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caracalla-dondus · 1 month ago

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hi hi i hope you’re having a fab day i loved your most recent works and saw you wanted some requests so here i am i didn’t see any rules posted yet so if anything in this ask makes you uncomfy im very sorry!! but oki okie this is semi inspired by your last geta fic and so i was thinking like Caracalla x like actress reader who comes into town with her acting troop and peforms for the emperors one night when caracalla is in bad mood and readers the only one who can make him laugh while he’s in one of his moods and so geta keeps calling reader back to entertain him and sorta help with his sundowning and caracalla just gets absolutely obsessed with reader and refuses to let them leave and go back with there troop and jsut wants to keep reader all to themselves smut if you do that would be fab but if not that’s okie too!! ~🫐

Thank you for your request and kind words 😊 I hope you enjoy the fic and that it's to your liking. I wrote more than I was planning but actress!reader inspired me.

The Actress

Pairing: Emperor Caracalla/Actress!reader

Summary: Caracalla becomes enthralled by an actress one night and soon becomes completely obsessed with her.

Dividers By: cafekitsune

Author's Note: I refer to actress!reader as a mime actress but "mime" does not mean the modern day mime who wears white face paint and is silent. Mime actors and actresses in ancient Rome were entertainers who did comedy, satirical, or even erotic performances. From what I briefly read, mime actresses were some of the few women allowed to publicly perform and they performed without masks unlike most theater actors. It was a scandalous profession, often equated with sex workers, but they could gain a lot of fame from their work. Empress Theodora was once a popular mime actress before she was empress.

The grand halls of the imperial palace were alive with the sounds of music, laughter, and the clinking of goblets. All in attendance were lively and enjoying the night. All except for Caracalla. Geta could feel his brother's restless agitation beside him. Caracalla had been in one of his darker moods, his hair was unkempt from refusing to allow the servants near him, his toga was disheveled from the tussle him and Geta had when Geta attempted to get his brother presentable. Caracalla had not wanted to be there that night. Geta had hoped his brother’s foul mood would be improved by the pleasant evening of revelry, but it seems to only be worsening it. With a sigh, Geta had a servant refill his goblet and he observed his brother. Geta often found himself playing caretaker to Caracalla, whose moods could disrupt everything. Geta never liked his brother being unhappy and he was determined to change his sour mood.

"Bring in the actors," Geta commanded, waving a jeweled hand.

The troupe of actors and actresses quickly stepped before the emperors and bowed. Their costumes were vibrant, their smiles wide and infectious. Yet Caracalla's face remained a mask of irritation, unmoved by them and their antics. But then the mime actress, with her expressive eyes and exaggerated gestures, and her beauty illuminated by the glow of the oil lamps stepped forward. Her voice was melodious as she spoke, delivering lines with such charm and wit that even the spectators who were distracted by aspects of the festivities had leaned forward with interest. She captivated the audience with her presence. She said a jest, a line mocking a pompous senator that everyone secretly despised and gossiped about. And then something remarkable happened.

Caracalla laughed.

It wasn’t a sarcastic, malicious laugh, nor was it a scornful snicker. It was genuine. It was carefree. It was innocent. Geta was immediately intrigued by her effect on his twin. Caracalla was enthralled, his eyes fixed on the actress as if she were the only person in the room. She had done what no one else had been able to accomplish that night or most nights, she lifted his foul mood. No one had managed to make Caracalla laugh like that in a long while and it gave Geta an idea.

After the performance, as the troupe of actors and actresses bowed and the audience erupted in applause, Geta raised his hand and beckoned the mime actress forward. With a curious gleam in her eye, she approached the imperial box. Caracalla watched her excitedly, his eyes bright with newfound interest. Geta leaned forward and asked, “What’s your name, actress?”

She gave her name in a soft and respectful manner, bowing her head gracefully.

“You will stay here in the palace tonight. My brother finds you amusing, and I wish for you to remain and continue to make him laugh,” Geta informed her.

A flicker of surprise passed over her face, but she quickly adapted. “Of course, Caesar,” she said smoothly, her cheery nature shining through. “It would be an honor.” There was no true choice of course. To refuse an emperor was to invite ruin.

Caracalla’s volatile eyes lit up, very pleased by his brother’s proposition. “Yes! You’ll stay here,” he echoed exuberantly. “You’ll stay with me.”

From that moment forward, the actress’s life changed drastically. The acting troupe she had once called family faded away as she found herself the companion of an unpredictable emperor. While others might have rightfully felt caged after being forced into such a situation, she simply went with the flow. Her time on the streets and on stage had gifted her with invaluable adaptability and resilience. She was blessed with the kind of wisdom that comes only from having to survive on her wits alone for so long. Life was a performance after all, and she was an expert at surviving any role thrusted upon her.

Her time as a traveling actress had taught her to read people quickly. She prided herself on her ability to sense danger or opportunity in a mere glance. With Caracalla, these skills became crucial. She learned quickly how to navigate Caracalla’s tempestuous moods. When he was agitated, she knew whether to soothe him or stay quiet. When he sulked, she held him close, whispering soft reassurances, and stroking his hair as if he were a fragile boy rather than the most feared man in Rome. In moments of volatile rage, she knew it was best to step back, leaving him to tire himself out. Yet her greatest tool of all was her charm. No matter how deep Caracalla spiraled into paranoia or rage, he could never resist her when she turned playful. One kiss, one embrace, one timely seduction, and his dark thoughts would vanish into thin air. His volatile temper would melt beneath her touch, and his anger would turn into boyish giggles. It was surprisingly easy to draw Caracalla under the influence of lust. He hungered for affection, craving a closeness he’d never experienced, and she was quite generous with her attention for her emperor.

Caracalla quickly became obsessed with her.

At first, he simply wanted her near. She was to dine with him, to amuse him, to accompany him in the evenings when his mind became clouded. She spoke to him with kindness, soothed him when frustration overtook him, when he was playful she laughed at his jokes even when they made no sense, and indulged his whims with the patience of a mother tending to a difficult child. Caracalla in turn clung to her like he often does with Dondus, refusing to let her out of his sight for too long.

Caracalla would dress his monkey Dondus in tiny outfits, and she would sit beside them, smiling indulgently at the sight. Caracalla laughed at his own games, turning to her, desperate for approval like a child wanting a mother's praise. “Look! I got Dondus a new dress!” he’d say, beaming.

She would laugh sweetly, clapping her hands. “How distinguished he is!”

Caracalla adored her praise, craving her attention. She became his favorite source of comfort. Often, in the twilight hours, Caracalla would grow restless. His moods turning dark, a product of the illness that plagued his troubled mind. He would pace the room, muttering about imaginary plots, threats, and betrayals.

“Geta is against me,” he whispered one night, eyes wild. “Everyone is against me.”

“My emperor,” she said sweetly, lifting her eyes to meet his. “Do not dwell on such dark thoughts.” She approached gently, her touch gentle on his shoulder. “I’m here,” she said soothingly. “And I’ll shield you from them all.” She had learned it didn’t do much good to try and talk sense to him in these moments. If she denied his claims about Geta then he would just rage at her and accuse her of favoring his brother like everyone else does. She knew these thoughts would naturally fade on their own. But she also knew to carefully choose her words because they held the power to heal or destroy.

Caracalla’s tense body relaxed under her touch. He leaned into her embrace, eyes growing soft, vulnerable. “Promise?”

“I promise,” she whispered, gently running her fingers through his red hair as he buried his face against her. “I’ll always be here for you.”

She knew exactly how to calm his fears, to make him feel safe. She’d hold him until his fears subsided, or distract him with whispered words, soft laughter, and kisses that left him breathless, his troubled thoughts wiped clean.

Geta was initially wary of her influence over his brother, but he eventually found himself grateful for her presence. The arrangement made his life easier and lifted a weight off his shoulders and that was enough for him. Geta recognized the power she held over his brother and began to rely on her to keep Caracalla tamed. “Keep him content,” he instructed her privately. “Keep him calm.”

She understood her role and embraced it. After all, things could be worse than being the favored companion of an emperor. She had influence, luxury, and a kind of power she had never dreamed possible for herself. Caracalla frequently gifted her all kinds of extravagant things. She had silk stolas in nearly every color. She had lavish jewels. She held political sway by being a whisper in his ear. And if she had to deal with some erratic moods of his in return then so be it. She thought it was better to be under the protection of an unstable emperor who cherished her than to be accosted by random men like before when she was a simple mime actress with no one to defend her. To the palace staff, senators, and other nobles, she was no longer just a lowly woman in a scandalous profession who warmed the emperor’s bed. She was now a force to be reckoned with, the woman who had the affections of the mercurial emperor.

She became more than just a source of entertainment. She became Caracalla’s heart, his anchor to reality. She could be a mother, a lover, a confidante, or simply the pretty distraction that eased his pain. And in return, Caracalla became obsessed with her, refusing to let her leave his side. Her world became a gilded cage, but she learned to live comfortably as the lovely bird within it.

On one particularly bad night, Caracalla's rage became too much even for her to simply soothe with words. He threw things, smashing vases, wine goblets, everything in his path was being destroyed. His shouts echoing through the palace halls. But she approached when she sensed his anger was cooling down, her arms slipping around his tense form. She pressed soft kisses to his jaw, his neck, his trembling hands.

“Come to bed,” she whispered enticingly, her voice honey sweet. “Let me help you forget it all.”

Caracalla shivered under her touch, his anger silenced by desire. He cupped her face roughly, crashing his lips against hers. And just like that, the world around him ceased to exist. There was only her. Only the taste of her lips, the scent of her skin, and the promise in her eyes.

She had long learned that lust was the quickest way to control him. It was almost effortless the way she could fill his mind with longing. And as Caracalla’s thoughts clouded over, drowned by his desire, he whispered, vulnerable, “You’ll stay with me forever?”

She smiled softly against his lips. “Always.”

And she meant it. There were worse things, after all, than being the possession of an emperor.

I have no idea if I would ever write a part 2 but I do have some ideas for it 🤔 I was reading about Claudia Acte who was the concubine of Emperor Nero and who may or may not have been a mime actress at one point (I only saw it mentioned on one website) but Nero at one point desired to marry her but she came from a lowly background. So Nero had a whole fake genealogy made up for her linking her to royalty and even bribed ex-consuls to be ready to swear to her royal bloodline but this angered his mother and she prevented the whole thing lol. But that just feels like something Caracalla would do with actress!reader and something that Geta would be forced to arrange because he would want to see his brother happy. So if I did write a sequel it would probably be something like that.

Do you guys remember that House of Gucci movie Lady Gaga was in? Well I was reminded of Patrizia Gucci saying "it's better to cry in a Rolls Royce than to be happy on a bicycle" and that's kinda the mindset I was going for with actress!reader. She's been torn away from her acting profession that she enjoyed, and she should be upset about it, especially since she's the object of obsession for an unhinged emperor and has been forced to essentially be his caretaker so Geta can get a break, but hey now she's got all this access to wealth and she has major influence over one of the most important men in the empire so what does it matter if she's often in the path of Caracalla's destruction? When life with Caracalla occasionally gets too rough, she'll just wipe her tears with a silk palla and then get another expensive one made after her tears stain it lol. Her life experiences have made her opportunistic but she does also truly care about Caracalla and does actually love him.

#emperor caracalla x reader #caracalla x reader #gladiator x reader #emperor caracalla x you #gladiator fanfiction

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amethystheartsx · 2 months ago

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LADS MEN SEEING YOU IN TRADITIONAL WEAR FOR THE FIRST TIME. (Desi version pt 2)

AN: Hey! So reposting again. Since last time I posted it got messed up and all that.

So yeah this is it, the awaited part two for our boys sylus and Caleb. Enjoy!

SFW, fluff, mildly suggestive (MDNI)

Remember: request are open!

PS: not proof read.

Caleb

it was the day of the festival and you were rushing around your home trying to get ready on time, threats of your father claiming to leave without every one booming through the house, falling deaf to your ears.

All because you were going with Caleb anyway since by now Caleb was part of the family, which meant he also got scolded by your parents, but it was rare since he was the golden child of the family. The one who had set the bar so high you and your siblings just couldn't reach.

once your parents leave Caleb who had taken your fathers to scold you for being so late burst through the doors of your room.

"hey pipsqueak!" he calls out,but whatever scolding remarks he had died in his throat the moment he laid his eyes on you, sure he had seen you in Kurti and long shirts from time to time but not like this, looking like a delicate flower wrapped in the most fanciest bouquet.

while you tried to fix your Sahara he gave you a once over, almost as if over analyzing each and every single thing about her. even the tiniest detail.

you were is wearing a soft mint green anarkali with delicate gold and peach embroidery. The skirt features detailed floral patterns with gold threadwork and small peach accents, especially along the lower portion, giving it a graceful and elegant look. The hemline is finished with a thick gold border.

The bodice is also mint green, with matching embroidery on the sleeves and front, blending seamlessly with the skirt. She is draped in a sheer mint green dupatta that has a gold trim, complementing the outfit’s design. The dupatta also features a striking ombre effect towards the end, transitioning into a warm rust-orange shade for a unique contrast.

"what ya staring at" you spoke from your vanity snapping him out of his trance.

he clears his throat "nothing, just did not knew you were a girl pipsqueak"

already annoyed with the world you could not take his teasing sarcasm well and there one of your heel right at him that he easily catches .

"ooof still stuck on that?"

"obviously"

you helplessly put another bobby pin in hopes it will keep it up but to no avail.

Caleb was not going to sit here and see you struggle so he walked over "looks like I gotta help you out with this too" he sighs and takes charge of the situation while you sit there without complaints, you look at him through the reflection. you watch him as he is laser focused on doing up your hair, he was methodological even while doing simple tasks like such, he was so reliable always willing to help you no matter how big or small. you felt a wave of affection for him. "done!" he spoke and you looked at yourself he had fixed it so neatly you were surprised, guess he was rightfully the golden child.

"thank you Caleb, seriously." you sayturni g your vanity chair to face him.

Caleb steps back, his head tilted as he marvels at you "beautiful...really beautiful" he says making you blush slightly, and before you could say anything Caleb was already kneeling in front of you, to put on the heel you had threw on his face. "Caleb its okay I can-"

"please" he says with such pleading eyes you could not say no to him....

you can never say no to him

you watch as he he puts it on. your heart betrays you by beating so loud for your best friend. the shades of pink on your cheek turns darker and stand up quickly as soon he was done, he follows suit, that blush does not escape his sight and he just could not let it pass.

"my my, look at you pips, blushing so hard, is it cuz of me" he grins and you scoff as if it was some and not the cold hard truth, lie he was spewing, you raise your hand to smack him "you wish you giant goofball" but before you could hit he grabs your wrist and pulls you flush into him.

you gasp softly up at him cursing the fact you loved the closeness "uhm..Caleb" your voice softens as twisting your wrist to set it free but his trip was as firm as it was gentle.

"relax" he says fetching orange gajray from the coat pocket slipping it on her wrist, he knew you loved them so how could he not.

"prettiest flowers, for my favorite girl" he says kissing the top of your head "now let's go pips.

And so begin the story of two lovers who were always just right for eachother

Sylus

your first birthday together and sylus had went all out. from renting out to amusement parks and theaters to romantic dinner at a yacht,he had it planned it all, and that was after you told him you wanted something small and intimate, you however had not taken in account of the fact that sylus's definition of intimate was much different then normal people's.

your day was spent going all around the city on his bike, doing everything he had planned for you.

when the sky darkens, he drops you off at home before leaving he tells you to get ready so that the twins could drop you off at the yacht. sylus had went there first in order to make sure everything was planned accordingly.

when you walked in to your room you saw a huge gift box set on the bed with a hand written note on top.

for the prettiest girl, and the love of my life.

have some pity on this love sick fool and wear this tonight.

sylus.

you grinned to yourself and pressed a kiss on the note, slipping it inside your diary. everything sylus ever gave you no matter what it was, it was nothing short of a treasure for you and so you keep ever single thing close to your heart.

The gift box contained everything, from branded makeup to expensive accessories and a very beautiful wine red Saree. sylus had it all arranged for you flying out the twins to your country to get them for you, no wonder the twin were gone for so damn long.

the need to see sylus again and kiss his face silly, urged you into getting ready as soon as possible.

The twins, as promised brought you to the yacht which was well decorated with fairy lights and red roses, there was a table for two in the middle and on the other end, sylus stands with his back on you, stating at the vast sea, he was lost in his thought most of them surrounding his beloved you.

the clicks of your heels makes him turn around snapping him out, his ruby red eyes now laser focused on you, clad in everything he had given you and the thought alone made sylus' heart throb.

she was wearing a rich red wine saree with gold detailing. The saree features small gold motifs scattered across the fabric in a classic fashion. The border is wide and heavily decorated with intricate gold patterns.

The blouse is maroon with short sleeves, and it has a subtle gold design on the edges that matches the saree’s border.

he had gotten her some with bold silver jewelry, including a choker necklace and large square-shaped jhumkas. a stack of Bengal on her wrist to complete the over all look.

To say that sylus was taken back by the sheer force of her beauty, that was increased ten folds by the traditional charm was an under statement.

when you stop right in front of him, he doesn't spare a second before reaching out, his strong arm wraps around his waist as he pulls her flush into him "looks like my kitten finally learned to take orders" he says, his tone had the playful lightness as usual that he only used with you whenever he got the chance to tease you.

when you scoff he only smirks "so the only thing you liked about me tonight is that I followed your....'orders' " you retort with a scoff, earning a dry chuckle from him. "hmm so you wanna know what I like about you tonight" his arm that was on your waist dips lower till your thigh, picking you up effortlessly with one arm.

"well of course" you cross your arm allowing him to man handle you, his steps taking you the table where he sets you down on the table, taking a seat in the chair in front of her. His eyes raking your form once again. "well, sweetie I love how this color makes your doing look so sinfully delicious." he leans down to kiss the skin of your waist peeking out from under the blouse.

a soft gasp escape your lips, sylus looks up at you "how much I want to unwrap my present now that its placed right in front of me" his fingers cascade down on your pallu wanting nothing more then to peel t right off. His intentions being clear as the summer skies when it came to his desire for you, how he wanted to make love to you, wearing nothing but jewels he gave you.

your poor little heart couldn't take his intensity, you had to distract yourself, distract him.

"uhm sy, what-what are we having to dinner?"

"you can have anything you want, I am gonna have you".

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knight-hiccup · 13 days ago

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𝐌𝐀𝐄𝐋𝐒𝐓𝐑𝐎𝐌 | Hiccup x Fem!Reader ₉

This is Chapter 9 to this Hiccup series -> Masterlist here. Previous Chapter : Next Chapter

Pairing: Hiccup x fem!reader Genre: romance, fantasy, suspense, drama, angst, dark, vioIence, friends to lovers, dark themes, heavy Viking lore, Norse mythology, canon divergence, slow burn Word count: 5.7k Warnings: This will have the lore of the films + shows but with much darker themes. Gore/blood, mentions of death, Norse mythology, some realistic dragon themes, more realistic scenarios, and mature themes starting at the point httyd 2 ark comes in, so, ofc NSFW. Any other warnings will be properly tagged upon story progression. A/N: Reader description not described besides clothing true to Viking/httyd fashion from time to time.

CHAPTER 9

The rhythmic thunder of mighty drums reverberated through Berk, a sound so deep and resonant it seemed to summon the spirits of Viking warriors long past. It was a cadence fit for legends, each beat pulsing through the frost-kissed air, stirring the blood of every soul gathered for the final challenge.

The village, draped in the first melting snows of winter, shimmered with an unusual festive fervor, its rugged edges softened by a rare swell of anticipation. Torches flared against the gathering daybreak, their flames licking the cold, casting a golden glow over the arena where half of Berk had crammed to witness the slaying of a dragon in the pit.

The space couldn't hold the entire island, but those who fit pressed shoulder to shoulder, loud and bulky as ever with their breaths fogging in the chill, eyes alight with the promise of glory by none other than their chiefs' son.

High above the throng, Stoick the Vast emerged from the shadowed stands, flanked by the village elders, their fur-lined cloaks billowing as they took their seats. Behind them hung tapestries of past chiefs, woven with threads of crimson and gold, each one a silent testament to their own triumphs over dragons in this very pit—faded faces staring down, unyielding and stern.

The drums swelled as Stoick rose, a towering figure against the flickering light, and then—abruptly—they fell silent, the cheers of the crowd snuffing out like a candle in the wind. He strode to the cage's edge, his boots thudding against the wooden platform, his face carved from stone until a proud smile cracked its surface, warm and unrestrained.

"Well!" he boomed, his voice rolling over the arena like a wave, "I can show my face in public again!"

Laughter erupted from the stands, a raucous burst that shook the chains lining the pit, and Stoick's own chuckle joined it, deep and hearty. He waved a hand to quiet them, the mirth fading into an eager hush.

"If someone had told me that in a few short weeks Hiccup would go from being—well. . .Hiccup—to placing first in dragon training, I'd have tied him to a mast and shipped him off for fear he'd gone mad!"

The crowd roared again, a tidal wave of amusement, and Stoick grinned, jabbing a finger toward them. "And you know it!"

He paused, letting the noise settle, his expression softening as he continued. "But here we are. . .and no one is more surprised—or prouder—than I am."

Below, in the shadowed tunnel leading to the arena, Hiccup stood apart, his gaze fixed on the packed dirt on the stone at his feet. The weight of his father's words pressed against him, mingling with the tumult of his own mind—Toothless hidden in the cove, the dragon he couldn't kill from the beginning, and now this Nightmare he had to face, and above all, you.

His eyes darted through the crowd from his vantage point, searching for your familiar figure among the sea of fur and leather, but you were nowhere to be found. His brows knit together, a pang of heartbreak slicing through him, sharp and cold.

He'd failed you—pushed you away with words he couldn't unsay—and now, on the eve of his greatest test, your absence was a wound that pulsed with every beat of those drums. His thoughts flickered back to your solo Gronckle trial weeks ago, a day he'd missed, too caught up in his own world to be there when you'd needed him. The guilt had never left, and now it festered anew as the feeling struck him hard.

Stoick's voice carried on in the background, a distant rumble. "Today, my boy becomes a Viking." Hiccup clutched the Viking helmet tighter against his chest, the metal biting into his skin, leaving a faint, red imprint. He exhaled, a long, shuddering breath that clouded in the damp air, wishing you were here.

A soft shuffle of footsteps broke his reverie, and Astrid appeared at his side, her blond hair catching the torchlight as she leaned against the tunnel wall—for a moment his heart had skipped thinking it was you.

"I couldn't spot her anywhere," she said, her voice low with concern. "No one's seen her—not even Gobber," she had said, meaning you.

Hiccup nodded, a sad, mechanical motion, his eyes lifting to scan the stands one last time. Astrid sighed, tracing a finger along the rough stone beside her.

"She'll show up," she offered, though her tone wavered with doubt. He nodded again, mute, his throat tight.

"Be careful with that dragon," she added, her gaze flicking to the arena beyond.

"It's not the dragon I'm worried about. . ." Hiccup murmured, his voice barely audible over the distant hum of the crowd.

Astrid tilted her head, studying him. "What are you going to do?"

He bit his lower lip, brows furrowing as his mind churned—Toothless, his father, the trial, and you, always you. He had to end this, had to try, for the dragons and for the friendship he'd let slip through his fingers. If you were out there, he'd find a way to make it right, to offer the apology you deserved.

"Put an end to this," he said at last, resolve hardening in his chest. "I have to try." The words carried a dual weight—to stop the cycle of Viking and dragon bloodshed, and to salvage what he could with you.

He turned to face Astrid, his green eyes locking onto hers with a seriousness she hadn't seen before, a gravity that made her straighten. "Astrid, if something goes wrong, just make sure they don't find Toothless."

His plea hung heavy, his gaze imploring, and in his heart, he ached to say it to you too—to beg you both to protect the dragon he'd bound his fate to.

She nodded, firm and steady. "I will. Just promise it won't go wrong. . ."

Hiccup's lips pressed into a thin line, a faint shake of his head his only reply. "I can't make any promises. After all, I can't keep the ones I've already made."

His voice lowered, the weight of you—unspoken, unknown to Astrid—lacing the words with a sorrow she couldn't place. Before she could press further, Gobber rounded the corner, his wooden leg clunking against the stone.

"It's time Hiccup, knock 'em dead," he says, jerking his head toward the arena.

Astrid gave Hiccup a final, searching look before following Gobber out, the gate clanging shut behind them with a hollow ring. Alone now, Hiccup held his helmet before him, its horns glinting dully in the light. He exhaled slowly, the breath trembling as it left him, and slid the helmet onto his head, the cold metal settling against his scalp like a crown he wasn't sure he'd earned.

The roar of the crowd hit him as he stepped into the pit, a wall of sound that crashed over him—boisterous cheers, chants of his name, the clanging of fists and boots against the iron bars. It was louder than he'd ever heard it, a cacophony that throbbed in his skull, threatening to split it open.

He felt smaller than ever, dwarfed by the towering stands, like a boy lost in the great forest once more—eyes boring into him from every angle, waiting, watching, preying—anticipating his every stumble.

His breath came shallow, sweat beading on his brow despite the chill, the world slowing around him as if time itself thickened. The whispers of old failures crept in—weak, embarrassment, failure—their voices hissing through the din, clawing at the edges of his resolve.

He shut his eyes, boots scuffing as he moved forward on instinct, drawn to the weapon stand like a moth to flame. His breath hitched, nerves spiking, a tremor running through his hands—then your voice broke through the haze, soft and clear in the back of his mind.

"I'm proud of you," you'd said once, followed by the echo of your laughter, bright and unshakable.

His eyes snapped open, his pulse syncing with the drums' of Valors' mighty rhythm, a fire igniting in his chest. He was ready.

He seized a shield first, its weight grounding him, then a knife, its blade catching the sunlight with a wicked gleam.

"I'm ready," he declared, his voice steady now, gaze fixed on the iron doors that caged the beast beyond. He nodded sharply, the signal given, and the gates groaned open.

The Monstrous Nightmare exploded forth, wreathed in flame, a snarling inferno of scales and fury. It surged into the arena, circling high, spitting torrents of fire that sent the crowd scrambling with shouts of awe and fear.

The beast's eyes scanned the chains, seeking a flaw, a weakness—until it stilled, its blazing gaze locking onto Hiccup. He stood there, shield raised, knife in hand, the air between them crackling with challenge, the drums fading into a distant heartbeat as the trial began.

The cliff stretched out beneath you, a jagged lip of stone perched high above Berk's harbor, where the sea churned in restless waves that glittered under a rare, defiant sun. Yesterday's snow had melted into a slick sheen of wet grass and mud, the ground glistening as if the island itself wept for what was to come.

You sat atop a weathered plank of wood, a makeshift barrier against the damp that seeped through the earth, your fingers idly turning a dagger in your hand—its blade catching the sunlight in fleeting, silver flashes. The air carried a faint warmth, a cruel tease against the cold that had settled into your bones, not from the weather but from the hollow ache within.

Beyond the cliff's edge, the harbor sprawled, its waters a restless expanse of deep blue, crashing against the rocks below with a rhythm that mirrored the tumult in your chest. The wind tugged at your hair, sharp with the scent of salt and wet wood, and from afar, the thunderous applause of the arena rolled up the hillside, a faint roar dancing on the breeze.

Your stomach twisted with every pulse of that sound, each cheer a needle threading through your thoughts—Hiccup, alone in the pit, facing the Monstrous Nightmare. How was he holding up? Could he weave his way through this trial without bloodshed, or would it spiral into chaos, into Hel itself? Would he emerge whole, or broken?

The questions gnawed at you, relentless as a pack of wolves tearing at a carcass, and yet your eyes remained dry, the tears you'd shed at dawn now hardened into faint, salty streaks that stung your cheeks.

You traced a thumb along the dagger's dull chipped edge—your gaze distant, lost in the waves that crashed far below. This was the first time you'd ever missed something vital in Hiccup's life, a trial that could redefine him, and the absence clawed at you, a guilt so fierce it left your chest raw.

But you couldn't go. Wouldn't. The cliff—your shared refuge with Hiccup, where you'd once laughed over half-formed dreams and watched the aurora paint the sky—held you fast, its solitude a shield against the arena's clamor and the words from yesterday that echoed in the recesses of your mind, sharp and unyielding, a blade he'd swung without mercy.

They festered there, entwined with the cruel jabs made by those who had sat with him—their voices a chorus that had convinced you he didn't need you now. He'd clawed his way into Berk's favor, surrounded by the cheers he'd once prayed to Odin for, the acknowledgment he'd craved since he was a boy tripping over his own feet.

Those people had planted their poison deep, and you'd let it take root, believing he'd be fine in that pit, that he'd thrive without you trailing behind. Your fingers tightened around the dagger's hilt, the leather grip creaking under your grip, and a bitter taste coated your tongue as you stared out at the sunlit sea, its beauty a mockery of the maelstrom stirring within.

The applause swelled again, a distant thunder that rumbled through the cliffs, and your heart lurched, a pang of longing cutting through the numbness. You pictured him—his lanky frame dwarfed by the arena's iron walls, his auburn hair catching the sun, his green eyes flickering with that mix of fear and resolve you knew so well.

Was he scanning the stands for you, even now, as you'd once done for him? The thought tightened your throat, but you pressed it down, your jaw clenching as you flipped the dagger again, its weight a cold comfort in your palm. The sun climbed higher, its rays spilling over the harbor in a golden flood, warming your skin and creating a glow unknown to you.

You'd always been there—through every stumble, every wild idea of his, every quiet moment when he'd needed you most—and now, the space you'd left felt like a betrayal, a wound you'd inflicted on yourself as much as him. Yet his words held you here, a chain forged of hurt and doubt, binding you to this cliff as the arena's roar faded into the wind, leaving you alone with the waves and the ghosts of what you've lost.

Your thoughts continued to churn like the tide until a distant roar of the arena had faded to a dull hum, a sound you tried to ignore—until a sudden, jarring bang shattered the stillness, echoing from the pit like the crack of a felled tree.

It jolted you upright, the dagger slipping from your fingers to thud into the damp earth and over the cliff, your breath catching as a piercing screech—the Monstrous Nightmare's guttural cry—tore through the air. The crowd's cheers twisted into a cacophony of panic, a discordant wave that rolled up the hillside and slammed into you, raw and unfiltered.

Your heart lurched, hammering against your ribs with a force that drowned out your surroundings. You were on your feet before you realized it, the plank tipping behind you as instinct seized control. The arena—so far across the rugged sprawl of Berk—beckoned like a beacon through the haze of your fear, and your legs moved of their own accord, propelling you down the cliff's uneven path—faster than you'd ever gone.

Wet grass slicked beneath your boots, and halfway down, the ground betrayed you—your foot skidded, sending you sprawling into the mud with a dull splash. Pain flared in your palms as you caught yourself, the cold, thick muck seeping through your tunic, but you scarcely felt it.

You scrambled up, breath ragged, mud streaking your hands and knees, when a sound sliced through the chaos—a familiar, keening wail, sharp and unmistakable—Toothless. The Night Fury's cry ignited a fresh surge of dread, your eyes snapping toward the arena just as a blast of violet plasma erupted, punching a jagged hole through the pit's iron chains. Smoke billowed upward, thick and acrid, as Toothless soared in like a blur, his black wings cutting the air like a blade.

You froze, rooted to the hillside, your pulse thundering in your skull, eyes wide as the scene before you unfolded in a haze of fire and fury. The arena loomed ahead, its stone walls trembling under the weight of the chaos all around, and you stumbled forward, drawn irresistibly toward it. The crowd surged around the pit's perimeter, a tide of shouting, shoving bodies, their panic a living thing that pulsed through the air. You pushed through them, elbows jabbing, your breath hitching as you fought to reach the blasted breach Toothless had carved. Mud clung to your boots, slowing each step, but you pressed on, the sting of ash in your eyes blurring the world into smears of gray.

At the hole's edge, you stopped dead, heart in your throat, squinting through the choking veil of smoke that roiled within. Your gaze darted frantically, as you leaned in whilst grabbing the bars chain careful not to fall, careful not to burn your hands—searching the haze for Hiccup—his lanky frame, his auburn hair, anything to anchor you in the madness.

A gust from the dragon's wings swept through, parting the smoke like a curtain torn asunder, and there he was—Hiccup, crouched low, shield raised, his face taut with fear. Toothless stood before him, scales gleaming like polished obsidian, his snarls reverberating as he squared off against the Monstrous Nightmare.

The larger dragon thrashed, its fiery hide crackling, claws raking stone as it lunged, but Toothless met it with a ferocity that shook the arena's bones—teeth bared, wings flared, a dominance of protection for his boy that made the other dragon growl in disbelief.

The crowd gasped, some scrambling back, others leaning forward, their shouts a jagged chorus of awe and terror. Your chest tightened, relief warring with dread as you watched Toothless drive the Nightmare back, its flames sputtering under the Night Fury's relentless assault. At last, with a final, resentful screech, the Monstrous Nightmare retreated, crawling into its cage, the iron gate slamming against the stone with a clang that echoed like a death knell.

But the reprieve shattered in an instant. Vikings leapt into the pit, their war cries rising as they descended upon Toothless—axes glinting, ropes swinging, a swarm of fury turned on the dragon who'd dared to defy them as he fought back fiercely. You lunged forward, desperation clawing at your throat while you pulled on their furs.

"Stop!" you shouted, your voice raw and cracking, but it was swallowed by the din.

A burly shoulder slammed into you, knocking you to the ground, your palms scraping the stone as you hit.

You pushed up, shouting again, "Leave him alone!" But the crowd surged past, heedless, their boots trampling the just inches from your hands.

Through the chaos, you saw Stoick plunge into the fray, his massive frame cutting through the melee, his face a mask of rage as he wrestled with the Night Fury. Toothless reared, jaws wide, a blast of plasma igniting the air—aimed straight for Stoick's head.

Hiccup's voice broke through, a desperate, piercing "No!" that halted the dragon mid-strike, the flame fizzling into a harmless sputter. The Vikings seized their chance, one by one pinning the dragon to the ground before ropes snapped tight around Toothless' wings, chains clanking as they forced a neck brace onto him soon after, his struggles muffled by the iron grip that dragged him out of sight.

You sank to your hands and knees, the stone cold and unyielding beneath you, tears spilling hot and unchecked down your face. Sobs racked your frame, each one a jagged shard of grief—for Toothless, for Hiccup, for the world falling apart right in front of this boy.

Vikings streamed past, their muttered curses and shaking heads a blur—disgust aimed at the dragon, at Hiccup, at you sprawled on the ground, at the whole unraveling—disappointing—mess this all turned out to be. You staggered to your feet, swaying as the crowd buffeted you, their bodies a relentless current pushing you back.

You fought against it, weaving through the press of fur and leather, your eyes locked on Hiccup—still in the pit, his helmet askew, his face pale with shock. But before you could ever reach him, Stoick's hand clamped onto his arm, rough and unyielding, dragging him toward the tunnel with a force that brooked no resistance.

Hiccup stumbled the entire time, his gaze darting wildly—searching for Toothless, for you—but the crowd swallowed them, their figures shrinking into the throng as they moved toward the Great Hall.

You stood there, breath heaving trying to catch your breath but for a moment, the arena's dust settling around you like ash from before. The sun blazed overhead, its light harsh and unforgiving, glinting off the broken chains and the scorch marks left by dragon fire.

Your legs trembled, but you forced them into motion, following the tide of Vikings at a distance, their murmurs a low growl in your ears—traitor, fool, dragon-lover. The words stung, but they couldn't drown out the panic driving you forward. When the crowd thinned near the village's heart, you broke into a run, boots pounding the muddy path, your tunic flapping as the wind whipped past.

The Great Hall's towering doors loomed before you as you finally made your way up, their carved snarls glaring down as if to judge your every faltering step. The sun blazed overhead, its light spilling across the muddy yard in harsh, golden streaks, just perfect enough to give light from the outside within as the doors stood ajar, voices spilling out��Stoick's booming timbre, Hiccup's strained replies—and you pressed a hand to the rough-hewn frame, peering into the shadowed interior.

Inside, the hall was a cauldron of tension. Vikings clustered in knots far into the dark corners typically near the kitchen to prepare the feast coming, their faces hard with anger and confusion, while Stoick towered at the center, his fist bawled up—white—with fury as his voice boomed.

You retreated down the weathered steps again, each one a quiet thud beneath your boots, pulling back into the shadows behind a pillar before either of them could spot you. The air thrummed with tension even outside the empty yard, Stoick's voice splintering everywhere.

You didn't need to be closer to catch their sting; they carried on the wind, sharp and heavy with accusation, a father's wrath unleashed in a way that made your stomach twist. Then, silence—a beat of stillness so profound it felt like the world held its breath—before Stoick staggered out, his broad frame filling the doorway.

His face, usually a mask of iron resolve, crumpled briefly, washed pale with guilt as the weight of what he'd done settled into his bones. He didn't see you, didn't glance your way as he stormed down the steps, his cloak snapping behind him like a tattered banner, his fury driving him toward the harbor's docks with a purpose you couldn't fathom.

You lingered there, rooted to the spot behind the pillar—frozen to see Hiccup—the damp moss on the stone freezing under your gentle touch as you opted to wait. The villages' murmurs faded into a low drone, the the small crowd dispersing from within, their voices a muted echo as they left the Great Hall angrily. Minutes crawled by, each second a slow drip of dread pooling in your chest. You had stood straight, about to go in until the doors creaked open again.

Hiccup emerged, his lanky figure hunched, one arm shielding his face as silent tears streaked down his cheeks. The sight hit you like a blow—his shoulders trembling, his steps unsteady as he walked past and down the stone stairs—The boy who'd faced a dragon now broken by something far worse. Something in you snapped, a switch flipping deep within, shoving down the hurt, the words he'd flung at you, the venom that had kept you away. None of it mattered now—not when he looked like this, lost and unraveling under Berks' cruel glare.

He hadn't made it far, barely crossing the yard beyond the hall's shadow, when you moved. Your boots skipped steps and pounded the earth, a frantic rhythm that drowned out the harbor's distant crash, and you caught his arm, yanking him around with a force that surprised even you.

He stumbled, caught off guard, his arm dropping as he wiped at his red eyes with a sleeve already damp with grief. Then he saw you—really saw you—and froze, blinking through the blur of tears as if you might dissolve like a mirage. You didn't hesitate, didn't give him time to doubt any further as you let out a shaky breath leaning in.

Your arms wrapped around him, pulling him close, a fierce, unyielding embrace that refused to let go this time. His breath hitched, a shudder running through him, and for a moment, his hands hovered, uncertain—until the tears broke free again, hot and unchecked, and he buried his face in your shoulder, his arms finally closing around you in a desperate, clinging hold.

You stood there, locked together in the yard's muddy sprawl, the world shrinking to the space between you. His quiet sobs shook his frame, muffled against your tunic, a flood of years' worth of pent-up pain spilling out in ragged gasps all at once.

You tightened your grip, fingers threading through his hair, patting gently as you whispered, "It's going to be alright."

The words felt fragile, a threadbare promise against the wreckage of the day, but you said them anyway, willing them to hold. Your own tears came then, silent and steady, tracing new warm paths down your face as you clung to him, the salt mingling with the dirt streaked across your cheeks.

His hands fisted in the back of your tunic, wrinkling the fabric in tight, desperate bunches, but you didn't care—couldn't care—not when he was breaking like this, and you were the only thing keeping him from falling apart entirely.

Hiccup couldn't speak, couldn't find the words through the waves of his tears. They'd been dammed up too long—years of failure, of being less, of chasing his fathers' footsteps he'd never catch up to, and so much more—until now, with Toothless torn from him and you standing here, these emotions that taunted him finally broke free.

He'd thought he'd lost you—your love and friendship, that his sharp words in the forge had severed the tether between you for good. And now, with Toothless chained and gone, dragged off to gods-knew-where by his own tribe, he'd felt truly adrift—until your arms found him, grounding him in a way he hadn't realized he'd needed until it was almost too late.

His breath hitched again, a sob catching in his throat as he pressed his forehead harder into your shoulder, the damp of his tears soaking through to your skin. You held him steady, your hand resting against his hair, the familiar scent of him—leather, pine, smoke, and something faintly metallic—mingling with the mud and salt in the air.

The yard stretched empty around you, the sun climbing to its peak, its light glinting off the wet grass in a shimmer that felt too bright for the moment—but as if finally smiling at you two after a sad week of forecast between you both. The harbor's waves rumbled along with shouts in the distance, a steady counterpoint to the uneven rhythm of your breathing.

But here, in this fragile pocket of time, it was just you and him—locked in a quiet, weeping embrace, the weight of the day—of the past two months really—pressing down and yet somehow lifting, if only for a breath. He'd thought he'd lost everything—But your arms around him, was like a blanket of comfort, shifting the ground beneath him.

He'd been so utterly wrong—about you, about needing space—and the realization sank deep, a quiet ache beneath the relief. You were here, despite it all, and as his tears stained your clothes, he knew he'd fight to mend this, to reclaim what he'd nearly thrown away.

Time stretched thin, the minutes blurring into a quiet eternity where neither of you moved to break the hold. You stood there for as long as he needed, locked in Hiccup's trembling embrace, until his tears had finally slowed, the sobs that had wracked his frame tapering into shallow, uneven breaths, but his arms remained tight around you, like his life depended on it, like he would break if he let go again.

You still didn't pull away, didn't flinch under the weight of his grip; instead, your fingers continued their gentle rhythm, threading through his auburn hair, tracing soothing paths against his scalp. The strands were damp with sweat and debris, tangled from the chaos of the arena, but you cared not—the motion steadied him—his breathing softened, his shoulders easing your touch alone could unravel the knots of grief coiled within him.

You could feel the tremor in his fingers, the faint shudder of his chest against yours, and it stirred a deep, aching tenderness in you—an understanding forged through years of shared stumbles and silent loyalties. The air hung heavy with the scent of Berk, the faint tang of smoke still clinging to him from the pit, and you breathed it in relieved, grounding yourself in the reality of him here, alive, in your arms—to you that is all that mattered.

At last, the tension in his grip eased, and you both drew back, a slow unraveling that left a hollow ache where his warmth had been. No words passed between you; none were needed. You'd seen each other cry before—over scraped knees as children, over failures whispered in the dark over again, over losses too big to name—and this was no different, yet infinitely more raw. Your eyes met his, tear-streaked faces mirroring one another—cheeks flushed, red-rimmed eyes swollen from the flood, noses damp and glistening in the sunlight.

But beneath the mess, there was something unspoken, a quiet language etched in the lines of your expressions. His gaze carried an, "I'm sorry," so deep it seemed to tremble in the green of his irises, a plea for forgiveness he didn't know how to voice. Yours answered in kind, soft and unguarded, a mirror of regret for the distance you'd let grow, for the cliff you'd retreated to when he'd needed you most. In that shared look, a certainty settled—bruised and battered as you were, it really was going to be alright.

You glanced down, your eyes catching on his hand—pale, calloused, still trembling faintly with anxiety from the mess he'd weathered. Without a word, you reached for it, your fingers sliding into his, interlacing with a quiet firmness that felt like a vow. His skin was warm against yours, the roughness of his palm a familiar map you'd traced a thousand times, and you gave a gentle tug, pulling him with you into a slow, deliberate walk.

He followed, his steps hesitant at first, lingering close as if testing the ground beneath him, afraid you might slip away again. But you leaned in, your shoulder and arm brushing his, the fabric of your tunics catching faintly as you pressed closer—a reassurance woven into the contact, a promise that you weren't going anywhere.

His hand tightened around yours, a squeeze that echoed your own, and you felt the warmth of it seep into you, a lifeline threading through the cold that had gripped you both. The walk was unhurried, each step a soft crunch against the wet earth, the mud sucking at your boots as you moved away from the hall's shadow.

The sun beat down, glinting off the damp grass in tiny, fleeting sparks, painting the world in a light that felt almost tender after the day's brutality. Hiccup stayed near, his arm brushing yours with every stride, his breath still hitching faintly as he adjusted to the quiet between you.

You could sense the weight he carried—Toothless torn from him, his father's words a fresh scar, the village's judgment a looming specter—and it mirrored your own: the sting of his outburst, the teen's barbs, the guilt of your absence in the arena. Yet here, in the slow rhythm of your steps, those burdens felt lighter, shared in the silence that wrapped around you like a worn cloak.

You passed the edge of the yard, the harbor unfolding below in a sprawl of sparkling blue and silver, its waves whispering secrets against the docks where Stoick and the others began loading boats for whatever reason you'd both find out later. The wind stirred, cool and sharp, tugging at your hair and drying the last traces of tears from your faces.

Hiccup's head dipped slightly, his free hand brushing at his eyes as if to erase the evidence of his breaking, but you squeezed his hand again, a silent tether that said he didn't need to hide—not from you. He glanced over, a flicker of something soft crossing his face—gratitude, relief, a shadow of the boy who'd once rambled under tables to chase your fears away—and you returned it with a small, steady nod.

The village loomed ahead, its thatched roofs and smoke trails a faint promise of little peace if only for a moment, but neither of you rushed toward it. This walk, this quiet, was enough—a mending stitched not with words but with presence, with the simple act of holding on.

Hiccup's thoughts, glimpsed through that omniscient veil again without wanting to, where a tangled weave of loss and dawning loss bloomed. He'd stood in the hall, flayed by Stoick's fury, certain he'd lost everything. The tears had come unbidden—without control, a flood he couldn't stem, and he'd braced for a solitude he'd brought upon himself.

But then you were there—Of course you were there. . .His heart of berk—Your arms a lifeline he hadn't dared hope for, your touch a balm to wounds he couldn't fathom on his own. As your fingers laced with his, he felt the ground shift beneath him again—not steady yet, but closer to it than he'd been in days. And it made his heart flutter to life again.

He'd been wrong, so wrong, and the ache of that realization pulsed with every step, tempered only by the warmth of your hand in his. Toothless. . .was gone, his father's trust shattered into pieces, but you—You were here. . .Thank Odin, Hiccup sighed—And that was a thread he'd cling to, a chance to rebuild what he'd nearly broken beyond repair.

The path went on, winding ever closer toward the forge your shoulders stayed pressed together—so close—a quiet defiance against what was waiting, and the silence between you deepened—not empty, but full, heavy with the weight of tears shed and promises remade.

This is Chapter 9 to this Hiccup series -> Masterlist here. Previous Chapter : Next Chapter

Gifs/edits, dividers + template credit to #uservampyr my co-writer + beta reader ♡

Lovely tag list ~ @kikikittykis | @icantcryicantstopcrying | @teeesthings | @ph4nt0m19

#chapter 9 of maelstrom #hiccup haddock #httyd hiccup #hiccup and toothless #hiccup how to train your dragon #hiccup x reader #hiccup fanfic #httyd fanfic #httyd x reader #toothless #httyd #how to train your dragon #hiccup haddock x reader #dragons #race to the edge #maelstrom #rtte

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salt-clangen · 24 days ago

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Moon 16

Green Leaf

Lynxdawn was a miracle worker—Snowspeckle was sure of it. In less than a moon, Nightleap was already up and moving again. It had taken countless poultices and strict nest rest, but her wound had finally closed, leaving behind a fresh pink scar. It was rigid and sensitive, but it held her mate’s weight again.

Just in time for Greenleaf’s sweltering heat to settle over the clans. Snowspeckle was grateful for the ocean breeze that cut through the rising temperatures, though she knew her darker-furred clanmates struggled more with the heat. That was why, in the cool hush of early morning, she asked Nightleap to join her on a gathering patrol.

The black molly agreed without hesitation—any excuse to spend time with her beloved—and the two of them set out with their baskets.

Snowspeckle chatted as they walked, her voice light and warm. She spoke of the upcoming Longest Day Festival, the decorations SaltClan was tasked with, and how HoneyClan’s artisans had kept their assignment simple: crafting flower, bee, and sun charms to hang at the gathering place. They wandered the shore collecting wood and cordage materials, the gentle rhythm of Snowspeckle’s words soothing Nightleap’s nerves.

But there was a nagging thought she couldn’t shake.

“I think we should have another litter,” Nightleap blurted out.

Snowspeckle froze mid-step, her words cut short. She turned to face Nightleap fully, expression unreadable. “You do?”

Nightleap shrugged, but excitement flickered beneath her nonchalance. “Yeah. I think we’re in a good place. It’d be nice.”

Snowspeckle hesitated, choosing her words carefully. “I don’t think now is the time.”

The answer hit like a wave crashing against rock. Disappointment surged in Nightleap’s chest, hot and sharp. She turned away, ears twitching as she resumed walking, silent.

Snowspeckle hurried after her. “It’s just—my first kitting was hard to recover from,” she explained, voice gentle but firm. “And I’m deputy now. I need to focus on my duties.”

Nightleap didn’t respond. Her jaw was tight, her steps clipped.

The tension between them crackled like fire, thick and oppressive. Snowspeckle sighed, then cut in front of her, stepping into her space and pressing their foreheads together.

“Hey.” Her voice softened. “Talk to me.”

The warmth in her tone shattered the last of Nightleap’s restraint.

“I…” Nightleap exhaled sharply, ears flicking back. “I want another litter so I can be there when they’re young.” She swallowed hard, shame creeping into her voice. “I feel like I don’t have a strong bond with our sons. It feels weird even calling them that.”

A shadow crossed Snowspeckle’s face. She stepped back, tail flicking. When she spoke, she fought to keep her voice even.

“Kits aren’t do-overs or second chances.”

Nightleap flinched. “I know! I know. But it’s how I feel.”

“You don’t need another litter to grow closer to them,” Snowspeckle said, her voice gentler now. “You might not be close now, but there’s still time. You have so many chances to bond as they grow.”

She let the words sink in before adding, “Think about how close you and Ripplepaw have gotten. It’s not impossible.”

The morning sun peeked over the horizon, turning the air muggy and thick. Nightleap shifted uncomfortably, struggling to find the right words.

“You don’t have to say anything now,” Snowspeckle murmured, stepping closer to press a fond lick to her cheek. “Let’s get to the trees, stay out of the sun while we work. Yeah?”

Nightleap nodded and shyly bumped her head against her mate’s. She still felt the weight of disappointment, but Snowspeckle was right—she needed to try.

Her paws felt heavy as they made their way to the tree line, but as she caught the warmth in her mate’s gaze, something in her chest lightened.

Everything was going well for Mallowstripe. Every day, he courted Shadowdive, bringing the large tom gifts and lingering by his side. In turn, Wolfstar courted him—her words and gestures flustering him even as he worked.

Even under the sweltering Greenleaf sun, with the fires and ovens making the air thick and oppressive, he felt giddy whenever either of them approached. They seemed to enjoy teasing him—Shadowdive smirking as Mallowstripe stuttered through the day’s meal plans, pressing his heavy body against the smaller tom’s side. Wolfstar, on the other paw, would murmur praises in his ear, for the food and for him.

It was perfect. Exactly what he had always wanted.

So why did his heart race like he was being hunted? Why did the shadows stretch too long at night? Why did he brace for the worst every time a cat entered camp too quickly?

Nothing was wrong. He knew that. Nothing was happening. There was no immediate danger, no reason for his paws to shake or his stomach to churn. His life was too good to ruin with his nerves.

And yet, when Wolfstar was gone too long, he hid behind the oven or curled up in the warriors’ den, shivering like a leaf caught in a storm. He tried what Darkfold had taught him so many moons ago—deep breaths, counting on the exhale—but it didn’t help.

Mallowstripe felt powerless, out of control. Embarrassed.

Today’s panic hit at sunhigh, nearly halfway through the moon. It started slow—prickling at the base of his tail like ants crawling under his fur. He tensed, willing himself to push through, to focus on the evening’s meal preparations. The camp was mostly empty, warriors and apprentices dozing in the dens through the worst of the heat.

And still, the feeling spread, creeping up his spine, bristling his hackles. His face itched, his scar burned, and the heat from the oven pressed in like suffocating paws.

It was too easy to lose everything.

The thought seized him, and he gasped, choking on his own breath. He pressed himself against the stone wall, claws sinking into the sand as images flashed behind his eyes—scenes of terror and death. Memories. Possibilities. He squeezed his eyes shut against them, trembling all over.

A small paw pad pressed against his hip.

A normal warrior would leap at the unexpected touch. Mallowstripe only curled in on himself.

Pathetic.

The ringing in his head made it hard to hear, but someone was speaking. He forced his eyes open and found Coralkit standing over him, her wide, curious gaze locked onto his.

He let out a shaky breath. The sight of her—so small, so unaffected by whatever monsters lurked in his head—was enough to drag him back, at least a little. Still shaking, he retracted his claws and tried to shift away.

But Coralkit was nothing if not stubborn. She pressed in closer. He wanted to snap at her, to tell her to go away—to shove down the shame clawing at his throat—but he couldn’t. She nosed her way under his chin, tucking herself against him, small enough to fit between his cheek and shoulder.

It was too hot for this. His pelt burned, but her nose was cold against his fur. She purred—a small, trilling sound, forced and high-pitched, like she wasn’t used to doing it on purpose.

Still, it soothed him.

He hadn’t even realized he was crying until he felt the warm, salty wetness on his fur.

They stayed like that for a long time. Long enough for his chest to stop aching and his breathing to steady. When he finally purred back, her own purr wobbled, going even higher.

At last, Coralkit pulled away, no doubt sweltering in her thick coat. She stood, peering up at him. “Is it better?”

Mallowstripe swallowed, his throat dry. “Y-yeah. A lot better. Th-thank you.”

Her tail flicked, pleased. “Are you ready to go to ma—Lynxdawn?”

He stiffened at the suggestion. The movement didn’t escape her shining eyes.

“It’d be good,” she pressed gently. “She can help. She says clerics take care of every part of a cat, even their mind.”

Mallowstripe couldn’t meet her gaze. “I think I’ll be fine.” He forced a smile, ears flicking back. “I’ll go if it happens again.”

Coralkit frowned, clearly unconvinced. “But this has happened before. A lot. Like, every day at least.”

She took a step closer, like she might curl up against him again, but this time, he stood.

Her ears dropped. He could see it in her face—like he’d just cut her off, shut her out.

Shame burned under his fur. What kind of warrior needed comfort from a kit?

“It’s fine,” he insisted, voice sharper than intended. “I can handle it.”

“But—”

“I said it’s fine!” He snapped, his tail lashing.

A normal kit would have flinched. Would have run off, tail tucked.

But Coralkit was not a normal kit.

She held her ground, her expression shifting—not scared, not angry. Just… sad.

“I thought you were dying,” she murmured.

Mallowstripe stilled, her words knocking the breath from his lungs. “What?”

“The first time I saw it happen, I thought you were hurt.” She scuffed a paw against the ground. “But then you got up again. And this time, you… you looked like Fennelheart when he was sick.”

A chill seeped into his bones despite the heat.

He had never considered what it must look like from the outside. What it must feel like for a kit to witness.

Coralkit kept her gaze on her paws. “It was really scary. So I came to check on you.”

Mallowstripe swallowed hard. “How long have you known?”

“A couple days.” She shrugged, though he suspected longer.

“Does… does your mother know?”

She shook her head, ears flicking.

He hesitated. He should brush it off, tell her he was fine. But she wasn’t wrong.

And she wasn’t going to let it go.

“…I guess it wouldn’t hurt to ask for her help,” he muttered, the words heavy in his mouth.

Coralkit’s face brightened just a little. Without another word, she turned and started leading him toward the cleric’s den.

Mallowstripe followed.

“Skullcap and chamomile.” Lynxdawn’s voice was soft, as if she was afraid he might startle. “Keep it in the kitchen—make a big bowl of tea in the morning and sip it throughout the day.”

She slid the bundled herbs toward him, and he hooked a gentle claw under the twine, pulling them closer. He sniffed the leaves, focusing on the earthy scent as if it might ground him.

“You need to talk to someone.” It wasn’t a suggestion.

Mallowstripe ducked his head, his throat tightening.

“You won’t get better without talking it out,” Lynxdawn pressed gently.

His chest clenched. “I don’t know what to say. There’s nothing wrong. I shouldn’t be this anxious.”

“There’s plenty to be worried about,” she countered, her tail brushing his side as she turned to scan her stores. “The tensions with the clans, the strange dreams, the dead ends about Lostclaw…”

He stayed quiet, ears twitching at the distant sounds of camp—warriors stretching, kits squealing, the low murmur of conversation as cats returned to their duties.

Lynxdawn didn’t let the silence linger. “You’ve always been nervous,” she said, voice patient. “Why is it worse now?”

Mallowstripe shuffled his paws in the sand. “Things are… going well.” His voice wavered, and he let the words trail off.

She glanced at him. “Things are going well.”

He sighed, hesitating before admitting, “With me and Wolfstar and Shadowdive… I just—I worry it won’t last.”

“You’re afraid something bad will happen now that you’re happy,” she murmured.

He nodded stiffly, shoulders drawn tight. “I’ve never been this happy before. I’ve always felt… left behind. Tolerated.” His breath hitched. “But with them, with this courtship, with taking care of the camp… I feel secure for the first time.” A shudder ran through him. “And I’m scared it’s all going to go away.”

Lynxdawn leaned forward, pressing a comforting lick between his eyes.

Tears welled, spilling over despite his effort to hold them back.

In the quiet dark of the den, he stifled his sobs, and she stayed beside him, silent and steady.

Lynxdawn let him cry, her presence warm and unwavering. She didn’t offer meaningless reassurances or tell him everything would be fine—because they both knew life didn’t work that way. But she stayed, and for now, that was enough.

After a while, Mallowstripe sniffled and sat up, rubbing at his damp eyes with a paw. He felt wrung out, but lighter, like he could finally breathe again.

Lynxdawn tilted her head, studying him. “You don’t have to carry this alone, you know.”

“I know,” he admitted, voice raw. And for the first time, he almost believed it.

She nudged the herbs toward him again. “Start with the tea. Let yourself rest. And when you’re ready, talk to them—really talk to them. Wolfstar and Shadowdive aren’t just going to vanish because you’re scared.”

His ear flicked. It was so simple when she said it like that.

“I’ll try,” he said, and this time, he meant it.

Lynxdawn smiled. “Good. That’s all healing really is—trying, a little more each day.”

Mallowstripe let out a breath, slow and steady. His chest still felt tight, but there was something else now, too—a quiet hope, small and fragile but real.

And for now, that was enough.

Entering Saltclan’s camp used to be as simple as leaping down from the low, western rocks. But as the clan grew, defense became paramount. Now, dried bramble bushes crowned the most accessible entries. A cat would have to squeeze through a narrow gap—only two tail lengths of sand between rugged rocks and the high tide—or brave wading through the water.

Crowpaw had visited the camp only once before, on a late night in leaf bare. And as the warm morning sun beat on their back, a prickling suspicion told them that Nightleap was leading them the wrong way. They hesitated, almost ready to voice their complaint when, unexpectedly, Nightleap rounded the rocky wall.

With cautious steps, Crowpaw followed, eyes fixed on the water even at its low tide. Then they were stunned: the familiar rocky barrier gave way to a large, beautiful camp. The bright sun painted the rocks golden, and the surrounding plants shone a vivid green. Even the tide pools practically sparkled.

“Not too bad, huh?” Nightleap asked with a hint of snide amusement.

Crowpaw’s grey eyes widened in wonder. “I’ve never seen anywhere like this…” they whispered.

Nightleap rolled her eyes lightly. “You haven’t exactly been to a lot of places,” She chided, tail beckoning the young cleric to follow.

Soon, the SaltClan cats began to watch as they approached the cleric’s den. Crowpaw recognized Mallowstripe and Snowspeckle immediately—both eyed them with cautious curiosity.

“Nightleap?” The white deputy asked, tone firm.

The dark molly answered quickly. “They were at the border, requesting to visit Lynxdawn.”

Stopping before a large den, Nightleap announced with a tail flourish that didn’t quite match her tone. “Here’s the clerics’ den. A warrior will be waiting outside to escort you back to the border when you’re done.”

Crowpaw bowed politely. “Thank you. I shouldn’t be long.”

Nightleap offered a curt nod—barely a bow, really. Just then, a large tom and a white tabby emerged from a den across the camp.

“Crowpaw,” Wolfstar greeted, offering a proper bow. “What brings you to our camp?”

Taking a steadying breath, Crowpaw replied, “I’m here to ask to borrow medicine from your cleric. Is she here?”

A soft, familiar face appeared as Lynxdawn’s fluffy head peeked out from behind the curtain of her den, followed by a gentle waft of fragrant herbs. “I am.” she said.

Crowpaw pushed past the curtain, uneasy as Wolfstar trailed close behind—the large, brown tom remaining at the entrance.

“Respectfully, Wolfstar,” The apprentice said, voice clipped. “This isn’t a matter that typically needs the leader’s input.”

Lynxdawn raised a brow at them. “We’re a bit more collaborative in SaltClan. Wolfstar and I make most decisions together.”

Crowpaw cleared their throat, not expecting her to side with the leader. “I suppose that’s fine. I’m here for poppy seeds.”

Wolfstar tilted her head. “Poppy seeds? That’s for severe pain. What do you need it for?”

Crowpaw’s tail twitched ever so slightly, though their tone remained steady. “I have a patient in severe pain.”

A tense silence fell as Lynxdawn’s eyes darted between her leader and the nervous apprentice. Finally, with a quick ear flick and nod from Wolfstar, Lynxdawn cleared her throat. “Poppy seeds are very uncommon. How much do you need?”

“As much as you can spare,” Crowpaw replied, voice low.

After a long pause, Lynxdawn sighed. “I’m afraid the seeds are too precious for charity. Perhaps I can offer willow bark instead—if I knew the nature of the injury, I can give you something more specific.”

At this, Crowpaw nearly stormed out of the den, their frustration boiling. “I don’t need to explain myself,” they hissed, tail lashing with a mix of anger and desperation. “But if it matters at all… I need it for Darkfold. Nothing else is working—her joints are swollen, and she can barely walk. I’ve sought help from Mousefoot and Rosedrift, but no one can soothe her pain.”

Wolfstar stepped forward, concern evident in their tone. “And you think poppy seeds will help?”

“It’s the only thing that allows her to stand,” Crowpaw said solemnly. “We’ve run out of our stores, and our artisans say we have too few trades to barter with HoneyClan for more.”

A hush fell among the pair as they exchanged silent looks. Wolfstar’s tail brushed lightly over Lynxdawn’s shoulder.

“Please,” Crowpaw bowed deeply, chest pressed against the cool, leather-lined floor. “I know it’s a big favor, and I can’t offer anything close to its worth—but I need the poppy seeds.”

The apprentice glanced up, uneasy at the look in Wolfstar’s eyes.

“Sit up,” Lynxdawn said gently. “We can send you with our stock.”

“If you can answer our questions.”

Crowpaw’s heart sank, they knew this came at a cost—they’d already revealed too much. Steeling themselves, they squared their shoulders and asked. “What questions?”

Wolfstar’s blue eyes met theirs. “Do you know the name Lostclaw?”

The calm façade in Crowpaw’s expression wavered; the mere mention of the name sent shivers down their spine. They averted their gaze toward the entrance, tempted to escape the interrogation.

“So you do know who she is,” Lynxdawn pressed.

Whipping their head around, Crowpaw was caught off-guard. “It’s a molly?” they stuttered.

Wolfstar’s tone hardened. “What do you know?”

Crowpaw’s pulse raced, and the large molly stepped in, blocking the entrance so no one could see their reaction. “I have obligations to my clan,” they growled, eyes darting nervously between the assembled cats. “I can’t disclose DuskClan’s weaknesses.”

Wolfstar’s voice was icy, “So Lostclaw was a DuskClan warrior?”

“No! I—I meant that…” Crowpaw stammered, heart pounding as they realized how trapped they were. “I don’t know who Lostclaw was, but I’ve heard the name before.”

Lynxdawn stepped in with quiet authority. “Please, Crowpaw. We’ve had signs linking this name to troubling events.”

“Darkfold mentioned it once… when she was more coherent. Our warriors—” They paused, unable to finish.

Wolfstar stepped back, offering Crowpaw space, her tone gentler now. “I know you’re reluctant to reveal too much. But we’re all looking out for DuskClan—and for the clan as a whole.”

Lynxdawn closed the gap, her maternal energy radiating in her soft words. “We believe Lostclaw is a threat to every clan.”

Crowpaw took a long breath, recalling the visions that haunted their nights. “I’ve had dreams that are… different. In them, I see a figure rising from the darkness—eyes that burn like cold fire. It’s not just a warning. It feels like a remnant of something lost, something that wasn’t meant to be a ghost at all.”

Wolfstar’s eyes narrowed slightly. “You mean Lostclaw?” she prompted, already knowing the answer.

Crowpaw nodded, then lowered their gaze. “Yes. But there’s more.” They hesitated, then continued in a softer tone. “I was out near the border a few nights ago after the dream, and I saw something… unsettling. I found these deep claw marks carved into an ancient oak.”

They paused, feeling overwhelmed in the tight den. “The marks weren’t there before and they were too deep to be cause by a cat or even a badger.”

The silence that followed the admission was long, in the distance Crowpaw could hear the roar of the ocean. It unnerved them, setting their hackles up.

“It’s best if I get back.” They said dismissively. “Have I answered all your questions?”

Wolfstar nodded, starting to push the jar forward, then hesitated, glancing guiltily at her cleric.

“What about my siblings?” She asked, Lynxdawn sent a sharp look to her now, but she went on. “They haven’t been at the last few gatherings. Are they ok?”

“I can’t tell you.” Crowpaw said firmly, grabbing the twine handle in their teeth.

They march towards the entrance, stopping just short to glance back. “But…if you were asking as their sister…. And not the leader of Saltclan….”

They trailed off, but Wolfstar was quick to nod.

Crowpaw gulped, worrying the twine between their jaws as they thought.

“Greyclaw is…busy. He’s got a lot of responsibility.” They paused, glancing down to speak to the ground. “Ashenstep hasn’t spoken in moons, hardly a word from them.”

Wolfstar tried not to let her heart break, but she was weak.

“Can you ask them, please I know it’s…wrong but can you ask them to meet me at the border by the knotted pine.” She asked, Lynxdawn at her hip, a weight reminding her of her duties. “The night after the gathering. Please tell them.”

Crowpaw doesn’t meet their gaze, tail tucked. “I…. I’m not sure I can, but I’ll…try.”

Crowpaw hesitated, then lowered their gaze. With one last furtive glance at Lynxdawn, Crowpaw turned to leave, their footsteps subdued as Shadowdive stepped forward to escort them home.

The air was thick with humidity as Snowspeckle left camp, making her way west to HoneyClan. The day was just beginning, but already the sun’s warmth pressed down, breaking through the cloud cover in hazy streaks. She moved quickly, crossing the river over the stepping stones, the spray of water a welcome relief against her flank.

“Snowspeckle!” A voice carried on the wind.

Her ears flicked back, and she grimaced as Swiftdance trotted toward her, the blue tabby’s tail held confidently high. Snowspeckle wouldn’t have been surprised if the deputy found amusement in her irritation. The Molly’s tail brushed against her side, a touch far too familiar to be accidental.

Snowspeckle shifted away, keeping her greeting curt. “Swiftdance.”

“I’ll be your guide.” Swiftdance was undeterred by the cold reception. “I know you’re familiar with the way, but I’ll try not to walk ahead so you don’t struggle to keep up.”

Snowspeckle bit back the urge to roll her eyes. A classic Swiftdance move—brag and insult in the same breath. She kept silent and walked forward, ignoring the prickle of frustration as the HoneyClan deputy matched her pace, occasionally letting their pelts brush.

Don’t react, she told herself. She wants a reaction. Just focus on the meeting.

Interactions with HoneyClan always left her gritting her teeth. They carried themselves with an air of effortless superiority, wrapped in honeyed words and casual dismissal. Every meeting was a battle of patience, their condescending nature forcing her to bite her tongue. OakClan boasted out of genuine excitement, proud of their innovations. HoneyClan flaunted with a practiced ease, as if they were the standard to which all others should aspire.

That was why Nightleap had been different. Nervous, humble, content in her skills without the need to prove herself. It was why Snowspeckle had loved her from the start.

The thought occupied her enough that she barely noticed the transition from open plains to the lone hill that cradled HoneyClan’s camp. She entered through the narrow space between dens, only for Swiftdance to press against her once more, the scent of wildflowers clinging to her like pollen.

“Oh, you haven’t changed at all,” Swiftdance murmured, voice laced with amusement.

Snowspeckle’s tail flicked, but before she could snap, Rookstar and his mate, Bluemoon, approached.

“Snowspeckle! Nice to see you,” Rookstar greeted warmly, touching noses with her. “I hope the heat wasn’t too bad. Where’s Wolfstar?”

Snowspeckle nodded respectfully to Bluemoon before answering. “She’s come down with whitecough. Nothing serious, but we didn’t want to risk spreading it.”

Rookstar dismissed Swiftdance with a flick of his tail, and though the deputy left, her scent still clung stubbornly to Snowspeckle’s pelt.

“Some things never change, huh?” Bluemoon said lightly, watching Swiftdance disappear into camp. Her gaze was warm but sharp.

Snowspeckle exhaled slowly. “No, they don’t.”

Rookstar led them to a shaded patch of soft grass, lined with vibrant flowers. “Would you like some tea?” he offered, waiting as Bluemoon settled beside him.

“I’m fine, thank you.” She gave an awkward smile. “This shouldn’t take long.”

Rookstar, unbothered, nuzzled his mate before rising. “I’ll bring you some, love.”

As he padded away, Snowspeckle finally noticed the curve of Bluemoon’s belly.

“You’re pregnant,” she said, blinking in surprise.

Bluemoon purred, amused. “I am. This will be my third litter.”

“Congratulations.” The words came easily, but an itch of unease remained under her pelt.

“Thank you. I’m fortunate to have such a supportive mate.” Bluemoon sighed contentedly. “Your kits are nearly warriors now. You must be excited.”

Snowspeckle wasn’t sure if it was a dig or a genuine observation. Bluemoon was more tolerable than most HoneyClan cats, but even she had a way of prodding at sore spots.

“I’m thrilled,” Snowspeckle answered smoothly. “They’ll make great warriors.”

Bluemoon didn’t push further as Rookstar returned, carrying a bowl for his mate before settling beside her. “Thank you for coming. I hope you don’t mind Bluemoon being present—I’d rather not be away from her this far into her pregnancy.”

“I don’t mind,” Snowspeckle replied politely. “Let’s begin.”

The meeting dragged into sunhigh, the heat growing heavier as they discussed OakClan and DuskClan. Rookstar spoke of OakClan’s scent lingering past the borders, particularly near their graveyard. Archstar dodged all attempts to address it, claiming it was handled, yet the scent always returned.

Finally, after enough incidents, they realized it was the same cat each time. No one Rookstar recognized, but HoneyClan planned to identify them at the next gathering.

Swiftdance even returned with a broken tree branch, unusually serious as she asked Snowspeckle to scent it. The scent was undeniably OakClan—but unrecognizable to her.

For her part, Snowspeckle shared what little they had learned from DuskClan. The abandoned nest’s border remained unstable, and though encounters had been civil, there was an underlying unease. She mentioned the nightmares and Crowpaw’s vague revelations. None of it provided answers.

“Well, I’m sorry you traveled all this way for so little,” Rookstar sighed, tail flicking in frustration. The weight of the unknown bore heavily on him.

“It’s alright. I wish I could’ve been more help.” Snowspeckle exhaled, rubbing at her temple. “It’s awful, being kept in suspense. Just waiting for something to happen.”

Rookstar nodded, lost in thought.

A sudden gasp from behind startled Snowspeckle. She turned to see a large apprentice staring at her, amber eyes wide.

“Sunpaw, don’t be rude,” Bluemoon chided, though the tom remained transfixed.

Rookstar beckoned him closer. “This is our son, Sunpaw. He’s a little older than your kits.”

Sunpaw beamed and bowed—deeply, clumsily. “It’s nice to meet you!”

Snowspeckle chuckled. “Nice to meet you too. What are you training as?”

“I’m gonna be an artisan!” he announced proudly, fur fluffed up with excitement.

“That’s lovely!” Snowspeckle purred. “I’m an artisan as well. I look forward to seeing your crafts.”

Sunpaw nearly vibrated with joy. “It’s so nice to meet you!”

She laughed. “You said that already.”

His eyes grew impossibly round. “It’s just—you’re a deputy! And an artisan! That’s so cool!”

She blinked, taken aback by his enthusiasm. “It’s not common, but there’ve been a few before me.”

“None that I’ve met,” he whispered, awed. “This is awesome.”

Bluemoon and Rookstar exchanged amused glances, clearly surprised by their son’s eagerness. His openness was unlike HoneyClan’s usual smooth confidence, and yet, Snowspeckle found herself unexpectedly warmed by it.

For the first time that day, she felt the trip had been worth it.

That feeling lingered, even as she left, even as Swiftdance escorted her, even as the sun-scorched rocks burned beneath her paws. And even as she washed the scent of another molly from her fur in the tide pools, she couldn’t shake the smile tugging at her whiskers.

It was late at night when Wolfstar pulled Lynxdawn from her nest. The kits were snoring, curled up in a warm heap, undisturbed as their mother stepped out into the cool night air.

Blinking sleep from her eyes, Lynxdawn yawned widely. "What’s going on?"

"I had a dream. I think it was a vision." Wolfstar shuffled her paws, glancing around as if making sure they were alone.

It took Lynxdawn a moment to realize they were. No Shadowdive or Mallowstripe trailing at Wolfstar’s heels, no comforting presence flanking their leader. The sight was unsettling—Wolfstar was rarely alone, let alone looking this shaken.

The silence pressed heavy between them, thick as the salt in the air. "Can we go to the waves?" Wolfstar asked, her voice quiet but urgent.

"Yeah." Lynxdawn yawned again but followed the white molly to the edge of camp, where the ocean kissed the shore.

Technically, they had stepped beyond the camp’s boundaries, just past the jagged rocks that marked the entrance. But they were still visible from the dens, and the crashing waves muffled any conversation, granting the illusion of privacy.

The cool water lapping at Lynxdawn’s paws woke her fully. "What did you see?" she asked, breaking the heavy silence. Wolfstar was not often one to hold back.

"I was here." Wolfstar murmured, pressing a paw into the wet sand. "But the sand was white—like old bones. And the sea was red."

Lynxdawn stiffened. This was surely a vision. "Did anything happen?"

Wolfstar hesitated. "A cat rose from the waves, their fur blending into the bloody water. Their eyes—her eyes—were gone. Just empty, black holes."

A shiver ran down Lynxdawn’s spine. For a fleeting moment, she wanted to retreat from the tide, to step away from the lapping water. But she stayed firm.

"Her jaw hung open," Wolfstar continued, voice barely above a whisper. "I could see everything inside—her teeth, the soft flesh of her mouth. She rose from the horizon, walking on the water like it was solid ground. Closer and closer, until I couldn’t move. I woke up when she pressed her nose—if she had one—to mine."

The wind picked up then, tugging at their fur. Lynxdawn swallowed, the vision digging cold claws into her stomach.

"This was surely a vision," she said firmly, though her own conviction wavered. Her gaze flicked to her leader, studying her haggard expression. "But from who? That’s the question."

Wolfstar’s jaw clenched. "Do you think... do you think it wasn’t StarClan that led me here?"

Lynxdawn balked, her breath hitching. "How could you say that? You met Nettletuft! Clouddawn practically raised me!"

Wolfstar flinched. "I know! Maybe they did lead us here, but it feels like... like something else set this in motion."

The wind died suddenly, an eerie stillness settling over them, as if the coast itself held its breath.

"We need faith now more than ever," Lynxdawn said, voice steady despite the dread curling in her belly. "We were ordained by StarClan many times. You can’t forget that."

Wolfstar was silent, her hackles raised as she stared out at the sea. When she finally turned back, Lynxdawn recoiled at the wild look in her eyes—red-rimmed, bloodshot, frantic.

"Do you think the prophecies about us were sent by the Dark Forest?" Wolfstar’s voice was barely more than a whisper, but the words felt like a snarl in Lynxdawn’s ears.

A sickening chill twisted in Lynxdawn’s gut. The image of her kits, sleeping soundly in their nest, grounded her, but she couldn’t shake the feeling that they were suddenly... unprotected.

"We should go back." She straightened, hackles rising. Everything felt wrong out here—the ocean, the air, and most of all, the way Wolfstar was looking at her.

But Wolfstar wasn’t finished. "Do you think StarClan sent us here to correct what was told to my mother? Doesn’t it feel like we aren’t welcome here?"

"We are blessed by StarClan!" Lynxdawn snapped, stepping back.

"There’s something else here, Lynxdawn." Wolfstar’s voice was a hiss, her eyes gleaming feverishly. "Something that was here before us. And it wants us out."

Lynxdawn reared onto her hind legs and shoved her. Wolfstar collapsed into the wet sand with a startled gasp as the waves rushed over her, soaking her fur.

"Enough!" Lynxdawn barked, breath coming fast.

Wolfstar coughed, sputtering as seawater stung her nose. But as she sat up, something in her posture shifted. Her body sagged, the manic glint in her eyes dimming, as if she had just woken from a fever dream.

"I’m sorry," she murmured, shaking out her drenched fur. "I don’t know why I said that. I’m just... I’m so worried. I don’t know what to do."

Lynxdawn exhaled, still rattled but unwilling to let her leader suffer alone. "I’ll make us some tea for the stress," she offered. "Maybe it’ll help us sleep tonight. We’ll talk more in the morning."

They pressed their foreheads together, purring despite the unease still coiled in their chests.

As they turned to leave, something blocked their path.

Lynxdawn stopped short, her stomach dropping like a stone. "Was that there before?"

Wolfstar stepped in front of her, bristling. "No."

A dark shape lay in their way, its scent curling into Lynxdawn’s nose—a mix of feathers and fish. Wolfstar padded forward cautiously, eyes scanning the darkness for an unseen enemy.

"It’s a puffin," she murmured.

They drew closer. Lynxdawn hesitated before lowering her nose to inspect the bird. Its scent was fresh. Too fresh.

"Wolfstar," she whispered, voice trembling. "Look at it."

Wolfstar crouched beside her, peering at the lifeless bird. "It’s covered in claw marks."

The words felt like ice sliding down Lynxdawn’s spine. The scent of blood was sharp in the air. Wounds marred the puffin’s body—deep, deliberate. Its wings were stretched out unnaturally, as if it had been flying when it died.

"I’ve never seen a dead bird look like that." Wolfstar swallowed, glancing around the darkness.

Lynxdawn’s breath hitched. "This was placed here." Her voice was barely audible over the crashing waves. "This was placed here by something."

Sage, rosemary, tansy.

The words echoed in Lynxdawn’s mind like a drumbeat.

Those were the essentials for protective channeling—the bare minimum she needed to safely invoke a patron.

But was it enough?

She clenched her jaw, scanning the shelves of her den.

Cedar for banishment. Thistles to ward off spirits. Hawthorn, betony, thyme—any of those could add another layer of protection.

But what about clarity? If she was calling on a patron for guidance, shouldn’t she include something for that too? Calendula? Lilac? Eyebright was too scarce, but maybe a rarer herb would make the ritual stronger?

A dull ache throbbed behind her eyes. With an irritated grunt, she snatched a dried dandelion from the shelf and chewed it, hoping it would ease her headache.

Mullein. That could work. Burned, it cleansed the spirit of nightmares and possession. She could mix it with beeswax and tallow to make a torch.

Or yarrow. Or mugwort. Or nettles. Or—

“No, basil’s for tools and prosperity,” she muttered, exasperated.

“What is?”

Lynxdawn jumped, fur bristling. She spun around to find Shadowdive standing at the den’s entrance, his dark fur nearly indistinguishable from the shadows behind him.

“Basil,” she said, voice hoarse. “It’s for tools and prosperity.” Her ears drooped with exhaustion. “What are you doing up?”

He shrugged. “Couldn’t sleep. Wolfstar’s on guard, Mallowstripe’s with your kits. Figured I might as well be useful.”

Lynxdawn exhaled sharply, turning back to the shelves. “No offense, but I don’t think you’ll be much help with this.”

Shadowdive didn’t move. He just leaned against the entrance, watching her.

“What’s the issue?” His voice was low, almost gentle.

She huffed, annoyed at herself as much as at him. “I don’t know what herbs to use for the ritual.”

“The channeling ritual?”

She nodded, ears flicking as he stepped inside and sat beside her.

“What’s it for?” His tail brushed against hers.

She hesitated, feeling foolish. “It’s for cleansing and protection.”

His expression darkened into a glare. “I knew that, mouse-brain. I meant, what kind of cleansing?”

Lynxdawn scowled, but at least the embarrassment subsided. “Spiritual cleansing.”

He gestured to the shelves with a large paw. “At least one of these should work, right?”

“That’s the problem!” she groaned. “I have ten different herbs that could work, and I don’t know which to pick.”

Shadowdive tilted his head, ears brushing against hers. “Can’t you just use all of them? Like, one leaf each?”

“That’s not how this works, Shadowdive.” She knocked her head against his shoulder in mild annoyance. "It needs to be a specific combination."

"You don't know the recipe?" Shadowdive asked incredulously. "Shouldn’t this have been part of your training?"

Lynxdawn threw her head back with a groan, tail lashing. "That’s just not how it works!"

He scoffed, rolling his eyes. "Then explain it. I’ve never seen this stuff before."

She sighed, rubbing her face with a paw. "I haven’t either. That’s the hard part about being a cleric. The ritual I’m trying to perform is called invocation—I’m trying to invoke a cat from StarClan. To do that, I need to use the right combination of herbs and items."

Shadowdive’s gaze flicked over the shelves. "And if you use the wrong ones?"

"Either I summon no one... or the wrong patron—one that won’t cleanse or protect us."

His whiskers twitched. "Oh, like how camp keepers invoke Scorchstar to start fires on rainy days." He absently peeked into a bowl on the lower shelf, sniffing at the fine green powder inside.

"Kinda," Lynxdawn said, pulling the bowl away from him with slow, deliberate care, eyeing him like she would an overeager kit. "That’s just prayer—hoping Scorchstar hears and has the ability to help. What I’m doing is channeling. It’s different. The herbs and items act as a sort of sacrifice, eh more like an exchange."

He flicked an ear, nodding for her to continue.

"It’s like saying, ‘Here’s the spiritual energy of these items. Please use it to help me.’ But each herb works differently. Like this one—" She held up a stalk of dried mullein. "Mullein protects against nightmares and spiritual enemies."

"That would help us now, right?" He sniffed it cautiously.

"Yes, but not enough." She set it aside. "It’d protect against nightmares and visions, but we’d still be vulnerable to physical attacks. A strong dark spirit could cause real harm if we aren’t careful."

"Then let’s find something to use with it," he suggested.

She scowled, feeling like she was back at step one. "That’s the problem. What’s the right combination? What’s the next herb?" She huffed, glancing toward the entrance where the sky was beginning to lighten.

Morning was close. Soon, everyone would expect her to walk out of this den with a perfect plan to fix everything.

"Well," Shadowdive said, snapping her out of her thoughts, "what would you use for physical protection?"

She hesitated, and he nudged her. "No thinking. You already know."

Lynxdawn rolled her eyes but answered immediately. "Burdock—it protects the camp and dens."

"And outside of camp?"

She smiled as the answer came easily. "Tansy—it prevents injury and enhances intuition."

"Perfect. What about cleansing?"

"Rosemary clears the mind of doubt. Thyme and sage are good for purifying physical spaces." She pulled a few jars down.

Shadowdive purred, bumping his head against hers. "Anything else?" His tone was smug, but she let it slide.

For the first time in hours, she felt like she was getting somewhere.

Lynxdawn frowned at the gathered herbs, her tail-tip twitching. Was this truly enough? Was it the right combination?

Shadowdive nudged her shoulder again. "You're overthinking it."

She scoffed. "You make it sound easy."

"It is." He stood, stretching. "You’re the expert. You know what you're doing. And if you don’t—" he gave a pointed glance at the herbs, "—figure it out like you always do."

She sighed but didn't argue. He was right, even if she hated to admit it. "I just wish I had more time."

"You don’t," he said bluntly. "Sun’s coming up."

Lynxdawn cast a glance toward the entrance, where the first pale light of dawn was creeping in. Soon, the others would be waking. Soon, they would all be looking to her.

"Then I better get started," she muttered.

Shadowdive hesitated, then flicked her ear with his tail. "Good luck." And with that, he slipped out of the den, his dark fur melting into the disappearing shadows.

Lynxdawn turned back to the herbs, taking a deep breath. No more doubts. No more second-guessing.

She reached for the rosemary first.

Time to call upon the stars.

Cat Allegiances:

Wolfstar- 22 moons. Leader. Responsible. Compassionate. Natural intuition. Apprentice- Ripplepaw.

Lynxdawn- 17 moons. Lead Cleric. Thoughtful. Loving→Faithful. Good teacher.

Snowspeckle- 33 moons. Deputy. Artisan. Loving. Thoughtful. Good singer.

Nightleap- 37 moons. Warrior. Insecure. Sneaky. Incredible runner.

Mallowstripe- 23 moons. Camp keeper. Nervous. Careful. Strange dreamer.

Shadowdive- 21 moons. Warrior. Blood thirsty. Loyal. Good swimmer. Apprentice- Otterpaw.

Ripplepaw - 9 moons. Warrior apprentice. Troublesome. Fearless→ Adventurous. Fast runner. Mentor- Wolfstar.

Otterpaw - 9 moons. Warrior apprentice. Attention seeker→Insecure. Bouncy. Good swimmer. Mentor- Shadowdive.

Dropletkit- 4 moons. Skittish. Shy. Interested in clan history.

Kelpkit- 4 moons. Charming. Quiet. Plays in mud.

Coralkit- 4 moons. Noisy. Bossy. Never sits still.

Sandkit- 4 moons. Impulsive. Noisy. Moss ball hunter

Moon 0

#clangen #warrior cats #wc #saltclan #moon 16 #saltclan moon update

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calmingmelody96 · 13 days ago

Text

The Dragon's Niece

Chapter 4 - The Dragon's Grief

Warnings: medival sexism, jealousy, mean Daemon, chracter death Masterlist

The grand hall of the Red Keep was alive with laughter, music, and the hum of conversation. The torches flickered with the wind that swept through the high windows, casting long shadows across the polished stone floors. It was a night of celebration—one of many—but this time, it held particular significance. It was a feast in honor of the future heir, for Aemma was with child once more, and this time, King Viserys harbored a quiet hope that it would be a son.

Daemon's eyes never left her. He sat across the hall, his posture perfect, his gaze dark and brooding as always. But tonight, his mind was elsewhere. As he watched Melly, now 14, move gracefully through the sea of courtiers and lords, her silver hair cascading in soft waves down her back, something twisted inside him. She was growing older. It was undeniable. She was no longer the little girl who had clung to his side for comfort. No, she was becoming a woman.

And it unsettled him.

Melly laughed as one of the knights, Ser Gwayne Hightower, made a joke. His presence hovered too closely for Daemon's liking, and Melly's sweet giggle rang through the air, something about it making Daemon's chest tighten in a way he could not explain. He had always been her protector, her guide. But now, seeing her smile at someone else with such ease—it bothered him.

"You're staring at her again," Rhaenyra's voice broke through Daemon's thoughts, and he turned his sharp gaze to his niece, who was standing at his side.

He said nothing for a moment, his eyes fixed on Melly as she joined the dancing circle, the knight at her side. She was laughing again, her cheeks flushed with enjoyment. Daemon's lips pressed into a thin line.

"What's the matter, uncle?" Rhaenyra pressed, tilting her head. "Is it not proper for her to have fun?"

"Not with him," Daemon growled lowly, his hand tightening around his goblet. His eyes flashed dangerously toward the knight, his features sharp. "She's too young to be playing at such things."

Rhaenyra's brow furrowed. "She's not a child anymore."

Daemon's gaze flicked back to Melly, and for a moment, the weight of Rhaenyra's words struck him. Melly wasn't a child anymore. She was growing, blossoming into a young woman, and he—he didn't know how to handle it.

Later that evening, as the festivities began to die down, Daemon found himself pacing outside Melly's chambers. The scent of roses and night-blooming jasmine drifted through the air, but it did nothing to calm him. His thoughts were clouded with jealousy and unease.

His boots echoed down the hallway as he walked toward her room. He was no longer the calm, collected prince; he was restless, unsettled. When he reached her door, he knocked once, then entered without waiting for an invitation.

Melly was sitting at her vanity, her fingers still tangled in the ribbon of her gown. She looked up in surprise, her face lighting up when she saw him.

"Uncle Daemon!" she exclaimed, rising to greet him. Her smile was warm, unaware of her uncle's rage and jealousy.

"Melly," he began, his voice sharp. "We need to talk."

Her brow furrowed. "What about?"

Daemon closed the door behind him with a soft thud, his eyes locking onto hers. "You were laughing with that Hightower cunt tonight," he said, his tone darker than he intended. "You were spending far too much time with that fool."

She blinked, confused. "He was just being friendly, Uncle. He was telling jokes, and I—"

"No," Daemon cut her off, his voice hardening. "It was more than that. You let him get too close. You—" He took a step forward, his eyes flashing with frustration. "You should know better."

Melly stood there, her mouth slightly agape, taken aback by the intensity of his words. "Uncle, I was just enjoying the evening. It's not a crime."

"No," Daemon muttered, his gaze darkening. "You're not allowed to entertain such men. You're not some prize to be won." He felt his chest tighten as his anger flared, a storm of emotions crashing inside him. "I won't have it."

"Daemon, please," Melly began. "It's just a dance, and a few words. I'm not—"

"Enough!" Daemon's voice rose, the harshness in it causing her to take a step back. Her eyes widened, a flash of fear passing over her face.

She opened her mouth to protest, but before she could, Daemon was standing in front of her, his hand gripping her arm with more force than he intended. His breath came out in quick bursts. "If I am telling you not to entertain those fools of the court, you will not continue to defy me! Understand?"

Her heart pounded in her chest as she looked up at him, her thoughts swirling. She could feel his anger and his possessiveness in the air like an electric charge. But there was something else—something darker, something deeper. She wanted to fight back, to tell him that she was her own person, but the way he looked at her, the way his presence filled the room—it made her freeze.

"Please," she whispered, the words escaping her lips before she could stop them. "Don't be angry with me."

Daemon's features softened for just a moment, and his hand released hers. But the tension in the room remained thick, heavy with unspoken emotions. He turned away, running a hand through his silver hair, clearly frustrated with himself.

"Get some rest, niece" he muttered, his tone no longer angry. "Tomorrow, there is an even bigger event."

The courtyard of the Red Keep was alive with the frenetic energy of the joust, knights charging at one another, their lances meeting with a thunderous clash. The sun hung low in the sky, casting a golden glow over the spectacle, but Daemon's attention was not on the knights or the cheers of the crowd. His gaze had long since been fixed on one figure — his niece, his sweet little Maeliora.

Melly, for her part, had noticed Daemon's gaze upon her, his eyes following her movements with an intensity that she could not ignore. There had been moments, especially in the last few months, where her connection to him had changed—shifted in ways she wasn't sure she understood. It wasn't just the odd, fleeting moments of awkwardness that had passed between them recently, nor was it the long hours of silence that had followed their last conversation. It was something else, something quieter, but no less powerful.

She couldn't help but watch him, the brooding prince, standing off to one side. There was something different in the way he looked at her now, a softness to his gaze that had not been there last night. Perhaps it was just her imagination, but every glance seemed to linger a fraction longer than usual. Her heart fluttered at the attention, but she dared not dwell on it too much.

Daemon's eyes flicked to the knights, and then to the stands, where his brother, King Viserys, stood with a mix of pride and anxiety. His thoughts shifted briefly, before returning to his niece.

"Princess," he said, after a beat of silence, "perhaps you'd like to show your support for your dear uncle, hmm?"

He took a small, deliberate step toward her. "Would you grant me the honour of your favour?" She looked up at him, her lips parting, and for the briefest of moments, the entire world seemed to still. Without thinking, she reached down, her fingers trembling slightly as she took the ribbon that she had tied and decorated with flowers. With a small smile, she handed it to him.

"For you, my prince," she said, her voice barely above a whisper, a mixture of formality and something more.

Daemon's lips curved into a smile, and for a moment, the weight of the world seemed to fall away from his shoulders. He took the ribbon from her, his fingers brushing hers in a brief, electric touch. His eyes softened as he stared into her eyes, a rare moment of tenderness flickering in his gaze.

"Thank you, princess." As Daemon turned away, Melly's eyes lingered on him, her heart beating faster than before. She couldn't quite place the feeling that had settled in her chest—was it admiration? Was it something deeper?

Daemon strode toward the field with purpose, his boots clicking against the stone as he moved. He was a force that could not be ignored, and the crowd parted before him. His eyes were fixed on one person—Ser Gwayne Hightower.

The knight looked up as Daemon approached, a frown crossing his face when he saw the intent in the prince's eyes. Daemon stopped in front of him, his posture tall and commanding.

"Ser Gwayne," Daemon said, his voice low but carrying. "I've been watching you today. Quite the joust you've had."

Ser Gwayne gave a stiff bow of his head, though he seemed unsure of the prince's mood. "My prince," he replied. "It is an honor to be in your presence."

"Is it?" Daemon's smile was cold, sharp. "Then perhaps you would care to prove your skill against me, on the field?"

There was no mistaking the challenge in his tone, and Ser Gwayne's brows furrowed. The crowd, sensing the tension, began to murmur. Daemon's reputation as a fierce duelist was known throughout the realm. But it was not just the contest that had brought Ser Gwayne's name to Daemon's lips. It was the man's proximity to Melly from yesterday's feast.

Ser Gwayne hesitated, his eyes darting between Daemon and the onlookers, but he stood his ground. "If it is your wish, my prince," he said with a forced calm, "then I shall gladly oblige."

The two knights mounted their horses, and the heralds announced the duel. The crowd hushed as Daemon and Ser Gwayne squared off, their lances raised, ready for the charge. Daemon's eyes locked onto Ser Gwayne, his expression a mixture of focus and something darker. He wasn't simply jousting for sport. This was personal.

The signal was given, and both knights spurred their horses forward with thunderous speed. The lances collided with a loud crack, and in that moment, it was clear who the better rider was. Daemon's aim was true, his strength unmatched, and with a swift twist of his lance, he sent Ser Gwayne crashing to the ground, his horse rearing in panic before galloping away.

The crowd erupted in shocked applause, though many could see that Daemon had not just bested the knight in combat. It was something more—a statement, a declaration. He had made sure to humiliate Ser Gwayne, sending a message that would not soon be forgotten.

Daemon dismounted from his horse with grace, his eyes never leaving Ser Gwayne, who lay stunned on the ground. He approached the fallen knight slowly, his footsteps deliberate.

"Perhaps next time, you should keep your distance from what does not concern you," Daemon said coldly, his voice carrying across the field.

The subtle implication of his words was not lost on the onlookers. Melly, still standing at the edge of the crowd, felt a strange chill run through her. Her gaze shifted between Daemon and Ser Gwayne, the tension between the two men palpable. She had seen the challenge, the flash of anger in Daemon's eyes—and it unsettled her more than she cared to admit.

The next day, the mood had changed entirely.

The news of Aemma's and Baelon's death had come swiftly, the tragedy a sharp and cruel blow to the royal family. The joy of the previous night's celebration had been replaced by an air of heavy mourning. Aemma, beloved by all, was gone. Her life had ended too soon, and the weight of that loss pressed down on the shoulders of every Targaryen.

The funeral was held the next day. The courtyard was silent, save for the rustling of the mourners' clothes and the distant sound of Rhaenyra's dragon, Syrax, preparing to light the funeral pyre. Daemon stood beside Melly, his presence a quiet comfort as they stood together in their shared grief.

Melly was pale, her eyes red-rimmed from the tears she had shed the night before. She had never known grief like this, the weight of loss suffocating and heavy in her chest. But Daemon was there, standing with her, offering her the support that she hadn't known she needed. His hand rested gently on her shoulder, a steadying presence in the midst of the storm.

Her own dragon was absent. She had yet to bond with one of the great beasts, as her dragon egg never hatched, and in this moment, it seemed like a cruel reminder of what she lacked. But she had Daemon. And that, at least, offered some comfort.

Rhaenyra stepped forward, her eyes filled with the same grief, and with a single command, Syrax breathed fire, lighting the pyre. The flames roared to life, rising high into the sky, consuming Aemma's body in a final, fiery embrace.

Daemon's hand remained on Melly's shoulder, his grip firm but not possessive. He stood beside her in silent support, his eyes never leaving the fire. The flames cast flickering shadows on their faces, and in that moment, it was not just the funeral that consumed the air, but the heavy silence between them. The unspoken words, the complicated feelings, the bond they shared—none of it was voiced, but it lingered in the smoke and ash that rose from the pyre.

And as the flames crackled and roared, Daemon knew that the days to come would be even harder still.

♥️❥♡❦♥️❦♡❥♥️♥️❥♡❦♥️❦♡❥♥️♥️❥♡❦♥️❦♡❥♥️♥️❥♡❦♥️❦

End Notes: Thank you so much for reading! 💖 And again special big thanks to @paulyenvol6 for proof reading and helping me to pick a title for this chapter! :)♥️

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