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Silver Clouds with Grey Linings (Nozel Silva x Fuegoleon Vermillion)

Hey, y'all! Thanks so much for your patience with this chapter and happy one-year anniversary to this fanfic! Tbh, I began writing this fic back in May 2024 shortly after graduating college (but shhh...you didn't hear that from me.)

It is over 10k words, so have fun spending an hour or so reading this update (at least that is what to Wattpad preview feature told me).

If you are not following this story on Wattpad or Tumblr, I have been receiving an influx of comments on Ao3 and Wattpad to the extent of "Hello, I'm [insert name], a comic, webtoon artist, etc. ... [insert some bullshit generic compliment] ... I'd love to work with you ... [insert socials]".

Please be aware these are scams and scammy people. If you comment this on any of my works, your comment will be deleted and you will be BLOCKED.

If you are actually interested in creating artwork for fanfiction authors, generally you need to receive their permission and there is not a monetary exchange since the fanfiction they are producing is free! DM them through Wattpad or Tumblr and have a real conversation.

I am not falling for any scammy shit, and most people can detect AI-generated comments or sniff out a scam with a quick Google search.

Also, unrelated to the Black Clover fandom, but I recently published a Huskerdust fanfiction on Ao3 where Husk and Angel reconcile post-Season 2 Episode 4 about the events of Season 2 Episode 3. I am very excited for this week's upcoming episodes! Feel free to check it out!

Redemption Express: https://archiveofourown.org/works/73744051

I am planning to wrap up this fanfic in about 5-7 chapters. It is all dependent on how many ideas my noggin keeps churning out.

There could potentially be a sequel to this fanfic. However, that potentially is a very heavy maybe, given that I have started working on my own personal projects outside of fanfiction.

Anyway, enjoy!

This fanfiction is cross-posted on both Wattpad & AO3.

~ ace-maverick

Summary:

"Do you ever take a break from your Magic Knight duties, Lord Silva?" Fuegoleon asked sarcastically.

"Do you ever take a break from being an insufferable ass, Lord Vermillion?" Nozel returned.

They had a penchant for this sort of banter, teetering on a will-they, won't-they, flirtatious but at the same time bitchy exchange about them. Their repartee was as familiar as it was exhausting, a well-worn dance of barbs that allowed them to blow off steam while maintaining the facade of decorum befitting their status. Fuegoleon's chuckle was low and brief, but it held a note of genuine amusement. "Your sharp tongue does little to mask the fact that you look like death warmed over, Nozel."

-

Their relationship was one of ambiguous romance where neither pushed for labels and 'I love yous' were never exchanged instead settling for the obscurity of blurred lines. They enjoyed late-night rendezvous and quiet company without the strings of definition, prying society, and the freedom of other partners.

-

or

Fuegoleon and Nozel have been in an ambiguous relationship for fifteen years. When Fuegoleon is incapcitated for six months after the assault on the Royal Capital by the Eye of the Midnight Sun and Nozel refuses to visit him, he recieves three chance encounters to convince him otherwise.

or

A character study on how two idiots define a fifteen-year, ambiguous relationship.

Chapter 11: Patience 'Tis the Season (Pt. 2)

"What?!" Fuegoleon slammed the teacup onto the floating saucer with enough force to shatter it.

"Well, you don't have to yell about it." Nozel took a measured sip of his Earl Grey before setting the cup down on the floating coffee table.

Dorothy had been gracious enough to lend the pair her Glamour World for their much-anticipated conversation—Nozel's curse and the identity of Fuegoleon's would-be assassin—and was loitering nearby in case Nozel needed an impromptu wingwoman.

"So, you're telling me, that," he gestured rather clumsily to Nozel's scar around his neck, "is a product of a curse from the devil... Megi—Megicu—Megi... Megicula?"

"Megicula," Nozel echoed, his posture impeccable as he sat cross-legged on the velvet sofa across from Fuegoleon.

Nozel drew in a deep breath, bracing himself for the long-winded narrative ahead. "After my mother gave birth to Noelle, we retired to the countryside. A woman contracted to the devil Megicula managed to track us down and fatally wound her. Curse-warding magic—that's what she called it." Nozel wrung his hands together.

"There was—and still is—a stipulation: if I speak of the curse, whoever I tell will be struck by it as well. The lives of those who speak of it erode in the same way."

Fuegoleon's brow furrowed in confusion. They were discussing the very curse that had been inflicted upon Nozel, so why were neither of them dead?

"That's why we had to meet here." Nozel gestured to the dizzying expanse of the Glamour World. "Dorothy's Glamour World is unaffected by the curse's normal effects. It's an isolated dimension from the outside world that, in her words, 'does exactly what she wants,'" he added, lifting his hands to make stiff, almost disdainful finger quotes. "Here, we can speak freely."

"It's a really fucking convenient loophole Megicula failed to consider. But," his lips curved into a thin, humorless smile as he folded his arms across his chest, "I don't think she expected me to befriend a witch."

A beat of silenced passed, broken only by the faint shimmer of the Glamour World's distorted air. Dorothy, somewhere nearby, hummed off-key to herself, giving the illusion of distraction, though both men knew she was listening.

"So... I'm assuming your siblings don't know?" Fuegoleon didn't intend for the question to slip out so easily, but his curiosity had an ironclad grip on him. He and Nozel had come this far, so perhaps a little prying wouldn't hurt.

"No, they don't," Nozel responded flatly, fidgeting in his seat. The smallest shift in posture, but for a man like him, it might as well have been a confession screamed from the rooftops.

"I constructed the careful lie that my mother died due to childbirth complications. Nebra and Solid were too young and witless, and Noelle was a newborn, so it was an easy lie to perpetuate. Our extended family accepted it without protest, and my father was too preoccupied to properly mourn his wife's passing."

Fuegoleon set the black tea he had been nursing onto the end table. The abysmal clink of the saucer against the porcelain surface was a din to Nozel's ears as he awaited Fuegoleon's calculated response.

Instead of responding impulsively, Fuegoleon turned the revelation over in his head. The truth was as heavy as it was cruel, and for once, he found no immediate wisdom to offer—only the faint, bitter taste of sympathy.

Fuegoleon leaned forward slightly, resting his forearms on his knees before dragging both hands down his face with a low, weary groan. "Saints above..." he muttered into his palms, voice muffled. When he finally looked up, his violet eyes met Nozel's—somber, searching, and faintly incredulous.

Nozel's ears perked up at Fuegoleon's exasperated plea to the heavens, bracing for some sharp rebuke or biting remark. Instead, he found only a heavy silence. Fuegoleon's gaze lingered on him—not condemning, not pitying, but weighing the cost of the truth laid bare between them.

Nozel's gaze turned colder, though his fingers betrayed him, tightening against his bicep. "Better me than them," he said at last, his voice quiet but firm, like steel tempered in ice.

Dorothy's voice drifted from the shimmering haze, lilting like a nursery rhyme. "Better you than them, better villain than friend, better silence than sorrow... always the same, always the same."

Nozel breathed an internal sigh of relief, not unlike Dorothy, who descended like an angel from on high. She took her seat to the right of Nozel, lacing her hands behind her head as she kicked her feet up on the coffee table.

"He isn't lying, if that's what you're wondering, Fuegoleon," Dorothy punctuated with a wagging finger and a grin far too wide for the occasion.

Fuegoleon blinked at her, his violet eyes narrowing in equal parts suspicion and bemusement. "Are you always this... cryptic?" he asked, voice low, almost dangerous. The edge of his tone cut through the surreal calm of the Glamour World, ricocheting off the floating furniture and shimmering air.

"Not usually. But, I'm Nozel's wingwoman," Dorothy said, stretching one leg lazily across the sofa, the other tapping against the air as if keeping time to a song only she could hear. Her grin remained impossibly wide, though her eyes gleamed with mischief. "Part of the job description is making sure he doesn't implode from brooding in public. Or private."

Nozel's cheeks twitched, the faintest hint of irritation crossing his otherwise stoic expression. "I do not 'implode,'" he muttered, though his fingers loosened their grip on his bicep.

Fuegoleon let out a low whistle, half-amused, half-confounded. "Implode or not," he said, leaning further into the sofa, "you said nobody in your family but you is aware of how Lady Acier passed, correct? If so, that would be fifteen years."

Nozel and Dorothy exchanged a sidelong glance. Nozel unfolded his arms—one hand coming to rest on the armrest, the other shooing Dorothy's foot off the sofa. "Consider that a half-truth. Aside from Dorothy, nobody else was aware. However, given our recent entanglement with that blasted devil from the elf-reincarnation incident, and Asta's trial and conditional pardon, I thought it pertinent to share it with Noelle."

Her name came out more like a question than a statement as he turned to Dorothy, curious whether the witch had already delivered on her promise to tell Noelle about the curse.

"Oh, right!" Dorothy clapped her hands together in splendor. "Noelle knows now—I even conjured up the cutest Nozel to dote on her, but she blasted that away with her water magic. Still, she was quite insistent on why she didn't hear it directly from the horse's mouth."

Nozel dared to spare a glance in Fuegoleon's direction at the admission that Dorothy informed Noelle of the curse rather than her own brother. Though it wasn't plain on his face, that was Fuegoleon's royally pissed expression.

Fuegoleon's jaw was set just a fraction tighter than usual, his lips pressed into a thin line, and his violet eyes gleamed with restrained irritation. A faint furrow in his brow and the almost imperceptible narrowing of his gaze gave away the simmering annoyance beneath his composed exterior.

Nozel hated it when Fuegoleon got this way, but he supposed it was his own fault for keeping a secret this consequential. Nozel had kissed that scowling face silly just a few weeks ago. He was embarrassingly proud of the mana control Fuegoleon had exercised when delivering Julius's orders to the packed courtroom overseen by Damnatio. He hadn't singed a single edge of that scroll. The physical therapy with Owen was working wonders.

Fuegoleon exhaled through his nose, the sound quiet but sharp enough to slice through the fragile calm. "You could've told her yourself, Nozel," he said finally, each word deliberate, like measured strikes of a blade. "She's your sister. She deserved to hear it from you, not secondhand through magic theatrics."

Nozel's lips parted, but no retort came. He'd expected the rebuke—it was written in the fine line of Fuegoleon's jaw, in the faint tremor of restraint that bordered on anger. "I know," he admitted at last, his voice dropping low. "But I thought it better she hear it in an environment where the curse couldn't touch her. The Glamour World isn't as easily accessible as Dorothy would like to make it seem."

Dorothy leaned back, crossing one leg over the other, her grin never quite fading. "Oh, it's accessible enough if you ask nicely," she sang, swinging her foot idly. "But I suppose not everyone can handle the truth and a reality warp at the same time."

Fuegoleon ignored her sing-song meddling, his focus trained squarely on Nozel. "You always have a reason," he said, the words deceptively calm but heavy with disapproval. "A reason for secrecy, a reason for silence, a reason for sparing everyone but yourself. Tell me—how many times do you plan to martyr yourself before you realize it helps no one?"

Nozel's gaze hardened. "You think I haven't considered that?"

"I think," Fuegoleon countered, his voice rising a fraction, "that you've built your life around considering everything but the people who care about you."

Dorothy winced at the shift in tone and made an exaggerated zipping motion over her lips. The air in the Glamour World thickened, shimmered—the ambient hum of the magic itself seemed to quiet in deference to the tension between them.

"I am considering them," Nozel replied sharply. "Every moment of every day, Fuegoleon. Every decision I've made has been to ensure they never have to carry what I do. You think I enjoy lying to them? To Noelle?"

Fuegoleon pushed up from his seat, the motion deliberate and controlled but unmistakably brimming with frustration. "And yet you did. You robbed her of closure, of understanding her mother's death, and of you. You can't protect someone by denying them the truth. That's not protection, Nozel—that's fear."

Nozel rose too, though more slowly, his composure never quite fracturing but his eyes glinting with something brittle—guilt, pride, something dangerously close to grief. "I was afraid," he admitted. The confession landed like a dropped blade between them, both quiet and final. "If she had known, she would've gone looking for Megicula herself. She's reckless, she's powerful—but she's still a child in ways she refuses to admit. I couldn't risk it. Not again."

The edges of Fuegoleon's posture softened, but his eyes stayed sharp. "And what about you? How much of this curse have you taken on because you thought you were the only one strong enough to bear it?"

"That's irrelevant."

"No," Fuegoleon said, stepping closer, "it's exactly the point."

Dorothy, who had been pretending to nap on a floating chaise, cracked one eye open. "You two realize the rest of the Clover Kingdom could probably feel the sexual tension radiating from here, right?"

Neither dignified her with a glance.

Fuegoleon exhaled, tension bleeding out of his shoulders as he finally sank back onto the sofa. "Geezus, Nozel... you don't have to do this alone anymore. Not everything has to be penance."

For a long moment, Nozel said nothing. Then, slowly, he sat back down as well. The cold gleam in his eyes dimmed, replaced by something quieter, humbler. "Perhaps not," he said. "But old habits die hard."

Dorothy stretched, kicking her legs lazily in the air. "So do curses," she chirped, before looking between them with an almost wistful grin. "But maybe, if you two keep having these heart-to-hearts, you'll bore this one to death."

Fuegoleon huffed a laugh despite himself, and Nozel's lips twitched—not quite a smile, but close enough that Dorothy clapped her hands once, delighted.

The Glamour World shimmered faintly around them, the tension finally ebbing into something tender and tired.

"I'll converse with her eventually," Nozel relented, his chin perched on his palm to hide a pout as he had migrated to the far end of the sofa, furthest from Dorothy.

"That was a caveat to our agreement," Dorothy finished for him.

Nozel's eyes flicked toward her, unimpressed but too weary to protest. Fuegoleon merely sighed, running a hand through his hair.

Dorothy tilted her head, watching the pair with a knowing smile that softened—just barely—at the edges. The charged stillness had finally begun to thin, leaving in its wake something almost domestic, almost peaceful. She could practically see the walls lowering between them, however grudgingly. And because she was Dorothy Unsworth—witch, meddler, and self-proclaimed bringer of chaos—she simply couldn't resist stirring the pot a little further.

Dorothy exhaled dramatically. "Enough with the doom and gloom—let's get into the juicy details. Are y'all officially dating?" She propped her chin on her interlaced fingers, eyes fixed on Nozel with mischievous curiosity.

It was a godsend; neither Fuegoleon nor Nozel was sipping their tea, their cups abandoned and cold on the coffee and end tables. Fuegoleon would have probably choked, and Nozel would have had a spit take.

Nozel's face blossomed into a shade of red that Fuegoleon hadn't seen since he kissed him at his grimoire reception, his nails digging into his chin and biting his lip hard enough he nearly drew blood.

Fuegoleon's brows arched, equal parts amused and mortified. "Dorothy," he warned, tone sharp enough to melt steel but doing little to deter her grin.

"What?" she said innocently, batting her lashes. "You two have been making goo-goo eyes at each other for the last ten minutes. I'm doing the kingdom a favor by confirming the gossip."

Fuegoleon pinched the bridge of his nose, muttering something about unfathomable witches and their lack of boundaries.

Nozel, on the other hand, looked like he might combust on the spot. "There is no gossip," he managed, voice tight as a bowstring. "And yes, we are dating."

"Fucking finally!" Dorothy squealed, jumping up on the couch. "Oooh, what should your ship name be?!"

Fuegoleon groaned, dragging a hand down his face. "Saints preserve me."

Nozel looked as though he instantly regretted every decision that had led him to this exact moment. "That will not be necessary," he said crisply, tone back to the aristocratic chill that usually froze subordinates mid-sentence.

"Oh, but it is necessary," Dorothy insisted, kicking her legs excitedly. "This is monumental! The kingdom's two most uptight captains are dating, and you expect me to not celebrate?" She spun in midair, the hem of her cap twirling with her as she chanted to herself, "Fuezel? Noeleon? Hmm... Silverflame? That one's got a ring to it!"

Fuegoleon shot her a warning look sharp enough to cleave stone. "Dorothy."

She only grinned wider. "Oh, come on, Fuegoleon—you have to admit, it's cute. Sounds like a cocktail. Or a disaster."

"Both, apparently," Nozel muttered under his breath, arms folding defensively as his blush deepened.

Fuegoleon, despite himself, let out a soft, incredulous laugh. "You're enjoying this far too much," he said to Dorothy, voice low, resigned, but not unkind.

"Obviously," she said, smug and unrepentant. "It's not every day the world's most emotionally constipated royals decide to act on their feelings. I've been waiting for this arc."

"You know you cannot say anything about this," Nozel remarked to Dorothy as she continued to flit about the seating area, as she always did during their biweekly teas. Nozel swore she was a child incarnate. He pressed two fingers to his temple, looking one mild irritation away from hexing the entire Glamour World out of existence.

Dorothy waved him off with an airy flick of her wrist, upside down now, lounging midair as if gravity had simply given up on her. "Well, duh~" she sang, her grin far too mischievous. "Your dad's got a stick shoved so far up his ass it's coming out his damn throat."

Fuegoleon choked on a startled laugh, while Nozel closed his eyes slowly—counting, no doubt, to ten.

"If you ask me, nobles and royals are far too concerned with preserving their bloodlines. You'd think the slew of loveless marriages and resentful spouses would have been lesson enough. But no!" Dorothy threw her hands up in mock exasperation, twirling in midair as though she were delivering a grand speech to an invisible audience. "Besides, you both have collateral."

With a mischievous glint in her eye, Dorothy popped out of existence in a puff of glittery smoke—only to reappear inches from Nozel's face. Before he could even blink, she reached out and booped him on the nose, giggling as she drifted lazily backward through the air like an overgrown child.

Nozel blinked once, slowly. His brow furrowed, lips parting in visible confusion. "Collateral?" he echoed, his tone hovering somewhere between suspicion and disbelief.

Dorothy rolled her eyes so dramatically her entire head followed the motion. "Siblings, dumbass," she said as she tapped him lightly on the forehead with a manicured finger before pirouetting away.

"Ain't Kirsch your cousin?" she continued before either man could reply, floating upside down now with her chin in her hands. "He and Mimosa are the product of House Silva and House Vermillion. Your aunt—" she pointed accusingly at Nozel "—and your uncle," she added, turning the same finger toward Fuegoleon, who arched an unimpressed brow.

"You sure know quite a bit about our family trees," Fuegoleon remarked dryly, arms folding over his chest. The faintest quirk of amusement ghosted across his lips as he tracked her floating figure.

Dorothy gave a sly grin, twirling a strand of her purple hair around her finger. "Well, Kirsch gets really chatty after a couple mimosas," she said breezily. "Never understood why they thought to name their daughter after a cocktail, though," she murmured behind her hand, quiet enough not to offend either man.

Nozel let out a quiet sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose as though warding off an impending headache. "I don't think Solid or Nebra would be thrilled if I started negotiating marriage on their behalf," he said, tone clipped.

Fuegoleon chuckled under his breath, shaking his head. "We already know how revolted Mereoleona is by men," he said with a wry smile, recalling how she had nearly incinerated the one and only suitor their father had ever introduced her to. "And Leopold isn't of age."

"Neither is Noelle," Nozel added matter-of-factly, crossing one leg over the other with rigid dignity.

Dorothy flopped backward midair like she was lounging in an invisible hammock, arms folded behind her head. "Well, you're both already thirty," she teased, grinning down at them. "So what's to say your parents aren't already pushing for grandchildren? They can wait a little longer. Besides, men are fertile their entire fucking lives."

Nozel gave her a pointed stare, unimpressed. "Says the oh-so-wise twenty-eight-year-old," he drawled.

Dorothy smirked, flipping upright again with a snap of her fingers that sent a ripple of sparkles through the air. "My lips are sealed," she said, pressing a finger to her mouth in mock secrecy. Her grin widened into something positively devilish. "Not my business to tell that you're boning and atoning."

Fuegoleon groaned audibly, facepalming while Nozel turned such a shade of red that even his silver hair seemed to glow. Dorothy only laughed harder, spinning gleefully in the air like a cat that had just knocked something valuable off a shelf before settling back onto the couch next to Nozel.

"But seriously," she began, straightening the brim of her oversized hat "Your secret's safe with me. We do not support outing in this Glamour World." Dorothy snapped her fingers, making a heart-shaped illusion appear and pop with a soft poof. "You could tone it down with the pining, though. Honestly, you're subtle—but not that subtle. Still, you've got nothing on Charlotte. That woman's got it bad for Yami."

Fuegoleon cringed at the mention of their fellow captains, his expression caught somewhere between secondhand embarrassment and disbelief. "Please don't remind me," he muttered, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "The last time I walked into the captains' meeting early, Charlotte was staring at the door like Yami was about to materialize from thin air."

Dorothy cackled, clutching her stomach as she nearly tipped over on the couch. "Oh, I know! I thought she was going to faint the last time he called her 'Char.'" She fluttered her lashes dramatically, clutching an invisible bouquet to her chest. "'Oh, Captain Yami, please, say it again!'"

Dorothy clapped her hands together, eyes sparkling with mischief. "Anywho, enough about them," she declared, leaning forward on the couch, elbows resting on her knees. "Fire's out from under your ass, Nozel—time to roast Fuegoleon."

Fuegoleon arched an eyebrow, a single, unimpressed sound escaping him. "...Pardon?"

Nozel adjusted the cuff of his sleeve before speaking, his voice laced with biting poise. "Oh yes, Fuegoleon," he said coolly, eyes flicking toward the redhead with feigned politeness. "Do enlighten us—who was the assailant that sent you into a six-month coma?" The last half of his sentence came out displeased and edged with frost.

Fuegoleon exhaled through his nose, clearly torn between irritation and reluctant amusement. "I'm beginning to regret ever waking up," he muttered.

"I am going to preface this with a disclaimer," he continued after a measured pause, lowering his hand and straightening in his seat. His tone shifted—calm, deliberate, and carrying the quiet authority that came naturally to him. His violet eyes swept between the two captains. "What I am going to disclose cannot leave this dimension," he said, his voice dropping to a low, serious register, "and must be kept with the strictest confidence."

Dorothy immediately perked up, sitting straight and folding her hands neatly in her lap, her usually mirthful expression shifting to mirror Fuegoleon's.

"And Nozel," Fuegoleon prompted, his eyes flicking toward him. "You have to promise not to retaliate."

Nozel's mouth opened, ready to protest, only to be met with a stern, narrowing gaze that read, this is not the time nor the place.

"Very well," Nozel relented, clearly put off by Fuegoleon's comment.

"It was William Vangeance."

Dorothy blinked. Once. Twice. Then a slow, wicked smile spread across her face. "I'm sorry," she chimed, voice pitching up a note, "come again?"

Nozel's expression, on the other hand, darkened like a brewing storm. His entire posture stiffened—shoulders squared, chin tilting ever so slightly upward in disbelief. "I'm gonna kill him," he vowed, his tone razor-sharp but eerily calm, the kind of calm that came before something catastrophic.

"Nozel." Fuegoleon's hand shot out across the coffee table before the word finished, closing around Nozel's wrist with an iron-quiet grip. The motion was gentle enough not to bruise but absolute in its restraint; the kind of touch that said I will stop you if I must.

Nozel's jaw worked; his eyes flashed like hammered silver. He swallowed, rage coiling in his throat, and for a heartbeat the room held its breath. "No, Fuego. I'm gonna kill him," he repeated, voice a low promise that sounded nothing like fury and everything like fate.

"You promised."

"Well, promises are cheap when the golden boy twink tries to murder my boyfriend."

Neither Fuegoleon nor Nozel noticed Dorothy materialize between them, floating above the coffee table until she was already perched there, legs crossed, palms flat on her knees like a smug little judge. She clicked her tongue theatrically. "Whoa, whoa, whoa, gentlemen—temper, temper," she chided, wagging a finger at both of them. "We are not turning the Glamour World into a murder scene. Not today, anyway."

Nozel ground his teeth, fingers flexing against the fabric of the sofa, but he did not wrench his wrist free. Fuegoleon's grip remained firm, a careful anchor rather than a cuff. Dorothy leaned forward, conspiratorial and impossibly sharp. "Listen—feelings understood, rage appreciated, homicidal urges cataloged. But before anyone storms out to stab Vangeance, let's talk like the civil Magic Knight Captains we are, okay?"

"Fine." Nozel wrenched his wrist back and flopped onto the sofa like a petulant child, while Dorothy snapped her fingers and reappeared at his side.

Dorothy patted his knee with a surprisingly comforting, almost motherly gesture. "Good boy." She then turned her attention to the man of the hour, her expression shifting back into a focused, probing curiosity. "Okay, Fuegoleon," she said, her voice dropping to a low purr. "You've thrown a massive, reality-bending wrench into the mix, so you have to give us the whole story. Why? Why would William, of all people, do this?"

Fuegoleon watched Nozel for a moment—the tension in his shoulders hadn't lessened, only been pushed down. He gave a sharp, curt nod, acknowledging the validity of Dorothy's question.

Fuegoleon's gaze drifted downward, fingers absently brushing along a scar that disappeared beneath his collar. "During the assault on the Royal Capital last year, I was fighting one of the Eye of the Midnight Sun's members when I was teleported to a confined dimension—"

Dorothy tilted her head, one finger tapping thoughtfully against her chin. "Like the Glamour World?" she asked.

Fuegoleon shook his head slowly. His eyes unfocused, distant—as though still caught somewhere between memory and nightmare. "More like a sealed, windowless void," he said, his voice dropping lower with each word. "Nothing but white in every direction—no walls, no floor, no ceiling." His hand hovered in the air, palm open, to illustrate the emptiness.

"William was standing there in his eyebrowless glory, wearing Eye of the Midnight Sun robes," Fuegoleon said, his voice flat but laced with the faintest trace of disbelief. He lifted a hand, gesturing vaguely as though trying to conjure the absurd image from memory.

Dorothy blinked before snorting into her palm. "No eyebrows," she echoed, shoulders shaking as a grin tugged at her lips.

"Oh yeah," Nozel cut in, gesturing dismissively with one elegant flick of his hand. "You haven't seen him without that tacky mask yet. He's got this big-ass scar that covers the upper half of his face." His nose wrinkled faintly, as though recalling it offended his aesthetic sensibilities.

"He doesn't wear the mask anymore around his subordinates or colleagues, but whenever he makes a public appearance, he has those wretched peacock feathers sticking out of the top of his head," Nozel said, gesturing sharply above his own head in disdain.

Fuegoleon cleared his throat pointedly, a quiet cue that the tangent had gone on long enough.

"William looked remorseful and apologetic," Fuegoleon continued, with a quiet, heavy timbre. His hands folded in his lap, knuckles pale against the fabric of his trousers. "Then he relinquished control to Patri." The name left his mouth like something bitter, something he'd rather not taste again. "The last words Vangeance spoke to me were, 'I'm sorry.'"

He exhaled slowly, gaze distant—haunted, almost—as though he could still see that sterile white void if he stared too long. "And then... nothing. Just silence. I woke up six months later to my Vice Captain attacking the Crimson Lion base."

Dorothy had gone quiet, her usually chipper demeanor replaced with reservedness. The playful gleam in her eyes had dimmed, and she turned to Nozel for a flicker of guidance on how to react.

Nozel, on the other hand, had gone utterly still. His earlier bluster, his biting remarks, all of it had drained away. The fingers that had been drumming restlessly against his thigh now curled inward, knuckles white.

Fuegoleon, ever oblivious to their exchange, eyes still fixed downwards, resumed, "Noelle and Leopold visited while I was recovering."

"She said, 'When you were teleported back, your body hit the pavement like a pound of flesh on a cutting board.'" His expression didn't change, but his hand lifted slightly, then it fell back to his knee. "At that point, my arm had already been severed"—he gestured briefly toward the stump, the movement restrained, controlled—"and my grimoire was fading. Had it not been for Noelle's quick thinking..." He paused, exhaling through his nose. "I would be dead."

For a moment, silence claimed the room—thick, unmoving, the kind that pressed on the ribs.

When Fuegoleon finally looked up, he saw Dorothy clutching Nozel's left hand as his boyfriend stared straight at him, tears welling in those gorgeous lavender eyes.

"Are you in therapy?" Nozel managed to choke out, gripping Dorothy's hand tighter.

"Yes, I've been seeing Owen for physical therapy. You know this, Nozel—"

"Not that kind of therapy, you twit," Nozel snapped, cutting him off mid-sentence. His composure was unraveling by degrees—the sharp edges of his voice thinning. His hand was still locked around Dorothy's, knuckles white, jaw trembling despite his best efforts to hold it steady. "The mental kind. The kind you clearly need."

Dorothy's lips twitched, torn between intervening and letting him vent. Her free hand hovered in the air, fingers flexing as if she might reach out to soothe him but thought better of it.

Fuegoleon blinked, taken aback—not by the insult, but by the crack in Nozel's usually unflappable exterior. He rarely broke like this in front of the other captains, but he supposed Dorothy was the excpetion. He leaned back slightly, brows knitting in what might've been the faintest flicker of guilt.

"You were in a coma for six months, Fuego," Nozel hissed, voice shaking now, each word edged in frustration and grief. His hand finally slipped from Dorothy's, falling to his thigh with a dull thud. "You almost died, and you're sitting here talking about it like it's a mission report."

Dorothy exhaled softly through her nose, her gaze darting between the two men. "Okay," she murmured like a careful hand parting smoke. "Let's take a breath, yeah? No one's trying to win an argument here. We're all just... trying to make sense of what happened."

Nozel shot her a venomous glare that could've frozen magma. Dorothy only smiled sweetly in return, unbothered. "That's the spirit, sugarplum. Breathe before you start hurling furniture."

Fuegoleon straightened, his features smoothing into that familiar, practiced calm. "Nozel, I do intend to get the help I need," he said, leveling gaze meeting Nozel's.

Dorothy conjured a handkerchief just in time for Nozel to blow his runny nose into it. "Promise?"

"Promise." Fuegoleon gave a firm nod.

Dorothy flicked her wrist, and the soiled handkerchief vanished in a puff of glittering dust. "Good," she said softly, her voice losing its usual teasing lilt. "Because if you hadn't, I'd have scheduled the sessions myself."

Nozel let out a shaky breath through his nose, the sound somewhere between a scoff and a sigh. He leaned back against the sofa, dabbing at the corners of his eyes with the back of his hand, trying—and failing—to look composed again. "You're infuriatingly calm about this," he muttered.

Fuegoleon's lips twitched into the faintest hint of a smile. "Someone has to be."

Dorothy leaned forward, propping her chin on her palm as her tone regained a hint of its usual brightness. "Alright, Fuegoleon, not sure if you've seen the official report on your assassination attempt." She blew on her fingernails as though admiring a fresh manicure before turning her hand over to inspect the shine.

"But William's oh-so-righteous reason for making an attempt on your life was that pretty little red pendant you wore around your neck." Her hand lifted in a loose gesture, as though plucking the pendant from thin air. "It was one of the ten ancient magic stones the Apostles of Sephirah used to power the Tree of Life Monument and open the Shadow Palace."

Nozel stared at Dorothy like she'd sprouted ten heads, and all Fuegoleon could muster was a very polite, very perturbed, "Excuse me?"

The two men exchanged a confused glance before Nozel prompted, "Dorothy, I was there, and I don't understand half the gibberish you just spouted."

"Well, duh. You were there, but you weren't there-there," she retorted, pointing an accusing finger at him.

"What?" Nozel asked flatly.

"At the summoning ritual," Dorothy clarified, "of the Shadow Palace."

"Geezus, I have to walk y'all through everything." Dorothy threw her hands up dramatically, exhaling a long, exasperated sigh before inhaling a gulpful of air. "The Apostles of Sephirah are ten divinely blessed elves who represent the ten spots on the Tree of Life Monument—Sephiroth, the tree of life design in the Kabbalah." She began gesturing with both hands, tracing an invisible diagram in the air. "The Kabbalah is a system of Jewish mysticism that seeks to understand the hidden meanings of the Torah and the nature of the divine."

She crossed one leg over the other, eyes glinting with the satisfaction of a lecturer in her element. "The Apostles of Sephirah have the unique ability to open the Shadow Palace—a magical space between our realm and the underworld, where devils originate."

"And you know this how?" Nozel asked, brow creasing, his arms folding in suspicion.

"Because I was there," Dorothy replied simply, her tone matter-of-fact. She leaned back, one hand resting lazily against her cheek. "I was possessed by the elf Reve. She was one of the ten Apostles of Sephirah."

"Sir Kaiser, William, Charlotte, and Rill were also possessed by elves," Dorothy added. "There are still remnants of their magic in the Magic Knights the elves possessed."

"My soul was dormant," she continued, her voice softening. "But I could feel Reve seething with wrath and grief. She was mourning—" she hesitated briefly, eyes distant, "—and lamenting how humans are vile, parasitic hedonists. Especially the royalty and nobility of our kingdom."

Nozel's mouth twitched, his spine stiffening in quiet indignation, while Fuegoleon frowned, lips pressed thinly together.

Dorothy noticed but didn't pause. "She then told me a rather harrowing tale. About how the elves came to harbor such a profound disdain against humans, about how their Tribe was slaughtered." Each word that passed her lips was quieter than the previous.

"The elves lived peacefully in the Forsaken Realm before ever making contact with the humans," she said, folding her hands neatly in her lap. "Then, one fateful day, Licht saved Lady Tetia from a magical tornado after she had stowed away from the castle." A small, wistful smile ghosted across her lips. "That's how Licht met Lumiere Silvamillion Clover—the first Wizard King and your ancestor." She lifted a finger, gesturing between Fuegoleon and Nozel.

"Licht and Prince Lumiere became fast friends. They both sought to establish a lasting peace between elves and humans, and each possessed a four-leaf grimoire. They endeavored to combine their respective talents and knowledge—Prince Lumiere and his servant, Secre Swallowtail—"

Fuegoleon and Nozel exchanged a perplexed glance, brows furrowed in mutual recognition at the name.

Dorothy caught the look and huffed. "The woman with Asta at the Devil Trial. Remember?" she drawled, crossing her arms with mock impatience. "The trial you so graciously interrupted to pardon Asta from a guillotine blade?"

Nozel's jaw flexed, but Dorothy carried on, waving her hand dismissively. "Anywho. Prince Lumiere and Secre were developing a magic tool capable of storing and distributing mana, while the elves' magic stones amplified spells by drawing power from another world. By combining his research with the elves' resources, the Prince advanced magic technology further."

She leaned back, voice softening again. "Licht and Lady Tetia fell in love. She was with child before they were set to marry—twins, actually." Dorothy's eyes gentled for the briefest moment before she blinked it away.

Her tone shifted, quiet but edged with dread. "The devil that appeared in the Shadow Palace was named Zagred. He orchestrated a plan five hundred years ago to manifest in the mortal world from Hell."

"On the day of Licht and Lady Tetia's wedding," she continued, her gestures becoming sharper, "Zagred summoned Prince Lumiere to an audience with his father under false pretenses to keep him from attending the ceremony. There, the Prince was confronted by a minister whom Zagred had possessed to manipulate the royals into stealing the Elf Tribe's magic."

Dorothy's expression darkened, voice steady but grave. "The magic tool that Prince Lumiere and Secre had been developing was used to drain the elves' mana. Zagred then slaughtered the Elf Tribe using an imitation of Lumiere's light magic to convince them the Prince had betrayed them."

Fuegoleon's eyes lowered, while Nozel's grip on his knee tightened ever so slightly.

"The overwhelming despair from the massacre and betrayal corrupted Licht's four-leaf clover grimoire, turning it into a five-leaf clover," Dorothy said, her voice soft but deliberate. "To prevent Zagred from possessing his body, Licht used the magic stones to transform himself into a demon. He became mindless and uncontrollable, leaving Prince Lumiere no choice but to kill him."

Her shoulders sank slightly, the fatigue of recounting the tale finally showing. "While Prince Lumiere battled against Licht, Secre noticed that Lady Tetia and one of her twins were still alive. She sealed their wounds before helping the Prince finish the fight."

Dorothy's hands stilled in her lap, fingers curling inward. "Afterward, Zagred tried to steal the five-leaf grimoire, but Secre used the magic stones to seal him within an Eternal Prison. Before the seal was complete, though, Zagred summoned the stones to himself and used them to suspend the elves' souls—setting both them and himself to reincarnate in the future. As a result of using Forbidden Magic, Secre sprouted Weg."

Dorothy tilted her head, tone lightening just a touch. "Those cute little black horns she has? They appear temporarily when a human borrows a devil's power—or permanently when overusing Forbidden Magic or negative mana."

Her expression sobered again. "Lumiere, grievously wounded from the battle, went to check on Secre. Despite the risk of using the stones again, she sealed him into a statue so that he could be there in the future—to stop the devil, and to protect the peace."

Her words slowed, softening like the last notes of a lullaby. "Five centuries later, Patri was reincarnated in William's body. Due to his incomplete memories and the corrupting effects of Reincarnation Magic, Patri sought revenge on all humans, founding the Eye of the Midnight Sun to revive the elves and destroy the Clover Kingdom."

Dorothy leaned back, resting her elbows on the armrest with a tired sigh. "The Clover Royals posthumously awarded Prince Lumiere the title of Wizard King for defeating the demon and saving the kingdom. And the generations that followed inherited the stolen magic power."

She paused, her tone dropping to a somber murmur, eyes lowering to the floor. "The demon's skull remained in Hage Village with Prince Lumiere's statue atop it... until he finally passed during the Elf Reincarnation incident."

Fuegoleon's fingers drummed rapidly against his bouncing knee, while Nozel sucked on his teeth. Neither man made a move to respond first.

Dorothy regarded the two in silence for a moment, eyes flicking between their stoic expressions. Then, with a lazy grin, she broke the tension. "A little heavy for a bedtime story, huh?"

Fuegoleon exhaled slowly, pinching the bridge of his nose. "That's... quite the history lesson," he muttered.

Nozel, however, wasn't so easily shaken. "So this was all due to a five-hundred-year-old grudge match between the elves and humans."

Dorothy tilted her head, lips pressing into a small, sympathetic smile. "Mmm. You could say that." She tapped her chin thoughtfully, gaze drifting toward the ceiling. "Or you could say it's been five hundred years of very fancy guilt management."

Nozel's eyes snapped up at that, the sting in her words landing cleanly. "You make it sound as if we're all responsible for the sins of the dead."

Dorothy hummed, twirling a lock of pastel hair between her fingers. "Mmhmm. Passed down through generations, all shiny and polished by propaganda." Her grin widened, impish but tired. "Makes you wonder what else the royal historians left out of the textbooks, doesn't it?"

She leaned back into her seat, crossing one leg over the other with a faint rustle of fabric. "Every kingdom was built on blood and lies," she said, lifting her hand to mime sprinkling rose petals over an invisible grave. "Clover just pretends its sins smell like roses." Her hand fell back to her knee, fingers tapping idly. "While you may not be directly responsible for your ancestors' misdeeds, you are inheritors. You both sit in the shadow of the same monument Lumiere built to bury the truth." The turquoise rings around Dorothy's pupils flared faintly, casting a ghostly sheen across her lashes.

"You must admit the truth has merit," she pressed on, her tone calm but weighted with conviction. She rose from her seat, pacing slowly, fingers tracing idle shapes in the air as if sketching invisible hierarchies. "Within the past five hundred years, the classism in Clover has only worsened, spurred on by the prejudice of the aristocracy and the subjugation of the commoners."

She stopped between the two captains, standing on the coffee table like a soapbox. "It's even evident in our Magic Knight ranks," she continued, holding up six fingers. "Of the nine Grand Magic Knight Captains, six are either royals or nobles. Only Jack, Yami, and I are commoners." A wry smile ghosted across her lips. "Even then, both Yami and I are foreigners."

Her hand dropped to her side, fingers curling loosely into a fist. "And to add insult to injury, only within the past generation did we have the first commoner ascend to our ranks—and he's dead." Her voice dropped to a deadly whisper as she glanced away. "Murdered by his squadmates for daring to exist around nobles."

Fuegoleon and Nozel looked mildly horrified at that revelation. They'd read the report, of course—everyone had—but hearing it spoken aloud, framed in such human cruelty, made it sound like an open wound.

She raised a hand, palm open, then slowly let it fall. "While royals were already born more favored by mana," she said quietly, "the elven magic you inherited has increased the power imbalance between royal and peasant tenfold." Her gaze lingered on each of them in turn—steady, unflinching, and unbearably knowing—before she sank back into her chair with a sigh, the faint shimmer in her eyes finally dimming.

Fuegoleon stared at the floor, the lines between his brows deepening as if the bottomless pit of the Glamour World could offer him an answer. His fingers twitched once against his knee before stilling completely. There was nothing to say that wouldn't sound hollow.

Nozel sat ramrod straight, every inch of him taut with restraint. The faintest tremor crossed his jaw, gone as quickly as it came. He wanted to argue—wanted to refute her claim with all the righteous indignation of his breeding—but even he couldn't deny the truth beneath her words. The taste of it sat bitter on his tongue.

Dorothy watched them both from beneath lowered lashes, the ghost of her earlier grin nowhere to be found. The quiet stretched, punctuated only by the faint tick of a floating grandfather clock.

Dorothy let the silence breathe for a moment before speaking again, her tone softer now, almost wistful. "Y'know," she began, her fingers tracing lazy circles along the armrest, "it makes me oddly optimistic when Asta and Yuno have their little screaming matches about being the next Wizard King."

Fuegoleon's gaze flicked upward at the mention, curiosity dulling the edge of his tension. Nozel's brows drew together, though he said nothing.

"They're far too young and naive to take up the mantle next," Dorothy continued, her lips curving into a faint, fond smile. "But it gives me hope—that maybe one day, a commoner could ascend to the most revered position in the land."

Dorothy pushes herself forward slightly in her chair, leaning toward them with sincerity. "I do not blame either of you for the station you were born into. It wasn't your choice. But I ask you to do better than your ancestors," Dorothy said, her eyes conveying a solemn gravity she rarely showed.

Fuegoleon closed his eyes briefly, absorbing the weight of her plea. He exhaled slowly, the heat of his indignation replaced by a chilling sense of responsibility. "The path of atonement is rarely clear," he murmured, his gaze directed at the floor. "But the need for reform is undeniable."

Nozel remained rigid, his arms crossed over his chest, but his usual cutting retort died on his tongue. He merely dipped his chin in a barely perceptible motion. He couldn't meet her gaze, instead staring out at the illusory horizon of the Glamour World.

Dorothy gave them a thin, knowing smile. She eased back into her chair, the solemnity fading as she picked up a small, shimmering object—a dream marble—and began to toss it lightly from hand to hand.

"A path you walk because you must is always a good start," she conceded, her tone lightening slightly. She let the marble dissolve into sparkling dust. "But you have to stay vigilant. The problem always comes back." She shrugged one shoulder carelessly. "Devils are like mold, sweetheart. They thrive in dark corners you forget to clean."

Dorothy's words hung in the air like incense—sweet, cloying, impossible to ignore.

Fuegoleon's brow furrowed, his voice low but even. "You speak of devils as if they were only creatures of malice. But sometimes, they're men who've convinced themselves their sins serve a greater good."

Dorothy tilted her head, eyes glimmering with curiosity. "Mmm. Thinking of someone in particular, sweetheart?"

His answer came slowly, each word measured and deliberate. "William."

The faintest spark of interest lit in Nozel's eyes. He didn't interrupt—not yet.

Fuegoleon continued, his tone darkening with memory. "When Patri used William's body to attack me, I wondered later... if he ever tried to resist. Or if he simply let it happen." His jaw tightened, and for a moment, the calm veneer of the Crimson Lion cracked, revealing something colder beneath. "Whether he handed the knife over—or just didn't stop it."

For once, Dorothy didn't have a quip ready. Her gaze softened, thoughtful, as the corners of her mouth pulled downward. "That's a grim little riddle, isn't it?" she murmured. "Whether he handed the knife over or just didn't stop it."

Nozel's jaw tightened. "Either way, he's accountable," he said sharply. "And if the Wizard King won't deal with him properly—"

"Nozel," Fuegoleon warned again, the single word carrying weight enough to quiet a battlefield.

Dorothy clapped her hands lightly, shattering the silence before it could congeal. "Okay! We're officially entering brooding territory, and while you two look divine doing it, I'd rather not spend the next hour in monochrome despair." She stood, twirling once as the room brightened, sunlight streaming in through newly imagined windows. "Let's take five. Tea, anyone?"

Fuegoleon exhaled, the barest trace of gratitude flickering across his face. Nozel muttered something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like chamomile, and Dorothy smirked. She snapped away the abandoned teacups in favor of fresh ones.

As she floated toward the kitchenette that hadn't existed five seconds ago, Fuegoleon leaned back again, eyes half-lidded. "You know," he murmured, "for a dream mage, she's remarkably grounded."

Nozel glanced at him sidelong, the faintest curve ghosting his lips. "You have no idea."

"Dorothy's right, though," Fuegoleon said, breaking the brief quiet that followed her departure into the conjured kitchenette. His voice had regained its steadiness. "The divide between royals and nobles, and commoners and peasants, is wider than ever. Perhaps, we start by introducing reformatory measures to the Magic Parliament."

Nozel shifted in his seat, his lavender eyes keen. "Reform? You speak of centuries of ingrained tradition, Fuegoleon. You cannot simply command the nobility to shed their privilege, nor can you suddenly gift the common folk the mana they lack." He uncrosses his arms, a gesture of mild exasperation.

"I'm not expecting all of Clover's nobility to reform overnight. But I do recall a particularly stiff, mild-mannered Silva who used to turn his nose up at the sight of peasants. He's seemed to mellow out over the past year or so."

That was a justified dig Fuegoleon limited to a single, measured jab—one Nozel recognized immediately for what it was. He preferred not to remind his boyfriend that humility hadn't always been a trait he wore comfortably. There had been a time when even a glance from a commoner would have earned a razor-edged retort, his pride as polished and sharp as the silver sigil on his cloak.

Now, though, Nozel merely exhaled through his nose, schooling his features into an expression of affected grace. "Are you implying I was ever anything less than perfectly composed and charitable, Fuegoleon? My distaste was purely aesthetic."

"Of course. And my point is, if a Silva can be nudged off his pedestal by the sheer blunt force of reality, there is hope for the rest of the kingdom."

Fuegoleon leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees, his gaze intent. "The law is a tool, Nozel. Currently, it's weighted entirely toward the high-born. The Magic Parliament serves as our legal check, but it's run by the very people it should be checking. We need to introduce measures that guarantee fairer representation—perhaps a minimum quota of Commoners or even just competent, unbiased individuals, regardless of their lineage, in key roles."

Nozel pursed his lips. He didn't disagree with the goal, only the practicality. "The high nobility will tear that proposal apart before it even reaches the King. They see the Parliament as their last bastion of unchecked power after Julius's meddling with the squads. It will ignite a political firestorm."

"Then let it burn," Fuegoleon countered, his tone firm. "A controlled burn is often necessary to clear out the old, dead brush. We need to create avenues for commoners to rise without being exceptional talents like the Black Bulls or the Golden Dawn's new crop. A simple, competent man born in a village should be allowed to rise through the ranks of the bureaucracy if he applies himself. It must be about merit, not blood."

Before the pair could continue their political drawl, the glass teapot Dorothy had been tending gave a sharp, crystalline whistle.

She reappeared in a swirl of violet mist, a floating tray preceding her like a parade of porcelain and steam, three cups of chamomile tea balancing perfectly atop it. With a graceful flick of her wrist, the cups glided to their respective saucers, steam curling lazily through the air like ribbons of light.

She added the careful detail of floating Fuegoleon's saucer, given that he had not ignited his fire arm.

Both men offered a polite thank you as Dorothy bounced back onto the couch cushion beside Nozel. She took a loud and otherwise ungraceful slurp of her tea before setting it down on the saucer with a soft clink and exhaling a refreshed sigh.

"Anyways, Nozel. I wanted to revisit a comment you made earlier. Something about Vangeance being a 'golden boy twink.'" She tapped her chin in mock curiosity, drawing out the words with theatrical innocence. The corners of her lips twitched with mischief as her gaze slid toward him, gleefully anticipating the sputtering denial that was sure to follow. "You said it so... passionately. Almost like there was history there."

Nozel's expression froze mid-sip, the porcelain teacup hovering just short of his lips. "I hardly recall my exact phrasing."

"Oh, you recall it just fine," Dorothy sing-songed. "You said it right before yelling something along the lines of, 'Promises are cheap when the golden boy twink tries to murder my boyfriend.'" Her grin was sly, but her eyes didn't soften. "And yet, if I'm not mistaken, you encountered him before visiting Fuegoleon in the infirmary—after months of brooding."

Fuegoleon's brows lifted slightly, the movement subtle but noticeable. He didn't speak, but his gaze shifted toward Nozel with quiet curiosity, inviting explanation.

Nozel set his teacup down with painstaking care, the faint porcelain click sounding far too loud in the small, enchanted parlor. For a moment, his jaw worked as though he were chewing on something bitter—pride, perhaps, or memory.

"...I swear," he said finally, tone clipped.

Fuegoleon's eyebrow arched, a subtle motion that somehow managed to feel like a silent interrogation. Dorothy leaned in, chin propped on her palms, eyes gleaming with the same rabid curiosity that made her one of the best intelligence gatherers in the Clover Kingdom when she chose to be.

"I was waiting outside Julius's office after a mission debrief. William had just finished his audience. Marx informed me the Wizard King would be delayed."

His gaze flicked briefly to Fuegoleon's before shifting away. "He loitered by the door. Removed his mask. Said it was cursed—his scar. That it came from his mother's bloodline."

"Oh yeah, William is an illegitimate child. He lived in the Forsaken Realm until his father's heir died." Dorothy's nose wrinkled in sympathy, but the smirk tugging at her lips betrayed a scholar's intrigue rather than pity.

"I made a passing remark," Nozel said, hand lifting in a small, dismissive flick, though his gaze refused to meet either of theirs. "Something about how two of the nine captains were cursed." His jaw tightened, the movement precise and deliberate, like he was locking something away. "He didn't laugh, but... he didn't seem offended, either. He told me fate had a peculiar sense of humor."

He exhaled sharply through his nose, as if trying to punctuate the story and move on, but Dorothy's expectant look made it clear she wasn't about to let him.

"I thought that would be the end of it," he went on, shoulders drawing taut beneath his uniform. His fingers drummed once against his arm before stilling. "But then he said—" His voice faltered, the next words forced through gritted teeth. "'You're thinking about him again, aren't you?'"

Nozel's hand slid to rest over the lower half of his face, his thumb brushing the edge of his jaw as though he could hide behind the gesture. The flush that crept up his neck betrayed him anyway, blooming a soft, traitorous pink against the silver trim of his collar.

"So that's what did it," Dorothy stated matter-of-factly. "Not all the nagging, or the guilt, or that late night drinking session you had with Jack and Yami, or the lectures from yours truly. It was a conversation with a man wearing half a mask and a full load of regret." Dorothy gave a low whistle, shaking her head with mock disbelief.

"Shut up," Nozel snapped, shoulders stiffening as he turned sharply toward her, every syllable ground out through clenched teeth.

"No." Dorothy grinned, rocking back in her seat and wagging a finger like a teacher enjoying a student's fluster.

"You drank with Yami and Jack?" Fuegoleon asked, brows knitting together as he angled slightly forward.

"It was after a Captain's meeting!" Nozel shot back, a sharp gesture of his hand dismissing the thought as absurd.

"He told me I should go see you," Nozel murmured, the words quieter now, almost reluctant to leave his mouth. His gaze dropped to the teacup in front of him, watching the steam curl and dissipate as if it might swallow the confession whole. "That he knew what it was to care for someone and not be able to see him." His thumb traced the rim of the saucer, before he drew in a shallow breath. "That he'd give anything for even a moment with—" He paused, the words catching somewhere between his chest and throat before he managed to push them free. "Someone dear to him."

His fingers tightened around the cup then, just enough for the porcelain to creak softly, and he quickly set it back down—too carefully this time

"It wasn't until after I saw the sorry excuse for PDA after Asta and Vangeance exorcised the elves that I knew he was referring to Patri." Nozel's expression twisted into something between disdain and reluctant empathy.

"Says the man who is so ruefully avoidant of PDA," Fuegoleon muttered as he took an unhurried sip of his tea.

Nozel's head tilted slightly, the corner of his lip curving into something sardonic and dangerous. "Te follaré en la próxima reunión de capitanes, si eso es lo que quieres. (I'll fuck you at the next captain's meeting, if that's what you want.)"

Dorothy nearly fell off the sofa laughing, while Fuegoleon's brain short-circuited mid-reply, his face caught somewhere between flustered and mortified.

"Please tell me you don't know what that means," Fuegoleon managed to rasp, his throat tight, the tea momentarily forgotten as he gripped the saucer. The color was rising quickly in his neck and cheeks.

"Of course not," Dorothy cackled, having successfully collapsed off the sofa.

Nozel's smile widened, very pleased with himself. "Would you prefer I translate?" he asked, slow and deliberately saccharine.

Fuegoleon spluttered, tea nearly escaping his lips as he snatched the saucer to steady himself. "No—" He stopped, throat working, then ground out, "Don't."

"No? Too late." Nozel leaned forward, voice low and mock-formal. "'I'll fuck you at the next captains' meeting, if that's what you want.'"

Dorothy howled, rolling onto her back and clutching her sides to contain the her laughter. Glitter motes spilled from her hair like confetti. "Oh my god, Nozel, you're lethal!"

Fuegoleon's face went a glorious, involuntary red. He shoved his palm against his mouth to hide the faint, incredulous laugh that escaped anyway.

Dorothy's laughter subsided, and with Nozel's begrudging assistance, she managed to untangle herself from her cape.

She sat up, still hiccupping with the remnants of mirth.

"Vangeance goes peacocking around with that feather on his ridiculous mask," Nozel muttered, straightening the hem of his uniform as though regaining composure could erase the prior five minutes. "If that isn't flamboyant, then I don't know what is."

Dorothy snorted, one hand flying to cover her mouth. "Oh, look who's talking! Mister 'I spend twenty minutes every morning polishing my pauldrons until they could blind the sun.'"

Fuegoleon made a valiant attempt to suppress a smile and failed. "She has a point."

Nozel turned a glare on him sharp enough to cut through armor. "You're one to talk, Fuegoleon. Your entire aesthetic is 'holy inferno masquerading as humility.'"

Dorothy gave a delighted gasp. "Oh, he's getting defensive! Quick, Fuegoleon, say something romantic and watch him short-circuit like you did."

Fuegoleon's restraint wavered just enough for his ears to give him away, turning a soft shade of pink. "I have no intention of indulging your theatrics," he said primly, setting down his teacup.

Nozel's lips curved—not into his usual smirk, but something smaller, wry, almost fond. "You already have," he murmured.

Dorothy let out a shriek of laughter, collapsing sideways into the sofa once more. "Saints preserve me, you two are insufferable!"

Nozel merely lifted his cup again, a trace of satisfaction gleaming in his eyes. "So I've been told."

The trio wrapped up their conversation sometime between Dorothy's last wheeze of laughter and Fuegoleon's resigned sigh. Their teacups sat empty now, pale rings staining the saucers—ghostly traces of the chaos that had filled the parlor. Even the enchanted steam that once curled lazily above the cups had long since faded, leaving behind the subtle scent of rosehip and bergamot.

Dorothy eyed the empty cups, then the two captains across from her, mischief sparking anew. "Well, looks like the tea's gone and so has the peace and quiet. My work here is done!"

She clapped her hands together once, and a shimmer of pink-gold light rippled through the air. An ornate door appeared where there hadn't been one before—framed in ribbons, painted stars, and what might've been the dim outline of a cat wearing spectacles. The handle glittered invitingly.

Fuegoleon blinked at it. "Was that door... always there?"

"Nope!" Dorothy chirped, beaming. "It's my 'kindly escort before I say something I shouldn't' exit spell. For guests, naturally."

Nozel rose smoothly, adjusting the fall of his cloak with studied dignity that didn't quite mask the lingering color in his cheeks. "How considerate," he drawled. "Next time, I'll bring thicker armor."

"Next time," Dorothy teased, wagging a finger, "try not to threaten to ravish someone during tea, hmm?"

Fuegoleon nearly choked on his breath. "That was not—"

"Mm-hm." Dorothy's grin was merciless.

The two men exchanged a long-suffering glance before stepping toward the door. Nozel opened it with a graceful flick of his wrist, the hinges sighing like they'd been waiting centuries to be useful.

As they crossed the threshold, Dorothy called after them, "Don't forget—love confessions and profanity are perfectly welcome next time, just not in that order!"

The door winked out of existence the moment it shut behind them, leaving Dorothy alone in the quiet parlor.

She chuckled softly to herself, pouring the last lingering drops of tea into her cup. "Saints above," she murmured, smiling into the steam, "those two are going to kill me someday—and it'll be worth it."

Nozel was impressed that Dorothy had managed to conjure the exit door from the Glamour World directly to Clover Castle, considering she had only been there a handful of times.

They'd conversed longer than he expected. Night had descended upon Clover Castle. The waxing gibbous moon hung holy and hollow in the sky, silvering the gardens and setting a soft halo along Fuegoleon's hair.

Nozel's internal sense of time, warped by the Dream Magic of the Glamour World, was just beginning to reassert itself. He supposed they should retire for the evening, a distant clock reading half-past ten.

"It's late," Nozel said, voice a low hum, silvery and restrained. "We should retire for the evening."

He shifted slightly, angling toward the path that would take him to the Silva Estate. "Goodnight, Fue—"

But before the name could finish leaving his tongue, a hand—warm, firm, and very deliberate—caught his arm.

Nozel opened his mouth—perhaps to unleash some barbed remark about boundaries, propriety, or the obviousness of separate estates—but the words scattered like startled birds when Fuegoleon dragged him into the shadowed alcove of the Vermillion Estate's entrance.

Fuegoleon turned sharply, pressing him back against the nearest column. The impact was soft—measured—but the air between them thinned like silk drawn taut.

Fuegoleon's pinned Nozel's hands above his head. His breath was warm, close enough that Nozel could feel it ghost across his cheek.

"Fue—" The rest of the name vanished as Fuegoleon's mouth met his.

It wasn't a chaste thing. It was restrained power wrapped in reverence—an unspoken apology, a challenge, and a confession all at once. Nozel inhaled sharply, one hand tightening reflexively around Fuegoleon's sleeve before sliding fisting a hand in Fuegoleon's collar, pulling him closer, tilting his head just enough to deepen the kiss.

Fuegoleon drew back just enough to breathe, his forehead resting against Nozel's. Their breaths mingled—shallow, uneven, threaded with all the words they'd both swallowed for years and laid bear in the Glamour World.

"Been waiting to do that all day," Fuegoleon murmured with a presumptous smirk.

He was so convinced he was going to get some tonight Nozel thought.

Nozel gave a quiet, disbelieving laugh—half irritation, half something softer he refused to name. "Of course you have," he said dryly, though his voice betrayed a tremor of something dangerously close to fondness.

Fuegoleon's smirk only deepened. "You didn't seem too opposed."

"Don't mistake silence for surrender," Nozel replied, his tone smooth as steel drawn from its sheath. The faint moonlight caught the sharp planes of his face, lending his eyes a silver fire that refused to yield.

"If you want to leave—"

Nozel cut him off by catching his face between his hands. "Don't give me an out now," he said, voice rougher than intended. "You've already set the fire."

"Then were doing this?"

"Of course," Nozel confirmed, sounding every bit the aristocrat even with his hair slightly disheveled and his breath uneven.

"Very well." Fuegoleon effortlessly hoisted the Silva up with one arm. Nozel, startled by the show of strength, instinctively hooked his legs around the Vermillion's solid waist.

"Geezus, when did you learn how to do this?" Nozel managed, his voice caught somewhere between disbelief and reluctant admiration. His fingers tightened around Fuegoleon's shoulders, as if testing the reality of being lifted so easily, his legs still instinctively braced around the Vermillion's waist.

Fuegoleon chuckled, the sound low and unhurried. "PT has been working wonders," he said, his grin infuriatingly self-satisfied. He adjusted his grip slightly, hand steady beneath Nozel's thigh. "But you'll have to open all the doors on our way to my bedroom," he added, tilting his head toward the hall with mock solemnity. "You know—one arm and everything."

Nozel gave him a long, incredulous look, the kind that would have frozen most men on the spot. "You're absurd," he muttered, though his hand was already reaching over Fuegoleon's shoulder to push open the first door.

The corridor beyond was dim, lit only by the soft glow of lanterns and the silver wash of moonlight filtering through tall windows. Their footsteps—well, Fuegoleon's—echoed quietly against the marble floor as they made their way through the hall. Each time they passed through another doorway, Nozel's hand brushed against cold brass, the motion growing easier, more instinctive, as the silence between them stretched taut and unspoken.

Fuegoleon's warmth pressed through every inch of contact: his arm steady beneath Nozel, the slow, measured rhythm of his breathing betraying the effort it took not to hurry. The Vermillion's expression had softened—less smirk now, more reverent focus.

By the time they reached the last door, Nozel could feel the pulse at his throat—steady but insistent.

"Last chance to retreat," he said, voice low but gentle—half challenge, half invitation.

Nozel's answer came without hesitation. "You've already carried me this far. It would be terribly undignified to turn back now."

Fuegoleon laughed softly, the sound warm as the hearthfire that awaited them inside. He nudged the door open with his shoulder and stepped through, the shadows of the corridor falling away behind them as the door clicked shut—quiet, certain, and final.

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