eve.

eve. mdni. +18.

[eatyourmirror]

eve / elisabeth adult. 18+ only.

poor morals. good taste. fujoshi. fic writer. collector of hunger. sylus wife. sukuna-devoted. snowcrow is my scripture.

semi-active

catechism † on the desk † library † confessional † reliquary † hymns

© 2026. eatyourmirror. do not repost, translate, alter, or feed my work to ai. respect the labor. respect the text.

[lastunicornsworld]

genuine question: why does someone else’s way of engaging with an otome game feel like an invasion to you?

because from the outside, this reads less like “protecting immersion” and more like trying to police how women are allowed to play, write, ship, interpret, or feel.

some players self-insert. some see mc as her own character. some ship mc with the LI. some ship the LIs together. some do all of it at once, because fiction is not a locked chapel with one approved form of worship.

you are allowed to dislike li x li. you are allowed to block it, mute it, avoid it, curate your dash like the rest of us. what you are not entitled to do is decide that everyone who engages differently is ruining the genre, disrespecting the characters, or somehow less valid as a fan.

also, calling people “walls” or “cameras” because they don’t perform immersion the way you do is not some sacred defense of otome. it is just fandom hierarchy. people are allowed to play. people are allowed to ship. people are allowed to observe, self-insert, analyze, fantasize, write, and make art without asking permission from the “immersion police.”

block what you dislike. curate your space. (i cannot stress this enough).

and genuinely, why are you on tumblr if different takes on a fandom feel this intolerable to you?

tumblr is practically built on interpretation. meta, shipping, self-inserts, aus, bad takes, brilliant takes, unhinged tags, canon devotion, canon betrayal. all of it. that is the ecosystem. that is fandom.

entering a multi-interpretation fandom space and then acting personally violated because people are interpreting the material differently is strange.

your playstyle is yours. your immersion is yours. but it is not the sacred law of the genre, and everyone else is not committing some great moral trespass by enjoying fiction differently.

anyway. that is where i stand. curate, don’t crusade.

i hope you have a lovely day.

I ask you to read my previous posts, and I'll answer briefly: Because otome is not an open sandbox. It is a genre with clear mechanics and a target audience: women who want romantic relationships with male characters from a first-person perspective. When you enter this genre and start shipping the male characters with each other or viewing the story as a "novel between the MC and the LI," you aren't just "interpreting." You are changing the fundamental genre of the game. A simple example: You are given a keyboard that is meant to be typed on with your fingers. Of course, no one is stopping you from typing with your feet, but there is only one correct and proper way. The problem is that when such interpretations become mainstream, they influence developers. They see the popularity of BL ships, they see that "MC as a separate character" gets likes, and they start to adapt: they add a third-person perspective, remove immersiveness, and make the game for "everyone" rather than for those who paid for first-person love. We are already seeing this with Love and Deepspace. You say "curate." And I say: when your "interpretation" starts affecting the product I buy - that is no longer a matter of curation. Then why are you in otome if you want to watch two men in love? (If my memory serves me correctly, you previously messaged me privately with a question, and I was curious enough to check your profile, where I saw some posts about shipping between the LIs. If that wasn't you, I apologize.) In any case, this is directed at BL fans. Go play BL games. Everything you need is there. But somehow, you don't. You stay here, in otome, and when those for whom the genre was created speak up—you call them the immersion police. Convenient, isn't it? "Block what you don't like." I do block. I left all the chats, unfollowed all the blogs. But you know what? It still finds me. Because you are loud, aggressive, and convinced of your own rightness. You invade hashtags, discussions, comments under official posts. You write "he and MC are so cute" under videos where a girl just wants to dream about being in the game. You leave no space for those who want to simply love their character in peace. You are everywhere. The law of otome is you and the LI. Otome games were originally created for experiencing romantic stories with male characters, not for observing. And according to official statements from various otome games, the player is the protagonist. This means my "playstyle" is not just a style - it is the law, the canon of the game. Your interpretations, on the other hand, are just a style.

[eatyourmirror]

since i can’t seem to comment on this post, i’ll just answer in this way.

first, i’d like to say thank you for answering the ask, because i have genuinely been curious. i’ve seen your posts popping up on my dash/for you page, and i wanted to understand where you were coming from rather than just assume bad faith.

i also want to clarify something before anything else: i am not trying to tell you that you have to like li x li ships. i am not trying to convince you to ship them, read them, tolerate them on your dash, or pretend they appeal to you if they don’t. you are absolutely allowed to dislike them. you are allowed to find them immersion-breaking. you are allowed to block, mute, avoid, and curate your fandom experience however you need.

where i disagree is with the idea that your way of engaging with otome is the only legitimate way, and that everyone else is somehow trespassing in the genre.

yes, otome games have a target audience. yes, otome is built around romantic routes between the protagonist/player and male love interests. i don’t disagree with that. that is the foundation of the genre.

but a genre having a foundation does not mean the fandom around it must only engage with it in one approved way.

people can understand the intended structure of something and still make fanworks, headcanons, meta, aus, ships, jokes, analysis, and alternate readings around it. that's not new, that's fandom. it happens in every genre, including romance, horror, shounen, visual novels, novels, games, dramas, everything. engaging with fiction beyond its primary mechanic does not erase the primary mechanic.

someone shipping two love interests does not mean they believe the game itself is secretly BL, someone treating MC as her own character does not mean they are trying to destroy self-insert players, someone saying “MC and Sylus are cute” instead of “me and Sylus” is not an attack on people who prefer first-person immersion. these are just different languages people use around the same material.

and this is where the keyboard analogy falls apart for me.

a keyboard is a tool. fiction is not just a tool. fiction invites reaction, interpretation, projection, fantasy, analysis, transformation. yes, there may be an intended use. but once a story exists in a fandom space, people will inevitably respond to it in ways that are personal, strange, romantic, analytical, unserious, intense, canon-faithful, canon-breaking, self-inserted, detached, devotional, or completely unhinged.

that does not mean the original genre has stopped existing.

on the developer point, i do understand the fear of otome becoming less immersive or less centred on the female player. genuinely, i do. if the game you love starts moving away from the experience you paid for, you are allowed to criticise that. you are allowed to say, “i want this game to remain focused on player x LI romance.” that is a fair consumer concern.

but i don’t think it is fair to put that blame on individual fans writing fic, making art, posting ships, or discussing characters differently.

developers make choices based on many things: money, audience size, writing direction, market trends, platform demands, internal creative decisions. reducing all of that to “BL fans and people who see MC as a character are ruining otome” feels too simple, and honestly unfair.

because a fan shipping li x li on tumblr is not sitting in the developer’s office removing your first-person perspective, a fan writing an au is not stealing your route, a person seeing MC as a character is not preventing you from seeing MC as yourself.

both things can exist.

you asked why people who like li x li don’t just go play BL games. many do. but people can like more than one thing. someone can enjoy otome, love the MC/LI dynamic, self-insert sometimes, treat MC as a character other times, and also think two male characters have an interesting dynamic. those things are not mutually exclusive.

and that is where it starts to feel less like genre protection and more like gatekeeping.

because the argument becomes: you may only be here if you love the game in the correct way. you may only speak if you use the correct perspective. you may only post if your desire follows the approved route.

that is what i meant by “immersion police.”

not because you personally dislike something. dislike is fine. boundaries are fine. curation is fine.

but saying “the law of otome is you and the LI” and therefore everyone else’s interpretation is invalid is where you lose me. that may be the law of the game’s main romantic structure. it is not the law of fandom. (this is what i want to stress. game mechanics, does not equal fandom).

i also agree that people should tag properly. i agree that people should not shove content into unrelated tags. i agree that official comment sections can become exhausting when people start fighting or derailing everything. basic fandom etiquette matters. if someone is going into self-ship spaces, MC/LI spaces, or official posts specifically to mock immersion players or force li x li content onto people, then yes, that is rude.

but the reverse is also true.

people who ship li x li, analyse MC as a character, or engage less immersively should also be able to exist without being called invaders, walls, cameras, genre-ruiners, or people who should leave otome entirely.

curation has to go both ways.

you are allowed to protect your space. you're not entitled to make the entire fandom space identical to yours.

and to be very clear, i am not saying this with hostility. i do understand that otome is precious to many women because it gives them a romantic space centred on them, their fantasy, their desire, their gaze. i would never want that erased. i don’t want otome to stop being for women. i don’t want the female player/protagonist to become irrelevant. i don’t want female desire pushed aside in its own genre.

but i also don’t think women all engage with desire in the same way.

that is all i was trying to say.

thanks again for the answer. i genuinely appreciate you taking the time to explain where you’re coming from, even if we disagree.

also, i did see the comment in the comment section implying that it is useless to explain anything to “such people.” i’m going to set that aside and answer in good faith, because i do think conversations like this can happen respectfully.

Take care :)

[eatyourmirror]

It had been really quiet

It's the haters, tbh. I've seen so many of my fav creators taking a step back because they have been getting threats and whatnot

yeah, i’ve been getting a few too, unfortunately. it did make me step back a little.

but i think it’s that strange little cocktail of things, tbh. the haters, the threats, the weird entitlement, and then the silence on top of it. creating already asks so much of you, and when the only thing that echoes back is either cruelty or nothing at all… yeah. it gets heavy.

[eatyourmirror]

did everyone quietly evacuate tumblr while i was looking away, or am i just standing in the ruins with my little lantern, acting weird again?

[writingdose]

[eatyourmirror]

taking a little break from tumblr. i'll be updating ao3 instead. xx

[writing-reference-redux]

Yet another fanfic writer ask game!

Compliment your writing!

How do you react to positive comments?

How do you react to negative comments?

Post a screenshot of one of your favorite comments

Quote one of your fics out of context

Vaguely spoil one of your fics without telling us which one it is

Share the first line of your five most recently published fics

Share the last line that you wrote

Tell us your favorite thing to drink when you write

Tell us your favorite thing to snack on when you write

What fandom do you write for most often?

What fandom do you want to write for more often?

Do you ever write crossovers?

What two fandoms would you write a crossover for?

What fic of yours would you most like to rewrite?

What is one of your favorite words or phrases to use in writing?

What trope is your favorite to write?

What trope have you not written yet, but want to?

What headcanon do you always include in your stories?

What was the last thing you researched for a story?

What do you do when you get writer's block?

When do you usually write? (day of the week or time of day)

Where do you usually write?

Which fic do you think is your funniest?

Which fic do you think is your saddest?

Which fic do you think is your scariest?

Which fic do you think is your most adventurous?

Which fic is closest to your heart?

Which fic would you most like to have fan art done for?

Which fic would you most like to have its own fanfic written for?

Which fic would you most like to see made into a movie?

Which fic would you most like to write a sequel to?

Which of your fic titles is your favorite?

What title do you want to use, but can't figure out a story to fit?

Have you ever written a fic because you were inspired by a title?

Have you ever written a fic because you were inspired by a song?

Pick one of your fics and share three songs to go with it

Pick three of your fics and share a song to go with each

Pick one of your fics and share an image to go with it. (Unsplash is a good source)

Pick one of your fics and share a quote to go with it (not a quote from the fic, but an outside quote that fits)

[eatyourmirror]

sylus is demolition lovers coded in the most ruinous way possible. naturally, i’m writing the fic. because apparently i looked at that wreck of devotion and said yes, this one is mine.

[eatyourmirror]

and my chemical romance is still fucking peak. some things do not age.

[eatyourmirror]

sylus is demolition lovers coded in the most ruinous way possible. naturally, i’m writing the fic. because apparently i looked at that wreck of devotion and said yes, this one is mine.

[lavenderprose]

I love how some fics are called shit like "They Only Shoot The Birds Who Cannot Sing" and it's like the most insane porn you're ever read and then some fics are called Spit On Me and it's 18,000 words of the most achingly id-scratching prose you've ever read and they're both. They're both so fucking good. thank God for fanfiction.

[eatyourmirror]

these two!? i’m obsessed!!!!!!

[writingdose]

[eatyourmirror]

“ if i had known the taciturn man glaring at me from horseback was my future husband, i might have been slightly more polite. slightly... ” content: zuko x f!oc. 18+. mdni. arranged marriage, political betrothal, hidden identity, deception, forced proximity, bodyguard romance, travel peril, minor violence/threat of violence, emotional betrayal, mutual pining, slow burn. summary: she is sent south to marry a man she has never seen. the road to him comes with a silent escort, a hidden face, and far too many reasons to look twice. by the time the capital rises on the horizon, the stranger at her side has already become the most dangerous part of the journey. pulpit: if it has not already become painfully obvious, zuko is the current affliction. i mean. look at him. really look at him. this is the first of five parts. all of them are already written. i’m only trying to grant myself the rare dignity of editing before i throw the rest at you. this first one, unfortunately, did not survive that mercy.

They packed my marriage into six lacquered trunks.

Silk first. Then jade combs wrapped in cotton. Then winter furs, though the capital sat in a warmer country and would have no use for half of what my mother had chosen before she died. Pearls in a shallow box. Gold pins. Letters of introduction. Medicinal herbs tied in paper packets with my aunt’s careful hand. At the very bottom of the last trunk, beneath two folded robes and a brush set carved from pale bone, lay the treaty copy that had arranged my life into a road.

My father had sealed it with blue wax three weeks ago.

He still had not looked me in the eye for longer than a breath.

I stood in the middle of my chamber while my maid fastened my traveling cloak at the throat and felt like cargo with a pulse.

“Too tight,” I said.

Her fingers flew to the clasp at once. “Forgive me.”

“It was not a condemnation.”

“No,” she said, though she still loosened it.

Everyone had been speaking to me as if I were already halfway gone. Too gently. Too carefully. As though one careless word might send me running barefoot into the surf and ruin a season’s worth of negotiations.

The truth was less dramatic. I had nowhere to run. My father governed a stretch of northern coast too small to matter until a map was set beside another map and a line had to be drawn through both. The Fire Nation wanted trade steadied before winter. My father wanted protection for our ships and a name large enough to discourage the men who had lately begun circling our waters like sharks scenting weakness. Somewhere between those desires, somebody had decided a daughter would do nicely.

So here I was.

Betrothed to a man I had never seen.

The Fire Lord.

The title had no face in my mind. Only heat, banners, old stories, and the quiet way people at court stopped speaking whenever I entered a room these last few weeks, as if the word husband had become too sacred or too ugly to survive being said in front of me.

A knock sounded.

Not the hesitant brush of a servant. My father.

My maid stepped away at once. I told her to finish the clasp. She pretended not to hear me and curtsied herself from the room with her eyes on the floor.

Coward.

My father entered already dressed for the harbor wind in dark wool and sealskin at the collar. He smelled faintly of cedar smoke and the oil he used on the hinges of things he could not trust other hands to maintain. There had been more gray in his hair this winter than last. More around his mouth too. He looked like a man who had slept badly and intended to continue.

“You're late,” I said.

“You're dressed.”

“I can manage many miracles before breakfast.”

A breath that might have become a smile in a kinder season touched his face and passed on. He closed the door behind him. In his hand he carried the family signet I had not worn since my mother’s death. He turned it once between thumb and forefinger before holding it out to me.

“You should have this on the road.”

I took it. The metal was cold. “For sentiment.”

“For authority.”

“You have spent twenty-three years teaching me the difference.”

His gaze lifted at last and met mine. Guilt sat in it so plainly that for one brief terrible second my irritation faltered. Then I remembered the treaty waiting in the last trunk and the feeling passed.

“You will not be alone,” he said. “The Fire Lord has sent an escort from the capital. They arrived before dawn.”

An escort.

I slid the ring onto my finger and watched it settle there as though it belonged to another woman. “How flattering.”

“He is trusted.”

“By whom.”

“By the palace.”

“Then I am reassured beyond measure.”

His jaw set. That old sign. The one that meant patience was being chosen over temper by force rather than inclination. “You may use your wit on me if you like. I would prefer you did not use it on the man responsible for bringing you safely south.”

I looked up. “Responsible for bringing me.”

“Safely.”

“No,” I said. “That was not the word I objected to.”

Outside, a horse stamped. Harness rang. My father glanced once toward the window as though the hour itself might intervene and save him from finishing the conversation. It did not.

“He will ride at your side,” he said. “You will listen to him if there is danger. You will not dismiss him because you dislike being watched.”

“I dislike being traded. The watching is merely decorative.”

That one landed. He took it in the chest and did not show the bruise. A talent of his. One of many I had inherited badly.

“The world is not made of what we prefer.”

“No,” I said softly. “Only what men arrange.”

Silence opened between us with all our dead standing in it. My mother gone three winters. My brothers drowned before they learned to shave. Every woman who had ever been told to call necessity by prettier names.

My father looked at me for a long moment. When he spoke again, his voice had lost its authority and become only tired.

“I would have chosen differently if I could.”

“Would you?”

He did not answer.

Someone knocked again. A man this time. Two measured raps. My father’s face changed before he reached the door. Changed into something nearer to formality, though too alert for any ordinary guest. He opened it at once.

The man beyond the threshold bowed only slightly.

That was the first thing I noticed.

Not because the bow was insolent. Because it was not. It held a precision to it that felt stranger than offense would have. A man who understood rank perfectly well and declined to abase himself anyway. He wore traveling black from throat to boot, the cut plain enough to pass anywhere and expensive enough not to. A dark cloak hung from broad shoulders. Leather gloves. Sword at the hip. The lower half of his face was covered by a wrap drawn high, more common on winter roads than in noble houses, and the hood shadowed the rest. I could see only the line of his cheekbone, a mouth half-hidden beneath dark cloth, and eyes the color of old amber if amber had learned severity.

He did not look at me first.

He looked at the room.

Windows, door, trunks, distance to the hearth poker, the servant passage half-concealed behind the screen.

By the time his gaze reached me, I already disliked him for being so difficult to ignore.

“My lord,” he said to my father.

Not captain. Not messenger. Nothing that explained him.

My father stepped aside. “Come in.”

The man entered without haste. Cold followed him into the room in a clean salt-edged draft. Up close, he smelled of horse, wind, and smoke faint enough to belong to old fire clinging to cloth.

“This is my daughter,” my father said.

The stranger inclined his head to me. “My lady.”

His voice sat low and roughened at the edges, as if it had seen hard use and resented being summoned indoors. Not old, not young either. Somewhere in the age where a man has already learned what he is willing to become.

“And you are,” I said, “the nameless shadow sent to deliver me to my husband.”

My father made a sound under his breath. Warning.

The man’s eyes remained on my face. Steady. Entirely unoffended. “I am the man tasked with getting you safely to the capital, yes.”

“Then you have the easier part of the bargain.”

At that, something changed at the corner of his gaze. It wasn't amusement. The idea of it, perhaps. Gone before it could settle.

“You may call me Lieutenant... Lee,” he said.

I almost smiled. The falsehood of it was too neat by half. No one with that posture had ever been merely anybody’s lieutenant.

“May I,” I said. “How generous.”

My father moved past him toward the trunk nearest the door. “The tide will turn within the hour. We should leave.”

We.

Interesting. My father had intended to see us to the harbor himself. I looked back at the stranger. He had gone still in that unnerving way men do when stillness is not idleness but attention gathered into a blade. His gaze had dropped to my hand.

The signet.

Only for a second. Yet I saw it. Recognition of the seal. Recognition, too, of what it meant now that I wore it again. Daughter. Bargaining piece. Bride.

“You will travel with six riders and two wagons,” my father said. “You will take the inland road after the third crossing.”

“No,” said Lieutenant Lee.

My father stopped.

The word had not been rude. It had only been final.

“The inland road narrows at White Pine,” he continued. “Too easy to box a carriage there. We take the coast as far as Hama’s Cut, then turn south.”

My father stared at him as though surprised enough to forget himself. “That will add a day.”

“It will add safety.”

I watched the exchange carefully. My father was not a man easily overruled in his own house. Yet the argument died in him almost as soon as it began. He nodded once.

“As you think best.”

I felt my brows rise. My father saw and looked away.

Very interesting.

Lieutenant Lee turned to me again. “You should wear the heavier cloak.”

“I am wearing a cloak.”

“The heavier one.”

The nerve of him.

Before I could answer, he crossed to the chest at the foot of my bed, lifted the fur-lined traveling mantle my aunt had insisted I pack, and held it out. The motion was so matter-of-fact that for one infuriating second my body nearly obeyed before my pride caught up.

“I do not take orders from strange men in my chambers.”

His gaze lowered to the clasp at my throat, then rose again. “Then take advice from one. The wind will sharpen after noon.”

“You have a great deal to say for someone employed to watch the road.”

“And you have very little sense of weather for someone born to the coast.”

My father turned away abruptly and became very interested in whether the trunk latch had been secured.

Traitor.

I stepped forward and took the heavier cloak from the stranger’s hand harder than necessary. His fingers brushed mine through the wool.

Warm. Even through the glove. Even through my irritation.

It annoyed me out of all proportion.

“You seem remarkably comfortable in my father’s house,”

“I’m comfortable anywhere with exits.”

That answer should not have pleased me. It did, faintly, like the first sip of something bitter enough to be good for the blood.

I fastened the heavier cloak without help. By the time I looked up, he had moved to the window and lifted the curtain by a finger’s width to scan the courtyard below. His profile sharpened against the silver light. The wrap hid his mouth. The hood, his hair. Still something about the line of him seemed wrong for obscurity. Too self-contained. Too accustomed to being obeyed.

“What danger,” I asked, “do you expect on a road lined with my father’s own guard and watched from one harbor to the next.”

He let the curtain fall. “The sort that likes certainty.”

Not helpful. Also not foolish.

My father gathered himself with the visible effort of a man stepping back into a role after nearly losing it. “Enough. The wagons are loaded.”

He came to me then, close enough for me to see the small burst capillaries at the edges of his eyes. He put a hand on my shoulder and hesitated there. Fathers are given too little training for farewell when the daughter remains alive.

“The capital is not your enemy,” he said.

“No,” I answered. “Only where you sent me.”

Pain crossed his face in a quick quiet line and was gone. He bent and kissed my brow anyway. His beard smelled of salt and cedar and home.

When he stepped back, Lieutenant Lee had turned away to give us privacy.

That, more than courtesy would have, unsettled me.

We descended together.

The house had become a corridor of lowered eyes. Servants bowed. My aunt clutched my hands and pressed a prayer charm into my palm hard enough to leave its imprint. One of the stable boys wept openly until someone cuffed him behind the ear. Outside, the courtyard rang with preparation. Gulls wheeled overhead. A wet wind came off the harbor and found its way under every seam.

My carriage stood ready between the wagons, dark blue lacquer, iron-bound, practical enough to survive the road and just handsome enough to remind everyone whose daughter rode inside. Six mounted guards waited by the gate. Two of them wore my father’s crest. Four did not.

They all looked toward Lieutenant Lee when he emerged from the doorway.

Every one of them.

Not openly. That would have been too obvious. Yet their attention bent in his direction with the unconscious precision of men who know exactly where command lives even when it is dressed in ordinary cloth.

He checked the harness himself. Touched one wheel spoke. Spoke briefly to the driver. Moved along the line of riders and said something too low for me to catch. A path opened around him without anyone seeming to make way.

The wind tugged his hood back a fraction as he turned. For a heartbeat I saw dark hair at his temple and, beneath the edge of the wrap, a glimpse of scarred skin high on one cheekbone before the cloth shifted again.

I stared.

He noticed. Of course he noticed. His hand rose at once to settle the hood more firmly.

“A charming mystery,” I said when he came near enough to hear.

The glance he gave me held dry patience. “A road is kinder when people know less about you.”

“I am discovering that everyone in this house knows more than I do.”

He looked at my father standing near the gate, then back to me. “That will not kill you.”

“No,” I said. “Marriage may, though.”

That did it.

It wasn't a smile, he did not seem to spend those lightly. But something in his gaze shifted and warmed with unwilling interest.

“You speak very freely for a bride.”

“I speak honestly for a woman being sent away.”

His eyes stayed on mine for one beat too long.

Then, quietly, “Keep doing that.”

It was not flirtation. That would have been easier. It was something stranger and therefore more dangerous. Approval from a man who seemed to despise useless noise. Approval that landed like a hand briefly at the back of my neck.

He turned to the carriage and held out a gloved hand to help me inside.

I looked at it, then at him. “If I fall to my death from the step, at least my father will have to renegotiate.”

“That is one strategy.”

“You disapprove?”

“I dislike paperwork.”

The answer escaped me before caution could intervene. A laugh, bright and unwilling. It vanished into the wind almost at once. Still, he heard it. I knew he had because his hand remained where it was, steady, patient, while the corner of his covered mouth shifted beneath the wrap as though some private thought had nearly reached the surface and been denied entry.

I placed my hand in his.

He helped me up with effortless care. No overbearing grip. No performative gentleness. Only a sure controlled lift that left me more aware of my own body than the act warranted. Irritating. The road had not even begun and already I was being inconvenienced by nerves that ought to have shown better breeding.

Before the footman closed the carriage door, I leaned back out.

“Lieutenant.”

He looked up.

“What sort of man is the Fire Lord?”

There. Let him answer that. Let the palace shadow speak of the palace sun.

The wind moved through the yard and pressed his cloak briefly to his frame. Somewhere above us, rigging clattered in the harbor. My father had gone very still at the gate.

Lieutenant Lee’s gaze held mine with that grave impossible steadiness of his.

“That,” he said after a moment, “depends who is asking.”

Then he stepped back and signaled the driver to move.

The gate opened.

My father became smaller between the stone posts. The house, then the courtyard, then the line of roofs fell behind us as the wheels found the road and the harbor wind struck hard enough to rattle the shutters. Ahead lay the coast, the turn south, the capital, the wedding fire, the stranger waiting at the end of all of it.

Beside the carriage, my escort rode in silence with his face half-hidden from the world.

I watched him through the glass until the house disappeared.

By noon, I had already begun to understand two things.

The first was that my father had entrusted me to no ordinary guard.

The second was worse.

I was beginning to want the truth from him more than I wanted the road behind me.

to be continued.

© 2026. eatyourmirror. do not repost, translate, alter, or feed my work to ai. respect the labor. respect the text.

[allthingswhumpyandangsty]

reblog if you’re anti censorship and against harassing real people over fictional characters

[nreads]

[clarkent]

me @ 10

me @ 30

[eatyourmirror]

zukoooooooo mi amor, holy fuuuuuuck

[eatyourmirror]