Silken banners of red, gold, and deep indigo draped from the high wooden beams, their ends twinkling with tiny enchanted lanterns that cast the illusion of a starlit sky. The scent of spiced wine and roasted almonds filled the air, mingling with the laughter of masked performers and the distant hum of stringed instruments being tuned. Every table was adorned with scattered petals, every wall lined with flickering candles, their glow reflecting off of mirrors to make the entire space shimmer like a dream.
And at the heart of it all was her.
Y/N barely had time to process the sheer spectacle before a sudden burst of confetti rained down from above. A collective cheer erupted, led, of course, by the one voice she had expected.
“Ah-ha! There she is—our radiant guest of honor!”
Brant’s voice rang through the hall, filled with triumph and unmistakable glee. He leapt from an overhead beam, twisting midair with impossible grace before landing in a flawless bow before her.
Y/N placed her hands on her hips, trying—and failing—to suppress a smile. “This is insane, Brant.”
“Insane?” He clutched his chest as if wounded, staggering back dramatically. “And here I thought it was magnificent. Do you see what I endure, my friends?” He turned to the gathered Troupe, gasping in feigned horror. “I put my soul into this, and she calls it insane!”
Laughter rippled through the room. A fire-eater let out an exaggerated sob. Someone from the back called out, “Give us a real tragedy, Brant!”
He shot them a wink before spinning back to Y/N, eyes gleaming beneath the soft glow of candlelight. “Well, my dear, since we are gathered in this den of fools for you, I suppose you must be indulged.”
With a theatrical sweep of his hand, he gestured toward the raised stage, where musicians had begun to play. “Shall we, stella mia?”
Before she could respond, he was already pulling her into the first dance of the night.
The celebration was nothing short of extraordinary.
Everywhere she turned, performers spun, twirled, and tumbled in dazzling displays of agility and mischief. Jugglers tossed flaming torches in elaborate formations, fire-dancers painted the air with golden embers, and illusionists wove fleeting specters of light and shadow. The music was intoxicating, shifting from wild and frenzied melodies to soft and lilting ballads that spoke of old, wistful love.
Y/N found herself swept into the revelry, laughter bubbling from her lips as Brant twirled her through the ever-changing dance floor. Each step was effortless, as if they had rehearsed these movements a thousand times in a past life. He was impossibly light on his feet, never missing a beat, spinning her until she was breathless.
At one point, she was pulled into a group of performers who playfully adorned her with flowers and draped ribbons around her shoulders like some mythical queen. She lost track of time between stolen sips of honeyed wine, raucous storytelling, and the occasional daring acrobat whisking her away for a spin through the crowd. And through it all, Brant was never far—his laughter, his teasing quips, the way he watched her with that ever-present glimmer of something unreadable in his pink eyes.
But as the night stretched on, the wild energy slowly began to wane. The fires burned lower, the music softened, and the Troupe members settled into quiet clusters of conversation and lazy, lingering dances. The Elysium no longer roared with revelry—it hummed with the kind of warmth that only came after a night well-spent.
And that was when Brant appeared at her side once more.
“Come,” he murmured, offering his hand. “The night isn’t over yet.”
She let him lead her away from the grand hall, past the velvet curtains and into the winding corridors of the Elysium. The noise of the celebration faded, replaced by the soft, distant echoes of laughter and the occasional flickering lantern guiding their path. Finally, they emerged onto a hidden balcony that overlooked the entire festival below.
The view was breathtaking.
From here, she could see it all—the last embers of the fire-dancers’ flames, the silhouettes of jesters still spinning beneath the lanterns, and the sky above, dark and endless, scattered with stars. It was quiet. Peaceful.
Brant exhaled softly. “Do you like it?”
She turned to him, arching a brow. “Do you even have to ask?”
A grin tugged at his lips, but there was something gentler in his expression now. He reached into his coat, hesitating for the briefest moment before pulling out a small, velvet-lined box.
“I had a thousand ideas for what to give you,” he admitted. “But none of them seemed worthy of you.”
He opened the box, revealing a delicate pendant in the shape of a star, its edges lined with the soft shimmer of moonstone.
Y/N inhaled sharply. “Brant…”
He took her hand in his, lifting it to his lips before gently placing the pendant in her palm. “You are the brightest thing in my world, stella mia,” he murmured against her skin. “And I am but a fool orbiting your light.”
Then, stepping back with a flourish, he placed a hand over his heart and recited:
“A candle in darkness, a whisper in noise,
A light that no storm could ever destroy.
The jesters may jest, the world may scheme,
But you, my love, are my waking dream.”
Heat bloomed in her cheeks. It wasn’t just the poetry. It wasn’t just the way he had set up the grandest celebration she had ever seen. It was him. The way he looked at her—not as a game, not as a fleeting moment of amusement, but as if she mattered. As if she were his world.
Before she could think, before she could second-guess, he took her chin between his fingers, tilting her face up to meet his gaze.
“Happy birthday, cara mia.”
And then, with all the passion of a man who had been waiting for this exact moment, he kissed her.
It was deep and breathtaking, the kind of kiss that lingered long after the music stopped and the candles burned low. A kiss that made her forget the rest of the world existed, that filled her with something warm, something reckless, something utterly dangerous.
And in that moment, beneath the stars and the glow of the Elysium, she knew—no matter how foolish, how reckless—Brant’s love was hers.
_______________________________________ A bit late for my second birthday fic, but it's still my birthday, and I finished another
Thank you all so much for all the bday wishes i received ♡
More!!!! More Brant x Siren!reader please please please please please please please please please please please please please please
Do one where siren brings Brant gifts from the ocean (like pearls, which they finds out aren't gross clam gall bladder stones to humans) and Brant has a mental breakdown thinking of what to give them cuz........what is he supposed to give a non-human being as a gift?
Honestly, that's a good question. What would you gift a siren, jewelry, or gold? Useless to her, they're probably shipwrecks of it down there. Food? Does she even eat human food?. Clothes? She can't really wear them. Flowers? What's she supposed to do with them?
So I was thinking, something personal that suits brant, and gives him the excuse to continue to see her..
Brant x (fem)siren reader
The Siren’s Offering
Brant had learned to expect the unexpected when it came to Y/N.
She wasn’t predictable—not in the way most people were. Humans followed patterns, even when they thought they didn’t. But Y/N? She moved like the tide. Unrushed, unknowable, drawn to him for reasons neither of them fully understood.
And yet, she always returned. That was enough.
Tonight, when she surfaced, there was something different about her. A quiet certainty in her expression. He noticed it right away, even before she spoke.
Then, without preamble, she lifted something from the water and held it out to him.
"For you."
Brant blinked. His first instinct was to smile—he always smiled when he saw her—but his expression faltered when he caught sight of what she was offering.
Nestled in her palm was a pearl. Large, round, flawless. The kind of thing that would make the greediest noble drool.
Brant had seen treasures before, stolen and displayed in velvet-lined boxes, but this? This was rare. This was a fortune.
And she was holding it like it was nothing.
"Where did you find this?" he asked, his voice quieter than usual.
Y/N tilted her head, puzzled by the question. "I picked it up from a clam."
Brant inhaled, slow and measured. "You… picked it up."
She nodded. "It’s just a clam’s gallbladder stone."
Brant closed his eyes for a second, pressing his lips together like he was physically holding back a reaction.
Then, carefully, he reopened them. "A clam’s—" He exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair. "Love, that’s not—" He stopped himself, shaking his head before trying again. "That’s not what humans call them."
Y/N frowned slightly. "Then what do you call them?"
"Pearls. And they’re—" He gestured vaguely, searching for the right words. "They’re valuable."
"Why?"
Brant stared at her.
For a moment, he truly had no idea what to say.
He looked down at the pearl in her hand, then back at her face, utterly uncomprehending. Finally, he let out a quiet, breathy laugh—one of disbelief, not mockery. "You really don’t know, do you?"
Y/N blinked at him, confused. "Why would I?"
Brant shook his head, a small, fond smile pulling at his lips. Of course. Of course she wouldn’t. To her, this wasn’t treasure. It was just something the ocean made—something commonplace, unremarkable.
And yet, she had brought it to him.
"Well," he murmured, taking the pearl from her palm with careful fingers, "I suppose it doesn’t matter, does it?"
Y/N watched him, curious. "So, do you like it?"
Brant turned the pearl over in his fingers, letting it catch the moonlight. He had spent years learning the ways of performance, the art of words, but for a moment, none of that mattered.
He looked back at her, his smile softer now. "I do."
She gave a small nod, seemingly satisfied. "Good."
Brant chuckled under his breath, tucking the pearl safely into his coat. "But you do realize what this means, don’t you?"
Y/N arched a brow. "What?"
"It means I owe you a gift in return."
She frowned slightly. "That’s not necessary."
"Oh, but it is," he countered, grinning now. "A gift freely given is a gift freely returned. It’s only fair."
Y/N hummed, unconvinced, but didn’t argue further.
Brant, on the other hand, was already thinking. Because really—what did one give to a siren?
Jewels meant nothing to her. Gold was useless beneath the waves. She had no need for food or shelter, no interest in human possessions.
For the first time in a long time, Brant found himself at a loss.
But as he glanced at her again, watching the way she studied him with quiet curiosity, an idea started to take shape.
He didn’t need to give her something valuable. He needed to give her something meaningful.
Something only he could give.
Brant had faced many challenges in his life—escaping from Ragunna, surviving the Pilgrimage, faking his own death more times than he could count—but this?
This was impossible.
He lay flat on his back atop a stack of worn crates, staring at the sky as if the answer might drop from the heavens. The Fool’s Troupe was busy setting up for their next performance, voices and laughter filling the air, but Brant heard none of it. His mind was occupied with one singular, infuriating thought:
What in the name of all things dramatic do you gift a siren?
Gold? Useless. She lived in the sea—she had shipwrecks full of it at her disposal.
Food? Even more useless. She didn’t eat human food, and he wasn’t about to bring her a raw fish like some kind of well-dressed seagull.
Music? No, she had an entire ocean to sing with.
Brant groaned, dragging his hands down his face. "This is ridiculous."
"You’re ridiculous," one of the Troupe members called out, balancing on a nearby barrel. "Why are you sighing like a lovesick noble in a tragic romance?"
Brant peeked through his fingers, expression flat. "Because I am one, obviously."
The Troupe member snorted. "Who’s the unfortunate soul?"
Brant waved a dismissive hand. "No one you’d know. Or understand. Or—" He sat up abruptly, running both hands through his hair. "You know what? Forget it. This is impossible."
"What is?"
Brant turned to see one of the older Fools, a woman named Selka, watching him with an amused expression. She had seen Brant through all his wild schemes, all his ridiculous plans, and yet this—this seemed to be the thing that truly entertained her.
Brant huffed, dramatic as ever. "Finding a gift."
Selka raised a brow. "For who?"
Brant opened his mouth, then snapped it shut. The Troupe knew of his mysterious "songbird," but he wasn’t about to explain the specifics. Not when he was already spiraling into full theatrical despair.
Instead, he waved vaguely. "Someone. Hypothetically."
Selka smirked. "And what’s wrong with flowers?"
Brant scoffed. "Too simple."
"A trinket?"
"Too meaningless."
"A song?"
Brant paused.
Selka’s smirk widened. "Ah. There it is."
Brant frowned. "No, no, no—that’s not—it’s too obvious."
"Is it?"
Brant groaned again, flopping back onto the crates. "It has to be perfect. Something meaningful, something she’ll actually want, something—"
"Something only you can give?"
Brant stilled.
Selka chuckled, shaking her head. "You’re overthinking it, boy. Gifts aren’t about value. They’re about sentiment." She nudged his boot with her own. "You of all people should know that."
Brant sat up slowly, fingers drumming against his knee.
Something only he could give.
His own words from the night before echoed in his head, and suddenly, everything clicked.
Brant’s lips curled into a slow, knowing smile. "I have an idea."
Selka snorted. "Of course you do."
Brant leapt to his feet, his usual dramatic energy returning full force. "I need ink. And paper. And maybe a bit of magic."
Selka sighed, already regretting her involvement. "I’m not helping you if this ends with another arrest."
Brant grinned, already halfway out of sight. "No promises!"
This? This would be perfect.
The waves lapped gently against the rocks as Brant approached the familiar shoreline. The Fool’s Troupe had set up camp just beyond the cliffs, but Brant had slipped away unnoticed, heart drumming with something between excitement and nerves.
Tonight, he would not leave empty-handed.
“Little songbird,” he called, voice light, teasing. “I do hope you haven’t grown tired of me.”
Silence.
Brant smirked. “No dramatic entrance today? No waves parting for my arrival? Truly, I’m hurt.”
Then, the water rippled.
Brant stilled as she appeared—just enough for the moonlight to catch the gleam of her skin, the slight tilt of her head. Her gaze, curious as ever, met his.
“You always come back,” she murmured.
Brant’s smirk softened. “And yet, you’re still surprised.”
She didn’t answer, just studied him, her eyes flickering toward the small bundle in his hands.
Brant grinned. “Curious, are we?” He crouched at the water’s edge, unwrapping the cloth with an exaggerated flourish. “I brought you something.”
Y/N blinked, tilting her head. “A gift?”
“A thank-you, actually,” Brant corrected. “For the lovely—” he held up the rare, valuable, eye-wateringly expensive pearl she had gifted him last time, “—clam gall bladder stone.”
Y/N made a face. “I still don’t understand why humans want those.”
Brant chuckled. “That makes two of us.”
He carefully unfolded the cloth, revealing a book. Handmade, bound in rich blue fabric with silver-threaded details. It wasn’t large—just enough to fit in his palm—but it was clear it had been made with care.
Y/N stared at it. “What is that?”
Brant’s smile turned just a little nervous, but he hid it well. “A story.”
She blinked.
Brant cleared his throat, shifting slightly. “I wasn’t sure what to give you—turns out, sirens are rather difficult to shop for.” He gave a mock sigh, placing a hand over his heart. “Tragic, really.”
Y/N huffed, amused despite herself.
Brant continued, flipping open the first page. His own handwriting filled the parchment, neat but expressive. “So I thought… why not give you something only I can? A story—your story.” He tilted his head, smirking. “Or at least, the start of it.”
Y/N hesitated, then swam just a little closer, peering at the book as if it might vanish. “You wrote this?”
Brant nodded. “Well, you inspire quite the tale, love.”
She reached out, trailing a careful finger along the edge of the pages. The sea had never given her anything she could keep. Songs disappeared into the waves. Voices faded. Even the stars above seemed to shift, never the same from one night to the next.
But this?
This was hers.
Brant watched her closely, noting the way she lingered on the pages. “You don’t have to like it,” he added, voice softer. “I just… wanted you to have something. Something real.”
Y/N looked up at him then, expression unreadable.
Brant, for once, waited in silence.
Then—
“I like it,” she murmured.
Brant let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding, a slow grin spreading across his face. “Good.”
Y/N’s fingers curled gently around the book, holding it close. “You always come back,” she whispered again, though this time…
This time, there was something different in her voice.
Brant’s smile softened. He leaned forward, resting his chin on his hand.
“Of course I do,” he said. “I have a story to finish, don’t I?”
Okay I'm the one who wanted to see Micahs design, absolutely hot BTW, so I saw the brant x fisalia reader fic, and wish to request a part 2, oh and a concept design of Y/N since she's a fisalia and they're pretty affordable just look at cantarella and Rosemary
and I love your art 😘
Tanks yous
Yes, I remember you. XD, and of course, I got multiple requests for a second part and i had time today. As for the concept art, I made one because yeah, you got me. I had this story with an oc in mind. XD I'll attach the picture at the end ♡
Brant x (fem)reader
A Flower Among Thorns (2)
Part1
Brant had been restless ever since that night.
The Fool’s Elysium bustled around him, music and laughter echoing off the cavern walls, but for once, he wasn’t reveling in the lively atmosphere. Instead, he sat at the edge of the stage, absently spinning a silver coin between his fingers, pink eyes unfocused.
Andreas leaned beside him, brow raised. “Alright, what’s got you looking all lovesick?”
Brant scoffed, slipping back into his usual bravado. “Lovesick? Please. I am merely… intrigued.”
Andreas wasn’t convinced. “Uh-huh. About what?”
Brant hesitated. He hadn’t told anyone about the girl who had found him, who had saved him. The one with the softest hands and a voice like a gentle melody. His angel. He didn’t even know her name, yet she had been haunting his thoughts ever since.
So, with a dramatic sigh, he leaned back. “A mysterious beauty healed me the other night. I woke up to the most enchanting creature Solaris-3 has ever seen. And yet, I know not her name, nor where to find her.”
Andreas snorted. “So, you’ve been sulking about a girl?”
“Not sulking. Longing. There’s a difference.”
Andreas rolled his eyes. “And let me guess, you’ve got no leads?”
Brant grinned, but there was an edge of frustration behind it. “Well, I know she smells like wildflowers, her hands are softer than silk, and her voice is sweeter than any ballad I’ve ever performed.”
“So… nothing useful.”
Brant huffed and stood up, dramatically flipping his coat. “Then I shall have to uncover the mystery myself.”
Brant spent the next few days asking around in Ragunna, trying to pick up any clue about his angel. But with no name, no description beyond “beautiful,” and only the memory of her kindness, it was harder than he expected.
At the bustling markets, he leaned against a vendor’s stall with his most charming smile. “Say, have you seen a girl who smells like wildflowers? Gentle hands? A voice like music?”
The vendor blinked. “Sir, that describes half the women in Ragunna.”
Brant groaned.
At a local tavern, he leaned over the counter. “You wouldn’t happen to know a lovely young woman who heals strangers in the dead of night, would you?”
The bartender laughed. “Son, if you’re looking for a healer, there’s a whole cathedral full of them.”
At the city gates, he approached a group of travelers. “Excuse me, have any of you encountered a heavenly being in human form? Delicate, kind, likely saving lives wherever she goes?”
One of the travelers side-eyed him. “...Are you drunk?”
Brant threw his hands up. “Not yet, but I might be soon!”
No matter where he searched, he found nothing. No one seemed to know her, or if they did, they weren’t saying. And Brant? He was getting frustrated.
Had he dreamed her up? Had she been a figment of his pain and exhaustion?
No. She was real.
And he was going to find her.
Even if it took forever.
Brant sat slouched on a worn stone bench in the heart of Ragunna, exhaling a long, theatrical sigh as he stared up at the evening sky. The city around him pulsed with life—merchants hawking their wares, distant music drifting from a tavern, the rhythmic clatter of horse-drawn carriages against the cobblestone. And yet, none of it reached him.
His mind was elsewhere.
On her.
It had been days, and no matter how many streets he wandered, how many people he asked—no one seemed to know who she was.
Which was frustrating, really. How could someone so bright, so kind, so full of life leave behind no trace at all?
Brant let out another heavy sigh, dragging a hand through his hair. "Am I cursed?" he muttered to himself.
"Not cursed," a voice chimed from beside him, smooth and amused. "Just terribly, terribly unlucky."
Brant blinked and turned his head, only to see Carlotta settling onto the bench beside him. Her white hair cascaded over one shoulder, her soft pink attire flowing like silk. Every movement, every breath she took was measured, elegant. She had the air of someone who could read a room in seconds and bend it to her will if she so pleased.
"Well, well," Brant mused, smirking despite his troubles. "To what do I owe the pleasure? Have you come to sweep me off my feet?"
Carlotta gave him a pointed look. "You looked like a man on the verge of another tragic monologue. I simply couldn't resist."
Brant exhaled through his nose, glancing back at the city. "I suppose I have been a bit… broody lately."
"A bit?" she teased.
He huffed a laugh. "Fine. A lot."
Carlotta studied him for a moment before tilting her head. "You're searching for someone, aren't you?"
Brant's smirk faltered.
She always was too perceptive for her own good.
After a beat, he nodded. "Yeah. A girl. She—" He hesitated, struggling to find the right words. "She found me when I was wounded. Helped me. And I haven't been able to get her out of my head since."
Carlotta's expression shifted slightly—an unreadable flicker of thought passing through her eyes. Then, after a pause, she sighed.
Brant immediately picked up on it. He narrowed his pink eyes. "You know something."
Carlotta smiled, amused. "I might."
Brant straightened. "Then tell me!"
She hummed in thought, then leaned forward slightly. "You said she healed you?"
He nodded.
"Then instead of asking the streets," Carlotta mused, "why not ask a healer?"
Brant blinked. "…Huh."
"A brilliant thought, I know," she said dryly, shaking her head. "There is one person who comes to mind—Rosemary. She runs an apothecary not far from here. If anyone would know about mystery healers, it would be her."
Brant sat with that information for a moment. Then, suddenly, he shot to his feet. "Carlotta, you absolute angel."
She smiled, satisfied. "I do try."
Without another word, Brant spun on his heel and hurried off into the streets, new hope sparking in his chest.
Maybe—just maybe—he was finally on the right path.
The bell above the door chimed softly as Brant stepped into Rosemary’s Apothecary, the warm, earthy scent of dried herbs and rare botanicals wrapping around him. The shop was meticulously organized, with shelves lined with glass bottles, labeled neatly in careful script. Bundles of flowers and herbs hung from the ceiling, casting delicate shadows under the soft glow of lanterns.
Behind the counter stood Rosemary.
She was a woman of quiet elegance—long, light purple hair, her features sharp but not unkind. Unlike the extravagant attire associated with the Fisalia Family, she wore a simple, well-tailored white-grey apothecary coat, the only adornment a fine silver embroidery along the cuffs. Her violet eyes, cool and unreadable, flicked up to meet his as she finished measuring out a fine blue powder, tapping it neatly into a small paper pouch.
Corking the glass vial beside her, she finally addressed him.
"Welcome to Rosemary’s Apothecary, where your perfect potion awaits. What do you need,?"
Her tone was steady, polite, yet held an edge of knowing. It wasn’t the first time Brant had walked through those doors, and she always greeted him the same way.
Brant let out an exaggerated sigh, draping himself over the counter as if utterly exhausted. "Ah, dear Rosemary, must we be so formal? No warmth? No 'Brant, you seem troubled, do you require a remedy for your aching heart?'"
She merely blinked at him. "Do you require a remedy for your aching heart?"
He grinned. "Not a potion, no. But I do require something only you can provide."
She didn’t react, merely set the pouch aside. "If it’s information, I deal in medicine, not rumors."
Brant smirked. "Ah, but this is not a rumor. It is a tale of fate! Destiny! The kind that inspires sonnets and songs for generations to come!"
Rosemary simply waited.
Brant exhaled, straightening slightly. "I'm looking for someone. A healer."
That made her pause, if only briefly. She tilted her head slightly, considering his words. "There are many healers in Ragunna."
"True," Brant admitted, before his smirk softened into something almost wistful. "But only one like this."
He closed his eyes briefly, recalling the memory of that night. The gentle hands, the soft glow of magic, the way she had looked at him—not with fear, nor judgment, but kindness.
"She has long, light purple hair," he began, voice unusually soft. "Like moonlight spun into silk. Her eyes… warm, like the deepest amethyst, the kind that draws you in, makes you forget yourself."
Rosemary’s expression remained neutral, but something flickered in her eyes.
Brant, too caught up in his own memory, missed it.
"And her voice," he continued, exhaling a breathless laugh. "Soft, like a lullaby. Gentle, calming. Like she could soothe even the most troubled soul."
His smirk returned, albeit fonder. "Which, of course, explains why she saved me. A lost Fool in need of salvation—"
"Was she alone?"
Brant blinked.
Rosemary was still watching him, but there was something… careful about the way she asked.
Brant thought back, tilting his head. "Yeah. No one else was there."
A quiet sigh escaped her. Not one of relief, but of trouble.
Brant caught it instantly, straightening. "Oh-ho? What was that? You know something."
Rosemary hesitated. It was the first time she had ever seemed uncertain about what to say.
Then, finally, she met his gaze directly.
"Forget about her."
Brant froze.
The lighthearted air between them vanished in an instant.
He had expected teasing, maybe some cryptic remark, but not… this.
His brows furrowed slightly. "…Why?"
Rosemary’s fingers tapped lightly against the wooden counter, her expression unreadable. "If she was alone, then she was somewhere she should not have been. And if you truly do not know who she is…" she paused, voice measured, "then it’s better that you forget."
brant x female reader. But. She is just as dramatic as him? How would that fair if they had simular personality's, and she had a strange fascionation with orange juice instead of wine?
Can i still ask? Thank you, for your time hope all is well!
I really had fun writing this, I love this dramatic man, sm, imagine the Fools having to deal with two of them. XD
The duel of fools
The Fool’s Elysium had always been a place of chaos and spectacle, but tonight, the energy in the cavern was unlike any before. The golden glow of lanterns flickered against the rocky walls, casting long, dancing shadows as the Troupe of Fools bustled about, preparing for the evening’s entertainment.
At the heart of it all stood Brant, perched atop a wooden crate like a king upon his throne. His deep crimson coat flared dramatically as he placed one foot on the edge, his arms stretched wide. The firelight caught in his striking pink eyes, making them gleam with the intensity of a man about to make the most unnecessary yet captivating speech imaginable.
“Loyal friends, fellow performers, bringers of joy and chaos alike!” Brant’s voice rang through the cavern, smooth as silk, rich with unshaken confidence. “Tonight, we gather here not for mere revelry, nor for the simple pleasures of our trade—no! Tonight, we mourn! We weep! We lament a loss so profound, so unspeakably tragic, that even the stars of Solaris 3 dim in sorrow!”
A dramatic pause. The crowd of Troupe members leaned in.
“What happened?” Tina called out, grinning as she played along.
Brant placed a hand over his heart, shaking his head as if the weight of the revelation threatened to crush him. Then, in the most devastated, anguished tone possible, he declared:
“We have run out of wine.”
A collective groan rippled through the Troupe.
Some clutched their chests in mock distress. Others shook their heads, murmuring, “Not the wine,” as if speaking of a dearly departed friend.
Brant let out a long, suffering sigh. “Ah, what is a Fool without his wine? A mere shadow of a man! A performer stripped of his muse! A—”
“A fool who is about to be outshined!”
A voice rang out over the cavern, clear and bold, cutting through his lament like a knife through silk.
And then—she appeared.
Y/N.
Brant’s greatest rival. His most infuriatingly delightful companion. A woman who matched his theatrical nature step for step, who could outwit him, outmaneuver him, and worst of all—steal his spotlight.
She leaped onto the crate beside him, her coat fluttering behind her as she landed effortlessly, standing tall, hands on her hips, radiating triumph.
But what truly made Brant’s stomach drop in sheer horror—
Was what she held in her hand.
A goblet.
Filled to the brim.
With orange juice.
Brant gasped. Loudly.
The Troupe gasped.
Someone in the back even let out a strangled, “No!” as if witnessing a crime against humanity.
Y/N lifted the goblet high above her head, letting the golden liquid catch the firelight.
“Fear not, dear comrades!” she proclaimed, her voice carrying through the cavern like a queen addressing her court. “For though wine may forsake us in our hour of need, lo! We are not lost! For we have been blessed by the divine nectar of the heavens!”
Brant staggered back. His face twisted with betrayal. “You wouldn’t dare.”
Y/N grinned.
“Oh, but I would.”
The cavern fell silent.
Then—in one swift, fearless motion—Y/N downed the entire goblet.
Brant stumbled back, clutching his chest as if struck. His coat flared behind him, his pink eyes wide with utter devastation.
“TRAITOR!”
Y/N slammed the goblet down with a flourish, wiping her lips with the back of her hand. “I am no traitor, Brant! I am a visionary! While you drown in sorrow for your lost wine, I embrace the bright, sweet tang of destiny!”
The Troupe erupted into cheers, swept away by the sheer spectacle of it all.
Brant was reeling.
Not just from the act of defiance, but from the realization that she had completely stolen his moment. Outperformed him in his own element.
But Brant was never one to back down.
His mind worked fast. If this was how she wanted to play it—then he would ensure she never forgot who she was up against.
With a graceful flourish, he spun on his heel and pointed an accusing finger at her.
“Then let it be known!” he declared, voice booming, eyes gleaming with theatrical challenge. “This day marks the beginning of a rivalry most legendary! A duel not of swords, nor of wits, but of spirit and devotion! For I shall never yield my love for wine, and you—” he gestured dramatically toward her empty goblet “—you shall never forsake your beloved orange juice!”
Y/N grinned.
“So be it, Fool!”
The two stood there, locked in a silent, electrified stare-down. The cavern hummed with anticipation.
Then—Brant moved.
With a single, elegant motion, he swept Y/N into a deep, theatrical dip.
The crowd gasped.
Y/N blinked up at him.
Brant’s smirk curled at the edges, playful, teasing, deliciously smug. “Tell me, dearest rival—how does it feel to be completely at my mercy?”
For a fraction of a second, Y/N’s breath hitched.
But then—her eyes sparkled with mischief.
Before Brant could react, she shifted.
One swift movement.
A flick of her leg.
And suddenly—Brant was the one being dipped.
His arms flailed slightly as Y/N grinned down at him.
“Feels pretty good, actually.” She winked.
Brant burst out laughing.
The Troupe roared in delight.
And just like that—a legend was born.
The saga of the Wine Fool and the Orange Juice Enthusiast.
The cheers of the Troupe still echoed through the cavern as Brant found himself in a position he had never been in before.
Dipped.
By her.
Y/N held him effortlessly, her grip firm yet playful, her expression smug as she gazed down at him. The warm glow of the lanterns reflected in her eyes, and Brant—despite himself—felt his heart stutter at the sight.
No, no, no. This will not do.
Brant was a man of theatrics. He did not lose in a battle of wit, charm, or flair.
And so, as quickly as he had been bested, he retaliated.
With grace befitting a master of the stage, he let his body go slack in Y/N’s hold, fluttering his lashes dramatically.
“Alas!” he cried out, his voice thick with over-the-top despair. “My greatest rival has struck a devastating blow! Oh, what cruel fate, to be so thoroughly bested by such a dazzling, daring, devilishly charming—”
Y/N immediately dropped him.
Brant hit the wooden floor with a thud.
The Troupe erupted into laughter.
From his undignified heap on the ground, Brant groaned loudly and rolled onto his back, flinging an arm over his eyes. “Ah, the betrayal! The humiliation! To be discarded like a mere prop, as if I were nothing more than—”
A goblet was set down beside him.
Brant peeked through his fingers.
It was filled with orange juice.
He shot upright, scandalized. “How dare you.”
Y/N crouched beside him, resting her chin on one hand, eyes gleaming with amusement. “I thought you might be thirsty.”
Brant narrowed his pink eyes. “I would rather perish.”
“Dramatic.” She snickered. “You know, for someone who acts like they have the most refined taste in Solaris 3, you’re awfully stubborn about expanding your palate.”
Brant scoffed, flipping his coat with a flourish. “Wine is the drink of passion! Of artistry! Of poets and lovers alike!” He gestured wildly toward the goblet. “That? That is the breakfast beverage of the common man!”
Y/N smirked. “So you’re afraid to drink it.”
Brant froze.
The Troupe fell silent.
The air shifted.
A challenge.
His rival had just dared him.
Well.
Brant never backed down from a challenge.
With deadly seriousness, he reached for the goblet, lifting it as if it contained the secrets of the universe itself. The cavern held its breath.
And then—
Brant took a single sip.
The reaction was instantaneous.
His entire face twisted in horror. His body convulsed as if he had been struck. His head snapped back so dramatically that one of the Troupe members in the back gasped, “He’s dead.”
Brant fell onto his back once more, gripping his chest. “The acidity! The sheer, unrelenting citrus! Oh, heavens above, take me now!”
Y/N sat beside him, utterly unbothered, sipping from her own goblet. “Oh, please. You’re fine.”
Brant flopped an arm over her lap, looking up at her with betrayal. “If this is what you consume by choice, you are a creature more fearsome than I could have ever imagined.”
Y/N merely took another sip. “Guess that makes me the superior Fool.”
Brant gasped so loudly that someone in the back coughed.
The next moment, he leapt to his feet, pointing a dramatic finger at her. “Then it is war.”
Y/N smirked. “What, afraid of a little competition?”
Hello, hope it's fine if I request more than once!
How about a Brant x Reader where she ended up as a Pilgrim herself and endured very traumatic events before being found and saved by Brant and the Troupe. As a result of said events, she never spoke so everyone assumed she was born mute until she eventually speaks to Brant due to feeling safe around him. How would he act before that (thinking that she's mute) and how would he react when hearing her voice for the first time?
Hello 👋
It's fine. You can send as many requests as you like ♡
Brant x (fem) reader
A silent voice
The moment Brant saw her, huddled among the wreckage of yet another forsaken Pilgrim’s Sail, he knew she had suffered greatly. She was thin, her clothes torn and ragged from the unforgiving trials of Penitent’s End, and her eyes—haunted, wary—spoke of horrors she would never utter. Or so he thought.
The Troupe of Fools had found her on one of their rescue missions, bringing her back to the hidden refuge of Fool’s Elysium. Like many before her, she was taken in, clothed, fed, and given a space to heal. But unlike the others, she never spoke a word. Not even in pain, not even in comfort.
At first, Brant assumed she was mute, like some of the others who had survived the journey. Many who faced the Dragon of Dirge lost more than their voices—some their minds, others their very will to live. Yet, despite her silence, she was strong. She adapted, she learned the unspoken rhythms of their troupe, and she carved out a place for herself amongst them.
Brant, ever the performer, took it upon himself to entertain her. Whether it was through grand gestures, exaggerated tales, or whispered stories in the quiet glow of the cavern fires, he would always find a way to bring some light into her somber eyes. It became a routine—him speaking, her listening, her presence a comfort he never knew he needed.
Still, the silence lingered, an invisible barrier between them. A part of him ached for her, wishing he could ease whatever suffering had stolen her words. But he never pushed. He never asked. He simply stayed.
Until one night, when everything changed.
The storm raged outside Fool’s Elysium, the entrance sealed with heavy tarps to keep the howling winds at bay. The firelight flickered, casting shadows against the stone walls, and Brant found her in her usual spot—knees drawn to her chest, staring into the flames. He approached as he always did, settling beside her, his warmth a familiar presence in the cavern’s cool embrace.
“I suppose you’re waiting for another tale,” he mused, voice tinged with the soft lilt of amusement. “Or perhaps a song? Something tragic and romantic, fitting for such a dreadful night?”
She didn’t move, but he felt her gaze shift toward him, the weight of her unspoken thoughts pressing between them. He exhaled, leaning back on his hands. “You know, I always imagined my soulmate would be someone loud. Someone who could match my theatrics word for word. But here you are, proving me an absolute fool.”
A small, almost imperceptible twitch of her lips. Not quite a smile, but enough to make his heart lurch. He continued, emboldened. “But I don’t mind. You don’t need to speak for me to know what you’re thinking. It’s in your eyes. Always in your eyes.”
For a moment, there was only the sound of the storm outside, the distant echoes of laughter from the others deeper within the cavern. And then—
“…Brant.”
The voice was soft, hoarse from disuse, barely more than a whisper. But it was there. Real. Hers.
Brant froze, his breath catching in his throat. He turned to her, wide-eyed, as if he had imagined it. But she was staring at him, waiting, her fingers curled into the fabric of her sleeves. Her expression was uncertain, hesitant, like she had just crossed an invisible threshold and feared what lay beyond it.
His heart pounded. Of all the things he expected in that moment, hearing her voice—hearing her say his name—was not one of them. He opened his mouth, but for once, words failed him.
“Say that again.” His voice was barely above a whisper, a fragile plea carried by the firelight.
She hesitated, then, softer this time—“Brant.”
It was his name, just his name, but it was everything. A single word that shattered the silence, breaking through the walls she had built around herself. And it was for him. Only for him.
A sharp breath escaped him, and before he could stop himself, he surged forward, wrapping his arms around her in a fierce embrace. He felt her stiffen for just a moment before slowly melting into him, her head pressing against his shoulder. He held her tightly, as if anchoring her to the present, as if trying to shield her from every nightmare she had ever endured.
“You spoke,” he murmured, his voice thick with emotion. “You actually spoke.”
She nodded against him, her fingers curling into the fabric of his coat. He could feel the slight tremble in her hands, the way she clung to him like he was something solid in a world that had once been cruel and uncertain.
He laughed, though it came out choked, overwhelmed. “You… you have no idea how much this means to me.”
She pulled back just enough to look at him, her expression softer now, less guarded. “I… feel safe,” she admitted, voice still rough but steady. “With you.”
Brant’s breath hitched, and he cupped her face gently, his pink eyes searching hers. “Then I’ll make sure you always are.”
The storm outside raged on, but inside Fool’s Elysium, wrapped in Brant’s arms, she felt something she hadn’t in a long time—home.
And for the first time since she had arrived, since she had endured the horrors of the pilgrimage and found sanctuary in Fool’s Elysium, she felt something close to peace.
Brant didn’t let go of her hand for the rest of the night.
Your Brant stuff is wonderful, thank you for your service 🫡🫡 truly grateful for the food akajdjad
Any thoughts on a Brant soulmate au? Or reader gets hurt in battle?
I'll pop back in, so may I be 🍣 sushi anon?
Hello 🍣 ♡
I'm glad you like my work, I'm here to serve you soulmate AU Brant 🫡
Brant x (fem) reader
A Fools fate
Brant had always imagined what his soulmate might be like.
As a child, the thought had been one of whimsical daydreams. Back then, he would steal moments beneath the high arches of the Cathedral of Mercury, lying on his back on the cool stone floor, staring up at the endless patterns of stars painted across the vaulted ceiling. He used to wonder if they would be kind, if they would laugh at his jokes, if they would understand the way his mind leaped from thought to thought like a performer on a tightrope. He imagined them as a partner in mischief, someone who would run through the streets with him, hands intertwined, hearts racing as they escaped some minor trouble.
Then the banishment happened.
Then the world taught him that hope was a foolish thing.
Brant had always been called a fool, but he learned that to hope—to truly believe in something as pure as destiny—was the cruelest jest of all. The Order of the Deep had sent him away, cast him to the sea on the Pilgrim's Sail, branding him a heretic for questioning what should not be questioned. He had thought then, as the waves swallowed his screams, that fate was not kind, that if he had a soulmate, they would never find him.
But despite it all, a small, stubborn part of him still dreamed.
Even after surviving Penitent's End, even after forging the Troupe of Fools and carving out a life among those deemed unworthy, he still let himself imagine. Would his soulmate pity him? Would they look at him with disgust upon seeing he is cast away labeled a Fool? Would they recoil, realizing they were bound to a man that all of Ragunna had forsaken?
For years, these thoughts lingered at the edge of his mind, unspoken but ever-present.
And then, on a night of golden light and laughter, everything changed.
The streets of Rinascita were alive with the pulse of the Carnevale.
Music filled the air, twining through the alleys and plazas, the rhythm of drums and the soaring notes of flutes weaving into a grand tapestry of sound. Lanterns of deep crimson and gold swung overhead, casting flickering light upon the masked revelers who danced through the city in a swirl of color. Everywhere, laughter and song filled the night, drowning out all worries, all burdens. For this night, and this night alone, the past did not matter.
And yet, despite the revelry, Brant felt something pull at him—a sensation like a thread wrapped around his ribcage, tugging him forward, guiding him through the throng of people.
It wasn’t an unfamiliar feeling. He had always had sharp instincts, a knack for following his gut. But this was different. This was urgent.
He wove through the crowd, past jesters and masked nobles, past merchants hawking jeweled trinkets and perfumed silks. The laughter around him faded into a distant hum, his pulse pounding in his ears. The pull grew stronger, more insistent, leading him away from the grand plazas and deeper into the quiet edges of the celebration.
And then—
He saw her.
She stood just beyond the glow of the lanterns, half in shadow, watching the festivities with quiet eyes. She wasn’t dancing, wasn’t caught up in the chaos like the others. There was something still about her, something that made the air around her feel different. A quiet presence, a beacon in the storm.
Brant stopped in his tracks.
He had spent years imagining this moment, playing out countless scenarios in his mind. He had thought that if he ever met his soulmate, he would know instantly, that there would be some great, grand revelation—music swelling, the world pausing, something unmistakable.
But in the end, it was something simpler. A deep, resonant certainty that struck him to his very core.
And then, as if fate itself wished to carve the truth into the very fabric of reality, it happened.
A golden thread shimmered into existence between them.
Brant barely had time to process what he was seeing before it moved, twisting like a ribbon caught in an invisible breeze. It wound itself around his wrist first, warm against his skin, before reaching for her and binding them together.
His breath caught.
He had always heard the stories—the golden thread of fate that tied soulmates together, a tangible mark of destiny’s will. But to see it, to feel it—
He exhaled sharply, his fingers twitching at his side.
Would she flinch? Would she look at him with fear or disgust, realizing who fate had tethered her to? He braced himself, old wounds threatening to open anew.
But when she lifted her gaze to meet his, there was no fear.
Only wonder.
Her lips parted slightly as she looked down at their bound wrists. She raised her hand, fingers brushing the golden thread as if testing whether it was real. A flicker of something passed across her face—not hesitation, not wariness, but recognition.
Brant swallowed, suddenly aware that he had been holding his breath.
"Well," he said, voice softer than usual, lacking his usual theatrical lilt. "That’s unexpected."
A breath of laughter escaped her, quiet but real. "Is it?"
"Not the soulmate part." His lips quirked into a wry smile. "But I thought the universe might have a crueler sense of humor."
She tilted her head slightly. "You don’t seem too disappointed."
Brant exhaled, glancing at the golden thread still wrapped around their wrists. "Disappointed?" He let out a breathless chuckle, shaking his head. "No. Just... wondering how I’m supposed to make a grand first impression when fate has already decided this for me."
She smiled, a small, knowing thing. "You don’t need one."
His heart stuttered in his chest.
For all his wit, all his charm, all the ways he had learned to deflect with humor, he found himself at a loss for words. Instead, he lifted his hand, gently brushing his fingers against the thread. The moment he did, warmth bloomed in his chest, spreading like sunlight after a storm.
She felt it too—he could see it in the way her breath caught, in the way her fingers curled slightly as if to hold onto that sensation.
Brant let out a shaky exhale, a slow smile tugging at his lips. "Well then," he murmured, his voice softer now, almost reverent. "It seems I have a lifetime to make up for lost time."
She smiled, and this time, it was brighter than the lanterns, warmer than the night itself.
Brant didn’t know what the future held, didn’t know what trials they would face, what obstacles lay ahead. But as he stood there, hand still bound to hers, he knew one thing for certain.
greetings, i am the yap anon 🎤 and you will listen to my yaps.
please hear me out and give crumbs on siren!reader who’s shy and quiet x brant who frequently calls for them and visits them 🎤
I'm all ears 👂
Brant x (fem) reader
The sirens lament
The moonlight danced upon the waves, casting silver ribbons across the sea’s surface. The Fool’s Troupe had long since set up camp along the rocky cliffs, their laughter and music drifting in the night air. But Brant? Brant had his eyes set on a different performance entirely.
"Little songbird," he called, his voice carrying across the water. "Surely you don’t mean to keep me waiting again?"
The ocean remained still.
Brant sighed dramatically, placing a hand over his chest. "Ah, how cruel! To sing to me once and never again—is this your punishment for my impatience?"
Still, silence.
He stepped closer to the edge, the tide brushing against his boots. "You wound me, truly." His voice softened, turning sincere beneath the theatrics. "But I’ll wait. I always do."
Beneath the water, just out of sight, she lingered. Y/N had heard him—she always did. She wasn’t used to visitors, let alone someone as bold and persistent as Brant. Where most humans feared the stories of sirens, he seemed entirely unfazed.
A deep breath. The water rippled as she surfaced, just enough for her eyes to meet his.
Brant’s grin was instant. "Ah-ha! There you are, my elusive muse!"
She glanced away, lips parting slightly as if to speak—but words failed her.
Brant, ever perceptive, leaned down, resting his hands on his knees. "No need to be shy, love. I’ll take any words you wish to give me—or none at all, if that’s what you prefer."
A pause. Then, barely above the waves—
"You always come back."
Brant stilled, surprised by the quiet, delicate sound of her voice.
"Of course I do." His expression softened, losing its usual bravado. "Where else would I rather be?"
Y/N’s fingers grazed the water’s surface, hesitant. "I don’t understand why."
He chuckled, sitting down at the edge of the rock. "That makes two of us. But I’ve never been one to ignore the pull of a good story, and you, my dear, are the greatest mystery I’ve ever encountered."
She had heard many things about humans. They feared what they didn’t understand. They hunted sirens for their voices, feared them for their ability to lure. And yet… Brant was nothing like those stories. He was loud, theatrical, endlessly persistent—but never unkind.
The waves lapped at her skin, whispering warnings against her curiosity, but for once, she ignored them. Slowly, hesitantly, she swam closer.
Brant remained perfectly still, though his eyes gleamed with something softer than his usual mischief.
"You must think of me as foolish," he murmured, resting his chin on his hand. "Chasing after a siren like a lovestruck sailor in an old fable."
Y/N blinked, tilting her head. "I don’t think you’re foolish."
His brows lifted slightly, and for the first time, she saw something like genuine surprise flicker across his face.
"Well then," he said, voice quieter now, as if speaking too loud would send her back beneath the waves. "That’s a first."
She stared at him for a moment, debating something. Then, as softly as the waves, a melody slipped from her lips.
It wasn’t a full song—just a whisper of one, a fragment carried by the wind. But it was enough.
Brant inhaled sharply, his expression shifting from surprise to something unreadable.
"I knew it," he whispered.
She tilted her head. "Knew what?"
His lips curled into something softer than a grin. "That your voice could weave dreams."
Y/N lowered her gaze, unsure what to do with his admiration. She had never been looked at this way before.
Brant hummed, thoughtful. "You know," he said, leaning forward ever so slightly, "I think I’d like to hear the full song someday."
She hesitated. "Someday."
His grin returned, brighter than before. "That, my dear, is a promise I’ll be holding you to."
And for the first time, she found herself hoping he really would come back again.
Brant came back.
Again and again, without fail.
It became a quiet understanding between them. No words were needed—he would appear at the cliffside, calling out for his “little songbird,” and Y/N would be there, waiting just beneath the surface. At first, she hesitated to meet him right away, watching from a distance as he spoke to the waves, as if confident she could hear him. And she could.
Brant talked about everything and nothing. The Troupe’s performances, the ridiculous antics of his crew, the places they’d traveled—his voice never lacked animation, his hands moving wildly even when he had no audience but the sea. But as time passed, his stories became quieter, more personal.
He told her of Ragunna, the city that had cast him away. Of the Pilgrim’s Sail. Of the night he thought he would die, swallowed by a storm and fate’s cruel hands—until he had washed ashore, a Fool but not a corpse.
Y/N listened.
For the first time, someone was willing to tell her things, rather than demand something from her. He never asked for a song. Never pleaded for a melody or a spellbound tune. And so, little by little, she surfaced sooner.
She no longer hesitated when he called for her.
Brant, of course, noticed.
"Ah-ha! My dear songbird, you appear faster every time!" he teased one evening, perched comfortably on the rocks. "Soon, I won’t even need to call for you—you’ll simply know when I’m near!"
Y/N ducked her head, but there was no hiding the way her lips curled slightly.
He grinned. "You do like me, don’t you?"
She gave him a flat look. "If I didn’t, I wouldn’t be here."
Brant gasped, placing a hand over his chest like she had wounded him. "Darling, you could at least pretend to play hard to get! Where is the dramatic tension? The longing glances? The—"
Y/N reached up and flicked water at his face.
Brant blinked, stunned, before bursting into laughter. "Oh, you wound me so!"
"You're impossible."
"And yet, you like me," he reminded her, smug.
Y/N exhaled, but she did not argue.
Brant watched her then, the teasing glint in his eyes softening. The pink of his irises caught the moonlight, making them glow faintly. "Truly, though," he murmured, voice gentler now, "I am glad you no longer hide from me."
Y/N hesitated, then slowly reached a hand out, resting it against the rock beside him. It was a quiet, hesitant invitation.
Brant did not startle. He did not lunge forward or grasp her like some desperate sailor chasing a siren’s curse. Instead, he merely reached out as well, resting his palm just beside hers. Close, but not touching.
A choice. A comfort.
Y/N tilted her head slightly, watching him. "You always come back."
Brant smiled. Not his usual, dazzling grin—but something softer, something real. "Of course I do."
There was a pause, and then—
Y/N, barely above a whisper, murmured, "Then I’ll wait for you, too."
Brant’s breath hitched.
For once, the great performer was at a loss for words.
But he didn’t need them.
He simply stayed, watching as the tide pulled gently at her form, keeping her near.
And Y/N, for the first time in her life, was not afraid to let someone in.
Oh my god I love your Brant fanfics! You write so well and do him justice 🥺 Could I ask for a Brant X Reader where they used to be childhood sweethearts before he got banished but when they finally reunite after the Carnevale and while they have changed physically as they have grown up into adulthood, their feelings have remained the same throughout all those years? 🫶🏻
Omg yes, I've been thinking about this for a while, especially since it was said he was banished at a young age, my poor baby suffered a lot i just wanna hug him and shower him with all the love he deserves 🥺
Brant x (fem) reader
A Reunion Written in the Stars
Ragunna had not changed.
The towering cathedrals still cast long shadows over the cobblestone streets, their stained-glass windows catching the dying light of day. The scent of salt and incense lingered in the air, the same strange mix of the sacred and the sea that Brant had known since childhood. People still moved in measured steps, heads bowed in whispered prayer or quiet murmurs of uncertainty.
No, Ragunna had not changed.
But Brant had.
He was a child the last time he stood on these streets—small, trembling, filled with the kind of fear that only children could know. He had clutched at his mother’s hand as the Order of the Deep passed judgment upon him. Faithless, they had called him. A Fool. And fools, as everyone knew, did not belong in Ragunna.
He had been thrown onto the Pilgrim’s Sail, an exile meant to end in death. Yet against all odds, against the cruel designs of fate itself—he had survived. And now, years later, he had returned.
The people whispered as he walked past, their eyes full of wary recognition. Some murmured his name as if summoning a ghost. Others looked away, unsure of how to meet his gaze. He ignored them all.
There was only one person he cared to see.
His feet moved with instinct, following streets he had not walked in over a decade. Each step was heavy, his breath tight in his chest. What if she had left? What if she had moved on? The world had continued without him, as much as it pained him to admit it. He had no right to expect her to wait for him.
But still—he had to know.
Then, as he turned the final corner, he saw it. The house was the same as he remembered, worn but well-kept, bathed in the golden glow of the evening sun.
And then—
"Brant?"
His heart stopped.
She stood in the doorway, framed by the dying light, her figure so achingly familiar and yet so different. Her hair was longer now, the softness of childhood replaced by the quiet strength of a woman grown. Her eyes, though—those same fierce, determined eyes—had not changed at all.
Brant stood frozen as he took in the sight of Y/N, his heart pounding in his chest. He had imagined this moment countless times, rehearsed his words, but now that she was in front of him, nothing could have prepared him for the sheer depth of emotion washing over him.
Y/N stared at him, her lips parting slightly as if she were struggling to believe what she was seeing. Her eyes, once bright with youthful mischief, now brimmed with unshed tears. She took a hesitant step forward, then another, before suddenly breaking into a run.
"Brant!" she cried, her voice thick with emotion.
Before he could brace himself, she collided into him, arms wrapping tightly around his torso. The force nearly knocked him off balance, but he quickly steadied himself, his own arms coming around her in a desperate embrace. The scent of her hair, the warmth of her body—it was all so achingly familiar, yet distant, as if pulled from a dream he had long ago abandoned hope of reliving.
"You're here..." Her voice cracked as she gripped his coat tightly, her shoulders trembling. "You're really here."
Brant felt a lump form in his throat. He gently tilted her face up to his, brushing away the tears that slipped down her cheeks with his calloused fingers. "I told you I’d come back," he whispered, his own voice unsteady.
A broken sob escaped her lips as she buried her face in his chest, her fingers clutching at his coat as though he might disappear again if she let go. Brant held her tighter, pressing a lingering kiss to the top of her head.
"I thought I lost you forever," she admitted between sobs.
Brant’s arms tightened around her, his hand running soothingly up and down her back. "Never," he murmured, pressing his forehead against hers. "I survived, Y/N. And I fought my way back to you."
Y/N hiccuped, half-laughing, half-crying. "You idiot. You always were too stubborn."
Brant chuckled, though his own eyes shimmered with emotion. "And you always worried too much."
She pulled back just enough to meet his gaze, her hands still resting on his chest. "I missed you so much."
His expression softened as he cupped her cheek, his thumb tracing soothing circles against her skin. "I missed you too. More than words can say."
For a moment, they just stood there, lost in each other's presence. The world around them faded into the background—the bustling city, the curious onlookers, the weight of the past. All that remained was the warmth between them, the unspoken promise in their embrace.
Finally, Brant broke the silence, his lips curving into a teasing smirk. "So... does this mean I get a proper welcome home kiss? Or am I going to have to win your heart all over again?"
Y/N laughed through her tears, shaking her head as she cupped his face in her hands. "You never lost it, Brant."
And with that, she pressed her lips to his, sealing the years of longing, heartbreak, and hope into one soul-deep kiss. Brant melted into it, pouring every unspoken word into the way he held her, promising in that moment that he would never let her go again.
She pulled back just enough to look at him, her hands trembling as they reached up to cup his face. Her fingertips ghosted over his cheekbones, tracing the sharper angles that had not been there when they were children.
"You look different," she whispered, searching his face as though memorizing it all over again. "But you're still—" Her voice caught, and she shook her head, blinking back tears. "You're still you."
Brant exhaled shakily, reaching up to cover her hand with his own. "And you’re still you."
A small, broken laugh escaped her, and before she could stop herself, she threw her arms around him once more, burying her face in the crook of his neck. He felt her breath hitch, felt the way her shoulders shook, and his own throat tightened in response.
"I never forgot you," she murmured against his skin.
Brant pressed his forehead to her temple. "Neither did I."
She let out a shaky breath, pulling back just enough to look at him again. "I waited for you," she admitted softly, almost like a confession.
He felt something deep within him crack. He lifted a hand to cradle her cheek, his thumb brushing away a tear she hadn’t even realized had fallen.
"I know," he said, his voice full of quiet reverence. "And I’m so sorry it took so long."
She shook her head fiercely. "You're here now. That’s all that matters."
He swallowed past the lump in his throat, nodding. He wanted to say so much more, wanted to tell her everything—about the years lost, about the countless nights he had thought of her, about the sheer desperation that had kept him going. But for now, this moment was enough.
She took his hands in hers, squeezing them tightly. "Come inside," she urged gently. "Tell me everything."
Brant let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. "I’d like that."
And as she led him through the doorway, into the warmth of the home he had feared he would never see again, he realized—
