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lotus-n-l0ve · 5 days ago

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CHAPTER 2

— Onychinus Leader!Sylus Qin X Mother!Female Reader

She Ran To Protect Their Child. He Built A Kingdom To Bring Them Home.・₊﹆ɞ‧₊

*⁠.⁠✧ SYNOPSIS : She was the daughter of his enemy. He was the king of a criminal empire. They fell in love, but when she found out she was pregnant, she vanished-fearing the life their child would inherit. Seven years later, Sylus finds her. And he's not here for revenge. He's here to take back what's his.

*⁠.⁠✧ WARNINGS & TAGS : Dad! Sylus, mom!reader, mafia, rivalry, second chance, secret baby, exes, time skip, past lovers, alternate universe, break in, angst, fluff, romance, love, mature language, stalking, threats, run away! y/n, mentions of pregnancy, blood, gore, dark romance, lovers to strangers, enemies to lovers, their daughter Elea, kiss, 22.2k words

*⁠.⁠✧ LOTUS NOTE : We are getting more of the past in this chapter. My love life is so dry that I can't even write an imaginary date 😭. Literally worked my butt off for that damn date. Also please don't hate y/n, she has solid reasons for what she did I swear.

*⁠.⁠✧ — NAVIGATION // LOVE & DEEPSPACE MASERLIST

➥ KISSED IN POISON : THE SERIES

➥ CHAPTER 1 // CHAPTER 2 // CHAPTER 3

➥ Heart Divider's By @/cafekitsune

DO NOT READ THIS IF YOU ARE NOT COMFORTABLE. MINORS DNI, IF YOU DO THEN IT'S YOUR OWN RESPONSIBILITY.・₊﹆ɞ‧₊

[9 YEARS AGO, CHANSIA CITY]

Two nights in a row. For the first time in your life, you sneaked in the middle of the night two days in a row. And the reason made you want to bang your head on the wall till you forget this embarrassing memory. It was so pathetic of you to risk your life just because your hormones can't stay put.

Two nights in a row. For the first time in your life, you'd snuck out in the middle of the night not once but twice. And the reason made you want to bang your head against the marble walls of your father's mansion until the memory cracked and slipped away.

It was pathetic you, the perfect daughter, the next heir, the girl with a dagger hidden behind her smile - risking your life because your traitorous heart and your cursed hormones couldn't stay put. Poor Sara-having to risk her life yet again just because of you.

Sylus Qin. His name tasted like a secret you'd never meant to keep. A name as sharp and alluring as the man himself dangerous, dark, sweet in a way that left bruises on your soul.

The previous night, you'd spent hours hidden away in a corner of the library, your knee pressed against his thigh as the two of you argued voices hushed but sharp over the tragic legend of the blue-blooded dragon and the luminary sorcerer.

One, bound by an ancient curse to destroy the very soul they loved most; the other, who poured her wrath into a spell that doomed every dragon's veins to hunger for the taste of her kind. And yet as if fate were some cruel trickster a prophecy bloomed from all that ruin: only a child born of the dragon's tainted blue blood and the sorcerer's celestial power could stand against the darkness when it rose to swallow the world whole.

The novel had no author's name, only a title inked in gold and a cover that looked like sorrow carved in paint - devastating and beautiful enough to feel like a promise.

Per Aspera Ad Astra.

Sylus had scoffed at it called it foolish, all that sacrifice for a world so quick to forget. But your heart ached for those two souls bound in the cruelty of fate's twisted joke doomed to be each other's destruction, yet the only salvation the world had left.

You'd stormed out were. Again. telling yourself you'd never come back. Yet here you were again.

You pulled your coat tighter around you, head lowered as you slipped through the half-buried alley behind the florist’s shop. Each footstep crunched on frost-laced cobblestones, your breath ghosting into the winter-dark like a secret you couldn’t hold in.

Inside, the bell above the bookshop door gave that soft chime — the sound that now made your blood sing instead of settle. You stepped in, your eyes blinking against the golden warmth of lamplight and old wood. The hush of paper and ink settled over you like a blanket.

You scanned the rows of books, each shadowed aisle holding a promise, a memory. But he wasn’t there. No sign of that beautiful sin draped in black, lounging where he shouldn’t be.

You told yourself the disappointment curdling in your chest was just nerves — the dread of your father discovering the gaps in your curfew. You drifted deeper into the aisles, fingertips grazing cracked spines — Fyodor, Woolf, Wilde — but none of them could hook your interest tonight. None of them were him.

Minutes slipped by like melting snow. The disappointment grew harder to ignore, a bitter ache you pretended wasn’t hope at all. Finally, you exhaled a shaky breath, hugging your coat tighter around your ribs. Maybe this was a sign. Maybe you should run home before your absence turned from suspicious to dangerous—

A tap on your shoulder made you flinch so hard you nearly knocked over a stack of secondhand hardcovers. You turned, your heart stuttering — stupidly, embarrassingly hopeful — only to find the half-bored teenage shop boy standing there, hair sticking out from beneath a knit cap.

“Uh… sorry.” He mumbled, shifting his weight, “A guy at the counter told me to give you this.”

He shoved a bouquet into your hands — carnations, wrapped in parchment paper. Your breath caught. Your fingers trembled around the stems, the cold moisture seeping through your gloves.

You blinked at the boy, “Who…?”

He shrugged, already turning away, “Said you’d know.”

Your eyes dropped to the carnations — lush, crimson petals cradled by parchment and tied with a ribbon so dark it nearly looked black in the soft library light. They were fresh enough to bead dew on your fingertips — like they’d just been cut for you alone.

Your pulse kicked, betraying every shield you’d built around your foolish heart. You slipped the small card out, the thick paper heavy between your gloved fingers. His handwriting — elegant, lazy, sinfully familiar — stared back at you, every word a dagger turned lovingly in your ribs.

“I know it’s not very gentlemanly of me to send this through someone else, but… work. I’ll make it up to you, sweetheart.”

Your breath caught on that word — sweetheart. He said it like a vow. Like a hook sunk deep into your throat.

“If you miss me — call. Or don’t. I’ll find you either way.

S— +42….”

Your thumb brushed over the number. So simple. So damn easy to dial. It shouldn’t feel like a lifeline and a noose all at once — but it did. And then the final line — slanted just slightly, as if he’d leaned closer to whisper it against your neck:

“PS: You looked absolutely beautiful tonight… and the other night. Would have admired you more if I’d had time.”

You could almost hear it — that low hum in his chest when he said things that were almost compliments, almost confessions. Your cheeks flamed, your mouth bitter with how much you hated and craved that stupid velvet voice.

The flowers quivered in your grip, petals brushing your wrist like his lips might if he were here — if you let him. Was he here? Did he drop off the bouquet himself? Maybe you could still find him.

You slipped the card back between the stems like it might burn you — like you’d keep it safe anyway. You had no idea if you’d ever dial that number. But you’d never throw it away. And you hated yourself for that.

You all but bolted from the shop, the bell above the door jangling frantically behind you. You nearly collided with another girl coming in — her yelp barely registered. Your eyes scanned the street — snow falling like confetti under the streetlights — but there was no sign of him. No dark coat in the shadows. No familiar silhouette leaning against the wall like he owned the whole city.

Disappointment clawed at you, cold and sharp. The smart thing would’ve been to tuck your chin down, press the flowers close, and hurry home before your father’s dogs noticed you were gone.

But your feet betrayed you — because next thing you knew you were across the street, pushing your way into the old glass phone booth that stood crooked under a flickering lamp. The cold air disappeared behind the warped door. Your breath fogged the glass, your heartbeat drowned out the snow’s hush.

You dug the card out again, fingers trembling as you matched each digit to the faded numbers on the dial. It was so stupid. So dangerous. But you pressed your finger into the dial anyway — once, twice — until the final number clicked into place.

The dial tone purred in your ear — each ring a slow, deliberate drag of teeth against your resolve. You didn’t even know what you’d say. Maybe he won’t pick up, you lied to yourself. Maybe this means nothing.

And then — click.

No greeting. Just his voice, velvet wrapped in a grin you could practically hear.

“Couldn’t resist, sweetheart?”

Your eyes fluttered shut, your forehead bumping against the cold glass as a helpless laugh escaped your lips — halfway between a sigh and a curse.

“How did you know it’s me?” You asked, your voice softer than you meant it to be — like he’d pulled it right out of your ribs.

On the other end, you could hear his smirk, velvet and sin, slipping between the static lines.

“Darling, who else would it be? You think I hand out my number on pretty cards to every girl wandering in the library at midnight?”

A pulse of warmth slid down your spine, making you press your palm flat against the booth’s glass. He let the silence linger, like he was listening to you breathe — like the sound of you alone was worth more than anything he could be doing right now.

“Maybe?” You echoed, trying for playful but it came out a little breathless, a little too real.

A soft hum on the other end — you could almost see the way his lips would curve, the slow drag of his thumb across his lower lip as he looked out into the night.

“Mm.” He made a low, amused sound, “It’s quite a problem, you know. Can’t read. Can’t sleep. Can’t work. All because I’ve got a voice in my head whispering about Dostoevsky and how I’m ‘infuriatingly smug.’”

You bit back a laugh — the memory of your argument still sweet on your tongue. Your free hand toyed with the edge of the card, crumpling it just a bit.

“Maybe you should find someone less… distracting, then.”

A low, velvet chuckle slid through the line — dangerous and sweet all at once.

“Darling, if I wanted less, I’d have married the first woman my father found for me the second I turned legal. But I find myself…” He paused — and you could feel the heat of that grin, even though you couldn’t see it, “…addicted to the real thing.”

Your pulse fluttered in your throat — reckless, traitorous.

“Addicted, huh?” You teased, hoping your voice didn’t tremble the way your fingers did, “You don’t even know me.”

A beat of silence. Then his voice dropped — silk catching on the edge of a blade.

“Oh, sweetheart — that’s the tragedy, isn’t it? I know just enough to be ruined. And not nearly enough to stop.”

“What work do you even have at midnight anyway?”

For a moment, all you hear is his quiet breath — then that low, lazy hum that makes your stomach twist.

“Ah. Curious now, are we?” His tone was teasing, but there was a shadow beneath it — something unspoken that made the night feel sharper around you, “I promise you, sweetheart — it’s nothing you’d want to lose sleep over.”

You rolled your eyes — he could almost hear it, because he laughed, low and genuine.

“If you don’t want to tell me, just say that.” You muttered, but your voice softened on the edges, curiosity gnawing at you. Who the hell was this man?

“It’s better this way, trust me.” His voice dropped — that hush you’d felt pressed against your skin the first night in the shop, “You’re too sweet for the details. Let me stay interesting a little longer, hm?”

You bit your lip, fighting a smile you didn’t want him to hear, “You’re impossible.”

Your breath caught — shamefully soft in your ear. You forced out a laugh that sounded a little too much like surrender.

“So what now?” You asked, the words tumbling out before you could think, “You going to stand me up? Alone? At this time? Even though I risked my life to get here?”

Your words were true. You did put your life on line by sneaking out but Sylus didn't need to know that. To him, these probably felt like words of tease.

Another low chuckle — dark, pleased.

“Never. You have my word. I truly have business to handle tonight — tedious, brutal, and entirely less interesting than you.” You could hear the faint sound of his coat shifting, like he was leaning back, letting the city sprawl at his feet, “But I can fix that. Unless you’d rather run back home and pretend you’re not desperate to see me again?”

Your mouth parted — an indignant little sound caught there. He was right, the bastard.

“I’m not desperate.”

“No?” He purred, “Then what are you doing out in this freezing cold, sweetheart? Freezing your pretty-self off just to see me again? Calling me barely a minute after I dropped off the bouquet just to hear my voice? Tell me.”

Your pulse was a drumbeat now — wild, hungry. You glanced out at the snow and wished you could lie.

“I wanted…” You breathed, the words catching in your throat, “I wanted to know if you meant it.”

“Which part?” He asked, softer now, a hush that slid beneath your skin, “The part about you looking beautiful? The part about missing me? Or the part where I said I’d find you either way?”

You bit your lip, eyes fluttering shut as you whispered, “All of it.”

A sigh, quiet but indulgent, filled your ear. You could imagine the way he’d look right now — head tipped back, eyes half-lidded, mouth curved in that dangerous promise of his.

“Every word, sweetheart.” His voice dipped, a low rumble of sin wrapped in silk.

A hush settled between you, the snow muffling the city outside the booth. You could almost feel him leaning closer through the line — that warmth and danger braided together.

“So…” He murmured, voice curling like smoke around your ear, “How about a proper date, sweetheart?”

You froze, your breath catching. Date. The word shouldn’t have made your heart thud like that.

“A date?” You echoed, hating how shy it sounded.

“Mhm,” He hummed, amused, “A real one. Just you and me. No dusty books, no midnight ghosts. Somewhere I can look at you properly — watch you try not to fall for me too fast.”

Your laugh came out flustered, half a huff, half a sigh, “You’re awfully sure of yourself.”

“No.” He corrected smoothly, “I’m sure of us.”

Your fingers tightened around the receiver, the cold glass at your back doing nothing to settle the warmth pooling in your chest.

“When?” You asked before you could stop yourself.

There was the faintest sound of leather shifting — maybe gloves brushing over his coat. When he spoke again, you could hear the smile in his voice.

“Two days from now.” He said, each word perfectly deliberate, “This Thursday, dinner. If that’s fine with you.”

Your lips parted, a breath of disbelief slipping out. Thursday. Two days. That soon. And yet — not soon enough.

“Yeah…” You managed, and you hated how breathless you sounded, “That’s fine.”

“Good girl.” It was a purr, a sinful little stroke down your spine, “Eight o’clock. I’ll pick you up.”

Your eyes snapped open, heart skidding in your chest.

“Pick me up?” You echoed, your tone climbing into something like scandalized laughter, “From my house?”

He hummed — a dark, amused sound, “Of course. I’m a gentleman, sweetheart.”

You let out a disbelieving scoff, your fingers pressing harder into the cold glass at your back, “You’re moving too fast, Sylus.”

“Mmm. I don’t think I'm moving fast enough.”

“I barely know you,” You shot back, your voice light but your pulse anything but, “What kind of girl do you take me for? Giving my address to a man I’ve known for — what — two nights?”

“Two very good nights.” His voice slid around your ribcage like silk, “Besides, you already know you’re safe with me.”

“Safe?” You teased, your mouth twisting into a grin even he couldn’t see, “For all I know you could be the most dangerous person I know.”

A low chuckle — a promise wrapped in danger, “Then trust me to be dangerous only for you, sweetheart.”

Your head hit the glass with a soft thunk. You hated how you were smiling, how your breath fogged up the phone booth window like a teenager.

“Nice try, Mr. Qin. No address. Not yet.”

“Then how should I find you, hmm?” He asked, that velvet threat weaving into his words, “Should I follow your footprints in the snow? Climb your balcony like a thief?”

“Try it and I’ll call the police.” You teased.

“You won’t.” He murmured, so certain, so terribly right, “Thursday, then?”

“Thursday. Pick me up from the library.” You breathed.

“Good. Sweet dreams, darling.”

“Goodnight, Sylus.”

[PRESENT TIME, LINKON CITY]

The memory faded like mist when you blinked, replaced by the muted clatter of boxes being shuffled through your hallway. The faint scent of carnations lingered under the stronger smell of spices and herbs. You didn’t even remember standing this still for this long — you’d been leaning against the kitchen doorway, arms crossed, watching Sylus take over your home like he’d never left.

Elea was over the moon — she’d skipped school altogether, clinging to Sylus like a baby koala to its branch. In all her tiny six years of life, you’d never seen her so adamant about anything. No coaxing or bribes could pry her from her father’s side — and honestly, you hadn’t had the heart to try.

The whole day drifted by in a soft blur of giggles and crayon stains and Elea’s high, excited voice filling corners of the house that had always felt too quiet before. She’d dragged Sylus from room to room — showing him her little hoard of drawings taped crooked on the walls, the flower she’d pressed between the pages of her homework notebook, the butterfly facts she’d written in that sprawling, wobbly handwriting of hers.

And Sylus — gods, you’d thought you’d seen him cold, you’d seen him cruel, you'd seen him soft like a rose petal, you’d seen him bored and amused and lethal — but never this. Never the way he went soft for her, crouching down so she could fix his hair with plastic clips shaped like stars and daisies, letting her drag him by the sleeve from one crayon masterpiece to the next, his low hums of praise so gentle they made your chest ache.

The day blurred into dusk far too quickly. And now — night. The windows had gone black, the soft hum of the city seeping through the walls. Sylus was in your kitchen like he’d always belonged there, sleeves rolled up to his elbows as he moved with that same lethal grace, stirring the pot on the stove like it was a weapon he knew better than anyone else.

He’d insisted on cooking — refused to let you lift a finger — so you’d perched keeping an eye on Elea while did her math homework. But every time you snuck a glance at her, you caught her eyes darting to the kitchen. Every two seconds, she’d peek over her shoulder, pencil tapping against her bunny’s floppy ear.

She'd scribble down a messy number and whisper for the ninth time in the span of ten minutes, "Is daddy done yet?"

You bit back a laugh, smoothing your hand over her curls, “Almost, baby. Why don't you complete your homework fast? By then daddy will be done with dinner."

A new fire of determination flashed in Elea’s eyes — her little tongue poked out as she scribbled numbers so hard her pencil nearly snapped. You hid a smile behind your hand before slipping away, your steps muffled by the hum of the city breathing through the windows.

The kitchen was warm — too warm. Or maybe that was just him. Sylus stood there, sleeves still rolled, steam curling up around the strong lines of his shoulders. He stirred the pot with a practiced flick of his wrist, like the wooden spoon was an extension of his hand — like even the simplest things bowed to his command.

You found yourself leaning back against the counter across from him, arms folded tight across your chest, heart doing that stupid, fluttering dance it had no business doing as you watched his back move in the kitchen like he knew every nook and corner of it.

Sylus didn’t look up right away — but you could see the corner of his mouth tip up when he felt you there, the way the tension shifted in his shoulders, like your presence was something he was always ready to lean into.

“How’s our little mathematician?” He murmured, voice low as he tasted the broth, the metal spoon glinting in the soft kitchen light.

“She's asking if the dinner is ready every two minutes.” You quirked an eyebrow, “So hurry up or she’ll riot.”

A quiet chuckle slipped from him — low, warm, dangerously fond. He set the spoon down, the scent of garlic and herbs wrapping around you both like a blanket.

“Can’t have that.” He wiped his thumb across the corner of his mouth, eyes flicking to yours, “I want to move in as soon as possible. Preferably by tomorrow."

"What?" Your voice snapped, "Don't you think you are moving too fast? I'm not even sure if I can trust you yet."

"So dramatic." Sylus whispered, throwing you an amused glance, "Or would you rather move in with me along with Elea?"

Your eyes narrowed, "Sylus—"

"What?" He tilted his head, eyes bright, "You said you don't trust me yet but you're standing right here, sweetheart. Watching me cook. Staying close enough to breathe me in. With our daughter in the next room. I'd say we're making progress."

You scowled at him, pulse misbehaving, "I'm keeping an eye on you just in case you decide to set this place on fire in the name of revenge."

“Ouch. You wound me, sweetheart.” The words rolled off his tongue like a purr, too warm, too easy — the kind of tone that made your heart misbehave more than you’d ever admit.

He turned back to the stove, giving the broth one last swirl before dipping the spoon in again. This time, instead of tasting it himself, he lifted it — careful, steady — and brought it to hover just inches from your lips.

“Here.” He murmured, eyes cutting to yours beneath those lashes, “Tell me if it’s good.”

Your mouth opened, words caught somewhere behind your teeth. He held the spoon there — patient, infuriatingly calm — like he had all the time in the world to watch you squirm.

“Why don't you test it?” You eyed the spoon suspiciously.

“Don’t be shy.” He coaxed, the corner of his mouth curving just a little more, “I promise I didn’t poison it. Yet.”

You shot him a withering glare but leaned forward anyway, lips brushing the warm metal. For Elea — you told yourself. The taste bloomed over your tongue — rich, savory, perfect. Too perfect.

“Hmm?” He tipped his head, studying you like he could see straight through your skull, “Good?”

You swallowed — the heat of it, the heat of him, “It’s… fine.”

“Fine?” His brows shot up, faux offended, “I need delicious. My girls deserve only the best."

Your stomach did that traitorous twist. My girls. The words still clung to your ribs like honey and barbed wire all at once.

You forced out a scoff, arms crossing tighter against your chest like that would protect you from the way his voice made your pulse stumble.

“Your girls?” You shot back, trying for bite, “There’s only one girl of yours here, Sylus. And she’s in the living room — doing math, not—”

His eyes flicked to yours — steady, unbothered — and the rest of your sentence shriveled on your tongue.

He let out a soft, humorless laugh as he set the spoon aside. Then he leaned in — slow, caging you in with one hand braced on the counter beside your hip. Not touching, but the heat of him made your skin prickle. His voice dropped, rough silk.

“Just because you woke up one day and decided that I wouldn’t absolutely burn the world down for you — and ran away without a word — doesn’t make you any less mine.”

Your throat closed up, the air between you thick with memories you’d buried so deep they ached to breathe.

“You can hate me all you want.” Sylus went on, eyes locked to yours like a promise carved into stone, “but I'm gonna pretend that I want you with every fiber in my body. Even if it makes you uncomfortable. I’ll take back the one who was mine. You.”

He paused then — close enough you could feel the warmth of his breath ghost over your cheek. His eyes dipped to your lips, then back up.

“And for that, sweetheart…” He hummed, that smile — more dangerous than any blade, “I need you to tell me what on earth actually happened.”

Your next breath came out shaky. You wanted to spit out a retort — to shove him back, to spit every damn detail of that night — no word came out. You couldn't utter a word because you knew the second you started talking, you would shatter like a fallen glass vase.

Outside, you could hear Elea’s pencil tapping on the table, oblivious to the storm brewing in her parents’ silence. Sylus pulled back just enough to smirk, voice softer now — so soft it scraped the raw edges inside you.

“I’ll wait.” He murmured, “However long it takes.”

Then he turned back to the stove, the faint clink of the spoon against the pot the only sound that dared to fill the space he left behind. You stayed pressed to the counter, arms crossed so tight they almost bruised your ribs, the ghost of his breath still warm on your cheek.

He didn’t look at you again — didn’t need to. His voice came out low, almost casual, but the edge in it cut through the steam curling around him.

“Set the table, sweetheart.”

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t. Not with your pulse still stumbling over the weight of everything unsaid — the truth you’d buried under a thousand careful lies. The smell of garlic and herbs suddenly felt suffocating, the walls too close.

You set the table with stiff, deliberate movements. Fork. Knife. Spoon. Small glass for Elea — she’d spill it otherwise. Napkins folded, your hands trembling just enough that you hoped he didn’t see.

Behind you, Sylus hummed something low under his breath, tasting the soup again like nothing had happened — like he hadn’t just reminded you that no matter how many locks you’d thrown over your heart, he still knew exactly where the key was buried.

When you finally turned to call for Elea, you felt his eyes on your back — warm, sure, inevitable.

Dinner was… fine. More than fine, actually — but only because Elea, in all her tiny, relentless sunshine, refused to let the dark edges creep back in. She babbled about her day at school, her favorite flowers, the new bunny sticker she’d stuck on her notebook — you’d swear Sylus would have nodded along even if she’d recited the entire encyclopedia backward.

Every time you looked up, you caught Sylus watching her with this look you couldn’t decipher — soft and unguarded, the way you’d seen him only once before. He didn’t interrupt her once, just kept spooning more food onto her plate, his eyes bright with something dangerously close to awe.

You pretended not to notice how he’d cut your portion just right, how he’d poured your drink without asking, how his knee brushed yours under the table — steady, warm, present. Like he was staking a claim he didn’t have to say out loud.

Elea beamed the whole way through, blissfully oblivious to the thousand unspoken things passing between her parents.

But the problem — the real problem — started when you’d finished clearing the plates, when Sylus stood to slip back into his coat. Elea was on him in a heartbeat, her arms like tiny iron bars clinging around his waist.

“No, daddy — no! Stay! Stay here!” She hiccuped, face buried against his pants. Her tiny shoulders shook with each sob, “Don’t go away again, please… mommy, tell him to stay.”

“Hey…” Sylus crouched low, one big hand cradling her head so gently, “I promised you, didn’t I? Daddy’s not going anywhere. I’ll be right back tomorrow. You won’t even notice I’m gone.”

Elea just wailed harder, bunny clutched so tight you worried the ears might come off. Her eyes — those same eyes she got from you — flicked up, glassy and desperate.

“Mommy — mommy, please! Can he stay? I’ll be good, I promise! Please don’t make him leave.”

Your chest squeezed so painfully you almost said yes, right then, just to make the tears stop. But your mouth wouldn’t move — and neither would the old fears lodged in your ribs like splinters.

Sylus’s eyes met yours over her shoulder — something soft and pleading buried in the ice-blue. He didn’t push, didn’t demand, didn’t force you like you half-expected him to. He just scooped Elea up, rocking her gently, murmuring in that low, steady voice you were coming to know all too well.

“Little dove.” He whispered, pressing a kiss to her temple, “I’ll be right here. Tomorrow, and the next day, and every day after that. Okay? You trust daddy, don’t you?”

She sniffled, snuggling closer, her tiny fingers fisting the lapel of his coat, “Promise?”

“Promise.” He said — and you could feel the vow curl around the edges of your own bruised heart, warming places you wished would stay cold.

When he finally set her down — her eyelids heavy with exhausted tears — she clung to your side instead, still hiccuping, still watching him like she was afraid he’d vanish if she blinked.

And Sylus — Sylus just looked at you. Quiet. Certain. Like he knew no matter how many times you bolted, he’d find a way to stay.

“I’ll see you both tomorrow.” He said, his voice—all gentle thunder as he opened the door, “Keep our girl safe for me, sweetheart.”

You couldn’t speak — so you just nodded, holding Elea tighter. And the echo of the door closing behind him felt like something dangerous and tender all at once.

That night, the house felt too quiet — like it was holding its breath. You’d tucked Elea into the middle of your bed, her bunny nestled tight under her chin, the tip of one ear already soggy from all the tears she’d shed clinging to Sylus’s coat.

You smoothed a hand over her hair, brushing away the stray curls that always stuck to her damp cheeks. Her eyes, still glassy with sleep, blinked up at you — wide, trusting, far too big for someone so small.

“Mommy?” She whispered, her voice so soft it barely made it past the covers, “Daddy… he’ll be back, right?”

You froze, your hand stilled mid-stroke. For a heartbeat, you wanted to lie — to tell her the perfect fairytale version, no cracks, no shadows. But the promise you’d seen in Sylus’s eyes tonight burned at the back of your mind, steady as an ember.

You swallowed the ache in your throat and forced your voice to be warm — solid — the mother she deserved.

“He’ll be back, baby.” You murmured, pressing a kiss to her temple, “Daddy promised, didn’t he?”

Elea nodded, but her little fingers crept up to clutch at yours, her bunny squished between you both, “Daddy doesn’t break promises?”

You let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding — your eyes drifting to the darkened hallway where you could still feel his presence, lingering like the faint scent of carnations.

“No.” You said, quiet but certain — more certain than you’d let yourself feel in years, “Daddy never breaks promises.”

Her eyes fluttered closed at that, her grip on your hand loosening as sleep pulled her under. You stayed like that a moment longer — tracing her knuckles with your thumb, staring at the tiny heartbeat you and Sylus made together.

[9 YEARS AGO, CHANSIA CITY]

You were annoyed, to say the least. Thursday had come in a blink — so fast it made your head spin. Two days, that’s all you’d had to tear through half the city, combing through silk and satin and soft chiffons until your fingers smelled like perfume and new fabric. The perfect dress. The perfect shoes. The perfect little bag that could hold your dreams — and your secrets — all at once.

Everything needed to be perfect. This was your first date — the first anything in your life that you’d chosen for yourself, on your own stubborn, foolish will. But in your frenzied quest for perfect lipstick shades and borrowed courage, you’d forgotten one small, crucial thing: How on earth were you going to sneak out?

Midnight was easy. Midnight gave you shadows — sleepy maids, half-drunk guards, a whole house lulled under the weight of its own secrets. But tonight? Sylus was coming for you at 8 p.m. Sharp. Bright. The hour when the house hummed loudest — when the table downstairs would be set with heavy porcelain and your father and brother would talk “business” in low, rough voices, pretending you weren’t there, yet demanding your presence all the same.

Tradition, they’d said once, when you were too young to understand why your stomach always turned to knots when you sat at that long, cold table. Family should eat together. Even if you were invisible. Even if you’d rather be anywhere else.

You sat on the edge of your bed now, your new dress laid across your bed like a beautiful mess. The clock on your wall ticked mercilessly toward 6:00. An hour to come up with a plan. An hour to find the courage to shatter the only thing that held you here — the illusion that you were safe in this pretty, suffocating cage.

Then — like the answer to a prayer you hadn’t dared to whisper out loud — came your saviour: Sara.

The only soul in that entire suffocating house who looked at you and saw you — not the pretty daughter, not the pawn to be traded at the right price, but you. She’d slipped in with arms folded and eyes dancing like she’d been waiting all day to pull you out of your misery.

“Pneumonia.” She’d said, biting back a laugh when you gaped at her, “Who’d want a sick little mess coughing all over their roast, hmm?”

And it had worked — like magic. When the doctor came, Sara was quick with the hot pack tucked under your sheets, your skin flushed and forehead beading sweat on command. The thermometer ticked up, the doctor frowned, your father’s mouth curled with disgust, and the final verdict was handed down like a blessing from the devil himself: Stay in your room. Rest. Do not come near the dining hall.

When they’d left, Sara locked the door behind them, pressing her back to it like she half-expected them to barge in again. But no footsteps came. No voices barked your name. Just silence. Freedom masquerading as fever.

She turned to you then, her grin wicked and soft all at once.

“Up.” She ordered, hauling you off the bed before you could blink.

Your new dress waited, a small, defiant rebellion draped across the sheets like spilled wine. Sara’s fingers were quick and sure — undoing the ties, tugging the soft ivory blouse over your shoulders. The fabric was lighter than air, its wide collar brushing your collarbones, tiny red flowers blooming against your skin like stolen kisses. The hem of the blouse was tucked into the deep wine-red skirt cinched at your waist, falling in neat pleats a few inches under your knees, brushing your bare feet as you swayed on the balls of your heels.

“Shoes—” Sara breathed, shoving the cream Mary Janes into your hands. “Bag?”

You held up the tiny burgundy bag like it was your ticket to another life — which, in a way, it was. Inside: a handful of crumpled bills, your mother's pocket watch, a compact mirror and a red lipstick. And your watch — the slim red leather strap biting into your wrist, ticking the seconds down until you’d be in his world, not theirs.

Sara fussed with your hair next, fingers gentle as she gathered it back, pinning the loose waves with a little gold barrette shaped like a crescent moon. It glimmered in the low lamplight — a secret piece of the night sky you’d carry with you.

“Perfect.” She whispered, standing back to admire you like you were some masterpiece she’d helped smuggle out of a locked gallery, “Now… don’t fall in love too fast, all right?”

You laughed — breathless, a little unsteady — and hugged her so tight she squeaked. And when you pulled back, you saw it in her eyes: the pride, the fear, the hope she dared to have for you.

“Go.” Sara breathed, already pushing you toward the balcony doors, that spark in her grin brighter than any chandelier, “Before they realize their sick little bird has learned how to fly.”

You slipped out like a ghost — feet barely touching the cold marble floors, heart hammering against your ribs loud enough you were sure it would give you away. The night air kissed your flushed skin the moment you ducked through the side door Sara had left cracked open for you, the scent of the garden’s damp earth and late-blooming roses mixing with your nerves.

The streets were quieter than usual, shadows swallowing your hurried steps as you pressed the little bag to your side like it could anchor you to this reckless freedom. You wished — not for the first time — that you could bring your phone. Having it would’ve been so convenient, so normal. But your father’s rules wrapped around you like barbed wire even now — the device tracked 24/7 by men who’d sooner lock you away than let you breathe the same air as your own choices.

So you walked. One block. Two. Past shuttered shops and flickering street lamps, the weight of your watch ticking heavy on your wrist. When the library’s familiar arched windows finally rose into view — pale light spilling through stacks of books like a sanctuary — you let out a breath you didn’t realize you’d been holding.

This place was yours. Untouchable. Your father’s reach ended right outside its old stone facade — his men had no authority here.

You slipped through the doors, the soft scent of old pages and ink wrapping around you like an old friend. You found your favorite corner — the one hidden behind the tallest shelves — and curled into the velvet chair, knees pulled up, the gold crescent moon barrette catching the warm lamplight.

You must have checked the clock on the far wall a hundred times, your foot tapping against the carpet every second that passed. 8:00 p.m. The time he’d promised.

And right on the dot, the world outside shifted — headlights slicing through the dark. You peeked through the dusty window just in time to see it: a sleek black car gliding up to the curb, so quiet it could’ve been a phantom.

Your heart somersaulted into your throat. Sylus Qin — your Sylus, even if you’d never dared to say it out loud — had come for you. Just like he’d promised.

Your fingers curled tighter around the strap of your bag. No shadows tonight. No walls. Just you. Just him. Just the wild, terrifying taste of a freedom that belonged only to you.

You almost ran out — embarrassingly fast, your shoes scuffing the stone steps of the library as the heavy door swung shut behind you. The cool night nipped at your bare collarbones.

And there he was — stepping out from behind the wheel like he owned the pavement beneath his feet. Sylus Qin. All shadow-slicked coat and dark hair tousled just enough to look like he’d run his fingers through it a few dozen times. The streetlight caught on the sharp line of his jaw, the faintest curl of a smirk ghosting over his mouth when his eyes found you.

“Easy there, sweetheart.” He drawled, voice so low that it glided down your spine, “Wouldn’t want you bruising those pretty knees before I even get you in the car.”

You huffed — but the sound caught somewhere in your throat the second you really saw him. Sylus Qin, right on time, not a hair out of place except for that deliberate tousle you knew he’d done just to make it look effortless. The streetlight turned the edges of his dark coat to silver, catching on the faint twist of a grin tugging at his mouth.

“I just… didn’t want to be late.” You muttered, clutching your bag like it might anchor you to the sidewalk.

He laughed — soft, low, a sound that seemed to slide under your skin. He stepped in close, boots brushing yours on the cracked pavement.

“Late?” He repeated, voice warm against your ear as he leaned in just enough to breathe you in, “Sweetheart, we have the whole night to ourselves."

Your heart did that traitorous flutter, and you hated that he could probably feel it — could sense every little thing you gave away just by standing there. His gaze dipped to your lips, lingering like he was tasting something only he could sense.

“Let me see you,” He murmured. His gloved fingers brushed the edge of your jaw, trailing up to the moon-shaped clip nestled in your hair, “Mm. Perfect. Did you wear this for me?”

“Nope.” You lied, but your voice cracked down the middle.

Sylus chuckled, thumb dragging softly along the edge of your earring.

“Liar. I like it.” His eyes flicked to yours, dark and sure and bright all at once, “You look…” He tilted his head, the streetlight catching in those sharp eyes, “Beautiful”

Your lips twitched, the compliment heating your cheeks in a way you hated him for. So you fired back, chin lifting just enough to hide the flutter in your chest.

“You don’t look half bad yourself, Mr. Qin.” You shot back, all false bravado, letting your gaze drop pointedly over his broad shoulders, the open collar of his shirt, “Though you could’ve at least tried. I did put in a little effort, you know.”

“Mm. So you did.” His voice dipped lower, silk over steel, “A pretty skirt, that sweet perfume — your favourite lip colour. I notice everything, sweetheart.”

His thumb brushed your bottom lip — so soft you almost leaned in.

“But next time you say you’re putting in effort, remember…” His mouth dipped just close enough that his words brushed the edge of your skin, “It’s never wasted on me.”

Your cheeks burned under the weight of his stare — that smile that said he knew exactly what he was doing to you. You ducked your gaze, fingers gripping the strap of your bag a little too tight.

“We should get going now.” You mumbled, clearing your throat, hoping he wouldn’t hear how breathless you sounded.

“Alright.” He murmured, straightening up, “Your wish is my command.”

He stepped back, the loss of his heat a betrayal your skin immediately mourned. With one hand, he popped open the passenger door, the other sweeping low to guide you inside — his palm grazing the small of your back, fingers lingering just a heartbeat too long.

“After you.” Sylus drawled, eyes dancing, “Before I lose control and skip all the formalities.”

The click of your seatbelt was almost too loud in the hush of the car as he rounded the hood, slipped into the driver’s seat, and shot you that same wicked, impossible smile.

“Ready?”

The engine hummed beneath you, low and smooth as Sylus pulled away from the curb. The city lights flickered past the window in a blur — gold and neon and sharp edges that made your heart pound in your chest for reasons you couldn’t quite name.

You kept stealing glances at him — the way one hand rested lazy on the wheel, the other drumming a slow rhythm on the console, the streetlights slipping like liquid gold across the sharp cut of his jaw. He looked unbothered, like this was just any other night. Like you weren’t sitting here trying not to choke on your own heartbeat.

You cleared your throat. Casual. “So… where are we going?”

Sylus didn’t look at you, but you saw the smirk tug at his mouth, the corner of his lips catching the city’s glow.

“Impatient?” He murmured.

You scowled, ignoring the way his voice wrapped around your spine, “I thought we were going to a restaurant or something but you are driving towards the outskirts."

He hummed, that deep, thoughtful sound that always meant he was enjoying this more than he should.

“Sweetheart,” He called out, tapping the wheel once with his ringed fingers, “Has anyone ever told you that you don’t dream big enough?”

Your frown deepened when he turned off the main road — the neon signs fell away, replaced by quieter streets. Then the hush of water came up all around you, glittering in the moonlight. You sat up straighter, peering out the window. Docks. Wide, private. Yachts — not just boats, but floating palaces lined up like a kingdom of secrets.

“Wait…” You breathed, “Why are we at the port? Are you going to murder me and then dump my body in the sea?”

Sylus’s laugh was sudden, his fingers drumming once on the steering wheel before he cut the engine. The quiet that fell around you both was filled only by the soft slap of water against the docks.

“Murder you?” He echoed, turning to you with that maddening tilt of his head — all shadow and citylight catching in his eyes, “You wound me.”

You tried to glare at him — you really did — but the heat in his gaze made your pulse stutter in your throat. He leaned closer, one arm slung over the back of your seat like he owned every breath you took.

“If I wanted you gone, sweetheart…” His thumb brushed your chin, forcing your eyes to stay locked on his, “…you’d never see me coming. You’d just feel it — right here.”

He tapped your pulse point, the pad of his finger warm against your skin, lingering just a moment too long.

Your breath a humiliating hitch — and the corner of his mouth curved like he’d heard it, like he could taste the panic and the thrill mixing in your veins.

He leaned in — close enough that his hair tickled your cheek. His breath was warm as he spoke, words threading straight through your ribs.

“But I don’t want you gone.” Sylus’s smirk softened into something darker, hungrier, “I want you here. Right where you are.”

He pulled back just far enough to look at you — his eyes glinting under the streetlight, too bright, too sure, before he got down from the car. Your eyes followed as he rounded the car and stopped to your side.

The door opened. Your hands curled tighter around your bag. Your skin burned under his stare. But your door clicked open anyway, and Sylus’s gloved hand was there — palm up, patient, so infuriatingly steady.

You slipped your hand into his, and he squeezed — just once, just enough to tell you there was no turning back.

“Let me give you the best night of your life, sweetheart.” He murmured, lips brushing your knuckles like a vow, before he tugged you out into the night — toward the dock where the waiting yacht glowed like a secret kingdom built just for you.

Sylus led you down the private dock, your hand swallowed in his — warm, steady, that subtle squeeze every few steps like he liked reminding you you were tethered to him now. The closer you got, the more your breath caught in your throat.

Your jaw nearly hit the polished wood when Sylus helped you step aboard. You felt like a giddy child as you padded across the deck, the boards warm under your shoes, the hush of the ocean wrapping around you like a secret only the two of you shared.

Sylus stayed a step behind you — close enough that the heat of him brushed your shoulders when the breeze kicked up. He didn’t say a word, just let you wander — let you trail your fingertips over the soft drapes, the glassy rail, the scattered petals that shimmered like they’d been kissed by the stars themselves.

Fairy lights strung across the upper deck turned the sea into a bed of diamonds. Somewhere, the low croon of jazz melted into the soft slap of the waves, the kind of music that made you want to dance barefoot with your heart wide open.

You spun slowly, your skirt flowing around like a tulip in bloom. Every detail was perfect — almost painfully so. The candlelit dining table set for two. The soft velvet cushions arranged in the lounge. The chilled bottles resting in a crystal bucket near a tray of tiny, delicate desserts.

Your chest squeezed tight, breath stuttering when you realized there were no other guests, no laughter drifting up from hidden corners. Just you. Just him. And the hush of the sea all around.

You turned, your pulse jumping when you found Sylus leaning against the railing, arms crossed, eyes glittering under the warm glow. Like he was the one thing that made all this beauty make sense.

“There’s… no one else?” You asked, your voice softer than you meant it to be.

He tilted his head, that ghost of a smirk tugging at his lips, “Disappointed?”

Your cheeks warmed.

“No— I just thought…” You gestured helplessly at the fairy lights, the flowers, the empty hush between you, “All this, just for me?”

Sylus pushed off the rail, closing the distance with those lazy, predator-smooth steps that always made your knees go a little soft. He stopped just close enough for you to smell the faint spice of his cologne under the salt-sweet air.

“Told you I'll give you the best night of your life.” He murmured, slipping his hands into his pockets, “I'm a man of my word after all.”

His eyes dipped to your lips, lingering there like a promise, “Tonight, you’re mine alone.”

The yacht hummed beneath your feet, a low, steady purr that seemed to match the way your pulse tripped in your throat. Slowly, the dock fell away, the city lights shrinking behind you like a string of dying fireflies swallowed by the dark.

You braced your hands on the polished railing, the breeze teasing your hair as the gentle sway of the vessel carried you farther and farther from everything you’d ever known — the rules, the walls, the eyes always watching.

Up above, the city’s haze faded into a sky so clear it made your chest ache. A blanket of stars blinked back at you, the moon full and silver, the sea catching every reflection like a thousand scattered diamonds.

For one breathless moment, you almost forgot how to hold all that wonder inside your ribs. Sylus placed a hand on the centre of your back and brought you down to the middle of the deck — where a single table waited like something out of a dream: candles flickering soft golden halos, crystal glasses catching the moonlight, petals scattered across the linen like a promise you hadn’t dared to make.

His hand slid down your back, "Take a seat."

You shot him a half offended look but amusement glinted in your eyes, "Since when do you get to boss me around?"

"I'm not bossing you, sweetheart." He bowed his head dramatically, "It's a humble request of this peasant that you kindly take your seat and provide some rest for your delicate feet."

"Since you asked so nicely — I'll humour you I guess." You chuckled and sat down.

Sylus settled into the chair across from you, legs angled wide, elbow draped over the back like he owned not just the seat, but the whole damn night. Candlelight flickered across the sharp lines of his jaw when he glanced at you — and didn’t bother to look away.

With a snap of his fingers, a server emerged so silently you almost startled — a bottle of deep red wine balanced on a tray. The cork popped, the wine slipped into crystal glasses like ink spreading through water. You caught the faintest twitch of a smile at the corner of Sylus’s mouth as he swirled his glass, eyes on you instead of the swirl.

“What would you like, sweetheart?" Sylus took a sip of the wine, letting it rest on the tongue before swallowing, "Order anything you want tonight?"

"Anything? Did you chefs from all over the world?" You meant to tease but the smirk on his face paused you, "Wait! Did you really?"

Sylus shrugged as if it was just another Tuesday, "I told you I'm gonna give you the best night and I meant it, sweetheart."

Your jaw dropped a little, and he had the audacity to look smug about it. You leaned back, arms crossing under your chest, giving him a look.

You turned to the waiter, “Then I want shrimp tempura, a Truffle Fettuccine and Oysters Meunière. For now."

The meal was a beautiful, delicious mess. You’d lost count of how many times Sylus leaned across the flickering candlelight to wipe sauce from your mouth — always with his thumb, always dragging it slow across your bottom lip before sucking it clean, eyes glinting with that insufferable, devastating heat.

Somewhere between the last bite and the swirl of wine on your tongue, the servers faded into the shadows — discreet ghosts. It felt like the whole world had shrunk to this table, this ocean, this man and the way he watched you like he already owned every secret under your skin.

He leaned back, thigh pressing against yours under the linen, “So, when are you giving me your number?”

You blinked, caught off guard by the casual way he asked, “My number? What for?”

His thumb tapped lazy against the rim of his glass, a half-smirk curving his mouth, “So I don’t have to stalk you every time I want to steal you away.”

You laughed — a bright, startled sound that warmed your chest, “Nope.”

His brow arched, the predator’s smile sharpening, “Why not?”

You possibly could not tell him that it's because your father was a crime lord could you?

“There's no fun in that,” You repeated, nudging his shin with your foot beneath the table, “Also my father’s people track every call. He’d love to trace you right back to your home and beat you up. My father is a very important businessman you know.”

His brow arched higher, amusement flickering like a flame in those dark eyes.

“Beat me up?” He echoed, laughing under his breath, low and dangerous.

He leaned forward, elbow propped on the table as his thumb brushed the rim of his glass again — but you could feel the heat of his knee pressing a fraction harder into yours under the linen.

“I’d like to see him try.” Sylus murmured, voice dipped in velvet and knives. He tilted his head, eyes locked to yours, every word a slow drag across your pulse, “So you’re telling me I have to keep chasing you down in the shadows… every time I want you to myself?”

You pretended to think, tapping a finger to your chin while fighting the grin threatening to betray you, “Mm-hm. That’s the price you pay for trying to steal a princess from her tower.”

Sylus’s lips curved into that infuriatingly slow smile — the one that said he could and would burn the whole damn tower to the ground if you dared him to. His knees slid closer — almost touching yours under the table — heat seeping into you like he was a flame and you were tinder.

“And here I was hoping you’d make it easy on me, sweetheart.” He drawled, low, intimate. He leaned closer until your noses almost brushed, his cologne and the salt-sweet night curling around your head like a spell, “But fine. I like a good hunt.”

"What am I? A dear in the wild?" You shot him a look, but the edge of your mouth betrayed you, twitching, “I have a feeling you'll be very insufferable in the future.”

“And you'll love every second of it.” Sylus murmured, a wicked spark lighting behind his eyes. He drew back just enough to drag his thumb once more across the corner of your mouth — slow, deliberate — before bringing it to his lips, his tongue flicking over it like a promise, “Every. Damn. Second.”

You were too busy dragging your fork through the last bite of tiramisu to notice Sylus stand. When you finally looked up, he was watching you with that half-lidded, devastating stare.

He said nothing at first — just stepped around the table, each footfall a soft, controlled echo on the polished deck. He stopped in front of you, close enough that the crisp scent of his cologne and the warmth of his body made your pulse skip.

Then he extended a hand, palm up, fingers loose but sure.

“Dance with me.” Sylus said — simple, low, and laced with a smile you could feel in your ribs.

You let your gaze drift from his hand up to his eyes — the way they glinted like the night was bending just for him, just for you. A teasing huff slipped from your lips as you set your fork down, wiping your mouth with the napkin, stalling just to make him wait.

“Quite a romantic, aren't you?” You teased, but your fingers were already sliding into his palm. His grip closed around you — warm, possessive — a promise and a threat all in one.

The music drifting through the speakers shifted — the jazzy hum softening, melting into something slow, something that curled in your chest like a secret. The hush of the waves, the distant call of the sea, the rhythm that matched your heartbeat.

The music curled around you like smoke — slow, sultry, timeless. Sylus’s hands found your waist, his fingers pressing into the soft fabric, warm through to your skin. He guided you effortlessly, each step a delicious push and pull, your bodies brushing, then parting, then brushing again like you were trying to learn each other by touch alone.

Your palms slid up the hard line of his shoulders, fingertips tracing the nape of his neck where his hair curled just slightly. He hummed at the contact, his eyes half-lidded, his breath a lazy heat against your temple.

When he spun you, you felt the rough pad of his thumb skim the sensitive inside of your wrist — a touch that made your stomach tighten, a spark that shot all the way up your spine. He caught you again, pulling you flush against him, his thigh pressing between yours, stealing the air from your lungs. His nose grazed across your shoulder, breathing you in.

“You’re dangerous like this.” You teased, breathless, lips brushing the sharp edge of his jaw.

His teeth grazed your earlobe, “Look who’s talking. You’re the one who’s got my hands shaking.”

You laughed, but it broke into a soft gasp when he rocked you gently into him, one hand sliding low on your back, the other catching your jaw. His thumb traced the corner of your mouth, and you felt him smile against your cheek, felt the hungry drag of his breath.

The world shrank to the hush of the waves, the whisper of silk and suit, the flicker of candles caught in his hair when he tipped your head back just enough to look at you — really look at you — like you were already half-undone.

But then — that itch. That cold ripple down your spine — the unmistakable feeling of eyes where they didn’t belong.

Your face frowned, your gaze flicked past Sylus’s shoulder. And there he was. One of the servers, lingering by the shadows near the bar, his eyes locked not on the wine or the plates — but on you.

His stare slithered down your body, blatant, hungry in a way that had nothing to do with the dance.

Sylus hadn’t noticed yet — too wrapped up in the way your pulse stuttered under his thumb. But your spine went stiff under his hands. The music, the candlelight — they all felt like they were miles away now, swallowed by the weight of that filthy, lingering gaze.

Your skin crawled under that stare, the filthy weight of it dragging you right out of Sylus’s touch, no matter how warm his hands were on your hips.

You leaned in close, lips brushing his ear, voice sweet as honey, “I’m gonna freshen up. Don’t miss me too much, hm?”

Sylus’s answering hum rumbled against your collarbone, “Hurry back. I haven’t had nearly enough of you yet.”

You managed a smile — one that didn’t quite reach your eyes. He pressed a fleeting kiss to your cheek, but your focus was already locked over his shoulder, on the bastard in the shadows.

As you stepped away, you caught the server’s gaze dead-on — a look that makes perverts drool. You knew he would follow.

You slipped inside the corridor leading to the washroom, your steps soft, your breath steady. The muffled sway of music faded behind you, replaced by the low hum of the yacht’s engines and the slap of water against the hull.

You rounded the corner and waited for him. No long after you heard him — the shuffle of cheap shoes on the polished floor. Pathetic. Predictable.

You didn’t wait for him to speak. The instant he opened his mouth, you spun on your heel and your fist connected with his jaw — a sharp, clean hit that sent him crashing against the wall before he crumpled to the ground like trash.

He let out a low, broken whimper. You stepped over him, heel grinding just enough into his ribs to remind him exactly who he’d messed with.

“Eyes up next time, pervert.” You hissed, brushing imaginary dust from your knuckles.

Without another glance, you slipped back down the corridor, heart pounding not from fear — but from the electric rush of it all. You pushed open the door, stepping back out onto the candlelit deck where Sylus waited, oblivious and still half-drunk on the taste of you.

You let out a breath, smoothed your skirt, and glided back into his orbit like you’d never left.

Sylus lifted an eyebrow, catching your hand to pull you back into the dance, “Everything good, sweetheart?”

You smiled up at him — sharp, satisfied, a secret tucked behind your lips, “Perfect. Now, where were we?”

The ride back was a blur — city lights streaking past the window, your hand tucked safely in Sylus’s like it belonged there, his thumb brushing lazy circles on your skin as if he couldn’t stand to stop touching you, not even for a second.

But your mind was already racing ahead. The creak of your bedroom window. Sara’s worried hush as she’d help you sneak back in before anyone noticed. If you were late, she’d catch hell for it — and you wouldn’t let that happen. Not for anything.

By the time the library came back into view, you almost wished the road would just keep on going. That you could stay wrapped up in this impossible, stolen thing for just a little longer.

Snow fell in soft, fat flakes, landing in Sylus’s dark hair, on the shoulders of his coat, melting against the warmth of your cheeks. He cut the engine, but neither of you moved. The silence stretched until it was too fragile to break.

When he finally did open your door, you stepped out onto the frost-slick pavement, boots crunching on salt and snow. Sylus didn’t let go of your hand — if anything, he tugged you closer under the light of the streetlamp.

“Well…” You murmured, your breath misting between you, “This is… goodbye, I guess.”

Sylus tilted his head, eyes glinting under the amber glow, “When do I get to see you again?”

You let out a soft, helpless laugh, brushing a snowflake off his shoulder, “Whenever fate's wheel wants.”

His thumb stroked your wrist, “Should I just break the wheel then? Twist fate until it’s begging me to keep you?”

Your heart stuttered, “You can’t.”

“Sweetheart.” He murmured, leaning in so close you could feel the heat of him, “Don’t tempt me.”

“Don’t look at me like that” You breathed, every inch of you coiled tight.

“Like what?” His voice was silk and sin, “Like I want to drag you back to my car and ruin you ‘til dawn?”

You almost said yes. Almost begged him to do it. Instead, you rose on your toes, pressed a soft kiss to his cheek — a coward’s goodbye, a promise you’d never speak.

“Goodnight, Sylus.” You whispered, lips ghosting his jaw, “Thank you… for tonight.”

You turned, boots crunching in the snow — one step, two, three, four—

Then you spun around, your chest bursting, your feet carrying you right back to him. You grabbed his collar, yanked him down, and crushed your mouth to his.

The kiss was fire and teeth and too much all at once. His hands caught your hips, fingers digging in like he’d carve your shape into his palms. He bit your lower lip — sharp enough to draw a gasp, sharp enough that you tasted blood when he chased it with his tongue.

You broke away, breathless, lips throbbing.

“Sylus, you dog—” You whispered, half-laughing against his mouth, “You bit me.”

He smirked, eyes blown wide and wild, “Don’t act like you didn’t love it.”

You did. God, you did. This time, you forced yourself to pull back — really pull back, the cold rushing in to fill every place he’d left burning.

“One day.” He said, voice low, promise carved into each syllable, “I won’t have to let you go.”

You smiled — a tiny, trembling thing — and disappeared into the falling snow before your bones changed their mind. The moment you were fully gone out of the view, Sylus’s smile fell away like a mask sliding off glass. He turned toward his car, jaw ticking once, twice.

He pulled his phone from his coat pocket, thumb hovering just a second before he hit call.

“Kierran ” He said when the line clicked open, his voice now all frost and iron, “I want every server from tonight — every single one who set foot on that yacht.”

A pause. His eyes flicked the way you had disappeared.

“Find that piece of shit who couldn’t keep his eyes to himself.” He continued, tone so calm it burned, “Make sure he understands what happens when he looks at something that’s not his.”

He ended the call, the snow catching in his hair, melting on his lips — lips still stained with your kiss, with your blood. His eyes glinted dark as the sea beyond. And then Sylus Qin smiled — but there was no warmth left in it at all.

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dragongirlpoet · 7 months ago

Text

Dark Signs 3

Summary: As Alucard grapples with his grief over what he has done, secrets are unveiled and graver foes awaken. Is it too late to save you? (Plot takes off months before *that ending* in part 2. Some parts are off-canon.)

This chapter is written in Alucard’s POV.

Themes: Dark fantasy, horror, romance, angst I Words: 4k

Warnings: MDNI. Horror, blood, gore, violence, religious themes, mentions of suicide, grief, depression, anxiety, slight smut

Pt I I Pt II I Pt IV

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To the lovely folks who are holding out for part 3, thank you! 💛 Sorry I couldn’t put this out sooner.

@s-i-l-v-e @kawaiiskeletoneggsnerd @celly-fahrenheit @skychaser777

I tasted blood, cherry and salt.

And I wanted more, more, more.

We were tangled in each other, our bodies suspended in the cosmic cerulean of the deep ocean.

She was my salvation. Her kiss was my atonement. And her blood, oh her blood…it was a gift so heavenly. All my immortal life had desired only that very thing, and now that I had it, I couldn’t let go.

Every shred of my primordial essence — powerful yet cursed, now entombed in the marrows of her soul. My blood now flowed in hers, as her blood, mine. We were fused as one, we were divine.

My darling’s fingers traced the sharps of my jaw as she kissed me, our married blood spilling from her mouth, diluting the water. They formed red rivulets around us, as if in symbolic reverence that we were the almighty givers of ichor.

We were safe, entwined together in eternal damnation.

I love her. I love her so deeply that I’d doomed her with my blood curse, so I could have her by my side till the sun swallowed us whole. And for that, I’d forever fester in my blasphemous sin.

“Adrian…” she seemed to say, but the snare of the ocean strangled her words, slowed our every caress… as if time at all wanted to still for our undying love.

Oh what I would give to hear her voice — seraphic, like a birdsong, my name chaste upon her lips.

Her ivory chemise clung to her body like sculpted granite, her nipples just peeking through. They were for my eyes only. Yes…her being, her blood, her body…they all belonged to me.

But in that sacred moment, something felt…amiss. There were those jade-green veins, palpable under her eyes… they ran like fine cracks on marble, so like those on a delicately-carved statue.

Raven hair hovered around her tiny frame, resembling venomous serpents held buoyant by witchcraft. They were so in contrast to my gold, like the exact moment dusk bled into dawn.

There was the red rivulet again, this time saturating the white ribbons of her nightdress. They coiled around my arms, binding me to her. Not that I’d ever let go.

But I had to, for her lingering touch was frost impaling even my vampiric skin. Why was she so cold?

“Adrian…” again she seemed to call out.

Her eyes, despite being underwater, were wide open, the blacks of them bereft of the soul I once knew. She was pale. So pale. And she looked every bit the angel of death.

My angel…when did she slip from my arms?

Our fingers entwined one last time, before a sombre gloom dragged her under. Slowly she sank, like a fallen star ousted by the heavens, syphoned of its light.

But I’m right here, darling. Stay.

I willed all of my immortal power to reach for her outstretched hands, but my body was deadened, as if held prisoner by spirit shackles. Further and further she sank from me, and I so terribly wanted to tell her that wasn’t where she was supposed to go.

Words evaded me, as my tears had.

The hollow abyss seemed to rise up — impatient, almost — to receive its new sacrifice.

Blood gushed from her mouth — they were viscid, as if so thickened they had to be forced out or she would choke. The blood kept coming. They streamed out of the sockets of her eyes, running like bloody tears of the living dead.

They say that monsters like us lack the ability to fear, yet I’d never felt more afraid than I did then. The love of my life, drowning, dying, yet I could do wholly nothing. Alucard, son of Dracula — weak, worthless…

A fissure cracked her chest open, the cavity creeping wide to reveal her beating heart. Her human heart.

The blood kept coming.

“Come back to me…” I begged, the futility of it sickening me.

Still, she descended. I watched in horror as the godless ocean buried her in its oblivion, until all I was made to see was the compunction of my sins.

On her neck that I used to so lavish with kisses, lay the wounds only a wretch like me could inflict.

I did it. I killed her.

“Adrian…”

____________

I jolted awake.

A numbing despair perforated my insides, a feeling I knew all too well. I stared out the window through heavy eyelids, the red moon magnified by sweat teardrops trickling through my eyelashes.

For a long moment I just sat there, my lungs crushed by torment, my heart shattered by grief. I’d lost count of the nightmares that had plagued me over the decade…no, it’s been 96 years, Adrian. A century. A century she’s been gone.

What was I living for?

Memories I longed to forget writhed their way into my mind, forcing me to once again relive the hell that fateful night.

I had sat in the castle hall for days, her lifeless body cradled in my arms. My eyes burned from tears, and I wanted to die. I fed her so much of my blood, my immortal blood, still she slept. I summoned spirits, conjured the most powerful of magicks, still, she slept. My hope hanging by a thread, I fused my father’s sciences with my mother’s elixirs…still, she slept.

I was about to drive my own sword into my heart — the only one ensorcelled enough to kill a dhampir, when a familiar voice stopped my contemptible deed.

“Alucard! This place reeks of death, and here I thought we’d gotten rid of your father long ago.”

“Stop it, Belmont!”

“What? He may be pristine but his home sure isn’t. Alucard! Honey, we’re home!”

“Will you stop yelling?”

“Alucard’s probably busy shoving it in her, ha. I need to make sure he can hear me above their grunts and moans. Have you forgotten how loud you get, Sypha?”

“You’re disgusting, Belmont.”

“Alucard! Ah, there you are. In the hall, really? You two really are something. Do you have food? I’m starving. I…”

“Belmont.”

“Fine, fine. Beer is good as w…”

“Belmont!”

It took Belmont a long minute before he alas perceived what Sypha meant. My two dearest friends — immobile in silent trepidation, distress distinct on their faces.

“What happened, Alucard? Was she attacked?” Sypha was the first to speak. As always, her presence seemed to bring solace, but it dissipated promptly.

“I killed her, Sy…Sypha. She asked mmme… to…tto turn her, and I…I drank too much…I killed her.”

Mere speaking incinerated my throat, and it was then I’d realised I hadn’t stopped crying. I could scarce breathe through my wheezing, let alone enunciate words.

“I…I tried ever��rything, help me please…ppplease…save her please…”

Belmont, in a rare display of empathy, knelt beside us and took my hand in his. “We will find a way to save her, and we will not stop until we do. I promise.”

At his oath, I collapsed into Belmont’s arms. Anguish, shame, relief…they all coursed through my body — my face buried in his shoulders, weeping. Every emotion that I’d held in, all unfettered at the fact that I had someone, that I wasn’t alone to fight my battles.

“Fault yourself not, Alucard. She never would’ve blamed you.” Sypha’s voice was soft, soothing, enveloping us in a reassuring embrace. I fell apart completely.

A loud pounding at the doors disturbed our bittersweet reunion, arousing our every alarm. There seemed to be a clamour of sorts — yelling, mocking…definitely humans. Belmont took to receive the unusual affair, leaving a gap just wide enough to acknowledge a throng of men — bishops, priests and followers of the church.

“I don’t remember ever calling for your conceited services, Father.” Belmont sneered.

“It’s Father Caine to you, and I could hardly expect couth coming from especially you. Excommunicated and still, never learning the error of your ways…

I sense a great evil here…more so than I daresay…Dracula himself. Forgive our ruckus, for we, the good men, merely wish to rid the town of all that is malign…Hand the girl over, and all shall be well.”

Sypha and I exchanged uneasy looks. What was he talking about?

Belmont, entirely irked by the bishop’s pretentious drivel, was barely holding it in. “Take your horseshit hubris and shove it up your a…”

“Oh, but don’t you want to know why we want the girl? Not the speaker-magician…the dhampir’s lover.”

What?

The dastardly bishop, words of scorn and malice, continued, “She now has the blood curse of the dhampir, and something in that transformation awoke creatures of the night…dark, hateful creatures…ones that possess an ancient evil…It is easy. We exorcise and burn her body, and as I’ve said…all shall be well.”

Blood searing in my veins, I raced past Belmont, the parasite parish’s body dangling midair in my chokehold. Eyes bloodshot and fangs hungry, I crushed his throat harder. He let out pathetic struggles of breath, rosary still firmly clasped in his hand.

“Where is your God now, Father? If we are the impurity you so seek to vanquish, then what of the innocents you slaughtered unrepentently, all because they did not fit your cause?”

I thought of my mother, the Belmonts, the heathens who simply held their own beliefs…and most of all, I thought of my sweet angel, so kind and full of love…

“What the…” Belmont cursed when we were doused with buckets of Holy Water. The “Men of God” started chanting prayers, as if their contrived communion would somehow free their pious leader.

I let out a laugh.

“The absolute gall you have, Father. Despite my mourning, I shall grant you this last mercy. Command your men to leave and never again return, and I shall kill only you. Fail to do so, and I’ll rip the tendons from all your wicked hearts. After all, I am a monster, am I not?”

A few men flinched at my words, casting hesitant glances to the others, while some implored Father Caine to choose wisely. Such cowards.

The bishop shifted a little in my grip, a faint smirk splayed across his face. “M…ark my words, vampire. Dark times ar…are ahead…The girl must di…”

I tore his heart right out of his ribs.

He was right. I was a vampire. I was omni-sentient. I was a monster and a God all at the same time. The farcical impudence he had to order the execution of my beloved…Anyone who touches her will die.

With his blood on my hands, I felt my hunger creep in once again, ripping off the human mask I wore like a virtue. I needed to feed.

It wasn’t until Belmont started swinging his Morningstar than I realised the tumult that had ensued. “And God shits in my dinner once again…Alucard! Left!”

Veins palpitating from the heart I’d just consumed, I saw that the rest of the church, quite possibly under the predetermined order of the bishop, lit a pyre that massacred the foliage we used to read under, devoured the quince fruit trees we so loved to frolic around.

They will all die.

“Get back!” Sypha cried, mutating the fire into swirls that wavered to her bidding. She channelled them towards the men, trapping them in rings of flame. Out of nowhere, fire arrows flew in our direction, narrowly missing Sypha’s face. That was enough to send Belmont into a scalding rage.

His Morningstar cleaved through half of the men, dismembering some, dissecting others. My estoc weaved through throats and hearts, beheading some, mutilating others. The tragic irony of it all — the very men whose sole mission was to protect mankind, to do good, on an aimless rampage to kill because of a misguided prophecy.

And so the fighting went on for months, years... Night creatures, more members of the parish, vampires seeking a new world order…valiant efforts, alas they were no more than vermins effortlessly exterminated by us three.

We weren’t certain why they had kept showing up. Whether it was a curse set off by my turning her, or the fact that they simply wanted us dead…it mattered not, nor did I make it my business to find out. I was going to kill them all.

Sypha and Belmont had kept to their promise. Come hell or high water, they stuck with me, even moving into the castle with their son. We battled foes, and never once did they abandon their cause to revive the love of my life.

“Alucard, you need to seal her. Keep her somewhere safe, where no one but you can find,” Sypha had one day told me. I was no fool, I’d known they wouldn’t be around forever, and if I’d succumbed to my grief, all their efforts would’ve been in vain.

“Promise me that when she wakes, you two will look after our kids, and grandkids, and great-grandkids, and…” Belmont trailed off, seemingly stumped by staple discourse.

“They’re called descendants, you idiot.” Sypha rolled her eyes.

Managing a genuine smile I haven’t had in a long while, I replied, “I promise.”

“My lord.”

I wasn’t sure if I wanted to yet leave my reverie.

“My lord,” Centrio again addressed, this time with more urgency. There, bowing by the door, dressed in fine leather that I had gifted, stood the first human I’d turned after…her. I’d found him by the docks, and he was all but an emanciated vagrant on the brink of death. Perhaps it was the matyr in me, but I thought it more I had wanted to experiment…if he indeed turned, perhaps there was a way…

“The council is ready for you.”

Donning my guise of Imperious Vampire Overlord — terrifying, deadly, merciless — I made my way down to the great hall with my most loyal emissary. I clutched at the pendant around my neck — a vial forged with obsidian and laced with gold, encased with her blood. It was the only way I could feel her if she woke.

An excruciating sorrow once again took shape, like an enemy planting tiny splinters in my heart, except those splinters were tainted with the most malevolent of poisons, inching slowly to ravage my vital core.

“My lord,”

The council all greeted in unison, heads bowed in utter veneration. Men, women, young, old…I had sired them all. To have a contingency if I ever needed one, to delegate my task of finding a cure, to have some goddamn chatter in the forsaken castle…

“We’ve received word that the denomination led by Gwyth is storming in from the highlands of Brasov. They are…angered by the vampires you’ve sired. She thinks just because…”

“Just because what?”

The gathering fell silent, as if fearful to draw my ire. Good…that’s how I intended it to be.

“Tell me, Finnor, does your gallantry waver in my presence? If so, perhaps it was my oversight in appointing you General?”

“Forgive me, my lord. She thinks it’s a travesty that we, vampires a mere century old, are…” Finnor cleared his throat before continuing, “...exhausting all the human blood supply here in Braila. Some of our own have gone over to bordering cities, and they’re most displeased. She thinks that just because you’re… Dracula’s son, doesn’t give you the right…”

“Dracula’s son?” I scoffed.

“Did I not sire you all? If Dracula is my father, then does his blood not also run in your veins?

“Yes!” My council concurred in earnest.

Does that not make you powerful?”

“Yes!”

“Good! Then let them come. We will defend what is rightfully ours, will we not?”

“Yes!”

At that, they broke into a resounding cheer, half howling, the rest pounding staffs, swords and what have you on the marble floor. Contrary to the revelry below, I, worshipped like a God on my throne, felt wholly insentient. I cared not for war, nor truimphs, nor reign. If I’d created bloodthirsty monsters, it was merely a means to an end.

I wanted only one thing.

Was this how my father felt when my mother died?

“Kindly see to it, Centrio. I wish not to be bothered.”

“At your service, my lord.”

There she was — immaculate in white, clutching the garland of daffodils I’d made her, so detached from the pain I’d caused…I had all but little choice when I’d sealed her in the underground castle chambers. I had cast a spell so powerful, that save for the both of us, no one could enter, or find, our fortress in Wallachia.

Living in the castle without my friends, without her, seeing her lifeless body…it went on for months, years…I couldn’t bear it. Her lying there, bereft of a heartbeat, of a breath, broke me in ways I never knew existed.

And so I resolved to start over in Braila, it was the only way to keep her safe, it was the only way I could honour my vow to save her.

Cape dragging behind my lifeless steps, I trudged back to my study, thoughts once again lost in her. Innumerable letters I’d written, infinite words I wanted to say — all frozen and wayward like misplaced luminaries in an interstellar void.

What have I done, darling? I’ve created…abominations... so many innocent lives lost because of me…Will you still love me when you see what I’ve become?

“Adrian…”

I spun round, completely entranced by her voice.

In the doorway, against the crimson glow of the stained-glass window, wearing the white chemise just as she always had, awaited my beloved. It suddenly became daunting to breathe, my mind apprehensive to behold the sight.

“Darling? Is it really you?” I uttered, my words close to a tremble.

She said nothing, but merely moved to me with such litheness I was taken aback. Her steps were languid, like a lone willow swaying in a bleak winter tempest.

“H…how did you find me? You don’t look well, do you need to feed? Here,” I offered my bloodslit wrists to her. She pressed her lips to them at once, as though thoroughly acquainted with my gesture.

“I missed you so much, I…”

“Shhh…” she hushed, sinking to her knees.

Her hands made quick work of my trousers, and too soon had my entire length in her mouth. My cock twitched as her tongue lapped over the ridges of my growing erection, licking hurried circles around my tip.

“Fuck…baby…I missed you so fucking much…” I panted, pushing her face deeper between my thighs. “Ahhh…that feels so good…” and threw my head back, shutting my eyes, relishing in the absolute ecstasy of her eagerness.

Pumping my sex in rapid fervour, she took it further down her throat, sucking, constricting…the weight of my every burden reduced to an indistinct drone.

“Slow down, darling,”

“Yes, my lord…”

My eyes flew open. My lord?

From where I was, I alas saw it. The sable of her tresses ran an incomparable lustre to my darling’s raven. I flung the devil thrall into the windows at once, shattering the glass, red fragments giving way to golden gleams of the inconspicuous sun.

“How very dare you,” my voice dropping to a haunting hiss as I stalked towards her. “The audacity you possess to employ such pitious artifice…who sent you?”

The thrall quivered at my unrestrained wrath, straining to speak against the bleeding shards skewered in her throat.

“Y…you…did…m…my l..ord…”

I froze, the lunacy of my suffering clear as day. I must already be dead.

Refusing to bear the yoke of that truth, I instead directed all my shame and hurt at the dying vampire whom I’d sired.

“Why do you get to live, but she doesn’t? Why do all of you get to persist in endlessness, possess my blood gift, but she is doomed to sleep for all eternity? Why!”

All that remained was the anguished aftershock of my tirade, and the spurting of blood that had slivered their way to the soles of my boots.

“F…forrr…give me, mmy…lord…”

“I want you to listen closely. She transcends your every breath. You will never be her.”

I compelled my estoc to sever her head.

____________

I liked it out here. At times the ocean waves would susurrate, tonight it was a thunder against the cliffs. It offered a quiet respite from my heartbreak, the inane vampire politics, and the endless blood war of the undead.

My hair whipped in the frigid windstorm, yet I felt nothing. I was a lighthouse abandoned — hollow, crepuscular — fleeting through the years devoid of purpose. There were nights where I would see her in the middle of the violent sea — so alone, so tormented — does she know? I would cross oceans of time to find her.

Something snapped.

I remained still as death, my gaze shifting calculatedly to the untimely intruder foolish enough to trespass into my castle grounds. Their steps, though fairly distant and furtive, stood little chance against my heightened hearing.

The clanging of chains reached my ears long before my sword ensnared the metal. Holding it mere inches from my face, I studied the peculiar weapon — intricate weaving of iron, spikes flared at the tip…and that leather whip.

“Simon Belmont. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“Save that garb for someone who gives a shit, vampire.”

I smirked at his salutation, perhaps a little more than necessary. “I see the Belmonts have a tradition.”

Unlike his forefathers, Simon had fallen out of favour with the Belmonts, insisting that vampires, regardless of their intent and relationship, are considered foe and should, at all costs, be exterminated with their bodies wrung out to dry.

“The odious horde you have sired are arrogant beyond their means. Do you not care for the turmoil they have caused? The innocent lives they have claimed?”

I no longer have the capacity to, I wanted to tell him.

“I come here not to befriend, or beg, or ask. Halt the atrocities of your vampires, or I shall finish what my grandfather so failed to do — kill you.”

“Are you threatening me, Belmont?”

Taking advantage of my affront, he wielded the Combat Cross — one I’d noticed too late — for it struck the pendant around my collar, barely missing my chest. I watched as the vial containing her blood fracture into pieces, her lifesource splattered and devoured by the earth below.

Seething, I lunged for Simon, teleporting behind him while coiling the Morningstar around his neck. He threshed around his imminent asphyxiation, blindly stabbing his dagger, attempting to find purchase on any of my organs.

The tip of his Morningstar however, managed to etch itself onto my arm, igniting an unsteady glow. It would not combust in me, for I was neither human nor demon. Still, a searing pain barelled through the recesses of my body.

I released Simon as he collapsed onto the ground, his chest heaving from the lack of air. Hovering my sword above his heart, I recalled the promise I had made to Belmont.

“This is a fight for another day, Belmont. Take your weapons and leave, for I have little forbearance for charity such as now.”

Flinging a shard of the Transmission Mirror next to Simon, he was pulled into its magic before he could contend. As the mirror engulfed him in its sorcery, he glared at me with such loathing I thought it incredulous I had loved his grandparents dearly.

But it was his last words ahead of being teleported that unnerved me, roused me back to the verity of that very moment — “I know what you’re searching for, Alucard.”

I stared at the spot where Simon was, now an insignificant mass of rocks, amongst them lay fragments of my obsidian vial.

An uncanny cold snaked about my heart. Clutching at it, the hammering intensified to a booming knell, in the same manner as nights where the parish would pound at my castle doors with boulders, clamouring to burn her. My breathing soon withered to a wheeze, then a gasp, and I fell to my knees.

Without the pendant, I could feel her no longer.

What if she woke? The indefinite dangers she would face outside the castle walls…Simon…what if he knew a way to find her…to kill her…

I was sickened with fear. Haste was of the essence, but the Transmission Mirror teleported at random — there was no telling where I would end up. Trembling, I raced to ready my stallion.

I was going back to Castlevania.

Pt I I Pt II I Pt IV

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nina-ya · 8 months ago

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you get hurt and luffy's mind flashes back to a certain moment in marineford

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

All Luffy could feel was cold, a numbing frost that clawed its way into his very bones, turning his entire being into ice.

In the blink of an eye you were standing strong fighting alongside him, and the next, you were stumbling towards him, hands clutching at your abdomen, fingers trembling as they tried- and failed- to dam the blood blooming between your fingers like cursed roses.

Blood. So much blood. Too much blood.

The color was obscene, staining his world in crimson streaks that ran like rivers of guilt. His body froze, rigid as the shadow of death stretched its skeletal hand over his heart and ripped open the scar that lay there. And then his mind fractured. The present unraveled, dragging him back to that battlefield of loss, to the smoke-filled air and the weight of Ace in his arms.

It was happening again.

His trembling hands grasped at you, desperate to pull him out of the impending storm, but his grip was clumsy and weak against the memories that swallowed him whole. He couldn’t see you anymore- only Ace. Ace’s blood. Ace’s voice whispering final words. Ace’s fading heartbeat slipping through his fingers like grains of sand that he couldn’t hold onto.

You saw it in his eyes; wide and glassy as if gazing into the abyss. He wasn’t there. Not with you. His soul had been dragged backward, shackled into a nightmare that he couldn’t escape. The terror etched into his features wasn’t for you. It was for someone he had already lost.

“Luffy,” you whispered, voice cracking with pain. He didn’t respond, the sound lost to the screaming silence in his mind. “Luffy!” you tried again, louder this time, each word a lifeline thrown desperately in hopes of helping you both.

Desperation clawed at you, drowning out whatever else you were feeling at that moment. Your hand, slicked with your own blood, reached for his face. The crimson smeared across his cheek was a cruel mimicry of the mark of a battle that neither of you had won. Your fingers pressed against his skin, forcing his gaze to meet yours and you saw the distant agony in his eyes- the ghosts of a past he couldn’t let go of.

“This isn’t the same,” you rasped, the words tearing from your throat like shards of glass. “The pain in your chest made it hard to focus, but you pushed forward. “I’m still breathing. Luffy, Look at me!”

For a single excruciating moment, he didn’t. He couldn't. But then your voice cut through the haze, the pain-laden scream of his name shattering the chains of memories past. His eyes flickered, frantic and wild as the present came rushing back.

You.

His chest heaved with a desperate breath as he clung to you, trembling hands pressing against the wound in a distressed attempt to hold you together. Blood seeped between his fingers, the heat of it searing his skin as though the very weight of your life was right beneath his fingertips. Tears began to fall, hot and unstoppable, carving rivers down his cheeks and landing on your face in tremoring droplets.

“I’m sorry,” he choked, his voice cracking under the weight of dozens of emotions attacking him on all fronts. “I’m so sorry. I won’t let you go. Please, I can’t lose you too.”

Each word was a plea filled with raw guilt and fear. His body trembled with each sob, the sound hurting you more than any physical wound could ever.

You wanted to comfort him. To tell him it wasn’t his fault, but the pain was dragging you into a haze of blurred edges and throbbing fire. Your eyes fluttered shut for just a moment, but even in that haze, you knew- despite the agony in his heart, he would never let you go.

Luffy couldn’t save Ace. But this time, he would save you.

#monkey d. luffy #luffy x reader #monkey d. luffy x reader #one piece x reader #x reader #nina writes~✦

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andy-15-07 · 3 months ago

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Last patrol

PAIRING: Joel Miller x reader

WORD COUNT: 1710 | requests are open (send requests, I will gladly answer them all)

Pedro Pascal Masterlist

A/n: I have no words after watching the second episode, I was expecting Joel's ending, because I watched the video game, but I didn't think it would be so soon, it was hard for me to write this fic with tears in my eyes, I tried to make another alternative. I liked, or rather I loved this character like crazy. I hope you like it and I'm sorry in advance if it makes you cry

The sun had barely cleared the jagged outline of Jackson’s broken rooftops when Joel and Dina slipped out through the guardhouse gate. Fresh snow crunched under their boots, and the world felt impossibly quiet—too quiet. Joel adjusted the sling of his rifle across his shoulder, glancing back over his shoulder at the settlement’s wooden palisade. “You sure all’s good in there?” he asked, his voice rough with sleep and unspoken fears.

Dina jabbed a gloved finger at the satchel slung low across her chest. “I packed extra rounds. Dog patrol’ll be fine.” She lifted an eyebrow, that half-grin he’d come to know so well. It was the same grin she wore when she knew they were asking too much of themselves.

He managed a crooked smile. “You’ve got the right gear, Dina. Let’s just—” He cut himself off when she caught his gaze, her dark eyes warm and steady. “Just be careful,” she said, and clipped the words with an uncharacteristic softness.

“Always,” he promised, pushing off toward the tree line. A ridge of pines marked the boundary where the world beyond Jackson opened up into frozen ruin. They both tightened their jackets, the chill dragging at their bones, and stepped out into the silent white.

—————

By the time Y/N noticed Joel and Dina’s absence, the pale winter sun had climbed higher. Cold and heavy with morning frost, she paced their small cabin with slow, deliberate steps, her hand never straying far from the curved swell of her belly. Two months gone, and every ache in her body was a reminder of the life growing inside her.

Ellie hovered in the doorway, boots encrusted with snow. Her dark hair clung to her face in damp tendrils. “You okay?” Y/N’s lips twitched into a tired smile.

Y/N waved her over. “I’m fine. I just… I can’t sit still.” She motioned to the doorway. “You want to come? I’m worried about Joel.”

Ellie’s eyes lit up with purpose. “Let’s go find ’em.”

Together they bundled back into their coats and stepped onto the porch. The wind bit at their cheeks but offered something exhilarating: movement, the promise of action. Y/N pressed her mittened hand into Ellie’s back. “You lead.”

—————

Joel and Dina had followed tracks,fresh footprints in the snow,leading toward the old Caldwell estate, an abandoned manor left to rot. Stories whispered that the family had fled years ago; locals said the place was crawling with infected. Jackson sent patrols around it for good measure.

They’d been at it twenty minutes when it happened: a sudden whisper of alarm, Dina’s sharp hiss in his ear: “Infected!”

Joel spun, rifle raised, as shambling figures,a runner, then another—emerged from the trees. He fired once, twice; the shot cracked in the air, and the first one dropped. Dina backed up, eyes scanning. “That’s—”

A scream, human, desperate. Joel’s heart stuttered. Not noise from the infected,the voice belonged to a woman, crying out. “Dina, wait—”

But Dina was already moving, sprinting toward a gap between the pines. Joel cursed and followed.

They rounded a bend in the hill to find Abby pinned under a fallen beam, shin splitting. She twisted, knife held high, as two infected lunged. Dina yelled and raised her pistol; Joel fired, tearing both to pieces.

Abby didn’t look at them. “Help,” she gasped, voice tight as wire.

Joel stepped forward. “Easy-We’re not gonna hurt you.”

Abby snarled, eyes wild. Dina crouched to lift the beam; Joel braced it. But before they could toss it aside, Abby kicked out with enough force to send Joel sprawling backward into the snow. She ripped her arm free, blood slick on wood. She stood, glancing at them,Joel in the snow, blood staining his shoulder, and Dina shocked, hand frozen on the beam.

Joel pushed himself up. “You okay?”

She didn’t answer. Instead she straightened, fixed them with a lethal stare. “Who are you?”

He swallowed. “Patrol. Jackson.”

Abby’s lips curled into something like a smile. “Jackson.” She looked at Dina. “Is he—”

Dina stilled, realization dawning. Joel’s eyes flicked to Abby’s. “You—”

Before the word left his lips, Abby lunged. A single brutal move: she wrapped her forearm around his throat and yanked him backward, spine snapping against the snow. Joel’s rifle clattered away as he gurgled, hands scrabbling uselessly. Dina cried out, rushing forward, but Abby kicked her so hard the girl went sprawling into a drift.

Y/N and Ellie,following a distant gunshot,reached the crest of the hill in time to see Joel’s body slump. Dina’s anguished scream pierced the cold. Ellie froze, arm outstretched toward the slaughter. Y/N clutched her belly, horror searing through her like ice.

“Joel!” Ellie screamed, but only the wind answered, whistling across the frozen field.

Abby turned, eyes locked on Y/N and Ellie. She started to smile, but something in Y/N’s face—raw grief, undiluted rage,suddenly broke the killer’s calm. She fled into the woods, disappearing as swiftly as she’d arrived, leaving only the dying echo of her footsteps.

Y/N dropped to her knees by Joel’s side, fingers shaking. Ellie fell beside her, silent tears falling into the snow. Joel’s eyes stared sightlessly at the sky, a single rivulet of blood tracing from his mouth. Dina crawled to him, cradling his head in her arms, rocking back and forth as tears froze on her cheeks.

Y/N laid a gentle hand over Joel’s chest, feeling the stubborn warmth slowly fade. “Joel—please,” she whispered, voice cracking. Ellie pressed her forehead to his shoulder. “You can’t leave us.”

But Joel was already gone.

—————

They carried him back to Jackson on a crude stretcher, the sun sinking low and painting the world in blood-orange light. The marching steps echoed through the settlement, drawing everyone out: hunters, farmers, children. They formed a silent procession to the makeshift chapel. Dina walked at the front, her face set in a mask of grief so fierce it had the power to steal breath. Y/N followed close behind, hand on her swelling belly, shock and sorrow swirling in her eyes. Ellie stayed on her other side, expression hollow.

Inside the chapel, they laid Joel’s body atop a rough bier. They covered him with the faded quilt Y/N had embroidered, before the world ended, with golden threads spelling out “FAMILY.” The candles flickered, casting trembling shadows against the log walls.

Maria’s voice, firm but gentle, filled the hush. “He defended this place. He defended you all.” She paused, eyes lingering on Y/N and Ellie. “He would have given anything to keep you safe.”

Dina stepped forward, voice unsteady. “He was our shield. Our rock.” She swallowed, then she looked at Y/N. “I’m so sorry.”

Y/N knelt by the bier, tracing Joel’s worn hands. She felt numb, apart from the cruel twist in her gut as the baby kicked against her ribs,a reminder that life still pressed on, indifferent to death. She pressed her palm to Joel’s chest. “You promised.”

Ellie hugged her, tears soaking into her coat. “We’ll keep going. For him.”

For a long moment, they all stood there, bound by loss. Outside, the wind howled, and a few flakes of snow drifted through a crack in the door. Someone lit a candle for Joel; one by one, they all did, until his bier glowed under a halo of flickering light.

—————

When the crowd dispersed, Y/N remained, kneeling by Joel’s side. Ellie had gone to see Dina; the two friends clung to each other outside, faces streaked with tears. Y/N felt a hand on her shoulder and looked up to see Maria.

“He would’ve wanted you to rest,” Maria said softly. “You need to care for yourself and the baby.”

Y/N nodded, although her world felt hollow. She pressed a kiss to Joel’s forehead. “I love you.” She rose slowly, every movement a battle against the grief crushing her.

Maria guided her out into the dusk. The sky burned violet over the mountains, the air colder now. Y/N pulled her coat tighter. “What now?” she whispered, voice raw.

Maria met her eyes. “Now, we live. For him, for you, for the life he helped create.”

A sob caught in Y/N’s throat, but with it came a spark,a fragile flicker of resolve. She put her hand on her belly. “For our baby.”

Maria nodded. “And for Ellie, and Dina, and everyone Joel loved. He didn’t die in vain.”

Y/N let the words sink in. The pain was endless, but the promise remained: a new life, shaped by Joel’s legacy, by the love he gave, the protection he’d fought for until his last breath.

She stared out at the settlement’s wooden walls, now illuminated by torchlight. Faces,resilient, determined,looked back at her. She felt the weight of their expectations, the silent plea that she carry on.

She took a deep breath, snowflakes sprinkling her hair. “All right,” she said, voice steadying. “Let’s go home.”

—————

Inside the cabin that night, Y/N warmed her aching body by the fire. The quilt lay folded neatly on the bed. She reached for it, tracing the gold letters: FAMILY. She closed her eyes and remembered Joel’s laugh, his steady arms around her, the gentle way he’d place his hand on her belly.

A soft knock came at the door. Ellie slipped in, cheeks flushed from the cold, eyes weary but determined. She held a battered guitar case. “He wanted you to have this.”

Y/N opened it to reveal Joel’s favorite guitar,scratched, worn around the edges. She ran her fingers over the strings. Ellie’s voice trembled. “He always said music kept him alive.”

Y/N nodded, tears spilling. “He did.” She lifted the guitar into her lap. Gently, she strummed a chord,half-remembered, half-broken. It rang pure in the small room.

Ellie sat beside her, leaning her head on Y/N’s shoulder. “Play for him.”

Y/N closed her eyes and began to play the soft melody Joel used to hum when the world felt too heavy. The notes trembled, then grew stronger, rising up through the cabin’s rafters, echoing into the freezing night.

Outside, the wind carried the song, scattering it across Jackson’s sleeping streets.

And though Joel was gone, his voice lingered in every note,a promise that love endures, that even in death, the people we cherish become the heartbeat of the world we carry forward.

298 notes · View notes

mahowaga · 2 months ago

Text

THE SONG OF A THOUSAND CRANES | G.S.

SUMMARY: forged from sin and lilies, you are the curse suguru is destined to destroy. yet beneath his blade blooms a tenderness more dangerous than death.

PAIRING: samurai!geto suguru x curse!fem!reader CONTAINS: angst, doomed romance, myth and folklore inspired, edo period japan, emotional hurt/comfort, fluff??, slow burn, forbidden love, paper cranes, a forest that acts as a guardian, samurai suguru supremacy WC: 16.6k WARNINGS: implied abuse/violence, depictions of grief and loss, character death, emotional manipulation

–THE MYTH

PROLOGUE: THE CURSE WAS SLAIN BENEATH THE FULL MOON And the forest fell silent ever after.

In ancient days, beneath the watchful gaze of distant gods, there lay a village cradled between towering mountains and dark forests–a village prosperous and proud, guarded by traditions as old as the mist that lingered between the trees. It was a village that knew tranquility only as intimately as it knew fear, for peace is ever fleeting, fragile as petals shaken loose by a storm.

A storm indeed had come–but one fashioned not of wind nor thunder, but sorrow. Born from shadow, born from grief, from the wicked whispers and the unspoken crimes of those who walked in daylight and wore masks of virtue, the curse emerged like a bloom opening under moonlight. In the darkness of a forgotten temple, where broken bells hung rusted and voiceless, she took her breath and opened ruinous eyes that reflected only the bitter sins of the living.

They called her a curse, a wraith formed from their collective suffering. A spirit wrought from sins too grave to name and sorrows too deep to bury. Some whispered she had been born when a child was left to perish, crying beneath silent, uncaring stars. Others murmured darker things–tales of violence done in shadows, of innocent blood spilled onto soil that yielded nothing but lilies, pale and ghostly under the moon’s watch.

She rose each night like mist from the temple grounds, a shadow among shadows, a silhouette outlined in moonlight, her robes billowing soft as spider silk, carrying the fragrance of lilies–sweet and heavy, intoxicating, suffocating. Her hair flowed like water, never quite touched by the moon’s silver glow, eyes cold and unfathomable as the bottomless lakes hidden deep within the mountain’s embrace. Her skin, though no one had clearly seen it, was said to be as soft and supple as fallen petals on frost, as smooth and deadly as polished jade.

The curse spoke no words to the villagers, but she sang. And when she did so, the villagers trembled. Her voice was not loud nor shrill–it was soft as mourning doves at dawn, sorrowful as an abandoned lover, sweet as poisoned honey dripping from a comb. Her song was beautiful, terribly beautiful. It stole the breath from the chests of men and women alike, filling their lungs with fragrant despair, until they wept tears of madness and joy intertwined, choking upon her tragic melody. Those who heard her song were found in the morning–faces pale and twisted, eyes frozen open, lips parted, breathless and beautiful in their deathly repose.

When the villagers tried to fight, their weapons rusted and rotted. When they ran, their paths twisted and turned back toward her shadowed temple. Always, when she took her victims, the bells of the abandoned temple would toll–hollow, mournful echoes filling air that stood still as though bound by unseen chains. No wind ever stirred the ancient chimes, yet their tolling marked death with relentless certainty.

Thus, the village languished beneath her reign, helpless, praying to deaf gods for relief, until the lord shogun himself took pity upon them. A messenger arrived with scroll and seal, proclaiming that the shogun, wise and merciful ruler, had sent one of his most loyal samurai–a warrior with a blade blessed by the priests and tempered under the watchful eyes of the gods–to slay the curse and restore peace.

The samurai’s name was Geto. His hair was long and dark as raven feathers, bound tightly back to reveal a face calm and stern, eyes clear as polished obsidian, devoid of fear. Geto was not merely brave–he was fearless, steadfast. He had faced countless foes upon countless battlefields, his katana a whispering judgement that had never faltered, never failed.

He entered the village upon a pale horse, its hooves silent as death upon mossy paths, and asked no comfort from the fearful people who cowered behind closed doors. With only his katana, wrapped carefully in fine silk, he made his way to the temple in the heart of the forest.

At the threshold of her cursed sanctuary, Geto paused only briefly, sensing neither dread nor hesitation. He stepped forward, fearless as he was honor-bound, into the shadows where lilies grew wild upon stones that bore forgotten names. The ghostly flowers parted like subjects before a king, bowing beneath the weight of his righteousness.

She came to him, then–silent as mist, beautiful as midnight, terrible as love betrayed. Her gaze was ice and poison, disastrous eyes seeking to entrance, to ensnare. Her voice rose, as soft and sad as a mourning wind, rich with longing meant to break a heart and steal a soul. Her hair floated as though submerged in water, her hands lifted gently, beckoning him forward to certain death.

But Geto was unmoved. Her voice could not stir his heart, her beauty could not dim his resolve. The samurai stood firm, katana unsheathed and shining with moonlight, pure silver against her shadows. She reached toward him with fingers lithe and lovely, her touch deathly soft, whispering sweet temptations to let go, to rest, to stay with her in the darkness forever. Yet he resisted, strong as a stone beneath storm, unwavering as the mountains that loomed above.

And when she saw that he could not be swayed, the curse screamed–not in song, but in fury. Her lovely face twisted, lilies scattering like broken promises under her wrath. She lunged, ethereal form shifting like smoke, hands becoming claws tipped with sorrow and despair. But the samurai was swifter than her rage, blade slicing clean and true through shadows that bled moonlight instead of blood.

The curse fell, defeated, vanishing like mist burned away by dawn. Her final cry echoed through the forest, ringing through the silent temple, drowning beneath the solemn tolling of bells. And as the last echo faded into silence, Geto sheathed his katana and turned away, never once glancing back at the emptiness left behind.

When the villagers awoke, they knew peace once more. Flowers grew again without pain, the wind sang softly through trees no longer haunted. The temple, though empty, was quiet. The bells ceased their tolling, finally silenced by the samurai’s divine justice.

Thus was peace returned by Geto, whose name lived in whispers and prayers, revered for courage that could not falter and honor that could not tarnish. And the curse, who had bloomed only to wither beneath a righteous blade, was forgotten–nothing more than a shadow in stories told to warn children, a whisper of danger that no longer dwelt among the living.

Yet some still wondered, quietly under the silence of stars, why the forest lilies remained so pale, so fragrant, so unbearably sad. And though the bells were still, why on certain nights, beneath the full moon’s sorrowful gaze, one might hear the ghostly strains of a beautiful voice–soft, mournful, forever singing of a love never born and a peace that was never truly found.

–THE TRUTH

PART I: SHE ROSE FROM ASH AND SORROW Born of grief, she fed on sin and silence.

You did not remember your birth, for you were never truly born. You were made–woven together, strand by strand, breath by breath, from the bitter threads of grief, betrayal, and despair. In a forgotten corner of a land tormented by hunger and shadow, your spirit was conjured from a darkness the villagers feared yet refused to name. They whispered of demons, specters, and curses, yet never spoke of the hands that shaped your existence, the sins they buried beneath the cold soil, watered by tears shed only in secret.

The village, beautiful in the daylight, thriving beneath the summer sun, masked unspeakable horrors in the privacy of its night. It was a village of silence, where children learned early never to cry loudly enough to draw attention, where mothers hushed weeping newborns by forceful hands, suffocating innocent breaths out of fear. It was a place where fathers gambled away their daughters underneath the flickering lanterns, where the starving stole scraps and paid for their desperate courage in fire. In those dark alleys, hidden among tangled pathways, bodies vanished, sins bloomed, and souls were traded like worthless coins.

It was from these atrocities that you rose–woven from sorrow and wrath, from despair and fury. From the woman who hung herself in the old stone well after listening helplessly to her child’s cries, until silence overtook them both. From the young girl whose pleading eyes did nothing to halt the flames that consumed her alive, a punishment for taking what she needed simply to survive. From the man whose greed devoured all his love, who sold his wife to wealthy travelers for riches that turned to ashes in his trembling hands. You were born of broken promises whispered by betrayers, of mutilated bodies abandoned without rites, of screams drowned beneath laughter and festivity.

When at last you drew your first breath–if breath it could be called–it filled your lungs not with air but with choking grief. You rose, neither alive nor dead, neither flesh nor wholly spirit, but something in between: a shadow wrapped in twilight, carrying sorrow in every unseen pore. Beneath your form lilies bloomed, pale and ghostly, feeding off bones long dissolved under fertile soil, their fragrance heavy and mournful as the scent of fresh graves. They clustered around your ankles, winding softly upwards like gentle chains, whispering reminders of sins that could not be forgiven, nor forgotten.

When you first opened your eyes, you stood upon the crumbling stones of a temple abandoned by gods who had long ceased to listen. The villagers had forsaken this place, left it to rot with moss and neglect, believing it would bury their crimes beneath creeping vines and fallen leaves. But the temple remembered everything, the earth hissed of deeds unspeakable, and from that sorrowful memory, you rose–silent, wondering, confused.

At first, you understood nothing. You wandered the crumbling shrine, floating quietly among rusted bells that had long lost their voices, touching worn stone carvings depicting gods whose names were erased by wind and rain. You did not know who you were, nor why you felt such pain, such overwhelming grief, as if mourning lives you had never known, hearts you had never touched.

Then came your song.

It emerged from your lips the way lilies unfurled beneath the moon: slowly, achingly, beautiful and deadly. Soft as silk, woeful as a widow’s lamentation, your voice carried melodies older than memory, dripping melancholy like honey. You sang because your sorrow demanded release, because silence was unbearable, because your soul overflowed with pain not truly yours but that you felt with cruel intimacy. You sang because it was all you knew, unaware of the death your song carried on its gentle notes.

The first time your melody drifted beyond the trees, it reached a man lurking at the edge of the woods–one whose hands were stained with the blood of those he betrayed. You did not see him. You did not know him. Yet your voice wrapped around him softly, quietly, inescapably. His lungs filled not with air but with flowers, delicate blue lotuses blooming invisibly beneath his skin, bursting with silent agony as he fell, choking, staring upward at the moon with desperate eyes. When he drew his final, anguished breath, the rusted bells in your temple tolled forlornly, without wind or hand.

You wept in confusion at your unintended cruelty, your tears vanishing into the earth, nourishing lilies that grew thicker, brighter, heavier with sweet sorrow. You hid within the temple’s shadows, ashamed of your very existence, yearning for understanding yet afraid of yourself.

It was not long before others came, drawn not by curiosity, but by their sins–by lust, greed, ferocity. Your forest, older than their crimes, took them before your voice could reach them, vines and thorns piercing flesh, roots rising hungrily from soil fed by innocent blood. The bells tolled, steady and solemn, as the earth reclaimed what it had lost, burying their bodies quietly underneath lilies and moss.

The villagers, terrified, spoke of a curse who sang and slew, blaming you rather than acknowledging their deeds. They cast stones upon your temple’s steps, whispered hateful prayers beneath frightened breaths, condemned your name without ever knowing it. No innocent, however, ever stumbled onto your grounds. It was as though purity itself shielded the good from your presence, and you soon understood why: you had been made to punish, crafted to reflect their sins back upon them, a mirror of their own cruelty and despair.

Slowly, painfully, you accepted this truth. If you could not control your song, nor tame the forest that guarded you fiercely, you would at least embrace the purpose forced upon you. You no longer wept when your melody brought death, nor mourned when the bells rang through quiet nights. Those who came seeking destruction would find only their own. You learned solitude, learned silence when possible, learned acceptance of a duty no spirit ever asked for.

You lived alone, cloaked in shadows, hidden from stars that watched you woefully, their silence deep as the universe. Days and nights became meaningless as you drifted through the ruined temple, brushing fingers over lilies that curled affectionately around your touch. You were neither evil nor righteous–only a vessel of justice born of tragedy. A ghost fashioned from living sin.

But in quiet moments, beneath moonlight filtering gently through tangled branches, you wondered if perhaps, had the villagers been kinder, had they not spilled innocent blood, had their cruelty never awakened you… perhaps you might have been something else. Something kinder, softer–a guardian rather than an executioner.

Yet they had shaped you in cruelty, in bloodshed, in unspeakable horrors. They had given you voice only to lament, hands only to claim souls. The forest was your ally and your jailer; it protected and imprisoned, loved and smothered you. You belonged to the lilies and the shadows, to songs and silence.

One night, beneath a moon heavy and full, you stood at the heart of your temple and raised your eyes to the stars. Your voice rose gently, without command or wish, flowing like silk upon the air. A new song, mourning all you had become, all you could never be.

And in distant homes, behind barred doors, villagers trembled, whispering prayers to gods who would never answer, hiding their sins underneath desperate pleas. For in your voice lay judgement woven delicately through sorrow, inevitable as the lilies that blossomed beautifully, mercilessly, beneath the silver moon.

PART II: THE WARRIOR CARRIED THE GODS IN HIS BLADE His sword did not tremble. His heart did not yield.

Geto Suguru hears of the curse long before the messenger arrives. Rumors drift through the shogun’s capital like smoke through silk curtains–soft whispers behind paper screens, murmured exchanges among retainers in dimly lit halls. Tales grow like weeds in the courtyards: villagers found with faces twisted in agony and beauty, lungs flowering from within, temples overtaken by lilies and ghosts. Some speak of a siren song that kills softly, of bells tolling where no hand pulls the rope. The stories twist with each telling, painted thickly with superstition, dread, and awe.

He sits silently at the edge of the shogun’s hall, eyes half-lidded, listening to the voices ripple across the room, soft like rain on rooftops. In his mind, Suguru separates truth from embellishment, filtering superstition from reality, leaving only bones and blood and logic. He understands well enough what these whispers mean: another monster born from the rot of men, another slaughter he must carry out in the name of peace.

He watches from the corner of his vision as the messenger is ushered into the hall, head bowed, trembling hands gripping a sealed scroll. This village–one that supplies the shogunate with rice, lumber and silk–is too important to lose. Its suffering cannot be allowed to continue. Too many have died, and too few shipments have reached the capital in recent months. The shogun, compassionate only when it suits his reputation, will not tolerate disruptions to his precious order.

When the summons comes, Suguru rises fluidly from his kneeling position, his movements precise, practised. He crosses polished floors, feeling countless eyes follow his steps, their gazes heavy with reverence and envy. They see him as fearless, incorruptible–like iron tempered beneath priestly chants, immune to rust or doubt.

In truth, Suguru is merely weary, resigned to duties performed again and again, tasks grown repetitive and meaningless. But he carries his weariness like a badge under layers of silk and steel, hidden deeply, unreachable to the eyes that watch him so closely. His hair, dark and neatly bound, marks his rank, his face unreadable, flawless in its practiced stillness.

“Geto Suguru,” the shogun addresses him, voice authoritative yet detached, “you have heard the whispers, I presume?”

“Yes, my lord,” Suguru answers, lowering his head respectfully.

The shogun gestures for the messenger to speak. The man stumbles forward, pale and sweating, proffering the scroll as if holding fire in his shaking palms.

“My lord,” he begins, voice quivering, “the curse has killed many. We find our people dead each dawn, faces marked with strange blossoms, their lungs filled with flowers. No weapon can harm it, no prayer drives it away. It haunts the old forest temple–”

Suguru takes the scroll, unfurls it slowly, methodically. Elegant calligraphy stretches across ivory paper, detailing the village’s plight with more drama than truth. He scans quickly, folding it again with careful precision.

“What exactly have you seen?” Suguru asks calmly, eyes pinning the messenger’s fearful gaze. “Describe the curse.”

The messenger swallows hard, wiping his forehead with a trembling sleeve.

“It is a woman, they say, though no one sees her clearly. She sings, sir–sings softly, beautifully, yet whoever hears her dies choking, flowers sprouting from within. Lilies bloom everywhere, sir, even atop graves. Bells toll when she kills, though no one touches them. They say she guards the temple and takes vengeance on all who enter.”

“Vengeance,” Suguru echoes quietly, thoughtfully.

The shogun interrupts, impatient. “This curse must be felled. Take your blade, Geto. End it swiftly.”

“As you command, my lord,” Suguru replies smoothly, bowing once more, obedience etched clearly in every disciplined movement. He steps backward gracefully, turning to leave the hall, feeling the weight of countless eyes following his path.

Outside, servants await him with his horse, saddled and ready, the pale animal standing motionless as a statue beneath the sunlit sky. He approaches quietly, patting the steed’s neck in silent greeting, fingers tracing familiar patterns through its silvery mane.

His katana rests at his hip, wrapped lovingly in silk, the hilt familiar and reassuring beneath his palm. This blade is indeed special, though not because it carries any blessing from gods or priests. Its strength comes from steel alone–folded, tempered, sharpened by human hands skilled in the art of destruction. No divinity resides within its polished edge, no heavenly voice guides its strikes. Only Suguru’s steady grip and honed instincts give it power.

He mounts swiftly, guiding the horse toward the city gates without looking back. As he rides, the bustle of the capital fades gradually behind him, replaced by quiet fields stretching under wide, empty skies. With each step, the rumors settle deeper within his chest, taking shape, whispering questions he cannot answer, doubts he will not entertain. He feels neither brave nor cowardly–only numb, resigned, driven forward by a duty that has become mechanical, detached from meaning.

Something about this particular tale, however, lingers just beneath his thoughts–an unease stirred by words like lilies, bells, and song. Perhaps it is merely exhaustion whispering uncertainty, or perhaps it is intuition–a quiet warning that this task might differ from countless others he has executed without hesitation.

He allows himself no further contemplation, burying doubt underneath resolve, silencing uncertainty with practiced discipline. Yet the whispers persist softly in the quiet spaces of his mind, following him as he moves steadily toward the village’s darkened horizon, toward a forest said to be cursed, toward a temple haunted by a song he has never heard, but already knows will plague him.

His blade, untouched by gods, unblessed by priests, rests silently at his side, promising only steel, judgement, and finality.

In truth, Geto Suguru feels neither valor nor fear–only a distant weariness, like the first breath of winter frost, chilling and familiar.

Suguru reaches the outskirts of the village at dusk. The sky is bruised in shades of violet and ochre, like old wounds fading beneath gentle skin. He pauses at the village’s edge, breathing deeply the scent of smoke and decay that lingers even here, thinly veiled by aromas of cooked rice and burnt incense.

He steps down from his pale horse, guiding it quietly along paths overgrown with weeds. He notices the unnatural silence, how the crickets hesitate in their chorus, how even the wind holds its breath as though afraid to disturb the hush of the land. Lanterns flicker ahead, casting a weak, uncertain glow over the clustered homes–each one crouching low, hunched under the weight of invisible guilt.

Word spreads fast of his arrival. Doors creak open cautiously, releasing villagers who pour forth like shadows into fading twilight. Faces hollow and pale peer at him anxiously, eyes glittering with a mix of reverence and fear. Voices murmur and hiss excitedly, clawing at the air with whispered accusations and desperate prayers.

They surround him quickly, reaching hands extended to touch the sleeves of his kimono as though grasping at a fragment of salvation itself. Their voices clash and overlap, incoherent, pleading, ugly in their desperation.

“Samurai-sama,” a withered woman calls hoarsely, grabbing at his wrist, her fingers thin as dried reeds, nails caked in dirt, “you have come to slay the demon at last!”

“The curse has stolen another child!” another voice shrieks, wavering with hysteria, shoving forward to meet his gaze, teeth rotted and blackened. “It sings, it sings–and flowers bloom in their throats. It mocks us, even as it kills us!”

Suguru’s eyes move slowly among the gathered crowd, observing their faces carefully, neutrally. He sees twisted grief, sour anger, but beneath it something darker–fear tempered by guilt, suspicion grown from sin. They seem repulsive to him in this moment, grotesque in their eagerness to place blame on something unseen, rather than confronting the rot within their own hearts.

He is no stranger to curses. Nor is he ignorant of their nature: that they are not truly born but rather shaped, molded, nurtured by darkness within human souls. He has felled many, yet none so hauntingly described, none cloaked in lilies and song, none heralded by mournful bells. These signs trouble him, the quiet beauty wrapped delicately around the death they bring. They speak less of malice, more of sorrow–something that silently demands understanding, not blind violence.

The villagers continue their bombardment, oblivious to his hesitation. An old man pushes forward, his back bent double, eyes rheumy, voice crackling with age and venom. “She is a seductress of souls, Samurai-sama! A demoness who wears beauty like silk and sings to ensnare good men. She has bewitched the forest itself, summoning vines and thorns to tear flesh from bones!”

Beside him, a woman hisses, “She rose from the grave of a woman drowned for her sins–a wicked harlot punished by the gods themselves!”

“She lures the innocent–”

“No,” Suguru interrupts quietly, gently lifting a hand to halt their tangled voices. “Innocent?” He scans their faces once more, thoroughly. “Has she taken the innocent?”

A silence heavier than guilt settles thickly upon them. Eyes shift nervously downward, fingers clutch sleeves, feet shuffle anxiously. They avoid his gaze, haunted by something deeper than mere fear–something like shame.

Then the bells ring, softly at first, clear yet impossibly distant. They ripple outward gently, mournfully, filling the empty spaces between breaths, weaving through silence like silver threads of melancholy. The villagers gasp collectively, shuddering, turning frightened eyes toward the forest shrouded in darkness.

Suguru stands still, listening intently. Another soul claimed, yet he cannot help but wonder at the gentleness of these chimes. They ring with sorrow, not triumph. They toll with regret, not joy.

He shifts his katana into its saya slowly, deliberately, the soft metallic whisper silencing the villagers once more. He tucks the silk away. “Enough,” he speaks evenly, authority tempered by weariness. “Show me where I am to rest. I ride at moonrise.”

They lead him to a home more spacious than the rest, its floor mats worn, faded, yet carefully swept. He is seated respectfully, offered rice and fish and tea, which he accepts without enthusiasm, tasting emptiness behind each bite. They chatter endlessly, recounting each incident, embellishing deaths into horror stories filled with seductive spirits and clawed demons.

He eats mechanically, listening without interest. Their tales bore him, their voices scratch at his patience, their desperate lies and half-truths growing thin. Yet he remains quiet, passive, allowing their fears and suspicions to drain into him, absorbing without agreeing, observing without judgement. He has no taste for the way they blame their suffering upon phantoms when their own shadows bleed sin into the soil beneath their homes.

Outside, the bells have stopped tolling. The villagers have retreated, leaving him alone in fragile silence, moonlight filtering through paper screens and painting patterns of light and darkness across his folded hands. He sits still, empty plates before him, gaze trained on shadows dancing softly upon the floorboards.

He knows curses too well. He has seen too many shaped by human cruelty, bound tightly in bitterness and blood. Yet lilies–pure and pale beneath moonlight, their fragrance heavy yet sweet–have no malice. Bells, solemn and soft, speak grief rather than rage. And songs… Songs are never weapons in the hands of monsters, but laments of souls wounded beyond healing.

Perhaps, Suguru thinks slowly, thoughtfully, it is not the villagers who need protection from this curse. Perhaps it is the curse who needs protection from them.

He rises, straightening his garments, adjusting his katana at his side. He steps into the courtyard, looking skyward to see the moon climb steadily into place–full and pale and watching solemnly, impartially, as though it already knows the truths he has yet to uncover.

Suguru mounts his horse quietly, hands steady, heart uncertain but disciplined into silence. He looks toward the forest now silhouetted against moonlit clouds, dark and mysterious, awaiting his approach.

He knows what is expected of him. He will ride into the forest. He will find the curse.

But his thoughts remain unsettled, unsure, drifting toward lilies blooming from sorrowful soil, toward songs trembling in grief, toward bells ringing softly without cruelty.

He nudges his horse forward, hooves moving soundlessly across moss and dirt. And as the village disappears behind him, Suguru carries within him only the questions he cannot answer, the doubts he cannot quiet, and the faintest glimmer of curiosity–something he has not felt in a very long time.

Tonight, beneath the watching moon, he rides toward death or revelation–perhaps both. But he knows now, in his bones and blood, that the truth he seeks lies far deeper than steel alone can reach.

PART III: HER SONG LURED MEN AND WOMEN TO DEATH Soft as snowfall, sweet as rot.

The forest greets him like an old enemy–coldly, silently, awaiting his misstep with patient cruelty. As Suguru steps away from the moonlit clearing where his horse stands tethered, he pauses, breathing deeply. The air here is thick, heavy with moisture, dense with the fragrance of lilies and the deeper, cloying scent of decay hidden beneath the sweetness.

He proceeds carefully, each step precise, thoughtful, moving through shadows cast by trees whose branches weave together like hands clasped in desperate prayer. Moonlight becomes a rarity underneath this living canopy; starlight is but memory here, consumed by ancient foliage. The trees crowd closer, whispering softly in a language older than any human tongue–warning, mocking, testing him with every heedful advance.

Branches reach gently at first, brushing him like the hands of uncertain lovers–tentative, mild. Gradually, they grasp tighter, pressing, scraping, dragging against his garments. He winces silently when thorns graze his cheek, his sleeves torn as he pushes onward, deeper into this labyrinthine heart. Vines snake hungrily around his ankles, yet he pulls forward, determination quiet, relentless. He knows the taste of violence intimately, wears atrocity like a hidden scar beneath his clothes; the forest recognizes this scent of bloodshed and sins unredeemed.

He steps over roots swollen like veins atop dark soil, ducking under moss-laden boughs thick as burial shrouds, until he stands breathless yet unyielding before a path carved reluctantly into shadow. Lilies bloom here, luminous and ghostly in their beauty, crowding the narrow path as though eager to bar his entry or welcome him intimately–he cannot yet discern which.

Beyond the lilies rises the temple: ancient, broken, hauntingly serene despite the rot eating away at its beams and foundations. Its doors hang crookedly open, vines climbing desperately over splintered wood, as if trying to heal wounds of abandonment with their gentle embrace. Bells rusted and tarnished hang solemnly above, motionless yet watching carefully, silent sentinels waiting for their cue to toll once more.

Suguru crosses the threshold, blade sheathed at his side. He takes measured breaths, eyes adjusting to shadowed depths that whisper sorrowfully, greeting him not with malice but melancholy. Inside, the air is cooler, almost comforting, scented faintly with incense long extinguished and forgotten prayers. Shadows drape themselves gracefully over ruined altars, old statues shattered yet dignified in their brokenness, faces worn smooth, voiceless yet eloquent in their muted despair.

He touches nothing, simply observes with eyes darkened by shadows of his own deeds, feeling strangely out of place, as though his very presence here is an intrusion upon a sacred grief that does not belong to him.

Then he hears it–a voice rising gently, softly, like mist unfurling over a still lake. His breath halts sharply in his chest, caught suddenly by that fragile melody, each note trembling, achingly beautiful, profoundly sorrowful. The song drifts toward him like an offering carried by delicate hands, wrapping tenderly around his heart in ribbons woven of regret and longing.

It is the sweetest agony he has ever known.

His chest tightens painfully, lungs fluttering beneath the pressure of that melody, as though petals are blooming within him, flowering steadily, suffocatingly, winsomely. Suguru remains standing, firm despite shaking breath, defiant against the seduction of surrender. He listens carefully, absorbing each note like precious silk unraveling around his resolve.

He wonders quietly, almost breathlessly, how something capable of killing so softly can hold within its voice so much tenderness, so much pain–nothing of cruelty, nothing malicious. It is mourning set to music, grief distilled purely into sound, its lethality an afterthought rather than intention.

Slowly, his eyes lift, searching through shadows for the singer whose voice haunts him now so beautifully. He sees only darkness, the fluttering of moths that drift lazily around lanterns long extinguished. The voice pauses briefly, hesitating–aware of him, perhaps cautious of this intruder who carries steel but wields no weapon.

Suguru’s lips part, breathless words escaping before he can halt their flow:

“Is it you who kills?”

He hears no response, only silence stretching gently between them like silk threads spun in darkness, yet he feels eyes upon him, observing, quiet and watchful, uncertain of his purpose as he is unsure of his own.

The voice returns warily, flowing toward him once more, slightly softer now, vulnerable in its honesty, fragile but inexorable. He listens, heart aching beneath the weight of emotions he does not understand, emotions he had long believed he had buried under discipline and bloodshed.

“Do you sing to mourn or kill?” he murmurs softly, again.

No words come in reply–only song, tender as morning rain, heartbreaking as a child’s plea for mercy. His chest tightens further, his eyes grow warm with a sorrow he has never permitted himself to feel until now. Tears prick painfully yet remain unfallen, withheld stubbornly behind eyes trained to never reveal weakness or doubt.

He breathes deeply, forcing control into limbs that quake softly, hands that ache to find something solid upon which to anchor himself. He has felled curses before–monsters, spirits, nightmares shaped by human cruelty–yet he has never faced something so clement, so terribly, tragically beautiful, whose lethality is accidental, whose presence seems rooted in woe rather than malevolence.

And so, though he should draw steel and sever song from sorrow, he remains passive, blade untouched at his side. He stands still under the temple’s broken roof, moonlight filtering through cracks like silver threads woven among shadows, breathing softly, deeply, letting the song touch him with kind fingers that promise nothing but sadness, nothing but truth.

You watch from the shadows unseen, cautious, wary, prepared for violence yet curious about the silence of his weapon. You have killed many, though never by choice, never with joy–always mourning those your voice claims gently, relentlessly. But this one stands calmly, his heart troubled yet quiet, weapon sheathed, as though awaiting something other than death.

You wait, hidden and watchful, feeling neither safety nor threat, but rather a strange, brittle interest. For the first time since your unholy birth, a human hears your voice clearly and remains alive, unbroken, unharmed.

He does not raise his katana, and hope stirs tentatively, dangerously in your wounded heart, as frail as moth-wings brushing moonlit air.

Your song fades like the ending of a dream, leaving behind an aching stillness heavier than any melody. The temple becomes a tomb once more, shadows reclaiming their hold, moonlight slicing through broken rafters in sharp ribbons, illuminating dust and memory. The silence hits Suguru with the force of a blade, a sudden, violent cessation of something he had not realized he depended upon for breath.

And suddenly he collapses, knees striking cold stone as his hands claw at his chest. His lungs burn with a strange, exquisite agony–as though flower buds, tender and merciless, had begun blooming inside him, unfurling petals that now wither into dust as your song vanishes. He gasps, heart stumbling erratically, vision clouding as though caught between drowning and awakening.

From the shadows you emerge like mist pulled forth by moonlight–form vague yet captivating, features softly defined in pale glow and ink-dark shade. Your robes drift like silk upon water, cascading around your ankles in ripples of silver. You gaze at him warily, lips parted slightly, unsure how to address a man who still breathes after your voice has touched him.

“How?” you murmur at last, your voice devoid of song but heavy with disbelief. “How did you come so far?”

Suguru meets your eyes, lungs raw as he draws careful, unsteady breaths. He tastes lotuses, feels ghostly petals wilt upon his tongue. His voice is low, rough with lingering pain. “I do not know.”

“None survive my song,” you reply, a note of distant regret threading through your words. “No one reaches this shrine without punishment.”

“The forest tried,” he whispers, standing with slow determination, hands trembling slightly as he steadies himself. “But it seems I am difficult to kill.”

You narrow your eyes, studying him with cautious curiosity. “The forest claims only the guilty,” you say, your voice softening almost imperceptibly. “It kills without mercy, punishing the sins brought into its domain.”

He nods, understanding you without admission. “Yet here I am.”

“Yes,” you agree, neither accusation nor judgement in your voice–only confusion, perhaps awe. “And I do not know why.”

He regards you with quiet scrutiny, taking in the softness of your form, the sadness haunting your expression. Nothing in you resembles the malevolence whispered by the villagers, the wickedness described with shaking tongues and fearful hearts. He sees only melancholy wrapped in moonlight, sorrow clothed in silk. Your eyes reflect neither malice nor cruelty, only a weariness too profound for words.

“I’ve slain curses before,” Suguru finally says, “but none like you.”

You tilt your head to the side, cautious still. “What makes me different?”

“You have no claws,” he answers, quiet yet firm. “No teeth that rend flesh. Only a voice. Only flowers and bells.” He pauses, eyes dark with contemplation. “Only death that comes unbidden.”

Your gaze falters slightly, voice lowering, nearly breaking beneath the burden it carries. “I do not choose to kill. I would halt it, if only I knew how. But this curse–my curse–is beyond me. My song rises without permission, my forest guards me fiercely, punishing only those whose crimes stain deeply.”

He exhales slowly, understanding settling upon him with undeniable clarity. “The villagers speak as though innocent blood marks your hands. Yet I see no innocence in them.”

You regard him solemnly, lips pressed into a delicate, sorrowful line. “Innocence does not stray here,” you murmur, gaze distant, haunted. “Those who enter carry darkness heavier than their bones. The forest senses it, devours them whole. My voice finishes what their deeds began.”

“They blame you,” Suguru says, bitterness coloring his voice. “Rather than face their own shadows.”

“Of course,” you reply, voice tinged with gentle resignation. “It’s easier to fear a monster than confront oneself.”

Silence spreads between you once more, weighted by understanding and sorrow unspoken yet deeply felt. You watch him warily, recognizing in him a complexity you’ve never witnessed before–a strength tempered by weariness, a darkness unwilling yet unmistakable. He is dangerous, yes–but you sense he is not dangerous to you.

“You should leave,” you tell him finally, softly insistent. “You’ve seen enough.”

He stands motionless, observing you intently. “Are you not afraid I’ll return to end your existence?”

“If that were your intent,” you reply quietly, eyes steady, unflinching, “you’d already have tried. But your weapon remains sheathed, your hands empty.”

He almost smiles–almost. “You assume I am stronger than I am.”

“Are you not?” you ask, neither skeptical nor challenging–simply curious.

He shakes his head slightly, eyes shadowed with something unreadable, fragile beneath layers of practiced discipline. “No,” he whispers. “I am not strong at all.”

You say nothing more, respecting the quiet truth behind his words, acknowledging a sorrow he does not give freely but which radiates from him nonetheless. The silence deepens, heavy yet peaceful, a frail truce binding two being accustomed only to solitude and suffering.

Slowly, you step backward into shadow, withdrawing carefully from the delicate intimacy born of shared pain. “Do not return here, Samurai,” you murmur gently. “I cannot guarantee your safety again.”

“You will not harm me,” he replies, soft certainty coloring his words.

“It is not I who would harm you,” you remind him quietly. “My curse is beyond control. It does not spare those it finds.”

He nods slowly, understanding yet unwilling to give promise. You vanish wordlessly, like smoke dissolving into darkness, leaving behind only moonlight and silence and lilies that bloom eternally upon stained earth.

Suguru stands for several moments more, breathing deeply the air still fragrant with lilies and loss. Eventually he turns, stepping back into the forest, passing once more through branches and vines that no longer grasp hungrily but hang motionless, subdued, respectful of something unspoken yet understood between curse and samurai.

He reaches his horse at dawn, the sun bleeding gently across the horizon, banishing shadows yet unable to erase memory. He rides back to the village, meeting the villagers with careful, practiced deception.

“The curse is stronger than anticipated,” he lies smoothly, voice authoritative yet hollow. “I must prepare differently. Stay indoors, avoid the forest. Wait for my return.”

He does not stay to witness their fearful nods or whispered thanks. He retreats to the quiet house prepared for him, isolating himself carefully, thoughts haunted by your presence, your voice, the quiet sorrow that cloaks you.

That night, beneath lamplight softened by paper screens, Suguru sits alone, folding paper with meticulous fingers, transforming blank sheets into delicate cranes, each fold precise, intentional, filled with silent wishes he does not yet dare to speak aloud. He does not fully understand why he begins this quiet ritual–only that each crane eases slightly the ache lodged deep within his chest.

Outside, the forest waits silently, guarding secrets gently, lovingly, until night descends once more, and your voice rises again softly–woeful and beautiful, calling to darkness, mournful yet mercifully unheard by human ears tonight.

PART IV: HE WITHSTOOD HER SEDUCTION Even when she wept in moonlight.

The next night, the moon ascends with reluctant grace, slipping silently through clouds heavy with hidden rain. Its pale, half-veiled face casts a hesitant glow over the forest path, painting trees and roots in silver melancholy. Suguru moves deliberately, breath steady, heart uncertain, though he hides doubt behind careful silence. He carries no lantern, drawing guidance from memory, senses sharpened by years of following darkness toward unknown ends.

The forest welcomes him less kindly this time, its vines snaking aggressively toward his ankles, roots grasping fiercely beneath his sandals. Branches rake at his face, leaving thin, stinging cuts along cheek and brow, reminders of countless sins etched invisibly into his skin. His robes snag on thorn-covered bushes, cloth tearing quietly in protest as he moves forward, determined despite whispered warnings carried by rustling leaves.

Suguru understands the forest’s anger, its fierce desire to punish what he represents–bloodshed ordered in hushed councils, the wordless crimes committed under a banner of justice. He bears the forest’s punishment without resentment, enduring sharp thorns, bleeding in silence, knowing well the price exacted for the truths he has buried deeply. He pushes onward however, unyielding beneath the weight of guilt, guided by something he cannot name just yet–something drawn forth by sorrowful songs and lilies blooming from sadness.

As he breaches the tree-line and stands once more before your crumbling temple, your voice rises instinctively, lifting into the night as delicate as the scent of lilies carried on an evening breeze. The first notes waver like whispers upon water, mournful, sweetly tragic, before abruptly fading–choked, halted suddenly by recognition. Your voice fails you, notes dissolving like mist caught by sunrise, leaving behind startled silence.

You emerge from the shadows swiftly, robes rippling gently around you, eyes bright with disbelief and frustration.

“You returned?” Your voice shatters the quiet sharply, incredulity tangible in your breathless words.

Suguru regards you calmly, ignoring the scratches on his skin, the torn edges of his clothing. “Did you think I wouldn’t?”

“You are going to get yourself killed,” you snap, exasperation mingling with worry, emotions unfamiliar and uncomfortable. “The forest will not allow you passage again. Why have you come back?”

He does not answer immediately, only watches you closely, quietly, something unreadable lingering in his dark gaze. You sense a softness behind the disciplined mask he wears, though he offers no words to reveal it.

“I know you were sent to kill me,” you press softly, eyes narrowing, voice low with tension. “Yet your blade remained sheathed yesterday. Why?”

“Perhaps,” Suguru replies carefully, “I found no need to draw it.”

“That’s absurd,” you retort, anger tinged with confusion, a strange heat rising beneath your calm facade. “You felt my power. You felt the death woven into my song. Do you think you can resist it again?”

He tilts his head slightly, a faint smile ghosting his lips, gentle yet stubborn. “Your song did not kill me last night. Nor tonight. Perhaps it won’t try again.”

You stare at him incredulously, fingers curling tightly into your sleeves. “You risk your life on assumptions.”

“Not assumptions,” he replies, meeting your gaze steadily. “Instinct.”

You fall silent, unable to fathom such obstinate behavior. He is different from any human you’ve encountered–unyielding, resolute, calm beneath the harshness of your warnings. You realize suddenly he carries something in his hands–a small wooden box, carefully wrapped in silk.

He notices your gaze, steps closer carefully, offering the box with outstretched hands. “For you.”

You hesitate, wary, uncertain how to respond. Never before has a gift been presented to you, never before has a human shown such gentle persistence. Your fingers tremble faintly as you accept the box, lifting away the silk cover to reveal glistening candied plums, sweet and fragrant, something delicate and lovely you’ve never imagined tasting.

“What is this?” you ask quietly, eyes flickering toward him in curious wonder.

“An offering,” Suguru answers simply, “to prove I mean no harm.”

You pick up one of the plums, cautiously tasting sweetness upon your tongue–strange, intoxicating, beautiful. Your guarded expression softens lightly, unable to fully hide your astonishment or delight.

“Why?” you whisper, eyes lifting to his, questioning his intentions but no longer angry.

Suguru’s expression gentles further, a subtle warmth entering his dark eyes. “You don’t seem accustomed to kindness.”

“I’ve had no reason to be,” you reply, the truth feeling fragile in your mouth.

He reaches slowly into his sleeve, pulling forth a stack of flimsy sheets of paper, pale as moonlight, thin as breath. Carefully, deliberately, he sits upon the stone steps leading into the temple, smoothing the paper upon his knee, his long fingers moving in practiced precision.

You watch him closely, fascinated despite yourself. “What are you doing?”

“Folding cranes,” he murmurs without raising his eyes, fingers moving gracefully as each fold transforms the paper into something delicate, elegant, alluring.

“What purpose does it serve?” you ask cautiously, drawn closer by interest, kneeling prudently beside him.

He pauses briefly, eyes flicking toward you with quiet contemplation. “They are a tradition. They represent hope and desire.”

“For what?”

He does not answer, only continues folding with care, face calm and unreadable. You observe in silence, memorizing his motions, learning this gentle ritual from him. He finishes the crane, placing it delicately upon the ground between you both, wordless invitation in his action.

Slowly, you reach forward, fingertips brushing over paper shaped like wings, marveling quietly at its beauty. “Will you teach me?” you ask, voice barely audible, hesitant, yet oddly hopeful.

He nods, passing a fresh sheet of paper to your hand. “Watch closely.”

You follow his movements, mimicking his folds precisely, each crease becoming the bones of something beautiful and intricate, until a second crane rests in your palm.

“Do you fold these often?” you inquire softly, turning the paper bird in your fingers like it’s made of glass.

“Not until last night,” he answers quietly.

“Why?”

His eyes drift toward you, hesitant yet unwilling to speak his reasons aloud. He simply says, “Because it calms me. Because I wish to.”

You sense there is more hidden behind his words, yet do not press further. Silence settles over you both comfortably, punctuated only by rustling paper, soft breaths mingling between you, cranes forming one after another upon the stone steps.

After several more cranes, you pause again, holding one carefully in your hand, regarding him thoughtfully. “You truly intend no harm?”

He meets your gaze steadily, eyes filled with sincerity. “None. You believed I was stronger than I was. Perhaps you were correct.”

You nod once, unsure but choosing to trust him despite the uncertainty. “Then stay, if you wish,” you whisper. “But only briefly.”

“Understood,” he murmurs, continuing his folding.

You remain quietly beside him, watching moonlight reflect upon folded paper, lilies blooming faintly around you both, the fragrance filling night air with sweetness born of melancholy. Your heart beats gently, unfamiliar yet strangely comforting, your thoughts lingering upon the warmth of his presence.

You do not fully understand why he returned, nor why he chooses this companionship, but you ask nothing more, content to share this moment between shadows and sorrow. With someone who does not want you slain.

Later, after he departs into darkness, you gather the folded cranes he left behind, cupping them in your palms with utmost care like precious treasures. You wonder about their hidden meaning, suspecting the depths of intention he has not revealed.

And in your chest, fragile hope blooms delicately once more, like paper wings taking shape beneath careful hands, waiting to discover what wish these silent cranes might one day grant.

Every night, as stars climb solemnly into the darkened sky, he returns. And every night, the forest wages its familiar war against him. Branches scratch and snag his robes, thorns bite into his skin, roots grasp hungrily at his ankles, yet never deter his resolve. He pushes forward, relentless yet calm, enduring the forest’s fury with silent patience, until he stands again at your temple, moonlight illuminating his quiet determination.

Your voice no longer rises to meet him. Your curse has learned him, memorized the gentle rhythm of his footsteps, the muted purpose that carries him through your defenses. Instead, you await him at the shrine steps, fingertips brushing the wood of the doorframe, your expression cautious but welcoming. You watch him approach with restrained curiosity, wondering what new offering he brings tonight.

Some evenings it is candied fruits or delicate pastries wrapped in thin silk, others a carved wooden comb or a polished stone shaped like a crescent moon. Each gift he places carefully into your hands, eyes holding yours as if the offering itself is secondary to the simple act of giving. Tonight, he offers a single silver bell tied with red thread–a small thing that rings with clarity and sweetness as it settles into your palm.

“For protection,” he murmurs, eyes glinting faintly in the moonlight.

You run your fingers across the smooth metal surface, listening to its voice resonate softly. “Do you believe I need protecting?”

His lips curve into something gentle yet unreadable. “Perhaps.”

You smile then–a hesitant, shy thing blooming upon your lips like a flower uncertain of its right to exist. It is the first smile you’ve allowed yourself since your existence began, tentative and luminous as dawn breaking slowly through clouds. He watches this transformation, eyes widening briefly, astonishment flickering in his otherwise guarded expression.

“You smile,” he notes softly, wonder threading through his voice.

“Should I not?” you ask, eyes searching his face for disapproval.

“No,” he replies, “you should smile often.”

An unfamiliar warmth settles within you, comforting and strange, as you turn and lead him inside the temple. The interior is gradually coming alive again, each night enriched by the folded cranes he leaves behind. They dangle like ornaments from ancient rafters, paper wings suspended in still air, breathing life back into this forsaken shrine. He notices their careful placement, recognizing your silent gratitude in each crane positioned lovingly about the temple.

As always, you fold together, seated on worn cushions by flickering lantern light. Tonight, your fingers pause, your gaze filled with interest as he quietly counts each crane before departure, his voice barely more than a whisper as he numbers them.

“Two hundred sixty-seven,” he murmurs.

Your eyes narrow thoughtfully. “Why do you count them each night? Is there a certain number you seek?”

He glances upward, hands poised gracefully on another fold. “Perhaps there is.”

“You never tell me,” you remark with mild accusation.

“One day,” he answers, eyes meeting yours with an intensity that startles you, “you will understand.”

You tilt your head, thoughtful but willing to trust him, even in mystery. Your gaze returns to the crane forming in your hands, movements becoming practiced and graceful under his careful instruction.

“Do the villagers not scorn you for your hesitance?” you ask, folding another wing neatly. “Surely they demand proof of your deeds.”

“They do,” he admits, expression darkening slightly. “But I sin in that regard. I deceive them instead.”

You consider this quietly, your eyes fixed on the crane. “Do you not fear their anger?”

His voice is heavy. “Their anger is rooted in their shame. They fear themselves far more than any curse.”

You nod, understanding him clearly. “Perhaps their fear is justified.”

“Perhaps,” he agrees softly.

One evening, beneath the moon’s watchful gaze, you gather lilies blooming near the shrine steps, their petals radiant and luminous. Sitting beside him, your fingers weave blossoms into the silken cascade of your hair, fragrance drifting around you. He watches, his gaze filled with an unspoken admiration you do not fully comprehend but feel deeply.

“You adorn yourself,” he murmurs appreciatively.

You glance away, warmth spreading across your cheeks. “Does it please you?”

“It suits you perfectly,” he replies gently.

A small silence settles comfortably, before you find the courage to speak again. “Would you teach me a human song?”

He hesitates for a moment, then nods. His voice rises slowly, carefully teaching you words to a melody that speaks of springtime, new beginnings, warmth born from winter’s ending. Your voice joins uncertainly at first, gradually finding harmony alongside his deeper tones. The temple fills with your interwoven sounds–untrained, yet beautifully matched, alive with joy neither has fully known.

When the last notes fade, you glance toward him, your expression open, vulnerable. “Tell me of yourself,” you ask. “Why do you come here each night? You are unlike others–unlike any I’ve met.”

He exhales, eyes shadowed with memories long repressed. “I once believed myself righteous–a warrior serving justice. But I saw the truth beneath the shogun’s commands: cruelty disguised as honor, bloodshed masked as righteousness. Monsters are rarely monstrous, only broken souls twisted by pain.”

“And now?” you whisper.

“Now,” he replies, meeting your gaze steadily, “I serve neither justice nor cruelty. I follow only what my heart recognizes as truth.”

He lifts his hand slowly, carefully, touching fingertips gently to your cheek, as if testing whether this fragile moment might fracture beneath his touch. Your breath catches slightly, yet your skin remains smooth, unmarred. His palm does not wither, his fingertips do not blacken; there is no decay between you.

Your voice trembles slightly. “You still have not answered my question clearly. Why do you not kill me? You were sent for that purpose.”

His gaze remains fixed upon yours, hand lingering against your skin. “If harm were my intent,” he echoes your words from the first night you met, “I would already have tried.”

“You told me then,” you whisper, repeating the words etched deeply in memory, “that I assumed you stronger than you truly are. Is that still so?”

He shakes his head slowly, a faint smile curving his lips, resigned yet sincere. “I am weaker now, I think. Each night I return, my resolve weakens further.”

“Why, then?” you press, desperate for truth. “Why return if your purpose falters?”

He draws a slow breath, eyes serious and unwavering, hand lowering from your face, fingers brushing your fleetingly before withdrawing fully. “Perhaps because, for the first time, weakness is not shameful–but something worth surrendering to.”

You do not fully understand his meaning, yet warmth spreads through your chest, comfort mingling strangely with confusion. You look away quickly, shyly, heart unsure yet beating steadily.

He stands finally, preparing to depart into night’s embrace once more. Before stepping into shadow, he counts cranes again, softly murmuring their total. “Three hundred twenty-two.”

He leaves silently, your gaze following until darkness swallows him. Alone once more, you cradle a crane in your palm, considering its precise folds, wondering about his wish, his purpose. A faint smile returns, tender and hopeful, born of uncertainty yet unafraid.

You begin to hum quietly, the melody he taught you rising into the night air, tentative but growing in strength. It carries toward the forest, toward darkness now familiar, reaching gently toward the man who walks back to his village cloaked in silence and regrets.

And beneath the temple’s watch, you hang one more crane among the others, each paper bird a promise, a wish unspoken, waiting patiently for fulfillment.

PART V: THE BELLS RANG TO MARK HER KILLINGS They tolled with no wind, in mourning or mockery.

Almost a month passes, and the village seethes like a cauldron simmering over low flames, murmurs boiling into restless accusations. Suguru’s nightly departures into the woods have etched a narrative in blood and bruises upon his skin–his clothing torn, features darkened by fatigue–and the villagers nod knowingly, whispering sagely among themselves. In their eyes, the samurai battles fiercely against the sinister force in the forest, locked in unending combat with the curse they fear so profoundly.

Suguru does not correct their beliefs. Instead, he wears their mistaken reverence as a mask, a thin veil of falsehood draped across his truth. He allows them to think him noble, tireless, though the cuts and scratches speak only of the forest’s bitter attempts to bar him from you. Each dawn he returns, breathing laboriously, stepping through their clustered gazes without comment. Each dawn he speaks gravely, somber voice declaring the curse too powerful, too elusive for one man alone.

He watches resentment bloom like weeds among them. They once revered him as a hero, their respect glistening like fresh lacquer, polished and bright–but now impatience corrodes that shine, turning admiration into suspicion, gratitude into irritation.

Then one evening, as Suguru readies himself at the village’s edge, he sees torches ignite like stars beyond the fields. Villagers approach–men armed clumsily with pitchforks and old swords, their bodies tight with reckless bravado. They march toward him, resolve distorted by anger, fueled by ignorance.

A man steps forward, eyes bright with defiance. “We tire of waiting, Samurai-sama. Tonight, we join you. We will defeat this curse ourselves.”

Suguru straightens, folding his arms within the sleeves of his kimono, stern composure etched across his features. “Do not be foolish,” he warns them, his voice heavy with the gravity of experience. “This curse is not so easily subdued. Return home.”

Another villager thrusts forward, clutching a rusted blade. “If you cannot defeat it alone, then together we shall. We cannot endure another night of waiting while death hovers at our doorsteps!”

Their desperation paints their faces starkly in torchlight–each man bearing his own hidden guilt, each soul weighted by fear and shame. Suguru senses their stubbornness rooted deep in fear’s fertile soil, and he knows his words fall on deaf ears. He shakes his head once, sharply, but steps aside.

“You go toward your deaths,” he tells them sternly. “The curse will not spare you.”

They pass by him, their torches flickering and shadows stretching long as though attempting to hold them back. He watches until their forms are swallowed by the forest, torches dimmed into distant sparks consumed by darkness. He waits, heart tightening within his chest, for the inevitable.

The bells toll suddenly–piercingly clear, mournful, ringing in slow procession. Each strike resonates like iron upon stone, echoing through the village. One, two, three–each chime another life lost. Suguru closes his eyes, bowing his head slightly as the villagers behind him cry out sharply, wails rising into the night.

Women burst from homes, children cling to skirts as frantic voices cry names into the empty air. The ringing bells do not cease their count, do not soften their judgement. Seven tolls in all, each more devastating than the last.

The villagers rush forward, grasping Suguru’s clothing desperately, sobbing openly, knuckles white as they claw at silk sleeves. “Why?” a mother shrieks, grief shattering her voice like porcelain upon stone. “Why did you not protect them? How could you let them go?”

Suguru’s expression grows harder, colder, forcing their hands away with controlled strength. “You accuse me of failing to protect those who refuse to heed my warnings?” he retorts icily. “I warned you clearly–why rush blindly into darkness I myself have yet to conquer?”

They flinch, recoiling from his reproach, their grief momentarily silenced by the sting of truth. His words hand between them like heavy smoke, and they step back slowly, eyes downcast, mouths trembling, unable to challenge his accusation.

But news travels swiftly as misery itself, carried upon winds to the distant capital. The shogun’s message arrives days later–a scroll sealed in crimson wax, delivered by a stern-faced messenger who regards Suguru coldly. The message is curt, starkly written, each character a dagger plunged into Suguru’s resolve.

“You have failed thus far, Samurai,” the messenger declares with impassive contempt. “The shogun grants you one final moon to eradicate the curse. Should you fail or refuse, your family will bear your dishonor. Should you perish, another shall take your place until success is achieved.”

Suguru holds the scroll tightly, its edges crumpling slightly within his grasp. He acknowledges the decree with a nod, voice steady yet heavy with suppressed bitterness. “Tell your lord the curse shall be dealt with. He has my word.”

The messenger departs immediately, leaving Suguru alone in silence that bears down upon him oppressively. He retreats into the home provided by the villagers, sliding the door shut with weary finality. Seated beneath flickering candlelight, he reaches for sheets of delicate paper stacked carefully nearby, fingers moving with rapid intensity, folding cranes without pause, without rest.

The night deepens, candle flame guttering uncertainly as each crane emerges crisply formed from skilled fingers. He folds one after another, determination etching lines of strain into his features. His heart pounds insistently, whispering desperate hopes and hidden fears, counting silently the paper birds that scatter across tatami mats like fallen blossoms.

His eyes blur with fatigue, shoulders tightening with tension. He folds relentlessly, the sound of creasing paper loud in the room’s suffocating stillness. Each crane is a plea, a prayer formed from desperation–a quiet rebellion against fate and duty.

At last, he pauses, breath heavy, fingers trembling faintly as he surveys his creations spread around him. His voice, worn yet resolute, whispers the count into emptiness:

“Seven hundred and fifty-two.”

Outside, the wind stirs trees into restless murmurs, moonlight cold and unyielding. Suguru knows that time runs thin like candle wax melting into nothingness. His chest aches, not merely from exhaustion but from knowledge–knowledge that soon he must face a choice impossible to avoid.

He gathers the cranes into his palms, placing them alongside the others carefully stored, each crane delicate yet resilient, a silent testament to his resolve and the unspoken wish he holds secret.

Tomorrow he will return to the temple, to lilies and songs he now longs for more fiercely than he can admit even to himself. Tomorrow he must tell you of the decree handed down, of the cruel demands made upon him.

But tonight, Suguru sits alone, wrapped in shadows cast by flickering flame, surrounded by cranes born of desperation and quiet defiance.

He does not sleep. He simply waits–heart clenched tight, breath measured precisely–as the night deepens further, as the moon watches impassively, counting silently with him.

PART VI: SHE TRIED TO STEAL HIS SOUL With hands like silk and breath of lilies.

The temple air bristles with tension, heavy like storm clouds threatening lightning. You await him near the crumbling pillars, fingers restless, twisting lily petals into tight spirals that bruise their velvet softness. Night has stretched its shadows thick across your shrine, its depths filling with the murmurs from trees and rustling vines–a forest alert, uneasy.

When he finally steps into view, you rise sharply. Your chest tightens, your voice brittle, sharp as flint. “You didn’t come last night,” you accuse him immediately, words breaking from you like shards of porcelain. “Seven villagers died in your absence.”

Suguru pauses mid-step, his expression clouding with weary regret, shoulders weighted by the accusation. “I tried to stop them,” he answers, voice low, worn like river stones polished by relentless currents. “They would not listen. Their stubbornness drove them to ruin.”

You step forward abruptly, frustration radiating off you, eyes blazing fiercely. “You believe I am responsible?” you demand, bitterness coloring each word. “I swear upon whatever gods may still listen–I did not take their lives. My voice was silent; my hands untouched.”

He meets your wild stare without wavering, speaking deliberately, each syllable laden with conviction. “I believe you,” he says simply. “I know your truth already. It was not your doing. The forest guards you jealously.”

Your shoulders slump, anger seeping out, replaced by weariness more potent than rage. You move closer, hesitantly reaching forward, your fingers brushing lightly over the torn fabric of his kimono. The touch, your first initiated, startles both of you–intimacy without consequence, contact without destruction. His body remains steady, unmarked, whole. Relief blooms faintly in your chest.

“I wish you had come,” you whisper, anger now supplanted by something softer, more painful. “Perhaps then, those men would not have ventured here seeking me.”

Suguru regards you thoughtfully, his eyes revealing deep conflict, a weight he bears silently. “Do you think,” he asks carefully, voice edged with cautious hope, “it might help if I spoke your truth to the villagers? If they understood your innocence?”

You shake your head instantly, a bitter smile tugging at your lips. “No. They are blinded by fear and hatred, deafened by superstition. Even if they believed you, my curse remains. My song would eventually claim them, or the forest would strike without mercy. It protects, it punishes–it does not listen to reason.”

He exhales sharply, frustration evident, tension woven deeply into the lines of his jaw. Slowly, he withdraws a scroll from within his kimono, handing it to you reluctantly. You unfold it gingerly, reading the inked characters that command his hand, that threaten his lineage. Each word sends a chill twisting through your veins.

You lift your eyes to his, hands shaking faintly with dread. “Will you kill me now?” you ask plainly, steady despite the vulnerability threading your question. “The shogun commands it. Spare your family the shame.”

His expression hardens, eyes darkening with quiet defiance. “If I fail or refuse, my family suffers dishonor. If I die in the attempt, another takes my place–but my kin remain untouched.”

You study him closely, apprehension curling tightly within your chest. “Well, I will not harm you,” you whisper forcefully, your voice cracking beneath the weight of honesty. “You must believe this.”

A charged silence fills the air, heavier than any spoken word. Suguru stands tense, the struggle within him tangible, his fists clenched tight enough to strain knuckles white. “I believe you,” he says finally, his voice taut with controlled anger–not at you, but at fate itself, at the cruelty of commands he despises but cannot ignore.

You turn suddenly, moving toward a corner where moonlight spills through cracks in broken timbers, illuminating a scattered array of small, folded shapes. “I have been folding,” you announce quietly, kneeling to collect leaf cranes you’ve crafted with painstaking care. They are not as neat as his paper creations, yet beautiful in their imperfect sincerity. “Nearly one hundred, fashioned from leaves.”

Suguru joins you, taking one into his palm, examining its form closely. His fingers brush yours briefly in the exchange, warmth mingling between skin. He counts each crane methodically, adding your leaf-bound offerings to his ever-growing tally.

“You still won’t tell me their purpose,” you murmur, your voice edged with faint accusation and gentle curiosity.

He shakes his head slowly, a wistful smile flickering across his lips. “Not yet. In time.”

You accept his silence, though frustration lingers stubbornly. Carefully, you set aside the leaf cranes, arranging them lovingly alongside their paper counterparts that adorn the shrine like relics of devotion.

Turning back toward him, you sense turmoil twisting through his being, emotions barely restrained beneath a surface smoothed by practiced discipline. Without conscious thought, you reach again, your hand resting lightly against his sleeve, tracing the pattern of fabric thoughtfully.

“Why do you hesitate so strongly?” you whisper earnestly. “Your honor compels you, your duty demands it–yet still, you spare my life. Why?”

Suguru studies you for a moment, the silence pregnant with unsaid truths, his eyes betraying secrets even he dares not speak. Finally, his voice emerges, low and strained with sincerity. “Because I see no monster in you. Only pain sculpted into a form misunderstood. Because the shogun sends me to strike down beasts, yet I find only souls lost and wounded.”

Your fingers tighten upon his sleeve, desperation surfacing in your words. “Yet still–your family, your honor–these must come first.”

“My honor is worthless if it demands cruelty,” he answers bitterly. “I have learned that now. And my family would grieve more deeply if I betrayed myself.”

You exhale unsteadily, your fingers reluctantly releasing him. “Then we both stand condemned by forces beyond us.”

He does not answer immediately, but the subtle incline of his head acknowledges the truth in your words. He watches the cranes thoughtfully, then murmurs softly, “Eight hundred and forty-seven.”

You nod solemnly, the number carrying quiet weight–a promise, a hope still hidden. He rises, preparing to depart, tension lingering between you both, unresolved yet deeply felt.

At the threshold, Suguru pauses, turning back slightly. “Will you continue to fold?” he asks, voice strangely hopeful.

“Yes,” you promise. “Though I wish I understood why.”

He offers no answer, only inclines his head gently in farewell, stepping into darkness that swallows him swiftly, completely. You remain within your temple, fingers tracing leaf cranes with reverent touch, uncertain but resolute.

Your heart breaths a rhythm unfamiliar yet welcome–longing tempered by cautious hope, intimacy born from understanding, not theft. The cranes, woven from leaves and dreams alike, guard secrets you cannot yet decipher.

Outside, the bells rest silent, trees hold their breath, and the land itself mourns quietly for what may soon be lost or gained, awaiting the outcome neither of you yet dares predict.

PART VII: THE CURSE BEGGED FOR MERCY AND WAS DENIED Even monsters may kneel. Even demons may cry.

Two days remain until the moon swells full and pale, poised in the heavens to bear witness. The forest has grown restless, the air dense with expectation, leaves whispering secrets among branches bent like supplicants. You await Suguru at the temple’s entrance, feet planted on the steps worn smooth by centuries of footsteps, the stone cool against your soles. Lily blossoms cluster close, petals luminous in moonlight, releasing perfume heavy with memories.

When he appears at the forest’s edge, you step forward, meeting him in the clearing. The night’s pale glow etches harsh lines upon his face, tracing shadows beneath his eyes, revealing a fatigue he no longer tries to mask. Your hand lifts instinctively, brushing tenderly over the fresh scratches and bruises marring his skin. His eyes close briefly under your touch, relief softening the tension buried deep within him.

“You are hurt again,” you murmur, your voice thick with worry.

He breathes deeply, leaning slightly into your touch. “I have endured worse. The forest resents me more fiercely with each passing night.”

You withdraw your hand, fingers curling uncertainly at your side. “Two nights remain. Have you decided your course?”

He hesitates, eyes flickering toward the direction of the distant village. “I have thought endlessly about your origin,” he says finally, voice heavy as a winter storm. “I see clearly now–how their darkness created you. Their cruelty, their betrayals, their sins–they shaped you, formed you into something they could hate. They are the true monsters, not you.”

His confession strikes you, painful yet freeing, your chest tightening with recognition. “Yet they are blind to their faults,” you respond bitterly. “They cast blame outward, refusing to acknowledge their own ugliness.”

Suguru nods gravely, regret shadowing his features. “I too have been blind–blind to my own complicity. I have walked among monsters, serving their whims without question. Perhaps the greatest beast is myself.”

“You are no monster,” you whisper sharply, voice trembling with sudden conviction.

His hand rises, fingertips gently brushing strands of hair from your face, his touch lingering tenderly. “You are too forgiving. You know nothing of the blood on my hands, the innocent lives taken in the shogun’s name. Every atrocity I committed was masked by duty and honor, yet honor is no justification for cruelty.”

You reach up, capturing his hand between both of yours, holding it reverently against your chest. “I see clearly,” you say firmly, your heartbeat thrumming steadily beneath his palm. “I know you carry guilt, and pain, yet a true monster would not feel remorse. A true monster would not return here night after night, risking everything simply to share my company.”

His expression softens, eyes reflecting emotions rarely permitted. He lifts your joined hands, pressing a fleeting, tender kiss to your knuckles. A simple gesture, yet rich with vulnerability and restrained longing. “You honor me far more than I deserve.”

You stand close, moonlight enfolding you in silver warmth, intimacy deepening gently. “Tell me of the cranes,” you ask quietly once more, hope and curiosity weaving through your tone. “Will you finally speak their meaning tonight?”

A faint smile tugs at his lips, mysterious yet affectionate. “Not yet,” he murmurs. “Patience a little longer, please.”

Frustration flickers briefly in your chest, but you yield gracefully, trusting despite the doubt. “You torment me,” you complain playfully, warmth coloring your voice.

He laughs–rare and transient, surprising even himself. “Never intentionally,” he replies, eyes filled with tenderness. “I swear to you, soon enough the cranes’ meaning will be revealed.”

You sigh, leaning your head against his shoulder, savoring the comfort and strength radiating from his presence. The night settles around you, sounds of rustling leaves and distant wildlife providing harmony to your shared moment.

Eventually, Suguru speaks again, voice solemn yet determined. “I promise you this–I will find a way to free you of this curse. I don’t know how yet, but I will search every path, challenge every god if I must.”

You lift your head, expression guarded, hope tempered by ambivalence. “The curse binds tightly. My songs, my forest–they follow their own laws, beyond human influence.”

His eyes darken with resolve, fingers tightening around yours reassuringly. “Then I will defy those laws,” he states fiercely. “I will rewrite fate itself if it means your freedom.”

Your chest aches painfully, heart struggling against the walls of caution you’ve constructed carefully around your hope. “Why risk so much for me?” you whisper.

“Because,” he replies quietly, a rare vulnerability surfacing in his voice, “for the first time, I see clearly what is worth fighting for. You have shown me gentleness amid cruelty, grace amid brutality. You taught me compassion where I believed only violence existed.”

His words sink deeply, resonating powerfully within your chest. Your hand lifts again, cupping his cheek affectionately, savoring the warmth beneath your fingertips, marveling at how this man–marked by violence, burdened by guilt–has become something precious to you.

But even as you savor this intimacy, dread curls bitterly in your stomach. “But your family, your honor–the shogun’s demand–”

“My family would understand,” he interrupts gently, certainty coloring his voice. “They would want me to uphold honor by following my heart. And the shogun’s demands no longer control me–not when their price is your life.”

Your chest tightens, words tangled within your throat, heart swelling painfully with emotion too profound for speech. Instead, you cling to him, your embrace intense, protective, desperate.

For a moment, he holds you, his heart beating strongly against yours, heat shared dearly. Finally, reluctantly, you pull away, moonlight illuminating regret upon both your faces.

“Tomorrow,” he murmurs heavily, “is the last night before the full moon.”

You nod, sorrow etched into your eyes. “Then I will see you tomorrow.”

He steps back slowly, lingering gaze upon your face, memorizing this moment with quiet reverence. “Until then,” he whispers softly.

He disappears into darkness, leaving you alone with your thoughts and cranes scattered across temple steps. You sit, gathering your folded leaf cranes lovingly into your lap, counting each creation quietly.

“Nine hundred and three,” you whisper to yourself.

As night deepens, your hands continue folding, turning leaves carefully into wings, hearts, dreams–each crane a silent plea, a wish for freedom, for truth, for hope still unspoken but deeply felt.

Nightfall brings no relief, the air taut as bowstrings drawn and held, tension vibrating through the temple stones and flowering vines alike. The moon, almost perfectly round, rises imperious in the darkening sky, bathing everything in a luminescent glow, silver and severe. You await Suguru at the threshold of your sanctuary, anticipation tightening your chest, breath thin as mist upon glass.

When he finally appears from the shadows, his expression carries exhaustion, deepened by restless conflict etched starkly upon his features. You move forward swiftly, your fingers reaching instinctively for his, your grip firm yet tender. He exhales in relief at your touch, body sagging slightly under unseen burdens.

“You have come late tonight,” you murmur softly, guiding him toward your collection of folded cranes, arrayed lovingly upon the steps like offerings before forgotten gods.

He sighs, nodding wearily. “The villagers held me back, their fears boiling into demands. They demand reassurance, proof that tomorrow night the curse will finally be lifted–or that I perish by your hand.”

A faint tremble threads through your fingers. “I am sorry they burden you so.”

He squeezes your hand gently, a faint warmth suffusing the motion. “It matters little now. We have more pressing concerns.”

You kneel beside the cranes, your fingers brushing reverently over the crafted wings, each bird a testament to patience, trust, and dreams yet unfulfilled. “We have nearly reached one thousand,” you whisper, voice edged with awe. “Yet tonight, you bring none.”

“I had no opportunity,” he admits quietly, regret shadowing his tone. “They accosted me and would not relent.”

Your fingertips pause, hesitation coiling in your throat. Finally, you voice the question burning insistently within your chest. “Will you finally tell me the meaning of these cranes? Is there a certain number to be reached, or do we fold forever?”

Suguru remains still, his eyes lifting slowly to meet yours, profound emotion shimmering behind them. He breathes deeply, gathering resolve, before speaking at last. “A thousand cranes,” he begins carefully, voice low and steady, “crafted in earnestness and sincerity, is said to compel the gods themselves. They grant a wish–one wish, spoken from the deepest truths of one’s heart.”

Your breath stills abruptly in your chest, understanding settling heavily upon your shoulders, realization dawning like sunrise–slowly, inexorably, flooding your heart with clarity and anguish intertwined. You stare at him wordlessly, your lips parting as comprehension reshapes your entire perception.

“All this time,” you whisper, voice shaking with restrained emotion, “you have folded them to change my fate.”

His expression betrays quiet acceptance, his posture humble yet resolute. “I had hoped to spare you the burden of knowledge until certainty could follow. I wished not to raise false hope.”

You pause, then lean toward him, your eyes intent, searching his face for truth and reassurance. “Are you a man of your word, Suguru? Would you honor a wish if I ever asked it of you?”

He nods without hesitation, sincerity illuminating his face vividly. “Always. If it were within my power, there is nothing I would not grant you.”

Your pulse quickens wildly, your words quavering slightly in vulnerability. “Do you truly believe the gods will listen? Or do you intend to carve your own path, defiant of divine decree?”

His hand rises to cup your cheek, his palm warm and comforting against your skin. “I have spent my life serving the will of men who play at gods,” he replies earnestly. “I find little comfort in hoping divine beings might listen now. Yet still, I fold these cranes, hoping desperately their promise is real. And if not–then yes, I shall forge my own path, gods or no.”

Your hand covers his tenderly, leaning subtly into the embrace of his palm, eyes closing for a moment in contemplation. “Such defiance carries heavy consequences. Do you not fear the cost?”

“Fear has held me hostage long enough,” he answers firmly, thumb brushing lightly across your cheekbone. “If I must pay a price, it will be one I choose willingly. You are worth any consequence.”

A gentle ache fills your chest, sweet and painful in equal measure. Without conscious thought, you press your forehead lightly against his, sharing breath, heat, the rhythm of hearts beating closely in tandem. His other hand finds your shoulder, sliding carefully down your arm, grasping your fingers with unwavering tenderness.

Doubt, however, clings to your spirit, persistent as shadow, whispering bitter truths of duty and sacrifice. “Tomorrow night brings judgement,” you murmur sorrowfully, heart heavy beneath the weight of the unknown. “Either you suffer for sparing me, or I perish to free you. Is this balance fair, Suguru?”

He exhales deeply, resolve mingling with regret. “Nothing in our circumstances is fair, yet fairness matters less to me now than truth–than the certainty of my heart’s convictions.”

You lift your head, your eyes meeting his with intensity, emotion raw and vibrant within your chest. “Should you truly suffer for allowing me to live?”

His answer is immediate, voice low and unyielding. “If living freely, truthfully, costs me suffering and strife, I embrace it. You deserve life, happiness–not punishment for crimes that never belonged to you.”

A faint smile curves your lips, bittersweet yet deeply grateful. “You are a rare creature, Suguru–one who sees beauty within darkness, hope amid despair.”

He returns your gentle smile, expression warm with quiet affection. “And you, a being who shows compassion where none was ever granted you. Perhaps we were destined to find one another, to forge a path toward truth beyond suffering.”

You lean close again, savoring the intimacy of proximity, your heart whispering of hopes and fears still unspoken. Tomorrow’s confrontation looms darkly ahead, yet tonight you hold tightly to the warmth and strength Suguru offers unconditionally, allowing yourself the sweetness of shared affection, even as dread coils persistently within you.

Finally, and reluctantly, Suguru rises, gently releasing your fingers. He surveys the cranes, counting once more, a soft exhale marking their number. “Nine hundred and eighty-seven,” he whispers.

“Nearly complete,” you murmur, heart twisting at implications unsaid yet profoundly understood.

He nods, lingering briefly at the temple’s entrance, eyes soft with longing. “Rest well,” he bids you quietly, voice tender yet tinged faintly with sadness.

“You as well,” you reply softly, watching until darkness swallows him fully.

Alone once more, you kneel before the cranes, fingers deliberately shaping the final folds needed to reach completion. Your thoughts linger on Suguru’s whispered promise, the uncertain hope of divine intervention or determined defiance guiding his actions.

A decision weighs heavily upon you, quiet yet inexorable–your own resolve sharpening steadily as the last crane emerges from your fingers. Tomorrow night, beneath the full moon’s cold stare, a choice will be made–one of sacrifice or salvation, suffering or freedom.

The cranes rest quietly before you, their folded wings poised gracefully, each bird bearing the weight of silent wishes and dreams unsaid. You lift one, heart aching at the fragility of hopes now entrusted to your care.

And as the moon climbs higher into midnight sky, you wonder–heart heavy yet undeniably clear–if perhaps his suffering need not continue, if perhaps your fate has always been to grant mercy by surrendering your own.

PART VIII: HIS BLADE STRUCK THROUGH HER SHADOW Steel meeting sorrow, moonlight meeting mist.

The moon hangs vast and luminous above the temple, a silver orb so full it seems swollen with unspoken promises. Its pale fingers brush across the forest, illuminating pathways tangled in shadow, touching lilies that lift their blossoms in reverent surrender. The night is impossibly still, suspended as if caught between breaths, waiting with the patience of ancient spirits.

Suguru approaches with measured steps, his presence etched sharply in moonlight. He appears weary, a man worn thin by obligations and decisions too heavy to carry alone. You await him on the temple steps, your kimono pale in the moon’s glow, hair cascading freely down your shoulders, lilies woven delicately among its strands. Your eyes meet across the distance, speaking truths that words have yet to express.

When he reaches you, you move instinctively toward him, your fingers rising to rest upon his cheek. His exhaustion reflects back at you from dark eyes shadowed by sleepless nights and restless contemplation. “You are tired,” you murmur, a quiet ache resonating through your voice.

He inclines his head slightly, leaning into your touch with weary relief.

“What of the village?” you ask, concern threaded in your voice. “Have they relented their demands?”

He shakes his head slowly, eyes filled with regret and resignation. “They await either victory or my end. Their patience has frayed entirely. Tonight, they anticipate resolution–one way or another.”

Your heart clenches sharply, dread and guilt molded together within your chest. You lean slightly against him, seeking comfort from the warmth radiating through his robes. “And the shogun?”

Suguru exhales heavily, frustration clear in the set of his shoulders, the tension carved along his jaw. “His command stands unchanged. If dawn rises and you remain alive, my family bears disgrace. Another warrior will be sent swiftly in my stead.”

Your fingertips trace gently along the tired lines of his face, memorizing each contour as though you might soon lose the right to touch him. “Have you made your decision?” you ask, voice steady despite the tremor beneath its surface.

His eyes lift, holding yours, unwavering in his resolve. “I will not harm you,” he answers firmly, conviction unshaken by doubt or hesitation. “I refuse to be their executioner. I would rather face whatever consequence awaits me.”

Your heart tightens painfully at his sincerity, knowing the cost his words carry. You take his hand, guiding him toward the shrine’s interior, where one thousand cranes rest proudly–paper and leaf intertwined into silent prayers. Moonlight dances across their carefully shaped wings, illuminating their fragile beauty.

“I finished folding,” you tell him, pride mingling with bittersweet awareness. “One thousand.”

He draws a single folded crane from within his kimono, the final offering cradled reverently in his palm. You gather your collection, arranging them carefully before him. Together, you count softly, voices mingling like gentle currents in a stream. Your hearts thrum with expectation and uncertainty, whispers blending until they fall silent at the final tally.

“One thousand,” he murmurs, voice hushed with hope. Then he lifts the crane held in his hand, eyes solemn. “And one.”

Your eyes flicker toward the final crane, curiosity stirred deeply. “How does it work, exactly?” you ask quietly, apprehension threading your tone.

Suguru regards the crane thoughtfully. “I believe,” he begins softly, unsure yet hopeful, “one holds the crane, speaks their wish aloud clearly, sincerely–and prays the gods listen.”

You nod, looking at the cranes, heart pounding insistently within your chest, the weight of your decision pressing down heavily upon your spirit. Your fingers brush tenderly across their wings, absorbing the earnestness in each fold, every careful crease imbued with hope.

Suguru prepares himself, drawing breath deeply, shoulders squared against the weight of his wish. Just before he speaks, you reach out, touching his wrist, voice tenderly imploring.

“May I see it first?” you ask innocently, carefully masking your true intention.

He hesitates only briefly before handing it to you, trusting without reservation. You cradle it lovingly within your palms, fingertips tracing carefully over words once commanding violence, now transformed into something poignant and beautiful.

A silence settles between you, expectation heavy in the air. Suguru waits, his patience quiet yet palpable, unaware of the decision already solidified inside your heart.

Before he can comprehend your purpose, before understanding can fully dawn, you lift your eyes to his face, tears shimmering faintly in their depths, moonlight refracting gently upon your lashes, and your lips part suddenly, voice quavering with quiet intensity as you speak your wish–one meticulously concealed until now, its revelation shattering peace, quietude, hope itself.

“I wish,” you whisper, your voice breaking, words carrying heartbreaking clarity, “that by your hand, Suguru, my life and curse shall find their peaceful end.”

The air cracks sharply around you both, the temple trembling faintly beneath your words. Horror flashes sharply across his handsome features, realization striking violently. He lunges forward instantly, hands grasping your shoulders firmly yet gently, desperation threading tightly through his voice. “Stop–please, you must not–”

Yet your words have already fled into the still air, each syllable ringing with finality, sealing fate irrevocably. The crane shakes within your fingers, paper softening beneath falling tears.

“Do not ask this of me,” he pleads urgently, eyes searching your face for reprieve. “Not this.”

Your fingers lift tenderly to his cheek, thumb brushing across his skin, tracing paths already familiar. Tears spill from your eyes, silver trails glistening upon your skin, your heart aching deeply with quiet certainty.

“It must be so,” you whisper, voice breaking under the weight of finality. “Your suffering ends only if mine does first. Your family, your honor–I cannot allow you to lose everything because of me.”

He grasps your hand tightly, anguish burning in his gaze. “No, there must be another way. Please, do not leave me alone with this burden.”

You lean forward, forehead resting lightly against his, warmth shared intimately, breath mingling softly between you. “You promised me,” you murmur, voice steady despite tears. “You vowed you would grant any wish within your power.”

“It is cruel,” Suguru chokes out, voice hoarse with despair, fingers shaking where they now clutch your hand, “to force my hand against the only truth I’ve ever known.”

His breathing comes unevenly, chest rising and falling in ragged rhythm, pain vivid in his eyes like storm clouds ready to rupture. He pulls you closer in desperation, as if proximity alone could shield you from fate already decided.

“You promised me,” you whisper, your voice gentle yet firm, holding his grief with tender reverence. “You vowed that if the gods would not listen, if fate refused to yield, you would grant me any wish within your mortal power.”

He shakes violently, teeth clenched tightly, sorrow battling rage within his heart. “Not this wish–never this,” he snarls, anger splintering through his voice like shattered porcelain. “You are no monster; you carry no guilt deserving death. The villagers should atone–their lives, not yours. They crafted your curse from their own wretched sins, shaped you from cruelty and betrayal. They bear responsibility. Not you.”

His body trembles fiercely, the usually steadfast samurai now stripped bare by grief and fury alike, heart openly bleeding beneath the pale moon’s cold judgement. You reach up, your hands cupping his anguished face with infinite care, fingertips tracing the tension locked within his jaw, soothing the pain etched deeply upon his features.

“Do not speak such dark thoughts,” you implore softly, voice steady despite heartbreak pulsing sharply in your chest. “Vengeance only breeds further strife. We both know this truth.”

His eyes close tightly, breath shuddering between parted lips, shoulders shaking beneath an unseen weight he can no longer bear. “How can this be justice?” he whispers brokenly, voice cracking like brittle ice under unbearable strain. “How can I harm the only soul who has ever shown me true compassion? Why must I wield my blade against innocence?”

“Because it must be done,” you murmur carefully, your thumb brushing tears tenderly from his skin. “Your honor, your family–your life deserves freedom from suffering. Mine was forfeit the moment I became this curse. Let me bear this ending willingly, with dignity.”

He opens his eyes slowly, dark irises glistening wetly, gaze haunted yet resigned. “It is not fair,” he whispers weakly, heart aching beneath his confession. “Nothing about this is fair.”

“Fairness is irrelevant now,” you reply, moving closer to embrace him fiercely, your warmth enveloping him completely, binding you both together in shared grief and quiet resolve. “We found each other despite impossibility, shaped peace from turmoil. Such joy outweighs tragedy. Let that memory endure.”

He wraps his arms tightly around you, breathing deeply your scent, imprinting forever upon his memory your heat, your touch, your essence. “I fear life without you,” he whispers hoarsely into your hair, his voice trembling with vulnerability laid bare. “I dread the emptiness left by your absence.”

“Yet you will live,” you remind him not unkindly, pulling back to meet his gaze lovingly. “You will remember me kindly, honoring my memory by living fully and freely. This, too, you promised me.”

His fingers trail reverently across your cheek, his forehead pressing firmly against yours, breath mingling intimately in shared warmth and pain. “You ask the impossible,” he whispers painfully, eyes dark with devastation.

“I ask only what must be,” you answer, tears falling freely down your face, tracing silver pathways upon your skin. Carefully, your hands reach for his katana, fingers quivering faintly yet resolute, drawing forth the blade from its sheath.

His breath catches sharply, body stiffening beneath the weight of impending loss, yet he does not resist, hands shaking as you guide his fingers gently around the hilt, your touch steering him unwaveringly, determination mixed with infinite sorrow. The blade glimmers coldly under the moonlight, steel sharp yet beautiful in deadly grace.

“Forgive me,” he whispers desperately, voice choked by anguish, tears spilling unrestrainedly down his face. “Forgive me for failing to save you.”

“There is nothing to forgive,” you answer softly, gaze holding his with profound compassion. “You gave me purpose, love, dignity. You gave me life, Suguru–even if fleeting. For this, gratitude remains eternal.”

His tears fall faster, grief wracking his body with an anger, but you remain steady, guiding his trembling hand until the blade rests lightly against your heart, steel cool yet not unwelcome.

“Know this,” you whisper, your voice steady despite imminent finality. “You will carry no blame nor guilt. Only memories cherished deeply.”

He nods faintly, whispered response broken yet sincere. “I shall remember you always, honor your memory until death reunites us once more.”

With endless tenderness, he leans forward, lips brushing gently upon your forehead, a final gesture of reverent affection, whispering softly against your skin, “May peace welcome you warmly, beloved. May lilies bloom perpetually where your spirit rests.”

Your breath stills, heart stuttering under final words exchanged sweetly between you. “May your life blossom freely, Suguru. May you forgive yourself as fully as I forgive you.”

Then, resolutely yet with infinite gentleness, you guide his hand forward decisively, steel piercing carefully through flesh, your breath catching, eyes widening briefly in quiet acceptance. Pain comes quickly, sharply–then fades softly into warmth, peacefulness blooming deeply within your chest.

Suguru cries out softly, blade falling softly from numb fingers, grief flooding forth uncontrollably as he cradles your body tenderly against him, heart breaking irrevocably beneath the weight of unbearable loss. “Forgive me,” he sobs desperately, pressing kisses softly upon your forehead, your cheek, whispering brokenly between sobs. “Forgive me, forgive me–please, forgive me.”

Your fingers lift faintly, brushing weakly across his wet cheeks, breathing final words into night’s quiet embrace. “I forgive you wholly, eternally. Farewell, Suguru.”

Your form shimmers under the moonlight, edges softening into countless lily petals, drifting gently upon night breezes, fragrance filling air sweetly yet mournfully. Suguru watches helplessly as petals scatter around him, tears falling silently, heart aching with irrevocable loss.

Above, the bells begin tolling mournfully, their voices solemn, resonant, grieving openly beneath night’s watchful gaze. The forest itself weeps, leaves trembling softly, vines twisting woefully, sorrow resonating deeply throughout nature itself.

Suguru kneels numbly, misery overwhelming yet cleansing, heart opened fully to pain and love intertwined. He gathers scattered petals within shaking fingers, pressing them softly against lips quivering with anguish and tenderness.

“Rest now,” he whispers brokenly into night air thickened by the scent of lilies and sorrow. “Rest gently, beloved.”

And the moon watches above, silver tears hidden beneath distant surface, bearing silent witness eternally to love found unexpectedly yet treasured infinitely, lost tragically yet remembered beautifully.

Forevermore, lilies bloom endlessly where your spirit rests gently–memory enduring faithfully, bittersweet but cherished deeply, long after final echoes fade into silence profound and eternal.

EPILOGUE: THE FOREST KNOWS ONLY PEACE NOW But the lilies still bloom pale, and the bells toll for one.

They say the samurai returned triumphant, sword cleansed in moonlight and righteousness, the village freed forever from shadow’s grasp. They speak of Geto Suguru as a hero, a slayer of nightmares, whose courage dispelled darkness like sunlight piercing through winter’s fog. The villagers celebrate openly, torches lifted high, sake cups raised joyously, laughter echoing brightly through streets no longer clouded by dread. They fashion songs in his honor, paint scrolls detailing bravery forged from steel and heart, their gratitude inscribed permanently within carefully folded legends.

Yet Suguru himself never sings these songs, nor does he linger to taste the bittersweet sake poured generously in his honor. He does not join their revelry nor share their jubilant laughter, though they implore him fervently to remain. Instead, he departs at dawn, a solitary figure cloaked heavily in grief and memory, his shadow lengthening solemnly beneath the rising sun’s tender gaze.

The villagers rebuild swiftly, eager to erase lingering memories of horror now banished by heroism. They scrub carefully every bloodstain, dismantle shrines dedicated to darker forces, constructing new temples filled with sunlight, prosperity, hope. Their memories, selective and convenient, reframe their tale into something palatable, digestible, righteous.

The forest, however, remembers clearly, unwilling or unable to forget truths carved deeply into ancient bark, whispered persistently by leaves shivering restlessly in gentle winds. Lilies bloom continuously, luminous petals whispering quietly of love lost tragically yet cherished deeply. Their fragrance, sweet yet mournful, drifts faintly into village streets during twilight hours, unnoticed by villagers celebrating obliviously beneath starlight’s forgiving embrace.

At the forest’s heart, your temple remains untouched, vines claiming every stone, wood slowly crumbling beneath patient hands of decay. Paper cranes still adorn rafters, countless delicate wings suspended patiently, each bearing whispered wishes forever unanswered. Moonlight bathes the shrine reverently, illuminating quiet beauty born from loss and devotion intertwined inseparably.

Each full moon, bells ring softly through forest depths, their voices solemn yet tender, resonant yet respectful, marking passage of time felt keenly yet invisible to mortal eyes. The villagers claim ignorance of their meaning, dismissing gently ringing chimes as mere echoes or tricks of imagination. But deep within their hearts, unease stirs persistently, memories suppressed yet lingering, truth pressing against fragile walls of denial.

Suguru returns frequently to your temple, stepping across moss-covered stones, fingers brushing against lily petals trembling faintly in greeting. He kneels within the moonlit sanctuary, folding fresh cranes lovingly, adding carefully to the endless collection, each bird a whispered promise, a confession, an apology carried silently within soft creases.

He speaks aloud sometimes, voice almost inaudible yet clear, recounting memories painstakingly guarded within a heart aching under the weight of irrevocable loss. He recalls warmth shared intimately beneath the silver moon’s watchful gaze, laughter blending with hushed truths, fingertips tracing along skin warmed with stolen moments.

He tells you often how the world feels emptier, colors more muted, sounds softened slightly since your absence, yet how memories of you sustain him, guiding his steps forward despite the grief interlaced inseparably with love. He describes vividly lilies and lotuses blooming persistently within his dreams, fragrance sweetly recalling your presence lucidly, comforting him quietly within sleep’s gentle embrace.

Over years, villagers forget carefully constructed myths, names of heroes fading slowly into obscurity, tales reshaped by time’s hands. Yet the forest retains memories clearly, truths whispered by rustling leaves, petals trembling beneath moonlight’s tender caress.

And Suguru remembers eternally, carrying within a heart broken yet profoundly grateful for love found unexpectedly and treasured infinitely, pain accepted willingly for the brief moments shared under the moonlight.

Eventually, his visits cease, footprints fading slowly from temple paths, paper cranes yellowing beneath the patient eyes of passing years. The forest continues to hold every truth, the lilies blooming perpetually, fragrance drifting faintly, and memory sustained within the timeless embrace of nature’s arms.

Legends shift, evolve gently, village tales reformed into distant folklore, yet the truth remains woven deeply into earth, stone, lily petals blooming in the night.

The myth proclaims victory, finality carefully constructed from convenient lies, but within the forest’s depths, bells continue tolling softly, petals trembling gently, memory persisting eternally, truth remembered profoundly and lovingly.

For the forest never forgets.

And neither, quietly and endlessly, does he.

A/N: thank you so much for reading! and thank you @gojover for proofreading. (sorry i made you sob) i was inspired by the senbazuru tradition, and this was birthed. i feel like i lost the plot midway, but i think we made it back toward the end (art by mitsimeow_ on X)

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heesmiles · 1 month ago

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A FLOWER GROWN IN MOONLIGHT.... ( PT. 1 ) ; a perfect stranger

೨౿ ⠀ ׅ ⠀ ̇ 7K ⸝⸝ . ‌ ׅ ⸺ word count.

pairings 𝜗𝜚 fae prince .ᐟ beomgyu ៹ moonskin .ᐟ reader , fae prince .ᐟ kai ៹ moonskin .ᐟ reader ᧁ ; fantasy ˒ fae ˒ smut ˒ series

warnings ⊹₊ ⋆ mentions of abuse toxic traditional ideologies mentions of death reader has long dark hair kinda stalker-ish vibes from beomgyu (he's just fascinated ok...)

synopsis ୨୧ In the twilight hush of the world, there are strange and wondrous things — shimmering beneath the silver moon, curling their fingers through the soft soil of reality. Like flowers that bloom from the skin of a girl with a secret garden in her veins, these marvels are born from the quiet ache of longing and the fierce defiance of wonder.

The forest swallowed her in a single, silent breath, as though the ancient trees themselves had conspired to hide her from the world’s ruthless gaze. She ran, feet slick with blood and dirt, each desperate stride echoing in the cathedral hush of moonlight and shadow. The night clung to her skin, damp and trembling, as if it too feared the fire and steel that had burned her past to ash. She had no name to call herself, no echo of who she had been to anchor her in the darkness; only the wild, unbroken rhythm of her heartbeat and the magic that bloomed in quiet defiance across her skin.

She was but a girl of twelve or thirteen summers, and yet her world had already been reduced to a single thread of survival. She had seen the ruin of her family; the house that had once held laughter and warm bread now a silent grave of splintered wood and broken bodies. Their faces flickered behind her eyelids with every breath: her mother’s gentle hands turned still and cold, her father’s fierce laughter replaced by the rattle of dying breath. They had been her world, and now they were echoes, ghosts of warmth fading into the frost of memory. All because of the flowers she bore, the blossoms that stirred and unfurled with each racing beat of her heart. Flowers that were both curse and promise, beauty and burden, shimmering with a magic that the world had deemed too precious to be left unclaimed. The men who had come for her were strangers, eyes hard as iron, voices like the crack of breaking ice. She could not remember their faces, only the glint of cold steel and the smell of smoke as they tore her world apart. They had come for the gift that grew upon her skin, but she would not let them take her. She would not let them claim what was hers, what was a part of her soul. She watched as her mother and father begged for mercy, begged to be left alone. She had been an enigma to them but still loved the same as any other child was. A parents' love was unconditional no matter their faults.

So she ran, deeper into the forest’s waiting arms, her breath ragged and sharp as winter air. Each footfall was a defiance of the darkness that stalked her, each stumble a vow she would not yield.

The forest was alive around her; a symphony of ancient whispers and sighing leaves, the hush of roots burrowing deep into the earth. Branches reached for her like the gnarled hands of old spirits, tangling in her hair and tearing at her tunic, but she pressed on, driven by the wild thrum of fear and something older still, hope, perhaps, or the raw, unbreakable will to endure. The flowers on her skin pulsed with a soft glow, petals trembling as they opened to the night. Their perfume wove around her like a spell, the scent of summer rain and the promise of life in the midst of ruin. She ran until her legs gave way, until the night became a blur of tears and silver light, until the world narrowed to the raw ache of her lungs and the cold bite of the earth beneath her feet. She fell in a hollow where the moss was soft as a mother’s touch, the ground damp and cool against her fevered skin. Around her, the forest held its breath, and for a moment, she let the darkness cradle her, let the grief and terror spill from her in shivering gasps. She had no name, no home, no memory of safety left to her, but she had her breath, and the flowers that unfurled with every exhale. She had the pulse of life beneath her skin, a quiet rebellion in every bloom.

The petals glowed faintly in the darkness, delicate as moonlight, fragile as a child’s dream. They were her only inheritance, the only proof that she was still here, still breathing, still hers. She pressed her hands to the mossy earth, feeling the slow, steady heartbeat of the forest beneath her palms. In that moment, she made a promise, not to the memory of the family she had lost, nor to the kingdom that would never claim her. She promised herself, in the hush between heartbeats, that she would not be taken. That she would not be broken. That she would rise from the ruin, root herself in the quiet strength of the earth, and grow. And so she lay there, nameless and alone, while the forest wrapped its green heart around her, weaving her into its endless song of shadow and life. In the hush of ancient trees and the sigh of wind through hollow branches, she let herself rest; just for a breath, just for a heartbeat. Tomorrow, the world would hunt her still. But tonight, she was alive. And the flowers on her skin bloomed brighter than the stars above.

Beomgyu lay awake, staring at the vaulted ceiling of his bedchamber, where moonlight spilled in pale rivers through the glass. Sleep had fled from him, as it so often did, leaving him adrift in the quiet hours of the night. Outside, winter sang softly against the windows, snow falling in delicate flurries, each flake a fleeting marvel. He welcomed the cold that pressed against the ancient stones of Silvertheed, the way it crept into his bones and made him feel more alive. There was a purity to the cold, a sharpness that cut through the murk of dreams and memory.

Unable to bear the restlessness any longer, Beomgyu rose from his bed and dressed in silence, his movements swift and sure. He slipped from his chamber with the stealth of a shadow, the marble halls of the palace echoing beneath his boots. Silvertheed was a kingdom of silver light and ancient enchantments, where the fae blood that ran in his veins sang to the moon and the stars. But tonight, the stone corridors felt too close, too heavy with secrets. He needed the breath of the forest, the hush of snow-laden branches to soothe the storm within him. He stepped into the cold with a sigh of relief, the winter air biting at his skin and turning his breath to mist. The forest at the palace’s edge was a cathedral of white and shadow, branches heavy with snow and moonlight pooling in icy hollows. Beomgyu walked slowly, savoring the hush of the night, the way the world seemed to pause in reverence for the quiet majesty of winter. His thoughts drifted like snowflakes, half-formed and shimmering, until he heard it; a sound that did not belong to the forest’s ancient hush.

A song, soft and lilting, like the echo of a forgotten lullaby. It wove through the air, pulling at something deep in his chest, something that felt both fragile and unbreakable. Beomgyu stilled, his breath caught in his throat, and followed the sound through the hush of snow and the sigh of wind. There, in a small clearing where moonlight pooled like quicksilver, he saw you. A girl, no older than twenty summers, your hair dark as the midnight sky. You sat upon a fallen log, weaving flowers into your hair with a careful, almost reverent touch. The flowers glowed faintly in the moonlight, petals of lavender and rose, pale blue and the soft blush of dawn. But it was not the flowers themselves that held Beomgyu spellbound — it was the way they grew from your skin, each bloom unfurling in delicate wonder before you plucked it free and wove it into your braid.

His breath stilled, the cold forgotten as he watched you. In Silvertheed, magic was woven into every stone and stream, but he had never seen anything like this. Your humming was soft, the notes unfamiliar yet haunting in their beauty, as if you sang to the forest itself and the forest bent to listen. you seemed a part of the night, your presence both fragile and eternal, as though you had stepped from a dream spun of moonlight and memory. Beomgyu pressed his back against the rough bark of a pine, heart pounding with wonder and something else; an ache he could not name. He watched your fingers move with delicate precision, each flower a promise of something unspoken, something ancient and aching. The snow fell around you, each flake a benediction, and you moved as if the world itself was a secret you alone could read.

For a long moment, he simply watched, caught between the world he knew and the wonder of the girl before him. You were weaving flowers of your own skin, and he could not look away. The cold pressed closer, sharp as glass, but he welcomed it — it made the moment feel real, made him feel real. In that clearing of moonlight and snow, Beomgyu felt as though he had stepped beyond the edge of the world, into a story that had waited centuries to be told. He did not yet know your name, or what fate had led you here, but he knew this: he would remember this moment forever. The girl with flowers on her skin, humming to the night as if she had always belonged to it.

Beomgyu lingered in the shadows, the snow beneath his boots a muffled echo of your soft, secret song. He watched you through the hush of ancient pines, heart caught in the quiet reverence of the night. Your voice, a low hum that seemed to draw the moon closer, drifted across the clearing in a language he did not know. You sat upon a fallen log, weaving flowers — no, not flowers, but pieces of yourself, into your dark hair, petals pale as dawnlight against the night’s dark silk. Each bloom you plucked from your skin was a quiet rebellion against the cold, a testament to the magic that pulsed beneath your breath. Beomgyu watched with the rapture of a child who has seen a miracle; each unfurling petal a spell, each sigh of wind a promise. He watched you until the night was no longer night, until the stars began to fade and the cold blue hush of dawn bled into the sky. The snow fell softer as the world began to wake, and he felt the pull of duty of the life he could not leave behind, gnawing at the edges of this stolen moment. He could not be caught here, a prince hidden among the roots and shadows, watching you like a pilgrim before an altar.

With a final, lingering glance, he turned and slipped away, his cloak a whisper of darkness against the snow. You did not see him go, lost in your quiet ritual, your voice still weaving ancient secrets into the hush of the forest. The memory of your song clung to him like a heartbeat as he made his way back to Silvertheed, the cold burning against his skin, each breath a promise that he would return. And though the sun rose over the kingdom in a blaze of gold and winter fire, for Beomgyu, the world remained moonlit and trembling with the wonder of you; the girl who grew flowers from her skin and sang to the night as though it alone could understand.

The next night, sleep eluded Beomgyu once again, as if it were a fickle spirit dancing just beyond his grasp. He lay in the hush of his bedchamber, the cold seeping through the stones and into his bones. His mind was a restless sea, every thought a wave breaking against the memory of you; the girl who sang to the night and wove flowers from her skin as if she were born of the forest’s breath. All day he had carried the wonder of you like a fragile bloom, tucked close to his chest where no one could see.

He rose at last, drawn again to the forest’s quiet promise. But before he could slip out into the snow, his thoughts turned inward, to the echoes of a past that still clung to him like winter’s frost. The memories of his childhood in Silvertheed’s halls were etched in the marrow of his bones, a tapestry of bruises and hollow silences. His father; the king in name and name only, had never looked upon him with anything but disdain. Beomgyu was not his son, not truly. He was a relic of the queen’s past, a living reminder of a love that had bloomed before the king’s shadow fell upon her. The king’s cruelty had been a quiet poison, administered in cold words and cold hands, each blow an echo of a truth Beomgyu had always known: that he did not belong. Yet in the darkness of those years, there was always Kai; his brother, his solace. Kai was the balm to every wound, the soft light in the kingdom’s cold embrace. Sweet and nurturing, Kai held his brother’s hand when the world grew too dark, his presence a soft murmur of safety in the night.

Kai did not carry the king’s venom in his veins; he was all gentleness and soft-spoken wonder, a soul untainted by their father’s bitterness. He would sit with Beomgyu by the fireside, weaving stories from the smoke and the shadows, their laughter a quiet rebellion against the kingdom’s chill. It was not Kai’s fault that the king’s love was a blade turned inward, a wound that never healed. And Beomgyu, despite the ache of it all, loved his brother with a devotion that could not be broken. But tonight, as he slipped from his chamber and into the forest’s embrace, it was not his father’s cruelty that consumed his thoughts; it was you. The memory of your humming, the way your flowers bloomed in the cold, unfurling with the soft sigh of winter’s breath. The forest seemed to remember you, each tree a silent witness to the magic you carried in your skin. Beomgyu walked deeper into the hush of snow and moonlight, his breath a pale ghost in the night, his heart a restless flame.

He did not know what he would find when he reached that clearing, only that he could not stay away. In the quiet ache of the night, with the stars as his only guide, Beomgyu let himself hope that he would see you again, that you would be there, humming to the cold and weaving your secret blooms beneath the gaze of the moon. This time, the forest was a cathedral of silence, the snow beneath Beomgyu’s boots a muffled prayer to the moon. Each step was a deliberate hush, a reverent pause in the symphony of winter. He felt the cold in his bones, but he welcomed it — it was a sharp, clarifying thing, a promise that he was awake and alive in this moment. The ache of the cold was nothing compared to the pull that guided him through the dark, a quiet gravity that led him back to you.

He followed the thread of your song, a gentle melody that wound through the pines like a silver river. The night itself seemed to lean in to listen, each branch heavy with snow, each shadow holding its breath. And then he saw you, the clearing opening up before him like a secret. You were a small, wild flame against the hush of winter, your dark hair a river of shadows that caught the light of the fire you had kindled. The pot above the flames glowed faintly, steam rising in soft curls that vanished into the frozen air. You moved with a surety that spoke of ancient rituals, of secrets whispered by the forest’s oldest trees.

One by one, you plucked the flowers from your skin, each bloom trembling with a quiet reverence as it gave itself over to your hands. Beomgyu watched as the petals slipped from your fingertips into the boiling water, the surface of the potion shimmering like moonlight caught in a pool. The fragrance was delicate and strange, a mingling of snow and something sweet, something that made him think of distant summers he had never known. He could not look away. You poured the shimmering liquid into a small metal mug, your hands steady as though you had done this a thousand times before. The way you cradled the cup was almost tender, like a lover’s touch or the gentle promise of dawn. And then, without hesitation, you lifted it to your lips and drank.

The effect was immediate, a soft bloom of light that spread across your skin in a sigh of blue. It was a color he had never seen before, the deep, pulsing blue of glaciers and ancient seas, a color that seemed to hold the memory of every winter that had ever been. You laughed, a sound like bells, like the first breath of spring, and began to dance. Beomgyu’s breath caught in his throat as he watched you. You moved with a grace that defied the cold, your feet barely stirring the snow as you spun and twirled, arms lifted to the moon’s soft gaze. The glow of your skin lit the clearing, a quiet miracle that made the whole world seem to hold its breath. He laughed too, the sound slipping from him like a confession, soft and awed and full of wonder.

It was not a laugh of mockery — no, never that. It was the laugh of a man who had stumbled upon something so beautiful, so impossibly bright, that he could not help but be humbled by it. You were a secret the forest had been keeping from him, a miracle that had bloomed in the snow and laughter that made the cold seem soft. You did not see him. Or if you did, you gave no sign, lost in the music only you could hear. The firelight painted your face in shades of gold and shadow, the blue glow of your skin a quiet defiance of winter’s hush. Beomgyu watched as you lifted your arms to the sky, fingers splayed wide, as if you were trying to hold the stars in your palms.

For a moment, he imagined what it would be like to step from the shadows and into the circle of your dance. To feel the glow of your skin beneath his fingers, to share in the secret you carried like a promise. But he stayed hidden, content to watch and let the memory of your laughter etch itself into the deepest parts of him. The night stretched on, a quiet river of stars and snow. Beomgyu leaned against the rough bark of a pine, his breath a pale mist in the cold, and let himself be consumed by the wonder of you. And in the quiet spaces of his mind, memories began to rise, memories of another fire, another cold night, long before he had known your name.

He remembered the hush of the royal halls, the stone walls that had never felt like home. He remembered his father’s voice, sharp and cold as the winter wind, each word a blade that cut deeper than any frost. He had always known he was not the king’s son. It was a truth that lived in the hush of the servants’ footsteps, in the way his father’s gaze slid past him as though he were nothing but a shadow. The way his hand would rise to strike Beomgyu’s cheek when he would say the wrong thing. Beomgyu was a reminder of another man’s love, a love the queen had known before she had been bound to the king’s cold hand. But there had always been Kai.

Kai, with his gentle smile and quiet strength. Kai, who had never let the chill of the kingdom seep into his soul. When the nights were at their coldest, it was Kai who would slip into Beomgyu’s room, his hands warm and steady, his voice a soft murmur of comfort. “It is not your fault,” Kai would whisper, each word a promise, a shield against the darkness. “You are loved, brother. You are loved.” And in those moments, Beomgyu could almost believe it.

But tonight, as he watched you dance in the snow, the memory of his brother’s voice felt like a distant echo. You were a new kind of warmth, a light that had nothing to do with the cold halls of Silvertheed or the shadows that had always haunted him. You were laughter and magic, a song that belonged to the moon and the snow and the quiet ache of his own heart. He did not understand you — not even a little. But he did not need to. The forest seemed to hold its breath around you, each tree a silent witness to the miracle you wove with every step. And Beomgyu, hidden among the shadows, felt something inside him begin to thaw.

For so long, he had carried the weight of his father’s hatred, the cold truth of his own blood like a stone in his chest. But here, in the hush of snow and moonlight, he felt that weight begin to lift, if only for a moment. He did not know what you were, or what magic you had wrapped around yourself like a second skin. But he knew this: you were something bright in a world that had always felt too dark.

The night grew old around him, the stars a pale river above the trees. Beomgyu watched until the last embers of your fire died down, until the glow of your skin faded into the hush of dawn. You sat then, quiet and still, your head bowed as though in prayer. The blue glow had ebbed from your skin, leaving only the pale curve of your shoulders and the soft spill of your hair. For a moment, he wondered what you were thinking. If you knew he was there, a shadow among the shadows, watching with a reverence he could not name. Then, before the first light of day could slip through the trees, he turned and fled.

The snow swallowed the sound of his footsteps, and the forest closed around him like a secret. The cold bit at his skin. It was a promise that he was still here, still alive, and that this moment had been real. As he walked back to the castle, the memory of your laughter clung to him like a breath of summer, a warmth he carried into the cold stone halls. And though he did not know what magic burned in your blood, he knew one thing for certain: he would return. He would return to the forest, to the hush of snow and the glow of your skin. He would return to the place where the world seemed to breathe in color and light, and where he, too, could be something more than the king’s unwanted son. He would return, again and again, until he could name the magic that had bloomed in his heart the first time he heard you sing.

The next night, the cold was even sharper, the moon a pale blade that cut through the darkness and laid the forest bare. Beomgyu moved through the snow with a quiet purpose, each step a prayer to the mystery that had taken root in his heart. The memory of your laughter was a ghost at his shoulder, a warmth that had no place in the winter’s chill. He did not know what it was that drew him to you; whether it was the way your magic bloomed beneath your skin or the simple wonder of seeing something so bright and wild in a world that had always felt too sharp. But he knew this: he had to see you again.

So he went back, moving through the dark like a promise, the hush of snow beneath his boots a secret shared only with the night. The forest opened around him, the pines heavy with frost, each branch a quiet sentinel that watched his passing with a patience that had no end. He did not know that he was not alone. In the hush of his thoughts, in the quiet ache of wonder that pulled him forward, he did not hear the faint rustle of footsteps behind him. He did not see the flicker of movement, the shadow that slipped between the trees like a wraith.

Kai was there, his brother’s steps as silent as snowfall, his gaze a quiet flame that burned with questions he did not yet have the words to ask. He had watched Beomgyu all day, had seen the way his brother’s thoughts had drifted far from the stone walls of the castle and the weight of the king’s cold gaze. Kai had seen the wonder in Beomgyu’s eyes, the soft light that had never belonged to the kingdom of Silvertheed. And so he followed, silent and unseen, the bond of blood and brotherhood a thread that pulled him through the night.

Beomgyu moved as though the forest itself was a dream, each breath a hush of wonder that quickened in his chest. He thought only of you, of the way the light had danced across your skin and the laughter that had made even the snow seem warm. He reached the clearing just as the first flicker of firelight began to bloom in the dark. You were there, as he had known you would be, your hair a dark river that spilled over your shoulders, your hands gentle as you plucked the flowers from your skin. The ritual was the same; petals and fire and the soft hush of your song, but tonight, there was something different in the way you moved.

Your eyes were distant, your fingers trembling just slightly as you fed the fire with the blooms that grew like a promise beneath your skin. The potion simmered in the small metal pot, the steam rising in slow, lazy curls that vanished into the cold. Beomgyu’s breath caught in his throat. He had thought he was prepared for this, for the quiet wonder of your magic and the wild grace of your dance. But tonight, there was something else, a shadow in your gaze, a weight in the way you held the cup to your lips.

You drank, as you had before, the glow of blue light blooming across your skin in a sigh of wonder. But tonight, your laughter was softer, almost sad, the dance you wove around the fire a quiet defiance of some sorrow he could not name. He watched, his heart a silent drum in his chest, each beat a question he could not ask. And in the hush of snow and moonlight, he did not see the shadow that watched with him, Kai’s breath a soft mist in the cold, his eyes dark with worry.

Kai saw the way Beomgyu’s gaze followed you, saw the wonder and the ache that lived in the spaces between each breath. He saw the way his brother’s hands clenched at his sides, as though he was fighting the urge to step forward, to break the hush of the forest and let the world know he was there. He understood, though Beomgyu had not said a word. He understood the pull of magic and mystery, the quiet ache of wanting something so bright it hurt to even look at it. And he felt the first flicker of something else — something that lived in the quiet spaces of his own heart, something that made him wonder what it would be like to feel the warmth of your laughter, the soft glow of your magic against his own skin.

But he said nothing. He stayed hidden, a shadow among the pines, his breath a silent promise that he would watch and wait, even if he did not yet understand what he was waiting for. In the clearing, you danced with the fire, your blue-lit skin a miracle that made the night itself seem to hold its breath. And Beomgyu watched, his heart a quiet bloom of wonder and fear, each beat a prayer that this moment would never end.

The forest was a cathedral of silence, the snow beneath their feet a quiet hymn to the cold. And in that hush, two brothers stood in the shadows, bound by blood and the quiet ache of a magic they could not yet name. And you, in the center of it all, were a song that had no words, a promise that the world was still full of wonder, even in the hush of winter’s breath.

Beomgyu once again found himself hidden behind a great pine, his breath a silver mist in the winter night, his heart thrumming a hymn of wonder and ache. You sat across from him, your small frame hunched over a log, the crackling fire’s glow painting your skin with flickers of gold and shadow. Your hut loomed behind you, a shape of secrets and solitude that rose like a phantom in the snow’s hush. Your shoulders trembled with quiet sobs, the sound of your tears lost to the hiss and crackle of the flames. Beomgyu watched, each tear that slid down your cheek a glimmer of sorrow that caught the moonlight like dew. He did not know why it hurt him so, to see you cry. You were a stranger, your name a mystery, your story written in a language of petals and magic he could not yet read. And yet, something in him ached to bridge the distance between you, to cradle your sorrow in his hands as though it were a fragile bloom that needed only the sun to open.

He did not know what it was that drew him to you; whether it was the quiet glow of your skin, the flowers that bloomed like whispers of beauty beneath your touch, or simply the hush of your song that still lingered in his thoughts like a memory of something long lost. All he knew was that he wanted to be close to you, to offer the warmth of his presence against the cold hush of your tears. He stepped forward, just a breath, just enough to taste the promise of closeness. But before his foot could find purchase in the snow, a sharp crack split the air, a branch breaking under weight not his own. Beomgyu froze, his breath catching in his throat like a secret. In the same heartbeat, your head lifted, your eyes wide and searching in the darkness.

He turned, and his breath left him in a rush of frost. Kai stood there, his brother’s face pale in the moonlight, his dark eyes wide with surprise and apology. Beomgyu’s heart stumbled at the sight—he had been so sure he was alone, so lost in the pull of your sorrow that he had not noticed the presence of the one who had always been his shadow, his silent witness. You stood, your body taut as a bowstring, the tears still fresh on your cheeks but your gaze sharp and wary. The fire crackled between you all, the hiss and pop of burning wood a chorus to the sudden hush that had fallen over the clearing.

For a moment, none of you moved; three hearts caught in the hush of winter, three souls bound by secrets and the quiet ache of what had just been revealed. Beomgyu’s mouth opened, words a tangle in his throat that he could not find the courage to speak. His brother’s eyes met his, dark with a thousand questions that neither of them knew how to ask. And then your voice, soft as the hush of snow falling in the dark. “Who are you?” you said, your words trembling like the branches that shivered beneath the weight of frost.

Beomgyu stepped forward, his hands half-raised in a silent plea. “I—my name is Beomgyu,” he said, the words a sigh of truth in the cold night. “And this is my brother, Kai.” His voice faltered, the weight of your gaze a quiet thunder in his chest. “We…we didn’t mean to startle you.” Kai moved beside him, his presence a quiet anchor in the storm of uncertainty. “Forgive us,” he said, his voice a low warmth that contrasted the chill of the night. “We didn’t mean to intrude. We…we were only curious.”

The hush that followed was heavy with possibility, each breath a question that waited to be answered. You looked between them, your eyes dark with the shadows of things you did not yet trust to share. And Beomgyu, his heart a quiet storm, found himself caught between the wonder of your magic and the silent echo of his brother’s presence at his side.

The quiet of the forest seemed to cradle you all in a hush, a sanctuary of frost and shadows, the fire’s glow a heartbeat between you. Beomgyu and Kai stood close together, two figures cut from moonlight and winter breath, their princely faces made softer by the hush of the night and the wonder of your presence. You stood across from them, your hair a dark halo of wildness, stray flower petals tangled in its knots, your skin glistening with the tears you had not yet wiped away. The question in Beomgyu’s eyes was a soft ache, a quiet pull he could not name, but it was Kai who gave it voice.

“What are you?” Kai asked, his tone gentle, like a child asking the forest to tell its secrets. His eyes, so like Beomgyu’s but calmer, steadier, shone with a wonder that made your heart tremble. Your shoulders hunched slightly, as if the question itself weighed upon you. “I don’t know,” you said softly, the words tasting of truth and sadness. “All I know is that I’ve always been…like this.” You raised a hand, and from your palm bloomed a small flower; blue as the night sky, fragile as a sigh. “At night, they come. From my skin. They have…power.” Your voice faltered, and your eyes turned down to the flickering fire. “Sometimes they change how I feel. Sometimes…how others feel.”

Beomgyu watched, his breath caught in the hush of your confession. The way you spoke; soft and careful, as if every word was a petal you had to coax to bloom. He wanted to reach out, to take your hand and tell you that it was alright, that your strangeness was a wonder and not a curse. But he stayed still, his heart a quiet storm in his chest. “Please,” you whispered, your gaze darting between them, your voice suddenly urgent. “Don’t tell anyone. They’ll come for me. They always do. They’ll say I’m cursed, or that I’m a witch. I don’t want… I don’t want to be hunted again.” Your words cracked like ice underfoot, and the memory of your tears glistened in the glow of the fire.

Kai stepped closer, his hand lifting as if to touch your shoulder, but he hesitated. “We won’t tell anyone,” he said, his voice the gentle hush of a promise. “We swear it.” Beomgyu nodded, his throat tight with the weight of your fear. “You’re safe with us,” he said, and he meant it. Even if he didn’t yet understand why, even if he didn’t know what the pull in his heart meant, he knew he would not let harm come to you.

For a moment, the three of you stood in a hush of snow and breath, the fire’s crackle the only sound in the world. Beomgyu’s gaze drifted to your clothes; threadbare and dirt-smudged, a cloak of tattered wool that did little to shield you from the cold. Your skin, though glowing softly in the firelight, was streaked with the dust of the forest, your nails rimmed with soil as if you had clawed your way from the earth itself. He wondered, suddenly, how long you had lived like this, alone in the woods, your hut no more than a shadowy refuge, your days marked by the hush of fear and the gentle bloom of your strange magic. His heart twisted, the ache of it a quiet song he could not ignore.

It was Kai who spoke the words that would change everything, his voice soft but sure. “Would you like to come with us?” he asked, the question simple and gentle, like a hand offered in the dark. Beomgyu’s eyes widened, surprise flickering like a flame in his chest. He had not expected it, this sudden kindness from his brother. But then again, Kai had always been the gentler one, the one who wore his heart on his sleeve like a badge of honor. Beomgyu, with all his jagged edges and quiet ache, had never known how to offer such kindness so easily.

You looked up at Kai, your eyes wide and uncertain, the firelight turning them to pools of shadow and wonder. “I… I couldn’t,” you said, your voice trembling. “I don’t belong in a place like that. And I have nothing to give you in return. No gold, no… no power that could be of use to you.” Kai’s lips curved into a small, tender smile. “We don’t need anything from you,” he said. “We’re princes. We have enough gold to last a hundred lifetimes. We only ask because… no one should have to live alone in the cold. You deserve warmth, and a place to belong.”

Your breath caught, a soft hitch of disbelief. Beomgyu watched the wonder and confusion that flickered across your face, the way you bit your lip as if you were afraid to hope. He understood that feeling all too well; the ache of wanting something so badly that you were afraid to reach for it. He found himself stepping closer, his voice low but sure. “My brother means it,” he said, his eyes meeting yours with a quiet intensity. “If you come with us… we will keep you safe. We won’t ask you for anything you can’t give.”

You looked between them, your gaze lingering on Beomgyu’s face for a breath longer than it lingered on Kai’s. In that moment, he felt something shift in the hush of the night, an invisible thread binding the three of you together, woven from the hush of snow and the crackle of fire and the quiet wonder of a girl who could grow flowers from her skin. For a moment, you looked as though you might refuse. Your shoulders tensed, your eyes shuttered like the closing of a door. But then your breath left you in a soft sigh, and you nodded, just once, the motion small and delicate as the unfurling of a petal.

“Alright,” you said, your voice a whisper. “I will come with you.” Relief flickered across Kai’s face, a gentle warmth that softened the angles of his jaw. Beomgyu felt it too, a quiet loosening of the ache in his chest, though he did not know why. He only knew that the sight of your soft, uncertain smile in the glow of the fire felt like the first bloom of spring after a winter that had seemed endless.

Kai stepped forward, his hand outstretched. “Come,” he said, his voice a soft beacon in the hush of the night. “We’ll bring you home.” You hesitated only a moment before you took his hand, your fingers cold and small in his. Beomgyu watched as Kai’s thumb brushed gently across your knuckles, a quiet promise in the softness of his touch. And then the three of you turned away from the clearing, the fire’s glow fading behind you as you stepped into the hush of the forest.

The snow fell in slow, lazy drifts, the moon’s light painting the world in a hush of silver and shadow. Beomgyu fell in step beside you, his eyes tracing the curve of your cheek, the small smile that lingered there like a fragile bloom. He did not speak, but in the quiet of the night, he let his presence be its own kind of promise, silent, but sure. Beside him, Kai’s hand still held yours, his warmth a gentle anchor in the cold hush of the world. And though Beomgyu did not yet know what lay ahead, what this night had set in motion, what magic and ache and wonder would bloom from the meeting of three hearts in the winter’s dark, he knew that something had shifted. Something had begun.

In the distance, the castle of Silvertheed rose like a dream against the horizon, its spires dark and glistening with frost. Beomgyu felt a quiet thrill in his chest as they approached it — an ache of wonder and uncertainty, a hush of possibility that felt as bright and fragile as the flowers that bloomed on your skin. And in the hush of that winter night, as you walked between the two brothers, your breath a soft fog in the cold air, the first threads of a story began to weave themselves into the world; threads of magic and mystery, of sorrow and wonder, of love that would not be denied.

(♬) - @beomiracles @biteyoubiteme @hyukascampfire @dawngyu @izzyy-stuff @1-800-jewon @xylatox

#txt imagines #tomorrow x together imagines #tomorrow x together #beomgyu imagines #kai imagines #choi beomgyu #hueningkai imagines #hueningkai #beomgyu smut #hueningkai smut #tomorrow x together x reader #beomgyu x reader #kai x reader

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beloveds-embrace · 7 months ago

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What if in og dukedom Kiong was also a Duke but from another kingdom, perhaps the "monsterous northern duke" webcomics like to do lol.

You meet him at a gala in his kingdom (maybe Price had to attend for some political reason?) and make polite conversation, not bothered by this massive intimidating man (you live with Simon after all)

And he feels so at ease with you. This kind and warm woman who is unafraid of him, doesn't shy away from him when he moves a little closer. Perhaps you don't know about the rumors around him being a monster.

But you did know, you mentioned as you watched noblewomen gossip behind their fans. They were just nasty words spoken by bored nasty people. And you smiled so warmly up at him, him of all people.

It made his chest tighten watching you leave to return to your husband's side. He can't help but start looking into you after the gala, wondering what your life is like back home.

And it breaks his heart hearing what people say about you. Calling you a barren woman who's destined for divorce, how you're doomed to become a fallen noble because of it. You were the sweetest woman he's ever met, there's no way fate would have take the chance of motherhood from you. Obviously this was your husband's fault.

And he was more than happy to take you from him and give you all the children you were meant to have.

Wait omg yes i love this 😫 always the cliche northern duke tho hehehe will never get bored of that trope LOL

Dukedom au masterlist

I’m just thinking of him unable to stop thinking about you, even when months passed. In just one night, one gala, you had thawed the ice around him and now, you are all his thoughts circle back to you, you, you.

The flickering firelight danced across the dark stone walls of König’s private study. The room was quiet save for the occasional crackle of the hearth and the faint rustling of paper as he read through the letters his informants had gathered. With each word he read, a knot of anger tightened further and further within his chest, his calloused fingers gripping the parchment.

“Barren,” the word stood out on the page like a cruel slash across delicate skin. “A failure of a wife. Her inability to bear children has become the subject of much speculation among the Southern court. Whispers grow louder of Duke Price seeking annulment or taking a mistress. Some say he might already have.”

König’s sharp, pale eyes lingered on the word. His jaw clenched so tightly it was a wonder his teeth didn’t crack. How dare they? How dare anyone reduce you to such indignity? The woman they were speaking of- the woman he could not get out of his thoughts no matter how much he tried- was kind, intelligent, poised beyond anything the shallow nobles of the Southern Kingdom could comprehend.

You spoke to him with no fear, no judgment. Not a single noble was worth half the delicate shoes you wore.

And this was what said nobles spoke of behind their gilded walls?

He exhaled through his nose, a harsh, controlled sound as he set the letter down. His hands, broad and powerful, trembled faintly as he dragged them over his face, trying to compose himself. His mind betrayed him, conjuring an image of you at the gala months ago, your warmth and grace so at odds with the venomous words on the page.

König stood abruptly, his imposing height casting long shadows across the room. The parchment fluttered to the desk, discarded, as he began pacing. Long strides carried him to the window, where snow fell silently beyond the frosted glass. He stared out, his breath fogging the pane, though his eyes saw nothing but the specter of his anger.

Unbelievable.

This wasn’t just idle gossip. He knew better. Rumors of this kind didn’t grow legs this much unless someone was feeding them. And who else but your own husband could have allowed such things to fester?

“Price.” König spat out the name like a curse.

The thought of the Duke filled him with a cold fury. John Price, who stood beside you at that gala with the possessive air of a man who knew what he had but didn’t deserve it. Price, who allowed these baseless, cruel rumors to circulate unchecked while you stood tall and weathered them alone, a lighthouse in the dark, deep oceans of nobility.

König’s hands curled into fists, his nails digging into his palms. What kind of man allowed his wife- his Duchess- to suffer such indignity? A real husband would have silenced those rumors before they even began. A real husband would have cherished you, ensured the world saw you as König did: radiant, strong, untouchable. A goddess in your own right.

But Price… Price was blind. Or perhaps worse- he simply didn’t care.

Unbelievable.

“It’s his fault,” König growled to himself, taking a deep breath to calm the anger rolling through him.

Still, idea burned like a brand in his mind. If Price had been the husband you deserved, these rumors wouldn’t exist. If he had protected you, König wouldn’t be reading about your supposed “failings” in a cold Northern study lacking your warmth. The hearth was just a pale imitation of you.

His gaze returned to the letter on his desk. He reached for it, smoothing the crumpled edges with surprising gentleness for a man of his size. He scanned the hateful words again, and instead of despair, something else stirred within him- resolve.

If John Price wouldn’t shield you from this venom, then König would. He didn’t care what it cost him. You deserved better, and he would ensure you knew it. The Northern nobility bowed to him; no rumors against you would be allowed once he got you with him.

König pulled out another parchment, clean and smooth, and he wrote a letter. He needed to know what you’d like in general to have around, to make this space more comfortable for you.

How could a man be so blind to the treasure he had? König truly couldn’t fathom it. You deserved love, adoration, and everything the world had to offer. If John Price couldn’t see that, König would ensure that you knew your worth.

He dreamed of sweeping you away to his estate, where the snow-capped mountains would shield you from the cruelty of society even if by the time he had you, all their tongues would be culled. He imagined you holding his children, your laughter filling the halls of his once-empty home.

Yes, he decided. You were meant to be his.

Months later, so much information gathered, another diplomatic meeting brought you back to the Northern Kingdom. This time, König ensured he was present, his heart pounding at the thought of seeing you again.

When you arrived, carefully stepping out of the carriage with John’s help, he couldn’t help but crack a smile; you looked so lovely, bundled against the cold in a fur-lined cloak and mittens, the deep and pale blues of your clothes making you look like a snowflake. He approached immediately, pale blue eyes bright.

“Duchess Price,” he said, bowing slightly. “Welcome back to the North.”

Your smile warmed him more than the roaring fireplaces in his castle ever could.

“Duke König,” you replied, offering your hand for him to kiss. “It’s lovely to see you again.”

He took your hand gently, his calloused fingers brushing against your gloved ones. “The pleasure is mine, my lady. Shall I show you the gardens? They’re especially beautiful this time of year.”

John watched from a distance, forced away as the servants began showing them to their room, though his sharp eyes narrowing as König led you away. Simon, standing beside him, crossed his arms with a grunt.

They… didn’t like this.

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mrs-kozu · 1 month ago

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𝐓𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐤𝐬 𝐭𝐨 𝐂𝐮𝐩𝐢𝐝 ~ 𝐊.𝐊𝐨𝐳𝐮𝐦𝐞

CUPID’S THREAD [CONTINUATION] READ Cpt.1 HERE

pairing: kenma kozume x fem! reader 『キューピッド』

genre: soulmate au, romance, no angst just fluff, strangers to lovers, high school sweethearts

prologue: There are stories told in hushed voices and idle dreams, of invisible threads stitched by ancient hands—Cupid’s gift, or his curse. They say each person is born with a thread, fine as spider silk and unbreakable, that leads to their soulmate. You cannot see it, only feel its pull: a phantom tether buried in your chest, tugging toward a stranger whose name you somehow already know. You never believed in such things. Not truly. Until the day you met Kenma Kozume.

Winter found its way slowly, like a page turning gently. The air outside the school had gone sharp and white with frost, and even the courtyard tree had shed the last of its leaves, standing like a quiet sentinel over the place your hearts had first met.

Kenma walked you home that evening.

He never said much during these walks—his hands in his pockets, shoulders hunched against the wind, your steps matched to his without effort. But tonight, there was a tension, a rhythm beneath the silence. Not discomfort. Not fear. Something like a question, trembling on the edge of breath.

When you reached your gate, neither of you spoke right away. The city behind you blurred into amber streetlights and distant train bells. You turned to face him, drawing in a soft breath that clouded in the cold.

The thread between you shimmered faintly in the dark.

“I…” he began, then stopped. His gaze dropped, lashes low. “I’ve been thinking about something. For a while now.” Your heart fluttered. “Yeah?”

Kenma shifted, awkwardly beautiful, like a boy caught in his own storm. “I know people wait for it. That moment. The one where you’re supposed to know. The soulmate moment. But I think I’ve always known. From the beginning.”

You didn’t breathe.

Kenma’s voice dropped, barely above a whisper. “I love you.” And somehow, in the stillness of that moment, you felt the thread tremble. Like it was alive.

Your eyes burned, soft with disbelief and knowing.

“I love you too.”

And with those words, something invisible clicked into place.

The thread flared, brighter than ever before—silver and gold, knotted like constellations, and then slowly dimmed into something more tender. Less magic, more memory. It no longer needed to glow.

It had done its job.

The Kozume home sat on the edge of the city, a quiet architectural poem in concrete and glass, full of sunlight, scattered toys, and the scent of jasmine tea.

Outside, the world knew him as Kodzuken—the elusive gaming genius, Twitch’s golden king of strategy, the man who streamed in silk pajamas and made silence feel electric. His face was on billboards. His quotes were on merch. His net worth was whispered about with awe.

But inside these walls, he was yours.

And you were his.

“Kohaku, gentle, baby—she’s still learning to hold her head up,” you said, smiling as your son leaned over the bassinet, curious fingers reaching for his sister’s tiny tuft of hair.

“But Suki is so small!” he protested, in that impossibly sincere voice only four-year-olds could master. You laughed softly. “That’s because she’s still brand new.”

From the corner of the room, Kenma watched you. His phone rested face-down beside his laptop, unread messages blinking in from sponsors and stream editors, but none of that mattered now.

You sat in a pool of late afternoon light, your hair tousled, a blanket draped over your shoulder, Suki cradled to your chest and Kohaku pressed against your side like a sleepy cat.

You looked up. “What?” you chuckled softly, smiling.

Kenma shook his head, walking over. He sat beside you, one hand brushing Kohaku’s hair as he clutched his hoodie sleeve.

“I think the thread still tugs,” he said. “Even now.”

You leaned your head against his. “It brought us here, didn’t it?”

He reached for your hand and laced his fingers through yours, careful not to wake the baby. You could feel the calluses of long gaming nights, the warmth of someone who never learned how to stop loving you.

“I would’ve found you anyway,” he murmured.

You turned to look at him.

He wasn’t the shy boy beneath the tree anymore. He had grown into himself—quiet still, thoughtful always—but surer now. Softer in the places that mattered. Fierce in the way he protected the life you'd built.

Your heart ached with how much you loved him.

“I know,” you whispered.

And there, in the hush of your home, with Kohaku dreaming beside you and Suki warm against your chest, Kenma kissed you—slow, reverent, eternal.

The thread no longer needed to shine. It had become something else. Family. Forever.

a/n: honestly was thinking about deleting this because of how badly it’s flopping so reblogs are very appreciated <3 but here’s the short and final chapter.. i really hoped you liked it (it’s okay if not)

#haikyuu #kenma #kozume kenma #hq kenma #soulmate au #smau #kenma imagine #haikyu!! kenma #kenma haikyuu #kenma x reader #haikyuu kenma #kenma kozume #kenma fluff #kenma x you #kenma x y/n #kenma x me #kozuken #kodzuken

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sweetscene · 2 months ago

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love is super sweet in my mouth!

PAIRING. timskip!osamu x f!reader　WC. 693　SONG. i hate fruits by nct dream　TAGS. fluff, established relationship, an overthinking reader (me tbh)

NOTE. quick drabble (took longer than imagined cuz i accidentally deleted the og while writing…) dk any cake vocab so dont flame me, also havent had cake in a year so it was impossible to write about it lolllll (can u guys tell i suck at writing fluff😞)

For the first time since moving in with Miya Osamu nine months ago, his spot on the bed is cold and empty.

Your worst fear rushes to your mind as you try to free yourself from this apparent nightmare. But it doesn’t work. The more you lay still, staring up at the bland ceiling, the more reality hits. The more it feels like he’s left.

Just the night before, you’d asked Osamu if the two of you are truly meant to be together forever. And despite his natural reassurance, the silence at your side—no one to pull you closer and ask for five more minutes—leaves you shattered.

After spending a good while watching the sky clear up, you finally decide to get up. You put on a shirt you’d aimlessly thrown on the last night, and you brace yourself for the inevitable result bound to strike you deeply.

But when you open the door, you hear him quietly cursing at the kitchen to your left. Objects lightly hit the counter, and he continues to mutter words you can’t quite understand. You try your best to remain quiet, but as you take one step forward, your slippers slide against the hardwood floors, capturing his attention immediately.

“Y/N?” He calls for you, voice now loud yet tender, somehow worried. “Are you awake?”

You hesitantly peek your head out, and you discover him trying his best to cover the counter, but its no use. His body isn’t enough to cover the disastrous mess of baking materials scattered over the large surface.

“The bed was feeling cold,” you manage to say, approaching him steadily. “What are you doing?”

He scratches the back of his head, his eyes which just screams ‘i was hoping you wouldn’t ask that’ avoids your stare. “I uh…” he turns around for a quick moment, and you see it—a vanilla cake with intricate details of frosting rests neatly behind him. “I wanted to make you something nice…you were feeling down last night, right?”

Baking isn’t your forte, and despite being a good cook, Osamu never dabbled in it. 9:00AM strikes on the clock, and the bags scattered around the floor tell you he’d gotten up early in the morning just to buy the right materials.

oh…you fall to the ground, covering your face with your hands. i shouldnt have doubted him.

“Y/N?” He rushes to you with concern. “What’s wrong? Are you not feeling good?”

You shake your head. “I’m sorry,” you mutter.

There’s a brief pause, his hands on your shoulders as he tries to catch a glimpse of your face. And when you refuse to show, he takes your hands, kissing each knuckle as if he’s trying to tell you something beyond the art of words. “What are you sorry for?” He asks, running his thumbs against your hands sweetly.

Then, without waiting for a reply, he picks you up swiftly, taking you to the cleanest edge of the messy counter. “I did this because I wanted to.”

He cuts up the cake, and you notice how unbelievably perfect the inside is—icing and strawberries arranged in between the two layers of cake. “Here, have a bite,” he continues on, a fork now in his hand.

You do as told, taking a bite of the small piece. The vanilla is sweet as expected, but the sudden appearance of the strawberries leave you surprised. The gentle transition causes your cheeks to grow pink.

“So good,” you say, hands hovering over you smiling lips. “But ‘Samu, isn’t it too early for something this sweet?”

His mouth parts slightly, only realizing this is your first meal of the day. His features fall flat. “Sorry, I didn’t think of that. I’ll make you some breakfast right—“

Before he turns, you rush to cup his cheeks, landing a quick peck on his forehead. “Thank you, Osamu,” you say giddily.

He freezes up for a moment, eyes wide with surprise. At last, your touch melts him, and he drops into your embrace, arms looping behind your back and holding you tightly. “Not fair. I think I should be thanking you, my love. Thank you for staying with me.”

#miya osamu #osamu x reader #haikyuu osamu #hq osamu #osamu fluff #osamu x y/n #osamu x you #haikyuu #haikyuu x reader #haikyuu x y/n #haikyuu x you #haikyuu!!#hq #hq fanfic #hq x reader #hq x you #hq!!

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starks-hero · 3 months ago

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Iron Chains and Other Precious Metals

Pairing: Thorin Oakenshield x Reader

Summary: Erebor has been reclaimed. But a dark, sinister curse lays over the riches of the mountain, a curse that Thorin succumbs to all too quickly. As the dragon sickness takes its toll, you try desperately to keep the peace.

Word count: 4.5k

Warnings: dragon sickness!thorin and absolutely everything that comes with it

“It is in these halls. I know it.”

“Thorin, we have searched and searched.” Dwalin was the first to speak.

“Not well enough. Have them scout the west halls, send them to the mines if you have to.”

“Thorin, they have been searching for days–”

“And yet it is still not found!” The ferocity in his words left you feeling hollow, bouncing off the stone walls and rattling in your chest. “The Arkenstone lies within this mountain and I will see it returned. It is the king's jewel. Am I not the king?!”

Balin, the hardened warrior that he was, seemed to be the only one amongst the few of you brave enough to respond to his words. “Do you doubt the loyalty of anyone here?” He asked.

Thorin fell back on his heel like a scorned child. His gaze, deathly and accusing, lost a fraction of its malice as it turned on you and Bilbo. You both stood behind the dwarf, Bilbo to his right and you to his left with the shadow of the broken throne at your backs. His eyes swept over you quickly before turning once again to his fellow dwarves before him. “Know this, if someone should find it and keep it from me they will know vengeance beyond that of dragon fire.”

Each of you bowed your heads as he left, less as a mark of respect and more so to avoid catching his eye. The moment he was gone, air seemed to return to the room. Dwalin made an irritated, rough sound deep in his throat and Bilbo shuffled his feet, feeling awfully small where he stood. Balin caught your eye and the heaviness in his stare caused a weight of unease to settle within your lungs.

“I’ll go speak to him,” you decided, voice thin as your breaths came late.

“I’m not sure it will do any good,” Balin said. “Thorin is his father’s son, once fire is stoked in him it's near impossible to put out.”

Silence took the room again and remained until you left.

The gentle crush of frost beneath your boots announced you as you ascended the rampart steps. Winter was coming, its icy beginnings painting themselves across the ancient stone of the mountain. Your eyes fell on the burning embers of Laketown in the distance, a kindling ruin against the darkened sky. You wondered for the very briefest of moments if an end by dragon fire would have been kinder than the harsh months that lay ahead of the townspeople.

Thorin stood off to your right, in the very centre of the battlements.

“We've come all this way, and for what?” He didn't look to you as he spoke and so you didn't answer. “The line of Durin, my kin has had claim of the stone since the first days of Erebor, without it I am no more than the dwarf that laboured in the villages of men. A vagabond–”

“You are king, Thorin.” The words came to you easy. “With or without the Arkenstone. Just as you were king before we had the mountain. To me and each dwarf that has followed you all this way.”

Something shifted behind Thorin’s eyes and for a moment you hoped he’d seen sense. Then his jaw set. “The stone–”

“–will be found. Have patience.” The realisation that you’d given an order, and rather offhandedly so, to a monarch caught up to you slowly but the anger that plagued Thorin back in the throne room seemed to have dissolved into something far more timid. And he smiled at your words.

“I fear it is a virtue I do not possess.”

“I'm inclined to agree.” You rested your arms over the stone, shoulder brushing against the king and as you looked out upon the night it felt as though you were back on the road, sleeping under great oaks and finding rest in the sheltered caverns the blue mountains would offer. It was odd, you thought, that you felt far richer then than you did now. “Have faith in us, Thorin. Faith in your company.”

You understood Thorin’s wrath and his fear. It came from wounds that had decades to heal and had not yet begun to scab. Wounds left by broken spears, shattered shields and dragon fire. A prince without a kingdom and a son without a father, Thorin’s pain was palpable and if it manifested in stormy bouts of anger and accusation then you’d learn to weather them.

The fires in the distance clawed against the night, reaching up into the dark and showing no sign of resignation. Somewhere on the outskirts of the settlement, a burning townhouse crumbled into the water.

“Balin and Fili have begun preparations, we should be ready to send them aid by tomorrow morn,” you said. “Everything we can spare.”

“You will do no such thing.” the unforgiving edge had returned to Thorin’s voice. “What lies within these halls are the birthrights of my people.”

“Thorin.” With uneasy appallment, you turned to him. “They've lost everything.”

“Do not speak to me of loss. They do not know the meaning of the word.” His words were harsh and left no room for you to argue. “Nothing leaves this mountain. I will not see our wealth squandered on the likes of them.”

A deep cavern opened up beneath your ribs and you felt hallowed by the orders you’d been given. Erebor held a sea of riches, just a portion of its gold would be enough to rebuild the settlement of Lake Town ten times over, to refill its streets with merriment and ensure its people lived with bountiful meals and warm beds. Even the old fabrics and clothes that sat untouched in the belly of the mountain would be worth their weight in gold to the townsfolk now.

But Throin’s orders and the unwavering harshness with which he gave them rang ceaselessly in your mind like clanging bells.

You met with Balin in secrecy. Even in the cavernous halls and unending tunnels of the mountain, it was a difficult task. There was always the fear Thorin would stumble upon you both, he stalked the halls so ceaseless in his determination to find the arkenstone it was a fair concern. You worried he no longer slept.

“Dragon sickness.” The words hang heavily as Balin speaks them, as stale and difficult to breathe as the air of the crypt you stand in. “A terrible illness, a desperate need for gold. It is a fierce and jealous love that burns above all else. It took his grandfather, I fear it will take him too.”

The genuine anguish upon the dwarf's features, the most steadfast of the company, causes you to falter. Balin is wise beyond his many years, he'd seen the same ailment take hold of Thror and if he believes that Thorin will succumb to the same faith, you find yourself fearing the worst.

“The Arkenstone–” you try to reason but Balin shakes his head, his beard almost brushing the floor.

“Will only solidify such greed. That stone is the summit of the mountain's great wealth. A dragon protects its hoard. And the more precious it's plunder,” Balin shakes his head. “The more aggressive the beast.”

You heed Balin's words. How can you not in such a time of uncertainty? And as predicted, Thorin only grows more volatile. His virtue diminishes with each new day, his noble ways crumbling like worn stone in his hunt for more gold. Few of you are spared from the ferocity of his outbursts. One of which stands to show just how far the king had fallen.

During another meeting that had become all too common in Thorin's haste to find the Arkenstone, Kili's criticism, intended for his uncle, stirs the king instead. Fili, who'd always tried to make the best peace, stepped in and the scuffle that followed nearly sent the young Dwarven prince over the edge of the throne room floor.

The harrowing moment invites a deathly silence. But when you catch sight of Bilbo, who never had any kind of stomach for confrontation, flee the room, you follow after him.

A hobbit's ability to disappear and go unseen proves to be true as you twist and turn through the stone warren that is Erebor as you follow after the halfling with no sign of him. Each call of his name bounces off the stone, and after a dizzying few minutes of navigating the many interlinking halls, you find Bilbo sat alone, his small form hunched against the stone.

“Bilbo, I–” Your reassuring words fall flat as your eyes fall upon the slight glow that emits from his hands, something the halfling rushes to hide as he looks up at you. His eyes are wide, frantic and frightened and your face pales with realisation. It's not an assumption, it couldn't possibly be anything else. You've been searching for it for weeks, since first reclaiming the mountain. You knew exactly what sat in the hobbit's hands.

“How...”

“I mean to give it to him, I do!” Bilbo rushes to explain. “I was not keeping it for myself, you must believe me!”

You sink to your knees, evening out the height between you both in an attempt to reassure him. Your hands settle against his thin, trembling arms. “I don't doubt you, Bilbo, not for a moment.” Your voice is as steady as you can keep it, eyes shifting to where his hand remains in his pocket. “May I...”

He follows through before you can finish the request, pulling the stone from his tattered coat and holding it before you. Suddenly, for the briefest of moments, Thorin's lust for the gem seems justified. It shines like a star fallen to earth, sitting in Bilbo's palm like a shard of divinity, a rightful giver of a divine right to rule. You can almost feel the promise of power, the stone's alluring pull. How easy it would be to take it from a creature as small as the halfling–

It's Bilbo's words that draw you back to reality. “We can give it to him right now. This very moment. End this madness–”

“No!” You rush, the halfling starting slightly at your words. You cannot afford for the gem to fall into Thorin's hands. Not now when doing so would forsake him entirely. “No.”

You rake your brain. You could take it, destroy it, toss it into the cavernous mouth of the mines... But could you truly trust yourself to let it go when its call is so great? You could give it to Balin. But dwarves, with their natural love for all things shining and bright, could a dwarf, even one as steadfast as Balin, remain immune to dragon sickness?

You swallow then, hand shifting to close Bilbo's fingers around the stone. “You need to keep it.”

The hobbit visibly panics, eyes widening as his body goes stiff. “No, no, no, no, I can't! I won't! If Thorin finds out–”

“If he finds out the stone has been found it will corrupt him beyond recognition.” Your hands squeeze gently around Bilbo's hands, tightening his hold on the gem. Your breathing grows slightly frantic as you think. The stone must stay hidden and you've come to realise that it's already in the safest hands it can be. “Bilbo, you need to keep it hidden, keep itout of sight. Don't breathe a word to anyone, not even the company.”

The request evidently weighs heavily on his shoulders, his small stature shrinking further at your words. Your hand shifts to cradle his head, curls against your palm. The desperation in your eyes stresses the severity of it all.

“Do you understand?” You stress, voice straining.

Bilbo's features twist with notable anxiety, nose twitching and eyes widening. He nods feebly then, lips pulled in a tight line. You hate that you've forced him into such a position, but you truly don't know what else to do.

If Thorin were to gain the stone now, you can't help but fear you'll lose far more than just him, that his corruption will seep into far greater schemes, like rotting roots into the earth.

You walk timidly around Thorin after that, far more timidly than before, as though one wrong footing would snap a twig and set the vicious manifestations of his paranoia upon you like dogs on a deer.

He grows far more hostile, speaking less but with greater anger when he does, a burning rage that gains more kindling with each passing day.

He hadn't left the Great Hall in near a week. He didn't eat nor sleep, simply stood there, nearly blinded by the gold's mighty glow.

“Look at it,�� he breathes as you approach him one night, steps quiet against the marble stone. His hand reaches out, hovering before him as if to touch the gold that fills the hall before him. “Beautiful.”

Your gaze shifts from the amassed wealth to Thorin, even such a small action carried out with caution in his presence.

“Thorin.” His eyes don't leave the hoard of precious metal, it's dim glow painting his features golden. You say his name again.

When his gaze meets yours it's almost crazed, wild with a hunger, a lust.

“Is it not?” A ghost of a smile reaches his lips and it's unnatural, almost uncomfortable. It's the first time you've seen him smile in weeks. “Beautiful.”

“It is a sight,” you answer, entirely unsure of what else to say. To argue would be to invite his rage and you couldn't bear it. Not when he's smiling.

He laughs at that, a quiet breathless sound and you shiver.

“And it is ours. Ours alone.”

The word hangs in the air, the weight of it slowing time. He seems to mistake your disbelief for something else. His hand shifts and curls around something in the pocket of his regal furs. It's a deep blue, the necklace he produces, gems darker than the great sea strung together by little white jewels that shimmer like stardust in the light.

“A gift.” He raises the jewellery and in your speechless shock, you bow your head so that he can slip it on. His fingers ghost over where the jewels rest upon your chest, precious stones looking all the more fragile beneath the density of his hand. “A mark of honesty.”

You feel a little ill, guilt and a sense of helplessness knawing away at you. Thorin, in his haze, mistakes it for humbleness.

“Don't you see? You are the only one I can trust,” he says, voice breathy and faint. His gaze falters. “The only one...”

It feels like an opening, a sliver of sunlight pouring through a crack in a grimy window. It's almost a faint glimpse of the old him shining through the dirt. “Thorin, we have the mountain. Erebor is reclaimed. Isn't... isn't that enough?”

Your hand shifts to brush Thorin's as you speak, but he pulls away from the touch. He seems almost wounded by your words and when he speaks again, his tone seems to beg for your understanding.

“Have you not heard their mutterings?” He asks frantically. “They conspire, they mean to take it all for themselves. The stone has been found, I know it. But they keep it from me–”

“Thorin,” you try, and in your desperation, your hand brushes his shoulder. “Do you truly doubt us? After everything? All we've persevered together, what would possess us to leave you now?” You hope it's not evident how close you'd come to saying 'me' instead of 'us.'

But the words, desperate as they were, seem to work magic as Thorin's expression begins to crumble, softening slowly at first until his very eyes lighten.

You sigh a trembling breath. “Thorin, I–”

“Thorin!” Dwalin's commanding voice cuts you short. “Survivors from Lake Town, they're streaming towards the mountain in the hundreds. The elf is with them.”

You watch as the brief softness in the dwarf's expression dissolves, a bitter and vindictive shadow taking its place.

“Call everyone to the gate. Now!” He brushes past you so harshly it almost throws you off balance. “They are fools to think Erebor will be desecrated so easily.”

The bitter wind bites at you, winter sunlight catching upon your armour as you join the company. They stand as some inverted visage of the last number of months, jovial group turned stoic. Before you is an army of elves, so great in number they blend into one great golden adversary. You find your place beside Thorin and catch sight of Gandalf other side of the wall, your armour begins to feel heavy, fusing you to the stone beneath you, a soldier upon a chess board, the pieces neither black nor white but a horribly muddled grey.

“We have come with good tidings,” Thranduil speaks. “For your debt to our people has been paid, and handsomely so.”

Thorin bristles at the words from the decorated forest king, bares his teeth in antagonised warning.

“I have given you nothing. You will not see a single shred of what belongs to my kin.”

Thranduil shares a glance with the bowman and your fingers twitch, overcome with the same itching desire you feel at the beginning of a battle that longs for you to grab your sword. Bard’s hand slips beneath his furs and what he produces is far more deadly than any weapon. The Arkenstone.

You see the change in Thorin, feel it from where you stand by his side. In your mind's eye, his skin turns to scales, fingers sharpening into talons and his head splits with the growth of a twisted horned crown. “Liars,” he hisses, as though molten fire burns in his throat. “Thieves!”

You stand on the precipice of war, neither the dwarves nor elves before you see the carnage they threaten with these foolish shows of power. A battle for the stone and its sickly blue glow. You seek out Gandalf, hoping to catch his eye, to implore him to bring about some semblance of sanity.

“They’re not thieves, it wasn’t stolen.”

You freeze, a cavern opening beneath your lungs. Bilbo moves between the company until he stands before Thorin andyou feel you’ve just watched a lamb willingly lay before the butcher. He doesn’t realise the goodness of his actions will not purify him and you shake your head, eyes already glossy, imploring and pleading with him for it to not be true. To not say it if it is.

“I gave it to them, as my share of the quest,” he says. You feel sick. Thorin’s rage is silent, silent in the same way a predator is silent.

“You, you would steal from me?” He growls, and his own kin falter. Bilbo panics, seeming to fully grasp the danger he is now in for the first time. He frantically meets your eye before looking back to the king.

“I stole nothing. I- you are changed, Thorin. The mere idea of the stone has already driven you to madness!”

“Thorin-” you attempt to intervene, reaching for his shoulder, and he shrugs you off so aggressively you stumble. The company mutters, some shifting to steady you on your feet, others watching wearily as the king sizes up the hobbit.

“Petulant, little rat,” he spits. He grabs Bilbo’s arm in such a vice grip you fear it will snap. Bofur and Kili rush to free him but Thorin yanks the halfling away so harshly his feet leave the floor. “Retrieve the stone, do what you must,” he barks at Balin and Fili as he drags Bilbo along, back towards the steps, descending back into the mountain like a drake with its sacrificial lamb. “I have a more pressing matter to see to.”

You follow as though their shadow, racing down the stone. You catch them just as they enter the great hall. Thorin recoils his arm like a whip, sending Bilbo to the ground, his words as searing as dragon fire.

“Thorin, enough!” Your voice bellows and he turns on you.

“You,” he accuses. “you stay in our halls, our home,” he raises an accusatory finger. “Know your place. ” He spits out the final words.

“Leave him be,” you warn, and when the king remains silent and unmoving, you glance at Bilbo, where his small body lays crumpled against the stone and nod. He gasps as he gets onto his feet, and steadies himself before attempting to rush to your side. He’s cut short by the press of sharpened iron to his middle.

Thorin is crazed, his sword blocking the halfling's way, the weapon looking so much more formidable against such a powerless foe. Bilbo’s breaths come short and fast and you speak the king’s name with more contempt and warning than your mind had ever associated with him. “I said leave him.”

Thorin tilts his head in a way that leaves you incredibly uneasy. “Thorin, you have no quarrel with him, he is your friend-”

“Friend? He is a lying shire rat forced upon this company, a thief, liar!”

He roars, and then metal meets metal. Your sword crosses his and somewhere deep within the depths of his clouded iris, the old Thorin stirs, regarding you with shock. “He did not lie to you,” You gasp, fingers clenched around the hilt of your weapon. “I did. I knew of the stone, I counselled him to keep it hidden. To keep it from you.” Another roar tears from him as he raises his sword. You block the attempt, teeth bared as your weapons clash. Bilbo makes it to the steps behind you, Bofur and Balin there to retrieve him, they both have the good sense to leave. At the very least to get the halfling somewhere safe before they return.

You regard your current position with a nauseous familiarity; locked in battle, the mighty gold hoard your backdrop. Thorin’s enraged roars grow more animalistic each time his weapon meets yours. His eyes have sunken into darkened coals, his breaths ragged and growling. You feel locked in some ancient tapestry, a knight made up of silver threads facing off against a fire drake.

“You are changed, Thorin!” You yell, having just dodged an assault of his blade. “You’ve forsaken your loyalty, your honour, your own kin!”

“Silence!” His movements are groggy, lazy, hunched over and heavy. He is no longer a warrior, made slothful by greed. “I will not be counselled by you, an honourless child of man that crawls the lowlands, made a leper by your own people. You have spewed poison in my ear, corrupted my mind, tried to set in me a mercy for the likes of them!”

“The likes of them?” You ask, made breathless by the audacity of his words. “The likes without homes? The likes that run from dragonfire? You forget who you are.”

He roars again, his blade near kissing your cheek. But the corruption of his mind has made him slow, his movements languish and he topples, sword clattering onto the stone. You kick it away from his grasp. It’s a pitiful sight, seeing how far the king has fallen, how the dwarf you would have once followed anywhere has become so devoid of all honour.

“Look at what you have become,” your eyes cloud at the sight of the tragedy before you. “You’re no king, not anymore.” You drop your own sword, surrendering to the illness that has claimed him, the shadowed serpent that clings to him. “Have your gold, keep your treasure. I will not stay and watch you rot any longer.”

You turn with an aching chest. It kills you, the thought of walking away. But you can sit and watch him orchestra his own destruction no longer. With your back to the king, you ignore his desperate shouts for you to turn back, pick up your weapon and fight. When they dissolve into pleas for your help, for your forgiveness, you still do not turn.

You miss the shadow on the stone wall, the drag of sharpened iron against stone as a weapon is lifted from its place on the ground. It’s too late before you feel it, a sudden blow to your head, dull and heavy. The world spins and your vision blackens as you meet the harsh coolness of the stone beneath you.

You wake to cool iron around your wrists, the shine of jewels catching your eyes as you groggily blink them open. The carved stone wall of the cell is coloured a warm yellow by the reflection of the gold that pools around you, the small room having been filled with it. Your skin feels warm and heavy, weighed down by the silver that now decorates your limbs. The necklace is stained slightly red from where the wound upon your head had bled. You can almost make him out before you, frame made obscure by your blurred vision.

“What is this?” Your voice is hoarse. “Thorin, what is this madness?”

He lights his pipe, embers painting his features gold, the shadows cast by the burning leaves hardening his features. “I did not understand, why you of all of them would turn against me,” he begins, voice low. He sounds dangerously calm, as though sobered by the knowledge that your distrust in him had run so deep you drew your sword against him. “But I see now.”

He draws closer until you can smell the smoke upon his breath, taste it in the back of your throat. His fingers brush your chin and you twist away from the touch. But he does not relent, caressing up past your temple, brushing wishfully against your hair. “It was never meant to be like this, to come to such bleak detrimentality. But you are blinded by virtue-” His fingers ghost over your eyes. His voice is almost mournful, weighted by self-appointed duty. “-honour, foolish sentimentalities. But you will see in time, just as I have come to see.”

He pulls back, retreating like a shadow. “Once I have the stone it will show you. You will understand.”

Realisation greets you, chilling in its arrival. “Thorin-”

The sound of the metal bars meeting the stone doorway as it closes makes your bones ache, and your heart drop.

“You will understand,” He repeats. He no longer sounds like himself. He does not answer your desperate shouts, does not so much as react to them. He continues as he walks away, disappearing back into the mountains depths of darkness and gold. “One way or another, you will.”

thank you for reading <3

#i don't think we can 'i can fix him' our way out of this one lads #anyway look who wrote something!#thorin oakenshield x reader #thorin oakenshield x you #thorin x you #thorin x reader #thorin imagine #thorin oakenshield #the hobbit x reader #the hobbit #lotr

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