Archive of Our Own
Orter Madl x Reader
Synopsis: Love has no place in war, and magic doesn’t forgive sentiment. Your love was never a declaration—it was an archive.
Word Count: 4,018
Genre/Warning: All of this contains spoilers from the manga, slow burn, eventual romance, falling in love, and slight angst before the ending.
Author's Note: I wrote a long one to make up for the lack of Orter Madl fics 🤧
MASTERLIST
Two Divine Visionaries heralded in the same year—it was an extraordinary moment, the first in history, a breakthrough of the magic world.
One who wants to create a world where order matters and one who aims to preserve family legacy. Different people with different goals; with the same ambition and the same extraordinary magical prowess.
Never had the Bureau of Magic found it difficult to select the worthiest candidate. It has always been easy—pit the students against each other and whoever wins becomes the Visionary. But if the Trimagicathlon Final Exam has been going on for days, down to two students who both refuse to yield, does the bureau have a choice?
It started at Easton Magic Academy. For unknown reasons, the Police Academy has been incorporated with Easton. Their students became Easton’s, sorted into the three houses, and magic-based law enforcement became a part of the curriculum.
Coming from a prestigious family known to produce Divine Visionaries, you were determined to inherit the title of “the Chronicle Cane”. But whether you wanted it or not, it has already been destined for you the moment you were born—the moment a Master Cane chose you.
As powerful as it may sound, it was conflicting—for the Nulling Cane you possessed grants you the ability to “erase” a few seconds of events as if crossing out a line in a book. But the Chronicle Cane should not allow history to be distorted.
“We preserve truth. Every battle, every rise and fall of magic, every deed—great or terrible—belongs in the archives. If no one writes the truth, all we are is noise that vanishes in time,” you once told Orter.
You first met at the school library. The tall boy with sharp eyes and an aura of absolute focus. He was an avid reader. He’d bore holes through his eyes from day to night, in between classes, whenever he had time to burn. He’d stay until lights out—til the library closes.
“Pardon me,” you said. “But the library will be closing soon.”
You were a student assistant of the librarian. They were fond of you, the well-mannered studious student. Well raised and of good judgement. Discreet. Loves reading—perhaps you were no different from Orter.
He did not look up at first. But the moment he did, his eyes were cold, as though questioning why you had approached him instead of waiting for him to leave.
“I assist the librarian,” you said. “And I must kindly ask that you conclude your studies for tonight.”
Orter stepped past you, the faint brush of his shoulder nearly making you drop the ring of keys you were holding. He didn’t look back then.
Cold, calculating, yet undeniably compelling. There was something about him. He was one of those that came from the Police Academy.
Everyday after that, you’d find him at the same table, reading until the light turns dark. His eyes were always fixed on a volume thick enough to crush an average student’s patience. It was intriguing—most students never came to the library as often unless they were desperate for test results.
“You could take the book to your dorm,” you once suggested.
His refusal was curt, but not sharp. On rare moments he’d reply to you, his words were not the rambling of an arrogant boy. They were measured, as if he weighed every syllable—and you admired precision.
It became a rhythm. While you were returning books to the shelves, he’ll continue reading way past the library’s closing. The librarian didn’t mind it. He’ll only remind you to never forget closing the windows and locking the doors before leaving.
Soon, the two of you would talk.
“What do you think of this law?” he once asked, not looking up from the thick volume open before him.
The book was an ancient treatise on forbidden enchantments and the trial records of a now-defunct magical clan.
“They acted out of desperation,” you answered. “I think punishment was necessary.” He paused, then turned a page. It was the closest thing to approval he had ever given.
You began to notice his patterns. He reread pages that didn’t meet his standards, as if willing to rewrite them in his own principle. He never used bookmarks. He’d simply remember the page he stopped at and the next day, would open the book at the exact same page.
On evenings when the lighting has taken on a darker hue, he’d remove his glasses and would wipe it with a lens cloth; he always brings one. But you know that it wasn’t because his glasses got foggy. You see the way he’d close his eyes and blink a little too hard when he claims he’s “just wiping” his glasses.
The next night, you’ve placed an extra lamp by his usual spot, “If you continue reading in poor lighting like that, your vision’s going to get worse.”
Since then, he began paying attention to you. You told him to stop reading and rest his eyes after intervals. Orter didn’t like being told what to do, but he did as you advised, anyway. And when he does take a break, he looks at you.
Sometimes you’d be atop the ladder, sitting gracefully, carefully, as you reach the top shelf to return a book to where it belonged. Other times, you’re kneeling on the floor, the lower white half of your robe pooling around you.
He started to understand your silences. You disliked noise when writing so you usually do it in the evenings when most students leave the library.
During the day, you’ll just read. Not by the desks due to your particular dislike for noise. But rather, by the window sill, away from the crowd but still close enough that people can approach you should they need assistance.
They say people grow close through shared joy, laughter, and vulnerability. But some bonds are formed through consistency—the choice to keep showing up—the recognition of someone who walks the same path as you do.
He never called you by your first name nor did you call him by his. But you began to recognize his footsteps when he enters the library full of students.
Easton was vast, having eleven floors just for the dormitories; not to mention, the secret chambers only professors knew about. On top of that, you belonged to different dorms—there isn’t one class you take together.
It was impossible to see Orter anywhere outside the library. And true to that fact, you never did see him anywhere else.
That is until the Divine Visionary Selection Exams. Your name on the candidate list was not surprising. You came to Easton with a goal and this is all part of achieving it.
But Orter? He was a student from the Police Academy. What surprised him was how you managed to garner a ton of gold coins despite spending half of your day in the library.
The first three rounds of the selection exams went smoothly—quickly, even. You haven’t faced Orter then but you were made aware of his power. Certain that facing him was inevitable, you started thinking of ways to counter his magic.
For a while during the trimagicathlon, you worked with him to eliminate the representatives of the other two academies. It was only when it was just down to the two of you and the Wand of Beginnings that you finally faced him.
Orter’s uniform was torn at the sleeves, sand swirling loosely around his feet. “Should’ve known it’d be you,” he said flatly, his voice like dry parchment. “You’ve been in my blind spot for too long.”
It’s the second day of your duel and neither of you had slept. Your scrolls were half-burned, your robe torn. The pentacles you scrawled onto the ground pulsed like open eyes.
It was ironic—fighting a man that looked out for you.
Orter helped pick up the books you dropped when you were clumsily carrying too many. He took one from your hand when you stood on tiptoes, believing that you can reach the shelf that’s just above your reach.
He refilled your inkwell when he noticed that it’s past halfway empty. He silences the other students with his intimidating glare when it gets too noisy for your comfort. He caught you when you misstepped and fell off the ladder.
And he carried you to his dorm, with his robe wrapped around you, when you fell asleep and he didn’t know where your dorm was. His dorm was a single room and that night, it was all yours—because that night, he slept in the library, instead.
The third day dawned red. Your breathing was shallow, your scrolls were nearly burned through—ink smeared, curses hanging half-finished in the air. Orter stood with one knee to the ground, sand drifting like steam off his shoulders.
And still, neither of you would yield.
Orter raised his wand again, readying another wave of compressed sand. His eyes met yours and you were already drawing another pentacle with your wand. Magic crackled violently in the air.
“That is enough,” the world stopped at the sound of the Bless Minister’s voice. “Three days, and neither of you are willing to lose.”
He gestured to the Wand of Beginnings, still untouched. He spoke once more, “Touch it together.”
“What?” Orter whispered. You gasped, confused, “But—only one person can—”
“Perhaps that was true before today,” the Bless Minister said. “But you two have redefined what it means to be a Visionary.”
The crowd held its breath and everything was silent. You looked at Orter and he looked back. Then without a word, you both raised your hands and touched the Wand of Beginnings
It flashed like a supernova. Not a split, nor a compromise. The wand welcomed you both. Its magic didn’t divide—it doubled.
And for the first time in history, two Divine Visionaries were selected.
That historic event felt like ages ago now that you sat by the windowsill of your office at the Magic Archives Administration. You made that history and you wrote that history—as befitting of someone from the (l/n) family—as befitting of the Chronicle Cane.
Behind you, Orter leaned against the window frame, his arms folded in front of you, locking you in his embrace. His gaze wasn’t on the town down below. It was on you.
Even after becoming Divine Visionaries, it still took time before the two of you reached this intimacy. Orter wasn’t interested, or so he always said. As for you, you didn’t want to be distracted, didn’t want anything getting in the way of you becoming the Chronicle Cane.
But when you both became Divine Visionaries, what’s there to stop you now? What was there to stop the burgeoning feelings you have buried? Because surely, he didn’t do everything he did for you just to be friends when he didn’t even have the time for anyone.
As a rule-obsessed, it irked him to see the lights in your office still lit past the curfew. Rules are rules, and rules must be followed. Nobody dared break them; not on Orter’s watch.
“Pardon me,” you said one night as he let himself in your office. “The archives are already closed for the day.”
“The archives are closed,” he corrected dryly, stepping further inside. “And the curfew for administrative work is strict.”
You didn’t look up from your paper, “Then arrest me.”
There was the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth. Barely there, but enough for you to catch if you looked—which you didn’t.
“I could. You’ve broken at least three ordinances. Four, if you count the food stains on these records.”
“I was multitasking.”
“You were eating on a royal decree.”
You finally looked up at him. He hadn’t moved from his spot beside the door. He stood imposingly, unreadable, and far too handsome in this damn lighting.
The both of you had grown so much since graduating. Orter looked more and more like he was made for the female gaze. If he weren’t intimidating, he would’ve lots of women on his tail.
As for you, there would be considerable amounts of gifts and flowers being delivered to your office. However, they’re only able to make it up to the bureau’s lobby because Orter had made a decree:
A Visionary’s office is no place for unsolicited gifts.
Sometimes when he’s around, the flowers never even last a minute. On those days, you swore you heard the sound of sand grinding behind the reception desk after the deliverymen left.
Orter stepped forward, eyes scanning your desk. He didn’t reprimand you further, nor lecture you about overworking again. He just said, “You never take breaks. Even now.”
“Is this your idea of checking up on me?”
“It’s an enforcement of order.”
“And you just happened to enforce it every night this week?”
That made him pause.
The next day, you arrived at your office and surprisingly, silence greeted you. Not a sound of footsteps in the corridor, nor the murmur of voices from people passing by.
You opened your window out of habit, just to make sure the breeze would still flow. It did. But the distant sounds of the town didn’t pour in with it. The outside had been muted. Or rather—blocked.
You didn’t need to ask what it was and who did it. There was only one person you knew who knew about your dislike for noise. He’d seen the way your brows furrow when the library becomes a little too noisy.
It was the same man who’d purposefully stay til the library’s closing hours so you weren’t alone as you write your library reports. And he was the same man who left a bouquet of flowers on your desk after magically soundproofing your office so you no longer had to stay up late.
That night, Orter had let himself into your office like always. No knock, no announcement, just the sound of your door clicking shut behind him.
You were already used to this routine—the way he placed a cup of tea on your desk without a word. You set your quill down, eyes on the tea, still warm.
“I know what you’re doing,” you said softly, not looking at him.
Orter, who had been pretending to read one of your books, stilled, “Elaborate.”
You finally raised your gaze to meet his, “I’ve known for a long time now. That all of it—these acts—they’re how you say it.” His throat shifted, jaw tightening, yet he said nothing.
“But I’m not like you,” you continued, a breath leaving you. “I say what I mean. I name things. I write them down.”
You stood slowly from your desk, walking to him until there was barely space between you. He didn’t move, but his eyes—always sharp, always vigilant—looked unsure.
You smiled gently, “I love you, Orter.”
For a moment, there was no reaction. No shift in his posture nor a flicker of expression. But then his voice came, quiet and hoarse.
“You do?”
“I do,” you said. “And I’m not asking you to say it back.”
His brow furrowed slightly, “You assume I won’t?”
“No,” you whispered. “I just already know you have. You’ve been telling me every night.”
That finally broke something—the stillness he always wore. His hand reached out, tentative at first, then firm—fingers curling around yours like he couldn’t stand the distance anymore.
“I love you,” he said. And this time, it wasn’t just an action, not a routine. It was a vow.
You stepped into him. And when his arms wrapped around your waist, when he buried his face in your shoulder, all the order and silence in the world melted away.
You rested your hand on the back of his head, fingers threading into his hair. His usual rigid posture faltered as he allowed himself this vulnerability.
A long moment passed between you, quiet except for the sound of his breathing against your collarbone. Then he pulled back just enough to look at you.
You thought he might say something, might try to justify the emotion trembling just beneath his gaze. But Orter was never good with words, only with intentions—only with actions.
So he kissed you.
No hesitation, no calculation. Just the kind of kiss that had been building quietly for years—between late nights and long silences, between tea cups, and between glances that lasted too long.
He kissed you like someone who had wanted to for a very, very long time but had only now given himself permission. You kissed him back.
And in that kiss, there was no authority, no Visionary, no canes—just you and Orter—two people who finally met where their hearts had always been headed.
That night changed things between, and only in between, the two of you. In public, nothing changed. There were no public displays of affection, no lingering stares, no touching. But Divine Visionaries are not easily fooled.
Sophina kept her suspicions to herself, though her curious eyes flicked between you two more often than before. Tsurara muttered once, half-jokingly, that she suspected a “very cold, very logical romance”. Kaldo simply sighed before getting back to polishing his sword.
But only Ryoh had the audacity to investigate. “Hey,” he whispered. “Is it true?”
You didn’t look up from the document you were reviewing, “I don’t know what you mean.”
“Oh, come on. I can tell. You’ve been smiling more.” Of course, Ryoh can tell—Ryoh the family man, the lover of his wife, the father of a child that looked like a small him—of course he can tell when two people are in love.
“I smile the same amount as I always have.”
He gave you a look, “Which is… none. Except now it’s, like, 0.5.”
From that day on, it was known. But most people didn’t want to believe. They’ve never seen you two hold hands, never seen you two smile at each other. Yet no one questioned, no one asked—because no one meddles with the affairs of Orter Madl.
Two years later, Mash Burnedead came into the picture. Orter had been restless. His relentless demands and efforts to take the magic-less boy down has delayed his plans for the two of you.
Then as if things couldn’t get worse, there came Innocent Zero. A day before the eclipse, when Ryoh called for the Anti-Innocent Zero Coalition Emergency Meeting, you were asked to stay behind with Kaldo while the remaining Divine Visionaries storm Innocent Zero’s castle.
Ryoh ordered you to hold the ground and protect the people should Innocent Zero launch another aerial attack that might eliminate the populace. More importantly, so someone can lead the people should something uneventful happen to them.
You became the Divine Visionaries’ last wall of defense and their very own trump card. Should everyone perish, you, with the Nulling Cane, is the only one who could be able to put up a fight against Innocent Zero’s magic.
Right before they left, you kissed Orter. Not gently, not sweetly, but with the urgency of a woman who might never have the chance again. “Come back to me,” you told him when you pulled away.
On the viewing mirror Innocent Zero put up for the world to see, you watched as Orter and your colleagues get trashed around by Mash’s eldest sibling. It was hopeless—not even Ryoh stood a chance.
Below, you clutched the Nulling Cane close to your chest. You never intended to use it to distort history. But deep inside, you thought—and in the kiss you gave Orter, you implied—that you will rewrite history over and over if it meant keeping him by your side.
When they flew down to escape Innocent Zero, Orter was not there. Something inside you snapped. Kaldo reached for your arm, but you were already airborne—zooming up with your broom.
Not long after you entered the castle, you found a massive crack in the ground, so deep it looked like the land itself had been split apart. And at its edge, beyond the broken path, stood one lone figure.
You breathe caught and you understood in a single, harrowing instant that Orter had done this. He had used his remaining magic to collapse the ground, to split the castle in two so no enemy could follow the retreat—so the rest could all escape. And now he was the dam holding back the flood.
You flew past the fracture to reach Orter. The force of your descent sent Innocent Zero’s army sprawling back. Your magic—a turbulent storm of sacred ink and cursed pentagrams—spiraled outward in a radiant burst. A protective seal spun beneath your feet as you landed behind Orter.
His eyes widened—just barely, “…(Y/n)?” He was so pale. His sleeve was soaked red. Cuts marked his face, and blood trickled from his mouth. He was ready to die.
“You absolute idiot,” you breathed. He didn’t speak. Instead, he wavered. The second his knees buckled, you caught him.
Your arms locked around his shoulders as he collapsed against your chest. You lowered both of you to the ground, shielding him as another spell went off behind you, seals flickering to life midair to deflect the blast.
His forehead pressed against your collar, “You shouldn’t be here.”
You looked down at him, tears threatening to spill as you wiped blood from his face, “I am not letting the man I love die alone like some tragic hero in a story I didn’t agree to.”
For once, Orter didn’t have a reply. His arm wrapped weakly around your waist. And you leaned in. And you kissed him.
You broke the kiss only when tears slipped down. “I love you,” you said, pressing your forehead to his. “I love you.”
“I know,” he exhaled shakily. “But hearing it like that—” his voice cracked slightly, and he rasped, “—makes me want to live.”
“Then live,” you whispered fiercely. “Please. Just live.”
The rest of the war was placed in Mash’s hand. In the end, all became well. Innocent Zero returned everyone’s time without disrupting the flow of time itself. As far as you’re concerned, without distorting history.
Months after that eventful period, both you and Order became so busy. He, with his job editing the laws about the magic-less, and you, writing down in complete detail everything that had happened.
You barely saw each other then. It took months before you could finally sit leisurely by the windowsill of your office at the Magic Archives Administration.
Behind you, Orter leaned against the window frame, his arms folded in front of you, locking you in his embrace. His gaze wasn’t on the town down below. It was on you.
The world was finally quiet. It was about time he finally make good on what he once had to delay. He gently reached for your hand and laced his fingers with yours.
“There’s something I’ve wanted to do,” he said. He stepped back just enough to let you stand. And when he did, he dropped to one knee.
Your breath caught.
From his coat pocket, he produced a small, elegant ring box. He opened it slowly, revealing a ring unlike any you’d seen before.
At its center was a single, opalescent stone that shimmered like a captured star. But it wasn’t just a stone. It was your magic—preserved, crystallized, and bound with his.
“(Y/n),” Orter said, gazing up at you with a reverence that softened every sharp line on his face. “I’ve spent my entire life changing laws, changing the world, changing myself.”
He exhaled, steady and sure, “But this is the one thing I don’t ever want to change—your presence in my life.”
You blinked rapidly, lips parting.
“I don’t need a grand spell,” he said, holding the ring between two fingers. “I just need you to say yes.”
He looked up at you—not as a Divine Visionary, not as the head of the Magical Power Administration, not even as the Desert Cane—but as the man who had waited far too long to give you everything.
“Will you marry me?”
You didn’t hesitate. You knelt down with him, tears clouding your vision, and whispered:
“Yes.”
I may or may not write a second part that contains the wedding and/or life as a married couple, who knows? What do you say? Comment if u wanna be tagged!
