All the Blasphemy of the Nothing
Yandere Thistle x Reader
Word count: 6.4k
Summary: You got separated from Laios’s party and the dungeon eats you alive, until the Lunatic Magician starts showing up.
Warnings: Implied stalking, implied kidnapping, one-sided obsession, Thistle is mentally unstable but what else is new.
Author's Notes: I wrote this a while back on AO3 lol.
You were not raised for disobedience.
Taken in by the Nakamoto clan since you were a child, your early years were spent scavenging for scraps in the bustling streets. You learned to lower your head before you learned to read, you were taught that honor is heavier than armor, and duty and loyalty became your guiding principles. You dedicated your life to fulfilling the will of your master, sharpening his blades and standing unwaveringly by his side.
Falin, the Western girl who captured his heart, was resurrected with black magic and turned into a chimera. You were there when she attacked—her talons dug into the rock, claws tore through the floor. Toshiro didn't scream, didn't weep. He keeps pushing forward like a man possessed. But you knew him too well. Behind that fury when the blade was drawn at Laios was heartbreak, a love never voiced, and now, never returned.
You couldn't bear to see him continue to torment himself. You know you ought to have stood by his side, but what he needed now wasn't another sword. He needed hope, and that was something he no longer believed in. But Laios' party did.
So after Falin escaped, you made your decision.
Laios and his friends didn't trust you at first; you can't blame them. You told them to call you by your alias; you never did particularly care for your birth name, anyway.
You'd explained your past well enough to suggest you weren't here to wreck things. Marcille kept glancing at you like you were a time bomb. Chilchuck—gods bless that skeptical little half-foot—he'd searched through your belongings three times over. Senshi nodded at you in greeting. Laios, on the other hand, launched into a full-throated defense of monster cuisine that would make even the most adventurous stomach turn with all the passion of a prophet discovering divine truth.
"Have you ever tried candrake and Basilisk Omelet?" he asked earnestly, gesturing with both hands. "Imagine a perfectly fluffy omelette made from fresh basilisk eggs—rich, golden, almost shimmering—and layered with crisped shards of smoked basilisk bacon. Then folded in tender chunks of mandrake root." He leaned forward slightly. "Crucially," he added with solemn intensity, "if the mandrake is killed with its head still intact, the resulting flavor is far less acrid."
He then went on about Giant Bat tempura and grilled parasite kabayaki balanced on skewers—all delivered without irony.
You almost laughed, until you noticed he wasn't joking.
You and they follow along behind the track of blood, hand out, seeking along the wall. The snowstorm came on quickly, the tunnels deeper in the dungeon had begun to twist, and the wind howled like this labyrinth itself was grieving. You were never built for the cold. Not the way other species are, with their thick furs and bubbling internal heat. The tall-men species—born for the sun-soaked steppes—don't take kindly to tunnels soaked in frost, nor the narrow, jagged confines of the dungeon's lower levels.
One moment, you were with them, helping Senshi pack down for shelter. The next, you heard Marcille scream something. And then the wind ate the world.
That happened too fast; you had only just joined Laios' party, and now you got lost somewhere in the deep frost. Your cloak weighs heavily with ice, the dungeon clearly has an eye for when you are vulnerable.
The wind no longer feels cold.
That's how you know you're close to dying.
Your breath rasped out in uneven clouds not long ago, but now it's just silence. The tunnel winds down and down, a glimmer of bioluminescent moss smeared across the walls. The deeper you go, the more the tunnel feels wrong, like it's reshaping around you. You keep reminding yourself that Falin is why you're here. This is not for your sake, nor even hers, but for Toshiro, the man whose sorrow could split the dungeon walls.
You're on one knee now, boots frozen to the stone. Your hands are trembling around the hilt of your sword. If you can just find your way back, if you can just stay alive a little longer—
Something moves in the darkness.
Crunch.
Crunch.
You force yourself to stand, limbs like iron stakes driven into the ground. From the corner of your eye, half-emerged from the frost-covered rock, is a warped deer head fused with spider limbs. Pale ice-glass eyes and a jaw that grinds with crystalline teeth. It lets out a sound like shattering glass.
You bolt.
It's slow. You're slower. The creature scuttles, limbs cracking into walls and floor, shattering the stone.
You duck into a narrow crevice, slide on your knees, scraping them bloody. The monster rushes forward, and you lift your blade anyway. If you're going to die, you will die as a servant, with steel drawn, spine straight.
"Heel."
The command slices cleaner than any blade. The monster shudders mid-lunge, it backs away, whimpering like a whipped dog, and vanishes into the dark.
Boots crunch into the snow behind you, you twist your neck and see him. He's less monster, more man than you imagined. Draped in a hooded cloak of muted black, he seems to blend into the shadows. His platinum-blond hair crowns him in light, braided in a regal circle about his head, like a halo spun of silk, contrasting sharply with his tanned skin. However, it is his eyes that truly captivate—their violet hue, like bruised petals. Yet, there's something manic creeping behind them you can't quite place. That's when your gaze drops to the book in his hand, and you can't make sense of it at first. The book has an intricately designed cover, no title, with an eye on both covers that opens on touch to show a pupil shaped like a figure 8.
He stands alone in the dimly lit depths of the dungeon, far beneath the fifth floor, perhaps even further down into the dark abyss. You haven't seen a single human sign for hours. Yet, remarkably, he remains unbothered. Clad in only the simplest of garments, he bears no weapons, no protective armor, and his skin shows not a single scratch or bruise.
That's when your thoughts start racing, searching for an explanation. He could be a survivor from an elite party. A spellcaster, maybe. Or a monster disguised as a man, there are enchantments like that. Gods, maybe he's a dungeon spirit...
But your mind keeps circling back to one thing. The monster obeyed him. That deer-headed abomination with spider legs and crystal fangs had just stopped. It whimpered with just a single command; he didn't even need to shout. It clearly feared him.
You try to stand upright, part of you still wants to believe he's just a mage or an eccentric loner. Your body wants to run, but your legs are shaking too hard.
"Oh, how disappointing." He's blocking the only way out. "I expected better from those thieves' little friend."
"You mean... Laios' party?" You cough, instinctively glance at the monster watching from the dark, waiting for the signal to tear you apart.
He steps closer, seems impervious to the chill that wraps around the dungeon, and even the stone walls almost appear to lean in closer, holding their breath as he passes.
No one lives down here. No one survives this deep without food, or fire, or friends. No one stops a monster like that with a word. No one except...
The blade clangs from your hands. Rumors rush back to you all at once. You'd overheard them in the halls, in the hushed words of injured adventurers half-delirious with fear. Stories not meant for you, but you listened anyway. Of a man who appears when someone is involved too much with the dungeon, the architect of this wretched labyrinth, he appears when adventurers get too close to the truth. No one knows what he looks like, no one sees him and lives. You've heard a name passed between frightened lips.
The Lunatic Magician.
You don't know it's him.
But you know.
He watches your expression shift. "You're with that party."
"Not with," you speak up. "Just... joined. Barely know their names."
You flinch at your own words. It's true, you barely know these people. You weren't there when they killed the red dragon. That doesn't add up. Then, why is he here if you haven't been involved with the dungeon enough? Why did he stop the monster from killing you? He should have struck by now; this conversation shouldn't be happening.
You saw his fingers twitch at his sides as if itching to finish what fate apparently refused to. "Then you joined that little band of thieves," he sneers. "You all trample through King Delgal's domain, disturbing what was meant to be left untouched."
"Not that I'm on their side," you say, lifting your hands slightly, "but... it's a dungeon. Isn't that kind of the point? Exploring? Figuring out what's inside?"
Thistle's expression flickers—disbelief, then irritation. "Exploring," he echoes, voice heavy with disdain. "Wrong, you are just scavengers. Parasites. Tearing apart what is beyond your comprehension."
The air around him warps, distorting like heat rising off stone. "You should be dead," he watches you with idle disgust, fingers tracing sigil patterns in the air that shimmer with arcane energy.
He chants a spell, and the magic surges. Shadows coil like living serpents, twisting through the air before they strike. You barely have time to brace yourself, cursing yourself for being such a failure at negotiating—Until the attack dissipates inches from your skin, fading into mist.
For the first time you've met, a frown flickers across his face, his fingers twitch, as if searching for something unseen. He breathes in sharply, and the magic surges again—again—but when it reaches you, he hesitates. He himself knows this should be effortless. He has done it countless times before.
"Ridiculous," He clutches his head with one hand, his voice now quieter, more like mumbling to himself. "I exist to serve Delgal... Only Delgal..."
He isn't looking at you now. The violet eyes flick toward the monster, then the walls, then back to his own fingers. He takes another step back, and another. The monster behind him shifts, scraping its claws against the stone, unsure what to do without orders.
"Not that I want to be vaporized," You look up through frostbitten lashes, rubbing at your arm still numb from where the failed spell had brushed against you. "But you usually don't have this much trouble with it, right?"
He jerks toward you. The sharp snap of his glare could've murdered. But it's not just anger behind it now—it's horror creeping there.
"Don't," he immediately hisses. "Don't test me."
His cloak snaps around him as he turns, one swift motion like the wingspan of a harbinger. "I'll paralyze you," he adds, lower now. "Let the beast eat your legs while you watch."
You freeze, no doubt in your mind he means it, he might even want an excuse. But then, slowly, Thistle exhales. The sharp rise of his shoulders drops, his hand loosens from his temple. He raises one arm, and for a moment, you think that's it; he will carry out his threat against you.
But instead, the moss-lined wall to your left quivers, then blooms into a trail of bioluminescent arrows, bright with cold mana. They pulse softly, pointing into a tunnel that wasn't there before.
"That path might lead you out." He doesn't look at you. "Or it might kill you. Either outcome suits me."
You don't move. "Why bother to help me?"
"I'm not helping you." His voice was unwavering, as though he were stating an undeniable truth. "Because you're pitiful to be in the presence of. Nothing more."
Your fingers curl around the hilt of your sword. You lift it cautiously, sheathe it with a trembling hand, half-expecting him to strike. Yet, he doesn't.
"If you're saying I'm pitiful..." You step forward slowly, can't help but question, "Why show up at all?"
His gaze flickers to you now.
"Don't make me change my mind."
The word was almost spit out, and without another glance, he strode away, as if sickened by your very existence. You don't ask more, you step forward, spine straight. But the last thing you see before the wall seals behind is his face—furrowed, eyes unfocused as he stares at his hand—fingers slightly splayed, palm tilted toward the faint arrow-glow of the moss.
_
You should know it was a mistake to follow that fool Laios into the depths of the dungeon. Days have passed, at least, you thought they had. This place is far from safe for traveling alone. You've only been able to nibble on the nutrient bars you packed, scavenging what you can from the ground. Sleep has been elusive since you got separated from your party, with no one around to keep watch for lurking monsters. Yet, those artificial nutrients do little to quell the gnawing hunger, making you contemplate the unthinkable, trying some monster for a change.
You still remember the last time when you encountered the Lord of the Dungeon himself, unsure if you had been spared or simply discarded. You had heard stories of the Lunatic Magician, but never had you expected to have him save you. Was he truly letting you go? If he had wanted you dead, he would have done it. He did not suffer intruders lightly, and yet... here you were.
Why?
You'd staunch the wound earlier with part of your cloak, but that fabric's been torn away somewhere between being mauled by a rock golem and falling into what you're pretty sure was some sort of giant bird's latrine shaft. You don't care anymore. You're sprawled on your back, shoulder dislocated, ribs vibrating like snapped lute strings, breathing wet and sharp.
It hurts. Gods, it hurts. Blood bubbles at the corner of your mouth, and you choke on it, coughing weakly.
"Should've stayed with Toshiro," you stare at the ceiling. You think it's the ceiling. Might be the floor. Of course, this is how it ends. Not in a noble battle. Not beside Master Toshiro or even near Laios' absurd, persistent optimism. Useless. Pathetic. Alone.
Then boots.
Crunch.
Crunch.
"If this is the rock golem again," You groan. "I swear to every god—"
But it's worse.
"Not so tough now," says a voice coolly.
You blink up.
Thistle.
Of course.
He's standing over you as if you're a stain on the carpet he found. He looks as pristine as ever. Not a speck of dungeon grime or a scratch on him. The black cloak is still spotless, and his hair, sculpted into perfect curls, seems to defy the very laws of gravity and shame you for existing.
"No," you shake your head on the floor. "Nope. Not this time. I'm not hallucinating you again."
"I'm real," Thistle shrugs, kneeling beside you. "I'd also say you're not very good at staying alive."
Even his smugness looks moisturized.
"What do you want now?" You try to push yourself up, wince, and slump back down with a grunt.
Thistle remains stoic, neither speaking nor offering any assistance.
"You're bleeding internally," he observes, "with one functioning lung left."
"Thank you. I was wondering what the pain was."
He stares at you for a long moment. Then, with a flick of his fingers, he casts something. Warmth spreads through your ribs, smoothing the burn. Your breathing evens just enough that you no longer feel like you're inhaling knives. Though the pain doesn't stop, it's duller now.
You blink, confused. "...Did you just heal me?"
"I didn't say that."
"You literally just—" you cough again—" magic-ed me."
"Magic-ed?" He grimaces. "That's not a verb."
You make another attempt to sit up, squinting against the dim light that filters through the room. Just as you begin to rise, he firmly presses a finger to your forehead to halt your movement. With a deliberate ease, he guides you back down, ensuring you remain anchored to the soft surface beneath you.
"Stay down. I didn't fix you. I just delayed the dying part."
You wheeze a half-laugh that immediately turns into a wince. "Generous of you."
He remains utterly still, watches you with that same tight-lipped scowl etched across his face. You recognize once more the depth of what he's holding back, a tempest of power that could easily crush your lungs with a mere thought. Yet, instead of unleashing that potential, he just stands there.
You exhale slowly. "Well? Not going to rant about Delgal's legacy again? Or kill me for trespassing on his majesty's ground?"
"I considered it," he says, looking down, then he kneels beside you again, pulling your ruined cloak aside to check the wound. "But frankly, I'm kinda curious what kind of half-baked plan your merry band of culinary fools is cooking up this time-"
"It's not a plan," You interrupted, letting your head roll to the side, breathing through your teeth. "It's just... we want to bring Falin back properly."
The words feel heavy in your mouth. You used to believe there was something that could undo what happened to her. That if black magic broke her, maybe something else could undo it. And maybe, just maybe, your loyalty to Toshiro means saving her right this time. But lately, after coming face to face with the Lord of the Dungeon, you're not so sure anymore.
"...I don't think it'll work," you admit.
"Oh?"
"But I don't have a better idea."
"That's refreshing. A thief with a grain of self-awareness."
A beat of silence.
You try to speak up, but the next cough nearly folds you in half. Your vision flashes white at the edges. You don't even feel yourself hit the ground again. Thistle leans back on his heels, lets out a long, exasperated breath, and flicks his fingers. You feel magic spill over you again, dulling the pain.
"I don't get you," you rasp.
Thistle has already got to his feet, brushing invisible dust off his sleeve. He looks down at you one last time with that same cold measure in his gaze
"Don't die in a hallway." He says. "It's undignified."
After that encounter, you thought Thistle might just decide to immolate you the next morning. But instead, you woke up in a chamber filled with bioluminescent moss, your wounds stitched closed by magic.
You left your bloodied undershirt near the wall. When you came back the next day... it was gone. The room was empty, and you tried not to think about who took it, or why.
You've been walking in circles for days. At first, you believed you were trapped in the depths of the dungeon, but reality soon dawned upon you. Each pathway that promised to lead you back to Laios' group twists and veers away, mocking your sense of direction. Doors appear and shut before you and familiar landmarks fade away, dissolving like shadows in the fading light. At times, the hours stretch into what feels like a week, only for you to find yourself standing at the very spot you initially left. Once, you stood in disbelief, watching your own footprints spiral back toward you.
Sometimes Thistle is there unannounced; he barely spoke the first few times. Just silently watching you eat, or patch your wounds, or swear at the dungeon wall after a trap reset for the third time. Then, slowly, he started talking. The third time, you fell through a floor trap. He was waiting on the other side, flipping through his book while a big bat gnawed on your boot.
He didn't help.
"Still not dead," he said, eyes still on the pages.
"Disappointed?" you grunted, kicking the bat off.
He said nothing, vanished in a flash of sigil-light, but you caught the faint sound of him muttering something about "parasitic persistence." The fourth time, you woke up with his cloak draped over your shoulders. You left it folded neatly in the next room. Hours later, you passed through that hallway again, the cloak was gone. And a fresh set of bootprints were next to where you left it, facing yours.
He never mentioned it.
By the seventh time, you get your boot caught in a mechanical trap disguised as stone.
Thistle passes by.
He stares at you. You stare at him.
He lets out a sigh. With a flick of his finger, the trap breaks apart in a clean puff of smoke. He doesn't move on, just stands there, gaze locked on you a little too long. And you shift under the scrutiny.
One time, you're both sitting across from each other beside a burning fireplace. Neither of you says much at first. Thistle is working on a complex magic array, adjusting the runes; you don't understand the spellcraft, and if you're being honest, it looks like something a goblin with crayons would draw.
"I can notice those dark circles under your eyes." You reach over, tear off a piece of fried dungeon moss, and hold it between your fingers. "Ever managed to sleep?"
"Sleep is inefficient." Thistle pauses without breaking his focus.
"So that's a no."
"Waste of time," he adds.
You allow yourself a small, rueful smile as you flick the moss into the fire and watch it hiss as it meets the heat. "You remind me of my old sword instructor," you say softly, the memory bittersweet. "He died of stress at thirty-eight."
Thistle's gaze briefly lifts from his work, and you catch the corner of his mouth twitching.
You blink. "Was that—did you just laugh?"
"It was a noise of mild amusement," he replies, his tone deadpan. "Don't let it go to your head."
A pause stretches. You expect him to return to the array, but instead, he keeps watching you, eyes reflecting the firelight, unblinking long enough for the hairs on the back of your neck to rise.
Then, as if nothing is unusual, he asks:
"Where are you from?"
You're caught off guard. It's the first time he's asked anything that feels genuine, and for a second, you're not sure how to answer.
"Eastern provinces," you say slowly. "Raised in Nakamoto manor."
"Clan-servant?" He hums.
"Yeah. I was supposed to be a ceremonial guard." You shift uncomfortably. "Turned out I had a better sword arm than the nobles I was guarding."
"That explains the chronic posture issues."
You can't help but glare at him before changing the topic. "You ever had a job before turning into whatever you are now?"
"Court magician," he finally straightened a little. Thistle's eyes flick toward you again. His lips curve, which is not quite a smile, his fingers trace absent patterns in the glow of the array. "I'm supposed to be a court jester at first. Might even have passed for a royal advisor. Depends on which king."
"A court jester?" You were flabbergasted.
You picture Thistle, in bells and bright silks, standing in the marbled halls, makeup smeared across cheekbones. His hair done up in elaborate loops, a grin too wide cut into his face as he juggles balls and tells riddles.
"That sounds... like a lot."
_
It became a pattern. You'd wander, trying to retrace your way back to Laios' party—you have no choice, not that you want to rot in here. Somehow, some way, you'd cross paths again with Thistle, though you know better than asking him to get you back to the party. Sometimes just a glimpse in the distance, occasionally awkward silence beside a campfire.
You've encountered her on several occasions as well. Falin. Or rather, what's left of her. At times, when your gaze strays, you catch sight of her lurking behind him; the lower half of her body has been grotesquely transformed, replaced by the sleek, scaled form of a dragon, its feathers glistening like polished armor. Her wings are dragging behind her like a big dove. But it is her eyes that unsettle you—they almost looked like hers, yet there's an unmistakable darkness within them. It's clear that her very soul is twisted under the control of the Lord of the Dungeon.
She didn't lunge forward or show any aggression; instead, she observed you intently from the shadows. Thistle caught your gaze, lingering on her and remaining silent; he never mentioned her, and you were wise enough to avoid probing into the subject.
Initially, you hardly noticed the shift, caught up in the adrenaline of survival. But as the days dragged on, a subtle change became evident: the monster's attacks were occurring less frequently. In the beginning, you had braced yourself with each step, anticipating the sharp pain of fangs sinking into flesh or the fatal snap of a trap cleverly disguised. Now, however, instead of a flurry of attacks, the creatures had abandoned their violence. They revel in the shadows, tucked between stone ribs and watching from the darkened recesses. But they don't strike.
At first, you thought it was luck. Until one of them crept close—enough for you to smell its breath, to feel the static of its hunger on your skin—and then it'd just... stop. As if some unseen leash yanked it back. You back away slowly, and it lets you. You tell yourself maybe they sensed the blood, the stink of injury marking you as already dying. But deep down, you knew that they were restrained, and that could only mean one thing.
Someone told them not to touch you.
One day, you spot Thistle pacing back and forth, his brow knitted with frustration, while he's grumbling. You hear enough to recognize venom in his voice.
"Always meddling, never considering this is for our own good. Just handing everything over to the thieves..."
You lean against the moss-slick wall, watching him from a distance. He doesn't notice at first, too busy unraveling himself in loops.
From the scattered pieces that reached your ears — Thistle doesn't exactly hide his frustration well — you've pieced together that Laios, Marcille, and their companions had made it pretty far. They successfully reached Yaad, grandson of the king Delgal, and the villagers below the earth had offered them sanctuary. That, however, seemed to have struck a particularly raw nerve.
"Talking to yourself, Thistle?" You cough, interrupting whatever villain monologue you're catching the tail end of.
He freezes mid-stride. You see annoyance crossing his features before he scowls and turns away, refusing to look back.
"You're eavesdropping."
"Wait," you say, pushing off the wall and limping toward him. "They're still alive?"
Thistle didn't stop walking, nor did he turn to face you. Instead, he gave a dramatic wave of his hand. "Unfortunately."
You struggle to mask your relief, and hastily shove it deep inside where it won't betray you.
"So, uh." You keep your tone light. "How badly are you going to murder them?"
"I haven't decided."
You exhale sharply, resisting the urge to rub your temples. "So... where exactly are you going?" you ask, jogging a little to match his stride
"Nowhere in particular."
"You mean you don't know."
"I mean I don't care."
Fantastic. You had been under an all-powerful magician's wing this whole time, only to realize he navigated the dungeon the same way Laios did—blindly and with zero regard for personal safety, although you are certain that nothing would even think of hurting him.
Thistle must have noticed your expression because he let out a huge sigh. "You're limping more than yesterday," he comments.
"You noticed?" You blink, surprised. "Well, I guess I really do attract the dumbest traps."
Thistle hums noncommittally and turns sharply into the dimly lit corridor.
"...You know," you trail him, "back when I came here with my master, I was told stories about this place."
He raises a brow. "The dungeon?"
"You. The 'Lord of the Dungeon.' Tall tales of those who ventured into your realm but never returned. But here we are. I'm limping, my body weak and half-starved, maybe hallucinating, but we're... talking."
That earns you a slight glance over the shoulder. He studies you for a moment. "Should I kill you to preserve my reputation?"
"You could've killed me multiple times by now." You snort. "That ship's sailed."
Thistle rolls his eyes and stands.
"You're not important enough to kill," he says. But there's no venom in it, just irritation, maybe a little resignation.
That night, alone again, you lie in your sleeping roll, stare at the ceiling, and wonder when this became your life. You'd trained your whole life to serve and die with honor if asked, you remember the cold steel of your old armor better than you remember the warmth of your mother's hands. That's how long you've been in service—you know Maizuru wouldn't forgive you.
Time is slipping away, and every moment spent here feels like treason against your commitments. You were meant to do something, rescue Falin, the one who fell into The Lunatic's Magician's control. Your master, Toshiro, is still buried in grief of his lost companion. Now, here you are, chatting with the very man who distorted Falin's form that you meant to fight. Meanwhile, Laios' party is out there, probably bargaining with monsters and making stew out of them. While you're just here and do nothing, stuck between a plan you don't believe in and an enemy who doesn't kill you.
"...I'm sorry, Master," You roll over, groaning.
The dungeon doesn't answer. But somewhere deeper in the stone, you swear you hear footsteps that aren't yours.
_
Your sword's somewhere behind you.
You're really starting to hate how familiar bleeding feels—Your leg is open to the bone, blood already freezing in the open air. The stone beneath your cheek is slick, warm with what's leaving you. You didn't see what hit you. Maybe a blade trap, you realize that you've become more careless lately, especially now that the dungeon hasn't come after you as often.
The ceiling warps like melted glass, or maybe that's your eyes failing.
You whisper something, your sister's name, maybe. Or your old sword instructor from the monastery, you can't tell. The memory slips. Everything is slipping. You've never been good with death.
You think of Toshiro, the way he clenched his jaw when he saw Falin that first time, how heartbreak in him looked like rage. You think of Laios' party, cheerfully trudging through the abyss like it's an afternoon picnic. You'd barely known them before the dungeon peeled you away.
You don't even notice he's there until a shadow blocks your light.
Boots. Always with the boots.
Thistle stood over you.
You didn't hear him arrive, but you guessed he'd been there for minutes. He's never anything but immaculate; his expression is unreadable, rendered even more striking by the lowlight. He doesn't say a word and turns, leaving you bleeding. His boots whispering across the blood-wet stone, his cloak flares slightly as he pivots, even that movement feels dismissive.
You watch it happen, and all you feel is nothing. Of course, he turns away; you already know that. Of course, he lets you to death, this is what he's supposed to be, not the one who heals you and spares your life again and again and sits across from you at a fire like a man. You understood it held no significance.
He's not meant to care, and you were never meant to be saved. So instead of crying out, you lie there, staring at the ceiling through blurred vision, feeling that strange, hollow weight settle in your chest like stones packed into your ribs.
You don't even realize Falin's presence until her massive, scaled form glides past you, mere inches from your outstretched hand, her sharp claws clicking rhythmically against the cold stone beneath her. There's no menacing growl or even a flicker of interest in the scent of your blood; instead, her gaze sweeps past you with an air of indifference, as though you were nothing more than a patch of moss or an unsightly stain she's encountered before. She walks alongside him with a grace that belies her size, her powerful tail swaying elegantly, curling with strange affection around him. The feathered wing trailing behind her flutters softly, making soft flap-flap-flap noises like a broken metronome as it brushes against the stone.
You're not sure how long you've been lying there.
It could be minutes. Hours. Maybe you've bled out already, and this is some kind of spiteful life after death. The air tastes like iron. Your vision comes and goes, your blood spilling into the stone, collecting at the base of your back.
Thistle stands just ahead, enveloped in the ethereal blue radiance of bioluminescent moss that glimmers like stars scattered across the forest floor. His back is turned to you, the contours of his silhouette softened by the gentle light. He holds a silver flute, its surface gleaming with a sheen that catches the ambient glow. As he plays, the sound unfurls into the air, a haunting tapestry of notes that would never grace the halls of a tavern or the sacred stone of a temple in the Eastern provinces. It's an unsettling melody, almost spectral; the notes stretch impossibly long, echoing off the damp walls of the chamber and curling around the edges of your skull.
Beside him, Falin sprawls in languid repose, her clawed hand reaching out toward the hem of Thistle's sleeve. Her wings rise and fall with slow, steady breath.
It's peaceful. In the worst possible way.
You're still bleeding, the stone is sticky beneath you, the warmth is fading. You thought about dying in the dungeon, watching the Lunatic Magician serenade a chimera.
Your vision flickers again.
The flute stops.
You blink.
He's gone.
The moss-light ahead glows on empty stone. Falin is still curled where he left her.
You blink again.
He's in front of you.
One moment, he's across the room, and the next, he's kneeling before you. The soft glint of the silver flute catches the light as he gently lowers it down. His eyes, deep and mesmerizing, capture the greenish hues of the moss-lit surroundings, sparkling like polished amethyst, fixated on yours with a weight that sends an inexplicable dread coils within you, tightening like a noose.
And then you hear someone whisper, low and almost frantic. But they're not to you, and more like to himself.
"Only Delgal... only Delgal," he whispers. You thought he was chanting a spell at first. "I serve the King. I must find... I must find him..."
His voice cracks on the third one.
You barely catch it, until you realize his hands are trembling. He's chewing on his thumb hard enough that you see a bead of crimson blood slide down his knuckle.
"I— I remember —I must serve—only him. That's all. That's all it is. That's all I am."
His breath comes in shallow, ragged pulls, his eyes flicker hastily over your face, and you sense an unmistakable fracture that he is teetering on the brink of madness. Perhaps you should feel fear, but in this moment, you realize you may be too far gone for fear to find purchase in your heart. Instead, you find yourself fixated on him for once; he appears more lost than the divine being you've always seen him as. You keep reminding yourself that he's the Lord of the Dungeon. He kills people. He—
You're not sure if it's fear or blood loss making your head spin harder. You try to lift your head, say something bitter. Nothing comes. The words never make it past the blood in your mouth.
This time, Thistle doesn't react. For a fleeting heartbeat, he remains quivering—fingers curled, blood welling around his thumbnail, his breath shallow and frantic, desperately attempting to synchronize with the rest of his body. His eyes, wide and wild like a tempestuous sea, the restless movement of his pupils holds an unsettling intensity that radiates a manic energy.
And then, just like that, they slide back into the usual pristine cold.
His spine straightens, hands lower with deliberate grace, settling at his sides as his breathing evens out, leaving no trace of its earlier faltering. Your heart jerks violently in your chest, a wild animal thrumming against the confines of your ribcage. Adrenaline surges through your veins, but it's no use. Every muscle in your body feels paralyzed; you can't even draw a full breath. His hand reaches toward your face this time, fingers glide gently along your cheekbone, tracing the curve before sliding over to your temple. His touch is bizarrely cold—not in a temperature-wise. It's just—off, as if he were a specter measuring you for your own coffin.
He doesn't stop. He simply gazes at you, his head tilted ever so slightly to one side. The expression on his face isn't steeped in pity nor softened by affection, but something else you can't quite place.
His hand presses gently against your throat, fingers cool against your skin just above your collarbone. His thumb glides over your pulse point, the pressure light yet insistent, as if he's tracing the very essence of your vitality. A smudge of warm blood escapes, but he seems oblivious to it, his attention fixated solely on you. The thrum of your heartbeat fills your ears, a frantic rhythm drowning out everything around you. Thud. Thud. Thud.
Then he speaks, almost too quiet to catch.
"I've served Delgal for millennia... followed every order, upheld every thread of the kingdom's law..."
At first, you think it's another one of his mad rambles. But his voice falters—like it caught on something in his throat.
"...Is it so wrong," he murmurs, "to want just one thing for myself?"
You think: What thing?
What do you want?
What am I to you?
The blood loss has made everything feel far away; you would compare it to watching your own death through glass. His hand withdraws from your throat, the sudden absence leaving a chill that penetrates the warm air around you. A breath of cold rushes in where his grip once held. As you regain your senses, he leans forward, and your entire field of vision is engulfed by his hand; the world outside this moment fades.
You feel something cold flood down your spine, coiling tight around the base of your skull. You can feel your heartbeat stutter under his thumb—once—twice—
Then still.
