Synopsis: Princess [Name] Angelos— the heir to the heavenly throne— finds herself in the midst of marriage talk with the Duke as she prepares for her ascension. Simultaneously, she discovers that the demons in the depths of Hell are beginning to grow restless.
Characters used: Sae, Bunny.
Cw: Arranged marriage; Sae x reader; Bunny x reader undertones; abuse; power imbalance; misogynistic ideals; religious/ mythological allusions; f!reader.
Wc: 2.9k
next -> masterlist
"And demons have been chained to the depths of hell, away from the sacred land of angels, since."
That's all you hear before a wooden stick smacks against the board in the study. Your tutor snaps her book shut, therefore concluding the lesson for the day.
"Now, then, any questions?" she asks, giving you a pointed look from behind her glasses. You shake your head, no. She hums in response, "Good. Now, you'll be quizzed on this tomorrow. I expect you to be thoroughly prepared."
You watch as she struts her way out the royal study, closing the door behind her with a loud creak and a daunting click. You're left in silence to take the content that had been taught.
Demons; beings who thrive on malice and suffering. Grotesque creatures with horns, claws, fangs and tails, fabled to be chained to the darkest depths in Hell for the crimes of their forefather— Satan. They're rumored to feed on the life force of those foolish enough to approach them.
You gaze out the window. Far off, into the distance, you see the pearly gates, tall and secure. Beyond them lies a vast expanse of lush green. The further it travels, the more dull the saturation becomes. That's where one would find Hell— a place of heat and suffering.
It's nothing like the soft Kingdom of Heaven. The sun is always bright, but never to the point of it being overbearing. The streets are cheerful, safe and essentially glowing. The people are kind, friendly and well cared for.
And you? You're at the top of it all. Next in line for the heavenly crown, clad in the finest of silks and cotton, safely tucked within the pristine palace walls. You stand up from your seat, stretching your limbs to release the tension you'd built up during your tutoring session. After packing the majority of your things, you exit the study.
Your footsteps happen to be the only sound in the otherwise quiet halls. The walls soar up to the brightened abyss of the sky, decorated by gold-rimmed windows and other ornate, gleaming details against the white marble. As you make your way to the palace gardens, you are stopped by one of the servants. The man bows before you.
"Apologies for my intrusion, your highness. His majesty, your father has ordered your presence in the throne room," he speaks, his voice steady.
With a soft sigh, and polite murmur of acknowledgement, you immediately set off to your father, the king of Heaven. Two guards meet you at the intricately designed double doors. They then push them open as your attendance is announced with a loud creak and an official proclamation from one of the guards themselves, "Your majesty, the princess has arrived."
With quiet, measured steps, you find yourself before the King, your father. You bow your head before him, "Father."
The man in question only gives you a rough hum of acknowledgement before urging your head to him, "Lift your head."
You do as he says and meet his gaze. Cold, calculating eyes meet yours from above. "You know who Duke Igelsias is, yes? You'll be having dinner with him tonight. Everything has already been planned. I expect good behaviour from you. He is by far the best suitor available. He's young, influential, wealthy and more importantly, he's a highly sought-after angel. You'd do well, by pleasing him."
There's no room for argument as his command is simple: behave. By now, you knew what that meant. Sit like a lady. Be quiet. Eat like a lady. Only speak when spoken to. Be as small as possible. Present yourself as the perfect, sweet, doting wife Lord Iglesias would want you to be.
Not in the mood to upset your father, you simply bow your head. "Yes, father."
"Good. You are dismissed."
And with that, you're turned on your heels and gone. Each step seems to weigh on you, the next heavier than the last. It had always been like this after a talk with your father.
<—{☆}—>
The rest of the day is a blur— servants, flocking to various on the path towards the dining room and fretting over every minute detail, tirelessly working to cook up the best meals and clean the already spotless dining hall. The others whisk you away into your room so they may prepare you for the night. Hands tug at you and squeeze you into a dress that molds your body into an impossible form. Your hair is combed and styled to give off the impression of casual elegance— too low to be considered uptight but too high to be considered anything less than nobility.
<—{☆}—>
The evening cannot arrive sooner. But it arrives nonetheless. The grand doors creak open, granting you entry to the now serene, candle-lit dining hall. At the long, table, you find that it's nearly overflowing with foods and drinks only fit for a pair of kings. As delicious as you find it, you're acutely aware of how little of the feast will be shared with you.
"A princess should watch her figure," is what you were often told whenever you reached for even a crumb more than what everyone deemed enough for someone of your social stature.
As you're eyeing the food, you find your gaze wandering to those who are seated around the table. You father— seated at the head, leaned back in his chair with his head held high and wine glass in his hand. To his right, your mother— quiet, poised, elegant— exactly how you're raised to be. Clearly, they had already began the meals before your arrival. But two seats to Father's left, you find the man of the hour. Just as you set your sights on him, he lays his eyes on you.
Following the young Duke's wandering gaze, your father finds you at the door. He lifts his hand in a grand gesture and rises from his seat. "Ah, and there she is! Iglesias, your prize!"
A shiver runs down your spine, straightening it as it strains against the bindings of the fabric. Duke Iglesias turns his head to you— his smile soft, serene. With quiet grace, he picks himself from his seat and makes his way to you. As he approaches, you bow before him— a polite gesture. "It's a pleasure to meet you officially, my lord."
Iglesias' smile doesn't waver when you rise to full height. Instead, he smoothly reaches his hand over to grab ahold of yours— bringing to his lips to press a lingering, delicate kiss to your knuckles. "Princess [Name] Angelos," he addresses. "Believe me, your highness, the pleasure is all mine." Behind him, your mother and the servants swoon while your father seems to approve of the interaction.
As if encouraged by the positive reception, Duke Iglesias draws you closer to his side, so he may guide you to your seat. One hand remains in yours while the other rests on your lower back.
There's something about his crimson gaze— the stretch of his lips that never even twitches out of place, but somehow feels so hollow. His hands are cold against your body— no warmth of which to speak. You feel unnerved by it as you take your seat, quietly thanking him. His seat is taken across from yours.
During the course of the night, you observe.
You observe his appearance— clean, smooth, but with a slightly roughened yet casual appeal. This is especially apparent with the way his soft, perfect face has a cross-shaped scar running across his right cheek and in the way his side-swept hair playfully deviates from society's slick, picture-perfect idea of a admirable noble. You observe the manner in which he carries himself— calm, friendly, yet firm enough to overwhelm with his authority. You observe the way he speaks— polite and respectful. There is not a moment wherein he speaks with too much conviction nor when he's too lax with his words.
You observe how all of these things greatly please your own parents.
The night fades into a blend of joyous laughs and playful banter that flies straight over your head. In the haze of it, you vaguely hear the words, "I simply cannot wait to have you as my son in law! It would do this kingdom good to have you as king."
You snap out your daze, fixing your gaze onto your father— his cheeks flushed from alcohol, a large grin stretched across his face. Your mother beside him offers a small smile of her own.
"I'm honoured to know you approve of me, your majesty," Duke Iglesias humbly responds. He brings his glass to his lips and takes a long sip. Over the rim of the glass, you catch his eye. Deep crimson gleams as it focuses on you. "I will do all within my power to ensure your faith isn't misguided."
If the discussions leading up to today hadn't, these words are what seal your fate.
The very next morning, word spreads across Heaven and Hell— 'The princess of Heaven and Duke Iglesias are set to be wed.' Thus, preparation for the upcoming ceremony are officially set for motion. Steadily, people rush to finalise what is set to be your union with the Duke.
Walking through the tall, imposing halls of the Heavenly Palace, the maids rush past and busy themselves with their own work. Occasionally, you hear them gossip among each other. After numerous years of remaining trapped within the rigid walls of the palace, you've learnt that the best place to pick up on gossip is in the comfort of the East Garden. The budding blooms are bright. The air is light. And since everyone seems to be under the impression that they're alone, they're often less reserved.
Hence, making the garden your haven within the walls is the best idea ever. Especially, when it's essentially your information hub.
Under the gazebo, amongst the freshly bloomed blossoms, you find yourself having a light cup of tea. And definitely not eavesdropping on the conversation of two of the grounds-workers just beyond the hedge.
"You must've heard by now, the marriage talks between the princess and the duke have finally been finalized!" one exclaimed.
"About time. I was beginning to think she'd never be wed. There are hardly any men around who'd be willing to tolerate such a brat. I almost feel pity for the Duke," the other muttered.
Rude.
"Tell me about it! Even if the princess was the finest bachelorette in the Heavenly realm, it's Duke Iglesias— the most sought after bachelor in the entirety of Heaven! Anyone would be lucky to have him! Those pale waves, his rubies for eyes! Oh, the things I'd let that saint of a man do to me."
Ew.
"Goodness, Maria! How dare you go lusting over taken noblemen. The future king, no less!"
"Oh, hush! If you saw him, you'd understand! Besides, who knows?" the girl, presumably named Maria, drawls.
Still totally not listening in, you take a bite of one of the pastries.
"Maybe once he becomes king, he may want a mistress."
You choke. Quietly, of course. Doing so in any other manner would be unladylike. Unbecoming for a princess or future queen, no less. It may also jeopardise your opportunity to learn something new here.
"Maria!"
"You heard me! I refuse to be silenced!"
This Maria lady is bold. You'll give her that much.
"You're so odd, you know that?"
"Yet, you come to me for all the juicy gossip. Speaking of, have you heard the latest news about Hell?"
Oh? Now, you're intrigued. The silence from the other conveys an equal magnitude of curiosity.
"From what I hear, animosity between the two realms is growing."
"You cannot possibly mean they're planning to...?"
"Mhm! Something about the newly appointed King of Hell making a near impossible request of our King."
"That definitely is worrying. Surely, they cannot make some form of a compromise. If the rumors I heard are indeed true, then the current demon army is certainly not worth fighting, if it can be helped."
"Ugh! Filthy demons! Always letting their greed get the best of them! Those rotten animals should be grateful to us, angels, were merciful and didn't wipe them out in the initial war!"
"Agreed. But what is it that the Demon King could possibly want? And just how valuable is it that His Majesty isn't willing to hand it over?"
"I heard it has to do with—"
"Maria! Georgia! Just what do you think you're doing? Get back to work and stop gossiping like a bunch of good-for-nothings!"
"Yes, ma'am!" the pair respond, presumably scurrying off to complete other tasks. This leaves you alone with your thoughts for a while.
Father had been negotiating with the Kingdom of Hell? For how long? You have had suspicions for a while, but any attempts to question it were met with active dismissal.
It's of no matter. Now. What's important is figuring out exactly how this looming threat of war will affect life up in Heaven. Can His Majesty wrap up negotiations on a good note? Will he continue to be a stubborn blockhead and persist? That's likely. But you have no clue as to what the Demon King is even like! Even if His Majesty did everything right, the Demon King could easily be a tyrant and blow things out of proportion.
While still being deep in your thoughts, you're approached by your butler who bows before you. "Your highness, your daily tutoring session will begin soon. I believe it's time you wrap up your tea time."
You hum, picking up your tea cup from the saucer, "I do suppose it's around that time. Thank you, Leonidas." The remaining contents of the tea is elegantly downed before placing it back on its saucer. You then stand and make your way towards the East Wing where your lessons are usually held. In fact, that's where you spend most of your time anyway.
Your steps echo through the halls. Light pours in through the windows and illuminates the path for you. Seeing as there's nothing much going for you in here and there's no one around, you decide to peer through the windows as you walk past them. The first thing you note is that there's quite the commotion surrounding a carriage at the entrance.
Except, you don't recognise it as one that's made within the gates of Heaven. The body is rectangular with sharp corners. As opposed to the usual pearly whites, dark hues of red decorate the otherwise black coach. The edges are ordained with silver instead of gold. But the design of the car is the least of your issues. What bothers you is the surrounding horde of what may be assumed to be servants.
They're all devils— slit pupiled and sharp clawed with large horns that curve over their heads. They are as tall as they are ominous. The edges of their clothes are either torn or burnt. Whether that's on purpose or because of the extreme conditions in the hellish depths, you're not too sure. For whatever reason, you find yourself captivated by them. So much so that you stop walking just to gawk at the demon squad. The air around them shifts as another demon approaches them. You watch as the servants begin to bow their heads. You can't get too many details from your position, but what you can tell is his vague appearance. From behind.
He's tall, noticeably so. His auburn hair burns bright against the surrounding stygian space. Dark fabric drapes him— long, flowy with sharp, jagged edges that foretell their own threats. Even from your distance, you can tell that the horns and tail that grow from his head and lower back respectively are far more prominent than that of the others surrounding him.
Drawing on your own knowledge, you recall that the prominence of demonic features is directly tied to the health and nutrients the demon receives. So maybe this one is a diplomat? Someone of high social standing within the burning depths? That would explain the seemingly lavish style in both clothes and transport, as well as the large number of servants and maybe even his presence.
An even greater issue crosses your mind, just what is this diplomat doing up here in Heaven? And better yet, in the castle gates! Is that even the biggest concern? He's present within the East Wing— the wing wherein you reside! Is that even safe? Does Father dub him trustworthy enough to meet with him so close to the future heir of the kingdom? There are so many questions— too many. Though they may all be summarised in one statement:
Heaven and Hell are indeed negotiating.
So does that also confirm the rumors of War? The notion sucks the warmth from the palace. It also doesn't help that your frightened gaze is no longer met with soft, magenta. Instead, sharp teal shoots straight through you, making you tense in your spot. You take that as your sign to leave for class. And that's precisely what you do as you rush off leaving the gold-rimmed window bare of your occupance.
Unbeknownst to you, the attention of the demon-diplomat lingers in the place where your presence once was. The moment is quiet— tranquil against the bustling of the servants and luggage. It's just the smallest sliver he needed to steel himself after yet another round of rough negotiations with Heaven's ruler.
The moment doesn't last long, but it's enough. With a quiet swish of his clothing, he enters his carriage and is hauled away to his lodging, the rhythmic clopping of horse hooves growing quieter with every step away from the East Palace.
a/n: Tell me why this took months? I took so long to make this! I originally made the suitor Luna, back in like April 2025. But because Bunny came out and we all know how Sae feels about Bunny, I decided to make it about him instead! That should give you an idea of how long this sat in my drafts for.
I then decided I wanted to save this for Sae's birthday. He's such a cutie patootie and missed writing for him! Except I didn't finish then too. So it rotted for months after that. Someone please save me from my prison.
But onto the actual fic. There's something about Sae that makes me extra nit-picky about the plot, dialogue and external details of my fics for him. So this had MULTIPLE revisions, instead of my like 3. Man has me on a leash. Don't free your girl 😔🥀
But yeah, this was going to take WAY too long if I wrote this out in full and with my timeline? You'd only see this written out in full in 5024 ✌🏽😭 So I'm turning it into a series! It'll be easier to manage and give you guys the Sae content you deserve!🤍🤍
(I think it's also worth noting that each of my author's notes' paragraphs were written over the course of almost a year. So if there are inconsistencies in ideas and points, that's precisely why)
Also, just tagging @angelicanaworld @daushu @ccandiefloss @cloudieclair @fckmyylife bc they wanted the completed fic and it felt wrong to potentially never let them see it.
And thanks so much for 200 followers! I hadn't hadn't realisable you'd multiplied hy that much until I physically went and checked😭
summary: You meet Kita Shinsuke on a rainy summer day, with a sea of hydrangeas swirling at your feet. You know him instantly, as only a soulmate can. He seems like a good man. Like a good soulmate.
But it's your wedding day.
notes: this fic. i am so excited to share this fic—i've been working on it for a very long time and it very much feels like my baby. thank you to everyone who has sat thru me yelling about it <3
title and part titles are from hozier's "be" and "nfwmb"
tags (contains spoilers for the fic): soulmate au (first words), this is a very reader-centric story, reader and kita are implied to be in their late twenties-early thirties, slow burn, hurt/comfort, pining, partner death (not kita), grief/mourning, love as a choice.
each part will have more specific warnings.
part one: when i first saw you, the end was soon (13k)
part two: felled by you, held by you (16k)
part three: the best of you, the rest of you (10k)
info: prince!kaiser x f!reader, enemies to lovers, fantasy au, arranged marriage, eventual smut. afab reader w she/her pronouns. reader has an established backstory and is not weak, reader’s appearance is nondescript. reader calls him “mihya” as they get closer. oliver and karasu are bffs in this lol. maybe some angst if you squint. happy ending!! plot is balanced with comedic moments.
synopsis: You will be killed by the one you love most. That line from his prophecy has haunted Kaiser his whole life. Against it all, you stand before him. Will you be the one to rewrite fate itself?
word count: 14k (please don’t let this scare you, i promise my writing is efficient)
a/n: this might be my magnum opus, i promise i poured my best dialogue and writing into this and it shows. if you consider reading like so seriously i will love you forever. also the smut is huge just like his cock <3 or my heart. ao3 link
Kaiser has been forsaken thrice fold. First, by his parents. His mother is said to be a beautiful woman that captured the hearts of all. His father could not bear her ultimate betrayal: leaving, causing him to wither away to nothing.
Kaiser guesses that this aspect of her runs in his blood after all.
The second and third time he is forsaken happen at once.
On the night that Kaiser is, by royal decree, anointed successor to the throne, he does as tradition dictates. He approaches the golden temple at the top of a mountain and mirrors the prophet within, sitting cross-legged in front of them.
The prophet gazes into the distance. And then, like a man possessed, they speak.
Lone Emperor who covets the throne,
You will be killed by the one you love most.
Kaiser swears he feels even his heart stop at that. Cold rushes through him, the chill of it colder than anything he had felt at the front lines of war.
Forsaken by all the Gods —
The prophet stops, staring into the distance with a frown.
The silence is deafening. Noa, despite tradition, interrupts the ceremony and approaches the prophet, clicking his fingers in front of their face.
“The prophecy?”
The prophet’s eyes widen with fear. “I- I cannot.”
“What, are you afraid?” Kaiser scoffs. “The prophecy is bad as it is, it can’t get much worse than that.”
“No, I mean I cannot. The — the Fates! They’ve stopped speaking to me!”
“Excuse me?” Kaiser’s scowl is evident, and Noa swears that in any other situation, Kaiser would’ve moved for his sword and set his blade ablaze.
It speaks volumes that all he does is stare right at the prophet, fear barely contained in his eyes.
The prophet grips at Noa’s hand, forcing his gaze. “My lord, please believe me. This — in the history... it has never happened before. I swear it.”
Noa whistles, and the guards outside come rushing in. “Seize them,” he commands, and they stare at each other for a moment.
To seize and capture that which is considered holy? Is that not blasphemy?
Noa cares little, almost removing his sword from his sheath to do it himself. “What are you all waiting for?”
“My lord! I swear to you!” The prophet grapples towards Noa in spite of their hands being held behind their back, the guards barely catching them from falling to their knees. “The fact that I would admit this at all shows my loyalty to you!” The prophet gasps, breath coming fast.” I could have pretended, could have given a false prophecy. I did not. That’s the choice I made. That is all the proof you need.”
It’s convincing enough that Noa hesitates, taking a deep breath in. But he sees in the corner of his eye Kaiser’s state, sitting in the kind of stillness that you see before a battle, bent over at the bottom of the altar.
At that sight, Noa makes a single motion with his hand for the prophet to be taken away.
The room clears.
“Kaiser, I —”
Whatever comforting remark Noa might have made dies in his throat, because Kaiser laughs, a bitter and broken sound, that he would in the future rarely have his walls down to ever reveal again. He hides his eyes behind his hand and he laughs.
“Of course, my prophecy would come to something like this.” He drags his hand down across his face. “Forsaken by all the Gods.”
“It doesn’t matter.” Noa says it with conviction, and it’s enough for Kaiser to face him.
“Master?”
“You will still be the successor to the throne. As is your destiny.”
“My destiny?” Kaiser jabs a thumb to the now-empty seating. “We just heard my destiny.”
“What the gods have declared has nothing to do with me. I declare you the next to rule. That is all.”
Noa presses a hand to the crown of Kaiser’s head. “No one will know what transpired here. A tragic prophecy is a given. It is meant to be a trial of sorts, after all. Mine, too, was unpleasant. Though not nearly as dire.”
“What was yours?”
Noa breathes in deeply. “A twisted rivalry with a twisted man. One that was to be all-consuming to me.”
Kaiser scoffs. “A rivalry. Just train and win.”
Noa lets the comment pass, staring out of the temple and past the mountains. “The rivalry came and went. At the time, I felt it was the worst. I could not eat, sleep, or breathe without the thought of what he would do next on my mind. But I was lucky, that it passed.”
He motions for Kaiser to take his arm, bringing him back up to standing. “Yours will pass too, I’m sure of it.”
Kaiser waves his hand, gesturing at Noa to let go of him. It’s easy to say, easy to have faith when it is not your life that balances on the precipice.
Forsaken thrice: once, by his parents. Another, by the Gods. And third, by his own future lover. Kaiser curses the Gods and the Weaver for such a fate, for something possibly worse than death is looming over him.
You will be killed by the one you love most. That line has haunted his very being to this day.
~
The people do not know what causes their successor to turn so cold, as biting and harsh as winter itself. His quicksilver smile rattles bones, his sword is cutting like blood in snow.
The prophecy is on a need-to-know basis, and Kaiser has never been crueler. He trains, harder than ever. Enough that when an unmovable sword is found at the rocks of the ocean, he trains until he is able to pull it from the bank, wield it with one hand. Rumor has said it might take three men to carry, or that the night sky that shimmers across it is strong enough to kill even a god. His sole retrieval of it is proof to the people of his strength and stature, but compassion and love are rarely a topic of conversation with his name.
He focuses on his work. He does not take lovers. He barely sees others as friends. And he most certainly does not take a bride.
~
You appear before the throne and you do not bow. The scowl on Kaiser’s face at this says enough.
“You dare-”
“You have the sword.” You ignore Kaiser entirely, setting your sights completely on Noa.
The silence that follows is as large and wide as the ocean, but your gaze is sharp and keen, never faltering once until Noa speaks.
“Water sorceress,” Noa addresses you coldly, “or that’s what you told our people.”
“Yes.”
“You are not the only sorceress of water. Yet your power is second to none.” Noa stands, stepping down the stairs with heavy, thumping footfalls until he’s standing right in front of you. “They call you the water’s mistress, in the neighboring lands.”
“They do.”
He begins to circle you, like a hunter might before striking a deer. Standing next to you, his deep voice clear right next to your ear, he eyes you curiously. “They’re all wrong, aren’t they?”
You don’t answer. Noa takes that as answer enough.
“A power like that. Do you think me stupid?” He observes you, checks you visually for weapons, watches your hands to ensure you don’t call magic forth.
“Demigod.” He about spits the word from behind you, and yet all you do is tilt your head to catch him in your eye’s view.
“You are as well-informed as they say.”
“I am as logical as they come.”
“We are the same in that regard, then. So let’s get straight to the point.”
Noa returns back to the throne, seemingly satisfied with his observing, gesturing at you to continue.
“You have something belonging to me. A sword, heavier than most. Ancient, yet sharp. It is said to look like it contains a night sky.”
“The blade you’re speaking of was found by us, it is ours to keep.”
In the short silence that follows, Kaiser swears there must be irritation on your end, but you don’t show it. Instead, you take a deep breath in.
“The blade was thrown out of the heavens and spat out into this realm during a war between Gods.”
“Is that so? And how can you prove it’s yours?”
“I can wield it, unlike your people, who do not have the means to wield a sword as such.” You state simply.
Like rose grown blue, the impossible becomes possible. You can feel the divinity and the power that comes off the sword in waves the minute it’s unsheathed, your eyes widening. The ring of it is as familiar to you as your own skin, how could you not have felt its presence sooner? But Kaiser is fast, much faster than you expected, faster than he should be with a sword of that weight, that magnitude. Before you can turn your head, cold silver kisses your neck.
“This blade, sorceress?” He comes around from behind you, stalks around you just like his Master had, sword pointed like it may just draw blood from you at any moment. When you finally see his face, his sneer is wicked.
He takes pride in your wide-eyed gaze, your sharpened attention, but the lack of fear on your part grates at him. God-killing, they had called the blade. Yet you don’t shy away at all.
“Say we return the sword to its rightful owner,” Noa calls back your attention, “what would you offer us in return?”
“Offer in return? This sword does not belong to you. It is returned, as it should be.”
“This sword, with its divinity, could harm even a god.” Kaiser presses the blade closer to your neck, gleaming metal against your skin. “It protects this nation. What if the gods forsake us? If we return it to you, what would protect us against them then?”
“For what reason would they do such a thing?”
Kaiser barks a laugh. “Of course, there would be no criticisms from one of them. Water sorceress, demigod. Tell us, who are you, truly? What do your people call you, up there? No matter.” He lowers the sword, but leaves it unsheathed, its heavy weight balanced in his palm. A threat that at any moment, he may change his mind. “Those titles mean nothing to me. I have been forsaken, demigod. So know, I trust not even the gods.”
You sigh. Foreseeing a troublesome future has its cons, you suppose. Your queen would smile if you told her such.
“You ask for something with power in equal to or more than the blade. You asked me for my titles. I shall give you both.” The sleeves of your dress shimmer as you move them, and it’s in this moment that Kaiser notices they are not sleeves but water itself, cradled around your wrists like armor. “The Gods had bestowed on me the title Sword Maiden, and I offer myself and my services to you until the end of your line.”
That shocks the room like a bucket of cold water.
You turn to Kaiser, who stands beside the throne. You step forward once, and water rushes underneath that step, descending in waves over the floor as if it goes through it, a magic they have never witnessed prior. “You say the Gods have forsaken you? Let my presence be proof to you that they still watch over you.”
Kaiser scowls, “What sort of cheap trick is this?”
“My domain is truth. I cannot lie.”
“Oh, please.”
Your eyes narrow at him. “Would it help for you to press your sword against my neck once more?”
A goddess who cannot lie. Noa’s faith lies in logic, but he’s not one to look a gift horse in the mouth. His gaze flits between Kaiser and you before he seems to settle a decision in his mind.
“Until the end of Kaiser’s line.” Noa negotiates.
Kaiser’s gaze snaps to Noa. “You’re taking her up on this?”
You almost frown. “Fine.”
Noa quirks an eyebrow at you. “That simple?”
“Human lives move quickly.”
Kaiser eyes you curiously. “What happens when you lie?”
You blink at him. Once. Twice. Is that… almost a flustered look you have on?
He readjusts his grip on the blade. “Speak, sorceress.”
“Wh-What do you want me to say?!” You grip at your dress nervously, and that has him even more curious.
“I’m waiting here,” he sing-songs playfully.
“Before the lie can leave my voice, my neck swells up like a balloon, and chokes me.”
He smiles wickedly. “Demonstrate.”
Gods, if it wasn’t immoral, you could wring his neck right now.
You think, for even a moment, a simple lie. And in seconds, you’re almost suffocating on nothing, and Kaiser laughs. Laughs. A full laugh, bending at his knees.
“Oh gods, you’re like a pufferfish!”
You let go of the lie, taking heaving breaths. “Just because I have water capabilities does not mean I am a fish.”
In the midst of the conversation, Isagi leans against Noa’s side, a soft conversation full of worry.
“You’ll have to explain her presence to the council,” Isagi tells him, blue eyes wide with hesitation.
“Right, and your suggestion?”
“I have thought about it, considerably. If you say you hired her, with a force as powerful as her, the other nations may think you are to wage war. So… Given the heir’s… reputation,” Isagi’s gaze flits nervously between you and Kaiser. “If he is willing, she may be a good fit.”
Noa sighs. This, this exact theory, has been a conversation with the other members of his team for months. That a wife by his side would make him seem less chilling, make the transition to a new heir easier on the public, prevent outroar. It is one thing to feel that Kaiser keeps a nation safe, and another to love him as a ruler.
It’s an easy decision, but a hard conversation.
“Kaiser.”
He whips around, ceasing his antics quickly. “Master.”
Noa looks like he is about to say something to him, but hesitates, turning to you instead. Isagi nervously steps away from the dais, returning to his position.
“Goddess,” this time, there is no malice behind Noa’s words. “I accept your offer. However, your presence in this nation and in this castle must be explained appropriately. Should I bear you the title of my successor’s betrothed, would that be a title you’re willing to bear?”
Kaiser’s back straightens. “Excuse me?” he utters low.
“You do not have to bear children,” he specifies. “And you do not have to truly be wed.”
A goddess, to be betrothed to a mortal, as princely as he is, is a serious affair. Kaiser slides his gaze to Isagi, with the audacity to even suggest such. And yet, you seem to ponder it like a simple question.
“I see. As long as the sword is in my presence and protection, how you communicate with your nation is none of my concern.”
“So be it, then,” Noa agrees quickly. “I’ll have our people show you to a room.”
You nod, and are whisked away. The throne room, as if knowingly, empties quickly, guards rushing out to leave Kaiser alone with Noa.
“You made this decision for me,” Kaiser spins to face Noa, spits his words through gritted teeth. “I have been clear. I will take no brides.”
“You believe the prophecy made a choice for you.”
“The prophecy bears no mercy. Or do you wish for my death so eagerly? If so, take your sword out and do it your damn self.”
Noa lets him speak, heave his words out until there’s silence once more.
“She cannot lie,” Noa says softly. “She cannot lie to you, Kaiser. And she is a goddess, a divine being.”
“Demigod,” Kaiser corrects.
“She is divine, and she cannot lie. She is correct, to this end – that as long as she is here, the prophecy cannot come to be. For she has not forsaken us.” Forsaken you, goes unspoken. “She could be good for you, if you allowed her to be.”
Kaiser lets out a canned laugh. “Ha. How can the divine ever understand us?”
Noa stands. “You’ll have plenty of time to find out.”
Kaiser taps his hand against his sword hilt. “You really will not move on this?”
Noa shakes his head. “She is too valuable to lose, and you have a reputation for cruelty. The solution is nothing short of perfect.”
The logical comes above his feelings. Kaiser knows this, even if he hates to come face to face with it.
Noa walks out of the throne room, leaving Kaiser to his bitterness.
“Shitty master,” he mumbles under his breath to no one.
~
It’s jarring to all the guards, the way you don’t even stand let alone bow when Noa knocks to enter your room. But Noa cares little for things like that, if you’re truly offering what you’ve said.
“Perhaps I was too hasty, in presenting the solution before giving you the facts.” He hesitates before you in the reflection of your vanity. You don’t respond, barely even look at him as you unclasp your jewelry, laying it on the table.
“He will not love you.” Noa tells you after a breath, his surefire eyes finally meeting yours.
You give him a curious gaze. “That is likely for the best. I would outlive him, after all.”
“It is, truly, on a need-to-know basis. To tell you this-”
“The prophecy, I presume you’re referring to,” you interrupt, turning to face him.
The shock rolls quickly off him. Divinity does have its mysteries, he supposes. “You already know.”
“I asked the water, why he is so quick to believe he is forsaken. They told me that he lives under the burden of a prophetic trial. That is all I know.” You stand, moving to unzip your dress only for Noa to hastily pull a partition screen across the room and turn around.
“The water, it speaks to you?”
“It does. Though it’s worth noting that it does not make me all-seeing.” Your voice carries over the partition with the ruffle of clothing. “The queen of the Gods, who sees all fates – she is the only one who is truly all-seeing.”
You come out in a nightgown, folding the partition back. He chucks you a robe that you catch easily.
“You should learn the ways of this world if you want to pass as a simple water sorceress, especially before the banquet.”
You frown. “The prince is my betrothed, is he not? Will he not handle it all?”
The idea you present sparks in Noa’s mind. “Brilliant. I’ll have Kaiser and some of the other members of our team show you the ropes. Good night, sorceress.”
You nod to him, and the door clicks shut.
~
“She’s a what?”
Oliver slams his metal cup of beer down, rolling the dice once more.
“A demigod, Oliver. Gods, are you that drunk already? Keep up.” Karasu grabs at the dice as Oliver moves his pieces.
“Can you all shut the fuck up? What happened to need-to-know basis?” Chigiri slinks himself over to their table.
“We’re need-to-know.” Karasu jabs a thumb at himself and Oliver.
“They are, actually, need-to-know.” Isagi puts a gentle hand on Chigiri’s shoulder, settling down next to him. “Because she’s never been human in her life.”
“And now we’re supposed to, what, teach her to be human? Is that a thing we can do?” Chigiri twirls a strand of hair between his fingers, tapping the end against Isagi’s cheek.
Oliver snorts. “What, like a class? Some of us have never sat in one of those, you prissy little shits.”
“She can’t dance, for one.”
“Get Kaiser to teach her. Isn’t he her betrothed?”
That has Oliver almost spitting out his drink, choking on it in coughs. “He's her what?”
Chigiri scowls in his direction. “Dude, are you listening at all?”
“If she’s really his betrothed, none of us should be teaching her.” Oliver warns genuinely. “He’ll cut down everyone here, before he lets us touch her.”
“It’s just an excuse,” Isagi waves his hand, pulling out a leather-bound bind of notes. “They’re not actually together.”
“Oh, you actually got that motion to pass. Shit.” Karasu remarks admirably.
“It must be so tiring,” Bachira sighs happily, falling into place next to Isagi, “to have to actually care about what other people think.”
“The optics, Bachira,” Isagi smacks the end of his pen across Bachira’s nose, and he makes an oh! sound in response.
When Kaiser walks in, the room almost goes silent. He’s used to it, of course. Hearing only the way his footfalls come heavy, boots thumping into the stone floor as a drink is placed right in front of him immediately.
The room slowly fills back with noise as he shoulders off his coat, wrapping it around the chair before sitting. But only his table is still strangely silent.
He flits his gaze over the group. Usually, they’re the first to kill the silence in the room, yelling about the game or a duel. He looks at Isagi, specifically, who seems the most nervous. “Something you wanna say to me?”
“Uh…”
Chigiri sighs, killing the tension. “We’re deciding who gets to teach her how to dance.”
Kaiser quirks an eyebrow. “The demigod?”
Chigiri nods, and Kaiser takes a long gulp of his drink, popping it back down and twirling the top of it with his fingers. “I’ll do it.”
“What?” It’s Isagi’s turn to be shocked, sitting up straight.
Kaiser exhales audibly. “None of you could handle her. She could cut you with water the moment you accidentally step on her.”
It’s not an insult, really. They know this too. That this is Kaiser’s brand of protection, to add insult to injury just to keep others out of harm’s way. But they play his game.
“Think we can’t dodge fast enough? A bit demeaning, don’t you think?” Oliver’s grin is wicked, making straight eye contact with Kaiser, who only draws his eyebrows in at his direction.
“You think that god-killing sword is gonna save you?” Karasu asks.
“I don’t have the sword anymore.”
“What?”
It stings more than it should, he thinks. The sword that he thought chose only him, so quickly released from his grasp. But his strength is his own, he holds fast to that.
Kaiser glances at Karasu. “Those are the terms. She marries me, she gets the sword.”
Ness rests his cheek on his hand. “Man, that sounds like she wins twice.”
Chigiri scoffs at that. “She’s a demigod. Being down here is probably like being in the sewers to her.”
Kaiser stands abruptly, pushing his drink aside, his coat billowing as he wraps it over himself once more.
“Where are you going?” Isagi yells, but he doesn’t answer.
“He gone for real?” Oliver elbows Karasu. “I’m too drunk to tell.”
“Yeah, man. He’s gone”
“Great.” Oliver slaps a piece down. “I’ll bet 50 bucks right now they get married for real.”
“What the fuck?” Chigiri tilts his head back against the wall, staring at the ceiling like it might give him some reprieve.
Karasu laughs, “Okay, I’ll play. I’ll bet 20 that they try to kill each other.”
“You’re just a hater.”
“Nah, I agree,” Reo leans back in the booth. “Kaiser’s a lot of things, but a loving husband is a bit much.”
“She’s a goddess. He’s literally already betrothed to her.” Oliver takes another swig. “Y’all ain’t gonna marry a goddess if she was given to you? Damn, put me in his place, I’ll do it right now.”
~
Kaiser trains, every morning, from sunrise to noon.
You only know because most of the rooms in the palace outlook to a self-contained field. You see him, often, because of this, even if he doesn’t speak to you. As you walk down the corridor, in your classes with Isagi about the current climate of the nations.
“It is useless for me to learn this,” you tell him. “In a few short millennia, the border of the nations will undoubtedly change. And we will have to relearn it all again. What is the use? Why war at all over something so insignificant? Just have a conversation about it.”
Isagi makes a pointed, bored expression at you for this, and then pretends like you didn’t say anything at all.
At the end of class today, you press your elbows to the open windowsill.
Kaiser is there, sparring with Ness. Ness is quick, agile, fleet-footed and runs circles around Kaiser so much so that it almost makes it difficult to keep up.
Kaiser approaches him at bone-breaking momentum, launches strike after hardened strike. He’s shirtless, bandages wrapped around the bottom of his torso, and his body is streaked with sweat. He’s strong, clearly. Broad shoulders clear now from when they were hidden under layers of clothing the first time you met him, the muscles in his arms flexing and relaxing with each step of the friendly duel, hair dipped in saltwater blue.
You know what he looks like, now. You get a sense why Fate brings you here.
He looks like a hero.
The kind that Gods covet, watch from their merry clouds. It’s no wonder that he’s burdened by a prophetic trial, with a face as cutting as his sword, his hair framing his face and flowing.
He takes one look to the side of him and his eyes find yours immediately. It must be some sort of fighter’s sense, you think. For him to have done it so easily.
You give him the space you think he might be asking for. You turn away.
~
He approaches you one night, just before sunset. Karasu had just finished an etiquette lesson with you, setting away forks and knives. Whatever he sees on Kaiser’s face makes him move quicker. He nods once to Kaiser, and then hastily leaves.
“You’ve been making yourself quite at home here, demigod.” Kaiser traces the lace outline of the tablemat, every ridge under his calloused finger.
“I vowed myself to your kingdom to the end of your life. I’m simply doing what is asked of me.”
“And you’re all ready for the banquet, I’m guessing?” The sentence is almost mocking as he approaches you.
“It’s just a ball, is it not? I’ve been told I’m just to stand there and make pleasantries.”
Kaiser chuckles, more bared teeth than sweet. “It is, arguably, the worst part of being so-called royalty.”
“You’re taking this much better than I thought you would.”
"To say no to a goddess' proposal would be the greatest blasphemy, no?"
"From what I've seen, you have not minded sacrilege much at all."
“Marriage means little to me. Disillusioned, perhaps, with the prophecy.” He waves his hand like he speaks of something meaningless. But you see it clearly. Before he had even allowed himself the thought of love, it was taken from him. “Your power is great, your presence ensures the continuation of myself as an heir and successor. Even I can reason with that.”
He's right in front of you now, so close you can feel his body warmth.
“Does it bother me?” He shrugs. “Sure. As far as I’m aware, you are no wife of mine. But a protector of this nation? For that, you are an indispensable ally.”
He looks out the window, towards a coming sunset. Something indescribable on his face, like grief and guilt all in one. He takes a deep breath in and out, inhaling the peace and exhaling the heaviness of his heart, before facing you again. “A war is coming. No one believes me, but I can feel it, as steady as a river’s current. Until then, I’ll make my peace with you.”
You nod. “So be it, your highness.”
That has him stepping back, more incredulous than you’ve ever seen him, body tensed and frowning. Maybe he should’ve expected it, given the way he’s just dismissed you. “Your highness? You hadn’t questioned my lineage before, but now you dare to do so?”
You stare at him blankly. “You are a prince, are you not? Isagi says that’s what princes are called.”
One side of his mouth upturns in relief, and he bursts out a bright laugh. “Is that what they teach you in those lessons Isagi gives? Oh,” a hand runs through the front of his hair, “I thought my own wife-to-be would dare insult me.”
You scoff. “I have no need for that.”
“The title ‘your highness’ doesn’t apply to this nation because strength is valued most. I am heir to the throne not because of the blood running through my veins, but because Noa deemed I the strongest — not just in body but in mind, not just in physical strength but in adaptability.” He says it proudly, like fact, like a knowing so deep within him that it turns pride into faith. “A title like that is something used by the Itoshi brothers, let’s say,” he comments airily. “Their throne is carried by a bloodline.”
He turns on his heel, only looking back when he realizes you don’t follow.
“You don’t know how to dance yet, do you?”
You lean your hip against the table. “I can dance.”
“Come, then. If you’re to be my wife, it’ll be an embarrassment if you don’t at least act like it.”
You follow him to a ballroom – a stunning, wide area with a looping chandelier, curtains that weigh down in arches over each floor-to-ceiling window.
He swoops you from your distraction with a hand around your waist, and the physical contact shocks you so greatly that orbs of water swirl in your hands.
Kaiser only raises an eyebrow at you. “This is a dance, not a duel. Or do the gods do it differently?”
For a man who was so passive to you, he holds you so close that your chest to chest, you can feel each breath he takes against you. When he steps with you, his movements are slow and deliberate, never inefficient. He moves not with fluidity, but with each sure step. Pulls you forward, then pushes you back. Circles you, spins you around.
It’s exactly like when you see him train. Like steps to a kata.
“I thought you said this was not a duel.”
“These are steps to a classic waltz, demigod.”
“You have no fluidity to you.”
Kaiser scoffs. “Should I apologize? With the prophetic curse hanging above me, I haven’t taken a dancing class.”
“It doesn’t have to be.”
“Hm?”
“The prophecy. It doesn’t have to be a curse.”
He stops, separating himself from you, scowling.
“This session is over.”
“Kaiser-,”
“What?” He snaps. “You, of divine nature. You want to tell me how to view my prophecy?”
“I do not say this out of pity, or out of some sort of higher knowing.” You say it with conviction. “As heir to the throne, a throne that is currently being held by Fate itself, maybe I shouldn’t be saying this at all.”
“And yet?”
“To know your fate is to be able to defy it.” And maybe it’s just an effect of your divinity, but it rings like a bell, like truth itself. “Your prophecy may have made a wound, but you are the one who cuts it open. You are a man who wields a sword that cannot, should not be able to be wielded by anyone but the divine. Does that not say something? About you, about your capabilities?”
“And yet you took it from me.”
The silence that follows is thick with indecision. Kaiser lets the uncomfortableness sit, rejects every heartwarmed statement you make with a roll of his shoulders, like water off a smoothened rock, replaced with only his anger. “I trained for weeks before I could lift that sword out of the riverbank. Yet it is yours, now, simply because you are supposedly its rightful owner.”
Conflict runs through your face so clearly, he wonders that even if you could lie, whether it would mean anything at all. He watches as your hand reaches into a conjured puddle of water that floats in the air, and out comes the divine sword.
You hold it in your hand with an ease that he has spent months capturing. It strikes envy in him like a branded sear.
“My role here is technically to secure the sword. I have no need to wield it.” You hold it at the bottom of its handle, directing the top of it to him. “If you swear you won’t lose her, I can set a compromise of sorts.”
“You think I’d agree to a compromise?”
You open up your palm, and a bracelet appears. “This will help you keep the sword in a pocket dimension we can both access. If you’re willing to place it there to secure it when you’re not using it, I’ll return her to you until the end of your line.”
Huh. A safe-keeping place is a more neutral proposition than he had thought you’d come up with. To have her back kills the fight in him, and he accepts begrudgingly, testing the magic in his hands until it becomes natural.
“For the record, Kaiser, I have not always been worthy of it.”
Something about the way his name slips off your lips has him keening. “Worthy?”
“I stayed true to my course. I was given a title. And then I could wield the sword, presented to me by my queen.”
“Your queen. Heir to the throne.” He laughs bitterly, knowingly. “You’re a princess.”
“Despite your mocking tone, I’ll have you know that title of mine is of the highest regard. I don’t take it nearly as lightly as you do with yours.”
“That’s why you didn’t bow or kneel. You take what’s meant to be yours without a second thought. Not because you’re unknowing, or because of some godly pride, but because you have never been lesser.” He flicks a finger between your eyebrows. “What a spoiled thing you are. Can you even fight?”
Something in Kaiser takes pride in the way you frown more deeply, it’s almost like a pout. It’s almost…
“Well, I definitely wasn’t sitting idly in the war between Gods.”
“I’ve never seen you train.”
“That’s because you’re always on the training grounds.”
“Oh? You won’t show me?”
“I’m giving you space. I’m no wife of yours, no?” There’s a sting to it when you say it, having his words thrown back at him.
“Duel with me. Tomorrow.” He spins you, lets you out of his hold before bringing you back in.
~
He begins to meet you, day after day. A duel first, and then a dance. The dichotomy would be distasteful to any other, but you of divine blood do not even flinch at his request.
He may be displeased to have you, but his mouth cracked as wide and wicked as a cat’s at the prospect of a fight.
“Go on, then.” He takes a blunt, wooden sword, throwing it in your direction. “Or do you only fight with magic?” He teases.
You swing the sword, rotating your wrist with ease. “Do you forget yourself, prince? I am half divine, you will surely lose. Are you sure you want to go through with this anyways?”
His mouth widens, more teeth than smile. “Bring it.”
You know, the moment you defend against his first strike, that a singular hit from him on the battlefield must be deadly. He is surefooted, his whole weight bears down in every move. He doesn’t let you breathe once, much faster than you would’ve thought with someone of his size and height.
Kaiser was almost right about one thing, that the divine adds to your magic more than your physical strength. With enough training, in just simple hand-to-hand combat… He might have the potential to beat you.
But not today. Today, you have him pinned to the ground, makeshift blade to his throat.
“You’re awfully close,” he gasps out slyly. And it’s in this moment that you notice, too, how right he is about that, how you can feel his heartbeat underneath yours, his chest against yours with each exhale.
“What?” He grins wide, “afraid you’ll miss?”
By all the Gods, you want to knock the living daylights out of him. He notices your anger in that hesitation, your conflict between doing what is right and what you want, and flips you over, swapping your positions until his hips are pressed against yours.
Something about your shell-shocked face makes him stir.
“First rule of fighting, sweetheart,” he runs a hand through his hair before planting it next to your head, leaning into you close. “Never get distracted by your opponent.”
He’s closer than he was before, admiring the way you look under him, your hair splayed along the ground and the sweet fire of irritation in your eyes. Is the heaving of your chest from your anger towards him, or from something else entirely?
“When Gods fight, there is not nearly as much prattling.” You grit at him. He smells like the grass of the field and the winter air and the heavy musk of sweat, and when you shove him off, it feels like your hand meets the hard rock of an unruly ocean.
~
It is during dances that he speaks to you. Not at first, but slowly, like a river that streams into the ocean. You tell him tales about the Gods, about your friends, about wars and petty arguments. And he starts to answer you, more often than not, with every question you might have.
“I have wondered about something.”
“Hm?”
“The sheathing. It prevents even me from detecting the sword’s divinity.”
“Huh, so Nagi really wasn’t lying.”
“Nagi, who is always with Reo?”
Kaiser nods. “They say Nagi was once sought upon by a god for his talents, a god who was constantly sending him dreams. But he grew tired of it, so he found a material that prevents even the gods from finding him so he can sleep in peace.”
The conversation often leads to the prophecy, a bitterness like licorice on his tongue. Even if he skates around the topic, you don’t let him hide from it, cutting straight to the heart of the truth.
“You can live in the cold bitterness you’ve put yourself in, Kaiser,” you tell him, one of these nights. “Or you can live, and maybe even possibly die, warmed by a life you truly felt was worth living. Your own choices. Not because of a prophecy, or because of Noa, or even in spite of me.”
But despite it, he doesn’t move away. Because it is the only time he has you to himself. He sees you, always, with Isagi and Oliver and Karasu and Chigiri. How you have molded into their lives with simplicity, sit with them at meals and have easy conversation despite knowing nothing, in a way that he has never once allowed himself to enjoy. What does it say about Kaiser? That he can't stand your presence but he can't stand your absence even more? That he would rather have a biting argument with you than leave you to your own devices?
It's during duel and dance that he comes as close as he can to touching you. If he did anymore, it would become something he doesn't have the heart to name without unease settling in his gut.
~
On the day of the banquet, Chigiri sits you down in your vanity, braiding your hair back in his hands.
“The queen of the Gods, her lover, a friend of mine… He used to do this for me too.”
Chigiri silently appreciates that you don’t ask him why it is him that helps you with this. That divinity doesn’t hold the same notions this world does.
“He would-,” you laugh softly to yourself. You’re stunning like this, Chigiri can’t help but notice. A goddess, most casual as can be. “He would say that I was useless at it, actually. You two might’ve been good friends.”
“Me? Friends with a god?” Chigiri finishes the braid, tilting your head in his hands to admire the way the braid crowns around each side.
“Of the Fae, actually. A beautiful man he is. You would fit right in.”
That stops Chigiri, has him taking a sharp intake of breath, smiling at you through the vanity’s reflection. “Thank you, princess. Though you would do good to be more careful during this banquet to compliment anyone.”
You smile softly back. “Ah, yes, my betrothed who will not love me might get jealous. Gods are not so different than people, in this regard.”
“Is that so…”
~
It’s when you meet the Itoshi brothers at the banquet that you begin to understand why Isagi gave you all these lessons.
Where Kaiser is muscle and sword first, more fighter than prince, Sae and Rin are the opposite. They have a grace befitting of royalty. Instead of heavy footfalls that you can hear even in the blanket of snow, they are light-footed, conscious of it in the echoed ballroom.
Though you suspect, from the way Sae grips Kaiser’s forearm as they shake hands, from the way Kaiser regards Sae, that he is somehow just as strong of a fighter. That royalty is an illusion Sae and Rin put on, for peace’s sake.
Something indescribable flits over Sae’s face as you curtsy in front of him, but it’s gone in a moment, replaced with his nonchalance.
“The betrothed of the banquet. We are most pleased to make your acquaintance.” Sae bows his head to you, and Rin follows in his stead.
You smile, something beaming and sweet. “The pleasure is all mine.”
“Would you mind, Kaiser?” Sae’s eyes only leave yours for a glance, to check in at Kaiser’s now furrowed look. “I’d like to take your wife-to-be for a dance.”
Kaiser’s back straightens, a hardened gaze with gritted teeth. But he says nothing. You swear Sae almost grins.
“I’ll return her back to you.” He says it like a favor, and Kaiser is only held back by Karasu’s hand on his shoulder.
“It’s just one dance, Kai,” Kaiser looks at Karasu, then to you, and then back to Sae. He barely nods once.
“Are you sure?” You ask him.
He scowls. “What do I have to be worried about?”
Well, it’s not like you want to anger him further. You let Sae take your hand, leading you to the floor.
“I almost didn't think you were who you said you were, when I saw you,” Sae tells you, breaking the quiet of the dance.
You lean back so you can see his whole face, your confusion clear. “Your highness?”
“When I had heard of you, they told me that waves flowed off your dress like water itself holds you sacred. Yet here you are, as regular as can be.”
Sae twirls you away from him, then brings you back into his arms. “They say you shook the earth with a single step. Where is all that power you were said to hold?” He holds you close, watching your every reaction with his crystal gaze. “This place. They’ve placated you, tamed you.”
He brings his mouth to your ear, the body warmth of his entire chest seeping into yours. “If you were mine, I would never force you into a box you didn’t belong. I’m not afraid of you. I’m not afraid of Kaiser, even with his god-killing sword.” He spins you again, capturing your waist. “If you were mine, I wouldn’t be afraid to demonstrate your power to the world.”
“Sae.” He looks at you in a way that feels meaningful. You don’t know the pleasantries of this nation or his in-depth, but you know, somehow, that this feels like this is something you should shield from.
“Oh? No honorifics already? We’re that intimate, are we?”
To fight is one thing, but this is something entirely different. Being able to hurt others with a play instead of a sword, you’re not sure if you can shield others from something like that.
As the song ends, Sae takes your hand, brings it to his mouth to kiss the back of it. “Consider my proposition, princess. Before your marriage solidifies, and becomes something you can’t escape from.”
With his hand on the small of your waist, he brings you back to Kaiser dutifully. Kaiser links his arm with yours immediately, before any of you can spare a goodbye.
“What did he say to you?”
You hum. You get the sense that maybe…
“Nothing of importance,” you tell him instead.
“Hm?” He tilts your chin up to meet you eye to eye. “Is my own betrothed keeping secrets from me?”
“He said I don’t seem all that powerful.”
That makes Kaiser smile, not something sweet but with teeth bared, like a wolf. “He hasn’t seen you in action.” He pulls you in, hand wrapping to the back of your neck, a slow and deep whisper. “Do you want to show them?”
“Weren’t we both told that’s inappropriate? Isagi said the optics could make your allies scared.”
Kaiser rolls his eyes. “Isagi this, optics that. Our country has always been about the brawl and brave. Let the nations fear us, then. I, with my cruelty and a god-killing sword. You, a sorceress second to none. It’s a pretty picture, is it not?”
He straps his sword to his back and brings you to the middle of the room, and as the guests of honor, the crowd gives you both a wide berth. He circles you, just like you practiced. Makes you center stage.
“Go on then, princess.” He lets go of your hand and bows, sweeping his arm out. “Show us who you really are.”
“Kaiser,” you whisper. “We have very clear orders-”
“I make the orders, not follow them. So make your choice, princess. Wasn’t it you who said that it is worth living a life warmed by your own choices? Tell me, then. Do you want to show them? Or do you want to play nice?”
This play, to have ego and pride dive head-first into a situation, is so very human. And yet-
You let water overcast your body from your waist, let it roll off in layers like waves into the floor. Anyone who has had experience with magic can see your ultimate control over it, how the floor isn’t wet at all, how the water was conjured from nothing. Your hair is silken with dampness, framing your face like gloss. Gasps and awes from the audience makes Kaiser grin even wider.
“There we go.” Kaiser reaches behind him to unsheath his blade, and the galaxy within swirls. He spins it in his hand, and it’s almost like he’s never been happier.
In seconds, he strikes at you. Your hands move up instinctively, blocking the blade with a stream of water. The sound it makes, divinity against divinity, is like a low bell. The floor beneath you shakes with the strength of the strike, water dispersing around your feet in cascades to cushion the impact. You hear screams of shock, a glass breaking.
“Kaiser,” you grit, but all he does is widen that wicked, quicksilver grin.
And then he laughs, stepping away and sheathing the blade back. He holds one hand out to you instead.
“Next time, I want a duel in front of everyone. But this time, I guess a dance will suffice.”
You exhale gratefully, taking his hand in yours and retracting your water. “Let us dance, then.”
And with none of a prince’s grace, with movements that feel more fight than dance, he drifts along the floor with you.
~
Isagi collapses into the booth, a palm pressed to his eyebrows. “Our allies thought they were about to fight each other.”
“Can I cash in on my bet now?” Karasu rolls a skewer stick between his fingers. “Because they might’ve almost killed each other.”
“Nah,” Oliver leans back. “I think that’s just foreplay.”
Isagi opens his eyes to find Chigiri and Bachira standing before the booth. Chigiri’s not meeting his eyes, his mouth perching to one side in a way that squishes one of his cheeks.
“What happened?”
“They’re gone.”
“Ha?”
“We had one drink. One.”
Oliver has the audacity to laugh, hand over his mouth. “Don’t worry, Isagi,” he pats him on the back. “I’m sure they’re just fucking around.”
In another corner of the hall, royals speak in low tones.
“We can just take her if you like her,” Shidou tells Sae with the sweetest smile a man like that can muster. “No need to ask poor little Kai-Kai.”
Sae says nothing, eyeing you quietly as you step out of the hall.
~
You are sitting at the edge of the ocean, letting the slate-crested waves wash over you, when he finds you.
“You can dry me in a moment’s notice if I am to sit with you, right?” He says it almost reluctantly, even though he’s here anyways. He’s dropped his off coat somewhere along the way, and there’s something so naked about seeing him in just a shirt. He almost seems softer, without the harsh lines of battle-ready clothing or the fur that drapes around him, relaxed in a way he wasn’t in the banquet hall.
You smile. “I can keep you dry whilst you're sitting.”
He relents, then. Allowing the strangeness of sitting on wet sand without getting wet.
“Was the banquet up to your expectations, then, Kaiser?”
Expectations. He’s had none of a party like this. Being allowed to dream is a privilege, and privileges were not granted to him.
“You are officially my wife-to-be,” he says instead. “Shouldn’t you call me something a little more intimate?”
You gaze out into the horizon for a moment, and something in your eyes unfocuses, like you’ve gone somewhere else and then returned. “Very well. I shall call you Mihya.”
It strikes a chord in him, like a teaspoon hitting a glass. “Mihya? Where did that come from?”
“The water.”
“She speaks to you?”
“She says in another life, you are given a nickname like that.”
“Another life…” He lies down in the sand, watches the streaks of sunset in the blueing sky.
“Ask then, Mihya,” you lean over him slightly, until all he can see is the sky and the way your features soften. “The question we both know is on your mind.”
He almost wants to reach out, hold your cheek in his hand. It’s a foreign feeling to him, so foreign it almost feels like unease – to want to extend a gentleness like that to another person. “Won’t you just tell me?”
You breathe in the sea-salt air, and breathe out a heart-warmed truth. “The prophecy does not hold you captive in another life.”
Kaiser, for once, lets himself dream. Of a different life, where he is unburdened by a prophecy, and burns brightly.
~
“It would seem strange if you weren’t together, with all the other guests in the palace.” That’s what Oliver tells you as he gestures for you to take his arm, leading you to Kaiser’s room.
It’s both plainer and more furnished than you thought, like someone who isn’t him had chosen the furniture and the color of the walls. But the items in the bookshelves seem well-loved, items taken out and put back haphazardly, scrolls and books placed back half-way. The bathroom door opens with a flood of light.
“You’re here.” It’s rare to shock Kaiser in a way that doesn’t make him immediately reach for his sword.
You turn to look at him, taking in his half-dressed state. “Were you expecting some other woman?”
“Oh, so you’re the jealous type?”
He almost wants to laugh at the clear discomfort on your face. Gods don’t tease, he’s guessing?
The bed gives way to you as you take your place. “I hear it’s common for princes to take many lovers.”
The moonlight spills over the bedsheets as the room darkens, and you summon the sword to float right above you, looking into it. He joins you, wanting to see exactly what you’re seeing.
“It’s not a night sky.” Your voice is so soft in the blanket of night between you both.
“Hm?”
“Inside the sword. Your people say it looks like the night sky. It’s not. It’s a galaxy.”
He reaches his hand out, tracing over the glass along the middle of the weapon, a silent remark for you to continue.
“At the beginning of all worlds, the first-ever contract was made between the first-ever forces, and with it, this sword was said to be conjured out of the galaxy. And so, a part of the galaxy at the beginning of all worlds was contained in this sword.”
The stars in the sword move within like they’re responding to your words, borne witness to all the events. But instead of watching them, you turn to him.
“You have held and wielded a primordial piece of this world. It has allowed you to hold it, granted you its blessing.”
Blessed. That is not a phrase Kaiser would have ever used to describe himself. But coming from you, he can almost believe it. Almost hope to have a little more than he’s ever had.
The sword disappears with a movement of his hand, and he rolls to lean over you. Silence drops like a curtain. The only sound he knows is your breath and his.
During a fight, his feelings can almost be mistaken for adrenaline. But even under the shadow of the moon, with the cushioned silence between you both, the way you cut straight to the truth rings like a silver bell.
He can’t hide from you. Or maybe. Maybe he’s tired of hiding at all.
He is a man who has only known war and battle, was born and bred into it. War-forged, is what they call men like him. His hands know weapons, know how to kill.
He does not know if they know how to love. And yet-
He cups your face, and drinks you in.
He kisses you with caution, like you might melt from his grasp if he held too tightly. Presses his lips against yours slowly. He runs his hand gently over your hairline as he parts from you.
Is this okay? He wants to ask. But instead, he says: “Tell me what you want.”
You wrap your arms around his neck, your lips brushing against yours when you answer: “You.”
And then he kisses you like a man starved, never known by this feeling that gets caught up in his throat with every noise of yours he swallows.
“Is this… is this what you want?” You try to ask as you part from him for air, but he presses his mouth to the space behind your ear instead, laying kisses down your neck. “Is this a decision that you are making for yourself, by your own hands? That is entirely for you?”
That makes him stop. But when he looks at you with a surefire gaze…
He knows it, undoubtedly. That this, for once, is his.
“There are no lovers,” he tells you between kisses, to your shoulder, down your collarbone, to your breastbone.
“What?”
“I take no lovers.” He unclasps your bra, lets the material fall from his hands to cup your supple flesh. “I’ve never been princely, after all.”
“You- Kai-”
He runs his thumbs across both your nipples, admires how they perk up at his administrations, flitting his gaze between them and your face as he brings his mouth down over one of them.
He presses kisses down your body, cups your heat in his hand like he’s begging you to respond, like he’s saying let me have this. The inside of your thighs is soft as cream under his calloused hands. His thumb moves along the outside of your underwear, from your slit up to your clit with his fingers pressing tentatively against the fabric until you’re grabbing at his wrist.
“You’re so tense,” he teases, pressing a kiss to your cheek. “Want me to take care of that for you?” He runs the knuckles of his hand over your clothed slit, bumping into your clit with his thumb until your breathing gets heavy, your hands gripping his shoulders.
“Kaiser,” you breathe, and he clicks his tongue.
“That’s not what you call me, baby. Not anymore.”
“Mihya.”
“Mm,” he slides his fingers into your panties from the side, a huff of breath leaves him at the wetness he finds. “Good girls get rewarded, you know?”
Heat coils hot deep in your stomach. He can’t take the restriction, pulling your panties down and revealing your core to the cold air. He lets his slickness pool on his fingers, collects it before bringing it to your clit. It’s like a drug, watching the way your face gives way to pleasure, how your body arches into him.
“Mihya,” you gasp again, like a chant, a prayer. Is this what the gods feel like, to be asked of?
“Let me watch,” he says it like a demand but it aches with desperation, a thing he won’t admit outside these four walls. He presses with more confidence now, slides one finger into you, then two. There’s little resistance with the way he’s riled you up, long fingers pressing into you until he reaches something that has you making a broken moan so pretty he can’t help but tilt into it again.
“I want to see it,” he tells you. This is something he makes happen to you, with his own hands, his own words, his own body that shares its heat with yours. That notion alone runs arousal straight through him. Your panting breath, the way your body shakes with each swipe against your clit.
“I want to see you fall apart in my arms.” He whispers, and you respond in kind. You always do to him, don’t you? He’s been seen too surely by you, now it’s his turn. Your body tenses entirely, tightly, gripping him as he grants you reprieve. A soft whine leaves your mouth along with something like his name, and the rough pad of his thumb circles over your clit until you crash, coming around his fingers.
He swipes a thumb over your cheek, allows himself the gentleness that he’s held back for so long with you.
“One more, okay?”
Your eyes widen. “Mihya,” this time it’s like a warning, but the way you say his name is so breathy it has him pressing a hand over his pants.
“Yeah, say my name just like that.” He shuffles down until his mouth is pressing to your stomach, just above your mound. Then again to the inside of your knee, trailing up until the inside of your thigh, his breath ghosting over the sensitive skin there.
“You’re-, wait, we just- I just”
“Mm, and you’re gonna give me one more.” He kisses your clit first, like a promise, and then he laps at your core generously, from the bottom of your slit all the way to your clit, his flat tongue against the whole of you. Every drop of slick from your previous orgasm is taken in by him with each moan he makes against your core. If he had known this feeling was going to enter his life, that it would’ve felt like this, maybe he would’ve readied himself better for it. Instead, he finds himself starving at the table where it’s served. The taste of you on his tongue wraps him in a heady pleasure, but it’s every sound he takes out of you that has him pressing a little more insistently, tongue laving over you.
“Pl-please,” your words break between gasps, and it has him lapping into your clit with more pressure.
“I can never say no to you, can I?” he mumbles between your legs. And then he’s flipping you over, hoisting you onto your knees and skimming his hands over your rear and thighs before diving in again. Your face is pressed into the pillow, hands grabbing the sheets. Kaiser almost seems dazed as he moans into your cunt, swollen and wet like a siren’s call, hands wrapped so tightly around your plush thighs that it feels like it might bruise.
“Let me taste,” he mutters, mouth still lodged into your cunt, like that isn’t what he’s already doing. “Come on baby, give it to me. Let me taste it on my tongue.”
Your hole clenches and flutters around nothing as another orgasm rocks through you, your breath coming short as you break apart on his tongue with a whine.
He flips you over again, and the look on his face takes your breath away. Your slick shimmers on his mouth as he trails his tongue over his lips, like he’s addicted, like he can’t get enough. He tilts his head with a grin so cocky that if you weren’t so blissed out you might just punch him.
“There something you want, pretty?” He leans over you, hand to the bedpost, and how broad and tall he is becomes that much more obvious. You let yourself look, at the way his tattoo drapes over his arm, run your hands over the muscle of his torso down to his v-line. You hear a sharp intake of breath as your hand moves lower, running under his loose sleep pants to the base of his cock.
He grabs your hand in his, bringing it over your head and circling both your wrists. “Ask.”
“You-,” your eyes narrow and you huff at him, but it only makes him smile. “Won’t you just-”
“Nuh-uh.”
“I could cut you down here.”
He drops his pants, pumping his cock once and then sliding it along your slit. “You could. And then who’ll give you what you want?”
You want to roll your eyes, but then he has one hand tapping against your clit, the other gripping either side of your cheeks.
“You begged so pretty for me earlier when I had my mouth on you,” he rasps. “What happened to that?”
The harsh look you give him under those fluttering lashes of yours makes something stir in his gut, arousal shot through his veins, pupils wide. He plays with you, warm hands against your skin and between your legs, the soft skin of his cock sliding between your thighs until you’re gasping in his hold again, grinning like a battle won.
“Please, Mihya,” you sigh.
“Mhmm. Please what?”
“Please- please fuck me.”
He gets off on it, watching you yield to him, spreading your legs, dripping your hot slick onto his cock. He presses the head against you, petaled folds opening up to receive him as he slides into you slowly. Just the first few inches is so thick inside of you that your hands wrap around the muscles of his arms, nails digging in.
“Shh, baby, you can take it,” he hushes your little whines, tracing your hairline with such gentleness it contradicts the way he pulls out of you just slightly only to push in again.
“You’re- oh,” your body gives into him, even more so when he brings his hand down to tap on your clit, his mouth over your neck, to the side of your mouth, until he’s kissing you and taking in every noise you make. It’s almost a distraction, helps your body to relax so he can press into you deeper. You think you feel every inch as it enters you, all the way until the hilt, until the head is pressing deep inside of you and his hips meet yours.
He lets out a rough, deep moan against the expanse of your neck, breath coming short as your walls tighten around him.
“Fuck, baby. You gotta let me move.” Your arms wrap around him tighter, a whimper falling from your lips as he tilts his hips up to plunge into you again. It’s hard and slow and deep and if it wasn’t for his grip on you, you might’ve hit the headboard. But he’s careful about it – more than you might’ve thought he’d be. Pressing your body into the bed as his hips meet yours again and again.
“It feels so good,” you tell him, and it has him pressing a kiss to your cheek in return. Makes every moan you make that much sweeter, to know it’s out of your pleasure, to know it’s because of him.
“Good girl. Tell me again.”
“Feels- you’re so big, so- please, I need-” Your walls can barely clench down onto him with how he feels inside of you. Chest to chest with him, the contact of skin on skin-
“You drive me insane,” he grumbles it into your skin; a confession, exacerbated with each thrust of his hips as he picks up the speed, until he’s slamming into you with a kind of strength that has you seeing constellations behind your eyes. He wants you- needs you to feel the way he feels. Needs to have you lying in his bed, thinking only of him and how he makes you feel. Heat pools in your core until you’re arching your back, and he knows it now – knows it like the back of his hand.
“Give it to me.” It’s a command, a need, if you listen closely enough. “Come around my cock. Show me.”
“Mihya, it’s so much, it’s so so much.” It’s treacherous, the way it works through your body, being on the brink.
His thumb is slick over your clit, pressing just a little more, until your thighs are tightening under his unrelenting body. “Come for me.”
You chant his name until the words start to become nothing in your mouth, until you’re breathless, until your whole body tenses under him and his hold against you gets that much rougher and your walls clamp down and then your body shakes as you come. You almost scream, only silenced by his lips on yours. He comes quickly after that, his eyes never leaving yours, taking in how you look underneath him as his cock gets more sensitive and paints the inside of your walls. He doesn’t stop, doesn’t slow until he feels your body start to relax under his.
You can barely process coming down as he’s kissing you again, deeply and with force, like he’s etching the memory of you into his mind and onto your lips.
For once, he lets himself recognize – how tiring the emptiness has been, to be devoid of this feeling and instead be filled with the fear that it’ll be turned against him. For once, he lets himself feel – to have something that is wholly his. to know and be known. To give and know you will receive. Not an offering at an altar but a hand in his, not a prayer but a soft word spoken in return. Kaiser does not want something as untouching as approval or attention from the divine. But he does want your waist in his arms, your forehead against his.
“Just like this,” he whispers it, a kiss placed to your forehead. You don’t know what he means, too tired to ask.
This is exactly what he’s always wanted. Just like this.
~
Not unlike a parent, Noa notices the closeness of your relationship. In touch, in stolen glances, in longing. A private conversation with him over afternoon tea is not unique, but the heaviness that weighs on him is.
“As the goddess who cannot lie, I have to ask you.” The hardened look on his face makes you straighten your back, putting down your teacup. “You know, that I have to ask.”
Silence sits between you both like a shoe about to drop.
Noa yields. “Has he truly been forsaken by all the gods?”
You are strangely silent as you look at him, then away, then back.
“Answer me, demigod.”
“I don’t know.”
“What?”
“I. Don’t. Know. I have told you before, that I am not a seer, or an oracle. Water holds memory. I can see the past, I can even see other lives parallel to ours, but I cannot see the future. This is the limit of my power.”
“You are of divine nature.”
“I had said what I said at our first meeting, and that has not changed. As long as I am here, the Gods have not forsaken him. For I have not forsaken him. Is that not enough? How many Gods would travel to your realm, vow themselves to a human kingdom? Even if it is I alone that stands before you, is that not enough?”
Noa sighs, more exasperated than you’ve ever seen a serious man like him. “He deserves more, that boy. For what he has been put through.”
“All greatness comes with a price. All heroes face tragedy. He, no matter how much you may care for him, is not the exception to that.” You tilt your head, like a cat with curiosity. But unlike that sweetness, your words are cutting. “You made him a ruler. You made him a hero. So, stand by that. Or does it make you uncomfortable? To consider the role you, too, have played in his life?”
Noa, of course, has thought about this too. Had he not chosen Kaiser to rule, would he have had the prophecy weighing on him like a second shadow?
“If the prophecy holds true, you will inevitably leave him.” Noa swallows, hand flat against the table. “He will inevitably be forsaken, even by you.”
“Then why,” you ask, genuinely, “did you ask me to stay?”
~
In the weeks that follow, you learn exactly why. Like Kaiser had predicted, talk of battle comes.
“We suspect a neighboring nation wishes to wage war with us.” Noa looks out to the slate-blue ocean from the window of the war room.
“A man who wants control of this whole world,” Karasu huffs. “There’s never a lack of them, is there?”
“He thinks himself a god. Or that’s what Sae has told us.”
“You’re sure Sae’s information checks out?”
“Shidou and Otoya like to visit neighboring nations for uh… fun, let’s say,” Chigiri rolls his eyes, then plants his face in his hands. “He said something along the lines of “you don’t wanna know how they found out” and “Shidou sleeps with both men and women, so it’s been cross-checked too.””
“And then we asked him about war,” Isagi throws his notes down on the table. “He said, and I quote, ‘I already have more land than I know what to do with. What could another few acres give me? What a hassle.’”
“The enemy are bold to come for us first.” Kaiser frowns considerably. They are possibly the one nation blasphemous enough that would not blink at the thought of fighting a god. “There’s something we’re not seeing.”
Isagi nods in agreement. “We still don’t know the reason they’re coming here first. It could be the sword, or the goddess.” Isagi frowns. “I told you not to make a scene at the banquet.”
Kaiser gives him a curious look with a smile he fails to hide. “The point of a banquet is to wow the people. The people were wowed, were they not?”
“It could be, it could not be,” Noa kills the conflict there. “That information would have been made public regardless of the spectacle. It could even simply be the throne itself they seek. An army like ours could parade into the neighboring nations and lay waste, our people are used to much harsher weathers.”
“Or maybe he means to make a statement,” Karasu shrugs. “If he wants to be a god, maybe he means to punish the disrespect we’ve shown.”
“What do we actually know?” Chigiri taps the map of this nation splayed across the table.
“We know he wants to take control of this world, and we know his plan includes something from us.”
“He knows once he controls the world, he has to take care of it, right?” Oliver rests his jaw in his hand. “As in, it’s not just about buying the house, it’s about cleaning it too. The plan – it has to be bigger than this, no?”
“Won’t happen once we kill him here. So as far as we know, there are three things we have that he could want: the sword, the goddess, the army.” Chigiri holds up his fingers as he counts.
“So we’ll meet him with all three at the front lines. Fear does not wield us, after all. Only strength.” Kaiser says it like a mantra. You suspect it might be exactly that.
~
“What a pleasant surprise to see you again so soon, princess.”
As an ally, Sae arrived on the day of battle without question. He is much different from the first time you saw him, chainmail armor wraps tight and sleek around his body, clearly of a weight underneath his clothing. He stands straighter, shoulders broader, badges clipped to his outer jacket. It’s clear to anyone who looks at him, that it’s almost like he was born into them – meant for them.
“You’re both on the front lines then?”
“Idle hands,” Kaiser starts.
“Devil’s workshop.” You finish. You hear a horse galloping, then a voice.
“There’s something wrong.” The people give a wide berth as Oliver arrives, with a sleek black mare that’s obedient as can be. “The majority of the enemies’ troops are not in front of us.”
All of you turn to look, but it’s on the front lines that makes it most difficult to tell where the crowd begins and ends.
“I did a rough head count from the tower. This isn’t the count we had observed just the other day. They’ll die easily, like this, against us. And I don’t mean that from an egotistical standpoint. I think these men are here to die, meant to die. It serves to mean –”
“This is a distraction.”
Karasu appears at your side, with an utmost silence only he is capable of. “They’re headed for the main castle, from around the edge of the border.”
You and Kaiser look to each other with a whole silent conversation, and Sae sighs.
“Go on, then.”
You turn to Sae immediately, with a seriousness he doesn’t expect. “You’ll be unprotected.”
“We chopped liver to you, girl?” Shidou sneers.
Oliver drops down from his horse. “I’ll take over here.”
“Your care for me is truly touching, princess,” Sae’s voice lilts touchingly, almost revealing how much he likes it. “But you swore a vow to this kingdom, so go fulfill it.”
Even in the middle of a war, it gets Kaiser all worked up, his chin jutting as you both run back to the palace. But Sae understands duty, stands by it. It’s what makes him worthy of his own title in his own kingdom.
Oliver waits until you’re both out of sight before turning to Sae. “Did you really plan to steal her?”
“Well,” Sae shrugs. “Did you plan on letting her go so easily?”
~
Your water runs in cascading waves through the whole of the palace, like the ocean itself comes rushing through the walls. It knocks all the soldiers down as you and Kaiser run through, and he picks up any stragglers with ease.
“The throne room?” Kaiser slams the hilt of his sword into the guy behind him, and he collapses instantly.
“It is the safest room.”
“That makes no sense. If you knew anything about our people, you’d know we never hide ourselves there in a battle.”
“Go anyways,” you tell him, as another man gets thrown off his feet. “Go, Kaiser!”
He takes one final look at you, at the strength that you hold in your hands, and then he runs.
The man he finds sitting on the throne has black hair cut blunt to his chin, a white mask over one side of his face. Kaiser unsheathes his sword, pointed straight and true.
“That throne doesn’t belong to you.”
“It will. Along with that sword you’re holding.”
Kaiser chuckles, the kind that has madness interlaced in it. “If you wanted the sword so bad, you could’ve asked for a one-on-one combat duel. I haven’t had a satisfying fight in a long time, I’d be happy to lay the sword as a winning prize.”
What must be the man’s most elite fighters drop down from the ceiling, crowding in on all sides.
“Ah, I see,” Kaiser stands straighter, reaching behind him to unsheath his second sword. “It is your capabilities that do not match mine.”
When they come for him, it’s clear to even the heavens that he is exactly as he is fated – a force to be reckoned with. He moves like a spider-spun silken web, capturing each of them blow by blow. His swords cut like butter through them with impressive speed and strength. His breath comes fast and hard when he finishes, sweat dripping down his back.
“I see now, prince,” the man approaches him, and it’s closer up that he realizes he’s simply in a suit, no armor. “Why they praise you, despite your blasphemy. You, a prince famous for cursing divinity at a whim’s notice, are a powerful ally. Kneel before me, then, and I’ll cease this all – let you join our cause in a war against the gods, in stealing their divinity from them. I’ll even forgive this transgression of bedding one.”
“Me? Kneel?” The canned laugh that Kaiser lets out echoes. “I kneel to no god, let alone a man who wants to become one.”
“So be it, then.”
Kaiser hears something above him. By the gods, what’s with this guy and ceilings? Is that why he wants to fight here? A dust of something shimmers down, he pulls his cloak over himself-
From the doorway, you throw your water across the room, shielding Kaiser from whatever it may have been. And in the same moment, a poof of shimmer bursts over your own head and tumbles down around you.
“That’s the problem with you gods, isn’t it? You always think you’re infallible.”
You cough, falling to one of your knees. Dread fills inside of you, like a faucet you can’t turn off. You can’t move. How is that possible?
The man taps two fingers to the top of your head, and your world goes dark.
~
When you blink your eyes open, the first thing you’re aware of is the way your vision swims. Your mind feels clouded, stuffed with cotton. You press your palm to your head, and even that feels muted.
“I’ve made her mine now. She’ll do exactly what I say. Does that make you upset?” Is what you think you hear, through the ringing of your ears. “Let’s see you put that god-killing sword to good use then, shall we?”
“It’s. Magic.” You spit out the words as your hands press into the ground. Your legs cramp from the way you’re forcing them to stay down. “Mihya. Run, please.”
“Awh, worried about me?” Kaiser teases as he logs the odds. There is no water that swirls around you, so it begs to reason – you can’t call it. The only weapon you have is a dagger.
Kaiser tilts his head until his neck cracks. “Have some faith in me, princess. I’m not afraid, even against you.”
He breathes, in and out, until the calmness of battle seeps into him, raises his sword pointed right at you. “I’ll win, even against you.”
And then he reveals that cocky, surefire smirk. “You should worry more about not dying yourself.”
When you launch at him, it is without mercy, makes him realize how your kindness seeps into the way you fight. His weapon is bigger, larger, and he uses it to keep you at arm’s length, to wrap around towards the enemy. But he sees his problem almost immediately. Like a puppet on strings, you’re protecting the enemy.
He knows it, the moment the prophecy solidifies into place in his mind. That feeling of being lost on a path, gone with the reigning down a light. The final puzzle piece in the picture.
You will die by the hands of the one you love most. So, it truly was this feeling, after all. Love. An aching thing, something so undoing. An open wound that can only be tendered by you.
For once, the prophecy is not a curse but a guiding starlight. He corners you with strike after strike, until you’re as close as can be to the enemy. And then he approaches you with no defense, lets you strike at him. In the same breath, his sword lands behind you and takes off the enemy’s head.
None of the fight felt as clear as this moment, when your blade presses into his heart.
He collapses, right in front of the throne with you on top of him. The throne that should be undoubtedly his, belonging to him as heir. Tears fall from your face before your mind can clear. Like you know, soul to soul, as his lifeform slips through your fingers. He brings his hand to cup your cheek, as he had wanted to do when you laid like this above him in the sand.
“I did not expect a death so gentle for myself.”
His smile is so bittersweet that it aches all the way to the bottom of your heart. His hand slips down from your face as you finally come to.
“You will not die on me.” You gasp out, a statement said with so much conviction that the silver bell of truth rings in return. You call to your water immediately, a stream so fast it cuts into your skin but you don’t care.
A magic that can only be done once. You take the divine sword from the ground, aim the blade carefully at yourself – your own soul. Only this sword can make a cut like this, with the hand of the divine. You slice your wrist, and instead of blood, pure golden lifeforce pours out.
You separate your divinity from yourself, and you feed it to him. It will not turn him divine. You are only half-divine yourself, after all. What you can give is not nearly enough to turn a man into a God. But it will hold his soul in this world, let you do an unspeakable magic: an exchange of divine power for life, a process long enough for the water to heal his heart back together again. The hand you lay against his mouth shakes more and more with each second that your golden blood pours into him, but your other hand lays steady as ever over his heart, until you feel it beat once, twice. Hear him spurt out a breath.
You collapse on top of him before you can see him open his eyes.
~
“I see the prophecy has been completed.”
When Kaiser wakes, there’s a split second where he thinks he might’ve just ended up wherever souls go at the end of their line. There’s what must be a full-fledged goddess standing right over him. It’s only your warm body splayed across his chest that tells him otherwise. His hands are lightning quick, sitting up and moving to your neck to check your pulse, only exhaling and relaxing once he feels it.
Golden threads extend down the sleeves of the goddess’ arms. He’s seen the paintings. Fate itself stands before him.
“How could you do this?” He makes his disdain clear, lacking any respect one might give to the queen of the gods herself.
“I am sorry.” She answers immediately, and that makes Kaiser’s eyes widen just slightly. “Your grievances, you may relay them to me, if you wish. There is a bigger picture at play here, bigger than you or the water sorceress or even myself. The threads of fate are not woven selfishly.”
“You gods up in your clouds play with the lives of mortals. That has always been written in history. But to her? To one of your own?”
“She is more one of mine than most. The heir to the throne of the Gods, I would’ve entrusted her with my life. It’s why she complies with Fate in every life, without complaint.”
“So she lends you her loyalty, and you take advantage of her. And you dare put yourselves above us?”
“Heavy is the head that wears the crown. Heavy too, are my hands, that weave the golden threads. You and her are one of many that have suffered by my hand. For that, there is no apology I can give. What I can give, well… Would you like to hear your full prophecy, prince?”
Lone Emperor who covets the throne,
You will die by the hands of the one you love most.
Forsaken by all the Gods but one,
Re-emerge, awaken, as the ruler you are meant to become.
In any other circumstance, he would be eager as ever to finally hear the full prophecy. But his eyes are only on you, your slumbering state as he holds you in his arms.
“What will become of her?” He asks quietly.
“She will be a water sorceress, as she had initially been.”
“She will die, then? Like a human does?”
“All things die, hero.” Hero. That’s what he is now, having been trial-passed. The title burns like bourbon down his throat. “Even the divine dies. But yes, she will die as a human, and be reborn again as the cycle permits.”
“A life of such simplicity is not befitting of a woman like her.”
“Who says it would be simple? Besides, she has gone through the trial of the divine once before. Don’t you have faith she could do it again?”
The trial of the divine. He had not known such a thing prior to you. But if anyone could pass it, it would be you.
“I will make her my wife. I care little for the words or respect of the gods, even a queen like yourself. But it is my duty to inform you. If she will have me, I will wed her as has been planned.”
“The prophecy is complete. What happens now is too inconsequential for me to put effort into. However…” she watches you, teartracks streaked down your cheeks. “I’m quite fond of her. I hope for her an easy life.”
In a blink, her form disappears.
“Kaiser!” Oliver’s voice echoes through the halls, taking big leaps with Noa to his side, skidding to a halt when he finally finds you both.
“The goddess-”
“She lives,” Kaiser cups your head into his chest. “Though she is goddess no more. A trade. Not a fair one by any means.” His thumb traces across your cheek, a state of his so vulnerable it renders Oliver speechless.
Noa approaches the threshold where Oliver does not dare. He rests his hand on the crown of Kaiser’s head. “Another chance at life is the greatest gift, and she has granted you as such. That is a debt you’ll never be able to repay her for..”
“I’ll spend the rest of my life trying, then.”
~
It’s only in the aftermath, that you find out how deep in you truly were.
Kaiser takes a big inhale of the winter air. It’s fresh and cold. And with him, the nation breathed a breath anew, and the trial laid in ashes under his feet.
You’re facing the horizon of the sea when he finds you.
In the catch of the light, sometimes he swears he sees the divinity that had shimmered off of you before. It’s almost hard to believe, with the ring of water that floats around you, that it had ever left you at all.
“What are you doing?” His voice is soft, as it always is with you now.
“Relearning the water.”
“What does it say?”
“That I am still its mistress. Still a sorceress,” the water around you drops into the wet sand. “That its loyalty with me is not dependent on divinity.”
He places a hand to the back of your neck, easing out the tensions there. “But?”
You smile weakly. “I have to strain to hear her now.”
“Guess we can’t do that spectacle again for our wedding.” He cracks a smile, something to ease the ache. “Water holds memory, right?”
“That, it does.”
He grabs your hand, pulling you up and towards the waves. You yell for him, but the ocean crashes loudly around you both, and he drags you into the water anyways. Once you’re deep in enough that the waves drape over your knees, he pulls you in close.
“Let her bear witness, then.” He whispers it against your lips, brushing your hair away from your face. He kisses you, deep and with so much heart you might burst from it.
A prophecy unfolded, a fate changed, a life saved.
There’s a part of you that can feel an oncoming future. A sheathing that can block even the eyes of Gods. God-killing weapons that have descended from the heavens themselves. A potion that can cause madness in the minds of the divine. A war between mortals and Gods is coming, you’re sure of it.
But not in this life. In this life, you are a water sorceress, and he is a trial-passed hero. And like in every life, you find your way back to each other, every time.
author's note: ohmygod THANK YOU FOR READING PLEASE tell me what you think!!! this is my longest fic ever so i really hope you enjoyed
extended author's note -- know that this is an incredibly realistic note about the perception of love that will take you out of the fantasy lovey-dovey space. it's a disclaimer for the parts of the fic i romanticize and how u should not romanticize them in real life, as well as some notes about kaiser's characterization if you're interested
✦ synopsis. the night you are to assassinate emperor michael kaiser, you do not expect to find the ghost of your childhood staring back. to the court, he is a savior. to the empire, he is a tyrant dressed in gold. but to you, he is still mihya—the one person your blade was never trained to kill.
✦ content. 11.8k words. michael kaiser x f!reader. royalty au. monarch!kaiser x assassin!reader. childhood friends. enemies to lovers. implied/referenced abuse (both for kaiser n reader). implied sexual content. reader sleeps with other bllk men for the job's sake. lots of courtly politics going on. one (1) actual assassination attempt. angst. eventual smut.
✦ foreword. episode 2 of writing for characters i despise (affectionate) to bolster the rnikage audience /silly !!! writing this took way more effort than i was willing to shell out, but i'm nothing if not a sucker for a proper royal au. kaiser just happens to be the perfect muse for it <3 disclaimer that i have not fully read up on his backstory, so do with that information as you may lmfao
✦ THE SPARROW ┊ THE SNAKE ┊ THE SUN
On the night of the harvest moon, Aurelia’s imperial family was massacred.
The emperor, the empress, and the rest of their kin—each found in their chambers the same way: still and untouched by struggle, as if death had come to them in their sleep. Oddly enough, not a single guard posted outside their doors shared the same fate. They had all been found merely unconscious and slumped against their spears, unable to recall when they even closed their eyes.
No windows were broken. No locks were forced. Though the corridors smelled faintly of bitter herbs and steel. Whoever entered the palace that night had done so as though the shadows themselves had opened for them.
By midday, the word assassin swept through the capital like fire. Scholars and nobles called it impossible and blasphemy in the same breath. But the people whispered the truth no one dared to write: someone had toppled the empire in a single perfect breath, and got away with the crime.
By dusk, the banners of mourning unfurled above the palace. The empire’s sun had fallen, its blood still warm in the marble veins of each imperial bedchamber. Across the capital’s grand quadrangle, thousands gathered in reverent silence, grieving not only the fall of the imperial family but the shadow it left behind.
From the balconies and the cobbled streets below, the wails came dutifully—soft, practiced, almost ceremonial. The air was heavy with incense and dread, the kind that clings to the throat and does not let go. But beneath the solemnity, uncertainty simmered quietly.
The people did not know whether to weep or to wait.
The imperial family had ruled for centuries, but poorly in its last years. Crops had failed, taxes had risen, and the court had grown fat on borrowed time. Now that the dynasty was gone, what would follow? A savior? A tyrant? A hundred claimants tearing the empire apart?
But while the capital is engulfed in the last vestiges of imperial flames, a different kind of chaos exists quietly in a place untouched by the empire’s light.
Down where the river rots into mud and smoke, the slum district cannot hear the toll of the mourning bells. The air was heavy with heat and iron, and the faint tang of spoiled grain. Children chased stray dogs through puddles that never dry. Women scrubbed clothes in water that will never run clean. And you walked through it all, balancing a bundle of kindling against your chest, careful not to look too long at the soldiers passing by.
You were born in the gutter, and the gutter has rules: keep your head down, your pockets shut, your eyes on the ground.
Still, you always looked up.
The grasslands stretched just beyond the last shanty—wild, unkempt, and golden beneath the lowering sun. You cut through them every evening to shave a few minutes off the walk home. The stalks reached your knees, brushing against your skin with a soft hiss. Crickets sung. The world was quiet enough to pretend that it belonged to you.
But then you heard a quiet, inhuman hiss.
You froze. The grass parted just ahead, and the movement came in a quick ripple of scales and a glint of sharp fangs. You opened your mouth to scream, but before you could—
Someone slammed into you.
You hit the dirt and the air is torn from your lungs. A blur of pale gold and dust passed over you in a moment’s notice. The boy who appeared out of nowhere landed hard as he wrestled the snake off his arm. It coiled and snapped viciously, but by some miracle, his reflexes were faster. He grabbed it by the tail before flinging it into the weeds, where the serpent then vanished with a whisper.
Silence settled among the reeds yet again.
You pushed yourself upright. The boy righted himself a few paces away, breathing through his teeth and it gave you time to study him. His hair, a pale tangle of gold, glinted in the dying light like it’s been kissed by something the slums have never seen. His eyes were so blue, they don’t look real.
You’ve seen him before, darting between stalls and backstreets, the boy who moved like he’s always running away from something. Your mother had told you to stay away from him. That one’s cursed. Nothing good ever follows him.
But what do you do when the cursed boy saves your life?
For a moment, all you could hear was your own heartbeat. But then you caught the blood running down his arm, bright against his pale skin.
You took a step closer, eyes on the bite already turning dark. “You’re bleeding.”
He looked at his arm. “It’s fine.”
“Does it hurt?”
He smiled then—small and strange. “I’m used to it.”
You almost asked used to what? until you noticed the rest of his frail, scraggly body: the yellowed bruises on his arms, the fading welts on his legs, a thin scar curling along his jaw.
“What’s your name?” you whispered.
He hesitated for a moment, as if answering would cost something precious. In the end, he relented with the quietest of murmurs.
“Mihya.”
The boy’s grin remained, as if the pain doesn’t matter. As if saving you was worth it. Even as the blood dripped down his hand, at that moment, you thought he’s the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen.
That was how you met the first friend you’ve ever made.
“Friends?”
You echo the word back at your companion, brows furrowing as you fasten the clasp of your belt. The room still smells faintly of incense, rain, and wine spilled hours ago. Chigiri lounges against the headboard with a sort of lazy confidence, his crimson hair falling loosely across his bare shoulders. He isn’t usually one for small talk. But when he is, he always asks something strange.
“Yes,” he repeats plainly as he reaches for his tunic on the floor. “Do you not have other friends to do… this with? I didn’t peg you as the type to sleep with your informants.”
You glance at him over your shoulder. “Didn’t peg you as the type to sleep with your clients.”
He breathes out a quiet laugh. “Fair.”
You spot the rest of your clothes crumpled on the floor, still tacky with the stains of your last kill. You hadn’t even bothered to wash them—just came straight here, blood and all. With a sigh, you pull the fabric back over your skin and flick your hair out of the way.
“I didn’t come here for a lecture. You said you had something for me.”
Chigiri’s grin widens. “I did. But now I’m curious. What’s got you digging around imperial business all of a sudden?”
You meet his gaze in the cracked mirror across the room. The glass splits your reflection into fragments—eyes too cold, face too still, as if the years had carved you out of someone else. Around your throat, the faint gleam of a brass rose catches the light. The pendant is old and worn, the only softness left on you.
“Just tell me what you know.”
Chigiri huffs, but relents like he always does.
“The new emperor’s consolidating power fast.” He stretches, slow and feline, the picture of unbothered ease. “After all those years spent grooming him into their perfect little sovereign, the council’s tripping over itself to parade him as Aurelia’s savior. Half of them already kneel. The rest are too afraid to breathe wrong in his presence. I heard Kaiser is a bit… callous.”
“Kaiser,” you murmur.
Chigiri hums affirmatively. “The late empress’ bastard son, dragged out of whatever hell he grew up in to play monarch. Took a while, but he’s finally been crowned emperor a few days ago.” His eyes then flick toward you, narrowing ever-so slightly. “Humor me. When did you get so ambitious? Don’t tell me you’re planning to recreate the massacre from ten years ago or something.”
“None of your business.” You click your tongue, reaching for your dagger on the bedside table to flick it across your fingers. “What else you got for me?”
“Nothing that’ll help you slit his throat unnoticed, if that’s what you’re after.” He exhales through his nose, languid as ever despite the outright rejection. “The council kept their little Kaiser project under wraps for years. Even my contacts in the imperial guard couldn’t dig up anything worth the trouble.”
For a moment, you two can only stare each other down in silence. Chigiri studies you from where he still lingers on the bed, the edge of a smile ghosting over his lips.
“I’d advise you to be careful,” he starts. “Men like him don’t die easily, birdie. Not after what happened ten years ago. Whoever unmade the empire in a single night set the bar high, and Kaiser doesn’t strike me as the type to fall to anyone less.”
Finally, you slide the dagger into its sheath, the soft click punctuating his words.
“Then I’ll just have to be better,” you tell him confidently, shrugging into your cloak as you move for the door. “Contact me if you’ve got anything more useful than the scraps you gave today. I’ll pay in advance.”
Chigiri laughs under his breath. “Noted. Gotta admit though, ambition looks good on you. Try not to die for it, will you? All my regulars keep getting killed by their own hubris.”
You don’t bother answering. The hefty bag of gold coins you toss onto the table should be enough. Cold air bites against your skin when you reemerge in the streets of the capital. Somewhere within its walls, the empire’s new sun has risen, but you know better than to fly too close too soon.
The wet cobblestones are still slick with last night’s rain, and the glow of lanterns catches in the puddles like fallen stars. You move through the alleys without a sound. This city never truly sleeps, but tonight, it dreams uneasily. You can feel it in the air—the tension coiled tight in the dark, the scent of smoke and steel carried by the wind.
Your hand brushes against the letter tucked in the pocket of your cloak, but you don’t need to read it again to know what it says.
When you finally reach the tavern, the familiar creak of its old wooden sign greets you—a faded serpent devouring its own tail, the paint chipped and weather-worn. The Ouroboros is quiet tonight, unusually so. There is no laughter spilling from the bar, no dice rolling in the corners or soft murmurs of bribery. Only the faint scratch of a broom sweeping somewhere in the back.
To the untrained eye, it’s a place of ale and cheap food, but to those who know—those who belong—it’s the heart of a network that breathes secrets. Every drunkard’s rambling, every whispered affair, every careless mention of coin or crown is sifted, stored, and sold. You learned early on that there’s no treasury richer than the words of the inebriated.
You push through the door, and the warm scent of oak and smoke washes over you as Anri looks up from behind the counter. Her vibrant hair is tied loosely with a ribbon today, and her eyes soften at the sight of you in the low light.
“Well, look who the wind dragged in,” she says, smiling faintly. “You look half-dead. Rough job?”
“Feels about right,” you mutter.
Anri tilts her head, studying you the way she always does—equal parts concern and curiosity. “Would you like a drink, then? It’s on the house.”
Brutally tempting, especially after the number Chigiri has done on your body, but the ache in your shoulders is heavier than your thirst. “Not tonight. I just need a bath and a bed.”
Her smile dips just slightly. She’s used to your refusals, but it never stops her from offering. “Fine, fine. Go on, then. I’ll have the kettle ready for the bathhouse.”
You nod in thanks and slink toward the back hallway. Your fingers are already undoing your cloak’s clasp when Anri’s voice suddenly calls after you again.
“Oh, wait!”
“…What is it?”
Her expression shifts, the warmth in her eyes replaced by something quieter.
“Ego’s looking for you.
You exhale through your nose. “Now?”
“Now,” she confirms, wincing in sympathy.
Well. There goes your bath.
You sigh, pushing the exhaustion back down where it belongs, and offer her a half-smile. “Guess he’ll have to settle for a half-dead sparrow, then.”
Anri chuckles softly, though her eyes linger on you a moment too long—like she wants to say be careful. You nod once in silent understanding before turning down the narrow corridor that leads deeper into the tavern. The noise fades behind you, replaced by the faint dripping of water through the gutters and the steady rhythm of your own heartbeat.
By the time you reach the old oak door at the end of the hall, your exhaustion has already hardened into something sharper.
You knock once.
“Enter,” comes the reply.
You push the door open, stepping into the dim light.
The air inside your master’s quarters is different—cool and sterile, thick with the scent of parchment, oil, and something metallic beneath. A single lantern burns low on the desk, its light catching on rows of knives and glass vials lined neatly along the wall.
He’s already there, sitting behind the desk, spectacles glinting faintly as he looks up from his papers. Ginpachi Ego has never looked particularly intimidating, but there’s something in the stillness of him that unsettles even the most hardened assassins. You’ve seen men who could kill a person before they blink, but none who could disassemble them word by word, thought by thought, until nothing was left like Ego does.
His gaze flicks up to meet yours, sharp and impersonal. “Sparrow.”
The name lands as coldly as it always does. A title. A leash.
“Master,” you reply, stepping closer. The dim light cuts across his face—sharp nose, sharper eyes, and a frown that never quite deepens nor fades. He looks like a man perpetually calculating odds only he can see.
He leans back in his chair with his fingers steepled. “How did the job go?”
“Completed. The client from Varen paid in full before I could even carry it out.”
He cocks a single brow in interest. “Varen. Foreign soil. You’ve been wandering far from home, little bird.”
“It was a profitable flight,” you answer evenly. “The target’s death stirred less noise than expected. You can say it was worth the distance.”
He does not respond right away. You learned long ago not to fill that space; silence here is a measuring stick. It tells you what he wants to know without his mouth moving.
It reminds you of other nights: nights when you were smaller, stripped of choices, taught to move like a shadow and to love nothing that asked for repayment. The slums burned ten years ago and it was Ego who picked you up from the ashes. He fed you. He broke you. He stitched you back into usefulness. You grew up faster than a child should, learning to count heartbeats in the dark and to read the slope of a person’s neck like a map of veins to cut.
“You missed the coronation,” he finally says, and relief threads through your chest in ribbons.
“So I’ve heard.”
“Then you already know about the new emperor.”
You incline your head, careful not to reveal more than necessary. “Word travels fast even beyond Aurelia’s borders. That, and I received my orders in the nick of time.”
The weight of the envelope still tucked in your cloak becomes more conspicuous. There is something almost obscene in how clear Ego’s letters are. Your orders were scribbled in four measly words: Kill Emperor Michael Kaiser. There’s no room to misunderstand that, no gray for doubt to seep through. A single sentence, as efficient as the blade he once placed in your small, trembling hands.
“I don’t have much to go on yet,” you add. “My informant’s come up empty. The coronation’s too recent, and Kaiser’s been hidden away for years. The council raised him to replace the dynasty that burned a decade ago, and now they’re guarding him like he’s all they have left.”
Ego hums. “Then take your time.”
That’s all he says, and the silence that follows stretches taut. It’s strange how this still unnerves you—the weight of him simply watching. You grew up under that stare, learned to breathe within its confines. But for all your posturing in Chigiri’s presence, you can’t quite silence the question that’s been festering since the moment you broke the seal of Ego’s letter. It slips out before you can stop yourself
“Why me?” you murmur, more to the space between you than to him. “There are better hands in Ouroboros for this. You could have picked anyone else.”
You already know the answer. Maybe it’s masochism that makes you want to hear it said aloud, to remind yourself that every breath you take is one he permitted. Ego never saved you out of kindness; he rebuilt you out of ambition, molding you into something sharp enough to be useful. A creature carved in his image, all precision and obedience. When he levels you with his calculating grin across the desk, you no longer shudder.
“Because they don’t owe me what you do.”
There’s no cruelty in his tone, only certainty—one that leaves no room for refusal.
You should be used to it by now. The way he reduces everything into transactions. Sometimes you wonder if he ever thinks of that day the way you do: smoke choking the air, your fingers bleeding from digging through wood and ash, and his voice being the first thing that cut through it. You mistook it for salvation once. Now, you know better. Now, you are nothing but a bird once plucked from the ruins, fed and warmed until its feathers grew back, then tethered to a string so it never flies too high. You’ve never cut the string.
Maybe you never will.
Thus, you bow your head before him without another word. It’s less reverence, and more acknowledgement of debts paid and still owing. You leave the room before the lantern can throw more of his shadow across your shoulders. The pendant on your throat feels heavier than usual—as if it remembers everything you had to lose just to wear it.
One day in the summer, you came across an injured sparrow.
It lay in the dust by the roadside, wings trembling like scraps of paper caught in the wind. When you bent to pick it up, its tiny heart beat so frantically against your palms that you were sure it would die before you reached home. But you ran anyway, clutching it as though the warmth of your hands alone could keep it tethered to life.
Your mother was sitting by the window when you burst in your old house.
“Can it be saved?” you asked, voice breaking as you held the bird out to her.
She looked at you for a long time before answering. Her hands were steady—the same hands that once mixed poultices and tinctures in the apothecary before the empire’s taxes turned medicine into luxury. She touched the sparrow gently to trace its broken wing with a thumb.
“We can try,” your mother said at last.
With what little you had left, you fed it crumbs from your own meals, ground herbs to ease its breathing, and sang to it softly at night in the corner of the room. The days passed in fragile hope, but by the end of the week, the sparrow laid deathly still.
That day, you cried until your throat burned and your eyes were swollen red. Your mother said nothing to comfort you, only gathered you close and waited for the storm to pass. When your sobs finally quieted, she pressed a hand to your hair and whispered, “Take it to the riverbank. Give it back to the world.”
So you did.
You dug a shallow grave beneath the reeds where the mud met the water and laid the sparrow down, covering it gently with your hands. The river lapped quietly at the shore, carrying away your reflection in small ripples as you quietly sniffled to yourself.
That was when you saw him again.
Mihya.
He was panting when he stumbled through the grass, dirt on his knees, clutching half a loaf of bread against his chest. For a moment, he looked like he might bolt again, but then his bright blue eyes found you, and they softened with recognition.
“You’re the girl who almost got bitten by a snake.”
“And you’re the boy who took the bite for me,” you murmured, eyeing the faint scar that altercation had left on his forearm.
Both of you laughed quietly—small and awkward, but genuine. The wind moved through the reeds, whistling soft and low, as though the river itself was trying to listen in on the conversation unfurling between you.
“What are you doing?” Mihya asked quietly.
You glanced down at the patch of earth by your knees. “Burying a sparrow.”
He was silent for a long while as he eyed the mound of dirt by your knees. Then, without a word, he tore the loaf in half and offered you a piece, making you flounder about in polite refusal.
“You don’t have to—”
“Take it,” he insisted anyway. “It’s better when it’s shared.”
You could tell he hadn’t eaten in days. It was obvious in in the hollows of his cheeks, the way his arms shook when he handed the bread over. That made you wonder if he was an oprhan, with how often he had to steal just to get by. So you took the bread anyway, because you worried that refusing would have hurt him more than hunger ever could.
After that, you started to see him more often.
You were never sure how Mihya figured out where you lived, but he somehow always found his way to your door. Your mother never truly turned him away, no matter how many times she warned you about the “cursed boy.” At first, she would scold him gently, shaking her head as he handed you a bruised apple or a trinket that clearly didn’t belong to him. But the reprimands never lasted long. Mihya just had that effect on people, you supposed.
He had the bluest eyes you’d ever seen, and a smile that made you forget the filth of the slums for a moment. It was hard to believe someone with such a big heart could exist in a place that devours kindness. Perhaps your mother felt that too because after a while, she stopped trying to chase him off.
Especially when he began showing up bloodied.
At first, it was just scrapes and bruises, the kind of marks all street urchins wore like second skin. But then came the split lip, the blackened eye, the torn shirt sticky with dried blood. He would never tell you where the wounds came from, only laughing it off with a sheepish grin and some flimsy excuse about falling over or fighting for food.
Your mother would sigh, usher him inside, and clean the wounds in silence. Her hands were steady as always, though her eyes betrayed the ache of helplessness. Sometimes she told him to stay for supper, to rest awhile, but Mihya always refused.
“I can’t,” he would say. “I have to go home.”
Home.
You never asked where that was. Maybe you were afraid to find out he didn’t have one.
This went on for months—him arriving and disappearing like the tide, always smiling, always pretending he wasn’t hurting. Until one day, he came back worse than you’d ever seen.
There was blood crusted along his temple, dirt smeared down his neck, his hands trembling as he clutched the doorway. Your mother rushed to fetch water and cloth, but you couldn’t move. You just stood there in quiet shock, your throat tight and burning.
When your mother left the room to boil water, the words broke out of you all at once.
“Why do you keep doing this?”
Mihya blinked. “Doing what?”
“This!” you cried, stepping forward, fists balled at your sides. “Coming here hurt, pretending you’re fine, and running back into whatever’s doing this to you!”
He stared at you, startled, unsure what to do with your tears. “I—”
“I don’t want to bury you too, Mihya.”
The room went very still. The sound of the boiling kettle seemed far away. For a moment, he just looked at you and something in him faltered. His mouth opened like he wanted to say something, but no words came. You could see the tremor in his jaw and the flicker of disbelief in his eyes. No one had ever said that to him before.
“You care that much?” he whispered.
You couldn’t believe what you were hearing. “If we didn’t, we would’ve turned you away the first time you came here.”
He blinked fast, as if trying to hold something back but the tears fell anyway. You didn’t even realize you were crying too until your vision blurred, and the two of you stood there, sobbing in a quiet broken rhythm only children ever fall into.
When your mother came back and saw the state you were both in, she didn’t ask a single question. She only set the basin down, drew the two of you close, and wrapped her arms around you both. Her voice was soft, trembling slightly against your hair.
“Shhh. No more tears,” she murmured. “Promise me you’ll look out for each other from now on. The world takes enough from children like you. Don’t let it take this too.”
You nodded into her shoulder. Mihya did too, though his small hands were shaking.
The three of you stayed like that for a long time, until the light outside turned amber and the air smelled faintly of river reeds and herbal salve. Somewhere beyond the window, a sparrow called once before the dusk swallowed it whole.
Just like Ego said, you take your time.
Assassinations done too quickly tend to end badly, especially when the target is a crowned emperor hidden behind more layers of protocol and politics than armor. The usual channels of Ouroboros turn up little on the new sovereign. The council keeps news of their emperor sealed tight, and whispers travel slower when tongues are cut for carelessness.
So you bide your time.
The fastest way to the palace is always through its weakest gatekeeper. In this case, it happens to be the man who controls the employment registry: Oliver Aiku, Chief of Personnel.
You learn his habits before you ever learn his name; where he drinks, how long he stays, what kind of flattery he prefers. He’s handsome in that smug, seasoned way—an older man who knows the weight of his charm and wields it as leverage. He is the type of person who enjoys watching people squirm for his approval.
It doesn’t take much to make him notice you.
Ego once told you that your body was your most important tool. Weapons, poisons, disguises—they were all just extensions of it. It wasn’t a lesson you enjoyed learning, but you learned it well. Oliver doesn’t ask many questions. After a few nights and a few well-placed words, he’s already offering to “pull some strings.”
By the week’s end, you have forged documents, a name that isn’t yours, and a position among the palace’s housekeeping staff. Not glamorous, but perfect. Servants see more than courtiers do—they are ghosts in plain sight.
Your quarters lie in the southernmost wing, tucked behind the western gardens where the halls are wrought with the buzz of cicadas and secrets. Once you settle in, the days blur quickly into routine: scrubbing marble floors until your fingers ache, delivering fresh linens to the council chambers, serving tea to officials too self-important to meet your eyes.
You never see the emperor during that first month. Not once. There are no portraits of him hung in the gilded halls, no likeness displayed as the old dynasty once decreed. Yet you hear his name spoken often. Michael Kaiser—the last thread of imperial blood through his mother, the late empress.
Although his face remains unseen, you begin to learn him in fragments.
You learn that he dines alone even when the council gathers in full. That by sundown, every attendant is dismissed, and none are permitted beyond the doors of his chambers or study without summons. You learn that the guards outside his chambers rotate every two hours, and that his most trusted courtier, Alexis Ness, rarely strays more than a few paces from his side. You also learn that the emperor’s handwriting is precise and elegant, and that he always signs his decrees in blue ink.
None of these things are useful on their own, but they will be. Eventually. After all, information is like poison—it works best when it seeps in slow.
As always, you keep your distance and observe. The corridors are quiet, echoing with the faint rhythm of boots and the whisper of silk. You map the palace by memory: which doors creak, which staircases lead to dead-end halls, which corners stay cloaked in shadows long enough for a blade to disappear.
But whenever you pass the gilded mirrors in the eastern wing, you look away. You’ve long since despised reflective surfaces as each one always throws back a different face—a servant, a courtesan, a messenger, a ghost. You’ve worn too many names, slipped into too many borrowed skins, until even your own reflection feels like a lie you’ve repeated one time too many.
You tell yourself it doesn’t matter. At the end of the day, all of this is nothing more than the prelude to what you were tasked to do.
Oliver’s shadow crosses yours again a few weeks later.
You’ve taken to tending the gardens in your spare hours, pruning the hedges and sweeping the gravel paths long after the sun has set. It’s quieter here than anywhere else in the palace, and far more useful. Courtiers come to the gardens to breathe and gossip and scheme. The air here is thick with secrets looser than any tongue inside the marble halls.
Oliver likes the gardens, too. Or rather, he likes the people who haunt them. More often than not, you’ll glimpse him leaning against the fountain’s edge, smiling lazily as noblewomen sidle close, their laughter trickling softer than the water itself. Watching him, you often wonder how a man so transparently indulgent managed to earn such a post within the imperial ranks. But then, that same carelessness is what got you this far, so you can hardly fault him for it.
He spots you one evening after shaking off a persistent viscount’s daughter.
“Still working after dark?” Oliver drawls.
“The weeds don’t sleep,” you say, straightening from the bush you were trimming.
He grins at that. “Neither do you, apparently.”
You keep your eyes on your shears and go back to work. It’s easier that way. Oliver Aiku is a man who remembers more than is safe. The story you fed to him while warming his bed weeks ago was simple: you were a refugee from Varen, orphaned by border skirmishes, just looking for work. You’re not sure he believed any of it, but you know better than to let your guard down.
Yet since the first time, he’s grown quite… friendly.
He always asks how you’re settling in. If you were eating properly. If the other servants are treating you well—a strange question, since you’ve barely spoken to any of them. You keep to yourself for a reason because one careless word, one wrong glance, and everything could unravel before you ever lay eyes on the emperor’s face.
That is how you start using Oliver’s interest like any other small advantage.
When he drops by the gardens for small talk, you keep your answers light and let your hands do the work. Your questions about the palace come wrapped in harmless curiosity—old stories, and tall tales softened by time. He fills the silence with gossip and half-truths about ministers and marriages, embellishing as he goes. You let him. The lies are easy enough to sift from the useful fragments. And sometimes, when the mood strikes him, Oliver drifts toward things that actually matter.
“There’s going to be a banquet soon,” he says one evening, watching petals scatter across the path. “A grand one. Invitations were sent to every noble house worth mentioning, and a few that aren’t. The emperor’s first formal introduction since his coronation.”
You glance up, feigning curiosity. “I thought the coronation was the introduction.”
Oliver chuckles as if the thought itself is naive. “The coronation was for Aurelia’s citizens—to remind the people they still have a throne to kneel to. This,” he says, gesturing lazily with one gloved hand, “is for everyone else. A show of power, so the neighboring nations stop circling like vultures. A declaration that the empire still breathes, and that it will not be consumed.”
You nod along. “I see.”
The rest of the conversation, you let drift toward safer shores—menu speculation, décor, the petty vanities that seem to keep him entertained. By the time Oliver takes his leave, the only thing heavier than the dusk settling over the garden is the thought lodged quietly in your chest: a public gathering means a weakness somewhere.
By morning, you find the head servant, Mistress Celene hunched over her ledgers in the service hall, assigning shifts with the efficiency of a commander. You clear your throat and ask, careful to sound merely eager, not desperate.
“Do you need more hands for the banquet, ma’am?”
Her quill stills. “Yes. I was just about to call for help from the southern wing.” For a moment, that sharp gaze lingers on you. “The initiative is good. I’ll put you with the logistics team.”
You bow your head in thanks, concealing the relief that flickers sharp and bright behind your ribs. And this newfound goal is what keeps you up that night.
Nobles both foreign and Aurelian will gather under the crystal chandeliers of the ballroom. Dishes will steam, voices will clink against fine glass, and the hubbub of a hundred pretensions will create the one distraction you need. For the first time since you slipped into palace life, the emperor will be within reach.
You let yourself imagine the face you have only sketched in fragments: the solitary dinners, the blue-inked decrees, the man who refuses attendants after sundown. You temper the image quickly; anticipation is a blade that can cut both ways. There is a plan forming in the margins of your patience and you take your time pinning each detail in place. You trace the pendant at your throat and let your thoughts settle like a blade being sheathed.
In two weeks, you will finally see his face.
And if the gods are merciful, you will end his life that same night.
Mihya was hiding something.
You could tell because he no longer came by your house at the same hour every day. The rhythm you’d grown used to had become irregular and unpredictable. When he did appear, it was later than usual, and he always smelled faintly of flour and sugar left too long on the hearth. But you never really asked.
It was enough to see that he didn’t look perpetually half-starved anymore. The bruises had faded from his skin, the cuts on his arms had healed without new ones taking their place. The only scar that lingered was the pale crescent on his forearm—the mark of a snake’s fangs. You still thought of it fondly sometimes; it was the first thread that had tied your fates together.
You found out the truth by accident.
Your mother had sent you to the market one morning for herbs, and you nearly missed him entirely in the crowd. There were more guards than usual along the slum road, their helmets gleaming under the sun, and you kept your head down as you walked. Then, through the noise of the street, you caught sight of a familiar figure behind the bakery counter—a boy with pale hair and blue eyes, wiping flour from his hands as he handed a loaf to an elderly woman.
You stopped in your tracks.
So that’s where he’d been disappearing to.
You didn’t call out his name. You didn’t even linger long enough for him to notice. If Mihya wanted to keep it to himself, then you would let him have that secret. For someone like him, any moment of peace was worth protecting.
Days passed until one morning, a sharp rap at the door woke you before dawn. Your mother was still asleep, so you stumbled out of bed and opened it yourself.
Mihya stood there with tousled hair and shy eyes, holding something behind his back.
“What are you doing here so early?” you whispered.
He hesitated before bringing his hands forward. For a second, you had to rub away the leftover drowsiness in your eyes until you finally see what he’s holding. Dangling from Mihya’s fingers was a pendant—a small rose cast in dull brass, the chain thin but sturdy. It wasn’t new; the edges were slightly uneven and the metal was scuffed in places. But it caught the morning light like it was made of gold.
“I, uh… got you a gift,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck.
You just blinked at him. “A gift?”
He nodded quickly, the words tumbling over themselves. “I-I didn’t steal it, if that’s what you’re thinking! I swear! The baker lets me help out sometimes and I saved up for it. You said you liked the roses in the flower shop, remember? So I thought…” His voice trailed off, color rising to his cheeks. “Anyway. It’s not fancy or anything, but I paid for it myself…”
For a moment, you couldn’t speak. You just stared at him—the boy who used to run from guards with stolen bread under his arm, now standing in front of you, flustered and proud and trying so hard to be honest. The weight of it all settled behind your ribs, swelling warm and sharp until your vision blurred.
“Mihya,” you managed, and then the tears broke loose.
“Hey, wait—why are you crying? Did I do something wrong?” he asked, panicking a little, half-reaching toward you and half-afraid to.
You shook your head and threw your arms around him before he could retreat. He froze, then awkwardly patted your back as if he wasn’t sure what to do with you. When you finally pulled away, your cheeks were wet and aching from smiling. Mihya cleared his throat before carefully fastening the pendant around your neck until the cool brass pressed softly against your skin.
You touched it gently, a soft smile creeping up on your face.
That morning, with the rising sun spilling through the cracks of your home and Mihya’s hands still trembling against your nape, you decided you liked roses even more than before.
When the day of the banquet comes, the ballroom gleams like the heart of a jewel—glass chandeliers spilling gold across polished marble, a thousand voices weaving into a tapestry of laughter, gossip, and feigned civility. Nobles from every province of Aurelia and beyond crowd beneath the vaulted ceilings, their silks and brocades flashing like a moving constellation.
You’ve seen gatherings like this before. Danced between them even, though not in the way the courtiers did. The last time you moved through a room this grand, you carried poison in a jeweled ring and a dagger hidden in your garter. You remember the feel of sweat slicking your palm as your target raised his goblet, and the quiet certainty that every toast ends the same way: with someone’s pulse going still.
Tonight, however, your hands are clean.
Or at least, they appear to be.
You glide through the sea of bodies with a silver tray balanced on one hand, refilling glasses, exchanging murmured pleasantries with people who’ll forget your face within the hour. The uniform makes it easy to disappear and so does practice. Weeks spent under the palace’s roof have honed your rhythm—one step, one glance, one smile at a time.
Still, it isn’t the nobles that hold your attention tonight.
The hour grows late enough that anticipation trembles through the hall. You feel it in the hush that falls when the orchestra fades, in the ripple of motion as everyone turns toward the grand staircase. The herald’s voice cuts clean through the murmur:
“Announcing His Imperial Majesty—Michael Kaiser of Aurelia.”
Eyes gravitate towards the center of the hall, murmurs of anticipation buzzing about in your ears. But despite weeks of tempering your expectations, the man who steps into the light is nothing like the phantom you’d pieced together in your mind.
He wears imperial regalia as if it were spun for him and him alone; white and gold trimmed with sapphire threads, a mantle of midnight velvet draped across one shoulder. The crown that glints atop his head is modest, yet it catches the light like frost, a cold gleam that seems more fitting than any jeweled diadem.
His hair is long, pale gold fading into deep royal blue at the ends—the colors merging like the last breath of daylight before dusk. When he turns his head, the movement reveals the ink that curls along the line of his throat: a single blue rose, delicate and intricate, blooming just above his pulse. It’s a striking mark against his fair skin, too deliberate to be anything but a declaration. Then there are his eyes; blue in a way that seems almost impossible. They carry the stillness of the sea before a storm, and a beauty so sharp it borders on cruel.
For a heartbeat, the room forgets how to breathe. But the applause starts to swell in rolling, deafening succession. Even the servants pause in their work to strike their palms together in reverence.
Beside him stands the imperial advisor, Noel Noa himself, a living legend of Aurelia’s court and the man responsible for reviving what once was a dead monarchy. Beside the emperor, he stands tall, broad-shouldered, and clearly exasperated. You can see it in the way his gaze flicks toward Kaiser with the weariness of a man who has given up trying to rein in a storm.
“Honored guests,” Kaiser drawls with a voice as smooth as silk and twice as dangerous. “How pleasant to see so many faces still eager to swear loyalty—to power, if not to the man wearing it. Whether it’s faith or fear that brings you here hardly matters. I’ll take both.”
A murmur ripples through the crowd.
The emperor’s grin is effortless, wicked in the way light plays along the angles of his face. “Eat well. Drink deeply,” he says imperiously. “After all, it would be a pity if all this beauty went to waste.”
The nobles laugh though it sounds as though uncertain whether they should. Still, the orchestra stirs again, violins rising like a breath released, and the illusion of merriment returns.
But not for you.
You stand there with a tray poised at your hip, watching him take his place among the council, and something twists beneath your ribs. That face of his, those eyes of endless blue… You’ve seen them before—or at least, something hauntingly close to it.
You blink, forcing yourself back to the present yet the thought lodges anyway.
Why does he look so familiar?
The emperor settles into the throne-like chair at the head of the council’s table, his posture so effortlessly regal that it almost feels mocking. Even seated, he commands the space. The nobles crowd around him like moths to a flame, vying for his attention, their laughter bright and hollow.
Kaiser gives them nothing.
When they speak, he listens the way a cat watches a bird—idly, with the sort of interest that makes you wonder whether it’s curiosity or hunger behind the gaze. Every word he utters lands heavily; every tilt of his head draws the entire room with it. But for all that effortless command, there’s something faintly detached in him, as if this grand spectacle were nothing more than a game he’s already grown tired of winning.
You drift along the outer ring of the ballroom, eyes lowered just enough to feign deference. But your mind is elsewhere—tracing the line of his shoulders, the gleam of his hair, the sharpness of his smile. You know little of the man beneath the crown. Rumors say Noel Noa scoured the empire’s edges to find the late empress’s lost bastard son. Others whisper that the boy had been hidden by loyalists, raised in secrecy until the time was right to reclaim the throne. None of it makes sense.
Yet there he sits, perfectly poised, like a lie that has learned to breathe.
You hate the way he unsettles you. You hate even more that he feels familiar. Somewhere in the back of your brain, the ghost of a memory stirs—half-formed and maddeningly out of reach. You try to wrap your mind around it, but it slips through your grasp like smoke.
But it hardly matters. Your mission remains the same.
You remind yourself that now is not the time to strike. Not in a hall so crowded and with half the empire watching. Even your usual methods are useless here—the champagne flutes are rimmed with alchemical glass, charmed to shimmer red at the faintest trace of poison. Whoever designed this banquet understood paranoia well.
So you lie in tireless wait.
All while you try not to think about how the candlelight glances off Kaiser’s jawline. Or how his derisive laughter carries like velvet drawn across a blade’s edge. From the snatches of conversation you catch as he mingles with other courtiers, you can tell he’s arrogant. But not the kind that comes from birthright or privilege. His is the arrogance of survival—the sort born in fire and sharpened on loss. He speaks like a man who’s seen death and learned how to make it listen.
You’re studying him so closely that you almost don’t notice the movement cutting across your path—until a firm shoulder clips yours, jolting the tray in your hands. The champagne flutes tremble, liquid catching the light before settling again.
“Ah, my apologies,” you murmur quickly.
The man you’ve collided with doesn’t step back. His deep brown hair fades into mauve at the tips, catching the light like bruised wine; his eyes at ease but assessing. Alexis Ness. You recognize him instantly.
“It’s quite all right,” he tells you with a soft smile. “You should be more careful, though. Wouldn’t want to draw unnecessary attention.”
You bow your head. “Of course, my lord.”
Ness doesn’t move. For a beat too long, his eyes hold yours in a way a nobleman has no business doing to some lowly servant. Before you can think much of it, he steps aside with a faint, courtly gesture that feels like dismissal.
You retreat with practiced ease, heart steady even as your thoughts twist tight. That wasn’t an accident. You know the rhythm of crowds, and the weight of movement all around you. Years of slipping through shadows have trained your senses to catch the smallest shifts, and you would have avoided him easily if he hadn’t meant for it to happen.
Alexis Ness. A new variable. A threat you’ll need to account for.
You return to the edges of the ballroom, slipping back into anonymity just as the orchestra swells again. The dance resumes. The laughter rises. But your gaze catches one last time on the figure once again seated at the head of the room.
Michael Kaiser leans back in his chair, the faintest smile playing at the corner of his mouth as though he knows something no one else does. For the briefest moment, before you force yourself to look away, you swear his eyes flicker toward you through the crowd.
Blue meeting yours.
As cold as a blade, and just as familiar.
Today was Mihya’s birthday.
You’ve been saving for weeks. Every spare coin from selling pressed flowers and ribbons at the market was tucked away. Every flash of his face when he sees the cake you’ll be giving haunted your thoughts. It wasn’t much, but it’s more than you’ve ever been able to give him before.
Your mother hummed by the stove as you tied your shawl around your shoulders, the room thick with the smell of stew and warm bread. She smiled hesitantly when you told her where you’re going, and reminded you to be careful. People from your part of town weren’t always welcome where the streets are clean.
The walk to the patisserie took you past the edge of the slums, where cobblestone replaced dirt and the air smelled faintly of lilacs instead of smoke. You half expected to be turned away at the door, to have the shopkeeper’s eyes flick down to your worn shoes and patched skirt before telling you they’re out of stock. But the woman behind the counter only greeted you with a gentle smile. She let you pick the smallest cake in the display—a single layer brushed with chocolate glaze and threw in a tiny blue candle with your purchase.
“Whoever it’s for,” she said as she wrapped the box in brown paper, “they must be someone very dear to you.”
You blushed, thinking of Mihya’s crooked grin, the way his eyes lit up when he talked about wanting to see the world beyond the slums. You paid with trembling fingers and thanked her before hurrying out, clutching the cake box close to your chest.
The streets grew rougher as you walked back home, the scent of lilacs fading into soot and rain. Still, your heart felt light. It will be the first of Mihya’s birthdays you’ll celebrate together, and you promised yourself it wouldn’t be the last.
You toyed with the small pendant he’d given you weeks ago, smiling to yourself as you turned the corner toward home—
—and that’s when you heard the first scream.
At first, it didn’t register. The market was always loud; vendors arguing, children running, carts clattering down uneven roads. But this sound was different. It tore through the air like metal splitting apart. Then came another scream, and another, until the noise rose into a chorus that turned your blood to ice.
You lifted your head. Smoke was already rising in the distance—dark and thick, curling against the pale morning sky. For a heartbeat you just stood there, frozen in the street as you clutched the cake box so tight the paper begins to crumple. But the instinct that something is dreadfully wrong takes over. You bolted before your mind could catch up.
The closer you got, the worse it became. People were shouting and shoving and spilling from the narrow alleys with soot on their faces. A mother stumbled past, dragging her child by the arm. A man was on his knees trying to smother a fire with his coat. The air reeked of burning wood and something else.
Your lungs seized with every breath.
By the time you reached your street, the world was already an inferno. Homes you’ve known your whole life were split open, flames climbing the walls faster than you can blink. Roofs caved in with groans that sounded like dying beasts. The sky was a furious red, and you dropped the cake without realizing it, the box tumbling into the dirt.
“Mother!” you called out, stumbling toward your door. It’s already burning.
You crashed through the threshold as your eyes stung and smoke clawed its way down your throat. The room glowed orange with heat, every surface alive and shuddering. “Mother!” you cry again, louder this time, until your voice broke with desperation.
There by the hearth, you caught a glimpse.
You saw her hand first, limp beneath the beam that’s fallen from the ceiling. For a moment, your mind refused to understand what your eyes were seeing. You crawled toward her to keep your head as low as possible, dragging yourself through the heat and smoke and ash.
“Mama—please, wake up,” you whispered as you gripped her arm to shake her awake but she wouldn’t move. She’s too still. Too heavy.
You tried to lift the beam, dug your nails into it until your hands bled, but it wouldn’t budge with your measly strength. The fire roared around you, greedy and endless as the smoke started to fill your lungs. Eventually, your body started to tremble from exhaustion. You couldn’t breathe. The heat bit at your skin, licking up your arms like it meant to swallow you whole. When you finally collapsed beside her, your tears evaporated before they could even fall.
Outside, the shouting started to fade into white noise. The world narrowed into the sound of your own breathing, ragged and uneven. With what little strength you could still muster, you reached for the pendant at your throat, clutching it as tightly as you could. Mihya’s face flickered in your mind—his sun-warmed hair, the easy smile that always reached his blue eyes. You wanted this day to be perfect for him.
You never even got to tell him happy birthday.
The simmering heat began to fold around you, lulling you into its encompassing embrace. Your eyes drifted shut. For a moment, you imagined Mihya standing in the sunlight, alive and untouched by the ruin spreading through your world.
When you opened them again, everything was quiet. The flames were gone. Smoke and ash curled through the air as it drifted over the blackened remains of your home.
A figure moved silently through the haze.
He stopped a few paces away, tall and straight-backed, his silhouette framed by the dying light. The glint of spectacles caught your eye first, then the faint reflection of firelight in his blank gaze. He studied you for a long time, his posture calm in a way that felt deeply unnerving.
“Still breathing,” he murmured. “What a fortunate little bird you are.”
You tried to speak—to ask who he was, what had happened—but the words caught in your throat. The edges of the world wavered. The smell of smoke began to fade. His shadow fell over your form before you felt the faint brush of a hand against your temple.
Your body seemed weightless and untethered, as though the ground had slipped away. For a brief, dizzy moment, you thought you were being lifted into the sky; ashes swirling around your limbs, the ruins of your home shrinking beneath you.
The darkness then claimed you in its quiet embrace, soft and absolute.
The banquet’s end is a slow tide.
Voices start to thin as attendants shepherd the last of the guests toward carriage doors and lantern-lit porches. You slip away while the hall still burns with leftover laughter, moving like water through people who have already been taught to ignore you.
On the way to the northern wing you remove only what you must. Two guards on the corridor are knocked into a sleep that looks like drunkenness; another pair stationed near the service stairs are eased into a ditch with a careful twist of bones and knuckles. You take no liberties. You disable the ones who would block the route you’ve rehearsed a thousand times, leaving others intact so the palace won’t suspect a breach—just a small, plausible gap.
Approaching the emperor’s wing, you keep to the shadows. You know which torch sputters in the wind, which tiles throw back a footstep slower than the rest. You have walked this hall in daylight and darkness until every notch and groove in the wood has a name in your head.
You pause before the door you have passed a dozen times. It should be secured; it has always been. The palace keeps its crown wrapped in secrets like a sleeping thing. But you find that the latch is loose. When you press your palm to the wood it gives, just enough for your fingers to slip through.
A warning ticks somewhere in your chest. Kaiser is never careless. Guards do not forget their stations. The palace does not leave its emperor exposed. You’ve read men’s mistakes before, sensed the rotten joints in others’ plans, and you know attrition when you see it. But the gap is precisely the sort of impossible opening that has ended lives in other halls.
Without questioning it, you slip inside.
Darkness engulfs you immediately. The emperor’s private chamber is larger than the rooms you clean; softer light pools at the far end where a desk waits beneath a silvered mirror. A faint perfume hints someone has been here recently. You close the door behind you and let the latch fall, and the silence that lingers is absolute.
Now the real work begins: the waiting.
You sink into a shadow at the foot of a chaise, a dagger pressed flat along your thigh under your skirts. Time moves differently in such darkness. It lengthens and thins, becoming a private thing you can shape. You count heartbeats to keep from listening to your own thoughts. Ego taught you patience as well as knives; a blade is only useful when the hand that wields it is calm. You breathe slowly until your pulse is a metronome rather than a drum.
Minutes become hours. Your shoulders grow cramped. Your jaw aches from holding it closed. You thread your focus through a narrow hole: the sound of passing boots, the faint creak where a floorboard dips, and the echo of voices trickling down the corridor. You do not move. You will not move until the shape you are hunting returns.
At some point the conversation outside becomes closer, folding into the frame of the door. Ness’s voice bounces off the panels. Noa’s exasperation follows like an afternote. You press deeper into the shadows, willing your skin to cool, your breath to vanish.
“Kaiser,” Ness scolds. “You embarrassed us in more ways than one tonight. You need to control yourself better in public.”
A soft, bored laugh answers, the kind of sound that can come only from someone who has never truly feared consequences. “We all know that sad excuse of a banquet was all for show,” Kaiser scoffs. “Let them take offense. They needed reminding that the crown still has teeth.”
Ness’s reply is a sigh edged in warning. “Whatever you say, Your Highness. Good night.”
The door shuts with a soft, final click; you feel the exhale in your ribs. Footsteps fade, then the room's hush folds in on itself. A moment later, a lighter flicks by the desk; a candle flares, then another, the candelabra’s warm tongues spilling out to paint the room in slow gold. You watch the play of flames across the desk, cataloging reflections, rhythms, and the way his silhouette will read when he removes his outer layers.
His crown is tossed carelessly onto his desk, and you watch as his outer garments fall in silence, forming a pale scatter across the floor. The sight irons something taut inside you: a man who sheds splendor with the same ease he wears it. Just like those serpents who once hid within the reeds by the slums. Kaiser moves toward the vanity, strips his tunic, and for the first time you see the pale sweep of skin and ink.
The tattoo is a ribbon of a blue rose and thorned vines that begins at the hollow of his throat and winds down his arm in a dark, meticulous spray. The ink is beautiful, almost obsessive in its detail, curling into a tiny crown inscribed on the back of his hand. For the briefest moment, you pull yourself back: distraction is a luxury you cannot afford.
He sheds the last of his clothes and stands in the dim room, unadorned and very real. The only sounds are his measured breathing and the crackle of flames on the candelabra.
You rise quietly. The blade slips free in your hand. You close the gap in two feather-light movements, a hand on the small of his waist as you pass, the other bringing the cold bite of steel across his throat.
For a heartbeat, it is as practiced as every rehearsal you’ve ever done: steel to skin, the soft little staccato of a plan executed. Your breath fogs the skin at his neck. Your hand remembers the exact pressure that will cleave life from a human body.
But then your world tilts off its axis.
Kaiser is not slow. He is not unfamiliar with blades. His reflex arrives like a thought of its own. The hand that had been poised at the desk is suddenly at your wrist, his palm closing with the kind of strength you have only felt from men twice as broad. Before your dagger can find the cleanest arc, he has forced your back against the wall—your throat crushed in a grip that is casual in its brutality. The curtain to your demise starts to fall as he squeezes the air from your windpipe.
“Bold,” he murmurs. “So very bold.”
You have no room to answer. Your training, your breath control, the whole of your career—everything funnels into one narrow point: the knowledge that you almost had him and the shock of how completely fast he was.
You twist in his grip, trying to wrench him loose, and with your other leg, you drive your heel hard into his shin. Kaiser flinches, but only enough for a twitch; his smile stays, slow and smug, as if you are an amusing child poking at a caged beast.
Fear starts to slice through you, but you have always known how to anchor yourself in a moment when the body wants to panic. You breathe shallowly, count in your head, find the small, steady rhythm Ego had carved into you. Find a fulcrum. Find a micro-movement.
Break the pattern.
You drive your knee up again, harder. Something cracks under the contact—maybe a breath, maybe a rib; you don’t have the luxury to make sure. Kaiser hisses, and in that flicker of surprise you find your opening. You twist your wrist, drive the dagger into the soft joint at the base of his thumb where leather yields to flesh. He snarls, and his hold loosens just enough for you to wrench your arm out.
You shove with everything left in you to create space, trying to scramble back and draw the blade free. Momentum carries both of you off balance: he staggers, you pivot, and the two of you crash to the floor. But before you can leverage the tumble to your favor, his knee plants hard against your thigh, pinning you beneath him.
Kaiser’s lips then bow into a smirk. He leans in so close your breath fogs the skin of his jaw.
“Tell me, who sent you?” he murmurs. “Who thought the palace’s bedchambers were a suitable grave?”
Your vision is blurred at the edges; your heart slamming like an animal trying to escape its cage. Naming Ego would be death immediate and not the kind you can bargain with. Tasting bile in your mouth, it’s the first time in a long time you felt a child’s cold terror: the sort that had lived in the alleys, that had watched roofs fall and mothers die.
Kaiser’s fingers curl around your wrist, his weight pressing you down so you can’t rise. The self-satisfied smirk that curls across his lips tells you he has more to say, but something in his expression falters in the next second. You can feel the infinitesimal slack in his grip, the tiny unraveling of the moment you’d expected to be the end of everything.
His eyes are on the brass rose pendant on your throat.
Then he leans closer, and the cruelty you read in his gaze a heartbeat before blunts into something else you do not have a word for. Kaiser then whispers a name that has you unraveling at the seams in a mere second.
Memories unspool all at once: smoke-choked alleys, the hiss of reeds, a boy with hair like spun gold and eyes the color of deepwater glass. The face you kept in a pocket of your heart, the one you told yourself was nothing but ash after the slums burned—he stands before you, ringed in candlelight as he calls you by the name that belonged to a life that no longer exists.
No… It couldn’t be.
Mihya—your Mihya—could not be the man who wears the empire like a second skin. The boy you thought had been buried in the ruins of your home could not be breathing in front of you, laced with tattoos and iron and enthroned cruelty.
Shock is dangerous; you know that better than most. It steals momentum, it brings forth hesitation. But it also births an opportunity when the other is unready for the truth.
Kaiser’s eyes find yours again, and for the briefest instant they are not the cold, imperial blue you have catalogued from a distance but the same endless summer sky you remember from your childhood. Bewilderment flashes across his face, only barely masked by the careful stillness of his authority.
You use that moment to make your escape.
You shove him away, using the small burst of surprise like a lever. Your shoulder blasts his chest and he yields and stumbles too easily. You wrench free and snatch the dagger you planted at your hip. Kaiser recovers faster than you imagine, annoyingly so. His hand closes on your wrist with the old, iron certainty and in his eyes dance a million questions you do not know how to answer.
You do the one thing practice makes possible: you exploit chaos. You swipe the candelabra off his desk, sending flames skittering to the side, and in the flare of light you throw your weight toward the nearest window. It gives with a shriek, and you crash through it, as the shards split around you like rain.
The hedges you had once convinced the gardeners to plant for practicality’s sake take the brunt of your fall. Thorns snag your skirt; the soft earth breathes against your ribs. For a dizzy, glorious moment you taste freedom—dirt and rain and the cold rush of night air. Behind you, the sound of the chamber changes from a surprised shout to a single, furious curse.
You do not look back.
Your feet find familiar paths; you run through the western gardens where you have spent hours sweeping leaves and mapping escape routes. Lantern light fractures across hedgerows, and for a pulse you can see the palace receding. Your lungs burn. Your throat tastes like metal and smoke. You let the pendant swing against your breast; the brass rose is hot with your skin.
In the dark, it feels like the last honest thing you still own.
According to the man who took you in, the slums had been burned to the ground.
No one survived. No one except you.
He said it plainly, without cruelty or comfort, as though he was commenting about the weather. You sat there on the cold wooden floor of his study, legs drawn tight to your chest as you watched the dirt crumble from your fingernails. You had not spoken in days. When you tried, your throat still tasted of smoke.
The man—who you learned was called Ego—took you to the main district of the capital. Its air smelled of iron and rain, not rot and riverwater. People here did not shout to be heard. They spoke softly, as if the world always listened. You hated that quiet. It reminded you of the moment after the screaming stopped.
Ego did not ask for your name. He only gave you food and a cot in the corner, among shelves lined with glass and steel. At night, when sleep would not come, you watched him move about the room with measured hands, sharpening blades that reflected no light. The sound of metal against stone became your lullaby, your proof that you still existed.
Days passed before he finally spoke to you again.
“Do you remember what I called you the night I found you?” he asked, not looking up from his workbench.
You shook your head.
“A bird,” he said plainly. “A small, half-dead thing still trying to fly.”
You said nothing. You remembered the poor sparrow you found injured by the roadside. You remembered how you failed to save its life, and how you returned it to the earth with your own two hands. It made you wonder if this man was doing the same thing for you, too.
Ego finally turned to you, spectacles gleaming in the early morning light. “A name is only useful if it serves its purpose. The one you had before doesn’t anymore.”
A soft flutter intruded on the conversation.
Both of you turned as a sparrow had landed on the open windowsill. Its feathers were smudged with dust, its song thin and reedy as it tilted its head toward the two of you. You watched it hop closer along the frame, wings trembling as if uncertain whether to leave or stay.
Ego’s voice cut through the haze. “What name would you take, then?”
You hesitated. You didn’t know why he asked. Maybe it was a test; maybe it was mercy disguised as indifference. You looked at the bird again—at the way it tilted its head and let out one sharp chirp, like it had decided something for you.
“Sparrow.”
Ego studied you for a long moment, then gave a quiet hum of approval. The sparrow fluttered once, twice, then lifted back into the pale morning air—its shadow sweeping briefly across your face before it disappeared into the sky.
“Then Sparrow you shall be,” he said before turning back to scrape his blade against the whetting stone. “Let’s see if you can still learn to fly.”
That was the day your old name burned for good, carried away on wings wrought in ashes and the faint morning dew.
You did not know if you deserve it, but it was all you could hold on to.
✦ afterword. this was originally going to be written as a full oneshot, but the format of the storytelling kind of made me think that it would be better to section it into threes. (it kinda sounds silly in my head HAHA the sparrow, the snake, and the sun is giving: the lion, the witch, and the wardrobe LOL) that, and i really just needed to get this kaiser rabies out of my system before i go ahead and move on with my life for a few more days before i go back to the endless writing psychosis this man has put me in :/ not a lot of in-depth notes for this yet, i think everything is pretty straightforward so far. but i'd love to hear your thoughts for this piece anyway! i put soooo much thought into it like . against my will HAH. thank you for reading, and see you in part two!
synopsis: With the death of the late marquess, Kaiser finds himself falling into his father's role. Kaiser is many things, but responsible is not one of them. He must take on this season alone. He needs an escape, a sate haven, something to tide him over so he survives the season. That would be you, unfortunately.
It has been but only a few days since the season began, and there is already a swarm of young ladies in pursuit of the new Marquess. It has become increasingly apparent that he has his pick of the litter, leaving the other gentlemen of the ton to hope he secures a match soon to leave some for the rest of them.
However, for the most eligible bachelor of the season, he appears to be all but satisfied. His endless selection of debutantes does not compare to the supply of liquor from the bar he frequents quite so often. It truly leaves us to wonder if the source of his cold demeanor and lack of speech is related to the contents of a bottle, perhaps. Or is he simply infuriated that he is receiving the same treatment the ladies of the ton have endured for years?
Poor sweet Marquess, do not crumble under the pressure. You shall find your bride.
Lady Whistledown’s Society Papers.
“I do not believe I can read another word of this.” Laurence wrinkles his nose at the gossip column. He’s leaned against the table in the entryway to your home, his sleeves rolled up. Beside him stands Victor, partially amused as he holds up the scandal sheet.
“It is because you sympathize with a fellow drunkard.”
“That was unnecessary.” The younger of the two quips. You watch the interaction as you silently descend the stairs. It is a fair morning, and the windows open wide to allow in the sweet spring air. Sunlight filtered in and illuminated the room in a natural glow.
“What was it you said just the other day, Victor?” your words cause his eyes to flicker up towards you, eyes wide. “About the scandal sheets withering our brains away?” You cross the room, hoping to get a glimpse of the sheet. Laurence stifles a laugh and Victor sighs, shaking his head.
“We simply feel empathy for the Marquess Kaiser, this woman has shown him no mercy.” Victor smacks the sheet with the back of his hand before passing it off to you. Your eyes flit over the words, skimming over the important parts while ignoring the rest.
“So he is a brute, a drunkard, and miserable? He is a man of many talents,” You muse as your voice borders a laugh. You feel a pang of sympathy though nothing more, he is not your business so why should you dwell on such meaningless things? Laurence follows you to the drawing room. Lainie and Lucia playing some game with marbles on the floor, and your father’s lanky figure rests on the sofa. His gaze turns to you, work weary and aged.
“Father,” you greet him. The scandal sheet rested behind your back. He’s never been fond of things of that nature. He gives you a small nod, regarding you and Laurence before you join him on the sofa adjacent. The couch is positioned against the wall, the light from the window beaming down against you. A warm flutter coursing through you.
“You have a vacancy in your schedule?” Laurence chirps beside you. Your father nods.
“For the races, I have never missed a race, not since I was a boy.” He sighs, flicking through a paper as opposed to the gossip column placed beneath your rear on the couch.
“I forgot that was today.” Lucia chimes in from her spot on the floor beside Lainie. Every year the race is one of your family's biggest events, and since your father makes a big deal out of it you all do as well. Although you’re not quite so outgoing as the rest of them. Neither is Lucia, ever since she became serious about being perceived as more ladylike she stopped her loud cheering and throwing her fist in the air. No one remembers her as an outgoing girl, just a prim and proper lady. Only you have the luxury of your sister scolding you for the most ridiculous of things, or watching her boss around the staff and then thanking them with grand gestures later on.
“We should get ready soon, then. It’s another appearance as women, no longer just an outing for us.” You meet Lucia’s gaze. She composes herself with a nod and rises to her feet, Lenore moving in to clean the marbles off the floor as Lainie follows her around.
“Oh, I got us hats.” Lucia leans over the armrest to throw her arms around you.
“Hats?”
“Yes, I was out with Mama and I got us the prettiest of hats. I promise they’re much more tame than the rest of the ones we see sported at the races.” She beams excitedly, your father sighing and slumping on the couch. You pat your sister’s arm with a sigh.
“So you mean I won’t get to look like a peacock?” You quip sarcastically. She pinches your arm, earning a wince.
“Don’t be smart.” She orders you before heading out of the room. From your peripheral Laurence is mocking her, moving his lips and cocking his head to each side. You sigh in response.
–
You turn the hat over in your hands, standing alone in your room as Lenore adds the last touches to your dress for the races. More fitted than those you’d wear to a ball or soiree. The color was rich and fitted for spring, once again pumping up your bosom just enough to where it was appropriate for a Lady of your standing.
“May I,” Lenore gestures for the hat. A dainty hand reaching for it. If she had been so lucky she would’ve made the most proper of ladies. You nod, passing it off to her with a smile.
“Thank you, Lenore.” She smiles at the praise and begins to adjust the hat to your head. A simple design, cream colored with a sash across the center that matched the fabric of your dress and a flower made of tulle to the right. It was perfect for keeping the sun out of your eyes. Of unique fashion, but simple and elegant.
“I’ve never been one for hats,” You admit as you watch her secure the hat atop your head. Her lips quirked into a smile as she studied you in the mirror, carefully adjusting the flower on the hat to appear more pronounced.
“It flatters you, Miss.” She speaks softly before kneeling, smoothing out the bottom of your dress. You watch, a small smile creeping onto your lips.
“Thank you, Lenore.” She gives a nod of gratitude before sending you on your way.
You join your family downstairs, waiting on your father as you’re all gathered in the foyer. Victor and Laurence talking in front of the door, your mother fanning yourself. Lainie approaches you, giddy, Lucia trailing behind her.
“We all have hats!” Lainie beams up at you, a soft pink-colored hat on her head. It’s not functional, small, and clipped into her hair as it rests to the side of her head partially, tulle dangling off the side.
“And to think you didn’t like tulle,” You say as you kneel, her hands finding yours. She giggles and glances up to Lucia.
“Made an exception. But just this once.” Lainie says matter-of-factly. Lucia’s lip quirks, amused. Lucia’s hat is of a similar fashion to the one she gave you, though white with a patterned sash around the top. From what you can see the colors are a blend of teal, white and pink.
A crescendo of footsteps from behind you catches your attention. You rise to your feet as you see your father’s form emerge from his office. His hands smooth down his stiff black pants as he looks at your mother.
At that you all make your way to the carriage, managing to cram into the smaller space. You’re smooshed between your brothers, Victor holding Lainie in his lap as she babbles about something you can’t hear over the sound of the horse pulling the carriage along the clicky cobblestone road. Lucia sitting between your parents, tapping her foot against yours every so often to snag your attention away from the outside.
–
Upon arrival Lainie is glued to your side, walking beside you as you’re escorted by Laurence. Your mother and Lucia are escorted by your father and Victor. Everyone is dressed similarly, dawning the colors of spring and floral detailing. Lucia glances at you as you pass by a woman with a hat with extravagant feathers on it. Butter yellow with accents of daisies. You stifle a laugh, biting the inside of your cheek and lowering your gaze.
Around you, various Lords and Ladies of the ton intermingle in a sea of spring colors and delicate parasols. Your brother observes, grinning before leaning down into your ear.
“Porsha Certainly makes her presence known,” You wrinkle your nose as his booze-tainted breath tickles your ear, though fail to resist the urge to follow his gaze, Her hair is done up elaborately, a strange hat with a ribbon tied into it. However, your attention is snagged by an extraneous force, the man she’s conversing with. Two other young ladies are encircling him–Oh, the Marquess. You stifle a laugh, a gloved hand hovering above your freshly glossed lips.
“Ah, so she’s found her prey.” Laurence’s voice comes through quiet and woven with mockery. You smirk, watching the girl fan herself, casting a calculating gaze onto the man she is attempting to woo.
“Her eyes look threatening,” You mutter to your brother as the two of you slow your paces like the gossip-engrossed siblings you are. Lainie stands beside you, blissfully unaware. He snickers at your comment and looks ahead. He says something but his words turn to a blur as you’re met with a set of cold blue eyes.
Across the field where Porsha is putting herself on display, the man before her is looking directly at you. You urge yourself to look away, feeling the sweat accumulate in your hairline. The soft breeze futile to cool your nerves. His gaze narrows slightly. By some chance, your brother does not notice the sudden war of eyes between you and him, the Marquess seeming to challenge you silently. His hair was drawn back into a small ponytail at the base of his neck, blonde still framing his face, strands too short to reach the hairstyle.
He is dressed once again in blue and black, light blues as opposed to the royal blue he dawned the night of the first ball. The black collar was high, if not for his long neck he would’ve looked a fool. And a pair of black gloves once again. Most gentlemen of the ton did not wear gloves if they did not need them, and once again–it was most common to adorn white gloves.
You avert your gaze, your heart racing as you feel the heat rise to your cheeks, blushing indefinitely. You’ve never been stared at in that way, fighting the crease forming in your brow. Lainie tugs your dress, and you snap your attention to her. She is pointing outward, and you follow her little finger.
“The weather is quite lovely,” a voice emerges from your side. Lainie’s hand falls at her side as the man approaches the three of you. You feel your brother’s shoulders square, his arm still hooked through yours.
“Lord Luna! Pleasant to see you,” Laurence whirls the two of you around to face the blonde approaching. He was the first to have approached you at that first ball, you hadn’t seen him after that–a rather slow start to this season if you may. He greets your little sister and then you, gaze lingering on you before flickering back to your brother with that friendly smile. His smile was almost coy.
“I was hoping to be properly introduced today,” He states sweetly “To your sister?” he proposes as he slowly glances back at you. Your heart involuntarily races at the sudden attention. However, it is what you are trained for. Laurence seems to grin, patting your arm gently.
“Ah, yes! My younger sister.” He chirps before chuckling “You two met at the Duke’s ball, correct?” Your brother thankfully has the respect to turn his gaze to you. You nod, regarding Lord Luna.
“We did, I did not expect you to be quite the dancer, My lord.” You humor him, earning a small chuckle. Truth is, he’s one of the suspects who stepped on your foot.
“I did what I could to keep up with you, Miss,” he says. Your brother releases your arm from his before you hook your free hand through Luna’s. Your gaze goes to Lainie who’s now hooked to your brother’s pant leg–gazing up at you starry-eyed. You give a small wave to her before turning around and accompanying Lord Luna. A small, pleasant smile on his face.
“Are you a fan of the races?” You speak first as the two of you walk and bask in the sunlight and stares you receive from the nosy mamas of the ton.
“It is newer to me,” he admits as you feel his eyes wander to you. “This wasn’t common in Madrid, or at least I wasn’t aware of it. I spent most of my time abroad.” His voice is soft, his accent thick and oddly friendly. You nod as he speaks, a smile on your lips as you gaze at the ton.
“What about you? Now I don’t mean to pry, but it is rare to see the Baron out at such events.” He lowers his voice and turns to you. A smirk crosses your lips as you look back over to him.
“My family has attended these races for years now. My father will attend only the important events–and then this. This is Lainie’s first year too.” He nods as you speak, a good listener, perhaps? He is a good prospect–but you must explore your options, as you’re sure he has done.
“Your family must be close then, yes?”
“Very,” you say, amused by memories of your family only you will get to cherish. He laughs softly.
People slowly began to make their way to the stands to secure their spots, the two of you silently following the crowd. He gently guides you through, leading you to a spot towards the center. A spot that grants you a view of the race track, a smile on your face as you see the horse's heads from their stations, each wearing a sheet of cloth over their faces, colored in the fashion of their racers with holes for their eyes.
“We got lucky,” He leans over to you, chuckling as the rest of the seats fill in quickly. You look around, meeting Lucia’s gaze. Your father secured a spot to the far right as always to oversee the start and end of the race. She gives you a smirk before looking back out at the track.
“We did,” you reply, hands folded in front of your skirt as you squint your eyes out at the track as some man starts to make incoherent announcements, earning some giggles from you and Lord Luna.
You find yourself searching the crowd. So far, you’ve spotted the Duke and Duchess. To no surprise, all who accompanied them was their youngest, Nora. You spot Porsha, who seems to have noticed you too. Despite sitting in a lower section, she seems to stare down at you before whipping her head around. Maybe she’s in a foul mood because she failed to secure the Marquess? You ought to be delusional to believe you can secure a man like that, and so early on? You find yourself looking for the blonde man, curious as to where he chose to sit.
You'd spot him, his sharp side profile overlooking the race track. His gaze however exuded distaste. His posture was stiff as some girl beside him made her advances, gently fanning herself. You watch the curls on the back of her head bounce as she turns from him to the track.
“The Marquess makes his appearance once again,” Lord Luna seems to detect your attention. You swiftly look back at him, heat rising to your cheeks.
“My apologies,” You mutter, fearful you may have offended him. He merely chuckles.
“Are not necessary.” He completes your sentence for you. “He is a peculiar one. Has he called upon you?” He inquires with genuine curiosity. Your lips set into a line and you shake your head.
“No, we were introduced at the ball. I’m the daughter of the Baron so, I was naturally a victim–” You joke. He fails to stifle a laugh, a pleasant sound from a pleasant man.
“He is the talk of the ton, so it seems.” He remarked. A hum escapes you, your attentions wandering back to the Marquess for a moment.
“It seems so.” your eyes are drawn back to the green ones beside you, a gentle smile on your lips.
There is the pop of a gun and a crescendo of stampeding hooves against dry earth. Around you, gentlemen and ladies cheer. For you thankfully, Lord Luna is not as boisterous as your father and brother’s, sparing you from another year of temporary deafness. From where you sat, you hear the baron’s deep voice cheer on whatever horse he chooses to root for until the very end. You hear your brothers carry on that same deep tone they inherited from your father.
“Look at them go,” Luna claps his hands, a proud grin encompassing his expression. He looks at you, and you smile at that, nodding before clapping your own hands as the first lap comes to a close. A large gap between the two horses in the lead and the other three leading behind.
“It’s almost unfair to the other three.” You note, snickering. You’re well aware your father is cheering for the one behind the lead as his voice carries even further than before.
“Goodness, is that the Baron?” Luna snickers as he looks in the direction of your father. You avert your gaze, cheeks hot with embarrassment as you nod.
“Yes, that is. And he will only get louder.” You lean into his ear, a warning. This earns another laugh from him.
“His energy is remarkable!” He beams back at you. You look away again with a small sigh, eyes slowly roaming over the crowd. Your eyes suddenly lock on the Marquess. The girl he’s with clinging to him as he attempts to pull away. His hand swats her off, though thanks to the energy of the crowd they go mostly unnoticed. Irritation bubbles in your chest as you watch him storm off, hands clamped tightly over his ears as his shoulders hunched.
And that’s when you recognize her, Anastasia Baker. She is a friend of your sister’s, the girl leaves sobbing. Her shoulders shaking and her hands cupped over her face as she disappeared in another direction.
“That vile man!–” You mumble under your breath. Oh, how you sound like your father. No, worse–victor!
“Excuse me, I just need a moment of fresh air,” You excuse yourself. Lord Luna’s brow rose slightly.
“Would you like my company?” He offers and you shake your head no, declining as politely as possible.
“I shall be but a moment; I wouldn’t want us to lose our seats, " you say, giving a gentle smile. He shrugs and nods. With that, you weave through the stands swiftly, greeting those who recognize you with a fleeting smile and bow of your head before you hurry off to find Ana.
She was a close friend of Lucia’s, a sweet and impressionable girl you adored as if she were a little sister. She’s not of noble standing, and her family is not quite so known either so to find prospects is hard, it is a miracle she even spoke to the Marquess, much less attended the races with him. You were fuming, face so hot steam may as well have puffed out of your ears.
The field behind the stands is more vacant, with only a few lords and ladies disinterested in the races mingling over a floral lemonade. You compose yourself, avoiding any further attention on you as you begin to look around, a smile on your face as you maintain a composed facade, no matter how hard that may be with the frustration that threatened to wrinkle your brow.
Your search is futile, wandering around aimlessly with a strained smile on your face every time you’re pulled into aimless conversation.
Across from you is a small plot of woods, a cluster of trees surrounded by meticulously trimmed bushes, the perfect ratio of shade and sunlight. You approach the shade, though stop in your tracks as you stand before one of the bushes, behind the bush in the soft green grass is a figure sitting–hunched over and rocking side to side. The Marquess. Black gloves digging into blonde locks of hair. Your eyes narrow to slits.
“My Lord, fancy seeing you out here.” You sneer, watching his head spin around as if knocked off its axis.
“You–” He stammers. Was he drunk? He seems it. His hair was disheveled, sweat glistening on his skin, and a twitch in his brow. His breathing was erratic. “You shouldn’t be here. Go, be gone with you–” He swishes you off with his hand before turning away. You feel the heat rise to your face at the gesture, one of disrespect. Could he truly be this discourteous?
“Have you no manners?” You quip. He hisses through clenched teeth, rocking back and forth and shaking his head.
“I said go,” His voice trails off into a wheeze and he draws in a sharp breath “Leave me-” His voice remains strained. Your shoulders relax as you finally evaluate his state. He’s sweating, rocking back and forth like a madman with gloved hands clinging to blonde hair. He breathes as if someone has knocked the wind from his lungs.
“It is but- but a moment of weakness!”
“My Lord,” You begin softly
“Leave.” He demands. Something was wrong, very wrong. You look around, thankfully shielded by vendors and scattered trees. You squeeze your way between the bushes, mumbling under your breath as you tug the fabric of your dress through the bushes.to your luck, there were no holes, only a few blades of grass and pricks of the bush that clung to the fabric.
“You’re sweating. Please, take this at least?” You offer him your lemonade, a flower petal circling the top. You leave him no room for refusal. A gruff sound escapes him as he accepts the lemonade, taking a slow sip of it. His gaze is low, but you can see the sweat that drips from his chin. “Should I go find someone, My Lord?” You ask and kneel on the grass, smoothing out the fabric of your dress as you watch him. He shakes his head.
“No, Please, anything but that.” His voice trembles, as if he is going to burst into laughter. You watch the muscles in his jaw tense and relax like a reflex. There’s a long silence between the two of you. The occasional shaky breath slips past his quivering lips after he takes a sip of the lemonade.
“Are you injured?” To this he scoffs, laughing as he finally lifts his head to meet your gaze, eyes bloodshot but there are no tears, sweat cascading down his cheek before beading off of his chin.
“I said go.” His nostrils flared and he shot a hostile glare in your direction. His body language conveys a message akin to an abused street dog. His voice a deep rumble, he had given you an order. Your brows draw together and you step back. Did Anastasia say something to him? Was it the races? Alcohol? You’re not familiar with this, seeing such a proud man crumbling like this. A Noble no less.
Before you can speak another word there is a rustling in the bushes. A footman dressed in blue parting the bushes with his hands.
“My Lady,” He stammers as if shocked to see you. You feel your temperature rise at the realization of your isolation with the marquess. Unchaperoned.
“He needs medical attention–” You exhale and the Footman approaches the man on the floor, receiving a few swats from a gloved hand. The footman then looks back at you.
“It is quite alright, Please, My lady–return to the races.” He ushes you, quickly beginning to undo the collar of the Marquess’s shirt. You hold your tongue, pivoting on your heel and hoisting the fabric of your gown up so it does not snag on the bushes as you shift between the plants. The faint mumble and argument fade away behind you as you reappear in the open, smoothing out any wrinkles in your gown and brushing off stray blades of grass. The distant sound of cheers and roars of the crowd flooding your senses as you rejoin the festivities.
“My Lady,” A call comes from your right. Lord Luna. You compose yourself, a soft smile finding its way to your lips as you bow your head regarding the man.
“My Lord.” He eyes you skeptically, a crease in his brow in minor confusion. He simply sighs.
“I was starting to worry, wondering if I should send out a search party.” Humor laced in his tone. You return a soft laugh, shaking your head.
“Ah, that won’t be necessary. I apologize, I found myself sidetracked with the vendors.” Your lips set into a line as your gaze drops to the floor for a moment. “I did see the most enticing stand of lemonade, infused with flower teas. I would like to try it.” You meet his gaze again, similarly fluttering your lashes to your sister, Lucia. It seems to work, a smile on his face as he slowly hooks his arm through yours.
“That sounds delightful, lead the way.” The charming tune returns to his voice, and you can’t help but mirror his smile. Your gaze slowly drifts to the wooded area you once were as the two of you promenade about the greenery, greeting people as you walk by.
Your mind begins to wander. Your heart racing at the thought of being caught alone with the Marquess. Footmen hold little apparent social power, but if you know anything from your lady’s maids or Lenore–That the sort of power those who work for you have is slow processing.
₊˚ ✧ ━━━━━━━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━━━━━━━ ✧ ₊˚₊
A/N courses getting serious 🙂↕️ so I do apologize if parts come out slower/sloppy.
you weren’t planning on falling in love, but what happens when both Spider-Man and Michael Kaiser swing into your heart? now you’re left torn, caught between the two— Spider-Man or Michael Kaiser?
creds banner from pinterest , divider from @/strangergraphics !
lily ❦⋆ : dedicated to @mixolya °❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･ for motivating me to complete this. ilyplsenjoy! 𝄞⨾𓍢ִ໋
not spoiler-free ! [ some manga spoilers ]
fluff / angst / mentions of blood and violence.
( using fem pronouns as it’s easier for me however feel free to imagine others )
status: completed 10-03-25
𝔰𝔱𝔞𝔯𝔱,
act 1 volume l
🕸️ 001 . hottie! underneath the mask
🕸️ 002 . please? no, MICHAEL KAISER!
🕸️ 003 . echoes! of the game
🕸️ 004 . fateful encounters
🕸️ 005 . caught! between the line
🕸️ 006 . between truths and lies
🕸️ 007 . shattered perceptions
🕸️ 008 . on the edge
🕸️ 009 . accidentally going viral over MICHAEL KAISER!
[Google translate was used, German readers you have been warned.]
You get in the car. As it rolls forward, you look back. Michael Kaiser stands in the doorway—arms limp at his sides, eyes hollow, heartbreak carved into every line of him. He doesn’t chase you. He doesn’t call out again. He just watches the only person who ever made him feel safe drive away. Your forehead presses to the window. Your vision blurs. Your chest aches with something too big to hold. The city disappears behind you. But his voice—shaking, breaking, loving you too much—
Komm zu mir zurück. Come back to me
You don’t see it happen. You only hear the door close behind you, the soft click that sounds harmless until it isn’t. Until it becomes the loudest thing in his world.
You don’t see Michael Kaiser standing there in the hallway afterward, staring at the empty space where you were, like the ground has given up on holding him.
He doesn’t move. Not for a full minute. No breath. No blink.
Then his shoulders give out, folding inward in a way he would kill anyone else for seeing. When he finally exhales, it comes out broken and thin, like a sob he refuses to let escape his throat.
“Scheiße…” Shit…
He presses his palm to the wall, forehead resting against the cool paint, and stays there until the silence becomes unbearable.
That’s when the year without you begins.
At first, he pretends nothing is wrong.
He texts you like normal.
Micha: Did you eat?
Micha: Training ran late today.
Micha: Bet your city smells weird.
Micha: I hate the bed without you. (deleted)
Micha: Call me later.
He rereads every message before sending, trimming away anything that sounds too desperate, too needy, too much. He wants to be strong for you. He wants to be the version of himself you believe in.
But the cracks don’t care what he wants.
The first night he calls you twice.
The second night, three times.
Just to hear you breathe on the other end of the line.
At 3:12 a.m., his voice is hoarse when you pick up.
“Maus?” Mouse. he murmurs, soft and unsure, like he’s testing the name in his mouth.
Your chest tightens. “…Micha?”
He exhales shakily. “Ich Kissen riecht noch nach dir.” My pillow still smells like you.
You swallow hard. “Micha…”
“Ich kann nicht schlafen ohne dich.” I can’t sleep without you.
There’s silence between you, thick and aching. You hear the faint creak of his apartment, the sound of him shifting on the floor.
“I’m right here,” you whisper. “I’m not gone.”
He hums quietly, unconvinced. “Sag das nochmal.” Say that again.
“I’m right here.”
Only then does he hang up.
The next morning, he sends you a picture of his breakfast like everything is fine. It’s not.
He starts skipping meals. Not on purpose—he just forgets. Or he eats half and loses interest. Ness notices first.
“You’re dropping weight too fast,” Ness says, frowning at him over lunch. “You, okay?”
Kaiser scoffs. “Trainiere härter.” Training harder.
Noa notices next. The missed calories. The extra laps. The way Kaiser stays late long after everyone else has left.
“You don’t look rested,” Noa says flatly.
“I’m fine,” Kaiser snaps. “Hör auf.” Drop it.
But at night, he sits on the floor with his back against the bed, phone pressed to his ear, knees drawn up, breathing like each inhale costs him something.
“I miss you,” he says one night, voice rough. “Sag mir, dass du mich vermisst.” Tell me you miss me.
“I miss you,” you answer instantly.
He closes his eyes. “Gut.” Good.
He starts calling you Maus more often after that.
Soft. Absent-minded. Possessive in the gentlest way.
“Maus, did you lock your door?”
“Maus, it’s cold there, right?”
“Maus… don’t forget me.”
You don’t realize how much he’s unraveling until one night he whispers, barely audible:
“I hab Angst.” I’m scared.
“Of what?” you ask.
A pause.
“…Dass du irgendwann aufhörst, mich zu brauchen.” That one day you’ll stop needing me.
You tell him you won’t. You tell him you love him. You tell him he’s not alone.
It starts as a whisper of fear in your own body. Three days late. Then five. Then eight. You try not to think about it. Stress does things. Change does things. Distance does things.
But one morning, you’re brushing your teeth when nausea hits so hard you barely make it to the toilet before you’re gagging, knees slamming into the tile. Your heart drops.
“No,” you whisper. “No, no…”
Your dorm bathroom is too small. Too quiet. The tiles are cold under your feet as you sit on the edge of the tub, test box trembling in your hands. You drop it once. Twice.
You wait. One minute. Two. Your heartbeat roars in your ears.
Then the result appears. Positive.
The world goes silent. You stare at it, unblinking. Like if you don’t move, it might change its mind. You don’t cry at first.
You just whisper, over and over, “Nein… nein…” No… no…
Then your knees give out. You slide to the floor, curling in on yourself, one hand pressed to your mouth to keep the sobs from tearing out of you.
Michael flashes through your mind like lightning. The way he held you before you left.
The way his voice cracked when he said maus for the first time.
The way he whispered come back to me like it was the only prayer he knew.
You know exactly what would happen if he found out.
He would show up at your door with a bag in his hand and that terrifying certainty in his eyes — the one that means he has already decided how the world is going to work.
“Pack deine Sachen.” Pack your things.
“You’re coming home.”
Not let’s figure this out.
Not what do you want.
Home.
Away from lectures and late-night studying and the future you’ve been building piece by fragile piece. Away from the life you fought for just as fiercely as he fought for football.
He would say it like it was obvious. Like protecting you meant choosing for you. Like love meant folding your world neatly into his.
God, you love him.
But you did not fight your way into this college just to watch him decide you should leave it.
That night, he calls you.
“Maus?” His voice sounds lighter than it has all week. “I scored a hat trick today.”
Your chest tightens painfully. “I’m proud of you.”
“Bleibst du kurz dran?” Can you stay on the line for a bit?
“Of course.”
He hums, content. “Ich stelle mir vor, dass du neben mir liegst.” I imagine you lying next to me.
Your eyes burn.
“I miss you,” he says softly. “Komm bald zurück, ja?” Come back soon, okay?
You press your free hand to your stomach, breath shaking.
“Soon,” you whisper.
He smiles on the other end—you can hear it in his voice.
“Gute Nacht, maus.” Good night, mouse.
You don’t tell him. Not yet.
You hang up, curl into yourself, and let the weight of the secret settle heavy in your chest. Because loving Michael Kaiser means knowing exactly how far he would go for you. And choosing, for now, not to let him.
Hiding this pregnancy turns into a full-time job.
You learn your body’s warning signs the way people learn a second language—quickly, desperately, afraid of making mistakes. The nausea comes in waves, sharp and sudden, like your stomach is trying to betray you out loud.
When it hits, you mute the phone first.
Then you rush to the bathroom, splash cold water on your face, breathe through your nose until the shaking eases.
By the time Kaiser calls back, your voice is steady.
“I’m just tired,” you say.
“Adjustment period,” you add.
“College is harder than I thought.”
All true. Just not all of the information. But Michael Kaiser has never been stupid. He notices the pauses before you answer.
The way you swallow before speaking.
The way your breathing changes when you think he isn’t listening.
“You look pale,” he says one afternoon, eyes narrowing through the screen.
“You sound… kurzatmig.” Short of breath.
“I didn’t sleep well,” you answer quickly.
“You’re losing weight again,” he says another day, jaw tight.
“Are you sick?”
“No,” you lie, too fast.
He watches you. Really watches you. His gaze sharpens, protective instinct flaring like it always does when something feels off.
“…Lie to me again,” he says quietly, and there’s steel beneath the softness now, “und ich komme selbst dahin.” and I’ll come there myself.
Your heart stutters.
You force a laugh. “You’re being dramatic.”
“I’m being scared,” he corrects.
Then softer, almost pleading: “Maus… was ist los mit dir?” Mouse… what’s going on with you?
You dodge the question. You’re a terrible liar. You know that.
But he’s even worse at pushing you when he thinks doing so might drive you away.
So he lets it drop. Every time.
Not because he believes you—but because the fear of losing you is stronger than the need to know.
When your body starts to change, the job gets harder.
You buy oversized sweaters.
Thick hoodies.
Layered jackets even when it’s warm.
You angle the camera carefully during calls, adjusting your laptop until only your face and shoulders are visible. You stop standing up mid-conversation. You sit curled on your bed, hugging a pillow to your stomach like it’s nothing more than a habit.
When he asks why you never get up anymore, you shrug.
“I’m comfy.”
You stop looking at yourself in mirrors when you’re on screen with him. The sight of your own reflection makes your chest tighten—rounded in ways it never was before, carrying a truth you’re terrified he’ll see through a screen.
One evening, during a video call, he goes quiet. Focused.
His eyes track you with unnerving precision, studying your posture, the way you’re angled slightly away from the camera, the way your arms are folded just a bit too protectively.
“You’re hiding something,” he says.
Your breath catches.
“…No, I’m not.”
His jaw tightens. His voice drops, losing its edge and gaining something far more dangerous—fragile honesty.
“Bitte,” Please. he says.
“Don’t shut me out.”
It almost breaks you. Your throat burns. Your eyes sting. For half a second you consider telling him everything—consider watching him unravel in real time, hearing him say your name like it’s the only thing tethering him to the ground.
But then you imagine him showing up at your dorm.
Imagine him demanding answers from professors.
So you smile instead. A small, careful smile.
“I’m just stressed,” you say. “New city. New routine. You know how it is.”
He doesn’t believe you.
You see it in the way his eyes soften instead of relax, in the way his shoulders drop like he’s choosing not to fight a battle he’s afraid will cost him you.
“…Okay,” he says slowly.
Then, quieter: “Sag mir wenigstens, dass du mich noch brauchst.” At least tell me you still need me.
Your chest aches.
“I need you,” you say. And that part is painfully, undeniably true.
He exhales, relief bleeding into his voice.
“Gut.” Good.
He leans closer to the camera. “Pass auf dich auf, maus.” Take care of yourself, mouse.
You press a hand lightly to your stomach when the call ends, fingers trembling.
You’re taking care of everything. Of them. Of yourself. Of the future you’re trying not to lose.
And you hope—God, you hope—that when the truth finally comes out, he’ll understand that hiding it was never about not trusting him.
You hear the knock before you’re ready for it.
Three sharp taps—too fast, too familiar. Your heart slams against your ribs so hard it steals the air from your lungs. For a second you just stand there, frozen, one hand braced on the door like it might give you time to think.
You don’t get time.
You open it—and there he is.
Michael Kaiser looks like he ran straight out of his life to get to you. Hair a mess, cheeks flushed, shirt wrinkled like he slept in it. His eyes are bright and frantic, scanning your face as if he’s afraid you might vanish if he blinks.
“I couldn’t stay away,” he breathes, words tumbling over each other. “Du gehst mir nicht aus dem Kopf.” I can’t get you out of my head.
“I needed—fuck—I needed to see you.”
Your stomach drops.
“Micha,” you whisper. “What are you doing here?”
He steps inside without waiting for permission, the door clicking shut behind him. Before you can think, before you can stop him, his arms are around you.
He’s warm. Solid. Real. His chest rises against your cheek, his breath hot at your neck, and for one dangerous, aching second you want to sink into him and pretend none of this exists.
Then panic hits.
His hands rest low on your back. Too low. Too close to the soft curve you’ve been hiding for weeks.
You pull away—gently, instinctively.
He stills.
The way his body goes rigid hurts more than if he’d shouted. His arms fall slowly, like he’s afraid sudden movement might scare you off completely.
“…You don’t want me to touch you?” he asks.
Your heart cracks open.
“No—no, it’s not that,” you rush out.
“Then come here,” he says quietly, reaching for you again, slower this time. Careful.
You step back.
His hand stops midair, fingers trembling, suspended between you like a question with no answer. His face falls apart in real time. It looks like you stabbed him.
“Why are you avoiding me?” His voice wavers, thin and sharp with fear. “Did something change? Did I—did someone else—?”
“No!” you gasp, horrified. “Micha, no. There’s no one else. I swear.”
He exhales hard and grabs your face in both hands, thumbs pressing into your cheeks like he needs to anchor himself.
“Du liebst mich,” You love me. he whispers.
“You told me you loved me. Don’t take that away from me.”
Tears blur your vision.
“I do… I do love you,” you say, and this time it’s true enough to hurt.
But he feels it anyway—the tension in your shoulders, the way your body stays angled away from him, the way you’re guarding something he can’t see.
Later, when you tell him you’re just sick, just stressed, just still adjusting, he nods. He accepts it. He pretends. Because pushing you feels like the fastest way to lose you.
You find out later how he got here.
How he missed your call two nights ago because of training and spent the rest of the night staring at his phone, chest tight, convinced something was wrong. How he replayed your last video call in his head—the way you flinched when he leaned closer to the screen, the way you hugged a pillow to yourself like armor.
“Sie zieht sich zurück,” She’s pulling away. he told Ness the next morning.
Ness had tried to joke it off. Kaiser didn’t laugh.
By noon, he was on a train.
Now he’s here, and he makes himself useful in the way he always does when he’s scared.
He cooks.
He cleans.
He buys groceries you didn’t ask for.
He fixes things that aren’t broken.
He hovers.
“Did you eat?”
“Maus, drink some water.”
“You’re cold—here.”
He keeps trying to hold you, and you keep slipping away without meaning to. Every time he reaches for you and you dodge, something in his eyes dims.
One evening, he reaches for the hem of your sweater.
“Take this off,” he says softly. “You’re overheating.”
You yank it down.
“No.”
The word is sharp enough to cut. He freezes. His eyes darken—not with anger, but with hurt so deep it scares you.
“You don’t even want me to see you,” he says quietly. “Is that it?”
“Micha, stop.”
“Why?!” he snaps, the restraint finally breaking. “What are you hiding that you won’t even let me touch you?”
Your chest aches so badly you think it might split open.
You try to smile. Try to reassure him. Try to lie with your whole face instead of just your mouth.
He sees right through it.
“You’re lying to me,” he whispers.
Four words. Soft. Devastating. They hollow you out.
That night, he lies awake beside you on the edge of the bed, careful not to touch more than your shoulder, staring at the ceiling like it might explain what he did wrong. He replays every moment in his head—your distance, your flinches, the way you turn away.
Maybe she doesn’t want me anymore.
Maybe she’s already halfway gone.
When he finally leaves at the end of the week, he doesn’t argue. He doesn’t accuse you again.
He just cups your face, presses a kiss to your forehead, and whispers:
You cry for hours after. Curled on the bed. Hands over your stomach. Heart breaking in two directions at once.
The appointment is early, too early for how heavy your body feels these days.
You sit in the waiting room with your hands folded over your stomach, jacket zipped all the way up even though the heating is on. The walls are a soft, neutral color meant to calm people down. It doesn’t work. Every sound feels too loud—the rustle of paper, the hum of machines, the distant cry of another baby somewhere down the hall.
Your phone buzzes.
Micha: Morgen, maus. Bist du wach?
Morning, mouse. Are you awake?
You stare at the screen until it dims.
You type yes, then delete it.
Type going to class, delete that too.
Instead, you turn the phone face down.
When the nurse calls your name, your legs feel like they belong to someone else. The room they take you into is dimmer, quieter. The bed is covered in crisp white paper that crinkles when you sit.
“Lie back,” the doctor says gently.
The gel is cold when it touches your skin. Cold enough that you flinch. You grip the sides of the bed without realizing it, knuckles whitening as the wand moves slowly, carefully.
The screen flickers to life.
At first, it’s just shapes. Shadows. Light and dark swimming together in a way that doesn’t mean anything yet. You squint, searching for something recognizable, something solid.
“There,” the doctor says, pointing. “That’s the heartbeat.”
The sound fills the room—fast, steady, impossibly alive.
Your breath stutters.
“That’s… strong,” you whisper.
The doctor smiles. “Very strong. Everything looks healthy.”
Your eyes burn. You press your lips together, nodding because if you speak, you’ll cry.
After a moment, she asks, “Do you want to know the sex?”
You hesitate. Then you nod.
“It’s a boy.”
Your chest caves in on itself.
A boy.
Your hand drifts to your mouth as the doctor adjusts the angle of the screen again. You lean forward instinctively, heart hammering.
You can’t really see him. Not properly. It’s still just blur and suggestion—rounded shapes, a curve where a head might be, the faint outline of limbs tucked close. Nothing distinct. Nothing clear. And yet—
Something about it hits you so hard you feel dizzy.
Your throat closes.
“Oh,” you whisper, the word breaking. “Oh god…”
The doctor glances at you kindly.
You let out a sound that’s halfway between a laugh and a sob.
You think of Michael’s hands.
Michael’s mouth.
Michael’s fierce, aching love.
You imagine the way he would hold this child—carefully at first, terrified of doing something wrong, then with absolute confidence, like the world itself would have to answer to him if it dared get too close.
You turn your face away, tears sliding into your hair.
The doctor prints the photo and hands it to you gently.
You thank her. You don’t remember standing up. You don’t remember walking back out.
You only remember sitting on a bench outside afterward, hands shaking as you stare at the grainy image.
It’s nothing.
And it’s everything.
You trace the edge of the photo with your thumb.
Your phone buzzes again.
Micha: Du bist komisch heute.
You’re acting strange today.
Another message follows almost immediately.
Micha: Hast du gegessen, maus?
Did you eat, mouse?
Your chest tightens painfully.
You type, yes, then pause.
Instead, you send:
You: In class. Talk later.
It’s a lie. Not even a good one.
That night, he calls you three times.
You let it ring the first time.
The second time, you watch it until it stops.
The third time, you answer—but keep your voice light.
“Hey,” you say. “Sorry, I was busy.”
He exhales audibly. “Gott sei Dank.” Thank God.
“I thought something happened.”
“I’m fine,” you insist.
He’s quiet for a second. You can almost hear him thinking.
“You keep saying that,” he says slowly. “Und du klingst jedes Mal anders.” And you sound different every time.
“I’m just tired, Micha.”
“…Maus.” His voice softens instinctively when he says it. “You don’t have to protect me from everything.”
You close your eyes.
If you told him now, he’d be on a train by morning. He’d show up with wild eyes and shaking hands and say Pack deine Sachen like it was the only solution he’d ever accept.
You can’t let that happen.
“I love you,” you say instead, quickly, like a shield.
There’s a pause. Then relief floods his voice.
“I love you too,” he says. “So sehr.” So much.
After you hang up, you press the ultrasound photo to your chest and curl around it.
You dodge him more carefully after that.
You claim late lectures.
Study groups. Headaches.
You angle the camera higher. You never stand up. You joke when he comments on how quiet you’ve been.
One night, he frowns at the screen and says, “Du verschwindest immer ein bisschen mehr.” You’re disappearing a little more every time.
Your smile trembles. “I’m right here.”
He doesn’t look convinced.
You fall asleep with one hand on your stomach, the other clutching your phone, Kaiser's last text glowing softly on the screen:
Micha: Schlaf gut, maus. Ich warte auf dich.
Sleep well, mouse. I’m waiting for you.
You whisper back into the dark, even though he can’t hear it:
“Just a little longer.”
One evening, you shift in your chair, adjusting your sweater, and he stills.
At first, it’s just the way Michael looks at you through the screen—longer than usual, quieter. The way his eyes track lower than your face before he catches himself and snaps them back up again.
“…Du siehst anders aus,” You look different. he says slowly.
Your heart lurches. “Different how?”
He squints, head tilting, studying you like a puzzle he’s afraid to solve. “Runder.” Rounder.
You laugh too fast. “That’s rude.”
“I didn’t mean—” He stops himself, brows knitting. “I just mean… gesund.” Healthy.
You tug the sweater down instinctively. “I’ve been eating better.”
He hums, unconvinced. His gaze flickers again, softer this time. “Maus,” he says gently, “wenn du mir etwas sagen willst—” Mouse, if there’s something you want to tell me—
“There isn’t,” you cut in.
The silence stretches.
He exhales, rubbing the back of his neck. “Dann okay.” Then okay.
But that night he texts you after midnight.
Micha: Du passt auf dich auf, ja?
You’re taking care of yourself, right?
You press a hand to your stomach and whisper to the empty room, “I am.”
And it hurts—God, it hurts—to know that every day you don’t tell him, you’re choosing silence over honesty. That you’re keeping something from the one person who’s always known you too well.
So you keep the secret.
Until your body decides it’s done waiting.
Labor starts in the middle of the night.
Not gently. Not politely.
A sharp pain tears through you and steals the breath from your lungs.
You gasp. Sit up. Blink hard.
Another pain follows—stronger.
Then another.
Your hands shake as you fumble for your phone, then stop. There’s no one to call who can be here in time. No familiar voice to ground you. No strong hand to squeeze.
No Michael.
By the time you reach the hospital, you’re shaking so badly they have to help you into the wheelchair.
“You’re doing great,” someone says.
You don’t feel great.
You feel terrified. Alone. Split open.
Hours blur into screaming pain and white light and the sound of your own voice begging for it to stop. You cry until your throat burns. You shake until your teeth chatter.
Between contractions, your mind goes to the same place every time.
Micha.
“I’m sorry,” you sob into the empty air. “Ich bin so, so sorry.” I’m so, so sorry.
You imagine his hands—steady, warm. His voice low and sure in your ear: Ich bin hier. I’m here.
But he isn’t. And that’s on you.
Then—A sharp, bright cry cuts through everything.
The room stills.
Your heart stops.
“Congratulations,” someone says softly.
A warm, tiny weight is placed on your chest.
You look down.
And the world cracks open.
He looks exactly like Michael.
Not just similar—him. The soft blond fuzz of hair. The tiny frown between his brows like he’s already offended by the world. Eyes so blue they steal the air from your lungs when they blink open, unfocused and confused.
You break. A sound tears out of you—half sob, half laugh—as you clutch him close, shaking.
“Oh—oh my baby,” you cry, kissing his forehead again and again. “Oh my sweet boy…”
Tears drip onto his tiny face as you whisper, “Matthias.”
The name feels right the second it leaves your mouth.
“My sweet Matthias.”
He squirms, fists clenching, mouth opening in a soft, indignant sound that makes your chest ache.
“He looks like your papa,” you whisper through tears. “Du siehst genauso aus wie er.” You look just like him.
And the joy hurts.
Because loving him this much makes the secret unbearable.
Michael Kaiser deserves to know.
He deserves to know that there is a boy in the world with his eyes and his mouth and his fire. A boy who will one day walk like him, scowl like him, love like him.
And you deserve not to carry this alone.
As you hold your son against your chest, exhausted and undone, you close your eyes and let the truth settle—heavy and inevitable.
You can’t hide this forever.
Matthias is three months old by the time the university break creeps closer on the calendar.
Three months of learning how little sleep a human body can survive on.
Three months of tiny socks that never seem to stay on his feet.
Three months of warm milk breath and soft coos and the way his fist curls into your shirt like he’s afraid you might drift away.
The first days after bringing him home are a blur you barely remember clearly.
You cry a lot. Quietly. Mostly into his hair while he sleeps on your chest, because the crib feels too big and too empty and he screams every time you put him down. You learn how to warm bottles at four in the morning with shaking hands. You learn how to tell the difference between a hungry cry and a tired one and the small, broken sound he makes when he just wants to be held.
You learn that love can hurt your ribs.
He refuses the crib entirely for the first week. He sleeps only if your heartbeat is beneath his ear. So you sit upright on the bed, pillows propped around you, terrified you’ll fall asleep wrong and hurt him, terrified of everything all the time.
“I’ve got you,” you whisper over and over. “Mama’s here.”
Sometimes you say it like you’re trying to convince yourself.
Every now and then, when exhaustion hits too hard, you think of Michael.
You imagine how steady his hands would be. How calm his voice would sound when you’re panicking over nothing. How he’d pace the floor with Matthias against his chest like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
The thought makes your chest ache.
So you don’t let yourself think about it too long.
Three months of hiding becomes a skill set.
During video calls, you angle the camera high enough that only your face and shoulders are visible. You stack pillows around Matthias when he’s asleep on your lap, holding him still when his legs twitch. You mute the microphone whenever he fusses, whispering apologies into his hair.
“Shh, baby. Bitte, bitte.” Please, please.
Kaiser keeps texting you like a man holding onto a rope that’s fraying.
Micha: Wann kommst du nach Hause?
When are you coming home?
Micha: Ich zähle die Tage, maus.
I’m counting the days, mouse.
Sometimes he adds:
Micha: Hast du mich noch lieb?
Do you still love me?
You always answer yes.
You always mean it.
But you notice small changes in him.
He asks more questions.
He waits longer between texts, like he’s testing whether you’ll notice.
He watches your face too closely on calls, eyes flicking away whenever he thinks you’ve caught him staring.
Once, when you don’t answer for an hour because Matthias won’t stop crying, he sends:
Micha: Alles okay?
Everything okay?
Then, five minutes later
Micha: Bitte sag mir, dass du noch da bist.
Please tell me you’re still there.
It scares you how much he needs reassurance now.
The night your phone slips is a night like any other—late, quiet, your body heavy with exhaustion. Matthias is warm against you, half-asleep, his cheek pressed to your collarbone. You adjust your grip without looking, balancing the phone in one hand, nodding along as Kaiser talks about training.
He’s mid-sentence when Matthias lets out a small, sleepy whimper.
Soft. Barely there.
But the sound slices through the silence.
Kaiser stops talking.
On the screen, his brows knit together. His lips part slightly, eyes sharp and suddenly alert.
“…War das ein Baby?” Was that a baby?
Your heart slams so hard it hurts.
“I—oh—yeah,” you say too fast, too loud. “My friend’s visiting. She brought her baby. I’m helping watch him tonight.”
The lie tastes bitter immediately.
Kaiser doesn’t answer right away.
He leans closer to the screen, studying you with the same frightening precision he’s always had when something feels off.
“Du magst keine Babys,” You don’t like babies. he says quietly.
Your throat tightens. “People change.”
You regret it the second it leaves your mouth.
His eyes narrow. “Also babysittest du jetzt?” So you’re babysitting now?
“Just tonight,” you insist. “She needed help.”
You smile too hard. Your cheeks ache from it.
He sees right through you.
You know he does.
Something unsettled flickers across his face—confusion first, then doubt, then something softer and uglier. Insecurity.
“…Okay,” he says finally, voice careful. Too careful.
But he doesn’t smile back.
He doesn’t tease you.
Instead, he asks, “Du brauchst mich gerade nicht, oder?” You don’t need me right now, do you?
The question guts you.
“I always need you,” you say quickly.
He nods once, but it doesn’t look like relief. It looks like resignation.
After the call ends, you press your forehead to Matthias’s soft hair and close your eyes.
“I’m sorry,” you whisper to him. “I’m so sorry.”
Matthias squirms, tiny fingers curling into your shirt, anchoring you in place.
And somewhere, miles away, Michael Kaiser lies awake in an empty bed, staring at his phone, feeling something slipping through his fingers and not knowing why.
Two days before you’re supposed to go home for break, you call him.
You’ve been putting it off all day. Watching the clock tick forward while Matthias sleeps on your chest, his tiny weight warm and grounding, like he knows something bad is coming and refuses to let you drift too far.
You wait until he’s fed. Changed. Calm.
You place him gently in the crib and step into the hallway, shutting the door just enough that you can still hear him breathe.
Your hands are shaking when you tap Michael’s name.
The call connects.
His face lights up instantly.
It’s reflexive—like seeing you pulls him back into himself. His shoulders loosen. His mouth curves into a smile that looks almost relieved, like he’s been holding it back all day.
“Da bist du,” he says softly.
There you are.
But you don’t smile back.
And he notices.
“Maus?” His brows draw together. “Was ist los?” What’s wrong?
Your chest tightens. You swallow.
“Micha… I might not come home this break.”
The silence is instant. Total. Absolute. Silence.
Kaiser doesn’t blink. Doesn’t breathe. Doesn’t move.
For a long, horrible second, it’s like the screen has frozen.
Then—slowly, painfully slowly—something cracks across his face.
Not anger. Not rage. Something uglier. Something frightened.
“What did you just say?” he asks.
His voice is calm. Too calm. The kind of calm that terrifies you because you know what it’s hiding.
“I just—” You rush, words tumbling. “I have assignments, and it’s a long trip, and I don’t think I can make it work right now—”
“No.”
The word is flat. Absolute. Like gravity asserting itself.
“No,” he repeats. “Das ist keine Option.” That’s not an option.
Your heart squeezes painfully. “I can come next break. I swear. I’ll make it up to you.”
His jaw clenches so hard you see the muscle jump. His eyes don’t harden into anger.
They go cold.
Empty.
Abandoned.
“Do you ever plan to come home again?” he whispers.
The question is so quiet it almost doesn’t register. Like he’s afraid of the answer.
“Of course I do,” you say quickly. “Micha—”
“Don’t lie to me.”
The words are soft.
They hurt more than if he’d shouted.
You close your eyes. Your throat burns.
“I’m not lying.”
He exhales, shaky and uneven, and for a second you honestly don’t know whether he’s going to cry or break something.
“You promised me,” he says, voice cracking despite his effort to hold it steady.
“Du hast es mir versprochen.” You promised me.
“You said you’d come, so I could see you, hold you—” His voice fractures. “—so I could remind myself I haven’t fucking imagined you.”
Your hands curl into fists.
“I will,” you whisper. “Just… not this time.”
Something in his breathing changes.
It turns shallow. Heavy. Like every breath takes effort.
“…Warum nicht jetzt?” Why not now?
“I told you. I’m just… busy.”
It’s the weakest lie you’ve ever told.
Behind you, you hear it.
A tiny sound. A soft sigh. The faint shuffle of a waking baby.
Your heart slams into your throat.
You mute the mic instantly.
Too late.
Kaiser’s entire body goes rigid.
“War das jemand?” Was someone there?
“No,” you answer too fast, fumbling to unmute. “Just—just the window. It’s windy.”
He stares at you.
He doesn’t believe you.
But whatever suspicion flickers in his eyes is drowned out by something heavier—hurt so deep it leaves him hollow.
He swallows hard.
“It fühlt sich an,” he says quietly, “als würdest du mich jedes Mal ein bisschen mehr ersetzen.” It feels like every time, you replace me a little more.
Your chest caves in.
“I’m not choosing anything over you,” you say desperately.
He looks at you. Really looks at you. Unblinking. Unmoving.
Like he’s trying to memorize your face in case this is the last time he’s allowed to.
Slowly, he nods. “…Okay.”
The word is wrong. Flat. Dead.
“I won’t push anymore,” he says.
“Micha— I didn’t mean to—”
“I said it’s fine.”
He cuts you off.
He just looks at you one last time—eyes wounded, hollow, defeated in a way you’ve never seen before.
Then the screen goes dark.
No goodbye.
No I love you.
No maus.
Just gone.
You stand there staring at your phone long after the call ends, chest aching like something vital has been ripped out of you.
From the other side of the apartment, Matthias lets out a soft cry.
You crumble.
You sink to the floor, pressing your fist to your mouth to keep from sobbing too loudly, because the man you love is breaking somewhere miles away—and you’re the one who did it.
Tags (The People who asked for a second part): @amortoru @dreamdemon70 @ari200027 @imactuallyabouttocrashout @babycollectivewasteland @rl2s @techn0chan @raiyuxa
I really could have written this better :(
ft. crown prince!itoshi sae x commoner!femreader x second prince!itoshi rin (only bc you are rin's fiancée)
🗡 synopsis. you were chosen to be the second prince’s fiancée for rin’s convenience, but fate had different plans when you fell for his older brother, the crown prince, instead. as you start hearing strange voices during your engagement ball, sae falls victim to alexis’ curse, which only your love can break. what happens when news spread of the crown prince's revival and rin finds out?
⛓ content warning. 13.3k (yikes)ノ royal au ノ classism ノ cheating themes & pdaノ⚠ rin is rude, offensive, & insulting ノ your parents & sis for plot are assholes ノ semi-arranged marriage (?) ノ reader is illiterate ノ narration heavy ノ reader gets called whore once ノ implied death & gorish description ノ implied stranglingノ animal murder ノ minimal implication of shorter readerノthe relationship with sae is highkey rushed now that i reread it.
notes. this took me two weeks+ to finish ahhh. i thank my past self for being obsessed with manhwas so muchh, and ty to rhymezone for saving my ass w/ the ancient poem. first time using capital letters when writing fanfics, only bc it's really long though, eeee.
In the Twilight of the Eclipsing Red Moon,
When Stars Align and Shadows Loom,
The Great’s Fate is Sealed in the Veil of Night,
By the Hand of One from Mystic Light.
But From the Dust of Forgotten Lands,
Shall Rise a Heart with Common Hands,
With Lips of Rose and Spirit Warm,
To Bring the Order, End the Storm.
A Crown of Old Shall Find its Grace,
In the Embrace of a Simple Face.
But Do not be Fooled, One Shall Not Bloom,
For This, Will Lead to One’s Gentle Doom.
“I beg your pardon, Your Majesty,” your father stammered, “M-My eldest daughter has fallen gravely ill, and I fear she physically cannot journey to the Grand Empire of Aquaria tomorrow!”
The king’s eyes flared open in shock as the words reached his ears. His grip on the plush armrest of his throne tightened, the baroque carvings digging into his palm.
“What?!” He yelled, dismissing the fan bearer with a sharp glare before rising from his throne and taking two steps forward. His shadow covered large over your father’s trembling figure.
“She chooses now, of all times, to be stricken with sickness? At a crucial time for our kingdom? Such insolence!” He descended three more steps and glared down at him. “Did you forget that His Imperial Highness has specifically requested a lady from your clan?”
“I—”
The king struck his scepter harshly against the floor, silencing the man. “All the other houses of your garbage clan bore only sons,” he spat, “She will go, and that is final!”
“Actually…” the commoner’s lips pointed upwards in a well-rehearsed smile as he placed a hand over his heart in false politeness. “I have another daughter. She’s eager— eager to fulfill her duty. She is twenty, two years younger than the prince, but still of age.”
King Orion arched an eyebrow and his mouth twisted into a sneer. “Very well,” he replied, waving his hand in disinterest as he returned to his throne. “Summon her.”
In truth, the king’s concern wasn’t with Aria, your older sister. He cared little for which daughter was offered up to Aquaria’s second prince. It was a political necessity, nothing more— a favour to His Imperial Highness, Prince Rin. Or more like a fulfillment of Rin’s rather odd request that came with a threat. As long as someone from your clan was presented, it mattered not to him whether it was your sister or some other sacrificial lamb for the slaughter.
At the call of your name, the guards creaked open the heavy doors, and you entered the throne chamber slowly. When you reached the foot of the throne, you lowered your body in a curtsey bow, your gaze fixed on the scarlet carpet that stretched beneath you.
“It is my greatest honour to stand before you, Your Majesty,” you said, though your indifferent tone made it clear to anyone listening that you longed for nothing more than to be anywhere but here.
But you knew the truth behind this charade. Aria wasn’t ill. She was the jewel of your parents’ eye, their pride and joy, shielded from the Empire’s gaze like a pirate’s precious treasure. You, on the other hand, were the forgotten one– the daughter they kept hidden, a mere shadow in their halls, easily discarded when it was convenient. To your father, you were a little more than a weight around his neck, an extra mouth to feed, a burden he was eager to rid himself of.
The king’s eyes scanned you up and down, his expression visibly souring as he took in the sight of your tattered ankle-high, brown dress and scuffed boots. Disgusting.
“Ugh,” he muttered under his breath, leaning on one elbow as he sneered at you. “She’ll do, I suppose. Pretty enough for their tastes.” He turned to his chancellor with a condescending wave. “Have the maids find something more… suitable for this one.”
The chancellor bowed deeply, “At once, Your Majesty.”
“Alright, you’ve packed everything, haven’t you?” your mother asked as she rubbed Aria’s shoulder comfortingly.
Your gaze drifted to the battered briefcase lying at your feet. You had stumbled upon it by accident, shoved into a forgotten corner of the dirty attic, coated in layers of dust and practically falling apart at the seams. With a sigh, you bent down to pick it up, nodding as it threatened to collapse.
“Yes,” you murmured, a bitter smile tugging at your lips, “There was hardly anything to pack, anyway.”
Your father scoffed, rolling his eyes as he wrapped an arm around Aria, who had begun to shed what you knew to be crocodile tears. The act was almost laughable. She suddenly broke free from their grasp and rushed over to you, flinging her arms around your waist with a dramatic sob.
“Y/N!” she cried, “Please take care of yourself– hic– I’m going to miss you so much!”
You hesitated for a moment before stiffly returning her hug. She was a liar, through and through, and you both knew it.
Before the act could continue, the distant sound of hooves clattering against cobblestone paths captured your attention. Gently, you pried yourself away from her clutches, turning toward the approaching sound.
Your breath hitched. The Empire’s Royal Carriage was quickly nearing, and it was no exaggeration to say that its massive size dwarfed everything coming its way. It was magnificent, its gleaming white exterior and elegant navy blue designs that were above the huge clattering wheels. Silken curtains furnished the windows, embroidered with golden threads that caught the eyes of your greedy family. But what truly stole your attention was the shining silver crown perched atop the carriage, with Aquaria’s Royal Crest.
“Listen–” your father’s obnoxious voice cut through your admiration. He leaned close, his voice coming out in a hiss, “You better behave yourself, got it? If you mess this up, it’s not just you– it’s all of us. Understand?”
You shrugged off his threat with a nonchalant nod, “I’ll do my best.”
The sounds of the porcelain horses neighing were suddenly right behind you. They looked so soft, so immaculate, that you had to resist the urge to reach out and glide your fingers through their carefully groomed manes. But you knew better. This was no place for such frivolities.
The royal coachman descended from his designated seat and approached you. His right hand gracefully flew to his heart and he bowed slightly, his eyes closing for a brief moment.
“Greetings, my lady,” he said, straightening himself elegantly as his brown eyes met yours. He took your worn briefcase from your hand and placed it gently in the carriage’s wide storage compartment in the back. Then, he slid aside the long curtains and extended his hand toward you.
This was it. The moment you stepped into that carriage, you would leave this wretched life behind forever. No more grime, no more being hidden away like some shameful secret. You would be free– or at least you clung to the hope of freedom.
Taking the coachman’s hand, you felt the fine material of your simple sage gown– one begrudgingly gifted by King Orion– brush against the spotless steps of the carriage. You could hardly believe you, of all people, had the privilege of entering something so grand, so expensive.
For one last time, you glanced back at your so-called family. They stood there, masks with feigned expressions of sorrow worn over their faces. But you weren’t fooled, and you certainly weren’t going to indulge them. Instead, a slow grin crept across your face and you mouthed a few words that served as a final act of defiance.
“Shitty lives for shitty people, I guess.”
“.... lady,”
“My….”
“My lady!”
“Hm…” You muttered drowsily, your eyelids slowly fluttering open to the sight of the coachman and several other servants peering in at you with concerned expressions. Startled, you shot upright, your hands grasping the seat beneath you. “Y-Yes!”
So far, you were off to a great start.
But now, as you finally stepped out of the carriage and beheld the regal palace before you, every bit of exhaustion from the long ride seemed to dissolve. The sight of it stole your breath and you tried to conjure up a word to describe it, but words escaped you. Beautiful, perhaps, though even that felt insufficient. Magnificent, maybe.
There were towering stone sculptures and a large marble fountain in the center, its water elegantly cascading down like it was raining crystals. The front lawn was meticulously trimmed and maintained till perfection. The walls of the palace shined, built from pale limestone that you recognized from years of working with fire and sedimentary rocks. And at the peak of the palace dome, a lone flag fluttered in the breeze, proudly displaying the Royal Crest of Aquaria.
Your home now.
Yet, no lines of maids awaited your arrival at the main entrance, as you’d always imagined from reading those fairytale books you’d find tucked away in your attic. And there was certainly no sign of your supposed fiancé— His Imperial Highness, Itoshi Rin, the Second Prince of the Empire.
But then again, it made sense. You were just a humble village girl, after all— hardly worth the attention of someone as important as him.
The sudden neighing of a horse behind you jolted you from your thoughts, and you spun around. There, your gaze locked with the prettiest set of eyes you had ever seen— legendary teal irises framed by lashes so thick they casted a shadow on his cheekbones.
If the palace was magnificent, then he was simply breathtaking.
Your heart stuttered in your chest as you instinctively took a step forward toward him, prepared to pinch fistfuls of your dress and bow down to him.
He must be your fiancé, you thought. How could he not be? Those eyes were a symbol of royalty. His dark, reddish hair swayed with every blow of the wind, and the way an exquisite sapphire brooch shone against his royal attire screamed authority.
What did they call this phenomenon? Love at first sight? But then—
“Welcome back, Your Imperial Highness the Crown Prince!” a unified set of voices suddenly echoed from behind you in greeting, and you whipped your head back to see every servant and the carriage driver on their knees, their heads bowed low, and their hands clutched to their chests.
Crown Prince? Your breath caught in your throat. The Crown Prince? In other words, the future Emperor of Aquaria?
His gaze left yours to briefly sweep over the kneeling palace workers, before he waved his hand dismissively. “Rise.” he ordered. His deep voice made you feel a sudden tightening in your throat, and you had the urge to obey though you weren’t even on your knees.
When his eyes returned to you, you flinched, every nerve of your body feeling on edge. You drew in a sufficient amount of fresh air and held onto bunches of your gown, bowing respectfully.
“G-Greetings, Your Imperial Highness,” you stuttered.
Sae guided his horse to a halt and swung his leg over the saddle, dismounting and landing on the grass smoothly. He gave the mare a gentle pat, and you suddenly felt conscious as he approached you in long strides.
He stopped just in front of you, eyes seemingly studying you. “You are?”
You swallowed nervously, daring to meet his aquamarine gaze. “Y/N,” you said softly, “The Second Imperial Prince’s fiancée.”
His eyes narrowed and he closed them fleetingly before opening them again. “I see… That foolish younger brother of mine.”
You remained silent, unsure of how to respond. Your sparkling eyes flickered to his mare standing patiently beside him for a moment too long. Her coat was as white as fresh snow, and it almost hurt your eyes the way the sunlight reflected off her.
He noticed. “Oh, her?” He nodded toward the horse, gesturing for you to come closer. “Go on. You can touch her if you wish.”
Your eyes widened in disbelief, trodding towards him in excitement. “May I, really?”
“Sure, whatever,” he muttered nonchalantly, though his gaze softened slightly. He was more focused on observing the horse’s reaction to you.
With careful hands, you reached out and gently raked your fingers through her silky mane. A delighted giggle escaped your lips as the fauna neighed softly and nudged your hand for more of your kind attention.
“She’s beautiful,” you whispered, and he hummed in interest. You paused for a moment, glancing at the prince curiously. “What’s her name?”
“Celestia,” he replied, pulling on the horse’s rein before folding his arms over his chest. He watched you interact with the animal. “She rarely warms up to anyone, but it seems as if she likes you.”
Your eyes lit up with surprise and you smiled, your fingers still tangled in the horse’s mane. “Celestia is a beautiful name… It suits her. She’s as white as the moon.”
For a brief moment, the prince turned his head to the side, as if he was hiding something from your view. He wouldn’t admit it, but he’d trust anyone his beautiful horse liked. His fingers slipped through his tousled red hair, and though his voice slightly carried a tone of arrogance, it was also laced with something else. “Tch. Thanks. I named her myself.”
You laughed lightly, “How old is she?”
“Turning nine soon,” he answered, giving her a pat. “She’s the mother of a black stallion.”
Your eyes twinkled in awe, fists clenched in front of you as you beamed up at him. “She’s a mother?!”
Sae raised a brow, leaning back slightly. “You’re standing too close.”
“A-Ah, my apologies, Your Highness,” You stuttered, retreating several steps just in case. “I… I seem to have forgotten my place,”
“No, it’s quite alr—” He started, lifting a hand as if to stop you from backing away, but was interrupted by one of the pesky servants from Rin’s wing of the palace. “...”
“I-I apologize for interrupting y-your conversation, Your Imperial Highness,” She panted, bowing low, “But The Second Prince has requested his fiancée’s presence for a private audience.”
Sae clicked his tongue in annoyance, his gaze lingering on you for a moment longer before he mounted Celestia. “I guess it cannot be helped. Fine, whatever.”
Your heart sank slightly, a wave of disappointment looming over your ethereal features. Your pretty eyes downcast and fists clenched lightly by your sides. You had hoped to stay just a little longer, either with the man you had mistaken for your fiancé or perhaps with the beautiful horse. You weren’t sure which had captured your fascination more.
You thought that, perhaps, if Rin was not unlike his brother, then marrying him probably wouldn’t be so bad.
Still, with a deep breath, you held onto your skirt and followed the maid. But just before you left, you glanced back over your shoulder at the First Prince with a smile so pretty it could coax the sun out of the sky and make even the stars envious.
“See you around, Your Highness!” You called out, waving your arm before turning around to trail after the servant woman.
Sae stood frozen for a heartbeat, his thoughts clouded by the ghost of that smile. Something stirred in his chest, something unfamiliar and probably unwelcome. He huffed quietly, silking his hand through his hair before muttering under his breath.
“Yeah… see you.”
Your heart raced as you stood before the polished double doors of Rin’s chamber. You swallowed hard in an attempt to calm your nerves. Your breaths came in shallow, like there was some sort of invisible weight pressed against your chest.
Your hand hesitantly hovered mere inches from the door. You hadn’t even met the man and yet the tension was thicker than when you had personally greeted the crown prince.
The maid beside you fidgeted, clearly just as anxious. She stammered softly, “My lady… j-just knock and wait for his word. I-I’ll take my leave now.”
You nodded, watching her scurry away so quickly as if she couldn’t wait to be out of the prince’s domain. You blinked in thought— if the servants in this wing were this jumpy around him, it didn’t bode well.
You took a deep breath, trying to steady your trembling fingers. After whispering a few reassurances to yourself, you finally raised your knuckles and knocked gently on the door.
No answer.
A few more seconds passed before you tried again, but this time you heard a deep, irritated voice call out.
“Enter.”
You gulped and planted your hands on the heavy door, pushing it open. The moment you stepped in, you held in your breath. The interior was extravagant beyond words– a room fit for royalty, as expected.
Your enlarged eyes scanned the deluxe chamber, mouth unintentionally falling agape at all it held. But the awe immediately vanished as your gaze landed on Rin. The prince stood by a grand archtop window with his back to you, gazing down at the Aquaria Royal Gardens— which, to compare in size, were bigger than your whole village fit together.
He turned at the sound of your entrance, his sharp eyes immediately narrowing with a look of disdain. His voice was flat, yet annoyed. “Quit ogling and close the door behind you.”
It was an order, and you felt your body immediately move on its own. Your hands fumbled as you quickly shut the door, unable to keep the heat of embarrassment from rising to your cheeks. You lowered your gaze, focusing on the rosa aurora marble floor beneath you.
Rin’s eyes raked over you, his foot tapping on the floor impatiently. His eyes were just as icy as his brother’s, but where Sae had a certain aloofness, Rin’s coldness felt like a blade to the throat. He eventually crossed his arms over his chest and looked at you condescendingly, “No proper greeting?”
Your mind scrambled. “Ah..!” Your fingers gripped onto the fabric of your dress tightly as you bowed stiffly. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Y-Your Imperial Highness,”
He let out an exasperated sigh, rubbing a hand over his face as if the very sight of you was an inconvenience. “Horrible posture,” he muttered. “Your etiquette needs a lot of work.”
Your heart sank further, and humiliation washed over your whole face. You straightened up and pursed your lips together tightly, the words sticking to your throat like superglue, afraid that whatever you’d say next would only make matters worse.
He remained quiet and turned around, walking to the large seating area in the corner of his chamber. You hesitantly followed after him, taking a seat right beside him on the burgundy plush.
He eyed you sideways, clearly displeased. “...Really?”
“Um…” You shuffled your feet awkwardly, the fabric swishing against your ankles. “Sitting in front of you would be presumptuous of me… How dare I make eye contact with someone as great as you, given my position?”
He rolled his eyes at your words. “How audacious.”
“Oh— Your Highness, you’ve got an eyelash on your cheek,” You started, instinctively reaching out to brush it away. But before your fingers could make contact, his hand snapped out, roughly swatting yours away.
“Don’t fucking touch me, commoner scum.” He hissed.
You immediately withdrew, rubbing your stinging hand gently. You bit your bottom lip to keep quiet. “I apol—”
“Go sit in front.”
You obeyed without question, your body moving on autopilot as you rose from the sofa, taking a seat across from him. If you hadn’t the guts to defy your parents, what made you think you could defy a prince? You didn’t even have the strength to be angry; you were too preoccupied with trying to hold yourself together under his oppressive gaze.
What followed was more of an interrogation than a conversation.
“Can you read?”
“No.”
“Write?”
“No.”
“Table manners?”
“I eat with my hands.”
“... Can you do anything at all?”
Your fingers twisted nervously in your lap as you swallowed thickly, embarrassment creeping up your neck. “I can make really good vegetable soup...”
“...”
The silence stretched out, and you could feel your self-worth slowly becoming nonexistent. After a moment, he stood with a sigh, making you flinch.
You averted your gaze to the window and you tapped your foot anxiously against the floor. You realized you were swallowing thick lumps of nothing more than usual. All his questions were glazed with layers of dripping haughtiness and it hurt when you realized how useless and worthless you were as you answered each one.
“No, this is good,” He assured, almost to himself, as he began unbuttoning his white shirt. You looked up at him, confused.
“Good?” You repeated softly.
Rin approached you with his shirt halfway undone. He stopped just in front of you, leaning down with an expression so intimidating it sent shivers sprinting down your spine. “Do you know why I chose someone as lowly and pathetic as you, peasant?”
You rubbed your clammy palms together and paused. “I think I might have an idea,” You whispered.
“Oh? Continue.”
“You want to win the public’s favour, perhaps?” you guessed carefully, “because it shows a connection to those of lower status…”
He raised a brow, “Hm. You’re smarter than you look.” He admitted.
But his next words made your blood run cold. His hands found your shoulders, his fingers gripping onto them with not much force as he leaned closer. Your gaze ashamedly darted down to his peeking sculpted chest before flicking up to his eyes.
“After I’ve become emperor instead of that shitty brother,” he whispered, his breath hot against your ear, “you will bear my child. Then, I’ll find a way to get rid of you.”
Your whole body was trembling as soon as his hands left your shoulders. You could feel your teeth clattering slightly as you stared at the floor, unable to speak. You tilted your head up and watched as he slowly slid off an oval-cut sapphire ring, rimmed with shimmering stones of diamond, from his finger.
“Give me your hand,” He ordered impatiently.
You nodded immediately, extending your hand in front of him with starry eyes. Without a word, he slipped the opulent band onto your ring finger, careful not to make contact with your skin. You pulled away and admired the accessory— you’d be set for a thousand lives if you sold this heavy thing.
“Thank you…” You smiled softly.
“This ring is a royal heirloom, along with one other,” He warned, pointing to the Crest engraved in the gemstone. “Do. Not. Lose. It.”
Your heart pounded in your chest as you stared at the ring, nodding quickly, “Yes… I won’t.”
“Good. Now go. The maids will show you to your chambers. Be ready for your etiquette lessons tomorrow.”
You rose from the sofa shakily, bowing once more. The difference between this man and the one you’d met earlier was staggering, and you already had a not so vague idea on who you preferred.
“Then I shall see you tomorrow. Goodnight, Your Imperial Highness.”
Your eyelids felt heavy as you tried to open them. You blinked once, twice, three times– your vision blurred with remnants of sleep before gradually sharpening into clarity. But what you saw around you was anything but familiar.
Gone were the days of waking up to dusty cobwebs and the cracks and crevices of a wrecked ceiling that you had grown used to. Instead, your eyes met a vast, polished quartz ceiling, glistening in the morning light. Above you was a fancy chandelier, its long golden-framed vines dripping with crystals, and glass trickled down from the hooks.
You shifted beneath your plush cover and froze for a second, because this soft sensation was just as unfamiliar. No more prickly stacks of straw or thin, rough blankets. No, today, you had woken up in luxury.
As you sat up, memories of yesterday flooded your mind. Oh, right. You were absolutely shocked when you were first led to your room. You could say you were floored by its elegance– far larger and more lavish than any room you had imagined you’d get. Though it still paled in comparison to Rin’s personal quarters, it was hard to grasp that this space was your room.
You remembered indulging yourself in a little tour last night, exploring it in awe. There was a massive walk-in closet, filled to the brim with fine dresses and gowns of rich silks and satins. Accessories like cocktail hats, jewel-studded heels, and purses of gorgeous colours, all of which you couldn’t wait to try, filled the shelves.
The grandest thing you had ever owned prior to this was a ring made of a flower’s stem.
But as you rubbed the sleep from your eyes, you felt a shiver run up your spine. Your heart jumped as you realized someone was in the room, and you let out a small squeak, instinctively clutching the covers.
“So you’ve finally woken up, my lady,” came a gentle, slightly amused voice.
You blinked rapidly, your gaze locking onto a pair of soft amethyst eyes. The young woman standing beside you had ginger hair that fell to her shoulders in soft curls, her pale cheeks peppered with specks of pretty freckles.
“W-Who are you…?” You asked carefully.
The woman set a pair of fluffy cotton slippers on the floor beside your bed, then gave you a small curtsy. “Eleanor, my lady. I am your lady-in-waiting.”
You slid your feet into the slippers, still feeling a little dazed. Eleanor busied herself with smoothing the bed linens as though it were the most natural thing in the world. “Meaning..?” you echoed, sitting up straighter.
She chuckled lightly. “Meaning I’ll attend to your personal needs and assist you with your duties to make sure you are well taken care of.” She gave you a smile, “You’re new to all this, aren’t you?”
You looked down at the marble bashfully, nodding your head, and admitted softly, “Yes…”
“Haha, that’s quite alright. But let’s not waste anymore time! We have to get you ready for today!”
“... Huh?”
You were absolutely pampered.
The question constantly lingered— what had you done to deserve this? Probably nothing but you were thankful that you went in the stead of your older sister.
Just a short while ago, you had been treated to the greatest bath of your life, courtesy of Eleanor. She had insisted it was part of her duty as your lady-in-waiting, but it seriously felt like a ritual reserved for queens. She skillfully massaged your muscles and rubbed your scalp with rosewater serenade. And when her hands worked authentic vanilla lather across your skin, you smelled like a warm, freshly baked biscuit. An upgrade from your baths in the river.
Currently, you were seated on a leathered stool as Eleanor combed through your hair with care. The reflection in the mirror in front could leave you gushing over yourself for hours. Your gown was a waterfall of midnight blue silk with intricate silver embroidery. Your waist was still uncomfortable from the pressure of the tight corset, but the result was definitely worth it.
A delicate web of pearls hung from around your neck, cool against your collarbone. You absentmindedly toyed with the silver tassel earrings as Eleanor finished adding the final sprinkle of silver glitter to your styled hair.
“You look absolutely breathtaking, my lady!” She exclaimed as she clapped her hands together to dust off the excess shimmer.
You smiled admiringly, turning your head left and right. “Thank you, Eleanor. I never thought I could look like this...”
You stood from the stool, walking towards the door before her voice stopped you in your tracks.
“Wait, my lady!”
You turned, watching as she carefully presented a delicate box etched with faint leaf patterns. Nestled inside were a pristine pair of white fine lace gloves that were long enough to elegantly reach the elbows.
“His Imperial Highness the Second Prince has ordered that you must wear these whenever you are with him,” She said quietly.
“Ah. Thanks.”
You understood. It was slightly disappointing that your fiancé would go to such lengths to avoid touching you. Was the prospect of touching you truly that distasteful to him? But you shrugged off the thought and removed your heirloom ring before sliding the gloves on. You put back the ring on top. It wasn’t everyday you got to wear something this refined. Perhaps it would be everyday from now on…
But then, the memory of Rin’s chilling words echoed through your mind. “Then, I’ll find a way to get rid of you.”
Your heart clenched and you shook your head. As long as you did as commanded, you were sure you’d be fine.
“Let’s go, Eleanor.”
Your body tensed under the penetrating gazes of the countless servants. Their stares followed you as you walked down the Main Hall of the right wing, heading towards the heart of the palace.
They weren’t even trying to hide their gossip. Why would they? Servants here were no ordinary peasants, they were people of the lowest class of nobility. Sons and daughters of Earls, Counts, Barons.
“His Highness must be smitten,” one maid said, “Just look at her dress!”
“Isn’t she from the slums?”
“And she wears the Royal Heirloom on her finger!”
“So, the rumours were true, then?”
“I heard she thought she'd be marrying the Crown Prince.”
“Pftt, That’s embarrassing.”
The hushed whispers suddenly quieted down to zero, and you assumed it was probably Eleanor’s doing because you could literally feel her piercing gaze though she was trailing respectfully behind you.
“It’s alright, Eleanor, leave them al—”
The words died in your throat the moment you caught sight of him– the man you first encountered when you arrived at the palace. He was exiting the Council Hall, deep in conversation with what looked like an advisor or high-ranking official. Your heart skipped a beat as you instinctively lifted the hem of your dress and rushed towards him.
“Your Highness!” you called out, your voice chirpier than you had intended.
He turned at the sound of your familiar voice, his eyes widening just slightly in surprise. For a fleeting moment, it seemed you had embodied the grace of a princess… had your heel not caught beneath you. You stumbled, eyes squeezing shut as you braced yourself for the fall. But instead of tasting the cold, hard floor, a pair of strong hands caught you, steadying you by your waist.
“Careful,” he warned softly, his hands lingering for just a moment before falling back to his sides. “You’re not used to heels.”
You laughed awkwardly, but you could not hide the disappointment that washed over your expression as his hands left you. “No, it’s my first time.”
He paused. His eyes stayed on you for a moment longer than they should, taking in the way your dress perfectly complimented your figure. But he realized this, and his gaze quickly shifted to the golden deer emblem mounted on the wall.
“You… look different,” He continued, rubbing the back of his neck.
The hall suddenly felt hot, or maybe it was just the heat radiating from your face. You dipped your head, fiddling with your clad fingers. “Oh, do I…?” you sputtered softly, but you silently cursed yourself for replying in such an awkward manner. Of course you looked different!
“Ahem,” Eleanor chimed in, coughing into her fist dramatically. “Not to interrupt, but I hear some alarming footsteps…”
“If you slack off one more fucking time, I’ll display your decapitated head on a pike to serve as an example for your pathetic kind!” a voice yelled from behind.
Rin stepped out the Council Hall, his face an angry scowl as he finished lashing at the minister who scurried away like a frightened animal. His eyes then flickered towards you and his older brother, and his expression soured further.
He turned to look at your lady-in-waiting, speaking sternly. “I thought I told you to bring her to my study,”
“We were on our way, Your Imperial Highness,” Eleanor responded politely, bowing her head.
“Incompetent.”
Rin’s attention shifted to you, noticing the lacey white covering up to your elbows. Without warning, he inched forward and closed the distance between you, his hand snaking around your waist. You tensed as his not unwelcome grip pulled you closer, your palm instinctively flying up to settle on his chest. You looked up at him gently, hesitantly, but his eyes weren’t on you– they were locked on his older brother.
He eyed his brother suspiciously, “What are you still doing here?” He asked. “Shouldn’t you be preparing for your trip to Berlina?”
“Berlina…?” You repeated in confusion.
“The Kingdom of Sorcery and Magic,” Eleanor quickly whispered into your ear, leaning in with her palm covering her mouth.
Sae’s expression remained indifferent, clearly unbothered. “Shouldn’t you be focusing on more important matters right now?” He let his eyes wander lazily towards your hand on Rin’s chest before he smirked. “Like… sharpening your embarrassingly inadequate swordsmanship skills?”
Rin’s face contorted in anger and his neck flushed a deep red. His grip on your shoulder tightened just enough to make you wince. “You bastard… You’ll regret this.” He seethed through clenched teeth.
The Second Prince glanced back at Eleanor in disgust, “You’re dismissed.”
He looked back at you, noticing your extravagant dress, before furrowing his brows. “The dress you’re wearing is too fancy for a day with no important occasion.”
You glanced down at your blue gown and shrugged. “Eleanor chose it for me,”
“Who?”
“—I personally think it suits her just right.” Sae broke in suddenly, wearing a smirk on his face as though he found pleasure in annoying his younger brother.
Rin narrowed his eyes at him. “Who asked for your opinion? And what were you two talking about, anyway?”
The Crown Prince hummed, leaning against the wall behind him. “Let’s see. Well, I told her she looked different, and helped her up when she tripped on her heels.”
“Tch.”
“But be careful,” Sae’s lips twitched into a small grin, his gaze drifting to meet your eyes. “keep your eyes on this beauty else I might steal her from you. Isn’t that right, my lady?”
Thump. Thump. Thump.
“Your Highness, even if you joke around like that, I don’t think my heart can take it–” you whispered, and Sae chuckled lightly, though Rin quickly pulled you behind him.
“That’s enough, stay away from her.” He glared, barely affecting Sae. “Your little jokes aren’t funny.”
“Who said I was joking?” The eldest quipped nonchalantly, and Rin just rolled his eyes.
“Let’s go.” He exasperated, holding onto your wrist and dragging you alongside him.
As his hand guided you away, you looked over your shoulder, searching for a familiar pair of tourmaline eyes. Ones identical to those of your fiancé’s. But instead, all you saw was a broad back and auburn hair shifting as he walked away in the opposite direction.
Rin slammed his fist against the hardwood of his desk. That interaction seemed to have spilled gasoline to the blue flames in his eyes, which were already burning with rage. “That bastard thinks he can keep playing games with me!”
You remained still, hands folded patiently over your abdomen. The last thing you wanted to do was provoke him further.
After a tense silence, Rin let out a sigh and collapsed into the plush seat behind his desk. “It’s alright,” he began, his voice softening just slightly. His gaze locked onto you in a way that made blood rush quicker through your veins. “You’re my ticket to becoming the emperor—” He leaned forward. “I need you.”
Your breath hitched in your throat at those words, but you knew not to expect much. Still, you mustered a sweet smile. “I’ll do my best, Your Highness. You were mentioning today’s schedule…?”
He leaned back, propping his arm on the armrest. “Right. My father is holding our engagement ball next week. Every noble house will be there to congratulate us. In the week leading up to it, you will perfect your manners and court etiquette. Understood?”
You gulped hard as a huge bag of responsibility was suddenly thrown onto your back. A week? To not work on, but perfect everything?
“...Understood.”
—
“... After you master public speaking skills,” Rin went on, “you’ll focus on formal dining etiquette. I don’t want you embarrassing me by eating with your hands. Then, you’ll have dancing lessons and study Royal Dress standards. You also need to be familiar with Aquaria’s history, diplomacy, and customs– especially royal protocols and responsibilities, and….”
His voice continued on, listing task after task. Your head was spinning, and you thought you were going to faint and collapse to the ground. This wasn’t the fairytale you’d imagined. You signed up for the fun part of being a princess— the ballgowns and the makeup, and maybe kissing the prince. This was a chore, the kind that made growing carrots and potatoes seem like heaven in comparison.
“By the end of this week, I expect you to be flawless. I’ve brought in the best tutors for reading, writing, and everything else– all that easy stuff. Do not disappoint me.”
You nodded automatically, but not before adding an innocent thought that had slipped into your mind, in a slightly sarcastic manner. “Have you perfected your swordplay, though?”
Now the temperature in the room seemed to drop down to zero as he bore his narrowed eyes at you. You felt a cold shiver run up all your bones, and your knees weakened. “You think you’re funny don’t you? Do you really want to play this game with me?”
Your bravado crumbled. “N-No…”
“Then get some rest,” he ordered. “Your training starts this afternoon.”
You nodded and quietly turned to leave the study.
Six long days had passed by since your lessons began. Six mentally and physically exhausting days.
Your dance instructor was a strict middle aged lady with sharp eyes and an even sharper tongue, who worked you till your feet were bruised. She made you balance books and vases on top of your head as you marched back and forth, her shrill voice cutting you off whenever your posture was horrible, or when you mixed up the steps for a dance made for another song. Although you loathed her guts, you couldn’t deny the significant improvement of your poise.
The dinner etiquette lessons, however, offered a time-out from that hag. Yes, you learned the basics of formal dining– how to keep your elbows off the table, chew with your mouth closed, use the silver utensils correctly, and pat your lips clean with the patterned napkins. But, the best part, or reward, was tasting the delicacies they served. Truffles, lobster coated with butter, and tender lamb chops. And then there were the fancy desserts– macarons pumped with ganache filling, puff pastry, tartelette au citron, éclair au chocolat, and more.
All of which you had never dreamt of tasting in your life, you who had never tasted anything more luxurious than a loaf of bread.
You also learned how to read and write, not for the reasons you preferred, but good nonetheless. You had found a particular fondness for the history lessons, which were not tedious at all. You were focused at all times much to your mentor’s surprise. Learning about the Royal family’s reign— how they had ruled over neighboring lands for centuries, managing resources, trade, and finance— fascinated you.
But your ears always managed to tune in and pick up the subtle gossip rotating among the maids and servants in the halls and libraries, so you had learned a few things.
The two princes were locked in a one-sided rivalry. One was fighting crystal and pickaxe for the crown, while the true heir showed little interest in the throne he was destined to inherit.
Sae, the eldest, wasn’t just entitled to the crown by birthright. He excelled at everything– swordplay, defense, archery, and horseback riding for royal ceremonies or simple trips to cities. His skills were polished to literal perfection. Rin, on the other hand, was skilled, but not extraordinary. He always lived in the shadow of his brother.
Yet Rin’s desire to become emperor wasn’t merely a wish— it was a burning, desperate need, an ambition to prove himself worthy. To finally win against Sae.
Killing his brother, of course, was out of the question— such an act would be treason. Besides, Rin didn’t just want him gone; he wanted Sae to see the moment when he ascended the throne, to admit defeat, to acknowledge that Rin had bested him.
Rin believed that the key to winning favour with their father—the current emperor—and the people was to flaunt his achievements, which, to remention, were not as good as Sae’s. But his sharp tongue and cold demeanor made it difficult for him to win many hearts. Sae learned to place a mask behind his foul words, whereas Rin still struggled to.
And that’s where you came into the picture.
You weren’t just his fiancée; you were part of his strategy. He’ll show you off before the court and the public, showcasing to the world how he transformed a mere commoner, a peasant, into someone of worth.
You came from a disgusting, needy village, yet now you stood in royal fits. To Rin, you were a symbol showing his ability to elevate those beneath him. A tool to gain the favour of the people. You could read and write now, you were beautiful, and in the eyes of the kingdom, you had the potential to become the empress one day— if, of course, Rin managed to seize the crown from his brother.
—
It was late at night, and the moon’s natural light filtered through your curtains. You moved to your huge window and brushed aside the rosegold-embroidered fabric as you peered down at the Royal Gardens. The view was similar to that of Rin’s, since your chambers were three spare rooms away from each other.
You were exhausted, but you always had time to admire the water spilling down elegantly from the angel sculptures’ stone lips, or the beautiful shrubs clipped into topiaries.
But all the exhaustion you felt moments ago suddenly vanished when your eyes caught sight of someone unexpected.
It was the Crown Prince. You had seen Sae around the palace during these tiring six days, and you’ve engaged in many small talks with him without Rin’s knowledge. Conversations flew naturally with him, he asked you about your life before the engagement, and though you were initially hesitant, you found yourself speaking openly with him. There was a strange ease to Sae that, oddly enough, only you seemed to feel.
You stared at him a bit too long, your gaze almost boring a hole into him, and he sensed it.
Pivoting on his heel, he made direct eye contact with you from below. A soft gasp escaped your lips, and you hurriedly pulled the curtain closed. But he could still see your silhouette, and when you peeked your head out slightly from the curtain, you could’ve sworn you’d seen him chuckle.
With a quick gesture of his hand, he beckoned you down to the gardens. Your pretty eyes widened, but you found yourself nodding eagerly with no hesitation. How could you refuse?
—
Panting softly between giggles, you rested your hands on your knees.
“I can’t believe you ran to meet me in your… nightgown,” Sae remarked, his lips curving into a subtle smirk.
You straightened and boldly stepped closer until you were only centimeters away from him. Your eyes twinkled in the moonlight, and you shone a smile brighter than la lune.
Sae’s breath caught in his throat as your face came full view and he felt his body still. You were Rin’s fiancée– he shouldn't be looking at you like this. But the glow of moonlight was making it hard…
“... You’re beautiful,” the words slipped out naturally.
Heat flooded the sweet curves of your cheeks at the way he said it so casually, so suddenly. Your gaze dropped to the freshly cut grass, your fingers nervously tucking a loose strand of your hair behind your ear.
“Thank you,” you muttered quietly, your voice barely above a hush.
Silence followed. But comfortable, nonetheless. Then, you noticed his hand, palm up and waiting in front of you. You blinked up at him in confusion.
“I am aware that I am in no position to do this, but…” He paused, “May I have this dance?”
Your eyebrows shot up comically in surprise, glistening doe eyes widening for the hundredth time tonight. Your heart was thumping so fast you thought it might burst from your chest, and you feared he might hear it.
It was risky, you knew that. If Rin were awake, he might have been watching from his window– his chambers were so close to yours. You knew how much he enjoyed looking from his window from the time you’ve spent together in the past week. But, he had dismissed you earlier to rest and this moment alone with Sae was tempting.
Hesitantly, your hand hovered over his before relaxing and letting it fall in his grasp. You met his gaze, and you shyly whispered,
“I know we’re not supposed to be doing this… but I want to.” Your fingers intertwined with his, and you smiled softly. “May I have this honour, Your Imperial Highness the Crown Prince?”
Sae glanced down at your hand weaved between his fingers. His brows furrowed in a frown, and a wave of panic washed over you. You literally felt your heart leap out of your chest. Had you overstepped your boundaries?
“I was only kidd—”
But instead of pulling away, he gently hooked his finger under the wristband of your glove, sliding it off your hand. You felt warmth bloom across your cheeks as he slowly removed the other glove too, making sure to leave his touch lingering on your bare skin.
“You don’t need to wear these ridiculous gloves to bed,” he said, “It’s unnecessary.”
Your cœur fluttered. “I… I just forgot,” you mumbled, embarrassed.
He rolled his eyes, but his lips quirked into a smile as he clasped your now bare hand, while the other found its place on your waist. The fabric of your silk nightgown was thin, and his touch felt intimate, direct, and you could feel his fingertips pressing lightly against your skin.
He led you in a slow dance gracefully under the protective gaze of the serene moon, delicately spinning you before your arms naturally draped around his neck. His hand slid to the small of your back, pulling you closer. He looked so good, he smelled so good, his touch so gentle. You wanted him.
“Do you like these gardens?” He asked suddenly, giving you another twirl.
You nodded, lacing your fingers in his. “I do. It’s quiet. The palace can be… overwhelming.”
Sae raised a brow, “Overwhelming, huh? For someone like you, I suppose it would be.”
The words stung slightly, but there was no malice in his voice. You dared to meet the eyes you came to adore, “And you? Why are you here, Your Highness?”
He paused, then turned slightly. “I’m avoiding another council meeting. You’d be surprised how tedious it can be listening to old men argue for hours on end.”
You laughed softly, and for a brief moment, his eyes softened. He pointed toward a part of the garden in the distance. “Come with me,” he said simply.
You followed, trembling as the Crown Prince led you with his fingers gently wrapped around your wrist. When you came to a stop, your breath caught in awe. Before you were roses of every shade– deep crimson, soft peach, porcelain white, and candy pink.
“They’re gorgeous,” you gasped.
“Right.” Sae bent down and plucked a single red rose from the bush, turning to you with a small, rare smile. “The red ones are my favorite,” he murmured, carefully tucking the rose into your hair.
You smiled sheepishly, gently patting the rose he’d placed. “They remind me of strawberry ja—”
“They remind me of blood,” he interrupted with a casual voice.
You blinked, startled by his answer. “R-Right.”
He chuckled softly, rubbing the area around his neck. “I can see why Rin chose you.”
You looked at him for a few seconds before quickly shaking your head. “He didn’t choose me, he just wanted any girl from our clan. My older sister was supposed to go, but I went in her stead. Besides, I’m nothing special… just convenient.”
“Convenient?” His gaze darkened slightly before his hand came up to rest on your chin. “...Don’t sell yourself short. You’re more than that.”
Your head quickly tilted down and you began to fiddle with your fingers, then with the simple lace adorning your neck. “Your Highness– stop saying things that make my heart, I don’t know, hurt?”
“Oh?” He placed his hands gently on your cheeks and you looked up at him lovingly. “That isn’t good for Rin, is it?”
You shook your head, “No, it isn’t. But he doesn’t make me feel this way.” You boldly placed your palms on his shoulders and stood on your tippy toes, and as soon as he leaned down slightly in approval, you pressed a soft kiss to his cheek.
He tapped his forehead against yours and smiled. His heart was beating a bit quicker, and he found it dangerous. “Well, I’m afraid I must leave now.” He drawled.
Your heart sank a little, your ethereal eyes flicking down. You nodded slowly, “Thank you for your time, Your Highness.”
He looked down at you, his expression softening. Slowly, he lifted your hand to his lips and pressed a chaste kiss to your skin. “It was a pleasure, my lady.”
If he couldn’t hear your heart thundering in your chest one thousand miles per hour moments ago, then he sure could now. As he disappeared, you placed your hand over your chest, rubbing over the spot where he’d kissed.
It seemed like Sae had yet again bested Rin in a game neither had realized they were playing.
Tonight was your engagement ball, the grand celebration that would officially announce your impending marriage to Rin.
You were both in his chamber, dressed fully in fancy outfits. He wore an elegant white attire adorned with the brooch of Aquaria and a navy blue sash draped across his chest. You wore a pitch black gown embroidered with gold, matching gloves, and heavy golden jewelry that Rin had exclusively bought for you.
The party had already begun downstairs, the grand ballroom filled with the most important guests from across the empire. But the grand entrance of the soon-to-be bride and groom had to wait for the Emperor’s speech, set to occur an hour after the festivities commenced.
“It’s a lunar eclipse,” you mused admiringly, leaning against the window. The moon, bloody red from the umbra, hung in the night sky ominously. “I’ve read about the phenomenon in the Royal Library. The stars look so close… they look like they could fall right into our hands.”
Rin rolled his eyes and walked closer to you, resting his hand on your further shoulder. He stared out the window in boredom. “How poetic,” he muttered sarcastically. “Even the moon is congratulating us tonight.”
You turned your gaze from the sky to him, your hand gently smoothing out a small wrinkle on his sash. “It’s time, isn’t it? We should head to the Ballroom.”
He grumbled in response, pushing your hand aside as if your touch was unnecessary.
The intricate grandfather clock suddenly chimed loudly. Midnight had arrived.
Tick.
“In the Twilight of the Eclipsing Red Moon…”
Tick.
“When Stars Align and Shadows Loom…”
Tick.
A strange voice seemed to rise from nowhere. You flinched visibly, a shiver creeping up your spine as the tiny hairs on the back of your neck stood up. You quickly found Rin’s hand and grasped it tightly.
“D-Did you hear that?” You shuddered, voice trembling.
He raised an eyebrow. “Hear what? You’re imagining things.”
You shook your head, swallowing hard. “No… I swear, I heard something– like a voice. It was…”
He scoffed, shaking his head dismissively. “It’s just the clock ticking. Don’t start getting all nervous on me now.” His grip tightened around your hand, but you doubted it was for your comfort. “You’re going to be on your best performance for me, Got it?”
You hesitantly nodded, your gaze lingering on the moon for a few more seconds. The red, eerie glow still haunted your thoughts. You reluctantly turned away, looping your arm through Rin’s to exit the chamber and enter the grandeur.
“Yes…”
“And I want to thank you all once more for attending tonight’s ball,” The Emperor’s proclamation boomed from behind the closed doors. The attention of every soul present was on him. “I would now like to announce the formal entry of The Second Prince of Aquaria, and his fiancée, a soon-to-be princess, Y/N!”
The large doors, decorated with orchids and bloody red roses, parted dramatically to reveal you and Rin hand in hand. The Royal Guards on each side immediately stiffened and raised gloved hands to their head in salute.
The aristocrats hushed immediately and their eyes followed as you both stepped onto the red carpet, descending the grand staircase and heading towards the two thrones.
You halted just below the steps of the thrones, immediately lowering your head in a bow of respect alongside Rin.
“Greetings, Your Imperial Majesties,” you murmured, lifting your head as you learned to.
“... Thank you, Father, Mother,” Rin’s voice followed formally.
Your gaze shifted towards the Empress. You particularly loved her as her lovely crimson hair always seemed to remind you of Sae. Oh, speaking of the Crown Prince, where was he? You hadn’t caught a glimpse of him yet.
You turned your head, eyes subtly scanning the room in search of a distinct redhead. And in the corner of your eye, you found him leaning casually against a balcony pillar, arms folded over his chest and eyes closed.
Your gaze softened at the sight of him before refocusing on the mob of aristocratic ladies and noblemen that had rushed to circle your betrothed as soon as the Imperial Greetings were over. They approached and offered smiles under snobby and vexing expressions, backhanded compliments under the guise of praise.
“Such a refreshing choice, Your Imperial Highness!” A brunette lady gibed, fanning herself with an elegant fan as she slyly smirked, “You’ve truly outdone us all in… originality.”
A Lord chuckled beside her, his laugh insufferably pompous. “I must say, Your Highness, I certainly admire you embracing such humble roots! A prince of the people! Ho ho ho!”
“I’m glad we have such a reliable prince who values all his subjects equally!”
“It is odd that His Imperial Highness the Crown Prince hasn’t found a lady yet.” One brought up.
An Earl added, “That’s true. He’s supposed to step up to the throne sooner or later. He needs an heir once he becomes Emperor.”
You squeezed Rin’s hand discreetly as he bit his lip in frustration at the mention of his brother. He needed to restrain himself at least this one time.
“I appreciate your sentiments–” he began, but faltered for a split second. “No I fucking don—” You squeezed his hand again, giving him a gentle nudge, and he cleared his throat. “Your support is reassuring,” he finished with a strained smile.
As your fiancé continued chatting with the backhanded nobles, your attention kept drifting towards Sae, stealing quick glances every now and then. He had begun conversing with a group of higher officials and ministers, likely discussing Berlina, The Kingdom of Sorcery and Magic that he had frequented many times to strengthen the Empire’s growing alliances.
Loud enchanting music began to play from the orchestra and many already established couples began to dance in the center. Expensive and rare gifts began to pile at your feet, congratulatory offerings from various guests. Rin accepted them indifferently and reluctantly offered his thanks with as much enthusiasm as the stone sculptures that lined the ballroom.
“This jewel was found in the Ancient land of Topion and is thought to bring good fortune!”
“This exotic bird from Elakis produces gold everytime it sings!”
“This sword is forged by a legendary ghost smith whose body lives in the volcanic depths of Loo!”
You froze when Sae stepped forward as the next gifter, and it seemed like the entire room was also holding its breath. He approached, your widened eyes drifting down to the elegant box in his hand. He opened it, revealing an intricate necklace with shimmering, round pearls.
“An authentic pearl necklace crafted by the Merman Emperor of Eau.” Sae presented with his usual calm demeanor, making it hard to believe that he had spent days negotiating with the merman to create a necklace exclusively suitable for you.
Your mouth parted in surprise, and the words tumbled out. “Oh– thank you! It’s… beautiful.”
Rin rolled his eyes, gently fisting your hair and lifting it to expose your neck. “You didn’t have to do that,” He hissed through gritted teeth, looking at Sae with teal eyes that crinkled in hate.
Sae met his brother’s glare with a simple hum, fastening the beaded necklace around your neck. You bit your lip tightly as his touch lingered on your skin, looking down at the pearls that beautifully settled against your collarbone. “That would be disrespectful to you both, I’m afraid,” He said. “Even Our Father, the Emperor, has offered her pleasantries.”
Rin clicked his tongue and looked back at you, wrapping his arm possessively around your waist and pulling you closer to him. He pressed a quick kiss to your forehead, catching you by surprise. The Crown Prince narrowed his eyes at the gesture.
“Come on, darling,” Rin emphasized as he spat out the term of endearment, though he internally cringed and wanted the ballroom to rupture and swallow him whole. The pet name left a bitter taste at the tip of his tongue. “It’s time for our dance.”
You nodded, your lips parting to speak, but, “Of course, Your High—”
“The Great’s Fate is Sealed in the Veil of Night…”
That haunting voice again. Your ears were ringing. You quickly squeezed your eyes shut and froze in your tracks.
“...By the Hand of One from Mystic Light.”
“I-It’s the voice again!” You whimpered, hands flying to your ears in a desperate attempt to block out the sound. “I hear it!”
Rin scoffed loudly, glancing left and right at the guests who were exchanging confused looks. Sae, on the other hand, seemed out of it, with half-closed, bleary eyes.
“Quit it, you fool!” Rin cursed in annoyance, his patience snapping. He grabbed you by your shoulders and yanked you to his chest away from their judgemental gazes.
“Voice? I don’t hear anything,” a lady whispered.
“Neither do I,” someone else chimed in.
A voice snickered, “She said ‘again’.”
“His Imperial Highness must be marrying someone with auditory hallucinations.” The words stung as they left another noble’s mouth.
Then, in an instant, the ballroom plunged into darkness as the bright chandeliers went out. The ballroom was only illuminated by the glow of a large bolt of lightning, and a thunder rattled so violently it deafened you and shook the windows. When the bulbs flickered back on, a shrill lady’s voice pierced the silent room.
“T-The Crown Prince! He’s not moving!”
All eyes shot to Sae, who lay motionless and graceful on the floor, hand on top of hand. He looked calm, as though he was merely resting.
You gasped in fear, hands flying to your mouth as you tried to stay balanced on your feet. Rin’s eyes in particular were the widest. The atmosphere in the room immediately shifted to terror as everyone noticed the ink-blue vines creeping slowly up his neck, thorn designs wrapping themselves around his throat.
“T-That’s… Alexis’ Curse!” The Emperor panicked.
You had read about it. Alexis’ Curse—an ancient legend of a wizard scorned by love. His heart had been shattered by the daughter of a shoemaker, Michelle Kaiser, who had chosen her Earl lover over him. She always refused Alexis’ advances, and the gifts he’d always present.
Enraged, Alexis had cursed the Earl, condemning him to a fate of eternal sleep unless the one he loved kissed him to break the spell. The curse wasn't one of eternal youth, however—the body continued to age, to decay, until there was nothing left but ugly bones.
But because Alexis had disposed of his inked body in his tower, the Earl had died alone, Michelle never finding him.
The curse had become a myth, that Alexis’ wrath was aimed at those of high status, warning them of the dangers of meddling with those beneath them.
But the nobles’ faces were literally drained of colour because what had once been myth was now terrifyingly real, before their very eyes.
It had been a few weeks since the disaster during your engagement party.
They had sealed Sae’s lifeless body deep in a chamber within the Main Palace’s basement. You attempted sneaking in multiple times, but you failed– the entry was heavily guarded and there was too much risk. And besides, if slipping past your lady-in-waiting wasn’t hard enough, Rin had become increasingly possessive as the possibility of being promoted to Crown Prince rose. That is if he was elected as so in the Royal Committee Meeting.
He was proud enough that he’d permit small acts of closeness– letting you remove your gloves when in his presence, even sharing his chamber. So, you would never risk waking him up while trying to sneak into the basement.
You recalled the aftermath of the disastrous ball vividly:
—
“I never knew he was so pathetic,” Rin sneered that night, running a hand through his dark hair before resting it at your throat and squeezing lightly. “Falling in love with you? A commoner? He must be out of his mind.”
He chuckled as he released you, pulling you into his chest.
“The whole Empire is so stupid. They think he fell in love with someone else. But it’s better this way.”
—
Yet despite Rin’s actions, your thoughts remained with Sae. You’d spent the weeks caring for Celestia, his white mare, as well as tending to Rin’s black stallion which he had never bothered to give a name to. You learned from the stable workers that Celestia was the mother of the charcoal horse.
Tonight, however, a once in a red moon opportunity presented itself. Your fiancé was away on royal business in Yelund, negotiating financial matters with their government in place of the Crown Prince. You took this chance, knowing it was the only one, and decided to sneak out.
You left your chamber, clutching a cage with a rat you’d found in the servants residence. You made your way through the darkened corridors until you reached the entrance of the basement. You hid yourself behind a large stone pillar and took a deep breath, tossing a small block of cheese across the room as a distraction.
The guards were alarmed by the subtle noise and quickly whipped their heads and ran towards the sound. You bit your lip in concentration— everything was going according to your plan. You quickly released the rat from its cage, watching it scurry across the concrete, and silently slipped into the Royal basement. You sighed in relief as you heard a guard's voice.
“Oh, it’s just a rat. Guards, get back into position.”
—
You slid off your heels so that your bare feet barely made a sound as they grazed the stone steps of the staircase. The basement wasn’t very illuminated if not for the dim candles that hung on the wall, and the stench was not horrible as you thought it would be. Instead, it smelled like preserved jasmine.
You were at the last step when you put your hand on the concrete wall, trying to catch your breath.
At the bottom, in the center of the relatively smaller room, stood a rectangular crystal glass box. Inside it, Sae lay perfectly still. The sight of him made your gaze soften and your heart clench as if it was put in a meat slicer. His skin was pale, but it was bolded, in contrast, by the inky blue vines tracing thorn and rose patterns across his body.
His cheeks and ears were faintly flushed by a baby pink dust, and his lips looked so soft, so gentle, so inviting. Stray strands of his red hair lay on the cushion beneath him, his long lashes resting against his cheekbones.
You were aching as you approached the enclosure. Your fingers trembled as you pressed them to the glass, your breath slightly fogging the surface. Tears blurred your vision as they began to roll down your cheeks, and you leaned down to gently caress his cheek with your bare hand, feeling the coolness of his skin.
You sniffled and your palms went to rub your glossy eyes, before you straightened up and curled your fingers on the glass in a tight grip. He looked beautiful, you thought, with roses that matched his hair colour surrounding him all over.
“Your Imperial Highn— no, Sae—” you whispered, “I… I love you, too.”
You cupped his face with quivering hands, your thumbs rubbing sweet circles on his skin as you contorted your body awkwardly to reach him. The glass was positioned high, at your waist’s level, so you had to twist your body and bend to touch him intimately.
Sae remained unmoving, yet you had hoped that somewhere deep within his slumber, he could sense your touch, or the sincerity of your unsteady voice confessing your reciprocated love.
As you leaned in to kiss him, that same sharp voice that you always hear yet again cut through your ears, and you instinctively covered them with your hands for protection.
“But From the Dust of Forgotten Lands,”
Your heart thumped faster in your chest as you tried to shake it off.
“Shall Rise a Heart with Common Hands,”
Beads of cold sweat trickled down your temple— you could never get used to the voice, no matter how many times you’d heard it.
“With Lips of Rose and Spirit Warm,”
Your hands fisted at the cotton under Sae, inhaling deeply before bending down until your face was inches away from his.
“To Bring the Order, End the Storm.”
Your lips hesitantly hovered over his mouth before you fluttered your eyes shut and pressed them against his in a kiss. Your lips together were so soft, yet they weren’t moving against each other like a mutual kiss would. They locked seamlessly in a way that felt strangely natural, as if the pair were made for each other.
Your lips lingered against his for a few seconds, and you wanted to relish the moment more, but you felt a subtle shift in Sae’s body. A faint flinch, almost imperceptible, ran through him, and the blue roses on his skin suddenly began to glow.
You pulled back before you could fully comprehend what was even happening, your lips just brushing his as you turned and sprinted towards the stairs. Fortunately, the guards on duty were in the midst of a shift exchange, so you assumed you had gone off flawlessly.
But not entirely.
A certain awakened man had caught a glimpse of your hair as it bounced during your escape.
The first light of morning stabbed your eyes, and they fluttered open abruptly as you realized Rin’s hands were on your shoulders, shaking you harshly. His face was itched in a deep scowl, his breath hot against your skin.
“What the fuck is all this about? This is what I come back to, you fucking whore?” He fumed venomously.
You blinked in confusion– your head was still fogged with sleep, after all.
“W-What..?”
—
The usual tranquility of the whole palace was broken by hurried, squeaky footsteps and frantic voices. News of the Crown Prince’s revival had spread like wildfire through the Royal Quarters: the sleeping prince had defeated the curse and had awakened after only a few mere weeks.
The servants and maids rushed through the hallways, scrambling to prepare for what would be an unexpected audience. Gossips and rumours flowed through every corridor of the palace faster than the head maid brewing herbal tea in preparation for noble guests.
And in the Royal Gardens outside, hundreds to near thousands of noblemen and noblewomen who were alerted of the Sae’s revival gathered, dressed in their finest dresses and suits.
Oh, you were so fucked.
—
“M-My lady, this isn’t good!” Eleanor cried as she ran into your room, “Hundreds of guests have arrived in the Throne room, and both princes are there too! His Imperial Majesty is now urgently awaiting your presence!”
Your hands instinctively wrapped around your abdomen, and you suddenly felt nauseous. Your body shook slightly, your teary eyes fixing themselves on the ground. You loved Sae, you really did, but doubt was gnawing at your organs. Kissing him felt right in that moment, yet you were starting to regret ever doing it.
What if he didn’t want your help? What if your peasant lips had tainted him? What if he didn’t want you?
“I… I don’t want to go,” you hiccuped, walking around your room in circles. “I’m so stupid, I should have never—”
“No, my lady,” She interrupted gently. “You must.”
You gulped and nodded hesitantly. Rin’s anger lingered in your mind like salt and pepper— his eyes were boiling over with rage, his face tinted a deep crimson red. You had never seen him like that, and now, as you stepped into the crowd gathered in the grand hall, all heads turned to look at you in a way that made you even more uncomfortable.
But the Emperor, however, did not seem angry. Weird enough, he looked elated for reasons you couldn’t yet pinpoint.
As Eleanor had said, Rin and Sae were both present, standing opposite each other like the rivals they were. Rin was struggling to contain the way he was absolutely fuming, while Sae was blatantly staring at you with no intention of hiding it. Unlike the way you usually reacted to the Crown Prince’s gaze, you felt rather nervous, flexing and unflexing your fingers.
You pinched the fabric of your simple gown and bowed low, and the thin patterns of the marble floor never seemed so interesting.
“Greetings, Your Imperial Majesty,” you addressed.
The Emperor nodded in acknowledgment, before turning his attention to Sae expectantly. “My son.”
“Yes, father.”
Before your wracked mind could process what was happening, Sae suddenly began striding toward you. Rin was a considerable distance away from you but he also furrowed his brows in confusion. A million thoughts started to run through his mind and he felt the unease creeping up his spine. Had they planned something behind his back?
Sae came to a stop in front of you, and your breath caught in your throat as you felt his arms, so muscular despite being under layers of hand-crafted clothing, loop around your waist and pull you close. Your face pressed against his chest, and your hands awkwardly hung near your sides despite being desperate to place themselves in places they’d beg to touch.
Loud gasps and surprised awes of the hundreds of uninvited, stunned guests echoed throughout the large room.
“Hey, what the heck–?” Rin suddenly snapped, biting down on his lip so hard that blood seeped out, the iron leaving a metallic taste on his tongue.
He didn’t like you, not really, but he had finally claimed something– someone that his older brother desired, and now it felt as though Sae was taking you from him.
It irritated him to no end, the way Sae’s hand gently patted your hair and the way you sheepishly smiled into his suit like an idiot– who the heck did you think you were? How could you? How fucking dare you?
And more importantly, why was the Emperor fine with this? Why was he chuckling so carelessly akin to the circus’ fool? What was going on?
But your mind was already in Saturn. You were lost in the Crown Prince’s musky scent and the oh-so-delicate taps of his fingers on your head, and when you heard that voice again, you closed your eyes knowingly and smiled for the first time in what felt like forever.
“A Crown of Old Shall Find its Grace,”
“In the Embrace of a Simple Face.”
“Y/N.” Sae’s voice broke through your thoughts and the voices of gossip in the crowd died down instantly. He tilted your chin up gently, thumbs caressing your face sweetly before his hands found their place on your cheeks.
Your eyes darted left and right nervously, avoiding his gaze. He'd never called you by your first name before. You shook those thoughts away and met his gaze. “Yes…?”
“You know,” He started, “To break the curse, the feeling of love must be mutual…”
Your cradled head nodded in his hands in embarrassment, and you felt heat creep up from your neck to your ears. “I’m aware,”
“So?”
Your eyes widened and immediately snapped down to the floor, watching your simple heels shuffling softly. You couldn’t help the soft giggle that escaped past your lips, and you only hoped that no one had heard that. You looked up at him affectionately.
“I love you…” Your voice dripped like melted caramel on his tongue, so sweet.
He smiled– a real, genuine smile that no one besides you could see– and leaned down, whispering an “I love you too,” before sealing his lips against yours. The kiss was gentle, and you let out a soft sigh as your fingers curled onto the rich fabric, gripping onto his attire tightly. His lips were warm as they moved against yours, unlike the cold, unmoving lips that you had claimed a while back.
When you finally pulled away, your eyes fluttered open, dazed with bleary eyes, little hearts seemingly etched into your pupils.
The crowd erupted into cheers and gasps, and maybe a few rolls of the eyes and glares from jealous noblewomen or daughters of Lords who had hoped to have Sae all to themselves, though you barely registered anything.
Why would anything matter, when you were here, openly in his arms?
“His Imperial Highness the Crown Prince is in love with his soon-to-be sister-in-law? This is hot news!”
“The Second Prince didn’t love her anyway.”
“He didn’t? But was it really a marriage of convenience, then?”
“No way, he must have been in love. What’s there to gain from a commoner?”
“But what could a village girl like her possibly offer the Crown Prince?”
The Emperor suddenly rose from his golden throne and stepped down the carpeted stairs, standing in the center. He cleared his throat and raised his scepter high in the air.
“I, the Emperor of the Royal Empire of Aquaria, officially dissolve the engagement between Y/N and the Second Prince, and announce the engagement between her and the Crown Prince!”
Rin’s eyes twitched. His fists clenched tighter by his sides, knuckles white and nails digging deep into his palms. He felt humiliated in front of so many people, but it is said that what goes around comes around.
“Huh? But Father, she's—” Rin began, but the Emperor turned his head and shot him a threatening glare.
“Emperor’s order.” With a voice that sharp, there was no possible room for argument.
You also stood frozen, mouth hanging open in disbelief as you blinked at the Emperor in the distance. But Sae’s fingers tipped your chin back up and his lips latched onto yours in a bold, open-mouthed kiss.
“Look at me,” he murmured as he pulled back slightly to look at you, his breath warm against your skin.
Your breath hitched, your gaze locking onto his. “Your Highness… I can’t believe this is happening,” You whisper-yelled in excitement, your hands waving around uncertainly.
He gently poked your cheeks. “You’ll take my last name since you don’t have one.”
You pinched yourself to check if this was all just a dream. If it was, you didn’t want to wake up. But it was all too real. The Crown Prince was now your fiancé. You were going to be the Crown Princess, and eventually, the Empress. And you were going to take his last name because commoners do not have the privilege of family names.
And despite everything, you strangely felt no deep remorse. You had slightly opened up to and grown fond of Rin in the past few weeks– he had those moments, but with you in his brother’s arms right now, you felt something different. You felt bad, but at the same time you didn’t. It wasn’t guilt. It was more complicated, but in the end, you didn’t dwell on it. You didn’t need to.
Rin stood in his spot motionless like a fallen angel’s statue, face hidden by a brush of his dark bangs. His eyes were fixed on the floor and his hands were clutching onto his pants like if he removed them hell would break loose.
His plan had backfired on him. Initially, he had chosen you, a commoner, as his fiancée to gain favour with the people, to appeal to the majority of Aquaria’s population, who were commoners themselves. It seemed like a strategic move at the time. His father, the Emperor, was known for his peculiar love for equality and would occasionally volunteer in villages, much to his dismay. Rin had believed marrying you would show his alignment with his father’s baffling… values, and would increase his chances of becoming the next ruler.
But no. His darn prodigy of a brother had bested him once again. Sae was better at everything: swordplay, horse riding, diplomacy, even winning nobles’ hearts. And now, his brother had not only fallen in love with his fiancée, a dumb commoner from the slums that he had chosen to boost his image, but also managed to make her fall heads over heels for him as well.
If that hadn’t infuriated him enough, he despised how his father wore that sickeningly proud smile on his face as he clapped his hands together, and how the couples were cheering and twirling like morons on the floor. While he stood stiff and awkward in the corner, insides seething in mixed emotions, hearing your stupid giggles and his brother’s irritatingly sweet reassurances of a better life with him. Sae had taken everything away from him, and it felt like salt being rubbed into an open wound.
But Rin hated his older brother, and he hated you too.
So on the night of your wedding, the chambermaid in your room let out a blood-curdling shriek, her face as pale as the moonlight that shone through the window.
Cruel streaks of mulberry and plum bruises painted the delicate canvas of your neck. The once-pure white of your nightgown now blemished with spreading stains of deep cherryrose dye called blood, seeping through the fabric and into the silken sheets beneath.
A severed porcelain horse’s head lay propped beside the body with vacant eyes, and scattered across the carpet were shattered remnants of a pearl necklace.
“But Do not be Fooled, One Shall Not Bloom,”
A dagger, its handle carved from true blue sapphire, was loosely wrapped between cold, limp fingers of a lifeless corpse sprawled across a river of red.
It's not r*pe, it's rape. It's not su*cide, it's suicide. Not unalive, dead. The backbone needs to be reintroduced en masse because softening the blow of these concepts with advertising language does absolutely nothing but allow people unaffected by them to feel not even a sting of what they can do, prompting inaction.
And it's been proven that on certain websites, you don't even face a repercussion for using the words as they are. People just started censoring themselves because they feared the potential lack of views and likes and followers which is so nasty itself.
I attended an anti-suicide seminar in college. One of the big takeaways from it was that stigmatizing suicide increases the rate of suicide, because people who are feeling suicidal feel like they can't ask for help. Every time I see babytalk garbage like 'unalive', I think of that.
꒰ synopsis: in which you finally meet the reincarnation of your past lover.꒱
dan heng x fem!reader, sfw, fated soulmates, dan heng is confused, slight angst if you squint, i wanted to make something tearjerker for a change but! i ended up writing a happy end for this still! wc: 1.6k
fate was such a cruel thing.
dan heng stood there, silently watching as your back was facing away from his, talking to jing yuan as the battle from earlier was now dissipated.
he was in a state of dilemma.
after finally transforming to his former vidyadhara self, the imbibitor lunae, so many happened at once that lead to this fateful reunion that many did not expect to happen. even to himself.
he was the kind of man that wanted to tend to his own problems, the weight which he had grown tired the most was carrying the burden of his past sins, the burden of being in someone else's shadow.
he was not dan feng anymore, he was just dan heng. the present him that finally embraced the truth of his own past and now wants to move on.
to settle this once and for all, was something he needed to do. what he wished to do so that he could not be shackled anymore from his past being.
as he was mulling over the words that he wished to convey to you, it almost felt like he couldn't breathe once he saw you finally approaching him.
he could see from his peripheral view that yingxing, even jing yuan managed to give you both some space, of course he thought, they were solely the ones who knew about your past with him.
the distance between you both felt like it should've stayed that way.
the pain of having to see your past lover in front of you but not the lover you once knew was a different kind of pain. it was gnawing. you didn't want to show that to him, that you were weak, that it was almost hard for you to look at him like this.
it took a while for you to open your mouth, neither of you moved from your spot. the sky was now becoming a vivid orange, signaling that dusk was drawing near.
"i am not him." those were the first words you heard from him after all the years that you've not spoken to each other.
it definitely was a start, but even if the pain was starting to become unbearable, you still gave him a smile which dan heng was taken aback. his striking blue eyes seemingly wavered at the sight.
"of course you aren't. the 'you' that you are now, is not the dan feng that i used to know."
dan heng took a moment to process your words. was that a hint of sadness he heard in your tone?
the memories of his past was all but a faded dream to him, he should have forgotten the memories of dan feng with his past lover but even so, he could not ignore the way his heart clenched seeing you like this. because even if he dreamt of you from his past, once he got to saw you again, the you that was now in front of him was as clear as the sky above him.
it felt like torture.
why was he hesitating now of all times? he should be spilling those words that he wanted to say since earlier. making it clear to you, that he was not the man that you once cherished before and he didn't want to do anything that could make him remember the past anymore.
"it's okay dan heng..you need not to say anything more. i understand now. i am just happy to see that you are doing well this time."
the words you'd given him were all kind, from the beginning, there was not a hint of any malice from you. which he expected for you to feel , because if his memory of leaving everything behind was correct, it was his choice to leave that life of his. his choice to also leave you.
this feeling of remorse, was it because he was still tied with dan feng? or because..
even now, speaking to him, you did not even spoke his former name, or his past. you were just acknowledging the fact that this was real. that you already knew that this was bound to happen.
his thoughts paused from the sound of someone calling out his name. "dan heng!" he glanced from his side as he saw his team, his newfound friends in this life, waving over to let him know that they were there, waiting for him.
once he turned his gaze back to yours, you were already taking a step back from him. "you should go. they seem eager to have you back."
he unconsciously clenched his hands from his sides. this was supposed to make him feel at ease now. and you just made it easy for him to finally let go.
dan heng nodded at your admission before giving you a slight bow, now turning his back on you.
one..
two..
not even three steps in, he felt his jaw clenched, closing his eyes for a moment before flashes of those fragment memories with you felt like a stab to him.
"do you believe in reincarnations dan feng?"
your hands always felt soft. he was laying his head on your lap as you two bathe in the peaceful glow as the sun was beginning to set. the wind swaying over the wisteria tree above you.
"why do you ask?" he did not need to open his eyes to know that you were smiling above him, hands continued to caress his soft hair.
"i'm beginning to believe that it's real. i wish we could meet each other again in our next lives." there was something behind your voice that urged him to finally open his eyes to look at your expression.
he was right. your eyes seemed to be glossed over, wearing a melancholic smile that he so wanted to replace with your usual soft ones.
"then i vow to search for you in my next one."
when he opened his eyes again, it didn't take a while for him to turn his body to face yours, you were already walking over to the other side.
you felt a sudden tug before you whirled around with widened tearful eyes as you took in his appearance again. his hand traveling from your arm to your wrist, your heart felt like it was hammering behind your chest.
"dan heng..."
if there was any lingering doubt left in him, the soft look in your eyes confirmed it for him.
just as he realized that it was hard for him to let this go, to let you go, it was the same thing for you.
that expression that you showed him earlier was merely a facade of what you truly felt. he knew of that.
"you call me by this name now, but with that expression, why so?"
his gaze was now fixed on yours, not wanting to let you evade his question.
and the moment when he heard your broken voice, it felt like something broke within him too.
"in..every..single..lifetime..."
the sheer longing in your voice, and the effort it took for you to keep those tears from spilling was all too telling for him.
his expression now softened. before he could stop himself, the only thing he could mutter was, "come here."
and before you could even register his words, dan heng gently enveloped you around his arms.
his embrace was gentle, yet warm and it was real all the same, his presence alone giving you a sense of comfort.
there was something about this moment between the two of you that felt so familiar despite the fact that it was your first time meeting in your current incarnations.
you had no words for it, but perhaps he knew?
"i longed for this.." you couldn't help but to finally let your tears flow as you begin to nuzzle your face on his chest.
dan heng's heart almost melted. the word 'longing' was always tied between you two. he knew he was being himself right now, he was not going to the way he was before but in his path of becoming the person he is now, something always felt missing. and he knew by meeting you again that you were that final piece that he was looking for. thus, planning to finally tear this invisible string that held him back, but not wanting to go through it now.
he'd embrace the present him, he would not bind himself for the sins that dan feng did before, but he wanted the most right now was to not let this go again. because even in this state, the connection he had with you, was the one thing he truly wanted to take care of even in his past life. leaving all that behind was fulfilling but leaving you? that was the one thing he believe that he could not handle again.
"i longed for this too. i longed for you." he whispered, his voice quivering slightly as his hands gently moved to cup your face, "i may not be the lover you once had, i am not dan feng anymore. but that vow i still remember clearly. i vow to you now, not as him, but as dan heng. as my own being now, to not let you slip away from my grasp again." his thumbs now caressing your cheeks. you could see his own eyes welling up as they stared down at your face.
"you remembered.." he notes the way your eyes brighten at his words, your tear stained cheeks were now tinged pink, as he continued to wipe your tears away.
as your eyes met his once more, dan heng couldn't help but feel a warm sensation run through his body. your gaze, your proximity, every little movement you made was like having a glimpse of your past selves' life together.
the next moment, dan heng leaned forward, his lips now hovering just an inch from yours.
"i always do, when it comes to you."
this was the kind of memory that he wishes to not erase, be all as it may, but you were the only exception.
ⓒ blushfwul interactions of any kind is much appreciated ♡
