing more than a son wishing to see his father.

To his surprise, Katsuka came.

He appeared in the chamber with the same grace that had fooled courts and kings for centuries—platinum hair falling in perfect lines, face smooth, movements elegant. If not for the shadows whispering faintly at his heels, one might have thought him untouched by rage or hunger. His expression gave nothing away, carved into serenity with the same care a mask was carved from porcelain.

“Raki,” he greeted coolly, though the faintest flicker of warmth touched his eyes as he took in his son. “You asked for me.”

Raki stood slowly, every movement deliberate, careful. “I did. Sit with me a while.”

Katsuka hesitated. His body shifted as if ready to bolt, sensing the tension, but after a beat he lowered himself onto the cushioned bench, folding his long legs beneath him. For a moment, silence stretched between them.

Raki broke it gently. “I wanted to see you. To see that you’re… settled.” His eyes searched his father’s face, looking for cracks. “Kai looks after you well enough?”

Something softened in Katsuka’s posture at the mention of Kai, though his smile was small, almost shy. “He does.”

Raki exhaled. The opening was there. He had to take it.

“I know, Dad.” His tone was low, steady, but his heart hammered. “About what happened. About the woman.”

The effect was instant. Katsuka froze, mask cracking in an instant. His hands dug into his knees, claws biting into fabric. His shadows flared up around him, coiling tight, agitated. “I don’t—” His voice broke, rising sharp with panic. “I don’t know what you mean. There wasn't—”

“Dad.”

The word cut through the spiral like a blade.

Raki leaned forward, placing a hand over his father’s clenched fist. His own shadows pressed gently against the flaring mass, easing it back, holding it. “I know. And I also know the Council saw it too.”

Katsuka’s eyes went wide, colour draining from his face. “The Council—” He shook his head violently, strands of platinum hair falling loose. “No. No, they’ll kill me. They’ve been waiting for this. They’ll—”

“Stop.” Raki’s voice sharpened, firm enough that even the shadows paused. “Listen to me. I’m not going to let that happen.”

Katsuka stared at him, breath coming quick, eyes wide and rimmed with tears he wouldn’t allow to fall. He looked nothing like the composed creature who had walked in. He looked raw. Cornered. Terrified.

Raki squeezed his hand. “I’ll handle the Council. I’ll take the burden. You don’t have to fight anymore. All I want—all I’ve ever wanted—is for you to finally be happy. To live free of this weight.”

For a long moment, Katsuka said nothing. His chest rose and fell too fast, too shallow, but slowly his claws retracted, trembling fingers curling into Raki’s grip. His shadows quieted, not gone but stilled, as though soothed by his son’s conviction.

His voice came hoarse, almost childlike. “I can't ask you to do that for me. It's too much.”

Raki’s throat tightened, but he forced a small smile. “You’re my father. It's never too much.”

The silence that followed wasn’t empty—it was thick with unshed words, with all the years and wounds between them. Katsuka’s carefully crafted mask was gone now, leaving only a man undone, staring at the son who refused to let him fall.

And for the first time in a long time, Katsuka let himself lean into the comfort offered, shadows folding in close not as a weapon, but as a shield

~

He had been going about his regular court duties, quill scratching across parchment as he signed another trade document, his eyes scanning the stiff language of a treaty request, when the summons hit him.

It wasn’t a sound, not exactly. It was a vibration in the marrow of his bones, a cold hand gripping his spine. His shadows shivered in unison, pulling taut like caged animals.

The Council requests an audience. You have ten minutes.

Raki sucked in a sharp breath, teeth gritting as irritation flickered through him. He shoved the stack of papers aside, ink blotting the edge of a signature. His eyes lifted, meeting Ruru’s across the room.

“I’ve been summoned,” he said flatly, voice stripped of all warmth. “Don’t let Rina see me. It’s not pleasant.”

Ruru’s lips tightened, but she nodded without question. Efficient as always, she gestured for the attendants to clear the chamber, already murmuring orders under her breath. Within moments, she had a quiet suite prepared for him in the dignitaries’ wing—far enough from curious eyes, yet close enough for swift return if needed.

She guided him there briskly, ensuring every detail was attended to—windows barred, wards drawn, cushions arranged so he might at least sit in some measure of comfort while his body was taken.

But Raki didn’t sit. He couldn’t. His skin crawled with the pull of the summons. The Council did not wait.

His first thought had been of his father.

The message was short, the words clipped by urgency, shadows carrying it across the tether that linked them.

I need you.

No pleasantries. No explanations.

And within heartbeats, he was there.

Katsuka stepped into the room, his appearance striking not for its usual perfection but its lack of it—platinum hair loose, hastily tied, the fall of his robes uneven as though Mitsuki hadn’t been given time to fix him before he’d bolted from Kai’s side. He looked dishevelled, but more than that, he looked afraid.

“What is it?” His voice was sharp, though his eyes betrayed the storm of emotions beneath.

Raki turned to him, shoulders tense, expression grim. He wasted no time. “I need you to cover for me.”

Katsuka froze, his body taut. “The Council…” His voice faltered. For the briefest second his face cracked—fear, rage, guilt, and something like grief flickering in rapid succession—before he pulled it all back under the mask. He gave a curt, controlled nod. “Go. I’ll hold things here.”

Raki’s mouth softened, and for once his voice dipped gentle. “Don’t worry, Dad. I’ll make sure to—”

But the words never finished.

His eyes glazed over mid-breath, body swaying. In the same instant, Ruru was there, swift and silent, catching his head before it struck the floor. She lowered him carefully onto the cushions, her touch gentle despite the tension in her jaw.

Katsuka stood rigid, hands curling into fists at his sides. His shadows stirred violently, unspooling from him and threading through the room, out into the corridors, coiling around the castle like an instinctive shield. The air thickened with their presence, oppressive and humming with restrained violence.

“I hope he doesn’t do something stupid,” Katsuka muttered under his breath, though the words were more prayer than jest. His voice was tight, strained, almost brittle.

Ruru glanced up at him from where she knelt by Raki’s side, smoothing back his hair. Their eyes met—hers steady, his restless.

“He’s your son,” she said softly, though the edge of wryness was there. “Of course he’ll do something stupid.”

For once, Katsuka didn’t argue. His lips pressed into a thin line as his gaze lingered on his unconscious son, shadows still prowling uneasily in the corners of the room. He didn’t like this situation. And the thought of The Council with Raki alone in their grasp filled him with a terror he could not admit aloud.

-

Everything was black.

Not just darkness, but an impossible absence, as though colour, sound, and even the memory of light had been stripped away. He felt weightless, yet when he looked down, his feet stood upon nothing—no floor, no ground, no sky above. Just the void.

It pressed in around him, thick and suffocating, and yet he stood tall against it, jaw set, ice-blue eyes cutting through the void. His shadows twitched nervously at his heels, recoiling as pale figures emerged from the nothingness.

The Council.

They were enormous, faceless shapes of bone-white, perfectly formed yet half-forgotten, their robes blending into the void as if they had grown from it. They loomed, tilting down toward him like hollow gods, their presence vast enough to make his chest ache.

And then came the voices. Not one voice, but a thousand—layered, distorted, rolling over one another like a wave. They spoke in unison, the sound rattling through his bones.

“You know why you are here.”

“You became lax.”

“He slipped.”

“He must be punished.”

Raki grit his teeth, the sound splitting through his skull, threatening to tear him apart. It took all his willpower to centre himself, to remember who he was and why he had come. He raised his chin, staring them down.

“No. You’re wrong,” he said, voice steady despite the storm in his chest. He had always spoken his mind. He would not stop now, Council or no Council.

He squared his shoulders, standing tall and proud before them, eyes sharp with determination. This moment—this trial—was what he had been preparing himself for.

“He was never allowed to be weak,” Raki continued, his voice cutting through the void. “But I can be strong now—for both of us.” His tone was firm, unyielding. “He has carried enough of the burden. Now it’s mine.”

The Council murmured like thunder in response, their many voices echoing:

“The devourer cannot be left unleashed.”

“Discipline must be carried out.”

“You wish to inherit his sentence?”

Raki’s jaw clenched, the fire in his blood burning brighter. He curled his hands to fists by his side, eyes glowing against the suffocating dark.

“No,” he snarled. “I’m claiming his future.”

The void stilled. Absolute silence. Even the shadows froze as though the world itself held its breath. It set his nerves on edge, every hair on his body standing on end, but he refused to flinch. He would not budge.

He would carve out a space where his father could live in peace, live in happiness. Whatever it cost him, he would not let anyone take that away.

The voices returned, colder now, pressing against him like an avalanche.

“This is not a decision to be taken lightly.”

“You must contain the beast.”

“If he fails, so do you.”

“You would live in shadow.”

Raki laughed, the sound wild and sharp, echoing into the endless dark. He took a single step forward, fists clenched, and glared up at the pale, faceless titans.

“I was born from it,” he spat, slamming his hand against his chest. “Shadow is in my veins. I’m the only one who can do this. Because I’m better.”

The Council’s voices rippled with displeasure.

“You speak with arrogance.”

“Watch your tongue, child.”

Raki only grinned, folding his arms across his chest with a cocky tilt of his head. His ice-blue eyes glowed with defiance.

“No,” he shot back, voice ringing like steel. “I speak truth. Unlike you, I can lead from the shadows. You should be bowing to me.”

And then, without warning, he unleashed himself.

Light burst from him, searing and unrelenting, pouring from every pore of his body. It stabbed through the black, a radiant beacon that made the void shriek and warp, the Council’s pale forms recoiling like moths against a flame. The darkness bent away from him, tearing at the seams.

It lasted only a heartbeat. Then he pulled it back in, swallowing it whole, his glow snapping shut like a clenched fist. He smirked at the Council, the taste of victory sharp on his tongue.

“I will be responsible for the devourer,” he said, his voice final, echoing with authority. The void pulsed, hands of shadow clawing at his skin, trying to seep into his pores, but he stood steady. “Because I can shine in the shadows. He’s my weapon now. My attack dog.”

There was another long silence. And then the voices came, low and resonant.

“Your decision is accepted.”

“Welcome, Raki Runtai-Naeem.”

“Welcome.”

“Welcome to the Council.”

Raki’s lips curled into a wide, savage grin. He could feel his blood singing, the shadows trembling at his command. He turned, stepping backwards through the endless black, letting it fold around him.

-

The chamber was silent but for the soft hiss of torches burning low. Katsuka and Ruru sat on either side of Raki’s still body, watching him like hawks.

It was unsettling—more than unsettling—to see him like this. Raki was never still. He was always moving, always laughing too loud, grinning happily, filling every room he entered until there was no space left for shadows. Now he looked small, diminished, his chest still as he lay in death before them.

Katsuka’s claws twitched restlessly in his lap, the silence gnawing at him.

And then the shadows came.

They bubbled up without warning, boiling over his son’s skin in thick black coils. The sound was wet, hungry, as they folded over him, wrapping his body in a cocoon of darkness until he was swallowed whole.

Ruru jolted to her feet, breath catching. “What’s going on?”

Katsuka’s eyes widened, his usual composure cracking. “I don’t know.” His voice was tight, bare of its usual control.

Ruru swallowed, throat dry.

The cocoon quivered. For a moment, he thought it might collapse inward, devouring what was inside, and dread gripped his chest. But then—

Laughter.

It rang out bright and sharp, echoing through the chamber. Not mocking, not cruel, but fierce and wild, full of life. Raki burst from the shadows in an explosion of light and movement, leaping upright like nothing had happened at all. His grin was enormous, his eyes blazing with triumph as he threw himself forward, arms wrapping tight around his father.

“I fucking did it!” he hissed, voice electric with excitement. “I did it!”

He was practically bouncing, shadows dancing around him like eager pups, his energy filling every inch of the room. It was a complete inversion of what Katsuka remembered from his own ordeal. When he had emerged from the Council, he had been gaunt, shaken, barely himself. But Raki—Raki burned.

Katsuka and Ruru exchanged a glance. Neither spoke.

The silence stretched. And slowly, Raki’s smile faltered. He pulled back just enough to search their faces, confusion clouding his expression.

“What is it?” His eyes darted between them, desperate for an answer. “What’s wrong?”

Katsuka’s voice cracked before he could stop it. “Raki… your hair.”

Raki frowned, reaching up absently—only to freeze as his fingers tangled in thick, long curls cascading down his back, heavy and unfamiliar. His eyes widened. “Oh. That’s new.”

Katsuka’s breath hitched. Colour drained from his face as his shadows recoiled. “Raki… what have you done?”

Raki turned back to him with that infuriating smile, the kind that made him look far too much like his mother. He clapped a hand on Katsuka’s shoulder, grip firm, steady. “I’m looking after you. That’s all.” His grin widened, his voice almost casual. “I’m part of the Council now.”

Ruru gasped, hand flying to her mouth. The sound hit Katsuka like a blade.

“No—” He stumbled back a step, panic overtaking him. “No, no, you don’t know what you’ve given up!” His voice rose, breaking into a raw scream. “You don’t understand what it costs! They’ll take everything from you!”

But Raki only laughed, tossing a thick strand of his new curls over his shoulder with maddening ease. “I don’t need to understand.” His gaze burned into his father’s, unwavering, unflinching. “I know who I’m doing it for.”

He stepped closer. Shadows swirled up from his feet, coiling tight and deliberate. Katsuka stiffened, but they weren’t hostile. They wrapped around him like warm blankets, holding him still without malice. For the first time in his life, the darkness felt… gentle.

Raki raised a clawed hand and pressed it lightly to his father’s temple. His eyes were twin flames, brilliant against the dark, and his voice was low and steady as he spoke.

“Katsuka Onnishu Runtai, formerly of Krau,” he intoned, each word carrying weight that reverberated through the room, “you now have a place in this world.”

The shadows sank into his bones, into every fracture of him, and Katsuka’s breath stuttered. His chest heaved—and then the tears came, hot and unbidden, streaking down his freckled cheeks. He didn’t understand why. He only knew that for the first time in decades, he felt lighter.

Raki stepped back, shadows peeling away, his grin back in place. “Go back to Kai,” he said softly, though there was steel at the edges of his voice now. His new authority filled the chamber. “But if I summon you, you answer my call. And when I do…” His grin sharpened into something dangerous. “…I’ll let you feast.”

The room was quiet save for Katsuka’s unsteady breaths and Ruru’s muffled gasp.

And in the centre of it all, Raki stood radiant and terrible, his long new curls dripping shadowlight, his smile both joyous and terrifying.

He was no longer just his son now.

He was untouchable.

[cheshamstreetbreakdowns]

[cheshamstreetbreakdowns]

Adaptation

Turia had the restraint of a surgeon, but Matthias could feel his nephew’s eyes on him as they walked the lamplit corridor back from Tala’s warded chamber. The silence between them stretched until finally, Turia spoke.

“You’ve thought of it,” he said quietly. “Letting the child be born.”

Matthias did not stop walking. “I’ve thought of every possibility.”

Turia quickened to match his stride. “Then you know it might work. If Kai raises her, if his love anchors her, maybe the Ghost Thread stops fighting. Maybe she doesn’t unravel the world. Maybe she belongs.”

Matthias’s jaw set. His cloak whispered against the stone with each deliberate step. “Or maybe she burns him to ash from the inside out, because that’s all the curse has ever done.”

Turia’s brow furrowed. “You don’t know that. You don’t know she’s dangerous at all.”

Matthias halted, turning on him so abruptly the younger man nearly walked into his chest. His white eyes caught the torchlight, cold and unyielding.

“And what do you think happens to Katsuka,” Matthias said, voice low, “if Inuku starts raising a child born of Tala’s ghost? What do you think happens to the life he has now, the happiness he’s carved with his own hands?”

Turia blinked, taken aback by the bite in his tone.

Matthias pressed on, the words iron. “Katsuka is his present, his choice, his joy. A fragile joy, but real. Do you think Inuku can cradle a ghost of the woman he killed and not bleed that into everything he shares with the fox? Do you think Katsuka could stand beside him every night with that shadow in their bed?”

Turia’s mouth opened, then shut again. His silence was answer enough.

Matthias exhaled through his nose, turning away. His shoulders bore the weight of it like armour. “No. I won’t let it. One ghost-child is not worth the ruin of the first peace Inuku has found in centuries.”

They resumed walking, Turia slower this time. After a long stretch he said, “So you’ll keep carrying it. For him.”

“Yes,” Matthias answered simply. “For him.”

The torches burned low, and the sound of their boots faded into the hush of the corridor, leaving the truth between them heavy and unresolved.

~

The fire in Matthias’s study had burned down to coals, glowing faintly in the grate. He hadn’t moved in hours. Papers lay forgotten on the desk, the ink in his quill dried hard to the nib.

His mind circled the same point over and over, like a wolf pacing a snare.

Maybe he should let the child be born.

The thought tasted dangerous, but it would not leave him. It would mean Kai could raise her—their daughter, his and Tala’s—and perhaps that would anchor him better than any ward or draught. Maybe the love Kai carried, reckless and absolute, would keep the Ghost Thread from twisting further. Maybe, in a way, it was the only honest path left.

But then he saw Kai as he had looked these past weeks: leaning into Katsuka’s touch, laughing in that unguarded way he never did for anyone else, finding in the fox a steadiness he had never found anywhere else.

And Matthias knew.

If the child lived, she would drag Kai back into the shadow of Tala. Back into a love bound in blood and curse, a love that already cost them too much. It would tear at what Kai had now—the rare happiness he had finally chosen. It would not matter how much Kai swore he could keep both; it would matter only that something this heavy could not coexist with something so fragile.

It would break him.

Matthias closed his eyes. He pressed thumb and forefinger against the bridge of his nose, willing the ache behind them away.

“Freedom,” he muttered into the empty room. “And already the noose waits.”

He thought of Kai asleep, sprawled in careless warmth, Katsuka curled against his side. He thought of the fox’s hand resting over Kai’s scar, steady, grounding. That was a picture of survival. Of a future Kai might truly live.

The child, though… the child was a ghost insisting on a second chance, and Matthias wasn’t sure the world could survive if she got it.

He opened his eyes, stared at the dying embers until they blurred. His hands tightened on the edge of the desk until the wood creaked.

“Better one ghost on my shoulders,” he whispered, “than another curse on his.”

The fire gave a faint crackle, as if answering, before falling quiet again.

~

At first he thought it was only the wind.

The palace at night had a thousand voices—timbers groaning, snow shifting against glass, servants whispering through corridors. But then it happened again: soft, high, familiar in a way that made his chest ache.

Papa…

The word brushed his ear like breath. He had spun more than once, red eyes flashing, chrysalis humming, only to find nothing waiting. Nothing but the hush of empty halls.

It kept happening. In the bath, steam curling across the mirror. In the training yard, when the clash of blades fell quiet. Worst of all when Katsuka slept pressed against him, steady as the tide—Kai’s eyes would drift shut, and the whisper would slide past the door of his mind.

Papa.

Every time it tugged at him. Every time it felt closer.

⸻

He found Matthias in the council chamber late one night, white hair bent over a ledger. Kai leaned in the doorway, too restless to sit, hands shoved into the pockets of his coat.

“I need to ask you something.”

Matthias didn’t look up. “You could simply ask.”

Kai’s voice was lower than usual, the easy bravado stripped back. “I’ve been hearing things. Whispers. A child’s voice. She keeps calling me…” He trailed off, jaw tight, then forced it out. “Papa. And I know that voice, Matthi. I swear I do. I just—can’t place it.”

Matthias’s quill stilled. Slowly he set it aside. His gaze lifted, calm as ever, but sharper now. “And it feels like it’s pulling you.”

Kai exhaled, pacing a short line. “Yes. Like it knows where it wants me to go, and it’s only a matter of time before I follow.” His smile tried to rise, brittle at the edges. “So tell me—do you think it’s the ghost thread?”

Matthias rose from his chair. He closed the space between them, one steadying hand on Kai’s shoulder. “No,” he said firmly, eyes steady. “I think you’ve been under strain, and your mind is giving shape to it. The Ghost Thread is bound.”

Kai studied him for a long moment, then let out a short laugh through his nose. “You always sound so sure.”

“That’s my job,” Matthias said. He squeezed once, solid, grounding. “Go to bed, Inuku. Rest.”

Kai nodded, but the unease lingered in the red of his eyes. He clapped Matthias’s arm, muttered something about stealing Katsuka back from sleep, and disappeared into the hall.

⸻

Matthias stood alone for a long while after.

Then, with a sharp breath, he left the chamber and moved through the hidden passages until he reached Hymara’s apothecary wing. The lamps were low; the scent of herbs and damp soil clung to the air.

Turia looked up from his workbench as Matthias entered, his gloved hands stilling over the pestle. “You came late,” he said flatly.

Matthias’s voice was quiet, but heavy. “Check her. Now.”

Turia didn’t ask who. He wiped his hands, reached for the keys, and unlocked the warded door to Tala’s chamber.

Inside, she lay still, hair fanned red across the pillow, charms glowing faintly over her body. The air was too quiet.

Matthias stood at the threshold, every muscle rigid. “He’s hearing her,” he said.

Turia pressed two fingers to Tala’s throat, then lowered his palm over the faint swell of her stomach. His eyes narrowed. He didn’t look up.

The pulse was steady, insistent, not a faint ember anymore but a rhythm pressing back against his hand. It pushed in a way that was aware. Not blind instinct. Something deliberate.

Turia’s brow furrowed. “This isn’t the same.”

Matthias stepped closer, the glow of the charms painting lines across his white hair. “What do you mean?”

Turia didn’t answer at once. He closed his eyes, sliding deeper into the resonance, tuning out the beat of his own blood, the soft sigh of Tala’s breath. And there it was—threading faintly past the veil of flesh, climbing up through the tether it shared with Kai.

The chrysalis.

He felt it clearly now: the child’s essence reaching through Kai’s chrysalis as if it were a ladder. That was how the whispers carried. That was how Kai heard her. The baby wasn’t only forming—it was searching.

But worse—something in the resonance was different. Not Emberwild anymore. Now it was overlaid with another timbre—colder, sharper, familiar in a way that twisted his gut.

Turia drew his hand back quickly, his face grim. “It’s different.”

Matthias moved closer, his expression the still mask of command. “Different how?”

Turia shook his head, still staring at Tala’s still form. “I can feel the soul shifting. The essence… it’s adapting.”

“Explain.”

“I can’t.” Turia’s tone was clipped, frustration flickering under it. He had always prided himself on knowing the language of resonance, of herbs and remedies. But this was something he couldn’t name. “I only know she’s not the same child I felt weeks ago. The essence is changing shape.”

Silence hung between them.

Matthias’s hands curled behind his back. He was quiet for a long time before he said, “Then we’ll need someone who knows the nature of curses better than either of us.”

Turia’s mouth thinned. “Morghana.”

Matthias nodded once. His gaze lingered on Tala’s face, peaceful in her unnatural sleep. Then on the faint glow of the charms across her chest and belly. “If the Ghost Thread has found a way to adapt, then it’s trying to outsmart fate itself. That means it won’t stop here.”

~

Morghana’s tower smelled of damp ash and wild herbs, the air thick with the tang of charred root. The witch stood at her worktable, thin hands busy grinding something black to powder. She didn’t look up when Matthias and Turia entered.

“You’ve come later than I expected,” she said flatly, as though she’d already been waiting.

Matthias did not waste time. “The child’s essence is changing. Turia felt it.”

At that, Morghana’s pestle slowed. Her pale eyes flicked to Turia, sharp and probing. “Well? Speak, boy.”

Then Morghana smiled faintly, humourless. “You felt it, right?”

Matthias’s voice hardened. “What’s happening?”

She brushed her palms clean and turned, cloak whispering against stone. “The Ghost Thread is no ordinary haunting, Tsar. It is an echo of what should never have been—an unborn destiny clawing at the skin of the world. When you silenced the mother, you starved it of its anchor. So it looked elsewhere. Do you think such a thing would quietly die?”

“Elsewhere,” Matthias repeated, low.

Morghana’s gaze gleamed. “It reached for the only door left open: Kai himself. And through him—his fox. The bond between them hums so loudly it shakes the walls of your palace. The child is not stealing a second soul; it is rewriting its own song mid-verse, weaving Katsuka’s essence into its threads so it can continue to live.”

Turia’s hands curled into fists at his sides. “So it’s adapting.”

“Adapting,” Morghana agreed, pleased at the word. “Outsmarting fate itself. Refusing to be stilled, refusing to die. That is the danger of curses birthed from love and betrayal—they do not know when to stop clawing for life.”

Matthias’s jaw tightened, his white hair catching the firelight like ice. “And if the adaptation completes?”

Morghana’s grin was thin as a blade. “Then she will no longer be a ghost child of the past. She will belong to the present. A daughter not of love denied, but of love adapted. And you will not be able to pretend she is anyone else’s but his.”

The silence that followed was thick. Turia looked to Matthias, but Matthias’s expression did not shift—save for the faintest twitch of his jaw.

He asked one last question, voice as cold as a drawn blade. “How do we stop her?”

Morghana turned back to her table, scattering the black powder into the flame. The cauldron hissed and spat, filling the chamber with a bitter smoke.

“You don’t,” she said. “Not without killing your brother with her. The curse has seen the game you tried to play, Tsar. And now it is playing smarter than you.”

~

The climb down from Morghana’s tower was colder than the climb up. Snow hissed sideways across the cliffs, sharp against Matthias’s face, but it wasn’t the wind that hollowed him.

He had asked the question he always asked—how do we stop it—and she had given him the answer he dreaded most: you don’t.

Turia walked behind him, silent, their boots crunching on the frost-bitten stone path. Neither spoke until they reached the base, where the wind shifted and the palace torches came into view.

“Uncle,” Turia said carefully, “do we tell him?”

Matthias didn’t stop walking. His hands folded tighter behind his back, the posture of a commander already making decisions he hated.

“No.”

Turia quickened a step. “But if he keeps hearing her—”

“No,” Matthias said again, sharper, though the word shook at the edges. He slowed, drew a long breath, steadied his tone. “If Kai knows what Morghana has confirmed, he’ll see it as his responsibility to act. And you heard her—if he acts, he kills her. And himself.”

Turia’s jaw worked, but he said nothing more. He knew better.

⸻

Later, Matthias stood alone in his study, staring at the fire guttering low in the grate. His reflection in the window showed him a man who had carried too many ghosts—Inuka’s pale eyes in memory, Tatiana’s smile lost, Tala’s warmth now smothered in a draught. And Kai—his brother, alive and laughing, believing he was finally free.

Matthias pressed his palms to the desk, head bowed. The silence of the chamber was absolute, broken only by the faint crack of burning wood.

You silenced the mother, so the curse drank from the lover. Morghana’s words hung like frost on his ribs.

Kai’s voice, raw with that boyish awe, intruded: She’s pregnant. It’s a secret, Matthi.

He closed his eyes.

The truth weighed heavy on his tongue, begging to be spoken. He could already see how Kai would look at him when he confessed—betrayed, furious, heartbroken. And maybe… maybe relieved, too, that someone else would share the burden.

But if he spoke it, Kai would act. And acting meant ruin.

Matthias straightened slowly. His reflection in the window was sharp now, all lines and shadow.

“No,” he whispered to the glass. “Not this ghost. Not for him.”

When Kai came to him again with that uneasy look in his eyes and said the whispers were pulling stronger, Matthias would do what he always did: steady him, reassure him, give him the lie that bought time.

Because time was all he had to give.

He touched the wolf sigil at his shoulder, grounding himself in cold metal, and let the silence swallow the rest.

[cheshamstreetbreakdowns]

[cheshamstreetbreakdowns]

Finally All Mine

The rain had been waiting for this.

It came down in sheets, drumming on stone, turning the courtyard into a shallow mirror. Katsuka stood in the centre of it, soaked through, white hair plastered to his cheekbones, fox ears pinned back in fury as he threw words like knives.

Kai didn’t catch a single blade.

He watched the shape of Katsuka’s mouth, the way anger sharpened his jaw and lit his eyes. He watched water pearl along his lashes and fall in glittering lines from the soft points of his ears. He watched the throat he knew by taste flex around breath and rage. Somewhere beneath the thunder, Katsuka was saying something about recklessness, about selfishness, about the way Kai took and took and—

Kai’s smile tugged up at one corner, helpless. 

Gods, he’s beautiful.

“—I love you, you idiot!”

The world snapped into focus.

Kai stepped once. Twice. The distance devoured itself. Katsuka’s next word drowned against Kai’s palm as he caught his jaw and crushed their mouths together.

It wasn’t a kiss so much as a claim.

Rain burst between them, cool and shocked, as Kai drove him back until they hit the bark of the closest tree. Stone thudded; Katsuka’s breath hitched. Kai’s other hand found his hip, fingers iron-hard through drenched fabric, dragging him forward into the line of his body as if the storm itself might try to steal him away.

Katsuka made a sound—half protest, half surrender—and Kai swallowed it, deepening the kiss with a hunger that had nothing to do with patience. His tongue parted him, reverent and ruthless at once. He kissed like a starving man kneeling at an altar, like he meant to memorise the shape of devotion with his teeth.

“I heard you,” he breathed against Katsuka’s lips, words ragged, forehead pressed to his, rain running between them like a vow. “Say it again.”

Katsuka’s lashes fluttered; anger wavered, then burned hotter. “I love you,” he said, defiant and trembling.

Kai laughed low—ruined by joy—and took his mouth again, harder. He lifted Katsuka by the thigh and the world tilted; the trunk took their weight as Kai’s coat slapped wetly around them, a crimson curtain. The wolf emblem flashed and went dark in the rain.

Kai shoved fabric aside in a fever, breath breaking against Katsuka’s mouth as if he were unwrapping a gift he’d wanted for lifetimes. Rain slicked their skin; bark pressed cold at Katsuka’s back. For a heartbeat Kai meant to take the world as witness—claim him right there beneath the lightning-slashed sky.

Katsuka whimpered—soft, involuntary—into his kiss.

Kai’s laugh was low and wicked, but his hands gentled. “Mercy then,” he murmured, forehead to forehead. 

The storm blinked—and the courtyard, the tree, the silver downpour fell away.

They were in the hush of Kai’s chambers, the rain now a distant drum on the high windows. He didn’t bother with lamps; lightning stitched pale light across the room as he pressed Katsuka into silk sheets and kissed him like a vow, like gratitude, like a man who’d just been handed his future and refused to waste a second of it.

Clothes gave way in a trail of damp, careless surrender—buttons skittering, silk whispering to the floor. Kai’s thumbs traced the lines he loved as if relearning a map by touch, reverent and greedy in the same breath. “Say it again,” he whispered against Katsuka’s jaw, smile tugging at one corner even now, even ruined with wanting. 

“I love you,” Katsuka said, fierce and shaking.

Sheets rasped. Pillows slid. The mattress caught their rhythm and gave it back.

Katsuka arched; Kai’s grip tightened—waist, thigh, wrist—guiding, demanding, devouring. No words, just heat and the wet slide of skin, the stutter of breath against a throat, the sharp gasp when Kai’s mouth found the place that undid him. He answered with a low, feral hum, pace breaking, then surging, rain-damp hair brushing Katsuka’s cheek as he buried his face there and took more.

Fingers tangled in silver; nails scored shoulder; the headboard kissed the wall in quickening taps. Lightning flashed and carved them in pale fire—two bodies, one ragged line of motion, urgency burning through restraint until there was nothing left to hold back.

It crested—silent, blinding—then fell in shivers and tangled limbs, breaths dragging like the last echoes of thunder.

Kai didn’t speak. He just pressed his forehead to Katsuka’s, chest heaving, hands still moving in restless, reverent passes—like a man assuring himself the storm had left its miracle behind.

~

Morning crept in soft and gold, turning last night’s storm into a quiet shine on the windows. The sheets still smelled like rain and heat.

Katsuka lay on his side with his back to Kai, ears drooped in that stubborn way that meant he was awake and pretending not to be. Kai propped himself on an elbow and watched the little betrayals—how the tip of Katsuka’s ear flicked when Kai breathed too close, how his shoulder tightened when a grin crept into Kai’s voice.

“So,” Kai murmured, lazy and pleased, “about the part where the famously cool, untouchable Duke of Shadows stood in the rain screaming at me like a lovesick opera.”

“Shut up,” Katsuka muttered into the pillow, ears flushing pink.

Kai chuckled. “Very eloquent rebuttal.”

“Shut. Up.”

Kai rolled closer, hands warm as he framed Katsuka’s face and coaxed him to look. Katsuka resisted for a heartbeat, then his red-rimmed, sleepy eyes met Kai’s. Kai didn’t say anything—just wore the same crooked, infuriating smile he’d had while watching Katsuka shout his heart raw.

Katsuka huffed. “Don’t make that face.”

“This face?” Kai’s thumb traced a damp strand of silver from Katsuka’s cheekbone. “The one you confessed to.”

Katsuka’s lashes lowered; his mouth pressed into a thin line. “I said what I said.”

“And I heard every word,” Kai murmured, leaning in to kiss him—soft first, then deeper when Katsuka didn’t pull away. He broke it with a grin that warmed from wicked to tender as his gaze raked over the man in his arms, cataloguing every freckle like proof. His thumb stroked Katsuka’s cheek once, slow, possessive.

“My pretty kitty,” he breathed, red eyes bright with smug, unshakable joy. “Finally all mine.”

Katsuka’s pout faltered.

Those words—finally all mine—slid beneath every layer of stubborn pride, sinking deep until his chest ached with the truth of it. His ears flicked back, his lashes lowered, and whatever shards of resolve he’d gathered scattered like mist in the morning light.

Kai saw it. He felt it. A low, satisfied hum left his throat as he pressed one last kiss to Katsuka’s cheek before moving, fluid and certain, to claim the space above him. The mattress dipped beneath his weight, shadow and sunlight weaving over his shoulders as he caged Katsuka in with strong arms.

Katsuka’s breath caught. The familiar grin tugged at Kai’s mouth—half smug, half unbearably tender—before he bent to brush their lips together again. His touch was reverent, his red eyes burning with something that made Katsuka’s heart twist and surrender in equal measure.

Pinned beneath him, Katsuka gave a small, resigned huff, but his hands betrayed him, sliding to Kai’s shoulders and drawing him closer.

Kai only smiled wider, his voice low and warm against Katsuka’s lips.

“Mine.”

Katsuka’s hands curled tighter around Kai’s shoulders as that single word—“Mine”—echoed low and possessive against his lips. There was no escaping it. No veil, no witty retort, no illusion to slip behind.

He belonged to him. And the way Kai looked at him now—hungry, reverent, sure—made that truth burn sweet in his chest.

Strong hands slipped beneath his thighs, parting and lifting them as Kai settled between them, his hips rolling forward in a slow, deliberate grind. Katsuka’s breath hitched—his body already tuned to Kai’s rhythm, that aching friction stealing the air from his lungs.

“Look at you,” Kai murmured, voice roughened with heat. His hand slid along Katsuka’s thigh, gripping just enough to bruise. “Always so good for me, aren’t you, pretty kitty?”

Katsuka gave a soft, breathless scoff—half defiance, half surrender—but it was cut off entirely when Kai pressed in again, this time harder, drawing a sharp sound from his throat. That grin returned—smug, electric—and Kai leaned in to steal a kiss that swallowed the sound whole.

“Don’t hold back,” Kai whispered between kisses, nudging his nose along Katsuka’s cheek. “I want all of you.”

And then he was moving—pushing inside in one smooth, claiming thrust. Katsuka gasped, his back arching off the sheets, hands fisting in the linen. Kai’s name tumbled from his lips, raw and unguarded.

Kai groaned low, burying his face in the curve of Katsuka’s neck. “Fuck,” he breathed, voice trembling with restraint. “You feel too good. Always do.”

He didn’t wait long. The first few thrusts were slow, deliberate—measured strokes that had Katsuka gripping his arms, his legs wrapped tight around Kai’s waist. But restraint was never Kai’s strong suit.

Soon, his rhythm shifted—deep and punishing, hips snapping forward with wild hunger as his lips claimed every inch of skin he could reach. Katsuka moaned, helpless to do anything but hold on as Kai unraveled him, each thrust deeper, rougher, more.

The sound of skin meeting skin filled the room, broken only by the rasp of breath and the soft creak of the mattress beneath them. 

“Say it again,” Kai growled, teeth grazing his ear. “Tell me you’re mine.”

Katsuka gasped, overwhelmed—body trembling, heart pounding in his throat. “Yours,” he breathed, voice caught on the edge of a whimper. “I’m yours.”

That broke something in Kai. With a guttural sound, he buried himself deep one last time, his entire body trembling as he spilled inside him, holding Katsuka tight through the wave crashing over him. Katsuka followed moments later, wrung out by Kai’s hand and words alike.

For a long moment, neither of them moved. Just the sound of their breathing, tangled and uneven, hearts still racing.

Then Kai kissed him again—slower now, softer. His voice, when it returned, was almost a whisper.

“Mine to wreck. And to spoil.”

~

They had forgotten how to pace themselves.

All afternoon the palace seemed to breathe with them—doors shut, attendants dismissed, sunlight creeping across fur and silk as if it, too, wanted to linger. By the time night fell, the air in Kai’s chambers was warm and sweet with quiet satisfaction. Somewhere beyond the balcony, snow whispered against stone; inside, the world was smaller, made of two bodies and a steadying heartbeat.

Katsuka shifted closer in the dark, stealing space like he always did once the bravado bled away. He tucked his silver head beneath Kai’s chin, ears flattening lazily as he found the place that fit. One hand slid over Kai’s chest and settled there, palm broad and sure over his heart.

A jolt.

Not pain—more like a static snap that leapt skin to skin, then tunneled deeper, ricocheting through bone. Kai’s breath caught. The X hidden under his fingers lit with heat and then cooled, as if a match had flared and gone out in the same instant.

“Mm?” Katsuka mumbled, already half under. His hand stayed where it was, a quiet weight.

“Nothing,” Kai whispered, voice gone soft as wool. “Just you.”

His eyes were too heavy to argue with sleep. He pressed a kiss to silver hair, wrapped both arms around his fox, and let the darkness close.

It didn’t hold.

First came the corridor smell of warm cocoa. Then the sound—light feet down a long hall—and the ache that recognized both before thought could name them. He turned in the dream and the world sharpened to a single point: a child’s voice, bell-clear, intimate as breath.

“Papa.”

The word landed in his chest like a dropped coin. An image flashed—one eye blue as winter; the other red as a banked coal slightly obscured by blue curls—set in a face he could not bring into focus before the water of sleep rippled it away.

He woke in the dark.

The fire had dozed down to embers; the balcony curtain bellied once with snow-cold air. Beside him, Katsuka slept deeply, mouth soft, lashes a pale smudge on his cheek. His hand still rested over Kai’s sternum, exactly where the shock had jumped.

Careful, careful—Kai eased his fingers under, lifted the hand, and set it on the covers. Katsuka made a small contented sound and rolled to his side, tail flicking once before going still.

Kai swung his legs off the bed.

The cold of the floor steadied him like a slap. He dressed without lamps—old soldier’s habit—shirt sliding gingerly over the tender cross, belt found in the dark by touch alone. The room felt larger now, the shadows attentive. In his bones, the chrysalis hummed a low, curious note, not alarmed, not calm—listening.

He slipped out, closing the door with the lock’s sigh, and started to walk.

Corridor after corridor, past sleeping tapestries and the faint silver of night-sconces; down the stair where the stone remembered bootfalls; through the arcade that smelled faintly of pine and old polish. The palace at this hour belonged to ghosts and men who couldn’t outrun them.

His mind ran. Not with fear—he had spent too many years learning that fear is only another weather—but with recognition that hurt to touch. Familiar. That was the part that snagged. The voice hadn’t been a stranger’s mischief. It had spoken to something in him like a key turned in a door he hadn’t known he’d locked.

“Papa.”

He breathed the word once, testing it against the hush. It didn’t crack him. It didn’t spare him either.

The bones answered, humming again, a half-note higher—like they had smelled a hearth and wanted to move toward it. He pressed a palm to his sternum as he walked; the scar warmed under his hand, then cooled, then warmed again, as if deciding whether to be brave or kind.

He reached the east gallery before he realized where his feet had been taking him. Moonlight wrote pale bars across the floor; beyond the arch, the long corridor to the old nursery waited—sealed, unused, a room for futures that had never come.

Kai stopped at the threshold.

Snow hissed lightly against the glass. The palace kept its breath. Somewhere behind him, many rooms away, his fox slept on, dreaming honest dreams. Here, the air thinned to that sharp, clean edge it got when a storm changed its mind.

He stood very still, listening to the hum in his bones and the long, patient quiet of the hall, and let the thought he had been avoiding arrive:

I know that voice.

Not from the past. Not from this life. From the pull itself—the thread that had stopped pretending it wasn’t there.

He swallowed once, the way a man swallows before stepping onto a river he isn’t sure is frozen solid.

“Not tonight,” he told the waiting dark, voice low, respectful as a bow and stubborn as a promise. “Not without him.”

He turned back the way he’d come, carrying the hum and the word inside his ribs, and went to the only anchor that held—back to the bed and the fox and the warmth he could name, until morning asked him to choose what to do with the rest.

[cheshamstreetbreakdowns]

I Chose You

It was done. The ink had dried, the signatures finalised, the chains of the past cut away with trembling hands. The weight of old vows and broken promises no longer bound him. He should have felt free. Victorious. This was supposed to be the beginning of everything he had ever wanted—Kai’s name written into his future, carved into his very bones.

He had rushed out into the night, heart hammering with anticipation. Shadows curled eagerly at his heels, drawn by his excitement, sharpening to points as if they too knew this moment was meant to be theirs. All he had left to do was find Kai. To celebrate. To finally claim what had always been his.

It hadn’t been difficult. It never was. His shadows fanned out across the streets until they whispered back to him, tugging him toward the glow that only Kai carried.

A smile touched his lips as he followed the pull. He imagined the way Kai’s eyes would light up when he told him, imagined those arms wrapping around him, imagined the words he’d whisper—I belong to you, now and always.

And then he heard it. That laugh. That maddeningly warm, careless laugh that made his chest tighten. He quickened his pace, weaving through the crowd.

A flash of blue. A gleam of red. His wolf.

But those eyes… they weren’t searching for him. They weren’t waiting across the room the way they always had.

They were cast downward. Focused on someone else.

The smile froze on his lips.

Kai’s arms were wrapped around her. A redhead, laughing up at him, her smile reflected in the glow of Kai’s own. And the way he looked at her—gods, that look—it was his. That was supposed to be his. That gaze had once burned through him, consumed him, made him feel as though the world beyond it ceased to exist.

Now it was hers.

Katsuka stopped dead. The air around him warped as his shadows surged, a restless, hissing sea of black that bled into the edges of the lanternlight. His breath caught, and then sharpened into something jagged.

No.

No, this wasn’t right. This couldn’t be right. He hadn’t been gone that long. He had told Kai to wait for him. He had promised. He had sworn.

How dare he.

A low growl threaded through the dark, his teeth clenched so tightly his jaw ached. His hands trembled, not with weakness, but with the effort it took not to tear the entire scene apart. His shadows wanted blood. They whispered of possession, of ruin, of tearing the red hair from her head strand by strand until there was no trace left of her laughter.

But no. Not here. Not now.

Katsuka turned sharply, shoulders rigid, his cloak of darkness wrapping around him like the jaws of some beast. He forced himself away, step by step, even as his thoughts spiraled into a venomous snarl.

It wasn’t real. It couldn’t be real. This was a test. A mistake. A cruel joke meant to twist the knife. Kai wouldn’t betray him. Not after everything. Not after the promises.

And if he had?

Katsuka’s lips curled into a smile that held no warmth. A smile that trembled with the edge of madness.

Then he’d simply have to remind Kai.

Remind him that no one could love him, claim him, own him, the way Katsuka could.

The shadows writhed eagerly at the thought.

~

Katsuka did not move to confront them. His whole body ached to, every muscle straining to tear Kai away and demand—no, force—that gaze back onto him. But even through the haze of jealousy something colder took hold. Something patient. Predatory.

His shadows shifted, coiling low, following his eyes as they slid past Kai to settle on her.

The redhead.

He began to follow her.

Every detail of her face seared into his mind. The way her hand clung to Kai’s body, the easy tilt of her head when she laughed, the unearned glow in her cheeks as though she had the right to stand at his side. As though she hadn’t just stolen everything that belonged to him.

Katsuka began to move again, but slower this time. Careful. Blending into the ebb of the crowd. He never let his gaze leave her, his shadows stretching thin and silent to taste the air around her, memorise the rhythm of her steps, the exact pitch of her voice.

If Kai would not look at him, then he would make certain the woman never left his sight.

For nights he shadowed her, lurking at the fringes of lanternlight and laughter, his presence never more than a breath away. She never noticed—none of them ever did. His hunger sharpened with every glance Kai gave her, with every brush of his hand against her arm. The ugliness inside him thickened until his smile twisted into something near feral.

When at last the revelry faded and the crowds dispersed, he peeled himself away. Not to go home—he had no home, not anymore. Not to Kai—Kai was not ready yet, not when his eyes were still so easily distracted.

Instead he drifted toward the forest, toward an old hollow that once belonged to Nuru. The den was cold, abandoned, still carrying the faintest musk of fox fur and damp earth. It welcomed him like an open grave.

Katsuka sank down into the shadows that licked the walls, breath shallow, pulse loud in his ears. The silence pressed in around him, thick and merciless.

He let out a low, bitter laugh.

“Already moved on, have you?” he murmured to no one, his voice echoing faintly. “I told him to wait. Was this part of your grand plan, Suki?”

Fuck no... I... This wasn't part of the plan...

The shadows rippled at his words, slithering up the walls like dark veins, feeding on his fury. His thoughts spiralled deeper, more jagged, the images of Kai and the redhead replaying again and again until they carved raw grooves in his mind.

It wasn’t betrayal, he told himself. Not yet. Kai was just confused. Misled. Tempted by something cheap and temporary. That’s all she was—temporary.

“She’s nothing,” Katsuka whispered, his hands digging into his hair until his scalp ached. “A stand-in. He doesn’t want her. He can’t.”

But the memory of Kai’s smile—warm, unguarded, hers—stabbed into him again and again, each time deeper.

His grin spread wider, manic now, the corners of his mouth trembling as his eyes lit with feverish blue.

“No matter. I’ll fix it. I’ll remind him who he belongs to. And her…” He tilted his head, shadows curling tighter around him like eager hounds straining at the leash. “…she’ll learn soon enough not to touch what’s mine.”

The den swallowed his laughter whole, a sound too sharp, too wild to belong to anything human.

~

Katsuka’s madness began to consume him now, a black tide swelling higher with every passing night. His devourer body writhed beneath his skin, unstable shadows screaming for vengeance, hissing their demands into his ears.

Take what’s yours.

Rip her away from him.

Feed. Punish. Devour.

And for the first time, he didn’t resist. He didn’t bury it, didn’t choke it back down with trembling hands and hollow vows. He let it rise. He let it sink claws into his mind and drag him under, because he didn’t know what else to do.

He had given up everything for Kai. His freedom. His home. His sanity. Piece after piece of his life, torn away and offered up at the altar of devotion. And for what? To find Kai laughing, glowing, in the arms of another woman.

It was a cosmic joke. A sick, twisted jest from the universe—because hadn’t it always been that way? Kicked down when he was on his knees, mocked by fate whenever he dared to hope.

The nights blurred together in a fever dream of obsession. He stalked her endlessly, learning her routes, her habits, her careless little quirks. Sometimes he came so close he could smell the faint sweetness of her perfume, feel the heat of her body brushing past as his shadows stretched out, claws reaching, aching to close around her throat.

No one would ever know. She could vanish without a trace. He could sink his teeth in and silence her laughter forever. He could feast, shadows tearing her apart until there was nothing left to distract Kai’s gaze.

And each time, just as the hunger crested, he felt it—another presence.

Raki.

The boy’s shadows wrapped around him like chains, like a shield. Restraining him. Holding him back. Katsuka snarled against it, every nerve alight with rage that his own son would dare stand in his way. But the bindings always held, dragging him back from the brink. For a time.

Until one night.

It wasn’t the redhead. Not her. Just some vapid little hanger-on who had laughed too loud at one of Kai’s jokes, leaned too close when she lit her smoke outside. Nothing. Insignificant.

But something inside him snapped.

One moment she was fumbling with her lighter, the next his hand was at her throat. The crack rang sharp in the night air, sickly satisfying as her body went limp in his grip. He let her fall, head striking the cobbles with a hollow thud.

His shadows pounced instantly, a black swarm of teeth and claws tearing into flesh, stripping bone from sinew, devouring her into nothingness. The alleyway was silent but for the wet sound of feeding.

And in the aftermath, Katsuka straightened slowly. He drew in a long breath, shuddering, and for the first time in weeks his mind felt… clear. Steady. Like a storm breaking after days of choking heat.

The hunger had dulled. The spiralling rage had quietened.

For that one perfect, hideous moment—he felt sane.

But sanity brought its own horror. His blood-stained fingers trembled as he stared at them, realisation cutting deeper than claws ever could. This couldn’t go on. If he kept spiralling, there’d be nothing left of him but the monster.

He had to stop. He had to reclaim what was his before the shadows swallowed him whole.

His voice cracked into the dark, ragged and desperate:

“I’ll talk to him. I’ll make him see. He promised me. He’s mine. He’ll always be mine.”

The den’s silence answered him, heavy and suffocating. But the shadows stirred eagerly, as if to say they agreed.

And in his chest, the obsession hardened into resolve.

~

After a while there was no more redhead. One moment she had been there like a thorn lodged deep in his ribs, and the next she was simply… gone. Disappeared into the air as if she’d never existed.

Katsuka had smiled at that. A smile stretched too wide, teeth flashing, shadows curling smugly at his heels.

Because Kai was still there. Still searching. Still his. And now—now was the perfect time to strike.

The sky mirrored his mood that day: black-bellied clouds rolling in, storm heavy and ready to split open.

He lingered in the shadows of the bar, watching, waiting. And when Kai finally turned, distracted by something unseen, Katsuka moved. His claws lashed out, shadows snapping around Kai’s arms as he yanked him backwards through the veil and into the empty, rain-slicked park.

Kai blinked. “Kitty?”

The name, so casual, so bloody calm, made something inside him fracture. His own tails bristled, thrashing like live wires, tips hissing with shadowfire.

“You didn’t wait.” His voice came out as a low growl, guttural and trembling. His eyes burned, narrow slits of blue fever. “I told you I was coming back. I told you to wait.”

Kai only watched him, ruby eyes steady. He opened his mouth, then closed it again. The silence hit Katsuka harder than any blade.

Panic punched through his chest, wild and ragged. His shadows seethed, feeding on it, bubbling violently across the ground until it seemed the whole park shivered with them.

“I should have known!” Katsuka snapped, voice cracking as it leapt to a shriek. “You were just toying with me! Waiting for me to leave so you could crawl back to your redhead!” His claws flexed with a sharp crack, splinters of black curling off them. “Always a redhead with you, isn’t it?! Always someone else!”

The storm overhead snarled in sympathy, thunder growling as fat drops of rain began to fall. Kai still didn’t speak. He only watched, smile tugging faintly at the corner of his mouth.

The silence drove Katsuka mad. His own shadows whispered at him, half a dozen voices clawing at his skull:

Kit Kat, stop—breathe—don’t scare him off—

“Shut up!” he roared, whipping his head as if to silence them. His ears flicked wildly, hair plastering wet against his face. “Your plans are why this happened, Suki! Your plans!” His claws jerked in the air, every motion jittery, unstable, as though he might lash out and tear Kai open just to get a reaction.

His breath came sharp, jagged bursts, steam mixing with rain. The clouds above churned darker, lightning flashing.

“I did everything you wanted!” Katsuka screamed, his whole body trembling as tears burned at the corners of his eyes. “I gave up my life, my title, my name for you! And you just left! You didn’t even look back!” His claws tore into his own scalp, tangling in his soaked hair until red beaded at his fingertips. “I stayed! I fucking stayed! How could you not see that?!”

The shadows behind him unfurled into a monstrous display, tails flaring wide in his full wraith form. He looked like a demon ripped out of nightmare—eyes glowing hot, body taut with rage and grief, hair wild and dripping. His voice broke as it rose into another scream:

“You destroyed me! You replaced me like I meant nothing!” He staggered forward, eyes blazing. “I chose you. I always chose you. I love you, you idiot!”

And through it all, Kai only stood there. Silent. Calm. That maddeningly gentle smile never faltering, as if every violent word was nothing more than wind.

The silence broke only when Kai stepped forward, closing the gap. His hand shot up, fisting the back of Katsuka’s hair, and he crushed his mouth to his.

The kiss was hot and messy, stealing the breath from Katsuka’s lungs. Shadows faltered, claws quivering mid-air as his heart stuttered painfully in his chest. For one insane, perfect moment it was everything—mouths colliding, bodies pressed together, just the two of them like it was meant to be.

Rain sheeted down around them, soaking their clothes, blurring the edges of the world. Katsuka pushed weakly at his chest, but the strength was gone from him, his mind scattering like broken glass.

“Say it again,” Kai murmured against his lips, his voice low, eyes glowing with hungry red.

Katsuka trembled, pinned back against the bark of a tree, his shadow-claws flexing uselessly at his sides. Tears burned hot trails down his freckled cheeks.

“I love you,” he whispered, voice breaking. “My wolf...”

Kai smiled wider. His mouth crashed down onto his again, claiming him, consuming him, worshipping him all at once.

And Katsuka—mad, broken, burning—let him.

[cheshamstreetbreakdowns]

Ignorance is Bliss

The apothecary was asleep but for him. Hymara’s greenhouses breathed through the night, faint glows of bioluminescence pulsing in the glass like the heartbeat of some enormous lung. Turia worked in the centre of it, coat sleeves rolled, vials and pestles laid out with ritual precision.

On the bench: a silver basin of water from the lower terraces, caught at dawn when the mist was thickest. In it, herbs floated like pale ghosts—white hellebore root for sleep, featherfern spores for suspension, night-lotus oil to blur the mind. None alone were lethal, but their synergy was a knife’s edge.

Turia’s hands were steady. He whispered measurements under his breath, cutting the stems so fine the knife barely kissed them. The scent was sharp and sweet, promising both peace and suffocation.

At his side, an open book lay annotated with two columns—Remedy and Ruin. The same plant names appeared in both lists, their doses and preparations the only difference between cure and curse.

He ground the hellebore to powder, listening to the crunch echo through the apothecary. “One breath too much,” he murmured, “and she doesn’t wake at all. One breath too little, and the Thread will cling.” His voice was even, clinical, but there was a tightness around his mouth.

He poured the powder into the basin, stirring with a glass rod until the water turned faintly opalescent, ripples shifting colours between milk and pearl.

Next came the featherfern spores—delicate, trembling on his fingertip. They fell like pale gold dust onto the surface. The basin sighed. The water stilled completely, as though it had fallen into sleep.

He set the pestle down and leaned on the bench, staring at the mixture. In the reflection of the water he didn’t see his own face—only a shimmer, red hair and laughter blurred by the liquid’s sheen.

Turia pinched the bridge of his nose and forced the vision away.

From a locked cabinet he withdrew the last ingredient: an ampoule of distilled moonspine resin. Dangerous to even touch, it could still the heart of a grown wolf in moments. He drew up a drop in a glass needle, hands deft, and let it fall into the basin. The resin spread in a slow spiral, vanishing into the opalescence.

The water went perfectly clear.

No scent. No shimmer. Only silence.

Turia dipped a spoon and lifted it to the light. The draught caught the glow of the bioluminescent trees outside and fractured it into a hundred small rainbows. Beautiful. Deceptive.

He corked the vial, sealing it with wax and a line of his own blood. Not because it needed his blood—but because if he was going to end a life halfway, he would tether himself to the act. Responsibility written into the mixture.

“Not death,” he told the silence. “Not life. Only the quiet between.”

When he set the vial down, his hands were still steady. Only his eyes betrayed the weight of what he’d made.

~

Snow drew its slow spirals again, calling him back. Kira stepped into the hollow where the Emberwild shrine slept—ribs of wall, a firebird ghosted in broken tiles, the black pyre unlit at the centre.

Ash lifted from the pyre. It gathered into height and shoulders, a face without breath. Pale eyes opened in the smoke.

“Ready?” the voice asked.

Kira set his palm to the pyre. “Yes.”

“Three trials,” Pavlin said. “Stand. Soothe. Choose.”

Kira nodded once.

**

The air lurched. The hidden thrum under the pyre went wild, tugging hard at Kira’s ribs as if to drag him forward and down.

“Do not chase,” Pavlin said.

Kira’s heels wanted to move. He didn’t. He planted his boots, unlocked his knees, and let breath set the rhythm—inhale on the beat, exhale on the falter. The pull fought; he kept breathing. The tug softened, then learned the shape of him and eased.

The ash-figure’s eyes held him. “Hearth,” Pavlin said. “Not hunt.”

**

The pyre shivered. A thin wail rose in the air—no voice, only the sound pain would make if it could sing. The thrum spiked high and frantic.

“Two notes,” Pavlin said. “Low. Lower.”

Kira found the half-remembered lullaby. He hummed it in the back of his throat, quiet as a secret. The spike bent. He lowered with it, soft and steady. The wail thinned, then settled to breath. The shrine’s pulse evened under his hand.

Ash fell from Pavlin’s shoulders like feather-snow.

“Good,” he said. Not praise—measurement. “Again.”

Kira lilted the two notes once more. The calm held.

**

The air changed. Cold bit deeper. Smoke closed around Kira’s face and showed him a path of power: flames leaping at his command, enemies breaking, the small ember caged and bright in a fist. Easy. Quick. Safe.

Another path flickered: a quiet room, a kept fire, long nights of breath and patience, a life built in the slow work of guarding.

“Choose,” Pavlin said.

Kira’s jaw tightened. He opened his hand—the imagined cage gone—and set his palm back to the pyre.

“I keep,” he said. “I do not claim.”

Silence held a heartbeat, then two. The vision broke like frost under a heel.

Ash cracked.

Stone answered the choice. From the far side of the shrine the sentinel effigy split along old hairline veins; flakes sloughed off in sheets, clattering soft as dry leaves. Light ran under the stone like water. With a sound halfway between a sigh and a spark, the shell fell away.

Pavlin stepped out of his own statue.

Flesh and breath. Scars like pale ember-fractals at throat and wrists. Eyes the same cold blue, alive now, blinking once against the winter light.

He crossed the floor without stirring a sound.

Kira stood very still. The pyre’s pulse beat steady under his palm.

Pavlin stopped an arm’s length away. He searched Kira’s face as if measuring a blade.

“You stood,” he said.

“I stood.”

“You soothed.”

“I did.”

Pavlin’s gaze sharpened. “You chose.”

Kira’s throat worked. “Hearth.”

A breath left Pavlin, the barest thing. Not relief; acceptance.

He lifted two fingers, ash-warm, and touched the center of Kira’s sternum. Heat blossomed—not searing, not cruel—just certain. A faint cinder-sigil burned and then settled beneath the skin, pulsing once in time with the shrine.

“Guardian Flame,” Pavlin said. “You are passed.”

Kira let the breath he’d been holding go. The world stayed the same and completely changed.

“What now?” he asked.

Pavlin’s answers came short, as always.

“I teach.”

“You keep.”

“When the ember stirs—breathe. When it flares—lull. When the world shakes—stand.”

“And if I falter?”

“You call.” A tiny tilt of the head toward the broken firebird mosaic and the fallen ribs of wall. “Shrines. Old ground. I will hear.”

He turned, testing his new-made body as if returning to armour long stored, flexing fingers, rolling a shoulder. Stone dust slid from his hair.

Kira glanced at the shattered shell of the effigy, then back to the man. “Will you remain?”

“When quiet—stone,” Pavlin said. “When called—ash.” He tapped his chest, one dull thock. “When needed—flesh.”

Kira nodded. “Then teach me.”

Pavlin’s mouth almost found a smile and then chose not to. He stepped beside Kira at the pyre and set his own palm lightly to the wood.

“Lesson one,” he said. “Breath. We write the room with it.”

Beat. “Lesson two. Lull. Do not hum at the ember. Hum with it.”

Another beat. “Lesson three. Hands. Never close them.”

Kira matched him. The shrine’s pulse and his own moved together, steady, spare. Snow outside the hollow began to fall straight again.

After a time, Pavlin spoke once more, quiet as ember-light. “Guard as heart. Not as penance.”

“I will,” Kira said.

Pavlin nodded. Flesh and blood now, teacher and sentinel both. The cracked stone on the floor cooled, and the pyre kept its patient beat while the two of them stood, breathing, writing the room into calm.

~

The chamber was quiet but for the trickle of Hymara’s waterways beyond the glass. Tala lay on the cot Turia had prepared, her body arranged as if she had only fallen asleep among herbs. The red strands of her hair spread like fire across the linen, feathers dulled without the heat of her spirit.

Her chest rose and fell — shallow, steady, unnatural. Not the rhythm of ordinary slumber, but the metronome of a body balanced on the edge of life and death.

Turia sat at her side, two fingers resting lightly against her throat, counting the slow pulse. Not too strong, not too weak. Right where he meant it. His other hand hovered with the brass needle he’d used — empty now, the draught gone from it.

“Halfway,” he murmured. His voice did not echo; the room itself seemed to hold its breath with her.

Matthias stood in the shadows, hands clasped tight behind his back. He had not moved since the potion was given. His face was carved in marble — but his eyes tracked every motion, every breath.

Turia withdrew his fingers from Tala’s pulse and reached for the satchel at his feet. From it, he drew a set of carved bone charms threaded on silk cord. Each charm was inscribed with apothecary sigils — preservation, warding, veiling. He placed one over her heart, another across her brow, and the last at the hollow of her throat.

They pulsed faintly in answer, drinking the air of the potion and fixing it, sealing the state so no accident of time or interference could pull her free too soon.

“She won’t wake,” Turia said, quiet but firm. “Not until I call her back. To him… she’ll seem gone. And as long as she lies in this between-place, the Thread cannot bind itself to his memory.”

Matthias let out a breath like he’d been holding it for hours. His shoulders eased — just slightly. “Then it’s done.”

Turia glanced at him, a flash of something hard in his eyes. “It’s begun. Don’t mistake the two.”

For a long moment, neither moved. Tala’s breathing remained unchanged, her body too still, her spirit hidden behind the veil. She looked less like a woman and more like a relic now — a flame locked inside glass.

Turia adjusted the cord at her throat, the sigil glowing faintly as it took root. He spoke, not to Matthias, but to her:

“You won’t die here. But you won’t live either. Forgive us, if you can.”

Her eyelids fluttered faintly, a ghost of resistance. The potion held.

Turia stood, smoothing the front of his coat, and left the last words for Matthias to carry.

~

Kai woke with the taste of ash in his mouth. No fire. No smoke. Just the ghost of something burnt out.

He sat on the edge of his bed, staring at the morning light spilling through the balcony doors. A peculiar weight clung to him, heavy as frost. He pressed his palms against his temples as if trying to catch a thought before it slipped — but it was already gone.

His chrysalis beat steady against his ribs, but off-key. A faint dissonance threaded through it, a tug that should have pulled him toward someone. Toward…

He stopped, breath shallow. Toward who?

The memory was there and not there. He could almost recall laughter, soft and smoky, the scent of herbs on skin. A flash of red in his hands — hair, feathers, fire. But when he reached for it, the image crumbled like snow under sunlight.

The more he strained, the less it stayed.

Kai rose abruptly, pacing. He searched the chamber as if she might still be inside: by the bed, the window, the long mirror. No trace. No warmth. Only the lingering echo of his own unease.

The chrysalis thrummed harder now, instinctive, protective — then faltered. It could not find what it sought. His chest ached with the emptiness of it, a phantom grief with no name.

He pressed a hand over his sternum, closing his eyes. “What am I forgetting?” he muttered, voice raw.

But the chrysalis gave him no answer.

He dressed for court, motions precise, almost mechanical. The navy coat, the crimson shirt, the wolf’s insignia gleaming at his belt — every detail in place. Yet when he smoothed the collar at his throat, his fingers caught on nothing. He had expected a necklace, a clasp, a token. Something someone had given him.

He could not remember who.

By the time he stepped into the hall, the thought had dulled to background static. There was no lover, no loss, no reason for his chest to ache. The hole remained, but the edges blurred.

The servants bowed as he passed, their eyes bright with that familiar mix of awe and affection. He smiled at them — charming, effortless — and felt the hollowness vanish under the mask.

But as the doors to the court opened, his hand still brushed once, unconsciously, over the scar at his heart.

And somewhere far below, in Hymara’s greenhouse chamber, a woman with red hair lay unmoving, her breath shallow and even, locked in silence.

~

Matthias stood on the mezzanine above the great hall, watching. Below, the court bustled in its usual ritual: ministers arranging scrolls, stewards whispering, servants weaving through with silver trays. But it wasn’t the court he studied. It was his brother.

Kai swept into the hall like frostborne fire, his red eyes lit with playful ease. The hollow grief that had been gnawing at him for weeks was gone, smoothed over as if it had never been. His smile reached his eyes again, boyish and reckless. The courtiers loved him for it, leaning closer, basking in the glow of their Tsar.

But Matthias could see the scar beneath. He always could.

Kai’s gaze drifted not to shadows, not to places where a memory might lurk — but to the figure waiting just beyond the dais. Katsuka, in his long silver hair and fox’s poise, caught Kai’s attention with one cool glance.

The change was immediate. Kai’s stride slowed, softened, turned molten. His hand rose in greeting, not formal but intimate, a gesture of someone who knew what belonged to him. The laughter in his voice was real again when he said, loud enough for the servants to blush and smile:

“Pretty kitty. There you are. I was about to waste my morning without you.”

Katsuka rolled his eyes, feigning irritation, but the corner of his mouth betrayed him. Kai swept him in, shameless, brushing the fox’s cheek with a thumb as if the hall and its watching eyes meant nothing.

The court chuckled. They adored it — their Tsar, magnetic and bold, too alive to be denied. None saw the absence carved out beneath.

Only Matthias did.

He gripped the railing tighter, white knuckles against stone. He had asked Turia to carve that absence. And now Kai wore it like a healed scar, smiling as though it had never been there, doting shamelessly on the man he called his most precious thing.

It should have been a relief. It was safer this way. Kai’s chrysalis had quieted, the hauntings dulled, the thread suspended. His brother was whole enough to laugh, to flirt, to love freely.

But Matthias’s chest was heavy with the truth: that every affectionate word Kai gave Katsuka was spoken over the grave of a memory he no longer had.

The Tsar of Wolves laughed below, leaning into his fox, alive again.

And Matthias stayed above, silent, carrying the weight of what it had taken to make him so.

~

The greenhouse was cloaked in twilight, the glass panes haloed with mist from the terraces below. The faint glow of bioluminescent groves painted the air in blue-green light.

Turia stood at the foot of the cot, checking Tala’s shallow breath with two fingers at her throat. The bone charms glowed faintly against her skin, steady as the pulse they bound. His motions were practiced, clinical — but the tightness around his mouth betrayed the weight of the act.

Behind him, footsteps. He didn’t turn; he already knew who it was.

Matthias lingered by the door, white hair silvered by moonlight. He said nothing at first, only looked at the woman who now seemed more relic than living thing.

Finally: “He doesn’t remember her.”

Turia set the handkerchief back over Tala’s chest. “That was the point.”

Matthias’s gaze flicked to him — sharp, accusing, though not at Turia alone. “He woke lighter this morning. He laughed. He touched Katsuka as though nothing had ever been missing. And the court… the court believes him whole again.”

Turia folded his arms, leaning back against the table. “So it worked.” His tone was flat, but his jaw clenched. “You got what you asked for.”

Silence. The only sound was the slow trickle of water against glass.

Matthias stepped closer, stopping beside the cot. He looked down at Tala, then away quickly, as if he couldn’t stand the sight. “Do you ever… justify it to yourself?”

Turia’s lips curved in a humourless smile. “Every day. I tell myself I saved him. I tell myself she’s safer asleep than dead. That the child in her womb will live where she cannot.” He shrugged, but his eyes burned with tired defiance. “And then I come here at night and remind myself none of those words matter.”

Matthias exhaled, a sound halfway between grief and iron restraint. “He will never forgive me if he learns.”

Turia met his uncle’s eyes at last. “Then he mustn’t learn. Not from me. Not from you. This secret lives with us. Until the day it kills us both.”

For a long time Matthias said nothing. His hand curled into a fist at his side. Finally, he gave a single, grave nod — a soldier’s oath made without words.

Turia turned back to Tala, adjusting one of the charms so the light dimmed. The woman’s breathing stayed steady, untouched by their conversation.

In the quiet, the two men shared a silence heavier than confession. 

[cheshamstreetbreakdowns]

Cracks

The first whisper came on the wind, thin as breath against his ear.

“Hearth kept…”

Kira froze. The trees stood hushed around him, snow curling in spirals instead of falling straight. Then another word, nearer this time, sinking into his bones.

“…line kept…”

His chest pulled tight, a second heartbeat tugging at his own. He followed.

The deeper he walked, the warmer the cold grew. Branches sagged under frost, creaking like old bones. A wolf cried out on a distant ridge, but the sound bent wrong—more note than howl, more song than voice. The whispers threaded through it, guiding.

“Blood of fire… find the hearth…”

The forest broke into a hollow of stone. An Emberwild shrine slumbered there, half-buried: ribs of wall, a cracked floor feathered with firebird patterns, a pyre of black wood stacked but never lit. The air pressed against Kira’s sternum like a hand.

He stepped closer. The tug inside him beat off-time, a weak thrum, uneven. He placed his palm to the pyre. The wood shivered as though it had breath.

Ash lifted. At first motes, then ribbons. They wound together into height, shoulders, the hollow of a face. Eyes opened—pale, ice-blue, unblinking.

The whispers condensed into a voice. Short, hard.

“A spark stirs.”

“A little flame.”

“It needs keeping.”

Kira’s pulse stuttered. His throat was dry. “What flame?”

“Not storm. Not ash.”

“Rising ember.”

The pyre’s throb grew sharper, dragging at him. He fought the pull, breath catching. The voice cut again.

“Do not chase.”

“Do not clutch.”

“Stand.”

Kira forced his lungs to slow. He matched his breath to the rhythm beneath the pyre—in on its beat, out on its falter. The tug eased.

“How do I keep it?” he asked.

The answer came in three quiet drops of sound.

“Two notes.”

“Low. Lower.”

“Lull.”

A half-remembered lullaby rose in him unbidden. He hummed it. The ember-pull steadied, fragile but no longer drowning. It felt alive. It felt like it trusted him.

Ash drifted from the figure’s shoulders, falling like feather-ash. Its eyes never softened.

Kira swallowed. “And if I fail?”

The reply was iron.

“Then silence.”

“Flame gone.”

“Only wind.”

The tug against his ribs steadied again under his breath. The smoke leaned close, words quieter now, almost gentle.

“Fire is not yours.”

“You keep.”

“You do not own.”

The ash unraveled, drifting back into the stone effigy at the shrine’s edge. Its sealed lids glowed faintly like hidden coals, then dimmed.

Kira kept his hand to the pyre until his heart and the shrine’s weak thrum moved together. Snow began to fall straight again.

As he turned to go, the last whisper followed him, soft as frost on the air:

“Hearth… not hunt.”

~

It had started the day Kai brought Tala back to the palace.

From the mezzanine, Matthias had watched the reunion in the east corridor: Kai striding in with that reckless brightness, Tala’s hands lifting—hesitating—before he folded her in. On the surface, it was perfect. Two people finding each other again.

But the music was wrong.

Kai’s charm ran hot; his instinct did not. The chrysalis under his skin—Matthias could feel it when he stood close—should have surged to meet a bond like this, the way a wolf meets its pack after winter. Instead it… checked itself. Stuttered. As if something inside his brother had leaned forward and then thought better of it.

And Tala—he remembered how her breath hitched a hair too late, how her smile arrived after her eyes. How the scent around her wasn’t quite the herbal warmth he recalled, but threaded with a faint metallic hush. If love is a chord, theirs sounded like a note tuned half a step sharp.

He buried it. He wanted it to be joy.

Kai didn’t knock.

He blew into the study with winter on his shoulders, eyes bright like he’d run up every stair in the palace just to get here first. Matthias lifted his gaze from the dispatches. The grin on Kai’s mouth was smaller than usual, tighter—like joy he was afraid to jostle.

“Inuku?”

Kai leaned on the desk, breathless. “She’s pregnant!”

Matthias’s heartbeat stumbled once, then steadied. “Tala,” he said, making it real.

“Tala.” A laugh slipped out of Kai—astonished, young. He glanced back at the door, then closer, lowering his voice as if the walls themselves might gossip. “But—listen—no one knows. Not yet.” He caught Matthias’s forearm, grip warm and insistent. “It’s a secret, Matthi. Ours for a little while.”

The old nickname. The old plea.

Matthias searched his brother’s face. The joy was there, yes—but threaded with a skittish edge, like a horse smelling lightning. Kai almost never hid his happiness. He paraded it, dared the world to take it from him. But now—secret.

“Of course,” Matthias said, keeping his voice level. “Between us.”

Relief poured through Kai; he exhaled, shoulders loosening. “Good. I… I want to tell them properly. When it’s safer.” Another quick look to the door. He flashed that reckless smile that charmed servants and generals alike. “You’ll help me keep it, won’t you?”

“I will,” Matthias said, and meant it with the part of him that had always been brother before Tsar.

Kai squeezed once—gratitude, triumph—and was gone, swift as he’d come.

Silence settled. Matthias stood very still, feeling the echo of Kai’s grip like a pulse in his skin. Secret. The word should have tasted sweet. Instead, it sat in his mouth like a coin: weighty, metallic, wrong.

Matthias waited until the door shut behind his brother, and the echo of Kai’s breathless happiness faded. The unease did not. It pricked along his spine the way battlefield weather does—pressure falling before the storm.

He crossed to the hidden panel, pressed his palm to the warded seam, and slipped into the chamber behind the tapestry.

The cabinet opened on velvet dark as wine. The orb lay where it always had, captured starlight in glass.

Except a hairline fracture traced its curve—fine as a vein of frost. From it, a pearly shimmer pulsed in and out, like a thing trying not to be seen breathing. The room filled with a scent that did not belong here: warm ash, honeyed herbs, a whisper of firebird feathers.

He didn’t touch it. He had learned not to touch the past.

He watched the light inside flicker—ember-warm, then winter-clear—two hues taking turns against the glass. The shimmer curled, brushed his knuckles, and withdrew like a child testing a door.

Matthias exhaled through his nose, steadying his voice against the hush.

“So that’s what’s wrong,” he said to the quiet. Not accusation. Diagnosis.

He sealed the cabinet, felt the sigils dim under his palm, and stood there until his breath matched the room again.

Kai’s reunion had looked like love. The pregnancy sounded like blessing.

But the note under both—the one only he seemed to hear—was the sound of something cracked, breathing where it shouldn’t, waiting for its chance to step through.

~

Matthias found him on the balcony above the snow gardens, where the wind came clean off the icefields and worried the crimson lining of Kai’s coat. The sun was going down in a pale wash; the palace chimed the hour, thin and distant.

“Inuku,” Matthias said.

Kai didn’t turn to meet him, his eyes were on the horizon. “If you’re here to tell me to eat before court, you can save your breath.”

“I’m here to tell you the happiness isn’t right.”

That made Kai look. Red eyes narrowed, playful gloss gone in a blink. “Come again?”

Matthias stepped beside him, gloved hands folded behind his back, the posture of a man bracing for recoil. “The thread is leaking. I’ve felt it in you since the day you brought her back. And Morghana has confirmed it.”

A muscle feathered in Kai’s jaw. “Morghana.”

“She tested the wards herself.” Matthias’s voice stayed even, iron wrapped in wool. “The Ghost Thread is pressing. Your joy—gods, Inuku, I want it for you—but the seal has cracked. Something that doesn’t belong is breathing through it.”

Kai let out a breath that fogged and tore in the wind. He turned away from the view, away from the clean line of snow, and set both palms on the stone rail as if he meant to crush it. When he spoke, his voice was low and very calm.

“What do you want me to do, Matthi?” He didn’t raise it; he didn’t need to. “Kill her and my child? Because that seems like something more in your wheelhouse.”

The words struck deeper than any blade. Matthias didn’t flinch. He’d trained himself out of that when the first wars carved his youth away. But the truth of it went through him anyway—old ghosts, old choices, the stink of smoke and the silence after.

He shook his head once. “No, Inuku.” A breath. “I wouldn’t ask you that.”

Kai’s grip on the railing flexed and eased. He stared at Matthias a long moment, searching his brother’s face for a trap, a lecture, a leash. Finding none, he looked away, out over the gardens where lanterns were winking to life like small, stubborn stars.

“So what then?” He broke off, jaw tight. 

Matthias let the wind take a second before he answered. “We contain it. We do not sever it—Morghana says that would only drive it back into you. We hold the boundary until it stops hunting for openings.” He looked at Kai, the set of his mouth a line between prayer and order. “We keep you alive and sane. We keep them safe.”

“Them,” Kai echoed quietly, as if the word were a glass he didn’t dare drop.

“A mother and a child,” Matthias said. “Not bargaining chips. Not sacrifices.”

Kai’s laugh was humourless and soft. “You, of all people, saying that to me.”

“I am not proud of what I’ve done,” Matthias said, and the simplicity of it felt like stepping onto a blade and deciding to keep walking. “But I will always protect you.”

Wind tugged their coats. Below, a fox of lanternlight ran along the garden paths.

Kai finally turned to face him fully. The bravado had slipped; what was left was a man with a heartbeat bruised by hope. “If the thread keeps leaking, it will find me anyway.”

“Then we make it work to reach you.” Matthias’s voice gentled, the way it had when Kai was small and furious with a world that wouldn’t love him properly. 

Kai studied him, red eyes searching. “And what if I say no?”

A beat. Matthias didn’t look away. 

“I will do what needs to be done,” Matthias said, the promise sharpening his voice. “Even if it makes you hate me.”

Kai huffed. “I always forgive you.”

“Not always,” Matthias said softly.

Kai let that lie. He pushed away from the rail, squaring his coat, raising the mask of his grin as if he were lifting a shield. “I have to see her,” he said. “Just… let me think about it.”

“Go,” Matthias said.

Kai clapped his shoulder once—hard, grateful—and strode for the doors, the bright, infuriating life of him trailing in his wake.

Left alone, Matthias set his palm flat to the stone where Kai’s hand had pressed, feeling the cold dig into his bones. The wind worried his cloak. Somewhere behind the tapestry in his study, a crack in a glass heart took another quiet breath. 

His brother wouldn’t listen to reason. He would have to take matters into his own hands.

He closed his eyes and chose, again, the road that didn’t use steel.

~

The lamps in Hymara’s apothecary wing burned low, glass chimneys throwing teal light across polished jars. Turia was bent over a mortar, grinding resin with slow, steady force, when he heard the footsteps. Not servants. Too measured. Too heavy.

He didn’t look up. “I don’t get visits from you after midnight, uncle. Which means you want something you can’t ask in daylight.”

Matthias stepped into the glow, white hair catching the fire-mist. His expression was iron, but his hands were folded too tightly behind his back.

“You’ve noticed it too,” Matthias said. “The air around your father.”

Turia set down the pestle. He kept his tone flat. “He’s been restless. The chrysalis unsettled.”

“Not restless.” Matthias’s voice sharpened. “Haunted. The Ghost Thread is leaking. And it’s chosen her.”

Turia stilled. He didn’t need the name. He had seen Tala once, with her firebird feathers and the quiet herbalist’s hands. He had seen her laugh in Kai’s presence. “She’s pregnant.”

Matthias’s silence was confirmation enough.

Turia’s eyes narrowed. “And you came to me because you’ve already considered the cleanest solution—”

“No.” The word landed like a blade. Matthias’s gaze lifted, fierce. “Killing her or the child only forces the Thread back into him. It’ll roost in his chrysalis again, split him apart until he can’t tell what’s real. I won’t do that to him. To you. Not again.”

The words not again hung unspoken between them like smoke.

Turia leaned back against the bench, absently rubbing his hand over the place his father had plunged a knife once. “So what then? You want her erased without dying. That’s what you’re circling.”

Matthias’s jaw clenched. “I want her quieted. Held between life and death. A state where she cannot bind him. Where the child can grow, but he won’t remember she ever existed.”

At last Turia looked at him fully, searching his face. “You’re asking me to brew a living death. To make her vanish from his heart, as if she were already gone.”

Matthias didn’t flinch. “You’re the only one who can.”

The silence stretched. Outside, Hymara’s waterfalls whispered, perfumed mist rising against the glass. Turia’s gaze dropped to his own hands—hands that healed, and poisoned, and sometimes blurred the line between the two.

When he spoke again, his voice was quiet. “You know what you’re asking will cut both ways. You take her from him, you cut him too. The hole will stay, even if he doesn’t know why.”

Matthias lowered his head. For a moment, the Tsar looked only like a brother who had carried too many lifetimes. “Better a hole than a ghost that eats him alive.”

Turia exhaled through his nose, slow and sharp. He pushed away from the bench. “Then bring her to me. I’ll do what you ask. But when he finds the truth—if he finds it—don’t you dare put my name in your mouth. You’ll carry that blood yourself.”

Matthias nodded once. Gravely. “I already do.”

[cheshamstreetbreakdowns]

It's Done

It had been torture. Every second, every heartbeat, every empty day spent in Krau without Kai had been a slow, simmering kind of agony.

The palace walls had once been his sanctuary. Now, they felt like a cage.

Every night, as the snow whispered against the windows, Katsuka closed his eyes and saw Kai — that sharp grin, the teasing glint in his crimson eyes, the warmth of arms that had once held him so tightly it had stolen his breath. Gods, he wanted to run back to him, to disappear into that warmth and never leave.

But Mitsuki’s voice lingered in his mind, quiet but firm.

Not yet, Kit Kat... You need to do this right... No loose threads...

So he stayed. He walked the motions Mitsuki had laid out, step by careful step, preparing to sever the ties that had bound him here for centuries.

And he tried — he really tried — to act like everything was fine. He smiled when expected, laughed when prompted, and drifted through the familiar hallways with a grace that looked effortless. But inside, he was burning. Hollowed out and raw, aching with the quiet knowledge that he was unraveling piece by piece.

He had known heartache before. Gods, hadn’t his love for Anubis been nothing but centuries of unspoken longing and carefully tended wounds?

But now… now it was different.

Anubis felt like a ghost now, a faded painting of a life he used to want. Her touches were soft, polite, nothing like the way Kai held him as though his very existence mattered. With Kai it was never tame, never measured. It was fierce, unrelenting, the kind of affection that swept him off his feet and left him dizzy.

And now he knew what that kind of love felt like.

And nothing else — not even Anubis’ kindness, not even home itself — felt like enough anymore.

~

The morning it happened, the snow was still falling, soft and steady, a quiet hush settling over the palace grounds.

Katsuka sat at the breakfast table, forcing himself to eat, his mind miles away. He didn’t notice the way Raki’s gaze lingered on him, sharp and assessing, until their eyes met.

His son smiled — bright, warm — but it didn’t reach his eyes.

When the meal was over, Raki’s hand brushed his shoulder, a touch that lingered just a beat longer than usual. A silent signal. A quiet request.

Katsuka followed without a word.

He expected to be led back to Raki’s office, to the orderly room where papers always sat stacked in neat piles and the scent of ink and parchment hung in the air. Instead, Raki guided him to one of the smaller sitting rooms, the one tucked away near the west wing where no one ever went unless they wanted to be left alone.

The fire was low in the hearth, flames licking lazily at charred logs. Raki didn’t sit. He moved to stand near the mantel, his fingers fidgeting with the thin gold chain around his neck, tracing the small seashell pendant as though grounding himself with the familiar texture.

Katsuka lingered near the doorway, arms crossed, watching his son’s shoulders tense and shift.

“Spit it out,” he said at last, his voice a tired sigh, heavier than he intended. “You’ve never been one to mince your words.”

“What’s going on, Dad?”

The softness in Raki’s voice cut deeper than any blade. He didn’t look at him, not at first — just kept worrying the seashell between his fingers, like he was afraid of what he’d see if he turned.

“What do you mean?” Katsuka asked, but the words rang hollow even to his own ears.

“You know what I mean,” Raki said flatly. And when he finally looked at him, the weight of his gaze pinned Katsuka in place. Fierce. Searching. “Are you… not happy here anymore?”

The question landed like a punch to the gut. Katsuka’s breath caught, sharp and startled, and for a moment, all he could do was stare.

Because Raki understood.

Gods, his son understood him — maybe better than he understood himself.

“I want…” Katsuka’s voice trembled, the word fragile, breaking before it fully formed. He swallowed, took a slow breath, and tried again. “I want to leave.”

Silence settled thick between them.

Raki didn’t move. Didn’t speak. He just turned back to the fire, his eyes following the slow collapse of a glowing ember as it crumbled into ash.

Finally, with a slow nod, he murmured, “Come to the office. I’ll start drafting the papers.”

He hesitated then, finally meeting Katsuka’s gaze.

“Dad.”

The single word was sharp, grounding.

Katsuka blinked, startled by the weight in it.

“If I do this,” Raki said, quiet but steady, “you cut all ties with Krau. This—” he gestured vaguely, the firelight catching the gold at his throat, “—will no longer be your home. Are you… are you ready for that?”

Panic hit him, sudden and suffocating, tightening around his ribs until his lungs seized. The room blurred at the edges, too sharp and too quiet all at once.

Mitsuki. Mitsuki, I—

You’re okay, Kit Kat… The familiar voice threaded through his mind, calm and steady. I’ve got you... This is what you wanted... Remember?... This is for him... For both of you...

Raki’s voice cut through, softer now but no less firm. “You won’t be under Krau’s protection anymore. Or mine.”

Katsuka forced the air into his lungs, shaky and uneven, and nodded.

“This is what I want,” he said, his jaw clenching tight as he stepped forward, arms wrapping around his son in a fierce, grounding embrace. “I’ll be okay. Don’t worry.”

“I’ll always worry,” Raki murmured, and this time his voice cracked, betraying the quiet storm of emotion he was holding back. His arms tightened, almost desperate. “You’re my dad. I love you.”

For a moment, Katsuka couldn’t speak. Couldn’t find words big enough for the swell of emotion in his chest. So he just held him, his shoulders trembling, his throat tight with unshed tears.

When he finally pulled back, his eyes were wet, rimmed in red — but his smile… his smile was soft and true.

“Right,” he whispered, voice thick but steady. “Let’s go draft some papers.”

~

Katsuka moved through Krau like a ghost, sorting through his affairs with steady hands and an unsteady heart.

Raki had been surprisingly helpful — surprisingly gentle, even — though never subtle about how pissed he was.

“I still think you’re an asshole,” he’d said flatly one evening, arms crossed as he watched Katsuka sign another paper. “But… I get it. I guess.”

Katsuka had teased him then, a weak smirk tugging at his mouth. “More angelic than you realise.”

To which Raki had rolled his eyes and shot back, “Or maybe you’re just old. People don’t lose their shit over love anymore. We’re not in the stone age.”

That had been easier than this.

Because now, all that was left was Anubis.

The thought alone made his chest seize, made him want to turn around and disappear back into the safety of his shadows — but Mitsuki’s sharp voice anchored him.

Don’t be a bitch... You got this far... Follow through now… you’re not a Krau citizen anymore...

So he went to find her.

He already knew where she’d be.

The gardens were quiet this time of morning, brushed with frost, sunlight filtering pale through skeletal branches. She was there, as he knew she would be, humming softly as she tended to her plants. The sight of her — wings folded neatly, hair pinned up, serene in her own little world — cracked something deep in him.

When she looked up, her face lit up, and the hum in her throat died away.

"What a surprise to see you here." She chuckled, but her smile faded slightly the longer she looked at him. "Shall we go for a walk?"

His throat felt tight. Still, he nodded.

His heart thundered in his chest, screaming at him that this was a mistake, something he couldn't take back, but he ignored it and nodded.

They walked in silence through the winding paths until the castle disappeared behind them, until there was nothing but snow and trees and the quiet crunch of their steps. Then she slowed, her pace deliberate, her expression unreadable.

“There’s something I think we need to discuss,” she said at last, voice careful — careful enough to make his ears twitch.

He huffed, a humorless sound. “Did you want me to go first?”

“Please,” she said, arms folding across her chest, making her look impossibly small.

“I don’t…” He stopped, rubbed the heel of his hand against his forehead. “I don’t know how to start.”

“Start by telling me the other woman’s name.”

His head shot up, eyes wide, mouth opening but no words coming out. She didn’t look at him — not directly — but her jaw clenched tight, the tremor in her hands betraying her calm.

Every instinct in him screamed to lie, to soften this for her, but he swallowed hard and forced the truth out.

"It's Kai."

The reaction was instant.

Her wings flared wide, the sudden rush of air snapping branches and shaking snow loose from the trees. Her eyes — bright and sharp like twin stars — pinned him where he stood.

“Out of all the ridiculous things you’ve done,” she hissed, fury vibrating through every word, “Kai? Kai?! What a phenomenally stupid thing to do, Katsuka.”

He flinched but didn’t move, his shadows curling low and defensive around his feet. Mitsuki alert and ready to step in at a moment's notice.

“Are you trying to get our son killed? What is wrong with you?!” She stormed forward, all sharp edges and rage, a hurricane in motion. “Kai?!”

“Yes, Kai,” he snapped back, voice rough, ears flat to his skull. “Is it so impossible to think someone other than you could love me? That I could—”

“No. No, you don’t get to play the martyr here,” she cut in, eyes blazing. “I gave you so many chances—”

“But I was never good enough, was I?” His voice was low, dangerous, trembling. “Not for you. Not for your impossible standards.”

“Don’t you twist this into my fault,” she shot back, hands curling into fists. “You cheated on me.”

“Yes.” The word landed sharp and cold, his mouth curving into a bitter smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “And I’m not apologising for it.”

The slap rang out like a gunshot, sharp in the frozen quiet.

For a moment, everything stilled. Katsuka froze, cheek stinging, heart pounding. He hadn’t meant to say that. It was cruel — unnecessarily, irreparably cruel.

“I—”

“Shut your mouth,” she snapped, voice shaking. “I need a damn minute.”

She turned away from him, pacing the snow-crusted ground, wings trembling, muttering to herself in a language older than either of them. He stayed where he was, frozen and small, hands clenched against his knees, letting her rage echo through the trees.

Finally, she stopped. Slowly, deliberately, she pulled the glimmering band from her finger and threw it at him. It landed in the snow at his feet with a quiet thunk.

“It was never official,” she said, voice raw.

For a moment, all he could do was stare at it, the dull glint of metal half-buried in white. He’d known this was coming. It still didn’t feel real.

“What were you going to say?” he asked finally, softly.

She hesitated, gaze flicking to him. The anger bled out of her all at once, leaving only exhaustion. When she laughed, it was bitter and cracked.

“That I didn’t think I could give you what you needed,” she whispered. “That no matter how hard I tried, I was never enough. And now…” Her voice broke. “Now I know I was right.”

“Anu—please,” he breathed, stepping forward, hand brushing hers for the briefest moment.

She sank to her knees, burying her face in her hands, shoulders shaking. “I kept thinking… if I just tried harder. If I just… fixed whatever was broken between us, maybe we’d find our way back. But maybe…” She looked up at the sky, voice quiet. “Maybe if we’d had the chance all those years ago, we’d have known better. Known that we were never going to fit.”

“But then we wouldn’t have Ayleia. Or Raki,” he murmured, throat tight.

Her laugh was quiet, almost fond, even as it cracked under the weight of her grief.

“I should go,” she whispered. “Tomorrow, I’ll—”

“No.” His voice was firm, steady for the first time that day. “No, darling. I’ll go. This is your home now.”

She stared at him, wide-eyed, tears shimmering.

“I was never meant to stay here after Raki took the title,” he said quietly. “Being here… it’s like standing shoulder-to-shoulder with him every day. It’s not fair to either of us. So I’ll leave. I’ll give you space. I—” His voice faltered. “I love you. I always will.”

She smiled at that, soft and trembling, then turned without a word, wings trembling as she walked back toward the castle.

He stood there, alone in the snow, listening to the faint sound of her sobs until the silence swallowed even that.

~

The office was quiet when they entered, that heavy, suffocating kind of quiet that made every small sound — the creak of the door, the soft pad of footsteps — feel too loud.

Raki moved first, his boots silent on the thick rug as he crossed to his desk. The air smelled of parchment, cedar, and the faint tang of sealing wax, the same scent that had clung to this room for centuries.

Katsuka lingered by the door for a moment, his eyes tracing the familiar lines of the room — the shelves stacked with neat records, the soft glow of the warded lanterns, the hum of old magic settled deep in the walls.

This had been home once.

Now, it felt like he was standing in someone else’s story.

“Sit,” Raki said, not looking up as he pulled a stack of parchment from a drawer. His tone was clipped, efficient.

Katsuka crossed the room and sank into the chair opposite the desk, tails coiling around his legs like they could anchor him here.

The sharp scratch of quill on parchment filled the room as Raki began to write. His penmanship was clean, precise, but his hand moved fast — like he’d been preparing for this moment for weeks.

Katsuka sat in silence, letting the sound of ink and paper fill the space. But the silence stretched, heavy and brittle, until Raki broke it.

“You know I’m still pissed at you, right?”

Katsuka blinked, startled, looking up to see his son staring at him with that piercing, unflinching gaze that reminded him so much of… himself.

“I figured,” Katsuka said quietly, his voice rough but even.

“Good,” Raki shot back. “Because you should know. You’re blowing up the only life you’ve ever known, and you’re hurting Mom while you do it. Don’t think I’m gonna pretend that’s fine.”

The words hit like stones, blunt and sharp. Katsuka flinched, but he didn’t look away.

“I never wanted to hurt her,” he murmured.

“No one wants to,” Raki said flatly, setting the quill down for a moment so he could pin his father with a stare sharp enough to cut. “But you still did. And she knows. And she’s trying really damn hard not to show it, but I see it.”

Katsuka’s throat tightened, guilt blooming heavy and sour in his chest. “I…” He stopped, swallowed hard, then started again. “I can’t stay, Raki. Not like this. Not when I—” His voice faltered, but he forced himself to keep going. “Not when my heart is somewhere else.”

“Yeah,” Raki muttered, picking up the quill again, eyes dropping to the paper. “I get it. Doesn’t make it suck any less.”

The words hung in the air, stark and honest. Katsuka wanted to say something — anything — but nothing he could offer would make it better.

The steady scratch of the quill started again. After a moment, Raki sighed.

“Look,” he said, quieter this time, his tone less sharp, “I’ve been… working on this.” He tapped the parchment with the end of the quill. “I built in clauses — quiet ones. If you ever want to come back, if you ever want to reclaim your citizenship, you can. No barriers. No penalties. It’ll take one signature and a witness.”

Katsuka blinked, stunned. “…You did that for me?”

Raki finally looked up, expression flat but eyes bright with something softer beneath the surface. “Yeah. Because as much as I want to strangle you right now, you’re still my dad. And this—” He gestured vaguely between the papers and Katsuka. “—this doesn’t have to be goodbye. Just… a see you later.”

A laugh that wasn’t really a laugh broke from Katsuka’s chest, sharp and shaky. “You didn’t have to—”

“Yes, I did,” Raki interrupted, blunt and unyielding. “You’re leaving to be with someone you love. I get that. Doesn’t mean I’m not angry, but… I get it. So, yeah. I made sure you’d have a way back if you ever wanted it. You don’t burn down your home just because you’ve found another one.”

Something in Katsuka cracked then, the tension in his chest loosening just enough to let the sting of tears rise behind his eyes.

“Thank you,” he said, voice rough, almost breaking.

“Yeah, well,” Raki muttered, looking back down at the parchment, “don’t make me regret it.”

Katsuka huffed a soft, humorless sound, though the corners of his mouth tilted up. “I won’t.”

Raki didn’t answer, just handed over the document when the ink dried, the bold title at the top staring back at Katsuka like an accusation:

Renunciation of Citizenship.

He stared down at the words, feeling the weight of centuries pressing into his hands. Every memory, every piece of himself tied to Krau, tethered to this parchment like threads ready to be cut.

“You ready?” Raki asked, and his voice was softer now, careful.

Katsuka looked up, meeting that sharp, unflinching gaze, and for the first time that day, he felt steady.

“Yes.”

The quill trembled only once before his hand stilled, strokes deliberate as he signed his name — each letter a clean, permanent cut through the past.

When it was done, he set the quill down with care, staring at the paper for a long, quiet moment. The seal pressed into the corner gleamed in the low light, sharp and final.

Raki reached for the parchment, folding it carefully, sealing it with a steady hand. The click of the stamp echoed through the room like a closing door.

“That’s it,” he said, voice steady but tight. “You’re free.”

Free.

The word sat heavy in his chest — sharp with loss, sweet with possibility. He thought of Kai, of the wild grin and the warmth of strong arms, and for the first time, the ache in his chest eased.

Now it was time to go find his wolf.

[cheshamstreetbreakdowns]

Found You

Kai lay still, awake far earlier than he needed to be, eyes fixed on the empty side of the bed.

His hand drifted across the linen sheets, fingers brushing the faint imprint Katsuka had left behind. It was already fading. He let his palm settle there for a moment, then slowly smoothed it flat with a sigh, as if tucking away something fragile and unspoken.

He lingered a moment longer, then threw off the covers and swung his legs over the edge of the bed. The chill of the stone floor made him wince slightly, but he didn’t complain. He just moved—mechanical, practiced. The same way he always did when the days started empty.

One by one, the layers of his attire were pulled into place. A red tunic first, the soft fabric clinging briefly to his still-warm skin. Then the deep navy coat with gold trim, heavier, more formal. He slid on his gloves last, pausing a moment to flex his fingers as if shaking off the last traces of sleep—or longing.

He caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror across the room—every bit the Ice Wolf Tsar once again.

Duty waits.

But as he turned to leave, his gaze flicked once more toward the bed, just for a moment. Then he walked out.

Silence closed in behind him.

“No tea for the mistress this morning?” one of the maids asked gently, her hands folded before her as she caught sight of Kai striding through the corridor, his crimson cloak billowing behind him.

Kai didn’t break his pace.

“Kitten found her way home,” he muttered, the words low and tight, as if he’d rehearsed them a hundred times and still didn’t believe them.

The maid blinked, confused. “Home?”

He paused just long enough to glance over his shoulder. His blood-red eyes flicked toward the east wing—the one Katsuka had stayed in when he arrived, the one still untouched that morning. “And it’s not here.”

There was a sharpness to his voice, like frost laced in silk. Before she could offer comfort or ask where the ‘mistress’ had gone, Kai had already disappeared past the marble arches and down the garden steps, boots crunching over dew-covered stone.

The wind carried the faintest whisper of gold-trimmed fabric trailing behind him, but the weight he left behind lingered like a closed door and a cup left to go cold.

The frost-bitten air clung to Kai’s breath as he walked deeper into the forest, each step crunching lightly beneath his boots. The trees stood tall and silent, their skeletal branches dusted in shimmering frost, bowing beneath the weight of winter. Sunlight filtered through in soft beams, catching the frozen mist that trailed behind him like a ghost.

His coat was open, collar upturned against the cold, but he hardly felt it. The sting of ice was welcome—grounding. Honest.

He ran a gloved hand along the bark of an ancient pine, then paused to look up through the canopy. The silence here was different. Not lonely. Just… still.

He didn’t leave me, Kai thought to himself. He was never really mine to begin with.

The wind stirred in response, shaking snow from a nearby branch that pattered down softly at his feet.

He came because he needed shelter. That’s all, he went on, more firmly now, pacing slowly along the ridgeline. Refuge. Not a throne. Not a vow. I gave him peace for a while.

His hand drifted to the edge of his crimson sash, fingertips brushing the embroidered gold wolf insignia.

He didn’t run. He just remembered where he belongs.

The words tasted bitter on his tongue, but he spoke them anyway—again and again, as if repetition could turn them into truth. Snowflakes caught in his bright blue hair, his breath fogging as he finally stopped by a frozen stream, the surface glittering like glass.

For a moment, he stared at his reflection—blood-red eyes over pale skin, the flicker of pain too brief to settle.

Then he sat on a fallen log and tipped his head back, eyes closed, letting the winter wind cut through him.

It was fine.

He hadn’t been abandoned. He was never promised anything.

Still, his gloved hand curled slightly into a fist on his knee, and when he exhaled again, it trembled just enough to betray him.

~

Kai tried to busy himself whilst Katsuka was away and working through his personal affairs. He spent more time with his grandchildren, and it helped distract him. Watching them cause chaos until they tired out.

Kai settled with the twins tucked in against him—Auren at his ribs, Seraphine’s fingers looped through his bootlace—and began to sing. No grand words, just a cradle-simple tune that moved like falling snow:

“Hush now, little wolf—hush…

snow is drifting slow—hush…

footsteps fade to white—hush…

I am here, I’m here—breathe slow.”

Auren’s ears unpinched one by one; his tail slowed. Seraphine’s breath matched Kai’s, light and even. He kept the melody small and steady, a trail through quiet pines:

“Hush now, winter pup—hush…

moonlight marks the road—hush…

pack will keep the watch—hush…

I am here, I’m here—breathe slow.”

The door clicked softly. Matthias paused, listening, then crossed the room and knelt to gather the wooden animals without a clack.

“I don’t know where I heard this,” Kai murmured between lines. “It’s stuck in my head.”

Matthias’s voice was barely above the tune. “Tatiana sang it to you,” he said. “When you were small and pretended you weren’t sleepy.”

Kai didn’t break the song—just let the next verse carry his breath out slow, the corners of his mouth lifting.

“Hush now, little wolf—hush…

snow will hide your tracks—hush…

winds are soft tonight—hush…

I am here, I’m here—breathe slow.”

Auren sagged warm against him; Seraphine’s fingers loosened on his sleeve. Kai ended on a held note that thinned to a thread and disappeared like snowfall in fur.

Silence took the room, gentle and whole. Two tiny, even breaths answered it.

Matthias eased a blanket up over small shoulders. As he stood, his knuckles brushed the bright blue at Kai’s temple. “Keep singing, Inuku,” he whispered. “It suits them.”

Kai watched the twins, unguarded. “It suits us,” he breathed, and let the quiet be the last verse.

~

Night had thinned to that blue hour when the palace forgot to breathe. Kai lay half-reclined on the divan, shirt unbuttoned, Auren a warm weight on his chest. The boy had wriggled free of his blanket and sprawled there like a tiny king, pale lashes on his cheeks, wolf ears twitching at dreams only he could hear.

Kai pretended to read a report and did not turn the page for ten minutes.

Auren’s hand—small, star-warm—slid up and settled over the hard plane of Kai’s sternum where the chrysalis beat its slow, disciplined rhythm. The touch should’ve been nothing. Instead the rhythm… listened.

A faint answering thrum stirred in Kai’s bones, like a second heartbeat waking underneath the first.

Auren’s eyes opened, irises washing to milk-white. When he spoke, it braided two tones—his own soft chirp, and a bell-clear soprano that did not belong to him.

“Found you,” the voices said together.

The air changed. Not colder—closer. The room inhaled the scent of warm ash and herbs steeped in honey. Auren’s fingers pressed, splayed; Kai’s body reacted without permission—chrysalis instinct flared, armor of thought racing across him and then halting, stalled by something it recognized.

A soft crack like thin ice.

Kai sat up, careful not to jostle the child. Across the room, the warded cabinet—onyx set in runic silver—remained shut, sigils dormant. Behind its glass, the orb he had sworn not to look at gleamed like a caged star.

“Auren,” Kai murmured, gentling the small hand from his chest, “Little wolf, what did you touch?” The boy’s white bled back toward light violet. He didn’t speak—too little for words—but he made a hushed, pleased sound and nuzzled closer, cheek to Kai’s heartbeat. One tiny palm patted twice over Kai’s sternum, then curled, possessive—like claiming a hearth.

The chrysalis answered that touch with a low resonance—almost tender—then stuttered, a dissonant beat skipping through its discipline. Healing energy gathered unbidden around an old scar on Kai’s ribs, and for the first time in years it didn’t knit with cold precision. It wove softer, slower… like thread through cloth.

Kai stood without setting Auren down and crossed to the cabinet. No aura leak. No sabotage. The runes slept. The lock was true.

The orb pulsed like a heartbeat as he stepped close. In the reflection, for a heartbeat, the room wasn’t his: a different window, gentler light, strings of dried leaves and red feathers—someone humming just out of sight. A child’s chalk wolf on the wall, drawn with two tails and too many teeth.

Then only his face again—red eyes, too still.

Behind him, Auren gave a small, breathy laugh as if answering someone’s game only he could see, then sagged bonelessly into sleep. A damp patch of drool warmed the open V of Kai’s shirt.

Kai watched the sleeping boy. Watched the orb.

Instinct said: reseal, reinforce, bury. The other instinct—older, more dangerous—said: reach through and take what had called him home.

He turned away. He did neither.

Instead, he laid Auren back on the divan and drew a thin thread of chrysalis outward, shaping it into a warding lattice that hovered over the cabinet’s face. It didn’t touch the runes. It tuned itself to him—and to the sleeping child whose palm still remembered his heartbeat. Not a prison. A listener.

“Found me, did you,” he said to the quiet. “All right. I’m listening.”

The room did not answer. But somewhere in the bone-deep hum of his chrysalis, the second heartbeat kept time—off by a breath, stubborn as memory.

~

Foxfire hit like a warm hand to the face—neon foxes chasing each other up the brick, bass heavy enough to rattle ribs, fog machines breathing out sweet chemical winter. Kai’s kids—grown and smug on home turf—had him bracketed like security and stage crew.

“We didn’t get to celebrate your birthday, old man,” one of them grinned, already shoving a glitter-stamped wristband into his palm. “So let’s do it now. You’re not allowed to sulk.”

“I never sulk,” Kai lied, and let them tow him inside.

The club had no corners, only heat and colour. Drinks appeared; smoke curled into his mouth like old habits returning without apology. He laughed when he was meant to, leaned on the bar with the practiced indifference of a man who’s always been watched, and let the music thread him to the floor. Bodies—oiled, near naked, painted in foxfire orange—brushed past, leaving streaks of glitter on his sleeves. Someone kissed his cheek and vanished. Someone else lit his cigarette with their eyes on his mouth. He surrendered to it, finally: the bad decisions, the animal joy, the press of the night insisting he stay.

His kits claimed a booth like a throne; they shouted toast after toast. “To being impossible,” Shadi said. “To living long enough to be a problem,” said Hakuvu. He drank to both and smoked until the haze made the blood-thrum in his chest feel like company.

He laughed at a joke he wouldn’t remember when morning came.

A blaze of red sliced the crowd—hair like a struck match, flying as its owner shoved through dancers. It was nothing at first, just colour. Then the head turned and ice-blue eyes cut through strobe and smoke and found his.

Everything slowed.

Sound peeled back until the bass was only pulse, until the pulse was only his. The room—sweat, perfume, the wet exhale of fog—dropped into a bowl of silence. His cigarette hung stupidly off his lower lip. He heard himself make a small sound, a soft, shocked gasp that seemed too private to exist outside his own skull.

The chrysalis answered.

A single bright skip—then a hard, luminous thump beneath his sternum, as if a door he’d sealed on purpose swung open without asking. The music filtered back in torn strips; the lights smear; a thousand hands lift and drop in molasses. But the line between them—him and those eyes—stayed knife-clear.

He knew the shape of this ignition. It was the same one that made emperors forgive him and enemies decide living was preferable to arguing. It was the heart, deciding.

“Dad?” Nuruko called, alert now, seeing the shift. “You good?”

He dragged a breath. The smoke tasted different on the exhale—cleaner, electric. “Yeah,” he said, and wasn’t.

The red cut closer, shouldering through heat and laughter, foxfire painting the edges of hair into a halo of flame. The eyes never left him. People parted in the lazy, reverent way they do when gravity changed its mind.

His kids were talking tactics—who is that, do we like them, do we remove them—but he was already moving. Glass down. Cigarette crushed. Smile unsheathed.

The night returned in pieces—the bass, the sweat, the crush of nearly bare shoulders—but a new metronome owned him now. It beat once, twice, brighter each time, and everything else in Foxfire learns the rhythm or gets out of the way.

He cut through the bodies like he owned the aisle. Closer now—the red is flame, the eyes are winter, and Foxfire’s heat beads on her collarbone like dew on glass.

He stopped in front of her. She tipped her chin, expectant, amused, waiting for the line he’d rehearsed his whole life.

He opened his mouth.

Nothing.

The bass dropped. The lights strobed. His throat was a locked door and every word was on the wrong side of it. He heard the small, ridiculous scrape of breath he made—almost a laugh, almost a plea.

Her smile tilted, just enough to be invitation.

The heart answered first.

He surged forward, palms bracketing her face as if she might vanish between blinks. His fingers spread into her hair, thumbs at her cheekbones,

and crushed his mouth to hers—no preamble, no cleverness, just a kiss that feels like drowning by choice—no air, no patience, just heat and want and the shock of finally.

She made a startled sound against him and then it wasn’t startled at all—her fingers curled in his shirt, pulling, the room falling away as the beat ran through both of them like a wire.

For a moment there was only pressure—hungry, unashamed, suffocating in the way a wave is when you choose not to come up yet. When he finally dragged back, the world returned in fragments: a cheer from somewhere, a jealous hiss from somewhere else, foxfire tracing the damp curve of her lower lip.

He was breathing hard. So was she. The red strands clung to his cheek like sparks.

“Hi,” he managed, raw as a new match.

Her ice-blue eyes glittered. “Natalya,” she answered the question he hadn’t asked but wanted to know.

~

Morning arrived like a fist.

Light knifed between the curtains; his skull rang with leftover bass. Kai surfaced to the smell of sweat, smoke, and someone else’s perfume—fox-sweet, sharp at the edges. He lay still a second, counting breaths until the room stopped tilting, then pushed himself up and rubbed the grit from his eyes with the heels of his hands.

Bright scraps of last night flashed and snapped—neon foxes, heat-stripped bodies, a cigarette ember like a red star, Natalya said against his mouth like a dare.

He blinked through the blur.

There was a redhead in his bed.

Flame hair spilled over his pillow, haloed in morning light. One arm tucked under her cheek, the other thrown across the sheet he must have pulled up over both of them sometime between laughing and forgetting. Her lashes were dark against pale skin. The steady rise and fall of her shoulders made a small, disbelieving sound catch in his throat.

“Right,” he whispered to no one, and let out a slow, careful breath. He didn’t touch her. He was suddenly afraid she’d vanish if he confirmed she was real.

He slid out of bed, feet finding the cold floor, and padded to the bathroom. The mirror offered a man who’d slept in smoke and sweat and something like awe—hair a mess, eyes red-rimmed. He turned the shower on too hot and stepped in, letting the water drum the noise out of his head. Soap cut the club from his skin; steam loosened the clamp around his temples. He braced a hand on tile and closed his eyes, just long enough for the memory to sharpen: her mouth, the way the room had fallen away, the clean strike of her name.

When the heat finally chased the worst of the ache back to its kennel, he killed the water and stood listening to the hush. The fear was ridiculous and total: that he’d open the door and the bed would be flat, the pillow empty, the night a trick of neon and need.

He toweled off, dragged a clean shirt over damp skin, and moved quietly through the steam.

Back in the doorway he paused, breath held, eyes adjusting.

She was still there. Red hair, steady breathing, one hand now curled in the sheet where his shoulder had been.

Kai let out the air he’d been hoarding and leaned his shoulder on the jamb, a smile tugging uninvited at his mouth—half relief, half trouble. Only then did he cross the room, slow, as if not to startle daylight itself.

[cheshamstreetbreakdowns]

Breaking Up Is Never Easy

It started after the party.

At first, it was small — a subtle ache, a quiet tug whenever his gaze drifted north, to where the snowcapped peaks cut sharp and white against the horizon. But then it grew. Every glimpse of the mountains sent that hollow throb spiraling through his chest, like a thread wound too tight, threatening to snap.

It wasn’t that he wasn’t happy here. Gods, Kai made him happy — in ways Katsuka had never thought possible. But happiness didn’t stop the ache of being away from home. From the winding streets of Krau, the pine forest air tangled in his hair, the familiar chatter of his people, the safe rhythm of family just within reach.

He had never been gone this long.

Now, Kai saw it in him. Katsuka could feel it every time their eyes met — the quiet, worried questions Kai didn’t voice. The way his hand would linger longer at Katsuka’s waist, grounding, as if to say, stay here. With me.

And Katsuka would smile, soft but tight, because he wanted to. He really did.

But wanting didn’t erase the loneliness.

The days grew longer. He wandered the palace gardens, long walks stretched into hours, conversations dwindled to silence when they were alone. The air between them hummed with things unsaid.

One evening, with twilight bleeding violet into the hedges and fountains, Katsuka found himself on a quiet bench deep in the gardens. He stared at the roses in bloom, the delicate petals trembling in the breeze, and finally whispered, “Suki… I need your help.”

The shadows along the path stirred, curled, and climbed into form — Mitsuki emerging in a sweep of smoke, tails flicking lazily behind him. Without a word, he settled beside Katsuka, shoulder pressing against his.

“You ready to talk now?” Mitsuki’s voice was soft, but steady, carrying none of the judgment Katsuka feared.

A soft hum slipped past Katsuka’s lips. He didn’t look at him, just kept his gaze on the gravel path ahead. “I think… I think I know what I want.” His voice was barely there, a fragile thread straining to hold itself together.

Mitsuki tilted his head, studying him quietly. “That’s a start.” His mouth curved with faint amusement, but his eyes were sharp, knowing. “So. Who’s it gonna be, Kit Kat? Just say the words, and I’ll sort out the rest.”

Katsuka inhaled deeply. The garden around him seemed to still — no birdsong, no breeze, just the weight of his own heart hammering in his chest. He sat with it, let the homesickness seep through his bones, the ache of wanting two impossible things at once: to stay here, wrapped in Kai’s arms… and to return to where the world had always made sense.

“I…” His throat tightened. “…I love them both.”

Mitsuki sighed, the sound more fond than frustrated. “Kit Kat, you love many people,” he said, leaning in to nudge him playfully in the ribs. “You still love Elsine, of all people. That wasn’t the question.” He angled his head, expression softening. “I’m asking what you want.”

Katsuka shut his eyes, let his chest rise and fall once, twice, three times. The answer was there, quiet but unshakable, and when it came out, it trembled like the truth often does.

“Him,” Katsuka said, firm despite the quiver threading through his voice. His hands curled tightly in his lap. “I want him.”

For a moment, silence. Then Mitsuki leaned in until their foreheads pressed together, his prescence steady and grounding, the familiar curl of their tails brushing and then twining together like they always did when words weren’t enough.

“Alright,” Mitsuki murmured, quiet but certain. His hand came up to squeeze Katsuka’s shoulder. “Then I'll make a plan. You’ll have to do the hard part, but… you know I’ll always have your back.”

The tightness in Katsuka’s chest loosened, just a fraction. His throat burned as he whispered, “Thank you, Suki.” He didn’t trust himself to say more. The shadows at their feet shifted restlessly, curling and melting into the ground until only one of them remained.

Katsuka wrapped his arms around himself, gaze tilted to the darkening horizon. “Am I doing the right thing?”

You’re following your heart... Mitsuki said simply, as if it was the only truth that mattered. And that’s always the right thing...

~

He didn’t want to leave. Not truly.

The palace had become something dangerous, addictive — not because of the luxury or the endless snow-lit halls, but because of him. Of Kai. Every morning was an indulgence; every night, a quiet kind of surrender. He had never known affection like this before — affection that wrapped itself around him, unrelenting and alive, until it smothered the parts of him that still thought he didn’t deserve it.

And still, the sick twist in his gut wouldn’t let go.

Mitsuki had kept his word — the plan was sound, a clean severance from Anubis that would leave no threads to snare him later — but it required him to return home. To face her. To sign his name to the ending of a life he had once thought he wanted. Divorces were never simple, never quiet.

But that wasn’t what terrified him.

It was Kai. The way the man could be fire and ice all at once, unpredictable and unrelenting in his devotion. Katsuka didn’t know if he could bear to see that wild spark turn cold.

Just tell him... Be honest... For once Kit Kat, just… say it...

By the fire, Katsuka curled his tails around himself, a fragile barricade, and pressed his forehead against his knees. The crackle of the logs filled the silence, too loud in the stillness of the room.

When Kai entered, he didn’t need to speak. He’d always been able to read him too easily.

A quiet chuckle broke the air. Low. Almost amused. “Time to go home?” Kai asked. There was no edge in his voice, no uncertainty — only a quiet, intimate understanding that cut Katsuka deeper than any blade.

“I’m sorry,” Katsuka said, barely above a whisper. His eyes stayed fixed on the fire, unable to lift to Kai’s. Guilt was a raw, gnawing thing in his chest. “I… I miss my home. My family.”

Kai crossed the space between them with a quiet grace that belied his size, gloved fingers cupping Katsuka’s cheek with a tenderness that stole the breath from his lungs. The warmth of that touch made his throat tighten painfully. And when he finally forced himself to meet those crimson eyes, he wished he hadn’t. The hurt there was sharp, unhidden, and entirely his doing.

“If I had my way,” Kai murmured, his voice hushed and tender against the space between them, “I’d keep you here, mine forever. If you’d say yes.”

The words came like a confession — not demanding, not urgent, just true.

Katsuka froze. Words were his weapon, his shield — but now, in the face of such quiet honesty, he found himself stripped bare.

Then the corner of his mouth tugged up, but it wasn’t his usual smirk. It was softer, “Katsuka, I love you.”

It was nothing like Katsuka expected. No thunder, no sharp edges. Just raw, aching truth that seemed to hang in the air, weightless and impossibly heavy all at once.

For a moment, everything stopped. His heart, his thoughts, the world itself. Those words — gods, those words — looped over and over in his mind, burning him from the inside out.

He wanted to say it back. Wanted to tell Kai he didn’t want to leave, that he had chosen him, that everything else was just noise and duty and fear. But Mitsuki’s voice — quiet, steady — anchored him. Reminded him that he had to go. That this wasn’t about wanting.

Kai leaned in and kissed him — slow, certain, sealing the moment before Katsuka could say a word. And then, as he pulled back, a familiar smirk curved his lips.

“It’s alright,” he said softly, lips still grazing Katsuka’s. “You don’t have to say it…”

A beat.

“…again.”

Something in Katsuka cracked.

“Don’t you do this,” he breathed, the words trembling, eyes stinging as tears threatened. He would not cry. He was stronger than that. Strong enough to at least make it to the door. “Don’t make this harder than it already is.”

Kai’s breath left him in a long, weary sigh. A sound that felt like surrender.

“I don’t know if I can wait forever, kitty.”

The words slipped out like a confession, as if he hated himself for admitting it aloud. His eyes didn’t quite meet Katsuka’s — just hovered somewhere near, too burdened by honesty.

“But I know you’re not ready,” he added, softer this time.

Not ready?

The thought rang like a hollow bell in Katsuka’s mind. How could Kai believe that? He had stayed. He had chosen him. Every step, every breath, every soft surrender — hadn’t it been enough?

He swallowed hard.

Kai paused, searching Katsuka’s eyes before offering the smallest, bravest smile he could muster.

“So… you do what you need to do.”

Katsuka felt like he was breaking into a thousand pieces. He kissed him again, desperate this time, a tangle of teeth and tears and everything he couldn’t put into words. It wouldn’t be forever. Just until the threads were cut clean.

“I was always ready,” he whispered against Kai’s mouth, though his voice cracked like splintered glass.

Tears slipped free before he could stop them. He scrubbed them away, frantic, ashamed. Kai didn’t need to see that. Didn’t need to see just how much this hurt.

“It won’t be forever,” Katsuka said, the words ragged and uneven. “I promise you. I’ll come back this time.”

And then, before the walls closed in on him, before his courage shattered completely, he turned and fled.

The ice palace — their palace, their quiet cocoon, the cozy life he had started to build — blurred behind him, and still the echo of Kai’s voice followed, raw and unshakable, as he stepped into the cold.

~

Despite the turmoil clawing at his chest, returning to Krau was like stepping into a familiar embrace. The air here was sharp and clean, laced with pine and winter blossoms, the scent so achingly familiar that it almost undid him. Snow crunched beneath his boots as he crossed the courtyard, and for one fleeting moment, the world felt still — quiet, safe.

Home.

He had never been gone this long before. Not from his country. Not from the old stone walls that had been his sanctuary and his cage in equal measure. Simply breathing it in should have grounded him. Should have soothed the restless storm Kai had left behind in his veins.

It didn’t.

The moment he stepped through the gates, his family was there. Warm arms wrapped around him, pulling him into a crushing hug that left him laughing softly, smiling like nothing had broken inside him. He let them believe the tears glinting in his eyes were from joy — that the sharp ache in his chest was because he had missed them.

Not because he was already missing him.

“I was so worried about you,” Anubis murmured, relief softening her voice as she drew him closer. Her smile was tender, familiar, her kiss light as a whisper against his cheek. “I’m so glad you’re okay.”

Katsuka’s throat burned.

He tilted his head, forced a teasing smirk, and let the lie settle between them like it belonged there. Because if he told her the truth — if she saw the way his hands trembled when they weren’t clenched into fists — everything would crumble too soon.

She didn’t ask where he had been. Didn’t demand explanations. Just welcomed him home, no questions, no judgment. And somehow, that quiet acceptance only made the ache sharper.

The castle had never changed. Every hall, every corridor was the same, down to the faint hum of magic that lingered in the walls. And yet, as he moved through it, he felt like a ghost. Going through the motions. Wearing the old mask of distance and aloofness that had once been second nature — but inside, a storm raged, restless and unrelenting.

At night, Anubis sat him down, her fingers tender as they brushed through his hair, braiding each lock with care before guiding him into bed. She curled against him as she always had, her warmth steady and familiar.

But it wasn’t the same.

He stared at the ceiling, frozen in the stillness, until the quiet pressed in so tightly it hurt.

Because he missed his wolf.

The solid strength of Kai’s arms, the heat of his body, the safety of being held like he was something worth protecting — worth loving. Gods, he could almost hear his laugh in the back of his mind, that low rumble that always settled something wild in him.

And he hated himself for missing him this much.

When Anubis’ breathing evened out, soft and steady in the dark, he slipped away. Silent steps carried him through the quiet corridors, down to the room only he ever visited — his hidden sanctuary of little treasures.

He didn’t bother with lights. His hands knew the way.

Fingers brushed against soft fur, and then he had it — the small plush wolf Kai had given him, worn from years of being clutched too tightly. He pressed it to his chest, a desperate, aching thing, before collapsing into his pile of cushions.

The sob broke free before he could swallow it down.

And then another. And another.

Tears streamed hot and heavy as he curled in tighter, clutching the plush like it could hold him together, like it could chase away the raw, burning ache hollowing him out from the inside.

It’s okay, Kit Kat… The first day was always going to be hard... You’ll get through this…

But the lie tasted bitter.

He couldn’t answer himself. Couldn’t breathe past the weight in his chest.

So he just cried. Cried until the cushions beneath him were damp, until the chill in the room seeped into his bones, until exhaustion dulled the sharp edges of the pain into something bearable — something quiet enough to let him sleep.