#mystery mist ask

[mystery--mist]

"How's Shark? I wonder about him everyday. I miss you."

- Your beeloved

He is alright it seems! No worries

But thanks for asking is what he means in his own way ♥ ^w^

[velidewrites]

No one remembers her name. But I do.

— Chapter 23, A Court of Wings and Ruin (Sarah J Maas)

Pairing: The Bone Carver x 👀

Word Count: 18.2k

Warnings (please read before proceeding): Graphic depictions of violence, injury, blood, gore, and death; loss of a loved one; implied/referenced miscarriage; implied/referenced domestic abuse; poverty; mild(ish?) sexual content

Read on AO3

The cold seemed to seep into his very bones.

It began deep beneath the cobblestones of the street—as if the winter itself had planted it in the earth, content to watch it grow as the year neared its end. The sun hadn’t yet set over the horizon, thank the Gods. The seeds of the frigid season bloomed most eagerly in the dark.

Another hour, and he would leave. He reckoned he could survive another sixty minutes out on the street—though he hoped he wouldn’t need to stay that long. Gods willing, someone would take notice of the boy curled up in the pile of hay sooner than later. Even through the long, thin straws, he could feel the cold clawing at his lower back, sending his entire body into shivers.

Oh, how he hated this.

If only he could have it his way. He’d be back by midday, early afternoon, perhaps, if the merchants have proven especially difficult. During the winter, he found, they would all become more…possessive.

But—he promised. Had given his word, even, though he supposed it hadn’t meant much coming from the likes of him. Not to her, though—he couldn’t break her heart like that again. He feared she wouldn’t survive it. And given her current condition…

His mother was the only thing he had left in the world. And so, he would behave—for her.

For her, he would sit his ass on the side of the alley and wait—wait until someone took mercy upon a nineteen-year old boy, begging in the streets. Unlikely.

They found him laughable—had even said so to his face. Nineteen. Not a boy—a man. You could’ve found work had you only tried, they laughed as their shadows hovered over his wimpy form. Had you had any honour, any pride. Instead, you’ve chosen to remain in the filthy streets like the trash that you are.

If only things had been that simple.

The village folk must’ve known that he had tried—so many of them had turned him down, after all. Before he even came of age, he’d wandered the main square, looking for work, any work—to no effect. He supposed he couldn’t blame them. He’d brought this upon himself, after all.

Thief, they called him. A dangerous, deranged thief.

He quite liked the sound of that, even if his mother was inclined to disagree. As far as he was concerned, any nickname was better than trash, and unfortunately, the latter was becoming more and more common these days. For that reason alone, today would’ve been a perfect opportunity—an opportunity to remind them what he truly was.

His long-suffering sigh turned into a wheezing fit as the icy air scratched at his lungs.

“Fuck,” he breathed out, his pale hand closing on his chest, fingers digging into the scraps of fabric draped over his body. He needed to be more careful. In a weather like this, even something as mundane as breathing could very well lead to his untimely death.

Untimely, because…it wasn’t his time yet. It was the last scrap of hope he held onto these days. That there was something—anything—out there. Waiting, for his mother—for him.

The wind howled again, the biting breeze from the North like needles prickling at his skin. Perhaps the Gods had heard his dreams, somehow, and decided to laugh in his face.

He almost rolled his eyes at the thought. When had he become so bitter?

It was unlikely that the Gods were watching over him, anyway. A traitorous thought—but a true one. Undying and all-powerful, he doubted that such beings cared for a single soul like him—if, of course, he still had one after everything he’d done. All the pain he’d caused…if he was a God, he wouldn’t have bothered with someone like him. He’d be doing greater things. Important things.

Like never inflicting winter upon his lands again, for example.

Did the Gods even have such power? He’d only heard myths, stories—as a child, from none other than the village Elder, huddled with the other younglings around the crackling fire. Wide-eyed and still curious enough to listen to the tales of the world around them.

The Elder had told them stories of divine creatures, ones of unlimited power and unimaginable beauty, who’d fallen from a rip in the skies above to bless the lands beneath. Who’d taken one look at the misery of their empty world and decided to grace it with their gifts—fertile soil, and humans to harvest its bearings. The Elder said the Gods created them—all of them—that they were their children, blessed to have the Gods as their protectors for all eternity.

Fine, then. He was a child of the Gods—a child whose name they’d never bothered to learn. He never learned their names, either. Had never even asked. What good would that have done? He might’ve had someone to be disappointed in—someone other than himself.

His head fell back to the wooden wall of the hut. Its owner, no doubt, would be returning soon—and curse him out for ever daring to lean against his property. A sudden wave of tiredness washed over him, his limbs heavier somehow, as if the cold had finally managed to freeze them in place.

Maybe, if he closed his eyes for a moment…it would go away. Just for a few seconds—so that he could rest before returning home empty-handed. Again. It had been…almost three days since he had eaten. Two, since his mother had.

Tomorrow, he would steal, promises be damned. If he survived.

A veil of darkness began to wrap itself around his sight as he blinked again. The next time he closed his eyes, he would not open them again.

Something landed in the small pile of hay warming his feet. Something heavy.

He forced his body off the wall as he looked down. And then, his heart stopped.

A bone.

A raw bone, yes—but large, and with scraps of meat, still hanging over the glistening, white centre that had unmistakably once been some animal’s thigh.

His hands shook as he reached for it—his salvation. Only when it was safe and locked tightly in his grasp did he look up.

On the other end of the narrow street stood a girl, peering from the doorway of the shop that always reeked of blood and decay. The butcher’s girl, he realised, the same one the folk said was taken by illness so grave it confined her to the small room above her father’s shop. He’d never seen her before—he doubted anyone ever had. And yet…and yet, there she was, her face twisted in an emotion he’d only ever seen on his mother’s face before.

Worry.

His breathing fell flat as she stepped out—a half-step, really, in his direction, into the dimming sunlight as it made way for the chill darkness of the night. And he stopped breathing entirely as her gaze locked on his.

She was the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen.

He could make out the exact shade of her eyes despite the street separating them—despite the curtain of greyish light draped over it. They gleamed with a light of their own—a blue so deep they seemed almost violet, like the sky being lulled to sleep by the waning hours of dusk. Dark, silken hair cascaded down her back in soft waves, just barely brushing her waist, small—and thin. Too thin.

He opened his mouth when a tall, broad figure appeared in the doorway behind her.

“Inside,” the butcher barked, but she didn’t move. She only stood there—looking at him, that beautiful face still contorted in what seemed to be—pain.

For…him?

“Astra,” her father barked, and the girl flinched.

She disappeared into the house before he even managed to thank her, the door slamming shut behind her.

***

The night had fallen entirely as he made his way back home, the bone still gripped tight in his hand. Silence enveloped the streets, his steps quieter now as the cobblestone road narrowed into a dirty path. The snow melted into mud here, thick and grey and stained with yellow, its stench filling the air and stirring the guts of those misfortunate enough to reside in the area. Thankfully, though, no red tainted the filthy road tonight—no blood had been spilled over scraps of food or water. It was cold enough, it seemed, to keep his neighbours inside.

His own house—it felt ridiculous to call it that even as it stood a few feet before him—was a pathetic imitation of the sturdy, wooden structures over at the village square. It must’ve been on the verge of collapse, ready to fall apart at any stronger blow of wind, the wood here splintered, wet.

Still, it was a roof over his head. And he wasn’t exactly in a position to complain.

He’d been certain he’d never see it again. And yet…

The girl—Astra—had saved his life today. His mother’s life, too.

He was forever in her debt.

Tomorrow, he would go back—he would knock on the butcher’s door the moment his shop closed and hope for the best. Hope that she would answer.

A fly flitted past him as he approached the door, the light buzz unpleasant against his ear. And then, another.

Something heavy fell down to the pit of his stomach as he realised where they came from.

There was no latrine in their home—it was only big enough for the two of them to lay on the cots inside. If they opened their arms as they laid beside each other, they could touch the opposite sides of the room, feel the splintered wood dig into the skin of their fingers. There wasn’t enough space for anything else—so any needs other than sleep must’ve been fulfilled outside.

It was no surprise that she fell ill in a weather like this. He’d kept her wrapped up in blankets—had given her all of his own as she slept, unable to stop him—but the warmth wasn’t enough. For the past two weeks, she could do nothing but writhe in pain. Every hour of every day.

Perhaps if he’d paid more attention—if he stopped caring about a Gods-damned promise—he could’ve saved her. He could’ve stolen enough blankets to keep her warm, or enough food to strengthen her body. He could’ve stolen money, enough gold marks to pay for a healer, and one willing to venture this far out of the village.

But he’d done none of that. And now, it was too late.

The fire, the bone—they could wait. An hour, maybe two, before his stomach demanded to be filled in a final cry for help. But before then…

He entered the hut silently and laid down on the unoccupied cot, letting his body, his mind, fade into nothingness.

***

When the moon rose over the village the next day, he knocked on the butcher’s door.

No one answered. Not even a sound reached him—not even as he pressed his ear to the hard wood. He knocked again—nothing.

And when it seemed like the house was too lost in sleep to hear his plea, he heard it.

A thud—muffled by the walls, the roof above. And then—another, heavy, like something that’d lost its balance before dropping to the floor.

Silence fell again, so empty he almost thought he’d imagined ever hearing anything at all.

He was going to step back—to turn around and try again the next day—when he heard it.

A scream.

A suppressed one, and brief—as if cut short abruptly before making way for that hollow silence again. But it did happen—rip itself free, even for only a heartbeat.

He scowled at it, the wheels of his mind turning and turning—

Another scream.

Something clicked in his head.

And he barged in.

“How dare you.” A voice, one he’d heard before, seething from upstairs. “How dare you disobey me. Again.”

How dare you take what’s mine, a memory, old yet painful all the same, scratched at the wall of his mind. Street filth.

The butcher.

“I didn’t mean to—” another voice sounded, small and quiet, as if trying to shrink further into itself. He stepped forward—towards the stairs in the back.

“Silence,” the butcher snapped.“You will take your punishment.” He moved closer, the first step groaning under his weight. “You will learn to listen. Or I shall have those filthy ears cut off.”

The man came into his sight at last, his back turned to him as hovered over someone’s form.

He felt his fists close at his sides. “Stop.”

The butcher whirled to him, his roughened face a picture of shock. Of recognition.

“You.”

“Step away from her,” he spat, but the butcher made no move. “I said step away.”

“You dare show your face here again, street trash?” he challenged, baring his teeth, yellow even in the dimming light. “You dare give me orders?” He barked a laugh. “Get out of my establishment.”

“No.”

Another, hideous laugh. “I see you haven’t learned your lesson,” he mused, and pain splintered through his back—old scars waking to the sound of the butcher’s familiar voice. “I will have your head for this, you rat.”

He gritted his teeth. “Step away from her.”

The man’s eyes flashed. And then, strong and heavy, he lunged for him.

Too bad. He was a lot faster.

An elbow in his gut, a foot to the back of his knee. The butcher fell to the floor in time for his punch to land on his head.

When it hit the wooden plank of the floor, unconscious, he smiled.

A stifled gasp escaped someone’s lips.

He whipped toward the sound.

A sea of dark hair shielded her face from view, but even now, he could make out the silver lining her eyes, wide and gleaming.

“Are you alright?” he asked carefully.

“I…” the butcher’s daughter looked to the body, still as it laid beside him. “You…killed him?”

“No.” He angled his head. “Would you like me to?” He would.

“No!” She shot to her feet. “Please, don’t.”

“Alright,” he nodded. “Are you okay, though?”

Her gaze dipped. “I’ll be alright. Thank you.”

He frowned. There was nothing to thank him for—he got there too late, when her tears were no longer fresh, and yet…yes, that was gratitude in her eyes.

“I was looking for you, you know,” he found himself saying. “I’m the one who should be thankful, you—you saved me. The other day. You probably don’t remember,” he added quickly, and his cheeks flushed as he cursed himself for his rambling. 

She seemed to take no notice, though. “The bone.” She swallowed hard. “I remember.”

“I owe you a debt.”

Her eyes widened again, and she shook her head hastily. “There is no debt.”

If only. “I’d be dead if it weren’t for you,” he pointed out. When she seemed to have no answer, he jerked his chin to the man on the floor. “Does he do this often?” he asked.

Her jaw tightened. “Sometimes.”

He knew what sometimes meant. Too well.

“If he ever tries again—” he started, “—scream. I’ll be there—to stop him again.”

“You…” An incredulous look. “I don’t understand.”

Go—just go. She’s fine.

“Let me do this for you,” he blurted. “To clear my debt. Let me keep you safe.”

She seemed to go still at the words. “Safe?”

“If you’d like me to,” he only said, a familiar rush of exhaustion threatening to crash into him again. The old pain in his back still thrummed there quietly, and his fists bled quietly from where the skin had burst open against the butcher’s head. He’d come here to erase his debts—and he found himself in the middle of something that never should have taken place at all—something that stirred a deep, angry place within his soul.

“Do you ever sleep?”

He blinked.

The daughter’s eyes surveyed him watchfully, scanning over his face, his hands—as though somehow, she had heard the words swirling through his thoughts.

“Not anymore,” he admitted. There was no point in lying, not when he’d probably looked halfway through death’s threshold anyway. He had not slept since he found his mother in the hut—and though it had only been a little over a day, he doubted he’d ever be able to sleep again. “So you’d be giving me something to do, really.” If she accepted his offer.

But then she asked, “What’s your name?”

He almost stumbled back a step.

“I…what?”

“Your name,” her brows knotted. “What is it?”

No one had ever asked him that before—not a single person in his long, miserable life.

“Osten,” he choked out.

“Osten,” she repeated, as if weighing the sound on her tongue. He suddenly became very aware of his hands, hanging pathetically at his sides. “My name is Astra.”

Astra.

“I know.” He swallowed hard. “I heard him call for you yesterday.”

A shy smile. “I’ll make you a bargain, Osten,” she offered. “Your…debt will be clear if you promise that after watching me every night—as soon as dawn breaks—you’ll go home and get some sleep yourself.”

Her eyes shone as she waited for his answer. And, before he could even think about it, Osten said, “Deal.”

Something tingled in his chest in response—something he couldn’t quite discern, but there was no time, not as Astra smiled again and tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear.

Behind her long, arched ear.

Not sick, then. It was not an illness that made the butcher confine her to the small room above his shop.

Who are you?

But Astra only nodded. “It’s a bargain.”

The words echoed through his step until he reached the dirty, familiar path home. Until, so consumed by the image of the strangest woman he’d ever seen, he tripped over a rogue root of a tree, peering above ground, and his knees landed in a melting puddle of snow.

His reflection fluttered through the surface, the image of his face scattered—though he could still make out the brown, messy hair, the hollow cheeks, the dark eyes. The worn-out blouse, too loose on his shoulders. The…black lines underneath?

He blinked, leaning in closer. There was a marking on his chest—one that had definitely not been there before, and…tingling. 

The dark shape seemed to form a mountain—tall and proud, with three speckles hanging above it—stars.

He rubbed the marking with his hand. Nothing.

Then, he dipped his fingers into the water, this time to rub it with more fervour. The marking did not budge—had only continued to tingle, like a gentle, warm light caressing cold, roughened skin.

Osten did not try to remove it the third time. For some reason…he found that it didn’t bother him.

***

The first beams of dawn peered over the horizon, and he nearly sagged with relief. His worries faded away with the night, which, mercifully, had passed by quietly. Undisturbed.

Astra’s father, the bastard, would come down to set up shop soon—and remain occupied for the rest of the day. Osten had hours to spend before it was time for him to stand watch again.

The time had come for him to fulfil his end of the bargain, it seemed.

Their bargain was ridiculous, really, he thought as he rose to stretch his back, sore from an entire night of leaning against the hardened wood. Astra would let him watch over her, would let him pay off his debt to her, in exchange for…sleep. She’d probably requested it as a courtesy—what else did he have to offer her? He must’ve looked like a half-corpse the night they met—if he slept, he’d at least be a lot nicer to look at.

He almost rolled his eyes at the thought. Why did he insist on staying when, in her eyes, there was no debt to begin with? He could’ve nodded his thanks and call it a day. Could have left and never think about her again.

Instead, he devoted his nights to her, pledging to keep her safe.

Perhaps there was a shred of humanity left in him, instilled somewhere deep in his soul by his mother, propelling him to carry out his final promise to her even after her death. Perhaps he thought that, by doing something good, he would balance out the transgressions he’d committed—and was sure to commit again.

After all, he still had to eat.

Osten sighed as his eyelids drooped, heavy after days of restlessness. He doubted she remembered, but…he would keep his word and sleep—if only to stop the stinging in his eyes, begging them to shut and not open for at least a few hours.

And so, he moved to make his way home.

“Wait!” a voice, small and quiet in the paling night, called after him. “Thank you.”

At that, he turned. Slowly.

Her left cheek was still flushed, blood racing under the aching skin. The rage he felt two nights ago—frozen and rippling like a cracking sheet of ice over a lake—stirred in him at the sight, begging to be let out again. He fought the urge to press his palm to her face, knowing the touch—cold, the way it always had been—was able to provide her relief, even if just for a breath.

He shoved his hands into his pockets instead. “It’s nothing.”

Dark brows furrowed over those eyes, their blue so deep they nearly mirrored the sky above them. “It’s not nothing. I…” she hesitated, and met his gaze—held it until she found whatever she was searching for, whatever allowed her to continue, “I slept better knowing you were out there.”

Everything inside him went quiet at that. “Yeah?”

Her answer was merely a whisper. “Yes.”

He’d never experienced silence like this before—it was nothing like the frigid, hollow kind that rang in his ears the night he’d found his mother. No, this was different. Peaceful. Warm. 

And it all radiated from her.

“My father left,” she told him, her gentle voice filling the air between them. “You no longer have to stand watch.”

He said nothing.

“Will you get some sleep now?” Astra asked.

Osten stilled.

So she did remember.

“That is our bargain,” he agreed, unsure why his throat felt tight.

She nodded, her eyes gleaming at the answer—as if she actually, truly cared—and he could have sworn stars flecked in them brightly as she said, “Yes. It is.”

***

The snow had begun to melt off the streets at last—though the chill of the final weeks of winter remained. He felt it now more than ever as he sat in the shadows, resting against the back wall of Astra’s house. Listening.

Every night of the past week had mercifully been hollow with silence, filled only by his shallow breathing in the cold, and sometimes, the faint chittering of whatever lurked in the forest ahead. He’d spent them in the company of his thoughts—thoughts that drifted to the woman sleeping above far more often than he cared to admit. Was she safe? Did she eat enough today?

He would stay until dawn broke across the sky, until it lit up with a gentle light that sent her father out for his freshly slain delivery. Day after day, the butcher would leave the house and return after an hour or so, covered in blood—and not his own, unfortunately.

Astra hadn’t dared to come out once in her father’s absence. Not that he’d expected her to, of course—after all, he was nothing but her guard. They were bound by a debt and a bargain—nothing more.

“Are you cold?”

Osten jerked off the wall. “Shit!”

She’d appeared out of nowhere—as if stepping out from the shadows themselves. He should’ve heard her in this silence—but Astra hadn’t even made a breath of a sound as she emerged. He tried not to shudder at the thought.

“Forgive me,” she said, the apology genuine in her tone. “I did not mean to frighten you.”

He rose to his feet. “You didn’t frighten me, I just…” he sighed. “I thought you were asleep.” Why wasn’t she?

She shook her head, that raven hair gleaming under the pale moonlight. “I couldn’t.”

He frowned. “Why?” Had the butcher said something to her? Had he harmed her in any way?

But Astra said nothing, her violet eyes surveying him instead. Then, she asked, “Are you, then? Cold?”

“It’s nothing new to me. I’ll survive.”

She was having none of that. “I brought you blankets,” she said, moving to hand him the small pile she’d been holding.

He almost stumbled back a step. “You…what?”

She angled her head, her nose scrunching a little—as if the answer was the most obvious thing in the world. “Blankets,” Astra repeated. “To keep warm in the night.”

He knew what blankets were for, obviously, but…

“Why?”

Her lips thinned. “I can’t sleep knowing you’re freezing out here.”

He sighed again. “I told you, it’s nothing serious.”

“Well, it is to me,” Astra said, pressing the blankets into his hands. “Keep them. Please.”

Soft—they were so soft. He wasn’t sure he’d ever touched anything like that before. Fighting the urge to bury his face in the material, he shook his head slowly. “You need them more than I do,” he told her.

Her dark brows knitted. “What makes you think that?”

Alright, then. “You’re ill, aren’t you?”

Astra blew out a breath, and he braced himself for the answer—for the lie he’d already heard on the streets of the village. “I am ill,” she started, “but not in the way the folk claims.”

His mouth opened—then closed. No more lies, then—only the truth. “I thought as much.” That, apart from her thin features, there were no signs of illness about Astra—only an air of something…foreign. Something different.

Something he wasn’t sure was entirely human.

Astra asked, “Why offer me the blankets, then?”

Osten shrugged. “I wanted to see if you’d confirm it.”

Her head cocked to the side again. “I have no reason to lie to you.”

“No?”

“No,” she agreed quietly. “You are my only friend.”

Silence fell again, and Astra went still—an unnatural kind of stillness, an almost unsettling one. Like her body could not physically move until he said something—anything. But he couldn’t even pay attention as he mulled over her words.

A friend.

He’d…never had one before.

Something tightened in his throat, blocking the cool air from flowing into his lungs. He could not utter a single word as he beheld her. Astra. His friend.

And then, her gaze fell, and she moved again. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me,” she admitted, as if she couldn’t see, couldn’t feel the wave of emotion that had crashed into the man before her. “I don’t know why I look like…this. When I was born, I—my mother, she left. My father…he says she was like me—a monster. A creature forsaken by the gods, he called her.” She huffed a bitter laugh. “He says she tricked him—seduced him, and when she got what she wanted, she left him with a babe and not a word of goodbye.”

Osten swallowed hard. “And you believe him?” The question came out hoarse.

“I don’t want to,” Astra said, tucking a loose strand of hair behind that arched ear. He tried not to gape at it as she added, “I don’t want to believe my mother was what he makes her out to be. But…there are days…”

She shook her head, a shadow passing over her beautiful features.

So Osten said quietly, “You can tell me.”

There was nothing but pain in her eyes as she met his gaze. “There are days that I think only a monster could’ve left me with a man like him.”

And then, she looked to the ground again. As if she couldn’t bear to face him.

He’d be damned—damned—to let her think he could ever shy away from her.

“There is nothing wrong with you, you know,” he began, and her face whipped to his again. “You are good—kind.” He smiled tentatively. “You helped a stranger dying on the streets when he had nothing to offer you in return. You made sure he survived—and you gave him a purpose.” Daring a step toward her, he took one of the blankets and, slowly, draped it over her shoulders, their gazes not breaking for a moment as he added, “You may not look like me, like everyone else here, but—I want you to know that I’m honoured, Astra. I’m honoured to be your friend.”

Light—pure, unrestrained light, brighter than the stars above them, shone in her face as she smiled at his words.

“Thank you,” she whispered. “Thank you, Osten.”

***

Osten was in agony.

The slashes in his back ran deep, fresh blood coating old scars and tingling the netted skin that had never had the chance to heal. The open cuts felt as though they’d been set on fire, white-hot and throbbing with his every step. He’d been whipped six times, as if they wanted to relish in his screams, his suffering. As if they thought one would not have been enough for him to learn his lesson.

Obviously, they were right.

He was planning to steal again, as soon as he could walk without crying out in pain. Such noise was unwelcome if he wanted to be successful this time.

Winter had fallen again, colder and angrier than the year before—and even more relentless. These days, Osten missed the summertime more than ever—how quiet and peaceful his life had been then. He’d taken to hunting in the warm weather, encouraged more by his desire to outdo the butcher’s distributors than his own need to eat. How delightful it had been to watch their faces in the forest—the perfect mixture of shame and disbelief as they realised they’d been bested by a common street thief. He could only imagine the butcher’s face whenever his hunters delivered him the news.

His bow, of course, had been stolen, too. He’d found it resting against an oak tree, probably waiting as its owner ventured deeper into the bushes, urged by the pressing call of his bladder. Too bad. It might’ve been flimsy and splintered, but the bow belonged to Osten now. Though, unfortunately, he made little use of it now that the forest had become a sea of snow and ice, even the most hardened of animals hiding in its wake.

And so, Osten returned to stealing. Astra didn’t know—and if she did, she had not once said a word about it.

For a while, it was enough for him to get by. Steal in the chaos of day, watch over Astra in the dead of the night. Over the months, she seemed to sleep less and less—choosing to sneak out the moment her father drifted into unconsciousness, and to keep Osten company instead.

He…wasn’t sure what to make of it.

Still, Osten was hardly one to give her orders—he was merely a warden, a friend. And, if he had to admit, he enjoyed her quiet presence. He found it soothing of sorts—her eyes, wide and shining and seemingly drinking every word that fell from his lips. Her mouth, parted in a small, curious smile as she listened to his adventures from the hunt. Her voice, calm and yet so full of joy as they talked about the future ahead.

He’d once asked her if she ever thought of leaving—of running away from her father’s cruel grasp and into the night, never to look back again.

And where would I go? she had asked him.

Somewhere safe, he’d told her. And, if he hadn’t been such a fucking coward, panicking at the sight of her eyes gleaming with hope so beautifully, he would’ve added: With me.

That was the first time she’d ever left his side before daybreak. The next day, she’d acted as though their conversation had never even taken place.

He hadn’t stopped dreaming since then—dreaming of the life the two of them could lead if he only dared. Traitorous, traitorous dreams—ones that were sure never to become reality. Yes, they could escape somewhere, far away from the cold, grey village the Gods had thrust them into—but then, what? Where would they go? Where could he ever take her, with nothing no his name but the scars on his back?

The reality, the truth, was simple. Astra deserved a good life—a better life. Without him.

It was with that thought that he made way to her house, wrapped in the blankets she’d given him all those months ago. He’d tried to return them time and time again—to no effect. So he’d kept them, his mind arguing that, at the very least, the blankets would keep him safe enough from frostbite to continue watching her for as long as she needed him.

Their weight on his shoulders was especially painful tonight, though. He wondered how long it would take for his blood to soak into their softness, to turn the murky brown fabric red.

When he turned the corner to the back of the house—right beneath Astra’s small window—he found the space already occupied.

Osten stumbled back in surprise, a small hiss escaping him as the blankets brushed against a particularly nasty cut running along his spine. Astra’s brows furrowed.

“Are you alright?”

“Yes,” he muttered, his gaze falling to the small plate in her hands. “What is this?”

Her lips were a thin line. “I heard what happened.”

Ah.

“I don’t know what you mean,” he said anyway.

“Osten,” she pressed, taking another step forward. “Let me help you.”

The muscle in his jaw shifted. “How did you find out?”

Astra sighed, the sound slightly shaky on her breath. “I…hear things. I hear them well.” Her gaze dropped to the plate—as if she couldn’t dare to meet his eyes as she added, “Even when they are happening far outside, I can hear them. My father’s knife, cutting through the flesh downstairs. People talking in the streets. Horses neighing in the stables out back. Your heart,” she said, something strained in her voice now, “I hear it, too. How loudly it beats whenever we speak.”

There was such silence in his head.

Astra shook the dark hair from her face. “Take it,” she said, handing him the plate. The meat, freshly cooked by the potatoes, still hot and steaming and smelling so painfully good that his stomach churned at the barest glance. “Please.” 

His eyes widened. “I…” he stepped back. “I can’t accept this.”

I’m supposed to keep you safe.

“Why not?” she pushed. “Why won’t you let me help you?”

Please, don’t make me say it.

“I don’t want it,” he said, another desperate step back.

“Lies,” she hissed. “Tell me.”

Such fierce, unflinching determination in her face. She knew what he’d done—knew exactly what kind of person he was—and still, she’d cooked this meal for him. Refused to yield until he took the hand she’d reached out to him.

Osten swallowed hard, something wet burning his eyes restlessly.

“I don’t deserve it,” he finally whispered.

Astra went still.

“I promised her, you know—my mother,” he continued, unable to look into her eyes, to see the disappointment no doubt twisting her face, “I promised her I would never steal again. She hated it.”  He huffed a bitter laugh, one that scratched at his throat like fingernails. “She hated that I wasn’t trying to live an honest life. So, for a while, I did. I tried.” He choked out, “And it wasn’t enough to keep her from dying.”

He couldn’t bring himself to look up as he finished, “I shouldn’t have eaten that bone you gave me a year ago. I should’ve left it in the snow. I should’ve gone home, and I should’ve died with her.”

For a moment, there was nothing but silence, thrumming in his head, his heart.

And then—

“Osten.”

He shook his head.

“Look at me.”

Her hand cupped his face, so gentle and soft that he shivered beneath the touch. His own hands were coarse, dirty—so different from hers that he almost recoiled from the touch, like a shadow burned by the first beams of the morning sunlight.

Step away, everything screamed inside of him as his gaze lifted to those immaculate hands. Step away before you stain them with your filth.

Her hold on him grew solid, harder than any steel. As if in answer.

As if somehow, she’d heard the words his mind spat at him.

He swallowed them down, forced them to the darkest pits of his soul, and looked up.

“Beautiful,” she breathed as he met her gaze.

His chest tightened. “They’re just black,” he said a shade pathetically, but she shook her head, her own eyes gleaming.

“I feel like I can see the whole world in them.”

He could’ve died in that moment—and he would’ve died a happy man.

“Astra,” he whispered.

But Astra said, “What happened to your mother was not your fault. You did everything you could—you protected her despite everything the world has thrown at you.” Her thumb brushed the hollow of his cheek. “And now, you protect me. You keep me safe.” She smiled, so beautiful his heart braced to leap out of his chest. “You matter, Osten. You matter to me.”

You are my friend.

Let me help you.

You matter to me.

“Eat with me.”

So Osten said, “Okay.”

***

The butcher was out tonight.

Osten had trailed him to the brothel on the far outskirts of the village—a place cursed by the Elder, hidden far from his watchful eye. Osten had never dared to venture in himself—had never had the money for it, anyway—but hearing the sounds from within left little to the imagination, anyway.

He figured Astra’s father was unlikely to return before dawn.

Still, he found himself on the familiar path to her house anyway.

She wasn’t there when he’d arrived—she must’ve been well asleep despite the night only having just begun. Something like disappointment sank in his chest—he’d grown used to seeing her greet him as he approached, those violet eyes bright. Happy. Even his wounds had seemed to heal faster over the past week, stinging less and less with each smile she’d offered him.

Tonight, he was only greeted by the darkness.

And then, a scream.

Astra’s scream—a desperate, bloodcurdling plea for help.

Osten didn’t think twice.

His heart pounded, faster and faster as he rushed into the shop and up the stairs out back—some of the steps stained by old, rusty blood. He swallowed, silently praying it had come from some turkey, some pig, anything but—

Astra screamed again.

He yanked the door open.

Darkness swirled in the room, thick and heavy and wrapped around her—around Astra’s sleeping form, the shadows tighter and tighter—

No, Osten realised as he stepped in closer. The darkness was not trying to kill her.

It…came from her.

The shadows caressed her skin, their curled ends brushing her arms, her cheeks, her arched ears—as if… nursing her back into peace.

“Astra?” Osten whispered.

Astra shot upright with another scream.

Her chest heaved with rough, uneven breaths, and she looked around—to the bed she was lying in, to the shadows hugging her body, to Osten, standing above her, pale as death.

And then, she broke into tears.

He was at her side in an instant, and the shadows vanished out of sight, as though content to let him take over. Silver lined her face as she wept—still tormented by the nightmare despite being freed from its grasp.

“It’s okay,” he said thickly, wrapping the blankets tighter around her. Her shoulders wobbled beneath them as she wept. “You’re okay.”

But she shook her head, silent tears dripping onto the mattress. He’d never seen anyone cry so quietly—as if her pain was a secret she needed to keep from the rest of the world.

Through a crack in the window, the chill wind whistled into the room, and it took everything in him not to leave her side and close it. Whatever happened—whatever horrors ripped her from her sleep…he would not let her endure them alone.

He could no longer tell if it was the cold that made his jaw tremble, or the sight of her, utterly broken in a pile of patched-up blankets she’d probably sewn up herself. Even the Gods themselves knew her father cared too little to have done it for her.

He gently draped another layer over her form. She’d shrunk so deep into herself that it made his heart ache.

“Tell me what happened.”

She didn’t look to meet his pleading gaze. “It was just a nightmare,” she said, and damn him, even her voice sounded small. As if the scream she’d let out had cost her all her strength.

“Tell me anyway.”

A shaky breath. “You don’t want to know," she said, and he could've sworn shadows gathered around her again at the words—a confirmation of the darkness her dreams beheld.

But Osten only said, “You’re my friend.”

A single tear slid down her cheek. “I saw fire. Fire and blood—so much blood, Osten. I…I couldn’t stop it.” Her voice trembled again. “And then, there was nothing. Nothing. It was cold, and it was dark, and—”

“It was a dream,” he insisted, his hand still resting atop her shoulder. He dared to brush his thumb over it as he added, “It’s not going to happen.”

Astra met his gaze, her own eyes beseeching. “Someone talks to me in my sleep,” she whispered.

“Who?”

“A woman.” She shook her head again. “I don’t know. I don’t…know what to do.”

Osten had never felt more powerless in his life.

But then, Astra covered his hand with hers, guiding him from her shoulder to lace her fingers with his. “Thank you for coming here,” she said quietly.

He wasn’t sure he was breathing as he asked, “Would you like me to stay?”

A heartbeat of silence.

“Yes.”

***

“Osten.”

Shit. Had he fallen asleep again?

“You’re awake.” He rose to his feet, facing the woman watching him from the shadows. “Did you have another nightmare?” It had almost been a week since the last time she’d woken up screaming.

Since she’d fallen asleep inches beside him.

“No,” Astra said, then hesitated. “Well, yes. A dream. I think.”

He cocked his head to the side. “Is…everything okay?”

“I’m…not sure. I…” She loosed a slow breath. “Osten, I think I know. I know what I am—what these dreams have been trying to show me all this time.”

She’d tied her hair up tonight, for the very first time since they’d met, perhaps—those dark curls swept back, a few silken strands framing her face. Her long, arched ears.

She was so beautiful he struggled to level a breath.

“And…” he gulped. “What have you learned?”

Astra surveyed him. Then, she said, “She tells me there are others.”

“Who?”

“My Mother.”

His eyes widened. “You found her?” The mother who’d abandoned her the moment she was born, the one she’d refused to speak about when he’d asked her months ago. She’d been…searching for her?

But Astra shook her head, her lips parting in a gentle smile. “She found me.”

Osten lifted his brows. But Astra continued, “She sings of others of my kind, creatures of all shapes and sizes, but with the same, ancient magic, thrumming through their veins.” She tucked a loose strand of hair behind that arched ear. “They live far away from here—on a land far larger than ours, across the Great Sea. Fae, she calls them. That’s what I am.” She smiled, a peaceful smile—as though finally, everything in the world had fallen into place.

Osten could all but stare.

Astra’s smile faltered. “You’re frightened.”

“No, I…” His throat felt dry. “Magic?”

She nodded. “Yes.”

“What of the Gods, then? Are they…” he swallowed hard. “Are they Fae as well?”

“No. I—I don’t know. The Mother, she…” Astra chewed on her bottom lip. “She calls them beings of death. Unmatched in their raw power, and…undying.” She shivered. “I…no. They aren’t like me.”

Osten released a long, long breath.

“There’s more,” she added carefully, as if she could fell the weight of her news on him. “My Mother—she has gifted me with a mission. A power different from the others. Osten, I…I can do things.”

“What kind of things?”

She hesitated.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he assured her, even as his head started spinning.

Astra stepped in closer and opened her palm.

Light, a warm silver that seemed to glitter much like the stars above them, beamed from her skin, illuminating the alley. Soft, gentle—just like her, and bright as it warmed his face. He could’ve sworn he heard it calling out to his very soul.

“Incredible,” he breathed. “It’s like starlight.”

A small smile. “It is.”

“How do you do it?” he asked, his voice clear with awe.

“I look deep into my soul,” she said quietly, looking from beneath dark lashes to meet his gaze. “And I think of you.”

Osten, a gentle voice—her voice—sounded in his mind, and he staggered back a step. Don’t be afraid.

“Was that you?” he managed to say. She nodded. “It felt…warm.” Like a breeze on a summer night.

Astra breathed out, her shoulders nearly sagging with relief. Had she worried she’d scared him away? She was magnificent—beautiful inside and out, the only light he’d ever come close to in his entire life.

He was never going to let her go.

“I wish I could do that, too,” he admitted. “So that I could talk to you when everyone else is watching.”

Sadness twisted her face, and guilt washed over him like a crashing wave. “I’m sorry,” he amended quickly. “I didn’t mean to upset you. I’m fine the way things are.”

“I’m not,” she whispered. “Osten.” Gods, the way she spoke his name. Like it was the only thing that mattered. “I want to be able to see you, talk to you. Touch you.” He shivered, and she took his hand. “I want to be able to do all those things—somewhere safe, where people will watch and not care one bit.” Her eyes glowed brightly as she added, “And one day, I will.”

His fingers curled tighter around her own.

“I promise,” she said.

***

Even in the darkness, he could make out the shadows on Astra’s face as he approached her home. She watched him, absently fiddling with her fingers, those violet eyes glazed and somewhere far away—lost in thought. 

His steps picked up. He could practically taste her worry on her shaky breath, on the small clouds of  frost that formed on the cold, midnight air. Had he touched her again? Was she in pain?

He would kill him. He would stride into the house, just like he had all those months ago, and beat him until his eyes swelled enough for him to never lay them on his daughter again. Until his jaw shattered to the point of no repair, so he could never spew his filthy insults to her face again. He would fucking relish in his pain, he would—

“Osten?”

He blinked.

Astra’s thin hand gripped his with surprising strength. “You seemed to daze off a little.”

He forced a swallow down his throat and smiled weakly. “Yeah.”

Her brows knitted, her worry creased even deeper into her beautiful features. She shouldn’t have worried for him—never for him. Not when the world had thrown so much at her already.

So Osten cleared his throat, unusual lightness in his tone as he amended, “Forgive me. I got distracted.” He reached out a hand, daring to brush his knuckles against her cheek. The faintest of touches, but she flushed nonetheless. “What bothers you?” Osten asked quietly.

“I…” her voice trembled again, and his heart strained in his chest. His fingers brushed her cheek once more, encouraging, and he must’ve stopped breathing entirely as her hand wrapped around them—brought his own, rough hand to cup her face gently. As if it steadied her. “Father is ill,” she finally told him. 

Perhaps the Gods had decided to do the job for him, then.

“The medics said it’s a matter of days,” she added, the words barely above a whisper.

Good fucking riddance. The bastard deserved it—the world would be a better place without him.

Still, Astra seemed rattled, her grip on his hand tighter. “When he’s gone…” she started, clearly aware of his indifference to her father’s fate, “they will come for me. He was the only protection I’ve ever had from them.”

He pretended the words hadn’t stung some place deep in his soul, the same one that bellowed to defend her, to shield her body with his own, to lay down his life for hers if necessary. But—she had to know. So he said, “You have me.”

Her eyes softened. “I know—I know. But my father was—is—very well known in this village, and for the folk, no matter how curious about me, it’s always been enough to keep away.”

No matter how big of a bastard he was, her father was respected. Unlike him—unlike the street trash whose hand she now held to her face.

She stepped forward, her body so close to his now that he couldn’t help but meet her gaze. It would be so easy, so painfully easy to take her into his arms when her warmth practically sang for him to do it. The kind of warmth that should’ve been at odds with the cold heart of his—and yet they danced together in harmony, like shadows between the stars.

“You’re strong,” she said, placing that slender hand atop his chest. Right above his heart, pounding under the intensity of her stare. “The strongest person I know, Osten. I wouldn’t be standing here today if it wasn’t for you. But, these people…” she shook her head, her dark hair shimmering under the moonlight. “These people—they won’t see me as you do. Once they see me for what I truly am, they will stop at nothing to be rid of me—even if it means killing you,” she finished, and something silver sparkled in those eyes. 

The Gods would damn him for this—for thinking he was worthy of it—but he wrapped his arms around her, unable to keep away at the sight of her tears. “I won’t let that happen,” he insisted, his voice cracking slightly as she pressed her body into his. “As long as I live, I will keep you safe.” His lips brushed over her temple, over the silken hair above in a whisper of a kiss. “Perhaps even after that.”

Astra shuddered against him, but she nodded. “I’ll keep you safe, too. No matter what it takes.”

***

The evening had slowly began to dim into the night. It was still too early for him to begin his watch—the butcher’s shop would’ve been running for another hour or so had Astra’s father not been confined to his bed for the past week. Even so, Osten found himself on his usual route to her house, something thrumming quietly in his chest with each step, urging him forward. He couldn’t tell why, but…he listened.

He’d been restless all day, wandering around the village without aim. It took everything in his power to keep himself from running to the main square and simply knocking on the butcher’s door. Only Astra’s stories of his deteriorating health kept him somewhat at ease—her father could not possibly harm her in his current state, not when a mere lift of a finger would cause him immense pain.

Osten tried not to delight in that. He wondered what happened to the man—if, perhaps, the Gods had learned of his cruelty and chosen the illness as punishment.

After all, they could not allow a common human to be more heartless than them.

Still, even with Astra’s reassurance that she was safe, he could not stop himself from coming over every night. She hadn’t come out as often as she used to—not with her father constantly demanding her attention. He could not understand why she did it—but he kept quiet. Waited.

A matter of days, he’d been told.

Hurry up, his mind urged.

Perhaps tonight would bring more optimistic news. He simply couldn’t wait any longer.

He…missed her. Missed the sound of her voice, the sparkle in her eyes, the feel of her skin on his. Maybe that was what his quickening heartbeat had been trying to tell him all day—to touch her, smell her. Taste her.

He was in such deep shit.

Careful not to be spotted by anyone who’d have recognised him as the village thief, he continued on his way forward—but, strangely enough, the village seemed…deserted. Empty. As if all of its residents have decided to go to sleep earlier tonight. Some, Osten even noticed, have barricaded themselves in.

Something was wrong.

His steps picked up, that thrumming in his chest louder and louder, echoing through the tightening space. What was going on? Why wasn’t anyone there?

He turned the corner and froze into place.

The butcher’s shop was engulfed in flames.

No.

No, no, no.

These people, Astra’s voice whispered into his mind, they won’t see me as you do. Once they see me for what I truly am, they will stop at nothing to be rid of me.

His blood stilled in his veins.

The butcher was dead.

I won’t let that happen, his own answer came. As long as I live, I will keep you safe.

His legs started moving again.

“Astra?” Osten called. “Astra!”

She was in the house, struggling to breathe through the smoke—

Oh, Gods, what if she was—

And then, he heard it.

Chanting.

He whipped to his right, to where, at the far end of the street, a dark mass of people gathered, torches in hand.

And in the middle of it all…

“ASTRA!”

His roar echoed through the stone.

He lunged forward, running faster than he’d ever had, because these people, these monsters, they took her, they took her from him—

“Osten!” her voice reached him through the crowd, trembling.

“Move!” he yelled, elbowing someone deep in the gut, pushing through the sea of bodies, “Fucking move right now!”

All the air was suddenly sucked from his lungs, and Osten fell to his knees.

Someone kicked him in the back—in the scars, still half-open and healing.

A loud gasp—Astra’s.

“No one wants you here, trash,” some old man spat at him.

Another kick, pinning his body to the ground.

“Leave her alone,” he managed breathlessly.

The crowd laughed, an ugly, biting sound.

“She is a witch, boy. Too dangerous to be kept alive,” a woman beside him said, torch in hand.

“Do you not see her?” the other man questioned, a smirk on his face. “Filthy—just like you.” He motioned somewhere behind him—somewhere where Astra was kneeling on the stones, held down by the shoulders by two men.

And beside her…

A tall, wooden stake.

A white-hot flash of pain shot up Osten’s spine as he thrashed under his boot. “She is nothing like me.” She was good, and kind, and—

“Perhaps we have you both burned.” He jerked his chin to one of the large men. “Take him.”

“NO!” Astra screamed, desperately trying to yank her body from the men’s grip. “KEEP AWAY FROM HIM!”

He failed. He failed her, and now they were both going to die. “Astra!” he bellowed, still moving, still trying to reach her through the agony, when—

Another boot on his back—and a scream, ripped free from his throat.

Pain, pain and absolute, unrestrained terror filled Astra’s face—as if somehow, she, too, could feel his pain.

And then she began to scream.

The ground shook beneath his body, beneath all of them, people hauling each other away as Astra roared, roared and sobbed, shredding the world to pieces with her pure, unfiltered fury.

And when her voice was nothing but a high pitch on the cold, evening air, it started to rain.

No—not rain.

Blood.

It was everywhere—on him, under him, everywhere in between. The weight on his back vanished, something seeping into the torn fabric of his clothes, thick and hot and wet.

Osten rose to his knees, the world suddenly silent.

He looked around him—to the torches, scattered all over the ground, blood dripping onto their heads to slowly put out the fire. To the woman kneeling in the middle of it all, soaked in red.

“What have you done?” he asked, shock lacing every word.

Pale as death, her entire body shook. “I don’t know,” she said, the words no more than a choked sob. “I…” her gaze fell to her hands. To the blood splattered all over them. “I killed them,” she whispered, the sound no more than a rasp.

He couldn’t move. Couldn’t so much as turn to look at the massacre around them—to the dozens of bodies that, under a mere lift of her finger, had become a red, wet mist. He only stared at her—at the woman before him, still trembling under the weight of what she’d done.

What she’d done to protect them. Protect him.

“I…” Osten began, but didn’t manage to say anything else. Words failed him.

Her violet eyes were lined with silver as she looked at him once more—then closed them. Squeezed them shut as she kept trembling. A shaky breath loosed from her chest—as if she braced herself for whatever he was going to say next. As if she expected him to cringe away. 

As if she thought he was going to leave her.

As if she thought he could ever live without her.

He took her bloodied hands in his, his thumb smearing red as he brushed her skin gently. “We need to go.” Those eyes shot open in surprise. “Now.”

***

Hand in hand, they ran—ran until the village long left their sight, until the smoke no longer swirled around them. The only thing that remained was blood—a reminder never to return again.

Hours must’ve passed since the massacre, but they did not stop until a light came into view. Then, a house—no, an inn.

Thank the Gods.

A few loose gold marks, pulled deep from within Astra’s skirts, paid for a night in one of the rooms. The innkeeper averted her eyes as she handed them the key—no doubt eyeing the red staining their clothes, stumbling back at their tangy smell.

It did not matter. They were safe.

Astra disappeared in the small space behind one of the walls the moment they stepped into the room. She only mumbled something about “a bath,” her hands still trembling slightly under the coat of blood.

He wondered if she’d noticed the lone bed in the middle, if she, too, heard the countless pillows and blankets call out her name.

No matter how loudly they called, he was planning to take the floor. She needed the bed more than he did—especially after everything that had gone on tonight. He was used to the questionable comfort of the ground, anyway.

And so, when he’d emerged from the bathroom minutes after it had been freed by Astra, his hair still dripping warm water, he marched straight for the space at the foot of the bed.

“What…are you doing?” Astra’s voice reached him, confused.

He turned to her, frowning. “I…do you need me?” Did she need help? He couldn’t imagine with what, but—

“What? No,” Astra chuckled lightly. “Were really planning to sleep on the floor?”

“I…” Osten look to the ground again, to where he’d already laid a single blanket. “Yes?”

She chuckled again, as if she couldn’t help herself, the sound like a birdsong carried by the summer wind. “Just…come here, Osten.”

Words fell dry in his throat as he approached the bed. As, slowly, he slid under the duvet, inches from her side.

Astra sighed deeply. “It’s warm.”

Osten swallowed hard. “Astra.” Her eyes shot open. “Are you…alright?”

Her teeth dug into her bottom lip. “I…don’t know.” Her face was grave again, and for a moment, he wish he could hear that soft laugh from her again. “There is so much to do, Osten,” she said quietly.

“I’ll follow you anywhere,” he told her, his voice tight.

Her eyes glittered in the darkness. “You don’t have to. The task I was given—the one I’d told you about—it’s dangerous. I—I don’t know how, but…” she shook her head, the drying strands of hair shifting with the movement. “You don’t have to,” she repeated.

“I want to,” Osten whispered.

At that, Astra said nothing. She only stared—her eyes burning, glowing as bright as his soul as he swore to remain by her side.

“What is the task?” he asked her, breaking the silence.

“Do you remember when I told you of the others?” Osten nodded, but she said anyway, “The Fae across the Great Sea. They were banished—banished by the Death Gods who wished to roam these lands themselves. This place…” she sighed, as if she shared the weight of those Fae’s pain, “It used to be their home.”

Osten blinked. “You wish to bring them back—bring them home.”

“Yes.”

“And you’ll—” his head spun. “You’ll challenge the Gods for this?”

Astra’s eyes fluttered shut. “I’d rather not think about that right now. But…” Another sigh. “I was given this power for a reason, Osten. I can’t simply let it go to waste.”

He wasn’t sure what to say—what was there to be said? Astra was powerful, powerful enough to face the same Gods humans like him had been praying to since the beginning of time, and Osten…

Osten was unable to stop her. Could only follow her and keep on praying. To whom, he was no longer sure.

Perhaps he’d pray to her, he thought as he looked upon her face again. He’d never believed in anything more.

And so, underneath the heavy duvet, Osten reached for her hand.

He felt it, then—the warmth of her skin as his fingers brushed it. Astra shifted—shifted closer, encouraging, and he realised—realised it wasn’t her hand that he found, but her thigh, bare under the nightgown they’d found in the ancient wardrobe of the room.

Fuck, she was so beautiful.

If it wasn’t the Gods that held her in their graces, she had to have been blessed by stars themselves. The silky veil of her hair spilled onto her pillow, shielding her face from view, but he knew—knew just how devastating she was. Knew the way her eyes twinkled from beneath long, dark lashes as she looked at him; the way they saw him, saw all of him, and lit up at the sight. That’s what she was—light, as if every inch of her had been crafted from the stars themselves.

He tucked the thought deep into his soul, let it shine there quietly as his knuckles continued to trace the golden-brown skin of her thigh. Slowly, he savoured the feel of her softness, her quickening breaths like a melody calling out to him, urging him to move, move, move.

She wanted this—wanted him, even when he had nothing, was nothing. She could’ve told him to spend the night on the floor at her feet, and he would’ve obliged her happily. She could’ve chosen the comfort of the blankets on her side of the bed, and yet it was his body she’d turned to for warmth. His heart nearly stumbled in answer.

His name was a strain on her lips as his fingers reached the apex of her thighs, and everything inside of him tightened. His own aching body pressed in closer, and he let his lips fall to her neck—to nuzzle it gently, to worship the heartbeat thumping underneath. The pulse that assured him this was real, that they’d made it out alive.

Her body shivered against him, as if her thoughts mirrored his own.

“Osten,” she whispered his name again as his thumb circled that spot that made her breath falter. The same spot that now coated his fingers with a slick warmth, guiding him lower, deeper—

His lips closed on her neck again, right beneath her ear, and Astra shuddered.

“Osten,” she said again. “I need you.”

He hummed against her, relishing in the scent of her, like jasmine and a summer breeze, his thumb circling that spot closer, brushing up against it—

Two of his fingers slid into that wetness the moment he asked, “And how do you need me, Astra?”

Her low moan reverberated through his chest as she buried her face in him. “All of you,” she begged. “Give me all of you.”

“I’m yours,” Osten promised. “Every last shred of what I am belongs to you.”

Astra loosed a shuddering breath and wrapped her arms around him. “You’re mine.”

And with that, she pulled his body on top of her own.

Osten swore at the sudden movement, at the strength behind it, but then Astra reached for the lace of his trousers, slender fingers tangling into the thread—and all thoughts vanished from his head.

And when he finally sprang free, when all of him was laid bare to her, when she wrapped her hand around the velvety base—

“You’re mine,” Astra repeated, voice straining, guiding him closer.

Osten could not breathe as he felt it—felt her very core, felt its heat welcome him in.

“You’re mine.”

His groan was a swallowed sound as he crashed his lips into hers.

He rocked into her slowly at first, a gentle, teasing pace that let her adjust to his fullness as he kissed her—kissed her the same way he’d dreamt of all this time, savouring every inch, every bit of warmth she offered.

Astra panted, breaking away only for a moment as she held him tightly, urging him closer, deeper before her mouth found his again in an endless need to taste, taste, taste.

He understood that need all too well.

Her nails dug into his shoulders as he sunk his length into her, brushing against a spot that made her tighten so deliciously around him that he couldn’t help but groan her name again.

“Astra.” His hand tightened on her hip as he pulled out, then thrust back in, completely and utterly breathless. “My beautiful Astra.”

She moved her hips, her hands on his neck now, pulling his face to hers again—as if she wanted to share her every breath with his.

“Yours,” her promise echoed his own. “I’m yours.”

Starlight erupted around them as he drove home for the final time. Bright, iridescent—glowing, from her, from him, from the joining of their souls as they found their pleasure together. This—she was everything he’d ever wanted, the warmth he’d been holding out for in a raging cold, the hope he’d been searching for in a life that seemed forever lost to it.

Astra.

They rested like this, tangled together, her body wrapped up in his arms, his face held in her loving hands.

When he pulled away to admire her kiss-bitten lips, Astra said,  “I wish we could stay like this. Forever.”

He placed a kiss to her brow. “One day, we will.”

“There are dangerous days ahead of us.”

“I will keep you safe.” Another kiss. “I’ll fight death itself to keep it away from you.”

“From both of us,” Astra amended.

“From both of us,” he agreed.

***

Osten.

Osten, the voice urged again. Wake up.

His body shifted to the side.

Osten!

He jolted awake, blinded by the sudden light.

Astra’s face stared back at him, her eyes wide as she pressed a finger to his lips. Do not make a sound, she warned, something trembling in that silent voice. They’re here.

Who? he whispered into nothingness, hoping that somehow, she could hear him.

Something glimmered in that darkness—deep within his mind. A light—soft yet bright, shining a silver so warm it was almost gold. It reminded him of the starlight Astra had once shown him.

When Astra spoke again, it was through that light, her voice steady, grounding him in the chaos of this world. The village hunters. They’re here—and they came for us.

So quickly—they’d found them so quickly—

His stomach turned.

We need to go, Astra urged.

Okay, Osten blinked, forcing the remnants of his sleep away. Okay.

There’s a window in the bathroom facing out back, she told him hurriedly, We jump, and we run for the forest ahead.

Osten nodded.

Let’s go.

He was on his feet in an instant, running for the room hidden behind their bed—Gods, their bed.

What they did last night…

Focus, Astra’s stern tone crept into his mind again—but there was a softness to it, a flush—one that made his own face burn.

Not now.

Astra jumped first, the ground beneath low enough to steady her fall. Osten followed quickly, knees buckling as he landed, and his cheeks heated again—somehow, Astra had managed to do this with a lot more grace.

He heard their bedroom door burst open the second they lunged for the forest.

“Quickly," Astra panted, “Don’t stop.”

Don’t stop, he heard her again, her voice huskier this time—a memory simmering to life again. Don’t stop, don’t stop, don’t stop—

He shook his head and kept on running.

They didn’t stop until the woods deepened—until there was nothing but the barren trees ahead, lone bushes standing their ground here and there amidst the cold weather. Until a wooden hut came into sight—hidden atop a small clearing.

“It’s not safe—” he started, but Astra had already made her way towards the door.

It was hopeless—in his experience, people had rarely been inclined to reach out a hand, no matter how desperate he’d been. But Astra…the hope never died with her.

Her knock was soft on the door.

A moment later, it opened with a soft creak, and a wrinkled face emerged. “Yes?”

“I…” Astra swallowed hard. “I…”

It hit him, then. How isolated she had been. Her entire life—sheltered from everyone but the man who Osten was willing to bet had hardly spoken to her at all—and, when he did, he had little kindness to offer.

He was by her side in a heartbeat, his hand steady on her shoulder.

Osten smiled to the lady. “My wife and I are simple travellers. We beg for your sanctuary in this difficult conditions.”

The woman was old, possibly older than the Elder himself, but her eyes were still sharp as ever as she took them in. “Travellers?” she questioned. “Or outlaws?”

His kind expression did not waver for so much as a breath. “We come from the West in search of a better life.” Everyone knew the lands bordering the Great Sea were less than hospitable. So many deaths there, disappearances—cursed by the Gods, the village folk had always used to say. “Please,” Osten said again. “My wife is pregnant.”

Beside him, Astra stilled.

He could only pray her face betrayed nothing as the woman assessed her—dropped down to her belly, narrowing slightly.

Finally, she looked to him again, and Osten did not realise he’d been holding his breath. “Come in,” she told them.

“Thank you,” Astra breathed. “Thank you.”

The woman nodded.

Only when they laid beside each other a few hours later, huddled on a small bed in the darkness of the night, did Astra dare to whisper, “I felt bad lying to her.”

Underneath the thin covers, Osten brushed his fingers over her waist. “I’d lie to the Gods themselves to keep you safe,” he said. “Besides, it…it doesn’t have to be a lie.”

Astra fell silent.

He opened his mouth, ready to take it back, to apologise—

But then, Astra asked, “It doesn’t?”

He swallowed. “If you don’t want it to be.”

“What about you, Osten?” she pressed. “What do you want?”

She could’ve asked him if the sun was hot, or the grass green, or the night sky the same shade as her eyes. The answer was that simple.

“You,” he rasped. “I want you.”

Astra shifted closer, the heat of their bodies united once more.

“Then take me,” she told him. “Take all of me.”

***

When he woke up, Astra was gone.

His breath came hard and fast, dread curling in his stomach as all his fears crashed into him one by one.

They found us.

They took her.

They’d burn her.

And you could not protect her.

He shot to his feet and lunged out of the room, everything inside him bellowing to find her, find her, find her—

A clank of metal somewhere to his right. The kitchen.

He was there in an instant, gripping the wooden beam rising from the low ceiling, his hand white as death.

“My wife,” he panted. “Where is she?”

The old lady whipped back, a wrinkled palm to her chest. “Gods!”

“Where is she?” he repeated. If she’d let them take her—

“Take a deep breath, boy. She’s in the forest—picking up berries for breakfast.” A scolding glare of those ancient eyes. “I was planning to go myself, but she insisted on helping.”

Of course she had.

He’d merely grunted a response before running out.

What was she thinking? Even now, in broad daylight, there wasn’t a single place in the world where they could be safe, not with all the Gods against them, not with the village men on the hunt and—and the Fae she had to unite—

His head hurt. But he kept on running.

What if they’d already gotten to her? What if, by some miserable chance, a lone hunter stumbled upon her wandering the woods—saw her arched ears and assumed what everyone else had? A monster, a witch. A prey to hunt, to rid the world of.

He was going to kill every last one of them.

“Osten?”

He turned to the sound—

There she was. Safe.

He took her in his arms before she managed to say another word. “You’re okay,” he breathed. “You’re okay.”

Her hands slid around his neck carefully. “Of course I am.” There was a hint of question to her voice—as if she couldn’t understand the frantic look in his eyes, the panic in his face.

“I was so worried,” he told her, then leaned back an inch to meet her gaze. “What were you thinking?”

“I didn’t go that far,” she protested. “The cottage is only a few minutes away—”

“There are people hunting us, Astra.” He loosed a breath. “We need to be more careful,” he added, his eyes searching. A shadow passed through her face—there and gone, but enough for his heart to ache. “I’m sorry,” Osten said, his voice more gentle now as he reached for her palm. “I wish things were easier.”

Astra sighed. “Me, too.” She squeezed his hand. “Let’s go.”

“When we reach the North,” he began as they made their way back through the woods, “What will you do?”

She chewed on her lip. “The Mother guides me. She’ll reveal the face of my enemy once I’m there.”

“How can it be your enemy?” He couldn’t understand. “You don’t even know them”

“The Mother says they are the reason my kind is not welcome in these lands,” she explained. “If I use my powers to banish them, they’ll be able to come back.”

“If she’s so powerful, why can’t she do it herself?” he snapped, then bit his tongue. He didn’t mean for his words to come out so harsh.

But Astra only smiled as she lifted her gaze to his. “Perhaps she knows life is a lot easier when you have someone by your side.”

And Osten found himself smiling back.

“I’ll do what I can, you know,” he told her. “To help.”

Astra only shook her head. “You left your home for me, Osten. You have no idea what it means to me.”

He stopped in his tracks, and she turned back, confusion written on her features. So he took her hand in his and said, “I’d leave that place a thousand times over. You are my true home, Astra.”

Her eyes gleamed, and she opened her mouth—

But then, her smile faltered.

He’d seen that look before—yesterday morning, at the inn.

“What?” he asked, panic building in his chest all over again. “What is it?”

Astra swallowed hard. “Death.”

They both did not stop running until the cottage came into sight, so awfully quiet that even the wind had ceased to sing.

“Stay behind me,” he instructed as they walked in.

The kitchen was painted in blood. And their host, the old, innocent woman…

Her body draped over the floor.

Astra vomited.

They would never be safe.

***

Right now, Osten knew two things.

One, by some miracle, the hunters set after them had not been smart enough to return to the bloodied cottage again. Not yet, anyway.

Two, Astra was very, very sick.

He watched her from the corner of the kitchen—somewhat clean now, after two weeks of endless scrubbing—watched as her shoulders ceased to heave, as she eased from the hollow in the wooden seat of the latrine. At first, he’d thought it was the sight of the kind, elderly woman, lifeless and bloodied in her own home, that rattled Astra to the point of cold sweat coating her face as she emptied her stomach, over and over again.

After a week, he wasn’t so sure anymore.

And now that another week had passed…

Osten was getting worried. Scared.

It was by pure luck that no one had lurked into the cottage over the time they stayed there— it seemed that there had been no one in the old lady’s life that cared enough to stop by and check in on her. Even in life, she was simply…forgotten.

Just as he would’ve been if it weren’t for Astra.

She blew out a breath, slowly rising to her feet.

“Let me bring you some water,” he offered softly, even as his chest clenched at the sight of her, pale and weak and so…resigned. She, too, could not understand what was happening to her.

Astra waved a hand, waddling to the kitchen, any air of strength, of light, gone from her face. “It’s alright. I can…”

“Astra,” he pleaded. “Please, just sit.” He motioned to the wobbly chair beside the counter.

She did—grimaced as her body adjusted to the new position.

Osten handed her the cup. “Do you think you can try to eat something?” She had not eaten in two days. “I made breakfast.”

She pressed her lips together, dry and flaky, their usual rosy glow nowhere to be seen. “No,” she said, her voice hoarse. “I feel like breakfast would only make things worse.”

Something lit up in his head.

“What is it?” Astra asked, noting his stillness.

Osten angled his head. “What if it was the berries?”

Astra scrunched her nose. “You ate them, too,” she pointed out. “And you’re perfectly healthy.”

He chewed on the inside of his cheek, considering. “Maybe…maybe they have a different effect on the Fae?”

She shook her head. “No, I—it wouldn’t make sense. I recognised them, and I’m almost certain I’ve had them before—years ago, back home.” She sighed. “I don’t ever recall feeling like this after eating anything. And besides, the last time I had those berries was two weeks ago, the day after we—”

She paused.

Osten’s brows rose. “What?”

Astra’s nostrils flared. Then again—as if she couldn’t believe what she’d scented. “Impossible,” she breathed.

“What?” Osten repeated. “What is?”

Shakily, she rose from her seat, a slender palm cradling her stomach.

“Astra.”

Her throat bobbed. “I think…” she looked to meet his gaze. “Osten, I think I am with child.”

There was only silence in his head.

“Osten.”

Could it be?

A child.

A family.

“What are we going to do?” Astra whispered, her eyes still searching his.

For the first time in a raging winter, Osten felt warm.

He took her hand and smiled through his tears. “Live.”

***

Astra’s rhythmic breathing filled the silence as she slept.

Pregnant.

There was a child—his child—growing in her belly, inches away from him. He could only stare in disbelief—disbelief that, despite everything he was, everything he’d done…someone deemed him worthy of this. Of happiness.

He would hold onto it for as long as he lived. Would not let anyone stand in his way.

But even now, his unborn child was in danger. Had not yet even entered this world, and there were already people threatening it.

Osten gritted his teeth, the sound sharp in the darkness.

His family would not live the way he had his entire life. Would not be tossed aside, belittled, despised. Hunted.

Never again.

Osten made the decision then.

Gently, he laid a hand on Astra’s belly. Pressed his lips to her temple.

And then, he went out into the night.

***

The moon still hung over the sky when he approached the forest’s edge. Its pale light had guided him smoothly through the trees, through the melting snow—the first sign of winter handing their lands over to spring at last. Soon, the cold would subside, and with it, the uncertainty that accompanied him every frigid night. He didn’t dare tell Astra—especially not now, with the babe on its way into the world—that there had been times he feared his arms would not be enough to keep her warm.

They’d decided to begin their journey up north soon—to begin whatever Astra’s Mother had instructed her to do. He worried about that, too, and more than he dared to admit out loud. Worried about how easily his beloved had taken to trust the same woman who’d abandoned her the moment she was born. Astra had accepted her destiny without so much as questioning it, and it…irked him that he had no say in the matter. He wasn’t like Astra, or her mysterious Mother. He was only…human.

How could he ever protect her from the rough, dangerous north? How could he protect their child? Osten had no power.

The only thing he did have was the frozen rage in his chest, begging to be unleashed upon the world. And the knife, gripped firmly in his hand.

This was the only way.

He’d attack them from the shadows—take them by surprise, the same way Astra had done so many times as she waited for him to arrive at her house. Some of them were strong men, but inexperienced—their sheer weight and size half no advantage over his stealth, acquired after all those months in the forest. He could take them. He could kill them.

And finally, his family would be safe.

He could see them gathering at the main square, torches in hand—no doubt readying for another hunt. A hunt for their witch.

He would die before he let them get to her.

***

The boot on his neck was heavy, its rough heel digging into the hollow of his throat.

An ambush, an ambush, an ambush. The thought thrummed in his head along with his blood. They’d known he would come back, had remembered his stubbornness from the forest, and they’d prepared accordingly.

Osten never stood a chance.

Blood gushed in his mouth, though he could hardly feel it anymore—his jaw had been shattered in so many places he wasn’t entirely sure how it still clung to the rest of his face. Another kick to his scarred back—someone cried out in agony. Perhaps it was him.

“Where’s your whore, thief,” someone seethed.

A twisted bone—his leg?

He thought he screamed again.

“Filth,” another spat.

Something hot and wet spilled down his face. Blood, tears, both. He wasn’t sure anymore.

Please, his mind cried out to nothingness. Please, help me save her.

The boot forced his face deeper into the cobblestone, and a loud crack snapped in his ears. Then, more blood—this time, flooding his lips, into his mouth. His nose had given in at last.

Please, he begged again. Give me power. Give me strength.

A flash of fire in his face. Torches lowered down to his ragged clothes.

Let me kill them. One last desperate plea. I’ll do anything.

And then, everything went dark.

“Anything?”

A voice, as ancient as it was young, as smooth as it was hoarse. Powerful, thrumming with something he’d only ever felt from one being before.

Magic.

“Yes,” he rasped.

It narrowed its eyes at him, assessing.

“Will you sacrifice everything that you are for the power we offer you?”

His heart stopped beating.

“Would that power be able to save her?”

Silence. And then, “It would.”

“Then yes.”

A feline smile in the darkness.

“Let us begin.”

***

When he opened his eyes, he was someone else. He was a breath floating with the wind. He was a shadow fading into darkness. He was the smoke rising from the dying fire, the blood flowing through the cracks in the stone. But, above all, he was the urge to kill.

So kill he did.

Every scream of anguish, every drop of blood spilled by his power crafted him—built him up piece by piece, until he was satiated enough to see, to feel, to speak.

He rose from the pool of bodies, torn apart and scattered like the sky ripped by a raging storm. Only then did he see two figures emerge from the darkness.

“Brother,” the female greeted, her voice low and smooth and the ugliest thing he’d ever heard. “You have done well.”

He blinked. Looked down to his hands—to the blood sure to be staining them—and found nothing.

Nothing.

Not a limb, not a shred of skin, not a gleaming bit of bone. He closed his fist—he could feel it, feel the nails digging into flesh, but—

Who was he?

What was he?

Why…why did he not remember?

“There is nothing to remember,” the male said, his dark eyes flashing. “You live in the present. Nothing else matters.”

He’d…heard him. His thoughts…?

The female nodded. “Nothing else shall ever matter.”

He could feel blood dripping from his mouth as he asked, “What is my name?” His voice wasn’t the same as theirs. There was no depth, no pitch to it, no melody. Only a breath.

The male sighed deeply, and looked to the female, who shook her head.

His…sister?

“You don’t have a name,” she only told him. “Come. There is much to do.”

He couldn’t understand why his chest ached—why it felt deprived of something too important to have forgotten. Something warm, and bright, gleaming a soft, golden light deep where his soul should’ve been. His only memory—or, perhaps, just a dream.

And so, he followed his family into the darkness.

***

ONE HUNDRED YEARS LATER

His siblings were gone, thank the Cauldron. Captured. Trapped, the earth croaked beneath his feet.

Dead? he asked it.

Not dead, it answered. Never really dead. It was wishful thinking, anyway.

Stryga, he heard, had been bound to this island. Somewhere deep in the woods, banished from her fortress forever. Or, at the very least, for as long as the Fae remained in this world, their magic alive and powerful enough to keep his sister from escaping. His brother, another captive. That made him smile a little bit. From the two of his siblings, Koschei had never been his favourite.

A strong, strong magic now held him beneath a lake across the Great Sea. Impressive. Koschei had always been the strongest of them all. Still, there was no doubt left in his mind that his brother’s confinement would only incite his revenge, and he would nurture it under the surface for as long as necessary—and, when the time was right and the Warrior was gone, he would strike.

Even shackled, his siblings were dangerous. More dangerous than when they roamed these lands freely, perhaps. He could feel their magic simmering beneath the earth, hot and angry and threatening to burn the world when it finally spilled.

He would not be there when it finally happened. He needed to be somewhere safe.

Fortunately, salvation was closing in on him, on the cave he’d opted to wait in. For some strange reason, the darkness buried within brought him comfort—settled something restless inside of him. When the Warrior arrived, he’d finally know true peace.

He heard it then—heard the world folding in on itself, like two ends of a sheet of parchment being brought together. Then, it opened again, revealing a cloud of shadows made restless by a dark wind.

It was nothing like the darkness that welcomed him that day, threatening and all-consuming. This darkness flowed, like it belonged anywhere its owner went, a veil of serenity, a shield from the scorching sun.

When she emerged, that darkness trailed behind her. Even the earth, tormented by his siblings’ ire, seemed to sag with relief where the shadows caressed it.

How strange, that magic. How different.

His siblings had warned him—had told him of the power the Warrior’s master held, traitorous and unnerving. He’d have to keep his guard up.

She stopped close enough to the cave’s hollow opening for him to make out the midnight blue of her eyes, so deep that, as the shadows curled over her shoulder, they shone a brilliant violet.

“Are you going to make this difficult?” she asked, her voice quiet yet clear.

He chuckled, the sound echoing off the stone. “Oh, I wouldn’t dare.”

Her hear cocked to the sight, dark hair shifting with the movement. “Are you…afraid?”

“I’d be a fool not to be afraid of you.” He hummed, soaking in the magic that seemed to sing from deep within her soul. “You are her proudest creation, after all.”

That was what Koschei had claimed, at least. And, when it came to the Fae, still so young and learning, he was smart enough to take him for his word.

“You are talking about the Mother,” the Warrior said, something puzzled in her tone.

He hummed again. “That is what she calls herself, yes.” Stryga had always thought it laughable. “A powerful Death God. The most powerful of us all, perhaps.”

She sucked in a breath. He smiled. So Koschei was right—she didn’t know.

“My Mother is not a Death God,” she seethed, those violet eyes flaring bright. 

He sighed theatrically. “Of course she is. Just because she never told you doesn’t make it any less of a truth.” He angled his head. “I have no reason to lie to you.”

The Warrior gritted her teeth. “They warned me about you.”

He stroked the wall of rock beside him, rough against invisible flesh. “I’m glad I lived up to expectations.”

She straightened, as though composing herself—perhaps she’d at last remembered what she’d come for and realised he enjoyed wasting her time far too much. “I thought you weren’t going to make this difficult.”

“And I told you, I have no intention to resist.” A beat of silence. Then, he added, “You have done well, trapping my siblings. Binding their magic.” Perhaps she’d failed to kill them in the end, but…containing beings like Stryga and Koschei was no easy task. Impossible, he’d once thought, though what a delight it had been to be proven wrong. There were no others like her. Other Fae—the ones that came before her, the ones the Mother created after her—were merely a kernel of what this female was. Of the potential she held. “You are quite powerful indeed.”

But his words seemed to flow past her unacknowledged, because her brows furrowed as she asked, “Your siblings?”

He nodded. “Unfortunately.”

“Where…” He waited. Waited as she tried to piece the meaning of his words together. “Where did you all come from?”

Another world, his siblings had told him that day. Now no more than dust drifting across a plain. But, the being that unleashed them all upon it…

His lip curled—and she couldn’t see it, not when he still hid in the depths of the cave, but—

“No,” she whispered.

His smile grew wider. “Oh, yes.”

Still—her body was so still.

“She never told me,” so small, so quiet, the Warrior nowhere in sight.

He shrugged. “What parents like to talk of children they consider a failure? You’ve met my siblings. I’m sure you can understand.” They hated her—the Mother. Despised them with all their might—so he despised her, too. The Mother he could not remember.

“Step outside,” she ordered, the words still trembling on her breath. “I wish to speak with you, face to face.”

He couldn’t help but laugh. “Believe me, I’m staying hidden for your benefit, warrior-heart.”

“Do not make me repeat myself.”

So he said, “As you wish.”

When he stepped into the sunlight, into her sight, his phantom body tingled—tingled as he became someone else.

His eyes locked on hers.

And the Warrior feared by the Gods staggered back—away from him.

Darkness flickered around her, wrapped itself around her legs, her arms, as if holding her in place. Her entire body trembled—actually trembled as she took him in, her eyes wide with shock—shock and something else.

Grief.

He couldn’t help but ask. “What do you see?”

But she only stared and stared, silver threatening to spill from her gleaming eyes.

“What are you?” she managed to ask, the question weighted with pain.

“A reflection,” he answered. “Your deepest fears, hopes, desires. People see many things when they look at me. But, I must admit, I have never received a reaction as strong as yours.”

And he was curious—curious to learn why.

She shook her head, and he thought she might finish it then—unleash her power and be done with it. With him. But then…

“I was going to have a child,” she said quietly, and he froze. “Once. You…you look like what I imagined he would one day. He…” Her gaze broke from his, fell to the ground along with two, lone tears. “He has his eyes.”

He wasn’t breathing—perhaps he never had at all. “His father?”

She had a family—no one ever told him, no one had ever said that the Goddess’s monster had once been so…human.

“He died.” The world slowed. Even the shadows around her stilled. “Died to protect us both.” Her lip wobbled—she made no attempt to hide it. “I may be powerful,” she said, lifting her eyes back to his, dark lashes heavy and wet. “But I’d give it all away to get them back.” She did not blink the tears away as she told him, “All of it.”

For the first time in his immortal life, he had no idea what to do. Words were foreign—not nearly enough to express the sorrow that crashed into him with her confession. He’d never been immune to feeling—but this…was this one of her abilities? Making him share this pain with her?

No—he caused this. What she saw in him—the life she could’ve had…bearing some of her grief was the least he could do.

“I’m afraid even I don’t hold such power,” he said softly. “Forgive me.”

Her throat bobbed. “You’re…apologising?”

He nodded. “There is great sadness about you. I’m sorry to have caused that.”

She looked—truly looked at him, trying to see past the face, the eyes her soul urged to show her. Searching for his own soul beneath.

He’d never regretted giving it up more.

“Don’t be,” she finally said. “What happened is not your fault.”

He could not explain it. Could not understand why, after learning of all that she had lost, his chest tightened with guilt.

So when she asked, “Will you come with me now?”

He could only answer, “Yes.”

***

The earth whispered of her arrival, but he’d already known—had felt her the moment her choice was made.

Now, he waited, listening to her steps, light over the ancient stone as she entered the Prison. She’d been debating it for a long time—had resisted seeing him again for almost a decade, much longer than he’d expected. The look upon her face when they first met had told him enough.

She was stronger than he thought, it seemed.

Still, even the strongest of the Fae had fallen to curiosity. To questions.

And he was ready to answer them all as the door to his cell swung open.

Veiled in shadows, he offered her a deep bow—even if she couldn’t see it. See him. “My Queen.”

He could see her well, though—well enough to see a glimmer of confusion light up her face. “I am not a Queen yet.” She angled her head. “You’ve been…expecting me?”

He waved a dismissive hand. “It isn’t marriage that decides such things. Your betrothed might be a Prince in title, but he stands to gain a lot more from this union than you do.” He bit out a laugh. “Congratulations, of course.”

“I didn’t come here to ask your advice,” she said. A lie so obvious he couldn’t help but smile in the darkness.

“Forgive me,” he purred. “I so rarely get company these days. Which brings me to my question,” he added. “Why are you here?”

He wanted to hear her say it, for some strange reason. I wanted to see you. Talk to you. Understand you.

“Are you comfortable here?” she asked.

He couldn’t help but laugh. He wondered what his voice sounded like to her. To him, it was all but a whisper carried by the wind. “Such a gracious host, my lady.”

“Only the best for my most obedient prisoners.”

Oh, she was delightful.

“Prisoners,” he mused. “You say that as if my being here was involuntary.”

Those violet eyes simply watched him, two stars pondering over his fate. “Are you hungry?” she finally asked.

That, he did not expect.

“Hungry?”

She nodded. “I… brought you something.”

Something landed at his feet with a quiet thud.

He scrunched his nose. “Bones?”

Her mouth tightened. “They’re from back home. Not the Palace, but—where I came from.” She loosed a breath, heavy on the stench of raw meat that now filled his cell. “Seeing you last time, it…brought back memories I’ve been too afraid to revisit.”

Slowly, he reached to pick up the bone closest to him. “They hold value to you, then.” Not entirely a question.

Another shaky breath. “Yes.”

That mighty, Fae warrior…gone. A shell of a female stood before him now, her gaze pleading. So he told her gently, “You have my thanks.”

Ask me. Ask me what you came here to ask, and I’ll tell you anything you want to know.

“Why are you hiding in the shadows?”

She wasn’t ready, then. He forced a smile. “Tell me a secret no one knows, Majesty, and perhaps I’ll tell you mine.”

She blinked. Then blinked again.

He thought she might leave in that moment. Turn around and vanish without a final goodbye.

But then, she said, her voice barely above a whisper,  “I don’t want to marry him. I can’t…” She swallowed hard. “My purpose is complete. I wish for nothing but to fade into the night sky—to be reunited with the ones I lost, the ones waiting for me in the stars.” She looked up—as if she could see their faint glimmer through the miles of stone above. “I know this…marriage…is meant to bring hope to my kind. To give them a world they’ve never had. But I can’t help but feel…” Her lips wobbled, and she pressed them together. “I can’t help but feel that I’m betraying him. That, if I go through with this, it will…It will be as if he was never really there.”

The hollow quiet returned.

“Your heart breaks for the dead, Your Majesty, when it should be healing for the living,” he said softly. “Those who have become stars now shine their light upon you. I…don’t imagine your beloved would want to watch you waste it.”

He found her eyes on him again. Shining.

He said nothing more.

“A secret for a secret,” she told him, breaking the silence again.

So clever, his instincts wanted to purr. But something else—perhaps the heart he used to have—spoke out instead. “I am hiding in the shadows because the sight of me brings you pain. I don’t wish to bring any more of it into your life.”

Her body froze into stillness. She watched him and watched, her pretty face contorted in something he couldn’t understand. And then, she said, “Come into the light.”

So he did.

“The son I see when I look at you,” she finally started, her voice strained. “How do you know what he would have looked like?”

There it was.

“I don’t,” he said quietly, the emptiness in his chest like an echoing cave. “I see nothing. Am nothing.”

Her next breath died on her lips.

“I’m sorry this isn’t the answer you were hoping for,” he apologised.

But her face was softer than he’d ever seen it as she told him, “I’m sorry, too.” She took a half-step towards him. “I…”

She shook her head.

“You can ask me,” he said. “Anything you want. Your Majesty,” he quickly added.

Her throat bobbed slightly. “I won’t see you again, will I?”

He smiled sadly. “I’m afraid you’ll have too much to deal with to think of me again.”

“I won’t ever forget you,” she vowed.

How he wished it was true.

***

“No escort this time?”

Her eyes levelled on him, practically dripping with disdain. He bounced off the wall, moving to return her gaze, the mouth of her firstborn curving into a smirk—

He stilled.

For in those blue-grey eyes, he saw something else. A female who had seen her soul and faced all the darkness buried within. A female changed.

“You retrieved it,” he whispered.

But it was impossible—impossible, and yet…

And yet, the Ouroboros appeared, still encrusted by the frost of Hewn City’s deepest, most wicked labyrinths.

“How.”

She must’ve tricked it. His sister’s mighty, ancient magic—

“I looked.” Words were dry on her tongue, worn out by endless screaming. Endless pain.

She spoke the truth.

He shot to his feet. “What did you see?” he demanded.

A shadow of a smile—as if she could sense the desperation in his tone. He almost hissed in reprimand at his fervour. “That,” she started, “is none of your concern.”

The Bone Carver had no heart, and he’d never been more grateful—if he did, the High Lady of the Night Court would’ve been sure to hear its nervous thrumming, to scent the heat it blasted into his withered veins.

He could all but stare as she pointed to the door of his cell. “You have your mirror. Now uphold your end,” she ordered, then added, voice cold with authority, “Battle awaits.”

Indeed.

And after the battle…salvation.

“It would be my pleasure,” he told her with a smile.

Her brows knitted, confusion creasing her face—had she somehow read the words his mind had whispered? Cursed daemati—

“What do you mean?” she asked.

So he smiled again, another mask to fool the young female. “I have little need for that thing,” he lied, gesturing to the artefact. “But you did.”

She only blinked.

“I wanted to see if you were worth helping,” A half-lie, perhaps. He’d known it without the Ouroboros—the wind had whispered it to him the moment she was reborn, deep under that wretched mountain. “It is rare—to face who you truly are and not run from it, to be broken by it. That’s what the Ouroboros shows all who look into it: who they are, every despicable and unholy inch.” Truth. He’d spent centuries studying the mirror, the curse his twin had placed upon it. Had devoted himself to finding it the second he learned she’d lost it, confined to a strip of land far away from her fortress. And now…

Now it was finally here, in his cell. Waiting.

He continued, “Some gaze upon it and don’t even realise that the horror they’re seeing is them—even as the terror of it drives them mad.” She blinked again. “Some swagger in and are shattered by the small, sorry creature they find instead. But you…” he met her gaze again. “Yes, rare indeed. I could risk leaving here for nothing less.”

It was a delight to see the flash of rage on her freckled face. “You wanted to see if I was worthy?” she seethed.

He nodded. “I did. And you are. And now I shall help you.” She didn’t need to know he would’ve helped her nonetheless.

So Feyre Archeron said, her voice quiet as death, “You will wait for my signal.”

The Bone Carver smiled. “That is our bargain.”

The High Lady did not so much as grace him with a look as she vanished into the shadows, leaving him alone with the Ouroboros.

Leaving him alone with the truth.

Slowly, he turned to the mirror, its awful magic calling out to him like a pet to its master. Like it had been waiting for him.

Good. He’d been waiting for it his entire life.

The Bone Carver. A being of no name, no form, no soul. For as long as he could remember, ever since the day he’d woken up to flames dancing in the darkness, mocking.

No longer.

He knew he was despicable, he knew that deep down, the small, sorry creature he’d told the High Lady about was likely to appear in his own reflection, too. But it would be a reflection of him, not the dreams, fears or desires of those he encountered. Only him.

At last.

The Bone Carver looked into the mirror.

And Osten fell to his knees.

A thin hand—his hand—wrapped around his throat, his knuckles white and bruised. Bruised from the fight—from the jaws of the village men he’d hit as they pushed him to the ground, as they beat him until blood splattered from his ears, his mouth, his nose.

Two tears slid down his cheeks.

I can’t help but feel that I’m betraying him, a voice, soft and gentle and so full of pain, whispered into his mind. A familiar voice—more than, in his immortal life, he ever imagined. That, if I go through with this, it will…it will be as if he was never really there.

The black eyes staring back at him were desolate.

“Astra,” he choked out. “Astra.”

But Astra was gone—had been gone for a very, very long time. Had become one with the night sky, hoping to be greeted by him among the stars, only to be met by endless darkness.

“Astra,” Osten cried. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

His body, the same body he died in all those centuries ago, shook with a sob.

I wish we could stay like this. Forever.

One day, we will.

The frost began to melt off the silver frame, cold water dripping on the stones.

He would help them win this war. Pay for what he’d done to this world. And, when it was all over, he would tell her that this whole time, it was her keeping him safe. That he was so scared of losing her that he’d lost himself in the process. And then…and then perhaps she would forgive him. 

Either way, he’d be free.

Taglist: @headcanonheadcase @melting-houses-of-gold @kingofsummer93 @asnowfern @panicatthenightcourt @reverie-tales @s-uppertime @autumndreaming7 @sunshinebingo @starfall-spirit @vulpes-fennec @fieldofdaisiies @isterofimias

Side note: While both the Bone Carver and the Female Warrior are characters from the ACOTAR series, their names, backstory and appearance were created by me. Please do not use them in your own work without my explicit permission, I worked very hard on this :)

[lefresne]

hello, do you know anything about "avalon revisited" 1963 by margaret atwood?

NO??? It looks like a series of poems Atwood wrote and published while she was still at uni? Interesting! Can’t find anything abt it…….

[dathen]

We’re so used to the sexual reading of the entire book of Dracula, which takes the sensuality of the early chapters and jams everything that follows it into the same metaphor no matter how poorly it fits, but I feel the segment we’re approaching works much better with a lens of chronic illness and disease.

Vampire legends are inextricably intertwined with disease. Many of them are said to have been birthed by burying victims of disease too soon, who later seem to rise from the dead. But what’s more is that Stoker and his family have deep-seated trauma over disease: his mother had to flee her hometown at the age of 14 because of a horrific cholera epidemic, and Stoker himself was bedridden as a child from an illness that no one could identify.

Found this quote from Irish Historian Mary McGarry:

Bram as an adult asked his mother to write down her memories of the epidemic for him, and he supplemented this using his own historic research of Sligo’s epidemic. Scratching beneath the surface (of this essay), I found parallels with Dracula. [For instance,] Charlotte says cholera enters port towns having traveled by ship, and can travel overland as a mist—just like Dracula, who infects people with his unknown contagion.

I bring this up because a lot of academic analysis insists that Lucy sleepwalking is proof of her being the Slutty Woman archetype that needs to be punished. This suggested symbolism is hilarious when put next to the text saying she inherited it from her father, but I’d like to suggest a different angle from the lens of disease suggested earlier:

Lucy’s sleepwalking is a condition that predates Dracula but makes her an easy target for him to prey on. Through the lens of disease symbolism, she now is someone with chronic illness or disability who is especially vulnerable to infectious disease. This becomes a cross-section of Stoker’s trauma regarding disease: his own mystery illness and his mother fleeing a plague.

To wind down my rambles with a bit of a soapbox, I feel this adds a very poignant layer to the struggle to keep Lucy alive. The COVID pandemic showed a horrifying level of casual ableism vs disabled and immunodeficient individuals, shrugging off their vulnerability and even their deaths with “well COVID only kills them.” There’s something deeply gratifying at seeing the way everyone around Lucy fights to the bitter end to protect her and refuses to just give her up to Dracula, whether it’s Mina physically chasing him away or the suitor squad pouring their blood into her veins or Van Helsing desperately searching for cures. The vulnerable deserve no less than this. They’re not acceptable casualties.

[brunchable]

Winter Prince, Part One: I Was Enchated To Meet You

Pairings: Prince, Soon to be King AU Bucky Barnes x Out of place, Princess Reader Words: 4.5K Themes: Regency Period AU, Instant attraction, Arranged Marriage, Eventual Smut. Summary: Trapped in the palace gardens, Y/N’s escape attempt is interrupted by a mysterious charming man who offers to help. Little does she know, the man she’s avoiding is the one lifting her over the wall. A/N: You're damn right I took inspiration to Queen Charlotte. Let's call this a "retelling" Bucky will still have his metal arm in this to keep it interesting.

The sound of hooves echoed in the distance, the rhythmic gallop of a horse cutting through the stillness of the early morning. You clutched your dress tighter around you, the fabric tangled in your fingers as you stood before the towering stone wall, your heart pounding. You were almost free—almost—but the moment stretched painfully, as if the world itself held its breath with you.

You glanced over your shoulder, the imposing silhouette of the palace barely visible through the mist. It loomed behind you, a symbol of everything you were bound to—everything you were trying to escape.

Your breath hitched as the soft thudding of hooves grew louder, and you turned back to the wall. Climbing it had seemed easy in the few moments of adrenaline-fueled desperation, but now, standing before it, you realized how futile it was. You couldn’t do it. You couldn’t scale the stone, couldn’t flee the life that had been thrust upon you.

The horse slowed, and you heard someone dismount, the creak of leather and the solid thud of boots hitting the ground. Your fingers trembled as you placed them against the wall, ready to make one final, frantic attempt. But before you could take another step, his voice cut through the mist.

“Running away?”

You froze, heat rushing to your cheeks. His tone wasn’t harsh, nor was it amused—just… curious, and that only annoyed you more. 

Slowly, you turned toward the voice, expecting to see one of the palace guards ready to drag you back inside. Instead, a man stood before you, taller than you had imagined, with dark hair tousled by the wind, his sharp features softened by the morning light. He was dressed in simple riding attire, a cloak draped over his broad shoulders, but there was an elegance about him. Certainly not a guard, then?

“Are you going to stop me?” you asked, your voice breathless, daring as your fingers tightened against the stone. Your heartbeat thundered in your ears.

He chuckled softly, and the sound sent a strange warmth curling through you. “I don’t know,” he mused, a playful glint in his eyes as he stepped closer, “Should I? You seem to be doing a fine job of stopping yourself.”

Your mouth parted in disbelief, heat rising to your face again. “Excuse me?”

He nodded at the wall. “Well, you don’t exactly look like you’re about to make it over, do you?”

You scowled, crossing your arms over your chest. “I didn’t ask for your commentary.”

The man raised a brow, his lips twitching into a smile. “I’m just saying, climbing walls isn’t for everyone. Especially not someone in a gown.”

“I wasn’t aware I needed your approval to escape,” you shot back, glancing at the wall again and then back at him, frustration bubbling inside you. “Why don’t you just go about your business and let me fail in peace?”

His grin widened, and he crossed his arms, his posture too relaxed for someone who’d just found a would-be escapee. 

“I could help you.”

You blinked at him, caught off guard by the offer. “Help me?” you echoed, suspicion lacing your words. “Why would you help me?”

“Maybe I like seeing people succeed at impossible things,” he teased, the smirk never leaving his face. “Or maybe I’m just curious to see how far you’ll get.”

You narrowed your eyes at him, crossing your arms tighter. “I don’t trust you.”

“Smart,” he said with a laugh. “But if you want to get over that wall, you’re going to need more than distrust.”

You looked up at the towering stones again, dread gnawing at you. He was right, as irritating as that was. But still…

“And what do you get out of this, then?” you asked, glancing at him warily.

He leaned casually against the wall, watching you intently. “A conversation,” he said, his voice suddenly softer, less teasing. “Tell me why you’re running.”

You scowled at him, the heat rising in your cheeks again, and turned your gaze back to the wall. Frustration bubbled inside you, and you began pacing, sizing up the towering stones as if staring at them hard enough would magically make them easier to climb.

“I don’t need your help,” you muttered under your breath, though you weren’t sure if you were talking to him or the wall at this point. 

You glanced back up at the impossible height of the stone barrier, chewing on your lip as you tried to mentally map out some kind of strategy—any way to make it work. You huffed, planting your hands on your hips, and shifted from foot to foot, casting the man a glare every now and then. He just stood there, arms crossed, watching you with an amused expression, as if you were the most entertaining thing he’d seen in a long time.

After a few moments of pacing and staring—then pacing some more—you let out an exasperated sigh and kicked a small stone out of your path, turning back to face him, arms crossed.

“Well?” you asked, your voice a little more breathless than you’d have liked. “What’s so funny?”

He shook his head, but the grin he was trying to hide betrayed him. 

“Nothing,” he said, the words dripping with humor. “Just… you look like you’re trying to intimidate the wall into letting you pass.”

You glared at him, heat flooding your cheeks. “Maybe I am. Maybe it’ll work.”

His chuckle turned into full-blown laughter, and the sound of it—rich and genuine—sent a strange warmth curling through you, despite your annoyance. He had that kind of laugh that you hated admitting was contagious, and you found your lips twitching upward before you could stop yourself.

“I’m serious!” you huffed, though the playful tone was creeping into your own voice.

He rubbed a hand over his jaw, still chuckling softly as he shook his head. “You’re something else, you know that?”

You narrowed your eyes at him, a mix of frustration and embarrassment bubbling up inside you, but you couldn’t help the flutter in your chest at the way he looked at you.

“Are you just going to laugh at me the whole time, or are you actually going to help?”

He raised his hands in surrender, his grin still firmly in place. “Alright, alright. I’ll help.” 

He took a step closer, the playfulness still in his eyes as he lowered his voice, leaning just a fraction nearer. “But only because I want to see how this goes.”

“Fine,” you muttered, stepping back toward the wall. “Just… don’t get in the way.”

Behind you, you could hear him chuckling softly to himself again, and though it made your frustration bubble over, there was something undeniably magnetic about the way he seemed to find you so… endearing.

And as you started pacing again, casting glances at the wall, trying to figure out just how on earth you’d manage to get over it, you caught him out of the corner of your eye—his gaze still fixed on you, the smile never leaving his face.

You huffed to yourself, kicking at another stone. Of course, the man who found you trying to escape was now laughing at you, and somehow, it didn’t feel as awful as it should.

“How long will you keep pacing around like that?” 

“I’m not pacing,” you grumbled, though you absolutely were.

“Oh, you are,” he countered with a grin. “You’re doing laps. Like maybe if you circle it enough, the wall will shrink. Or get tired of you and let you through.”

Your jaw tightened as heat rose to your cheeks. “I’m sizing it up,” you snapped, planting your hands on your hips as you glanced back at the wall, your frustration bubbling over.

He wasn’t even trying to hide how much he was enjoying this, and it only made your chest tighten with frustration. Why did he have to look so effortlessly amused by your struggle?

“Well?” you demanded, trying to maintain some semblance of authority in the situation. “You know you’re actually not helping?”

“Forgive me, but watching you intimidate the wall might be the most entertaining thing I’ve seen all week.”

You let out an exasperated huff, resisting the urge to stomp your foot in frustration. “I wasn’t intimidating it, I was—”

He cut you off with a light chuckle, waving his hand dismissively. “Sizing it up. Right.”

You were too stunned to respond. The man was infuriating, no question about it, but the warmth in his voice, the look in his eyes—there was something about him that softened the edges of your frustration, made it feel less like a confrontation and more like… banter.

You shook your head, forcing yourself to focus. No, this was not the time to get distracted by some smug, arrogant man who was finding far too much joy in your struggle. You turned back to the wall, determination flaring inside you.

“If you’re going to help, do it already,” you muttered, planting your hands on your hips again.

“Let’s see how far you can get with a little help.” he said, his voice low and teasing.

He stopped in front of you, eyes gleaming with amusement as he glanced at the towering wall. “You ready?”

You crossed your arms, lifting an eyebrow at him. “Do I have a choice?”

He smirked, leaning down slightly. “Not if you want to get over that wall today.”

You eyed him warily, but there was something in his smile, something disarmingly warm beneath all that arrogance. Before you could talk yourself out of it, you sighed and placed your hand in his.

His grip was firm, strong, and you felt the warmth of his palm seep into your skin as he stepped even closer. The flutter in your chest deepened, but you swallowed it down, ignoring the strange thrill of having him so near.

“Alright,” he said, crouching slightly and motioning toward his shoulders, “Put your foot here, and I’ll lift you up.”

You blinked at him, a sudden rush of heat flooding your face. Wait, what?

“I’m going to boost you over,” he explained, clearly amused at your hesitation. “Unless you’d rather keep pacing around?”

You huffed, your cheeks burning. 

“Fine,” you muttered, carefully lifting your foot toward his shoulder. “But—” You paused, biting your lip as another wave of heat rushed through you. “Don’t look up.”

His grin widened, but he managed to keep his voice steady. “I wouldn’t dream of it.”

You gave him a skeptical look, your heart thudding loudly in your ears as you gingerly placed your foot on his shoulder. 

“Don’t look up,” you reminded him, your voice sharper, but the flush in your cheeks was impossible to ignore.

“I heard you the first time,” he chuckled softly, keeping his gaze firmly straight ahead.

He hoisted you up easily, his hands firm at your waist, but as soon as you tried to gain some leverage, the fabric of your gown bunched awkwardly around your legs, trapping you mid-air. Your heart pounded as you wobbled, your foot slipping slightly, and for a moment you flailed, trying to catch your balance. The wall still seemed impossibly high, and every move made your gown twist tighter around you, making it harder to gain any footing.

“Careful,” He grunted, steadying you with his grip. “Got it?”

You didn’t. Not at all.

“This is ridiculous,” you muttered, your voice strained with effort as you tried to move again. The fabric pulled tighter around your legs, making it impossible to lift yourself further. “This dress—how do women escape anything in these things?”

He laughed, and you could feel the vibrations of it under your hands. 

“You’re doing great,” he teased, clearly biting back more laughter. “But if you keep kicking like that, I might not be able to hold you much longer.”

You shot him a glare over your shoulder, heat flooding your face. “This isn’t funny!”

“Oh, it’s very funny from down here,” he said, still chuckling, though his grip on your waist stayed steady.

Another attempt to maneuver only resulted in more tangled fabric. You groaned, realizing that this wasn’t going to work. No matter how hard you tried, the dress wouldn’t let you lift your legs high enough to get over the wall.

“Alright, alright,” you sighed, feeling thoroughly embarrassed as you gave up. “Put me down.”

“You sure? You were making great progress,” he teased, but his hands were already lowering you back down to the ground, the warmth of his touch lingering even as your feet found solid ground again.

As soon as you stood, you stepped back, brushing dirt from your gown and trying to ignore the way your heart still raced, both from the failed climb and from how close he had been.

“Well,” you muttered, more to yourself than to him, “that was a disaster.”

He leaned back on his heels, his grin wide and playful. “Not a total disaster. I got a front-row seat to the best entertainment in town.”

You crossed your arms over your chest, glaring at him, though the blush creeping up your neck betrayed how flustered you were. 

“You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”

He chuckled again, crossing his arms to mirror you. “Can’t say it’s not entertaining.”

You sighed and looked around, now you owed him an explanation as to why you’re trying to run away.

“I don’t want to marry a stranger,” you whispered, surprising even yourself with the truth. “I don’t want to be locked away in that palace for the rest of my life, tied to someone I’ve never met.”

He didn’t speak for a second, his expression softening as he studied you. Then, in a gentle tone, he asked, “And who is this stranger you’re so desperate to avoid?”

You sighed, casting a quick glance around as if the mist might swallow you whole. 

“Prince James,” you admitted quietly, your words barely louder than the mist. “I’ve never seen him, never even heard his voice. I don’t know if he’s kind or cruel, if he’s young or old. For all I know, he could be—”

“Hideous?” the man supplied, a glimmer of amusement flickering in his eyes again.

You gave a small, reluctant smile despite yourself. “Or snotty. Cold. Aloof. Traits that I most certainly cannot stand nor find attractive.”

The man chuckled softly, shaking his head as he took a step closer. “Snotty, huh?”

“Well, royalty,” you said, with a little shrug. “They tend to be.”

He studied you again, something like amusement flickering across his face, but there was no mockery in it, just something warm and knowing. 

“You could say I’ve met him a time or two.”

Your brows furrowed at his familiarity with the prince. “Then what’s he like?” you asked, searching his expression for any hint of truth. “Is he… good?”

He seemed to consider your question, his gaze turning thoughtful as though weighing each word. “He’s... complicated,” he finally said, his voice softer, almost wistful. “Not the man people expect him to be.”

You frowned and sarcastically you said, “That’s really comforting.”

But before he could answer, a loud shout echoed from the palace grounds, and you both turned, startled. Your stomach lurched in panic.

“I need to go,” you whispered frantically, your pulse racing as you prepared to bolt.

His hand caught yours before you could move, the warmth of his skin against yours sending a jolt of something startling through you. You looked up at him, breathless.

“I could still help you,” he murmured, his thumb brushing the back of your hand. His eyes held yours, deep and unreadable, as though he were making a decision only he could understand.

But there was something in his gaze now, something almost… regretful. 

“Speak what you need to say.” you whispered, the realization dawning on you in slow, staggering pieces.

He didn’t answer immediately, his eyes searching yours like he could read the thoughts swirling in your head. He let out a soft sigh and tilted his head, a playful sparkle returning to his eyes.

“What if…” he began, his voice low, “what if the prince isn’t some distant, unfeeling man? What if he’s just a person who hates the cage he’s been placed in as much as you do?”

You blinked, confusion tightening your chest. “What are you talking about?”

He took a step closer, his thumb still grazing the back of your hand, sending that maddening warmth through you. “What if Prince James isn’t the man people whisper about? What if he’s spent his whole life wondering if anyone would see him instead of the title?”

Your breath caught in your throat. The weight of his words settled like stones in your chest, and you stared at him, trying to make sense of what he was saying. “Why would he care? He’s a prince—soon to be King. He’s powerful, he has everything.”

He gave a small, almost sad smile. “What if the power isn’t worth much if it means living a life filled with expectations instead of choices?”

You frowned, shaking your head. “But he could change things if he wanted to.”

James—because you were sure of it now, he wasn’t just some rider—tilted his head, amusement playing at the corners of his mouth. “What if it’s not that simple? What if the weight of the crown is heavier than it looks?”

Your heart raced as the pieces slowly started to click together. He was still toying with you, but now there was a seriousness beneath it, something deeper. You could see the flicker of emotion behind his blue eyes, like he was daring you to understand.

“What if…” he continued, leaning in slightly, his voice dropping to a whisper, “the prince is standing right in front of you, hoping you’ll see him?”

The world tilted beneath you. The way he spoke, the familiarity in his tone, the way he carried himself… it all made sense now. And suddenly, the puzzle that had been scattered before you came together in a startling rush of clarity.

“You’re—” The words stuck in your throat as your heart pounded harder, realization hitting you with full force. “You’re Prince James.”

He smiled, a mixture of apology and relief in his expression. “I suppose I am.”

Your mind reeled, his confession crashing over you cold bucket of water. Prince James. The man you had been speaking to, was the very one you were trying to escape. The very one you had feared. Your heart pounded, your pulse a frantic beat in your ears as you looked up at him—really looked at him—for the first time.

Prince James.

"Hello, Y/N." He smiled earnestly, taking your breath away.

You took a step back, your breath hitching in your throat as your gaze swept over him. The dark hair tousled by the morning breeze, the sharp features softened by the mist, the broad shoulders, the casual strength in the way he stood. How had you not realized before? How had you missed it?

Your mouth opened, but no words came. You were speechless. Absolutely, utterly speechless.

His lips twitched in that same infuriating, knowing half-smile, the one that had seemed so harmless before but now felt charged with meaning. 

“I suppose I’m not what you were expecting,” he murmured, his voice low, almost apologetic.

You shook your head, still trying to find your voice, but it was like the words had fled, leaving only the rush of your thoughts, jumbled wildly together. He’s the prince. The one you had dreaded. The one you had tried so hard to avoid.

But he wasn’t at all what you imagined. He wasn’t cold, or distant, or cruel. He was standing here, watching you, his expression open, almost vulnerable, as if he was waiting for your reaction, for you to decide what came next.

Your eyes darted over him again, taking in every detail as if seeing him for the first time—the way his cloak clung to his broad frame, the way his eyes, intense and unwavering, seemed to burn through every wall you'd built around yourself.

And then the shouts echoed again, louder this time, and your stomach clenched with a fresh wave of panic. The palace. The guards. They were looking for you.

His gaze flickered toward the sound, the slightest crease forming between his brows before his eyes were back on you, sharp and unrelenting.

“You need to go,” he said, voice low but urgent. Like the moment itself was slipping away.

“I—” You swallowed hard, your words tangled with the storm raging inside you. You—him—everything felt too much, too fast.

He stepped closer, his hand lifting as if to touch you—like he had to—like he needed to—but stopped just short, his fingers lingering in the air, his breath mingling with yours. 

“I felt the same,” he said, his words rushing out, fierce, quiet. “Curious about you. Wondering if you were like the rest of them, if you were cold, detached. Wondering if you were trapped like me.”

You blinked, caught off guard, your pulse roaring in your ears. What?

“I was afraid,” he continued, his eyes searing into yours. “Afraid you were someone I wouldn’t want to know. Someone I couldn’t stand to look at. I was afraid of you.”

His words hit you like a thunderclap, stealing your breath, your heart stumbling in your chest.

“But gods,” he breathed, his voice dropping to a whisper, “I was wrong.”

You stared at him, utterly speechless, the air thick between you. Your heart was pounding so hard you were sure he could hear it.

He took another step closer, his eyes wild, full of something unnameable. “You’re everything I didn’t dare to hope for. You’re bold, you’re brave, and you’re—” His voice broke off, and you watched as his gaze dropped to your lips, then snapped back to your eyes, something fierce and desperate flickering there.

You couldn’t breathe. You couldn’t think. His words slammed into you, your mind reeling, your heart racing as his admission hung between you, fragile and powerful all at once.

The shouts echoed again, and your body jolted with the reminder of reality crashing back in.

“I need to go,” you whispered, your voice trembling as the world swirled around you.

But before you could move, his hand finally touched yours—fingers brushing against yours, sending a spark through your skin that made you freeze.

“I was wrong about you,” he murmured, his gaze locking with yours, eyes blazing with a heat that made you want to lean into him, to forget the world. “So wrong.”

You swallowed, every nerve in your body alive, humming. His hand slid up, cradling your wrist, his thumb brushing the delicate skin, like he couldn’t stop touching you. 

“Go,” he whispered, his voice barely more than a breath. “Go before I make you stay.”

Your feet refused to move, your heart slamming against your ribs. But you nodded, turning to slip back toward the palace, your body buzzing with his words, the intensity of his gaze.

But before you could disappear into the shadows, you heard him call out—his voice loud, clear, commanding.

You froze, crouching behind the tall hedge, heart hammering against your ribs as you peered through the mist. The guards had gathered around him now, their faces tense with focus as James, with that steady authority in his voice, pointed them in the wrong direction.

“She went the other way—toward the east gate!” His voice was sure, a lie delivered with the ease of someone accustomed to being obeyed. And just like that, the guards nodded, falling in line with his instructions as they turned, their heavy footsteps fading in the opposite direction.

Your pulse thrummed in your ears as you watched them leave, your body still coiled with tension, waiting for something to go wrong. But James remained still, standing tall as the mist curled around him, his face calm, unreadable. And when the last of the guards disappeared into the distance, he did something that made your breath catch.

He glanced back over his shoulder—directly at where you were hiding.

His gaze found yours through the thick hedges, that same intense, burning look he had given you earlier, and for a brief moment, the world stood still. He didn’t move, didn’t say anything, but his eyes held yours with a weight that made it hard to breathe, the unspoken connection between you hanging in the air.

Then, with a slow nod—so subtle you almost missed it—he turned, walking away, his figure swallowed by the swirling mist.

You exhaled, finally letting out the breath you’d been holding. Your entire body was trembling, your mind reeling from everything that had just happened. He had protected you.

Prince James, had lied for you, bought you time, and now the palace loomed ahead, quiet, waiting. Your fingers tightened around the fabric of your gown as you stood up, pressing yourself against the stone wall, making your way back toward the safety of the palace.

You moved silently, your steps soft against the cobblestone as you slipped through the garden paths, every corner casting long shadows. You had to be careful. You couldn’t risk being caught now.

Reaching the palace doors, you hesitated for a moment, glancing back toward the mist-shrouded garden. James was gone now, but his presence lingered, the promise of his words still echoing in your mind.

With one last breath, you pulled open the door, slipping inside the familiar corridors of the palace, the warmth of its stone walls closing in around you. It was quiet here, the rest of the palace still asleep, unaware of the storm that had passed just outside its walls.

As you hurried back to your chambers, your heart finally began to slow, but your mind buzzed with everything that had just unfolded. James hadn’t just protected you; he had seen you—really seen you. And now, there was no denying it.

You weren’t running from him anymore.

You were walking straight back to him.

[solxamber]

Promises in Moonlight || Malleus Draconia

You've chosen Malleus!

Falling for Malleus was like finding warmth in the heart of Briar Valley's mist—slow, unyielding, and all-consuming.

Prologue ; 1k Masterlist

You’ve finally decided to take Malleus up on his invitation. After debating for what feels like forever (and Grim mocking you for "acting like a smitten fool"), you pull out your phone and text him, "I’d love to go for that walk with you!"

The reply you get is instant, as if Malleus had been sitting with his phone, eagerly awaiting your response:

"Dearest Child of Man, your acceptance fills me with an immeasurable sense of joy. I shall meet you at the courtyard shortly. Together, we will bask in the serenity of the night, under the gentle watch of the stars. Until then, may your anticipation for our evening be as bright as the moon above."

You can’t help but laugh. It’s the most Malleus text ever. It’s endearing in that formal, poetic, almost ancient way of his, and you feel warmth blooming in your chest as you quickly send a more casual, "Can’t wait :)" back to him.

Fast forward to later that evening, and Malleus arrives at Ramshackle Dorm. He’s looking as regal as ever, his usual air of authority softened by the way he looks at you. It’s not often you see Malleus trying to be cute, but he’s definitely putting in the effort. Before you can greet him properly, Grim trots up to Malleus with his chest puffed out.

"Hear me out, Tall, Dark, and Spooky," Grim begins, sounding like he’s about to bestow a grave responsibility, "You better keep my henchhuman safe tonight. If anything happens to ‘em, I’ll… I’ll bite your ankles or somethin’!"

You glance sideways at Grim, trying not to snicker. Malleus blinks once, twice, then solemnly nods. "Fear not, small creature," he says, placing a hand over his heart. "I shall protect them as though they were a rare treasure."

Grim gives a self-satisfied nod, satisfied with Malleus’s promise, but mutters under his breath, "Better be careful with those big words, pal. You’ll confuse yourself."

Malleus, seemingly oblivious to Grim’s muttering, reaches into his coat pocket and produces a delicate, ethereal flower that looks like it was plucked straight from a fairy tale. He offers it to you with a small, proud smile. "I thought this would suit you."

You accept the flower, grinning. "It’s beautiful. But… I’m going to put it in my hair so I can hold your hand instead."

Malleus blinks, looking a bit caught off guard but quickly recovering. "Of course." His eyes light up as he helps you tuck the flower into your hair, then immediately offers you his hand.

As your fingers intertwine with his, you catch a glimpse of Malleus looking rather pleased with himself. The two of you set off on your walk, and the cool night air feels refreshing as you stroll through the nearly deserted campus.

The silence between you isn’t awkward—it’s peaceful. You walk in step with Malleus, both of you just existing in the shared space. Occasionally, you glance over at him, and he meets your gaze with a small smile, looking like he’s perfectly content just to be here with you.

After a while, Malleus breaks the silence. "I hope you don’t mind, but I’ve arranged for something a little… special tonight," he says, his tone carrying just a hint of mystery.

"Oh? What kind of ‘special’?" you ask, curiosity piqued.

"You’ll see soon enough." There’s a mischievous glint in his eyes as he leads you to Diasomnia.

The moment you step inside, you’re hit with a scene that is, frankly, a chaotic masterpiece. The room has been transformed—or rather, overrun—with blankets, pillows, and a massive screen set up at the front. It looks like a makeshift home theater… if home theaters had Malleus-themed decorations plastered everywhere.

Sebek, naturally, is standing near the entrance, looking way too serious for a casual movie night. You spot Silver, slouched on a couch, looking like he’s already resigned to his fate. And then there’s Lilia, standing proudly beside what can only be described as an abomination of a dish.

"Welcome!" Lilia says, grinning as you take in the scene. "I’ve prepared a meal that will enhance your movie-watching experience!"

"By enhance, do you mean threaten our health?" Silver mutters under his breath.

Lilia just winks at you. "It’s a very special recipe. A relic of ancient times!"

"More like an ancient curse," Silver mumbles, though he doesn’t even try to argue anymore.

You bite back a laugh, eyeing the dish with mild suspicion. It’s bubbling. You’re pretty sure it shouldn’t be bubbling.

"Yeah, I think I’ll pass on the ancient relic stew, but thanks," you say diplomatically, backing away just a little.

Malleus, meanwhile, is over by the movie selection, poring over the options like he’s deciding on the fate of the universe.

While you wait, you notice the posters—of Malleus. Everywhere. "Sebek," you say slowly, "why… are there so many Malleus posters?"

Sebek, looking proud as ever, gestures grandly at the posters. "It’s only fitting to surround ourselves with the greatness of Lord Malleus during such a significant event!"

"You mean… movie night?" you ask, raising an eyebrow.

"Every moment spent in Lord Malleus’s presence is significant!" Sebek declares, his voice booming through the room.

You glance at Silver, who’s barely staying awake on the couch. "You’re just… going to let this happen?" you ask him.

Silver shrugs, not even opening his eyes. "I tried. He wouldn’t listen."

Meanwhile, Lilia sidles up to you with a mischievous glint in his eyes. "Isn’t this just the most romantic setting? Blankets, pillows, and the gentle glow of Malleus-themed lighting?" He wiggles his eyebrows at you suggestively.

You roll your eyes, but can’t help but laugh. "Very romantic," you say dryly. "Nothing says ‘date night’ like staring at your date’s face plastered on every surface."

Malleus returns, oblivious to the chaos unfolding around him, and gently takes your hand. "I believe I’ve found the perfect movie for us," he says.

You nod, smiling up at him, and soon the others—after a bit more banter (and an exaggerated wink from Lilia)—excuse themselves, leaving you and Malleus alone. Well, alone except for the giant Malleus plushie you’ve decided to cuddle.

"You’re… quite fond of that plushie," Malleus remarks, clearly amused as you hug it to your chest.

You grin. "What can I say? It’s cute. Though the real thing is a lot more handsome."

Malleus chuckles softly, his voice low and warm. "I’m glad you think so."

The movie begins, but it’s hard to focus when you’re so comfortable, leaning against Malleus with the plushie in your arms. His presence is soothing, his warmth comforting, and before you know it, you’re resting your head on his shoulder.

Malleus tenses slightly at first, then relaxes, letting out a contented sigh. His fingers gently trace circles on your hand, and you can feel the smile tugging at his lips even though you’re not looking directly at him.

By the time the movie ends, you’re both so relaxed that moving feels like an unnecessary chore. But, eventually, Malleus stands and offers his hand to help you up.

"Shall I walk you back to your dorm?" he asks, his tone as soft as the night air outside.

You nod, still clutching the Malleus plushie. "I’m keeping this, by the way."

Malleus looks genuinely pleased. "I’m honored that you would want a keepsake of me."

You laugh softly, feeling a bit giddy as the two of you walk back to Ramshackle, hand in hand. The stars twinkle overhead, but all you can focus on is the warmth of Malleus’s hand in yours.

When you reach the dorm, Malleus stops at the entrance, gently lifting your hand to his lips for a soft kiss. "I hope you enjoyed our evening," he says, his voice low and sincere.

Your heart flutters, but before you can overthink it, you lean forward and kiss him on the cheek. "I did," you say, grinning. Then, with a quick wave, you bounce inside, feeling giddy and lighthearted.

Behind you, Malleus watches with that same soft, fond smile—the one that makes you feel like you’re the one who hung the moon and stars in the sky.

You’re making friendship bracelets. A totally normal, human, dorm-room craft project that you figured would be a simple way to spend time with Malleus. Only, you didn't realize that trying to explain the concept of “friendship bracelets” to a fae prince would result in the single most baffling night of his life.

“...so, wait.” He holds up the half-done bracelet, staring at it like it’s a cryptic relic. “This braided string will signify… a bond?”

You nod enthusiastically, handing him another bead. “Yep! It’s a human tradition. It means you’re, like, symbolically connected, so whenever you look at the bracelet, you remember the person who made it for you.”

He stares at the half-finished bracelet with grave intensity, as if he’s holding a sacred relic. “So, this… strand of colored threads… will tether me to you, even in times when we are apart?”

You nod again, trying not to giggle. “Exactly. Just a cute, little reminder of our friendship.”

He considers this with such solemnity that you can practically see him pondering the metaphysical implications of colored yarn.

“What magic does it require?” he asks after a beat, fully serious.

You blink. “Magic? Oh, it doesn’t need magic. It’s… just a bracelet.”

His brow furrows, and he holds up his attempt at weaving, which, frankly, looks more like a knotted ball than anything close to a bracelet. “I see. So, human enchantments rely on symbolism rather than spells.”

You bite back a laugh. “Uh… sure. Yeah, it’s symbolic magic.”

“Fascinating.” He looks down at his tangled knot of yarn, nodding solemnly. “Then I must ensure my own… symbol is woven with the utmost care. For a bond such as ours, it must not unravel.”

You’re halfway through yours when you realize he’s been muttering to himself, beads and string in hand, whispering things like, “May this braid carry my promise of loyalty” and “I vow to protect our bond with the same devotion I would give the throne.”

He even brings his hand to his heart at one point, closing his eyes with the bracelet pressed to his chest. You’re struggling not to laugh as he gives what is essentially a formal vow to the bracelet.

“Malleus,” you say, finally unable to hold it in, “you know it’s just a bracelet, right? You don’t have to swear a whole oath.”

He looks up, slightly flustered. “Ah… right. Of course.” He clears his throat, but there’s a bit of a pink tinge to his cheeks. “Well… if it carries the weight of our connection, I should still approach it with appropriate respect.”

You shake your head, suppressing a smile. “It’s honestly perfect just as it is.”

He holds out the knotted, lopsided braid he’s made, eyes gleaming. “Then, I present to you, my friendship… symbol.”

You accept it with a grin, tying it on. “Thanks, Malleus. This might be the most intense friendship bracelet I’ve ever gotten.”

“Of course,” he replies, smiling gently. “It is a pledge. And… I’ll think of you, whenever I see it.”

You bite back a laugh again, but honestly, his sincerity is so endearing you might just melt on the spot. And as you look at the knotted, chaotic masterpiece on your wrist, you realize you’ve never loved a bracelet more.

You were desperate. No, really—absolutely desperate. Lilia was busy with some mysterious “business,” and Silver had fallen asleep before you even got your full sentence out. That left…Sebek.

But you thought maybe, just maybe, you could get him to help you pick out a gift for Malleus if you praised Malleus enough to keep him distracted and maybe, hopefully, get him to leave you alone once you found something.

Sebek, however, wasn’t budging from your side.

“This is a sacred duty!” he announced, as you entered the gift shop. “For you to bring a gift worthy of Lord Malleus’s greatness, I shall assist! Do not think of slacking in this matter!”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” you muttered under your breath. Oh, this was going to be a long day.

You wander through the aisles and spot a black dragon statuette. You figure, hey, it’s got that draconic charm Malleus likes, and it’s nice enough without screaming “I tried way too hard.”

“What about this?” you suggest.

Sebek’s nose wrinkles like you just offered him expired milk. “This common tchotchke? Lord Malleus deserves something that reflects the grandiosity of his soul! This is but a disgrace!”

“...Okay,” you mumble, quickly putting the dragon back. “Noted. Next one.”

You take a deep breath, determined not to give up. You find a beautiful leather-bound book, the kind with fancy gold embossing that practically screams “I have depth and culture.” Perfect for Malleus, right?

Sebek looks at it, raises an eyebrow, and says with all the judgment he can muster, “A book? This is not some back-alley rummage sale! Lord Malleus is no mere scholar—he is a being of power and mystery. A mere book is not worthy!”

You’re starting to get a headache. “Sebek, this isn’t a sacred quest. It’s just a gift.”

Sebek crosses his arms. “Then act like it!”

You’re mentally calculating how long it would take to just make a break for it when you spot a crystal snow globe on a nearby shelf. It’s got a tiny castle inside with delicate little frosted details and swirling glitter. Pretty cute, honestly.

“What about this one?” You hold it up, trying to sound as cheerful as possible.

Sebek stares at the snow globe, visibly appalled. “A snow globe? Are you trying to insinuate that Lord Malleus is some… carnival trinket vendor? This is an insult!”

You try to control your breathing. It’s fine. Everything’s fine.

Finally, you turn to him with a smile that’s about five seconds from breaking. “Sebek, it has been a pleasure. But I think I’ll, uh… figure it out myself from here.”

You barely hear him as he starts to object because you’re already halfway out the door.

Back at Ramshackle, an idea hits you. If you can’t find a gift, you can make one. After scouring the dorm for supplies, you somehow put together a makeshift snow globe with a tiny gargoyle inside, swirling in blue and silver glitter. It’s definitely handmade, but you’re sure Malleus will appreciate it.

Later that evening, you meet Malleus outside, heart pounding a bit as you hold out the homemade snow globe. “I… made this for you,” you say, offering it up.

Malleus takes it, eyes wide with wonder as he examines it, turning it in his hands to watch the glitter float around the little gargoyle. “Did you… make this yourself?”

“Yeah,” you say, rubbing the back of your neck. “Figured you’d like it. And hey, it’s one of a kind, so… now you have something no one else does.”

Malleus’s expression softens, his smile growing into something that practically melts your heart. “Are you… courting me?” he asks, his tone almost mischievous.

You snort. “I am, actually. Thought I’d ask you out…again. Officially.”

Malleus’s eyes light up, and he pulls you into a gentle embrace, holding you as if you’re the rarest treasure. “Then I graciously accept,” he says, his voice warm with laughter.

Sebek’s probably going to be horrified, but that’s a problem for future you. Right now, Malleus is looking at you with an expression that says you’re all he’s ever wanted, and that’s more than enough.

Malleus Draconia storming into the infirmary was a sight to behold. The door nearly flew off its hinges as he strode in, casting a long shadow over the entire room. Rain poured against the windows like someone had flipped on a faucet, lightning crackling ominously outside as he zeroed in on you with eyes that could’ve cut glass.

“Child of Man,” he intoned, voice a few shades too deep and dark. “I heard you were hurt.”

You, sitting up on the infirmary bed, waved a hand quickly. “Malleus, I’m fine! I’m totally fine! Ace actually took most of the fall for me.”

At that, Malleus’s intense gaze shifted to Ace, who was lying in the bed next to you, bruised, bandaged, and looking a bit like a disaster but still somehow smug. His grin only widened as Malleus took him in, and for once, Ace didn’t seem to have any wisecracks. Not yet, at least.

“Really, I’m okay, Malleus,” you reassured him again, reaching out to gently tug on his sleeve, trying to bring him back to reality. “It was just… a minor accident.”

Malleus let out a breath, his shoulders finally relaxing, and the rain outside softened to a drizzle. But when he saw Ace's injuries, a faint gleam of green magic sparked in his eyes. With a murmured spell, Malleus extended a hand over Ace, and a warm green light enveloped him, healing the bruises and cuts in seconds.

Ace blinked, absolutely dumbfounded as he patted himself down, looking at his newly healed skin. “Woah, hold on. Did… did I just get fae-healed?” He threw a proud glance at Deuce, who looked equally impressed.

“Guess saving someone as important as the prefect has its perks, huh?” Ace grinned, milking the moment for all it was worth.

Deuce elbowed him, eyes wide. “Dude, you got a fae to use magic on you! That’s like… that’s gotta be worth something!”

Malleus, however, seemed completely unaware of their astonishment. He turned back to you, his expression softening. “I’m relieved to see you unharmed, but perhaps we should consider… measures to avoid this in the future.”

You tilted your head, a bit wary of his tone. “Measures?”

“Yes.” Malleus nodded, serious as ever. “I will procure a shield for you. Perhaps one enchanted with protective charms, powerful enough to withstand nearly any impact.” His hand closed over yours, his gaze softening but his words completely, utterly sincere. “I’d rather not see you in danger again.”

At this, you couldn’t hold back a snicker. “A… shield? Malleus, that’s sweet, but I think a little protective magic might be overkill.”

“Absolutely not,” Malleus replied, as if you’d suggested something truly absurd. “Or perhaps I should assign a member of my guard to you. It would be a temporary arrangement, of course.”

Ace, never one to let an opportunity slip by, piped up. “Oooh, how about Sebek? He’d follow them around like a watchdog. ‘Human, beware of the tripping hazard!’ ‘Human', allow me to carry your books to avoid any injury!’”

You laughed so hard at the impression that you nearly slid off the bed. Deuce tried his best to look like he was keeping it together, but the way his shoulders shook betrayed him.

Malleus, apparently unfazed by your amusement, looked back at you with a raised eyebrow. “You mock my concerns, yet I believe this is a practical solution.”

“Oh, I know you do,” you said, wiping your eyes. “But, trust me. I’ll be okay without a magical shield or a Sebek bodyguard. Especially since, well…” You softened, leaning into his chest and giving his back a comforting pat. “You’re here to keep me safe, aren’t you?”

The room went still as Malleus’s expression softened even further, his entire face lighting up at your words. The last of the rain disappeared, leaving only a golden sunset spilling light through the windows.

Meanwhile, Ace watched the two of you with a half-joking pout. “Damn. Imagine being favored by a fae prince and dropping that kind of romantic line. If only Malleus was this concerned with my safety.”

Deuce crossed his arms, pretending to ponder. “You think we could get fae security if we also hung out with the prefect all the time?”

Grim, who’d been lounging on your bed, rolled his eyes. “Listen, you two can argue all you want, but I’m the one who gets the most danger-protection, and don’t you forget it!”

Ignoring the three, you glanced back at Malleus. “Seriously, I don’t need any magic armor, Malleus. As long as you’re around, I’ll be okay.”

For a moment, Malleus just looked at you, a rare and breathtaking smile spreading across his face. Slowly, he raised your hand to his lips, pressing a kiss there, the gentleness of the gesture stealing your breath.

“I shall remain, then,” he murmured, his voice as warm as the sunset. “Though my offer still stands should you ever change your mind.”

You grinned, leaning forward to kiss him on the cheek. “Noted, Your Highness. I’ll let you know.”

With a parting wink and one last hand squeeze, Malleus let you settle back, his gaze lingering on you with an affectionate warmth that softened all the edges of his normally intense demeanor. If you’d known he’d go this far over one little mishap, maybe you’d have considered more dangerous hobbies just to see that side of him.

The rain was no ordinary downpour, that much was certain. It came in waves, sweeping across the campus like a brewing tempest, soaking students to the bone if they dared step outside. But as the day dragged on and the storm grew more intense, you were pretty sure you knew who was behind it.

You’d tried calling Malleus several times—three missed calls, four, five… and each time, the rain seemed to pour harder. You knew this wasn't just a storm; it was his storm, and whatever caused it had to be serious. When Malleus finally didn’t answer his phone on the sixth call, you felt your worry rise and dialed Lilia instead.

“Ah, you’ve noticed?” Lilia’s voice came through, light but with a hint of concern. “Malleus isn’t usually this… temperamental. Why don’t you come by Diasomnia? I think you might be able to reach him better than anyone right now.”

As the rain continued pounding outside, Lilia whisked you to the dark halls of Diasomnia, both of you making your way to Malleus’s dorm room. You raised your hand and knocked, waiting. Nothing. You glanced at Lilia, who gave you an encouraging nod. You turned the handle slowly, easing the door open.

Inside, Malleus was seated by his window, staring out at the rain-soaked world like some tragic hero in a romance novel. His usually strong and dignified presence seemed... deflated. His shoulders were hunched, and his entire form looked as if it was weighed down by an unseen burden.

"Malleus?" you said gently.

He turned, his eyes widening just slightly at the sight of you. But then his gaze dropped, and he returned to staring out at the rain. “Why did you come?” he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

“Why wouldn’t I? You’re clearly upset,” you replied, crossing the room to stand by his side.

He stayed quiet for a moment, as though gathering his thoughts. “I overheard some students talking… about us,” he said slowly, bitterness edging his words. “They said our relationship is… impossible. That it won’t last because we’re too different. That you’d never want to live somewhere like Briar Valley… and that—” His voice broke slightly, and he hesitated. “That no human in their right mind would choose a life there with me.”

His words felt like a dagger, and you could see the depth of his hurt in the way he clenched his hands. The thought of him hearing such hurtful things from people who didn't even know him, didn’t know you, sparked something protective in you. You sat down beside him, reaching out to place your hand over his.

“Malleus, those people don’t know anything,” you said softly but firmly. “They only see what they want to see. But they don’t see you.”

“But… they aren’t wrong, are they?” His voice was so low it almost broke your heart. “Briar Valley is… a kingdom of fae, ancient and isolated. And I… I am not like you. I am seen as a figure of fear by many.”

“Stop it.” You squeezed his hand, forcing him to look at you. “Malleus, you’re not ‘gloomy’ or ‘scary.’ You’re thoughtful and kind. And as for Briar Valley…” You took a deep breath, your eyes shining. “I’d follow you to a volcano if you asked me to, Malleus. And Briar Valley sounds lovely in comparison.”

He blinked, looking genuinely taken aback. “You… mean that?”

“Of course I do.” You felt a smile tugging at your lips, leaning closer to him. “Malleus, I’m… I’m in love with you. I don’t care about where we are, as long as we’re together. Besides, I’d visit my friends; it’s not like I’d be vanishing off the face of the earth.”

He stared at you, wide-eyed, as if you’d just declared the moon was his for the taking. “You… love me?” His voice was barely a whisper, disbelief and hope warring in his gaze.

You squeezed his hand tighter. “Yes, you big dramatic dragon, I do. I love you exactly as you are.” Then, unable to resist, you smiled and added, “You’re one of the best things that’s ever happened to me. And, if I’m being honest, I think you make a perfect Prince Charming.”

At that, he let out a surprised chuckle, one that you felt all the way to your heart. The rain began to lighten outside, but Malleus wasn’t finished yet. “But… would you truly want to come with me to Briar Valley after graduation?” he asked, searching your face, as if afraid the answer might change.

Your lips curved into a teasing smile. “Is that a proposal, Malleus?”

He blinked, looking at you with such intense sincerity that it made you catch your breath. “Perhaps it is… if that is what you desire.”

You couldn’t help it; you laughed, reaching up to touch his cheek. “Malleus, let’s take this one step at a time. It’s a little too early for marriage, but yes… I’ll come with you. No hesitation.”

Relief washed over his face, his shoulders visibly relaxing as he let out a long, contented sigh. Then, before you knew it, he was cupping your face gently, pulling you close, and pressing his lips softly against yours, his touch filled with both relief and quiet joy. You melted into the kiss, feeling the world around you fall away.

When you finally pulled back, you stayed wrapped up in each other, Malleus resting his forehead against yours. “Thank you,” he murmured, his voice as soft as the rain beginning to stop outside.

And then, as if by magic, the sun began to peek through the clouds. You glanced out the window and gasped—a beautiful rainbow stretched across the sky, its colors bright and vivid against the softening gray.

Outside in the hallway, Lilia noticed the sudden sunlight flooding through the windows. He smirked, crossing his arms as he gazed out at the sky. “Well now,” he murmured to himself with a knowing smile. “It seems the storm has finally passed.”

Briar Valley's winding paths had become second nature to you. From the thorn-laden trees to the misty moors, it was all oddly comforting now, a world you’d somehow made your own despite the constant whispers of “That magicless human will last a month, tops.”

Yet here you were, strolling with Silver and Grim by your side, perfectly at ease as the Fae here had learned to both respect you and—surprisingly enough—grow fond of you. Perhaps it was your persistence, or maybe the sight of how Malleus practically glowed around you had softened their opinion. Regardless, Silver’s calm, quiet presence made the walk feel almost peaceful.

Silver’s voice pulled you from your thoughts. “Would you take a detour with me for a moment?”

“Uh… sure.” You raised an eyebrow but couldn’t ignore the curiosity blooming inside.

Grim, still trotting alongside you, glanced up with a huff. “If it’s not back to the palace for a feast, count me out. I’m starving!”

He took you off the main path, weaving through a side route cloaked in the kinds of flowers that only seemed to bloom under the moonlight, until you reached the garden.

You noticed the unmistakable glimmer of fae lights strung up along the branches, casting an enchanting glow. Beneath them was a breathtaking arrangement: intricate flowers, delicate linens, and candles flickering gently as if they held their own breath, waiting.

“Silver… what’s this?” you turned to him, only to find he’d vanished, leaving you alone. Grim, however, was very much there, sitting and squinting at the setup as if trying to make sense of it.

“You think he’d at least stick around to explain,” Grim muttered, tail twitching.

Your heart raced, realizing exactly what this setup meant before even seeing him.

And then, as if stepping straight out of a fairytale, Malleus appeared. His dark attire blended almost seamlessly into the night, but his eyes were alive with a glint that made him stand out against everything else. You swallowed, feeling your pulse thud as he lowered himself onto one knee, reaching out to you with a small velvet box in hand.

“Will you—”

You were already nodding so vigorously that he chuckled, his deep voice warm and delighted as he tried to finish. “I have barely started, my love.”

“Sorry, sorry! I’m listening,” you said, though your feet were already itching to close the distance.

“Will you marry me?” His voice was low, intimate, every word wrapping around you as if sealing the two of you together. You swore the whole garden held its breath as the weight of his question sank in.

“Yes!” You practically launched yourself into his arms, the momentum nearly sending him off balance. Your arms wrapped around his neck as you pressed a kiss to his lips, almost dizzy with excitement. He held you firmly, and you could feel his smile against your mouth as he returned the kiss, slow and heartfelt.

When you finally pulled back, catching your breath, you heard the sound of clapping—raucous, joyous applause. Looking over, you spotted Lilia, Silver, Sebek, and Grim, all watching with varying degrees of excitement. Lilia wore a proud, delighted grin, and even Silver looked softer than usual.

Sebek, meanwhile, was visibly struggling to hold back tears, sniffing and blinking rapidly. “My prince… has found his beloved…”

Lilia cackled, nudging him with a wicked grin. “Oh, Sebek! Who would’ve thought you’d be the emotional one? How poetic!”

“I am not emotional!” Sebek said, wiping his eyes. “I’m simply… moved by the occasion!”

Silver shook his head, though his smile remained gentle as he murmured, “Welcome to the family.”

And then there was Grim, who was glaring daggers at anyone who dared glance in his direction. “Pfft… it’s… it’s not like I care, or anything. Dust got in my eyes, that’s all,” he grumbled, pawing at his face, though his sniffling was obvious.

“Oh, Grim,” you laughed, reaching over to scratch behind his ears. He let out a small, begrudging purr, though he immediately caught himself and huffed, turning his back on you all with an indignant “Hmph.”

Malleus turned to them, unable to hide his own joy as he held you close. “Thank you, all of you,” he said, his voice thick with emotion. Your eyes twinkle with mischief as you add, “I suppose you three can’t get rid of me now.”

Malleus chuckles, and Lilia grinned, placing a hand on his chest as he gave you a dramatic bow. “We wouldn’t dream of it. I mean, you’re the only one who’s managed to survive here, make Malleus happy, and deal with Sebek. That alone earns you a medal.”

Sebek opened his mouth, clearly ready to defend himself, but Silver beat him to it with a subtle nudge. “Come on, Sebek. You know it’s true.”

“Fine, but—” Sebek cut himself off with a sigh, his expression softening once more. “I am happy for you, truly.”

You beamed, touched by the sincerity in his voice. You knew Sebek’s respect wasn’t easy to earn, but it made the moment even more meaningful.

Lilia clapped his hands together, eyes dancing with mischief. “Oh, the Briar Valley will be singing tales of this day for centuries. I’ll make sure of it.”

“Lilia,” Malleus said, a warning in his tone. “Please don’t exaggerate.”

“Oh, I don’t need to exaggerate,” Lilia said with a gleeful grin, his eyes alight with a hundred mischievous ideas. “You’ve done that for me by being your overly poetic self. ‘The magicless one who tamed the dragon prince’ will practically write itself.”

“Perhaps we could skip the ‘taming’ part,” you muttered, blushing at Lilia’s teasing. But you caught Malleus’s gaze, and the depth of emotion there silenced everything else.

He pulled you close, his forehead resting gently against yours. “We can let them say whatever they wish,” he murmured, his voice for your ears alone. “So long as you’re by my side.”

“Always,” you whispered back, and as his arms held you close, you glanced over to see the others clapping and cheering—and yes, even Grim was sitting proudly beside Silver, nodding as if this had all been his doing.

The future had never looked brighter.

1k Masterlist ; Main Masterlist

[hypnoticmoth]

@mystery--mist you asked, here it is hishdjshdjsbdjefh

[halcyone-of-the-sea]

FROM FAR DISTANT WATERS

PAIRING: Merman!John Price x F!Artist!Reader

SYNOPSIS: There’s something in the water - you're going to figure out what it is, and why it chose to save you.

WORDCOUNT: 16.8k

WARNINGS: Blood, murder, death/near death, assault, injury, gore, mystery, mentions of suicide, angst, protective!John, pining, sickness, etc.

*I do not give others permission to translate and/or re-publish my works on this or any other platform*

The little boat rocks as it slips through the expansive water, a thin hanging of mist in the air. The curtain-like film it leaves makes it nearly impossible to see the dark rocks of the shore a far distance away, and the dip and push of the oars through the chilled waves leaves splashing droplets connecting to your cheeks. You touch the flesh delicately, brushing away the spray as your eyes slide over dark, lapping water—deeper than anything. 

In your lap, sitting below the high waist of your skirt, was your sketchbook; the tweed material was all the rage these days, though you never focused much on that. The thick item kept out the chill of the, very, early morning, and that was all you cared about, though, it seemed you lacked the foresight to pack a proper coat. A large woolen shawl sat over your shoulders, hiding the plain white blouse but not its cuffs; not the slight poof of the bottom part of the sleeves. 

Your numb fingers fiddle with the pencil in your hands, your open sketchbook filled with page after page of images ranging from the common sea-bird to great ships and shorelines. 

“I still have to ask why you feel the need to tag along,” is the voice that breaks the silence, and you blink away from the cloud of condensation from your exhalation. Your ear twitches, but only a small flick of a smile pulls your lips at the older man’s garbled words. “So cold my damn hands are going to fall off. Why am I always the one bloody working the oars?”

Otto Whitworth was a man far into his later years—one who entertained your fascination with the raging waters and the need to immortalize them on paper; that draw to the sights and sounds. Graying, covered now in a large coat and his boots, with the long fishing rod knocking around by your feet, he grumbles more than he speaks sentences, content with only the pipe in his breast pocket and the promise of fresh fish for breakfast. 

“Oh, it’s not so bad,” you chuckle, glancing over at his wrinkled face—the glare of dark eyes set into a deep browline that’s more for show of annoyance than genuine emotion. “Gets the blood pumping harder, Mr. Whitworth.” Your vision slides to the shadows of the black rocks, and your pencil finds your palm before the sound of it meeting parchment echoes over the nothingness. “Isn’t it lovely? Listen to the Gannets.”

“Don’t need my blood pumpin’ harder,” the old man grinds out, scoffing. “Gonna make my fuckin’ heart stop, Girl…” Otto sighs, shaking his head as you chuckle. He growls under his breath. “And, no, I’m not listening to the birds—they’ll be trying to steal my fish soon enough. Greedy bastards.”

Your eyes roll in their sockets, pencil shading in the rough shapes of misty rocks, your face cold but still eager for something. There was a type of magic to this place—to Southern England and the small coast town you had settled in nearly a year ago: Redthorpe. 

It seemed your talent for the arts was appreciated here, you had a shop to your name and friendly compliments from the locals every time the door was pulled open. People here liked the attention to detail in a place where they had most likely lived for a good ninety percent of their lives.

You tilt your head at the paper as Otto lets the oars drop back into the water, grasping for his fishing rod that you kindly move closer with your foot. 

The man takes up the item and sets the line, whipping back the pole and snapping it forward with a wizz and a grunt—a cracking of old bones. 

“Now hush,” Otto sighs, settling back. 

You send a silent look upward, and at the same time as he does, you say out loud in a soft voice.

“You’ll scare away the fish with all that blabber.”

A heavy glare is leveled at you, but you raise a hand innocently and laugh under your breath. 

“I’m as silent as the fish, Mr. Whitworth.”

“Cheeky Bird,” Otto sighs loudly, shifting in his seat until he faces the water, eyes glinting. “You’re too wild for this place, then, eh?”

“For most places,” you breathe, smiling as you study the rocks again before going back to your work. It’s only after there were the wiggling bodies of three fish set into a fisher’s basket that the oars are taken back up and the silent water is again forced back by ripples. 

Pencil finding the middle of the spine, you close your sketchbook, the routine is as simple as it always is. Otto will complain about having you at his dock, he’ll begrudgingly invite you in and cook three fish: one for him, the second for his cat, Harriet—older than England itself and missing most teeth; as blind as a bat—and then, finally, you. After that you’re back in your shop finishing up your piece of the misty shoreline, working until the candle burns through both ends and the oil paints are swirling colors as your eyes bug. Bed, and finally, repeat. 

A splash of water makes you blink quickly, your head jerking over at the slide of movement from the corner of your vision. Eyes wide, you swear a fin had cut the surface of the water like a knife through butter. 

Your body moves closer to the side of the boat immediately, leaning over eagerly. 

“Hey!” Otto barks, steadying himself as the vessel shakes back and forth. Your eyes shimmer, a smile overtaking your lips. “Watch yourself—you’ll send me overboard!”

“Did you see that?” Your eyes dart over the water. “I think I saw a fin.” 

“You got excited over a fish?” The older man’s voice is unimpressed, hissing in the crackling of age. “Hell, I got three in the basket if you’re that bloody impressed.”

“Shh,” you wave one of your hands, unblinking. “It was bigger than a fish, Otto!” 

Your ears twitch to his scoff, his hands grasping the oars harder before he shoves the boat forward. Body looming, the intense pull of adventure dims the longer nothing happens, and after a minute or two of dead mist and water, you hum under your breath like a fool and sit back.

“Lost it,” your numb lips murmur, breath puffing out softly. “Damn.” You shake your head as the wooden dock gets closer, more boats tied and shifting with the waves. “It was strange,” you admit. “Like a deep navy color—with specs of silver along the spine.”

Otto pauses, his hands tight over the oars. He blinks over at you, face for the first time showing an emotion other than annoyance. You barely notice before the sheen of crafted blankness is back. 

You smile down the length of the boat, curiosity plain to see. “Do you know of any animal like that around here?”

“No,” Otto grunts out quickly, and your excitement dims sharply, blinking through shock. 

Your brows furrow after the silence falls stiffly—the boat had never been uncomfortable to you, the atmosphere quiet, of course, but always easy to charter. Now the air was…muddy. Something had changed as fast as a fish being yanked out of water. 

Fingers twitching, you sit back slowly onto the plank, pulling your sketchbook the tiniest bit closer to your abdomen. Face open, Otto continues to row and the entire ride is silent until the boat is docked and tied to the pole by calloused hands. Your digits grasp your shawl and wrap the fabric harder, shifting down to hide your chin into the wool as you shiver. 

“...Need help?” You ask, eyes still shifting back to the water like always. 

There’s something now that makes your attention drift like the waves themselves—and it wasn’t only the shadows of the rise and fall, it was Otto’s strange behavior. The man wasn’t one to just say one word and nothing more. He could bounce off you like it was a game; you often thought he enjoyed your company just so he could insult someone. Jokingly, of course. It was the companionship he craved, it was why he always let you on his boat in the mornings. 

Otto lived alone. You never asked about it. 

“Don’t need any help,” he grumbles out, tying off the last knot to the pole and stepping back with a smirk of satisfaction. “M’not in the grave yet, Girl. Been working the boats since I was out my mum’s womb.”

“Feel sorry for her.” Your mutter meets the air as light streaks through the mist. Breathing hot air into your free hand, you rub it over your arm repeatedly and sigh, fingers of the other limb tightening over your book. Absentmindedly, your head turns back to the open water one last time, for one last glimpse of anything you want to commit to memory while you paint—

The fin is back. 

“Otto!” Feet swiftly dart to the end of the dock, you stop only an inch away as your skirt whips over. “It’s back! Look!” 

A hand grasps your wrist and yanks you away. 

Gasping sharply, you stumble until the harsh bark of, “Get back!” echoes across the dock just as it does through your ears. 

“Whoa!” You’re quickly let go of, a shadow shielding you from the view of the water as you scramble to make sure your sketchbook won’t slip from your hold. Head jerking to stare in shock at the middle of Otto’s curved spine, your heart stutters in confusion and a bit of hesitation befitting one who was just manhandled. Standing up straight again, your tight face pulls in, the pound of your heart telling you something is wrong. 

Glancing past a still frozen Otto, the water is utterly devoid of life again—only ripples to show there had ever really been something there at all. 

“You go back to the ocean,” Otto yells, spittle flying from his mouth, fishing boots stomping against the wood as he moves forward a step, pointing. “Go back to the bloody hole you swam out of! There’s nothing for you here! Nothing!” 

You watch, struck dumb. 

“...Mr. Whitworth?” Your lips mutter out, eyebrows shifting from the waves to the man—utterly confused down to your chilled bones. Who was he talking to?

Perhaps time had caught up to him—was he mistakenly taking the rocks for people? The waves for whispers? All you had seen was a fish’s fin, nothing more, nothing less.

“Otto,” you call again, concerned. You should get the man inside; get him warm and let him cook his breakfast. “Let’s just go.” Your eyes blink lightly, fingers twitching over your book. “Alright…? My eyes must have been playing tricks on me, it’s nothing important.”

His form waddles past you, more in tune to his sea legs than the ones on land, and under his breath, you hear him snarl out a low, “You’ll not take her like you did Eleanor. Mark my words, I’ll be stringing you up by the tail first.” 

Withered hand connecting with your shawl’s edge, you’re dragged back with more force than you’d anticipate Otto still having, but you go with him nonetheless. 

Looking at the water, there’s nothing to see beyond the stretch of nothingness.

—

You dare to ask when you’re pushing the fish bones over to the side of your plate, slipping some mashed-up scraps to Harriet who lays in your lap purring. The rough scrape of a tongue licks your fingers, and deep gray fur caresses your palm.

“Who were you talking to back there?” Your voice carries over the small hut that Otto calls his own, the sounds of the water meeting the rocks plainly heard seeing as his property was as close to the cliffs as you could get without going over them. “I never took you for someone to believe in spirits.” The joke was a small jab, but even your own amusement was dim in the situation. Your hand puts down the fork and moves to rest along Harriet’s back, lightly petting the old cat as her half-missing tail flicks in satisfaction.

The man’s back over at the sink tightens. 

“You watch yourself near the waters, Girl,” Otto grunts, dark eyes glancing over his shoulder. “By God, you watch yourself. There’s things out there—terrible things.” 

“What kinds of ‘terrible things,’ Otto?” Your head tilts, sketchbook resting still on the table, your gaze flickering to it. Terrible had a nice ring to it. But something else was swirling in your gut now, a hesitation of a special sort that only comes out with the unknown paths of life. 

What could make a man born and bred on the waters so reserved when speaking about them? Your interest had been piqued—your curiosity unsated until you were given a clear answer. You’d only been here a year, that wasn’t enough time to know the secrets of Redthorpe; to be let into those deeper circles. 

Otto licks his cracked lips, the wrinkles of his face leaving behind something akin to a scrunched dog’s visage—worn by time and improper care from the damage of the sun. He’d been at work on his boat for decades, and while you took his advice with a grain of salt usually,  this time he carried himself differently: you wanted to know why. 

He glares with no venom, taking out the scrubbed pan from the soapy water and barking, “What’s it with the younger generation and their bloody pushing? Listen to what I’m telling you and take it as it is, Girl. You don’t go on the water,” he blinks, face grim, “unless I’m the one ferryin’ you through it, eh? That’s the end of it. I’ll say no more.” 

Frowning heavily, you sigh under your breath and shake your head. Letting your eyes slip down to Harriet, you scratch under her chin and stare into her milky eyes as she lets out a little chirp.

“So much for answers,” your lips mutter. 

But a fire had been lit in your breast now—a low simmering pull like a rope had been tied to your wrist, drawing you closer and closer to the rocky shore, to a boat tied on the dock which you knew was steadily rocking to the deep, dark waves of this isolated place. 

To a navy-colored fin in the water, and a shape far larger than any you’d seen before. 

Blinking to look out the window of Otto’s home, your eyes find the ocean, and the longing that you’d always had for it grows ten times larger as your sketchbook begs to be filled.

—

It was only fate, you guessed, that you had come to Redthorpe—a tiny, unimportant dot on the map—when the way of life you’d chosen had led you astray. This place was a way to start over. Fix yourself. You’d picked the least-known town in all of Europe, and that was exactly what you wanted.

One trait, though, that could never be squashed from your psyche was the lust for the unknown. It was an obsessive lover; a toxic hand on the back of your neck that dragged you back over and over, until there was only yourself to blame for the repetition of disappointment. 

It was the reason you found yourself on the shore two days after you sighted the dark fin that cut the water. 

Your lace-up boots were atop a large boulder, shifting as your body turned from left to right, eyes patiently dragging the expanse of nothing. Waves lap only inches below, spraying up to get absorbed into your skirt, shawl whipping with the wind. The breeze is stuck with the sounds of birds, the very beings darting above your head, playing their games with varying cries that sound like throaty groaning. 

Bending, your arms wrap your waist, lips flickering. You were cold, limb-numbingly so, but even if you saw nothing today, or tomorrow, the push and pull of the ocean was enough—the call of the birds, the hypnotic sway of water. Calling to you, even if it had no lips to do so. 

Taking down a lung-shaking inhale, you chuckle, sketchbook sitting in the small purse around your shoulder. 

“What am I doing?” You ask yourself, shaking your head. “It was just a big fish��that old man was just being paranoid, anyways.” Eyes caressing the line where water meets the sky, your smile pulls your chilled cheeks. “There’s nothing out here worth my time. I need to finish my work.” 

Leaning back, you rub your hands up and down your biceps, nonetheless enjoying your time despite the burning of something in the back of your head. A knowledge that the fin was nothing documented before? A hope of discovery? A need for adventure? Oh, who can really say—what can be known are only three things: 

One, the weather was getting worse, two, the water was getting wilder, and, three, you had forgotten the way the rock you were standing on had shifted when you stepped up to it. Shuffling, your boots connect to the right corner, and your hands extend to keep your balance as you hiss a low breath, purse beginning to slip. 

There’s a gruff call from the water.

“Careful, then.”

Your head snaps up to the sound of a man’s voice, and you startle sharply, gasping as your foot slips. A quick cry is all you get out before you’re suddenly plummeting downwards headfirst into the frigid water. 

The feeling of liquid is all-consuming as it seeps into your nostrils and ears, all sound muffled entirely beyond the roar of it leaving you so stupendously—a flare, and then nothing. Eyes bugging, limbs slashing through the waves, the chill hits you in the chest with the force of a stone, smashing through your ribs to weigh you down with concrete stuck in your lungs. It was entirely a bodily reaction to gasp. 

Through the blue and the bubbles, you start to drown. 

Fingers twitching, you claw at nothing as the darkness settles its hands over your panicked eyes, not for a moment thinking about who had called to you in the first place—or who was poking a head out of the water before you’d gone over. Obviously, it was a trick of your senses; no one could survive being out in water like this.

You certainly weren’t going to. 

Legs slashing, something is darting in the corner of your eye before your vision fails, but the rapid fear in your heart masks the hand gripping at your shirt’s collar. It hides even the feeling of strong arms until the point where you’re yanked upwards with little effort as one curls your waist. It doesn't hide, however, the way you vomit up water as you’re heaved to the rocky shore moments later.

Choking, you hack up salt that burns your esophagus until your lunch quickly follows—all spilled with little care for your hands caught in the crossfire. Spine arching as if a cat, air can’t come sweeter as it is drawn in rapidly; nearly hyperventilating on the ocean-smooth stones as your clothes are utterly ruined. 

Panting, gasping, shivering violently, your head pulls itself weakly upward. It doesn’t take long for your mind to scream at you, and your head snaps behind you in a panic.

But there’s nothing but the raging water and the splash of a large navy-colored tail as big as your entire body disappearing back into the depths. 

Your fear can only stay for so long before the threat of a frigid death becomes more and more probable. In your race back up the cliff face to your shop, your purse is completely forgotten, trapped on the top of that shaky rock where it had fallen from your shoulder before the great plunge. 

Your shawl is seen floating out to the open water before it’s grasped from below and suddenly plucked—vanishing without a single trace.

—

The fire rages with the inferno of a million suns, and it’s not nearly hot enough. Wrapped in every blanket, sheet, and warm item available, you still can’t stop shivering hours later. A teacup was stuck in your hands, the liquid sloshing over the edges to slip over your quivering fingers and absorb into the cocoon of heat. 

Breathing through your shaky lungs, you keep the rim of the cup to your lips, eyes wide and horrified. In the still moments after you’d stripped and tried to stop the onset of sickness that you could already feel coming, there was a flash of realization from your strange and fantastical ordeal. 

There had been a man. 

The sensation of hands around your waist—the gruff voice that had spooked you so violently. A man. In the water. Every time you blink, you see a shadowed image, a tiny glimpse as you’d turned to the sound of human speech above the shriek of birds. 

Short brown hair and narrowed blue eyes set into sockets of pale skin. A bearded face, mustache…square jaw…

“What in God’s name?” You stutter in question over your tea, shaking your head. “That isn’t possible.” 

Outside your shop, the wind screams, pushing against your exterior shutters as night sets in. A storm was coming; there’d be no other adventures for you. Sipping your drink, you shiver again, curling in tighter to yourself as wood crackles. The light dances over your easels and side tables, piled high with jars of brushes and pallets—bottles of linseed oil and liquin, labeled with little pieces of hanging paper at the necks. 

There are paintings in the tens—in the twenties—hanging on the walls and set to the corners, all blue and gray; misty and clear. The water is a staple in all of them, and the cliffs as well. Perfect imitations of this place, as if you could reach a hand through the canvas and enter a mirrored world. Great ships are in some of them, or little fishing boats, with the birds overhead. Sometimes, it’s only the water itself, and to you, those were perhaps the best of your work. 

There was a beauty in the nothingness. A mystery. Who knows what’s under that thin surface? Well…apparently, it wasn’t human. 

You swallow down saliva and your lips thin. 

The thing in the water wasn’t… unattractive, you had to admit. Beyond the waterlogged hair and dripping beard, a large nose sat—full cheeks with an odd mole over them. The more you thought about the brief flash of a visage, the more you grew to hang onto it, strangely. And that navy tail? It had been incredibly unique. 

Spiney, nearly—four thin bones going down on both sides, branching out from the tail starting with the shortest that was perhaps only as long as your hand until the final was as lengthy as your entire arm. There was webbing between each spine to help the thing through the water quickly, it spread to the end of the barb until it sunk back in a ‘U’ movement, before once more arching out again to connect with the next spine. Small gasps in the caudal fin calling to either battles or a natural state of being—for show in it…his?...species. 

Could you even assign it a human gender? 

You close your eyes tightly in your shop, trying to will the image away from yourself. “What in the hell is going on?” Your voice is scratchy and low. 

Yet, the undeniable truth was that the fish-man had saved you. It couldn’t be overlooked. Not by you, who now can sit in front of this very fire because of it. Like a moth to the flame, the surge of cautious confusion is burning your wings. 

Deep blue eyes like the ocean. A navy tail. A gruff, hard voice.

You open your eyes and glare into the fireplace. 

“What has this place been hiding in the water? And why did it bloody save my life right after it nearly ended it?” 

More importantly…you had to think of a way to get your sketchbook back without getting on its bad side.

With a heavy chest, and more than a little fear in your heart, it was resolved to do something about all of this tomorrow. There was no use leaving the shop now. Glancing at the shaking window, you could hear the ocean rampaging over the cliffs; hear the slam of the rain hitting the roof like pounding feet. 

But that voice played in your ears like a gramophone's bleated chorus. 

You shiver again, not from the cold.

Careful, then. 

—

There was no question if you’d gotten sick because of your impromptu bath in the ocean—the evidence was in your salt-covered shirt and the stockings that were still drying on the hearth. 

Pressing a handkerchief to your mouth as you cough haggardly. You’re bundled in a nice fur dress coat, walking along the street with a skipping heart, a simple cloche hat over your head to protect you from the elements; dark blue in color.

The irony was not lost this morning when the hue had a striking familiarity to a fish-like tail, but it hadn’t stayed in your hand. A small drizzle slapped the fabric, and you were thankful you had brought the hat and coat along with you on the move from the big city. 

You weakly smile and nod to the locals you consider friends—at the very least acquaintances. But before long, you’re at the place you feel you need to be to gain answers, too nervous to go back to the shore immediately.

The library.

Something Otto had said came back to you last night, in the throws of insomnia. The two sentences he’d called out on the docks that day—You’ll not take her like you did Eleanor. Mark my words, I’ll be stringing you up by the tail first.

Eleanor? Who was that and how did it correlate to the beast in the water that wears a man's face? Maybe, the local records would tell you the answer—there had to be something about this person, ‘Eleanor,’ in them, right?

If not, there was only one option left, and that was going down to the shore and getting the results first hand…you’d rather exhaust all of your resources on solid land first. 

Slipping into the library with a deep breath and a cough in your throat, you sigh and nod slightly. Time to get to work.

“Oh,” the librarian looks up from her desk, standing as you shuffle over. “Hello, Dear,” she breathes through a chuckle, eyebrows pulling in softly. “My, you look a bit under the weather, don’t you? Would you like me to get some tea going…?”

“No, thank you,” you wave an easy hand. “I’m here on a bit of an errand, actually, and I was wondering if you could help me with something? I need to ask about your records.”

“Records?” The woman’s face shifts to confusion, her body slipping out to stand next to yours, you bring back up your handkerchief and sneeze into it, groaning. “What kind were you thinking, then?”

After you can push away the sheen of sickness to your eyes you take a breath and clear your throat of the stuffiness. “Births and work records? Addresses?” You make a small noise in the back of your mouth. “I guess I don’t know…anything that might help me?”

The librarian chuckles a bit, amused. “How about you tell me what it is you’re looking into, and I’ll try and grab any public knowledge that I can find. We’ll work together, then.” 

Weight is loosened from your shoulders and you nod appreciatively. “Deal.”

“Go on then,” she walks over to a shelf on the far side of the room, standing as her fingers run the spines. “Occupation I can start with, Dear?”

“Well…” you pause, shuffling after as your head looks from one sizable book to another. “No, unfortunately. Only a first name.”

“You’re lucky Redthorpe is small,” the woman laughs. “Otherwise I would have told you you’re lacking your senses with only something like that to go off of.” 

“Eleanor,” you comment, licking your lips and staring at a spine labeled ‘1890-1900 financial records - Redthorpe’. “E-L-E-A-N-O-R, or at least that’s the common spelling, I believe.” 

The librarian’s body is stone-still. Comparable to the immovable rocks of the shore as the waves bash against them; the raging of the wind. When you glance over, confused at the silence that infects the building, you’re reduced to a meek hesitation at the blank eyes that dig into your face. 

“...Or…maybe it’s N-O-R-E?” 

“I’m sorry, but I can’t help you,” is the hurried answer, and then the woman moves past with fast feet, heels clicking over the hardwood rapidly. “There hasn’t been an Eleanor in Redthrope. You’re mistaken.” 

“Wait,” you follow, stuttering. “I don’t understand, there has to have been—Otto was talking about her not days ago!”

“You’re mistaken,” is the repeated, firm answer, the librarian’s body swirling to face you again, pointing a finger at you. “Go back to your shop. Mr. Whitworth is old, he sees things that aren’t there. Don’t take what he says to heart—”

“I saw it!” You bark, fed up. Your mind was sick of these games being played, left out of the loop like you hadn’t formed a relationship with the people of this town. 

The woman’s mouth locked shut with a clack of teeth, something darting over her expression…fear?

She backs up slowly. “I…I don’t know what you’re talking about, Dear.”

Your lips twist, a threatening sneeze in the back of your nose. “I’m done with the word games! It dragged me out of the water like a sack of flour and tossed me to shore! It saved me!” Her hands are held in front of her as you stalk closer, trying to brush what you’re telling her aside as she struggles to string words. 

“It…it wouldn’t do that—that’s not how it acts. You’re just imagining things; you’re under the weather!”

“Who’s Eleanor?” You huff, stubborn as you cross your arms in front of you. “And what in the hell is a man with the tail of a fish doing living just below these cliffs?”

Wide eyes meet glaring ones, and the librarian’s lips move up and down in a panic. 

“I…” she begins, feet tapping the floor nervously as the rafters creak above the both of you. “I can’t talk about it. It’s not something to be said out loud—especially so close to the water.” 

You bark incredulously, “There’s a bloody monster that lives down in—!”

A hand is snapped over your mouth and you startle, blinking through the twitch of your body. 

“Shh!” The librarian panics, shaking her head, with flaring eyes. “Stop it or you’ll end up being dragged down to the ocean floor like Eleanor was!” You tense behind the hold, shoulders pulled in. It’s a quick spit of whispered words like a fast breeze. “Do you want your body showing up on the rocks?! Stay away from it!”

Your heart pounds in your chest, vision darting back and forth before she finally lets you go in a quick jerk of her body. The woman backs up, quivering as her eyes go to the window, nearly panting from fear. 

She looks back at you, blinks, and mutters out a quiet, “If you’ve already seen it, it wants you. Don’t go back to the water,” before she rushes into the back room and slams the door shut with the slipping of the lock. 

Left standing in the open library, the shelves sit stationary as if sentinels to your raw distress—this had only left you with more questions and a handful of jumbled answers. 

“Careful, then.”

You shake your head harshly and pivot to leave the library in a stupor, shoving your chin back down into your coat’s collar as the wind slaps your face once more. The call of the ocean is like a knife to the back of your neck.

—

Call you whatever name in the book, but you wanted your sketchbook back.

No one in town was giving you anything that was of use, and Otto was tighter-lipped than a lockbox. There was only so much you could do—could speculate—before the need for your belongings was too strong to ignore. It took two more days of pacing your shop before it was decided. 

Taking up the heavy cast-iron pan above your fireplace, you slip the thing into your coat, shove on your hat with a defiant grunt, and force the front door open. It’s a ten-minute walk to the shore, and all the way there, dread fills you up like soup until you’re bloated with it by the time your boots hit black rocks. Yet, there’s a point where a woman’s courage outweighs the sense of caution, and today was currently that day. 

Taking a deep breath to steady your nerves, you grab your skirt and hike it up, placing your boot carefully on the first of the larger stones leading out to where you’d been previously. 

“Don’t look at the water,” you mutter quietly as you move, not shuffling forward until you know the rock isn’t going to topple this way or that. “Don’t even think about it.”

But that tail…that face…

With a growl under your breath, you grind your teeth and continue on. 

The weather today was much more agreeable, but cold. It was always chilled in Redthorpe—dreary as if the clouds never left far above. You didn’t mind, and in your coat pocket, the reassuring weight of your pan left you much warmer than you’d like to admit. 

The heat of protection, so to speak.

“Even a fish-man can die, I’d wager,” you utter, grunting as you ascend a larger rock, palm slapping the wet stone before you heavy upwards, slamming your boot to the top much like a schoolboy as your skirt bunches. “If I hit him hard enough in the skull. I wonder though,” you sneeze, shuddering, “if he even bleeds? If I crack his head open…will blood seep out, or salt water?” 

You shiver, and it’s not from the cold. “Fucking hell, you do like making it harder on yourself, don’t you.”

Lightly panting, you brush down your coat on the top of the rock and turn to look at the boulder where you’d fallen previously, blinking. Pausing, your eyes find not only your sketchbook sitting there…but also your shawl. 

Struggling for a moment to try and justify your actions, you swiftly look over the surface of the water, seeing the gentle push and pull of waves. No fin. No tail. 

You aren’t sure if the feeling in your chest is joy or disappointment.

Licking your lips, you take a large breath before your face turns grim.

“Grab it and run,” your voice echoes in your own head, heart pounding with adrenaline the more steps you take to the boulder, water sloshing at the sides. You had thought perhaps that the rain—the storm—would render all of your lost belongings null, but as you bent and snatched your items to you, shawl hanging from your arm, you were pleasantly surprised. It was all dry; impossibly so. 

Amid your shock, your slack jaw, and the weight of your pan in your coat, your shaky fingers open your book with bated breath. 

Everything was in pristine condition, if not only slightly curled at the corners due to…your eyebrows pull in, expression struggling to take on the emotion of anything other than pure awe.

“Fingerprints?” 

Eyes slipping from one page to the next, flipping them only to see the press and pull of a long gone thumb, shiting the paper to gaze at the back, where a forefinger would have been. A hand laced in water had been turning the pages, just as you do now—and, yet, there wasn’t an inch that was damaged; nothing smeared. 

Shoulders loosening from their tensed position, your wide stare is utterly transfixed as your digits rub the material softly, feet shifting. 

Lowering your sketchbook, your small huff of amazed laughter, mind running. 

He’d been going through your drawings—he’d somehow protected these items from the rain and salt. How? Why? But another question wrapped its hands in your skull.

Did he like them?

Shuffling the book into the crook of your arm, you carefully wrap your shawl over the material to further keep it safe, not able to find your purse, though the only thing it ever held was your sketchbook in the first place; it wasn’t too important. 

Rising your head again, you gaze openly outward, lips opening and closing in a small stutter. Was he out there, this strange creature with a strong face and those deep eyes? That navy tail, looking like a beautiful imitation of kelp…was it just under where you now study the waves?

So many questions, so few answers. 

You clear your throat, holding your items tighter. There’s magnetism in your blood, and it sits on your tongue like salt.

“Thank you!” Your voice calls high, joining the chorus of birds far above on the cliffs. Eyes skating the rocks, the shore, the ocean, everything. Call you prideful, but perhaps the best way to gain your favor is to know that someone, whatever bit strange and fantastical, had enjoyed your work to the smallest degree. 

The way your eyes spark is still embarrassing, though, but it comes naturally after the heat that simmers over your face. 

“Truly,” you shout to the wind. “You have no idea how much this means! If you’re listening, I’d like to extend my gratitude…” Your face is beaming, and you can convince yourself that all of your fear over this is gone, even if that would just plainly be untrue. “My artwork is everything to me, I do hope you enjoyed it!” 

A creature so easily curious about your skills wouldn’t drag you to the bottom of the ocean…right? 

Hell, he’d already had a chance to do that—a perfect one—and yet, here you are. What the Librarian had said had to be false, it made no sense otherwise.

Seeing nothing, and knowing that you were needed back at your shop, you chuckle under your breath and back up swiftly, walking the distance back to the surrounding rocks and slipping off softly. Grunting under your breath, your boots hit the stone, and you carefully begin back-tracking. 

“You’re good at it,” you halt in a fraction of a second. “The images. Where’d you learn to do that?”

It’s a long moment before you turn with a cautious tilt to your head, and find the very same visage as you had a glimpse of days ago. You fight a fast inhale, but your straightening spine tells all the story it needs to. Like a fool, you lose the words in your mouth, as if trying to catch a bird of prey with a butterfly net.

A strong face is poking out of the water only a mere five feet away.

Your eyes slip to the soaked beard, the peak of bare shoulders—broad, of course—and the prying orbs that you feel will never leave; he wades there, arms under the dark water only a flash of pale skin before they’re gone again. 

“I…” you lick your lips, blinking through the moment of animalistic panic. You were on land, there was nothing to fear. The sight was still something to be remembered, though. “I was self-taught, Sir.” 

Blue eyes blink, serious face only made more so by the twitching of his large nose, which water drips from periodically. Droplets stay stuck to his dark lashes, and you’re near bursting with questions. 

But silence persists long after your sentence filters out to nothing.

“You pulled me from the water,” you state slowly. “And I don’t even know your name.”

The man looks you up and down, not arrogant, no, but in a way that is comparable to how you did the same to him. Studying you as if your body was strange to him. The realization almost made you laugh—perhaps it was strange to him.

You want to see that tail of his again. Your fingers itch to sketch its likeness and commit it to muscle memory. 

“I scared you,” he grumbles, sighing. “It wasn’t my intention to send you over.” Eyes still stay stuck. “My own fault.”

“I won’t deny you there,” you huff, gaze shifting away for a moment before filtering back. A slash of amusement curls in the thing’s eyes, and he hums. “Forgive me,” your breath wafts out over the air, face going what you can assume to be sheepish. It astounds you, though, that the conversation comes easily. “But I haven’t the faintest bloody clue as to what to call you.”

“John,” is the reply. Accent like gravel. He doesn’t waste his breath, seems. 

“John?” You lick your lips, legs shuffling over the stone. The name leaves you holding back a loud laugh. “Well, I suppose I could have guessed that, then. I’ve met more than enough ‘Johns’ so far.”

“Funny, are you?” The response, however dry, is tinged with something you can’t name. 

“I try,” you nod jokingly, motioning with a hand. “Just didn’t expect a man with a fishtail to act so….human. Certainly not be named like one, either.”

“Hm,” John grunts, blinking slowly. A hand slips above the water, and you watch it flex and drag to itch at the back of his neck, hair over the arm slick to the flesh. Your face heats, and your eyes dip to see the small shadow under the water almost graze the surface, rippling the waves intimately, as if tail and liquid were of the same sound mind. 

It wasn’t out of the question to say you longed for a glimpse. 

What would it feel like to touch it?

“You live here?” Your voice is hoarse before you clear it quickly. “Right below the cliffs?” 

“You’re the woman that goes out in the boat,” John firmly interjects, and you blink, taken aback. 

“Yes, that’s me.” You explain, pulling at the lip of your hat to force it down further over your head. “Otto goes fishing in the mornings—I like to sketch the shore. He isn’t the worst company, of course. He’s kind enough to let me along with him.”

But you won’t be kept down. There’s magical curiosity in your chest now.

“Your tail,” you take a step forward, boots being licked by icy water. John’s eyes widen a smidge, not expecting you to actively move closer. His head tilts as if a bird, confusion brimming though he hides it expertly. You imagined he considered you a bit mad. “Forgive me, Sir, but I must know,” your uttered rambles make his hidden lip twitch, a little twist to your expression that shows wonder. “Is it attached to you, or do you slip out of it like a pair of pants? O-or even like wearing a stage costume? Oh, it’s like nothing I’ve ever seen before.”

John can’t find the words for a moment, only able to watch and assess as he always did in times like these. You were…different, he supposed. But he knew that the moment you had shifted your body over the side of that old man’s boat—looking for a glimpse of something unknown. He could see it in your eyes. 

The water calls to you. It lives in your veins already, waiting. More salt and seaweed than earth and grass. Sand, rock, gulls, they all cry in the back of your mind, and your fingers itch to catalog them into immortality in a way that John was fascinated over—the skill of parchment and memorization. Mastery over detail.

He doesn't know why he’s speaking to you, truly. He’d done his penance; saved your life. But he knows he doesn’t dislike it, and that in and of itself needed to be understood. John couldn’t leave his analytical brain lacking an answer to a question as big as that—a woman of all things? A human one? 

Blue eyes can’t seem to slip from yours, as you await a gruff reply.

“No.” You blink, pulling back a smidge when John’s voice is low and graited. “Go back to your home. It’s late.”

“Hey, wait—!”

But he’s already gone under the waves, and you’re left with a waterlogged boot, a cast iron pan, and the two items that had survived because of a grizzly creature's compassion. Your lungs heave, and the cloud of condensation rises into a gray sky.

You stay there far longer than you’d like to admit.

—

You struggled, slipped, and climbed your way back to that point on the rocks every other day, and yet, there was nothing more to be seen of the man with the tail. You knew he was out there, felt it in your bones, and still…you were left here staring out at far-off boats and half-hopes. Wondering. Waiting. 

In the days that passed, you would explore the shore further, going in nooks and deep bends that extended into the cliffs during low tide, cringing away from the slippery fingers of kelp stuck to the walls. Dead fish, mucus-lined snails—you had made the important decision of leaving your sketchbook at home, the pages already filled with the perfect reflection of a man’s face peeking above the water. 

Taking off your hat, you huff on a similar day to those others, this time slipping inside a cave with a direct connection to the ocean. There wasn’t any wind in here—and you sigh in relief as your breeze-bitten cheeks can finally get a rest. You didn’t know what you expected to find doing all this fruitless searching, but it didn’t erase the fact that you enjoyed it; looking for a glimpse of something out of the ordinary. 

Brushing your hat of sand and other such items, your head swivels softly, a delicate smile on your face as water drips from the rock ceiling, stalactites like broken fingers reaching for the ground. A pool of sorts takes up most of this place, the thing extending to the ocean through a medium-sized opening in the stone.

You turn in a half-circle. 

“Beautiful,” your lips murmur, voice echoing. 

Walking forward, every so often your body stoops to carefully grasp shells and smoothed shards of colored glass, beaten down by waves and reduced to harmless trinkets. Continuing, you care little about your boots or your coat, only for the pull in your chest that tells you to keep going until your legs are weak and weary—shaking from a day long spent in selfish adventure.

When you find the pile of rings, sitting in soft kelp, you nearly walk right past them until the glint of metal takes you by surprise. Pausing, your pulse warms as your eyes slash to the side, getting sucked in as easily as cookies to a child. 

Only hesitating a second, you slowly walk until you’re inches away, seeing different styles and gems like starlight sitting as if unaware of their raw beauty. 

“What are you doing in here…?” You ask yourself, your own voice responding from the walls as it bounces. 

Picking up one of pure gold, you shift the band to stare openly at an emerald nearly the size of your knuckle set into it. Lips parting, it’s as if your breath is stolen by a quiet thief. But the sudden arrival of splashing snaps you out of your stupor quite quickly.

Dropping the ring immediately back into the pile, your hand jerks to your chest as an increasingly common face shows itself once more from the water. 

You clear your throat, face burning as John raises a slow brow, glancing at the stash of rings silently. 

“One day you’re going to make me keel over,” your voice berates, pointedly avoiding his blues. So the items were his. 

“A thief as well as an artist?” John asks after a moment, tilting his skull as his body drifts closer to the rocky side of the pool. The next sentence is no question, only a statement. “You’ve been looking for me.”

You take a long breath, sighing, before you shove your hat into your coat’s pocket, glaring lightly. “You left so abruptly, I never got to ask my questions. Quite rude of you to keep a lady waiting, John.”

As you say his name, he glances over, but not before his sizable hands slap to the side of the rock and he hoists himself up with a single push of his forearms. The man grunts, lips pulling, before you’re left breathless. 

Eyes stuck on the upper half of his body, the water dripping down the hair-layered bulge of visible muscle, your wide vision skates from one point to another, flesh on fire the more you stay mute. But the tail—that was something you could never describe. 

The beginning was all you could see; scales of dark navy and a spread of muddled silver-like dots, nearly impossible to make out except at this distance. They began at the top of where hips should be, the scales, smaller and blending into the skin easily, only becoming larger the more the tail extended down; the appendage was far larger than legs would be, that you can tell easily. You can’t see all of it, as perhaps a little less than half still sits swaying in the water…but even this was enough for now.

This moment would be stuck in your sketchbook for all of eternity. 

It’s only after your jaw is slackened that you realize John has been watching you the entire time.

Forcing it shut with a tiny clack of teeth, you try to regain any composure you can. The being’s beard curls in a smirk, cheek pushing to show the lines near his eyes. 

“If someone’s avoiding you, Sunshine,” he grunts out, voice low. From the corner of his eye, he watches as his hand rises to itch at his beard. “They usually don’t want to have a conversation.”

“I think it’s fair,” you huff. “You can’t just disappear when I have so many unanswered questions.”

John blinks, attention not moving for even a second. Your own is less than firm, fighting to not dart down to openly study every dip and bend of his bones. He was so…stoic. Gruff. But there were moments of amusement—even annoyed interest. 

“I don’t have time to fuckin’ entertain others,” he thins his lips. 

Your arms crossed, face dripping into seriousness. “And what else is so much more important, then?” You raise a brow. “Scaring other women into the water?”

He huffs under his breath. “It was an accident—wouldn’t have happened if you weren’t so jumpy, eh?” 

“It’s not like I expect to see fishmen pop out of the water,” you defend. 

“Mer-man, Love,” he licks his lips, sighing, as his eyes shift to glance at the opening of the cave. Your face bleeds into a slight expression of satisfaction, arms over your chest tightening as your feet rock back on their heels.

“Well,” you chuckle. “Now we’re getting somewhere.” 

An emotionless glare is all you receive. 

It was no surprise that you ended up blurting out inquiry after inquiry—what does having a tail feel like? How do you breathe underwater, or do you only hold your breath like a human? Do you have gills somewhere, or lungs? What other creatures are out there like you?

You have no idea what time it ends up being, and you have no intention of stopping soon. It’s a pleasant surprise, then, that John answers all of your quick words with full answers; giving slow, but not condescending explanations. 

A few times there had been tiny chuckles, and the little conversations amounted to you sitting on a rock right near the water, only feet away from where the tail drifts in the waves; John’s hands keeping his upper half straight as his palms meet slippery stone. 

“And the rings?” You breathlessly wonder, attention darting to the pile. “Do you find them out there? Keep them?”

John tilts his head in an affirmation. “Shipwrecks. There’ll be hundreds of them—I’m not one to keep many belongings, but the bloody things were nicely made.” He sighs. “Seemed a waste to leave them down there.”

You huff a sound of amusement. “I see. Fascinating.”

In the small pause, your eyes once more study the cave, seeing little breaks in the walls where cubby-like indents are. In them, your focus drifts from one glimmering object to another, all previously missed by you when you’d first entered. 

You blink. “You live here?”

“Affirmative,” John stares. His body shifts, tail flickering as your focus snaps back to it, almost lost in the way the ends so nimbly slice the water. Like wispy fabric. Your eyes soften like molten metal. You look back at him and find his eyes already locked to yours. 

Breath caught in your throat, you chuckle meekly to dispel your embarrassment. John’s face minutely relaxes, stern brow loosening.

“And…” you lick your lips, knowing it was time to leave. The sun no longer shines through the crack in the rock. “If I were to come back, would I be able to find you here?” 

There’s a flash of that same indecipherable emotion as before over his bushy face. 

The man was anything but small—everything to the swell of his tail; body hair for, what you assume, is to keep out the constant chill of the water. You’d never imagined that you’d find it all so attractive down to the navy scales that shimmered above the push of his side. That healthy layer of meat was eliciting far more of a physical reaction than you’d care to admit to anyone, let alone a priest of any religion during a confession.

Perhaps that fall into the water really had killed you.

“I’ll be here,” John responds lowly, gravel in his throat.

Swallowing down saliva, you push back the ravenous smile that threatens you.

“...Okay.”

—

And this affair became such a constant, that most of the people in town had begun asking about you as you snuck to the waters. Otto was largely concerned, but would not say anything more for some unseen fear—nor the Librarian, who avoided your eyes any chance she got. 

Dragged to the ocean floor. Body on the rocks. 

The sheen of discovery could be a powerful vice, and for those first two months, you never asked John about the woman named Eleanor or who she might be—what correlation she had to beasts of the water. Then again, you didn’t have to ask. He managed to get around to it himself. 

Your eyes blankly stare at the page of your sketchbook, the merman’s rough shape chicken-scratched with small lines into the parchment, and your pencil stays still to it, immobile. From across the cave, John’s face tightens as his eyelids narrow. You’d been quiet today, he had noticed. Usually so bright with your words, the walls had barely echoed with the symphony of your speech, and, more importantly, John’s ears hadn’t twitched to it. 

He had become fond of your company, he admitted to himself. A strange human woman with her fur coat and hat, the little sketchbook that held such wonderful imitations of life. John was anything but dull—he knew you drew him, and he entertained the activity. In fact, the thought at one point or another may have made the brute of a man blush a bit. So, when you were as still as the stone you sat on, he had concerns. 

He liked it when you spoke, even if it was only a tease. And the tightness of his chest when you don’t look his way is enough to leave his tail twitching in confusion as it sits in the water.

“You’re quiet today,” he starts, frowning. 

Your fingers jerk, sending a line over your paper as you blink, looking up as your heart skips a beat. Glancing at John’s face, the thoughts inside of your head slip until you can understand what he said. 

“I’m sorry,” you sigh, and the man’s face pulls. “You can speak if you want. I'm just a little distracted.”

“I didn’t mean it like that, Love, yeah?” John grunts, hands shifting over the stone. He looks you up and down, tail sitting still below him. “What happened?”

“Nothing happened,” your lips mumble, and you shake your head. “It’s one of my questions again.” You pause, closing your book. “A difficult one.”

John’s lips flicker. “Well, we’ve been at this for ages. Can’t see how this one is more difficult than the others.” He nods softly, voice a low and somewhat smooth mutter. “Go on.”

“I don’t know if I can,” you huff, standing and placing your sketchbook in the driest part of the cave before walking closer. Bending right in front of John, your face is tight. The man likes it like this—having you closer. He can feel the heat roll off you, and his eyes flutter even when nothing on his face gives away the pull he senses in his chest. 

John hums and swallows stiffly.

“Why not?” His head tilts, and he clears his throat to get rid of the raspy scrape of his vocals. “Something going on up there?”

Up there. 

The Merman had asked about Redthorpe, as well as the rest of the people who lived there. The atmosphere, the way of life. Your meetings were more of an exchange of information and stolen glances than anything else, the other none the wiser to this magnetic attraction. It was a delicate thing, knowing that there was something more and yet unable to fully express the way it makes you feel. Neither of you knows what to call it.

“More so in here,” you smile tinily, pointing at your head as your cheeks grow hot. 

“Then speak to me,” John frowns, trying a low smirk. “Think we both know I’m a good listener then, Love. There’s time,” he glances at the entrance. “Won’t be near dark for a few more hours—don’t want you climbing at night.”

“Awe,” you breathe, beaming suddenly with that glint back in your eyes. John hides the sagging of his shoulders, only offering a hum under his breath as he looks over at you. His kelp-like fins twitch, and he wonders what it would feel like to have you touch them. It was obvious you wanted to.

Not yet. 

“Hurry up, Sunshine,” John grinds out, that accent all the more sandy. 

There’s a small grunt and a shuffle, and, soon, a warm body is plotting itself next to his own, arm touching his, and a pair of bare feet slipping into the pool. Blue eyes widen in surprise, head darting to where your form rests so simply—so near the crook of his shoulder that he could reach over and draw you to him if he so wanted. 

Your feet shift as the hem of your skirt gets soggy with water, and John barks out a firm, “You’re going to get cold.” 

“It’s not as cold here as it is out there,” you shrug to him, smiling with a side-eye. “Besides, I’m right next to you—you’ll keep me warm, won’t you, John?”

“Fucking hell,” he puffs out, shaking his head as he rips it forward once more, clenching his jaw. Your scent seeps into his nose, and when your leg slips along the side of his scales under the water, he all but goes a blank-faced scarlet. 

You hide a chuckle, shivering at the chill but more so at the unimaginably smooth sensation of John’s tail over your flesh. Your legs move through the water to cross at the ankles, your right hand resting to directly touch John’s left. With every pump of your blood, his own mirrors.

Yet, your mood sobers, and the joy leaks. 

“There’s a woman that no one speaks about in Redthrope,” you begin, and John settles to listen, brows furrowing in concentration as your skin sits so well next to his own. “Eleanor.” 

The man pauses abruptly, and you keep talking.

“And for some reason,” you sigh out a low breath, turning to look at John and his still face; emotionless. “Everyone seems to blame you for whatever happened to her. I don’t know if she’s missing, or…”

Your words trail off, insinuation clear.

Not noticing any chance on John’s face, you lightly bump him with your elbow, expression going concerned. “Hey, are you alright?” Your opposite hand raises, moving out between the two of you. “I didn’t mean to insinuate anything, I would just really appreciate anything you might know about it.” Eyes imploring, your heart pours itself. “I don’t think you’d do something like that.”

John blinks slowly, finally opening his mouth. “What makes you say that?”

“If you were some murderous creature,” you shrug, “I don’t think you would have tried to pull me out of the ocean in the first place.” Lashes caressing your cheeks, you smile. “Am I wrong?”

“No,” the man huffs, quirking a brow. “No, you’re not wrong.”

“Knew it,” you whisper, eyes crinkling as you side-eye him.

John chuckles, half rolling his eyes as he leans to your ear as he grumbles. “Gettin’ cheeky, are you?” 

If you were a bird, you’d be preening your feathers, eyelids narrowed. “Perhaps, John.” 

It is a wonder, then, that the two of you don’t lock lips that very instant—long fins curling around legs and shoulders stuck together, pinkies unconsciously sitting atop the others as if pieces of parchment. Blue eyes shift smoothly to your lips, but before you can register that they have, John’s head is already moving back and his spine is straight. 

The man flattens his lips, tilting his skull. 

“I knew of a woman named Eleanor—she would come down with her husband, Noah, and they would walk along the shore. Got close to this place a few times.” Dark brows tighten. “Found her body in the water after a storm about two years ago; brought it back to the rocks so someone could retrieve it.” Your face loosens as the information settles in. John makes a noise in his chest. “Interesting that I’d be roped into it, but it’s understandable. Always someone to blame, eh?” 

“I don’t blame you,” you whisper. “That must have been horrible.”

Blue slips over to you silently, and it’s a long moment before John only hums under his breath, blinking away softly. 

“Scared me when you fell in.” Listening, your heart clenches in your ribs. To think about what must have been going through his head at that instant was sad to you, and even worse so when you know he would have blamed himself if you might have ended up seriously hurt.

“Well,” you lean into him, face on fire, “it was a good thing you were there to drag me out, then. A little water never hurt anyone, so long as a handsome merman is there to take them back to shore.” 

John huffs out a laugh. “Handsome?”

“Oh, very,” you joke. “The tail is a bonus.” Your expression lightens, eyes glinting. “Since when did you know that navy is my favorite color?”

The feeling of the cold water is only a back-drop to the way John’s fins twitch against your bare legs intimately, and you chuckle as the beard can only hide so much red skin. 

“Bugger off,” he grunts. 

You’ve never heard a smile so clearly before in your life.

—

Your paintings were selling far better than they ever had, and you had to thank the new muse of them for that fact. 

John’s appearance in your work had started small—a glimpse of a fin, the presence of a shadow in the water—and had steadily grown. Now, hidden like a present, there was the image of some fishtailed man somewhere in all of them, a steady injection of magic into the veins of cerulean blue and ivory black. It showed you that fewer people knew about John than you had previously thought. 

Initially, you had imagined that everyone knew and the reason you didn’t was because you were relatively new here, but no. Most had been enamored by your work when they found the ‘strange fish-man’ in one, pointing and chucking to themselves, talking about how adorable it was. No one was shocked, no one sent looks. 

By the end of the week, you had been convinced that it had been narrowed down to Otto and the Librarian—

The bell of your shop dings.

Looking up from your easel, you smile and stand automatically, thinking about closing soon so you can go and see John. Nowadays, even the thought of him makes your blood pump heavy. 

“How can I help you today, Sir?” Your brushes find the side table you had set up, locking eyes with a tall, thin man in his late thirties. He wears a suit, and in his breast pocket, there’s the gleam of a gold chain attached to a pocket watch. 

“I’m here to ask about a detail in your paintings, Miss.” He’s well-spoken as well, and you’re shocked to know you haven't met him yet if he lived in Redthorpe—he doesn’t seem familiar at all.

“Of course,” you nod, perplexed. “I’m sorry, I think I missed your name.”

“Noah Moore,” is the even response. Noah is already walking around, bending to look into some of your work which hangs on the wall. “My neighbor brought home one of your pieces; I found I liked it very much. Had even considered commissioning.”

Noah? You blink slowly, watching. Wasn’t that Eleanor’s husband?

“Thank you,” your lips move, thinning. “That’s very high praise, Mr. Moore.” 

“This creature,” Noah stands, and dark eyes set on you. For some reason, the hair along your arms stands on end. “The man with a fish tail. Have you seen him?”

Your instant reaction is to lie, and that in and of itself is a telltale sign that something is wrong. Noah makes the alarm in the back of your head go off for no reason other than the way he’s trying to pry with that unblinking gaze of his. The rich apparel; the attitude. He isn’t right.

“Seen him?” Chuckles echo off the walls. “Who? The beast? No, Sir, that…thing…is just something I made up.” You wave a hand, but back up a step, trying to create distance. Your hip lightly bumps the side table, and your materials jerk. Gasping under your breath, your head snaps down, catching your brush before it can fall. “Oh my, clumsy me.” you laugh stiffly. “Apologies, Sir, but that’s the truth. I wanted to create something that all of Redthrope might enjoy; a local legend of sorts, see.”

Your eyes had siphoned back with a dread in your heart. The man mutely stares, a deep frown pulling his lips. As if the conversation had never happened, after a long stretch of tension, Noah smiles widely. 

“Ah,” he huffs, “of course. It was silly of me to ask.” Dark eyes are emotionless, and the pull of his eyelids is not there. Spine so tight it could snap in half, and your fingers curl around the brush before you place it down stiffly. “Though,” Mr. Moore clicks his tongue, taking one step closer. 

Your eyes widen, but you say nothing. Your mind flashes to John, and there’s a longing for the ocean so strong, it seems a good idea to you, to rush out the door right now and sprint for it; hurl yourself to the waves, if need be. He’d find you—you know he would.

“Though,” Noah continues, tilting his head. “There is a striking resemblance to a creature I recall seeing from the cliffs, the day my wife’s body was found at the rocks.” 

Backing up another step, your muscles ache with how you hold them like a shield to your organs. 

“As far as I know, only two others were searching at my side that day. And in it I am certain,” he hums, “you weren’t even here.”

Otto and the librarian, you think quickly, mind a mess of information and fear. It’s why they’re so spooked. They think John actually killed Eleanor and left her—they saw him bring her body to shore.

It’s a lack of foresight on your part, that the next bark is more of a reaction to the panic than proper knowledge, cracking under pressure. 

“John would never kill an innocent woman!” 

It’s as if a switch goes off, and, suddenly, there’s a ruthless hand grabbing at your throat. Yelping, you stagger back and snap your fingers to Noah’s wrist, clawing until there’s blood under your nails; air is sucked in with a wheeze. In the back of your head, there’s wild screaming, and you can’t tell if it’s the pounding of your blood or the internal sensation of primal fear. 

Raging eyes shove themselves right in front of yours, faces so close you can feel Noah’s hot breath moving over your burning face. You try to cough but find you can’t as one of your hands struggles to slap to the side table—searching fruitlessly. 

“John?” Noah sneers, holding tighter. “The thing has a name?”

Your easel clatters to the ground, back being shoved right into it. Mouth opening and closing, the cut of oxygen reduces your mind to acting purely off instinct—breaking down like glass to fracture to only one thing: survival.

“It was perfect,” Mr. Moore growls, eyes ablaze. “I had it all planned out, only to be ruined by a freak of nature at the last moment!” 

Your nails gouge the wood, dragging, searching, slapping. Anything—anything at all to help as your boots scrape from under you. You can’t even comprehend the words being said; all of it is a blur as blackness peels the side of your vision. 

Tears splatter down your cheeks.

“Two years, and then you had to come along and fucking speak to it! What did it tell you? Eh? What did it see that night?”

Your hand curls the glass bottle where you store your brushes and without another thought, you slam the side of it to Noah’s head. 

Shouting, the man releases you in an instant, glass leaving long lines of blood splattering out to sprinkle your face as it shatters, collapsing into itself. Connecting to the ground, your hacking can only take place for under two seconds before your boots scramble for purchase, stumbling and flailing at least once; lungs gasping. 

Shoulder connecting with the side of the door frame as you bang it open, an enraged scream follows you into the rainy afternoon, the rumble of deadly thunder far overhead. 

Running, you don’t know how to stop, and it’s even harder to catch your breath by the time you’re down to the rocks, looking over your shoulder as if Noah would be right behind you. He wasn’t—but the fear was enough to keep you going until you were bathed in sweat and barely strong enough to fall into the entrance of John’s cave, fingers cut up and raw from grappling over stone.

There’s a quick call of your name from across the enclosed space, but your ears are ringing too loud to hear—whipping around to stare at the entrance as you struggle back on your hands, legs shaking. 

“Love!”

Your eyes slash to the side, and through the quivering of your lashes, through the blur of tears, you lock onto the desperate slash of grayish-blue that’s a near-perfect reflection of the ocean itself. Painting, the realization comes a moment too late, as pale fingers touch your cheek and you flinch back with a deep pain in your neck. 

Pulsing veins echo along your entire body, but there, at the point of where hands had wrapped your flesh, it burned with a horrible fire that made thin noise escape your lips.

“Hey,” John breathes, having dragged himself at a moment’s notice across the floor of the cave. “Hey,” he repeats slower, eyes slashing you up and down for any sign of injury. 

His hand is outstretched, but he doesn’t try to touch you again seeing how you’d jerked away. The man’s heart had stopped at that—his concern shooting up similar to how he felt when you’d raced through the entrance as if a fire was on your heels. A near panic at the fear on your face, leaving his body on high alert; eyes skating the surrounding quickly.

But the splatters of blood on your face were something to reduce him to an enraged beast.

“What is going on,” he tries to keep the rough anger from his tone, attempting to leave it soft and smooth. There’s only so much he can do, though, as you shake and pant. 

Your body gradually slows itself, attention seeping back to allow you to take control of your limbs. The first thing you see clearly is John’s outstretched hand, and, then, the clench of his jaw—the eyes that follow every teardrop down the flesh of your cheek.

Openly gazing, when John sees you’re back, his blues slip to a softened caress. 

“Love,” he mutters, face tight. 

You shove yourself into his arms and let off a sob that echoes louder than any laughter could. Curling into his chest, water seeps into your shirt, but the all-expansive hand that keeps you close is worth every clothesline you would have to hang. 

“Shh,” John breathes, knowing that he’d get an explanation when he calmed you down, even if his mind was breaking itself to try and understand. “I’m right here, Sunshine. Breathe, then…I’m right here, yeah?” 

His nose pushes itself into your scalp as your head hides away, quivering body curled like a cat around a fish—no air between the two of you, chests running across the others. So little space, and yet this breathlessness was one you could welcome time and time again.

John watches, eyes always open as he glares into your hair, grip tightening the longer you cry; a feeling so potent brimming in his chest, he would be a fool to ignore it.

You were more precious to him than any ring, than any trinket he could stash away and forget about. The way his heart bent to yours was stronger than any storm. 

Breathing down your scent, John sighed, kissed the top of your head, and lightly rocked you back and forth. 

He’d wait as long as it took.

—

When it became apparent you couldn’t speak beyond broken little coughs and wheezes, John was quick to bring you to the water of the pool.  

Now, perhaps hours later, you sit with the burn and fatigue of crying eyes, sniffling as you shove away the stain of red on your cheeks. 

“Careful,” John lightly comments, grasping your hand and pulling it away. His own replaces it, wet from the water he now wades in to help. “Let me get it, eh?”

Your eyes stay stuck to his nose as fingers push away the crimson of blood easily, firm but still utterly delicate. 

“I’m not glass,” you croak, one hand near your throat. 

Blue eyes blink at you. “Never said you were,” he grunts, frowning, and you see his Adam’s Apple bob. “Don’t like seeing you with blood on your face, Love.”

Like it had never happened, the fingers return, and a moment later, he grumbles out, “And stop talking—you’ll make it worse.” 

You hadn’t explained, not yet, but by the utter rage you see John trying to hide from you, you know he understands how you might have gotten the swelling now present on your neck. His heart had been visibly pumping the entire time you’d been here; you could hear it when he was holding you, a relentless, thump-thump-bump, thump-thump-bump in your ear.

The brunette had been clenching his jaw more as well, grunting as if a boar after every sentence, a nervous habit, perhaps. He was trying to mask it for you, but you weren’t blind. 

John pauses his cleaning, glancing at your throat. 

He studies your face after he hums under his breath, having to dart his gaze away for a moment. 

“...Can I?” You pause, swallowing as the burn persists. 

Nodding after a minute of slow contemplation, cold hands shift to press carefully—not tightening, not holding you there—resting to give relief. You only tense a little, but as the seconds draw, John watches you sag forward with a large sigh through your nose. 

He lets a small sliver of calm enter him.

“Easy,” John whispers, blinking. He keeps the chill of his hands at your neck, fins shifting the water to keep him still. “When you’re ready, explain it to me, eh?” His head tilts, voice a low tease. “Glass or not.” 

Your lips twitch, and the way your eyes melt could only be compared to safety. You open your lips, and John mutters lowly as your fingers brush over his own, “Quietly, now. Can hear just fine—don’t push yourself.” 

Blue flickers to your touch, fingertips trailing his knuckles as the man grunts, attention fluttering back. 

All you say is one name. 

“Noah.” 

There’s a moment of confusion on John’s face, skin wrinkling, before the understanding settles swiftly—he wasn’t a fool. From there, his expression changes ten times over; that rage, then fear for you, confusion, and stubbornness. It’s of little surprise to you that a man so loyal was reduced to a dog. 

A dog with scales, that is.

Your body is still running hot—your heart still pumping, though the adrenaline has left with all of its stimulation. You’re tired, yes, that much is obvious. But you want John to hold you again. 

When you shift your body, the man’s eyes widen, and he blinks quickly in shock as your legs then slip into the waves inch by inch.

A noise exits the back of his throat, and John’s mouth moves in serious question. “What are you doing? Fucking hell, would you just stay still and let me have a look at you—”

Arms grapple around his waist, and a warm head burrows into his neck. 

You rest against him, body suspended in the water of the deep pool, a merman’s tail swishing to shove you the tiniest bit closer unconsciously. John’s chest bounces with every emotion, but all he does is stop you from sinking by holding you. Your eyes close at the dig of his hands, and, letting the water move the both of you, the smooth scales along your legs feel as if the finest silk. A thumb caressing up and down your spine; breath at the top of your head.

You both say nothing, and it’s a long while before either of you takes any action to leave.

—

When your words could be strung together and not broken every other sentence, you explained all of it, and the hunch you’d strung together in the meantime.

You fiddle with one of John’s rings—the emerald one—as you glance up and speak softly, voice still delicate. The pain still blossomed, but some things needed to be explained.

“I think he killed his wife.” 

By the way John stops massaging the flesh of your neck, letting you rest your head in the crook of where his tail begins and skin ends, you knew he already pieced that together a while ago. Your clothes were still heavy with water, and a puddle had formed around the both of you on the rocks.

“Hm,” is all John says, fixing the position of his lips as he looks away.

He shakes his head, growling out, “You’re not going back up there. Not while he’s still walking the streets.”

You frown, but John glares without any venom. “It wasn’t a question, Love.”

“What will you do,” you whisper, voice hoarse. A brow quirks. “Run after me, John?”

The man stares, not taking it as lightly as you. “If I have to.”

Your breath hitches, hands resting numbly over the ring as John’s fingers once again continue their touching—as if he can rub away the swelling; the damage of the veins. 

“You don’t have legs,” you utter, having to pause in the middle of the sentence to breathe deeply. 

“I’ll crawl,” he grunts.

“The rocks are sharp.”

His face is immobile. “Then I’ll bleed.”

Your mind memorized the stubbornness of his expression—the pull of the crow’s feet beside his eyes. There wasn’t an ounce of a joke in John’s eyes; no lie. Watching him, your face is loose with wonder, and water drips from your temple to connect with those dark navy scales, glinting with the light from the outside sun growing low. 

The ring in your hands is frozen, stopping its turning as your pulse soars.

John licks the corner of his mouth, glancing at the item of gold and green. 

“Keep it,” he mutters, tilting his head to the ring. “More of a use to you.” 

Larger fingers capture yours, and in one deft motion, the elegant item is slipped onto your digit, sitting comfortably as if made just for you. 

John shrugs. “The rest of ‘em, too, if you want the damn things.” His blues card over the view of your hand, and imagines fingers filled with every bit of gold and silver obtainable to him, brought up from the ocean just to sit pretty atop your flesh. Necklaces, bracelets, belts, and accessories; the things he’d seen from far distant waters. 

Oh, but they’d pale in comparison to how you would wear them. 

A muse to a song. A painter to a portrait. 

A women to the water.

He’d seen your latest sketches—you’d brought them down to him here—and when you were exploring this cave, he had taken a peak. Unlike him, yes, but there was a pull to it, that parchment bound by leather. He’d not seen anything like it, and as he had watched you work on occasion, he was entranced as he’d listened to you explain it. You’d told him that you could even manipulate color, and that had left his eyes widening in awe.

You were incredible, and when he saw his own likeness littering page after page, John had been unable to take his eyes off of you. A silent appreciation—a voiceless devotion. He’d never been…captured like this, so to speak. A mirror image. Details he didn’t even know himself, and yet there they were. 

Beauty marks across his cheeks and nose, the scars that littered his flesh that he’d all but forgotten about, the list was endless. 

But he looks at you now, and he can understand why there’s a draw to immortalize the mortal. 

His fingers stay at yours, and they brush skin as they dip along your hand, falling to your wrist. You stare up into his eyes, he stares down into yours. There’s little air to be taken in between the two of you. 

“John,” you utter, blue gaze stuck to your lips. 

He hums, tilting his head, his body looming over yours like a shadow. By the time his face is so near to yours, you don’t want to fight it, you don’t want to think about the strangeness of this predicament you’ve found yourself in—a creature living in the cliffs, handsome and half-inhuman.

When smooth lips brush over yours, and your eyelashes begin to flutter, the shouts from outside break whatever spell had just started weaving itself. 

Head snapping up, John’s body tenses as you push upward quickly. Attention slashing to the cave entrance, it’s not long before you realize what’s going on with a sharp breath and a leap to your pulse. 

The smash of something connecting to rocks echoes like a feral killing song. Yells. Yowls. 

“John,” you say hurriedly, flinching from the pain in your throat. Your eyes dart to his tension-ridden form, his arms wrapping above your body. “You need to run,” you choke out. “Go! Quickly!”

You only get a glance, and the clench of his jaw is as stubborn as it always is. Your brain already knows it’s fruitless. He won’t leave you here alone.

“They’ll kill you!” Your hands push at his chest, finger grasping at the bristle of hair to try and shove at an iron will. 

“Stay under me,” John mutters, voice low and nothing more than a chilled order. Yet, even he knows there’s little that he’d be able to do. His eyes flashed to every trinket and bauble he had collected, the new ones he’d yet to show to you, but there was few in the way of weapons. A dagger or two from a trench, a sword from under a ship—a spearhead. All too far away and rusted for it to even matter. 

There was a sharp feeling in John’s chest. A need. An oath that he gave to himself the moment he’d seen the way your little stick could breathe his image onto a sheet made of fibers. 

He was to watch over you whenever you were in his sights, and that had extended itself to gliding through the water as he watched you climb and grunt your way to his cave; a careful eye that he had no need to tell you about. That was just how he was. 

“John!” You try to bark again, growing desperate. 

Yet, it was already too late, and the merman hadn’t shifted even an inch before Noah, Otto, and the Librarian burst through the entrance like bats from hell.  They hold all manner of weapons, though the more you blink in a panic, the less afraid of them you seem, at the very least, the older man and the woman.

Otto held a cut-up and dented club, nothing more than something you’d keep for a home invasion beside the bed—the Librarian, a heavy book that seemed to contain every bit of information available to the world, so large it strained in her hands. Noah, though, was a different story. 

He had a sharp, long knife and eyes that could cut flesh by themselves. 

Half of Mr. Moore’s face was sliced up, cuts leaking blood to the ground—skin hanging and an eye completely poked with glass; shards in its gentle makeup. 

You swallow saliva and stutter through a shaking breath, and John’s glare could burn cities as he feels it reverberating against him. 

“There!” Noah shouts, balking closer. “See! I knew it was here—seducing the next woman to take to the ocean!” 

Your wide eyes try to take it all in, hands slapping the ground sending droplets of collected water flying. John’s face hones in, digging in like how the glass from your brush container had into Noah’s visage, and, somehow, you think that dead stare can cause more damage. Grasping the merman’s waist, you attempt and silently urge him to go. 

“Girl!” Otto calls quickly, eyes darting from you to John and back. Even if you could yell, you’re not sure you would. You wouldn’t even know what to say. “Get away from it!”

“I’d put that down,” John grunts to Noah, disregarding the old man and the librarian entirely. He clenches his jaw. “‘Fore you end up hurting yourself. Leave.”

“Otto,” you start, glancing at the woman beside your friend who looked like she was about to pass out when John had started to speak. The man in question’s face pulls, wrinkles thinning. “You have to listen to me, please, it’s not how Mr. Moore told you—”

“It speaks!” Noah barks, pointing his knife harder at John. “Freak of nature, it already has its hold on her.”

“Oh my,” the Librarian gasps. “Noah, it’s horrible—look at the tail.”

Your eyes flare with rage as John doesn’t react.

“Hey!” You shout, but instantly slap your free hand to your throat, coughing raggedly until your spine hunches. The merman brings you closer, but you’re already pushing until you’re on your feet, stumbling for a moment as John gives you a sharp look.

“You watch your bloody mouth,” you grid out, glaring, whipping your hands to get rid of the water droplets. Noah licks his lips as John grabs onto the back of your knee, fingers resting firmly. Sending a look down to him, your shoulders loosen at the expression he levels. You can almost hear the words.

 Steady. Keep your head on.

Though, a slash of silent pride made your heart stutter a small bit.

Your eyes glint. “Drop your weapons,” your sentence is crackling but nonetheless sharp. “Leave. John is innocent—he told me all of it.” You turn to Otto. “Mr. Moore attacked me in my shop, I smashed a glass container into his head so he would release me.” Otto tenses, club getting strangled by his fingers. 

“Noah killed Eleanor,” you breathe, John’s grip pulling a bit tighter as if sensing something you have yet to see. Noah shifts quickly, boots squeaking along the rock as he growls. 

“Absurd—!”

“He pushed her over the rocks and blamed John when he saw him bringing back her body,” you interrupt as fast as you can, pain bouncing off your throat. “You all saw it on the shore, the lie was simple enough for a man like him. Saying she drowned to a creature.”

It didn’t surprise you that John was quiet, that he was studying more the stance of men instead of talking or trying to defend himself. While he could be hard-headed and stiff, he was never dull—he never missed ques. So when Noah launched himself at you, Otto and the Librarian more confused and concerned than anything, there was only a heavy push on the back of your knee that left you buckling with a gasp, and then the explosion of water as John sent you both quickly to the water.

Hands whipping to snare around the merman’s shoulders, you’re only able to get a quick breath in before you’re completely enveloped in water, with John’s hand setting itself over your mouth just in case. The sudden rush is comparable to a heavy wind, yet far more cold and nearly like a slap to the back of your spine. 

You both disappear into the deep with a spray, Noah’s muffled yells of terror seen far above near the surface, arms captured by the Librarian and Otto—held at his sides. There’s a flash of those dark eyes, horrible things, and then John’s fins hide the rest as they slash through the water. 

When you both resurface, retreating far back near the watery entrance of the cave, John keeps you firmly behind him, your arms around his waist as you gasp for air. He keeps his head slightly turned to the side—always having you in the corner of his vision. Above the spread of his shoulders, you peek softly, legs suspended below. 

“Lier!” Noah screams, face contorted. “She’s lying!”

You look at Otto and see the grim way he’s already looking back, struggling to keep the younger individual from breaking free. He was sensical, but stubborn in his ways. Otto had a choice just as the librarian did—believe a woman who’d been here a year or someone they’d known nearly their entire lives.

“Noah,” Otto grunts, gritting his teeth. “Breathe, boy! Stop spitting, let her speak—”

The knife in Noah’s hands slashes the air, and suddenly there’s a yell from the librarian and a spray of blood. 

“Otto!” You scream, fingers flinching. 

The old man stumbles, hoarsely crying out as he grasps at his neck. Your eyes widen, mouth ajar as John pushes his hand into your head, shoving it into the back of his hair as he watches blankly, eyes glinting with a deadly hate. 

“Don’t move,” he utters quickly, sternly, to you as your breath breaks, mouth slack to stare at nothing. Scales skate your legs, great kelp-like fins curling your ankle. “Keep still. Focus on my words, Love.” Under his breath is a tight, “Fuck!”

John speaks above the gargling—the spillage of blood to stone. He mutters through the screams of the Librarian as Noah slips trying to run to the entrance, scrambling with bulging eyes. 

“Don’t look,” John says to you lowly, shifting his body as he keeps your face hidden away and let him hold you like a corpse to the earth. The sounds…oh, the sounds were horrible. 

But the man holding you tries very hard to hide them.

Your body quivers violently as the slam of a body hits the ground, the frantic calling of the woman still here with the both of you; the loud calls from the fleeing murder outside the walls.

“That’s it,” John’s fast lips are on the top of your head, muttering and trying to make his voice as even as possible. “That’s it, then. Doing good, don’t move until I say so, alright?”

When you don’t answer, only shoving your visage deeper into his neck, his spine-breaking-hold squeezes once, and his pounding heart bounces opposite yours. You don’t have to say you know him to understand that he’s only holding onto a thread of good manners, and that was certainly only for our own sake.

Otto was dead.

John leads you out, the gold and emerald of your ring glinting in the moonlight as he holds your body to his, the powerful make of his tail doing the work as it shines in the water. He leaves you outside, where the still running form of Noah is visible, yet the only person noticing is John himself. Your hands are so shaky that it would be impossible to hold your sketchbook, let alone a pencil. 

John takes one of them as Mr. Moore gets too close to the shoreline, slipping and getting his foot caught in between two stones. He panics, yelling loudly, as water is lapping up to his knee.

“Hey, hey, you hear me?” John asks, uncaring to the man, as he sets you down softly on a flat rock shelf. Fingers move to sit at your chin, and, through tight sniffles, you make delicate eye contact. He blinks, trying a tight smile—a flash nothing more. “There she is. Good...I need you to listen one last time, yeah? Just like before; don’t look until I say so.” Your face creases lightly, blinking through a haze of senses and horror. Otto was dead. 

The man that brought you out on his boat—the man that cooked you fish and acted as if a guardian to you. His cat, who would take care of her? It seemed a silly thought given the circumstances, but you can’t stop your mind from running. The house, the boat, the cat. The blood. 

“There’s nothing out here that can hurt you,” John grunts, grasping your hands and holding them, letting calluses and scars speak. “So long as I’m here, I won’t let it.” 

He nearly growls out the words. In one movement, he puts your hand to his heart, and your brain latches onto the rhythm as your own rampages in your ears. 

Noah is still screaming, but now it’s for help.

John’s voice lowers as he utters, “Hey,” the man licks his lips, eyes dancing to the side every once and a while. You stare, swallowing down bile. He says as fluidly as possible, keeping constant locked gazes. 

“Stay here. I won’t be long.”

Fingers glide down your neck again, feeling that swelling, and just as you register the kiss that’s leveled to your hand, to that gifted ring, John’s already away; his tail slipping over your flesh, fins gripping, writhing with their film. 

Yet, you have no trouble following his advice. 

The rising screams from Mr. Moore are numb to you, and the following wave of water that swallows him is only accented by the hand that grapples for his neck. 

John always seemed the one for revenge.

—

With the Librarian's newfound cooperation, the story became simple. 

Mr. Moore, distraught over the death of his wife, had finally lost it all when down on the beach with Otto, yourself, and the local Librarian—attacking and killing the old man in response to being so near to where he and his wife always traveled to. Afterward, he’d walked into the sea and had taken his own life. 

The authorities weren’t going to dispute it. 

You sold Otto's house a week after his death, seeing as he’d named you the sole inheritor of his estate and belongings. There was no need for two properties, and sitting in that small place was akin to torture. After all, he’d been doing what he thought was right, and dying for a lie is nothing short of cruel to those left behind who knew the truth. 

Harriet stays in the shop with you, where she’ll probably live out the rest of her nine lives peacefully. She’s quite fond of the fireplace. 

Most days, people find you near the water, and it’s something that wasn’t going to change even after Noah’s body was found in the rocks—freakishly close to where Eleanor’s had been. Some were calling it poetic and you’d have to agree…but for different reasons.

“You shouldn’t be giving me all of these,” you huff months later, sitting on the rock looking out over the water. A large collection of John’s trinkets is piled high in a wrapping of seaweed, shining bright as you mess with your pencil, leaning to stare at him.

John’s lips flicker into a smirk. He hums, content to watch you, from where he rests not an inch away. You lean into him, sighing, as the innumerable glinting rings on your fingers shimmer. 

“Want to,” he grumbles. 

Rolling your eyes, you look back down to your book, three of four replicas of the man’s scale pattern sitting, shaded and duplicated—lifelike. His tail sways with the water, half of it lost below. 

Your hands reach for them now, the scales closest to you, and you lightly poke and prod as John grunts above you, silent but willing in a way that speaks volumes. He’d let no one else touch him like this for the rest of his life—the softness of your fingers and the care on your face more precious than gold. You revered that tail of his; as if it gave over magic like a wishing well. 

Shivering, John’s breath hitches as your exploring moves, pushing lightly at where the top of his hips would be.

Your talent was fascinating to him, just as you were. If you wanted to ‘paint’ him, he’d allow you to do all the studies needed. Not only to give you a distraction….but because he can’t bear to be away from you anymore. It makes him nervous, and that in itself is an incredible feat.

“Where do you come from, John,” your question moves the air, and the man moves to pull your jacket higher up your body to stave off the chill. You glance at him, smiling, before your attention returns to your drawings. Sketching more, John resets his lips and tries not to stare at your face. It was getting harder to deny that pull. 

That near kiss.

“No answer, Love.” You stare as he quirks a lip, voice lowering. “I won’t be going back to distant waters anytime soon.”

John glances down at your sketchbook, seeing every scratch and bend of care. The both of you were strange creatures, perhaps. Unique—made for one another despite the obvious. 

He nods his head to it softly. The water laps at your boots from below, but you care little before John shifts your feet carefully further up with a push from his tail. You chuckle at him breathily, face heating.

“Getting water on you, Love,” he breathes. “New painting soon?” John asks when the silence settles once more, with you shifting your legs to sit under you. He still isn’t sure what painting entails, but you had told him that you would show him soon, so he knows to be patient. But yearning for anything regarding you is ingrained into his mind now—instinct.

“Mhm,” you smile softly, sending a look at your paper and the images. A huff escapes your mouth. “I think I’ll make this one a portrait.”

John blinks, tilting his head slightly. “Portrait? Why’s that?” 

Your lips find his, moving back up in an instant. 

For a second, the man’s surprised eyes pull back; only lowering as he hums moments later, fingers curling up under your chin as he sags. Lids flutter closed, and his tail twitches lightly.

“I have a subject that’s caught my eye.” You mutter into his flesh when you pull back, face burning as deep blues sear your mind, turning it into mush. Your skin tingles as chilled digits trail your chin, dripping water down your healed throat.

John watches, lips parted, as you continue on. 

“And I’d be a fool if I let him swim off.”

The both of you were going to be perfectly fine.

TAGS:

@sheviro-blog, @ivebeentrashsince2001, @mrshesh, @berryjuicyy, @romantic-homicide, @kmi-02, @neelehksttr, @littlemisstrouble, @copperchromewriting, @coelhho-brannco, @pumpkinwitchcrusade, @fictional-men-have-my-heart, @sleepyqueerenergy, @cumikering, @everything-was-dark, @marmie-noir, @anna-banana27, @iamcautiouslyoptimistic, @irenelunarsworld, @rvjaa, @sarcanti, @aeneanc, @not-so-closeted-lesbian, @mutuallimbenclosure, @emily-who-killed-a-man, @gildedpoenies, @glitterypirateduck, @writeforfandoms, @kohsk3nico, @peteymcskeet, @caramlizedtomatoes, @yoursweetobsession, @quesowakanda, @chthonian-spectre, @so-no-feint, @ray-rook, @extracrunchymilk, @doggydale, @frazie99, @develised, @1-800-no-users-left, @nuncubus, @aldis-nuts, @clear-your-mind-and-dream, @noonanaz, @cosmicpro, @stinkaton, @waves-against-a-cliff, @idocarealot

[gallifreyanhotfive]

What Stories Are About the Academy Era? A Guide

@zombies-sold-cheap

Context:

Stories set in the Academy Era/Otherwise Early Days are sparse to say the least (even Divided Loyalties only shows you the Academy through a dream), but you can actually piece together a pretty decent chunk of the Doctor’s early life (while it still remaining very mysterious) using the Expanded Universe. I've done a lot of infodumping in my time, so I'll do my best here by typing up my personal reference guide to this era. Anyway:

Theta Sigma and his friends would attempt to climb Mount Cadon. At the peak, you could apparently see all of time, but they never got to the top because of hallucinogenic snow. While attempting such a climb, Vansell broke his leg, and Theta Sigma fixed it with a time bubble he made from a sonic wrench and some twine. (Audio: Devil in the Mist)

Theta Sigma and Koschei traveled into the past of Gallifrey in search of Valdemar. Theta was horrified by the power that Valdemar represented, but Koschei was intrigued. (Novel: Tomb of Valdemar)

Theta Sigma time-locked his dorm room so thoroughly that even centuries after he graduated they hadn't managed to undo it. (Audio: Time in Office)

Theta Sigma also once used the food machine to get mercury for his own science projects and in doing so almost caused his professor to regenerate. (Audio: Time in Office)

At some point, Theta Sigma and Koschei traveled to the planet Machasma and used sonic agitation to get them out of trouble. (Audio: Darkness and Light)

Theta Sigma, Koschei, and three others were part of a band called the Gallifrey Academy Hot Five (see: my username). Theta Sigma played the perigosto sticks, and Koschei played the drums. (Novel: Deadly Reunion)

Millennia came from a wealthy family and was gifted in temporal engineering. She and Rallon had a "thing" for each other (wink wink) (Novel: Divided Loyalties)

Theta Sigma once made High Tutor Albrecht regenerate in an incident involving a perigosto stick and a temporal feedback loop. He was reprimanded by Borusa for this. (Novel: The Time Lord Letters)

Koschei was obsessed with the Necronomicon. (Short story: The Nameless City)

Runcible was the hall monitor at the Academy and regularly got into conflicts with the Deca because it was his job to make sure students were in bed after dark. They have mutual hatred of each other. (Novel: Divided Loyalties)

Indeed, the Master would one day stab him in the back and kill him. (Television: The Deadly Assassin)

Drax built a skimmer and would sometimes use it to take Jelpax home because they lived close to each other. (Novel: Divided Loyalties)

Theta Sigma attended Ushas's 94th birthday party. (Novel: The Death of Art)

Theta Sigma engineered a dangerous bacteria that rendered all multicellular life that came in contact with it comatose. This was a huge scandal on Gallifrey, and the Academy thoroughly hushed it up and had all samples destroyed. However, Ushas kept a sample and would one day use it in a scheme as the Rani. (Audio: Planet of the Rani)

Koschei taught Theta Sigma hypnosis. He'd also hypnotize others a lot because he thought it was amusing. (Novel: The Dark Path)

Mortimus once asked Ushas out but was so thoroughly rejected that he thought she wasn't interested in dating at all. Unbeknownst to him, Ushas later had a relationship with Magnus. (Novel: Divided Loyalties)

Theta Sigma and Koschei were bullied by Torvic. Theta was eventually forced to kill Torvic to save Koschei's life, but when Death came to offer Theta to be their disciple, he had Koschei take his place. He forgot about this deal and lived for centuries under the impression that their places had been swapped and that it had been Koschei to kill Torvic. (Audio: Master)

Despite this, he apparently drew pictures of Torvic in his diary. (Short story: The Three Paths)

Theta Sigma was also bullied by Anzor at the Academy. Anzor would use a galvanizer to make Theta do his navigational homework. He also turned another student named Cheevah into a crystal and threw him off a bell tower. (Audio/Novel: Mission to Magnus)

Koschei was in charge of organizing the end of term parties, but the Eighth Doctor recalled that they weren’t good. (Comic: The Glorious Dead)

Theta Sigma and Koschei would sneak out of the Capitol and go drinking with the Shobogans. (Novel: The Eight Doctors)

Theta Sigma was given an avatroid named Badger as a young child to act as his friend, protector, and tutor. He apparently gives bone crushing hugs. (Novel: Lungbarrow)

Theta Sigma did not have a good relationship with most of the House of Lungbarrow. Indeed, his first memory is of Satthralope smacking him so hard he could not walk afterwards. (Audio/Novel: Cold Fusion)

Satthralope would also let the drudges attack Theta if he refused to come to dinner. Drudges are basically servants of the Houses, about two and a half meters tall, and strong enough to hold a fully grown Time Lord in one arm. (Novel: Lungbarrow)

One time, those at the House of Lungbarrow wanted Theta Sigma to return home for Otherstide and even sent Badger to collect him. Theta refused, so they contacted his professor Delox, who proceeded to expel him from her classroom after chastising him on his family in front of the entire class. After this, Theta appeared to exhibit many of the signs I associate with a nervous breakdown. Distressed, Theta came up with an idea that would prove he wasn't what they all said he was - he would go after the Toymaker. (Novel: Divided Loyalties)

Millennia and Rallon were the only two to join him on this trip, the rest of the Deca thinking them mad. They stole a Type 18 TARDIS, and after making it to the Toyroom, Rallon's body was basically immediately taken over by the Toymaker. The Toymaker had Theta play a game of Capture the Flag. He turned Millennia into one of his dolls, and Theta returned to Gallifrey, the only survivor. (Novel: Divided Loyalties)

Because of these events, Theta was put on trial. The only two to attend this trial to support Theta were Jelpax and Magnus. Vansell showed up but only to reveal that he had been working with the CIA, having been tasked with watching Theta. Koschei and Ushas had been off working on a research project at the time. (Novel: Divided Loyalties)

While Theta, Rallon, and Millennia were gone, Mortimus ran away from Gallifrey, which made many think he had gone with them, and eventually also ended up in the Toyroom. (Novel: Divided Loyalties) Other accounts suggest Mortimus left Gallifrey later, so perhaps he returned after this trip.

Theta Sigma was on the same zero-grav hyperball team as Padrac, who he called "Paddy." (Audio: The Eleven)

Theta and Koschei's "kindergarten spat" apparently almost destroyed the planet. During this time, Theta used to call Koschei "Scabby Knees." (Audio: Blood of the Time Lords)

Theta Sigma had no friends in his very early life. Instead of creating imaginary friends, he had an imaginary enemy called Mandrake. Mandrake was actually a dead lizard he pinned to an engine part that Theta would defeat using a stick. (Audio: The Widow's Assassin)

There was a Hermit who lived behind the House of Lungbarrow on the mountain. Theta Sigma once went to him, depressed and full of despair, and the Hermit showed him hope in yellow flowers. (Television: The Time Monster)

Shimmerlings live in the time vortex, but after a storm, they were stranded on Gallifrey and dying. A very young Theta Sigma saw the Hermit throwing them into the Untempered Schism to save them. Theta asked him what was the point because he wouldn't be able to save them all before they died, and the Hermit taught him the value in saving who he could, despite not being able to save everyone. (Audio: Crossed Lines)

Theta Sigma was the Time Tot Hide And Seek Champion for 42 years in a row, which apparently drove Ushas nuts. (Comic: Weapons of Past Destruction)

When Maris - a retired CIA agent - was hired to find out where Theta Sigma, now probably the Doctor, had run off to in the TARDIS, Ushas and Koschei kidnapped her, interrogated her in an attempt to find where the Doctor had gone, and eventually almost killed her when she knew nothing (she was extracted from the situation before she could be murdered). (Short story: Celestial Intervention - A Gallifreyan Noir)

After graduating, Magnus rose quickly in Time Lord society, which Borusa felt threatened by. Borusa had the CIA manufacture evidence implicating Magnus in treason, leading to him fleeing Gallifrey and becoming a renegade. (Novel: Timewyrm: Exodus)

Koschei befriended a professor at the Academy named Salyavin because he wanted access to the restricted libraries. He wanted to find The Worshipful and Ancient Law of Gallifrey, an act which was illegal. Salyavin took the blame for this, was sent to Shada, and stole the book (since he was condemned anyway, he might as well). (Short story: The Legacy of Gallifrey)

Theta Sigma and Ruath, another student at the Academy who was obsessed with vampires, once electrified Borusa's perigosto stick. (Novel: Goth Opera)

After the Academy, Koschei attended a ritual with Theta Sigma and Susan, then likely called Arkytior, in Arcadia. Here, he gave her a toy, which was actually a communication node that he planned to use to find Theta and her if they ever left Gallifrey. (Audio: The Toy)

According to one account, Koschei led students at the Academy in a coup against Lord President Pundat the Third and tried to convince Theta Sigma to join. Pundat died of stress soon after the revolt and was replaced with Chancellor Slann. There was a second coup, but they were overheard by the authorities trying to yet again convince Theta to help. After each coup, there were bloody reprisals against the students, but Theta, who was not involved, had his memory wiped. Koschei assassinated Slann, but the students weren't ready for another go. He ended up fleeing Gallifrey. (Short story: Birth of a Renegade) There are, however, many other accounts of him fleeing Gallifrey.

Koschei and a "friend" were locked in a bathroom of a bar in the Tower by the Time Lords after a prank gone wrong. The two fought, and the friend left Koschei behind in the Tower, where he remained locked in for centuries. (Short story: Rebel Rebel)

Theta called Vansell "Nosebung" and continued to do so for centuries. (Audio: Neverland)

Theta Sigma came in fourth place in the Time Lord Academy Sprint Championship. (Comic: Space in Dimension Relative in Time)

Theta Sigma fed a snapping wart fowl to Valyes's summer project, and Valyes still holds a grudge over this. (Audio: The Next Life)

Flubbles are koala-like animals with six legs. Theta Sigma used to keep one under his bed at the Academy as an illegal pet. He almost got caught when she went into heat and started performing her mating call. (Novel: Island of Death)

Theta Sigma used to chase tafelshrews - a species almost like rodents - through the snow of Mount Cadon. (Short story: The Three Paths)

By some accounts, Theta Sigma was loomed, and by some, he had parents. In a version where he had parents, his father and Mr. Saldaamir were once working in the House and were therefore ignoring Theta. Because of this, Theta, at this point a small child, caught a cobblemouse and set it loose in the House, interrupting their plans. (Novel: Unnatural History)

A cousin of Theta's - Glospin - used to bully him quite a lot. He once claimed to find evidence in the Loom pointing to the fact that Theta did not belong in the House of Lungbarrow. If this was believed, Theta Sigma would have been executed. This caused the two to have a physical altercation. (Novel: Lungbarrow)

During this fight, Glospin got a genetic sample from Theta, allowing him to force a regeneration into a Theta lookalike. Then, Glospin murdered Quences, the Kithriarch of the House of Lungbarrow (basically the head of the family), before regenerating again, thus framing Theta for the murder. This was because Glospin wanted to become the next Kithriarch instead of Theta, but because of this, the House of Lungbarrow buried themself (the Houses are sentient, did I mention that?) for centuries. (Novel: Lungbarrow)

Despite doting on Theta (and Theta generally being his favorite), Quences had been convinced by Satthralope to disown him when he announced he didn't want to be a Lord Cardinal. (Novel: Lungbarrow)

Some of Theta's cousins include Quences, Satthralope, Glospin, Innocet, Arkhew, Owis, Salpash, Luton, Rynde, Jobiska, Maljamin, Farg, Celesia, Chovor, DeRoosifa, and Almund. (Novel: Lungbarrow)

Grandfather Paradox was also of the House of Lungbarrow from the same generation as Theta, but of course, he never actually existed. (Novel: Christmas on a Rational Planet)

Pandad VII issued a Burn Edict on Braxiatel, but Braxiatel killed his would be assassin. As punishment, Braxiatel was forced to take up the mantle of Lord Burner for some time, the personal assassin for Lord President Pandad VII. He was ordered to erase an old man and his granddaughter (wink wink) who were fleeing Gallifrey from history but refused to do so and let them go free. That very same day, Pandad died when a power relay that was in his office overloaded, but an inquiry led by Braxiatel found that this was an accident. Just an accident. Nothing shady going on here. (Audio: Disassembled)

Magnus tried to drain the Artron energy from a giant sphere from the time vortex. Theta Sigma opposed him and used the gun of a member of the Chancellery Guard to stop him from draining the energy because he had learned that the energy was alive. This set the energy free. Magnus never forgave him for this, and their friendship ended. (Comic: Flashback)

Theta Sigma had a great aunt lived in a house high in the mountains. She would sing him lullabies. The Eighth Doctor said she was "terrible." (Audio: Together in Eclectic Dreams)

Anyhow, I'm spent, so I'll post this now. Might add on some more later lmaoooo

Don't forget to check out the next part in the reblogs!

[impyssadobsessions]

DPxDC Prompt/Idea Sibling Rivalry

OK The Fentons got contracted by a mysterious Mr. J for some "ghost" hunting tech. At first the Fentons buy into it, until Mr. J keeps asking for stranger and stranger edits to the machinery. Before Danny could figure out why- his Parents were in the mist of dropping the contract and heading back to Amity- When Mr. J or more known as the Joker kidnaps Fenton kids to put pressure on the parents to complete their work. Even for more amusement, he's broadcasting the hostage situation to all of Gotham, and Fentons have until the kids end up killing each other to finish his devices and added bonus capture batman. Fentons end up working with the bats while Danny wakes up in a huge sealed cage. His sister tied up behind him. Joker using his gas to fill up the room to cause the two to fight each other. Only thing is.. it doesn't work on Danny or at least all it did was make him dizzy and woozy for a moment. Jazz isn't so lucky. So Now Danny has to fight off his sister, while trying not to reveal his half-ghost status.. ON TOP of trying to think of how to escape and keep his sister from hurting herself. Joker keeps being more and more amuse, dropping the cage down into a cage arena and adding weapons as an audience of his thugs crowd around shouting and chanting.

[mystery--mist]

I have just seen your art and I love it

Please give us a tutorial on how to draw Valentino, I love the way you draw him!!!

Hi! Sorry for taking so long in answering you! I have been busy with other things and I like to reply asks with all my attention and energy ♥

Aaaaains hon! You flatter me ;w; Make me so happy you like my art and how I draw Valentino ♥♥♥ For some reason people enjoy my Valentino (╥﹏╥)~♥ (?)

I'm terrible at teaching and I don't know how to do tutorials about my style... But I show you a Speedpaint of my process if that helps :")

I haven't been very inspired/motivated these days so I made more mistakes than I usually do, sorry ╥﹏╥

And here the final result

Thanks for enjoying my Art and Valentino

[endangeredrandomfanfics]

"A Night Visitor"

Taglist- @skittlebum @circe143 @quailbagutte

Masterlist

Summary: After the events of Agatha draining witches you've gotten sick, but it's not that bad? It cannot cause any harm, or will it? -Chapter V

===============================

The forest was quiet as night settled, a cool mist drifting through the trees, and stars scattered across the sky like whispers of light. Agatha and her child had set up camp in a small clearing, the crackling fire casting a warm glow around them, holding the darkness at bay. They had been traveling for days, and tonight was one of those rare moments of rest.

Agatha set up their bedrolls close together and wrapped her child warmly in a blanket. As she tucked them in, she noticed their flushed cheeks and the drowsiness in their eyes. Her hand brushed against their forehead, and she felt the heat of a small fever.

“Mama…” the child murmured, voice soft and a little hoarse, “I feel cold.”

Agatha’s heart tightened with worry, and she pulled her own blanket over them as well, tucking them in more snugly. “Oh, darling, it’s just a little fever,” she murmured, stroking their cheek. “You’ll feel better soon. I’m right here.”

They looked up at her, sleepy and trusting, whispering, “Will you stay close, Mama?”

Agatha smiled, brushing a strand of hair from their face. “Of course, my love. I’ll be here all night.” She wrapped them in the comfort of her gaze and began to hum a tune—a song they’d made together. The familiar melody rose softly through the night, her voice a warm embrace, carrying them into a calm, dreamlike state.

Her child’s eyes grew heavier, lulled by her gentle lullaby. They whispered, “Goodnight, Mama,” before drifting into a deep sleep. Agatha’s voice faded into a gentle hum, her words a promise of warmth and safety.

As she sang them to sleep, Agatha’s own eyelids grew heavy, and soon she lay beside them, breathing softly as she too slipped into slumber. The fire’s embers dimmed, casting a faint, orange glow over the clearing as the night grew darker and quieter, the stars watching over them.

Hours passed, and the child awoke, the world around them soft and shadowed. The fire was just a faint glimmer now, its last embers glowing in the dark. They blinked, feeling warm yet strange, as if something in the forest was pulling them, calling to them.

They sat up slowly, their gaze drawn to the edge of the clearing. And there, just beyond the reach of the fire’s glow, stood a figure. A woman, cloaked in shadows, her long, dark hair glimmering in the moonlight. She looked almost ethereal, her features softened by the dim light, but her presence was clear and steady, like a whisper that had been waiting.

The child’s heart pounded as they took in her presence. She was watching them, her expression soft but intense. And then, she raised her hand, her fingers beckoning them forward in a silent invitation.

They hesitated, glancing back at Agatha, who lay peacefully asleep beside them. She was so still, her breaths soft and steady. The child looked back at the mysterious figure, feeling a strange pull, a familiarity they couldn’t quite name.

The woman lifted her hand again, this time pointing gently toward Agatha, her gaze warm and full of meaning. She touched her fingers to her lips, a silent suggestion. The child understood her gesture—a gentle reminder to show their mother a bit of love before leaving.

Turning to Agatha, the child leaned down, pressing a soft kiss to her cheek. “Goodnight, Mama. I’ll be right back,” they whispered.

Rising quietly, they clutched the blanket around them and stepped toward the figure at the edge of the clearing. The woman nodded, her expression filled with a quiet warmth as the child came closer, a sense of knowing in her dark eyes. But her face was shadowed, her form just out of reach.

The child stopped a few paces away, gazing up at her with a mixture of wonder and curiosity. “Who… who are you?” they asked, their voice a soft whisper.

The woman tilted her head, her gaze deep and gentle. For a moment, she seemed to be searching for the right words. “I am someone who has watched over you for a long time,” she answered, her voice soft, like a breeze through the trees. “Someone who cares for you very much.”

The child’s brow furrowed, their curiosity growing. “Are… are you a friend of Mama’s?”

A faint smile tugged at the corners of the woman’s lips, and her gaze softened further. “Yes, in a way. I am connected to her. And I am connected to you.” Her voice held a warmth, a sense of something beyond the surface.

The child looked down, processing her words, then lifted their gaze again, something else stirring in their mind. “Where are you taking me?”

The woman’s smile faded slightly, replaced by a solemn look. “Not far, little one. Just for a walk. There are things I wish to tell you, things you’ll come to understand as you grow.” She paused, glancing back toward Agatha, then returned her gaze to the child. “But only if you’re ready.”

The child glanced back at Agatha, then returned their gaze to the mysterious woman, feeling an inexplicable sense of trust, a feeling of safety despite the strangeness of the encounter. They nodded, taking a small step closer. “Okay… but will Mama know where I am?”

The woman’s expression softened further, and she knelt down to be at eye level with the child. “She will know, and she will always be there to protect you,” she said gently, reaching out as if to offer her hand.

===============================

Are you dead?! 👀

Missed me?

[cece693]

Brooding Edward (Edward Cullen x M! Vampire Reader)

I got a comment some time ago asking for more Edward Cullen fics, so I came to deliver :) Hope you guys enjoy it.

Summary: You don't know when your dislike of Edward turned into adoration, but you did know that you didn't like how close he was getting with the human, Isabella Swan.

tags: scheming Edward, jealous reader, hater to lover, making out, Bella used as a pawn in Edward's plan, mentions of Bella x Edward

Forks was a dreary town, always dripping with rain and cloaked in mist, a far cry from the places I’d roamed over the centuries. I’d arrived here on a whim, seeking nothing more than a quiet place to blend in, disappear among the mundane, and watch as the world turned on without me. But I wasn’t completely alone here. There were others of my kind, tucked away in the dense forests.

The first time I laid eyes on Edward Cullen, I knew immediately what he was—beautiful, yes, but also cold and distant, a façade of perfection wrapped around a soul that seemed perpetually weighed down. We didn’t speak much at first, just acknowledged each other as predators passing in the same territory.

But the more I saw him, the more I realized how irritatingly complex he was.

He wasn’t like the others—his siblings, his parents—who seemed content with the life they had carved out here, blending in with humans, attending school like everything was perfectly normal. Edward. had this air of constant torment, like he was wrestling with demons none of us could see. It grated on me. The self-imposed suffering. The way he would sit in class, staring out the window like the weight of existence itself was crushing him.

I couldn’t stand it.

“Edward’s always been like that.” Alice once told me when I asked why her brother seemed more brooding than the rest of them. She smiled, almost fondly, as if his moodiness was something endearing, but I couldn’t wrap my head around it.

“You mean miserable?”

“He’s complicated.” she explained, and for some reason, that word irritated me even more.

Complicated. Right.

The more I was around him, the more I was drawn to observe his every movement, his every interaction. And it only made my disdain grow. Edward had this way of pulling people in without even trying—his impossibly good looks, the air of mystery that seemed to cling to him like fog, his quiet intelligence. Everyone wanted to know him, to understand him. But he kept everyone at arm’s length.

He was a contradiction—mysterious yet aloof, compassionate yet disconnected. And I couldn’t stop watching him.

It became a sick habit of mine, this strange fascination, though I told myself it was just that. I would catch glimpses of him in the halls at school, his expression always distant, as if he were somewhere else entirely. He rarely laughed or even smiled—everything seemed so goddamn serious to him. His siblings would joke around, ease into their lives here, but Edward? He remained on the outskirts, as though he couldn’t let himself relax, couldn’t let go of whatever it was that tormented him.

There was something maddening about it.

It wasn’t until Isabella Swan came into the picture that everything shifted.

She was new, fragile, and completely unaware of the supernatural undercurrent running through Forks. But Edward saw her. And it wasn’t just passing interest. I noticed it from the beginning—the way his gaze would linger on her in class, how his jaw would tense when she got too close to any of the other students, or how he disappeared for days after their first encounter, struggling to keep himself in check.

I remember the first time I heard them talking, watching from a distance, seated in the cafeteria among the other Cullens. Edward’s voice was soft but strained, his gaze locked on hers like she was the most precious thing in the world. The intensity in his eyes, the way his entire being seemed to revolve around this human—it was unsettling.

"She’s different." he told me once when I couldn’t stop myself from asking why he was so fascinated with her.

"Different?" I echoed, unable to keep the disbelief out of my voice. "She’s human, Edward. She’ll die in a blink of an eye. What happens then?" He said nothing, just stared off into the distance, as if the very idea caused him more pain than I could understand.

It was then that the slow burn of jealousy began to fester inside me, though I couldn’t name it at first. The fact that Edward, who seemed indifferent to everything, had suddenly fixated on this girl—this fragile, breakable human—made something inside me twist. I was used to seeing him as distant, untouchable, yet here he was letting his guard down for someone like her.

I wanted Edward’s gaze on me. His intensity. His focus. The realization hit me harder than I expected, and it wasn’t long before that jealousy bubbled over into anger.

One night, the tension reached a boiling point. Edward had just returned from dropping Bella off, his face drawn, like always, but with something else in his eyes that I couldn’t ignore. Satisfaction. The kind of satisfaction that came from spending time with her. The kind of satisfaction I wanted him to feel when he was with me.

“Isabella this, Isabella that.” I sneered, my voice cutting through the stillness of the forest. Edward stopped in his tracks, his expression hardening as he turned to face me.

“What’s your problem?” His tone was cold, guarded.

I stepped forward, closing the distance between us, my chest tight with the jealousy and frustration I’d been holding in for too long. “My problem is that you’re throwing everything away for her. And for what? She’s nothing special, Edward.”

His jaw clenched, his golden eyes flashing dangerously. “You don’t know her. You don’t understand.”

“Understand?” I laughed bitterly. “What’s there to understand? She’s human. You’re a vampire. End of story.”

“It’s not that simple,” Edward hissed, stepping closer, his presence looming. “It’s never been that simple.”

I stared him down, anger boiling over into something sharper. “You think I don’t see what’s happening here? You’re losing yourself in her. You’re forgetting who you are, what you are. She’s going to be your downfall.”

He glared at me, and I could see the storm brewing behind his eyes. His hand shot out, grabbing the front of my shirt, pulling me roughly against him. “You’re wrong.”

Before I could snap back, Edward’s lips collided with mine like a strike of lightning, fierce and demanding, with none of the hesitation I’d come to expect from him. The initial shock froze me for only a second, but then the fire that had been building inside me for so long erupted, and I grabbed him by the collar of his shirt, yanking him closer, forcing the kiss deeper.

His body pressed hard against mine, the coldness of his skin a sharp contrast to the heat pulsing through me. This wasn’t like anything I’d imagined—there was no softness, no careful exploration—just raw, primal need. His lips left mine briefly, trailing down the line of my jaw, his breath cool against my skin as he whispered, “You think I’m hers?” His voice was low and dangerous. “I was never hers.”

I gripped his shoulders, shoving him back slightly, forcing his eyes to meet mine. “What the hell are you talking about?”

He smirked, that infuriating, knowing smirk that sent another wave of frustration and heat crashing through me. His eyes darkened, the gold-flecked with something more primal, more dangerous. “My relationship with Bella means nothing to me.”

I tried to shove him away again, but he held firm, his grip on me unyielding, his body pressing me back against the rough bark of the tree. “Bullshit,” I growled, but the anger in my voice was already fading, replaced by something I didn’t want to admit. “You’ve been obsessed with her—”

“Lies.” he interrupted, his lips hovering over mine, so close I could kiss him again if I leaned forward. “I needed her to push you, to make you feel what you’ve been ignoring for months.”

My mind reeled. “You’re saying this was all some kind of game?”

His smirk widened, but it wasn’t cruel—it was victorious. “Not a game. A plan.” His fingers trailed lightly over my collarbone, sending sparks through me, and I hated how easily he could get under my skin, how quickly he could break down the walls I’d built. “I’ve been waiting for you to realize it, to stop fighting me.”

“Fighting you? You never said a damn thing.”

“I didn’t need to. I knew you’d come to me eventually.”

The kiss that followed was harder, more desperate, and I couldn’t stop myself from pulling him closer, the fire that had been smoldering between us now raging out of control. His hands roamed over my body, each touch stoking the flames higher. I couldn’t think, his presence overwhelming every sense, every thought.

“I'm yours,” he growled against my lips, his voice rough and possessive. His hands slid under my shirt, cold fingers tracing over my skin, leaving a trail of fire in their wake. “Not hers.”

The words hit me like a punch, and I grabbed his face, pulling him back just enough to meet his gaze. “Say it again.”

His eyes bored into mine, that same victorious glint dancing in their depths. “I’m not hers. I’m yours.”

[circeyoru]

Shadow and Void _ Part 2

[Yandere!Sung Jinwoo x Enemy Monarch!Reader]

Part 1 ― Part 2 (here) ― Part 3

Before Jinwoo woke up from his encounter with the Architect, Ashborn showed him something else or told him something else other than the war Ashborn was in. There were moments where it was showed Ashborn with someone. 

Ashborn was in a world void of war and violence, serenity and calmness as far as the eye could see. The ruler of such a place was a misty figure that barely reached Ashborn’s chest. The misty figure would reach out a hand to Ashborn and drag him around, showing him all sorts of stuff like a child, it almost resembles Earth’s nature. 

The misty figure seemed ignorant of what Ashborn is and floated around like a ghost. If it wasn’t for the fact that this misty figure didn’t share any trait of an extracted Shadow, Jinwoo would be thought this figure was one of them. 

“Monarch of Void. You can’t keep me here forever.” Ashborn spoke in the softest tone possible.

“How many times do I have to tell you to call be ‘               ’? Aren’t we close enough for that?” The misty figure spoke, the voice all echoy and mythical as if everywhere and nowhere at the same time. “And for your information, I can keep you here forever. No one can enter my domain without my permission.”

“We aren’t close enough that you’d put me over your own safety nor I yours.” Ashborn sighed. “And the war is ongoing. Blank.”

The misty figure seemed to pout, how Jinwoo figured that he has no idea, “Now calling me that is just…. Whatever….” The figure turned away without a care, “So what if the war is ongoing, just let them fight to their heart’s content and we can take whatever’s left.”

Ashborn got up from his seat and headed to a direction, “I will not stand idly by.”

“You can’t leave! I forbid it!” The figure’s shout made the King of the Dead stop in his path. “If you leave… You’ll regret it! It’s all over!”

“What aren’t you telling me, King of Mist?”

The misty figure held back, staying silent. 

“You know you can’t always stay like this, yes?” Ashborn questioned, he continued without looking back. “You’re strong but you choose to hide it and lend others your strength. You know to side with the strong and aid them in return for security and safety. But what if, one day, you found someone to side with no matter their strength? And your former clients come back to bite?”

You stayed silent but muttered, “There won’t be a day. I will always prioritize myself and my survivability.”

Ashborn chuckled, “You say that now, but you never know the future. We, Monarchs and Rulers, have been here since the beginning. There can always be change. Monarch of Void.”

“...”

“There will be a time where you have to pick a side and I mean your priority won’t be just yourself.” Ashborn spoke in a lecturing manner. “Remember well, if they can’t have what they want, they would rather no one else has it.”

With a wave of a hand, a vortex opened before Ashborn. “I’ll… Keep it in mind…” The figure’s voice seemed to have cracked, “You may leave… King of the Dead.”

Then the memory played back to the war and Ashborn’s betrayal. The words of that misty figure rang in Jinwoo’s mind the moment he in Ashborn’s form was impaled. Jinwoo deduced, that misty figure already knew about the betrayal and tried to keep Ashborn from getting hurt but it wasn’t enough. That mysterious figure was the Monarch of Void and King of Mist, a master of spatial magic. 

“You’re the King of Mist, Blank, aren’t you?” Jinwoo questioned. 

“You have no right to call me that…” You hummed, “Not unless you’re Ashborn. Which you don’t appear to be.” Your eyes glowed when you stared at him, “You have a great Shadow Army and great abilities, but you’re not Ashborn. Vessel.”

Jinwoo crossed his arms, this was a bad spot to begin with. It was obvious you held nothing but annoyance towards him and maybe impatience since you kept calling him ‘Vessel’ or ask when Ashborn was going to appear. Meanwhile, he didn’t like you too, you are a Monarch and the cause of Chairman Go’s death. The barrier around his office was your work and you were there when Gunhee died, he even protected you, for some unknown reason. 

He prevented you from leaving through whatever gate that Monarch of Frost left through and thus you were pinned to the wall. Yet, if memory serves correctly, you have a misty form that could escape anytime. The question was why didn’t or haven’t you retaliate even when you were in pain?

“I’ll give you protection.” Jinwoo tried to bargain as he recalled what little information the memory flashback from the Double Dungeon gave him. “In exchange, you stay by my side.”

Your eyes blinked twice and glanced over to the daggers impaled into your vessel’s flesh. You have taken over this body completely so you do feel pain and the blood lost will be fatal. “Whatever you’re doing now is contradicting your words, Ashborn’s vessel.”

His eye twitched at the name, “Call me Jinwoo. Or Hunter Sung, even.” He thought for a second if he should let you go, but if you wanted to escape, you would have. So he summoned back his daggers and made them disappear. He took out a healing potion from his System’s store and handed it to you. “Now will you believe me and agree to my terms?”

Hesitantly, you took the potion and inspected it before drinking it down in one gulp. Within seconds of its consumption, you felt refreshed and energized that you let out a hummed moan. You exhaled and relaxed yourself, it was a familiar feeling. Perhaps it was because Jinwoo was Ashborn’s vessel that’s why you could be this way with him. “Logically speaking, I should be your enemy, wouldn’t it be… Beneficial for you to cut down the numbers?”

“You’re knowledgeable of what I want and need to know, so it’s better for me to keep you by my side.” Jinwoo answered easily, it was the perfect cover story until he could sort out his thoughts regarding you. “And I know you can make your targets more powerful.” Ever since his eyes first laid on your misty form in Ashborn/his memories, he wanted to keep you by his side. “I saw Ashborn’s memories.”

Jinwoo noticed the visible flinch and frozen state of your form when he told you that information. You appeared puzzled, your eyebrows furrowed together and your eyes looked down in deep thought, even your lips were pressed together. “There’s no way Ashborn would… He was serious? A successor…? Not a vessel?”

He couldn’t understand the phases you’d mumble from time to time. What he does know was that you were too fixiated with Ashborn. While he was grateful for this otherworldly being for giving him all this power and the opportunity to meet you, he didn’t like how you were this concerned with Ashborn when he was in front of you. 

Jinwoo flinched as he turned around, his expression that of confusion. Why was he having such thoughts? What’s it matter what you were concerned with so long as you’d be making him stronger and giving him more power to protect his loved ones? Plus the protection he offered you, was it because it was a leverage for you to stay simply because you’d be targetted by the other Monarchs? Or was there more to his own words?

“Fine, I’ll take your offer.” Your words snapped Jinwoo out of his thoughts. You waited until Jinwoo turned around and composed himself for whatever reason you didn’t care for. As long as you’re next to this Jinwoo, Ashborn’s vessel and maybe successor, you have a chance of atoning for what you did to Ashborn. Perhaps a chance to see Ashborn even for a while. 

“Great. Cool.” Jinwoo nodded. He controlled the urge to smile or raffling your hair that looked misty and soft. Instead, he rubbed the back of his neck, “So, do you have a place to stay, or do you stay in some dimensional crack?”

“I have an apartment. There’s no need to worry.”

There goes his idea to have you close monitor you in close range. There was another idea… “I’ll send some Shadows on you. I can’t have you warning the other Monarchs or betraying me.”

You eyed as some Shadows moved from Jinwoo’s into yours, feeling the added weight on your form and the chills. It was a familiar feelings. Jinwoo does remind you of Ashborn but different. “Betrayal would suggest that we are close, friends even, in your human terms. So I believe the phase ‘stabbing you in the back’ would be more fitting.”

Jinwoo shrugged while internally fuming, “The idea is not to have you be a disadvantage to me or cause one.” His eyes glowed and bloodlust was released, “That understood?”

As hard as it was, you stood your ground. You laughed at yourself mentally. An enemy is still an enemy. This human was picked by Ashborn himself, so you shouldn’t have underestimate him. Even more so when he is going to be the successor instead of a mere vessel. Shamefully, you bowed your head in the form of a bow of submission. “Understood.”

Note: I've decided to continue this and turn it into a series. There's more parts to come and it will be heavy manhwa focus, plus some scenes and events will be moved around. Do join me on this journey!

Also. Happy Halloween!

Circe Y.

My Works: MASTERLIST

Taglist: 

@o-qi-shisme @2021animeandwebtoons @mochinon-yah

[toodelusionalforreality]

Azriel x OC | Chapter 3

Bastards

Both his brothers are mated. Both his brothers are happily in love. But after five centuries of rejection, Azriel doesn’t hope for such luxury in his life. When he meets the bar owner who is too mysterious even for the spymaster to decipher, his intrigue turns into more. Lines between mystery and secret blur. The closer he gets to her, the more his instincts warn him to stay away.

Previous Chapter: Sanctuary

Word count: ~9.4k Warning: Slight mentions of blood [minimal editing/proofreading/formatting]

A/N: This is an experimental piece of work. I'm testing a writing style, so feedback is welcome. A lot is going on here that editing is a lost cause. I'm sincerely praying none of you know anything about fighting.

Ahead. 

His shadows urged him as if he couldn’t hear the call himself. They snaked through the trees, leading him through a darkness softer than their own. The melody tugged at his heart, enough for him to lurch forward, tripping and stumbling over the overgrown roots under his feet. Her voice grew nearer, clearer, the tremors in it raking over his skin.

Ahead.

As he emerged through the entangled branches, his breath hitched. Moonlight broke through the canopy and illuminated a wide circle in the clearing. And she at the centre of it, her head tipped skyward.

Her shirt, barely a white veil in the dim light, caressed her skin as the breeze danced to the rhythm of her song, her words unintelligible and foreign. The soft waves of her hair whipped in the gentle wind. A thick white mist stood a barrier between them, shielding her from him as though she wasn’t his to embrace. 

Ahead.

He took another step. Twigs snapped under him. The fog lifted. She lowered her eyes and blinked. Her lips stopped moving. She stood, frozen in front of him, radiant than a full moon above the mountains. The word hung in the air, whispered by his shadows and the breeze. 

Mate. 

.

.

.

Azriel opened his eyes to a cloud of darkness flittering above him. With each gasp of breath, the weight in his chest sank a little deeper. Every time he saw the same face. Some nights, she sang for him under the golden lights in her bar. On others, they were far away from the rest of the world, alone and safe. But she always smiled. At him, only him.

Despite the torture of facing reality at the crack of his dreams, he went to sleep every night only to catch a glimpse of her. 

Masochist, he might be, but it was all Azriel had of her.

His brothers never mentioned being plagued by visions of their mates after the mating bond snapped for them. He didn’t have the gall to ask either, partly because he didn’t dare believe it was what he suspected it to be. The clear whisper from his shadows only haunted him in his dreams. A mere word said into his ears once and gone, leaving him to wonder if he had dreamt it as much as his hallucinations of her. But every time he woke up with his skin prickling with need and heart swelling with bittersweet longing, he swore he smelled that same fragrance of spices.

And then, there was the matter of the bond itself. His emotions and desires came crashing down on him so fiercely, so fast, that there was no other explanation, even if he wanted to deny it. The tether wound tight around his heart every time he refused to seek her. But it was quiet. So eerily quiet. If he sensed her, he told himself, he would know for sure.

His brothers realised the moment the growl erupted from his throat. They scented the bond on him, Rhys had said. It was the feral look in his eyes that had convinced Cass though. Azriel believed him, for he had wanted to tear every limb of the man that night.

He could see it as he sat in the booth with his hands fisted on the table—thundering up the stairs past Uri’s protests, ripping the door that snapped shut softly above them off its hinges, going straight for the man’s throat. He wouldn’t have used his knife. No, he had wanted to do it with his bare hands.

Darkness exploded around him at the sight of the locked office door. His siphons shone bright like hellfire against the black of his shadows. If his brothers hadn’t dragged him out of the bar a minute later, his shadows would have claimed the one who belonged with them, belonged with him .

What truly stopped him was her eyes.

Even after months, he remembered the pure disdain and disgust that filled them when she defended the fae against a pervert. The flicker of alarm, the following rage, and then the void. No, Azriel couldn’t bring himself to be the cause of it. Mate or not, he didn’t want her to look at him with those eyes. 

And when he shot to the skies and flew over Velaris until sunrise—afraid to stop, afraid he might end up in front of her doors—all he thought of was her smile, her voice, her. 

His brothers didn’t bother to stop him. Even Cass didn’t make one of his jokes. After hours of trailing him, they left him to his own misery. But not before a slow, careful presence nudged against his mental wards as if he were a breath away from shattering. 

Whatever you’re tempted to do, Rhys had voiced when Azriel allowed him in, don’t.

And he listened.

He listened every day since. He fought his impulses to run to her, to see whether she had felt anything that night. Even when he knew mating bonds didn’t work that way. 

Rhys made it easy though, or so Azriel believed, by sending him on mission after mission with barely any day to spare in between. Months ago, he would have visited Pharus even during only a day’s break. But now, he didn’t trust himself enough to be in the vicinity of the bar, day or night.

Cass took the honour of owning the loosest lips in the family by telling everyone what had transpired that very night. Apparently, Rhys had wanted to wait until Azriel was ready.

One look at Mor’s brown eyes and he knew when the conversation veered towards Ayla. But five centuries of friendship counted for something as she picked up on signs of his frustration and let him be. Nesta gave him a disapproving stare but respected his silence, on occasions. At least Cass backed off when he showed no interest in pouring his heart out like a lovesick youth. 

But Feyre, believing she was as sly as her mate, took him on errands for her paint supplies. And supposedly remembered an important meeting always somewhere close to a specific red-bricked building. Azriel wasn’t a fool, and so he left his High Lady to attend her meetings alone. Honestly, it was Elain’s company he tolerated, the only one in his family who never asked about Ayla or his brooding over his own cowardice.

Rhys’s generosity lasted for a whole of three grand weeks. He dismissed every pressing concern Azriel brought to him and bound him home. With an endless list of people who loved to pry into his matters, each day posed a new kind of torture. 

Given they were aware of his obsession with the middle Archeron sister and the consequent dispute with his brother—the High Lord, it was safe to say his longing to be mated like his brothers surfaced with not much of a shock. And they all had one question.

Why hadn’t he done anything yet?

To begin with, Ayla barely knew of his existence. When the mating bond snapped for his brothers, they were acquainted with their mates to some extent. Feyre knew Rhys enough to hate him. Nesta and Cass. . . they were at each other’s throats as much as in each other’s pants. And he distinctly remembered Elain’s reaction. She hated Lucien when he declared the bond in front of everyone, resented him for it, and resisted it with all her might.

So Azriel listened. He stayed away.

He stayed away as years of rejection finally caught up to him and fear snagged his heart. He stayed away though centuries-long prayers were answered in a heartbeat. He stayed away when everything he ever wanted was so close to his reach.

Shackled to home day after day, his options were limited—antagonising himself with his family’s nosiness, running errands which gave his legs, wings and shadows a reason to seek Ayla, or training. 

‘Ready to talk?’ asked Cass the moment his brother took his stance before him and raised his fists to his chin. 

Azriel threw the first punch, and that was the end of that conversation.

It became the new routine. Waking up at night with thoughts of her and releasing his tension in the ring in the morning. He expected Cass to coax him into action, but Rhys was the one to intervene.

Glaring at his brother’s back, Azriel froze in his steps. Close to the southern border of Velaris, stood a lone white stone building along the wide bend of Sidra curving into the city. The turquoise blue on the carved iron doors demanded attention from miles away. One of the heavy double doors was pulled open while the other remained closed, blocking the view of the inside. Through the mesh-covered grilled window, hot air billowed out only to be carried downwind over the waters. Smoke coiled out of a chimney in the back. 

Two horses—creatures of beauty and grace complimenting each other in every way—were tied to the stump outside a modest stable erected beside the quaint smithy. One, as stark as Rhys’s hair and the other, as pale as Amren’s grey eyes. They shuffled silently at the sight of the three brothers who invoked their primal need to surrender their beastly control.

‘Why are we here?’ Azriel ground out. His hands clenched, twitching to throw his brother into the river. Not nearly adequate, but enough to get his point across.

Rhys adjusted the cuffs of his tunic. ‘I fancied a new blade. It’s been a while since I got any, don’t you think? You could get one too.’ He glanced over his shoulder with the same insufferable smirk at the Truth-teller strapped to Azriel’s thigh. ‘Give it a little rest maybe.’

Cass rubbed his sore shoulder from two mornings ago. ‘Do you think I enjoy getting my ass handed to me every day?’ He scowled, stalking up to the two wide doorsteps made of the same stone as the building. ‘I don’t care what you do there. Get. Inside. ’

Azriel stared. Cass stared back.

His brother’s solution to everything was training until his body was limp and trembling. If Azriel had gotten him grumbling about a few landed hits, he definitely pushed this too far. He took a step forward and Cass breathed in relief.

Rhys opened the other door and peered inside. 

Azriel came up behind him and said quietly, ‘You told me not to do anything.’ His shadows drifted ahead before he could reel them back.

‘That night, Az.’ Every trace of amusement disappeared from Rhys's face. Shaking his head, he entered the shop with his brothers on his trail. ‘I told you not to do anything stupid that night.’

A short counter took the space along the breadth of the room across the door. A metal mesh formed part of the wall on their left separating the forge from the shop front. Wood groaned and crackled beyond the partition as a shadow moved in front of a glowing furnace.

To their right, cabinets with glass doors spanned the wall from floor to ceiling. One half showcased knives, swords, and arrowheads made of iron and steel fit for regular use. The other exhibited an interesting collection.

The polished metal of the blades gleamed with a liquid sheen under the soft morning light. Gold and silver made their hilts. Gems of every colour, cut and size adorned the intricate swirls along them. Little wooden placards took a place next to each with centuries, lands—except Night Court—and a few names of fae lords, long dead or forgotten, etched on them.

The brothers studied each weapon carefully, their breaths held in reverence in the presence of ancient blades that had been lost in time, wielded by warriors who once walked and warred and bled to death.

If his brothers chose to wield a sword of their own and name it, Azriel knew, long after they were gone, they would be as coveted as the ones before them. One day, his Truth-Teller would be too, and it had nothing to do with him. The sheathed knife weighed heavy on his thigh as to confirm his belief.

Metal groaned behind them. A man pushed the mesh wall aside and came through. He offered a mild smile, sealing the path again. 

Azriel had seen an uninhibited version of that smile once, hated it, and wanted to carve it out of that face.

Cass strode past to Rhys and blocked him from the clueless fae. He muttered under his breath, ‘What were we thinking? This is a bad idea.’

But his brother smiled smoothly, tucking his hands into his pockets.

Azriel resisted the urge to snarl at the man. His shadows curled around his ears, hissing how they wished to shred the one who dared touch Ayla apart. His face that brought a smile to hers, his lips that kissed her cheek, his hand that held her body. Another reason he had stayed away.

‘How can I help you?’

Orvin was no warrior but his build suggested he could handle himself in a fight. His wrapped hands implied he indeed helped Ayla in the workshop. His eyes held an effortless sparkle, unlike the one Azriel usually had to muster for anyone but his family. His short chestnut hair curled at the ends and all Azriel could think was the way Ayla would have tugged at them that night when he—

‘We were hoping to talk to her.’ Rhys tipped his head to the mere shadow looming beyond the makeshift wall against the roaring golden of the fire.

Orvin folded his arms across his chest. His smile faltered a little. ‘She’s busy. Whatever you’re looking for,’ he nodded at the case beside them, ‘you can find it here.’

Cass’s eyes roved over every steel with the warrior's scrutiny, unable to resist his instincts. ‘They’re not good enough.’

And Rhys didn’t deign to look at them, ‘We have a special request.’

In a blink, Orvin stood to his full height—his chin held high, his smile vanishing. ‘She doesn’t work with lords and High Lords.’ 

While Azriel watched her as she moved farther into the shadows, Rhys purred, ‘Surely you can make an exception once.’ 

Metal hit metal in a steady rhythm in the other room. For long minutes, they stared at each other. Feet shuffled. A harsh hiss cut through the silence.

Orvin remained unfazed. ‘She doesn’t make exceptions. For anyone. You can either buy one of these or leave.’

All his life, very few who weren’t a lord or High Lord had defied Rhys. He never abused his power in Velaris. It was one of the reasons the city thrived and people admired him. Still, no one ever forgot who he was and what he was capable of under that beautiful face and charming smile. 

Yet, the sheer arrogance Orvin radiated at that moment, looking down at the most powerful High Lord to have ever existed like the scums he drove out of the shop, was not something anyone had dared do before. He either had a lot of courage or little common sense to deny Rhys what he wanted. 

‘I’m no lord,’ Azriel said finally, his voice gratefully even and low. ‘She makes weapons for others though, doesn’t she?’ 

Orvin slid his gaze to the darkness swarming the shadowsinger's shoulders, ripples and ripples of them challenging him, threatening him. He brought his eyes back to the glowering hazel ones that promised nothing good. Then he turned to the forge. ‘I’ll have to ask her first.’

‘Don’t tell her who we are,’ added Rhys softly.

Orvin paused to throw a warning look over his shoulder. The sliding door clanked gently into the stone wall behind him.

Azriel heard her heart beat as steady as every clang of metal that rang through the air. Time crawled as he waited and waited. For a moment, he considered if Orvin had returned to his work instead. Finally, every sound came to a halt when light footsteps headed towards them.

‘Make yourself presentable,’ her friend sighed. His voice was smooth as a caress when he spoke to her.

Her feet stopped. She took one sharp breath and bit out, ‘If they want me to look pretty, they shouldn’t interrupt me while I’m working.’

Cass pressed a fist to his lips in a useless attempt to hide the stupid grin on his face. Rhys turned to him, his usual amused eyes glowing that set Azriel’s nerves on edge. 

Another sigh, long and deep. ‘At least wash your face.’

‘I regret hiring you.’ 

Her quiet grumble left Azriel’s heart fluttering in his chest. He surveyed a short sword perched on the lowest shelf to hide his smile from his brothers who watched him intently.

‘You wouldn't have a business without me,’ Orvin’s voice followed her to the back and the sound of running water muted his words. ‘How do you plan on selling anything when you hate talking to your customers? You need me to run this place.’

Water splashed. ‘And you get compensated for it.’

In her bed. The words birthed something wretched and slimy in his gut. Azriel closed his eyes as if the simple act could erase his filthy thoughts. With each breath, he tamed the self-loathing that filled him at his own perverseness.

Rhys spoke with a touch of kindness. ‘She doesn’t take an interest in him that way.’

‘Did you,’ his words came out in a low growl and Azriel didn’t try to hide it, ‘look into her mind?’

Though his brother had done it to many over the centuries, none of them ever tempted him to throttle Rhys to death. He could have as well laid his hand on Ayla in ways he shouldn’t.

Rhys simply shook his head. The cockiness in his eyes from mere seconds ago vanished as a calm contemplation replaced it, the one that overtook him in the face of an unknown opponent.

His. Hers is shielded. Rhys held his brother's glare and admitted solemnly, That night in the bar, she knew I peeked into her mind. I didn’t mean to. Her shields went up so fast I could barely find my way out. She knew what she was doing, Azriel. But she didn’t chase me. Any Daemati would have, but she didn’t.

That was months ago and Rhys chose to disclose it with Ayla only a few feet away. Revealing it now meant one thing. A warning. To a brother. From the look on Cass’s face, it was obvious he had been privy to that information as well. 

The groan of wheels against the floor brought the three out of their mental conversation. Ayla walked out, wiping the back of her neck with a washrag. A sheen of sweat coated her flushed skin below her collarbones. Hair slipped loose from her braid curling along the curve of her face. She didn’t come any closer.

Azriel had been so wrong. He had a glimpse of her legs that night, and yet he never could have imagined what he saw in front of him. 

Her oversized shirts and pants were a disguise for what truly lay underneath. Every inch of her body was a sculpted perfection. Every curve and dip of muscle earned from years of training and discipline. Her light sleeveless shirt hung off her shoulders and shifted with each breath she took. The tunic underneath and her dark pants clung to her like a second skin. The scratch on her exposed calf had turned into a fading pale strip. And a fresh scorch mark stained the inside of her forearm.

How long had it been since that night? Weeks? Months? It felt like aeons. And now he stood in her presence, mere steps away from touching her. If he wanted, if she allowed. Azriel couldn’t breathe. His hands trembled by his side. He focused his will on binding his shadows to himself as they chanted her name and begged to be set loose.

‘What can I do for you?’ Her voice lost the airiness from moments ago. Her words were polite, yet her frown asked— Why are you bothering me?

Rhys smiled like the beautiful prick he was. ‘We hear you're crafty with weapons. We’d like to commission you to make one for us.’

None of the brothers missed the slight roll of her eyes. ‘We don’t make weapons. The ones on display are for sale. My partner will help you with that.’

Her partner leaned against the sliding door, wearing a smirk on his face. A smug, satisfied smirk.

Ayla turned around. She was halfway through the door when Rhys’s words stopped her. ‘That’s not what I heard. You have quite the reputation all over Prythian. And beyond.’

‘You heard wrong.’ She noted each of their faces with nothing but a blank observation.

Don’t you remember me? Azriel wanted to ask like an insolent child. You sang for me!

‘So what’s that hammering back there about?’

‘I deal with arrogant fae men every day. Helps with stress.’

Rhys lifted a brow. Ayla mimicked him. 

Azriel couldn’t help but chuckle. A calm warmth smothered the anger, jealousy, and everything vile that consumed his heart.

‘Indulge us,’ Rhys gave her a smile that charmed everyone into compliance. ‘Just one weapon. It shouldn’t be much trouble.’

Ayla blinked.

‘For him,’ Orvin lifted his chin, ‘at the back.’ Maybe she wasn’t into him, but he sure seemed to be protective of her.

Ayla dragged her eyes across his face, peering through the mask of indifference he wore, or Azriel hoped he did.

‘One for each of us,’ amended Rhys, earning a glare from her partner.

‘Special requests cost extra.’ 

Orvin paled. He opened his mouth but Rhys interrupted, ‘We can afford it.’

‘This way.’

Ayla turned on her feet and headed back. 

Orvin stalked her, his eyes widening and yet, they softened for her, ‘Listen, they are—’ 

‘It’s fine. I’ll handle it.’

‘But they are—’

A heavy quiet fell in the room. The brothers went in before Orvin revealed their identity. Heat swallowed them the moment they set foot inside the forge. Sweat trickled down their bodies, making their leathers stick uncomfortably. 

Azriel tucked his wings close to his back, wading through the narrow path between two wooden worktables. He keenly avoided the fire that gorged on coals on his left. The scarred skin on his hands stung and tingled. His shadows swarmed away to his other side, twitching against his wing. 

As they crossed to the end of the room, he took in a breath, her overwhelming scent etched in every corner soothing him. The sweet and bitter scent of spices. All those months when he had thought it was the bar, it had been her.

Ayla stopped in front of a carved wooden door. Removing a heavy iron key from a hook above her head, she unlocked the door, pushed it open, and stepped aside. 

All the while, Orvin stood beside her and scowled at Rhys. His brother flashed him one of his perfect grins and peeked into the room over Ayla's shoulder.

Azriel appreciated one thing—her partner’s refusal to back down even knowing who Rhys was. And couldn’t decide how he felt about his unwavering loyalty to his mate.

‘It wasn’t my fault this time,’ called out a voice. A young fae, no older than twenty, walked in and came to a halt when she spotted the three brothers.

Her skin glowed golden in the light from the furnace and the brown in her eyes turned into a pool of molten copper. A purple bruise adorned her child-like face from her cheekbone to her jaw.

Ayla arched her brow, bored and challenging. 

The fae shrugged, but there was panic in her eyes. Fear of disappointing Ayla, Azriel realised. ‘I mean it! He came at me.’

Finally, losing interest in the brothers, Orvin went to the girl. ‘When did this happen?’

Her thick red hair swayed as she jerked her face out of his grip. She scanned them from head to toe, the frown on her lips deepening with each passing glance. ‘You’d make a knife for another one of these rich bastards, but not me?’

‘I’ll consider making one for you when you come in here without a scratch,’ said Ayla mildly.

‘I have to stop defending myself against those bastards to get a weapon?’

With her bared teeth and fiery eyes, the fae looked like a portrait of a feral cub. The brothers tried to hold in their smiles.

Ayla cut them the same bored look and it was enough to sober them up. When she turned to the fae, her eyes shone. ‘I meant don’t get hit.’

For a moment, the girl only blinked. Then her lips parted in a childish grin as she let Orvin inspect her bruises and answered his questions. 

When none of the brothers moved, Ayla said to Rhys, her face placid. ‘What are you waiting for?’

Azriel couldn’t hide his smile this time. He bowed his head as he entered the room after his brothers. The shell of his wing brushed against her shirt and a shiver shot down his spine.

A short writing desk stood beside the door. Ayla went on to pluck a notebook from the shelf next to it leaving the brothers to their inspection. The room, almost as big as the store and forge combined, included a training mat in the middle. Weapons ranging from knives to swords to maces to war hammers were mounted on one wall. The other carried practice weapons with blunt edges and wooden swords. Long windows, as wide as his hand, split the continuous racks on either side. No way in or out except for the carved door.

‘Who is she?’ asked Rhys, eyeing her every move. 

Cass had been unnaturally quiet since they arrived. 

Ayla unwound the thread holding the notebook close. ‘I don’t see how she's your concern.’ She flipped through the pages, the soft crinkle echoing through the air. She continued without looking at them, ‘You will not tell anyone that I made these for you. You will not speak of this room to anyone. You will return here if and only if you need a replacement.’

‘You seem to be fond of rules,’ Rhys drawled with a tilt of his head, gauging her every reaction, her every word, her every breath.

She lifted one of her beautifully arched brows. ‘You can leave if that’s an inconvenience to you.’ With a pencil in her hand, she looked up. ‘I’ll need your names.’

‘Silence for silence. We won’t talk about you and you won’t know us.’ The words fell off Rhys's lips as if he had been expecting it.

‘This is for me. You shall choose your weapons today. If you prove safe to use one, you will get one.’

Rhys stared at her. Ayla stared back. Her face was a vision of calmness, one that even he never mastered.

A minute passed. Then another. The silence was stifling. His shadows nipped at his neck.

Speak .

Azriel took a steadying breath.

Speak.

He opened his mouth.

‘Rhysand. Call me Rhys since we’re about to be good friends.’

No widening of eyes, no parting of lips in a soft gasp, no shaky breath as the name hung in the air.

Instead, Ayla stood still. Her eyes roved over Rhys’s form in an agonisingly slow, measured scrutiny. She took in every feature, from his infuriatingly perfect face to his broad shoulders to his toned chest to his shaped legs. And all the while, Azriel ground his teeth.

‘Rhysand it is,’ she said in a voice that left his skin prickling. She made notes in her notebook and his shadows writhed to know what she observed.

Cass crouched in front of the stack of longswords finer than Illyrian blades. He had a sincere smile on his lips and appreciation in his eyes. ‘You know how to use all these weapons?’

‘Most of them, yes. Others, I have a working knowledge.’ Ayla frowned, shrugging a shoulder. Her gaze lifted to Rhys again before she jotted more. Finally, she closed the notebook marking the page. ‘Pick your weapon.’

Rhys walked along the shelves surveying the assortment, before he stopped in front of the double-edged swords. He ran his finger over the one at his eye level. Sunlight hit its gilded dark edge and scattered on his palm. A thick white rope corded along the length of its hilt for a better grip.

‘Which one do you recommend?’ He asked softly with a ring of awe in his voice.

‘It’s not up to me to decide yet. First, I need to know what you can do.’ Rhys looked over his shoulder and she added, ‘We’ll assess your strengths. Pick a weapon of your choice. Knock me off my feet.’ 

Rhys faced her with a wicked smile. Cass grinned walking up to Azriel. His brothers knew. Even his shadows didn’t find out this little slice of detail in their spying. 

Ayla moved to one end of the mat. Her feet planted shoulder-width apart. Her hands clasped behind her back. She had not an ounce of doubt or worry on her face as she waited. 

Did she know who they were? Would she still be calm if she knew of the wars they had seen and fought in? The Illyrian wings must have clued her in. Yet, she stood poised and composed.

Rhys lifted his hand, fingers brushing against each other, ready to get rid of his jacket with a single snap. Then, he reached for the buttons instead.

Ayla didn’t even blink at the sight of his naked warrior torso, and a petty satisfaction churned in Azriel's heart. Her gaze shifted though, when he picked a broadsword, the one he admired.

Her brows furrowed, ‘You sure?’

‘Your turn,�� was Rhys’s only reply as he swung the steel, testing its balance. 

‘I don’t need one.’ Rhys looked up. Ayla shrugged, ‘I’m making an assessment. I don’t need a blade for that. When you’re ready.’ 

Grasping with both hands, Rhys adjusted his grip on the hilt and grounded his feet. He winked at Azriel. How do you like her now?  

How did he like her? He wanted to shove her against the wall and devour her lips. He wouldn’t care if his brothers watched. He wouldn’t care if the whole of Prythian watched. He wanted to feast on her, feel her body against his, naked and sweaty. He wanted to run his tongue over her skin until the taste of her was all he remembered. 

Azriel took a shuddering breath and crossed his arms against his chest. His shadows sheathed his body hiding the one true indication of where his thoughts had wandered. His brother chuckled, and he scrambled to put his mental shield back up, tripping over and over again.

Rhys took a step forward and swung his sword lightly. Ayla didn’t move. He inched forward and did it again. Not a blink. He held back his thrusts, stopping short with lazy flicks. 

Azriel smirked at his dilemma. How do you like her now? 

Rhys straightened, his hand and sword limp by his side. ‘At least pick one of those blunt ones,’ he smiled. ‘It’s impolite enough to fight a lady.’

The corner of her lips twitched. ‘If I need a blade to win a fight, I'd rather learn how to fight first.’

Cass laughed and jabbed an elbow into his ribs. ‘She’s fun. I bet—’

‘We both can’t bet against him.’ Azriel grinned back. 

‘Ten gold marks says Rhys will be on his ass in fifteen.’

‘Twenty marks. And make it ten.’

Rhys opened his mouth when Ayla sighed softly to herself, ‘Rich bastards indeed.’

The three brothers shut up but had identical grins plastered on their faces.

Rhys moved in the precise steps he had mastered over years and years in war camps and battlefields. His hands set to motion to match his stride—fluid, quick. The edge almost grazed her arm and Ayla leaned back an inch.

Pulling the sword back, he swung it to her other side. Ayla swerved, but barely. Every move was calculated, nothing more than to dodge the attacks, none to waste her energy or lose her balance.

Rhys noticed too. Do you mind if I nick her a bit? 

Azriel smiled. You can try.

Smirking, Rhys launched into attack after attack. With each step, he pushed her back. He cornered her against the wall stacked with the training swords, careful not to hurt her, much. 

And she stood rooted every time, her hands behind her back.

Her body twisted and stretched with grace. Her feet slid against the floor in effortless drags. Her serene face gave away none of her thoughts. Her gaze darted between his arms and legs, swift and cunning. A glimmer flickered in her eyes but it vanished as soon as she blinked. 

In her presence, at the sight of her, Azriel trembled—not out of fear. But with need, with reverence. He wanted to run his hands down her every curve and watch her move at his touch, at his kiss. Just the thought of the curl of her delicate body against his or the glide of her hands along his skin was too much to bear. Every fibre in his body cried to get on his knees for her.

Rhys swept high and went for her neck. Ayla moved with the blade, ducked low, and turned away as she grasped a wooden sword off the rack and blocked his next strike.

‘I thought you didn’t need a weapon,’ Rhys smirked and aimed for her leg.

Ayla sighed, twisting out of his reach. ‘You’re taking too long.’ She nodded at their audience, ‘And I have other customers.’

She made no attacks. Splinters flew with each blocked hit. Every move was as fluid as her breathing. 

Rhys quickened his pace. His smile fell off his lips, but the spark in his eyes remained. He went for her shoulder, the flat of his sword hoisted to land a hard blow.

Ayla leaned back, dropping to her knees, her sword tucked along her spine. She swivelled around and rose to her feet behind him. The blunt tip of her sword tapped Rhys thrice. On the back of his neck, right behind his heart, at the base of his spine. 

They were done in seven.

Azriel was mesmerised. He had never seen anyone move with such precision or swiftness. But he didn't have the chance to linger on what she had done for long.

‘Or your wings if I’m being generous with your life.’ She walked past Rhys back to her desk, ‘Do you not prefer using them in close-range combat?’

Rhys faced her, palming the spot on his neck where he took the soft hit. His lips parted with a mild gasp. ‘You can see them?’

Ayla shrugged and opened her notebook. ‘Most glamours don’t work on me. They are still hidden by shadows.’ She glanced at Azriel, and he sucked in a breath. ‘Not like his. But faint outlines, more of a disguise by a dark smoke.’

Azriel hadn’t realised his shadows were perched on his shoulders, watching her without their usual chatter.

‘It’s not a glamour,’ mumbled Rhys. The earlier wariness returned to his eyes as he met his brother’s stare.

She wrote in her notebook again. ‘Then I don’t have an explanation for it. That one is too heavy for you,’ she peeked at the sword in his hand, a frown tugging at her lips. ‘You need a lighter steel since you don’t use your wings. The weight throws you off balance. But then, you’ll need more force in your thrusts.’

Rhys gaped at her. 

Cass agreed with a simple shrug. ‘You better show up for training tomorrow.’ He wrapped an arm around his brother’s shoulder as he did his shirt. Rhys shoved his hand off, the buttons at the top left forgotten.

‘Where did you learn to fight?’ Cass asked her. Noting Azriel's unwavering eyes on her like a creep, he gave his ribs a harsh nudge.

‘Around,’ she mumbled, flipping through her notes, scratching with her pencil, and marking a few details. She opened a new page, ‘Next.’

Cass clapped his hands and skipped forward with a feral smile that showed all his teeth.

‘Azriel.’ He smirked when his brother mouthed a curse at him and walked to the middle of the room.

Ayla looked up. She studied him—every inch of his face and body. For a moment, Azriel let himself believe she took longer than she did with Rhys. She blinked slowly, her lingering gaze setting his skin on fire. When her eyes landed on his wings, they flared by a degree in response. She scribbled in her notebook as his brothers chuckled under their breaths.

Azriel had already decided what he would do once they walked out—kill Rhys for his mental comments and then Cass for indulging the prick.

Ayla went to the racks. She returned her sword and rearranged the ones misplaced by her earlier. ‘Choose your weapon,’ she said gently.

Azriel hated that she never spoke his name like she did Rhys’s in that sweet voice of hers.

The moment they entered the room, he spotted the one he wanted to try. Narrower and longer than his Illyrian sword, the simple piece of art swallowed the light around it. Leather wrapped along its hilt as a seamless extension of the abyssal black of the blade. His shadows glided over it, testing it for him, almost as drawn to it as himself.

A muffled ring of metal sliding against leather echoed in the quiet. Ayla turned around to find a curved knife in each of his hands. 

Though Azriel had knives and daggers sheathed on him at all times, he favoured swords. But not that day. They wouldn’t allow him to get close to her, give him a chance to touch her.

Taking her place across from him, she quietly assessed his hands, the way he brought them to his front, gripped his knives ready, and shifted his weight on his feet.

She murmured, ‘Odd choice. Most don’t go for these. They prefer something big and flashy,’ she smiled, bringing her gaze to his face. ‘Requires a lot of practice to master. How long did you take?’

Azriel blinked. Every thought went out of his mind at that smile. ‘Been a while to remember.’ 

Wisps of hair fell over her face as she tipped her head. Her eyes shifted over his shoulders and arms. ‘Your shadows,’ darkness wreathed around him anticipating the little touches they longed to steal, ‘need to sit this one out.’ There was a flicker of hesitation, a weight on his back. ‘Just you and me.’

Like it had been a command from him, his shadows drifted to a corner of the room. 

Just you and me. 

Her words roved over his skin. He stared at her. His brothers fell silent too. 

‘Whenever you’re ready,’ she said softly.

For a full minute, Azriel stood frozen. Then, he lunged forward. 

The same dance ensued, him leading with the first move, her dodging with minimal movement. A strangely familiar rhythm they both fell into with an ease that rendered him senseless. Her warmth grazed his body, her breath hit his fist, and her hair caressed him every time he got too close. Unlike with Rhys, she didn’t keep her distance. She threw her own punches this time.

Azriel summoned every knowledge he acquired fighting for five centuries to take down one woman—his mate.

He wanted to win her challenge only to pin her down under him, to know what she felt like against him. He was, by no means, a simple warrior. Even without his shadows, he was easily one of the most powerful the Illyrians ever dreamt to be. And yet, in her presence, under her calculating eyes, he hardly remembered to steady his breaths.

‘Your left footing needs work,’ she said, stepping back to miss his blade that almost slashed her rib. 

His footing needed no such thing. She was goading him, mocking his consideration, that much her smile told him.

Cass yelled from one corner, ‘Don’t let her win again, brother.’ His eyes twinkled.

Training with each other for centuries left no mystery in their technique or style and removed the freshness of a challenge. If his brother got the chance, he wouldn’t hesitate like Rhys, and Azriel knew. 

Rhys scowled beside him, a look so foreign on his face. ‘She didn’t win against me.’

‘Sure, she didn’t kill you thrice either.’

‘She didn’t have a real blade. I was being courteous.’ Rhys’s lazy smugness returned to his voice. ‘It’s something you wouldn’t understand.’

Azriel breathed a laugh. 

Her gaze dipped to his lips and then to his hand that came at her. She swerved to her right, grabbed his wrist and ducked under. And as she came back up, her other fist met the inside of his bicep. She retreated a few paces. Feet apart, hands behind her back. 

Pain rippled through his muscles. He shook his arm twice, slowly. His skin burned and ached where her fingers had been. His body came alive as though it had felt her grip elsewhere. His heart pounded in his chest, their beat drumming in his ears. He let out a long exhale.

How he wished to throw the knives away and grab her waist instead.

She observed every move he made—the flex of his fingers before they wrapped around the daggers, the rise of his chest as he heaved in a breath, the shift of his legs under him for his next move.

Azriel wanted her eyes only on him anyway. He wished he had taken off his leathers like his brother had done so. Maybe she would have appreciated that too. He would have definitely enjoyed her hits.

He threw the same punch. She swerved. He went for her chest. She glided back. He took a step forward and swept his dagger across her torso before she landed on her feet. She skipped back. He smirked. The corner of her lips twitched. He aimed a strike at her face again. She leaned to her side, and Azriel slammed his left fist into her jaw. She staggered back a few steps, far from his arm’s reach.

‘You always favour your right,’ he remarked softly.

Ayla didn’t move. Her feet planted on the spot. Loose strands of hair veiled her averted face but not the patches of red blooming on her jaw. Her breaths were uneven for the first time since they started. Even his brothers went silent.

She slowly turned to him, her head hung low, her eyes trained on the ground. She reached a hand to her face. A streak of crimson, thin and sharp, ran along the smooth curve of her jaw through the framing bruise. 

Azriel stared at his blade. Blood gleamed along its edge. His grip loosened. Dread filled his chest along with an ache. He looked at her, breathless, as her fingers ghosted over the cut, pulling away with smears of pale red on the tips.

Apologise, Rhys hissed in his mind, now .

Azriel opened his mouth.

‘You,’ she wiped her fingers on her shirt below her ribs—the stains akin to the ones she tried to erase that first night, ‘learn fast.’

Her eyes met his, and a dangerous delight swirled in them. She moved quick. She took two long steps and lunged at him.

Azriel crouched and rooted to his feet as he brought his arms up to block her incoming blow to his face. It wasn’t her hand that met him, and he wasn’t fast enough.

She stepped on the inside of his thigh hard to shift his weight, propelled herself up, and her other foot pushed into his chest. Using the momentum, she swung herself over and around his shoulder.

Before Azriel could blink, his feet gave out. His wings spread behind him easing his fall.

Her grip was strong. She pressed his hand to his throat, the edge of his knife cool against his skin. Her face hovered over his. 

Azriel let his head rest on the ground. Painfully aware of her body pressed against his—straddling his waist, her hands around each of his wrists—he willed himself to hold her stare steady. 

She breathed, ‘You’re dead.’

‘So are you,’ he rasped the words out. He lifted his head to peer down between them. The glinting tip of his other blade poked at her chest, where her heart was, where he was sure a spot of blood would soon taint her white shirt.

She followed his stare. Her lips pulled into a smirk before she looked him in the eye. ‘As long as I take you with me.’

Azriel yearned for nothing more. For her to take him—to death, to hell, to his damnation. 

Her braid fell over her shoulder, and the ends tickled his face and neck. Her short breaths hit his skin, the scent of her making him heady. Her hands were warm against his shadow-kissed cold ones. Blood rushed to her face. A bead of sweat trickled down between her brows, followed the curve of her nose, and trailed down her cheek.

Azriel wanted to trace it with his tongue, taste her. Her blood, her sweat.

Beautiful. The word clanged in every corner of his mind as he took her in, raw and bare. 

Beautiful. The blade dug deeper into his skin, reminding him she held his life in her hands. 

Beautiful. Especially when she had him at her mercy. 

His mind chose the inappropriate time to conjure the other ways she could have him at her mercy. Gods, if she moved, she would feel him. 

His shadows crept up to them, teasing her hair, teetering along the cut on her jaw, furious for what he had done to her.

His head fell back. He took a deep breath and still, it wasn’t enough. The delicious burn of cool metal scraping against the column of his throat felt painless compared to her intense gaze peering into his soul. He swallowed. She tracked the movement. He swallowed again, her eyes snapped to his. Every nerve in his body urged him to reach up, let the blade slit his throat, only to kiss her once.

And for a sweet moment, he thought she wanted it too. 

She blinked. She pulled back an inch and looked up. 

Orvin hurried in with the red-haired fae. Panic flashed in his eyes. He shoved the fae inside while he lingered close to the door. ‘She’s back. She’s here.’

Ayla shot to her feet taking every sense of warmth around him with her. ‘It’s fine,’ she urged them in and stepped out. ‘Don’t make a sound.’

The door closed behind her. Azriel’s feet followed her on their own.

But Rhysr’s voice in his mind brought him back. She’s gone. Quiet your thoughts a little.

He turned around with a snarl to find both his brothers sporting a cruel grin.

The key clicked into place and so did an invisible force. ‘It’s warded,’ Rhys observed the narrow slits along the walls. His smile vanished. ‘Why do you have wards here?’ 

They turned to Orvin, but he stared at the closed door. He shielded the fae with his body and coaxed her back, far from the entrance. He didn’t answer. 

Outside, a fire crackled in the furnace. Metal whined. Sharp clicks bounced off the stone floors and walls. Both Orvin and the fae sucked in a breath.

‘So,’ said a voice low and feminine, ‘you’re hiding in the monster’s den. I can’t decide if you’re smart or losing your mind.’

Orvin shivered at the sound.

Rhys studied the door, lost and distant in his thoughts. He reached out a hand despite Cass's warning. His palm rested on an invisible field a few inches short of the wood. His touch sent out glimmering waves along the walls, floor, and roof. The wavering stilled once they merged on the far side. A breath later, they rippled and eddied until they reached his palm again. Rhys stepped back staring at his hand.

Ayla spoke calmly. ‘You wouldn’t have found me if I were hiding.’ 

‘I wasted a long trip on this.’ The voice sighed, every word tinged with a seductive drawl. ‘Let’s not dally. Come with me.’

‘I’m not going anywhere.’

‘Have you forgotten your deal already?’ The voice got closer and closer to the door. 

‘I never made a deal with you.’

‘Didn’t you?’ The voice hummed. Long and light. ‘Never mind. We can always make a new one.’

Bare feet shuffled across the floor, drawing away from the locked door. The wards muffled some of the conversation, but their fae hearing helped. Ayla’s voice barely carried through the room. ‘I don’t work for any court.’ 

Heels stomped across the floor. The intruder whined, a delicate teasing sound. ‘Name your price. I’ll get you whatever you want.’

‘I have everything I need.’

Metal groaned against the wood. A sharp thump, metal against metal. Another and another. Each one harder than the previous. 

The voice snorted. ‘Don’t tell me you’ve grown fond of this pathetic excuse of a court.’ 

Cass stiffened beside them. He asked Orvin, ‘Who is she?’ Neither he nor the fae answered.

Ayla said softly, ‘This is my home.’

Those simple words from her lips made Azriel’s heart clench in his chest. A twisted approval of who he was, an acknowledgement of his existence.

‘This? Velaris? Don’t fool yourself.’ The voice laughed. It would’ve been the most melodic sound Azriel had ever heard if not for the mockery in it. She moved away and away, stalking Ayla, circling her. Venom dripped from each word she spouted. ‘What did you expect? You’d find a man here, maybe a lord , fall in love, have a cosy little life like a common fae?’

Ayla chuckled in response. So soft, so tender that it made Azriel smile, too. ‘Is that what you think I’m doing here?’ Her voice lingered, drifting farther past the furnace, past the fires. ‘Gods, sounds like you’re projecting your dreams onto me.’

‘Don’t you dare!’ The voice turned into what it truly was. A vile, cruel shrill masked by the sweetness of its lull.

‘Or what?’ Ayla paused, and Azriel could see the smirk on her lips. ‘You come into my home and threaten me. Did you expect me to kiss your feet next?’

The voice fell silent.

Azriel turned to Rhys, and he shook his head. Her mind is shielded. 

The heels turned to the door again, hitting faster and faster. They stopped right in front of the door. ‘Where’s the half-fae youngling?’ 

Orvin hissed behind the brothers and gestured to them to step back. They all turned to the fae who cowered to a corner, yet schooled her face in defiance. The pointed arch of her ears peeked through her thick hair. But the tan skin, the hazel eyes.

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

‘Please,’ the stranger whined with a thrill at the tightness in Ayla’s voice. ‘I can smell her.’

Rhys asked the fae kindly, ‘Why does she want you?’ When she didn’t answer, he tried again. ‘I’m Rhysand. You know who I am?’ She nodded once. ‘I can help you if you tell me who that is.’

But one look from Orvin had her pursing her lips.

Ayla padded over, biding her time. ‘It’s just me. And I’m very busy. So leave.’

‘Right, since the silver-tongued half-fae High Lord finally gets his way with you.’ 

A long silence. Despite Rhys’s warning looks, Azriel checked the wards. Shadows writhed along the door prying for a way out.

‘The men inside,’ she huffed a breath. ‘Don’t look at me like that. Of course, I knew. Who do you think they are?’

Another moment of silence, only longer. A heart beat faster and faster while the other remained steady outside the door.

‘You didn’t know,’ the voice whispered. ‘Of course, they hid it. Very clever.’ Her breaths filled the pause as if she were calculating her next words. ‘No matter. You already had your doubts, didn’t you?’ She let out a dreamy sigh, one many men yearned to hear in their beds. ‘Well sculpted, beautiful beyond measure, skills better than that of an ordinary warrior. Come on, they are Illyrians! ’

From her tone, it was certain she meant more than just their appearance. The brutal savagery of their kind.

Ayla was silent. So very silent. But her heart—the one that remained calm and rhythmic while fighting—now raced like a fawn’s being preyed upon, trying to break free of her ribcage. 

Azriel inhaled sharply. His own heart filled with fear, anger, and confusion. A breath later, it was gone as swiftly as it had overtaken his senses, leaving a hollow in its wake. So was the frantic beating of her heart. He pressed his fingers to his chest. His brothers noted it.

Finally, Ayla said, ‘Who I do business with is none of your concern.’ Her voice was surprisingly composed.

‘Oh, but it is. Your hypocrisy is my concern when it stands in the way of getting what I want.’

‘Whatever that is, you need to look somewhere else.’ 

A low grunt rumbled through the door and sent his shadows skittering. 

The intruder hissed, ‘You know, your righteousness is starting to get old.’ 

The wood jerked when something hard slammed against it. Shadows exploded against the ward, only to be pushed back and contained inside the room. A whimper escaped the young fae behind them.

Ayla gasped. Feet scraped against the stone floor.

Before he realised, Azriel pounded at the door. The ward wavered like it did against Rhys’s gentle palm and settled into stillness. He hit it again. Again. And again. His shadows slithered along the walls, searching for an escape, through the roof, through the narrow slits of the windows.

‘She won’t even hear you, Shadowsinger.’ Orvin spoke, concern lacing through his words. ‘The ward strengthens with each impact.’

His brothers only watched him. When Cass looked at Rhys, he hesitated, ‘I can’t get through.’

There was a strain in his voice, worried for Azriel. Worried about the danger his mate posed. Worried what might become of his brother if something happened to her. 

The voice hissed, ‘Remember.’ A strangled choke left Ayla’s lips when her head hit against the door again. ‘Remember what you owe them. For once,’ the voice ground out, ‘remember everything.’

Silence returned, suffocating and intense.

‘Finally!’ Another soft thud. ‘Next time, don’t play too hard. Make the bargain.’

Ayla sucked in a breath. The sharp footfalls pulled away from the door, from her. She growled, ‘Next time, I’ll melt you.’

The air stilled. A dark promise carried through in those words of hers. With each passing second of quiet, the gravity of her threat settled deeper and deeper.

Then there it was, the grating mockery of that angelic laugh. But no words followed. And the intruder was gone.

The key clicked. The ward faded. Azriel took a step back and so did his brothers. The door slowly flung open.

Ayla stayed outside. She took in their faces as carefully as she did before, as every other time. Her stare settled on Rhys. For the first time, recognition flickered in those still eyes. A deep red handprint tainted her delicate neck.

Azriel gritted his teeth. ‘Did she do that to you?’ 

He didn't truly need an answer. His whole body shook with rage as his shadows swallowed him, ready for his command. Cass came to stand beside him.

Ayla only looked at Rhys. ‘I don’t work for High Lords. You need to leave.’

Azriel reached for her, but Rhys held a hand out. He glared at his brother.

But Rhys ignored him. ‘I can explain,’ he spoke as gently as he would to a babe. ‘We had our reasons. We didn’t me—’

‘I respect them. I want you to respect mine.’ She stepped aside from the doorway. ‘Leave.’

Rhys waited for a moment. He then turned to his brother and nodded. But Azriel stood his ground, watching Ayla. Later, Rhys promised. You will come back for her later.

Azriel released his breath. He took in her distant eyes once. He stormed out without waiting for his brothers, his knives clenched tighter in his fists. 

He and his shadows were going on a hunt.

Next Chapter: Shadow

[merakiui]

Pumpkin Prince Skully stealing you away from your cheating fiancee to be his princess

👁 👁 pumpkin prince Skully from a misty kingdom in decline,,, perhaps….. just,,, old, gothic castle in a small plot of kingdom that many think is well past its prime. But you still send an invite to them every year for the Halloween ball, in which everyone comes dressed in masks and beautiful attire. You can pretend to be someone else that night, and no one will truly know it’s you until you lift your mask. Perhaps these events serve as a distraction from your daily life—that you are stuck in a loveless engagement with a cheating fiancé and you can’t run away so easily.

So you’re overwhelmed with joy when this mysterious fellow appears in his dark suit and unique mask, quite literally sweeping you off your feet. Bowing before you and kissing the top of your hand, complimenting your attire, how “exquisitely wonderful this celebration is, my dear.” And you can’t believe it, but your heart flutters. You spend the night dancing and chatting with him, sharing laughter and exchanging stories. It’s on the balcony where you confide in him with your troubles, sadly recounting your fiancé’s disloyalty and how you wish fun nights like these could happen always. :(

“Who says they can’t?” You’re surprised when he asks that, even more so when you find yourself being taken away. He apologizes for the rough handling, but he must ensure you’re brought back safely. Please forgive him as he ties you up and blindfolds you. >_< he really doesn’t want to!!! You’ll wake in that mist-shrouded kingdom of his, far from your own, in the arms of the Pumpkin Prince as he smiles down at you. You’re too perfect to have anyone treat you with such disrespect. He would never dare dream of being disloyal to his love, which is why he’s certain your fiancé won’t mind. You shall be his beloved now, and he will love you far sweeter than that old fiancé of yours ever did.

Besides, now that the kingdom has a Princess it won’t feel so dismal anymore. :) am I implying he breeds you?? Yes. No. Definitely yes. Absolutely yes.