#Corrupt Army Generals

[kozilmog]

A cubby man conscripted into a huge jacked obedient soldier

Man -> Soldier

When you sign up to the army, you sign up to be made into a new man.

Sometimes, that isn't always a metaphor. Especially not for this man. Gone is everything that was his old self, now, he's a weapon. Nothing more than loyalty to a cause, his commanding officers and knowledge on how to kill.

[ronqueesha]

.

[xtruss]

“Pakistan’s Corrupt to their Cores Army Generals, Politicians, Election Commission and Judges” Can Keep Imran Khan Out of Power, but It Can’t Keep His Popularity Down

— By Charlie Campbell | January 17, 2024 | Time Magazine

Supporters of PTI, the Most Popular Political Party of Former Pakistani Prime Minister Imran Khan, rally against the national election commission’s decision to ban the party’s cricket bat symbol, in Karachi on Jan. 14, 2024. Fareed Khan—AP

It’s not been a great couple of years for Pakistan’s Imran Khan. Since his ouster as Prime Minister in an April 2022 no-confidence vote, the cricketer-turned-politician has been shot, hit with over 180 charges ranging from rioting to terrorism, and jailed in a fetid nine-by-11-foot cell following an Aug. 5 corruption conviction for allegedly selling state gifts. As Pakistan approaches fresh elections on Feb. 8, the 71-year-old’s chances of a comeback appear gossamer thin, despite retaining broad public support.

Pakistan’s military kingmakers are using every trick at their disposal to sideline the nation’s most popular politician and his Pakistan Tehreek-e-Insaf (PTI) party. Over recent months, thousands of PTI workers have been arrested, dozens of party leaders resigned following lengthy interrogations, Khan’s name was banned from mainstream media, and constituency boundary lines were redrawn to allegedly benefit his opponents. Khan’s own nomination papers have also been rejected.

“Elections are being held but I’ve got serious doubts whether real democracy or democratic principles are being followed,” says Samina Yasmeen, director of the Centre for Muslim States and Societies at the University of Western Australia.

And now Khan won’t even have his cricket bat.

On Monday, Khan’s PTI party was banned from using its iconic cricket bat logo on ballot papers, significantly hampering its chances amongst an electorate which is up to 40% illiterate. Most crucially, it effectively bans the PTI as a party and means its candidates will likely have to stand as independents, who will reportedly use a range of symbols ranging from a rollercoaster to a goat. “The election symbol is an integral component of fair elections,” Raoof Hasan, PTI’s principal spokesman and a former special assistant to Khan, tells TIME. “It’s rendering the party toothless.”

Pakistani lawmakers are constitutionally obliged to vote along party lines for certain key matters, including the leader of the house and financial legislation. But if PTI-backed candidates are officially independents, they are under no such constraints, making it much easier for the opposition to cobble together a coalition by targeting individuals with inducements. Additionally, PTI will be ineligible to receive its rightful proportion of the 200-odd parliamentary “reserved seats” for women and minorities that are allocated according to a party’s proportion of the overall vote, which would instead be divvied out to the other registered parties.

Imran Khan Waves a Cricket Bat, the Election Symbol of His Pakistan’s Most Popular PTI Party, during a rally in Faisalabad on May 5, 2013. Daniel Berehulak—Getty Images

Then again, even registering as independents has not been easy for the PTI. Each candidate must file their nomination in the constituency where they intend to stand, but PTI’s candidates frequently find their nomination papers snatched from their hands by shadowy security personnel. To avoid this, the PTI has taken to dispatching several candidates with nomination papers in the hope that one might break through the security cordon.

But even if one does manage to submit papers, each candidate requires a proposer and seconder to attend the nomination in person. On many occasions, a PTI candidate has presented his papers only to find either or both has abruptly been “kidnapped,” says Hasan, meaning that an alleged 90% of its candidates’ nomination papers have been rejected. “This is massive pre-poll rigging.”

The hurdles facing Khan and PTI stand in stark contrast to the lot dealt to Nawaz Sharif, three-time former Prime Minister, who was most recently ousted for corruption in 2017 and sentenced to 10 years imprisonment. In 2018, Sharif traveled to London on bail for medical treatment but absconded and remained a fugitive in exile. But on Oct. 21, an apparently healthy Sharif returned to Pakistan, where his corruption conviction was swiftly quashed and last week his lifetime ban from politics also overturned. On Monday, Sharif, 74, launched his campaign to return as Prime Minister for a fourth time—much to the chagrin of disenfranchised PTI supporters.

“The temperature is going to rise in the next few weeks when candidates step out to do rallies,” Khan’s sister, Aleema, tells TIME. “There’s going to be anger on the streets.”

It’s no secret that Pakistan’s military kingmakers have thrown their support behind Sharif, which ultimately means he’s a shoo-in to return to power. But Khan’s enduring popularity means more heavy-handed tactics will be required. Despite all PTI’s headwinds, and extremely patchy governance record while in power, a Gallup opinion poll from December shows the imprisoned Khan’s approval ratings stand at 57%, compared to 52% for Sharif. PTI remains confident that they will win if allowed to compete in a fair fight.

“People, especially at the grassroot level, are very pro-Imran Khan,” says Yasmeen. “Even if he tells them to vote for a piece of furniture, it will be elected.”

Corrupt to His Core, Thief, Looter, Traitor, Money Launderer, Morally Bankrupted Boak Bollocks and Pakistan Army’s Production Pakistan's Former Prime Minister Nawaz Sharif addresses his supporters in Lahore on Oct. 21, 2023. Aamir Qureshi—AFP/Getty Images

A big question is why the international community has been so muted in the face of such brazen irregularities—especially the U.S., which under the Joe Biden administration claims to have made democracy promotion a key foreign policy priority. The stakes are high; nuclear-armed Pakistan is drowning in $140 billion of external debt, while ordinary people are battling with Asia’s highest inflation, with food prices rising 38.5% year-on-year.

The truth is that Khan has few friends in the West after prioritizing relations with Russia and China. “From a Washington perspective, anyone would be better than Khan,” says Michael Kugelman, the director of the South Asia Institute at the Wilson Center in Washington, D.C.

Sharif, by contrast, is perceived as business-friendly and pro-America. Following the U.S. withdrawal from Afghanistan, Washington’s foreign policy priorities have shifted to China, Ukraine, and now Gaza. Yet the importance of a trusted partner in Islamabad was made plain this week following an Iranian airstrike on alleged Sunni militants in Pakistan territory that killed at least two children and threatens a further escalation of the violence already roiling the Middle East.

American priorities in Pakistan are keeping a lid on terrorism and stabilizing relations with arch-nemesis India—and Sharif has a better record on both. However, these priorities aren’t necessarily shared by Pakistan’s military overlords, who may be backing Sharif today but have engineered his ouster thrice in the past—once via a coup d’état. There remains “a lot of bad blood between Nawaz and the military,” says Kugelman, “even if he were to become the next Prime Minister, civil-military relations could take the same turn for the worse.”

After all, no Pakistan Prime Minister has ever completed a full term—and if Sharif gets back in, few would bet on him becoming the first at the fourth time of asking. It may be part of the reason why Khan has adopted a stoic disposition despite the deprivations of his prison cell. “He is cold in jail but quite happy,” says Aleema Khan. “He’s read so many books, maybe two to three every day, and he’s very content to have this retreat time—spiritually, mentally, and physically, he says he feels better.”

Perhaps content in the knowledge that, while February’s election may be beyond hope, in Pakistan you may be down, but you’re never truly out. And that’s all the more reason to keep fighting. “We shall be in the election,” says Hasan. “We’re not going to back off, we’re not going to walk away, we’re not going to forfeit even a single seat throughout the country.”

[kaladinsuniformviolationslog]

How did I ever think Amaram was any good at being a general?

[myobsessionsspace]

a little of why it's bitter sweet (a companion post)

https://x.com/btstrendsongs/status/1642420084923674625?s=46&t=7ng2XFk3W9p7wFec_bkdoQ

[sonknuxadow]

in maria’s defense, she was just a child who had yet to understand the inherit evils of the government until it was too late

yeah i know that, im not blaming it on her or anything its just ironic to hear the character who would literally be killed by them talk about how brave they are and stuff

[salmonmakiii]

To Love The Burning Sun

Wc: 21.8k+ (woops) Summary: You were promised to him as a child. You were raised within temple walls, trained to serve, to revere, and to love the god you would marry. But love between a mortal and a god was never meant to be easy. Especially when he never showed up. Cw: God!Phainon x Fem!Mortal!Reader, Alternate universe, Semi-smut, OOC Phainon, mentions of blood, slight 3.4 spoilers, MDNI, hurt/comfort (I ain't Shaoji). Notes: This is my first time writing (somewhat) smut + something this long, pls be nice (◞‸◟), pssst here's the side stories!

CHAPTER I

You sighed for what felt like the hundredth time that day, your gaze fixed on the horizon beyond the temple’s arched windows. The sunset bled across the skies of Okhema in a soft orange and gold. You could see the view of the city from afar as people began lighting up their burning lamps. The view should have brought comfort and peace to your restless soul. 

But it only made you angrier as the color of the sky reminded you of him.

You closed your eyes and inhaled slowly as you tried to still the tightness in your chest. You lifted your elbows from the cool marble sill and turned away from the window, the warmth of the sun’s dimming rays brushing your back as you made your way across the quiet bedroom. You collapsed onto the cushioned couch near the hearth, arms folded. Soon, the temple maids would come, their polite voices chiming in another reminder for dinner. 

Another formal, joyless meal at the long table meant to seat two — yet always ended with you alone at one end, the other left hauntingly empty. What was the point if your supposed husband never came home?

You tried to remember the string of events that had led you here. 

It began twenty years ago, during the last days of the Black Tide.

Your father, General of the Okheman Knights, stood on a battlefield soaked in blood and shadow, surrounded by the groans of the dying and the monstrous. His comrades, once proud warriors, now lay lifeless or worse — corrupted into twisted, grotesque abominations, their bodies overtaken by the force of the Black Tide. 

Smoke and ash choked the sky, painting it red. His vision blurred as the stench of rot and scorched steel filled his lungs. He sank to his knees, despair clawing at every inch of his body. It was then he whispered, eyes clenched shut.

“Oh… God Khaslana, protector of Okhema… Save this city. I will give you the greatest gift I can offer — My firstborn, to be yours, body and soul.”

Khaslana, the Worldbearing God, was known among mortals as the Deliverer, an eternal flame against the crawling darkness. He was radiant like the blazing heart of the sun and has long shielded the human kind with his light. 

From the heavens, fire rained down. Meteors streaked through the sky like divine spears, crashing into the earth with fury. The monsters of the Black Tide screeched, then fell silent beneath the weight of the stones. 

The battle was won, and the city was saved. The army cheered, thrusting their swords and shields upward as your father roared out a victory saying that Khaslana was with everyone.

When your father returned, he was hailed as a hero. He told the people of Okhema of the divine intervention — how the god himself had descended to save them. What he did not speak of, however, was the vow whispered on the battlefield, the promise made from a man to the divine. 

It had been a desperate, spur-of-the-moment plea. Yet breaking a vow to a god? It was unthinkable. Especially when the god had answered so grandly, only his family and the priests of Okhema’s temple knew the truth. When he confided in the high priest, he was met not with comfort but with pressure. 

“A vow to a god must be honored. To break it would only invite ruin,” the priest said.

That night, your father returned home. You were only a babe, swaddled in white linen, cradled in your mother’s arms. He watched the two of you quietly. His wife smiled, not yet knowing what burden had been placed upon their daughter’s shoulders. 

You were raised in the temple, trained as a priestess to serve the god who had spared your city. Your father hoped that by living among the sacred — tending to the shrines, memorizing the old hymns, and praying beneath Khaslana’s ever-burning flame — you would grow to love the god who would one day be your husband.

You tried. You really did.

Now, you stand as a woman of the age when they became brides. Your time had come. 

But your wedding was not like those you had seen in Okhema’s gardens or among the white-stone courtyards where laughter and music would echo. No streamers were fluttering in the wind, no tables heavy with food or jugs of honeyed ambrosia. No children dancing. Nothing.

Yours was a private affair. It was quiet, solemn, and shrouded in ceremonial gravity. 

Only your family and the temple clergy were in attendance. You were dressed in a flowing white chiton, its fabric soft as breath, trailing behind you. A circlet of gold leaves rested atop your head. Golden cuffs adorned your wrists, broad and gleaming like sunlight pressed into metal. Your ears bore the weight of gold, your neck cradled by an intricate collar, etched with celestial symbols. 

You climbed the stairs alone to the temple’s highest balcony — a sacred circular platform open to the skies above. The wind was gentle, brushing against your skin. You swore you felt a hand brushing your cheeks, the touch hidden in the gust of wind. 

You stepped into the center of the platform as the archbishop began to pray.

You knelt, head bowed, hands clasped in practiced devotion. You said your vows, promises of loyalty, of faith, of love, offered not only as a worshipper, but as a bride. You spoke the vow you’d rehearsed a thousand times. 

Then, light emerged from below you.

A brilliant, blinding glow burst from the platform, golden and radiant. It was more intense than anyone had ever seen. The wind surged around you, lifting your robes and tussling your hair. The archbishop froze, priests shielded their eyes. Even the people in the marmoreal market turned their eyes, wondering what miracle had occurred. 

You closed your eyes against the brightness, heart thudding at your chest. But then, it was over.

The archbishop announced that your vow had been accepted. You were now the wife of Khaslana.

There were no cheers, only whispers, nods, and quiet awe.

You stood, shoulders stiff, eyes lifted into the sky. You breathed in deeply, calming yourself.

That night, you packed your things in silence. The carriage was already waiting for you at the gates of the temple. You said your goodbyes under the night sky. Your little brother, Atlas, clung to the hem of your dress, though you had never been close. His small hands trembled as you soothed his head with gentle pats. 

Your mother embraced you next, brushing your hair behind your ear and murmuring her pride through teary eyes. Your father hugged you last, his was longer than the others. He didn’t speak first. Just held you.

“I’m sorry,” He whispered.

You forced a smile, “It’s all right. I’m lucky, aren’t I? Anyone would want this.”

You weren’t sure if you believed it.

As the carriage wheels creaked into motion, you stared out the window, watching your family grow smaller in the distance.

When you arrived at the temple atop the hill, the sanctuary where they said Lord Khaslana often rested, you couldn’t help but pause at the sight of it. It was… vast.

The marble pillars stood tall like pale tree trunks, disappearing into vaulted ceilings. The halls echoed softly with every step you took. Looking around, you realized there were a few staff members in this temple compared to the temple you stayed in, Okhema City. You later found out that only a few priests and priestesses served here — trusted ones who had long devoted their lives to silence, prayer, and sacred duties.

The elder priestess who guided you eventually stopped before a towering set of doors inlaid with gold and sunstone. Looking back, this place was separated from the temple, yet still connected by the long corridor. Your head turned back to the priestess when you heard a slow creak of the doors.

“This is Lord Khaslana’s chamber,” she said softly, “It is yours now as well.” 

You stepped inside and gawked at the sight of the room. The bed alone was large enough to hold your entire family, heck, maybe twice over. The ceilings soared high, so distant that they would definitely fade into shadow if not for the chandeliers. The furniture was grand and oversized, built for someone not quite mortal. It really did feel as if a giant was living here. 

You bathed in silence, the temple servants having prepared a warm bath perfumed with wildflowers and sweet oil. You dressed yourself in soft nightwear, brushed your hair, and sat carefully at the edge of the bed.

You even tried to make yourself look pretty.

You heard whispers about what a wedding night should be like. Servants at your old temple murmured things when they thought you weren’t listening. Stories passed between maids like secrets. Surely, this would be the same?

Right?

You flushed at the thought — embarrassed by where your imagination wandered, especially toward a god you had worshipped all your life. But he was your husband now, wasn’t he? It should be fine to think of him that way… shouldn’t it?

You didn’t even know what to call him. Should you call him with the honorifics still? Would “Khaslana” be too familiar? Would “my lord” be too distant? Could you ever say his name like a wife should?

You covered your face with your hands, trying to quiet your flustered thoughts. Still, you waited.

Would he descend in divine form, or would he look like the murals? Golden-dark wings stretching wide, with hair like woven sunlight, and eyes that could pierce souls. You told yourself it would be enough just to see him. To hear his voice. To feel that you weren’t alone.

Minutes passed.

Then hours,

The moon rose high above the temple, then it drifted past its peak.

Still, he did not come.

You stayed awake as long as you could, eyes fixed on the empty half of the bed. But eventually, exhaustion took you. You fell asleep with your body curled to one side, the silken sheets untouched beside you. 

When morning came, nothing had changed. The bed was still smooth, the air quiet, the god you had been bound to in sacred ceremony had made no appearance, left no message, cast no shadow on the marble floor.

Was it supposed to be like this?

You told yourself he must be busy with the divine duties that kept him from descending. Gods moved differently through time than mortals did.

But as you sat in silence, a pit formed in your chest. 

Were you not worthy of his presence?

Had you done something wrong?

A soft knock at the door startled you. A priest stood in the hallway, politely informing you that breakfast had been prepared. You forced a smile, thanked him, and got dressed. As you walked the corridor, you felt hollow. There were too many thoughts swirling in your chest.

Was this what marriage with the divine looked like? Was he disappointed in you? Displeased? Disinterested?

Still, you didn’t see him that day. Nor the next. Each night, you lie in the vast bed alone, heart aching a little more. The heart ached, pushing you to eventually gather the courage to speak to the Archbishop.

After morning prayers, you lingered near the sanctum until he approached. You explained your worries as delicately as you could — stumbling over words as you worry about how much was appropriate to say.

The Archbishop listened to you with patient eyes, “All things Lord Khaslana does,” he began gently, “Are done with purpose. Continue your devotions. If you wish to speak with him… speak through your prayers.”

That’s just their way of saying “I don’t know.”

You nodded and left the room. Nonetheless, you followed his advice. 

The next day, you waited until the temple’s roofed balcony was empty. You stepped onto the stone platform, the one that overlooked the city below. The sky stretched endlessly above you, behind the round glass roof, the clouds painted with soft morning light.

You knelt on the cold marble, hands folded. At first, you whispered the usual verses. Then, you opened your eyes slowly. You looked up.

Hesitantly, you spoke.

“Greetings… husband,” you said, wincing at the awkwardness of it. When there’s no response, you felt your cheeks burn. But you still continued. 

“I… I just wanted to say hi. Um…” You trailed off. You had no idea what you were doing.

“I hope you’re doing well. I’ll take my leave now!”

You stood abruptly, flustered beyond belief, and walked away with your heart pounding. But that soon became your routine.

Each day, you woke, ate a modest breakfast in the quiet dining hall, wandered the temple, sat in the garden with a book, prayed, ate lunch, wandered again, returned to your room, wrote idle thoughts on parchment you never sent, ate dinner, and finally prayed to your unseen husband.

Sometimes you’d say nothing, sometimes you’d ask him how his day was, even though you knew you weren’t getting a response. You smiled less. Spoke less. 

Days blurred into weeks, weeks blurred into months.

You were now in the present, sitting alone at the long dining table, spooning a lukewarm breakfast into your mouth. The temple was silent, as always. Only the soft clink of metal against porcelain accompanied you — a small, hollow sound swallowed by the high ceilings and marble walls. 

Once finished, you rose, gathered your plate, and made your way to the kitchen. A servant greeted you with a respectful nod, which you returned with a tired smile. You handed over the dish with a soft “thank you” before turning to leave.

Your footsteps echoed through the temple halls, vast and empty. Each corridor felt like a labyrinth of silence, lined with tapestries that did not stir and statues that seemed to watch but never speak. As you passed one of the open arches, you paused, drawn toward the view outside. 

The city of Okhema lay far below, nestled among rolling green hills and sandstone streets warmed by the morning sun. From here, the people looked like ants, moving about in the rhythm of daily life.

It had been a long time since you’d last visited.

You remembered how excited you were the first time you asked for permission. The Archbishop had granted it, so long as one of the priests escorted you. You nodded and followed his orders.

You had tried to enjoy it. Truly, you tried.

But it wasn’t the same.

The entire excursion felt performative. You weren’t free to walk where you pleased, only allowed to greet your friends briefly. The visit to your family had been short and formal. They had asked you how you were holding up and if you were happy, but you could only answer with a bitter smile as you lied about your happiness. Your family smiled back, glad that you were okay. Though your father had watched you with wordless guilt in his eyes.

You had returned to the temple more tired than when you left. You didn’t feel like going through all that again, so you scratched the thought off. You exhaled and rubbed your temples as you continued to walk back to your chambers in silence.

You passed by the sacred balcony, the platform where you had once knelt and whispered greetings to a god who never answered. You didn’t even look toward it.

You had no intention of “talking” to him today. What was the point?

You had spoken your thoughts into the wind and silence for moons now. Whatever patience the priests spoke of, yours was running out. Whatever marriage this was, you were beginning to wonder if you were the only one in it.

You pushed the doors to your room and let them shut softly behind you. The air inside was still and faintly scented. The high windows poured sunlight onto the floor, casting long golden stripes across the stone.

You didn’t bother changing out of your temple robes. You simply crossed the room and slumped onto the bed, the mattress dipping beneath your weight. The other half of the bed? Still untouched, pristine, as it had been every night. 

You curled to your side, your cheek against the cool pillow. Outside the window, birds wheeled lazily through the sky. You watched them, envious of their freedom. 

A bitter smile tugged at your lips. You weren’t even sure if you remembered what that kind of freedom felt like.

Your mind begins to wander, a thought crept in — quiet, sharp, and unbearable.

Has he… abandoned me?

You closed your eyes and let the silence answer.

CHAPTER II

You wandered the gardens again, your steps trailing along familiar paths. The air was warm today, soft with the scent of blooming flowers and freshly tilled soil. Sunlight filtered through the trellises, casting latticed shadows on the stone walkway. You passed by the same clusters of dianthus and wild hyacinths, now fully in bloom, their petals trembling slightly in the breeze. 

The gardeners sure are diligent. Their work showed in every vibrant stem, every carefully clipped hedge. But even the beauty of the flowers couldn’t shake the dull ache in your chest.

You haven't prayed since yesterday. You knew you should have—not because you expected anything to change, but because that had been your one way to pretend someone was still listening. But the silence you would receive in return had grown too loud, too painful. You couldn’t bring yourself to do it again. Not now. 

So instead, you let your feet carry you aimlessly through the garden’s winding paths. Eventually, your steps slowed, and you lifted your eyes toward the sky, letting out a quiet sigh.

“It’s so lonely here,” you murmured, your voice barely above a whisper, “I miss my family… my friends… the sound of the busy market…” 

The words slipped from you without a thought. The truth of them made your eyes sting. You hadn’t realized how tightly the loneliness had been coiling in your chest until you said it out loud. It was homesickness, plain and simple.

The temple, for all its golden beauty and perfection, was a cage. Not one built of iron bars, but of duty, silence, and unanswered prayers. You were its reluctant bird, fluttering from one empty hallway to the next.

As you returned inside, your footsteps echoing along the polished floors, you passed by a few servants carrying bundles of fresh linens. They paused to dip their heads respectfully, and you returned the gesture automatically, your mind still lost in the haze of longing.

As you passed them, you caught fragments of their conversation.

“The town is already setting up for the festival… the one for Hysilens…”

Your breath caught. Of course. Today was the first day of the fifth month — the Month of Joy. The festival of Hysilens, goddess of the sea. 

Your footsteps slowed to a halt.

You remembered how, back in the city, this day would transform the streets into rivers of color and sound. You remembered the rows of market stalls selling sugared fruits and roasted meats, the performers dressed in sea-colored robes dancing in the square, the laughter of children chasing painted ribbons through the air. 

You remembered attending those festivals with your friends, pockets full of wages saved up over weeks, spending every coin on treats and trinkets and memories that lingered long after. Those had been the brightest days.

But now… You were up here, alone. Watching the world move on without you.

For a moment, you thought about asking permission from the Archbishop to attend the festival. But the thought quickly left your mind. You already knew how it would go. Even if he said yes, he would assign you an even stricter chaperone. You would be led from one designated stop to another, rushed. It would feel less like a visit and more like a ritual of appearances. 

It wasn’t worth it. 

Then a thought struck you. It sparked suddenly in your chest like a match struck in the dark.

What if you didn’t ask? What if you just… Snuck out?

Your heart skipped.

Could you even do that? 

It felt like madness, but the idea had already lodged itself into your mind, refusing to leave. There were guards posted at the gates. Clergy walking the halls at all hours. And yet… the idea of slipping past them, of blending into the crowd of festivalgoers, of tasting freedom even for a day — it was too tempting to ignore. 

You couldn’t make it to today’s celebration, that much was certain. But maybe, just maybe, if you prepared carefully… next week could be different.

Over the next few days, you turned your casual walks into reconnaissance. You watched the guards from a distance, searched the halls for blind spots, watched the rhythm of the servants, and mapped the quietest corridors. You draw a poorly made map of the temple, scribbling notes on the paths you could take. 

With your newfound determination, you’re sure you’ll be able to go to the festival this week.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

This temple was built like a damn fortress!

Every entrance was watched. Every path accounted for. You returned to your room one afternoon and slumped into your writing chair, burying your face in your hands. The frustration burned in your chest. 

Curse those who assigned the layout of this prison temple. 

You ran a hand through your hair, fingers tangling in frustration. With a sharp exhale, you stepped out into the quiet halls of the temple. It was nearing the hour of evening prayer anyway, so you stormed through the quiet halls of the temple, the sound of your hurried footsteps echoing faintly against the stone. 

When you reached the prayer chamber, you kneeled at your usual place. You clasped your hands together. When you opened your mouth, the words you uttered were not soft-spoken, but they were razor-edged. You followed the usual form of prayer, though this time, there was fire in every syllable, a simmering fury that made the priests nearby stiffen and steal worried glances.

They had never heard you pray like this before. Were you praying to Khaslana, or were you threatening him? They didn’t know. The priests dared not interrupt and kept their heads bowed. 

After your evening prayers, you passed by the front gate. You didn’t intend to do anything, just watching. 

But then you saw it.

Two of the guards had stepped away from their posts, moving with practiced ease as they swapped shifts. You lingered nearby, pretending to observe a flowering vine on the stone wall. Five minutes later, they returned. 

It wasn’t much — just a narrow window, a sliver of chance. But it was something. 

Your heart raced as you walked back to your chamber.

If you timed it perfectly, if the halls were quiet and no one was watching, you might be able to slip through during a shift change. It wouldn’t be easy. But it wasn’t impossible. Still, you had doubts lingering. You knew how unpredictable the temple was. There might still be wandering priests in the halls. You would need more careful timing.

You would need luck. Even divine intervention.

The thought made you pause. Would your husband notice? Would he stop you? Would he… care?

You considered praying to him, you know, just enough to tip fortune in your favor. But how could you make such a prayer without revealing your intent?

You tried keeping things vague: requesting protection, for clarity, for guidance on uncertain roads. But even so, guilt festered at the back of your throat. You were a mortal trying to outwit a god. 

You sighed deeply as you sat back at your desk, fingers absently brushing over your ink-stained parchment. Your eyes drifted to the row of old temple scrolls. One of them, worn at the edges and bound in cracked leather, mentioned Cifera — goddess of trickery and hidden paths. For a moment, you considered turning your hopes toward her instead. Surely she would understand. She was the patron of secrets and silent rebellions.

But even that felt dangerous. Gods did not always answer as mortals expected — and Cifera, for all her wit and charm, was as unpredictable as the ocean. One prayer could lead you to freedom.

Or straight into a trap.

You sighed, walking to your bed, planting your face into the pillow, carefully planning the escape.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

When the night finally came, you looked outside your window and gathered your courage. You had prepared everything in secret, every detail planned with precision over the past few days. Your belongings were already packed: a modest satchel with your saved coin, you wore a simple linen dress, and a travel cloak with a deep hood to hide your face. 

Just before sunset, you told the priestesses not to disturb you for dinner, claiming that you were unusually tired and would be resting early. They seemed concerned but didn’t question you further.

You waited until the temple fell quiet. According to what you’ve overheard, the Archbishop had summoned all the priests and priestesses to a meeting. Something about receiving a message from Lord Khaslana himself. That timing couldn’t be more convenient.

It was almost suspicious, even.

You almost laughed. Whether it was divine providence or coincidence, you didn’t care. You were determined to leave.

With your cloak slung around your shoulders and your bag secure at your hip, you crept through the dimly lit corridors. You kept to the shadows, heart hammering in your chest as the last golden rays of sunlight bled over the hills. You arrived at the edge of the temple grounds, ducking behind a stone pillar near the front gates. Just as you had predicted, the guards began their shift change.

Now.

You sprinted across the open courtyard, your breath catching in your throat as your sandals pounded against the stone. You muttered a desperate prayer to the West Winds, begging them to carry your footsteps quietly. Reaching the outer wall, you climbed with surprising ease — the muscle memory of childhood sneaking and tree-climbing in Okhema still alive in your limbs. With one final push, you vaulted over the gate, landing softly on the other side with a thud muffled by grass.

You paused only a moment to catch your breath, casting one last glance back at the towering temple. Then you ran, cloak fluttering behind you, hair whipping in the wind as you tore down the hill toward the city below. Your feet burned and your lungs ached, but you didn’t stop.

For the first time in months, you felt free.

The gates of Okhema loomed ahead, golden lights from the festivities already glowing like stars fallen to earth. Laughter, music, and the clatter of wooden wheels floated on the breeze. Your heart pounded. 

Not from the run this time, but from exhilaration. 

You were finally here.

You made your way to the familiar district where your family lived. When your mother opened the door, her eyes widened in disbelief.

“By the gods… what are you doing here?” she whispered, pulling you inside.

Atlas, your younger brother, shouted your name with delight and rushed into your arms, wrapping himself around your waist. You smiled as you held him close, heart clenching at how much he had grown.

“I was granted permission to attend the festival,” you said, the lie tasting oddly natural. “Just for tonight.”

Your mother’s eyes searched your face, clearly unconvinced, but she didn’t press. “Your father’s out of town,” she said after a pause. “There was an urgent dispatch from the southern front.”

You nodded, choosing not to ask for details. “Will you come with me to the festival, then? Just for a little while?”

She shook her head with a tired smile. “No, I’m too old for those crowds now. But take Atlas. He’s been begging me for days.”

“Please, Ma? Can I go?” Atlas clutched your sleeve eagerly.

Your mother sighed, then gave you a look that was part blessing, part warning. “Come back safe.”

“Of course,” you said with a grin.

Moments later, Atlas returned with a small bag of coins and excitement bursting from every step. He grabbed your hand and began pulling you toward the heart of the city.

The festival was more dazzling than you remembered. Lanterns strung across the streets bathed everything in amber light. Stalls overflowed with spiced meats, honey pastries, roasted chestnuts, and painted masks. Atlas dragged you from one corner to the next — watching dancers spin to the beat of drums, laughing at jugglers dropping flaming torches, squealing at the scent of fresh honeybread.

He remembered your favorite food. You hadn’t even realized he’d been paying attention all these years.

“Sis, look! There’s a play! Let’s go watch!” Atlas tugged on your arm, pointing toward a crowd gathering near a stage.

“Atlas, slow down,” you said, laughing as you tried to keep up with his darting steps.

You ended up at the back of the crowd, barely able to see over the heads in front of you. Atlas strained on tiptoes, pouting in frustration.

“Come on, I’ll lift you,” you said, crouching.

He blinked. “Are you sure? I’m not that little anymore.”

“I’ve carried heavier,” you teased, and with a grunt, lifted him onto your shoulders.

His hands settled on your head for balance, and his smile widened as he finally got a good view of the stage. For a moment, everything felt perfect. It felt as though you had slipped into a pocket of time where none of your duties or fears existed. But that moment was broken when you felt something shift behind you.

Your bag. A rustle.

You turned quickly, but it was too late. A man was already sprinting away, the coin pouch clutched in his hand.

“Thief!” you shouted, quickly setting Atlas down before darting after the man.

You pushed past onlookers, dodging carts and barrels, the thief just ahead, weaving between alleyways. Then, suddenly, someone stepped in.

A tall, white-haired man blocked the thief’s path, moving with fluid confidence. Before the thief could turn, the man seized him by the collar and effortlessly lifted him off the ground. The thief writhed and kicked, but the stranger didn’t flinch.

“Now, now,” the man said calmly, his voice smooth as still water. “Let’s not ruin the festive mood with petty crime.”

He held out his other hand, palm open. The thief groaned and quickly handed over the coin pouch. Without another word, the stranger dropped him to the ground. Guards rushed in from the crowd and dragged the man away. You arrived just as the commotion died down, shielding Atlas with your arm on instinct.

The white-haired man approached, holding your pouch. “Yours, I believe,” he said.

You stared at him, not just out of gratitude, but out of something else. Something you couldn’t quite name. His presence was overwhelming in a quiet way — like a hearth fire in winter, steady and warm but impossible to ignore.

“Thank you so much, sir...” you hesitated, unsure how to address him.

He seemed to catch your pause, his gaze briefly flickering with something unreadable before he smiled. “Phainon.”

“Sir Phainon… I can’t thank you enough.”

“Thank you for helping my sister, Sir Phainon,” Atlas said with an adorable bow.

Phainon chuckled, kneeling slightly to ruffle Atlas’s hair. “It was my honor.”

You clutched the pouch to your chest. That was all the money I had left…

You found yourself staring at him; his striking white hair, his eyes the clear blue of the high heavens. He looked unlike anyone from Okhema. Had you met him before? Surely you’d remember a face like his.

You shook your head and composed yourself. “Then… let me repay you. I’ll buy you something from the stalls.”

He raised a brow, considering. “And if I decline?”

“Then I’ll insist,” you said with a half-smile.

He sighed with mock reluctance. “In that case, I trust you’ll choose wisely.”

The three of you began walking together, passing through the glowing streets of the night market. You watched him out of the corner of your eye as he lingered in front of a stall selling grilled meat skewers. You chuckled softly, stepping forward to place your order.

You handed one skewer to Atlas, then another to Phainon. As you held it out, your fingers brushed. A strange heat rose up your arm — not burning, not painful, just… familiar.

Phainon looked at your hand for a moment before taking the food from you, then offered a slow, easy smile.

“Thank you, pretty lady.”

You turned away quickly, cheeks warming. That same feeling fluttered in your chest again, unnameable and unfamiliar.

The festival lanterns were beginning to dim, their golden hues paling against the indigo sky. The evening air had cooled, brushing against your cheeks with the gentle scent of roasted spices and trampled flowers. You hadn’t intended to spend this much time with Phainon. In truth, you hadn’t expected to spend any time at all. But something about his presence was disarming. He was steady, grounding even. He had a calmness that settled like silk over your nerves. Atlas adored him; that much was obvious.

Still, as you glanced up at the clock tower at the center of the city square, you knew time was slipping from your hands. If you don’t return soon, someone might notice your absence.

You turned to Atlas, who was still licking honey off his fingers from a fruit skewer. “It’s time to go home, Atlas.”

He frowned, lower lip jutting out like it used to when he was a toddler. “Can’t I stay with you a bit longer?”

You hesitated, your smile softening with guilt. “I’ll try to visit again soon,” you said, crouching to ruffle his hair. “Promise.”

You guided him home, Phainon walking silently at your side. When you reached your family’s doorstep, your mother opened the door, her eyes widening at the sight of a stranger beside you.

Her eyes flicked to Phainon. “Who is this?” she asked, ever the vigilant matron. “I don’t think I’ve seen you around these parts, young man.”

Phainon bowed slightly, his voice smooth. “Phainon, ma’am. I’m from out of town. Recently relocated here.”

Your mother tilted her head. “I see,” she murmured, her gaze turning to you for explanation.

You cleared your throat. “He helped us earlier. A thief tried to steal my coin pouch.”

Her eyes widened in alarm. “A thief?!” she gasped, her hand flying protectively to Atlas’s shoulder. “Oh, by the gods... thank Khaslana you were there, Sir Phainon.”

Phainon gave a modest smile. “I only did what anyone would.”

Your mother turned to you, concern etched into her face. “I should’ve known trouble might stir while your father’s away. With the general gone, they think they can take liberties.”

You offered a faint nod, placing a hand over hers. “I’ll pray for your safety every night, Mother.”

She squeezed your hand gently. “And what about you?” she asked, more quietly. “Is your... husband treating you well?”

You froze, a familiar ache returning to your chest. The words caught in your throat, and you looked away. Phainon, standing just behind you, didn’t say a word. But his gaze was steady and unreadable.

“I have to return now,” you said, dodging the question. You stepped forward and wrapped your arms around your mother. “Please send father my love.”

She held you tighter than usual. “Be safe, my child.”

You pulled back, your throat tight. Atlas tugged at your cloak and hugged you around the waist once more. You turned away, waving goodbye to them, your mother’s expression sad, but you tried to reassure her with a bright smile. Phainon silently followed as you walked down the lantern-lit streets, heading toward the city’s edge. The path grew quieter as you left the bustle behind. 

“It seemed like you hadn’t seen them in a long time,” Phainon remarked softly from beside you. “Why not stay longer?”

You exhaled, pulling your cloak tighter around yourself. “I can’t. My husband is... strict.”

He stopped walking for a moment. “Strict?” he echoed, with a frown. “Really?”

You glanced at him, raising a brow. “He’s a loving husband,” you said, sarcasm dripping from your tone. “So possessive that I need permission just to walk the streets. Even then, I have to bring a chaperone like I’m a child again.”

Phainon’s frown deepened, but he looked down, expression unreadable. “Maybe he’s just... worried. About your safety.”

You laughed bitterly, the sound carrying a note of pain. “If that’s the case, he has a strange way of showing it.”

He didn’t reply to that. The silence between you grew heavier as the temple walls came into view in the distance.

“I can walk you back,” Phainon offered after a pause.

You looked at him. There was sincerity in his tone, no trace of insistence — just concern. “I live somewhere... unusual,” you said carefully. “Not many are allowed near it. It’s better if I go alone.”

He nodded slowly. “Then let me walk you to the gates, at least.”

“...Alright.”

The rest of the walk was quiet. You tried to find something to say. Small talk felt foreign now, like a language you hadn’t spoken in years. You glanced at Phainon from time to time, noticing the way the lantern light softened the sharp edges of his face. 

Before you realized it, you were standing at the main gates.

You stopped and turned to face him. “Thank you again, Sir Phainon. For everything.”

He smiled, tilting his head. “Thank you, too. You were good company tonight.”

An awkward pause stretched before you. You cleared your throat and stepped back.

“Well... I should go. Farewell, Sir Phainon.”

“Safe travels, my lady,” he said, his voice just above a whisper.

You began to walk, the gravel crunching beneath your feet. But something tugged at the edge of your thoughts. You stopped and turned around.

“I never told you my name, did I—?”

But he was gone.

The street was empty. Lanterns swayed gently in the breeze. Not a shadow, not a trace of him remained.

Your shoulders slumped, a sigh escaping your lips. Still, a strange warmth lingered in your chest.

Maybe you would see him again.

CHAPTER III

Ever since you went to the festival, things have gotten… strange.

You hadn’t expected the guards to make it easy for your return. In fact, you’d spent most of your walk back from the city wondering how you’d sneak past them again without getting caught. As you neared the outer wall of the temple, your pace slowed, eyes scanning the shadows. Your heart was pounding as you drew closer to the main gate.

That’s when you heard it — a low, rhythmic sound. You stopped in your tracks.

…Were those snores?

Your brows knit in confusion. That couldn’t be… right?

But sure enough, when you rounded the corner, there they were: the two guards slumped against the wall, fast asleep while still standing on their feet. Their helmets were slightly tilted forward. The gate was ajar, just enough for someone your size to slip through. 

There’s a weird feeling in your stomach. This wasn’t normal.

Had someone broken into the temple while you were away? Were the guards faking it? 

You hesitated, then began to move cautiously as you moved your feet against the stone path. You slipped through the gate, wincing slightly when it let out a small creak. You paused, eyes flicking back to the guards.

They were still snoring; if anything, it was louder.

You exhaled softly. You admit this situation was a bit odd, but you didn’t want to think about it right now.

The temple grounds were unusually quiet. You would’ve expected at least one priest or priestess wandering about at night. But there was no movement, no sound. There was only a gentle breeze and your own groggy footsteps. 

Your unease grew, but you pushed it down. Worry about this tomorrow!

For now, you just needed to make it to your chambers without being seen. Not that it mattered, there was no one patrolling the halls. It was as though the temple had fallen into a temporary slumber. 

You slipped into your room unnoticed. Changed your clothes. Lie in bed.

Sleep came quickly that night.

The next morning brought no answers; it brought more confusion.

You were halfway through your breakfast, your thoughts still adrift in the memory of last night’s strange silence, when the Archbishop passed by. He gave you a warm, grandfatherly smile and patted your shoulder. 

“When you’re finished, come to my office. I’d like a word.”

Your stomach dropped. You hadn’t thought he’d found out, but now, your mind raced. 

You’d explain, you told yourself as you walked toward his office. You’d apologize, say you just wanted to see your family, that you had no ill intentions. Maybe even pretend to weep if needed. 

You knocked gently. “Come in,” came his voice.

The Archbishop was at his desk, scribbling notes into a scroll. He looked up, eyes bright behind his glasses. He gestured for you to take a seat across from him. You sat down and braced yourself.

“How are you feeling?” he asked casually, quill still in hand. “The priestesses mentioned you weren’t well yesterday.”

Your breath caught. Then you blinked. 

What.

“Ah, yes. I was just… tired,” You said, quickly recovering. “A little rest was all I needed.”

“Glad to hear it.” He smiled, setting his quill down and folding his hands. “We wouldn’t want you falling ill, would we?”

You forced a polite laugh, tension still clinging to your spine. He laughed with you, then leaned back in his chair.

“One more thing,” he said, removing his glasses and setting them aside. “Lord Khaslana has spoken to me.”

Your heart jumped into your throat. “He… did?”

The Archbishop nodded, his expression unreadable. “He’s permitted you to visit Okhema. Whenever you’d like.”

You sat there, stunned. “Truly? I can go alone?”

“Yes. You may leave the temple without an escort.”

Your face lit up with disbelief and joy. “Thank you,” you said quickly.

“There is one condition,” he added gently. “You are expected to return by parting hour, and you must ‘talk’ with him every time before you go.”

You tilted your head. The Archbishop noticed your confusion as he let out a laugh.

“Yes, I was taken aback by his last condition as well. I take it that you haven’t been talking with him lately?” He asked. 

You looked away, “I… may have.” You answered sheepishly.

“Haha! Maybe he just wanted a bit of attention from his dear wife.” The Archbishop stroked his beard.

Him? Wanting attention from you? Last time you checked, he was the one ignoring you!

“Right… But I will accept those conditions,” you replied. 

He smiled and nodded. “Then that is all I wished to share.”

You stood to leave, already imagining the market stalls, the smell of roasted foods, and the distant music echoing through the streets. But something tugged at you — a bitter feeling in your chest.

You turned back at the doorway. “Archbishop?”

“Yes?”

You hesitated for a few seconds. “Does… my husband speak to you often?”

He furrowed his brow slightly, as though surprised by the question. “Hmm… I wouldn’t say often. But from time to time, yes. Usually, when he has something he wishes us to know.”

The ache bloomed again, sharp and cold inside your ribs. “I see. Thank you.”

You left the office quietly. Your footsteps echoed in the corridor as your thoughts spiraled. You were sure that your new freedom was because your husband had probably heard you talk with Phainon yesterday, he knows you snuck out, and he lets you. You were now sure that the guards and the gates were all his doing. He heard you and yet…

Why won’t he speak to me?

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

True to his word, the temple’s gates no longer kept you captive. The priests, once hovering shadows at your every step, now bowed and let you pass unaccompanied. No more chaperones, no more restrictions, no more surveillance. For the first time since your marriage, you were free. And you felt it. 

You began to spend more time in the city. You walked with Atlas to his school, sneaking in conversations with your friend at the bakery and other shops. Of course, you couldn’t tell them the truth. You simply said you’d been promoted and reassigned to a more “sacred” temple. That word tasted bitter on your tongue. 

Even so, the temple staff noticed your glow; how your prayers grew longer and how you seemed to have more to say to your husband in the roofed balcony when you thought no one was there. Because now, you have something to talk about. Even if he never answered.

You ran into Phainon again one sunny afternoon, just outside the antique shop. This time, you introduced yourself properly.

“A beautiful name,” he said, and before he could follow up with something else, you gave him a stern look and reminded him that you were married. He only laughed, completely unbothered. It annoyed you and, somehow, made you smile. 

He began showing up more often after that, just accompanying you wherever you go. He’d tell you about the fake antique he saw, and how he managed to convince someone from getting scammed. Sometimes you’d share a meal with him after you pick up Atlas from his classes. Atlas was more than happy to see him, talking about what he learned from school and even bragging about his grades. 

The little traitor even stopped pulling your hand during festivals and started dragging Phainon’s around instead. The tall man always hunched a little so Atlas could reach him properly, grumbling playfully and shooting you half-hearted looks of betrayal. You only chuckled. 

And now, here you were, seated on a bench near the festival square on the last day of the festival. The lanterns above cast flickering gold against the deepening dusk, music drifting from a nearby corner. You both sat with tired feet and half-eaten honeyed bread in hand, watching Atlas run off with some boys from school. You and Phainon started talking as usual.

You hadn't meant to bring up your troubles. But the words slipped through anyway.

“He never talks to me,” you muttered, biting into the sticky bread. “Never comes to see me. Sometimes I wonder if I’m invisible.”

Phainon cast a glance at you, his usually bright face dimming. “Your husband…? Maybe he’s… busy,” he said, cautiously.

“That’s the thing,” You cut in, a bitter laugh escaping. “I know he’s probably busy with… whatever he’s doing, but don’t tell me he doesn’t have time to even see me? No need to talk for hours, just… see me.”

You shouldn’t have underestimate what gods do. For all you know, he could be busy protecting Okhema from unseen threats. But you were pissed off, it’s rational for you to think this way.

Phainon looked like he wanted to say something, but swallowed it down. You stared off into the square, the sound of flutes drifting in the air.

“Maybe…” Phainon began carefully, “Maybe he’s afraid.” his voice was too steady for someone just speculating. It made something tighten in your chest.

You blinked and turned to him. “Afraid? Of me? I’m his wife.” You flail your arms, “He’s faced monsters and armies. He has helped many people as well! He has all that power— I mean skills, and yet he’s afraid to meet his wife?” You scoffed.

Phainon sighed, letting out a soft, breathy laugh, “To be fair, you are terrifying,” he mumbled.

You widened your eyes, looking at him with mock offense, “What did you say?” You asked, tone offended, though the smirk on your lips said otherwise.

Phainon raised his hands defensively, “What? I didn’t say anything. Wow, the West Winds sure are strong nowadays…” He said, looking at his surroundings as if to check the wind.

You tried to hold your scowl, but it cracked at the edges as you let out a laugh, “You defend him a lot for someone who’s never met him.” 

Phainon smiled sheepishly. “Let’s just say… I can imagine his side of things. From one man to another.”

You let out a small huff, rolling your eyes with a fond smile. “How about we just enjoy the festival tonight and leave our troubles behind, huh?” You said, rising to your feet and extending your hand to him.

Phainon hesitated for a moment, his gaze lingering on your outstretched hand. Then, without a word, he took it. 

You gave his fingers a reassuring squeeze before gently tugging him upward. As he stood, you released his hand and turned, stepping forward with your newfound energy. Behind you, Phainon followed, your touch still lingering on his skin.

And the evening continued — gentle, golden, warm in ways you hadn’t felt in a long while. You didn’t notice the way Phainon’s gaze lingered. The way he watched you not with curiosity…

But guilt. 

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

It was the sixth month now— the Month of Everday.

The days were blazing, the sun bearing down on Okhema like a merciless spotlight. You had stopped visiting Okhema City as often, worried that too much time outside would leave you sun-drunk or worse, sick. So you remained within the white-stone halls of the temple, living in routine and resignation.

Oh, and of course — you still hadn’t met your husband.

Still, you had a growing suspicion. Your prayers, though unanswered in voice, felt… heard.

Whenever you complained about the stifling heat, a gust of wind would roll in from the hills, brushing sweat from your brow like an invisible hand. Whenever you wandered into the gardens, that familiar loneliness clawing at your chest, you’d find yourself quietly joined by a bird perching near your feet, a butterfly settling on your shoulder, and a stray chimera curling beside your bench, purring softly.

Were those coincidences? Or was it his doing? You didn’t know. You didn’t want to know.

Today, the wind had picked up again. Cool enough that you decided to visit the temple library. The temple’s archive of fiction was surprisingly robust. Romance novels nestled among sacred texts, hidden like small rebellions. The priestesses pretended not to notice them, and you didn’t ask questions.

If escapism was a sin, then you were already damned. 

Oh well, at least you’ll have your divine husband to save your soul later.

When you stepped inside, the doors were already open. The scent of parchment and lemon polish drifted in the warm air. Ah, the priestesses must’ve been cleaning. You walked down the rows of bookshelves until you reached the fiction corner. You were just beginning to trail your fingers across a row of colorful spines when hushed voices caught your attention from behind the adjacent shelf. 

You didn’t mean to listen. You weren’t trying to eavesdrop. But then—

“It’s been a while since Lord Khaslana visited, huh?”

You froze.

“Yeah… I miss when he used to talk about the stars with us,” one voice sighed.

“He was so kind. Just… glowing. I always felt so calm around him.”

“Ever since the wedding, though, he’s stopped coming. I wonder why?”

Your blood turned to ice. The ache in your chest, the one you’d been nursing in silence for six months, splintered. So he had been coming before. He could come in human form. He had been visiting. He laughed, talked, and spent time with the others. 

Just… before you came.

You turned on your heel, left the shelf, and made your way to the Archbishop’s office with purpose burning in your steps. You didn’t knock. You didn’t need to.

The Archbishop startled in his chair, lifting his gaze. “Child, what’s—?”

“Did Lord Khaslana used to visit the temple?” You asked, your voice low but shaking.

He blinked. “Yes… regularly, in fact. He often stayed in his chambers. He enjoyed visiting in his human form. Shared stories with us. Just casual talk.”

You swallowed. Your mouth tasted bitter. “When did he stop?”

The Archbishop exhaled slowly. “He… hasn’t visited since the wedding.”

You nodded, almost mechanically. “Thank you,” you said, though your voice barely carried. You turned before he could say anything more. 

You walked. Fast. You didn’t know where you were going until you found yourself back in your chambers, your hands already gathering your cloak and satchel. You didn’t greet the guards at the gates like usual. You barely acknowledged them at all.

Their concerned glances followed you, but you didn’t stop.

You ran.

You ran through the dirt roads, through the burning streets of Okhema, your breath heavy and ragged. You didn’t care about appearances anymore. You didn’t care if people stared. You just needed to see someone who loved you.

You reached your parents’ home, panting and soaked in sweat. Your hand trembled as you knocked. When the door opened, your mother’s eyes went wide at the sight of your tear-streaked face. She didn’t ask questions and pulled you inside. She held you like she did when you were little, brushing your hair back and murmuring.

Your father was home too; he had just returned from his campaign. His rough soldier’s hands clenched into fists the moment he heard your sobs. 

You sat between them on the couch, your words tumbling all at once. You told them everything. About the empty bedroom, the silence, the prayers that never answered in words, the dinners eaten alone. 

The months of hoping for something — anything. 

“I hate him!” you choked, collapsing into your mother’s arms. “I hate him.”

She stroked your hair, whispering, “Don’t say that, sweetheart. What if he hears you?”

“I don’t care! I want him to hear me!” You screamed into her shoulder. “I hate him! I hate him! He left me! I don’t want to go back!”

Your father stood in silence. Then, in a voice like thunder, he said, “I’ll kill him.”

You pulled back from your mother in shock, breathing still ragged, “What?! Father—” you sobbed, “have you lost your mind?!”

“I mean it,” He snapped. “God or not. No one does this to my daughter.”

“Dearest, calm down. Don’t say that,” Your mother gasped, rising to stop him. “You’ll get yourself killed.”

He paced, shaking. “I do not care! It is not impossible to kill a god.” He muttered, “I offered her over, thinking that he would protect her.”

You looked up at him, tear-streaked, heart pounding. The sight was enough to stop him. Then slowly, he knelt beside you. 

“Forgive me… I should’ve never…” He trailed off, gritting his teeth, “This is all my fault. Forgive me, my daughter.”

You wrapped your arms around him, nodding on his shoulder.

The rest of the evening passed quietly. Atlas had just come back from school. Thank the gods you had already washed your face. You greeted him with a smile as he told you about what he learned in school. Your mother ushered Atlas to take a bath and to change. He nodded and went straight to his room.

Everyone was at the dining table, your mother bringing out your favorite food. Your father, still trying to calm himself, began recounting silly stories from his latest travels, with Atlas asking him hundreds of questions every time your father said a sentence. The sight made you smile. It was warm and familiar. 

But eventually, the moment had to end. 

You declined their offer to stay the night, thanking them both for comforting you. You promised to return soon. Your mother pulled you into one more hug. “I love you, sweetheart.” She whispered, her voice helpless.

“I love you, too, mother.”

You stepped back into the streets of Okhema. The warmth of home faded behind you. You wondered if Phainon would appear tonight. But he was nowhere to be found. Maybe it was for the best, you’re not exactly in a condition to talk to anyone right now. 

You arrived at the temple just as the sun began to dip below the horizon. You told the priestesses not to wait for you at dinner, informing them that you had already eaten with your family. In your chambers, you changed out of your clothes, washed your face, and leaned against the window. A drop of water hit your hand, causing you to look up.

“...Rain?” you whispered. The sky above was darkening quickly, a deep grey settling over the hills. A crack of thunder rumbled in the distance. 

You watched the rain fall, slow and steady. You didn’t know why, but something about the rain felt… different.

You closed the window and walked towards your bed. The sound of rain tapping the glass and thunder rolling over the skies above rocked you into sleep.

CHAPTER IV

The first time Khaslana heard your father’s prayers, he was sitting alone beneath the wheeling stars in the Vortex of Genesis. His throne was carved from marble and fiery amber, but tonight, his eyes were downcast, quiet.

The voice of a mortal reached him. It was frantic and raw. A father, kneeling in bloodied armor beneath a broken sky. He had offered his daughter to the Worldbearing God in exchange for deliverance. Not her life, but her fate. Her soul. To be entrusted to him. To become his. 

Khaslana didn’t speak, nor did he descend. But he heard and he listened. 

With a wave of his hand, the heavens cracked open. Meteors streaked through the red sky, cleaving through the monsters of the Black Tide with divine precision. Screams of terror turned into shouts of awe.

Your father’s voice rang out among the crowd. But the god had already turned away. There were other matters to attend to.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

Time passed differently for gods; A year for mortals was a blink for him. Yet when he returned to the mortal plane in his human form, the earth had changed again.

His hair was now snow-white, his eyes the piercing blue of high summer skies, and he walked through the halls of his personal temple, blending in like any other human. The Archbishop welcomed him warmly, inviting him into his study. The scent of honeyed tea and spiced bread filled the room. Though Khaslana had no need for food anymore, he accepted it out of politeness. Human cuisine always stirred something faint within him, perhaps it was a memory, a warm feeling.

“It seems the time has come for your wedding, Lord Khaslana,” the Archbishop began. 

The god paused, a piece of pastry untouched in his hand as he raised a brow.

“The one with the General’s daughter,” the Archbishop clarified. “She’s of age now. And, if I may speak freely… she’s become quite the beauty.”

Ah. That exchange..

“Has the time come already?” he murmured with a quiet laugh, more to himself than to the priest.

“Yes,” the Archbishop replied, watching him carefully. “Though I must admit, I didn’t expect you to accept the offer.”

Khaslana didn’t answer immediately. His gaze lingered on the tea’s surface, where the reflection of his own face shimmered. 

“The law of Equivalence,” he said at last, voice low. “As old as the breath of the world.”

The Archbishop remained silent.

“When a mortal offers something of true value, something that wounds them, the heavens are bound to answer. The greater the sacrifice, the deeper the prayer carves its way into us. And a daughter…” He looked up. “A daughter is no small offering.”

“So you accepted… not out of desire?” the Archbishop asked softly.

“No,” Khaslana said. “I accepted because it was owed.”

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

The wedding day arrived. 

Seated upon his throne, Khaslana watched. The ceremony unfolded beneath him like a sunlit dream.

You stepped onto the temple balcony, dressed in white and gold, the light catching the silk of your dress like water running over moonstone. Every moment, the way you walked and the way your fingers clutched stirred something ancient in him.

And when you lifted your face to the sky, full of resolve, something inside him ached. You were radiant. Perhaps… too bright for a god like him.

Aglaea has blessed her, he thought. I’ll have to ask her about this later.

He could not descend. Not yet. So he sent a warm, soft, laced with summer and sunlight, breeze to touch your cheek in place of his hand. And when you spoke your vows, so simple yet earnest, he smiled—not as Khaslana, the bearer of worlds, but as a man. A soul. Phainon. 

As you pledged yourself to him, he answered. Not with words, but with the divine. The stone beneath your feet lit with a celestial glow. The covenant is now sealed. 

As the ceremony ended, he immediately left the vortex, but not to you.

His mind raced with questions: How does one protect a mortal wife? How does one hold her without harm?

He went to Castrum Kremnos, seeking the advice of Mydeimos, the God of Strife, and also his closest friend. He had led his people to many victories. He was battle-hardened and unshaken. His people look up to him for his protection, and almost all of his people were warriors or warriors-to-be. Surely, he’s the one best when it comes to protection, right?

That was his first mistake.

“Why ask me such stupid questions?” Mydeimos grunted, arms crossed. “Treat her like any subject… just more important.”

Khaslana frowned. “Do all Kremnoans speak in riddles?”

A vein bulged in Mydeimos’ forehead. “Just get her guards! When she goes outside, someone follows her. Feed her. Protect her.”

Ah. Khaslana nodded slowly.

And just like that, he returned to his temple, appearing in the Archbishop’s office in his mortal form. The old man barely flinched — already used to his god’s sudden appearances. Khaslana gave his orders, guards, routines, and what was expected. The Archbishop was a bit puzzled, but he obeyed. 

That night, Khaslana stood again in the Vortex of Genesis. Stars spun above like galaxies caught in breath. But his gaze was fixed below. 

On you.

There you sat in your new chambers, at the edge of his bed, alone. Waiting.

Aglaea, the Goddess of Romance, made her presence known behind him, “Shouldn’t you be down there with your wife, Deliverer?” She asked, voice gentle and curious. 

Khaslana turned to her, about to ask what she had meant. Then his breath caught in his throat.

Ah. The wedding night. Where couples would usually consummate their marriage.

He turned back to your room. You had changed from your temple robes into more delicate garments. You sat at the edge of the bed in silence, tugging at the edges of your sleeves. 

“You fear her,” Aglaea murmured, stepping beside him.

“I do not fear her,” He replied too quickly. Then after a moment, “I fear what I no longer understand.

Aglaea tilted her head. “She’s human.”

He closed his eyes. “I was, too, once. I remember what it was to love, to burn, to yearn with a heart that beat for another. But now… I remember only the shape of those feelings, not their weight. Like remembering the warmth of a fire I can no longer feel.”

His eyes drifted back to you, “I know what she hopes for. I know what I should do. But what if I fall short? What if I hurt her without meaning to?” He turned to look at Aglaea. 

“She wants with no fear. Speaks freely. Cries and smiles and hopes. How am I supposed to touch that… without breaking it?”

Aglaea’s face softened. “So the god who bears the world is afraid of breaking a single girl’s heart?”

He gave a dry smile, “Because I have broken nations without meaning to. What damage might I do… when I mean to touch?”

She shook her head, smiling faintly, “Hearts don’t shatter from being touched, Khaslana. They break from being left waiting.” She turns to leave, her voice fading with her steps. 

He stayed silent, watching as you curled up in bed. Alone. 

He took a deep breath before he descended in silence.

He appeared in his divine form, the chamber awash in starlight and wind. You lay peacefully, fast asleep. So small compared to him. His hand hovered near your cheek, trembling slightly.

You were… fragile.

He could cover your entire face with one palm. If he tried to touch you, would he shatter you like porcelain?

He withdrew.

Then disappeared again, leaving you in the quiet of the night. 

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

Khaslana had watched your daily life unfold with quiet diligence. From the celestial cradle of the Vortex of Genesis, he observed everything. How you rose with the morning light, how you bathed with graceful efficiency, how you chose your robes each day with a frown of indecision. He even listened in on your earliest prayers, chuckling softly to himself at how bashful your voice became when you "talked" to him aloud for the first time. Something was endearing about the way your voice trembled.

He watched as you walked through the streets of Okhema with a chaperone trailing behind you, weaving between markets and festival stalls. He felt assured that you were safe, that you were protected, as Mydeimos had advised. 

And yet, he never answered your prayers with words.

He could have. He had the power to appear at your side in an instant, to offer his voice in response. But a part of him hesitated. What if you asked why he hadn’t come to you? Why hadn’t he appeared on your wedding night? Why hadn’t he even seen your face-to-face since the vow? He wasn’t ready to answer that.

It was now the Month of Joy, and for the first time, your prayers carried a different weight. No longer just requests for health or protection. 

You began to whisper your loneliness. 

At first, he was puzzled. You were allowed to leave the temple grounds. Why didn’t you simply request permission through the Archbishop? A chaperone was all it took.

But then, he noticed something… odd.

Your behavior changed. You lingered in corridors longer than necessary, watching the guards with sharp eyes. Your gaze flitted from corner to corner when you thought no one was watching. You studied the temple’s layout as though trying to memorize every hallway, every path.

Suspicious. Curious. Restless.

Was this normal behavior for humans? Khaslana tried to remember how he had acted as a mortal. But his memories, though vivid in form, felt distant in emotion.

And your prayers changed again. They still asked for his blessings and guidance, but now they sounded… sharper. Each line was laced with the fire of frustration. Threats, almost. 

Ah… those suspicious behaviors and those oddly vague yet threatening prayers… You were trying to sneak out. That amused him more than anything.

Cute. He thought, lips curling with dry humor.

Then came the night of your escape.

Khaslana had already planned ahead. He contacted the Archbishop using the stone tablet etched with his sigil, the divine channel between the Vortex and his temple, asking him to gather the priests and priestesses for an urgent “discussion.” The Archbishop, ever dutiful, obeyed. When the clergy assembled that night, expecting celestial orders, Khaslana simply asked how they were doing. No divine proclamations, no rituals. Just… small talk.

With the temple’s attention occupied, he turned his gaze back to you.

There you were — walking the cobbled streets of Okhema in the moonlight, your younger brother trailing behind you, eyes full of wonder. A smile tugged at Khaslana’s lips.

But then… a thief. Quick hands snatched your coin purse and darted through the crowd.

Before Khaslana could think, his body moved. In an instant, he teleported down to the mortal plane, hidden behind a tree in the city’s plaza. The thief was already headed his way, and without effort, Khaslana caught him by the collar, lifting him off the ground like a child.

He retrieved your coin bag and turned toward the sound of your footsteps. You had run after the thief, breathless, face flushed, and worried. Khaslana approached you with a quiet composure, holding the pouch in hand.

“Yours, I believe,” he said, voice steady. Though his pulse might’ve been racing.

“Thank you so much, sir...” you replied, dipping your head politely. His breath caught slightly. Your voice sounded so much clearer now, spoken directly rather than through the haze of prayer.

Then you looked at him expectantly.

Oh. You were waiting for a name.

He blinked once before smiling with effortless charm, “Phainon.”

“Sir Phainon... I can't thank you enough,” you said again, gratitude glowing in your eyes.

Your little brother approached, too, grinning up at him and offering his thanks. Khaslana reached out and ruffled the boy’s hair, warmth blooming in his chest.

He should’ve left then. It was safer that way. But—

“Then... let me repay you. I'll buy you something from the stalls.”

He paused. Considered it. “And if I decline?”

“Then I'll insist.”

There it was. That smile. How could he say no to his wife?

So he agreed, reluctantly, but with a small twist of amusement. You led the way through the colorful rows of vendors and festival lights, your brother bouncing ahead. It had been centuries since he’d stood in a human celebration like this.

His eyes lingered on a stall that sold meat skewers. Oh, those looked heavenly.

Suddenly, you stepped in front of him and ordered two skewers. Without hesitation, you handed one to him, the other to your brother. His hand hesitated as he took the skewer from yours, your fingers brushing his in that brief contact. Warm. Real. He held onto that sensation like it might disappear.

“Thank you, pretty lady.” He smiled.

Your cheeks turned crimson.

Khaslana — no, Phainon — felt something loosen in his chest.

He stayed with you longer than he planned, drawn into the simple joy of watching you laugh, eat, and enjoy yourself. He noticed how your smiles here, in the mortal realm, were fuller than the ones you wore inside the temple.

He wanted more of that. 

But then he saw your expression shift after looking at the clock tower. You quickly offered to bring your brother back home. Ah, yes, it was getting late for a youngster like him. He followed you back home, greeted your mother, and stayed silent after. Just watching you interact with your family. 

After that encounter, he had tried to dissuade you from leaving so soon. Really, it was fine if you wanted to stay longer. He could just tell the Archbishop to turn a blind eye for tonight.

But then, something you said made him stop in his tracks. 

“I can’t. My Husband is… strict.”

His brows knit together. Him? Strict?

“Strict? Really?” He hadn’t meant to sound so offended.

You looked back at him, an eyebrow raised.

“He's a loving husband,” you said with dry sarcasm, the same tone Mydeimos would usually use on him, he notes. “So possessive that I need permission just to walk the streets. Even then, I have to bring a chaperone like I'm a child again.”

Phainon frowned, visibly stung. That wasn’t possessiveness? It was protection. But… maybe he’d misjudged what that protection felt like.

“Maybe he's just... worried. About your safety,” he offered gently.

“If that's the case, he has a strange way of showing it.”

The words landed like a stone in his stomach.

When he walked you to the city gates and watched you disappear into the night, a heaviness settled in his chest. He sighed, teleporting back to the Vortex, where the stars coiled like a divine storm above his head.

The Archbishop was still in his study. Through the sacred stone, Khaslana reached out once more and delivered new instructions — gentler rules, freer movement, and no more chaperones. The Archbishop, though clearly confused, agreed without question.

He owed you that much, at the very least.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

Truly, revising the temple’s rules had been the right decision.

You had begun to bloom. 

Your voice in prayer softened from its once-frustrated edge to something warmer, more sincere. Each time you entered the temple sanctuary, he could sense it: a calmness in your posture, a gentler rhythm to your words. You spoke to him now not as a distant stranger, but as someone familiar. 

You told him about your plans before venturing into town, where you might go, and what you hoped to find. And when you returned, you’d come to the roofed balcony and recounted everything to him. From the people you saw, the food you tried, to the new book you discovered tucked away in a corner stall.

It had become your ritual. And though you didn’t hear his answers, he listened to every word like scripture.

Your frequent visits to Okhema meant he could now meet you — not as Khaslana, the Worldbearing God, but as Phainon.

Still, a quiet fear gnawed at the back of his mind.

What if you came to prefer Phainon? What if the smiling stranger with the white hair and blue eyes, the one who could laugh and tease and walk beside you, eclipsed the unseen god to whom you had been bound?

But those fears melted the day he tried flirting with you in the middle of a market stall, only for you to straighten and remind him, quite firmly, that you were a married woman.

He had laughed, not because of the words, but because of the quiet, overwhelming relief that swelled in his chest.

You still remembered him.

Not just the idea of a husband, but him. Khaslana. The one cloaked in divinity, hidden behind stars and clouded sky. You still held space for him.

After that second encounter, meeting you came more naturally. Your conversations grew longer. He no longer felt the sting of hesitation when you smiled at him, or the jolt of nervousness when your fingers brushed again. And in your evening prayers, you started mentioning Phainon with a kind of amused fondness that made him laugh in the Vortex.

It was adorable hearing you try to hide how much you enjoyed his company.

Whenever you visited the city, he’d always find a way to cross your path. Never too obvious. Never too frequent. But enough. Enough to hear your voice, to see you light up when Atlas tugged on his arm, to walk beside you, even if only for a little while.

He cherished those fleeting moments more than you could ever know.

And when you were back in the temple, fast asleep in your chambers, he would sometimes return in his divine form, a silent shadow bathed in starlight. He would stand at the foot of your bed, watching your chest rise and fall, listening to the soft sighs you made as you dreamed. In those quiet hours, something stirred in his chest — something foreign and familiar all at once. A tenderness and longing he could scarcely name.

You had gotten closer. Perhaps that was why your words on the final night of the festival struck him so deeply.

You had laughed together that evening, walked through bright-lit streets beneath strings of lanterns. But when the topic shifted to your marriage, about the husband you had never seen, your smile dimmed. Your voice cracked, wrapped in quiet sorrow.

You confessed how confused you felt, how hurt you were. How you didn’t understand why he — Khaslana — hadn’t come to see you. And in a low, guarded voice, you asked aloud if he even cared. 

He listened, seated beside you as Phainon, heart heavy with guilt. Each word was a knife, though you didn’t know you were placing the blade in his hand. He had wanted to speak. To explain. 

To say I do care. I watch over you every day. I listen to every prayer, every breath. I’ve never left your side.

But instead, he defended Khaslana as if he were someone else entirely.

A stranger.

That night, when he returned to the Vortex with questions running through his mind. Should he tell you the truth? Reveal the name behind the face you now trust? Or would it ruin everything you had come to build between you?

No, he’d just have to keep it a secret. Just for a little longer.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

When the Month of Everday rolled in, Phainon had begun answering your prayers more deliberately.

When you sat alone in the gardens, shoulders hunched, eyes faraway, he sent soft-pawed animals to sit with you; a curious chimera here, a fluttering cluster of butterflies there, chirping birds above. Gentle companions — not enough to startle, but enough to soothe.

When you muttered beneath your breath about the suffocating heat, he stirred the air with his fingers, sending winds to cool the sweat from your brow. You never seemed to notice the small cloud that followed you whenever you stepped beyond the temple gates, shielding you from the sun like a loyal servant.

He watched you and thought, Yes, this is enough.

The days had been steady. Almost peaceful.

Until he heard your sobs.

At that moment, he was in the midst of an argument with Mydeimos, a spirited bet over who could lift an entire mountain range faster. Their fists pounded the cliffside as they compared strength like war-hardened brothers.

Your sounds reached him like a whiplash.

It was soft at first. It sounded fragile, but unmistakable. 

Then, loud sobbing.

Phainon stilled.

His head jerked slightly, listening. Mydeimos raised a brow at the sudden silence.

“What's the matter—?”

But Phainon was already gone.

He reappeared just behind your parents’ house. The sky above was bright, a contrast to your emotion. And through the walls, your cries tore through him like thunder splitting stone.

“I hate him!”

He froze, eyes wide, and his breath caught in his throat. The words struck like a blow to the chest, and his pupils trembled.

“I hate him.”

No.

No, no, that can’t be right.

He stepped closer, pressing himself against the shadows of the wall, every muscle in his divine body locked in place.

Then your mother’s voice, soft and warning: “Don’t say that, sweetheart. What if he hears you?”

You didn’t hesitate as you answered, “I don’t care! I want him to hear me!”

The air around him cracked. 

“I hate him!”

His heart stuttered.

“I hate him!”

Stop... please—

“He left me!”

No. No. I’m right here–!

“I don’t want to go back!”

That sentence hit harder than any divine weapon ever had. For a moment, time twisted. The world stilled. Your voice echoed in his head on a cruel loop, every syllable sharper than the last.

I hate him. He left me. I don’t want to go back.

He could no longer hear the muffled protests of your father or the sound of your mother’s arms pulling you in close. None of it registered. All he could hear was you.

The pain was unfamiliar. Foreign and all-consuming.

Why?

Why did you feel this way?

He had given you everything: comfort, safety, freedom. The power to come and go as you pleased. He answered your prayers. Protected you. Watched you. Even the smallest desire, he met with quiet, invisible care.

So why did you hate him?

He vanished once more, light splitting the space where he stood.

Back in the Vortex of Genesis, the stars above spiraled violently, distorted by the storm brewing in his chest. He hovered in the silence of the divine plane, your cries still ringing in his ears, over and over.

The look on your face. The tears that spilled down your cheeks. The grief in your voice.

It was all because of him.

Even when he kept his distance to protect you. Even when he tried to be careful. He still hurts you.

And he didn’t understand.

Phainon’s — no, Khaslana’s — breathing ragged, he fell to his knees. Divine form trembling, hands clenched so tightly the stone beneath him cracked. His heartbeat thundered like war drums in his ears. Mydeimos' spear had pierced his chest once in battle, but it hadn’t hurt like this.

This... this was heartbreak.

Tears welled in his eyes, burning hot. They fell freely, only to sizzle and vanish into steam the moment they touched the sacred ground beneath him.

“You hate… me…” he whispered.

You hate me. You hate me. You hate me.

He repeated it in his mind like a curse, and the storms began to brew.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

Okhema had been ravaged by storms for over a week.

Thunder rolled through the heavens day and night, shaking rooftops and soaking the earth with relentless rain. The fields were drowning. Crops began to rot beneath the mud. Work halted, streets emptied, and the people whispered of divine wrath. It was the worst weather Okhema had seen in generations. 

High above, Aglaea watched the storm with a quiet frown. The Goddess of Romance was no stranger to divine tantrums; gods and mortals alike threw them when love faltered.

But this one had become… excessive. 

Not only had Hyacinthia, Goddess of the Sky, blistered her ears with complaints about the ruined blue of her canvas, but one of Aglaea’s golden threads was trembling. Dangerously so. Nearly fraying at the edge. 

A divine-mortal bond. Now that was rare.

Aglaea leaned closer, fingers brushing the glowing weave, noting its resonance. This wasn’t an ordinary thread, tangled from passing crushes or whispered longing. This one pulsed with something ancient and sacred. A thread that should never have been this brittle so soon.

She hummed, amused. “Now… who do you belong to, I wonder?” 

Without another word, she vanished from her realm. 

In a breath, she stood within the Vortex of Genesis. Stars swirled in slow, infinite spirals, like pain spilled into the void. She walked with grace past the twelve thrones of the Twelve, each grand in their own way. 

And there he was. 

At the edge of the vast platform, Khaslana stood alone. The Worldbearing God, cloaked in shadow, stared outward into nothing. His broad wings, once radiant with power, now hung heavy behind him. Their gold and amethyst plumage dulled like tarnished glass. The eternal flame of his hair, normally burning like a solar flare, flickered dimly above his brow. Even his halo had lost its luster.

Aglaea paused beside him, her presence warm, “I see Okhema’s having quite the weather — on the sixth month, no less,” she said lightly, her voice breaking the hush.

No response. 

She tried again, more pointed this time. “Hyacinthia has come to me to complain that a certain Worldbearing God has been painting over her skies with stormclouds. She says they look like… hm… what was it that she said?” She tapped her chin with a playful smile, “‘a muddy, sulking bruise.’ Quite poetic, don’t you think?”

Khaslana didn’t so much as flinch. His eyes remained fixed on the stars, or perhaps… beyond them.

Aglaea folded her arms beneath her chest. “So… nothing to say about the storms, then?”

Still silence.

Her eyes narrowed, studying him more closely. His face was drawn, the sharp lines of his jaw clenched tight beneath his dim halo. Everything about him—from the slouch of his wings to the rigid set of his shoulders—radiated tension.

“The crops are dying,” she said more gently now. “The streets are flooded. The people of Okhema are starting to wonder what they did to anger their precious god.”

At last, his jaw shifted.

“…Let her complain,” he muttered, voice low and rough as crushed stone.

“Oh, she is,” Aglaea smirked faintly. “But I didn’t come for Hyacinthia.”

She raised her hand, and with a glimmer of divine threadwork, a golden string appeared. It curled in the air between them, one end wrapped around Khaslana’s divine presence, the other trailing far downward, through the layers of the world as if reaching for someone below. 

“This thread,” Aglaea said, letting it swirl around her fingers, “has been trembling all week. Do you know how rare it is to see a bond like this? Between a god and a human? This isn’t just affection. It’s something sacred. But right now,” her eyes narrowed, “it’s falling apart.”

Khaslana said nothing, but his brow furrowed deeper. Then, finally, he spoke.

“She said she hated me.”

Aglaea’s eyes softened, a quiet breath leaving her lips. “Ah.”

“I did everything for her,” he said, and though his voice was calm, there was a bewildered ache behind it. “I protected her. Gave her food, shelter, and freedom. Everything she could want. And still…” He looked down at his hands, clenching them slowly. “She said I left her.”

“Well,” Aglaea said carefully, “didn’t you?”

His head snapped toward her, but she didn’t flinch.

“You gave her your temple, your guards, your blessings. But not you. You let her see her family, her brother, but not her husband.”

“I was there,” he said sharply. “I watched her. I listened to every prayer. I shielded her when no one else could.”

“But did you hold her?” Aglaea asked softly.

Her words landed like thunder on Khaslana. He didn’t answer.

“She is human, Khaslana. Mortals aren’t fed by silent devotion. They need to touch, they need voice, and presence. She needs her husband. Not just her god.”

Khaslana looked away.

“I never wanted a bride,” he muttered. “I only answered a prayer… one too steeped in blood and desperation to ignore.”

Aglaea raised an eyebrow. “Then cast her off. Let her go.”

The thread shimmered between them, its glow dimmer than before. He didn’t speak, his jaw tensed, and his fists trembling. 

“I can’t,” he said at last, voice cracked.

“Even if I never asked for it, I can’t let her go. I don’t know when it happened, but I can’t imagine the temple without her steps echoing in the halls. I can’t remember what silence was before her voice filled it.”

“She was a burden I never meant to carry,” he whispered, “but now… she’s a weight I don’t know how to set down.”

“Then carry her properly,” she said. “Because if you don’t—she’ll tear herself from your hands just to feel free again.”

Khaslana’s voice turned hard. “You speak as if I could have simply walked into that room. As if lying beside her wouldn’t risk shattering her ribs or scorching her skin.”

Aglaea tilted her head. “Is that truly what you fear?”

He was quiet. Then, softly:

“My form isn’t what it used to be. I’m not some soft-lit statue. My body is lined with cracks. My shoulders are spiked. My hands are claws. I have destroyed armies with the weight of my breath.”

His claws curled against his palm.

“If I touch her… I would ruin her.”

Aglaea was silent for a long breath.

Then she said, “So instead, you let her ruin herself. Wondering what she did wrong. Believing she was unwanted.”

Khaslana’s expression faltered. Barely. But enough to show the storm beneath.

“She hates me.”

“She was lonely,” Aglaea replied, her voice quiet.

He turned from her, “You wouldn’t understand.”

But Aglaea only stepped closer.

“I understand love,” she said, her voice gaining strength. “And I understand what it means to show up, even when it’s terrifying. I’ve seen mortals risk heartbreak, war, even death, just to reach each other.”

She placed a hand on his shoulder, steady and warm, “Your body may be forged from flames, Khaslana. But your soul still longs.”

She stepped back.

“I’ll leave the skies alone for now. But if you let this thread break, the world may not end... but something inside you will.”

And then, like the soft falling of starlight, she vanished, leaving Khaslana alone with his thoughts.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

You stood by the window, worry etched into your features as you gazed out at the endless downpour. The storm still hadn’t passed. 

For the past week, the rain had come in vicious cycles. It would rage from Lucid Hour to Parting Hour, winds howling, thunder deafening, and rain lashing the windows like angry fists. Then, it would slow to a drizzle during Curtain Fall Hour, only to begin again at Entry Hour the next day. 

You were grateful that the corridors connecting your chambers to the temple were covered. Without them, even the simple act of fetching food would have been an ordeal. 

Now, wrapped in a blanket, you remained cooped up in your chambers, your fingers curled around the warm fabric to help shield you from the cold. The sound of rain pelting the stone walls had become constant, almost maddening. 

Then came a knock at your door. 

You blinked, startled, and rushed to answer. Standing in the doorway was the Archbishop, his robes damp at the edges, his face weary but composed. 

“Forgive me for coming so suddenly, my child,” He said gently.

You stepped aside without a word, allowing him to enter. He moved with care, as if unsure whether he was intruding.

“You’ve never visited me in my chambers before, Your Excellency,” you said as you shut the door behind him. 

He gave a small nod, his hands folding behind his back as he walked a few steps in. “Is something wrong?” You asked, sending a weight in his silence. 

He stopped at your question and drew a deep breath. When he turned to face you, his expression was troubled. 

“I believe this storm is Lord Khaslana’s doing.”

Your brows furrowed. You stepped closer, clutching your blanket more tightly around your shoulders. 

“What makes you think that?” You asked, your voice low.

The Archbishop looked down, hesitating before he met your gaze again. “This has happened before, there would be raging storms and our prayers would take more effort to be heard. And right now… He has not responded to our prayers,” he said, voice subdued. “Nor has he answered any of our calls to commune with him.”

You blinked, silence stretching between you. There was a heavy feeling in your chest.

“There are reports from the city,” he went on, “that the flooding is getting worse. The crops are dying. Food stores are spoiling faster than we can replenish them. Children are falling ill. Transportation has all but stopped.” His shoulder sank. “I fear we may be approaching a crisis if this keeps up.”

His eyes reached yours, weary and pleading. “Have you tried praying or talking to him to stop this storm? Did he answer?”

You let out a soft scoff, shaking your head in disbelief. “Forgive me, but asking me is pointless.”

You took a step back, your voice tightening. “He’s never responded to me. Not once. He has never spoken, has never appeared. Even if I did pray, he wouldn’t respond.”

The Archbishop’s expression fell, but he didn’t argue. Instead, he stepped forward and gently took both of your hands in his. 

“You are his wife,” he said, his voice steady despite the desperation behind it. 

You looked away, your jaw clenched. “Only in name.”

He held your hands a moment longer before releasing them. “Try,” was all he said. 

Then, with a small bow, he turned and left you standing alone. The silence that followed was deafening.

You bit your lip, frustration burning behind your eyes. Was this storm his answer? Did he hear you that night at your parents’ home, shouting your anger at him? 

You let out a low, bitter sigh and dropped onto the edge of your bed. It didn’t matter what you felt. People were suffering, the city drowning, and your family — your people — were in danger. 

You had no choice now. You would have to swallow your pride for the sake of Okhema.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

It was useless.

No matter how many times, in however many ways you tried, your prayers were met with silence. You had offered devotion, tears, your voice hoarse with pleading. And still, nothing. Lord Khaslana remained absent, and with each passing storm-filled day, your anger burned hotter beneath the weight of your helplessness.

How could you not? He’s acting like a child throwing tantrums!

You’ve had enough. If the passive approach didn’t work, you need a more aggressive approach. 

You left before dawn. The thunder, for once, had settled to a distant murmur, like a beast sleeping fitfully beneath the clouds. You threw on the thickest cloak you owned, but the rain had already soaked you through the bone before you reached the temple gates. 

The guards cried after you, the priestesses stepped into your path in panic, but you didn’t stop. You shook their hands off your arms. Your boots splashed through rising pools of mud as you walked with purpose — not to the city square, not to shelter, but to the hills. To the highest point you could reach, far from protection, far from anyone who might stop you. 

Your fingers trembled with cold, your soaked cloak clinging to your back like a second skin. The rain was relentless now, an endless sheet drumming down from the bruised sky.  The winds howled against your face, strong enough to nearly topple you off balance with each step. 

But you pushed through it anyway.

Wet hair whipped against your cheeks, sticking to your skin. Mud pulled at your feet, but you climbed higher. The temple had long disappeared behind you, and now only the city lights flickered below, blurred by the mist.

By the time you reached the hill’s summit, your breath came in shallow gasps. Every muscle in your body ached, screaming at you. Your lungs felt like it was burning from the cold, and your teeth chattered uncontrollably.

Yet you stood there against the blackened sky. Your chest heaved as you felt the air was heavier. 

“Lord Khaslana!” You screamed, the name ripped from your lungs, echoing into the storm. You paused, but no reply came. 

The rain struck harder now, angry needles against your skin, “I’ve prayed!” you shouted, louder. “I’ve waited, I’ve begged! But you — you arrogant, absent god! You stayed silent through it all!” Your voice cracked under the weight of months of abandonment.

“You bring storms to punish the people of Okhema just because I said what I felt?!”

Lightning crackled overhead, illuminating the sky for a breathless moment. You didn’t flinch. You glared into the storm as if daring it to answer.

“Oh, send your thunders then! Strike me down if it pleases you!” Your chest rose and fell rapidly as the words poured out in rage and desperation.

“Just stop hiding and face your wife you– you–!” You clenched your fists. Your body trembled from a final, reckless kind of defiance.

“COWARD!” you screamed with all the force your soul could muster. 

A blinding light shattered the sky. Thunder cracked loud enough to split stone. Then came the strike.

A bolt of lightning split the earth just ahead of you. The blast threw a gust of wind so strong it forced you a step back, shielding your face with your arms. But when the light faded and the roar quieted—he was there.

He stood tall, towering over you by more than triple your height.

Radiant and terrifying.

Golden wings streaked with violet unfurled behind him like a storm split in half. His body glowed like cracked marble, lines of molten gold spilling from the fractures across his limbs and chest. Spikes jutted from his shoulders, golden and sharp, and his hair blazed like the sun.

His clawed hands flexed at his sides. And those eyes—those burning, golden eyes—pierced through the veil of rain like twin suns, fixed solely on you.

You staggered back in awe, your breath hitching as his presence filled the air like a pressure too great to bear. But before you could speak, the storm around you softened. A dome of warm, golden light shimmered into place above your head, shielding you from the wind and rain. The world fell quiet, save for the sound of your breathing.

You dared a glance upward.

He hovered just above the ground now, slowly lowering himself to stand before you. The closer he came, the more you felt it; his power, his sorrow, his presence pressing against your skin like something tangible. You opened your mouth, but no sound came. Your fury had carried you here, but his silence stole the words you had prepared.

With trembling breath, you forced yourself to stand firm. You could feel droplets of water dripping from your hair, your wet clothes heavy on your body. The wind no longer reached you, and the weight in the air still crushed your chest.

“Stop this storm,” you managed, voice rough. “Please.”

Khaslana’s golden eyes locked onto yours. There was no flicker of warmth in them, no spark of the god you once dreamed of meeting. His voice when he answered was low, almost cold.

“You’re asking me? The god you hated?” He said,

The sound of his voice rooted you in place. It was the first time you’d heard it, and yet something about it was painfully familiar. A memory brushed the edge of your thoughts, but the coldness in his tone and the tension in your spine prevented you from figuring it out. 

“Oh for goodness sake,” you hissed, rolling your eyes as your chest heaving from anger, “You never responded to my prayers! You never even looked at me! What was I supposed to think?”

Khaslana’s eyes narrowed, the gold in them flaring like the sun. “I did respond,” He said, “You just didn’t notice.”

You blinked, caught off guard by his words. “What…?”

“I sent you winds when the sun was too harsh. I made the guards fall asleep when you returned late from sneaking out of the temple. I changed the temple rules after your complaints. I sent you critters to accompany you in the gardens. I was there, every moment, watching. Protecting.”

Your breath caught in your throat. A thousand little things that never made sense now returned like puzzle pieces falling into place.

“But you weren’t present,” you said, frustrated. “They said you stopped visiting after our wedding. You never came to see me. Never… touched me. Never spoke to me.”

“I did,” Khaslana said, quieter now. “Just… not in this form.”

And in a quiet, golden shimmer, his divine shape began to fade. The crackling marble softened into flesh. The halo dimmed. The claws became gentle fingers. The glowing eyes, still golden, now carried something more—vulnerability.

Phainon stood before you.

You gasped, eyes widening as the realization hit you like thunder, no wonder his face and voice was familiar. “Phainon… You were Phainon this whole time?!”

He frowned, looking away.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” you asked, voice breaking. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

“When we first met,” Phainon murmured, “there were too many people. I didn’t plan to talk to you for long. Then... I panicked.”

“Panicked?” you repeated, hurt blooming in your chest like fire. “You’re a god, and you panicked?”

“I did,” he answered, a note of defensiveness creeping into his voice. “And the longer I stayed quiet, the harder it became to fix it. You smiled at Phainon… but you said you hated Khaslana. How could I show you I was both?”

“Then why didn’t you just visit me—like you’re supposed to? As my husband?”

“Because I was afraid!” he shouted as a sound of muffled thunder cracked from behind him.

“I was afraid,” he said, quieter now, almost desperate. “Afraid that if I touched you, I’d break you. My true form… It’s wrong. It’s all jagged edges and burning weight. I’m not like you. I remember what it was like to be human, but I don’t understand those memories anymore. I don’t understand those feelings.”

His voice broke slightly. “I didn’t want to hurt you. So I kept my distance. I thought if I gave you the world, you wouldn’t come looking for the god you were promised.”

Something snapped in you at those words. Your hands curled into fists, trembling. And then, before you even realized it, you struck him in the chest.

He didn’t flinch. He didn’t stop you.

You hit him again, your voice ragged with pain. “I never asked for the world! I asked for you!”

You hit him once more, sobs escaping you now in messy gasps. “I waited. Every day. I waited for you to come. To say something. Anything. And instead, you watched me from your sky like some—some coward! I thought I was the problem. I thought I wasn’t worthy of you.”

Your fists weakened, falling limply against his chest as your legs gave out. You collapsed against him, burying your face into his shoulder.

“I was so lonely,” you whispered, brokenly. “So alone.”

Phainon didn’t speak. He stood still, hands trembling slightly at his sides as you sobbed into his shoulder, your pain crashing into him like waves. Each crack in your voice struck something tender in him — deeper than any spear, sharper than any blade. And though he tried to stay composed, he couldn’t stop the single tear that slipped from his cheek.

It fell onto your hair with a soft hiss, evaporating before it touched your skin.

Then another fell. And another.

You heard it, the faint sizzle of heat, and slowly, you pulled away to look at him.

His brow was furrowed, his mouth parted in a quiet breath, and his blue eyes were wet and aching. The tears continued to fall and vanish into vapor, but he didn’t hide them. He let you see every drop of sorrow, every fracture of regret written into his face.

“Forgive me,” he whispered, voice hoarse. 

Unbeknownst to either of you, the storm outside the golden shield had eased. The sky was still bruised with clouds, but the wind had softened, and the thunder no longer roared. 

You wiped your own tears away with a trembling hand, then reached for his face. With slow, deliberate care, you brushed the tears from his cheeks, fingertips cool and soft against the heat of his skin. The contact made him flinch, not from cold, but from the gentleness, the grace of being touched by you in kindness after everything. 

You took a deep, shuddering breath and looked away for a moment. Then, voice raw but steady, you spoke. 

“You hurt me,” you started, “So much that… there were nights I thought about leaving you.”

A bitter chuckle slipped from your lips, dry and hollow. When you looked back at him, you expected anger or indifference. But what met your gaze was something far more fragile.

His face was stricken. His eyes were wide, devastated, like a child who had just broken something precious and didn’t know how to fix it. Your words had pierced him in a place not even divinity could shield. 

“Do you want me to leave?” you asked, quieter now. “If being married to me is just… a burden to carry, if I’m something that makes you uncomfortable —”

“No!” Phainon’s voice rose sharply, full of panic, as he stepped forward and caught your arms, holding them firmly but not harshly. His grip trembled, as if afraid you’d vanish if he let go. 

“I—” he faltered, eyes searching yours. 

“I never asked for this marriage, no. But meeting you as Phainon… being with you that way — it changed everything.”

His voice the softened, almost trembling as he continued, “You made me feel something I hadn’t felt in centuries. You made me imagine a life where we weren’t bound by pacts or divine duty. A life where we were just two strangers who met by chance and fell in love slowly without fear.”

Phainon’s smile flickered, touched with ache and hope. “You made me feel human again.”

“So no,” he said, firmer now. “I don’t want you to leave. Not now. Not ever.”

You stared at him, stunned, then slowly your expression softened. A new tear slipped down your cheek — not from grief, but relief.

“I see…” You murmured.

Phainon quickly released you, noticing your flinch too late. “I’m sorry,” he said. “Did I hurt you again?”

You shook your head. “No,” you whispered. “I’m… relieved.”

Above you, the sun began to pierce through the clouds, golden light filtering softly across the hill.

Phainon let out a shaky breath of relief. “Then…” he began, voice tender, “can we start over?”

You hesitated only for a moment before nodding. “Let’s start over. No need to rush.”

Then, with a faint smile and glistening eyes, you reached out your hand to him—not as a formality, but as an offering. Your fingers were cold, wrinkled from rain, yet steady.

He blinked, taken aback by the gesture. A handshake? 

But the moment he took your hand, it no longer felt like just a handshake.

You gently curled your fingers around his and pulled his hand to your chest, just above your heartbeat. “I’m your wife,” you whispered, your voice warm and trembling. “It’s nice to finally meet you… truly.”

His eyes softened as he lowered his head, pressing a reverent kiss to your knuckles. His lips lingered there a moment longer than expected, like he was trying to memorize the feel of your skin, the texture of this promise, the shape of a new beginning.

When he looked up, he smiled.

“I’m Phainon,” he said gently.

You tilted your head. “Not Khaslana?”He held your hand a little tighter, “Khaslana bears the weight of the world. But when I’m with you… I’m not holding the world. I’m holding you.”

CHAPTER V

When he heard you sneeze on the hill, his expression shifted instantly to worry. Without a word, he wrapped his arms around you, holding you firmly against his chest. In a blink, the storm vanished from your senses. There was no more wind, no more rain, only the sudden warmth of your chambers and the soft scent of cedar and rose oil clinging to the walls.

You blinked in surprise, barely catching your breath as he guided you gently toward the washroom.

“Take a hot bath, quickly,” he said, already unfastening your soaked cloak. “You’ll catch a fever like this. I need to take care of a few things first—Hyacinthia’s going to have my wings for the skies I ruined.”

And with that, he vanished.

Just like that.

You stood there in silence for a long moment, the empty space where he had been already cold. The pain that flared in your chest was sharp, instinctive—not as deep as before, but still a ghost of the hurt you'd carried for months. You pressed a hand to your heart.

No. You had made peace with him. You had seen his tears. His heart. You had both made a choice to begin again.

Still…

You sneezed again—sharper this time.

You sighed, stripping off the damp layers clinging to your skin. Your fingers moved quickly as you turned on the hot water, steam already beginning to rise around the marble basin.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

Phainon returned to your shared chambers not long after Parting Hour, the quiet hum of his powers still clinging to his presence. His expression was soft but worn, likely from appeasing Hyacinthia and announcing his return to the temple priests. You heard from the priestesses earlier that the temple had rejoiced, and the Archbishop was moved to tears when Phainon’s voice finally answered the ritual prayers. 

Inside your room, the air was warm. You had just finished towelling off your damp hair, your night robe loose around your frame as you combed your fingers through the tangles. The sound of the door opening behind you made you turn slightly.

Phainon approached with a tentative smile. “Sorry for making you wait,” he said as he made his coat vanish with a shrug of his shoulders, the materials disappearing into soft golden dust.

You arched a brow and gave him a small, teasing smile. “Only half a year. Barely noticed,” you said with a playful roll of your eyes before turning toward the bed.

Phainon let out a breathless sigh, following behind you with a dramatic pout as you perched at the edge of the mattress. He sat beside you, close enough for your knees to brush.

After a short silence, he cleared his throat. “So…” he said as his eyes nervously flickered between you and the bed. 

“We don’t have to rush anything, Phainon,” you said before he could get too tangled in his own nerves. “Besides, I’m not spending the night with someone I barely know.”

His lips parted as if to protest, but you lifted a hand before he could. “And don’t argue that I know you because of the times we spent together. I know Phainon, the human version—the friend. But you? As my husband?” You gave a soft shrug. “That’s a whole different story.”

Phainon looked a little deflated at first, but then he smiled. It was a quiet, grateful kind of smile. “That sounds fair. Getting to know each other properly… That sounds nice.”

And so you talked. For hours.

The two of you curled into the bed, at first upright against the pillows, then slowly sinking into the comfort of the covers as the conversation stretched into the night. You told him about your childhood. You spoke of your fears, your petty dislikes, and your odd preferences.

Phainon, for his part, opened up in ways you didn’t expect. He told you about the earliest memories he had when he first became human, how he used to live in a place called Aedes Elysiae, which was surrounded by fields of wheat as far as the eye could see. He described his affinity for antiques and how he had a hobby of collecting them back then. 

You laughed, cried a little, and at some point, you both lay facing each other under the shared blankets, your fingers tracing idle shapes against the fabric between you.

In the days that followed, life began to bloom around you again.

Phainon kept his promise. He was no longer just a god hiding behind the sky. He became a presence, warm and tangible. He walked with you through the temple gardens, sat beside you during meals, and occasionally dragged you just to lie in the sun. 

He asked you questions often, about your dreams, your moods, your thoughts on every little thing. As if trying to memorize you in real time.

He formally met your parents again. This time, not as a stranger cloaked in mystery, but as your husband. You nervously explained everything to your family, how Phainon and Khaslana were the same person, and how things were different now. Your parents exchanged looks, and your brother seemed to be more excited, but overall, they were overjoyed to see you smiling again.

Your father did apologize for threatening to kill him once, though Phainon simply laughed and said, “I genuinely don’t remember what you said. I was too busy panicking.”

There were still days when he was called to perform his duties as the Deliverer, but every night, without fail, he returned to you. Sometimes late, sometimes exhausted, but always with the same gentle smile and whispered “good night” against your hair.

Tonight, he returned to you in his divine form.

Though he carried himself with his usual solemn dignity, there was no denying the weight on his shoulders. His movements were slower, the glow of his halo a little dimmer, and the golden lines within his fractured marble skin shimmered less brightly than usual. 

Phainon rarely used this form in your presence, always quick to shift back to the human face you had grown familiar with. But when he moved to do just that, his hands already glowing with the telltale light of transformation, you stopped him with a hand on his arm. 

“Wait,” you said gently. “Stay like this. I want to see you… Really see you.”

His glowing eyes flickered with hesitation, but after a long breath, he nodded and let the light fade. Then, without a word, he lowered himself onto the floor, sitting cross-legged so that he could be closer to your eye level. Even so, his form was enormous, vast in its presence.

You reached forward, both hands rising to cradle his face. You have to admit it took you effort to do so. The moment your fingers made contact, Phainon closed his eyes. His expression softened, almost like he was savoring the contact.

You marveled at the texture of his skin — it was pale gray like the statues in the public garden, but far warmer beneath your touch. Your fingers traced one of the fine, golden cracks that ran along his shoulders.

“Do the cracks hurt?” you asked.

Phainon opened his eyes halfway, a breath escaping him.

“No,” he replied quietly, “They don’t.”

“Ah, okay. That’s good.” You murmured. “They kind of look like they did.”

Your touch wandered, now to his fingers. His claws were long, sharp, and metallic gold. You turned his palm upward and traced the ridges along it with your thumb. He watched you in silence until a soft chuckle broke free from his chest. 

You looked up, narrowing your eyes at him. “What?”

His smile was small but sincere. “Nothing. It’s just… It’s endearing — you asking if the cracks hurt.”

You huffed and looked back down at his claws. “I’m comparing you to a human body. If a human cracked like that, they’d be in excruciating pain.”

He hummed in amusement, eyes glinting with affection. You let your touch travel again, to the base of his wings. They were breathtaking—wide, arching structures of gold and violet. From afar, they looked feathered, but up close, you saw the sharp, blade-like edges to them, each feather-like sliver layered with precision. They shifted slightly under your hand, fluid despite their rigidity.

He noticed you staring and shifted awkwardly, eyes flicking away for a moment.

“Am I… scary?” he asked, voice low, uncertain.

You smiled at him, fingers tucking a strand of glowing hair behind his ear.

“When you appeared to me during the storm? Absolutely.” You laughed softly. “But now? You look absolutely divine.”

He stilled under your touch, eyes widening slightly as you leaned forward. With careful intent, you pressed a kiss just beneath his left eye.

Phainon froze.

He blinked as you pulled back, your cheeks warming as you began to mumble an apology. “Sorry—I just couldn’t help myse—whoa!”

He tugged you gently forward, hand firm around your wrist. You gasped at the sudden closeness, your face just a breath away from his.

“Do it again,” he said. His voice was quiet, but filled with something desperate and hungry. His eyes searched yours, filled with longing and disbelief, like he didn’t think he was worthy of what you’d just given him.

Your heart raced. Still blushing, you leaned forward again and placed another kiss on the other cheek.

“Again,” he whispered, his grip steady.

So you did. You kissed his forehead. Then the bridge of his nose. Then the top of one of his ears. Each touch was soft, reverent. You moved slowly across his face, offering gentle affection like a balm over wounds unseen. As you kissed the curve of his jaw, you swore you heard his wings flutter. 

You stopped just short of his lips, both of you breathless now. His eyes were locked onto yours, wide and filled with quiet pleading. Your gaze dropped to his mouth, then back to his eyes.

And with a quiet courage, you leaned in, pressing your lips to his.

It was quick. Soft. Awkward in the way all first kisses are. You pulled back, your cheeks burning, and your hands covered your face.

He chuckled.

You peeked between your fingers to see what he was doing, but before you could say anything, he moved forward, his voice brushing your ear like wind across a harp string.

“My turn.”

In a blink, you felt the world around you shift.

You barely had time to gasp before you felt yourself being cradled by the familiar softness of your bed. The linens cushioned your fall as your back met with the mattress. And above you, Phainon — still in his divine form — hovered.

His immense body caged you gently, one hand braced beside your head, the other reaching up to brush your cheek with a touch so impossibly careful, it made your heart ache. His golden eyes were darkened by something deep and unreadable as they scanned your face, searching every inch like he was trying to memorize you all over again. 

You swallowed, your breath catching when he tilted your chin up with his clawed finger, nudging your gaze to meet his, and then he leaned in and kissed you. 

It was different now.

Even though he was careful, his lips dwarfed yours, overwhelming and unfamiliar in their shape and weight. You tried to match him, but it was clumsy, the angles imperfect. You shifted under him, trying to adjust, but it only made your nerves more jittery.

Phainon must have noticed. With a soft hum of understanding, he shifted course. His lips trail down the curve of your jaw, then to your neck, his breath warm against your skin. You gasped when you felt his mouth on the delicate spot just beneath your ear. 

He kissed slowly, reverently. That is… until your reaction changed him.

Your gasp made him pause, then lean in again, this time with more intent. His lips pressed firmer, then parted. His tongue brushed your skin.

And then, he bites.

It wasn’t harsh, but it sent a sharp jolt of pleasure through your body, so unexpected it drew another sound from you, softer this time. Phainon exhaled against your throat like he’d found something precious. And then he began again, mouth moving along your neck with a hunger that wasn’t just physical; it was need, longing, the weight of months unspoken and untended. 

But he was heavy. His divine body, though restrained, pressed down on you with weight you hadn’t realized until now. Your arms trembled beneath him as his kisses grew more intense, and you could barely catch your breath between the sensations.

“P-Phainon…” you managed, your voice small, but he didn’t stop. He was lost in you, in the way you sounded, the way you felt under him. His mouth grazed lower, teeth brushing your collarbone.

“W-wait!” you finally gasped, louder this time, your hand pressing gently against his chest.

He froze immediately. He pulled back with a worried expression, his clawed fingers rising hesitantly as if afraid he’d broken you.

“What’s wrong?” he asked, voice quiet, eyes flicking between your face and the red marks blooming along your neck. “Did I hurt you?”

“No, It’s—”

“Then… do you not want to…?” He asked again, voice careful.

“No!” you said quickly, your cheeks burning as you turned your face away in embarrassment. “I just… I mean, it’s not that I don’t want to… It’s just — your size…”

For a moment, he didn’t understand. Then, realization dawned in his eyes. He blinked once, twice, and then looked down at himself, still in his celestial form.

“Oh,” he murmured, “Forgive me.”

In a pulse of golden light, his form shimmered and then shifted.

Where divinity once loomed, now sat Phainon. He was still radiant, still beautiful, but wholly human. He was shirtless, his skin glowing faintly from the residual of the transformation, the muscles of his chest rising and falling with each breath. 

There was a flicker of nervousness in his blue eyes as he glanced at you.

“Better?” he asked softly.

Your gaze had wandered without permission, drawn to the definition of his chest, the lines of his collarbone, the familiar face now so close. You met his eyes again, your breath catching in your throat, unable to hide the flush on your cheeks.

Phainon picked up where he had left off, his touches reverent, slow, as if trying to memorize every inch of you through the warmth of his hands. His fingers traced along your sides with care, learning the curve of your waist and the rise and fall of your breath.

He leaned in again, placing kisses along your collarbone before slipping the fabric of your nightgown off your shoulders.

You felt the cool air brush your skin, but it was his mouth that truly made you shiver. He pressed his lips to the swell of your chest, then just above your heart, each kiss more deliberate than the last. His mouth moved lower, a soft sigh leaving your lips when his tongue flicked across your bud teasingly.

Your fingers slid into his hair, gently tugging when he bit down with a soft pressure. Your breath hitched, a quiet moan slipping free, but you instinctively held back.

Phainon noticed. 

He pulled back just enough to look at you, his expression pinched with confusion, and just the faintest trace of a pout on his lips. “Why are you hiding your sounds from me?” he asked, voice low and tender.

You averted your gaze, cheeks flushed. “I just… I don’t want to be too loud.”

His frown deepened. “Why?”

You hesitated, then whispered, “What if someone hears?”

Phainon’s gaze softened at your words, though there was still a flicker of amusement behind it. He leaned forward and placed a quick kiss on your lips.

“They won’t,” he said with a chuckle. “We’re far enough from the temple for that. And even if someone did…” He gave you a teasing look. “This is my temple, isn’t it? Shouldn’t I be allowed to do as I please in my own domain?”

You opened your mouth to argue, but before you could, his hand had dipped lower, fingers skimming along the soft flesh of your center. The sudden sensation caught you off guard, and a moan escaped your lips, sharper than before and unrestrained. 

Phainon paused, smiled against your cheek, and pressed a soft kiss to your forehead. 

“There it is,” he murmured. “That’s the sound I wanted to hear.”

He didn’t stop. His movements now grew more assured, guided by every breathless sound that escaped your lips. Each time you gasped, his gaze flickered to your face, watching your expression. When your body would jolt, reacting to a particularly sensitive spot he had touched, Phainon would smile softly. A feeling of pride bloomed in his chest as if he had just uncovered a secret.

He leaned down to drown your voices in him, and slowly, he pushed his fingers in. His fingers moved with a pace—long, steady, and unrelenting. Each touch sent a pulse of warmth coursing through you. One had gripped his arm, while the other found its way into his hair, fingers curling just enough force to draw a low breath from him. He leaned closer, welcoming the contact as though your need anchored him just as much as his touch unraveled you. 

“P-Phainon…” You whined, and he answered with a kiss to your forehead.

“Hm? Does it feel good?” He asked, still pushing his fingers in at a slow pace.

You nod your head, “I–I need, mmh, more…” “More? Are you sure?” Phainon asked as he adjusted his position, resting on his side while his other hand lay beneath you, hugging you closer. 

“Yes, p-please…” You managed to voice out.

Phainon let out a breath before inserting another finger in. Your body arched towards his chest, and a high-pitched, strangled moan escaped you. 

“Does it hurt?” He asked, planting kisses on your face.

“I’m okay…” You huffed, “Keep going.. Just… go slow…” You said.

“Okay,” he whispered, following your directions. 

He moved his hands slowly and sensually, carefully checking your reactions to see any signs of discomfort. Then, after a few minutes, you nod your head. 

“Okay… you can go a little faster.”

With that, Phainon picked up the pace of his fingers, curling them when he was deep enough. The rhythm of his fingers sent warmth blooming to your core, a rising tide sensation that left your breath stuttering.

You could no longer hold back the soft, broken sounds that spilled from your lips. Your fingers clenched tighter around his arm, nails digging into his skin in a desperate bid to stay grounded.

But Phainon didn’t flinch. If anything, he leaned into your closeness, entranced by the way your face contorted with unguarded pleasure. 

With Phainon’s quick fingers, your body finally gave in to the building tension. The knot inside you snapped with a wave of release, your breath catching, his name escaped your lips in a cracked whisper. He watched you ride your high, his gaze filled with wonder, as though your unraveling was the most sacred thing he’d ever witnessed. 

As you came down, your lashes fluttered open. Phainon leaned in, peppering your cheeks with gentle kisses, his hair brushing your skin and drawing a quiet giggle from you.

“I take it you had a good time?” he asked, voice playful but laced with affection.

You rolled your eyes at him fondly and reached up to trace his cheek with your fingers. “I did… thanks to you,” you murmured, pressing a soft kiss to his mouth.

Phainon moved to hover over you again, deepening the kiss with growing need. His hips moved slowly against yours, his breath growing heavier. You gasped as he pulled back slightly, eyes searching yours.

“Do you want to continue?” he asked, voice thick with restraint.

You nodded, more than ready, and pulled him close once more. Somewhere in the haze of kisses and wandering hands, you noticed him fumbling with his pants—an amusing contrast to his usual effortless elegance. But before you could comment, his body pressed against yours in full, his form settling into yours with a heat that stole your breath.

He paused, eyes locked with yours. “Are you ready?”

“Yes,” you whispered, heart pounding.

Phainon leaned in, resting his forehead to yours, breathing with you, grounding both of you. He finally pushed his hips forward slowly and measured. You held onto him tightly, overwhelmed by the stretch. Phainon let out quiet sighs against your neck, he pulled out before pushing back into you.

Your tightness around him was heavenly, and he’d been to heaven before. 

As he rocked his hips into yours, you’d open your eyes to look at him. Small flickers of golden light danced around the corner of your vision. Every now and then, his divine form would slip through — his eyes would shift from sky blue to golden ones, even as far as only turning golden in one eye.

Soft golden flames would appear on his shoulder every time he reached a certain spot inside you, his hair would pulse from his usual white ones to his blonde ones. His voice, once deep and steady, faltered into quiet groans and murmurs of your name. Praising you, telling you how good he felt.

You kissed him again, anchoring him to you. “I love you, Phainon.”

His breath caught, but his hips still moved. When your eyes met, there was nothing hidden in his gaze. Just awe. 

“I love you too,” he whispered, voice almost breaking. 

With another kiss, he quickened his pace to chase your highs. The world around you blurring into quiet gasps and muffled moans, until nothing remained but warmth, closeness, and the stars flickering in his eyes. 

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

It was unusual to wake up to Phainon still beside you. 

His body was warm against yours, his arms resting loosely around your waist in a quiet embrace. Before this, you would open your eyes to find him already sitting at the edge of the bed or by your desk, greeting you with a quiet “good morning,” already dressed.

But not this morning.

This morning, the golden sunlight filtered softly through the curtains, touching his bare skin like a blessing. The light kissed the curve of his shoulder, the gentle line of his jaw, illuminating the peaceful rise and fall of his chest. You took in the sight carefully, as if afraid that moving too quickly would ruin this rare moment.

You turned on your side to face him, your body still aching from last night. You gaze across the angles of his face. His lashes were long, shadowing his cheeks with each breath, and you caught yourself smiling, well, perhaps a little jealous of how effortlessly beautiful he was.

Your fingers reached up, slow and gentle, to tuck a stray lock of hair behind his ear. The softness of his hair against your skin made something tighten in your chest. It was the feeling of the weight of everything it took to reach this moment. The silence, the missteps, the months of loneliness, of sleeping on this very bed with nothing but questions in your heart.

And now, here he was. Real and warm. Sleeping beside you like he belonged there all along.

His brows twitched slightly, and then, with a small breath, his eyes fluttered open.

Those familiar blue eyes looked at you now with a different softness. They locked onto yours, and he didn’t say anything at first, as if trying to convince himself this wasn’t a dream.

From where he lay, the morning light behind you framed you like a painting. Your hair was still tousled from sleep, your eyes a little puffy, the wrinkles of your smile faint. To him, there was no sight more divine than this. Nothing could rival the simple beauty of waking up to you.

“Good morning,” you whispered, your voice soft.

“Good morning,” he replied, his voice still hoarse with sleep but still laced with the same tenderness he had shared with you last night.

You reached for his hand beneath the covers, and he met you halfway as he curled his fingers around yours without hesitation. 

The silence stretched between you, but this time, it was warm. It was the sound of reconciliation, of finally being seen. 

You rested your forehead against his and closed your eyes. You know there are still roads you’ll need to go through in the future. There would still be moments of misunderstanding, of learning how to love each other more. But now, you weren’t afraid of the road ahead.

You had found him, and he had stayed.

For now, that was enough.

©salmonmakiii, do not steal my work or feed it to AI.

[supernovatx]

Obviously “America is Great Again” is a fantastic critique of capitalism and American propaganda, which would be enough to make it an incredible scene on its own. It’s a great song and a great demonstration of the show’s themes, and it’s really well done.

But there’s a tragic layer to that song that really elevates it for me, and that’s because it’s specifically MacNamara singing it.

MacNamara first is introduced to seem like a stereotypical patriotic army guy in the scene where he knocks Paul out. However, he then subverts that in the next scene where we learn his true morals, namely that he believes in love and humanity as his higher purpose and he will put that above the orders of his country if they conflict. He chooses to let Paul live because of that, and when Paul asks if he can save Emma, MacNamara gives him his gun and tells him to go. We learn, as does Paul, that despite his appearance and general vibes, he is a genuinely good person who wants to help and is willing to put his moral code above his patriotism.

But when he gets apotheosized, he becomes the complete opposite. Suddenly his loyalty is to his country only, and his own moral code is erased in service of that, which causes contradictions between the lyrics of AIGA and his thoughts in the scene with Paul. “You can’t run because our borders are closed” when he was helping Paul escape in a helicopter as a human; “Americans should fit a mold” when he didn’t at all fit the “douchey army patriot” mold he was presented with; “There’s only room for right and wrong” when he clearly is able to choose between his own morality and his orders, indicating a more complex outlook instead of a binary. He becomes the stereotype he was subverting, and in doing so he becomes someone that the real MacNamara would have hated. That’s the tragedy of that song, and of the whole show really, is that the people who become part of the hive mind lose their true selves and are only able to act in their stereotypical roles, even if that’s nothing like how they actually were as humans.

There’s also something to be said here about how the us war machine and capitalism corrupts people and makes them into something they would never have been otherwise through a forced loss of personhood but I can’t figure out how to phrase that so

[medievalharlot]

A gift for the princess 彡 Geta x princess f!reader x Caracalla

Pairing: Geta x princess f!reader x Caracalla

Synopsis: The empire comes to your aid and you are reunited with your childhood friends, they end up having a gift you cannot turn down

Wordcount: 3,1k

Request: ‘I’ve been thinking of this plot for a while, but I’m not a writer and could never write it myself. But what if both of the twins x reader, who was their childhood best friend, she came from a very wealthy family (for some reason I like to think she was royalty in a neighboring country or smth, anyway, she was forced to move away, and the twins and here were devestated (cause they like LIKED each other) years go by, and they are now emperors, they have to go to a place for business, with other royals (like where the reader lives) and they meet again, and like, fall in loveeee’ by anon

Tags: Childhood friends to lovers, reader is a princess, some light groping but no full on smut, period accurate misogyny, implied violence, implied abuse.

A/N: Phew this one is a little longer than I intended it to be. Maybe a little less historically accurate than my last one but I tried sticking to historical facts. I always thought of Caracalla as a shy child that turned mad and Geta being the brave one. This will be the last full on fic I post before I go to Paris, enjoy!

It would be a short seige, your castle walls were never strong enough to withstand the Parthian army. Yet your father, having spiraled into madness, insisted to keep fighting. For years your small kingdom had been an ally to the empire. Even if it was small, it had a strategic and important port. Under Marcus Aurelius it had it added to the list of allies and it had been loyal up. Your father suddenly decided to start a war against Parthia. Voices plagued his mind, advisors gone corrupt filled his mind with delusions. You had been supportive of your father, trying to see the good in his actions as a way to cope. Giving up on the man that had raised you felt like betrayel. Your mother was a noble lady and after giving birth to you ander your brother she moved back to her own home. Their marriage was arranged and quite an unpleasant one. You were his only daughter, his sweet delight. Your brother was aiding the empire in the conquest of Numidia by order of the emperor, leaving you to watch over your father. Every day he slipped further into madness, and everyday it became more painful to watch.

At a certain point his advisors convinced him to go to war. Once you got wind of the idea you had the advisors sent away, unleashing your fury upon him. But your father had already sent out the command. You had prayed to Pax, Fortuna and Minerva for the war to end well and for the Romans to send aid. Emperor Severus had been a good friend to your father. You weren’t aware that he had passed and his sons, Geta and Caracalla, were terrorizing the empire. News travelled slow in the empire and before you knew it there was an entire army knocking on your door with no aid in sight. You had witnissed the Pathian generals slaughter the people on the outskirts of the city being killed. Their screams haunting your mind as you hid.

Once, you knew the twins. It was a long time ago, before your father had become king. He took you and your brother to Rome quite often, in hindsight you understood it was probably to find a suitable match amongst the sons of the senators. Due to the friendship your father and the emperor shared you were often on the Forum. You remember meeting the twins for the first time.

Caracalla was a shy boy, hiding behind his brother. Geta was a bit cocky but curious about you. They were a few years older than you were. You were clinging to your fathers toga, you never played with boys. At home you were either being taught by master or you were playing with the daughters of your fathers advisors. Boys sucked. And yet here you were, alone with these boys in a room.

“Do you wanna play soldiers?” Geta had asked eventually. “You can be the helpless girl and we-” He had shoved his brother from behind him. “We will save you.” There was a proud smirk on his face.

Soldiers? Why would you want to play that, why would you be the helpless girl. “I don’t want to play that.” You reached for the wooden sword. Geta tried to grasp for it.

“You can’t play with that, that isn’t for girls.” He sneered as you pulled away. Caracalla still hadn’t spoken a word.

“Stop it!” You frowned, you weren’t one to let somebody to tell you what to do.

Soon, chaos ensued. Somehow you ended up in a brawl with him, and to your surprise you were winning. All that commotion had alarmed the servants, who had fetched your fathers. Emperor Severus was pissed. He had dragged Geta off you, shouting stuff like ‘this is not how you treat guests’ and ‘you let that little girl beat you up’. Caracalla chased after them while sobbing as the emperor dragged Geta by his collar out of the room.

The banging on the door only got louder, together with the other women of this court you were hiding in the cellar. Soft prayers were whispered, hopes that the devine above might save them. You didn’t pray, you knew there was no stopping an army, your kingdom was way too small to beat Parthia. Your father didn’t have the men, nor did he have much expierence. It would be over soon and all you could hope for is that they wouldn’t slaughter and take every single woman in this room.

Over the years you luckily grew to appreciate each other’s company. Visits to Rome became more frequent. Your father enjoyed the wine, food, feasts and whores in the capital better. Geta was still as boisterous as before as he often liked to remind you of how he would become emperor someday. Caracalla had grown out of his shyness, but he got reckless and often faced his father’s wrath.

You were sitting on Caracalla’s bed, soflty dapping your handkerchief against his busted lip. Geta was leaning agaisnt a pillar as he watched you tend to his brother. “What happened.” You had asked Geta, Caracalla was still visibly upset. He was rambling some words you couldn’t understand, making himself small and leaning out of his touch. Sometimes it felt like you were talking to a child.

“Drank too much wine last night and was found in the horse stables.” Geta replied, keeping it short. You could tell his fathers violence got to him.

“You’re a fool sometimes Caracalla.” You spoke to him, lifting his chin to get a better look.

“He just needs to die then I will be emperor.” He had spouted a bit angrily in return.

You sighed softly and stood up. “We will fetch a doctor.” You spoke, nodding your head to Geta to signal him to come along. Something was up with Caracalla, he was reckless but he had become more unpredictable and forgetful over the last few months. It was eating away at you, you saw them as your closest friends.

“Something is wrong with him, Geta.” You spoke as soon as the two of you turned a corner. “Did the doctors say anything last time?”

“They say his peverse nature has infected his mind.” Geta spoke as he walked with you. “They’re trying to treat him but father says he is fine.”

“He’s not.”

“I know.”

Then the screams came. The walls had been breached. Younger girls started sobbing, with a stern look you tried to make them shut up. You couldn’t blame them, the worse thing that could happen to you is that they would make you a concubine. Soldiers knew better than harming a princess that could be used for blackmail. But those girls, they would have to endure the worst. You held your breath as you could hear them getting closer, your heart beating in your chest. The doors opened, but to your surprise it weren't Parthian soldiers. Their shields carried the Roman chrest. It were Roman Soldiers. Had they come to your aid? You got up, your dress was dirty and your messy. The seige lasted a few hours and you had been stuck in this stuffy room.

“Princess Y/N, you have summoned by imperial decree.” One of the generals entered, you did not recognize him. He looked older, his black hair slowly graying. They took you, dragging you out of the room despite your protests. The didn’t take commands from a woman, they took direct orders from the emperors and the emperors alone.

It was a particularly hot summer that year. This time you had went ahead of your father to Rome, he had some business to take care of back home. It was uncommon for girls your age to travel alone, you had long passed the age to be wed, but you were of age. It was the only reason your father let you go alone. Something had changed this year tho, you weren’t sure about what. The three of you always went swimming in their private pool, it had been a tradition for you of some sort. You never thought of it as strange. Yet, this year you could feel your cheeks heating up as you watched them swim around.

“Are you just going to lay there?” Geta spoke up. You were still laying in the shade and still dressed.

“Don't feel like swimming.” You spoke as you grinned softly.

“Is the princess afraid of getting wet?” He laughed loudly as he swam to the side of the pool.

“I am not!” You got up defensively. In the midst of your conversation you had not noticed Caracalla lurked behind you. With a giggle he flung you into the water.

“There we go.” Geta laughed, watching you struggle to swim in the flowly stola you were wearing. You would have bothered to undress first if you knew they were gonna force you in.

The echoes of Caracalla's laughter rung around the pool. It had gotten worse, you knew that. Both of them got worse in their own way. From what you heard they were drunks with concubines from all over the empire and a lust for blood. It made you sad.

“You should come to the Colosseum soon.” Geta swam closer to you, looking slightly down on you. The water was up to your shoulders but you could still stand. The way he looked at you made your head do summersaults. He lifted your chin. “I think you would enjoy what we have prepared for you.” He got closer, eye contact still remaining as your lips almost touched.

“I am not sure if-” He cut you off with a kiss. Caracalla was behind you now, his hands roamed your hips and his lips were on your neck. He softly bit down on the skin as he whimpered while rutting against you. You were sandwhiched between them. One of Geta's hands was on your breast, the other holding your chin in place.

It was so perfect, until it wasn't. Your father had barged in and saw the scene. He, too, had heard of the twins endeavours. And upon seeing you sandwiched between them he got furious. He ordered you out of the pool and he scolded the both of them. Surely, they would never hear the end of it from their own father. It made you anxious for what would happen when the emperor got word of what had happened here. That didn't matter tho, you would be there to patch up their bruises.

Atleast, that is what you thought. Your father had send you home right away and you never saw the two of them again. The first year was hard but you learned to live with the heartache. With your father illness you had more pressing matters than Rome.

They had dragged you back all the way to Rome. It was early in the morning when you finally arrived, your head ached and your feet were sore. On the way you were informed your father was killed, only worsening your pain. The soldiers had given you a minimum of food and water and kept you dressed in simple rags. You felt like a prisoner and you still weren’t none the wiser about why you were summoned. Atleast you didn’t have to walk all the way.

You arrived in Rome filthy, dehydrated, hungry and confused. At once, you were taken to the throne room. It was nearly the same as you remembered, only there were two thrones. Maybe he put it there as a way to honor his deceased wife. Taking in the surroundings you heard the emperor and the guards come in.

“I hope there is a good reason for my treatment on this journey, your imperial highness.” You turned around, but instead of seeing emperor Severus, you stood eye to eye with them. Geta and Caracalla. Your heart dropped. It been years since you had seen them. They were the emperors now?

“We apologise for your treatment, my lady.” Geta spoke first as he offered his hand. You stood frozen, taking in the both of them. You couldn’t lie, it was good to see them. It was like a weight falling of your shoulders. But something felt off. Geta had a cold look in his eyes and Caralla looked almost insane. His eyes reminded you of your father. Both of them were dressed in gold armour with a gold laurel crown on their heads. They radiated divinity. It didn’t feel the same as it once did.

With a trembling lip you stumbled over to them, falling on your knees infront of them. You had grasped ahold of Geta’s robe. Caracalla grinned as he crouched down to look at you. “We saved your kingdom. You must thank us, your brother will be king now.”

You looked up at him with fat tears rolling down your face as you were reminded of your father’s death. Geta grabbed your face in his hand. “What my brother means to say is that we are very sorry about your father. He may have acted like a fool but no ally of Rome should suffer like you have.” He gave you a hand, you took it and stood. “There will be games in his honour tonight. You will be attending.” It wasn’t a question, it was a demand.

Softly, you nodded. You tried to process what was going on. “Yes, games.”

“Real games, with bloodshed. No mercy.” Caracalla spoke to you as if he tried to comfort you. “We got you a dress.”

“Yes, Cassia will help you get dressed. You must get some rest now.” Geta turned to a young girl, she looked foreign but she had a Roman. She was probably a concubine that they liked so much she got promoded to a handmaid. “Cassia, get her cleaned up.” He snided at the girl.

Cassia led you out of the throne room to the baths. The hot water felt nice against your sore skin, you felt clean atlast. An essence of mint and citrus hanging in the air.

After the bath, Cassia had dressed you in your gown. It was purple with gold trimmings, it must’ve cost a fortune. The fabric felt expensive. Your hair was done in an elaborate hairstyle. Even if you were a princess, the luxeries in Rome was something your father could not afford. You looked like an empress, the empress. “The emperors wish to see you before you leave for the Colosseum.” She eventually spoke after she finished doing your hair.

With heavy feet you made your way to the throne room. It did feel better to be dolled up again, but under these circumstances you doubt you could feel anything at all. You were alone in a city full of people that would probably want you dead, you had no moment of peace as two guards followed you at all costs. They pushed the door open to the throne room, Geta and Caracalla were already waiting for you.

They had changed into new clothes too. Caracalla wore a black gown, Geta opted for a rich red. The twins turned to look at you.

“You look splendid, my lady.” Geta spoke first before Caracalla interrupted him.

“My brother and I have a proposal to make.” He sat in his throne like a giddy child. You carefully watched them.

“Your father has passed, leaving you unmarried and under nobody’s protection.” Geta started, you weren’t sure what he was getting at. “Your brother is too busy being king, so..”

“What is it you want from me.” You cautiously narrowed your eyes.

Caracalla rose to his feet and walked towards you, grabbing your hands. “Marry us. You loved us when we were children, you love us now right?” There was a hint of desperation in his eyes. “Right?” He repeated, now sounding a little more angry.

You were left speechless. If they had asked you this question a few years ago you would’ve agreed without a second thought, but after all these years and all that happened you just couldn’t process what they asked of you.

“Nothing would happen to your kingdom once you are empress.” Geta was suddenly behind you, whispering in your ears. “We will make the man that murdered your father die a painfull death, my lady.” He stroked a ringed finger against your arm, the metal felt cold against your skin.

Geta took a step back. “We will give you some time to think, we have a surprise for you during the games first.” You heard Caracalla giggling, what had they planned?

In the Colosseum you were seated in between them. The two of them clearly enjoyed the bloodshed. Geta watched with a calm gaze and a smile on his face, Caracalla on the other hand was clapping and laughing as soon as blood was spilled. They had plenty of servants filling their cups, while they drank and enjoyed the finest food. You watched silently with your hands folded in your lap. The screams of agony from whoever was being slaughtered only reminded you of home. When you closed your eyes you could see the families being slain, the face of the Parthian general clear as day. You couldn’t have protected them even if you wanted, it made you feel helpless.

“And now! For the main event, our undefeated champion!” The master of ceremonies announced. Geta gave you a shove, making you look up at what was actually going on in the arena. “The Tigris of Gaul!” The crowd roared when he entered. He rode in on a rhino, the heavy beast trotting in.

Caracalla was basically jumping of his chair now, he took your hand and led you to the edge of the balcony. His grin was like a cheshire cat. “This will be our gift to you.” He spoke.

Geta got up as well, gracefully walking to place a hand on your back.

“Our champion will be taking it up against the Parthian Mithridates!” A beat up and confused man entered the ring, you recognized his face immediatly. It was the general that had killed your citizens. You remained silently as you coldheartedly watched the man taking it up against the Tigris of Gaul.

It didn’t take long for the gladiator to have the general on his back, he had only been given a dull sword. He had no chance of winning. The Tigris held his blade against the general’s neck, looking up to the emperor’s balcony for approval to kill him.

Geta had been smiling this entire time, gauging your reaction. “Well? What do you say? What judgement will the gods render.”

“Kill him.” Caracalla almost spat in your ear, his behaviour getting more erratic. “Kill him!”

Your thoughts ran a hundred miles an hour. That was the man that killed your people, he might even have killed your father. He caused so much suffering, so much death. You had him in your clutches now, you were the one deciding his faith. You looked down at him, the tears had fallen down your cheek a while ago. Were you able to say word, have this man killed? You had always been a sweet girl, your father sang praises of your gentle nature whenever he could. But something had changed, something had stirred.

They had given you this chance. This could mean war with Parthia and yet they still did it. They did it because they could, and they wanted you to have revenge. If being of empress of Rome ment you could reign terror down on the ones that hurt your people you had made your decision.

You looked at Geta, giving him a small nod. His grin grew even wider as he grabbed your hand. He lifted it slightly, he held his other fist up. “The gods have rendered their judgement!” The crowd went silent. They all watched the downturned thumb and they cheered once more. It was true what they said about the games, show them blood or else they will want yours.

You watched coolly as general Mithridates got his throat slid, only flinching slightly as the blade his neck and the blood spurted out. Before you could see the rest you had turned around to leave the emperors box.

“Where are you going. You are missing the best part.” Caracalla frowned as he watched you leave.

“There is a wedding to be planned.” You replied calmly. The twins looked at each other, their gift had worked. Rome would have a new empress soon, and she would show no mercy to her enemies.

[juletheghoul]

The General Masterlist

As the General of the Roman army, General Marcus has strengthened his reputation as a strong, capable, brutal man. You can't help but want him though, and he can't seem to help himself either.

a/n; There is no overarching story for these two, there will be no end, I want this to be a world we can dip back into at any time. Please feel free to send asks about them, to ask for headcanons and details. A warning though; this isn't a relationship in the traditional sense. There is a huge power-imbalance and for the purposes of the story, it will not change. We're also going quite rogue here since the movie hasn't come out. (Edit; I lied. They have feelings and the story is definitely going somewhere. There is still room to dip in between the beginning and the end though so ask away and I will make it work!)

Every post will have it's own warnings

Ko-fi 💕

I. the general

II. the baths

III. crossing the line

IV. unclean

V. greedy

VI. convivium

VII. distraction

VIII. signs

IX. attack on the villa

X. too close

XI. vita nova

XII. home

XIII. dignitas

XIV. felix natalis

---

Asks and previews (before chapter X)

Sneak peek of chapter IX

Sneak peek of chapter X

sneak peek of chapter XI

sneak peek of chapter XII

nicknames (musings)

corrupted (ask)

soak (ask)

covetous (ask)

regrets (ask)

ache (ask)

lesson (ask)

wedding night drabble (ask)

shaving

slip ups

domina

making friends

pre-confession musings

his insecurity

(After chapter X)

sneak peek of his gift

educational (ask)

his gift

regression

-interpretation of girl- by @desuidesu 💕

early days in the market

his and only his

realization

fever

Diana's loyalty

doubts

getaway

statues and honours

[athingofvikings]

That historian moment when you're writing about an Empire that fell into decline after a golden age because the new Emperor...

...was only interested in his entertainments...

...engaged in disproportionate cruelties towards those he felt disrespected him...

....let the social, political, and economic elites of the Empire run wild and destroy any and all legal regulations against their corruption and self-aggrandizement...

...allowed those aristocrats to privatize imperial lands for their own estates, increasing their wealth and power while hollowing out the economic backbone of the empire...

...and in the end, the Empire went from one of the great powers in the region to a near rump-state in less than a generation.

And that moment when the new Emperor came to power?

'25.

1025, to be exact.

I'm talking about the Byzantine Empire exactly a thousand years ago.

In 1024, the Empire had a standing army of 300,000 and a surplus in the Treasury.

By 1040, it had less than 50,000, the majority of them foreign mercenaries, and the coinage was debased, with the economy collapsing after a succession of idiot Emperors (one of whom might have been an actual con artist, in that he was reputed to have been a coin forger prior to his elevation). The main power had been, for most of the prior decade, a palace eunuch who had been maneuvering his brothers into positions of authority where he puppeted them.

And by 1080, the Empire had lost 2/3rds of its territory from 1025.

Pardon me while I go scream a bit...

[little-fae-hero]

Linked Universe, The Hero of War

My headcanons/aus

Art by Atro

Colored version.

Long talk/Ideas under the cut, warning for implied self-harm and intentional scarring. (Note: I may add stuff over time, but nothing will be deleted from the list)

Twilight. Wind. Time. Hyrule. Four. Sky. Legend. Wild.

Warriors (Hyrule Warriors): Other nicknames: The Captain, Knight, Pretty boy, Flirt, One-Man army, Scarface.

Titles: The Hero of Hyrule, the Hero of the Era of War, The Gerudo’s prince, The Blood-stain General.

God who has claim over his soul: Demise (Because of the blessing from Ganondorf)

Part of First’s soul: Leadership

Note: Because of how much his war affected time and all that, he has met many different versions of the hero and looked after them (pretty much babysitting them). He’s also fought enemies he shouldn’t have and been to corrupt places, so he knows a little bit about everything.

History (note connecting to an au so most not canon):

Link was abandoned in the desert because he was a bastard, he ended up being adopted by Ganondorf the leader of the Gerudo. This Ganondorf knows the history of Hyrule but doesn’t want to be a destructive force, just wants his people to stay safe and alive. Ganon wants to be good, and makes a promise to himself by looking after the child he later calls his son. He eventually learns his son carries the Triforce of Courage, but doesn’t care, just wants to prove himself. 

Ganondorf is sort of warlike, mainly because his desert keeps getting attacked by outside nations and he’s trying to protect it. War grows up learning all different types of weapons, planning attacks and all that, but still always being protected by his father.

Eventually the malice was too much for Ganondorf, so Ganon sent War away, hoping he could have a good life before Ganondorf went to the Guardian of Time and pleaded with her to break apart and seal his soul.

Link is left in hyrule, his voice sealed away. Eventually he joins the army of hyrule as it’s really the only place that will take in someone like him, an orphan with no voice. Eventually the war starts, and it is revealed that he has the Triforce of Courage. He’s put in charge as the battle continues before Cia reveals hers, saying she is working for someone with the promise that Link will be hers. Eventually Cia is defeated however Ganondorf is now back.

Link tried to get his father to go back to normal, however it doesn’t work so Link was force to kill him, which only allow Ganondorf with his mind back, to plead and apologize to his son.

Link soon took on the persona of a flirty pretty boy, mainly as a way of coping. He also ends up carving up his face, because of what Cia would do just to get that pretty face. Right now he is Zelda’s right hand man and adviser.

Death: Unknown…..

Interesting stuff/Headcanons:

War’s love language has always been physically touch, the feeling of holding someone or being held and knowing you are safe.

He carved up his face after everything, mainly fearing that someone else would be after him, might as well damage what started the war.

He started the persona of the flirty pretty boy to survive in the army, most don’t know his true self besides the links, Zelda, Impa and Linkle.

Any romantic relationship he had with Zelda fizzled out when Cia happened.

War had deep seeded trust issues considering how many of his ‘friends’ were all in favor of tossing him to Cia to end the war.

War turned the flirting to girls during the war up it as a big ‘screw you’ to Cia.

War is ace, specifically a sex repulsed ace.

Ganondorf was somewhat paranoid about people taking his son away, so he trained War to be able to use any weapon he got his hands on.

He even taught him how to fight without one or turn your environment into a weapon.

This very much contrasted later as he refused to allow War to get involved when conflict happened, he had to stay in the palace where it was safe and figure out strategies.

War always had a stupid number of weapons on him. Many are hidden of course.

Even when sleeping he at least has three blades in reaching distance.

Because of what happened with his father, War always has a plan on what would've happened if one of his friends got possessed and what he could do to save them.

He also watches for weak points in others mostly to help them improve.

War thinks about battle and war in a terrifying mix of courage, wisdom and power, knowing where to strike and how to be effective with it.

Has a natural parenting instinct from babysitting young ones, both at home and from the war.

Typically wraps and tucks his scarf around his waist so it can’t be grabbed and actually choke him in battle.

He actually has Ice and Fire magic, because of a blessing from his grandmothers, it’s just not his preferred way of fighting.

Plus, it makes him weaker to the opposite element, it’s why fire from the dragon knight scarred and hurt more than normal.

Has a lot of manners from the gerudo (like why he had no problem with Zelda/Impa in charge), it’s just no one knows about the gerudo tribe in his world to notice.

Monsters either target War or hesitate to attack him, he uses this to his advantage.

War can play music on an Ocarina but can’t sing to save his life. (Correction, he can sing, it’s just gerudo sounding and most don’t like it)

He is like a field medic, he knows how to save a life, but it won’t be comfortable.

The only person who knows who War’s father is, was Mask. Mask didn’t seem to judge War for it but was super angry at Ganon.

War doesn’t allow himself to express emotions outside the select ones for his ‘persona’.

So, if stuff gets really bad, he needs to scream or cry, he goes to somewhere completely hidden and breaks down (he knows this isn’t healthy, but he doesn’t care).

War is attached to the scarf because it reminds him of the fabric he wore at home, the one which was insisted on to protect his skin from the sun.

War has a screwed-up sleep schedule. He often takes a second shift and then just doesn’t wake up the others and continues the watch. 

He still has a necklace from his father, which his dad promised was laced with magic and would protect him. Despite how many times War tried to get rid of it, he can’t.

Sometimes gerudo words will slip in when he’s talking, most just think it’s a mistake.

War ‘hobbies’ are typically cleaning armor and sharpening weapons. However, he can use his magic to make little ice statues.

He has flashbacks, where he relives memories and battles. There not as bad as Wild sense he can be brought out of them, however there is a chance he could react violently.

Confined spaces can really set this off as he was captured by Cia for a short time.

He’s the closest and trusts Time/Mask the most, there are no secrets between them.

War acts almost like a drill sergeant in battles at times, no one dares go against his orders (this is after he got his voice back).

----

War is done, as you can see he is heavily based off my ‘Like father, like son’ au. The boy isn’t canon which means I can do whatever I want. Let me know your thoughts.

[xtruss]

8 Flagrant Ways The U.S-Backed Corrupt Caretaker Government In Pakistan Is Subverting The Election! Pakistan’s Corrupt $$$ Military-Backed Caretaker Government Has Gone To Extreme Lengths To Undermine The Opposition Party’s (PTI) Shot At The Polls.

— Ryan Grim | February 7, 2024 | The Intercept

Pakistani residents walk under flags depicting candidates from different political parties ahead of the upcoming general election in Lahore, Pakistan, on Feb. 7, 2024. Photo: Rebecca Conway/Getty Images

As Pakistan Prepares to determine its next government in a general election on Thursday, concerns are intensifying about electoral irregularities. A growing body of evidence points to election manipulation and political interference by the Pakistani military.

Pakistan was supposed to go to polls last year. The country’s constitution has five-year terms for both the national and provincial assemblies as well as for the post of the prime minister. When the former Prime Minister Imran Khan’s government was toppled in a parliamentary coup backed by the Pakistani military and the U.S. State Department in 2022, it was only in its fourth year.

Since then, the Pakistani military has ruled from the shadows, trying to delay the inevitable elections while at the same time trying to ensure that the massively popular Khan and his party Pakistan Tehreek-e-Insaf, or PTI, do not come back to power.

Inside Pakistan, the media is completely muzzled. Outside Pakistan, the upcoming elections are being called the “least credible in the country’s historyOpens in a new tab,” and “more like a coronationOpens in a new tab,” where the military is understood merely to be choosing a new civilian face for its rule. While the U.S. State Department has consistently said that it has not made a determinationOpens in a new tab about the fairness of Pakistani elections, the events leading up to the elections have not gone unnoticed in Congress.

“Threats to free and fair elections anywhere [are] concerning. In light of recent events in Pakistan and the upcoming election, let’s be clear: promoting stability, democracy, and human rights around the globe is paramount to maintaining our values worldwide,” posted Republican Rep. Nathaniel MoranOpens in a new tab on Twitter.

“There can’t be free and fair elections when one of the opposition parties has been criminalized,” posted Democratic Rep. Ilhan OmarOpens in a new tab, echoing Moran’s sentiments from across the political aisle.

The publicly visible instances of election rigging — visible, that is, to all but the Biden administration — are too numerous to articulate in a single article. What follows are the most egregious.

Banning the Leading Party’s Symbol

On a Pakistani ballot paper, each political party has an electoral symbol. Candidates in each of Pakistan’s hundreds of constituencies have their party symbols next to their names, a critical guide for the substantial portion of the electorate who can’t read. PTI candidates were stopped from using their unified electoral symbolOpens in a new tab — a cricket bat — by the court, based on a technicality no other party was subjected to. This means each PTI candidate is assigned a random symbol and has to run an individual campaign.

With the loss of its bat, PTI was converted from a formidable political party to a loose group of individuals with no legal affiliation overnight, effectively disenfranchising millions of citizens who placed their trust in PTI as a political entity. The move has been severely criticized as a “huge blow to fundamental rightsOpens in a new tab” by the Pakistani legal fraternity and civil society.

The implications of this go even further. If, by some miracle, PTI candidates overcome all the obstacles and win a majority in the Parliament, the technically unaffiliated candidates would be missing key legal protections and could be vulnerable to bribes and coercion by the military.

Shutting Down the Internet 🛜

The Pakistan Telecommunication Authority is now chaired by a retired generalOpens in a new tab. The chair of the PTA has the ability to shut down the whole country’s internet or specific websites on a moment’s notice. He has shut down social media and the internet every timeOpens in a new tab Khan’s PTI held an election-related event Opens in a new tabonline in the past few months, affecting more than 100 million users.

The Pakistani media has already expressed concernsOpens in a new tab that the internet might be shut down on election day to discourage people from voting. Lending credibility to those concerns, a top minister on Tuesday hinted at the possibility of an internet shutdown on election day, alarming human rights organizations including Amnesty International and prompting them to write an open letter and put out a statementOpens in a new tab.

“Amnesty International, along with several other human rights organizations, call on Pakistani authorities to guarantee uninterrupted access to the internet and digital communication platforms for everyone across the country,” the statement read.

Banning and Jailing the Leading Candidate

The charges against ousted prime minister Khan range from incoherent to absurd. He was charged with “exposing state secrets” for publicly discussing the contents of the secret cable that The Intercept reported on last year. He was slapped with a seven-year sentence for what the Supreme Court said was an invalid marriage. And he got 14 years for supposedly keeping state gifts without filing the proper paperwork or compensating the state, though all evidence suggests that he did so.

Three major court decisions in quick succession just before the elections has been seen inside Pakistan as a message from the Pakistani military establishment. The message is intended not only for the voters, but also for the candidates, signaling the influence and control wielded by the military.

Hacking the Election Management System

Just two days ago, a local electoral official complained in a letter circulated to the Election Commission of Pakistan that key software used in managing elections was behaving oddly. In the letter, the official cites specific issues with the software and claims that data related to its staff was erased. “This weakness of [the] system has created many issues and also raises [a] question mark on the reliability and validity of the tool/software. This shows that either the [election management system] is [an] utter failure or there is a someone else [sic] that controls and manages the system behind the veil,” he wrote in the document leaked onlineOpens in a new tab.

The election management system was built by the National Database and Registration Authority, a government department that is usually headed by a civilian but since last year has been run by a generalOpens in a new tab in the military. NADRA is the primary custodian of all of Pakistan’s data — from population and demographic data to voter rolls — and is supposed to play a key role in conducting elections along with the Election Commission of Pakistan. As long as the Pakistani military has direct control of NADRA, it controls all the systems used to administer elections and transmit their results.

Secret Pakistan Document Undermines Espionage Case Against Imran Khan! The former prime minister is charged with compromising Pakistan’s secret communications, but a document leaked to The Intercept says that didn’t happen. Ryan Grim, Murtaza Hussain, December 18 2023. Imran Khan, Pakistan’s former prime minister, during an interview in Lahore, Pakistan, on June 2, 2023. Photo: Betsy Joles/Bloomberg via Getty Images

Terrorist Violence

Last week, 10 PTI activists were killedOpens in a new tab in a bomb blast at an election rally in the Balochistan province. The same week, a PTI candidateOpens in a new tab and a senior leaderOpens in a new tab were shot dead in the Khyber Pakhtunkhwa province in separate incidents. In Karachi, a PTI candidate’s car was shot at. According to a statement from the United Nations high commissioner for human rights, there have been “no less than 24 reported instances” this year in which armed groups have attacked political parties in Pakistan ahead of the elections.

At least one of these deadly attacks was claimed by ISKPOpens in a new tab, the Afghan chapter of the Islamic State, which has never specifically targeted the PTI in the past.

Police Raids

When the elections were announced, there were several reports that unknown people and masked government officials were snatching the nomination papersOpens in a new tab of PTI candidates as soon as they would go to file them, thereby preventing them from filing to run before the deadline. Of the candidates who did manage to file, those who were not arrested faced frequent police raids on their homes.

During one raid at a political candidate’s home, an American police officerOpens in a new tab who happened to be vacationing in Pakistan was also arrested. He was subsequently released following intervention by the U.S. Embassy. In another police raid on a political activist’s house, the activist’s father suffered a heart attackOpens in a new tab and died.

Virtually every notable PTI member’s house has been raided and ransackedOpens in a new tab. In addition, PTI rallies and meetings have also been violently shut downOpens in a new tab by the police and scores of workers have been arrested. In one constituency in northern Pakistan, there were reports of police shootingOpens in a new tab at a PTI rally. On Tuesday, the last day of campaigning, almost everyOpens in a new tab PTI rally was attacked by police. In a video that went viral on social media, a PTI candidate, Zartaj Gul Wazir, is seen sitting on the road, cryingOpens in a new tab, after a police attack on her rally. In other areas that have not been so violent, comical social media videosOpens in a new tab of police chasing PTI activists through the streets have emerged.

In PTI strongholds, there are even reports of police ticketing people in unusually high numbers and confiscating their identification cards, which won’t be returned until after the election, meaning that they will be unable to vote.

Abducting Candidates and Their Families

There are reports of PTI candidates being abducted by unknown men and returning home only after announcing their withdrawal from the race. Most notably, a female PTI candidate, Iffat Tahira Soomro, was abducted and forced to step downOpens in a new tab under duress. She was the second candidate in the constituency to step down. PTI has now pitched a third candidateOpens in a new tab for the same seat.

In another incident, a PTI candidate’s elderly father was picked up from his house to pressure him into leaving the party. After four days, the father died in police custodyOpens in a new tab.

The U.N. Commission on Human Rights deplored these incidents in their statement on Tuesday. “We are disturbed by the pattern of harassment, arrests and prolonged detentions of leaders of the Pakistan Tehreek e Insaf (PTI) party and their supporters which has continued during the election period,” the statement read.

Voter Suppression

PTI has been counting on high voter turnout to counter the efforts to manipulate the elections. But by reducing the number of polling stations in key constituencies, the government is effectively suppressing votes in those areas.

There are polling stations that used to have a few thousand voters assigned to them but will now have tens of thousands of voters. One polling station in Lahore that used to have only 8,000 constituents has ballooned to 29,000Opens in a new tab, including thousands of young and first-time voters from all over Lahore. In some constituencies in Karachi, so many people have been assigned to each polling station that with a 50 percent turnout (roughly the total turnout for the last election), each voter will get only one minute and 13 secondsOpens in a new tab to vote.

Can PTI Still Win?

Despite the gloomy verdict, a sense of hope persists among many in Pakistan. Nothing illustrates this contradiction more than two women, Yasmin Rashid and Aliya Hamza Malik, who are contesting elections from jail. These two political prisoners, running their campaigns from incarceration and against all odds, have become symbolic figures representing resistance against military interference in Pakistani democracy.

“The Brazen Electoral Rigging, Persecution Of Political Leaders, And Sham Court Trials Have Substantially Increased The Stakes.”

“The election in Pakistan is going to be a referendum against the establishment – a local euphemism for Pakistan Army – and its associated partners,” says Hussain Nadim, an analyst and former policy specialist working with the Pakistani government. “This is why despite all efforts by the establishment otherwise, we can forecast a historic turnout in the elections. The brazen electoral rigging, persecution of political leaders, and sham court trials have substantially increased the stakes,” he added.

In the week leading up to the elections, Khan has been sentenced to a cumulativeOpens in a new tab 31 yearsOpens in a new tab in prison. His political party confronts the imminent risk of outright prohibition, with his motley crew of candidates on the run, evading authorities, attempting to canvass for votes clandestinelyOpens in a new tab (and even using Opens in a new tabartificial intelligence).

Yet, PTI has resisted calls to boycott the election. The goal, they say, is to win in such dramatic and runaway fashion that even all of the above can’t steal it.

[imsobadatnicknames2]

Surprised to see that you as a communist (and a lot of other communists too) seem to like disco elysium so much. doesn't the game make fun of communists a lot?

It does! Quite frequently and gleefully, in fact.

My blanket response to this type of question about most pieces of media would be that, in the words of Big Joel, "I am not a politics robot". My enjoyment of a piece of art is almost entirely orthogonal to how much its implicit or explicit worldview aligns with mine. And I think ultimately that's the way you end up having to approach media if you're a communist who plays videogames at all. Or reads fantasy books. Or watches anime. Or... you get the idea.

But in the case of Disco Elysium specifically I think the read that the game depicts communism just as negatively as all the other ideologies it criticizes is a quite shallow one. Ultimately we're being shown this world through a very communist lens. Like yeah the game has a lot of (usually pretty funny) jokes about firing squads and about "communism is about failure" and about pretentious overeducated college communists who do nothing but read theory and then do some leftist infighting about it, it doesn't shy away from the immoral actions of the revolutionary army, it depicts the dockworkers union as extremely shady and corrupt and basically a crime syndicate (although this depiction is way more nuanced if you actually take the time to dig deeper and talk to people about it), and generally doesn't shy away from pointing at the ugly parts of a variety of communist movements past and present. But, under all of that, the game's understanding of issues like class and poverty and crime and colonialism and imperialism and international conflict is ultimately rooted in a very marxist worldview.

I once saw someone say something along the lines of "everyone in this game talks like a communist regardless of political alignment", and while that's obviously an extremely hyperbolic statement, I do think there's a nugget of truth in it, the clearest example being Joyce Messier. Joyce is an ultraliberal, the furthest thing from a communist you're going to find in the DE universe. And yet, when she talks about the world she does so in very marxist terms, like in her famous "Capital has the ability to subsume all critiques into itself" quote. Like. You'd never catch a real libertarian expressing that idea Like That. And a lot of the more serious, in-depth political discussions in the game are similar.

Plus, ultimately... regardless of how much criticism the game piles on it, of all the ideologies it criticizes, communism is the only one which is not depicted as a completely lost cause. The communist vision quest ends on a quite hopeful note, unlike pretty much any other one, and the Union is ultimately shown as having tons of popular support because they're the only ones who have actually gotten shit done to somewhat improve the lives of the people of Martinaise. I have lots of thoughts about the way Evrart Claire and the Dockworkers union are depicted actually, but for the time being I'm just going to say that the read of "unions are corrupt and union leaders are greedy fat cats who only care about their personal gain", while not exactly lacking in textual support, is likewise an extremely shallow one.

[lola-writes]

𝐃𝐄𝐋𝐈𝐂𝐈𝐀𝐄 𝐈𝐌𝐏𝐄𝐑𝐈𝐈 ║ I. Adonis ║ Marcus Acacius x Hanno's sister!reader

➣ Deliciae Imperii -> Delights of the Empire

➣ Masterlist | Add yourself to my taglist | Ao3 | Ko-Fi

➣ Chapter II. | Series Masterlist

Word Count: 2,9k

Synopsis: As an esteemed warrior of the Numidian army, your world turns on its axis when you’re taken prisoner by the Romans. Ever since your stealth attack that nearly cost the General of the Roman army, Marcus Acacius, his life, he appears to have taken a special interest in you. Under his tutelage of swordplay and carnal things, you delve deeper into the heart of the Roman Empire, uncovering its instability, and Acacius’ true intentions with you…

Chapter Themes & Warnings: POV first person, use of y/n, blood, detailed descriptions of violence, terms of endearment (anaticula, Adonis), slavery, Roman history, vomiting, angst, swearing. See series masterlist for full themes & warnings!

Song: Fight for Survival – Klergy

a/n: The original plan was for this to be a oneshot, but in the end it seemed impossible. I've got a lot planned for this story. Hope you stay tuned! 🥰

Anaticula (duckling), Adonis (god of beauty and desire)

Poem by @fairytalesques

Enjoy the read!

Likes, comments and reblogs are greatly appreciated!

I am a rose unfurling, winter’s bloom. Poison dripping down my throat and out of my bladed fingers. I spin stars into black holes, drive monsters to extinction in the dead heat of summer. You ever stop to think what life could have been if the poison had been potent? A lifeline in the carnage. A blessing or a curse? The flower is now festering like a disease but with Adonis I’ll be safe, he keeps the antidote. 

The metallic tang of blood, thick and cloying, hung heavy in the humid air, a shroud of death as thick as smoke. It was a symphony of war, conducted by the piercing shrieks of the wounded and the barked commands of the officers. A cacophony that blurred my senses as I moved with deadly precision through a haze of silver and red.

I fought with the savage efficiency of a wild animal, yet my kills were clean and quiet, each motion honed by years of training under Hanno's tutelage. My vision tunneled to a singular, deadly focus – the annhilation of the Roman usurpers by any means necessary. In this moment, I was a force of nature, an instrument of retribution. I would purge the land of their corrupted touch if I were to die trying.

The enemy pressed on, a relentless tide. For every ten I felled, another twenty rose to take their place. Yet somehow, the more I fought, the stronger I became, as though the adrenaline that infiltrated my every tissue contained a potent elixir that invigorated my muscles and dulled their exertion. 

Clashing blades rang in the air. Our two armies mingled near indistinguishably; clanging, crunshing and screaming. It would be difficult to tell friend from foe, if it weren’t for the Romans distinctive galeas, the red fur frilling atop the silver helms like beckoning targets. 

Just then, the crowd parted like clouds from the sun, unveiling a figure descending the battlement steps, a silhouette of lethal grace. Donning a sable breast plate emblazoned by Sol, sprawling across his chest with a douzen golden rays, he moved with the effortless grace of a dancer, his blade a blur of silver death, his countenance molded into a rigid canvas of authority. A retinue of red fringed galeas encircled him, their bodies his shields, their presence a testament to his rank. 

My gaze fixed him through the crowd as the next wave of men in their peculiar-looking helmets came charging at me. I ducked, slicing open the patellas of the first two, making them buckle in the sand. The third I dodged, sidestepping before plunging my blade into his brachial plexus. The fourth I parried, our blades screeching in unison, before I kicked under his flared skirt. There wasn’t much fight left in him after that.      

Jubartha’s words echoed in my mind as I tracked the approaching entourage, “Take out the leader of your enemy, and it matters not how much blood stains your sword.”

He moved fluidly like a windless sea. His spatha whipped around him, trailing shadows in the dust-ridden air, splattering the sand with blood. His expression was a paradox. As though he would not rest until Rome had pocketed another conquest, while simultaneously longing for a different fate entirely.

Crimson trailed around him like crushed punica granatum. None breached the shield of bodies surrounding him, and those who tried did not emerge alive, like prey entering a lion’s den. 

I caught a glimpse of Hanno and Jubartha atop the parapet, fending off the ruthless wave from the assaulting sea. The walls had been breached, our numbers were dwindling. A sense of desperation seized me, a reckless courage driving me forward.  

There was but one choice at my disposal.

I sprinted up the steps of the opposite parapet, scaling the heights with desperate urgency. Ducking behind a wooden pole, I dashed across the platform until I reached its bosom. I leaned out over its edifice, where down below, a second protective roof had been built. I started the climb downward, the splintering wood tearing at my hands like an angry cat. I landed on the roof with a thud and crouched towards the edge. Our men were still charging through the opening of the parapet, but before I knew it, they began to slow, getting knocked back by the shield wall of fearsome Roman guards. I rose to my feet, my heart pounding in my ears, adrenaline surging through my bloodstream. My hand found the hilt of my sword and clasped it into place. For what I was about to do, risking becoming unarmed was to invite my doom.

The chaotic shadowy flare of guards flanking the steady shadow of an unyielding assassin grew in the sand below. I filled my lungs, washing out the biting fear of death creeping around the edges. 

A warrior’s oath echoed in my mind: I am Numidia. 

I dipped, toes to the edge. A head of dark and silver emerged below. 

What could go wrong?

I leapt. 

The fall felt decelerated, as if in a dream, and all surrounding noise faded underwater. My feet met his back, and a heavy grunt of startlement escaped him as he fell forward. His body broke my fall, and I rolled with the force of the impact, swiftly regaining my footing as I turned to face him. Dazed for but a second, his face dusted with sand, he grappled for his sword. But before he managed to get a proper grasp of the hilt, I pressed my boot atop his knuckles. He groaned in frustration behind gritted teeth. The next second, my one hand had clasped the knife from my boot, while the other had gathered a fistful of his hair and snatched him backward. 

In the third second, my blade was poised at his throat, ready to claim his life when, for reasons unexplained, the edge paused in his skin. 

In the fourth second, I had met his eyes, and an unfamilliar current passed down my spine. They were big, and brown, and full of contradictions, staring up at me with equal surprise, malice, and admiration. But no fear. His chest was heaving. His hair was a full, tangled mess of black and silver beneath my fingers, textured from the unsettled sand. The strands of silver had leaked into his beard which covered his dark, dirt-and blood-spattered complexion. His nose was sharp, angled like the limb of a bow, and his lips were slightly parted from gnashed teeth. The wound I had inflicted seemed to defy the vision of him I had before me, bleeding red but ichor. 

In the fifth second his resistance faltered, his head growing heavy against me. But before I could savour my victory, a sharp blow clattered my teeth, and suddenly my body was not my own. My vision blurred, my ears buzzed, and my fingers loosened the grip of the knife, no matter how hard I fought against it. 

In the sixth second, I was laying in the sand, grasping for consciousness. I thought I could hear Hanno screaming in the distance, but it was just beneath the surface. Gathering the last ounces of strength I had left I reached for the blade laying inches away. The contours of Adonis hovered over me, as one of the guards kicked my weapon out of reach. My other hand dragged itself to my waist, half-limb, seeking to undo the clasp to my sword.

“Tsk tsk tsk...” Adonis clicked his tongue. I winced as his boot came down on my hand, pressing down. “You have some fight in you, anaticula,” his voice, laced with what I would percieve as… concern, circulated around my head like a distant echo. “Grab her.” The words consumed me, nuzzling my cognisance like a warm blanket, and as I lifted off the ground, I faded into oblivion. 

_

Vae victis. Woe to the vanquished. 

The declaration travelled with me between the realms of my unconsciousness, followed by the distant wails of bereaved mothers, fathers, brothers, and sisters. 

I awoke to the comforting crackle of the fire we used to cook our supper. The air was thick with the scent of fresh fish, and the vague neigh of my stallion drifted in from outside. I sighed, nuzzling my face into the pillow, and was captivated by the unfamiliar softness of it. Something was different. The ground beneath me seemed to shift and sway, and as I opened my eyes, the pillow under my cheek was foreign to me – vibrant with patterns winding around the fabric like climbing vines.

Reality slowly dawned. I was not home. And the crackle of the fire and the neighing from my stallion was in fact the creaking and squeaking of ship timbers. 

I groaned as a sharp pain lanced through my skull. Everything came back to me. The Roman invasion. The battle. The blow to the head. Adonis … 

My breath stilled when I met his gaze across the room. Clad in the same sable armor and a royal scarlet cape, he was seated at the head of a table bedecked in plates of fish, cheese, fruit and caraffes of wine. He held my stare with a distant look of interest, rolling a purple grape between his fingers before plopping it into his mouth, his jaw clenching and unclenching. 

The throbbing pain pulsed in my temple in tune with my heart as I sat up on the setee. Sludge stuck to my thoughts and it felt as though my center of gravity was off the way the room kept rocking.

“Easy,” came his voice, a low rumble. His chewing ceased, his movements stilled, as if ready to rise in haste.

The ship’s rhythmic rocking intensified, the sound of waves lapping against the hull growing louder. A cold sweat broke out on my brow. My breathing surged and grew ragged, trying to subdue the rolling sense of nausea consuming me. 

But it was futile.

With a violent shudder, I retched, the contents of my stomach emptying onto the wooden planks.

I stared blankly at my mess, a strange blend of satisfaction and shame washing over me. Relishing at the thought of having defiled the ship of the Roman usurpers, I was humbled by doing so in front of the man who I failed to kill. My guts were ready to spill again at the very thought.

His chair creaked against the floor as he rose. I only saw his legs as he approached, dropping to his haunches in front of me – in my vomit, and I recoiled, equally to his sudden advance as to the indignity of it. He moved with intent, the scarlet cape pooled around him, and I could not help but feel intimidated. It was like he didn’t know what he was standing in. Or rather, didn’t care. Furthermore, based off his attire alone, he was too high in station to be on his knees for a commoner like me. Even less, kneeling in a commoner’s bodily fluid. 

He was so cool and calculated, from how he moved to how his gaze settled on mine, though something alive played in his dark brown eyes. Something that could snap at any second. His complexion was still riddled with dried dirt and blood from the battle, and the cut in his neck had leaked down his throat like spilt ink. 

I knew not if it was the sudden uprising of nerves, his closeness, or a result of the blow to my head, but the words slipped past my lips without thought. “You’re a truly terrible commander.” I dried the dribble off my chin with the back of my hand.

A furrow etched between his brows and genuine concern flickered in his eyes, like he was contemplating whether it might be true. “I conquered your city,” he parried.

“I nearly killed you,” I retorted.

A hint of malice clouded his features. “Nearly.” His tone of voice gathered timber; that the word came off as a threat. 

He stared at me. The urge to look away was so strong it itched beneath my skin. He expected me to. Though something foreign and astute made me persevere. Holding eye contact with him felt like a deadly game. But it also evoked a whisper of adrenaline, as warm as spiced wine. 

Finally, his eyes drifted downward to the pool of vomit at his feet. “I’ll have someone clean this up,” he said, before leaning forward and putting his arms around me. 

Adrenaline shot through me like a violent storm, and I pushed him away instinctively. His face was a mask of indifference, and he reached for me again, and this time he didn’t let go, no matter how hard I fought him. He carried me up off the settee as I kicked, squealed, grunted and clawed. My mind raced with the thoughts of what he might do to me. His breast plate was ice cold against my skin, but I was too frantic to notice. I came to my senses once he dropped me down in a chair next to the table. He glared at me, clearly unimpressed by my defiance, before grabbing a plate off the table, methodically filling it with a chaotic assortment.

“Are you hungry?” he asked, breaking off a twig of grapes as a final touch before serving it to me, rounding the table to seat himself.

I simply gaped at him, too bewildered to respond. My chest heaved from exertion, my tense body clutching onto the wood of the chair, trembling slightly from the waning adrenaline spike.

“You need not fear me, anaticula,” he soothed. His voice was a strange blend of velvet and steel, a combination I believed to be uniquely his; calming and unsettling me in equal measure. And despite the ingrained hatred I harbored towards his people, an inexplicable, vexing trust for him began to bloom within me.

“I am General Marcus Acacius,” he boomed, as though I would have trouble hearing him from across the table. Where he came from, I’d wager men stood to attention at the mere mention of him, but I remained indifferent. Belittling him was all the power I had.

His name grew heavy in the air, silence stretching. I’d expected him to explain my fate next. That I would be sold as a slave for men to plunder as they wished, or perhaps executed for having his life at my disposal. Perhaps he’d do it himself.

“What do I call you?” he asked finally.

“Whyever does that matter?” I snapped.

“Is it so strange to wish to know the name of the woman who nearly killed me?” His voice dipped at the very mention of it. 

“I’ll be dead soon enough,” I said with feigned indifference. Acacius stiffened, watching me carefully. “Or if you do not kill me, I’d kill myself before I ever become a slave.” I watched him relax slightly and continue his meal.

“That’s not going to happen,” he muttered inbetween chews.

My gut flared with anticipation, “Which part?” I demanded.

He looked up at me. “What’s your name?” he asked, deliberately ignoring my question. 

“Y/N,” I replied, my voice barely a whisper. 

He repeated my name, the sound rolling off his tongue like honey while he fixed me with his eyes dark like amber. I grew strangely warm and restless, and a sudden urge to flee seized me, a wild beast gnawing at my nerves. 

“Where is my brother?” I blurted out, rather raggedly, a note of desperation creeping in, but as I did, I recalled I had not seen Hanno since the start of the battle. Was he even alive?

“Your brother?” he asked, like the notion I’d have a family was aberrant to him, a fleeting spark of uncertainty passing through his eyes. He swallowed sharply, picking at the salted fish on his plate. “With the other prisoners,” he muttered.

“So,” I began, molding myself out of the rigid posture I had assumed, and leaned forward. “Why am I here?” I asked, casting a disapproving look around his opulent cabin.

He stopped and fixed me with a gaze ice-cold. “For safe keeping,” he said sternly. “You nearly killed me today, Y/N. I wouldn’t want to find out what else you’re capable of.”

Vague images flickered before my eyes – chaos, then darkness. “You talk as if it’s some big feat,” I scoffed.

His eyes, twin pools of lethal venom, bored into me. “I assure you,” he hissed, resting his bracers against the edge of the table, a hint of admonition lingering in his voice, “It is.”

My face heated at the thought of having impressed him, but the word ‘nearly’ was a nettlesome creature.

“I should have killed you when I had the chance,” I said, the words bitter on my tongue.

Acacius cocked his brows in recognition and poured wine. “Why didn’t you?” he asked, raising the cup to his lips. 

The question caught me off guard, and a bitter taste filled my mouth. I recalled myself hesitating. I had the blade at his throat. I could have ended the battle there and then, declared Numidia victorious against the power of Rome. But I couldn’t do it. 

“I-,” I don’t know, I thought. 

A sharp knock on the door shattered the silence, and a sentry entered the room, bowing slightly. “General Acacius,” he spoke, his voice laced with duty and reverence. “Rome awaits.” 

Chapter II. | Series Masterlist | Chapter III

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[sorryimananti-romantic]

The Leaders | Chapter VIII

"maybe a place where light and darkness meet, the choice between truth and lies is mine."

masterlist

ot8!ateez x f!reader, mafia au

chapter warnings: drinking, smoking, illegal businesses, mentions of war/military, drugs, gangs and corruption, impending doom sort of arrives, lots of kissing so we can call luna a serial kisser now-

chapter wc: 11.7k

chapter synopsis: jaemin informs you about the political shift with the sirens turning on president lee because of his involvement with a strictland official. you finally have a conversation with yeosang and at the bar, you decide to confirm your relationship with the boys. they warmly welcome you as a true leader. meanwhile, at the port, the illegal shipment to mist island returns unexpectedly with the navy hot on the crescents’ tail.

prev chapter recap: on your last day in edenary, you go prepared to the ju residence where eden newspaper’s 50th anniversary is being celebrated. you learn about the cuff bracelet hongjoong gave you from sunmi, heiress to maddox and co.. you meet chan of wolfgang and he shares tips about assemblyman kim. you are surprised when the assemblyman recognises you from years ago and you offer him the crescents’ support. you return to sector 1 and the crescents catch up with each other. you make up with hongjoong and he admits the bracelet he designed was intended to match the crescents’ rings. he has delayed madame tiffany’s deal and you are still waiting to hear back from madame cha. anxious, you go to the bar to find yeosang but run across san who offers a drinking session at his house. you get honest with each other and you learn about the crescents’ relationship. the night ends on a romantic note and you make up your mind about the crescents. you hear back from madame cha’s gang member, jaebeom, only after hongjoong signs the deal. he implies that the crescents’ doom might be around the corner.

“Good day, Missy,” the fifteen-year old Jaemin took off his newsboy cap to bow, ever the gentleman.

“That’s Miss Luna for you,” you tried keeping the smirk to yourself but the young informant was far too observant to miss it.

“Just Luna then,” he set his cap on his hair. “I bring news for the Captain.”

“And if you’re his informant, you must know that I am the Captain when he’s not present– sort of. At least, for you.”

“I’d say you’ve become the chief mate,” Jaemin considered, attempting to do some justice to the rankings. “I should make this official. The Captain has found his mate.”

The Captain has found his mate. You covered your cheeks to hide the flush creeping up your cheeks.

“Considering you’re lounging in his office and all,” he added with a shrug, continuing to inform you that he never saw this coming. The last time you had interacted, you were still a bookkeeper bordering the lines of a secretary. 

“Lounging is not the right word. I’m working,” you motioned at the documents splayed out on the table and he pointed at your cross-legged position.

“Don’t let the Captain catch you like that. He’ll discipline you.”

“Oh, shut up already,” you told him, beckoning him to sit. “What’s the news?”

“I still don’t know if I can trust you, so if you do me wrong, I will be out for blood, but,” he stopped you before you could throw something at him. “There’s been a shift in politics. The Sirens have crucified President Lee.”

“President Lee?” You asked. “Not General Wi? I thought he was their target. Doesn’t the Siren Rebel Party work to make sure that the military does not pull the strings of the parliament?”

“That’s right,” he folded his arm, proud to be the bearer of this news. “The Sirens have been protesting against a possible martial law for a while, because that would mean the army gets to make decisions regarding the issue with Strictland and its immigrants here. But anyways, they won’t publish this in the newspaper. Mr. Jang of Eden News is acquainted with President Lee so he will take special care not to publish anything about the scene the Sirens created. He’ll make sure nothing gets out.”

“Hold on,” you said. “One thing at a time. What scene did they create?”

“I’ve heard that they made a puppet of President Lee and set it on fire,” he said and you grimaced. “The cops got to them and they had to flee. They will try to torture the information out of the ones they caught, but I think they will still get away with it. They always do.”

“Woah,” you grimaced. “Now, how are Mr. Jang and President Lee connected?”

“I thought you would know, considering you’re an Edenary citizen and all,” he said and you shrugged. You were aware that the partners, Mr. Jang and Mr. Ju, didn’t see eye to eye on all things but made good partners nonetheless. 

Jaemin continued. “I don’t know how much they go back but when President Han was killed, there weren’t many articles published in the newspapers. Only the Edenary citizens who were present at that time have an idea of how exactly the events of her death took place– the rest only know the rumours that she was assassinated, some not even aware that it happened at a public event.”

“Hmm… why would he not publish articles about his wife getting killed like that? It could have earned him votes, if nothing else.”

“That’s what’s strange. He claims he kept it under covers to respect his wife but he never shuts up about it in his campaigns and broadcasts,” Jaemin said. 

“Why do you think President Lee was targeted this time?” You asked.

“Oh, right. That’s the thing– apparently a Hala Official is arriving soon for ‘discussion’ on the improvement of relations between the two nations. The Sirens claim that the man should not be the face of that discussion because he usually handles the Strictland affairs and is known to play dirty–”

“He’s related to Strictland?” You narrowed your eyes.

“That’s what I said,” Jaemin leaned forward, clasping his hands in a manner similar to a certain boss of a certain company. “He was present when the Treaty happened. He’s not very famous even in Halaland, so it’s kind of strange but not strange at the same time because he is a Hala official. The Sirens must have thought things might take a weird turn after their meeting, so that’s what they protested.”

“And they won’t mention this in the newspaper.”

“Right,” Jaemin concluded with a grin. “Juicy, isn’t it?”

“Very,” you muttered. “How did you find all this out?”

“Oh, I just run errands for the elites,” he said casually, getting up. “But I only answer to the Captain.”

“How loyal,” you smiled. “How did you manage to get him to take you seriously?”

“I told him a Captain must have a pet by his side– someone who can shapeshift and be his eyes and ears. Someone as loyal as a dog, as sneaky as a rat, as sly as a fox, and as cute as a bunny–”

“I’m pretty sure you didn’t mention the last part,” you chuckled.

“You wanna bet?” He said in all seriousness. “You’ll take me with you the next time you go to the warehouse.”

“Why do you want to go there?”

“Because it’s been a while. The warehouse boys spoil me,” he grinned. “And don’t worry about finding me– I’ll find you when you’re about to go.”

With that, he bowed mockingly before leaving, your smile falling as you processed the new piece of information. 

You really needed to dig into everything that was happening. There had to be a connection somewhere with the things happening in Strictland. If President Lee himself really was involved… you shuddered at the possibility. 

You wished you had asked Jaemin the name of the Hala official but you weren’t sure you would recognise him anyway. You decided to wait for one of the boys to come who might be able to identify the man with the description you had. You felt like you really needed to talk about everything related to Strictland again, to look into the Sirens and their involvement, to look into Mr. Jang and his media censorship–

But your mindspace was still occupied with Jaebeom’s warning. It had been three days and you still hadn’t heard back from him. No one else was aware that you had met up with him, and you intended to keep it that way. Every moment, you prayed that his suspicions would simply be that– suspicions. Not facts.

Burying yourself in work was easier now. You were finding that you had a special talent for multitasking when you were stressed. You could work speedily but then you would have a moment where you would zone out for a significant period of time until someone would interrupt you.

And it was Seonghwa who interrupted this time, whistling in a low volume as he entered the room, apparently feeling good. You didn’t move, only shot a glare at him before continuing to stare holes into the stained glass of the window.

“Well, someone clearly forgot to have lunch,” Seonghwa checked the time. “Weren’t you going to wrap this up and go home to rest for the evening?”

“I’m almost done,” you told him, sighing at the bundle of paperwork. “I think I’m more suited for field work.”

“Should I have a car prepared for you–”

“No, I think I’m good here,” you buried your face in your hands momentarily. You are only suited to stay in the shadows, your father’s words rang in your head. Maybe he was right. Maybe working from the spotlight was finally taking a toll on you.

“What are you stressed about?” Seonghwa asked gently, sitting in front of you across the table. He passed you a bar of chocolate that he must have grabbed from the reception on his way upstairs. You popped a cube in your mouth, letting the rich texture of it soothe your nerves.

“Stuff. I’m always stressed though, don’t worry,” you tried to joke it off, knowing it would never work in front of Seonghwa.

“Is it about Madame Tiffany?” 

You shrugged in obviousness. “You know I won’t relax until I hear back from my sources.”

“Ah, nothing that can be done about that then,” Seonghwa slumped back. “Anything else bothering you, my love?”

My love.

“Uh,” you bit your lips in nervousness– he clearly had no idea of the recent progression. Yunho had kept his mouth sealed for once, and you were glad because once everything was official, you wouldn’t be able to hide how these casual terms affected you to your very core. “Yeah, Jaemin came by. Have you heard about the recent news?”

“Oh, yeah, I caught him on my way to the port earlier in the morning,” Seonghwa told you. With the recent shipment of Black Shadow due for export to Mist Island soon, he had been quite occupied at the port since he came back from Edenary. “Strange happenings.”

“Do you know who the Hala official is?”

“That would be Major Sung Dongil,” Seonghwa said. “He’s a very respected and a hated personality in Halaland. Some believe that his aggression caused Halaland most of the war casualties.”

You nodded slowly. “So he’s not very loved back home, and he’s related to Strictland in some unknown ways.”

“He’s basically in charge of Strictland’s status– kind of like a pseudo-governor of that area.”

“So… he would be well aware of whatever goes on in Strictland, right? Nothing would go past him,” you said.

“He should be. If he isn’t… that means he needs to do a better job.”

“And now he’s meeting with President Lee,” you folded your arms, voice dripping with suspicion.

“Not the first time this has happened, and it’s not unusual for him to meet with President Lee,” Seonghwa mirrored your position. “Whatever happens in Eden affects Strictland too– especially because there’s still the matter of illegal immigrants. That’s probably the reason they’re meeting, and if the Sirens Rebel Party heavily comprises those immigrants of which most are illegally residing here, it makes sense that they got angry and protested the way they did.” 

“True,” you scratched your chin in thought, slumping back again. “I’m probably just overthinking again.”

“That’s why we like you,” Seonghwa chuckled. “Sometimes overthinking makes sense– especially when it comes from you.”

“Well, the overthinker in me wants to look into Major Sung and why President Lee keeps using media censorship to his advantage. I heard about how he never talked about his wife’s public assassination yet brings that up for pity votes every now and then.”

“Understandable. Let’s just wrap up the new deal first, yeah? I can have someone look into Major Sung for you in the meanwhile,” Seonghwa asked and you agreed, thanking him. He took over the files and asked you to go and take a breather and you laughed, staying to finish it before eventually leaving with a kiss blown his way. He shook his head in amusement, smiling through work for a good while after.

It was a little awkward, very overwhelming and kind of nerve-wracking but very familiar to wait for Yeosang in his office in the Crescent Bar. 

But it was something that needed to be done in order for your relationship with the boys to progress. In order for there to be a clarity to who and what you were– as a Leader, as a Crescent and as their romantic partner. 

You still were not sure how your relationship was going to progress with some of them– that included Hongjoong, first and foremost. There certainly was palpable tension between you two, but he respected you perhaps as much as you did (despite all your squabbles). He held you in high reverence and reminded you how important you were to them and to their cause at every step, and it was thanks to him that you were Luna of the Crescent Company now. 

As for the boys in the warehouse… you couldn’t say anything about it yet. You were content with your current situation– three of them already reciprocating your feelings felt unreal. Perhaps, this was how it was supposed to be. They were the ones opening you up to the idea of love and how it came in all forms. They were also teaching you how to be good at receiving love. They sure knew how to give it.

You were now on the way to shift your relation with Yeosang. Four of the Crescents wanted you. No wonder you felt like you were drowning, overwhelmed with the idea, while also feeling as if you were taking your first breaths after remaining underwater. 

The warm atmosphere of his office room and its familiarity comforted you like a lover’s embrace while also soothing your nerves for the discussion. Yeosang entered after a few moments in the middle of instructing one of the employees. When he finally finished and turned towards you, he clapped with a pointed look.

“I see you’ve almost finished my precious wine.”

“It was there for me,” you said as you shifted awkwardly, realising that he was right. The previous three quarters were down to a few sips. “It was looking at me.”

Yeosang laughed, settling down on the couch beside you. “How have you been? And what’s stressing you out so much that you almost drank the entire bottle? Not that I mind a tipsy Luna…”

“I’ve been well, for the most part,” you said. “The stress– you know why. Work stress. And… I wanted to talk to you about something, but first tell me how you have been. I heard you’re almost prepared to ship Black Shadow to Mist Island?”

“Yep,” he sank down, a tired groan escaping his mouth. “The police have been sniffing around so it was tough to get around them. We just hope it can leave the Eden territory without any trouble. Once it crosses the Eden waters, we’re mostly safe.”

“I sure hope so,” you said. “Why are they sniffing around? Is there a mole?”

“There actually might be– far too many strange coincidences have been happening, but San and Yunho are looking into it so I’ll leave it to them,” he said. 

No wonder Yunho had been so busy these days– you hardly caught him in the office anymore. 

“So? What did you want to talk about?”

“Well,” you turned towards him, stifling a smile– he looked far too welcoming in the brown tones of his outfit that perfectly complimented his hair and milky skin, almost creating a coffee-like contrast. It didn’t help that he was rolling his sleeves again, showing off his sculpted forearms. 

“Well?” Yeosang repeated, noticing how you zoned out, oblivious to your gaze stuck on his arms. 

“Right– uh… I wanted to tell you that, uh…”

“You sure you want to talk?” Yeosang teased. “Maybe another glass of drink to loosen your lips?”

“Shut up,” you glared at him. “I like you. That’s what I wanted to say.”

“Yeah…” he nodded after a moment of silence. “Never would have known if you hadn’t told me.”

“Yeosang,” you groaned and he laughed heartily, finally pulling you closer by your wrist. “It took me so much courage to come here and you can’t stop joking around.”

“Think of it as my coping mechanism,” he said in a serious tone, looking at you with caution and anticipation in his eyes. “Because I’m trying to find the words and the courage to tell you that I like you too.”

“I know,” you nodded and he looked at you pointedly, but soon the two of you were sharing soft, guarded smiles.

“This is kind of weird,” you admitted and he agreed. “But yeah. I wanted to tell you that I like you. And I like… the others too.”

“Elaborate,” he requested gently.

“Well, I like Yunho, you know that,” you said with a laugh and he smiled. “I like Seonghwa. It happened in Edenary– he’s just so… you know? Comforting. Caring. He’s so gentle.”

“That he is,” he agreed wholeheartedly.

“And… I don’t know how it happened but it happened recently with San. I went to his place–”

“You didn’t!” Yeosang gasped scandalously and you smacked his arm, making him snicker.

“Just to talk! I was actually here for you but you were out and he offered to take me anywhere I wanted. We decided to go to his place to drink and whine, but one thing led to another. We only kissed though.”

“Nothing else?” He teased.

“Just… a lot of kissing and cuddling– god, do I have to share everything with you?”

“I mean… he is a good kisser–”

You gaped at him. “Yeah… He is.”

So that’s what you were getting into. 

You narrowed your eyes. “Who else have you kissed?” 

“I thought you knew everything by now?” 

“Yeah, but I need answers from you. Who else have you kissed, Kang Yeosang?”

“Do you really want to hear the answer?” Yeosang leaned forward, inches away from your face. “Shall I add another to the list?”

You gulped visibly, making him grin and he pulled back, caressing the skin on your arms to let you know that he was only teasing. He cleared his throat and asked, “Have you made up your mind yet?”

“I have, but I wanted to talk to you before I made it official,” you told him. “I want to be with you, Yeosang. With you, and Seonghwa, Yunho, and San. And with more, if they will have me. I want to be a part of… this.”

“You sure, sweetheart?” Yeosang tucked your hair behind your ear, caressing your cheek in the process. 

“I’m sure,” you insisted, your gaze steel. You had never been more sure of anything, and it was not just the thrill you felt in your veins. It was your heart singing for them, something like a knot in the middle of your chest that tightened with yearning everytime that you thought about them.  

Yeosang smiled and kissed your forehead. “Welcome to the gang, sweetheart. I think I should tell you the obvious while I’m at it?”

“Go ahead,” you nodded. 

“First and foremost, confidentiality,” Yeosang said and you nodded in understanding. “Us… we know everything about each other. We’re one. You can choose to share that with us, or keep your business with each of us private among us– that doesn’t matter. If you choose to remain private, we will make sure not to discuss relationship dynamics with you among each other.”

“I think if I’m sharing all of you, I don’t mind. We’re all together, so…”

Yeosang smiled proudly, very pleased to hear that. “Don’t worry, we don’t always talk in such detail. In the beginning, it was a little awkward navigating our way through this. We had to talk to learn about each other. Now… it’s become a habit.”

“No, I like it. I like how close you are. It makes it feel like you all have this little bubble.”

“And now you’ll be a part of that bubble,” Yeosang said and you smiled. “The thing about confidentiality is that we keep our relationship from anyone who is not us private. Very private, and you know why.”

“Because it’s unconventional,” you said and he nodded. “And because they will wish they were us.”

Yeosang laughed darkly at your comment. “They still do. But that’s just another weakness they can manipulate to take us down. They already know we are each other’s strength and weakness, but it’s better if our relationship is kept in the dark.”

“Understandable,” you agreed. 

“The second thing is something you already know– that it’s okay at any point moving forwards if you want to be with only one of us, or a few of us, or even none of us. You’re not bound to us in any way, Luna. You can explore outside of us if that is what you wish for. Of course, we would prefer to keep you all to ourselves. All of us have at some point tried something out of our circle but we never liked it. No one understands us like we do.”

“What about me? Do you feel like I could fit?”

“That’s what I mean,” he caressed your cheek again. “You don’t have to fit in. Just be yourself, and find what you like. Let it progress naturally.”

“Ah,” you nodded in understanding, suddenly having a moment of clarity. “Thanks for telling me that.”

Yeosang tapped your cheek lovingly. “Lastly… have fun. And be careful.”

“Of who?”

“Of your desires,” Yeosang said. “Being with us is not as complicated as it sounds. You can find comfort and solace in anyone of us– whether it be of platonic, romantic or sexual nature. I just want you to navigate these waters without worrying about the consequences within our group. That means that we won’t mind what you do with one or the other. But we would also like for you to be clear of what you want with us to avoid confusion. We will respect your wishes and boundaries and will expect you to do the same, yeah?”

“Yeah,” you nodded, understanding and also surprised how eloquent Yeosang was as he talked about this. “Just keep it undramatic and have fun?” 

“That’s a loose translation of what I said,” Yeosang chuckled. “But yeah. There’s no jealousy going on, nor will there be in the future. We’re all one, but if you don’t want all of us, that’s fine.”

“Have you had previous partners like me?”

“We tried, yes,” Yeosang nodded. “It always ended badly– silencing them wasn’t the problem. They tried to break us, and it made us wonder if that was their intention from the beginning.”

“I hope none of you got that vibe from me?”

“Well, there’s a reason you’re here, Luna,” Yeosang smiled knowingly. “Do you think Yunho, of all the people, would have warmed up so quickly to you? Do you think Seonghwa, who wanted to kill you that night, is kind to anyone like he is to you?”

You shook your head. He was right– they must have felt something different with you. Something good and pure.

“Do you think the maknaes will accept me?” You asked cautiously.

“Oh, they are the accepting ones– you just overcame the hurdle that was us,” Yeosang admitted and you scoffed in shock. “It would have been hard to win us over if you got acquainted with them first.”

“Good thing that I was your bookkeeper then, right?” 

“Yeah, that’s probably how it started,” Yeosang kissed the back of your hand. “I’ve had my eyes on you for quite a while, Luna.”

“I heard,” you admitted and he nodded, knowing someone must have told you already. He simply couldn’t believe you were here, wanting to be a part of them. Wanting to be with them, accepting them as they were. He had shot every arrow at you in this conversation, scared to find you having cold feet but here you were, letting him kiss your hand repeatedly, watching with glazed eyes. 

“We waited far too long, didn’t we?” You asked in almost a whisper and when he spread his arms, you immediately scooted closer, melting into his embrace and enjoying the kisses he planted on the top of your head. “I’ve always had a thing for you, just so you know. It’s hard not to, because you’re very handsome and charming.”

“Stop,” Yeosang laughed– in all of his life, he would never get used to people telling him how handsome he was. Even when the boys told him, he always got shy.

“But you are,” you pulled away to look him in the eyes. “You’re too good to be true. And to me, you always feel like home, Yeosang.”

Yeosang’s heart felt full. He cupped your face with one hand, his brows scrunching with something like amazement and disbelief and you were sure your own expressions reflected exactly that. You were finally in his arms, his. You were his, and he was yours.

Yeosang swiped his thumb across your lower lip and you shut your eyes momentarily, exhaling shakily. When you dared to look at him, you found his gaze flickering between your eyes and your lips.

“May I?”

You nodded and he stifled a smile, pecking the tip of your nose first and making you relax as you giggled. You both moved closer naturally until there was no distance between your lips, sharing the softest of kisses that made your heart melt like candle wax. You moved your lips along his, alternating between deep kisses and pecks, caressing each other’s skin wherever you found easy access. 

Being in his arms filled a void in your heart that had been there for a long time now. The void of yearning. Oh, how you had restrained yourself from crossing boundaries with him while you worked as his bookkeeper. All to hide your identity– if you had known earlier that he would be so accepting of you, you would have yielded right there. 

It had taken far too long, but you wouldn’t have it any other way, and you hoped you conveyed that in the way you held him and kissed him– with deep respect and love. Once you felt short of breath, you drew apart, eyes fluttering open and finding his cheeks flushed.

“You’re a good kisser too.”

Yeosang choked on his laughter. “I didn’t imagine you would weaponise that piece of information.”

“Well… that’s how it’s going to be with me. Get used to it,” you pecked his lips and he deepened the kiss while keeping it soft and undemanding. You smiled through it and snuggled into his warmth.

You could definitely get used to this.

“Do I have to set up a meeting to make this official?” You asked. “What’s the next step?”

Yeosang chuckled, caressing your back assuringly. “San is handling that. It’s only going to be dinner with lots of wine so don’t worry too much. Just think of it as another work agenda– we’re basically doing this to congratulate you on becoming a Leader, but you can make an announcement there. Also, that man is the most obvious being on this planet– it’s clear as day that he was pleased about the other change.” 

“Oh my god,” you laughed. “He’s so goofy.”

“Don’t let anyone hear that. He’s supposed to be the scary one of us. At least first impressions.”

“I think first impressions… Hongjoong wins in that department,” you shuddered lightly as you recalled the ice cold gaze he gave you when he first saw you in the office. “Or Yunho, if he tries.”

“Wait till you see Mingi or Wooyoung look at someone like that. If looks could kill.”

You made a mental note to witness that, and the conversation steered from one thing to another. Never once did you feel out of place in his arms.

You belonged there.

The calm before the storm. 

It was always a short period of tranquility after a storm would wreck everything in its wake.  Impending doom seemed to be your life’s companion. It stuck at your side at the calmest periods of your life like an old friend, and then grew in intensity as the calm wore off to welcome the storm like a lifelong enemy. 

It felt like you were standing at the borderline between calm and storm– your gut was restless with anxiety and that was only a sign that something was about to go wrong. You could just pray that the intensity of it would be mild. 

Perhaps, this was not even the calm before the storm. Maybe you were simply getting squirmier with each passing day not hearing back from Jaebeom, or mulling over little pieces of information that did not sound too bad in retrospect, but put in a certain context or connection seemed more damaging to the business.

Whatever it was could wait a little longer. 

You were in Room no. 1 at the Crescent Bar tonight with all the boys present, sharing a hearty dinner. They welcomed you warmly, making a huge deal and you were half-sure it was just to annoy you, courtesy of a certain Kang Yeosang who knew you didn’t like being the centre of attention very much especially when you were going to be talking about important things here, but you could pretend this was all about your promotion from secretary to a Leader. 

However, the boys who knew– Yunho, San and Yeosang– kept exchanging suggestive glances with you and you kept mouthing at them to ‘stop’, which they were getting quite a laugh out of. The rest were thankfully oblivious, but that didn’t mean they were doing anything less. 

The warehouse boys got you a few gifts– a gun designed by Yerin, its hilt encrusted with a pearl which gave it ‘the Luna touch’, as they quoted. It was a beautiful beretta and they promised to teach you with that gun so you could get familiar with it. They also gave you a small dagger with a customised engraved cover that you could carry in your purse or even your boot. 

You asked them if you needed to expect an attack anytime soon but they laughed, saying every Leader carried a few guns and daggers on them. Wooyoung went as far as to say that it was a part of their ‘style’ and you accepted the gifts, amused but also appreciating their sentiments.

You were done eating and were now watching the boys talk about the little things, their voices intermingling in the room. Wooyoung and San were having a heated debate over something related to working out and Yeosang was intently listening, sometimes agreeing with one or the other. Yunho and Mingi, as usual, were in their own little bubble and you watched them with fondness spilling out of you– you loved the way the two looked at each other. Not only the two, all of them. The way they all looked at each other and cared for each other was something otherworldly.

Seonghwa was explaining something to Jongho– it looked like they were discussing something related to work with the way Jongho sketched over the table to make his points clear to Seonghwa. And here you were, watching them, your eyes travelling to Hongjoong who had also finished eating and was now looking at you from across the table.A smile graced his lips as your eyes met, making your heart flutter. 

He raised an eyebrow as if to ask if you were doing okay and you nodded, the silent communication carrying on when Wooyoung’s voice rose and San burst into laughter, the two of you shaking your heads at the duo. You took a few deep breaths, looking at your left where Yunho sat. You didn’t interrupt his conversation with Mingi, simply brushed your fingers against his and he understood, wrapping his fingers around your hand to give you strength. You knew that you did not need to hide that you were holding his hand but you still kept it under the table, silently letting his touch calm you. 

You waited for the conversation to die down a little and then you signalled Yeosang who got up and clapped to get everyone’s attention.

“What?” Jongho asked.

“I just want everyone to shut up for two minutes so Luna can talk about something,” he announced and you groaned, curling into Yunho’s side as everyone laughed knowingly or in confusion. Yeosang pretended he could not see you, finding the ceiling incredibly interesting, knowing damn well that he should have phrased it differently–

But this was his charm. 

“Right, so…” you started, squeezing Yunho’s hand. “I just want to thank all of you for giving me such a warm welcome for finally joining the inner circle.”

“No need for a thanks, darling,” Wooyoung waved his hand in dismissal. “This wasn’t anything special– we could have done so much more!”

“No, this is enough,” you laughed. “Just… thank you for accepting me and considering me someone worthy of becoming a Leader.”

“Honey, we’re not as good as you make out to be,” Seonghwa admitted, some of them agreeing. “There’s no such thing as being ‘worthy’ of becoming a Leader.”

“You are a mafia organisation, though,” you commented. “I think there is such a thing. It sure felt like it.”

“Yeah, tell him!” Mingi clapped. “Not anyone can be a Crescent!”

Seonghwa shook his head, laughing at the attack. “I just mean that because you felt like one of us, you became one of us. That’s all there is to it.”

“Well,” Hongjoong began. “We do have a strict code here, as you very well know now. We actually were not open to having another ‘Leader’, if you must. It’s just that you earned it. You found your own spot here– we were pretty much helpless watching you become one of us. It was as if you were always meant to be here, yeah? And not anyone can achieve that.”

Your heart swooped at his admission. He was always so clear about his views and feelings, and to hear that from him felt like an accomplishment. He always insisted there was no boss among them but he truly was the captain. 

“Yes, that’s what I meant,” Seonghwa added and you all laughed. “Anyone can become a part of our organisation, the Crescents, but you found your own spot in our little circle.”

“Running on sheer confidence, holding key information and being able to hold us accountable? I think we needed that,” Jongho laughed. “I mean, we, the younger ones, don’t spend everyday with you but from what we’ve seen… the hyungs really needed a dose of someone like you.”

And then started bickering and finger-pointing because whatever did he mean? And how dare he? While Mingi and Wooyoung defended their precious youngest, asserting that while they were away, the hyungs started to get too pompous and they really needed someone to humble them– that someone being you who was a mere bookkeeper telling them what was wrong and right, stopping them from sabotaging their business and working to improve it while also entrapping them in the little ‘love bubble’ they had going on, according to Jongho. 

“We see the way you look at her!” Mingi continued, pointing at San, Yeosang, Seonghwa and even Hongjoong. “You’re not fooling us! She’s becoming your favourite. Rightfully so,” he added the last bit as he looked at you and you gave him an okay sign. 

“I like the warehouse boys more though,” you commented, earning gasps. “They’re… my type of boys.”

Chaos erupted in the room, San and Yeosang clinging on to each other in a fervent display of heartbreak, Seonghwa covering his ears with his hands as if he could not hear anything, Hongjoong sitting with his hurt pride and Yunho bringing your joined hands up in the air for everyone to see– an act of betrayal, it was. When you recovered from laughing, you placed your joined hands on the table for everyone to see.

“While we’re talking about this, I would also like to say that… I want to be your partner. All of you, if you will have me,” you said, meeting eyes with each one of them. 

There was a moment of confusion because what did you mean? You were already partners. And then it hit, Yunho’s hand caressing yours all the confirmation they needed. 

“You mean, like… partners? In our relationship?” Seonghwa was the first one to ask, unaware of the recent progression.

“Yes,” you felt a bit exposed with all their eyes on you, but you held strong, watching the boys talk among themselves, those who knew explaining to those who didn’t. “I want to try it with my whole heart. And I want to know if all of you are willing to accept me– you don’t have to–”

“But we will,” Hongjoong said in finality, the rest agreeing immediately. “I suppose you’ve talked in detail about this? To someone?”

“Yes,” you looked at Yunho, Yeosang, and San. “I know what I’m getting into. I’m ready.” 

Mingi whistled at your admission. “I hope they told you that you can take it easy? You don’t have to be so stressed about it.”

“Of course,” you nodded, relaxing and realising you must have appeared to be a bit tense. “I just wanted to say it out loud while all of you were present. And I’d like to hear what each of you think about it.”

“I mean, I’m good,” Mingi shrugged and you smiled at his casual nature. “Wherever the flow takes us, right?”

“Exactly,” you agreed. 

“I’m more than good,” Wooyoung grinned. “When can I officially take you out on your first date? Because I bet none of these fuckers have taken you out yet–”

And that started another finger-pointing session, though Wooyoung was officially winning that one. None of them had actually taken you out on a date yet. Even the ones you were intimate with. 

“I’ll make sure my first date is you,” you promised Wooyoung and he raised his fist in victory. 

“Can I tag along?” San asked expectantly.

“No, you lost your chance!” Wooyoung smacked his hand. “Give me some alone time with my girl!”

You grinned, looking at Jongho who was highly amused by the turn of events. You raised a brow and he shook his head. 

“Like Mingi said, wherever the flow takes us?”

You nodded, a silent understanding passing between you both. While it was not awkward with Jongho in any way, he was still more like a friend than anything else, just like Mingi was. Wooyoung, being Wooyoung, was going to take his chance and see where it takes him, but these two were the more cautious and reserved ones. You were not going to push them, just like they were not going to demand anything from you.

“So you’re officially our girl now,” San clapped once and rubbed his hands, a devilish smirk on his face. “I actually really like the sound of it. I think our group needed a feminine touch.”

“Shut up,” you groaned, laughing. “Don’t make it sound weird!”

“No, he’s right,” Seonghwa agreed, downing his drink in a single gulp. “Too much testosterone around here.”

You shook your head, letting them argue further and getting to hear stories about them now that you knew everything. How the boys depended on each other and barely cared about each other’s personal space– they might be criminal lords but were just boys at their hearts. Seonghwa revealed how San would always hang out in his room even when they were doing nothing. Mingi liked his alone time and he wanted others to respect that but that did not stop him from making his home in San’s room or Seonghwa’s room– or even in someone else’s house. 

From what you heard about Hongjoong’s shared house with Wooyoung and Jongho, Wooyoung was basically the housekeeper, which made a lot of sense. He made sure everyone ate their meals, mostly cooked with Jongho and complained about how Hongjoong was a baby who needed a nanny to take care of him. Apparently, the mafia boss did not know how to look after himself and Hongjoong admitted being guilty of that. 

Yunho and Yeosang shared a house and you thought it was a good combination in the sense that the two always brought out the calm in each other. You were imagining their space to be the most soothing, and you made a mental note to ask them both how it was like to live with the other.

Just like that, the night of drinks, admissions and acceptance passed and wrapped up with a beautiful conclusion. Your heart felt full and you never felt out of place. This was where you were meant to be, and they made sure to never make you feel anything less– and the funny bit was that they were not attempting to do that consciously. This was just how it was supposed to be– the pieces had fallen into place.

You said your goodbyes to everyone, and oh, you got a sneak peak of what would soon be called normal now. Yeosang pecked your cheek before leaving, and Seonghwa cupped your face and planted a deep kiss on your forehead, saying he couldn’t wait to talk to you in private. San and Wooyoung both also kissed your cheeks but it seemed to be an inside joke and they disappeared into another room, snickering about something. You were mostly in shock at the sudden demeanour change though you could not complain. It was heartwarming. 

You spotted the boys exchanging hugs and kisses too– the ones who wouldn’t be seeing each other any time soon. Jongho was mostly avoiding any physical contact but he tapped your cheek teasingly as he exited the room, laughing devilishly at your shocked face. Mingi was supposed to leave with Jongho so he rushed to catch up with him, ruffling your hair and you shut your eyes in defeat.

This was what you had signed up for. You laughed as you looked at Yunho, who was leaving the room with Seonghwa, speaking about something in an urgent tone. 

That left you with Hongjoong. The air felt cold all of a sudden as he walked towards you, swirling his cane and poking his tongue in his cheek to keep himself from grinning.

“You look like you want to kill me and feast over my bones,” you commented and he scoffed.

“Feast, maybe, but kill? You think too lowly of me, love.”

Oh. you pursed your lips as he drew closer, watching you with a sort of curiosity. 

“I heard something interesting, recently,” he said in a low voice for only the two of you to hear. “‘The Captain finds his mate.’”

“Just another title to add to my name, eh? Bookkeeper, secretary, chief mate,” You tried joking your way around it but he wasn’t having any of it. He took your hand and placed a soft kiss on your knuckles, all the while maintaining eye contact with you and successfully melting your insides.

“Well, I quite like the sound of it,” Hongjoong said, smirking. “See you in the morning… mate.”

“Aye aye, Captain,” you raised your fist for emphasis though your voice came out weak, making him chuckle. You muttered a curse. Forget the warehouse boys– he was going to be more challenging than all of the boys combined. 

You exited the room and took a turn to the corridor that led to the backdoor when Yunho appeared out of the shadows, taking your hand and leading you to an empty, dark corner. Before you could ask him what was happening, he twirled you around and pressed your back against the wall, swallowing your surprised gasp with his lips, making you instantly drop your bag and melt in his arms. 

“Our girl,” Yunho muttered in your ear, voice thick with desire. “Do you have any idea how much I love the sound of that?”

“Oh, god,” a shaky breath left your lips, your senses heightening in pleasure. “You’re crazy.”

“For you,” he kissed your jaw. “It’s been a while, hasn’t it?”

“Definitely,” you brought his lips back to yours, sharing another passionate kiss. “I missed you so much. In Edenary. Here. Don’t you ever give me space again.”

Yunho chuckled, the deep timbre of his voice sounding inside your skull and you wrapped your arms around his neck, letting him pick you up. You laughed at the height difference and he melted into your hug, content in this position.

“Someone could see us,” you whispered. 

“I don’t care,” Yunho whispered back, kissing your neck and burying his nose there. “I only have a few moments before I need to go. Let me make the most of them.”

“Where do you have to go at this hour of the night?” You asked, cupping his face and tucking his hair back. 

“To the port– the situation does not look good. I’ll let you know when I actually know something about it,” he said and you nodded. “I’m just waiting for Johnny.”

“Stay safe,” you kissed his forehead, going back to hug him. You stayed like that, limbs wrapped around each other while he gently rocked your bodies until you heard Johnny’s very loud voice call for Yunho, the both of you laughing at his arrival. With a final soft kiss to your lips, he let you go reluctantly. You wished you could keep him all to yourself for the rest of the night.

He did steal a few more moments, insisting that he drop you off on his way– it was only going to take him a minute, and he wanted to make sure you were safe, something about how the police were becoming a problem so the gangs might take this opportunity to create another ruckus again. He managed to steal one last kiss before watching you disappear inside your house and Johnny shook his head at the sight.

“You big chump, you.”

Yunho shot a glare at him but the men ended up laughing, Johnny making an effort to keep the mood light because he knew Yunho was absolutely going to snap when he would hear about the events at the port in the past couple of hours that took place in his absence. 

The storm had arrived, in the literal sense and the metaphorical. 

The night had been washed in a fierce torrent of rain, the sharp patter of it accompanied by globs of ice which kept you restless throughout the night. You and Wendy were light sleepers so the next morning began with a groggy start, both of you sitting next to each other to process the weight of being alive and drinking coffee to help with that. You took to the corner of the living room next to the window to watch the sky open up. Since you were on the second story, the view from up here wasn’t much, crowded by other apartments in the area. 

Still, you could tell that the storm wasn’t going to end any time soon. It had only magnified the confusion and anger of the Crescents at the Sector 1 Port. Their shipment of Black Shadow to Mist Island was rumoured to be returning back, and in the previous evening it arrived accompanied by the navy who had not let it pass the Eden territories, insisting that the shipment was illegal. 

It was illegal. That wasn’t the problem– the problem was who told them? It had been about three years since the Crescents started smuggling Black Shadow to Mist Island. They always knew that one day they would get caught and would have to pay a hefty fine, at the very least. They found ways to involve the police, to make fake licences, to make it seem like the shipment was meant for some other land instead of Mist Island, and made basically every preparation in case they were caught. 

However, the Crescents had also familiarised themselves with the police procedure. In case of suspected smuggling, the nation that was about to receive the shipment was going to deal with the police first before sending the case back to the country of origin. That was the international law, which meant that in no possible scenario would a shipment return from halfway across the ocean.

Yet, that was exactly what had happened. Mist Island never received the shipment and they would not be able to help calm things down. The navy would report to the main office in Edenary and it would be hard to get out of it unscathed– the main office was full of scavengers waiting to have a taste of the Crescents’ doom.

The atmosphere at the Crescent Office today was thick with tension. Everyone was busy clearing the records in case the police decided to investigate the whole company for illegal trade. Yunho had been out almost all night for damage control. He went to rest in the morning and Seonghwa took his place, the boys from the warehouse accompanying him. You stayed in the office with Hongjoong, trying to pull some connections and keep the news from blowing up.

It was not a good time for this to happen, considering the pharmaceutical side of the business was just about to flourish thanks to the new deal to launch silver light as a medicinal drug. If they started investigating all the shipments going out from the Crescents, they might catch on to the copper the Crescents import for weapons manufacturing, and Pledis Manufacturers, the partners of the Crescents, could be under threat too. If Pledis pulls out at this sensitive time to protect themselves, the weapons channel might be exposed or come to a stop altogether.

So it was no wonder that Hongjoong sat grim in his chair, staring into the distance and strategising while you helped him check discrepancies or flaws in his plans and made calls. 

“I think you could really send a few men to look into who tipped the navy,” you suggested, having just finished making sure that the next shipment to Utopia was rescheduled. It would be a mess if they found out that you were exporting weapons parts to them. 

“I think it’s a shot in the dark,” Hongjoong said and you knew that he was partly right but also highly focused at solving the problem first. 

“Think about it, Hongjoong,” you said, placing the pen back on the table and unbuttoning the cuffs of the sleeves of your black shirt, wanting to roll them to avoid discomfort. “Not anyone can tip the navy– they don’t take everyone seriously. And while we’re at it, we might want to look into why they tipped them now. This isn’t your first time trading with Mist.”

Hongjoong sighed deeply. “You’re right. Who could tip the navy? Is someone trying to distract us from our new business prospect? Is this a bait? Or did some bastard get lucky with the timing?”

“Someone of influence– that’s who the navy listens to. That means it’s not just any other bastard who lucked out. It has to be someone who knows about the recent happenings.”

Hongjoong curled his lips in thought. “Secretary Park?” 

“I thought so too, but it’s unlike him to tip the navy. He shoots from the front, not from the back,” you said and he agreed. “Some reputable gang?”

“Unlikely,” he said. “They know very well that they can’t mess with the Crescents and get away with it.”

You made an impressed face, making him smile for a moment. “I think it’s probably someone who knows about the silver light business, and they’re trying to throw you off while they pull another stunt which would be far worse.”

“But Madame Tiffany is the only one aware of this silver light business,” Hongjoong folded his arms. “Secretary Park may have an idea but if he was aware of what we were doing, he wouldn’t have simply watched it happen all along– he would have done something earlier before we ever made a deal. That leaves just the Crescents, MX Pharmas who I don’t suspect at all, could be a mole but they wouldn’t tip the navy…”

For a brief moment, your father’s knowing smile flashed before your eyes when he said that he wanted the Crescents to make a deal with Madame Tiffany. You felt a wave of anxiety in the pit of your stomach, recalling Jaebeom’s little warning. 

Could everything be connected? But Secretary Park wouldn’t do that, you both were right about that. Madame Tiffany had just heavily invested in the deal, so why would she hurt herself now? She could have pulled this stunt before she made a deal with the Crescents.

“God, I’ll go insane. Are we doing something to keep this from the media?”

“Wooyoung’s handling that– he has connections with some people in Eden News,” Hongjoong told you.

“Great. I’ll make preparations for all the possible outcomes then?”

“You do that,” Hongjoong let out a tired sigh. “I’ll help you out–”

“You’ve been up all night. You should go and get some sleep, I’ll take care of things here,” you said softly but he opened his eyes a fraction wider as if to show you that the lack of sleep didn’t affect him. However, his eyes were bloodshot and you snorted.

“You’ll start to look like death, Joong,” you joked. “Just take a nap– go. I’ll handle things in the meanwhile, and if we need you, we won’t hesitate to call your residence. Hopefully you pick up the phone.”

Hongjoong poked his tongue inside his cheek and you wondered what the smug expression was for until you realised you hadn’t addressed him by his name. 

“Joong, eh? Heard that from Seonghwa?”

“It has a nice ring to it, doesn’t it?” You suppressed a smile. Hongjoong shrugged in response, considering if he should take a nap or just stay–

“Just go,” you laughed. “Shall I order you to go?”

“I’d like to see you try,” Hongjoong narrowed his eyes but you weren’t one to back away from a challenge.

“Kim Hongjoong. Joong,” you said in your most assertive tone and he shook his head in amusement. “Go and get some rest. That’s an order.”

Hongjoong got up and sauntered around the table, stopping in front of you and tucking his thumb under your chin to raise your face so he could look you in the eyes.

“One day, I’m going to do something about that mouth of yours, y/n.”

It was a promise, and it registered in every part of your body. It was an effort to stop the noise that threatened to leave your mouth at the suggestiveness of the situation. He licked his lips slowly, swiping his thumb on your lower lip before drawing away with a smirk and leaving.

You pursed your lips, lightly slapping your cheeks so you could come back to your senses and get some things done. After collecting yourself, you straightened and picked up the contacts diary to call the Crescents’ residence in Edenary.

After a few rings when you were starting to lose hope, Jaehyun finally picked up the phone and you made small talk before asking how the situation looked in Edenary.

“It’s not being blown out of proportion yet,” Jaehyun began. “Which is both a good sign and a bad sign. I feel like there’s another hit coming and we’re just waiting for it.”

“And that’s why I called,” you said. “Remember what we did the last time I was here?”

“Had fun,” he laughed a bit and you hummed in amusement. “But yes. I got you.”

“Yeah, and while you’re at it, see who the public suspects. Also, can you see if we have a connection in the Edenary station?”

“The police station? We don’t, actually,” Jaehyun admitted. “But I’ll look around. I think Inspector Gong might be our best option because as much as he hates us, he’ll actually look into this fairly. We might also need a favour from General Wi– he could certainly pull some strings.”

“Yeah… remind him that he owes us a few and let’s find the source as soon as possible, yeah?” 

Jaehyun agreed and you ended the call, taking a few deep breaths. Now that you had sorted things out, you felt a bit more at peace, just waiting to hear back from one of the boys. You went towards the couch, curling on the very welcoming soft seats and shut your eyes, feeling the throbbing headache grow more intense with every second. 

You didn’t realise when exactly you dozed off but upon opening your eyes, you found Seonghwa mirroring your position on the couch across you, though wide awake. You looked around trying to get your bearings, checking the time on your wristwatch.

“Oh dear. I napped throughout the afternoon!”

Seonghwa chuckled. “That’s alright. Hongjoong is probably still asleep, and I just came back about half an hour ago. We sorted the mess at the port.”

“How’s it looking?” You asked, stretching your limbs.

“I honestly can’t say yet,” Seonghwa admitted. “I’m just hoping they don’t conduct a full investigation– now’s not a good time. And on that note, we must transport some important documents elsewhere.”

“You mean the ones in the safe here?” 

“Yes,” he said. “Mingi owns an apartment near the warehouse. It’s registered under his cousin’s name so it’s a safe place to store them.”

“Alright. Do you want me to go ahead and do that?” 

“No, it’s alright,” Seonghwa straightened. “I can go, I’m just waiting for Yuta.”

“Oh, you look tired, though. At least I got my rest,” you joked and he smiled wryly. “I can go with Yuta. We go to the warehouse first, right?”

“Yeah. Are you sure, though? I’m perfectly good to go, Luna–”

“Hwa,” you called his name in warning and he pursed his lips. “Do I have to order you like I ordered Hongjoong?”

“You ordered Hongjoong?” Seonghwa laughed in disbelief. “What did you tell him to do?”

“To go take a nap,” you said. “And you– you don’t have to take a nap, you can just… shut your eyes for a few moments like I did.”

Seonghwa nodded sarcastically and you smiled– he didn’t look as weary as Hongjoong but you knew that he put more effort into appearing put together too. His hair was curling at the ends probably due to the wet weather, not styled to perfection like it usually was. His eyes still sparkled with energy but his shoulders seemed to be drooping.

��You need a massage while we wait?”

“Oh, that’s an offer I can’t refuse,” Seonghwa sat a bit straighter and took off his coat. You walked behind the couch where he was sitting and smoothened his white shirt around the shoulders, rubbing your fingers into the tight spots on his neck and collarbones. He groaned in relief and you smiled in satisfaction, continuing to rub and pull the tightness from his body. 

“Where did you learn that?” 

“Madame Cha,” you told him. “She would make me massage her sore parts until she was content, which means I had to learn to do a good job.”

“Did you ever hear back from her?” Seonghwa asked and he noticed your fingers pausing for just a second.

“Kind of. She’s acquainted with a gang and one of their members is here on some business. He’s still looking into some things so he promised to let me know what’s up once he has a clearer picture.”

Seonghwa also noticed how vague your answer was. “Everything okay?”

He really noticed everything.

“Yeah, he’s actually looking into some political stuff and he’s just making sure Madame Tiffany is not a part of the people who’re stirring up trouble lately.”

“Hmm…” Seonghwa tapped your hand to let you know that you could stop now. He held your hand and steered you in front of him so he could look at you. “Did you tell Hongjoong?”

“I don’t want to tell him anything before I’m sure of what I have,” you explained and he nodded, understanding. “You know that it’s too late anyway– I only heard back from them at the beginning of this week.”

“That’s okay,” Seonghwa squeezed your hand in assurance. “Can you let me know first when we hear back?”

“Of course,” you frowned. “I didn’t take a wrong step, did I?”

“Oh, no, that’s not what I meant,” Seonghwa pulled you closer and made you settle on his lap, your eyes widening in surprise. His other hand went to rest on the small of your back. “Hongjoong is handling a lot at the moment and I don’t want to burden him with more. I’m sure you feel the same.”

“You all are dealing with a lot,” you said, noticing the bags under his eyes. “That’s why I decided to keep it to myself until I had an answer.”

Seonghwa smiled. “You and I think alike, in that sense. Remember that you can lean on us at any time, Luna. No matter when, no matter who.”

“I know,” you brought your hand up to cup his face, hesitating a bit and he raised a brow. You locked eyes with him– you hadn’t been intimate with him in any way after the kiss in Edenary, and now that everything was finally sorted out… 

“What’s stopping you?” Seonghwa whispered, squeezing your sides as if to comfort you.

“I just had flashbacks to when you were about to kill me–”

Seonghwa laughed loudly. “You want me to beg for your forgiveness, love?”

Your lips curved into a mischievous smile. “Hmm… I quite like the sound of that.”

Seonghwa shook his head, scoffing and you finally cradled his face to make him look at you. You traced his cheekbone and sucked in a breath– he was beautiful. He pulled you closer on his lap and you continued to entangle your fingers in his hair while you caressed his face.

Seonghwa heard the honk of his car and whispered, “Yuta’s here.”

“I know. I should get going, right?” You asked, eyes fixated on his lips and he nodded, wanting nothing more than to keep you in his arms for the rest of the night. 

However, none of you was ready to let the other go. You moved in tandem as your lips met, kissing leisurely as if you couldn’t hear the honk of the car outside. You dipped your weight against him, curling your fingers in the soft strand of his hair. His own hands rested on your hips to keep you in place and he swiped his tongue along your lips to make you open up.

His tongue explored the cavity of your mouth and you hummed in pleasure, the surroundings disappearing into nothing– all you could feel was Seonghwa kissing you ever so gently, his hands squeezing your hips, the warmth of his body radiating on yours, just Seonghwa, your Seonghwa–

A sharp knock sounded on the door and you drew back with a startled gasp, gazes still stuck on each other’s parted lips. Before you could make a move, a familiar voice sounded.

“Mr. Park? Luna?”

Oh, Jaemin. That menace. He had promised to find you when you would go to the warehouse and here he was. 

You shared a quick peck and a giggle before you went to open the door. Jaemin stood with narrowed eyes, observing the two of you.

“Were you… fighting?”

“Oh, yes. Absolutely. Let’s go,” you squeaked, grabbing your things while Seonghwa’s laughter boomed in the room. You shot him a glare before leaving the room, asking Jaemin to wait in the car. You joined him after grabbing the documents from the safe, cooling your cheeks with the back of your hands.

You greeted Yuta as you got inside and passed him the documents which he slid under the seats. Jaemin asked if he could take the passenger seat but Yuta insisted it was unsafe right now and he was better off sitting in the back with you. Jaemin’s annoyed expressions thoroughly amused you and you patted his back in a sign of comradery.

“Tell you what– next time, you can sit in the front. We’ll have Yuta sit in the back and I’ll drive.”

“If you’re driving, I’d rather stay at home,” Jaemin folded his arm and you and Yuta shared a laugh.

“Oh, I was a good driver. I used to drive a lot when I lived in Edenary.”

“Really?” Jaemin asked. “What car?”

Thus, the forty minute drive passed in a breeze as the three of you talked about cars and your lifestyle in Edenary. The conversation steered to Yuta’s past and how he found the Crescents a good few years ago, the group of them hired as bodyguards for their commendable street skills. 

Finally, you got to learn about who Jaemin really was– an orphan boy who had taken upon himself to take care of the younger kids in the neighbourhood where he lived. He told you that the first few years when he left the orphanage for the streets were hard but it was Seonghwa who had found him before anyone else, and you weren’t surprised in the least to hear that. Seonghwa always kept a watchful eye on the kids and the women. A guardian of sorts.

Mingi had remained in the warehouse, waiting for your arrival. He told you that the boys were running some errands– Wooyoung was making sure the warehouse would be ‘clean’ in case of an inspection, and Jongho was out bribing some police officers. Apparently, Jongho was an expert. 

Jaemin and Yuta disappeared inside after Yuta handed Mingi the documents. You stood next to Mingi at the entrance, your hands stuffed in the pockets of your coat and you took a deep breath– it was chilly here since it was an open area.

“Would you like to stay here, catch up with the girls? Or would you like to accompany me to the house?”

“I’m okay either way– if you’d like some company I can join you.”

“Come along then,” Mingi smiled. “I’ll show you around.”

It didn’t feel awkward to drive with Mingi– it was the first time the two of you were alone yet there was a sense of familiarity especially because of the stories you had heard of each other. Surprisingly, though, you did not talk much about work or the boys. The conversation somehow steered from the documents to silver light to the war.

“I heard you were a soldier during the war– who was your commander?” You asked. 

“Captain Byun,” Mingi said and you looked at him in surprise. “You know him?”

“You know his partner, Captain Yoon?” You asked and he nodded, glancing at you in between driving. “I was drafted in his medic squad.”

“Oh, that means we must have crossed paths at some time,” Mingi laughed in disbelief and you agreed, surprised at the revelation– who would have thought? Perhaps, you had even treated him at some point– the two captains had often worked together.

“I don’t recognise you, though,” you told him. 

“I don’t either, but it’s been years,” Mingi said and you supposed that he was right. “I don’t think I would recognise most of the soldiers who worked with me either. Everyone scattered, and we all changed a lot after the war.”

“True…” you said and Mingi dug out his wallet from his back pocket.

“Take a look inside– there’s a photo,” Mingi said and you opened the wallet, finding a worn out photo of a group of men in uniform. You extracted it and checked the date. It was from February, 1962, a whole eight years back.

“Where are you?” You asked and he laughed, urging you to look carefully. You did and a gasp left your mouth– 

“Is that Jongho?” You asked and he grinned. “And that– that lanky tall boy has to be you!”

“That’s me,” Mingi laughed. “There’s another one in there if you can recognise him.”

“It must be San, he told me you were all in the same platoon but I don’t think I can find him…”

Mingi stopped the car, having arrived in front of the house. He drew closer and you passed him the photo. When he pointed at a small boy, you put your hand over your mouth.

“No way that’s the Choi San.”

“He’s changed the most out of all of us,” Mingi said almost proudly and you took a closer look. That was a boy in the picture and the San that you knew… he was a man, all muscles and presence. Mingi continued, “He’s still the same person, but physically, he’s changed quite a lot.”

“Unbelievable. Jongho is very recognisable, so are you though you’ve also changed, but San? I’ll have to ask him to show me more photos of him from before the war.”

Mingi chuckled. “You do that. Come on, let’s hide the documents.”

Mingi did a quick scan around the neighbourhood before opening the car door for you and you accompanied him inside the shabby house. It looked like no one lived inside which you supposed made a good spot for a hideout, even. Mingi told you that the house had a lot of secret compartments so you would be scattering the documents. You memorised each spot, making small talk as you went back to the warehouse.

On your ride back to the Crescent Office, Jaemin fell asleep, tired from all the energy he spent– he had as much a busy day as the rest of you, if not more. You let him rest his head against your shoulder, feeling a sense of peace, Yuta’s low humming lulling you into a calm headspace.

Things were going to be okay. The storm would pass.

But before a storm dies down, it leaves something irreparable in its wake. For you, for the Crescents, the storm was no longer a sign of ‘impending’ doom, because doom had arrived in the form of a whisper, a news carried by someone who was only a messenger yet felt the burden of the news on his own shoulder.

And that messenger was Jaebeom, finally bringing a message of confirmation in your office in the early hours of a morning in Eden when the sky had just started to clear, the clouds having wrung every drop of water they held. With each word that he spilled from his mouth, you felt the walls of Yunho’s office room tighten until they threatened to swallow you whole. 

For once, you were sorry to be right about someone.

And once again, you were surprised at how wrong you were about the same person.

next chapter

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