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luvsicktyun · 1 month ago

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BOUND BY BLOOD AND VENGEANCE ˚୨୧⋆｡˚ ⋆ l.hs

》 In the kingdom of Aethera, the shadows whisper tales of revenge, betrayal, and forbidden magic. A cunning witch with a flair for deception, has spent years honing her craft for one purpose: avenging her parents’ deaths at the hands of the King. Disguised as a visiting princess from a distant realm, She charms her way into the castle, weaving lies and illusions to mask her true intent—murdering the king. Her plan is flawless, or so she believes, until she crosses paths with Heeseung, the brooding captain of the royal guard. Tasked with protecting the "princess," Heeseung finds her insufferable, too sharp-tongued and confident for his liking. But as they’re forced to spend time together, her wit begins to spark something deeper in him, despite his better judgment.

》 𝔢𝔫𝔥𝔶𝔭𝔢𝔫 𝔪𝔞𝔰𝔱𝔢𝔯𝔩𝔦𝔰𝔱 & 𝔪𝔬𝔯𝔢...

pairings » witch hunter!heeseung x witch!reader

𝔤𝔢𝔫𝔯𝔢 » smut » fantasy » forbidden romance » angst

warnings » smut, oral fem rec, angst, gore, death, murder, dark themes, dark magic, mcd, angst, parental death, 1500s royal ideologies (not entirely accurate), blood, graphic depiction of some death scenes, mainly in reader's pov second person "You" but some scenes in Heeseung's pov, longing, lots of longing.

« 𝔞𝔭𝔞𝔯𝔱 𝔬𝔣 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔨𝔦𝔫𝔤𝔡𝔬𝔪 𝔬𝔣 𝔞𝔢𝔱𝔥𝔢𝔯𝔞 𝔠𝔬𝔩𝔩𝔞𝔟! »

word count «30.1k »

ONCE UPON A TIME… In a land far far away, where the treetops touched the soft clouds of the sky, and the water sparkled under the glowing sun. Where mountains rose high and in which long, deep caves ran. Where the sea met shore in a collision of tall waves. Where the undead walked among the living. Where the winged flew above the finned. In a land where things beyond any reason and rhyme existed. And amongst those very beings, within the veils of Aethera, there was…

Prologue.

The midnight sky hangs heavy over the sprawling coven hall, its black-stone spires clawing at the heavens like skeletal fingers. The air inside is thick with incense and whispered spells, a choking blend of power and menace. You stand hidden among the crowd of robed witches, your heart hammering as your aunt, Mira, ascends the obsidian dais at the center of the room. Mira moves with the precision of a predator, her sharp features twisted into a mask of triumph. Her voice rings clear, cutting through the murmurs of the assembly like the slash of a blade. "Let it be known," Mira declares, her tone dripping with venom, "that my sister, Esme, was a fool. Her lust for power led her to defy the council—to act alone, recklessly, against the king. And now, she is dead."

The word strikes you like a physical blow. Dead. The room blurs as tears sting your eyes, but you refuse to blink them away. You can still picture your mother’s fiery gaze, her defiant smile. Gone? It doesn’t seem real. Mira’s voice rises, commanding the attention of every soul present. "Esme’s actions have left a stain upon this coven, a mark of disgrace that threatens to unravel all we have worked for. The council must act wisely to ensure our survival. As her successor, I motion that we abandon this foolish vendetta against the royal family. Let the king and his ilk live." A wave of murmurs ripples through the hall. Your fists clench at your sides as you listen to the witches’ agreement. Your aunt, the woman who had coldly informed you of your parents’ deaths only hours before, now calls your mother power-hungry and selfish.

"My sister sought glory and brought ruin upon herself," Mira continues, her lips curling into a cruel smile. "Let her fate serve as a warning to those who would seek to defy this council." The crowd erupts in murmured assent, some nodding gravely, others casting wary glances at one another. You shrink further into the shadows, your nails digging into your palms until crescent moons of pain etch into your skin. Your mother wasn’t power-hungry. She wasn’t selfish. She had been brave, determined to rid the world of the tyrant king who had oppressed your kind for decades. How dare Mira speak ill upon her only hours after her death. The council’s seal burns bright upon Mira’s palm as she raises her hand, swearing her oath to uphold the coven’s decisions. The crowd roars its approval, but your ears ring with the sound of your own heartbeat. You watch your aunt with burning eyes, feeling the injustice of it all sear into your very soul.

They are cowards, every last one of them. But not you. You won’t let your mother’s death be in vain. You step back into the shadows, your heart a furnace of grief and fury. One day, you vow, you will finish what your mother started. You will avenge your parents and bring the king to his knees—even if it means standing against the coven itself. As the council hall fills with chants and the rustle of robes, you slip away, unseen. Your path is set, your purpose clear. The king’s days are numbered, and you will stop at nothing to see justice served.

The cold night air bites at your cheeks as you sneak through the hidden tunnels beneath the coven hall. Every step echoes in the silence, but you’re too determined to let fear stop you now. The moonlight above guides your way as you slip out into the open, the dark forest swallowing you whole. You’ve heard whispers in the coven—rumors of a royal procession. The king is welcoming a princess from a neighboring kingdom to learn the traditions and history of Athera. The thought is your first glimmer of a plan. If you can reach the castle, you can get close to the king. And if you can get close to the king, you can kill him.

The journey to the village square is long, but you’re light on your feet, moving through the shadows like a wraith. When you arrive, your pulse quickens at the sight of the royal carriage docked outside the saloon. Its intricate gold detailing gleams in the torchlight, and the sound of boisterous laughter drifts from inside as the guards enjoy their meal and drinks. You approach cautiously, your heart pounding. The guards are distracted, but you can’t afford any mistakes. Muttering a quiet incantation under your breath, you weave a charm spell, your words wrapping around the nearest guard like a silken thread. His expression slackens, and he gestures for you to pass, oblivious to the danger. What a punk. So easily taken down, is the king so stupid as to not have his guards under protection that wavers spells. Amateur. You scoffed at your hatred for him.

The carriage door creaks softly as you open it. Inside, the princess sits on a plush seat, her gown shimmering like moonlight. Her eyes widen in alarm when she sees you. Her blonde hair bright under the minimal light seeping through the closed curtains of the carriage. Her chest heaved at the sight of you, clearly frightened. Just how you liked it. A scared little privileged girl who had not even the slightest idea of how cruel the real world is. Growing up with a king for a father and a queen for a mother, spoon fed with a gilded spoon. You tsked at the thought. It made your next move all that easier to accomplish. "Who are you?" she demands, her voice trembling. "Guards!"

Before she can scream again, you lunge forward, your dagger flashing in the dim light. Sinking the knife into the side of her chest without so much as another protest. The struggle is brief, her cries fading into silence. You catch your breath, staring at her lifeless form. There’s no time for hesitation. Stripping her gown, you exchange your rough clothes for her regal attire, pulling the hood of her cloak low over your face. With practiced efficiency, you shove her body to the far side of the carriage. You’ll deal with it soon enough. Moments later, the guards return, oblivious to the change. The carriage lurches forward, and you wait until the village lights are distant before opening the door and pushing her lifeless form out into the night. You had no regrets. None. This is what needs to be done, for your parents. The world is now rid of one less pretty princess who had lived and loved ten times more than you ever had. You fought a smirk from gracing your lips, pure evil instincts kicking in.

The muffled thud of her body hitting the ground is followed by distant shouts of alarm. You don’t look back. The screams of the villagers grow fainter as the carriage speeds toward the castle, carrying you closer to your destiny. You sit back against the cushioned seat, your fingers tightening around the dagger hidden beneath your cloak. Soon, the king will pay for everything. For taking your parents far too early. For being an arrogant, no good tyrant. You couldn't wait to spill his blood. You were actually giddy. The towering gates of the castle loom before you, their iron bars glinting in the moonlight. The carriage comes to a halt, and the driver announces your arrival with a booming voice. You steady your breathing, keeping your head bowed as the door opens. A pair of guards escort you inside, their armored boots clanking against the stone floor. The grand hall is a marvel of opulence. Chandeliers dripping with crystals cast a warm glow over gilded walls and intricate tapestries. Your eyes catch every detail, memorizing the layout as your heart pounds beneath the layers of the princess’s gown.

The king and queen stand at the far end of the hall, their regal presence commanding the room. The king’s sharp eyes study you as you approach, his mouth curling into a welcoming smile. The queen’s gaze is softer, but no less piercing. They are everything you expected—and everything you loathe. Tall, graceful. As hard as stone. Your heart leaped in your chest but you would not allow the disease of anxiety to plague you. You were stronger than that. "Welcome to Athera," the king says, his voice rich and commanding. "We are honored to have you here." You forced a snarl down at his voice alone.

So instead you curtsy deeply, keeping your expression demure. "Thank you, Your Majesties. It is an honor to be here."

"You must be tired from your journey," the queen says, her voice as smooth as silk. "We have arranged for a nursemaid to attend to you. She will show you to your chambers and ensure you have everything you need."

"You are most kind," you reply, forcing a polite smile. Your hands are steady, but the weight of the dagger hidden beneath your cloak reminds you of your true purpose. The king steps closer, his imposing frame towering over you. "We look forward to hearing about your homeland and sharing our traditions with you. Tonight, you will dine with us. It will be a chance to begin your education in the ways of Athera."

"I would be delighted," you say, inclining your head. The thought of sitting across from him at the dinner table, so close yet unable to strike, makes your blood boil. But patience is a weapon, one you are learning to wield. Even if your hatred for him is at an all time high you must remind yourself of the ultimate goal here. Not only do you want to kill the king, you also wish to make him suffer, in the most unimaginable ways. You had never known how your parents died, or what the nature of it was but based on the horrifying stories told about the king's prisoners you could only assume the worst. You were dealing with pure evil, good thing you had been made straight from hell clawing at the cage of your soul to pull him down there with you. A maid appears at your side, bowing low before gesturing for you to follow. You allow her to lead you through the labyrinthine halls of the castle, your mind racing with possibilities. Each step brings you closer to the moment you’ve dreamed of: the moment the king pays for his crimes. For now, you must play the part of the princess, but soon, the mask will come off—and the real game will begin.

The maid leads you to your chambers, a room so grand it feels like stepping into a dream—or a trap. The ceiling arches high above, painted with scenes of celestial beauty, and the furnishings are fit for a queen: a massive canopy bed draped in silk, a polished mahogany desk, and a window seat overlooking the sprawling castle gardens. You fight to keep your expression neutral, though the opulence threatens to overwhelm you. "This will be your room during your stay," the maid says with a bow. "A bath has been prepared for you. Shall I assist you, or would you prefer privacy?" You had never had someone to dote on you, even when your mother was alive. You sure as hell wasn’t going to start now.

You give her a small, dismissive wave. "I can manage for now. Thank you." She nods, retreating with a final bow. Once alone, you let out a breath, shedding the heavy cloak and feeling the weight of your dagger hidden in the folds of your stolen gown. The luxurious bath beckons, but you remain cautious, examining the room for anything amiss. When you’re satisfied that no prying eyes or hidden spells lurk, you strip off the dress and slip into the steaming water. The warmth eases the tension in your muscles, but your mind remains sharp, replaying every moment since you entered the castle. The king’s piercing gaze. The queen’s soft, calculated smile. They seemed so at ease, so secure in their kingdom, but that security would be their downfall. When the water begins to cool, you step out and wrap yourself in a robe. A knock sounds at the door before the maid returns, this time with a tray of delicate bottles and brushes. You're especially jumpy. Learning to be extra cautious. You were in enemy territory completely undetected.

"I’ve come to prepare you for dinner," she says, setting the items down. She moves with practiced efficiency, brushing and arranging your hair into an elaborate style that feels foreign on your head. Her hands are gentle, but the intrusion feels invasive, a reminder that every moment here is a performance. You could never be fully comfortable, fully relaxed. Not under the watchful eyes of the royals and all who serve them. "Do you like it?" she asks when she’s finished, holding up a gilded mirror.

You glance at the reflection of a girl you barely recognize—poised, elegant, nothing like the witch who crouched in the shadows of the coven. "It will do," you say curtly, standing to allow her to help you into another dress. This one is finer than the last, adorned with jewels and embroidery that shimmer in the candlelight.

When you’re finally ready, she steps back with a small smile. "You look lovely, Your Grace. The king and queen will be most pleased." You nod, hiding the dark satisfaction that simmers beneath your calm exterior. Let them be pleased. Let them believe I am harmless. A pair of guards and the nursemaid walk you to the dinning hall where your dinner will take place. The dining hall is a spectacle of wealth and grandeur. A long table stretches the length of the room, laden with golden plates and crystal goblets. Servants move like shadows, ensuring every detail is perfect. The king and queen rise as you enter, their smiles warm and inviting. "Ah, our honored guest," the king says, motioning for you to sit beside him. You glide to the seat, each step measured and deliberate.

"Thank you for this generous welcome," you say, your voice soft but steady. The king studies you as you begin to eat. His questions come slowly at first—polite inquiries about your homeland and upbringing. You answer carefully, spinning a web of half-truths and vague pleasantries.

"And what do you hope to learn during your time in Athera?" he asks, cutting into a piece of roasted meat.

You pause, as though considering your words. "Your Majesty, I wish to understand the traditions and history that make this land so revered. To gain the wisdom that only a kingdom as ancient as yours can provide." The queen smiles at this, but the king narrows his eyes slightly, as if testing the sincerity of your response. Before he can press further, he gestures to a man standing near the far wall.

"This is Captain Lee Heeseung," the king says. "He is my most trusted guard and will oversee your safety during your stay." Heeseung steps forward, bowing slightly with an air of quiet authority. His dark eyes meet yours, and you sense he’s already assessing you, searching for weaknesses.

"An honor to serve, Your Grace," he says. His voice is steady, but there’s a spark of curiosity in his tone. You incline your head, feigning disinterest. "The honor is mine, Captain." The king seems satisfied with the exchange and continues speaking. But when you inquire about magic in the kingdom, his expression hardens. You ask of magical beings he has here, perhaps prying too far but you did not care much. Being here meant making sacrifices.

"Magic is not a matter for you to concern yourself with," he says, his tone firm. "Your focus should be on diplomacy and tradition."

Your lips tighten, but you force a smile. "Of course, Your Majesty. Forgive my curiosity." You bit back every harsh wish you could utter at him, biting your tongue almost to the point of bleeding. The conversation drifts to other topics, but your mind lingers on his dismissal. Magic is none of your concern. The words echo in your thoughts like a challenge, feeding the embers of your anger. You’ll prove him wrong. You’ll prove them all wrong. Magic was your entire being. It coursed through your veins at this very second. Born and bred a witch, the king didn't know the true first thing about what Magic truly was. Not unless the asshole possessed it himself, which he didn't. As far as you heard he did his bidding in the creatures he held captive in this very castle. He was a coward.

The evening wears on, and when the meal concludes, the king rises to offer a toast. His words are full of pride and hope for the future, but you hear only arrogance. You lift your goblet, hiding your true thoughts behind a mask of gratitude. One day, this kingdom will bow to you. One day everyone will know of the Bloodborn witch who outsmarted and conquered the tyrant king. For now, you bide your time. Tonight, you’ve taken your first step into the heart of Athera. Soon, the real work will begin.

After dinner you're more than eager to get out of the confines of your room, you were just itching to scope out the castle and what it entailed. There was just one tiny problem. Your guard dog Heeseung was permitted to walk with you every step you took. The moon hangs high over the castle as you step out onto the garden path, the crisp night air brushing against your skin. The opulent gardens are a labyrinth of perfectly trimmed hedges, vibrant blooms, and marble fountains that glimmer under the silvery light. It should be peaceful, the perfect setting for you to gather your thoughts and refine your plan, but the sound of boots following closely behind shatters the illusion. "Is this truly necessary?" you ask, throwing a glance over your shoulder at Heeseung, who trails a few paces behind.

"The king insisted," he replies, his tone clipped. He doesn’t bother to hide the annoyance in his expression as his dark eyes meet yours. "I don’t particularly enjoy babysitting, either."

You huff, turning away from him and focusing on the path ahead. "I hardly need a babysitter."

"Then why am I here?" Heeseung mutters under his breath. You fought the urge to crack him over the head with a tight closed fist. You didn't need a low life guard treating you like some weak girl who couldn't hold her own head up. Fuck that.

You shoot him a sharp look. One laced with venom, and ash laden tongue. "Because the king is clearly overprotective."

"And because you're a guest," he counters, his voice edged with sarcasm. "Guests don’t wander around royal gardens unescorted, no matter how stubborn they are."

You stop abruptly, forcing him to do the same. "Stubborn?" You crossed your arms over your chest, your nails digging into the skin of your arm to stop yourself from lashing out on him and doing something irreversible. Heeseung folds his arms across his chest, just like you had. "That’s one way to describe it. Most princesses would relish the chance to stroll under the stars with the captain of the guard. You seem more annoyed than honored."

"Honored?" You scoff, your eyes narrowing. "To be followed around like a child who can’t be trusted to think for herself? If that’s what you call honor, I’d rather not have it." Heeseung’s brow arches, and for a moment, his irritation gives way to curiosity. "You’re not like other princesses, are you?"

"Perhaps that’s because I’m not as complacent as they are," you snap, taking another step forward. "I’ve seen enough of this world to know that women are treated like ornaments—delicate, fragile things meant to be admired and controlled. It’s infuriating." His gaze sharpens, and a faint smirk tugs at the corner of his lips. "Strong words for someone dressed like a jeweled ornament herself." You let a low hiss leave your lips at your growing frustration.

Your hands clench at your sides, but you hold your ground. "This gown doesn’t define me. And neither does your opinion." Heeseung chuckles dryly, though there’s a flicker of something else in his expression—respect, perhaps, or maybe amusement. "You’ve got spirit, I’ll give you that. But spirit doesn’t mean much in a place like this." He was giving you some kind of rundown you hadn't asked for, treating you like an idiot.

"And why is that?" you ask, your voice icy. Your body cold from the fury swirling in your veins. "Because this kingdom isn’t built on ideals. It’s built on power, control, and tradition." He steps closer, his tone dropping to something quieter but no less intense. "If you want to survive here, you’d better learn to play by the rules."

"I make my own rules," you reply, lifting your chin defiantly. You’d be cursing yourself for your behavior later, but now you couldn't help but let the spit fire fall from your lips. The tension between you crackles like lightning in the air, but neither of you looks away. Finally, Heeseung sighs and takes a step back, his expression hardening again. "You’re going to make my job difficult, aren’t you?" he says, shaking his head.

“Yes.” was all you responded with. And you'd give no other explanation to it. Heeseung probably wondered what kind of trivial trouble he faced ahead but he surely didn't know it was much more dangerous than that. This wasn't just some head strong princess fighting to stay somewhat afloat in a world akin to men. You were a bloodthirsty, wishfully avenging witch who would stop at nothing to see her enemy, the King, dead. He had not even an inclination of a clue. The silence stretches between you as you continue your walk, the garden’s beauty muted by the clash of wills. Heeseung doesn’t speak again, and you’re grateful for the reprieve. Every step solidifies your resolve, every glance at the castle walls a reminder of the kingdom you’ve infiltrated. Heeseung might think he understands power and control, but he knows nothing of the storm brewing inside you. Let him underestimate you. Let them all underestimate you. Soon, they’ll realize the true extent of your will—and the price of underestimating it. When you finally return to your chambers, you glance back at Heeseung, who remains at the door, his expression unreadable.

"Goodnight, Captain," you say, your voice laced with the faintest hint of sarcasm. But also a bit of amusement.

"Goodnight, Your Grace," he replies, his tone matching yours. As the door closes behind you, you can’t help but feel the night has been a small victory. You’ve made your first impression on the castle—and its people. And though Heeseung may prove to be an obstacle, he’s also a challenge, one you’re determined to overcome. For now, you let your thoughts settle as you prepare for the days to come. The game has begun, and you’re ready to play it to win. The heavy oak door closes with a quiet thud behind you, sealing off the noise of the castle. Your chambers are grander than anything you’ve ever known—rich velvet drapes, a bed large enough to drown in, and shelves lined with books whose gilded spines catch the flickering light of the fire. But none of it feels real. The luxury, the warmth, the illusion of safety—it’s all a lie.

You slip out of the heavy gown, casting it aside as if shedding a skin that doesn’t belong to you. Your reflection in the ornate mirror catches your eye, and for a moment, you stare. The princess’s face looks back at you, her delicate features framed by your freshly styled hair, but the defiance burning in your gaze is all your own. You turn away, pulling a well-worn leather satchel from beneath the bed. Its contents are simple but vital: a few personal belongings, a small book of spells, and a dagger you’d hidden before anyone could search your things. The weight of the dagger is comforting as you place it on the bedside table, a silent reminder of your mission. The fire crackles softly as you settle onto the plush rug by the hearth, spreading a stack of books in front of you. You’ve managed to gather a modest collection about the castle, the royal family, and the kingdom’s history—enough to keep your mind occupied, or so you thought.

Your fingers trace the faded ink of an old map of Athera, your lips silently forming the names of its towns and landmarks. But no matter how hard you try to focus, your thoughts keep drifting back to him. Heeseung. The way he’d looked at you in the garden, his dark eyes sharp and unreadable, as if he could see through your every facade. The way he’d dismissed you as stubborn and spoiled, as if you were no different from the pampered nobles he’d sworn to protect. The way his words had challenged you, igniting a spark of defiance you couldn’t shake. You scowl, slamming the book shut with more force than necessary. "Infuriating," you mutter under your breath, as if saying it aloud will exorcise the thought of him from your mind. It doesn’t. Instead, you grab your spellbook, flipping through its pages with restless energy. The familiar symbols and incantations should be a comfort, but even your magic feels dull tonight. You murmur a spell to conjure a small orb of light, watching it hover in the air like a firefly, but the satisfaction is fleeting. The orb winks out, leaving you in the dim glow of the fire.

Why does he bother you so much? He’s just another guard, another obstacle in a castle full of them. And yet, his words linger, needling at the edges of your thoughts. You hate the way he made you feel—challenged, unsettled, seen. Shaking your head, you push the thought aside and return to the books. The king is what matters, not some arrogant captain of the guard. You remind yourself of the plan, of the vengeance that fuels you. You’ll learn everything you can about this castle, this kingdom, and the man who sits on its throne. Heeseung is nothing but a distraction, and distractions have no place in your mission. Still, as the fire dwindles to embers and the castle settles into silence, his voice echoes in your mind: “You’ve got spirit.”

You grit your teeth, shoving the memory aside as you extinguish the lamp. Tomorrow will bring new challenges, and you can’t afford to let him—or anyone else—get in your way. As you lay down, the shadows of the room seem to whisper promises of the chaos you’ll bring to Athera. And yet, somewhere in the back of your mind, a quiet, infuriating thought remains: Heeseung may not be as easy to forget as you’d hoped.

The next morning arrives with the soft knock of your nursemaid, her presence dragging you from a restless sleep. The golden sunlight streaming through the tall windows feels almost mocking, a stark contrast to the cold determination that weighs heavy in your chest. You dress quickly, donning yet another gown far too frilly for your taste, and endure the nursemaid’s fussing over your hair with forced patience. By the time you arrive at the study hall, you’re already in a foul mood. The room is grand, with floor-to-ceiling windows draped in fine silks and shelves brimming with ancient tomes. At the far end of the room, a frail man in scholar’s robes stands by a chalkboard, his spectacles perched precariously on the tip of his nose. His presence is as unimposing as the droning voice that greets you. "Ah, Princess," he says, bowing stiffly. "We shall begin with a comprehensive overview of Athera’s founding and its noble lineage."

You sigh inwardly, suppressing the urge to roll your eyes. As you take your seat at the front of the class, you catch movement out of the corner of your eye—Heeseung, leaning against the wall near the door. His arms are crossed over his chest, his expression a mixture of boredom and irritation. He’s clearly as thrilled about this arrangement as you are. The scholar drones on, his voice a monotonous hum as he recites the kingdom’s history. Something about treaties, alliances, and a war long past. You try to focus, but the words blur together, slipping through your grasp like sand. Your gaze drifts to the window, where the gardens stretch out in the morning light. The vibrant colors of the flowers and the rustling of the leaves call to you, a welcome escape from the suffocating walls of the study. He talks of magical beings. Dragons, werewolves, creatures in the sea, creatures in the sky. "Princess, are you paying attention?" the teacher’s voice snaps you back to the present. His stern gaze pins you in place, and you force a polite smile.

"Of course," you lie, straightening in your chair. But your mind is already elsewhere again, plotting and scheming. How could anyone care about the history of treaties when the present holds so much more promise for chaos? In the corner, Heeseung shifts, his boots scraping lightly against the stone floor. His gaze meets yours for a fleeting moment, and you catch the faintest glimmer of amusement in his eyes. Is he laughing at you? You bristle, sitting up straighter.

The teacher drones on, oblivious to the silent exchange. "And so, The King’s unification of the eastern territories laid the foundation for the peace we enjoy today..." You stifle a yawn, your gaze flicking back to Heeseung. He looks as disinterested as you feel, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword as he leans against the wall.

"Do you find this as thrilling as I do, Captain?" you mutter under your breath, barely audible.

His eyes narrow slightly, but the corner of his mouth twitches upward. "Riveting," he murmurs back, his tone laced with sarcasm. "Though I imagine it’s more tolerable when you’re not staring out the window." Your cheeks heat, and you turn your attention back to the teacher, unwilling to give him the satisfaction of a retort. The exchange leaves you flustered, though you can’t quite decide if it’s from embarrassment or irritation. The lesson drags on, and by the time the scholar finally sets down his chalk, you’re convinced an entire day has passed. "We’ll continue tomorrow with the origins of the royal family’s insignia," he announces, as if that’s something to look forward to.

You stand quickly, smoothing your skirts as you prepare to leave. Heeseung falls into step behind you, his presence a constant shadow. As you walk through the corridors, the silence stretches until you can’t bear it any longer. "You seemed awfully comfortable back there," you say, your tone sharp. "Do you always hover like a ghost, or is it just for me?"

Heeseung glances at you, his expression unreadable. "It’s my job to keep you safe. I don’t have to enjoy it."

"Safe from what?" you scoff. "The dust on those books? The unbearable monotony of castle life?"

He stops abruptly, his dark eyes locking onto yours. "Safe from whatever danger your enemies might bring. Or," he adds, his voice low, "whatever danger you might bring yourself." The weight of his words hangs in the air, and for a moment, you’re at a loss. Then your lips curl into a smirk. "I’ll be sure to keep that in mind, Captain." You continue down the hall. Heeseung may be a nuisance, but he’s also observant—and that makes him dangerous. You’ll need to keep your guard up around him, even if he’s nothing more than an obstacle in your greater plan. The day isn’t over yet, and you still have work to do.

After the lesson, you wander down the grand corridors of the castle, the heavy weight of boredom pressing against your chest. The day has been insufferable—yet another dull recounting of history delivered in a monotonous drone, the same names and dates hammered into your skull until they blurred together. You’re not sure if it’s exhaustion or frustration that drives your next decision, but the thought of retreating to your chambers feels unbearable. "I want to go to the library," you declare suddenly, glancing back at Heeseung, who’s trailing behind you with the enthusiasm of someone heading to their own execution.

He raises a brow, not even trying to mask his irritation. "The library? What for? Didn’t you just spend hours listening to all that history nonsense?"

"I didn’t ask for your opinion, did I?" you reply sharply, spinning back toward the hallway ahead. "Some of us like to expand our knowledge." There was a lot you needed to learn about the king and more specifically this castle if you were going to properly find a way to kill him. "You mean some of us like to make other people’s lives harder," he mutters, loud enough for you to hear.

You stop abruptly, turning to face him with an arched brow. "Oh, I’m sorry. Is being my guard not entertaining enough for you? Should I organize a parade in your honor?" Heeseung rolls his eyes, falling into step beside you instead of keeping his distance. "Entertaining is the last word I’d use to describe this job. Babysitting a princess who doesn’t act like one isn’t exactly the highlight of my career."

"Good," you say with a saccharine smile. "Because I’m not a complacent little princess who needs constant coddling." You held your hide with triumph. Heeseung was just another man who had thought you weak, he was in for a rude awakening that was for certain. "That’s obvious," he mutters, but you catch the hint of a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. When you reach the library, the grandeur of the space strikes you all over again. Towering bookshelves stretch to the ceiling, their dark wood polished to perfection, and the scent of parchment and old ink fills the air. It’s quiet, serene, and exactly what you need after the grating monotony of the lesson.

"Stay there," you order, gesturing vaguely to a corner. "You’ll ruin the atmosphere if you breathe too loudly."

"Believe me," he says, leaning casually against a pillar, "I have no desire to ruin whatever grand intellectual pursuits you’re pretending to have." Ignoring him, you approach the nearest shelf, your fingers grazing the spines of the books as you scan the titles. But after a moment, your curiosity gets the better of you. "Speaking of pursuits," you say, casting a glance over your shoulder, "why is it that no one here seems to talk about magic?"

Heeseung’s posture stiffens slightly, the smirk fading from his face. "Why do you care?" It was an odd reaction, one you were watching closely. Why did everyone seem to tense up when magic is talked about? Isn't Aethera filled with endless amounts of magic and creatures unhuman. This was not something that was taboo, it should be normal. "Because it’s fascinating," you say, turning to face him fully. "Magic is power, creation, mystery... Why wouldn’t I care?" You knew everything about magic, how much of magic did Heeseung really understand? It was obvious he did not possess any magical abilities and unless he could shapeshift into a man it didn't seem he was a magical being at that.

"It’s dangerous," he replies curtly. "That’s why." The answer was short and it annoyed you. Who was he to tell you? You had to remind yourself that he didn't know who and what you really were. "Everything is dangerous," you counter. "Swords, fire, ambition. That doesn’t mean we ignore it. I’d think someone like you would understand that."

"Someone like me?" he echoes, his eyes narrowing. "You’re a soldier, aren’t you? A protector. Surely you see the value in power," you press, taking a step closer. "Unless, of course, you’re afraid of it."

Heeseung’s jaw tightens, but he doesn’t take the bait. Instead, he crosses his arms, his tone clipped. "Magic has its place. But you seem a little too interested in it."

"Why shouldn’t I be? Don’t you ever wonder about it?" you ask, watching him carefully. "Or are you just another guard who sees the world in black and white?" He doesn’t answer immediately, and the silence stretches between you. Finally, he sighs, his gaze hardening. "I don’t have magic, if that’s what you’re asking."

The admission doesn't surprise you, causing a laugh to bubble up inside of you "None at all? That’s... unfortunate." The corners of his mouth twitch downward, and his eyes darken. "What’s that supposed to mean?" You decided to tease him, to rile him up a bit.

"It means," you say with a shrug, "I would’ve thought someone with your... demeanor might have at least a little magic. Even the tiniest spark."

"Not everyone needs magic to survive," he says sharply, his voice lowering. "Some of us rely on skill and discipline. But I guess you wouldn’t understand that."

"Skill and discipline?" you echo, unable to resist pushing further. "Is that what you tell yourself while others wield power you can’t touch?" As far as he knew, you didn't possess a magical ability but still teasing him was the highlight of this dreadful day. His glare is sharp enough to cut, and he takes a step forward, closing the distance between you. "I don’t need magic to be stronger than most people you’ll ever meet. And I don’t need it to see through people like you."

"People like me?" you ask, tilting your head. You were appalled at his blatant candor. It was almost insulting. "You hide behind clever words and fake smiles, pretending you’re better than everyone else," he says, his tone as biting as his stare. "But you’re just as flawed as the rest of us—if not more."

His words hit harder than you expect, and for a moment, you falter. But then you square your shoulders, lifting your chin. "At least I’m not afraid to reach for power when I see it. Unlike you." Heeseung exhales sharply, his frustration visible in the tight set of his jaw. "You think you know everything, don’t you? But let me tell you something, Princess—power without control is just chaos waiting to happen."

"And control without power is just cowardice," you shoot back. Your blood boiling, heat soaring through your veins, heating your cheeks. The air between you crackles with tension, neither of you willing to back down. Finally, Heeseung turns away, his voice quieter but no less firm. "You don’t know what you’re talking about."

"Maybe I don’t," you say, retreating to the shelf you were examining. "But I know enough to see that you’re scared of something you can’t admit." He doesn’t respond, and when you glance over your shoulder, you catch the faintest flicker of something in his expression—resentment, maybe, or something deeper. It vanishes just as quickly, replaced by his usual stoic mask. You pull a heavy tome from the shelf, the weight of it grounding you as you carry it to a nearby table. As you settle into the chair and open the book, you steal another glance at Heeseung. He’s still by the pillar, arms crossed, his gaze fixed on a distant point in the room. For once, the thought of irritating him doesn’t bring you any satisfaction. Instead, his words linger in your mind, echoing louder than the scratch of your pen against the paper as you take notes. You tell yourself it doesn’t matter. You’re here for a purpose, and nothing—not even an infuriating guard—will distract you from it.

The sound of boots against marble echoes faintly as Heeseung strides through the castle halls toward the king’s private chamber. He moves with purpose, his posture straight and disciplined, but his mind is far from focused. The conversation with the princess in the library still lingers, her biting words replaying in his head like a song he can’t escape. "Power without control is just chaos," he mutters under his breath, as if reaffirming the truth to himself. He shakes his head, forcing the distraction aside. There are more pressing matters to deal with.

The guards stationed outside the chamber bow their heads as he approaches, stepping aside to allow him entry. Heeseung pushes open the heavy wooden door, the warmth of the king’s study enveloping him. The room is richly appointed, filled with books, maps, and the faint scent of parchment. The king sits behind a wide desk, his imposing frame leaning over a document, but he looks up as Heeseung enters. “Heeseung.” the king greets, gesturing for him to approach. "What news do you bring?" Heeseung crosses the room, bowing slightly before standing at attention. "Your Majesty, the witches have remained quiet for now. The council is still fractured after what happened with Esme. Most of them are cautious, unwilling to draw attention."

The king leans back in his chair, his sharp eyes narrowing. "And the daughter?" Heeseung hesitates for a fraction of a second, his expression tightening. "She went missing not too long ago. No one knows where she is or what she looks like. The coven has done an exceptional job of erasing her trail. We’ve searched the surrounding areas, sent informants to neighboring regions, but nothing has turned up."

The king’s lips press into a thin line, and he drums his fingers against the armrest. "That girl is a threat. Her bloodline alone makes her dangerous. If she’s anything like her mother, she’ll be biding her time, waiting to strike when we least expect it."

"I understand, Your Majesty," Heeseung says, his voice steady. "I’ve increased surveillance on the coven. If they make a move, we’ll know about it immediately." The king rises from his chair, pacing slowly across the room. His hands clasp behind his back, his expression thoughtful. "Good. But I want you to remain vigilant, Heeseung. The witches are not as divided as they may seem. Their hatred for this crown runs deep, and I will not let another insurgent rise under my watch."

Heeseung nods, his fingers twitching slightly at his side. "Understood, Your Majesty. I’ll continue monitoring them closely." The king stops in front of a display case, its glass gleaming under the warm light of the room. Inside rests a single weapon—a dagger with an obsidian blade that seems to absorb the light around it. The hilt is engraved with ancient runes, and the very air near it feels charged with power. "You haven’t had to use it yet, have you?" the king asks, his voice carrying a hint of curiosity as he nods toward the blade.

"No, Your Majesty," Heeseung replies, his gaze briefly flickering to the weapon before returning to the king. "Not yet." The king exhales, his expression hardening. "Good. Let’s hope it stays that way. But if the girl—or any other witch—dares to challenge us, I expect you to use it without hesitation. That blade is our safeguard against their kind. It’s the only thing that can cut through their spells and end them before they wreak havoc."

Heeseung’s hand unconsciously brushes against the hilt of his sword, though he feels the weight of the king’s words more than his weapon. "You have my word, Your Majesty. I won’t let them get close."

"See that you don’t," the king says, turning to face him fully. His gaze is sharp, his tone commanding. "The witches are not to be underestimated, Heeseung. Their magic is insidious, and they’ve infiltrated kingdoms before. We don’t even know how many of them might be near us, hiding in plain sight. Keep your eyes open—and your blade ready."

Heeseung inclines his head. "Of course, Your Majesty." The king studies him for a moment longer before nodding in dismissal. "Go. Report back to me if there’s any sign of activity from the coven." Heeseung bows deeply before turning on his heel and exiting the chamber. The weight of the conversation settles over him like a shroud, the king’s words ringing in his ears. As he makes his way back through the castle, his thoughts drift to the princess. Her sharp tongue, her probing questions about magic... and the way her eyes seemed to burn with a defiance he couldn’t place. He shakes his head, pushing the thought away. She was a complication he didn’t need right now. The witches were still out there, somewhere, and one of them could be closer than anyone realized. Heeseung tightens his grip on the hilt of his sword, his jaw set. He couldn’t afford to lose focus—not now, not ever.

The morning sun spills golden light across the castle grounds as you stand by the grand entrance, waiting for your reluctant escort. The crisp air carries the distant hum of the city waking beyond the castle walls—the sound of merchants setting up stalls, the laughter of children, the scent of fresh bread drifting from the bakeries. You can almost taste the freedom of the outside world. Almost. But, of course, you aren’t truly free. A sigh escapes your lips as you hear the familiar sound of armored boots approaching. Heeseung stops beside you, arms crossed, looking as thrilled about this excursion as he has about every other time he’s been assigned to you. His expression is one of pure exasperation, like he’d rather be facing a horde of assassins than babysitting a foreign princess in the city streets. "Let’s get this over with," he mutters, adjusting the sword strapped to his hip. "Where exactly do you need to go?"

You tilt your head, feigning innocence. "I heard there’s a traveling carnival near the market today. I’d like to see it." His brow furrows. "A carnival?" He looks you up and down, as if trying to decide whether or not you’re serious. "You mean to tell me you want to waste time with games and fortune tellers?"

"You say ‘waste time,’ I say ‘cultural experience,’" you counter, offering a saccharine smile. "It would be a shame to visit Athera and not witness such a grand attraction." Heeseung sighs through his nose, clearly debating whether or not to argue. "Fine," he grumbles after a long pause. "But don’t wander off." You hum in agreement, already planning exactly how you’ll do just that. The carnival is a whirlwind of color and sound. Performers juggle flaming torches, musicians play lively tunes, and vendors shout over the crowd, boasting their wares. Children run past, their hands sticky with honeyed treats, and silk-clad fortune tellers beckon visitors into their tents. It’s an assault on the senses—but more importantly, it’s a perfect place to disappear.

"Stay close," Heeseung warns, scanning the crowd with practiced vigilance. You pretend to admire a display of glass trinkets, then gasp as if something catches your eye in the distance. "Oh! A mirror maze!" You turn to him, feigning excitement. "Let’s go in!"

Heeseung groans. "You’ve got to be kidding me."

"Oh, come now," you say, grabbing his wrist before he can protest. "Surely a fearless captain of the guard isn’t afraid of a few reflections?" His jaw tightens. "I’m not afraid of anything."

"Then prove it," you challenge, pulling him toward the entrance. His grumble is lost beneath the laughter of passing carnival-goers as you drag him inside. The moment you step into the maze, you’re surrounded by endless versions of yourself, your reflections stretching infinitely in every direction. The air is thick with the scent of candle wax and aged wood, and the flickering lanterns overhead cast eerie shadows along the mirrored paths. You take a slow step forward, the sound of your boots muffled against the carpeted floor. The maze is designed to disorient, to make one question what’s real and what’s merely a reflection. Even the flicker of candlelight bends strangely, making it hard to tell if the passage ahead is truly open or just another illusion.

Heeseung exhales sharply behind you. "This is ridiculous," he mutters, glancing around warily. His reflection appears hundreds of times over, each version of him scowling in frustration. You can’t help but smirk. "What’s the matter, Captain? Losing your sense of direction?"

He glares at you through the glass. "No. But I know a trap when I see one." You press a hand against one of the mirrors, watching as the pressure sends a ripple through the illusion. "And yet, you walked right in with me," you tease, stepping forward with confidence. "That means either you trust me or you’re a fool." Heeseung doesn’t reply, but his silence is answer enough. The two of you move deeper into the labyrinth, the paths twisting in unpredictable patterns. At one point, you think you see the exit, only to step forward and bump into cold glass. Another time, Heeseung’s reflection appears beside you, making you jolt—only to realize he’s actually several feet away. The maze is playing tricks, forcing both of you to second-guess every turn.

But unlike Heeseung, you know exactly what you’re doing. You let your fingers graze the mirrors as you walk, feeling for subtle shifts in temperature and texture. It’s a trick your mother taught you long ago—how to sense when an illusion is stronger, when the air bends just slightly differently. Your way out is clear. You just need to make sure Heeseung doesn’t follow. "Stay close," he orders, his voice firm. You smile to yourself. "Of course." Your voice like silk as you mutter the words.

You take a sharp turn, slipping through a narrow passage where the reflections fold over themselves like endless corridors. You move faster now, ducking under one of the low archways of glass, letting the maze do its work. Heeseung hesitates behind you, briefly lost in the overlapping images. Then, you act. You dart into one of the mirrored alcoves, pressing yourself against the cold surface. The way the mirrors are angled makes it seem as though the passage continues straight, even though you’re standing just off to the side. Heeseung rushes past you, too focused on keeping up to notice that you’ve stopped.

A few seconds pass. Then, his footsteps fade. You let out a slow breath, stepping out of your hiding place. The reflections shift again, swallowing Heeseung deeper into the maze while you double back toward the hidden exit. By the time he realizes he’s been tricked, you’ll already be gone.

You slip through the narrow streets of the market, weaving between clusters of merchants and townsfolk, the scents of roasted nuts, spiced cider, and fresh bread thick in the air. The colorful banners overhead sway lazily in the breeze, casting shifting shadows over the cobblestone path. But your focus remains sharp. You know exactly where you’re going. Behind you, Heeseung is pushing through the crowd, his irritation palpable. He hasn't realized yet that you lost him in the mirror maze on purpose, only that you’re suddenly too far ahead for his liking.

You pick up your pace, slipping into a cramped side alley where a wooden sign hangs above a darkened shop. The paint is faded, but the symbol etched into the wood is unmistakable—an open palm with an eye in the center. The sign of an apothecary. You step inside, and immediately, the scent of dried herbs and aged parchment wraps around you like a cloak. The shop is dimly lit, with shelves stacked high with jars of powders, roots, and liquids. Small bundles of lavender, sage, and bloodroot hang from the ceiling, their fragrance mingling with the faintly acrid smell of something more potent.

A hunched old woman stands behind the counter, her fingers gnarled like tree roots as she grinds something into a fine powder with a mortar and pestle. She doesn’t look up as you approach. "You're late," she rasps.

You hesitate for only a fraction of a second. "Am I?"

Her milky white eyes flick up to meet yours. "No. But I like to keep customers uneasy. It keeps them from wasting my time." You smirk despite yourself. "Then I won’t waste yours."

You lower your voice, leaning in slightly. "I need something strong. A poison. One that can kill quietly, without immediate suspicion." The old woman tilts her head, her sharp gaze scrutinizing you. Then, with slow deliberation, she sets down her pestle and shuffles to a shelf behind her, running her fingers over rows of tiny glass vials. "Death comes in many forms," she murmurs. "Painful or painless. Swift or slow. Do you wish them to suffer?"

“Yes.” You answered honestly. “I want it to hurt.” The words leave your lips like a blade unsheathed, sharp and final. The old woman pauses, then turns slightly, considering her selection. "Painful, then. I have something fitting." She plucks a dark glass bottle from the shelf, turning it in her hands before setting it on the counter between you. "Widow’s Thorn. It seeps through the body like fire, tightening the lungs, sending agony through every nerve. A slow, excruciating death. He will beg for it to end before it takes him."

A cold smile tugs at the corners of your lips. "Perfect." The woman watches you for a long moment. "You carry great hatred in your heart, girl." Her tone was not that of judgment but of curiosity, and i bit of understanding. You meet her gaze evenly. "And he carries greater sins."

She hums in approval before placing her gnarled hand over the vial. "It is not cheap," she warns. "Nor is it a toy." You slide a coin pouch from your sleeve, setting it on the counter with a soft clink. "I understand." The woman studies you for another long moment before removing her hand. You pick up the vial, feeling the cool glass between your fingers.

"You’re no ordinary noble," she muses. "Your eyes are too sharp. Your hands too steady." You meet her gaze evenly. "And you ask too many questions." You hiss, your jaw tense. The old woman chuckles, a dry, rasping sound. "Perhaps. But take care, girl. Poison is a cruel death, and cruelty has a way of staining the soul." You slip the vial into the folds of your cloak, nodding once before turning toward the door.

As you weave your way back through the winding streets, the hum of the carnival grows louder, the scent of roasted nuts and melted sugar filling the air. Lanterns sway overhead, casting flickering patterns along the cobblestone paths. You slip effortlessly into the crowd, blending among the laughter and shouts of eager festival-goers. Just as you step past a fire-breather’s act, a strong hand clamps around your wrist. You spin, already knowing who it is.

Heeseung glares down at you, his jaw clenched tight, his dark eyes burning with irritation. “Where were you?” You tilt your head, feigning innocence. “I was right where you left me.”

His grip tightens slightly, not enough to hurt, but enough to make his frustration clear. “Don’t play games with me,” he hisses. “You disappeared.” You pull your wrist free, dusting off your sleeve as if his mere touch sullied it. “Maybe you were the one who got lost.”

His brows furrow, the muscle in his jaw ticking. “I wasn’t the one who suddenly vanished into thin air.”

You smirk. “Then maybe you should be better at your job, Captain.” Sending him a mocking nod just to further piss him off. Heeseung exhales sharply, stepping in closer, lowering his voice so only you can hear. “Do you think I don’t know what you’re doing?”

Your smirk doesn’t falter, but inside, a flicker of unease coils in your stomach. “And what exactly am I doing?” He studies you, his gaze raking over every inch of your face like he’s trying to decipher some hidden code. Then, he shakes his head. “I don’t know yet,” he admits, voice low and firm. “But I will.” You hold his stare, refusing to be the first to look away.

Then, with a casual shrug, you turn on your heel, striding toward the heart of the carnival. “Try not to lose me again, Captain,” you call over your shoulder. His sigh of frustration is lost beneath the clamor of the crowd, but you don’t need to hear it. You know he’s fuming. And you relish it.

The vial of poison sits heavy in your pocket, the glass cool against your fingertips as you walk through the dim corridors of the castle. The evening hums with quiet activity—servants moving about with trays of food, guards standing at their posts, the murmur of distant conversations blending into the ambiance of wealth and order. You keep your pace measured, controlled, your heart steady even as anticipation thrums through your veins. The kitchens are alive with motion, filled with the mouthwatering aroma of roasted meats and warm bread. Flames crackle in the hearth, casting flickering light over the bustling staff. No one notices you lingering near the long oak table where steaming pots of stew are being ladled into bowls for the servants' evening meal. No one sees the small flick of your wrist as you pull the vial from your sleeve, tilting just enough for a single drop of the deadly liquid to disappear into the bubbling broth. it dissolves instantly, colorless and scentless. Perfect. Satisfied, you slip away, vanishing into the corridors before anyone can notice your presence.

Dinner in the grand hall is an affair of indulgence and formality. The king sits at the head of the table, the queen beside him, both of them poised in their regal authority. The table stretches long, lined with glistening silver and crystalline goblets brimming with wine. Candles flicker against the polished surface, casting an intimate glow over the lavish setting. You are seated further down, close enough to play the role of the polite, eager-to-learn princess, but not too close to draw unwanted attention. Heeseung stands by the wall, arms crossed, his sharp gaze sweeping the room. You can feel him watching you, though you do not meet his eyes. Your hands rest lightly in your lap, your fingers curling against the fabric of your gown as you wait. And then it happens. The sound of hurried footsteps. A muffled cry from the hallway.

The heavy doors burst open, slamming against the stone walls. A maid stumbles in, her face ashen, her apron twisted in her trembling fingers. Her breath comes in sharp, panicked gasps. “Your Majesty!” she cries, eyes wild. “A-a servant—he collapsed! He’s dead!” The room stills. The queen sets down her goblet with quiet precision. The king barely moves, his gaze turning toward the distraught woman as if she were little more than a nuisance.

“What did you say?” His voice is calm, almost lazy, but there is an undercurrent of something else—something cold, something dangerous. The maid’s throat bobs as she swallows. “T-they say… it was poison, Your Majesty.”

You suck in a breath, widening your eyes just enough to sell the performance. A low murmur rises among the nobles at the table, whispers of concern and speculation threading through the air. “Poison?” you echo, your voice trembling ever so slightly. You place a delicate hand over your chest, as if the very notion disturbs you. The king exhales slowly, setting his goblet down with deliberate grace. He does not look surprised. He does not even look angry. He looks bored.

He lifts his fingers, and the nearest guard steps forward. “Bring me the chef.” The murmurs grow louder as the order is carried out. The tension in the room tightens, a string pulled taut, ready to snap. Servants shift uncomfortably, the flickering candlelight making their faces look gaunt and uneasy. You sit perfectly still, your posture straight, your expression frozen in careful distress. Minutes stretch long before the doors open again, and the head chef is dragged into the room, his face pale with sweat. His apron is still dusted with flour, his hands trembling as he is forced onto his knees before the king. The silence is suffocating.

The chef’s lips tremble. “Your Majesty,” he gasps, bowing his head so low his forehead nearly touches the marble floor. “I swear upon my life, I would never—” The king tilts his head, studying the man as one would study a fly that has landed in their wine. “Do not lie to me.” His voice is quiet, but the weight of it crushes the air from the room. “A man is dead. Someone is responsible.”

The chef shakes his head violently. “It wasn’t me! I have worked in this kitchen for years! I would never—” The king lifts a hand, a simple flick of his wrist. The command is unspoken, but the nearest guard knows what it means. Steel flashes in the candlelight. A single stroke. A sickening, wet sound. The chef’s head hits the polished marble floor with a dull thud. Blood pools in thick, slow streams, spreading out like ink on parchment. A servant gasps. One of the nobles flinches. But no one speaks. You inhale sharply, letting your fingers tremble as you press them to your lips, your eyes wide with horror. Inside, your heart races—not with fear, but with something else. Power.

The king sighs, as if exhausted by the whole ordeal. He picks up his goblet and takes a long, unbothered sip of his wine before turning his attention back to the table. “My apologies for the disturbance,” he says smoothly. “Shall we continue?” And just like that, the feast resumes. Conversation stirs back to life, noble voices rising once more, the clinking of silverware against porcelain filling the void left by the dying man’s last breath. You lower your gaze, the picture of a shaken princess, but inside, your mind is alight with possibility. The poison worked. Now, all that’s left is to decide when the king will drink his own dose. And when he does, you will make sure his suffering is slow. Painful. Unforgettable.

The morning light filters softly through the high windows of your chambers, casting delicate golden patterns across the marble floor. The events of last night linger in your mind like the ghost of a dream, the image of the chef’s head hitting the cold stone floor replaying itself over and over. The king’s lack of hesitation, the way the entire room returned to feasting as though nothing had happened—it only fuels the fire within you. Today, you will continue your plan. After dressing, you step into the hallway where, as expected, Heeseung is not waiting for you.

Instead, another guard stands in his place—a man taller, broader, but lacking the quiet sharpness that Heeseung always carried like a second skin. His armor gleams, freshly polished, his stance stiff and professional. You slow your steps, letting irritation seep into your voice. "Where is Heeseung?" you ask, folding your arms as you tilt your chin up slightly.

The guard, clearly not accustomed to being questioned, hesitates for a moment before responding, "Captain Heeseung is taking a personal day, Your Highness." Your brows lift in surprise. "A personal day?" The words feel foreign in relation to Heeseung. He never struck you as the type to take time for himself, not when he carried that ever-present scowl and duty as if they were armor.

The guard shifts slightly, looking uncomfortable under your scrutiny. "Yes, Your Highness. He did not say when he would return, only that he would be back when needed." You study the man, noting the slight tension in his stance, the way his hand stays a little too close to the hilt of his sword. You’re not the only one unsettled by Heeseung’s absence. “Interesting,” you muse, keeping your voice light, as if this information does not bother you. But it does. Something is off. Heeseung doesn’t just disappear. He doesn't get days off. And though you should welcome the reprieve from his constant watchful presence, you find yourself… unsettled. Not because you miss his company—certainly not—but because Heeseung’s absence means unpredictability. And unpredictability is dangerous.

For now, you will play along. You give the guard a measured look before sighing dramatically. “Well, I suppose that means you will have to endure escorting me today.”

The man straightens. “It would be my honor, Your Highness.” Annoyingly polite. You roll your eyes. “How unfortunate for you.” And with that, you turn on your heel, already planning your next move. Wherever Heeseung is, you will find out soon enough.

You had to get away from this guard. He was dumb, unmoving. He didn’t speak and barely moved. You could outsmart him, escape. There’s no time to waste. “I’m going to the washroom” You spoke quickly, not giving him much time to respond. “Wait-” The guard said, hand stretched out.

“Would you really stop a lady who’s in her bleeding from using the bathroom guard?” You had made uncomfortable with your talk of women's duties. He bowed his head, eyes not meeting your own. Coward. Pathetic coward. What kind of man gets squeamish at the thought of blood? The guards stationed outside the hall barely acknowledge you as you sweep past them, your head held high, posture regal. The trick to sneaking around isn’t to skulk in the shadows—it’s to make people believe you belong wherever you are. And right now, you belong anywhere you damn well please. The deeper you go into the castle, the more the corridors narrow, the lavish decorations thinning out as you approach restricted areas. You slow your steps, eyes scanning for anything useful—an unguarded door, an overlooked passageway, something that will lead you closer to the king’s private quarters.

You turn a corner and pause. Through an open archway, the scent of steel and sweat lingers in the air. The sound of a blade slicing through air, followed by the heavy thunk of metal embedding into wood, echoes through the hall. You step closer, careful to keep yourself hidden behind a pillar, and peer inside. There he is. Heeseung stands in the center of the training room, sleeves rolled up, his tunic damp with sweat. His usual pristine appearance is gone—his hair tousled, his expression hard with focus. But it’s his hands that capture your attention. A dagger twirls effortlessly between his fingers, moving so fluidly it’s as if it’s an extension of his own body. He flicks his wrist, and the blade slices through the air before burying itself into the target at the far end of the room.

Bullseye.

Without hesitation, he pulls another dagger from his belt. Spins it. Throws. Another perfect hit. Again. And again. Each throw is precise, calculated, deadly. You watch in silence, captivated despite yourself. You’ve seen skilled fighters before—your own mother had trained you in combat, in magic—but Heeseung moves with an effortless grace that is as infuriating as it is impressive. You wonder if he even realizes how dangerous he looks right now. Then, as if sensing your gaze, Heeseung stills. Your breath catches. For a split second, you think he’s caught you. But he only exhales, rolling out his shoulders before retrieving his knives from the wooden targets. The tension in your body eases slightly, though your mind remains alert. You shouldn’t be here. You should be searching for the king’s quarters, not watching the irritating captain of the guard train like some entranced fool. The rhythmic thunk of steel embedding into wood echoes through the training yard. Heeseung moves with effortless precision, each throw of his blade landing dead center on the target. His stance is steady, his expression unreadable, but there’s a sharpness in his eyes—a quiet intensity that speaks of years of discipline.

You watch from the shadows, hidden behind one of the stone pillars framing the open-air training ground. He doesn’t notice you at first, too focused on the fluidity of his movements, the weight of the blade in his grip. But after a few minutes, his motions slow. His shoulders tense ever so slightly. Then, as if some unseen force pulls his gaze, he turns. His eyes lock onto you, narrowing the moment he registers your presence. For a flicker of a second, surprise flashes across his face, but it’s quickly replaced by something sharper—anger.

“Why are you alone?” he demands, striding toward you. “Where’s your guard?” You shrug, feigning nonchalance. “Somewhere, I suppose.” Heesseung looks angry; you wouldn't tell if the redness was from his prior workout or anger. His jaw tenses. “And he just let you wander off?”

You offer him a lazy smile, tilting your head. “I suppose he did.” Heeseung exhales sharply, running a hand through his hair before shaking his head. “Unbelievable.” His voice is low with frustration as he moves to usher you back inside. “Come on, let’s go. You shouldn’t be out here.” But you don’t budge. “No.”

His steps falter, his brows knitting together. “No?” You cross your arms. “I want to spar.”

He scoffs. “Absolutely not.”

“I insist.”

“I don’t care.”

You tilt your head, eyes gleaming with something he can’t quite place. “Afraid I might win?”

His expression darkens. “Afraid I’ll break you.”

You step closer, raising your chin defiantly. “Try.” For a moment, he says nothing. There’s a war in his gaze, hesitation battling irritation, but something about your confidence—your audacity—chips away at his resistance. Finally, with a heavy sigh, he relents. “Fine,” he mutters, rolling his shoulders. “A few rounds. That’s it.”

The sparring circle is a wide-open space in the center of the training grounds, enclosed by a low fence. Heeseung steps in first, rolling his sleeves up as he retrieves two training daggers. He tosses one to you without warning, but you catch it easily, twirling it once in your grip. He eyes the movement with quiet appraisal before stepping into position. “Try to keep up,” he says.

You smirk. “Likewise.” Then he moves. He’s fast, striking without hesitation. You barely dodge his first attack, sidestepping at the last second before blocking his next strike with your blade. The clash of steel rings through the air. Heeseung doesn’t let up, forcing you backward, testing your reflexes. You knew he was skilled, but this—this is something else. Every move is calculated, precise. He’s relentless, but so are you. You don’t fight like a princess. You fight like a survivor. And soon, Heeseung realizes that. The match intensifies. You anticipate his strikes, dodging just enough to throw him off balance, forcing him to adjust. He sees it now—the sharp intelligence behind your movements, the way you don’t just react, but plan. And then, just as he thinks he has you cornered—you outmaneuver him.

With a sharp pivot, you twist out of his reach, knocking his blade off course. Before he can recover, you close the distance, pressing your dagger against his throat. Heeseung stills. The only sound is your heavy breathing, the pounding of your heart, the weight of the moment hanging between you. His dark eyes search yours, something unreadable flickering in them. Then, his voice—low, measured. “Who are you?” You tilt your head, pressing the blade just a little closer, enough to make a point. Then, voice soft, you ask,

“I don’t know. Who are you? Do you ever truly know who you really are?” The question lingers between you like smoke, curling into the air. His breath is shallow, his gaze locked onto yours, and for a moment—just a fleeting moment—you both forget yourselves. Your faces are close. Too close. The sharpness of the fight melts into something else, something neither of you acknowledge but feel all the same. His eyes flicker to your lips. Your grip on the dagger tightens. But before anything can happen, before the tension snaps—you pull away. Slowly, deliberately, you lower the blade, stepping back just enough to let the moment pass. Heeseung exhales, something unreadable in his expression. You smirk, tossing the blade back to him. “Good match.” Then, without waiting for a response, you turn on your heel and walk away, leaving him standing in the circle, breathless and utterly at a loss for words.

That night, the castle feels different. A hush has settled over its grand halls, a silence deeper than usual, as if the walls themselves are holding their breath. A storm churns in the distance, flashes of lightning illuminating the arched windows, followed by the low rumble of thunder rolling across the land. The wind rattles against the stone, whispering through the cracks, but inside, everything remains still. It is the perfect night to disappear. Hushed whispers of a ball being thrown had been thrown about the castle like a plague. Every staff member was occupied with making it as grand as possible for the king and queen, no one would even notice you moving throughout the castle like a wraith in the night. You move like a shadow through the corridors, your cloak wrapped tightly around you, masking the movement of your form. The guards are stationed at their usual posts, their movements predictable, their patterns unchanged. You’ve studied them, memorized them, and now you slip past with ease, ducking into alcoves and timing your steps to the rhythm of their shifting patrols.

The grand halls of the upper castle give way to narrower passageways as you descend, leaving behind the golden glow of chandeliers for the dim flicker of torches. You pass cold stone walls lined with forgotten paintings, their gilded frames dulled with dust, their subjects long since faded into irrelevance. Down here, the air is thick with something ancient, something heavy that clings to your skin and settles in your lungs. You need to go deeper. You recall the books you pored over in the library, the pages that spoke of the castle’s underbelly—of vaults hidden beneath layers of stone, of corridors long abandoned by those who walk in the daylight. The king is a collector, a hoarder of power. His vaults hold relics of immense magical strength—artifacts stolen, bought, or seized by force. Somewhere in this castle, he has hidden them away, locked behind spells and steel, guarded by something more fearsome than any soldier. The thought of it quickens your pulse. A kitsune.

The old texts mention it only in passing, never in detail. A fox spirit of great power, bound to the king by means unknown. A guardian of his most prized possessions, watching over them with an unwavering gaze. The mere idea of it is enough to make most people turn away, abandon their curiosity. But you are not most people. Your fingers brush against the cool stone wall as you tread carefully down a spiraling stairway, your ears straining for any sound beyond your own heartbeat. The deeper you go, the more the castle shifts. The polished grandeur of the upper levels fades, replaced by something older, something untouched by time’s gentle hand. Here, the walls are raw, uneven, carved by those who built the kingdom’s foundations centuries ago. The torches burn lower, their light flickering against carvings worn down with age. Whispers of history cling to the very air, as if this place remembers all that has passed within its depths.

Then, a feeling washes over you—like a change in pressure, like stepping into the eye of a storm. Magic. It hums in the air, subtle yet undeniable. The taste of it lingers on your tongue, thick and electric, coiling through the corridor like an unseen force. You are close. Your breath is steady as you move forward, every step measured, every sense heightened. You know better than to rush. Whatever lies ahead is more than mere locked doors and guards with steel. This place breathes magic. And somewhere in the depths of this castle, hidden behind layers of spellwork and shadow, the kitsune waits. You continue in the shadows until you come upon a door. The heavy door looms before you, thick with iron reinforcements and etched with sigils of protection. It’s unmistakable—this is where the king hides his most treasured artifacts, his most dangerous secrets. But it’s not unguarded. Two men stand at either side, their hands resting lazily on the hilts of their swords. They’re not expecting trouble—why would they? No one should be foolish enough to wander this deep into the castle, let alone pose a real threat. That works in your favor.

You take a steadying breath, smoothing out the frantic beat of your heart before stepping forward, letting panic seep into your features, widening your eyes, letting your breath hitch as if you've been running for your life "Please!" Your voice is rushed, desperate. "I— I think I’m lost. I don’t know how I got down here, I was just trying to find my way back, and then—" You swallow, letting your hands tremble. "There were voices. I heard something. I got scared."

One of the guards furrows his brow. "How did you even get down here?" He eyes you warily, shifting his stance. "I— I don’t know," you stammer, stepping closer, your body language frantic. "I was exploring, and then I took a wrong turn, and then suddenly I was just… here." They exchange glances, their suspicion flickering into something softer—concern. You’ve played your part well. "You shouldn’t be here, Princess," the other guard says, his voice gruff but not unkind. "This area is off-limits. We’ll escort you back—"

Before he can finish, you move. A whisper of power curls from your lips, the incantation slipping through the air like a snake through grass. The first guard barely has time to react before his head jerks violently to the side, the sickening crack of bone snapping echoing through the stone corridor. His body crumples to the ground. The second guard recoils, horror flashing in his eyes. "Witch!" he bellows, drawing his sword and charging at you. You barely have the strength to lift your hand, but you don’t need much. Another whisper of your spell, and his charge is cut short—his neck twists sharply, and he collapses in a lifeless heap beside his comrade. Your breath comes ragged and uneven. Magic floods through your veins, but it takes from you as much as it gives. Your limbs are heavy, exhaustion pressing down on your shoulders like a weight. The price of your power. You don’t have time to dwell on it. Stepping over their bodies, you press a hand to the iron door. Magic thrums beneath your fingertips, woven through the metal itself. The king is cautious—he wouldn’t leave his treasures unprotected. But you are not just anyone.

Summoning what little energy you have left, you press your palm against the seal and begin to whisper another spell. The lock trembles. The air crackles. Then, with a final pulse of energy, the door groans and clicks open. You push forward, slipping inside, knowing your time is running out. The chamber hums with power, its air thick with ancient magic, the weight of centuries pressing down on you. The sconces along the walls flicker with eerie blue fire, casting shifting shadows over the stolen artifacts—daggers humming with curses, crowns still stained with dried blood, vials of glowing liquid that pulse as if alive. Your fingers skim over them, barely paying attention. None of it matters. None of it will help you kill the king.

Then you see it. A small glass case, set apart from the others. You step closer, your breath catching in your throat. Inside the case, a severed finger rests on a velvet cushion. For a moment, your mind refuses to understand. The skin has shriveled with time, the bone just barely visible beneath. But your eyes lock onto the ring—silver, inlaid with dark opal that shimmers with hues of deep purple and green. It was your mothers ring, your mothers finger. A sharp inhale stabs through your ribs. You know this ring better than anything. You remember tracing the intricate metal work as a child while curled up in her lap. You remember the way she twisted it absently when she was lost in thought, the way candlelight flickered against its surface as she cast spells in the dead of night. And now, it sits before you—severed, encased, displayed like a grotesque trophy. Your hands shake as you press your fingers against the glass, breath fogging up the surface. No. No, no, no. A cold, empty feeling spreads through your chest, then morphs—growing hotter, sharper. Your vision blurs, rage and grief mixing into something unbearable.

Your fist slams against the case. Nothing. Again, harder. The glass doesn’t even crack. "Open," you whisper, voice raw. "Open, damn you." The magic inside you stirs, a furious storm barely contained. You summon it, let it coil in your palm before slamming your magic against the case. Sparks crackle against the glass, but it remains untouched. Spell-locked. A sob of frustration bubbles up, but you swallow it down. Hot tears slip down your cheeks, your breathing ragged. They mutilated her. Desecrated her. Took her apart and locked away a piece of her like some sick prize. You grip the edges of the case, nails digging into the wood. The weight of loss, of helplessness, crushes down on you, threatens to drag you under. You want to destroy everything in this room, rip apart the shelves, burn this entire wretched castle to the ground. But you don’t have time. Not now. But soon. Your mother’s ring—her body—will not remain here. You will come back. You will tear this place apart if you have to. But first, the king must die.

Your shoulders heave as you force yourself to turn away, scanning the shelves with red-rimmed eyes. Then, something catches your attention. A slender vial, shimmering deep crimson in the dim light. You reach for it, your fingers brushing over the cold glass. The moment you pick it up, you feel the power inside—dense, ancient, raw. Dragon’s blood. A weapon unlike any other. Your grip tightens around the vial. The grief clawing at your chest hardens, sharp and unyielding. This will have to be enough. With one last glance at the case—the last piece of your mother left in this cursed place—you turn and slip out of the chamber, your pulse a war drum in your ears. You don’t look back. But you swear, with every shattered piece of your heart, that you will return.

The next morning, the castle is a different place. Tension clings to the air like a storm about to break. The usual murmur of servants and guards is replaced with sharp orders and hurried footsteps. Every corridor you pass seems to hold hushed voices, uneasy glances, hands gripping weapons a little too tightly. Something is wrong. When Heeseung arrives at your chambers, his expression is carved from stone. His dark eyes, usually filled with a mixture of irritation and exasperation when he looks at you, are unreadable. "Get up," he says shortly. "You're expected at breakfast."

You stretch your arms above your head lazily, feigning disinterest, but you study him closely. His jaw is tense, shoulders rigid beneath his uniform. "What’s with the fuss this morning?" you ask, tilting your head as you sit up. Heeseung doesn’t answer right away. He exhales through his nose, as if debating what to tell you. Finally, he settles on: "There was an intruder in the castle last night." Your stomach twists, but you keep your expression neutral. "An intruder?" you echo, feigning mild curiosity. His eyes flick over to you, sharp and assessing. "Two guards were killed. Their bodies were found near the lower levels of the castle."

You force yourself to frown as if this is just terrible news and shake your head. "How awful," you murmur. "Who would be foolish enough to break into the king’s home?" Heeseung is still watching you. Too closely. "They don’t know yet," he says after a moment, his tone carefully measured. "But the king is furious. He’s ordered every entrance locked down. No one enters or leaves without permission."

You hum, slipping out of bed. "Good thing I have no reason to leave, then." Heeseung scoffs, shaking his head as if he finds you exhausting. "Just get dressed," he mutters. "You're not skipping breakfast." As you move to change, your back turned to him, your mind races. They're already searching. They're already tightening security. If they realize why someone broke in—if they even suspect it was for the vault—you might not have as much time as you thought. You press your lips together. No. It doesn’t matter. The plan hasn’t changed. If anything, this only confirms what you already knew—this kingdom is built on blood and fear. You need to be careful, but you won’t stop.

As you fasten the last piece of your attire, you catch Heeseung watching you in the reflection of the mirror. He looks as if he wants to say something—his brow furrowed, his mouth pressing into a line—but he says nothing. You turn to him with a smirk, masking the unease curling inside you. "Lead the way, my dear guard," you say lightly. Heeseung rolls his eyes, but he doesn’t argue. You follow him out into the castle halls, stepping into a kingdom on edge.

You stand before the ornate mirror in your chambers, staring at your reflection. The grand dress draped over your body is a masterpiece—rich fabric embroidered with delicate golden threads, dark as midnight yet shimmering under the candlelight. You look every bit the part of a royal guest, a princess attending a grand ball. But beneath the surface, beneath the layers of silk and jewels, you are something else entirely. Tonight, you are a weapon. Your fingers tighten around the small vial hidden in your palm. The Dragon’s blood. The forbidden elixir, the essence of an ancient and untamed power. You uncork it carefully, the scent metallic and sharp, like the crackle of fire before it engulfs everything in its path. Slowly, you tilt the vial, letting a single drop roll onto your tongue. The effect is instant. A current of heat rushes through your veins, not burning, but igniting something deep within. Your magic, once a slow ember, roars to life, curling through you like smoke, like lightning trapped beneath your skin. Your fingertips tingle, your senses sharpen. You feel more. More alive, more powerful, more capable. The exhaustion from the night before—the drain of breaking into the king’s vault—fades into nothing.

You exhale, gripping the vanity table to steady yourself. You had been unsure, hesitant even, that you were strong enough. But now? Now, there is no doubt. Tonight, you will make your move. You turn back to the mirror, watching as your expression settles into something unreadable. Calculated. Regal. Deadly. The ballroom will be filled with nobles, lords, ladies, and dignitaries from far-off kingdoms. A perfect spectacle. A perfect place for a queen to fall, for a kingdom to be thrown into chaos. For a tyrant to meet his end. Straightening your posture, you give yourself one last look. This is it.

The ballroom is alive with opulence—golden chandeliers dripping with light, polished marble floors reflecting the grandeur of silk and velvet swirling across them. The music is intoxicating, the scent of perfumed nobles and honeyed wine thick in the air. Laughter rings out, conversations swirl around you, but you hear none of it. Your mind is elsewhere. Your pulse pounds like war drums beneath your skin. You move through the crowd with effortless grace, a smile painted onto your lips as if you belong here. As if you’re not plotting the death of a king. But Heeseung is there. As always. His presence is suffocating, shadowing your every step like a second skin. His dark eyes flicker over you, unreadable, his stance tense yet controlled. He doesn’t speak much, but his gaze tells you enough. I’m watching you. You raise your chin, offering him an easy smile before returning to the conversation at hand. A nobleman drones on about trade routes, his voice a low hum beneath the sound of the orchestra. You nod, feigning interest, but your thoughts are far from politics. You need a distraction. Your fingers twitch at your side, hidden beneath the folds of your gown. You reach for the magic simmering beneath your skin, feeling it coil and tighten, waiting to be used. Just enough to pull Heeseung away—to make him focus on something else. You cursed yourself for the tiny bit of shame you felt for using magic on Heeseung but you had to do it, you had no other choice.

You glance toward the great dais, where the king sits, adorned in his gilded robes, his expression that of a man who believes himself untouchable. Disgust coils in your stomach, but you keep your expression neutral. Soon, he will fall. You slip away from the conversation, weaving through the guests, searching for the right moment. The right opportunity. The plan was simple: a small, unseen pulse of magic. A subtle stroke of power, like a whisper through the wind, meant to strike the king down where he sits. Undetected. You reach deep, letting the dragon’s blood hum within you, amplifying the magic you summon. Your lips barely move as you utter the incantation beneath your breath, sending the spell toward the king, unseen and deadly. But something is wrong. The moment the spell leaves your fingertips, something repels it. A force stronger than your own—like an invisible wall caging him in. Your power slams into it, rebounding with such force that the air crackles, sending a ripple of energy through the room.

And then— The chandeliers flicker. The music halts. A gust of unseen force whips through the ballroom, unsettling gowns and ruffling hair. A gasp spreads through the crowd like wildfire, confusion crackling in the air. The king is unharmed. And your magic has failed. Panic seizes your chest. All around you, nobles murmur in confusion, their gazes darting about the room, trying to make sense of the disruption. Chaos brews. Guards immediately rush forward, swords drawn, shouts echoing against the gilded walls. The tension is thick, palpable, the scent of fear curling through the air. "Find the culprit!" someone yells. Your breathing is unsteady, your pulse racing. This wasn’t how it was supposed to go. And then A hand clamps down on your wrist, strong and unyielding. Heeseung. And before you can say another word he’s pulling you outside towards the grand doors of the ballroom amongst the chaos. The night air is crisp, wrapping around you in cool tendrils as Heeseung all but drags you out of the grand ballroom. His grip is firm but not bruising, a silent urgency radiating from him as he pulls you through winding hallways and out into the open garden. The moment your feet hit the damp stone path, the doors click shut behind you, muffling the panicked voices and frantic movements inside.

Moonlight washes over the garden, casting silvery shadows across the sculpted hedges and trickling fountains. The scent of night-blooming flowers clings to the air, but there’s no time to admire the beauty around you—not when Heeseung turns to you with that sharp, assessing gaze, his chest rising and falling just a little too fast. "Sit," he commands, his voice clipped and breathless. You scoff, arms crossing over your chest. "Excuse me?" Instead of answering, he steps closer, his eyes sweeping over you with meticulous precision. He looks frantic, almost wild, like a man searching for something just out of reach. His hands hover, unsure, before finally settling on your wrist, fingers pressing against your pulse as if to confirm that you are, in fact, still alive. "I'm fine," you snap, trying to pull away, but his grip tightens just enough to stop you.

"Stop," he murmurs, and this time, his voice is different. Lower. Almost pleading. Something in you hesitates. His hands move with surprising gentleness, brushing over your arms, ghosting across your shoulders, grazing your waist. Every touch is clinical, precise—searching for wounds, hidden injuries, anything that could explain the tension in his jaw, the way his brows remain furrowed even as he finds nothing. A strange warmth pools in your stomach. You shove it down. "You’re acting like you care," you say, the words sharper than you intend.

His jaw clenches, his fingers twitching before he pulls away like you've burned him. "Don’t flatter yourself," he mutters, raking a hand through his tousled hair. Your lips curl in amusement despite yourself. "Then stop acting like you were about to have a heart attack over me." His gaze flickers, something unreadable passing through his expression before it hardens. "You could have been hurt," he grits out, like admitting it leaves a bitter taste in his mouth. You blink. The sincerity in his voice catches you off guard. A beat of silence stretches between you, thick and charged.

Then, slowly, you step closer, tilting your head up at him. "Were you worried, Heeseung?" His throat bobs. His eyes flicker down to your lips—just for a second, barely noticeable—before snapping back up to meet yours. "I'm doing my job," he says, but the words sound hollow even to him. You hum, unconvinced. "Are you?" Silence. The space between you feels impossibly small. Heeseung is still close, his breath warm against your skin, his scent—something dark and woodsy, laced with steel—curling around you. Your pulse pounds in your ears, the remnants of adrenaline mixing with something else. Something more dangerous. For a fleeting moment, you wonder what would happen if you reached up, if you closed that final inch between you. If you tilted your chin just a little higher— no.

“Yes, doing my job.” He said again not meeting your piercing gaze. You scoff. "Your job? Is your job doting on me like I’m some fragile, innocent, doe-eyed princess?" You take another step toward him, closing the space he’s put between you. "Why are you so obsessed with making sure I’m okay?" Heeseung clenches his jaw, his eyes dark and unreadable. For a moment, you think he won’t answer. But then— "It’s my duty," he grits out. "As the king’s guard, it’s my responsibility to protect the people."

You roll your eyes. "The people. How noble of you." You cross your arms over your chest. "That doesn’t explain why you—the ever-dutiful Heeseung—seem to be more concerned about me than anyone else." He stares at you, his nostrils flaring slightly, tension coiling in the set of his shoulders. His lips press into a thin line like he’s fighting something, some war within himself. Then, finally, he exhales. And when he speaks, his voice is lower. Rougher. "Because I care about you." Your breath catches. His confession hangs between you, raw and unguarded. He looks almost regretful for saying it, as if the words left his mouth before he could stop them.

You swallow, heartbeat hammering. "You—"

"I care about you," he repeats, like he’s forcing himself to admit it, to say it out loud. His brows knit together, frustration laced in his voice. "And I hate that I do. But I can’t stand the thought of something happening to you." You should say something. You should throw some quip back at him, something sharp and taunting. But the way he’s looking at you now—dark eyes flickering with something intense, something dangerous—steals the words from your tongue. The air between you shifts. Neither of you move, but the gravity between you pulls tighter, like a thread stretched to its breaking point. You can feel the heat of his body, the restrained tension radiating from him like a caged storm. His gaze dips to your lips. You don’t think. You just act. You grab the front of his shirt and pull him down to you. His lips crash against yours, rough and unrelenting. It’s not soft. It’s not slow. It’s desperate. You hadn’t been touched for what seemed like forever, the feeling of a man's hands running up and down your body had felt foreign. You were not experienced but you weren't a virgin eachother. Action was hard to come by in the coven believe it or not. Heeseung makes a low sound in the back of his throat, something between frustration and need, as he presses you back against the stone wall. His hands are on you—gripping your waist, sliding up your arms, fingers pressing into your skin like he’s trying to ground himself, to remind himself that you’re real.

Your own hands tangle into his hair, pulling, needing him closer, needing more. He growls against your lips, his grip tightening on your hips as he pushes against you. The warmth of his body seeps into yours, and you swear you can feel his heartbeat pounding just as wildly as your own. The kiss deepens, turns hungrier, more fevered. You nip at his lower lip, and he exhales sharply, his fingers tightening on your waist. His control is slipping—you can feel it in the way his breathing turns ragged, the way his hands grip you like he’s afraid to let go. For a moment, the rest of the world ceases to exist. There is no ball, no king, no duty or vengeance. Just this. Just him. His hands grip your waist, fingers pressing into your hips as he backs you against the cold stonewall of the secluded garden. Your breath hitches as the contrast between the chill of the stone and the heat of his body sends a shiver down your spine. Heeseung feels it—his grip tightening, his fingers curling into you as if he wants to pull you closer, eliminating the space between you entirely. You don’t speak your tangle of tongues and teeth speaking for you.

You respond in kind, your hands sliding up his chest, over the rapid rise and fall of his breaths, until they find their way to his hair. You tug—harder this time, just to see what he’ll do. Heeseung groans against your lips, the sound reverberating through your bones, and in retaliation, he presses his body flush against yours. A gasp slips from you at the overwhelming sensation of him—his warmth, his strength, the way he fits against you so perfectly it almost feels inevitable. You’re drowning in him, lost in the way his lips move against yours—urgent, searching, like he’s trying to memorize the taste of you. The air between you crackles with something electric, something undeniable, something that neither of you can ignore anymore. His hands wander, sliding up your sides, over the delicate fabric of your gown. When his fingers skim the bare skin of your arm, you shudder. Heeseung notices. He pulls back just enough to look at you, his dark eyes flickering with something unreadable, something dangerously close to reverence. "You shouldn’t do that," you murmur, your voice breathless. "Do what?" he asks, his lips hovering just above yours, his breath warm against your skin. "Look at me like that." Heeseung exhales a quiet laugh, the sound tinged with something like frustration. "Then stop making it so damn hard."

Your heart stutters. And then his lips are on yours again, softer this time—lingering, savoring. His hands cradle your face like he’s afraid you’ll disappear, his thumbs brushing gentle strokes along your jaw. It’s different now—less rushed, less desperate, but no less intense. He pushes you up against the moss covered wall of the royal garden, his breathing slightly labored. “We should stop.” He pants out his breathing hitting your face, his lips hovering over yours.

“We should.” You nodded, “But I don't want to.” You muttered. You reattach your lips to his refusing to acknowledge the world around you, to ignore the fact that you very well could get caught in this garden with the captain of the king's guard lips attached to yours. You found it hard to care, not when his hands were roaming your body like he owned it. Like he wanted to eat you whole and you’d let him. You’d let him skin you alive, picking at you layer by layer until you laid bare in front of him. You didn't have the time for that. No matter how badly you wanted to take your time with him you simply couldn't. You had to be quick and you had a sharp feeling that wouldn't bother Heeseung much.

“I want you.” You hissed out. Your hands reach to cup his face. “Let me have you.” Heeseung’s face changed from shock to lust in such an instant you thought you might have imagined the change.

“This is wrong.” He shook his head, stepping back not even an inch. It looked like it pained him to move even the slightest. Like it would kill him to not be touching you. You felt the same. “Who cares.” Your voice was light, airy. It almost sounded desperate, a tone you had never heard from yourself. You didn't know whether to be embarrassed or not. Standing here begging a man to take you. You had never been so vulnerable before and it scared you. This wasn't what you were here for, you had one mission and that was to kill the king not fall in love. Your mouth and body seemed to have a mind of its own. You shook your head, stepping forward, your hand landing on Heeseung’s arm.

“It’s Okay.” You whispered. “Do you want me, Heeseung?” You asked, your voice stern as your eyes searched his.

“I-” He started out but you shook your head, asking him once again. “Do you want me?”

“Yes.” Heeseung said without much more hesitation. His lips were back on yours before you could utter another word. His tongue mingled with yours. It was exhilarating and mind numbing, a great escape away from everything that plagued your mind as of late. His hands pawed at your skirts, inching them up slower and slower. It was if he was hinting at it, like you both hadn’t just agreed to do this. Your hands reached for your skirts pulling them up hastily.

“Don’t beat around the bush.” You pant. “Fuck me.” Your words served as a catalyst for Heeseung’s growing lust. His hands worked on his belt and then his pants yanking them down just enough to free himself. Your chest heaved up and down feeling constrained in your very tight corset. “You’ll have to pull out. I cannot become with child Heeseung.”

Heeseung nodded his head but said nothing, almost as if he wanted to ignore the topic. You understood that completely. You didn’t want to stop and think of what the two of you were actually doing and what it would cost if you were caught, no that would be disastrous. It would ruin your entire plans and everything you had worked so hard for you. You shook the thoughts away, you didn't need to over complicate things now. Heeseung’s lips met your neck in a haste. His lips trailed down the column of your neck until it reached your collarbone and lower. His mouth attaching to your cleavage and hands cupping your breasts over your dress.

“Are you ready?” He asked you, his eyes meeting yours. You nodded at him. You needed him to do something, now. You watched only his face as you felt him lift your skirts a bit more for more access. His hands sliding over your bare thighs. His eyes flicked down only for a moment before you felt him at your entrance. The two of you were silent but the sound of your silence was loud enough. You didn’t need words, not when your need for each other spoke for you. You felt him slide into you with slow ease. His breath catching but his eyes never leaving yours.

“Oh god.” You muttered out. Your voice was wispy and almost airy but you couldn't help it, just the initial stretch of Heeseung had felt like a tiny piece of heaven that you hadn't known you needed until you got it. “Is this ok?” He asked as he made shallow thrusts into you with only his tip going in and out of you.

“Yes.” You hissed. “More.” Heeseung’s hips moved faster against yours. You tried your best at keeping your noises low in your throat. You didn't know if guards were wandering around the garden or not. Heeseung’s soft moans are the main source of noise between the two of you as he hurriedly rutted into you like a ravaged dog in heat. Your back bumping against the moss covered all over and over as Heeseung worked himself over you.

You looked up at Heeseung with doe-like eyes. Sweat dripped from his brow, his mouth slightly agape. “That feel good?” You asked him with a slight smirk. Heeseung’s eyes met your own with a bewildered look.

“So fucking good.” He grunted, slamming his lips against yours more rough than before. A squeak left your lips at the contact bracing your hand behind you on the wall. “Such a pretty pussy for a pretty little princess too.” His words caught you off guard, he was dirty talking to you. And it was so fucking hot.

“Yeah?” You asked breathily, running your hands over his clothed chest. “You like using my tight little princess pussy don’t you? Fucking me so good.” Heeseung groaned, groping at your ass over your dress. His thrust became less coordinated, more rushed.

“Fuck. Yes.” Heeseung grunted each snap of his lips bringing you that much closer to your end, heat bubbling in your core ready to explode. And explode it did, like a blinding light you reached your end convulsing around Heeseung’s cock like a starving whore. Your hand stuck to your mouth to cover the sounds that spilled from your lips. Heesung watched you intently, his eyes drinking in your haze of lust like he was under a spell and he didn't care. Soon Heeseung was pulling away in a haste causing a gasp to leave your lips. His hand moved up and down himself, a groan leaving his lips as he spilled his spend all over his hand, making a mess of himself.

Only silence hung in the air after as the both of you caught your breath. Heeseung washes his hands off in the fountain in the garden. Heeseung turns to you, his face flush, he reaches a hand out to you cupping your cheek gently, still no words fading between the two of you. Still, you’re silent, so silent you could hear a pin drop. You stared up at him watching as his eyes intently bounced around your face, probably taking what had just happened between the two of you. You could feel the shifted energy between the two of you. Things have changed, no matter how much you didnt want them to, they did. A distant noise from the castle—a door opening, the faint sound of voices—pierces through the haze, snapping you both back to reality. Heeseung tenses first. He pulls back slowly, his breathing heavy, his lips still parted as if he might say something. But he doesn’t. Instead, he releases you and just like that, the spell between you breaks. You stare at each other, caught in a silence thick with unspoken words. Then Heeseung swallows, straightens his posture, and takes a step back. "We should go inside," he says, his voice rough. You nod, though your body still hums with the memory of his touch. Neither of you say anything else as you make your way back toward the castle, but one thing is clear—whatever just happened between you, whatever this is…it’s far from over.

The war room is thick with tension, the air heavy with the weight of failure. Heeseung stands rigid before the king, his jaw clenched, hands behind his back in a position of forced composure. Across the long table, the king and queen sit side by side, their expressions carved from stone—one of fury, the other of calculation. "How," the king begins, his voice dangerously even, "was there an intruder in my castle, undetected, and yet none of you useless guards managed to catch them?" No one dares to answer. The other high-ranking guards are present, standing along the edges of the room, their heads slightly bowed in shame. The captain shifts uncomfortably beside Heeseung, but he too says nothing.

The king slams a fist onto the table. "A witch," he seethes. "We know it was a witch. What we don't know is how they got in, how they killed my men, and what the hell they were looking for!" Heeseung remains silent, staring ahead at the flickering torches along the stone walls. His mind replays the scene over and over—the slaughtered guards, their twisted bodies, the power that had killed them. It was magic. Dark magic. "We found no trace of them," The captain finally says, his voice tight. "No lingering presence of a spell, no indication of their path in or out. It's like they vanished into thin air."

"They used magic," The queen interjects coolly, her eyes sharp as a dagger. "That is what witches do." Her tone had Heeseung’s skin prickling with a sense of fear. "Then why didn't we sense it? Why didn’t our barriers—" He started.

"Because they are getting stronger," The king snaps. His gaze falls to Heeseung now, pinning him in place. "You have been keeping tabs on them, have you not? Watching their movements, ensuring they don’t have the power to rise again? Did you fail me, Heeseung?" The weight of the king’s words settle deep in his chest, heavy and suffocating. Heeseung straightens. "No, Your Majesty," he replies firmly. "We have been monitoring the council and the remaining witches closely. There has been no sign of a rebellion, no whisper of an attack. If there is an unknown witch at work, then they are acting alone."

The king's lip curls. "And yet they managed to infiltrate my home." Heeseung has no response to that. The king exhales sharply, pinching the bridge of his nose. He is furious, but there is something else beneath his rage—something colder, something more dangerous. A deep-seated hatred, burning just beneath his skin. The queen tilts her head, studying Heeseung carefully. "And what of the stolen artifacts?" she asks. "Has there been any sign of what was taken?"

"A vial of dragon’s blood," One of the guards answers. "Nothing else was missing." The room goes deathly silent. Heeseung curses under his breath. The king's fingers twitch against the table. "Dragon’s blood," he murmurs, his tone turning sharp. "And you all think nothing of this? Do you not know what that blood does?!" A shiver rolls through the room. Everyone knows. Dragon’s blood enhances magic. Strengthens it. Sharpens it. The king rises from his seat slowly, his gaze flickering toward the shadows of the room. "This was no ordinary thief," he says, more to himself than anyone else. "This was a witch preparing for something." His voice hardens as he turns back to them. "Find them. I don’t care what it takes—double the guards, search every crevice of the castle, and burn every witch’s den in this kingdom if you have to. I want their head."

A chorus of "Yes, Your Majesty," follows. Heeseung says nothing, simply inclining his head. He should be agreeing. He should be vowing to track this witch down, to put an end to this threat before it grows. And yet, Something gnaws at the edges of his mind, an uneasy whisper he refuses to acknowledge. The magic. The precision. The cleverness. His thoughts flicker—just for a second—to her. To the princess. To her uncanny way of maneuvering around the castle, her endless curiosity, the way she always asks about magic, as if she understands it more than she lets on. The way she had moved against him in their sparring match—controlled, sharp, deadly. And last night. The way he had kissed her. The way she had felt against him when they were intimate. Could it be—? No. He shoves the thought away before it can take root. It’s impossible. The princess was raised in the east, far from the magic-infested ruins of this kingdom. There is no way she could be tied to witches. No way she could have been the one to— No. Heeseung forces the thought from his mind, locking it away. It’s just a coincidence. That’s all. Nothing more.

The castle is restless the next morning, an undercurrent of tension crackling through the air like a coming storm. Servants rush about, their voices hushed, their movements careful. Guards patrol every corridor, hands tight around their weapons. The nobles murmur amongst themselves, their eyes darting toward the throne room as whispers slither through the grand halls. "A witch," someone hisses near you as you glide past. "Inside the castle. Undetected. Can you imagine?" Another voice responds just as high pitched "Brazen enough to try and kill the king!" You roll your eyes, a smirk on your face. "They should burn them all, just like before." Your jaw tightens, your nails pressing into your palms so hard they nearly break skin. You keep walking, silent, unassuming. But with every step, the whispers become harder to ignore. Then– words that would make any daughter break. "It’s just like what happened years ago... with her—with that whore of a witch."

Your breath halts. Ahead of you, a gilded sitting room lies open, sunlight spilling through arched windows onto plush velvet furniture. A small group of noblewomen are gathered there, draped in silks, laughter like chiming bells. They sip from delicate porcelain teacups, their words laced with venom, utterly unaware of the storm they are inviting upon themselves. "She thought she could kill the king—thought she was worthy of a crown instead.”

"And look where she ended up—stripped of her magic, betrayed by her own people, her head taken before she could even beg for mercy." The edges of your vision darken only anger simmering in your blood. You step closer, silent as a shadow. "They should have burned her body instead of scattering it like filth." Your blood roars in your ears, your heart pounding in your chest. "At least the king took a trophy," one of the women sneers, swirling her tea idly. "That ring of hers—how pathetic. As if a simple bauble could ever make a witch a queen." The world around you stills at the realization. Your mother. They were talking about your mother. Your breathing slows. The fire inside you, carefully stoked and contained for so long, now flares into something feral, something uncontrollable.

But they don't know. They don't know who you are, what you're capable of. They don't know that your anger speaks for itself and that your magic is the greatest weapon you yield, but they were about to find out. A slow, measured breath slips past your lips. The air hums with power as you lift your fingers, just enough to let your magic slither through them. Invisible. Deadly. The woman in the center, the one with the sharpest tongue, freezes mid-sip. Her teacup hovers just below her lips. She gasps, eyes going wide but then her whole body stiffens. A shudder rolls through her frame, the muscles in her throat working against an invisible force. The porcelain cup slips from her fingers, shattering against the floor. A single crack, and then—snap.

Her head jerks violently to the side, the sickening sound of bone breaking echoing through the room. She crumples instantly, collapsing forward onto the table, lifeless. There was a moment of silence, a fleeting moment you quite enjoyed. But then– screams. Blood curdling screams that brought you only joy. The other women scramble back, knocking over teacups and trays in their blind panic. One of them shrieks, hands clamped over her mouth as she stares in horror at the limp, twisted form before her. You let the sound wash over you, slow satisfaction curling through your chest. Without a word, you turn on your heel and walk away, your steps light, effortless. The wails of the noblewomen ring through the corridor behind you, a discordant symphony of fear and hysteria, but you don't look back. You don’t have to. Because for the first time in years, you feel like your mother’s daughter.

Evening descends upon the castle, casting long shadows through the stone corridors. You sit by your vanity, absently tracing the rim of a goblet with your fingertip, waiting. The distant sounds of hurried footsteps and hushed voices in the halls tell you the kingdom is still shaken, still trying to piece together what happened this morning, and at the ball. A knock raps at your chamber door and you already know who it is. You can sense, feel him. "Come in," you call, voice smooth, controlled. The door creaks open, and Heeseung steps in, his usual composed demeanor in place, but there’s something tense about the way his shoulders sit. His eyes flick over you—your carefully arranged hair, the gown draped over your form, the utter calmness in your posture. His gaze lingers on your face a beat too long before he clears his throat. "Dinner," he says simply.

You arch a brow. "Just us?" This would be the first time since you’ve arrived where you wouldn't be having dinner with the King and Queen. "The king and queen are otherwise occupied. Security measures." Heeseung mutters his gaze avoiding yours. "How intimate," you remark dryly, standing and brushing past him. His scent lingers—leather, steel, something faintly smoky. You don’t miss the way he exhales sharply, as if steeling himself, before following after you.

The dining chamber is much smaller than the grand halls you’re used to. The table is modest in comparison, only set for two. Silver candleholders flicker between the untouched dishes. The air is thick—too quiet, too heavy with something unspoken. You take your seat, watching Heeseung as he settles into his own across from you. He’s stiff, guarded, too preoccupied with the food before him to even look at you. You let the silence drag, waiting for him to say something. But of course, he doesn’t. You stab a piece of meat with your fork. "Are we going to pretend it didn’t happen?" His eyes snap up to you narrowing slightly as if to dare you to keep going. So, in turn you do. Testing the limits was your favorite pastime after all. You tilt your head, feigning innocence. "The sex," you clarify, twirling the utensil between your fingers. Heeseung tenses. "This is neither the time nor the place."

"Then when is, Heeseung?" You lean forward slightly, voice laced with challenge. "After another failed assassination attempt? Perhaps over breakfast? Maybe I should schedule it between my courtly duties and plotting treason." His jaw tightens. "Don’t," he warns. His cool tone had you hot. You had to remind yourself that this was not the time for that. You roll your eyes, exhaling dramatically. "You’re being ridiculous."

He sets his knife down with a sharp clink, the muscles in his arms flexing as he pushes his chair back. "Come with me." You blink, caught off guard as he stands abruptly and moves to your side. Before you can protest, his fingers curl around your wrist—not harsh, but firm. "Heeseung—"

"Not here," he mutters, already dragging you from your seat. You follow, your pulse a slow, deliberate thrum beneath your skin. He doesn’t let go, guiding you through the corridors with determined strides, past watchful guards and dimly lit hallways. Then, The library doors swing open, swallowing you both into the quiet expanse of towering shelves and candlelight. The scent of parchment and ink wraps around you, thick and familiar. Heeseung doesn’t stop until you’re deep inside, far from any prying eyes. He finally releases you, exhaling sharply as he runs a hand through his hair. "You shouldn’t talk about it so carelessly." You cross your arms. "Why not?"

"Because it’s dangerous." His voice is low, but edged with something raw. "Because it shouldn’t have happened."A slow smirk tugs at your lips. "But it did." Heeseung looks at you then—really looks at you. His expression flickers between frustration and something else, something that makes your breath hitch for just a fraction of a second. "Tell me," you continue, stepping closer, forcing him to meet your gaze. "Are you regretting it?" His lips part slightly, but no words come out. His fingers twitch at his sides, as if resisting the urge to reach for you. You tilt your head. "Or are you afraid of what it means?" His silence is answer enough.

The tension in the library crackles like a storm on the verge of breaking. The dim candlelight flickers, casting shadows across the towering shelves and the ancient tomes lining them. Heeseung is still standing stiffly before you, arms crossed, jaw clenched—like if he lets himself relax for even a moment, everything will spiral out of control. “We can’t,” he says finally, his voice tight, like he’s forcing the words out. “If anyone caught us—if the king found out—we’d both be dead.” You let out a soft, amused laugh, tilting your head. “Is that what you’re so worried about?” You take a step closer, watching the way his body reacts—how his breath shortens, how his fingers flex. “Death?” His brows knit together. “It’s not funny.”

“On the contrary,” you murmur, your voice teasing, edged with something darker. “It’s absolutely hilarious. The great Heeseung, right-hand to the king, reduced to a nervous wreck over a kiss and a quick fuck.” His eyes flash with irritation. “That’s not—”

“Not what?” You’re in front of him now, close enough to catch the faint scent of steel and cedarwood clinging to him. “Not true?” He swallows hard but doesn’t move away, anyone could see that he wanted you just as much as you wanted him. He craved you and you were in no position to deny him of that satiation

“We can’t keep doing this,” he grits out, though the way his gaze flickers to your lips betrays him. “It’s dangerous.” You hum, tilting your head, running your fingers down the front of his shirt like you’re smoothing out invisible creases. His breath catches. “Dangerous is what makes it exciting,” you whisper, fingers drifting lower, pressing lightly against his stomach. His muscles tense under your touch, like he’s fighting himself, fighting this, fighting you. “Stop,” he breathes, though he makes no move to actually stop you.

You smirk. “You don’t want me to stop.” His hands clench at his sides, a war waging within him, but you know you’ve already won. You can feel it in the way his body leans ever so slightly toward yours, in the way his breath turns heavier. “Tell me to go,” you challenge, your voice softer now, but no less daring. “Tell me you don’t want this.” Silence. And suddenly, A sharp inhale, a flicker of something feral in his eyes. And then his hands are on you—gripping your waist, pulling you forward in one swift motion until your back is pressed against the bookshelf behind you. Your breath stutters just as his lips crash into yours, no hesitation this time, no careful restraint. It’s all heat and desperation, months of tension unraveling at once. He kisses you like he’s trying to memorize every inch of you, like he’s making up for lost time, for all the times he’s told himself no when his body screamed yes.

Your hands tangle in his hair, fingers pulling, dragging him impossibly closer. He groans against your mouth, the sound vibrating through you, sending heat pooling low in your stomach. You press up against him, feeling the way his body shudders at the contact. His fingers dig into your hips, bruising, possessive, like he’s trying to imprint himself onto you. It’s reckless. It’s foolish. And neither of you care. Too caught up on the feeling of one another to carefully consider what you could lose, only what you could gain. The library was quite save for the two of you. Your heavy breathing the only sound in the grand room. Heeseung’s hands gripped at your skirts much like he did the other night.

He lifted them high enough to expose you. “I’ve been thinking about this pretty little pussy since the other night.” He grunted. “We don’t have enough time but I think I can take a little taste can’t i?” You were nodding before he could even get the words out, your head bobbing up and down in excitement. Pure unadulterated excitement. It was comical, almost pathetic but you didn't care, you needed him anyway you could get him. Heeseung fell to his knees, your skirts still tightly gripped in his hands.

“I love when a man kneels to me.” You snicker, a laugh falling from your lips in a cascade. “Just a second ago you were pulling away, now look at you.” You were teasing with him, toying around with him. His small smile told you he didn't really seem to mind your teasing, if anything it fueled his desires for you.

“I may be kneeling princess but soon you're going to be the one begging like a peasant.” He smirked up at you, the edges of his mouth slightly curved sexily. The heat simmerring in your belly only heightened your need for him and soon you were whining, lifting your hips to show him just how much you needed him to do just something, anything. “Don’t you worry.” He tsked “I’m going to take such good care of you.”

Without another words his mouth was on you, his tongue lapping at you like no tomorrow. Your hands found purchase on his shoulder as you steadied yourself. “Oh my god.” You hissed, biting your lip to keep your noises at bay. Heeseung groaned against your core, the vibrations sending tingles up your spine and furthering the pleasure coursing through your veins. His hands found your hips gripping them tightly in his hands under your gown skirts.

Your hands made their way from the bookshelf behind you down your own body until they reached your breasts cupping them in your hands for extra stimulant, Heeseung’s tongue explored every inch of your most sensitive bud sucking on it like his life depended on it. You tried your best to keep your noises at bay as you occasionally let a squeak and small moan out here and there.

Heeseung continued to suck and lick at you, your end hearing like a freight train. “I-i’m almost-” You gasped, finding it hard to cough the words out. “I know.” Heeseung said smugly as he came up for air. Your legs shook, thankful for Heeseung’s hands holding you upright. If it weren't for that you would surely be a puddle of yourself on the floor before you. It took almost no time for your end to slam into you. A single squeak left your lips before you're clamping your hand over your mouth to silence yourself. Heeseung continues to work on you throughout your orgasm granting you a spectacular end.

Heeseung let go of your thighs, straightening himself out as you caught your breath. Much like the garden the two of you only stared at each other in silence, not daring to utter even a single word. The silence was short lived as the sound of rustling outside the library tore the two of you apart, breaking the haze you were currently in. Luckily whoever was outside didn't feel the need to enter the library but the noise itself had Heeseung on edge. “We should get you to your chambers.” He mumbled, reaching a hand out for you to take. You stared at it for a moment as if it were a foreign object you had never seen before. You took his hand in yours letting him guide you out of the library doors.

The candlelight flickers in Heeseung’s chambers, casting restless shadows against the stone walls. He lays on his back in bed, eyes trained on the ceiling, his body exhausted but his mind refusing to quiet. He knows what they’re doing is reckless. Stupid, even. He runs a hand down his face, trying to scrub away the memories of her—her scent, her warmth, the way she pressed against him in the library as if she knew exactly what kind of power she had over him. Heeseung has always prided himself on his discipline, on his control. But with her… He groans and turns onto his side, staring at the dying embers in the fireplace. His duty is to the kingdom. To the king. To law and order. If anyone found out about this—about them—there would be no mercy. No hesitation. The king would have his head on a spike, and hers—hers would be paraded through the streets as a warning.

His stomach churns at the thought. But then, a far more dangerous thought slithers in, unbidden. What if they ran? The idea is so ridiculous he almost laughs. He doesn’t run. He doesn’t abandon his duty. But then he thinks of her again—of the fire in her eyes, of the way she moves like she belongs to no one but herself. She’s different. Not just from the princesses he’s known—meek, obedient, trained to be silent. No, she’s different from everyone. The way she speaks. The way she carries herself. The way she looks at him like she’s measuring him up, testing him, waiting to see what he’ll do next. The way she knows things—things she shouldn’t. A seed of suspicion takes root in his mind.

What if she’s not who she says she is? He thinks of the whispers, the rumors in the castle, the king’s paranoia about witches. He thinks of the way the attack at the ball had no clear culprit, no weapon, no trace. And then he thinks of her—of the way she smiles to herself when she thinks no one is looking, like she’s keeping a secret the world isn’t ready for. No. Heeseung shakes his head, as if to physically push the thought away. He’s being ridiculous. She’s just… unpredictable. Stubborn. Impossible. But not a witch. He refuses to believe that.

The next morning, the castle is alive with tension. Servants whisper behind cupped hands, guards double in numbers at every corridor, and the heavy clang of armor fills the halls. At breakfast, the king and queen stand before the court, their expressions grave. The king’s voice is sharp, cutting through the uneasy murmurs. "Until we discover the source of this treachery, the castle will remain under lockdown. No one leaves, no one enters without my explicit permission. Anyone found conspiring against the crown will be executed on sight." A chill runs through the room. Your grip tightens around your fork until your knuckles ache. Lockdown. The word presses against you like an iron cage, closing in.

This means you're getting closer. The king is scared. He knows his time is running out. You just need one final way to get to him. But then, your mind betrays you. Because instead of the king, instead of strategy and bloodshed, instead of magic—your thoughts drift to him. Heeseung. You can feel his eyes on you, watching from across the room. Even now, you know he’s keeping track of your every move, shadowing your steps in silence. You remember the way his touch lingered, the way his lips felt against yours, the way he made you forget—just for a moment—who you are, what you are meant to do. And for one foolish, fleeting second, you let yourself wonder. What if things were different? What if you weren’t bound by revenge, by the weight of your mother’s legacy? What if you were just a girl, and he were just a boy? But you are not just a girl. And he is not just a boy. You shove the thoughts down, swallowing hard. You call yourself a fool for falling into something so dangerous, so impossible. For even considering the possibility of anything beyond this mission. You are here for one purpose. And soon, the king will be dead.

The silence between you is louder than it has ever been as you walk to your rooms. The castle corridors stretch long and empty, the flickering torchlight casting your shadows against the cold stone walls. Each step echoes, the sound ringing in your ears, a cruel reminder that this night is slipping away too fast. Heeseung walks beside you, quiet as ever, his posture rigid with something unreadable. But you can feel it. The weight of the things left unsaid. The hesitation in the way he slows his pace just enough, like he’s not quite ready for this walk to end. Neither are you. And yet, the door to your chambers appears before you too soon.

You stop. Heeseung does too, standing just a breath away, his gaze unreadable in the dim lighting. Your heart hammers against your ribs. It feels unbearable—this thing stretching between you. The knowledge that the moment you step inside this room, something will shift. You won’t be able to undo it. So you do the only thing you can. You grab his collar and pull him to you, crashing your lips against his.

Heeseung tenses, his breath catching against your mouth. For a fraction of a second, he doesn’t move, stunned by your sudden desperation. Then, he breaks. His hands find your waist, gripping tight as he kisses you back with something raw, something close to ruin. It’s not soft, it’s not slow—it’s everything you’re both afraid to say. It’s everything you’re about to lose. our fingers tangle in the fabric of his shirt, anchoring yourself to him, trying to pull him closer, closer, closer—because this is the last time. You feel it in the way his hands tremble against you, in the way his breath shudders when he pulls away just slightly, his forehead pressing to yours. "Wait—" he starts, his voice hoarse, hesitant, but you shake your head instantly, your grip tightening on his shirt. "Don’t—" your whisper barely makes it past your lips. Your eyes burn, your throat tight. "Please don’t say anything."

Heeseung swallows thickly. His hands twitch at your waist before they slowly fall away. You take a step back. Then another and the distance feels unbearable. Your fingers ghost over the doorknob, hesitating for a fraction of a second before you turn it, stepping inside. You don’t dare look at him again. You can’t. The door closes between you with a soft, final click. You lean against it, pressing your forehead to the wood, your breath shaking as you squeeze your eyes shut. On the other side, you know he’s still there. You can feel him. Standing in the hallway, hands clenched into fists, fighting the same war you are. Seconds pass. Then minutes. And then—his footsteps, Slow. Hesitant. Fading. When he finally walks away, he takes a piece of you with him. And when you slide to the floor, pressing your trembling fingers to your lips, you wonder if you’ll ever get it back. You wonder if what you were doing was worth it, and you determine it is. This was bigger than you, bigger than what you felt for Heeseung and you had to continue no matter how much it hurt.

You sit there for what feels like hours, your back pressed against the door, your fingers still tingling from the ghost of Heeseung’s touch. You curse yourself. How could you be so stupid? Falling in love with the captain of the guard—the king’s most loyal soldier. It was reckless. Dangerous. A mistake you never should have allowed to happen. You clench your fists against your dress, trying to push away the warmth still lingering on your skin from where his hands had been. But no matter how much you tell yourself it was foolish, your heart still aches. Because for a moment, just a moment, you had allowed yourself to feel. You shake your head, jaw tightening, because love just wasn’t enough. Love wasn’t enough to stop you, it couldn't be. Not when the weight of your mother’s death still sat heavy in your chest. Not when the memories of your people being hunted and slaughtered played over and over in your mind like a curse that would never leave you.

The king needed to die and you needed to be the one to do it. If not for your mother, then for yourself. You push yourself up from the floor, shaking off the weakness trying to sink into your bones. You weren’t weak. You weren’t fragile. You were ruthless. A damn good witch. No matter what your aunt had said. No matter how the coven had doubted you. No matter how Heeseung had looked at you as if you were something to be protected, when all your life, you had fought to stand on your own. You move across the room, mind already calculating. You would need to act fast. The castle was locked down, but that meant the king’s guard would be scattered, spread thin. You could use that. You could use them. A smile, slow and sharp, spreads across your lips. No matter how much your heart screamed against it—no matter how much Heeseung’s face haunted you—you would not falter. Because this was your destiny and you would see it through to the end.

Morning light filters through the grand windows of your chambers, casting golden streaks across the floor, but you don’t move from the edge of your bed. Your plan is set. You should feel ready. Steady. But instead, your hands won’t stop trembling. You press your palms against your lap, willing the weakness away. A knock sounds at your door. You know who it is before he speaks. “Princess.” Heeseung’s voice is firm, but there’s an underlying softness beneath it. “I brought you breakfast.” You force yourself to stand, moving with a measured slowness as you approach the door. You can’t afford to falter now.

When you open it, he’s standing there, tray in hand, gaze unreadable. His dark eyes search yours for something—maybe a sign that you’re okay, maybe something more. You don’t give him anything. You reach for the tray, but before you can grab it, Heeseung’s foot moves forward, blocking the door from shutting in his face. You sigh sharply. “Move.”

“No.” His eyes narrow, suspicion creeping into his voice. “You’ve been locked away all morning. What’s going on?”

“Nothing.” You hiss, silently begging for him to just leave. Heeseung scoffs. “You expect me to believe that?”

You glare at him. “Why do you care?” He steps inside before you can stop him, setting the tray on the nearby table. Then, without hesitation, he turns to you and takes your hands in his. You stiffen. “Let go.” He doesn’t. His grip is warm, steady—just like it was the night before when you tried to push him away. “Tell me the truth,” he says. “What’s wrong?” You grit your teeth. “I told you, nothing is—”

“I don’t believe you.” You yank your hands away, stepping back. “Then you’re a fool.” Heeseung exhales sharply. “Maybe I am.” You scoff, crossing your arms. “Everything we did was a mistake.” Something flickers across his face, quick and sharp. Hurt. Good, it's better this way. You’ve been selfishly allowing yourself to fall in love with someone you can never truly have. You lift your chin higher, forcing yourself to deliver the final blow. “I used you, Heeseung. You were convenient. That’s all.”

His jaw tightens, but he doesn’t move. He doesn’t lash out. He doesn’t give you what you want. He just looks at you. It infuriates you. “You should be angry,” you snap. “You should hate me.”

“I don’t.” He argues, his voice rough with unshed emotion. “Why not?” You asked. You were desperate for him to stop, to give up. But he doesn't. “Because I know you.” His voice is quiet now, but there’s an undeniable strength beneath it. “And I know you’re lying.” Your breath catches.

Heeseung steps closer, gaze never wavering. “If you want to hurt me, you’ll have to do better than that.” You clench your fists. “I don’t care about you.” His lips twitch, and then he laughs. Heeseung’s laugh was a melody you wished you could bottle and keep forever, in a tiny little vial tucked away to keep the memory of this moment and how you felt in it alive. Even if fleeting, it would be worth it. To remember that even when you wished he would give you up and leave, he wouldn’t. “You really expect me to believe that?”

“Yes.” He just stares at you. Unmoved. Unyielding. And then he does something unexpected—he lifts a hand and gently cups your cheek. Your entire body locks up. His touch is careful, hesitant, like he’s waiting for you to pull away. But you don’t. His thumb brushes along your cheekbone, voice dropping lower. “Tell me you feel nothing, and I’ll leave right now.” You swallow hard. The words are right there. You can say them. You should say them. But your throat closes up. Silence stretches between you. Heeseung exhales, a ghost of a smile tugging at his lips, but there’s no humor in it. Just quiet understanding. “You can lie all you want,” he murmurs. “But not to me.” His hand falls away. You don’t realize you’re holding your breath until he steps back. “If you don’t want me here, say the word,” he says. “And I’ll go.”

“Don’t go.” The words slip from your lips before you can stop them, quiet but heavy with meaning. Heeseung freezes. His hand, which had been reaching for the door, stills. The tension in his shoulders tightens as he slowly turns back toward you, his dark eyes searching yours. He looks almost hesitant, like he’s bracing for something. He waits for you to take it back, for you to tell him he misheard. But you don’t do that, instead you stand there looking at him like he’s the only thing keeping you tethered to this world. And maybe, for tonight, he is.

Heeseung crosses the room in a heartbeat. His hands come up to cradle your face, his touch firm yet gentle, like he’s afraid you’ll shatter. And then his lips are on yours—hot, desperate, claiming. You kiss him back just as fiercely, your fingers tangling in his hair, pulling him impossibly closer. You can taste the longing, the fear, the hunger between you, and it terrifies you how much you need this. How much you need him. Clothes fall away, fingers trace over bare skin, mapping out the parts of you no one else has ever touched. His lips leave a burning trail along your neck, your shoulders, your collarbone. Every kiss feels like a promise neither of you can keep. This is different from the garden and the library. The emotions are stronger, the need more than just lust. He lays you down with a reverence that makes your chest ache, his body covering yours, warm and solid and real. And for a little while, just a little while, you allow yourself to forget. Forget why you’re here. Forget what you have to do. Forget that you’ll never get to have this again. Forget that, that thought scares you more than anything else. And when it’s over, when you’re lying in his arms, listening to the slow, steady rhythm of his heartbeat, the weight of reality crashes down on you.

Tears slip from your eyes before you can stop them. Heeseung notices immediately. He shifts beside you, propping himself up on his elbow to look down at you. His fingers trace lightly over your cheek, catching a stray tear. “What’s wrong?” His voice is hoarse, gentle. You shake your head, forcing a small, unconvincing smile. “Nothing.” Cursing yourself for looking so brittle, so weak. His brow furrows, unconvinced. “You’re crying,” he says, brushing another tear away with his thumb. “That’s not nothing.”

You inhale sharply, turning your head away. Because if you look at him—if you really look at him—you’ll break. You can’t afford to break. Heeseung shifts again, his body warm against yours. Then, out of nowhere, he says something that steals the air from your lungs. “Let’s leave.” Your breath catches in your throat. You turn your head back toward him, your lips parting in disbelief. “What?”

“Let’s leave,” he repeats, his voice surer now. “Tonight. Right now. Just the two of us.” You sit up, clutching the sheet to your chest. “Heeseung, you don’t know what you’re saying.” Leaving would mean that coming here was for nothing. You couldn't do that, you needed to see this through for your mother. “Yes, I do.” He sits up too, his hands reaching for yours. “We can leave this place behind. Disappear. Go somewhere no one will find us. We’ll figure it out. Together.”

Your heart clenches so hard it’s painful. He means it. He really means it, and you’re going to have to deny him. You can see it in his eyes, the unwavering sincerity, the quiet desperation. He’s not just saying it to comfort you. He truly believes you could run away, start over, be free. And for a fleeting moment, you want to believe it too. But you can’t. You squeeze your eyes shut. “You don’t know the real me, Heeseung.” He exhales a soft, disbelieving laugh. That goddamn laugh. “Of course, I do.”

“No,” you whisper, shaking your head. “You don’t.” Heeseung lifts your hand, pressing a lingering kiss to your knuckles. His lips brush against your skin as he speaks. “I know that you hate being treated like you’re fragile. That you sneak out just because you can. That you act like you don’t care, but you do. More than anyone I’ve ever met.” His voice lowers, softer now. “I know you pretend to be heartless, but you’re not. You’re stubborn and reckless and the smartest person I’ve ever known.” Heeseung tilts your chin up, forcing you to meet his gaze. “I know you,” he says. “And I love you.” Your breath shudders.

Heeseung has no idea how much those words shatter you. Because for all the ways he knows you—for all the truths he’s uncovered—he’s still blind to the one that matters most. You swallow against the lump in your throat. “I can’t.” His brows draw together. “Can’t what?” You don’t answer. You can’t. He studies you for a long moment, realization flickering in his gaze. “There’s something you’re not telling me,” he says quietly.

You close your eyes, gripping the sheets beneath you. Heeseung’s voice drops lower. “What is it?” Silence stretches between you, thick with unspoken words. Then, finally, you whisper, “Please… just go.” The pain from the moment was unbearable. Having to turn him away when you didn't want to. When your heart screamed at you to pull him close and never let go. Pain flashes across his face. His jaw clenches, his throat bobbing with the effort to swallow whatever he wants to say. He stands, gathering his clothes in silence. You stay where you are, gripping the sheets, digging your nails into the fabric to keep from calling him back. Before he leaves, he pauses at the door. He turns his head just slightly, his voice barely above a whisper. “I love you.” Then he walks out. And this time, you let him go.

Something was wrong. Heeseung could feel it. Being called to the King’s quarters almost immediately after returning to his rooms after his night with the princess. Something was wrong. Heeseung barely makes it to the king’s quarters before the weight in his chest starts to crush him. The halls are lined with guards, their grips tight on their weapons, their expressions grim. The air crackles with tension, heavy and suffocating. It feels like a noose tightening around his throat. He forces himself forward, each step heavier than the last. The moment he steps inside, he sees them. The King, the Queen And a group of high-ranking officials gathered around a long table, their faces drawn in grim lines. The candlelight flickers ominously, casting eerie shadows across the room. The doors slam shut behind him and Heeseung swears his heart in his stomach bile rising up his throat.

“My king,” he greets, bowing his head. He was trying to be graceful, trying to mask the pure terror coursing through his veins. The king doesn’t acknowledge the gesture. Instead, he lifts his gaze, sharp and knowing, and says, “Captain. Tell me… what do you know about the princess?” Heeseung’s heart stutters in his chest. He swallows thickly, keeping his voice steady. “What do you mean, Your Majesty?” The king doesn’t answer right away, furthering Heeseung’s racing heart. Something was wrong. Instead, he picks up a folded parchment from the table. Heeseung notices the broken wax seal—an unfamiliar crest pressed into the dried crimson wax. “These letters,” the king begins, “have come from her kingdom.” His tone is measured, calm—but there’s something deadly lurking beneath the surface. “They have been arriving for weeks. All addressed to the princess.”

Something cold curls in Heeseung’s stomach. “Then… why hasn’t she responded?” Heeseung asks carefully, forcing the words past his lips. “That is the question, isn’t it?” the king muses. Then he slams something onto the table. It’s a portrait. The parchment unfurls slightly from the impact, revealing a detailed oil painting of a young woman. Heeseung’s breath catches. It’s her. Or at least… it’s supposed to be. But it isn’t her. Not the woman he kissed. Not the woman he made love to. Not the woman he held in his arms. His stomach twists violently. The girl in the portrait has the same regal posture, the same air of nobility, the same crown resting atop her carefully styled hair. But the features are all wrong. The shape of her nose, the curve of her lips, the sharpness of her jawline—none of them belong to the woman he knows.

The realization crashes into him like a blow to the chest. “No,” he breathes, shaking his head. “That’s not—” “Not the girl staying in our castle?” The King finishes, his lips curling into something almost amused. The room feels like it’s closing in. His lungs won’t fill properly. His ribs feel too tight, too constricted. His world is breaking apart piece by piece. How could she have lied so long? To everyone. To him? Is that what she meant when she said he didn't know the real her? The king leans back in his chair, tapping his fingers against the wooden armrest. “This is the real princess,” he says, voice laced with cruel amusement. “The one we were supposed to receive.”

The blood in Heeseung’s veins turns to ice. His ears ring. His heart pounds so loudly it’s deafening. “She’s an imposter,” The King states plainly, his voice hard and unwavering. The Queen makes a disgusted noise. “Not just an imposter,” she sneers. “A witch.” The word slices through Heeseung like a blade toppling his world over. Shattering his entire being. A witch? No. It couldn't be. Something.is.wrong. He doesn’t move. He doesn’t speak. He can’t.

“She’s been hunting me,” the king continues, his voice dripping with satisfaction, as if he’s already won. “Planning my execution under my very roof.” Heeseung wants to deny it. Wants to fight it. Wants to claim it’s impossible. But deep down, something inside him unravels. Because it is possible. It makes sense. The late-night disappearances. The questions she never answered. The flashes of power he felt but ignored. The way she always seemed to have a secret buried behind her eyes. The realization knocks the air from his lungs. He had suspected. He had wondered. But he never believed. Because believing would mean losing her. And now—Now, he has lost her. A sharp breath rattles through his chest. He forces himself to stay still, to keep his expression unreadable, to keep the pain from showing. But it’s there. It’s tearing him apart from the inside out.

He can still feel her touch, still taste her on his lips. Still hear the way her voice broke when she told him she couldn’t. She had known this moment was coming. That’s why she kissed him like it was the last time. That’s why she cried. She knew. And she let him love her anyway. “Find her,” the king commands, dragging Heeseung back to the present. “Search the castle. The kingdom. I want that witch’s head.” Heeseung stiffens. The words are an execution order. His pulse roars in his ears. He forces himself to bow, to keep his voice steady as he murmurs, “Yes, Your Majesty.” But his hands tremble as he clenches them into fists. Because for the first time in his life, he doesn’t know what to do. His loyalty is to the king. His duty is to the crown. But his heart— His heart belongs to her. And no matter how much he tries to bury it—no matter how much it kills him— It always will. Heeseung feels like he’s standing outside of his own body, watching the scene unfold as if it’s happening to someone else. The king’s voice slices through the thick silence.

“The body that was found, dumped from the carriage that night…” He leans forward, his expression grave yet victorious, as if he’s piecing together a puzzle he’d been struggling with for too long. “It was her. The real princess.” A sick, suffocating weight crashes down on Heeseung’s chest. He remembers that night. The gruesome discovery. The way the body had been barely recognizable, left for the elements like discarded waste. At the time, they had assumed it was the work of bandits, of those who wanted to send a message to the crown. But it wasn’t. It was her. She had done it. She had killed the princess. Taken her place. Deceived them all. She had deceived him. Heeseung sways slightly, his grip tightening at his sides.

“Captain.” His head jerks up at the king’s call. The king watches him carefully, expression unreadable, before he asks, “Do you have it on you?” For a moment, Heeseung doesn’t understand. Then the king clarifies. “The witch’s knife.” The words nearly send Heeseung to his knees. His fingers twitch at his belt, where the blade sits, unseen but ever-present—a weapon forged to cut through the magic that ran through the veins of people like her. He feels sick. Heeseung grits his teeth, schooling his expression into one of careful indifference. “Yes,” he says, forcing his voice to remain even. “I have it.”

The king hums in approval. “Good,” he says. “Then it’s time to put it to use.” The words ring through Heeseung’s skull like a war drum. “Bring her to me,” the king orders. “I want that witch dragged before me in chains.” His gaze flickers to Heeseung’s belt, where the blade rests. “And you will be the one to strike her down.” The world tilts. Heeseung can hear his own breathing, shallow and uneven. He has killed before. It is his duty. His purpose. His role. But never like this. Never her. Never the only person who has ever made him feel. He forces himself to nod. It is the only response he can manage without his voice betraying him. The king smirks in satisfaction, leaning back in his chair. “Go,” he commands. “Find her.” Heeseung turns stiffly, barely hearing the murmurs of approval from the gathered officials, The Queen’s quiet mutter of disgust. He walks toward the doors, each step heavier than the last. His fingers brush against the hilt of the knife. The one meant for her. The woman he kissed. The woman he loved. His heart cracks wide open, but there is no time to bleed. Because the next time he sees her— He will have to kill her. Something was wrong.

The air is thick with dampness, the scent of mold and stone clinging to your skin as you navigate the winding tunnels beneath the castle. Your heart pounds against your ribs, steady and strong, the only thing grounding you as you press forward. You don’t have much time. If everything goes according to plan, the king won’t see the next sunrise. The thought steadies you. You move like a shadow through the catacombs, tracing the steps you memorized, hands gliding along the rough walls. You can feel the pulse of magic thrumming in the stone, remnants of old spells woven into the foundations of the castle. If you close your eyes, you can almost hear whispers, ghosts of the past murmuring secrets only the dead could know.

You shake off the feeling. There’s no room for hesitation. Not now. Your plan is simple—efficient. Slip into the king’s chambers through the passage hidden beneath the castle, snap his neck, and vanish before anyone can piece together what happened. No spells. No weapons. Just you. Just justice. The idea of feeling his life slip between your fingers, of watching the fear dawn in his eyes when he realizes his power can’t save him—it’s almost intoxicating. But then he flickers in your mind. Heeseung. For a single, damning moment, you think of the way he looked at you last night, the way his hands held you like you were something precious. How his voice had cracked when he told you he loved you. And how you said nothing in return. Your throat tightens, but you shove it down. Love is not enough to stop what must be done. You push forward. The tunnels twist and stretch before you, endless in their darkness, but you know exactly where you're going. The passage that leads into the king’s private chambers is ahead. You’re nearly there— Cold steel presses against your throat.

You stop. Your body tenses, every instinct in you screaming to move, to fight, but the blade is firm, unforgiving. A single wrong move could end it all before you even reach the king. You feel power coming from it. Radiating off of it. It stung like poison. Was this a witch killing knife?

"Going somewhere?" The voice is low, familiar, and it guts you. Your pulse jumps. Slowly, carefully, you tilt your head just enough to see him. Heeseung. Oh god it was Heeseung. His face is carved from stone, eyes dark, unreadable. The knife in his hand does not waver. He looked destroyed, shattered against beyond repair. But he also looked angry, he knew. He knew who you were and even though that should scare you it didn't. You had oddly felt a sense of overwhelming relief. You weren't hiding from him anymore. Your breath comes slow, measured. “Move.”

He doesn’t. You try again, this time sharper, steel behind your words. “Move, Heeseung.” His grip tightens. “Tell me where you’re going.” His voice is quiet, but there’s something underneath it, something raw. A slow, careful inhale. “You already know.” There was no use in lying to him anymore. You refused to do it, you owed him that much at least. His jaw tenses. A muscle in his cheek jumps. But he doesn’t move the blade. The cold metal seeping into your skin stinging you and boiling your blood. A small part of you knew you deserved this. For lying to him for so long, for allowing yourself to fall in love with a man who you could never have. A man who would hate the person, the thing you truly were. He didn't know the real you. You had warned him. for the first time since you entered the tunnels, doubt creeps in. Not in your plan. Not in your abilities. But in him. Would he really stop you? Would he really— would he kill you?

The reality hurt. You’d kill him if you had to, no matter how much you didn't want to. No matter how much it would hurt you, end you even. You'd do it. For your mother and her legacy you'd do what you had to do. It's what you came here for. “You don’t want to do this,” you whisper, softer this time. Heeseung exhales sharply through his nose. “Don’t I?” The words land like a blow. Your fingers twitch at your sides. You could use magic. Could throw him back, run before he can get up. But you don’t. Instead, you say, “I know you.” Heeseung flinches. Not visibly—no, no one else would notice—but you do. You see the slight hitch in his breath, the way his grip falters for just a moment. Then, in a voice barely above a whisper— “You don’t know me at all.”

The words sink into your skin, cold and unrelenting. Your chest tightens. And for the first time— You wonder if you've already lost. No matter what happened in this tunnel you were losing. The blade at your throat is trembling. Not steady. Not certain. Not like Heeseung at all. His breath is ragged, uneven, as if the very air around him is too thick to swallow. His grip on the hilt of his knife is white-knuckled, his knuckles straining under the force of it, but it’s not just from anger. It’s something deeper—something fragile, teetering on the edge of breaking.

“Is it true?” His voice is hoarse, almost quiet, but the weight of it crashes into you like a tidal wave. You don’t answer. You can’t. Not when you knew he already knew the answer. Vocalizing what he already knew would make it too real for him. You were a betrayer, a murder, a witch. His chest rises and falls too quickly, his breath coming in sharp, uneven bursts. His fingers flex around the knife, and when you still don’t respond, something in him snaps. “Is it true?!” His voice cracks, raw and agonized, and it cuts through you like a blade sharper than the one at your throat.

Your heart hammers against your ribs. Your mouth is dry. Your hands are shaking, but you force yourself to meet his eyes—his desperate, frantic, broken eyes. You should lie. You should tell him no. You should take the last remnants of his belief in you and hold on to them—but it’s too late for that. The truth is already there, clawing its way out of you, forcing itself into the space between you. You can’t lie to him anymore. You wouldn’t. Your lips part. Your voice is barely a whisper. “…Yes.” The silence that follows is suffocating. Heeseung stares at you, wide-eyed, as if you’ve just struck him. His grip on the knife wavers, but he doesn’t lower it. He doesn’t move. He doesn’t breathe. His Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows thickly, his gaze never leaving yours. He looks at you like he doesn’t know you. Like everything you were to him has just unraveled at his feet, piece by piece, until there’s nothing left but the ruin of whatever you were. “Why?” His voice is barely there, hoarse and hollow.

The lump in your throat grows, threatening to choke you. You don’t want to tell him. You don’t want to tell him. But there’s nothing left to hide. The weight of your past has already reached him, coiling around his throat just as it has yours. Your hands tremble, your nails digging into your palms, as you force yourself to speak. “He murdered my mother.” but he knew that already? Didn’t he? The words taste like ash on your tongue. You watch as Heeseung’s entire body goes rigid. His expression—pain, anger, disbelief—flickers for only a moment before he schools it into something unreadable, something distant. But you can still see it. The horror. The realization. The unbearable ache. Your voice wavers. “The king ordered her death. He butchered her, Heeseung.” You take a shaky breath, one that barely fills your lungs. “He tore her apart. Took her from me. My father too.”

Heeseung doesn’t speak. He doesn’t move. You take a step closer. He doesn’t retreat, but the hand holding the knife lowers—just slightly. “I was just a child,” you whisper. The words crack at the edges. “I had no one. My coven abandoned me. I had to make my own way in this world, and every single day, I have had to live with what he did.” Your breath shudders in your chest. Your eyes burn. “I was never going to be a princess, Heeseung.” There is no anger in your voice anymore. No rage. No fire. Just grief, raw and aching, an open wound that never healed Heeseung clenches his jaw so tightly that the muscles twitch, his hands trembling at his sides. His grip on the knife loosens. He looks at you like he’s trying to understand. Like he’s trying to see you through the haze of betrayal. Then, after what feels like an eternity, he whispers, “I’ll let you go.” Your stomach plummets. His gaze is pained, torn apart at the seams, but he holds it steady.

“I’ll tell them I couldn’t find you.” His voice shakes. His lips press into a thin line as he swallows down something thick and heavy. “I’ll let you escape, just—” He takes a deep breath, ragged and uneven. “Just leave. Never come back.” Your heart pounds, hammering against your ribs with a force that steals the breath from your lungs. His hand twitches. His free hand almost reaches for you, but he stops himself, curling his fingers into a fist instead. “So I don’t have to hurt you,” he murmurs, voice breaking. His eyes flicker over your face, memorizing you. Holding on to the pieces of you he still recognizes. “Please.” You should take the offer. You should run. But you can’t. Not anymore. You were way too far in. You weren’t a quitter. You weren’t weak and you’d fight until your dying breath. Killing the King was the only option for you. Not running. You’d never run. Never.

The silence between you stretches like a blade—thin, sharp, and deadly. Heeseung is still trembling, his breath unsteady, his fingers twitching as if he doesn’t know whether to reach for you or push you away. His body is tense, wound so tight it looks like it might snap under the weight of what you’ve done—of what you’re about to do. You can see the war raging behind his eyes. The part of him that wants to trust you. The part of him that still loves you. And the part of him that has been trained his whole life to protect his kingdom—to protect the king who raised him. He takes a step closer. The knife is still in his hand, but his grip is loose, uncertain. “One last time,” he says, voice cracking under the weight of it. “I’m begging you. Please. Just leave. Disappear. Run. I’ll make sure no one follows you. I’ll say you vanished into the night, that I searched and searched, but I couldn’t find you.” His voice wavers, but the desperation in his eyes is unwavering. “Please,” he begs again, quieter this time. He might as well be on his hands and knees.

For a second you imagined a life where you agreed where you left and lived a hate free life. Where you lived a life not plagued by an unruly anger for the one who took your mother from you. How would it feel to hide away from the rest of the world and be content. Maybe in a small cabin, under the mountains. With Heeseung. Heeseung would be there. And you'd be married with so many children you could never be bored. That life wasn't possible. You’d be an idiot to have such fantasies because life was never fair. The ache in your chest is unbearable. You wish you could lie to him. You wish you could tell him what he wants to hear, just to take the anguish out of his voice. But you can’t. You take a shaky breath, trying to steady the storm inside you, but it’s impossible. “I can’t.” He flinches.

“I’m sorry, Heeseung,” you whisper, your throat thick with emotion. “I can’t leave. Not if he’s still alive.” His expression twists, pain flashing through his face like lightning across a stormy sky. His hands clench into fists, his whole body trembling, and for a moment, you think he might drop the knife. But he doesn’t. His jaw tightens. His breath shudders in his chest. “Why?” His voice is barely a whisper, but the agony in it cuts through you like a thousand knives. “Why is your revenge more important than your life?” You swallow hard, blinking back the tears burning in your eyes. “Because it’s all I have left.” The words hang in the air between you, suffocating. Heeseung stares at you, his face unreadable, but his eyes—his eyes—they are shattered, hollowed out by something deeper than just heartbreak. His grip on the knife tightens.

“My mother deserved better than to die screaming, being torn apart” you whisper, voice shaking. “She deserved justice. And if I don’t do this—if I let him live—then I am nothing. I will have nothing.” Heeseung’s face twists with something you can’t quite name. And then, in a voice so low and broken it barely reaches your ears, he murmurs, “And what about me?” Your breath catches. “What am I to you, then?” He swallows hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “Am I nothing?” The tears you’ve been holding back finally spill over, slipping silently down your cheeks. “You’re everything to me,” you choke out.

And it’s the truth. Heeseung’s face crumples. His shoulders shake. His entire body is wrecked with the weight of those words, of what they mean—of what they don’t mean. Because love isn’t enough. Not for you. Not for him. Your need to fight for your mother’s memory is stronger than the love blooming between you. And his duty—his oath—to protect his king is stronger than his love for you. It has to be. It has to be. Heeseung lets out a choked breath, somewhere between a sob and a broken laugh. He drags a hand through his hair, gripping at the strands like he’s trying to rip himself out of his own body, as if he can’t stand the weight of his own thoughts. “Tell me you hate me,” he whispers suddenly. You stiffen. “Tell me you used me.” His voice is thick, unsteady. “Tell me none of it meant anything, and I’ll—” He shakes his head, voice trembling. “I’ll let you go.” You squeeze your eyes shut. You could. You could say the words and make it easier for him. You could cut him open and make sure he never has to grieve you. You could turn him against you so he doesn’t have to hurt when this ends. But you’ve already hurt him enough.

You open your eyes, looking at the man who has made you question everything. The man who, against all odds, made you feel again. The man you love—but can never have. And you shake your head. “I won’t lie to you.” A tear slips down Heeseung’s cheek. He doesn’t wipe it away. And then, after a long, shuddering breath, he lifts the knife once more.Not trembling this time. Not uncertain. Because if love isn’t strong enough to stop either of you—then neither is hesitation. The dagger slides between your ribs, sinking into your flesh with a slow, devastating finality. The pain is instant—white-hot, searing, an agony unlike anything you’ve ever felt before. But what truly breaks you isn’t the blade. It isn’t even the poison, creeping through your veins like liquid fire. It’s the look in Heeseung’s eyes. So devastatingly beautiful. So, broken. You broke him, you are exactly who you’ve always been. A monster. And you were going to die the death you deserved, in the arms of the man you loved but by the hands of the man you loved.

Tears stream down his face, his lips parted in silent devastation. His hands tremble as he lowers you gently to the ground, cradling you like you’re something fragile, like you aren’t already breaking apart in his arms. “I’m sorry,” he chokes out, his voice barely more than a breath. He presses his forehead against yours, his body shaking with grief. “I had to. I—I didn’t have a choice.” You can feel the poison sinking its claws into you, stealing the strength from your limbs, making it harder to breathe. The world around you begins to blur at the edges, fading like a dream unraveling into nothing. You reach up with what little strength you have left, your fingers curling over his. He’s still holding the dagger, his grip tight like he can’t bear to let go. Blood spills between your fingers, warm and thick, but you don’t care.

You squeeze his hand. “It’s okay,” you whisper, voice weak, shaking. “This was the only way to stop me.” And it was the truth. You would only give him the truth. Heeseung lets out a broken sound, something between a sob and a gasp. His other hand cups your cheek, his thumb brushing over your skin like he’s trying to memorize the feel of you before you slip away. “I wouldn’t have stopped,” you confess, blinking through the haze clouding your vision. “You know that, don’t you?” You let out a sharp breath “Because-..because you know me.” You laugh a little, it's short and winded but it's a laugh and it was real. He nods, his shoulders heaving with every ragged breath. More tears slip down your face, mingling with the blood pooling beneath you. “You did the right thing.”

Heeseung flinches, his grip on you tightening like he can somehow keep you here. “No,” he whispers, shaking his head. “Don’t say that.” his voice trembled, tears still falling from his eyes and down his cheeks. “But you did,” you insist, coughing as blood spills from your lips. You can taste the bitterness of it, the iron tang. “You did the right thing, Heeseung. I—I’m glad you did.” Your chest rises and falls in shallow, uneven breaths. The darkness is creeping closer now, curling around the edges of your vision, but you fight to keep your eyes open. Just for a little longer. Just to see him one last time. “I love you.” The words come out in a fragile whisper, but they are real. They are everything. A sob tears through him, raw and wrecked. He presses his lips to your forehead, his tears falling against your skin. “I love you too,” he breathes, voice shaking.

You smile, just barely. And then your body stills. Heeseung feels it the moment you slip away. The last breath leaving your lungs. The way your fingers relax, the light in your eyes dimming until there’s nothing left but the hollow, empty silence. His heart shatters. A broken, strangled cry rips from his throat, and he pulls you into his arms, holding you against him as if that will bring you back. His whole body shakes with grief, his face buried in your hair. The dagger is still in his hand. The blood is still warm. And the weight of what he has done—the weight of losing you—crushes him whole.

Epilogue.

Heeseung kneels before the king, head bowed, hands clenched so tightly at his sides that his nails threaten to pierce his skin. His face is carefully composed—stoic, unreadable—but inside, he is unraveling. “I failed, Your Majesty,” he says, voice low, heavy with carefully measured regret. “The witch is gone.” Silence falls over the throne room, thick and suffocating. The king’s fingers drum against the armrest of his gilded throne, his expression dark with fury. Heeseung does not flinch beneath his gaze, does not waver even as the weight of his own lie threatens to crush him.

“Gone?” the king finally echoes, his tone sharp. “How?” Heeseung lifts his head slightly, just enough to meet the king’s eyes without betraying the storm of emotions raging inside him. “By the time we reached the catacombs, she had vanished without a trace. The guards and I searched the tunnels, the corridors, the perimeter of the castle. There was no sign of her.” The queen scoffs, folding her arms across her chest. “And you expect us to believe that a single witch, after all the effort she put into infiltrating our home, simply decided to flee?”

Heeseung forces himself to nod, his jaw tightening. “Yes, Your Majesty.” The king exhales sharply through his nose, his displeasure clear. He shifts in his seat, fingers stilling against the polished wood of his throne. “No trace at all?”

“No.” The lie tastes like ash on Heeseung’s tongue. The king curses under his breath before waving a dismissive hand. “Find her.” Heeseung bows his head again. “Yes, Your Majesty.” He doesn’t wait to be dismissed. He knows the conversation is over. The king is furious, but he believes him. Or, at the very least, he has no choice but to. Heeseung turns on his heel and strides out of the throne room, keeping his shoulders squared and his pace steady. Every step feels heavier than the last. Because the truth is buried deep beneath his feet.

The forest is quiet, the only sounds are the whisper of the wind through the trees and the distant calls of night creatures stirring from their slumber. The moon hangs low in the sky, casting silver light over the clearing. Heeseung stands at the edge of the earth he has disturbed, his breath unsteady as he looks down at the freshly turned soil. This was where the king had left her mother to rot. A shallow grave in an unmarked place. Forgotten, discarded like she was nothing. Heeseung couldn’t give her justice. He couldn’t save her. But he could give her this. He had carried her here himself, long after the dagger had stolen the last warmth from her body. He had cleaned the blood from her skin, brushed the hair from her face, whispered apologies that she would never hear. And then, with shaking hands, he had laid her to rest beside her mother. Not in an unmarked grave. Not forgotten. He had carved a name into the wood he placed at the head of the mound of earth. Not the name of the princess she had stolen, not the lie she had lived. Her true name.

The name that had been taken from her the night the king slaughtered her mother. Heeseung takes a shaky breath, sinking to his knees beside her grave. He presses a hand to the cold ground, his vision blurring. “I’m sorry,” he whispers, the words barely a breath. The wind moves through the trees, rustling the leaves like a sigh. Heeseung closes his eyes. For the first time in his life, he wishes he had never been born in this kingdom. That he had never sworn an oath to the king, never pledged his loyalty to a crown soaked in the blood of innocents. For the first time in his life, he wishes he had been brave enough to run away with her. But there are no second chances. No rewinding time. So he sits in silence, keeping vigil over the woman he loved, mourning the life they never got to have. And when the sun begins to rise, painting the sky in shades of gold and crimson, Heeseung finally forces himself to stand. He does not say goodbye. Because he knows he will return. Because he knows he will never stop loving her. Because even in death, she is the only truth he has ever known.

taglist. (★) @izzyy-stuff , @beomiracles , @filmnings , @dawngyu , @hyukascampfire , @saejinniestar , @notevenheretbh1 , @hwanghyunjinismybae, @ch4c0nnenh4

#enhypen imagines #enhypen smut #lee heeseung smut #lee heeseung imagines #lee heeseung #heeseung imagines #heeseung smut #heeseung x you #heeseung drabbles #heeseung x reader #heeseung scenarios #lee heesung x reader #enhypen fluff #enhypen drabbles #enhypen x reader #enhypen scenarios #enhypen #જ⁀➴ THE VEILS OF AETHERA ⋆. ˚

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buckyschair · 15 days ago

Text

ILLICIT AFFAIRS

Pairing: Azriel x fem!reader

Summary: On a dreaded visit to the Hewn City, Azriel finds more than he bargained for. It’s only fitting that when your wildest fantasies come true in a land of nightmares, it's with a forbidden visitor rather than your own husband… After all, who could be a better affair partner than the master of spies?

A/N: Cheating is wrong! But aesthetically? It’s so rich! Can you tell I’ve been listening to ‘Scotty Doesn’t Know' on repeat? And thanks to other songs like ‘Ivy’ and ‘Illicit Affairs’, an illicit relationship just sounded sexy and sad! So here’s a messy little story about cheating WITH Azriel. Let me know what you think of the reader character, I tried to make her unlikeable at first but then I became sympathetic to her so idk where we ended up.

Content Warnings: 18+ only, smut, cheating, alcohol, female reader, shitty unnamed husband (not physically abusive), slight dom/bdsm overtones, casual shadow bondage, thigh riding, oral M receiving, PIV sex (no protection bc they are faeries and this is fiction, but put on your mental magic condom if you must), gross liberties taken with whatever’s going on with the Hewn City, no use of Y/N

Word Count: 7.6k

Masterlist | Series Masterlist | Next part

✸✸✸

Wine. A warm bath. Silk sheets.

“Did you see her shoes? With that jewelry?”

Your sapphire hand mirror. A lobster bisque. The perfect shade of red lipstick.

“Oh, did I see them? They practically assaulted me the moment I walked into the hall!”

You took a sharp breath, and continued to block your surroundings with mental images. A massage. The look on your husband’s face when he sees you chatting with another male–

“She has no shame.”

You snorted, abruptly disguising it with a cough. The two ladies looked at you with barely concealed disdain, clearly not convinced by your weak cover up. You schooled your features into a cool mask once more as they drifted away through the throng of guests.

Well then, so much for keeping yourself entertained during this dull gala. You had a pretty pathetic collage of curios to distract yourself with. The concepts were a flimsy screen between you and the stale evening ahead; monotony at its worst.

You’d rather be anywhere but here.

A foolish thought, you realized, given that you’d never been anywhere but here, except for brief diplomatic visits with your husband. Those were always awfully dull, your every movement watched and examined out of suspicion. You couldn’t blame your hosts. After all, you were from the Night Court, spawn of the worst bastards of Prythian.

No shame! You recalled the gossiping courtiers. Now who were they to judge someone for having no shame, when they were here gossiping in front of the Mother and everyone? And in equally appalling finery, no less! One of the two females was actually trying to get away with a bright orange dress. You sighed, almost pitying her for her sorry attempt.

But this was the Hewn City, at the heart of the Court of Nightmares, as it was deemed in hushed whispers. There wasn’t enough air here to waste it on pity.

Faeries of all kinds waltzed and chattered around the ballroom before empty thrones. Gaudy gowns and coats and heels and stoles– was that fur? Mother help us– blurred together as you took in the choked crowd. The decadent buffet? Untouched. The sparkling beverages? Much indulged. Such was typical.

What was the purpose of this event? You couldn’t quite recall. They were endless, these damned things.

What an odious affair. You’d been playing a game in your mind, to keep yourself from going mad. The goal was to picture all your favorite things, everything that brought you solace, and to try and hold them all in your mind at once.

Pointless, you chided yourself. It hadn’t stopped you from being disturbed by the insidious chatter of fellow partygoers. Despite the pleasant premise of the mental game, the montage left a bad taste in your mouth.

You had pictured everything that you looked forward to, and it had all taken up so little space. The game was ended so quickly. Your lips pursed, your good mood gone sour. You blamed the two females for interrupting your train of thought. They’d ruined your concentration, that was it.

You needed a drink. Your glass had been empty for far too long, you noted with displeasure.

Where was your husband anyways? He’d gone off for refreshments a while ago. Probably mixing with the elite, making sure his face was seen. He fancied himself a real big player in the court's inner workings, but you sincerely doubted it. Unfortunately, as the one he fucked most frequently for a number of years there, you knew firsthand how his ego was built on fantasy.

How long had he left you alone here? You couldn’t say. You weren’t exactly minding his absence. Temporary bliss was still bliss, you mused, resolving to find some real entertainment. You clicked your tongue once in distaste before gliding away from the pillar where you’d been camped out for the majority of the function.

Your husband always laughed at how you admired the fabrication of the city. But you couldn’t resist it. The pillar behind you was one of your favorites. Carved of dark stone, hordes of twisting figures decorating its face. They appeared to be in agony at first glance. A closer look revealed that they were in fact artfully engaged in all kinds of fornication. If only all pain could be turned into pleasure as easily as carving ebony.

Fuck, if you weren’t in a philosophical mood this evening. Sober, too.

Your husband was nowhere to be seen, a small mercy. He always hated your moods. You couldn’t blame him, you supposed, but you did regardless.

Right as you made it to a servant with a decanter of amber liquid, the room fell into an uncharacteristic hush. Your fingers plucked a full glass before you turned to scan the room for the cause.

Your eyes fell on the figures advancing from the center of the room as if they’d just appeared there. But of course, they had.

You scolded yourself as you glimpse the High Lord and his entourage.

Of course! How could you have forgotten? After all, that was why your husband had been so insistent on your attending tonight. The High Lord had specifically requested this event be thrown to honor… shit. Something. They did so many of these meaningless parties, often without any real reason, other than to show off that they could.

Your attention turned fully to the newcomers. They cut quite a fine figure. You understood why they caused the room’s collective breath to catch.

A subtle movement to the right of the High Lord grabbed your eye. You couldn’t help your own sharp intake of breath as you noticed the shadows flickering around the imposing Illyrian. In his leathers and simmering blue siphons, there was no mistaking him. It was the shadowsinger.

A thrill escaped down your spine at the realization. You’d heard hushed whispers about the High Lord’s spymaster, but you hadn’t known that he would be here tonight. His menacing quiet was unnerving. It was no wonder that rumor spoke of a seething rage masked by his calm demeanor. He never visited the city under the mountain these days. You wondered absently what he was doing here now.

He held himself with precision, a weapon at the right hand of his Lord. His wings were folded tightly, but it did little to hide their looming presence. The horns hovering over his shoulders only added to his threatening presence. Beneath his wings, his broad shoulders were relaxed, his demeanor casual as he strolled with cool power to stand beside the throne. Once stationed, he crossed his arms, his muscles emphasized with little effort. Fuck. What you wouldn’t do to feel them over you.

Irritation simmered across your chest as your husband sidled up to you, your budding fantasy shattered.

He didn’t so much as look at you as he shoved a glass in your direction. You received it with equal affection, now awkwardly holding two glasses. His attention rested fully on the group by the throne. What an ass.

The perfume on his coat was a scent you would never choose for yourself; it was far too sweet for your tastes. Your nose curled unconsciously– not at his infidelity, but at his poor taste. You hoped he would never buy you a similar perfume. Let him enjoy it on some other tramp.

As it was now, his lust was focused on the conversation at the head of the room. The Steward, Keir, motioned to your husband, and incidentally you, as he spoke to his Lord.

You felt your husband’s excitement, and you were certain it was evident to the blind and the dead as well. You sighed, resigned to the lack of tact that sullied his political sensibilities. He’d been gifted a hunger for power, without the typical tact for courting it. Shameless, the word flashed again in your mind. Yet, you couldn’t deny that he’d secured a decent knowledge of the court’s security in his current position under Keir.

He practically skipped when the Steward gestured for him, and you followed with a more metered step after passing your now-empty drinks off to a nearby attendant with a grimace. Despite your efforts, you knew that dignity was not something you could afford to value in this court. Still, you kept your chin up as you followed your male counterpart, straining at the stifling society. You drowned out his obsequious remarks as introductions were made between the males.

You wished the female one was here, the Morrigan. She made your blood freeze, but you preferred her cool disdain to the slimy males before you. You swallowed your irritation, keeping your face neutral as meetings were arranged.

To cool your mounting headache, you entertained yourself by taking in the shadowsinger out of the corner of your eye. A scant glance rewarded you with a stunning image of the male, who was intently focused on the conversation at hand. His handsome features were darkened with swirling shadows.

He was even better up close. You’d lost count of the instances where you’d caught a pleasant figure across the room only to be disappointed upon closer inspection. But this male was a specimen, indeed.

His dark brows trailed into a strong nose, his strong jaw upheld by a sturdy throat, one that you’d love to sink your teeth into. His hands were thick and scarred. You pictured what they could do to you, how meticulously they could pick you apart, stroke by savage stroke. The tough material of his leathers was snug in all the right places, tight around his massive thighs. Your thoughts erupted with fantasy at the details of his statuesque figure.

What held your attention the most, though, were his eyes. You would expect them to be dark, shadowy. Yet they were a rich amber, and startlingly bright. You flicked your gaze away quickly, but their burn lingered in your ears as if he’d caught your stare outright.

It was a pity he was just standing there. You wondered absently how you could cause a distraction, maybe fainting or starting a fight so you could see him in action. Your fantasies were interrupted as the conversation wrapped up, your husband butchering platitudes that he surely thought charming. You avoided choking on your disdain, but only narrowly.

As you walked away, Azriel released a deep breath. Cassian cleared his throat, a shit eating grin lurking beneath his cool features.

You’d kept your face perfectly pleasant throughout the whole interaction, not so much as a twitch to betray your insidious thoughts. But far be it from you to maintain propriety in the presumed privacy of your own mind...

Little did you know how loud your thoughts were. You couldn’t have hidden them, not from the present company, even if you’d known you ought to. Your thoughts were written in your skin, in your scent, hidden to most, but obvious to the High Lord’s elite.

“Well, well, Azriel. It’s just irresponsible for you to torture our citizens like that,” Rhys teased his brother as you walked out of earshot, oblivious to the three pairs of eyes taking in your generous retreating figure.

“I thought I was going to hurl if she didn’t stop undressing you with her eyes,” Cass drawled, fluttering his lashes in a dramatic imitation.

Azriel just snorted and shook his head.

“Hey Rhys, remember when Azriel was just a fledgling and couldn’t get any?”

“You mean yesterday? Yes,” Rhys responded with equal humor. “Since when was he the most fuckable?”

“Jealous, much?” Azriel cut in before Cass could continue the vulgar jokes.

“You could do worse,” Rhys said suggestively, amusement playing underneath his carefully arranged expression.

Azriel hummed. “I think I’d better do some recon later tonight, what do you think?” The boys grinned at that, Cassian hiding his snicker from the room behind his hand.

It was easy for Azriel to take their jeering in good humor when his ego had been rubbed just right by your attention. His eyes found you again in the crowd, your figure filling out your dress in a way that was downright sinful. He couldn’t wait for this damned event to be over.

✸✸✸

Your husband, the idiot that he was, wasn’t a fool. So, he had Azriel’s room heavily guarded and warded that evening.

Which was exactly why Azriel found it so simple to steal his way into your quarters, with the guards conveniently occupied elsewhere.

The dark was especially thick as he crept down the halls of the Hewn City’s elite. He hated to spend a night here, wasted in the dank underbelly of a mountain. The event had passed without incident, if only barely. It was only a thinning scrap of discipline that kept him from lashing out at Keir. His greasy tone had Azriel’s fist curling around Truthsinger all night. If he was being honest, it was only his respect for Mor’s claim on her own father’s life that held his blade.

That blade stayed sheathed even now, as he slipped soundlessly into your dwelling. It was almost insulting how easily the wards and locks were bypassed.

Azriel found you exactly where his shadows had anticipated, curled up on a cushioned chair in front of a roaring fireplace. A needless extravagance, given the magic that heated the whole city.

You were still in your dress from the ball, edible as ever, and your hair has been let down. His eyes trailed the mussed locks around your throat as you swallowed a mouthful from a crystal cut glass. You set your drink down on the low table beside you.

His silent steps faltered as he spotted a second glass, lightly sweating in the warm air. Was your husband home after all?

As his shadows moved soundlessly to canvas the apartment, you paused with your hand still on your drink.

It took every inch of Azriel’s discipline to keep his composure as you turned to face him. He shuddered at the sparks roiling in your expression.

You'd been expecting him.

“It’s considered polite to knock, you know,” you stated. He was frozen, pinned under your unexpected gaze. Your eyes raked over his tall figure, drinking him in with barely concealed desire. His fingers twitched.

“And it’s impolite to stare,” he shot back.

You smiled at that, teeth glowing sharp in the firelight.

“Touché.”

He drifted further into the room, his shadows skirting around the perimeter, flanking you as he approached. The fire dampened at his power permeating the air. You didn’t even bother pretending to flinch.

“Have a drink with me,” you invited, unperturbed. “Or would that be improper, too?”

In reply, Azriel grabbed the spare glass, and knocked it back in one smooth motion. When he set it down, two of his digits stroked the delicate rim gratuitously, his eyes never leaving yours. He snagged your drink from under your fingers and perched above you on the arm of your chair, dauntless as ever.

He was playing a dangerous game, stealing what wasn’t his.

“We weren’t introduced,” he began casually as he stared down at you.

“Oh?”

“I saw you earlier tonight,” he said, his syllables crisp. “Typically, someone might introduce their spouse to the High Lord and his retinue.”

“Ah,” you said, understanding. “He’s had so much on his mind,” you excused your husband’s lapse in manners with a dismissive wave of your hand. He was many things, but you could never claim him to be poorly mannered. At least not outside the home.

“Is that what you are to him?” came the reply. “An afterthought?”

Your silence was answer enough.

He continued, menacingly, “I can’t understand that. I could hardly think of anything else all evening, with you there, and in this outfit.” His eyes bored into your soul, his blunt words making you blush. Not out of embarrassment, but in exhilaration.

“I can’t say I understand him, either.” You were annoyed at the topic, this was not what you’d expected to talk about with the gorgeous male towering above you. In fact, talking had little to do with your hopes for the evening…

“And where is he tonight?” Azriel pressed. The question was unexpected.

“Privacy is one of the few luxuries I have,” you whispered seductively.

The shadowsinger scoffed at that, eying the expensive interior where you sat.

“I doubt that.”

“Are you calling me a liar?” He levelled you with a look, and waited patiently for a real answer. You swallowed, deciding your pride should learn to live with the truth. “I don’t know where he is. Well, I know the answer is someone’s bed, certainly. But where? With who? I don’t ask anymore,” you admitted.

Azriel nodded. He wasn’t judging you, you realized. He was just gathering information, calculating. His eyes narrowed as his contemplation clicked.

“So what I’m hearing is that it wouldn’t be terribly untoward, all things considered, if I fucked you in his bed?”

You gasped at his ugly words, even as they sent a shudder straight to your core. His responding smile was a wicked thing, dripping with dark promise.

“I saw how you looked at me this evening.” He dipped his head to speak lowly in your ear. “You were practically begging for this.”

His lips brushed the sensitive shell of your ear as he sat back. Your breaths were dangerously uneven now, your heart was in a riot under your ribs. He looked intimidating above you, the firelight painting him in aggressive shades of crimson. Yet his eyes were like syrup, enticing amber pools oozing with arousal. Dimly, you registered him set his drink aside.

“What are you going to do about it?” you breathed, hardly trusting your voice.

His hand came to cup your jaw roughly, his thumb caressing your bottom lip.

“What would you have me do?” he countered.

“Kiss me.”

At that, he launched forward to capture your face fully, his mouth meeting yours in a furious kiss. You tasted your husband’s best whiskey on his mouth, and you moaned sinfully at the flavor. He took the opportunity to explore your mouth with his warm tongue. His heady taste ignited a hunger low in your gut. He was unraveling you with precision, your teeth scraping against him messily.

As he moaned your name, you grinned. You weren’t sure if he’d remember you, after all, but you’d certainly hoped.

“Fuck, I’ve missed you,” he groaned against your mouth.

“How long has it been?”

“Centuries? At least,” he guessed.

Memories flooded you, unbidden, as his rough jaw worked yours, your moans mingling in the hot room.

He’d been fully grown the last time you’d seen him, of course, but somehow he seemed more mature now.

It had been a brief encounter, but pleasurable, when you’d befriended the Illyrian ages ago, in the calamity of your youth. You’d never gotten too close to him, you doubted his brothers even knew about you. You were neither of each other’s firsts, but he was certainly a highlight in your sexual history, you now realized with chagrin.

“You’ve made out well,” he said roguishly.

“What?” you muttered, confused, before you saw how he was glancing around the place, noting the plush rugs and fine ornaments. “Oh, yeah. They managed to marry me off advantageously after all. It’s cushy,” you shrugged.

“Impressive work,” he deadpanned.

“Yeah, well we can’t all be blessed with ungodly strength and good looks.”

You were shocked when he laughed at your playfulness. You couldn’t recall his grim face laughing, but as you saw it, it felt right on him. Perhaps you’d erased the image. Or maybe he was simply different now.

“Are you calling me handsome?” he flirted lowly, his lips brushing your cheek, as he grinned mischievously.

“I’m not going to be calling you anything if you keep sitting on your ass! I heard you were watching me all night, and I asked you to do something about it,” you huffed. You were floored that he’d noticed you, that he’d remembered you.

He growled and kissed you again quickly before pulling you up. You went to lead him to your bedroom, but you didn't make it very far before he had your back pressed against the wall. His kiss was bruising, like he couldn’t believe it was really you, and he needed to make sure. It was a strange sensation, to have an unrecognized dream be realized so viscerally, to be entangled with him again.

Only when your lungs were screaming for air did he pull back; he was as insatiable as you remember. Your breaths came in heavy pants as he held you firmly against the wall of your husband’s living room.

His leg pressed into your clothed center, and you whined noisily at the contact. His pupils dilated, and he pressed his leg more firmly against your core. Your hands tangled in his hair, and you tugged tightly at his scalp as you felt the pressure right where you needed it.

“If you do that, I'm going to finish right here,” he growled. His words only thickened the pulse that was building low in your abdomen.

Effortlessly, he removed your hands from his sensitive scalp and pinned them above your head with his shadows. The position pressed you close to his chest, trapped by his firm body. Your breasts brushed his front, the contact riveting.

He softened his harsh actions by placing warm open mouthed kisses down the column of your throat. It was torturous, his teeth scraping over your pulse point.

“Now,” he purred, “are you going to be a good girl and do as I say?”

At the moment, you couldn’t imagine doing anything other than his bidding, entranced as you were by his actions.

“Yes,” you promised.

“I knew you were smart. On your knees for me, angel.”

He released your hip with a gentle tap. You slid down the wall, your arms still bound above you. He caught your wrists as you kneeled, using them to press you against the wall with one hand. The position wasn’t comfortable, but you paid no mind as you made eye contact with his straining leathers.

You leaned forward to nuzzle the outline of his cock beneath his clothes, mouthing over his tip. He shuddered, his fist tightening on your wrist.

“Please,” you slurred into him. Your lips continued working along his clothed member.

“Fuck. Listen to you beg for it,” he groaned, his pelvis shifting towards your face involuntarily. He deftly undid his belt, popping it open with one hand. The action was erotic. His nimble fingers made quick work of his leathers.

When he finally uncovered himself, you moaned at the sight. Consistent with the rest of his anatomy, he was impressive.

A particularly thick vein had your mouth watering in anticipation. You parted your lips, your tongue falling open, ready for him. He was pretty, and you loved to take pretty things and make them your own.

He eased his thick head onto your waiting tongue, and groaned deeply at the contact. Your warm mouth was an instant ease to the tension in his head, replacing its pain with a delicious coil in his abdomen. His wings shivered, falling limp as you took him deeper.

His taste was intoxicating, salty and thick. You breathed through your nose, looking up at him through your lashes as you drooled around his girth. One of his hands was braced against the wall, his expression simmering with torment. As your watery eyes met, he moaned at the sight of you crouched under him in your gloriously disheveled state.

“Fuck, look at you taking me so well. Right where he could walk in and see,” Azriel sighed.

Your eyes widened at his words. Your cunt throbbed at his obscene comments and you whined.

“Do you like that? Being such a slut for me?” he laughed, the sound thick with need.

He moaned again as you began to tongue his length. You traced his thick veins generously before you began to bob your head. Your pulse felt heavy under the pressure of his grip on your hands, pinned to the wall. His hips stuttered as you found a rhythm with your mouth.

When you pulled off a bit to give special attention to his weeping tip, sucking gently, his free hand came to hold your hair. He shushed your startled noises as he pressed you further onto him. You frantically swallowed, choking as he forced himself down your throat. He held you there for a moment before he began to pump himself into your mouth.

Gagging at his size, you breathed through your nose in time with his slow thrusts. He groaned, the noise landing painfully in your soaked core. You whined, and the vibration around his girth made him hiss.

“You look fucking divine on your knees like this,” he praised haltingly. “Doing so well, angel.”

If your mouth wasn’t occupied, you would have told him how divine he looked too. Even fully dressed, with just his fly popped open, he looked like a walking vice, every inch an indulgence. His hair was tousled from where you’d raked your fingers through it, and his expression was just as unkempt. The labored look on his face was beautiful, even as the pleasure was so depraved.

He was a practical stranger, and you were sucking him off in your husband's hallway. The priceless carpets would be soaked by the time you were through.

You relaxed your jaw further, trying to take more of him down your throat. One erratic movement, and your teeth scraped his shaft lightly.

He hissed, pulling you off of him abruptly.

“Shit,” he panted. He didn’t sound mad, yet he looked fierce with a sick appetite.

You tongued his flushed head, apologetic. “Let me finish, I can do it,” you rasped.

“I know you can, baby,” he assured you, “Fuck, trust me, I know.”

You attempted to lean in for him again, and cried when he held you back. You looked up at him, tears streaking your cheeks. He ran a thumb under your eyes before pressing his thumb to your lips. You sucked him in eagerly, sighing at the slight gratification, teething brattily at his fingernail. His abdomen spasmed at the sight of you so worked up over tasting him.

“Did my cock make you stupid?” he cooed. “No need to beg, baby, I’ve got other plans for us.”

He pulled you up, kissing you languidly as you pressed against him. Your hip dug into his arousal, sending fresh pleasure through him. He licked the spit from your jaw, moaning at the pure eroticism.

“Want to show me your bed, baby? I promise I'll make it worth your while,” he touted, and his eyes shone deliciously with depravity.

You grabbed his hand and pulled him along into your lavish bedroom. When you arrived, you twirled around dramatically to gesture at the room, ever the tasteful hostess.

“As promised…” you present the intimate room. The sapphires on your favorite hand mirror winked at you from your nightstand as you led him towards the silk cushions.

He hummed in appreciation, pausing to pretend to take in the interior. You blushed, even though you had nothing to hide. Suddenly, you felt vulnerable having him here.

Finally, his eyes fell to you standing in invitation before him, next to your bed, which was perfectly built for two. His sensual stare sent a rush through you, reigniting your excitement at the delicious affair.

He brought his hand to brush your hair back, grasping at your scalp. The agonizing male pulled you towards him. His kiss was relaxed this time, his hot tongue meeting yours in a gentle caress. His other hand skimmed your side, exploring from your waist to your hip with infuriatingly gentle motions.

For a moment, you allowed yourself to enter a daydream: that this was your life. You imagined that his strong, steadying grip was a real embrace. Maybe you’d have stumbled home together after another horrible event, and the whole way you’d both have mocked the ridiculous room full of ridiculous people until they were nothing but a ridiculous memory. He would kiss away the dullness until your soul was brilliant and shining again.

Suddenly, you were horrified to feel your eyes thickening with tears.

“Don’t be gentle with me,” you urged him.

“Need me that badly?” he tried to tease, but his voice was thick with lust. When he reconnected your mouths, his grip was crushing, his teeth grazing your bottom lip in his desperation.

Despite your wet eyes, you hadn’t really been sad. You’d been empty, absent from your own life. You didn’t need his pity. You needed his fire, a living coal to stoke your own with.

Here you were in all your wealth, trapped, and embarrassed by your barren, threadbare life. Not even sheets of the highest thread count could cover the rags and shambles of your existence. You were ravenous, you realized, for something to make you feel alive.

And here Azriel was, like a vision from a different lifetime, kissing you senseless like it was his secret mission all along.

“I’ve been waiting to do this all night,” he murmured against you. Before you could question his meaning, he was slipping the straps of your dress down your shoulders, his mouth following to taste your freshly exposed skin.

As your dress pooled around your feet, his growl filled the room with pitch black energy. As his eyes darkened at your nude form, you thanked the Mother that you’d foregone undergarments.

“Did you know? Did you know that I was going to be there tonight when you put this on?” he breathed, teasing sensually.

You debated lying, but thought better of it. “No,” you confessed.

He whistled shortly, “I’m just that lucky.”

He grinned at you before attaching his mouth to your naked flash, his teeth scraping the sensitive flesh of your nipple.

“You’re perfect,” he remarked between sloppy kisses to your chest.

You flushed impossibly, floored by his attentions. His soft mouth was expertly working your tits, biting lightly and harshly licking, while his rough hands explored your backside. It felt dangerously like worship, even as he consumed you for his own satisfaction. The ecstasy was twisted; you’d had no idea he was even in your city when you’d dressed for the dreaded evening out with your husband.

“On the bed,” he commanded, spit shining on his chin when he rose finally from your chest.

You fell back against it, shamelessly watching as he unfastened the straps of his leathers in a torturous spectacle.

“You’re gorgeous,” you whispered, half to yourself. His wings twitched at that. Pride surged through him as he finally removed the last of his clothing, easy work courtesy of his hastily redone pants. His thick cock slapped to attention at his stomach. Your chest was rising rapidly from your position against the pillows. You looked so comfortable, so enticing.

“You’re one to talk,” he flirted. You reached for him, intending him to join you. Instead he sat on the edge of the cushion, tantalizingly out of reach.

“Can you keep your hands to yourself?”

No, you thought.

“Yes,” you lied aloud.

His eyes narrowed. Shadows crept from his shoulders to slither up your form. You shivered at their featherlight touch caressing your form.

When you moved your hand to play with them, you gasped, finding your limbs restrained again under their power. Your arms were above your head, and your legs spread open under you.

“That’s what you get for lying," Azriel shared sympathetically, as if he wasn’t the one controlling them. You pouted and he clucked placatingly, his hand caressing your ankle. Was he ever going to let you touch him?

“Come here,” he cooed. He pulled you roughly onto his lap, so you were straddling one of his thick thighs. He kept your hands secured behind your back while his came to grip your hips, steadying you.

You whined as he flexed his rigid muscles under you. Sweat was already forming a thin sheen across your boiling flesh.

“You didn’t listen, and then you lied,” he listed. “You’re lucky I'm feeling generous tonight, I'm going to let you get yourself off here.”

Your jaw fell open at his words. What? Did he expect you to fuck yourself on his thigh?

“Well?” he prompted.

His hand gripping your hip moved to squeeze the flesh of your ass impatiently. Yet you didn’t move, testing him. You weren’t used to this, not getting what you wanted.

A crack rang through the room as he smacked your ass. You moaned at the sudden contact, pain flaring along with a sudden sense of urgency. Your hips started to move, slowly at first, then with more vigor as you gained the confidence to seek some friction.

“That’s it, good girl,” he cooed.

He watched you through heavy eyelids, your breasts bouncing right in his line of sight. When you glanced at his crotch, you saw the evidence of his desire prominently straining against his toned abs. It only fueled your fervor to see how you affected him.

You looked so fucked out above him, circling your hips desperately on his muscular thigh. His huge hands were secure on your waist to steady you, but he wasn’t actually helping. You grew frustrated, desperate for stimulation, the pressure not nearly enough to soothe the throbbing ache between your legs.

“Az, please.”

“Hmm?”

“Please touch me,” you begged.

He obliged, but again, not as you’d hoped. His tongue traced swirling patterns over your breasts, and one hand came up to palm them. The touch was maddening, only heightening your sensitivity. Your pussy was soaking his thigh, yet only his gaze deigned to touch your undulating hips.

“Not there,” you complained in a huff. It was infuriating to be clenching around empty space.

When he finally brought his rough fingers to your clit, you cried out in relief. Your hips stuttered as he rubbed tight circles over your sensitive bundle of nerves.

Sweat dripped down your spine, muscles in your shoulders and thighs straining as you chased your bliss. Your moans crested as he pressed his textured fingers harshly against you. Right when your release was about to shatter you – his hands abruptly pulled away, forcing you to still your hips.

“Did I say you could come?”

His fingers left your form as he growled. You gasped, red faced and panting. The look on his face was predatory, lit with brazen lust.

“On the floor, on your knees.”

Dizzy with the broken orgasm, you obeyed awkwardly, his shadows still constricting your hands. The floor bit into your knees, the sting was a jarring sensation in contrast with the arousal that was dripping between your thighs. Despite your discomfort, you were determined to finish what you’d started earlier in the hallway.

When you leaned in to take his cock into your mouth, he gripped your throat roughly. Your mouth opened on reflex, but he held you there, just out of reach.

His other hand came to tug heavy strokes at his cock, right in front of your face. He moaned savagely, fixated on the sight of you slick and naked below him. Your back arched at nothing, frantically searching for some friction.

He looked like a god above you, his shadows swirling deliciously along his powerful form, his wings shaking with pleasure. His dark hair fell into his eyes, and stuck to his sweat-dampened forehead as he panted and pumped himself.

“I thought you said you were going to fuck me?” you said hoarsely, desperate.

You saw the challenge land when his molten eyes sharpened. His hand stilled.

“I don’t remember you being such a brat,” he growled, but his eyes gleamed wickedly.

He pulled you up for a kiss, his hands coming to play with your ass, massaging viciously. The dull ache between your legs throbbed at his hot touch.

“And I don’t remember you being such an ass,” you retorted, but your words lacked any real vitriol, eager as you were for his touch. He sensed it, and let your bratty words slide.

“I've missed that mouth almost as much as your tight pussy,” he purred devilishly, unfazed.

He must have meant it too, since two of his thick digits trailed between your legs while he spoke. There was a gleam in his eyes as he felt your slickness, and it wasn’t humility.

“So wet, baby,” he muttered. “All this for me?”

You whined and leaned into his shoulder, shuddering at the teasing stroke. His shadows slipped away from your wrists, leaving no discomfort save for your sore tendons.

Azriel tapped your ass once, his assured satisfaction putting him in a good humor.

“Up on the bed for me, angel,” he directed.

His command sent a shiver down your sweat chilled spine, the anticipation heating your skin. You mounted the bed, and he positioned you on your stomach. He pulled a pillow under your hips, kissing your shoulder tenderly. You shook with nerves. Your arousal was seeping down your legs. You’d been waiting for this since you’d seen his unmistakable physique striding through the crowd.

“That comfortable?” he asked, some care peaking through the haze of his lust.

“Yeah, that’s great.”

“Okay,” he said. “Let me know if I’m being too rough, yeah?”

You nodded eagerly, pressing your chest to the cushions to ease your ass back against him. The towering male ignored your spurring move, instead he pulled you up to your knees for a kiss.

You couldn’t be mad at him as he captured your lips so tenderly, even as he was unwilling to give you a moment of control. Your body was pulsing with a delicious heat, pressed against his chest, tasting spice and earth on his tongue.

The Illyrian’s soft lips were depraved, practically sucking at your teeth. His ferocity left you lightheaded, you were helpless under his power. His hard need against your lower back brought your mind to the matter at hand.

“Too scared to fuck me, huh, Az?” you taunted.

He bit your lip, snarling as you pressed your ass against his throbbing length.

“This your first time?” you mocked.

Azriel let out a humorless laugh at that.

“You’re trouble,” he hissed, grinding his cock against your lower back. You whined at the fiery contact, so close but so far from what you needed.

“You like trouble,” you grinned.

“I do,” he agreed.

With one last searing kiss, he pushed your shoulders down so that you came to rest on your forearms. He draped your legs over his thighs. The dips between your legs and pelvis burned as he brought your hips up to meet him where he kneeled.

He dragged his cock along your soaked folds, teasing you. He groaned deeply, the sound landing in your abdomen. Without warning he slammed into you. You bit the pillow deliriously to stifle your moan as he cursed.

“Shit. I forgot how perfect you were for me, baby,” he purred as you adjusted.

“Fuck, you feel so good,” you cried.

He responded with another groan, and pulled out near fully to ram into you again. You clenched around him involuntarily.

“Fuck,” he moaned, “you’re gripping me like…” he trailed off into another deep groan, the sound vibrating like a shock through your flesh.

“Faster, Az,” you gasped.

Something in him snapped when you cried his name. The male began to pound you without restraint. His hands on your hips were sure to leave bruises, but you were far beyond care. His pace was relentless, gone berserk in his lust. His shadows leapt out, suddenly larger than life. The tendrils of shadow felt acutely like an audience, even pressed into the cushions you felt the heat of their attention.

“That's it, baby,” he growled. His praise made your flesh rise, a whine pitching from your heaving throat.

“Does he make you feel this good?” The question surprised you, as did the crooked thrill it sent through your teeth.

“No,” you confessed with a sigh. His resounding gasp died in a strangled moan as you clenched around him at his perverted words. Served him right, you thought, as he destroyed your insides.

“Say my name,” he commanded suddenly.

“Azriel!” You barely managed to voice it as you moaned wildly.

“Who’s making you feel this good, huh?” he taunted. “I want the whole city to know.”

You screamed his name as he pushed into you with a particularly punishing thrust. His cock scraped your walls agonizingly. It was addicting how he filled you so perfectly.

His hand came to press up on your lower stomach, and he groaned at the feeling of his cock filling your guts. The pressure had you bucking your hips onto him, chasing the feeling.

“Look at that,” he murmured, and you weren’t even sure if he intended you to hear. “You’re taking me so well.”

Long gone was the reserved male from the event this evening. He had been replaced by an insatiable double, just as dark but deliciously unrestrained.

The pillow beneath you was a useless anchor amidst the crashing waves of pleasure. Even with your eyes squeezed shut, your senses were a riot. The room filled with your tandem grunts and moans, and the scent of your sex laced the thick air. You felt his mouth on your spine, heat unfurling down your back, and your bones went unstrung under his hot touch.

The ache in your abdomen had erupted into an ecstatic pulse. Your pleasure mounted as the shadowsinger’s moans became breathier. His hips began to stutter, yet his pace was punishing as ever. He brought two thick fingers to rub fast circles on your throbbing clit as he hurtled towards his release.

“I’m gonna come,” he warned with a salacious whine.

He pulsed inside of you as his thrusts stilled abruptly. You couldn’t help but turn your head and watch as he came undone. It was as satisfying as your own bliss to witness his.

His eyes were shut tight in ecstasy while the rest of him slackened, his back arching involuntarily as he convulsed. You’d never seen something so jaw achingly erotic in all your days.

Amidst his orgasm, his coarse fingertips never paused their assault against your heat. You arched back onto him, the feeling of his aching member sending you into oblivion. The pressure of his expert hands paired with the erotic sight of him drunk off your core had your release shattering over you.

The waves of bliss that had been cresting slowly all evening crashed over you all at once in an undeniable blow. It had your body tensing and loosening all at once, your nerves on fire. He worked you through it as you cried, trembling beneath him.

When your fists eventually unclenched from the sheets, he came to an inevitable halt. He pulled out gingerly, mindful of your present state of hyper sensitivity.

He kissed your shoulder as he turned you over. He checked you for any damage, just like you were a comrade fallen in battle. You were utterly spent, but unharmed. The exhaustion was gratifying, a welcome ache from an evening much enjoyed.

“That was bliss,” you told him.

“Top shelf, for sure,” Azriel agreed, eyes still dancing over your naked form like he was committing it to memory.

His face was pleasantly unguarded as he spoke. Something suspiciously like a smile played on his swollen lips. The spymaster’s features were surprisingly easy, decompressed as he was in the aftermath of such cataclysmic delight.

You had been the perfect diversion for him, and he for you. True to form, he didn’t idle with you as you lounged, fully drained, in your rumpled sheets.

Azriel dressed efficiently, which is to say that you weren't yet prepared for his stunning body to disappear under his clothes, not so quickly. That was the thing about indulging a vice, these things were never meant to linger.

He stood next to your bed, suddenly assuming an air of professionalism, like you hadn’t just been screaming his name.

“If I'm ever in town again…” he began, tentatively.

“I’ll be here,” you laughed. You meant it humorously, but the words rang hollow in the empty air.

“Good,” he noted with satisfaction.

His words weren’t quite a promise. Still, the meager sentiment had something almost like hope flaring in your sunken chest. Darkness was wrapping itself thickly around his form, like he was gathering his things to leave.

He kissed you once more, slowly, as if he was memorizing the feeling of your mouth on his. And then he was gone, taking his shadows with him.

The sudden light of the room hurt your eyes. You blinked away the tears, swallowing the horror that rose at their arrival, bitter as bile. You sniffed once before snapping to work.

Within a few minutes, you’d erased every trace of your charmed evening.

The shadowinger hadn't left so much as a hair as a sign of his presence, and even the bed was cold again by the time you crawled under fresh sheets. Sleep came mercifully quick, surrendering you to a world of dreams.

✸✸✸

The next night, your husband was gone again, his dinner untouched on the long table where you'd carefully laid his place at the head.

Usually, on nights like these, you would relish the freedom of the empty home and set a fire in the hearth. It was a frivolous excess, but so was most of your life.

The fire was part of a game you played, where you would picture everything you hated, everything and everyone you wanted to see burn. Some nights, it soothed you to picture it, your personal apocalypse. Other nights, the warm flame felt like an insult, its wagging tongues mocking your petty, helpless game. Nights like those were the worst, the void more humiliating than any offense. They left you feeling vapid, foolish.

Tonight however, instead of your customary game at the hearth, you found yourself sitting alone in the wide expanse of your bed. You’d lit a solitary candle; not to banish the darkness, but to invite the soft shadows it spread. Their quiet company was a cold comfort to your heart, where a fragile, unfamiliar flame was just flickering to life.

A/N: Thanks for reading :) I can't for the life of me write a one shot so this might have to become a blurb-y little series of an unpredictable and torturous affair. Who better to have as an affair partner than this sexy spy? He’s big dicked and discreet– everything you need ... Re: ‘Scotty Doesn’t Know’ – "I did her on his birthday" is the *coldest* line and I feel like Azriel is a little shit on the down low and would get off on that... If you have scenarios in mind for future episodes, please send them my way ;)

Let me know what we think! And did the last sex position make sense?? I was struggling to explain it.

Next part

#ENJOYYY #this was SO JUICY AND FUN and kinda sad to write #im high key proud of this one #lmk if you want more >:))#my writing #azriel #azriel shadowsinger #azriel acotar #azriel angst #azriel smut #azriel x reader #azriel spymaster #azriel fanfic #azriel x female!reader #azriel x you #acotar fanfiction #acotar #acotar smut #smut

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misswynters · 4 months ago

Text

Royal Harbinger

featuring. ekko x princess! reader

Hailing from the Grand Kirzean Empire, you were a princess. The only one wielding the blood technomagic abilities. Having such powerful abilities yet you are one of the most sweetest person, ekko has ever bet.

Glittering starlight pierced through the thick smog that veiled Zaun, casting faint halos of silver over the jagged metal and broken cobblestone streets. Neon lights pulsed faintly from signs above cluttered alleyways, their buzzing hum blending into the mechanical symphony of the Undercity. Amid the chaos, there stood a figure who seemed so out of place it was almost comical—wrapped in delicate silks and adorned with intricate, glowing lines of red that shimmered faintly with every step.

You, a princess of the a Grand Empire, wielder of forbidden blood technomagic, and to Ekko, someone who had no business wandering these parts.

Perched atop a railing on one of Zaun’s crumbling platforms, Ekko crossed his arms as he watched you. At first glance, you were every bit the image of innocence. That soft smile you offered the street urchins as you handed them what little supplies you’d brought from above. The way your delicate hands caressed the head of a stray Zaunite mutt, soothing its bony frame. Your voice, lilting like a melody, apologizing for taking up space in an already-crowded alley.

It didn’t make sense.

“Hey,” Ekko called from above, leaping down to land lightly on his feet a few steps away from you. “What are you doing here? This place isn’t exactly royal palace material, Princess.”

Your head turned, the faint light catching your gentle features. “Oh, Hi Ekko! I was just… exploring.”

“Exploring?” He raised an eyebrow, his tone carrying an edge of disbelief. “Kirze’s finest blood mage is just out here sightseeing?”

The smile on your lips didn’t falter, though your fingers twitched at the mention of blood magic. “I needed to see this place for myself. You’ve told me so much about Zaun… I couldn’t stay away.”

“Yeah, well,” he muttered, glancing around. “Zaun isn’t exactly a tourist spot. Especially for someone like you. People see those glowing lines on your arms? They’ll think you’re carrying something valuable and won’t ask before taking it.”

You tilted your head, the light in your eyes curious rather than offended. “Is that why you’ve been following me for the past hour?”

His composure faltered, and he scratched the back of his neck. “Maybe.”

“That’s sweet of you,” you said softly, your gaze dropping to the cobblestones. “But you don’t have to protect me, Ekko. I can handle myself.”

“Yeah, sure,” he scoffed. “Handle yourself like when that drunk guy in the bar tried to grab your hand last week, and you just smiled at him like he was your best friend?”

Your laugh was soft. “I didn’t want to cause a scene.”

“You’re too nice,” he muttered, running a hand down his face. “You’re in Zaun now. Being nice gets you hurt.”

But even as he said it, something about your presence made the buzzing tension in his chest loosen. Maybe it was the way you didn’t flinch at the harshness of his words, or the way your kindness didn’t feel forced. It wasn’t fake or performative—it just was.

Before he could say more, a low growl rumbled from a nearby alley. Ekko tensed, his hand instinctively reaching for the bat strapped to his back. Two figures emerged from the shadows, their faces obscured by bandanas, their postures predatory.

“See?” Ekko muttered, stepping in front of you. “This is exactly what I’m talking about.”

The larger of the two men chuckled, his voice gravelly. “A couple of lost little birds, eh? Let’s see what you’re hidin'.”

Ekko’s grip tightened on his bat, his stance shifting. “You don’t want to do this.”

“Oh, well we do,” the smaller man sneered, pulling a knife from his belt.

Before Ekko could spring into action, a faint crimson glow bathed the alley. The air grew heavy, almost suffocating, as the markings on your skin flared to life. The metallic scent of blood hung in the air, and the two men froze, their bravado crumbling as their bodies seized up, limbs locking unnaturally.

Ekko turned, his jaw slack as he watched you step forward, your hand raised delicately. The men’s weapons clattered to the ground, and with a flick of your wrist, they crumpled, gasping for breath but unharmed.

“Leave,” you said, your voice calm but commanding, as if the very air bent to your will. The men scrambled to their feet and disappeared into the shadows without a second glance. The glow faded from your body as you turned back to Ekko, your serene smile returning as though nothing had happened. “See? I told you I could handle myself.”

He stared at you, his bat still half-raised. “What the hell was that?”

“Blood technomagic,” you said simply, brushing an invisible speck of dust from your sleeve. “It’s a bit… intimidating, I know. I don’t like using it unless I have to.”

“Intimidating?” he repeated, his voice a mix of awe and disbelief. “You just turned two full-grown men into rag dolls without breaking a sweat.”

You shrugged, your smile faltering slightly. “I don’t want people to see me as a monster. That’s why I try to be kind—to balance it out.”

“Balance it out?” Ekko stepped closer, his eyes searching yours. “You’re not a monster, Firefly. You just saved both our asses.”

The nickname caught you off guard, your cheeks warming as you looked away. “You don’t have to call me that.”

“Uh! Yeah, I do,” he said, his tone softening. “You’re out here lighting up Zaun like no one else can.” Silence stretched between you for a moment.

“Come on,” Ekko said finally, offering you his hand. “Let’s get out of here before more trouble shows up.”

You hesitated, glancing down at his outstretched hand. Despite the power coursing through your veins, the ability to command life and death with a flick of your wrist, something about the gesture made you feel vulnerable in a way you weren’t used to.

But then you took his hand, his grip warm and steady, and for the first time in a long while, you felt safe with him. As he led you through the winding streets of Zaun, he glanced back at you with a grin tugging at the corners of his lips. “You know, Firefly, you’re full of surprises.”

“Jeez! You’re full of compliments,” you teased, your voice light despite the lingering weight in your chest.

“Do i?, or do you just deserve all the praise one can get.” he shot back, his grin widening.

. . .

Oh, how you wished that it was just the end. But it wasnt, not in a place like this. Soon after both smoke and ash swirled in the air, a haze of chaos and destruction painted Zaun’s underbelly in muted tones of gray and orange. Shattered pipes hissed steam into the atmosphere, nearly drowned out by the growing fires. The air was thick with tension, each explosion sending shockwaves through the cracked streets.

Amid the wreckage, Ekko’s heart raced as he sprinted through the winding alleys. His boots echoed sharply against the metal ground, his bat swinging at his side as his thoughts churned. Where are you?

He had only taken his eyes off you for a second, just one second. He thought you’d be right behind him as the bombs started going off, but when he turned, you were gone. He didn’t see the men closing in on you until it was too late.

Ekko gritted his teeth, his frustration mounting. He had heard of the Empire you were raised in and its unparalleled mastery of technomagic. But meeting you: sweet, kind, and carrying an unfathomable power, had shattered all his assumptions. You weren’t just a mage but a princess as well. But to him, you were simply you. His light in the dark. And now you were in danger. Seemingly.

When you woke, the metallic tang of blood clung to the air. The room was dim, lit only by the faint red glow of the bindings around your wrists. Your gown, once pristine and clean was dirty by the scuffle, and your heart pounded with a mixture of fear and adrenaline.

“Stay calm,” you whispered to yourself, your voice soft, barely audible.

A group of men stood a few feet away, speaking in low voices. Their uniforms were unmarked, and their expressions betrayed no fear as they glanced at you.

“They doesn’t look like much,” one of them sneered. “For someone called the 'Royal Vermilion of Chaos', I expected… more.”

“It’s a stupid nickname at that” someone else said, though you couldn’t see them.

You flinched inwardly but forced yourself to remain composed. “I don’t suppose you’d let me go if I said please?” you asked, your tone almost playful despite the trembling in your hands.

“Cute,” another said with a scoff as his hand cupped your face. “But we know what you are. What you’re capable of. Better to keep you tied up.”

Your smile faltered slightly as your blood hummed beneath your skin, an ever-present pulse of magic just waiting to be unleashed. You had always been careful, never letting your power consume you. But now, fear began to stir something unstable.

Ekko burst into the place like a storm, his bat taking down the first guard before the man could even draw his weapon. The second came at him with a blade, but Ekko ducked and swung upward, sending the man sprawling.

“Where is they?!” he growled, his voice echoing through the metallic halls.

The third guard hesitated, and Ekko pressed the bat against his chest. “Talk, or you won’t have the chance to regret it.”

“Down the hall,” the guard stammered, eyes wide. “In the main chamber!”

Ekko didn’t wait for anything else. He tore through the hallway, his chest tightening with every step.

The explosion was deafening. The bindings around your wrists melted away as your magic surged to life. Crimson veins glowed beneath your skin, and with a single wave of your hand, the room erupted in chaos. The men who had mocked you moments before were now scrambling, their weapons useless against the tidal wave of energy that lashed out.

Walls were cracked, the ceiling shuddered, and the air itself seemed to bend to your will. But as your power spiraled, a sharp pain shot through your arm. You looked down to see a jagged cut along your forearm, blood dripping onto the floor. The sight steadied you. Taking a deep breath, you channeled the magic inward, watching as the blood wove itself back into your skin. The wound closed, leaving only a faint scar that glimmered for a moment before fading. When the door burst open, you turned, your energy still crackling around you like a storm.

“Firefly!” Ekko’s voice broke through the chaos, and for a moment, you hesitated.

His eyes darted across the room, taking in the destroyed walls, the unconscious bodies, and you, standing at the center of it all. Your gown was soaked in blood, and your face bore streaks of crimson, but you were alive.

“Hi,” you whispered, relief flooding your voice.

In an instant, he was in front of you, his hands cupping your face. His thumbs brushed against the bloodstains on your cheeks, his eyes filled with worry. “Are you okay? Did they hurt you?”

“I’m fine,” you said softly, a shaky smile forming. “But I think you should ask them if they’re okay.” You gestured to the men sprawled across the floor.

Ekko’s lips twitched, a short, breathless laugh escaping him. He pulled you into his arms, holding you tightly as if afraid you might disappear. “Y’know I was so scared,” he murmured into your hair, his voice cracking.

You hugged him back, your fingers curling into his jacket. “I’m sorry,” you whispered. “I didn’t mean for it to get this bad.”

He pulled back just enough to look at you, his gaze intense. “This isn’t your fault. None of it is.”

You met his eyes, the tension slowly ebbing away as his warmth grounded you. For a moment, the chaos around you faded, leaving only the two of you.

“That was incredible, y’know?” he said, a teasing grin forming.

You let out a soft laugh, the sound light and genuine. “I’ll take that as one of your compliments.”

Ekko shook his head, his grin widening. “Come on, let’s get you out of here before you decide to redecorate the rest of Zaun.”

As you left the hideout, his arm stayed firmly around your shoulders, his presence a constant reassurance. Despite the destruction you had left behind, Ekko’s steady hand in yours made you feel like everything might just be okay.

Later, the two of you sat in the a garden. It was one of the few quiet, untouched spots in Zaun. Ekko couldn’t help but tease you. “So, Firefly,” he began, his tone playful. “Remind me to never get on your bad side.”

You rolled your eyes but smiled. “I wouldn’t hurt you, though.”

“I know,” he said, his voice softer now. “But next time, maybe warn me before you turn an entire room into a scene from a horror movie?”

You laughed, the sound bright and free, and Ekko felt his chest tighten. Despite everything, you were still you. His sweet, kind Firefly who somehow carried the weight of a mage’s power with grace. And as the neon lights of Zaun reflected in your eyes, Ekko leaned closer, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead. “I love you,” he said quietly, the words simple but sincere.

You smiled, leaning into him. “I love you too.” The two of you stayed at the garden until dawn. You were practically sleeping on his shoulder, exhausted from today, but he didn’t mind. Because he knew soon that you would have to leave, and god knows when he will see you again. So he wanted to cherish every moment he had with you.

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sweetvoidstuff · 23 days ago

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Bound by Fate, Chosen by Love I Part 1

Jungkook x Reader I Werwolf x Witch I Fated Mates I Slow Burn I Strangers to Lovers I Supernatural Romance I Protective Jungkook

Summary : A witch bound by duty. A werewolf bound by instinct. When fate intertwines their paths, they must decide if love is worth defying expectations. Hunters threaten their people, forcing them to fight side by side. As tensions rise, so does the pull between them—soft moments turning into something far more intense. A quiet invitation, a lingering touch, a whispered question that changes everything. In the end, choice matters more than destiny. But with danger still lurking, will they have the chance to choose each other?

Word Count: 42K

Masterlist

A/N: Well, I wanted to post this as one, but Tumblr won’t let me… so I’ll be posting Part 1, Part 2 and Part 3 back to back. Sorry about that! Hope you still enjoy it!

Part 2 / Part 3

The scent of blood clung thick in the air, mingling with the dying embers of the village’s fires. Jungkook stood at the center of the devastation, his hands clenched into tight fists, nails still lengthened into claws from the fight. Sweat and blood coated his skin—some his own, but not all of it. Far from it. His chest heaved as he struggled to steady his breath.

Around him, his pack moved swiftly—gathering the wounded, checking the fallen. They had fought hard, but the ambush had been unexpected. Hunters had found them.

Namjoon lay motionless on the ground, his usually strong and commanding presence dimmed by the severity of his wounds. Seokjin knelt beside him, pressing firm hands against a deep gash along Namjoon’s side, his face tight with worry.

“We can’t treat this here,” Seokjin said, his voice rough with strain. “The wound is poisoned, cursed, I don’t know. Normal healing won’t work.”

Fear clung to his words. If their Alpha, their leader, there friend died… there would be others to take Namjoon’s place—Jungkook and Seokjin among them. But so soon after such a devastating attack, a power struggle would only weaken the pack further.

Jungkook cursed under his breath. He knew what had to be done.

“The witches,” he said, the words tasting forbidden on his tongue.

Seokjin’s eyes snapped up to meet his. “You know it’s forbidden to cross the valley,” he murmured, voice low, as if even speaking of it would summon trouble.

“I don’t care,” Jungkook growled. “If there’s even a chance they can help, I’ll take it.”

The werewolves had always been wary of the witches who lived beyond the valley, deep within the hidden grove. Myths claimed they were descendants of the devil, that they meddled in dark magic. But Jungkook had never put much stock in those stories. The truth was, their kinds hadn’t mixed for centuries. Not enemies, not allies—just strangers who respected the unspoken boundary between them.

But he would break that boundary tonight.

✦•······················•✦•······················•✦

The night was heavy with mist as Jungkook approached the village hidden within the thick embrace of the forest. The air hummed with a power he had never felt before—subtle but undeniable. The trees seemed taller, the shadows deeper, longer, as if the very land itself was old but alive. He shifted back into his human form as he neared the entrance, not wanting to provoke a reaction by approaching as a wolf.

Jungkook barely made it past the first set of dwellings before three hooded figures emerged from the darkness, surrounding him. Their movements were precise, silent, and before he could decide whether to fight or speak, one of them grabbed his arm.

“You will come with us.”

Jungkook didn’t resist. He went willingly—fighting would do nothing but worsen his chances. He was here to plead, not to battle. His people had suffered enough.

The witches led him through winding stone paths, deeper into the heart of their village. Eventually, they reached what looked like a grand council hall, its high ceilings glowing with floating candles, its walls lined with ancient symbols that pulsed faintly with power—none of which Jungkook had ever seen before.

At the center of the room sat an elderly woman, her hair white as snow, neatly pinned in a bun. Her wrinkled eyes held a sharpness that spoke of wisdom and experience. She wore a simple black dress, a dark brown knitted shawl draped over her shoulders, her presence both commanding and eerily calm. She spoke in hushed tones with someone seated beside her—someone who caught Jungkook’s attention for only a second before he was shoved forward, forced to his knees before the elder.

The old woman studied him with knowing eyes.

“A werewolf in our village is an unusual sight,” she said. “Why have you come?”

Jungkook took a deep breath, his voice steady but urgent.

"My pack was attacked by hunters. Our leader, Namjoon, is dying. The wound – we have no way to heal him, but your coven might. Please—I am asking for your help."

Hushed whispers filled the hall. The mere mention of hunters sent a ripple of unease through the gathered witches. A long silence stretched between them before the old woman finally sighed, shaking her head.

"I am sorry for your inevitable loss," she said, her tone laced with genuine sympathy. "But we will not spare a healer. Not when the risk is so high."

Jungkook’s jaw clenched, his fists curling at his sides. Fury burned hot in his chest. "You would let someone die when you could save him?" he snapped. "What kind of magic do you practice if it lets you turn your back on those in need?"

Jungkook’s jaw clenched, his fists curling at his sides. Fury burned hot in his chest.

Before anyone could say more, you spoke.

“I will go.”

The room erupted.

“You cannot!”

A man standing near you—clearly a guardian of some kind, given the leather tunic and sword at his hip—stepped forward in protest. His dark eyes flashed with barely contained anger. “You are to be the next coven leader! You can’t risk yourself like this.”

His voice, though laced with frustration, carried a melodic smoothness that could captivate anyone who listened. If Jungkook hadn’t had heightened hearing, he might have missed it.

The old woman beside you—your grandmother, Jungkook realized—looked equally outraged.

“We will not allow it,” she said firmly.

But you didn’t waver.

“This is not up for debate, Jimin, Grandma,” you said, voice unwavering. “If we don’t value life, then why teach me compassion in the first place?”

Your grandmother exhaled through her nose, clearly displeased but knowing she could not sway you. Jimin, however, wasn’t done fighting. He stepped even closer to you, his presence protective, his stance firm. Jungkook clenched his jaw, a sharp irritation flaring within him. It was unreasonable—he knew that—but the way your guard hovered so close to you made something in him bristle.

"Then I’ll come with you," Jimin insisted, his voice tight. "I will not let you go unprotected."

"The journey will take three long days on foot," your grandmother agreed. "Through dangerous terrain, and the risk of hunters seems high. If you leave at sunrise, you may have a better chance of avoiding them. I will ward you with protection.”

Jungkook forced his focus back to the conversation, though the irritation lingered beneath his skin. "We won’t be going on foot," he said. "In my wolf form, I can carry you. We’ll be way faster that way. My people… many were already at the brink of dead when I left for help."

Jimin’s expression darkened snapping at Jungkook at the suggestion, his lips pressing into a thin line. Jungkook could practically feel the waves of protest rolling off him. The idea of you leaving with a werewolf clearly did not sit well with him, and for some reason, that only aggravated Jungkook further.

You, however, had already made up your mind.

"Then we leave in an hour," you said, ignoring the tension between the two men. "I need time to gather what I might need—medicines, supplies, charms for protection." Your eyes flickered to Jungkook. "You should use that time to rest. You look like you need it."

Jungkook exhaled slowly, nodding. He wouldn’t argue. His body still ached from the battle, and if they were to travel fast, he would need his full strength.

Jimin wasn’t ready to back down. He stepped closer, voice edged with disbelief.

“This is reckless,” he argued. “You—of all people—leaving with a stranger? A werewolf? In the middle of the night?” His tone was sharp, laced with concern and anger. "Do you even hear yourself?"

Jungkook was on his feet in an instant. The sheer ridiculousness of the situation struck him—did they really think he would harm you? He had come here, humbled himself before your people, and still, your guard stood as if he were some mindless beast ready to strike. His irritation flared, but he pushed it down, focusing instead on what truly mattered.

Jimin moved swiftly, placing himself between you and Jungkook, his hand gripping the hilt of his sword. The air in the chamber grew thick with tension, the silent challenge crackling like fire between them.

Jungkook squared his shoulders, meeting Jimin’s stare head-on. His voice was no longer just steady—it was unshakable.

“I swear on my life and the honor of my pack,” he declared, his gaze locking onto yours. “As long as you are with me to help my people, I will lay down my life before yours. No harm will come to you—not while I still breathe.”

The words rang through the hall like iron striking stone, unwavering and absolute. Jimin’s fingers twitched against his sword, his instincts screaming at him to remain wary. But before the tension could spiral further, your hand came to rest on Jimin’s shoulder.

It was a small gesture, yet Jungkook watched with silent irritation as the effect was immediate. Jimin stiffened, then exhaled sharply, lowering his hand from his weapon.

Jungkook pushed his tongue into his cheek, fighting the unreasonable annoyance curling in his chest. Why did it take you to calm him? Why did the sight of your hand on someone else—your trust in someone else—bother him? He shoved the thought aside, focusing instead on you.

You turned your gaze to him, your voice steady and sure. "I believe in the wolf standing before me."

The words settled deep inside him, quieting some of the storm in his mind.

"What is your name?" you asked. Voice gentle.

For a moment, Jungkook just looked at you. Then, finally, he answered. "Jungkook."

A small nod. "I am Y/N."

Your guardian pressed his lips together but said nothing more, stepping back begrudgingly. Jungkook ignored the strange sense of satisfaction that settled in his chest at that.

He would rest. And then he would take you with him—away from here, away from the witch who stood too close, and back to his people where he knew, without a doubt, that you were meant to be.

You watched as Jungkook was led to a quiet, secluded resting area, tucked just behind the stone walls of the ancient temple where he could rest and refresh. His figure was striking even in the fading light. His broad shoulders were slightly hunched, a subtle sign of the exhaustion that weighed on him, but there was an undeniable strength to his presence that couldn't be overlooked. Beneath the dark fabric of his tunic, his muscles shifted with each movement—taut, coiled, ready.

When his right arm flexed, the intricate tattoos etched into his skin caught your eye. Black lines, sharp and deliberate, curled around his bicep and stretched down his forearm, their design a seamless blend of power and artistry. They weren’t merely decorations; they were a story—one inked into his very flesh, speaking of battles fought, victories earned, and oaths sworn. There was a rawness to them, a quiet energy humming beneath each mark, as if the wildness within him had been woven into his very skin. You found yourself wondering about their meaning, about the stories they told. About what it might be like to hear him speak of them in that low, gravelly voice.

His steps were steady, though they carried a weariness, as if every movement he made was deliberate, measured. His raven-black hair, damp with the sweat of the day’s battles, fell slightly over his forehead in messy strands, and you couldn’t help but be drawn to the sharpness of his jawline, defined and strong, yet softened by the tension that gripped him. His eyes, dark and intense, seemed to absorb everything around him, calculating each moment, each movement. They flicked over his surroundings with a restless energy that mirrored the storm raging within him. But despite the tension in his posture and the storm brewing in his eyes, there was something almost magnetic about him—something that made your chest tighten with a deep, instinctive need to help.

You couldn’t help but follow his movements with your gaze, a knot in your chest that you couldn’t quite explain.

You forced yourself to turn away, breaking the hold he had on your thoughts. There was no time for hesitation. Swiftly, you gathered what was necessary for the journey—water, herbs, bandages, protective spells small enough to carry. A few potions to ward off fatigue, perhaps, and to keep danger at bay. A change of fresh clothes. Your mind was already calculating what else you might need, but you didn't want to over-pack and burden Jungkook with the extra weight. You needed to travel light, to move swiftly.

As your hands worked with practiced efficiency, your mind wandered back to the way his gaze had lingered on you earlier, to the quiet intensity of it. And to the strange sense of steadiness you found in his presence.

A glance at the hour told you it was nearly time.

You changed into something more suited for travel—comfortable, form-fitting clothing, easily allowing for movement. No time to waste now. You gathered the small satchel and backpack with your essentials and moved toward the door.

When you found Jimin outside, he was pacing, his brows furrowed in agitation. As you approached, he stopped and eyed you critically. His concern for you was as obvious as his mistrust of Jungkook.

“Are you sure about this?” Jimin’s voice was low, his tone edged with uncertainty. “You can’t just trust a wolf pack, no matter what promises they make. They’re dangerous. This—this whole situation—it’s too risky. I don’t like it.”

You met his gaze head-on. “Jimin, I trust Jungkook. I don’t know why but I do. He promised to keep me safe, and I believe him.” You paused, watching the flash of skepticism in his eyes. “I won’t be alone. I’ll have him with me.”

Jimin’s jaw tightened as he shook his head. “How can you? We don’t know him! And I’m still coming with you. No matter what you say, I don’t trust any of this. Not the wolves. Not the way you’ve been acting... I’m not leaving you to deal with that on your own.”

You didn’t argue further. Jimin was stubborn, and you knew he would follow you regardless. But you could see the worry in his eyes—he was protective, and though you appreciated it, you had already made up your mind. With a final glance at him, you turned and strode toward the temple’s back entrance.

“Just tack us,” you said firmly. “We need to move quickly.”

Jungkook was already waiting in the clearing, the silver moonlight carving his silhouette from the shadows. He stood taller now, more at ease, though his eyes still carried the weight of unspoken thoughts.

As you approached, his sharp gaze flicked to you, and for a moment, it was as though time itself slowed.

“You’re ready?” he asked, his voice low, a soft growl underlining the words as he stood tall. His wolf was closer to the surface now, the tension of his form palpable.

“I’m ready,” you answered, nodding. There was no more hesitation, no more doubt. The air between you seemed to hum with an energy you couldn’t name.

You nodded. The space between you seemed to hum with something unspoken.

Jungkook exhaled, rolling his shoulders. "Climb on after I shift. Sit between my shoulders—that will be the most stable. Hold on tight. I won’t drop you."

You nodded, preparing yourself to ride with him, Jimin stepped forward with a sharp glance at Jungkook. “I’m coming with you, too,” Jimin said firmly. “I’ll follow behind you—don’t think I’m just going to let you take her off with you, no matter what promises you’ve made.”

Jungkook’s gaze flicked briefly to Jimin, a flicker of irritation crossing his features. But there was no argument. He simply nodded, understanding the need for caution your people held, though it was clear he wasn’t thrilled about having Jimin follow.

Without saying another word, Jungkook began to shift. His muscles rippled beneath his skin as the transformation started. The air around you grew tense, and a low, resonating growl rumbled deep from his chest, even as his body expanded and contorted in ways that felt unnatural. You stepped back instinctively, your heart pounding in your chest as you watched him.

And then he was there—a massive wolf, his midnight-black coat gleaming under the moonlight. His sheer size stole your breath, a creature built for speed and strength, every movement fluid and deadly. His eyes, glowing with an ethereal green, a piercing intensity that seemed to look straight through you.

Jungkook’s form was stunning. His wolf was a creature of power and grace, exuding an aura of raw, unbridled energy. There was an elegant savagery to him, and yet, in his eyes, there was still something familiar, something that made your heart skip in your chest.

Jungkook’s gaze met yours, steady and unwavering. Slowly, he lowered himself, his body still, waiting. The weight of his presence was overwhelming, and you could feel it in your bones. Jungkook’s eyes softened as he studied you for a moment longer before his body tensed again. He let out a soft huff, almost as if in a silent communication.

You stepped forward, your heart racing as you placed your hand gently on his back. His fur was impossibly soft, but beneath it, you felt the solid strength of muscle. For a brief moment, a thought flitted through your mind—what would it feel like to touch him like this in a moment not marked by war and urgency?

You swallowed, pushing the thought away, and climbed onto his back. With a deep breath, you swung one leg over, your body steadying as you positioned yourself on his back. Jungkook’s massive form shudder and shifted slightly, adjusting for you. The moment you were fully settled, he rose slowly to his feet, making sure not to jostle you. His patience was unexpected, his careful movements at odds with his sheer size and power. His wolf was patient and aware, moving with a grace that belied his size. You could feel the steady beat of his heart beneath you.

Jungkook took a cautious step, testing your comfort level. You relaxed slightly into his back, gripping his fur more securely, and with that, he picked up his pace, moving forward with a slow, powerful jog. You felt his muscles ripple with each stride, his movements precise and fluid, the ground beneath you blurring as he gained speed.

The hours stretched on, the landscape shifting from dense forest to open plains. The journey ahead was marked by quiet but steady progress. As Jungkook's powerful form cut through the forest, the world around you seemed to blur with speed. The trees and the shadows that once felt imposing now seemed like mere silhouettes, passing by in the blink of an eye. His powerful legs pushed him forward with a grace that made the air hum around you. The moonlight filtered through the canopy above, casting pale beams that illuminated the path, guiding him as naturally as if the forest itself had parted to make way.

You settled into the rhythm of the journey, allowing yourself to simply experience the moment. The first part of the trip was uneventful, save for the occasional snap of a twig beneath his paws or the distant hoot of an owl. It was almost peaceful, the kind of serenity that seemed almost too perfect to last.

Jimin had fallen back, fast. As the hours passed and the night wore on, you couldn’t help but notice how steady Jungkook's movements were. Despite the urgency of his mission, there was something almost meditative about his pace. It wasn’t rushed, but rather deliberate, as though every step was carefully planned to ensure both of your safety. His breathing was steady, his heart beating in sync with the rhythm of his movements.

The landscape around you began to change slowly. The dense forest gave way to more open terrain, where the trees were spaced farther apart and the underbrush gave way to dry grass and wildflowers that swayed gently in the wind. The journey had already taken hours, but the night was still young. The stars above sparkled brightly, as if even the heavens had conspired to light the path ahead.

The pace never wavered. Despite the exhaustion weighing on both of you, the steady rhythm of Jungkook’s run, coupled with the cool night air, kept you energized. Occasionally you spoke softly to him, asking if he was alright, but each time, he simply grunted in response. A little later, Jungkook began to slow his pace. You didn’t protest. Your muscles ached, and your eyes were heavy, though your mind remained alert.

His muscles rippled beneath his fur as he lowered himself into a seated position, gently lowering you to the ground. You slid off his back, feeling the familiar earth beneath your feet. The forest around you was peaceful, almost too still, and you felt a brief, unsettling silence settle in.

Jungkook shifted back to his human form almost immediately, his movements smooth and deliberate. He let out a sigh, his shoulders slumping for just a moment before he straightened, his eyes scanning the surroundings.

"We should rest," he said, voice rough. "You’ll fall off if we go any further."

"I can keep going," you protested, but even you weren’t convinced. Your body ached from the unfamiliar ride, your legs screaming in protest.

He gently shook his head." I need a break as well. I’ll take the first watch."

You nodded. You settled down beside him, trying to ignore the gnawing exhaustion creeping into your bones. As Jungkook moved into a watchful stance, his eyes scanning the surroundings, you finally allowed yourself to lean back, staring up at the sky.

In the stillness of the night, with the sound of Jungkook’s steady breathing beside you and the distant rustling of the wind in the trees, you finally allowed yourself to close your eyes.

Jungkook sat against the trunk of a tree, his sharp eyes flicking between the darkness of the forest and your sleeping form. His ears, still heightened even in his human state, picked up the soft rhythm of your breathing, the way it had finally evened out now that exhaustion had won over your wary mind.

You slept, oblivious to the war raging inside him.

A witch. His mate was a damned witch.

The bond was undeniable. The second you’d touched him, he had known. But did you? Or were you oblivious, unaware of the pull tethering you to him?

His fingers twitched, resisting the instinct to reach out. The need to touch you was maddening, but what would it change?

You shifted slightly in your sleep, the soft rise and fall of your chest impossibly steady, as if you weren’t lying beside a wolf who was questioning everything he knew about fate.

Jungkook exhaled sharply, dragging a hand through his hair. There was no escaping this, no denying what had been set in motion. His jaw tightened as he tried to reason with it—as if rationalizing it over and over would make it more bearable. It didn’t.

He had heard of mates bonding outside their own kind. Shifters mated to humans, vampires, and even once, an old elder claimed a siren had been bonded to a wolf long ago. But never a witch. Not in any history he knew. And it had to be him.

Not only that, but you weren’t just any witch. You were someone important, someone powerful. You had defied your own coven, risked a lot to help his pack, and now, whether you knew it or not, you were his.

What did that mean? For him? For you?

Would you accept it, or were you like some humans, oblivious to the bond, requiring time—or worse, never recognizing it at all?

His fingers curled into the dirt, suppressing the urge to reach for you, to brush his skin against yours and feel the bond’s pulse again, just to be sure. But what was the point? The fact remained: you were a witch, and he was a wolf. And right now, you were his only hope.

Jungkook sighed, forcing himself to rest, even as his mind refused to quiet. Instead, he listened to you, to the even rhythm of your breathing, to the small, unconscious sighs you made in sleep. He hated how much it soothed him.

His attention flicked to Jimin. He didn’t want to be impressed with Jimin, but he was. The man had trailed you both far longer and closer than Jungkook had expected. His nose and ears should’ve caught Jimin falling behind immediately, struggling to keep up. Instead, Jimin had barely made a sound, his scent present for quite a while but never overstepping for the first two hours. That kind of skill wasn’t common, even among their kind.

Jungkook let the night pass, letting you rest as long as possible before the first streaks of gold kissed the horizon. He turned toward you, placing a careful hand on your shoulder.

You jolted awake, blinking up at him, eyes still hazy with sleep.

“Is’t’time to switch?” you mumbled groggily.

Jungkook shook his head, hiding a small, almost amused smile. “No, we keep moving. By midday, we’ll reach my village.”

You sat up quickly, rubbing the sleep from your eyes before nodding. “A’right.”

Without another word, he shifted, his massive wolf form towering over you once again. You climbed onto his back, hands gripping his thick fur.

Jungkook took off, the forest blurring around you as he ran.

✦•······················•✦•······················•✦

The closer they got to the village, the more the air changed. Jungkook smelled it before he saw it—the thick, coppery scent of blood, the acrid sting of burnt wood and fur. Even from a distance, his stomach twisted. The attack had been worse than he thought.

But there was no time to dwell. His pace never slowed, his focus never wavered. He didn’t stop when distant figures noticed him and called out. He didn’t stop when the pack members turned, some running to greet him, others frozen in shock at the sight of the stranger riding on his back. He didn’t even acknowledge the murmurs that rippled through the village as he raced straight to the Pack House.

He only stopped when he nearly slammed into the doors.

You jumped off his back just as he shifted, barely taking a second to regain his human form before grabbing your wrist and pulling you inside. The scent of sickness, of suffering, was even worse in here. Bodies lay in makeshift beds, wolves in both human and shifted form, their wounds bandaged but still raw. A few heads turned, weak eyes barely registering his arrival before exhaustion pulled them back under.

He barely had a moment to breathe before a figure blocked his path.

Jin.

And beside him, Hoseok—whose face was twisted in fury.

“A witch?!” Hoseok snarled, stepping forward, his teeth bared. “You really left us to go get a witch! For all the problems we have, you thought bringing one into the mix would help?”

His glare snapped to you, and before he could move, before he could even think about lunging, Jungkook was there. His body moved on instinct, stepping between you and his furious friend, his own teeth bared in a low, guttural growl.

Hoseok froze. His amber eyes flicked to Jungkook’s face, the realization dawning like a slap across the face.

“No,” he breathed, barely above a whisper. His eyes darted between you and Jungkook, horror creeping into his features. “Tell me you’re joking.”

Jungkook didn’t respond. He just kept his stance firm, his growl deepening as his fingers twitched at his sides, ready to strike if necessary.

A moment of heavy silence passed before Jin sighed, rubbing his temples. “We don’t have time for this,” he muttered. “If she can help, she stays. If she can’t, then this argument is pointless.”

Hoseok didn’t look convinced, but he took a step back, his lips still curled in frustration. He shot you a final glare before turning on his heel. “If this backfires, it’s on you,” he snapped at Jungkook before storming off.

Jin exhaled heavily, looking at you with far less hostility but no less wariness. “You sure you know what you’re doing?”

You didn’t hesitate. Instead of answering Jin’s wary question, you turned to him with crisp authority. “I need a lot of hot water, at least two sets of helping hands—people who will follow my orders without hesitation—and as many of your local healing plants as you can gather.”

Jin blinked, caught off guard by your sudden command. He hesitated for a second, clearly unused to being ordered around, but you didn’t give him the time to argue. “Get to it,” you said sharply, already moving.

You pulled your hair into a quick ponytail as you retrieved a piece of chalk from your satchel. With quick, practiced strokes, you began writing intricate symbols on the door behind you, then moved to the windows, murmuring under your breath as you worked. Protective runes, sealing wards, and cleansing scripts—each one carefully placed to strengthen the space around you, to keep the sickness from spreading and the darkness from lingering. Jungkook watched you with a furrowed brow, confusion flickering across his face, but he didn’t interrupt. There was something about the way you carried yourself—an unshakable presence that made even the strongest warriors in the room hesitate to question you.

Then, the work began.

The next several hours blurred together in a haze of movement and whispered incantations. You barely had time to think as you worked, your hands steady, your magic sharp. Jungkook remained by your side, assisting without hesitation. Whether it was holding down a thrashing patient, keeping pressure on a wound, or simply fetching what you needed before you asked, he was there. Others, however, were less trusting. When one of his pack members hesitated too long, questioning your methods instead of acting, you threw them out without a second thought. There was no room for doubt, no time for superstition. Every move you made was precise, every incantation purposeful, as if everything you did from the moment you entered was one long healing ritual. The tension in the room was thick, but you ignored it.

Hoseok entered once. He stood in the doorway, arms crossed, his sharp gaze watching and waiting for you to make a mistake. If you noticed his presence, you didn’t let it show. You had no time for petty pack politics—not when lives were on the line. Eventually, even he had to acknowledge that whatever you were doing, it was working. The air in the Pack House shifted. The stench of death and decay lessened, the oppressive weight of sickness lifting, if only slightly.

Jungkook had seen magic before—had fought against it, had learned to be wary of it. But he had never seen this. You moved through the room like a storm contained in human form, commanding not just the space but the people within it. Never had he seen a witch walk into a den of wolves and take control like the very air bent to their will.

It made his skin crawl.

Not out of fear. No, the unease twisting in his gut was something far more dangerous than fear.

It was recognition.

Because as he watched you move—commanding the space like you had been born to lead, unwavering even under the weight of distrust and still showing compassion—something inside him whispered the truth.

Mine.

It was infuriating.

Because you weren’t just any witch. You were powerful. Respected. Feared. And now, for better or worse, you were his mate.

The idea that fate, that anything, could have decided for him that a witch of all people was meant to be his mate. His future. The thought unsettled him. Witches and shifters did not mix. It was unheard of. And not just any witch, but you. The next in line to lead your coven if he heard right. Someone who, from the moment you had stepped into this house, had taken control with an ease that made his pack uneasy.

It made him uneasy.

By midday the next day, after working non-stop since the moment you stepped into the Pack House, much had changed.

Of the seventeen wounded, seven were finally strong enough to sit and speak—even Namjoon was coming by. Three had insisted on leaving, eager to return to help with the aftermath of the attack. But one life still hung in the balance—a child, their small body ravaged by a cursed weapon. You had done nearly everything you could. Every herb, every spell, every ounce of magic you possessed had been poured into saving them. Now, the rest was up to the child’s spirit.

But not everyone was willing to accept that answer.

“You saved the others. Why not my son?” a voice snapped from the corner of the room. It was a woman, her face drawn with exhaustion and grief. You turned slowly, your own exhaustion heavy in your bones, but your expression remained unreadable. “Magic is not a quick fix, it means sacrifice, it means willpower.” you said, your voice steady. “I have given him every chance, more would be reckless. Now, he must choose to fight.”

The words hung heavy in the air, met with silence and barely concealed tension.

“There has to be something more you can do! ” the woman demanded more from you, her voice sharp with grief and desperation, Jungkook felt the tension in the room spike. The mother’s pain was suffocating, but the Pack’s suspicion was heavier. It was clear what they were thinking. That you had chosen who to save and who to let die.

That you had let the boy suffer.

Jungkook stiffened, ready to step in, to defend you. But before he could, another voice cut through the space like a blade.

Hoseok.

His closest friend. One of Namjoons most trusted like himself. And the one person he knew would not let this go easily.

“Can’t,” Hoseok said, his voice low and sharp. “Or won’t?”

Jungkook stiffened, was about to snap—was about to remind Hoseok that you had spent the last day and night healing their wounded without so much as a break.

This situation was dangerous.

Hoseok wasn’t just questioning you—he was challenging you.

And yet, instead of backing down, instead of shrinking under the weight of an entire pack ready to turn on you, you moved.

Fast.

Around Jungkook. Right in front of Hoseok.

A bold, reckless move.

No one challenged Hoseok like that—not unless they wanted a fight. But you stood before him, meeting his glare without flinching. Your voice, when it came, was cold. Calculated.

For a split second, Jungkook forgot to breathe. For a split second, everything in him went tight—instincts roaring to life at the sight of you placing yourself between two wolves. He almost grabbed you, almost pulled you back, but you weren’t afraid.

Not of Hoseok. Not of anyone.

Instead, you lifted your chin and met his glare with something colder. “What would you willingly give to save the child?”

A beat of silence.

Then, a scoff. “What?”

You turned away from him, eyes locking onto the mother. “His name,” you demanded.

The woman hesitated, confused, but answered in a shaky breath. “S-Sunwoo, a-and I would give anything.”

The shift in the room was immediate. Tension coiled tighter, like a wire pulled to the breaking point.

Jungkook saw it—saw the way something flickered across your face at the name. It was gone in an instant, replaced by something unreadable, but it was there.

Hoseok noticed too, but he didn’t take it seriously.

“What, you think saying his name is gonna fix this?” He let out a sharp, humorless laugh. “You’re not a god, witch.”

The snarl in his voice was met with something colder in yours. “I never claimed to be.”

Then, before anyone could react, you grabbed Hoseok’s wrist.

Jungkook saw it happen in real-time, and yet, he still couldn’t believe it.

Your fingers locked around Hoseok’s wrist.

The entire room reacted.

Wolves tensed. Muscles coiled, teeth bared. A ripple of aggression spread through the Pack like a match to dry grass. Hoseok froze for a split second—shocked, furious—but before he could yank back, you pulled him forward, dragging him to the child’s side with an ease that sent a whisper of something dark through the watching crowd.

Jungkook was stunned.

No one touched Hoseok like that. No one dared.

And yet, here you were.

Gasps echoed around the room. The Pack’s unease morphed into outright hostility. Several wolves growled low in their throats, eyes flashing with warning, but you ignored them all.

You had everyone’s attention now.

“A miracle,” you said, voice laced with something ancient. Something powerful. “Fine! You’ll get a miracle. But don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

You offered a gentle hand to Sunwoo’s mother, inviting her to take a leap of faith.

And she did.

Slowly, carefully, her trembling fingers found yours.

Jungkook felt it before anything else.

As you started to murmur, the air shifted. The words you spoke were unintelligible, a language he had never heard before. Even your breathing sounded melodic, weaving through the tension like a song long forgotten.

The magic curling through the room, thick and cold, the air turning sharp enough to taste. His wolf bristled beneath his skin, instincts screaming danger. Every instinct screamed at him to move, to stop this, to protect.

But he didn’t.

Because he didn’t know how to protect you from something you were obviously the cause of.

He swallowed down the urge to growl, but others weren’t as restrained. A ripple of unease spread through the pack, some baring their teeth, others shifting on their feet like they were fighting the urge to move.

Then the sky outside darkened.

Not like nightfall. No, this was unnatural—shadows stretching long where there should have been light, the temperature in the room plummeting.

Hoseok stiffened. “What the hell—”

He tried to pull away, but you tightened your grip. “If you move, the boy dies.”

The mother trembled. A dead silence.

Then—

A flash of silver.

Jungkook lunged, instincts overriding thought, but it was already too late. Before he could react, you had already moved.

The blade cut clean across Hoseok’s palm.

Not deep. Not fatal. Just enough.

Blood welled up on Hoseok’s skin. Another on the mother’s hand.

Then—

Yours.

The scent of it filled the air, sharper than the rest. Jungkook’s wolf reared in his chest, nearly throwing him forward, but he held himself back.

Your blood hit the boy’s skin, mixing with the others.

The second it did, the world lurched.

A pulse of magic ripped through the room, snapping against his senses like a whip.

Hoseok’s breath hitched, muscles locked like he was fighting something unseen. The mother gasped, eyes going wide as her fingers trembled in yours.

Jungkook fought the overwhelming wrongness of it all, his wolf howling in protest, instincts screaming—

Then you looked at him.

It was brief. A single glance.

But it was enough.

Because in that moment, as the spell took its toll, you knew.

For better or worse, he would be the one to keep you alive.

Then you collapsed.

His body moved before his mind caught up.

One second, you were standing—the next, you were falling.

Jungkook caught you before you hit the ground, his arms locking around you instinctively.

Dead weight.

Limp.

Too pale.

Too still.

For a single, horrifying moment, he thought—

No. No, you were still breathing.

Hoseok snapped out of his daze, golden eyes flashing with fury. “She—”

Jungkook could already hear it coming.

“Jungkook,” Hoseok growled, voice sharp with rage. “She attacked us! She—”

“Enough.” Jungkook’s voice was steel, sharper than fangs.

But the argument never even started.

Because behind them—soft, barely audible at first—a sound shattered the tension.

A sob.

The mother.

And then—

A small, shuddering inhale.

Jungkook turned just in time to see the boy’s eyes flutter open.

The Pack House fell into stunned silence.

Sunwoo was alive.

You had done the impossible.

But as Jungkook looked down at your unconscious form in his arms—too fragile, too vulnerable—he knew one thing for certain.

Whatever you had done…

It had cost you.

And now, unconscious in his arms, you were more vulnerable than ever.

✦•······················•✦•······················•✦

Warmth.

That was the first thing you noticed as you slowly drifted back into consciousness.

Not the suffocating, burning heat of magic consuming you from the inside out, but something gentler. Something that cradled you rather than scorched. A soft, steady warmth, surrounding you like a cocoon.

You shifted, blinking slowly as your vision swam into focus. The ceiling above you was wooden, dark beams stretching across a thatched roof. The air was crisp, carrying the faint scent of pine and something clean. Not sterile, but fresh—like newly laundered clothes, like herbs hanging to dry.

You inhaled deeply.

Bad idea.

Pain lanced through your chest, raw and sharp, like your ribs had been scraped raw from the inside. A low groan left your lips as you tried to push yourself up, but the aftermath of the spell was still weighing you down. Blood magic was always nasty. You had known it would take a toll, but even this was worse than you had expected.

The sound of movement snapped you from your haze.

A shadow shifted in the corner of your vision, and before you could react, Jungkook was at your side.

You blinked up at him, startled. He had moved fast, so fast you hadn't even registered it. His dark eyes were locked onto you, sharp and searching, but his touch was careful as he slid an arm behind your back, steadying you as you struggled to sit upright.

“You’re awake,” he murmured, his voice low, unreadable.

You stared at him. Really looked at him.

His face was tense, jaw set tight like he was barely keeping himself from saying something else. His brows were drawn together, but the emotion in his eyes was harder to pin down. Frustration? Relief?

You swallowed, glancing down at yourself. You were covered with a thick, woolen blanket, the rough texture oddly grounding. Beneath it, you could feel the stiffness of dried blood clinging to your skin and gauze placed on the cut you forces on yourself.

“I am not dead?” you finally rasped, voice hoarse.

Jungkook blinked, momentarily thrown. “…Why would you be?”

You exhaled a weak, humorless laugh. “Well, I did cut two of your—what is it called? Mates? Pack friends?”

His lips twitched, but he didn’t let himself smile. “Pack members.”

“Right.” You frowned, trying to make sense of it all. “And they didn’t kill me in my sleep?”

Jungkook’s expression hardened. “No one was going to touch you.”

You searched his face, trying to understand. They had been furious with you earlier—cautious, wary, resentful of what you were – he had been. And yet, here he was. Sitting beside you, supporting your weight, his voice steady and protective.

“…Why?” you finally asked.

Jungkook’s jaw flexed, something flickering behind his eyes. “I swore to protect you, didn’t I? Not that you make it easy for me.”

You studied him for a long moment. He wasn’t lying. But something about the way he said it made you uneasy. Not in a fearful way, but because it felt… too certain.

Your gaze flickered around the room. It was small but cozy. The wooden walls were lined with shelves, neatly stacked with supplies—herbs, dried meat, woven baskets filled with folded blankets. A fire crackled in the corner, its glow casting flickering shadows across the space.

“You are in my home,” Jungkook told you, watching your expression carefully. “You were unconscious for a few hours.”

You exhaled. “Only hours? Lucky. I feared it could take days.”

Jungkook leaned forward slightly, his dark brows furrowing. “What did you do?” unsettled by your remark.

You sighed, shifting against the pillows. “A spell like that—one tied to blood and life—it doesn’t simply heal. It rewrites fate. But magic is never free. Something had to be given in return.”

Jungkook’s expression darkened. “And what did you give?”

You hesitated. That was the question, wasn’t it? You felt the price deep in your bones. You had rewritten the boy’s fate—tied it to his mother’s love, to the wolf’s strength, and to your belief in the old ways. It would keep him alive, for as long as all three remained. But how to explain it that it made sence?

Jungkook seemed to sense your reluctance, but he didn’t push. Instead, he leaned back, rubbing a hand over his face before speaking again.

“The boy woke up minutes after you collapsed,” he finally said. “His mother… she was beside herself. Crying, thanking you, thanking the gods.”

You nodded slowly. “And the rest of the Pack?”

Jungkook’s jaw ticked. “Weren’t as forgiving.”

That didn’t surprise you.

“Hoseok wanted me to kill you,” he admitted bluntly, watching your reaction.

You snorted, shaking your head. “That tracks.”

Jungkook didn’t look amused. “Namjoon woke up before it came to that.”

You straightened slightly. “The Pack leader?”

Jungkook nodded. “The Alpha” helping you jet again with the terminology of his people “He wasn’t happy about the blood magic, but he told me to stay with you until we could all talk. He wants answers.”

You let out a slow breath. That was better than you expected. “Then I suppose I should clean up before I meet him.”

Jungkook hesitated, his wolf bristling. You felt the shift in him, the restless energy rolling off him in waves.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” he asked, voice lower now, softer.

You met his eyes, really met them this time. Despite everything, there was something grounding in the way he looked at you—like no matter how much he didn’t understand you, he was still there with you.

“I will be,” you finally said.

It wasn’t a lie.

Jungkook studied you for a long moment, then nodded. Without another word, he stood and helped you up, steadying you when you wavered on your feet.

“This way,” he murmured.

He led you to a small adjoining room, where a simple wooden tub sat against the far wall, filled with water still warm from the fire. The room smelled of clean linen and dried lavender.

Jungkook hesitated in the doorway, his muscles still taut with tension. His wolf wasn’t at ease—not at all.

“I’ll be close,” he said, his voice almost a warning. “Call if you need anything.”

You nodded, and with one last, reluctant glance, he stepped away.

✦•······················•✦•······················•✦

When you finally emerged, fresh and wrapped in a black dress, Jungkook was waiting. His dark eyes scanned you once, checking for any lingering signs of weakness. But only found you stunning. Then, without a word, he gestured for you to follow.

The walk to Namjoon’s home was not a quiet one.

Some villagers greeted you with cautious nods. Others weren’t as welcoming.

A low growl rumbled in the chest of one passing wolf, his lips curling in an unmistakable snarl.

Jungkook was on him in an instant.

A single warning glare was all it took—the wolf backed down immediately, lowering his gaze. But Jungkook didn’t move until the threat had completely passed, his posture stiff as he resumed walking beside you.

By the time you reached Namjoon’s home, you could feel Jungkook’s closeness, his silent protectiveness pressing against you like a shield.

Inside, Namjoon sat at the head of a long wooden table. Beside him stood two men—Jin, whose gaze was neutral, and Hoseok, whose was not.

You took a breath, then stepped forward, bowing slightly. “Leader of the wolves,” you greeted with as much respect as you could manage.

Namjoon studied you for a moment, then nodded.

“Witch from the valley. Sit,” he said.

Jungkook, still hovering close, pulled out a chair. You sat.

Hoseok exhaled sharply, shaking his head. “So, we’re really trusting her now?”

You didn’t react.

Namjoon silenced Hoseok with a sharp glare before turning to you, his expression unreadable but not unkind. “Regardless of what happened,” he said, voice steady, “you saved lives today. My life included. For that, you have my thanks.”

A small flicker of surprise crossed Jin’s face at Namjoon’s words, but it was gone just as fast. Hoseok, on the other hand, looked like he wanted to argue, but Namjoon’s authority weighed heavier than his temper.

Still, gratitude aside, there was something else Namjoon wanted to know.

“But that still leaves the question—why are you here?” His dark gaze settled on you, unwavering. “What brought you to us?”

Before you could answer, Jungkook shifted beside you. “Hyung, after the attack, after Jin told me that with our healing there wasn’t a chance for you and the others to survive…” He exhaled sharply, hands clenching at his sides. “I went and got help.”

Namjoon’s brows lifted slightly. “Help.”

“Yes,” Jungkook confirmed. His jaw tensed, the weight of something unspoken pressing against his ribs. He had found you. His mate. But he wouldn’t—couldn’t—blurt that out. Not yet.

Namjoon, however, wasn’t interested in hearing the story from Jungkook. His attention remained on you, gaze steady. “And what about you?” he asked. “Why did you come?”

You met his eyes without hesitation. “Because I wasn’t going to sit back and do nothing when I could save a life.” There was no waver in your voice, no doubt. “More than that, our people—your pack and my coven—have an unspoken truce. A natural understanding. You know it as well as I do.”

The reaction to that was immediate. Jin’s lips parted slightly in surprise. Hoseok’s entire posture stiffened, his jaw going tight. Even Namjoon blinked once, as if processing your words.

“Your coven,” Jin repeated, carefully.

You nodded, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world, then smoothly changed the subject. “But I didn’t come here to debate history. I came here because you were attacked, and such attacks are never random. We need to talk about it.”

Namjoon leaned forward slightly, but before he could respond, Hoseok’s temper snapped.

“Oh no,” he growled, stepping forward, his hands clenched into fists at his sides. “We’re not just moving on like that. You think you can wave your damned magic around, bind me to some spell, and walk away without explaining a damn thing?”

Jungkook’s body tensed beside you, ready to step in if necessary, but you didn’t seem the least bit rattled. Instead, you simply turned to Hoseok with a look that nearly belittled him. His misconceptions about magic, about what you had done—it was almost amusing.

But you didn’t explain. Not really. Not the way you had to Jungkook in his home, when you had taken the time to tell him why blood magic was what it was. Hoseok didn’t deserve that much.

Your silence only seemed to enrage him further. “If you could heal the kid that way,” he snapped, “why didn’t you do it from the start? Why not remove all spells while you’re at it?”

Your lips curved into something that was not quite a smile. “You’re under the impression that magic is a game, wolf.” Your voice was calm, but there was something sharp beneath it. “That I pick and choose on a whim. If I could take away all spells, don’t you think I would have? Or do you think I enjoy exhausting myself to the point of collapse?”

Hoseok opened his mouth to argue, but you didn’t let him.

“I came here to help,” you continued, voice steady. “But if my presence is such a problem, I can leave.”

Jungkook hated that. The very idea of you leaving made something raw claw at his chest. His wolf snarled inside him, restless, angry. But then you added something else.

“My guard has been following me,” you said, ignoring the way Jungkook’s entire body went rigid. “he’ll arrive within the next two days. That will give me a safe way back.”

Jungkook hated that more.

Because your guard meant one person in particular.

Jimin.

A cold possessiveness curled in his gut at the thought of you leaving with him.

But it wasn’t just Jungkook who disliked the idea. Namjoon exhaled slowly, considering you for a long moment before shaking his head.

“You’re already here. You saved too many of my people for me to let you walk out without proper thanks.” Namjoon’s voice was firm, final in a way that left no room for argument. Then, after a brief pause, his eyes flickered to Hoseok with disapproval. “But maybe we should talk without an audience.”

Jungkook tensed beside you, his shoulders coiling tight. He knew what that meant. He was about to be sent away. Away from you.

And he hated it.

His wolf snarled in protest, the very idea of leaving you unprotected—even with Namjoon—feeling like the worst kind of mistake. Rationally, he knew you weren’t defenseless, but rationality had never done much to quiet the instincts ingrained in his very bones.

But before he could argue, you spoke.

“Sure,” you said, tone as even as ever. “But I would like Jungkook to be present.”

Jungkook barely had time to register the words before a rush of satisfaction surged through him. If he were in his wolf form, he was sure his tail would have wagged like an idiot’s.

Namjoon raised an eyebrow. “You want Jungkook here?”

You nodded once. “My… guard entrusted his duties to him while we went ahead. If you trust him with what we will talk about?”

The corner of Namjoon’s lips twitched slightly, amusement barely concealed beneath his otherwise unreadable expression. Jin, who had been silent up until now, let out a quiet hum, something knowing in his gaze as he glanced between the two of you.

Hoseok, on the other hand, looked utterly disgusted.

“Oh, you have got to be kidding me—”

“Hoseok.” Namjoon’s voice was sharp. A warning.

Hoseok exhaled harshly through his nose, but this time, he didn’t argue. He just folded his arms across his chest and looked off to the side, jaw tight with barely restrained irritation.

Namjoon turned his attention back to you, giving a single nod. “Alright. Jungkook stays.”

Jungkook swallowed back the irrational relief that flooded through him. He refused to acknowledge why the thought of being away from you had filled him with such tension in the first place.

As Jin and Hoseok moved, Hoseok was outright hostile. But Jin nodded in silent acknowledgment. Recognition.

You had saved many of their own.

And, whether they liked it or not, that meant something.

You weren’t leaving.

And neither was he.

The discussion with Namjoon had been more productive than you’d expected.

The Pack’s leader was measured, sharp, and wary, but he wasn’t unreasonable. By the end of the conversation, you had secured safe passage through the village under his protection. He had also agreed that your arriving guard—Jimin—would be granted the same privileges.

Of course, not all wolves would warm up to you overnight. Trust, especially among werewolves, was a hard-won thing. Some still viewed you with outright hostility, others with silent wariness. But Namjoon had made his stance clear. You were not to be harmed. And as long as Jungkook upheld his promise to keep you safe, you had no doubt that promise would be honored.

Then came the question of where you would stay.

Namjoon, ever the pragmatic leader, had offered you a room in the Pack House. It was logical. The Pack House was the safest place in the village, close to the highest-ranking wolves, the center of their power.

But before you could accept, before Namjoon could even finish explaining the arrangements—

“I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

Jungkook’s voice cut in, firm and decisive.

You blinked at him. Namjoon raised an eyebrow.

And Jungkook—well.

Jungkook realized what he had just said a second too late.

His ears turned red.

“With some wolves still hostile,” he quickly added, looking anywhere but at you, “it would be better if she stayed with me. That way, she wouldn’t have to deal with suspicious packmates glaring at her all night.”

There was a heavy silence.

Then—

Namjoon hummed. Amused. “Oh?”

Jungkook stiffened. “I— I just meant—”

“You meant that her safety is your responsibility,” Namjoon said, voice neutral but his gaze anything but. His eyes held something knowing, something that made Jungkook shift uncomfortably under its weight. “Good.”

Jungkook hated that look.

You, on the other hand, weren’t as flustered as Jungkook clearly was. Instead, you just tilted your head slightly, gaze lingering on him for a moment before nodding. “That’s fine with me.”

Jungkook swallowed hard.

Then came the next topic.

The hunters.

You had no doubt that the last attack had only been the beginning. If they had struck once, they would strike again. And when they did, both your coven and the werewolf village would be in danger.

Namjoon agreed.

Which was why you made your offer.

“I can ward the village,” you said simply. “Every protection spell I know, every barrier I can weave. It won’t stop a full-blown assault, but it will make it harder for them to get close without us knowing.”

Namjoon’s eyes narrowed slightly. “And what would you want in return?”

Your answer was immediate.

“A friendship.”

The room went silent.

You met Namjoon’s gaze without flinching. “Your people and mine don’t need to love each other. But we can help each other. Like now. Like this. When it matters.”

Something shifted in Namjoon’s expression.

After a long moment, he nodded.

“That,” he said, “I can agree to.”

With the terms settled, Namjoon and Jungkook had wanted to take you around the village to begin placing protection spells.

Except—

Your stomach had other ideas.

A quiet, traitorous rumble filled the room.

For a second, no one said anything.

Then—

Jungkook turned to look at you, blinking.

Heat immediately flooded your face.

You pressed a hand against your stomach as if that would somehow take back the sound, but the damage was done. Namjoon’s lips twitched in amusement. And Jungkook—

Jungkook grinned.

His wolf preened at the sight of your flushed face.

You cleared your throat. “Perhaps… a break before we start?”

Jungkook was already pushing up from his chair. “I’ll get food.”

Namjoon nodded. “Eat first. We can go after.”

And just like that, you found yourself following Jungkook to a smaller, more private space—a cozy, open room in the Pack House where food was often shared among the higher-ranking wolves. It wasn’t the main dining hall, where the majority of the pack ate together, but it wasn’t entirely secluded either.

Jungkook grabbed a plate and started piling food onto it—grilled meat, roasted vegetables, thick slices of bread. He moved with ease, almost unconsciously, as if he had done this a hundred times.

Which, you supposed, he had.

“You don’t have to serve me, you know,” you pointed out, watching him.

Jungkook didn’t even look up. “You just fainted a few hours ago. You’re eating.”

You huffed but said nothing as he handed you a full plate.

Then—before you could react—he grabbed a piece of bread and ripped it in half.

You stared.

“…Are you always this aggressive with your food?”

Jungkook paused mid-chew, eyes flicking to you.

Then he grinned, mouth still full. “Hmph.”

You rolled your eyes, but the corners of your lips twitched.

You sat down at one of the wooden tables, and Jungkook took the seat beside you—right beside you, not across, not with space between. His thigh was close enough to brush against yours, his presence a warm, solid weight beside you.

You hadn’t realized how hungry you were until you took the first bite. The food was simple but good. Well-seasoned, filling. It grounded you in a way you hadn’t realized you needed.

Jungkook watched you, a small flicker of satisfaction in his expression.

“You like it?” he asked.

You nodded, swallowing. “It’s good.”

Jungkook watched you eat with a quiet, deep satisfaction.

It wasn’t just relief that you were eating after what you had been through. It was something older, something ingrained into his instincts, something wolfen.

You were eating his food.

Food he had picked for you. Food he had given you.

And you liked it.

A low, pleased hum rumbled in his chest, too deep to be entirely human. His wolf settled, tail-wagging levels of happy, as you took another bite, clearly enjoying the meal.

He knew, logically, that you didn’t understand the significance. That you weren’t one of them.

But in his world, in his nature, providing for a mate was instinctual. Offering food wasn’t just kindness—it was a sign of care, protection. It was a wolf’s responsibility. Making sure you had everything you needed, that you were safe and fed, felt more fulfilling than it should.

Jungkook glanced at your plate—mostly empty now—and felt a surge of satisfaction so strong it almost startled him.

You had eaten everything.

Jin, who had silently slid into the seat across from you at some point, noticed.

Noticed the way Jungkook was sitting a little too close. The way his eyes flickered with something warm and possessive. The way his body was angled protectively toward you, even though there was no immediate threat.

And Jin, being Jin, did what he did best.

He grinned.

Jungkook shot him a glare, but it lacked heat.

Jin just picked up a piece of meat and bit into it lazily. “So,” he mused, glancing between you and Jungkook, “you’re really staying with him, huh?”

You swallowed the last bit of food, nodding. “Apparently.”

Jin’s grin widened. “Interesting.”

Jungkook groaned.

After you finished eating, Jin pushed himself up from his seat, stretching. “Namjoon’s caught up with other things,” he said, “so I’ll be the one following you while you work on the protection spells.”

Jungkook immediately frowned.

You gave Jin a small smile, genuinely pleased to have him accompany you. “You’re welcome to come, but I should warn you—it’s probably going to be boring.”

Jin gasped dramatically, placing a hand over his chest. “Boring? Do you not know who I am? I am the life of every gathering. I bring light to the darkest of days. I—”

“You talk too much,” Jungkook muttered, rolling his eyes.

Jin ignored him, grinning as he leaned slightly closer to you. “Besides, if I wasn’t there, who knows what kind of trouble you and Jungkook would get into all alone?”

Jungkook kicked him under the table.

Jin howled, clutching his shin. “See?! This is the treatment I get for trying to protect your reputation?”

Jungkook scowled, but his ears were turning red.

You just shook your head, standing up chuckling. “Let’s just go.”

Jin, still grinning despite the pain, followed with a smug expression. Then, after one last glance at your empty plate—Jungkook’s wolf practically purring at the sight—you set off to begin your work.

The afternoon passed in a blur of whispered incantations and flickering air.

Some spells were nearly invisible, their effects subtle and woven seamlessly into the land. Others were more obvious—the air shimmered in places where barriers strengthened, the light bending as if the very world was shifting to accommodate your magic.

Jungkook watched you with open awe.

He had never seen magic like this before.

Of course, he had always known witches could do things wolves could not. But witnessing it firsthand—watching you shape the world with your hands, bend energy with nothing but your will—was entirely different.

You were unlike anything he had ever encountered.

And the pack was beginning to see it too.

At first, they had simply observed from a distance, hesitant and wary. But as the day went on, some wolves grew bolder. A few approached, curiosity outweighing suspicion.

Jungkook was tense at first. He didn’t like the way some of the wolves hovered nearby, their eyes locked onto you as you worked. Even if they weren’t outright hostile, they were still watching—still wary, still uncertain.

It made his wolf restless. Protective.

But as the day stretched on, something began to shift.

At first, the wolves had simply observed from a distance, hesitant and cautious. But curiosity was a powerful thing, and eventually, it overpowered their distrust. A few wolves stepped closer, drawn in by the strange yet mesmerizing sight of your work.

Jungkook kept his stance firm, his expression unreadable, but Jin nudged him lightly.

“Relax,” Jin murmured under his breath. “Look at them. They’re not snarling. They’re not snapping their teeth. Give them a chance.”

Jungkook exhaled slowly, glancing at you.

You were so focused, so calm, tracing unseen lines in the air with your fingertips, murmuring soft incantations that made the very atmosphere flicker. Your magic left shimmering traces behind—sometimes invisible, sometimes shifting like heat waves. It was beautiful.

And, surprisingly, some of the wolves thought so too.

One finally stepped forward, hesitant but determined. “What… exactly are you doing?”

Jungkook stiffened slightly, but you only turned to them with quiet patience.

“I’m warding the village,” you explained simply, pausing in your work to meet their gaze. “Strengthening the defenses so if hunters come again, we’ll have early warnings and protections.”

The wolf frowned, shifting on their feet as if processing your words. Jungkook held his breath, waiting for them to sneer, to challenge, to reject.

But instead—

“…That’s good,” they admitted.

Jungkook blinked.

The wolf didn’t say anything else, but they stepped back, watching you work with less wariness than before.

Jin shot Jungkook a knowing look. See?

And as much as Jungkook hated to admit it, Jin was right.

For the first time since you had arrived, it felt like a small part of the Pack was beginning to accept you. And though Jungkook wouldn’t let his guard down completely—though he still watched every wolf that got too close—he allowed himself to breathe.

It wasn’t acceptance. Not yet.

But it was a start.

Jungkook felt something warm settle in his chest as he observed the shift.

You were changing things here.

For the first time, his pack was beginning to see you not as an outsider, not as a witch—but as someone helping them.

And then—

“You should stop.”

Your hands stilled mid-gesture as Jungkook’s voice cut through the evening air.

You turned to look at him, confused. “What?”

The sun was dipping lower now, staining the sky in deep oranges and purples. The air was cooling.

Jungkook’s jaw was tight.

“You should stop for today.”

You frowned. “I can keep going.”

“No.”

The word was firm.

Your frown deepened. “Jungkook, I’m fine—”

“You fainted earlier.”

The reminder sent a ripple of stubbornness through you. “That was from a blood spell, not this.”

“I don’t care.”

His voice was steady, but his eyes—

His eyes were intense.

Frustrated. Worried.

His wolf was pacing beneath his skin, restless. The memory of you collapsing, unconscious and pale, was still too fresh.

You hesitated.

He took a step closer, his expression dark and serious. “You’re not pushing yourself past your limit again.”

The protective edge in his tone caught you off guard.

Jin, standing a few feet away, watched with open amusement but said nothing.

You sighed, rubbing the back of your neck. “Jungkook—”

“No.”

You huffed under your breath, muttering, “You’re worse than Jimin.”

It wasn’t meant to be a big deal, just an exasperated complaint, but the second the words left your mouth, Jungkook’s expression darkened.

Worse than Jimin?

Jungkook, was not amused.

“Worse than Jimin?” he repeated, voice flat.

You blinked at him, only now realizing what you had done.

Jungkook didn’t like being compared to Jimin. But even more than that, he didn’t like the implication behind your words—the one that suggested you needed someone to stop you, that you wouldn’t stop on your own. That you had the same reckless streak that Jimin always scolded you for.

His jaw clenched. “That supposed to mean something?”

You hesitated. “It means you’re being dramatic.”

“Dramatic?”

Jin snorted. “You are being a little dramatic, Jungkook.”

Jungkook shot him a glare, but it lacked real heat. Then he turned back to you, his sharp eyes searching your face.

“Stop pushing yourself,” he said firmly.

You exhaled, dragging a hand through your hair. You hadn’t even done that much. But something about the way he was watching you—like you were one wrong move away from collapsing again—made it impossible to argue.

You exhaled slowly. Then, finally, you gave in. “…Fine.”

Jungkook’s shoulders relaxed just slightly.

You hadn’t noticed how tense he had been.

Jin snickered. “Didn’t know you were this bossy, Jungkook.”

Jungkook ignored him.

Instead, his gaze softened as he looked at you. “Come on. You’ve done enough for today.”

And just like that—before you could argue further—he reached out, wrapping his fingers around your wrist, tugging you gently in the direction of his home.

You let him lead you.

And behind you, Jin’s grin only widened.

✦•······················•✦•······················•✦

Jungkook didn’t let go of your wrist the entire walk back.

It wasn’t until you stepped inside his home—until the door shut behind you, sealing you both in the quiet warmth of his space—that he realized it.

His body tensed. His grip slackened.

And then, as if burned, he let go.

Too fast. Too abrupt. He had been so preoccupied with keeping you close, with making sure you didn’t push yourself too hard, that he hadn’t thought about what he was doing. About what it meant.

His whole body tensed as he stepped away, putting deliberate distance between you. His jaw clenched, a muscle ticking near his temple, and you could practically see the war waging inside him. Something unsettled flickered in his eyes, like a question he wasn’t willing to ask.

His heart pounded in his chest, restless and uneasy, his wolf scratching just beneath the surface, urging him to pull you close again. To feel that warmth, that connection.

But he didn’t.

Because that would be reckless. And selfish.

You hadn’t chosen him. Hell, you might not even know.

Jungkook swallowed, his throat bobbing, before his gaze snapped away. "You should take the bed."

You turned to him, one brow arching. "What?"

"You heard me." He gestured toward the small but comfortable-looking bed in the adjacent room. "You're still recovering. Take the bed."

You blinked at him, then let out a sharp laugh. "Oh, absolutely not. You should take the bed. This is your home."

"It's my home, which is why I'm saying you should take it."

You crossed your arms, leveling him with an unimpressed look. "I'm a guest. Guests take the couch. That’s just common courtesy."

"And hosts take care of their guests," he shot back, expression firm. "That’s just common sense."

You narrowed your eyes at him. "You’ve already taken care of me enough."

"You passed out from that spell earlier," he reminded you. " And then spent the entire day working." He took a slow step closer, voice dipping into something softer. "You need proper rest."

"So do you."

Jungkook exhaled sharply, dragging a hand through his hair.

You raised an eyebrow, feeling smug for a moment—until you saw the way his ears had turned pink.

Jungkook didn’t care about himself. He cared about you.

And that realization made something unfamiliar twist low in your stomach.

Still, you weren’t about to let him win so easily.

"You’re taking the bed," he insisted.

"I’m taking the couch."

"You’re so damn stubborn."

You smirked. "Thank you."

"It wasn’t a compliment."

"Sure sounded like one."

Jungkook let out a low, frustrated groan, rolling his eyes skyward like he was asking the moon for patience.

This shouldn’t be such a big deal. It was just a bed. But the thought of you sleeping out here on the couch while his bed sat empty didn’t sit right with him. Not at all. You deserved comfort. Safety. The best he could offer you.

And…

And if he was being completely honest, part of him liked the idea of you sleeping in his bed.

Because then, when he went to sleep later—when he laid his head on the pillows and inhaled deeply—your scent would still be there, woven into the fabric, lingering in the space around him.

His wolf purred at the thought, tail practically wagging.

He swallowed thickly, pushing down the surge of want that threatened to rise to the surface.

"You’re taking the bed," he said, tone final.

You huffed. "No, I'm—"

Jungkook growled.

It wasn’t loud, wasn’t threatening—but it was warning.

You froze for half a second, eyes narrowing at him, then sighed. He was serious about this. And honestly… you were exhausted. The last two days had taken more out of you than you wanted to admit. The thought of sinking into a real bed instead of stiff cushions… well. That was tempting. And if Jungkook was going to be this insistent, you might as well accept the offer.

"Fine," you muttered.

Jungkook barely contained his victorious smirk.

Then, before you could change your mind, he turned toward the small storage space in the corner, pulling out a spare blanket for himself. "Good. Now go to sleep."

You rolled your eyes but didn’t argue. Instead, you turned and headed toward the bedroom, the scent of pinewood and something distinctly him wrapping around you as you stepped inside. It was simple but comfortable—neat blankets, a small table near the window, and pillows stacked against the headboard.

It was undeniably his space.

And you were about to sleep in it. You already had, but now you would do so on your own.

And as you walked past him, heading toward his bedroom, Jungkook couldn’t help but glance at you—at the way your presence fit so easily into his home, like you belonged here.

Like you belonged with him.

His chest ached.

He turned away before he could think about it too much.

Tomorrow. He’d think about it tomorrow.

✦•······················•✦•······················•✦

Jungkook woke up to the soft sounds of clinking utensils and a faint hum of a melody he couldn't quite place. The smell of something warm and comforting filled the air, making his stomach grumble, even though he wasn't quite awake yet.

He blinked slowly, his eyes adjusting to the light streaming through the small window. For a moment, he was disoriented, not fully sure where he was. But then the memory of the night before came rushing back—everything from the blood spell to your stubborn insistence on taking the couch. And now, here you were, in his kitchen, cooking.

He rubbed his face and pushed himself up, wincing slightly at the soreness in his muscles from the events of the last few days. His eyes fell on you, bent over a skillet, the faint sound of sizzling filling the silence between the two of you. You were humming lightly, focused on your task, completely at ease in his space.

The sight of you so comfortable, so... at home, made something warm stir inside him. He couldn’t help the small smile tugging at the corner of his lips. This—this felt like peace. Like everything had settled into place. His mate, in his kitchen, cooking breakfast.

A low chuckle escaped him, and you turned slightly, catching the sound as you noticed him. His gaze met yours, a mix of amusement and something softer, unspoken, in his eyes.

"Good morning," you said, your voice calm and steady, though there was a hint of playfulness in your tone.

Jungkook stretched, his muscles protesting, but he ignored it. "I didn’t realize I was the guest here," he teased softly, trying to keep the mood light. "Shouldn't I be the one making breakfast for you?"

You didn't look up from the stove as you replied, your voice warm but firm, "I'm fine. The breakfast will be ready soon."

Jungkook raised an eyebrow, watching you with a mix of amusement and admiration. There was no winning with you. "What kind of tea are you drinking?" he asked, a change of subject to keep the conversation going.

You paused for just a beat, considering whether you should tease him or not. Your eyes flickered over to him, and with a knowing smile, you said, "Lavender. I hope it’s okay I used yours. And something from the herbs I brought along. It’s meant to help with fatigue."

Jungkook’s eyes narrowed for a moment, but the soft laugh that followed was immediate. "Of course it’s okay. You don’t have to ask, you know." He stretched, still rubbing the sleep from his eyes, and a smile tugged at his lips.

You gave a small, appreciative smile, then turned your attention back to the tea. As you listed the herbs you had brought, Jungkook raised an eyebrow, looking at you with a mix of curiosity and something like suspicion.

"What exactly did you bring?" he asked, his voice teasing. "Are you making potions instead of tea?"

You met his gaze and couldn’t help but laugh lightly. "Nothing that extreme," you teased back, though there was a glint of something serious in your eyes. "Just a blend to help with your energy levels. It’ll give you a little more balance."

"You should try it," you said, your voice gentle as you poured him a cup of tea and passed it to him.

As his fingers brushed yours, a strange, electric feeling ran through him. It was subtle at first—just the briefest of touches—but it sent a jolt of warmth straight to his chest. His heartbeat quickened, his breath catching as the sensation seemed to settle deep inside him. It felt like home, like peace had washed over him.

You froze for a fraction of a second, the weight of the moment hanging between you, but neither of you spoke. Neither of you moved.

Jungkook’s breath faltered as he glanced down at your fingers, now both holding the cup in your hand, feeling the lingering warmth of your touch still dancing along his skin. His wolf stirred restlessly, but Jungkook couldn’t bring himself to break the silence.

He wanted to. He wanted to ask you if you felt it too. But he couldn’t.

You finally broke the moment with a soft, steady exhale, your fingers retreating slowly as you handed him the cup. The air around you felt heavier, charged, but neither of you acknowledged it.

"Do you like it?" you asked, your voice quieter now, almost uncertain.

Jungkook chuckled, though a small part of him still wondered what other strange remedies you had hidden among those herbs. He took a sip of the tea, letting the warm liquid settle over him. He couldn’t deny it was soothing.

"It’s good," he murmured, looking at you with a playful glint. "Maybe you should just make all my tea from now on."

For a moment, you both stood there, silently sharing the quiet of the morning, the tension between you simmering just beneath the surface. Jungkook glanced at you again, wondering if you knew what had just passed between you. Wondering if you could feel it too.

But he didn’t ask. And you didn’t say anything more.

The air hummed with unsaid words. With possibilities neither of you was ready to confront.

Yet.

✦•······················•✦•······················•✦

Jungkook was still watching you when the sharp knock at the door made you both jump slightly, shattering the fragile moment between you.

Jin’s voice carried through the wood. “Jungkook, open up! You too, witch, I know you’re in there.”

Jungkook groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Hyung, it’s too damn early for your nonsense.”

“Too early?” Jin scoffed. “Half the pack has been awake since dawn. Now open the door before I break it down.”

You exchanged a glance with Jungkook, who rolled his eyes before getting up and swinging the door open.

Jin stood there, arms crossed, looking entirely unimpressed. His sharp gaze flickered over you before settling back on Jungkook. “The pack house needs you both. Some of the wounded need another check, and others specifically asked to thank the witch who healed them.” He gave you a pointed look. “Try not to look so surprised. You did save their lives.”

You shifted, pushing your tea cup aside. “I don’t mind helping,” you said after a pause.

Jin nodded. “Good. Let’s go.”

The walk to the pack house was quiet, though Jungkook stuck close to you, his presence steady beside you. The moment had been disrupted, but you were almost grateful for it—because the longer you spent with him, the harder it was to ignore the lingering dread creeping in. The moment you finished here, you’d have to leave. Jimin was expecting you back home. And the thought of walking away from this place, from Jungkook, left a weight in your chest that you weren’t ready to unpack.

At the pack house, things quickly became busy. You checked over wounds, reinforced healing spells, and even brewed a potion for revitalization—something to help the injured regain their strength faster. Some of the wolves you’d treated were hesitant at first, still wary of a witch in their midst, but others, grateful for your help, actually sought you out to thank you.

Jungkook remained by your side the entire time. Whether it was intentional or not, you weren’t sure, but you could feel him—his presence, his gaze, his silent reassurance. It made it easier to breathe, even as your mind churned with thoughts you didn’t want to face.

Jin stayed behind at the pack house as you and Jungkook left to continue warding the village. You had just reached the edge of the territory when another familiar voice cut through the air.

“You really have no shame, do you?”

Hoseok.

You turned just in time to see him approaching, his expression unreadable but his tone laced with irritation.

Jungkook immediately tensed beside you.

“I’m busy, Hoseok,” you said evenly, refusing to let him get under your skin.

“Oh, I can see that,” he said, eyeing the way Jungkook stood close to you. “Busy playing house with our second-in-command?”

Your jaw clenched, but before you could say anything, Jungkook moved.

He stepped between you and Hoseok, his posture rigid, shoulders squared. “Watch it,” Jungkook warned, voice low and dangerous.

Hoseok raised an eyebrow, unfazed. “What? I’m just wondering when exactly we started trusting witches so easily. Or is she just an exception?”

Jungkook’s muscles coiled, his hands clenching into fists. “I don’t need to explain anything to you.”

Hoseok scoffed, crossing his arms. “Right. Of course not. Just like you don’t need to explain why you’re acting like she’s more important than the pack.”

The accusation sent a sharp wave of tension through the air. You could feel the way Jungkook’s anger crackled beneath the surface, restrained only by a thin thread of control.

“I swore to protect her,” Jungkook said, his voice quiet but firm.

Hoseok’s expression darkened. “Why?”

Jungkook’s grip tightened at his sides. “Because she could saved us.”

Hoseok took a slow step forward, looking past Jungkook to meet your gaze. “Did she? Or did she just do what was convenient for her?”

That was the final straw.

Jungkook lunged first.

The impact was sudden, raw. The two of them crashed to the ground, rolling through the dirt as fists flew. Hoseok wasn’t weak, but neither was Jungkook—especially not when he was this furious.

You barely had time to react before they were locked in a vicious struggle, growls ripping through the air. Jungkook fought like he had something to prove, like he was defending something that went far beyond just you being a witch in their territory.

Because this wasn’t just about the pack anymore.

It was about you.

And though Jungkook wasn’t ready to admit it—to himself or to anyone else—he wouldn’t let anyone talk to his mate like that.

✦•······················•✦•······················•✦

Jungkook barely had time to process his own fury before he was moving. His body acted before his mind could catch up, instincts taking over in a single, explosive movement.

One second, he was standing between you and Hoseok, his fists clenched so tightly his knuckles ached. The next, he lunged.

The impact was immediate—bone and muscle colliding with raw force. They hit the ground hard, rolling through the dirt as the force of Jungkook’s tackle sent them skidding across the clearing. A snarl tore from Jungkook’s throat, his wolf dangerously close to the surface.

Hoseok wasn’t weak. He recovered quickly, twisting his body mid-roll to break free from Jungkook’s grip, and in the next heartbeat, he retaliated.

A fist shot out, catching Jungkook just under the ribs, but it wasn’t enough to make him back down. If anything, it only made him more determined.

Jungkook shoved back, hard, knocking Hoseok onto his back before pinning him down with a knee to his chest. His breath came heavy, his heart pounding in his ears, but he barely noticed.

"You don’t get to talk about her like that," he growled, voice rough with warning.

Hoseok scoffed beneath him, gritting his teeth as he struggled against Jungkook’s hold. "So that’s what this is about?" he spat. "Not the pack, not the safety of our people—just her?"

Jungkook’s grip tightened, fingers curling into the fabric of Hoseok’s shirt. "She saved us," he bit out, his tone lethal. "She saved Namjoon. She saved me. And you still act like she’s the enemy."

Hoseok’s eyes flashed, his own anger simmering beneath the surface. "She’s a witch," he snapped. "You don’t just forget centuries of bloodshed because of one act of kindness."

Jungkook’s jaw clenched so tightly it ached. "And you don’t blame someone for things they didn’t do."

A tense silence stretched between them, their harsh breaths the only sound in the air. The pack house wasn’t far—others would have heard the commotion by now. But neither of them moved, neither willing to be the first to back down.

Then, out of the corner of his eye, Jungkook saw you take a small step forward. You weren’t afraid, not of him, not of Hoseok. But there was something in your expression—something wary, something uncertain.

And it made Jungkook’s fury deepen.

Because you shouldn’t have to look at his pack like that. You shouldn’t have to defend yourself every time you turned around.

His fingers twitched against Hoseok’s collar, but he forced himself to release his grip, shoving himself back just enough to let the other man breathe. Hoseok coughed, rubbing his chest as he sat up, but his glare didn’t waver.

"She doesn’t belong here," he said, his voice lower now, but just as sharp.

Jungkook’s hands curled into fists at his sides. "She belongs wherever she wants to be," he said firmly. "And if she chooses to be here, then that’s her choice. Not yours."

For a long moment, Hoseok didn’t reply. He only stared at Jungkook, then at you, as if weighing something unspoken. Then, with a heavy exhale, he pushed himself to his feet.

"This isn’t over," he muttered, brushing dirt from his clothes.

Jungkook didn’t look away. "It is for now," he said, voice cold.

Hoseok cast one last glance between the two of you before turning on his heel and walking off, his posture stiff with lingering tension.

The second he was gone, the air between you and Jungkook shifted.

His shoulders were still taut, his body wound too tight, but when he turned to look at you, something softened in his expression.

"Are you alright?" he asked, his voice quieter now, rough around the edges.

You blinked, caught off guard. "I—yes," you said slowly. "You didn’t have to do that, you know."

Jungkook exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair. "Yes, I did."

You studied him for a long moment, something unreadable passing through your eyes. He was still tense, shoulders squared, fists flexing at his sides like he wasn’t quite ready to let go of the fight.

Your gaze flickered down to where Hoseok had landed a solid punch just under his ribs. A faint shadow of pain crossed his face before he schooled his features again.

"Are you alright?" you asked, tilting your head slightly. "That hit looked like it hurt."

Jungkook scoffed, shifting his weight. "It’s nothing."

You frowned. "That’s not an answer."

His lips twitched, but when you stepped forward, reaching a careful hand toward his side, he stiffened. Not because he didn’t want you close—but because the moment your fingers brushed his shirt, something in him nearly unraveled.

"Should I take a look at it?" you asked, voice softer now. "Just to make sure it won’t bruise too badly?"

Jungkook swallowed, throat bobbing. He should say no. He knew he should. But you were standing so close, the scent of lavender and something warm filling the space between you, and for some reason, he didn’t want to move away.

He wanted to say yes.

And that terrified him.

But before he could answer, the sound of footsteps broke the moment, distant but approaching. His jaw clenched as he turned his head, knowing it was probably another member of the pack coming to check on the fight.

You took a small step back, hands dropping to your sides.

"Later, then," you murmured.

Jungkook wasn’t sure if you meant the check-up or something else entirely.

✦•······················•✦•······················•✦

Jungkook barely had a moment to catch his breath before another set of hurried footsteps approached. A younger wolf, barely past his first shift, skidded to a stop in front of them, panting.

"Jungkook," the boy gasped, eyes darting between you and the beta. "Alpha Namjoon needs you. Now."

Jungkook’s entire body tensed. "What happened?"

The boy hesitated, glancing at you, before lowering his voice. "There’s been movement near the eastern border. Strangers. We don’t know if they’re hunters or rogues, but Namjoon wants you there."

A growl rumbled deep in Jungkook’s chest. His instincts screamed at him to stay—to keep you within reach, where he knew you were safe—but the pack came first. And if there was a threat near their borders, he couldn’t ignore it.

His gaze snapped to you, his brow furrowed in hesitation. "You go stay with Jin," he ordered, voice rough. "Don’t go anywhere until I get back."

You sighed, offering a small, reassuring smile. "I’ll be fine, Jungkook. It’s just for a moment."

He didn’t look convinced.

You stepped closer to Jungkook, voice lowering. "Really, go. Your pack needs you. I’ll be right here with Jin when you get back."

Jungkook’s jaw clenched. His wolf didn’t like this—not one bit. But he forced himself to nod, eyes lingering on you for a second longer before turning away.

The moment he disappeared into the trees, you went to find Jin. It didn’t take long for you to find him and tell him why you were without Jungkook.

"You know," Jin mused, leaning lazily against a tree. "I think that might be the first time for Jungkook to hesitate to follow an order."

You crossed your arms, rolling your eyes. "He’s just protective."

Jin hummed, looking at you with a knowing glint in his eyes. "Oh, sweetheart. That’s not just protection. That’s something else entirely."

You opened your mouth to argue—but then closed it again. Because deep down, you knew Jin wasn’t wrong.

And that realization was almost as terrifying as the thought of Jungkook being forced away from you.

✦•······················•✦•······················•✦

The minutes stretched longer than you expected. Jungkook still wasn’t back, and though you weren’t worried for your safety, you couldn’t shake the unease creeping in. Jin, ever the social one, kept you occupied with stories about the pack and his long-standing friendship with both Jungkook and Namjoon.

“You know, Jungkook wasn’t always the brooding, silent type,” Jin mused, leaning against a tree. “When we were younger, he was the first to pick fights, but not out of aggression. It was just his way of proving himself. Namjoon always had to drag him out of trouble.”

You smiled faintly, picturing a younger Jungkook, all wild energy and untamed defiance. “And you? Were you the responsible one?”

Jin scoffed. “Me? Absolutely not. I just had the best excuses to get us out of trouble.” He smirked, then his expression softened. “Jungkook’s loyalty is fierce, though. If you have him on your side, he’ll never let anything happen to you.”

You hesitated. “I know.”

Jin watched you for a moment before changing the subject. “Hoseok, by the way? I have a theory about why he’s been so difficult with you.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Enlighten me.”

Jin chuckled. “He doesn’t trust outsiders, sure. But it’s more than that. He thinks you’re going to take Jungkook from the pack.”

You blinked. “What?”

“He sees how Jungkook looks at you,” Jin continued, voice casual but sharp with meaning. “Even if Jungkook doesn’t realize it yet, Hoseok does. And he’s scared of what that means.”

Your lips parted, a denial forming, but before you could say anything—

A sharp whistle tore through the air.

Then, chaos erupted.

Shouts and growls filled the village as figures clad in dark clothing emerged from the tree line. Hunters. Again.

Your stomach lurched. Jin’s posture changed instantly, his easygoing demeanor vanishing as he grabbed your wrist. “Stay close.”

Chaos erupted almost instantly. The pack members still recovering from the last attack scrambled to evacuate the children and elderly while others shifted mid-run, lunging toward their attackers.

You nodded, but already, your thoughts raced. Not because you feared for yourself—you could handle this. But because Jungkook wasn’t here. If he were, you’d at least know he was safe.

The battle broke out in full force. Wolves, still recovering from the last attack, fought through their injuries to defend their home. Children were ushered away, their cries blending with the clashing of steel and snarls of wolves mid-shift.

You moved quickly, helping where you could. Spells left your lips, defensive barriers flashing to life, potions thrown to heal the wounded. Jin fought beside you, sharp and ruthless.

Then, in the chaos, you lost him.

You turned sharply, searching, but before you could find him, movement caught your eye. A hunter—a man clad in dark leathers, blade gleaming—rushed toward a small girl with pigtails, frozen in fear.

You didn’t think. You moved.

One hand grabbed the child, the other reaching into your pouch. As the hunter’s blade swung down, you twisted, pulling the girl with you, and hurled a vial of shimmering powder at the attacker’s face.

He screamed, clawing at his eyes, stumbling back in agony barely missing you.

But before you could react further, the unmistakable sound of crystals shattering on stone sent a cold dread through you.

Two glimmering stones landed behind you, their shards glowing faintly.

Binding Crystals.

A barrier flared to life, sealing you inside a confined space—cut off from the rest of the pack.

Two hunters were with you.

"Looks like we caught ourselves a little witch," one sneered.

You exhaled slowly, grounding yourself. "Stay exactly where you are," you murmured to the girl. "And close your eyes."

The hunters chuckled. "You don’t seem to understand your situation."

A small smile curved your lips as you reached into your pouch once more. "No," you said calmly, pulling out another vial, this one filled with a thick, black inky liquid.

"You don’t understand yours."

With a flick of your wrist, you uncorked the vial.

Black smoke poured out instantly, thick and unnatural, swallowing the space whole. The hunters cursed, stumbling back as the darkness consumed everything in its path.

And then—

Jungkook arrived.

He and his patrol burst onto the scene just in time to see the last of you disappear into the smoke.

Not one, but two hunters with you.

Rage, cold and absolute, filled him.

"No."

Without thinking, he lunged toward the barrier—only to be thrown back violently, skidding across the ground as the magic repelled him.

"No!" His roar shook the trees, his wolf raging against his skin, furious and desperate.

You were gone.

And he couldn’t reach you.

✦•······················•✦•······················•✦ Part 2

@somehowukook

#bts jungkook #jungkook #jungkook x reader #jungkook bts #bts #jeon jungguk #jeon jungkook #bts imagines #bts stories #bts oneshot #hoseok #taehyung #yoongi #bts jin #jungkook fanfic

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lady-protector · 10 months ago

Text

and that's a wrap on my tarot series! the upright majors, at least. there may be others sometime in the future if I am seized by a combination of insanity and hyperfixation once again.

you might notice a few cards are a bit (or in the case of the fool and alternate chariot, a lot) different! I did a few retakes for consistency/style.

below the read more I've included a bunch of notes about symbolism and reasoning behind my choices if that interests you!

(tag for individual card posts)

0. The Fool: Ardbert was really the only choice for this one. He's our stand-in, our shard, our mirror. Feo Ul is included partially because of lore (they are my co-WoL's shard on the First) and also because they also fit the themes of adventure and new beginnings and exploration. Most of the cards I played pretty loose on the posing vs traditional depictions, but this one I wanted to hew a little closer, which is why he's on a cliff with a foot hanging over the edge a bit, with his axe standing in for the bindle. This is my second attempt at the card -- the first was in Il Mheg, but I moved it to Kholusia (Ardbert's home) and dawn to more closely symbolize that it's the beginning of something. Attempts: 2. Difficulty: 8/10, posing Feo Ul was annoying.

1. The Magician: This card could have had several subjects, chief among them Alphinaud or a more modern G'raha, but I settled on Alisaie a) because the other two cards I had in mind for her (Chariot and Justice) were already taken, and b) the card's focus on physical magic and depicting the "tools of the trade" reminded me a lot of Angelo's creation! So that's why she's here, and why I set the card in Matoya's Relict, among the tools of magicians who came before (Matoya, Y'shtola). I retook the shot because I was unsatisfied with the blurriness/the way the light covered her face in the first one. Attempts: 2. Difficulty: 5/10, simple pose but working with Impact's spell effect complicated things.

2. The High Priestess: Another that I never questioned who would appear on it. Y'shtola's arc is entirely about uncovering forbidden, secret knowledge and wisdom, so she fits beautifully. The blue-white orb and the purple staff depict duality between dark and light, and how Y'shtola walks in two worlds, seeing things that are beyond sight, standing before an altar/holy place to the Night's Blessed. Attempts: 1. Difficulty: 2/10. Premade pose, knew where I wanted to place her -- the only thing was finding a prop for her off hand.

3. The Empress: Hoo boy did Minfi give me some trouble. I knew that I wanted our Antecedent, who provides both authority and care for the Scions, to represent the Empress, but I struggled to find a depiction that wasn't, well, boring. Minfilia is deeply linked with the Solar, and I didn't want to lean too hard into Word of the Mother/Hydaelyn territory, so I settled on a triple goddess-like idea. Attempts: 3. Difficulty: 6/10. Not mechanically difficult, just conceptually.

4. The Emperor: Another one that I knew who I wanted but struggled with the concept. Haurchefant is very much emblematic of the stability, structure, and masculinity provided by the Emperor, but it wasn't until I decided to add his equally-Emperor-coded father that things settled into place. Together, Edmont and Haurchefant evoke the image of father and son as well as king and knight, filling both major male authority roles that the Emperor exemplifies. Attempts: 4. Difficulty: 6/10. Same as the Empress.

5. The Hierophant: this one was one of the hardest to choose a subject for -- the WoL's allies are largely a bunch of revolutionary firebrands, and I disagree HEAVILY with the popular choice of placing Aymeric here. So I landed on Alphinaud -- out of the Scions, he is the one most concerned with tradition and the "right" way to do things, with formal education and structure. He wants to bring Sharlayan into the modern day, not upend the institutions that raised him and that he very much still respects, much like how he still respects his very traditionally Hierophant-coded father. So I placed him in his family home with a sort of smug look since he can be a pretentious little shit sometimes (affectionate). The spell effect is from Kardia, and I paid special attention to having the shapes align perfectly with the lines in the background, to give a sense of stability and order to the shot, especially contrasted with Alisaie's more dynamic and chaotic depiction. Attempts: 1. Difficulty: 4/10, entirely in alignment.

6. The Lovers: Hrasevelgr and Saint Shiva are a great choice for depicting the Lovers as two people, but no one does the Lovers in one subject better than Ysayle. Invoking the spirit of a woman who died for love in order to bring harmony to her people, but it truly being her own power and her own choice the whole time... it's great. Her pose is her transformation/summoning pose, turned into a gesture of affection, which I was particularly proud of. Attempts: 1. Difficulty: 3/10, posing monsters is always a little funky.

7. The Chariot: This one has two options -- my co-WoL, Marz, and Tataru/Cid/Nero for the NPC variant. All 4 characters share a singular drive and refusal to let anything stop them once they've set their mind to something, and the 3 NPCs have the added benefit of being associated with a literal "chariot" in the form of airship design. Marz's place on Shadowkeeper has some lore associations (Cylva is her shard on the 13th) as well as being a void mirror to Kaede's sin eater shot. For both I wanted to have dynamic poses to evoke the activity of the card. Attempts: 1 (Marz), 2 (NPCs). Difficulty: 3/10 for both, no major hurdles once the lovely @/karoiseka pointed me at an airship in NG+.

8. Justice: The heart of the Justice card is its emphasis on truth, and no character in FFXIV is more committed to truth even in the face of great suffering than Aymeric de Borel. Because of this, the shot is taken at the top of the Vault, where he confronted his father over his concealment of the truth of the Dragonsong War. The card is usually depicted with a woman holding a sword and balanced scales -- Aymeric is holding his sword in a pose used in statues in the Pillars, and the symmetry of the shot/light and shadow split down the middle is meant to give the feeling of balance. Attempts: 1. Difficulty: 1/10. I knew my concept, location, and shader before I even went in, and it came out exactly like I wanted.

9. The Hermit: Originally I had Urianger for this card, who still fits well, but when I moved him to Wheel of Fortune, there was a clear second choice: The Exarch. He even resembles the Hermit, with his cloak and staff, holding himself in isolation and possessing secret knowledge with which he guides the party. G'raha has grown out of this role as of Endwalker, but the Exarch fits it to a tee. I wanted to show his longing to return through his body language and reaching out for the portal that shows him the world he is set apart from. Attempts: 2. Difficulty: 4/10. Nothing major but did have to do two entirely separate cards lmao.

10. The Wheel of Fortune: The one I struggled with the most, conceptually. At first I had a more abstract choice, with the 3 starting city state leaders and Tataru, in a sort of "fate leads to the Scions" idea. But then I remembered that Urianger is a fortune teller who uses a wheel-like weapon with a literal wheel of cards, and, well. Yeah. The man is intimately associated with fate and choice, and the choice to place him on the moon is intentional, to separate him from his more secretive depictions in HW/ShB. He is the one who prepares our second option (flight) while giving us the choice to make our first (fight). Attempts: 2. Difficulty: 7/10. He's up on a high ledge that's not normally accessible and that's always a pain in the ass.

11. Strength: The one that started it all. The original shot of Kaede contained some layer elements I wasn't happy with so I ended up retaking it to better cohere with the others. Strength is about confidence and inner strength "leashing" power, symbolized by the woman and the tamed lion, and there's exactly one good lion model in XIV -- Forgiven Cruelty. It also has the fun side meaning of Kaede conquering and wielding the light that almost killed her. For Moenbryda's, I went with something simple -- her axe to symbolize her strength, but with her archon mark and the Sharlayan Thaliak statue prominently featured, emphasizing her intelligence. Attempts: 2 (Kaede), 1 (Moenbryda). Difficulty: 6/10. Kaede's was straightforward enough (though I had to wait an annoyingly long time for the sky to shift colors correctly), but Moenbryda's involved me floating her up on a building so i could get Thaliak in the shot correctly.

12. The Hanged Man: Holy moly this one was a PAIN IN THE ASS. I knew from the minute I started this what I wanted to do with it -- Lahabrea holding Thancred's ankle as he reaches for Minfilia. The Hanged Man is one that I felt it was especially important to mimic the iconic pose on the card, and this was how I decided to do it, but it took me over an hour and a half to accomplish. Anyway, the Zodiark idol stands in for the Tree of Life, which I really liked. Attempts: 1. Difficulty: 10/10. Absolutely infuriating to have to pose 3 actors in three dimensional space like that.

13. Death: I only ever considered Estinien for this card. It stands for transformation and change, for shedding the old to make way for the new, and I chose to depict that by having his old corrupted drachen mail posed behind him like a shadow or an abandoned husk. He has left the hate and the rage behind, but the helmet is meant to symbolize that he always remembers it, and carries it with him so that he can do better. His lance is also vaguely reminiscent of the traditional Death scythe. That spot in Coerthas is where he challenges you in the early DRG quests while controlled by Nidhogg, as well as being just visually striking. Attempts: 1, but it took a while. Difficulty: 9/10. The ground is very much not flat, the helmet is on a minion, and I had to change angles and locations a few times.

14. Temperance: I briefly considered Hythlodaeus here, but Krile fits very well. Calm, competent, but unsure of her own worth. I chose Eureka Hydatos both for its importance to Krile as well as its easily accessible water -- instead of pouring from a cup, Krile is looking at her reflection. This one came together so quickly and easily. Attempts: 1. Difficulty: 1/10. In and out of Eureka in less than 20 minutes.

15. The Tower: Originally, before I reshuffled, G'raha was going to be the Tower simply because I didn't know where to put him, and I couldn't think of an ally who is ultimately a destructive force, but it always bothered me because he truly didn't fit. Meteion, though -- despite her innocence and unwillingness, is THE destructive force within Endwalker's story. This card had the highest hurdles -- I had to get 7 friends to help me queue for Endsinger and then leave, and I almost couldn't get my tools to load Meteion in properly. After that it was smooth sailing, however. I used the whole lockout timer, but this was only the 4th shot I took, and it's one of my personal favorites. Attempts: 1. Difficulty: 4/10, purely for queuing.

16. The Devil: Addiction, obsession, and control -- Zenos was the only answer for this card. I included Zero as well, despite intending this to be a primarily 6.0 and earlier set, to represent the humans bound in chains to the Devil, using the way she's pinned between Zenos and the scythe to symbolize that she's trapped. Afterward I realized this exact shot and character choice would have also worked quite well for the Tower, as well, but I ultimately prefer the Devil for him. Attempts: 1. Difficulty: 3/10. Came together surprisingly easily, despite the fact that I had to make Zero's hat touch pose myself.

17. The Star: Symbolizing hope and new life, I can think of no one better suited than Ryne and the Empty. Ryne herself was given her own new life when Minfilia passed on her power, and the ability to make her own destiny -- and she used that power to revitalize a barren wasteland. My first version of this shot had a photoshopped in central star, but I decided to revisit the concept with an in game effect for the star instead. Helios provided what I needed, with the fun extra benefit of some additional rainbows (happy pride!). Attempts: 3. Difficulty: 3/10. Nothing crazy beyond trying to find a good angle to get the star in the shot, as well as Eden and the rainbow crystal. Second attempt I messed up the framing and had to redo it again.

18. The Moon: The card of dreams, fear, anxiety, and secrets, Gaia is perfect here (and a lovely companion to Ryne as the Star), though I did briefly consider Urianger as well. I wanted to have Gaia on the sand, with the moon hanging between the crystal walls of the Empty above her, but the angles would NOT cooperate to allow me to get the moon in the shot. So, levitation was the only answer. Fortunately it suits Gaia well, especially the distance that it evokes. Attempts: 1. Difficulty: 6/10. I hate midair posing.

19. The Sun: Another card that sprang fully formed into my mind. Joy and fulfillment is symbolized by Lyse enjoying the morning light in a free Ala Mhigo, thinking of Papalymo. It also allowed me to get both of these very different characters into a single card, as they are very much a package deal, though I did consider Papalymo for the Hierophant as well. Attempts: 1. Difficulty: 2/10. Came together very quickly.

20. Judgement: The last two cards of the Major Arcana are very high concept, with very lofty ideals, so they felt hard to pin down. I thought of doing both my WoLs here, or maybe Elidibus with his three forms for light, dark, and balance. But ultimately I ended up on Emet-Selch and Hythlodaeus, as the sort of "final judgement" before the battle with the endsinger, the last step before everything ends. Their literal rebirth, the resolution of Emet-Selch's conflict with the WoL, the not-redemption but understanding reached, our efforts judged worthy -- it all just seemed to fit. The card design is simple but I hope the colors and emotion of the scene carry the weight of the arcana. Attempts: 1. Difficulty: 2/10. No major roadblocks.

21. The World: At last we arrive at the end, not only the last posted but the last taken as well. I always knew I wanted Venat/Hydaelyn for this card, as she is the literal heart of our world, as well as an Azem who has reached the end of her journey, as Ardbert was one who was at the beginning of his all the way back at the Fool. But when I didn't use Elidibus anywhere else, I decided to add him here as well, since he also served as the heart of the star for a time. Light and dark united together, watching over Etheirys. The one who destroyed our world in order to save it, and the one who saved our world only to try to destroy it. Perfect symmetry, a completion of the circle. Attempts: 1. Difficulty: 9/10. I had to stitch together 3 separate screenshots in photoshop, with the fore and backgrounds cut apart so I could control the opacities separately. Probably the card that took me the longest, but it was worth it.

#ffxiv #ffxiv tarot #tarot #ffxiv gpose #had so much fun with this project #I've wanted to do it for years #I'll link this on twitter in a couple days but y'all get it early

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witchywcmans · 8 months ago

Text

TOO SWEET. | LAIOS TOUDEN

synopsis ━━ after accepting his new title, your moments alone with laios start to become a rarity. it was hard for him to find time, making him long for the days in the dungeon with you. and now, the kisses between you two were quick and desperate, until one night...when a very tired laios just can't seem to ignore you. (laios x f!reader.)

content warnings ━━ cunnilingus + fingering, praise, size kink, reader on top, unprotected sex, creampie, cum eating, yearning + sexual tension, laios and reader haven't boinked in a bit, monster facts as dirty talk ofc, confession, mentions of dubious consent in 5th paragraph (from when the winged lion switched into laios's body). nsfw (minors + ageless blogs dni).

word count ━━ 5.4k

song inspiration ━━ howl, florence + the machine / oil & water, pvris / love story, taylor swift

author's note ━━ THIS ONE-SHOT CONTAINS MANGA SPOILERS FOR THE ENDING OF DUNGEON MESHI! YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED! okay, part 3 (and final part) of my laios series is here! like the other parts, this could be read as a standalone, if you want. my plan for part 3 was to make it vague in case ppl who haven’t read the manga want to read it, but that kinda went out the window. I highly encourage everyone to read the manga if you want more of the story, it gets so interesting! I'm a SUCKER for a knight x ruler ship, so that's what you're getting in this!! I've enjoyed writing this little connected series so much and it really pushed me to start writing reader one-shots! if it hadn't been for all the ppl in the dungeon meshi fandom who read my work, I probably wouldn't have started this. this anime + manga has become one of my absolute favorites!! I hope you guys enjoy this! ps: don't worry, I will be writing more laios in the future 😉

🪽 part i: PLEASE, EAT. / part ii: FORBIDDEN FRUIT. / part iii: TOO SWEET.

After what felt like years, all was right in the world when the Island’s dungeon was destroyed and the Golden Kingdom finally rose from the sea. You had gotten to know Laios – in more ways than one – throughout your journey inside the dungeon, which had left you terrified at some points, especially when you almost lost him. But it hadn’t surprised you when the people had declared him King of a land that was thought to have been perished 1000 years ago. With everything he sacrificed, Laios – the devour of monsters, the destroyer of demons – was the only right person to rule.

With the help of Marcille, Senshi, Chilchuck, and even more friends met along the way, Laios was advised thoroughly as he undertook the stresses of establishing the Golden Kingdom once again. He had to deal with villager problems, instituting the economy, and keeping an eye on the monsters that took residence in surrounding lands. He watched them from his bedroom window on the farthest tower of the castle, admiring the beasts that warded off any threats to the kingdom. But his passion had become the production and preservation of food throughout his land, specifically in regards to magic and monsters. He made sure not one person in the Golden Kingdom went hungry, even if it killed him someday.

Most days were spent researching with his advisors or sitting in the throne room, listening to villagers' pleas for more building materials, better water, or whatever else they came up with that day. Laios made sure to listen to every ask, but he had to admit – just talking to people was exhausting. He never regretted his decision to become King, but sometimes … he longed for the days in the dungeons, tearing into whatever monster they cooked up that night, fighting alongside you, holding your hand or kissing you … tasting you.

Like your former party members, you had taken up residence in the castle as Laios’s chief knight and sworn protector. It made sense, given the fact that you had saved him with your crossbow on several occasions in the dungeon. You frequented by his side, except when he was in his own chambers. You led him to meetings, walked with him through the streets of the kingdom, protected him if any threats arose. Ever since you took up this mantle, your moments alone together had become rare. There had been one night: after Laios was safe and sound in the walls of the castle … that you shared his bed with him, tears streaming down your face because you had been so worried for him, but it didn’t matter anymore now that he was safe, and healing, and pounding into you so hard that it left you both gasping for air. Besides that, the only encounters you had alone were fleeting, consisting of swift, passionate kisses and rough squeezes in dark corners. You two hadn’t been intimate in any sense of the word since … well, since the Winged Lion was defeated.

Just the memory of the demon made you shiver. You remembered when the Wing Lion had switched into Laios’s body and granted his true desire to become a monster. Before trying to escape the dungeon, he had tried fooling all the party members that he really was Laios and he almost fooled you. You recalled the way he had tried to kiss you – probably devouring your own desires right from your mouth – and how his hands so eagerly tried to slip underneath your skirt, finding you already aching and ready for your lover, just needing to be touched after being so distraught over Laios’s wellbeing. But you recognized the foreign contact from a mile away, and you had pushed him back, screaming at the Winged Lion to bring back your Laios.

You shook yourself out of the memory as you walked Laios back to his bed chambers that night. His stomach was full from dinner, but he was also worn out from a long day of meeting with his advisors. Marcille had really chewed into him about something today, but you weren’t sure of the reason. Holding open the door to his room for him, you caught his tired, lingering gaze before he disappeared inside. You swallowed hard, stationing yourself outside his door, your fingers on the handle of your sword. Nights like these were hard. They were lonely. It was just you out here, manning the King’s chambers, with nothing but the memory of his mouth between your legs or his groans echoing in your ears.

His half-lidded eyes tonight had you reeling, squeezing your thighs together as you tried to forget about how much you wanted him. It had been almost two weeks since he last kissed you. And that kiss had been quick, desperate, two people colliding in the small, unlit closet used by the maids.

Your hand enclosed around the hilt of your sword, and you nodded at two other guards walking past. If you kept losing yourself to daydreams like this, there was no way you’d be focused enough to protect Laios from an immediate threat. That’s what mattered after all: the King’s protection … the King’s protection … the King. Surely, it wasn’t wise to be so entranced with the new King of the Golden Kingdom as his sworn sword. And again, you understood why you were picked. But it was nights like this where you really wished you had just been … his lover. Hell, you’d even survive with just being a lady of the court if it meant no more secret meetings in closets.

You could’ve dwelled on this predicament for hours, if the door to the Laios’s chambers wasn’t opening.

You turned immediately, your hand on the hilt of your sword going tight. But it was just Laios, leaning against the open door and rubbing at his tired eyes. He had shed his fancy clothes for a nightshirt and loose-fitting drawers. His hair had grown a bit longer, and he refused to cut it out of spite. The way it was sticking out right now, pushed back slightly by his hand … you swore you could feel your knees buckling.

“Your Grace?” You greeted, remaining professional, until you saw that look in his eyes again. That tired, lingering gaze. Full of want, and care, and desperation for another body against his.

His eyes crinkled, and he couldn’t help but chuckle at your call. “Please, do not feel the need to call me that at this hour.” He then held out his hand, beckoning you closer.

Swallowing hard, your eyes flicker down the barren hallway before taking his hand, letting him lead you inside his bed chambers. This was the moment you’d been waiting for so long. His movements were calculated, deliberate, as he slowly shut the large door. You unhooked your belt and scabbard, setting them by the door. As you turned to him, he was already in front of you, helping you take off your armor. His fingers were slow, not in a hurry, as he fiddled with the metal fasteners. He struggled with some clasps, muttering under his breath, and you laughed softly. Each piece was set delicately on the ground, and then he was lifting off your chainmail as if it weighed nothing. You sometimes wondered how you were able to walk around with such heavy material every day since taking up this mantle.

Finally, you were left in nothing but your clothes beneath the armor: a loose red tunic and suede trousers. The relaxed nature in his eyes vanished, replaced by an intense hunger, mirroring the stance of a wolf. Laios was rushing towards you, pushing you against the wall, and pressing his mouth onto yours. You matched his desire tenfold, winding your hands into his hair as you kissed each other with desperation. His fingers fisted into the sides of your shirt, pulling you against him, while his tongue prodded into your mouth. He groaned immediately. All this time without tasting just a bit of you had him weak in the knees. He’d never go this long without kissing you ever again.

“It’s been weeks,” he muttered between kisses. Gone was the monster-obsessed adventurer who saved you from turning into a sea serpent. He’d been replaced by a King who yearned for your touch the second he saw you every morning.

“Since we last kissed,” you corrected as he pressed your back even further into the cold, stone wall. His lips broke away from yours, leaving a trail of spit connecting you two. You exhaled, “It’s been months since we were alone for longer than two minutes.”

“I know,” he sighed, now nuzzling his cheek against yours, “and I’m sorry. All I want to do is go back to the dungeon … with you. It’s just … there’s no time, and I’m so tired.” His mouth then dragged to the shell of your ear, and you shivered when his hot breath ghosted over the side of your face. “But the way you looked tonight at dinner … I don’t know … it was the way the wine made your face red … no matter how tired I was, I had to have you tonight. I missed you so much.”

You were sure that your cheeks had to be as flushed now as they were at dinner. Just his kiss alone had you wet, already wrapped around his finger. “I missed you too, Laios.”

He hardly gave you a second to continue before he was kneeling in front of you. He couldn’t wait; there was this fierce longing in his eyes that only you could cure. His fingers hooked into the waistband of your trousers as he muttered, “I need to taste you.”

Despite his desperation, he did take a moment to admire how soaked your underwear was, how he had always been the one to cause this. You looked down at him and he looked up at you. With long, expert fingers, Laios tugged your underwear down along with your trousers. Your pussy was absolutely dripping, like a goddamn faucet. A whine escaped his lips, hungry for a taste, and he spread your folds just slightly to see the wetness gather. There were just about a thousand monster dishes he enjoyed, but nothing – absolutely nothing – compared to how delicious you were.

Laios didn’t even give you time to step out of your pants and underwear. He was grasping your hips and burying his face between your legs, pushing you right back against the wall. You choked on a moan, even though you both knew you had to be quiet, but you just couldn’t help yourself. He placed one of your legs on his shoulder to give him better access, and when he finally got the first few drops of you on his tongue, he damn near started crying.

You were exquisite. You were too sweet. Sweet like Dryad fruit.

Grinding your hips against his tongue, you whined out his name and realized how badly you had needed him in this way for weeks. Your hands found purchase in his hair, tugging his face deeper into your pussy. He lapped at you, absolutely ravenous, groaning when more slick entered his mouth. His lips wrapped around your clit and sucked harshly. His fingers dug into your hip, surely bruising you, while his other hand wrapped around your leg and pushed them even further apart.

“Missed the way you tasted,” he muttered before flicking your clit with his tongue. “I could do this for hours.”

You let out a shuddering breath, already hazy from his touch. “Why don’t you then?”

“I want to,” he chuckled, all awkward and blushing. Just the sight of him looking up at you with those pretty eyes while licking a stripe up your pussy had you gasping. “Tomorrow. I promise. I just need to be inside you tonight.”

His promise for tomorrow had your heart fluttering. You both were going to make time again, but he also had more plans for you tonight. This wasn’t going to be just two minutes in a closet. Thinking of him stretching your walls with his girth, pushing into you after all these weeks of yearning for him, of touching yourself whenever you could because you just missed him so much … it all made you start to buck your hips against his tongue again. You knew how much he loved that. You physically felt him smile against you, sucking on your clit once again as he prodded one finger inside your tight warmth.

Your eyes rolled back once he found your g-spot, curling his finger and beginning to pump in and out. “Fuck, Laios, I –”

“Needed this so badly,” he confessed, swirling his tongue around your increasingly swollen clit. His cock was straining against his drawers, precum seeping through the thin fabric, but he wanted you to cum on his tongue first. It’s all he’d been dreaming about. “Needed you.”

“I needed you too,” you whispered, and then felt him add a second finger inside of you. You bit the side of your hand, muffling your moan. “So good – fuck. Doing so good, Laios –”

Your body was starting to shake, your walls clenching around his fingers. Laios was relishing in your taste, teasing your clit in the most delicious way. You were so, so close and he needed this so much and so did you and before you knew it, you were crying out into your hand again. Your pussy went tight as his fingers curled into your g-spot and you came all over his waiting tongue. Laios whimpered when he finally tasted your release, pushing his face as much as he could into your pussy, almost suffocating himself. He licked at you, making sure he got every last drop, and when your hips finally stilled, he pulled his fingers out of you with a wet pop and lapped at the excess.

Sweat ran down your brow as you settled against the wall, trying to calm your breathing. When you opened your eyes, Laios was getting to his feet and towering over you. His hand clasped around your jaw and gave you another bruising kiss, letting you taste yourself on his tongue. It was like he was trying to devour you, to mold both of you into one so you could be together forever.

Carrying you over to the bed, he set you down on top of the blankets and finally tugged your pants and underwear from your ankles. You laughed together when he realized that he had gotten so excited he forgot to rid you of these. "Sorry," he said, setting them down in a pile.

You couldn't help but smile when you noticed the blush on his cheeks. "Missed me that much, huh?"

His face went even more pink. "Stop embarrassing me when I'm trying to seduce you."

He pulled his nightshirt over his head, and before his fingers could grasp the hem of your tunic, you were pinning him with the brute strength he forgot you acquired in the dungeon. "You don't have to do much to seduce me, Laios," you whispered in his ear, making him shudder.

Now underneath you, you straddled Laios's lap, feeling how hard he was in his drawers. He looked up at you in shock, like you were an offering from the Gods, as you lifted your tunic off and dropped it to the floor. His breathing stilled, watching the way your breasts heaved, and his cock was practically begging for release.

You leaned down, pressing your mouth to his throat, placing sloppy kisses on areas that made his breath hitch. This was the new King of the Golden Kingdom under you, trembling from just your lips on his skin. He was wrapped around your finger just as much as you were wrapped around his. Dragging your lips down, you kissed his chest before finally swirling your tongue around one of his nipples. Laios muttered expletives under his breath as you wrapped your lips around his nipple, pinching his other one. His whole body was becoming tense underneath you, his straining erection poking against your backside, but you kept teasing him.

At the end of the day, you were always there for your King.

Once both his nipples were taut and wet from your expert tongue, you leaned back up to his face and kissed the corner of his mouth. He watched you with half-lidded eyes, cupping your face so tenderly. “Laios, I just want to be extra sure. Do you want to …?” Your question hung heavy between you two, but recognition flashed in Laios’s eyes. You nuzzled the side of his face and added, “I know you’re tired. I don’t want to keep you up if you’re that exhausted.”

“I’ve been thinking about this – about you – for weeks,” he said, his eyes filled with need. “I want this. I want you.”

You stared at him, absolutely melting at the sight of that dopey grin on his face once again, the one you loved so, so much. Now you were blushing, unable to not giggle when you saw that grin. You traced the curve of his mouth with your finger, and he bit down on the top of it unexpectedly, making you both laugh. This is why you loved Laios: everything was so easy with him.

Wait, love. Is that was this was? The burning feeling in your chest whenever he was near. The way you couldn’t help but smile whenever he did, or how you always laughed along with him. The natural disposition to protect him, whether it be from demons or people. The way you could so easily melt under his touch, under his kiss. It had always been there, staring you right in the face … love.

Feeling your heart beat rapidly in your chest, you finally moved so he could push down his drawers, and his hard cock sprang free. Precum leaked from the blushing red tip, dripping down his shaft and onto his stomach. You adored how pretty his cock was, how easily he could stretch you out with his girth. He liked the way you looked at it now, how you praised him. It took a couple of times, but he eventually stopped being embarrassed about his size around you. He still liked to give you monster facts as he fucked you sometimes – as a treat.

Laios’s hands settled on your hips as you lifted yourself, positioning yourself above his cock. You wrapped your hand around his shaft to get the perfect angle, smearing his precum and making him hiss. “Did … did you know,” he said, voice strangled, “the maximum speed of a Red Dragon is approximately – oh, fuck – 60 kilometers per hour?”

“Mhmm …” You hummed, finally lowering yourself with his help, sinking down onto his cock slowly. Once he slipped a few inches inside your warm, wet walls, you both gasped. You placed your free hand on his chest and encouraged, “Tell me more, Laios.”

“Gods …” He breathed out, feeling your body quiver above him. “I … uh – fuck … people have theorized that changelings – shit – use their ability to change living things in order to propagate their species – fuck, almost there –”

You both let out a breath of relief once he was finally seated inside you. Laios sat up, tugging you more against him, and you wrapped your arms around his neck. You stayed there for a moment, adjusting to his size once again, clinging to him as he kissed your cheek and murmured how you took him so well. You’d probably never get used to how big he was, but he filled you so nicely, so completely. After making sure you were comfortable, Laios decided to take the reins and began moving you on his cock. You whimpered after the first pass, and he had to grip your hips so tightly just to stop himself from going overboard, wanting to make this last just a little while longer. Each roll of your hips had you mewling as his cock curved inside you, brushing your spongy g-spot. His fingers dug into your skin, rocking you back and forth, grinding your already oversensitive clit against his pelvis.

Burying your face into his neck, you let him start to bounce you on his cock. He groaned, feeling himself throb inside your tight heat. Everything about you was perfect: from the way you fit him inside of you so nicely to the way you whined against his skin, begging for more. He was thoroughly obsessed with you. It was a miracle that it took him so long to initiate with you after the Golden Kingdom had risen. He found himself thinking about your touch, about your taste, more often than not. And the way you smiled at him, your laughter sounding like wind chimes in a busy street market … he knew how deep his feelings went, farther than he expected. He was the King but you were the one who brought him to his knees every time.

“I can’t get enough of you,” he groaned, biting and sucking on the side of your neck. “You always feel so good … so warm …”

He started thrusting up into you when his arms got a little tired, and you let him simply take control. There was so little control he had in his life now, especially since he was being watched almost all the time, so you’d give him this – you’d give him you. And gods, did it feel good to just melt into him, to not be his sworn sword, just for a little while. Right now, you two were just lovers, desperate to soothe each other’s ache.

The expansive bedroom was filled with the sounds of skin slapping against skin and moans echoing off the ceiling. Your arousal oozed out with each roll of your hips, dripping onto the lavish blankets befit for a King. But neither of you seemed to give a damn as his nails created crescent shapes in your hips, and you squeezed around him so much that he choked on a whimper. With your face nuzzling the crook of his neck, you carded your fingers into his hair, pulling slightly and eliciting another sound from him.

“Did you also know,” he began in a strained tone, “fuck – wargs have no fear of monsters larger than themselves – please, fuck – not even … not even dragons?”

“Are we still doing that?” You snorted, lifting your head from his neck.

He laughed along with you, and now you both were looking into each other’s eyes as he thrust up into you, hitting the best spots. He leaned down to capture one of your nipples in his mouth, moaning at the way you squirmed. His tongue moved to lick up the valley between your breasts, almost animalistic, before his mouth was grazing yours and his eyes were burning into you like melted gold. You clung onto him tighter, your chest flush against him, and you knew then that this wasn’t just fucking anymore. Laios was making love to you and you were making love to him and – fuck, he was going to make you cum so hard to make up for the past few weeks.

You were creating an absolute mess on top of him, just a blabbering heap of moans and whines, eyes locked on his as you rode him into oblivion. “I’m gonna cum,” you mewled, unable to keep your voice level. Your fingers tugged on his hair again, and he responded by downright slamming you up and down his thick cock.

“I know. It’s okay. I know.” One of his hands left your hip to reach in between your bodies, where you both were linked, and two fingers began to circle your clit. You hissed, back arching even more into him. Your vow to be quiet long forgotten as he teased your ache. “That’s it … there you go.”

Laios knew his strength, and it was certainly showing it off tonight. He was rocking your hips on his cock – so close to release – while rubbing your clit in tight circles. His sweet nothings in your ear had you crying out his name, and after a few more messy passes, you were cumming around him. You were shaking like fresh mandrake in his arms. Your walls squeezed him so tight that it only took one more thrust up into you before he was emptying himself into you. He came with a lewd groan, his hands falling to his sides and leaving you to bounce yourself on his cock through his release. Eventually, when the wave after wave of pleasure settled between you both, you slumped against him and breathed heavily. And he just held you, burying his face in your neck and licking at the bites he left on your bruised skin.

When you lifted your head to kiss him, he surprised you by rolling you onto your back, his soft cock slipping out and leaving you feeling empty. He kneeled at the end of the bed and spread your legs wide open, letting your combined releases spill out. “I’m sorry,” he murmured, and the anguish in his tone stunned you. “It’s been weeks, and I just … I need you.”

As soon as the word, “Please,” left your lips, he was diving in again, spreading your folds with two fingers. He licked a long stripe through your pussy, gathering your releases on his tongue. He didn’t care that he was tasting his own cum; all he wanted was this – you. He lapped at you, still starving for your taste, and the way he had you cumming again was slow, calculated. Laios edged you, teetering you on the brink of release, before his hunger got the best of him. And when you came again on his tongue, it felt long and relaxing, like a weight had been lifted off you. Warmth seeped from your aching pussy and onto his tongue. He drank his fill, relishing in your sweetness.

Laios rose back on the bed, curling against your side like a tamed dire wolf. His arms slotted against you, pulling your naked front against his once again. His hand lifted to your cheek, pushing strands of hair behind your ear. Your noses brushed against each other, and he finally kissed you, slowly and passionately. There was no desperation left in him. It was replaced by the steady rhythm of his heart next to yours.

“I love you, Laios,” you blurted in the softest voice you could muster. Once you realized what you said, you didn’t dare open your eyes to see his reaction. You simply felt him, his lips hovering just over yours, and then he hummed.

“I love you too,” he whispered, and your eyes opened to watch him. That dazed grin appeared once again, making your insides twist and your cheeks tinged pink.

Laios practically giggled and pecked your lips just to soothe your nerves. “I’m not sure how to handle you like this,” he joked, finally making you laugh with him. “Usually, you’re the one making me nervous.”

“I just …” You shook your head. “I was afraid you wouldn’t say it back.”

“I thought it was obvious that I’ve been in love with you since we first met,” he said in that straightforward tone of his. His thumbs brushed over your cheekbones and he smiled. “Seems like I’m cooler than I thought.”

You chuckled, hitting his chest and making him fall back onto the bed. You were sitting up slightly, propping your elbow and resting your chin in your hand. Laios was looking up at you like you put the stars in the sky. Both of you knew, instinctively, that a King being intimate with his sworn protector was typically frowned upon. Neither of you truly cared, but the opinions of his people had to matter. He was a new King after all, and every move of his would be scrutinized. Which left him with one option.

Lacing his fingers with yours, he said, “We should get married.”

Your brow furrowed. “That seems a little rash.”

It was your gut instinct to deflect, to push him away, even when you scooted yourself closer to him. But you couldn’t deny that this had been in the back of your mind, shoved in the dark corners when you thought it might be too crazy of an idea. The first time it popped into your brain was when you saw Laios’s monster form lying helpless on the ground. His body was deteriorating, blood seeping out from every crevice of the three-headed creature. The Winged Lion had been defeated, but you couldn’t stop the wail that erupted from your mouth as you took in Laios’s monster body, reeking of death and despair. You remembered running from from the tower, taking one of the heads in your arms, and crying, your tears soaking the fur.

But then you and Marcille found him amongst the trees of the island, where Falin’s body had been frozen and resting against a boulder. From the moment his eyes met yours, you had no doubt that this was your Laios. And he was okay. He was tired, but he was okay. You didn’t think you could shed any more tears, but then you were running towards him, wrapping your arms around him, and he was burying his face in your neck and – gods, that had to be when you knew. With the relief flooding through you and his arms embracing you … you knew then that you wanted to be with him forever. You didn’t want to see him in harm’s way ever again. You would kill – again and again – for him. You would be by his side as long as he would have you. You loved him. You wanted him. Forever.

Laios snorted, bringing you out of the memory. “Rash? After how long we’ve known each other?” His tone grew serious. “I trust you with my life. That’s why I named you my sword. But I don’t want to go weeks without you ever again. I love you – I’m in love with you – and I know that I don’t want anyone else by my side.” He squeezed your fingers in his own. “I want to marry you. And then, we can be together freely with you as my Queen and sword sword.” He then paused, thinking. “We can do that, right?”

You laughed. “You’re the King. You can make your own rules, but …” Your teeth sunk into your bottom lip for a moment as you mulled over his words. “Are you sure you want to marry me?”

“I’ve never been more certain about anything.” He then tapped his chin, feigning curiosity. “Unless you want me to marry Marcille? It would certainly be a loveless marriage, but she can be friendly when she isn’t advising me.”

Shaking you head, you flicked his arm. “Not sure if your sister would appreciate that. Or Marcille, for that matter.” Not even magic could force those two apart. They would love each other until the end of time.

Your eyes narrowed now. “Are you actually proposing to me without a ring, Your Grace?”

The formality made him cringe, but then his face relaxed as he stared up at you, taking in your beauty. You were the most beautiful like this, vulnerable and bare with your hair jutting out at every angle and your lips swollen from kissing him. But he’d reckon you were beautiful in every light. He couldn’t help but also think back to when you found him by Falin’s crystalized form, how it felt to just hold you again after such an egregious fight. Your warmth had seeped into him, reminding him of home. You were home. And that was when he knew, too, that he wanted to be bound to you.

Laios brought your joined hands to his lips, kissing each of your knuckles. “Once the sun rises, you will get a proper proposal. I’ve always been a man of my word, haven’t I?”

And that he was. Because the moment you stirred awake the next morning, still sleeping in his bed, you opened your eyes to find Laios, King of Golden Kingdom, kneeling at your bedside. He held out a ring to you, eagerly awaiting your response. Once your eyes adjusted to the light and you saw his golden doe eyes, his big grin, you wrapped your arms around his neck. Of course, you said, Yes.

#my fics #fic: too sweet #laios touden x reader #laios touden smut #laios x reader #laios touden x reader smut #dungeon meshi #delicious in dungeon #dungeon meshi x reader #dunmeshi #laios touden #laios dungeon meshi #one shot: too sweet #fic: please eat #fic: forbidden fruit #dunmeshi laios #dungeon meshi spoilers #dunmeshi spoilers

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admiringlove · 26 days ago

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➵ pairing. gojo satoru x fem! reader.

➵ summary. the pieces are in place, the shadows are shifting, and soon, everything will unravel.

➵ warnings. mentions of blood; mentions of familial abuse; mentions of death; mentions of physical injuries, etc.

➵ genre. wizarding world au; academic rivals to lovers; enemies to lovers; angst; fluff; adventure; SLOWBURN (but it won't be, soon. hehe); inaccuracies in the wizarding world because i did make some stuff up for the sake of the crossover; etc.

➵ word count. 25.5k.

➵ author's note. longest chapter i've written! let's make this official: there will be one final chapter after this. and then two epilogues. it will take longer to write from here on out, as all of these will be long (purely for my own indulgence sake). tysm for reading!

➵ navigation. previous, masterlist, next.

You return to the wooden bridge that evening just as precisely as you had left, the world slotting itself back into place as if nothing had ever shifted. The castle looms in the distance, golden light spilling from its many windows. The night air is cold against your skin, and the sharp scent of pine presses into your lungs with every breath you take. The bridge creaks beneath your weight, the only sound in the quiet.

And then, before you can say anything, before you can even process the way the weight of time itself seems to settle back into place, Satoru turns on his heel and walks away.

His coat billows at his ankles as he strides toward the castle, and you don’t stop him. You don’t call out. You don’t even try.

You understand.

If you had just learned that a war was coming in the next decade, that you were fated to stand at the center of it, you’d want to be alone too.

But that doesn’t make it any less terrifying.

The prophecy claws at the edges of your mind, and it's something you can barely begin to comprehend. Sukuna will rise again. And for what? To spread chaos, to shatter peace, to bring the world to its knees? He has no purpose beyond destruction, no motive beyond his hunger for power. He was never like Grindelwald, never a man with grand ideals of purity or domination. He exists only to challenge the strongest, to crush them beneath his heel, to prove, time and time again, that no one—not even the greatest among them—can match him.

And the strongest, right now, are Dumbledore and—perhaps, if he follows the path laid out for him—Satoru.

You’ve seen it before, in flashes, in hints, in the way he moves, the way he holds back. When he duels, he never fights at full strength. When he plays Quidditch, he never flies as fast as you know he can. He is always withholding, keeping something tucked away just beneath the surface, something no one else has ever truly seen. Not here. Not at Hogwarts. Because there has never been a reason to show it.

But there will be. And that scares you more than anything.

You exhale, the breath leaving you in a slow, deliberate sigh as your hands curl around the cold railing. The wood is smooth beneath your fingertips, worn by years of wind and rain and the occasional student who, like you, finds themselves here when they have nowhere else to go. Beyond the bridge, the Black Lake yawns wide and unbroken, darker than you’ve ever seen it. There are no ripples tonight, no telltale signs of the creatures that lurk beneath, and the reflection of the sky above—endless, and grey with the weight of something coming—sits undisturbed.

The Forbidden Forest looms just beyond the lake, its outline blurred by the early winter fog. It has never been peaceful, never been quiet, not really, not when it is filled with things that move in the shadows, things with sharp teeth and old magic. But from here, from this distance, it almost looks serene. You know better than to believe it, but for a moment, just one, you let yourself pretend.

And then—

Snow.

It falls suddenly, in light, hesitant flakes, drifting down from the sky like the softest kind of omen. You blink, startled, looking up as one lands on your nose, and melts instantly. The air changes, sharpens, and you know that by morning the castle grounds will be buried in white.

Satoru is gone, and for the first time since you met him, since he inserted himself into your life like an inevitability, he feels distant. He is probably alone somewhere now, trying to make sense of everything, trying to fit himself into a war that has already decided his role for him. You should be doing the same, you think. You should be planning.

There is too much to do.

You could write down the prophecy, put it somewhere in the Room of Requirement, pin it to the board as if that will make it less terrifying, less real. You could go to a professor—Dumbledore, McGonagall, Fig, even Snape—and ask for guidance, though you don’t know how you’d explain how you know what you do. You could start researching, could spend every waking moment in the library poring over ancient texts, searching for anything that might tell you what you need to know. About Sukuna. About dark magic. About how to stop any of this before it is too late.

But you are exhausted.

It sits heavy inside of you, in the way your shoulders slump against the railing, in the way your eyelids flutter shut for just a second too long. You are tired. Scared. Anxious. You don’t know what will become of Satoru. Or Suguru. Or Sukuna. Or yourself. Any of it, really.

Because how do you stop someone from reaching for power they were never meant to touch? How do you stop something ancient, something that has spent centuries waiting for a moment just like this? How do you stop a war before it begins?

You don’t know because it has never been done before.

And that is what terrifies you most.

You hear voices in the distance, faint at first, then growing closer. A moment later, you see them—Shoko and Nanami, walking toward you across the bridge. Shoko lifts a hand in greeting, her other tucked into the pocket of her robes, while Nanami walks beside her, quiet, watchful.

You force a smile as they approach, though you can tell from the way Shoko narrows her eyes that it is hardly convincing.

"You left Hogsmeade," she says once she’s close enough.

"Yeah," you murmur, wincing a little. "Some stuff happened, and I had to go."

"Stuff as in?"

"Stuff as in, Fushiguro and I ended things."

Not exactly a lie. But not the reason you left, either.

Shoko tilts her head, lips pressing together in something close to amusement. "Okay, Fawkes," she says, voice laced with a quiet kind of exasperation. The nickname makes your ears perk up, but she continues, "before you start lying to me again and again—"

You freeze.

She keeps going.

"-I know everything. So does Kento. We’ve known from the start."

You stare at her. "What?"

"We know you’re a Marauder," Shoko says simply. "And so is Satoru."

"Huh?"

"I figured it out first, actually. Right around the time you guys started," she continues, as if you hadn’t just been rendered speechless. "Kento caught on around the end of last year."

You blink, trying to process it, trying to make sense of how, when, why this happened.

"Hold on," you say, holding up a hand. "I’m still trying to—"

"Utahime doesn’t know because she can’t keep a secret, and Suguru doesn’t either, for obvious reasons," Shoko says, unfazed. "But yeah. We know."

You open your mouth, only to close it again.

"And," she adds, finally, "I just saw Satoru run to the Slytherin common room like his life depended on it, so I’m worried. Which is why I dragged Kento here with me."

Nanami sighs, rubbing his temple. Shoko smiles. You stare.

Nanami exhales sharply, raking a hand through his hair before rubbing at his temple like this is already giving him a headache. The bridge is silent, save for the distant howl of wind threading through the trees, the occasional distant rustling of leaves.

"I'm sure by now you know that I sent the notes," he says finally, voice even but quiet, careful. "Well, Shoko and I both did. It would’ve been difficult for me to slip something into Gojo’s things without raising suspicion." He hesitates for a beat, then continues, "We just saw him running towards the corridor in a three-piece suit. He looked troubled. He was having trouble breathing, too, I think."

Something sharp pulls at your chest, your heart—like an invisible hook lodged deep inside, tugging. That familiar, gnawing worry. You’d known it was a lot. You’d known it would hit him, eventually.

"I should go," you say, the words slipping out in a breath, barely audible. "Check on him."

"No," Shoko cuts in, firm but gentle, shaking her head. "Let him be. Just for a while. God knows he needs it." She tilts her head, considering you. "Tell us what's going on until then."

Your breath catches.

"I…" You look away, pressing your lips together, hands curling into fists at your sides. "I can’t," you say finally, and it comes out more defeated than you'd like. You close your eyes, inhale deep. "It would put you two in danger."

"Tell us anyway," Shoko says simply, like it’s the easiest thing in the world.

And you freeze. Because it’s what you’d said to Satoru. Your lips part slightly, the words catching in your throat.

"Shoko, Kento," you start, quiet, uncertain, "I can’t tell you because one of us could die. If anything goes wrong—if we make even the smallest mistake—any of us could die. And it'll be Satoru before anybody else." Your fingers tighten around the railing, nails digging into the wood. "I can't let anything happen to you all. I can't let it happen to him."

"I think that's exactly why we deserve to know," Nanami says. His voice is steady, certain. "If we knew, wouldn’t that make us prepared?"

"What he said," Shoko adds, jerking a thumb at him.

You chew at your lip, thinking. Really thinking. You weigh it in your head, measure it against all the things you have to lose. The answer should be easy. You should say no. You should shut them out, the way you’ve been trying to shut yourself out, trying to keep yourself from spiraling down the same hole that Satoru is surely falling into. But the reality of it is this: they already know too much. And you? You're tired of carrying this alone.

Your gaze flickers to Nanami. "You were the one who saw it happening," you murmur. "Suguru. Yes?"

"Yes," he says, without hesitation.

You exhale slowly.

"Then perhaps," you pause, gaze flitting between them, "perhaps I should show you. Both of you."

They exchange a glance, something unspoken passing between them. You don’t wait for them to say anything before you push yourself off the railing and step away from the bridge.

"Come along," you say, and start walking.

When Ieiri Shoko and Nanami Kento watch the Room of Requirement’s entrance unfurl before them for the first time, they are silent. Not because they have nothing to say, but because for once in their lives, words fail them.

The heavy stone wall melts away as if it had never existed, revealing a dimly lit corridor beyond an almost obsidian door, lined with flickering sconces that cast shifting shadows against the uneven stones. The air is thick with the kind of magic that feels alive—sentient, even. Like the room is watching. Like it knows.

Shoko is the first to step inside, careful, as though she’s afraid that too much movement might shatter the illusion. But her eyes are wide, alight with something almost childlike, and when she turns back to you, her face is alight with a mixture of wonder and disbelief.

Nanami lingers in the doorway, gaze sweeping the space with the kind of measured, critical intensity he applies to everything. You don’t think you’ve ever seen him so visibly stunned before—he probably wasn't when he figured out what you and Satoru had been up to last year, or when he discovered what Geto had been doing. But now, here, he looks awed.

“Welcome,” you say, voice soft in the cavernous quiet. "To the infamous Marauders’ hideout. The Room of Requirement.”

Shoko lets out a breathless laugh, half-disbelieving. “You’re telling me this has been a real place all along?" Her voice pitches, incredulous. "It’s not just a school legend?”

“No,” you say, amusement curling at the edges of your words, “it’s quite real.” You nudge your chin toward the far end of the room. “There’s even some Floo powder there, by the way. Although, someone who hasn’t been inside can’t access it from the outside. So it’s safe.”

They don’t reply immediately, too preoccupied with taking it all in. And you get it, you do. It’s a lot to absorb all at once.

The Room of Requirement is not just a place. It is a living thing, shifting to accommodate its keepers, breathing with them, anticipating their needs before they are even spoken.

Tonight, it is warm. Firelight flickers in the hearth, casting long golden shadows against the stone floor. A set of plush armchairs are arranged around a low table, the cushions so inviting you know that if Shoko sits, she won’t be getting up for a while. At the far end, a dueling area stands empty, training dummies lined against the wall, waiting. The bookshelves, stacked high with both school-required texts and books of a more illicit nature, stretch toward the ceiling, filled with the accumulated knowledge of generations before you.

Nanami’s gaze drifts across the space, sweeping over it like he’s cataloging everything, making sense of it piece by piece. But it’s the long wooden table in the back that finally holds his attention. That, and the pinboard behind it—cluttered with parchment, scrawled notes pinned in a desperate kind of order, books stacked precariously in between.

“That’s your research, I’m guessing,” he says after a moment, voice quieter than before. He tilts his head toward the table but keeps his eyes on you.

You nod. “And the Marauders’ business, too. But we haven’t been focusing on that for a bit.”

“Yeah, I could tell,” Shoko snorts, finally dragging her gaze away from the bookshelves. “Pansy was complaining about the fact that her love potion still hasn’t reached Satoru.” She rolls her eyes. “As if that would ever happen.”

That startles a laugh out of you, small but real.

Nanami sighs. "Please tell me you're not about to show us anything illegal."

You smile, but it doesn’t quite reach your eyes.

"Depends on what you consider illegal," you say, before stepping further into the room.

The fire crackles, flames licking higher for a fleeting moment before settling into a steady glow. It smells like parchment and ink, like candle wax melting, like the dust that clings to old books. The air in the Room of Requirement is thick with something else, too—anticipation, maybe. Or something heavier. It's all waiting to be said.

You step toward the long wooden table, fingers absently undoing the buttons of your black long coat as you slide it onto the chair at the head of it. Shoko whistles low under her breath when she catches sight of what you’re wearing.

“Damn,” she muses.

You glance down at yourself, at the crisp white button-up and dark dress pants, the fabric stiff in a way your usual clothes never are. They feel unnatural on you, unfamiliar, as if you’re still wearing someone else’s skin. Gojo's mother's skin.

“It’s nothing,” you mutter, running a hand through your hair. “Just formals. Gojo told me to dress the part for something we did today.”

It had been the only thing in your wardrobe without color that could pass as formal in the first place. Everything else had felt too casual, too much like you.

Shoko smirks. “Didn’t think you owned anything that made you look like you mean business.”

You roll your eyes, pushing up your sleeves. “Alright,” you sigh, palms flattening against the table as you look toward the pinboard, “this is… going to be a long night.” A pause, before you try to divert. “I think we should get some food. Or something.”

Shoko waves a hand dismissively. “Just start. I’ll take care of that in a bit.” Her lips quirk. “I’m dying of anticipation.”

“O-okay.” You exhale slowly.

The room is quiet but not silent—Nanami shifts slightly in his seat, arms crossed as he watches you with that unreadable look of his. The fire murmurs in the background.

You glance toward the board, at the tangled mess of parchment and ink that holds more questions than answers, and begin.

“A few weeks ago, Satoru and I got notes with riddles on them,” you say, voice steady despite the weight of what you’re about to unravel. “We didn’t know who sent them then, but obviously, that was you two. He, however, still doesn't know that.” You glance between them. “It took us sometime decode them. Mostly because of me, I think. I was too focused on trying to get into the Restricted Section. I kept making it more complicated than it needed to be.” A wry smile flickers across your lips. “Didn’t realize I already had the answer.”

Shoko snorts. “Sounds about right.”

You shake your head, turning back to the board. “Anyway. We figured out the riddles. But we didn’t know who was practicing the said dark magic.”

“We told you it was someone with dark hair,” Shoko points out, arms folded across her chest.

You give her a flat look. “You didn’t tell us it was Geto Suguru. How were we supposed to know it was him with just that one hint?”

Shoko huffs, looking mildly offended. “I put it in Satoru’s quill case.”

You blink. “What?”

She lifts her chin, indignant. “The note. I put it in Satoru’s quill case. Suguru gave him that for Christmas last year. It has Satoru's family crest on it.”

There’s a beat of silence as you stare at her, processing.

“Oh,” you say. A pause. “Wait, what?”

Nanami exhales sharply through his nose, the sound quiet but weighted, and when he finally speaks, his voice is even softer than before.

"I'm guessing Gojo knew from the very beginning who it was," he says. "He just didn’t tell you. Because it was his best friend."

The words settle heavily between you, like stones thrown into deep water, sinking too fast for you to catch them. You open your mouth, but nothing comes out. You blink, lips parting slightly, eyebrows knitting together as the realization unfurls inside your chest—too much, too fast.

"I..." You swallow, shaking your head slightly. "I can’t do this right now."

Your voice is quiet, but the panic threading through it is unmistakable. The walls of the Room of Requirement feel closer, the flickering candlelight too dim, the fire suddenly not warm enough.

"Wait," Shoko says quickly, pushing herself to the edge of her seat. "Calm yourself a bit. Don’t panic. Breathe."

But how could you? How could you possibly breathe knowing that everything could have been different?

"Shoko, you don’t understand," you say, voice trembling just enough to betray you. You take a step back, hands curling into fists, nails pressing into the flesh of your palms. "There's going to be a war. An inevitable one, and Satoru is going to be right dead in the center of it. We could’ve stopped this a lot sooner if he had just—" Your voice catches. "...If he had just told me."

Shoko’s lips part slightly, her brow furrowing in concern, but it’s Nanami who speaks first.

"I think coming to terms with the fact that your best friend is slowly losing his mind was hard on him," he says, measured as always, like he’s thought about this long before now. His voice is steady, but not unkind. "What would you do if it were Shoko? If you saw the signs, if you knew—would you tell everyone? Or would you keep it to yourself until you felt it was right?"

The question stills something inside of you, stills the rising panic clawing at your ribs.

That isn’t fair.

But the words don’t leave your mouth. Because the truth is—you don’t know. You’ve never had to consider it before. What would you do, if it were Shoko? If the signs had been there, if the truth had been staring at you all along, if you knew what she was becoming but didn’t want to know?

You don’t answer.

Nanami doesn’t push.

"Let’s not think about that right now," Shoko murmurs, her voice softer now. A sigh escapes her lips. "Just… tell us the rest. You can talk to Satoru later. I don’t think he’s going to hide anything else from you anymore."

You breathe out, forcing the tension from your shoulders, running a hand over your hair before finally giving a small nod.

"Yeah," you say, exhaling slowly. "Yeah. Okay."

And so, after a long moment of staring at the polished wood of the long table, tracing the faint grain patterns with your eyes as if they might offer some clarity, you finally speak. The words come slowly at first, uncertain, before they gather momentum like a storm rolling in over the horizon.

You tell them everything.

The wild goose chase that led you through dead ends and tangled riddles. The reason you’ve been falling behind in classes, too preoccupied with shadows lurking at the edges of your vision, too consumed by something far larger than yourself. You tell them about the genealogy and the list you'd made of pureblood students, the weeks spent poring over lineages and old records, trying to untangle a history that had already written its ending. The wild goose chase Gojo had pushed you into, one he knew would come up with a dead end.

You don’t tell them about the night you found him bruised and battered, about the way his body had looked under dim candlelight, all pale skin and deep scars. You don’t tell them about how you reached for him before you could think better of it, how you’d pressed trembling hands against his wounds, whispering healing charms under your breath like they were prayers. You don’t tell them how, even now, the image of him sits heavy in your mind.

But you tell them everything else. Including the day you learned it was Suguru. And some of today.

The moment you say the name Sukuna, Shoko’s eyes widen. Nanami furrows his brow, a muscle jumping in his jaw as he folds his arms tightly across his chest. There’s a beat of silence before you continue, a silence so thick it almost feels suffocating. They know who he is.

"And," you say, voice barely above a whisper, "do either of you know anything about Horcruxes?"

You already know the answer before they shake their heads.

You sigh, fingers drumming against the table before pushing yourself to stand, turning towards the pinboard littered with notes, parchments, stolen scraps of information. You reach for one of them—a copied page from a book deep in the Restricted Section, enchanted to preserve its fragile ink.

"Horcruxes," you say, voice even, "are Dark Magic. The darkest. A Horcrux is an object in which a Dark wizard or witch has hidden a detached fragment of their soul in order to become immortal. As long as the receptacle remains intact, so too does the soul fragment inside it, keeping the maker anchored to the world of the living, even if their body suffers fatal damage. It is, by far, the most terrible of all Dark Magic."

Shoko lets out a slow breath, one you can tell she’s been holding since the moment you spoke the word Horcrux. Then, with shaky hands, she reaches into her pocket, pulling out a cigarette. The flick of her lighter is loud in the quiet room, the flame sparking before catching. She exhales a plume of smoke towards the ceiling, shoulders tense.

"How exactly does one make a Horcrux?" Nanami asks, and his voice is steady, but there’s something underneath it. A tension, a quiet dread, a thing he is holding back.

You don’t answer right away. Instead, you take a slow step towards the pinboard, brushing your fingers against a yellowed scrap of parchment, one that holds the answer.

"Horcruxes can only be created after committing murder," you say, and your voice feels distant, as if it belongs to someone else. "The most supreme act of evil, as a means to tear the soul. The process involves a spell, but it also requires… a horrific act. Something else. Something beyond the killing itself."

Your throat is dry when you finish speaking. You don’t elaborate further.

Shoko exhales another puff of smoke, watching the way it curls into the air before vanishing entirely.

"Do we know what spell it is?" she asks, voice flat.

You shake your head. "No."

Nanami clears his throat, shifting his weight slightly. His voice is quiet when he speaks, deliberate. "How many does… Sukuna have?"

You hesitate. Your chest tightens.

And then, barely above a whisper, you say, "Twenty."

Silence.

Shoko is the first to react. She lets out a bitter, almost disbelieving laugh before running a hand down her face. "Oh, bloody hell," she mutters, more to herself than to either of you, her cigarette trembling slightly between her fingers. "We’re losing this fucking war."

You shoot her a sharp look, narrowing your eyes.

She lifts her hands in mock surrender. "Sorry," she says, though there’s no real weight behind it. Just the unshakable understanding that she’s right.

"So, after that, on a pure whim," you continue, voice even, "and because Dumbledore hinted at it, Satoru and I went to the Ministry of Magic."

The words barely leave your mouth before Shoko furrows her brows, eyes narrowing in disbelief. "Dumbledore?" she echoes. "He knows all of this is happening and he's just quiet?"

"Let me finish," you say, exasperated. "Anywho, we went there disguised as Satoru's parents. To get into the Department of Mysteries. And…" You pause, mouth suddenly dry. "We saw a memory. Through a Pensieve."

Nanami leans forward, the scrape of his chair against stone barely audible over the distant crackling of the fireplace. He doesn’t say anything, but you can tell from the way his hands tighten into fists on his lap that he wants you to continue.

So you do.

"I was the one who saw it. Gojo’s mother was there. And a Seer. And she… she predicted this."

You don’t need to look at them to know that both Shoko and Nanami are holding their breath.

You grab a blank parchment from the pile near the long table, then reach for your wand. With a flick, you enchant the quill and the inkwell, and ink spills onto the paper in deliberate, flowing strokes. The prophecy comes to life in front of you, each letter bleeding into the parchment as if carving itself into history.

Once it’s done, you peel it from the desk, walking toward the pinboard. You pin it in place, stepping back as the ink settles into its final form.

Then, you wait. You watch them as they read it. As their expressions shift.

Nanami is the first to react. His breath comes slow, controlled, but you can see the way his shoulders go rigid, the way his fingers twitch ever so slightly where they rest on his knee. Shoko exhales sharply, running a hand through her hair before letting out a long, exhausted sigh.

"I never knew it was this serious," she mumbles, shaking her head. "I thought Suguru was just… straying. But this is—" she exhales, tilting her head up to stare at the ceiling as if it might give her answers, "this is so much more than just straying off the damn path."

"I'm aware," you murmur. Your gaze lingers on the prophecy, its words stark against the parchment. Then, you turn to Kento.

He is quiet for a moment, staring at the floor as if weighing something in his mind. Then, when he finally looks up, his voice is steady.

"He already has one."

Your breath catches.

You turn back to the prophecy, scanning the words again. Sure enough, there it is. Right in front of you. Hidden in the ink, waiting for you to see it.

The Dark Lord waits, scattered in twenty pieces, his whispers buried in stone and bone and blood. But the first has been found. A hand unknowing, closest to your son, holds what should have never surfaced. A heart still torn between shadow and light.

It’s silent for a long, heavy moment. Then, softly, Shoko whispers, "Oh. Oh. Is that what that thing was?"

Your head snaps toward her. "What thing?"

She presses her lips together, then leans forward, stubbing out her cigarette on a scrap of parchment and leaving it there. When she speaks, her voice is quiet.

"Kento said Suguru had something in his hand the day he saw him," she says. "Said he was trying to do something with it. But he failed."

You feel your pulse spike. "What was it?"

Nanami shifts in his seat. His brows are furrowed, expression unreadable. "Some kind of jewelry," he says after a beat. "A ring, a locket—something like that. If I remember correctly." His gaze flickers to you. "It glinted in the night. I wouldn't have been able to see it otherwise."

A ring. A locket. Something like that.

Your fingers curl at your sides. Your mind races, filling in gaps, connecting threads you didn’t even know were there.

Suguru had it. The first. He didn't know how to use it.

And for the first time in what feels like forever today, you exhale, a sharp breath pushing out of your chest, and let out something that feels dangerously close to a laugh. A breathless, almost incredulous smile pulls at the corners of your lips.

"He doesn’t know how to use it," you say, and the words sound foreign, unbelievable even as they leave your mouth.

Shoko’s head snaps up. "He doesn’t?" Her brows lift, her eyes sharpening with interest.

You nod, still grinning, still letting it sink in. "He doesn’t know the spell," you say again, firmer this time, "Just like us. He has no idea how to use it. He probably knows the ritual Sukuna performed when he made the receptacle, sure, but he doesn’t know how to absorb it. He doesn’t know how to become Sukuna’s vessel."

Silence. The distant hum of magic humming in the walls.

Nanami exhales slowly, a measured sound, like he’s letting himself believe it in pieces. "That buys us time," he murmurs, voice even.

"More than time," you say, your breath coming fast now, the weight in your chest loosening for the first time tonight. "This—this is good."

Something sharp and triumphant cuts through your voice, and when you look up, Shoko’s already watching you, her lips twitching, her cigarette forgotten between her fingers.

"Okay," you say, inhaling, rolling your shoulders back. "Here’s what I need from you two."

They straighten at once.

"Find out as much as you can about the ritual," you tell them, stepping forward, hands bracing the back of your chair. "Whatever you can get your hands on, I’ll take it. Anything. If you can find anything on the absorption process, even better."

"That would require us to go to the Restricted Section," Nanami points out, voice steady, "How are we supposed to get in without raising suspicion?"

For a second, it's quiet.

Then Shoko lifts her chin, something glinting in her gaze. "I’ve got it," she says. She sits up, snuffing out the last embers of her cigarette against a stray piece of parchment before flicking it onto the table. "I can get Slughorn to give us permission. I’m in his Slug Club, anyway."

She glances at you. "I know you dropped out because of everything else you've got going on."

You nod, lips pressing together. "I quit last year because I became a Prefect."

"Exactly," she says simply. "So it won’t look suspicious if I’m the one asking."

Nanami hums, nodding along, considering it.

"Good," Shoko says quietly, then shifts in her chair, watching you carefully. "And, erm…" She hesitates. "I think, just maybe, you should approach the Suguru angle with Gojo."

You blink at her. "What do you mean, 'Suguru angle'?"

She exhales, shaking her head. "Try to figure out where he’s doing what he’s doing. He probably realized the Black Lake was too conspicuous for him to be practicing dark magic there. If he’s serious about this, really serious, he’s already found a new place. Somewhere hidden. Somewhere not easily accessible."

Your lips thin as you consider it. You don’t like it. You don’t like the idea of talking to Satoru about this right now—not when you’re already angry, not when the hurt of his silence is still fresh. But you know she’s right.

"Alright," you murmur finally. "Makes sense."

And then, before anyone else can speak, the door swings open.

You turn at the same time as Shoko and Kento.

Gojo Satoru stands at the entrance of the Room of Requirement, eyes wide, his breath just slightly unsteady. The light from the torches lining the stone walls flickers across his face, casting half of it in shadow, but you can still see it—the shock. The way his whole body tenses when he takes in the room. The pinboard. The parchment. The faces of the people sitting at the long table, staring back at him like they know everything.

His mouth opens. "What the bloody hell is—"

But before he can even finish the sentence, Shoko and Nanami stand.

"We’ll be back in a bit," Shoko says breezily, brushing past him, her fingers already digging into the pocket of her robes for another cigarette.

Nanami is more measured, placing a hand on your chair as he steps away, his voice quieter, meant only for you. "Sort this out," he murmurs. "We’ll be back once you do."

Then, with a final glance at Gojo, they slip out of the room, the heavy wooden door clicking shut behind them.

And then it’s just the two of you.

Gojo stares at you, his expression unreadable, but you know him too well—you can see it, the flicker of something behind his eyes, the tightening of his jaw, the way his fingers twitch like he wants to reach for his blindfold even though he isn't wearing it. Like he wants to hide.

The air in the Room of Requirement is thick, heavy, charged with something electric and sharp, like the moment before lightning splits the sky.

"Why were they here?" he asks again, his voice slow, deliberate, as if each word is pulled from the depths of something ugly. "Why were they sitting here, looking at all our work? Why have you gone and put them in danger?"

Your spine straightens. You exhale through your nose.

You don’t know how to approach this, how to tread the thin line between confrontation and whatever twisted kind of loyalty still lingers between the two of you. Should you let him rage, let him try to talk his way out of it? Should you let him explain before you say the words that have been sitting in your chest like lead?

Or should you laugh in his face? Should you remind him exactly what it feels like to be kept in the dark?

Fuck it. You’re choosing the latter.

"When the fuck were you going to tell me you knew about Suguru from the very beginning?"

The tone shifts. It’s dead silent. You step forward. He swallows, his Adam’s apple bobbing, and for the first time tonight, his confidence wavers. His brows furrow, and he blinks, once, then again, as if he needs a moment to process the fact that you’re not asking—you’re accusing.

"I did not—"

"Don't you dare lie to me." Your voice is eerily calm, even to your own ears. "You knew. You knew from the beginning. You said you found the note in your quill case. The one with your family crest."

Gojo says nothing, but the shift in his stance is enough. His lips part, then press back together, like he's trying to think of what to say, how to spin this into something palatable, something that won’t make you hate him.

But you don't give him the chance.

"The one Suguru gave to you last year for Christmas," you say, voice quiet now, final, like a blade pressing against the soft of his throat.

"I-I told you, I didn’t know until I confirmed it," Gojo says, his voice breaking, desperate in a way you’ve never heard before. But it’s not enough. Not nearly enough.

You shake your head, pressing forward, your movements deliberate, and before he realizes it, he’s backing up, until the back of the sofa is against his legs and he has nowhere else to go. The firelight flickers behind you, casting long shadows over his face, over yours, over the room that has borne witness to months of secrets, of sleepless nights, of a war neither of you were ready for but have been forced to fight anyway.

"Gojo," you say, voice deadly quiet, "you lie to me one more time, and I walk away. I drop everything. I leave you to fight this war by yourself, and I won’t look back even if—"

You can’t bring yourself to say it. You can’t even bring yourself to imagine it.

Your throat bobs. The silence between you is thick, suffocating.

"Tell me the truth," you say, voice barely above a whisper now, but somehow heavier than anything you've ever spoken. "For once. Please."

Gojo exhales, and for the first time tonight, he doesn’t deflect. Doesn’t joke. Doesn’t try to charm his way out of it. His shoulders sink, his mask crumbles, and something inside him breaks.

"I knew from the beginning," he admits. His voice is raw, like he’s dragging the words out of his chest. "That it was Suguru."

The confirmation should not hurt as much as it does. But it does.

You inhale sharply, blinking once, twice, feeling the heat behind your eyes, the way your pulse roars in your ears.

"So you sent me on a wild goose chase for no reason whatsoever?" you ask, voice shaking, too close to his face now, so close you can feel the warmth of his breath. "You let me go weeks without sleep. You let me end up in the Infirmary. All because you were scared of telling me the truth?"

Gojo’s hands twitch at his sides. His mouth opens, then closes, then opens again.

"I’m sorry," he whispers, and his voice is so full of regret, so full of something that looks like guilt and something that looks like shame and something that looks like every broken thing inside him. "I-I didn’t want Suguru to get hurt. He’s my—"

"Best friend," you cut in, shaking your head, rolling your eyes, feeling the exhaustion seep into your bones, "yes. You’ve made that quite clear, by putting all of us in danger."

Gojo flinches like you struck him.

"Fawkes," he says, softly. It is not the teasing lilt you are used to, nor the lazy drawl that usually stretches your name into something playfully insolent. No, this is different—a quiet fragility in a way you have never heard from him before. "I’m sorry."

The room feels smaller now, like the walls have drawn inward, sensing the shift in the air. The parchment on the walls—maps, theories, pages ripped from books, all of it evidence of what the two of you have built together—rustles faintly from a draft you cannot place.

Gojo takes a breath, shallow, uneven. "I didn’t mean to hurt you," he says, "I didn’t mean for you to end up in the Infirmary, and I really, really didn’t mean for it to become this bad. I’m sorry."

A muscle jumps in your jaw. Your hands curl into fists at your sides. You are so close to him, too close, the heat of his body pressed against yours like a suffocating thing, a reminder of how easily he has wormed his way into every part of your life.

You shake your head. "What good is your apology going to do right now?" Your voice is thin, breaking apart at the edges. You swallow against the tightness in your throat. "We have to work. We have to figure out how to—"

"Fawkes."

His grip on your arm is sudden, warm, and firm enough to pull you against him. Your breath catches. It is exactly like earlier today, when you could not breathe, when he had held you upright and let you lean into him, when the weight of it all had pressed so violently against your chest that you thought you might shatter under it.

You look up at him now, forcing yourself to keep your expression blank, forcing yourself to ignore the way his touch—steady, grounding—threatens to unravel you. But your chin quivers, just slightly, and you curse yourself for it.

You exhale sharply. "There’s no point, Gojo." The words come out quieter than you mean them to. "Everything surrounding you is a lie. Everything you tell me is either a lie or half of the truth. I’m done."

"You can’t be," he whispers.

His throat bobs as he swallows, as if he is trying to push back something he cannot name. His fingers tighten around your arm, just barely, like he is afraid you will slip through them if he lets go. His eyes are wide, shining in the dim firelight, rimmed red in a way that makes something ache in your chest.

"Not now," he breathes, "not when everything is just starting."

You don’t pull away. But you don’t move closer, either. "How am I supposed to believe anything you say?"

He squeezes his eyes shut for a moment before looking at you again. "I know," he says, shaking his head, voice hoarse, "I know. I’m sorry. I’ll tell you everything you want to know from now on. I won’t hide anything, I promise." His hands tremble slightly as he moves, as he lifts them and cups your face, as if grounding himself in the feel of your skin beneath his palms.

You stiffen. His fingers are warm against your cheek, tentative, as if he is afraid you might pull away, might shatter like glass beneath his touch.

"Just don’t—" His voice breaks. He swallows. "Don’t leave."

Your breath catches. His thumbs brush over your cheekbones, hesitant, careful, like he is memorizing the shape of you. His hands have always been steady, in duels, in Quidditch, even in your reckless Marauder stunts, but now they tremble just the slightest bit. You cannot tell if it is fear or exhaustion or something else entirely.

"I was stupid," he whispers, his forehead almost touching yours now. "I thought I could do everything by myself because I am the strongest. But I’m not."

You blink. He exhales shakily.

"I need you to be who I am," he continues, softer now, as if admitting it is costing him something. "I’m not a Marauder without you."

Something in your chest twists violently, and you cannot tell if it is anger or grief or something far, far worse.

You pull away from him. The air between you turns cold the second you do, like the warmth of his hands had been the only thing keeping it from suffocating you both.

You rub at your arm, where his fingers had been wrapped just seconds ago, trying to erase the sensation, the weight of it. His touch lingers like an ache, like a bruise that hasn’t formed yet. Your breath is uneven, but you force your voice to stay steady. "Nanami sent us the notes."

Gojo's brows knit together, but he doesn’t say anything. He only watches you, his face unreadable.

"Or, well," you correct yourself, "he saw it happen. And he told Shoko. And they thought it best to send us the notes."

A sharp pause. You can hear the low crackle of the fire, the distant echo of footsteps outside the Room of Requirement, the way Gojo’s breath hitches, like he’s bracing for impact.

"What?"

"Yeah," you say, looking up at him again, studying his expression—how he stiffens, how the realization settles into his bones, how his lips press into a thin line. "They sent us the notes because they thought we’d be able to do something about it. It’s how I know that you knew from the beginning."

His fingers twitch, curling into his palms.

"Shoko told me about the quill case."

Gojo exhales sharply. The sound of it is almost a laugh, but not quite. "O-oh." He nods once, slowly, then wipes a hand over his face. "Right. Of course."

You hesitate. "Y-yeah." The words feel thin.

A long silence stretches between you. He isn’t looking at you now, staring instead at the scattered parchment on the walls, at the hastily scribbled notes, at the maps and the half-finished equations, at the things the two of you have been piecing together, brick by brick, clue by clue.

You exhale. "So I told them everything."

His gaze snaps back to you, sharp, searching.

"It’s why they were here," you continue, voice quieter now. "They’re going to help us."

Gojo hums. His expression is unreadable again. "And I’m assuming I can’t say anything against it?"

You look him straight in the eye. "No."

Something shifts in his face. For a second, he looks tired—exhausted, even. But then he nods, and there’s something almost resigned in his voice when he says, "That’s alright too." Another pause. Then softer, "That’s perfectly alright."

He steps closer again, hesitant this time.

You don’t move away, but you can’t bear to look at him.

"Fawkes," he says, softer now.

The room is quiet. Not silent—never silent—but quiet in a way that makes it hard to breathe, a quiet that seeps into the walls, into the very air between you. The glow in the room is too dim to be comforting. This is not a comforting place anymore. This is a room built for secrecy, for the unspoken, for the things no one dares to say aloud. And it is waiting.

You don’t look at him when you speak. You can’t.

“Let’s just get our work done, please.”

It comes out barely above a whisper, the words steady but brittle, like the glass panes of the high-arched windows, delicate and too easy to shatter. You walk toward the long table again, fingers trailing absently over the rough-hewn wood, and release a breath that is far too shaky for your liking. But before you can gather yourself, before you can push it down, you ask, “Oh, um, Satoru?”

He looks up immediately. His name on your tongue is a hook in his ribs, pulling taut. Always, he is waiting for you to call on him. Always, he turns too fast, listens too carefully.

“Yes?”

“Is there anything else I should know?” You still don’t face him. Instead, you keep your hands busy, pressing the edges of a parchment flat against the table. “About this whole situation?”

For a second, you think he won’t answer. A long, harrowing second where the only sound in the room is the slow crackle of the fireplace. But then, a shift. A sharp inhale.

The almost-imperceptible tension in his shoulders, in his spine.

When you do look up, he is already looking at you, wide-eyed, guilty in a way he can’t quite hide. His throat bobs, like he is forcing something down, like the words are already thick in his mouth. You narrow your eyes.

“Out with it, please.”

“I—” He hesitates. He wets his lips, exhales sharply, then straightens. “You have to promise me you won’t be angry.”

Your stare flattens.

“I mean it,” he presses, raising his hands in a pitiful show of defense. It’s almost funny—if you weren’t so tired, if you weren’t so very sick of this entire thing, maybe you’d laugh. Instead, you cross the space between you.

“Satoru.” Your voice is low, edged with something dangerous. “You realize we can’t keep going like this. With me in the dark all the time.”

A breath. A moment.

“You’re right.” He closes his eyes, just for a second. And when he opens them, there is something raw in his face, something hesitant and young and unsure. “Here goes, I guess.”

A pause. A bracing.

“Suguru is a Legilimens.”

The words hit like a curse. You still. “You have to be joking.”

“He’s—” Satoru exhales, shaking his head. “That’s all of it. I’m not hiding anything else.”

Your pulse is loud in your ears.

“Wait, no,” you say, shaking your head, as if that will change what he just said. “Shut up, Satoru. Do you not realize what that means? He can read your mind! Everyone’s minds! He knows we’re the Marauders, and he definitely knows that we’re trying to stop him!”

“He doesn’t know! Well, he knows we’re the Marauders but he doesn’t know that we’re trying to stop him,” Gojo says immediately. “He doesn’t read everyone’s minds like that.”

“Satoru,” you snap, frustration curling sharp in your throat, “you really can’t be serious—”

“He doesn’t,” he repeats, firmer this time. He clenches his fists. “I know it. He doesn’t read my mind specifically.”

“How do you know that?” Your voice is rising now, unable to help it. “You defend your best friend with all your might. But you’ve known from the beginning, Satoru. You’ve known that it’s him all along. That he’s practicing dark magic on school grounds, that he’s trying to collect Horcruxes, and you kept me in the dark for all of it. Like a stupid puppet.”

“I am certain he doesn’t read my mind!” he says, and there is something desperate in it now, something like insistence, like panic. He shakes his head, hard, like he’s willing it to be true. “He does not. He cannot. He will not. If he does, he’ll die.”

The words drop like lead between you. You blink. Your breath stills.

“What is that supposed to mean?”

He hesitates. It’s a strange thing—to see Gojo Satoru hesitate, to see him falter. It is a chink in armor you did not think was penetrable, a glimpse of something fragile beneath all that gleaming arrogance. Finally, he exhales.

“We…” He swallows. “We made a blood pact.”

You stare. The words don’t land, not at first. They slip through your mind like water, too large to process, too absurd to be real. “You made a blood pact with Geto Suguru?”

The horror in your voice is palpable as you continue. “You made a blood pact with a dark wizard?”

“He was not a dark wizard when we did it! And we were stupid and only fourth-years! We didn’t know what we were doing!” he fights back, something heated in his eyes, “He would not read me. He can’t read me. I-I made sure of it. There will be dire consequences if he does.”

“I know what a blood pact is,” you say, and you hate the bitterness in your own voice, the way your chest twists with it.

For a second, you are quiet. Too quiet.

You’d let go of his arm a while ago, but now you are thinking.

Something isn’t right.

“A blood pact is not made with just one person’s conditions,” you murmur, and your voice feels like it belongs to someone else. “What was your part of the pact, Satoru?”

The guilt that crosses his face is immediate. That is when you know.

“I vowed that I would not betray him.”

Your chest tightens.

Your breath hitches. The world is tilting, slightly, like a chessboard mid-topple, like something irrevocable has just clicked into place.

“You are inadvertently betraying him right this very second.”

“No, I am not,” he insists, shaking his head. “You know blood pacts do not need to be direct. I do not believe I’m betraying him. I believe, completely, that by helping take actions against his dark magic, I’m helping him.”

“A loophole to a blood pact?” you ask, voice barely more than breath. “Are you serious?”

“I am not dead yet, am I?” he asks, laughing hollowly. “Dire consequences are nowhere to be seen. I’m fine.”

The anger snaps back so fast you barely register it.

“What if you aren’t one day?” Your voice rises again, this time without restraint. “What if you’re dueling with him or something, and you drop dead? What am I supposed to do then? Live with the fact that you’re gone?”

The words are out before you can stop them, before you can weigh them, before you can take them back. They echo in the stillness of the room, reverberating off the stone walls, hanging in the charged space between you. And Satoru? Satoru just stares.

His breath comes uneven, shallow, like you’ve knocked the wind out of him. His brows knit together, faintly, lips parting as if to say something, but nothing comes. He looks confused. Not at what you’ve said, but at why you’ve said it. At why you care.

“Fawkes,” he murmurs, voice lower now, softer, like he’s trying not to startle something fragile. “I’m not going to die.”

He steps forward, instinctive, but you step back. He stops.

Your head shakes, slow, resolute. “What if you do, Gojo?” Your voice is uneven, something raw lurking just beneath it. “What if you leave me all alone? What then?”

His mouth opens, but he doesn’t say anything. Not right away. His throat bobs again, and he looks at you—really looks at you—like he’s seeing something he wasn’t supposed to, like he didn’t expect it.

And you hate it. You hate the way his gaze lingers, searching, pulling apart your words for something unspoken. You hate the way the room feels smaller now, like the walls are closing in, like something between you has been cracked wide open.

You hate the bitter, twisting thing crawling up your ribs, taking root in your chest, making itself at home in the hollow places neither of you want to acknowledge.

So you don’t. You say nothing else. You only turn, walking away, back to the table, back to your work, back to anything that isn’t this.

You wake to the soft crackle of dying embers.

The Room is quiet now, still wrapped in the remnants of last night—scattered parchments on the table, ink pots half-open, books stacked haphazardly as if the two of you had torn through them in desperation before exhaustion won out.

For a moment, you don’t move.

Your body is sore, stiff from sleeping on a couch not meant to hold you for this long. The cushions are plush, but they don’t erase the weight pressing into your limbs, the ache behind your eyes. You sit up slowly, exhaling as you push the blanket off you—when had you even pulled it over yourself?

Then, your gaze drifts.

Across the room, Satoru is sprawled on the opposite couch, long legs bent awkwardly, his arms crossed over his chest like he’d fallen asleep still determined to argue. His breathing is slow, steady. The faint glow of the fireplace flickers over his face, turning his white hair gold at the edges, making the shadows under his eyes look deeper than they should.

You don’t remember much of last night, only fragments—the two of you combing through pages of research, flipping back and forth between theories and dead ends, the tension never fully fading. You remember the way he had scowled, bitter, whenever Kento had an input on anything. That he and Shoko were helping. That it wasn’t just the two of you anymore.

They had left around four in the morning. You had stayed, not because you thought you’d find anything else, but because leaving had felt impossible.

You had tried, at first, to keep working. Then you’d gotten distracted by what Dobby had packed you. And then you’d forced yourself to work again. To go over the same notes, to dig through the same sources, to look for something—anything—you had missed. But your eyes had burned, and your hands had begun to tremble, and you had forced yourself onto the nearest couch, curling up closest to the fire, ignoring Gojo’s presence entirely.

You hesitate, glancing at him again. His blanket has slipped, one shoulder exposed to the cold air. It’s instinct, maybe, or something quieter, something smaller, but before you can think too much about it, you reach forward, pulling the fabric higher, covering him again.

He stirs.

A breath, sharp. Then a shift, a slow unraveling of sleep. He inhales, blinks rapidly, groggy and disoriented before his gaze finds yours.

“Oh,” he murmurs, sitting up quickly, rubbing a hand over his face. “Sorry.”

You frown. “For what?”

He exhales, tilting his head back, pressing his fingers against his temples. “I don’t know. Just—sorry.”

There’s a nervous energy here now, thick and crackling. The fire crackles again, punctuating the silence, and you cross your arms, glancing away.

“There’s no reason for you to apologize,” you say, voice quiet.

His hand drops to his lap. He looks at you again, searching, as if trying to find something in your face that he can’t name.

“We should go for breakfast,” you say softly, “Utahime’s probably wondering where I am.”

He hums, “I should go, too.”

You look at him for a few seconds, and for those few seconds, it feels like it’s just the two of you. The world beyond the Room of Requirement recedes—Hogwarts, the war, the things you know you shouldn’t say aloud. Everything dissolves, leaving only the soft crackle of the dying embers in the fireplace, the quiet rhythm of your breath, the space between you that neither of you dares to cross. He’s looking at you, his expression unreadable, the blue of his eyes sharp, like winter morning frost. And you are looking back at him, knowing something you cannot name, something that roots you to the spot, unwilling to move.

He looks at you like he’s waiting for you to say something. And for a moment, you think you might.

But then you stand, the movement stiff and awkward, your limbs sluggish from sleep, and the words you might have said slip away. You fidget with your fingers as you glance toward the door. The warmth from the fireplace lingers against your skin, the weight of last night still pressing down on your shoulders.

“You should perhaps,” Gojo says, his voice still rough from sleep, “change before you go to the Great Hall.” A pause, then, dryly, “You still look like my mother.”

You blink, looking down at yourself. Oh. You had forgotten—crisp white dress shirt, untucked from the black trousers due to you sleeping in them, the long black coat draped over the sofa behind you. It’s not a bad look, but it’s not yours. It had been necessary last night, however, to present yourself as his mother when you’d infiltrated the Ministry. But now, with the morning light filtering in, you feel like a stranger in your own skin.

You pull out your wand, murmuring, “Multicorfors.”

The fabric shifts and morphs, your clothes shift and settle into something that feels more like yourself. A multicolored jumper, the Gryffindor emblem embroidered near the collar, the threads slightly frayed where your mother’s careful embroidery had begun to wear over time. Beige jeans that are wide-legged, familiar and soft from years of use. Your shoulders drop slightly. This is better. This is you.

Gojo doesn’t say anything, but you feel his gaze lingering, feel him watching as you nod once and turn toward the door. The wooden panels creak softly as you push them open, and behind you, you hear the quiet shuffle of his footsteps as he follows.

It’s quiet as you make your way through the castle halls, but unlike the quiet of the early morning, when sleep still clung to your bones, this silence is heavier. For as long as you’ve known him, Gojo has never let silence settle for long. He has always been someone who filled the spaces with something—easy laughter, a careless joke, a passing observation that made the world feel lighter. But now, there is nothing.

You don’t know if it’s exhaustion, or if it’s the weight of everything you learned last night pressing down on both of you. Either way, neither of you breaks the quiet.

When you reach the Great Hall, you spot them immediately—Shoko and Nanami, already seated at the Gryffindor table, unbothered by the stares Shoko’s presence earns. She is hunched over a steaming cup of tea, her face drawn with fatigue, while Nanami reads something, chewing absently on a piece of toast.

Utahime isn’t here. Probably still asleep. And Suguru is nowhere to be seen.

You slip into the seat beside Shoko, offering her a small, tired smile before reaching for a glass of water. The coolness soothes the dryness in your throat, grounding you, anchoring you to the present.

Gojo sits across from you, but you don’t look at him. And he doesn’t say anything, either.

You watch as Gojo reaches for the serving spoon, lazily scooping a heap of scrambled eggs onto his plate. He takes his time, as if every movement is too much effort, dragging on as he adds a portion of sautéed mushrooms and a couple of sausages, barely looking at what he’s doing. Nanami, opposite him, chews on a slice of toast with the same absentminded exhaustion. His book is open, resting on the table, but his eyes are fixed on a single line, unfocused. He isn’t reading. He’s just staring.

Shoko cradles her teacup between her hands, fingers curled around the warmth, but she isn’t drinking. The steam curls into the cold morning air, dissipating in soft, lazy tendrils. None of them are speaking. The clatter of cutlery and the distant murmur of the Great Hall should fill the silence, but somehow, among the four of you, it feels heavy. Too quiet.

They’re all zoning out. You can feel the weight of it, pressing down, turning everything sluggish, hazy, muted. Like sleep paralysis while still awake.

You lean forward slightly, lowering your voice, trying to break through it.

“Guys,” you whisper, urging, “Come on. Cheer up. We can’t get like this.”

Shoko barely reacts. She blinks, slow and lazy, before murmuring, “We’re not sad, stupid.” She shifts her teacup to one hand, rubbing at her temple with the other. “I’m just tired. I reckon Kento is, too. It’s just you and Satoru who look like you’ve seen hell.”

Your grip tightens around the tea cup you had just reached for. You let the warmth seep into your fingertips, grounding yourself, but it doesn’t help much.

“That’s sort of because I have,” you say, voice lighter than it should be. The words don’t match the feeling in your chest. You glance at Gojo as you speak, sharp and accusing. Just a little jab. Just a small way to let him know you haven’t forgotten.

His eyes flicker toward you, narrowed, quiet in a way he rarely is.

Nanami’s gaze shifts. He watches, his exhaustion momentarily pushed aside, studying the way you look at each other. His brow raises. “What is that supposed to mean?”

You don’t look at him. You don’t look at Shoko either. Your eyes stay locked on Gojo’s. You want him to see it coming. You want him to know that you have no choice but to say it.

“It means,” you murmur, slow and deliberate, “that Gojo, here, has given me some very important information that he should have given me a long time ago.”

Gojo exhales through his nose, just the faintest shake of his head. It’s so small that if you weren’t looking at him, you might have missed it. It’s a warning, a plea, a quiet, desperate beg.

Don’t say it.

But you have to. Maybe not all of it. But some of it.

You turn to Shoko first. Her gaze sharpens, curiosity overpowering the exhaustion. Then to Nanami. He is already waiting, arms crossed, ready for whatever it is you’re about to say.

You swallow once before you speak.

“Suguru is a Legilimens,” you say, voice controlled but firm. “He can read minds.”

The moment hangs. Suspended. A thread pulled too tight. Shoko’s jaw falls open. Her fingers tighten around her cup.

You see the realization unfold in real time.

Her tiredness vanishes in an instant, her eyes widening as her mind catches up, as the implications sink in, as she pieces it all together.

Across from her, Nanami is still. Staring.

Then, suddenly, he exhales sharply, setting his book down with slow, deliberate movements, as if he needs to physically hold onto something to steady himself. His fingers tap once against the wooden surface of the table. His face betrays nothing, but you can see it in the way his shoulders tense, in the way his jaw locks.

No one speaks.

For a moment, the sounds of the Great Hall—the scraping of forks against plates, the distant laughter, the echoes of chatter—feel too far away.

And then, just like that, the air shifts. The weight of this knowledge crashes down, pressing into the space between the four of you. And you know, without anyone saying it, that they’ve both been stumped.

“You have to be fucking kidding me,” Shoko mutters, her voice edged with something sharp, something incredulous. She doesn’t look at you. She looks at Gojo.

Then, suddenly, she leans in, whispering, but it’s the kind of whisper that crackles with restrained fury, the kind that feels louder than a shout. “How dare you not tell us something that important beforehand? Honestly, Gojo, you stupid git. None of us can perform Occlumency. Do you know how hard this makes everything for us?”

Gojo exhales through his nose, tilting his head back just slightly, his lips pressing into a thin line. Then, as if suddenly exhausted, he reaches into his pocket for his reading glasses, slipping them on in a slow, deliberate motion, like they might shield him from the weight of their glares.

“I was only trying to protect him,” he mutters.

The word ‘him’ sits heavy between you all.

Gojo adjusts his glasses, looking at Shoko again, like he’s daring her to argue with him on this. “If it was her,” he jerks his chin toward you, “you would’ve done the same.”

“No, I wouldn’t,” Shoko snaps, “because she isn’t trying to absorb Horcruxes and revitalize a crazy wizard who likes killing everyone.”

You snort, lifting your teacup to your lips. “Shoko wins.”

“Stop that,” Gojo huffs, narrowing his eyes at you before turning back to the other two. His glasses catch the candlelight, making it hard to see his expression beneath them. “We can still do this.”

Nanami raises an unimpressed brow. “Really?” His voice is flat, even. “How are we possibly supposed to do… this? We can’t fight someone when they’ll know exactly what we’re going to do before we even do it.”

“He won’t hurt us,” Gojo says. His voice is calmer now, quieter. “I’ll make sure of it. I promise. None of us, absolutely none, will get hurt.”

The words settle over the table like dust.

It’s too big of a promise. Even Gojo must know that.

Shoko exhales sharply, pressing her fingers into her temples like she’s willing the headache away. Nanami leans back in his seat, arms crossed, brows furrowed, deep in thought. You stare into the dark amber of your tea, watching the ripples along its surface, the way it stills, the way it waits.

Nanami is the first to speak again.

“What are we supposed to do now?” he asks. “I mean, how are we supposed to approach this at all? We don’t know anything about absorbing Horcruxes. We don’t know anything about Sukuna. His name might be buried in the footnotes of some books in the Restricted Section, but he isn’t mentioned anywhere specifically.”

No one answers.

The four of you stare at one another, the weight of your own ignorance pressing down like a thick fog. You try to sift through everything you know, everything you’ve read, every lead you’ve ever had. But all of it comes back to the same thing. The prophecy. It isn’t enough.

Then, Gojo speaks.

“My mother.”

Your head snaps up. His voice is firm, certain. He doesn’t hesitate. “She might know something.”

Your expression hardens immediately. “Absolutely not.” The words come faster than your thoughts, automatic, firm. “We will not be going to the Ministry again. We are not contacting your parents—”

“Trust me.”

It is not the first time he has said those words.

But it is the first time they feel different.

His voice cuts through yours, quiet but forceful. It makes you stop. He looks at you then, properly, his glasses slightly slipping down his nose. His brows knit together, just barely. His lips press into something unreadable. His expression is serious in a way that you don’t see often.

“My mother is not my father.”

The silence that follows is different this time. You watch him carefully, scanning his face, waiting for something—something defensive, something stubborn—but there is nothing but certainty.

And for the first time, it sinks in. The world slows.

The Room of Requirement feels closer than the Great Hall. You remember it. All of it. The way you'd crouched down in front of him, seen his most vulnerable side that even Suguru had never experienced fully. The way his entire pale body was filled with cuts and stitches. The gash that you'd undone—the same one Dobby the House-Elf had novicely stitched, because his father forbade any healing.

You remember the incantations you'd whispered under your breath, wand glowing, watching his blood trickle back into his body, leaving only the scar so his father wouldn't hurt him more upon seeing it. The quiet between you, the way his breath had evened out as the pain faded.

You remember looking back up at Gojo and seeing the relief on his face. You'd watched his smile come back when he realized that the pain was gone.

The tension in your body does not leave completely, but it shifts. Not quite loosening, but settling.

You still do not want to go to her.

But you know you will.

Shoko exhales, sets her teacup down carefully, the porcelain making a soft sound against the table. Then, she looks at Gojo, gaze measured, decisive. “I don’t think Kento or I should come with you for that,” she says. “I think we should search the library for anything about Sukuna that you two missed.”

Nanami nods almost immediately, as if he’s been considering the same thing. “I agree,” he says. “We weren’t at the Ministry. We shouldn’t be coming to see your mother.”

It’s logical. The right choice. But it makes everything feel more real.

Gojo’s expression doesn’t change, but you see the way his fingers curl slightly against the table, his shoulders drawing back as he processes it. Then, after a moment, he nods. “Right,” he says. His voice is quiet, but there’s no hesitation. “Alright.”

As the four of you step out of the Great Hall, the corridor leading toward the Boathouse is alive with noise—frantic voices, hurried footsteps, the occasional shriek of frustration. The usual morning murmur of students moving between classes or lingering over breakfast has twisted into something far more chaotic.

A ripple of confusion passes through the crowd. People stand in clusters, talking in hushed, urgent tones, eyes darting around as if searching for something unseen. Others pat at their pockets, at their robes, their satchels—searching. A few are outright panicked, their voices rising above the rest.

“What’s going on?” you ask, your brow furrowing as you glance at Gojo.

He only shrugs, but his eyes are already fixed on the scene before him, the corner of his mouth twitching like he knows something the rest of you don’t. There’s a glint in his glasses when the torchlight hits them, an unmistakable spark of amusement that makes you eye him warily.

Then, you pay attention to the shrieks.

“Where is it? I just had it—”

“I’m missing my Remembrall!” someone else cries out from further down the corridor, their voice tinged with disbelief.

Another voice follows, equally distressed. “I had fifteen galleons in my pocket just seconds ago!”

More students are checking their robes now, some overturning their bags, some spinning in place as if they’ll find what they’re missing lying at their feet. The anxiety is infectious, spreading like wildfire, and soon, the entire corridor hums with suspicion and alarm.

You glance at Shoko and Nanami, but they only shrug, both of them watching with mild curiosity.

Gojo, on the other hand, is grinning now, pushing his glasses further up his nose as he surveys the commotion like it’s the most entertaining thing he’s seen all week. You can practically hear the gears turning in his head, the way he shifts his weight onto one foot, pleased, expectant.

He knows something.

And whatever it is, you have a feeling it’s about to make itself known. You eye the corridor again, stepping closer to Gojo unknowingly, before you finally see it.

A flicker of movement in the periphery of your vision—quick, darting, barely there before it vanishes again. The shadows in the corridor shift, and then, out of the murmuring chaos, a small creature scurries forward, its tiny claws clicking against the stone floor.

Your breath catches as you watch it—fur dark and glossy, a deep, ink-like sheen that catches the torchlight, but its snout is lighter, pinkish, twitching as it sniffs the air. Its eyes, round and black as polished obsidian, gleam with something both mischievous and knowing.

And it’s heading straight for Gojo.

It scales his leg with ease, nimble paws gripping onto the fabric of his trousers, moving with a confidence that suggests it has no doubt in its own ability to get what it wants. Gojo doesn’t startle, doesn’t even flinch—he merely raises a brow, watching as the small creature climbs higher, right up to his waist, before it stretches a tiny paw toward his face, reaching—

For his glasses.

Gojo grins, catching it before it succeeds, fingers curling around its tiny body. It squirms in his grasp, but only briefly, before settling against his palm, its small chest rising and falling in quick, excited bursts. You can hear the faintest sound of snuffling, of the creature’s nose twitching rapidly, as if it’s still searching for something, still determined to find something shiny to snatch.

“Niffler,” you whisper, exhaling in quiet disbelief as Gojo, entirely unfazed, tucks the small animal into his pocket.

You gape at him. “Gojo, you can’t just—”

But he’s already turning, already moving, leading the four of you toward the quieter hallway, away from the ongoing commotion. He doesn’t look back, doesn’t explain. Just keeps walking, casual, as if he hasn’t just stuffed a Niffler into his pocket like a particularly unruly quill.

Your frustration simmers, but before you can scold him, he stops abruptly, pulling the small creature out once more.

You watch as he holds it up to his face, as if inspecting it, tilting his head to the side in curiosity. The Niffler tilts its head in return, mirroring him, tiny paws twitching. Gojo blinks at it. It blinks back.

Then he nods, satisfied. “It’s a baby.”

You sigh, pinching the bridge of your nose. “Hagrid,” you mutter. “He’s probably lost one.”

Gojo hums, rubbing the Niffler’s tiny head with the pad of his thumb, and it makes the faintest chirring noise in response.

Shoko, who has been watching this entire interaction with mild amusement, rolls her eyes and stretches her arms above her head. “Alright,” she says, turning toward Nanami, “I think it’s about time we go check the library.”

Nanami nods in agreement, shifting his book under his arm. “We’ll try to find anything useful. Maybe we missed something before.”

Shoko looks at you and Gojo, then at the Niffler still nestled in Gojo’s hand. “You two should go take that thing back to Hagrid before it robs the entire school blind.”

“Yeah,” Nanami agrees, adjusting his bag over his shoulder. “Handle that first, then go deal with… whatever you’re planning with Gojo’s mother.”

You glance at Gojo, who merely shrugs, still preoccupied with the Niffler.

Shoko waves a lazy hand as she and Nanami turn to leave, already heading toward the library. “Good luck,” she calls over her shoulder, her voice dry.

You watch them disappear down the hall, the weight of what’s ahead settling in your stomach once more.

Gojo, still grinning, taps your shoulder with the tip of the Niffler’s snout. “C’mon,” he says, tucking the tiny creature back into his pocket. “Let’s go find Hagrid.”

The Niffler does not stay put.

No sooner has Gojo tucked it away than it wriggles free, its small paws gripping onto the hem of his pants as it pulls itself back into the open, its nose twitching, eyes bright and mischievous. It pops its head out of his pocket, looking directly at you—round, shiny gaze unblinking, expectant.

You soften immediately. How could you not? It is, objectively, adorable. You reach forward instinctively, running a careful hand over its soft fur, scratching lightly at the top of its head. It chirrs, a pleased little noise, and you smile. Which, evidently, it takes as an invitation.

Before you can react, the Niffler scrambles out of Gojo’s pocket entirely, landing with an almost comically quiet plop onto the stone floor of the hallway. It pauses, stretching out its tiny limbs as if testing its newfound freedom.

Gojo watches, unimpressed. “You realize it’s going to run, don’t you?”

You barely hear him. You’re already crouching down, reaching for it. “No, no—come here, it’s alright—”

But of course, it does exactly as Gojo predicted. It bolts.

Its tiny feet barely make a sound as it scurries across the hall, slipping effortlessly between shadows, darting past the ankles of unsuspecting students still lingering from the commotion. The flickering torchlight catches the glossy sheen of its fur, a quick flash before it vanishes around the corner.

Gojo chuckles. A low, knowing sound. “Told you so.”

“Shut up,” you mutter, already moving to chase after it. “Come on, let’s catch it.”

“We could just use the Summoning Charm,” Gojo begins, lazily, not quite making an effort to keep up. But then, he stops. His gaze sharpens, a flicker of something shifting behind his glasses. You follow his line of sight, and—

The Niffler has stopped.

It is at the very end of the corridor now, a dark, small shape against the cool grey of the stone floor. It does not run. It does not hide. It simply… waits. Its head turns back towards you, as if making sure you’re still watching.

You straighten. “It stopped.”

Gojo presses his lips together, contemplative. “Do you think it wants us to follow it?”

You look at him. He looks at you. Then he nods. The two of you move forward, cautiously at first, then faster when it darts off again. It weaves through the dim corridors, past wide-eyed students still murmuring about their lost belongings, past the grand staircases shifting overhead.

It leads you downward.

Past the entrance to the Slytherin Common Room, deeper into the castle’s stone belly, where the air is cooler, where the dungeons press against the foundations of Hogwarts itself.

You frown. “Where is it going?”

But it doesn’t stop. It does not linger near the dungeons. It turns sharply, scurrying up the staircase again. Up, up, up, higher and higher, the two of you following in its wake. You’re breathless by the time you realize where you are. Gojo hums beside you, entirely unaffected, his hands by his sides, his long, lanky stride making the chase look effortless. “It’s going toward Dumbledore’s office.”

Your lungs are burning. “What?”

He shrugs. “Dunno why.”

You groan. “Why?”

“How am I supposed to know?” he retorts, a lazy grin tugging at the corner of his lips. “I’m in the same boat as you.”

Then the Niffler takes one last sharp turn. And suddenly, you are not alone.

Because standing at the very end of the hallway, framed by the shifting candlelight, is the headmaster himself. Dumbledore.

The Niffler does not hesitate. It scurries right up to him, climbing his robes with the same eager ease it had when it clambered up Gojo’s leg. Dumbledore does not move, does not react, merely watches in quiet amusement as the small creature settles onto his outstretched palms.

He lifts it, the long sleeves of his robes shifting as he studies it with a curious, knowing gaze.

And then, finally, he speaks.

“This,” he murmurs, voice lilting, eyes twinkling behind his half-moon spectacles, “would be Pip. He’s a new addition to Hagrid’s pets.”

You and Gojo share a look.

Dumbledore watches the two of you for a long moment before he moves, stepping toward you with the kind of quiet grace that makes him feel untouchable, otherworldly, like he exists in a time entirely separate from the one you are bound to. He does not hurry. He does not need to.

With a gentle pad of his thumb, he strokes the baby Niffler’s fur. Pip, warm and impossibly small, lets out a soft chirp, burrowing deeper into his palm, entirely unbothered by the tension in the air.

Dumbledore exhales, the corners of his lips curling into something like amusement, though it does not quite reach his eyes. As he hands Pip to you, he says, “Curious, isn’t it? How creatures have a way of leading people exactly where they need to be.”

You glance down at Pip, who wiggles in your grasp, before flicking your gaze back up to him. “Sir, I’m not sure what exactly you mean.”

He regards you carefully. Not unkindly, but knowingly, as though he is staring at something within you that you yourself have yet to realize. “Miss [L/N],” he starts, “not all knowledge is meant to be uncovered so soon. But perhaps, the two of you may be short on time.”

A beat.

Gojo shifts beside you. You do not look at him, but you can feel his stare, the way he turns toward you first before setting his sights back on Dumbledore. There is something sharp in his posture, something electric in the way he carries himself now. As though he, too, understands that they are teetering on the edge of something irreversible.

Dumbledore continues, undeterred. “I cannot stop you from doing what you must. But I can ensure you are safe.”

There is no doubt in his voice. No hesitation. Only quiet certainty.

Gojo exhales, slow and measured, but then he is stepping forward, his hands pushing deep into his pockets as he tilts his head. “Sir,” he says, his voice smooth, “can’t you do something about this? I mean, you already know everything. I’m sure you do. Why can’t you take any action?”

Dumbledore smiles at that—soft, understanding, but lined with something heavier. “That,” he says, “is because every action I take will be closely monitored by your father. And the Minister of Magic. I cannot use my wand without them knowing what spells I conjure.”

Oh.

The realization lands heavy in your stomach. The Headmaster of Hogwarts himself, shackled. Forced to move only within the constraints of the world he has built himself into. That is why he has been keeping his hands clean, why he has been letting the rest of you run headfirst into the unknown.

You sigh. “Sir, we think we should first figure out what exactly it entails. The Horcruxes and their absorption.”

“You would be right to do that,” he says, nodding slightly. “Come to me, when you’re done searching for information. I may have something that will guide you in the right direction.”

His gaze lingers, and there is something there—something unspoken, careful. It makes your stomach twist.

Then, as if in afterthought, he adds, lightly, almost playfully, “A record of sorts. An old thing, long forgotten, but still quite useful.”

You exchange a look with Gojo, a flicker of understanding passing between the two of you before you return your focus to Dumbledore.

He nods, but then he is stepping past you, walking toward the arched window at the end of the corridor, where the gray sky spreads vast and endless beyond the glass. His voice, when he speaks, is casual. But it is never just casual with him, never just words.

“The fields toward Hagrid’s hut,” he muses, “are rather peaceful at this time of day. A good place to gather one’s thoughts.” He clasps his hands behind his back, peering out at the grounds. “Of course, the path is rather open. But there are ways to walk unseen, if one knows how to step carefully.”

A pause.

Then, without turning back, he says, “Should you find yourselves there, I do hope you do not linger too long. It would be… unwise.”

And just like that, the conversation is over.

The two of you run.

The wind drags against your clothes, the cold air biting at your skin, but you push forward, feet pounding against the earth as the castle looms behind you. The Niffler is warm in your hands, tucked securely against your chest, its tiny claws gripping at your sleeve, its small, round body rising and falling with each breath. You glance down to make sure it’s comfortable, adjusting your hold so it doesn’t jostle too much. It peers up at you, dark eyes bright, unbothered by the urgency, as though it is entirely content in your grasp.

You glance at Satoru. “I suppose we’re Disapparating to your home?”

“We are,” he says, barely winded. His voice is casual, but his gaze flickers around, scanning the landscape, searching for a place that is truly hidden. “We just need to find somewhere completely out of sight.”

Then his attention shifts to the creature in your hands, his pace slowing just slightly. “It’s cute. Pip. Got a nice ring to it, don’t you think?”

“Yeah,” you murmur, looking down at the Niffler. Its tiny nose twitches as it burrows into your jumper’s sleeve. The two of you slow to a brisk walk, breath evening out, the grass crunching beneath your feet.

The fields stretch wide ahead of you, untouched and open. No students wander this far past the castle, anyway. Only Hagrid’s hut sits in the distance, a plume of smoke curling lazily from the chimney. The air is cool, the sky a dull blue.

“Should we go give him to Hagrid first?” you ask, adjusting Pip in your hands.

Satoru narrows his eyes at the creature, considering it, before glancing back at you. “Nah. I suspect he’ll be useful to us. If we need to swipe something from my home, that is. Let’s keep him for now.”

You eye him, unimpressed. “I still can’t believe the only reason you know everything you do is because you’re technically a thief. And an unconventional spy who gets caught from time to time by your father.”

He smirks, pushing his hands into his pockets. “We wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for my unconventional skills.”

“That’s one way to put it,” you mutter.

He lets out a small huff, shaking his head. “Alright, are you prepared? You get sick from Disapparition, right? Would you prefer it if I got us into my room again? So you can have a few moments before we speak to my mother?”

You shake your head. “It’s no matter. Let’s just get this done.”

A breeze cuts through the fields. You exhale, slow and measured, before stepping closer.

Step by step, you close the distance, until the space between you is almost nonexistent. You feel the warmth radiating from him, the way the air seems to shift, heavy and quiet. You let out a breath, looking down at Pip, then back up at him, your voice softer now.

“Hold me.”

Satoru stills.

“What?” he asks, his breath coming just a little faster.

You smile—just barely, teasing, the faintest curve of your lips. “Don’t you need to touch me to Disapparate me along with you? I haven’t learned it yet.”

“Oh,” he mumbles, blinking once, twice. “Right. Of course.”

There’s a beat. A hesitation. Then he reaches for you.

The violent pull is back.

It doesn’t just take you—it seizes you, yanks you from the inside out, your entire body forced through a space too narrow, too suffocating. Your stomach twists, knots itself into something unrecognizable, your guts wrenching as if someone has reached inside you and wrung them like a wet cloth. There’s no air. No weight. No direction. Just a terrible, gut-churning sensation, as if your very bones are unraveling, as if you are collapsing inward and being thrown forward at the same time.

Then, just as suddenly as it starts, it stops. Your feet slam onto a cobblestone path. Your knees nearly give out.

You gasp, the nausea surging hot and awful up your throat. Your stomach lurches, twisting again, fighting against itself. For a horrible second, you think you’re going to vomit. You clutch onto the nearest thing, which is Satoru’s sleeve, knuckles tightening, eyes shut. The world spins violently around you, and you focus on breathing. One. Two. In. Out. Do not throw up. Do not throw up.

Satoru’s arm is still around you, steadying you as you keel forward.

“Fawkes, you good?” His voice is somewhere above you, wry but laced with something softer.

You swallow hard. Nod. Force yourself upright. The nausea lingers, a sour taste in your mouth, a hot wave in your chest, but it’s not as bad as before. That’s the worst part. The fact that it’s getting easier. That your body is learning, adjusting. That Disapparition—this awful, gut-wrenching, stomach-turning thing that you’ve grown to hate more than anything—is becoming familiar.

You exhale, long and shaky, before finally looking up. And stop breathing altogether.

The house, or what should be called a house, though nothing about it is ordinary enough to warrant the name, looms before you, towering, sprawling.

A mansion. A manor.

Its sheer scale is suffocating. Sharp, formidable stonework stretches high into the sky, cut through with vast windows, each one a dark, reflective eye. The glass glows faintly in the moonlight, but it isn’t warm—it’s cold, untouched, as if the place is meant to be observed, not lived in. The roofline is broken up by chimneys and sharp balustrades, delicate but unyielding. Ivy curls up along the lower portions, thick and dark, trying in vain to soften the edges of a structure that refuses softness.

It’s beautiful in the way something haunted is beautiful. In the way ruins are beautiful—except this is not ruined. It is intact. It is alive.

Your head turns so fast to look at Satoru that your neck twinges.

“I was inside that?” your voice is too quiet, almost incredulous. “The last time we came?”

Satoru exhales sharply. “Yes,” he mutters. “We were inside that.”

Your eyes flick back to the mansion. It is massive. It is horrifying. It is beautiful.

“That is,” you say slowly, “a horrifyingly beautiful mansion. And big. And I can’t believe that something this big is in London.”

Satoru shoves his hands into his pockets, gaze flat. “Thanks,” he deadpans. “I hate it.”

You blink at him. “Right. Of course you do.”

He starts walking, heading toward the front doors like this is just another ordinary day, and you force your legs to move, still half-struck by the sheer weight of the place.

The double doors open on their own as you approach, revealing a grand hall so large it almost makes you dizzy.

Marble stretches beneath your feet, gleaming, catching the flickering light of the chandeliers overhead. Everything is vast. The walls, lined with intricate carvings, stretch so high you can hardly see the ceiling. A sweeping, bifurcated staircase curves up to the right, its bannisters smooth and dark, splitting into two separate landings above. Balustrades line the mezzanine, delicate and detailed, polished so that even in the dim glow of candlelight, they shine.

The space is silent, the kind of silence that swallows you whole.

You don’t realize you’ve stopped walking until you see Satoru already halfway through the hall. You shake yourself, quickly following.

You glance right, and through an open doorway, you glimpse a billiards table. You straighten, frowning. A whole room. For snooker.

Of course.

Something small scurries past the edge of your vision, just then. A familiar figure, ears twitching, moving fast, and then—

“Master Satoru—”

"Dobby," Satoru interrupts smoothly, "where would my mother be at this time?"

You force your attention away from the billiards room, looking toward the house-elf. Dobby’s ears twitch again, and he fidgets slightly, gaze darting toward Satoru, then away.

"Master Satoru," he says hesitantly, "I can't tell you that, I'm afraid—"

Satoru hums. “Dungeons or library?”

Dobby squirms. Visibly uncomfortable. Satoru smiles. Pats the elf lightly on the head. “It’s okay, don’t worry. I won’t rat you out. I’ve got this.”

You smile at Dobby as you pass, pausing briefly. “The pastry you sent with me last time was really good, by the way.”

Dobby’s ears perk up. His expression brightens. “I’ll make sure to give you more this time.”

“I’m not sure I’ll have time to eat later,” you admit. “But sure. I’d like that.”

The two of you walk, the echo of your footsteps swallowed by the sheer vastness of the place. Dobby trails behind, small and silent, his presence barely more than a flicker against the scale of it all.

Satoru leads you through the snooker room you had mentally dismissed a minute ago, and you blink, looking around as you step inside. The absurdity of it hits you first. Then the grandeur. The ridiculous, ridiculous grandeur. The deep green of the felt, the polished wood, the way the overhead lights cast perfect, crisp shadows against the walls. A whole room dedicated to this. An entire space, immaculate, untouched, meant only for the occasional amusement of knocking balls across a table.

You force yourself to walk forward, past it, into another stretch of hallway that is just as overwhelming, just as impossibly extravagant. You try to take it in, try to remind yourself that this is not a museum, not some historical estate, not a tourist attraction.

It’s Satoru’s home.

And that makes it even stranger.

Your fingers brush against the edge of your sleeve as you glance around, your heart giving a traitorous little kick of excitement when you see what’s ahead.

The library.

Your steps pick up slightly as you enter, as if drawn forward by some gravitational force. It is grand. Vast.

Rows upon rows of dark mahogany shelves stretch upward, polished to a deep, rich shine, so tall you would need a ladder just to reach the highest tiers. The ceiling disappears into shadow, the walls lined with books, the weight of them pressing down in a way that is not stifling but exhilarating. This—this is a library meant for reading, meant for existing inside, meant for getting lost in. The space is warm, not in temperature but in atmosphere, an old, settled quiet that feels untouched by time.

In the center, a designated seating area with deep leather chairs, tucked neatly around small tables. And those lamps—the classic ones, old-fashioned, heavy with history, the green glass shades casting a muted, intimate glow against the dark wood. The kind of lamps you’ve only ever seen in places where knowledge is sacred. Like the Hogwarts library.

You inhale, eyes wide. “Oh my god,” you whisper.

“I knew you’d like this one. Remind me to bring you around in the summer if we’re alive,” Satoru murmurs, pushing his glasses up, unimpressed.

You barely hear him. Or you ignore him. You can’t tell the difference.

He stops walking, glancing at one of the bookshelves, tilting his head slightly before humming in vague interest. You watch as he steps forward, lifting a hand. His fingers brush against the top of a book—no, not a book. A block disguised as one. You squint, your stomach twisting slightly in anticipation.

Satoru steps back.

You take a step back too, just in case.

Dobby shifts uncomfortably at your side, his small hands twitching, and you swallow, suddenly clammy with anticipation.

The bookshelves move.

Not in the ordinary way, not like a door swinging open or a cabinet being pushed aside, but in the way magic moves when it forgets the laws of reality exist. The shelves fold into themselves, sliding back, layer upon layer peeling away, collapsing inward like a collapsing star.

It is seamless. Effortless. It is not a door opening. It is a secret unfurling. You gasp. The space beyond reveals itself slowly, another section of the library, deeper, older, hidden. The air here is heavier, the scent of parchment and ink more concentrated, as if time itself has thickened.

Satoru doesn’t hesitate. He steps forward, crossing into the new space without so much as a glance back. You swallow your awe and follow. The moment you step through, the bookshelves slide back into place, as if this were an entirely different room.

“I was wondering when you’d be coming home,” a voice.

You flinch at the sound. The voice is smooth. Low. Measured. You tense, your spine stiffening instinctively as you turn. Gojo’s mother.

Mirai.

She stands, hunched over, at a podium—no, a lectern. The kind of furniture that exists in places of power. The kind that commands attention without trying. The kind you wouldn’t dream of even thinking if you were buying a house for yourself and decorating it.

The lighting here is dimmer, the glow of the lamps casting long shadows across the floor. It only makes the space feel more cavernous, more secretive. Your gaze flickers, taking in the details, the delicate gold accents lining the bookshelves, the heavy wooden table in the center—the color and wood identical to the one in the Room of Requirement, only this one’s circular instead.

Satoru barely reacts.

“Mother,” he says, dry, unimpressed.

She looks up, adjusting her glasses as she takes the two of you in. The glasses, you realize distantly, are beautiful. Oval frames, thin, delicate, with spectacle chains that glint faintly in the low light, encrusted with stones so fine they can only be precious. Platinum? Silver? Some other metal you don’t even know the name of?

Her gaze flickers between the two of you, sharp and assessing.

“I’m guessing you’ve found out something is happening,” she says, voice smooth as ever.

Satoru exhales, leaning casually against a shelf, arms crossing over his chest. The smirk that pulls at his lips is almost lazy, but knowing.

“Wouldn’t you like to know who was impersonating you and father at the Ministry?”

Her brows furrow, ever so slightly.

You shift, your palms damp, but you force yourself to glance around, taking in the details so you don’t have to feel the weight of the tension pressing against your skin. The books, the lectern, the grand structure of the bookshelves—raised slightly, a small step leading up to them, as if the act of retrieving a book is something to be ascended toward. It makes your stomach flip in some strange, giddy way. You love it here.

Mirai steps down, her movements smooth, unhurried. She pulls her glasses off, letting them rest against her collarbone, the spectacle chain glinting faintly.

Then, her eyes. Sharp, piercing, so much like Satoru’s as they flicker between the two of you.

She is composed in a way that feels calculated, her posture precise, every movement measured. A deep green coat flows around her, the fabric shifting with each step, its weight a quiet nod to both wealth and history. There is something structured about it, the way it cinches at the waist before cascading into a fuller silhouette, the high collar framing her face with an air of hushed charge. The buttons gleam in a neat row, catching the light like polished brass, fastening everything into place—elegance, control, restraint. The sleeves taper smoothly down to her wrists, fitted just right. Everything about her is perfect.

And then, her voice. Low, certain. "It was you?" she asks.

Satoru doesn’t blink. “It was I,” he says, almost pleased with himself. Then, glancing toward you, “And her. She might’ve told Evelyn that you’d read her research paper, though. Make sure you do that, and maybe compliment her or something. She seemed a little jumpy.”

You inhale sharply. “Sorry,” you blurt. “Mrs. Gojo. I didn’t mean to, it just slipped out—”

She ignores you at first. “Polyjuice Potion?”

Satoru nods. Then, finally, she turns to you.

"You certainly dressed the part,” she remarks, her gaze sweeping over you, coolly appraising. “Although your coat wasn’t as long as I like mine to be.”

You blink. “Oh.” A pause, then meekly, “Sorry?”

“Don’t worry, darling, you did fine.”

She waves you off without so much as a glance, already moving, already shifting her focus elsewhere. There is something effortless about the way she moves, something deliberate, as though every action is carefully measured, calculated. She reaches for the lectern, her fingers pale against the dark grain of the wood, picking up the book and parchment she had been studying as though it were of no more consequence than a discarded letter. She does not hesitate, does not pause, simply turns and walks past you, the long hem of her dress sweeping against the marble floor with a whisper of movement.

You watch her as she places the book down on the large, round table in the center of the room, the sound barely a whisper against the wood. Then, without looking, she speaks.

“Come sit.”

A glance over her shoulder. First at Satoru. Then at you.

“You as well.”

You scramble.

The movement feels inelegant, out of place in a room like this, in the presence of someone like her. You reach for the chair closest to Satoru’s, gripping the back of it before pulling it out and sitting down, hands clenching briefly against the arms before you force yourself to release your grip.

You do not look at her.

Instead, you look at him.

Satoru sits beside you, careless in a way only he can be, his body angled slightly, his arm resting lazily on the table’s edge. His expression is unreadable as he stares at his mother, but his hand—his hand finds yours beneath the table, warm, steady. His fingers slip between yours, intertwining, holding.

Your breath catches.

It is an absurd thing to focus on at a moment like this, but you cannot help it, cannot stop the way your pulse speeds up, the way your skin burns where he touches you. You blink, hard, forcing yourself to steady your breathing, forcing yourself to look away from him, to look at her.

“I’m guessing you already know,” she says, voice smooth, even. “Since you looked through the Pensieve.” A pause. Then, sharper, “But seriously, Satoru, I raised you better than that. You cannot break the law and expect me to lie. What if they use Veritaserum on me someday?”

She fixes him with a look, one that is not quite exasperated, but close.

Satoru rolls his eyes, still holding your hand as he leans back slightly. “Mother,” he drawls, “You’ve practiced Occlumency for a reason.”

She exhales, a sigh that sounds half-resigned, half-amused. Then her gaze flickers back to you. Then to him.

“Who saw the memory?”

“I did,” you say softly, raising your hand the way you would in class, voice barely more than a murmur. Then, instinctively, “Sorry.”

She clicks her tongue, shaking her head. “Quit apologizing, dear.” A beat. “I’m guessing my son probably forced you to go there in the first place.”

You do not know how to answer that.

The woman standing before you is not the woman you saw in the Pensieve. That version of her had been different, sharper in a way that felt less like a mother and more like something else entirely. But this—this is something else. You get the distinct impression that she assumes roles the way one might change outfits, slipping into them with effortless precision, adapting, adjusting, becoming whatever the moment requires.

You wonder which version of her this is.

“Actually,” Satoru starts, as if this conversation is of little importance to him at all, “Have you heard of the Marauders?”

“The hooligans at your school that disrupt decorum and steal things?” she asks, raising a delicate brow. “I doubted it was you and your friends.”

“You’ve got me right,” Satoru nods, as if pleased with himself. Then, with a smirk, “But it isn’t Suguru or Shoko or anyone else. It’s her.”

There is a heavy pause. A single blink.

“Oh,” she says simply, considering. Then, almost amused, “That makes things a lot easier.”

“If I were to start from the beginning,” Satoru begins, but Mirai lifts a single finger, silencing him before he can go on.

She turns—not to either of you, but to the far end of the room, where Dobby stands, still and silent. You realize then that you had forgotten he was even there, standing as he has been this entire time, as if waiting for something. The realization makes something twist in your stomach, a sharp little pang of guilt. You try for a small smile, something apologetic, but it feels more like a grimace.

Mirai does not acknowledge your reaction.

Instead, she regards the elf for a moment, her gaze unreadable, before speaking. “Dobby, we might be here for a while. Hours, perhaps. Could you get us tea and refreshments?”

“Yes, Madam Gojo,” Dobby nods immediately, disappearing with a small pop.

You wish you could do that. Disappear, just like that. Not the sharp, gut-wrenching twist of Apparition, but the way elves do it, seamless and quiet. No sound but a hush of displaced air. No warning. Just gone.

You wish you could be anywhere but here, in this room, where the air feels thick enough to choke on, where something tight and coiled sits heavy in your chest. You were giddy at first, but the tension felt like it would drown you any second.

Unfortunately, there is nowhere else to be.

“Anywho,” Satoru drawls, stretching his legs out under the table like this is any other conversation, like he isn’t standing at the edge of something irreversibly dangerous. “As I was saying, we were… made aware of someone attempting to use dark magic at school. Anonymously, of course. And so, we investigated it. As the Marauders. After everything, here we are.”

His mother exhales, slow, measured.

She looks between the two of you, gaze flickering over your joined hands, the space between you, as if assessing something.

Then, finally, she asks, “How much do you know?”

Satoru’s grip on your hand tightens, the barest squeeze. “Everything,” he says. “Everything except what exactly is going to happen, and how to stop it.” A pause. Then, more deliberately, “The whole bit. Sukuna. Twenty Horcruxes. Suguru being the one behind it all. You already know the gist, though. From the prophecy.”

Something shifts in Mirai’s expression. Not quite fear, but something close to it.

“Satoru,” she says, voice careful now, “I do not want this for you. I do not want that prophecy to come into fruition.”

There is something about the way she says it that makes your chest go tight, that makes the moment feel heavier than before, like the weight of what you’re about to do is truly beginning to sink in. “Do not try to get dragged into this war.”

Satoru does not hesitate. “Like it or not, Mother, I’m already a part of it.”

There is a finality to the way he says it, an unwavering certainty, and you see the way Mirai’s expression shifts, see the way her fingers press slightly into the table’s surface, how her posture stiffens.

This could very quickly turn into something worse.

You feel it before it happens, the air in the room shifting, thickening with something unspoken. Your heart is in your throat, your pulse too quick. You do not want this to turn into an argument—not now, not when there are things more urgent at hand, not when there is something far more important to be said.

So you speak before it can escalate.

“Excuse me, Mrs. Gojo.”

Her attention snaps to you, her gaze sharp, but you force yourself to keep steady, to press forward.

“We came here for a reason,” you say, voice more even than you expect it to be, though your fingers tighten around Satoru’s under the table. “That is to find out what exactly Horcrux absorption entails. We don’t know what’s supposed to happen. Or how it will happen at all.” You swallow, throat tight. “We don’t know anything about that kind of magic, and we couldn’t find anything on it in the library at Hogwarts. In the limited time we had, of course. There may be a lot we missed just because we were short on time.”

A moment of silence. Then another.

You exhale, shakily. The room feels colder now, or maybe you are just beginning to realize how real all of this is. How much you don’t know. How much you still need to figure out.

Mirai watches you. Then, at last, tilting her head as she regards you. “You’re much smarter than I thought you’d be. You should consider Research if you haven't already done so. The Department could use someone like you.” A pause. “I’d say you’re the brightest of Satoru’s friends.”

Something in your chest unfurls, unexpected but not unwelcome. It’s the kind of thing you’ve heard before, the kind of praise professors have given you in passing, the kind of validation that normally doesn’t mean much. And yet, coming from her—from Gojo’s mother—it makes something warm flicker at the edges of your ribs.

Before you can think of what to say, Satoru exhales sharply through his nose. “Mother, please stop trying to recruit my friends into working for you.”

She ignores him.

Her gaze lingers on you, sharp and assessing, before she finally speaks again. “Tell me, in detail, how much you know.”

You inhale, steadying yourself, choosing your words carefully.

“Well,” you start, fingers tightening slightly against the edge of the table. “From what Satoru has told me, and from what I’ve been able to find, Sukuna was a dark wizard with a fixation on power—his objective wasn’t conquest or control, just the elimination of the strongest. And when he supposedly died, he fractured his soul, creating twenty Horcruxes. Somehow, in this day and age, Suguru has found one. And if someone were to absorb enough Horcruxes, they might become a vessel for him.”

Satoru takes a slow, measured breath through his nose. Then he exhales, looking at his mother. “I could’ve told you all of that.”

Mirai doesn’t even blink. “I know.” A pause. “But you would’ve said it in that sarcastic tone I have neither the patience nor the tolerance for at the moment.” Then, almost offhandedly, she adds, “And I like her more.”

Satoru makes a noise of protest, but she speaks over him, still looking at you. “She seems more sensible than you. And looks like she keeps you out of trouble.”

You don’t dare say anything, but Satoru makes a quiet scoffing sound.

Mirai ignores that, too. “That’s a lot more than you should know,” she murmurs, thoughtful now. She studies you with something almost unreadable, something careful and heavy. “I hope you understand that people have been killed in my Department for less.”

Your hands tighten in your lap, nails pressing into the fabric of your robes.

“Yes, ma’am,” you say quietly, forcing yourself to meet her gaze. “Satoru made that clear when he told me everything.”

Mirai hums. “I’d assume so.”

Then, finally, Satoru shifts forward, voice pressing into the space between you like a blade slicing through the tension. “So how do we stop it?” he asks. “What’s the ritual?”

His mother exhales, long and slow. Then, without a word, she reaches for the book and parchment she had brought from the lectern earlier. She sets them down in front of you, the pages crackling slightly as she spreads them across the table.

“This,” she says simply.

Satoru frowns, eyes scanning the parchment. The sheet is large, covered in ancient text and something even more incomprehensible—diagrams, circular and intricate, layered with symbols you can’t place. They are runes, of course, but not the kind you’ve studied before. Not the ones etched into the corners of your textbooks, not the ones carved into the stones of Hogwarts, not even the oldest ones you’ve come across in the Restricted Section. These are something else entirely.

His mother reaches out, tapping a few of them.

“Sukuna was a dark wizard,” she says, tone careful. “That much is known. But where his Horcruxes are hidden is not. No verifiable records of him exist, nothing about his followers—he had quite a few, by the way—nothing about how his magic worked. The information is ancient.” Her fingers skim across the parchment again, tracing the lines of the diagrams. “It’s like the way the Egyptians lasted for so long that they had to study their own history. What little we know about Sukuna comes from fragments, secondary sources, myths passed down through centuries.”

Something about that sparks in your mind, some half-buried recollection. “The Ancient Egyptian civilization lasted over three thousand years,” you murmur, the words coming unbidden, “the only major interruptions being the short twenty-year period of Atenism being made the state religion. And later, when it was annexed by Rome, which led to its decline.”

Mirai glances at you then, just briefly, something unreadable in her expression. But there’s something else there, too—something almost like approval.

“You know your history,” she says. It isn’t quite praise, but it’s close.

Satoru looks at you at that, but he doesn’t say anything. Mirai turns her attention back to the parchment, fingers moving from the runes to the dense columns of text.

“Well,” she continues, voice steady now, “most of these suggest Japanese origin. Heian era.”

“The golden age of Japanese culture,” you murmur, more to yourself than anyone else.

Mirai nods. “That’s what it suggests. That he was alive during that time. But no one in the Department, not even me, has been able to decrypt these runes.” Her fingers tap against the parchment, the ancient symbols etched into the brittle surface like the grooves of a fingerprint, impossible to erase, impossible to alter. “We can’t understand them, no matter how hard we try. I’ve brought in experts, some of the best minds in magical linguistics. Nothing. Even Bathsheba Babbling, your Ancient Runes professor, was consulted. No luck.”

Satoru leans back in his chair, frowning. “No one from Mahotokoro?” His brow arches, blue eyes sharp with skepticism. “Come on. If anyone should be able to read this, it’s them. The Japanese Wizarding School. It’s their language. Or, was. I think.”

His mother exhales, slow and measured. “It’s our language too,” she says. “And yet I don’t see either of us—” she gestures between them, a slight wave of her hand, “understanding what this means. Any of it.”

You press your lips together, stifling a laugh, but before the moment can stretch into something lighter, something less sharp, the sound of hurried steps against stone makes you glance up. Dobby appears at the edge of the room, scurrying in through—

A bookshelf?

Your brows lift, and before you can say anything, Satoru leans in, voice low. “There are multiple entrances. That one’s small enough for elves.”

“Oh,” you whisper back.

Dobby climbs up onto a stool—one that must have already been waiting for him—and carefully places three teacups onto the table, each nestled in a saucer. A small porcelain container follows, filled with tiny cubes of sugar. His hands are steady, practiced, but when you catch his eye and offer him a small, grateful smile, he stiffens slightly, his ears twitching.

You mouth thank you, and he quivers, just barely.

Before you can say anything else, another elf appears, this one balancing a much larger tray. Dobby takes it carefully, adjusting his grip before stepping forward and setting it down with practiced precision.

You blink. Two plates of strawberry pastries.

Your gaze flickers to Satoru just in time to see his mouth part slightly, eyes bright with interest. But then, you notice what he’s really looking at—a third plate, larger than the other two, piled high with soft white pillowy spheres. Not quite spheres, actually. Something round, but pliable, edges dusted in a fine white powder that you can only assume is sugar.

Satoru doesn’t hesitate. He reaches out and takes one, biting into it without ceremony. You see it then. The thin outer layer gives way to something soft, something thick—white cream wrapped around a pale green filling. You tilt your head, curious, before Mirai speaks.

“Kikufuku,” she says, watching Satoru chew fondly. “A type of mochi. The green bits are edamame-flavored. He likes them a lot.”

“Oh.” You glance back at Satoru. He’s already reaching for another.

He swallows, then grins, gesturing toward the half-eaten mochi in his hand. “Mum took me to this bakery in Tokyo when we were in Japan. I was a kid, maybe six or seven. They had these, and I thought they matched my hair, so I asked for them.” He pauses. “Didn’t expect the inside to be green, though.”

You stare at him. “You wanted it because it matched your hair?”

He nods, completely serious. “Yeah.”

“And then you ate it anyway?”

“Obviously. Been my favorite ever since.”

“You are—”

“Insufferable?”

“Ridiculous.” You take a slow sip of your tea, letting the warmth settle in your chest before setting the cup back down. “Anyway, we should probably get back to…”

You trail off. Mirai is watching you.

Not just watching, but watching—her gaze steady, unreadable, something almost like fondness flickering just beneath the surface. You’re not sure what it is, not sure if you should try to name it. But then she blinks, snapping herself out of whatever thought she had been lost in, and clears her throat.

“Right,” she says, a bit too briskly, shifting her attention back to the parchment. “As I was saying, there is nothing known about Sukuna. Not yet.”

Satoru finishes the mochi in his hand, brushing his fingers off against his pants. “What about Horcruxes?”

She exhales, long and slow, pressing her fingers into her temples, as if trying to smooth away an oncoming headache. The book before her is ancient—a dark olive green, its spine barely holding, pages so brittle they seem to whisper when the air shifts. It looks as though it has been read and reread for centuries, as though it remembers too much. She drags it toward herself with careful hands.

“Horcruxes are something we know about,” she says at last, her voice measured, clipped, as though she is trying to convince herself that it is enough. “Not enough, according to me, but enough for now.” She inhales again, deeper this time, knuckles turning white where they grip the book’s edge. “Merlin, help me. I can’t understand why I’m sharing classified information with my teenage son and his friend, potentially putting both of your lives in danger, but—”

“Mum,” Gojo interrupts, tipping his chair back onto its hind legs, arms crossed, voice flat. He is already bored of this argument. Already exhausted by it. “Our lives are already in danger. Stop worrying.”

Mirai’s fingers tighten around the book. There is something in the way she looks at him now—something unreadable. Motherly, but distant. A deep inhale, a slow exhale, and then she is flipping the book open, splaying her fingers across the brittle pages as though steadying herself. Her glasses slip down the bridge of her nose, and she pushes them back into place before speaking again.

“You already know what a Horcrux is,” she says. Her voice is quieter now, but no less heavy. “It’s a receptacle. Binds someone to the living world, even after death.”

You nod, chewing slowly, letting the flavor settle on your tongue. The pastry is soft, dusted in sugar, but the sweetness is cut by the sharp, tart burst of strawberry jam. You glance up at Dobby, who stands quietly at the room’s edge, eyes round and luminous in the dim light. You nod at him in approval, and he bows, delighted, before disappearing with a soft pop.

Mirai continues, her voice steady but her fingers still tense where they rest on the parchment. “A Horcrux is made through murder. Afterward, a ritual is performed—an ancient, unspeakable spell that encases the torn fragment of soul within an object. A Horcrux is never random. It is always an object of deep personal or historical significance. When I was a student at Hogwarts, Slughorn told me that Horcruxes were the ‘wickedest’ form of magic in existence. But Slughorn has a malleable spine. He is easily swayed.”

“Very few wizards know how to make them,” you say, more to yourself than to her. “I’m guessing you do.”

“I do,” she says. She places her teacup down with careful precision, the soft clink of porcelain ringing through the still air. “But it isn’t necessary for you to know. Hence, I won’t be telling you.”

“Sorry?” Gojo straightens, blinking once. “We deserve to know. We deserve—”

“No.” She shakes her head, the motion deliberate, firm. “You deserve to know what I tell you, you deserve to know. Nothing more, nothing less. You should know how to end a Horcrux. You should know how to stop your friend. That is all. I am not giving you information that is unnecessary. I will not have my only son playing with things he doesn’t understand. I will not have my only son die because of them.”

The silence that follows is sharp, the kind that slices before you even feel the wound.

Gojo exhales sharply through his nose, tilting his head back, staring at the ceiling as though it holds answers. And then, in a voice that is too calm to be anything but violent, he says, “I was dying every single day living with him.”

Mirai stiffens. You know it’s an unfair game.

“You never did anything about that,” Gojo continues, quiet but unwavering, and something inside the room shifts. Something in the air presses heavy against your lungs. “I try to find excuses to stay at Hogwarts every summer, but I come back here anyway. Because of you. Do you know how hard that is? To come back here, to see his face, to know that you stay with him despite everything he’s done to me?”

She does not speak. She looks down at her lap, fingers curled so tightly against her robes that her knuckles glow white.

Your throat tightens. Slowly, carefully, you reach for Gojo’s hand. His fingers are sticky with sugar, dusted in white, and when you pull his hand toward you, pressing it into your lap, his grip is tight. He doesn’t look at you, but his fingers press into your skin, firm and unyielding, as though grounding himself. You squeeze back. You don’t mind the stickiness, the way the sugar clings between the creases of your palm. You wouldn’t mind anything uncomfortable if it meant this—if it meant anchoring him, if it meant making him feel something other than what he is feeling now.

When Mirai finally speaks, her voice is quiet, so quiet it barely reaches above the sound of the fire cracking in the hearth.

“I can’t apologize for things that have already happened,” she says. Her voice is neither defensive nor pleading. Just tired. “I tried to do my best as your mother despite everything else.”

“Trying wasn’t enough,” Gojo mumbles. “Your trying got me a gash so deep that I had to ask her to heal it. I had to make sure the scar wouldn’t be gone in case he’d hurt me again because of it. Do you know how painful it is? Do you?”

She looks at him, unblinking, but her eyes are glassy behind her spectacles. You can tell. “I do, because my mother was the same, Satoru. I tried, despite your father treating you horridly. Trust me. Trying was all I could do.”

“Satoru,” you whisper.

The sound of his name tugs him back, just for a second. His eyes flick to you, unfocused at first, pupils slow to adjust before dilating, but then there’s recognition. His breath comes sharp and shallow, his fingers curled so tightly against his palm that his knuckles have gone white. You exhale, softer this time, tilting your head just slightly, enough for him to see the movement, enough for him to understand what you mean: Breathe.

His chest rises and falls once, twice, the movement deliberate, strained. His mother watches, expression unreadable, then looks down at the book in her hands uncomfortably. The sound of her fingers turning the brittle pages is nearly imperceptible, but you hear it, hear the paper sigh under her touch, hear the way she clears her throat before she speaks again.

You glance down at your hands. Sugar coats your palm, fine and white, dusted over your fingertips like ash. It has transferred from Gojo’s hands to yours, clinging stubbornly to your skin. The ghost of something sweet.

“A Horcrux cannot be destroyed through ordinary magical means,” Mirai says at last, her voice shaking, “It requires highly destructive magic. Horcruxes radiate a dark aura. An influence, a corruption. They take from those who possess them.”

“Possess them?” You frown. “Does that mean the same thing could be happening to Suguru? That he’s being controlled by whatever thing he found?”

“What thing?” Mirai repeats. She tilts her head slightly, waiting.

You nod. “A type of jewelry. A locket, maybe. Or a ring. Something small, something that catches the light.” You pause, thinking back. “Whoever saw it, said it was in the dark. They couldn’t get a clear look. But it was one of those two. A locket, or a ring.”

Mirai hums, a contemplative sound, her fingers tapping absently against the fragile spine of the book as she tries her best to straighten herself. “Whatever it is,” she murmurs, more to herself than to either of you, “it must have held significance to Sukuna. A soul, when split, becomes something less than human—both in form and in essence. And some Horcruxes, particularly those made by the truly powerful, develop a will of their own. They defend themselves.”

“Oh, God,” you whisper, barely resisting the urge to groan. “How do you destroy one?”

“With something stronger than it,” Mirai replies simply. “A basilisk’s fang. A magical artifact imbued with raw, ancient power. The Sword of Gryffindor, perhaps.” She shakes her head. “There aren’t many options.”

You exhale slowly, mulling over the information. “And the ritual?”

“The ritual is… complicated.” She sighs, rubbing at her temple. “Again, we don’t know everything. But we know enough. It’s a process that allows a wizard to reclaim the fragments of their soul, to draw them back into a single vessel. But the process requires a location of immense significance—one tied irrevocably to the original caster.”

“Something tied to Sukuna?” You furrow your brow. “So… Japan?”

“Possibly,” she says. “But where, exactly? That is the question.”

“Damn,” Gojo mutters. Mirai flicks him a sharp glance at the language, and he mumbles an automatic apology before leaning forward, resting his elbows on the table. “What’s the most important place to a person?” he asks, voice thoughtful, gaze distant.

You blink at him. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, as a person. What’s the one place in the world that matters most? The one that holds the most weight, the most history?”

The Room of Requirement. The answer sits on the tip of your tongue, burning there, desperate to be said. It’s the place where the two of you have spent countless nights—plotting, hiding, finding solace in stolen hours of mischief and whispered schemes. It’s yours. But that’s not the answer he’s looking for. It’s not logical enough. Sukuna wasn’t sentimental. He wouldn’t have needed comfort. He would have needed something practical. Something that mattered.

“Where he was born?” you say at last, though the words feel uncertain even as you speak them.

Mirai doesn’t respond immediately, but her expression sharpens, eyes narrowing in thought. She looks down at her notes, turning them over in her mind, and beside you, Gojo smirks.

“Or?” he prompts. You glance at him, confused. “Or what?”

His smirk widens just slightly, but there’s something in his eyes now—something knowing, and expectant. He nudges you, grinning as if you’ve missed something obvious. “You’re getting rusty, Fawkes. Think about it. Sukuna wasn’t just anyone. He wasn’t some run-of-the-mill dark wizard. He was obsessed with power. He spent his life eliminating threats, making sure no one could challenge him. He killed people for sport.”

You shake your head. “I don’t—”

And then, suddenly, you do. The realization crashes into you all at once, unraveling in your mind like a thread pulled too fast. You turn to Gojo, and he’s already looking at you, already knows that you understand, already knows that you’ve both come to the same inevitable conclusion.

“The place of his death,” you say.

“The place of his death,” Gojo repeats deliberately, as if saying it aloud makes it more real, more inevitable. He exhales through his nose, tipping his head back against the chair again, staring at the ceiling like the answer is written there. “Probably somewhere in Japan. And somewhere that is… very well known. Mostly. Probably. Merlin, I hope not.”

“Even if it is well known,” Mirai says, tone measured, “a part of it will be hidden from Muggles. That much is certain.”

You hum, fingers tracing idle patterns over the grains of the wooden table. “What about the ritual of absorption itself? Is there anything you know about it?”

“Yes,” she nods, flipping through the pages of the book. “Horcruxes aren’t usually absorbed. But, for research purposes, we got our hands on one once. And we experimented with it.”

Gojo makes a noise, something caught between disbelief and exasperation. “Experimented?” His eyes narrow. “With a dark magic artifact?”

“Yes,” she says, flatly, like it is the most obvious thing in the world. “That’s my job, isn’t it? To uncover what has yet to be understood?”

You don’t miss the way Gojo’s mouth twitches like he wants to argue but can’t. She doesn’t give him the chance.

“Anyhow,” she continues, flipping another page, “we believe it was once used by dark wizards to steal or consume the power of another’s fragmented soul.”

“Vessel,” you whisper, the word rolling off your tongue before you can stop it. A sharp, quiet sound in the heavy stillness of the room. “Becoming a vessel for the fragmented soul.”

“Exactly,” Mirai murmurs. Her gaze flickers up to meet yours before settling back on the text. “The ritual must take place at a site with a deep magical connection to the fragmented soul. In Sukuna’s case, that would be his grave, as my very dear son, whom I am definitely not fearing for the life of, mentioned.”

Despite yourself, you smile, just a little. Now you see where Gojo gets his dry, sardonic humor.

But Mirai isn’t finished. She exhales, something weighty in the movement, before pressing on. “The process involves three elements. The vessel, which is the person performing the ritual, the one absorbing the Horcrux. In this case, Geto Suguru. The conduit. This would be the receptacle containing Sukuna’s fragmented soul. The third, however, remains a mystery. A magical force strong enough to contain the essence without consuming the vessel in the process.”

A pause.

You swallow. The room suddenly feels smaller. “So,” you begin, voice quieter now, thinking through the weight of it all, “if it goes wrong, Suguru faces—”

“Imminent death,” Mirai says, just as softly. But there is something else in her voice, something clipped and unforgiving. “Or something far worse.” She meets your gaze, unflinching. “He does not know what he is dealing with. And I intend on finding this location—Sukuna’s grave—so I can put a stop to this nonsense once and for all. I will not have my son be put on the frontlines of a war that should not exist.”

Satoru’s eyebrows shoot up at that. “You?”

“Yes, me.”

She tilts her head, watching him carefully. There is something unreadable in her expression, something that makes the air between them crackle, taut with unspoken things.

“If you think I’m letting children stop a dark wizard and get your hands on an artifact like Sukuna’s Horcrux, you’re out of your mind.”

Gojo’s chair scrapes sharply against the floor as he stands, the sound splintering through the quiet. “Mother, you cannot be serious.” His voice is tight, and it’s not often you hear him like this. He doesn’t yell. He doesn’t need to. There is something far more dangerous about the way his voice lowers, like a thread about to snap. “We are the only ones who can do this without getting Suguru killed. If you—if they—get involved, he’ll die. You know what the Aurors are like. You saw what they did to Credence Barebone in New York in the twenties.”

“He didn’t die in New York,” you murmur. “He was… displaced.”

“And did that solve the problem?” Gojo’s gaze snaps to you, fierce, insistent. “They made it worse. You said it yourself.” He gestures at you with his palm, frustration bleeding into his movements. “If they had just let Newt Scamander handle it, if they hadn’t interfered, it wouldn’t have escalated.”

There is a moment of silence before Mirai sighs, rubbing at her temple. “How do you two know all this?” she asks, exasperated. “This isn’t being taught at Hogwarts, is it? Because if it is, I’ll need to send some very urgent owls—”

“Relax, mother,” Gojo rolls his eyes. “Fawkes considers this kind of thing light reading.”

Mirai’s expression shifts—barely, subtly—but enough for Gojo to see it. Enough for him to understand where this is going.

“Still,” he says, quieter now. “I’m not letting you kill my friend. Or displace him. If you get involved, you’ll throw him in Azkaban, and I’ll never see him again.”

Mirai doesn’t flinch. She doesn’t so much as blink.

“Satoru,” she says, voice calm, quiet, unwavering. “He is a dark wizard. He will be sent away. That is the law.”

And that—that—is when something in him snaps.

“I don’t care!”

His voice cracks through the air like a whip, like a fracture, like the beginning of something irreversible. You flinch despite yourself, knowing that this is the moment it happens. The moment everything spirals.

It is time to leave. Gojo will burst, and he will take you with him back to Hogwarts. The unraveling has already begun.

"Come on, Fawkes," he says, voice low and seething, the weight of it pressing against your chest. "We must leave this place at once."

"Satoru, listen to me—"

"No." His voice cuts through the room like a snapped wand. You stand, caught between instinct and hesitation, but he's already looking away from you, already turning, his jaw locked tight, the muscles in his neck drawn taut. His hands tremble—not with fear, never with fear, but with something else, something sharp and bitter and vile that seeps into his irises with fury. He turns his gaze to his mother, and whatever light lingers in his eyes dims into something cruel. "I will not. I hope you have a terrible day. Goodbye, Mother."

"Satoru—"

Mirai Gojo’s voice is the sound of something breaking. You feel it even as he yanks you forward, his grip on your wrist tightening, fingers pressing into the thin fabric of your sleeve. He moves quickly, pulling you through the doors, past the cold marble and tall, unfeeling windows, but the click of heels follows. His mother is behind you, pacing after him, still speaking, still trying.

"Satoru, Dumbledore is an incredibly selfish man!" she calls after him, her voice warping under the high ceilings. "He won’t act until he realizes it’s begun to affect him personally, and by then, he will do anything—anything—to ensure he comes out on top! It’s why I had your father put him under surveillance! Please, stop walking away from me and just listen—"

He stops. And so do you.

It’s abrupt, jarring, even. He makes a sharp turn, and before you can speak, he grabs at your sleeve again. You blink up at him, but he isn’t looking at you, isn’t even breathing properly. His tongue clicks once, twice, three times, rapid, impatient, his mind already leagues ahead, already somewhere you can’t follow.

"Stall her," he murmurs.

"What?"

"Stall her," he repeats, more urgently now, eyes flicking to his mother behind you, then back to you. "Wait here. Talk. You’re smart, right? You’ll manage. She likes you, anyway."

Before you can react, before you can even process what he means to do, he’s gone—pushing past his mother, heading up the stairs two, three at a time, disappearing into the high halls of the estate.

Mirai Gojo stops walking. And you are left standing there, the air thick with words left unsaid, biting at the inside of your cheek, wishing for something to ground you as you stare at the floor.

Then, tenderly, brokenly, "Can I ask something of you?"

You look up. Her voice is different now, no longer the sharp edge of a woman trying to pry open the locked door of her son’s mind. Now, it wavers. She steps forward, hands curling into the folds of her dress, fragile in the way she looks at you.

"I don’t want anything to happen to him," she says, so quietly you almost don’t hear it. Then, with more force, more desperation, "Anything. I can’t… I can’t bear it."

You feel it before you understand it.

Something tightens inside your chest, a sharp, breathless ache that buries itself beneath your ribs and wraps around your throat. It is an unfamiliar feeling, terrible in its clarity, overwhelming in the way it presses against you, in the way it makes the world tilt on its axis.

The idea of something happening to him. The thought alone is enough to make you sick. For all his recklessness, for all the ways he invites trouble like an old friend, for all the ways he believes himself untouchable—what if he isn’t? What if he isn’t? What if he isn’t?

He cannot always be the strongest. The greatest. Honorable. And the thought haunts you. Your breath is shallow, your hands cold. And before you can stop yourself, before you can even think, "I can’t either."

The words slip out, and you realize with startling, terrifying certainty that they are true. Mirai Gojo stares at you, blinking her tears away.

"Then you’ll ensure it?" she asks. "His safety?"

You nod, your throat tightening further. "With my life."

She exhales, the sound small, almost defeated. "I’m sorry to ask that of you," she murmurs, looking down. "But it is the only way. He won’t—he won’t listen."

You swallow, feeling the weight of something irreversible settle onto your shoulders. "I understand," you say, voice steadier than you expect. "If I were in your place, I’d do the same."

And before she can say anything more, you hear the hurried thud of boots against the stairs. Gojo is rushing back down, skipping two, three steps at a time, and in the dim light, the sharpness of his face is more pronounced, the tension in his shoulders wound tight enough to snap.

And the faint, familiar chirring sound from his pocket.

Your eyes widen. Pip. The Niffler had probably slipped away the second you arrived, and knowing him, he had spent that time collecting whatever he could get his tiny, greedy hands on.

Gojo barely spares his mother a glance.

"Alright," he says, grabbing onto your arm. "Let’s go."

And then—

Darkness. The sharp, gut-wrenching pull of disapparition. And silence.

Gojo doesn’t hesitate when the two of you walk into the Room. He steps forward, hoists the Niffler into the air, and, with a sharp grin, flips the creature upside down.

"Let’s see what you’ve got, Pip."

A moment of stillness—then a rain of stolen treasure.

Galleons clatter against the wood, rolling to a stop against the uneven surface. A delicate chain, unmistakably his mother’s, slides across the table before catching the light in a glint of gold. A sigil ring, heavy with meaning, lands with a quiet thunk beside it, its crest unmistakable—the Gojo family seal. Small, glistening gemstones follow, scattering like fragments of a shattered spell.

And then, last of all—a phial.

It does not clatter. It does not roll. It hovers.

Suspended in midair, the artifact is a delicate yet foreboding creation, its craftsmanship meticulous, its purpose unmistakable. At its heart, an opalescent gemstone glimmers—violet, blue, and gold shifting uneasily beneath the light. Silver filigree coils around it, twisting into vine-like patterns, an intricate cage meant to contain what should not be freed.

It hangs in the air, unmoving, its weight heavier than the metal that encases it. A pact sealed in blood. A promise not easily broken.

This phial is the only evidence of the blood pact Gojo Satoru made with Geto Suguru.

You reach out, fingers brushing the smooth surface, and as soon as you make contact, the phial drops into your palm with unnatural weight. Your grip tightens around it instinctively, your jaw clenching. You do not look at Gojo, but you can feel the shift in the air beside you, can hear the way his breathing changes—shallower, controlled.

You glance at him then, and for a moment, neither of you speak.

The moment is broken by the door swinging open.

"Guys!"

You barely have time to slip the phial into your pocket before Shoko and Nanami step in, breathless and wide-eyed.

Gojo huffs, shaking off whatever had settled between you. He reaches for his sleeve, but before he can pull away completely, you grab onto it, holding him in place. He stills but does not pull away.

"We found something," Shoko says, voice hushed but electric. She glances over her shoulder, as if expecting someone to have followed them. "In the Restricted Section. Can you believe it?"

You lift a brow, waiting. She nods quickly, whispering a sharp "oh" in realization before nudging Nanami, urging him to pull a slip of parchment from his pocket. He hands it to you, and you smooth it out over the table, eyes scanning the inked lines of text.

Your breath catches.

"Your mother was right," you whisper, glancing at Gojo. "Japan. Kyoto, specifically. The burial site of Sukuna Ryomen. But it doesn’t say where in Kyoto. It’s a big city, after all."

Gojo exhales sharply. "No fucking way." His gaze flicks to Nanami. "How’d you find it?"

Nanami adjusts his glasses, expression unreadable. "Tricked Slughorn into thinking we were interested in Japanese locations and runes," he murmurs, though there’s something stiff about his tone. "It felt like committing a crime."

"Welcome to the club," Gojo mutters. There’s a short, humorless laugh before he shakes his head. "Feels like shit the first time. The more you do it, the more exhilarating it gets."

You refocus on the parchment, tracing the words with your fingertips. The air is thick with possibility, with something sharp-edged and thrilling that makes your heart pound.

"Satoru," you say, measured, "we should probably go talk to Dumbledore. He said we should come to him after it’s done, right?"

He nods, jaw tightening. "Yeah."

Shoko and Nanami exchange a look, something wary and unspoken passing between them. Then, Shoko’s gaze drifts down to the Niffler in your arms, and her lips quirk.

"You still haven’t returned that thing to Hagrid?"

You glance at Pip, now curled against your chest, small paws clinging to the front of your robes. His fur is impossibly soft, and despite everything, despite the night pressing in around you, you feel something settle, something warm. You stroke his head gently.

"He led us to Dumbledore earlier," you murmur. "I want to keep him. But I know I can’t. At least, not now. Maybe I’ll ask Hagrid to give him to me before I graduate."

"You’re just collecting creatures now?" Gojo raises a brow.

You narrow your eyes at him. "Pip is not a creature. You said it yourself. He’s cute."

Shoko makes a low, teasing noise at the back of her throat. Gojo scowls.

"Fuck it," Gojo mutters then, his breath sharp as it leaves him. His hand rakes through his hair, the gesture quick and restless before it falls back to his side. "Let’s go to Hagrid after we see Dumbledore."

A pause lingers, stretching just long enough to be felt.

Shoko watches you both, arms folded, gaze keen in that way of hers that suggests she sees more than you would like her to. "When are you going to fill us in on everything that happened with your mother?"

You hear them land in Gojo’s silence, in the way his fingers flex where they hang at his sides. You feel them in your own breath, caught between your ribs. Mirai Gojo’s voice flickers through your mind, distant and clear all at once, echoing with something that had felt less like fear and more like inevitability.

"Meet us at Hagrid’s in half an hour," you say quickly, not giving her a chance to press further. Your fingers curl around Gojo’s sleeve, tugging him forward. "I’ll tell you afterward."

And then you run.

It is not like before.

This is not the reckless, breathless chase of childhood, not the kind where Gojo is laughing ahead of you, a blur of white hair and mischief as you swear you’ll hex him for whatever prank he’s pulled this time. This is not the kind where you are running after him or from him, the space between you filled with nothing but the thrill of the game.

This is different.

This is the sharp slap of your feet against the stone, the echo of your breath tearing in and out of your lungs, the cold bite of the castle’s air as you tear through the corridors. The walls blur as you pass them, a rush of shadow and torchlight, of portraits who barely have time to stir before you are gone.

The tower looms ahead.

The gargoyle sits, unmoving, its stone face impassive. The final stretch. You push yourself forward, legs screaming, lungs burning. You skid to a stop, breath catching in your throat.

“Sherbet Lemon,” you gasp.

For a moment, nothing happens. And then, stone grinds against stone, the gargoyle shifting aside to reveal the spiraling staircase behind it.

You don’t wait. Your feet hit the first step, and then the next, the staircase moving beneath you as you ascend, Gojo right behind you, the Niffler wriggling in his grasp. The office door swings open before you even reach for it.

And the room is still. Faint candlelight casts long shadows, stretching along the walls lined with ancient books and impossible artifacts. The air hums with quiet magic, the kind that lingers in places where knowledge is older than time itself.

Dumbledore is nowhere to be seen. Your eyes dart across the space, searching. Then you hear it. Soft, measured steps, descending from above.

"Ah," a voice greets, gentle and knowing. "The two of you."

He emerges slowly, stepping down as if he has all the time in the world, as if this meeting is nothing more than a quiet inevitability. His robes shift as he moves, deep blue threaded with gold, the fabric catching the flickering light.

"You’ve gotten everything you need, I trust?"

The question is light. Deceptively so.

His hands fold together, gaze settling on you both with the kind of ease that makes something bristle inside you.

Gojo exhales, the sound quiet, and nods. "Yes. We do."

"Not entirely," you cut in, voice sharper than you intended. "We still need the location. The specific, exact location of Sukuna Ryomen’s tomb—if there even is one. Kyoto is too big. We need something more. Exact."

Dumbledore smiles. It is slow, faint, touched with something unreadable. The kind of smile that does not belong in a moment like this. The kind that suggests he knows more than he will say. He does not answer immediately. Instead, his gaze flicks, thoughtful. First, to the Niffler in Gojo’s arms. Then, to Gojo himself. And finally, to you.

"I promised you something," he says, as if recalling a distant conversation, an old favor once exchanged. "And here you are, ready to collect."

Your fingers twitch. "You said you have something that will guide us."

"That, I do."

And yet, he does not move with urgency. He turns instead, a slow pivot, his hand lifting to rest lightly upon Fawkes’ plumage. The phoenix shifts beneath his touch, feathers gleaming in the low light, but makes no sound.

Then, Dumbledore steps past her. Toward the shelves. There is no hesitation in his movements. His fingers trail absently across the spines of books, skimming the dust that has settled over them. And then, without ceremony, he reaches.

Something wrapped in leather. He pulls it from its resting place, the drawer sliding shut with a quiet click. The object is old. You can see it in the way the edges of the leather are softened from years of touch, darkened with time. Dust still lingers upon its surface, undisturbed.

He steps forward. And he places it in your hands. You unroll it. A map.

At first, it appears blank. The parchment is thick, the edges lined with deep maroon leather. The surface is empty, untouched, except for the faintest shadows of something beneath, something waiting to be revealed.

"It works the same way yours does," Dumbledore says, voice light.

Your breath stirs in your chest.

"The—" You swallow. "You know about The Marauders’ Map?"

His lips curl, just slightly. "This one works quite similarly. A minor enchantment. One the Ministry will not bother with. They will dismiss it as my own eccentricity, an old man playing with parchment and ink." He winks.

Then, with a slow, deliberate motion, he lifts his wand. He presses the tip against the map’s empty surface. And he speaks.

"I solemnly swear," he murmurs, voice quiet, "I am up to no good."

At first, there is only silence.

Then, the ink does not appear in tendrils. It spreads.

A darkness unfurling like roots beneath the surface, creeping outward, seeping into the parchment’s fibers. It does not move like ink. It does not sit upon the surface but within it, sinking into the very bones of the map, pulsing, alive.

And within its depths, a dot. A single point of light, swallowed in the dark. Your dot.

You stare.

"If you get close enough," Dumbledore murmurs, watching your face carefully, "you’ll find that it will lead you exactly where you need to go."

a/n. this was proofread with me being half asleep on the train. i'm pretty sure it's alright, but if there are any problems, do let me know! and thank you for following along with me on this journey, and supporting me even through tough times!

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riddlesrizzler · 7 days ago

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𝙏𝙝𝙚 𝘽𝙪𝙩𝙩𝙚𝙧𝙛𝙡𝙮 𝙀𝙛𝙛𝙚𝙘𝙩

pt.3 of The Girl in the Bumblebee Tights

summary: The most beautiful things come from change.

characters: mattheo riddle. hufflepuff! reader. mentions of slytherin boys

warnings: NONE BUT GOD THIS MAKES MY HEART ACHE WITH LOVE

word count: 1.8k

a/n-i’m so glad that you all loved this little series!! it was so fun to write and i truly love whimsical hufflepuff! reader. sunshine x grumpy is one of my favorites along with opposites attract. i believe that this will be my last big part of the story. but i will be open to do little drabbles of them :)

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁ . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁ . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁ . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁ . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁

He had always prided himself on being an enigma. Mattheo Riddle was cold, indifferent, and almost cruel at times, he never allowed anyone close enough to see what was behind his mask. But then you came into his life, and somehow, without even trying, you began to unravel him.

At first, it had been simple curiosity. He wanted to know what made you tick. The way you floated through life, seemingly untouched by the world's harsh realities, was a puzzle he couldn't resist. But as time passed, it was no longer about curiosity. It was about you.

You were different.

Your bright eyes that saw the world as if it were filled with magic. Your hands that always seemed to carry some forgotten trinket that, to everyone else, would be inconsequential, but to you, was a talisman of luck and hope. Your carefree spirit was infectious, and even Mattheo, with all his years of keeping his emotions in check, couldn’t help but feel drawn to you.

The more time they spent together, the more he found himself changing.

You had taught him about magical creatures, about the care and wonder that surrounded them. You’d shared stories about Thestrals, the quiet creatures that roamed the Forbidden Forest, showing him the delicate balance of life and death.

In return, he had tried to show you the thrill of Quidditch, the adrenaline of chasing a Quaffle through the air, the beauty in the speed of it all.

Later, Mattheo found himself on the shore of the Black Lake, where the soft murmur of water lapping at the banks mixed with the crisp autumn air. He wasn’t exactly sure how he had ended up there, but somehow, you had wandered into his world like a soft breeze. And now, you were here, sitting on the grass beside him, your fingers idly trailing through the blades of greenery.

There was something almost magnetic about the way you seemed to float through life-like nothing could touch you. It made Mattheo feel like he was seeing the world in a new light. Every moment with you was like a small, magical escape from the cold, harsh reality he had always known.

You were talking about something-maybe creatures, maybe the stars-his mind was distracted as it always was around you. That’s when it happened.

A delicate butterfly fluttered down from the air, landing right in the middle of his messy curls.

Mattheo blinked in surprise, watching the butterfly settle like it had found the perfect place to rest. He instinctively reached up to brush it away, but you were already laughing-soft, melodious, and light-your eyes crinkling with amusement.

“You look ridiculous,” you giggled, pointing at him, a playful glint in your eyes.

Mattheo raised an eyebrow, the corners of his lips curling into a reluctant smirk. “Ridiculous, huh? You’d think so.”

But then he caught sight of your expression-your face alight with happiness, something he hadn’t realized he longed for.

For just a second, he felt foolish for being the butt of the joke. Yet, it wasn’t in a bad way. It was... different. It felt like something he had never experienced-being okay with looking ridiculous if it made you smile.

“You should leave it,” you teased. “It’s a sign.”

“A sign?” Mattheo raised an eyebrow, his voice half-amused, half-confused.

You nodded, looking so sincere it almost startled him. “Yeah. butterflies are symbols of change, you know. They represent the change in someone’s soul. It’s about transformation, the evolution of who you are.”

Mattheo’s heart skipped a beat. There was something about the way you spoke, so earnestly, like you truly believed in these small, magical things that others might find silly.

But to you, they were real. Everything around you had meaning, had purpose. Even a butterfly on his head had significance.

“Change, huh?” Mattheo repeated quietly, the word rolling off his tongue as if it were something entirely new. He shifted uncomfortably in his seat, unsure of what to do with the feeling creeping into his chest.

“Yeah,” you replied, your voice softening as you gazed out at the lake, watching the water ripple beneath the gray skies. “The thing about change is that it’s inevitable, but it’s also beautiful. You can’t grow without it. You have to change in order to become something more-something better.”

He felt something stir inside him. It was like a quiet warmth, creeping up from the pit of his stomach. For the first time in his life, he considered that maybe... maybe he had been stuck for far too long.

Maybe he hadn’t allowed himself to change because he was too afraid of what that would mean.

And then, he realized: you were the one who had made him feel that way. Your presence, your lightness, your carefree spirit-it had started to loosen the tight grip he had on his heart. Maybe he wasn’t so cold anymore. Maybe, in some small, inexplicable way, he was transforming.

He glanced at you, his gaze softening as he watched the butterfly flutter its wings before flying off into the sky.

For the briefest moment, Mattheo wondered if the butterfly had been a message for him. A message to let go of the walls he had built around himself. Maybe he had already started changing without even realizing it.

And as if reading his mind, you turned to him with a smile, one that made his heart skip a beat. “It’s funny, isn’t it? How something so small, so delicate, can be so powerful?”

He couldn’t help but nod, his throat feeling tight. There was something about the way you spoke, the way you saw the world, that made him feel as if he were seeing it for the first time.

Then, he saw it.

Hanging delicately from your neck was a necklace-a simple gold chain with a tiny butterfly pendant resting just above your collarbone. It was small, almost unnoticeable unless someone was paying close attention.

For the first time, Mattheo realized that you, too, were changing. You were blossoming, evolving, and he wanted to be there with you for every step of it.

“Is that your lucky charm?” he asked, his voice quiet.

You smiled softly and nodded. “It’s a reminder that beauty comes from change. That growth comes from embracing the unknown. It reminds me that I don’t have to stay the same, that I can always become something better, just like the butterfly.”

He was silent for a moment, the weight of your words settling deep in his chest. He wanted to say something, wanted to tell you just how much he was beginning to feel the same way. But instead, he simply reached out, brushing his fingers gently over your hand, grounding himself in the moment. He couldn’t explain it, but being with you made him feel like he belonged-like he was no longer drifting through life, untouched and distant from everything and everyone.

You looked up at him, your eyes soft with understanding, and for the first time, he didn’t feel like he needed to hide any part of himself. You made him feel like it was okay to be vulnerable, to allow things to change, to allow himself to grow.

"And I think…” you paused, smiling softly, “that’s what you’re doing. You’re changing, Mattheo.”

When Mattheo found himself with his friends in the Great Hall, they immediately noticed the shift in him.

“You’ve changed, mate,” Theo remarked with a raised eyebrow. “You’re not the same prick you were at the start of the year.”

Mattheo smirked, though it didn’t hold the usual biting edge. He felt… lighter.

And it didn’t feel wrong.

“I guess I have,” he said simply, glancing across the room to where you had just walked by, looking like a dream in your soft, floral dress.

Draco, ever the skeptic, gave him a hard look. “So, what? You’re really into her, huh?”

Mattheo’s eyes softened as they followed your figure. “Yeah,” he said, voice quieter now, full of a sincerity none of his friends had ever heard from him before. “But it feels okay.”

Enzo, leaning back in his seat, let out a low whistle. “Alright, mate. You’ve gone soft.”

Mattheo let out a laugh, shaking his head. “You can mock me all you want, but I’m not going back. Not this time.”

His thoughts drifted back to you, and that butterfly that had rested so delicately in his hair.

The next day, he found you in the greenhouse, kneeling down and carefully planting flowers in a bed of rich, earthy soil. You were in your element, and the sight of you-calm, serene, so fully yourself-made his chest tighten.

He stood in the doorway for a moment, watching you. You hadn’t noticed him yet, too focused on your task. The sunlight streaming in through the glass windows bathed you in a golden glow, your hands dirtied from the plants, your face soft with concentration.

And then, without thinking, he moved toward you.

“You’re always here,” he said, his voice quiet, but there was a tenderness in it now.

You looked up, eyes widening with surprise, but there was no hesitation. “I love the greenhouse,” you replied with a smile. “It’s peaceful.”

“I get it,” he said, his voice a little lower than usual. “I feel… peaceful here too.”

You smiled, though there was a spark of curiosity in your gaze.

Mattheo’s throat felt dry as he knelt beside you, his fingers brushing the dirt on the ground. He wasn’t good with words, but he had learned that sometimes, sometimes you have to change in order to grow.

He turned to you, his eyes intense. “Please,” he said, his voice rough. “Be my girlfriend. You’ve changed me in ways I can’t even explain, and I don’t want to grow without you.”

Your heart fluttered in your chest, and your hands shook as you reached up to cup his face. His eyes were full of something raw, something vulnerable, something you had never expected to see from Mattheo Riddle.

Without a word, you leaned forward, pressing a soft kiss to his lips. His breath caught, and he kissed you back, gently, carefully, like you were the most fragile thing in the world.

As you pulled away, you noticed the faint remnants of dirt on his cheeks. You laughed softly, wiping it away with your thumb.

But just as the moment seemed to settle, something fluttered past, and both of you looked up. A butterfly, the same kind that had landed in his curls earlier, flitted into the greenhouse and landed delicately on one of the plants beside you.

Mattheo smiled, feeling something inside him shift.

“You’re right,” he whispered, his hand finding yours. “I’m changing. And I think I like who I’m becoming.”

And in that moment, under the soft glow of the greenhouse windows, with the butterfly hovering nearby, He realized that maybe-just maybe-he had finally found his place in the world.

And it was with you.

please let me know if you want to be on the tag list for the future :)

@thaliashifts

#slytherin #slytherin boys #hogwarts school of witchcraft and wizardry #harry potter #slytherin aesthetic #my works #mattheo riddle #mattheo x reader #mattheoxreader #mattheo x y/n #mattheo riddle x you #mattheo riddle x reader #matheo riddle #mattheo x you #mattheo fluff #mattheo imagine #hufflepuff!reader #hufflepuff #riddlerizzler

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shaiyasstuff · 25 days ago

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a dance of ice and fire | zayne

synopsis : Betrothed to the Crown Prince for the sake of peace, you are seen as a weapon to be wielded, not a queen to rule. But it is not your arrogant, power-hungry fiancé you fear—it is his brother, Zayne. Once indifferent to the throne, Zayne now moves with purpose, his quiet defiance and lingering glances far more dangerous than any war. As alliances shift and tensions rise, one truth becomes clear: he never wanted the crown, but for you, he will take it.

content : medieval!au, strategist/advisor!zayne x princess!reader, reader is also future empress consort, arranged marriage!au, elemental!au, forbidden love, maybe a touch of angst if i’m feeling it, loads of eye-fucking, savage reader and zayne

writer’s note : edit: part two can be found here

quote : “If you think I’ll stand by while you’re bound to another man, a man who wants to use you as a bargaining chip, then you never knew me at all.” - Zayne

parts | one | two | three

The war table stretched long across the chamber, its surface weighed down with silk-draped maps, shifting borders inked with precision, and the quiet hum of consequence. The scent of melted wax and parchment clung to the air, heavy with the unspoken weight of decisions yet to be made.

At the head of it all sat your betrothed.

Not the man your heart was bound to.

Not Zayne.

He stood at his younger brother’s side, arms folded loosely in front of him, the very picture of indifference.

Pft, look at him. Acting like he doesn’t want to be here.

The courtiers droned on, voices blending together in a swirl of politics, war, and of course, predictably, your marriage.

More specifically, the matter of your so-called uncontrollable fire magic.

They spoke of you as though you weren’t in the room.

“Indeed. Fire is unpredictable. Dangerous, if left unchecked,” one noble mused, his voice carrying the same tone one might use when discussing a volatile weapon rather than a person.

Not a princess. Not you.

You resisted the urge to sigh, fingers curling against the edge of the table.

“They think themselves clever, cloaking their insults in diplomacy.”

A slow burn simmered beneath your skin. You cleared your throat, feeling the warmth coil deep in your core.

A subtle glance from across the table, Zayne’s hazel-green eyes meets yours.

He gave you a look as if to say, “Calm down.”

You flicked him a sharp look in return but obeyed, cooling the heat creeping up your spine.

Your betrothed, the crown prince, leaned back in his chair, a smirk barely masking the insecurities you knew festered beneath his skin.

His tone was condescending. That smirk, arrogant.

“You forget that she is to be my wife. Under my guidance, she will serve as an asset to this kingdom.”

The words landed like a slap, an attempt to remind you of your place.

You did not react.

You refused to.

“Heh. Asset, he says?”

“Do they think I’m a tool?”

You met his gaze without flinching.

A moment stretched between you, unspoken but clear, and you watched as his smirk faltered, just slightly.

Tilting your head, you let the silence settle before finally speaking.

“A wife or an asset, Your Highness? You speak as though they are one and the same.” A slow, deliberate smirk of your own curved at the edges of your lips.

The crown prince’s eyes narrowed. “I speak of ensuring stability. It is in everyone’s best interest that your… passions are properly directed.”

You inhaled, the simmering heat rekindling beneath your ribs.

It was always the same.

These men. Weak men, had never known fire. Not truly.

They only wished to harness it, shape it into something convenient.

Something obedient.

You opened your mouth to respond, but before you could, a voice cut through the thick tension like a blade.

Low. Calm. Unhurried.

“You mean contained?”

The air stilled.

Zayne.

For the first time since the discussion began, he stepped forward from the sidelines, his posture casual, but his presence undeniable.

He leaned against the war table, fingers drumming idly against the polished wood, his expression unreadable.

The crown prince stiffened. “Then what would you suggest, brother?”

Zayne tilted his head, his movements slow, deliberate. “That you recognize the difference between ruling with fire and being burned by it.”

You saw it. The flicker of doubt in your betrothed’s eyes. The way his jaw clenched, frustration barely contained. “And you believe I am incapable?”

Zayne exhaled, the sound closer to an actual than a scoff.

“I believe the court is still debating whether you are capable of ruling at all.”

A murmur spread across the room, an uneasy shift in posture from those seated at the table.

Some looked away. Others suddenly found the tapestries on the walls utterly fascinating.

Zayne was not a man to waste words.

So when he spoke, even in the quietest of tones, everyone listened.

Your lips curled into the faintest smirk, hidden behind the rim of your goblet as you lifted it to your lips. “Perhaps the real discussion should not be about my power, but how little faith your court seems to have in yours.”

You could barely conceal the amusement in your voice.

A pointed silence followed.

One of the older lords cleared his throat. “That is not what we meant, Your Highness—”

“Isn’t it?” Zayne’s voice was still calm, still soft. And yet, it carried weight heavier than any decree the crown prince had ever issued.

Your betrothed’s grip on the armrest of his chair tightened. “Enough.”

You set your goblet down with a soft clink against the table, tilting your head slightly.

“On that, we agree. I tire of being spoken about as if I am not in the room.”

The words landed like a challenge, wrapping around the court like a vice. You let your gaze drift, meeting the eyes of every lord and lady present, watching as they struggled to form a response.

Beside the crown prince, Zayne smirked, just barely.

“A mistake they will not make again.”

Your betrothed was barely containing himself now. His pride wounded, his patience wearing thin. “And you speak for her now?”

Zayne shifted, crossing his arms with effortless ease. “No. She speaks for herself. You were simply… thoughtless enough to ignore her.”

Silence.

No one dared to fill it.

And there it was. The opening.

You did not hesitate.

“You assume I need guidance,” you said smoothly, your voice steady as you turned your attention back to the court.

Your fingers traced the rim of your goblet, slow and deliberate. “You speak of control as if it is something I lack.”

The room had fallen so quiet you could hear the faint crackle of the hearth.

“And yet, here I sit. Regal, composed, unmoved.”

The tension in the room was palpable, thick like smoke in the air. You could feel Zayne’s presence beside you, unwavering. No words passed between you, but it didn’t matter.

It never had.

This was how it had always been. Moving in sync without needing to speak.

“I am not a weapon for you to wield,” you continued, voice even, but edged with something unmistakable.

Authority. Power. Fire.

“I am a ruler. And if you cannot understand the difference, then perhaps you are the ones who lack control.”

Silence stretched long.

Zayne smirked, just barely, the glint in his eyes almost approving. “Well played.”

The crown prince’s glare burned with poorly hidden rage, but for the first time tonight, he had no retort.

—•

The court had been left in stunned silence, your words lingering like smoke in the air long after you and Zayne had walked away from the war table.

The heavy doors shut behind you with a dull thud, sealing the courtiers and their feigned diplomacy within.

The corridor was dimly lit, lined with towering stone pillars and torches that flickered against the cold walls.

You exhaled, pressing your fingers against your temples, the weight of the evening pressing against you.

Footsteps.

You didn’t have to turn to know who it was.

“You handled that well,” Zayne’s voice was laced with amusement, his tone as effortless as ever.

“Though, I think you nearly gave my dear brother an aneurysm.”

You huffed a quiet laugh, shaking your head. “Pity.”

Zayne chuckled under his breath, then leaned casually against the nearest pillar, his arms crossing over his chest. He was watching you, observing you, as he always did, with that unnerving calm.

It made you shift. You knew what came next.

“You’re fuming,” he observed, though it wasn’t a question.

You sighed, letting the flames of your frustration flicker beneath your skin. “Wouldn’t you be?”

Zayne tilted his head. “I don’t let idiots bother me.”

“And I’m supposed to?” You shot him a look, eyes sharp.

His smirk was slow, almost infuriatingly so. “You’re better at playing this game than they are. You shouldn’t let their pettiness get under your skin.”

You scoffed, stepping toward him. “And you shouldn’t have had to speak for me.”

At that, his expression flickered.

“I didn’t,” Zayne said smoothly. “You did just fine on your own. I only nudged them in the right direction.”

You gave him a dry look. “Oh, of course. And your ‘nudge’ just happened to be a complete dismantling of your brother’s authority?”

Zayne shrugged. “He walked into it.”

You exhaled, rubbing a hand over your face before glancing up at him again. “It’s dangerous, Zayne.”

His smirk faded, his features turning unreadable. “It’s the truth.”

You studied him, the way the flickering torchlight cast shifting shadows over his face, making him seem even harder to read.

Zayne always had a way of slipping through cracks, of appearing indifferent while moving pieces behind the scenes. But tonight, in the way he had stepped in, the way he had so effortlessly undermined his brother in front of the court, it felt different.

It felt like he wasn’t just playing a game anymore.

“…You enjoyed that,” you realized, narrowing your eyes.

His expression didn’t shift. “What are you implying?”

You took another step forward, voice quieter now. “That you aren’t as disinterested as you pretend to be.”

Something in his gaze flickered. “What I am,” he said, “is someone who knows when to speak.”

You held his gaze.

“And when to stay silent?”

A beat. Then, slow and deliberate, “Yes.”

A shiver ran through you, though you weren’t sure why.

Maybe it was the way his voice dipped, the way he looked at you like he was trying to see something beneath the surface.

You swallowed, turning away slightly. “You’ll make an enemy of him, you know.”

Zayne exhaled through his nose. “He was already my enemy. He just didn’t know it yet.”

That should have unsettled you. Should have made you wary.

But it didn’t.

Because the way he said it, the quiet ease of it, the certainty made it sound like a promise.

And that, perhaps, was what made it more dangerous.

—•

The scent of blooming nightshade lingered in the air, blending with the crisp bite of the evening breeze.

The palace gardens were quiet at this hour, the sky painted in the deep purples and golds of the dying sun.

This had always been your place.

Yours and Zayne’s.

Hidden away behind the hedge-lined paths, far from the ever-watchful eyes of courtiers and expectations, you sat on the low stone wall that framed the fountain, your bare fingers trailing over the cool marble.

He stood before you, one hand resting on the hilt of his sword, the other tucked loosely into his belt. Silent, as always. Watching.

“You’re brooding again,” you teased, kicking your foot out lightly, the tip of your slipper grazing his knee.

Zayne raised a brow. “And you’re distracting me.”

“Good. You could use a distraction.”

His lips curled slightly, but he said nothing.

Instead, he moved closer, standing between your knees, his presence a quiet weight in the space around you.

The air changed, charged with something neither of you dared name.

Your throat felt tight. “You’re leaving soon.”

Zayne sighed, glancing away. “You know I have to.”

You swallowed. You knew it.

Of course you did.

His duties and obligations would always call him elsewhere.

That was the nature of his existence, the shadow to his brother’s gilded throne.

But knowing didn’t make it hurt any less.

“I hate this.” The words left you before you could stop them. “I hate that you always go, and I never know when you’ll return.”

His gaze snapped back to you, sharper now. “And you think I enjoy it?”

You looked down, fingers curling against the stone. The truth sat heavy on your tongue, unwilling to be spoken aloud.

Zayne exhaled, then very softly, carefully, he reached for you.

His fingers brushed against your wrist first, hesitant, as if giving you a chance to pull away.

When you didn’t, he traced his touch upward, gliding over your forearm, curling around your hand.

A shiver ran down your spine, though it had nothing to do with the cold.

“I always come back to you,” he murmured, his thumb brushing against your knuckles. “You know that.”

You should have pulled away. Should have scolded him for making promises he had no right to make.

Instead, you curled your fingers into his, holding him there.

“I know,” you whispered. “That’s the problem.”

His grip tightened.

The space between you narrowed, the warmth of his breath brushing your cheek, but neither of you moved further.

Because this was what it had always been.

A breath away.

A step too close.

A love neither of you could afford.

And yet, when he finally let go, his touch lingered like embers beneath your skin, one you knew would never fade.

But that was in the past, a past that no longer existed.

Buried underneath so-called duties and obligations, and your betrothal to his brother.

And yet, standing there in the dim corridor, bathed in the flickering glow of torches, you could still feel it.

The past.

Him.

Zayne.

The memory of his touch ghosted over your skin, as if time itself refused to let you forget.

The walls around you were cold, suffocating in their silence, but the air between you?

Charged.

Stifling.

Dangerous.

“You’re thinking about it again.”

His voice was smooth, quiet, but it curled around you like smoke, and you could not escape.

You swallowed hard before turning to him. “And what exactly am I thinking about?”

He leaned against the archway, arms crossed, his posture lazy, but his gaze?

Unyielding. Searching.

His lips barely curved. “Us.”

Your stomach twisted.

“There is no ‘us’,” you said, keeping your voice even.

Zayne didn’t blink. “And whose fault is that?”

Your breath hitched before you forced out an easy shrug. “Fate’s, I suppose.”

A sharp exhale. “Ah, yes. Blame fate. Much easier than blaming yourself.”

His words struck something deep, something raw, and you hated how effortlessly he could do that.

How he could still see through you, past the composure, past the armor you had so carefully crafted.

Your jaw tightened. “You walked away just as much as I did.”

He pushed off the wall then, his steps slow but certain, closing the space between you too quickly, too easily.

“No,” he murmured, voice impossibly low. “I let you walk away. There’s a difference.”

The air changed.

Your pulse pounded, your breathing shallow as he came closer, his warmth wrapping around you even before his body did. The heat of him was too much, too familiar, too tempting.

You should have stepped back.

Should have stopped him.

But you didn’t.

Because this was Zayne.

The man who had once held your hand beneath the stars, who had whispered your name in the dark, who had been everything before duty and responsibilities had torn it all apart.

He stood before you now, the space between you nonexistent, his voice barely a breath away.

“Say it like you mean it.”

Your lips parted, but nothing came out.

Because how could you?

How could you lie when his gaze was burning through you, when his scent, his heat, his very presence was pulling you under like a tide you had spent years trying to resist?

His fingers brushed your wrist like a whisper of a touch, but it sent fire racing beneath your skin. You shivered, your breath unsteady, and his eyes darkened at the sight of it.

“Say it,” he murmured again, softer this time, but no less demanding.

Your heart slammed against your ribs.

Say it like you mean it.

Say it like it doesn’t keep you up at night.

Say it like your body doesn’t still crave him in ways it shouldn’t.

Say it like it wasn’t the worst mistake of your life.

You opened your mouth, searching for words, for anything, but Zayne wasn’t patient.

His fingers lifted, grazing along your jaw, his touch soft and gentle, like he was daring you to pull away.

You didn’t.

Because god, you still wanted him.

Zayne’s fingers barely touched your skin, but it was enough.

Enough to set fire to the air between you.

Enough to make your breath catch, your pulse erratic.

His thumb ghosted over the curve of your jaw, his touch deliberate.

Too light to be possessive, too heavy to be innocent.

You should have pulled away.

Should have reminded him of the ring on your finger, of the man waiting beyond these walls.

But when you exhaled, it wasn’t in protest.

It was in surrender.

His eyes flickered to your lips, just for a second.

A heartbeat, a breath, a mistake waiting to happen.

He was close now. Too close.

You could feel the warmth of him, the steady rhythm of his breath mingling with yours, the weight of his presence.

His cold ice pressing against every inch of restraint you had left.

His voice, when he finally spoke, was quiet. Dangerous.

“Say it, and I walk away.”

Your fingers curled at your sides. “Zayne—”

“Say it, and this stops.” His forehead nearly brushed yours, his words laced with something unspoken, something almost desperate.

You swallowed, but you didn’t say it.

His fingers slid down, grazing the column of your throat, lingering just below your pulse like a silent challenge, a dare.

Your heart pounded against his touch.

His breath shuddered.

“…that’s what I thought.”

And then ever so slowly, so torturously, he pulled away.

Cold air rushed between you, but the damage was already done.

You were burning, and it was not because of your magic.

—•

The next morning.

The war table, its silk-draped maps spread wide, was marked with careful ink strokes, shifting borders that could just as easily shift again with the wrong decision.

You sat poised, your hands resting lightly against the table’s surface, composed yet unyielding.

Across from you, a noble, Lord Callas straightened in his chair, his gaze sharp, his mouth already forming another shortsighted argument.

Zayne stood near the edge of the room, arms folded, unreadable.

But you felt his presence lingering as if beside you.

Watching.

Waiting.

Just as he always did.

Callas exhaled sharply. “Your Highness, we must establish dominance.”

You tilted your head slightly, fingers grazing the edge of the map.

“Dominance?” Your voice was smooth, measured.

“Tell me, what kind of dominance do you imagine? One built on empty threats? On brute force?”

Callas narrowed his eyes. “A display of strength is necessary.”

A soft hum left your lips as you tapped a finger against the capital city inked onto the map.

“A display of strength, you say.” A pause. Then, you lifted your gaze. “And when has brute force ever earned peace?”

The tension crackled.

Besides the crown prince, Zayne shifted slightly, just enough that his attention became unmistakable.

Callas scoffed, his fingers curling against the table’s edge. “My father served in—”

You leaned forward slightly, voice turning smooth, precise.

“Your father.”

His jaw twitched.

“What about you, Lord Callas ?” Your hand moved across the map, fingertips gliding over contested borders, lingering over cities on the brink of war.

“Have you ever stood on the battlefield?”

Callas hesitated.

Your eyes locked onto his.

“Have you ever seen men bleed for thoughtless orders?”

A flicker of uncertainty passed over his face.

Your voice lowered.

“Have you watched as cities burn under the weight of a war that could have been avoided?”

Silence.

A moment too long. A pause too telling.

And in that hesitation, you struck.

“No?” You leaned back, your fingers leaving the map as your hands folded in your lap.

“Then I suggest you reconsider before you advise me on matters you do not understand.”

The room stilled.

Callas’ face darkened, but his mouth remained shut.

He wouldn’t dare argue.

Across the table, Zayne smirked.

Just barely.

But enough.

Silence settled over the chamber, heavy and sharp, the weight of your words pressing against the gathered nobles like a blade to the throat.

Lord Callas sat rigid in his chair, his lips pressed into a thin, bloodless line.

He did not speak.

Because he knew he couldn’t.

But, of course, your betrothed would not allow the silence to linger.

The crown prince leaned forward slightly, his fingers tapping against the armrest of his chair in slow, deliberate movements.

His expression remained composed, but you could see it.

The flicker of irritation in his gaze

The faint tightening of his jaw.

“Lord Callas speaks from experience, Princess.” His voice was smooth, but there was an edge to it, cold and thin like a knife’s point.

“He has studied warfare extensively, as have many on this council. It would be unwise to dismiss their counsel so easily.”

You inhaled slowly, fingers grazing the edge of the map before you, tracing the ink-stained borders of a world they sought to carve into something that suited their desires.

“Studied warfare?” you echoed, tilting your head.

And then, with a slow blink, you lifted your gaze, your voice turning soft, thoughtful—dangerous.

“Tell me, Your Highness, has Lord Callas ever read about the sound a man makes when his lungs freeze from the inside out?”

Callas stiffened.

You did not stop.

“Or perhaps he studied the way a body turns brittle in the cold, the way flesh cracks apart like shattered glass when left in the dead of winter?”

The temperature in the room seemed to shift.

It wasn’t real, at least not yet, but the weight of your words made the air feel thinner, evident in the firelight flickering against the frost creeping at the edges of the war table.

“There is a difference,” you continued, voice cooling like a blade dipped in ice, “between knowing war and surviving it.”

The crown prince’s fingers stilled against the wood.

His smirk, polished and practiced, barely flickered.

But you saw the tension settle into his frame.

“You forget your place, Princess.”

You tilted your chin slightly, meeting his stare without hesitation.

“No, Your Highness.” A slow smirk curved your lips, one that did not reach your eyes. “I believe you forget mine.”

A sharp inhale, his eyes narrowed.

And the tension stretched.

And then Zayne spoke.

“Careful, brother.”

The words were low, unhurried, amused.

He hadn’t moved from his position, still leaning against the table’s edge, arms crossed, posture effortless.

But there was something different now.

There was a quiet shift in the air, a subtle weight settling across the chamber.

Zayne tilted his head slightly, his smirk lazy, his words laced with mock concern.

“Wouldn’t want to raise your voice at your future wife.”

A beat.

“It would be… unseemly.”

The jab landed clean.

A few courtiers glanced away, shifting in their seats while some others barely concealed their intrigue.

The crown prince’s patience snapped like ice underfoot.

“Enough.”

Zayne arched a brow.

“Oh?” He exhaled, feigning a look, thoughtful.

“Have I offended you? That wasn’t my intention.”

A pause.

“Not entirely, anyway.”

The crown prince stood.

And Zayne, never one to be outdone, stood his ground.

The shift was immediate.

The air turned sharp, the warmth of the torches dimming slightly, the faintest hint of frost licking at the stone beneath their feet.

A subtle show of power.

Silent, but undeniable.

A challenge.

The room stilled as the tension coiled, as cold crept along the edges of the chamber, biting at the air between them.

Zayne’s smirk remained, but his breath misted slightly in the cooling air.

The crown prince’s fingers curled against the wood of the chair, frost cracking along its edges.

The courtiers felt it.

You could see it in the way they hesitated, in the way they darted quick, careful glances between the two brothers, one, the heir to the throne and the other who had no interest in it.

But of course, power did not care for intentions.

Zayne’s voice was softer than it should have been, given the weight behind it.

“Careful, brother.”

A quiet breath.

The frost spread an inch further.

And the crown prince said nothing.

Not yet.

You could feel the frost creeping along the war table, spreading in thin, jagged lines across the polished wood.

The torches flickered, their flames dimming under the weight of the cold pressing into the chamber.

The air was sharp, biting, charged with a tension that no one dared to break.

The prince sat rigid, fingers curled around the armrest of his chair, ice cracking under his grip.

Across from him, Zayne stood with effortless ease, hands resting against the table, expression unreadable.

The cold between them wasn’t just power, it was a warning.

No one in the room moved.

The courtiers watched carefully, caught between fear and fascination, knowing full well what a battle between brothers could mean.

You, however, were already tired of it.

Fingers tapping against your goblet, you let out a slow breath.

“Tell me, are we really going to start a blizzard indoors?”

The frost stopped.

The crown prince’s eyes flicked toward you, irritation flickering behind them.

Across the table, Zayne’s smirk deepened.

“I’d win.”

The prince’s jaw tightened. “Would you?”

The torches wavered and the temperature dropped another degree.

Zayne leaned forward slightly, ice blooming beneath his fingertips, creeping just a little closer to his brother’s.

“Do you really want to find out?”

The courtiers stiffened.

“That’s enough, boys.”

With a calm breath, you placed your palm against the war table, letting your fingers trail through the frost.

The ice melted beneath your touch, fading into nothing.

The shift was immediate.

Not an attack. Not a challenge.

A reminder.

The frost recoiled.

The tension however, did not.

Your gaze slid between them, unimpressed.

“Are we done?”

Silence stretched, heavy and unyielding, before the prince finally exhaled through his nose, forcing himself to relax.

The ice at his hands faded, his expression smoothing back into his normal, unfazed look.

Zayne watched him for a moment longer before leaning back, smirk still present, but the storm in his eyes dimming.

He met your stare briefly, as if to say he understood exactly what you had done.

You pick up your goblet, fingers curling around the metal that was still warm from your touch.

“If the theatrics are over, perhaps we can get back to actual politics.”

Zayne chuckled under his breath.

The prince said nothing, but the irritation in his gaze was clear.

The courtiers hesitated before shifting back into quiet discussion, the meeting resuming as if nothing had happened.

But as Zayne tilted his head slightly, watching you with quiet amusement, you knew the fight wasn’t over.

It had only just begun.

—•

The corridors of the palace were empty, save for the two of you. The torches lining the stone walls flickered weakly, casting shifting shadows against the cold marble floors.

The weight of the meeting still clung to the air, lingering like frost long after the ice had faded from the war table.

You walked beside Zayne in silence, steps slow, measured.

You could still feel the tension from earlier, the quiet storm between him and his brother, the unspoken challenge.

But, this felt different.

This wasn’t the casual, detached Zayne who always lingered at the edges of power, just close enough to influence, but never enough to claim it.

No.

This Zayne felt closer. Sharper. Decisive.

“You handled them well,” he said eventually, voice smooth, but lacking its usual amusement.

You glanced at him, arching a brow. “You mean I handled you well.”

That earned you a flicker of something familiar.

A smirk, faint and fleeting. “If that helps you sleep at night.”

You hummed, tilting your head slightly. “You enjoyed that too much.”

Zayne’s smirk didn’t last.

Instead, he slowed, gaze drifting toward the high windows where moonlight stretched across the stone floor.

“He makes it easy.”

He.

You didn’t need to ask who.

The crown prince. His younger brother. The man you were meant to marry.

The man Zayne had once let rule without challenge.

But something had changed. You could feel it.

His fingers twitched at his sides, barely noticeable, but enough for you to see the tension in him.

A tension that hadn’t been there before.

You studied him carefully. “You never wanted the throne.”

His jaw shifted slightly. A slow exhale. “No.”

But there was something else in his voice now. Something new.

“And now?”

Zayne didn’t answer immediately.

Instead, he leaned against one of the columns, arms folding across his chest, eyes flickering toward the darkened hallway beyond.

“Now, things are different.”

Your breath caught, just slightly.

“Because of him?”

A humorless chuckle.

“Because of you.”

You stopped in your tracks.

Zayne tilted his head, gaze settling on you fully now.

Nog lazy, not indifferent, but weighted with intent.

“I spent my whole life letting him have it,” he murmured.

“Because I knew what that crown did to people. What power did.”

His fingers tapped absently against his arm, slow, deliberate.

“You take the throne, and suddenly you don’t own yourself anymore. Every move, every word, every alliance, every sacrifice—”

His voice dipped lower. “You don’t rule it. It rules you.”

His eyes darkened. “And I never wanted to belong to it.”

You swallowed. “But now you do?”

Zayne didn’t move, didn’t break your gaze.

But the shift in him was undeniable.

He wasn’t just watching the game anymore.

He was stepping into it.

“Now, the prize is worth it.”

He didn’t say your name.

He didn’t have to.

Because you both knew exactly what he meant.

The air between you was cold, but the tension was sharper.

The corridor stretched long and empty, the torches casting flickering shadows against the stone.

But you weren’t looking at the walls, or the flames.

You were looking at him.

At the weight of his words still hanging between you.

“Now, the prize is worth it.”

Your expression didn’t change, but something in your chest twisted.

Heat curled under your skin, not from anger, but from something close to disappointment.

You stepped forward, closing the space between you, forcing his full attention.

“A prize?” Your voice was soft, feeling offended.

Zayne didn’t move, his expression unreadable, but you caught it.

The flicker of tension, the way he had expected this.

“That’s not what I meant.”

“Isn’t it?” You didn’t let him look away.

“You talk about power like it’s a game. Like the throne is a war you’ve suddenly decided is worth fighting because of me.”

His jaw tensed. “That’s not—”

“I am not a prize.” Your voice was steady, unwavering. “Not a throne to be claimed. Not a crown to be won.”

His eyes darkened, but he stayed silent.

“I have spent my life being bartered, measured, weighed for my worth. I won’t let you do the same.”

Zayne’s gaze held yours, quiet but relentless.

“You think I don’t know that?” His voice was low, but there was something behind it, something deeper than frustration.

You swallowed, but didn’t speak.

“You are not a prize, Princess.” His words were deliberate, calm, unshaken. “But you are worth fighting for.”

The torches crackled in the silence. His expression didn’t soften, but the intensity in his gaze was unmistakable.

“And you deserve someone who will.”

Zayne never wasted words.

That is why they are impossible to ignore.

You know you should have walked away.

Left him standing there in the dim corridor, let his words fade into the silence.

But you didn’t.

Zayne watched you, waiting.

His words hung between you, firm and unshaken. He wasn’t taking them back.

He wasn’t giving you an easy way out.

“And if I don’t want to be fought over at all?” Your voice was quieter now, controlled, but not weak.

His head tilted slightly. “Then I’ll stop.”

The words came too easily.

They should have reassured you, should have given you the control you wanted.

But something about the way he said them, the way his gaze held steady, the way his body remained perfectly still, made you wonder if he was lying.

Or worse, if he was telling the truth.

If you told him to stop, he would.

But that didn’t mean he would ever truly let you go.

You exhaled, fingers curling at your sides. “You’re making this more complicated than it needs to be.”

Zayne let out a quiet chuckle, shaking his head. “I don’t care about simplicity.”

Your lips parted, ready to argue, but before you could speak, he moved.

Not closer, not away, just a shift of weight, a breath of space given and taken in the same moment.

Your breath caught.

He noticed.

Of course he noticed.

His gaze flicked down to your hands, still clenched at your sides.

His fingers twitched at his own, like he might reach out. Like he had the right to.

He didn’t.

But it would be so easy.

Your throat tightened. “You don’t get to do this.”

“Do what?” His voice was smooth, maddeningly calm. “Tell the truth?”

You inhaled sharply. “Act like this is a choice.”

His smirk faded slightly. “It’s always been a choice. The only difference is I’ve finally made mine.”

Your stomach twisted. “Zayne—”

“No.” His voice was steady, firmer than before. “You don’t get to tell me I should have wanted the throne all these years, then be angry when I finally decide to take it.”

Your pulse pounded against your ribs. “You’re only doing this because of me.”

Zayne’s gaze darkened. “Yes.”

The admission was too quick. No hesitation.

Your fingers curled. “That’s not how this works.”

A muscle in his jaw twitched.

“Then tell me…how does it work?”

You weren’t sure who moved first.

But suddenly, the space between you disappeared, stolen in an instant.

The cold of the corridor pressed in, but his body was warm.

Too close, too much, too familiar.

Zayne’s breath brushed against your skin.

His voice was low, controlled, edged with something raw.

“If you think I’ll stand by while you’re bound to another man, a man who wants to use you as a bargaining chip, then you never knew me at all.”

Your throat tightened.

Your hands shook.

But still, you didn’t move away.

The space between you disappeared.

Not by hesitation. Not by accident.

By choice.

Zayne’s breath was warm against your skin, his body close enough that you could feel the steady rise and fall of his chest.

The flickering torchlight caught the sharp angles of his face, the shadowed curve of his jaw, the intensity in his eyes that had been building for way too long.

Your pulse pounded.

Every rational thought screamed for distance, for restraint, for control.

But control had been slipping since the moment he stepped into this fight.

Since the moment he chose you.

His hand lifted, hovering near your waist, fingers twitching as if caught between restraint and inevitability.

You felt the hesitation, the last fragile thread of self-control fraying at the edges.

You could stop this.

You should.

But you didn’t.

Your fingers curled into the front of his tunic, just barely, just enough that he felt it.

The moment stretched between you, heavy and breathless, before he finally moved.

His lips crashed into yours, fierce and unrelenting, years of tension snapping in an instant.

There was nothing hesitant about the way he kissed you, nothing careful in the way his hands could finally grip your waist, pulling you against him, pressing you into the cold stone wall as if he had been holding back for too long and had finally given in.

Heat surged under your skin, your body igniting in a way that had nothing to do with magic.

You gasped against his mouth, fingers tangling in his hair, gripping tighter when his teeth scraped against your lower lip.

Zayne exhaled sharply, breaking the kiss just long enough to rest his forehead against yours.

His breath was ragged, his grip firm.

Like he was afraid to let go.

“Say it,” he murmured.

Your fingers curled into his sleeves, voice barely steady.

“Say what?”

His lips brushed yours again, teasing, testing the last remnants of your resolve. “That you don’t want this.”

“That you don’t want me.”

You didn’t answer.

You couldn’t.

Because it would be a lie.

And you both knew it.

His smirk returned, softer this time, his thumb tracing slow circles along your hip. “That’s what I thought.”

You didn’t stop him when he kissed you again.

Because, you wanted this.

#zayne x non mc #lnds zayne #l&ds zayne #zayne x you #lads zayne #zayne love and deepspace #zayne x reader #fantasy #fantasy romance #fanfic #medieval #magical realism #arranged marriage #forbidden love

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