Flowers grow where dragons take their last breath. It was an unspoken truth of their kind, one passed only in the collective consciousness of the terrible creatures.
The little dragon grew among the endless hills of scarlet, stems of moonflowers swaying in the breeze and rocking him to sleep each night they bloomed, their deceitfully cloying fragrance carrying stories of mighty beasts and devoured souls. He had been spared only because of the otherness that had marked him since the cradle, the frail human body he had been cursed with. For a time, the curse became a blessing in disguise, bestowing on him yet another heartbeat, breath, day bathing in the sun and night lulled by the stars above. He didn’t know each of their mischievous twinkles counted down the moments until the last dragon would lay his garnet gaze upon them one final time. The flowing years took to him much like waves to a jaded bit of glass: they cultivated his softness and nurtured his kindness, polishing any sharp edges there might have been; coaxed him into the world of his kin’s executioners; created an illusion of acceptance.
Alas, there is no escaping the Master of Fate.
Like tender branches, ones he had first hacked off one starless night in his early years to stave off his fate, the basalt horns sprouted from between the white strands of hair. And humans, so blind to their own sin and monstrosity, saw. They revelled in the rare opportunity to give in to their basest, most animalistic desire to hunt – it was of little consequence that he had lived among them for years, well-liked and appreciated by many. They chased him into the flower-filled fields, the wind howling through the crimson valley as countless soldiers thrust weapons at his chest – for this was war, one he had no chance of winning. In the abyss, he was sealed, the adolescent dragon whose wings had never felt the wind’s caress. For aeons, he dreamt of the one that would free him of his shackles, claim the broadsword piercing his heart as his archnemesis and grant him true death.
When the sorceress came, she gifted him with revenge. Oh, but she was greedy. With her by his side, they razed cities, plundered coffers and seized starships, making the lair he claimed for himself a shining nest for them. She wanted a crown – she took it. She wanted a silly windchime her starry gaze spotted in the market – she took it. She wanted his heart – she took it. It would have been the second war declared on him in his life—yet could a conquest be as delicate as the flower petals that had swaddled the young dragon when the others had fallen? Could the spoils be surrendered as naturally as if they were the air escaping his lungs with each breath? He adored her greed, stoked it, even; fed her lacklustre soul with fulfilled desires, until all he could smell was its sweet cherry wine fragrance. Even so, she never let their deal be one-sided: she retaught him compassion and showed him human love, making the dragon think he could live like a human as well. And when she made her next demand—his soul—there was no hesitation in his still-free mind when he grasped her hand and took an oath never to betray her, even when doomsday arrived.
It did, sooner than either of them expected, thrusting them into the blooming datura hills yet again. For the first time, he had denied her – refused to give her the death she begged for when they stood at an impasse, facing an impossible choice, at least to her: kill the dragon as his fated archnemesis or allow him to tear his claws into his beloved’s chest when the dragon’s curse took his mind. But he had tasted humanity, not by devouring their souls, but letting his own be halved and known; by holding it in his embrace each night like the most valuable of treasures in their hoard, whispering bloodiest promises into her ear. He refused to be a dragon again. He forced her hand, vowing to himself never to do so again, letting her take the life she had never wanted with the broadsword she had freed him from. Even then, she had to be greedy, his sorceress: she answered his refusal with her own, taking his death for herself, the privilege of flowers making a home out of his ribcage. He had freed himself of one curse only to be bound by another.
And the once-dragon wouldn’t have had it any other way, even when the 10.5 grams of energy that used to be him barrelled through the cosmos, waiting for the other half of his soul to join him, searching for a place for them to be reborn in. He should have known better than to hope for fate to be merciful to the likes of him. They were a soul separated by thousands of stars that had mocked him through every step of existence. When he finally found her, garnet vortex glimpsing into the vast expanses of the universe and seeing at last, he dared to celebrate, ridiculing them all – thousands of years, yet his childish, innocent hope persevered. How cruel of a long-awaited awakening it was – when half the soul he had dedicated his every gesture, every choice to, didn’t recognise him. She gazed upon him and saw not a sliver beyond the monster his sorceress had never seen. Desperate, he pushed, forcefully tugging at her soul, demanding it accept and accommodate his. It achieved nothing but disgusted looks and baseless accusations thrown at him, giving way to a war. He chose his battles wisely – though never when it came to her. He ceded ground, going against instinct and revealing the soft underbelly. Vulnerability laid bare, the dragon needed to learn anew how to be human – he could only wonder if it would be her again who taught him.
One night, he watched the stars that seemed to blink back with a somewhat warmer light, gone was their malicious intent— or maybe he was getting sentimental, not to his detriment.
“It’s the middle of the night. I thought you’d be doing some shady deals at this time.”
He didn’t look back, having felt her arrival before she had even opened her mouth, but he did lower his head to look over the balcony’s railing and hide his smile from the sky.
“Hm. Took the night off from being the big bad boss.”
“To watch the stars? I wouldn’t have taken you for the type.”
Her voice was now further away, to the left. A thud, then a familiar sweet scent was wrapping him tight in its cloying embrace. A raised eyebrow at the ceramic pot that had suddenly found its way to his balcony and a cock of his head to the side later, she was standing by him, watching the sky like he had been doing just moments earlier.
“And you took me for the type that enjoys flowers?”
He received a shrug. “I wanted to brighten all this gloom you surround yourself with.” She stayed silent for a while. But then, she seemed to change her answer, and her face turned to him, her eyes twinkling like the stars above – soft. “Maybe.”
With the smile she gave him, it seemed she dabbled in her old and forgotten ways again – taking his breath away as she wished. His eyes darted to the moonflowers again, then returned to the dazzling soul that brought them to him, allowing the dragon to rest at last. Maybe flowers grow where hearts live.
Now listen, listen. I know Caleb and Sylus mains have their issues with each other for some reason (I’m not saying all of them, that’s just the kind of discourse I’ve been seeing on the other app: one stealing the other’s motifs etc.)
Hear me out. I main both (might not be so obvious from my profile but when I tell you I had Caleb’s dog tag as my Moments background before he came back as a LI…). And I don’t know when exactly I noticed the change but now it seems so on the nose with the whole under—or Nether—world’s lord myth. But it feels like there’s been this massive shift in Caleb’s content (and, mind you, I’m talking purely based on EN loc) from forbidden desire to forbidden desire. Mind the cursive. Suddenly, now that his relationship with MC was established as more than familial, his memoria and event story content began focusing more on the depth of their desire, indulging in it, if you will. I don’t know about you, but it sure does sound familiar, my dearest wife
Listen, don’t let me lose you yet! Maybe it’s been talked about already, but I spend too much time on the wrong apps. And I may be rambling but it’s 4AM and I’m a bit positively shaken with Caleb’s myth preview finally dropping. But it’s just so interesting to see the golden boy, the perfect big brother, and the underworld’s shunned fiend begin to reflect each other, especially when one’s mains will accuse the other’s of stealing each other’s nachos.
But would you accuse Eve (or Adam, if that’s who you prefer to see Caleb as) of the same transgression for eating the fruit so sweetly offered by the snake, who’s already tasted desire’s sweetness?
see? see how they’re twinning with that shoulder armour thingies, the claws, the tits out? their outfits are literally a mirror image, down to the V of their trousers. oh crowapple how i love you, my twin husbands
Now listen, listen. I know Caleb and Sylus mains have their issues with each other for some reason (I’m not saying all of them, that’s just the kind of discourse I’ve been seeing on the other app: one stealing the other’s motifs etc.)
Hear me out. I main both (might not be so obvious from my profile but when I tell you I had Caleb’s dog tag as my Moments background before he came back as a LI…). And I don’t know when exactly I noticed the change but now it seems so on the nose with the whole under—or Nether—world’s lord myth. But it feels like there’s been this massive shift in Caleb’s content (and, mind you, I’m talking purely based on EN loc) from forbidden desire to forbidden desire. Mind the cursive. Suddenly, now that his relationship with MC was established as more than familial, his memoria and event story content began focusing more on the depth of their desire, indulging in it, if you will. I don’t know about you, but it sure does sound familiar, my dearest wife
Listen, don’t let me lose you yet! Maybe it’s been talked about already, but I spend too much time on the wrong apps. And I may be rambling but it’s 4AM and I’m a bit positively shaken with Caleb’s myth preview finally dropping. But it’s just so interesting to see the golden boy, the perfect big brother, and the underworld’s shunned fiend begin to reflect each other, especially when one’s mains will accuse the other’s of stealing each other’s nachos.
But would you accuse Eve (or Adam, if that’s who you prefer to see Caleb as) of the same transgression for eating the fruit so sweetly offered by the snake, who’s already tasted desire’s sweetness?
Evil wings in ether beating;
Vultures at the spirit eating;
Things unseen forever fleeting
Black against the leering sky.
Ghastly shades of bygone gladness,
Clawing fiends of future sadness,
Mingle in a cloud of madness
Ever on the soul to lie.
How foolish it is to imagine that one piercing eternity would be enough for the world to trip over itself; the loss so monumental it would tear the gossamer fabric of creation, leaving behind a gaping wound that couldn’t ever be patched, one weeping rain, as if the sky was mourning as well. But Earth, the ever-graceful ballerina, remains in her never-ending pirouette, wrapping herself further in the gossamer-faced steel.
The sun rises over the bay, painting the new day in deceitful burnt umber and gold watercolours, bleeding warmth into the water while the sand remains cold. Cold like the pearly tears He shed that litter the beach, cold like the Deep Sea, cold like—
Oh, you wretched, wicked thing. Roaring, slashing away at land with your salty daggers of ice, boasting power—can’t you tell that the one that brought you flames to stoke your unfaltering endlessness has lost His own fire? There is no more to be had—can’t you see this is but a temporary fulfilment? A desperate, senseless sacrifice of a brief human life, a speck of sand in the basin of time, to appease your hunger for hearts? Can’t you feel it? That one thrust of a dagger borne of your cold embrace put an end to all you had cultivated for aeons? That the fiery god meant to wield and guard your forge of all life is cold like the love He put to rest within the sands of this beach, per human custom? That even though a hot heart beats safely caged beneath His ribs, the sizzling embers that accompanied each beat have turned to unfeeling pearls? Can’t you understand?
Blindly, He reaches to His right: she—She—had always been on His right, His beloved, His bride; always on His right because of a simple quirk of Hers, one He respects even after Her betrayal. How dare She leave Him? How dare She take His choice away? Take the death He had planned for, turn His dagger, His hand, against Her life and Her heart just to satisfy the Sea’s greed?
His hand closes around cold pearls, then—the only thing He has left of Her: a golden ring, so insignificant to Him in its permanence, as it cannot truly be considered Hers. After all, it first belonged to Him, inherited from the Sea, and it was only gifted to Her when they reunited after lifetimes apart that She had condemned them to. How ruthless She had always been, wielding Her love like the dagger that had ultimately taken His place in Her heart, and then leaving behind nothing but cold. And yet, He still could not help drowning in the love She breathed into every fibre of His being, could not stop Her from rewriting His fate that demanded sacrifice into one that sought human love.
That is how the Sea loses its everlasting fire and falls silent: with a god meant to stoke its flames instead watching it die on a quiet morning, His body taking root within the cold Earth that nurtured Her. For at least this cold wants for no sacrifice from the sea god.
to keep alive the collective musings about Sylus being a hobbyist blacksmith, here’s something I came up with a few months ago. it may seem like it ends abruptly and that’s because I had more written, I just don’t think this is the right space to do so. I might make changes to this some day, but for now, enjoy the angst :)
Imagine little Stayrus.
He's sobbing openly, tears and snot running down his face, and his whole body is trembling with agony. He has never felt anything like this before. He has never been ill or in any pain beyond a scraped knee, and he can hardly handle this self-inflicted cruelty as he hacks off his newly-grown horns with a blade he swiped from another dragon’s lair. He might be a dragon as well, yet he’s always looked human. Why should that change now?
He's only ten.
Cutting off the horns brings him relief, making him see less of a monster within his reflection in the gold he brings to the small pile of treasures he’s begun amassing. It doesn't last long, however: the horns grow back three months later, and he has to repeat what he's done. Then again. And again. And again, and again, and again.
He's only twelve when the humans come and slaughter his kind. Fate is merciful to him this once: they bring him with them as one of their own.
Stayrus is taken in by a blacksmith and taught the trade, reluctantly at first, then, when the man notices the child’s talent and proclivity for helping, learning, soaking in the fire – with more acceptance. He stays close to the forge, the heat and flying sparks the closest he's ever felt to belonging, to solace. And hidden in the darkest corners of the forge, the dragon still has to keep cutting off his horns, all so the humans don't know. Then, trimming the claws his feet have turned into.
He hides in plain sight, living among humans like everyone else. Nobody knows, not even the blacksmith who took him in as an apprentice. He hides the truth behind his white hair, and lies that the reason his bangs always hide his eyes is that he's shy; not to hide the nubs of his horns if they decide to grow before three full moons pass, no, of course not. He despises the humans for slaughtering his family, for the pain that he has to go through every few months. He resents them for his suffering. And yet, he needs to rely on them. They take him in and provide for him, but there is no trust, no warmth. For who would love an outsider such as him, a child that is not one of their own?
With the passing months come nightmares and headaches, moments where his dragon senses are so heightened that he can hardly bear to feel anything at all. He sees the terrible desires that plague humanity at every turn.
It's exhausting.
But that is also how Stayrus knows the blacksmith will be taken away – because he sees his desires and learns that humans are monsters, too, turning against their own. And so, he is left alone in the forge, inheriting it at eighteen as the sole apprentice. He's a recluse, hiding in his work.
Stayrus spends more and more of his time alone, working tirelessly in the forge from dawn to dusk. The fire's heat is comforting, as though it can protect him from the outside world, from the cruelty of the human kind. He works until his body and mind give in, until he’s lying on stacks of straw in the back room of the forge, and the Sandman is forced to bend to his will, tire just as he tires, and give him dreamless nights.
Still, he keeps his kind heart. And it is that heart that finally makes him act when he feels his grasp on his dragon senses turn unshakable. He starts leaving the forge.
He goes to the tavern and learns a new truth about himself by the way of others’ whispers. He’s shy. Awkward. He supposes that’s why it’s difficult to find friends. But then, Stayrus notices that he's being given more attention by human women: admiring looks, the giggles he hears behind his back – it makes him terribly uncomfortable, but there's also a fluttering in his stomach when it happens.
The women—men, occasionally—flirt with him, and he awkwardly attempts to return their advances, at least the few times he actually realises what way the conversation is going. Despite his best efforts and a desire to belong, he's simply clueless when it comes to these matters.
As years pass, more of his dragon traits come to the surface. Claws for hands, scaly protrusions over his body and jaw, a strange webbing reaching out from the gem that has been embedded in his chest since the cradle. He cuts off what deformities he can, then hides the rest. It makes him learn sewing—how different can it be from when he stitched the blacksmith’s wounds when the skin split open from the heat? With blind motivation, he creates new clothes, more metal and dragon scale than anything else. He buckles the black leather of the outfit tight – it hides what it can, and then incorporates the rest of his unsightly dragon parts into it, making the clothes seem harsh and durable, right at home in the forge.
When he emerges from his forge changed, like a particularly nasty bug metamorphosed into a moth, the humans he interacts with seem intimidated by him: the black outfit, the clawed gauntlets, and the high black boots with their metal buckles. There is no changing that. A walking nightmare, he can imagine. But at least not a dragon, no more a dragon.
After watching the latest Sylus banner: Passionate Appraisal I’m convinced that MC is actually sick because she’s pregnant. It’s headcanon for me. After the honeymoon from the beach banner and the super spicy Shared Bliss card, MC being pregnant is bound to happen.
i know that infold would never do this but aweee i would kill for at least one card with parents sylusmc
ok i know the birdie was baby-coded, but like… their talk about practicing how to be warm and loving with the birdie in advance? in advance for what sylus mc ( •̀ - • )
in which you find out you’re with child, and the first thing that comes to your mind is how to break the news to your husband
aka you messing with soon-to-be-dad Rafayel’s head
tags: fluff, crack
wc: 1k
ri's note: made this on a whim hehe i love them your honor i love papa raf, dad ayel :<
When you found out that you were with child, you had two things you became overly excited about: number one, your baby (of course), and number two, Rafayel’s reaction. Now, you knew simply telling your husband about it would already elicit such a satisfying reaction from him, but… unfortunately, you were just as over the top as him.
While mulling things over, you decided to start the game by cutely hinting at things — from buying those things that come with full-size along with mini-sized ones, to reposting short videos of cute and adorable babies (sometimes fishies).
Most of the time, however, you hinted in a not so cute way.
“Raf.”
“Yeah?” He isn’t looking at you yet, his back still turned towards you as he faces his canvas while you lay reading on his couch.
“Do Lemurians give birth or do they really lay eggs?”
You hear his tall, ladder-like wooden chair creak as he quickly turns to your direction. “Huh?”
“What?”
“Why are you asking that?!”
You slightly raise the book you were currently reading, the words ‘The Land of Lemuria’ elegantly embossed on the hardbound cover. Rafayel scoffed.
“Cutie, you know that book is a complete scam, right?” He whines. “Don’t easily believe things you read, even if it’s in published books… Especially about ancient and long-lost civilizations.”
A feigned sigh comes from your lips. “Well, I’m asking you, a true-blooded Lemurian, aren’t I?”
Seeing your poor husband flustered, you kindly decided to press him more. You simply can’t help it! That cute little pout of his, the adorable furrow of his brows, and the scarlet that slowly seeps through his ears — they all make it a little hard for you to stop teasing him.
“I’m just being a good wife, wanting to know more about my own husband’s origins. I saw something about how fishies laid eggs and I just got curious about how your people reproduce but no,” you dragged the last syllable on, seemingly whining. “The husband in question lectures me instead.”
He grins. “Aww. Wife, is this your way of saying that you’re missing me in the comforts of my own company because I’m busy painting?”
‘When did I even say that?’ You thought.
Rafayel was met with no response as you only rolled your eyes before pretending to give your attention back to the book. Soon, light sounds of his footsteps against the steps of his ladder reached your ears.
The next thing you know, the book serving as your prop was quickly snatched away.
“I’m all yours now.” He beams as he lays down beside you. You feel his arms wrap around your waist, his hair tickling your cheeks as he buries his head between your neck and your shoulders.
“So what was the answer to my question?”
Rafayel only huffs as he snuggles closer.
Little did he know, it was only the first of several similarly-lined questions. On a particular Sunday morning, he was woken up with another question of yours: what did he look like when he was a baby. The next Tuesday, it was, “Is Reddie like our first child or our first pet?”
It wasn’t even just mere questions.
Once, Rafayel accidentally saw you browsing through baby shops on your phone, your phone that you totally did not purposely leave on the couch when you had to go to the restroom. Another afternoon, he was minding his own business, locked in and painting in his studio. The next thing he knew, you were now telling him off for leaving his things around again.
“This is why we have eyes, my dear wife. So we can see things and avoid them accordingly!” He flamboyantly declares, whipping his paintbrush up to accentuate his point.
You raise a brow. “Oh really? Then why were you hospitalized that one time for tripping on your paintbrush after getting out of your bath tub?”
“That was one time!”
“And? It still happened!” You let out a dramatic sigh. “What would you do if your child trips on your paintbrush?”
He stills. And as if he was one with nature, the gentle breeze and waves do too.
You turn away, hiding your triumphant smile.
“What?”
And more inarticulate noises of confusion flooded the entire studio when he realized you already left before he even got his clarification.
Now, Rafayel is not at all naive.
He definitely had his suspicions, alright. He got a hunch, but then he picked up on how you started having mood swings and how you had your sensitivity heightened (during these days he learned how to pamper you even better than he regularly does). Unfortunately, the timing coincided with his estimates of your cycle dates, so your husband was a little saddened that his initial theory of you being with child was debunked.
Little did he know, his pretty little wife was already being impatient with how he’s been failing to pick up the clues left and right.
You want him to be with you in your next appointment.
Meaning, you had to tell him very soon.
And doing so while he was cooking up one of your pregnancy cravings might just be the perfect timing, you think.
“Do you smell something fishy?” You say as you approach and watch Rafayel as he confidently displays his culinary prowess.
“Are you talking about the seafood dish you requested that I am currently making or your behavior lately?”
“No, actually, I was referring to my belly.”
“Huh?” He says, amusement evident in his voice. “What, did you eat fish earlier or something? Swallowed some of my fishie friends, cutie?”
You laugh.
“Rafayel, are you serious?”
Your husband furrows his eyebrows and pouts, turning back to the stove. You merely smile before heading behind him, gently snaking your arms around his waist after. Rafayel, feeling his beloved tiptoeing, instinctively crouches and slacks down a little, making it easier for you to rest your chin on his shoulder.
“Rafayel.” He smiles at your cute voice.
“Hmm?”
“If you’re a fishie, does that make the little one inside of me a baby fishie?”
You grin as you feel him freeze.
He then rapidly turns toward you, dish currently simmering in the pot now forgotten, granting you the pleasure of watching his face as he vividly expresses how the gears in his head are turning. Then freezing. Then turning again.
You cup his face, and Rafayel immediately melts against the warmth of your palms as his glassy eyes softly mirror yours.
THREADS OF DESIRE
— a dark fairy tale romance
[ sylus x f!reader ]
summary: condemned to spin gold, she bargains with a shadow-born monster—each bargain binding her tighter between ruin and desire.
cw/tw: ⋅ nsfw ⋅ violence ⋅ blood/gore ⋅ psychological horror ⋅ manipulation ⋅ power imbalance ⋅ corruption/possession ⋅
length: 3.5k
recommended music: requiem aeternam - alfred schnittke
authors note: i know i talk about muses a lot—cough rafayel cough—but let's be real: sylus is the one and only. this is a standalone fic, a dark retelling and reimagining of brother grimm's rumpelstiltskin. keyword, dark.
this will be a short three part story.
❝ Like the old tale, my lord: "it is not so, nor `t was not so; but, indeed, God forbid it should be so."❞
— william shakespeare
i.
✦───── they had not wanted her at the feast. her father's grip proved it.
his fingers biting her arm as he dragged her through the marble halls like an animal being led to slaughter. faces turned as they massed, mouths curled, hunger already in their gaze.
she kept her chin lowered, though her chest hammered as if it might burst free.
the king's hall stretched vast, carved from black stone. banners bled red in the torchlight. lords sprawled at the long tables, jeweled cups half-drained, greasy hands resting too near their swords.
and upon the throne, as if the stone itself had birthed him, sat the king. crown heavy on his brow. his eyes wolf-bright, restless. hungry.
her father bowed until his scalp shone with sweat. his voice faltered, then rose, reckless as a man pushing his last coin across the table.
❝ my liege, ❞ he declared, ❝ i bring what no other can. my daughter, my blood, she spins flax into gold. ❞
her breath caught. she turned toward her father, lips parting. but he would not look at her.
laughter broke from the lords, but the king. the kind did not laugh.
he leaned forward, hands steepled, and studied her as though she were already gilded and broken into coin.
❝ gold, ❞ he murmured. the word itself tightened the air. ❝ is this true, girl? ❞
her tongue stuck to her teeth. to deny him shamed her father; to confess would be utter madness. heat rose in her face. she bowed her head, pride warring with terror.
her father rushed to fill the silence.
❝ she has been shy since birth, majesty. but the gift is hers. give her flax, and by dawn your coffers will overflow. ❞
❝ by dawn, ❞ the king echoed, his thin mouth curved, appetite flickering at the edges. ❝ so be it. ❞
whispers rustled through the hall: a marvel, a fraud, a head rolling in straw. she felt their stares strip her bare, weighing her in gold or in spectacle of blood.
guards moved to seize her. her father fell back, bowing again. for a heartbeat she caught a flicker in his face. shame? or was it relief?—that by giving her he had bought himself favour? the thought carved through her like a blade.
the guards dragged her from the hall, through stone passages stinking of iron and mildew. her slippers scraped grit. tears threatened but did not fall; pride locked them fast.
instead, her mind burned.
how swiftly he had bartered her. how eagerly the king had seized the lie. was this her life's measure? pawn, trinket, sacrifice? or could there be more? would there be something more?
the tower door yawned before her, iron-banded and waiting, the guards thrust her in. one fastened a shackle through the ring in the wall. links rattled their mockery. she stumbled, clutching her skirts.
❝ by dawn, ❞ the king's voice echoed in memory.
desperately she searched for the guard's eye, hoping for pity, and found... none.
the door groaned. then slammed.
darkness swallowed the chamber. the chain stilled. her breath sharpened in silence. the last sound left to her.
her eyes adjusted slowly, shapes resolved.
the chamber was not completely empty. mounds of flax crouched in the corners, pale heaps glinting faintly where moonlight leaked through a narrow slit of window. when the wind pressed against the stone, the piles shivered. fibers lifted, swayed, as if something within them still breathed.
she shrank back but the iron tugged at her wrist. the smell of the flax was damp, threaded with something faintly sweet like honey left to spoil. she thought she saw veins running through the bundles, thin red glimmers, and blinked until only shadow remained.
the old tales crept back. tales of how gold bled from veins of the earth, marrow of a hungry god. how kings coveted it not for beauty but for its curse, for the way it devoured joy.
❝ cursed light, ❞ the nurses had whispered, ❝ that fed on flesh and desire alike. ❞
and now her father, and the king would have her bleed it out of flax.
she wanted to laugh.
she wanted to scream.
a spinning wheel waited in the center of the room, wood darkened with use. she dragged herself toward it, sat, and reached for the nearest bundle. damp fibers clung to her skin, winding across her knuckles. she yanked them free and set them to the wheel.
the first turn failed. the thread snapped.
she tried again, harder, faster. but the flax snarled, resisting her grip. sweat prickled her hairline. her pulse raced with it.
she worked until her fingers burned. filaments sliced thin welts into her skin. blood welled, streaked across her gown, then vanished into the flax as though drunk down.
her jaw set.
if it wants blood, let it choke on mine before i yield.
still she turned the wheel. still it unraveled. her body cramped, her vision blurred. the heaps of flax loomed in the corners, endless, patient, waiting for her collapse.
she imagined dawn bleeding through the window slit, guards at the door, the king's smile when he found her silence.
her hands slipped. flax slithered down her skirt, pooling at her feet. she pressed her raw fingers to her mouth, smothering a sob.
❝ is this all i am? ❞ the words cracked in her throat.
❝ a liar's daughter, fit for nothing but to die in the dark? ❞
the chamber listened.
her head lifted, tears shone, but her voice sharpened as she spat the words again.
❝ hear me. god, devil, thief of shadows...whatever claws through these stones. let me live. let me prove him wrong. ❞
silence thickened. endless.
then the flax stirred.
at first only a ripple. fibers twitched, leaned, quivered like flesh remembering touch. then a whimper rose, almost human. the sound of silk tearing.
she froze. her heart stumbled.
in the farthest corner, a shadow stretched. not born of moonlight. not cast at all. darkness uncoiled from itself, spilling across the floor like oil.
her shackle clinked as she drew back.
a whisper came, words seeping through the walls as though spoken underwater.
❝ little one... why do you weep? ❞
her breath caught.
the flax shivered again. threads slithered across the floor, reaching.
from the darkness, a shape coalesced. at first only distortion, a ripple in the wall. then sharper: limbs spun from shadow, bones knitting from night—until he stood before her.
silver hair spilled over his shoulders, catching what little light existed. his face was lovely in a way that unsettled: features exact, precise, too perfect. utterly wrong in their perfection.
and his eyes.
his eyes burned red, lit from within, as though a furnace smoldered behind them.
he smiled.
❝ such pretty sorrow, ❞ he murmured, voice slithering across her skin. ❝ already mourning your life. ❞
her throat locked. words refused her.
he stepped closer, shadows dragging at his heel. the flax leaned toward him as if to worship.
❝ the king asks for gold, ❞ he said, circling the spinning wheel with predator's ease. ❝ gold rotted kings long before your father's lie. it stains every hand it touches. and you... ❞
his gaze seared into her. ❝ you would give anything to conjure it. ❞
her lips parted. ❝ i never said... ❞
his laugh was low, amused, and cruel.
❝ you did not need to.
desperation shouts louder than prayer, i fear.
i heard your call. ❞
iron scraped stone as she edged back. she longed to flee, yet something pulled at her, as though a thread inside had been caught and wound tight.
he bent nearer, air frosting where his shadow fell.
❝ what will you give me, little one, if i make your father's lie true? if i turn this pitiful flax into cursed light? ❞
she shook her head, tears stinging. ❝ i have nothing... ❞
❝ everyone has something. ❞
his smile deepened. the flax writhed at his feet. ❝ a bargain, then. i take what is precious, and you live. ❞
she swallowed as he tilted his head, silver strands falling against his cheek.
❝ give me the sound of your mother's lullaby. ❞
her breath hitched. memory flared—her mother's rough, low voice, humming her through winters. a cradle-song, the only warmth left of her. the grave had taken everything else.
❝ no, ❞ she whispered.
his crimson eyes glowed. ❝ better to die nameless in the dark? ❞
the shackle bit her wrist. the wheel loomed, mocking. dawn would come. the king would come. blood would be her only dowry.
her chin lifted.
❝ if i give it... what then? ❞
his grin showed the faintest edge of teeth. ❝ then i spin. and you live. ❞
her pulse thundered. was he speaking truth? did it matter? her fate was to die either way.
at last she closer her eyes.
❝ take it. ❞
the chamber hushed.
he leaned close, so near his breath grazed her lips. a whisper tugged, drawing a sound from her throat: a note soft as a dream, the lullaby she had guarded for years. it slipped from her into him. he drank it like water, his eyes half-lidded in satisfaction.
when he drew back, silence rang.
the lullaby was gone. the memory blurred, dimming even as she reached for it. only shadows remained.
her chest hollowed.
aching.
he turned to the wheel. long pale fingers caressed the flax. threads curled to meet him, obedient. he set them to the spindle, turned once, and the flax gleamed.
gold.
gold.
it spun out shining, too bright, too alive. the thread writhed faintly as it wound onto the bobbin. the chamber glowed with its cursed light.
she watched both horrified and entranced, as pile after pile dwindled beneath his hand. spun into cols that gleamed like captured fire. when at last he paused, gold filled the chamber, its brilliance sickly, searing her eyes.
he turned, smile languid. ❝ a fair trade. ❞
her lips trembled.
❝ my mother... ❞
❝ a song for survival, ❞ he cut in, silk and cruelty entwined. ❝ what use is a lullaby to the dead? ❞
tears scalded her cheeks.
he crouched before her, silver hair spilled forward. his fingers brushed her binding, light as breath, and shadows curled where he touched.
❝ remember this. ❞ his whisper lodged in her bones. ❝ i give nothing freely. ❞
then he was gone.
the shadows folded in on themselves, collapsing into stillness.
she remained, chained among gold that glowed like a tomb, the hollow of her loss louder than her sobs.
the night dragged its weight across the chamber. she sat with her back to the stone, wrists raw. the gold shimmered in heaps around her, breathing light into the dark. even silent, it seemed alive.
she tried once to summon the lullaby the man had stolen... but her throat offered nothing. where the song had once lived, silence pressed like stone over a buried name.
locks clattered, iron groaned, the door opened.
the guards entered first. their steps faltered when they saw the heaps of gold. one cursed under his breath; another crossed himself.
then the king appeared, her father trailing behind.
the king's face was lit with hunger so fierce it warped his features into something beast like. he strode forward, jeweled fingers sliding across the coils, a jagged laugh bursting from his throat.
❝ marvel, ❞ he breathed. the word struck the stone. ❝ you have given me the sun itself. ❞
her father dropped to his knees. relief rippled through him, hands clasped, trembling. he glanced at her once, gold burning in his stare. no apology. only gratitude—for his own survival, purchased with hers.
the king turned. his look fastened on her. ❝ you are mine now. with you, kingdoms will kneel. ❞ a grin split his face.
❝ do it again. ❞
the words closed around her like an iron. again. of course. the wheel would wait, the flax would return, and she would spin until nothing of her remained but bargains.
she lowered her head, concealing the ache hollowing her ribs. in their eyes she had bent the impossible, and as a result the king feared to lose her.
he ordered the guards to carry the treasure away. as they labored, she shifted her wrist. the patch of skin where he had touched still burned faintly. beneath the surface, a shadow pulsed—unseen by the others—throbbing in her vein like a hidden claim.
her father bent close, breath unsteady.
❝ you saved us. don't shame yourself by mourning. ❞
she closed her eyes.
saved? she felt scraped bare, her last comfort torn away. pride was a stranger she could no longer find.
when the chamber emptied, silence pressed closer. she sat by the wheel, iron dragging heavy at her wrist.
then she heard it. low. intimate. brushing her ear though the room lay bare.
❝ you'll call be again. and when you do, little one, i will not come cheaply. ❞
the whisper threaded through her mind like smoke seeping into stone. she shivered, clutching her skirts.
dawn broke beyond the tower, but she carried the night inside her now, and it would not let her go.
the hall had been dressed in triumph, its gold shine fever-bright.
goblets gleamed, plates flashed, collars gripped throats and wrists. torchlight hurled itself against the metal until the chamber blazed like a furnace. yet in the corners, the shadows clung stubbornly, as though wary of such false fire.
she sat at the king's side, rigid in a gown heavy with embroidery, hands folded in her lap. he had paraded her through the feast as if she were another relic mounted for display, and now she endured the press of countless stares.
nobles studied her with admiration edged by envy. priests murmured blessings into their cups. servants glanced once and looked away, as though the sight itself might sear.
the king lifted his goblet. his rings flared in the torchlight.
❝ behold, my treasure, ❞ he declared, voice swollen with delight. ❝ with her, the earth itself bleeds gold. ❞
a roar answered him. lords struck the tables, women clapped, the court chorused its praise.
her father bent low at her feet, forehead nearly brushing the stone. his face shone with sweat, his smile wide as a wound. he muttered thanks to both crown and heaven, soaking in the reflected glow of her captivity.
inside, her stomach turned.
everywhere she looked, the gold glared back. she knew what it was: thread spun not by her hands but by shadows, by the voice that still coiled in her bones. plates, cups, ornaments—all tainted. she could almost hear them breathing, restless, hungry for touch.
when the servants came forward with wine, their fingers shook as they set down the pitchers. one flinched when the handle grazed his palm, pulling back if scorched.
she pressed her damp palms into her skirts.
the king did not notice. his delight swelled with the feast. he drank deeply, laughed loudly, tore meat from bone with his own hands. each time he raised his goblet, he leaned toward her, making sure the court saw his favour.
to them she was miracle.
to him, coin given flesh.
the chamber swam. gold blurred her vision, dazzling too bright. beneath her skin, where the shadow, the devil, had touched, the mark stirred. at first a faint tingling, then a sharper spark, burning at her wrist. she pressed it to her thigh to hide the tremor, though no one looked closely enough to notice.
and then, at the edge of her sight, she thought she saw him.
a figure at the farthest wall, silver glinting like frost, crimson like coals. her heart faltered. she turned her head, but nothing remained.
still, the mark burned.
a murmur rippled through the tables. not praise this time, but unease. a lord clutched the talisman at his throat, muttering of witchcraft. the king silenced them with a single glance, but fear lingered braided into awe.
her goblet sat untouched. the wine shimmered darkly in its golden bowl. she stared at her reflection trembling across the surface. skin pale. face drawn. she lowered her gaze to the table, breath tight, nausea coiling.
and then, soft as a sigh against her ear, a voice cut through the revelry.
❝ you will call me again. ❞
her body stiffened. the feast clamored on, blind to her stillness. gold flashed, laughter swelled, and beneath it all his promise coiled patient as a snare.
the feast ended in triumph, but the triumph was not hers. by nightfall, she was back in the tower.
the chamber had changed. the flax no longer lay in pale heaps. these bundles sagged with weight, darker in hue, strands slick as though wet. when she drew near, she swore they shifted.
she sat at the wheel. her fingers shook as she tried to work. the fibers clung stubbornly, knotting at her touch. the wheel, hissed, creaked, resisted her. threads snapped, tangled, sliced her skin. at last she dropped her hands into her lap, shoulders tight.
why was she even trying?
dawn would find her undone.
tears blurred her sight. she pressed her brow to the wood and whispered into the emptiness.
❝ if you are here... if you listen still... ❞
the flax shivered, shadows stretched, and the chamber dimmed as though stone itself breathed him in. the whisper slid into her bones.
❝ you did call. ❞
her head lifted. he stepped forward with greater ease than before, silver hair catching the dim light, crimson stare burning steady.
❝ you knew i would. ❞ shame threaded her voice.
he smiled slowly, like a predator savouring inevitability.
❝ of course. you are already mine. ❞
her wrist throbbed where his mark lay hidden. she wanted to deny him, but the truth pulsed beneath her skin.
he came closer, shadows carrying his stride. his hand brushed the wheel, disdainful.
❝ again they heap this on you. again you bleed for their greed. ❞ his look lingered on her, amused, searching. ❝ do you not see it now? they will never stop. ❞
her nails pressed into her palms.
❝ help me. ❞
his smiled deepened. ❝ i will. but you know the cost. ❞
her stomach knotted. ❝ what will you take? ❞
shadows coiled up her arms, cold against her skin. he leaned near, breath grazing her ear.
❝ this time, i want your laughter. ❞
her breath faltered. ❝ my...? ❞
he drew back just enough for her to see the delight in his face.
❝ the sound of joy that escapes unbidden. the warmth of it. give me that, and the flax will sing. ❞
her heart rebelled. a lullaby already stolen; now he wanted laughter, the last spark that proved she lived. she shook her head, whispering
❝ no ❞
but the wheel waited. dawn loomed.
failure pressed heavier than refusal.
her voice broke. ❝ how... how would you take it? ❞
❝ with a kiss. ❞ his grin sharpened.
the words struck like a blow. heat rushed to her face, terror tangled with something hotter, something she refused to name.
for one frantic instant she thought of biting, of tearing free. but shadows locked her arms, pinning her to the chair. his hand gripped her jaw, tilting her face up.
his mouth descended.
the kiss hit like drowning. cold at first, then fevered. his lips crushed hers, hungry, consuming. his tongue pressed past her teeth, shadows sliding down her throat. the taste of iron seared her tongue. she gasped against him, lungs convulsing—yet heat flared low in her body. sharp and shameful.
his silver hair brushed her cheek. his breath scorched her mouth. shadows pressed her deeper into the chair. she tried to cry out, but the sound twisted, warped—until laughter spilled from her lips.
her laughter.
bright, helpless.
wrong.
he drank it greedily. each ripple loose from her chest, ripped from her bones, swallowed whole. she felt the joy itself pulled free, her capacity for light siphoned away.
the kiss went on, endless, claiming, until she no longer knew if she fought or yielded.
at last he drew back. their mouths parted with a wet tear. her mouth throbbed, raw from his breath. a faint thread of sound stretched between them before it snapped, vanishing into him.
his eyes glowed crimson, triumphant. his thumb traced the corner of her mouth, slow, savouring.
❝ yes, ❞ he murmured, voice hoarse with satisfaction. ❝ and how sweet it was. ❞
the shadows loosened. he turned to the flax. fibers writhed, eager for him. the wheel spun beneath his hand, thread flowing smooth, gleaming like fire. gold spilled forth, filling the chamber once more with its cursed light.
she watched helplessly, mouth burning, chest aching where laughter had been.
when the spinning stilled, he looked back. ❝ another bargain sealed. ❞
her heart battered her ribs. she told herself she hated him. yet her body quivered still, remembering his mouth.
he vanished into shadow, leaving her fettered among heaps of gold, lips raw, silence echoing in place of joy.
and she knew with terrible certainty she would not only call him again. she would need him.
Love and Deepspace Sylus: 41 is Coming (Farewell, Boy from Ophiuchus) (part 2)
This comic was inspired by the main storyline Death and Rebirth, and Timelock Key Sylus: Shadowed Past updated in May 2025. All the content not mentioned in the game was my personal headcanon.
Due to Tumblr's new policy one can only post up to 30 pages in each post, so this comic has to be posted as two parts. Check the link below to read part 1.
