i don't do bad sauce passes
wallacepolsom
will byers stan first human second
"I'm Dorothy Gale from Kansas"
let's talk about Bridgerton tea, my ask is open
trying on a metaphor
AnasAbdin
Keni
Product Placement
shark vs the universe
Peter Solarz
🪼
cherry valley forever
Cosimo Galluzzi
he wasn't even looking at me and he found me
Jules of Nature
blake kathryn
titsay
Monterey Bay Aquarium
we're not kids anymore.
seen from Canada
seen from China
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from Belgium
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from Türkiye
seen from United States
seen from Malaysia
seen from Malaysia
seen from United Kingdom
seen from United States
seen from Norway
seen from United Kingdom
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from Malaysia
seen from United Kingdom
@kiekmo
🕷️ ᴍᴀꜱᴛᴇʀʟɪꜱᴛ | ᴡʀɪᴛɪɴɢꜱ ꜰʀᴏᴍ ᴀ ᴛᴇᴇɴ ʙʀᴀɪɴ (ᴀɴᴅ ᴛʜᴇ ᴅᴇᴘʀᴇꜱꜱɪᴏɴ ᴋɪᴛᴛʏ) 🕷️
so i moved accounts:)
🌑 𝚅𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 + 𝚁𝚎𝚊𝚕 𝙻𝚒𝚏𝚎
survival isn't the same as living
quiet rooms
🖋 𝙿𝚘𝚎𝚝𝚛𝚢
my friend
📓𝚑𝚊𝚕𝚏 𝚏𝚒𝚌𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗, 𝚑𝚊𝚕𝚏 𝚍𝚒𝚊𝚛𝚢 📓
broken reflections
📖🍂𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚏𝚒𝚌𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗🍂📖
Fire Fly Nights Masterlist
I genuinely hate my sister
Just got a chatgpt ad where the use case was "can't decide a new years resolution". I can't think of anything more sad than needing a robot to tell you what your own ambitions are. Loser shit.
notes before pre-calc by kiekmo
I hate being quiet in Brooklyn. In environments where I wasn’t trained for—though I don’t even like that word. Trained. I’m not a dog. But sometimes, I feel like one.
Like a dog that keeps getting kicked but still comes back, hoping that if it’s good enough, maybe—just maybe—they’ll love it. Not just take care of it. Not just feed it. Love it.
I go to a new school now. It’s only ten minutes away from my house, and I hate that. I liked the distance of my old school—the way the twenty-block walk home gave me space to breathe after a long day. It sounds dramatic, I know. I’m seventeen. I have a roof over my head, food in my stomach, clothes on my back. So why am I stressed? Why am I depressed?
The clothes… I don’t even like them much. My mom used to dress me like a kid when I was fourteen. And yes, technically, I was a kid, but a “Black Girl Power” shirt? The same shirt I saw a little girl around six or seven years old wearing the other day. No pun intended, but I felt embarrassed just knowing it was still hanging in my closet.
I know I have issues—mental, emotional, family, whatever kind you can name. I just don’t know how to deal with them.
I’m not trying to diagnose myself, but I find it interesting to learn about different disorders—things that somehow line up a little too neatly with who I am, who I was, and who I might become. Imposter syndrome. “Bathroom camping.” Split personality, maybe. The list goes on, but that’s not what I’m here to talk about.
My brain works in weird ways. I try to sound mysterious and intelligent when I write, but honestly, I think I just replicate the syntax of the books I read. Yes, Mom, I do read.
I’m in the middle of a book series right now, but I can’t find the next one. It’s going well, though I can barely focus at school with everyone yelling.
And—yeah. I think I have daddy issues. No, I know I do.
Whenever I meet a male figure, especially a teacher, something about them draws me in. My friends never get it. “What do you even see in them?” they ask. I don’t know.
Let’s give them code names: Coffee Mug, Actor, and Mayor. Coffee Mug has veiny, lanky hands—soft but precise. I like the way he talks. Actor has that kind of charm that fills the room. He knows he’s that guy. (Pretty sure he’s a creep though—too interested in girls during rehearsal, if you ask me.) And Mayor—well, he’s not cute, but he’s kind. He was nice to me on my first day at the new school. The bare minimum, I know, but still—it mattered.
I think I have a boyfriend. Or maybe just a fling. I don’t really know how to feel about him. When we first talked, he said he didn’t want anything serious. But last week, he took me on a date. Weird, right?
Afterward, he told me I “can’t kiss.” Said the first time we kissed was overbearing. Excuse me? He was the one eating my face. But whatever.
He calls me “pretty girl,” “beautiful,” touches me a lot—it’s sweet, I guess. But he drinks and smokes. I drank once with him on Halloween. It tasted terrible, but it made me giggly. I could still smell it on my breath later that night.
Sometimes I think I love him. Other times, I just get the ick.
Before our date, two guys at my new school tried to flirt with me—asked how old I was, if I had a boyfriend. I felt good, flattered even. But also gross. It wasn’t guilt toward my “boyfriend.” It was more like… I didn’t want the attention, but I kinda did. I like when guys look at me, want me, but don’t say it. Is that weird? I’m weird. But maybe weird is cool—or so they say.
Back in 2025, being “taught” meant something different. In my old school, I was in IB classes, basically teaching myself most of the time. Thank God for AI—kidding (sort of). Even my teacher used AI for lesson plans, and they didn’t even have an IB certification.
Now, at my new school, I’m taking two AP classes. And honestly? AP feels like kindergarten compared to IB. The only class I’m struggling with is pre-calc—math is not my thing.
But I’ve realized something: it’s my senior year. I don’t want to be overworked. I’ve been pushing myself for so long; I deserve a break. I just need to graduate.
I know I’m smart. Not a genius, but not dumb either. People nominate me for honor societies, but when I get there, I feel like the dumbest person in the room. It doesn’t make sense—once I learn something, it sticks forever. But exams? Different story. Test anxiety is weird.
Sometimes I don’t like my face. It’s like that TikTok trend where people show each individual feature—eyes, lips, nose—and each part looks fine, but when it’s all together, it feels… off.
My forehead feels too big. My lips too full. My nostrils flare too much. My neck’s too thick. My torso’s box-shaped.
I know I’m seventeen. I’m not supposed to look like some Victoria’s Secret angel—but sometimes, I almost do, and that’s confusing too.
My head and heart are in this constant tug-of-war with how I see myself. I’m trying to find answers. Trying to find reasons. Trying to make sense of me.
I write to express emotions I can’t fully show in public. The things I go through—whatever hurts, confuses, or shapes me—I tuck them away. Sometimes it’s in the back of my mind, sometimes in a single word or phrase that reminds me to come back to it later, to sit and write it out.
This “story” was one of those moments. It’s messy, all over the place—just like my brain, just like how I function… or if I even do function.
So until next time until I go through another life-changing moment, or spend too long overthinking something my brain refuses to let go of, or get sad again and shove those feelings deep down because no one wants to see the ugly parts of me.
And by ugly, I mean ugly. Not that TV kind of crying where actresses still look cinematic and beautiful. I mean the real kind. The kind that makes your face twist and your chest ache. That’s me. Ugly. Or… maybe not? I don’t even know anymore.Whatever. Goodbye for now I have pre-calc next period. ---------------------------------------------------
All works posted on this blog — including writings, poetry, and personal stories — belong to me (Kiekmo). Do not copy, translate, or claim as your own without explicit permission. This is my voice, my mind, my life.
If you steal or use my work without credit or consent, you will be reported, blocked, and publicly called out. Respect the creator or face the consequences.
Support creators. Don’t steal from them.
🖤 thank you for reading, not taking.
First date and he said I kiss bad
jus bought a Ak47!
new wip coming soon
hello guys I lowkey disappeared!
Wow I actually love this ,
This was a tag game I was added and thier were not many POC options so I had to make my own
but bleh
Picrew tag game!- Create yourself now vs how you looked when you were a kid
Link
I was tagged by @cutebisexualmess for this but the chain was too long so I'm restarting!
If only that little girl could see me now (she'd probably think I was cool tbh)
uhm tagging: @b3achfagz (ik you dont do tag games so u can just ignore this but i though u might find it cool) @cassiecryptic @viktheviking1 @depressedgremlinbitch @ramencat12 @inkyslimee @the-horrifying-digital-circus @patipati @cute--thing @musicalsiphonophore @tastetherainbow290 @disenchantedwarlock @bookishcatcafe and anyone else who sees this and thinks it looks cool!!
i wasn’t tagged but it looked awesome so i had to do it… i tag: @uglyduckling339 @sapphicshart @needlekind @oya-oya-okay @three-green-waterbottles @heymrspatel @bionicle-ramblings @stvnszlr @wasyago and @r0ttingsystem (no pressure tho obvs — i’m not even mutuals with some of u, hope this isn’t a bother!) plus ANYONE else who wants in! (i love seeing ppl’s picrews on my notifs :))
Wasn’t tagged, but I love doing these!
@annperiodsoftime @bloominghydrangeas25 anyone else who wants in! (No pressure guys)
Thank you for the tag, Lucy! I like your version in past and now! You’re so cute! And I like your haircut too!
You can join again, but I don't pressure on you
@magicalgear @tilskkarishma
Thank you for the taggg i loved this picrew sm 😭 even tho my hair colour isnt here again oops
I dont know how to compare my past self to my present self tbh. Hairstyle? I have short hair all the time for 4 years now or something, though i had short hair for a while when i was in elementary school too, so
Braids though! I liked braiding my hair so so much.
No pressure tags: @pennyroyald @charleslver @evvwenthome @skythe-crazy-bisexual @windyskiez @crowscadence @lvcisaliaa @tiredthing-idk @s0lace-1n-s0l1tude @plumywad @thesummerrtriangle @offsetthedeath @exymylove @koinoclover @philosophist-forever @munznia @miss-itoshi @nedemekchuuyagercekdegil @raskoln1kovsaxe @fyodorsushankaaa + whoever wants to join!
woah...
Stuff happened but it shapes us to who we are!
tag: @la-femme-bordeaux @nyancvt erm.. yes :> add anyone else
i had a thing for having my hair up when i was younger
also i refused utterly refused to wear glasses until i turned 11 - 12 <- i didnt like how i looked in them since it didn't feel like me but now its the opposite lmao :3
me core :p
freeeeeee tags!!!
Star irl has RBF (resting bitch face) and l☆☆ks like this. Star used t☆ be tan because Star used t☆ g☆ ☆utside >.< Star tries t☆ be cute irl!
@highclasshomosexual @jiraibloggingamechan @lilac-the-rotting-jirai @lilithdeathbed @lovebuggedxo @orphiccrowns @clover-the-therian2 @crying4eternity @remithegayshoebil @silverstar1325 +any1
yes, i dyed my hair black but the other doesn't look like my oc bc there weren't the right colors 😭🩷
open tags!
this looked cool so I joined :3
tags: @strawberryfairyflower @invadercindy @okoilo @failureboylikestocvt @jinglyaddict @rhin3ston3 @s0l4rst4rz @toxetta @k1-2-ur-h3art @madilynsalivec0rpse @cubibism @cyber-angels-forever + anyone else. soso sorry if u didn’t wanna be tagged or wanted 2 be tagged, I just tagged any1 I thought might be interested!!
Ty for the taggg!
@bubbled016 @sil3nt-0bs3rv3r @dudejealousy @digital-saint11 @d1dy0ujustwhat @qu13t-d0wn-pl34s3 @rr31ch @achelovoodoo @kangelgirl + anyone I forgot to tag or want to joinnn x3
why , thank you so much for the tag ! yours looks amazing — we think this picrew is very much beautiful . (ㅅ´ ˘ `)
Thanks for tagging me! (: I promise, I try to take care of that little girl
@treegirl-fanboy @sallyfaceloverrrrr @l1keadeathw1sh @achelovoodoo @writingwithrxd @autismmachinegun @ribcagecavityy @primalmagic @pr1nc3ssb0yy @gore-whore095 @partytillyoudie @vesselsshadow @b1rch-cl0ver @sawyerjdoffical @kiekmo @thesillyness
OMG THANK YOU FOR TAGGING MEEE: I didn’t see many POC options so I made my own with the art style but thank you !!!
BYE I DIDNT UPLOAD IT
@kittysaretherapy @killu4ari @ainuchae @beesmagicpen @cielito--lindo
Help I don’t know many people 💔
😛😛
if u guys couldn’t tell already I love Hamilton
“overly pain” brocahco I just went to the doc I’m healthy
biology
I fear this MATH IA will never be done
Auralis
Summary:> Marie walks home from the orphanage with Kieran, who subtly hints at dangers and mysteries in the city, showing concern and quiet affection, though Marie remains mostly oblivious to his meaning. Meanwhile, Osian returns to his apartment, expecting solitude, only to find two figures from the Haven waiting.
CHAPTER THREE
----
The city of Veria was alive in the late afternoon, the sun casting long shadows across the cobblestones and glass towers. Osian moved briskly through the streets, his cape tucked beneath his jacket, head down to avoid the crowds.
Today wasn’t about cameras or speeches—it was about seeing the city unfiltered, how life moved when no one was watching.
He nearly collided with a small group of children wearing brightly colored shirts, their sleeves smudged with paint and marker stains.
One of the shirts caught his eye: a sunburst emblem surrounding a small, simple house.
Something about it made him stop mid-step.
“Hey! Watch it!” a boy shouted, tripping slightly over his own feet. Osian straightened, offering a soft, half-apologetic smile.
“Sorry, didn’t mean to—” He froze when their wide eyes locked onto him.
“You’re… you’re Auralis!” a girl gasped, holding out a crayon-drawn portrait of the glowing hero.
His chest tightened. Not here, not now, he thought.
But the girl’s smile was genuine, innocent. The others pressed forward, holding up drawings and small scraps of paper.
“Can you sign it? Please?” one boy asked, eyes bright.
Osian knelt slowly, hiding his hands in the sleeves of his jacket. As he reached for a crayon, his eyes flicked back to the sunburst emblem on their shirts.
An orphanage?
The word clawed at him, familiar and raw. Memories he tried to bury surged forward: dim hallways, children with hollow eyes, the cold bite of loneliness he knew too well.
He swallowed hard, feeling the old guilt press into his chest. They have nothing. They shouldn’t have to—no child should. I… He exhaled slowly. “Alright,” he said quietly, forcing a smile. “Show me what you’ve drawn.”
The kids passed over their papers eagerly. One girl’s drawing depicted Auralis standing on a hill, light streaming from his hands, surrounded by children who looked small and scared.
Osian’s fingers hovered over the paper before signing, lingering a moment as he traced a shaky signature.
“You really are real,” the girl whispered.
Osian’s throat tightened. “I… I’m just someone trying to help,” he said softly. The words felt hollow, but he couldn’t deny the stir of responsibility. He looked up at their hopeful faces, feeling a weight he hadn’t felt in years.
Kids like me… they shouldn’t have to be alone. I can’t save the city, but maybe I can… at least this much,..
As the children dispersed, Osian’s attention caught on the emblem again. The orphanage logo— he remembers a logo that used to surface in his memory years ago during quiet moments in the factory. A sudden ache of empathy coursed through him.
They’re just kids.
Nothing more. Nothing less.
Meanwhile, at the orphanage, Marie and her neighbor, Kieran, were finishing up for the day. The children had scattered for the evening, and the scent of baked bread still lingered in the air.
“Hey,” Kieran said, leaning against the doorway. “Need a hand with closing up?”
Marie smiled, brushing her hair back. “Thanks, but I’ve got it. Though… it’s always nice to have backup.”
Kieran stepped inside, moving toward the supply shelves. “You know, I don’t mind helping.
The kids love it when someone extra is around. And honestly, I think you could use a break sometimes.”
Marie laughed softly, tying the last bundle of blankets. “A break? In this house?
With them? I think not. They keep me busy enough.”
He grinned, leaning closer. “Still… maybe one day you’ll let me take some of the load. I can handle a spatula, you know.”
“I’ll believe that when I see it,” she teased, shaking her head. Then her smile softened. “Thanks, Kieran. Really. I don’t know what I’d do without you sometimes.”
He met her gaze, quiet for a moment, before stepping back with a half-smile. “You’d manage. But I’ll be here anyway.”
Back on the streets, Osian folded the drawings carefully, watching the children run off down the alley.
He felt an uncharacteristic heaviness in his chest. Memories of his own childhood—ten years in the factory, the sterile corridors, the hours spent alone—rose unbidden.
He imagined these kids in those shoes and felt a pang of guilt, coupled with something else: resolve.
I can’t undo the past, he thought.
But I can… I should try to do better now.
He straightened, brushing off his jacket, and looked up at the city skyline.
The glow of the setting sun reflected off the towers, golden light streaking the streets below.
The streets of Veria were alive, and he moved through them like a shadow among light, carrying a quiet burden that no one could see.
From a distance, a boy in a leather jacket leaned casually against a lamppost, watching Osian pass.
Beside him, a taller figure, taller and broader, followed his every step. Osian didn’t know who they were, but instinct whispered that they’d cross paths again.
For now, though, they melted into the crowd, unnoticed.
For Osian, the world was just as he always thought: complicated, chaotic, and full of unexpected encounters.
And though he didn’t know the connection yet, the children’s shirts—the emblem of the small orphanage—had left something lodged in his mind. A quiet, insistent reminder that he couldn’t ignore.
That evening, Marie tucked the last of the children into bed, Kieran by her side.
“You’re quiet tonight,” Kieran said, leaning against the doorframe. “Something on your mind?”
Marie shook her head. “Just… thinking about the day.
The kids had so much energy. And the drawings—they’re getting really good.”
He smiled. “You’re doing a good thing here, Marie. Really.”
She nodded, looking out the window at the dimming streets.
Somewhere far away, a figure moved through the city—another guardian, another legacy she didn’t yet understand.
And somewhere in that crowded, bustling city, their lives were quietly beginning to intersect.
The streets of Veria glimmered under the evening lights, wet from the afternoon drizzle. Marie walked beside Kieran, the quiet hum of the city around them.
“You did really well with the kids today,” Kieran said, keeping his tone casual. “Even if they’re a handful sometimes.”
Marie shrugged, brushing a stray hair from her face. “They’re just kids. It’s not hard to… manage them.”
“Yeah, but you care. That counts for a lot,” he said, glancing at her.
“I… I like that about you.”
....
Marie looked away, focusing on the puddles reflecting the streetlights. “Thanks. I… appreciate that.”
He let it hang, not pushing further.
There was a gentleness in his words, a hint of concern, but she didn’t catch any subtext beyond the obvious.
They walked in silence for a few moments, the sound of distant traffic and dripping water filling the space.
Kieran spoke again, quieter this time, almost like he was testing the air. “Be careful, Marie. Not everyone in the city is… straightforward.
Some things… some people, they’re not exactly what they seem.”
Marie gave a small nod, not fully understanding. “I’ll be careful.”
He smiled faintly. “Good. That’s all I ask.”
The evening stretched around them, calm and ordinary, though Kieran’s words lingered with a quiet unease.
Osian pushed the door open to his apartment, expecting the familiar quiet. But the room was not empty.
Two figures stood in the dim light, rigid, almost statuesque.
The air felt heavier, charged—as if it had been waiting for him.
He paused, closing the door behind him, senses alert.
Not a flinch, not a stumble—just a subtle tightening of his posture.
“Evening,” one said smoothly, voice sharp and measured.
“Your appearance in the city… adequate?”
Osian set his bag down with deliberate care, his expression neutral.
“Adequate is generous.”
The second figure stepped forward, arms folded, gaze unyielding.
“The public expects joy. Energy. Enthusiasm. You must convey it at all times. Always.”
A chill slid down his spine, though he showed no outward reaction.
They’re testing me. Measuring. Observing.
His mind catalogued every detail of the room—the way the lights fell across the floor, the way their shadows stretched too long.
“Yes,” the taller one said, voice controlled.
“You are the image of Auralis.
You cannot falter.”
Osian leaned against the counter, fingers tracing the edge with slow precision. “I understand. Smile, light, inspire. Convincing happiness. Got it.”
The first figure’s lips twitched, almost a warning.
“Do not underestimate the perception of the public. Every gesture, every glance, every movement…”
“Every movement,” Osian echoed, voice calm. “Understood.” He straightened slightly, letting the aura of control settle around him like armor.
The taller figure’s tone sharpened. “We will expect a report on your next engagement. And Osian…”
“Yes?” His voice was smooth, unshaken, but the undercurrent of tension hummed in the space between them.
“Smile,” they said, precise. “Convince the city that this role fulfills you. Even if it does not.”
A faint smile curved Osian’s lips. “Borrowed light. Understood. I’ll make it work.”
The figures departed as quietly as they had appeared, leaving the room heavy with absence and expectation. The faint hum of the city below reminded him of the distance between the public’s perception and his reality.
He sank into the couch, eyes drifting to the skyline. The memory of children’s laughter earlier in the day tugged at him, grounding him.
They deserve real light, he thought. Not this performance.
Even as the apartment settled into silence, Osian’s mind remained alert, every muscle primed, every sense ready for the next intrusion.
Auralis
CHAPTER TWO
Summary:> In the city of Veria, the legend of Auralis has been passed down for generations. Marie, a seemingly ordinary woman who works with children, is quietly haunted by secrets her family has hidden from her since childhood. While visiting her frail aunt, she learns of a mysterious group called the Haven—an organization her aunt fears deeply. Later, as she walks through the bustling city, Marie sees a massive interview billboard of Osian, a figure tied to her forgotten past. The people of Veria adore him, but Marie feels conflicted, unaware that both the myths of Auralis and the shadow of the Haven are closing in on her life.
------------------
The morning sun spilled through the wide windows, golden beams warming the floorboards of the little house on the hill. Children’s laughter drifted through the hall like music—uneven, loud, but alive.
She balanced a stack of blankets in her arms as three boys tumbled past her, chasing each other with carved wooden swords. She laughed, shaking her head.
“Careful, you’ll knock me over,” she said, and the tallest boy skidded to a stop, cheeks flushed.
“Sorry, Miss Marie!”
She winked, setting the blankets down on the bench. “No harm done. Just save the duels for outside, alright? The walls are thin enough.”
The boys nodded and darted off again, their laughter echoing down the corridor.
Marie’s smile softened. She had grown used to the sound. It was what she wanted—the house alive, not silent like it had been when she first moved in.
Ten years had passed since she lost her parents. Her aunt had raised her quietly, away from the capital, away from eyes that might have seen too much in her. Marie never knew the full truth—only that she was different somehow, and that her aunt feared the government’s reach.
Now, at eighteen, she had made her choice. The world was full of children like her—alone, abandoned, forgotten. She couldn’t fix everything, but she could give them this: a place where they were safe, where their names mattered.
Her orphanage wasn’t much. A repurposed farmhouse with creaky stairs and drafty corners.
The paint peeled in places, and the kitchen stove needed constant mending. But the children had beds, blankets, food enough to fill their bellies, and someone who listened when they cried.
Marie believed—perhaps foolishly, her aunt often warned—that small kindnesses could still matter in a world obsessed with symbols and power.
She didn’t read the newspapers much, though the name Auralis always seemed to find its way to her. The new face of peace. The nation’s light. She never thought twice about him. Heroes belonged to the capital, to the cameras, to people who needed legends more than truth.
Her truth was here.
She knelt by the youngest girl, who sat apart from the others with a doll missing an arm. The girl’s dark eyes looked up at her, uncertain. Marie smiled gently, reaching out her hand.
“Come on,” she said. “The others are baking bread. I’ll show you how to braid the dough.”
The girl hesitated, then took her hand. Marie rose, leading her down the hall.
But before they reached the kitchen, she noticed a small group of children huddled over paper and crayons. She bent down, curious, and caught sight of their newest creation: a figure glowing with beams of yellow and blue, larger than life. Across the top, in shaky lettering, was the word Auralis.
Marie tilted her head. “Who’s that meant to be?”
One of the boys grinned. “The hero! He fights the bad people. Everyone says he’s real. He’s gonna save the city.”
The others giggled and nodded, proud of their work. Marie forced a smile, though the name left an odd echo in her chest. She pushed the feeling aside, rising with the little girl still holding her hand.
-----------------------------------------------
Later that week, she found herself seated across from two strangers in pressed suits. They had come all the way to the hill to visit her orphanage, their carriage parked neatly by the gate.
Their smiles were polite.
Their eyes carried the cold weight of calculation.
“We’ve heard of your work,” one of them said, folding his hands neatly on the table.
“A noble thing, truly. But difficult to sustain without help. The Haven is prepared to… offer partnership. Funding, food, medicine.
All you need to do is open your doors to our oversight. Allow us to guide the children under your care into proper programs.”
Marie frowned, confused. “Programs? What kind of programs?”
The other man smiled too quickly. “Educational, of course."
"Opportunities. Discipline and order. A chance to serve the greater good.”
She glanced out the window, where the children were playing in the yard. Something about the word discipline knotted her stomach. But she kept her voice calm. “I’ll need time to think. I won’t promise anything yet.”
The men exchanged a glance, then rose smoothly. “Of course. Just know The Haven welcomes all, and we’ll keep in touch.”
Their carriage rolled away, leaving the house colder than before.
The next day, she carried the news to her aunt at the nursing home. She sat at the bedside, recounting the conversation as simply as she could.
“They offered to fund the orphanage,” Marie said. “They want to… help. Or so they claim. They called themselves The Haven.”
At once, her aunt’s hand shot out, gripping hers with startling force.
“No.” Her voice cracked with fear.
“Decline them. Promise me you will.”
Marie blinked, startled. “Why? They said it was for the children. We could use the help—”
Her aunt’s eyes burned, wild despite the frailty of her body. “They don’t help children. Promise me, Marie. You must never let them in.”
The weight in her voice silenced Marie. She nodded slowly, though confusion gnawed at her. She didn’t understand the depth of her aunt’s terror, nor the shadow that name carried. She only knew that her aunt had never looked so afraid.
As she left the nursing home that evening, Marie wrapped her coat tighter against the wind. Behind her, the lamps of the city flickered to life one by one.
The word echoed in her mind like a curse she couldn’t decipher.
The Haven.
The streets of Veria always hummed with noise—vendors calling out deals, tram bells rattling, and the constant flicker of neon signs promising a brighter tomorrow. She wove through the crowd, her bag slung heavy on her shoulder, the late afternoon sun bouncing off glass towers that seemed to scrape the sky.
Halfway down the avenue, a digital billboard flared above her. The face was unmistakable—sharp, confident, practiced for the cameras. Osian. His voice boomed faintly from the speakers, replaying highlights of his latest interview.
“It was never about me,” he said, chin lifted as if the city itself bowed to him.
“It’s about what we build for the next generation."
“I only hope I can live up to the grace of this name bestowed upon me.
Veria deserves protectors.”*
A group of teenagers paused under the screen, one clutching her friend’s arm and squealing,
“He’s so cute, oh my god. Did you see the way he smiled?!”
They dissolved into laughter, their voices carrying over the bustle.
She let out a soft, almost involuntary sound—half a scoff, half an agreement. Cute, maybe.
The billboard flickered again, switching from Osian’s face to a mural-like animation: Auralis, the city’s mythic protector.
Cloaked in light, eyes like twin suns, the figure loomed over a painted skyline.
Every child in Veria grew up with some version of the story—
how Auralis had risen from the ashes of the War of Fragments centuries ago, wielding power that belonged to no army and no throne.
Some called Auralis a savior.
Others whispered about chains and control.
“History is marketing now,” she muttered under her breath, brushing past a kiosk selling glossy reprints of Auralis’ likeness on enamel pins and postcards.
She caught her reflection in a darkened shop window—ordinary, unremarkable.
But the faint glow from the billboard above clung to her skin, just for a heartbeat, as though the light refused to let her go.
Auralis
CHAPTER ONE
summary:>In Veria, the world praises Auralis, the eternal symbol of peace. But behind the mask is Osian, a boy sold by his desperate parents and remade in The Haven, a cruel facility that injects children with the blood of past heroes. For ten years, Osian has been trained, displayed, and worshiped as the nation’s savior—though inside he carries nothing but scars.
What no one knows is that the true heir of Auralis’ legacy still lives.
Now Osian must decide: remain the puppet hero they created… or tear down the very legend that binds him.
Waring TAGS: Child abuse / neglect (parents selling their child, emotional betrayal) Medical experimentation on children Forced transformation / body horror (blood injection, painful power awakening) Loss of autonomy / child soldiers Government corruption / exploitation Emotional trauma / PTSD / flashbacks
word count: 1.1k
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The lights were blinding.
Cameras flashed in a storm across the auditorium, voices overlapping, questions piling on top of each other until they became nothing but noise.
“Auralis, how does it feel to be the next symbol of peace in our nation?”
“Tell us—how did you come to embody Veria’s greatest hope?”
“Do you think you can live up to the legacy?”
Osian stood at the podium, his reflection caught in the golden seal of Veria behind him. To the world, he wasn’t Osian anymore. He was Auralis, the torchbearer of light. His uniform gleamed white and silver under the stage lamps, his shoulders squared like the soldiers had drilled into him.
“Just like we practiced,” he heard a voice from his earbud
“I feel absolutely honored to be chosen as the next Auralis,”
“I feel absolutely honored to be chosen as the next Auralis,” he said, voice steady. He folded his hands just so, the picture of humility. “I only hope I can live up to the grace of this name bestowed upon me. Thank you. No more questions.”
The roar of approval drowned out his heartbeat.
When he turned, walking down the steps of the stage, the screams hit him harder than any spotlight. His name—no, their name—ricocheted through the hall.
“Auralis! Auralis!”
The chants still thundered in his ears as he left the stage. Auralis. Auralis. His jaw ached from holding the expression, the careful not-smile his handlers liked so much.
Then, just as he was stepping into the side corridor, someone in the crowd shouted a word over the noise—so ordinary it nearly slipped past him.
“Starling!”
The breath hitched in his chest.
Starling.
My little starling, so bright, so clever.
His mother's sweet words whispered in his ear as he went numb.
He didn’t flinch, though he wanted to. Ten years of training had burned the impulse out of him. Instead, he let the handlers swarm him, dabbing sweat from his face, retouching the powder on his skin. A cloth pressed to his temple, quick and clinical, while hands tugged at his collar to make sure it lay flat.
“You did great, kid,” said Kieki, his manager, never looking up from the phone in her hand. Her heels clicked against the marble floor as she typed furiously. “Your ratings are climbing. People are eating up the humble angle. But try to smile a little more next time, okay?”
Osian nodded. He didn’t bother reminding her that he wasn’t a kid anymore.
Inwardly, he sighed.
Great job, kid.
Keep smiling.
Keep shining.
Keep being the peace you never asked to bring.
They didn’t know his real name. Nobody did. Nobody wanted to. All they cared about was Auralis—the hero forged in the crucible of The Haven.
He still remembered the smell of iron and bleach from those early years. The cold halls that pretended to be bedrooms. The steel beds, the clipped voices of scientists who called them subjects instead of children.
When his parents’ hands slipped away,
My little starling, so bright, so clever.
He was eight again, legs swinging above the kitchen floor, the scent of onions and cheap broth filling the air. The pot was thin, scraped so often the metal showed through, but his mother stirred it like it was a feast. His father sat at the wobbly table, bent over neat stacks of coins and crumpled bills. He kept counting them, again and again, as if staring long enough would make them multiply.
The room was dim, the walls peeling. The oil lamp hissed softly.
“Eat slowly tonight, starling,” his mother murmured, setting a chipped bowl in front of him. She ruffled his hair and forced a smile, but her eyes were rimmed red.
He remembered how proud he felt in that moment—because even if dinner was thin, even if the bread was stale, he had both of them.
Then came the knock.
Three sharp raps, practiced and businesslike.
His father’s shoulders hunched. His mother’s hand stilled on the spoon.
When the door opened, two men in dark coats stepped inside. They smelled of cologne and iron. Their words were crisp, memorized.
He’s the right age.
.....
You’ll be compensated.
.....
This is for the good of the nation.
Osian didn’t understand at first.
But he saw the way his father’s hand shook as he pushed the coins aside, as if ashamed of their smallness. He saw how his mother’s lips pressed thin, how her gaze darted to the empty shelves, the cracked ceiling, the threadbare blanket in the corner.
They didn’t argue. They didn’t fight.
Instead, his mother crouched, cupping his face with trembling fingers. “You’ll do so well, starling. You’ll make us proud. You’ll bring us peace.”
Her voice cracked on proud.
Then her hands slipped away.
Strangers’ grips closed around his arms. He screamed, kicked, called for her. His father stared at the coins. His mother clutched the wooden spoon like it might keep her upright. Neither moved.
The last thing he saw before the door slammed shut was his mother sinking into a chair, face in her hands.
---------
The next memory was sharper. White walls. The stink of bleach. A metal table so cold it burned his back through the thin fabric of his shirt. Straps biting into his wrists and ankles.
“Hold still,” a voice ordered, though he couldn’t move if he wanted to.
He saw the syringe. Long, silver, brimming with something thick and glowing faintly gold.
The needle plunged into his arm. Fire raced through his veins, every nerve screaming as if he were being split apart. He arched against the restraints, throat raw from the sound that tore out of him. His small body shook until he thought it might break.
The doctors only watched. They scribbled notes.
When it was over, when the fire settled into an ache that never really left, he wasn’t Osian anymore.
He was a vessel.
He was Auralis.
-------------------
“Okay? Hey kid, did u hear me?” Kieko said
Osian blinked hard, finding himself once again in the present—the marble hall, the handlers buzzing around him, Kieki’s voice barking instructions over the click of her phone.
No one noticed that his hands were shaking.
“Smile a little more next time,” she reminded him.
He swallowed the scream still clawing up his throat and gave her the practiced nod.
Inside, the word echoed, softer than the roar of the crowd, sharper than the sting of the needle.
Starling.
