Red Regrets — Chapter Forty One
FUGITIVES
"Don't die," he whispered to her, his voice a rough rasp. "Don't you dare die on me, Penelope."
✦ Pairing — [Levi x OC]
✦ Rating — 18+
✦ Warnings/Tropes - [Levi is Bad at Feelings, Levi's Past In The Underground, Levi's ex, First Love, Childhood Friends, Friends to Lovers, Secret Child, Levi is a baby daddy, Reunions, Angst, Slow Burn, Forgiveness, Eventual Smut, Eventual Romance, Hurt/Comfort, Second Chances, Regret and Redemption, Protective Levi Ackerman, Doctor OC, Levi being a dad, Father-Son Relationship]
✦ Table of Contents
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Chapter Forty-One: Fugitives
The black stallion’s hooves struck the soft, yielding mud of the riverbank, the animal’s chest heaving like a bellows. It had run until its coat was lathered in white foam, its eyes rolling wild in their sockets, driven by a rider who demanded more than flesh and bone should be able to give. Levi felt the horse shudder beneath him, a tremor of exhaustion that mirrored his own, but he didn't stop until the canopy of the Forest of Giant Trees was nothing more than a dark, jagged scar on the horizon behind them.
He slid from the saddle, his left leg buckling the moment his boot touched the ground. The pain in his thigh, where his son’s blade had sliced him, was a white-hot shriek, a line of fire that shot up his hip and down to his ankle. He gritted his teeth, swallowing the groan that threatened to escape, and forced his weight onto the injured limb. There was no time for pain. There was no time for anything but the terrifying, fragile cargo draped across the saddle.
“Easy,” he croaked to the horse, his hand trembling as he stroked the animal’s damp neck. “Stand still.”
He reached for Penelope first. She was slumped against Preston’s unconscious form, held in place only by the leather strap Levi had hastily secured around them. Her head lolled back as he untied the knot, her face gray and slack in the mid-morning light. A thin trickle of blood had dried at the corner of her mouth, dark and crusty against her pale skin.
Levi gathered her into his arms, the dead weight of her terrifyingly familiar. He had carried corpses that felt heavier than this. She felt hollowed out, broken, a porcelain doll that had been smashed and poorly reassembled. He lowered her to the grass, his movements agonizingly slow, terrified that a single jarred motion would snap whatever fragile thread was still holding her to this world.
“Pen,” he whispered, his hand hovering over her chest. “Penelope.”
Her breathing was the only sound in the world that mattered, and it was wrong. It was a wet, shallow rasp, a hitching struggle that rattled deep in her chest. Every inhalation seemed to catch, a jagged interruption that spoke of broken bone and fluid where air should be.
Levi’s hands, usually so steady, usually the instruments of precise, lethal violence, were shaking uncontrollably. He stared at her, panic rising in his throat like bile. He was a soldier. He knew how to kill. He knew how to break things. He did not know how to fix this.
This was her domain. She was the one who stitched skin and set bones. She was the one who looked at a mangled body and saw a puzzle to be solved, not a tragedy to be mourned. Now she was the puzzle, and he was a clumsy, blood-soaked amateur standing over her with dirty hands.
He ripped the medical bag from the saddle, dumping its contents onto the grass. Vials of medicine, rolls of bandages, gleaming steel instruments—they scattered in the dirt, a chaotic array of tools he barely understood. He recognized the basics—gauze, disinfectant, morphine—but the rest was a foreign language.
He knelt beside her, his knees sinking into the damp earth. He needed to see the damage. He reached for the buttons of her dress, his fingers slick with sweat and blood—hers, his, the Titans'. The fabric was torn at her side where the Titan’s hand had struck her, the dark bruise already spreading across her ribs like an ink stain.
He peeled the fabric back, and his breath hitched. The skin was mottled, purple and black, swollen and angry. Underneath the discoloration, the shape of her ribcage was wrong. It was depressed, flattened on the left side. When she took a ragged breath, the chest wall didn't expand; it sucked inward, a paradoxical motion that made Levi’s stomach turn.
Flail chest. He remembered the term from one of her lectures to the recruits, a memory surfacing through the fog of his panic. Broken ribs detached from the chest wall. Punctured lung. Internal bleeding.
“Fuck,” he hissed, the word a prayer and a curse. “Fuck, Pen, tell me what to do.”
Her eyes fluttered. The golden irises were hazy, swimming with pain and shock, pupil blown wide. She looked at him, but he wasn't sure she saw him. Her gaze drifted past his shoulder to the sky above.
“Levi...” The sound was a wet bubble popping.
“I’m here,” he said, leaning close, his ear hovering over her mouth. “I’m right here. You’re hurt bad, Pen. You need to tell me what to do.”
She coughed, a spasm that racked her entire body. A fresh line of bright red blood escaped her lips. She squeezed her eyes shut, a low keen of agony tearing from her throat. When she opened them again, there was a flicker of clarity, a spark of the brilliant, iron-willed doctor fighting through the fog of trauma.
“Ribs...” she wheezed, each word a battle. “...broken. Lung... maybe... collapsed.”
“I know,” Levi said, his voice tight. “I see it. How do I fix it?”
“Can’t... fix,” she gasped. “Stabilize. Pressure. Bind... tight.” Her hand moved weakly, batting at the roll of bandages lying in the dirt. “Wrap... expire... hold... breath.”
He understood. She needed him to bind the ribs to stabilize the chest wall, to stop the paradoxical movement so she could breathe. But to do that, he had to wrap it tight, compressing the broken bones. It would be agony.
“This is going to hurt,” he told her, his voice cracking. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”
She gave a microscopic nod, her jaw clenching.
Levi grabbed the roll of thick linen bandages. He had to lift her. He slid his arm under her back, trying to be gentle, but she cried out, a sharp, high-pitched sound that cut him deeper than any blade. He gritted his teeth, tears stinging his eyes, and lifted her just enough to slide the bandage under.
“Breathe out,” he commanded, his voice shaking.
She exhaled, a shuddering, gurgling breath.
Levi pulled the bandage tight. He pulled until the linen dug into her skin, compressing the broken ribs, forcing the chest wall into stability. Penelope screamed. It was a raw, animalistic sound of pure torture, her body arching off the ground, her fingers clawing at the dirt.
Levi didn't stop. He couldn't. He wrapped it again, and again, layering the linen, pulling it tighter with every pass. He felt the bones shift under his hands, a grinding sensation that made him want to vomit. He kept going until her chest was a rigid column of white linen, until she stopped screaming because she had passed out from the pain.
He tied off the bandage, his hands slick with sweat. He checked her breathing. It was still shallow, still rapid, but the terrifying, paradoxical movement of her chest had stopped. The air was moving.
He slumped back on his heels, wiping his face with a bloody sleeve. He felt lightheaded, the adrenaline crash hitting him like a physical blow. He looked at her unconscious face, pale and still. She was alive. For now.
He turned his attention to the rest of her. The head wound was bleeding sluggishly, the makeshift bandage he’d applied in the forest soaked through. He replaced it with a fresh pad, applying pressure until the flow stanched. He checked her pulse again—fast, thready, but steady.
He sat there for a moment, just breathing, his hand resting on her uninjured shoulder. He felt useless. He was the strongest soldier humanity had ever produced, a man who could slaughter thirty Titans in a matter of minutes, and yet here he was, terrified of a bruise, helpless against the internal bleeding he couldn't see and couldn't stop.
He looked at the medical bag. There were vials there—painkillers, coagulants, antibiotics. He recognized the labels from the nights he’d watched her work, but he didn't know the dosages. He didn't know if morphine would suppress her breathing too much, if the coagulant would cause a clot. He was paralyzed by the fear of making a mistake, of killing her with his own ignorance.
“Don't die,” he whispered to her, his voice a rough rasp. “Do not dare die on me, Penelope.”
A shift of movement caught his eye. The horse stamped its hoof, tossing its head. Preston was still draped over the front of the saddle, his body limp.
Levi stood up, his injured leg screaming in protest. He had forgotten about it. He looked down. His trousers were soaked in blood from mid-thigh to knee. The slash Preston had delivered was deep, cutting through the muscle. It hadn't hit the artery, or he would be dead already, but he had lost a lot of blood.
He walked over to the horse, limping heavily. He reached up and hauled Preston down. The boy was dead weight, heavy with muscle and bone. Levi lowered him to the grass beside Penelope, arranging his limbs carefully. Preston’s face was pale, slack, peaceful in a way that felt wrong. There was no sign of the nightmare he had lived through, no trace of the black-eyed slave who had tried to kill his mother. Just a sleeping boy.
Levi grabbed a bottle of water from the saddlebag and took a long drink, the cool liquid soothing his parched throat. He poured some over his leg, washing away the dried blood and dirt, hissing as the water stung the raw meat of the wound.
He didn't have time for finesse. He grabbed a bottle of disinfectant from Penelope’s bag and poured it directly into the gash. The pain was blinding, a white-hot flash that made his vision swim. He didn't make a sound. He wrapped the thigh tightly with a pressure bandage, tying it off with a jerk that made his hands shake.
It would hold. It had to hold.
He sat back down between them, the guardian of the broken. The sun was climbing higher, burning off the morning chill, but Levi felt cold. He looked at Penelope’s gray face, at Preston’s still form. He looked at his own hands, stained with the blood of the Titans, the blood of his wife, the blood of his own leg.
He was a ruin. They were all ruins.
He checked Penelope’s pulse again. Still there. He checked Preston’s. Strong, steady.
He leaned his head back against the trunk of a willow tree growing by the riverbank, closing his eyes for a second. Just a second. The exhaustion was a tidal wave, threatening to pull him under. He couldn't sleep. He had to keep watch. The Jaegerists were out there. Zeke was out there.
He forced his eyes open. He stared at the river, the water rushing by, indifferent to their suffering. He waited.
…
It started with a whimper.
A low, pained sound from the boy lying in the grass. Levi’s head snapped toward Preston. The boy’s fingers were twitching, clutching at the grass. His brow furrowed, his face contorting in a mask of distress.
Then, the scream came.
It was instantaneous and full-throated, a cry of pure, unadulterated terror that ripped through the peaceful morning air. Preston’s eyes flew open, but they weren't seeing the riverbank. They were seeing the forest. They were seeing the command.
He thrashed, his body convulsing as if he were being electrocuted. He scrambled backward, kicking out, his hands flying up to protect his face from invisible blows.
“NO!” he shrieked, his voice cracking. “STOP! GET OUT! GET OUT OF MY HEAD!”
Levi was on him in a second. He pinned Preston’s shoulders to the ground, using his body weight to hold the thrashing boy down.
“Preston!” Levi shouted, his face inches from his son’s. “Preston, it’s me! It’s Dad! You’re safe!”
Preston didn't hear him. He was fighting a ghost. He bucked, his strength unnatural, fueled by panic and the lingering adrenaline of the Ackerman awakening. He struck out, his fist connecting with Levi’s jaw, a solid blow that snapped Levi’s head back.
Levi didn't let go. He ignored the pain, grabbing Preston’s wrists and pinning them to the earth.
“Stop it!” Levi roared. “Preston! Look at me!”
The command cut through the panic. Preston froze, his chest heaving, his breath coming in ragged, sobbing gasps. His eyes, wide and dilated, darted frantically around, trying to make sense of the world.
He saw the sky. He saw the willow tree. He saw Levi’s face, bruised and streaked with dirt, hovering over him.
The blackness was gone from his eyes. They were gray again. Human. Terrified.
“Dad?” he whispered, the word trembling.
“I’m here,” Levi said, his voice softening, though his grip remained firm. “I’ve got you. You’re out of the forest. You’re safe.”
Preston blinked, the reality of the moment slowly seeping in. He wasn't fighting. He wasn't a slave. He was himself.
He tried to sit up, and Levi eased his weight off him, helping him. Preston looked down at himself.
He saw the blood.
His uniform was soaked in it. His hands were caked in it, dried and flaking in the creases of his knuckles. It was dark, red blood.
Levi’s blood.
The memory crashed into him with the force of a physical blow. The voice in his head. Kill her. The loss of control. The way his body had moved without his permission, a puppet dancing on strings of fire. The clash of steel. The feeling of his blade slicing into flesh.
His eyes snapped to Levi’s leg. To the bandage soaked in fresh red.
“I...” Preston gasped, his hands hovering over his own chest, terrified to touch anything. “I hurt you. I cut you.”
“It’s a scratch,” Levi said quickly, trying to intercept the spiral. “It’s nothing.”
But Preston wasn't listening. His gaze traveled past Levi. He saw the figure lying on the grass a few feet away.
He saw the blue dress, torn and stained. He saw the red hair matted with gore. He saw the unnatural stillness of her body, the thick white bandages swathing her chest and head.
Penelope.
The memory superimposed itself over reality. Kill her. He remembered the command. He remembered the urge, the unstoppable drive to thrust his blade into her heart. He remembered charging. He remembered striking.
And now, he saw her broken body.
His mind made the only connection it could.
A sound tore from his throat, a high, keen wail of absolute despair. He scrambled backward, away from her, away from Levi, curling into a tight ball in the dirt. He wrapped his arms around his head, rocking back and forth, hyperventilating.
“I did it,” he sobbed, his voice a broken, jagged thing. “I did it. I killed her. I killed Mom. I did it. I did it.”
“Preston, no!” Levi lunged for him, grabbing his shoulders, trying to pull him out of the ball.
“Don't touch me!” Preston screamed, shrinking away, looking at his own hands with revulsion. “I’m a monster! I killed her! She’s dead because of me! He told me to do it and I did it! I couldn't stop! I couldn't stop!”
He was spiraling into a panic attack, his breathing coming in short, sharp whistles, his face turning gray. He was drowning in guilt, convinced he was a matricide, a creature who had destroyed the person he loved most.
Levi felt a crack in his own heart, a fissure of pain for his son that rivaled the agony of his leg. He couldn't let him believe this. He couldn't let this lie destroy him.
He grabbed Preston’s face between his hands, forcing the boy to look at him. He used his strength, not to hurt, but to ground, to tether the boy to reality.
“Preston! Listen to me!” Levi shouted, his voice cutting through the sobbing wails. “She is alive! Look at her chest! She is breathing!”
Preston squeezed his eyes shut, shaking his head. “No, no, no...”
“Look at her!” Levi ordered, turning Preston’s head toward Penelope.
Preston opened his eyes, his vision blurred with tears. He saw her chest rise. A hitching, painful movement, but a movement. Rise. Fall. Rise. Fall.
“She’s alive,” Levi said, his voice dropping to a fierce, intense whisper. “You didn't kill her. You didn't touch her.”
Preston looked back at Levi, hope and disbelief warring in his eyes. “But... the blood... I tried... I tried to kill her, Dad. I remember. I wanted to do it. I had to do it.”
“You were controlled,” Levi said firmly. “It wasn't you. It was Zeke. It was the fluid. You were a passenger in your own body.”
“I cut you,” Preston whispered, looking at Levi’s leg.
“You grazed me,” Levi corrected. “Because I got in the way.” He leaned closer, his eyes boring into his son’s. “Do you remember what happened? At the end? Do you remember the strike?”
Preston frowned, his brow furrowing as he tried to navigate the fractured, nightmare landscape of his memory. He remembered the blade coming down. He remembered Levi’s chest exposed. He remembered...
“I... I missed,” Preston whispered.
“You missed,” Levi confirmed. “You fought it. At the last second, you fought the command. You jerked your blade away. You saved my life, Preston. If you hadn't fought it, I wouldn't be here. You broke the control.”
Preston stared at him, the information sinking in slowly. He hadn't killed him. He had fought.
“Then... who hurt Mom?” he asked, his voice trembling.
Levi’s expression darkened, a shadow passing over his face. “A Titan,” he said, the anger simmering in his tone. “After you passed out... a Titan broke through. It hit her. She threw herself over you to protect you. It swiped her into a tree.”
Preston’s face crumbled. “She... she got hurt protecting me?”
“She’s a mother,” Levi said, his voice rough. “That’s what she does.”
He pulled Preston into his arms then. It wasn't the soldier’s hug from the port. It was a desperate embrace, a father holding the pieces of his son together. He pressed Preston’s head against his chest, ignoring the pain in his ribs, rocking him gently.
“It wasn't you,” Levi whispered into his hair. “You didn't hurt her. You hear me? You didn't do this. The Titan did. Zeke did. Not you.”
Preston clung to him, his fingers digging into Levi’s shirt, sobbing openly now, the hysterical panic fading into a deep, racking grief. “I’m sorry,” he cried. “I’m so sorry. I drank the wine. I did this. It’s my fault she’s hurt. It’s all my fault.”
Levi held him tighter. He couldn't absolve him of the wine. He couldn't lie and say it wasn't a mistake. But he could share the burden.
“We’ll fix it,” Levi said, his voice a low promise against the rushing of the river. “She’s alive. We’re alive. We’re going to get her help. We’re going to fix this.”
He looked over Preston’s head at Penelope. She hadn't moved. Her breathing was still shallow, still ragged. They didn't have time for grief. They didn't have time for guilt.
“We have to move,” Levi said, pulling back, his hands gripping Preston’s shoulders. “Preston, look at me. I need you to be a soldier right now. Can you do that?”
Preston wiped his face with his bloody sleeve, sniffling. He looked at his mother, then at his father. He saw the exhaustion in Levi’s eyes, the fear. He nodded, a shaky, jerky movement. “Yes.”
“Good,” Levi said. “We need to get her to a doctor. We need to get underground. We can't go back to HQ. The Jaegerists have it. We are fugitives now. Do you understand?”
Preston nodded again, his jaw setting. Fugitives. The world had turned upside down. His friends were gone. His squad was gone. His mother was dying.
“What do we do?” Preston asked, his voice small but steady.
Levi looked at the river, at the path leading south. “We survive,” he said. “And we keep moving.”
…
The vibration came first, a low tremor in the earth that traveled up through the soles of Levi’s boots, distinct from the rushing current of the river. It was a rhythmic, pounding cadence.
Hoofbeats. Many of them.
Levi froze, his hand hovering over Penelope’s bandages. He tilted his head, straining against the sound of the water, his senses expanding outward. They were coming from the north, cutting through the tree line, moving fast.
“Dad?” Preston whispered, his voice thin and brittle. He had sensed it too, the Ackerman instinct flaring even through his trauma.
Levi didn't answer. He moved.
“Get up,” he hissed, grabbing Preston by the collar of his blood-stiffened tunic and hauling him to his feet. “Into the reeds. Now.”
He turned to Penelope. She was drifting, her eyes half-closed, her breath hitching in her chest. He couldn't ask her to move. He scooped her up, ignoring the scream of agony from his own sliced thigh, and carried her toward the dense, tall growth of river reeds that lined the bank. They were thick, green walls of vegetation, high enough to conceal a man, provided he stayed low.
He shoved Preston into the mud, forcing him down into the waterlogged soil. “Stay down. Don't make a sound. Don't even breathe unless you have to.”
He laid Penelope next to him, arranging her so her head was elevated on a mound of moss, trying to keep her airway open. She let out a low moan as he settled her. Levi clamped a hand over her mouth, his eyes wide and apologetic, pressing a finger to his own lips. Her eyes fluttered open, hazy with pain, but she saw the urgency in his face and went still.
Levi crouched over them, a protective shadow, parting the reeds just enough to create a sliver of a view back toward the clearing they had just vacated.
The horses burst from the tree line a moment later.
There were at least fifteen of them, their mounts kicking up clods of damp earth as they skidded to a halt near the riverbank. The riders wore the dark uniforms of the Survey Corps, but the green cloaks were gone, replaced by black jackets. On their arms, they wore bands of white cloth.
Jaegerists.
Levi’s grip on his blade tightened until the leather hilt creaked softly. He recognized the man in the lead. The shock of red hair, the smug, self-righteous set of the jaw.
Floch Forster.
He looked different than he had the last time Levi had seen him, the day Levi had broken his nose and threatened to end him. He looked cleaner, sharper. He looked like a man who had won. He sat high in his saddle, surveying the riverbank with the imperious air of a conqueror.
But it wasn't Floch that made Levi’s blood turn to ice. It was the figure slumped on the horse beside him.
Her hands were bound behind her back. Her face was swollen, purple bruising blossoming across her cheekbone and jaw. Her glasses were gone, leaving her face looking strangely naked and vulnerable. She sat with her head bowed, her posture one of utter defeat.
Hange.
Levi felt a spike of rage so hot it nearly blinded him. He wanted to launch himself from the reeds, to tear Floch from his saddle and carve the arrogance out of him piece by piece. He wanted to free Hange, to get his commander back.
But he couldn't. He felt the heat of Penelope’s fever radiating against his leg. He heard the terrified, shallow breathing of his son behind him. He was one man, injured, with two liabilities. If he moved, they died.
“Spread out!” Floch barked, his voice carrying over the water. “Check the bank. Look for tracks.”
“There’s no need.”
The voice came from the forest, smooth and calm.
Levi’s eyes snapped to the tree line.
Zeke Jaeger emerged from the shadows of the giant trees. He was walking.
He wasn't limping. He wasn't gasping for air. He looked perfectly, infuriatingly whole. The blood from his mouth was gone, wiped away. His skin was no longer jaundiced; it glowed with the vitality of a shifter who had fully regenerated. He was buttoning a fresh shirt, likely scavenged from the ruins of the camp, looking for all the world like a man who had just finished a pleasant morning stroll.
He walked right up to Floch’s horse, completely unbothered by the armed soldiers surrounding him.
“Zeke,” Floch nodded, a gesture of respect that made Levi’s stomach turn. “We heard the scream. We came as fast as we could. Is everything... secure?”
Zeke adjusted his glasses, a small, pitying smile playing on his lips. He gestured vaguely back toward the forest, toward the steam that was still rising above the canopy.
“The transformation was successful,” Zeke said. “Though it was... messy. The Captain was quite persistent.”
Hange’s head snapped up. She stared at Zeke, her one good eye wide with desperate hope. “Levi?” she rasped, her voice cracked and dry. “Where is he?”
Zeke turned his gaze to her. He looked at her with a mock sadness, a performance of sympathy that was more insulting than a slap.
“I’m afraid,” Zeke said softly, “that Captain Levi and his squad were... unfortunate casualties of the forest.”
Levi’s breath hitched. He watched Hange’s face. He saw the hope fracture, saw the light die in her eye.
“He fought well,” Zeke continued, lying with the ease of a man who breathed deceit. “He engaged the Titans. But there were simply too many. Thirty of his own men, turned against him... it was too much, even for an Ackerman. I saw him fall. He was consumed.”
“No,” Hange whispered. She slumped forward against the horse’s neck, a sound tearing from her throat that was half-sob, half-scream. “No! You’re lying! He wouldn't... he wouldn't die like that!”
“I assure you, Commander, I take no pleasure in it,” Zeke said, turning back to Floch. “He was a valuable asset. But he was an obstacle to the true path. Perhaps it is for the best.”
Floch looked toward the forest, a flicker of unease crossing his face, but he nodded. “And the boy? The son?”
Levi felt Preston stiffen beside him. The boy stopped breathing, his hand clutching Levi’s cloak.
Zeke paused. He tapped his chin thoughtfully. “The boy... yes. A tragedy. He was with his father. I imagine they shared the same fate. The Titans were... thorough.”
Levi saw the lie for what it was. Zeke didn't know. He had fled before the massacre ended. He assumed Levi had been overwhelmed. He assumed Preston was dead or turned. He was writing them off, erasing them from the board.
“Good riddance,” Floch spat. “The kid was a traitor. He betrayed the cause. Better he died in the woods than faced a firing squad.”
Levi’s hand moved. He gripped the hilt of his blade, his thumb tracing the trigger. He could kill Zeke. He was close enough. He could burst from the reeds, hook onto Floch, use him as a shield, and put a blade through the Beast’s throat before anyone realized he was alive.
He shifted his weight, his muscles tensing.
Then he felt a hand on his arm.
It was weak, trembling, but it held him. He looked down. Penelope’s eyes were open, fixed on his face. They were glassy with fever, swimming with pain, but they were pleading. She shook her head, a microscopic movement.
Don't.
He looked at Preston. The boy was curled in a ball, his hands over his ears, his eyes squeezed shut. He was shaking violently, on the verge of a complete breakdown.
He looked back at Hange. She was weeping, her body racking with sobs, believing her oldest friend was dead.
Levi closed his eyes. The choice was a physical agony, a tearing of his soul. To save his friend, to take his revenge, he would have to sacrifice his family. To save his family, he had to let the monsters walk away. He had to let Hange believe he was dead.
He released the hilt of his blade. He covered Penelope’s hand with his own, pressing it to the earth.
He stayed down.
“We’re done here,” Zeke said, swinging himself up onto a spare horse brought by one of the Jaegerists. “We need to get to Shiganshina. Eren is waiting. The time has come.”
“Right,” Floch said. He wheeled his horse around. “Move out! We regroup at the district!”
The squad turned. Hange, head bowed, was led away, her grief a silent shadow trailing behind the triumphant procession of traitors.
They galloped off, following the river south, their laughter and hoofbeats fading into the distance.
Levi waited. He waited until the sound was gone, until the vibration in the earth ceased. He waited until the birds began to sing again in the canopy above.
Only then did he let out a breath, a shuddering exhale that felt like a surrender. He had let them go. He was a ghost now. A dead man walking.
But as he looked down at the woman gripping his hand and the son hiding his face in the mud, he knew he had made the only choice he could. The soldier had died in that clearing. Only the father remained.
…
The reeds parted with a soft rustle as Levi emerged, scanning the riverbank with eyes that felt gritty and raw. The coast was clear. The midday sun was high now, beating down on the mud with an indifferent heat, baking the blood on his clothes into a stiff, dark crust.
He turned back to the hiding spot. "We have to move," he said, his voice raspy.
He helped Preston up first. The boy was catatonic, his movements sluggish and uncoordinated. He wouldn't look at the river. He wouldn't look at the forest. He stared at his own boots, his hands hanging limp at his sides. Levi grabbed his shoulder, giving him a gentle shake.
"Preston. Gear up. We need water."
Preston nodded slowly, mechanically, but he didn't reach for his canteen. He didn't reach for anything. He seemed afraid that if he touched the world, he would break it again.
Levi left him standing there and knelt by Penelope. She was worse. The adrenaline that had sustained her during the flight from the forest had faded, leaving behind the stark reality of her injuries. Her skin was burning to the touch, a dry, paper-thin heat. Her breathing was a wet, rattling labor.
"Water," she whispered, her lips cracking as she formed the word.
Levi fumbled with his canteen, lifting her head gently to trickle a little water into her mouth. She swallowed with difficulty, coughing weakly.
"We can't stay here," he told her, brushing a strand of matted hair from her forehead. "They might leave a rear guard. We need to put miles between us and this place."
"Where?" she wheezed.
"South," Levi said. He looked down the river, the water churning brown and fast. "Away from the capital. Away from the main roads."
He loaded them onto the horse again. It was harder this time. His own strength was failing, his leg stiffening into a block of agony. He had to grit his teeth to lift Preston, who offered no help, simply allowing himself to be maneuvered like a doll. When Levi lifted Penelope, she cried out, a sharp, thin sound that made the horse pin its ears back.
He mounted behind them, the stallion groaning under the triple weight. They were a precarious, teetering tower of misery.
They rode.
They avoided the trade roads, sticking to the deer trails and the muddy banks of the river. The terrain was rough, the pace agonizingly slow. Every stumble of the horse jarred Penelope’s broken ribs, drawing soft whimpers of pain that tore at Levi’s nerves.
The afternoon bled into evening. The sun dipped below the horizon, turning the sky the color of a bruise. The temperature dropped, the river mist rising to chill their sweat-soaked clothes.
They couldn't go to Headquarters; it was a nest of vipers now. They couldn't go to Trost or Stohess; the Military Police would be looking for them, or worse, they would have already bent the knee to the Jaegerists. The hospitals would be watched. The clinics would be traps.
Levi ran through the map in his head, a desperate inventory of safe houses and bolt-holes. There were none. Not for a traitor. Not for a dead man.
"Dad," Preston’s voice was a whisper from the front of the saddle. It was the first time he had spoken in hours.
"Yeah?" Levi leaned forward, his chin resting near Preston’s shoulder.
"I'm... I'm scared of my hands."
Levi frowned. "What?"
Preston held his hands up in the gloom. They were shaking. "I feel like... if I touch anything... I'll kill it. I feel like they aren't mine anymore."
Levi shifted his grip on the reins, freeing one hand to wrap around Preston’s waist, pulling him tighter against his chest. "They're your hands," he said firmly. "You controlled them in the clearing. You stopped. Remember that. You stopped."
"But I almost didn't."
"Almost doesn't count," Levi lied. It counted for everything. But his son needed an anchor, not philosophy. "You didn't do it. That's what matters."
Preston lowered his hands, but he didn't relax. He sat rigid, a boy terrified of his own potential.
Night fell fully. The moon was hidden behind thick clouds, plunging the world into absolute darkness. They were riding blind, trusting the horse’s footing.
Penelope shifted in Levi’s lap, a groan escaping her. Her heat was radiating through his clothes now. She was burning up.
"Levi," she murmured, her voice delirious, slurring. "The chart... check the dosage... Mara needs... the chart..."
"Shh," Levi whispered. "Rest, Pen."
She thrashed slightly. "No... the lung... tension pneumothorax... need a needle... decompression... I can't breathe..."
Levi’s heart hammered. She was diagnosing herself. She knew exactly what was happening. Air was leaking from her punctured lung into her chest cavity, putting pressure on her heart. If he didn't get her help, she would suffocate. She would die in his arms.
He needed a doctor. A real doctor. Not a field medic, not a first-aid kit. He needed surgery.
There was only one place. It was a risk. It was insanity. It was the epicenter of the chaos, the place where it had all begun and where it would likely all end. But it was also a ruin, a place of ghosts and hiding spots, a place where the military structure was fractured and disorganized. A place where he knew the alleyways better than the veins in his own hand.
Shiganshina.
It was miles away. A hard ride through the night. But there were old supply caches there. There were basements. And there was a doctor there, an old friend of Hange’s, a retired medic who lived in the shadow of the wall. If he was still alive. If he hadn't been purged.
It was the only card he had left to play.
"Hold on," Levi whispered into the darkness. "We're going to Shiganshina."
He kicked the horse. The stallion, sensing the urgency, found a reserve of strength and surged forward into the black.
Levi rode. He rode through the exhaustion that clawed at his eyes. He rode through the pain in his leg that had turned into a dull, consuming fire. He rode through the guilt, the fear, the crushing weight of his broken world.
He focused on the rhythm. The beat of hooves on dirt. One, two, three, four.
He focused on the boy in front of him, the warmth of his son's back.
He focused on the woman in his arms, on the faint, erratic flutter of her heart against his ribs. Beat. Beat. Beat.
It was a fragile, terrifying rhythm, a countdown. But as long as he could feel it, as long as that heart kept beating, he would keep moving. He was a soldier without an army, a captain without a squad, but he was a husband and a father. And that was enough. That had to be enough.
The night swallowed them whole, three fugitives on a black horse, racing against death toward the city where the walls had first fallen.
To Be Continued...
——— ✦ ———
Thank you for reading. ♡
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Savouring The Wind — Part Eight
A HOLLOW WEIGHT
"A Hashira doesn't abandon his blade unless he intends to abandon his life."
✦ Pairing — [Sanemi x Reader]
✦ Rating — 18+
✦ Warnings/Tropes - [Sanemi is Bad at Feelings, Protective Sanemi, Sanemi is Whipped, Chef Reader, food as a love language, grumpy x sunshine, Tengen is a Great Wingman, Ohagi as a Plot Point, Sanemi is a Good Man, Violence as a Love Language, Sanemi is Protective of the Reader, Abusive ex-partner, Giyu is only here for the cake, The Hashira are a found family and they are very nosy]
✦ Table of Contents
——— ✦ ———
Part Eight: The Hollow Weight
Seventy-two hours had passed since Sanemi vaulted over the balcony railing and vanished into the predawn mist. Three days of suffocating silence. Akazuki remained locked and dark, the kitchen fires cold and the dining room empty. The apartment, once a haven filled with warm gold light and shared laughter, now felt like a sterile tomb. Every shadow clinging to the corners seemed to hold the ghost of his shattered expression, playing the horrific moment on a continuous loop.
You sat on the polished floorboards of the living room, staring down at the Nichirin blade resting across your lap. The weapon had a dense weight, its cold steel biting through the fabric of your skirt. You traced the green-tinted metal and the eight-pointed handguard with a trembling finger. Sanemi treated this sword with religious devotion. You remembered watching him polish the steel late at night, the smell of clove oil filling the room, his scarred hands moving over the lethal edge with tender care. Leaving it behind was not an accident. It was a rejection of his identity. It was a surrender.
Tears spilled over your eyelashes, tracking hot and fast down your cheeks. Your chest tightened until drawing breath felt like inhaling glass. You knew exactly where his mind had gone. He told you his darkest secrets in the vulnerable hours of the night when the night terrors wrenched him from sleep. He spoke of the untamed wilderness he fled to after his mother died. He armed himself with crude farm tools, ropes, and the toxic curse of his own Marechi blood. He allowed demons to tear his flesh, letting his rare blood intoxicate them until they stumbled, and then he bludgeoned them to death. He confessed it was never truly hunting; it was a long, drawn-out suicide. He wanted to die, but he was too stubborn to fall quietly. Masachika found him. Masachika led him to a sword, a purpose, and Wind Breathing. Masachika tethered him to the living.
Now, Sanemi was out there without his blade. He was unarmed, consumed by shame, and bleeding out the exact same grief that drove him into the woods all those years ago. He believed he was a monster. He believed he had become his father.
"He’s gone," you whispered, your voice cracking.
Genya sat across the room, his back pressed against the wall. His dark uniform was crusted with dried mud from your relentless, futile searches through the district’s back alleys. His dark eyes were bloodshot, rimmed with a consuming guilt.
"We will find him," Genya said, though his gravelly voice lacked any real conviction. "Aniki survives. He always survives."
"He survives when he wants to live," you shot back, wiping your face with the back of your hand. "He left his sword, Genya-kun. A slayer never abandons his weapon. He is out there trying to punish himself. He is looking for a reason to let the demons finish what they started."
Genya flinched, pulling his knees to his chest. "It’s my fault. I should’ve never come here."
"It’s not your fault. The trauma broke him," you corrected firmly. "You’re just the mirror he wasn’t ready to look into. Don’t carry his guilt on top of your own."
You stared at the green steel resting on your lap. Crying served no purpose. Tears wouldn't forge a shield, and they wouldn't drag him out of the woods. You needed to act. You needed warriors.
"We're going to the Headquarters," you declared. You grasped the hilt and the scabbard, using both hands to lift the weapon.
Genya scrambled to his feet, his eyes widening in panic. "We can't do that. The Headquarters is hidden for a reason. Civilians are strictly forbidden. The Kakushi will arrest us before we even breach the outer perimeter."
"I don't care about their rules," you stated. You marched toward the bedroom, rummaging through a wooden chest until you found a thick canvas sheet. You began wrapping the long weapon, securing the fabric with tight knots. "We searched every alley, every forest path near the district. We need help. We need someone who knows how his mind works."
"Who?" Genya asked, following you into the hallway.
"The Serpent Hashira."
All color drained from Genya's scarred face. He looked as if you had just suggested walking into a blazing inferno. "Iguro Obanai? No. No, you don't understand. He’s ruthless. He’s Aniki's closest ally, yes, but he despises weakness. He looks at me like I’m vermin. He’ll kill me just for bringing an outsider to the gates."
"He ate my food," you argued, hoisting the bundled sword onto your shoulder. The dense object bruised your collarbone, but you ignored the discomfort. "He sat at my table. Sanemi trusts him more than anyone else in the Corps. If there is one person in that entire organization who knows where Sanemi would go to bleed out, it’s Iguro-san."
Genya ran a trembling hand through his spiky hair. "I’ve never spoken to him one-on-one. He knows I can't use Breathing Styles. He knows I’m a failure."
"Then stand behind me," you said, your voice ringing with an unyielding resolve. "I'm fighting for the man I love. If the Serpent Hashira wants to strike you, he will have to go through me first."
Genya stared at your unwavering posture. He saw the burning determination in your eyes. He swallowed hard, nodding once. "Okay. Grab your coat. We leave now."
The rain had stopped, but the district remained saturated and gray. Puddles reflected the overcast sky, splashing cold water against your ankles as you hurried down the unpaved roads. The canvas-wrapped sword tugged at your shoulder, a constant, chilling reminder of the stakes.
Genya led the way, navigating the labyrinth of back alleys and unmarked dirt paths that stretched far beyond the city limits. The transition from civilization to the untamed wilderness was stark and unforgiving. The noise of merchants and carts faded, replaced by the rustle of damp leaves and the distant, haunting calls of mountain birds. The mud sucked at your boots, making every step an exhausting effort, but you refused to slow down.
"Keep your head down," Genya instructed over his shoulder, his voice dropping to a harsh whisper. "The Kakushi patrol these woods. They use illusions and misdirection to hide the main paths."
You adjusted your grip on the wrapped sword. "How far is the Serpent Estate?"
"Far," Genya replied, his eyes darting to the shadows between the trees. "The Hashira estates are spread out across the mountain. Iguro's territory is secluded. We have to bypass the main gate and find a specific checkpoint. I just hope the guards are reasonable."
You scoffed quietly, your breath pluming in the frigid air. "From what I’ve seen, reasonable is not a trait Demon Slayers possess."
Genya offered a grim, fleeting smile. "You’re not wrong."
The forest thickened, blocking out the meager sunlight. The scent of wet pine and decaying wood filled your lungs. Up ahead, the trees broke, revealing a narrow stone bridge arching over a rushing, churning river. The water raged white and angry over jagged rocks.
Two figures materialized from the shadows of the tree line. They wore the featureless uniforms of the Kakushi, their faces obscured by masked cowls. They moved in perfect unison, stepping onto the bridge and blocking your path.
"Halt," the taller Kakushi commanded, raising a wooden staff. "This path is restricted. Turn back immediately."
Genya stepped forward, keeping his empty hands visible. "I'm Shinazugawa Genya. I'm a member of the Demon Slayer Corps. I need to speak with the Serpent Hashira."
The Kakushi looked at Genya, then shifted their hidden gaze to you. "You are a slayer, yet you bring a civilian to a restricted zone? You know the penalty for this infraction. She can't pass. Leave her here, or we will detain both of you."
"She comes with me," Genya insisted, his voice tightening with anxiety. "It is a matter of life and death. An emergency concerning a Hashira."
"We don't care," the second Kakushi snapped, levelling their weapon. "Rules are rules. Civilians compromise the secrecy of the Headquarters. Turn around before we use force."
You pushed past Genya, stepping right up to the masked guards. The canvas bundle bumped against your hip. "I'm not leaving. I'm here for Shinazugawa Sanemi."
The mention of the Wind Hashira caused a visible ripple of unease between the guards, but they held their ground, their posture rigid.
"The Wind Hashira is a pillar of the Corps," the tall guard said, his tone dripping with skepticism. "He does not associate with civilians. Now step back."
They didn’t trust you. They saw a woman in a mud-splattered coat and a scarred boy they likely deemed a failure. You needed leverage. You needed undeniable proof.
You grabbed the knot securing the canvas. With a swift pull, the fabric fell away. The dark scabbard and the unmistakable eight-pointed tsuba gleamed in the dull forest light. You held the weapon out with both hands, presenting it like a tragic, damning artifact.
The Kakushi froze. Their masked heads snapped down to stare at the blade. Even without unsheathing it, the aura of the weapon was undeniable. It carried the scent of countless slain demons and the fierce, howling spirit of its master.
"Is that—" the shorter guard stammered, taking a step back.
"This is his sword," you stated, your voice ringing clear over the roar of the rushing river. "He left it behind three days ago. He is unarmed, missing, and hunting demons with his bare hands. If you turn me away, his blood is on your hands."
The silence stretched, taut as a bowstring. The guards exchanged a frantic, panicked look. The Wind Hashira without his sword was a catastrophic failure of protocol. It was an impossible, apocalyptic scenario.
"We must report this to Oyakata-sama," the tall guard stammered, his authoritarian facade crumbling.
"Take me to Iguro-san first," you demanded, pressing your advantage. "He knows Sanemi better than anyone. He knows my face. If you take me to him, he will vouch for me. If you waste time reporting up the chain of command, Sanemi will die out there."
The Kakushi looked at the sword, then at Genya, and finally at your unyielding expression. They lowered their staffs in defeat.
"Follow us," the guard muttered, his voice strained. "Keep your eyes on the ground. If you try to map the route, we will blindfold you."
They led you across the stone bridge. The air changed the moment your boots hit the opposite bank. The chaotic energy of the wilderness faded, replaced by an almost clinical stillness. The headquarters of the Demon Slayer Corps was a sprawling, hidden fortress. Wisteria trees lined the cobblestone paths, their sweet, cloying scent masking the underlying smell of antiseptic and sharpened steel.
You walked for a long time. Genya stayed close to your side, his eyes darting to every passing slayer, expecting to be reprimanded or attacked at any moment. You kept your gaze fixed forward, clutching the dense sword against your chest as if holding it tight enough could somehow transfer your warmth to Sanemi.
Every step deeper into the Demon Slayer Headquarters felt like stepping onto another planet. The air bit at your lungs. It smelled of crushed wisteria and sharpened steel. The scent lacked the comforting warmth of toasted sesame or simmering broth you were used to. It was a world built for war, a hidden fortress designed for people who expected to die young. You shivered, pulling your coat tighter around your frame.
The Kakushi cast nervous, sideways glances at you, their masked faces hiding their clear disapproval. They walked with their hands resting near their hips, always prepared for an ambush. They muttered quiet complaints to each other, questioning the sanity of bringing an outsider past the wisteria wards.
You ignored their scrutiny. You clutched the canvas-wrapped sword tight against your chest. The leaden weight of the weapon bruised your collarbone, but you refused to shift your grip. You held it like a lifeline, wrapping your arms around the dense steel as if your body heat could somehow reach the man who'd left it behind. Sanemi's sword was his soul. The metal felt cold, carrying the quiet hum of the violence it had seen, yet it was the only piece of him you had left. You remembered the way his calloused hands looked when he gripped the hilt, the raw power he commanded. To see it wrapped in canvas, carried by someone who couldn't even wield it, felt like a terrible omen.
The twisting paths yielded to a secluded grove of weeping willows. The drooping branches formed a canopy, blocking out the overcast sky. The estate at the end of the path boasted no welcoming banners. It sat behind a high wooden wall, secluded and quiet. The architecture favoured unadorned stone and dark timber, reflecting the solitary nature of the man who lived within. There were no vibrant colours, no signs of life beyond the rustling leaves.
Inside the courtyard dojo, Obanai pushed his body to the breaking point. The wooden floorboards groaned under his rapid footwork. He swung his bokken, the wooden blade hissing through the humid air. Sweat stung his mismatched eyes, soaking through the bandages wrapped around his lower face. His lungs burned, demanding oxygen, but he refused to slow his pace. He executed a complex sequence of strikes, his muscles aching in protest.
He pivoted on his heel, driving the wooden sword into a padded striking post. The wood cracked under the force of the blow. He reset his stance, his muscles trembling from the sustained exertion. He needed the physical exhaustion. He needed the burn in his limbs to silence the chaotic noise in his head. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw Mitsuri. He saw her smiling at the Flame Hashira. He remembered the sound of her bright, musical laugh echoing through the dining hall. The memory twisted in his gut like a rusted knife. He despised his own cowardice. He hated the cursed blood running through his veins, the lineage that made him unworthy of standing beside a woman made of sunlight. He felt he was tainted, bound to a history that would only pull her down.
He struck the post again, channelling his self-loathing into the swing. The resounding crack echoed off the cedar walls, a hollow testament to his frustration. He was a Hashira, a pillar of defence for the weak, yet he couldn't speak a simple truth to the woman he adored. He hid behind his snake, behind his bandages, behind his caustic remarks. He judged others for their weaknesses while ignoring his own paralysing fear.
"...Iguro-sama," a timid voice called out.
Obanai halted his swing. He lowered the bokken, turning his head to glare at the entrance of the dojo. A masked Kakushi knelt on the polished threshold, his head bowed low to the floor. The attendant looked terrified, shaking under the scrutiny of the Serpent Hashira.
"I gave strict orders against interruptions," Obanai said. His voice was a low, dangerous rasp.
The Kakushi flinched, pressing his forehead against the wood. "I apologise, Iguro-sama. But the guards at the perimeter escorted guests to your gate. They demand to speak with you."
"I don't take guests," Obanai retorted. He tossed the bokken onto a rack. "Send them away. If they resist, throw them in the holding cells. I don't care who they think they are."
"Sir," the Kakushi stammered, his voice pitching higher with panic. "The guests are Shinazugawa Genya and a civilian woman. The woman is carrying the Wind Hashira's sword."
The words made Obanai halt in his tracks as the annoyance drained from his posture, replaced by a chilling spike of adrenaline.
Shinazugawa Genya. The banished brother. A civilian woman. The chef from Akazuki. And Sanemi's sword.
The disconnected pieces slammed together in Obanai's mind. He remembered the mission in the northern mountains. He remembered standing by the freezing stream, listening to the abrasive Wind Hashira confess his desire to marry a civilian. He remembered the exact words Sanemi used to justify his lies. "She doesn't belong in that mess. I'm protecting her."
Obanai remembered his own warning. "You're building a house on a swamp, Shinazugawa. A marriage can't start on a lie that big."
The swamp had just collapsed.
Obanai strode past the kneeling Kakushi without a word. He retrieved his striped haori from a wooden rack, shrugging it over his shoulders. Kaburamaru uncoiled from a resting beam, slithering down to wrap securely around Obanai's neck. The white snake tasted the air, sensing his master's spiking anxiety.
Obanai crossed the estate grounds, his feet silent against the river stones. The air carried the damp chill of the recent rains. He reached the front gate and slid the timber open.
You stood in the entryway, shivering in the damp chill of the afternoon. Your clothes were wrinkled and stained with dried mud. Your hair clung to your cheeks in messy strands. You looked out of place, a fragment of the ordinary world dragged into a military compound. You lacked the hardened, calloused exterior of the slayers who walked these grounds. Yet, there was a fierce, unrelenting fire in your eyes that commanded attention.
Behind you stood Genya. He refused to meet Obanai's gaze, staring fixedly at the stones near his feet. The boy looked like a cornered animal, bracing for an attack. He knew his presence here was a violation of numerous unspoken rules.
Obanai ignored the boy. His mismatched eyes locked onto the bundle clutched in your arms. The canvas wrap obscured the scabbard, but the distinct, eight-pointed tsuba protruded from the fabric. It was unmistakable. The green steel of the Wind Hashira.
A cold dread settled in Obanai's stomach. A slayer’s blade was their soul. To separate from it was to sever ties with the living world. Sanemi would sooner sever his own arm than surrender his weapon to a civilian. Obanai knew Sanemi's volatility and his destructive tendencies. If the Wind Hashira was without his sword, he was unarmed by choice.
"Where is Shinazugawa?" Obanai asked. The question cut through the quiet courtyard, unforgiving. "Why do you have his sword?"
The question shattered your remaining defences. You'd spent the last three days holding yourself together through sheer willpower, scouring the district, asking questions, refusing to sleep. Hearing his name spoken aloud by his closest ally acted as the final strike against your composure.
The dam broke.
A raw, jagged sob ripped from your throat. Your knees buckled, giving out beneath you. You dropped to the river stones, uncaring of the hard impact against your skin. You clutched the canvas bundle tighter, pulling it against your chest as if trying to shield it from the cold.
Genya stepped forward, his hands hovering awkwardly near your shoulders. He wanted to help, but he shrank back under Obanai's lethal glare.
"He lied to me," you gasped, the words tangling with your tears. You bowed your head, the tears falling freely, splashing against the canvas fabric. "He told me his brother was dead."
Obanai watched you weep. He didn't step forward to offer comfort. He stood rigid, absorbing the raw display of emotion. He assessed the situation, his mind piecing together the timeline.
"The boy showed up at your restaurant," Obanai deduced, his voice devoid of inflexion.
You shook your head wildly, struggling to pull air into your lungs. "At the apartment," you cried out, your voice echoing in the quiet courtyard. "It was raining. He knocked on the door. He just wanted to talk to Sanemi, and he told me everything. He told me what really happened to their mother."
Obanai shot a venomous glare at Genya. The boy flinched, retreating another step. Obanai knew the shame Sanemi associated with that night. The fact that Genya had spilt the bloodiest chapter of his brother's life to you infuriated the Serpent Hashira.
"Sanemi came home early," you continued, wiping your face with the back of your sleeve, smearing mud and tears across your cheek. "He walked through the balcony doors. He saw Genya-kun sleeping on the floor, and he just lost his mind, Iguro-san. I've never seen him look like that."
You forced yourself to look up. You met Obanai's mismatched gaze. You needed him to understand the gravity of the fracture.
"He was so angry," you sobbed, the memory playing vividly behind your eyes. "He screamed at Genya. He was going to attack him. I stepped in front of Genya to stop it. I jumped between them."
Obanai stiffened, and Kaburamaru hissed nervously. The snake coiled tighter around his neck.
"He almost hit me," you confessed, your voice dropping to a terrified whisper. "His fist stopped an inch from my face. The look in his eyes… he looked feral, like an animal. I screamed and covered my face. I thought he was going to kill me."
The courtyard fell silent. The wind rustled the willow branches, a hollow, mournful sound. The sweet scent of wisteria felt cloying.
Obanai processed the image. Sanemi, the man who spent his life hunting monsters to protect the weak, raising a fist against the woman he planned to marry. The psychological recoil of that action would be catastrophic for a man carrying Sanemi's specific brand of trauma.
"But he stopped," you said, your voice cracking. You leaned forward, resting your forehead against the canvas bundle. "He realised what he was doing. He saw me cowering, and the anger just vanished. He looked at his own hands as if he didn't recognise them. He started crying."
You lifted your head, the desperation clawing at your throat. "He dropped the sword. He unbuckled his belt, let the sword fall to the floor, and ran away. He jumped off the balcony and ran into the woods. It's been three days since then, Iguro-san."
You tried to stand, but your legs refused to support your weight. You remained on your knees, clutching the weapon. The stones dug into your flesh, but the pain meant nothing compared to the agony tearing through your chest.
"I’m so scared… please," you begged, the word tearing from your throat. "Please find him. You have to find him."
Obanai looked at the sword in your arms. "A Hashira doesn't abandon his blade unless he intends to abandon his life."
"I know!" you screamed, the hysteria taking full control. You didn't care about protocol. You didn't care about the stoic nature of the Demon Slayer Corps. "He told me what he used to do! He told me about the woods, about hunting demons with his bare hands and using his own blood as bait! He told me it was just a slow suicide!"
You dragged yourself forward on your knees, the stones scraping your skin. You reached out, grabbing the hem of Obanai's striped haori. The fabric felt coarse against your trembling fingers.
"He's unarmed!" you cried, your fingers digging into the fabric. "He thinks he's a monster. He thinks he became his father. He's out there right now, looking for a reason to die. He might be dead in a ditch somewhere because he thinks he deserves it!"
You looked up at Obanai, your vision blurred by a fresh wave of tears. "He talks about you. He trusts you more than anyone else in this place. The others don't understand how his mind works. They just see the anger, but you see the man underneath. You know where he patrols. You know where he goes when he wants to disappear. Please… I'm begging you. I don't know who else to ask."
Obanai stared down at you. You were shivering, broken, and kneeling in the dirt, pleading for the life of a man who pushed everyone away.
Obanai was usually standoffish. He preferred the company of his snake to the company of humans. He viewed civilians as fragile liabilities who required constant protection but offered nothing in return. Yet, looking at you, he felt a rare, unsettling shift in his worldview.
Sanemi was an abrasive, violent, foul-mouthed fool. He pushed people away with both hands, demanding isolation. He snarled at anyone who dared to show him kindness. But he'd found you. He'd found a woman willing to march into a hidden military fortress and beg on her knees just to save him from himself.
Sanemi hadn't just lost his mind. He'd lost his anchor. He'd dropped his sword because he believed he'd lost the right to hold you.
Obanai realised the true depth of your love. You weren't a fragile liability. You were the only thing keeping the Wind Hashira tethered to the earth. If Sanemi died out there in the mud, this woman would shatter, and the Corps would lose one of its strongest pillars. Obanai knew the burden of self-hatred. He knew the isolating cold of believing you were unworthy of love. He saw that same curse wrapping its claws around Sanemi's throat.
Obanai looked at your hands gripping his haori. He didn't pull away.
"Stop crying," Obanai commanded, though his voice lacked its usual venom.
You sniffled, trying to draw a full breath, but your hands remained locked on his clothing.
"I'll find him," Obanai said.
The promise hung in the air, solid and irrefutable. You released his haori, slumping back onto your heels. The relief washed over you, an exhausting wave that left you trembling. You pressed your face against the wrapped sword, letting out a long, shuddering breath.
Obanai turned his attention to the courtyard gate. "Kakushi!" he barked.
Three masked figures scrambled from the shadows, dropping to their knees on the river stones. They kept their heads bowed, terrified of the Serpent Hashira's wrath.
"Take them inside the estate," Obanai ordered, gesturing to you and Genya. "Set up a room. Give them hot tea and dry clothes. They don't leave this compound until I return. If anyone inquires, tell him they're under my direct protection."
"Yes, Iguro-sama," the Kakushi chorused in unison.
Obanai looked down at you one last time. "Hold onto that sword, chef. He'll need it when I drag him back."
Obanai turned, walking swiftly toward the estate gates. Kaburamaru slithered up to rest atop his head, tasting the air for the scent of the wind. The Serpent Hashira disappeared into the willow grove, leaving you kneeling on the stones, clutching the green steel to your chest.
You buried your face in the canvas wrap, breathing in the faint, lingering scent of clove oil and rain. You held onto the promise. Obanai would find him. He had to.
"Come inside, please," a Kakushi said, gently touching your shoulder.
You allowed the masked attendant to help you to your feet. Genya stood beside you, his eyes fixed on the empty gateway where Obanai vanished.
"He'll bring him back," Genya whispered, his voice thick with unshed tears.
You nodded, gripping the sword tight. "He has to."
The Kakushi led you and Genya toward the main house. The wooden sliding doors opened, welcoming you into the quiet, shadowed halls of the Serpent Estate. You stepped inside, the weight of the sword pressing against your heart, and you prepared to wait.
To Be Continued...
——— ✦ ———
Thank you for reading. ♡
✦ Check out my Patreon for more content. I'm four chapters ahead on my fics there.
✦ THE MAIN UNIVERSE ✦ Love my writing? Check out my Gothic Romantasy novel — Liquid Sunlight.
↳ Masterlist | Table of Contents | Join my Taglist
Tagging: @ynackerman9499 @Sanemisgoonalicousfreak @beereadzzz @helalokithor @kaeyaszlut @matchadoinsblog
I just wanted to pop in and say I stumbled across your Sanemi stories, and I really love your writing and the way you portray everyone in the demon slayer universe. I literally binge read everything probably 2x over .
I read one of your works — “Liquid Sunlight” (Summary: In Taisho‑era Japan, Fujisaki Leila is an outcast twice over, for the color of her skin and for a spirit that refuses to break). Since it wasn’t finished at that time, I decided to wait until the publication was complete so that I could enjoy reading it at my leisure. Unfortunately, when I returned to this site, I couldn’t find the piece.
As I’m not a native speaker, it’s hard for me to look for an alternative version or to find the work on another site. I was told that you gave people some time to download the work if they wanted to read it. Unfortunately, I didn’t manage to get on that list.
So I decided to write to you personally and ask: is there any way or anywhere I could download the work?
Thank you anyway!
Hi! Thank you so much for reaching out, and thank you for the kind memory of my fic as it means a lot that you came back looking for it 🫶🏾.
I had to take Liquid Sunlight down because I ended up adapting it into an original novel! I removed the fanfiction version from all platforms because it shares DNA with what became the published book, and I can't circulate the old fic anymore. I hope you understand.
The novel is called Liquid Sunlight it's essentially the same story just in a Caribbean setting. Leila is now Naomi Anderson (a runaway bride with white hair) with a monster lover named Ezra (my version of Akaza).
Different characters, different setting from the fic, but the heart and the yearning are the same. It's available on Amazon and Kindle Unlimited if you're interested.
I'm so sorry I can't share the original fic, but I really appreciate you reaching out 🤍
The Moon & The Kitsune — Part Nine
THE SUN, THE MOON, AND THE STORM
"Then open the door, Michikatsu," she challenged softly, her voice trembling with an equal measure of nerves and desperate anticipation. "Show me what happens when you finally surrender."
✦ Pairing — (Michikatsu(Human Kokushibo)x OC)
✦ Rating — 18+
✦ Warnings - [AU, Kokushibo is human, Sengoku Era, Arranged Marriage, Opposites Attract, Grumpy/Sunshine (but the sunshine is actually a storm), Badass original female character, Epistolary / Exchanging Letters, Banter, Flirting, First Kiss, Horseback Riding, Michikatsu is Bad at Feelings, Protective Michikatsu, Yoriichi is Just Happy to be Here, Lord Tsugikuni is a Terrible Father, Michikatsu is a repressed mess, OC is a menace to society and Michikatsu loves it, They race horses and trash talk, Literally just two feral people falling in love, Not your typical Yamato Nadeshiko]
✦ Table of Contents
——— ✦ ———
Part Nine: The Sun, The Moon, and The Storm
The sun slipped behind the jagged peaks of the western ridge, dragging a bruised violet twilight across the mountain sky. The Tsugikuni estate underwent a massive transformation. The harsh, militant geometry of the compound softened under the glow of two hundred paper lanterns strung along the cedar verandas. Tonight, the fortress was not a staging ground for war. It was a temple.
The grand hall, the largest and most prestigious structure within the estate walls, stood immaculate. The tatami mats smelled of fresh woven rush, clean and crisp. The sliding shoji screens were pushed wide open to the illuminated courtyard, allowing the mountain breeze to circulate the faint, woody scent of ceremonial incense. The gathered guests knelt in strict, hierarchical rows. Daimyos, elite vassals, and allied lords formed a sea of dark, formal silk. They murmured to one another, their voices a low hum of anticipation that vibrated against the wooden pillars.
At the front of the hall, standing before the elevated household shrine, was Michikatsu.
He wore the traditional montsuki haori, the formal outer coat of a groom. The silk was a stark, unyielding black, devoid of any decorative patterns save for the five white honeycomb crests of the Tsugikuni clan emblazoned on his chest, back, and sleeves. Beneath the coat, his hakama fell in razor-sharp pleats, brushing the tops of his white tabi socks. His hair was pulled back into its customary flawless ponytail, exposing the sharp, aristocratic lines of his jaw.
He looked like a warlord carved from obsidian.
But beneath the stiff layers of formal black silk, his reality was entirely different. His chest felt tight, the muscles constricting around a heart that hammered an erratic, frantic rhythm against his ribs. The steady, calm pulse of a seasoned swordsman had vanished. In its place was a chaotic, thrilling energy that he could barely contain.
Michikatsu kept his hands folded at his waist, forcing his knuckles to relax. He looked out over the rows of seated guests, though he didn't truly see any of them. His mind was engaged in a fierce battle with his own history.
For twenty-three years, he had viewed marriage as a miserable political chain. He had watched his mother wither away in the silent, suffocating corners of this very estate, broken by the rigid demands of a clan that valued order over affection. He had expected the same fate for himself. He had anticipated standing at this exact altar feeling nothing but cold resentment, preparing to bind himself to a terrified, obedient girl who would shrink from his shadow. He had expected the day of his wedding to feel like the closing of a cell door.
He was wrong.
The cell door was not closing. It was being torn off its hinges.
The anticipation burning in his veins was intoxicating. He wanted this. He wanted the ritual to begin. He wanted the heavy timber doors of the grand hall to slide open so he could claim the woman waiting on the other side. He was genuinely, intensely eager to start his life with her. The realization that he actually wanted to be a husband, that he craved the title because of the specific woman who would share it, was staggering.
He glanced to his right. Lord Tsugikuni sat on a raised cushion, his face an impassive mask of stern authority. The Daimyo radiated control, projecting the image of a patriarch securing his family's future through a lucrative alliance. He saw this entire evening as a successful transaction involving foreign steel and western ports.
Michikatsu shifted his gaze to the left. Yoriichi knelt a few paces away. His twin brother wore an elegant red kimono, blending into the background with his usual serene grace. Yoriichi caught Michikatsu's eye and offered a small smile. It wasn't a smile of pity or polite obligation. It was a look of genuine happiness. Yoriichi knew exactly what this marriage meant. He knew Seira had saved his brother from the dark.
Michikatsu did not scowl. He did not turn away. He offered Yoriichi a fractional nod of acknowledgment, a silent truce formed in the glow of the ceremonial lanterns.
A sharp, echoing crack split the air.
The murmuring in the hall died instantly. Every head turned toward the entrance. Outside in the courtyard, a shrine attendant struck two wooden clappers together, signaling the arrival of the bridal procession.
Michikatsu locked his knees, his breath stalling in his throat.
The massive cedar doors at the back of the hall slid open with a smooth, heavy glide.
The Hanazono family entered. Lord Hanazono walked at the front, his usual boisterous energy subdued by the solemnity of the occasion, though his eyes were already bright with unshed tears. Lady Kaede glided beside him, the picture of flawless aristocratic poise. The three younger sisters trailed behind them, dressed in matching vibrant kimonos, their usual feral chaos restrained into wide-eyed, awestruck silence.
Then came the bride.
Michikatsu felt the floor drop out from beneath him.
Seira was a vision that defied logic. She moved with a slow, measured grace that commanded the attention of every single soul in the room. Her footsteps made no sound against the tatami, giving her the illusion of floating over the woven rush.
She wore the traditional shiromuku. The under-kimono was a pristine, blinding white, signifying a bride's purity and her symbolic death to her birth family, demonstrating her readiness to be dyed in the colors of her new household. On any other woman, the white silk would represent submission. On Seira, it looked like a canvas waiting to become a masterpiece.
Layered over the white silk was a stunning, extravagant uchikake. The heavy outer coat was a rebellion against strict tradition. While many brides wore coats with red accents, Seira’s uchikake was an absolute masterpiece of oceanic design. The fabric was a gradient of rich, dark indigo that shifted into a vibrant azure at the padded hem. Thick, raised embroidery coated the silk, depicting massive, crashing silver waves and soaring cranes. As she moved, the lantern light caught the silver threads, making the fabric look like actual water cascading down her back and trailing along the floor behind her.
She was carrying the ocean into the mountains.
Her face was painted in the traditional bridal style, her skin a flawless, porcelain white, her lips a sharp, vibrant crimson. But it was her hair that made Michikatsu’s heart clench with a possessive, overwhelming devotion.
Her thick dark hair was styled into an elaborate, waxed bridal updo, defying gravity in its complex architecture. And nestled perfectly within the dark, glossy loops of hair were the two kanzashi pins he had sent her.
The solid silver prongs caught the light, and the clustered pieces of lapis lazuli gleamed like captured stars. The brilliant blue stones contrasted fiercely with the white silk and matched her eyes with terrifying perfection.
She wore his gift. She wore his claim. It was a very public, undeniable declaration to everyone in the room that she belonged to the Tsugikuni heir, and that he had crowned her with the colors of her own untamed nature.
Seira reached the front of the hall. The Hanazono family took their designated seats on the left side of the aisle. Seira stepped forward, closing the final distance between them, and knelt on the woven mat directly across from Michikatsu.
Michikatsu lowered himself to his knees, settling into a formal seiza position. The space separating them was less than an arm's length.
She lifted her head.
Their eyes met, and the entire grand hall, with its hundreds of guests, its imposing Daimyos, and its suffocating history, simply ceased to exist. The ambient noise faded into white static. The scent of incense was entirely eclipsed by the heady, familiar fragrance of jasmine rolling off her skin.
Michikatsu looked into her oceanic blue eyes. He searched for any trace of the terrified, trembling Omitsu. He searched for the resigned, hollow stare of a woman accepting a political cage.
He found nothing but his Seira
Her eyes danced with a fierce, brilliant light. There was reverence there, an acknowledgment of the sacred vows they were about to take, but beneath the reverence lay a wicked, untamable spark. She was looking at the imposing warlord in the stark black coat, and she was promising him absolute chaos.
A Shinto priest stepped forward, his white robes rustling in the quiet hall. He chanted a blessing, his voice a rhythmic, hypnotic drone that invoked the mountain gods and ancestors to witness the union.
A shrine maiden approached, kneeling between Michikatsu and Seira. She carried a red lacquer tray holding a set of three flat, saucer-like cups stacked upon one another, accompanied by a ceremonial iron kettle filled with sake.
It was time for the san-san-kudo, the core ritual of the wedding. The sharing of the three cups, three times each, to bind their souls across the past, present, and future.
The maiden lifted the smallest cup from the top of the stack. This cup represented heaven, youth, and the gratitude owed to their ancestors. She presented it to Michikatsu first.
He accepted the red lacquer saucer with both hands, his movements precise and steady. The maiden tilted the iron kettle, pouring the clear rice wine in three distinct, measured motions until the shallow cup was full.
Michikatsu did not break eye contact with Seira. He brought the cup to his lips. He took a small sip, then a second, and drained the remaining liquid on the third. The sake was cold, carrying a sharp, floral bite that burned a clean path down his throat.
He wiped the rim with a silk cloth provided by the maiden and passed the cup to his bride.
Seira took the small saucer. Her silver-clad fingers were elegant against the red lacquer. The maiden poured the sake for her in the same three motions. Seira brought the cup to her crimson lips. She maintained his intense gaze, sipping the wine three times.
The act was silent, but the air between them crackled with an electric, screaming tension. The first cup bound their youth. It bound the barefoot girl on the chestnut mare to the severe heir on the black warhorse.
The maiden removed the small cup and lifted the medium one. This cup represented the earth, adulthood, and the vow to build a household together through the trials of life.
She presented the medium cup to Seira first. The pouring ritual repeated.
Seira held the cup and took her three sips. As she lowered the saucer, her eyes flicked upward, capturing Michikatsu’s gaze with a sudden, devastating intensity. The look carried a heavy, unspoken promise. It spoke of the chests invading his room, the scent of jasmine sinking into his futons, and the relentless noise that was about to shatter the silence of his estate.
She handed the cup to him.
Michikatsu accepted it, his knuckles brushing against her fingertips for a fraction of a second. The brief contact sent a jolt of heat straight up his arm. He drank his three sips, the alcohol warming his blood. His purple eyes answered her challenge. He told her silently that he was ready for the invasion. He told her he would never try to cage her, but he would stand beside her while she tore the world apart.
The maiden took the medium cup away. She lifted the final, largest cup. This cup represented humankind, old age, and the vow to remain bound together until death.
She handed the large saucer to Michikatsu.
The pouring seemed to take an eternity. The tension in the room was a weight pressing down on their shoulders. The guests watched in absolute silence, bearing witness to the forging of a new dynasty.
Michikatsu lifted the large cup. He looked at the lapis lazuli stones shining in her hair. He looked at the red paint on her lips. He took his first sip, committing his strength to her protection. He took his second sip, committing his wealth to her comfort. He took his third sip, draining the cup, committing his soul to her storm.
He passed the final cup to Seira.
She accepted it with a steady hand. The maiden poured the final measure of sake. Seira brought the red lacquer to her mouth. She took her three sips.
As she swallowed the final drop of wine, she lowered the cup to her lap. She looked across the small distance separating them. A slow, breathtaking smile curved her painted lips, melting away the strict ceremonial mask. It was the same smile she had worn on the freezing palace roof, the same smile she had worn when she crossed the finish line an inch ahead of him.
It was the smile of a victor.
The ritual was complete. The nine sips were taken. The families were bound, the contracts sealed, and the vows witnessed by the gods.
The priest stepped forward, raising a branch of sacred sakaki wood, shaking the paper streamers over their heads to finalize the blessing.
Michikatsu felt a massive, undeniable shift in his universe. The iron cage that had surrounded his heart for his entire life simply dissolved, leaving behind a vast, open sky. He was no longer just the heir of the Tsugikuni clan. He was a husband.
He was her husband.
The silence in the grand hall shattered. The guests erupted into applause and celebratory shouts. Lord Hanazono abandoned his dignity entirely, sobbing loudly into his sleeve while Lady Kaede patted his shoulder. Even Lord Tsugikuni offered a stiff, formal nod of approval, signaling the successful conclusion of the political event.
Michikatsu ignored the noise. He ignored the Daimyos, the vassals, and the merchants.
He reached out, breaking the formal posture of the ceremony. He offered his hand to his wife.
Seira looked at his extended hand. Her smile widened. She placed her palm against his, her fingers curling around his own. Her grip was strong, calloused from riding, a grounded and fierce anchor in the sea of white silk.
Michikatsu helped her to her feet, feeling the immense weight of her uchikake as she stood. He stood beside her, his tall, dark silhouette contrasting violently against her brilliant white and blue attire.
They turned to face the cheering crowd. The reception was waiting. The feast was prepared. The night was only just beginning.
Michikatsu kept his hand wrapped tightly around hers, his thumb stroking the back of her knuckles. He looked out over the grand hall, his purple eyes blazing with a newfound, terrifying purpose. He had survived the mud of the northern ridge. He had survived the rigid demands of his father.
Now, he was going to survive the reception, and then he was going to take the Kitsune to their chambers and see exactly what kind of destruction the storm could bring.
…
The solemn rigidity of the grand hall shattered the moment the sliding doors to the adjacent banquet room opened.
For the Tsugikuni clan, a wedding feast usually meant a structured, formal affair dictated by rigid etiquette. The vassals expected to sit in perfect silence, sip their clear rice wine at designated intervals, and listen to a refined ensemble play traditional court music. They expected a display of austere martial dignity.
The Hanazono clan had other plans.
The wealthy merchants from the western port treated the celebration like a dockside festival after a massive, successful voyage. The moment the guests transitioned into the banquet hall, the coastal energy flooded the room. A troupe of Hanazono musicians bypassed the traditional court instruments entirely, striking up a fast, rhythmic tune on their shamisens and taiko drums. The upbeat tempo bounced off the cedar rafters, demanding movement and noise.
Servants flooded the aisles, carrying low wooden tables laden with delicacies. There were massive platters of grilled sea bream served whole to symbolize good fortune, steaming bowls of red bean rice, simmered mountain roots, wild mushrooms, and endless casks of cloudy, potent sake.
Michikatsu led Seira to the raised dais at the front of the room. Two plush silk cushions sat behind a long table adorned with silver accents. The moment they sat down, a pair of maids rushed forward to assist Seira. They carefully unfastened the heavy, extravagant uchikake outer coat, lifting the weight of the silver and blue embroidery from her shoulders.
Seira let out a breath of relief as the heavy silk was carried away. She remained in the pristine white shiromuku under-kimono, her posture relaxing a fraction.
"I thought my spine was going to snap," Seira murmured, rolling her shoulders. "If my mother forced me to wear that coat for another hour, I would have collapsed."
"You handled the weight well," Michikatsu noted. He shifted his posture on the silk cushion, turning his body slightly to face her. "You didn't trip. I didn't have to catch you."
"I never trip," Seira corrected, her oceanic blue eyes flashing with her signature spark. "I just wanted to see if the terrifying Tsugikuni heir possessed the reflexes to save a merchant's daughter."
"My reflexes are flawless," Michikatsu replied, his voice a low gravel that barely carried over the rising noise of the room.
They looked out over the banquet hall. The clash of cultures was unfolding in spectacular fashion.
Lord Hanazono sat near the front, his face already flushed a bright, cheerful red from his second cup of wine. He was roaring with laughter, gesturing wildly with his hands as he recounted a story about a storm at sea. He was currently directing his tale at Sato, Michikatsu’s stoic vassal. Sato sat rigidly, his face a mask of panicked politeness, unsure how to handle a merchant lord who treated him like an old tavern friend.
"Your father is going to drink my armory dry," Michikatsu observed, watching Lord Hanazono signal for another cask.
"Let him," Seira laughed, the sound bright and clear. "He just married off his biggest headache. He feels victorious. Besides, he paid enough foreign steel to fund your vanguard for a decade. He earned his wine."
Across the room, the three Hanazono sisters were treating the formal feast like a playground. Aiko, the eldest, was currently organizing a betting ring with a group of bewildered guards, wagering copper coins on which vassal would pass out first. Yumi was sneaking handfuls of sweet mochi from the dessert platters.
Hana, the youngest and most feral of the trio, had somehow managed to climb onto the back of a terrified spearman, demanding a piggyback ride across the tatami mats.
"Someone needs to retrieve your sister," Michikatsu said, narrowing his eyes at the disruption. "That spearman survived the northern ridge. He shouldn't be defeated by a six-year-old."
Before Seira could signal one of her maids, a tall figure in a red glided across the room. Yoriichi approached the struggling guard with a serene, effortless grace. He held out a small bamboo skewer loaded with candied plums.
Hana instantly abandoned the guard, dropping to the floor to snatch the sugary treat from Yoriichi’s hand. Yoriichi offered a warm smile, crouching down to speak with the little girl, unfazed by the chaos. He pointed toward the dessert table, and the three sisters immediately swarmed him, treating the greatest swordsman of their generation like their personal confectionary supplier.
"Your brother is very useful," Seira noted, resting her chin on her hand. "He makes an excellent distraction."
"He has a singular talent for defusing tension," Michikatsu admitted. The words didn't burn his throat the way they used to. He watched his twin brother hand out sweet rice cakes to the feral children, feeling a strange sense of peace. The bitter, suffocating rivalry that had defined his life felt incredibly distant tonight.
Michikatsu turned his attention back to his wife.
The banquet continued to escalate in volume. The Tsugikuni vassals, initially resistant to the loud merchants, finally began to crack. Tada, a general known for his unyielding discipline, accepted a massive, oversized cup of sake from a Hanazono quartermaster. The general threw the wine back, slammed the cup onto the table, and let out a booming laugh. The strict decorum of the mountain fortress was officially broken.
Michikatsu ignored the room. He reached for the ceremonial iron kettle resting on their table. He lifted it and poured a steady stream of clear sake into Seira’s lacquered cup.
Seira raised an eyebrow. "The samurai serves the merchant?"
"The husband serves his wife," Michikatsu corrected smoothly. He set the kettle down and picked up a pair of long wooden chopsticks. He reached across the table, selecting a choice piece of the grilled sea bream, peeling away the finest section of the white meat. He placed it carefully onto her porcelain plate.
Seira watched him, her playful expression faltering for a fraction of a second. Samurai didn't serve their wives. They didn't tend to their comfort during a feast. They sat stoically, expecting to be catered to. Michikatsu’s actions were subtle, but they carried an intense, protective devotion that caught her off guard.
"You're very attentive tonight, Michikatsu," Seira murmured, picking up her sake cup.
"You haven't eaten," Michikatsu said, his gaze fixed on her face. "You spent the entire day bound in white silk and subjected to endless rituals. You need your strength."
"My strength is fine," Seira countered, taking a sip of the wine. "I survived the race across the plains. I can survive a banquet."
"I know you can," Michikatsu said. He leaned in closer, invading her personal space. The scent of jasmine enveloped him, drowning out the smell of the roasted fish and the spilled sake. "But you don't have to fight for your survival at this table. You're in my territory now. I protect what is mine."
The raw, unfiltered honesty in his voice made Seira’s breath catch. She was a master of conversation. She knew how to manipulate words, how to turn an insult into a compliment, and how to deflect any serious emotion with a sharp joke. She was the Kitsune. She lived for the game.
But Michikatsu wasn't playing a game. He was looking at her with a heavy, burning intensity that stripped away all her defenses.
Michikatsu raised his hand. He reached out, his calloused fingertips brushing against the solid silver prongs of the kanzashi resting in her waxed hair. He traced the edge of the blue lapis lazuli stone, his touch incredibly gentle for a man whose hands were built for war.
"The capital artisans failed," Michikatsu murmured, his voice dropping into a low, gravelly register meant only for her ears.
Seira frowned, confused by the sudden shift in topic. "Failed? The pins are beautiful, Michikatsu. The craftsmanship is flawless."
"The stones don't match your eyes," Michikatsu insisted, his purple gaze drifting from the hairpiece down to her face. "The lapis is too dull. Your eyes are brighter. They carry the sea. The artisans couldn't capture it."
Seira froze. Her heart was beating erratically against her ribs.
"You look breathtaking," Michikatsu stated bluntly. It wasn't a rehearsed line of poetry or a flowery compliment designed to flatter her ego. "When the doors opened, the rest of the hall ceased to exist. I only saw you."
The confident, untamable Kitsune broke.
A sudden rush of heat flooded Seira’s face. The crimson paint on her lips stood out against the bright, genuine blush spreading across her cheeks. She lowered her gaze, unable to maintain eye contact with the sheer, overwhelming devotion radiating from her husband. She hid the lower half of her face behind the rim of her sake cup, her fingers trembling a fraction.
Michikatsu felt a massive surge of victorious pride. He had done the impossible. He had rendered the sharpest, most articulate woman in the province entirely speechless. He had made the Kitsune blush.
A slow, wicked smirk curved Michikatsu’s lips. "Drink your wine, Seira. It will help cool your face."
Seira snapped her gaze back up, her blue eyes narrowing in playful outrage. She set the cup down with a sharp click. "You play dirty, samurai."
"I play to win," Michikatsu replied, his smirk widening. "I learned it from you."
The noise of the banquet raged on around them, but the head table felt like an isolated island. They fell into a comfortable, electric rhythm of banter. They criticized the fashion choices of the rival Daimyos in attendance. They placed their own wagers on which of the Hanazono sisters would fall asleep first.
As the hours passed, the energy in the hall began to shift. The fast music slowed into a melodic, winding tune. The older lords began to nod off on their silk cushions. The initial burst of chaotic celebration settled into a comfortable, exhausted hum.
Michikatsu kept his focus on the shifting dynamics of the room. He was a tactician. He knew how to read the battlefield, and he knew how to read the flow of a political event. The formal obligations were reaching their natural conclusion.
He glanced to his right.
Lord Tsugikuni sat on his raised cushion, his face a mask of weary endurance. The Daimyo had survived the merchant invasion. He had secured his trade routes. He caught Michikatsu’s eye. The older man offered a single, stiff nod. It was a silent dismissal. The clan head was releasing the heir from his public duties.
Michikatsu turned his head toward the Hanazono side of the room.
Lady Kaede sat near her husband, looking as flawless and serene as she had when she arrived. She wasn't drinking the heavy sake, preferring a small cup of warm tea. She felt Michikatsu’s gaze and looked over.
Lady Kaede didn't offer a stiff nod. She offered a knowing, sharp smile. She caught Seira’s eye, tilting her head toward the sliding doors at the back of the hall. It was a silent, motherly instruction. The time for public display was over. The private reality of the marriage was at hand.
Seira understood the signal. She set her chopsticks down, the remaining tension returning to her spine. She took a slow breath, her chest rising and falling beneath the white silk.
Michikatsu stood up.
His movements were smooth and powerful. The black silk of his montsuki haori rustled against the tatami mats before he turned his body toward his wife and held out his hand.
It was a massive breach of samurai protocol. A warlord didn't offer physical assistance to his wife in a public setting. He didn't touch her in front of his vassals. He was expected to walk ahead, forcing her to trail behind his shadow.
Michikatsu didn't care about protocol tonight. He kept his hand extended, his palm open, his purple eyes locked onto hers.
Seira looked at his calloused hand. A fierce, beautiful smile broke across her painted lips. She placed her hand into his.
Michikatsu’s fingers curled around hers, providing a solid, grounding anchor. He helped her to her feet, supporting her as she navigated the heavy, restrictive layers of the shiromuku.
They turned and walked away from the head table. The remaining guests who were still awake watched them go, but no one dared to speak. The sheer, intimidating presence of the Tsugikuni heir, coupled with the radiant, untouchable beauty of the Hanazono bride, commanded absolute silence.
They stepped out of the grand hall, leaving the heat and the noise of the banquet behind.
The transition was jarring. The night air hit them instantly, cold and crisp, carrying the sharp scent of mountain pine. The open-air corridor stretched out before them, a long path of polished cedar floorboards illuminated by spaced paper lanterns. The lanterns cast a warm, flickering golden glow that pushed back the mountain darkness.
Michikatsu didn't release her hand. He maintained his grip, matching his long strides to her smaller, measured steps.
The silence of the corridor was profound, broken only by the soft rustle of Seira’s white silk and the solid thud of Michikatsu’s tabi socks against the wood. Above them, the silver crescent moon hung high in the star-swept sky, casting pale light onto the manicured gravel gardens.
The walk felt like a journey between two different worlds. They were leaving the political theater of their families and entering the secluded, raw reality of their own making.
Michikatsu felt his heart hammering a relentless rhythm against his ribs. The anticipation was a physical weight, pulling the air from his lungs. He was hyper-aware of every point of contact. He felt the warmth of her palm against his skin. He heard the subtle shift of her breathing.
"The silence is strange," Seira whispered, her voice a soft melody in the quiet night. "I spent the last three days surrounded by tailors, maids, and my screaming sisters. Now there's nothing but the wind."
"Do you miss the noise?" Michikatsu asked, his voice low and gravelly.
"No," Seira answered without hesitation. She tightened her grip on his hand. "I prefer this. Your estate feels different at night. It feels less like a fortress."
"It's no longer just a fortress," Michikatsu said, guiding her around a sharp corner in the corridor. "You brought the ocean inside the walls. My chambers smell of jasmine."
Seira let out a soft, breathy laugh. "Are you complaining?"
"I'm stating a fact," Michikatsu replied, the corner of his mouth tugging upward into a smirk. "The damage is done. I have to live with the consequences of marrying you."
They reached the end of the long corridor.
The heavy cedar door to Michikatsu’s private pavilion stood before them. The wood was dark, unadorned, and imposing. This was the boundary. This was the threshold separating the public face of the Tsugikuni heir from the private soul of the man beneath the armor.
Michikatsu stopped and turned to face her.
The lantern light caught the silver and blue lapis pins in her hair, making the stones gleam like wet glass. She looked up at him, her blue eyes wide, searching his face. The confident banter faded away, replaced by a heavy, crackling tension that made the cold air feel like a furnace.
They were standing on the precipice. The letters, the horseback race, the stolen kiss on the palace roof—it all culminated here, in front of this heavy wooden door.
Michikatsu raised his free hand. He reached out, his knuckles brushing lightly against her cheek. Her skin was incredibly warm. She leaned into his touch, her eyes fluttering shut for a fraction of a second, an expression of sheer vulnerability that made his chest ache with fierce devotion.
"I told you I wouldn't approach you with restraint," Michikatsu murmured, his voice dropping into a dangerous, rough whisper. "The armor is gone, Seira."
Seira opened her eyes. The fire burned bright in the depths of her gaze. She didn't shrink away from the intensity of his promise. She rose to meet it.
"Then open the door, Michikatsu," she challenged softly, her voice trembling with an equal measure of nerves and desperate anticipation. "Show me what happens when you finally surrender."
Michikatsu didn't hesitate. He dropped his hand from her cheek and gripped the edge of the heavy cedar door. He pulled it back, the wood sliding along the track with a smooth, solid rumble.
The warm light from the oil lamps inside spilled out into the cold corridor. The heavy, intoxicating scent of jasmine oil rolled over them.
Michikatsu stepped back, keeping his hand firmly wrapped around hers. He met her gaze one final time, his purple eyes burning with absolute certainty, and ushered his new wife inside.
To Be Continued...
——— ✦ ———
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The Soldier & The Daisy — Chapter Twenty Four
THE RECKONING
"The human heart is a labyrinth, Daisy. And fear... fear can turn people into things they never recognized in the mirror."
✦ Pairing — [Levi x OC]
✦ Rating — 18+
✦ Warnings/Tropes - [AU, Canon Divergence, No War, Forbidden Romance, Bodyguard Romance, Nobility, Class Differences, Slow Burn, Secret Relationship, Smut, Smut in the first chapter, Romantic Tension, Angst, Fluff, Rebellious Protagonist, Assassination attempts, Ballet Enthusiast, Protective Levi Ackerman, Levi Ackerman is Bad at Feelings, POV Levi Ackerman, Forbidden Love, Affairs]
✦ Table of Contents
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Chapter Twenty Four: The Reckoning
The silence that followed the cessation of the alarm bell was heavier than the iron noise itself. For what felt like an eternity, the tolling had been a physical assault, a frantic heartbeat of panic that vibrated in the teeth and bones of everyone present. Now, abruptly, it was gone, leaving behind a ringing void that pressed against the eardrums, magnified by the sudden, ragged quiet of the stable.
The air was thick with the primal scents of distress: the sour tang of human sweat, the metallic sharpness of fresh blood, the musk of frightened horses, and the damp, earthy smell of the hay. In the center of the main aisle, beneath the high, raftered ceiling where shadows danced in the flickering lantern light, a tableau of devastation had frozen in place.
Duchess Gretchen LaRue stood bracketed by two of the Duke’s largest guards. Her hands were not bound, but the grip on her arms was iron-clad. She did not struggle. The mask of the elegant aristocrat had not just slipped; it had been incinerated. Her posture remained rigid, her chin high, but her eyes—sharp, dark, and devoid of warmth—radiated a hatred so pure and concentrated it felt radioactive. She looked at the Duke not with fear, but with a venomous loathing, as if his discovery of her treachery was a personal insult to her intelligence.
At her feet, a few yards away, lay the ruin of Sophia. The maid had collapsed into a heap of linen and despair, her body curled tight against the hay-strewn floor. Her sobbing had reduced to a wet, hitching gasp, the sound of a lung puncture. The confession she had screamed into the rafters still seemed to hang in the dust motes above them, a toxic cloud that choked the breath from the room.
And Daisy. Daisy sat on the floor near the stall of the black stallion, her legs sprawled in an ungraceful angle that spoke of total physical collapse. Her hand was still pressed to her mouth, her eyes wide and glassy, fixed on a point in the middle distance. She was in shock, her mind having retreated behind a wall of numbness to survive the collision of two impossible truths: the salvation of her lover and the betrayal of her best friend.
Duke Desmond Lenore stood like a man who had been struck by lightning and survived, only to wish he hadn't. His face, usually flushed with the vigor of command, was the color of old parchment. He stared at Gretchen, his oldest friend’s wife, the woman he had trusted with his daughter’s future, as if seeing a ghost. The devastation in his eyes was not just political or familial; it was the shattering of a worldview. He looked at the onyx ring on her finger, then at the weeping maid, and finally at the man he had ordered chained like a dog.
Markus stood by Levi, the severed chains dangling from his hand like dead snakes. He looked between his Duke and the Captain, his expression a mixture of grim duty and dawning, nauseous realization of how close they had come to a catastrophic injustice.
And Levi.
He stood alone in the center of the tragedy. He was a wreck of a man, barefoot, his shirt torn and stained with the grime of the dungeon floor. Blood, dried and dark, matted his hair from the staged seizure. His wrists were raw, encircled by angry, weeping abrasions where the iron cuffs had eaten into the skin. He rubbed them absently, the movement slow and stiff, but his attention was not on his pain. His gaze, terrifying in its cold, flat stillness, rested on Gretchen for a single, long second—a promise of retribution deferred—before dismissing her entirely.
The silence broke not with a shout, but with the soft crunch of a bare foot on straw.
Levi moved. He did not look at the Duke. He did not acknowledge the guards or the traitor. He walked, his steps heavy but steady, straight toward the girl slumped against the stall door.
He stopped a foot away from her and dropped to one knee in the hay. He didn't reach for her immediately. He seemed acutely aware of the filth on his skin, the blood on his hands, the audience watching them. He simply existed in her space, a solid, breathing barrier between her and the horrors of the room.
"Daisy," he said. His voice was a wreck, raspy from disuse and the screaming acting in the cell, but it was pitched low, a rough vibration meant for her ears alone.
She blinked, the glassy look in her lavender eyes fracturing as focus returned. She looked at his chest first, seeing the rise and fall of his breathing, then up to his face. She saw the bruise darkening his jaw, the cut on his forehead, the exhaustion etched into the lines around his stormy eyes. But mostly, she saw him. Alive. Free.
"It's over," he murmured, the words simple and absolute. "You're safe."
The sound of his voice, familiar and gentle amidst the carnage, was the key that unlocked the paralysis. The dam broke. It wasn't a gradual return to feeling; it was a violent, shuddering release. A sound tore from her throat—half-sob, half-wail—a noise of such raw, wounded animal pain that the Duke flinched visibly across the room.
She didn't just reach for him; she launched herself. She threw her body forward, colliding with him, her arms wrapping frantically around his neck, burying her face in the crook of his shoulder. She clung to him with a strength born of desperation, her fingers digging into the fabric of his ruined shirt, anchoring herself to the only piece of solid ground left in a world that had dissolved into madness.
Levi’s hesitation vanished. His arms came up, encircling her, pulling her tight against his chest. One hand tangled in the mess of her hair, cradling the back of her head, pressing her face deeper into his shoulder to shield her eyes from the sight of Sophia and Gretchen. The other arm wrapped around her waist, holding her together as she shook apart. He didn't speak; he just held her, absorbing the force of her grief, his chin resting on the top of her head, his eyes closing for a brief, pained moment.
The Duke watched them. He saw his daughter, the girl he had dismissed as hysterical, the girl he had locked away for her own "protection," clinging to the man he had branded a traitor. He saw the way Levi held her—not with the possessiveness of a captor, but with the fierce, reverent protection of a guardian who had walked through fire to get to her.
He saw the absolute, unshakeable truth of their bond, a truth he had been too blind, too arrogant, and too fearful to see. The shame that washed over him was a physical blow, a sickness that roiled in his gut. He realized, with a clarity that cut like a knife, that he had not just been wrong about the conspiracy. He had been wrong about everything. He had nearly destroyed the one person who had actually saved his child.
He swallowed, his throat clicking dryly. He had to act. He was still the Duke, even if he felt like a ruin of one.
"Markus," he said. His voice was unrecognizable—hoarse, stripped of its usual booming cadence.
Markus snapped to attention, though his eyes remained sympathetic. "Your Grace."
The Duke pointed a trembling finger at Gretchen. He couldn't look her in the eye. "Take Duchess Gretchen to the secure holding cells," he ordered, the words tasting like ash. "The same one he just left. The deepest one." He paused, inhaling a shaky breath. "Double the guard. She speaks to no one. If she asks for water, you give it to her. If she asks for a lawyer, or a priest, or me... you give her silence."
"Yes, Your Grace," Markus said, his voice hard. He signaled the guards, and they began to haul Gretchen away. She didn't scream. She didn't protest. She simply cast one final, loathing look at the Duke, a look that promised a war that was far from over, before she was marched out into the night.
The Duke turned his gaze to the floor, to the weeping pile of linen that was Sophia. His expression softened, not with forgiveness, but with a terrible, weary pity. "Gregor. Thom."
The two guards stepped forward.
"Take... take Sophia to the tower room," the Duke said quietly. "The one with the locking bolt. Put her there. Post a guard at the door." He looked away, unable to bear the sound of her hitching breaths. "We will deal with her... testimony... later. Ensure she does not harm herself."
"Understood, sir," Gregor muttered. They lifted the sobbing maid. She was dead weight, her legs refusing to hold her. As they dragged her past, she didn't look at Daisy. She didn't look at Levi. Her eyes were squeezed shut, her face a mask of agony, as if she were trying to erase herself from existence.
When the stable doors closed behind them, a new, heavy silence settled. It was just the three of them now. The Duke, the soldier, and the girl.
The Duke took a step toward the couple on the floor, then stopped. He didn't have the right to intrude. Not yet. He looked at the back of Levi's head, at the bloody matted hair, the torn shirt, the defensive set of his shoulders.
"Captain," the Duke said. The title felt heavy on his tongue, weighted with a new, begrudging respect and a fathomless apology.
Levi didn't look up immediately. He waited until Daisy’s sobs had quieted to wet hiccups, stroking her hair once, twice, before lifting his head. His gray eyes were guarded, cold, expecting another accusation.
The Duke met that gaze and held it. He lowered his hands, opening them in a gesture of surrender. "Captain... get my daughter to the house," he said softly. "The study. It's warm there. I will... I will meet you there in a moment."
It was an order, but it was also a concession. He was not ordering his guards to take her. He was not separating them. He was entrusting her to Levi. It was the first, silent step on a long, painful road of penance.
Levi stared at him for a beat, assessing the man, measuring the sincerity against the threat. Finally, he gave a curt, almost imperceptible nod.
"Come on," Levi whispered to Daisy, his hands shifting to help her rise. "Let's get you inside."
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The fire in the Duke’s study had been built up to a roar, the flames licking hungrily at the large oak logs, casting a flickering, orange warmth across the room. But despite the heat, the atmosphere in the high-ceilinged chamber was frigid, suffocated by a tension so thick it felt like breathing water.
Daisy sat on the plush leather sofa, her knees pulled up to her chest, wrapped in a heavy woolen blanket Levi had pulled from the back of a chair. A cup of tea, steaming and fragrant with bergamot, sat untouched on the low table in front of her. Her hands, pale and trembling, gripped the edges of the blanket as if it were the only thing holding her together. She stared into the fire, her eyes red-rimmed and swollen, watching the wood turn to ash.
Levi stood by the hearth, one arm resting on the mantle, his back partially turned to the room. He had refused a seat. He had refused a drink. He was a ghost in the shadows, his presence a silent, watchful reproach. He had washed the worst of the blood from his hands in a basin by the door, but the raw, red rings around his wrists were stark against his pale skin. He watched the door, and he watched Daisy, his vigilance a living thing.
The heavy oak door creaked open, and Duke Desmond entered. He looked older than he had an hour ago. The formidable vitality that usually defined him seemed to have drained away, leaving behind a man whose shoulders slumped under an invisible weight. He closed the door softly and didn't move toward his massive desk—the seat of his power. Instead, he walked to the tall window that overlooked the darkened grounds.
He stood there for a long time, his back to them, staring out at his reflection in the dark glass. The silence stretched, uncomfortable and jagged.
"I was a fool," the Duke said.
The words were quiet, spoken to the glass, but they carried in the stillness. He turned slowly to face them. His face was gray, the lines around his mouth etched deep with regret.
He looked at Daisy first. His gaze traveled over her huddled form, the evidence of her terror, the exhaustion in her posture. "I called you a liar," he said, his voice trembling slightly. "I called you hysterical. I dismissed your instincts, your heart, your truth... as the ravings of a child." He took a hesitant step toward her, then stopped, as if a barrier prevented him from getting closer. "I locked you in your room. I isolated you. I left you vulnerable to the very serpent I swore to protect you from."
Daisy didn't look up from the fire, but a fresh tear tracked a silent path down her cheek.
"You were right," the Duke whispered, the admission costing him everything. "You were right all along. And I... I failed you."
He took a breath, steeling himself, and turned his gaze to the fireplace. To the man who stood there, dark and unyielding.
"Captain," the Duke said. He straightened his spine, an instinctive attempt to regain some shred of dignity, though his eyes remained haunted. "I... I have done you a profound disservice."
Levi turned his head slowly, his expression unreadable.
"I let my fear," the Duke continued, his voice gaining a little strength, though it remained laced with shame. "My arrogance. My desperation to control a situation I did not understand... and my friendship with that... that monster... blind me." He gestured vaguely toward the door, toward the dungeons where he had sent Levi. "I accused you of the vilest of crimes. I stripped you of your honor. I imprisoned you. I chained you."
The Duke paused, his gaze dropping to Levi's wrists. He flinched, a micro-expression of pain, before forcing himself to look Levi in the eye again.
"I am so sorry," he said. "There is no excuse for my failure. None. I judged you by your station, and by the lies of a woman I thought I knew, rather than by your actions. I owe you my life, for saving hers. Instead, I offered you a cell."
The apology hung in the warm air, heavy and undeniable. It was total. There was no mitigation, no 'but', no attempt to shift the blame. It was the baring of a throat.
Levi watched him. His face was stone, his eyes calm and hard. He did not offer forgiveness. He did not smile. He was a soldier who had been mistreated by a commander, and the bridge was burned. But he was also a pragmatist.
"Your daughter was the priority," Levi said. His voice was flat, rough with the memory of the chokehold he had faked. He nodded once, a sharp, curt motion. "She remains the priority."
It was a dismissal of the apology, but an acceptance of the mission. It was also a subtle, stinging reminder: You failed at the priority, too.
The Duke nodded, accepting the rebuke. "Yes. Yes, she does."
A small, broken voice rose from the sofa.
"Sophia..."
Daisy hadn't moved, her gaze still fixed on the dancing flames. Her voice was thin, fragile as spun glass. "She... she was my friend. She was my sister."
The pain in those few words sucked the air out of the room. It wasn't the anger of betrayal; it was the confusion of grief. The inability to reconcile the girl who had braided her hair and laughed at her secrets with the woman who had sewn poison into her dress.
The Duke closed his eyes for a moment, the mask of the strategist slipping to reveal the heartbroken father. He walked over to the sofa and sat on the edge of the cushion, careful not to crowd her. He reached out, covering her trembling hands with his own large, warm one.
"I know, child," he said softly. "I know."
Daisy looked up at him then, her eyes swimming. "Did she hate me? All that time... was it all a lie?"
"I do not know," the Duke admitted, his voice thick. "The human heart is a labyrinth, Daisy. And fear... fear can turn people into things they never recognized in the mirror." He squeezed her hand gently. "But the woman you knew... the girl you grew up with... she made a terrible choice. A choice that nearly cost you your life. And we must now deal with the consequences."
He looked up at Levi, his eyes hardening, the shift from father to ruler happening in real-time. The grief was still there, but the necessity of action was taking over.
"We need to know everything," the Duke said to Levi. "We need to know the extent of the web. Gretchen is in the cells, but she is a seasoned liar. She will wait for her lawyers. She will stall."
"Sophia won't," Levi said. He moved away from the mantle, stepping into the light. "She's broken. She's terrified. And she's the weak link."
"I will go to her," the Duke said, starting to rise.
"No," Levi cut in. His tone wasn't insubordinate, just factual. "You represent the authority she betrayed. She'll freeze. Or she'll lie to please you." He looked at the door. "I'll go."
The Duke hesitated. "You? After what she did to you?"
"Because of what she did to me," Levi corrected. "She knows I saw through her. She knows I know the mechanics of the frame. And she knows..." He glanced at Daisy, his expression softening for a fraction of a second. "...she knows I'm the only one who might understand doing terrible things for the sake of someone else."
The Duke looked at Levi, really looked at him, perhaps for the first time seeing the depth of the man beneath the uniform. He nodded slowly. "Very well. Go to the tower room. Find out the truth. All of it."
Levi nodded. He turned to Daisy. "I'll be back," he promised quietly.
Daisy nodded, pulling the blanket tighter around herself. As Levi turned to leave, the Duke spoke one last time.
"Captain."
Levi paused at the door, his hand on the latch.
"Thank you," the Duke said. It wasn't an apology this time. It was gratitude.
Levi didn't turn around. He just opened the door and stepped out into the cold corridor, leaving the warmth of the study behind to descend into the darkness of the tower, where the shattered remnants of a betrayal waited to be swept up.
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The tower room was a small, circular chamber located in the oldest part of the estate, a relic from a time when the Lenore ancestors needed slit windows for archers rather than glass for views. The air here was stagnant, trapped between thick blocks of gray stone, holding a chill that had nothing to do with the season. It smelled of damp mortar and ancient dust.
Gregor stood guard outside the heavy, iron-banded door. He straightened as Levi approached, his eyes flickering to the raw, red abrasions on Levi’s wrists. There was no sneer in the guard’s expression now, only a grim, respectful nod. He slid the bolt back with a heavy metallic clank and pulled the door open.
Levi stepped inside.
Sophia was huddled in the corner furthest from the door, a shapeless mound of gray linen and trembling limbs. She had pulled her knees to her chest and wrapped her arms around her head, as if trying to make herself small enough to disappear into the masonry. A single tallow candle burned on a small stool, casting long, dancing shadows that warped against the curved walls.
She didn't look up when the door closed, sealing them in. She flinched at the sound of the latch, a full-body spasm, but remained curled tight. She was waiting for the Duke’s roar, or perhaps the cold steel of a blade.
Levi didn't shout. He didn't move toward her immediately. He stood by the door, leaning his back against the wood, and waited. He let the silence stretch, heavy and suffocating, broken only by the wet, ragged sound of her breathing. He watched her with the detached, clinical eye of a man who had seen fear break stronger soldiers than this girl. He wasn't angry. Anger was a fire that burned energy; this required ice.
"Why?"
The single word cut through the damp air, low and devoid of inflection.
Sophia’s head snapped up. Her face was a ruin. Her eyes were swollen shut, the skin around them blotchy and raw from salt and friction. Her hair, usually pinned with such precise, maid-perfect discipline, hung in matted tangles around her face. When she saw him—saw the man she had condemned to a cage standing free, watching her not with rage but with a terrifying, empty stillness—her breath hitched in a sob that sounded like a bone breaking.
"I... I had no choice," she whispered, the words bubbling up through a throat clogged with tears. "She... she owns them."
Levi pushed off the door and took a step closer. "Be specific."
"My parents," she gasped, rocking slightly. "My father... he has a weakness. Cards. Dice. He always has. He hid it well, for years, but... the debts grew. They were going to lose the cottage. They were going to lose everything."
She wiped her nose on her sleeve, a gesture of childish despair. "Duchess LaRue... she found out. I don't know how. She has eyes everywhere. She went to them. She paid the debt. All of it. A fortune." Sophia looked up at Levi, her expression pleading for understanding. "She didn't ask for repayment. She just... she made them sign a paper. Acknowledging the debt. And then she came to me."
"Leverage," Levi said. It wasn't a question.
"She told me I belonged to her now," Sophia sobbed. "That my parents' lives belonged to her. At first, it was small things. Information. What was Daisy wearing? Who was she writing to? Was she happy with the engagement? I thought... I thought it was just gossip. Nasty, highborn gossip."
Levi’s expression didn't change. "And then?"
"Then the letter came." Sophia fumbled at her bodice, her fingers shaking so violently she could barely grasp the fabric, as if searching for the paper she no longer had. "It was from my mother. It looked like her handwriting. But there was a postscript. It said... it said the winter was dry. That old wood burns so fast. That a house fire at night is a tragedy no one survives."
The temperature in the room seemed to drop another ten degrees. Levi knew that tactic. It was crude, brutal, and effective. Fear for oneself was a powerful motivator, but fear for loved ones turned people into weapons.
"The poison," Levi said.
Sophia flinched. "I couldn't do it! I swear, Captain, I couldn't kill her!" She scrambled to her knees, her hands clasped in a desperate prayer. "She gave me the vial. She told me to put it in her wine. To finish it. But I... I chose the quail. I knew you checked the food. I knew you were careful. I put just enough... just enough to make her sick. To make the Duke afraid. I thought if he was scared enough, he'd send her away, hide her somewhere safe where Gretchen couldn't reach her, and I wouldn't have to... I wouldn't have to kill her."
It was a twisted, desperate logic, the kind born of panic and naivety. She had tried to thread a needle between murder and survival, and she had failed catastrophically.
"And the frame?" Levi asked. "The gold. The letters."
"When you became her guard... when you moved into the house... she was furious," Sophia whispered, her voice trembling. "She said you were an obstacle. A wall she couldn't climb. She said you had to be removed. Disgraced. She gave me the packages. Two of them. Identical."
She swallowed hard. "She gave me a vial of sedative, too. The one Markus found. She told me to use it on you at the farmhouse. To knock you out so I could plant the evidence on you while you slept. To make it look like you were meeting a contact."
"But you didn't use it," Levi noted.
"I was too scared," she admitted. "You... you don't sleep like other people. You're always listening. I knew you'd catch me."
"So you improvised."
"The sea," she said, tears streaming down her face again. "When you said we were going to the sea... it was like a gift from God. A whole day. An empty house. I planted the first package in your room here at the estate. The jacket. I ripped the lining just like she told me."
"And the second?"
"I put it in your satchel before we left," she confessed. "While you were in the stables prepping the horses. I slipped it in with the food. That's why it was there. I didn't need to drug you. I just needed you to carry it."
Levi’s jaw tightened. He remembered the weight of the satchel, the simple domesticity of that morning. He had carried his own warrant, packed by the woman who had smiled and handed him bread.
"And tonight?" Levi asked. "The escape."
Sophia slumped back against the stone wall, exhausted. "The alarm... I thought she had gotten away. I was happy. For a second, I was so happy. But then I remembered the threat. If Daisy escaped, Gretchen would blame me. My parents would burn." Her eyes went wide, staring into the flickering candlelight. "So I ran to find her. I had to bring her back. Or..."
"Or what?"
"The cellars," Sophia whispered, her voice barely audible. "Gretchen's orders were clear. If the frame failed, if you weren't removed... I was to get Daisy to the old wine cellars. To 'hide.' She said... she said she had someone waiting there. An accomplice. Someone who would make sure Daisy had a tragic accident in the dark."
Levi stared at her. The chill in his gut solidified. An accomplice. Gretchen wasn't waiting in the cellar; she had been in the stable courtyard. That meant there was another player. Someone willing to do wet work in the dark.
"Who?" Levi demanded.
"I don't know," Sophia wept. "She never said a name. Just 'a friend.' Please, Captain... I've told you everything. I've told you the truth."
She looked up at him, her face a portrait of ruin. "My parents... she knows I failed. She's in a cell, but she has reach. She said she has people. They'll kill them. They'll burn them tonight because of me."
Levi pushed himself off the wall. He looked down at her, at the pathetic creature who had nearly destroyed his life and the life of the woman he loved. He felt no sympathy, only a cold recognition of cause and effect. She was a victim, yes, but she was also a criminal. Her choices had consequences.
But he needed her. She was the witness. She was the thread that would unravel the rest of the tapestry.
"You will tell the Duke," Levi said, his voice flat. "Everything you just told me. Every detail. Every threat. You will testify."
"It won't matter if they're dead!" she wailed.
Levi turned to the door. He paused, his hand on the iron latch. He didn't look back at her.
"I will handle it."
He opened the door and stepped out, leaving her weeping in the dark, the heavy bolt sliding home with a sound like a gavel falling.
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The transition from the dank, suffocating air of the tower to the Duke’s study was jarring. Levi walked through the silent corridors of the estate, the adrenaline of the night beginning to fade, replaced by a deep, grinding ache in his bones. His wrists burned. His head throbbed where he had rammed it against the cell wall. But his mind was clear, sharp, and spinning.
He entered the study without knocking.
The room had changed. The fire had burned down to glowing embers, casting a dull, red light over the space. But outside the tall windows, the sky was turning the color of bruised iron. Dawn was breaking. A cold, gray light filtered through the glass, illuminating the exhaustion on the faces of the people waiting for him.
Daisy was still on the sofa, but she had shed the blanket. She sat upright, a cup of fresh coffee in her hands. Her eyes were red and swollen, but dry. The shock had receded, leaving behind a brittle, hardened resolve. She looked like porcelain that had been broken and glued back together—the cracks were visible, but the shape held.
The Duke sat behind his desk, no longer the broken man staring at his reflection. He was writing, his quill scratching furiously against parchment. He looked up as Levi entered, his eyes dark-circled but sharp. Markus stood by the window, a silent sentinel, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword.
They were a council of the wounded.
"Well?" the Duke asked, laying down the quill.
Levi walked to the center of the room. He didn't sit. "She confessed. Everything."
He gave his report with military precision, stripping away Sophia’s tears and justifications, leaving only the tactical facts. He detailed the debt, the purchase of the parents' marker, the letter with the fire threat. He explained the mechanics of the poison—the calculated half-measure—and the timeline of the frame-up.
"Her motive was survival," Levi concluded, his voice raspy. "Her weapon was coercion. Sophia’s parents are the leverage. As long as they are vulnerable, Gretchen holds a knife to Sophia’s throat, even from a cell."
The Duke listened, his face hardening into a mask of granite. He looked at Daisy, seeing the pain flicker across her face at the details of the betrayal, but she didn't look away. She nodded, accepting the truth.
"She mentioned an accomplice," Levi added, dropping the final piece of intel. "The plan was to lure Daisy to the cellars. Gretchen was outside. Someone else was waiting in the dark to stage the accident."
Markus straightened by the window. "Did she give a name?"
"No. She doesn't know."
The Duke stood up. The weariness seemed to fall from his shoulders, replaced by the mantle of authority. He was done mourning his mistakes; he was ready to rectify them.
"Markus," the Duke commanded. "Send two of your best men. Not in uniform. Give them fast horses." He picked up the parchment he had been writing on, blowing on the wet ink. "This is an order of protection under my seal. Ride to Sophia’s village. Now. Do not stop for rest."
"Your Grace?" Markus asked.
"Get her parents," the Duke said, his voice leaving no room for argument. "Pack them up. Bring them here. Tell them their daughter is in service and requires their presence—tell them whatever lie is necessary to get them moving quickly. But get them out of that cottage. Bring them within the estate walls."
"We take the leverage off the board," Levi said, nodding approval.
"Exactly," the Duke said. "If Gretchen’s reach extends beyond these walls, we cut it off. Once her parents are safe, Sophia will have no reason to hold back. She will give us everything."
Markus took the parchment, saluted sharply, and strode from the room. The heavy door clicked shut, leaving the three of them in the gray morning light.
The silence that followed was heavy, pregnant with the things that had not yet been said. The immediate crisis was contained. The viper was in a cage. The witness was secured. But the picture Levi had assembled in his mind was incomplete. It was unbalanced.
"Gretchen is arrested," Levi said quietly, moving toward the window to look out at the mist rising from the gardens. "But the math doesn't work."
The Duke frowned. "She was caught with the ring. She had the motive. The means."
"She had the means to buy a maid's debt," Levi corrected, turning to face them. "She's a Duchess. She operates in drawing rooms and ballrooms. She deals in gossip and social influence."
He walked back to the desk, placing his hands on the polished wood, leaning in. "But think about the attacks. The poison in the quail—Marleyan origin, hard to source. The gold in my satchel—foreign currency, laundered. The shooter in the park—a professional marksman, hired through a go-between."
Levi looked from the Duke to Daisy. "Gretchen LaRue does not know how to hire a sniper. She does not know how to source rare poisons without leaving a paper trail. She doesn't walk into the criminal underworld of the capital and negotiate contracts."
Daisy set her coffee cup down, the china rattling slightly against the saucer. "She had help," she whispered. "The 'Minister' isn't a person. It's a partnership."
"Exactly," Levi said. "She has accomplices. Competent ones. Dangerous ones. People who know how to operate in the shadows where a Duchess would stand out like a flare."
The room seemed to grow colder. The victory of the night before felt suddenly fragile, a thin veneer over a deeper rot.
"And the motive," Levi continued, his voice dropping. "We assumed it was ambition. Greed. But look at the target. It wasn't just about killing Daisy. It was about clearing the board."
"The inheritance," the Duke said, rubbing his temples. "If Daisy dies... the Lenore fortune, the estate..."
"It goes to the next of kin," Levi finished. "Or, if the marriage contract was sealed... it would secure the future of the husband."
The air in the room shifted. It wasn't a sudden realization, but a slow, creeping horror, like the tide coming in. The Duke went very still. Daisy’s breath hitched.
"Gretchen did this for a reason," Levi said. "She is a mother. Mothers do terrible things for their children."
The Duke looked up, his eyes wide, the denial warring with the logic in his gaze. "No," he whispered. "He... he is a boy. A vain, foolish boy, perhaps. But... a murderer?"
"He stands to gain everything," Levi said, relentless. "With Daisy gone, or with Daisy married to him and then 'tragically' dying... he becomes the Duke in all but name. He inherits the power. The money."
The name hung in the air, unspoken for a moment, a ghost haunting the dawn council.
"Edward," the Duke whispered.
Levi nodded grimly. "We have to know. We have to know if he was a pawn in his mother's game—a spoiled child waiting for his inheritance—or if he was a player."
Daisy stood up. She wrapped her arms around herself, a chill shaking her that had nothing to do with the temperature. "He... he came to my room," she said, her voice trembling. "When I was locked in. He was so... smug. He talked about 'taming' me. About how I would learn my place." She looked at her father, her eyes wide. "He didn't seem worried, Papa. He didn't seem like a man whose mother was plotting behind his back. He seemed... entitled. Like he was waiting for a prize he had already won."
The Duke slammed his hand onto the desk, a sudden, violent release of frustration. "If he is involved... if he knew..."
"We can't move against him yet," Levi warned. "We have Gretchen. We have Sophia. But we have nothing on Edward. If we arrest him now, without proof, the other noble families will riot. They'll say you're purging your enemies. It will look like tyranny."
"So what do we do?" the Duke demanded. "Wait for him to strike?"
"We watch him," Levi said. "We watch him like a hawk. We see who he talks to now that his mother is in chains. We see who he sends messages to. If he's innocent, he'll be confused and terrified. If he's guilty..." Levi’s eyes narrowed, the predator surfacing. "...he'll try to finish what she started. Or he'll try to run."
Levi looked out the window again. The sun had crested the horizon, a pale, watery disk that offered light but no warmth. The long night was over, but the shadows it had cast were longer than ever.
"We won the battle," Levi said, his voice heavy with exhaustion. "But the war... the war is just beginning."
The four of them—the Duke, the heiress, the soldier, and the ghost of the loyal Captain absent in the room—stood in the silence of the dawn. They were bruised, battered, and weary to their souls. But as Levi looked at Daisy, and she looked back at him with eyes that held no more secrets, he knew one thing for certain: they were finally fighting the same enemy. And they were united.
For the first time in a long time, the monsters in the dark had reason to be afraid.
To Be Continued...
——— ✦ ———
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Damaged — Chapter Twenty Seven
THE COLD FRONT
"Unlike some," she whispered, the words laced with a subtle, freezing venom, "I don't let feelings dictate my competence."
✦ Pairing — [Levi x OC]
✦ Rating — 18+
✦ Warnings/Tropes - [Pre-Canon, Female Anti-Hero, Serial Killer OC, Eventual Smut, Psychopath in Love, Blood and Violence, Revenge, Drugs, Strippers & Strip Clubs, Mental Health Issues, Cat and Mouse game, Slow Burn, Mind Manipulation, Assassination, Action, Romance, Mystery, Levi Ackerman Needs a Hug, Fighting as Foreplay, Levi Ackerman gets rattled, Levi meets his match, Enemies to Lovers, OC is a stripper]
✦ Table of Contents
——— ✦ ———
Chapter Twenty Seven: The Cold Front
The briefing room in the Trost barracks was a tomb, sealed against the world and stripped of warmth. The stone walls, damp with the incessant humidity of the impending winter, seemed to leech the heat from the air, leaving a chill that settled deep in the marrow. It was not just the temperature, though the fire in the grate had long since burned down to a pile of sullen, grey ash. It was the emptiness.
Four chairs sat around the heavy oak table. Three days ago, there would have been nine.
The ghosts of the Special Operations Squad filled the negative space, a silent, suffocating pressure that pressed against the eardrums. The air smelled of stale coffee, lamp oil, and the sharp, medicinal tang of the bandages wrapped tightly around Captain Levi’s ankle.
Levi sat at the far end of the table, his injured leg elevated on a spare chair, a position of enforced repose that clearly made him want to tear the room apart with his bare hands. His face was pale, the dark circles under his eyes bruised and heavy, etched by sleeplessness and physical pain. But his expression was a mask of bored, lethal irritation, a porcelain glaze fired in a kiln of self-loathing. He spun a teaspoon between his fingers, the metal flashing in the dim light, over and over again—a rhythmic tic of contained violence.
Across the room, standing at attention near the door like a piece of furniture, was Lieutenant Rose Thorne.
She was unrecognizable from the woman who had wept in his arms the night before. The shattered, raw survivor who had clawed at his shirt for comfort had been excised, surgically removed and replaced by something terrifyingly pristine. Her uniform was pressed to a razor’s edge. Her wine-red hair was pulled back into a braid so tight it pulled the skin at her temples, not a single stray strand allowed to escape. Her boots shone with a manic polish that reflected the lamplight.
But it was her eyes that made Levi’s chest ache with a dull, hollow throb. They were light brown glass. Dead. Flat. There was no spark of her usual mischief, no glimmer of warmth, not even the heat of anger. She was looking through him, past him, at a point on the wall that didn't exist.
He had built that wall. With his fear, with his rejection, with his "cowardice," he had handed her the bricks and the mortar, and she, the consummate soldier, had built a fortress overnight. He had wanted her safe. He had wanted to distance her from the curse of his attachment. He had succeeded. And now, looking at the hollow shell of the woman he had almost kissed, he realized that safety felt exactly like a graveyard.
The door opened, and Erwin entered, followed closely by Hange. The arrival of the command team did nothing to dispel the chill. Erwin’s presence was a heavy, grounding force, but even he looked worn, the lines around his mouth etched deeper than usual. Hange, usually a whirlwind of chaotic energy, was subdued, her movements sharp and jerky, lacking her usual manic bounce.
Erwin moved to the head of the table and laid a large, rolled map across the wood. He didn't sit. He leaned forward, his weight on his hands, his blue eyes sweeping over the remnants of his elite force.
"We have two hours before the convoy departs for the capital," Erwin began, his voice a low, steady rumble that cut through the silence. "The official narrative is set. We are transporting Eren Jaeger to Stohess District to be handed over to the Military Police. We are disgraced. We are defeated. We are yielding to the authority of the Crown."
He paused, letting the bitter taste of the lie settle in the room.
"That is the narrative," Erwin continued, his gaze hardening. "The reality is that we are initiating an operation to capture the Female Titan."
The air in the room shifted. The resignation evaporated, replaced by a sudden, sharp spike of tension.
Levi stopped spinning the spoon. Rose didn't blink, but her chin lifted a fraction of an inch.
"Capture?" Levi asked, his voice rough with disuse. "We just tried that. It cost us a squad. And the target escaped."
"We tried to capture a Titan," Erwin corrected. "This time, we are capturing a human."
He nodded to Hange.
Hange stepped forward, pushing her glasses up her nose. Her face was grim, devoid of her usual scientific glee. She placed a thin file on the table next to the map.
"Based on the intelligence gathered during the 57th Expedition, and cross-referencing it with the background checks of the 104th Cadet Corps, Armin Arlert has deduced the identity of the Female Titan," Hange said. "The target is a member of the Military Police Brigade. A graduate of the 104th. Her name is Annie Leonhart."
The name hung in the air, a poisonous vapor.
Rose’s expression didn't change, but her eyes flickered. Leonhart. A cadet. A child. A monster who had crushed Petra against a tree. The information was filed away instantly, categorized not with shock, but with target acquisition parameters.
"Leonhart is currently stationed in Stohess," Erwin continued, tapping a specific district on the map of Wall Sina. "She will be part of the MP detail assigned to escort the convoy. The handover is the bait. We will lure her into the underground tunnel network beneath the city. In that confined space, she will be unable to transform. If we can restrain her there, we win."
"And if she transforms before she enters the tunnel?" Levi asked, his gray eyes narrow. "Stohess is a densely populated district. The civilian casualties will be catastrophic."
"That is a risk we must accept," Erwin said, his voice cold and absolute. "If we fail here, if Eren is taken by the government and executed, humanity falls. The cost of inaction is extinction. We trade lives for the future. That is the calculation."
It was the brutal arithmetic of their existence. Levi knew it well. Rose knew it better.
Erwin unrolled the map fully. It was a detailed street grid of the Stohess District, the inner sanctum of Wall Sina, the playground of the rich and the corrupt.
"The operation requires precision," Erwin said. "Once the target is identified and the trap is sprung, we need a capture team on the ground to secure her before she can react. We need someone who can navigate the urban terrain, who can move unseen, who can anticipate the escape routes of a cornered animal."
He turned his head slowly, his gaze locking onto Rose.
"Rose," Erwin said. His voice dropped, becoming intimate and urgent. "Stohess is your old territory."
Rose stared at the map. The lines of ink transformed into the cobblestone streets she had walked a thousand times. She saw the main boulevard where the wealthy paraded in their silks. She saw the back alleys where the deals were made. She saw the Starlight Lounge, the gilded cage where she had danced and killed and worn a different mask.
It was a city of rot covered in gold leaf. It was the place she had fought so hard to escape. And now, the Commander was sending her back.
"You know the alleys," Erwin pressed. "You know the underground tunnels, the maintenance shafts, the rooftops. You know the escape routes better than any map we have. You know how the MPs operate in that district because you used to hunt them."
Rose finally moved. She walked to the table, her movements fluid and silent. She placed a gloved hand on the map, her finger tracing the line of the main thoroughfare, stopping at a familiar intersection.
"I do, Commander," she said. Her voice was devoid of emotion, a flat, calm lake. "I know every rat hole in that district. I know which grates are loose. I know which cellars connect to the sewers. I know where the sun hits the eyes in the afternoon and where the shadows are deep enough to hide a body."
She looked up at Erwin. "If she runs, she’ll head for the wall. But if she’s cornered, she’ll try to lose us in the industrial sector, here." She tapped a section of the map. "It’s a maze."
Erwin nodded, satisfied. "Good. That knowledge is our advantage."
He straightened up, his posture commanding. "You will be leading the capture team on the ground. You will be positioned in the alleyway above the tunnel entrance. You are the failsafe. If Arlert and Mikasa fail to get her underground, or if she realizes the trap, you engage. You bind her. You stop the transformation."
He paused, glancing briefly at Levi’s elevated leg.
"Since Levi is... incapacitated."
The word was a spark in a room filled with gas.
Levi flinched. His hand slammed down on the table, the spoon he had been holding rattling violently against the wood. The mask of boredom shattered, replaced by a flash of raw, defensive anger.
"Incapacitated?" Levi snarled, the word tasting like bile. "I can still move. I can still fight. I don't need my ankles to use the gear."
"You are injured, Levi," Erwin said calmly. "You are a liability in the air. We cannot risk Humanity's Strongest Soldier on a gamble when he is not at full strength."
"And she is?" Levi shot back, gesturing sharply at Rose. "You're sending her? Into the inner wall? To face a shifter that wiped out my entire squad?"
The anger wasn't about his leg. It wasn't about his pride. It was about her.
He looked at Rose. He saw the stillness in her. He saw the dead eyes. He knew, with a terrifying intimacy, exactly how fragile that composure was. He had felt her shaking in his arms less than twelve hours ago. He had felt the heat of her tears on his shirt. She was a glass cannon, cracked and glued back together with spit and denial. If she went out there, if she faced the monster that killed Petra... she would shatter.
And he would be sitting in a carriage, useless, watching it happen.
"She's compromised," Levi hissed, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. He glared at Erwin, desperate to make him see, to make him stop. "She's not ready. She's unstable."
Rose turned her head slowly. She looked at Levi.
For a second, Levi thought he saw a flicker of hurt, a crack in the ice. He hoped for it. He wanted her to yell at him, to tell him he was right, to break down again so he could justify keeping her safe.
But there was nothing.
Her face was a perfect, smooth blankness. She looked at him with the detached curiosity of a scientist examining a specimen under glass.
"My emotional state is irrelevant, Captain," Rose said.
Her voice was soft, but it carried across the room like a gunshot. She stepped closer to him, invading his space, forcing him to look up at her.
"I am a soldier," she continued, the words crisp and precise. "I have a mission. I have a target. I have orders. That is all that exists."
She leaned in slightly, her eyes locking onto his.
"Unlike some," she whispered, the words laced with a subtle, freezing venom, "I don't let feelings dictate my competence."
The strike was surgical. It was brutal. It was a direct, devastating reference to his rejection—to the fact that he had pushed her away because he was too afraid to feel, too afraid to lose, too compromised by his own emotions to handle the reality of their connection. He had called himself a coward in the dark; now she was confirming it in the light.
Levi stared at her, his mouth slightly open, the breath knocked out of him. He saw the walls he had built rising up to crush him. He had wanted her to be a soldier. He had wanted her to be tough.
He had gotten exactly what he wanted.
"Rose—" he started, the name slipping out before he could catch it.
"Lieutenant Thorne," she corrected him instantly, stepping back and snapping a perfect, sharp salute to Erwin. "I will prepare my gear. I'll need a civilian disguise for the infiltration phase. I'll be ready to move out in ten minutes."
Erwin watched the exchange with a guarded expression. He saw the tension, the unspoken history bleeding out between his two best soldiers. But he was a commander first, and a friend second. He needed a weapon. And Rose had just sharpened herself into a razor.
"Granted," Erwin said. "Dismissed, Lieutenant."
Rose pivoted on her heel. She didn't look at Levi again. She walked out of the room, her spine rigid, her footsteps echoing with a hollow, lonely sound down the corridor.
The door closed.
Levi sat in the silence, his hand gripping the edge of the chair until his knuckles were white. The pain in his ankle was a dull throb, a distant annoyance. The pain in his chest was a gaping wound.
He looked at the empty space where she had stood. He had saved her from himself. He had saved her from his curse. But as he looked at the map of Stohess, at the gilded cage waiting to swallow her whole, he knew with a sickening certainty that he might have just sent her to her death anyway. And this time, he wouldn't even be there to catch her when she fell.
…
An Hour Later…
The transition from the rough, mud-packed roads of the outer territories to the paved limestone of the Stohess District was a jarring assault on the senses. The carriage wheels, which had spent days rattling and groaning over potholes, suddenly hummed with a smooth, rhythmic cadence. The air changed, too. The sharp, coppery tang of ozone and dried blood that hung perpetually over the Survey Corps was replaced by the cloying scents of the inner wall: coal smoke, expensive perfume, roasted meat, and the rotting sweetness of the canals.
It was the smell of safety. It was the smell of stagnation.
Rose rode Petunia alongside the command carriage, her green cloak pulled tight around her shoulders, the hood drawn low to obscure her face. To the casual observer, she was just another Scout, a faceless escort for the disgraced convoy. But beneath the cloak, every muscle in her body was coiled tight, vibrating with a frequency that threatened to shatter her bones.
She hated this place.
She hated the cleanliness of the streets, swept free of the horse dung and debris that cluttered Trost. She hated the architecture, the tall, imposing townhouses with their iron-gated windows and flower boxes, pretending that the world wasn't burning just a hundred miles away. Most of all, she hated the people.
Through the slits of her hood, she watched them. Aristocrats in silk coats walking poodles that ate better than the children in the Underground. Military Police officers leaning against lamp posts, their uniforms pristine, their rifles purely decorative, laughing as they smoked expensive cigarettes. They looked soft. They looked like livestock fattened for a slaughter they refused to believe was coming.
She passed a street corner she knew. Down that alley, three blocks over, was the service entrance to a bakery where she used to steal bread when she was twelve. Two streets north was the tenement where Andreas had first taught her how to hold a knife without shaking.
And there, rising above the rooftops in the middle distance like a gaudy, jeweled finger, was the Starlight Lounge. Even in the grey afternoon light, the gold leaf on its signage glinted with a tacky, desperate promise.
The Gilded Cage.
Rose stared at it, her lip curling in a snarl she hid beneath her hood. She could almost hear the piano music, the clinking of crystal glasses, the low murmur of men trading secrets for flesh. She had worn a mask there, too. Scarlet. The exotic dancer. The listener. The killer who smiled while she poured the wine.
She felt a wave of nausea. In the forest, surrounded by Titans, she had felt like prey, but she had felt clean. Here, surrounded by humans, she felt like a monster. She was a wolf walking among sheep who thought they were wolves, and the deception made her skin crawl. She wanted to draw her blades. She wanted to carve the apathy off their faces.
Focus, she commanded herself, the voice in her head cold and sharp. You are not Scarlet. You are a soldier. You have a job.
Inside the command carriage, separated from her by a pane of glass and an ocean of unspoken words, Levi sat in the shadows.
His injured leg was propped up on the bench opposite him, the throbbing ache a constant, grounding rhythm. He wasn't looking at Erwin, who sat silently reading a briefing dossier. He was looking out the window.
He was watching her.
He could see the tension in her silhouette. He saw the way she held her reins, her hands too tight, her knuckles white leather. He saw the rigid set of her shoulders, a stark contrast to the fluid, easy grace she usually possessed in the saddle. She rode like she was expecting an attack from every shadow, like the very air of the capital was poison to her.
She was armor. Just layers of steel and leather and repression, holding a broken thing together.
His hand tightened on the handle of the cane resting against his knee. The wood bit into his palm. He remembered the weight of her in his arms the night before—the heat of her tears soaking his shirt, the frantic, desperate pressure of her mouth on his, the way she had clung to him as if he were the only solid thing in the universe. She had been so warm. So alive.
Now, she was ice. And he was the one who had frozen her.
A surge of helplessness, foreign and bitter, rose in his throat. He was Humanity’s Strongest Soldier, and he was trapped in a velvet-lined box, a cripple with a cane, while the woman he had pushed away rode toward a monster.
He wanted to smash the glass. He wanted to open the door, drag her into the carriage, and order her to stay. He wanted to tell her that he pushed her away because he couldn't survive burying her, not because he didn't want her.
But he didn't move. He sat in the dark, gripping his cane, and watched her ride away from him, into the belly of the beast.
…
The convoy came to a halt in the central plaza. The handover ceremony was a blur of bureaucratic theater—shouting MPs, jeering crowds, the frantic, terrified face of a body double being loaded into a wagon. It was noise. It was distraction.
Rose was already gone.
She moved through the back alleys of Stohess with the silent familiarity of a ghost haunting its own grave. She bypassed the checkpoints, scaled the drainage pipes, and melted into the shadows of the rooftops overlooking the extraction point.
The alleyway was narrow, a stone throat running between two towering rows of abandoned warehouses. At the far end, the darkness deepened into the yawning mouth of an underground tunnel entrance—the trap.
Rose crouched behind a chimney stack, her green cloak exchanged for the rough, nondescript garb of a civilian laborer, though her ODM gear was strapped tight beneath the loose fabric. Beside her, three other members of the capture squad huddled in the gloom, their faces hidden by hoods. They were good soldiers, hand-picked veterans, but Rose barely registered their presence. They were tools. She was the hand.
Below, the play began.
Eren, Mikasa, and Armin stood at the entrance to the tunnel. They looked small against the looming architecture of the inner wall. Facing them stood a lone figure in the pristine uniform of the Military Police. A girl with blonde hair tied back in a low bun, her posture relaxed, almost bored.
Annie Leonhart.
Rose studied her through the gap in the chimney bricks. She analyzed the target with the cold, clinical detachment of the Spider Killer.
Leonhart stood with her weight on her back foot—defensive, ready to pivot. Her hands were in her pockets, casual to the untrained eye, but Rose knew better. It hid the tension. It kept her weapons close.
Rose couldn't hear every word of the conversation drifting up from the alley, but the body language screamed volume. Armin was pleading, his gestures open, desperate. Come with us. Please. Eren was tense, a coiled spring of anxiety. Mikasa was a statue, her hand hovering near her blades, her dark eyes fixed on the blonde girl with murderous intent.
And Annie... Annie was stalling.
She leaned against the brick wall, shaking her head. She looked down at the dark steps leading into the tunnel. She smiled, a small, sad thing that didn't reach her eyes.
She knows, Rose thought, a chill crawling up her spine. She smells the cage.
"I'm afraid to go into dark, narrow places," Annie said, her voice drifting up, light and mocking. "I'm just a frail maiden, after all."
Rose snorted softly, a soundless exhale of derision. Frail maiden. Right. And I’m the Queen of the Walls.
She watched Annie’s eyes. They weren’t looking at Armin. They were flicking to the shadows, to the rooftops, to the empty windows. They were the eyes of a cornered fox, calculating the distance to the fence, measuring the teeth of the hounds. It was a look Rose had seen in the mirror a thousand times. It was the look of someone who knew the game was rigged and was deciding whether to fold or flip the table.
Armin pressed harder. "Annie, please! If you don't go down there... you know what it means!"
Rose shifted her weight, her fingers drifting to the triggers of her blades. The ten rings on her fingers felt heavy, cold against her skin.
She’s not going down there, Rose realized with absolute, crystalline certainty. I wouldn't.
If Rose were in that alley, knowing what Annie knew, she would never step foot in that tunnel. The tunnel was death. The tunnel was containment. The tunnel was a place where you couldn't transform, couldn't fight, couldn't run.
Annie took a step back.
"It hurts, Armin," Annie said, her voice dropping. "To know you were looking at me with those eyes all along."
Rose’s muscles locked.
Then, the tension snapped.
It didn't break with a scream or a shout. It broke with a laugh.
It started low in Annie’s throat, a soft chuckle that bubbled up and spilled over, growing louder, sharper, more jagged. She threw her head back, her shoulders shaking, and the sound echoed off the brick walls—a chilling, manic peal of amusement that sounded like glass grinding in a disposal.
It was the laugh of someone who had stopped pretending. It was the sound of the mask falling away, shattering on the cobblestones, revealing the monster underneath.
Rose felt the hair on her arms stand up. She knew that laugh. She had heard it in the mirror on her worst nights. She had heard it from men she had killed just before the light went out of their eyes. It was the sound of a human soul vacating the premises.
"Engage!" Rose screamed her voice a raw tear in the silence. "It's a bust! TAKE HER! NOW!"
The order hit the capture team like a whip crack.
Below, Armin fired a signal flare. The deafening POP and the hiss of smoke was the starting gun.
From every shadow, every doorway, every rooftop, soldiers disguised as civilians threw off their cloaks. They lunged.
Annie stopped laughing. Her face went blank, the terrifying calm of the executioner returning instantly. Her hand flew to her mouth.
Rose was already in the air.
She launched from the rooftop, a hawk diving on a field mouse. She didn't use her gas; she used gravity, falling straight down into the alleyway, her green cloak snapping behind her.
She was faster than the capture team. Faster than Mikasa. Faster than thought.
As she fell, her hands flashed. The ten gold rings on her fingers glinted in the dull light. With a violent flick of her wrists, the wires shot out—ten glittering, near-invisible filaments of hardened steel singing through the air.
She wasn't aiming to kill. She was aiming to bind.
Stop the bite.
The wires hissed toward Annie’s raised hand, seeking the wrist, the forearm, the fingers.
Annie saw her. For a fraction of a second, blue eyes met light brown. There was a spark of recognition—predator acknowledging predator.
Rose’s wires struck. They wrapped around Annie’s right wrist, biting into the fabric of her MP jacket, snapping taut. Rose fired her ODM hooks into the brick wall opposite, using her momentum to yank Annie’s arm away from her face.
Got you, Rose thought, a savage triumph flaring in her chest.
But Annie didn't panic. She didn't struggle against the wire. She didn't try to pull her arm back.
Instead, she flicked her thumb.
Rose saw the glint of metal a split second too late. A ring. A silver ring on Annie’s finger, with a small, curved blade that popped out with a mechanical snick.
Annie slashed her thumb against the ring blade.
It wasn't a bite. It was a cut.
Rose’s eyes widened. "NO!"
The wire holding Annie’s arm went slack as Annie severed the connection with a brutal jerk, but it didn't matter. The blood was drawn.
The air in the alley changed. The pressure dropped. The static charge spiked so high Rose could taste metal on her tongue.
Yellow light, brighter than the sun, hotter than a forge, erupted from the wound.
It wasn't a flash. It was an explosion.
A column of golden lightning slammed down from the heavens, tearing through the reality of the street. The force of the transformation was a physical hammer. The cobblestones shattered. The brick walls of the warehouses bowed outward.
Rose was mid-air, anchored to the wall, when the blast wave hit.
It was like being kicked in the chest by a horse. The concussion blew the air out of her lungs. Her wires snapped. Her anchor hooks were ripped from the crumbling brick.
She was thrown backward, a ragdoll caught in a hurricane. She slammed into the opposite rooftop, tumbling over the slate tiles, debris raining down around her—shards of glass, chunks of masonry, blinding dust.
She skidded to a halt near the chimney, gasping for air, her ears ringing with a high, piercing whine that drowned out the roar of the monster rising from the steam. She pushed herself up on shaking arms, coughing up dust, her eyes streaming.
Below her, the alley was gone. In its place stood the Female Titan.
…
Blocks away, the command carriage shuddered.
Levi, sitting in the dark, felt the tremor travel up through the wheels, through the floorboards, into his bones. The horses outside screamed, rearing in their traces.
He looked out the window.
Over the rooftops of the industrial district, a spear of yellow lightning pierced the grey sky, jagged and terrible. It was followed a second later by the mushrooming cloud of steam and dust, and the deep, bone-rattling roar of a Titan.
Levi stared at the light. His face was pale, his eyes wide, reflecting the golden glow of the disaster.
He knew exactly where that lightning had struck. He knew exactly which alleyway lay beneath that pillar of steam. He knew exactly who was standing there.
His hand gripped the cane so hard the wood groaned, threatening to splinter. His bad leg throbbed, a useless, fiery anchor chaining him to the seat.
He was the strongest soldier alive. He could cut a Titan’s nape in the blink of an eye. He could move faster than the wind. He was a god of the battlefield.
And he was sitting in a box, watching the sky burn.
The terror that washed over him was cold and absolute. It wasn't the adrenaline of combat. It was the helpless, sickening dread of a man watching his nightmare unfold from behind a sheet of glass. He had sent her there. He had let her go. He had pushed her into the fire to save her from himself, and now the fire had risen up to swallow her whole.
The name tore from his throat, a ragged, desperate whisper that no one else heard.
"Rose..."
To Be Continued...
——— ✦ ———
Thank you for reading. ♡
✦ Check out my Patreon for more content. I'm four chapters ahead on my fics there.
✦ THE MAIN UNIVERSE ✦ Love my writing? Check out my Gothic Romantasy novel — Liquid Sunlight.
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Tagging: @demonslayeranimex @mwezieclipze @ynackerman9499 @grey-clowd @sudek4l @cherrymoon55 @bringnattolife @tojiswifeforlife @starryla1
"Oh my," Shinobu murmured to the empty veranda. "You have it very bad for our stoic swordsman, do you not?"
✦ Pairing — [Giyu x Reader]
✦ Rating — T
✦ Warnings/Tropes - [Protective Giyu, Runaway Reader, Yoshiwara District, Oiran Reader, Artist Reader, Hurt/Comfort, Strangers to Lovers, Slow Burn, Badass Giyu, Giyu is Bad at Feelings, He Thinks Love is a Fever, Touch-Starved, He literally buys her freedom, Mutual Pining]
✦ Table of Contents
—— ✦ ———
Chapter Eight: Fourteen Suns
Two weeks had passed since you walked through the wooden gates of the Butterfly Mansion.
The rhythm of your new existence replaced the terrifying memories of the Yoshiwara. You traded suffocating layers of embroidered silk for a simple, breathable indigo yukata. You traded the biting scent of cheap incense for the crisp, clean aroma of boiling medicinal herbs and blooming wisteria. The estate operated on an unending cycle of healing and training, and you found yourself slipping into its flow with eager gratitude.
Your hands bore the evidence of this transformation. Tiny calluses formed on your palms from sweeping the wooden verandas and scrubbing linen sheets in the courtyard basins. The tasks proved gruelling during the first few days. As an Oiran, you never washed your own garments or hauled buckets of well water. Attendants managed every chore, treating you like a fragile porcelain doll meant only for display. Now, you possess agency over your own body and your own labour. The soreness in your muscles felt like a badge of honour, and you embraced the exhaustion because it belonged to you.
You found willing teachers in the estate's staff. Aoi governed the mansion's daily operations with a stern voice and an unyielding gaze, but her strict demeanour masked a caring heart. She demonstrated the proper way to fold bandages. She corrected your mistakes without cruelty, offering a firm nod of approval whenever you mastered a new task.
The younger girls—Sumi, Kiyo, and Naho—fluttered around the hallways like cheerful birds. They guided you through the sprawling estate, showing you where the kitchen stored the rice and where the laundry lines caught the best afternoon breeze. They treated you with a bright, earnest respect that warmed your spirit.
You even met Kanao, the quiet girl who trained under Shinobu. She rarely spoke, often staring at a small copper coin resting in her palm before deciding to interact. You found her silence comforting. During the chaos of the midday meal preparations, you and Kanao often washed vegetables side by side in companionable quiet.
Shinobu remained an elusive figure. She spent her days managing the infirmary, researching poisons, or vanishing on crucial corps missions. Whenever your paths crossed in the corridors, she offered a pleasant smile and asked about your well-being. Her kindness felt genuine, even if her purple eyes always seemed to calculate a hundred different variables at once.
Despite the bustling activity and your newfound freedom, an undeniable void occupied your chest. You missed Giyu.
Fourteen suns have risen and set since he walked out of the infirmary, leaving you with a promise to return. You found yourself pausing your chores whenever the front gates creaked open. Your eyes would scan the incoming slayers, searching the crowd for a glimpse of his mismatched haori. Every time you recognised a different uniform, a pang of disappointment settled in your throat.
One afternoon, while you hung damp bedsheets over the bamboo drying racks, Aoi paused beside you. She carried a woven basket filled with clean towels.
"You’re staring at the gate again," Aoi noted, her voice lacking any accusation but carrying a matter-of-fact bluntness.
You flushed, snapping your attention back to the wet fabric in your hands. "I’m sorry, Aoi-san. I was just—I was just watching the road."
"You’re waiting for Tomioka-sama," Aoi corrected, securing a towel to the line with a wooden peg. "He has not visited since he brought you here."
You smoothed the wrinkles from the damp sheet, fighting the knot forming in your throat. "Do you think he forgot? I know he has important duties, and I don’t wish to be a nuisance to him."
Aoi sighed, resting her hands on her hips. She looked at the front gate, her expression softening. "The Hashira shoulder the burdens of the entire corps. They don’t have the luxury of leisure. Tomioka-sama spends his days and nights hunting monsters that most people cannot even fathom. He travels from town to town, tracking rumours, clearing demon nests, and risking his life to ensure the sun rises on a safe world. He does not have time to socialise."
Her words hit you with sobering clarity, and you felt a twinge of guilt. Giyu had already sacrificed days of his time, diverted his travel route, and spent a fortune to buy your freedom. Expecting him to abandon his life-saving work just to visit you felt selfish. You owed him everything, yet you silently demanded more of his time.
"I understand," you murmured, clutching the wooden peg. "I took so much from him already. I should be grateful he delivered me here."
"You’re allowed to miss him," Aoi said quietly, picking up her basket. "Just remember that his absence is not a rejection. It is a necessity."
She walked away toward the infirmary, leaving you alone with the fluttering white sheets. Her reassurance offered a small comfort, but your heart remained stubborn. It wanted what it wanted. You missed his quiet voice, his steady presence, and the awkward, sincere way he called you his friend.
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You discovered your greatest joy lay in the mansion's vast gardens. The soil offered a grounding peace, and you spent your free hours pulling weeds from the medicinal herb beds and tending to the vibrant butterfly-weed flowers. The vibrant colours and the fresh air provided endless inspiration for your art.
You kept your promise to him. You painted.
Using the meagre supplies you carried from the Yoshiwara, you sat on a stone bench under the sprawling branches of an old pine tree. You painted the landscape first, capturing the elegant swoop of the mansion's roof, the lush green of the foliage, and the delicate purple clusters of the wisteria blooms.
Yet, the landscape still felt incomplete. Your brush hovered over the paper, guided by an unseen force. Instead of adding another butterfly, you began to trace the lines of a human face.
You poured your longing onto the canvas. You sketched the firm, stoic set of his jaw. You drew the unruly, spiky strands of his hair, remembering how the wind caught them during your carriage ride. You worked with meticulous care, ensuring every stroke conveyed the quiet strength you admired in him.
The most challenging task lay in capturing his eyes. You resorted to your previous method, gathering specific blue flowers from the garden edges. You crushed the petals in a small ceramic dish, blending the natural pigment with a drop of water. You applied the vivid azure colour to the paper, holding your breath as the ink settled.
The result stole your breath. The painting mirrored his essence with striking accuracy. The solemn line of his mouth, the broad shoulders draped in the mismatched haori, and those beautiful, sad blue eyes staring back at you. It was just a small token, a humble offering from a runaway, but you hoped it would convey the vast ocean of gratitude you held for him. You planned to present it to him the moment he walked through the gates.
While you focused on your canvas, a chaotic energy brewed on the opposite side of the courtyard. Three young slayers occupied the training grounds, swinging wooden swords and running through gruelling endurance drills.
They had noticed you, of course. You were a new face in a closed ecosystem.
Tanjiro, the boy wearing a checkered black and green haori, paused his sword swings to wipe the sweat from his forehead. He observed you sitting on the stone bench across the yard. You kept to yourself, always polite but remarkably quiet. You possessed an aura that fascinated him. You knelt in the dirt to tend the flowers with a grace that belonged in a royal palace. You held your posture with an elegant, contained authority. To Tanjiro, you resembled a hime-sama—a noble princess—who somehow wandered into a house of warriors.
His keen sense of smell picked up a scent that fueled his curiosity. Beneath the floral aroma of the garden and the clean soap on your skin, Tanjiro detected a familiar, underlying note. It smelled of cold rain, crisp pine, and sharp steel. It was Tomioka-san’s scent.
The scent faded a little more each day, but its presence remained undeniable. Tanjiro knew the Water Hashira. He knew Giyu avoided social interaction, preferring the solitude of his own company. For you to carry his scent so distinctly, the two of you must have shared a significant amount of time together. The implication made Tanjiro burn with curiosity, but his inherent politeness kept him from marching over and prying into your personal affairs.
His blonde companion possessed no such restraint.
Zenitsu slumped against a wooden training post, gasping for air. He turned his head, his tear-filled eyes scanning the garden for an excuse to escape the brutal workout. Then, his gaze landed on you.
Zenitsu stopped whining. His eyes enlarged to comical proportions as he stared at the gentle slope of your neck, the soft smile on your lips as you painted, and the vibrant flower tucked behind your ear.
"Tanjiro," Zenitsu whispered, his voice trembling with sheer awe. "Who is that?"
"She’s a new helper," Tanjiro replied, adjusting his grip on his wooden sword. "Shinobu-san took her in two weeks ago. Leave her be, Zenitsu. She’s focusing on her work."
"Focusing on her work?!" Zenitsu shrieked, his volume escalating to an ear-piercing pitch. "She is a goddess! She descended from the heavens to bless this miserable, dusty courtyard! Look at her! She is the most beautiful woman I have ever seen!"
The third boy, wearing a hollowed-out boar's head over his face, snorted loudly. "She looks weak! I bet I can beat her in a headbutt contest!"
"You will do no such thing, Inosuke!" Tanjiro scolded, waving his hands frantically.
"I must speak to her!" Zenitsu declared, ignoring them both. He dropped his wooden sword into the dirt. "I must introduce myself! I must ask for her hand in marriage before a demon eats me!"
Before Tanjiro could grab the back of his yellow haori, Zenitsu sprinted across the courtyard. He moved with staggering speed, a blur of lightning and desperation.
You sat on the bench, putting the final touches on Giyu's haori when the peaceful silence of the garden was shattered.
"PLEASE MARRY ME!"
You gasped, jumping in your seat. A blonde boy slid across the gravel on his knees, coming to a halt just inches from your feet. Tears streamed down his face in waterfalls, and he reached his hands out toward you, begging like a starving man offered a banquet.
"My name is Agatsuma Zenitsu!" he wailed, staring up at you with wide, frantic eyes. "You are an angel! Please, save me from my miserable, lonely existence! Promise you will be my wife!"
You froze, clutching your wooden painting board to your chest. Your heart hammered against your ribs. The unhinged energy radiating from the boy triggered your defensive instincts, and you pressed your back against the trunk of the pine tree, unsure if you should run or call for Aoi.
"Zenitsu!"
A second boy arrived, his checkered haori billowing behind him. Tanjiro didn’t hesitate. He raised his hand and delivered a swift chop to the back of Zenitsu's neck.
Zenitsu's eyes rolled back. He crumpled forward, his face planting directly into the gravel with a soft thud.
Tanjiro bowed at the waist, bending so far forward his forehead nearly scraped the ground. "I am so sorry! Please forgive my friend! He lacks manners and self-control! He did not mean to frighten you!"
"Fight me!" Inosuke bellowed, charging into the garden and pointing a wooden sword at your face. "I challenge you, woman!"
"Inosuke, stop it!" Tanjiro yelled, grabbing the boar-headed boy by the waist and hauling him backwards. "She is not a slayer! You cannot challenge the staff!"
You watched the chaotic scene unfold. The blonde boy lay unconscious at your feet. The boy in the boar mask thrashed against the grip of the polite, checkered-clad boy. The absurdity of the situation cracked the tension in your chest. They weren’t threats; they were just eccentric, loud children.
You relaxed your shoulders, letting out a soft sigh. "It’s fine. You don’t need to apologise. He just startled me."
"I swear he is harmless," Tanjiro insisted, maintaining his deep bow. He hauled Zenitsu up by the collar of his uniform, dragging the unconscious boy upright.
As you shifted your weight to stand up, your grip on the wooden board loosened. A stray breeze swept through the garden. The thick sheet of pressed paper slipped from beneath your fingers. It fluttered through the air, drifting toward the three boys.
You lunged forward, swiping your hand through the space, but you were a fraction of a second too late.
The paper landed face-up on the gravel, right beside Tanjiro's sandals.
Tanjiro glanced down at the fallen artwork, intending to retrieve it for you, and his maroon eyes widened at what he saw.
Inosuke stopped thrashing, and he leaned over Tanjiro's shoulder, with the snout of his boar mask hovering over the paper.
Zenitsu groaned, blinking his eyes open. He rubbed the back of his sore neck, looking down at the ground to see what captured his friends' attention.
The three boys stared at the vibrant, meticulously detailed portrait of Tomioka Giyu.
"Is that—" Tanjiro started, his voice trailing off into a squeak of disbelief.
"The Water Hashira?" Zenitsu finished, his jaw dropping so far it practically unhinged.
"Mismatched-haori!" Inosuke grunted, recognising the stoic face immediately.
A volcanic heat erupted across your face. Your cheeks burned with the intensity of a blazing furnace, and you scrambled forward, dropping to your knees on the gravel. You snatched the paper from the dirt, pulling it securely against your chest to hide the artwork from their prying eyes.
"I must go!" you blurted out, your voice trembling with mortification.
You did not wait for a response. You gathered your bamboo brushes and your small dish of crushed petals in a frantic rush. You hiked up the hem of your yukata and scurried away, fleeing down the stone path toward the safety of the kitchen.
Tanjiro stood frozen in the garden, watching you retreat. His mind raced, connecting the dots. The lingering scent of cold rain. The secretive, quiet demeanour. The undeniable affection poured into the flawless portrait of the most unapproachable man in the Demon Slayer Corps.
Tanjiro was more curious now than ever.
High above the courtyard, seated gracefully on the polished wooden planks of the engawa, Shinobu took a slow sip from her porcelain teacup.
She observed the entire spectacle.
She watched Zenitsu's dramatic slide, Tanjiro's swift intervention, and the fluttering descent of the paper. With her keen eyesight, she easily recognised the subject of your painting before you snatched it away. She watched the vibrant blush consume your face and witnessed your desperate, flustered sprint toward the back of the mansion.
Shinobu lowered her teacup to her lap. A slow, highly amused smile stretched across her lips, reaching all the way to her multifaceted purple eyes.
"Oh my," Shinobu murmured to the empty veranda. "You have it very bad for our stoic swordsman, do you not?"
She chuckled softly, the sound resembling the tinkling of silver bells. The situation was simply too rich to ignore. The aloof, unbothered Water Hashira had a beautiful woman painting romantic portraits of him in her garden, and the woman in question possessed a crush just as severe as his own.
Shinobu looked up at the sky, noting the position of the sun. It dipped lower toward the horizon, casting long shadows across the estate.
There was a mandatory Hashira meeting scheduled for this evening at the Ubuyashiki estate. Giyu would be in attendance.
Shinobu hummed a cheerful melody, picking up her teacup once more. She could not wait to see him tonight. The opportunity to tease him with this newly acquired information was a gift she intended to exploit to the fullest.
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That Evening…
Giyu travelled beneath a sprawling canopy of cedar branches, his sandals crunching against the dirt path. Moonlight bled through the leaves, casting long, fractured shadows across the road. He just wrapped up a demon hunt near a remote mountain village, severing the creature’s neck with an effortless strike. Now, he needed to reach headquarters. The mandatory Hashira meeting loomed, and he refused to incur a reprimand for tardiness.
Kanzaburo circled overhead, flapping his black wings and ruining the quiet night air. The crow squawked relentless warnings about the time, scolding Giyu for his moderate pace. The old bird’s memory operated on a fractured, unpredictable logic. Kanzaburo forgot the location of the previous mission halfway through their trek, yet he recalled every single detail about you.
"Are we visiting the Butterfly Mansion tonight? Caw! We need to see the pretty lady!" Kanzaburo yelled, diving low to brush the fabric of Giyu's haori. "She likes Kanzaburo! We should go see her right now!"
"Quiet," Giyu muttered, keeping his gaze fixed on the winding road. "We're going to Oyakata-sama's estate. Don't distract me."
"You miss her! Caw! Giyu misses the pretty lady!" the crow teased, soaring higher into the night sky to avoid any retaliatory swats from his master.
Giyu didn't voice a response. He didn't want to admit it, but he shared the crow's impatience. He hadn't stopped thinking about you for two weeks. Your absence left a strange, hollow ache in his chest. He spent his lonely nights in the wild worrying about your adjustment to the demanding chores at the Butterfly Mansion. He wondered if the lingering trauma of the entertainment district kept you awake, or if the loud, chaotic nature of the young slayers frightened you.
He forced those anxious thoughts aside, relying on cold logic to soothe his nerves. Shinobu ran a secure and guarded compound. If anything threatened your safety or if you fell ill, the Insect Hashira would send a messenger immediately. No news meant good news. He trusted her medical expertise and her fierce protectiveness over her staff.
Still, logic couldn't extinguish the longing in his blood. He missed you terribly. He missed the soft cadence of your voice. He missed the shy, radiant smile you gave him in the clinic when he called you a friend. He told himself he was merely checking on a civilian he rescued, but the flutter in his stomach exposed the lie. He was happy knowing you were safe, but he selfishly wanted to see you thrive with his own eyes.
The crunch of his footsteps triggered a memory from two weeks ago. After he left you in Shinobu's care, he travelled straight to headquarters to deliver his mission report to Oyakata-sama.
He knelt on the tatami mats before his master, the scent of wisteria incense filling the quiet room. He laid out the facts of his delayed arrival. He explained the rainstorm, the disguise, the Yoshiwara mercenaries, and the trunk of yen he utilised to sever your chains. He braced himself for a severe lecture. A Hashira's duty belonged to the eradication of demons, not intervening in civilian financial disputes.
Instead, Ubuyashiki smiled. The gentle leader radiated a soothing warmth that settled the nervous tension in Giyu's shoulders.
"You did well, Giyu," Ubuyashiki said softly, his blind eyes crinkling at the corners. "The Demon Slayer Corps exists to protect human lives. You didn't face a demon of the night, but you rescued her from the demons of her past. You gave a frightened soul a second chance at life. Despite her origins, she deserves peace. I'm very proud of you."
Giyu exhaled a breath he didn't know he held. He bowed deeper, pressing his forehead toward the floor. "Thank you, Oyakata-sama."
A brief silence stretched across the room before Ubuyashiki spoke again. A quiet, knowing amusement laced his tone.
"I must confess, my child, I was quite concerned earlier this week," Ubuyashiki murmured. "A rather scandalous rumour reached my ears before your arrival. The Kakushi whispered that you emptied your personal vaults to purchase a prostitute from the entertainment district for your own pleasure."
Giyu froze. The blood drained from his face, only to rush back in a scorching wave of mortification. The rumour hadn't just infected the Water Estate and the Butterfly Mansion. It breached the walls of the Ubuyashiki estate. It reached the ears of the man he respected most in the world. Anger flared in his chest toward his senile Kasugai crow, mingling with his profound embarrassment.
"That isn't true!" Giyu blurted out, losing his usual stoic composure. He gripped the fabric of his uniform pants, his knuckles turning white. "My crow delivered a mangled message to the estate. I didn't buy a companion. I bought her freedom. I did my best to quell the gossip, but the Kakushi spread it faster than a wildfire. I swear on my blade, Oyakata-sama, my intentions were honourable."
Ubuyashiki chuckled. It was a melodic, bright sound that eased the panic in Giyu's throat. "I know, Giyu. Your testimony clarified the situation, and I'm relieved to hear the truth."
The master tilted his head, resting his chin on his hand. "Though, it remains an extraordinary occurrence. You rarely extend your hand so far for a stranger. You spent a fortune and rearranged your life to ensure her safety. Tell me, Giyu, are you developing romantic feelings for this young woman?"
Giyu felt his face ignite. His cheeks burned with the heat of a roaring forge. He was immensely thankful his master lacked eyesight, because his blush rivalled the crimson fabric of his own haori.
"No," Giyu lied, his voice tighter than a stretched bowstring. "She just needed help. I felt a duty to assist a civilian in peril. There is no… feelings involved. I'm simply a slayer doing my job."
"I see," Ubuyashiki murmured, the smile never leaving his lips. "Well, whatever your reasons, I'm thrilled you found someone who brings a bit of light into your world. You deserve companionship, my child."
Giyu left that meeting feeling exposed, certain his master saw right through his flimsy denial. In the two weeks that followed, he threw himself into his missions. He hunted demons with relentless efficiency, using the thrill of combat to distract his racing mind. Yet, during the quiet moments of the night, his thoughts drifted back to the garden at the Butterfly Mansion. He wondered if you actually painted the landscape for him. He hoped you did.
Now, as the sprawling walls of the Ubuyashiki estate loomed in the distance, Giyu solidified his plans for the evening. He would endure the Hashira meeting. He would deliver his strategic updates, listen to his peers, and slip away the second Oyakata-sama dismissed them. He intended to visit the Butterfly Estate tonight. He wanted to spend some time with you, away from the chaos of the outside world. If you were already sleeping, he would rest in the courtyard until the morning sun woke you.
Giyu stepped through the wooden gates of the headquarters. The courtyard buzzed with a quiet energy. He was the last to arrive. The other eight Hashira already stood in the gravel yard, waiting for their master to appear on the veranda.
The crunch of his sandals drew their attention. Eight pairs of eyes locked onto his approaching figure.
Rengoku stood tall, his fiery hair catching the glow of the paper lanterns. Mitsuri fidgeted with her braided pink hair, whispering something to Obanai, who sat perched in the branches of a nearby pine tree. Muichiro stared at a passing cloud, lost in his own world. Gyomei rubbed his wooden prayer beads together, silent tears tracking down his broad cheeks. Sanemi crossed his scarred arms, glaring at the ground with his usual hostility. Tengen leaned against a wooden pillar, adorned in glittering jewels that caught the moonlight.
And Shinobu stood near the front, wearing a smile that spelt impending doom.
Giyu spotted the wicked glint in her purple eyes. She knew something. She observed the incident in the garden with the young slayers, and she planned to use it to tease him tonight. She thrived on utilising an audience to maximize his discomfort. He braced himself for it, keeping his face an unreadable mask as he joined the semicircle of elite warriors.
But before Shinobu could open her mouth to deliver a remark, a blur of silver and gems rushed across the yard.
"Tomioka!" Tengen shouted, his voice booming through the quiet night.
The Sound Hashira threw a sturdy, muscular arm over Giyu's shoulders. The force of the enthusiastic embrace nearly tipped Giyu off his feet. He stumbled, catching his balance just before he face-planted into the gravel.
"I didn't believe it when I heard the whispers!" Tengen laughed, squeezing Giyu's shoulder with a vice-like grip. "I thought you were far too plain for such a flamboyant move! But my wives heard the Kakushi gossiping in town, and they swear it's true!"
Giyu pushed Tengen's arm away, scowling at the taller man. He swatted at his uniform to smooth the wrinkles. "What are you talking about?"
"Don't play coy with me!" Tengen cheered, pointing a dramatic finger at Giyu's chest. "You bought yourself a woman from the Yoshiwara! And not just any cheap streetwalker! They say you bought an Oiran! An actual, top-tier Oiran! You emptied your vaults for a night of unbridled passion! I'm impressed by your flashy taste!"
The courtyard went dead silent.
The wind stopped blowing. The crickets ceased their chirping. The other Hashira stared at Giyu in a state of unadulterated shock.
"A Yoshiwara Oiran?!" Rengoku boomed, his golden eyes wide with astonishment. "That is an expensive investment, Tomioka! I did not realise you possessed such extravagant desires!"
Mitsuri gasped, covering her bright red face with both hands. "Oh my goodness! Tomioka-san went to the red-light district? That's so scandalous!"
"Disgusting," Obanai hissed from the tree branch, his dual-colored eyes narrowing with disdain. His snake, Kaburamaru, hissed in agreement. "To think a Hashira would stoop to mingling with the filth of the entertainment district. It makes my skin crawl. You bring shame to your rank."
Gyomei rubbed his beads faster, bowing his head. "Your soul, led astray by the fleeting desires of the flesh. I pray for your spiritual recovery."
Muichiro blinked, tearing his gaze away from the clouds. "What is an Oiran?"
Giyu stood frozen in the centre of the yard as his mortification flared into a bright, stinging irritation. Kanzaburo's stupid mistake refused to die. The rumour mutated, growing more extravagant and distorted with every retelling. He glared up at the sky, wishing he could pluck his crow from the air and roast him over an open fire.
"Uzui," Giyu started, his voice a low, dangerous warning. "You're speaking nonsense. I didn't buy a companion."
"Don't lie to us, Tomioka," Sanemi sneered, stepping forward. The Wind Hashira cracked his knuckles, a cruel smirk twisting his scarred face. "I always knew you were a quiet, arrogant freak, but I didn't peg you for a desperate pervert."
Giyu turned his glare toward Sanemi. "Watch your mouth, Shinazugawa. You don't know the facts."
"I know enough," Sanemi shot back, his voice rising in volume. He stepped closer, eager for a confrontation. His hand hovered near his sword hilt. "You paid for a Yoshiwara whore. You tainted your honour as a Hashira for a filthy streetwalker who sells herself for coin. She belongs in the gutter, like the trash she is."
The words struck Giyu like a drawn blade.
A blinding rage ignited in his chest. He pictured your kind smile. He remembered the terrified tears tracking through the dirt on your cheeks, and the gentle, hesitant way you painted his portrait using crushed flowers. You weren't filth. You were a survivor forced into a nightmare, fighting for a scrap of freedom. He would not let this scarred loudmouth degrade you in front of the entire corps.
Giyu snapped.
He stepped forward, closing the distance between himself and Sanemi in a fraction of a second. His hand gripped the wrapped hilt of his Nichirin sword. He didn't draw the blade, but the lethal pressure he unleashed washed over the yard. The temperature dropped. The gravel crunched under his sandals as he leaned in, his blue eyes burning with a cold, murderous fury.
"Say another word about her," Giyu threatened, his voice dropping to a freezing, guttural whisper that promised violence. "Say one more word, Shinazugawa, and I'll break your jaw."
Sanemi's eyes widened in genuine surprise. He never saw the Water Hashira display this level of raw emotion. But his aggressive nature took over instantly. His own hand flew to his sword hilt. "Try it, you pathetic bastard! I'll cut you down right here!"
"Stop this at once!" Rengoku shouted, stepping between the two furious men with his arms raised.
But before Rengoku could intervene further, clapping echoed across the yard.
Shinobu stood on the edge of the group, a serene smile plastered across her face. "My, my. It seems the rumour mill has caused quite a stir. Please release your weapons, gentlemen. Oyakata-sama will arrive soon, and he frowns upon bloodshed in his garden."
Giyu didn't move his hand. He kept his lethal glare locked on Sanemi, refusing to back down while you were being insulted.
Shinobu sighed, shaking her head. Her butterfly haori fluttered in the night breeze. "Shinazugawa-san, you're operating on false information. Tengen-san, your flamboyant sources failed you. Tomioka-san didn't purchase a prostitute."
The tension in the yard wavered. Sanemi frowned, shooting a confused glance at the Insect Hashira. "Then where did these rumours come from?"
"They came from Tomioka-san's incompetent crow," Shinobu explained. "Tomioka-san encountered a civilian hiding in a tree during a storm. She had committed ashinuke to escape a horrific life she inherited from her mother. She was hunted by mercenaries, and Tomioka-san intervened. He marched into the district, paid off her legal debts to sever her contract, and brought her to my estate for sanctuary. She isn't a lady of the night. She is a refugee, and she works in my gardens. She is a kind, hardworking girl."
Silence returned to the courtyard. The Hashira absorbed the truth, reevaluating the stoic man standing among them.
Tengen rubbed the back of his neck, looking mildly embarrassed for jumping to conclusions. "A rescue mission? You spent your own fortune to buy a girl's freedom from a brothel?"
Mitsuri clamped her hands over her heart, her green eyes shining with fresh tears. "Oh, Tomioka-san! That's the most romantic, heroic thing I've ever heard! You're a knight in shining armour! You saved her from a terrible fate!"
"It wasn't romantic," Giyu muttered, finally dropping his hand from his sword hilt. He stepped away from Sanemi, his anger cooling into a weary frustration. "She needed help. I did what was required."
Obanai scoffed from the tree, though the venom left his voice. "A foolish waste of money. But slightly less disgusting than the alternative. Try keeping your crow on a tighter leash."
Sanemi unhanded his weapon, clicking his tongue in annoyance. He refused to apologise, but he took a step back, breaking the hostile standoff. "Whatever. Next time, tell your stupid bird to learn how to speak properly before he causes a riot."
Giyu ignored the Wind Hashira. He turned his gaze toward Shinobu. She offered him a knowing, teasing wink. She saved him from a brawl, but he knew she planned to collect on this favour later. She possessed a weapon now, armed with the knowledge of your secret garden portrait, and she wouldn't hesitate to use it against him.
The sliding doors of the main estate opened. Two young girls with stark white hair stepped out onto the veranda, holding glowing paper lanterns.
"Oyakata-sama has arrived," they announced in unison.
The nine Hashira dropped to one knee, bowing their heads in unison. Giyu forced his erratic heart to calm down. The meeting would begin now. He needed to endure the strategy discussions, report his recent patrol, and bide his time.
The meeting commenced with the standard strategic reports. Rengoku delivered a booming summary of demon activity near the eastern rail lines, his voice echoing off the stone walls. Tengen outlined an upcoming infiltration mission, boasting about the flamboyant tactics his wives planned to employ. Sanemi grumbled about uncooperative local magistrates hindering his patrols in the western mountains.
Throughout the discussions, Giyu maintained a rigid posture. He kept his eyes locked on the pebbles beneath his sandals. He felt the burning curiosity of his peers directed at him. They knew the truth now. The scandalous rumour regarding a purchased Yoshiwara companion died in the dirt, replaced by a reality they found far more fascinating. The solitary, unapproachable Water Hashira harboured a runaway civilian at the Butterfly Mansion. He felt their sidelong glances, the unspoken questions hanging in the crisp night air. He ignored them, focusing solely on the cadence of his master's voice.
His turn arrived. Giyu delivered a concise report of his recent kill in a remote mountain village. He detailed the demon's blood art, the terrain, and the clean severance of its neck. He offered no superfluous details, keeping his tone flat and professional.
Eventually, the reports concluded, and Uuyashiki praised their collective efforts, his blind eyes crinkling with a warm, serene smile that eased the tension in the courtyard. He dismissed the group, signalling the end of the formal gathering.
Before the Hashira could rise to their feet, Ubuyashiki turned his gentle face toward the end of the line.
"Giyu," Ubuyashiki said, his voice carrying effortlessly across the yard.
Giyu kept his head bowed. "Yes, Oyakata-sama."
"You pushed yourself quite hard these past few weeks," Ubuyashiki noted, a quiet amusement lacing his tone. "Your mission logs show a relentless pace. You travelled vast distances without taking a single night to recover."
"It is my duty," Giyu replied, his throat tightening.
"Duty sustains us, but rest heals us," Ubuyashiki countered, his smile widening a fraction. "I am granting you two days off. You need to take a break. I suggest you head over to the Butterfly Mansion to rest up. The gardens there are beautiful this time of year, and I hear the company is quite pleasant."
A scorching heat surged up Giyu's neck, flooding his cheeks and ears crimson. His master was playing matchmaker in front of the entire Demon Slayer Corps. He squeezed his eyes shut, wishing the gravel would open up and swallow him whole. He tried to hide his burning face, keeping his forehead pointed toward the ground, but the reaction was impossible to conceal.
The courtyard erupted in hushed, chaotic reactions.
Mitsuri squealed, slapping both hands over her mouth to muffle her delighted giggles. Tengen snickered loudly, the jewelled ornaments on his headbands clinking together as his shoulders shook. Rengoku offered a booming, hearty chuckle that rattled the paper lanterns.
Gyomei pressed his wooden prayer beads between his palms, tears streaming down his face. "Ah, the blossoming of young affection. It warms my soul to see a lonely heart find solace. I shall pray for their happiness."
Obanai scoffed from his spot near the veranda. His dual-colored eyes narrowed with palpable disdain, and his white snake hissed in agreement. "Taking time off to play house with a civilian. How pathetic. The demons don't take holidays."
"Leave him alone, Iguro-san!" Mitsuri scolded softly, her green eyes shining. "It's wonderful! Tomioka-san deserves to smile!"
Sanemi clicked his tongue, crossing his scarred arms. "He deserves a wooden training sword to the head. We are at war. This isn't a romance novel."
Muichiro blinked at a moth fluttering near a lantern. "Who is in a romance novel?"
Giyu wanted to draw his blade and sever his own ears. He pushed himself off the gravel, standing up with a swift, jerky motion. He bowed rigidly to his master.
"Thank you, Oyakata-sama," Giyu choked out, his voice strained. "I will take my leave."
He pivoted on his heel, eager to escape the suffocating yard and the prying eyes of his peers. He intended to sprint all the way to the Butterfly Mansion. He needed to see you. He needed to escape this chaotic interrogation.
"Hold on, Tomioka-san."
A small, firm hand grabbed the sleeve of his uniform. Giyu stopped in his tracks. He turned his head, glaring down at Shinobu. The Insect Hashira stood beside him, a serene, predatory smile plastered across her face.
"Let go of me, Kocho," Giyu warned, keeping his voice low.
Shinobu released his sleeve, smoothing the fabric of her butterfly haori. "You are in a rush. I assume you are heading to my estate?"
"That is my destination," Giyu confirmed, glancing toward the open gates.
"You will be disappointed," Shinobu chirped, her purple eyes sparkling with mischief. "She is already sleeping. I checked on her right before I left for the meeting. She was tucked into her futon, sound asleep."
A sharp pang of disappointment struck Giyu's chest. He missed you. He spent the last fourteen days visualizing your face, wondering if the trauma of the Yoshiwara still haunted your dreams. He wanted to sit on the engawa with you, sharing the quiet night air.
"I will wake her," Giyu decided, taking a step forward.
"You will do no such thing," Shinobu scolded, stepping into his path again. "She works hard, Tomioka-san. Harder than you realise. You aren't going to ruin her rest just because you lack patience."
The other Hashira, possessing exceptional hearing, shamelessly eavesdropped on the conversation. They abandoned their own departures, inching closer to listen to the drama unfold.
"What kind of work does she do?" Mitsuri asked, leaning in with wide, sparkling eyes.
Shinobu turned to address the group, clearly relishing the audience. "She is incredibly helpful. She isn't used to any manual labour, given her previous life, but she possesses a fierce determination. She scrubbed the wooden verandas until her palms blistered. She washes the linen sheets. She assists Aoi with the meal preparations for the recovering slayers. She learns fast, and she never complains."
Giyu listened to Shinobu detail your daily life. A swell of protective pride bloomed in his chest. You survived a gilded cage, and now you were building a real, honest life with your own two hands. You were stronger than anyone gave you credit for.
"A hardworking woman!" Rengoku shouted, nodding his head in firm approval. "A strong work ethic is the foundation of a good spirit! You chose well, Tomioka!"
"I didn't choose her," Giyu muttered, his face heating up again. "She is just a friend."
Tengen threw an arm around Giyu's shoulders again, leaning in close. "A friend who cleans and cooks for your coworker? That is a flamboyant step toward domestic bliss. You should buy her some flashy jewellery to reward her efforts."
Giyu shoved Tengen's arm away, scowling at the Sound Hashira. "I don't need your advice."
"She doesn't want jewellery," Shinobu interjected, steering the conversation back to her preferred topic. She looked directly at Giyu, her smile widening into a teasing grin. "She prefers her art supplies. She was painting today in the garden."
Giyu's heart skipped erratically in his chest, and his breath hitched in his throat. You painted today. He remembered the promise you made in the clinic, your radiant smile as you swore to paint the landscape for his next visit. You kept your word.
"Ohhh, she is an artist!" Mitsuri gasped, clasping her hands over her heart. "That is so elegant! I want to meet her! Do you think she would paint a portrait of me and Iguro-san? I would love to make a new friend!"
Obanai scoffed from the background, though the tips of his ears turned pink at the mention of a couple's portrait.
"I am sure she would love to meet you, Mitsuri-san," Shinobu replied warmly. Then, her tone shifted, adopting a dramatic, cautionary edge. She focused her multifaceted eyes back on Giyu. "Though, she did have quite a chaotic afternoon. She had a rather startling encounter with three of our junior slayers."
Giyu's muscles coiled tight. His hand drifted instinctively toward the hilt of his Nichirin sword. "Who?"
"Kamado, Agatsuma, and Hashibira," Shinobu listed, ticking the names off on her slender fingers.
A spike of irritation pierced Giyu's calm exterior. He knew those three. Tanjiro possessed a good heart, but the blonde boy and the boar-headed menace attracted chaos like a magnet.
"What happened?" Giyu demanded, his voice dropping to a dangerous rumble.
Shinobu recounted the spectacle with vivid, theatrical detail. "She was sitting on the stone bench, focusing on her canvas. Agatsuma spotted her from the training yard. You know how he gets around women. He sprinted across the gravel, slid on his knees, and begged her to marry him at the top of his lungs. He terrified the poor girl."
Giyu's jaw clenched so hard his teeth ached. He pictured the loud, obnoxious blonde boy harassing you, invading your peaceful space in the garden. A fierce, territorial spark ignited in his blood. He decided right then and there to assign Agatsuma gruelling, unending evasion drills the next time they crossed paths. The boy needed to learn manners.
"I will discipline him," Giyu stated flatly, his fingers tightening around his scabbard.
"Kamado already handled it," Shinobu laughed, waving a dismissive hand. "He chopped Agatsuma on the neck and knocked him unconscious. Then Hashibira charged in, waving his wooden swords and challenging her to a duel. It was a spectacular mess."
"Is she unharmed?" Giyu pressed, ignoring the amused snickers from Tengen.
"She is fine," Shinobu assured him. "She realised they were just foolish boys. But during the commotion, she dropped her painting on the gravel."
Shinobu leaned in closer, dropping her voice to a conspiratorial whisper that easily carried to the listening Hashira.
"It wasn't a landscape, Tomioka-san," Shinobu teased, her eyes gleaming with triumph. "It was a portrait. A very detailed, very flattering portrait of you. The boys recognised your grumpy face immediately. She snatched it up and ran away, blushing."
The courtyard erupted again. Tengen whistled a loud, piercing note. Rengoku cheered. Mitsuri practically swooned into Obanai's side.
Giyu stood frozen, trapped in a whirlwind of conflicting emotions. He felt a deep, profound mortification at having his personal life broadcast to the nosiest warriors in Japan. But beneath the embarrassment, a radiant joy expanded in his chest. You didn't just paint the garden; you spent your free hours committing his face to paper. You thought about him, just as he thought about you.
He didn't care about the teasing anymore. He just wanted to see you.
"I am going to the estate," Giyu declared, stepping around Shinobu.
"Stop by in the morning," Shinobu advised, her teasing tone softening into genuine instruction. "She wakes up at sunrise to help start the kitchen fires. You will find her in the courtyard. She will be pleasantly surprised to see you, assuming you don't scowl at her."
Giyu paused. He weighed his options. Waking you in the middle of the night was selfish. He needed you to be rested and happy. Plus, waiting until sunrise gave him time to retrieve the gift he secured during his travels.
"I will come in the morning," Giyu agreed. He bowed his head slightly to the Insect Hashira. "Thank you for the update, Kocho."
He didn't wait for another round of jokes from Tengen or complaints from Sanemi. He turned his back on his peers and strode out of the Ubuyashiki courtyard, his pace brisk and determined.
The walk to his own estate offered a quiet reprieve. The cool night wind brushed against his heated cheeks, slowly calming the frantic rhythm of his heart. He navigated the familiar dirt roads, his mind occupied by the prospect of tomorrow.
He had something he wanted to give you.
Two days ago, after tracking a demon through a bustling coastal merchant town, he stumbled upon a high-end artisan market. He spotted a vendor selling specialised art supplies imported from the capital. He remembered your meagre tools—the single block of cheap ink, the frayed bamboo brushes, the desperate way you crushed flower petals just to find a trace of colour.
He spent a ridiculous sum of money at that stall. He bought a polished wooden box lined with velvet. Inside, he packed ceramic dishes filled with premium, vibrant pigments. Lapis lazuli for a true, striking blue. Malachite for rich greens. Cinnabar for vivid reds. He purchased fine brushes crafted from wolf and badger hair, designed for delicate, precise strokes. He didn't know much about painting, but he knew you deserved the best tools money could buy.
Giyu arrived at the Water Estate. The wooden gates groaned as he pushed them open. The sprawling compound sat in total darkness, silent and empty. He lived alone, employing Kakushi only for daytime maintenance. The isolation usually felt comforting, a quiet sanctuary away from the blood and noise of his profession. Tonight, it just felt cold.
He slid the front door open, discarding his sandals at the threshold. He walked through the dark corridors, his bare feet padding softly against the polished wood.
He intended to draw a hot bath to wash the grime of his mission away. He intended to eat a simple dinner of cold rice and fish. He needed to rest, just as Oyakata-sama instructed.
Instead, he walked directly to his private quarters and sat on the centre tatami mat.
He reached inside the breast pocket of his dark slayer uniform. His fingers brushed against a folded square of pressed paper. He pulled it out, handling it with extreme, delicate care.
It was the portrait you painted at the inn. The crushed-flower masterpiece.
He unfolded the paper, holding it up to catch the pale moonlight filtering through his window. The paper bore several creases now. The edges felt soft and worn. He looked at it multiple times a day during his travels. He stared at it while sitting near campfires, while resting in the branches of tall trees, and while enduring the endless, lonely hours of the night.
He studied the ink lines forming his jaw. He traced the vibrant, sapphire blue petals you mashed to capture his eyes. He cherished this piece of paper. It was tangible proof that someone in this world looked at him and saw something worthy of preservation.
He thought about the new painting waiting for him at the Butterfly Mansion. He thought about Agatsuma making you blush, and the fierce urge he felt to stand between you and the rest of the world.
He carefully folded the paper, tucking it safely back into his pocket, right against his chest.
Giyu looked toward his window, staring at the dark sky, waiting for the first hint of dawn. For the first time since he was a young boy, a genuine, thrilling excitement coursed through his veins.
He couldn't wait for the sun to rise.
To Be Continued...
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Red Regrets — Chapter Forty
THE DEVIL IN THE TREES
"He couldn't kill him. He couldn't even bring himself to hurt him. But he couldn't let him get past."
✦ Pairing — [Levi x OC]
✦ Rating — 18+
✦ Warnings/Tropes - [Levi is Bad at Feelings, Levi's Past In The Underground, Levi's ex, First Love, Childhood Friends, Friends to Lovers, Secret Child, Levi is a baby daddy, Reunions, Angst, Slow Burn, Forgiveness, Eventual Smut, Eventual Romance, Hurt/Comfort, Second Chances, Regret and Redemption, Protective Levi Ackerman, Doctor OC, Levi being a dad, Father-Son Relationship]
✦ Table of Contents
Chapter Forty: The Devil In The Trees
The forest floor was a graveyard of good intentions. The camp, once a beacon of order amidst the chaotic growth of the giant trees, was now a ruin. Tents were flattened, crates of supplies smashed into kindling, the ground churned into a muddy soup by the impact of thirty colossal bodies erupting into existence.
Levi stood in the center of the devastation, his boots anchored in the damp earth, his blades crossed in a desperate guard. He was breathing hard, sweat stinging his eyes, his mind a whirlwind of tactical calculations that all ended in the same grim conclusion: death.
He was surrounded. Thirty Titans, their grotesque faces twisted into mindless grins, their steam rising into the cool morning air like the breath of hell itself, formed a tightening circle around him. The Beast was watching from above, a smug god in the canopy. And in front of him, the most terrifying enemy of all: his son.
Preston lunged again, a blur of motion that defied physics. He moved with the same terrifying speed Levi had drilled into him, the same lethal efficiency, but without the soul. His face was a blank slate, his black eyes devoid of recognition, his movements driven by a command that bypassed his heart and went straight to his muscles. Kill her.
Levi parried the strike, the impact jarring his bones. He twisted, using Preston’s momentum to throw him off balance, but the boy recovered instantly, spinning in mid-air and lashing out with a backhanded slash that Levi barely dodged.
“Preston!” Levi roared, his voice raw. “Snap out of it! It’s me! It’s your father!”
Preston didn’t even blink. He landed in a crouch and sprang forward again, his blades aiming for Levi’s throat. Levi blocked, the steel singing, and shoved his son back with a kick to the chest. Preston skidded across the dirt but was on his feet in a second, relentless, tireless.
Levi’s heart was breaking with every clash of steel. He was fighting a ghost, a hollowed-out shell of the boy he loved. He couldn't kill him. He couldn't even bring himself to hurt him. But he couldn't let him get past.
Behind him, Penelope was huddled against the trunk of a fallen tree, her hands pressed to her mouth, her eyes wide with a horror that transcended fear. She watched her husband and son locked in a dance of death, her world shattering with every strike.
“Levi!” she screamed, her voice cracking. “Behind you!”
Levi didn't need the warning. He felt the tremor in the ground. One of the Titans, a thick-set ten-meter class with a distended jaw, had broken from the circle. It lunged, its massive hand reaching not for Levi, but for the woman huddled behind him.
Levi had a choice. He could block Preston’s next strike, a vicious downward slash aimed at his collarbone, or he could save his wife.
He didn't think. He reacted.
He fired his ODM gear, the hook sinking into the Titan’s shoulder. He abandoned his guard, twisting his body away from Preston, leaving his left side exposed.
He felt the bite of the blade. It was a hot, searing line of pain across his thigh, cutting through muscle and fabric. He gritted his teeth against the agony, refusing to slow down. The gas hissed, propelling him through the air, away from his son and toward the monster threatening his wife.
He spun, a buzzsaw of vengeance. He severed the Titan’s fingers just as they were about to close around Penelope, blood spraying in a hot arc. He didn't stop. He swung around the massive neck, his blades slicing through the nape with a wet, sickening crunch.
The Titan collapsed, steaming, its body hitting the ground with a thunderous thud that shook the clearing.
Levi landed beside Penelope, his injured leg buckling under the impact. He stumbled, his hand grabbing her arm to steady himself, his breath coming in ragged gasps. "Get behind me," he ordered, his voice tight with pain.
He turned back to face the nightmare. The circle of Titans had tightened. They were closer now, a wall of flesh and hunger. And in the center of them, walking toward them over the steaming corpse of the fallen Titan, was Preston.
He was covered in Levi’s blood. The crimson stain on his blade matched the one spreading across Levi’s thigh. His black eyes were fixed on his mother, unblinking, unfeeling. He raised his blades again.
“Finish it,” Zeke called down from the branches, bored and absolute. “Kill him. Then kill her.”
Preston broke into a run.
Levi raised his blades, his heart shattering in his chest. He couldn't kill him. He couldn't. But he couldn't let him kill Penelope. He stood his ground, the weight of the world pressing down on him, as his son rushed to meet him.
The world narrowed to the point of Preston’s blade. Levi watched it come, the steel gleaming in the diffused light, aimed directly at his heart. He braced himself, his muscles screaming, his mind a blank slate of despair. He would block. He would deflect. He would do it until his arms gave out or his heart stopped.
Preston lunged.
The blade whistled through the air. It was a perfect strike, a killing blow. Levi tensed, preparing for the impact.
But it never came.
Inches from Levi’s chest, the blade jerked violently to the side. It missed him entirely, burying itself deep in the dirt with a dull thud.
Preston froze. His body went rigid, trembling so violently that his teeth chattered. His face contorted, the blank mask shattering into a rictus of pure agony.
A scream tore from his throat, raw and terrifying. It wasn't a battle cry. It was the sound of a mind ripping itself apart. He dropped his other blade, his hands flying to his head, his fingers digging into his scalp, clawing at his own skin as if trying to tear the command out of his brain.
“NO!” he shrieked, his voice cracking. “NO! NO! NO!”
He fell to his knees, his body convulsing. The blackness in his eyes swirled, a chaotic storm of ink and shadow, warring with the gray that tried desperately to surface. He was fighting it. He was fighting the King’s will with every ounce of his being.
“Preston!” Levi scrambled forward, ignoring the pain in his leg. “Fight it! You're stronger than him!”
“Kill her!” Zeke roared from the tree, his voice losing its bored edge, replaced by a sharp, commanding anger. “Do it now!”
Preston’s head snapped up. He looked at his mother, his eyes flashing black, then gray, then black again. He took a jerky step toward her, his hand reaching for the fallen blade, but his other hand grabbed his own wrist, stopping it.
“Mom...” he gasped, the word a strangled whisper.
“Kill her!” Zeke screamed.
Preston let out a final, ear-splitting shriek. He collapsed forward, his forehead slamming into the dirt. His body went limp, the tension vanishing as consciousness fled. The mental strain had broken him.
Silence fell over the clearing for a heartbeat.
Then, movement.
Zeke, realizing his control was broken, realizing the monster he had unleashed had failed, didn't wait to see what happened next. He turned and vanished into the canopy, a shadow fleeing the light.
But the Titans remained.
Without a master to hold them back, the thirty monsters surged forward, a tidal wave of hunger.
One of them, a lanky fifteen-meter class, was already on top of them. It reached down, its hand sweeping toward the vulnerable group.
Levi was still getting to his feet, his leg screaming in protest. He wasn't fast enough.
“Preston!” Penelope cried.
She didn't run away. She threw herself over her son's unconscious body, shielding him with her own.
The Titan’s hand didn't grab. It swiped. The back of its massive hand struck Penelope, a blow meant to clear debris.
It hit her with the force of a battering ram.
She was thrown through the air like a ragdoll. She crashed into the trunk of a giant tree with a sickening crack that echoed through the forest. She crumpled to the ground, motionless, blood instantly pooling beneath her head.
Levi stopped breathing.
The world around him—the groaning Titans, the hissing steam, the gray morning light—contracted into a single, microscopic point of singularity. The pain in his thigh, the exhaustion in his muscles, the tactical map of the battlefield in his mind—it all evaporated.
Something inside him, a tether that had held him to his humanity through decades of slaughter, snapped. It didn't break with a sound; it simply ceased to exist.
He didn't look at the Titan that had hit her. He didn't look at the others closing in. He didn't look at the sky where Zeke had vanished.
He triggered the gas mechanism.
The burst was violent, using more fuel than necessary, launching him into the air with a force that nearly dislocated his shoulders. He didn't aim for a specific target. He became the target. He became the weapon.
He spun.
It was the move he was famous for, the move the recruits whispered about, the move Preston had tried so hard to emulate. But this was not a technique. This was not a drill. This was a natural disaster compressed into the form of a man.
He hit the first Titan, a fourteen-meter aberrant with a grinning, skeletal face. He didn't just slice the nape. He spiraled down its spine, his blades moving so fast they were invisible, carving a trench of flesh from the base of the skull to the lower back. The Titan didn't even have time to scream before it was dead, its body collapsing in a heap of steaming meat.
Levi didn't land. He fired his hooks into the chest of the next Titan, swinging around its flank with enough G-force to black out a lesser man. He severed its arm at the shoulder as he passed, then whipped around the neck, taking the nape in a spray of boiling blood.
Two down. Twenty-eight to go.
He didn't count. He didn't think. He was a vessel of pure, cold kinetic energy. He moved through the forest canopy like a ricocheting bullet. The giant trees, usually obstacles, became his fulcrums. He slammed his boots into the bark, launching himself at impossible angles, changing trajectory mid-air with bursts of gas that sounded like cannon fire.
A cluster of three Titans had gathered near where Preston lay unconscious. They were reaching down, their fingers grasping for the boy.
Levi saw them. The rage that flooded him was white, blinding, and silent.
He dropped from the branches above, a vertical line of death. He landed on the head of the center Titan, driving his blades down through its skull and out its jaw. He used the momentum of its falling body to launch himself at the one on the left, spinning horizontally, decapitating it before its hand could close around Preston.
The third Titan turned, its mouth opening to bite. Levi fired a hook into its open mouth, the anchor biting into the soft palate. He reeled himself in, flying straight into the maw. At the last second, he twisted, slashing outward. The Titan’s jaw was severed from its skull. Levi shot out the back of its neck, taking the nape with him.
He landed in a crouch, sliding through the mud, his blades dripping.
More were coming. They were drawn to the noise, to the movement, to the scent of blood. They lumbered out of the mist, a nightmare parade of distorted faces and grasping hands.
Levi didn't wait for them. He went to them.
He was a blur of green cloak and silver steel. He cut tendons to bring them to their knees. He blinded them to make them stumble. He carved them apart piece by piece. He was efficient, brutal, and utterly merciless. There was no wasted movement, no hesitation. Every swing of his arm ended a life.
He wasn't fighting soldiers anymore. He wasn't fighting comrades. He was exterminating vermin.
The pain in his leg was a distant, abstract concept. He felt the tear in his muscle every time he landed, felt the warm slick of blood running into his boot, but his brain refused to acknowledge the signal. The only thing that mattered was the rhythm. Slash. Spin. Gas. Hook. Slash.
He killed a crawler that was trying to flank him, slicing its nape so deep his blades scraped the vertebrae. He killed a jumper mid-air, meeting it in the sky and dissecting it before they hit the ground.
The forest floor began to shake, not from the footsteps of the giants, but from the sheer mass of them falling. The air grew thick and humid, a suffocating fog of Titan steam that smelled of sulfur and copper. Visibility dropped to zero.
Levi didn't need to see. He could hear them. He could smell them.
He moved through the steam like a ghost. A Titan loomed out of the white haze, its hand raised to swat him. Levi didn't dodge. He fired his hook into the hand, pulling himself toward it. He severed the thumb, then ran up the arm, his blades carving a red line all the way to the shoulder. He vaulted over the head, spinning, and removed the nape.
He landed, swapped his blades—the old ones were dull, chipped from bone—and launched again.
It was a massacre. It was an butchery. It was the single greatest display of violence the Survey Corps had ever witnessed, and there was no one there to see it.
Within minutes, the screams of the Titans died out. The thunder of their footsteps ceased.
The only sound left was the hiss of evaporating flesh and Levi’s own ragged breathing.
He stood in the center of the clearing, surrounded by the dissolving mountains of corpses. The steam was so thick he couldn't see the trees. He was drenched in blood—Titan blood, his own blood, the forest’s mud. His suit was tattered, his cloak heavy with gore.
He gripped his blades, his knuckles white, waiting for the next movement. Waiting for the next target.
Nothing moved.
He had killed them all. Every single one.
Levi lowered his arms. The adrenaline began to recede, leaving behind a cold, shaking void. The pain in his leg came rushing back, a tidal wave of agony that nearly buckled his knees. He stumbled, catching himself on the ribcage of a dissolving Titan.
He wiped the blood from his eyes, smearing it across his forehead. He looked around, orienting himself in the steam-choked hellscape.
He had to find them.
...
The silence of the clearing was heavier than the noise of the battle. It was a dead silence, a vacuum where life used to be.
Levi limped through the steam, his boots squelching in the bloody mud. He moved toward the edge of the clearing, toward the tree where Penelope had fallen.
He found Preston first. The boy was still lying in the dirt, curled on his side, unconscious. He looked small, fragile, untouched by the carnage Levi had just wrought. His chest was rising and falling in a slow, steady rhythm. He was alive. Broken, perhaps, his mind shattered by the command, but alive.
Levi didn't stop. He couldn't stop. He stepped over his son and kept going.
He found her at the base of the redwood.
She was a small, still heap of blue fabric and pale skin against the dark bark. She hadn't moved.
Levi sheathed his blades, his hands trembling so hard he missed the scabbard on the first try. He dropped to his knees beside her, ignoring the scream of protest from his injured thigh.
"Pen," he whispered. The word was a croak, dry and brittle.
He reached out, his hands hovering over her, terrified to touch. She looked broken. Her dress was torn, stained with dirt and grass. Her rose-red hair was matted with dark, sticky blood on the left side, pooling beneath her head.
"Penelope."
He touched her shoulder gently. She was warm. She was still warm.
He pressed two fingers to the pulse point on her neck. It was there. Fast, thready, fluttering like a trapped moth, but there.
Levi let out a breath that was half-sob, half-prayer.
He moved his hands over her, doing a rapid assessment, his mind snapping back into a cold, medical focus born of necessity. He checked her head. The wound was deep, bleeding sluggishly, likely a concussion, possibly a fracture. He moved down. Her breathing was shallow, hitching with every inhalation. He pressed gently on her side.
She groaned, a low, pained sound that didn't quite reach consciousness. The ribs on her left side felt wrong—loose, shifting under the skin. Internal bleeding. A punctured lung, maybe.
She was dying. She was dying right here in the dirt.
"Levi..."
The whisper was so faint he almost missed it.
He leaned down, bringing his face close to hers. Her eyelids fluttered, revealing slivers of golden iris that were hazy, unfocused, swimming with pain.
"I'm here," he said, his voice cracking. "I'm right here."
Her gaze drifted, trying to find him. She focused on his face, on the blood spattered across his cheek. Her brow furrowed.
"Get... him," she wheezed, her voice bubbling wetly. She tried to lift a hand, pointing vaguely toward the canopy, toward the direction Zeke had fled. "He... he'll get away..."
Levi looked up. He looked at the dark tree line.
He could catch him.
He knew the terrain. He knew Zeke was weakened, exhausted from the scream and the flight. Levi still had gas. He still had blades. The rage that had fueled his slaughter was still there, a hot coal in his gut. He could hunt the Beast down. He could drag him back by his hair. He could fulfill his vow to Erwin. He could end the threat.
He looked back down at Penelope.
Her skin was gray. A trickle of blood escaped the corner of her mouth. If he left her, even for ten minutes, she would be dead when he returned. She needed pressure on the wound. She needed stabilization. She needed him.
And Preston... the boy was comatose, defenseless in a forest that might still hold dangers.
The choice wasn't a choice. It was a surrender.
Levi looked at the forest, at the path of vengeance he had walked for so long. Then he looked at the woman who had pulled him off that path.
"No," Levi said.
He reached up and tore a long strip of fabric from his ruined cloak. He pressed it gently but firmly against the wound on her head.
"No," he repeated, his voice stronger, harder. "I'm done with him. I'm staying."
Penelope’s eyes widened slightly, a flicker of protest, but she lacked the breath to voice it. Her hand fell limply to the dirt.
"Stay with me," Levi ordered, his voice rough. "Don't you dare close your eyes. Focus on me."
He worked with frantic efficiency. He bound her head wound, wrapping the cloth tight to staunch the flow. He checked her ribs again, trying to position her so she could breathe easier. He pulled a small vial of coagulant from his belt pouch—standard scout issue—and poured it onto the worst of the cuts.
"I'm going to move you," he told her. "It's going to hurt."
She squeezed her eyes shut and gave a tiny nod.
He slid one arm under her knees and the other behind her back, mindful of her ribs. He lifted her. She let out a sharp, high-pitched cry of agony that cut through him like a knife, her body going rigid in his arms before limpness took over. She had passed out from the pain.
"I've got you," he whispered into her hair, rocking her for a second, just a second. "I've got you."
He stood up, his leg screaming, his balance wavering. He gritted his teeth and forced his body to obey. He carried her to the edge of the clearing, toward the temporary corral where the horses had been tethered.
Most were gone. The transformation, the lightning, the roar of the Titans—they had bolted in terror, snapping their leads and vanishing into the woods.
But one remained.
Levi’s black stallion. The beast was lathered in sweat, its eyes rolling, pulling frantically at its tether, but the rope had held. It snorted and stamped as Levi approached, smelling the blood on him.
"Easy," Levi croaked. "Easy."
He laid Penelope gently on the grass near the horse. He untied the stallion, soothing it with a hand on its neck, letting it smell him, letting it recognize its master beneath the gore.
"I need you," he whispered to the animal. "Don't fail me now."
He led the horse back to the center of the clearing. He stopped beside Preston.
The boy hadn't moved. He was dead weight.
Levi bent down, grabbing Preston by the harness of his gear. He hauled him up, grunting with effort. Preston was heavy, dense with muscle. Levi threw him over his shoulder in a fireman's carry, the boy’s limp arm swinging against Levi’s back.
He walked back to the horse. He heaved Preston up, draping him over the front of the saddle, balancing his weight across the horse's withers. Preston groaned unconsciously but didn't wake.
Levi turned back to Penelope.
He picked her up again. She felt terrifyingly light.
He mounted the horse, swinging his bad leg over the rear of the saddle with a hiss of pain. He settled himself behind Preston, creating a pocket of space. He pulled Penelope up, settling her sideways across his lap, cradling her head against his shoulder, his left arm wrapping tight around her waist to hold her in place.
It was a precarious, desperate arrangement. Three people on one horse, two of them broken, the third holding them together by sheer force of will.
Levi gathered the reins in his right hand. He looked around the clearing one last time.
The steam was beginning to dissipate. The massive, dissolving skeletons of the Titans lay like fallen monuments to a failed dream. The silence was returning, reclaiming the space.
Zeke was gone. The mission was a failure. The squad was dead.
Levi looked down at the top of Preston’s head, at the bloody mat of Penelope’s hair against his neck. He felt the faint, thready beat of her heart against his chest.
They were alive.
He turned the horse’s head toward the path that led out of the forest, toward the river, toward Wall Rose.
"Let's go," he whispered.
He kicked the stallion into a gallop.
The horse surged forward, eager to leave the place of death. Levi held on, his grip iron, his body a shield around his family. The wind rushed past them, cold and biting.
He didn't look back. He didn't look for tracks. He didn't think about the future, or the war, or the reckoning that waited for them at headquarters.
He only thought about the rhythm of the horse's hooves, the beat of Penelope’s heart, and the miles that lay between them and safety. He rode away from the devil in the trees, carrying the only things in the world he had left to lose.
To Be Continued...
——— ✦ ———
Thank you for reading. ♡
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✦ THE MAIN UNIVERSE ✦ Love my writing? Check out my Gothic Romantasy novel — Liquid Sunlight.
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To Archive A Flame — Chapter Ten
INKED IN FIRE
"I will secure your head. That is the only ending I accept."
✦ Pairing — [Rengoku x Upper Moon OC]
✦ Rating — 18+
✦ Warnings/Tropes - [Demon OC, Upper moon OC, Enemies to Lovers, Yandere(But she's quiet about it, )Possessive Behavior, Obsession, Neurodivergent Coded OC, Rengoku Lives, Rengoku is a Ray of Sunshine, Rengoku falls for a demon]
✦ Table of Contents
Chapter Ten: Inked in Fire
The forest ignited.
Kyojuro pushed off the frozen earth. The snow beneath his sandals did not merely scatter—it flash-vaporized. A crater of exposed, steaming dirt marked his point of departure. The air snapped, a sonic boom trailing his movement.
Akaza stood within the glowing blue geometry of his compass needle. The technique offered omnidirectional spatial awareness. It tracked fighting spirit. It mapped incoming trajectories. It analyzed intent.
It failed to register the strike.
Kyojuro bypassed the sensory field. He moved outside the parameters of demonic martial calculation. The crimson flame mark on his left cheek pulsed, feeding a relentless, searing energy into his musculature. His Nichirin sword, previously a bright orange, burned with a stark, blinding white heat.
The blade sheared through Akaza’s right forearm, severing the limb at the elbow.
Akaza retreated. He leaped backward, putting ten yards between them. He looked down at his severed stump. The flesh bubbled. The regeneration stalled, fighting against the residual thermal energy embedded deep in the wound. The white fire cauterized the veins, refusing to let the demon knit his body back together with his usual effortless grace.
Akaza threw his head back and laughed. The sound echoed through the pine trees, ringing with manic, unfiltered joy.
"You did it!" Akaza cheered. His golden eyes dilated, fixed on the glowing mark branding the Hashira's face. "You crossed the threshold! You stepped into the supreme territory!"
Kyojuro offered no banter. The booming, jovial persona of the Flame Hashira remained locked away. He was a machine of fire and duty, operating on a single, uncompromising directive. He stepped forward.
"Flame Breathing, First Form," Kyojuro rasped. "Unknowing Fire."
He closed the ten-yard gap in a fraction of a second. The heat of his charge ignited the dry pine needles clinging to the surrounding trunks. He swung horizontally, aiming to separate the Upper Moon’s head from his shoulders.
Akaza ducked. The white-hot steel grazed the top of his pink hair, singing the strands. He drove his left fist upward, aiming for Kyojuro’s jaw.
"Destructive Death: Compass Needle!"
Kyojuro tilted his head. The fist missed by an inch. The shockwave accompanying the punch sheared off a cluster of pine branches high above them, raining splinters down upon the battlefield.
Kyojuro pivoted on his heel, using the momentum of his missed strike to bring the sword around in a devastating backhand arc.
Akaza raised his regenerating right arm to block. The blade cleaved through the newly formed bone, biting deep into the demon’s shoulder. Blood boiled the moment it hit the air.
"Yes!" Akaza roared, ignoring the severed limb. He drove his knee into Kyojuro’s stomach. "More! Show me more!"
Kyojuro slid backward, his sandals carving twin trenches into the freezing mud. He did not lose his footing. He did not yield ground. He adjusted his grip on the hilt, forcing oxygen into his battered lungs.
He launched an overhead strike. The downward slash carried the force of a falling meteor. Akaza crossed his arms, catching the blade on his forearms. The ground beneath the demon cratered, unable to support the kinetic transfer.
The fight dissolved into a localized hurricane of violence.
Orange and white flames clashed against blue shockwaves. The forest shook. Trunks snapped. The snow melted into a sprawling lake of boiling mud, only to freeze again at the edges of the clearing.
Akaza deployed his Eight-Layered Demon Core, unleashing a barrage of rapid-fire punches. Each strike carried enough pressure to crush boulders into dust. Kyojuro wove through the onslaught. His speed was terrifying. He parried, deflected, and countered. He sliced through Akaza’s thighs, hampered his footing, and severed his hands the moment they regenerated.
The Upper Moon struggled to keep pace. For the first time in centuries, Akaza found himself on the defensive. His flesh tore faster than it could heal. His internal organs burned from the ambient heat radiating off the Hashira.
"You are magnificent!" Akaza yelled, dodging a thrust that would have pierced his heart. "This is the pinnacle! Keep burning, Kyojuro!"
But Kyojuro was breaking.
The visual spectacle of the battle masked a grim, biological reality. The Demon Slayer Mark demanded fuel. It was an engine running without a governor, drawing power directly from the user's lifespan.
Beneath the thick layers of medical gauze, Kyojuro’s body screamed.
His heart battered against his sternum, maintaining a lethal rhythm exceeding two hundred beats per minute. The hyper-oxygenated blood scorched his veins. The fractured ribs, held together by sheer stubbornness, grated against his bruised lungs with every swing of his sword.
He executed the Fourth Form, spinning his blade to deflect an incoming shockwave.
A sharp, sickening pop resonated in his chest.
A splinter of bone from his pulverized ribcage shifted, piercing the pleural cavity. A warm, wet sensation flooded his left lung.
Kyojuro coughed. A spray of crimson mist painted the white snow.
He didn't stop. He swallowed the remaining copper taste in his mouth and drove his boot into the mud. He launched a thrust, impaling Akaza through the stomach.
Akaza gripped the blade, his palms sizzling against the hot metal. The demon grinned, noting the blood on Kyojuro’s chin.
"Your mortal vessel is failing," Akaza noted, his voice carrying over the roar of the flames. "Your spirit is supreme, but your bones are dust. Accept the blood, Kyojuro! Do not let this masterpiece end here!"
Kyojuro ripped the sword free, tearing a massive chunk of flesh from the demon's torso.
"I will secure your head," Kyojuro stated, his voice a ragged wheeze. "That is the only ending I accept."
Kaori watched from the edge of the clearing.
She huddled beneath the roots of the pine tree, cocooned in Kyojuro’s oversized haori. The wool smelled of ash and sunlight. It offered a meager defense against the freezing wind, but it grounded her.
Her golden eyes tracked the blur of the combatants. She processed the data with the analytical precision of a scholar witnessing a tragedy unfold in real-time.
She saw the crimson mist spray from Kyojuro’s lips. She watched the white gauze around his torso slowly turn a dark, saturated red. She calculated the trajectory of his swings, noting the micro-stutters in his form. His left arm lagged. His footwork dragged by a fraction of a millimeter.
He was dying.
He was trading his lifespan for ground. He was burning his own heart to ash to keep the monster away from her.
Akaza possessed endless stamina. The demon would regenerate until the sun crested the eastern peaks. Kyojuro possessed minutes. Perhaps less. The math was cruel and undeniable. The human limits were rigid, bound by biology and time.
Kaori clutched the fabric of the haori. Her knuckles turned white.
The cold seeping into her own skin was numbing. Her cellular structure continued its slow, agonizing collapse. The redaction of Muzan's blood left her hollow, a mortal shell waiting to expire. She lacked the strength to lift a stone. She lacked the ink to write a single word.
The narrative demands a casualty.
Her own cynical voice echoed in her mind. It was the voice of the Author. The voice of Upper Rank Two. The voice that believed every story required a sacrifice, a lesson etched in sorrow.
She watched Kyojuro take another blow to his shoulder, a glancing shockwave that shattered his collarbone anew. He didn't fall. He swung his blade, severing Akaza's leg.
He refused to surrender. He refused to acknowledge the predetermined plot.
Kaori stared at the blood on the snow. She stared at the man fighting a god of martial arts just to buy a dying girl a few more breaths of freezing air.
"I will not accept this draft," Kaori whispered.
The words tasted like cracked ice. They were weak. They lacked the resonant, terrifying echo of her demonic commands.
She pushed her hands against the frozen earth.
Her arms trembled. The muscles, stripped of their immortal augmentation, screamed in protest. Her joints felt like rusted iron.
She forced herself onto her knees.
The haori slipped from her shoulders, exposing her torn burgundy kimono to the biting wind. The cold lashed against her skin, stinging the jagged fissures that crisscrossed her pale flesh.
She refused to be a passive observer. She refused to play the role of the tragic victim, crying in the margins while the hero bled out on the page. She had severed the binding to Muzan. She was free.
She reached inward, searching the dark, hollow spaces of her dying body.
She searched for the black sumi ink. The well was dry. The cursed fluid was gone, purged during the redaction. The power of the Demon King no longer resided in her veins.
But the medium remained.
She was an artist. She was an author. The ink was merely a tool. The true power lay in the intent, in the sheer, undeniable force of the will driving the brush.
If she lacked the blood of a monster, she would use her own.
Kaori closed her eyes. She focused on the faint, erratic beating of her own human heart. She gathered the dwindling embers of her life force, scraping the very bottom of her soul. She bypassed the need for demonic fuel and tapped into the raw, unyielding core of her humanity.
Write.
She commanded herself.
A sensation sparked in her fingertips. It was not the cold, sluggish slither of the black ink. It was warm. It tingled, a frantic, electric vibration that traveled up her arms and settled in her chest.
She opened her eyes.
A fluid began to pool in her palms. It did not drip. It glowed.
It was ink, but it lacked the suffocating darkness of Muzan’s curse. It was a brilliant, searing white. It radiated a soft, luminescent light, casting a halo against the snowy backdrop. It was the literal manifestation of her remaining life force, distilled into a medium she could control.
Every drop of the white fluid carried a fraction of her lifespan. To use it was to accelerate her own death.
She did not hesitate.
Kaori planted her bare feet in the snow. She locked her knees. She stood up.
In the center of the clearing, the battle reached a frantic crescendo.
Kyojuro launched a sustained offensive, driving Akaza back toward the treeline. The white-hot flames of the Nichirin sword carved burning arcs through the cold air.
"Second Form: Rising Scorching Sun!"
The upward slash caught Akaza under the chin, severing his jaw.
Akaza flipped backward, his face knitting together before his sandals touched the ground. He landed in a crouch, his golden eyes locking onto Kyojuro’s stance.
The demon analyzed the opening.
Kyojuro had overextended. The upward trajectory of the second form left his left flank exposed for a fraction of a second. His fractured ribs hindered his ability to recover his guard in time.
Akaza smiled. He drove his fist forward.
"Destructive Death: Annihilation Type!"
It was a localized, concentrated version of his ultimate technique. A condensed shockwave of lethal blue pressure rocketed across the clearing, aimed directly at Kyojuro’s blind spot. It carried enough kinetic force to pulverize the Hashira's internal organs on impact.
Kyojuro saw it. He tried to pivot, trying to bring the flat of his blade around to intercept the blast.
His body betrayed him. His left leg buckled, the muscle tearing under the immense strain of the Mark. He was a microsecond too late.
The shockwave crossed the distance.
A figure stepped between the Hashira and the incoming death.
Kaori did not run. She simply materialized in the space, her bare feet sliding across the frozen mud. Her torn kimono fluttered in the gale generated by the approaching attack.
She raised her hand.
The glowing white ink surged from her fingertips. It did not form a solid, diamond-hard wall of text like her previous defenses. It moved fluidly, writing a single, elegant kanji in the air.
Deflect.
The character hovered in space, blazing with a pristine, undeniable light.
The blue shockwave slammed into the white text.
The impact did not shatter the forest. It did not create a crater. The white ink acted as a prism. It absorbed the kinetic energy of the Annihilation Type, breaking the shockwave apart and scattering it into a harmless mist of displaced air and falling snow.
The clearing went dead silent.
Kyojuro froze, his blade suspended in mid-arc. He stared at the glowing white text fading into the night air. He looked at the girl standing in front of him.
Kaori lowered her hand. The white ink dripped from her fingers, sizzling softly as it hit the snow. Her face was pale, the fissures on her skin glowing with a faint, ethereal light. She breathed in short, labored gasps, but she stood tall.
Akaza lowered his fist. The Upper Moon stared at the scene, genuine shock replacing the manic joy on his face. He looked at Kaori, sensing the absence of demonic power, yet witnessing a defense that defied his martial arts.
"What is this?" Akaza demanded. His voice dropped, losing its cheerful cadence. He focused his golden eyes on the glowing fluid dripping from her hands. "That is not your art. You severed the binding. You are mortal."
"I am the author," Kaori answered.
Her voice lacked the metallic, layered echo of her Upper Rank persona. It was soft. It was human. But it carried a quiet, unshakeable authority that demanded the attention of the world.
She turned her head slightly, looking over her shoulder at Kyojuro.
The crimson mark on his cheek pulsed. His chest heaved, his uniform soaked in his own blood. He looked battered, broken, and impossibly beautiful.
"You promised me a final chapter," Kaori said, a small, genuine smile touching her lips.
Kyojuro lowered his sword. The white fire on the blade dimmed for a second, then flared back to life, matching the intensity of the glowing ink in her hands. He stepped up beside her, aligning his stance with hers.
"I did," Kyojuro agreed. His gravelly voice steadied. He did not ask her to run. He did not tell her to hide. He understood the choice she had made.
Akaza watched them. The demon's compass needle flared, expanding across the clearing. The blue geometry tracked the dual signatures standing before him. One was a blazing, dying sun. The other was a fading, brilliant star.
"You are throwing your lives away," Akaza sneered, though a flicker of unease laced his tone. He tightened his fists, preparing another barrage. "You think this glowing parlor trick will save you? I will crush you both."
"Then strike," Kaori challenged.
She raised both hands. The white ink flowed freely now, swirling around her wrists in luminous ribbons. It illuminated the darkness, pushing back the shadows of the pine trees.
Kyojuro shifted his weight, ignoring the pain in his chest, and pushed off the frozen earth, leaving a crater of steaming dirt in his wake. Fueled by the newly awakened Demon Slayer Mark pulsing on his cheek, he launched a blistering offensive. His speed eclipsed anything he had demonstrated in their previous encounter. He bypassed the predictive sphere of Akaza’s compass needle, moving faster than demonic calculation.
Kyojuro swung his Nichirin blade. The white-hot flames carved a searing arc through the winter air, slicing clean through Akaza’s right shoulder before the Upper Moon could raise his guard.
Akaza spun backward, laughing a manic, thrilled sound that bounced off the pine trees. He looked at his severed arm falling into the snow. The flesh bubbled, struggling to regenerate against the residual thermal energy embedded in the wound.
"You crossed the threshold!" Akaza cheered, his golden eyes glowing with genuine delight. "Your power is on a different echelon! Show me more, Kyojuro!"
Akaza drove his remaining fist forward. "Destructive Death: Disorder!"
A barrage of lethal blue shockwaves rocketed across the clearing. They tore up the earth, aiming to pulverize the Hashira.
Kyojuro didn't raise his sword to block. He didn't need to.
Kaori stood behind him, her torn kimono snapping in the displaced wind. She raised her hands. The brilliant, glowing white ink—the raw manifestation of her human life force—swirled around her fingertips. She swept her hand in a wide, elegant arc. The ink trailed behind her motion, rewriting the space between Kyojuro and the incoming attack.
She wrote a single kanji: Disperse.
The blue shockwaves slammed into the glowing text. Instead of detonating, the destructive pressure unwound. The concussive blasts transformed into harmless, floating white letters that drifted away like falling snow. The attack dissolved into nothingness.
When she used the black ink of the Demon King, it felt like dragging chains. It felt oppressive and cold. This white ink felt like freedom. It burned her alive to conjure it, consuming her remaining lifespan, but she welcomed the burn. She owned this magic. It belonged to her.
Akaza landed on his feet, his smile faltering. He stared at the dissipating text, uncomprehending.
"What did you do to my technique?" Akaza demanded.
"I edited it," Kaori answered, her voice a calm, steady hum.
Kyojuro capitalized on the distraction. He lunged through the drifting white letters, driving his sword toward Akaza’s neck. Second Form: Rising Scorching Sun. He carved a trench of white fire up the demon's torso.
Akaza kicked Kyojuro’s hip, forcing the Hashira back. The Upper Moon glared at Kaori, enraged by her interference. He despised magic. He respected the purity of martial arts. Her conceptual defense offended his warrior sensibilities.
"You pollute a duel with parlor tricks!" Akaza roared. He slammed his fists together, launching another wave of compressed air. "Fight me with your sword, Kyojuro! Don't hide behind her scribbles!"
"Her scribbles are my shield!" Kyojuro answered, deflecting a stray shockwave before stepping forward to launch his own counterattack.
They fought as a synchronized, flawless unit. They required no spoken commands. Kyojuro provided the overwhelming offensive firepower, keeping Akaza on the defensive with a relentless barrage of white-hot sword strikes. Whenever Akaza found a window to launch a counter, Kaori rewrote the spatial reality around them. She turned lethal kicks into gentle breezes. She transformed concussive blasts into floating poetry. She altered the friction of the snow beneath Akaza's feet, causing the demon to slip and stumble just as Kyojuro’s blade descended.
Akaza grew frantic. He threw punches with blinding speed, but the coordination between the human and the former demon overwhelmed him. He couldn't land a clean hit. His regenerated flesh struggled to keep up with the constant, searing cuts.
"Die!" Akaza yelled, launching a shockwave aimed directly at Kaori's blind spot.
Kyojuro intercepted it. He threw his body into the path of the blast, taking the hit to his ribs to protect her. He coughed a spray of blood onto the snow, but he didn't yield an inch of ground. He retaliated with a thrust that pierced Akaza's lung.
Despite their tactical advantage, the toll on Kyojuro’s shattered body proved catastrophic.
The Demon Slayer Mark demanded fuel. It acted as an engine running without a governor, drawing power directly from his lifespan. Beneath the thick layers of medical gauze, his body screamed in protest. His heart battered against his sternum, maintaining a lethal rhythm. The hyper-oxygenated blood scorched his veins, turning his skin flush and radiating a heat that turned the falling snow into rain before it touched him. His fractured ribs, held together by sheer stubbornness, ground against his bruised lungs with every swing of his sword. Each breath felt like inhaling broken glass. He tasted copper. A steady stream of blood leaked from the corner of his mouth, staining his chin.
Kaori bore an even steeper cost.
Every time she summoned the glowing white ink, she accelerated her own cellular death. She burned her remaining lifespan to fuel the magic. The white ink was the distilled essence of her soul.
Kyojuro spun away from a flurry of punches, creating a momentary gap in the melee. He glanced at Kaori over his shoulder.
The sight stopped the breath in his lungs.
The skin on Kaori's hands and forearms flaked away. It didn't peel like sunburned flesh; it dissolved into glowing, luminescent ash that drifted upward into the night sky. The cracks on her face deepened, revealing a hollow, ethereal light beneath her cheekbones. Her breathing grew shallow, a ragged rasp that barely sustained her. She swayed on her feet, forcing her arms to remain raised to cast the next ward.
She was burning herself alive to keep him safe.
Kyojuro’s heart twisted in his chest. The crimson flame on his cheek flared with terrifying intensity. The realization that her existence vanished with every kanji she wrote shattered his tactical patience. He couldn't fight a war of attrition. He needed to end the demon immediately.
Kyojuro abandoned his defensive footwork. He threw himself at Akaza with frantic, terrifying aggression. He didn't bother dodging the next incoming punch. He let Akaza’s fist slam into his shoulder, dislocating the joint with a sickening crunch, just so he could close the distance and hack at the demon's neck.
"You are losing your mind!" Akaza cheered, ripping himself free from the sword and landing a brutal kick to the Hashira's side. "Your form is sloppy! You are desperate!"
"I will take your head!" Kyojuro roared. He forced his dislocated shoulder back into the socket by slamming his arm against a pine trunk. The pain whited out his vision for a microsecond, but he launched himself forward again. Fifth Form: Flame Tiger.
The fiery beast tore through the clearing, its jaws open wide. Akaza met it head-on, throwing shockwave after shockwave into the construct's maw.
Kaori watched Kyojuro take another devastating hit to the stomach. She saw the blood soaking through his bandages. She knew he fought recklessly because of her failing state. She looked at her hands. Both of her pinky fingers were gone, reduced to drifting embers. Her legs felt like lead. She dropped to her knees in the snow, unable to support her own weight.
"Kyojuro," she whispered, her voice barely carrying over the roar of the flames.
The eastern sky began to change.
The deep velvet blackness of the night thinned. A sliver of bruised purple broke across the mountain peaks, outlining the jagged horizon. The stars faded, replaced by the creeping gray light of impending morning.
Dawn approached.
Akaza noticed the shift in the light. The demon's golden eyes darted toward the mountains. A flicker of genuine panic crossed his face. The endless stamina of his demonic biology meant nothing if the sun touched his skin. He had wasted too much time. The white ink neutralized his best techniques, dragging the battle out until the morning light threatened to consume him.
He couldn't retreat. The Master ordered him to bring back the traitor's head.
Desperate to secure his kill before the sun rose, Akaza leaped backward, clearing twenty yards in a single bound. He landed in the center of a wide, untouched snowdrift.
He dropped his defensive stance entirely. He didn't raise his fists to block. He widened his stance and rooted his bare feet deep into the frozen earth. The snow crunched beneath his heels.
The compass needle beneath him flared, expanding until it covered the entire clearing. The blue light pulsed, vibrating with a lethal, concentrated resonance that made the air hum.
"You fought well," Akaza called out. His voice lost its joyful cadence, settling into a cold, grim finality. "You surpassed the limits of your mortal shell. You earned a warrior's death. I won't hold anything back."
He pulled his right arm back to his hip. The air pressure in the forest collapsed. The falling snow suspended in mid-air, caught in the gravitational pull of the demon's gathering power.
"Destructive Death," Akaza declared.
Kyojuro recognized the stance. The Annihilation Type. A singular, unavoidable blast of kinetic energy designed to obliterate everything in its path.
Kyojuro looked at Kaori. She knelt in the snow, her body crumbling into white ash. She couldn't write another defense. She didn't have enough lifespan left to conjure the ink. If the shockwave hit her, she would vanish into nothingness.
Kyojuro moved. He didn't charge Akaza. He stepped backward, positioning himself squarely in front of Kaori. He became a living shield.
He planted his sandals in the snow, carving deep trenches to anchor his stance. He gripped his Nichirin blade with both hands. The crimson Mark on his face burned, searing his skin, demanding the very last drops of his blood to fuel the furnace in his chest.
He drew a breath. He pulled the freezing mountain air into his ruined lungs, ignoring the agonizing grate of his shattered ribs. He ignited the oxygen, pushing his core temperature to a level that began to singe his own hair. The blade in his hands roared, the white fire expanding into a swirling vortex of heat.
Kaori looked up at the broad expanse of his back. She saw the blood staining his clothes. She saw the unwavering line of his shoulders. He intended to stand there and take the brunt of an Upper Moon's ultimate technique just to ensure she survived to see the sunrise.
She refused to let him fight alone.
Kaori pushed herself up. Her legs trembled, shedding glowing ash onto the snow. She took a step forward, closing the distance between them.
She wrapped her arms around Kyojuro’s waist from behind.
Kyojuro gasped as her cold, failing body pressed against his back. "Kaori—stay back!"
"No," she whispered, resting her cheek against his shoulder blade. "I am staying right here."
She pressed her dissolving hands flat against his stomach, right over his gripping fingers. She summoned every remaining fraction of her soul. She didn't write kanji in the air. She poured the glowing, brilliant white ink directly into Kyojuro.
The luminescent fluid flowed from her palms, wrapping around Kyojuro’s forearms like shining ribbons. The ink traveled down the hilt of the sword and seeped into the steel blade.
The fire reacted. The white flames of the Nichirin sword merged with the glowing white ink of the author. The element transcended fire. It became a blinding, transcendent pillar of light that shot upward, piercing the canopy of the pine trees and illuminating the dying night.
Kyojuro felt her fading life force intertwine with his own. He felt the cold of her decaying cells and the searing heat of his burning heart forge into a singular, devastating weapon.
"Annihilation Type!" Akaza roared, thrusting his fist forward.
The blue shockwave detonated, a localized hurricane of crushing pressure hurtling across the clearing to erase them.
Kyojuro raised the blazing, ink-infused sword high above his head.
"Ninth Form," Kyojuro shouted, his voice blending with the quiet, defiant hum of Kaori's dying magic. "Rengoku!"
They launched.
To Be Continued...
——— ✦ ———
Thank you for reading. ♡
✦ Check out my Patreon for more content. I'm four chapters ahead on my fics there.
✦ THE MAIN UNIVERSE ✦ Love my writing? Check out my Gothic Romantasy novel — Liquid Sunlight.
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Tagging: @ynackerman9499 @beereadzzz @aslayerofmonsters @gyutarokin @virgoelf-blog @huamenghuli
The Soldier & The Daisy — Chapter Twenty Three
THE VIPER'S GAMBIT
"'You are the one who is blind! He is not the traitor! He is the one I trust!'"
✦ Pairing — [Levi x OC]
✦ Rating — 18+
✦ Warnings/Tropes - [AU, Canon Divergence, No War, Forbidden Romance, Bodyguard Romance, Nobility, Class Differences, Slow Burn, Secret Relationship, Smut, Smut in the first chapter, Romantic Tension, Angst, Fluff, Rebellious Protagonist, Assassination attempts, Ballet Enthusiast, Protective Levi Ackerman, Levi Ackerman is Bad at Feelings, POV Levi Ackerman, Forbidden Love, Affairs]
✦ Table of Contents
——— ✦ ———
Chapter Twenty Three: The Viper's Gambit
The alarm bell was a frantic, iron heartbeat, each CLANG a hammer blow against the cold, midnight air. Daisy stood frozen, her hand still gripping the stallion’s bridle, her breath a raw, burning sob in her chest. The stable, her intended sanctuary, had become a trap.
Gregor and Thom advanced slowly from the side door, their drawn swords gleaming in the flickering lantern light they carried. They held their blades low, a gesture of non-aggression, but their faces were grim, their movements deliberate.
“My lady, please,” Gregor said, his voice a low, steady rumble, attempting to cut through her panic. “Come with us. You are not safe. The Duke is terrified you’ve been taken.”
“Daisy, no!” A second voice, high-pitched and frantic, sliced through the chaos from the main entrance. Sophia stood there, a dark silhouette against the moonlit chaos of the courtyard, her arm outstretched, her face a pale, tear-streaked mask of what looked like terror. “Don’t go with them! They’ll lock you up! Come with me, please! The house is compromised! I know a place in the old wine cellars we can hide!”
Daisy was pinned, a butterfly caught between two advancing, terrible choices.
The guards. Gregor and Thom. They were her father’s men, symbols of his authority, of the prison she had just fled. To go with them was to surrender, to be dragged back to her gilded cage, to be labeled a hysterical, disobedient child. It was a known, certain fate, a slow, suffocating death of her spirit.
And Sophia. Her best friend. Her sister. The one person she had trusted with her deepest, most fragile secrets. Sophia was offering her a lifeline, a secret path, a continuation of her escape. Her heart, a creature of habit and affection, wanted to trust her. It screamed at her to run to the familiar comfort, to the hand that had held hers for a lifetime.
But…
Levi’s face. The image flashed in her mind, sharp and vivid as a lightning strike. The farmhouse. The gold coins spilling onto the floor. And Levi’s gaze, his stormy gray eyes, wide with a stunned, dawning horror, snapping not to the guards, not to the evidence, but to her. To Sophia.
Why?
The question, a tiny, cold splinter of doubt, had been festering in her mind for days, a wound she had refused to examine. Why had he looked at Sophia with such raw, bottomless betrayal?
Sophia’s plan—hiding in a dark, enclosed cellar. A trap. The word echoed in Daisy’s mind, cold and sharp. A place with no exits. A place where a scream would never be heard. A place to be cornered. A potential tomb.
The guards, as terrifying as they were, were a known quantity. A return to her room was a prison, but it was a prison she knew. Hiding in a cellar with a person she suddenly, terrifyingly, wasn't sure about…
She made her choice.
“No, Sophia,” Daisy said, her voice trembling but firm. She let her hand fall from the stallion’s bridle. The horse tossed its head, its nervous energy a mirror of her own. She took one step away from the stall, her hands raised in a gesture of weary, calculated surrender. “I’ll… I’ll go with them.”
A flash of pure, unadulterated panic crossed Sophia’s face, a flicker of something so raw and so real it made Daisy’s blood run cold. It was gone in an instant, replaced by a mask of heartbroken confusion. She saw it.
“My lady?” Sophia whispered, her voice breaking.
But it was too late. Gregor and Thom were at her side. “Thank the gods, my lady,” Gregor said, his voice rough with relief. He gently, firmly, took her arm. “Let’s get you back to the Duke. You are safe now.”
Safe, Daisy thought, a bitter, hysterical laugh bubbling in her throat. She had just walked from one trap straight into another.
…
Simultaneously, in the damp, subterranean chill of the dungeon corridor, a different standoff was taking place. The air was thick with the smell of mold, of fear, and of the faint, coppery tang of Levi’s own blood from where his head had struck the stone. He was weaponless, his hands raised in a gesture of placation, but his body was a coiled spring, his gray eyes burning with a cold, desperate, and terrifying fire.
“Stand down, Ackerman!” Markus bellowed, his voice echoing in the narrow, torch-lit passage. The alarm bell was a frantic, muffled thunder above them. Markus was visibly torn, his sword held steady, but his eyes wide with a conflict that was almost palpable. “Don’t make this worse.”
“The alarm is for her,” Levi said, his voice a low, urgent growl. He didn’t shout. He didn’t plead. He commanded, his voice a blade of pure, cold logic. “She’s running.”
“She’s running from you!” one of the other guards snapped.
“She’s running from the real traitor,” Levi shot back, his gaze locked on Markus, man to man, soldier to soldier. “It’s Sophia.”
Markus’s face contorted, a brief, sharp flicker of disbelief. “That’s insane! The maid? She’s been with the family for years! The evidence…”
“The evidence was planted!” Levi snarled, taking a single, sharp step forward, a movement that made all three guards tense, their blades lifting. “Use your head, Markus! You’re a soldier, not a blind fool! Why would I surrender at the farmhouse if I was guilty? Why would I let you take me? I had her. I could have killed her a hundred times! I’ve had a hundred opportunities!”
He pointed up, towards the sounds of the chaos that were now filtering down into the dungeon. “That alarm means one of two things: Daisy figured it out, or Sophia is making her move right now. Your Duke is blind. He’s a father, and his grief is making him stupid. But you aren’t. Who benefits from me being locked in here while Daisy is being hunted up there?” He jabbed a finger at his own chest, his voice a low, terrifying whisper. “Her. I am not your enemy. The person who wants Daisy dead is still in that house, and you left her alone with her!”
The words, so full of a raw, desperate logic, hit Markus with the force of a physical blow. He stared at the man before him, at the fierce, unwavering conviction in his gaze, at the undeniable, chilling truth that Levi could have, at any point, finished the job. He had seen the evidence. He had believed it. But now… now, in the face of this raw, desperate plea, the first, tiny cracks began to appear in the bedrock of his certainty.
Before he could speak, before he could make the choice that would define the rest of his life, a new sound joined the chaotic chorus from above. The frantic, pounding clatter of boots on the stone stairs.
A young guard, breathless and pale, skidded to a halt at the top of the dungeon steps. “Captain!” he gasped, his voice reedy with panic. “Captain Markus! They’ve found Lady Daisy! She’s in the main stables!”
The news broke the standoff, a surge of adrenaline that shattered the frozen tableau. Markus made a split-second decision. His duty was to the Duke, but his instincts… his instincts were screaming that Ackerman was right.
“We’re all going,” he commanded, his voice a low, gravelly boom. He gestured with his sword, not at Levi’s chest, but towards the stairs. “You first, Ackerman.” He shoved Levi forward, the chains on his wrists rattling, a grim, metallic sound. “No tricks.”
Levi complied instantly, a wave of cold, sharp relief washing over him. He wasn't free. But he was out. And he was being escorted directly to the scene. He took the stairs two at a time, his bare feet slapping against the cold stone, his mind a whirlwind of calculation and a single, burning, desperate prayer. Let me be in time.
…
The main stables were a scene of controlled chaos. The air, thick with the smell of hay, of horses, and of a new, sharp, human fear, was filled with the flickering, dancing light of a dozen lanterns. Guards, their faces grim, their swords drawn, had formed a loose perimeter, their presence a wall of steel and authority.
Daisy stood in the center of the room, her hand still gripping Max’s collar, the dog’s low, menacing growl a constant, vibrating counterpoint to the nervous whinnies of the horses. Gregor and Thom stood on either side of her, not holding her, but shielding her, their expressions a mixture of relief and a deep, unsettling confusion. Sophia was there, a step behind Daisy, her hand resting on her arm, her face a mask of tearful, relieved concern.
The heavy stable doors burst open, slamming against the stone walls, and a new group entered, their arrival shifting the entire dynamic of the room. Duke Desmond strode in first, his silver hair wild, his nightshirt flapping from beneath a hastily donned velvet dressing gown. His face was a mask of thunder and a profound, palpable relief.
“Daisy!” he roared, his voice cracking with emotion. He crossed the stable in three great strides, his arms open, and pulled her into a crushing, desperate embrace. “Thank God! You’re safe. They got you. Did he… did his accomplices harm you?”
Daisy was stiff in his arms, her body trembling, her mind a blur of confusion. “Papa, I…”
But before she could speak, before she could even process his words, a second group entered the stable, and her heart stopped.
Markus. And two of his men. And between them, his hands bound in heavy, gleaming iron chains, his face pale but his eyes burning with a cold, desperate fire, was Levi.
The sight of him, a captive, a prisoner, his body language a testament to the brutal, humiliating force that had been used against him, hit her with the force of a physical blow. The blood matted in his dark hair, a stark, crimson stain from the “seizure” he had faked in his cell, was a visual, visceral proof of their cruelty.
“Levi!” she screamed, the sound a raw, agonized wail of relief and pure, unadulterated horror. She tore herself from her father’s embrace, her hands reaching for him, a desperate, instinctual movement. “No! What have you done to him?!”
“Get that traitor out of her sight!” the Duke bellowed, his arm shooting out, barring her path, his face a mask of righteous fury. “He has bewitched you, child! He has poisoned your mind!”
Levi ignored the Duke. He ignored Markus. He ignored the guards, the chains, the entire, chaotic, threatening world. His stormy gray eyes, sharp and analytical, found Daisy’s instantly. He saw her, safe, unharmed, for now. And then, his gaze shifted, moving past her, and he saw her.
Sophia. She had plastered herself to Daisy’s side, her arm snaking around her waist, a perfect, comforting tableau of loyalty and shared terror. “Oh, my lady,” she whispered, her voice trembling for all to hear. “It’s him! They’ve caught the traitor! You’re safe now!”
It was the look. The look of pure, unadulterated, and triumphant hypocrisy.
Daisy, caught between her father’s rage and Levi’s silent, burning intensity, finally shattered. The Duke’s assumption, his blind, unshakeable conviction of Levi’s guilt, coupled with the raw, desperate warning she saw in Levi’s eyes… it was too much.
She tore herself from her father’s grasp, her movements no longer those of a frightened girl, but of a woman pushed past the breaking point.
“No!” she screamed, her voice high and thin, ringing with a conviction that was so absolute it stunned the room into a momentary silence. She didn’t point at Levi. She pointed at her father. “You are the one who is blind! He is not the traitor! He is the one I trust!”
And then, in a move that no one, least of all her father or her betrayer, could have ever anticipated, she whirled, her arm shooting out, her finger pointing not at the man in chains, but at the woman who was “comforting” her.
“It’s her!”
The accusation, so sharp, so unexpected, hung in the air, a stunning, unbelievable thing. Sophia flinched as if she had been physically struck, her face crumbling, a fresh, theatrical wave of “hysterical” sobs erupting from her.
“My lady!” she cried, her voice breaking with a masterful, wounded disbelief. “No! How can you…?”
“He was trying to warn me!” Daisy shrieked, her voice now high and thin, the picture of a woman on the very edge of madness. She was frantic, her gaze darting between her father and Markus, her words tumbling out in a desperate, chaotic torrent. “Don’t you see? At the farmhouse! When the evidence was found! He wasn’t looking at me! He was looking at her! He knew! He was trying to warn me! She’s the traitor! She planted the evidence! You have to believe me! She planted it!”
The Duke stared at his daughter, his face a mask of cold, horrified disbelief. His relief at finding her safe curdled into a deep, profound, and utterly public embarrassment. In front of his head of security, in front of the man he had just arrested, in front of a dozen of his own men, his daughter, his heiress, was having a complete, love-sick, and delusional breakdown. She was defending a proven traitor and accusing her loyal, weeping, and utterly devoted maid.
It was a humiliation. It was a disgrace.
“Enough!” he roared, his voice cracking like a whip, a sound of such absolute, paternal authority that it silenced Daisy instantly, her frantic words dying in her throat. He strod towards her, his face a mask of thunder. “You are not yourself. You are overwrought, bewitched by this… this criminal.” His contempt for Levi was a tangible, venomous thing. “I will not hear another word of this ludicrous, shameful, and childish accusation. You are embarrassing yourself, and you are embarrassing this family.”
Sophia, still sobbing, hid her face in her hands, her shoulders shaking with the force of her “grief.” But beneath her palms, a small, dark, and triumphant smile flickered across her lips. She was safe. The Duke himself, in his blind, aristocratic rage, had protected her. He had dismissed Daisy’s accusation as the ravings of a hysterical girl. She had won.
…
The Duke’s humiliation was a tangible thing, a heavy, suffocating blanket that smothered the last of Daisy’s frantic, hysterical energy. His rage, so explosive moments before, now solidified into a cold, hard resolve. He turned his back on his daughter, his posture rigid with a disappointment that was a thousand times more painful than his anger.
He jabbed a finger, not at Daisy, but at the man in chains. “Take him back to the dungeon,” he commanded, his voice a low, gravelly rumble, heavy with a weariness that went bone-deep. “I am done with this madness.”
“Wait.”
The word was not a plea. It was not a request. It was a command, spoken with a quiet, glacial authority that sliced through the Duke’s fury and stunned the entire stable into a new, electric silence. Every head, every eye, turned to the man in chains.
Levi had not moved. He had simply stood there, a silent, watchful predator, observing every nuance, every flicker of emotion, his mind a cold, analytical machine. He had seen Daisy’s fierce, unwavering defense. He had seen Sophia’s masterful, manipulative performance. And he had seen the Duke’s blind, paternal rage.
He stepped forward, the heavy iron chains on his wrists clinking softly, the only sound in the sudden, profound stillness. He ignored the guards who tensed beside him. He ignored the Duke’s look of murderous, incredulous rage. His gaze, cold and sharp as a surgeon’s scalpel, was fixed on only one person.
“You were alone in the farmhouse,” he said, his voice a low, terrifying monotone, each word a carefully placed stone in the foundation of his accusation. “You faked your sickness. You planted the evidence.”
Sophia flinched, a full-body recoil, her face a mask of pale, theatrical terror. “No!” she shrieked, her voice a high-pitched, desperate sound. She scrambled behind Daisy, her hands gripping her mistress’s arm, a perfect, calculated tableau of a frightened bird seeking shelter. “My lady, he’s threatening me! He’s mad! Don’t let him near me!”
Levi’s gaze didn’t waver. He ignored her, his attention shifting, his words now directed at Markus and the Duke, at the two men in the room whose minds were not clouded by emotion, but by a duty to the truth. “The evidence was planted,” he stated, his voice flat, devoid of passion. “But a traitor who is so careful, so methodical… would never be foolish enough to carry the payment and the incriminating letter on their person. They would hide it.”
He turned his head, his stormy gray eyes finding Daisy’s, and his gaze was not one of affection, but of sharp, urgent inquiry. “Your room. When you were ‘helping’ her. Did she ever go near your desk? Your jewelry box?”
Daisy’s blood ran cold. Her mind, frantic and confused, flashed back. The past few days… Sophia, always tidying, always hovering, her movements a blur of efficient, unobtrusive service. “Let me put that away for you, my lady.” “You must rest, my lady, I will handle this.” She had been everywhere. Her desk. Her wardrobe. Her vanity.
“My… my diary,” Daisy whispered, the words a cold, dawning horror in her throat. Her eyes, wide and terrified, snapped to Sophia’s. “She… she knew I was writing in it. She knew where I kept the key. She… she was in my room… alone. Multiple times.”
The Duke’s face, which had been a mask of cold, righteous fury, faltered. A flicker of something new, something unsettling, passed through his eyes. Doubt.
“Markus,” he said, his voice no longer a roar, but a low, trembling command, the first crack in the wall of his certainty. “Go. Search the maid’s quarters. Now.”
The color drained from Sophia’s face. This was a disaster. This was a complication Gretchen had not foreseen. Her room. Her belongings. The vial. The other vial. The one she had not yet had the chance to use.
“No!” she shrieked, her voice no longer a performance of wounded innocence, but a raw, genuine sound of pure, unadulterated panic. “You have no right! I am a loyal servant! I have done nothing! My lady, tell them! Tell them!”
“Check her uniform,” Levi’s voice cut through her hysterical cries, his tone as cold and as sharp as ice. “A good servant is always prepared. Check her apron. Check the lining of her dress. A traitor always has their tools.”
The words, so full of a chilling, absolute certainty, landed like a death knell in the silent stable. Markus, his own face now a mask of grim, dawning suspicion, gave a single, curt nod. He didn’t bother with her room. He turned, his gaze fixed on the weeping, frantic girl who was still clinging to his mistress’s arm.
He took a step towards her. Sophia recoiled, her eyes wide and wild, like a cornered rat. “No!” she screamed, her voice a high-pitched, desperate sound. “Get away from me! My lady, help me! Please!”
She tried to back away, to scramble behind Daisy, to use her as a human shield. But Gregor and Thom, their faces a mixture of confusion and a new, terrible understanding, were faster. They seized her arms, their grips like iron vices.
She fought them, her body bucking and twisting, her screams echoing in the high, raftered ceiling of the stable. “Get off me! Let me go! I’ve done nothing! Daisy, please! Help me!”
Daisy simply stood there, frozen, her hand over her mouth, her heart a cold, heavy stone in her chest, as she watched the woman she had loved as a sister, the woman who had been her only confidant, her friend, writhing like an animal in the grip of the guards.
Markus was fast, impersonal. He ignored her screams, his hands moving over her uniform with a practiced, detached efficiency. He patted down her apron, his fingers finding nothing but the soft, worn linen. He moved to her bodice, his hand brushing against her ribs, and then, he froze.
His hand rested on a small, hard, cylindrical object, sewn deep into the lining of her dress.
Sophia let out a sound, a low, agonized wail of pure, unadulterated despair. The fight went out of her instantly. Her body went limp in the guards’ grasp, her head falling forward, her shoulders shaking with great, shuddering, silent sobs. She knew. It was over.
Markus didn’t hesitate. He took his own knife, the one he kept strapped to his belt, and with a single, quick, ripping sound, he cut the stitches. A small, dark glass vial, corked and sealed with wax, fell from the opening, landing with a soft, almost inaudible thud on the hay-strewn floor.
The stable was silent. The only sound was Sophia’s ragged, heartbroken sobs. Everyone stared at the vial. It was small, discreet, and identical in every way to the one that had been found in the Duke’s study, the one that had held the poison meant for Daisy. The proof, the final, irrefutable, and utterly devastating proof, lay at their feet.
Daisy stared at the vial, her mind a numb, white void. She looked at the small, dark bottle, then at the friend who had just, hours before, been "comforting" her, her mind struggling to reconcile the two images. The betrayal was so profound, so absolute, so monstrous, that her brain simply… stopped. She couldn't speak. She couldn't breathe. She couldn't even cry.
Sophia, her face a mask of crumbling, agonizing despair, finally collapsed, her legs giving way, the guards the only thing holding her up. The game was over. The lie was dead. The weight of her guilt, the terror for her parents, the agonizing, soul-deep betrayal of the woman she had genuinely, in her own twisted way, loved as a friend… it all came pouring out.
“She made me!” she screamed, the words ripped from her throat, a raw, desperate, and utterly broken sound. She was no longer performing. This was the truth. “She has my parents! She said she’d kill them! She said she’d burn them in their beds!”
...
The Duke stared at the weeping, collapsed figure of the maid, his face a pale, ghostly white, his entire world tilting on its axis. “Who?” he whispered, his voice a low, trembling command, the single word a plea for an answer that he knew, with a dawning, sickening certainty, would destroy him. “Who made you, Sophia?”
Sophia’s head snapped up, her eyes, wide and wild with terror and a new, desperate, liberating fury, scanning the crowd. She was a woman with nothing left to lose. Her betrayal was complete. Her life was over. But she would not go down alone. She would not let the woman who had done this to her, who had threatened her family, who had forced her to become this… this monster, walk away unscathed.
Her gaze swept past the Duke, past the stunned, uncomprehending faces of the guards, past the cold, watchful eyes of Levi, and it landed, with a final, damning focus, on the main stable doorway.
A new figure had arrived, drawn by the cessation of the alarm, by the new, heavy, and terrifying silence that had fallen over the estate. Duchess Gretchen LaRue stood there, her face a mask of cold, imperious fury, her bird-like features sharp with impatience, her eyes already taking in the scene, her mind clearly calculating, processing the fact that her perfect, intricate plan had, in some catastrophic, unforeseen way, failed.
Sophia’s arm shot out, her finger pointing, trembling with the force of her accusation.
“IT WAS HER!” she screamed, her voice a raw, shattered, and triumphant sound that echoed in the rafters. “DUCHESS GRETCHEN! SHE’S ‘THE MINISTER’!”
The accusation, so monstrous, so impossible, hung in the air, a final, devastating explosion. The Duke stared, his mouth agape, his mind reeling. He looked from the weeping, hysterical maid to his oldest friend’s wife, a woman he had known for thirty years, a woman who had sat at his table, a woman who was to be his daughter’s mother-in-law.
“Gretchen?” he whispered, the name a question, a plea, a denial. “This is… this is madness…”
Gretchen’s mask of civility, the carefully constructed facade of the poised, elegant Duchess, finally, completely, dropped. Her lips, usually a thin, displeased line, curved into a cold, reptilian sneer. “The girl is hysterical,” she spat, her voice dripping with a venom that was far more revealing than any confession. “A lying, pathetic, and clearly unstable servant. You would take her word over mine, Desmond?”
“The ring,” Levi’s voice cut through the Duke’s stunned confusion, his tone as cold and as sharp as ice. He had not moved, but his gaze, fixed on Gretchen, was a blade. “The one from the go-between. The raven with the broken wing. Check her.”
Gretchen’s eyes, those sharp, bird-like, and now utterly murderous eyes, snapped to Levi. She took an involuntary, panicked step back, her hand instinctively moving to the lacy, black glove that covered her right hand.
But Markus, his mind now a crystal of cold, hard certainty, was faster. He was no longer the Duke’s man, no longer Levi’s subordinate. He was an instrument of justice. He crossed the stable in two great strides, his hand shooting out, seizing Gretchen’s wrist before she could move, before she could run.
“Get your filthy hands off of me!” she shrieked, her voice a high-pitched, desperate sound, her composure shattered. She tried to pull away, her other hand coming up to claw at his face, but Markus was a soldier, and she was a woman in a silk gown. He held her fast, his grip like iron.
With his free hand, he grabbed the edge of her lacy black glove and, with a single, sharp, ripping motion, pulled it off.
The stable was silent. Everyone stared at the hand he held aloft in the lantern light. There, on her fourth finger, was a heavy, opulent, and unmistakably masculine gold ring. And set within it, a large, black onyx stone, its surface carved with the clear, damning, and irrefutable sigil of a raven with a broken wing.
The Duke let out a sound. It was not a word. It was a low, agonized, and utterly broken sound, the sound of a man’s world, his life, his past, his friendships, all turning to ash in his mouth. He stared at the woman he had called friend, and he saw the monster beneath, the viper he had welcomed into his home.
His order, when it came, was not a roar of passion. It was the cold, quiet, and absolute voice of judgment. “Markus. Arrest her.”
His gaze then shifted, moving from the seething, defeated Duchess to the man who still stood, bound and silent, in the center of the room. The man he had condemned, the man he had called traitor. The man who had been right all along.
“And get these chains off of Captain Ackerman,” he said, his voice thick with a shame so profound it was almost a physical weight. “Now.”
Markus didn't hesitate. He thrust the still-seething Duchess into the grip of his men and strode to Levi’s side. He produced a key, his hands, for the first time, trembling slightly. The heavy iron lock sprang open with a sharp, metallic click.
The chains fell from Levi’s wrists, clattering to the hay-strewn floor with a sound of final, beautiful, and hard-won freedom. He didn't move for a moment, simply stood there, rubbing his raw, chafed wrists, the blood beginning to flow back into his numb fingers. His gaze, cold, hard, and utterly victorious, was fixed on the woman who had tried to destroy him, on the woman who had, in her arrogance, so catastrophically, underestimated him.
Daisy, her legs, her strength, her very will, finally giving out, slid to the floor, her body slumping against the rough wood of the stall. She wasn't fainting. She was just… empty. The terror, the grief, the betrayal, the relief… it was too much. She buried her face in her hands, her shoulders shaking as the first, choked, hysterical sobs of a battle finally, terrifyingly, won, began to break free.
To Be Continued...
——— ✦ ———
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The real folklore behind my villain, what inspired him (and what I did to him).
You guys!!
I completely forgot to tell you all that I made a Substack 😅
It's primarily for my author career, so it's going to be mostly Liquid Sunlight content (worldbuilding, folklore deep-dives, free short stories from the universe, my writing process, all that good stuff.)
This is my third and it's about the Lusca ( my Muzan inspired villain) a Bahamian sea monster that lives in the blue holes of Andros.
The article talks about the actual folklore, a Bahamian author who reimagined the Lusca as a woman and a guardian, and the Demon Slayer + Lucifer inspirations behind my version.
If any of that sounds like your thing, come read it (and share it if you feel so moved 🥹).
Damaged — Chapter Twenty Six
THE WEIGHT OF THE DEAD
"If he loved Rose, he would kill her. Or the world would kill her to hurt him. And the thought of Rose broken at the base of a tree, the thought of filling out her death report… it was a black hole."
✦ Pairing — [Levi x OC]
✦ Rating — 18+
✦ Warnings/Tropes - [Pre-Canon, Female Anti-Hero, Serial Killer OC, Eventual Smut, Psychopath in Love, Blood and Violence, Revenge, Drugs, Strippers & Strip Clubs, Mental Health Issues, Cat and Mouse game, Slow Burn, Mind Manipulation, Assassination, Action, Romance, Mystery, Levi Ackerman Needs a Hug, Fighting as Foreplay, Levi Ackerman gets rattled, Levi meets his match, Enemies to Lovers, OC is a stripper]
✦ Table of Contents
——— ✦ ———
Chapter Twenty Six: The Weight Of The Dead
The sound of the Trost gate sealing was not a thunderclap. It was a groan, a long, rusted protest of metal against stone that seemed to vibrate in the hollow spaces of Rose’s chest. It was the sound of a coffin lid sliding into place.
The sky above was a flat, unforgiving sheet of slate grey, pressing down on the city like a physical weight. There was no sun, no rain, just a dry, oppressive gloom that matched the cavalcade of broken soldiers riding slowly down the main thoroughfare.
The return of the 57th Expedition was not greeted with cheers. It was not even greeted with the usual mixture of awe and pity. It was greeted with a silence so profound, so thick, it felt as if the city itself was holding its breath, afraid to exhale.
Rose rode at the head of the formation, flanked by the few survivors of the vanguard. To her right sat Captain Levi. He sat stiffly in his saddle, his posture rigid, unnatural. She knew why. His ankle, twisted badly in the final confrontation with the Female Titan, was screaming with every jarring step of his horse. But his face betrayed nothing. It was a mask of cold, indifferent fury, his gray eyes fixed on a point in the middle distance, refusing to acknowledge the crowd, the city, or the pain.
She mirrored him. She forced her spine straight, forced her expression into a mask of bored, lethal detachment. Her face was pale, streaked with grime and dried blood that wasn't hers, but her hands were steady on the reins. They were automatons, the Captain and his Lieutenant, performing their final, terrible duty: leading the retreat of a ghost army.
The crowd that lined the streets pressed against the barricades, their faces a sea of confusion and dawning horror. They scanned the ranks, looking for sons, for daughters, for the triumphant return of humanity’s hope. Instead, they saw empty wagons. They saw horses with empty saddles led by exhausted comrades. They saw the shattered remnants of the Levi Squad—or rather, they saw the space where the Levi Squad should have been.
"Where are the rest?" a voice called out from the crowd, thin and anxious.
"They're back already?" another murmured. "It's barely been half a day."
"Look at their faces... that's not a victory."
Rose heard them. Every whisper was a lash. She stared straight ahead, her mind a fortress she had hastily reconstructed over the ruin of the last few hours. If she looked at them, if she let herself see the mothers searching for faces that were currently dissolving in the acid of a Titan’s stomach, the fortress would crumble. And she could not crumble. Not here. Not while Levi was holding himself together with nothing but spite and discipline.
They reached the inner plaza, the horses’ hooves clattering loudly on the cobblestones. The formation dissolved, not with military precision, but with the weary, disorganized slump of men and women who had nothing left to give.
Erwin was waiting. He stood by the entrance to the military headquarters, his face as unreadable as a statue’s. But Rose, who had learned to read the nuances of command, saw the tightness around his eyes, the slight, almost imperceptible slump of his shoulders. He knew. He had seen the flares. He had counted the returning soldiers.
The debrief was short, brutal, and devoid of any pretense of hope.
They stood in Erwin’s office, a room that smelled of old paper and cold tea. Commander Nile Dok of the Military Police was already there, flanked by two of his officers. Nile’s expression was a mixture of smug vindication and performative concern. He looked at the battered, bloodied Scouts with the disdain of a man who kept his boots clean.
Erwin stood behind his desk; he did not sit. Levi stood by the window, his weight shifted off his bad leg, his back to the room. Rose stood at attention near the door, a silent sentinel.
"Report," Nile said, though it wasn't really a request. He already knew the answer.
"The mission failed," Erwin said. His voice was flat, a monotone recitation of disaster. "The target, a female-form Titan exhibiting human intelligence and shifting capabilities, successfully evaded capture after causing significant casualties. We failed to reach the Shiganshina District. We failed to secure Eren Jaeger's objective."
He paused, the silence stretching thin. "And his power remains unproven."
Nile let out a short, sharp breath, almost a laugh. He stepped forward, smoothing the front of his pristine unicorn-emblazoned jacket. "Unproven. You led a third of your regiment to the slaughter, Commander, for 'unproven.' You gambled the fate of the walls on a boy who couldn't even hold his own."
He reached into his jacket and produced a folded document, placing it on Erwin’s desk with a sharp thwack.
"As per the terms of the military tribunal," Nile announced, his voice ringing with the authority of the inner wall, "custody of Eren Jaeger is hereby transferred to the Military Police. He is to be transported to the capital immediately for... secure containment."
Levi didn't turn around. Rose didn't twitch. They stood like statues as the door opened and four MP officers marched in. They were heading for the infirmary cot where Eren lay, sedated and unconscious, blissfully unaware that the comrades he had tried to save were dead, and that his own fate was now sealed in a dungeon in Mitras.
Rose watched them pass. She watched them shackle the boy’s wrists, watched them haul his limp form onto a stretcher. Eren looked small, frail, just a kid caught in a nightmare he didn't understand.
The anger flared in her chest, hot and sudden—a desire to wrap her wires around Nile’s throat, to slice through the MPs, to take the boy and run. But the soldier in her, the cold, pragmatic creature Andreas had forged, clamped a hand over the anger’s mouth.
It’s over, the soldier whispered. We lost. Resistance now is just treason.
Levi turned from the window as the MPs carried Eren out. His face was a blank sheet. He met Rose’s eyes across the room. There was no communication in the look, no shared plan. Just a mutual, hollow acknowledgement of the reality.
They had lost everything. The squad. The mission. The boy. The hope.
Their sacrifice meant absolutely nothing.
…
The room was dead silent. It was night now, the oppressive grey sky having deepened into a suffocating black. Levi’s office, which had served as the tactical nerve center for the Special Operations Squad for the last month, felt like a tomb.
The maps were still on the walls, marked with routes they would never take. The chairs were arranged around the small table, empty, waiting for ghosts to sit in them. A single oil lamp burned on the desk, casting long, flickering shadows that danced in the corners of the room.
Levi sat on one side of the desk. Rose sat on the other.
Between them lay the true cost of the expedition. Not gold, not territory, but paper. A stack of blank forms. The official After-Action Reports. The casualty notifications. The letters to the families.
This was the bureaucratic machinery of death. It was the soul-crushing administrative task that followed every slaughter, the reduction of vibrant, complex human lives into checked boxes and standardized phrases. Killed in Action. Missing in Action. Recovered. Not Recovered.
The silence was broken only by the scratch of Levi’s pen. It was a harsh, rhythmic sound.
He was writing the names.
His hand, usually so steady with a blade, moved with a sharp, jerky precision. The ink was black, final.
Eld Jinn.
He stared at the name. He didn't see the letters. He saw a veteran soldier, a man who talked about his fiancée, a man who had bitten his tongue in half to keep a secret. He signed the bottom of the page.
He pulled the next sheet.
Gunther Schultz.
The man who never questioned, who was the solid, dependable backbone of the formation. Gone.
Oluo Bozado.
The fool. The mimic. The man who bit his tongue trying to be Levi, but who fought with the ferocity of a lion when it mattered.
Levi’s pen hovered over the paper. A drop of ink fell, staining the parchment. He stared at the stain, his jaw working. He signed the paper and slid the remaining blank form across the desk to Rose.
He couldn't write the last one.
Rose looked at the paper. Her hand, resting on the wood, was perfectly steady. It was the hand of a killer, a hand that had taken lives without a tremor. But as she picked up the pen, she felt a cold numbness spreading up her arm.
Name of Deceased:
She dipped the pen. She wrote the letters.
Petra Ral.
The name looked wrong on the paper. It was too small. It didn't capture the warmth of her smile, the amber of her eyes, the quiet, fierce loyalty she had shown. It didn't capture the way she had bonded with Rose, the way they had become... sisters.
Cause of Death:
Rose’s hand hovered. She wrote: Engaged enemy.
Status of Remains:
The pen stopped. The ink bled into the grain of the paper.
Rose stared at the line, and the room fell away. The smell of old paper was replaced by the smell of wet earth and Titan steam. The silence was replaced by the thundering roar of a pursuit.
…
Flashback
The retreat was a chaotic nightmare. They were running, the remnants of the formation scattered. Levi and Rose were riding with the supply wagon, the heavy wooden cart bouncing violently over the uneven terrain of the plains.
The wagon was heavy. Too heavy.
Inside, wrapped in green cloaks, were the bodies. Eld. Gunther. Oluo. Petra. They had retrieved them. It was a point of honor. A final act of respect.
But the Titans were coming.
Two ten-meter class Titans, drawn by the noise, were sprinting behind them. They were gaining. The horses pulling the wagon were foaming, their eyes rolling in terror, their strength failing under the weight of the dead.
Levi rode beside the wagon driver, his face a mask of stone. He looked back. The Titans were fifty meters away. Forty.
He looked at the living soldiers riding with them. He looked at Rose.
"We're too heavy," he said. His voice was flat, devoid of humanity. It was a mathematical equation. Weight equals death.
"Captain?" the driver screamed.
"Drop the bodies," Levi ordered.
The driver froze. "Sir? We can't! They're—"
"DROP THEM!" Levi roared, his voice cracking with a fury that masked a terrible, agonizing pain. "Do you want to join them? We need the speed!"
The driver was paralyzed by horror.
Rose was not.
She was riding on the tailgate side. She saw the Titans. She saw the open mouths. She saw the distance closing. She looked at the wrapped bundles in the cart. She saw the small one. The one with the strand of ginger hair escaping the cloak.
Petra.
Her heart screamed. Her soul revolted. But the Spider Killer—the cold, pragmatic survivor—took over.
She drew her knife.
She didn't look at Levi. She didn't look at the driver. She leaned over from her saddle, grabbed the ropes securing the tailgate, and slashed.
The ropes snapped. The tailgate fell open with a clatter.
Rose didn't stop. She sheathed her knife and grabbed the fabric of the nearest bundle. Petra.
I'm sorry, she screamed in the silence of her mind. I'm so sorry.
She shoved.
The body rolled. It tumbled out of the back of the moving wagon, hitting the wet grass with a soft, sickening thud. Then Eld. Then Gunther.
The wagon, lightened of its grim cargo, surged forward. The horses found new speed. They pulled away from the pursuing Titans.
Rose looked back. She watched as the Titans stopped. She watched as they gathered around the small, green-clad bundles on the grass. She watched as Petra’s body disappeared beneath the shadow of a reaching hand.
She turned around and vomited over the side of her horse.
…
Present
Rose blinked, the memory receding like a tide, leaving the wreckage of her composure exposed on the shore. She looked up. Levi was watching her.
He wasn't looking at the paper. He was looking at her face. He had been there. He had given the order. But she had held the knife. She had pushed them.
They shared the guilt. It was a physical thing between them, a third presence in the room. They were accomplices in the ultimate desecration. They had saved the living by feeding the dead to the monsters.
Rose looked back down at the paper. Her hand was shaking now, a fine, uncontrollable tremor.
Status of Remains:
She wrote, in a script that was jagged and sharp: Not Recovered.
She set the pen down. The sound was like a gunshot in the quiet room.
A knock at the door shattered the heavy silence.
Levi flinched, a microscopic tightening of his eyes. "Enter," he rasps.
The door opened. A young Garrison soldier stood there, looking terrified to be interrupting the Captain of the Survey Corps.
"Captain," the soldier stammered, saluting. "Forgive the intrusion. There is... a civilian here to see you. A Mr. Ral. He says it's urgent."
The air left the room.
Levi stood up. He swayed slightly, his hand gripping the edge of the desk to steady himself. His face went from pale to a shade of grey that looked like death itself.
"Send him in," Levi said. His voice was a ghost.
The soldier nodded and stepped back.
A moment later, an older man stepped into the doorway. He was small, balding, with a kind, weathered face that crinkled at the corners of his eyes. He wore a simple coat and held a hat in his hands, twisting the brim nervously.
He looked so much like her. The shape of the jaw. The kindness in the eyes.
"Captain Levi," Mr. Ral said, bowing deeply. "It is an honor. I am Petra's father."
Rose felt as if someone had punched her in the stomach. She stood up, moving instinctively to stand just behind and to the left of Levi’s shoulder. She was his shadow. His support. If his legs failed him, she would catch him.
"Mr. Ral," Levi said. He didn't bow. He didn't offer a hand. He just stood there, frozen.
"I... I saw the scouts return," Mr. Ral said, a nervous smile playing on his lips. "I didn't see Petra, but I assumed she was busy with duties. Being in the Special Operations Squad... it's a lot of responsibility."
He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a letter. It was worn, the edges soft, as if it had been read a hundred times.
"She wrote to me," Mr. Ral continued, his voice swelling with a father's unbearable pride. "Just before the expedition. She told me how honored she was to serve under you, Captain. She said... she said she felt she had found her place."
He chuckled, a soft, happy sound that tore through Rose’s heart like shrapnel.
"She even hinted... well, she’s a young girl, you know how they are... she hinted at a future. Serving you. Supporting you." He looked at Levi with a hopeful, knowing gaze. "She is very devoted to you, Captain. She thinks the world of you. I just wanted to come and... well, celebrate her return."
Levi stood paralyzed.
He looked at the man’s hopeful face. He looked at the letter in his hands.
He hated him.
In that moment, Levi hated this man with a ferocity that frightened him. He hated his hope. He hated his pride. He hated Petra for writing that letter, for weaving dreams of a future that had ended against a tree trunk in a dark forest.
But mostly, he hated himself.
He was the one she was devoted to. He was the one she wanted to serve. And he was the one who had led her into the woods, watched her die, and then ordered her body thrown into the mud to save his own miserable skin.
He couldn't speak. The lie stuck in his throat—She served with honor. The truth was impossible—She’s dead, and we left her body for the titans.
He just stared, his eyes black holes of misery, his face a mask of pure, unadulterated pain.
Rose watched him. She saw the tremor in his hand, hidden behind his back. She saw the way his breath had stopped. She felt his agony radiating off him in waves. She wanted to step forward, to scream at the old man to leave, to spare them this torture. But she couldn't. They had to endure this. It was their penance.
"Did she..." Mr. Ral faltered, the smile fading slightly as the silence stretched too long, as the coldness of the room began to seep into him. "Did she conduct herself well, Captain?"
Levi opened his mouth. No sound came out. He closed it. He swallowed, a dry, clicking sound.
"She did," Levi finally managed to rasp. The words were ash.
Mr. Ral beamed again, the doubt vanishing. "Good. Good. That's my girl." He bowed again. "I won't keep you, Captain. I know you're busy. Just... tell her her father came by. Tell her I'm making her favorite stew for when she gets leave."
He turned and walked out the door, clutching his letter, his heart full of a joy that was already a corpse.
The door closed.
Levi didn't move for a long time. Then, slowly, like a puppet with its strings cut, he slumped. He didn't fall, but he leaned back against the cold stone wall, his head tilting back, his eyes squeezing shut.
He looked small. He looked broken.
Rose stood in the silence, the sound of the father’s footsteps fading down the hall, leaving them alone with the lamp, the reports, and the crushing, unbearable weight of the dead.
Levi went to stand by the window. He had been there for ten minutes, perhaps twenty. He hadn't moved. His weight was shifted off his bad ankle, his forehead resting against the cold glass, his gray eyes fixed on the dark, empty courtyard below. He wasn't seeing the cobblestones or the garrison walls. He was seeing the steam rising from the trees. He was seeing the way Eld’s body had swung, a pendulum of meat and wire. He was seeing the hopeful, crinkled eyes of a father holding a letter that was now a lie.
At the desk, Rose sat frozen. The pen had fallen from her fingers hours ago, or perhaps minutes. The stack of completed reports sat before her, a neat, orderly pile of white paper that contained the sum total of four lives.
She tried to summon the Spider Killer. She tried to find the cold, cynical armor that had protected her for six years, the mask of the woman who could slice a throat and go to dinner. She reached for it, groping in the darkness of her mind, but her fingers closed on nothing. The armor was gone. It had been shattered in that clearing, crushed under the weight of a fourteen-meter monster and the sight of a broken girl at the base of a tree.
The silence stretched, tight and humming, a violin string pulled to the breaking point.
Rose looked at Levi’s back. He was so still. He looked like a statue carved from grief and exhaustion. The rigid set of his shoulders, the slight tremor in the hand that gripped the window frame—he was holding himself together with a force of will that was terrifying to behold. He was a stone wall.
But she wasn't.
She couldn't be a stone wall. Not tonight. The silence wasn't empty; it was screaming. It was filled with the echoes of their voices—Oluo’s bluster, Petra’s laugh, Gunther’s quiet reassurance.
She felt a pressure building in her chest, a hot, expanding gas that threatened to crack her ribs. It was the storm. The same storm that had raged in the chimney while her family burned, the same storm she had spent a lifetime drinking and drugging and fighting to suppress. It was the child, soot-stained and terrified, waking up in the dark.
They’re gone. They’re all gone.
A sound escaped her. It wasn't a word. It was a short, sharp intake of breath that hitched in her throat, a wet, ugly sound that shattered the stillness of the room like a dropped glass.
Levi didn't move.
Rose clapped a hand over her mouth, her eyes widening in horror. She bit down on her palm, tasting salt and grime, trying to force the sound back down, trying to be the soldier he needed her to be. But the dam had cracked. The pressure was too great.
Another sound forced its way past her fingers, a choked, strangled sob that racked her entire body. Then another.
At the window, Levi flinched. The sound hit him like a physical blow, harder than the Titan’s impact. It pierced the veil of his dissociation, dragging him back from the dark forest into the dim, cold reality of his quarters.
He turned.
He saw her. She was hunched over the desk, her face buried in her hands, her shoulders shaking with a violence that looked painful. She wasn't crying like a woman who had lost a colleague; she was weeping like a child who had lost the world. It was a silent, agonizing display, devoid of the theatricality of public grief, raw and messy and utterly devastated.
Levi stared at her, his own chest hollowed out. He had expected rage. He had expected her to throw things, to scream, to curse him for his orders. He could have handled rage. Rage was familiar. Rage was clean.
But this... this brokenness... it mirrored the jagged, bleeding ruin inside his own chest so perfectly that it terrified him.
He didn't think. The strategic mind that calculated gas reserves and blade angles shut down. The Captain vanished.
He moved.
He limped across the room, his injured ankle protesting with a sharp spike of pain that he ignored completely. He reached the desk and stopped beside her chair. She didn't look up. She was lost in the storm, drowning in it.
He reached out, his hand hovering for a second, unsure, stiff with a lifetime of avoiding touch. Then, he let it fall. His hand landed on her head, his fingers stiff and awkward, tangling in the mess of her wine-red hair.
The contact was electric.
Rose froze for a heartbeat, her breath hitching. Then, with a desperate, fluid motion, she turned in the chair. She didn't push him away. She didn't salute. She lunged.
She wrapped her arms around his waist, burying her face in the starched, blood-flecked fabric of his shirt, and pulled him against her as if he were the only solid thing in a dissolving universe.
The breakdown in her gave him permission. It cracked the stone.
Levi let out a breath he felt he had been holding since they entered the forest. His resistance crumpled. He pulled her up from the chair, not gently, but with a desperate urgency. She stood, stumbling slightly, and he caught her, wrapping his arms around her, crushing her against him.
He buried his face in the crook of her neck, inhaling the scent of her—sweat, horse, ozone, and the faint, lingering perfume she still wore like a badge of defiance.
She was warm.
The thought hammered through his mind with the force of a revelation. She is warm. She is solid. She is here.
Petra was cold. Eld was cold. They were meat, rotting in the dark. But Rose... Rose was alive. Her heart was beating against his chest, a frantic, bird-like rhythm that matched his own.
She sobbed into his shirt, her hands gripping the fabric at his back so tightly her knuckles must have been white. She was shaking, vibrating with the force of her grief, and he absorbed it. He held her together, his hands spanning her back, one tangling in her hair, pressing her head against his shoulder.
They stood there in the dim light, swaying slightly, two broken pillars leaning against each other to keep the roof from collapsing. He didn't say anything. There were no words. It’s going to be okay would be a lie. I’m sorry would be an insult.
So he just held her. He closed his eyes, feeling the wetness of her tears soaking through his shirt, and for the first time in years, he felt the stinging heat of his own tears gathering behind his eyelids. He fought them back, but he didn't fight her.
He was grateful. The emotion was foreign, sharp and painful in his chest. He was so, so grateful. The universe had taken his squad. It had taken his hope. It had taken his pride. But it had left him this. The one person who saw the monster in him and didn't flinch. The one person he had almost, almost let himself care for... she was here. She hadn't died in the darkness.
"You're alive," he whispered, the words raspy and rough, vibrating against her skin. It sounded less like a statement and more like a prayer. "You're alive."
Rose pulled back, just an inch. She needed to see him. She needed to verify that he wasn't a hallucination born of her trauma.
She looked up. Her face was a ruin. Her eyes were swollen and red, her cheeks streaked with grime and snot and tears, her lips pale and trembling. She looked wrecked. She looked ugly with grief.
And to Levi, she looked like the most beautiful thing he had ever seen, because she was breathing.
He looked back at her, his mask gone. His gray eyes were wide, dark pools of raw, agonizing pain. The lines around his mouth were etched deep with exhaustion. He looked human. He looked destructible.
There was no flirtation in the look that passed between them. No coyness. No game. It was the look of two survivors on a life raft, watching the ship go down, realizing they were the only ones left in the ocean.
He raised a hand, his thumb brushing a tear from her cheek. The skin was hot.
The vulnerability in the room spiked, becoming a suffocating, thick pressure. It was too much. The grief was too big; it was going to swallow them whole if they didn't find an outlet, a way to scream without making a sound, a way to prove that death hadn't won everything.
He leaned in. Or maybe she pulled him down.
Their lips met.
It wasn't a romantic kiss. It wasn't soft. It was a collision. It was desperate, angry, and starving. It tasted of salt and iron and tea.
Rose made a low sound in her throat, a whimper that was half-sob, half-need, and opened her mouth to him. Levi responded with a ferocity that startled them both. His hand tightened in her hair, angling her head back, his mouth devouring hers.
It was a clawing back from the void. It was a desperate assertion of life in the face of so much death. I am here. I feel. I burn.
The kiss deepened, becoming frantic, messy. Teeth clashed against teeth. Tongues tangled. It was a fight for air.
Rose’s hands moved from his back to his neck, her fingers digging into his skin, pulling him closer, trying to merge their bodies into one entity that couldn't be broken. She pressed her body flush against his, the buttons of his uniform digging into her chest. She needed the pain. She needed the pressure. She needed to feel his heartbeat hammering against hers to remind her own heart to keep beating.
Levi’s hands were everywhere. On her waist, her back, her neck. He was touching her as if he were trying to memorize the shape of her, trying to ensure she was real. He backed her up, his bad leg stumbling, until her hips hit the edge of the desk.
He pressed into her, his hips grinding against hers, a friction that sent a jolt of heat through the cold numbness of his grief. It wasn't lust, not really. It was adrenaline. It was the biological imperative to survive, to connect, to negate the void.
His hand slid down her spine, gripping her waist, his fingers digging in hard enough to bruise. He pulled her impossibly closer. He wanted to crawl inside her skin. He wanted to disappear into her, to drown out the sound of Mr. Ral’s voice, to erase the image of Petra’s broken body with the sensation of Rose’s mouth on his.
For a moment, the world narrowed to this. The heat. The taste of her. The sound of their harsh, ragged breathing. The friction of bodies. It was a fire in a blizzard.
Then, his hand moved higher, his thumb brushing the soft skin of her throat, feeling the frantic pulse there.
And the reality of it hit him like a bucket of ice water.
The pulse.
It was so fragile. Just a tiny, rhythmic flutter beneath a thin layer of skin. A single slice, a single squeeze, a single mistake, and it would stop. Just like the others.
He froze.
The heat evaporated, replaced by a cold, creeping terror that was infinitely worse than the grief.
He was holding her. He was wanting her. He was needing her.
He was attaching himself to her.
The realization was a blade in his gut. He had just lost his entire squad. He had just lost the people he had allowed himself to trust, to care for. The pain of it was a physical agony, a weight he could barely stand.
And now, he was setting himself up to do it again.
If he let this happen, if he crossed this line, she wouldn't just be his subordinate. She would be his. And in this world, in his life, the things that were his died. They died screaming. They died because of his orders.
He saw Petra’s face. She hinted at a future.
If he loved Rose, he would kill her. Or the world would kill her to hurt him. And the thought of Rose broken at the base of a tree, the thought of filling out her death report... it was a black hole. He couldn't survive it. He knew, with absolute, terrifying certainty, that losing her would be the thing that finally broke him.
This wasn't comfort. This was a death sentence.
He gasped, tearing his mouth away from hers. His eyes snapped open, wide and wild with panic.
Rose, dazed, her lips swollen and red, chased him for a fraction of a second, her body arching forward, seeking the heat.
"Levi?" she whispered, her voice wrecked, full of a raw, naked need that terrified him.
He shoved her.
It wasn't a gentle disengagement. It was a harsh, panicked, physical rejection. He planted his hands on her shoulders and pushed, hard.
Rose stumbled back, her hips slamming into the desk again, the impact jarring. Levi stumbled backward, his bad ankle giving way, his hand flying out to catch the edge of the bookshelf to keep from falling.
They stood there, five feet apart, breathing like they had just run a sprint.
The room was suddenly freezing.
Rose stared at him. Her chest was heaving. Her hand came up to touch her mouth, her fingers trembling. Her eyes were wide, filled with shock, confusion, and then, as the reality of his action settled in, a terrible, crushing hurt.
She looked at him like he had slapped her.
She had opened the door. She had shown him the child in the chimney. She had let him see the broken pieces. She had offered him everything she had left—her comfort, her body, her shared grief.
And he had thrown it back at her.
"Levi?" she said again, her voice trembling. She took a hesitant step toward him.
"Stop," he rasps. He held up a hand, palm out. "Don't."
He couldn't look at her. He turned his head, staring at the wall, his jaw clenched so hard a muscle feathered in his cheek. He was shaking.
He saw the hurt in her eyes before he looked away. He knew he had put it there. He knew he was cutting her deeper than any blade.
I'm a coward, he thought, the self-loathing rising like bile. I can face a Titan. I can face the devil. But I can't face this.
He was protecting her. He was protecting himself. But it felt like murder.
He needed her out. He needed the room to be empty. He needed to be alone with his ghosts, because if she stayed, if she looked at him with those doe eyes, if she touched him again, he would break. He would fall to his knees and beg her to stay, and that would be the end of them both.
He hardened his heart. He rebuilt the wall, brick by bloody brick, sealing himself inside.
"Get out," he said. His voice was unrecognizable. It was low, rough, and utterly cold.
Rose flinched. "What?"
He turned his back to her, gripping the edge of the bookshelf until his knuckles turned white. He couldn't let her see his face. He couldn't let her see that he was terrified.
"I said get out," he snarled, injecting a venom he didn't feel into the words. "Leave. Now."
The silence that followed was different than the silence before. It wasn't heavy with shared grief. It was brittle. It was the silence of something breaking that could never be fixed.
Rose stood there for a long moment. She looked at his rigid back. She looked at the tension in his shoulders. She felt the rejection radiating off him like heat from a fire.
She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, a rough, angry gesture. The hurt in her eyes hardened, crystalizing into a cold, protective shell. She pulled her dignity back around her shoulders, a tattered cloak, but better than nothing.
"Fine," she whispered. The word was a shard of glass.
She turned. Her boots sounded heavy on the stone floor. She walked to the door, her hand pausing on the latch.
She looked back at him one last time. She waited, for a single heartbeat, for him to turn. For him to say her name. For him to call her back.
He didn't move.
Rose opened the door and stepped out into the cold, dark hallway. She slammed the door behind her, the sound echoing like a gunshot through the empty corridor.
Inside, Levi listened to her footsteps fade away. When he was finally sure she was gone, when the silence was absolute, he slid down the wall, burying his face in his hands, alone in the dark with the names of the dead.
To Be Continued...
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summary: levi and you are childhood friends, but when you have to leave town because of your father's work, he resigns on losing you. he doesn't know that many years later, life will find its way to lead him back to you.
contains: childhood friends to lovers, college au, grumpy x sunshine, yearner!levi, he fell first and harder, fluff, soft levi, short n sweet iykyk
words: 1.2k
a/n: hiii!!! first proper fic after years of not writing a complete chapter, so sorry if im a little rusty lol, hope u liked it!!! like and reblog if u want more <33
As soon as his last lecture ended, Levi immediately gathered his things up as he stood from his seat, wanting nothing other than going home to lay down to get a cup of tea and turn the heater on.
Shoes clicked against the floor as the rest of the classroom stood up to leave as well, caging him into the mass of people around as he neared the exit.
Levi got into his car and drove far away from campus. The day was crisp and chilly, but the sun shined bright despite it all.
The red traffic light stopped him on his tracks, so his gaze wondered somewhere else as he waited for the light to turn green again. He hadn't noticed until now, too enthralled in the thought of finally arriving to this apartment, but he had taken a different road than he usually did, so the sight of an unfamiliar street welcomed him.
His bright grey eyes narrowed, focusing on a small café on the corner, which read 'Fallen Angel' on warm beige cursive letters. It was still early, 1pm in the afternoon, but this weird sensation took hold of him again. He hesitated for a moment, but then the street light turned green and Levi's hands moved on their own, turning the steering wheel to the left.
Levi parked the car on the nearest parking spot he found and turned off the car's engine. He glanced sideways to the rearview mirror, wondering what was he truly doing, but ran a hand through his face and got out of the car nonetheless.
A strong smell of coffee greeted him when he opened the glass door and looked around. It was warm and cozy, a small but comforting four beige walls with a few sets of wooden tables and brown club chairs, full of plants and bookshelves with countless titles.
The coffee shop wasn't much crowded but wasn't empty either, three of the wooden tables were taken by groups of two and one of the two baristas behind the light-colored counter neared the cashier when she watched him approach.
"Good morning, what can I get for you?" the girl asked. Levi took a moment to glance at the menu, before he decided to order an americano and a croissant. "Perfect, that'll be 9 dollars, it'll be ready in a minute."
"Thank you," Levi nodded, handing the barista the money. He glanced around, only to end up going towards the table besides the closest bookshelf.
His fingers traced the spines of the books, carefully choosing to read the titles engraved when the café door opened once again. Levi was absent from the world, too focused on the warmth of the hard-book covers against his fingerprints but choose to briefly look up.
A girl not older than him with bright eyes entered the cafe, clutching her dark brown purse against her side as she went straight to the counter. Levi looked away but found his attention settling back to the girl.
She greeted the same barista who'd taken Levi's order, casually striking up a conversation with her like they were already familiar with each other.
"I don't know, Claire," the girl sighed "I ordered a chai frappe the last time but I want something saltier now. Or sweeter. I don't know," she shook her head, and Levi pretended he wasn't listening, too busy with the book titles. "Maybe an iced taro? No, I know, a caramel macchiato, that's it. With pistachio foam, please. I wanna try something new."
The barista laughed, like she was used to the girl's rambling. "Great choice, ____. Any pastry?"
"I just ate a huge burrito fifteen minutes ago, I don't think I can stomach anything else than a coffee, but thanks, babe."
"Sure."
Now that the conversation was over, Levi could hear the thumping of his heartbeat against his chest. Something rare striked within him, almost like familiarity, when he decided to finally look up.
His eyes widened when he got to properly catch sight of you. Every nerve on his body seemed to freeze, as his pulse spiked up and his stomach sommersaulted against his will. He had given up long ago on waiting for you, on being privileged enough to be near you once more, on watching that smile of yours, and he felt like a little kid again. A little kid with a big crush.
Apparently, he wasn't discrete enough with his staring because, almost like you were inevitably drawn to his staring, you looked up and froze as well, a huge smile breaking onto your lips as your eyes met Levi's.
"Levi? Is that you?" you laughed, walking towards him to get a good look of him. "It's been a long time, 'Vi, I can't believe it's you!"
"Hi." he breathed out, when you suddenly bumped into him for a hug. He froze once again, hands reaching into the air without touching you, surprised by the sudden hug and by catching glimpse of you after all these years. "Yeah, it's been a while."
When you broke the hug, warmth spread on his chest. You were standing there, smiling in the light of the window, a real person, not a figment of his imagination like you had been for the last few years.
"You still got that perpetually serious face, I can't believe I ever thought it would go away." you laughed, brushing a strand of hair from your face as you shook your head. "How are you?"
Right when Levi was about to answer, coming out of his shock, a voice called out. "Hot americano!"
"You should get that," you smiled, tilting your head to signal the counter.
Levi rushed to get the cup of coffee and his croissant before turning to get back to where you are standing a few feet away.
"I've been good. Busy with my degree," he answered, feeling like his tongue was depriving him of words. "What about you? When did you return to Trost?"
"At the beginning of the semester," you responded. "I got into this exchange program because I missed the quietness of this town. I tried to get ahold of you but I couldn't find you. It seems like we always find our way to each other, huh? That's funny." your eyes shined even brighter at the latest statement, searching for something in Levi's eyes. "You should give me your number," you stated, immediately starting to search for your phone on your purse. "Here."
Levi reached out for your cellphone, tapping the digits of his number in your keyboard before he returned it back to you, accidentally grazing his fingers with yours during the process.
You blinked twice, smile leaving your lips, before deciding to smile again like nothing flickered inside of you at the brief contact.
"Caramel macchiato with pistachio foam!" the barista called again, this time for your order.
You went to grab your coffee and returned back to Levi. You opened your mouth to say something else, when your phone rang in your hands. You looked down to your phone and sighed heavily.
"You don't know how sorry I am Levi, but I gotta go." you reached again for him, and this time, the hug was returned. You inhaled at the proximity, and the smell of his cologne washed over you.
"We should get coffee someday." Levi stated, separating from you.
"Yeah, we should." you smiled. "I'll see you later."
