Language: Spanish/English. Y nada más, bastante normal la cuenta, ah. Mi espalda ya no es la de antes, ¿por qué la espalda, el cuerpo en sí, sufre más a medida que uno envejece, da fac? Help.
Took someone's skin who decided to share their own, and there were some things I wanted to change. In the end, I thought Pink and Blue was like Cheong Myeong, and I said... "Why not?"
I've been suffering. I drew Chibi Myeong so he can be part of this skin :'] I'm still changing some things here and there, but it's looking more like him? Or not.... I want to add more decoration-- but my experience in programming is that of a newborn.
I'm proud of the arrows that are now flowers, and when you clicked them, they turned into alcohol 😌
I'll give the link of the original one, coz without them, I wouldn't have had the idea of doing Mount Hua's Myeong AO3 skin.
It took me ages trying to change the filters colors, the dashboard from black to blue? Nightmare. But worse of all.... trying to add the freaking chibi up there. I swear my progress was going backwards. To the point where everything was deleted, and Tumblr changing pngs to pnjs. Agony ｡･ﾟ･(ﾉ∀`)･ﾟ･｡
I always wanted E1 Blade, but he only came when I was wishing for MBlade. Am I lucky? 50/50
Anyway, I'm sad I couldn't get his Sig, but it's only a matter of time! I'll get it, and I'll make sure to build his strongest team. Bladie, I'll build you to LAST.
Rerun when? I low-key want Ashveil LC, and if Aventurine is for Blade, then I'll pull him too. Hopefully, they aren't coming together :] right?
Give me more of "I wouldn't say freed... more like under new management. " My beloved Capitano isn't dead. I still trust. He is very much alive and I'll wait for him for an eternity.
I'm not delulu. I swear he is alive, he told me! This is not copin either. I swear, but people don't believe me and answer me with pity 😞 Anyway, going back to the fic, I wonder how would he tried to get back what was stolen. I don't think it'd be that hard. After all, he IS Capitano and very well respected (and alive). In any case, Pantalone has it complicated once he realizes his fellow Harbinger is pretty HEALTHY and BREATHING.
Link to the original fic
Okay, so I originally only meant to write like a paragraph or two, but this actually made me giggle out loud; I can already picture it — oh, poor, sweet, deluded Pantalone. I know Dottore is going to be PISSED. He just went through all the trouble of replacing Pantalone’s lungs only for Capitano to stab a claymore through his chest, repeatedly. violently. And with incredible force.
Pantalone better pray that immortality serum is more than a glorified moisturiser because he's going to need deathlessness in every sense of the word
If Capitano ever gets a whiff of a rumour that Pantalone has taken advantage of his absence… Pantalone is undoubtedly capable, but I would NOT want to be in his shoes.
If… no, actually, WHEN (I still believe our beloved captain will return; we just have to believe harder) Capitano regains his consciousness, I can tell you with absolute certainty a VERY smug Pulcinella will be signing off on using public funds to peel Pantalone’s body off the streets of Snezhnograd.
I’m afraid all the money in the world can do very little to stop a freshly awakened Capitano who just wants to see his beloved darling!!!!
Capitano pulls up to Zapolyarny Palace, ready to tell everyone he’s alive and he’s ready to resume his duties!!!! He just wants to go and have a very romantic (very one-sided) reunion with his darling first; that's okay, right guys? Haha…. right? …right? guys…? why do you all look so nervous haha?
On one hand, he is thrilled that you are safe and sound; your safety was the only reason he hesitated to sacrifice himself in Natlan.
He had sent off a missive to Pierro when he had made up his mind to reassure him that you were unaware of any of the Fatui’s inner workings and that he entrusted Pierro to ensure you were looked after in his absence, as well as a letter to hand over to you personally.
Apparently, the message never made it to Zapolynary Palace (weird that…), and with no one able to ask Capitano what he wished to do with his beloved, Pantalone graciously interceded on your behalf (and they say chivalry is dead?)
Capitano will be outraged at Pantalone for taking advantage of his darling’s vulnerability but, being so relieved at being able to hold you in his arms once again, a luxury he believed he would never have again, will allow you to dictate how this goes. The ball is in your park.
Scenario A: You downplay what happened.
Perhaps you are truly innocent (read: naïve) enough to believe Pantalone was truly trying to save you from a grisly fate and you were able to overlook any… impropriety as Pantalone’s poor attempts at comforting a widow.
Maybe you have even grown fond of Pantalone in the time you’ve spent together; you revelled in his attentions. The constant gifts and doting, the trips and excursions, every tender kiss and caress. His love burned just as fiercely, but maybe you found warmth where Capitano’s flames scorched you.
OR maybe you are just a sadist who likes holding all the cards, and the idea of the richest man in Snezhnaya squirming while trying to piece together your motivations amuses you. The idea of him pacing his office all throughout the night, not getting a lick of sleep while constantly overthinking your motivation.
Was this all some elaborate political game? No Pantalone, it’s just funny to watch you writhe.
Scenario B: You don’t hold back…
Perhaps, Pantalone truly terrified you and were praying for the miracle of Capitano's safe return. After all, the devil you know is better than the one you don't. You knew Capitano's overly reverential love at least ensured your safety from everyone, including himself.
It's also equally possible you considered Pantalone a real annoyance and you want petty vengeance for the countless hours you will never get back where he forced you to perch on his lap as he peppered your forehead in doting kisses while he murmured into your hair line quite possibly the most boring financial theories in excruciating detail.
If it weren’t for his clear proficiency at manipulating conversations and interactions, you would have thought Pantalone was just socially inept.
No matter what social cues you tried to force his way with about as much subtlety as a bull in a china shop (you started with slow, clipped responses. lots of “uh-huh”, “oh”, “wow”, “huh” until after several hours and a sore back later you had started to just outright fake being asleep to TRY and get him to SHUT UP and he. still. kept. talking. Your eyes were shut, breathing deep, pulse slowed. You were putting on a performance that would put the Korolevisky troupe to shame) he simply will not shut up. Murmuring into your hairline for hours with his hot, wet breath, you were surprised when you DIDN'T find a mushroom sprouting out of your forehead when he finally relinquished you at the end of his monologue.
Capitano was delusional in many ways but he was lucid enough to see when he was boring you. But please, don't be mean to the poor Pantalone. He's just so giddy to finally have you that he can't think straight.
He's been pining for you for years, he just wants to tell you all about his grand ideas and complicated theories and for you to "Ooh" and "Aah" and say "wow Feofan, has anyone ever told you how smart and handsome and kissable you are?"
Capitano will sweetly coax you into telling him about ANY questionable touch or whisper or even look. Any inkling of ill intentions, he wants to hear about it.
Pantalone has dishonoured you and taken advantage of you in your hour of need, Capitano needs to exact justice on your behalf.
He doesn't care if you think what you're telling him is stupid or miniscule. Nothing you say is unimportant or insignificant to him.
He will hold you tightly as you tell him all that happened in his absence. He will take you in his arms gently but you can still feel the tenseness in his limbs. He whispers in your ear, reminding you of how brave you are. His words are sincere and sweet but you can hear his voice is strained.
When he tells you he cannot express how sorry he is for leaving you vulnerable to the predatory advances of the unworthy, he means it.
If his body had not been so ravaged by abyssal corruption you are sure you would be able to see bitter tears of regret falling down his cheeks.
If you are a more vindictive darling, you could outright lie if you wished; the proof could sit right in front of Capitano’s face, and he would still refuse to see it.
In his eyes, you are his perfect little angel that does no wrong ever. Anyone who says otherwise is wrong.
He doesn’t care about the facts; there is only one truth Capitano cares about, and that is that his perfect sweet darling would never lie to him. (Apart from the numerous times they have in the past, but he’s not counting those, so stop bringing them up, okay?).
Pantalone is pissed, but he still doesn’t have it in him to be mad at you, the thought of you playing the trickster just endears you to him even more.
Truthfully, He’s more annoyed at your oaf of a husband, Capitano faces off against Ronova and comes strolling back like he just went on a lovely hike through the Natlanese mountains. unbelievable.
I just know Pantalone was seething and malding when he hear Capitano was alive and well after all.
He’s honestly most upset that you think he was such a poor host, a bit embarrassed even. He had been pining and planning for years and fumbled so badly.
Well, no matter. Provided Pantalone has a bit of prep time, there are plenty of strings he can pull. Half of Snezhnaya owes Pantalone a favour, and the other half want him to owe them.
“Tell me, Zandik. Are you not curious about the inner workings of our dear colleague? I’m sure any endeavours to discover them would be exceptionally well funded”
Even if he does not have any prep time, it’s unlikely Pierro will tolerate the harbingers openly feuding, especially over something he sees as so inconsequential as you. He foolishly doesn't see that voicing this sentiment would create the truce he wants (albeit temporarily, where the anger Capitano and Pantalone feel at you being described as inconsequential would be enough to unite and blow Pierro up with their minds)
If they cause too many problems, then Pierro will have to intervene, and then it really could go any way.
Pierro deeply respects Capitano as a warrior and harbinger, but Pantalone is the beating heart of the Snezhnayan economy. No matter who he says gets to keep you, the other will fight that decision tooth and nail and Snezhnaya will bleed.
Capitano will likely fight it overtly, if you have been wronged in any way, the only order capitano will accept is the tsaritsa's blessing to separate Pantalone's head from his body.
If this ends in anything other than his darling returned to him and him personally ensuring a gruesome end to the man who sought to replace him then he is willing to turn against the fatui.
When he went to face Ronova he went knowing that he would likely never see you again. Now that he has a second chance to be with you, he won't squander that.
On the other hand, Pantalone is no stranger to underhanded measures, they are his bread and butter. Capitano might be physically stronger but Pantalone is unrivalled at manipulation.
Luckily for Pantalone, He's not stupid or proud enough to challenge Capitano to a duel or anything of the sort, growing up in abject poverty allows you to see the true value of your life and makes you far less willing to gamble it when the odds are not stacked in your favour.
So if you feel yourself being pulled out of your bed in the night and carried away by strange men, he knows its all very scary but if you can be brave and keep the screaming to a minimum, at least until he gets you to the safe house, he would be very appreciative.
Or I raise a secret third option: Why choose? Weaponise how whipped they are and start the throuple of your dreams. Best of both worlds. you are welcome.
Thrain, I'm rooting for ya! Impaled that cigarette additc... slim, pretty boy.
The thought of Pierro just there like a father trying to appease his children because one stole the other's favorite treat is peak comedy. I can see him sigh, wondering if Zandik could simply make a copy for Feofan.... hmm, that could work. Beggars can't be choosers. First come, first serve; and Thrian came first
⚘ Summery: Once upon a time, you had given your heart to the Forge Master of Zhuming. Three decades together, he had forged you thirty rings and now a blade. The love in his eyes now feel like a distant memory, yet given to you at all time by your now beloved, Blade. Be the man he once was, he can never truly give up the concept of leaving a piece of himself with you.
⚘ Tags: Mainly fluff, themes of angst, fem!Reader, long life specie!Reader, domesticity, Blade is a little touchy, gift-giving, Blade tried to be nonchalant but it didn't work
⚘ Word count: 1k
⚘ A/N: ok i can't write summary, lowk going thru a writer's block so this is all I have 💔💔 and my finals start in two days, anyways everybody go slime @biancak1m
The sound of metal clashing against itself echoes through the workshop. Each strike of the hammer molds molten iron into the weapon he envisions. Yingxing, in particular, holds a very specific design in mind.
After all, this is a blade he’s forging for his wife—crafted from a blend of leftover scraps and the expensive metals he painstakingly saved up for. The thought alone has him practically beaming as he shapes it into form.
The stars, however, remain silent. In the dead of night, no sign of life stirs—save for Yingxing himself. The relentless ringing of metal is enough to irritate anyone.
And oh, does it bother you.
“Yingxing, come to bed. It’s two in the morning,” you call out, voice thick with sleep. Aeons know what he’s thrown himself into this time—a commission? A personal project? A gift for a friend? If only he devoted himself to rest with the same fervor.
The Forge Master’s focus finally drifts from the glowing metal at the sound of your voice. There’s a glimmer in his eyes when he looks at you—hair disheveled from sleep, expression pinched with irritation, clearly dragged from yet another failed attempt at rest. You lean against the workshop doorway like you belong there.
Perhaps you do. Anything he owns is yours.
He flashes you a grin—one you know well, one that hides more than it reveals. “Thirty more minutes. This one isn’t finished yet,” he says, words punctuated by the steady rhythm of his hammer.
A sigh slips past your lips, resignation settling in. You already know how the next thirty minutes will go—spent by the fireplace, waiting for him to return.
Retreating to the living room, you settle by the fire, watching it crackle as it slowly devours the wood. At some point, without realizing it, sleep claims you.
Until a hand brushes your cheek.
A quiet murmur of your name follows.
It doesn’t take long to recognize the voice—you’ve been married to this man for over thirty years. You know him in every form.
“Lovely, look what I’ve made for you.”
Your eyes flutter open, vision still hazy. The sight before you is familiar—Yingxing kneeling before you, gazing up with quiet anticipation, waiting for you to ask about his latest creation.
Your mind barely processes his words, but you recognize that look. You’ve seen it countless times. Before you can respond, something heavy settles onto your lap.
A blade.
Forged from the remains of Glamoth’s Empress, mixed with fragments of her Iron Cavalry. Its intricate designs weave together like a story—thirty years of memories etched into steel.
Your fingers trace the surface as though it were something fragile. The blade itself may not be delicate, but the intention behind it certainly is.
And the way he looks at you—hopeful, expectant, yearning for even the smallest praise—says everything.
What a lovesick man Yingxing is.
For someone driven by vengeance, his heart beats for something far softer.
A gentle smile graces your lips as you lean forward, pressing a soft kiss to his forehead.
“It’s beautiful, my darling.” Your praise makes his heart stutter—you’re certain of it.
The grin that spreads across his face is full of pride, bordering on arrogance—not just in the blade, but in the fact that he’s made you happy.
You watch as his hand slips into the pocket of his tailcoat.
“I have something else for you,” he says, pulling something out—only to immediately hide it in his fist.
Like a familiar ritual, the motion repeats itself. His calloused hand takes yours, gently placing the object into your palm.
A ring.
Gold, with a delicately carved crane. Your heart aches at the sight.
Another one.
“Another?” you ask softly, the question echoing through thirty anniversaries—thirty rings he’s forged just for you.
None of them fit. But that was never the point. Each one is proof. Tangible, unwavering proof of your love.
“Another one,” he echoes, arms slipping around your waist. “And another next year. I’ll keep forging them until the very end—so we’ll never forget the years we shared.”
His words are muffled against your clothes, but they carry the same warmth they always have. Three decades, and not once has that love wavered.
The end of you… may only be the end of him.
You will live on—long enough to watch empires rise and fall, to witness the Borisin meet their end someday.
But his life, his fleeting eternity, all you can hope for is to spend it beside him.
Yingxing loves you.
Truly.
And he will love you until the very end.
A soft gasp escapes you before you fully awaken, eyes fluttering open to meet the pale gauze surrounding you. You shift slightly, pulling away from the fabric.
“Are you feeling alright?” The deep, slightly raspy voice is unmistakable.
After all, the man beside you is your beloved—Blade.
You hum softly, trying to steady yourself. There’s no reason to feel this way—not over a memory like that.
And yet… Something unfamiliar lingers in your chest.
“I had a sweet dream about you…” you murmur, almost hoping he doesn’t catch it.
But he does. You know it by the way his hand finds yours.
Ever since Blade accepted Shuhu’s curse and turned his focus toward destroying the Abomination, his body has changed—healing, stabilizing. Especially his hands.
And with that, you’ve gained something unexpected. A Blade who reaches for you. Whether in public or private, his hand is always in yours now.
“A ‘sweet’ dream about me is enough to upset you?” he asks. There’s no irritation in his tone—only concern.
For someone named Blade, he is unbearably gentle with you. And the thought that he might be the cause of your distress unsettles him more than anything.
A soft laugh escapes you as his free hand idly plays with your hair. “It was bittersweet,” you reply, shifting closer before burying your face against his chest.
He huffs quietly, unconvinced, sensing the lingering weight in your voice. Another memory? He doesn’t know. So instead, he pulls you closer—tightens his hold, presses a quiet kiss to the crown of your head, mirroring what you once did for him when the Mara consumed him.
“Go back to sleep. We have things to do tomorrow,” he murmurs, masking his intentions beneath casual words.
“…Silverwolf wants us to play with her.” The hesitation gives him away. Because that’s not what matters, these events have been reoccurring for days now.
Your anniversary is only hours away. And you know he has something prepared—something he cannot put into words, but will try to forge into existence all the same.
Because he will love you for eternity. Whether as Yingxing or Blade, that cursed heart still carries something untainted, something pure at all its forms— and that is you.
⚘ Summery: A strange phenomenon has occurred, one that you thought only happened in novels— you have been transported to a novel yourself! The memories of it vague to you but you only remember your favorite character, Ashveil. The narrative has doomed him, now it is your duty to save him.
⚘ Tags: SFW, fluff/light angst, fem!Reader, isekai'd!Reader, Duke!Ashveil, slow burn, arranged marriage/marriage of convenience, mentions of death, war, wounds and stuff of this kind, Boothill and Rappa are his children, Reader and Narrator are stressed tf out, very light suggestive themes, writer cannot write
⚘ Word count: 16k
⚘ Side/mentioned characters: Rappa, Boothill, Coria, Cole, Robin Hood, Loretta, Robin, Tiernan, Acheron, Argenti, Evanescia, Narrator, Dan Feng
⚘ A/N: this took like a bazillion years to write and im still not proud of it sigh, forgive me if this is ass ong I can actually write 💔
“Marry me, Grand Duke.”
The words leave you before hesitation can catch up—firm, unwavering, laced with a strange, almost reckless determination that surprises even yourself.
And then, silence.
It falls heavy across the room, thick enough to suffocate. The man before you—the infamous Wolf of the North—stares as though you’ve just uttered something incomprehensible. His eyes, sharp yet dulled by exhaustion, widen ever so slightly. It’s subtle, fleeting… but it’s there.
Beside him, Narrator stiffens. His brows knit together immediately, the disapproval clear in the way his gaze flickers between you and his master. Neither of them speak. Neither of them look pleased. Of course they wouldn’t be.
The Wolf of the North— Ashveil.
An isolated Duke, seldom seen, rarely heard—more rumor than man in the eyes of society. The nobles whisper of him like a ghost that never quite passed on. A living corpse, they say. A man who never attends gatherings, never mingles, never even steps beyond his dukedom unless absolutely necessary.
A presence so absent that he becomes forgettable. Less memorable than even a passing commoner. And yet, you had just proposed marriage to him.
To anyone else, it would sound like madness. Marrying the Duke of Kronstadt was no different than sentencing yourself to a slow, suffocating existence. A loveless union in a land stripped of warmth—hell disguised in nobility.
But those warnings barely register in your mind.
How could they?
You know this world.
You know him.
Because this is a story you’ve already read.
Fragments of it linger in your memory like fading ink, incomplete and unreliable. You don’t remember everything—far from it. The plot escapes you in places, details slipping through your grasp no matter how hard you try to recall them.
But there is one thing—one person—you never forgot.
Ashveil.
The very man sitting before you now. Your favorite character. A minor role in the grand scheme of the novel. A tool. A key to push the plot forward.
And yet, the one who stayed with you long after you turned the last page.
Ever since you settled into this unfamiliar world, adapting to its rules, its etiquette, its suffocating expectations—there has been one thought that refused to leave you.
His ending. That cruel, quiet ending.
They say his land is cursed with gloom, that his territory resembles the aftermath of a battlefield long abandoned. Lifeless. Hollow. Forgotten.
But that image is nothing more than a narrative shaped by shallow standards. Because in this world, liveliness is measured in extravagance. The louder a noble flaunts their wealth, the more “prosperous” they are deemed. And Ashveil he does none of that.
So, they call him dying. They say he has been gravely ill ever since the war—since the moment he narrowly escaped death. It is a convenient explanation and a believable lie. But you know better— there is no illness. There is only a beast.
A thing that lives within him, born from the very moment he stood at death’s door and refused to cross it. A power that was never meant to be his salvation, yet became both his armor and his cage. You remember it vaguely—the way the story described it as both a blessing and a curse. His soldiers had feared him. Feared him enough to nearly label him a monster. Until they realized that he was still conscious. Still human.
To carry something like that alone— to be reduced to whispers and isolation because of it…you can’t let that happen.
Not again.
Not when you have the chance to change it.
This isn’t pity. It's something softer yet firm at the same time. Something far more stubborn.
If everyone else in this story gets their happy ending, why can’t he?
“…An elaboration would be appreciated.” The voice pulls you back.
Ashveil speaks at last, breaking the tension that had stretched unbearably thin between you. His tone is composed, quiet—but there’s a weight to it now, something more deliberate. His gaze settles on you fully, no longer caught off guard but searching. What lingers is a careful and measured search.
Hope hits you so suddenly it almost hurts. He didn’t refuse nor did he dismiss you.
You almost laugh. You almost cry. Instead, you clear your throat, forcing your expression back into something dignified—something befitting the noble you’ve learned to become.
“Gladly, Your Grace.” The words come easier now, steadier, as you grasp onto the logic you prepared—no matter how hastily it was formed.
“For the past few months, I’ve been reviewing the economics of Kronstadt,” you begin, your voice calm, controlled. “While it remains stable on the surface, it has been steadily accumulating risk. Trade routes have weakened, resource distribution has grown uneven… and your people—”
You pause, lifting your gaze to meet his directly.
“—are beginning to fall into poverty.”
There. It’s out in the open now.
“I assume,” you continue, softer but no less firm, “that Your Grace has been unable to address these matters due to your… prolonged recovery.” A careful choice of words, a lie you knowingly play along with.
“I propose a marriage,” you conclude, your fingers curling slightly against your dress, “with the intent of assisting both you and your territory. With my position and resources, I can help stabilize what has begun to falter.”
When you finish, the silence that follows feels different. Though less suffocating, it felt more… weighted.
A quiet breath escapes you, relief brushing past your chest as you resist the urge to slump in your seat. Internally, you cling to the argument you’ve just constructed, pieced together in the moment yet grounded enough to stand.
Not perfect but not bad either. Across from you, Ashveil falls silent once more. He is lost in thought. Because everything you said—
is true.
He has seen it. The slow decline. The strain placed upon his land, his people. The burden he has gradually shifted onto Narrator as his own strength wanes—not just physically, but mentally.
It is exhausting.
Everything is.
His gaze shifts to the side, landing briefly on his assistant. Narrator meets his eyes and gives a small nod. The gesture was a mix of approval, practicality, relief even.
This marriage would ease the weight pressing down on them both. Your status alone would bring stability, your involvement a solution he can no longer provide on his own.
It makes sense.
So why does he hesitate?
Because beneath all of that logic lies something far less rational. Something far more dangerous.
You.
His hand tightens almost imperceptibly against the armrest, tension coiling beneath his otherwise composed exterior. Political marriages are nothing new. No one would question his choice—not with his reputation, not with his isolation.
No one would care.
But you would be the one standing beside him.
Would you still look at him like this if you saw what he truly was? If the thing inside him stirred—
if it lashed out— What if he hurts you?
A hand rests on his shoulder, a firm yet grounding touch. Ashveil blinks, the spiral of his thoughts abruptly cut short. Narrator’s presence anchors him back to reality, reminding him—quietly, insistently—that you are still here.
Still waiting.
Still watching him with that same unwavering gaze. You haven’t looked away. Not once. You've been eagerly waiting for his answer.
Slowly, he straightens. The hesitation doesn’t disappear—but it settles, pressed down beneath something heavier. Something final.
A decision.
“I accept the proposal.” The words fall cleanly between you, sharp and absolute—like a blade severing what once was.
There is neither hesitation or retreat. And though neither of you say it, the moment lingers.
Because this is where everything begins.
✦ . ⁺ . ✦ . ⁺ . ✦
The wedding proceeded as smoothly as one could expect. Truthfully, there was no reason for it not to. By the Grand Duke’s order, your guest list had been limited to no more than two—a restriction you accepted without protest, for there were only two people you would have chosen regardless: your parents.
For him, the number barely rose to three. Narrator’s presence was non-negotiable, a constant shadow at his side, while the remaining two guests were far more… intriguing.
One stood draped in muted tones of grey and black, their presence quiet yet undeniably sharp, like a blade hidden beneath cloth. The other was their complete opposite—pink, neon, loud even in stillness.
You recognize them, not fully, not clearly, but enough for fragments of memory to stir. Pieces of a story you can no longer fully recall. And yet, instinct tells you one thing with certainty: if you wish to truly reach Ashveil, you will have to earn their acknowledgment first.
The wedding night, however, fails to live up to its name. It is Ashveil himself who requests separate chambers—a decision that, under any other circumstances, would birth endless rumors and quiet ridicule among noble society.
But you say nothing, because you understand. This is not reluctance, nor is it rejection. It is restraint—his body, not his will. The arrangement does little to bother you. If anything, it grants you a strange sort of ease, a space to think, to plan, to settle into the life you have willingly stepped into. Unfortunately, the same cannot be said for the servants.
The maids whisper constantly. Their voices weave through the halls like threads of silk—thin, persistent, impossible to fully ignore. Speculation, curiosity, amusement… all of it spills freely behind careful hands and lowered gazes. You find it entertaining, more than you probably should. At times, you even pause to listen. Because truly, what better way to understand the nature of royalty than to experience both its reverence and its ridicule firsthand? A dream and a nightmare, intertwined so seamlessly that one cannot exist without the other.
The first few days of your marriage pass within the confines of the Wolf Palace, and it is exactly as you expected. For a Duke who rarely leaves his chambers, whose presence lingers more as an idea than a reality, your expectations had never been particularly high.
The nights you once spent recalling what little you knew of him had not painted a hopeful picture. If anything, they had prepared you for this quiet distance. Still, reality settles heavier than imagination, and amidst the growing weight of responsibilities and the suffocating stillness of unfamiliar halls, you find yourself with an unexpected source of company.
The head maid— Loretta.
Her first appearance is nothing short of proper. Polite, attentive, efficient—and yet, you see it. That flicker of mischief beneath the surface. “I’ll be at your service, Grand Dutchess,” she says with a graceful bow, her posture impeccable.
It catches you off guard for only a moment, a brief reminder that despite your confidence, this life is still new. You clear your throat, slipping back into composure with practiced ease.
“And your name may be?” you ask, as though the answer is not already known to you.
Loretta lights up instantly—too instantly. “It’s Loretta, Your Grace—!” Her hands come together in an almost excited clap, the formality of her position momentarily forgotten. And just as quickly, realization dawns on her. Embarrassment floods her expression. “Ah… my apologies. That was improper of me.”
A soft chuckle escapes you before you can stop it, and she freezes at the sound. You shake your head, easing your expression as you gently stifle your laughter. “Do not be afraid,” you reassure her, your tone warm despite the setting. “I truly don’t mind.”
Relief washes over her so visibly it’s almost amusing. And truly—it is. Because this is the same woman who, under the cover of night, becomes something else entirely.
A silent overseer. A quiet hunter within palace walls. You’ve heard the whispers, the stories—of how she identifies disloyalty with frightening precision, how thieves disappear, how unfaithful servants are plucked from their positions as if they had never existed at all. And yet, before you, she stands like this—gentle, careful, almost endearing.
You nearly laugh again. What an interesting place you’ve married into—a palace of wolves, and a head maid who purrs like a cat.
✦ . ⁺ . ✦ . ⁺ . ✦
A sigh escapes your lips as your gaze lingers over the letters spread neatly across your desk. The handwriting is clean, precise—line after line of carefully constructed words that carry more weight than they appear to. You aren’t even sure how the news reached them. As a low-level noble, you had never been important enough to warrant such attention. And yet now… now that you bear the title of Duchess, it seems the world has suddenly remembered you exist.
Even so, the attention does little to ease your mind. If anything, it adds to the pressure.
The workload is heavier than you anticipated, though not unexpected. You had prepared yourself for this—mentally, strategically—and so you do not complain. The real issue lies elsewhere.
You rarely see your husband.
The thought lingers longer than you’d like.
It leads you to quieter suspicions—whether the maidservants have been following your instructions properly, whether he’s been eating at least three meals a day as you had ordered, whether anyone is truly keeping track of him at all.
Your eyes fall back onto the papers. The words remain unchanged. Unfeeling.
The invitation resting among them feels especially cold. Its polite phrasing does nothing to mask what lies beneath—whispers, judgment, quiet scrutiny waiting for you the moment you step into noble society’s gaze. It promises nothing but observation, nothing but the slow dissection of your choices.
Progress is slow. Painfully so. And time will not wait for you.
If things continue like this, then the path ahead will remain unchanged. The same path that led him—led all of them—toward endings you refuse to accept.
No. This won’t do.
You rise before you can second-guess yourself. Your chair shifts softly against the floor as determination settles into your movements. Without hesitation, you make your way toward Ashveil’s study, your pace steady, purposeful.
Behind you, Loretta follows faithfully. Ever since she had been assigned to your service, she has trailed after you like a loyal wolf cub—sharp-eyed, attentive, and far more observant than she lets on.
Your thoughts swirl endlessly as you walk. Fragments of the novel, your own actions, the possibility of suspicion, the fragile connections between Kronstadt and the rest of noble society—they all blur together into a restless storm.
And then, you collide with something. Someone.
“Muddlefudger!” The gruff exclamation snaps you from your thoughts. You look up, meeting a familiar sight—grey and black streaks of hair, sharp eyes filled with irritation.
Ah. Boothill. — the Wolf Duke’s so-called eldest son.
Born among rogue cowboys, dragged into a war that never should have touched him. A child forced into a battlefield by nobles who deemed the aftermath too filthy for their own soldiers. You remember this part clearly—the fragments of his past etched deeper into your memory than most.
A near-broken body. A boy left to die. And Ashveil— who had found him.
Rumor had it that the Duke postponed an entire ambush for a single day, just to ensure the medics were fully devoted to saving the child. A decision that made no sense strategically, yet defined everything about him.
No formal adoption ever followed, no official papers and yet, the entire kingdom knows. Boothill is his son in every way that matters. And just like his father, his fate in the novel had not been kind.
“Hey, bow to the Duchess!” Loretta’s sharp voice cuts through the moment, pulling you from your thoughts. Before she can continue, you lift your hand, silencing her with a simple gesture.
Boothill huffs, clearly unimpressed. But then, he looks at you. Not a passing glance, not a dismissive stare, he actually looks.
For a moment, the two of you simply stand there, studying one another in silence. His brows lift slightly, surprise flickering across his expression as though reality has failed to meet his expectations.
“That’s the Duchess?” The bluntness earns him no favor, but it does not surprise you.
This defiance—this sharp-edged attitude—is exactly as you remember. The same boy who once stood against nobles during a rogue mission, the same one who refused to bend even when surrounded by authority.
And yet, you smile. It is soft, welcoming, unexpected. If it weren’t for the novel, you might have answered differently.
“That is the Dutchess, Boothill,” you reply lightly, your tone carrying a quiet ease that contrasts his roughness. Then, tilting your head ever so slightly, you add, “Pray tell, have you been skipping training as well?”
The glare he sends your way could freeze lesser men. You remain unmoved.
“What’s it to ya’?” he shoots back, his voice sharp with challenge. “Ya haven’t been here for even a month.”
The words are blunt. They would sting, to most but not you. This is expected— necessary, even. If you want him to warm up to you, then this phase must be endured. And perhaps, nudged along.
“What’s it to me?” you echo, a faint gleam of mischief flickering in your eyes. “Let’s see… even within my short stay, I’ve managed to build connections with the Oak Family.” You tilt your head, your voice dipping into something almost playful. “Which means… no more Miss Robin’s assistance for you.”
The reaction is immediate. Subtle but unmistakable. For just a second, you catch it—a faint flush creeping onto his cheeks, embarrassment slipping through the cracks of his defiance. You almost laugh, but manage to hold it in.
Boothill clicks his tongue, turning his gaze away. “Ya don’t gotta threaten me like that.”
And just like that— he’s gone. Running through the halls as if the conversation had never happened.
You watch him leave, knowing you’ve struck something—not the deepest nerve, but enough. The Oak Family… or rather, Robin, has always been a constant in his life. You remember that much. Her presence during the aftermath of the war, the quiet bond formed through shared vulnerability.
And more importantly— her role in what was to come. Or at least— what you think you remember.
Barely a minute passes before the silence is broken again. “Young master, please return to the Knights!” The shout echoes through the halls as a group of knights rush past, their leader standing out immediately.
Argenti.
Rose-haired, composed, and painfully earnest.
It is not a surprising sight. Boothill’s aversion to discipline—especially anything resembling noble restraint—has already made itself clear. At this point, you suspect this is a daily occurrence.
Argenti stops before you, posture straight despite the clear frustration lingering in his expression.
“I apologize for the disturbance, Your Grace,” he says, his tone sincere. “I did not wish to interrupt your conversation, and thus… I was unable to catch him.”
This time, you laugh. Soft, but unmistakable.
The sound catches him off guard entirely. His brows lift, surprise flickering across his face as though he cannot quite process the reaction.
You shake your head gently, calming your laughter.
“A dutiful knight you are, Argenti,” you say warmly. “Truly admirable.” The effect is immediate. Surprise gives way to something softer—something brighter.
“How…?” the question lingers unspoken, but you can see it in his expression. How do you know his name? How are you so familiar?
A genuine smile blooms across his face regardless. “I appreciate the compliment, my lady.”
Earnest, contained, rare, but peace, as always, is fleeting.
The knights urge him onward, reminding him of his unfinished task. His expression shifts once more, duty reclaiming its place. “I shall take my leave.”
You nod, watching as he departs with the others in pursuit. And then, Loretta's laughter follows. It's a sudden one, amused even.
“Both of them will hear quite the scolding from the Duke today,” she remarks, her eyes gleaming with mischief.
You hum softly, your gaze drifting down the now-quiet hallway.
Yes, you’re certain of it.
Something, at the very least will dawn upon you all.
✦ . ⁺ . ✦ . ⁺ . ✦
The door creaks open to the overly cold study, the sound stretching thinly through the still air. A chill greets you immediately, seeping into your skin and settling deep in your bones. If one didn’t know better, they might have mistaken this place for a morgue rather than a workspace. How such a temperature is maintained without any modern technology remains a mystery, but right now, it’s the least of your concerns.
Carefully, you ease the door shut behind you, ensuring it makes as little noise as possible. The soft click echoes faintly, swallowed by the quiet. Your steps are slow and deliberate as you move further into the room, your gaze scanning the dim interior before settling on the figure slumped in the chair.
Ashveil sits there in silence, one hand supporting his head, his posture caught somewhere between rest and deep thought. He’s too still—so still that you hesitate, unsure whether he’s truly asleep or merely lost in his own mind. You circle him quietly, watching for any sign of movement, but he doesn’t react. Not a twitch, not a breath out of place.
Encouraged by his stillness, you take another cautious step closer.
Up close, he’s… prettier than you remembered.
The soft fall of his lashes against pale skin, the strands of black hair streaked with white slipping over his face—it all feels unfairly beautiful. Even the faint flush along his cheeks seems almost delicate. It’s surreal, really. Once upon a time, he had been nothing more than a character in a story, a passing fixation, someone you admired from afar. Now, he exists right in front of you, close enough to touch.
And that thought alone is enough to make your hand lift before you can stop yourself.
It hovers just above his bangs, your fingers trembling slightly with hesitation. Just one touch, you tell yourself. Something grounding. Something to remind you that this is real. Entirely for therapeutic purposes, of course—not because he looks devastatingly handsome while asleep.
Gently, your fingers brush against his hair.
It’s soft.
Softer than you expected.
For a man rumored to house a beast within him, there is something strangely gentle in the way he feels beneath your touch. His temperature is cool—noticeably so—but not unpleasant. Your fingers linger, trailing lightly along his features, tracing the faint lines of his face as though committing them to memory. The thought settles quietly in your mind, heavy with disbelief.
You are married to this man.
You pause at his cheek, your touch hovering as you debate whether to go any further—
—and then a hand catches your wrist.
You freeze.
His grip is firm yet controlled, holding you in place without hurting. When you look up, his eyes are already on you—sharp, aware, and far too awake. The intensity of his gaze sends a jolt through you, like a wolf observing even the slightest movement of its prey.
Instinctively, you try to step back, but his hold stops you.
“My apologies, Grand Duke! I didn’t mean to—” The words spill out in a rush, tumbling over each other in your panic. Heat floods your face as embarrassment and fear intertwine, your thoughts spiraling. Is this it? Have you already ruined everything?
But then—
he laughs.
The sound is soft, unrestrained, and so unexpected that it startles you more than his grip ever could. There’s a lightness to it, a rare trace of amusement that feels almost out of place on him. Slowly, he releases your wrist, allowing you the space you had tried to claim moments before.
“My own wife touching me in my sleep,” he muses, his voice tinged with quiet teasing. “Had you not considered the consequences of such actions?”
Your embarrassment deepens instantly, your composure crumbling further. You’re the Duchess—this is not how you’re meant to behave. You scold yourself internally, trying to gather what little dignity you have left. Yet Ashveil seems to pick up on your inner turmoil with ease. He straightens in his seat before leaning slightly closer, closing the distance you had just created.
“Come now,” he continues, his tone softer, almost coaxing. “What’s with the silence? You’re making this awkward. We are married, are we not?”
You nod, still recovering, your voice quieter when you answer. “We are.”
But your attention drifts again, not to his words, but to him. The subtle tension lining his expression, the faint stress that lingers beneath his composure—it’s clear, at least to you, that he hasn’t been resting properly. The realization settles heavily in your chest.
He hasn’t been sleeping.
And just like that, a plan begins to form in your mind.
It’s not a safe one. Not a cautious one. But you’ve never been particularly good at standing by and doing nothing.
Before you can second-guess yourself, you reach out and take his hand.
The reaction is immediate.
Ashveil stills, his eyes widening just slightly as a faint flush creeps onto his cheeks. The shift is subtle, but unmistakable. You don’t give yourself time to dwell on it.
“I have a request, Your Grace,” you begin, your grip tightening just enough to steady your nerves. And before he can interrupt, you continue, “I want to share a bedroom with you tonight.”
A heavy, suffocating silence follows.
He stares at you as though you’ve just committed treason, while you internally marvel at your own boldness. Really, there’s no turning back now.
“I don’t think that would be a good idea, my lady,” he finally replies, his tone gentle—careful, even—as if trying to guide you away from something dangerous.
Your fingers tighten around his hand. You know what this implies. You understand the risks, the implications, the boundaries being crossed.
And yet, you refuse to let him face another night alone.
“It’s a great idea, Your Grace,” you insist, your voice steadier than you feel. “Do you not hear the whispers? People are already saying our relationship is fractured within days of our marriage.”
It’s a stretch—an outright exaggeration, really. You heard one person mention it once and decided to run with it. But desperate times call for desperate measures.
Ashveil watches you, unconvinced. Has he heard such rumors? No. And frankly, he doubts they exist at all. As for why you would make something like that up… well, his thoughts drift briefly in directions he pointedly refuses to acknowledge.
He exhales slowly, the sound carrying a quiet exhaustion.
“Sharing a bedroom will not bring any good,” he says, his voice softer now. “Especially with an ill man.”
You shake your head immediately, your determination unwavering. “Please, Your Grace.”
The shift in your tone is subtle, but enough.
And that is what breaks him.
After a moment of hesitation, he nods—reluctant, faintly flustered, and still entirely too aware of your hand holding his.
Relief and triumph bloom in your chest all at once. “Thank you!” you beam, your sincerity only serving to fluster him further.
As you step out of the study, leaving the biting cold behind, you faintly hear him call for Narrator, his voice quieter, almost resigned.
His poor advisor.
Tonight, he will undoubtedly be preparing for the worst.
✦ . ⁺ . ✦ . ⁺ . ✦
The words spread across the palace within hours. Arrangements begin as though something grand is to take place—servants moving in hushed urgency, attendants whispering behind gloved hands, preparations unfolding with an almost ceremonial weight. Yet neither of you speak of it. Neither of you acknowledge it. Because you both know this is nothing like what they believe it to be.
Following your usual routine, you retreat into your study once more. A part of you clings to this constancy—this quiet, unchanging rhythm. It is a rare comfort, one you never had in your previous life, where silence was always fleeting and thoughts were never given room to breathe. Here, at least, you can think.
But peace has never been something that lingers long at your side.
A firm knock breaks through the stillness, knuckles rapping sharply against the door. You do not need to guess who it is. With a quiet sigh, you grant permission, and the door opens almost instantly—as if there had been no space between the knock and his entrance at all.
From the moment he steps in, you can tell something is wrong. Narrator looks… unsettled. More than that—distressed.
“Your Grace,” he begins, his voice strained, “why was I not informed of this?”
For a brief moment, his composure cracks so visibly that it startles you. He looks as though he might grab you by the shoulders and shake sense into you if propriety did not chain him in place.
You tilt your head, taken aback by the sudden intensity. Still, beneath the surprise, you understand. “I did not think I needed to inform anyone,” you reply evenly, “that a married couple would share a bedroom.”
The words land heavier than intended.
You are aware of that. They sound entitled—sharp, almost—but there is little else you can say. This marriage has given you leverage, a foothold in a story that was never meant to belong to you. For that alone, you are grateful to the version of yourself that made this choice.
Narrator exhales, long and weary, pinching the bridge of his nose as though warding off a headache. “You know the Grand Duke is not in the best condition,” he says, voice quieter now but no less firm. “Why place more strain on him?”
Strain.
The word feels misplaced, yet not entirely wrong. If it comes from him, then it likely comes from Ashveil as well.
You watch Narrator carefully, and it is almost as though you can hear the thoughts he refuses to voice. He is afraid—afraid that this will push the Duke too far, that allowing someone so new, so unfamiliar, into such a vulnerable space will undo everything he has spent years trying to preserve.
“Mister N,” you call, and he looks up immediately.
“I know you care for him,” you continue, your voice steady but softer now, “but please… do not mistake me for a fool.”
That catches him off guard. He straightens slightly, pushing his glasses up in a reflexive gesture. “I didn’t mean to—”
You raise a hand, gently cutting him off. “I know you didn’t.” You take a step closer—not enough to threaten, but enough to make your words impossible to ignore.
“I will be gentle with him,” you say, quieter now, yet unwavering. “Trust me. I was not married into this house without knowing what awaits me.”
Silence settles between you.
Narrator’s gaze drops, his expression a tangled mess of hesitation and reluctant acceptance. He has stood beside Ashveil for decades—watched him fracture, watched him endure. He has shaped the Duke’s life into something survivable, something controlled. And now, you have stepped into that carefully constructed world.
He does not know whether to fear you… or to hope.
Slowly, he lifts his gaze again. “I understand,” he murmurs at last. “Please… take care of him. Do not push him.” His voice falters slightly. “He is more fragile than he appears. One wrong step… and he may crumble entirely.”
Those words linger, heavy on your shoulders, as you make your way to the bedroom. Each step feels deliberate, like walking toward a stage where the outcome has yet to be decided.
When the door opens, you find Ashveil already there.
He sits stiffly on the edge of the bed, posture awkward, as though he does not quite belong in his own space. His shirt is buttoned unevenly, hair slightly disheveled—strands falling in a way that almost resembles wolf ears. Whether he had only just woken or had been hurried into preparation, you cannot tell.
The thought warms you more than it should.
You step closer. Immediately, he tenses.
“No need to be so wary, Grand Duke,” you say gently. “Think of this as nothing more than a natural part of our marriage.”
He nods—too quickly, too stiffly. His prosthetic hand moves, patting the space beside him in a silent invitation. You accept, though you keep a careful distance as you sit.
For a moment, he says nothing. Then, haltingly, “You must be tired… we should sleep.”
The words come out clumsy, stripped of elegance. Years of isolation have worn away at him, leaving his voice unfamiliar with softness, with ease.
You listen, you understand. But you also see what he does not say. And you have never been one to retreat.
Slowly, you reach out, your hand coming to rest against his cheek. He stiffens immediately—but he does not pull away.
Your fingers trace along his skin, familiar in a way that transcends this life. A faint smile touches your lips. “I am tired,” you admit softly, “but it would be a waste to simply sleep through the time I asked for.”
His breath catches. His hand rises, wrapping around your wrist—not harsh, but uncertain, as though grounding himself.
“Why?” he asks, voice barely above a whisper. “Why marry me? Why take on the burden of Kronstadt?”
The question does not surprise you.
But answering it… is another matter entirely.
“Is it so strange,” you say after a moment, “to wish to care for a fallen land?”
The lie slips out too easily. Because the truth has always been him.
Something flickers in his eyes—something unreadable. Then, slowly, he smiles. It mirrors yours, but where yours conceals, his reveals. There is something soft in it. Something… relieved.
And then, he gasps. The shift is immediate. His grip tightens before releasing, his body faltering as his hand flies to his chest—then to his arm.
“You should go,” he says, voice sharp now, strained. “Leave.” His nails dig into his own skin. “Leave,” he repeats.
He expects you to run. Anyone would. But you do not move. Instead, when his strength falters and he collapses forward, you catch him. His weight drives you back onto the bed, breath knocked from your lungs as he trembles above you, fighting something unseen.
His hand finds yours again—this time not gentle. Metal edges press into your skin, biting, threatening to break.
You almost flinch. But you don’t. Your focus remains on him.
“Why won’t you leave?” he demands, though his voice wavers, fractured between control and something far more dangerous.
“Because I chose to stay,” you answer, without hesitation. There is no fear in your voice; a little room for doubt, certainty present in its glory.
For a moment, something in him stills. His teeth graze over your neck, you can feel it vividly, heavy breaths fanning your pulse. He's waiting to bite, to satisfy the hunger of the beast. Then he leans closer, his body pressing against yours, breath ghosting your ear.
“You will stay with me,” he murmurs, low and raw, “forever.”
And then— He goes limp.
Silence crashes down all at once, heavy and suffocating. You do not move. Do not breathe. For a moment, you are not even sure if your heart is still beating.
Then, slowly—carefully—you inhale.
You made it. You endured the flare-up. You changed the course of the story.
The realization hits you all at once, sharp and overwhelming. Something inside your chest tightens, threatening to spill over. Years of preparation… all for this single moment.
And now, there is hope.
Your hand stings.
The pain registers belatedly, and when you lift it, crescent-shaped wounds stare back at you—angry, bleeding. You let out a quiet breath, almost a laugh of disbelief.
Carefully, you ease yourself out from beneath him, shifting his weight with more effort than grace. You guide his head onto the pillow, movements clumsy but gentle.
Once he is settled, you search the room, recalling fragmented details from the story—until you find what you need.
Sitting at the edge of the bed, you clean the wounds. The alcohol burns, sharp enough to make you bite down on your lip, but you endure it in silence. When you finish wrapping the bandages, a knock sounds at the door.
Just once.
You pause, then rise, opening it slightly.
Narrator stands there. His expression is tense—but the moment he sees you, sees your calm, sees the quiet behind you—something in him eases.
You offer a small smile, pressing a finger to your lips.
He understands immediately. Relief softens his features, and for the first time, his smile carries something genuine.
He does not need to ask. Ashveil is safe. And for the first time in a long while— he is not alone.
✦ . ⁺ . ✦ . ⁺ . ✦
Morning light seeps through the curtains, spilling across the bedsheets in a quiet warmth. It reaches you before your thoughts fully surface, coaxing your eyes open as you slowly adjust to the brightness filling the Duke’s chambers.
You turn your head to see Ashveil laying beside you, still and undisturbed, as though the night had never unraveled him at all. In the gentleness of morning, he looks… almost unreal. The sharpness that once defined him has softened, leaving behind something deceptively peaceful.
Radiant.
It feels wrong, somehow, to see him like this after what happened. You can’t tell if this calm is his own… or something you had a hand in. After all, you were the one who stopped him. The one who kept him from tearing himself apart any further.
The thought lingers longer than it should. But duty does not. As much as you want to remain—just a moment longer, just enough to convince yourself this quiet is real—you force yourself to rise. The world beyond these walls is already waiting, and it will not wait kindly.
You slip from the bed, making your way toward the door. With each step, your mind begins its usual tally—letters unanswered, reports untouched, obligations stacked one atop another until the weight of it nearly turns you back.
As your hand rests on the handle, you hesitate. There's a feeling in your gut that something troublesome awaits you outside the door— but then again, when have you not gotten involved into something troublesome?
Then you open it. The door creaks softly as it gives way. You expect to see Loretta as you always do.
Instead, you’re met with someone else entirely.
A girl stands in the corridor, pink hair catching the light, streaked with neon that seems to hum with restless energy. There is something loud about her presence—something that refuses to be ignored even in silence.
And the moment she notices you, that silence shatters. Her gaze drops immediately to your bandaged hand before snapping back to your face.
“Moonveil Warden.”
The title hits you abruptly. For a second, you don’t respond. Your mind stumbles over the unfamiliar weight of it, instinctively searching for someone else—someone it could possibly belong to.
But the hallway is empty.
There is no one else. It is meant for you.
Slowly, you lift a hand, pointing at yourself as if to confirm. “...Yes?” you answer, hesitant, your voice betraying the uncertainty you try to mask. “Were you calling for me?”
She doesn’t answer right away. Instead, she looks at you—really looks. Her gaze drags over your figure, sharp and assessing, before flickering briefly toward the bedroom behind you. And then, back to your hand. Her eyes narrow, curiosity sharpening into something far more dangerous.
“What,” she begins, tone dipping into something almost conspiratorial, “did you and Solostar Wolfshade do?”
Your heart skips and you don’t let her finish. “Nothing!” The response comes too quickly, too forcefully, the word nearly tripping over itself in your haste. You straighten slightly, forcing composure back into your voice. “Forgive me—I was careless. It was dark, and I injured myself trying to find my way.”
The lie slips out with practiced ease, you barely even feel it anymore. At this point, you’ve lost count of how many times you’ve twisted the truth since arriving in Kronstadt… and something tells you that number will only grow.
Rappa watches you intently, the way that would make only Coria sweat. For a moment, it feels like she might press further—like she’s already imagined ten different possibilities and is simply waiting for you to confirm one.
But to your relief, her shoulders ease. Not yet convinced but she's willing to let it go for now. She steps closer instead, her attention shifting. Her eyes flicker down—this time not to your bandages, but to the ring resting on your finger. When she looks back up, there’s a glint in her expression. Amusement and interest.
A smile curls onto her lips. With exaggerated flair, she places a hand over her chest and dips into a half-bow, every movement brimming with theatrical pride. “It’s an honor to meet you, Moonveil Warden,” she declares brightly. “I’m Rappa—the Dazzling Hero!”
The name settles into place. Ah— Right. Rappa.
Ashveil’s eldest daughter—though still younger than Boothill. A child once raised to be an assassin, shaped by blades and silence… only to abandon it all in favor of freedom. You remember the rumors—how she had turned against the very life forced upon her, how she had tried to ambush Ashveil’s soldiers out of desperation.
And how he had found her, eventually taken her in.
Now, she stands before you not as that frail, struggling child—but as something vivid. Unrestrained. A noble cloaked in brightness, even as the remnants of her past linger beneath the surface.
You realize, faintly, how little you remember of the others. Except Ashveil.
Clearing your throat, you offer a polite nod, waiting for her to finish her display. “May I leave now?” you ask, already glancing down the corridor. “I’m afraid I haven’t freshened up yet.”
And more importantly— Where is Loretta? Of all times to disappear.
Strangely, your question seems to brighten Rappa even further. She steps closer—close enough that you barely have time to react before her hand catches yours, warm and firm. “Does that mean the Moonveil Warden will be joining us for breakfast?” she asks, eyes gleaming with excitement.
Breakfast.
The thought hadn’t even crossed your mind.
Everything else had taken priority. You hesitate for a moment—then give a small, uncertain nod. “...Yes. I suppose I will.”
That is all she needs.
She releases you just as quickly and turns, already dashing down the corridor with uncontainable energy. “Silvergun Shura!” her voice rings out in the distance.
The hallway falls quiet again. And just as you turn— there she is.
Loretta stands waiting, as composed as ever, as though she had been there the entire time and simply chose not to intervene.
A dull headache begins to form. “Now you decide to show up?” you mutter, unimpressed.
She laughs softly, her smile tinged with something almost apologetic—almost. “You had someone waiting for you,” she replies. “It would have been rude to take you away from her, Your Grace.”
You don’t buy it though, not for a second. But you let it slide for now— of all the storms coming today, this should be the least of your priorities.
The next thirty minutes pass in the familiar rhythm of preparation.
For a duchess, even the smallest detail is never truly small. Every fold of fabric, every strand of hair, every accessory must be corrected, adjusted, perfected—until nothing remains that could be deemed careless. Not when the maidservants of Kronstadt turn imperfection into entertainment.
Loretta trails behind you as always, silent and unbothered, as you finally step into the dining hall.
It is a vast room— far too vast. A table designed to host a court, yet occupied by only three people. The emptiness is hard to ignore. It always is. There is something about this dukedom that makes even abundance feel hollow.
Your gaze finds Ashveil immediately. He is already eating.
Of course he is.
No greeting. No acknowledgment that you were ever absent to begin with. You file that grudge away for later.
“Moonveil Warden is here!” Rappa announces brightly, as though your entrance is an event worth celebrating.
Boothill lets out a short laugh. “What kinda name is that supposed to be?”
You offer a small smile instead of a response, taking your seat beside Ashveil. Behind you, Loretta quietly chooses to stand near Boothill rather than behind you. You don’t question it— you rarely question her relationships with the staffs, or even the nobles. You do not possess much knowledge for someone who has been living here for only a month.
Your attention drifts, as it always does, back to Ashveil.
He is avoiding you.
He's trying to do it not openly nor dramatically, hoping to do it in the quiet, deliberate way of someone who keeps his eyes fixed on anything that is not you— his plate, his hands, the edge of the table. Anywhere else.
You do not press him yet. Instead, you let the noise at the table fill the space between you.
Rappa talks like silence is a crime. Boothill answers like every word is a calculation. Their voices overlap constantly—half argument, half laughter, entirely familiar in a way that makes the emptiness of the room feel slightly less suffocating.
Rappa is louder, more open, her emotions worn plainly across her face like armor she refuses to hide behind.
Boothill, by contrast, watches more than he speaks. Measures before he reacts.
They are different and yet not. Despite being more of a quieter one among the two, Boothill rarely stops when he opens his mouth— tales of the past and his skills fall out of his mouth before he can register.
Your gaze lingers between them briefly, observing their close relationship. You'd expect them to be close— especially given their past in the war, they bond over the hellish times well. Then, your focus inevitably returns to Ashveil.
He has gone quiet— more than usual. Your observant gaze pins him, dissecting every movement and behavior. His eyes are not on your face but on your hand. He seems to be specifically eyeing the bandages.
There is something there that he does not voice. Something that presses heavier than words would allow. Guilt, perhaps. Or something sharper, more self-directed than that.
It settles uncomfortably in your chest. You exhale softly, your mind a troublesome tycoon of thoughts and the need to act. Without overthinking it, you move your hand. It rests over his. It is a simple gesture, standing barely anything but his entire body tenses the moment you do it. His hand twitches once, yet he doesn't seem to attempt to pull away.
You keep your expression neutral and continue eating as if nothing has changed, even as awareness sharpens at the table.
Rappa's keen eyes are the first one to catch it. Her gaze flicks immediately to Boothill. Boothill, in turn, glances at Loretta. Loretta, infuriatingly, offers nothing in return.
No one understands. Good. Or perhaps… inconvenient.
“Moonveil Warden,” Rappa says suddenly, breaking the moment with practiced ease, “Silvergun Shura and I will be starting training in an hour. This Dazzling Hero requests your presence as an honored spectator.”
Despite yourself, your lips soften. It is impossible not to. “Of course,” you reply gently. “I would be happy to watch.”
The reaction is immediate from him. You know that he's quietly observing everything like a wolf. You feel Ashveil’s hand shift slightly beneath yours—fingers tightening just enough to be noticed, just enough to mean something he does not say aloud. Even as you do not look at him, there is a quiet understanding between you. Somewhere beneath all of this, he is pleased. Relieved, even.
The idea of his children—his fractured, scattered family—finding something resembling connection in your presence is not lost on him.
Rappa and Boothill are the first to leave, still bickering even as they exit. Loretta follows shortly after, leaving the hall with the same composure she arrived with. And just like that— It is only the two of you.
The silence that follows is heavier than before.
Ashveil does not speak immediately. He lets you decide what comes next— so you do.
“You didn’t tell me you were awake.” You take a bite of your food as you speak, keeping your tone casual.
His answer is paused, as though he does not want to say it out loud. “Didn’t think it was necessary.” The response is short— harsh even. Truth be told, he felt ashamed of the previous night to even confront you.
You accept it without comment, letting the conversation settle rather than forcing it open.
After a moment, you return to your meal.
It is… easy, in a strange way, to fall into silence with him.
You find yourself noticing small things again—his habits, his rhythm. The way he eats without pause, as though rest itself is something he has never fully learned how to do without. The sheer, almost unsettling consistency of it.
Like something that cannot be satisfied.
You do not dwell on it. Instead, you eat quietly. The thoughts will not leave you as long as it can, the swirling dissatisfaction in your heart will not be settled either. Yet, you keep quiet— for he, too, is in a predicament.
Outside the hall, something else begins to unfold.
“Did ya see that? Her hand’s bandaged.” Boothill’s voice drops into a whisper, though the hallway is empty.
Rappa leans in immediately. “Moonveil Warden said she hurt it last night. Accident in the palace.” she pauses her words. “I don’t believe her.”
Loretta hums softly, thoughtful rather than dismissive. “Something did happen,” she agrees. “Though I doubt it was anything severe enough to warrant concern.”
Boothill folds his arms. “So she’s lyin'.”
“No,” Rappa counters quickly. “She just didn’t tell us everything.”
Silence follows that— an uncertain silence that can only be achieved once you've gathered clues that don't connect at all. The kind that refuses to settle into a single conclusion.
The conversation continues for a while longer, looping through theories, half-guesses, and dead ends. But none of it leads anywhere solid.
No one knows. No one can.
Because only three people in this entire dukedom carry even a fragment of the truth—and none of them are speaking.
So the mystery remains what it has always been. Unresolved, unseen and carefully, deliberately buried beneath everything else.
By the time you finish answering the last of the letters and finalizing the month’s financial accounts, the sky beyond the tall windows has already surrendered to a dull, suffocating grey. What little light had filtered through earlier in the day is swallowed whole, replaced by heavy clouds that seem to press down upon the estate itself. The rain begins not long after—first as a distant murmur, then as a steady descent, and finally as a relentless pour that blankets everything in a muted haze.
It does not belong here.
In a land where life rarely blooms and warmth is more memory than reality, the rain feels almost intrusive—like something alive entering a place that has long forgotten how to be. The air thickens with dampness, carrying a faint, musky scent that clings to the stone walls and lingers in your lungs. It is a stark contrast to your father’s territory, where rain had always felt cleansing, almost comforting. Here, it only deepens the gloom.
You should have left earlier. The thought comes too late to matter now.
It takes Loretta’s quiet reminder to pull you back to your responsibilities beyond paper and ink—the promise you had made to visit the training grounds. You do not argue, nor do you delay. Rising from your seat, you move almost immediately, the urgency in your actions mismatched with the distant, unfocused state of your mind.
Even as your feet carry you forward, your thoughts drift elsewhere. There is something unsettled beneath the surface of the day—something that lingers just out of reach, as though the world itself is quietly shifting into a shape it was never meant to take.
The training grounds come into view through the curtain of rain, their outlines softened by the constant downpour. The earth beneath your feet is damp but mercifully firm, each step sinking just enough to remind you of the water saturating the soil without trapping you in it. The sounds reach you first—sharp, rhythmic, unyielding. Steel striking steel in measured intervals, arrows slicing cleanly through the air before embedding themselves into distant targets, voices rising and falling with effort and correction.
And yet, even surrounded by it, you feel oddly detached.
The noise does not quite reach you.
Your thoughts remain louder.
You stop at the edge of the field, Loretta’s presence steady behind you as she lifts the umbrella above your head, shielding you from the worst of the rain. Before you, the scene unfolds with practiced familiarity. Argenti stands beside Boothill, correcting the angle of his grip with patient precision, while the cowboy—true to form—continues to complain about the absurdity of wielding a sword when a gun would suffice. Not far from them, Robin Hood oversees Rappa, his posture relaxed yet unwavering as he observes her form.
Your gaze shifts to the target. Five arrows, all buried into the center.
Perfect.
The realization settles quietly—impressive, but not unexpected. There is a reason Robin Hood regards her so highly, a reason her confidence borders on theatrical certainty.
You find yourself watching longer than intended, your thoughts slipping once more into that distant, untethered space. So much so that you fail to notice the presence approaching you.
The sound of footsteps is lost beneath the rain, the shift in air too subtle to draw your attention—until it is already too late. A shadow merges with yours.
You only stir when the faint brush of fabric against your arm pulls you back into yourself. The contact is light, almost hesitant, yet enough to ground you instantly.
Ashveil stands beside you. Closer than he usually allows himself to be. He does not speak at first. Instead, he simply stands there, his presence quiet yet unmistakable, his gaze resting not on the training grounds but on you. There is a stillness to him—an awareness that feels deliberate, as though he has chosen not to interrupt whatever thoughts had claimed you.
The silence stretches. You break it without thinking. “Did you need something, Ashveil?”
The name slips from your lips before you can stop it, natural in a way that feels far too intimate for what it should be. You realize it a moment too late but he does not correct you.
Instead, his hand comes to rest on your shoulder. The touch is gentle—careful, almost uncertain, as though he is testing the boundary rather than claiming it.
“No,” he answers, the word coming quickly, yet not entirely steady. There is restraint in his voice, something held back just beneath the surface. “I just wanted to spend time with you, [Name].”
The world stills for you.
Your name.
Not your title. Not the role you have been forced into. Not the distance that has always existed between you and everyone else in this place.
Just you.
The warmth that follows is immediate and unwelcome in its intensity, spreading through your chest before you can brace yourself against it. It lingers there, soft yet insistent, refusing to be ignored.
You can feel his gaze. It is steady and unwavering. As though he is committing you to memory.
You look away first, unable hold the intensity. “I see…” Your voice is quieter than you intend, and you clear your throat in an attempt to steady it. “I’m glad you would want to.”
The words feel insufficient. Too small for something that suddenly feels far larger than it should be.
You force your attention back to the training grounds, grasping at something safer—something familiar. “Letting them train in this weather… don’t you think you’re being too harsh?”
Ashveil doesn't answer immediately, not that you expect him to answer at all. A soft sound escapes him. A laugh.
It catches you off guard.
It is quiet, nearly lost beneath the rain, but unmistakable all the same. There is something fragile about it, as though it has not been used in a very long time.
“I suggested they rest,” he admits, his tone lighter now, if only slightly. “They refused. Both of them.”
You hum softly in acknowledgment, unsurprised. Stubbornness, it seems, is a trait that runs deep within this household—whether by blood or by circumstance.
The two of you fall into a quiet rhythm after that, standing side by side as you watch the training continue. Time passes in small, unmeasured increments, marked only by the repetition of movement and the steady fall of rain.
“There used to be another one.” His voice breaks through the calm without warning.
You turn to him, your attention sharpening instantly.
His hand withdraws from your shoulder as he exhales, his gaze shifting away from both you and the field, as though the memory itself demands distance.
“Acheron,” he says, the name carried quietly between you. “She was skilled with a blade… though her taste in everything else was...questionable.” A faint attempt at humor. Though, it does not last.
“She left after a few months,” he continues, the words slower now. “No letters. No explanation. Nothing.”
The name settles into your thoughts like a key turning in a long-forgotten lock.
Acheron.
Fragments begin to surface—scattered, incomplete, yet unmistakable. A wandering noble with no true home. A remnant of a fallen estate. A figure destined to move between territories without ever belonging to one. You remember enough to know that her path was never meant to stay here… that her story lies elsewhere, intertwined with a future that has yet to unfold.
“But that’s in the past,” Ashveil murmurs, though there is a quiet weight beneath the words that suggests otherwise. “Wherever she is… I hope she’s safe.”
Bound to cross paths with the novel's protagonist— Evanescia, you are not certain that she is as he wishes. Crossing path anyone from the Xianzhou at this point of the plot may not be the best way to guarantee your safety, especially after their previous leader, Dan Feng's execution. But you say keep it to yourself.
The rain grows heavier, filling the silence in your place. For a moment, the world feels suspended—caught between what was and what is yet to come.
Then the thought breaks through.
“A soldier has died of poisoning in Moria.”
The words leave you abruptly, as though pulled from you rather than spoken by choice. There is a heaviness behind them, a quiet guilt that lingers in your tone despite your efforts to suppress it. Even now, after years of adapting to this life, there are parts of it that still feel foreign—parts you are never quite prepared to face.
Ashveil does not react outwardly. “I know,” he responds shortly, the words stinging in his mouth.
There is no surprise in his voice, he's expected this. “Cole reported it this morning. Mister N is investigating.”
Of course.
Cole—the poet who became a messenger of war, carrying reports in place of those who could no longer return. Since Acheron’s departure, he has filled a role that was never meant to be his, bridging absence with duty.
Your gaze drifts briefly across the field again, catching a familiar figure among the shifting forms.
Coria, perhaps. Even through the rain and distance, her presence feels distinct. There is something about her that lingers—like a melody that refuses to fade completely, even when unheard.
But your focus returns quickly.
“What did the report say?” you ask, quieter now, bracing yourself for what follows.
Ashveil takes his time to contemplate the ways to answer your question. There is a pause—long enough to feel deliberate. Long enough to suggest that the truth is something he weighs carefully before offering.
“Slow poisoning,” he says at last.
The words fall heavy, despairing and final.
“The culprit is among them. And by now…” He exhales softly, the rest of the sentence settling into implication rather than sound. “It may have already spread further than we can contain.”
The weight of it presses between you, silent yet suffocating. When you glance at him, his expression remains composed—but not untouched. There is something deeper beneath it all. Guilt, weariness and beneath both, something quieter still. Relief— not for the situation but for the fact that he is no longer bearing it alone.
The rain intensifies, blurring the edges of the world as the training below begins to dissolve. Knights retreat toward the palace in scattered formations, their movements hurried but familiar. Boothill and Rappa follow not far behind, their voices still carrying through the storm as they argue over something neither seems willing to concede.
“We should return,” you say at last, the words grounding you back into the present.
Ashveil does not argue, simply following you. Close enough that you can feel him there, just behind you—never quite beside you, yet never distant either.
You have noticed it. The way he adjusts himself around you. The way he lingers, wanting to be subtle. The way he almost—almost—closes the distance, only to stop short each time.
It makes your chest tighten in a way you cannot easily explain. You tell yourself it is nothing, that it is simply habit. Perhaps it is companionship that he seeks— the purpose of marriage was this. Something harmless.
But even as you walk through the rain, you can feel his gaze settle on you once more—steady, searching, unguarded in a way that feels far too intentional.
And the question lingers, quiet but insistent..
Why does he look at you—
as though you are the final piece of something he has been trying to complete?
✦ . ⁺ . ✦ . ⁺ . ✦
The rain does not stop.
Days pass, yet the sky remains sealed beneath a suffocating blanket of grey, as though the heavens themselves have chosen to abandon this land to its own decay. What began as a distant murmur has grown into a constant presence—rain tapping endlessly against the tall windows, seeping into the stone, clinging to the air with a damp heaviness that never quite leaves. Even within the palace walls, the scent of it lingers, mixing with old wood and colder things, creating an atmosphere that feels less like a home and more like something quietly rotting from the inside out.
And with each passing day, another name is added to the list.
At first, it had been manageable—tragic, but contained. A single report from Moria. A single soldier lost to something no one could immediately identify. But the pattern does not hold. It fractures, splinters, spreads. The deaths grow in number, then in frequency, each one slipping through the cracks before anyone can properly react. By the time the pattern becomes undeniable, it is already far too late to pretend this is coincidence.
You stand alone in the study, the latest report trembling slightly between your fingers despite the stillness of your body. Your eyes trace the words again and again, searching for something—anything—that might make sense of what is unfolding.
But there is nothing familiar here.
Nothing you recognize. Nothing that aligns with what you remember.
This wasn’t in the novel.
The realization no longer arrives as a shock. It settles into you like something colder, heavier—something that refuses to leave. Up until now, every step you had taken, every decision you had made, had been guided—anchored by the knowledge of what was meant to happen. Even when things felt uncertain, there had always been that quiet reassurance in the back of your mind: this is how it goes.
But now, there is nothing. The comfort of the script has long left you. And you are reminded once more that you are a stranger to this world. Caught in a future that refuses to unfold the way it should.
Your fingers tighten around the parchment. For the first time since you arrived in this world, you are truly, completely on your own.
The palace feels it. Even if no one speaks of it openly, the shift is undeniable. Conversations grow shorter, quieter, weighed down by something unspoken. Servants move with more urgency, yet less noise, as though afraid that any disruption might draw attention to something lurking just beyond their understanding. The vast halls, once merely cold, now feel hollow—like something has been carved out of them, leaving behind only an echo.
And within it all, the people closest to you begin to change.
Boothill and Rappa no longer train for the sake of improvement—they train as though survival depends on it. Their usual arguments still exist, but they lack their former ease, their edges sharpened by something far more serious. Boothill’s movements grow more precise, more deliberate, his eyes constantly scanning even when he pretends not to care. Rappa, on the other hand, throws herself into every motion with unwavering intensity, as though sheer will alone might be enough to outrun whatever is coming.
They linger around you more now.
Not in a way that draws attention.
Not in a way that disrespects your position.
But you notice it in the small things—the way Boothill adjusts his pace to match yours when you walk, even if he pretends it’s coincidence. The way Rappa insists on accompanying you under flimsy excuses that neither of you bothers to question. Even Loretta, ever composed and mischievous, has begun to remain at your side longer than necessary, her quiet presence grounding in a way that feels both comforting and unsettling.
They are protecting you. And the realization does not bring relief. Only the weight of understanding just how serious this has become.
The autopsy room is colder than the rest of the palace, as it always is. The scent of iron lingers thick in the air, layered beneath the sharp bitterness of medicinal herbs meant to mask what cannot truly be hidden. You stand over the body in silence, your gaze fixed, your mind working tirelessly to assemble pieces that refuse to fit together cleanly.
Another soldier.
Another victim.
Another life reduced to a report.
Your hand hovers just above the pale skin, unmoving as your thoughts spiral deeper into the problem. The symptoms are consistent—pain, deterioration, eventual collapse. The onset is delayed, carefully timed, as though designed to avoid immediate suspicion.
The reports point toward neither food nor water. The causes are inconsistent, an illusion of an airborne disease.
Your brows draw together as frustration builds, tightening slowly within your chest.
Then what?
Your fingers curl slightly. Think, think, think— figure something out. There are people awaiting your hopeful words that haven't reached your throat yet. You force yourself to step back, to look beyond the surface, beyond the obvious. You replay every detail, every report, every name.
Just as you uncover another sheet of report, your hand stills and your breath catches.
“…No.”The word leaves you before you can stop it.
You turn sharply toward the scattered reports, your movements quicker now, more urgent. Your eyes scan through them again, but this time with purpose—with direction.
Names, units, histories.
Your heartbeat quickens. “…They’re all connected.” The realization settles with terrifying clarity.
It's not random, never random. Every single victim—every soldier who had fallen, they all served under him.
Your grip tightens against the edge of the table.
“…Ashveil.” The name leaves your lips in a whisper.
This isn’t an attack on the dukedom. It’s an attack on him.
You don’t remember leaving the room.
Only that you are moving—fast enough that your thoughts struggle to keep up, your mind racing ahead even as your body tries to follow. The halls blur past you, familiar yet distant, your focus narrowing to a single point.
His office.
You don’t slow down, your steps catching it's pace with your heartbeat. By the time you reach the door, your hand is already raised, your breath uneven despite your effort to steady it. You knock—once, twice—but the sound feels insignificant compared to the urgency thrumming through you.
Patience fails you and the door opens beneath your hand.
The room is dim. The curtains remain drawn, shutting out what little light the storm might offer, leaving the space cloaked in shadows that stretch long across the floor. The desk is covered in papers—maps, reports, letters—each one a fragment of the chaos unfolding beyond these walls. None of them are neatly arranged. None of them are entirely out of place either.
It is the work of someone trying to hold everything together.
Alone.
Ashveil stands near the window, his figure half-obscured by the faint light that manages to slip through the gaps in the curtains. He does not turn immediately, his posture still, rigid in a way that feels less like calm and more like restraint.
“…You should be resting.” His voice is quiet. The distance in it dims your hopes by a grain. The walls you've worked so hard to chip away can rebuild itself with one wrong word.
You step inside anyway, closing the door behind you with a soft click. “And you should be eating,” you reply, your tone steady despite the tension coiling in your chest. “Yet neither of us seems particularly interested in doing what we should.”
That draws a reaction—subtle, but present. A slight shift in his shoulders, a quiet exhale that barely reaches you.
When he turns to face you, the sight alone is enough to make your breath falter.
He looks… worn. Not in the way of someone who simply lacks sleep, but in a way that feels deeper, heavier. There is a strain beneath his composure now, something that lingers in the set of his shoulders, in the faint tightness of his expression. He still stands tall, still carries himself with the same quiet authority—but it is no longer effortless.
“You shouldn’t be here,” he says, though the words lack any real force.
“I figured it out.” You don’t give him the chance to continue.
The words land between you, immediate and unyielding. That stops him completely.
“…What?”
“The poison,” you continue, stepping closer, your voice firm despite the storm raging within you. “It isn’t random. The victims—they’re all connected. They served under you during the war.”
Your gaze locks onto his. “This is about you.”
The silence following is heavy. unavoidable. He seems hesitant, unwilling to bear the burden of your words. “…I know.”
The answer hits harder than you expect.
You stare at him, disbelief flickering across your expression. “…You knew?”
“I suspected,” he corrects quietly, his gaze lowering slightly. “I didn’t want to act on assumption alone.”
Frustration rises quickly, sharp and immediate. “You should have told me—”
“And burden you further?” he interrupts, his voice still calm, but firm in a way that stops you short. “You already carry enough.”
The words linger. Because they are not wrong. But they are not enough either.
“I am your wife,” you say, softer now, but no less resolute. “This is mine to carry as well.”
Something in his expression shifts then—subtle, but undeniable. The distance he had been holding begins to falter, just slightly, as though your words have reached somewhere deeper than he intended to expose.
“I’m failing them.” The confession comes quietly, carrying guilt wrapped in white silk, stripped of its ink before you.
“I couldn’t protect them during the war,” he continues, his voice steady but thinner now, stretched by something heavier beneath it. “And now I can’t even protect the ones who survived it.”
Your chest tightens.
“I keep thinking…” His gaze drifts, unfocused, as though searching for something beyond the present. “What would Tiernan have done?”
The name settles between you. It's new to you— not one that was mentioned in the novel. Though you have to give yourself a pat on the back for touching those books in the palace library.
Tiernan. The previous Duke of Kronstadt— a foreigner who had caught the Duke's eyes at that time, enough to be bestowed the position after his death. Ashveil is nowhere related to that man— all they share is a past and a friendship that shares this title of a 'Duke'.
“He never hesitated,” Ashveil murmurs. “Never doubted. Everything I am now—this title, this responsibility—it was his first.”
His hand tightens slightly at his side.
“And I can’t help but wonder if I’m disappointing him.” The vulnerability in his voice is quiet but it is unmistakable.
You close the distance between you fully this time. “You’re not him,” you say gently, your voice steady despite the weight of the moment. “And you were never meant to be.”
His gaze lifts, meeting yours. He doesn't miss the firmness in your voice, the determination he lacks lies within you.
“You’re carrying something he never had to,” you continue. “The aftermath of a war, the weight of an entire dukedom—and something inside you that he never had to fight.”
Your expression softens. “And you’re still standing.”
The silence that follows is different now. A fragile silence. Before you is not just the Duke of Kronstadt, but your husband. The comfort he brings almost scares you, his very being rapidly carving the unspoken words out of you like a gushing wound.
“I need to tell you something,” you start quietly.
That catches his attention, his ears perk up like a wolf hearing its favorite word.
“I’m not… from here,” you admit, your fingers curling slightly at your sides. “This world—it isn’t mine. Not originally.” The words feel surreal even now. “I knew things I shouldn’t have. About you. About everyone. Because… I read it. This life—this story—it was something written.”
Your gaze holds his, the eye-contact is the only thing keeping you courageous thus far. “I’ve been following it since the beginning.”
You feel as if you've reached a wall, beyond it is a future you can no longer forsee. And you can only look at the sky, count the stars that speaks of the unchanging past.
“But this… none of this was supposed to happen.” Your voice trembles, you almost fail to get them out. But it is out— the truth laid bare before him.
“…I know.” Is all you hear that deep voice mumble out. The lack of surprise doesn't miss you, he barely gives a reaction.
“You… what?”
A faint, tired smile crosses his lips.
“You always knew too much,” he states bluntly. “It was only a matter of time before I realized it wasn’t coincidence.”
You glance toward him as if he's spouted out a forbidden spell isolated from the world. (WHA ref...) Have you truly been so careless? The question bugs you more than it should.
“Right now,” Ashveil continues, his voice softer, steadier, “you’re the only one who’s helped me make sense of any of this.”
Something in your chest tightens. You exhale slowly to steady yourself. To let yourself falter here is to reach another wall.
“We can stop this.” You blurt out without giving him a chance to reconsider his earlier words. His attention sharpens instantly.
“The poison isn’t spreading randomly,” you explain, stepping toward the desk as your thoughts begin to align with clarity. “It’s being administered selectively. That means the culprit needs access—close, controlled access.”
You gesture toward the reports. “We isolate your former unit. No shared supplies, no unsupervised contact. We monitor everything.”
The pause almost concerns him, yet you push on. “And we draw them out.”
The Wolf Duke's gaze does not avert your face. He evaluates your strategy, his mind desperately searching for hope. “…How?”
“They want you,” you say simply. “So we give them what they’re after.”
Understanding dawns slowly to him. “…Me.”
“Yes.” You respond firmly, certain of your idea.
A shaky breath escapes his lips and his eyes wonders to somewhere else, perhaps nowhere just to avoid you. “…That’s risky.”
“Yes,” you agree. The plan in itself isn't the best option, but it is the only one you have so far.
“…It might work.” You attempt to convince him once more.
Truthfully, there is only a little room for rejection in this situation. Ashveil has faced this situation only a handful of times, the hunt for him has never left his side. In the past, he'd avoid it all— letting Narrator take over the course. And now, there's you.
The distance that once lingered is gone now, replaced by something steadier. Stronger. Built not on obligation or title, but on something far more fragile—and far more real.
Trust.
Ashveil looks at you differently now, not as someone to shield but as someone who stands beside him.
✦ . ⁺ . ✦ . ⁺ . ✦
The plan does not unfold in a single decisive moment, nor does it arrive with the kind of clarity that stories often promise. Instead, it settles slowly into the bones of the palace, threading itself through routines so familiar that no one beyond your circle would think to question them. At a glance, everything remains unchanged—the same quiet halls, the same measured footsteps of servants, the same distant rhythm of daily life continuing as it always has. Yet beneath that carefully preserved surface, something far more deliberate takes shape, something watchful and unrelenting.
Every movement is noted now, every presence accounted for. Conversations are no longer just conversations; they are observed, weighed, remembered. Even silence has meaning. The palace, once merely cold and distant, begins to feel like a living thing holding its breath, waiting for something unseen to reveal itself.
And at the center of it all stands Ashveil.
He plays his part with a precision that would be almost unsettling if you did not understand the cost of it. To anyone watching, he is unchanged—composed, reserved, untouchable in the way a Duke must be.
He attends meetings; a new yet understandable sight, reviews reports, allows himself to be seen in places he had quietly withdrawn from in the days prior. He becomes visible again, deliberately so, placing himself back into the flow of the palace’s daily life as though nothing has shifted at all. It is a performance, but not a false one. Every step he takes is grounded in intent, every glance calculated just enough to appear natural while revealing nothing of what lies beneath.
Yet you see what others cannot.
You see the tension that never quite leaves his shoulders, the way his stillness is not rest but restraint. You notice how his gaze lingers a fraction too long on unfamiliar faces, how his awareness stretches outward, constantly searching, constantly measuring.
There is something heavier within him now, something that stirs more frequently beneath the surface, agitated by the pressure closing in from all sides. And still, despite it all, he follows through with the plan without hesitation.
Because he trusts it.
Because he trusts you.
It is that trust, quiet and unspoken, that steadies you even as everything else threatens to unravel.
The first sign appears so subtly that it might have gone unnoticed on any other day. A maidservant you do not recognize lingers near the inner corridors longer than her duties require, her movements just slightly out of sync with the natural rhythm of the palace. There is nothing overtly wrong about her, nothing that would immediately draw suspicion, and yet something about her presence feels misplaced, like a note just barely off-key in an otherwise perfect composition.
Then another appears.
Assigned to a wing she should not have access to, her explanation quick but lacking the ease of truth. A third follows not long after, her behavior unremarkable in isolation, yet increasingly difficult to ignore when placed alongside the others.
Individually, they are nothing.
Together, they form a pattern too precise to dismiss.
You do not act on it immediately, and neither does Ashveil. Instead, you wait, allowing the pattern to develop, to solidify into something undeniable. The tension builds quietly, coiling tighter with each passing hour as more pieces fall into place. It is not impatience that guides you, but certainty. Acting too soon would risk losing everything. Acting at the right moment ensures that nothing slips through.
When that moment comes, it does not announce itself— as though a fleeting bird set free.
The guards move with a quiet efficiency that speaks of careful preparation, sealing exits before the targets even realize they have been identified. There is no chaos, no raised voices echoing through the halls—only swift, controlled motion that leaves no room for escape. You watch from a distance, your expression composed even as your pulse quickens beneath the surface, as the truth unfolds exactly as you had anticipated.
They are not servants.
Not truly.
The uniforms are convincing, their behavior practiced, but the illusion fractures under pressure. Their answers falter, their composure slips, and the carefully constructed façade begins to crumble. It does not take long before hesitation gives way to contradiction, and contradiction gives way to something far more revealing.
A title emerges from the cracks.
“The One-Eyed Owl.”
It is spoken with reluctance, the words carrying a weight that lingers long after they have been said. Fear follows it, quiet but unmistakable, settling into the space like something alive.
You feel Ashveil’s attention shift beside you, subtle but immediate. The title is unfamiliar, yet the presence behind it is not. There is something deliberate in the way it is spoken, something that suggests distance rather than absence, as though the one it belongs to has never needed to stand at the forefront to exert control.
They are not the source. That much becomes clear almost immediately.
What little they know is fragmented, limited to orders given and tasks assigned. They were never meant to succeed, only to observe, to gather what they could, to wait for an opportunity that never came. Their purpose was never to act decisively, but to exist as expendable pieces, placed where they were needed and discarded just as easily.
Which means the true threat remains untouched. Unseen and watching from somewhere beyond your reach.
Later, within the quiet confines of Ashveil’s office, the weight of that realization settles between you once more. The storm outside has yet to ease, the steady rhythm of rain against the windows a constant reminder of everything that still lies unresolved.
“It’s a start,” you say at last, your voice softer now, shaped more by thought than urgency.
Ashveil exhales slowly, his gaze distant as he considers the implications. “It is,” he agrees, though there is a quiet heaviness beneath the words. “But it’s not enough.”
“No,” you admit, your fingers brushing lightly against the edge of the desk as you steady yourself. “But it gives us direction.”
The title lingers between you.
The One-Eyed Owl.
It does not feel like a person so much as it does a presence, something that exists just beyond sight, pulling threads from the shadows without ever revealing the hand behind them. An enemy that does not need to stand in the open to be dangerous.
And yet, the Wolf Palace finds life within itself once again.
The changes that follow are immediate and uncompromising. The soldiers are reorganized, their routines stripped down and rebuilt with precision, every interaction monitored, every resource accounted for. Food supplies are handled with near surgical care, each ingredient traced, each preparation observed under watchful eyes. Nothing is left to assumption, nothing allowed to pass without scrutiny.
It is exhausting work; relentless to the point a blink can have it all washed away. But it yields results.
The deaths stop completely, as though the invisible hand that had been tightening around them has suddenly withdrawn.
And in that absence, there is room, however small, for something else to take its place.
You find yourself visiting them more often than expected, not out of obligation, but something quieter, something that draws you there without needing a reason.
Coria accompanies you most days, her presence as gentle as the music she carries, her melodies weaving softly through the open spaces, lightening the air in a way that feels almost foreign after everything that has passed.
The soldiers are different here, away from the rigid structure of the palace and the unseen threat that had once loomed over them. They are still marked by what they have endured, still carrying the weight of battles fought and losses suffered, but there is something steadier in them now. Something that resembles peace, even if only in fragments.
Cole is there as well, as he always seems to be.
The poet who once delivered news of death now offers something else entirely, his voice threading through the quiet with words that do not dwell solely on grief, but on memory, on endurance, on the fragile persistence of life beyond war. His verses are softer now, less burdened by finality, and more open to what still remains.
Sometimes Coria plays, her music flowing gently between the pauses in conversation.
Sometimes Cole recites, his words settling into the spaces left behind.
And sometimes, the soldiers themselves speak, their voices rising with stories that feel less like recounting and more like reclaiming. Laughter slips through where silence once lingered too heavily, small and fleeting, but real all the same.
You sit among them more often than not, no longer as a duchess observing from a distance, but as someone present within the moment itself, listening rather than leading, sharing rather than directing.
There is one afternoon where the rain begins to ease.
It does not stop entirely, but it softens, the steady downpour fading into something quieter, something less suffocating. The sky lightens just enough to allow a pale, distant glow to filter through the clouds, a reminder that even the longest storms are not without end.
Coria’s melody drifts through the air, gentle and unhurried, while Cole’s voice follows, weaving something quieter than before, something that speaks not of endings, but of what lingers afterward.
You look around, your eyes shifting toward the soldiers. At the subtle ease in their movements, the faint smiles that pass between them, the way their shoulders seem just a little less burdened.
And for the first time in what feels like far too long— You allow yourself to breathe. The threat within the palace has been removed. The poison has been contained and the plan has succeeded. But even as the tension loosens its grip, the name remains.
The One-Eyed Owl— is not gone. Their keen eye is awaiting another moment to strike.
✦ . ⁺ . ✦ . ⁺ . ✦
The days that follow do not return to what they once were. They become something softer. Not untouched by what had happened, not free from the weight of it all—but steadier, as though the storm that had once threatened to swallow everything has finally loosened its grip just enough for life to settle back into place. The palace no longer feels like it is holding its breath. The tension that once lingered in every corridor has eased, replaced by something quieter, something almost… warm.
And within that fragile calm, the people around you begin to change in ways you hadn’t quite expected.
Rappa is the first to have shown her fondness— unveiled from suspicion. She drags you—there is no gentler word for it—out into the training grounds with a determination that leaves little room for refusal. What begins as a simple suggestion quickly turns into something far more consistent, her enthusiasm unwavering as she insists on teaching you archery alongside Robin Hood, who watches the entire ordeal with an amused patience that never quite fades.
Your stance is corrected more times than you can count, your grip adjusted, your posture nudged into place with firm insistence. Rappa talks the entire time, her voice bright, animated, filled with a pride that borders on theatrical every time you so much as improve by a fraction. She celebrates your smallest successes as though they are grand victories, her laughter ringing clear across the field whenever your arrow lands even remotely close to where it should.
Robin Hood, in contrast, offers fewer words, but when he does speak, they carry weight. His guidance is precise, his corrections subtle yet effective, his presence grounding in a way that balances Rappa’s boundless energy. Between the two of them, you find yourself improving without quite realizing it, your movements growing more confident, your aim steadier with each passing day.
Boothill, of course, refuses to be left out. He rarely joins the lessons directly, preferring instead to linger nearby, leaning lazily against whatever surface he can find as he watches with a half-amused, half-critical eye. But his silence never lasts long. It never does.
He talks endlessly.
Stories spill from him as easily as breath, tales of dusty roads and endless skies, of duels fought and won, of mistakes made and lessons learned the hard way. His voice carries a rhythm of its own, something rough yet familiar, as though every word has been shaped by the life he once lived. Sometimes his stories are exaggerated, sometimes they contradict themselves, but there is always something genuine beneath them—something that speaks of a past he does not often show so openly.
And somehow, without realizing it, you begin to listen.
Not as an observer. But as someone who belongs there, within that moment, within that shared space of laughter and stories and quiet understanding.
Even Argenti finds his way to you more often now.
His visits are never intrusive, always timed in a way that feels almost intentional, as though he understands the balance between presence and distance better than most. He speaks with you about many things—about duty, about honor, about beauty in places where it is often overlooked. His words are thoughtful, measured, carrying a sincerity that never feels forced.
There is a calmness in those conversations, something that allows you to breathe a little easier, to step away from the weight of everything else, if only for a moment.
And then there is Loretta.
Quiet, observant yet mischievous Loretta, who rarely asks for anything.
Until one day, she does.
It is a small request, almost hesitant in its delivery, her usual composure faltering just slightly as she mentions the idea of accompanying you into town. Shopping, she calls it, though the word feels almost foreign within the context of everything you have been dealing with.
And yet, there is something in her expression, something hopeful, something almost… excited.
You find yourself agreeing without hesitation. Because for the first time in a long while, it feels like something normal.
✦ . ⁺ . ✦ . ⁺ . ✦
It is on a night like any other that the letter arrives.
There is nothing particularly unusual about it at first glance. The paper is familiar, the seal unmistakable, bearing the quiet authority of the Duke himself. And yet, the moment you take it into your hands, something about it feels… different.
You break the seal carefully, your curiosity already beginning to stir.
The message inside is brief.
The words written are not of formality but a personal invitation. To the palace gardens, he invites you.
You stare at the words for longer than necessary, your brows drawing together in faint confusion. There is nothing preventing him from asking you directly, nothing that would require something as deliberate as a letter. You had seen him earlier that day, spoken to him, stood close enough to feel the quiet presence he always carried with him.
And yet, he chose this. You are not sure why but you accept it anyway— who would be mad enough to refuse an invitation from the Wolf of the North himself?
The gardens are quieter at night. The rain has long since passed, leaving the air cool and clean, the earth beneath your feet still faintly damp from what had come before. The sky above is clearer now, scattered with stars that feel distant yet present all the same, their light soft against the darkness that surrounds you.
You find him there, awaiting your arrival.
He stands near the center of the garden, his figure framed by the faint glow of lantern light, his presence as steady as it has always been. There is something different about him tonight, though you cannot quite place it at first. Something softer, perhaps. Something less guarded.
“You sent me a letter,” you say as you approach, the hint of amusement in your voice doing little to mask your curiosity. “You do realize you could have simply spoken to me.”
A faint smile touches his lips. “I do.” The nervousness that envelopes him is too sudden— how can he not, you're looking at him with those mesmerising eyes as if he's spoken the words of a fool. “I— is this not a thing in those romance novels you read?”
That catches you off, more than it should have. You can't tell what's further ridiculous, that he's read those novels to do this or the fact that he's picked up on you reading them.
“You've read romance novels?” you accuse softly, raising your brows. To picture the Wolf Duke sitting at his desk with a book of endless sap is a thought that would've never arrived to you in a thousand years.
A tint of pink scatters across Ashveil's cheeks and the tips of his ears. “I— ugh... You—... How else was I supposed to figure out how to court a lady?”
He immediately averts his gaze afterwards, hoping to gain some composure from this flustered mess that he is. You can only quietly laugh— it feels like a breath of fresh air, to finally laugh and banter with the man you've been sharing a ring with.
For a moment, neither of you speaks.
The silence that settles between you is not uncomfortable, nor is it heavy. It feels… natural. Easy in a way that had once seemed impossible between the two of you.
“You’ve changed things,” he says at last, his voice quiet beneath the open sky.
You tilt your head slightly. “Have I?”
“The soldiers are alive,” he continues. “The palace is standing. And for the first time in a long while…” His gaze shifts slightly, softer now. “It feels like something more than just survival.”
The words settle gently.
You exhale, your expression easing. “I didn’t do it alone.”
“No,” he agrees. “You didn’t.”
Another pause follows, quieter this time, filled with something unspoken yet understood.
“Do you ever think about it?” you ask softly. “Before all of this, before the war. Before everything became… this.”
His gaze drifts, just for a moment. “…Sometimes.” He does not elaborate, it pains him to do so. Thus, you don't press further, some things are better left unsaid.
And for a while, you talk about small things. About memories that feel distant yet not entirely out of reach. About moments that shaped you both into who you are now. The conversation flows more easily than it ever has before, unguarded in a way that feels unfamiliar, yet right.
In the breath of the moment, you hear Ashveil make a request you never expected. “Would you like to dance with me, [Name]?” The words are spoken with a gentleness you have not heard since stepping into this world of venomous nobles.
You nod without hesitation, placing your hand in his offered one. He draws you a breath closer, and you allow it, your movements falling naturally into his. The melody lingers like a distant memory—one of Coria’s songs—resting quietly in both your minds, as though you share a single thought between you.
Your steps follow his in a soft, unbroken rhythm, each turn guiding you back into his arms. Your eyes drift shut, unaware of the way his gaze lingers on you. In the stillness of that moment, without your voice to distract him, he takes you in fully—your form, your presence, your very being—and to him, even the brightest stars pale in comparison.
When your eyes flutter open, all you see is him.
He leads you with a care that feels almost reverent, the dance unfolding into something endless, something woven with unspoken words. Moonlight spills over his dark locks, catching on the lighter strands and making them gleam faintly in the night.
You do not step back when his hand comes to rest against your cheek, his touch warm, grounding. His lips meet yours—slow, uncertain, a little clumsy. The rhythm falters for a moment, until your hand lifts to cradle the back of his neck, steadying him, guiding him. You can feel his hesitation, his nerves, and to his quiet relief, you take the lead.
With each gentle press of his lips against yours, a calm settles deep within you. The lingering fog in your mind begins to clear, replaced by him—by this moment, by the place you have carved out for yourself in this once unfamiliar world.
You are no longer a stranger in a foreign land, no longer an accidental reincarnation drifting without purpose. You have found something here—earned it, even. Love, respect, a place to belong.
Hello everyone ٩(^ᗜ^ )و ´-, I apologize in advance if you notice any mistakes here, this is my first experience in writing such a thing and in general English is not my native language. So I'm using a translator here. and before you start reading, please read the text below:
If it seems to you that the format is similar to Destiny squared, then yes, you're right, mostly when writing, I was inspired by their work, I hope they won't mind that I copy their format, hehe..
In the future, I plan to add various characters from the novel to the collection, and you can find out which ones will be on my channel ٩(^ᗜ^ )و -
If it seems to you that the writing format is similar to Destiny squared, then yes, you are absolutely right. I was very inspired by the fanfiction of this wonderful man To create this fanfiction, I hope they won't block me for copying their format, ( •̯́ ^ •̯̀) hehe....
All the pictures here belong to me, so if you want to take them, then be sure to specify the name of the channel, this is the only thing I want to say, and so have fun reading
𐔌՞꜆. ̫.꜀՞𐦯
It was a very difficult day, but you managed to get through it, even though you had used up all your energy.
There was only an hour left before the end of your shift. At this time, people usually stopped coming in, and you could enjoy your solitude.
That's what would have happened if you hadn't met someone.
The evening bell above the door rang, distracting you from your cleaning. You looked up and saw him, the tall guy in the colorful red clothes who you had helped earlier.
That day, the poor man was lying on the ground, and a nasty guy was standing over him, shouting at him.
If it weren't for the laws and simple humanity, you would have kicked his ass, but all you could do was stand between them and engage in a verbal altercation with him.
You were taking a big risk: you weren't particularly strong, and your height was modest. He could have knocked you out with a single blow. Fortunately, the man didn't argue, grumbled something, and quickly retreated, leaving you alone with the victim. As he left, you turned around. His round, saucer-like yellow eyes stared at you in amazement. You just smiled back and extended your hand.
As you found out later, his name was Pierrot. Due to the circus rules, he couldn't speak in public, but he made an exception for you. From that day on, you had a new friend.
Pierrot's face was illuminated by a wide smile. You had long wondered how he managed to maintain such an expression. It seemed as if it wasn't a mask at all, but his true face, covered in thick makeup. You tried to imitate his smile, but you ended up pulling your facial muscles, which made you feel sick for a week. You couldn't even talk properly, which scared poor Pierrot to death.
"Good evening, my lady," his voice was soft as a whisper and sweet as marshmallow.
He came every night at exactly this hour, when there were no customers, and ordered a sweet drink. Most often, it was a strawberry milkshake, just like the one he had ordered the day you first met.
But tonight, something was different. His usually impeccable hair, along with his clown hat, was ruffled by the wind, and a small red leaf was adorned in the silver strands.
Noticing it, you smiled, wiping your hands with a napkin.
"Hello, Pierrot. It seems like there's a strong wind outside," you pointed to your hair, hinting at it.
The smile faltered on his face. The clown blinked in surprise several times and then looked at his reflection.
"I'm sorry, my lady, for coming to you in this state." Pierrot smiled apologetically and began to fix his hair, but you stopped him.
"Let me help," you offered, gently squeezing his large hands. His round yellow pupils stared at you in delight.
"I'll be very grateful to you, my lady." He brought your hand to his face, as if he were about to kiss it.
This gesture made your cheeks blush. You smiled awkwardly, looking away, and the clown closed his eyes in satisfaction.
"O-okay! Then sit down, and I'll get a comb."
Pierrot nodded, reluctantly let go of your hands, and sat down on a round chair by the counter.
You left for a while and returned with a comb that you kept in your bag. You rarely used it, usually tying your hair back so it wouldn't get in the way while you worked. If the boss found out that you were walking around with your hair down, you wouldn't be working here anymore.
When you returned, you walked around the counter and stood in front of Pierrot, who was now looking at you from a lower angle. He placed his hands on his knees and watched your movements with curiosity.
You carefully reached out your hand to his long locks, which were tangled with each other due to the wind.
They were surprisingly soft, like the finest silk. Of course, you've never touched such a thing, but you were sure that his hair was beautiful. It was immediately felt that Pierrot was carefully caring for them, despite the harsh circus conditions. As you brought the strand closer, you caught a glimpse of the scent of your favorite shampoo—the one you recently bought and which surprisingly ran out so quickly.
Coincidence? Maybe.
Putting those thoughts aside, you ran the comb through his hair, starting at the ends and gradually working your way up.
From Pierrot's perspective:
Pierrot sat still as you focused on his hair. If only you knew how his heart was racing, ready to burst out of his chest and fall at your feet. How he adored your touch, the feel of your skin through the rough black gloves. How he wanted to take them off and explore you with his fingers, find out where you liked to be touched.
But not yet, it's too early. The last thing he wants is to scare you off. He knew that humans were fearful creatures. They have only to differ slightly from them, and they begin to be afraid, to bite for the sake of their imaginary safety. If they had been given free rein, they would have destroyed each other, and even the Circus would not have had to strain.
Ah, the Jester's great dream, which is not destined to come true, no matter how much he wishes it.
But you were different. So charming, so sweet. If you were like those delicious milkshakes you make, he'd have diabetes—because how could you blame him when you're the only person who doesn't fear him? The only one he'll love forever.
Ah, your touch... The way you gently run your comb through his hair, as if you're afraid of hurting him, drives him crazy. And your focused face is so close. The urge to reach out, embrace you, and feel your sweet lips with his own grows stronger. But he only clutches the fabric in his lap, reminding himself of the consequences. I wonder how you would react. Would you be happy or afraid? Do you feel the same way about him?
"Your hair is beautiful," your soft voice broke through his dreams.
He looked up from your hands to your face, blinked several times as if digesting what you had said, and then closed his eyes again with pleasure.
"Thank you, my dear."
A blush spread across his face. He clenched his jaw, trying not to scare you with his unnatural smile.
You moved higher, to the roots. Here, the work required more patience. The tangled knots resisted, but you didn't pull or tug. You approached each one like a small puzzle, finding the beginning, carefully unraveling it with your fingers, and only then passing the comb through it. It was like a dance—smooth, rhythmic, almost meditative.
The comb's teeth touched his scalp, and he made a soft, deep sound, like a contented cat's purr. Each stroke was like a caress on his soul, sweeping away his worries and the rough traces of the day.
The hair became more manageable. They streamed through the teeth like black silk, shimmering in the lamplight. You divided them into strands and worked through each one with special care, feeling how perfect smoothness was born at hand.
From time to time, you moved around Pierrot, trying to get all your hair in order. After finishing with the top strands, you moved to the right side. As you picked up a silver strand, you noticed dark, wound-like cracks on his neck, mostly hidden by his hat.
Shock showed on your face at the sight, You didn't even notice your hand reaching out on its own, but a large black-gloved hand gently grabbed it, golden eyes staring at you.
"My lady, what are you doing?"
Pierrot's soft, gentle voice reached your ears. You only now realized what you almost did.
"Are those your wounds?... Were you hurt again?"
Pain and compassion were written all over your face. It wasn't uncommon for people to bully Pierrot. Anyone could hurt him, and he couldn't defend himself. You assumed that he simply didn't want to cause trouble for the circus. You longed to help him, but unfortunately, you weren't always there for him. This thought caused your heart to ache.
Noticing your concern, Pierrot gently squeezed your hand, as if to reassure you.
"Don't worry about me, my lady. The Doctor said they'll go away in time."
You felt his fingers slowly intertwine with yours.
"Besides, they're just scratches. Please don't worry about them."
Piero really didn't want you to worry. Your sad face was hurting him. Plus, he knew that if he told you what happened, you'd immediately rush to find the perpetrators, putting yourself in danger. Even though you were fragile, you were always ready to fight back against bullies, like a Chihuahua barking fearlessly at big dogs.
He remembers when you were walking in the park and some guys shouted insults at him.
It was a familiar sight for Pierrot, but not for you. He remembered how you turned around, identified the bullies, and marched towards them, shouting insults in their direction.
Pierrot frantically waved his arms, trying to show that everything was fine, but you were unstoppable. He had no choice but to embrace you from behind, hoping that you would stop.
And
Did it work?
You froze, and your cheeks turned so red that the bullfinches would have thought they were ripe berries.
In addition to his fear for you, he was touched by your impulse. Your desire to protect him, even though he was 196 cm tall and outgrew both you and those guys.
But if they had said something bad about you or caused harm... he wouldn't have turned a blind eye. He would have put on another magnificent performance for you. Only this time, there would be two victims, but he would have found a way to spice up his show.
But it didn't make you feel any better. The wound (?) looked horrifying, as if the hair had been brutally ripped out.
You pursed your lips and looked at the clown again.
"Then can I just look? I promise I'll be careful."
Piero's eyes widened in surprise, and your pleading gaze met his.
How could he refuse?
Your beautiful eyes were fixed on his, and your hands were clasped around his. The sight left him breathless, and all he could feel was the rapid beating of his own heart.
He paused to consider your words, but then slowly removed his jester's hat, and only the bells chimed in response.
The sight mesmerized you. You froze, staring at the hair he had so carefully concealed.
The long hair fell onto his shoulders, cascading beautifully. He looked like a handsome prince from a children's fairy tale.
You knew he had long hair, but you had never imagined it to be so beautiful. Your fingers gently touched the silky white strands, pushing them aside. Your breath caught as you saw the wound more clearly. A large crack gaped just to the left of the center of his neck, with smaller cracks radiating out from it. Fortunately, they didn't spread any further.
You took a deep breath, trying to calm your anger towards those who had done this. The question that immediately came to mind was: when did they do this? You were quite close to Pierrot, but you had never noticed these wounds because of his bangs.
However, you decided not to push the issue. If Pierrot didn't want to talk about it, you shouldn't intrude on his personal space. He had always been kind to you and helped you whenever he could.
Lifting his hair even higher, you leaned in to where his ear should be.
Your breath touched his skin in a hot, wet whisper, making the cracks look even more fragile.
"I hope they really do heal..." Your whisper was barely audible, but to him it was louder than any doorbell. "Otherwise, I'll find whoever did this and make them pay."
And before fear or doubt could stop you, you closed your eyes.
Your lips, soft and warm, touched his skin. It was fleeting, like a breath of wind, but incredibly focused. You touched exactly where the rough, jagged line of the crack began to fade, to an area of unbroken, almost hot skin. You felt the subtle pulse of his blood beneath your lips, running deep beneath the surface, and the subtle, almost imperceptible scent of makeup, powder, and something elusive that was the essence of Pierrot himself.
In that heartbeat-long moment, the world shrank to the point where your lips met his neck.
In response, his body responded with a crushing wave. He wasn't breathing. His entire powerful frame was frozen in absolute, stone-like stillness, as if he were under a spell. You could hear the dull thud of his gloves clenching the fabric of his trousers at his knees. Then, a sharp, ragged breath escaped from his chest, almost like a moan of relief that he couldn't allow himself to express.
You pulled away as quickly as you had touched, leaving only a ghostly, burning memory on his skin. But that moment was enough to turn everything upside down.
"In the meantime, I will take care of you, my dear Pierrot."
When you opened your eyes, his gaze was fixed on you. His yellow pupils, usually round and innocent, had narrowed into two thin, burning slits. The flickering light of the lamp danced in them, along with a storm of emotions—shock, gratitude, adoration, and something wild and primal that he was struggling to contain. His famous smile faltered, momentarily genuine, and a shiver ran down his neck, right where you had just touched.
"My... lady..." His voice broke into a hoarse, choked whisper.
"...Besides, I said I'd help you with all your hair, and this counts," your voice was a gentle whisper, and your fingers began to gently divide the silver mane into three wide, flowing strands, as if by themselves.
The idea came to you instantly—not just to put it in order, but to create something beautiful, something that would protect this delicate beauty from the harsh world.
You began to weave.
The left strand over the middle, the right over the left—the movements were smooth, hypnotic, creating a living, breathing pattern. And so it went on until you reached the ends of his hair.
When the braid, long and shining like polished moon silver, was ready, you let your hair down so that you could tie it with your own hair tie.
You gently pulled on the end of the braid, causing him to tilt his head back slightly, and then stood in front of him again to see the result with your own eyes. There was a sea of tenderness and quiet joy in your eyes.
"Look," you said, gently turning him towards the large mirror on the wall.
Pierrot slowly, almost reluctantly, raised his gaze to the mirror. He touched the braid with the tips of his rough-gloved fingers, almost reverently, as if to verify that it was not a mirage.
Suddenly, his fingers slipped into his pocket and pulled out a delicate, paper-wrapped bud of a scarlet rose, slightly crushed as if it had been carefully carried around for a long time. Without saying a word, he quickly stood up from his chair and, with incredible precision, used his large fingers to straighten a crushed petal. Then, with bated breath, he extended his hand towards you.
You froze, and he slowly, with infinite care, intertwined the stem with a lock of hair at your temple. His palm, huge and warm even through his glove, lingered for a moment on your cheek
Y/N...
"Well, well, aren't we in a cheap romantic movie?"
The idyll was shattered by a voice that was painfully sweet but also caustic.
"Even there, the actors weren't as slow as you. And a paper rose?" You're not very original, Pierrot."
Harlequin was leaning against the doorframe. His patchwork quilt of a costume, a garish shade of poison-green, seemed to flaunt itself in the doorway, and the frozen mask of mocking surprise on his face was the exact opposite of Pierrot's soulful expression. He drew out Pierrot's name, weaving in years of honed-to-perfection hatred.
Without waiting for an answer, he gracefully detached himself from the doorframe and approached
"I'm here on behalf of the Jester," his voice was sweet, but his eyes, visible through the slits in his mask, gleamed with cold triumph. "He asked me to tell you that if you don't bring your ass to the circus within five minutes, he'll bring it himself. And believe me, it won't be a pleasant journey."
Then his attention shifted to you. The mask curved into a polite yet taunting smile.
"Hello, dear." He bent down deliberately slowly and, looking straight at Pierrot, brought your hand to his lips. His kiss was quick, but deliberately provocative. You pulled your hand away in embarrassment, feeling the color rise in your cheeks.
Pierrot remained silent, but the tension emanating from him became palpable, as if the air was filled with static electricity before a storm. Suddenly, his hand shot up and gripped Harlequin's shoulder with force.
"Come on," he growled, looking him in the eye
Harlequin just chuckled, roughly shaking off his grip. "I'll see you later, beautiful," he said, turning gracefully and waving goodbye as he left you alone again.
You exhaled, realizing that you had been holding your breath, and looked at Pierrot. He was standing with his fists clenched, his back tense.
"I have the day off tomorrow," you said quietly, trying to dispel the dark shadow left by Harlequin's visit. "So... I can come to your place tomorrow. To the circus."
The words had an immediate effect. The tension melted from his shoulders as if by magic. He turned to you and his smile bloomed again, wide and bright and this time completely genuine. He clutched his jester's hat in his hands, which he had not yet put on, and the neat braid that you had woven with your own hands shone beautifully in the lamplight, highlighting the change in him.
"How long are you going to be in there?" Harlequin's caustic voice came from outside, interrupting the moment once again.
Pierrot rolled his eyes for a moment, he took a step back, toward the exit, and looking at you, he raised his hand to his heart in a graceful, almost chivalrous gesture.
“Good night, my lady.”
“Good night, Pierrot,” you replied, and your voice was soft and warm.
He left, and the glass door closed behind him with a soft chime. Suddenly, the cafe was filled with a hollow silence. You took a deep breath, looking around the empty room, and then your gaze fell on the wall clock. The hands showed that your shift had ended ten minutes ago.
As if waking up from a dream, you closed the door and went to the back room. You quickly took off your work uniform to change your clothes. Before leaving, you paused for a moment in front of the mirror, adjusting your collar, which was adorned with two pins: one with a yellow star and the other with a green heart. Your gaze fell on the reflection of the paper rose that still adorned your hair. You gently touched it, and a smile naturally appeared on your lips.
Leaving the room, you went to the electrical panel. The lever fell down with a quiet click, and the cafe was plunged into darkness, with only the sweet, creamy smell of milkshakes and the memory of a warm glove on your cheek.
After locking the door, you turned and walked away, taking another paper flower with you.
I've come to the realization that I can't read any twst x yuu/reader content of other characters.
I mean, I CAN. I sometimes search for some Vil/Leona/ Riddle (maybe?) Or simply general and see what it's new.
But the moment I see Malleus, I'm folding. I can some day be "I've seen too much of Malleus, let's see other chatacters!" You know, the new characters! For example. Dear heaven. Put Malleus there and my attention goes to him. Rielle who? Idia? Never heard of him.
I even forget I was looking for them in the first place.
So yeah :) if I ever see a Minajael or Leona.., or whoever with Malleus in it, I'm rooting for Malleus.... unless it's Silver, I suppose he can rival my adoration for Malleus.
I read there were people worried about replacing the NRC students. No, I won't. Ever since the beginning of the game, it has always been Malleus anyway✌️😔 I don't think Rielle will make me switch, and I BURNED The Little Mermaid's CD along with my sister.
You already touched his horns when he was full horn(? Mode. He doesn't seem too bothered when you touch him, as far as I remember? At most, he was teasing of smitten the Prefect with a Lighting, but never seemed angry.
Not as angry as the last picture, at least! Or when he almost pulverized Shock for touching him. It was so funny, because I remember hating those children when I first watched the movie. Lmao, I felt validated!
We have privilege✌️ no, but I loved this event as NBC is one of my favorite movies
Aww. He had such a teasing voice there, but on his OB/Post-OB SSR he was so serious, worried, don't worry!
Where there's a will, there is a way, Tsunotaro.
If I were Yuu, the curiosity of feeling that horn wouldn't let me sleep at all. I'm not even joking.
His formal dress it's so pretty, who was the one who designed it? Deserves a raise frfr
you’re standing in the bathroom mirror when you find it..
one single gray hair.
it’s right at the front of your hairline too, completely shameless about it! catching the light like it wants to be noticed! the audacity? you pinch it between two fingers and lean closer to the mirror, squinting like maybe the lighting is playing tricks on you.
it isn’t. that’s the gag.
“oh my god,” you mutter.
leon’s is sitting on the edge of the bed in the next room pulling his boots off after work, hears the tone more than the words. “what?” he calls.
no answer and a minute passes.
then another before finally, you walk into the bedroom looking like you just received life altering news. “leon.”
he looks up. “yeah?”
you hold the strand up like evidence in a courtroom or something. “i found a gray hair.”
leon blinks then he leans back slightly, squinting at it like he’s trying to see the problem— he grabs the reading glasses from the crown of his head and puts them on like that will help. “…okay?”
“okay??” you repeat, scandalized. “leon! that means i’m aging! i’m getting old! this is what society taught me to fear the most! this is it! you’re gonna leave me for a hot twenty six year old!”
he lets out a small breath through his nose. “you’re forty-something, not.. decomposing.”
“that’s not funny,” you say immediately, already spiraling a little as you run a hand through your hair like there might be more hiding in there. “what if this is the start of it? what if in like two years i’m completely gray?”
leon watches you for a moment, clearly trying to figure out how.. this became a crisis. but he knows you had always been a little.. high strung. it keeps him on his toes still to this day. he reaches up and runs a hand through his own hair, tilting his head slightly. a few silver strands catch the light at his temples.
“look at me,” he says.
you glance up. “what am i looking at?"
“i’ve got gray hair,” he continues. “do you think i’m not attractive anymore?”
your reaction is so immediate. “what?! no!” and you say it so fast it almost overlaps itself.
leon raises an eyebrow. “so why would that suddenly apply to you?”
you open your mouth.
then close it.
then opens it again.
“…that’s different.”
“how.”
“because—” you gesture vaguely at him. “you’re.. leon.”
he stares at you for a second before letting out a quiet laugh and he reaches over to hook an arm around your waist. he pulls you closer until you're standing between his knees. “c’mere, mama.” he murmurs.
you still look mildly offended at the gray hair but he gently takes the strand between his fingers.
“for the record,” he says, “you’re still the hottest woman i’ve ever seen.”
you narrow your eyes suspiciously. “even with the gray hair?”
he nods. “especially with the gray hair.” he presses a quick kiss against your stomach as you huff dramatically above him.
“also,” he adds, “you gave me three kids. you’re allowed one gray hair.”
pixelskylines
turnnoffyourmind
prguitarman
romaincrisis
amandla
gamechangershow
