kirain

[kirain]

@falesiastuff Happy birthday! 🥳🎁

The music swelled, sinuous and smouldering, curling through the air like smoke. Emmrich's hand rested against the small of Kate's back, guiding her into the next step with precision and care. She moved as if she'd been born for the tango—supple, sleek, utterly entrancing—and yet, she followed his lead with such trust it made his chest ache.

"Breathe," he murmured, more to himself than to her.

Kate's lips curved into the faintest smile, her eyes never leaving his. "I am."

Her leg swept past his in a perfect gancho, the smooth brush of her thigh against his sending a sharp current through his chest.

Focus, he told himself. She's your pupil, and far too young.

He adjusted their pose, shifting her just enough to bring her into a tight ocho. Her hand on his arm was light but steady, and his mind betrayed him with thoughts of what it would feel like to hold her without the pretense of dance.

He forced his gaze to remain stern, but every so often, it drifted—down the line of her neck, the slope of her shoulder.

Lower.

No, he thought. Stop this now.

Their bodies moved in seamless harmony, each step and pivot an unspoken conversation—a push and pull of will and surrender. He led her through a sweeping giro, the flare of her dress catching in the air as her hip glided fleetingly along his. Her skin was warm where their bodies met, and each caress, each subtle press tempted him closer to a line he could never cross.

Not without destroying her.

She was everything polite society loved to scrutinise—young, beautiful, opinionated, unwed. They'd forgive him, of course. A man his age would be called charming, incorrigible, perhaps even enviable. But her? They would cut her to ribbons with their words, and it would be his doing.

"And now," he said with a shudder, "the resolución."

His jaw tightened as he eased her into a final dip, the length of her back bending beneath his hand. His glance slipped downwards, roaming over her throat, her breasts, the intimate secrets she offered so freely. Shame twisted inside him—a furious maelstrom of desire and self-loathing—and he swallowed hard, wrenching his eyes away as guilt seared through his veins.

Mercifully, the music began to wane, the outro descending upon them.

He brought her upright with a delicate swing, but the moment she rose, her chest pressed to his, igniting a vivid blush on his cheeks. He tried to hide it by turning them into a sharper spin, but Kate caught it instantly. She didn't falter, though the corners of her mouth lifted again with a playful, knowing smile.

Suddenly, the timer rang out, its shrill chime cutting through the music like a blade. Simultaneously, the record slowed, the needle scraping softly as the last notes faded to silence.

Emmrich released her at once, stumbling back as though the sound had broken a spell.

As though he'd been burned.

"That's enough for today," he said abruptly, already turning towards the gramophone. "You did well. A few more sessions and you'll be ready for the Campeonato. You must be relieved to—"

Before he could escape, a firm hand seized his arm.

"You like me," Kate said, her voice confident and dangerously sincere. "Don't you?"

He froze. "Kate—"

"And I like you."

Her words landed like a blow, knocking the air from his lungs, his pulse hammering in his ears. He kept his back to her, the weight of propriety like a chain around his heart.

"...I would ruin you," he rasped, his brows furrowed.

She moved around to face him, her hand never leaving his sleeve, her touch a tether that kept him rooted in place.

"Then ruin me."

The world seemed to narrow to the space between them. She was glaring up at him with a look that was both daring and vulnerable—a silent invitation he'd been trying to resist for far too long.

"Kate..." His voice was barely a whisper, heavy with warning and longing both. "You don't know what you're asking."

"I know exactly what I'm asking."

She stepped closer, bridging the last inch between them. Her fingers slid up his arm, lingering at his shoulder. He tried—he truly tried—to pull away, to remind himself of every reason this could never be. But when she tilted her head up, her breath mingling with his, the fight bled out of him.

His hands rose, cupping her cheeks with a tenderness that belied the hunger beneath it.

And then he kissed her.

It was neither gentle nor the careful kiss of a man guarding his reputation. It was a storm breaking, a tide rushing in after years of restraint. Kate melted into him, clutching his jacket, and the room spun around them—every breath stolen, every crash of their lips reckless, as though they meant to devour each other whole.

The music had stopped, but their tango was far from over.

Slowly sharing some drawings I did recently.

I crave a story where Emmrich is a Tango teacher dancer, so I wanted to draw something on it.

[kirain]

His expression is so cute. 🥺

Just finished this commission for @toonybrin ! Millicent is thoroughly enjoying herself and Emmrich is eager to learn but also terrified for his life just a little bit.

Thanks so much for commissioning me, I LOVED doing this piece. It combines several of my favorite things: Qunari Rook, Emmrich, sweet cute fluffy romance, and archery. 💜💚

I'll be opening commissions on this page soon, so if this tickles your fancy (why did I say it like that) keep an eye on this page!

[kirain]

@sofiemystique Forgive me. 🙏

A tense silence settled over the ancient ruin, broken only by the soft scrape of Emmrich's staff shifting against the stone floor and the quiet patter of Allette's boots. Across the chamber, a lone Venatori cultist—evidently in the midst of eating his lunch—glared at the two mages with wild eyes, trembling with a mix of fear and fervour.

Without warning, he drew back his arm and hurled something.

It was neither a dagger nor a spell.

It was... a pickle.

It sailed through the air in a perfect, almost majestic arc, before smacking Allette dead-centre on the forehead with a loud, wet splck!

Time stopped.

Allette blinked, a trail of brine running down the bridge of her nose.

"Darling!" Emmrich yelled, rushing to her side. "Are you all right?"

She didn't respond. She just stood there, motionless, eyes shadowed beneath her fringe, trembling ever so slightly.

"...Allette?"

She clenched her fists. A vein throbbed. The air itself pulsed with danger.

Then, with an inexplicable poof, she transformed into a miniature version of herself—tiny, round, eyes huge and glowing with unholy rage.

She pointed at the Venatori with a stubby finger and shrieked, "NANI?!?!"

The cultist took a step back, confused and vaguely unsettled.

"お前はもう死んでいる!"

Allette launched herself across the chamber like an angry, possessed marshmallow. Before the man could react, she seized him by the collar and force-fed him the very same pickle, shoving it so far down his throat that he staggered back, choking and flailing helplessly.

Muffled sounds of distress gurgled from the cultist's mouth before he collapsed, eyes rolling back as the Fade claimed his soul.

Justice had been served.

Only somewhat satisfied, Allette landed, dusted off her hands, and snapped back to her normal size with a flick of her hair.

"Darling..." Emmrich shuddered, staring at the carnage. "What in the Void—?"

"I HATE pickles!" she hissed.

He flinched. "D-duly noted."

IYKYK

Thank you @silshinobii for the most perfect sticker/emoji ever. It has brought so much laughter, many a "NANI?!?!", and all around joy.

[kirain]

Romanced Emmrich, Lucanis and Davrin reacting to Rook being trapped in the Fade prison?

Oh, you want angst? I'll give you angst. 😌

Emmrich is in ruins, consumed by despair.

He doesn't eat. Doesn't sleep. He barely drinks unless his colleagues force it down his throat.

His library is in chaos—books scattered across the floor, balls of crumpled parchment in every corner, diagrams scrawled on every wall.

He doesn't bathe. Doesn't shave. He can't remember what his bed feels like.

He's passed out on the floor so often—just for a few minutes at a time—it's a miracle his back hasn't snapped in two. It aches. Everything aches. Every limb, every muscle... but nothing hurts more than his heart.

He needs Rook back.

He needs to touch her, to hold her.

He needs to apologise.

For arguing with her, and for telling her to sever the dagger's connection with Ghilan'nain.

This is all his fault.

He pushed her away—and now, he might have killed her.

"Serves you right, Volkarin," Johanna taunts from her pedestal. "I warned you decades ago. With a mind like yours, you were never meant for love."

Her words break him yet further. They shouldn't. He tells himself not to let them.

But they do.

That same evening, he entrusts her to Myrna and Vorgoth—just until he figures out how to cut through the Veil.

Just until he brings Rook back.

His eyes shimmer with frustration as he tries—for the hundredth time—to replicate Solas' blade. The magic is too potent, too unfamiliar. His body is barely holding together. His hands twitch with pain.

"No, please," he begs, as the lyrium cracks and turns to dust on his desk.

Another failure. Too many to count.

He breaks down, slumping into his chair, tears soaking the worthless schematics beneath him.

At this moment, Manfred might have been a comfort—had Emmrich not entrusted the wisp to Myrna as well. Another decision to feel wretched about, but he couldn't bear the confused, restless hisses—the way Manfred kept glancing at the door, expecting Rook to walk in with her usual bright smile.

The poor spirit simply didn't understand why she hadn't come home.

Why it feels so devastatingly empty without her.

"Darling..." Emmrich sobs. "I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry."

Exhaustion pulls him under. The world blurs and spins. He cries until there's nothing left; his tears run dry.

Then he gets back to work.

Lucanis rubs his temples, on the verge of collapse as he watches Spite haul another useless pile of junk from the Fade.

The spirit groans angrily, and Lucanis can barely keep his grip steady as he sips his coffee—the same bitter brew that's kept him upright for days.

As if fretting about Rook weren't enough, he also has to play watchdog.

The first night, after he'd passed out from sheer exhaustion, Spite bolted to the eluvian and tried to return to Tearstone—despite being told, over and over, that the island had been incinerated in a raging inferno.

"No! No more. Coffee!"

Spite swings the half-conscious Crow's arm like a marionette, flinging the mug aside. It shatters, steaming liquid seeping through the cracks in the ground.

Wasted.

"You. Sleep! I find. Rook!"

Lucanis huffs, his patience frayed, his sanity worn thin. In this state, he knows he'd be powerless to help—even if Spite somehow did manage to locate Rook.

But even so, he can't lose control. Not when Spite is this erratic.

"We're going back to the Lighthouse," he says, forcing himself to his feet.

"Not. Without. Rook!"

"Enough," Lucanis scoffs. "The team is working themselves to the brink trying to find answers. Meanwhile, you're rock hunting."

"I'm. Rook hunting!"

"You're useless, is what you are... and so am I."

He turns to leave, but a sudden, agonising pain lances through his body, every nerve firing at once. He chokes on a gasp, then clenches his teeth as his legs buckle and blood trickles from his nose.

"I. HATE. YOU!" Spite screams, and with a furious howl, he yanks an avalanche of rubble from the Fade—so much that it drains them both, dropping Lucanis to his knees.

As the dust settles, an uncomfortable silence follows.

They catch their breath amidst the mess: broken stairs, crumbled statues, scattered cobblestone—everything Spite dragged into the world, desperate and directionless.

Lucanis, always so stoic and composed, braces himself on his hands. His head hangs low, chest heaving. He can't tell if the droplets on his face are sweat... or tears.

Deep down, he'd been hoping this would work. Now, he can only stare at the aftermath.

She's. Still. Gone.

"I didn't. Mean it," Spite mutters after a while. "I don't. Hate you."

"I know," Lucanis says.

"I miss... Rook."

"I know, ermano. I do, too."

Though he fights to stay conscious, Lucanis loses the battle. He crumples, lost to the dark, and Spite—still reeling from his outburst—carefully walks him back to the Lighthouse.

Davrin seems unshakable. He wakes every morning, grooms himself, sharpens his sword, feeds Assan. It's what he knows—what he's always known.

He's not a mage. He doesn't have a connection to the Fade. What can he do?

What the fuck can he do?

Only wait.

He's asked around. Approached the Wardens. Worked with the team. But all he can do is wait for someone better versed in elven magic to find answers.

That's fine. He's patient. He's disciplined. He knows how to bide his time.

Assan whines, but Davrin ignores it.

Besides, Rook is strong. Intelligent. She'll probably figure out a way to escape before any of them get the chance to rescue her.

That's the worst—when Assan misses her. When he sniffs around the room, searching for her.

"Easy, boy. She'll be home soon," he says.

He's tired of saying it... but he keeps saying it. As the days drag by, he keeps saying those same four words, over and over:

"She'll be home soon."

Assan keeps brooding, gnawing at Davrin's coat, urging him outside to track her. He doesn't understand she's gone from this world.

No longer reachable.

Assan pulls and pulls, squawks, flaps his wings. He's never behaved like this—but it's not his fault. That's what Rook would say.

He's just a baby.

Davrin takes a breath and resists, tugging back. He tells Assan to stop, but the griffon yanks harder, tearing his coat and sending him stumbling face-first into the table behind him, eyes landing on his shield.

Damn it, why is he here? It should be him trapped in the Fade, not Rook.

In war, victory. In peace, vigilance. In death, sacrifice. That is a Warden's oath. His promise. His duty.

He was supposed to protect her!

With a roaring shout, he swipes his arm across the surface, sending his shield and hand-carved wooden figurines crashing to the floor.

Assan scrambles back, ears down, tail tucked between his legs. He can only watch, quivering, as Davrin wreaks havoc on the room, upending furniture and hurling anything in reach. The commotion echoes through the Lighthouse—until Davrin catches himself.

What a shameful display.

He stares out the window, the eclipse blinding, his fists trembling at his sides.

"Assan, I..."

A delicate knock cuts through the haze, drawing his attention.

"Davrin? Everything all right?"

"I'm fine," he calls back, voice calm as a forgotten grave—though his mind so aggrieved, he can't even tell who's behind the door.

When he hears his well-meaning companion leave, he collects the figurines one by one, lingering on Rook's favourite before placing it exactly where it stood.

In perfect order.

He then steps slowly towards Assan, kneels, and wraps his arms around the griffon's neck, his fingers threading through soft feathers.

"Sorry, boy," he whispers. "She'll be home soon."

[kirain]

This is ridiculously beautiful! 💚💜💚

Dragon Age Kiss Week!

Day 3: Fade

I'm not sure what the story here is. I just had this image in my head when I saw the 'Fade' prompt. I get a sense of separation from this, though - like Atash/Rook is being dragged down into the Fade and Emmrich is being lifted up and out of it.

I say that because I was primarily inspired by that one scene from the first season of Digimon back in the 2000s. You know, the one where Tai floats up into the sky, slowly letting go of Kari's hand? Yeah, you totally get it, I'm not old, what do you mean.

A day late (for me) because I did my usual thing of not taking it easy when I say I'm going to take it easy.

This one kind of destroyed me, not gonna lie. I finished it yesterday, and then erased and restarted this morning. 🫠 It comes and goes. At least I'm happy with this! Now to ACTUALLY take it easy for the rest of the week.

EDIT: realized I forgot Atash's tattoos. I feel much MUCH better now.

[kirain]

It's so tender—and everything Emmrich deserves. 🥹

Dragon Age - Kiss Week

Day one - Morning 🌅

It’s just a sketch for now. Will add some colours later

[kirain]

And that was the moment he fell in love. 😏

I finally finished this comic page! This is the second illustration, if we wanna call it like that, for the third chapter of my story about Kate and Emmrich.

I updated the chapter with this drawing in it.

Whispers of Shouls - Third Chapter

Yeah, I'm totally brain rotted and proud of it XD

[kirain]

Beautiful as always! 💚💜💚

I didn't intend to do the DA week kiss, but I saw so many beautiful paintings and drawings that I thought I might try. I don't know if I can color it, so I decided to give it a little love.

I had a bad relationship with art challenges, especially if they continued for many days. So, this will probably be my only contribution. Also the prompt "morning" was the only one inspiring me.

And yes, I'm late but whatever.

[kirain]

He sits like a scholar. 😌

Random stuff. I wanted to draw something without thinking too much, so I picked up the first photo reference that inspired me.

[kirain]

They're playing a dangerous game. 😏

[kirain]

This was so sweet. Lucanis seems stoic, but he loves his friends. Man's just tired. TvT

Also, Manfred leading Emmrich to Lucanis... 😭

There are some nights the Veilguard just cannot sleep, you guys.

Lucanis usually wanders into the kitchen sometime around 2 am. It isn’t strange to find Neve, or Bellara there, the wisps occasionally tipping over stacks of paper.

Lucanis is good at reading people–he has to be–and he can tell when his two night owls want to be left alone to perch, staring unblinkingly at their projects, and when they might want a patient ear.

“You really are sweet sometimes,” Neve tells him, “to keep people company like this.”

Perhaps, but he is usually up anyway. Like any illness, his demonic infection is more active at night. Lucanis welcomes the company.

Besides, there are occasions when it is not Neve or Bellara disrupting his kitchen.

He remembers the first time Harding burst in, going straight to his coffee beans and begging him for a cup.

“I thought you said it was too bitter,” he says.

“Doesn’t matter,” Harding looks at him with stricken eyes. “Just so long as I don’t fall asleep again. Just so long as I don’t see THAT.”

Less frequent are visits from Davrin, Rook or Taash. Those occasions are more quiet and usually accompanied by strong drink, or comfort food, rather than chatter. He recognizes the look in their eyes and the need to keep the demons locked away inside.

Only once has Emmrich come to him.

Or rather, been brought to him.

On that occasion, Spite rears his head from sniffing their cup of coffee and stares at the door.

“What?” Lucanis asks him. And receives only a cryptic “Curiosity,” in return.

Manfred appears, leading a quiet, shaken Emmrich. The skeleton is chittering softly, absently, like someone making comforting small talk. Without a word the wisp leads the necromancer to a chair, sits beside him, and looks at Lucanis expectantly. Emmrich makes no move to acknowledge him.

Lucanis gets a piece of hazelnut torte. And the next time he goes to Emmrich for help with Spite, he feels more comfortable.

[kirain]

I'm not sure how I missed this, but OMG! This is beautiful! 🥹😭🩷

It’s been some time since my last post and there’s been a few more additions to my Emmrook collection, both personal and for friends and lovely Fade members✨🤍✨

Some of these Rooks belong to @sofiemystique , @palenecromaniac , @emmg and a shared son with @andthekitchensinkao3 🤍🤍🤍

[kirain]

He's beautiful. 💜

Taunted

Hugo Ingellvar belongs to @themournfulwatcher

[kirain]

@vonspe Hello! I know you're playing BG3 right now, but I'd wanted to write something for this wonderful piece for a while. I finally managed to take a break and finish it. I hope you enjoy it! 💜

The fever had claimed him like a god demanding tribute in salt and agony.

Emmrich lay in bed, drenched in sweat, his shirt clinging uncomfortably to his chest and back. Every breath rasped in his throat, his body a battlefield of aches and goosebumps. His head throbbed like nails were being driven into his skull, and his vision blurred, the room tilting every time he opened his eyes—the soft glow of candles swimming against the darkened walls of his bedroom.

He'd tried to sit up—once. His intention had been simple: water, maybe a cloth to cool his forehead. Something, anything to make it feel less like he was dissolving from the inside out. But his arms had buckled under him, useless, and he'd collapsed against the mattress with a sad, pathetic grunt.

The isolation hit him harder than the pain. He had always been alone when it mattered. Sickness, grief, long nights and longer regrets—he'd weathered them all in solitude. That aching part of him, buried under decades of ambition and academic pursuits, had longed silently, foolishly, for someone to care for him when he couldn't care for himself.

But no one ever had. That kind of companionship always seemed reserved for others—and romance, love—that was a dream for younger men.

He closed his eyes, resigned. If this was how the night would go, he'd endure it.

As he always did.

-----

The creak of the door was soft—so soft, he almost thought it imagined. But then a piece of fallen parchment crinkled under a cautious step.

His heart stuttered.

He cracked open one eye, just barely. A figure moved through the haze of his vision—short, lean, with long dark hair tied loosely at the nape. At first, it was too much effort to think.

Then he whispered, hoarse and winded, "Who... who's there?"

The shape knelt beside the bed.

"Just me," came the answer—low, familiar, like the rustle of spring wind through a garden.

Emmrich blinked, slowly.

That voice. Of all people.

Was he hearing things?

"...Scipio?" he murmured. "You shouldn't be here. I could be con—" His eyes rolled shut, another wave of dizziness nearly dragging him into unconsciousness. "Contagious."

"Shhh." Scipio gently pushed his damp hair back, feeling his skin.

His bare hand—rarely ungloved—was cool, and Emmrich let out an involuntary sigh, the sensation a balm through the heat.

"This isn't good," Scipio muttered, his brows drawn in worry. "You're way too hot."

His voice, usually rich with dry wit or polite charm, had taken on a softness Emmrich had never quite heard before—intimate, firm, and without a trace of sarcasm. He looked down at the feeble man like one might gaze at a wounded halla; not with pity, but a fierce, instinctual desire to help.

Emmrich wanted to speak, to ask him why—but the moment Scipio slid an arm under his shoulders and lifted his head to help him drink, the world narrowed to the sudden glass at his lips. The water was blissfully cold—everything he needed. He drank fast, greedily, then coughed, the relief overwhelming.

"Easy," Scipio whispered. "There we go."

He set the glass aside but didn't move away. Instead, he climbed into bed behind him, legs encircling Emmrich's trembling frame. Gently, he pulled the older man into his lap, arranging him so his head rested against his chest, then pressed a fresh, damp cloth to his forehead.

Emmrich stirred, disoriented. "Scipio... what are you—?"

"I'm not leaving you," the elf said plainly. "Not tonight. Not when you're this unwell."

His other hand settled over Emmrich's shoulder, the pressure grounding. Emmrich was still shaking, still burning, but in that moment, a different warmth began to bloom in his chest—gentler than the fever, deeper than the pain.

He let out a faint, disbelieving breath and curled closer. He wasn't sure if any of this was real. Maybe he was hallucinating. Maybe his yearning had finally conjured something beautiful in the throes of his illness.

But then he felt it.

Scipio's heartbeat under his cheek, steady and calm. A breath near his temple. The brush of fingers sweeping sweat from his hair. He clung to Scipio's arm with one hand, weak but resolute. Whether dream, or mercy, or miracle—he wasn't letting go.

And as the fever ebbed, lulled by the quiet pulse of affection and the protective presence that held him, Emmrich finally surrendered to a peaceful slumber.

Only this time, he wasn't alone.

[kirain]

Long overdue lil appreciation for YOU! I think your profile needs one of these. 🥰 I hope you know just how lovely and talented you are. Keep on being you, luv. 💙 Bone Dad🦴

@paramortality I may be a writer, but I can't even begin to find the words to express how much I appreciate this! It truly made my entire week. 🥹

You are every bit as lovely and talented, and I hope you never stop drawing or sharing Laird with the world. You're a true treasure, both as a person and as a part of the Emmrook fandom—always bringing people together and spreading so much joy. I hope you know how much we adore you, Bone Dad! 🦴🩷

Thank you so, so much for thinking of me, and for this very precious gift! 💚💜💚

[kirain]

@svanha Two of two hugs complete!

Based on your wonderful art piece here.

The door slammed open with such force, it rattled every tincture, sconce, and bookshelf on the walls.

"Emmrich!"

The sound of his name—urgent, thick with panic—ripped the older man from his slumber. He rolled out of bed with a thump, hands braced on the cold stone floor, hair askew and heart pounding. Blinking through the murk of drowsiness, he found the source of the noise.

His dear dwarven companion—pale as moonlight, and pacing the length of the room like a caged animal.

"I want it gone," she muttered, her voice trembling. "I want it gone!"

"Harding?" Emmrich rubbed his eyes, his other hand lifting in a soothing gesture towards the startled Manfred. "What—what happened?"

"I saw things," she stammered, hands shaking at her sides. "While I was asleep. Horrible things. Wrong things. I-I couldn't wake up!"

Emmrich slowly rose to his feet, wary of making any sudden movements. "It sounds like you had a nightmare."

She stopped. Her eyes snapped to his—wide, wet, frightened.

"I've heard of nightmares," she said, her throat tight. "But not like this."

She resumed pacing, frantic now. Her fingers raked at her arms, as if trying to tear her soul free from the confines of her skin. Emmrich winced. He couldn't tell if she was unaware of her actions—or if she meant to hurt herself, just to keep sleep at bay.

"Harding, please... take a breath. Tell me what happened."

"I—I woke up and my room was—" Her teeth clenched, eyes squinting. "Emmrich, I destroyed it! I don't remember doing it, but everything was thrown around. Shredded!"

"Oh, sweetheart." He approached her carefully, his arms open, voice gentle. "That's perfectly normal for mages just coming into their powers. Especially children. The Fade seeps through more easily when we're dreaming."

"I'm not a child!" Harding spat, turning sharply. "I'm a scout. Trained to kill. To stay in control. But now—!"

She shook her head, the tears she'd been fighting slipping free.

"What if I lose control again? What if I hurt someone?" Her voice dropped to a choked whisper. "I don't want this. I want the dreams to stop. I want the magic to stop."

She tore at her scalp with both hands, nails scraping, hair caught between her fingers in a painful grip.

"I WANT IT GONE!"

Enough.

Emmrich dropped to his knees and wrapped his arms around her.

"No—!" Harding gasped, freezing in place. "Don't! I-I might—I might hurt you!"

"You won't," Emmrich said, his voice calm and certain. "You're still you, Harding. You're Lace Harding."

She stood stiffly for a moment, every muscle resisting the touch she secretly longed for. Then, slowly, she crumbled against him, her body quivering as she returned his embrace.

"...How do you know?" she whimpered.

"Because you're worried about hurting people. That tells me everything." He slipped one hand to the back of her head, cradling her like glass. "You're still my friend. You haven't changed."

A shaky sigh escaped her, and she buried her face into his shoulder, the tension slowly draining from her limbs.

They stayed that way for a while, nestled in silence and warmth—the only sound the quiet sputter of Manfred, who witnessed and internalised how to comfort a loved one in need.

Finally, Emmrich pulled back just enough to meet Harding's eyes.

"We'll get through this," he murmured. "Together. First, we'll set up dampening wards in your room. They'll soften the blow of any future outbursts." His hands cupped her freckled cheeks, thumbs brushing away her tears. "And I'll brew you a special tea to render lesser nightmares inert. It won't solve everything, but it will help—just until you grow accustomed to your new abilities."

"I don't like tea," Harding said with a sniffle, though her tone was teasing.

Emmrich smiled. "You'll like this one, I promise. We can spike it with whatever vile flavour you prefer."

She gave a small, watery laugh.

And for the first time that night, a little of the panic faded from her eyes.

[kirain]

I'm looking forward to reading them! 💚💜💚

Whispers of souls - Fourth and Fifth chapter

Hiiiiiii! I finished writing the fourth chapter of Whisper of Souls.

4th Chapter

5th Chapter

It was originally intended to be a single chapter, but I wrote too much and found myself having to split it into two. So I've already ruined all the chapter organization I'd done. Will it happen again? Absolutely, and I'm not surprised.

I was so eager to write this part (more complex than ever), that I fell behind on the illustrations. I'm catching up little by little.

I didn't have the heart to ask someone to be a beta reader because there was just too much to read. I was a little embarrassed.

So I did what I could; I hope it's not too weird.

Enjoy!