The Pink Pages

To the readers that look up at the stars and wish °❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･ 𐔌՞. .՞𐦯 °❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･ Your local angst fairy

[thepiinkpages]

Astarion x Reader Part 1

Notes: This will not be canon at all. It's just something I dreamt that I needed to write because who doesnt love a good love story.

WARNING: This fic includes attempted su*cide, murder, and more. Read at your own risk.

The morning they send you away feels wrong the moment you wake up. You sense it before you even open your eyes; a heaviness in the air, a pressure in your chest, like your heart is already grieving something your mind hasn’t caught up to. Then you hear it: your mother crying downstairs. Not loud, not dramatic. Just broken. The kind of crying that sounds like someone trying not to be heard, failing anyway. 

You lie still for a moment, staring at the ceiling while the truth settles over you. This is the day. There is no more time left to hope for a miracle or pretend someone might change their mind. The village made its choice. You were chosen. And now you must go. 

The wedding dress is waiting for you at the foot of the bed. When you touch it, the fabric feels colder than it should, almost stiff under your fingertips. It’s simple and plain, not a dress meant for joy or celebration. You imagine yourself wearing it in the mirror; white, trembling, eyes too wide; and you feel a cold knot form in your stomach. Everything about today feels like walking toward your own grave. 

Downstairs, your father is pacing. It’s a restless movement, sharp and uneven, like he can’t find enough air to breathe. He stops when he sees you, and in the dim morning light he looks older than you’ve ever seen him. His eyes are swollen, red, and rimmed. For a heartbeat he just stares at you, and that hurts more than anything; how he drinks in your face as if trying to memorize it, like he won’t ever see it again. 

Then he pulls you into his arms. His hug is crushing, desperate, and painful. You feel his breath tremble against your hair. 

“I’m sorry,” he whispers. His voice breaks on the words. “I’m so, so sorry. If I could take your place; gods, if I could, I would.” 

You know he means it. That makes the ache in your chest even sharper. 

Your mother stands behind him, holding something wrapped in soft cloth. Her hands shake, and she wipes her face quickly when you turn her way, trying to look brave for you. It doesn’t work. Her smile is thin and fragile, and the tears still gather in her eyes even as she tries to blink them away. 

“This… this is for you,” she says in a raw whisper. She unwraps the cloth, revealing a small pearl tiara; its shine dulled from age but still beautiful. “My mother gave it to me on my wedding day. And her mother gave it to her.” She swallows hard, tears spilling over. “I want you to have it. So, you don’t go there with nothing of us.” 

When she places it on your head, her fingers tremble so badly that you reach up automatically, steadying her wrists. The moment you touch her, she breaks, silent sobs shaking her whole body. Your father puts an arm around her shoulders, but even he looks like he’s holding himself together by threads. 

They help you put on the veil last. 

The moment it drops over your face, everything changes. 

The world becomes muted, dim. Your parents blur into soft shapes instead of clear faces. Their tears turn into distant glimmers behind the pale fabric. You feel the veil brush your lips every time you exhale, reminding you that you’re no longer just their daughter, you're something being offered. Something being given away. 

Outside, the carriage waits. Its dark silhouette looks too large, too final. The horse stamps at the ground impatiently, snorting white breath into the cold air. A guard stands by the open door, avoiding your parents’ eyes like he can’t bear what he’s about to witness. 

Your father takes your hands one last time, squeezing tightly enough to hurt. 

“Don’t look back,” he says. His voice is a low, choked command. “If you do… I won’t be able to let you go.” 

Your mother cups your face through the veil, her palms warm even though her fingers shake. “Be brave,” she whispers. “Please… be brave, my love.” 

You want to tell them you’re scared. You want to promise you’ll come home. You want to hold them both and never, ever let go. But your throat locks, and all you can do is nod. 

Then you step toward the carriage. 

Every step feels like it weighs more than the last. You hear your parents sobbing behind you, but the veil blurs them until they look like ghost,; already gone, already fading from this life you’re being pushed out of. 

You climb in. The door shuts. The lantern flickers weakly in the corner. 

And as the carriage lurches forward, pulling you away from the only life you’ve ever known, the realization hits you so hard it knocks the breath from your lungs: 

You are alone.  You are being delivered like an offering.  And whatever waits in that castle; whatever monster, whatever master; your life now belongs to him. 

The ride is worse than you expect. The carriage lurches and jolts over every uneven stone in the road, and the cold air leaks through every crack in the wooden frame. You pull your thin shawl tighter around your shoulders, but it barely helps. The chill clings to your skin, settling deep into your bones until even your fingers feel stiff. Every time the wheels hit a rut, your teeth nearly click together. 

You try to sit still, but your body won’t stop trembling. Some of it is from the cold, most of it is not. 

Your mind refuses to quiet. Every thought spirals into another, worse thought. What does a vampire even want with a bride? Will he be waiting at the gate? Will you be dragged inside, or will he speak to you first? Does he kill brides quickly… or slowly? 

Your breath fogs the inside of your veil. The fabric shifts with every uneven inhale, brushing your mouth, sticking lightly to your lips. The enclosed space makes everything feel too close, too suffocating. You swear you can smell your own fear, metallic at the back of your throat, like blood you haven’t tasted. 

Your anxiety sharpens into something almost physical, a heat under your ribs, a pressure along your spine. You try to steady yourself, but your heartbeat only gets faster. You know you must reek of terror; if vampires can smell blood, can they smell fear too? Would the master of the castle sense you coming before the carriage even arrived? 

The thought makes your stomach twist so hard you clutch the front of your dress. 

Then the carriage suddenly jerks to a halt. 

You slam a hand against the wooden wall to keep from pitching forward. For a moment, the world is silent, except for the distant echo of wind moving through trees. Your heart hammers against your ribs, loud and frantic. The air in the carriage feels colder than before; like the cold here is different, heavier, older. 

The soldier’s weight shifts outside; you hear the crunch of gravel under his boots as he climbs down. The carriage rocks slightly as he steps away, and then the door rattles. A breath of icy air rushes in as it swings open. 

“Come on,” he says. 

You move carefully, your legs stiff from fear and the long ride. When your boots touch the ground, the cold hits you harder, sharp enough to bite through the thin soles and shoot up your legs. You try to pull the veil away from your mouth just so you can breathe properly, but it keeps falling back against your lips. 

The soldier doesn’t look at you. He adjusts his gloves, tightens the strap on his cloak, and mutters under his breath, almost too low for you to hear: 

“Let’s hope this one lasts.” 

Your heart jumps so violently you feel it in your throat.  This one.  Lasts. 

How many before you didn’t? 

The soldier clears his throat and steps back, refusing to meet your eyes as if that will absolve him of anything. 

You stand there, shaking beneath the veil, staring at the looming shadow of the castle in the distance; tall, ancient, and waiting,  while the soldier’s words echo inside your skull like a curse: 

Let’s hope this one lives. 

The castle rises out of the fog like something carved from a nightmare. 

It is far larger than you imagined; so tall it seems to scrape the clouds, its towers jagged and uneven like broken fangs. The stone is dark, almost black, slick with age and rain. Gargoyle statues crouch along the outer walls, their wings curled, claws extended, faces twisted into snarls that look almost alive in the shifting shadows. Ravens perch along the battlements, their feathers ruffling in the cold wind. One lets out a sharp cry that echoes through the valley, a sound that feels like a warning. 

The air around the castle is wrong, too still, like even the wind is hesitant to get too close. 

You swallow hard, but your throat is too dry. Your breath trembles against the veil again, fogging the fabric into thin, uneven bursts. Your heartbeat is a frantic, painful drum inside your chest, so loud it almost drowns out everything else. 

Almost. 

Because the gate begins to open. 

At first, it’s just a soft groan, but then the ancient iron bars shift and drag, scraping across the stone path with a long, metallic screech. It vibrates in the air, crawls down your spine. You flinch at the sound, hands curling into fists against your dress. 

The opening widens slowly; too slowly. Each inch feels like it’s ripping away a layer of your courage. You can’t see anything beyond the gate except darkness. A deeper darkness than the night around you, like the castle itself swallows what little light exists. 

Your knees go weak. For a moment, you honestly think you might faint. The cold cuts through your dress, straight through your skin. It settles into your bones like frost. But fainting outside the castle, in the open, seems worse. Vulnerable. Exposed. 

So you force yourself to stay upright. 

You turn to look behind you instinctively, just to ground yourself, just to see something familiar. 

But the carriage is already leaving. 

The horses pull away quickly, their hooves striking the ground with a rhythm that sounds almost desperate. The driver doesn’t look back. He doesn’t pause. He doesn’t check on you. 

He just goes. 

You watch as the carriage grows smaller and smaller, swallowed by mist and distance, until it disappears entirely. Gone. Just like that. 

Your stomach drops; there is no going back. No last-minute rescue. No one is coming to save you. 

Only the open gate waiting for you to step forward.  Only the castle watching with a thousand stone eyes.  Only your own breath trembling under the veil.  

And the knowledge that you are truly, terrifyingly alone. 

The massive wooden doors tower in front of you, each one carved with winding patterns of thorns and serpents. The iron knockers are shaped like demonic faces; horns curling outward, fanged mouths frozen mid snarl, eyes hollow and watching. Their metal is so dark it almost absorbs the faint moonlight, leaving their twisted expressions half hidden and more menacing because of it. 

For a moment, nothing happens.  Then the doors begin to move. 

They open inward with a deep, dragging groan that echoes through the courtyard, vibrating through your ribs. The sound is ancient like something waking up after a long, bitter sleep. Cold wind rushes past your veil as if the castle is exhaling, pulling you toward its open mouth. 

Your breath catches as you stare into the entry. 

The inside is dim, lit only by scattered candles lining the walls. Their flames flicker, throwing tall, trembling shadows across the black stone floor. The air is heavy with the scent of melted wax and old wood. Gothic arches stretch high above, disappearing into darkness. A grand staircase curves upward, but the landing is swallowed by shadow so thick it looks like ink. 

Everything is silent.  Unnaturally silent. 

You step forward slowly. The moment you cross the threshold, heat washes over you; warm, almost shocking after the hours spent freezing in the carriage. A small gasp slips out before you can stop it, your shoulders loosening as your body finally begins to thaw. The warmth feels luxurious, almost sinful, like stepping into another world entirely. 

You pause just inside the doorway, letting the veil fall back against your face as you carefully scan the hall. 

No movement.  No whisper.  Not even the scurry of a mouse. 

You expected someone, anyone, to be waiting. A servant. A guard. The vampire himself. Instead, the castle feels empty, like a grand mausoleum that has forgotten the meaning of life. 

Your heartbeat begins to slow, relief creeping in cautiously. 

At least you aren’t being dragged to an audience with the monster immediately.  At least you can breathe for a moment.  At least the darkness, for now, is only darkness and not something staring back. 

Still, the silence feels alive.  As if the walls themselves are listening.  As if the castle is aware of your presence the way a predator is aware of its prey. 

But nothing moves. No one comes. You are alone again, this time inside the vampire’s den. 

The castle feels endless as you wander deeper into its halls. At first, you aren’t trying to explore; you're just trying to find a bathroom. Every hallway looks the same: tall ceilings, dark stone walls, dim candle sconces, and long carpets that swallow the sound of your footsteps. The air smells faintly of old books and melted wax, with a hint of something colder beneath it; like rain on untouched stone. 

You turn corners expecting to hear someone, see someone, anything. A servant. A housekeeper. Even a mouse would be some kind of comfort. But the castle remains silent, a vast hollow thing that seems to breathe around you. Each time your footsteps echo, you flinch, thinking it’s someone else. 

You eventually find a bathroom; larger than your old bedroom, with a marble tub and silver fixtures that look untouched in years. The sight of it makes your chest tighten; even basic comforts here feel too surreal, too undeserved. 

You tell yourself to go back to the entrance, back to something familiar, but you hesitate. The warmth of the castle pulls you in, your fear mingling with something else; curiosity, maybe. This place is nothing like home. Nothing like anywhere you’ve ever seen. The shadows hide corners of impossible beauty and unsettling emptiness, and before you realize it, your feet are carrying you further. 

Minutes blur into an hour. An hour bleeds into two. You wander through sitting rooms with velvet couches covered in dust, long corridors lined with ancient portraits whose painted eyes seem to follow you, and balconies overlooking courtyards filled with stone gargoyles half-swallowed by vines. Every room is abandoned, yet every candle is lit. Someone must live here. Someone must move through these halls when you’re not looking. 

A shiver crawls up your spine. 

At some point you stop, trying to get your bearings, but the castle’s layout makes no sense. Staircases turn in unexpected directions. Hallways loop back into each other. You find yourself passing the same portrait twice without meaning to. The warmth that comforted you when you first stepped inside now feels suffocating, almost too close, like the castle wants you to stay exactly where it wants you. 

When you finally reach a new hallway; narrower, quieter, with candles burning lower; you notice something on the floor. 

A letter. 

Perfectly placed in the center of the rug, as if someone waited for you to walk this exact path. 

Your stomach drops as you kneel to pick it up. The envelope is thick, the seal made of deep red wax stamped with some kind of sigil you don’t recognize. Your hands tremble as you break it open. 

Inside is a single piece of heavy parchment. Black ink loops across it in elegant, perfect cursive. So graceful it almost looks like calligraphy. 

This is your room.  Do not leave it past 11pm. 

That’s it. No name. No signature. No explanation. 

You look at the door beside you; tall, dark, carved with spiraling patterns. It waits silently. Patiently. 

A cold pressure grips your lungs. 

Someone knew where you were.  Someone was watching you wander.  Someone wrote this and left it while you were in the hallway. 

You slowly turn the handle. The door clicks. 

And you can’t shake the feeling that the castle; its master, its shadows, its silence; has just closed its hand around you. 

The first night stretches out endlessly, thick with dread that settles into your bones. You sit on the edge of the unfamiliar bed, still wearing the wedding dress that feels more like a shroud than something meant for vows. Your hands twist in your lap, your fingers cold and trembling despite the warmth of the room. Every small sound in the castle makes your muscles tense: the creak of old wood, the flicker of candlelight, the soft shift of air through unseen corridors. You keep your eyes pinned to the door, terrified of the moment it might open and equally terrified that it never will. You try to tell yourself to breathe, to be brave, to accept the reality that somewhere in this castle is the vampire you were given to; your husband in name, a monster in truth; but the fear stays lodged in your throat. Hours crawl by. Your breath fogs the air. You fall asleep upright, still waiting, still listening. He never comes. 

When you wake the next morning, sunlight filters weakly through tall windows, casting pale gold across the stone floor. A tray of food sits beside your bed; fresh, hot, arranged neatly as if someone placed it there only minutes before. The steam rising from the soup curls through the air, warm and inviting, a sharp contrast to the cold knot in your stomach. You stare at the tray for long, silent minutes, uncertain if it's safe, uncertain if it's meant for you or simply something done out of habit. But hunger wins, and when you take that first cautious bite, it tastes painfully normal, so normal that it makes your eyes sting. You eat slowly, listening for footsteps in the hall, listening for the vampire who has yet to show himself. He never appears. 

The second day passes in heavy silence. You walk to the door several times, hand hovering over the handle, waiting for… something. Someone. A voice. A shadow. Anything. But there is nothing. You pace the room, fold and refold the dress they gave you, talk aloud just to hear a sound that isn’t your heartbeat. Night falls. You wait again. The door stays closed. 

A week begins to blur into the next, each day moving slowly through the same pattern of anxious waiting and quiet dread. You whisper to yourself constantly just to keep your voice from sounding foreign, sometimes narrating meaningless tasks like brushing your hair or rearranging the blankets, anything to break the suffocating silence. When you dare to open your door in the early mornings, you only ever find another untouched tray of breakfast waiting outside. When you leave to explore a small corner of the hall, the moment you return, your bed has been made with crisp precision and the room smells faintly of lavender and warm bathwater. Someone is tending to you; bathing you, feeding you, cleaning behind you; but you never hear a single footstep, never catch sight of a hand or shadow moving in the edges of your vision. The castle feels haunted, not by ghosts, but by unseen workers who avoid you as carefully as your husband does. 

Days turn into weeks, and then into months. Two full months pass without a single glimpse of the vampire who owns this place. Two months without a voice answering your questions. Two months without another human face or any sign of ordinary life. Hot meals appear without explanation. Baths are drawn with steam filling the air. Your room is kept spotless, with clothing you didn’t know you owned folded neatly in the wardrobe. The castle itself seems to live, but its residents, if they exist, remain hidden like shadows that disperse the moment you turn your head. 

Your fear doesn’t vanish; it changes. It sinks deeper, thickening into a profound loneliness that gnaws at you, hollowing out pieces you didn’t think could break. You sit in the small window seat some nights and watch mist roll across the courtyard, wondering if anyone can see you from outside, wondering if anyone remembers you at all. You cry sometimes, quietly, the sound muffled by the blanket you pull over your mouth. Other times, you simply sit in silence with your palm pressed to the cold window glass, whispering questions you know no one will answer. Most nights, you fall asleep with the same thought echoing inside your chest: you are a bride abandoned in a castle full of secrets, living among invisible hands and unseen eyes. And in all this time, two entire months, you have never once met the vampire you were forced to marry. 

Sleep eventually claims you, but it is not gentle. It drags you down into a nightmare so vivid it feels real from the first breath. You find yourself running through a forest drowned in moonlight, the trees tall and skeletal, their branches clawing at the sky like fingers. Snow covers the ground in a thick, uneven blanket, and each frantic step sends cold bursts shooting up your legs. Your lungs burn, sharp and raw, fogging the air with every desperate exhale. You don’t know what’s chasing you, you never see it clearly, but you feel it. A presence at your back. Heavy. Powerful. Hunger radiates from it in waves, pressing against your spine, urging you to run faster even as your legs threaten to collapse beneath you. The shadows shift in unnatural ways behind you, twisting and swelling, closing in with a speed that makes your chest seize. Branches whip at your arms. Your feet slip on ice beneath the snow. Your heartbeat becomes an echo that fills the entire forest. When your foot snags on a hidden root, you fall hard onto the cold ground. The impact knocks the breath out of you, and for a moment all you hear is the thundering pulse in your ears. You turn onto your back, breath coming in short white bursts. The shadow looms over you; a vague shape, tall and wolfish and wrong, its breath hot against your cheek. Just as it lunges, its jaws opening wide in a blur of darkness and teeth, you choke on your own scream. 

You gasp awake, your whole body jerking upright as if hauled by invisible strings. Sweat clings to your neck and the back of your dress, chilled by the room’s air. Your heartbeat is still frantic, pounding so hard it shakes your ribs. The darkness presses close, and for a second you don’t know where you are; forest or castle, nightmare or reality. Your eyes land on the old clock hanging above the fireplace. The minute hand ticks forward with a soft click. 

2:00 a.m. 

You rub your face with trembling hands and try to steady your breathing, but the fear clings stubbornly, sitting heavy on your chest. Sleep feels impossible now. The silence of the castle settles around you like thick fog, and you find yourself needing something warm, something to ground you. A drink. Tea, or anything that might remind you of home. 

Half-asleep and unable to shake the lingering terror from your dream, you push yourself out of bed. Your legs feel unsteady when they touch the cold stone floor, but you force yourself to stand. The room is dim, shadows pooling in the corners as candles near their last inches of wax. You pull your robe tighter around you and move to the door, fingers brushing the cold metal handle. 

You don’t think about the rule: do not leave past 11 p.m. Not in this moment. Not with your heart still racing and the nightmare’s breath still warm on your cheek. You simply need something warm, something familiar, something human. 

You open the door and step into the hallway, the air colder out here, the candles stretching long shadows along the floor. Your bare feet pad softly against the rug as you walk, still dazed, still half in the remnants of the dream. The castle is silent, but after two months of emptiness, silence feels normal. 

You waltz down the corridor toward the kitchen, the thought of a calming drink pulling you forward. 

The closer you get to the kitchen, the more you slow down. At first you think you’re imagining it, the faint melody drifting through the hall, the soft clatter of pans. You blink hard, still groggy, still weighed down by the nightmare clinging to the edges of your mind. But as you step closer, the sounds sharpen. Someone is definitely singing. Light, cheerful humming floats under the door, followed by the rhythmic tap of metal and the scrape of something being stirred. 

Your breath catches, and for the first time in two months, hope sparks warm in your chest. You inch toward the doorway, heart thudding not with fear but with anticipation. Maybe, finally ,someone to talk to. Someone real. Someone who can tell you anything about this castle, or even just say good morning. You press your hand to the cool frame and tilt your head, peeking through the small gap between the door and the wall. 

What you see almost knocks the air from your lungs. 

An older woman; small, round, shouldered, with a flour-smudged apron tied around her waist, dances around the kitchen like she’s lived here her entire life. White hair escapes her bun in soft wisps. She spins lightly on her heel as she sings, sliding a tray of pastries onto the counter, then twirling back to a simmering pot as if this were the coziest cottage in the world instead of a cold, haunted castle. 

Your face breaks into a wide grin before you even realize it. Relief floods you so fast it makes your eyes sting. A person. A real person. Someone warm. Someone alive. The loneliness that has been gnawing at you for weeks leaps at the chance for connection. 

Without thinking, you push the door open fully. 

“Hello!” you exclaim, excitement bursting out of you in one breath. 

The woman jumps so violently she drops the pans she was holding. They hit the floor with a startled clang, bouncing once before settling. She whirls around, her red eyes wide and glowing in the candlelight. 

Red.  Red eyes. 

Your grin freezes.  Your breath stops cold.  Your heart plummets straight into your stomach. 

You stare at her, and she stares back, and in the span of a single heartbeat you understand exactly what she is. 

A vampire. 

Your entire body reacts before your mind can. A hot surge of panic shoots through your limbs, and you stumble backward, instincts screaming at you to run. Your heart slams against your ribs. The stories from the village echo violently in your head; vampires are cold, cruel, heartless, killers, things that must be burned to die. Your pulse thrashes like a trapped animal. 

You turn to bolt down the hall; 

“Stop! Child, stop!” the woman calls out. 

Her voice is firm, urgent, but not cruel. Still, your terrified legs don’t care. You push off the ground to sprint away, but in the blink of an eye she isn’t behind you anymore. 

She’s in front of you. 

One moment the hall is empty, and the next she stands inches from your face, her hand raised in greeting, her expression bright and delighted like you had just surprised her with flowers rather than nearly given her a heart attack. Her sudden appearance steals the breath from your lungs. She didn’t walk. She didn’t run. She simply wasn’t there… and then she was. 

But she’s smiling. A soft, wide, grandmotherly smile that reaches her glowing eyes.  Nothing about her posture is threatening. She clasps her hands together like she’s thrilled to see you awake. 

“Oh, sweetheart, don’t run off,” she says warmly, ushering you back toward the kitchen with gentle pats to your shoulders. “You’re freezing. Come sit. I’ll make you a warm drink and get you some nice pastries. They’re fresh, I promise.” 

You blink at her, confused, breathless, alarmed out of your mind. Everything you were raised to believe about vampires screams at you to flee; monsters, killers, blood, drinkers, but nothing about this woman fits the stories. She’s soft. Warm. Cheerful, even. Her voice reminds you of your late grandmother humming by the hearth, all gentle affection and worn-out patience. 

Your heart still races, but another feeling slips into the panic, bewilderment.  This is not what you expected.  Not what anyone expected. 

You look at her again, at her kindly smile, at the way she already moves toward the stove to pour something into a mug. 

This vampire is nothing like the monsters from your nightmares. 

If anything…  She looks like someone who has waited a very long time to finally have someone to cook for. 

She does not simply talk, she pours. Words spill from her like water finally released from a dam, rushing over you so quickly you barely have time to take a breath between her sentences. The moment she motions you into a seat at the small wooden table, she sets a warm mug in front of you, then launches into conversation with the ease of someone who hasn’t had a real audience in decades. 

“Oh, look at you, poor thing, trembling like a little leaf in winter,” she says, patting your shoulder before bustling back to the counter. “You must be freezing. And thin as a twig! You need proper food. Real food. Not those sad, cold meals they used to serve the brides before you. No, no. Absolutely not! I won’t have it.” 

You wrap your fingers around the mug, grateful for the heat. The kitchen; full of soft light and warm smells; feels like the only corner of the castle that isn’t suffocating. Jovana moves with practiced familiarity, humming again under her breath as she shuffles pastries onto a plate. She talks the entire time, barely pausing to inhale. 

“My name is Jovana, sweetheart. Jovana Vasilievna, though the last name hasn’t mattered for a very long time.” She turns, smiling brightly at you before sliding another tray into the oven. “I was turned when I was just short of sixty. Sixty! Can you imagine that? Barely any energy in the bones anymore, but apparently someone liked my cooking well enough to want me around forever.” 

You blink at her, stunned, not just by the information, but by the lightness in her tone. She speaks about being turned like someone discussing a minor inconvenience, like catching a cold or tripping on a doorstep. She wipes her hands on her apron, continuing her rapid stream of words. 

“Oh, I used to bake all the time for my husband and grandson. They loved my pastries more than they loved me, I always said.” Her eyes soften with memory, though no sadness darkens her expression. “But they’re long gone now. Life moves, death comes, and here I stayed, cleaning and cooking for a castle full of shadows and dust.” 

You take a small sip of your drink; sweet and warm, tasting faintly of cinnamon, and she claps her hands in delight. “Yes, yes! Drink, drink. I made it the way I used to make it for my grandson when he had nightmares.” 

The mention of nightmares makes a tremor crawl up your spine, but Jovana doesn’t notice. She’s already bustling around, scooting pastries toward you, talking as if afraid you might disappear if she stopped. 

“You know, I haven’t had anyone to fuss over in so long. Years and years and years. The brides before you…” Her voice lowers, though only slightly. “Well, they never lasted. Most arrived dead already. Imagine that! The villagers throwing corpses at our doorstep and calling it a peace offering. A disgrace. And the few who survived the trip…” She shakes her head, clucking her tongue. “They did themselves in by morning. Terrified out of their wits. Poor souls.” 

Your stomach twists at her casual tone.  You weren’t prepared for that.  Not for death spoken so simply, like something routine. 

Jovana continues anyway, oblivious to the way your heart drops into your stomach. 

“And then you arrived,” she says brightly, placing a warm pastry in front of you. “Alive, healthy, sweeter than spring honey. I knew the moment I saw you I’d get to bake again. Oh, it’s been years since someone ate my pastries with real appreciation. Go on, take a bite!” 

You lift one slowly, your hands still trembling as the scent of butter and sugar fills the air. She watches you expectantly, red eyes glowing softly in the candlelight. There is no malice in her face. No hunger. Just excitement and a grandmotherly eagerness that feels so out of place you don’t know what to do with it. 

She talks on, voice warm and rapid, filling every corner of the kitchen. 

“Such a blessing you are, sweetheart. You gave this old castle a reason to wake up again.” 

Your confusion only deepens. Everything you believed about vampires has been rewritten in the span of a few minutes by a tiny, flour-covered woman who treats you like a beloved grandchild. 

You take a shaky bite of the pastry.  Warm, soft, sweet.  Comforting in a way you didn’t know you needed. 

And Jovana beams, as if the simple act of you eating is the greatest compliment she has ever received. 

Jovana’s voice becomes a comforting rhythm, rising and falling like a familiar song. She talks about everything; old stories, recipes she perfected decades before her turning, the way the castle used to look when it was new, the creaky pipes in the eastern hallway, the portrait hall that she insists is “absolutely haunted by bad paint choices and nothing else.” Her chatter softens the sharp edges inside your chest, and slowly, you feel yourself ease enough to join in. 

You offer small comments at first, tiny hums of agreement, quiet questions, shy smiles, but she lights up every time you speak, as if your words are sunlight she’s been starving for. Soon you’re answering her more freely, telling her little things about your village, about your parents, about your favorite foods and the way you used to help your mother bake bread on winter mornings. Jovana reacts with claps and gasps and delighted praise, the kind only an enthusiastic grandmother can give. 

For the first time since arriving at this castle, you feel warm. Not from the tea, not from the pastries, but from being seen. From being spoken to. 

Then the world shatters. 

A deafening BOOM erupts from the front of the cas tle, the sound of enormous doors slamming open so violently the walls tremble. The candles flicker. Your mug rattles on the table. The shock shoots through you like ice water, your spine stiffening as your heart leaps into your throat. 

Jovana freezes mid-sentence. Her expression darkens into a weary grimace, one that tells you this sound is not unusual. 

“Oh, stars above,” she mutters. She sets down her towel and wipes her hands quickly on her apron. “He’s back early.” 

Your pulse kicks into a rapid, panicked sprint. “Who?” you whisper, though some part of you already knows. 

Jovana takes your shoulders in her cool but oddly comforting hands and turns you toward the hallway. “Sweetheart, you need to go. Quickly now.” Her red eyes soften with urgency, not fear for herself, but fear for you. “Master Astarion just returned from hunting, and he’s in a foul mood again. You mustn’t let him see you tonight.” 

Master… Astarion. 

The word jolts your heart.  His name.  You finally know his name. 

Astarion. It rolls through your mind like a forbidden spell, beautiful and sharp and dangerous. 

Despite the fear prickling along your skin, you can’t help the small, private smile that forms. Naming him makes him feel real, no longer a faceless monster lurking in your imagination. Astarion. Your husband in title. Your captor by circumstance. A stranger in every other way, but a stranger whose name now sits warm on your tongue. 

You look back at Jovana, grateful and reluctant to leave. “Goodnight,” you tell her softly. 

She gives your arm a gentle squeeze. “Goodnight, dear. Hurry now.” 

You nod, tucking the warmth of her words into your chest like a fragile treasure, and step out of the kitchen. The hallway stretches before you, dim and shadowed, your footsteps muffled by thick carpet. The castle feels different now; charged, bracing itself, holding its breath. 

You begin walking toward your room, heart beating fast, mind repeating his name with every step. 

Astarion.  Astarion.  Astarion. 

You don’t hear him yet.  You don’t see him yet. 

But he is home.  And for the first time, you are awake to witness it. 

You reach your door with your heart still fluttering from the kitchen,still warmed by Jovana’s kindness, still whispering the name you just learned. Your hand rises to the doorknob, fingertips brushing the cold metal, and you exhale a small breath of relief. You made it. You’ll slip inside, hide beneath your blankets, pretend this night never happened; 

A voice slices through the darkness like a blade. 

“I told you to stay in your room.” 

The words are low, smooth, and terrifyingly close. Every muscle in your body goes rigid. The air catches painfully in your lungs as you turn your head slowly, dread crawling up your spine like cold fingers. 

At first, you see nothing but shadow. 

Then a faint shimmer; white, almost silver; moves in the dark.  A flash of hair.  Eyes glowing a deep, dangerous red. 

Your knees nearly buckle. 

You try to breathe, try to form words, try to explain yourself. “I-I was just-” 

But you don’t finish. 

In the space of a blink, the shadow becomes a figure. The air shifts, a rush of movement too fast for your eyes to follow, too silent to hear. Suddenly he is there,leaning over you, close enough to steal every bit of air from your lungs. His presence fills the corridor, overwhelming in a way your mind can barely comprehend. 

His nose presses against the curve of your throat. 

The sensation shocks you still. His breath is warm against your skin, soft and deliberate, sending a violent wave of goosebumps racing down your neck and arms. Your head tilts instinctively, exposing more of your throat before you even realize you’re doing it. Every instinct in your body screams danger, but your limbs refuse to move. 

He inhales. 

Not a quick breath, but a slow, deep draw that feels intimate in a way you’ve never known, terrifying in a way your body doesn’t understand. Your heart hammers so loudly you’re certain he can hear every frantic beat. 

His grip doesn’t touch you, not yet, but his entire body radiates a power that presses against your senses, heavy and ancient. He is tall, tall enough that he has to dip his head to reach your throat. His frame is not bulky, not thin, but balanced, elegant strength hidden beneath dark, travel-worn clothing. Up close, he does not smell of death or rot as the villagers claimed vampires did. He smells like cold wind, like snow-kissed forest, like steel and something darker beneath it all. 

When he finally lifts his head, the world tilts. 

You find yourself staring directly into the most beautiful face you have ever seen. High cheekbones, sharp jawline, lips parted slightly from the breath he took against your skin. His white hair falls in soft waves, catching the faint torchlight. His red eyes-glowing, hungry, ancient,drag over your face with a mix of irritation and something else you can’t name. 

Your breath stops completely. 

This is Astarion.  The vampire husband you’ve imagined in nightmares for two months.  The master of this castle.  The reason you were brought here. 

And he is looking at you like he could devour you in a heartbeat…  and like he might be restraining himself with every ounce of his strength. 

He doesn’t move at first. For one suspended moment, he simply watches you; eyes burning through the dim corridor, expression unreadable except for the tension coiled behind it. You can’t breathe. You can’t think. Every inch of your skin remembers the heat of his breath at your throat, the way your body reacted without permission. 

Then, with deliberate precision, he straightens. 

The shift is subtle, but somehow it feels like the world itself pulls back from him. His posture becomes cold, controlled, every line of him carved from ice instead of flesh. The hunger in his eyes dims, eclipsed by something sharper; annoyance, irritation, or maybe the remnants of restraint that took everything inside him to maintain. 

He looks down at you, gaze steady and measured. No warmth. No apology. No humanity. 

“Don’t let me see you next time.” 

His voice is soft, almost whisper-level, but the command hits you like a physical blow; final, uncompromising, absolute. 

Before you can react, before you can breathe his name or stammer an explanation, his form blurs. One second he stands in front of you, towering and terrifying and impossibly beautiful, and in the next, he is gone. 

No footsteps.  No sound.  No trace that he was ever there. 

The air around you seems to collapse inward as silence rushes back to fill the space he vacated. Your knees give out for a moment, and your hand shoots to the doorframe to steady yourself. Your heart slams against your ribs in wild, uneven bursts, your throat tight with leftover fear and something you don’t dare name. 

You turn slowly, half expecting him to reappear. 

But the hallway is empty. 

Your blood thunders in your ears as your thoughts race, tangled and breathless. He didn’t kill you. He didn’t even touch you. He spoke to you. He smelled you, leaned over you, hovered like a predator evaluating its prey… and then vanished with nothing more than a warning. 

Confusion floods you. Relief. Fear. Curiosity. Something warmer, something more dangerous, buried beneath it all. 

You pull in a shaky breath, try to calm the trembling in your hands, and finally push your door open. The room feels different now; smaller, quieter, carrying the faint echo of the vampire whose presence lingered on your skin. 

You slip inside and close the door behind you, leaning against it as your pulse struggles to slow. 

Astarion.  You repeat his name silently, as if saying it will help you understand him. 

But all it does is send another shiver down your spine. 

He is real.  He is beautiful.  He is terrifying.  And he left you standing there with nothing but a command and a heart that refuses to stop racing. 

Sunrise crawls across the sky long before sleep even thinks about touching you. 

You lie flat on your back, the blankets pulled halfway up your chest, your eyes fixed on the carved wooden patterns in the ceiling. The first pale strands of morning light leak through the tall curtains, creeping across the floorboards and climbing slowly toward the bed. You watch it move without really seeing it, caught somewhere between thought and numbness. 

Your body is still, but your mind refuses to quiet. 

Every time you close your eyes, you feel him again; his breath on your neck, the warmth of it sinking through your skin like a brand. You swear you can still sense the ghost of his presence hovering above you, the sharp press of his attention as real as the pounding of your heart. Your chest tightens every time the memory repeats, each replay sending a tremor through your limbs. It’s not fear alone. It’s something else too, something you don’t have the courage to name. 

You keep replaying the moment he stepped from the shadows, the flash of white hair catching faint candlelight, the crimson glow of his eyes cutting through the dark as if they saw straight into your bones. The way he moved; too fast for human eyes, too graceful for a predator; races through your mind in loops. And the way he straightened, voice controlled, commanding, as if your presence offended him as much as it warned him. 

“Don’t let me see you next time.” 

You swallow hard. The words echo again, low and cold, brushing the inside of your skull. He didn’t ask. He ordered. Yet he didn’t harm you. He didn’t even touch you beyond the brief, shocking brush of his breath against your throat. 

Your fingers drift to that spot now, brushing lightly as if searching for proof that he’d been there at all. 

You should be terrified.  You are terrified.  But confusion swirls with it, twisting your stomach into knots. 

He was monstrous, yet beautiful.  Threatening;yet careful.  Predatory;yet deliberate. 

Nothing about the encounter makes sense, least of all the way your pulse refuses to settle. 

Another breath shudders through you. 

You blink at the ceiling, exhausted yet wide awake, caught in the haze of sleeplessness that feels like floating just above your own body. Thoughts circle and collide until they collapse into each other; fear tangled with curiosity, anxiety battling with the strange, dangerous fascination pressing quietly against your ribs. 

You think about everything.  You think about nothing.  Your mind is too full and too empty at the same time. 

And as the sun finally crests the horizon, filling the room with pale morning warmth, you are still lying there, wide-eyed and trembling, unable to shake the feeling that last night wasn’t just a nightmare or a close call... It was the beginning of something you don’t yet understand. 

In the days that follow, something shifts inside the castle; subtle at first, like a change in the air you can’t quite name. You tell yourself you’re imagining it, that your lack of sleep and your restless thoughts are playing tricks on you. But the truth presses quietly at the edges of your awareness: 

You see Astarion more.  Not up close.  Never within reach.  But enough to keep your pulse thrumming and your curiosity burning. 

It happens the very next night. 

You wake before dawn again, unable to keep still, unable to silence the restless energy thrumming under your skin. The hallway calls to you, its shadows no longer entirely frightening. You tell yourself you’re just stretching your legs, maybe getting a glass of water, maybe checking to see if Jovana left pastries out to cool, but your feet take you in the opposite direction of the kitchen, toward the darker wing of the castle. 

The wing where you saw him. 

You stay close to the wall, steps soft, eyes scanning every flicker of candlelight. And then you see a pale flash, there, at the far end of the hall. A figure turning the corner. A glimmer of white hair catching the firelight. A long, graceful stride. 

Your breath catches so sharply it hurts. 

You don’t call out. You don’t dare. But you linger, heart racing, waiting to see if he will return. He doesn’t. Still, that single glimpse is enough to keep you awake the rest of the night. 

And so begins the habit. 

The terrible, thrilling habit. 

Each night, you wait a little longer. You listen for the creak of old floorboards, the whisper of movement, the soft, distant thump of a door closing somewhere in the castle. You learn his patterns without meaning to. The hours he stalks the corridors. The sound of his boots occasionally tapping stone when he isn’t trying to be silent. The faint, cold rush of air that follows when he moves too fast for your eyes to track. 

Every night, your curiosity pulls you a little further from your room. 

Every night, your heart beats a little faster when you think you might see him again. 

Jovana notices, of course. 

She always notices. 

“Oh, sweetheart, don’t you start wandering again,” she scolds lightly as she kneads dough one morning. “Master Astarion has a bad temper and even worse timing. Best not to tangle with him.” She flicks flour off her fingers, her red eyes narrowing in concern. “And best not to be caught where you shouldn’t be.” 

You nod, pretending to take the warning to heart. 

But you have always been a curious girl.  Curious enough to follow soft footsteps down dark halls.  Curious enough to ignore the rule about staying in your room.  Curious enough to wonder who Astarion is when he thinks no one is watching. 

And it becomes clear, night after night, that Astarion is seeing you more too. 

Sometimes you feel his gaze before you see him, like a spark on the back of your neck, a tingling awareness running over your skin. You’ll turn a corner, and he’ll be standing at the end of the corridor, half-hidden in shadow, watching you with that unreadable expression. He never speaks to you. He never approaches. He never repeats the warning he gave you that first night. 

But he doesn’t vanish instantly either. 

Not anymore. 

Some nights you’re certain he lingers longer than necessary, as if he’s studying you the same way you study him; quietly, cautiously, from a distance neither of you cross. 

The castle feels different in those moments. 

Charged.  Alive.  Like something waiting to awaken. 

And with each encounter, each fleeting glimpse, each shared silence in the dim corridors; you feel yourself slipping deeper into something you can’t explain, something that thrums beneath your skin and keeps you up long past the hour you should be safely hidden away. 

The library becomes your sanctuary the moment Jovana shows it to you. Vast, warm, filled with the soft smell of old parchment and dust and faded ink, it feels like a world tucked inside the castle’s cold stone walls; a world untouched by fear or shadows. The towering shelves are stuffed with books of every shape and color, their spines worn from generations of hands you cannot imagine. You’ve never seen this many books in your life. Never even dreamed of it. 

You trail your fingers along the shelves, the smooth and rough textures brushing your skin in uneven patterns. You choose a book solely for its cover; a deep blue leather bound with gold filigree looping elegantly across the edges. You carry it to the large armchair near the fire and curl up, letting the warmth soak into your chilled fingers. For a moment, you just stare at the first page, heart fluttering with a mixture of excitement and nervousness. 

You’ve always wanted to learn how to read. Always imagined what it would be like to hold stories in your hands, to decode the world hidden behind letters your parents never had the chance to teach you. You take a deep breath and begin sounding out the first word. The attempt is clumsy. The letters twist, slide, refuse to form the sounds you try so hard to coax from them. You try again, slower this time, but your tongue refuses to cooperate. After several minutes, you’re still stuck on the same frustrating cluster of letters. 

You sigh and try once more. 

“Eh… ee… ah…?” 

A laugh echoes from behind you. 

It’s sharp, rich, and entirely amused. 

You jolt so hard the book slips from your hands and thuds onto the floor. Heart pounding, you whip around, eyes wide. He stands between two towering shelves, half-lit by the crackling fire; white hair soft around his face, arms crossed, red eyes gleaming with unmistakable mirth. 

Astarion. 

His lips are curved in a smirk, the kind that cuts and charms at the same time. “What,” he drawls, voice smooth as silk stretched over steel, “in the hells was that supposed to be?” 

Heat floods your face instantly. You scramble to your feet, feeling ridiculous and exposed. He heard every mangled attempt. Every stumble. Every failure. You wish the floor would swallow you whole. 

“I;I don’t know how to read,” you admit, voice small, embarrassed. “I never learned.” 

He arches a perfectly shaped eyebrow, amused. “Truly? You’ve lived more than two decades, and no one thought to teach you basic literacy? How quaint.” 

Your embarrassment twists painfully in your stomach. You look away, cheeks burning hot enough to hurt. “We didn’t have a school,” you murmur. “The village couldn’t afford one. Only the wealthiest families taught their children. Everyone else…” You shrug helplessly, eyes fixed on the fallen book. “We worked. Learned what we could from each other.” 

The amusement fades from his eyes in a soft, almost imperceptible shift. Something like realization, or something gentler, crosses his expression. 

He moves. 

You don’t even see the exact moment he does. One heartbeat he’s across the room; the next he’s standing before you, close enough that the firelight casts warm gold against his pale skin. Without a word, he bends smoothly and picks up the book you dropped, brushing a thumb across its cover as if it were something precious rather than something you mishandled. 

When he straightens, he holds the book with elegant ease, his red eyes flicking to yours; not mocking now, not sharp, but curious. Almost contemplative. 

“Well,” he says quietly, the teasing gone from his voice, replaced by something more careful. “If you intend to butcher the written word in my presence, the least I can do is intervene.” 

You blink up at him, breath caught somewhere between hope and disbelief. 

Astarion closes the distance between you until the warmth of the fire mixes with the cool current of air that clings to him. 

“Come,” he murmurs, opening the book to the first page. “Let’s start with the basics.” 

Astarion tries. Gods, he tries. 

At first, he seems almost confident; like he genuinely believes he can fix your illiteracy in an afternoon with nothing more than charm, sharp wit, and a well-worn book. He settles into the chair beside you, one leg crossed over the other, posture refined and elegant as always, and taps the page with a long, pale finger. 

“This,” he declares, “is a letter. A very simple letter. A child could manage this.” 

You lean closer, nodding earnestly, trying not to look as overwhelmed as you feel. “Okay… so it’s ah… or eh… or;” 

He inhales sharply.  “No. We’ve been over this. It’s ‘A.’ Just ‘A.’ A.”  He repeats the sound with exaggerated clarity, lips forming a perfect shape, red eyes fixed on you like he’s watching a particularly difficult puzzle. 

You nod with determination. “A.” 

“Good,” he says, though it sounds more like a sigh of relief than praise. 

Then he points to the next letter. 

You try.  You really try. 

Within the first hour, his expectations crumble so thoroughly you can practically feel the irritation vibrating off him. He corrects your pronunciation again and again, each time more tightly restrained than the last. His voice never gets loud, but it gets sharper, as if he’s using sarcasm as a shield against impending madness. 

“No, no, no. That’s not even close. How are you getting worse? It’s ‘B,’ darling. B.” 

You wince. “I’m sorry. I’ve never done this before;” 

“I can tell,” he mutters under his breath, rubbing the bridge of his nose. 

Twenty minutes later, he drags a hand through his white hair, messing it up; something you didn’t even think was possible; and stares at the page like it personally offended him. 

“Unbelievable,” he whispers to himself. “Absolutely unbelievable. How can someone be this charmingly hopeless? This is torture. Literal torture.” 

A laugh bubbles up your throat, unexpected and hard to hide. You cover your mouth, eyes shining with amusement and embarrassment. 

“It’s not funny,” he snaps. 

But the faint twitch at the corner of his lips suggests he knows it is. 

You straighten your posture and try again. “Let me... just one more time-‘C’ is… kuh?” 

He freezes.  For a moment, he looks like he’s genuinely considering throwing himself into the fire. 

“Yes,” he says, pinching the bridge of his nose again. “Finally. Yes. Kuh. Saints preserve me.” 

Another half hour passes.  His patience thins until it’s nearly transparent.  He slumps back in his chair, staring at the ceiling as if begging the heavens for strength, muttering something about “why me” and “I survived centuries of torment for this.” 

Still, he hasn’t walked away.  He hasn’t given up.  He hasn’t snapped at you to leave. 

And that means something. 

By the time the first hour ends, Astarion is one strained exhale away from tearing out his own hair, while you are both exhausted and quietly delighted. His frustration never turns cruel. His sarcasm never truly bites. There’s something oddly endearing about the way he struggles; something almost… human. 

And despite all his exasperated sighs and muttered curses, he stays right there beside you, flipping to the next page with a resigned flick of his wrist. 

“Again,” he murmurs. “Before I perish from sheer, unimaginable frustration.” 

Midnight drifts into the library like a slow, heavy tide, the candles shrinking low in their holders as hours blur together in your increasingly tangled attempts to pronounce simple words. Astarion’s posture has devolved from aristocratic elegance into something far more disheveled; one elbow braced on the armrest, forehead resting in his palm, fingers tangled in his white hair as if supporting the weight of his patience. His eyes, usually sharp and alert, now burn with a mixture of exhaustion, disbelief, and a grim sort of determination that suggests he is too stubborn to surrender even to this. 

Jovana returns for what must be the fourth or fifth time, gliding into the room with a tray of steaming tea before Astarion can collapse into the nearest bookshelf. She sets it down with a soft clink and gives you a sympathetic smile, then turns her attention to the vampire with the weary affection of someone used to patching him back together. 

“Drink,” she orders gently, pushing the delicate porcelain cup into his hand. “Before you melt into the carpet.” 

Astarion takes it with a dramatic sigh, lifting it to his lips with a grace that contrasts sharply with the dark circles forming beneath his eyes. “I am being tortured,” he mutters, voice hoarse with overuse. “This must surely violate some ancient law.” 

Jovana pats his shoulder. “You’ll survive.” 

He snorts without conviction. 

You sit cross-legged beside the fire, book open in your lap, hair mussed from leaning forward so many times, cheeks warm with equal parts pride and embarrassment. You sound out another word; slowly, clearly, correctly; and glance up to see Astarion staring at you like someone witnessing a miracle he no longer believed in. 

“Yes,” he breathes, pointing weakly at the page. “That’s it. Finally. Only took you… what? Seven hours?” 

Despite the sarcasm, there’s something softer beneath his tone, something warmer, something that flickers between his lashes before he hides it behind another sip of tea. He watches you try again, eyes tracking the movement of your lips with focused attention. “Good,” he murmurs after a moment. “Again. Don’t lose it now.” 

Your voice is tired. Your throat is raw. But you read the sentence one more time, stumbling only once, and when you finish, you can hardly stop the smile that spreads across your face. You did it. You actually read it. 

Astarion slumps back into his chair, closing his eyes as if savoring a victory hard won. “At last,” he groans. “At long, long last. You can read at a level comparable to a small, particularly spirited child.” 

Jovana stifles a laugh behind her hand, then refills his tea with the smooth efficiency of a caretaker who has accepted her eternal fate. 

Your own smile grows. “So… I did well?” you ask, unable to hide the hopeful note in your voice. 

He cracks one crimson eye open and looks at you. Really looks. Exhaustion softens the hard edges of his face, and the firelight paints warm gold across his sharp features. For a moment, there is no mocking, no irritation; just quiet sincerity. 

“Yes,” he says, the word surprisingly gentle. “You did.” 

It is small praise. Bare praise. But from him, after hours of his near-tearful frustration, it feels like a treasure. 

You curl deeper into your chair, clutching the closed book to your chest. Jovana gathers the empty cups and plates, humming to herself as she moves, casting amused glances between the two of you. Astarion rubs his face with both hands, then drags them down with a loud, theatrical groan. 

“Never,” he says to no one in particular, “have I worked so hard to accomplish so little.” 

But his tone betrays him.  He is proud.  And you know it. 

The next few days slip by in a blur of warm mornings, quiet afternoons, and your utter lack of discipline when it comes to your lessons. Astarion had given you strict instructions; no skipping, no slacking, no undoing all the painfully hard work he put into your kindergarten-level reading. But books were hard and the forest was not, and you had always been more at home in the dirt than in any classroom, real or makeshift. 

So, of course, you play hooky. 

Every morning after Jovana serves breakfast and Astarion disappears into whatever shadowy corners he haunts during daylight hours, you sneak out into the castle’s sprawling backyard. The seasons have begun to shift; the air carries a crisp bite, and the leaves have begun to burn into shades of red, gold, and amber. Nature feels alive around you, vibrant and whispering, so different from the cold stone hallways you’ve grown used to wandering. 

You wander through the overgrown garden beds, humming under your breath as you crouch among the moss and fallen leaves. You aren’t good with books, but foraging has always been second nature. Your fingers glide along familiar stems, brushing soft caps and checking for the fine details your mother taught you long before the council decided you would be a bride for the vampire in the castle. 

You find a cluster of mushrooms; plump, brown, speckled beauties, and your whole face lights with delight. You pluck them carefully, inspecting each one, your mind drifting far from the castle, far from fear, far from expectations. Out here, you feel like yourself again. Just a girl in nature. Not a sacrifice. Not a student. Not a possession. 

Lost in your thoughts, you don’t feel the shift in the air at first.  But then a prickling sensation creeps along your skin-sharp, electric, unmistakable. 

The feeling of being watched. 

You straighten slowly, heart thudding once in surprise before you turn your head toward the castle. Your eyes scan the tall stone exterior until they land on one of the enormous windows lining the second floor. 

And there he is. 

Astarion stands behind the glass, framed by thick velvet curtains and dim indoor light. His posture is elegant and stiff, his arms folded loosely across his chest. His expression is impossible to read from this distance, but his eyes; those unmistakable glowing crimson eyes; are locked onto you with predatory focus. 

Your breath stutters. 

Then something warm blooms inside you. 

You smile. 

Not a timid one. Not a nervous one. 

A bright, wide, genuine smile that comes from someplace uncomplicated; someplace happy. And without thinking, without hesitating, you lift your hand and wave at him enthusiastically, your basket of mushrooms tilting on your hip. 

For one impossible second, the world holds its breath. 

Astarion does not move.  Astarion does not blink.  Astarion does not wave back. 

But something in his stare changes; just a flicker. A spark. You can’t name it, but it makes your heart flip strangely inside your chest. 

You keep smiling anyway, because for the first time since arriving at the castle…  you aren’t afraid of him.  Not entirely.  Not anymore. 

The shift in Astarion’s behavior begins slowly, almost imperceptibly, yet distinct enough that you feel it beneath your skin. The day after he caught you foraging in the garden, you return to the library with a children’s reader tucked under your arm and determined focus on your face. You settle into the same armchair beside the fire, letting the warmth chase the lingering chill from your fingers. The room is quiet except for the soft crackle of burning logs, and you begin mouthing each word with the level of concentration usually reserved for sewing delicate fabric or threading small beads. 

You do not hear Astarion enter the library. You never hear him when he approaches. What you feel instead is the faint shift in the air, as if the room itself acknowledges his presence before you do. When you lift your eyes, he is already standing several paces away, one hand resting lightly on the back of a nearby chair. His gaze is focused entirely on you. He does not speak, nor does he announce himself in any other way. He simply watches, the firelight reflecting in his crimson eyes with a quiet intensity that makes your breath stall in your chest. 

You keep reading. Your voice is soft and slightly shaky, but you continue because stopping feels too vulnerable. Astarion remains still, almost statuesque, and does not offer any corrections or amused commentary as he once did. He only listens. When you glance at him again, he is no longer several paces away. He has moved closer to the bookshelf nearest your chair, his arms folded and his expression unreadable. His posture is tense, but his eyes have lost the cold edge they once carried. 

The next day, you find him already in the library when you enter. He stands near the window with a book in his hand, though he does not appear to be reading it. When he notices you, he closes the book and shifts his attention fully to your presence. You take your seat by the fire once more, open your beginner text, and begin reading aloud with slow, deliberate care. Astarion eventually crosses the room and positions himself behind a nearby armchair, leaning against it while he listens. His nearness unsettles you at first, but he does not flinch or show any sign of impatience. He listens as though the simple act of learning to read holds more importance than it should. 

By the third day, the pattern has changed again. After you choose your seat and begin practicing, you hear the soft shuffle of clothing and feel a change in the warmth beside you. When you look to your left, Astarion has taken the chair closest to yours. He sits with a controlled posture, hands resting comfortably on the armrests, and his eyes remain fixed on the page as you read. He does not speak, nor does he correct your mistakes. Instead, he listens with a quiet concentration that makes your pulse flutter involuntarily. His presence is cool but no longer distant. For the first time since you arrived at the castle, he feels less like a looming shadow and more like a reluctant companion forced into the orbit of your determination. 

Each day, he sits closer than the one before, as if drawn by something he refuses to acknowledge. His shoulders remain tense, his jaw firm, yet he has stopped shielding his expressions behind cold indifference. He allows you to exist beside him without the earlier hostility. He allows himself to observe you without irritation. And somewhere between his silence and your hesitant reading, a fragile, unspoken understanding begins to form. 

You do not know what it means.  You only know he stays. 

Candlelit dinners begin without any official announcement, as though the castle itself decides you have earned something more than isolation and hurried meals delivered in silence. One evening, when you enter the dining hall expecting to eat alone, you stop short. The long table is set with polished silverware, steaming dishes, and rows of candles arranged in delicate clusters that cast golden light across the high vaulted ceiling. At the head of the table sits Astarion. 

He does not greet you. He merely lifts his gaze, his crimson eyes reflecting the candlelight, and gestures toward the chair nearest him. You hesitate, unsure if this is a command or an invitation, but the faint lift of his eyebrow suggests impatience rather than malice. You take your seat. Your hands tremble slightly as you adjust your napkin, though you try to hide the movement. 

Astarion watches you without blinking. You reach for your fork. He clears his throat quietly, which pulls your attention back to him. You are startled to see him examining the plate in front of him with a faint grimace, as though weighing some private debate. Then, with deliberate calm, he picks up his own fork and spears a small piece of roasted vegetable. He lifts it to his lips, pauses, and then takes the bite. 

You stare, too surprised to speak. 

He chews slowly, thoughtfully, and swallows with visible discomfort. His expression twists for a moment, and he exhales through his nose like someone trying to avoid offending a host. “The texture is tolerable,” he says, though the tone suggests otherwise. “The taste is… manageable.” 

You blink in astonishment. “You do not have to eat,” you remind him carefully. “I know that vampires do not;” 

“I am aware,” he interrupts, his voice clipped but not unkind. He folds his hands in his lap for a moment before meeting your gaze again. “However, it seemed rude to sit idly while you ate alone. Mortals find it uncomfortable when the person across from them stares without participating.” 

Warmth creeps into your chest because, in his own awkward and reluctant way, he is trying. He is trying for you. 

You offer him a small smile, and his eyes flicker at the expression. He quickly looks down at his plate again, as though unnerved by the softness on your face. He tries another bite, struggling not to grimace when the flavor clearly disappoints him. You swallow a laugh and hide your smile behind your cup. He notices anyway. 

“This is not amusing,” he mutters. “I am attempting sincerity.” 

You set your cup down carefully. “I know,” you reply, your voice gentle. “And I appreciate it.” 

His shoulders stiffen, then loosen slightly, as if your gratitude unsettles him more than any threat ever could. 

Dinner continues with a quiet rhythm. You eat normally, slowly, savoring the warmth of the food and the comfort of having someone, anyone,share the moment with you. Astarion watches you with a mix of curiosity and concentration, as though memorizing your every movement. Occasionally he forces himself to take another bite from his own plate, each attempt slightly more determined than the last. He drinks from a goblet filled with something darker than wine, though he moves it subtly, almost shyly, as if trying not to remind you of what he truly is. 

As the candles burn lower, the room softens with amber light. Astarion leans back in his chair, his expression a blend of contemplation and exhaustion. You meet his eyes one last time, and he holds your gaze without looking away. 

It is the first dinner you share.  It is the first time he chooses to sit beside you without distance or coldness.  It is the first moment that feels strangely, impossibly normal. 

And you do not forget it. 

As the dinner stretches into the deeper hours of the night, the atmosphere shifts from stiff unfamiliarity into something softer, quieter, and more human than anything you expected from a vampire lord. At first the small talk is hesitant. You answer his questions carefully, unsure which topics might offend him, and he chooses his own responses with the precision of someone who has not held a casual conversation in decades. Yet something about the candlelight, the warmth of the room, and the lingering awareness of his effort makes each exchange feel easier than the last. 

He asks about the mushrooms you found earlier in the week, and you explain the difference between edible ones and poisonous ones using gestures that make no logical sense. He listens with the patience of someone decoding an ancient language. When you nearly knock over your cup while demonstrating the size of one particularly large mushroom, he catches it before it tips, his hand moving faster than your eyes can follow. You murmur a flustered “thank you,” and he merely inclines his head, almost regal in the gesture. 

Minutes pass. Words become more natural. He even volunteers a comment about the castle garden, mentioning a species of night; blooming flowers that only open under moonlight. You listen with a growing warmth in your chest, amazed that this quiet strand of conversation exists between you at all. 

Then, somewhere between stories about baking mishaps with Jovana and your clumsy attempt to pronounce a complicated plant name, your tongue slips. You try to say “phosphorescent foxglove,” something Astarion had mentioned while describing the gardens, but what comes out is a disastrous, tangled mess of syllables that sound nothing like any real word. 

You stop.  He stops.  Silence settles for a heartbeat. 

Then he laughs. 

The sound is sharp at first, caught in his throat as though it startles him as much as it does you. His hand moves to his chest as if he needs to brace himself. The laugh grows, soft but strained, cracking slightly at the end like something unused for far too long. It is not cold or mocking. It is warm. Genuine. Shockingly human. 

Your eyes widen because it is a beautiful sound, yet it carries a painful edge, as though laughter is a muscle he has not exercised in years and is unsure whether it should ache. 

He brings a hand to his forehead, still shaking faintly with amusement. “Gods,” he mutters, voice thin with effort, “how did you manage to mutilate every part of that word simultaneously?” 

Your cheeks burn with embarrassment, but his laughter is contagious. You bite your lip to hold back your own smile, though it slips out anyway. “Maybe the word is the problem,” you say quietly. “It is far too long.” 

He lowers his hand, the corners of his mouth still curved upward. There is a faint shimmer in his eyes, not of hunger or irritation, but of genuine amusement that makes him look profoundly different; lighter, warmer, almost youthful. “The word is perfectly normal,” he replies. “Your tongue, however, is not cooperating with the rest of you.” 

The teasing lands more gently than his earlier sarcasm, softened by the lingering remnants of his laugh. He clears his throat, trying to regain composure, but the ghost of that smile remains, stubborn and unmistakable. 

For the first time since you arrived, he looks less like the fearsome creature whispered about in village rumors and more like someone who has forgotten what it feels like to be alive, and is relearning it slowly, reluctantly, and unexpectedly through you. 

The laughter fades, but the warmth it sparks lingers between you for the rest of the night. 

Over the next several days, something unspoken begins to weave itself between the two of you, delicate at first and almost fragile, but undeniably present. It feels like standing near a fire after a long winter; tentative, cautious warmth sinking into your bones before you can fully acknowledge it. The castle’s cold hallways seem softer now, less intimidating, as if the tension that once lived between you and Astarion has started to loosen its hold. 

It begins with small, almost accidental moments. 

One morning, as you sit beside him in the library practicing your reading, your fingers brush his when you reach for the next page. The contact is light and fleeting, more air than touch, yet it sends a shiver up your arm. You immediately pull back, murmuring an apology, but he does not flinch or withdraw. Instead, his eyes flick to your hand with a curious expression, and his lips twitch, just slightly, before he calmly turns the page for you. That tiny movement, that silent acceptance, lingers with you long after the lesson ends. 

A few days later, during another candlelit dinner, you drop your fork for what must be the third time in a row. You duck under the table to retrieve it with a frustrated groan, your hair falling into your face as you reach blindly for the metal. When you resurface, triumphant but out of breath, Astarion raises a single eyebrow and remarks, “At this rate, I fear we may need to childproof the dining room.” 

You gape at him for a moment, uncertain whether he is teasing or insulting you. But the faint curve at the corner of his lips, and the small glimmer of mischief in his eyes, tells you everything. It is teasing. Not cruel. Not mocking. Playful. 

You roll your eyes at him, and he gives a soft, amused exhale; almost a laugh, but smaller, hidden behind a sip of his goblet. 

As the days pass, these moments multiply. 

When you walk past him in the hallway, your shoulders sometimes brush. You tell yourself it is an accident each time, but he does nothing to move away, allowing the contact like something he has grown used to. 

When you mispronounce a word during your lessons and then glare at the book in mild betrayal, he leans closer with a faint smile and murmurs, “Do not scowl at it, dear, it is already terrified of you.” His voice carries no bite, only amused affection, and the comment makes your cheeks warm in a way you cannot control. 

There are times he corrects your reading by tapping the page with the tip of his finger, and his hand hovers just an inch from yours. If you shift even slightly, those fingers brush against your knuckles; light, cool, and strangely intoxicating. He does not pull away when it happens. Instead, his eyes flick to your hand for a heartbeat before he continues reading as though the contact never occurred. 

Even Jovana notices the change. She watches the two of you with quiet smiles and knowing glances, humming happily whenever she passes through the library or brings tea to the dining hall. She says nothing aloud, but her approval hangs in the air like a warm blanket. 

The hostility Astarion carried when you first arrived fades little by little, replaced by dry humor and subtle wit. His tone softens in your presence. His sarcasm becomes warm instead of sharp. He allows himself to relax when he is near you, even if only slightly. And in those moments, he looks less like a creature hardened by centuries of pain and more like someone rediscovering the concept of gentleness. 

You do not know what all these changes mean, not yet.  But every brush of fingers, every soft laugh, every tease delivered without cruelty pulls you a little further into his orbit. 

And something deep inside you responds; quietly, but undeniably. 

The scream tears through the castle like lightning-sharp, violent, and so filled with pain that it shreds through your dreams and drags you violently awake. The sound vibrates through the stone walls, rattling the windows and sending your heart into your throat. For a moment you lie frozen beneath your blankets, breath caught, mind struggling to understand whether the cry was real or imagined. But then another tortured shout echoes; louder, rawer and instinct takes over. 

You throw off your covers, scrambling out of bed with trembling legs. Your shawl hangs on the back of a chair, and you grab it on your way out the door, wrapping it tightly around your shoulders as you sprint into the corridor. The castle feels impossibly large in the darkness, every turn and hallway stretching before you like a maze, but the cries guide you with dreadful clarity. Each one is worse than the last, filled with suffering so deep it makes your stomach twist. 

You reach the grand hallway near the stairwell and skid to a stop, breath heaving. Astarion is on the ground. 

He lies on his side, body curled in a way that looks unnatural, as though every muscle is locked in excruciating tension. Sweat drenches him, soaking through his shirt and plastering white hair to his forehead. His face is contorted in agony; jaw clenched so hard it looks like it might crack, fangs bared, eyes squeezed shut as another cry rips out of him, echoing off the stone walls like a wounded animal. 

Jovana kneels beside him, her usually calm face drawn tight with helplessness. She presses a cool cloth to his head, but her hands tremble. Each time Astarion thrashes, she flinches, unable to restrain him. She looks small beside him, worn and terrified in a way you have never seen. 

You drop to your knees beside them, your shawl slipping off one shoulder as panic chokes your voice. “What’s wrong? What’s happening? Jovana... what is happening to him?” 

Astarion’s hand claws at the floor, fingers digging into the stone hard enough to crack his nails. His breath comes in broken gasps, each one ending in a hoarse grunt of pain. He arches suddenly, almost throwing himself backward, and Jovana grabs him with both arms, trying to keep him from smashing his head against the ground. 

“Go to your room!” she cries, looking at you with frantic urgency. “You must not be here, sweetheart. Not now. This is not the time to help.” 

You stare at her, horrified. “I’m not leaving him like this.” 

“You must,” she insists, her voice breaking as Astarion screams again. “He cannot control anything when he is in this state. He is dangerous. Please! Just go!” 

You shake your head fiercely. Every part of you screams to stay, to help, to do anything you can to ease his suffering. You cannot look at the agony twisting his face and simply walk away. “I’m not going,” you say, your voice trembling but steady. “I won’t leave him.” 

Jovana tries to protest, but another of Astarion’s tortured cries cuts her off. You shoot to your feet and run down the nearest hallway without waiting for permission. Your pulse races so violently you feel dizzy, but you push through it, sprinting toward the washroom. You gather rags, buckets, and the largest basin you can carry, filling it with cold water until your fingers go numb. You grab every clean cloth you can find, every towel, anything that might help. 

The objects clatter loudly as you run back, but you barely feel the weight. All you can think of is the pain in his voice, raw and merciless, and the fear you saw in Jovana’s eyes. 

When you return, Astarion is still writhing on the floor, his body shaking with unnatural intensity. Jovana looks up, startled that you came back, but also relieved, in a fragile, desperate way. 

You kneel beside him again, dipping a cloth into the cold water before pressing it gently to his burning forehead. His skin feels hotter than fire, slick with sweat and trembling beneath your touch. 

“It is all right,” you whisper, though your voice shakes violently. “I am here. I am right here.” 

He does not seem to hear you, lost in a storm of agony that you cannot understand. Yet you stay, wiping his face, cooling his skin, catching his hands when he flails too violently. Jovana supports his back to keep him from hurting himself further. Between the two of you, you manage to anchor him; even if only barely. 

You do not know what is happening to him.  You do not know what could cause a creature like him to break.  But you know one thing with absolute certainty: 

You will not leave him. 

You work through the chaos with trembling hands, forcing yourself to move gently even as your heart pounds hard enough to bruise your ribs. You wring out a fresh cloth, lay it across Astarion’s burning forehead, and smooth the wet strands of hair plastered to his temples. His skin feels fever-hot, his breath broken and uneven as he gasps through another wave of pain. Every time he flinches or arches away, your chest tightens as if someone is pulling a thread straight through your heart. Jovana steadies him from the other side, whispering his name again and again as if it might anchor him to the world. 

Between his cries, she leans closer to you, her voice trembling and hushed. “This is the mark, sweetheart,” she murmurs, keeping her hands on his shoulders as his body jerks. “His enslaver carved it into his back with ancient magic. It binds him. Controls him. Sometimes it… lashes out.” She swallows tightly, her red eyes glistening. “The pain consumes him. It tears straight into his spine and bones. There is no real relief. Only waiting for it to pass.” 

You stare at Astarion’s contorted face, unable to understand how anyone; especially someone as poised and guarded as he always is; could be reduced to this level of agony. Each scream wounds you in ways you never expected. You press another cool cloth to his cheek, whispering his name even though he cannot hear it. He claws at the floor, knuckles bloody from how tightly he grips the stone, and for a moment you truly think he is going to tear himself apart. 

Jovana wipes his face with a shaking hand, her voice a hoarse whisper. “Death would feel like mercy in moments like this,” she admits quietly. “If he were mortal, he would have welcomed the end long ago.” 

The confession slices through you. You look at Astarion; this proud, sharp, impossible creature who carries himself with such control and the thought of him suffering like this, alone, for years or centuries, hits you with a force that steals your breath. 

Tears slip down your cheeks before you even realize you are crying. You try to blink them away, but they fall anyway; quiet, steady, helpless. You run the cold cloth over his neck again, brushing your thumb beneath the line of his jaw as gently as you can, and you whisper through the tightness in your throat, “I’m so sorry. I’m so, so sorry.” 

He does not respond.  He can’t. 

But you stay beside him, your tears falling onto the stone floor as you hold him through each wave of torment, refusing to let him suffer alone. 

The next wave of pain rips through Astarion’s body so violently that Jovana nearly loses hold of him. His back arches sharply, his teeth bared in a silent scream as every muscle spasms at once. You reach forward instinctively; too close, too fast, too trusting. Before Jovana can shout a warning, before you can even register the danger, everything changes. 

In a blur of movement, you are no longer kneeling beside him. You are thrown backward so hard the world snaps white for a moment. Your back slams into the cold stone wall with enough force to drive the air from your lungs. Pain shoots through your shoulders, down your spine, and before you can inhale, a cool, iron-strong hand clamps around your throat. 

Astarion has you pinned. 

Your feet scrape uselessly against the floor as he lifts you half an inch off the ground, his fingers locking around your neck with inhuman strength. The pressure is immediate and crushing. Your windpipe closes beneath his grip. A sharp, instinctive panic flares in your chest, but it is quickly drowned by shock. 

His eyes; usually sharp, focused, calculating; are unfocused now, wild, clouded with a mixture of agony and hunger. Sweat drips down his temples. His fangs glint beneath parted lips, and his breath comes in ragged, animalistic pulls. He is not fully present. He is drowning in pain, in instinct, in something far older and darker than reason. 

You choke, your fingers wrapping around his wrist, though you do not try to pry him off. Dots begin to dance at the edges of your vision, bright and disorienting. The pressure builds until your head throbs and your ears ring. You cannot breathe. You cannot speak. Yet you do not kick. You do not claw. You do not scream. 

“Stop!” Jovana shrieks, her voice breaking as she tries to pull at his arm. “Astarion, stop! Let her go!” 

He does not even seem to hear her. His gaze is locked onto yours with a predator’s intensity, yet there is something fractured behind it: pain, confusion, terror, hunger tangled together into something he cannot control. His fingers tighten. A dark fog creeps across your sight as consciousness slips. 

You should be terrified.  But you are not. 

You wince from the lack of air, your throat burning under his grip, but a small, trembling smile still forms on your face. It is faint, strained, but real. You look at him; not with fear, not with anger; but with something that cuts through the haze in his eyes. 

Recognition.  Understanding.  Compassion. 

Your vision blurs. A soft ringing fills your ears. You cannot speak, your body weakening rapidly, yet you hold his gaze as steadily as you can and offer that fragile smile. 

Something shifts. 

Astarion’s eyes widen, the hunger flickering into confusion, then horror. His fingers twitch. His expression breaks open as awareness slams back into him. He looks down at his hand on your throat as if he has never seen it before, as if it belongs to someone else. Then, with a sudden, violent recoil, he jerks away from you as if burned. 

You collapse to the stone floor, your knees hitting hard. Air rushes back into your lungs in ragged, wheezing gasps that burn all the way down. You clutch your throat, coughing hoarsely as stars burst behind your eyes. 

Jovana is at your side instantly, her hands on your shoulders, her voice trembling with worry. “Sweetheart! Oh, sweetheart, are you all right?” 

You nod, or you try to. Your throat is raw, your breaths unsteady, but your voice forces itself out in a broken whisper as you look toward Astarion. 

“It... wasn’t his fault,” you rasp. 

He stands several feet away now, shaking, his chest heaving, his eyes fixed on his own trembling hands as if trying to understand what he has done. There is no hunger in his gaze anymore. Only horror. Only guilt. Only the crushing weight of a moment he had no control over. 

And your hoarse whisper, your forgiveness, hits him harder than any blow ever could. 

The days after the attack settle into a painful quiet. Astarion does not approach you in the library. He does not linger in the hallways. He does not sit beside you at dinner or allow his presence to brush yours in the gentle, accidental way he had begun to before that horrible night. When you pass him in the corridor, he turns away sharply, avoiding your eyes. When you speak, he gives no reply. When you enter a room he occupies, he vanishes like smoke. 

At first, you believe he is angry with you.  Then you fear he is disgusted by himself.  Then you worry he simply cannot bear to be near the girl he almost killed. 

You tell yourself you understand.  You tell yourself you forgive him.  You tell yourself it is not his fault. 

But it still hurts. 

Jovana tries to reassure you, telling you in soft whispers that Astarion’s shame runs deep, deeper than anything his pride can ever mask. You listen, but the ache lingers anyway, heavy and quiet inside your chest. 

Eventually exhaustion claims you. Night after night, you fall asleep with your throat still sore from his grip and your mind circling thoughts you cannot resolve. So when morning comes again, you wake slowly, drifting somewhere between sleep and waking, unaware at first that the room feels warmer than usual. 

It is the faint weight on the mattress beside you that finally pulls you from sleep. 

You shift groggily, blinking against the soft morning light trickling through the curtains. Your hand brushes against something cool and solid. You freeze, your heart thumping once; hard. 

When your eyes finally adjust, you turn your head. 

Astarion lies beside you. 

He is on his side, facing you, one arm loosely draped on the space between your bodies, his white hair scattered messily across the pillow. His face; always so carefully arranged during the day; is unguarded in sleep. The tension that normally sharpens his expression is gone, replaced by something almost painfully peaceful. His brows are relaxed. His lips are soft. For once, he looks his age; not ancient, not haunted, not hardened by centuries of cruelty. 

He looks young.  He looks safe.  He looks… human. 

Your breath catches in your throat. 

He must have come sometime deep in the night, silently as only he can, slipping beneath your blankets with the weightless grace of a shadow. He is not touching you, not quite, but he is close enough that you feel the faint brush of his cool breath when it falls across your collarbone. He sleeps deeply; so deeply it almost startles you. Vampires rarely sleep heavily unless they feel safe… and they almost never choose to sleep beside someone. 

Your throat tightens. 

He is not here seeking intimacy, nor demanding anything from you. His posture is small in a way you have never seen; shoulders slightly curled inward, arms tucked close, body angled toward you like someone instinctively reaching for warmth. 

You understand in an instant. 

He is afraid of himself.  He is afraid of hurting you again.  And yet, some part of him feels safer near you than away from you. 

The realization hits you with a soft, warm ache. 

Slowly, carefully,you lift your hand and rest it on the blanket near his, not touching him, just close enough that your presence is unmistakable. As if sensing the shift, his fingers twitch slightly, moving a fraction closer in his sleep until the tips of them brush the back of your hand. 

The contact is feather-light.  Barely there.  But real. 

You hardly dare to breathe, afraid that even the smallest sound might shatter this fragile illusion. Your chest aches at the sight. You’ve seen him angry, cruel, distant, but never like this. Never vulnerable. And in that stillness, something inside you softens, unravels. 

Then, his fingers twitch. His eyes open slowly, lazily, as though waking from a dream he didn’t want to end. Crimson meets yours, unfocused at first, and then awareness slips in. He blinks, confusion knitting his brows. “You’re awake,” he murmurs, voice husky, quieter than you’ve ever heard it. It’s not a question, more like a confession caught between sleep and shame. 

You nod, throat too tight to answer. 

He doesn’t move away, not yet. The sunlight paints his skin in gold and rose, and for a heartbeat, you forget that this man, this vampire, has caused you fear, pain, confusion. All you see is someone tired. Someone who’s forgotten what it feels like to rest. 

When he finally sits up, he does it slowly, as though every motion hurts. His gaze lingers on you before falling away, heavy with something you can’t name. “I don’t remember the last time someone touched me gently,” he admits, voice breaking slightly at the edges. The words hang in the air like smoke, fragile and raw. 

Your breath catches. You can see it in him now, the loneliness, the years of surviving rather than living. It’s in the slump of his shoulders, the hollow beneath his eyes. You don’t think before moving closer, reaching out, fingers brushing his hand. His skin is cold, but when you touch him, he flinches like it burns. 

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, pulling back, but his hand catches yours before you can. His grip isn’t firm;just enough to keep you there. 

“Don’t be,” he says, eyes searching yours. “It’s just… been a long time since anyone’s tried.” 

You want to say something, anything, but the words stick. So you sit there together, hands barely touching, sunlight spilling between your fingers. And for a moment, neither of you feels like a monster. 

He sits up, stretching lazily and that’s when he freezes, blinking down at himself. You see it before he remembers: the bare expanse of his chest, pale as marble, traced with faint, silvery scars that disappear over his shoulders and down his back. He reaches instinctively for the discarded shirt on the floor but moves too late. Your eyes have already caught them; the scars. 

They aren’t just scars. They’re symbols; intricate, cruel, burned deep into his skin like someone branded him with purpose. The firelight catches on each raised line, and you can’t help the soft gasp that slips past your lips. 

He stiffens instantly. The calm vanishes, replaced by shame and something darker. “Don’t look at me,” he says sharply, his voice rougher now, wounded. 

But you can’t look away. You rise slowly, moving closer, ignoring the sting in his tone. “Astarion…” you whisper. “Who did this to you?” 

He laughs, but it’s empty; bitter. “Who else? My master. My curse. My reminder that even monsters have leashes.” 

He turns away, but not fast enough. You reach for him, hesitant, trembling, and your hand lands on his arm. He flinches, every muscle tight as wire, but you don’t pull back. Instead, you circle him, gently, and before he can stop you, you’re standing behind him, tracing the marks that scar his back. 

Your fingers are careful, reverent. “You shouldn’t hide them,” you say softly. “They tell your story.” 

He breathes out shakily, almost a laugh, almost a sob. “They tell a story of weakness,” he murmurs. 

“No,” you correct quietly, brushing his hair from his eyes when he finally turns to face you. “They tell a story of survival.” 

He stares at you then, eyes wide, searching. For what, you don’t know; truth, pity, maybe forgiveness. The firelight glows between you, gold against his pale skin, and when you smile, he looks undone. 

“I don’t remember,” he says at last, voice breaking slightly, “the last time someone touched me gently.” 

Your heart tightens. You step closer, lifting a hand to his cheek, thumb brushing the faint shadow of his jaw. “Then let me remind you,” you whisper. 

For a heartbeat, he doesn’t breathe. Then, slowly; like a creature relearning warmth; he leans into your touch. His eyes flutter shut, and in that fragile silence, the air between you feels weightless. 

The fire crackles. His laughter, soft, disbelieving, escapes like a sigh. “You’ll ruin me, you know,” he says, a smile ghosting over his lips. 

You smile back. “Maybe you needed a little ruining.” 

He laughs again, truly this time, and the sound fills the room like sunlight. You sit with him until the fire burns low, your shoulders brushing, your hearts quiet and close. And for the first time since arriving at this cursed castle, you feel something dangerous and beautiful take root. 

The next day feels strangely light. The castle, which had always loomed around you like a breathing thing, feels different now, less a prison, more like a secret waiting to be explored. You spend the morning replaying last night in your head, every quiet word, every flicker of warmth in Astarion’s eyes. It shouldn’t have meant as much as it did, but it does. It means everything. 

When evening falls, you’re just about to extinguish the last of the candles in your room when there’s a soft knock on your door. The sound is unexpected, delicate, almost uncertain. You open it to find him standing there, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. 

He looks different tonight. Relaxed, maybe. His usual tension softened by something almost boyish. “I was wondering,” he begins, his tone casual but his eyes give him away, “if you might… indulge me in a midnight stroll.” 

You blink, surprised. “Now?” 

Astarion’s grin deepens, faint but real. “Unless you have other pressing engagements with your pillow.” 

You can’t help but laugh. “You’re asking me to walk in the middle of the night through a haunted castle,” you tease. 

“I’m the haunting,” he replies smoothly. “You’ll be safe.” 

And just like that, your hesitation dissolves. You nod, grabbing a shawl to throw over your shoulders. “All right then, my haunting. Lead the way.” 

The corridors are quiet as you walk side by side. The only sounds are the echo of your footsteps and the soft flicker of torches casting gold light across the stone walls. Outside, through the tall arched windows, the night glows silver under a full moon. 

Neither of you speaks at first. It’s comfortable, that silence. The kind of quiet that hums with unspoken things; questions, confessions, the fragile beginnings of trust. When you reach the courtyard, the air greets you with a chill that steals your breath. The garden beyond the castle is blanketed in moonlight, the flowers asleep under frost, the fountain frozen still. 

You pause at the center of it all, wrapping your shawl tighter. “I didn’t think vampires took walks for fun,” you say, smiling faintly. 

He glances at you, eyes soft. “I don’t. But tonight felt… different.” 

“Different how?” you ask. 

He hesitates, looking up at the stars. “Lighter, perhaps. Quieter. You do that.” 

Your heart stumbles at the words. “I make you quiet?” 

He chuckles under his breath. “You make me forget I’m supposed to be anything else.” 

For a long time, you stand there together beneath the stars. His hand brushes yours once, twice; never quite holding, never quite letting go. When he finally looks at you again, there’s no hunger in his eyes, no darkness. Just something soft, hesitant, painfully human. 

“Thank you,” he says quietly. “For last night. For… seeing me.” 

You smile, cheeks warming. “Always.” 

And for the first time, he smiles back; truly smiles. Not the smirk you’ve grown used to, not the sharp grin that hides his pain, but a real, unguarded smile. It’s small and fleeting, but it’s enough to make your heart ache. 

The two of you walk until the torches burn low, your laughter echoing through the cold air, chasing away the silence of the castle. And for that one night, you forget what you are to him; a bride by sacrifice, a mortal among monsters. You forget everything except the warmth of his presence and the way his eyes, under the moonlight, almost look like home. 

The walk back to your room is quiet. Not the kind of silence that’s empty, but the kind that hums softly between two people who don’t quite know what to say. The corridors glow dimly with dying candlelight, the flames flickering as if the castle itself is holding its breath. 

You steal a glance at him. His expression is unreadable, but there’s a tension in his jaw, a faint crease between his brows. Not anger. Not worry. Something gentler. Something he doesn’t seem to understand himself. 

When you reach your door, you turn to thank him; but the words fade before they reach your lips. He’s standing close now. Too close. The kind of closeness that makes your heart skip. His eyes, those endless crimson depths, search yours as though he’s trying to memorize something; every line of your face, every flicker of emotion. 

“This is… goodnight, then?” you whisper, your voice softer than you meant it to be. 

“Yes,” he says, but he doesn’t move. His hand twitches at his side, and his breath catches like he’s fighting with himself. “It should be.” 

Should be. But isn’t. 

The air feels different now. He leans in, slow, hesitant, almost cautious; as if afraid you’ll vanish if he moves too quickly. And then, before you can think, before you can breathe, his lips brush yours. 

It’s barely a kiss. Just a trembling press of warmth, shy and uncertain, like something fragile learning to exist. You taste the faintest hint of copper on his breath, something ancient and sad. His hand ghosts up your arm but never grips, never holds, just… lingers. 

He pulls back too soon, eyes wide, startled by his own boldness. “I shouldn’t have;” he begins, words stumbling, voice rough. 

“Don’t,” you murmur, shaking your head, a faint, breathless smile tugging at your lips. “Don’t apologize.” 

Something flickers in his gaze; relief, disbelief, want. He lets out a shaky laugh, low and almost self-mocking. “You’ll think me ridiculous,” he says, his voice quieter now, as if confiding in the dark. “But… would it be terribly strange if I asked to stay? Not for;” he cuts himself off, flustered, rubbing the back of his neck. “Not for that. I just… I don’t remember the last time I felt peace. And when I’m beside you, I;” He stops again, the words collapsing under the weight of sincerity. 

You can’t help it, you laugh softly, not unkindly. The sound startles him. 

“Peace, huh?” you tease gently. “That’s what you’re calling it?” 

His mouth opens like he’s about to protest, but the faintest hint of a smile betrays him. “Yes. Peace,” he says firmly, though his voice still wavers. 

You shake your head, still smiling. “All right, Astarion. Stay.” 

The relief that crosses his face is almost painful to see. He exhales, long and quiet, and when he finally lies beside you, careful to keep space, to keep boundaries; you feel the mattress dip, the warmth of him close but not too close. 

The room goes still. The candles flicker once, twice, then settle into a steady glow. You close your eyes, and somewhere in the hush, you hear him whisper, “Thank you.” 

You don’t answer. You don’t need to. The peace he spoke of settles around you both, soft and strange and fragile. And for the first time in a long while, neither of you dreams of monsters. 

Spring melted quietly into summer. 

Days bled together in soft light and laughter. You’d wake to find him already awake, reading beside the window, sunlight spilling like liquid gold across his pale skin. Sometimes you’d join him, still tangled in sleep, head resting on his shoulder as he read aloud in that careful, deliberate way of his. Other days, you’d drag him outside despite his protests about “too much sun” and “no dignity in grass stains.” 

He pretended to hate it. He didn’t. 

The gardens became your sanctuary. He’d watch you weave flowers into messy crowns and place them on his head with mock solemnity, and though he rolled his eyes, he never took them off. You learned to dance barefoot in the courtyard, and sometimes; when he thought no one was looking; he'd join you. Just for a song or two. 

By autumn, the castle had begun to feel smaller. Warmer. You filled its halls with noise and light, laughter echoing where silence once ruled. He teased you mercilessly, and you gave it right back; sarcasm turning to affection, arguments dissolving into kisses that left your cheeks burning and your heart in chaos. 

It wasn’t perfect. He still had his dark nights, the ones where he’d wake trembling, eyes distant and haunted. But now, you were there. A hand reaching for his. A reminder that he wasn’t alone anymore. 

You learned his scars by touch, not by pity.  He learned your laughter by heart, not by accident. 

And somewhere between the falling leaves and the first chill of frost, love; real, steady, terrifying love; took root. 

When winter returned, it was quieter than you remembered. Snow pressed against the glass, muffling the world beyond. You found him one night by the window again, hair mussed, a faint smile on his lips as he watched the snowfall. 

“You know,” he said softly, “I used to hate winter.” 

You moved to stand beside him, wrapping your arms around his waist. “And now?” 

He leaned into your touch, eyes still on the snow. “Now it just reminds me that warmth is something you can find again.” 

Outside, the world slept under white. Inside, for the first time in years, he didn’t. 

The peace didn’t last. 

It never really did, not for long. 

It began with the howls; low and distant, just beyond the castle’s boundary. Then came the shadows slinking through the snow, creatures with eyes like coals, testing the wards that kept them out. Their snarls echoed through the halls at night, scraping against the edges of your dreams. 

At first, you thought it was your imagination. But Astarion knew better. He always did. 

He stood at the highest tower for hours, watching the dark tree line below, the tension in his shoulders sharp enough to cut. The faint shimmer of the wards pulsed weakly against the advancing shadows, a trembling line between safety and ruin. 

“Cazador’s pets,” he said at last, voice quiet and cold. “He’s found me.” 

You stepped closer, heart thudding. “Then we’ll leave;” 

“No.” His answer came swift, final. His eyes, once soft, were now carved from stone. “Running won’t stop him. He’ll follow. He’ll never stop following.” 

Jovana tried to reason with him, her voice trembling with the weight of centuries. “You don’t have to do this, my boy. The wards will hold;” 

“They won’t,” he interrupted, almost gently. “Not forever.” 

That night, you found him in the library, the fire long gone cold. He was surrounded by old tomes and map, schematics of Cazador’s domain drawn in charcoal, blood smudges marking his notes. His hair fell loose around his face, shadows curling beneath his eyes. 

“I won’t let him touch you,” he said, barely above a whisper, as if confessing something forbidden. “Or Jovana. Or anyone else.” 

You wanted to argue, but something in his voice, something ancient and exhausted, stilled your tongue. 

He looked up then, the faintest flicker of warmth still lingering in his crimson eyes. “If I kill him,” he said slowly, “it ends. For good.” 

You crossed the space between you, pressing your hand over his. “And if it doesn’t?” 

His jaw tightened. “Then at least he dies knowing I wasn’t his creature anymore.” 

Outside, the wards shimmered once, flickered and dimmed. 

Inside, Astarion stood and began to prepare for war. 

The night was quieter than it should have been. Too still, too heavy. Even the wind outside seemed to hold its breath as the snow fell in slow, silvery flakes against the windows. The castle felt hollow, emptied of its usual warmth; as though it already knew what was coming. 

You found Astarion in his chambers, the candlelight flickering against his bare shoulders as he tightened the leather straps of his armor. It had been centuries since that armor had seen use, and yet it clung to him as though it had been waiting. His movements were precise, methodical; every buckle, every strap, a final ritual. 

“You’re really going,” you whispered. 

He stilled, his hands falling to his sides. For a long moment, he didn’t turn to you. Then he said softly, “If I don’t, he’ll come for you. For all of us.” 

Your throat tightened. “You could stay. We could hide. There are other places.” 

He turned then, and the look in his eyes shattered you. That quiet, endless red; filled with sorrow, fear, and something else you’d never dared to name aloud. “You know I can’t.” 

You tried to speak again, but your voice broke before words could form. He stepped closer, each slow stride measured and sure, until his gloved hand rose to your cheek. You leaned into it without meaning to, warmth pressing against cold leather. 

“I’ve spent two hundred years as someone else’s shadow,” he murmured, his voice shaking despite the calm mask he wore. “I don’t want to die that way. And if I do die;” His hand fell from your cheek to rest over your heart. “; I want this to be the last thing I remember.” 

You didn’t think. You simply reached for him, your fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt as your lips met his. 

It wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t perfect. It was desperate; the kind of kiss that burned with everything unspoken. His hands found your waist, then your back, then your face, as though he couldn’t decide where to touch first, terrified that any part left untouched might vanish when morning came. The world tilted and disappeared until there was nothing but his breath, his taste, the soft tremor in his hands. 

When you finally pulled apart, the silence between you was thick and fragile. 

He leaned his forehead against yours, his voice a breath. “I’ll come back to you. I swear it.” 

“You better,” you whispered, your fingers brushing the scars on his back. “Or I’ll come drag you home myself.” 

That earned you the faintest smile; the kind that didn’t quite reach his eyes. Then he kissed you once more, slow this time, memorizing the feel of you. 

When he left, the door didn’t make a sound. But the silence that followed echoed louder than any goodbye. 

Days had passed since Astarion left, though it felt more like years. The castle was too quiet now; the kind of silence that made every heartbeat sound like a scream. Snow pressed against the windows in thick white sheets, and the fire refused to stay lit for long, no matter how many times you tried. 

You sat by the hearth anyway, hands clasped so tightly that your knuckles had turned white. Jovana stood across the room, her back to you as she tended to a pot of tea that neither of you would drink. The old vampire’s face was drawn and pale, her eyes hollowed by something deeper than worry; something closer to despair. 

“He’s been gone too long,” you said softly, your voice raw from the tears that had come and gone all day. “He promised he’d come back by now.” 

Jovana didn’t answer at first. Her hand trembled as she poured the tea, the liquid spilling slightly over the cup’s edge. “Men like Astarion…” she began, her voice quiet, almost reverent. “They don’t make promises they don’t intend to keep. But some battles are not meant to be won.” 

You shook your head, refusing the words before they could sink in. “No. He’ll come back. He always does.” 

Jovana turned then, the candlelight painting sharp lines across her face. “I’ve seen that look before,” she whispered, her voice breaking like thin glass. “Hope can be cruel, my dear.” 

That shattered something in you. Tears stung your eyes before you could stop them. You pressed your palms against them, as if you could hold everything in; the fear, the love, the ache of waiting for someone who might never walk through those doors again. 

The wind outside howled against the stone, and you flinched, glancing toward the darkened windows as if he might appear there; white hair catching moonlight, eyes glowing softly in the snow. But there was nothing. Just darkness. 

“I should’ve stopped him,” you whispered. “I should’ve begged harder.” 

Jovana crossed the room and knelt beside you, her cold hand finding yours. “You would’ve followed him if he let you,” she said gently. “And he couldn’t bear that. He left to protect you.” 

You nodded weakly, but it didn’t help. It didn’t stop the breaking. You leaned against her, shaking, your tears soaking into her old, worn dress. Jovana wrapped her arms around you like a grandmother would, holding you through your grief as if she already knew what was coming. 

Outside, the snow fell harder.  And somewhere far beyond the castle’s walls, something dark was moving closer. 

You wake to the sound of your name being whispered. Not gently, not lovingly, but frantically; a trembling breath breaking against the dark. Your eyes blink open to find Jovana hovering over you, her pale face ghostly in the candlelight. Her hands shake as she grips your shoulder, cold and urgent. 

“Up,” she breathes; her voice barely audible. “You must get up. Now.” 

Your heart lurches, sluggish with sleep. “Jovana? What’s;” 

She hushes you with a trembling hand, eyes darting toward the door. You hear it then; faint, distant sounds that don’t belong to the castle. Something heavy dragging across the floor far below. The echo of footsteps. A low growl that makes your blood run cold. 

“What’s happening?” you whisper, swinging your legs out of bed, the cold floor biting at your bare feet. Jovana doesn’t answer. She’s shaking too hard. Her lips move, but words refuse to form. 

“Jovana?” you try again, grabbing her arm as panic flares hot in your chest. “Tell me what’s going on!” 

Her eyes finally meet yours, and for the first time since you’ve known her, you see true terror there. “They’re here,” she manages, her voice cracking. “We have to go, now.” 

She snatches the candle from your bedside table and pulls you toward the door. You stumble after her, your nightgown whispering against the stone floor as you try to keep up. The hallway is darker than you’ve ever seen it, the torches long blown out. Only the weak candlelight flickers between you, throwing trembling shadows on the walls. 

“Who’s here?” you demand again, your voice rising despite yourself. “Jovana, who?” 

But she doesn’t answer. She can’t. Her breath comes in sharp, ragged gasps, her fear nearly tangible. She pulls you through the twisting corridors you thought you knew so well, though now they feel endless and unfamiliar. Every creak, every echo makes you flinch. 

When you finally reach the library, Jovana pushes open the door and gestures wildly to the far wall. “There, behind the shelves,” she says, voice trembling. “There’s a passage. You must go inside.” 

You stare at her, frozen. “You’re scaring me.” 

She grips your face in both hands, her eyes wet and wild. “Good,” she whispers. “Be scared. But move.” 

Your pulse pounds in your ears. You take one step toward the shelves; and that’s when you hear it. The sound of the great castle doors slamming open, so violently the floor seems to quake. The echo crawls up the walls and into your bones. 

Jovana’s face drains of what little color remains. “It’s too late,” she breathes. 

Jovana steps in front of you before you can even think to move. One trembling arm extends back, barring you from stepping forward, though her whole body quivers like a candle in the wind. The air grows heavy, almost suffocating, the candlelight trembling as if even the flame knows who approaches. 

From the dark corridor beyond the library, footsteps echo; deliberate, slow, the sound of a predator that already knows it’s won. Then, out of the shadows, he appears. 

Cazador. 

His presence alone seems to warp the air around him. His skin is pale as snow, smooth and perfect like marble carved by cruel hands. His crimson eyes glint with mirthless amusement, and when he smiles, it’s all sharpness; a glint of fangs like polished ivory. His dark cloak sways as he moves, regal and effortless, the embodiment of death dressed in velvet. 

“Well, well,” he drawls, his voice smooth and venomous, curling like smoke through the room. “It seems my little runaway has been playing house.” 

Jovana’s shoulders tighten, though her knees tremble beneath her long skirt. “You’re not welcome here,” she forces out, her voice shaking but steady enough to make you proud. 

Cazador laughs, the sound rich and cruel. “Not welcome?” he repeats mockingly, taking a slow step forward. “My dear Jovana, you forget yourself. This castle; these walls, these stones; all of it belongs to me. Including that trembling little mortal you’re so desperate to protect.” 

You press a hand to your mouth, stifling a sob. Jovana glances back, eyes wide and wet, whispering, “Stay behind me.” 

Cazador tilts his head, regarding her like a wolf watching a dying lamb. “Do you truly think you can stop me, old one? You were always weak. A pity Astarion thought your loyalty worth sparing.” 

Something flashes across Jovana’s face; grief, anger, courage. “He was worth it,” she hisses, her voice cracking but fierce. “And she will be too.” 

Then, before you can blink, she moves; faster than you thought she could, her body lunging forward in a desperate strike. But Cazador doesn’t even flinch. With the barest flick of his wrist, he sends her flying across the room like a rag doll. 

The sound is sickening. 

Her body crashes against the marble wall with a crack that makes your stomach turn. She cries out once; a broken, animal sound; before crumpling to the floor, motionless. 

“Jovana!” you scream, your voice shattering the stillness. You start to run to her, but a pale hand shoots out, gripping your arm with impossible strength. 

“Ah. Ah,” Cazador murmurs, pulling you close until his cold breath ghosts across your cheek. “Not so fast, little bride.” 

You try to pull free, but Cazador’s grip tightens, his fingers like iron around your wrist. Panic floods your chest as you struggle, calling out for Jovana; but she doesn’t stir. The library is so still you can hear the trembling of your own breath. 

Cazador’s smile widens as he studies your face, eyes tracing every flicker of fear that passes through you. “Such spirit,” he murmurs softly, almost lovingly. “No wonder my wayward fledgling kept you.” His voice darkens, low and dangerous. “You made him forget who he belongs to.” 

You shake your head, choking on your own words. “Please-” 

He hushes you with a single finger pressed to your lips. “Now, now. None of that. You’ll only make this worse for yourself.” 

You can feel it then; the air growing cold, the shadows curling along the edges of the walls, as if the very room bends toward him. You twist and pull again, but his hold doesn’t break. The candlelight flickers violently, throwing monstrous shapes across the shelves as he leans close. 

Pain blooms, but not in the way you expect; it’s sharper, colder, something that reaches past the body and digs into your soul. You gasp, the sound echoing in the hollow library, your knees giving way beneath you. Cazador’s whisper follows, smooth and cruel. “There it is,” he breathes. “The sound of surrender.” 

The world becomes a blur of shadow and echo. 

You don’t know how long you’ve been here; minutes, hours, maybe days. Time has fractured, lost all meaning within the cold walls of the library. The fire has long since died out, and the only light that remains is the faint glimmer of moonlight crawling across the floor, stretching and shrinking as the night drags on. 

Cazador speaks, his voice smooth and steady, the kind of voice that might have been beautiful if it didn’t drip with malice. You can’t make out all the words anymore; they slip through the haze that clouds your mind; but you hear fragments: betrayal, weakness, mine. 

Sometimes, you think you hear Jovana’s name. Sometimes, Astarion’s. 

You drift in and out, your body trembling, your head heavy. The air feels thick, hard to breathe, and every sound comes from far away; the creak of the walls, the slow drip of melting snow from the windowsills, Cazador’s voice humming something soft and ancient, a lullaby twisted into something cruel. 

You remember sunlight, or maybe candlelight, the way it once glowed in Astarion’s hair. You remember laughter over wine neither of you could truly enjoy, the warmth of his hand resting over yours, the sound of his voice when he read aloud from your favorite book because you liked the way he said the words. 

Those memories feel like they belong to someone else now. 

You shiver, though you can no longer feel the cold. You try to open your eyes, but they’re too heavy. The room blurs into streaks of silver and black. The shadows move differently now; less like monsters, more like the sea, rolling gently, carrying you with them. 

Somewhere in that haze, you think you hear a door open; faintly, distantly. There’s shouting, the crash of something heavy, the snarl of a voice you know too well. 

Astarion. 

For the briefest second, you think you see him; the glint of white hair, the flash of red eyes; and relief floods through you so fiercely it almost hurts. You try to call out, but no sound comes. 

The cold ebbs away, replaced by a strange, peaceful warmth. The fear dissolves with it. 

And then everything fades into silence. 

__________________________________________ 

Astarion's POV:  

The snow had begun to fall again by the time he reached the outer gates. 

Astarion moved through the forest like a shadow, the cold wind biting at his face, his cloak heavy with frost. Days. Or was it a week? He had hunted for Cazador, chasing every whisper, every phantom trace that led him nowhere. He had started to believe the bastard had fled the region entirely, too cowardly to face him head-on. 

He almost smiled at the thought, almost. 

But then he reached the gates. 

And everything inside him went still. 

The scent hit him first; sharp, metallic, unmistakable. Blood. Fresh blood. But beneath it lingered something worse, something that made his chest seize: the faint sweetness of human skin. Her skin. 

No. 

His mind refused it. It had to be a trick. Cazador was clever; this could be bait, an illusion meant to pull him into madness. But his body didn’t wait for his mind to reason. His feet moved on instinct, faster, harder. In an instant he was running, through the courtyard, through the snow, up the marble steps that led to the doors he had left her behind. 

The heavy gates groaned as he slammed them open, the sound echoing through the vast entryway. The smell was stronger now, clinging to the walls, thick in the air. His stomach turned, dread clawing its way up his throat. 

“Jovana?” His voice broke the silence, low and shaking. No answer. 

He followed the scent down the corridor, every step faster, the quiet halls closing in on him like a tomb. His breath came sharp, uneven. Each turn, each shadow, each flicker of candlelight felt like a threat. 

Then, the library doors. Slightly ajar. 

The smell was overwhelming now. His fangs ached with hunger he despised, the cruel instinct of what he was. But beneath that hunger was something deeper, rawer, terror. 

He pushed the doors open, and the world seemed to collapse in on itself. 

The scent hits him like a blade to the gut.  Copper. Salt. Human. Her. 

Astarion stops breathing. For a heartbeat, two, his mind refuses to understand what his body already knows. His chest tightens, something ancient and animal thrashing inside him, screaming to turn back. To the unknown. But he can’t. He can’t. 

He runs. 

Doors crash open. The halls blur. He’s moving faster than he has in centuries, faster than the night itself, chasing a scent that’s already beginning to fade. The dread builds with every step, pounding in his veins like war drums. The scent grows stronger, thicker; suffocating; until he stumbles into the great hall and the world ends. 

Cazador stands there.  And in his arms; 

No.  No, please, no. 

Astarion’s mind shatters. 

She looks so small. Pale against Cazador’s crimson, soaked hands. Her eyes half-lidded, lashes trembling as if fighting to stay open. She’s still breathing, she must be, but even as the thought crosses his mind, he knows it’s a lie. 

“Ah,” Cazador drawls, his voice silk over rot. “You’re late, my boy.” 

Astarion doesn’t move. He can’t. His throat closes around words that never form, his fingers curl into claws, trembling so hard he nearly collapses. The silence in his skull is deafening. 

No, no, no, please; 

He tries to speak, to bargain, to beg, but all that escapes is a broken, strangled sound.  Cazador tilts his head, amused. “All this sentiment. How unbecoming of my spawn.” 

The old master’s laughter echoes, sharp and cruel, but Astarion barely hears it. The sound distorts around him, drowning in the pounding of his own heart. 

He drops to his knees. His body moves before his mind catches up, reaching out, desperate to touch her, to prove she’s still warm. His hands hover above her face, shaking violently. He can’t bring himself to make contact. If he touches her, it’ll be real. 

It is real. 

He whispers her name like a confession, voice breaking mid syllable. His vision blurs, but no tears fall; he doesn’t know if he’s even capable of crying anymore. His breath comes out in short, jagged bursts that scrape his throat raw. 

She’s gone. 

He told himself he would protect her. That this, this life he’d built with her, was something Cazador could never take from him. And yet here she is, limp in another’s arms, his failure painted across the marble floor in blood he can never wash away. 

He feels hollow.  Like something carved his insides out and left him a shell. 

Cazador drops her to the floor as though she’s nothing, her body hitting the stone with a sound that tears through Astarion like lightning. He lunges, too slow, too late, catching her before her head meets the ground. Her hair spills across his arms, soft and weightless. He remembers the way it once caught the moonlight, how she’d laugh when he brushed it behind her ear. 

He presses his forehead to hers, whispering things that don’t make sense; promises, apologies, prayers to gods he doesn’t believe in. 

“She begged for you,” Cazador says lazily. “Pathetic, really. You’ve always attracted the sentimental ones.” 

Astarion doesn’t hear him. Not truly. His mind is a storm of noise, memory and madness and guilt colliding until there’s nothing left but her name. Over and over. 

He doesn’t even look up when Cazador disappears. Doesn’t chase him.  There’s no point. The hunt is meaningless now. 

His fingers tighten around her hand, still warm, still her. He stares at the small scar near her thumb, the one he’d teased her about when she burned herself cooking. He can’t stop looking. If he stops, if he blinks, she’ll vanish like smoke. 

And so he stays there, kneeling in a pool of her blood, the castle silent around him, as the first rays of dawn creep through the windows. He doesn’t move. He doesn’t breathe. 

For the first time in centuries, Astarion feels truly dead. 

He doesn’t know how long he’s been there. 

Hours, maybe. The sun has come and gone behind thick clouds, painting the hall in shifting shades of gray. The candles have long since guttered out, but Astarion doesn’t move. He stays where he fell ; on the cold marble floor, her body cradled in his arms like something precious, fragile. His world condensed into that small space between her still lips and his trembling hands. 

She should not be this cold. 

He brushes his thumb across her cheek again and again, as if the motion might coax warmth back into her skin. He murmurs nonsense, his voice hoarse and low, words meant for her alone; fragments of lullabies, of apologies, of things he never dared say when she was alive. 

“I should have been here,” he whispers, his throat raw. “I should have; gods, please.” 

The silence answers him. It presses down heavy and unrelenting until he almost chokes on it. The castle, once alive with quiet laughter and the scent of baking bread, feels dead. Empty. A tomb built around them both. 

He stares at her hand resting in his palm, so small, so human. There’s dirt beneath her nails from the garden, a faint stain of berry on her fingertip. She’d been alive just hours ago. Laughing. Blushing. Reading aloud badly from that book she’d loved even though she could barely sound out the words. 

He presses her hand to his lips, closing his eyes. “You foolish, stubborn thing,” he murmurs against her skin. “You were supposed to be safe here.” 

But safety had never been meant for people like him. And now, not for her. 

He tries to remember how to breathe. It feels mechanical; air in, air out; but the ache in his chest only deepens. It’s like his ribs are collapsing inward, splintering beneath a grief too large to contain. His throat tightens, and for the first time in centuries, something wet spills down his cheeks. 

Tears.  Real ones. 

They fall onto her hair, glimmering in the faint light, and he hates himself for them. For feeling, for failing, for being alive when she isn’t. 

Hours stretch on. At some point Jovana appears, face pale, trembling, but the look in Astarion’s eyes freezes her where she stands. The kind of look that belongs to a man who’s already half-mad. She retreats silently, understanding without words that there’s nothing she can do. 

He stays. 

When the night deepens again, he leans back against the wall and gathers her closer, as though the act might hide her from the world that stole her away. His voice is barely a breath when he speaks, but the words cut him open all the same. 

“I never told you,” he says, the sound breaking on the edges of despair. “I never told you that you were the first thing that made me feel human again.” 

The confession hangs there, unanswered. 

He rests his forehead against hers, his fangs grazing his lip as he bites down on a sob that wants to tear free. His fingers thread through her hair, careful, reverent; the same way he used to touch her when she read by the fire. The scent of her blood still lingers in the air, faint and wrong. He can’t stand it, but he can’t move away either. 

The world outside continues on; wind, snow, the shifting of the moon; but for Astarion, time has stopped. There is only this room, this silence, this unbearable stillness. 

Eventually, he feels her growing colder in his arms. The truth sinks in like a blade twisting deep. 

And that’s when something inside him breaks. Quietly. Completely. 

The part of him that believed he could outrun his master’s curse dies there, with her. 

He lifts his head, staring blankly at the ceiling. His expression is empty, his voice no longer shaking, just hollow. 

“I’ll burn the world for this,” he says. 

Not loud. Not a vow shouted to the heavens. Just a quiet promise spoken to the corpse of the only person who ever saw him as something more than a monster. 

Then he presses a kiss to her forehead, soft as snowfall. 

And for the first time in his long, cursed existence, Astarion wishes for dawn ; not to survive it, but to finally end. 

Astarion gathers you into his arms with a tenderness that shakes, as though even the slightest wrong movement might shatter what little remains of his sanity. The moment your weight settles against him, something inside him buckles, and he pulls you closer,not because he thinks he can save you, not because he believes you will wake, but because letting go is suddenly the most terrifying thing he has ever faced. You feel impossibly light now, far too light, as if the world has already begun to take you away from him, and he clutches you as though he can anchor you here by force of will alone. 

He rises to his feet, but the act feels monumental, as though grief itself has wrapped chains around his limbs. Every step toward your room drags at him, carving deeper grooves of devastation into his chest. The castle corridors blur around him, warping under the storm of emotion crashing through him. Rooms he once stalked with pride and cold detachment now feel cavernous and cruel. The shadows cling to him like mourners, and the silence presses against his ears until he can hear nothing but his own uneven breaths. 

He was used to loneliness. He was forged in it, sharpened by it, drowned in it for centuries. Loneliness had been the only constant in his twisted, cursed existence. But then you arrived; meek, trembling, unwanted by the world; and somehow you became the antidote to every quiet ache he carried. You were warmth tucked between frozen years, hope whispered into a life that had never known it, softness pressed against a spirit carved into a weapon. 

You were the one thing he had not allowed himself to want. The one thing he had not dared to imagine. And now you were cradled in his arms like a fallen star, dimmed before he ever had the chance to truly bask in your light. 

As he walks, the memory of your laughter stings like salt on a wound. The echo of your voice flickers through his mind with such clarity that for a heartbeat he almost believes he will hear it again. He remembers the night you leaned your head on his shoulder during a snowfall, giggling when he stiffened in surprise. He remembers the way your fingers brushed through his hair when nightmares clawed at him. He remembers your hesitant smile when he kissed you outside your door, a moment so delicate he had feared breathing would break it. 

He remembers everything, and each memory is a blade dragging slowly across his ribs. 

By the time he reaches your bedroom door, his strength falters. His knees shake under the crushing weight of reality. He looks down at you, and his vision swims until he cannot see the hallway through his tears. You used to complain about this room being too quiet, too large, too empty. Now the emptiness roars around him like an open grave. 

He pushes the door open with his shoulder and steps inside. The air is still, holding the faintest trace of your scent, something soft and warm that once soothed him more effectively than any balm. The room feels colder without you awake inside it. He lays you down on the bed with the reverence of a priest handling sacred relics. His hands linger on your cheek, trembling violently as he brushes his thumb across your skin, memorizing every curve, every softness, every detail he should have adored more fiercely while he had the chance. 

A sound breaks from him; raw, hollow, and quiet, as though even grief is afraid to echo too loudly here. He sinks to his knees beside the bed and bows over you. His forehead rests against the mattress, and he grips the sheets so tightly that his knuckles pale. Each breath drags through him like a sob forced through a cracked soul. He has faced centuries of cruelty without shedding a tear, but now the dam bursts. The pain is too large, too sharp, too consuming to hold back anymore. 

He whispers your name, and it cracks in his throat. It leaves him like a plea, a confession, an apology, and a curse all at once. He tries to speak again, but no words come. Only silent anguish spills out, heavy enough to bow his spine. 

He realizes, with staggering clarity, that you were the only being who ever looked at him and saw something worth saving. You were the first person who offered him kindness with no ulterior motive, no fear, no reverence. You were the only one who touched him gently, who smiled when he entered a room, who sat awake at night simply to watch him breathe because you thought he looked peaceful. 

He had not deserved you. And he knows, with a shattering finality, that he will never deserve this grief either, yet it devours him all the same. 

He presses his lips to your hand, cold now, and he vows, brokenly, uselessly, to stay with you. Hours pass. The moon drags across the sky. Dawn stains the horizon in shades of pink and gold, colors that once made you gasp in awe as if every sunrise were a gift. 

But morning does not touch him. The world continues, indifferent to his suffering. 

He remains kneeling there, body curled protectively over you, as though shielding you from the sunrise. As though refusing to let go could somehow undo what has been done. 

Astarion, a creature who once believed he could survive anything, now understands the truth: 

Without you, he is nothing but a lonely thing again. A battered, broken soul whose last piece of hope has been carved out of him. 

The next days blurred into something unrecognizable. He stayed by your side, refusing to leave even when exhaustion dragged at him. He lay beside you, unmoving, barely breathing, as though he were afraid the sound might disturb your rest. The castle grew colder. Snow gathered outside the windows in thick, quiet sheets. But none of it mattered. There was only the bed. Only you. Only the crushing emptiness sitting beside him like a second ghost. 

He ran his fingers over your knuckles again and again, whispering things he would never admit aloud if you could hear him. Apologies. Pleas. Secrets he had once sworn he would never share with anyone. He told you that you had made him feel alive. That you had given him something he had never dared hope for; gentleness, warmth, a sense of belonging. You had been a miracle in a life cursed by cruelty, and losing you felt like losing the last piece of his soul. 

When anger finally began to burn through the fog of grief, it was slow and relentless, flickering at the edges before it consumed him entirely. His trembling softened. His breathing steadied. The hollow ache behind his ribs hardened into something sharper. 

On the morning of the third day, he stood. 

Jovana stood in the doorway, weak and bandaged, still pale from her injuries. Her eyes filled with dread as soon as she saw him gathering his cloak. 

“Astarion… please,” she whispered, clutching the frame for balance. “Her funeral… you have to be here. She would want... he would want you beside her.” 

He paused. For a moment, the mask slipped, and the rawness in his eyes nearly sent him to his knees again. But the anger held him upright. It steadied his shoulders, tightened his jaw. 

“I cannot,” he said, voice low and tight. “I cannot watch them lower her into the cold earth while he still breathes. I cannot stand there knowing Cazador still walks free.” He turned his head slightly toward the bed, his voice cracking. “She deserves peace. She deserves safety. She deserves justice.” 

Jovana moved toward him as quickly as her body allowed, reaching for his arm. “Then stay until she is laid to rest,” she begged. “Please. You are not thinking clearly. If you go now;” 

He gently pulled away, not unkindly, but with an unshakable finality. 

“There is nothing left for me to think about,” he murmured. “Grief has stolen that luxury.” He looked back at you one last time, and the sight of you nearly shattered his resolve. “I will not let her be buried while the monster who hunted her lives another night.” 

His voice shook as he added, barely above a whisper, “I cannot bear it, Jovana. I cannot bear seeing her lowered into the ground without her killer already rotting beneath it.” 

And with that, Astarion stepped out into the cold, the snow catching in his white hair like the ashes of everything he had ever loved. 

Through grief, he walked into vengeance. 

Through heartbreak, he walked into hell. 

And he did so willingly, because losing you had taught him there was nothing left in this world worth fearing more than your absence. 

The forest is silent when Astarion arrives, so silent it feels wrong. Not even the wind stirs the branches overhead. Snow lies in untouched sheets across the ground, except for the single figure standing in the center of a clearing, dressed as elegantly as if he were hosting a banquet rather than waiting for war. 

Cazador. 

He smiles the moment he sees Astarion, a slow, cruel curl of the lips, as if greeting a long, lost pet. 

“Well,” Cazador purrs, brushing invisible dust from his immaculate sleeve, “look who finally decided to come home.” 

Astarion doesn’t answer. Words are too small for the storm breaking inside him. He steps forward once, then twice, fists trembling at his sides. The snow beneath his boots cracks, the only sound he can hear over the pounding in his head. 

You.  Your scent still lingers on him.  Your blood-faded, faint, but enough to rip open the wound in his chest until he can barely draw breath. 

Cazador inhales theatrically. “Ah. You can smell it too, can’t you? The last one. Shame she didn’t last. They rarely do.” 

Astarion’s vision fractures. His muscles coil. Every bone in his body feels as if it’s been carved out of lightning. 

“Do not,” he whispers, voice shaking, “say a single word about her.” 

Cazador laughs. “Why? Because she was special to you? Oh, Astarion. How delightfully pathetic.” 

The last thread of control snaps. 

Astarion launches forward with such force that the ground bursts beneath him. His shoulder slams into Cazador’s chest, sending them both skidding across the snow. Cazador regains his footing instantly, grabbing Astarion by the jaw and shoving him backward into a tree. 

The impact cracks the trunk. 

Astarion roars and twists out of his grip, driving his elbow into Cazador’s ribs. The hit lands hard, enough to stagger him, but Cazador only looks amused. 

“You’re stronger than before,” Cazador says. “Grief becomes you.” 

Astarion doesn’t reply,he’s already swinging. Claws slash through the air, swift as daggers. Cazador dodges easily, retaliating with a strike to Astarion’s throat that sends him gasping to the ground. 

Astarion scrambles up, ignoring the pain. Pain is nothing. Pain is irrelevant. Pain is a whisper compared to the scream inside him. 

He lunges again, teeth bared. 

Cazador catches him mid-charge, fingers digging cruelly into his shoulder as he uses Astarion’s momentum to hurl him across the clearing. Astarion hits the ground and rolls, snow exploding around him. 

“Look at you,” Cazador mocks, strolling toward him as though out for a pleasant walk. “Crawling, choking on emotion like a human. Did you really think you could love anything without losing it?” 

Astarion’s breath shudders. The words hit harder than the blows. 

He forces himself up; slowly, painfully; and wipes the blood from his mouth. 

“I didn’t lose her,” he growls. “You stole her.” 

“Same thing.” 

Astarion charges again. This time he’s faster, fueled by fury so wild it burns through the exhaustion slowing his limbs. He slams into Cazador and they crash into the snow together, grappling violently. Astarion digs his knees into Cazador’s ribs and punches him; once, twice, again; each hit an explosion of anguish. 

Cazador snarls and flips him with unnatural strength. He pins Astarion’s arms to the ground, leaning close. 

“You were always meant to serve me,” he hisses. “Even now, you’re on your knees.” 

Astarion strains beneath him, muscles shaking, but Cazador is stronger, older, merciless. 

Until. 

Astarion’s gaze flicks upward. A shard of ice hangs from an overhead branch, jagged and heavy. 

He twists just enough to break one arm free and grabs Cazador’s wrist. With a sudden surge of strength he didn’t know he still possessed, he uses Cazador’s weight against him and rolls. They flip again, and this time Astarion is on top. 

Cazador snarls and thrashes, but Astarion slams him backward, aligning his movement deliberately; 

Straight beneath the hanging shard. 

Cazador looks up too late. 

Astarion drives his knee into his chest, and the branch snaps. 

There is a heavy crack as the ice plunges downward and pins Cazador to the ground, freezing him in place long enough for Astarion to drag himself free and stumble back. 

Cazador wheezes, eyes blazing with hatred. “You think this will stop me?” 

“No,” Astarion whispers, voice ragged. “But it will slow you. Long enough for me to finish this.” 

He steps forward. He does not hesitate. 

Astarion sank his claws into Cazador’s chest and dragged downward, tearing through fabric and flesh alike. Snow steamed with spilled blood. Cazador buckled, stumbling, breath shuddering. His eyes widened,not with fear, but with dawning realization. 

He was losing. 

“You…” Cazador spat. “You ungrateful wretch;” 

Astarion slammed him against a tree with enough force to shake loose a shower of frost. “You took everything from me,” he snarled. “My life. My freedom. My choices. And now;” His voice cracked. “Now you’ve taken the only good thing I ever had.” 

Cazador’s knees buckled, and he slid to the snow, bleeding heavily. The forest went utterly silent, as if waiting for the end. 

Astarion stood over him, trembling with rage and heartbreak. “This is for her.” 

Cazador smiled. 

It was small. Crooked. Blood leaking between his teeth. 

And it terrified Astarion. 

“Do you think… I didn’t plan for this?” Cazador whispered. “For the day you finally slipped your leash?” 

Astarion lunged, but Cazador was faster by a heartbeat, just one. His hand shot up, grabbing Astarion by the jaw with startling strength. Before Astarion could tear free, Cazador wrenched him down, and shoved his wrist into Astarion’s mouth. 

Hot, ancient blood flooded his tongue. 

Astarion gagged, tried to pull back, but Cazador held him in place with the last of his strength. 

“Drink,” he croaked, grin widening, “and… suffer.” 

Astarion tore away at last, stumbling backward and spitting, clawing at his tongue, his throat,anything to rid himself of the vile taste. But the blood was already inside him. Metallic fire crawled through his veins, igniting every nerve. His vision blurred, his bones burned, the world tilted. 

Cazador collapsed to the snow, laughing weakly, breath rattling. 

“With my last breath,” he rasped, “I give you a gift…” 

Astarion snarled, “I don’t want anything from you!” 

Cazador smiled with his final exhale; thin, wicked, triumphant. 

“Now that you’re a fully fledged vampire… you cannot die so easily.”  His eyes gleamed with cruel satisfaction.  “You will never follow her into the grave.” 

And with that, Cazador went still. 

Astarion stared, breath shuddering, hands shaking uncontrollably as the blood seared through him, hollowing him out, filling him with a new, unwanted strength. A strength that felt like chains. 

He fell to his knees in the snow. 

Not victorious. Not free. Just destroyed. 

Astarion walked for days without stopping, moving through the forest like a wounded specter who refused to fall. His body screamed with every step, each movement sending lightning, hot pain through his ribs where Cazador’s blows had landed. His vision wavered, fading in and out like a lantern on the edge of extinguishing, yet he pressed forward because the only thing his mind could cling to was you. Every breath he dragged into his lungs hurt, but the thought of you was the only thread pulling him onward. He could not stop. He could not rest. He had to go home, back to the castle where you waited in memory, where the echo of your laughter still lived in the halls even if you no longer walked them. 

The trees eventually thinned, their dark silhouettes giving way to the vast clearing where the castle rose out of the winter; dulled earth like a monument to all the things he had dared to hope for. When its towering gates finally came into view, his breath caught. A cold, sharp ache speared through his chest; a deeper agony than any wound Cazador had inflicted. He knew before he saw it. He felt it in the marrow of his bones, in the way the air went still, in the way his legs trembled as if refusing to take him farther. 

And then he saw your grave. 

The earth was still fresh, the soil dark and unsettled beneath the thin blanket of frost. Your name was carved into the stone with painful care, each letter precise, deliberate, final. Astarion stopped walking. His body locked mid-stride as if the world itself had turned to ice around him. For a long moment he simply stood there, staring, the wind brushing past him in quiet, mournful currents. His throat tightened so violently he had to swallow against the rising ache, but it did nothing to ease the pressure crushing his chest. His heart, whatever fragile thing he had begun to grow with you, shattered with the force of a hammer’s blow. 

His knees buckled. 

He hit the ground hard, the impact sending a burning jolt through every battered muscle, yet he barely felt it. His hands shook as they pressed into the cold dirt, the world blurring as tears slipped down his cheeks without restraint. He could not breathe. He could not think. All he could do was stare at the stone that marked the end of everything he had ever dared to believe he could have. A whimper escaped him, weak, broken, raw and he bowed his head, unable to hold himself upright beneath the weight of his grief. 

With what little strength he had left, he dragged his body forward. His fingers clawed into the snow-kissed soil, pulling himself inch by excruciating inch toward you. Every movement scraped fire through his limbs; his wounds tore open again, warm blood sliding beneath his shirt, but pain no longer mattered. He crawled because it was the only thing he could do. Because he needed to be close to you, even now. Because the idea of not touching the place where you rested felt more unbearable than any agony he had endured. 

By the time he reached your grave, his arms shook so violently he could barely hold himself up. He pressed his forehead to the stone with a broken sob, his fingers trembling as they traced your name as if saying it through touch alone might bring you back. His tears fell freely, dripping onto the cold surface, soaking into the soil below. He whispered your name like a prayer, like an apology, like a plea that would never be heard. His voice cracked under the weight of everything he felt; regret twisting with love, anguish tangled with longing, and a hollow, soul-deep ache that consumed everything inside him. 

He gathered the earth into his arms as if he could gather you, pulling himself over your grave and curling his body protectively around the fresh mound of soil. His entire frame shook with silent, shattering sobs that tore through him until he thought his chest might split open from the force. The world felt distant, muted, unreal. The only real thing left was this cold earth beneath him, the last place you would ever be, and the crushing truth that you were gone because he had failed to save you. 

His newly freed power pulsed faintly in his veins, a cruel reminder of what Cazador had done. He was stronger than he had ever been. He was free. And none of it mattered. Not when the one soul who had treated him with kindness, who had touched him like he was something worth loving, lay beneath the ground he clung to. 

“I am too late,” he whispered, the words breaking apart in his throat. “I am too late, my love.” 

He stayed like that as snow began to fall. Soft flakes drifted down and clung to his lashes, his hair, his torn clothes. They dusted his back first, then his shoulders, and then slowly began to cover him entirely. He did not move. He did not brush the snow away. He did not even shiver. He welcomed the cold because it brought numbness, and numbness was the closest thing to peace he could imagine. He pressed his forehead harder into the earth, letting it cradle him in its unforgiving stillness. 

“I should be with you,” he whispered, voice raw and breaking. “I should have followed you. I should have died instead.” 

The wind curled gently around him, lifting the snowflakes into a soft swirl, but he did not look up. He only clung tighter to your grave as if the ground itself anchored him to the world. 

“I want to be where you are,” he said, and his voice trembled as if the words cost him pieces of his soul. “Wherever you went… please… let me follow.” 

More snow fell. His body grew heavier beneath its weight. His fingers stiffened, but he did not pull them free. He remained pressed against your grave as if trying to merge with the earth through sheer will alone. The world faded slowly to white around him, but he did not care. He hoped the cold would take him. He hoped it would slow his breath and still his heart. He hoped he would drift quietly into whatever afterlife waited beyond this torment and find you standing there, smiling as you used to. 

He stayed like that for hours; silent, unmoving, frozen to the ground; willing the snow to bury him beside you so the two of you could be reunited at last. 

And if the world forgot him… it would not matter. 

He had already lost the only part of it he ever loved. 

Note: So, this is only part one. Part two is already in production and will be as angsty as before *insert evil laugh here*. Please let me know if yall liked this :)))

[thepiinkpages]

King!Gojo Satoru X Queen!Reader (Historical Romance) Part 3

Edit: Third and final part <3 what character should I do next? Leave some options in the comments!

WARNING: This fic has themes like depression and more.

Part 1 Part 2

———————

Gojo's POV

The days bled together in a haze of torment. Gojo had always known what it meant to live on the edge of exhaustion, to wear down his body until even his cursed techniques strained—but never like this. Never when it was his own sanity on the line.

He buried himself in work with a ferocity that alarmed even his council. Endless reports, border conflicts, interrogations of the Duke’s surviving allies—anything that would keep his hands moving, his mind occupied. Anything to stave off the creeping image of your face when you whispered for him to end your life.

But the moment his duties released him, he was gone. Always gone—to you. The palace whispered about it. The Empress’s quarters, untouched and quiet, had become his haunt. Servants who once admired his brilliance now averted their eyes at the sight of him lingering in those halls like a phantom, his face carved hollow from sleepless nights.

Every evening he came, and every evening was the same. You would be there, propped against silk cushions in a bed too large for your fragile form. The royal physician came and went with his tinctures and whispered worries, but you remained the same.

Blank.

Your eyes did not follow Gojo when he entered. Your lips did not move when he spoke. You sat in the vast stillness of that gilded prison, your gaze unfocused on some place far beyond his reach. It was as though you had already left him, your body merely a husk abandoned by the soul inside.

And it was killing him.

Gojo would sit at your bedside, his large frame hunched, his snow-white hair disheveled from his restless hands raking through it. He would take your hand, fingers trembling, pressing your limp palm against his cheek like a man starved for warmth.

“Please,” he whispered each night, voice cracking against the silence. “Look at me. Yell at me. Hate me. Anything—just don’t leave me like this.”

But you never answered. You never blinked in his direction. You never gave him even the cruelty of rejection.

It was worse than death.

And Gojo, the strongest man alive, was crumbling under the weight of a punishment no curse, no blade, no enemy had ever been able to deliver: the punishment of being invisible to the one person he couldn’t live without.

The silence had become so constant Gojo thought it might consume him whole. The sound of his own breathing, the faint rustle of the curtains, even the steady ticking of the lacquered clock on the wall—it was all sharper, louder, because you gave him nothing.

And then, one day, your lips moved.

“...Did they find my brother’s body?”

Gojo’s heart stopped. The words were brittle, little more than breath, but they were yours. His head jerked toward you, eyes wide beneath his lashes as if he had imagined it. For a moment, he could not even answer; the sheer fact you had spoken cracked something in his chest he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.

“Yes,” he whispered finally, his voice breaking into the quiet like a prayer. “Yes… his remains are being brought here. A week’s time. We’ll give him a proper funeral, I promise.”

You didn’t respond. Your eyes stayed vacant, fixed on nothing, as though his words had failed to reach the depths of wherever you’d fallen. He swallowed hard, forcing his next words past the lump in his throat.

“And… the letter,” Gojo said carefully, almost uncertainly, as though stepping across fragile glass. “Have you… have you read what he left you?”

For the first time, you turned to him. Slowly, stiffly. Your gaze met his, and the hollow blankness in your eyes struck him harder than any curse technique ever had. They were empty, endless, and yet the faint tremor in them made his blood run cold.

“Letter?” Your voice was flat, drained of life. “Nobody told me about a letter.”

Gojo froze, guilt crashing over him in suffocating waves. He had assumed—he had thought the physician or Yuji had—

He nodded stiffly, jaw clenched so tightly his teeth ached. He stood, every step heavy as he moved across the room to the carved jewelry box resting on the vanity. His hands shook as he lifted the lid, retrieving the folded parchment sealed with a crude, uneven mark—the only thing your brother had been able to press before his hands failed him.

When he returned to your bedside, Gojo didn’t speak. He couldn’t. He simply knelt, trembling fingers placing the letter into your hands as if it were something sacred, as if the paper itself might shatter under his touch.

“It’s… from his deathbed,” he managed hoarsely, forcing the words out though they burned in his throat. “He wanted you to have it.”

The parchment trembled in your hands. Gojo followed your eyes as you reached the last line, then your body convulsed with sobs so violent you couldn’t contain them. The letter slipped from your fingers, fluttering down like a wounded bird before landing on the floor.

Your cries tore through the chamber, wild and broken, echoing off the walls until it sounded as though the room itself was weeping. You clutched at your chest, your nails biting into your skin as if trying to rip the pain free.

“Why?” Your voice cracked, your throat raw from the force of your wail. “Why would he say that? Why would he want me to live when everything—everything—I ever loved has already left me?!”

Gojo stood frozen at first, the sound of your anguish gutting him, leaving him powerless. But when the letter lay abandoned at his feet, his hands moved on their own. He stooped, fingers brushing the paper as though it were something alive, and lifted it with trembling reverence.

His eyes scanned the ink, each word striking him like a blade:

My dearest sister, if you’re reading this, it means my body has failed me. I wanted to see you, just once more, to remind you that you are the best part of my life. Please, don’t mourn me too long. Live—not because I ask it, but because you deserve it. You’ve suffered enough. Travel the world. See everything I could not. Love, laugh, and be free, because if I cannot be beside you in this life, I’ll watch proudly from the next.

Gojo’s heart split. He had faced curses, wars, betrayals—things that would crush the will of most men. But nothing had ever undone him like the sight of you, kneeling in despair, clawing at your own chest as if you could tear your heart free from your ribs.

He wanted to move to you, to hold you, to shield you from every cruel hand fate had dealt. But his body locked. He could only stand there, drowning in the weight of it all, whispering apologies in his head that would never be enough.

And in that moment, he realized what true punishment was. Not pain. Not death. But being forced to watch the one soul you loved shatter into pieces while knowing you could never put them back together.

Gojo couldn’t take it anymore. The sound of your sobs was unbearable, each one carving deeper into him until he thought he might collapse. His hands shook as he dropped the letter onto the floor and lurched forward, reaching for you as though his touch alone could anchor you, could stitch your heart back together.

“Please—” his voice broke, hoarse with desperation as he wrapped his arms around you, trying to pull you against his chest. “Please, let me hold you—”

But you fought him.

Your fists beat weakly at his chest, your nails clawed at his robes, and though your body was frail, the words you screamed at him hit harder than any curse could.

“I hate you!” you cried, your voice shattering like glass. “I hate you for treating me that way, for looking at me like I was nothing—like I didn’t matter!”

Gojo froze, your struggles battering against his arms, but he couldn’t let go. He couldn’t—not when you were crumbling right in front of him. But your words kept coming, each one twisting the knife deeper into his chest.

“You never believed me,” you spat, tears streaming down your face. “Not when I begged, not when I cried. You left me there—you didn’t come—you never saved me!”

Gojo’s throat closed up. He shook his head violently, the tears spilling hot and fast down his cheeks. “No… no, don’t—don’t say that—”

But you weren’t finished. Your voice was a broken scream now, words dripping with years of buried agony.

“And worst of all—you never loved me! Not the way I loved you!”

The world stopped.

Gojo’s arms slackened, though he didn’t let go. He couldn’t breathe. The words slammed into him, hollowing him out from the inside, leaving him gutted and shaking. He wanted to scream back, to deny it, to swear to you that you were everything—everything—but the truth tangled in his throat like barbed wire.

Because he had loved you. Always. But he had hidden it, buried it under fear, duty, self-loathing—until it had festered into a silence so loud it had deafened you both. And now, hearing the anguish in your voice, he realized his silence had cost you everything.

Your body sagged, exhausted from your fury, but the venom of your words still lingered in the air, burning into his skin. Gojo held you tighter, even though every fiber of you screamed to push him away. His voice trembled as he finally managed to choke out,

“I know. I know I failed you. And if hate is all you have left for me, then I’ll carry it—I’ll take every drop of it. But please… please don’t leave me. Not yet. Not like this.”

He pressed his forehead to your shoulder, sobbing silently, because for the first time in his life, the strongest man alive had never felt weaker.

By the time your body sagged against the sheets, your tears ebbing into silent tremors instead of screams, Gojo felt like he had lived through a thousand battles. His throat was raw, his chest heavy, and every muscle in him trembled from the strain of holding you when all you wanted was to push him away.

You were quiet now, your face turned from him, and though he knew it wasn’t peace—just the hollow aftermath of breaking—he clung to it anyway, because it was the only silence left between you that didn’t involve your absence.

Gojo sank into the chair by your bedside, his long frame folding awkwardly into it, his hand still locked around yours like it was the only tether keeping him from slipping into the abyss. His eyes burned with fatigue, lids dragging lower and lower until he could barely fight them open, but he didn’t dare fall asleep. Not here. Not now.

Because sleep wasn’t rest for him anymore—it was torment. Every time he closed his eyes, the same nightmares clawed their way out of the dark. You, slipping from his grasp. You, lying cold in his arms, eyes empty and lips pale. You, walking away from him without looking back. And worst of all—the oldest nightmare of them all—seeing you as a child again, small and fragile, trapped in that wretched cave while he stood outside, powerless, watching the light die in your eyes because he hadn’t been strong enough to fight.

His heart cracked just remembering it. If only—if only he had been stronger then, if only he hadn’t been the coward fate made him into, maybe things would be different now. Maybe you’d be smiling instead of lying here, body ravaged and soul splintered. Maybe you would have grown up happy, safe, loved—never needing to beg for anyone to believe you.

Gojo swallowed hard, forcing his eyes wider, though tears blurred the edges of your form. His chest ached with the weight of all the “what ifs” he could never undo. The man everyone saw as untouchable, invincible, was sitting here on the edge of collapse, terrified of closing his eyes because even his dreams wouldn’t spare him from his failures.

And still, despite everything, he whispered into the dark, voice trembling against the silence of the room:

“If I’d been strong enough back then… maybe you’d still be happy now.”

The words bled out of him like a prayer, like a curse, like an admission he could never take back. He bowed his head, gripping your hand tighter, as though that single fragile thread was the only thing still keeping his soul from shattering completely.

Gojo hadn’t meant to fall asleep. He had sworn he wouldn’t, clinging to your hand as if that would anchor him against the heaviness dragging his body under. But exhaustion was merciless, and eventually, his head bowed and his lashes fell, surrendering to the shadows.

The nightmares came instantly. You, in that cave again, calling his name as he stood helpless on the other side. You, collapsing in his arms, your skin ice-cold as your breath rattled its last.

He jolted awake with a strangled gasp, chest heaving, throat burning from a scream that barely escaped. His hands shot forward instinctively—searching for you—desperate for the warmth of your fingers in his.

But his grasp closed on empty sheets.

The chair beside your bed was toppled. The blanket was half-spilled to the floor. And you—

You weren’t there.

Gojo’s blood froze. His vision swam, heart slamming against his ribs with a violence that made him dizzy. For a moment, the world spun so hard it felt like he was still trapped in the nightmare, but the cold reality sank in fast, brutal, unrelenting. You were gone.

“No—no, no, no…” His voice cracked as his eyes darted across the room, frantic, wild, searching every corner, every shadow. He stumbled to his feet, nearly tripping over himself as he shoved open the door, shouting your name into the empty corridors of the empress’s palace. The sound echoed back at him, hollow, merciless.

His chest constricted so tightly it felt like the walls themselves were closing in. His throat was raw, his breaths shallow, but still he called for you, again and again, his voice breaking like glass. Each unanswered cry tore him further apart, convincing him with bone-deep certainty that he had failed you again—just like before, just like always.

And for the first time in his life, Satoru Gojo—invincible, untouchable—felt like a man who had already lost everything.

His footsteps thundered through the palace halls, each turn more desperate than the last. His mind was unraveling with every second you weren’t in front of him. Images assaulted him—your body lying cold in some forgotten room, your wrists bound, your voice calling for help he couldn’t reach. The more he searched, the louder his thoughts screamed, punishing him with every memory of how he had failed you before.

And then—he froze.

Through the wide-open archway leading to the gardens, pale moonlight poured in, silvering the grass, the roses, the marble paths. And there you were.

Barefoot, hair loose and unkempt, your nightgown trailing behind you as you moved like a ghost across the garden. Your lips trembled, words spilling out in broken fragments, pleas torn from the marrow of your being.

“Please… save me… please… don’t leave me here… moon, save me…”

Your voice was so small, so lost, it ripped Gojo apart. He wanted to run to you, to wrap you in his arms and never let go, but then his stomach dropped.

At your feet—dark streaks soaked into the earth. Blood. The metallic tang hit his nose, sharp and nauseating. His eyes darted lower, and his chest seized—shards of glass scattered across the path, catching the moonlight in cruel little sparks. You must have stepped on them. That explained the crimson trail following your every step.

“God, no—no, no…” Gojo’s legs moved before his mind could even catch up. His pulse roared in his ears, a drumbeat of terror, as he sprinted across the garden toward you. Every shard of glass you passed, every drop of blood that stained the stones, carved another wound into him.

You kept walking, hands stretched toward the sky, whispering to the moon as if it were the only thing left in this world that could hear you.

Gojo’s breath broke as he reached out, terrified that if he touched you too suddenly, you’d vanish—like mist under the morning sun.

Gojo slowed, every muscle in his body screaming to run to you, to scoop you up and drag you away from the shards and the blood. But something in the way you swayed beneath the moonlight—fragile, untethered, like the faintest breeze could shatter you—paralyzed him. One wrong move and he’d break you all over again.

His chest ached as he forced his steps to soften, each one deliberate, careful, like he was approaching a wounded bird. His throat worked around a lump so heavy it almost suffocated him.

“...Hey,” he whispered, voice trembling as though even sound itself could hurt you. “It’s me… it’s Gojo. You’re safe. You don’t have to beg anymore.”

But you didn’t hear him. Your lips kept moving, pleading to the moon as though it were your last salvation. “Please… save me… please don’t leave me here… I’ll be good this time…”

His vision blurred. The blood trailing from your feet felt like chains wrapping around his heart, dragging him into the abyss with you. His hands shook as he reached out, hovering just above your shoulders, terrified to touch, terrified not to.

If he startled you, would you wake in terror and spiral further? If he didn’t, would you bleed out in front of him?

“God, you’re killing me…” His voice cracked. He bent lower, so close he could feel the whisper of your breath. “Please, look at me… just once. Don’t disappear on me, not again.”

Finally—hesitantly, with more reverence than he’d ever given anything in his life—his fingers brushed your arm. Feather-light. A trembling caress.

“Come back to me,” he pleaded, as if his very existence depended on it.

Gojo’s breath shook as he bent, carefully sliding his arms beneath you as though you might crumble into dust if he wasn’t gentle enough. The faint smear of blood across the grass burned into his vision, searing it into his mind like a curse he’d never escape. He carried you to the nearest bench, lowering you down with reverence, his hands lingering as if letting go might mean losing you again.

Your feet were a mess—thin rivulets of red trailing down pale skin, glittering slivers of glass embedded deep. His stomach churned, guilt clawing up his throat. He sank to his knees before you, fingers fumbling as he tugged at his collar and ripped the fabric apart. The sound of tearing cotton split the night, and with it, his composure.

Gojo’s fingers shook as he wrapped the strips of torn fabric around your bleeding feet, his vision blurring until he had to blink hard to keep the blood and glass in focus. But when he dared to lift his gaze, when he saw your face—those empty, cold eyes looking down at him as though he were nothing—something inside him snapped. Tears welled unbidden, sliding down his cheeks before he could stop them.

“What… are you doing?” Your voice cut through the night like frost, sharp in its emotionless edge.

His throat worked, but no words came at first. He was too busy trying to swallow the lump choking him. Then the dam broke, and his voice tumbled out cracked and pleading. “I’m… I’m trying to fix it. Please. Just tell me what I have to do. Tell me how to make this right.” His hands tightened around the fabric, like if he bound your wounds tight enough, he might somehow bind the gaping chasm between you.

You didn’t flinch. You didn’t soften. Instead, your words landed with the precision of knives.

“Why should I forgive you?” you whispered, voice trembling not with weakness but with venom long-starved. “You never gave me the light of day. You never trusted me. You always reprimanded me, cut me down, silenced me.” Your eyes glistened now, but there was no warmth in them—only fire buried in ice. “You were never there.”

Gojo’s heart stopped. Each accusation carved deeper, hollowing him out from the inside until his chest ached as if the words themselves had torn through flesh and bone. He shook his head violently, tears falling faster, his voice breaking as it cracked out of him.

“I know—I know, I was wrong, I was blind, I—damn it, I should’ve seen you, should’ve believed you, should’ve been there every moment—” His words dissolved into a sob as he bent forward, forehead pressing into your knees like a man begging the gods themselves for mercy. “Please… don’t shut me out forever. Hate me, curse me, but don’t erase me.”

Gojo’s tears dripped onto the bandages as he tried to steady his hands, but your voice cut him deeper than any shard of glass ever could.

“Why should I forgive you?” you said again, sharper now, each syllable like steel dragging through his chest. “Why should I be happy, when my brother died a prisoner in the Duke’s home? Alone. Afraid. Forgotten.” Your breath hitched, but your eyes stayed mercilessly fixed on him. “While you—” your voice broke, then hardened again, “while you were out there, living free, too blind to see what was happening to me.”

Gojo froze, lips trembling soundlessly. His head bowed lower, shoulders caving under the truth he’d tried for so long not to face.

“Every time I knelt before you,” you whispered, voice quaking now with years of buried rage, “every time I begged for forgiveness you never gave, do you know what it did to me? Do you know how small you made me feel? How worthless?”

He couldn’t look at you. He wanted to reach for you, to deny it, to beg again—but the words caught in his throat, burning like acid.

“And every time,” you continued, the tremor in your voice now a storm, “you brought another girl into your arms. Right in front of me. Smiling, laughing—like I didn’t exist, like I wasn’t breaking inside while I watched.” Tears slipped down your cheeks, but your eyes never softened. “Why me, Gojo? Why did I have to be the one to suffer? Why was it always me?”

The silence that followed was suffocating. Gojo’s shoulders shook as he knelt before you, his tears soaking into the dirt, his voice shattered to fragments. “I… I don’t know,” he whispered, the words as weak and pitiful as a dying man’s breath. “God, I don’t know why I hurt you like that. I don’t know why it was you—” His hands clawed at his own hair, as if trying to rip the guilt out of his skull. “But it should never have been you. It should never have been you.”

Your words lingered in the night air like poison, clinging to his lungs until he couldn’t breathe. Gojo’s hands trembled where they rested on your bandaged feet, his chest rising and falling with ragged, broken breaths. But when the silence stretched, when he dared to lift his head—he found your gaze had turned colder than the moon above.

Without a word, you pulled your legs back, slow and deliberate, the scrape of glass against the ground echoing louder than his heartbeat. You rose shakily, your limp pronounced, every step agony. Yet you refused his arm, refused even to stumble near him. He reached out instinctively, fingers twitching toward you, but you didn’t so much as glance back.

The rejection was absolute.

Gojo’s mouth opened, desperate to call after you, but the words lodged like knives in his throat. All he could do was watch as you turned, limped across the blood-speckled stones, and disappeared into the shadowed halls of the palace.

His body swayed where he knelt, dizziness clawing at the edges of his vision. A strange warmth spread beneath him, and when he looked down, he finally noticed the shards embedded in his own feet. The blood pooled beneath him, soaking into the earth. He hadn’t even felt it until now.

But even that pain—the sting of glass, the hot throb of open wounds—was nothing. Nothing compared to the hollowness of watching you walk away. Nothing compared to the knowledge that he could endure a thousand wounds, a thousand deaths, and it would still never measure to the agony of losing you piece by piece.

His hands curled into fists against the dirt. He let his head fall forward, pressing his forehead into the ground as his body trembled with silent, violent grief. For the first time in his life, Gojo Satoru felt like a man entirely defeated.

——————————————————

Readers POV

The weeks passed in a haze, each day blurring into the next, but the funeral carved itself into your memory like a brand. The sky wept with you, rain soaking through your black gown as you clutched the cold stone carved with your brother’s name. The sound of the priest’s voice, the quiet shuffling of attendants, all faded into nothing. All you heard was your own sobbing, raw and hoarse, as though grief itself were trying to tear your lungs from your chest.

You pressed your forehead against the grave, nails scraping against the wet soil, whispering his name over and over until the syllables lost all meaning. When you finally lifted your eyes, they caught on the tall figure standing a short distance away. Gojo. He stood frozen beneath the storm, his white hair plastered against his face, his hands hanging useless at his sides. He looked as though he wanted to step closer, wanted to reach for you—but terror held him in place. His fear wasn’t of the rain, or the death, or even your pain. His fear was you.

And that hurt more than you could ever say.

Because the truth was, you didn’t hate Gojo. Not really. Even when you told yourself you did. Even when you spat the words in his face. There were moments—brief, fleeting moments—when you found yourself wishing he would simply close the distance, wrap you in his arms, and remind you what it felt like to be warm, to be held, to not feel so unspeakably alone.

But then you would look at him. Really look. And something inside you would shift, turning tender longing into something jagged and ugly. Hatred would rush in like black water, filling every crack until it drowned you. Hatred for his silence. For his absence when you needed him most. For the way he had paraded women through the palace while you begged, knelt, broke yourself in half trying to earn just a sliver of his attention.

The darkness was unbearable, and you lashed out because of it. Words like knives, cold glances, actions designed to cut him as deeply as he had once cut you. And when you saw the way his eyes flinched, when you caught the way his smile faltered, you told yourself it was justice. That he deserved it.

But in the quiet of your chambers, away from his gaze, you hated yourself almost as much as you hated him.

The letter came folded neatly, sealed with the palace crest, but it might as well have been a dagger slid between your ribs. You sat at the edge of your bed, the parchment trembling in your hands as your eyes scanned the words again and again, though their meaning had been clear from the first sentence.

You were being sent away.

The explanation was kind on the surface—time in the countryside, fresh air, a gentler climate, a chance to “heal.” But the truth bled between the lines. They had seen you waste away at the table, pushing food across your plate untouched. They had seen the wreckage of your chambers after you’d hurled everything in blind, furious despair. They had seen you reduced to something feral and raw, too broken to hide it anymore.

And of course, it wasn’t him who told you. It wasn’t Gojo who came to look you in the eye and explain. The letter was handed over by a maid who couldn’t meet your gaze, her trembling hands betraying how much she wished she could vanish before you read the words.

You laughed—quiet, bitter, without humor—because of course this was how it would be. Gojo always did things from a distance when it came to you. Always an order carried by someone else, always a shadow in the corner of your life but never the hand you wanted to hold.

Still, you agreed. Because maybe this was better. If you left, if you placed distance between you, maybe you would stop clawing at his heart the way you had been. That was what you did, wasn’t it? You killed people, not with blades or poisons, but with words sharp enough to bleed them dry. With your anger, your venom, your desperate longing turned into cruelty. You broke people until they left you.

And the thought struck you then, clear and unrelenting: maybe this was why everything you loved always slipped through your fingers. Because in the end, no one could survive you.

You folded the letter slowly, your hands trembling, and pressed it against your chest. A part of you still—pathetically—hoped he would come, would stop you, would say he wanted you to stay. But the silence of your chamber told you better.

It was easier to believe he was relieved you were going.

The morning was gray, the kind of gray that swallowed the sky whole until it seemed even the sun had grown weary of shining. The courtyard echoed with the shuffle of boots, the creak of wood, the neigh of restless horses as servants loaded your few belongings into the carriage. You stood there in silence, veil drawn low over your face, your body too tired to tremble and too hollow to care.

He hadn’t come.

Of course he hadn’t. You told yourself you expected it, that disappointment was nothing new when it came to him. And yet, as you placed your hand against the cool iron of the carriage door, you felt that sharp sting pierce your chest—quieter than rage, deeper than grief.

You slid inside, the door shutting with a heavy finality, and sat with your hands clasped tightly in your lap. The horses lurched forward, the wheels crunching against gravel, carrying you out through the great gates of the palace.

You wanted to believe this was for the best. That by leaving, you had given him space to breathe, to live, to finally laugh again without the shadow of your despair poisoning the air around him. You had seen it once, that laugh of his—bright, effortless, like the world itself had shifted closer to joy just for him. You used to live for it. Now you would live knowing it wasn’t yours to keep.

As the palace walls began to disappear behind you, a heaviness settled in your chest. It wasn’t regret, not really. It was something quieter, more resigned. You didn’t care what became of you anymore. But him… him, you wished well. Even if you couldn’t bring yourself to forgive, even if hate clung to you like a second skin, still, in the marrow of your bones, you wished he would smile.

Maybe one of you could move on.

And you already knew it wouldn’t be you.

The carriage rocked forward into the horizon, carrying you farther from the life you had shattered, and farther still from the man whose absence sat like a ghost at your side.

The carriage jolted back into motion after the horses had their rest, the steady rhythm of hooves lulling you into that strange half-sleep where time drifts without meaning. You had almost forgotten why you were even moving forward at all—until a sudden shift of light made you stir.

You reached for the curtain, pulling it back with little thought, and your breath caught in your throat.

There it was.

The palace you were being sent to rose out of the distance like a painting torn from some fairy tale. The sun had just begun to lower in the sky, gilding the white stone walls with gold and scattering light across the hundreds of blossoms climbing its terraces. Vines heavy with flowers swayed in the wind, and their colors—crimson, violet, ivory—burned brighter than jewels in the sunlight. Beyond it all, a lake shimmered, mirroring the sky with a clarity so sharp it made you blink.

It was so… alive.

You stared, unable to tear your gaze away. For years it had been gray walls, cold stone, hollow rooms and endless silence. Even the gardens at the empress’s palace, neat as they were, had felt more like cages than sanctuaries. But here—here the air looked as though it belonged to something kinder.

And that twist in your chest, faint and sudden, startled you. It was small, like the twinge of a forgotten muscle trying to move again after years of disuse. You pressed a hand to your heart, unsettled by the warmth flickering there.

You hadn’t thought beauty could still touch you. Not after everything. Not when grief had carved such deep scars into your soul. And yet, against your will, against your careful walls, you felt the sight before you carve out a space in the darkness.

For just a moment, it almost hurt to breathe.

The carriage rattled to a stop at the grand gates, the creak of wheels and the hiss of the horses’ breath breaking your trance. You were still staring at the palace when the door opened, and sunlight spilled inside. For a moment, you hesitated, unsure if your legs would even carry you into this unfamiliar world.

But then she appeared—a woman with silver-streaked hair tied neatly at her nape, her smile soft in a way that caught you completely off guard.

“Welcome, my lady,” she said, bowing her head. “I am Mistress Hana, head of the household. We’ve been awaiting you.”

Her voice wasn’t clipped or practiced like the attendants back home. It held warmth, genuine warmth, the kind you hadn’t heard in what felt like years. She offered her hand to help you down, and for a heartbeat you could only stare at it, your throat tightening, before you finally placed your fingers in hers.

The courtyard was alive with movement. Two footmen hurried forward with your luggage, but not in the rigid, resentful way you remembered—instead, one glanced at you and gave a small, encouraging smile. A cluster of younger maids bowed, but their eyes weren’t cold; one even beamed brightly, as if your presence here was something to be glad for, not tolerated.

Then came the man Hana introduced as Chief Kento, tall and broad with lines of years at the corners of his eyes. “My lady,” he said, his voice deep but warm, “this palace is yours to heal in. Whatever you require, day or night, you will have.”

It was such a simple promise, spoken so plainly, but the weight of it struck you harder than any grand gesture could have. You felt your chest swell, painfully tight, as though your heart wasn’t sure whether to expand or collapse under the shock of it all.

Kindness.

Not the practiced politeness you’d grown used to. Not the transactional courtesies of those who only tolerated your existence because of your name. This was different. Real.

And the realization left you raw.

Your eyes burned before you could stop them, the sting of tears pressing against your lids. You turned your head quickly, ashamed to let them see how easily broken you were, but in truth—you couldn’t remember the last time you’d been surrounded by people who treated you like a person instead of a burden or a mistake.

It had been so long since anyone had been genuinely nice to you. So long since you’d felt like maybe, just maybe, you weren’t entirely alone.

The first three days passed in a haze of silence and shadows. You lay in bed, the curtains drawn tight, the world outside muted as if it too had agreed to mourn with you. The maids came and went, setting down trays you never touched, whispering in the hallway, but you ignored them all. What right did you have to eat, to breathe, to feel sunlight on your face, when your brother lay buried in darkness? Every thought circled back to him, to the hollow ache of his absence, and the poisonous guilt that you were still here when he was not.

On the fourth day, the door creaked open and the familiar soft steps of Mistress Hana crossed the room. You didn’t turn your head, expecting her to simply leave another untouched meal and depart. But instead, the weight of the mattress dipped as she sat gently on its edge.

“My lady,” she said, her voice careful, kind. “I have brought something different for you today. Please, just a little. If not for yourself… then for Chief Kento. He will be so glad to know you tried even a spoonful. He worries for you greatly.”

That startled you more than you cared to admit. Worries… for you? Your heart twisted sharply, torn between bitterness and something achingly fragile. You kept your eyes on the wall, your lips pressed thin, but then the faint aroma reached you—rich, creamy, warm, almost sinful in how inviting it was.

Before you could stop yourself, you turned your head. The bowl steamed between Hana’s hands, and when she offered it to you, you found your resistance faltering. With trembling fingers, you took it, telling yourself it was only to ease the maid’s pleading tone, only to make this “chief” feel less troubled.

The first sip was hesitant. Then the second. And then—like a dam breaking—you couldn’t stop. The broth was smooth and savory, coating your tongue in comfort you hadn’t realized you were starved for. Creamy, rich, with herbs that soothed something deep in your chest. Each spoonful felt like warmth spreading through veins that had only known cold.

By the time you set the spoon down, the bowl was nearly empty. You stared at it in disbelief, a flush of shame prickling your skin as though you’d betrayed your brother’s memory by enjoying it. Your throat tightened.

“That will be enough,” you said quickly, forcing your voice to be firm even as it wavered. “I don’t… I don’t need more.”

Mistress Hana didn’t push. She only smiled, the kind of smile that held neither judgment nor pity, only quiet relief. She took the bowl from your hands as if it were something precious, and in that moment you hated how much you wanted to cry.

The next morning, you woke to the soft golden light spilling through the wide windows of your room. For the first time in days, you felt a flicker of purpose—or perhaps it was curiosity, a fragile thing, but it stirred nonetheless. The maids bustled around you with gentle efficiency, lifting you from the bed, brushing your hair, and helping you into a gown that was lavish yet soft, flowing around your body like a cloud. You stared at your reflection, hardly recognizing yourself. You looked… almost like someone who belonged in a world that could feel beautiful.

Breakfast was a spectacle that nearly made your chest ache. The head maid had presented a buffet, tables groaning under the weight of fruits, breads, eggs, cheeses, pastries, and delicate teas. The colors alone were dazzling, vibrant against the polished wood and the sunlight streaming through the windows. You had never seen so much food in one place.

Hesitation lingered, a shadow of guilt at enjoying what others had not earned. But then your stomach reminded you that for the first time in years, you were allowed to feed yourself without fear. Slowly, you ate. A slice of bread, a small portion of fruit, a soft-boiled egg—then another. With each bite, warmth settled into your chest, creeping tentatively into the corners that had been hollow for so long. You finished your meal, feeling surprisingly full, almost content, though the sadness of your brother’s absence remained a dull, persistent thrum.

Afterward, Hana led you to the gardens. You stepped onto the cobblestone paths, the soft breeze carrying the scent of roses, jasmine, and freshly cut grass. A lake shimmered nearby, reflecting the sunlight like a scattered mosaic of silver. The flowers were in riotous bloom, petals brushing against your fingers as you walked, and for the first time in ages, your chest lifted slightly—not from joy exactly, but from awe, from a fragile sense of life going on, delicate and persistent.

The chief’s voice called to you softly from a distance, explaining the layout of the gardens and the care that went into each section. You listened half-heartedly, letting your gaze wander over the fountain, the winding paths, the hidden nooks where benches waited beneath arching trees. You breathed in the scent of life, and though the grief in your heart did not vanish, a small, almost imperceptible ember of calm flickered.

It was a start.

The following day, you trudged back to your room, the marble floors echoing softly beneath your steps, the sunlight streaming through the windows feeling almost intrusive. Hana’s voice lingered in your mind, gentle, coaxing, and for a moment, the thought of art—the swirl of colors, the brush against paper—made your chest ache with a mixture of curiosity and dread. You had never allowed yourself pleasure like this before, never allowed your hands to create anything that wasn’t a calculated necessity for survival.

Sitting on the edge of your bed, you let your fingers trail over the smooth sheets, staring blankly at the wall. The darkness you carried inside you was always patient, always waiting, and now it whispered again. Why bother? it hissed. Everything you touch turns to pain. Even now, even here, you’re not free.

You wanted to scream. You wanted to cry. But you didn’t. The tears that threatened to fall were swallowed back down, leaving your eyes dry but hollow. The shadows inside you were heavy, a weight pressing on your chest that made every breath feel like dragging stones through your lungs. Even the memory of the lake, the sparkling water, Hana’s warm encouragement, could not pull you out.

You realized then, as you sank onto the bed, that for all the beauty in the world, for all the care and kindness surrounding you, the darkness you carried had not left. It had only shifted, waiting for a crack in your resolve. And right now, that crack was wide open.

You curled up beneath the blankets, your mind spinning in endless loops of grief, guilt, and exhaustion. The idea of painting, of expressing anything at all, seemed ludicrous. Why create beauty when you had been denied it for so long, and when the only people you had ever loved—your brother, your hope in Gojo—had been taken or broken?

Outside, the lake glimmered in the sun, the pavilion standing serene and inviting, but you did not move. You would not move.

Night fell slowly over the summer palace, and the once-bright gardens now lay in silvered shadows, the lake reflecting the pale light of the moon like molten glass. You lay in bed, tossing restlessly beneath the covers, your mind unwilling to settle. Hana’s gentle encouragement, the memory of the art supplies in the marble pavilion, kept intruding at the edges of your thoughts. You could not silence it, no matter how much you tried. The brush, the paint… just once, it whispered.

Finally, unable to bear the weight of the day and the thoughts clinging to you, you slipped quietly from your room. The hallways were empty, the marble cold beneath your bare feet. Each step toward the gardens felt like a small act of rebellion against the heaviness that had settled over you.

The lake greeted you like an old, unspoken promise. Moonlight danced across its surface, and for the first time in years, the world seemed to hold something resembling possibility. You sank to your knees at the water’s edge, staring at the silvered ripples, and for a moment, allowed yourself to imagine a brush in your hand. Colors, shapes, movement—an escape, fleeting but real.

The night air was crisp, brushing against your cheeks, and you felt, for the first time in what felt like forever, a fragile curiosity stirring in your chest. Perhaps, just perhaps, this moonlit night could be the first step toward something you had not allowed yourself in years: tranquillity.

The lake mirrored the moon, calm and endless, and you found yourself pouring everything into it. Words, sobs, whispered regrets, and silent confessions—you spoke to the water as if it were your brother, your mother, even Gojo. Each tear that fell into the still surface felt like a fragment of the weight you carried slipping away. The moonlight kissed your hair, the wind lifted your dress, and for a few fleeting moments, the past—the pain, the betrayal, the grief—seemed almost distant.

You traced the ripples with your fingertips, watching them scatter like broken memories. Slowly, almost imperceptibly, a warmth began to bloom in your chest. It was not happiness, not yet. It was something smaller, quieter: the faintest pulse of hope that perhaps the world could still hold something gentle for you.

And as you sat there, talking to the moonlit water, you allowed yourself to hope that Gojo, somewhere, was beginning to untangle the weight of his own regrets. That maybe, just maybe, he too was starting to feel the faint stirrings of change, of healing, of understanding.

The night stretched on, endless and serene, and for the first time in years, you felt the barest thread of peace wrap around you. Fragile, yes, but real.

————————————————

Gojo's POV.

The day you left was one of the worst days of his life. Gojo hadn’t stepped out to see you off, not really—not the way he should have. Instead, he’d stood in the shadows of the great hall, hidden from your eyes as the carriage waited outside. He had seen the way you held yourself, thin and frail but proud, shoulders squared as if daring the world not to break you again. His hands had trembled at his sides, nails biting into his palms, and every part of him screamed to run to you, to stop you, to beg you not to leave.

But he hadn’t moved.

Yuji had told him gently that maybe you would be happier away from this cold stone prison. Megumi, ever blunt, had said the same, though his voice carried a sharp edge: “She won’t heal if you keep suffocating her with guilt.” They were right, he knew. They were always right. And still, the knowledge didn’t dull the pain.

When the carriage door shut and the wheels began to turn, it felt like someone had reached into his chest and crushed his heart in their fist. He leaned against the wall, sliding down until he was crouched on the floor, his forehead pressed to his knees. The sound of hooves on cobblestone echoed through the castle, growing fainter, further, until silence returned—heavy, suffocating silence that told him you were gone.

Gojo tilted his head back against the cold stone, vision blurring. He wanted to laugh at himself—Satoru Gojo, strongest sorcerer in the world, undone by a single person. But the laugh never came. Only the hollow ache in his chest and the thought that he had let you go without saying a word.

Because what would words have changed? He hadn’t been there for you when it mattered most. He hadn’t trusted you. He had hurt you again and again, and every time you’d reached for him, he’d turned away. And now—now you were gone, and he had no right to follow.

Still, his heart whispered traitorously: Don’t be happy without me.

The days that followed your departure were worse than he could have imagined, but Gojo told himself he deserved every second of it. He deserved the emptiness of his chambers, the stillness of the hallways without your footsteps, the deafening silence that no amount of chatter from Yuji or Nobara could fill. How dared he even think of finding a sliver of happiness when you were out there somewhere, broken and hurting? How dared he imagine smiling, when the last look you had given him was cold enough to freeze him to his core?

So he punished himself the only way he knew how—he buried himself in work. Missions, patrols, late-night reports, endless hours spent training with soldiers who looked at him with worry in their eyes but never said the words that pressed against their lips. He didn’t sleep. He didn’t allow himself to. He prowled through the nights, restless, chasing curses with a brutality that made the younger sorcerers flinch.

Food, too, was another afterthought. He only ate when Megumi stood in front of him, jaw tight, arms crossed, refusing to leave until Gojo shoved something down his throat. He would chew mechanically, tasting nothing, swallowing only because he knew Megumi would stand there all night if he didn’t.

Every time he closed his eyes, he saw you. Sometimes you were smiling—memories from long ago, when he still had the chance to hold your world together and hadn’t known how badly he would fail. Other times you looked at him the way you had that night, cold and unyielding, and that was when the guilt ripped him open from the inside. He would jolt awake drenched in sweat, heart hammering, as if he had been the one walking away from himself.

And always, the question gnawed at him like a blade pressed to his throat: Was she healing, or was she suffering still?

He prayed—pathetically, desperately—that it was the former. Because if it was the latter, then no punishment in this world could ever be enough.

Eventually, the work stopped being enough. The exhaustion he inflicted on himself wasn’t enough. The silence of his nights was too loud, the ache in his chest too sharp, and so Gojo turned to something he had always mocked others for—drinking.

At first, it was just a glass of whisky, a way to take the edge off when the weight of your absence pressed down on his shoulders. But one glass became two, two became five, and soon enough, he found himself emptying bottles like they were water. It dulled the pain for a little while, made his thoughts sluggish, made his chest loosen just enough to pretend the emptiness wasn’t there.

But alcohol is a cruel liar. It gave him moments of numbness, only to drag him deeper into the pit when it wore off. Sometimes, late at night, when the candles burned low and the world tilted, he swore he heard your voice. It wasn’t the soft voice of the woman he loved—it was harsh, cold, laced with venom.

"I hate you, Gojo."

He would flinch violently, heart pounding, eyes darting across the shadows of his room as if you were standing there. Sometimes, he even saw you—your figure taking shape in the corner, your eyes like shards of ice, your lips twisting into words he dreaded.

"You never wanted me. You only wanted me broken."

The more he drank, the sharper these visions became. The more real you looked. Sometimes he reached for you, stumbled forward with tears streaming down his face, only to grasp nothing but air and collapse to the ground. The hardwood was cold against his cheek, but not nearly as cold as the truth—he had driven you so far away that even your ghost could not forgive him.

And yet he kept drinking. Because in that haze, in those hallucinations, he could still see you. And as twisted as it was, even your hatred felt better than the crushing silence of your absence.

It wasn’t long before someone noticed. Megumi, sharp-eyed as always, found him one night slumped over his desk, surrounded by half-empty bottles. The boy’s jaw tightened as he set them aside with a controlled sort of anger, the kind that said he’d had enough.

“Is this what you’ve become?” Megumi’s voice was low, clipped, yet trembling at the edges. “You can’t keep doing this, Gojo. Drowning yourself isn’t going to bring her back here. It isn’t going to fix anything. You’re supposed to be stronger than this.”

Gojo blinked at him blearily, his vision hazed like the world had been dipped underwater. Every word Megumi spoke reached him like muffled echoes, warped and delayed. He knew Megumi was upset—he could see it in the boy’s taut shoulders, in the way his hands clenched into fists at his sides—but Gojo’s body wouldn’t listen. He couldn’t form the words, couldn’t lift his head properly, couldn’t do anything but sway against the desk like a man already half-dead.

Megumi pressed on, frustration bleeding through his calm exterior. “Do you even hear yourself? Do you know what she’d think if she saw you like this? You can’t protect anyone if you’re destroying yourself like some coward who can’t face reality. You taught me better than this.”

Gojo’s throat tightened. He wanted to say I know. I know, kid. I’m sorry. But when he opened his mouth, nothing came. Just a heavy silence that felt like another betrayal.

Megumi’s stare was sharp enough to cut, but behind it was something worse—disappointment, hurt, a kind of sorrow Gojo didn’t know how to bear. He shut his eyes against it, head tipping forward until his forehead touched the desk. It felt easier to sink, to let the sound of Megumi’s voice distort further into background noise, than to admit he was everything the boy accused him of being.

Because the truth was, he wasn’t Gojo Satoru anymore. Not really. He was just an empty shell, a ghost drinking himself to death while the one person who could’ve saved him was too far away.

In his haze, he had things built. He told himself it was for the empire, but deep down, every choice was for you. A new garden bloomed in the courtyards, carefully arranged with all your favorite flowers, their colors meant to mirror the little sparks of joy he remembered flashing across your face when you once stopped in a field to admire them. He ordered new staff for the empress’s palace, though you weren’t there to command them, his reasoning nothing more than a desperate attempt to make sure your chambers would feel like home if—if—you ever returned.

On darker nights, when the alcohol blurred his logic, he even considered commissioning a sculpture of you, something grand for the front gardens where the sun would strike marble and make it glow. He imagined it immortalizing you, the way his heart remembered you—not broken, not angry, but radiant. Yet when the sobriety of dawn clawed back at him, he scrapped the plans before they reached paper, too ashamed of the indulgence.

And so the cycle repeated. By day, he exhausted himself with paperwork for the kingdom, pushing past the heaviness in his chest, constructing illusions of progress to keep himself from collapsing. But by night—every night—he fell into the same pit. Alone in his chambers, with nothing but the silence and the smell of liquor, he drowned in misery, replaying every moment he had failed you, every word he hadn’t said, every embrace he hadn’t given.

He built gardens, staff, and walls, but all he truly built was a mausoleum of guilt in which to entomb himself alive.

It had been months since you left, and Gojo was unrecognizable to those who still cared to look. The dark circles beneath his eyes were not mere shadows anymore but bruises stamped into his skin, evidence of nights stolen by guilt. His robes hung looser now, his frame reduced by meals skipped and burdens shouldered alone. The man who once lit a room by stepping into it now carried a kind of dimness that terrified even Megumi, though he never admitted it aloud.

He’d stopped smiling.

He worked himself into the ground instead, as if endless paperwork and decrees could silence the voice that haunted him, as if ordering the construction of a new garden filled with your favorite flowers could somehow replace the absence you left behind. But the truth gnawed at him in every quiet hour: he couldn’t replace you. He couldn’t atone. And he couldn’t escape the fact that he hadn’t even had the courage to say goodbye.

The night Yuji came in, Gojo was slouched over his desk, a bottle tilted dangerously in his hand. He hadn’t noticed the boy at first; his gaze was fixed on a smear of ink across a page, his thoughts miles away, chasing memories he couldn’t bear. Yuji wordlessly plucked the bottle from him and set it aside, then sat down across from him.

“Your Majesty,” Yuji said softly, like he was afraid of breaking something fragile.

Gojo didn’t respond. His lips moved once, but no words came. His hands trembled against the grain of the desk, and his chest rose with an uneven breath.

“Please,” Yuji whispered, almost desperate now. “Talk to me. You’re scaring everyone.”

That was what broke him. Not anger. Not judgment. Just the raw plea of someone who loved him enough to notice how far he had fallen.

Gojo lifted his head slowly, and Yuji’s breath caught. His King’s eyes were bloodshot, glazed over with exhaustion, but what startled him wasn’t the weariness—it was the sheer torment in them, an ocean of grief that no one man should have to carry.

“She hates me,” Gojo rasped, his voice broken from disuse, from swallowing back too many screams. “God, she should hate me. I ruined her. I—I took her brother from her. I watched her shatter and I…” His voice cracked, splintering as he clutched at his hair. “And I let her walk away without fighting for her, without—without saying a single damn word.”

The words kept tumbling out, jagged and unrestrained.

“I hear her at night. Do you understand?” His hands shook violently as he pressed them to his temples. “I close my eyes and I see her face. Sometimes she’s crying, sometimes she’s laughing, but most nights—most nights she’s screaming that she hates me. And I can’t argue with her, Yuji. Because maybe she’s right. Maybe she should.”

His body folded over, as though the sheer weight of his confession was dragging him down. Tears, hot and unchecked, slipped free despite his hands covering his face. His whole frame trembled.

“I deserve this,” he whispered, choking on the words. “Every second of it. The hunger. The nights without sleep. The emptiness. I deserve it all. Because how—how can I even dream of happiness when I’m the reason she lost hers?”

The silence that followed was deafening. Yuji’s throat tightened, but he didn’t interrupt. He reached across the table and took Gojo’s wrist, grounding him, anchoring him. Gojo flinched at the touch but didn’t pull away—he couldn’t. It was the first time in months he’d allowed someone else to touch the raw wound he’d become.

And once the dam had cracked, he couldn’t stop.

“I love her,” Gojo confessed in a whisper so faint it almost dissolved in the air. His breath hitched, his tears staining his sleeve. “God help me, I love her, and I can’t stop. Even if it kills me. Even if she never looks at me again. Even if she never forgives me. I’ll love her until I rot in the ground, and it’s the cruelest punishment the universe could give me.”

For the first time, the strongest man alive—the untouchable king, the unbreakable sorcerer—looked small. And Yuji, watching the pieces of him finally splinter, knew there was no easy cure for this grief.

All he could do was stay. Stay and hold on as Gojo drowned in the love he could neither bear nor let go of.

Yuji’s grip on his wrist tightened, firm but not harsh, grounding Gojo through the storm. He let him cry, let him choke out every broken word until the silence settled again. The room was thick with it, the air heavy with the kind of grief that clung to walls.

When Yuji finally spoke, his voice was steady but quiet, as though he knew any louder and Gojo might shatter further.

“Then let’s go see her.”

Gojo’s head jerked up, eyes raw and wide. His lips parted but no words came, only the faint sound of his uneven breathing.

“Not face to face,” Yuji added quickly, as if soothing a frightened animal. “Not yet. Just… from afar. You don’t have to say anything. You don’t even have to let her know. But if—if it hurts this much not seeing her, maybe it’ll help. Just knowing she’s there. Breathing. Living. Healing.”

For a long time, Gojo just stared, as though Yuji had spoken in another language. His hand twitched against the boy’s, then pulled free to press against his chest, like he was holding himself together.

“I… I can’t,” he croaked, shaking his head violently. “If she saw me, if she—if she even felt me near her, she’d…” His throat closed around the thought. The idea of you turning your face away, of your eyes hardening in hatred, was a blade twisting in his ribs.

“You don’t know that,” Yuji said softly, his gaze unwavering. “But even if she did, I’m not asking you to go to her. Just… to see her. To remind yourself she’s alive. That she’s okay. You’ve been killing yourself with ghosts, my lord. She’s not a ghost. She’s still here.”

Gojo’s breath hitched, a ragged sound that broke into a laugh too thin to hold any joy. He leaned back in his chair, tilting his head toward the ceiling as though begging for air.

“You don’t get it, Yuji,” he whispered, his voice cracking under the weight. “If I see her… if I see her, even from afar, I don’t know if I’ll be able to stop myself. I’ll run to her. I’ll fall to my knees. I’ll beg. And she deserves better than a monster who can’t control himself.”

“Then let me be the one who keeps you in place,” Yuji countered, no hesitation in his tone. “You don’t have to beg. You don’t have to speak. You just have to look. That’s all.”

Gojo’s hand covered his face again, nails pressing hard into his temples. He stayed like that for a long, agonizing moment, trembling between refusal and longing.

When he finally spoke, his voice was hoarse, wrecked.

“Just once,” he whispered. “Just once. From afar.”

Yuji’s chest tightened with relief, but he said nothing. He only nodded. Because he knew—for Gojo, for the man who loved you so deeply it was tearing him apart—“just once” would never be enough.

It was near dusk when Yuji led him there. The Summer Palace grounds were bathed in gold, the lake catching the sky in its glassy surface. Birds dipped low over the water, their wings scattering ripples, and the faint sound of laughter carried over the breeze from the gardens.

Gojo stopped long before the gate. His body locked, as though the earth itself had rooted him where he stood. His heart thundered, panic and longing crashing against each other so violently he thought his ribs might crack.

Then he saw you.

You were seated in the pavilion by the lake, a simple gown draped over you like the very air had chosen to clothe you. Your hair was loose, caught by the wind, and the way the light fell against your face made him dizzy. You had a sketchbook open before you—clumsy, uncertain strokes marking the page, but you smiled faintly at it as if it were precious.

That smile ripped him apart.

Gojo’s hands shook at his sides. He bit down on the inside of his cheek, hard enough to taste blood, because every muscle screamed at him to run. To close the distance. To fall at your feet and tell you he hadn’t slept, hadn’t breathed right, since you left him. That he’d built gardens of your favorite flowers just to remember what joy smelled like. That the kingdom meant nothing without you in it.

But he stayed. God, he stayed.

Yuji hovered a few steps behind, watching the way Gojo trembled, the tears burning in his eyes he refused to let fall.

From here, he could hear nothing of your voice, but he imagined it—soft, lilting, maybe humming to yourself the way you used to. He imagined you talking to the lake like you always had, confessing secrets he would never hear again.

His chest ached so violently it was hard to stand. He pressed a hand against the trunk of a tree, his whole body leaning into it, as though it was the only thing keeping him from collapsing.

“She looks happy,” Yuji murmured, cautious.

Gojo flinched, a small sound escaping his throat that wasn’t quite a sob but wasn’t anything human either.

Happy. You did look it—or at least lighter than when you were with him. That truth gutted him more than any curse could. His vision blurred, his breath shuddered.

And still, he could not look away.

“I can’t…” His voice was a broken rasp, almost lost to the breeze. “I can’t do this.”

But he didn’t leave. He stood there as the sun sank lower, watching you lift your face to the moonrise, your profile silvered with light, until it felt like the world had ended and begun again all in the same breath.

Just as you rose from the pavilion, smoothing the skirts of your gown, Yuji stepped out from where he had been lingering. You paused, surprised, your brows lifting as you caught sight of him.

“Yuji?” Your voice carried softly over the water, touched with warmth but tinged with confusion. “What are you doing here?”

Gojo’s stomach plummeted. His whole body went rigid as he pressed himself back into the shadow of the tree, a predator hiding from the very prey he longed to be near.

Yuji smiled sheepishly, rubbing the back of his neck. “I, uh… I was worried about you. So, I came to see how you were doing.”

The faint crease between your brows smoothed, replaced by a small smile—then a brighter one that lit your whole face. You laughed gently, a sound so light and unburdened it didn’t sound like the person he had left behind months ago.

“Thank you, Yuji. That’s kind of you.”

The sight of your gratitude, the way you glowed beneath the moonlight, nearly brought Gojo to his knees. He couldn’t remember the last time you had smiled so openly, without the shadows weighing you down.

But then your smile faltered, hesitation flickering across your features. You lowered your gaze to the ground before lifting it again, your voice cautious. “And… how is he? The king?”

Yuji froze. His throat bobbed, words catching. For a moment, he looked as though he might tell you the truth—that Gojo was unraveling piece by piece, a ghost of himself. But then his eyes flicked sideways, catching the faintest glint of Gojo’s gaze from the shadows, a silent, razor-edged command to stay silent.

So Yuji forced a smile. “He’s… he’s doing well.”

Your face fell for just an instant—just long enough for Gojo to see it, for the disappointment to carve through him like a blade. But you recovered quickly, your expression brightening again with that radiant smile that nearly stopped his heart.

“I’m glad,” you said softly. “Truly, I’m glad.”

Gojo bit down hard on his tongue to stop the sound clawing up his throat. The ache in his chest was unbearable, seeing you smile like that—so beautiful, so free—and knowing you thought he was fine while he drowned himself in grief every night.

He stayed hidden in the shadows as you and Yuji exchanged a few more gentle words. He memorized every detail: the curve of your smile, the way your hair moved in the breeze, the momentary flicker of longing when you asked about him.

And when you finally turned and walked back inside, Gojo slid down against the tree, his hands trembling violently. The last image of your bright smile burned behind his eyelids, a haunting reminder of the one truth he couldn’t escape—

You were healing. And he was breaking.

The carriage wheels hummed against the dirt road as the lantern light inside swayed with each bump. Yuji sat across from Gojo, arms crossed, staring at the floor. His silence wasn’t like him, and Gojo felt the weight of it press heavier with every passing second.

Finally, Yuji’s jaw tightened, and his voice broke through the quiet. “Why’d you make me lie to her?”

Gojo didn’t look up. His pale hair fell like a curtain, shadowing his eyes as he leaned against the window. The world outside blurred, but his mind still clung to the image of your smile—so bright, so untouchable.

“I didn’t make you,” he murmured. His tone was soft, almost fragile. “You chose.”

Yuji’s hand curled into a fist on his knee. “Don’t twist it. You gave me that look. You wanted me to lie. You couldn’t even give her the truth?”

Gojo exhaled slowly, his breath fogging against the cold glass. For a long stretch of silence, Yuji thought he wouldn’t answer at all. But then, Gojo’s voice came low, raw—like the words themselves scraped him on their way out.

“If she knew…” He paused, his throat bobbing, then forced himself to finish. “If she knew how I was really doing, she’d worry. She’d think about me instead of herself. And she’s… she’s smiling now, Yuji.” His lips twitched bitterly. “I can’t take that from her. Not again.”

Yuji stared at him, heart twisting. “You think hiding your pain makes it better for her? She asked about you because she cares. She still cares, Gojo. And you—” Yuji’s voice cracked with rising frustration. “—you’d rather let her think you’re fine while you drink yourself to death alone? That’s not protecting her. That’s cowardice.”

The word hung heavy in the carriage. Gojo’s fingers twitched, but he didn’t argue. His head tipped back against the seat, eyes closing as though Yuji’s words pierced deeper than he wanted to admit.

“…Maybe,” he whispered. The single word carried exhaustion, defeat, and a loneliness that felt older than his bones. “But I’d rather she be free of me than shackled to my ruin.”

Yuji’s chest tightened, anger and sorrow warring inside him. He wanted to shake Gojo, to drag him back into the light. But when he saw the faint tremble of Gojo’s hands, the deep purple bruises under his eyes, all Yuji could do was lower his head and bite back his frustration.

The silence after that was unbearable, broken only by the turning of the wheels. Gojo didn’t speak again, his thoughts trapped on the memory of your smile—bright, unburdened, radiant. The kind of smile he no longer believed he deserved.

—————————

Readers POV

The summer palace had become a cocoon of quiet healing. Months had passed, and the air no longer felt suffocating in your lungs the way it once had. Each morning, when sunlight poured over the mountains and scattered diamonds across the lake, you found yourself breathing deeper, your body lighter. The gardens had grown familiar beneath your fingertips, the marble pavilion a sanctuary where you no longer feared the silence.

It was strange, almost bittersweet, to admit you were doing better. Hana often smiled knowingly when she caught you humming while the maids dressed you, or when you lingered a little longer in the orchards, pressing blossoms between the pages of a book. Even the food—lavish and abundant beyond anything you’d ever known—no longer overwhelmed you. It nourished you, grounding you in a way that felt both foreign and necessary.

Your heart, too, had begun to mend, though not without scars. The endless nights you had spent whispering to the lake—speaking to your brother as though the water could carry your voice to him—had softened the ache of his absence. It no longer felt like a jagged wound but rather a tender emptiness, a reminder that he had lived, and you had loved him fiercely. The grief had not vanished, but you had made peace with it, little by little.

And then there was Gojo.

His name was the shadow behind every quiet thought, the gentle ache that lingered no matter how far you tried to drift. You did not think of him with bitterness anymore; anger had burned itself out long ago. Instead, it was a softer yearning, a wistful echo of what you once thought you might have had. You wished, sometimes, that he would visit—that you might look up from your place at the lakeside pavilion and see his tall frame in the distance. Or at the very least, that a letter would come, his handwriting sprawled across the page to remind you that he remembered, that you were not forgotten.

But nothing ever arrived.

The silence from him was deafening.

Some nights, you told yourself it was for the best—that he was busy with matters of the kingdom, or perhaps that he had finally moved on. Other nights, however, you lay awake staring at the ceiling, wondering if you had truly meant so little to him after all. The thought carved at your chest, but you forced yourself to breathe through it, to let it go. Because if you had learned anything from the summer palace, from the soft moonlight and the gentle waves, it was that clinging to sorrow only delayed the healing.

And so you pressed on, learning to smile again, to laugh, to live. Yet beneath it all, there remained a hollow space carved only for him—a space that longed, quietly, patiently, for the day he might remember you as fiercely as you remembered him.

The days had blurred into one another with the rhythm of the palace—soft mornings at the lake, afternoons in the garden, evenings spent with Hana who coaxed you into light conversation. You had thought nothing would disturb this fragile peace until the head maid whispered that someone had come to see you.

When you stepped out into the courtyard, the last person you expected was Yuji.

“I—Yuji?” Your voice caught halfway between surprise and joy. He looked the same as ever, warm and steady, though there was something almost strained in his smile.

“Hey,” he said gently, rubbing the back of his neck. “I just… I wanted to check on you. Make sure you’re doing okay here.”

Your heart softened instantly. To think he had traveled all this way for you—it warmed you in a way you hadn’t felt in months. “You came all this way for me?” You smiled, a small but genuine curve of your lips. “Thank you, Yuji. That means more than I can say.”

And you meant it. You hadn’t realized until this moment how much you had longed for a familiar face from the life you’d left behind. Yuji’s presence was like a thread tying you back to the world you thought had forgotten you.

The two of you spoke for a while under the shade of the courtyard trees. You found yourself laughing—quietly at first, then more freely—as Yuji filled the silence with small stories from the capital, his lightheartedness easing the weight that still clung to your chest.

But eventually, the thought you’d been holding back pressed its way forward. You hesitated, your smile faltering. “Yuji… how is he? How is the king?”

For a moment, he froze. His eyes darted away, just for a heartbeat, before returning to yours. You noticed it—the hesitation, the slight tension—but you mistook it for uncertainty.

“He’s… he’s doing well,” Yuji said finally, forcing brightness into his tone. “Really. Things are stable in the capital, and he’s… managing just fine.”

Your chest sank, but only for a moment. A part of you had foolishly hoped Gojo might have missed you, might have sent word or asked after you. But if Yuji said he was well, then perhaps you had been wrong. Perhaps Gojo had already moved forward, leaving you as just another chapter in his life.

So you did the only thing you could. You smiled again. A bright, warm smile that masked the ache inside you. “I’m glad,” you whispered. “Truly, I’m glad he’s doing well.”

Yuji looked at you then, and something in his eyes tightened—like he wanted to say more but couldn’t. You didn’t know why, didn’t see the figure standing just beyond the treeline, hidden in shadow, watching you with a heart that felt like it was shattering all over again.

For him, your smile was both salvation and agony. For you, it was the only shield you had left.

The next morning, you found yourself lingering in the kitchens rather than the garden, your thoughts refusing to settle after Yuji’s visit. He had said Gojo was well, yet something about the way his eyes had shifted, the pause before his answer, gnawed at you.

Hana noticed, of course. She always did. The head maid had a way of seeing through the smallest cracks, like she could catch sorrow clinging to the folds of your robes.

“Hana,” you began, your voice softer than usual. “You knew him, didn’t you? Since he was young?”

Her hands stilled for a moment as she arranged a tray of fruits. For the briefest second, her expression tightened—hesitation, as though weighing whether or not she should speak. Finally, she let out a quiet breath.

“Yes,” she said at last, her voice low and steady. “I knew the king when he was still the crown prince.”

You turned toward her, curiosity tempered with something heavier. “What was he like?”

Hana’s eyes softened with a kind of sorrow that made your chest tighten. She set the tray aside, folding her hands before her. “His life was never easy. Being the heir to the throne has always been a dangerous thing in this kingdom. There were those who wanted him gone, who saw him as a threat. And then…” She faltered, her gaze flicking away for a moment. “It didn’t help that his own mother neglected him. Sometimes worse. She let others—no, she forced him—to endure things no child should. To this day, I cannot forgive her.”

You felt your breath catch in your throat. Gojo, who always wore his arrogance like armor, who smiled as if the world itself couldn’t touch him—he had been that boy? A neglected, abused child with no safe place, even within the walls of his own home?

Your hands curled against your lap, nails pressing into your skin. The thought of him suffering, lonely, unloved—it tore something open inside you.

Hana studied you for a moment before continuing, her voice quieter now. “He learned early to hide behind that confidence you see. To laugh, to pretend. But even as a boy, I could see the loneliness in him. And I think, even now, he carries that same loneliness.”

You swallowed hard, your throat burning. All at once, you wanted to write him, to reach him, to say something—anything—that might soften the weight he had carried since childhood. But you had never received a single word from him. Not once.

And that silence cut deeper than ever.

Hana’s silence stretched for a long moment after her confession. She busied her hands with straightening the teacups on the table, though her movements lacked their usual precision. You knew she was holding something back.

Finally, when she spoke again, her voice carried a heaviness that made your heart still.

“There is another reason,” she said, “why His Majesty does not come here. This palace… it is where his mother lived. And it is also where she neglected him most.”

Your breath hitched. The words sank into you slowly, like stones cast into a lake. Ripples spread through your chest, unsettling everything you thought you knew.

You stared at Hana, wide-eyed. “Here? In this place?”

She nodded once, solemnly. “Yes. The Summer Palace was meant to be a retreat, a haven. But for the boy who would one day be king, it was a prison of silence. His mother would spend her days in luxury, entertaining herself, and leave him to wander these halls with no care whether he ate, whether he slept, whether he was even safe. The staff then were forbidden to interfere. He was… forgotten.”

Your hand tightened around the folds of your gown, twisting the silk between your fingers. The very gardens that had begun to heal you, the lakeside pavilion where you had wept your grief, had been the backdrop of his own torment. You tried to picture him here as a boy, small and bright-haired, wandering lonely corridors while his mother turned her face away. The image shattered something inside you.

For so long, you had thought it was only you who had suffered. You had resented him—resented that while you were drowning in grief and cruelty, he seemed to live untouched, a king with power and freedom. But now… now you understood. His crown was not a gift. It was a shackle. His childhood not golden, but shadowed.

Both of you had been broken by those meant to love you. Both of you carried scars no one could see.

Your thoughts spun wildly, colliding with each other until you could barely breathe. You pressed a hand to your chest, as if you could hold the ache there still.

Hana watched you carefully, but her voice softened, almost like a mother’s. “He is not untouched by sorrow, my lady. You and he… you share more than you realize.”

You lowered your gaze, blinking through the sting of tears. For the first time, you did not see him as the man who had failed you. You saw him as someone just as lost, just as wounded.

And the distance between you suddenly felt unbearable.

That night, the moon poured its silver light across the lake, softer than the nights before, as though it too sensed the change in you. You found yourself drawn to the pavilion once more, the wooden planks cool beneath your feet as you sat and gazed into the mirrored waters.

For weeks, this place had been where you spilled your sorrow, where you spoke to your brother as if he still lingered just beyond the rippling surface. You had cried until your chest ached, begged until your throat was raw, told him of your loneliness, your anger, your fear. And though the pain never vanished, piece by piece it had loosened its hold on you, like chains rusting in the rain.

Tonight felt different. Tonight, you could breathe.

You tilted your head back, staring at the moon’s reflection in the water. Your lips trembled, but when the words came, they were steady.

“Brother… I think it’s time.”

The admission burned, but it was not the searing agony of before. It was something gentler, like the last flare of a candle before it goes out. Tears blurred your vision as you continued, your voice softer now. “I’ll never forget you. You’ll always be a part of me. But I can’t live chained to the day you left me anymore. I want to keep walking. For you… for me.”

The lake caught your tears, swallowing them silently. The stillness of the water felt like an answer—a quiet acceptance.

You hugged your knees to your chest and closed your eyes. “Be free now,” you whispered. “I’ll carry you, but I won’t let the grief drown me anymore. Rest, wherever you are.”

When you opened your eyes again, the world seemed clearer. The night air no longer pressed heavily against your lungs. And for the first time in years, your brother’s memory brought not only pain, but also warmth.

Your gaze lingered on the surface of the lake, but slowly, inexorably, your thoughts drifted elsewhere—to him. To the king you once despised for being untouched by suffering, only to learn that he had been living in shadows of his own.

How lonely he must have been. How broken he must still be.

Your chest tightened as you remembered Hana’s words, her voice weighted with sorrow. You could almost see him there—Gojo as a child—wandering these very grounds, unnoticed, unloved. It was unbearable to imagine.

“I wish I had known,” you whispered into the night. “I wish I could have been there for you… the way no one was there for either of us.”

The moon shone brighter on the lake, scattering its light like fragments of glass. For the first time since you had come here, your heart felt lighter—not whole, but no longer crushed. You had let your brother go, and in that release, you found yourself reaching for someone else in the dark.

Gojo.

And though he had not come, though he had not written, you found yourself wishing he would.

Sleep would not come. You lay beneath the silken canopy, listening to the quiet pulse of crickets in the gardens, but your eyes refused to close. Your heart stirred restlessly, as though the lake’s farewell had left too much silence inside you.

At last, you rose. Barefoot, you padded through the cool halls of the summer palace until you stepped out onto the balcony, the night air brushing soft against your skin. The stars were endless tonight, scattered like jewels across the heavens, but your gaze drifted past them—past the forests and valleys, straining toward a place you could not see but knew by heart.

The palace. His palace. His home.

Gojo.

Your fingers curled against the railing, your breath catching in your chest. How many nights had you wondered if he was looking at the same sky, if he missed you, if your absence weighed on him the way his absence weighed on you? The thought alone made your eyes sting, but tonight the tears did not fall. Tonight, they hovered, held at bay by something steadier.

It was strange—this feeling of peace that had come after so many months of torment. Strange, and yet it felt like the very thing you had been searching for all along. Your brother’s spirit had been set free, and in doing so, so had you. And now, without that grief shackling you down, you could finally see him—your husband—not as a cruel king who had ruined you, not as an untouchable man above your pain, but as someone just as scarred, just as fractured, just as desperately in need of someone to stay.

The realization unfurled inside you like dawn breaking.

You loved him. You had loved him even through the bitterness, even through the ache, though you had buried it beneath anger and grief. And now, at last, you could admit it.

The thought terrified you, but it did not stop you.

You pressed a hand to your heart, staring into the night as though, if you looked long enough, you could bridge the distance between you. And then you whispered, voice steady but soft, “It’s time. I want to go home. Back to him.”

For the first time in months, the ache in your chest lightened—not gone, never gone, but tempered by resolve.

You had left in pieces. You would return whole.

And this time, you would not run.

The next morning, the halls of the summer palace carried a brightness they had not in months. You rose earlier than usual, your steps lighter, your smile more certain as you gathered Hana and the attendants in the pavilion. Their curious eyes fixed on you, and for a moment you let the anticipation swell in your chest.

“I’ve made my decision,” you said softly, yet your voice carried, clear and unwavering. “In the next few days, I’ll be leaving here. I want to return to the capital. To my husband.”

The words startled even you—how easily they fell from your lips, how natural they sounded, as though you had been waiting all this time just to release them into the world.

Gasps rippled through the group, followed by murmurs of joy. Hana’s hand shot to her mouth, her eyes misting before she broke into the widest smile you had seen from her. “My lady… finally,” she whispered, bowing her head. “The king will be overjoyed.”

Around her, the staff nodded and beamed, some even clapping quietly in their delight. They had watched you arrive hollow-eyed, fragile, carrying a grief so sharp it had seemed it would devour you whole. They had tended to you through the nights of weeping, through the days you barely touched your meals, through the long, silent hours when even the sun seemed unable to reach you.

And now—now you stood before them with color in your cheeks and light in your eyes, your shoulders no longer weighed down by sorrow but lifted by resolve.

For the first time in so long, you felt the joy was not borrowed, not forced, not fragile. It was yours.

You smiled at them, bowing your head gently in gratitude. “Thank you—for caring for me, for helping me find myself again. But it’s time. I’ve kept him waiting long enough.”

A ripple of knowing laughter moved through the group, touched with tears. They did not press you, did not question, only basked in the relief of seeing you whole again.

As they dispersed, Hana lingered, touching your arm with the gentleness of a mother. “When you stand before him again, my lady, hold nothing back. The king has lived too long in shadows. You are the only light that can reach him.”

Your throat tightened at her words, but you nodded. “I will,” you whispered, more to yourself than to her.

And in that moment, for the first time in what felt like lifetimes, you were not afraid of going home.

The days that followed your announcement were filled with a flurry of movement. For the first time since you had arrived, the summer palace was alive with anticipation rather than worry. Servants bustled through the corridors with fabrics and trunks, packing away the gowns and shawls you had scarcely touched, folding them with a care that spoke of their happiness for you.

You walked among them, hands brushing over the familiar walls, the polished wood railings, the blooming flowers that had been your only company in your solitude. Each step felt like a farewell, but not a mournful one—rather, a grateful parting. This place had held your broken pieces, had given you shelter when you needed to shatter, and now it was releasing you, whole.

Hana oversaw the arrangements with brisk authority, though you caught her dabbing her eyes more than once. “Everything must be perfect for your return,” she muttered, hiding her sentiment behind lists and orders. “The king should see you exactly as you are now—radiant, strong.”

Her words struck your heart with a bittersweet ache. Radiant, strong—were you truly those things now? Perhaps not entirely. But you were no longer hollow. No longer afraid of your own grief. That was enough.

At night, you wandered the palace gardens, committing each blossom and each quiet corner to memory. You lingered longest at the lake, standing where you had poured out your sorrows, where the water had carried away your cries, where you had finally released your brother into the embrace of peace. The moon reflected in the still waters, a silver mirror of the resolve in your heart.

“I’m going back,” you whispered to the night. “This time… I’ll face him fully.”

The horses were readied. The carriage polished until it gleamed. Gifts and offerings from the local townspeople—baskets of fruit, woven blankets, even letters—were loaded alongside your belongings, tokens of their affection for the queen who had healed among them.

The final morning dawned with air sweet and golden, as though even the heavens approved of your departure. You stood at the palace gates, Hana at your side, the staff bowing low in a sea of smiles and tears.

“You’ll always have a home here, my lady,” Hana said softly, squeezing your hand.

You nodded, blinking against the sting in your eyes. “And I will never forget what this place gave me.”

With that, you stepped into the carriage. The wheels creaked, the horses whinnied, and slowly, the summer palace receded into the distance.

Your heart was pounding, not from fear but from anticipation. Each turn of the wheels carried you closer to him.

Closer to home.

The journey was long and quiet, the carriage rocking gently over the uneven road. The sun had long since set, leaving the world draped in inky darkness. Only the faint glow of the moon guided your path as you rode alone, the occasional hoot of an owl or the rustle of the trees breaking the stillness. For months you had built yourself back up at the summer palace, finding solace in the gardens, in the lake, in small acts of normalcy. But now, returning to the capital, to the palace where Gojo waited—or perhaps did he?—your chest tightened with a weight you hadn’t felt in months.

The city lights twinkled in the distance, muted against the night sky. The closer you drew, the more memories stirred within you: the echoes of grand halls, of laughter and tears, of confrontations and quiet moments in the gardens. Every step forward felt surreal, as if you were walking through someone else’s life. The streets were empty at this hour, shadows stretched long and deep along the cobblestones. No one knew you were coming; no one had prepared for you. This was entirely yours—your return, unannounced, unguarded.

As the carriage passed through the outskirts of the city, the silhouette of the palace emerged against the night sky. Its towers reached like spires into the darkness, illuminated only by the pale glow of moonlight reflecting off the stone. Your heart hammered, each beat loud in your ears. Every instinct in your body told you to stop, to turn away, to retreat to the safety of the summer palace where healing had begun. Yet, a deeper, fiercer part of you urged forward. You needed this. You needed him.

The carriage slowed at the gates. The guards, distracted or perhaps weary, scarcely looked up as you passed through. You felt like a ghost, unseen and unheard, moving silently into the heart of the palace that had once been both your sanctuary and your cage. The shadows of the grand hall stretched long, the silence oppressive. You dismounted quietly, the soft click of your boots on the marble floor sounding impossibly loud in the emptiness.

You paused in the center of the hall, eyes tracing the familiar contours of the palace in the moonlight. Everything seemed both the same and impossibly distant: the tapestries on the walls, the ornate chandeliers, the cold elegance of the corridors. And yet, despite the silence, a tremor ran through you—not fear, not exactly, but anticipation, the sharp tang of longing mingled with anxiety.

Your fingers brushed against the fabric of your gown, flowing and soft, a stark contrast to the tension coiling in your chest. You had prepared for this moment for months, rehearsed every possible outcome in your mind, but now that you were here, standing alone in the heart of the palace, all your plans and rehearsals seemed futile. The weight of everything—the past, the pain, the loss, the love—pressed down on you, and yet you took a slow, steadying breath.

Tonight, you would see him. Tonight, you would confront the man who had haunted your life, who had broken your heart and yet still lingered in every thought. You had no plan, no allies, no safety net—only the determination to step forward, into the moonlit shadows of the palace, and face him.

The heavy doors of the palace groaned as you pushed them open, your presence breaking the usual silence of the late hour. Megumi was there, leaning against the frame, looking far older than the last time you had seen him. His normally precise posture seemed slumped, fatigue etched into the sharp lines of his face. The sight made your chest tighten. Even the strongest men looked frail when tired, and something about the weariness in Megumi’s eyes unnerved you.

“My Queen…we weren’t expecting you,” he said quietly, voice low, almost careful, as if he were measuring each word. “The King... is busy in his office.”

You tilted your head slightly, studying him. His tone didn’t match the statement; there was an edge to it, a subtle unease that told you he was hiding something. Late at night, Gojo was always in his room by now. The thought nagged at the back of your mind, sharp and insistent. Why would Megumi lie?

A small, knowing smile curved on your lips, soft but commanding. You reached out and rested a hand on his shoulder, firm, as if the weight of your touch could anchor him to the truth. “Take me to him,” you said, and the words weren’t a request. They were an order, unflinching and absolute, carrying the authority of someone who had endured enough to demand obedience without hesitation.

Megumi stiffened, the faintest flicker of surprise crossing his face. He straightened immediately, bowing slightly. “Of course,” he murmured, and began leading the way. His steps were measured, careful, as if each footfall might betray your presence to someone—or something—you didn’t yet know was waiting.

As you followed him down the marble halls, your mind churned, threading through every possible scenario. What had changed in the palace while you were away? Why the hesitation, the small lie? Something was off, and you could feel it in the air—like static before a storm. Yet, beneath the tension, there was a pulse of anticipation, a thrill that made your heartbeat quicken.

You didn’t break stride, didn’t falter, your gaze forward and unwavering. Tonight, you would see him. Tonight, you would finally confront Gojo, and no walls, no guards, no hesitation from anyone—not even the fatigue-tinged Megumi—would stand in your way.

And with that thought, you stepped forward with quiet determination, ready to face the storm of your past, your present, and whatever awaited you in the office ahead.

As you and Megumi walked through the hallways, the echo of the crash reverberated through the polished halls, sharp and sudden, making you start violently. Your heart slammed against your ribs as if trying to escape. Without thinking, you left Megumi behind, every instinct propelling you forward like a bolt of fire. The world blurred around you; all that existed was the sound of your own rapid heartbeat and the faint, acrid scent of the office doors just ahead.

When you reached the threshold, a pair of guards stepped into your path, arms crossed, eyes wary.

“Your Majesty, you cannot—” one of them began, voice firm but hesitant.

You didn’t care for hesitation or formalities. Your chest rose and fell rapidly, fueled by a mix of fear and frustration. How dare they? How dare they try to stop the Queen of Bellua from entering the King’s office? Your glare could have frozen them where they stood.

“I said, move,” you spat, your voice sharper than you realized, trembling with anger and adrenaline. “I am the Queen. You do not stop me.”

The guards exchanged a glance, unsure, caught between protocol and the sheer force of your will. The world around you seemed to constrict, the polished marble of the hall pressing in as your body surged forward.

One of them tried again, more insistently. “Ma’am, please, it’s for your safety—”

You stopped short, your eyes narrowing. Safety? Safety from what? From seeing him? From finally facing him? You took a deliberate step closer, the air between you and the guards crackling with tension. “Do you think I care for my safety when the man I—” your voice caught, a mix of fury and something far deeper you refused to name, “…the man I love is in danger inside that office?”

For a moment, the guards seemed frozen, the weight of your presence pressing down, undeniable. Finally, one of them stepped aside, nodding stiffly, but not without caution. The other didn’t move. You could feel your temper rising, a hot flame of indignation. “Step aside. Now. Or I’ll make sure you regret it,” you warned, voice low and dangerous, the storm in your eyes enough to make even the most disciplined soldier flinch.

The way was clear, and with a surge of purpose, you crossed the threshold, the door looming ahead like the promise of confrontation and answers you had waited months to face.

The room was chaos incarnate. Papers were strewn across the floor, books toppled from shelves, and a chair lay overturned in the corner. The scent of burnt candles mixed with the faint tang of spilled wine, filling your nostrils and setting your nerves on edge. Every hair on your body prickled, and your mind raced—assassins? An attack? Your worst fears seemed to have materialized right here in Gojo’s office.

Then, your eyes fell on him.

He was lying on the floor, head bowed, shoulders slumped. His posture screamed defeat, despair, and a heaviness that made your stomach twist. The sound of your own heartbeat roared in your ears, threatening to drown out everything else.

“Gojo!” The name left your lips almost before you realized it, desperate, sharp, and raw. Your legs moved before your mind caught up, and you dropped to your knees beside him. Hands trembling, you reached for his shoulders, then carefully cupped his face.

The alcohol smell hit you full force, sharp and pungent, but you ignored it. Nothing mattered but him. You searched for injuries—bruises, cuts, anything that would explain why he was like this—but the answer seemed to be the weight of the world itself pressing down on him.

“Hey… please,” you murmured softly, brushing hair from his forehead. “Talk to me. Are you hurt? Tell me you’re okay.” Your voice shook, a mixture of fear and relief, anger and exhaustion.

He didn’t move. He didn’t even lift his head. And yet, something in the way his body trembled beneath your hands made your chest ache. The king, your husband—the man who had tormented and loved you in equal measure—was broken, and you felt it in every fiber of yourself.

You pressed closer, almost unwilling to breathe, terrified that if you exhaled too hard, he might vanish, disappear into this abyss of despair that clung to him. “Gojo… look at me,” you whispered, voice cracking. “Please. Please don’t do this to yourself.”

And finally, painfully, he lifted his head. His blue eyes, bleary and unfocused, met yours. They were glassy, rimmed red from exhaustion, sorrow, and perhaps even shame. The sight of him—your Gojo—like this tore at something deep in your chest, a raw ache you couldn’t hide.

He called out your name; his voice was a whisper, hoarse and ragged, yet it was enough to make you hold onto him tighter, like he was the only anchor keeping your heart from shattering completely.

His hands trembled as he clutched at the air, as if trying to hold onto something just beyond reach. “You—you’re not real,” he whispered, voice cracking, ragged from exhaustion and too many sleepless nights. “This… this has to be my mind playing tricks again. I—I can’t…”

You froze, your heart lurching in your chest. His eyes, wild and glassy, flicked between you and the shadows of the room, and for a moment you thought he might push you away. But then, tears welled in his own eyes, tracing paths down his cheeks despite the alcohol and despair clouding him.

“I’ve—I've failed you,” he choked out, voice breaking. “I let you suffer… I let your pain happen while I—while I did nothing… I deserve—no, I deserve everything you feel, everything you’ve ever felt.” His head dropped into his hands, shaking as if the weight of his guilt could crush him entirely.

You pressed your hands gently against his face, tilting his head up so your eyes met his. “Gojo… it’s me,” you said softly, voice trembling but steady. “It’s really me. I’m here. You’re not dreaming.”

He laughed then, a short, bitter sound that made your chest ache. “No… no, it can’t be,” he said, voice breaking. “You—after everything… after all the poison I thought you gave me, after the lies, the pain, the—” He broke off, shaking his head, tears falling freely now. “I don’t deserve this. I don’t deserve you. I shouldn’t even be alive!”

“Shh…” you murmured, brushing the tears from his face. “Look at me. You’re alive, Gojo. That’s what matters. I’m here because you’re here. You don’t have to carry it all alone.”

His chest heaved as he tried to speak, but only broken gasps escaped him. “I—I failed you… I left you to suffer… again! And now… now I can’t even protect you. I can’t protect anyone. You—you're supposed to hate me. You should—” He gasped, breaking off, sobbing openly now.

“I don’t hate you,” you whispered, fingers gripping his hands. “I… I can’t. Not you.”

He shook violently, tears falling unchecked. “You shouldn’t love me! I hurt you—so badly! I… I can’t… I can’t do this anymore. I can’t—” His voice cracked into a strangled sob, the kind that made your heart fracture into a thousand pieces.

You pressed yourself against him, holding his face to yours, grounding him, whispering his name like a lifeline. “Gojo… it’s okay. I forgive you. You’re here now. That’s what matters. I’m not going anywhere.”

He clung to you then, shaking, crying, the years of guilt, grief, and despair pouring out as he buried his face in your shoulder. “I… I don’t deserve you… but I… I can’t… lose you…”

And in that moment, nothing else existed—just the two of you, broken, battered, but finally together in the storm of your shared agony.

His hands shook violently as he clutched at the edges of your gown, as if afraid you might vanish if he loosened his grip for even a second. His shoulders trembled with each heaving sob, and his chest hitched in a rhythm that made your own heart ache in response. Even as the sound of his crying filled the room, his voice, raw and broken, carried words that cut through your soul.

“Your eyes…” he began, voice strangled and thick with tears, “what a cruel kind of beautiful. The kind that autumn envies. They… they remind me of golden leaves caught in the wind, of old books with stories aching to be told. And every… every time you look my way, I swear… I fall all over again.”

You could barely breathe, your own tears spilling freely now, a hiccup escaping your lips as you tried to speak but your voice refused to cooperate. Your hands trembled as you reached for him, trying to anchor him to reality, to yourself, to anywhere that wasn’t the darkness clawing at him from the inside.

“I—I…” you stuttered, sobbing through broken words, “you—you can’t keep saying that… you—you’re hurting yourself!”

“I don’t care,” he whispered, a shuddering laugh escaping him between gasps, “I… I’ve spent too long not saying it. Too long pretending that I… that I’m fine, that everything’s fine. But you—you exist, and I… I can’t pretend anymore. You’re here, and I—I need you, even if you’re not real, even if… even if this is all just a figment, I… I need you.”

Your hands cupped his face gently, brushing wet strands of hair from his tear-streaked cheeks. You could feel the tension in his body, the rigid walls he had built around himself for years, cracking under the weight of his own confession. “Gojo… shh… I’m here. I’m real,” you whispered, voice shaking, “and I’m not going anywhere. You’re allowed to lean on me. You have to let me help you.”

He shook his head violently, hot tears falling onto your gown, sobs racking his body. “I… I don’t know how to… how to let someone… let someone see me like this. I—” His voice broke entirely, the sobs swallowing his words. “I don’t deserve… I don’t deserve… you…”

“Yes, you do,” you whispered fiercely, clutching his hands to your chest, forcing him to meet your gaze. “You’ve suffered as much as I have, maybe more. You’re allowed to be weak. You’re allowed to fall apart. And I… I’m not leaving you. Not now, not ever.”

His breath hitched against your shoulder as he buried his face there, gripping you like he could never let go. Each sob that wracked his body was mirrored by the tightness in your chest, your own hiccuping cries shaking through the quiet of the room. And for the first time in years, he let himself fall completely—not into despair, not into pride, but into your arms, letting you cradle the fragments of the man he had been hiding behind masks of strength and anger.

You turned to the guards, voice firm despite the tremor in your chest. “Help me carry him to the room. Be gentle—he’s not himself right now.”

The guards exchanged a glance, hesitated only for a moment, then moved to lift him carefully. You stayed close, your hands brushing against him as though your touch could anchor him, keep him from drifting further into his own despair. The moment he was lifted, his weight in your arms—or rather, the thought of his vulnerability—made your chest tighten.

Once inside the royal suite, you guided him gently onto the bed, adjusting the blankets around him. His head lolled slightly as he murmured incoherently, his eyes half-lidded and glassy. You knelt beside him, your hand cupping his cheek, and let your fingers trace the curve of his jaw, memorizing the warmth of him.

“I didn’t know, Gojo,” you whispered, almost breaking as you spoke. “I didn’t know it was this bad. I didn’t know you were suffering alone.”

He blinked slowly, the daze in his eyes mixing with disbelief and some fragile, unspoken relief. “You… you’re here,” he croaked, voice hoarse, “I—I thought I was alone…”

You pressed your palm to his forehead, feeling the fevered warmth, the tremor beneath his skin. “You’re not alone anymore. I’m here. I won’t leave. Not while you need me.”

He let out a shuddering sigh, his lips quivering, and for a moment you thought he might collapse again into his despair. Instead, he leaned slightly into your hand, almost unconsciously, seeking the comfort your presence offered. “I… I never wanted you to see this,” he admitted, voice breaking. “I… I’ve been drowning… trying to hold everything inside… thinking I had to survive it all alone…”

You brushed your fingers through his hair, whispering softly, “You don’t have to survive alone. Not anymore. Let me help you. Let me be here… just let me.”

His hands twitched weakly toward you, but the strength wasn’t there yet. “I… I don’t deserve… this… not you… not your care…”

“Yes, you do,” you said, voice firm yet gentle, leaning closer until your forehead rested against his. “You deserve every bit of love, every ounce of care, Gojo. And I’m not leaving. Not now. Not ever.”

A long silence followed, broken only by his ragged breathing. You stayed there, kneeling beside him, letting your presence speak louder than words, letting him feel the truth in your touch: that he was seen, he was loved, and he was not alone.

You stayed kneeling beside him, watching as his chest rose and fell unevenly with each shallow breath. His eyelashes were damp, red-rimmed from crying, the subtle tremor in his lips betraying the turmoil that still churned beneath his exhaustion. The sight made your heart constrict; he had always seemed so untouchable, so infallible, and yet here he was—fragile, human, broken in ways that mirrored your own past pain.

Gently, you leaned closer and brushed a strand of hair from his forehead. Your fingers lingered against the warm skin, tracing the sharp lines of his jaw, the faint stubble, the hollowed planes beneath his eyes. Dark circles etched deeply under his lids spoke of sleepless nights, of grief and guilt gnawing at him like a ravenous beast. You swallowed hard at the sight, each detail piercing your chest.

Carefully, you reached for the water basin you’d brought earlier, dampening a cloth with the cool liquid. “I’ll just—just help you feel a little more… human,” you whispered, as if speaking too loudly might shatter him further. You pressed the cloth gently against his forehead, his temples, and down his jaw, wiping away the remnants of tears and the grime from his sleepless nights. The faint scent of alcohol lingered, but you ignored it, focusing on the fragile warmth of his skin beneath your fingers.

His hands twitched in his sleep, and you instinctively took them in yours, holding them like they were fragile artifacts, afraid you might crush him if you were too rough. His skin was paler than it had ever been, veins visible beneath the surface, his nails bitten down as if he had done it in moments of despair. You traced the backs of his hands with your thumbs, murmuring soft, meaningless reassurances, knowing he couldn’t hear them fully, but hoping your presence alone would seep into him.

You pressed your cheek against the top of his hand, inhaling the faint scent of him, the mixture of his natural scent and lingering alcohol. “You’re alive, Gojo,” you whispered, voice breaking slightly. “And I’m here. You can rest. Let me take care of you.”

The red in his eyes, the frailty of his form, the exhaustion that seemed to weigh down his very bones—it was almost too much to bear. But instead of recoiling from the pain, you let it wash over you, a tide of empathy and love that made you determined to be his anchor. For him, for the man who had carried so much alone, you vowed you would not leave him like the world had left you.

Gently, you continued to clean and care for him, adjusting the blankets around him, ensuring he was comfortable, brushing the hair from his forehead with tender insistence. Each motion was deliberate, slow, a silent prayer that this fragile being beside you would somehow begin to mend, even if just a little, under your hands. And in the quiet of the night, with only the flickering candlelight and the muted rhythm of his breathing, you let yourself hope that maybe, just maybe, he could start to heal here with you.

The first light of dawn seeped timidly through the embroidered curtains, painting the suite in muted gold. You stirred awake on the small divan across from the bed where you had eventually curled up, unwilling to leave him entirely but too restless to stay by his side all night. Your eyes drifted to the bed immediately. Gojo was still asleep, his body slack in a way that betrayed how desperately it needed rest. For a moment you allowed yourself to simply watch the rise and fall of his chest, to take comfort in the proof of life that had terrified you last night.

When the maids came, you let them fuss over you. You stood quietly as they dressed you in a gown—extravagant but soft and flowing, more relaxed than the courtly rigidity you usually bore. It was a strange contrast: you looked the part of a queen, radiant in silks and delicate embroidery, yet your heart was knotted with domestic worries over your husband’s fragile state.

You slipped through the palace halls with silent determination, the sound of your footsteps softened by the carpets that stretched endlessly. Servants greeted you with wide eyes and hurried bows, their surprise at your sudden return barely concealed. You offered no explanations. This was between you and Gojo.

Finally, you reached the kitchens. The warmth of simmering pots and the rich aroma of bread baking filled the air. The head chef, a portly man with sharp eyes, blinked when he saw you standing at the threshold. He quickly bowed, his voice stumbling as he asked, “Your Majesty… what can I do for you at this early hour?”

You stepped closer, lowering your voice as though your request was a secret. “I need food prepared for someone with a terrible hangover. Something gentle—broths, rice, fruit. Nothing heavy.” Your tone softened then, revealing just a fraction of your worry. “And… prepare extra ice. And cucumbers. Thinly sliced.”

The chef raised his brows, then quickly schooled his expression into obedience. “Of course, Your Majesty. At once.”

You nodded, fingers clasping lightly in front of you. “Make sure it’s brought up discreetly. I don’t want anyone disturbing the King this morning.”

The chef hesitated, as though he wanted to ask why, but wisely thought better of it. He bowed again, snapping orders to his staff who immediately set to work.

As you turned to leave, you allowed yourself a faint exhale. It was a small thing, tending to him in these quiet ways, but it mattered. After last night, after seeing the ruin he’d been hiding beneath his mask, you understood now that love wasn’t just grand vows or titles—it was these ordinary gestures, the gentle insistence of care where no one else dared intrude.

And for once, you felt steady in that role, as if this was the place you were always meant to stand: the one who would not abandon him.

The tray in your hands rattled faintly with every step as you carried it through the hall, a maid trailing behind with the ice and cucumbers. The closer you came to the royal bedchamber, the lighter your chest felt, anticipation building at the thought of sitting beside him, easing him into the morning. But just as you rounded the last corner, the sharp sound of raised voices cracked through the corridor.

You froze.

It was him. Gojo. Yelling.

Your heartbeat stumbled, then pounded so violently you thought it might burst. Without hesitation, you lifted your skirts and broke into a near-run, the lady-in-waiting scrambling after you.

When you threw open the chamber doors, the scene inside hit you like a blow. Gojo was on his feet despite his weakened state, hair a tangled crown of silver, eyes red-rimmed and glassy. His voice—usually a velvet drawl so capable of command—was ragged, feral with anguish. Megumi stood across from him, stiff, silently bearing the brunt of his king’s storm.

“—I swear it was real!” Gojo shouted, his hands digging into his own hair as though he could claw the thought out of his skull. “She was here. I could feel her. Every damn detail—the way her hands touched me, the sound of her voice, the smell of her skin. It was so vivid I—” His voice broke, a wet, strangled sound tearing from him as he staggered back, clutching the edge of a table. “I actually believed it this time. Thought she was back. But it’s just another trick. My head—” He hit his temple with the heel of his hand, hard enough to make you flinch. “My cursed mind won’t leave me alone. It keeps making her up. Keeps showing me what I’ll never have again.”

Your breath caught as he half-laughed, half-sobbed, the sound terrifying in its hollowness. “Do you know what that’s like, Megumi? To be haunted by the one person who made you feel alive? To have her voice follow you into sleep, her face appear in every damn shadow, and to wake up to nothing—every single time? NOTHING.” He slammed a fist against the wall, the echo sharp enough to jolt the servants outside into nervous whispers.

Megumi opened his mouth to respond, but Gojo cut him off, his voice raw, splintering. “You don’t get it. She was everything. And without her, this crown, this throne, this entire kingdom—” He let out a broken laugh, head falling forward, silver strands shielding his tear-streaked face. “It’s all just ash. Empty. I’m empty. There’s nothing left.”

Your hands shook around the tray as you watched him unravel, every word cutting through you with merciless precision. He had truly believed you were nothing more than a figment conjured by his loneliness. That the comfort you’d given him last night had been another phantom, cruelly imagined by a mind that couldn’t bear your absence.

And in that moment, it became painfully clear—Gojo wasn’t just broken. He had been hollowed out, piece by piece, until all that remained was a man surviving on memory, starving for something real.

The tray slipped from your trembling hands, the porcelain clattering to the floor in a muffled crash that cut through the room’s tension like a blade. Gojo’s head snapped up at the sound, his breath hitching, eyes glassy and unfocused as they searched for the source.

And then he saw you.

For a long, aching second, silence smothered the chamber. His expression froze in stunned disbelief, mouth parting as though to speak, only for no sound to come out. His whole body went rigid, hands still gripping the edge of the table as though he needed the weight to anchor him.

“You…” His voice fractured, thin and unsteady, like a thread pulled too taut. He staggered a step forward, then another, each one uncertain, like a man walking toward a mirage in the desert. His tear-streaked face crumpled as he dragged in a ragged breath. “No… no, not again. Not again.” His words quivered with panic. “You’re not real. You’re never real.”

He laughed then, but it was a terrible, hollow laugh that broke on a sob, shoulders shaking violently as his knees nearly buckled. His hand reached out toward you, trembling, fingers curling in the empty air as though he wanted to touch you but didn’t dare. “Why does my head keep doing this? Why won’t it stop torturing me with you?”

Your chest ached at the sight of him—your proud, unshakable husband unraveling like this, looking so small and desperate despite the crown on his head.

When you stepped closer, he flinched as though afraid you’d vanish if he blinked. “If I touch you,” he whispered, voice splintered, “you’ll disappear. You always disappear.”

You caught his hand before he could pull it back, pressing his trembling palm against your cheek. His sharp intake of breath filled the silence, and his wide, broken eyes locked onto yours.

Warmth. Contact. Real.

For a heartbeat, Gojo didn’t breathe at all. Then his whole frame shook violently, sobs tearing out of him with brutal force, as if all the walls he’d built to survive without you collapsed in an instant. His hand clutched your face as though it were the only thing tethering him to existence.

“You’re here…” he choked, the words broken, unbelieving. “Gods—please—tell me you’re here. Tell me you’re not just another ghost.”

Your heart nearly shattered at the desperation in his voice. You tightened your hold on his hand, pressing it firmer against your cheek until he could feel the warmth of your skin, the faint rise and fall of your breath. With your other hand, you gently brushed back the damp strands of hair clinging to his temple, fingers soft against the salt tracks of his tears.

“I’m here,” you whispered, your voice low but steady, weaving through the storm of his sobs like a lifeline. “I’m not a ghost, Gojo. I’m not leaving you. Not this time. Not ever again.”

He gasped sharply, a sound caught somewhere between disbelief and relief, his chest heaving as though the very act of breathing hurt. His eyes squeezed shut, tears spilling faster, and he leaned into your palm as if surrendering, as if every shred of resistance inside him had finally broken.

“I… I can feel you,” he stammered, voice ragged with hiccuping sobs, his thumb trembling against your jaw. “Gods, you’re warm. You’re warm—” The words tumbled out in a rush, like a drowning man clutching at air. “Don’t leave me. Please. I can’t… I can’t survive losing you again.”

You cupped his face fully now, both hands steadying him, anchoring him, while you leaned close enough that he could see nothing but you. “I’m not going anywhere,” you said firmly, though your own tears slipped free, unstoppable. “You’ve carried this pain alone for too long, my love. Let me carry it with you. Let me take care of you, Gojo. Please.”

He collapsed into you then, body folding forward, arms winding around your waist as though he could mold you to himself and keep you there forever. His sobs broke open against your shoulder, raw and childlike, shaking you both.

You held him through it all, stroking his back in slow, grounding circles, murmuring his name like a prayer. “It’s real,” you promised, pressing your cheek to his damp hair. “I’m real. And I’m yours.”

His grip only tightened, knuckles white as though he feared the universe would rip you away if he loosened for even a second. And through his tears, you felt his whispered confession—fragile, aching, and utterly undone—“I love you. I love you, I love you, I love you…”

The room was charged with his anguish, his voice tearing itself apart as if the walls themselves needed to hear how hollow he had become. You caught Megumi’s stunned, frozen expression in the corner of your eye—but one sharp look from you silenced him, dismissed him, and then with a subtle flick of your hand you sent the others scurrying out. The door clicked shut, and at once the world shrank down to just the two of you.

“Gojo,” you breathed, your voice breaking as you crossed the floor and fell to your knees before him. His whole body shook, hands trembling violently where they clawed at the edge of the desk as though it were the only thing holding him upright. His eyes were red, wild, drowning.

You reached for him, cupping his tear-streaked face, forcing him to look at you. “It’s me. Look at me.”

He blinked rapidly, confusion choking him. His breath hitched as though every inhale cut him to pieces. “No—no, this isn’t real,” he stuttered, chest heaving. “You’re not here, you’re never here. Every time I close my eyes, I see you and then you’re gone. You always leave—” His voice broke in half, collapsing into a sob. “You always leave me.”

Your thumbs brushed the wetness from beneath his lashes as you shook your head, fierce and unyielding. “Not this time,” you said, steady even as your own tears blurred him. “Not ever again. I’m here, Gojo. I’m flesh and blood and breath. You can feel me. Touch me.” You guided his trembling hand against your cheek, pressing it there until his palm warmed against your skin.

His knees buckled, sending him down with you, his forehead crashing against your shoulder as the fight bled out of him. His sobs tore raw from his throat, hiccupping, stammering, guttural, until they were nothing but broken gasps. His arms wrapped around you with such desperation it hurt, the kind of hold that said he would sooner shatter himself than let you slip away again.

“I can’t do this without you,” he confessed into your skin, words shaking as much as his body. “I thought I could—I tried—but I’m nothing. Nothing without you. I don’t want this crown, I don’t want this kingdom, I don’t want anything if you’re not in it with me.”

You cradled his head, kissed his damp temple, held him like something fragile yet unbreakable in your arms. “Then you’ll never have to,” you promised, each word an oath. “I’m here. I’m not going anywhere. You’re not alone anymore, my love.”

And for the first time in what felt like forever, the storm inside him stilled, his body sagging into yours as if finally—finally—he believed.

Gojo clung to you like a drowning man, his body shaking so violently it was as though grief itself was coursing through his veins. You whispered against his hair, soothing him with nothing more than the quiet rhythm of your breath, the steady thrum of your heartbeat pressed to his ear. Slowly—painfully slowly—the ragged sobs gave way to tremors, the sharp edges of his anguish dulling against the warmth of your embrace.

When his breathing softened to shuddered gasps, you tilted your head and pressed a kiss to the crown of his head. “There’s no need to hold it all alone anymore,” you murmured, stroking back strands of hair damp with sweat. “Let me carry it with you. That’s what I’ve always wanted.”

He lifted his head just barely, eyes red and swollen, confusion still clouding them like a storm that had not yet passed. You brushed his face with your fingertips, gentle and deliberate. “You’re exhausted,” you said, your voice soft but firm. “Come. Let me take care of you.”

You helped guide him to the bed, his movements sluggish, weighted by nights upon nights of unrest. He resisted at first, as though still too ashamed to be tended to, but the exhaustion betrayed him. He collapsed onto the mattress, his body curling toward you instinctively as though afraid you might slip away if he let go. You stayed, sitting beside him, smoothing the hair from his forehead, letting your fingers trace calming lines along his temple.

His hand found yours, clumsy and desperate, holding on with more strength than he realized. You gave it a reassuring squeeze. “Rest, Gojo,” you whispered, leaning down to kiss the corner of his damp lashes. “You don’t need to speak. You don’t need to fight. Just… let yourself breathe.”

The words worked their way into him slowly, the way water seeps into dry soil. His breaths lengthened, heavy but steady, the tension in his shoulders easing as though your presence alone could loosen every knot grief had bound him with. His grip on your hand never slackened, even as his body finally surrendered to sleep, curled close like a child seeking shelter.

And as you sat there, watching the faint rise and fall of his chest, you felt the cracks in him—deep, jagged, merciless—but you also felt the first fragile thread of mending begin to stitch itself beneath your touch.

The night deepened around you, the chamber wrapped in a hush broken only by the soft crackle of the hearth. Gojo had drifted into a restless sleep, his fingers still locked around yours like an anchor. You hadn’t the heart to pull away. Instead, you sat there in the dim candlelight, studying the wreckage exhaustion had carved into the man you loved.

The dark hollows beneath his eyes spoke of nights spent awake and haunted, and the gaunt sharpness of his cheeks whispered of missed meals. Even his breath, though steady now, carried the faint rasp of someone worn thin. You stroked your thumb across the back of his hand, each pass a silent vow: I will not leave you like this again.

Somewhere deep in the night, his lashes fluttered, and he stirred. Not fully awake, not fully dreaming—caught between the two like a man walking the edge of a blade. His voice, low and cracked, slipped into the quiet.

“…you’ll disappear if I close my eyes, won’t you?”

The words pierced you. His tone was the hollow echo of a man who had lived too long in absence, who trusted neither sight nor touch to hold what he cherished. You leaned closer, cupping his cheek until his head turned faintly toward your palm.

“No,” you whispered firmly, though your heart trembled. “I’m here. I’m not a dream. Not a ghost. Just me.”

His eyes cracked open then, blurred with tears. He searched your face as though expecting you to dissolve into smoke, and when you didn’t, a sob slipped past his lips. His hand came up, clumsy and shaking, to cradle your wrist against his cheek. “So cruel,” he murmured hoarsely. “Even when I dream, it feels so real. Why does my heart… believe it’s you?”

The ache in your chest nearly split you in two. You bent down, pressing your forehead to his, breathing him in—alcohol, tears, and beneath it all, that familiar warmth you thought you’d lost. “Because it is me, Satoru,” you murmured, your tears wetting his skin. “And I’ll keep saying it until you believe me.”

For the first time in what felt like years, his arms wrapped around you—not desperate, not frantic, but weak and heavy, as if he no longer had the strength to pretend. He buried his face into the curve of your neck, trembling still, but surrendering at last to your touch.

And so you held him through the night, your body the shield, your voice the balm, your love the tether keeping him from drifting into the abyss again.

The morning light spilled softly through the sheer curtains, painting the chamber in pale gold. You stirred first, shifting beneath the weight of blankets, but what pulled you fully from sleep was the tender pressure of fingers brushing across your cheek.

When your eyes fluttered open, you found Gojo already awake, lying beside you. His hair was an unruly halo, his eyes still rimmed faintly red from the night before, yet the way he looked at you made your breath catch. Reverence. Fear. Longing. As if one blink might steal you from him all over again.

“You’re real,” he whispered, voice raw but steadier than it had been in months. His thumb traced the curve of your cheek, lingering as though memorizing the shape of you. “You’re… you’re really here.”

You reached up, catching his hand against your skin, grounding him. “I told you,” you murmured gently. “I’m here.”

He swallowed hard, the muscles in his throat tightening, and a fragile smile ghosted his lips. But it didn’t reach his eyes, not fully. Instead, they glistened, the weight of disbelief still pressing on him. “I don’t understand,” he confessed quietly. “After everything… after how far I let myself fall, how could you… how could you come back to me?” His voice cracked, barely above a whisper. “I don’t deserve this. I don’t deserve you.”

Your chest ached at the sight of him—this man who had once seemed untouchable now stripped bare, clutching at you as if afraid his hands would pass through air. You cupped his face, guiding his gaze back to yours. “You don’t have to deserve me, Satoru. You just have to let me love you.”

His breath hitched, the tears threatening again, but this time he didn’t turn away. He leaned into your touch, his lips brushing the heel of your palm, as if the act alone might prove you hadn’t vanished. “I thought I’d lost you forever,” he admitted, voice breaking. “And the worst part is… I thought maybe I deserved to.”

You shook your head firmly, sliding closer until your foreheads touched. “No more of that,” you whispered. “No more punishing yourself. I’m here now. And I’m not going anywhere.”

For a long moment, he only stared at you, as though still afraid to believe it. But then, with trembling exhale, he pulled you against his chest, burying his face in your hair. His arms, though weak, clung with a quiet desperation, and for the first time in so long, you felt the faint spark of hope blooming between you again.

The morning passed in tender quiet. After a gentle breakfast together in the sunlit dining hall—fresh bread, fruits, and a broth chosen with care for his still-aching body—you both slipped away from the bustling staff and found solace in each other’s presence. Gojo, though visibly tired, seemed lighter than you had seen in a while, his smile returning in fleeting, precious bursts as he teased you about how you still ate fruit the same way you always had, carefully picking the sweetest bites first.

Later, he coaxed you out into the gardens. The palace grounds were vast, but he led you not to the grand, polished walkways meant for parades and show, but toward a secluded corner hidden by tall hedges. There, the air carried a different fragrance, warm and sweet, and when you stepped inside, your breath caught.

Flowers. Every shade, every variety you loved, blooming in careful arcs and winding rows. Some young, still finding their strength, others mature and heavy with blossoms. It was a secret garden, tended quietly, lovingly.

You turned to him, stunned, and found Gojo watching you instead of the roses. His hands were buried in his pockets, but there was no arrogance in his stance, only a quiet vulnerability. “When you left,” he said softly, “I couldn’t bring myself to touch the places we used to go. So… I made something new. For you. For when you came back.” His voice trembled on the last word, but he steadied himself, offering the faintest smile. “Guess I never stopped hoping.”

Emotion swelled in your chest as you reached for him, lacing your fingers through his. He let out a shaky breath, gripping your hand tightly, as though anchoring himself to reality.

By afternoon, you both had slipped deeper into the quiet corners of the garden, away from even the faint hum of servants. A small picnic had been prepared—tea steaming gently in porcelain cups, small cakes arranged neatly, fruit glistening in the light. But Gojo barely touched any of it. Instead, he stretched out on the blanket, head pillowed in your lap, his white hair spilling against your gown like silk.

His eyes were half-lidded, softened, his usual sharpness dulled into something far more tender. As you combed your fingers through his hair, he sighed in contentment, the sound so unguarded it made your heart ache. “This feels like a dream,” he murmured, gazing up at you. “You, me, the roses… it’s too perfect.” His smile curved faintly, wistfully. “Promise you won’t disappear when I close my eyes?”

You bent down, pressing your lips gently against his forehead. “I promise,” you whispered.

For a long time, there were no more words, only the sound of birdsong and the warmth of the sun as Gojo lay with his head in your lap, his hand resting loosely over your knee as though afraid to let go.

The weeks that followed unfolded in a gentle rhythm, as though the kingdom itself had decided to quiet its storms to give you and Gojo space to breathe. He was no longer the hollow man you had first found crumpled in his office, nor was he yet the unshakable King the world knew him to be. He was something softer, rawer—learning again what it meant to let himself be loved.

Every morning, he woke before you, not to bury himself in endless reports or empty bottles, but to simply watch you stir against the pillows. Sometimes you would find his hand hovering just shy of your face, as though he feared he might break you with a single touch. Other mornings, he would be brave enough to caress your cheek, whispering words of disbelief: “You’re really here…”

The staff quickly learned to step lightly around the royal bedchamber, for breakfast became your ritual. Some mornings you ate together in the chambers, him insisting on peeling fruit for you though his hands were clumsy. Other days, you carried trays out into the gardens, choosing the same secret corner with the roses. He would tease you about the way you always brewed tea too strong, and you would laugh at the way he burned his tongue no matter how many times you warned him.

Healing did not come without struggle. There were nights when you woke to find him sitting upright in bed, face buried in his hands, silent but trembling. The shadows of his demons clung to him, whispering that he was unworthy, that your return was only a fragile illusion waiting to vanish. In those moments, you climbed into his arms, letting him clutch you tightly enough to bruise. “Even if I were a ghost,” you would murmur against his chest, “I’d haunt only you.” And slowly, his breathing would steady again.

But there were moments of sweetness, too, like golden threads stitched between the dark patches. Gojo took to walking with you in the evenings when the air cooled, his long strides slowed to match yours. He would point out constellations above the palace roof, naming them with stories half-remembered, half-invented, just to hear you laugh. One evening, when the moon was particularly bright, he dared to draw you into a slow, quiet dance in the garden. He swayed without rhythm, humming a song only he knew, his forehead resting against yours as the roses swayed gently around you.

He rediscovered old joys with you by his side. On rainy afternoons, he would read aloud—sometimes poetry, sometimes dry political texts that you teased him for. His voice, rich and lilting, filled the chamber until you stopped hearing the words and only felt their warmth. Once, he even set aside the royal documents entirely, declaring the kingdom could survive without him for an afternoon, and insisted on building a canopy of blankets in your chamber, the two of you tangled in laughter like children again.

And in quieter moments, there were touches that spoke louder than words—his fingers brushing yours across a teacup, his lips ghosting the back of your hand before he dared kiss your palm, his head finding your shoulder as he confessed his fears in whispers meant only for you. Each time, you answered not with promises of forever, but with the simple truth of your presence: you were there, and you were not leaving.

By the time the first roses of summer bloomed again, their petals brighter and fuller, there was color back in Gojo’s cheeks. His eyes, once red-rimmed and hollow, now held warmth again—fragile, but real. The kingdom’s King was returning to himself, not through duty, not through power, but through love, piece by piece, heartbeat by heartbeat.

Taglist: @man1cslut @pengomang0 @ssetsuka @elegancefr @reree22222

Note: Finally! It's finished! I hope yall like this, it took me a little bit because I got a bit of writers block but I cured it with some good old angst fics.

[thepiinkpages]

King!Gojo Satoru X Queen!Reader (Historical Romance) Part 2

Note: Get ready to cry yall.

WARNING: This fic includes; thoughts of su*cide, depression, and more.

Part 1 Part 3

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Gojo's POV

Gojo’s hands curled into fists at his sides, the faint tremor in them barely visible beneath the folds of his robes. The hall was silent save for the echo of his own breathing, loud and uneven in his ears. He stood at the top of the dais, staring down at the empty space where she had been not long ago—dragged away in chains, her eyes wide, pleading.

He told himself the hollow ache in his chest was fury. Hatred. A righteous burn for the treachery of the Duke’s daughter.

It had always been hatred, hadn’t it? From the moment they were wed, he had treated her as nothing more than a pawn in the kingdom’s endless games—smiling at her in public, offering soft words in private, the perfect image of a doting husband. It was easy at first, easier than he’d imagined, to fake the tenderness in his voice and the warmth in his eyes.

But somewhere along the way, the mask had blurred with his skin.

Somewhere along the way, he’d found himself looking forward to her laughter, to the quiet moments where she sat across from him reading, to the way her gaze softened when she thought he wasn’t looking. He had noticed her small habits—how she bit her lip when she was thinking, how her hands always lingered on the teacup just a moment longer than needed as if grounding herself in its warmth.

It wasn’t love. He refused to call it that. He couldn’t love her—not when she was who she was, not when she came from a bloodline he could never trust.

And yet—

Gojo’s jaw tightened.

And yet now, when he closed his eyes, he saw her in the throne room, her voice breaking as she pleaded for him to believe her. He should have looked away. He should have let his anger consume him whole. Instead, something deep inside him had fractured, because a part of him—the part he hated most—had wanted to believe her.

But the evidence… gods, the evidence was undeniable. The empty bottles, the whispered testimonies, the carefully laid trail pointing straight to her hands. And Yuji—his most loyal guard, the one man whose loyalty he had never once questioned—Yuji had gone against him. Freed her.

Gojo’s chest felt tight, as if something inside him was being torn in two.

It wasn’t just betrayal from her. It was betrayal from both of them.

And that thought—sharp, cold, venomous—burrowed into his mind like a parasite, feeding on every old suspicion, every buried insecurity. He could almost hear it whisper: They played you. They’ve been playing you from the start.

He could see it now, couldn’t he? The way Yuji always looked at her when he thought Gojo wasn’t paying attention. The way she had smiled faintly at the guard on occasion. The perfect opportunity to ruin him from within—the Duke’s daughter, feigning affection until the moment she could strike, and the loyal guard, waiting for the right chance to spirit her away.

The bitter laugh that escaped him was hollow, humorless.

Gojo had been a fool.... and fools deserved to be punished.

Gojo hadn’t slept. Couldn’t. The hours bled together in a haze, his thoughts winding tighter and tighter until they felt like they were cutting into him.

At first, when they had wed, it had been nothing more than strategy. She was the Duke’s daughter — a political move, an alliance. He had told himself her quiet presence meant nothing. But over time, there had been… something. A pull. Not warmth, not love — no, it couldn’t have been love.

It must have been the poison.

He could feel it even now, in the restless pounding of his pulse, in the way his skin prickled when he thought of her. She must have slipped it into his wine, into his tea, into the moments he’d let her too close. That would explain everything—the fog that crept over him whenever she smiled, the way he’d begun to think of her when she wasn’t there.

Yes. It had to be the poison. Because otherwise…

No. There was no otherwise.

The images played behind his eyes like a cruel theatre—her laughing with Yuji in low voices, her hand brushing his arm, her gaze holding something he couldn’t name. He could almost hear Yuji’s voice, low and conspiratorial, coaxing her into this betrayal. Every shared moment between the three of them now felt staged, rehearsed, meant to weaken him before the strike.

His hands curled into fists until his nails dug in. Yuji—the man he’d trusted more than anyone. His right hand, his shadow on the battlefield. If Yuji had turned, then perhaps the whole kingdom had been laughing at him behind closed doors.

The door swung open without warning. Megumi stepped in, calm but watchful. “They’ve been sighted. South border. The pass to the Duke’s estate.”

Gojo’s breath caught, his suspicions locking into place. Of course she’d run there. The Duke—her true protector—would shelter her from the punishment she deserved.

His cursed energy flared without thought, rattling the torches in their brackets.

Megumi’s eyes narrowed. “You’re going after them?”

“Yes,” Gojo said, voice like steel.

“You’re going alone?”

“Yes.”

He didn’t trust anyone else with this. Not anymore. Every smile, every nod, every word from those around him felt poisoned now—maybe it was, maybe they all were. Maybe she’d infected the whole castle with whatever she’d given him.

But when he caught her, when he forced the truth from her lips, he’d know.

He mounted his horse in one sharp, practiced movement. The animal shifted under him, sensing the pulse of cursed energy radiating off its rider.

The wind tore at his coat as the gates opened. The night was sharp and cold, and the rush of air only made the heat in his veins burn hotter.

She had done this. She had made him feel this way. And if it wasn’t the poison—if it was something else—then that would be even worse.

Because then it meant he’d let her in.

And for that, there could be no forgiveness.

Gojo stood in the dim light of the stables, hands moving as if on instinct—tightening the saddle straps, checking the reins, fastening his cloak. He couldn’t remember walking here. Couldn’t remember ordering the horse to be brought.

His head was full of static. Not a sound exactly, but a white, relentless buzzing that made it hard to think in straight lines. Every thought seemed to shatter halfway through, replaced by flashes—her face turning toward Yuji, her hand brushing his arm, the weight of her gaze that had always lingered too long.

The poison. It had to be.

The static swelled, pressing against his temples until it felt like his skull might split. He could almost hear her voice woven into it, whispering things he couldn’t quite catch. Maybe she’d been whispering to him all along, bending his will with every word.

The leather straps cut into his palms as he pulled them tight. Too tight. His fingers flexed, slow and deliberate, as if they weren’t entirely his own. The stable boy said something—he didn’t hear it, not really. Just saw the boy’s mouth move, his expression cautious, maybe afraid.

Everyone looked afraid these days. Maybe they knew.

Gojo swung into the saddle in a single motion, the horse shifting under him, ears flicking at the sharp pulse of cursed energy rolling off his body. The cold night air hit his face, but it didn’t clear his mind—it only seemed to sharpen the edges of the static, turning it into something that crackled like fire.

South border. The Duke’s estate.

He gripped the reins until his knuckles whitened. He could almost see her there, standing behind the Duke’s walls, waiting for him to arrive so she could watch him break. Yuji at her side, loyal as ever—but not to him. Not anymore.

Gojo urged the horse forward, hooves striking the stone. The gates loomed ahead, and beyond them, the darkness stretched endlessly.

The static in his head grew louder. Louder.

Maybe it was the poison. Maybe it was her. Maybe it didn’t matter anymore.

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Readers POV

The forest blurred past in shades of black and frost-silver, branches clawing at the night sky like skeletal fingers. You didn’t feel the wind anymore. Didn’t feel the pounding rhythm of the horse beneath you or the ache in your spine from riding too long. Your body was unraveling quietly, stitch by stitch, and you were only vaguely aware of it—like watching a candle burn from across the room.

Two things had once held you to this world. Two fragile, precious threads.

The first was him. Gojo Satoru—your husband, your king, the boy you had once helped escape under a starless sky so many years ago. You’d been in love with him ever since. Even through the silence, even through the years when he hadn’t looked at you with warmth, you’d held onto that love like it was a secret talisman. It had been the light you reached for in the dark.

The second was your brother. The only family who had ever truly been yours.

Now… one of those threads had snapped.

Gojo had broken your heart with such precision it felt almost deliberate. Not with a single act, but in the slow dismantling of everything you thought the two of you were. In his eyes, you were no longer a wife, not even a companion—only a shadow to be stepped over.

That left your brother. Only him. If he was safe, you could let go.

You would plead with Gojo to protect him, to take him in, even if it meant bowing your head one last time before the man who had shattered you. And once your brother was out of reach of the cruelty of this world, you could close your eyes for good.

The thought didn’t scare you. It was almost… peaceful.

A faint burn coiled low in your stomach, sharp enough to make your hands tremble against the reins. The poison. It licked through your veins like ice, each wave dulling your senses further, pulling you down into that deep, muffled dark. Maybe it wasn’t just the poison. Maybe you’d been dying long before it touched your lips.

The trees swayed as you passed, shadows bending and stretching in ways that didn’t make sense. You wondered if this was what it felt like to sink underwater and stop fighting for air. Your head tilted slightly, the edges of your vision softening, as though the forest had swallowed all the color from the world.

Love was supposed to make you stronger. But the love you’d carried for Gojo had been nothing but a slow bleed, each day draining you a little more until there was nothing left. He had been the one thing you thought would save you. Instead, he had become the one you most desperately wanted to say goodbye to.

Your lips parted, but no sound came. Not a cry. Not a plea. Not even a whisper.

Just silence.

The world tilted. Not sharply—no violent snap or sudden fall—just a slow, inevitable tipping, like a cup poured too far. Your grip on the reins slackened before you even realized, and your body swayed with the movement of the horse.

“Hey—hey, stay with me,” Yuji’s voice cut through the dull hum in your ears, too bright against the dark. You felt his hand on your arm, steadying you before you could slip sideways entirely.

You blinked, the forest blurring in and out of focus. “I’m fine,” you murmured, though the words came out thin, almost airless. Even you didn’t believe them.

Yuji shot you a quick glance, his brows knit tight. “No, you’re not. You’re burning up—your skin’s like ice, and you’re not even holding the reins right.” His voice was edged with panic now, the kind that came from someone trying hard not to let it show.

Your chest rose and fell, each breath feeling heavier than the last. The poison gnawed at your insides, threading cold fire through your veins. It was almost comforting, the way it made your limbs weaker, your head lighter. If you closed your eyes now, you might not open them again—and part of you welcomed that.

The horse stumbled over a root, and you pitched forward slightly, only for Yuji to grab your waist from behind. “Don’t you dare fall,” he muttered, the words strained. His hands were warm, holding you steady, but the heat didn’t reach you.

Somewhere between one blink and the next, you realized you weren’t moving anymore. The cold night air bit harder at your skin as Yuji swung down from the saddle. You tried to protest, to ask why they’d stopped, but all that came out was a weak, rasping sound.

“I’m not dragging you all the way to the border like this,” he said, already lifting you off the horse. His arms were solid, unyielding, and the ground seemed to sway as he carried you. “You’ll die before we get there if I don’t stop.”

Through the haze, you caught sight of a small shape ahead—a sagging structure half-swallowed by vines and shadow. An abandoned house.

Yuji shouldered the door open with a grunt, the sound echoing in the hollow space. Dust choked the air, and the wooden floor groaned beneath his boots. He laid you down on what might have once been a bed, the mattress caving under your weight, the faded quilt rough against your cheek.

“Don’t move,” he ordered, though you had no strength left to do otherwise. You heard him moving around—dropping his pack, swearing under his breath, shoving aside furniture in search of anything useful.

The darkness pressed in around you, the poison threading its way deeper. You felt yourself slipping further from the world, your mind curling into a single thought: If my brother is safe, I can let go.

Yuji’s voice snapped you back for a moment. “Hey—stay awake.” His hand gripped yours, firm and warm, refusing to let you drift away.

But you were already somewhere between the living and the dead, and his voice felt like it was coming from the other side of a wall you weren’t sure you wanted to climb over.

You sank onto the edge of the bed, legs dangling, hands clasped loosely in your lap. The world around you had lost color entirely. Even the faint moonlight spilling through the cracked window felt washed out, muted to the point that it could have been smoke. Everything—the forest, the abandoned house, even Yuji standing before you—was gray, a distant shadow of life you no longer felt part of.

Yuji crouched slightly in front of you, his expression tight, the worry in his dark eyes heavy. “I need to know the truth,” he said softly, but there was an edge to his voice—something that suggested it wasn’t just a request. “What really happened? Did you—were you involved?”

You swallowed, the words catching in your throat. The restriction curse was a living thing in your chest, a thousand thorns wrapped around your vocal cords, ready to punish you for every syllable you spoke about the Duke. Your lips trembled, but you stayed silent, shaking with the effort not to cry, not to scream.

A faint mutter escaped your lips, almost unintelligible, yet Yuji leaned in closer, tilting his head. “I have to… save my brother,” you whispered, your voice barely above a breath, the weight of it shaking your entire core.

The moment the words left you, terror spiraled through you. You had crossed a line. That should have been impossible—you had never spoken of your brother before. Never mentioned the Duke. The curse should have struck, ripped your voice apart, or worse. But nothing happened.

The silence pressed down, thicker than the night air, and you realized with a sudden, cold dread: the curse was broken.

A part of you froze, paralyzed. If the restriction curse no longer held you, then something must have happened to the sorcerer who had cast it. And if that had happened… that meant your brother’s life could be in danger.

Your heart hammered so violently it felt like it would tear itself apart. You hadn’t spoken the words freely in years, hadn’t even dared to think them aloud. And now… now the door to that terror had been unlocked.

Yuji’s eyes searched yours, reading the panic and hesitation in ways no one else ever could. “Your brother…” he prompted gently.

You swallowed hard, the gray fog pressing against your mind, suffocating. Yuji’s gaze held steady, patient but insistent, and something inside you snapped. The dam of silence shattered.

“I…” Your voice was brittle at first, almost breaking as it slipped past your lips. “…I am the Duke’s… illegitimate daughter.” The words felt like shards sliding out of your chest. “…I was never supposed to exist, never supposed to be anything but a mistake. My father—he… he hated me before I could even stand.”

Your hands trembled in your lap. “When I helped him—him, as a child… the boy I saved—it was the only thing I ever had that mattered. But I was caught. They… they punished me. Tortured me. For years.” You shook, as if shaking could dislodge the memories. “They poisoned me. They cursed me. The restriction curse—it’s… it made it so I couldn’t speak of him, of my brother, of anything about the Duke. Every word I tried to say would… hurt me. I couldn’t breathe, I couldn’t…” You broke off, biting your lip, blinking rapidly as tears threatened.

“You think I poisoned the King? I… I drank it all myself,” you whispered hoarsely, the admission raw, almost shameful, yet liberating. “Every last drop he thought I gave him—I drank it myself. I never wanted to hurt him. I only… I only wanted to survive. To survive long enough for my brother to survive.”

Your chest tightened, and the words tumbled faster now, spilling like a torrent. “I… I had to learn to act, to hide, to smile even when I was nothing but a broken doll inside. I had to pretend. Pretend I wasn’t hurting. Pretend I was fine. Pretend I could be his Queen. Pretend I could live while my heart shattered every single day. And when he—when Gojo… when he hated me, when he… when he looked at me like I was nothing… I…” You faltered, but the confession was unstoppable. “…I still loved him. I’ve always loved him. I… I thought he’d save me, that he’d notice, that he’d see me, the real me. But he didn’t.”

You lowered your gaze, voice breaking on the last words. “The only thing that kept me here… the only thing I can’t let go of… is my brother. If he’s safe, then I… I could die. I could finally… finally disappear.”

For the first time in years, the floodgates opened. Everything you had swallowed, every secret, every pain, every fear, spilled out into the cold, gray silence of the abandoned house. And all the while, Yuji sat there, quiet, letting you collapse fully into the truth of yourself without interruption, without judgment.

You were raw. You were broken. You were utterly, achingly human.

Yuji’s breath hitched, his dark eyes wide and unblinking as he processed every word you had just spilled. The magnitude of it—your torture, the curse, the poison, the manipulations—hit him like a wave crashing over rock. He had known the Duke was cruel, cunning, and vicious, but this… this was beyond comprehension. A child trapped in endless torment, a daughter treated as if she had no right to exist, forced into a life of secrecy and pain.

“This…” he whispered, his voice low, thick with disbelief. “…this isn’t just cruelty. This is… it’s inhuman.”

You shivered where you sat on the bed, and he stepped closer, his tone softening just enough to anchor you. “You… you survived all of this?” he asked, almost incredulous, his hand hovering near your shoulder. “Even after everything… you’re still here?”

You nodded faintly, but the gray haze of exhaustion still clung to you. Every muscle ached. Every thought felt like wading through molasses. And yet, you were still here.

Yuji drew a deep, steadying breath. “We… we need to tell him,” he said firmly, reaching for parchment and quill. “The King… Gojo… he needs to understand. He needs to know exactly what’s been done to you. Otherwise…” His eyes darkened, and his jaw tightened. “Otherwise, he’ll never see the truth.”

You lowered your gaze, swallowing hard. Every instinct screamed caution—Gojo’s anger, the hatred that had burned so brightly before—but somewhere in the pit of your chest, a fragile ember of hope sparked. Maybe if he knew… maybe he could act differently.

Yuji didn’t wait for your response. He wrote swiftly, carefully, the scratch of quill on paper punctuating the tense quiet of the abandoned house. When he finally looked up, he gave you a small, reassuring nod. “We’ll ride again soon,” he said. “You’re strong enough. We’ll get to your brother.”

You gathered yourself, swallowing the heaviness pressing against your chest. The weight of the poison and exhaustion pressed on your body, but your resolve—thin, fragile—held. With Yuji’s steady presence beside you, you mounted the horse again, gripping the reins with trembling hands. The forest ahead stretched long and uncertain, but for the first time in years, you felt the faintest flicker of purpose: you had to see your brother, no matter the cost.

Yuji mounted beside you, silent but watchful, his eyes scanning every shadow as you moved forward. He didn’t speak, but the quiet determination in his posture was enough. Together, you rode into the gray twilight, the road ahead treacherous, the stakes impossibly high—but you were moving. You were still alive.

And for now, that was enough.

The town’s gates loomed ahead, imposing and stern, with the sharp clanging of metal and the scent of dust and sweat hanging heavy in the air. You felt the familiar knot tighten in your stomach. Every step closer made your heart hammer in your chest—Gojo’s alert had spread like wildfire, and every guard along this border knew your face.

Yuji nudged you forward, his expression tight, hands never straying far from the hilt of his sword. “We need to play this carefully,” he muttered, his eyes scanning the guards like a hawk.

You swallowed, nodding faintly, though the dryness in your throat made the motion almost painful. The disguise clung to you awkwardly—clothes baggy enough to obscure your shape, hair bound and tucked beneath a cap, and a long coat that hid as much as possible. You had practiced your stance, your movements, the confident tilt of your chin, but it didn’t stop the tight coil of fear inside your chest.

At the gate, a tall, sharp-eyed woman stepped forward. Her presence radiated authority. Nobara Kugisaki, a high-ranking guard known for her intuition and her ruthless efficiency. Your stomach sank, but Yuji squeezed your shoulder.

You squared your shoulders, letting the disguised persona settle over you like armor. When Nobara’s gaze fell on you, she scrutinized you sharply. “You,” she said, voice cold. “Where are you headed?”

You swallowed, forcing the words out steady and confident, even as your heart thudded violently. “I’m off to the cursed forest,” you said, voice clipped, eyes narrowed. “Monitoring. There have been… unusual readings. I have a technique suited for tracking curses. I’m to report any anomalies directly to the central post.”

Nobara’s eyes narrowed. “A lone sorcerer?”

You gestured slightly toward Yuji, your companion in this ruse, careful not to draw attention to the fact that he was your protector and not another observer. “I am accompanied by an assistant, for safety. The forest is unpredictable, and I must remain uninjured to complete my report.”

Her gaze lingered on the two of you, sharp and calculating, as if she were weighing the truth of your claim against the certainty of her instincts. At last, she gave a curt nod. “Very well. But be warned—any misstep, and I will hold you accountable.”

Yuji’s hand brushed briefly against yours, a silent reassurance. He was watching every shadow, every movement, ready to act. You inhaled deeply, focusing on the path ahead. The gates opened, and the forest loomed beyond, dark and tangled, the faint rustle of leaves whispering of unknown threats.

Even as the gates opened, you could feel her eyes lingering, tracking your every move. It made you uneasy, every step heavy with tension. Yuji’s hand brushed against yours in a fleeting, grounding gesture, reminding you that, despite the watchful eyes and your growing anxiety, you weren’t alone.

You adjusted your stance, feeling the pulse of your cursed technique ready beneath the surface. Together, you and Yuji entered the cursed forest, every rustle and shadow amplified, every step a careful negotiation between danger and survival. Nobara’s watchful gaze burned in your mind, a reminder that trust was a luxury you could not afford.

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Gojo's POV:

The forest pressed in around him, dense and shadowed, the path twisting beneath the hooves of his horse. Gojo’s mind was anything but on the terrain. Thoughts clashed like jagged glass inside his skull, each one sharper than the last. He should have been focused—tracking the fugitive, securing the border, ensuring the escapees didn’t slip past—but he couldn’t.

He couldn’t stop thinking about the boy. The boy who had saved him, sacrificed everything, and… disappeared from his life. Or had he? The memory felt like smoke slipping through his fingers, blurred, fractured. Every time he tried to bring the boy’s face into focus, his head throbbed, a sharp, pulsing pain that left him dizzy and uncertain. Why now? Why after all these years, after all this time of carefully suppressing it, was that memory clawing its way back into his mind?

Gojo shook his head, trying to force the thoughts away, but the forest seemed to lean closer, its shadows pressing in like silent witnesses. And then—

A laugh. Clear, sharp, impossible.

Gojo froze mid-stride, horse startled beneath him, ears flicking forward. He strained his eyes, scanning the dark underbrush. The laugh—soft, but unmistakable—cut through the quiet of the forest, echoing in the spaces between the trees.

His pulse accelerated. That voice… it couldn’t be. It was the boy’s, wasn’t it? But that was impossible. The boy had died—he had seen it. He had watched him fall.

Yet here it was again. Laughter, hauntingly familiar, almost teasing, carried through the air like a spectral thread. Gojo’s hands tightened on the reins, knuckles white. Every rational thought screamed to stay calm, to search methodically, to find whoever dared mock him here in the cursed forest—but a deeper, more primal part of him refused to listen.

“Who’s there?” he demanded, voice low, sharp, dangerous. The forest swallowed his words, and only the rustle of leaves answered.

His heart thudded, a mixture of fear, confusion, and an impossible spark of hope. Could it… be him? Could the boy who had saved him all those years ago still exist? Or was his mind fracturing under the weight of obsession, grief, and something darker he refused to name?

Gojo dismounted, moving cautiously, every sense straining. The shadows seemed to dance, the laughter teasing him, pulling him forward, promising answers he wasn’t sure he wanted. But he couldn’t stop. Not now. Not when the sound of that laugh might be the key to unlocking the truth that had haunted him for years.

The forest thinned as he rode, and a small, abandoned house emerged, half-hidden by overgrown vines and shadows. Gojo’s pulse quickened—not just from pursuit, but from a gut-deep recognition he couldn’t place. He dismounted silently, the hooves of his horse sinking slightly into the soft earth as he approached the door.

The hinges creaked under his touch, but he barely registered the sound. Stepping inside, the air was still, thick with dust and the faint scent of decay—but beneath it, a sharper, warmer scent caught him off guard. A human scent, faint yet unmistakable. Familiar.

His eyes swept the room, chest tightening. And then—

A laugh. Light, teasing, impossible. It bounced off the walls, echoing in the small space, yet no figure appeared. Gojo froze, muscles taut, heart hammering in his ears. Every instinct screamed danger, yet every nerve screamed something else entirely. Recognition. Confusion.

He moved toward the bed, scanning, sniffing, every sense straining. The laugh had stopped as suddenly as it had come, leaving only the hum of the forest through the broken window. There was no one there. Nothing moved. And yet… he could feel it.

On the table, a folded piece of paper caught his eye. The edges were pristine, deliberate. His hand shot out, trembling slightly, as he tore it open. His eyes fell on Yuji’s neat handwriting, calm, factual, almost clinical.

Anger flared, hot and fast, and he nearly crumpled the note in his fist. How dare Yuji involve him in this? How dare anyone think they could hide the truth from him? Every line on the page felt like a provocation, a challenge, a mockery.

And yet, beneath the anger, a colder, sharper sensation prickled at him. His thoughts spiraled. The scent. The laugh. She had been here. She was here. And Yuji…

Gojo’s mind raced, teetering on the edge of something darker. He wanted answers, wanted confrontation, wanted… something he couldn’t name without forcing it into the light. All he knew was that the person he had hunted, the fugitive, the one who had eluded him and mocked him, had been here. And now, he was closer than ever—and yet still so impossibly far.

His fingers tightened around the note, crumpling the edges without meaning to, his gaze darting around the empty room again. The laugh—or at least the memory of it—lingered in his ears. And Gojo realized with a prickling, unstable certainty: this chase wasn’t over. Not by a long shot.

Gojo folded the note carefully, slipping it into the inner pocket of his jacket. The crisp paper pressed against his chest, a reminder that someone—Yuji—had interfered in a way he hadn’t anticipated. Anger flared, sharp and bitter, but beneath it, a gnawing uncertainty clawed at him.

He mounted his horse, the animal shifting nervously beneath him, sensing the tension radiating off its rider. The forest seemed to darken as he rode, shadows stretching unnaturally, as though the world itself was warping to match the turmoil inside him. Every snap of a branch, every rustle of leaves, made him flinch and glance over his shoulder.

The border town lay ahead, a familiar checkpoint where Nobara Kugisaki held authority. Gojo’s mind raced as he approached: plans, contingencies, what-if scenarios spiraling like a storm. The thought of the fugitive, the laugh, the scent lingering in that abandoned house—he could not shake it.

Why now? Why had she reappeared? And why had Yuji left him clues like breadcrumbs, daring him to follow?

The closer he got to the town, the tighter his chest felt. Every detail of the streets, the gates, the patrols, his horse’s hooves against the dirt, all sharpened in his awareness. He could feel his mind teetering, fragile, each thought about her blurring the line between fury and something he refused to name.

When the gates finally came into view, Nobara’s figure appeared almost immediately, standing firm as always, her gaze cutting and assessing. Gojo slowed his horse, taking a deep breath, trying to anchor himself, though his thoughts were anything but calm. The note burned against his chest, a symbol of betrayal, misdirection, and a challenge he could not ignore.

He tightened his grip on the reins and prepared to speak, the first words to Nobara carrying the weight of his obsession, his paranoia, and the desperate need to track down the fugitive before she could vanish again.

Nobara’s office was dim, lit by the waning sunlight that slanted across maps and scrolls piled in careful order. She sat behind her desk, composed, every movement measured. When Gojo entered, she rose with the proper bow, then gestured him to sit.

Her tone was steady as she began her report. “Yesterday, a masked sorcerer passed through with a royal guard. At first, nothing seemed unusual—they had flawless documentation, the sort only the palace could issue.” Her eyes flicked up, sharp and assessing. “I allowed them passage, but after they left… I realized who the guard was.”

Gojo said nothing, but his jaw tightened beneath his calm facade.

Nobara continued, voice cool but deliberate. “Itadori Yuji. Your Majesty’s personal guard.” Her fingers drummed once against the table before stilling. “I contacted Lord Fushiguro immediately, but by the time word returned, they were gone. Headed toward the cursed forest.”

The words settled like lead in the air. Gojo leaned back in his chair, appearing perfectly at ease, but his insides were tightening, twisting. The laugh still rang in his head, the phantom sound of her—the ghost he could neither grasp nor banish. And Nobara, despite her calm tone, carried the faintest trace of unease: the sheen of sweat at her temple, the stiffness in her shoulders. She knew more than she dared to say outright.

He offered her a smile, polite, charming, but his pale eyes pinned her like a hawk’s talons. “So. You recognized my guard, but only after they’d already gone. And your conclusion…” He tilted his head slightly. “…was that my Queen was the sorcerer in disguise?”

Nobara did not flinch, though her throat bobbed with the effort of keeping her composure. “The build. The posture. The way she moved. I couldn’t be certain—but yes, that was my conclusion.”

For a long moment, Gojo simply studied her, silence thickening the air. Outwardly, he was the perfect image of calm—a king evaluating a soldier’s honesty. Inwardly, he was a storm contained in glass, a beast pacing and snapping its jaws behind bars.

“Interesting,” he said at last, voice smooth as silk. “You let them through. You contacted Fushiguro. And now, here we are, both left with nothing but assumptions.” He leaned forward, just enough for her to feel the weight of his presence, his smile too sharp to be kind. “I wonder, Nobara… if you had known sooner, would you have dared to stop her?”

The silence stretched. Nobara’s fingers twitched once against her desk, but her voice never wavered. “I serve the crown, Your Majesty. Always.”

Gojo’s smile widened, the mask of composure barely concealing the animal gnawing at its cage. He wanted the truth—all of it—and he would tear through every border town, every soldier, every shadow until he found her.

Gojo’s presence filled the office, a deceptively calm weight pressing in from every corner. Nobara held her composure as best she could, but her hands betrayed her—her fingers tightened against the edge of her desk, her nails digging into the polished wood.

He noticed. Of course he noticed. Those pale eyes missed nothing.

“You’re hesitating,” he said lightly, tilting his head as if amused, though his gaze was sharp enough to cut glass. “That’s not like you. Speak.”

Nobara swallowed hard, the words catching in her throat. She hadn’t meant to say it. She shouldn’t say it. But the silence was suffocating, and the pressure of his stare made her break.

“She… the Queen… she looked sick.” The words tumbled out in a rush, and once they were spoken, she couldn’t stop. “Like—really sick. Not just exhaustion. I’ve seen injuries, curses, poisonings… this was worse. She was pale. Shaking. She barely seemed able to stay upright.”

The air changed.

Gojo’s smile remained fixed in place, but the world around him seemed to still. The ticking of the clock on the wall faded. The faint chatter of soldiers outside the office dimmed. Inside, his mind froze, then split open with a roar. Sick. Shaking. Barely able to stand. Every word hammered into him, and for one terrifying instant, he felt like the ground had disappeared beneath his feet.

Nobara could feel it—the shift in the room, the sudden suffocating aura pressing down like a physical weight. It prickled against her skin, sharp and electric, the kind of raw power that made even seasoned sorcerers want to bow their heads. Gojo didn’t move, didn’t blink, but the storm inside him was bleeding into the air.

Her breath caught, and she realized if she stayed one moment longer, she might suffocate beneath that aura. Quickly, she rose, bowing low to mask her own tremor. “Forgive me, Your Majesty. I’ve given my report. I’ll… I’ll excuse myself.”

She didn’t wait for his reply. Nobara slipped from the office, the door clicking shut behind her, leaving Gojo alone in the silence he’d created.

And there he sat, unmoving, every muscle locked as his mind replayed those words over and over. Sick. Shaking. Barely able to stand. The beast inside him was no longer pacing—it was clawing at the bars, desperate to be freed.

Gojo sat alone in the dim office, the weight of silence pressing against his ears like a coffin lid. His hand lingered in his jacket pocket, feeling the folded paper like it was nothing more than an inconvenience. A note. A scrap. A boy’s hurried scrawl. Hardly worth the effort.

Still, something in him—the faintest pulse of instinct, or maybe dread—drew it out. His fingers brushed over the crease, unfolding it with a casual flick, his expression carefully blank. He told himself it would be nothing. Useless. A plea. Perhaps an explanation of why Yuji had chosen treason.

But the moment his eyes touched the words, the world shifted.

The first line rooted him in place, his chest tightening as though the air had grown dense. The second left him cold, his pulse stuttering. By the third, his hand began to tremble.

He read faster, desperate, and then slower, as though prolonging the inevitable would soften the blow. It didn’t. Each word struck like a hammer, breaking through the iron walls he had built around himself.

Yuji’s handwriting was steady but weighted, carrying truths Gojo had been too blind to see.

She’s been taking the poison in your place.

The words seared him. His breath stilled, his pulse faltered. He blinked once, twice, unable to process, until the next lines gutted him further. She hadn’t wanted the Duke to grow suspicious. If she had left the vials untouched, if the doses meant for him were not disappearing, the Duke would have questioned her loyalty. And so she swallowed it. Day after day. Quietly killing herself to protect him.

His hand shook violently. The paper blurred as his vision warped.

Yuji wrote of the Duke’s cruelty, of how she had endured beatings, punishments, the kind of torment Gojo couldn’t even finish reading without his stomach turning. Yet she had borne it all in silence because of the curse wound around her throat. A curse that kept her from speaking the truth—about the Duke, about her little brother, about the years she had suffered.

Gojo’s lungs seized. His fingers dug into the page so hard he nearly tore it.

And then came the final blow. The revelation that knocked the very ground out from under him.

She was the one who opened your cage.

The words blurred as the world seemed to tip sideways.

Yuji wrote of that night—the hurried whispers, the fumbling with keys, the door creaking open, the urging hands pushing him toward freedom. The figure in the shadows he had always believed was a boy… was her. She had hidden herself beneath rags, masking her voice, disguising her face, so he wouldn’t recognize her. And while he ran, while he tasted freedom for the first time, she had turned back. She had stayed behind, offered herself up, sacrificed everything so he could escape.

Gojo’s body swayed, dizziness overtaking him. He caught the edge of the desk, his knuckles blanching white, his breath ragged. He could still remember that night—the rush of air against his face as he fled, the pounding of his own heartbeat, the sheer terror of being caught. And now, the image fractured, distorted, recast in a new light. It hadn’t been some nameless boy. It had been her.

His chest seized, and the letter crumpled under his fist. He sank back into the chair as if the strength had been sucked from his body, head falling forward, strands of silver hair veiling his eyes.

The strongest sorcerer in the world, brought to his knees by ink on paper.

Regret hit like a hammer. Every word she had spoken to him, every look, every moment they had shared since—it all shifted, all redefined by this revelation. She had carried the weight of his freedom on her back, and he had walked blindly, arrogantly, never once seeing her for what she truly was.

His breath came uneven, shallow. A cold sweat broke across his skin. His thoughts spiraled viciously: he should have known, he should have recognized her, he should have saved her. Instead, he had left her in chains while he ran to the stars.

The letter slipped from his grasp, drifting to the floor. His hands clawed into his hair as he bent forward, elbows digging into his knees, his whole body trembling. The room seemed too small, too suffocating. The silence was a roar in his ears.

He could still hear Yuji’s words echoing in his skull. She saved you. She gave herself up. And she’s dying for it now.

Gojo squeezed his eyes shut, but the darkness behind them only showed her face—pale, tired, resigned. He felt his chest convulse, a ragged sound clawing up his throat.

For the first time in years, Gojo Satoru wished he had never been saved at all.

Gojo doubled over, one hand braced against the desk, the other gripping the front of his jacket as though he could claw the anguish out of his chest. His lungs dragged in air but it wasn’t enough. Every inhale was shallow, jagged, suffocated by the thought that she had borne his suffering, his poison, his fate — while he, oblivious, walked free.

Tears stung his eyes before he even realized they had gathered, blurring the words, dripping onto the already-creased paper. He squeezed his eyes shut, his entire body trembling with the effort not to collapse completely. The tears broke free anyway, hot trails sliding down his face, disappearing into his hairline and collar.

The strongest sorcerer in the world — undone, ruined, by the weight of his own ignorance.

He saw her face in flashes — pale with exhaustion, lips pressed tight to hide her pain, eyes that still found a way to look at him with gentleness despite everything. She had given him freedom, life itself, and in return he had given her nothing but distance. Coldness. Blindness.

A ragged, broken laugh escaped him before collapsing into something rawer — a sob torn from the pit of his stomach. His knees hit the floor, his body bowing forward under the crushing gravity of regret. His fingers raked through his hair, yanking until his scalp burned, but no amount of pain could drown out the flood of memory.

He should have died in that cage.

The thought pounded through him, vicious and relentless. He should have died there, rotting and broken, instead of letting her step in front of the blade that was meant for him. She had condemned herself in his place, and he had run. He had lived. He had flourished in freedom while she withered in chains.

Gojo bent forward further, forehead nearly touching the floor, as the tears fell faster, soaking into the wooden boards beneath him. His chest heaved with violent sobs he couldn’t control, his breath tearing out of him like shards of glass.

Every choice he had made since that night reared its head now, twisted and grotesque in hindsight. He had abandoned her a second time when she stood before him as queen, and he hadn’t seen her. He hadn’t recognized her. He hadn’t remembered.

He was a monster, and he deserved every torment that memory dealt him.

The letter slid from his hands, limp and crumpled, lying like an accusation on the floor. His shaking fingers clawed into the earth beneath his knees as his voice finally broke through the silence, a hoarse whisper scraping past his raw throat.

“I should’ve been the one to die.”

The words cracked in half as they left him.

Tears blurred everything again, but he didn’t try to stop them. His body convulsed, another sob racking through him until he couldn’t breathe, until his ribs ached from the force of his own despair.

He hated himself. He hated every breath he took, every heartbeat still rattling in his chest. For the first time in his life, Gojo Satoru wished with every fiber of his being that he had died in that cage, so that she would never have had to suffer in his stead.

A sharp knock rattled the door, splintering the suffocating silence that had swallowed him whole. Gojo’s body jerked, his chest still heaving from the aftermath of his breakdown. For a moment, his vision swam, the tears clouding everything in a haze. The sound of Megumi’s steady voice came muffled through the wood, grounding him in something like reality.

“Your majesty. Is everything alright?”

The words pressed against him like a weight, and for an instant, he couldn’t breathe again. Everything inside him screamed no, but he dragged himself upright anyway, staggering toward the chair. His legs trembled as though he’d been gutted, but he forced himself to sit, wiping at his face with a rough hand until only the redness betrayed him. His voice, when it came, was hoarse but firm enough to pass.

“Come in.”

The door opened with a quiet creak. Megumi entered, bowing with his usual formality, though his sharp eyes flicked across Gojo’s disheveled state with something like suspicion. He said nothing, however, simply straightening as he delivered his report.

“According to intel within the Duke’s estate,” Megumi began, his tone clipped, businesslike, “they’ve been stockpiling weapons. Recruiting extra guards. All signs point to preparations for an uprising — likely an attempt to overthrow you.”

Gojo’s ears registered the words, but they slid off his mind like water against stone. His chest still ached with the aftershocks of sobs, the sour taste of bile lingering at the back of his throat. The world narrowed to a dull hum, every syllable Megumi spoke muted against the roar of grief still consuming him.

He wanted to care. He wanted to rage, to act, to be the leader his kingdom needed in that moment. But all he felt was pain — hollow, endless pain, a black hole gnawing through his ribs.

Megumi’s voice continued, steady, unyielding. “And…” He hesitated, just long enough for Gojo’s heart to stutter, his stomach twisting tighter than before. Megumi’s eyes, cool and piercing, flicked toward him as though gauging his reaction before he said it. “The Queen was spotted entering the Duke’s mansion.”

The world stopped.

For a heartbeat, Gojo heard nothing. Saw nothing. Felt nothing. His body went rigid in the chair, his hands curling into trembling fists against the armrests. His mind screamed a thousand possibilities, each one more suffocating than the last. She’s trapped. She’s being used. She’s already suffering more because of me.

The pain in his chest surged so violently he thought he might collapse again, the chair creaking under the sudden tension of his body. He could feel his pulse pounding in his ears, erratic, deafening, drowning out Megumi’s presence entirely.

She had gone to him. The man who had chained her, cursed her, twisted her life into endless torment. The man who should have been his enemy — but whom she had been forced to serve in silence.

Gojo forced himself to swallow, though his throat was raw, every movement scraping like broken glass. He dragged a hand across his face, pushing his hair back with a deliberate steadiness that betrayed none of the storm inside him. When he finally spoke, his voice was calm — too calm, the kind of calm born from a cage with bars welded by grief.

Gojo’s chest heaved violently, a tremor running down his spine, but something inside snapped — a razor-sharp, irrepressible edge that cut through the haze of despair. He slammed his hands onto the arms of the chair, the sound echoing through the office like a gunshot. Megumi’s calm expression didn’t waver, but he flinched slightly at the raw power radiating off his king.

“Enough,” Gojo growled, voice low and dangerous, the kind that made air itself feel tense. “Prepare the men. Every soldier you brought, every guard stationed here — mobilize. We ride for the Duke’s estate. Now.”

Megumi stiffened, already beginning to process the implications, but the urgency in Gojo’s tone brooked no argument. “Yes, Your Majesty.”

The room seemed to shrink around Gojo as he stood, his entire body a taut coil of fury and desperation. His fingers flexed, as if the very air around him were solid and he could crush it with a thought. Every heartbeat pounded like war drums, echoing the images of you trapped, suffering, and alone.

He strode to the map spread across the table, his fingers tracing the lines toward the Duke’s estate. The calculated movements belied the storm inside — every fiber of him burning with a singular, unrelenting purpose: get to her. Protect her. Fix this.

“Nobara,” he barked without looking up, voice slicing through the tension like steel. “Coordinate your guards with Megumi. Every passage, every hidden route, every weak point — I want it mapped, secured, and ready. We move at first light. If anyone stands in our way…” His voice dropped, a quiet, deadly promise. “…they will not live to tell the tale.”

Megumi bowed sharply, already moving to relay the orders. Nobara, standing near the doorway, gave a quick nod, her normally poised expression tight with urgency. She could sense the barely-contained storm radiating from Gojo, the kind of force that could flatten armies if unleashed.

Gojo paused for a heartbeat, staring at the map as if it were the only thing keeping him tethered to reality. His thoughts were jagged, fragmented — flashes of your face, of the letter, of every wrong he had committed. His chest ached, every nerve screaming with the need to act.

I will get her back. I don’t care who dies, I don’t care what it takes. I won’t lose her again.

The moment stretched, heavy with tension and urgency, until Gojo finally pulled himself together. His jaw set, eyes hard as obsidian, he turned to the two sorcerers who would carry out his orders.

“Move,” he commanded, his voice cutting through the room like lightning. “Every second counts. We ride tonight. And when we reach that estate…” His lips pressed together, the last bit of his composure a fragile veneer over a boiling sea of rage and fear. “…we bring my queen home.”

And with that, the room became a hive of motion — guards moving, plans forming, and the storm that was Gojo Satoru barreling toward the Duke’s estate, a king fueled by love, desperation, and unthinkable wrath.

—————————————————

Readers POV:

You spurred your horse forward, the chill of the morning air doing little to penetrate the fog clouding your mind. The estate came into view, and a sharp pang twisted in your chest. Something was… wrong. The walls were intact, but the gates sagged, scuff marks and broken tiles littered the courtyard, and the air smelled of burned wood and scorched earth.

Yuji rode beside you, his usual composed expression taut with unease. “Something’s off,” he muttered, his voice low, almost swallowed by the wind. His eyes scanned the estate like a soldier trained for ambush. “The guards… the gates… even the patrol patterns. This isn’t normal.”

You swallowed hard, gripping the reins tighter. Your stomach churned as your gaze swept the wreckage. “It’s… it’s been violated,” you said quietly, each word bitter and strained. “Something must have happened inside the Duke’s mansion. Whatever it was… it wasn’t small.”

The memory of your father’s cruelty, the poison, the cursed silence, all surged like a tidal wave behind your ribs. You felt the familiar hollow of dread settle in your stomach, heavier than ever. Your hands trembled slightly, though you forced them to steady on the reins. For a fleeting moment, you allowed yourself a thought that you normally banished — Gojo… I hope you’re coming.

Yuji gave a small nod, as if reading your thoughts. “We’ll find out soon enough. Stay sharp.” His voice was calm, but the tension in his posture betrayed him. He knew the Duke’s cruelty better than most, and he could sense the signs of devastation before even seeing them.

You drew a slow, shuddering breath, forcing your focus outward. The estate had always been imposing, a symbol of power and authority. But now it felt hollow, corrupted — a place where secrets had been carved deep into the walls, secrets that might still be alive. You shivered, not from the cold, but from the gnawing fear that whatever awaited you inside could break more than just your body.

Everything in you screamed caution, but the thought of your brother, the fleeting tether that kept you clinging to this world, pushed you forward. Each step toward the estate felt like walking on the edge of a knife, the weight of the past and present pressing into your bones.

Yuji glanced at you again, concern flickering in his eyes. “Stay close. Whatever happened here… we face it together.”

You nodded silently, though inside, the fear gnawed relentlessly. Your mind raced, a storm of worst-case scenarios. Was your father involved? The Duke? Were guards loyal to him? Or worse… was someone inside waiting for us?

The estate loomed closer, every shadow whispering threats. And as you crossed the threshold into the courtyard, the unease solidified into something heavier — dread, suffocating and unrelenting. Something had happened here, and you had a sinking certainty that the consequences were far from over.

You stepped over broken tiles and splintered wood, the floor groaning under your weight as though protesting your presence. The once-imposing halls of the Duke’s mansion now reeked of chaos, scorched walls and toppled furniture bearing silent testimony to violence and struggle. Every step forward made your chest tighten; every shadow seemed to whisper threats.

“Yuji,” you said, voice barely above a whisper, tight with urgency. “Search the east wing. Find my brother. I… I need to know he’s safe before anything else.”

He looked at you sharply, concern etched in every line of his face. “Are you sure?”

“I’m sure,” you murmured, the steel in your tone giving him no room to argue. “Go. Now.”

With a curt nod, Yuji melted into the shadows of the mansion, his footsteps muffled as he vanished toward the east wing. The air seemed heavier immediately after, as if his presence had anchored some of the tension, leaving the rest to settle squarely on your shoulders.

You drew a slow, steadying breath and felt the weight of the knife in your hand. Its cold metal pressed against your palm, grounding you in a way nothing else could. Your fingers flexed around the hilt, not in panic, but in resolve. There was only one path forward. One person you needed to confront before you could even consider surviving.

The Duke.

Every instinct screamed danger, every shred of your past abuse clawing at your resolve, yet the thought of your brother safe — the only tether you had left to this world — pushed you forward. Step by careful step, you moved through the chaos, keeping low, senses sharp. The walls, once familiar, now seemed alien, warped by destruction and fear.

Your heart pounded in your chest, but not from fear. From focus. From fury. From the desperation of someone who had survived years of torment and abuse only to return to the source of it all, determined to protect the one thing that truly mattered.

And as the faint echo of your brother’s laughter — a memory of innocence — brushed against the edges of your mind, you pressed onward, the knife your silent promise: you would face the Duke, you would secure your brother’s safety, and you would not falter.

Every step brought you closer to him, closer to the confrontation you had been building toward in your mind for years, and closer to the edge of what you were willing to endure. But you had no other choice. The time for hesitation had passed.

You pushed open the heavy doors to the Duke’s office, the hinges groaning like a warning. The room was a chaos of overturned chairs and papers strewn across the floor, but nothing made your chest tighten more than the lifeless form slumped against the corner: the sorcerer. The one who had cursed you, who had bound your tongue, who had forced you to carry years of suffering in silence. His blood still pooled beneath him, the coppery scent thick in the air.

Your hands trembled slightly, knife still in your grip, as your eyes swept the room. And then you saw him. Your father. The Duke. His normally imperious posture was gone, replaced by a staggering, wild-eyed presence. He muttered incoherently, voice rough and unsteady. “Poison… poison everywhere… they’ve been poisoning me… no one can be trusted…”

You froze, the bile of recognition and fury rising in your throat. This man, this monster, had not only destroyed your childhood but had dragged your brother into his twisted games. He didn’t even notice you at first, mumbling to the empty room, pacing like a caged animal, eyes darting as if the walls themselves might betray him.

“You…” you whispered, voice trembling despite your attempt at control, every ounce of calm you had left slipping away. “You… you did this. All of this…”

The Duke’s head snapped toward you, wild and unfocused. “You… you… tricked me!” he spat, lurching forward. “The curse… the lies… it’s all poison! You’re… you’re—”

But you didn’t wait for his incomprehensible tirade to finish. Years of trauma, of fear, of silent suffering, funneled into a single, unrelenting wave. You stepped forward, knife raised, not for him — not yet. You needed answers. You needed to secure your brother. And more than anything, you needed this nightmare to end.

The air in the room was electric, thick with the remnants of fear and rage, and your pulse thundered in your ears. You were no longer the trembling child who had been forced to obey, to hide, to survive in silence. You were the storm he had created, standing in his office, dagger in hand, fully aware of every cowardly choice, every cruel act, every life he had shattered.

He laughed then, harsh and brittle, like glass breaking. “You… you think you can stop me?” he rasped, stumbling closer, eyes bloodshot and unfocused. “You think—”

But you blocked his advance with a single, deliberate step, the knife pressing lightly against his chest, a silent, terrifying promise. “I’m not here to die by your hands,” you said, voice steady despite the trembling in your limbs. “I’m here to save my brother. And after that…” Your lips curved slightly, a dangerous, cold expression. “…you will answer for every single thing you’ve done.”

The Duke froze, the reality of your presence cutting through whatever fog had overtaken him. But even as he reeled, you felt the weight of the moment: the danger was far from over, and the mansion, the Duke, and the shadows of your past would not release you easily.

You stood in the center of the office, knife still trembling slightly in your hand, though your gaze never wavered from your father. The words he spoke next clawed at your very soul, ripping away whatever shred of composure you had left.

“You… you were always just a pawn,” he spat, voice venomous yet oddly triumphant. “A mere, insignificant bastard child. Nothing more than a tool in my story.”

Your stomach dropped. A pawn. That’s all you had ever been to him — disposable, replaceable. Your hands shook, tighter on the knife, not from fear but from the rage bubbling inside.

His eyes glinted with malice as he continued. “My daughter… she was supposed to marry that monster, that king. But she… she died. And then… you.” He sneered, the words slicing through the air like a blade. “You looked just like your mother, that cursed woman who ruined everything. When she got pregnant with you, she ruined it all — but I realized… I could use you. For my revenge.”

You froze, the room tilting slightly as though the air itself had thickened. He wasn’t just speaking of your suffering; he was laying out its reason, its purpose, as if your pain had been orchestrated for decades.

“My Rosie. The late Queen,” he hissed, voice tightening with venom, “she was supposed to be mine. And she chose… him. That man, that king, over me. After everything I planned for us. And you… you were suppose to poison her son's mind slowly so I could kill him easily. My vengeance made flesh.”

Your chest constricted painfully. The knife wavered in your hand as the weight of his revelation pressed on your lungs. You, all these years, had lived in torment — abused, silenced, forced to obey, made to survive in pain — and it had been for this? For him to manipulate you into someone else’s role?

Tears burned your eyes, but you blinked them back, refusing to give him the satisfaction. You had survived his cruelty before; you would survive this revelation too. Yet every fiber of your being screamed in despair, in disgust, in helplessness. Your body felt simultaneously hollow and on fire, the walls of your carefully constructed self-control threatening to collapse.

And even as you stood there, the knife still trembling in your hand, the one thought that pierced the storm of anguish was: your brother. He is safe. He must be safe. Whatever came next, you would endure. You had to.

“No!” The word tore from your throat like a wound opening, sharp and ragged. You stepped forward, knife trembling in your hand but unused, your entire body shaking as years of suppressed anguish spilled forth. “I was an innocent child! I didn’t deserve any of this! You… you could have just let me go!”

Your voice cracked, breaking the dam of years you had built around your emotions. “Instead, you… you killed me slowly, piece by piece, with every cruelty, every lie, every curse! You… you forced yourself on her! My mother!” The words nearly strangled you as they came, tears streaming freely now, burning and hot. “And then… my brother was born, and she… she was killed! None of this… none of it was deserved. None of it!”

Your chest heaved, body wracked with sobs that had been years in the making. “All this pain… all this suffering… and the sole person responsible… the one who made it happen… is you!”

The knife slipped from your trembling fingers and clattered to the floor, but you didn’t notice. You didn’t care. All you felt was the heat of rage and grief mingling, a storm consuming every ounce of yourself. You were screaming not just for yourself, but for the little brother who had survived, for the mother who had been stolen, for the years that had been stolen from you.

“You monster! You should have died for what you did! For every second I suffered, for every scream I swallowed, for every tear I was forced to hide!”

Your legs weakened, and you sank to your knees, body shaking, voice hoarse and raw, the air around you vibrating with the intensity of your pain. In that moment, you weren’t just a daughter, a sister, or a pawn. You were every injustice, every cruelty, every wound the Duke had ever inflicted, distilled into a living, screaming, furious human being.

And even as the sobs wracked your body, even as your voice tore itself raw, one thought remained unyielding: you would survive. For your brother. For the chance, however slim, that some justice could still be carved from this nightmare.

You rose from your knees, every muscle trembling but coiled with purpose. The air around you felt thick, charged with the remnants of your screaming, your rage, your grief. Your hand found the hilt of your knife, fingers tightening like iron around it. This was no longer survival, no longer silence. This was justice — your justice — and you would see it through.

The Duke staggered back, wild-eyed, muttering incoherently, unaware of the storm that had fully taken hold of you. “You… you think you can—” he started, but you cut him off with a step forward, fast, precise, every movement controlled despite the shaking of your body.

“I am not your pawn!” you hissed, voice low and venomous. “I am not the tool for your revenge, not the shadow of your dead daughter, not anything you want me to be!”

And with that, you lunged. The knife flashed through the air, aimed to disarm and strike — to remind him that he had never held true power over you. He staggered back, barely avoiding the blade, his balance unstable as panic finally seeped through his delusion. You pressed forward, relentless, slashing with precision, each movement a culmination of years of pain, abuse, and suppressed fury.

“Look at me!” you screamed, voice raw and hoarse, eyes blazing. “Look at what your cruelty has made! Look at the child you destroyed! And know… I am not broken!”

He tried to lunge back, raise a hand to strike, but you anticipated, moving with a combination of desperation and clarity that only years of survival could teach. The knife’s tip pressed into his body, over the heart.

“This ends now!” you spat. “You will never touch me, my brother, or anyone else ever again. I am not afraid of you!”

As the blood pooled around him, you could see the fear in his eyes was a mirror to the rage and pain etched deep into your own soul. You could see it — the realization that the child he thought he could control, the pawn he had manipulated, had grown into something far more dangerous than he could ever imagine.

Your breathing was ragged, tears still streaking your face, but the fire within you burned bright and untouchable. The knife stayed pointed at him, a clear declaration: you were done being his victim.

And somewhere in the back of your mind, one thought anchored you amid the chaos: your brother. He was alive. He would be safe. And for that, you could endure, fight, and rise from the ashes of the child he tried to destroy.

You staggered upright, every inch of your body trembling from the exertion and the storm of emotions that had just erupted. Your vision swirled, the edges of the room blurring as if the world itself were spinning in tandem with your heartbeat. Every muscle screamed for release, for collapse, for the surrender of everything you had held onto for so long.

And yet, you didn’t fall. You couldn’t. Not yet. There was still a tether keeping you bound to this broken world — your brother. The thought of him, innocent and oblivious to the horrors that had shaped your life, anchored you to reality even as your mind begged for oblivion.

The room smelled of dust, blood, and fear, a suffocating reminder of the violence you had unleashed and the life you had taken a stand against. Your chest heaved, each breath shallow and ragged, as if even the simple act of breathing demanded effort too great for a body like yours. You wanted, more than anything, to close your eyes and let the darkness take you, to disappear into the void where nothing could hurt you anymore.

But you couldn’t. Not while he existed. Not while the world still demanded that you fight, that you protect, that you survive. You clung to that fragile thread, trembling and dizzy, but determined. You would endure — for him, for the chance at some semblance of peace, and for the final reckoning that still waited beyond these walls.

Even in your exhaustion, even in the haze of pain and rage, your mind was painfully clear: you would not let go. Not yet.

The world had narrowed to static, a relentless buzzing in your skull that drowned out everything else. Your knees hit the floor, trembling and weak, the room tilting with each shallow breath. Each heartbeat felt like a hammer against your chest, each gasp a battle against the suffocating weight pressing down on your lungs.

You didn’t even register the doors slamming open, the sudden flurry of movement around you, until a pair of blue eyes appeared in the haze, sharp and impossible to ignore. Gojo. Your husband. The king. And yet… he looked nothing like the man you had loved in secret all those years. His face was twisted in anguish, his mouth moving, words thrown at you, but all you heard was a high, piercing buzz that made your head ache.

Instinctively, your trembling hand rose, and your fingers brushed against his cheek, warm and solid beneath your touch. You wanted to say so much, to explain, to plead, but the words dissolved in the fog of your mind. Only one thought remained, clear and urgent: your brother.

“Take… care… of him,” you whispered, voice a fragile thread, your lips barely moving as darkness crept closer from the edges of your vision. Your hand lingered against his cheek, a silent plea, a tether to the one thing still holding you to this fractured world.

And then the darkness swallowed you, cold and absolute, as the buzzing in your head became a roar, your body giving out completely into the arms of the man who had haunted your heart for so long. The last thing you saw before slipping entirely away was the sorrow and rage in Gojo’s eyes, a reflection of everything you had suffered, and everything you had left behind.

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Gojos POV:

Gojo’s world had narrowed to the weight of you in his arms, and the rest of the world—the shouting guards, the splintered furniture, the chaos of the Duke’s estate—faded into a dull, meaningless haze. Your body was limp against his chest, your pulse faint but painfully real, each shallow breath a fragile thread holding him back from completely unraveling.

He was shaking, tears streaking down his face, fingers gripping your shoulders, your arms, anywhere he could feel you, as if holding you tighter might somehow undo the years of pain you had endured at his hands and his father’s. “Please… please, forgive me,” he whispered over and over, his voice cracking, raw and hoarse. “I—I didn’t know… I didn’t know. I never wanted this. Please…”

His lips pressed to your temple, his forehead against yours, rocking you gently as if his trembling movements could soothe the storm of trauma and exhaustion etched into every inch of your body. Every shallow breath you took made him clutch you harder, a lifeline to keep him anchored to reality. The thought of losing you, of letting the one person who had tethered him to something real slip away, made his chest tighten as if it were being crushed from all sides.

“I can’t… I can’t lose you,” he choked out, the words barely a whisper between ragged breaths. “I… I deserve to die a thousand times over, but I can’t… not yet… not when you’re still here.” His mind swirled with guilt, rage, and sorrow, each emotion amplifying the next. The entire world felt heavy, suffocating, and yet the only thing that mattered—the only thing keeping him alive—was your slow, fragile breathing against him.

Gojo’s mind finally cleared enough to think of what needed to be done. He had to get you help. He had to get you to the capital, to the finest healers, to anyone who could stabilize you. He looked around, his eyes wild, scanning the ruined estate for any sign of a medic, his jaw tight with determination. “Yuji,” he gasped, shaking your limp body slightly to rouse both himself and the guard, “help me—we have to get her to the capital. Now.”

Every step he took, carrying you, was heavy with guilt, anguish, and desperation. Every heartbeat reminded him of the years he had failed you, of the cruelty he had once believed in, of the love he had refused to admit. And yet, in this crushing, dizzying pain, in this turmoil that threatened to consume him, there was one absolute truth: as long as you were still breathing, as long as your chest rose and fell in his arms, he had to survive too.

The blur of frantic footsteps, the shouting of soldiers, and the rattling of carriage wheels gave way, at last, to silence. Darkness came and went in fleeting waves, and when it steadied again, you were no longer in the ruined halls of the Duke’s estate—you were lying in a bed, soft linens tucked around your frail body, the faint glow of candlelight casting warmth over pale skin. The air was calm, the world still, but only because Gojo had forced it to be.

He sat at your side, hunched over, his long fingers tangled tightly with yours as though the simple act of touch could keep you tethered to him, to life, to the world that had so mercilessly tried to strip you away. His grip was firm, almost desperate, knuckles white with the pressure, while his thumb rubbed small, uneven circles across your hand in a silent plea that you wouldn’t slip away. His entire body was rigid with exhaustion, eyes bloodshot and hollow, but not once had he let go.

Guilt gnawed at him like a beast, restless and merciless. He should have protected you from the start. He should have seen, should have known. Instead, he had left you to suffer in silence, left you to bear wounds that should have been his. The knowledge was unbearable, tearing at him from within until his chest ached with every breath. If she dies… if she leaves me now, I’ll follow. I’ll go wherever she goes, because there’s nothing left without her.

His head bowed closer to your still form, lips brushing the back of your hand as though in prayer. He didn’t dare speak the words aloud—his voice would betray him, would crumble into a broken confession—but the thought repeated endlessly in his mind, sharp as a blade against his throat. I can’t live without you. I won’t.

The guilt and the fear devoured him whole, but still he sat there, refusing to move, refusing to sleep, refusing to even blink for too long. Because if your breathing faltered, if your pulse slowed, he had to be there to feel it—to stop it, to fight it, to drag you back no matter the cost. You were his queen, his wife, his anchor. Without you, Gojo knew, he would finally shatter.

The door creaked open with the weight of careful steps, and the royal physician entered with a bowed head, his hands clutching his worn satchel. The quiet rustle of his robes felt almost sacrilegious against the suffocating silence of the chamber. Gojo didn’t move, didn’t greet him—his blue eyes burned unblinking, narrowed with a feral intensity that made the old man hesitate before he drew nearer.

The physician set his tools on the bedside table with practiced precision and leaned over you. He brushed his fingers over your wrist, your forehead, pressing lightly along your pulse points, listening to the rhythm of your shallow breathing. Gojo sat forward, watching his every motion as though he might leap up and tear the man away at the faintest misstep. His hand never left yours; his thumb continued its trembling circles, frantic now, almost erratic.

Each second dragged like an eternity. The physician’s face grew heavier with every moment—creases deepening at his brow, his mouth tightening into grim silence. Gojo felt his stomach turn violently, bile creeping up his throat at the sight of that growing concern. His free hand fisted against his thigh, nails digging crescent marks into the fabric. He wanted to demand answers, to shake the truth out of the old man, but his tongue felt like lead.

At last, the physician let out a slow sigh, one that seemed to carry centuries of sorrow. He drew back, adjusting his spectacles, his voice grave when he finally spoke.

“Her Majesty’s condition is… most dire.” His words hung like a funeral bell in the air. “Her body has become extremely deteriorated, not solely from the years of mistreatment she endured, but also from the poison she’s been consuming. It has been eating away at her physical health… and, I fear, her mental well-being as well. To have borne this for so long…” He shook his head, almost in disbelief.

Gojo’s world constricted to a sharp, suffocating point. His chest heaved as though he’d been struck, and his hand tightened around yours until his knuckles ached. Every word the physician uttered carved deeper into him, each syllable an indictment, a judgment he could not outrun. He was trembling, his heart a wild, panicked drum against his ribs.

“She is still fighting,” the physician added softly, almost as though trying to offer a shred of comfort. “But it is a fight against time itself.”

Gojo’s throat bobbed, but no words came. His vision blurred, blue eyes stinging until he couldn’t tell whether it was rage or grief clouding them. All he knew was that he was watching the woman he loved—the woman he had failed—slip away from him, and no power in the world seemed enough to stop it.

The physician’s hand lingered over your wrist a moment longer, as though weighing whether to speak the words that pressed against his tongue. His silence was a blade drawn taut, and Gojo’s glare sharpened until the old man finally exhaled, heavy with resignation.

“There is… one possibility,” he said slowly, his voice quiet but grave enough to split the room. “But it is not a method I offer lightly. To preserve Her Majesty’s life, the burden of her suffering—the poison ravaging her, the pain embedded in her body—would need to be transferred. To another vessel.”

The words cracked the silence like thunder.

Gojo didn’t hesitate. Not a heartbeat passed before he said, firmly, unflinchingly, “Then take me.”

The chamber exploded with tension.

“Your Majesty!” Megumi’s sharp voice cut through first, his composure fracturing as he took a step forward. His dark eyes widened with a rare panic, the kind that only slipped through when his mentor’s recklessness grew unbearable. “Do you even hear yourself? You don’t know what that means—what it’ll do to you.”

From the corner, Yuji’s voice rose too, incredulous, desperate. “My lord, no! You can’t—if you take all of that into yourself, it’ll possibly kill you!” His hands clenched into fists, his usual optimism gone, stripped bare by fear.

But Gojo didn’t look at them. His gaze was fixed only on you, still and pale against the sheets, your chest rising in fragile, shallow breaths. His hand tightened around yours until his knuckles whitened, as though sheer grip alone might tether you here.

“I don’t care what it does to me,” Gojo spat, his voice raw, trembling at the edges with more emotion than either Megumi or Yuji had ever heard from him. “If it means she lives, then so be it. She’s carried this pain long enough—longer than anyone should have to. If there’s a price to pay, it’s mine to take.”

The physician faltered, caught between duty and fear, his eyes flickering nervously between the distraught king and the two young men staring at him in disbelief.

Megumi’s jaw clenched, his usual calm fracturing as he stepped closer, voice sharp. “Do you even realize what you’re saying? You think destroying yourself will fix this? She doesn’t need your self-destruction, Your Majesty—she needs you alive.”

“Exactly!” Yuji’s voice cracked, the urgency in it raw. “You can’t just throw yourself away like that. If she wakes up and finds out you did this, what do you think it’ll do to her?!”

But Gojo wasn’t listening. His entire being burned with a singular truth, a vow carved into his bones. He would rather destroy himself piece by piece than sit by and watch the light of his life be extinguished before his eyes.

“Do it,” he demanded, his voice breaking like shattered glass. His blue eyes—glittering, wet, and terrifyingly certain—snapped back to the physician. “Transfer everything into me.”

The physician’s lips pressed into a thin line, his fingers twitching nervously at his sides as though weighed down by the enormity of the decision. He shook his head slowly, the tremor in it betraying the fear he could not conceal.

“My lord, forgive me, but I cannot,” he said at last, his voice taut with restraint. “To take the poison, the pain, the years of decay into your own body—it is no simple matter. Even for a man such as you, it may kill you outright. I cannot allow the kingdom to lose its king.”

The words snapped something inside Gojo.

He surged to his feet, the chair skidding violently across the stone floor. His hand still clutched yours, but his body loomed tall and shaking, a storm contained only by the sheer desperation knotting every muscle in his frame. His voice erupted, louder than thunder, raw with anguish.

“You think I care about a throne?!” His chest heaved, his eyes blazing with a feral brilliance that left the physician cowering. “Do you think this crown matters to me if she dies?! She is my world—don’t you understand?! Without her, there is no kingdom, no king, no point to any of this!”

Megumi flinched, but only for a second, his own voice hard and unyielding as he stepped forward. “Your Majesty—listen to yourself. You’re not thinking straight. If you die, then what? She wakes up to find you gone? You’d condemn her to the same hell you’re trying to save her from!”

Yuji’s voice cracked, laced with raw pleading. “My lord, please—please don’t do this. We’ll find another way. We always find another way. Don’t make this your last choice.”

But Gojo’s hands shook violently as he clutched yours tighter, his body rocking with the rhythm of your frail breaths. His face bent low, his forehead pressing desperately against your hand. His words came as a rasp, a prayer, a plea.

“There is no other way. She’s slipping from me—I can feel it. I won’t sit here and watch her die when I can take it instead. If it destroys me, then so be it. At least she’ll live.”

The physician stammered, wringing his hands, his body trembling under the force of the king’s conviction. “Sire… if I perform this, there may be no return. Once it is done, it cannot be undone. It will be her life for yours.”

“I already made my choice,” Gojo whispered hoarsely, lifting his face, his blue eyes glittering with tears that clung stubbornly to his lashes. “Her life is worth more than mine. It always has been.”

The silence that followed was suffocating, broken only by the sound of your fragile, shallow breaths.

The physician swallowed hard and began gathering his instruments, his face pale, his movements reluctant. In the corner, Megumi’s fists were trembling, his teeth gritted as though the only thing stopping him from dragging Gojo bodily away was the look on his teacher’s face. Yuji’s eyes brimmed with helpless tears, his voice small but shaking.

“This is going to kill you…” he whispered, his voice breaking as he turned his gaze away. “And you don’t even care.”

Gojo didn’t answer. His hand never left yours. His heart had already decided.

The physician’s hands shook as he laid out the instruments, muttering incantations under his breath in a dialect older than kingdoms. The air thickened, heavy with the scent of burning herbs and iron as candles were lit around the bed, their flames shivering like they too were afraid.

Gojo never let go of your hand. His thumb brushed over your knuckles again and again as if memorizing their shape, his face bent low, whispering words you couldn’t quite hear. His breaths were ragged, each inhale a fight against the crushing terror that if he blinked too long, you’d be gone.

“Begin,” Gojo ordered, his voice cutting through the air like steel.

The physician hesitated, sweat dripping down his temple. “Once I start… it cannot be stopped. Do you understand, sire?”

Gojo’s gaze snapped up, blazing blue with a fury and desperation that silenced every protest. “I said begin.”

The physician’s hands hovered over your frail body, his murmurs deepening into chants. Strange sigils burned faintly across the floor in a circle around the bed, glowing with a sickly light. The physician’s palms pressed to your chest—then, in a sudden movement, shifted to Gojo’s.

The pain came instantly.

Gojo’s body jerked violently, a raw cry tearing from his throat as he arched back, his grip on your hand tightening until his knuckles whitened. His veins lit like molten fire beneath his skin, black creeping along the edges as the poison bled into him, threading itself through his body with cruel eagerness.

“Gojo!” Yuji cried, rushing forward, but Megumi caught his arm, his own eyes wide, jaw clenched. He couldn’t move. He couldn’t stop it.

Gojo’s breath rattled, his body convulsing as the years of agony you had endured—every drop of poison, every wound left unhealed, every shred of torment carved into your soul—flooded into him. His chest heaved, his head thrown back, his scream echoing through the chamber like something inhuman.

But still, his hand never left yours.

The physician’s voice broke through, trembling. “He’s… he’s taking all of it—his body shouldn’t even be able to withstand this much—”

Gojo’s teeth ground together, blood slipping from the corner of his mouth as he forced his body still. His gaze snapped to your face, his voice breaking on a vow as he whispered through the pain.

“Stay with me. Please—please, stay with me. Take everything from me if you must—just don’t leave.”

Your breathing began to steady. Color returned faintly to your skin, the tremors in your body easing as if the weight of death was finally loosening its grip.

Gojo, meanwhile, was falling apart. His breaths came in shallow gasps, his vision blurred with black at the edges. Still, he smiled through bloodied lips, his forehead dropping against your hand.

“If this… is the price,” he rasped, “then I’d pay it a thousand times.”

Gojo sat at your bedside like a man carved from stone, his expression calm in a way that was almost unnatural. The runes beneath him glowed faintly still, but he no longer trembled or cried out. Only the smallest betrayals revealed the truth—an involuntary twitch of his jaw, the faint tightening of the hand that still clung desperately to yours.

The agony coursing through him was unbearable, a poison that shredded his veins and pressed fire into his bones. Yet he stayed silent. What gnawed at him most wasn’t the torment itself, but the cruel revelation of what it meant: this was the pain you had lived with every single day of your life. He couldn’t reconcile it, couldn’t imagine how you had endured this quietly, with grace, while he—hailed as the strongest—was already drowning. His heart cracked open wider, despair dragging him further into its pit.

Then—your hand stirred faintly in his grip.

His breath caught. His head shot up, disbelieving, as your lashes fluttered against your pale cheeks. Your lips parted with effort, and the faintest whisper broke free.

“S-Satoru…”

The sound of his name on your lips cleaved him in two. It was so fragile, barely a thread of sound, yet it struck him like lightning—violent, searing, impossible to withstand. His heart jolted against his ribs, tears blurring his vision before he even realized they had fallen.

He bent over you at once, clutching your hand against his mouth like a lifeline. His shoulders shook as he laughed and sobbed all at once, unable to contain the storm ripping through him.

“I’m here,” he whispered, raw and desperate. “I’m here—don’t leave me, please…”

Even as his body throbbed with the unbearable weight of your curse, even as despair still clawed at his ribs, that single moment—the sound of your voice, the touch of your hand—had lit him alive again.

Your breath came shallow, ragged as you clung to the faint thread of life tying you to the bed. The pain still throbbed within your body, but weaker now—dulled by the sacrifice Gojo had so recklessly taken upon himself. Your mind felt clouded, yet one thought cut through the haze, sharper than any knife.

“My… my brother,” you whispered, your voice breaking. “Where… is he?”

Gojo froze. His throat locked, his chest constricting as though the question itself had reached inside him and torn out his heart. For a moment, his expression betrayed everything—fear, guilt, and grief—but he swallowed it back, forcing himself to steady his tone.

“Yuji,” he rasped, his voice almost breaking. He turned, motioning his soldier forward. “Come.”

Yuji hesitated, his usual bright, unshakable spirit extinguished. He walked toward you like a man approaching his own execution, his eyes already wet with the weight of what he carried. He sank beside your bed, his trembling hands curling into fists against his knees. When he met your gaze, the sorrow in his eyes was enough to splinter you in two.

“Please…” you whispered, tears welling. “Please tell me… tell me he’s alright.”

Yuji’s throat bobbed as he tried to speak, but the words tangled and caught like barbed wire. His jaw clenched, and when he finally forced them out, his voice cracked.

“By the time I got there… he was already gone.”

The room collapsed around you.

“No—” The word tore from your throat, hoarse, strangled. Your nails dug into the sheets, clawing for something to anchor you. “No, no, no!”

Yuji’s face twisted in anguish, his voice shaking as he forced himself to continue. “The maids… they said he got sick, that he caught some disease months ago. He—he passed away.” His fists trembled. “But the Duke… he… he still wanted to use you. So he made them all pretend. Pretend Adrian was still alive.”

The sound that broke from you was not human—it was the sound of something ancient and wounded being ripped apart. A scream that shredded the silence, raw and unrestrained, splitting the air until the walls themselves seemed to shudder with it.

Gojo flinched, every fiber of his being begging him to cover his ears, to shield himself from the unbearable grief radiating from you. But he didn’t. He couldn’t. He forced himself to look, to listen, to drink in every ounce of your suffering—because this, he knew, was just a fraction of his punishment.

His hand clutched yours tighter, his own tears spilling freely as he whispered broken apologies into your skin. He rocked you gently as you screamed, as if his body alone could shield you from this reality.

But nothing could.

The truth was here, ugly and merciless, and it had destroyed what was left of your heart.

Your screams eventually broke down into hoarse sobs, each one wracking through your fragile body until even grief itself seemed to run dry. The silence that followed was worse—too still, too sharp. Gojo leaned over you, brushing your damp hair away from your face, his heart pounding in fear that your body had given out from the sheer weight of agony.

But then your chest rose, just faintly. Your breathing steadied into shallow, trembling draws. On the outside, to anyone else, it might have looked as though you’d calmed. Yet Gojo—who had memorized the smallest flicker of your expression—could see it. The light in your eyes had dulled, replaced with something fractured and hollow. It was not calmness that lingered on your face but resignation.

His chest constricted. His arms ached to pull you close, to tell you he would bear the world’s cruelty for you, but his hands shook with helplessness. He could mend wounds, shield kingdoms, command power no man should wield—yet nothing could stitch together the shattered pieces of you before him.

Slowly, with a frailty that tore him apart, your hand lifted. It found his, your fingers weak and cold, curling against his palm as if he were the only tether left keeping you here.

Your lips moved, so faintly he almost thought he imagined it—until the words struck him like a blade.

“Kill me… please.”

Gojo froze, his blood turning to ice, his mind shattering into chaos.

“I don’t… I don’t have the strength to do it myself.” Your voice cracked on the edges of the plea, raw and broken. “Please… just end it. Let me follow him… let me rest.”

His heart stopped.

For the first time in his life, the indomitable Satoru Gojo—the man who could face armies without blinking—was undone. His throat closed around a sob, his vision blurred with tears, and his hand tightened desperately around yours as if he could anchor you by sheer will.

“No…” he whispered, shaking his head violently, his voice trembling in horror. “Don’t ask me that. Don’t—don’t you dare ask me that.”

But the look in your eyes remained, pleading, resigned, unbearably broken.

And Gojo could only hold on tighter, his own soul fracturing as he realized the cruelest truth of all—saving your body had meant nothing if your spirit had already died.

Taglist: @man1cslut @pengomang0 @ssetsuka @elegancefr

Note: The next part is already in session!

[thepiinkpages]

King!Gojo Satoru x Queen!Reader (Historical Romance) Part 1

Note: I love these kinds of romances, so I decided to make my own with the characters I love.

WARNING: There is child abuse/neglect, depression, and thoughts of su*cide in this fic. Please do not read if your triggered easily :)

Part 2 Part 3

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Gojo's POV

The air was always wet here. Not clean-wet, like rain on stone, but the kind that clung to your skin and made you taste iron when you swallowed. Water dripped from somewhere far above, though no one had ever seen the ceiling—only shadows pressing down like a second roof over their heads. The walls of the cavern sweated, streaked black with mold, and the ground was never fully dry. Sometimes, when the guards forgot to shovel the filth away, the mud swallowed your ankles.

Gojo sat with his back to the rock wall, knees drawn up, his thin shirt damp and clinging to his bones. His wrists ached from the raw chafing of rope burns that had never quite healed. There were always bruises somewhere—on his ribs from a boot, on his temple from a backhand—but the sting of them had dulled to background noise. The real pain was the waiting. The not knowing when the next blow would fall.

The guards liked to remind him who he was. The precious little prince, far from his gilded palace now. They said it like a joke, but it was the kind that dripped with venom, their grins too wide, their eyes too flat.

He had stopped telling them his name weeks ago. It wasn’t worth the kicks in the stomach.

The rest of the prisoners were older—men hardened by labor, their faces hollow, their eyes too dull to care if a boy froze beside them. All except one.

The boy sat across from him now, crouched low over a chipped tin cup, dividing the watery soup into two equal portions. He was older than Gojo by maybe a year, but his frame was just as sharp with hunger. His hair was cropped unevenly, his face smudged with soot, but there was something stubborn in the way he held himself—something that refused to bend, even here.

“You’re not eating?” Gojo’s voice came out hoarse, unused to speaking.

The boy shoved the cup toward him. “Eat. You’re shaking.”

“So are you.”

“Then we’ll both stop shaking faster if you eat.”

Gojo almost smiled at that—almost—but the weight of the cave smothered it. He took the tin with stiff fingers, the warmth leeching into his skin, and drank. It tasted like boiled rags, but it was heat in his belly. He slid it back, watching as the boy drained the rest without flinching.

They didn’t talk much, not with the guards always pacing. But when they did, it was in short, quiet bursts: where they’d grown up, what they missed most, what they’d do if they got out.

Gojo never said if. He always said when.

“When we leave,” he murmured now, “I’m going to see the ocean again. My mother used to take me to the shore when I was small.”

The boy glanced at him, eyes glinting in the dim light from the torch down the hall. “When we leave,” he echoed, “I’m going to find my brother. Make sure he’s safe.”

Gojo nodded once. There were no promises here—promises were fragile things—but there was something harder, heavier between them.

That night, the guards were louder than usual, their voices carrying down the tunnel, their boots crunching over stone. Gojo lay awake, listening to the boy breathe beside him, counting the drips from the ceiling. He could almost see the moon in his mind, silver and clean, hanging in a sky he hadn’t touched in months.

They would leave.

He didn’t yet know the price.

The boy had a way of slipping between the guards’ anger and Gojo’s ribs. It happened in small moments — a hand pushing him back when someone’s temper flared, a quiet shake of the head when Gojo’s stubbornness was about to spill over into something that would get him hurt.

Once, it happened fast. Too fast.

Gojo had been ordered to carry a water bucket half his size from the well deeper in the cave. His arms were shaking, the cold biting at his fingers, but he didn’t dare spill it. One of the guards — broad-shouldered, eyes like damp gravel — stuck out a boot. The bucket went crashing to the ground.

Gojo froze.

The guard smiled, slow and cruel. “Clumsy little royal.”

He drew his hand back. Gojo braced for the hit — but it never came. The boy stepped between them, taking the backhand full across the face. The sound cracked through the cavern, sharp and sickening.

The guard laughed and shoved him away. “One rat shielding another. Pathetic.”

Later, when they were back in the shadows, Gojo hissed, “Don’t do that again.”

“You’d have done the same for me,” the boy said, wincing as he touched the swelling at his cheekbone. “And you’re not built to take hits yet.”

“I’m not—” Gojo started, but the boy cut him off.

“Eat your share. We’ve both got to last until we leave.”

The words until we leave were like a thread tying them together, thin but unbreakable.

Sometimes, when the guards weren’t looking, they made up games. Pebbles became soldiers in an invisible war, scratched marks in the dirt counted victories. Once, Gojo found a scrap of twine and braided it into a loop, and they took turns tossing it over a rock until the guards’ shouts broke it apart.

It was nothing like the games he’d played in the palace gardens, but somehow, these mattered more.

One night, a guard shoved the boy hard against the wall for moving too slowly. Gojo’s temper, brittle and sharp, snapped.

“Leave him alone,” he said, stepping forward before he could stop himself.

The guard turned, his smirk spreading. “What was that, little prince?”

Gojo’s chin lifted. “I said—”

The blow came before the words were out. His head snapped sideways, the taste of copper flooding his mouth. Another followed — a fist to his stomach, stealing his breath — and then the world was a blur of boots and pain until the boy’s voice broke through.

“That’s enough! He’s no good to you dead!”

The guard paused, then spat on the ground and walked away, muttering.

Gojo lay curled on the damp stone, trying to breathe past the ache in his ribs. The boy crouched beside him, eyes darting toward the tunnel where the guard had vanished.

“Idiot,” he whispered, not unkindly. “Don’t waste yourself on me.”

Gojo met his gaze, stubborn even through the pain. “I’m not going to let them think you’re alone.”

The boy stared at him for a long moment before looking away. But later, when the torches burned low and the guards’ footsteps faded, Gojo felt something brush his wrist in the dark — the faintest squeeze, quick and quiet, like a promise neither of them could put into words.

The cave always smelled of damp stone, rotting straw, and the faint metallic tang of old blood. Days bled into nights without meaning, but Gojo was learning to mark time by the guards’ habits—their laziness after meals, the slow shuffle of changing shifts. It was during one of those sluggish hours, when the torchlight down the tunnel flickered low, that the boy slipped away.

Gojo didn’t notice at first; he was too busy pretending to sleep, trying to keep the guards’ attention elsewhere. But when the shadows shifted and the boy reappeared, crouching low, Gojo’s eyes snapped open.

“What did you—?”

The boy held up his finger, then pulled something from his shirt: a piece of bread, dense and coarse, edges gnawed as if it had already been bitten into.

“You’re insane,” Gojo whispered. “They’ll kill you if they catch you.”

“They won’t.” His voice was steady, but Gojo noticed the way his hands shook. “Eat it before it goes stale.”

Gojo stared at the bread. It was pitifully small, nothing compared to the feasts he remembered from the palace, but here, it was a miracle.

“You should—”

“Don’t start.” The boy tore it in two, pressing one half into Gojo’s hand. “I’m not doing this to watch you starve.”

Gojo wanted to argue, but the warmth in his chest wasn’t from the bread—it was from the way the boy said you. Like it mattered if he survived. Like someone still saw him as worth saving.

That night, the guards sent them to move crates deeper into the tunnels—work meant for grown men, not half-starved children. The path wound away from the main cavern, the light dimming with each turn until the walls narrowed into a jagged, half-collapsed passage.

The crate in Gojo’s arms slipped against his bruised ribs. The boy noticed, muttered something under his breath, and suddenly veered toward the wall. “This way,” he whispered.

Gojo hesitated, glancing back toward the guards’ shouts. “We’ll get caught.”

“Not if we’re quiet.”

They squeezed into a gap between two slabs of rock, just wide enough for their shoulders. The space beyond was small, a pocket of air where no torchlight reached. For a few moments, it felt like the world outside didn’t exist.

Gojo lowered himself to the cold floor, his breath clouding faintly. “How’d you know about this place?”

The boy shrugged. “I got lost once. Decided not to tell anyone.”

They sat in silence, listening to the distant echo of boots and voices. Gojo leaned back against the wall, letting the darkness press close. “We could hide here,” he said quietly. “Someday. Wait until the guards think we’re gone, then leave.”

The boy didn’t answer right away. When he did, his voice was softer than Gojo had ever heard it. “Someday, maybe.”

It wasn’t a yes, but it wasn’t a no either.

For the first time in months, Gojo felt something like calm. It didn’t last—shouts from the tunnel grew louder, and they had to scramble back into the open—but the memory of that tiny, hidden space stayed with him, like a candle he could shield from the wind.

Something touched Gojo’s shoulder, light as breath.

He woke instantly—months here had taught him to come awake without a sound. The darkness was near absolute, but a pale outline crouched beside him. The boy’s face was a shadow among shadows, but his eyes caught the faintest glint of torchlight from far down the tunnel.

“Now,” he whispered.

Gojo’s heart stuttered. He didn’t need to ask what he meant. Somewhere deeper in the cavern, laughter slurred into a half-sung song. The guards had gotten into their wine—he could smell it even here, sour and heavy in the damp air.

They moved quickly but not recklessly, crawling toward the far wall where the stone dipped into a low opening. It was barely high enough to squeeze through. The boy went first, glancing back to motion Gojo on.

The tunnels beyond were different from the main chamber—narrower, their walls slick with condensation, the air colder. Their footsteps made soft sucking sounds in the mud, and every drip of water seemed loud enough to bring the world down on them.

Gojo’s chest was tight, not from the cold but from the knowledge that each turn could either lead to freedom or into the arms of a waking guard.

“How do you know the way?” he breathed.

The boy’s voice was barely more than a ghost. “I’ve been mapping it. Watching. Waiting.”

They slipped past the water well, its surface black and still as glass, then through a jagged split in the stone that scraped Gojo’s shoulder raw. His bare feet found sharp rocks, then smoother ground, then a sudden slope downward.

They stopped at the edge of a wide cavern, its roof lost in shadow. A faint current of air brushed against Gojo’s cheek—cooler, cleaner. It smelled faintly of earth rather than rot.

“That’s outside,” the boy said.

Gojo’s pulse roared in his ears. Outside.

They were halfway across when a shout split the air behind them.

The boy’s head whipped around. “Run.”

Gojo ran. The cavern floor tilted upward now, and every step was agony on his bare, frozen feet. The tunnel narrowed ahead, framing a wedge of darkness that promised something more.

But the sound of boots on stone was gaining. The boy shoved Gojo hard toward the gap.

“Go!”

“What are you—?”

“Just run!”

Gojo stumbled forward, catching himself on the walls. He turned once—just once—and saw the boy facing the guards, small and defiant, a rock clenched in one hand.

Then the first guard reached him.

The boy swung, the rock connecting with a sick crack, and the torchlight flared as someone shouted in pain. But another guard caught him from behind, arms pinning him, dragging him back toward the darkness.

Gojo froze. “No!”

“Go, Satoru!” The boy’s voice was raw, desperate. “Don’t stop—just go!”

Hands grabbed at Gojo’s arm, but he tore free, scrambling through the last stretch of tunnel. The air changed—cool wind spilling in from a break in the rock. Moonlight, thin and silver, spilled across his hands.

He hesitated, breathing hard, torn between the taste of freedom and the sound of his friend’s struggle echoing behind him.

Then the shouts turned into screams. The kind he’d heard before. The kind that meant someone was being taught a lesson.

Gojo ran.

The moon was above him now, clean and unreachable, and he ran until the shouts were swallowed by the wind, until the cave mouth was just a black scar in the side of the mountain.

He didn’t stop running until his legs gave out. And when he fell to his knees in the grass, gasping for air that no longer smelled like stone and mold, the first thing he did was look back.

The cave was silent. The boy was gone.

The wind bit at his skin, but after months in the suffocating dark, Gojo could have sworn it was the warmest thing he’d ever felt. Grass clung to his knees, bending under his trembling fingers. The sky above was an endless sweep of stars—so wide, so impossibly bright—that for a moment he couldn’t breathe.

The air tasted different here. Clean. Alive. It should have felt like freedom.

It didn’t.

Every heartbeat dragged him back into the tunnel, to the muffled shouts and the sound of struggling. He could still see the boy’s outline, standing between him and the guards like a wall that refused to break. The last word he’d heard—go—echoed until it was all that filled his head.

A branch snapped somewhere behind him. Gojo scrambled back, heart leaping, but instead of guards, men in armor emerged from the treeline. Bellua’s crest glinted faintly in the moonlight—the lion rampant, silver on deep blue.

“Your Highness—!” The lead soldier’s voice cracked with disbelief. He dropped to one knee, then barked orders to the others. Two men rushed forward, catching Gojo before he could flinch away.

They were speaking—asking questions, calling him prince, swearing they’d bring him home—but the words slid past him like water.

“Where’s the boy?” Gojo asked, his voice small but sharp enough to cut through their noise.

The soldiers exchanged glances.

“There was no one else, sire.”

“That’s not—” His throat tightened. He pushed against their hands, eyes darting to the cave mouth. “We have to go back! He’s still in there, they’ve—”

Strong arms lifted him off the ground. “We can’t, Your Highness. It’s not safe. You’re injured.”

“I’m fine!” Gojo shouted, the sound breaking halfway. “They’ll kill him—he saved me, we can’t leave him—”

But the soldiers didn’t turn. The trees swallowed the cave behind them, and with every step, the distance stretched until it felt like a wall he could never climb again.

Gojo stopped struggling only when his voice gave out. He lay limp against the soldier carrying him, staring over his shoulder at the strip of mountain now half-hidden by fog.

He told himself he’d go back.

No matter how long it took, no matter who stood in his way—he would go back.

But the moon kept rising, the fog kept thickening, and the boy’s face blurred in his mind until all that remained was the sound of his voice in the dark, telling Gojo to run.

(Years Later – Bellua Palace, Throne Room)

The bells of Bellua rang low and heavy that morning, the sound rolling through the marble halls like the growl of something ancient and waiting. King Satoru Gojo sat on the throne as though it had been carved for him alone—one long leg stretched lazily forward, chin propped against his hand, eyes half-lidded in a look that never quite decided between boredom and disdain.

It was a mask. Everything about him was, now.

Seven years had passed since he had staggered out of that cave and into the arms of Bellua’s soldiers. Seven years of rebuilding his body, mastering the cursed energy that had bloomed within him at fourteen, of wearing a crown that had been far too heavy at first but now felt like an extension of his spine.

And seven years of hatred.

It had started sharp and clean—hatred for the guards who’d beaten him, for the dark and the damp and the stink of rot—but it had crystallized, narrowed, until every ounce of it burned toward one name.

Evison.

Duke Rodric Evison, who had paid men to snatch a ten-year-old prince from the royal gardens and throw him into the bowels of a mountain like refuse. The man had not only lived, he had thrived, smiling across trade tables and offering false congratulations at Gojo’s coronation.

Gojo’s fingers curled loosely around the arm of his throne. If he had his way, Evison’s name would be carved into a gravestone before the year was out. But Bellua’s advisors were cowards who muttered about “political stability” and “lasting peace,” and now they had arranged something fouler than any open war.

A marriage.

To the duke’s daughter, no less.

The plan was insult dressed as diplomacy: unite Bellua and Evison by binding their bloodlines. The advisors swore it would end the old enmity between crown and duchy. Gojo swore it would end nothing but the girl’s dignity.

He had no illusions about her. In his mind, she was a pampered little viper, raised on her father’s poison, ready to smile in his face while plotting in whispers. Whether she was willing or not meant nothing. She would walk into his palace as her father’s pawn—and Gojo would break her the way Evison had tried to break him.

The courtiers thought they saw a charming king when he smiled. The truth was simpler: he smiled like a man sharpening a blade.

The great gates of Bellua Palace groaned open just past midday. Outside, the winter light was thin, casting long shadows over the frost-tinged courtyard. A carriage rolled in, its lacquered sides gleaming black as a raven’s wing, the Evison crest etched in gold on its doors.

Gojo stood at the top of the palace steps, flanked by his guard. The cold nipped at his cheeks, though no hint of discomfort touched his face. He looked every inch the king—straight-backed, hands clasped loosely behind him, that faint, infuriating smile curling his mouth.

It was not a welcoming smile.

The carriage stopped. A footman jumped down, swinging the door wide.

She stepped out.

The Queen-to-be was not quite what Gojo had expected. She was young—too young to wear her father’s crimes like a second skin—and her face carried a softness he had thought impossible in Evison blood. But she moved with the grace of someone trained from birth to be watched, her chin tilted slightly upward, her eyes wide as they swept over the palace steps.

For a brief, passing moment, something in her expression tugged at him. A flicker, like the echo of a memory pressed against the edges of his mind. But it vanished beneath the weight of the crest pinned to her cloak. Evison’s daughter. That was all that mattered.

He descended the steps slowly, letting the sound of his boots against stone carry through the silent courtyard. Each step was measured, a performance. The guards didn’t move; the servants held their breath.

“Welcome to Bellua,” Gojo said, his voice smooth but cool, like the blade of a knife fresh from the whetstone. “I trust your journey was… uneventful.”

Her lips parted, as if she might answer with something polite, perhaps even kind. But the look in his eyes—those bright, glacial blues—froze the words before they could form.

“I imagine your father has prepared you well,” he continued, tilting his head slightly. “After all, you’re here to mend the bridge he tried so hard to burn. I suppose that makes you… his peace offering.”

A faint ripple of murmurs passed through the onlookers. The insult was subtle enough to deny if confronted, but sharp enough that the target would bleed.

Her gaze lowered for the briefest moment, the only crack in her composure. When she looked up again, the mask was in place—smiling faintly, voice steady. “I am here to serve Bellua, Your Majesty.”

Gojo’s smile deepened in a way that was not warm. “We’ll see.”

He turned on his heel without offering his hand or even waiting for her to follow, forcing her to trail behind him up the palace steps, her shadow falling into the cold space between them.

Inside, the doors boomed shut, sealing her into the lion’s den.

The grand hall glittered under the light of a thousand candles. Long tables curved into a horseshoe, their surfaces laden with silver goblets and plates carved from polished ivory. The air was rich with the scent of roasted game, spiced wine, and something far less tangible—anticipation.

The royal court was in attendance. Nobles in jeweled collars, generals in polished armor, ladies with eyes as sharp as their laughter—all watching the new Duchess-to-be.

She sat at Gojo’s right hand, her posture perfect despite the weight of every gaze in the room pressing against her skin. She could feel them assessing her dress, her face, her movements.

But none of their scrutiny burned quite like his.

Gojo lounged in his chair, goblet in hand, his arm resting lazily on the carved armrest. Every so often, his gaze would drift to her—not with warmth or curiosity, but with the same look one might give an artifact from a rival kingdom: interesting enough to study, but not to cherish.

“Lady Evison,” he said suddenly, and the hall quieted. “Tell us… have you found Bellua to your liking so far?”

The question was harmless on its surface, yet there was something in the way he spoke—his voice carrying just enough to be heard by all—that made it a trap.

“It is… beautiful, Your Majesty,” she replied, keeping her tone even. “The people I have met have been most welcoming.”

A smile tugged at his mouth, though it didn’t reach his eyes. “How fortunate. I would have thought you more accustomed to… other surroundings.”

The ripple of laughter that followed was quiet, but deliberate. She felt heat creep up her neck, though she kept her face composed.

Dinner continued, but the small cuts kept coming—remarks about her family’s “generous” contributions to Bellua’s history, comments on her “fortunate” position at the king’s side. By the time dessert was served, she felt like she had been flayed in the most polite way possible.

Then the musicians struck a chord.

Gojo rose from his seat with an easy grace, setting his goblet aside. “A dance,” he announced. The court watched, expecting him to offer his hand to the woman at his side.

He didn’t.

Instead, his gaze slid past her to a lady in a gown of deep crimson seated several places down—Lady Renalle, young, beautiful, and notorious for her open adoration of the king.

“My lady,” Gojo said, bowing slightly. “Would you honor me?”

Her cheeks flushed prettily as she accepted, rising with practiced elegance. The court murmured in approval as the pair swept onto the floor.

The music swelled, and Gojo led her with effortless charm, his hand resting at the small of her back, his smile warm and unguarded in a way the Duchess-to-be had not seen once since her arrival.

Every turn, every lingering glance, was a public declaration—one that needed no words.

From her seat, she held her goblet steady, her knuckles white beneath the tablecloth. The restriction curse thrummed faintly against her ribs, a silent reminder of what would happen if she spoke too much, too freely. So she said nothing.

She watched.

And she burned.

The candles of the grand hall flickered out as the dinner concluded, leaving the palace bathed in shadowed gold. She slipped from her chair with practiced ease, bowing briefly to the lingering courtiers before heading toward the balcony. The chill of the evening air was sharp against her skin, and for a moment, she let herself breathe.

A soft rustle behind her told her she wasn’t alone.

“Father,” she muttered under her breath, bracing herself. Duke Rodric’s presence was heavy, and his gaze followed her like a shadow. He had insisted on accompanying her out here, claiming it was for propriety—but she knew better.

Gojo noticed, of course. He had been seated by a side window, observing with a calm that belied the sudden pulse in his chest. The Duke’s insistence on trailing her was… peculiar. Suspicious. Calculated.

The king remained perfectly still until she turned to leave the balcony, walking toward the quieter corridors of the palace. That was when Gojo moved.

His steps were silent on the polished stone. He did not rush, did not draw attention. He simply followed.

The corridor was narrow, lined with tall tapestries that muffled sound. The Duke’s shadow trailed hers like a slow, dark tide. Gojo stepped out of the shadows, leaning lightly against the wall, letting the faint candlelight catch his features.

“You seem… fond of walks at night,” he said, his tone smooth, deadly.

She froze, heart skipping. “Your Majesty,” she said, bowing her head just enough to acknowledge him without giving away fear.

Gojo straightened, taking a single step toward her, the rest of the corridor swallowed behind him. “And yet you hide behind your father. I assume that’s why you went to the balcony—comfort in his presence?”

Her eyes flicked toward the Duke, still lingering at the far end, pretending to admire a tapestry. Gojo’s gaze followed, and a faint smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “I see. You’re under his thumb, yes?”

“I… I must obey him,” she said quietly. Her voice trembled ever so slightly, betraying the composure she had fought to maintain all evening.

He took another step closer. “Do you?” His tone sharpened, each word precise, like a blade sliding along a bone. “Or are you simply terrified of whats going to happen to you here if your father doesn't shield you?”

She does not meet his eyes and remains silent.

“Of course,” Gojo said, tilting his head. “Silence suits you… for now. But do not think your secrets—or your fear—will remain hidden for long. Bellua is not kind to the timid, Lady Evison. And I… am not kind to those who betray me.”

He paused, letting the weight of his words settle. The hallway seemed smaller, colder, the shadows stretching like fingers. Then, with the faintest shrug, he moved past her, leaving her breathless, staring after him.

Gojo’s eyes never left her as he disappeared into the dark corridor beyond. He swore to get revenge not only for him but for his fallen friend whom saved him and died.

——————————————

Readers POV.

You remember the night like it was yesterday, though decades have passed since then. You were ten, small and wiry, but brave enough to risk everything for a boy no one else cared about. Every rope you cut, every diversion you made in that dark, suffocating cave was a gamble, a chance to see him free. And you had succeeded—he had escaped.

But not you.

The moment you were caught, the world you had known died. Your father’s rage was a storm that left nothing standing. You were dragged to a chamber deep in the Evison estate, a room designed to break children, to turn courage into obedience. There, the punishments began—and they never truly stopped.

Years blurred together. Every day was a litany of pain: the lash, the whip, the hands that bruised your skin and left marks you could still feel beneath your clothes. Every night was a gauntlet of curses and spells meant to silence your thoughts and twist your will. You learned to bite your tongue, to keep your fear hidden, to suppress the screams that rose in your throat.

And all the while, your little brother waited, locked in a tower, his life dependent on your submission. Every moment of defiance, every thought of rebellion, threatened him. The knowledge of that tether became heavier than any chain or blade.

Years passed in this shadowed prison of your father’s making. Your body was a canvas of scars, your mind trained to obey without question, and your spirit—once wild, fierce, unyielding—was narrowed into a blade of survival.

Then came the offer.

“Marry the King of Bellua,” your father said, his voice deceptively calm, “and your brother will live. Live as he should. Healthy. Safe. Untouched.”

You understood immediately what he meant: compliance for life, obedience for blood, silence for salvation. There was no choice. There was never a choice. You nodded, because your brother’s life mattered more than your freedom, more than your pride, more than the years stolen from you.

You survived.

But you survived hollow. Every graceful movement, every word chosen carefully for the eyes and ears of the court, every smile you give is armor forged from pain, fear, and loss. The restriction curse coils against your throat like a snake, reminding you that one wrong word could undo everything. One misstep could send your brother’s life crashing down around you.

And somewhere, buried under decades of suffering, a memory gnaws at you—a boy in the moonlight, a promise whispered in the damp shadows of a cave, a life you gave up for his freedom.

You do not yet know that the boy you saved is the man you will soon meet as King. But when that day comes, the memory of your sacrifice, and the price you paid, will weigh heavier than any crown.

It has been a year since the worst of the punishments ended—or at least, the ones that could be seen.

Outside the walls of Evison estate, the world sees you as a young lady in control: delicate hands that no longer tremble in public, a posture so perfect it looks natural, smiles that do not betray the weight of your history. You receive your meals on time now, enough to survive without looking gaunt, without the bruises and welts that once made your presence a warning to any who noticed.

But survival has a cost.

Every movement is measured. Every word spoken has been rehearsed a hundred times in your mind. Your body still remembers the harsh punishments, the whip that drew fire across your skin, the sting of cursed magic pressing down on your will. Those memories live beneath the surface, coiling in quiet spaces where no one can see them. The scars are invisible now, but they are no less real.

You’ve been taught etiquette and poise, lessons meant to mold you into the perfect noblewoman: how to curtsy just so, how to speak in measured tones, how to hide fear in your eyes and replace it with charm or politeness. You’ve learned the intricate dance of courtly life, the whispered rules of engagement that could make or break alliances.

You obey. You smile. You speak when expected. You never step out of line.

All for your little brother, who waits in the tower, alive and well, the one living proof that your sacrifices were not in vain.

Still, at night, when the estate is silent and no eyes are watching, the memories return. You can feel the cold stone of the cave, the rope cutting into your fingers, the boy’s whispered plea to run, to leave him. You can remember every moment you traded your own freedom for his.

And the promise you made—to protect him, at all costs—remains unbroken.

The world sees a polished, refined young woman, one who has endured and emerged unharmed. But inside, you are tempered steel, forged by fire and pain, carrying a secret no one outside the Duke’s walls could ever imagine.

You are ready for the world to see what you want them to see.

But you do not yet know that soon, the world will place you directly before the one you once saved—and that your carefully constructed control will be tested in ways your father never intended.

The carriage rattled along the frost-lined roads, each jolt of the wheels against the cobblestones sending a shiver through your spine. You clutched the edges of the seat, knuckles white, fingers trembling despite the gloves. Outside, the winter landscape stretched gray and silent, a mirror to the turmoil in your mind.

You had been prepared, yes—lessons in etiquette, posture, and conversation—but none of it mattered now. None of it could steady the storm in your chest.

What kind of man was the King of Bellua? The rumors from your father’s servants had been conflicting, and your imagination had filled in the blanks with the worst possibilities. A tyrant. A monster. Or rather, a man grown beyond recognition, cold and untouchable.

Your stomach knotted. Every instinct screamed that he would be merciless, that your life—and the fragile safety of your little brother—depended entirely on your ability to obey without falter. You had been broken once, and the cracks still ran deep. There was nothing left of you to give, except the duty to protect him, the boy you had helped escape all those years ago, and the silent hope that he had made it safely into the arms of his parents.

You prayed to every god you had ever heard of that he had.

Even now, the memory returned unbidden: the damp cave walls, the way his small hand had gripped yours, the desperate whisper of go, just go. You had obeyed. You had run, leaving him behind, carrying a guilt that had been sharpened daily by the Duke’s punishments.

Your brother’s safety had been your tether, your only anchor through years of pain and endless torment. Without him, you would have crumbled completely. And now, stepping toward the unknown, toward the man who would decide your fate and claim you as his bride, you clung to that anchor with everything you had left.

The carriage jolted again. You closed your eyes, pressing your forehead to the cold glass, and whispered a silent plea into the winter air: Please… let him be safe. Please… let this end with him alive. Please… let me survive this.

The road ahead was long. The palace at Bellua loomed somewhere beyond the hills, a place of power, of judgment, and of a man whose cruelty you could only imagine.

And yet, despite every instinct screaming at you to run, you had no choice but to face it.

The boy you had saved was out there, somewhere, growing into the man you could only hope still carried a trace of the child you once knew.

And in the shadow of that hope, you braced yourself for the life the Duke had carved out for you—a life that would test every ounce of control, every shred of courage left in your fractured heart.

You clutched the edges of your skirts as the carriage came to a stop, taking a deep, shaky breath. The winter air bit at your cheeks, but it was nothing compared to the storm in your chest. You had survived years of punishment, years of fear and silence, for this moment—the threshold of Bellua Palace.

The doors swung open. You stepped down and froze.

White hair caught the sunlight, glinting like threads of silver against the grandeur of the palace steps. And then you saw the eyes. The same bright, piercing gaze you remembered from the moonlit cave so many years ago. Your heart lurched, hope igniting in your chest.

He was here. He had kept his promise.

Warmth spread through you, a trembling relief that maybe, just maybe, the boy you had helped escape had survived. That he had grown strong, and that he had returned to see you safe.

But the warmth shattered in an instant.

His gaze fell on you fully, slow and deliberate. He looked at you—not with recognition, not with memory—but with the faintest flicker of contempt, as though you were nothing more than an annoyance, a speck of dirt beneath his feet.

A cold, sinking realization struck you harder than any punishment ever had.

The boy you had risked everything for… he hadn’t remembered you.

You had imagined this reunion countless times, the joy of seeing him again, the silent understanding that no words could hold. But those fantasies dissolved into the harsh reality of his disdainful stare.

Your knees trembled. The air felt suddenly thin. You pressed your hands to your chest as the heat of hope drained from your body, leaving only the weight of heartbreak and humiliation.

He had survived, yes—but you were invisible to him, a ghost of the past he had long since forgotten. And now, as he looked down at you like you were nothing, you understood the cruel truth: the boy you saved had become a man who did not remember your sacrifice, and the warmth you had felt was nothing more than a lie your heart had told itself.

You move through the hall, but it feels as if your body is no longer yours. Every step is sluggish, your skirts heavy, your hands trembling despite your efforts to steady them. The faces of the nobles blur into a dull haze, their whispers and polite gasps like distant echoes from another world. You are present… but not.

One of your tethers to reality—the fragile thread that has kept you anchored to the world after years of torment—is weakening. Your little brother and the boy you sacrificed everything for is supposed to be your safe space. A place where you went when you were being punished. And yet the weight of this palace, of the court’s scrutiny, of him—of Gojo—presses down like a tide rising in your chest.

Then he moves.

Gojo rises, and the hall seems to shrink around him. All at once, the air shifts; all eyes fall on him, the King of Bellua, untouchable and commanding. And instead of offering his hand to you, the woman at his side—at your side, by right, in this cruel dance—he chooses another. A lady in crimson, poised and smiling, willing to be his plaything before the court.

Your chest tightens, but you cannot breathe, cannot speak. The restriction curse presses against your throat, holding your voice hostage. All you can do is watch.

The dance begins.

His hand rests at the small of her back, guiding her through the steps with that effortless charm you had once imagined reserved only for friends, for confidants, for someone who mattered. The warmth you had felt earlier—hope, recognition—crumbles into ash as you realize he has no memory of you, no place for you in the man he has become.

Every turn, every lingering glance, every polite whisper between them is a dagger, cutting through the remnants of your courage. Your heart plunges deeper, sinking into a sea of darkness. You feel yourself drifting, untethered, as though the floor beneath you could vanish and you would not notice.

The court applauds, unaware of the private cruelty being enacted. You are invisible to them, and yet entirely exposed. Every part of you screams, but the sound dies behind your lips.

You feel yourself fading, a ghost trapped in the marble halls of Bellua, swallowed by humiliation, despair, and the sharp, unyielding truth: the boy you saved is no longer the boy you knew, and the man he has become is unrecognizable, untouchable, and cruel.

And in that moment, you understand how truly alone you are.

Your chest feels tight, your lungs refusing to expand as though the air itself has turned traitorous. The hall around you tilts, the applause from the court and Gojo’s infuriatingly composed presence pressing down like a weight you cannot bear. A prickling haze creeps over your vision, your heartbeat thundering in your ears.

You can feel it coming—the panic clawing at the edges of your mind, threatening to shatter every carefully maintained layer of control. You cannot speak, cannot breathe, cannot stay.

You move, almost blindly, toward the balcony. The doors swing open to cold night air, carrying the faint scent of frost and garden flowers beyond. For a brief, shining moment, the world is quiet. The chaos fades. The stars glint faintly above, and you allow yourself a tremulous breath, a flicker of relief.

You are safe, for just a heartbeat.

Then a hand closes around your hair. Pain shoots through your scalp as you are yanked backward. You cry out, the sound muffled by the sudden weight of dread pressing down on your chest.

Your father’s face looms above you, twisted in disgust. “Did you think you could escape me?” he hisses, dragging you closer. His grip is iron, unyielding, and the warmth and hope you just felt vanish instantly.

“You are nothing,” he snarls, spitting the words like venom. “Nothing but a bastard child, a stain on this house. You are here to be a spy; overthrowing the empire must start with you!”

Tears burn behind your eyes, but you do not speak. The restriction curse presses against your throat, ensuring compliance, ensuring silence. Your father does not need words from you—he needs your fear, your obedience, and your humiliation.

You bow your head, letting him tighten his grip just enough to remind you of the years of punishment, the years of servitude and suffering that have led to this moment. Every memory of the cave, the boy, the sacrifices—all of it is folded into the ache running from your scalp down to your chest.

And in that moment, looking out over the glittering palace gardens beyond the balcony railing, you understand in a bone-deep way: there will be no peace for you here. Not while your father controls your fate, not while the boy you once saved has grown into a man you cannot reach, and not while the delicate thread keeping your little brother alive still hangs in the balance.

The night presses in around you, cold and unyielding, as the stars glint faintly above, indifferent witnesses to your torment.

Not wanting to go back to the humiliation feast, your anxiety leads to to the hallway that leads to your room.

The chill of the corridor did little to steady the storm roaring in your chest. Every heartbeat threatened to escape, to betray the fragile composure you had fought to maintain all evening. And then his voice cut through the haze, smooth and precise, like a blade sliding against bone.

“You seem… fond of walks at night,” he said.

You froze. Heart skipping, breath hitching, mind swirling with turmoil. The panic, the exhaustion, the humiliation—it all coalesced into a tight knot, tightening around your chest.

“Your Majesty,” you murmured, bowing your head just enough to acknowledge him without letting fear betray you.

He straightened, taking a single step closer, the shadows of the corridor swallowing the space behind him. “And yet you hide behind your father. I assume that’s why you went to the balcony—comfort in his presence?”

Your eyes flicked toward the Duke at the far end of the hall, pretending to admire a tapestry, his gaze heavy with authority and silent threat. Gojo’s eyes followed, and a faint, almost imperceptible smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

“I see. You’re under his thumb, yes?”

“I… I must obey him,” you said quietly. Your voice trembled, betraying the composure you had spent the evening forcing into place. The world spun slightly around you, dizzying in its clarity of danger.

He stepped closer, closer than decorum allowed, each movement deliberate. “Do you?” His tone sharpened, every syllable a precise strike. “Or are you simply terrified of what's going to happen to you here if your father doesn't shield you?”

You swallowed hard, the taste of panic bitter on your tongue.

“Of course,” he said, tilting his head as if inspecting a delicate, fragile creature. “Silence suits you… for now. But do not think your secrets—or your fear—will remain hidden for long. Bellua is not kind to the timid, Lady Evison. And I… am not kind to those who betray me.”

Agony flared in your chest, your throat burning as you tried to speak, to tell him, to scream—but the restriction curse tightened like thorns crushing your vocal cords. You could not. You could only tremble, your mind a storm of desperation and shame.

He left then, each step deliberate, leaving you quaking in his wake. Your knees felt weak, every ounce of control threatening to slip away. The corridor suddenly felt impossibly long, impossibly bright, impossibly suffocating.

You could not—would not—collapse here. Not where someone might see. Not where your father’s eyes, or the court’s whispers, could witness the fracture of your carefully maintained mask.

Your feet carried you on instinct alone, carrying you down twisting hallways, past polished floors that reflected a composure you no longer felt. Finally, your room. Closed doors. The faint scent of lavender and old wood greeted you like a balm.

You sank to the floor, arms wrapped around your knees, trembling uncontrollably. Tears prickled at the corners of your eyes, but you refused to let them fall. Even here, alone, the echoes of the court, of Gojo, of your father’s threats, haunted you.

The candle’s flame flickered weakly, throwing jagged shadows across the walls of your chamber. You woke with a gasp, heart hammering violently in your chest, muscles taut and trembling. Sweat slicked your skin, though the air was cold, and your body ached as if you had run for your life.

The nightmare had been merciless—a loop of the past you could never escape. Rope cutting into your fingers, damp stone pressing against your cheek, muffled cries swallowed by the cave. His small, desperate face haunted you; the way he had begged you to go without him. And then the Duke—looming, shouting, punishing, twisting your every moment into torment.

Even as you tried to ground yourself in the dim candlelight, a new horror invaded your senses. You heard it before you consciously realized it: the low, relentless hum of flies, the incessant buzzing circling your mind, pressing against your skull like a hive of relentless judgment. And beneath it, faint but unmistakable—the echo of screams, high-pitched, raw, endless. It was not real… not outside your head… but it felt so vivid that your skin crawled and your stomach knotted.

You pressed your shaking hands against your face, rocking slightly, and tried to silence the din, but the sounds burrowed into your mind, a relentless reminder of everything you had endured. Every whip, every curse, every humiliation played again, tangled with the buzzing and screaming until it was impossible to distinguish memory from hallucination.

Your mind splintered further with each pulse of sound. You were alone—physically safe in the palace chamber, yet trapped in a mental cage no one could see. The years of punishment, the restriction curse, the careful obedience demanded by your father’s cruelty, the survival of your little brother—all of it pressed down on you like stones on a fragile chest.

You clutched your knees, rocking back and forth, feeling the shards of the girl you had once been—the brave girl who had risked everything for him—slice into your mind like broken glass. She had been buried beneath fear, cruelty, and forced control. The echoes of the boy you had saved, now grown, and the promise you had made to protect your brother were your only anchors. And even those anchors quivered under the assault of buzzing flies and phantom screams.

The palace, the court, the king—everything outside your room blurred and became meaningless against the storm raging within. You could almost hear the whip again, the snap of rope, the hiss of the Duke’s threats, all layered under the deafening drone and screams, a symphony of trauma that would not let you rest.

You pressed your face into your knees, rocking gently, trying to drown the sounds with your heartbeat, your breath, your fragile control. The candlelight flickered low, half casting you in shadow, half in light. You whispered to the emptiness, almost pleading with the memory-haunted room:

I survived then… I will survive now… but at what cost?

The buzzing continued, relentless, echoing in the hollow places of your mind. The screams… distant, yet intimate, as if threaded through every cell of your body. And you knew, in the marrow-deep part of yourself, that no one—not the boy you had saved, not the king, not your little brother—would ever see the fractured, haunted girl beneath the carefully maintained mask.

Not yet.

The morning arrived, pale sunlight spilling into your chambers, but for you, the hours had blurred into a haze. The echoes of the nightmare, the buzzing in your mind, and the phantom screams had left your sense of time fractured. You felt as though you had drifted in some other, darker world, only now returning to this one.

Your maids were already bustling about, gentle but insistent. They covered the dark circles beneath your eyes with skillful hands, applying just enough makeup to mask the exhaustion that clung stubbornly to your features. They braided and arranged your hair, selecting pins that gleamed faintly in the morning light. Your gown—delicate silk embroidered with silver threads—was adjusted with meticulous care, the folds falling perfectly to present the image of elegance and refinement. You allowed them to fuss, to pamper, because their efforts were a shield, a thin veil between you and the world that awaited.

You glanced at your reflection, noting the contrast between the polished exterior and the trembling turmoil beneath. The face that stared back at you was calm, bright, and composed, yet beneath it, your heart still raced, your mind still replayed the cave, the Duke’s punishments, and the boy you had once saved.

The tea party awaited, a delicate affair with the ladies of the court already gathered, their laughter soft and practiced, their voices rising and falling like music. You stepped into the room, carrying yourself with careful grace, allowing the skillful application of makeup, the finery of your gown, and the practiced posture to mask the years of torment and the raw edges of your trauma.

You smiled politely, returned their greetings, and engaged in light conversation, the banter flowing naturally under the veneer of your refinement. Compliments were exchanged, anecdotes shared, and for a fleeting moment, the storm in your mind receded into the background. You were a lady poised for a marriage into the highest seat of power in Bellua—the King himself, Gojo—and the court expected nothing less than perfection.

Even as you laughed and offered witty remarks, a small, unyielding shadow lingered beneath the mask. The dark circles, now hidden beneath layers of makeup, still throbbed with the memory of sleepless nights, of pain endured, of sacrifices made. You could feel the pull of your fractured mind at the edges of the conversation, the constant reminder that the composure you now displayed was only skin-deep.

And yet, for now, you allowed the illusion to hold. You drank from the delicate porcelain cup in your hand, feeling its coolness against your fingers, and let the soft hum of polite chatter anchor you to the present. The future loomed, terrifying in its inevitability, yet at this moment, you were ready, at least outwardly, to face it.

The soft murmur of conversation and clinking porcelain filled the room as you sat among the other ladies of the court, your smile carefully in place. Every laugh, every polite nod, every gentle tilt of the head was practiced, a mask you had perfected over months of etiquette lessons and years of survival. Outwardly, you were radiant—a lady poised for the eyes of the king himself.

And then the doors opened.

Gojo entered, his presence immediately commanding the attention of everyone in the room. Sunlight glinted off his white hair, and the subtle sway of his posture radiated power and effortless control. But it wasn’t just his presence that cut through you—it was the woman at his side.

Red hair, flowing silk, the same lady you had seen him dance with the night before. Their smiles were easy, effortless, intimate in a way that made your stomach twist and your chest ache. Your lips curved into a bright, welcoming smile as you rose to greet him, but inside, something cracked.

The world around you—the polished floors, the tinkling laughter, the delicate porcelain cups—blurred into insignificance. Your heart sank, heavy and unrelenting, and a cold, creeping despair filled the spaces where hope might have lingered. Every step he took, every glance he gave her, every quiet chuckle that reached your ears was another reminder that the boy you had once known was now a man who seemed impossibly distant, cold, and unreachable.

You were smiling. You were charming. You were graceful. But inside, you were dying slowly.

The court murmurs of admiration and attention washed over you, meaningless against the storm in your chest. You forced another laugh, tilted your head with impeccable courtesy, and poured tea with delicate hands, all the while feeling the icy grip of despair tighten around your heart.

Even as you moved, as you spoke, as you performed the role demanded of you, your mind whispered a dark truth you could not ignore: survival in Bellua required perfection, obedience, and silence—and yet, here, in the presence of the man you had once called a friend, the cost of that survival felt unbearably high.

And you wondered, with a hollow ache, if you would ever truly breathe again in this palace.

You moved through the motions with mechanical precision. Every tilt of your head, every flutter of lashes, every carefully modulated laugh was rehearsed, polished, and measured. To the ladies of the court, you appeared radiant, charming, composed—a future queen in the making.

But beneath the surface, your chest felt tight, each heartbeat a drum of panic against your ribs. The sound of Gojo’s voice, the casual intimacy with which he spoke to the red-haired lady, made your stomach churn. You told yourself to focus, to breathe, to sip your tea gracefully, but your hands shook faintly despite the porcelain cup between your fingers.

He moved among the room with that effortless ease, commanding attention without effort, drawing polite admiration from everyone in his path. And when he smiled at her, the same woman he had danced with the night before, your breath caught in your throat. You forced a smile, sweet and polite, a mask to hide the storm of emotions clawing at your mind: betrayal, longing, heartbreak, and the gnawing ache of hopelessness.

Your thoughts wandered unbidden to the boy you had once saved—the boy you had loved, the one who had vanished from your life like a fragment of a dream. And here he was, grown, white-haired and untouchable, standing before you as if the years of shared survival, of trust and loyalty, had never existed. The recognition you had hoped for, the warmth you had imagined, had been replaced by distance, composure, and a subtle cruelty that sank deep into your chest.

You noticed small things, despite your best efforts to appear engaged: the slight tilt of his head when he spoke to her, the faint lift of an eyebrow as he glanced your way, the way his hands rested casually at his sides while the red-haired woman laughed quietly at something only he said. Every detail twisted in your mind, a reminder of your invisibility, your irrelevance, and the gulf that now lay between you and him.

And yet, even as despair threatened to swallow you, a sliver of your training held firm. You laughed at the ladies’ light-hearted jokes, added clever remarks in response to their polite teasing, and met their eyes with warmth that felt foreign to your own hollow heart. Every gesture was deliberate, a shield against the raw truth of your emotions—a performance of the lady you were forced to become.

Inside, though, you were fracturing. Every smile was a lie. Every laugh a brittle echo of composure. Your pulse raced with the ache of unspoken memories, the years of punishment, the sacrifices you had made, and the boy—now man—you had once called a friend. And with each glance he gave the red-haired lady, each polite bow or quiet laugh, the weight in your chest grew heavier, pressing down on your lungs, your throat, and your trembling hands.

By the time the tea party began to wane, your mind felt both frayed and exhausted. You had survived, yes, but at a cost that no one could see. The delicate porcelain, the sweet-smelling tea, the smiles of the other ladies—all of it was a façade, a carefully maintained illusion masking the girl who had been broken long before she ever arrived in Bellua.

And as you finally retreated to your chambers, each step measured, each smile still in place, you could feel the slow, unrelenting ache in your chest—the quiet certainty that surviving here would require every ounce of strength you had, and that the boy who had once been your everything might never recognize the girl who had risked everything for him.

The week passed in a blur of cruelty and calculated games, each day a delicate torture designed to break you further while cloaked under the guise of etiquette, courtly duty, and obedience.

Gojo’s presence was constant, a sharp reminder of the gulf between who he had once been and the man he now embodied. Every interaction was a gauntlet: a casual dismissal, a pointed insult disguised as jest, or the subtle demonstration of power that reminded everyone—including you—of your place in his world. One day, a misplaced word or glance would be twisted into an accusation of impropriety, forcing you to bow, apologize, and endure the pointed gazes of nobles who had no understanding of the years of torment you had survived.

The Duke of Evison was no less cunning, and his cruelty never faded behind the polished veneer of concern. One evening, he presented you with a small vial, the contents described as a “gift for the king.” You were told it would ensure favor, cement loyalty, and curry the king’s good opinion. The poison, he explained in a low, insistent voice, would cloud the mind, weaken resolve—but if wielded correctly, it could grant you advantage.

Your stomach churned, the weight of what he demanded pressing down like a physical force. Yet the Duke made one thing abundantly clear: refusal was not an option, and your brother’s safety rested on your compliance. The vial trembled in your hand, cold and heavy, a tangible embodiment of the cruel choice forced upon you.

You studied the poison, thinking of your life, your suffering. And, somewhere deep inside, you recognized a truth that had grown in your heart over the years: the man who hated you did not deserve harm from your hand.

You swallowed your fear, the bitter tang of the poison on your tongue, and made a choice that shocked even yourself. You would not betray the man who had once been your friend, the boy you had loved in secret. Instead, with trembling hands and a pounding heart, you drank it yourself, tasting the sharp edge of mortality and the bitter sweetness of silent sacrifice.

Hours passed in agonizing anticipation as the poison coursed through your veins. The world wavered and tilted, your mind swimming between hallucination and clarity. The buzzing and screams that had haunted your nightmares returned, sharpened by the chemical betrayal of your own body, pressing on the edges of consciousness. Yet beneath it all, a single thought burned: I protected him. Even if he never knows, even if he never remembers… I did what I had to do.

And through the haze of pain and impending collapse, you forced yourself to stand, to mask the poison’s effects from the servants, the court, and even Gojo himself. You became a shadow of composure again, bending under scrutiny but never breaking entirely in their sight.

By the time he appeared, by the time the King’s white hair glinted under candlelight once more, you were smiling, your hands poised over the delicate tea cup. Every gesture was careful, measured, elegant—yet beneath the mask, your soul screamed, carrying the secret of the choice you had made.

Even as he continued to regard you with cold indifference, your own mind whispered the truth you could never speak aloud: you had saved him, even from yourself.

The day of the ball before the wedding arrived, cloaked in gold and silk, yet to you it was nothing but another test of endurance. The morning had begun with the Duke’s arrival—your father, though you wished with every fiber of your being that he were not. His presence carried the sour tang of control and punishment, and as soon as the door shut behind him, the blows began. Each strike was precise, deliberate, a lesson in obedience delivered through pain. By the time he left you, your ribs ached with every breath, and your cheek throbbed beneath the careful, suffocating layers of powder the maids would soon apply.

The maids worked in silence, dabbing, brushing, pressing colors over the bruises with the skill of artists concealing a cracked statue. More rouge than usual painted your cheeks tonight, not to enhance beauty but to disguise the swelling beneath. Jewels glittered against your throat and hair, heavy ornaments that dug into your scalp with each movement, but their weight was a comfort—it grounded you, reminded you to remain still, remain perfect.

Before he left your chambers, the Duke pressed another small vial into your hand, his words sliding like oil into your ears. “For the King. Tonight, you’ll ensure he drinks it.”

The liquid shimmered faintly when you held it up to the candlelight. You didn’t ask what it was; you never did. You already knew the answer, and you already knew your choice. Like every other time, you slipped it to your lips, swallowing it without hesitation. The taste was metallic and bitter, coating your tongue before sliding down your throat like molten lead. Your stomach tightened instantly, but you didn’t flinch. You had grown used to this slow poisoning of body and mind, each dose making the next a little easier to bear—if such a thing could ever be called easy.

By the time the ball’s music swelled through the palace corridors, you were standing tall, adorned in layers of silk and gems, your smile a polished crown you had crafted over years of necessity. Every step into that grand hall was a step away from the truth, from the pain beneath your skin. Your laughter was bright, your gaze warm, and you moved through the crowd as though nothing in the world could touch you.

And yet, deep in your bones, the poison coiled, whispering the same truth it always did: this body may be breaking, but your will was still your own. You would not be the instrument of Gojo’s undoing.

Even if he never knew. Even if he never cared.

The chandeliers above blazed with a thousand candles, bathing the room in a golden glow. Laughter and the rustle of gowns filled the air, and somewhere amid the music, you caught the familiar flash of white hair. Gojo had arrived.

Your lips curved higher, even as the ground felt unsteady beneath your heels. The queen-to-be had a part to play, and you would play it flawlessly—no matter the cost.

He entered like a stroke of moonlight cutting through the gold-lit hall, every step effortless, every gaze drawn to him. Alone.

It was not supposed to be like this. Everyone had expected you to appear on his arm, the perfect vision of Bellua’s future—its king and queen united in splendor. Instead, the space beside him yawned wide and empty, and with it came the first ripples of murmurs.

The whispers spread like smoke through silk, subtle at first, then rising in a poisonous swell. He came without her. The King despises her, you know. I heard he keeps another woman in his private chambers. They say he’ll never love her—she’s just a pawn.

Each word was a thin blade slid between your ribs. You felt the ache settle in your chest, not sharp but heavy, a slow, crushing pressure. Yet you stood there—smiling. Your face remained the same carefully painted mask, your posture flawless, every movement the picture of grace.

You greeted nobles as if the world had not just shifted under your feet, as if your future had not just been publicly questioned. The lace at your wrists trembled faintly, but no one would notice—it was only the flutter of fine fabric, not the trembling of a heart fraying at the seams.

Gojo’s eyes swept the crowd once, brushing past you like you were nothing more than another noblewoman in the sea of faces. He smiled faintly, that infuriatingly charming smile he gave to everyone but you.

The music swelled. The laughter grew. The whispers did not stop. And through it all, your own smile held steady, gleaming like glass in candlelight—beautiful, unbreakable… and ready to shatter the moment no one was looking.

When Gojo finally approached you, it was not with warmth nor the flicker of a private smile—it was with the slow, measured steps of a man fulfilling an obligation. His hand extended, palm open, and the hall seemed to hold its breath.

“Lady Evison,” he said smoothly, his voice carrying just far enough for the surrounding court to hear, “would you honor me with a dance?”

The weight of a hundred eyes pressed against your back. You could not refuse. You placed your gloved hand in his, your lips curving into the same flawless smile you had worn all evening. “Of course, Your Majesty.”

He led you to the center of the floor, the strings swaying into a waltz. His grip was steady, his movements precise—perfect for an audience, perfect for keeping the illusion alive. Yet his gaze never lingered on you for more than a second, always flicking away, as if you were nothing more than a duty he’d rather pass to someone else.

As the dance began, your thoughts started to drift—not from disinterest, but from the faint, disorienting haze that began to coil at the edges of your mind. Perhaps the poison was finally taking hold, winding its cold fingers through your blood. Your steps felt a fraction too light, the ground almost distant beneath your shoes.

Gojo’s voice reached you once or twice, low and formal—commentary on the ball, a polite remark about your gown—but his words seemed to float in the air, untethered, slipping past you before you could fully grasp them. You nodded, smiled, moved as expected. But inside, you were somewhere else.

The chandeliers shimmered like halos, their light bending at the edges. The music swelled, distant and warped, as though you were dancing underwater. His hand at your waist felt too warm, his presence too close and yet impossibly far.

Maybe it was easier this way—if the poison dulled the ache, if the haze kept you from noticing just how little he wanted you here.

You took another step, turned with him, your gown fanning around you like a pale wave. You could feel your pulse in your ears, a slow and steady drum that didn’t quite match the music. By the time the dance ended and he released you, you weren’t entirely certain if the applause was real or just something your mind had conjured to fill the silence.

But the moment you straightened, the world tilted.

It began as a faint sway, the chandeliers blurring into long streaks of gold and white. The faces in the crowd became indistinct smudges, mouths moving in silent shapes. Your breath caught, shallow and quick, and an icy weight sank in your chest.

You took a step toward the edge of the floor—toward the safety of anywhere but here—yet your knees gave way before you could reach it.

Gasps rippled through the crowd.

The marble floor rushed up to meet you, but you never felt the impact. A steady hand caught the back of your head just before it could strike the ground. Gojo knelt beside you, his expression unreadable to the watching eyes, one arm braced around your shoulders to keep you upright.

Your vision flickered in and out—sharp one moment, fading the next. You caught only glimpses: the glint of his cufflinks, the faint scent of his cologne, the murmur of voices growing louder as courtiers pressed in.

“She’s fainted,” someone whispered.

Gojo’s jaw tightened. “Clear the way,” he said, his tone sharp enough to silence the room.

Even as the haze claimed you, a strange thought surfaced—bitter and aching. He was holding you now, protecting you in the eyes of the court. But it wasn’t because he cared.

It was because the queen-to-be could not be seen shattering before the crown touched her head.

And then everything went dark.

——————

Gojos POV

Gojo sat in the high-backed chair beside her bed, one long leg folded over the other, posture deceptively casual. In truth, he hadn’t moved for the better part of an hour. The room was quiet except for the muted crackle of the fireplace and the faint, uneven rhythm of her breathing.

She didn’t look like the woman he had seen parading through the palace halls and court gatherings—no jeweled hairpins, no silken gowns that caught every flicker of candlelight. Instead, she was pale and barefaced, her lashes resting against her skin, the careful glamour stripped away to reveal the truth beneath. And the truth made his stomach tighten.

Bruises. Small, almost hidden beneath a thin sheen of ointment, but impossible to miss now that he knew where to look. A faint yellowing shadow along her jaw. A mottled mark blooming beneath her cheekbone. Not the kind of blemishes one could paint away without skill. These weren’t the accidents of a clumsy step or a misplaced gesture—these were deliberate. The sort of marks left by someone’s hand.

His jaw flexed. Who would dare strike the Duke’s daughter? No—his future empress? And poison her?

The physician’s voice rang again in his mind: Not lethal, but meant to disrupt the mind, weaken the body. Calculated. Methodical.

Why?

A knot formed in his chest, but he forced it down. No—he couldn’t be so quick to believe what he saw. He had learned long ago that appearances in court were as reliable as smoke. For all he knew, this was another act. Maybe she had orchestrated this entire scene—bruises, fainting, the perfectly timed collapse in the middle of their dance—not as a result of cruelty or malice from someone else, but as part of a plan.

Perhaps she had poisoned herself.

The thought took root, and his gaze sharpened. Was this her way of making him falter? Of winning sympathy from the man who had been deliberately pushing her away? She was clever enough to pull it off. A woman like her could spin tragedy into weaponry, turn his own conscience against him, and she wouldn’t even have to lift a finger.

And yet…

He’d been tormenting her for weeks now, testing her composure, expecting—no, waiting—for the spoiled noblewoman to finally crack. But she never had. Not once. No tears in the privacy of their shared carriage, no anger in hushed corridors, no bitterness in her words when no one was listening. She wore her smile like armor, wielded politeness as if it were a blade.

It would have been easier to believe this was all manipulation if he hadn’t seen the way her hands had trembled just before she collapsed… or if the sight of her face now, stripped of every defense, didn’t make something uncomfortably tight in his chest.

Gojo leaned back in his chair, drumming his fingers once against his knee. If it was a performance, she was far better at the game than he had given her credit for.

And if it wasn’t… then he might have underestimated her in an entirely different way.

Gojo didn’t leave her room until the palace lamps burned low and the moon cast long shadows over the marble halls. He had no intention of sleeping. Instead, he sent word to a handful of discreet eyes and ears—people who owed him favors or feared him enough to dig where others wouldn’t. His orders were simple: find out who had been close to the Duke’s daughter in the past week. Servants, escorts, anyone who might have put their hands on her or slipped something into her cup.

But by morning, the reports came back with nothing.

The Duke’s estate was a fortress—not of stone, but of silence. The servants kept their eyes lowered and their tongues still. Guards swore they had seen nothing, heard nothing. The maids who dressed her claimed she was in perfect health when she left the manor. Even the kitchen staff, who were usually the quickest to let rumors spill like spilled flour, insisted that nothing suspicious had crossed her plate.

It was as though the entire household had closed ranks, sealing their secrets behind polite smiles.

The lack of answers grated at him. It wasn’t just that she had been hurt—it was that someone thought they could hide it from him. Every dead end, every careful “I don’t recall,” only fed his irritation. By the time the sky began to pale with the first hints of dawn, frustration was simmering just beneath his skin, refusing to be tamed.

And then, before he could chase another lead, the day came.

His wedding day.

It was supposed to be a joyous occasion—lavish, glittering, the kind of union that would have the court singing for weeks. But as he stood in the dressing chamber with servants fussing over his ceremonial robes, there was no joy in him. Only the gnawing, restless churn in his gut.

He should have been thinking about the vows, the crown, the duties that awaited him once they were bound. Instead, all he could think about was the woman who would be standing across from him at the altar—the Duke’s daughter, the future empress.

The woman who might have been scheming against him from the start.

It was a bitter thought, but it clung to him. Every time he pictured her smiling up at him in front of the crowd, he wondered if she was laughing behind her eyes. If every poisoned cup had been poured by her own hand, not to harm him but to weave a story, to trap him in the web of her own making.

And yet, a part of him—the part he refused to acknowledge—still remembered her bare face in the moonlight, and the way those bruises had looked too real to be painted on.

He forced the thought away, but it lingered, stubborn as a shadow.

The ceremonial bells began their slow, resonant toll, each chime rolling through the palace corridors like the heartbeat of an ancient beast. Gojo stepped into the grand hall, every inch of it drenched in gold and crimson—the colors of Bellua’s royal house. Rows upon rows of nobles bowed as he passed, the rustle of their silks and the whisper of their jewels blending into a low murmur that chased him all the way to the altar.

He kept his chin high, his stride measured, his face carved into a mask of perfect detachment. The court saw only a king-to-be, serene and untouchable. They could not see the unease tightening in his chest with every step.

When the music shifted, the massive doors at the far end opened to reveal her.

The Duke’s daughter. His bride.

She entered draped in ivory silk heavy enough to drag behind her like a captured moonbeam, each step precise, poised. Her hair was a cascade of intricate braids woven with gems, her lips painted into a soft smile. The crowd drank in her beauty, admiring the grace of a woman about to become their empress.

But Gojo’s eyes—sharp, searching—caught the details others missed. The way her shoulders sat a fraction too stiff, the way her left hand trembled just once before she steadied it on the curve of her skirts. Even through layers of makeup, he could see faint shadows beneath her eyes, as though no amount of sleep could ever reach her.

And there it was again—that nagging thought, that suspicion. Was this all an act? Had she put herself in harm’s way only to twist his perception, to make him see her as fragile, blameless? The idea coiled in his mind, bitter and unshakable.

Yet when she reached him, lifted her gaze, and met his eyes… for a fleeting heartbeat, the room seemed quieter.

They took their places before the priest, hands clasped loosely between them. The air was thick with the scent of incense and the murmurs of the court. Gojo stood so close he could feel the faint tremor of her breath, and he wondered—not for the first time—if he truly understood the woman fate had shackled to him.

The vows began, words of loyalty and devotion echoing like distant thunder, but Gojo barely heard them. His mind was elsewhere—watching her eyes, her lips, the way she seemed to exist in some quiet space inside herself, unreachable even as the kingdom watched her.

And underneath it all, a single, unrelenting question pulsed through him like a drumbeat:

Was she a victim… or the most dangerous player in the game?

The reception hall was an opulent display of excess—towering floral arrangements spilling over with white roses and crimson peonies, chandeliers heavy with crystal, and long tables glittering with gold-edged plates. Laughter and polite applause filled the air as the nobility celebrated the new royal union.

But Gojo barely noticed any of it. His attention was fixed on her.

She moved through the crowd with the grace of someone born for this life—smiling at each guest, inclining her head just so, offering soft words that made the older lords chuckle and the younger ones stumble over their replies. Every gesture was meticulous, elegant, flawless.

And yet…

Gojo’s gaze caught the fleeting details: the way her hand brushed the hem of her gown when she thought no one was looking, as if grounding herself; the subtle delay before she laughed, as though forcing her body to remember the sound; the split-second flicker in her eyes when someone mentioned the Duke. He cataloged each one, turning them over in his mind like puzzle pieces.

If he hadn’t considered her an enemy—if he hadn’t spent weeks suspecting her of some intricate scheme—he would have admitted she was everything a queen should be. Composed. Persuasive. Radiant in a way that made people lean closer without realizing it.

It was… inconvenient.

Because when she passed him in the crowd and her perfume lingered—jasmine and something faintly bitter—he found his mind wandering. To dangerous places.

She was attractive. More than attractive. The sort of beauty that demanded you look twice. The kind that made a man wonder what she would look like if she ever let her mask slip entirely.

Gojo’s jaw tightened, forcing the thought away like one would crush a flame beneath a boot. This was the Duke’s daughter. A potential manipulator. A possible threat to his throne.

He could not—would not—let his mind drift toward anything else.

And yet, the moment she caught his eyes from across the room and smiled that careful, practiced smile, he felt the smallest, most treacherous part of himself question whether all his certainty was just another lie he’d told to protect himself.

The music shifted, a slower, more intimate waltz that beckoned couples to the floor. Gojo’s eyes never left her as he approached, the polished floors reflecting the flicker of chandeliers like stars scattered beneath their feet. He extended his hand, and she placed hers in his with the same controlled composure she had displayed all evening.

They moved together, gliding through the steps with a precision that made the dance look effortless to the watching court. Yet as they twirled, something settled in his chest—an uneasy prickling at the base of his neck that made his usual confidence waver.

Her gaze… had never met his. Not once.

She smiled, tilted her head politely, followed his lead flawlessly—but the eyes that were supposed to betray her thoughts, the eyes that might reflect a flicker of fear or admiration, remained hidden. Careful, controlled, unreadable.

Gojo’s brow furrowed. That wasn’t just discipline. That was awareness. Knowledge.

No one outside his personal circle knew the truth about him—about the powers he wielded, the danger he carried in his very being. And yet, here she was, dancing across the ballroom floor, moving like she understood the peril beneath his calm.

A cold thought slid into his mind: she must have a spy. Someone close, feeding her intelligence from within the castle walls.

He leaned slightly closer, his voice low but carrying the weight of authority that made her stiffen almost imperceptibly. “Tell me,” he murmured, barely brushing her ear with his words, “does someone in my castle whisper to you? Someone feeding you information you shouldn’t have?”

Her hand in his did not falter, but a subtle tension rippled through her shoulders. Her eyes darted briefly toward the perimeter of the room, toward the maids and attendants, before returning to the floor as if measuring the risk of a response.

“I… I don’t know what you mean, Your Majesty,” she said, her tone measured, light, as if the words alone could deflect suspicion. But it was a performance too polished, too controlled. Gojo’s eyes narrowed slightly. That wasn’t ignorance—she was hiding something, deliberately, and the skill with which she did it was infuriating.

For the briefest moment, the world shrank to the space between them—the press of her hand against his, the sound of the orchestra, the whisper of her gown against the floor. The thought hit him, sharp and unwelcome: she was not just clever; she was dangerous. Not in the way the Duke’s schemes were dangerous, not in the calculated cruelty of nobles, but in a way that challenged him directly, threatened to unravel his control without a single misstep.

He forced his lips into a near-smile, sharp as a knife, and spun her through another turn. The court watched, oblivious to the battle raging in the space between them, oblivious to the coil of suspicion, irritation, and something else—something he could not name—that tightened in his chest.

If she truly had a spy, he would find them. And if she had orchestrated this—every smile, every measured gesture, every subtle avoidance—it would not go unanswered.

Yet as he watched her navigate the dance, poised and flawless, the tiniest flicker of admiration rose in him, unwelcome and infuriating. She would have made a fine queen… if only she weren’t his enemy.

And that realization, more than any suspicion, made the next steps in the dance feel like walking a knife’s edge.

Gojo’s gaze swept the ballroom as the evening pressed on, sharp and calculating. Every word she spoke, every tilt of her head, every practiced laugh was cataloged, stored, analyzed. He began to test her deliberately now, offering her impossible choices in conversation, drawing her toward social traps, and seeing how she navigated them.

And then he introduced her tormentor—though it was only a pawn in his game. The red-headed girl, a woman as bright and brash as she was insufferable, was invited into the circle of their dances. Gojo leaned just enough toward her during their conversations to make the court notice, offering her his smile, his attention, his charm—the gestures he reserved for no one else. Every flicker of laughter, every casual glance he bestowed upon the red-headed girl was a knife to her composure.

Yet through it all, she never looked at him. Not directly. Her eyes skimmed the hall, darted politely toward guests, lingered on the embroidery of her gown, but never met his.

He paused mid-step during a turn, a frown tugging at his mouth. This was new. All this time, he had assumed her subservience, her politeness, her careful façade were signs of fear—or at least careful calculation to survive the court. But now, confronted with the display of his deliberate cruelty, she held her own. She maintained her composure. And more than that, she avoided his gaze entirely, even as the red-headed girl soaked up all his attention, all the court’s attention, and all the implied weight of his power.

What exactly were you planning? Gojo thought, the question thudding in his mind like a drumbeat he could not ignore. Were you measuring him? Or merely enduring, waiting for the moment you could strike, waiting for some advantage he could not yet see?

The more he watched, the tighter a knot formed in his chest. She was not fragile, not broken. She was… patient. Calculating. Observant in ways that unnerved him more than the thought of open defiance ever could.

He leaned just slightly closer to the red-headed girl, whispering something meant to draw laughter—but his eyes never left the subtle, deliberate movements of his bride-to-be. Every tilt of her hand, every polite nod, every perfect smile that masked the storm beneath made his mind race with questions.

And he hated it. Hated that he could not predict her, hated that he could not intimidate her, hated that he could not simply write her off as spoiled or weak.

Because now he knew something essential: you were not merely enduring his cruelty—you were planning.

Later that night, after the final strains of music had faded and the court had retired to their private chambers, Gojo found her alone in one of the palace corridors. The soft light of wall sconces traced the curve of her gown as she moved slowly, as if counting every step.

He stepped from the shadows, hands behind his back, his presence alone enough to halt her in place. “You seem… adept at avoiding me,” he said, voice low, deliberate, and edged with a dangerous curiosity. “Even when I make a point to humiliate you, you never falter. Not once. Not even when I hand my attention to someone else.”

She bowed her head slightly, controlled, measured, but there was a subtle tension in her shoulders. “Your Majesty,” she said softly, voice steady despite the pulse racing beneath her ribs. “I… I only do what is expected of me.”

Gojo tilted his head, his expression sharpening. “Do you?” he murmured, stepping closer so the space between them was just enough to make her swallow. “Or are you… hiding something? Planning something I cannot yet see?”

She did not answer immediately. Instead, her gaze slid to the floor, then along the walls, never meeting his eyes. The silence stretched between them, taut as a drawn bowstring.

A shadow of a smirk tugged at his lips, though it did not reach his eyes. “You think your silence shields you,” he said, his tone dropping to a whisper that seemed to press against her chest. “But I notice everything. Every hesitation, every breath, every gesture. And yet… you never give me the satisfaction of knowing your thoughts.”

Her jaw tightened imperceptibly. She remained poised, controlled, the epitome of grace. But Gojo could feel the current beneath her stillness—the faint hum of restraint, the tension coiled like a spring ready to snap.

“You are… curious,” he continued, leaning slightly closer, the scent of jasmine lingering in the space between them. “But you do not dare look at me. What are you planning, I wonder? Or are you simply… testing me as I test you?”

Even as he spoke, part of him recognized the truth: she was no ordinary bride-to-be. She was clever, deliberate, and dangerous in ways he could not yet map. And yet… a flicker of something unwelcome and unspoken stirred in him.

Because as much as he wanted to see her falter, as much as he wanted to unravel her carefully constructed mask, he also wanted to understand her. And he had no idea whether that desire would serve him—or destroy him.

The night had draped itself over the palace in thick darkness, the only light spilling from the fireplace, flickering across the ceremonial bed where his bride lay—or so he had thought. Gojo had chosen to remain on the couch in the corner, refusing the customary ritual, preferring the distance, the quiet, and the firelight’s reflection in his sharp, watchful eyes.

Hours passed in stillness. The room was warm with the scent of her gown, faint jasmine and something subtler, something that seemed uniquely hers. Gojo’s mind wandered, cataloging every detail of her—the curve of her jaw, the tilt of her head in sleep, the way her chest rose and fell with steady, even breaths. She looked composed, flawless, but some instinct told him that the mask she wore in court didn’t fully cover what lay beneath.

And then he heard it.

A soft, almost imperceptible shuffle against the polished floor, the delicate whisper of silk sliding across marble. Every muscle in him tensed; his hand instinctively drifted toward his concealed blade. He rose, coiled, senses straining, ready to strike at any threat that dared breach his vigilance.

And there she was.

Sleepwalking, her bare feet gliding across the floor in the ceremonial gown he had watched her don earlier in the day. Her head tilted slightly, lips parted, eyelashes casting tiny shadows across pale cheeks. She moved with a delicate grace, each step careful and precise, though the slightest tremor betrayed unconscious hesitation.

He remained frozen in the shadows, observing. Even like this—stripped of composure, stripped of courtly pretense—she was fascinating. Vulnerable, yes, but her movements still carried a practiced elegance, as if she had been trained her entire life to survive observation, to survive expectation.

Gojo’s lips pressed into a thin line. He could not know why she moved this way, why her body betrayed subtle tension even in sleep, but it stirred something in him he could not name. The curiosity, the need to understand, flared alongside his suspicion. Something about her seemed calculated, even in unconsciousness, though he had no way of knowing the truth.

The fire flickered, shadows stretching across the room, and for a long moment, he simply watched her. Silent. Observant. Waiting.

He could not disturb her—not yet. Not while so much remained unknown. And yet, he could not look away.

Gojo remained crouched in the shadows for a heartbeat longer, waiting to see where she would go. Her bare feet whispered against the marble floor, carrying her closer to the far side of the chamber. Each step was careful, almost ritualistic, yet the slightest tremor in her fingers betrayed a tension that had nothing to do with the ballroom or the court.

He rose silently, moving like a shadow along the walls, keeping a measured distance. The firelight caught the edges of his white hair, but she did not notice, did not flinch. Her face was still softened in the haze of sleep, her lips parted slightly, her eyelashes dipping and rising in an unsteady rhythm.

She paused near a window, hands rising just enough to touch the sill, as if seeking balance. Gojo’s instincts flared, warning him that she could fall, that she might be hurt—but another part of him hesitated. He could not yet allow himself to intervene. Not until he understood the nature of this—whether it was simply the fragile aftereffects of exhaustion or something more deliberate, some hidden thread of her design.

The hall beyond the window stretched into darkness, the gardens barely visible in the moonlight. She leaned slightly, tracing the edge of the marble with her fingertips, then, almost imperceptibly, turned as if searching for something. Gojo’s pulse quickened. Her behavior was deliberate, controlled in ways even her sleep could not fully hide.

“What are you doing?” he muttered under his breath, low enough that only he could hear, tension lacing his voice. Yet he did not step forward. He let the question hang there, unspoken, because he already knew that if she heard him, she would feign innocence, and he would have no answers.

Instead, he followed. Silently.

Each step she took was measured, precise, a blend of fragility and instinctive caution. And though she never looked at him, never even acknowledged his presence, Gojo could feel the mind beneath the mask at work, even in sleep. She was planning, surviving, observing—always observing.

A flicker of unease crossed him, sharp and unfamiliar. Who was she, really? And what had she endured to become this—so composed, so cautious, even in her unconscious state?

The firelight flickered across the walls as they moved through the quiet corridors, and Gojo, despite every instinct warning him otherwise, felt the smallest stir of… something. Care, perhaps. Curiosity, certainly. And beneath it, a dangerous thread of fascination he did not intend to allow.

He followed her still, the silent observer in the night, unable to know whether he would ever fully understand her—or whether he wanted to.

Gojo moved silently behind her, every step deliberate, every motion measured to avoid detection. Whenever a guard turned a corner, his hand shot out, a subtle gesture, a sharp hiss: a warning that froze them mid-step. None dared speak, and none dared move. He was a shadow, untouchable, and utterly focused on the girl gliding ahead of him.

The corridors twisted and wound like a labyrinth, ancient stone echoing with the faint scrape of her bare feet. Gojo’s mind raced. Sleepwalking was one thing—he had seen nobles in Bellua move unconsciously—but this precision, this intent in her motions, suggested something else entirely. She was leading him somewhere. But where? And why?

Finally, the massive doors to the gardens swung open with a whisper. Cool night air spilled into the corridor, carrying the scent of dew and flowering plants. She stepped out without hesitation, as if guided by some inner compass. The moon hung impossibly high, a silver sentinel illuminating the neatly manicured paths and glimmering fountains.

And then she sank to her knees in the grass, hands lifted slightly, trembling, and she began to speak—not to him, not to anyone, but to the moon.

Her voice was barely audible, quivering in the stillness: “Please… show me a way. Please… save me…”

Gojo froze, the world narrowing to the pale glow surrounding her. Her words were raw, desperate, and utterly incomprehensible. She was begging the moon? For salvation?

He wanted to step forward, to ask, to intervene, to pull her from whatever invisible terror gripped her—but he didn’t. Something held him back, a mix of caution and fascination. Her posture, her tone, the tilt of her head toward the silver light—it was vulnerable, yes—but unlike any vulnerability he had ever seen. It was deliberate, controlled, but also so achingly real that it pierced through every wall of composure he had assumed she had built around herself.

Gojo’s mind raced. What did this mean? Was she cursed? Was she praying out of habit, superstition, or something darker, something he could not yet comprehend? And why did it stir something inside him—a curiosity, a protectiveness, and a gnawing question he could not name?

The girl remained on her knees, pleading to a moon that offered no answers, unaware—or perhaps unbothered—that the king of Bellua watched her from the shadows, completely confounded, completely captivated, and utterly unable to look away.

Gojo stepped cautiously into the moonlit garden, the soft grass yielding under his boots. He approached her slowly, lowering himself so that the movement would be gentle, almost imperceptible, and reached out to shake her shoulder lightly, intending only to wake her from her sleepwalking trance.

The moment his fingers brushed her arm, her body stiffened. A sudden, unnatural turn brought her face toward him, eyes wide and blank, completely unseeing. And then it happened—a scream tore from her throat, raw and jagged, as though the world itself were unraveling inside her.

It wasn’t the quiet whimper of distress. It wasn’t a startled cry. It was a scream of unimaginable agony, a sound that seemed to claw at the very air, tearing through Gojo’s ears, rattling his bones, echoing in the night. Every instinct in him flared.

“What—!” he began, but the words died on his lips.

Her body went rigid, trembling violently, before collapsing forward like a puppet with its strings cut. Gojo barely had time to catch her, her weight nearly dragging him to the ground. Her arms flailed slightly before settling limply across his chest, her head resting against him with an uncanny stillness now that the scream had ceased.

Gojo held her tight, heart hammering, the strange, sharp tension of fear and protectiveness twisting through him. Her breaths were ragged, uneven, as if she had been running a marathon while trapped in a nightmare that had nothing to do with reality.

He studied her face in the moonlight, the blank eyes still slightly flickering beneath closed lids. She was beautiful, fragile, and utterly broken. And yet, he felt a strange pull—not just concern, but a quiet, gnawing fascination. He didn’t know why she screamed like that, didn’t know what she had endured, and had no idea why she was speaking to the moon—but for the first time, he realized just how much he had underestimated the depths behind her serene, controlled mask.

Every carefully maintained façade, every rehearsed gesture of grace, seemed to crumble in that instant—and Gojo, for all his cunning, could not look away.

Morning crept through the tall windows of the chamber, painting streaks of gold across the cold stone floors. Yet Gojo had not slept. The dark circles under his eyes were evidence enough of a night spent hovering near the fireplace, studying the bed where his wife had lain in restless slumber. His mind replayed the events over and over: her delicate body kneeling in the garden, murmuring to the moon, the scream that had cut through the night, and the sudden collapse into his arms.

He had no answers. Not for the behavior, not for the terror in her voice, not for the questions clawing at his mind. What exactly would a woman have to endure to sleepwalk, pray to the moon as if it held salvation, and scream with such raw anguish? How could someone so young carry so much unseen?

He paced the room, hands behind his back, eyes narrowed in thought. Every possibility churned through his mind—stress, trauma, a hidden illness, or some magic he did not yet understand—but none felt sufficient. The mystery gnawed at him.

Finally, he reached a decision. She was vulnerable, and whatever secrets she carried were far beyond his knowledge, yet he could not afford to leave her unguarded. He summoned his most trusted protector, Itadori Yuji, a guard whose loyalty and skill were unmatched in the palace.

“Yuji,” Gojo said, his tone clipped but tinged with unspoken urgency. “You will stay with her at all times. Do not leave her side, understand? Observe her, protect her, and report anything unusual immediately. If she wakes or sleepwalks again, you are to intervene—without exception.”

Yuji’s brow furrowed, sensing the gravity in the king’s voice. “Understood, Your Majesty. I won’t let anything happen to her.”

Gojo nodded, eyes narrowing as they shifted to the bed. Even as he gave instructions, he could not tear his gaze away. The woman he had tormented for weeks—his future queen—remained cloaked in the aftermath of that night, vulnerable and unknowable. He did not yet understand her fully, did not know the depth of what she carried, but one thing had become clear: she was no ordinary bride.

And if she had survived whatever demons haunted her, it was not by luck.

The expedition had been grueling—three days spent deep in the cursed forest, facing spirits so twisted and malevolent that the very air seemed to scream in pain. Gojo had emerged unscathed, as always, though the exertion left the corners of his mind sharper, his thoughts honed by battle and strategy. He expected reports of chaos upon his return, especially regarding his bride, whom he had yet to understand.

But when he entered the palace, the first face he saw was Yuji, standing rigidly in the hall, a stack of documents held neatly in his arms. The young guard’s expression was serious, yet there was an odd hesitance, as if he too were unsure what to say.

“Your Majesty,” Yuji began, bowing slightly. “I… have reports regarding the queen during your absence.”

Gojo’s sharp eyes followed every twitch in Yuji’s posture. “Go on,” he said, voice low, carrying the weight of command—but beneath it, a thread of curiosity he did not bother hiding.

Yuji cleared his throat. “She… has not done anything unusual. No wandering, no sleepwalking, no strange prayers or behaviors. She has been perfectly… ordinary, Your Majesty.”

Gojo froze, the words cutting sharper than any blade. Ordinary? After everything he had witnessed, after the scream that had rattled the very air, after the night she had collapsed into his arms… ordinary? His mind raced.

“Ordinary,” he repeated, his tone flat, tinged with disbelief. “No… signs of manipulation, no attempts to influence the staff or the court?”

“None, Your Majesty,” Yuji confirmed, his voice steady. “She has behaved impeccably. Even the servants report her as attentive, polite, and… composed. There has been nothing out of the ordinary for the duration of your absence.”

Gojo’s lips pressed into a thin line, his fingers flexing at his sides. This was confusing—no, more than that—it was unnerving. He had fully expected her to use the opportunity to assert herself, to strike in subtle ways while he was away. She had the training, the intellect, and the sheer survival instinct to do so. Yet she had… done nothing.

A part of him, begrudgingly, acknowledged the discipline behind her restraint. But another part—the sharper, more insistent part—felt frustrated, even unsettled. She was a puzzle he could not yet solve, a presence in the palace whose motives remained hidden behind flawless etiquette and a carefully maintained mask.

Gojo’s eyes narrowed as he turned toward the corridors leading to her chambers. Perhaps the next opportunity would reveal more. Perhaps not. Either way, he knew one thing with certainty: she was far more calculated than he had given her credit for, and that realization both unnerved and intrigued him in equal measure.

Gojo spent the following days observing her like a predator circling prey, each moment carefully measured. He tested her subtly, small provocations meant to reveal her true nature without alerting the court. Every glance, every gesture, every word was cataloged in his mind, searching for any crack in her impenetrable composure.

During a private dinner, he decided to escalate the test. On the table before her, he placed a delicate porcelain cup, letting it seem as though it had been poisoned—an opportunity for her to falter, for him to see hesitation, fear, or self-preservation instincts betray her. He leaned back, crossing his arms, prepared to witness the smallest tremor of doubt.

But she did not hesitate.

Her hand reached for the cup with a calm deliberation that made his heart skip. She lifted it to her lips, and Gojo’s pulse thundered in his ears. This was supposed to provoke, to test, to reveal fear or cunning—but she drank it, every drop, as if it were water. No hesitation. No flicker of doubt. Not even the slightest hint of a reaction that this could have been deadly.

Gojo’s breath caught. His mind froze mid-thought. Every instinct screamed—shock, disbelief, something that teetered dangerously close to awe. How could she do that? How could she drink it without fear, without question, without flinching?

He had expected calculation, survival instinct, maybe clever defiance—but this… this was something else entirely. She had not only endured the test, she had claimed it as her own. She had turned his provocation into an assertion of control.

Gojo leaned forward, white hair falling slightly into his eyes, his expression unreadable. Something about her—so composed, so fearless, so utterly unfathomable—made him want to speak, to demand an explanation, and yet left him unable to form the words.

For the first time, he realized just how dangerous she could be. And for the first time, he felt the faintest flicker of unease creeping into his calculated mind.

Because he had thought he was the one testing her… and now he wasn’t so sure.

———————————

Readers POV

You had known, of course, that the king was testing you. Every glance, every word, every little stunt had been designed to provoke, to push, to expose the parts of you that had survived by necessity but still bore the cracks of old wounds. And yet… it didn’t bother you. Not really.

In fact, in some strange, fleeting way, you found it endearing. Watching him observe you with that sharp, calculating gaze, seeing the subtle ways he tried to catch a reaction, the small smirks he couldn’t quite hide—it was almost cute. It distracted you from yourself, from the aching emptiness that had hollowed your chest for years. For a few moments, you could pretend he was not the king who hated the Duke, not the man whose eyes now judged every gesture of yours, but someone entirely different, someone almost human behind that impossible mask.

And yet, you could not ignore the truth. Even as you sipped the cup he had laid before you without a second thought, even as you endured his silent scrutiny and subtle provocations, your heart ached. You had imagined him as your knight in shining armor, the boy with the white hair who would keep his promise to protect, to save, to fight for you. But the man in front of you—this king, this enigma—was nothing like that.

All the warmth you had imagined, all the trust you had built in your mind over years of longing, felt like it had been carved away, leaving only a hollow ache in its place. There was no hero here. Only tests, and suspicion, and the cruel game of the court.

Your only tether—the one thing that kept you from completely drifting into the haze of despair—was your little brother. The thought of him, alive, safe, depending on you even now, anchored your soul when everything else seemed to slip through your fingers. He was the one reason you endured, the reason you kept moving forward, the reason you could smile for the court while dying a little inside.

And still, for all the heartbreak, for all the fear and despair, a quiet curiosity lingered. The boy you had saved so long ago—the one who had promised, in some distant past, to keep you safe—was standing right in front of you now. He didn’t remember. But you did. And that memory, painful as it was, carried a flicker of warmth in the cold shadows of your life.

Even broken, even battered, even trapped in a world that seemed to despise you, a part of you couldn’t help but watch him, study him, and wonder… if, somehow, he could ever see you.

The day had begun like any other, with its layers of etiquette, observation, and silent scrutiny. But it all shattered when the red-haired girl—whose presence Gojo had used to torment you—collapsed suddenly, convulsing as the servants rushed to her side. Panic rippled through the court, and almost immediately, all eyes turned toward you. Whispers started, muttered accusations, the subtle tilt of heads, the pointed looks.

Gojo appeared at your side almost instantly, his white hair catching the light of the courtyard, his expression unreadable but eyes sharp and focused.

“You did this,” he said softly, but the sharp edge of accusation was unmistakable. “Jealousy? Resentment? Did you poison her out of spite?”

You didn’t speak. Your lips pressed together, your hands trembling at your sides—but your face remained calm, serene, as if carved from marble. Yet your eyes betrayed you. Tiny rivulets formed there, catching the light as they pooled, shimmering like glass about to break. Silent tears, a slow betrayal of the composure you fought to maintain. No one else could see the storm behind your gaze—but Gojo could.

And then, as quickly as they began, you realized what you had done: the small crack in your restraint, the quiet admission of pain to the universe. A terrifying thought surged through your mind, icy and insistent: If I died… would I finally have peace?

The question, unspoken, reverberated inside you with a weight that made your chest constrict. You swallowed, forcing yourself to stand. Your movements were deliberate, smooth, betraying nothing to the court, nothing to him. The tears slid down your cheeks unnoticed, hidden behind the still mask you wore.

Without a word, you turned and walked from the room, the echo of your footsteps muted but deliberate. Your heart pounded, your mind a whirl of grief, fear, and resolve. And though no one could see it, the silent sorrow in your eyes lingered behind you like a shadow, a truth only Gojo could glimpse if he chose to look closely enough.

That day, the Duke of Evison arrived at Bellua Palace, his presence imposing and suffocating. Every step he took seemed to command attention, and the court, as always, obeyed his unspoken demands. But for you, it was a different kind of dread. Your stomach churned, a cold knot forming at the thought of his looming presence, of the ways he could twist his authority into pain.

The following week, you were declared “sick,” a polite excuse that kept the whispers of court ladies at bay and the eyes of nobles from prying too closely. No one questioned it, no one noticed that you did not appear at the daily audiences, at the strolls through the gardens, or at the scheduled lessons in etiquette and statecraft. They assumed a delicate constitution or a passing illness.

In truth, the Duke had seen to it that you could not move freely, could not leave your chambers without trembling, could not even attempt the mask of composure that had served you so well. The abuse was relentless, a mixture of subtle cruelty and overt physical punishment that left your body bruised, your spirit frayed, and your mind reeling.

Each day became a careful calculation of survival: when to endure, when to remain silent, when to hide the pain behind a façade so convincing the Duke might believe it was just his imagination. You had no choice but to submit outwardly, to let him believe he had broken you, while every fragment of your inner self clung to the one tether that still mattered—your younger brother.

And through it all, the palace remained a gilded cage. Even as you hid away in your chambers, fevered from bruises and exhaustion, you were painfully aware that this suffering was unnoticed, invisible to all but the walls of your room—and perhaps, if he truly cared, to Gojo.

The week stretched on, each moment a test of endurance, each breath a reminder of how precarious your existence had become. The world outside might see a sick, fragile queen, but inside, you were a girl holding together the shards of a life that had long since been shattered.

The next day, you stood at the edge of the balcony, the lake stretching before you, sunlight dancing across its surface in cruel mockery of the peace you so desperately craved. The water was calm, untouched by the chaos that roiled inside you, and for a fleeting moment, you envied it. How simple it must be to exist without pain, without memory, without the heavy chains that bound your chest so tightly it was a wonder you still drew breath.

Tears welled in your eyes, stinging, but you forced them back. Not because you had strength, but because you could not bear to show weakness in a world that would pounce upon it. Your thoughts were a tangled web of darkness: the Duke’s hand, the bruises, the screams you had learned to stifle, the nights when fear had carved hollows into your mind deeper than any blade could. Even sleep had betrayed you, turning into nightmares so vivid that your own body had screamed for mercy. And now the world expected a smiling, composed queen—how laughable, how cruel.

You felt hollow, as if the very marrow in your bones had been drained. There was no joy left in you. Even memories of the boy—the one you had saved, the one who had promised to protect you—brought only bitter ache, a reminder that promises could break, and heroes were rarely what they seemed.

The sun glinted off the lake again, and you thought, fleetingly, horrifyingly, that maybe peace would only come if you were gone. A quiet, unfeeling release from this cage of flesh and sorrow. But the thought made your chest tighten even more—you could not leave your brother behind. He was all that tethered you to the world, and the weight of that responsibility pressed down like a thousand stones.

Your hands gripped the balcony rail so tightly your knuckles whitened, but it offered no comfort. Your heart pounded with exhaustion and despair, and a gnawing, hopeless thought whispered: I am nothing. I am broken. I am unworthy of care, of love, of life itself. The words were almost pleasant in their finality, a dark lullaby for a girl who had been shattered by the cruelty of those who were supposed to protect her.

And yet, even as the thought passed through you, the smallest spark remained—your brother. That fragile, flickering tether kept you upright, kept your feet from carrying you anywhere the world would never forgive, kept you here, staring at the cruelly serene lake, drowning in the weight of what it meant to survive, when survival itself had become its own torment.

After that day—the day of whispered accusations and silent tears—Gojo’s behavior shifted in ways you could not quite name. He no longer openly tormented you in front of the court, and yet he lingered near, like a shadow you could feel but not touch. There was a deliberate distance, a careful calculation in the way he observed you, as if you were a fragile doll balanced on the edge of some unseen precipice. You could not tell if it was fascination, suspicion, or… something else entirely.

It unnerved you, made your heart race in the quietest of ways, and yet a part of you couldn’t help noticing the small gestures—the subtle shift of his posture when he thought you weren’t looking, the way his eyes lingered on you when he thought it proper to glance. You kept your expression neutral, as always, because showing any reaction could unravel the careful façade you had so painstakingly built.

Then, one morning, the gift appeared. A simple, delicate box, delivered by a servant with a bow. Your hands shook slightly as you opened it, revealing a necklace—intricate yet understated, gleaming faintly in the soft light of your chambers. A wedding-day gift, he had said, in a note that was as brief as it was unsettling.

You traced the chain with your fingers, heart caught between a flicker of warmth and the deep ache that had become your constant companion. Why would he give me something so… tender, after everything? The question hung in the air, impossible to answer. He had tormented you, humiliated you, watched you with piercing scrutiny—and yet here was a token that hinted at thought, at care, at consideration.

Your chest tightened, not with joy, but with the familiar tug of confusion and despair. You wanted to unravel it, to understand it, to let it mean something—but years of trauma had trained you well. Gifts did not save, gestures did not erase pain, and promises had a way of shattering when you least expected them to.

So you placed the necklace carefully back in its box, your hands steady, your face calm, your eyes betraying nothing. And yet, when you looked up, the room suddenly felt emptier, heavier. Because even this small act—a necklace, a gift—was enough to stir a part of you you had long thought buried: the part that had once believed in knights, in protection, in being seen.

And in that quiet ache, you realized the truth you had been avoiding: no matter how careful you were, no matter how well you masked it, Gojo had begun to matter.

One afternoon, he asked you to join him for tea. The invitation was casual, almost offhand, yet it carried a weight that made your chest tighten. You dressed carefully, the maids fussing over your hair and gown, brushing away the faint traces of dark circles with skillful hands. He was waiting in the sunlit parlor, the soft scent of fresh flowers filling the room, his posture relaxed but eyes sharp, watching you as you approached.

“Shall we?” he said, offering a faint smile that did not quite reach the guarded edges of his expression. You nodded, heart fluttering despite yourself, and followed him to a small table set by the window. The afternoon sun spilled across the room, golden and warm, and for a few minutes, the world outside the palace—its cruelty, its expectations, its chains—faded away.

There were other small gestures too. He had the maids bring you dresses he knew you would like, soft fabrics in muted tones, embroidered with care. He arranged fresh flowers in your chambers, the scent of roses and lilies weaving through the air like a whispered apology. Sometimes, he insisted on walks in the gardens, lingering near your side in the quiet, letting the wind brush against your face, letting the sunlight settle on your shoulders without a word.

At first, you remained cautious, wary of every motion, every glance. A part of you wanted to recoil, to convince yourself these moments were another trap, another test designed to catch you faltering. But slowly, imperceptibly, you began to notice the nuances: the way he would adjust your cloak if the breeze turned chilly, the subtle tilt of his head as he listened to you speak, the way he never pressed, never demanded more than you offered.

And though your heart remained heavy with grief, trauma, and the ache of the past, there was a quiet comfort in the constancy of these gestures. A sense, faint but persistent, that maybe—just maybe—this man who had tormented and tested you could also be capable of gentleness, of protection, of moments of peace.

Yet even in these tender interludes, the shadow of your past lingered. Every smile, every polite laugh, every carefully measured word reminded you that the world was cruel, that the Duke still threatened your brother, and that trust was a luxury you could ill afford. And still… with each soft word, each fleeting touch, each small act of thoughtfulness, you felt the smallest crack in your frozen heart begin to widen.

The garden was quiet that afternoon, the sun casting warm patterns across the cobblestones and the fragrant blooms swaying gently in the breeze. You had insisted on walking along the path lined with roses, and Gojo had followed, hands tucked behind his back, posture straight yet relaxed, a rare ease in his presence that made your chest flutter more than you cared to admit.

The maid poured the tea with careful precision, the steam curling in the sunlight. You held your own cup delicately, inhaling the faint aroma of chamomile, and for a few moments, the world outside the palace was nowhere to be found.

Then it happened. Gojo lifted his cup to take a sip, and as he set it back down, a smear of tea clung comically to his upper lip. A small, ridiculous milk mustache that somehow seemed entirely out of place on a king, on a man so impossibly white-haired and impossibly composed.

Something inside you, something buried under years of fear and grief, let itself go. A laugh burst out, bright and unguarded, startling even yourself. It felt foreign, exhilarating, like sunlight piercing the gloom of a long, endless winter. You doubled over slightly, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes from laughter you hadn’t allowed yourself in years.

Gojo froze mid-step, his gaze locked on you. That single, unrestrained sound—the genuine, fleeting joy—captured him in a way nothing else ever had. His eyes softened, the usual sharpness replaced with a warmth that made your stomach clench. He watched you, mesmerized, as if the world itself had narrowed down to the curve of your smile and the sparkle of light in your eyes.

“Your Majesty…” he began, his voice quieter than usual, almost lost in the rustle of leaves, “…you laugh beautifully.”

You looked up at him, cheeks flushed from both amusement and the sun, and for the briefest moment, the distance between you shrank. He smiled faintly, a rare, private thing, and offered you the gentlest bow.

And in that moment, the garden was no longer just a palace escape, no longer a backdrop for ceremony or scrutiny—it was a place where two fractured souls could breathe, where laughter, fragile and fleeting, began to stitch the edges of old wounds, thread by delicate thread.

The days after the garden laughter became a gentle rhythm of quiet companionship. Gojo would ask you to join him for morning strolls through the palace corridors, where the marble floors gleamed and the sunlight streamed through the tall windows, brushing over your dresses and hair with a softness that seemed almost sacred. At first, these walks were formal, measured, each step a careful dance of etiquette. But gradually, the stiffness melted.

He began to notice the smallest things—how your fingers lingered over the carved banisters, the tilt of your head when you studied a painting, the faintest curve of a smile when no one else was watching. You, in turn, found yourself attuned to the subtleties of him: the way his white hair caught the sun, the almost imperceptible clench of his jaw when he focused, the lightness in his step when he thought he had made you laugh.

Afternoon tea became a ritual you both looked forward to, though neither would admit it. He learned your preferences—the way you liked the chamomile steeped just long enough to be fragrant but not bitter, the delicate arrangement of biscuits on the side. You, for your part, watched how he handled the small china cups with care, how he always poured the tea first into his own cup before offering one to you, a silent courtesy that warmed something long dormant in your chest.

There were moments of laughter again—quiet, private, unguarded. One day, he attempted to hand-feed you a sugar cube, misjudging the distance and making you jump, almost knocking the cup from your hands. You laughed, covering your mouth, and he froze, uncharacteristically caught off-guard, his lips twitching in a small, reluctant smile. It was a rare sight, a crack in the armor, and you felt a strange flutter of joy in your chest, a lightness you hadn’t allowed yourself to feel in years.

Evenings were spent in the gardens, the scent of jasmine and roses thick in the air. Sometimes he would point out the constellations, his hand brushing yours when he gestured, an innocent contact that left your heart hammering. You began to notice the subtleties of his expression: the faint blush when you complimented something he had done, the way his gaze lingered when you shared a thought or a quiet observation about the world.

Slowly, almost imperceptibly, a rhythm formed between you—a dance of proximity and distance, curiosity and caution, shared smiles and quiet understanding. You began to fall for him, not in the reckless, careless way of stories you had read, but in a careful, tender way, like tracing the outline of something fragile with your fingertips, afraid to break it but unable to resist the need to know its shape.

Gojo, too, found himself drawn to you in ways he could not name aloud. He watched the small moments, the unspoken gestures, the subtle grace in your movements. He admired the composure you maintained despite the shadows he could sense lurking behind your eyes. And slowly, reluctantly, he realized that the girl who had once been a silent figure in the palace was no longer just a future queen to be observed—she was becoming something much more. Something he could not ignore.

The gardens were quiet, bathed in silver moonlight, the scent of jasmine and night-blooming roses lingering in the air. The palace seemed to retreat into slumber, leaving only the soft rustle of leaves and the distant gurgle of a fountain to break the stillness. Gojo walked beside you, hands folded behind his back, posture straight yet somehow softened by the night.

“You move differently than I expected,” he said quietly, his voice low, thoughtful, almost to himself. “Graceful… careful… like every step is measured for a purpose.” His gaze lingered on you, not in judgment, but with a subtle fascination that made your chest tighten.

You kept your eyes on the path beneath your feet, hiding the way your heart fluttered. “I’ve learned to move carefully,” you murmured, almost whispering, “it’s… easier than falling apart.” You didn’t meet his eyes, afraid that any glance might reveal the fractures you worked so hard to conceal.

He stopped walking, turning to face you, taking a careful step closer—not too close, but close enough to make the air between you charged. “You’re nothing like I imagined the future queen of Bellua would be,” he admitted, his tone softer than usual. “Not entitled. Not frivolous. You… captivate, even without trying.”

Your heart caught at the words, and a brief, bitter smile tugged at your lips. You wanted to respond, to tell him he didn’t know half the battles you fought just to survive, but the words stayed lodged in your throat. Instead, you let your fingers brush against a rose petal, delicate and fleeting, as if testing whether beauty could still exist untouched by the world’s cruelty.

And then he did something unexpected: he bent slightly, handing you a delicate bloom from the garden. His fingers brushed yours for the briefest moment, and for a heartbeat, the world seemed to pause. You felt warmth creep into your chest—a dangerous, dizzying sensation that had nothing to do with safety and everything to do with the man beside you.

“You’re… unlike anyone I’ve ever met,” he said again, this time almost to you. His eyes searched your face, quiet curiosity and admiration mingling in the way he studied you. “Even in silence, even in restraint… you’re impossible to ignore.”

You kept your composure, heart hammering, chest tightening. And yet, beneath the careful mask, a small, forbidden spark of trust and fragile hope began to grow—a tether that had nothing to do with the world outside, only the quiet night, the stars above, and the white-haired king walking beside you.

That night, you wake abruptly, your chest tight, the remnants of a dream slipping away like mist. Voices thunder through the corridors—urgent, harsh. You barely have time to process before strong hands seize your arms, dragging you from your bed. You try to struggle, to speak, but the words choke in your throat. The polished floors blur beneath your feet as you’re pulled, unheeded, toward a fate you cannot yet name.

You are thrust into the grand hall, and there he sits—the King of Bellua, Gojo. His white hair glints in the torchlight, his posture impossibly still. For a heartbeat, you hope… something. Anything.

Then the words cut sharper than any blade: “You are accused of attempting to poison the king.”

Panic surges through you. “I—I didn’t—” your mind screams, but your voice is swallowed by the hall.

The guards step back, revealing the empty bottles—the remnants of the poisons you had consumed, every drop intended to protect him. The truth claws at your tongue, desperate to spill, to plead, to explain—but you cannot. You see it then—the look in Gojo’s eyes.

It is not curiosity, not confusion, not the soft fascination he sometimes allowed you to catch in fleeting moments. It is pure, unflinching viciousness. A storm contained in a gaze, sharp enough to make your knees buckle. Your heart halts, and the words catch like thorns in your throat. You cannot speak. You cannot move. You are frozen.

Everything you had done—the silent sacrifices, the careful composure, the tiny acts meant to protect him—all of it is meaningless in the blazing intensity of that look. His eyes strip you bare, seeing not the girl who adored him, not the queen he had been slowly learning to notice, but a figure accused and vulnerable, entirely at his mercy.

The guards’ hands tighten around you again, pulling you back, and you do not resist. You cannot. You can only stand there, trembling, every heartbeat pounding against your ribs, as Gojo’s gaze burns into you. And in that moment, the fragile tether of hope you had clung to—the one that told you he might one day care—snaps completely, leaving only the hollow, aching void of betrayal.

The cold iron bars closed behind you with a clang that reverberated through your chest, leaving a hollow echo that seemed to match the emptiness growing inside. The dungeon was dark, damp, and oppressive—the smell of mold and stone filling your senses. You sank to the floor, knees drawn to your chest, hands trembling.

Part of you, a small, desperate part, still clung to hope. He’ll see. He’ll know this is a mistake. You repeated it to yourself over and over, a fragile mantra against the fear clawing at your mind. You tried to imagine him seeing the truth, recognizing the sacrifices you had made for him, for Bellua… that maybe, just maybe, the King you had begun to fall for would save you.

But night dragged on, each hour heavier than the last. The guards left you alone, the flickering torchlight casting monstrous shadows that danced across the walls. You pressed your face to your knees, clinging to the smallest, tiniest sliver of hope, telling yourself that morning would bring clarity.

When dawn finally broke, Gojo appeared at the entrance to your cell. His white hair shone in the dim light, but there was nothing soft in his expression. His eyes—once a source of fascination, of warmth—now held only disdain, a quiet venom that sliced through your fragile defenses.

“You were an enemy from the start,” he said, his voice low, measured, every word a deliberate strike. “I should have known better than to think a smile, a gesture, could hide what you truly are. Perhaps I should let you die and be done with it… it would spare me this torment.”

You tried to speak, to explain, but the words faltered in your throat. The look in his eyes was absolute—he did not want to hear your excuses, did not care for your pleas. In that moment, all the trust, all the hope you had nurtured, felt like it had been ripped from you in one cruel, unyielding motion.

“You’ve made your choices,” he continued, stepping closer, his presence immense, suffocating. “And now you must live with them. Perhaps in time, I will forget the pain of your deceit… but not today.”

The bars of your cell felt impossibly strong, not just iron and stone, but the weight of his condemnation pressing down on you. You sank lower, pressing your face to the floor, trying to hold onto even the tiniest glimmer of hope—but the heat in his gaze burned it away, leaving only cold dread, the sense that this man—the one you had begun to care for, the one you had trusted—now wished you gone more than anything.

And in that darkness, you understood: the slow burn of affection, the tentative connection you had felt, was gone—for now.

The cell swallowed you whole. Darkness pressed against every inch of your skin, cold and unyielding. You dropped to the stone floor, knees pulled tight to your chest, your arms wrapping around yourself as if you could hold in what was left of your shattered heart. The silence was unbearable, amplifying the pounding in your skull and the ache in your chest.

Tears came without warning, hot and relentless, but they felt meaningless. You no longer cried out for help; no one could hear you, no one would. Even the world itself seemed to have forgotten you. You thought of your little brother, the only tether to your existence, and the thought twisted into agony. If I fail him, he will have nothing. I will have failed everything.

Memories of every blow, every insult, every act of cruelty inflicted by your father, by the world, came back in unfiltered waves. You remembered the beatings, the hunger, the humiliation… the years of silence forced upon you to survive. All those lessons in restraint, all that careful acting… meaningless now. They had brought you nothing but endurance, and endurance had led you here—dragged in front of a man you had loved, accused, condemned, powerless.

Gojo’s gaze haunted you. The viciousness in his eyes—the white-haired king who had been a figure of fascination, of quiet warmth, of dangerous allure—now cut you open like a blade. He would rather see you dead than alive, and that knowledge obliterated the fragile hope you had clung to. The realization that your sacrifices meant nothing, that your silent devotion had been for naught, crushed something deep inside you.

You screamed, but no sound came. You twisted, clawing at the stone, at your hair, at the emptiness itself, desperate to expel the agony, but it remained. The cell became a coffin, your body curled in on itself, shrinking until you felt as if you barely existed.

Your thoughts unraveled. It doesn’t matter. Nothing matters. There is no one to save me. There is no reason to try. I am… nothing. You repeated it over and over until the words etched themselves into your mind like a curse. You stopped hoping. You stopped feeling.

By the time exhaustion overtook you, the collapse was complete. Your body remained, but your essence—your spark, your resilience, your soul—was gone. You stared at the dark ceiling with vacant eyes, seeing nothing, feeling nothing. The laughter, the tears, the careful smiles that had kept you alive for years were gone. You were a doll, perfectly still, perfectly silent, with only the shell of a human left behind.

Even when hunger clawed at your stomach, even when your muscles ached, even when the torchlight flickered across the cell, there was no spark. You moved, but without thought. You breathed, but without hope. You existed, but you were not alive.

And in the depths of that cell, under the cold, uncaring gaze of the world, the girl who had once helped a boy escape, who had once dreamed of love and safety, ceased to exist. All that remained was a husk—a soulless doll, abandoned to a life stripped of feeling, a life condemned to endure without hope.

The dark was all you knew—thick, unending, and absolute. You sat against the cold wall, knees pulled tight, your breathing slow and mechanical, the sound barely audible over the heavy silence. Time had stopped existing. There was no morning or night, no before or after. Only stillness.

Then—quietly—someone spoke.

“Did you really try to poison the king?”

Your head lifted slowly, the motion unnatural, like a puppet tugged by an unseen string. A figure stood just beyond the bars—Yuji, the young guard you had glimpsed in passing but never spoken to. His gaze was searching, curious in a way that felt too alive for the dead air around you.

You shook your head once, the movement jerky, your lips parting as if to speak—but no sound came. Words no longer belonged to you.

Yuji sighed, leaning his shoulder against the iron bars. “I’ve been watching you for a while now. You’re… different. And I don’t think you did it.”

Something shifted inside you—not warmth, not hope, but a sudden, cold clarity. You surged forward, your hands gripping the bars with a speed and force that made him flinch. Your voice tore from your throat, raw and desperate.

“I must go to my father’s estate.”

His brows drew together. “Your… father?”

“My brother,” you said, your voice cracking, the word escaping before the restriction curse cinched your throat tight. Pain flared in your chest as the magic bit down, choking off anything more.

Yuji frowned deeper, confusion clouding his expression. “I didn’t know you had a brother.”

You said nothing. You could say nothing. The curse was an iron clamp around your tongue, burning and suffocating at the edges of every thought that tried to escape.

For a long moment, he studied you, and you could almost feel the weight of his decision pressing into the air between you. At last, his voice lowered to a conspiratorial murmur.

“As the king’s right hand… and his best guard…” He glanced both ways down the hall, making sure no one was listening. “I need to investigate this further.”

Your fingers tightened on the bars.

You watched as a faint glow began to bloom in his hand, cursed energy curling around his fingers like embers in the dark. The air shifted, sharp with the metallic tang of raw power, before the lock shuddered and split with a muted crack.

The bars swung open.

“You didn’t hear this from me,” he muttered, his voice low, almost guilty. “But I’m getting you out of here.”

You stepped forward, your bare feet silent against the stone. There was no joy in your movement, no rush of freedom—only the cold, mechanical drive to move toward the one thing left in this world that mattered.

Your brother.

And nothing—not the dungeon, not the king, not the betrayal—would stop you from reaching him.

Note: Get ready because this next part is just pure angst.

[thepiinkpages]

Professor!Draco Malfoy x Professor!Reader

Edit: So, I took the official Hogwarts quiz again to see if I got Slytherin again... turns out, I am Slytherin through and through even after all these years.

The first thing you notice is the light.

It is far too bright for whatever ungodly hour it is, pouring in through a pair of tall, arched windows you are certain are not in your quarters. Your head feels like someone lodged a Bludger behind your eyes and decided to practice Beater drills. The pillow beneath your cheek smells faintly of cedar and something warm—like spiced tea after a rainy walk.

You shift, blinking against the light, and that’s when it hits you.

You’re naked.

Completely, unapologetically naked.

For a heartbeat, your mind stalls—still sluggish from the Firewhisky haze—but then the panic comes rushing in like a tidal wave. Your hands immediately fumble for the sheets, dragging them up to your chin as if that might somehow undo the reality of your current state.

“Okay,” you whisper to yourself, throat dry. “Think. How… how did this happen?”

You remember the staff party last night. Bottles of Ogden’s Old. Professor Sinistra challenging you to a drinking game you had no hope of winning. Draco Malfoy sitting two seats away, making some dry comment that had you laughing harder than the alcohol could account for. His tie was loosened. His hair—Merlin, his hair had been a little mussed, like he’d run his hands through it after a long day.

Your mind scrambles, clawing for some shred of memory from last night. The staff party — yes. Laughter echoing in the Great Hall. Glass after glass of Firewhisky you were foolish enough to accept from Sinistra. The warm blur of voices, the rising tide of conversation.

And him.

Not talking. Not mingling. Just standing in a quiet corner near the wall, glass in hand, his gaze moving from one group to another without ever fully settling. You’d always assumed his silence was disdain — but last night, you’d noticed something else. Something almost… careful.

And now you’re here.

Naked. Next to him.

You don’t remember crossing the room to him. You don’t remember leaving the party. You don’t remember a single word he might have said to you — if he even did.

Which leaves you with one impossible, maddening question pounding as loud as your headache:

Why you?

Your eyes dart to the floor. Your skirt is crumpled near the foot of the bed, your blouse half-hanging off an armchair. Your bra is looped lazily over the back like a discarded afterthought. You spot your tights, twisted and limp near your shoes, the whole mess like some terrible still-life painting titled Regret.

You swallow hard, clutching the sheet to your chest as you slide out of bed, desperate to collect your things without waking him.

A quick glance over your shoulder — he hasn’t stirred. His breathing remains steady, his lips parted in the faintest exhale.

And despite yourself — despite the confusion, the mortification — you look at him one last time. Because he doesn’t look cold now. Or distant. Or untouchable. He looks… human. Almost fragile in the light.

You force your gaze away, snatch up your wand from the nightstand, and slip quietly out the door, the questions already gnawing at you like an ache you know won’t fade.

The door clicks softly shut behind you, and you don’t dare breathe until you’re halfway down the corridor.

The early-morning chill of the castle hits you instantly, raising goosebumps along your bare arms and legs where the sheet no longer shields you. You’re clutching an armful of clothes, shoes dangling from your fingers, hair almost certainly a tangled disaster.

You cannot — under any circumstances — be seen like this.

Not by another professor. And definitely not by a single student.

Because Hogwarts is a castle, yes. A school, sure. But more than anything, it’s a breeding ground for gossip, and you know exactly how this would go. A single sighting of you skulking barefoot through the halls at sunrise with your blouse in your hand and your hair looking like you’ve been dragged backwards through a broom cupboard, and by breakfast there will be wild, exaggerated stories about how you’ve been caught in some torrid affair with someone.

And if anyone finds out that someone is Draco Malfoy?

You might as well resign before the first bell.

You take the first corner at a near-run, the flagstones cold and unforgiving beneath your feet. Somewhere in the castle, a portrait coughs in disapproval. You swear you hear the Fat Lady mutter something as you pass, but you don’t stop to listen.

The corridors feel impossibly long, each stretch of stone wall echoing with the sound of your hurried steps. You hug your clothes tighter to your chest, willing the shadows to swallow you whole.

You reach a junction and press your back to the wall, peeking around the corner. Footsteps. Two sets. Voices — low, male, coming from the direction of the staff wing.

You flatten yourself into the nearest alcove, heart hammering, breath caught in your throat. A moment later, Flitwick’s tiny form shuffles past, deep in conversation with Hagrid about the best time to prune Venomous Tentacula.

You wait until they’re out of sight before bolting again.

The staircase to your quarters is right there — except, of course, it’s moved during the night. You bite back a curse, racing down a side corridor instead, praying it will get you closer to the upper floors without running into a single soul.

When you finally reach the door to your rooms, you slip inside like a fugitive, slam it shut, and press your back to it, chest heaving.

For a long moment, you just stand there, staring into the dimness of your quarters, trying to piece together the impossible truth of the morning.

Draco Malfoy.

Naked. Next to you....

You slam the bathroom door shut and press your back against it, heart hammering so hard you’re certain it’s echoing off the tiles. The icy, early-morning air inside the small stone room stings your skin, but it’s nothing compared to the burn of humiliation threatening to set you on fire. Stripping with shaking fingers, you toss your clothes into a pile that smells faintly of him, your pulse spiking even higher at the thought.

The water gushes from the tap, steam curling into the air, but you barely feel it when you step under. You scrub with a desperation that borders on frantic, as if you could erase the memory by sheer force—scrubbing until your skin is pink, until the scent is gone, until you can pretend this never happened. But your body betrays you.

It starts in disjointed flickers—snippets your mind has clutched onto despite your will to forget. A low, breathy moan in the dark. Your name murmured like it was a sin. And then those eyes—piercing blue, glinting with a heat that stole the air from your lungs. The way they locked on you, unwavering, like you were both the danger and the salvation he’d been chasing.

You grip the sink and force yourself to breathe, to push the images away before they drag you under. But your heart won’t slow, and no matter how hot the water runs, you can’t scrub the memory of him from your skin.

By the time you make your way to the Great Hall, your stomach is twisted in a way that has nothing to do with hunger. The morning sunlight streaming through the enchanted ceiling feels almost mocking—bright and warm while you’re knotted up inside. You pause at the entrance, scanning the Professor's table instinctively, and your heart gives a startled thud when you don’t see him. Draco Malfoy is always here first. Always. Whether out of routine or habit, he’s usually in his seat before most students even rub the sleep from their eyes, pale hands curled around a cup of tea, eyes lazily following the room without really looking. His absence prickles at you in a way you don’t care to name.

Nevertheless, you cross the hall, the sound of your shoes tapping faintly against the stone as you take your usual place. You busy your hands by pouring juice, arranging your plate—small motions to keep from spiraling. But it’s useless. Your thoughts churn and churn until they’re nothing but a blur of heat, mortification, and a stubborn undercurrent of longing you’ve spent years trying to smother.

You’ve always known you found Draco Malfoy attractive—more than attractive, if you were honest with yourself. He was the sort of man who seemed made to be admired, carved from some impossible standard of elegance and danger, every inch of him deliberate. And yet you never allowed yourself to try for even the faintest scrap of friendship. You knew better. You knew what his family thought of people like you—people with blood that didn’t meet their standards, people they dismissed with a single slur that always managed to burn no matter how many times you heard it. A “mudblood” in their eyes, a stain on their perfect lineage.

So you built your distance like armor. You smiled politely if he glanced your way, you kept your voice steady if he spoke to you, and you never, ever let yourself imagine what it might be like if he looked at you with warmth. Because you knew—if you stepped even an inch closer—you would fall for him completely.

You nearly drop the fork in your hand when the sound of the Great Hall doors swinging open breaks through your spiraling thoughts. Every nerve in your body seems to hum with anticipation, an instinctual reaction you can’t stop even if you wanted to. You don’t have to look up to know it’s him—something in the air shifts when Draco Malfoy walks into a room, an almost imperceptible pull that sets you on edge.

Your breath catches despite your best efforts to remain composed. You focus on the steam curling from your mug, on the scrape of cutlery against porcelain somewhere to your left. But your body betrays you, muscles tightening, heart rate picking up.

When he finally passes into your line of vision, it’s worse than you imagined. He looks impeccable—black robes falling just right over broad shoulders, pale hair catching the morning light like strands of silk, that same maddeningly aloof expression carved into his features.

You drop your gaze instantly, afraid that even a second of eye contact might unravel you entirely. In your haste to look busy, you reach for your coffee… and knock it over. The dark liquid spills across the table in a small, damning flood, creeping toward the edge with alarming speed.

“Oh, no—” you hiss under your breath, fumbling for a napkin, blotting at it with clumsy, frantic movements. Your face burns so hot you’re certain the whole table can feel it radiating off you.

But then, as you mop up the mess, you dare to lift your eyes just slightly, heart pounding in your throat.

He’s not looking at you.

In fact, Draco’s gaze is turned in the opposite direction, scanning the far end of the hall with complete indifference. Not even the smallest flicker of recognition crosses his face. No smirk. No knowing glance. No acknowledgment whatsoever that you even exist—let alone that the two of you had been tangled in each other’s arms only hours ago.

The sight should bring you relief. It should make you feel invisible in the safest way. But instead, something hollow and uneasy twists deep in your stomach.

Did he truly not remember?

Or… worse… was it nothing to him?

Your thoughts tumble down darker paths. You’ve heard the rumors about him—about the beautiful, heartless Slytherin boy he once was, breaking hearts with the same ease he avoided them. A womanizer, they’d said. Charming when it suited him, cold when it didn’t.

You swallow hard, the memory of his low, intoxicating voice—of blue-gray eyes catching yours in the dark—flashing unbidden behind your eyelids.

Maybe it had been a bigger deal to you than it ever was to him.

The thought burned like acid in your chest, and no amount of sipping at the lukewarm tea in front of you could wash it down. Your fork dragged idly through the remnants of toast, the food untouched because the very idea of eating made your stomach twist. Across the hall, a few other professors were murmuring about lesson plans, weather, Quidditch—mundane topics that felt utterly alien in the wake of what had happened.

The scrape of his chair would’ve drawn your attention any other day, but now, you couldn’t bring yourself to look. You felt the weight of his presence the moment he stepped into the hall, like some gravitational shift that pulled at your very skin. Every part of you wanted to steal a glance, to catch some flicker of recognition in those pale, piercing eyes. Instead, you kept your gaze firmly on your plate, jaw tight.

And still, you felt it—his presence moving past you. The swish of his robes. The faint scent of clean parchment and something darker, richer, like smoke curling low in a fireplace. You couldn’t help it—you dared to tilt your head just enough to see him walk past without so much as a glance in your direction.

Your stomach plummeted.

By the time you returned to your alchemy classroom, the usual spring in your step was nowhere to be found. Normally, you greeted each student by name, your tone bright and warm, teasing them about messy cauldrons or misplaced quills. Today, your voice came out softer, distracted. You caught yourself staring out the high, arched windows far too often, the sunlight bouncing off the stone towers of Hogwarts but barely touching you.

“Professor?” one of your fourth-years asked tentatively, a hand raised halfway.

It took you an extra beat to realize they’d been speaking to you for some time. “Sorry—what was that?” you asked, forcing a smile you didn’t feel.

They repeated the question about solvent ratios, and though you answered automatically—your academic knowledge running on muscle memory—your thoughts were nowhere near the conversation. They were in the quiet shadows of your quarters last night, in the too-vivid flashes of memory you’d rather not admit were haunting you.

Low, guttural sounds that curled around your spine. The warmth of breath against your skin. A pair of icy blue eyes burning into yours in a way that had left you trembling—not from fear, but from something you didn’t dare name in daylight.

And then it was gone.

You blinked back into the present as the students busied themselves with their experiments, unaware that their professor’s heart was not in the room with them. By the end of the day, you had answered more questions on autopilot than you cared to admit, and yet one question—the one you didn’t dare voice—still echoed louder than the rest.

Why hadn’t he looked at you?

After classes ended, you spotted Professor Sinistra rounding the corner at the far end of the corridor, her robes trailing in a soft sweep of deep midnight blue. She carried an armful of scrolls and a steaming cup of tea, moving at an unhurried pace that suggested she was perfectly content with the world—and far too perceptive for your current state of mind. You quickened your steps, weaving between a pair of giggling Hufflepuffs, until you reached her side.

“Professor—wait—just a moment,” you called, a little breathless.

She stopped at once, her head turning with deliberate slowness, one perfectly arched brow lifting as her gaze swept over you. “My, my. You seem rather… charged this morning,” she observed, her lips twitching into the faintest smirk. “Is this about the essay due next week, or something… less academic?”

You ignored the bait and stepped closer. “Last night. After I left—did you… see anything?”

Her eyes glimmered as though you’d just handed her the key to a locked door she’d been itching to open. “See anything?” she echoed, her tone laced with feigned innocence. “Why, I saw a great deal last night. The moon was particularly beautiful, and the way you and Mr. Malfoy disappeared before dessert—”

Your cheeks went hot. “It wasn’t—”

“Oh, darling, spare me the denials,” she said with a warm, amused chuckle. “You two might as well have been tethered together by a charm. The moment you walked in, I noticed him notice you. And the way you leaned in to speak to him, hand on his arm… Mmm.”

Your stomach flipped, a mixture of embarrassment and something else you refused to name. “It wasn’t like that. We were probably just talking.”

“Talking?” She tilted her head, regarding you with open disbelief. “Perhaps you were. But the rest of the room saw something else entirely. People notice when Draco Malfoy actually smiles at someone, and trust me, he was smiling.”

“That’s hardly—”

“And when you left,” she continued, steamrolling over your protest with obvious delight, “he didn’t so much as glance at anyone else. Just stood up and followed you like you’d cast a Summoning Charm on him. Which, frankly, would have been less suspicious.”

You crossed your arms, feeling like the hallway itself was pressing in on you. “You’re reading into it.”

“Am I?” she asked lightly, sipping her tea without breaking eye contact. “Or are you underestimating how transparent you both were?”

You opened your mouth, closed it, then tried again. “It wasn’t… I wasn’t trying to make anything look—”

“Oh, sweetheart,” she interrupted with mock sympathy, “intent is irrelevant. Perception is everything. And the perception is that you two left together, stayed gone long enough for people to wonder, and came back looking…” Her eyes narrowed with playful sharpness. “Well. I wish I could’ve seen it because the both of you didn’t come back. You horn dog!”

Your breath caught, and for a moment you couldn’t decide whether to glare or flee. “You’re enjoying this far too much.”

“Immensely,” she admitted, stepping past you with the languid grace of someone who knew exactly how much she’d unsettled you. “It’s rare that the stars align so beautifully in my line of work. I do love a good… celestial pairing.”

“Celestial—?” you began, but she was already halfway down the hall, turning back just long enough to add, sing-song, “If you didn’t want people to talk, my dear, you really shouldn’t have looked at him like that.”

You stood frozen in place, the noise of the corridor fading under the thunder of your pulse. The words clung to you like static, impossible to shake, no matter how much you told yourself she was exaggerating.

The cold stone of the Hogwarts corridors pressed against your back as you leaned heavily against the rough surface, though the chill from the walls was no match for the heat flooding your cheeks. The castle, with its twisting passages and high archways, had always been a place of endless wonder, but today it felt like a labyrinth designed to trap you within your own spiraling thoughts. Your footsteps echoed faintly in the distance, but your mind was deaf to everything but the whirlwind inside your chest — a chaotic storm of confusion, embarrassment, and something far more dangerous: longing.

You had wandered here without realizing how far you had strayed, lost in the shadowy recesses of your memory. It began as an indistinct haze — a dim glow from candlelight reflecting off polished wood, the faint scent of firewhisky mingling with the sharp, metallic tang of old parchment and ink. The brush of silk against skin, the subtle warmth that had nestled beneath your ribs, stirring things you didn’t quite understand.

You press your back harder against the cold stone, but it doesn’t stop the heat rushing through your face, neck, and chest. The castle corridors around you feel miles away as your mind drifts back to last night — but these aren’t soft, sweet memories. No, they’re sharp, electric, and downright raunchy.

You remember the way his fingers grazed your bare skin, the roughness of his touch sending shivers all over your body. The way his breath hitched when you leaned closer, how his eyes darkened, stormy and wild, locking onto you with a hunger that made your knees weak.

You remember the way his hand slid beneath the edge of your robe, fingers tracing slow, deliberate circles against your skin that made your breath catch in your throat. The way his lips brushed against your neck — soft but demanding — and how your skin tingled everywhere he touched, like sparks were flying just beneath your skin.

The sound of his low moans fills your ears — raw, desperate, and rough against the quiet of the room. You remember the way your own voice cracked when you whispered his name, trembling with something you’d never felt before but didn’t want to stop.

You remember how his hands moved — bold and sure — as if he’d been waiting for this moment, like every second apart had only made him want you more. The way his mouth found yours again and again, hungry and claiming, and how you melted into him, your heart hammering like a drum in your chest.

You can still feel the heat of his body pressed against yours, the way his fingers tangled in your hair as you gave in to the storm of sensation crashing through you. Every brush of his skin was electric, every whisper and gasp a promise you didn’t want to break.

And then, the moment he pulled back just enough to murmur something — words that slipped through your mind like smoke, teasing and disappearing before you could hold onto them. Something important. Something you needed to remember, but couldn’t.

Your hands come up to your face, trying to block out the images, but they only blaze brighter behind your eyelids. You slide down the wall, heart pounding, cheeks burning, caught between shame and a desperate, aching desire.

You push yourself up from the cold stone, forcing your legs to move even though your mind is tangled in a storm of memories and unanswered questions. The heat in your cheeks hasn’t faded, but you clamp down on the rush of embarrassment and desire threatening to spill over. You have to keep going. You have to figure this out.

Your footsteps echo hollowly as you wander through the corridors, the castle’s ancient stones pressing in on you. Every step is a battle between wanting to forget and needing to remember. You replay his voice over and over in your head — low, deliberate, full of meaning — but the exact words slip away every time, like smoke through your fingers.

Frustration wells up, and you lightly knock your head against the wall once. Twice. Each time, you hope the dull thud will shake loose the missing pieces, but the silence that follows only drives the ache deeper.

Finally, you take a shaky breath. There’s only one person who can help you piece this together. The one person who was there — Draco Malfoy himself.

Your heart thunders as you make your way down to his office, the very idea of confronting him making your hands tremble. You pause just outside his heavy door, gathering courage. But then — voices. Two voices, deep and unmistakably male, ripple through the cracks beneath the door.

Your breath catches.

You press your ear to the door, straining to listen.

One voice is unmistakably Draco’s — sharp, clipped, but tense.

The other is unfamiliar — deeper, rougher, with an edge you can’t place.

They’re talking in low tones, words just out of reach.

A flicker of something cold twists inside your chest.

Who is he talking to? And what are they saying — about you?

Your curiosity claws at you, insistent and impossible to ignore. Every instinct tells you to step back, to walk away, to leave whatever secrets lie behind that heavy wooden door untouched. But the ache in your chest—the confusion, the unanswered questions—drives you forward. You press your ear carefully against the cold surface, breath shallow, heart hammering like a wild drum.

The voices seep through, low and urgent. One is unmistakably Draco’s—his voice sharp, controlled, but beneath it, you sense something raw, vulnerable. The other belongs to Blaise Zabini, his closest friend, whose smooth laughter cuts through the tension with teasing ease.

You recognize the sound immediately, the way Blaise’s voice carries a mischievous weight. It’s the kind of voice that holds secrets and jokes and a fierce loyalty all at once. You imagine Draco’s face, usually so composed and distant, now turning hesitant and exposed.

Blaise’s teasing laughter echoes softly. “Come on, Draco. Stop acting like some lovesick first year. What’s really going on with that girl?”

Your breath hitches, heart twisting painfully in your chest. That girl. The phrase slams into you harder than you expected. Could it be you? You want to pull away, to tell yourself you’re imagining things, but you can’t stop listening.

For a long moment, Draco is silent. The pause stretches like a fragile thread about to snap. Then, finally, his voice rises, low and steady, words falling like a secret offered in the dark:

“For her, I would sail across the cosmic sea to the end of time. Without her, everything before me is a sea of loneliness. I will never stop loving her.”

Your heart stutters, pounding so loudly you swear the world might hear it. Could he be speaking about you? Those words feel like a lifeline and a noose all at once. You want to believe it—that behind his cold, distant exterior beats a heart that aches for you as fiercely as yours does for him.

But then, the spell breaks. Muffled voices erupt in the room, and you catch Blaise’s teasing tone once more:

“—slept with the alchemy professor.”

Your pulse spikes, and an icy fear twists your stomach. The weight of those words hangs heavy in the air, but the silence that follows is even more deafening.

Then, Draco’s voice cuts through the quiet, softer, but every syllable strikes like a blow:

“I regret sleeping with her...”

The world seems to tilt beneath you. Regret? How could he—? The sentence crashes over you, dragging your breath out and leaving you trembling. Was it regret because it was a mistake? Because it could ruin something? Or was it something darker, more painful?

You step back from the door, your knees weak, and the cold stone feels sharp beneath your hands as you slide down the wall to sit. Your mind races, a whirlwind of thoughts clashing in painful chaos.

Does he really feel that way?

Did you mean nothing to him?

Your chest tightens with a mixture of shame and longing, and for the first time, the cold loneliness you’ve been fighting since you woke up this morning feels like it’s swallowing you whole.

You close your eyes, fighting back tears that burn hot and bitter. You don’t know what to believe anymore. But one thing is terrifyingly clear: the man who haunts your thoughts, who stirs your every breath, is carrying his own heavy secret—and it might not be the one you hoped for.

I regret sleeping with her. The phrase replays in your mind, each syllable hammering at your chest, squeezing the breath from your lungs.

Panic flares hot and sudden, setting fire to your limbs as you push off the wall and flee down the hallway, your footsteps echoing wildly in the empty corridors. You don’t look back. You don’t dare. All you know is the desperate need to put as much distance as possible between you and that voice—the voice that shattered your fragile hope.

Your breath comes in ragged gasps, heart pounding like a frantic drumbeat that drowns out everything else. The castle walls blur past as you run, each step a frantic attempt to outrun the crushing ache twisting inside you.

Finally, you reach your room and fumble with the door, hands trembling so badly you almost drop your key. Once inside, you slam the door shut behind you, the sound echoing like a gunshot in the quiet space.

With a shuddering sigh, you slide down the door, legs folding beneath you as your breath catches in uneven bursts. Your hands clutch your knees, head bowed, as wild thoughts swirl through your mind like a storm you cannot calm.

You should’ve never had your hopes up.

You were a fool to think he could feel anything but regret.

Maybe you never meant anything to him at all.

Tears prick at the corners of your eyes, but you refuse to let them fall. Not yet. Because to cry would be to admit how deeply you were broken, and you aren’t ready for that truth.

Instead, you sit in the silence, your chest tight, your heart aching, and your mind racing through a thousand questions with no answers.

How could someone so distant and cold have spoken words so full of longing and yet turn around and say he regrets you?

What part of you had he regretted? The night? The closeness?

And most painfully, did he ever feel anything for you at all?

The room feels unbearably small, the walls closing in as you drown in the sharp sting of heartbreak.

After sitting on the floor, you wipe at your eyes roughly, but the tears keep falling—slow at first, then heavier, hot and relentless. You pull yourself up from the floor, shaking, and stumble toward the mirror hanging crooked on your bedroom wall.

You stand frozen in front of the mirror, fingers trembling as you reach up to touch your own face like it’s a stranger’s. The skin beneath your fingertips is cold and clammy, but it’s the emptiness behind your eyes that stings the most.

Who even am I?

The question echoes in your mind, sharper than any curse. You search the reflection for something—anything—that could tell you you’re not a mistake, not a ghost wandering someone else’s story. But all you see is someone broken, someone small and fragile and too easily discarded.

Why did I think he could want me?

Draco Malfoy—the man who barely acknowledges your existence beyond the necessary—had somehow, in one reckless night, made you believe you were more than a shadow. But now, hearing those words, I regret sleeping with her, they echo like a slap, a final verdict on your worth.

Regret.

That word settles over you like a heavy cloak. It wraps around your chest, squeezing tighter and tighter until breathing feels like a punishment. What does that make you? A lapse in judgment? A fleeting pleasure to forget when the dawn comes? Someone who could be touched and then tossed away without a second thought?

Your mind spins wildly, your thoughts darting like frantic birds trapped inside a cage. You should have seen it coming. You’re always the fool. You’re never enough.

You close your eyes, willing the tears to stop, but they only fall faster, a torrent of grief you can’t control. Your shoulders shake with sobs you can’t hold back, a sound so raw and desperate it fills the empty room.

I’m not beautiful enough. Not smart enough. Not worthy of love.

Each thought cuts deeper than the last. You wonder how someone so distant, so cold, could have ever been touched by you. Or worse—did he hate you for it?

You press your palms against the mirror, fingers splayed as if you could push through the glass and escape this reflection, this truth you aren’t ready to face.

You’re just a mistake.

And that realization breaks you, shatters something fragile you hadn’t even known you were holding onto.

The tears stream down your face unchecked, each drop a confession of a heart that aches for a love it may never have. You want to scream, to beg for something—anything—that could make the pain stop. But the only sound that comes out is a strangled whisper.

“I’m not enough.”

The words hang in the air, heavier than any curse, and for a long, endless moment, all you can do is cry.

The next morning, your body refuses to cooperate. You lie tangled in your sheets, staring blankly at the ceiling, every breath heavy with the weight of exhaustion and sorrow. The thought of facing another day—another crowded classroom, another chance to see Draco’s cold, unreadable expression—feels impossible.

So, you call in sick.

And then again the day after that.

And the day after that.

Each morning, the ache in your chest grows sharper, gnawing at the edges of your resolve. You tell yourself you just need time, that soon you’ll be ready to return. But deep down, you know the truth. The heartbreak you thought was just a phrase—something distant and unreal—is something very, painfully real. It’s a living thing, twisting inside you, dragging you under.

By the end of the week, a soft, hesitant knock breaks the silence at your door. You don’t want to look up, but the familiar voice makes your heart skip in a way that’s neither comforting nor kind.

“Are you okay?” Professor Sinistra’s tone is gentle, but there’s an edge of concern beneath her teasing smile—like she already knows the answer but doesn’t want to say it aloud.

You want to lie, to say you’re fine, that you’re ready to come back. But the words catch in your throat.

No, you’re not okay.

Not by a long shot.

The heartbreak isn’t just in your chest anymore. It’s everywhere—in your bones, your thoughts, your dreams. It’s a shadow you can’t shake, no matter how much you want to.

And as the door stays open, just a crack, you wonder if maybe, just maybe, you don’t have to face it alone.

You sit on the edge of your bed, the thin morning light spilling through the curtains, casting soft shadows that seem to mock your restless thoughts. The knock had come again, gentle but persistent, and now the door creaks open just enough for Professor Sinistra to slip inside.

She moves quietly, her presence calm and steady, the kind of warmth that seems almost foreign to you these days. Her eyes, sharp but kind, settle on you with a softness that makes your throat tighten.

“I’ve been worried about you,” she says, lowering herself onto the chair by your desk. “You’ve missed a lot of classes. And you’re not usually one to shy away from your responsibilities.”

You swallow hard, the lump in your throat growing heavier. “I—” Your voice breaks, the words catching on something inside. “I don’t know how to say it.”

Sinistra nods, as if she understands perfectly. “You don’t have to say anything you’re not ready for. But I’m here if you want to talk.”

You glance down at your hands, fidgeting with the edge of your sleeve, and then finally meet her gaze. “It’s... complicated.”

She offers a small, encouraging smile. “I have time.”

Taking a shaky breath, you let the floodgates open a little. “I thought... I thought maybe something could happen between me and Draco. That night... it felt like more than just a mistake.” Your voice wavers, raw with emotion. “But then I overheard him. Saying he regrets it. Regrets me.”

The words hit you like a punch to the gut all over again, and you squeeze your eyes shut, fighting the tears that threaten to fall.

Sinistra doesn’t rush you. She waits, giving you the space to breathe and to feel the pain without judgment.

“I don’t know what I did wrong,” you whisper, voice cracking. “Why he would say that if... if he actually cared at all.”

“It’s not about what you did,” Sinistra says softly. “Sometimes, people are afraid of what they feel, or of what others will think. Draco’s past, his family—it’s complicated. That doesn’t excuse his words, but it might explain his fear.”

You nod slowly, absorbing her words but still feeling the ache deep in your chest. “I just... I don’t know how to move on from this.”

“You don’t have to do it all at once,” Sinistra replies gently. “Healing takes time. And sometimes, it starts with letting someone in.”

For the first time in days, a flicker of hope warms the cold pit inside you. Maybe you’re not as alone as you thought.

After a long, heavy silence, Sinistra’s lips curl into a teasing smile, breaking the tension in the room like a soft breeze through heavy curtains.

“Well,” she says, eyeing the clutter scattered across your desk and floor, “it looks like heartbreak isn’t the only thing keeping you from your duties. This place could use a bit of magic.”

You glance around sheepishly, cheeks heating at the mess. Your robes are still rumpled, and your hair sticks out at odd angles, wild and untamed like your tangled thoughts.

Sinistra chuckles softly, raising her wand with a practiced flick. “Let’s start with the battlefield.”

With a gentle wave, books slide neatly onto shelves, parchment stacks straighten, and stray items lift into the air before settling perfectly in place. The mess disappears as if by magic—well, because it is magic—and the room feels lighter, less suffocating.

You manage a weak smile, grateful for the simple order in the chaos.

Sinistra’s eyes catch your tangled hair, and with a playful smirk, she mutters an incantation. Instantly, your locks smooth themselves down, falling into place as if you’d just stepped out of a grooming session.

“There,” she says, “much better. Now, how about you take a shower? You look like you could use one.”

You nod, the suggestion comforting in its simplicity. As you leave the room, Sinistra calls after you, “Don’t take too long. I have a plan for the afternoon.”

The warm water washes over you, carrying away some of the heaviness clinging to your skin, but not all. When you step out, wrapped in a soft robe, you find Sinistra waiting patiently, wand tucked behind her ear and that same knowing smile playing at her lips.

She studies you for a moment and then, as if reading your thoughts, says, “You haven’t eaten, have you?”

You shake your head, the weakness in your limbs suddenly undeniable.

Sinistra moves to your side, slipping one arm through yours. “Then it’s time for a walk. No arguments.”

You want to protest, but the exhaustion weighs too heavily, and you allow her to guide you. Your arms interlock, steady and sure, as she helps you out of the castle’s heavy doors and into the fresh air.

The cool breeze brushes your face, crisp and alive, and for the first time in days, you feel a flicker of something warm and hopeful stirring inside you.

The cold air wraps around you like a soft cloak, cool fingers threading through your hair and stirring the loose strands gently against your skin. The sky above is a wash of pale blue, scattered with fluffy clouds that drift lazily, untouched by the worries pressing heavy on your heart.

You and Sinistra walk side by side along a narrow dirt trail that snakes through the rolling fields beyond Hogwarts’ stone walls. The earth beneath your feet is firm but forgiving, each step steadying you in a way the castle’s cold corridors never could.

Your mind races, thoughts tumbling over one another in a chaotic rush. What had Draco really meant by his words? Was it regret born of shame or something deeper, more painful? Could someone so aloof, so guarded, truly carry such raw emotion beneath that calm exterior?

You think about the night again — the heat, the whispered promises, the way his eyes had held you like you were the only thing that mattered in the world. And yet, here you were, caught in the cruel weight of silence and distance that followed.

Why had you let yourself hope?

You glance at Sinistra, her steady presence beside you a quiet anchor in the storm of your thoughts. She doesn’t push or prod, just walks calmly, letting you unravel at your own pace.

The breeze carries the scent of wildflowers and fresh grass, filling your lungs with something pure and untouched. For a moment, you close your eyes and let yourself breathe fully, the cool air chasing away some of the heaviness inside.

But even as you try to find peace, your thoughts spiral onward — tangled, desperate, aching for answers that feel just beyond reach.

Did he ever even like me?

Or was it just a mistake—one he wished he could erase?

And if he regrets it, then what does that make me?

Your heart pounds painfully, the questions clawing at you with sharp, relentless fingers.

You open your eyes and stare out at the wide-open fields stretching before you, sunlight dappling the earth in golden patches. For all the beauty around you, the ache inside remains—a deep, unyielding ache that no breeze can soothe.

As you and Sinistra stroll along the winding dirt trail, the quiet beauty of the fields wrapping around you like a balm, a sudden sound breaks the stillness—voices approaching, hurried and tense.

A group of students rounds the bend ahead, their faces pale and serious. They hurry straight toward Sinistra, speaking in quick whispers that make your heart skip.

“Professor Sinistra,” one of them says breathlessly, “there’s an emergency with a student. You’re needed immediately.”

Sinistra’s face tightens, her calm demeanor shifting instantly to alertness. She glances down at you with a soft, apologetic smile. “I’m so sorry, but I have to go. Please take care of yourself.”

Before you can protest, she’s already turning, her robes swirling as she strides purposefully toward the urgent summons.

You watch her retreating figure until she’s out of sight, then take a deep breath and continue along the path until you reach a wide stone bend overlooking the dense, shadowy expanse of the Forbidden Forest.

You sink down onto the cool stone, legs drawn close, hands resting loosely in your lap. The forest stretches before you—a dark, tangled sea of green that holds countless secrets and mysteries.

Closing your eyes, you lean your head back against the smooth rock, seeking solace in the steady rhythm of your breath.

For once, your mind is still.

The chaotic thoughts, the wild rush of emotions, the endless questions—they all fade into silence.

Here, at this quiet edge of the world, you find a fragile peace with yourself.

No regrets. No heartbreak. Just the gentle pulse of life around you and the soft beating of your own heart, slow and steady in the calm.

The fragile peace you've just found clings to you like a whisper, your breath steadying as the world feels quiet and still around you. But then—a soft clearing of a throat breaks the silence, sharp and unmistakable.

Your eyes flutter open slowly, the sunlight casting gentle patterns on your eyelids. You lift your gaze and there, standing not far away, is Draco Malfoy. His usual cold aloofness softened by the gentle light, still as strikingly handsome as ever, his pale features framed perfectly by the breeze that ruffles his silvery hair.

He blinks a few times, as if uncertain, searching your face for something. Then his voice, low and tentative, cuts through the air and lands directly in your ears:

“Good afternoon, Professor. How are you feeling?”

The question hangs between you, simple but heavy with unspoken meaning. Your heart thunders in your chest, caught between hope and fear, the quiet space suddenly charged with everything left unsaid.

You swallow, trying to find your voice.

You manage a sad smile, the corners of your lips tugging weakly as you nod. “I’m feeling better,” you say softly, though the ache in your chest hasn’t fully eased.

Draco bites his lip, his gaze flickering away for just a moment before returning to you. His voice is low, almost hesitant. “If you need anything… please call me.”

There’s something in the way he says it—an awkwardness, like he’s reciting lines from a script he’s practiced too many times in his head. His usual confident composure slips just a little, revealing a nervousness beneath.

Was it just you, or did he seem… uncertain? Vulnerable, even?

Your heart flutters, caught between confusion and a quiet, hopeful ache.

You study him carefully, the way his jaw tightens just slightly and how his usual sharp gaze seems a little unsure. The nervous energy that flickers beneath his cool exterior puzzles you, stirring something deep inside—a fragile hope tangled with your lingering doubts.

Gathering your courage, you break the silence. “Sit with me,” you say softly, patting the stone beside you.

He hesitates for a heartbeat before moving—almost robotically—down beside you, his movements stiff and deliberate, like a man unused to vulnerability. You can’t help but notice the faint flush creeping up his neck, and your heart stutters.

Taking a deep breath, you finally ask the question that’s been haunting you. “Do you… remember sleeping with me?”

His eyes dart away from yours, fixating instead on the distant treetops, but you catch the telltale reddening of his ears, betraying his embarrassment.

After a moment, he nods quietly. “I do.”

The simple admission hangs between you, fragile and charged, and suddenly the space feels smaller, the weight of unspoken feelings pressing close.

You swallow hard, your voice barely more than a whisper as you ask, “Do you regret it?”

For a heartbeat, Draco stays silent, then suddenly he stands up so quickly it startles you. His eyes flash with sudden intensity as he snaps, “Who said that?”

You can’t help the soft smile that tugs at your lips. “You did, Draco.”

His brow furrows deeply, confusion swirling in his pale eyes. “Why would you think that?”

The tension between you thickens, but beneath it, something vulnerable flickers—like a fragile crack in the armor he wears so carefully.

————————————————

Draco's POV

When Draco first stepped into the Potions classroom as a professor, the weight of the role settled on his shoulders like a lead cloak. He was all nerves and fumbling hands, more prone to spilling ingredients or mixing the wrong potion than the cold, precise master he longed to be. Every mistake felt like a failure—not just to the students, but to himself.

After one particularly rough day, he wandered into Hogsmeade, desperate for a moment of peace. The chill of the late afternoon bit into his cheeks as he pulled his cloak tighter, hoping a simple butterbeer at the Three Broomsticks might steady his restless thoughts.

But fate intervened.

As he crossed a slick patch of ice near the village square, his footing betrayed him. He slipped, arms flailing, and landed unceremoniously on the cold stone.

A shadow appeared above him, and when he looked up, there you were—eyes bright, a gentle smile playing on your lips.

“Are you alright?” you asked, your voice soft and genuine as you extended a hand.

He hesitated before accepting your help, heart pounding from more than just the fall.

Noticing the smear of dirt on his robes, you reached into your bag and pulled out a handkerchief, offering it to him with a warm smile.

“Here, you should clean that up.”

He took it silently, watching as you straightened your cloak and wished him a good day before turning away.

As you walked off, Draco couldn’t help himself. He brought the handkerchief to his mouth, the soft fabric pressing against his lips like a secret talisman.

In that small, quiet moment, something deep inside him stirred—a flicker of something he dared not name.

From that day in Hogsmeade, he told himself it was nothing. A moment, nothing more. A slip on the ice, a polite smile from you, a handkerchief pressed into his hand before you wished him a good day and walked away. Merlin, he hadn’t even remembered to thank you properly, too busy staring like an idiot as you disappeared into the crowd.

The handkerchief stayed in his coat pocket after that—not out of sentiment, but convenience. Or so he told himself. It was simply there when he needed it. Only, every time his fingers brushed against it, there was the faintest trace of warmth in his chest, as if some part of that afternoon had lingered in the threads.

He didn’t think much of you beyond that—at first.

But then he began to notice things. Not in the way that meant anything, just… noticing. Like the way you stayed after your lessons to help a first-year who couldn’t get their cauldron temperature right. Or how you remembered every student’s name and used it when speaking to them, as though it mattered. You listened, truly listened, when people spoke to you—your gaze steady, never wandering, like the person before you was the only thing that existed in the world at that moment.

There was a day in early spring when he passed by the greenhouses and caught you laughing with Professor Longbottom, the sunlight spilling across your hair in a way that made his chest feel inexplicably warm. Another time, he saw you kneel to tie the loose bootlaces of a second-year who was too flustered to do it himself. These were small things, inconsequential on their own, but they collected in his mind like rain in a basin, slow and steady until the water began to rise.

Before he knew it, he found himself… anticipating. If he caught a glimpse of you in the corridor, his day felt a fraction lighter. If he overheard your voice from the other end of the staffroom, something in him eased. And if he didn’t see you at all, there was a quiet sort of disappointment that made the halls feel colder.

It was only then that he began to realize the handkerchief had become something else. It wasn’t simply convenient—it was a tether. A reminder that, for a brief moment, you had seen him at his most graceless and hadn’t recoiled. You’d smiled.

And with that realization came the danger. Because the more he noticed, the more he wanted to notice. It wasn’t obsession—yet. Not the kind that gnawed at him in the dark hours. But the soil had been laid, and in it, something was beginning to grow.

He wasn’t ready to admit it. Not even to himself. But as the days passed, the weight of that folded handkerchief in his pocket felt less like cloth and more like a promise he didn’t know how to keep.

From that day forward, the handkerchief was no longer just a handkerchief—it was yours. It carried the faintest trace of your perfume, a subtle warmth woven into its fibers, as if it had stored the ghost of your touch. He kept it with him always, folded so carefully it looked untouched, nestled in the inner lining of his coat like a secret he couldn’t bear to let go. He’d tell himself it was only until he found the right moment to return it, but the truth was far more pitiful—he didn’t want to return it.

Every morning, before stepping into the cold corridors of the castle, his fingers would brush over it. The fabric was worn smooth from his touch, his thumb tracing the embroidered edges like some ritual of protection. It became the talisman he clung to when the weight of silence threatened to crush him. When the classrooms felt too empty, when the staffroom was too loud, when his own mind grew too restless—he’d slip his hand into his coat, feel that soft square of cloth, and think of you.

At first, it was small things. A glance across the Great Hall at breakfast, catching the curve of your cheek as you laughed with someone else. Passing you in the corridors and pretending to be too absorbed in his papers to say hello, just so he could safely listen to the sound of your footsteps fading behind him.

But then it became… more.

He began to notice your schedule without meaning to—when you took your tea, when you visited the library, when you walked the grounds before dinner. If he “just happened” to be in the same place at the same time, well… that was coincidence, wasn’t it? He told himself it was harmless, that he wasn’t really following you, that professors often crossed paths. And yet, every time you were near, he felt like a boy again—nervous, foolish, alive.

Once, he saw you standing by a window in the Astronomy Tower, your face tilted toward the falling snow. You looked so peaceful, so far away in your thoughts, that he didn’t dare interrupt. He lingered in the shadows of the stairwell far longer than he should have, memorizing the moment so vividly he could recall the exact shape of frost clinging to your lashes.

In his office, he caught himself writing your name absentmindedly in the margins of lesson plans. He scolded himself, crumpled the parchment, burned it in the grate—only to do it again the next day.

And always, always, that handkerchief in his pocket. A secret reminder that once, you had touched him. Once, you had looked down at him in his most undignified moment, and instead of sneering like so many would have, you had smiled.

The longer he went without speaking to you, the worse it became. He knew it. He hated himself for it. And yet, he couldn’t stop. Because yearning was safe. Yearning didn’t demand answers. Yearning didn’t risk rejection.

Draco Malfoy, feared professor, heir to the Malfoy name, was reduced to a man living off crumbs—glances in corridors, the sound of your voice echoing in the stairwell, the memory of a winter afternoon in Hogsmeade when you’d smiled at him like he was worth something.

And Merlin help him, it was enough to keep him alive.

The party was loud, brighter than he liked, all laughter and chatter echoing off the high ceilings of the Great Hall. Someone had bewitched the floating candles to sparkle with bursts of gold, and the music was a touch too cheery for his taste. He wasn’t here for any of it.

He had told himself he’d only stop in for a quick drink—out of politeness. People expected him to make an appearance, and it was easier to put in the time than field questions about why he hadn’t. He slipped through the doors, already planning his escape, a polite nod here, a murmured greeting there. It was easy to ignore the tug in his chest when he reminded himself he was just here for one beer. One beer, a glimpse of you, and then he would leave.

And then he spotted you.

You were standing near the center of the room, a half-empty glass in hand, cheeks flushed pink from the alcohol. Your laughter—real, unrestrained—rolled through the noise, brighter than the music, pulling heads toward you without even trying. You were… different tonight. Loose. Animated. Your hands moved with each story, exaggerating the details just enough to have your small crowd doubled over in stitches.

Draco found himself stopping mid-step.

You were telling some ridiculous anecdote about a potion mishap—your face so animated, eyes sparkling, and there was a glint of pure mischief when you delivered the punchline. The whole group roared, and you threw your head back in laughter, almost spilling your drink. Merlin help him, he’d never seen you so… unguarded.

He liked it. Far too much.

There was something magnetic in the way you didn’t seem to notice how many people you held in the palm of your hand. You weren’t trying to be charming; you simply were. And for reasons he didn’t want to examine, that was worse. It made his chest feel uncomfortably warm.

He told himself not to linger. Just… finish the beer, glance your way once or twice, and go. But his eyes kept tracking you, even when others tried to draw him into conversation. He barely registered the “Good evening, Professor Malfoy” from one of the Arithmancy teachers. He murmured something polite in return, but his gaze slid back to you like iron to a lodestone.

And then, you caught him watching.

Only for a second—but you smiled, that same open, friendly curve of your lips he remembered from Hogsmeade. He felt it like a blow, sharp and soft all at once. His grip on his glass tightened, knuckles white, and he had to force himself to look away before he did something foolish.

No. He was here for a beer. For a quick look. He’d gotten it.

So why couldn’t he leave?

He was still standing there, beer in hand, trying to remember why he hadn’t left ten minutes ago, when you broke away from your group. He didn’t notice at first—too busy pretending to listen to some droning conversation about Quidditch statistics—but then there you were.

Walking straight toward him.

Your steps were a little unsteady, but determined, that flush still high on your cheeks. The moment your eyes locked on his, his entire body went tense. He told himself you were probably heading to the drinks table behind him. Yes. That made sense. That was safe.

And then you stopped right in front of him.

“Malfoy,” you said brightly, your smile tilting a little with the drink in your system. “I didn’t think you actually… you know… came to these things.”

“I—uh—no, I don’t. I mean—sometimes. Rarely. Not—often.” His tongue seemed suddenly too big for his mouth, and Merlin help him, you were close. He could smell your perfume—something floral, warm, threaded through with the faint sharpness of firewhisky on your breath.

You leaned in conspiratorially, your voice dropping just enough for his stomach to twist. “Well, it’s a shame, really. You clean up nice.”

His mind emptied. Completely.

“Oh. Uh. Thank you. I—uh—well—you—” He could feel the heat climbing up his neck, spreading to his ears. His heartbeat was an unsteady drum against his ribs. You had to be joking. No one said things like that to him. Not like that.

You tilted your head, eyes sparkling in a way that made him think—dangerously—that you were enjoying his discomfort. “What? Did I make the great Draco Malfoy speechless?”

“Yes,” he blurted before he could stop himself. Then, hastily: “I mean—no—well—not usually. That is to say—” He stopped, closing his eyes for half a second as if he could will himself into dignity.

You laughed, soft and amused, before giving his arm a light, friendly squeeze. “Relax, Malfoy. I’m just saying you should come out more often.”

He watched you walk away, utterly useless, his mind a scrambled mess of She touched my arm and She thinks I clean up nice and I’m never getting over this. He was still clutching his beer like it was the only thing keeping him grounded, but the truth was he’d already lost his footing the moment you’d smiled at him.

He hadn’t moved since you walked away. Still standing in the same corner, still holding the same half-finished beer, still trying to convince himself that the brief touch of your hand on his arm wasn’t anything worth remembering—except, of course, he was remembering it. Over and over again. The exact pressure of your fingers, the warmth that had bled through his sleeve, the way your smile had carved itself into his chest like a permanent charm.

He was halfway through imagining what you’d smell like if he leaned in closer when his breath caught—because here you came again.

This time, you were carrying two little glasses of amber liquid, held with the unsteady precision of someone who’d already had a few.

“Malfoy,” you grinned, holding one shot out to him like it was an offering to a god. “You looked lonely.”

“I—oh—no—I mean, I was just—” His mouth had given up on words altogether, but his hand was quick enough to take the glass before you thought better of it.

“Come on,” you said, stepping right up to him, tilting your head toward his in a way that made the room feel suddenly too small. “One drink won’t kill you. Or maybe it will. But at least you’ll die at a party.”

He was certain he would follow you into a burning building without hesitation. Or a pit full of dragons. Or, yes, off a cliff. Merlin help him, you could have told him this shot was poison and he still would have downed it without asking.

Your eyes locked with his as you lifted your own glass. “Ready?”

He nodded—too quickly—mirroring your movement. You clinked the rims together, and in the half-second before he swallowed, he thought, I’d drink anything she gave me. The burn of the alcohol was nothing compared to the heat already flooding his veins from standing this close to you.

You let out a satisfied little “ah” after yours, eyes crinkling with your smile. “See? Not so bad.”

“Not so bad,” he echoed, because he was incapable of saying anything original when you were looking at him like that.

And then you laughed again—that laugh—and patted his chest before turning back toward the crowd. Draco stood there, frozen, the ghost of your touch lingering like an imprint on his skin. He didn’t even notice that he was still gripping the empty shot glass like a lifeline.

The night blurred into a warm haze of laughter, music, and the clink of glasses. Draco told himself he’d stay put, remain in the safety of his corner, but somehow every time he looked up, you were there—leaning over to say something clever, sliding another drink into his hand, brushing past him with an apologetic touch to his arm that lingered a second longer than necessary.

It started innocently enough. You made a teasing comment about his “Professor Voice,” the one he apparently used even in casual conversation. “All stern and posh,” you said, mimicking him so well it made him choke on his beer.

“It’s—Merlin, it’s not—” He stammered, ears going red. “That’s not how I sound.”

“Oh, it’s exactly how you sound,” you countered with a smirk, leaning close enough for him to catch the faint scent of firewhisky on your breath. “But don’t worry, Malfoy. It’s endearing.”

“Endearing,” he repeated faintly, the word folding itself into his ribcage like a keepsake he’d never throw away.

Then came the jokes. You poked fun at his stiff posture (“Do you sleep standing up?”), his crisp clothes (“Do you even own casual wear?”), and his perfectly combed hair (“If I ruffled it, would you faint?”). Each time, he tried for a clever retort, but all he could manage was some combination of awkward chuckles and muttered denials that made you grin wider.

And Merlin help him, he loved every second of it.

By the time someone shoved two more shots into your hands and you promptly gave one to him, Draco had lost all track of how many drinks he’d had. The party had become a warm, spinning blur where your voice was the only thing he could focus on.

“You’re cute when you blush, you know that?” you said after he spluttered over something you’d whispered—something about imagining him without his waistcoat.

He groaned into his drink, certain his face was glowing red enough to light the whole bloody room. “You’re drunk,” he muttered.

“Yeah,” you said cheerfully, “and so are you.”

He couldn’t even argue. The firewhisky had loosened the coil of tension in his chest until he felt dangerously close to telling you everything—about the handkerchief, about the way he noticed your laugh before your face, about the way he’d rearranged his own timetable just to walk past your classroom.

Instead, he let you loop your arm through his and drag him toward the middle of the room when a fast song came on. “Come on,” you laughed, “just dance a little.”

Draco, who hated dancing, who avoided public displays of anything, found himself letting you pull him into the rhythm anyway. And when you leaned in, close enough for your cheek to brush his, he thought, If she asked me to, I’d never leave this moment.

The rest of the night slipped through Draco’s memory like water through his fingers. He remembered fragments, hazy and glittering under the drunken fog—your laughter ringing in his ear, your hand warm against his when you tugged him out of the party, the way you stumbled into him, grinning, and didn’t let go.

The corridors were quiet except for the uneven echo of your footsteps, your thumb brushing against the back of his hand in a slow, absent pattern that made his pulse pound. He couldn’t recall what either of you had been saying—just that the words were soft, hushed, and laced with the giddy recklessness of far too much firewhisky.

There’d been a door, the muffled sound of it shutting behind you, the faint scent of your perfume curling in the air like a promise. Then—heat. Mouths, laughter, the sound of you shushing him for something he didn’t remember saying. His mind could only grasp at flashes: the press of your palm against his chest, his hands trembling when they found the small of your back, the dizzy rush of you looking at him like you meant it.

After that, the world went black.

When Draco opened his eyes again, sunlight stabbed through the window like a personal attack. His head felt like it had been hexed repeatedly with a Bludger. Groaning, he reached up to rub his temple—then froze.

He was naked.

The sheets twisted around his waist were unfamiliar, faintly scented with something floral and warm that sent his mind into a full stop. Your perfume.

He glanced to the side, and his stomach twisted—not from the hangover this time, but from the sight of the empty space beside him. The pillow next to his was dented, holding the lingering trace of your scent like an accusation. You’d been there. You’d left.

And he had no idea what had happened between the door closing and the moment he woke up.

Draco sat up too quickly, and the pounding in his skull flared so violently it made him grimace. He clutched the blanket around his waist like it was armor, staring at the empty pillow as though it could give him answers if he just looked long enough. His mind raced, snagging on the scraps of memory, replaying the same fractured moments over and over. Your laugh, your hand in his, the way you leaned into him like he was the only person in the room. The warmth of your body against his—Merlin, had that been real?

He dragged a hand down his face, the other gripping the sheet so tightly his knuckles whitened. What if he’d said something idiotic? What if he’d ruined it? He was sure he’d been slurring his words—of course he had—and what if you’d just… taken pity on him? The thought made his stomach lurch worse than the hangover.

His gaze flicked to the floor, searching for any clue. There—his shirt, inside out, crumpled like it had been tossed in a hurry. His coat draped carelessly over the chair, the pocket heavy with the handkerchief he’d carried for years. The same handkerchief you’d given him. The sight of it made his chest ache.

You had left without a note. No trace except the scent in the air and the ghost of your warmth on the sheets. Did that mean you regretted it? Or worse—had it meant nothing to you?

Draco pressed the heel of his palm to his forehead, trying to will the memories into focus. His mind, traitorous as ever, supplied images that may or may not have been real—your lips parting against his, the way you’d whispered his name like it meant something. He didn’t know if it was truth or wishful thinking. And the not knowing was agony.

By the time he stumbled into the shower, he was already making quiet, desperate plans. He’d watch for you in the halls. He’d listen for your voice during meals. He’d find an excuse to talk to you—no, he’d need one, because the thought of asking directly made his chest seize. If you laughed at him, he wasn’t sure he’d recover.

But Merlin help him—he had to see you. Had to know if last night was the beginning of something… or just another thing he’d spend the rest of his life longing for.

By the time Draco stepped into the Great Hall, his palms were already damp. He told himself he wasn’t looking for you—that he was here to eat, that was all—but the moment his eyes scanned the tables, his stomach twisted. There you were.

Laughing at something someone had said, your hair catching the morning light like it was deliberately trying to torment him. You were seated exactly where you always sat, surrounded by your friends, head tilted in that way that made it look like you were actually listening to people. You didn’t see him.

Or maybe you did, and chose not to.

He felt the floor tilt under him, just slightly. His heart lurched in his chest, slow and heavy, the way it did when he realized he’d forgotten something vital. He moved toward his table, forcing his steps to remain casual. But every inch of the way, his eyes kept flicking to you, waiting—hoping—for some kind of acknowledgement. A smile. A glance. Anything.

It didn’t come.

He sat down stiffly, his hands curling into loose fists in his lap, trying to ignore the prickling at the back of his neck. Was this your way of saying it meant nothing? Or was it worse—had he done something so unmentionably awful last night that you didn’t even want to look at him?

It happened fast. Your elbow clipped your cup as you set it down, sending dark liquid spilling across the table. The sudden splash made you jolt back, muttering something under your breath as you grabbed for a napkin.

Draco blinked, caught off guard by the sheer normalcy of it. A clumsy little accident. It never even crossed his mind that you might be rattled for the same reasons he was.

Instead, he found himself watching the way your brow pinched slightly as you dabbed at the mess, the faint curve of your mouth when one of your friends teased you about it. The sound of your laugh reached him—light, like nothing in the world was wrong—and it pulled him under all over again.

He forced himself to look down at his plate, pretending to care about the eggs in front of him, but his thoughts were already spiraling. If you weren’t upset, if you could act this unaffected, then clearly last night meant far less to you than it did to him.

And yet, every time he caught the faintest whiff of your perfume drifting through the air, he had to clench his jaw to keep from looking up.

The clink of cauldrons and the sharp scratch of quills filled the Potions classroom, but Draco’s usual sharp focus was nowhere to be found. His pale eyes flicked over his students’ work with the detached precision expected of him, but behind that icy exterior, his mind was tangled in thoughts he couldn’t shake.

He barked out corrections with the cold, clipped tone everyone knew too well—“Less stirring. Control your wand movement, Miss Avery. That’s a ruined batch.” Yet each word felt hollow, more habit than intent. His usual meticulousness had dulled, replaced by a restless, gnawing distraction.

Every time he caught a glimpse of the door or heard the faint scent of something floral riding the draft, his heart skipped in a way that was entirely inappropriate for a professor. He chastised himself silently, tightening his jaw. This was potions’ class, not a social engagement. He was meant to be the cold, unapproachable Malfoy, not some lovesick fool tangled up in memories of last night.

But no matter how many times he told himself to focus, the image of you—your laughter, the way your eyes crinkled when you smiled—crept between every incantation, every potion bubble.

He clenched his fists on the desk, biting back a frustrated sigh. There was no room for weakness here. Yet the weight of unspoken feelings pressed down like a curse heavier than any potion’s brew.

As the simmering cauldrons filled the room with a faint hiss, Draco’s eyes glazed over the potion simmering on the desk before him. The carefully measured ingredients—mandrake root, powdered bicorn horn—should have demanded his full attention. Instead, his mind churned with images of you: your careless laughter, the scent of your perfume lingering like a ghost in his senses.

“Professor Malfoy?”

The voice sliced through his fog like a wand’s spark, sharp and clear.

Draco blinked, startled, turning toward the source. One of the younger students, a Ravenclaw with eager eyes, had raised her hand hesitantly.

“Yes, Miss Thompson?” Draco’s voice was colder than intended, the edge sharper than he meant to let show.

“I—uh—I think I added the powdered bicorn horn too early. Should I start over?”

He opened his mouth to answer, but the words caught in his throat. His usual confidence faltered under the weight of his scattered thoughts.

“Just… follow the instructions,” he muttered, a flicker of impatience slipping through.

Miss Thompson lowered her hand, cheeks flushed, and the class fell silent again. Draco rubbed his temple, fighting the storm inside.

He hated feeling this way—exposed, vulnerable, distracted. Yet even as he barked out orders and critiques with icy precision, the truth simmered beneath the surface: he was utterly undone.

Every glance your way, every passing memory, was a reminder that the cold, aloof Draco Malfoy was slowly unraveling.

The flickering candlelight cast long shadows over the scattered parchment on Draco’s desk. His quill scratched rhythmically as he graded potion reports, but the usual satisfaction of a job well done eluded him. Each word on the page blurred at the edges, his thoughts drifting relentlessly back to the morning’s breakfast, the spilled coffee, and the weight of unspoken questions hanging heavy in the air.

He sighed, running a hand through his silver-blond hair, trying to will away the tight knot of anxiety twisting in his chest. Just as he reached for another paper, the door creaked open.

“Malfoy,” came a familiar smooth voice.

Draco barely looked up as Blaise Zabini sauntered into the room, dark eyes gleaming with amused curiosity. “Burning the midnight oil again, I see.”

He managed a tired smirk. “Some of us have standards.”

Blaise settled into the chair opposite him, folding his arms and studying Draco like he could read every secret written in the restless lines of his face. “You’ve been… off today. Even for you.”

Draco’s jaw tightened. “I’m fine.”

“Sure,” Blaise said, his tone light but laced with skepticism. “Look, you can pretend all you want, but I’m not buying it. Spill. What’s got the great Draco Malfoy distracted?”

Draco hesitated, the walls he’d built around himself trembling for a moment before his voice dropped. “It’s… complicated.”

Blaise’s smile softened. “When is it not?”

Draco’s fingers drummed nervously against the wooden desk, the flicker of candlelight casting wavering shadows across his face. He hesitated, swallowing the lump in his throat before finally speaking.

“Last night… something happened.” His voice was quieter than he intended, almost reluctant to shatter the silence. “I was at the party. I didn’t plan on staying long, but… she was there.”

Blaise raised an eyebrow, leaning forward with interest. “She?”

Draco’s gaze dropped to the parchment in front of him, tracing invisible patterns with his quill. “The alchemy professor.”

Blaise let out a low whistle, but said nothing, giving Draco the space to continue.

“We talked. Well, I mean… she was… different. Not like anyone else. She made me laugh. And then…” Draco’s cheeks flushed faintly at the memory. “We left together.”

He swallowed hard, the admission tasting strange on his tongue. “I don’t remember everything. Just pieces. Her hand in mine. Her laugh. The way she looked at me like I mattered.”

Blaise’s expression softened, understanding blooming behind his dark eyes. “Sounds like you’re in trouble, mate.”

Draco snorted softly, but there was no humor in it. “I’m not sure what I feel. Part of me regrets it—because what if she thinks it was a mistake? What if I’ve ruined everything?”

Blaise clapped a firm hand on Draco’s shoulder. “You haven’t ruined a thing. But you’ll never know if you don’t try.”

Draco looked up, meeting Blaise’s steady gaze. “I want to try. But I don’t know how.”

“Then start by talking to her,” Blaise said simply. “No more hiding in the shadows.”

Blaise leaned back in his chair, a sly grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Come on, Draco. Stop acting like some lovesick first year. What’s really going on with that girl?”

Draco’s eyes dropped to the scattered papers on his desk, his jaw tightening as he sank into a heavy silence. Minutes stretched between them, filled only by the soft scratching of his quill against parchment.

His mind raced, flooded with images of you—the way your laughter lit up a room, the softness in your eyes, the way even the smallest moments with you felt monumental.

Finally, his voice broke through the quiet, low and steady but charged with something fierce and raw.

“For her, I would sail across the cosmic sea to the end of time. Without her, everything before me is a sea of loneliness. I will never stop loving her.”

Blaise’s eyes widened in surprise. For once, the usual teasing glint in his gaze was replaced by something almost reverent. “Blimey, Draco. That’s… stunning.”

Draco allowed himself a small, rare smile—a fragile hope flickering behind the storm of his thoughts.

Blaise leaned forward, eyes gleaming with mischief as a slow grin spread across his face. “Mate, you’re absolutely doomed. Honestly, you sound like some lovesick git from first year who’s just discovered the word ‘heartbreak.’”

Draco scowled, crossing his arms, but the faintest hint of a smile tugged at his lips despite himself. “I’m not doomed.”

“Oh, come off it,” Blaise chuckled, shaking his head. “You’re pacing your room at night, practicing what to say. You’ve probably written sonnets about her in your head, haven’t you?”

Draco’s cheeks darkened, but he refused to answer.

Blaise’s grin widened. “And let me guess—every time you see her, you forget how to speak, start sweating like a first-year trying to brew a potion?”

Draco’s jaw twitched. “It’s not like that.”

“Sure it isn’t.” Blaise smirked, standing up and tossing a friendly arm over Draco’s shoulders. “Look, just be honest with her. You’re a Malfoy—arrogant, stubborn, and hopelessly romantic. Might as well own it.”

Draco sighed, the weight of his worries still pressing down, but Blaise’s words kindled a small spark of courage. Maybe, just maybe, it was time to stop hiding.

Blaise grinned wickedly, giving Draco a nudge with his elbow. “You should’ve gone on a proper date at least before you slept with the alchemy professor.”

Draco said nothing, the ghost of your smile flashing clearly through his mind. His voice came out quieter than he expected, almost a whisper. “I regret sleeping with her.”

He paused, fumbling awkwardly with the stack of papers before him, his fingers tracing the edges as if seeking comfort. “I should’ve asked her to be my girlfriend first.”

Blaise burst out laughing, shaking his head. “Of course you should’ve! What were you thinking, just diving headfirst into it like some lovesick idiot?”

Draco shot him a glare, but the corners of his mouth twitched with reluctant amusement.

“Mate,” Blaise teased, “you’re such a disaster it’s honestly impressive.”

Draco sighed, but beneath the teasing, a tiny flicker of hope sparked in his chest. Maybe there was still a chance to make things right.

The flickering candlelight in the dining hall cast a warm glow over the long tables, but Draco barely noticed. His usual composure was shattered, replaced by a jittery energy that made his fingers drum restless patterns against the polished wood. Tonight was the night.

He had rehearsed his words a thousand times in his head—carefully chosen phrases that might convince you to go out with him, that might finally bridge the distance he felt. His heart hammered like a wild thing, each beat echoing the fierce hope and anxiety coiled tight inside him.

He sat stiffly at the table, eyes darting to the doorway every few moments, waiting for you to appear. The Great Hall filled and emptied with the usual clamor—students laughing, plates clattering, professors exchanging tired greetings—but you never came.

Minutes stretched like hours, each one tightening the knot in his stomach. Was he imagining things? Had last night meant nothing at all?

When the hall began to empty, Draco’s shoulders sagged in quiet defeat. The plan he had crafted so carefully was left hanging in the air, unanswered.

His mind spiraled, replaying every moment, every glance, every word, searching for what had gone wrong.

The morning light barely touched the stone walls of Hogwarts as Draco stood silently outside your classroom, the cool air crisp against his skin. His breath came shallow, nerves twisting like a serpent in his gut. He had arrived early, heart pounding with hopeful anticipation, determined not to miss the chance to finally speak to you.

But the doorway remained empty. No footsteps. No familiar scent of your presence lingering in the corridor. Just silence.

The next morning, he was there again, shoulders stiff, hands clenched at his sides, eyes scanning the halls for any sign of you. Still nothing.

And the day after that. And the day after that.

Each absence carved deeper into the hollow space inside him. His mind spun dark scenarios—had he done something wrong? Was he nothing more than a foolish dreamer clinging to a moment that never truly was?

The cold professor who once held the classroom with unwavering control now found himself unraveling piece by piece, caught in a storm of longing and confusion he could neither name nor escape.

His world, once so ordered and sure, was slipping through his fingers like smoke.

The next day, desperation gnawed at Draco’s insides until he couldn’t stay silent. He found himself in the astronomy tower, where Professor Sinistra often lingered before dawn.

“Sinistra,” he began, voice low and urgent, “have you seen the alchemy professor? She’s been absent for days.”

Sinistra gave him a sideways glance, a teasing smirk playing on her lips. “Ah, yes. She’s been sick, poor thing. Took to her quarters early in the week. Nothing serious, I hope.”

Draco’s stomach clenched with a mixture of relief and guilt. “Is she getting better?”

Sinistra shrugged lightly. “It’s Hogwarts, Malfoy. ‘Sick’ can mean anything from a cold to a curse. But I’m sure she’ll pull through. She’s stronger than she looks.”

He nodded but wasn’t reassured. Later that night, Draco retreated to the quiet sanctuary of the library, pouring over his old potion books, scanning pages for anything that could ease her suffering—potion recipes for healing, for strength, for sleep.

His fingers trembled as he flipped through the pages, tracing the ancient ink with desperate hope. If he could just find the right brew, the right ingredient, maybe he could do something—anything—to help.

But all he could do was wait.

The next morning, Draco wandered the dimly lit halls, his thoughts heavy and restless. The weight of unanswered questions dragged at his chest, making every step feel like trudging through thick fog.

As he rounded a corner near the main corridor’s large windows, his eyes caught movement outside—a familiar figure strolling along the castle grounds, sunlight catching strands of hair just like he remembered.

It was you.

Beside you, Professor Sinistra chatted lightly, her laughter carried faintly on the breeze.

Draco’s heart slammed against his ribs, pounding so loud he could almost hear it echo in his ears. The primal surge of fight or flight ignited in his veins, adrenaline flooding his senses.

Without a second thought, he darted through the hallways, feet barely touching the floor as he wove through students and portraits alike, his mind fixed only on one goal: to reach you before you vanished again.

Every breath burned, every heartbeat thundered, but he was determined.

He would not let you slip away this time.

Draco’s feet pounded relentlessly against the cold stone floors, each step echoing off the ancient walls as he pushed himself harder. The corridors blurred around him, a whirlwind of moving bodies, shifting robes, and startled faces.

He dodged a group of fifth-years chattering excitedly, weaving sharply to the left just as a younger Hufflepuff spilled her books in surprise. Without slowing, he threw a quick, apologetic glance over his shoulder before cutting right, narrowly avoiding a pair of Gryffindor twins racing to class.

His breath came in ragged gasps, lungs burning with the effort, but the urgency in his chest was a sharper fire—an insistent, desperate need to reach you.

The portraits on the walls seemed to lean forward, watching the spectacle of the usually composed Professor Malfoy barreling through the halls like a man possessed. A few whispered, exchanging startled glances at the sight.

Draco barely noticed. His eyes were fixed ahead, heart pounding like a drumbeat of war, as he surged forward with every ounce of strength he had left.

Turning sharply down another corridor, he caught a glimpse of the castle’s heavy oak doors ahead—leading out to the grounds where he’d seen you.

He was almost there.

And nothing in the world could stop him now.

Draco stumbled out onto the fresh morning air, chest heaving as he fought to steady his ragged breathing. The cold breeze was a welcome relief against his flushed face, but his heart still thundered in his ears like a wild drum.

His eyes scanned the clearing beyond the castle walls, just in time to see Professor Sinistra gathering her students, their chatter fading as they made their way back inside. You stood alone on the edge of a smooth stone bench, gazing out at the dark, dense stretch of the Forbidden Forest.

The sight calmed him slightly—the quiet strength in your silhouette, the way the morning sun caught the subtle highlights in your hair. He wiped his sweaty palms on his robes, took a shaky breath, and began to walk toward you, each step measured but filled with purpose.

With every inch he closed the distance, the knot of nerves loosened just a little, replaced by a fierce determination.

He would speak. He would not let this moment slip away.

Draco’s footsteps faltered as he neared, the words caught somewhere between his heart and his tongue. When he finally spoke, his voice was low, almost hesitant, yet carefully measured.

“Good afternoon, Professor. How are you feeling?”

The question seemed so ordinary—something any colleague might ask—but the weight behind it was palpable, hanging thick in the cool morning air. His eyes searched yours, searching for any sign, any flicker that might reveal how you truly were.

Inside, his heart thundered like a drum, each beat a wild storm of hope and fear.

Is she better?

Is she angry?

Does she remember?

A thousand thoughts collided in his mind, but still, he waited, bracing for your response.

Draco’s breath caught as he took in the fragile smile you offered—a small, weary curve that held more strength than you let on. The dark circles beneath your eyes spoke of restless nights, yet somehow, you still radiated that quiet, effortless beauty that had stolen his thoughts long ago.

He bit his lip, the brief flicker of doubt crossing his face before his gaze found you again, steady and earnest. His voice dropped to a soft murmur, laced with a vulnerability he rarely showed.

“If you need anything… please call me.”

The words hung between you, simple yet weighted with a promise—an unspoken plea that this wasn’t the end, that maybe, just maybe, there was a chance to rebuild what had been broken.

His heart thudded painfully, hope and fear warring in his chest, as he waited for your reply.

Draco’s heart lurched the moment you invited him to sit beside you. The casualness of your request sent a jolt through his nerves, as if his body had forgotten how to respond to something so simple.

He swallowed hard, his throat suddenly dry, before moving with a stiff, almost robotic grace to settle next to you. The world seemed to narrow down to the steady rhythm of his pounding heart and the faint scent of your presence lingering in the air between you.

Then, your voice broke through the silence—soft, cautious, yet direct. “Do you… remember sleeping with me?”

Draco’s gaze flickered away instantly, unwilling to let you see the fiery blush creeping up his neck and burning across his cheeks. His ears burned hotter still, and for a long moment, he said nothing.

Finally, a hesitant "I do"—quiet, almost reluctant—was his only answer.

The admission hung between you, fragile and weighty all at once, a silent acknowledgment of the night neither of you could fully forget.

“Do you…regret it?” Your voice hung in the air for a second.

Draco’s body jerked upright before his mind even had a chance to catch up, his sudden movement sending a sharp ripple through the quiet air. His eyes, usually so guarded and cool, now blazed with an intensity that startled even himself.

“Who said that?” His voice cracked, the edge sharper than he intended, but layered with raw emotion.

You couldn’t help the soft smile that pulled at your lips, warmth mingling with a trace of sadness. “You did, Draco.”

His brow knit deeply, confusion clouding those pale, stormy eyes. “Why would you think that?” The question wasn’t just for you—it was a desperate plea to understand, to bridge the gulf of silence and misunderstanding between you.

His thoughts spiraled uncontrollably, painting you as his sun—the center of his universe—while he was the earth orbiting in a fragile, unsteady path. If he was a flower, then you were the very breath that sustained him, the oxygen without which he could not survive.

He swallowed hard, struggling to find the words to express the turmoil and longing that twisted inside him like a storm.

Draco’s eyes widened as the realization struck him like a lightning bolt—how else would you know? The words he had uttered in the privacy of his confessions with Blaise had somehow reached you.

Without hesitation, he dropped to one knee before you, a rare and humbling gesture that bared his vulnerability like nothing else could. His fingers wrapped gently around your hands, warm and steady despite the trembling beneath his calm facade.

He looked up into your eyes—those shimmering pools that held unshed tears—and his own gaze softened, heavy with regret and earnest sincerity.

Draco’s grip on your hands tightened ever so slightly, his gaze locked on yours with a mix of desperation and awkwardness.

“I—” he started, then faltered, swallowing hard. “I just… I wish I could’ve asked you out first. Like, properly. Before… before that night.”

His cheeks flushed deeper, the usual cold composure melting away as the nerves bubbled to the surface. Words tumbled out in a hurried rush, spilling over each other like a torrent he couldn’t control.

“I didn’t mean for it to just happen like that. It wasn’t supposed to be some reckless mistake. I’ve been so afraid—afraid you wouldn’t want me, that I’d mess it up, that… that you’d think I was just some stupid boy who can’t get his feelings together.”

He swallowed again, eyes darting away briefly before returning, earnest and raw.

“I’m terrible at this. I’m terrible at everything that matters. But I want you to know—”

He took a shaky breath, voice cracking slightly.

“You’re the only one I want.”

The moment your hand touched his cheek, a shiver ran down Draco’s spine—soft and electric, like a lifeline thrown into a sea of stormy emotions he’d been drowning in for far too long. He closed his eyes briefly, leaning into the warmth as if it could steady the tempest raging inside him.

Her touch… it’s real. It’s here. And it’s for me.

His mind swirled uncontrollably, memories and feelings colliding in a dizzying cascade. The nervous stutter of his words, the pounding of his heart, the ache of longing he’d buried beneath layers of cold indifference—all laid bare beneath your gentle palm.

How could someone like her even notice me?

Then, your soft giggle pierced through the fog, light and genuine—a sound that sent a jolt straight to the core of his being.

And when you whispered that you’d liked him for a while, that you thought he was out of your league…

It was as if the universe tilted on its axis.

Out of her league?

He wanted to laugh, to cry, to shout that he had felt the same way, that every glance at you had been a silent plea, every moment apart a punishment. But words failed him. Instead, his breath hitched, eyes searching yours with a mix of disbelief and overwhelming gratitude.

She likes me? Me?

His heart threatened to burst, flooded with a warmth that chased away the shadows of doubt and fear.

The walls he had built around himself—walls forged from family legacy, scars of past judgments, and his own insecurities—began to crumble, brick by fragile brick.

In this moment, with your hand still resting gently against his cheek, Draco Malfoy felt something he hadn’t dared to in a long time: hope.

Draco’s breath hitched the moment your words hung in the air—soft, poetic, and shimmering with meaning. “If I was the moon, would you still look for the stars?”

His mind stilled, the usual torrent of racing thoughts falling silent in stunned awe. For a heartbeat, all he could do was look at you—really look—his pale eyes reflecting the gentle light of your gaze.

Then, a smile curved slowly across his lips, warm and unguarded, as he bent down and pressed a tender kiss to your palm.

“Only if you promise me to shine forever.”

Your cheeks flushed, a rosy bloom coloring your skin, and he felt his chest tighten with an ache that was both fierce and sweet.

He lifted his gaze to meet yours, voice low and earnest as he continued, “I was not expecting you, nor was my soul searching for anyone. Yet, you showed up as if the moon had whispered my need. Every pulse that runs through my veins writes love poems about you. For you aren’t just a part of my life—”

Before the words could finish, you surprised him, leaping forward with a fiery urgency and capturing his lips in a kiss that sent his world spinning.

Time fractured and melted away as the two of you lost yourselves in that moment—raw, electric, and infinite.

Draco’s eyes fluttered open slowly, his senses swirling in a haze of warmth and disbelief. Your kiss had caught him completely off guard—an unexpected, fierce bloom of heat that spread through his chest and flushed his cheeks with a color deeper than any potion could produce.

His heart thundered wildly, as if trying to escape the confines of his ribcage, each beat echoing the shock and joy crashing over him. For a moment, he was lost—lost in the softness of your lips, the steady rhythm of your breath, the intoxicating closeness that seemed to erase every doubt and fear he’d harbored.

When he finally pulled back just enough to look at you, his pale eyes shone with something vulnerable and raw, a silent question hanging between you both. His fingers lingered on your waist, trembling slightly as if afraid this moment might vanish before it truly began.

Words faltered on his tongue, swallowed by the depth of emotion he hadn’t dared to voice before.

Slowly, a smile, shy yet sincere, spread across his face—a fragile promise that this was only the beginning.

Draco’s breath caught, then spilled into a burst of unexpected, genuine laughter—rich and unrestrained, echoing freely through the quiet clearing. It was the first time in what felt like ages that he had laughed without restraint, without the cold walls he usually built around himself.

Lying there beside you on the soft grass, the world seemed to soften at the edges, the weight of years and fears lifting just enough to let light and joy seep in. His eyes sparkled with amusement, the earlier tension melting away as your laughter mingled together like a perfect harmony.

For a fleeting moment, the dark shadows that clung to his past were nowhere to be found. All that mattered was this—this shared, unguarded happiness that felt as fragile as it was freeing.

He glanced at you, a tender smile playing on his lips, and whispered, “I knew I needed this.”

Draco’s smile slowly faded into a soft, contented sigh as your fingers traced delicate circles along his cheek. The warmth of your touch was like a balm, soothing the scars he’d carried in silence for so long.

He turned his head slightly, leaning into your caress, eyes locking with yours—deep, tender pools that seemed to hold every unspoken emotion, every flicker of hope and heartbreak he’d hidden away.

His heart thundered fiercely, each beat echoing the fragile vulnerability blossoming between you. Time seemed to slow, the world narrowing to just the two of you lying there—breath mingling, souls quietly entwining.

“I never thought I’d feel this,” he whispered, voice raw and trembling. “Like I could be... seen. Truly seen.”

His gaze flickered to your lips, then back to your eyes, the weight of everything unspoken hanging heavy in the air.

“You... you make me want to believe in something better. In us.”

The ache in his chest was both sweet and painful—a yearning that had long been silent now roaring to life beneath your touch.

Just as the fragile silence wraps around the two of you like a warm blanket, a familiar voice breaks through—light, teasing, impossible to ignore.

Professor Sinistra steps onto the path, a knowing smirk playing at the corners of her lips. “Well, well,” she says, arms crossed with a twinkle in her eye. “I knew it all along.”

Draco blinks, cheeks flushing crimson again, while you can’t help but let out a soft laugh, the tension melting away like morning mist.

You shoot Sinistra a mock glare but can’t hide the small smile tugging at your lips. “Really, Sinistra? You had to choose now to show up?”

She chuckles, waving a hand dismissively. “Someone has to keep an eye on you two lovebirds.”

The moment lightens, filled with warmth and easy laughter, the weight of doubt lifting as the three of you share a quiet, joyful breath in the golden light of the afternoon.

[thepiinkpages]

AlternateUniverse!Bob (Sentry/The Void) X AlternateUniverse!Reader Part 3

Edit: This will be the final part of this series

WARNING: This will have mentions of attempted su*cide.

Part 1 Part 2

The carriages hadn’t left yet.

But yours wouldn’t budge until your whole family was present—and they were still basking in the warmth of the ballroom, none of them noticing how you’d vanished. How you’d walked out with nothing but the clothes on your back and a silence so loud it could’ve broken glass.

You couldn’t sit beside them. Not now. Not ever again.

So you walked.

The estate lights faded behind you, one by one, like stars being snuffed out. With every step, the noise of the ball, of music and laughter and dancing and false affection, grew dimmer until there was nothing left but the soft scuff of your feet on stone and the ragged silence inside your chest.

And then—rain.

A soft drizzle at first, like the sky was hesitating. But quickly, like even the heavens couldn’t stomach holding it back, it fell in sheets. It soaked through your dress in seconds. Pinned your hair to your face. Your skin was cold. You were shaking. But you didn’t stop walking.

Your heels were ruined. Torn open. Your feet bled freely now with every step. But you couldn’t feel them.

You couldn’t feel anything.

You couldn’t even cry. You wanted to. You wanted to sob until your throat gave out, scream until your lungs collapsed—but it was like your heart had shattered in silence, and now all you could do was float in the pieces.

This wasn’t how it was supposed to go.

You’d tried so hard. Fought so hard. Survived a political death sentence. Survived exile. Survived a tiger, a cliff, assassins, the disdain of an entire empire. You’d won the Crown Prince’s attention. His trust. His hand.

But not his heart.

Never his heart.

And maybe that was worse.

Because you could survive a world that hated you.

But not one where you weren’t wanted. Not truly. Not deeply.

Always the villain. Always the replacement. Always the wrong girl.

You rounded a bend and didn’t even realize you’d left the main road. There was nothing but wild, gnarled trees now—branches hunched and trembling in the downpour, the muddy path barely visible under the gloom. You should’ve turned back.

But you didn’t.

Your body was moving on instinct. Your mind was blank but somehow overflowing. Everything you’d held in for years—your own life, your old family, this one, the heartbreak of living unloved and unchosen—it all rose to the surface now, like bile in your throat. Your legs buckled, and you collapsed into the wet earth.

Still, you didn’t cry.

You just stared at the ground, watched the blood from your feet mix with the mud, and wondered if this was it.

If this was the true ending.

You remembered this route now. Not from the game. From the forums. The theorists who’d data-mined the files. This path wasn’t in the official choices. It was hidden. Rare. Missable.

But it existed.

The heartbreak route.

Where she walked home alone and never made it.

Where the story didn’t end with fire or fury or revenge. It ended with silence. A single girl disappearing into the rain.

You were finally tired of surviving.

You closed your eyes.

And waited for the earth to swallow you.

The rain hadn’t let up.

It fell in sheets, cold and punishing, soaking through the thin layers of your ball gown until the weight of it dragged at your shoulders. You walked without thought, without direction — or maybe you had direction, you just didn’t care anymore. Each step through the muddy road was a breathless ache. Your slippers had torn miles ago. Blood now streaked through the grime on your feet, but you couldn’t feel a thing.

You were empty. And full. A paradox of pain — hollowed out and overflowing all at once.

You’d made it halfway through the woods when the light of a carriage flickered behind you, cutting through the fog and rain like a cruel spotlight. You didn’t stop walking. If it was fate come to end you, then so be it.

But instead of death, it was Adrian.

The door flew open, his boots splashing in the puddles as he jumped down. “What are you doing? Are you insane? You’ll catch your death out here—!”

He reached for you, but you flinched back.

“Don’t touch me.”

That stopped him cold. His hand fell uselessly to his side. “Virelle…” he whispered.

“I’m walking home,” you said. Your voice didn’t even sound like yours. It was small. Cracked. Ash in the wind.

His gaze flicked to your feet and horror dawned in his expression. “You’re bleeding,” he breathed. “You’re barefoot.”

You stared at him — at the brother who had never once chosen you, never once believed you, never once protected you — and the tears came like a quiet flood. You weren’t sure when they started, only that they wouldn’t stop. A fresh wave of rain soaked your cheeks, blurring the tears, but it didn’t matter. Everything was already ruined.

Adrian stepped forward, gently this time, and helped you into the carriage.

You didn’t speak. Not a single word. You just sat there and cried — not loudly, not desperately. Just broken. Like something snapped and had no interest in healing.

He sat across from you, eyes wide with regret, hands trembling in his lap. And then, slowly, he dropped to his knees.

“I’m sorry,” he choked. “I’m so—so sorry. You’re right. You’re right. I never gave you a chance. I believed what everyone said — Elira, the staff, Father — I never once stopped to ask who you really were. And even tonight, when you were hurting, I didn’t protect you. I watched you walk away like a coward.”

You didn’t respond.

He bowed his head until his forehead touched your knees. “You didn’t even tell them what I said in the garden… You could’ve humiliated me. But you didn’t. You just let me throw stones and stayed quiet. Why? Why would you protect me?”

You stared out the foggy window.

Because no one had ever protected you — not in this world, not in the last. And somehow, you knew how much it hurt to be hated for something you couldn’t control.

Because even when you were shattered, you still believed in mercy.

“You might not be my real sister,” Adrian whispered, voice cracking, “but you deserved a brother. And I was—God, I was just another person who saw you as a burden. Just another person who… who made you feel like you didn’t belong.”

His voice hitched, thick with shame.

“I don’t want to be that anymore. Please… just tell me what I can do to fix this. Tell me anything, and I’ll do it.”

You looked down at him, at the broken boy kneeling in front of you, weeping not because someone told him to, but because he finally understood.

And that hurt more than anything.

Because you wanted to forgive him. You wanted to believe him. But tonight had already shattered your heart, and there were still too many pieces on the floor.

You reached out and brushed a hand through his damp hair, so gently it broke him further.

“…You were never the one I needed to hear that from,” you whispered.

And the silence that followed was more honest than any apology ever could be.

The estate gates creaked open under the thundering rain, and the carriage rumbled into the courtyard. Servants scrambled at the sight of Adrian leaping out, soaked to the bone, shouting for help.

“Get a medic—now!”

He turned back into the carriage and gently reached for you, but you didn’t move. You didn’t even blink. You just sat there, your bloodied feet tucked beneath you, your eyes fixed on nothing. A glassy stare. Hollow and far away.

“Virelle…” His voice cracked again, softer now, frightened. “Please. We’re home. You’re safe.”

Safe. Wasn’t that a strange word?

He lifted you into his arms, careful not to jostle your legs too much, and carried you through the front doors. The maids gasped. One even dropped a tray. But no one dared speak. Not with the Crown Prince’s date looking like a ghost of herself and the heir of the house looking like he’d walked through hell.

The medic arrived quickly.

You didn’t feel your boots being cut away. You didn’t flinch as tweezers pulled glass and gravel from your feet. You didn’t cry when the salve stung or when the bandages pressed tight.

You were still. Utterly still. Like a porcelain doll seated by the fire, untouched by warmth.

Adrian paced behind the couch, raking a hand through his wet hair. “Is she going to be okay?” he demanded.

The medic hesitated. “Physically… yes. There’s no infection. But mentally, my lord… I believe she’s in shock.”

Shock.

You’d never understood that word until now — not really. It was like being trapped in a room with all the lights on but no way to reach them. Like watching yourself from behind a glass wall. People moved. Spoke. Touched you. But none of it registered.

You couldn’t remember the last time you felt anything.

You stared at the fire, watching it flicker. It should’ve burned warm against your skin, but it didn’t. It was just light and color. Nothing more.

Adrian sat beside you. He didn’t speak again, not right away. Just quietly held your hand, even when you didn’t squeeze back. Even when you didn’t look at him. Even when it felt like holding the hand of someone already gone.

And the worst part?

You weren’t sure if you wanted to come back,

The days passed like smoke curling from a dying candle — silent, aimless, choking.

You never left your room.

Not for meals. Not for sunlight. Not for anything.

You sat by the window wrapped in a shawl, staring out into the storm-grey gardens below, your eyes wide open but seeing nothing. A ghost of a girl who once wore defiance like armor and sarcasm like a blade. Now you were quiet. Hollow. A shell.

The maids came and went in silence. The food on your tray remained untouched. Even Adrian, who checked in more often than he’d admit, stopped trying to force words into the silence. He would open the door, look at you — unmoving, distant — and leave with a furrow in his brow and guilt bleeding from every footstep.

It wasn’t apathy. Not really. You wanted to cry. To scream. To feel something. But there was just… nothing.

Just the dull, low ache in your chest that never went away.

You hadn’t wanted to fall for him. Not here. Not like this. You were supposed to just survive. Play through the storyline, pick the right dialogue options, avoid the bad ends. Get back to your world — your real life. That had been the plan.

But now…

Now you weren’t sure when it happened. Was it the first time you saw him, gold-stitched cloak fluttering behind him like the sunrise personified? Was it the night in the cave when he held your wrist so gently, like you were made of glass, even while covered in blood? Was it when he bled in your arms and told you to live?

Or had it been long before that — that strange ache in your chest, the way his voice lingered in your head longer than it should have? Had he started burrowing into the cracks of your heart from the moment he looked at you like you were real?

You pressed your forehead to the glass, cool and damp with rain.

This wasn’t the story you knew.

This wasn’t supposed to happen. You weren’t supposed to feel this.

And yet… you did. So deeply it hurt. So helplessly it broke you.

You clutched the windowsill until your knuckles turned white, jaw trembling with the effort to keep everything buried inside.

Because even now — even after the heartbreak — even after he made you feel like a placeholder bride — You still loved him.

And it was killing you.

The letters began arriving three days after the ball.

At first, they came once in the morning — bearing the royal crest, sealed in gold wax, the kind only meant for nobles of high standing or lovers awaiting an answer. But when the first remained unopened, more came. Twice a day. Then three times. By the end of the week, a small stack sat untouched atop your writing desk like silent accusations, their corners softened by the constant drizzle outside.

You never touched them.

Not once.

Your eyes would sometimes drift to them in the quiet hours of dawn — a blur of trembling candlelight and the distant calls of mourning doves — but you never moved. If he had meant the things he said, he should have said them then, not after watching your heart splinter under his own hands. Whatever regret he had, it came too late.

And you were so very tired.

Your father, once so proud and distant, now spent most nights in the armchair beside your bed. He never spoke much — perhaps afraid he’d break the fragile thread keeping you tethered to this world — but his eyes were always red-rimmed, his fingers trembling whenever he tucked your blanket a little tighter.

He didn’t know what to say to a daughter who stared blankly at the ceiling and sometimes forgot to blink.

Adrian hovered too — always outside your door, always pretending he was “just passing by.” You could hear him sometimes, arguing with your father in hushed tones.

"She needs help."

"She needs time."

"No. She needs him. Or she needs to forget. But right now, she’s—she’s not there."

They were both right.

Because you had already prepared for this.

From the very beginning — from the first night you’d awakened in this cursed world with another girl’s name and a countdown of death written into the stars — you had prepared. Hidden inside your wardrobe, beneath the loose floorboard, was the one thing that promised peace if everything failed.

A small vial. Stoppered tightly. Glass, cold and unfeeling. It had taken months to obtain discreetly. One sip was all it would take.

You weren’t sure if you were afraid or relieved that it was still there.

But some nights, when the pain returned to your chest and twisted like a knife—when the sound of rain became too much and your reflection in the mirror felt like a stranger—you would imagine it. The weight of the bottle in your palm. The calm it might bring.

Not because you wanted to die.

But because you wanted the noise to stop.

The pity in everyone’s eyes. The ache that wouldn’t go away. The guilt of loving someone you were never meant to keep.

You just wanted silence.

And maybe, finally, a little peace.

The guild you had secretly sponsored — the ragtag group of mercenaries, adventurers, and exiles you had once saved from being disbanded — was thriving.

They came to visit just three days ago, all grins and dirt-streaked armor, their arms filled with gold-plated artifacts, rare herbs, and hand-carved trinkets they swore would "bring joy to the Lady’s heart." They told stories of the northern mountains, of a haunted shrine they’d cleared, of a dragon no one believed existed that they saw in the sky — all because of you.

You, who had believed in them when no one else did.

You smiled. You even laughed. But it didn’t reach your eyes.

And when they eagerly offered a portion of their treasure to repay their patron, you shook your head gently and told them to keep it.

"For the next winter," you murmured, voice like brittle parchment. "You’ll need it more than I will."

You saw the shift in their faces. Confusion. Concern. Pity. But none of them dared ask the question you could see burning on their tongues.

Instead, they left with reluctant bows, promising to return once they secured a base camp in the southern marshes. You knew they meant well. You knew they didn’t understand.

How could they?

How could they understand what it was like to watch the man who had cradled your hand in a dark cave — who had caught you when you fell, who had looked at you like you were someone — offer you a marriage built on strategy and say love wasn’t necessary?

How could they understand what it was like to fall — so stupidly, so helplessly — for someone who was never going to fall back?

Soon after the guild left, the news spread that Elira was home.

And you?

You were back to being the ghost in someone else’s story.

Just two days from now, your father was hosting her introduction party. A celebration. A reunion. A restoration.

The estate was already being cleaned from top to bottom. Maids rushed through halls with silver polish and fresh curtains. Cooks tested cake after cake, and floral arrangements began arriving in crates, like offerings to a girl born under a luckier star.

Everyone was excited. Everyone was relieved.

You sat at your window and stared at the rain.

The world was moving on without you.

And now, with the weight of every breath heavy in your lungs, you didn’t know what to do.

To die — quietly, painlessly, with a little vial and a clean dress — or to live and ache until there was nothing left inside you but the slow erosion of a heart that had dared to hope.

Was it cowardice?

Was it mercy?

Or was it simply the realization that no matter how hard you tried… you were always going to be the extra page at the end of the book. Not the heroine. Not the villain. Just a footnote someone might pity before forgetting.

Two days.

That was all the time you had left to decide whether you'd show up at that party, smile through gritted teeth, and watch her take your place.

Or disappear before then.

Forever.

——————————————————————

Bob's POV

The letters sat on his desk like gravestones. One for each day, each thought he could not speak aloud, each apology he had not known how to give until it was far too late. He had tried writing once a week, but the silence grew unbearable, so now he wrote daily—sometimes more than once. They all said different things, and yet, all of them were really the same: please look at me again.

She never wrote back.

At first, he had reasoned with himself—told his trembling hands that she must be resting, healing, recovering. That perhaps her father had deemed it unfit for her to be disturbed, or that her physicians had warned against excitement. But as the days melted into weeks and each courier returned with the same bowed head and sealed envelope, those excuses dissolved into ash. What had once been concern rotted into fear, and that fear began to curdle into something worse.

He began to dream of her at night. Not in romantic visions, but warped memories—the sound of her voice cracking beneath a smile, the way she had touched the corner of her eye to hide her tears, the hollow echo of her steps as she walked away from him beneath a darkened sky. Sometimes, in the earliest hours of dawn, he could swear he heard her crying just beyond the walls. He would rise, fully dressed, reach for the door—and then remember she was no longer here.

It was after the tenth letter went unopened that he went to her estate himself.

He told no one. He took no guards. He rode without fanfare and without sleep, as if by the force of will alone he might cross the miles fast enough to undo time. When he arrived—his heart still bruised from the memory of her tears—he knocked only once before the door creaked open. A maid stood there, young and tired and vaguely startled, but she did not invite him in.

"My lady is unwell," she said. No curtsy. No title. Just the words—plain and cold. “She isn’t receiving anyone.”

He had not expected to be welcomed with open arms, but still, the rejection struck like frostbite. He opened his mouth to ask if she was alright. If she had seen his letters. If she hated him. But none of those things came out. Instead, he simply nodded—too afraid that if he spoke, he might beg.

Now, back in his chambers, he sat by the hearth long after the flames had died. The fire was ash. His tea had gone cold. His hands trembled where they rested in his lap, fingers stained faintly with ink and frustration. He could no longer eat, not without tasting regret. Sleep did not come easily, and when it did, it dragged him into half-lucid memories of her—of her voice, her laughter, her grief. He swore he could still smell her perfume in the folds of his coat. He hadn’t worn anything else since the ball.

It wasn’t supposed to feel like this. He was the Crown Prince—he had been raised on discipline, on control, on distance. But now, all of that training shattered like glass beneath the weight of her absence. He missed her in a way that made his bones ache. Missed her even when he hated himself for what he had done. For what he hadn’t said.

He had never wanted to fall in love. And yet, somewhere between her hatred and her honesty, her wit and her weakness, he had.

And now she was slipping through his fingers like water.

And he was going mad trying to hold on.

The silence of the room was a noose around his throat. He hadn’t spoken aloud in hours—not to his aides, not to his guards, not even to the steward who came bearing untouched meals and letters that were never hers. He simply sat in the same chair, at the same desk, surrounded by the growing clutter of unanswered questions and unopened futures. His ink-stained hands trembled as they always did now, though not from cold. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt cold. Or warm. Or anything in between.

It hadn't been this bad in years. Not since the training.

Not since his mother.

The ache in his chest—this chasm of emptiness—reminded him of the first time she brought the poison to his lips.

“Only a drop,” she had whispered, brushing his hair behind his ear like she was telling him a bedtime story. “To build your tolerance. To protect you.” And like a dutiful son, a future king, he drank. Over and over. Night after night. Learning the taste of agony until it became a constant flavor in his mouth. He remembered clutching his sides, vomiting into the dark silk sheets of his childhood bed, sweating through fevers with no nurse to comfort him. His mother said it was strength. His tutors called it duty.

But it hadn’t felt like duty when he cried himself to sleep. It had felt like abandonment.

The second time he felt this kind of hollow was when he took a life with his bare hands.

He’d been fourteen. The assassin had snuck in through the kitchens, blood in his eyes and a blade too fast for the guards to notice. Robert didn’t scream. He didn’t run. He simply did what he was trained to do—what the poison had hardened him for. He struck first. He remembered the man’s weight, the sudden warmth of blood, the unnatural angle of the neck when it hit the marble floor.

And then the quiet. The stunned, endless quiet afterward.

That silence was with him again now.

He dragged a shaky breath through his nose and stared down at the newest letter—one he would not send. What was the point? She would not read it. She hadn’t read any of them. She had made her answer clear with her absence, and her silence echoed louder than any refusal ever could. He had known heartbreak before—burned into him like ritual, raised on a steady diet of denial and blood—but this… this was something crueler. It was grief without a corpse.

And he deserved it. He knew that.

Because when she had smiled through her tears, he had said the worst thing he possibly could have.

He had held her heart, and instead of cherishing it, he’d asked whether love was even necessary.

He pressed a trembling hand to his temple, as if he could physically stop the memories from crowding in. But her voice—soft, scared, disbelieving—was louder than ever. Her silhouette in the rain. Her back as she walked away. The footsteps that didn’t falter. The door that never opened again.

A boy who had survived poison and war was now undone by a girl who refused to speak to him.

And somehow, it hurt more than dying ever had.

The invitation arrived on the morning of the sixth day, tucked in amongst trade agreements and council minutes, its paper smoother, its seal more ornate. At first, he didn’t even register what it was. He was still only half-awake, slumped over a stack of untouched documents, the cold of the desk edge pressed against his cheek. But then he saw the wax—Withers’ crest, burnished in silver.

His heart stuttered.

He sat up too fast, elbowed a goblet of water across the floor, and fumbled to break the seal. The parchment crackled as he unfolded it, and there—scrawled in a formal hand with unnecessarily delicate ink—was the announcement:

The Withers House cordially invites His Highness, Crown Prince Robert, to the official introduction of Lady Elira Withers, cherished daughter of Duke and Duchess Withers, in celebration of her safe return.

A party. In two days' time. At the estate. With every noble in the kingdom, no doubt, in attendance.

But all he saw was her.

She would be there. She had to be there.

His pulse kicked, a tight rush of urgency flooding through his limbs. This was his chance—his first chance in days. No more maids turning him away at the door. No more cold walls. No more distance. She would be in the same room, breathing the same air, looking like herself again, even if she no longer looked at him.

He clutched the letter to his chest and laughed—quietly, breathlessly, almost like a sob. He hadn’t realized how long he’d gone without hope until now.

He called for his steward immediately.

“Clear my schedule,” he ordered. “Anything not treason can wait. Everything else… handle it. I need that day.”

The steward blinked, startled. “Of course, Your Highness. The party?”

Robert nodded. “I’ll be attending. I’ll need the tailor here by evening. Something appropriate. Not too formal. She hates it when I wear red, so… anything else.”

The steward tilted his head. “She…?”

But Robert had already turned away, mind elsewhere, eyes fixed on the calendar with a sort of manic devotion.

He had forty-eight hours.

Forty-eight hours to become the man she deserved. To make up for every word he hadn’t said, every wrong turn he’d made. He’d wasted his letters on half-truths, apologies that tiptoed around the truth. He wouldn’t do that again. No more silence. No more fear. If she hated him now, let her hear it from his own mouth this time.

He didn’t care who else would be there. Not nobles. Not advisors. Not even Elira. None of it mattered.

He would clear every page of his duties and buy himself a single, clean day—with no politics, no duties, no poisoned expectations. Just her. Just them.

He would find her.

And maybe—maybe—she would let him try again.

Robert stood at the edge of the ballroom entrance, cloaked in velvet shadows, hands buried in the pockets of a jacket that had taken two tailors three fittings to perfect. It fit him immaculately. He looked every inch the prince. But he felt like a fraud.

Laughter floated through the grand hall like perfume—sweet, artificial, cloying. Chandeliers glistened overhead, casting rainbows across the marbled floor. Ladies in silks spun like petals across the ballroom, nobles pressed their palms together in rehearsed greetings, and somewhere amidst it all… she existed.

He hadn’t seen her yet.

He couldn’t move.

Every time he lifted his foot toward the threshold, something invisible clenched around his lungs, dragging him back. What would he even say? I asked you to marry me like a transaction. I didn’t mean it like that. I meant—please don’t disappear.

He clenched his jaw and glanced toward the ballroom’s side alcove, trying to find a quiet place to breathe.

And that’s when he saw him.

Adrian Withers.

The Duke’s heir looked nothing like the proud, composed noble Robert had once seen from the stands during sword tournaments. He looked… hollow. There were deep purple smudges beneath his eyes, half-hidden by the way his blonde hair had fallen loose from its usual slicked-back style. His tunic was wrinkled, as if he’d forgotten to have it pressed, and there was a faint stain of ink at his wrist cuff.

Still, when he saw Robert, he straightened. Bowed. Formal.

“Your Highness,” Adrian said, voice raw but steady.

Robert didn’t flinch. “Adrian.”

A long pause.

Then, casually, like he was asking about the weather: “How is your sister?”

Adrian blinked. “Elira? She’s—”

“No,” Robert said, cutting him off gently, voice lowering. “The other one.”

Something shifted.

Adrian’s face didn’t change much. But his eyes did.

They went sharp, cold with a kind of protectiveness Robert hadn’t seen before, not in him. And beneath that—guilt. A guilt so thick it oozed between every blink, every breath.

Robert said nothing. He let the silence speak.

Adrian exhaled slowly, shoulders slumping. “She hasn’t been the same since that night.”

Robert’s throat tightened.

“She doesn’t eat much. Doesn’t sleep. She just… sits by the window and stares at the rain. She used to argue, you know. With me. With the staff. Even the gardener. She used to fight. But now…” His voice cracked. “She’s quiet. All the time. Like she’s waiting for something to kill her.”

Robert’s breath left him like a blow to the sternum.

“I never gave her a chance. Never treated her like family. And I—” Adrian swallowed. “I don’t know if I can ever make up for that. But I’m trying now. And if you’ve come here to hurt her again, even by accident—” His voice dropped, trembling—“I will throw my title to the wind and bury you myself.”

Robert stared at him.

And then, with the gentleness of someone who knew how easy it was to break, he said:

“I didn’t come to hurt her.”

Adrian’s hands balled into fists. He looked away.

“I just want to see her,” Robert said. “Tell her what I meant to say that night. What I should have said.”

“She won’t come to the ballroom,” Adrian murmured. “She said she didn’t want to ruin Elira’s night.”

Robert closed his eyes.

Of course she wouldn’t.

Of course she’d hide—bleeding quietly so no one else would be inconvenienced.

He drew in a breath and looked toward the stairs. Toward the halls beyond them. The ones that led to the quiet rooms. The garden terraces. The west wing balcony.

“I’ll find her,” he said, more to himself than anyone.

Adrian didn’t stop him this time.

He just watched, silently, as the Crown Prince disappeared into the palace—his last chance flickering like a dying star.

————————————————————

Readers POV

You hadn’t wanted to go.

Every step toward the ballroom had felt like a betrayal—to yourself, to your quiet pain, to the echoing nothingness you’d made your home. You didn’t want to be seen. Not by the nobles who once whispered behind fans. Not by Elira in her rightful place. And certainly not by him.

But your father had asked.

Not ordered—asked. A rare, fragile thing. He stood beside your bed that morning, uncertain and older than you remembered, and said, “Just for tonight. It would mean something… if you came.”

So you agreed. Not because you wanted to.

Because you didn’t know how much longer you’d be around to agree to anything.

You dressed in white. No jewels, no embellishment. Just silk and silence. Your hair was half-pinned, a ribbon tied with trembling hands. You looked like a ghost of something once beautiful. Something that had mattered.

The ballroom was already alive when you entered—laughter, dancing, the glint of chandeliers catching polished silver and flushed cheeks. And at the center, like a jewel in the crown, stood Elira.

The prodigal daughter.

The one everyone had waited for.

You walked to her out of duty, not warmth.

“Elira,” you said, inclining your head in the barest show of etiquette.

She turned with a smile like broken glass. “Oh. I didn’t think you’d show.”

You said nothing.

“I suppose Father begged,” she added, lips barely curving. “It would’ve been rude not to attend your replacement’s debut.”

You met her eyes, steady and cold. “I didn’t come for you.”

Her smile twitched, tight. “Of course not. Why would you? I suppose someone like you must enjoy watching from the sidelines. Always the shadow, never the sun.”

You said nothing more.

There was nothing left to say.

You gave the barest bow and turned away, swallowing what pride remained as you retreated to the edge of the ballroom. The shadows welcomed you, as they always had.

You didn’t dance.

You didn’t greet the lords and ladies who recognized your face but never truly saw you.

You stood still, quiet, tucked near a column like a piece of furniture long forgotten. The music was too loud. The perfume made your stomach turn. You hadn’t eaten all day. You didn’t want to.

This wasn’t your world.

It never had been.

So you watched from your corner, blank-faced and breathless. The candles blurred. The laughter felt distant. And somewhere behind the thrum of string instruments and stomping boots, your heart beat a little quieter.

You had come because your father asked. Because you wanted to grant him one last thing.

And when tonight ended, you would vanish.

Just like always.

The ball had become a blur.

Colors swirled. Laughter echoed. The perfume, the orchestra, the silks brushing against your sleeves—none of it registered anymore. The lights above your head flickered like dying stars, and all you could feel was the hollowness pressing down on your ribcage.

You hadn’t spoken in hours.

You hadn’t wanted to.

But then, the toast was called.

The toast for Elira.

It was a grand affair, orchestrated with all the pomp expected of nobility. A celebration of her return. Her triumph. Her rightful place. A long table at the front of the ballroom, goblets of wine placed before each family member. Yours included.

You were to stand beside her. Your father insisted. “You’re sisters,” he said with tired warmth, pressing the two of you shoulder to shoulder before stepping forward to address the crowd.

Sisters.

The word made your throat tighten.

You glanced at the glass of wine before you, the ruby liquid catching the candlelight in elegant flashes. Your fingers brushed the stem, but something—instinct, perhaps—made you hesitate.

Then you caught a scent from Elira’s cup beside yours.

Faint.

Sharp.

Metallic.

Your stomach turned.

Poison.

Your eyes slowly lifted to her. She wore that same serene smile—the kind you’d only ever seen in mirrors, pretending to be whole. Her gaze was on the crowd, her posture perfect, but her fingers trembled just slightly as she reached for the glass.

So that was her plan.

Poison herself at her own introduction… and let the kingdom think it was you who did it.

You scoffed softly under your breath.

Not tonight.

Not like this.

You turned to her, raised your own goblet in mock cheer, and tilted your head with a saccharine smile. “Oh no,” you murmured, just loud enough for her alone. “It seems the staff may have switched our glasses. That wouldn’t do, would it… sister?”

You plucked her goblet from her hand before she could react. Her eyes widened—subtle, but there. You held her gaze, unblinking.

Then you stepped forward, lifting the poisoned glass high as your father called everyone to raise theirs.

“To Elira,” he said proudly.

You turned to face the crowd. A room full of strangers dressed as family.

You could feel him.

Robert.

Your eyes found him in the sea of nobles, near the back, half-shadowed by the colonnade. His golden hair glinted beneath the chandeliers, his eyes fixed on you with something close to dread.

You smiled at him.

A real smile.

Soft. Devastated.

The kind of smile that comes only once in a lifetime, right before the end.

Your voice rang out, crystal-clear through the hush.

“To family,” you said, your tone carrying just enough of a tremble to draw attention. “To love… in all its disguises. And to being the shadow that taught the sun how to burn.”

Gasps rippled quietly. Your father's brow furrowed.

Tears slipped down your cheeks—silent, graceful, unstoppable.

You met the Crown Prince’s eyes one last time.

I’m sorry, you mouthed.

Goodbye.

And then you tipped the glass to your lips, drinking the entire thing.

The taste was bitter. Sharp. Cold.

Just like the world had always been.

Your body was slow to respond, like it had suddenly remembered its weight.

First came the numbness.

Then the fire.

It started in your gut and licked up your throat like a cruel laugh, bubbling into your mouth before you even realized it was blood.

You staggered backward.

The glass fell from your hand, shattering against the marble floor in a sound that felt oddly distant. There were screams—some gasping, others calling your name—but they were underwater, muffled by the rush of blood in your ears and the fog pressing against your skull.

Your knees buckled.

And then—arms. Strong, trembling arms catching you before you could hit the floor.

You blinked.

Everything was blurry. Blotches of gold and red, smudged candlelight, a thousand lights swimming together like fireflies caught in a storm.

But one shape… one voice… pierced through it all.

A man screaming your name.

Your vision swam, but you knew it was him.

Robert.

He looked like something out of a nightmare—eyes wild, hair falling into his face, crown askew, blood on his hands. His lips were moving furiously, shouting something, but the ringing in your ears made it impossible to hear.

Was he crying?

Was the Crown Prince actually crying for you?

You tried to laugh, but choked instead.

Blood spilled from your lips, thick and metallic, soaking the front of your dress. You tasted iron and regret. The pain was unbearable now—sharp and twisting, as if the poison wanted to rip you apart before death could claim you.

You lifted a trembling hand, and though it felt like lifting stone, you managed to touch his cheek.

His skin was so warm.

So real.

You remembered the cave.

You remembered the lake.

His voice reading to you.

His smile in the moonlight.

And now this.

Your thumb brushed his cheekbone as your lips parted. You tasted blood again. It slid down your chin in rivulets as you forced the words through your broken throat.

“I’m… sorry…” you rasped, gurgling, wet.

His hands gripped yours, shaking his head frantically, lips repeating a word over and over—no, no, no.

“I… I tried…”

Your eyes flickered.

Everything was fading. The room. The pain. The noise.

But his face—his face was the last thing you saw.

Terror. Agony. A love too late.

And that would be enough.

Wouldn’t it?

The grand hall fell silent as the Duke raised his glass, his voice strong and unwavering.

“To Elira,” he proclaimed. “Our lost daughter, returned at last. May her presence restore the honor of House Withers.”

Glasses clinked around the room, sharp and clear. Robert’s eyes were locked on the two women standing side by side—Elira, glowing with innocent grace, and Virelle, whose smile was thin and unreadable.

The Duke gently nudged them together. “Sisters,” he said, “may this union heal old wounds.”

Robert’s gaze fell to the wine glass held by Virelle, switched it with Eliras. As the liquid caught the flickering candlelight, it swirled in a way he instantly recognized—too slow, too thick. A subtle but unmistakable telltale sign.

His heart clenched. That wine was laced.

He saw Virelle’s smile, deliberate and cold, as she raised the glass.

“I’m sorry, sister,” Virelle said coolly, “but it seems the glasses were switched.”

Her voice echoed like a sharp blade through the silent room.

Robert’s breath caught as Virelle lifted the glass in a deliberate toast, daring anyone to challenge her.

His mind screamed to warn her, to stop her—

But it was too late.

The wine passed her lips.

And in that moment, Robert’s world began to tilt.

All he could hear was a distant, desperate scream— The scream was his.

His scream ripped through the grand hall like a blade—sharp, desperate, fractured with a pain so fierce it shook the very air.

“Virelle! No! Please, stay with me!”

His voice cracked and shattered as he fell to his knees, cradling her limp body like she was made of glass—fragile, precious, slipping away. His hands trembled uncontrollably, fingers clawing at her as if sheer force could pull her back from the edge of death.

“Someone—help! A medic! Anyone—please!”

But the crowd was frozen, paralyzed by the horror unfolding before them. Their wide, helpless eyes only made the silence grow heavier, more suffocating.

Tears streamed down Robert’s face, hot and unforgiving, mingling with the cold sweat on his brow. His chest heaved with ragged gasps, his heart pounding a frantic, broken rhythm against his ribs.

“No, no, no…” he choked out, voice barely more than a strangled whisper, desperate to will her back from the dark abyss.

His hands were slick with her blood, his fingers tracing trembling circles on her pale cheek, feeling the faint pulse—too faint, fading fast.

“Please, you have to hold on. You can’t leave me,” he begged, voice cracking as tears blurred his vision. “I can’t lose you. Not now. Not like this.”

The world spun—colors bleeding, faces blurring into shadows. The deafening silence swallowed his screams until all that remained was the deafening sound of his own breaking heart.

“Virelle, open your eyes. Please. Look at me.”

He rocked her gently, begging her to come back, to fight. But the warmth in her body was slipping away, the light in her eyes flickering like a candle in the wind.

A strangled sob escaped his throat, raw and ragged—an agony so pure it felt like his very soul was tearing apart.

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry,” he whispered, tears falling onto her face, his fingertips wiping away the wetness like it could erase the pain.

He pressed his forehead against hers, heart shattering into a thousand unbearable pieces.

And as the last flicker of life faded from her eyes, the scream tore from him once more—pure, wild, and utterly hopeless—a cry for the impossible, a plea to rewrite fate itself.

“Don’t leave me. Please. Don’t leave me.”

The hall echoed with his anguish, the desperate wails of a man undone by love and loss.

The medic burst into the hall, his hurried footsteps echoing on the marble floor, eyes wide with urgency as he rushed toward Virelle's trembling form cradled in Robert’s arms. He knelt down swiftly, hands gentle yet precise as he examined the pale face, the blood seeping from her lips.

“Poison,” the medic declared grimly, voice low but sharp. “A rare, fast-acting toxin—one that disrupts the heart’s rhythm. She’s fading quickly.”

Robert’s grip tightened, his whole body stiffening as if trying to fuse with her and stop time itself. His face contorted, a raw mixture of terror and fury. He refused to release her, as if letting go meant surrendering her to death.

On the sidelines, Virelle’s father and brother watched, their own faces twisted with a volatile blend of desperation and disbelief. Yet, while their worry burned hot, it lacked the raw, primal ferocity that radiated from Robert.

Robert looked like a beast—wild, fierce, and utterly devoted—protecting the one thing he loved most from slipping through his grasp. His voice cracked as he pleaded with the medic, “Do everything you can. Don’t—don’t let her go. She has to live.”

His hands shook but never loosened their hold, his whole being screaming against the crushing weight of helplessness. Around them, the court held its breath, witnessing a prince laid bare—less a ruler and more a desperate soul battling against the cruel hands of fate.

The antidote was administered swiftly, the medic’s hands steady despite the chaos swirling around them. Yet, despite the promises whispered through the sterile room, despite the cold medicine coursing through her veins, she did not stir.

Robert’s heart pounded like a war drum—loud, desperate, unrelenting. He leaned closer, eyes searching for any flicker of life beneath her pale skin. Nothing.

His voice cracked as he barked orders, fierce and unyielding, “Find them. Bring me the one who dared threaten the future Empress of this empire. No mercy. I want answers.”

His words cut through the stunned silence like a blade. Every breath he took was laced with frantic urgency, a desperate storm breaking loose inside him. He refused to accept this stillness, this void where she should have been.

Around him, the weight of the moment pressed down, but Robert’s mind was consumed by one burning thought: she must live. Somehow, she had to live. And whoever tried to snuff out that fragile light would pay, by every cruel means.

He sat at her bedside, his gloved hands trembling as they held hers—so cold, so still, so unlike her. Her skin was pale, almost translucent beneath the moonlight slipping through the balcony curtains, and her breath—when it came—was shallow, fragile, like a candle flickering low before a final gust.

The antidote had been given hours ago. The medics had done all they could. And yet, she hadn’t stirred. Not even once.

Bob sat there in silence, but inside, his soul was screaming.

He hadn’t changed out of his formal attire, the sash across his chest rumpled from where he’d collapsed onto his knees beside her earlier. His crown had long since been discarded on the floor, rolling under a chair in the chaos, and his golden hair was disheveled, falling over eyes that hadn’t stopped burning since the moment she collapsed in his arms.

The storm of emotions within him was no longer something he could control—grief clung to him like oil, thick and smothering, while fury simmered just beneath it, molten and sharp, looking for somewhere to escape.

He reached for her face, brushing a hand across her temple, careful, reverent. "You’re not supposed to leave me," he whispered, voice raw and trembling. “Not you…”

He had never known softness the way she had given it. Not through words, not even through touch—but through the silences. The stolen glances. The way she stood by him, when no one else ever had. When he’d been nothing more than the cold-hearted Crown Prince with blood on his hands and poison in his past.

And he—he had destroyed her. Why must he ruin everything he touches?

He shut his eyes, shame crashing over him like waves in a storm.

He remembered that night—that night. Her eyes swollen with unshed tears, her voice wobbling as she told him she would go home. How she’d smiled, even as her heart was clearly breaking. How he’d let her walk away, trying to stay composed like a fool. Trying to be diplomatic. Polite. Royal.

When she had needed him to fight for her, he’d let his silence speak.

And now?

Now she lay there, unmoving.

He gritted his teeth and rose from the chair with a sudden burst of frustration, pacing the room like a man possessed. His hands clawed at his hair, eyes darting from the bed to the window and back again.

He could still hear her voice—the way she’d murmured, “I’m sorry. I tried.” With blood in her throat and tears in her eyes. That memory was burning a hole in his chest.

He let out a choked breath and dropped to his knees again beside her bed.

“I didn’t deserve you,” he whispered. “But I swear to every god this cursed empire believes in, if you wake up… if you open those eyes, I’ll spend the rest of my life trying to be a man worthy of you. Not the prince. Not the heir. Just… Robert.”

His hand trembled as he reached for hers again, clutching it to his chest like a relic, like the last piece of a soul he’d never really had until she walked into his world. He bent over her hand, lips brushing her knuckles like a desperate prayer.

“I love you,” he said, and it cracked him open. “Please… come back to me. Please.”

But she didn’t answer.

And the silence that followed wasn’t peaceful.

It was purgatory.

The antidote was administered swiftly, the medic’s hands steady despite the chaos swirling around them. Yet, despite the promises whispered through the sterile room, despite the cold medicine coursing through her veins, she did not stir.

Robert’s heart pounded like a war drum—loud, desperate, unrelenting. He leaned closer, eyes searching for any flicker of life beneath her pale skin. Nothing.

His voice cracked as he barked orders, fierce and unyielding, “Find them. Bring me the one who dared threaten the future Empress of this empire. No mercy. I want answers.”

His words cut through the stunned silence like a blade. Every breath he took was laced with frantic urgency, a desperate storm breaking loose inside him. He refused to accept this stillness, this void where she should have been.

Around him, the weight of the moment pressed down, but Robert’s mind was consumed by one burning thought: she must live. Somehow, she had to live. And whoever tried to snuff out that fragile light would pay, by every cruel means.

The moment Robert stepped into the council chamber, the room stilled—like prey sensing the approach of a predator.

Every noble, every guard, every servant in the chamber rose in unison, bowing low as protocol demanded, but none of them could stop their eyes from flicking up toward him. He hadn’t changed out of his bloodstained uniform. His white collar was spattered red. His chestplate—though hastily removed—left marks along his shirt, and the crimson drying along his sleeves looked as though he’d been clawing his way through a battlefield.

The scent of metal followed him like a ghost.

He said nothing at first, only walked slowly to the head of the table, his gaze void of expression—yet darker than they’d ever seen it. He didn’t sit. He stood behind the high-backed chair, hands planted on its wooden top like the weight of the world was holding him upright.

This wasn’t the poised Crown Prince they’d known.

This was something else. Something colder. Something ruined.

Duke Withers, face pale and gaunt, glanced at his son, who sat stiffly beside him. Adrian looked like he hadn’t slept in days, the shadows under his eyes as dark as bruises, his knuckles white from where he clenched his fists. And yet, neither dared speak first.

The silence lingered like a drawn blade.

Then it broke—fractured by a flurry of accusations.

“It must’ve been a political rival—”

“No, it was someone within the kitchens, they must have been paid off—”

“The servants should be interrogated—”

“Or the guards! Someone had to get close enough to switch the cups—”

“It was sabotage, someone aiming to humiliate the family—”

Robert said nothing. He didn’t even blink.

Not until a lower-ranking guard stepped forward. His voice trembled as he spoke, clearly nervous, but louder than necessary in a desperate attempt to sound sure of himself.

“I-I hesitate to say it, Your Highness, but… what if the poison was intended for Lady Elira? What if—what if Virelle only drank it to cover her tracks?”

A sharp inhale echoed from Adrian’s chest. The Duke’s face went blank with shock.

But Robert?

He turned his head slowly. Like a hound scenting blood.

The guard faltered.

“Perhaps… she—she meant to poison Elira and… and made a mistake. Or changed her mind and drank it herself to avoid suspicion. It would explain why she made that scene during the toast and why—why she insisted on switching glasses. Perhaps it was—”

“Say her name.”

The guard froze.

“I—I beg your pardon, Your Highness?”

“Her name,” Robert said, quietly but so firmly the walls seemed to absorb it. “You wish to accuse her? Then say her name.”

“…Lady Virelle,” the guard muttered, swallowing hard.

The room felt twenty degrees colder.

Robert lifted his gaze. His eyes were winter and fury—two shards of a broken kingdom barely held together by the thinnest thread of civility.

“You believe the woman who saved her sister in front of hundreds, who stood before the court and drank death—was trying to kill her?”

“Sire, I—I only meant to raise a possibility—”

“Your possibility,” Robert interrupted, “is an insult to a woman who lies dying while we sit here squabbling. You would slander her name with no evidence, no investigation, no thought—just conjecture?”

The guard took a step back, visibly sweating.

Robert’s voice was still quiet, but it cut like steel. “Get out.”

“Sire—”

“I said get out. Before I forget I am a prince and not the beast you all feared I could be.”

The silence that followed was absolute.

The guard turned and fled.

Robert leaned forward on the chair, shoulders trembling—not from rage, but from something worse. From the breaking point of a man who had already lost too much.

“If one more person in this room dares suggest she had any hand in her own suffering,” he said softly, “I will remind you all that there is no throne without an empire, and no empire without its future Empress. Speak carefully. Because if she dies, you all do.”

No one dared breathe.

He straightened slowly. “Now,” he said, “start telling me who had access to that wine.”

The command dropped like a stone in the room, and immediately, everything broke.

A flurry of motion. Guards shouted orders. Aides scrambled to scribble names, to dispatch riders. Someone sprinted to the kitchens, another toward the servants’ quarters. The room, once silent in the grip of his fury, now cracked open like thunder. Chairs scraped back. Footsteps thundered down the hall.

But to Robert?

It was as if he were underwater.

Their voices reached him like distant waves, distorted and far away. He could see them talking—no, yelling—could see hands waving, saw Adrian leap to his feet to bark orders, the Duke pressing his fist to his mouth in panic—but it all felt like a dream. Like the sound had been drained from the world.

His gaze drifted to his hand. It was trembling.

Was it cold in here?

He hadn’t felt warmth since she fell. Since the wine spilled over white silk. Since her blood painted his hands and she smiled at him like forgiveness was hers to give.

“Crown Prince?” someone called. “We’ve sent for the head sommelier—”

Robert didn’t answer.

His ears were roaring again.

Like wind through a tunnel. Like rushing water. Like the hollow of his own chest, echoing too loud to hear anything else. Every word they said passed through him like vapor. None of it mattered. Not the names, not the suspects, not the theories.

Because she wasn’t awake.

Because her hand had gone limp in his.

Because the only warmth he’d felt in years had been her fingers curling in his hair while she whispered she was sorry for trying.

Trying to live.

Trying to survive.

Trying to love him.

The longer he sat, the more the blood on his sleeve itched. It wasn’t dry anymore. His hands were sweating. He blinked down at them, barely seeing them. Had someone said her name? Had someone dared?

His heart thundered in his throat, but it felt too far away, as if even his own body didn’t belong to him anymore. He was drifting, untethered. A monster unmoored. A man with nothing left to protect but the shadow of someone who once smiled at him in a garden full of bees.

Then he finally spoke,

“Find them,” he said. “Bring them to me. And if you don’t—”

He didn’t finish.

He didn’t have to.

Because the look in his eyes—hollow, haunted, soaked in grief—spoke louder than any threat.

Robert turned and walked out, leaving behind the chaos, the cowards, the quiet hum of fear in his wake.

And though the air outside the war room was cool, the fire in his chest only burned hotter.

She was still asleep.

And he was still drowning.

The corridors had never felt this long before.

His boots echoed in the hush, muffled by thick carpets and the hour. No one stopped him—no one dared to. Not with the state he was in. Not with the sword in his hand. Not with dried blood still splashed up his sleeves like war paint.

The hilt felt heavy in his grasp.

He didn’t even remember when he took it—whether from its stand in the war room, or from his quarters, or from some phantom vision of himself that had already made the decision hours ago. All he knew was that the weight of it made him feel something. Something real. Something grounding.

He reached her door and paused.

It was slightly ajar.

As if the room itself were waiting for him.

He pushed it open.

The glow of a low fire flickered across the walls. A medic had left a few candles burning, their light soft, unintrusive. A glass of untouched water sat on the bedside table, and beside it, a folded cloth—still damp from her fever. She hadn’t stirred. Not once.

And there she was.

Small against the endless white of the bed linens. Smaller than he remembered. Fragile in a way that made his chest ache, as if the world had peeled back every thorn it ever buried in her skin and revealed nothing but bruises beneath.

Her lips were pale. Skin sickly, lashes fluttering faintly, but never opening. The faint rise and fall of her chest was the only thing keeping him upright.

He approached slowly.

The sword clinked against the edge of the dresser as he leaned it there, though part of him wished to keep it in his lap. Like a promise.

Like a pact.

He sat beside her. Hands on his knees. Silent for a long moment. The kind of silence that builds in the wake of things too holy or too broken to name.

“…I always thought I was cursed,” he whispered. “That everything I touched would wither.”

His eyes trailed over her face—over the soft curve of her cheek, over the dip beneath her collarbone where her necklace had been removed.

“And then you came. Like a storm. No… like sunlight after years underground. I didn’t even know I’d been starving until you looked at me.”

He laughed, but it was a hollow sound. Like breath in a tomb.

“You looked at me like I was something worth saving. Like I could be more than my crown, more than the weapons I’ve wielded, more than the blood I’ve spilled.”

His voice trembled. He lowered his head.

“And I was too much a coward to tell you that you were the only thing I’ve ever wanted for myself.”

A beat.

He reached for her hand—cold, unmoving, but still there—and brought it to his lips. He pressed a kiss to her knuckles like she was already gone. Like this was her funeral, and he hadn’t the right to cry.

“I gave them orders,” he said, voice thick. “I threatened half the empire. I made the Duke cry and Adrian scream. But none of it matters if you don’t wake up.”

He looked at her again.

And this time, the tears came.

“I don’t want the throne. I don’t want peace. I don’t want revenge.” His fingers tightened around hers. “I just want one more moment with you. One more hour. One more look. One more scolding for not drinking enough water or walking too fast through the gardens. I’d give up everything just to hear you breathe like yourself again.”

A broken sob slipped from his chest. He dropped his forehead to her hand.

“I can’t go back to the world I knew before you,” he whispered, crumbling now. “It’s too cold. Too colorless. I’ve tasted warmth, and now the snow burns worse than fire.”

Minutes passed. Maybe hours. The only sound was the fire crackling, and his breath—uneven, shaking.

Eventually, he looked toward the sword.

Just once.

If she didn’t wake, he knew what he would do.

He would follow her to death.

Because what life was there for a man built of war, whose one chance at peace now lay unmoving in a bed of white?

And what kingdom could be ruled by a man who left his heart behind in a dying girl’s palm?

The fire had turned to embers.

The sword remained by the door — untouched, yet heavy as a promise. And Virelle still lay deathly still beneath the thick quilts, each rise of her chest so shallow he had to hold his own breath to see if hers continued.

He’d tried everything. Pleaded with healers. Commanded scholars. Summoned priests, apothecaries, magicians. Nothing stirred her. Not even his voice. Not even his trembling hands that had never been made for prayer, now folded day after day in desperate, silent pleas.

And then — at long last — a knock.

He didn’t turn. He was seated beside her, her hand cradled between both of his, his head bowed over it like a man worshiping a relic.

“Enter,” he rasped.

The door creaked open.

“Sire,” came the voice of the guard captain. “We’ve found something.”

Robert did not look up. Not yet.

“There’s been a common thread. One person… always nearby, always invisible.”

Still, he said nothing. His thumb traced the lines of her palm.

The soldier pressed on, cautious but determined. “A woman. A servant. Used to be a nursemaid for Lady Elira before her disappearance. Was demoted to kitchen work when the girl vanished, but promoted again the day she returned.”

Now — finally — Robert’s head lifted.

The change was subtle. But the room shifted with it.

The gold in his eyes caught the firelight. And for the first time in hours, something sharp passed through his expression.

“What else?”

The soldier swallowed. “She was never fond of Lady Virelle, Your Highness. That much is known. She… made no effort to hide her distaste when the Duke took in a ‘street orphan.’ Several maids overheard her speaking poorly. One said the woman once muttered, ‘She stole my lady’s place. She’ll never be one of us.’”

A pause.

Then Robert rose.

Not quickly. Not violently.

But with precision.

With purpose.

He looked like a man who had shed his skin — and all the softness that came with it.

“Her name?”

“Anessa, sire.”

He stood beside the bed, gaze lowered to Virelle’s pale face. The swell of her cheek beneath the bruising. The faint blue of her lips.

A long breath.

Then, softly, “Bring Anessa to the northern cells. Say nothing. Strip her of her uniform, her title, her protections. I want her able to speak.”

“Yes, Your Highness.”

The man turned, but Robert’s voice halted him like a blade against the neck.

“And if anyone warns her,” he said, still facing Virelle, “I will make an example of them beside her.”

Silence.

Then footsteps retreating fast.

Robert remained there a moment longer, the weight of what he’d heard sinking in like rot into wood.

A nursemaid.

A servant scorned.

A coward hiding behind a girl barely healed from ruin.

He sat back down and took her hand again. It was cooler than before.

“I’ll fix this,” he whispered. “Even if it takes every drop of blood in my body.”

And as the door closed, the fire behind him flared.

Because if she died — if she slipped from him now — he would not remain in this world long.

Not as a man.

Not as a prince.

But as the monster they feared he would one day become.

——————————————————

Readers POV

There was no pain here. No time. Just white. Endless, soft, and silent — the kind of silence that presses into your ears and whispers of forgetting. You didn’t know where your body ended. You weren’t sure if you even had one. You stood — maybe floated — in the center of the void, suspended like a dropped star between one life and another.

And then you saw her.

She wasn’t a reflection. She wasn’t a memory.

She was Virelle.

Not the girl from the game. Not the villain the world had decided she must be. She stood barefoot in a white dress that shimmered faintly with threads of silver, eyes soft, face familiar in a way that made your ribs ache. Older than you expected. Wiser too. There was grief carved into her cheeks, but serenity in her gaze. Her presence was like standing in front of the version of yourself that never got the chance to be whole.

She smiled.

And that was what broke you.

“I… I don’t understand,” you said, voice hoarse, barely audible in the hush around you. “Am I dead?”

Virelle shook her head slowly. “Not yet. You’re in between.”

You swallowed, blinking at her. “Are you?”

“Yes,” she said simply, “but I’m not angry. I’m grateful.”

Grateful? You stared. “For what?”

“For everything,” she said. “For surviving when I couldn’t. For enduring the silence I once screamed into. For giving my story a voice… and for loving him, even when it hurt.”

You tried to speak, but your breath hitched. Your knees trembled. "I didn’t mean to take anything from you."

“You didn’t take,” she whispered. “You gave. You gave me meaning when I was forgotten. You gave me peace. And now…” —she stepped forward— “I want to give you something.”

With a wave of her hand, the whiteness around you shimmered like disturbed water. Two images formed, glowing in the air like living paintings.

To your left: a hospital room. Stark white sheets, a bouquet wilting on a windowsill. Machines beeping in the hush. Your real body lay still on the bed — a shell you hadn’t seen in what felt like lifetimes. You were alone. No family. No friends. No hand to hold. Just quiet — the kind you used to crave when everything was chaos. Virelle’s voice came soft behind you.

“This could be yours again. A clean slate. No legacy. No poison. No palace. No war. Just peace. A new start.”

You turned to the second image.

To your right: Virelle’s bedchamber in the palace. Your — her — body lay still in bed, pallid beneath a mountain of silk and embroidery. But beside her, slumped forward and trembling, was him.

Robert.

The Crown Prince.

His sword had been dropped to the floor, forgotten. His hands were clasped around Virelle’s like they were a lifeline. His forehead rested against her wrist, his shoulders shaking, his voice thick with something broken.

“Please,” he whispered, “don’t leave me. I love you. I love you — not because you’re mine, or because of what we are — but because you see me. Because you make me real. Please… wake up. I can’t do this world without you.”

You pressed a hand to your mouth, watching him. You had never seen him cry. Not like that. Not undone.

And then Virelle's hand touched your back.

“You can choose,” she said, gently. “That body isn’t mine anymore — not truly. It belongs to the girl who bled for this empire. Who dared to love the boy who would become king.”

You shook your head. “But what if I’m not strong enough?”

“You already are,” she whispered.

You turned toward her. “Why would you give this up?”

Virelle's smile softened, distant and full of peace. “Because I was always meant to pass through. But you… you were meant to stay.”

The world around you pulsed — the way dreams start to unravel at dawn.

Virelle reached out and cupped your cheek.

“Whatever you choose,” she murmured, “know that you’ve made me proud.”

You looked from one mirror to the other. One life of safety, freedom, and solitude… and another wrapped in danger, devotion, and the aching love of a boy who had never learned how to need until you.

And as the images started to fade, the decision lay in your hands.

Your heartbeat — hers — began to stir again.

Warmth. That was the first thing you felt — the quiet weight of sunlight filtering through a window and resting gently on your skin, like a blessing you hadn’t earned.

Then came the pain. Dull, distant, but real. A reminder that you were still tethered to your body. Still alive.

You blinked.

The ceiling was painted in delicate strokes of gold and ivory, familiar now — your chamber in the palace. But everything felt… off. Heavy. As if you were underwater, or wading through something too thick to be air.

A faint sound — a choked breath — drew your gaze.

Your father sat beside the bed, head bowed, hands clenched in front of his face like he was praying. Adrian stood behind him, eyes rimmed red, his posture rigid with the effort of holding himself together.

You swallowed, throat sandpaper-dry.

“…Where is he?” you rasped.

They both froze.

Your father looked up first, eyes wide and wet. “Virelle—thank the gods—”

“Where is he?” you croaked again, voice cracking.

Adrian stepped forward, voice unsteady. “You… you’re awake. We—We didn’t think you’d—”

“Where is he?” you repeated, stronger now, chest aching with every breath. “Where is Robert?”

Your father inhaled sharply. Adrian looked away, guilt warring with some unspoken grief. For a moment, neither of them answered.

And then, softly, like it hurt to say it, your father whispered, “He’s in the interrogation chambers. With the servant. The one who… the one who did this.”

You blinked, trying to process. “Why isn’t he here?”

“Because he’s not the same,” Adrian said quietly. “He hasn’t left the dungeons since the moment they named her. He’s… not well.”

That made your heart twist.

You pushed yourself up despite the pain and their panicked protests, your voice ragged with desperation. “I need to see him.”

“No, sweetheart—please—” your father tried to press you back down, but your hand caught his wrist.

“I need to see him,” you repeated, not as a plea — but a vow.

You pushed yourself up slightly. The pain lanced through your torso like a blade, but you bore it.

“Why is he in the dungeon?” you demanded, voice hoarse.

Adrian looked away. Your father stiffened, his hand tightening on yours.

“He’s… handling something,” your father said.

You blinked. “Something?”

“Rest now,” Adrian added gently. “You’ve been unconscious for nearly two days. Your body—”

“I was poisoned,” you said, sharper now, eyes darting between them. “Someone tried to kill me. And you’re not telling me anything?”

They exchanged a look, and that silence — that maddening, patronizing silence — felt like a slap.

“I deserve to know,” you said. “I deserve to know who.”

Before either of them could speak, the door swung open.

Elira entered, draped in her usual silver silks, lips painted like blood. Her eyes fell on you with a look of surprise — and something else. Something closer to unease.

But she didn’t greet you.

Instead, she turned to your father and asked, cool as a blade, “Why was my maid dragged off by the royal guard?”

The room froze.

You felt it before you understood it — the shift in the air, the sudden stiffness in your father’s posture, the flash of something unreadable in Adrian’s expression.

Your heart stuttered.

“What?” you breathed.

Elira’s gaze flicked to you at last, clearly not expecting your voice.

“They pulled her from the wing this morning,” she continued, frowning. “Dragged her down the hall like some criminal. No one would tell me why.”

Your father rose to his feet. “That’s not your concern.”

“She’s been with me since birth,” Elira replied, jaw tightening. “If someone thinks they can accuse my maid of something—”

“Enough,” Adrian snapped.

You stared at them, the room spinning again—but not from illness this time.

You felt cold.

You turned to your father slowly, your voice barely a whisper. “Why would the guards take her?”

He said nothing.

“Elira’s maid…” you whispered. “Why her?”

The silence was a confirmation.

Something inside you turned to ice.

Your heart thundered in your chest as your eyes locked onto your father’s. But it wasn’t fear that clawed at you now — it was clarity. A clarity sharp as broken glass and just as painful.

You looked past him to Elira, who still stood tall, chin high, irritation etched into every fine line of her face. Your sister — or rather, the girl who had always made sure you remembered that you weren’t really one of them — looked genuinely affronted. But something didn’t sit right.

Why would her maid…?

You blinked.

Why would her maid…

The pieces slid into place like falling stones, and you exhaled — a shaky, disbelieving breath.

Then, slowly, you pushed yourself up higher against the pillows. Your voice was raw and scraped thin, but when you spoke, it sliced through the room like a whipcrack.

“Why would a maid I haven’t even spoken to try to poison me?”

Your father stiffened. Adrian turned to stone.

Elira blinked, faltering half a step. “What are you talking about?”

“The poison,” you rasped. “It wasn’t meant for me. It was in your wine. I switched the cups.”

A new silence bloomed — one filled with static tension, as if the room itself was holding its breath.

Elira’s brows furrowed. “That’s absurd. Why would anyone want to poison me?”

You let out a hollow laugh, one that cracked at the end.

“That’s what I’ve been asking myself,” you said. “Why would your beloved maid poison your cup? Unless…” You trailed off, staring at her, at the curve of her jaw, the sudden shift in her stance — barely noticeable, but there.

“Unless it wasn’t meant for you,” you whispered.

Elira’s eyes narrowed. “Excuse me?”

“She’s served you since birth, hasn’t she?” you said, louder now, feeling your strength return, powered by fury. “She doted on you, defended you, hated me for replacing you.”

Your father inhaled sharply.

“Then you disappeared, and she was demoted. I was adopted, I became part of the family—” You laughed again, bitterly. “And when you returned, she was reinstated. Convenient. She hated me before — how do you think she felt seeing me in your place?”

Elira opened her mouth, but no words came out.

You tilted your head. “So tell me, sister… why was your wine the one laced with poison? Did your precious maid hate me so much she was willing to sacrifice you just to frame me for treason? Or…”

You let the thought hang in the air like a guillotine.

Or did Elira know?

The tension was unbearable. Adrian stood frozen, his eyes flitting between you and Elira, realization dawning like a slow-moving storm. Your father turned, staring at Elira as if seeing her for the first time.

But Elira’s mask broke only for a second — a flicker of something wild in her eyes. Then she turned sharply on her heel.

“She would never,” she hissed, venomously. “You’re delirious. Still poisoned. Talking nonsense.”

And she stormed out.

You leaned back against the pillows, chest rising and falling too fast, your heart still galloping.

Adrian turned to your father.

“I’m going to find Robert,” he said. “Now.”

And you? You looked toward the door where Elira had vanished — and for the first time since you arrived in this world, you saw her for what she was.

Not a sister. Not a victim. But a girl with far too much to lose.

You tried to follow Adrian. You really did.

The moment he stepped out, you shifted your legs off the bed with trembling determination, but your body betrayed you — knees buckling, hands clenching the sheets to stay upright. A ripple of gasps and footsteps erupted around you as servants and guards rushed in, voices overlapping with worry, your father and Adrian's name shouted somewhere in the mess.

“Please, my lady—” “You must rest—” “You’re not healed—”

“I need a moment,” you cut in, your voice a hoarse whisper, but one carved in iron. “Alone.”

They hesitated, exchanged glances. You didn’t shout, didn’t beg. You only looked at your father.

He nodded. "Ten minutes. No more."

The room emptied reluctantly.

As the last of them closed the door behind them, you let out a shaky breath and pulled yourself to your feet. The ground swayed, but you gritted your teeth, clutched the edge of the nearest column, and willed yourself forward. You walked like a newborn fawn, fragile and unstable — but each painful step was a promise.

He needed to know. Robert needed to know she wasn’t who she seemed.

The hallway swam before your eyes as you crept forward, every inch of your skin drenched in cold sweat, lungs burning. You made it to the staircase — the grand, spiraling descent toward the front entrance.

And then—

A voice, like the crack of a whip.

“Why couldn’t you just die?”

You froze mid-step.

The words hit your spine like ice water. Slowly, shakily, you turned.

She was standing there at the top of the stairs — Elira. Hair unbound, eyes wide and glistening, but not with tears. With fury. With desperation. Her shoulders shook as if something feral had been trapped inside her too long and was finally crawling out through her skin.

“I had it planned,” she whispered. “Everything. You weren’t supposed to drink that glass.”

“Elira…” Your voice faltered, dry and disbelieving.

“I saw you!” she hissed, taking a step toward you. “Smiling at him. Holding his hand in front of everyone — acting like you belonged there. Like you were ever anything more than a stand-in. A mistake.”

She stepped closer, and the light from the chandelier overhead caught the madness in her eyes — wide, wet, and glittering like a broken mirror.

“You took everything,” she spat. “The family. The name. The crown. Him.” Her lip curled. “Do you even know what it was like? To come back and find that the world had just… kept going? As if I was nothing?”

“I never asked for this,” you said, voice shaking. “I never wanted to take your place. I only ever wanted to survive.”

“You should’ve stayed in your grave.”

Your blood ran cold.

You took a step back, clutching the railing as your knees nearly gave. “It was you, wasn’t it? You told her to poison the wine.”

“She owed me!” Elira snapped. “She raised me like her own daughter! And what did you do? You wormed your way in with your fake smiles and trembling hands. You wept in front of Father. You read with Adrian. You even made Robert—” Her voice cracked, warping into something guttural. “He was mine.”

You couldn’t speak.

Not when the truth curled in the air between you like smoke from a fire too long hidden.

Elira’s hands twitched at her sides. “But it’s not over,” she whispered. “He can’t love a corpse. And you… you already tasted what death feels like.”

Suddenly, she lunged.

You barely had time to react. She collided with you at the top of the stairs, fingers clawing into your arms as she shoved, snarled, pulled your hair. You fought back with pure instinct, pushing her, slapping, wrestling her grip away. The pain in your body screamed through every nerve — but it was drowned by rage, panic, adrenaline.

Your hands tangled in her gown as hers ripped at yours. You shoved her against the wall, she slammed you back into the column. A vase shattered nearby. Your nails found her face, her fingers found your throat. You both tumbled to the floor in a flurry of silk, blood, and hair.

Grunting. Gasping. Scratching. Cursing.

“I won’t let you win,” she hissed through her teeth, dragging you down by the wrist.

You bucked your hips and rolled, now on top.

“Then fight harder,” you spat.

———————————————

Roberts POV

The dungeon beneath the estate was cold, even in the summer heat — a damp, stinking rot clung to the stones like mold clings to forgotten bread. Robert stood in the corner of the interrogation chamber, arms crossed over his chest, his face unreadable as the last drops of truth spilled from the maid’s trembling lips. Torchlight crackled behind him, casting his shadow long and hunched across the floor, and yet he didn’t move.

He had no need to.

The silence he kept was worse than any threat he could make.

The maid had confessed everything. Not in fear of death — no, death would’ve been mercy. She’d confessed because she could feel the rage bleeding off him in waves. It wasn’t the rage of a ruler. It was the fury of a man whose sun had been stolen from him, a man holding back the tide of destruction only by sheer will. A man who had already begun planning the precise method of execution for those who dared touch what was his.

She’d been Elira’s nursemaid from infancy. Loyal. Obsessive. And after Elira had vanished all those years ago, she had slipped into bitterness, spiraling into something mean and foul in the shadows of the estate. When Elira returned, she returned too — not as a maid, but as a woman scorned, enraged that her lady’s place had been usurped by a girl from the streets. A girl with a backbone. A girl with the Duke’s name.

It wasn’t supposed to be you, she said. The poison had been for Elira — at least, that’s what she claimed. But Robert had read the truth in the twitch of her jaw, the way her eyes flinched when she named you. You had been her target all along. Elira had just been the excuse.

He didn’t speak a word in return.

When he left, the guards didn’t ask questions. They merely stepped aside. None dared breathe too loud.

The path back from the dungeon was carved through dense woods, and as he strode past gnarled trees and crumbling stone fences older than the empire itself, the ache in his chest deepened with every step. Leaves crackled beneath his boots. His knuckles were raw from where he'd struck the dungeon wall. Yet none of it mattered. None of it mattered.

All he could see was her. You. The way your body had gone slack in his arms, head tilted like a wilting flower. The way your lips had turned pale, and your skin had lost its warmth. He had screamed that night — not like a prince, not like a warrior. He had screamed like a man being ripped in two, like a creature whose soul had been wrenched from his chest.

He could still feel your heartbeat fading beneath his palm.

And now, even with the antidote coursing through your veins, there had been no change. You remained still. Silent. Trapped on the edge of death, while the world spun on without you.

For the first time in years, Robert had allowed himself to believe someone understood him — not for the title, not for the crown, but for him. The quiet within him. The parts no one else dared touch.

And in return, he had ruined everything. His carelessness. His failure to see the danger. His silence. He had destroyed the only thing that had ever truly belonged to him — the only person he’d ever dared love.

He reached the manor in what felt like seconds and yet an eternity, his hands clenched at his sides, his sword still sheathed only because his fury had grown too cold for anything so quick as violence. The grand marble steps loomed before him, but his mind wasn’t in the present — not truly.

Instead, he was back in that cave.

The night you’d fallen asleep beside him, cheeks streaked with dirt and dried blood. Even then, even half-dead, you’d had the strength to crack some dry insult at his expense before your lashes finally fluttered closed.

He had sat beside you for hours in the firelight, knees drawn up, arms wrapped around himself. And then, without thinking, his hand had moved — trembling as it reached forward.

He had caressed your cheek.

The gesture had been light. Barely a touch. So soft it could’ve been mistaken for wind. But it had scared him to his core. Because he had never known his hands could be capable of something so gentle. Never known that he could.

And in that moment, he had known — no matter what came after, no matter how the world twisted around them — he would burn kingdoms to keep you breathing.

Which is why, when he reached the front courtyard and heard the first crash, followed by the shattering of what sounded like porcelain, his blood turned to ice.

Then came the sound of voices raised — not just angry, but frantic. Furniture scraping. Something heavy falling.

His feet moved before his mind could catch up. The doors burst open under his strength, and the world tilted.

Because that sound — that desperate sound — he’d recognize anywhere.

You were fighting.

And somewhere inside that room — whether Elira, whether someone else — someone was trying to take you from him again.

This time, he would not ask questions.

This time, he would not hesitate.

The doors did not open — they exploded.

A thunderclap echoed through the estate as Robert tore them off their hinges, the splinters of ancient wood flying like shrapnel into the marble foyer. The guards behind him stumbled to a halt, faces pale. Even the wind seemed to pull back as if the very house had sensed the killing intent pouring off him in waves.

His boots struck the stone with purpose, the sound ringing sharp, steady — the sound of a man who had been pushed past the edge and had chosen violence as the only language left.

But nothing — nothing — could have prepared him for what waited inside.

At the far end of the hall, framed by the shattered glow of afternoon light through the windows, he saw you — beneath her.

Elira.

Her knees were locked around your waist, her gown torn, her hands locked around your throat like the claws of some rabid beast. Her golden hair spilled around her face like a veil of madness, and her mouth was moving, screaming something incoherent — but Robert couldn’t hear it. He couldn’t hear anything.

His vision went red.

He moved before he realized it, the world narrowing into a pinpoint. His body crashed through the distance like a storm, and with a roar that wasn’t entirely human, he dove — not like a prince, not like a soldier, but like a man possessed.

His shoulder slammed into Elira’s side with enough force to lift her off the ground. She flew, her scream strangled by the velocity of her own body being hurled across the polished marble. When she hit the floor, the impact echoed like a bell tolling the end of something. Her limbs flailed as she rolled, her back slamming into a column before she collapsed in a twisted heap. A cry of pain ripped from her lips — high, broken, humiliated — but Robert didn’t look at her. He didn’t spare her so much as a breath.

His entire soul was knotted in his arms as he fell to his knees beside you.

“No— no, no, no,” he murmured, the tremor in his voice cracking through every word. His hands were shaking so violently they barely obeyed him as he gathered you into his lap. Your body was limp, your lips slightly parted, your neck bearing the raw impressions of Elira’s nails. But your chest was still rising. Barely.

He brushed the hair from your face with trembling fingers, cradling your head in one palm, the other tracing your cheek with a care so reverent it could have been prayer.

“Look at me,” he whispered, eyes wild. “Please—please, just open your eyes. Let me see you. Just once.”

There was blood on your lower lip. He didn’t know if it was yours or hers.

He didn’t care.

The ache in his chest was splitting him in two. Not from fear, but from the sheer, overwhelming rage that someone had dared put their hands on you — dared drag you back toward the edge of death after you had just begun to return to him.

“I should’ve never left you,” he whispered, his forehead pressing to yours. “I should’ve never let anyone near you. Gods, I should’ve locked the doors and set the whole world on fire if it meant keeping you safe.”

He didn’t realize he was crying until he tasted salt.

The servants were shouting behind him now. Elira had curled in on herself, sobbing something about lies, about betrayal. The guards began dragging her away, their hands not nearly as gentle as they would’ve been an hour ago. But Robert heard none of it.

All he could hear was the sound of your breathing.

All he could feel was the ghost of your touch in the cave — the way you had looked at him before falling asleep, unafraid, as if you saw something in him no one else dared name. The way he had reached out, brushed your cheek like it was made of snow, terrified that too much pressure might cause you to disappear. That was the moment he had known. He’d loved you since then. Loved you so deeply it made a monster out of him.

And now?

Now he held your barely-conscious body in his arms and realized that love was no longer something he had the luxury to confess.

It was the only thing keeping him alive.

——————————————

Readers POV.

One moment, the marble floor was cold under your knees, the Crown Prince’s arms locked tight around you, his voice a desperate, shattering plea in your ear — “Stay with me, please, stay—”

And then… it was gone.

No warmth. No voice. No marble beneath you.

Just light.

It poured in from everywhere — blinding, weightless, stripping the air from your lungs. You blinked, tried to reach for him, but your fingers found nothing. Your voice tore from your throat in a raw scream, his name breaking like glass—

And then, in the empty white void before you, glowing words appeared in gold:

CONGRATULATIONS. You have won.

Your stomach dropped. The letters didn’t feel like triumph. They felt like a knife. You reached out, tried to claw at the glowing words, desperate to make them take you back, but they faded like mist between your fingers—

And you were falling.

When the blur finally cleared, it wasn’t gold-trimmed ceilings or the smell of burning candles that surrounded you. It was a too-white room. Beeping. The sterile bite of antiseptic.

You were in a hospital bed.

You looked down — your body. Your real body. The wavy pink hair gone, replaced by your old self. The gown was thin, scratchy. An IV needle sat taped into your hand. On the other side of the bed, a window overlooked a gray city skyline you recognized instantly. Home.

It hit you so fast you didn’t have time to breathe.

“...No,” you whispered, clutching the blanket until your knuckles blanched. “No, no, no—”

You tried to swing your legs over the bed, but they tangled in the wires. The monitor shrieked as your heart rate spiked. You tore the IV out, ignoring the sting, because the thought of staying here, in this ugly white box, while he was there — needing you — was unbearable.

The nurses rushed in. You barely heard them over your own voice.

“I have to go back— I can’t— I didn’t—” You gasped between sobs, your chest caving in with each breath. “I didn’t tell him— he doesn’t know— he can’t think I didn’t love him—”

The tears came hot, blinding, endless. Your whole body shook as you curled forward, palms pressed to your eyes like you could block out the real world and somehow find the path back. But all you could see was his face — blood on his cheek, eyes wide and wild, the way he’d looked at you like you were the only real thing in the universe.

Your lungs refused to work right. The sobs kept coming, each one ripping a little more out of you until your voice was shredded. You screamed for him — for Bob, for Robert, for someone — and the sound that came out was so raw it startled even you.

A nurse’s hand was on your shoulder. Another was murmuring something about your heart rate. Someone’s voice broke through: “We need to sedate her.”

You didn’t even fight it.

The needle went in. The world went soft around the edges. You tried to keep your eyes open, tried to hold onto that last image of him — those hands holding your face, that voice telling you not to leave him — but it slipped away.

The last thing you felt before the dark took you was the ache in your chest, deep and hollow.

And the knowledge that you would never get to tell him.

Two months.

Sixty days of waking up and wondering if today would be the day your chest stopped aching. Sixty days of the world moving on while you stayed frozen, trapped in a loop of memories that weren’t even supposed to be yours. You’d gone back to work for a week before quitting. You’d stopped answering texts. Stopped caring about your hair.

Some days you’d sit in bed until the moon was high, staring at the wall and thinking about how easy it would be to stop. Just stop. No more waking up with that hollow, gnawing ache. No more nights of feeling the warmth of his hand on your cheek only to open your eyes and find it gone. But every time you thought about doing it, the truth was, you weren’t brave enough.

So now you were here — in some hole-in-the-wall bakery that always smelled faintly of cinnamon and burnt coffee. You sat at a corner table with your hands wrapped around a mug, not because you wanted coffee but because it gave you something warm to hold.

The bell over the door chimed, but you didn’t bother looking up. Customers came and went all the time. The seat across from you scraped against the floor, and you sighed.

“I’m not interested,” you muttered, eyes still fixed on the swirl of cream in your cup.

A pause. And then—

“I finally found the real you, Virelle.”

Your fingers went slack. The mug hit the table with a muted thud.

That voice.

It had haunted you for weeks, visiting you in dreams that left your pillow wet with tears. That low, careful tone, the faint weight of command in every word. You hadn’t heard it since—

No. No, it wasn’t possible.

Your head lifted slowly, as if every muscle in your neck weighed a hundred pounds.

And there he was.

The world tilted. The noise of the café dulled to nothing. Your chest seized so tightly you forgot how to breathe. His hair was different, his clothes strange in this world, but those eyes—those gold-flecked eyes that had looked at you like you were both his ruin and salvation—were the same.

Robert.

Bob.

Alive. Here. Looking at you like he’d never stopped searching.

Your lips parted, but no sound came out. You were frozen, staring at him like if you blinked he’d vanish.

“I told you,” he said quietly, leaning forward, “that I would find you.”

Your breath hitched so sharply it hurt, and before you could stop yourself, the words came pouring out in a ragged, trembling rush.

“How?” you demanded, voice cracking on the word. “How are you here? You’re not—you’re not supposed to be here. That world was yours, not mine. I woke up and you were gone. I thought I’d never—” Your voice broke entirely, and your hands clutched his as though you could anchor yourself to him before he slipped away again.

He didn’t flinch. His grip only tightened, thumb brushing over your knuckles in slow, grounding strokes. “After you… disappeared,” he said quietly, “the real Virelle came to me. I’d—” He paused, swallowing hard, as though the memory alone was enough to reopen the wound. “I’d ended my own life. I thought there was no point without you. But she… she offered me something instead. A chance to leave that world behind.”

Your brows furrowed, tears streaming unchecked now. “To come here?”

“Yes. But it wasn’t instant. I woke up in a strange house—someone else’s home. I didn’t know where I was, or who I was supposed to be in this life. No crown. No guards. No one who knew my name. Just… a man who had to start over.” His voice was low, almost reverent, as if even now he couldn’t quite believe it himself.

“Then how?” Your voice rose, desperate, the words tumbling over one another. “How did you find me? Do you have any idea what it’s been like—thinking you were just gone? That I’d imagined all of it?”

His lips curved into a faint, bittersweet smile. “Before I left, Virelle showed me something. A mirror. In it, I saw you—this you—working here, in your world. I didn’t know when I’d find you. I didn’t know if I’d find you. But I’ve been searching every day since the moment I opened my eyes.”

Your vision swam, the coffee shop around you dissolving into nothing but him, his face, his voice, his hands holding yours. A sound broke from your throat—half sob, half laugh—before you lurched out of your chair.

The scrape of the legs against the tile was loud enough to draw stares, but you didn’t care. You stumbled into him, burying your face in his chest, the sobs ripping through you too violently to contain. His arms closed around you instantly, fierce and protective, like if he let go for even a second the universe would snatch you away again.

“I thought you were gone,” you choked against his shirt. “I thought I’d lost you forever.”

“You almost did,” he murmured, voice shaking. “But I’m here now. And I’m not letting go.”

You clung to him like he was the only solid thing in a world that had turned to fog. His warmth seeped into your bones, his heartbeat was real against your ear, his voice a tether pulling you back from the edge you’d been walking for months.

“I’m here now,” he murmured, and you could feel the words vibrate through his chest. “And I’m not letting go.”

You wanted to believe him. You wanted to live in this moment forever. Your fingers fisted into his shirt, afraid that if you loosened your grip he’d vanish—

And then he did.

The warmth evaporated. The voice stopped. The pressure of his hands on your back was gone, leaving nothing but cold air and the distant clatter of cups from the counter.

You were alone in the bakery, your chair half pushed out, coffee cooling in front of you.

Your chest heaved as your eyes darted wildly around, searching for dark hair, for the familiar intensity in his gaze—anything. But there was nothing. No him. No trace he’d ever been there.

The realization hit like a physical blow, knocking the breath from your lungs.

It wasn’t real.

It was just your mind—starved, desperate, clinging to the smallest fragment of him until it turned into a cruel trick.

Your hands trembled as you lowered yourself back into the chair. Your reflection in the dark coffee stared up at you: hollow-eyed, pale, nothing but a ghost of someone who had once been someone to him.

Now? You were nothing again.

Note: I'm thinking about making an epilogue in Bob's POV??? Is that a good idea, let me know! I kind of wanted a happy ending but the angst just burns so good...

[thepiinkpages]

AlternateUniverse!Bob (Sentry/The Void) X AlternateUniverse!Reader Part 2

Edit: I have a vision and ITS THERE... lets see if I can write down what I am seeing. This'll prob flob but I like this concept—

Part 1 Part 3

You weren’t panicking.

Okay. You were panicking.

But you were doing it with class.

Because only someone with dignity could stumble over the same tree root three times in a row, curse in two different languages, and still cling to her bow like it was a security blanket instead of an actual weapon she hadn’t touched since… well, before death.

“Great,” you muttered under your breath, swatting a branch out of your face and wincing as it whipped back like the woods themselves resented your presence. “Just great. All I wanted was to see one little rare flower. One. But noooo. I had to wander deeper into the Forbidden Fern Hellscape, like an idiot.”

You paused at the base of a gnarled tree, huffing.

“'Stay close to the camp,'” you mimicked under your breath, voice thick with sarcasm. “‘Don’t stray too far, Virelle.’ ‘The woods are full of dangerous creatures, Virelle.’ Well, guess what, imaginary Duke Father in my head? They’re also full of dumb noble girls with zero survival instinct and one very poor sense of direction.”

The worst part was that it hadn’t even started as a stupid idea. The book you’d flipped through in the estate library (probably meant as an expensive decoration, judging by the cobwebs) said there were moonshade blossoms native to this region. Pale, bioluminescent petals that only bloomed in deep woods—rare, beautiful, probably worth something. You thought maybe, just maybe, you could find one and bring it back. Prove useful. Prove you weren’t just the problem child with a blade and bad manners.

But now?

Now the trees looked less like scenery and more like accomplices. The shadows were growing long. The breeze was whispering secrets. And you had the very distinct feeling that if you died out here, the best case scenario would be someone stepping over your body, mistaking you for roadkill.

Because you weren’t dressed like a hunter. You weren’t armored like a soldier. And from far enough away, a moving girl in a dark green cloak might look just enough like a deer to be an honest mistake.

Or maybe they’d hate you enough to shoot you on purpose.

You huffed and turned in another direction, aimless now. Twigs cracked underfoot. A leaf skittered across your boot like it was trying to flee, too.

“If I make it out of this alive,” you muttered, brushing cobwebs from your hair, “I’m going to write one hell of a complaint letter. Maybe to fate. Or the game developers. Or whoever designed this dumb forest map without a compass or a mini-map or even a stupid go-back button—”

The sound of movement, too heavy to be wind, cut through your rant.

You froze.

Something, or someone, was behind you.

And this time, your sarcastic brain had nothing clever to say.

You gulped.

You turned.

And you immediately regretted every decision that had brought you here.

There it was. A tiger. A massive, thick-furred, razor-toothed tiger, sauntering out from behind the trees like it owned the damn forest. Its golden eyes locked onto yours, unblinking. Curious. Hungry.

Your mouth opened and closed several times before a single, eloquent phrase left your lips:

“Who in the hell puts tigers in the woods?”

The tiger didn’t answer. It took a slow step forward.

“I mean seriously,” you hissed, stumbling backward until your spine met rough bark. “You couldn’t throw in some rabbits? Maybe a deer or two? A squirrel? Nooo, it’s gotta be jungle-level boss mode for no reason—”

The tiger growled low, its massive paws silent on the mossy earth, its body coiling like a spring. You whimpered.

And then you remembered.

The bow.

You had a weapon. Granted, you were about as skilled with it as a toddler holding chopsticks for the first time, but at this point, you’d take anything.

Shaking, you slung the bow forward and struggled to nock an arrow. Your fingers fumbled. The string was stiff. Your arms were weak. You pulled back and loosed—fwip!—only to watch the arrow sail past the tiger and thud pathetically into a bush.

“Oh come on—”

The tiger didn’t even blink.

Another shot. Another miss.

Panic gripped your throat like a vice, but the third time, you hit its shoulder. The fourth caught its flank. The fifth, miraculously, lodged in its back, shallow but real.

The tiger let out a roar that rattled your bones and rang in your ears. It didn’t slow down.

You did what any rational, desperate person would do, you tripped backward onto the dirt, hands up in a pathetic attempt to ward off the inevitable.

“Okay, okay, you win! Please just go for the neck! Make it quick—!”

And then a blur of motion streaked past you.

Steel sang through the air, clashing against bone and muscle as the Crown Prince moved with inhuman precision. His sword buried deep into the beast’s chest, and with a final strangled roar, the massive tiger collapsed beside you in a shuddering heap. Blood soaked the earth. The quiet that followed was eerie, broken only by your own ragged breathing.

You blinked, heart still galloping in your chest. It took you a second to realize you hadn’t died. You were, miraculously, still alive.

That was when his shadow fell over you.

“You,” he said flatly, wiping the blood off his sword with the edge of his sleeve, “are the single most exhausting person I’ve ever met.”

You opened your mouth to reply but couldn’t quite manage anything other than a stunned wheeze.

He knelt before you, eyes scanning you over with an expression bordering between fury and reluctant concern. His gaze stopped at your hands, scraped, bloody, shaking from trying to string the bow. He clicked his tongue and reached into his coat, pulling out a fine white handkerchief.

“I can do it myself,” you muttered, half-heartedly, as he wrapped your hands with careful fingers.

“You had five arrows. You missed twice. Then you just made it mad.”

“It was huge! Who breeds tigers in royal forests?!”

“Idiots,” he muttered. “And apparently girls who sneak off for flowers.”

“I thought they were rare!”

“You’re rare,” he said under his breath, then tied the cloth tightly and stood. “Rarely reasonable.”

Then, without warning, he turned and knelt in front of you. “Come on.”

“What?”

“You’re not walking. You’ll fall flat on your face.”

“I won’t.”

“You will.”

“I can manage—hey!”

He slung you over his shoulder like a sack of grain.

“Put me down! This is undignified! I’m wearing a dress!”

“You want to ride with a torn-up leg and a limp and be mistaken for a dying animal? Fine. Otherwise, shut up.”

You flailed in protest for a moment before accepting your fate. Dignity was already lost the moment you screamed at a tiger. Might as well go all in.

He reached his horse; a tall, midnight-black steed with a glistening coat, and set you down into the saddle with ease, then mounted behind you. His arms came around your waist to grip the reins, steady and close, the heat of him pressed against your back.

You tried not to think about it.

Just focus on survival. Focus on how you almost died. Focus on anything except how annoyingly warm he was.

“I don’t suppose,” you said after a beat, “you’re going to pretend this never happened?”

“I don’t lie.”

“Of course you don’t.”

“I plan on telling your father the tiger barely survived.”

You groaned.

The forest blurred around you as the horse picked up pace, hooves pounding against the dirt path. But just as you thought things might calm down—

A sharp whistle sliced through the air.

Then another.

You didn’t have time to scream before an arrow slammed into a tree beside you.

“Get down!” the prince shouted, jerking the reins.

You barely had time to duck as another arrow tore through the air where your head had been.

Assassins. Camouflaged in the trees, swift and silent, now launching a coordinated assault on the royal heir, and apparently, the walking disaster sitting in front of him.

You couldn’t see them, but you didn’t need to. The unmistakable rhythm of attack, thunk, thwip, rustling leaves—sent panic ripping through your chest.

“I swear I didn’t plan this either!” you yelled as he shielded your body with his own.

“Quiet!” he snapped. His sword flashed up again, slicing an incoming arrow in mid-air. “We’re outnumbered.”

You turned, scrambling with your injured hands through your satchel.

“Wait—I have arrows!” you exclaimed.

“With what bow? You dropped yours like a genius.”

“No—I still have it! Look!”

You half-swung it up like a proud child presenting a crayon drawing, and he blinked at you for a moment. Then, to your utter shock, he nodded.

“Alright. Use mine. I’ll ride.”

He pulled his own, far sturdier bow from the saddle holster and handed it to you, already notching another arrow for his next strike.

You gulped. The thing was heavier than yours, the tension far stronger. But you were too high on adrenaline to care.

“Okay,” you whispered. “Okay, let’s go.”

The next few minutes passed in a blur of motion and noise. The horse galloped full-speed through the trees as you twisted back, aiming wildly. One shot—miss. Another—nicked a shoulder. Third—yes! Right through the thigh of one cloaked figure leaping between branches.

“Nice shot,” Robert muttered, eyes never leaving the road ahead.

“Thanks,” you said, gasping. “I think I’m going to throw up.”

“Wait until after we live.”

You ducked again as he veered the horse sharply, narrowly avoiding another ambush. An arrow grazed your arm, slicing fabric and skin. You yelped, but stayed upright.

By the time the sounds of pursuit began to fade, you’d emptied your quiver and your hands were raw all over again.

You slumped forward, dazed, clutching his bow like a lifeline. He didn’t say anything for a while, just rode with a grim focus until the trees began to thin.

Finally, he exhaled.

“Next time,” he said, voice low, “you’re not leaving camp without a military escort.”

“Next time?” you wheezed. “There’s a next time?”

He didn’t answer, but you felt it, the press of his chest against your back, the subtle shift of tension in his arms. He was furious. And maybe… relieved.

And you?

You’d nearly died twice in one day. Your hands were a mess. You smelled like tiger breath and horse sweat.

But that would have to wait because you weren't finished fighting just yet.

The forest exploded in chaos.

The first volley of arrows had been just the start. Now, the assassins were everywhere, blades flashing between tree trunks, leather boots thudding against the mossy ground. Horses spooked, birds scattered. The air was thick with sweat, smoke, and the metallic scent of blood not yet spilled.

Robert cursed under his breath, wrenching the horse into a tight turn as another figure leapt from the underbrush, blade raised high. He sliced the man down midair with clean precision, but more kept coming, melting out of the trees like ghosts.

You didn’t have time to scream. You barely had time to think.

He shoved the reins into your hands. “Hold tight!”

Then he dismounted with a thud, sword gleaming like moonlight. He was everywhere at once, a storm in royal blue, dodging and parrying and cutting down anyone who came close. Two, three, four fell before you could even register what was happening.

You scrambled from the saddle, bow already in hand. Your fingers trembled but you managed to nock one arrow. A quick, desperate shot, miss. Another. Miss again. You cursed, glancing around.

Then you saw it: your shoe. A well-crafted, hard-soled, perfectly-aimed projectile.

“Eat luxury, you bastard!” you shouted, flinging it square at a masked man’s head.

It hit with a satisfying thunk. He stumbled, dazed just long enough for the prince to drive his blade through him.

Robert blinked at you. “Did you just throw your shoe?”

You yanked off the other one. “We all contribute in our own way!”

And then you hurled it like your life depended on it. (Because, to be fair, it did.)

He ducked another sword and kicked one attacker square in the ribs. “How do you even know how to aim like that?!”

You picked up a rock the size of an apple and chucked it at another masked face. “Have you ever tried getting a cab in the city at rush hour? This is child’s play!”

The prince stared at you for one stunned second before a dagger nearly took off his ear. Then the fight dragged on.

You were breathless, filthy, hair stuck to your cheek with sweat, and throwing anything you could grab; rocks, sticks, even a half-eaten piece of dried fruit from your pouch. Your voice cracked from shouting things no noblewoman should ever utter, lines that made even Robert glance at you between slashes like you’d just summoned a different demon entirely.

“Where in the seven hells did you learn those words?!”

“Internet forums!”

“I don’t know what that means but I hate it!”

But the humor burned out quickly.

You could see it in his stance, the growing desperation in the tightness of his jaw, the exhaustion in his movements. He was fast, deadly, but he was only one man. They weren’t trying to kill him quickly. They were trying to overwhelm him.

And they were succeeding.

The two of you were being herded, driven like deer toward the edge of something. You didn’t realize what until your back hit air and you turned to see nothing behind you—just the yawning mouth of a cliff, plummeting into mist and white-water rapids far, far below.

You froze.

So did he.

Five assassins remained. All masked, circling slowly like wolves. His grip on his sword was trembling now, the blade streaked with red. He stepped in front of you completely, shielding you with his body. You reached for another rock, only to find none left. Not even a pebble.

Well.

This was it.

You were going to die barefoot.

“Robert,” you whispered, your voice a tiny breath against the rush of wind.

He turned slightly. And, for the first time, you saw it.

Fear.

Not of death.

Of dying.

He looked at you like the idea alone hurt more than the knives.

Then he did something unexpected.

He dropped his sword.

“...What?”

He turned, took your face gently in his bloodied hands, and muttered, “Forgive me.”

You had just enough time to register the word before he grabbed you, arms tight around your back, body pressed to yours—

And jumped.

You shrieked as the ground disappeared beneath your feet. Wind whipped past your face. Trees blurred above you. The world became a dizzying roar of air and panic and the cold rush of oncoming death.

You didn’t even hit the water before everything went black.

You woke with a ragged gasp, lungs burning as you rolled onto your side, hacking up half the river. Cold air needled your wet skin, and your head pounded with the force of a war drum.

It took a moment to register your surroundings: stone walls, faint firelight dancing across them, and the unmistakable damp scent of earth and smoke. You were in a cave—alive somehow, which was already shocking. Less shocking was the dull ache radiating from every muscle like you'd been used as a human paddle.

Then you saw him.

The Crown Prince, sitting near the fire, looking completely unbothered as he casually poked at the flames with a stick… wearing nothing but his underclothes.

His very form-fitting, very royal, very-not-drenched underclothes.

Your brain glitched.

Your jaw dropped.

“WHAT THE HELL?!”

You shot upright with all the grace of a wet cat, eyes wide and limbs scrambling for any sense of dignity.

He didn’t flinch. He didn’t even blink.

He just pointed at you, tone absurdly calm. “You’re the one screaming, but I think you should look down first.”

And then, like a delayed horror movie jump-scare, your eyes dropped down to yourself.

No corset. No dress. No sleeves. No shoes. Just—

You screamed again. High-pitched. Guttural. Terrified.

You were in your underwear.

Your hands scrambled uselessly over yourself before you snatched the nearest fabric you could find—his royal navy cape, still damp but blessedly opaque—and wrapped it around you like your life depended on it. “YOU—YOU—YOU—”

“Me,” he said, still maddeningly calm. “Yes.”

“You—undressed me?!”

He raised a brow. “Would you have preferred I left you in a freezing river with soaked wool clinging to your body, giving you a one-way ticket to hypothermia? I was trying to save your life, not look at your legs, believe me.”

You were already halfway to dying of embarrassment. “How dare you—”

“Is this gratitude?” he interrupted, sounding more tired than angry. “Because frankly, I think I deserve a thank-you. I dragged you to shore, carried you through thorn bushes, cleaned the blood from your face, started a fire with wet wood and stripped a half-conscious woman while keeping my eyes closed. You’re welcome.”

You stared at him, clutching the cape tighter. “You kept your eyes closed?”

“I have a sword, not a death wish.”

You glared, your cheeks ablaze, arms trembling from the cold and your rising temper. “You—this—this is not appropriate behavior for a prince!”

“Oh,” he said, tossing another stick into the fire. “My deepest apologies, Lady Virelle. Next time we’re both nearly murdered and plunge off a cliff into icy death, I’ll be sure to wait for a chaperone.”

Your mouth dropped open.

He had the nerve to smirk. “If it helps, I’m certain I looked worse. River water isn’t exactly kind to hair.”

“You—You arrogant, sword-happy—man!”

“You’re welcome,” he repeated with another glance at the fire. “Your modesty’s intact, your blood’s circulating, and neither of us are dead. I’d call that a win.”

You hated that he was right. Hated even more that, under the heavy embarrassment, there was a tiny—tiny—part of you that felt warm. And not just from the fire.

Because he hadn’t had to save you. Not like that. Not with such care. Not after you'd told him you didn’t like him, not after your history. And yet… he had.

You looked away, muttering, “Still didn’t have to take my corset.”

“Oh, that thing?” He grimaced. “It was cutting off your circulation. I thought it was a torture device. I almost stabbed it to be safe.”

You flung a pebble at him.

He caught it with annoying ease.

“Go die,” you snapped.

“I already almost did. With you. Twice.”

You bit your lip and turned back toward the fire, cheeks still burning.

This was going to be the longest night of your life.

You were wet. You were cold. You were in a cave with the Crown Prince, whose sword had once tasted your blood because you dared breathe in a garden.

The fire crackled low in the center of the cave, offering only a grudging warmth. You sat across from him, arms curled tight around your knees, wrapped in his heavy cloak, too aware of your disheveled state, and too aware of him. His bare chest was partially visible beneath his undone shirt, his hair still damp and tousled from the river. Somehow he managed to look both regal and wild, like a lion thrown out of court.

You weren't sure which was worse, being nearly eaten by a tiger, hunted by assassins, or having to share close quarters with him.

The silence was needling. Every now and then your eyes met, and then just as quickly looked away.

Eventually, he exhaled. A sharp, weary sound.

“I thought you were an assassin in the garden,” he muttered, eyes on the fire.

You raised a brow. “You cut me.”

He sighed again. “I didn’t say I was right. Just… prepared.”

“Prepared? You mean unhinged.”

“I mean careful.”

You scoffed. “You mean paranoid.”

“Paranoia keeps people like me alive,” he said flatly.

Something in his tone made you pause.

He glanced up then, eyes a shade duller than before. “You think you’ve got it bad. That your noble life is tragic because you’re not the real daughter. But you don’t know anything about the court until someone tries to put a knife in your throat before you can spell your name.”

You blinked. The tone of his voice had shifted—lower, quieter, a different kind of sharp.

“My childhood wasn’t daisies and frills,” he went on, voice hard now. “There were assassins in the halls before I learned to walk properly. Most of them sent by my father’s consort, because she wanted her son on the throne. And my father? He didn’t care. I was the spare. The mistake born first.”

Your mouth parted, but no words came.

He wasn’t looking at you anymore. Just the fire. Eyes shadowed. Voice steady, but distant, like he was reciting someone else’s life.

“She, my mother, believed survival was a virtue,” he said. “Made me drink poison in measured doses every day. To ‘build immunity.’”

Your heart dropped.

“She used to leave me in the woods at night when I was six. Said if I couldn’t fight off the cold and wild beasts, then I wasn’t fit to be her son. That it was better to let nature decide before the kingdom did.”

You stared at him. “She… she left you alone?”

“For days sometimes,” he said, almost with a shrug. “If I came back with blood on me, it was a good sign. If I didn’t come back…” A pause. “Well. She always said she had the instrument to make more.”

You were silent. Utterly, thoroughly silent.

And for once, so was he.

The arrogant, unflappable prince who mocked you at court, who baited you at banquets and made dry comments during council sessions, was gone. In his place was something colder, older. Not broken, but reshaped by violence and expectation.

“I don’t talk about it,” he muttered after a beat. “No one really wants to hear it. They all prefer the golden prince, don’t they? The one who wins duels and kisses babies and looks good in velvet.”

You swallowed. “I didn’t know.”

He huffed a bitter laugh. “Of course you didn’t. Why would you? You’re from a house that throws galas for every seasonal bloom.”

That stung. You had felt pity and sorrow for him but then he looked at you. Really looked at you. And something in his eyes, quiet judgment, lit a fuse in your chest.

“Oh,” you said tightly. “So just because I didn’t grow up with wolves chewing on my ankles, my life must’ve been golden, is that it?”

His brows furrowed. “I didn’t—”

“You think being dressed up in lace and sent to banquets means I was happy? That being treated like a cursed object at every table, like a stain on the family name, somehow makes me lucky?”

He didn’t answer.

You stood up, the cloak slipping a little from your shoulder, but you didn’t care. You could barely hear the fire over the blood pounding in your ears.

“Do you know what it’s like to be served moldy food because the kitchen staff ‘forgot’? To have your sheets soaked in ink as a prank? To sit perfectly straight and smile while some smiling court lady pricks you with needles under the guise of helping you dress?” You laughed, sharp and shaky. “They didn’t want to kill me. They just wanted to remind me I didn’t belong.”

Still, he was silent.

You took a step closer. “You think pain only counts when it’s bloody and dramatic? Let me tell you, Your Highness—some of us are dying slowly. Quietly. Under a roof full of people who pretend we’re nothing more than bad luck wrapped in a gown.”

Your voice cracked, just slightly.

“I’m not the villain in your story. And I’m not some delicate flower raised on kisses and honey wine. I’m the black cloud over a family portrait. The invisible ink they wish they could scrub out.”

The silence that followed felt enormous.

The prince looked at you—really looked. His expression unreadable, mouth parted slightly, as if your words had cracked something deeper than armor.

“I didn’t know,” he said finally.

You crossed your arms. “No. You didn’t bother to ask.”

A beat.

And then, unexpectedly—his voice softened. “I’m sorry.”

You didn’t answer. You sat down again, further from him this time, not out of anger, but because your ribs ached with too many words. You turned toward the fire, blinking fast.

He didn’t say anything else for a while.

But when he spoke again, it was quieter. “Maybe we’re both ghosts in our own homes.”

That made your throat close.

The fire cracked again, soft and low. The night hadn’t gotten warmer, but somehow, the cave didn’t feel as cold.

The fire crackled low between you. Its warmth reached your skin, but not much further. Not deep enough to soothe what still trembled beneath the surface.

You didn’t know why you said all that. Why you snapped. Why you let yourself be seen like that—splintered, frayed, and bitter around the edges. You hadn’t planned to. You never did. You were supposed to survive this life by playing the game, not by shattering in front of the Crown Prince like some broken music box who’d finally run out of songs.

You pulled the cloak tighter around your chest. Your shoulders shook, just slightly. A hollow silence pressed into your ribs, but your voice came out small.

“I used to cry at night and then blame the rain for the sound.”

You weren’t sure why you said that either.

You just stared into the fire, hoping he hadn’t heard, hoping the wind had swallowed your voice whole—but it hadn’t. You felt his gaze like a physical weight.

“Did it help?” he asked.

You gave a watery laugh. “Not really. But it was better than being caught. No one can mock you for sadness if they think it was the storm.”

His gaze didn’t leave you.

You didn’t look at him. You couldn’t. But you felt it—the way his presence shifted closer, just a little, like gravity was trying something.

“I hated birthdays,” you said, the words falling now, too soft to stop. “Everyone pretended to be kind, just for the day. Gave me gifts they didn’t wrap themselves. Hugged me with eyes that didn’t match their mouths. It felt like a funeral with cake.”

Something inside you tightened. The air in the cave was too dry.

Your throat burned, and before you could stop it, a single tear slid down your cheek.

You turned away fast, rubbing at your face, embarrassed. “Ignore me. I'm just tired and dramatic and—”

Fingers brushed your chin—gently, barely there.

You froze.

The prince reached over and, without a word, caught the tear with the pad of his thumb.

His hand was warm. Steady.

Your breath caught in your chest.

You finally looked at him.

He wasn’t smirking. He wasn’t teasing. He wasn’t wearing that usual prince-mask of practiced detachment. His face was serious, yes, but not cold. Just… solemn. As if he recognized something in you—something he saw in his own reflection sometimes. That same kind of ache. That same quiet ache that never left.

“I don’t think you're dramatic,” he said.

You blinked, dazed.

“I think,” he continued slowly, “you’ve been holding too much for too long. And people mistake silence for strength, even when it’s just someone trying not to drown.”

His thumb hovered near your cheek, hesitating, then dropped.

You let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding.

He looked like he wanted to say something else—something heavier—but instead, he just leaned back, letting the space settle again.

The fire snapped.

And in that silence, something between you shifted. Not fixed. Not healed. But seen.

And in that moment, being seen didn’t feel like a threat.

It felt like mercy.

Morning filtered in through the jagged mouth of the cave, casting soft golden rays over damp stone and scattered embers. You stirred, joints stiff and chilled despite the warmth of the cloak tangled around you.

But that wasn’t what made you freeze.

No.

It was the arm slung across your waist. Solid. Heavy. Alive.

You opened your eyes slowly, blinking blearily, until you saw the mess of golden hair against your shoulder. And the very familiar curve of a royal jaw, nestled far too close for comfort.

The Crown Prince.

You nearly screamed. Nearly.

Your mouth opened to yell some thoroughly earned accusations about personal space, but before the words could launch, your gaze caught on his face—and everything inside you stalled.

He was pale. Unnaturally so. Sweat clung to his brow. His lips were parted slightly, and his breathing came shallow and uneven.

Your irritation vanished instantly.

Something was wrong.

“Hey,” you said, louder than intended, pushing his arm off you. “Hey! Wake up, what the hell—?”

No response.

You sat up fully, pressing your palm to his forehead. Hot. Burning.

“Shit,” you whispered. “Shit, shit, shit.”

You scrambled to check him, tugging aside the cloak, your hands moving in a frenzy over his ribs, shoulders, arms. Nothing obvious, until you found it.

On his back.

A jagged, brutal gash that had gone crusted at the edges, blood dried like black paint along his spine. The skin around it was inflamed and throbbing.

He’d carried you. Shielded you. Fought. Jumped off a cliff. With this?

You clutched your head, overwhelmed.

Then the panic properly took over.

“You complete, royal idiot,” you hissed. “You’re not supposed to die like this, do you hear me? You don’t get to go out like some tragic myth. Wake up!”

You grabbed his shoulders and shook him.

Hard.

His head flopped forward… then back again.

“WAKE. UP.”

Flop.

“You’re a prince! You can’t just die on someone like this! I don’t even know how to explain this to your court! Or your army! Or your laundry maids!”

Flop.

“I will slap you—I will slap royalty! Don’t test me!”

At last, he groaned. And to your complete horror—and relief—his eyes cracked open.

“…You know,” he rasped, voice a touch hoarse, “if I had died… that shaking would've finished the job.”

You blinked.

Then glared. “You’re awake?!”

“I was,” he muttered, smirking faintly, “until you manhandled me like a sack of wheat.”

“Excuse me?!”

“And here I thought I was the barbarian between us,” he added, smug despite the heavy fog in his eyes. “You really do manhandle nobility in your spare time, or is this just for me?”

You gawked. “I should’ve let the fever eat your brain.”

But his smirk vanished in a heartbeat. His whole body tensed—and then he let out a sharp hiss through his teeth, his face contorting in pain.

“Robert?”

You dropped the sarcasm, moving to his side. He was gripping the cloak now, his body hunched slightly as if bracing himself from the inside out.

You watched his jaw tighten, his brow furrow, breath shallow.

The blood had soaked through again.

“Oh gods,” you whispered. “It reopened. Of course it did.”

He didn’t answer, too busy trying not to pass out again.

And just like that, your fear came surging back. All the fury drained from your limbs, replaced by a terrible, helpless heat in your chest.

You reached for another strip of the cloak, already soaked but better than nothing, and tried to press it gently over the wound again.

“Don’t talk,” you murmured, voice shaking. “Just… just try not to die. I’m not done yelling at you yet.”

He didn’t speak, but his fingers brushed yours for half a second.

You didn’t mention it.

Not yet.

You pressed the cloak harder against the wound, hoping pressure alone could slow the bleeding. His body trembled beneath your touch, and his breath came faster now, more labored. Your heart felt like it was trying to break out of your chest.

“We need to get this cleaned,” you muttered, more to yourself than him. “We need a healer. Bandages. Antiseptic. I need—I need something. I can’t—”

“You need to go.”

His voice was gravel, low and cracked. You looked up to find his eyes open—barely—but steady. Determined. And far too calm for someone bleeding out.

“What?”

“You heard me.” He tried to sit up and failed with a quiet groan, his hand gripping the damp stone at his side. “Take your bow. Find the path. Get help. I’ll be fine.”

“No, you won’t,” you snapped. “Look at you. You can’t even sit up. I’m not leaving you alone out here like—like some discarded festival goat!”

He blinked, baffled. “…Festival goat?”

“That’s not the point.”

“I think it might be.”

You glared. “You’re impossible.”

“And you’re stubborn,” he rasped. “Which would be charming if it weren’t so stupid right now.”

You folded your arms over your chest. “I’m not going.”

His brow twitched. “You are.”

“I’m not.”

“Then I’ll command you.” He pushed himself up a few inches with a wince, blood trickling anew from his back. “As your Crown Prince.”

You stared at him, jaw slack.

He held your gaze, no trace of the teasing glint from earlier. “If you don’t leave, I will drag myself out there and find help myself, wounds be damned. And then when I collapse in the mud and die of an infection, you can explain to the court how your pride killed their heir.”

“…That’s not fair.”

“Neither is bleeding into my own cape.”

You stood there a moment, your heart cracking in places you didn’t know it could. Every instinct screamed at you not to leave him, not to turn your back on someone who’d fought through hell to protect you. He’d jumped off a cliff with you in his arms.

And now you were supposed to just… walk away?

But the steel in his eyes didn’t budge. And you knew he was right.

“Fine,” you muttered. “But if you die, I’m dragging your ghost back just to slap you.”

“I’d expect nothing less.”

You wiped your face with the back of your hand and turned away, hastily pulling your still-damp clothes back on, tugging each piece over your limbs with angry fingers and stiff joints. The chill made it worse. The forest was probably still crawling with gods knew what.

You strapped your quiver over your shoulder, grabbed your bow, and tied the cloak tighter around his frame.

He looked smaller, somehow, curled there by the fire. Pale. Quiet.

“I’ll be fast,” you promised. “Don’t die.”

He gave a weak smile. “Not planning to.”

You hesitated at the mouth of the cave, casting one last look over your shoulder.

The fire cracked behind him. He didn’t meet your gaze.

So you turned… and vanished into the trees.

The cold bit at your skin like tiny needles as you stepped out of the cave and into the forest, breath fogging in the early morning air. The world was unnervingly still. Not silent—birds chirped faintly in the distance, and wind whispered through the canopy—but still, like the forest itself was watching you, holding its breath.

Your bow felt heavier than it had the day before. Maybe because this time, you weren’t just hunting for flowers or fending off tigers. This time, someone’s life actually depended on you.

“Get help,” you muttered aloud, tightening your grip. “Find the road, find the camp, tell them the Crown Prince is bleeding out in a cave and hope they don’t think you’re insane.”

You forced your feet to keep moving, crunching softly over moss and twigs. The terrain sloped downward, and dew made the ground slick. You stumbled once, catching yourself against a tree, and let out a breathless curse. You hadn’t even realized how sore your arms were until now. Or how badly your legs ached from the fall, from the adrenaline, from the sheer overwhelming everything.

“God, I am so dumb,” you whispered. “Who goes flower-picking in a cursed forest? Who throws shoes at trained assassins? Why do I know how to cuss like a drunken sailor?”

Another branch snapped underfoot. You froze, ears straining.

Nothing.

Just your imagination, probably. Your nerves were so wound up, you were starting to see threats in every rustle of leaves, every shadow between trees. The woods didn’t feel right, though. They were too quiet now. The kind of quiet that comes before a storm or an ambush.

You picked up your pace.

“Alright. Focus,” you told yourself. “The camp was northwest. I think. Or maybe—wait, no. You crossed the river before the tiger, so if the sun is rising over there, then—”

A growl sliced through the air behind you.

You spun, arrow nocked before you even registered moving. But there was nothing. Just undergrowth and low fog curling between the trees.

You took a step back. Another. Then forced yourself to turn around and keep going, faster now, practically jogging over the uneven path. Your breath came quicker, heart thudding in your ears. The trees all looked the same. How were you supposed to find your way out when even the sky was barely visible through the dense canopy?

Still, you kept moving. You had to. For Robert. For the strange, bleeding, half-frozen idiot who’d jumped off a cliff with you like it was nothing. Who was probably running a fever by now, curled on a stone floor in a soaked cape.

Another snap behind you. Closer.

This time you didn’t look back. You just broke into a run.

Twigs whipped your face. You vaulted over a log. Something rustled just out of view—too heavy to be a bird, too stealthy for a deer. You reached for another arrow with a shaking hand.

Then you saw it: a bit of trampled ground. Bootprints in the dirt. Fresh.

A trail.

Your chest nearly caved in from the rush of relief. You followed the prints, slipping and stumbling, but still moving—until at last, you heard it.

Voices. Horses. A flicker of movement through the trees.

“Hey!” you shouted. “Hey! Over here!”

The woods echoed back.

Then: “Halt—who goes there?”

You pushed through the last of the brush, panting, wild-haired and flushed with cold. Four guards looked up from their patrol, hands drifting toward weapons, and you all froze in a strange moment of mutual disbelief.

The camp wasn’t what you expected.

You’d pictured chaos, maybe, or soldiers rushing to saddle horses the moment you gave your breathless report. Instead, as the guards pulled you past the barricades, you were greeted with murmurs and side-eyes—watchful, calculating.

Something was wrong. The air felt tight. Too many gazes. Too much stillness under the morning light.

You swung out of the woods like a madman shouting. “The Crown Prince is bleeding out in a cave two miles east of here. You need to send a physician, now. I don’t care who you think I am, he’s dying—”

“You’ll have time to explain yourself,” one of the older soldiers said, grabbing your arm in a firm grip. “You’re coming with us.”

You blinked. “What?”

He didn’t answer. Another set of boots approached fast, and before you could ask again, a different guard—this one younger, scowling—stepped in and said, “That’s her. The one who matched the description. I saw her at the banquet.”

Your heart dropped. “Excuse me?”

“You’re under arrest,” the older one said grimly. “Suspicion of poisoning Royal Guard Thalen, assigned to Lady Emerinne. You’ll speak when questioned. Not before.”

You reeled. “Poisoning—what are you talking about? I haven’t even—Thalen? I don’t even know who that is! I’ve been in a cave!”

But they didn’t listen.

You tried to twist free, tried to explain, but a cold pair of shackles snapped around your wrists before the words finished leaving your mouth. Panic flooded your chest like icy water. This couldn’t be happening. Not now. Not again.

Your voice cracked. “The Crown Prince is going to die. You don’t understand—he’s dying, and I’m the only one who knows where he is!”

That made some of the gathered soldiers exchange glances. You caught the brief flicker of hesitation in one man’s eyes—but the moment passed.

“I said move,” the younger guard snapped.

You were dragged through the sea of tents, your legs stiff with exhaustion and disbelief, the metal cuffs biting into your skin. Familiar faces passed—nobles who once called you a viper in silks, servants who never looked you in the eye. No one intervened. No one spoke.

And somehow, it all felt inevitable.

It was just like before. Just like that night years ago, when you’d stood over Dione with a sword in your trembling hand, and they’d looked at you like a monster.

“Is Thalen even dead?” you barked as they pulled you toward the prison wagons. “Do you have proof, or just accusations and a bruised ego?!”

They shoved you forward, into the iron belly of a cage.

You slammed your fists against the bars. “He’ll die! And when he does, it’s on your heads, not mine!”

The door clanged shut.

And for the second time in your life, you were thrown in chains while your name rotted in someone else's mouth.

The cell was barely wider than your reach, but you paced it like it was a ballroom.

Back and forth. Back and forth.

Your feet ached. Your hair was a bird’s nest. Your wrists were red and sore from the shackles they'd finally removed, and every breath felt like it echoed against cold stone walls that didn’t care.

How long until someone finds him? What if he’s already— No. Don’t think it.

You pressed your fingers into your temple hard enough to hurt.

They hadn’t listened. No one had. Not the guards. Not the soldiers. Not even when you screamed his name like a lifeline. You’d only been back an hour, maybe two, but it felt like days. And in all that time, not one person had asked if you were okay.

Not that you expected them to.

You stopped at the wall again, your knuckles grazing the stone. It wasn’t like this was new. You’d been locked away in nicer rooms for “hysterics” or “incidents.” You’d grown used to the whispers, the avoidance, the burden of being the family shame in a pretty dress.

But this time?

This time it wasn’t your fault.

And that made it worse.

You were halfway through forming a makeshift escape plan involving a sharp piece of broken floor tile and a very stupid guard when the sound of approaching boots snapped you to attention.

Two voices. One urgent. One clipped.

You turned just as the key rattled in the lock.

The door opened—and for a second, you genuinely couldn’t breathe.

Your father stepped in first, red-faced and out of breath, the scent of expensive cologne clinging to him like a second skin. His eyes searched you wildly, voice already tumbling out:

“Oh, thank heavens you’re alright—Are you hurt? Did they rough you up? Don’t say a word to anyone until we get your advocate. I’ve sent for the best legal counsel in the capital, you’ll have a full trial—”

“Father—”

“No, no, don’t even try to explain,” he said quickly, pressing a handkerchief to his mouth as if already tired. “It’s a nightmare, but we’ll get through this. Your reputation, well, that will need mending, but we can spin it. You weren’t in your right mind, you’ve been under stress—gods, how could this happen right before the solstice ball?”

“I didn’t do anything,” you said, voice cracking.

Your father didn’t pause. Didn’t blink. He only sighed, the way he always did when your words inconvenienced the story he’d already told himself.

“I swear,” you tried again, stepping forward. “I didn’t hurt anyone. I saved the Crown Prince—I came back for help, I didn’t poison anyone—!”

But it was like trying to reason with marble. Your words slid off him, unwanted.

Behind him, leaning on the cell door like this was a casual visit and not your lowest moment, stood Adrian.

He hadn’t changed much. Still pristine. Still cold-eyed. Still had that smirk like he knew every word you were about to say, and didn’t believe a single one of them.

He hadn’t said a word since entering.

Your father gave you one final pat on the shoulder like he was tucking away a doll. “Just… stay quiet until the lawyer arrives. Please. Don’t make this worse than it already is.”

Then he turned to go.

And that was when Adrian finally opened his mouth.

“Why do you even bother?” he asked lightly, almost bored. “She always finds a way to drag this family through filth. Frankly, we should’ve just stuck with the insanity defense and left her to rot.”

The silence that followed wasn’t shocked.

It was familiar.

Your father didn’t argue. Didn’t correct him. Just paused, sighed, and kept walking out.

You stared at Adrian, mouth parted, as the full meaning of his words sank in.

Insanity defense.

Rot.

He was talking about you like you weren’t even human.

And this time… you didn’t take it.

“You bastard!” you screamed, lunging toward the bars. “You smug, arrogant, *cold-*hearted bastard! I didn’t do anything wrong and you know it! You’ve always known it, but it was easier to believe I was broken, wasn’t it?!”

Adrian’s brows arched, but he didn’t flinch. “So you are claiming innocence. What a surprise.”

“I am innocent!” you shouted, eyes burning. “I wasn’t even there! But that doesn’t matter to you, does it? Because I’m not really your sister, right? I never was!”

Your throat tightened.

“That’s it, isn’t it?” you hissed. “You’ve hated me since the day they brought me home. You’ve always looked at me like a stain on the family portrait. You think I don’t know what you whisper behind doors? That you wish Father had left me in the snow where I belonged?”

Adrian didn’t deny it.

He just looked at you.

“Maybe you should’ve,” he said quietly.

And then he left.

The cell door slammed shut. The key clicked.

You stood there, fists clenched, chest heaving, feeling fourteen again—back when the world first showed you where you stood in this family.

Only now, you weren’t going to cry.

You were going to survive.

And when the truth came out? When Robert—the Crown Prince—told the court who saved his life?

You hoped Adrian would be there.

You hoped he’d see.

The courtroom smelled of old wood and perfume. Every breath felt like swallowing splinters.

You sat still on the defendant’s bench, wrists resting neatly in your lap, spine straight. You wore the dress your father had sent—a modest, soft blue thing with long sleeves and a high collar that scratched at your throat. It didn’t feel like armor. It felt like a noose stitched with lace.

The courtroom buzzed with murmurs. Faces you recognized from parties, from balls, from every cold drawing room you’d ever been ignored in—now stared at you with open disdain. A few feigned polite concern. Most just wanted blood.

The prosecution stood tall and proud, robes stiff, expression smug. He began with your name. Your full name.

He said it like it was a curse.

"Virelle Withers," he began, his voice sharp and clipped like a knife tapping porcelain. "A young woman of noble birth, raised in the house of Duke Thorian Withers. And yet, despite every advantage, she has lived a life mired in scandal, violence, and cruelty."

You didn’t blink.

He listed everything. Every whispered rumor ever tied to your name. The time you shouted at a governess. The time you "pushed" another girl off a horse—conveniently omitting that she’d cut your reins. The time you stormed out of a banquet. The time you threw your glass at a nobleman who called you ‘a burden adopted out of pity.’

Every incident that had ever been twisted to make you monstrous.

And now, the newest charge.

Attempted poisoning of a royal guard.

An old guard, connected to a noble family, and one who had, by coincidence or fate, been assigned near the estate of the girl you’d once threatened with a sword in a moment of fear and desperation.

A girl who now sat in the front row with a pristine handkerchief dabbing at her dry eyes.

"She has always been prone to outbursts. Violence. Pettiness. She made an enemy of Lady Maelene all those years ago—and now we are to believe the sudden illness of Maelene’s protector is a coincidence?"

He turned to the gallery like they were all in on a joke.

"She is, by all accounts, a danger to society. Unstable. Unrepentant. And dangerous."

Your lawyer stood only to make polite objections. He tried to argue that you had changed. That you were a young woman striving to do better. That the evidence was circumstantial at best.

But the prosecution had something he didn’t.

Public opinion.

And your silence.

You said nothing.

Not even when the judge turned to you at the end of the proceedings, grey eyes sharp beneath a powdered wig.

“Lady Virelle. You’ve heard what’s been said. Do you have anything to say in your defense?”

You stood.

The scrape of the chair against marble echoed through the hushed courtroom like the snap of a drawn bowstring. Every pair of eyes turned to you, expecting a tearful plea or a defiant silence.

Instead, you lifted your chin and stepped forward, each footfall deliberate as you approached the witness box.

“I do,” you said calmly. “I will take the stand.”

A ripple of murmurs broke through the crowd. Even your lawyer turned to look at you with wide, uncertain eyes. But you ignored them all as you placed your hand on the rail and let out a soft breath.

When you spoke, your voice carried. Crisp. Measured. And sharp enough to draw blood.

“Prosecutor Thales,” you began, gaze locking with the man who had so eagerly painted you as a villain, “I have a question for you. In your opening argument, you claimed I am violent and petty. You listed incidents from years past—unconfirmed, taken out of context—and offered them as proof of character. But I wonder, did you present a single one with any actual witness statement? Or just court gossip?”

He blinked.

You didn’t wait for an answer.

“You mentioned the governess incident. Did you also mention she was dismissed shortly afterward for beating a stable hand with a cane? Or that I had bruises up my arms when my tutor found me?”

The room went still.

You turned toward the judges.

“I’m not here to pretend I’ve lived a perfect life,” you continued, voice softening just enough to chill the air. “But I won’t let you write me as a monster in your story of convenient villains. You said I pushed a girl off a horse? She cut my reins. I could’ve died. And as for the nobleman—I was sixteen. He said I was a mongrel that should’ve been drowned with the rest of the orphaned mutts. And yes, I threw my glass. I wish I had thrown the bottle.”

A few gasps. One very audible snort, quickly stifled.

You faced the prosecution again.

“Now. You said I poisoned the guard. Do you have a vial? A witness? Fingerprints?”

“Circumstantial evidence is—”

“No. Do you have any proof I even saw the man?”

Silence.

You took a breath. Let the moment weigh.

“Did you find His Highness, Crown Prince Robert?” you asked, turning now to the judge.

The head magistrate exchanged glances with a court clerk. “Yes,” he said cautiously. “He was found injured in the wilderness three days ago. He is alive. But he has not regained consciousness.”

A knot formed in your chest. You didn’t let it reach your face.

“I see,” you whispered. “Then allow me to clarify something before you decide to brand me as a murderer. I was with the Prince. The entire time. He was injured while protecting me from assassins. He nearly died. I kept him alive until I could go for help. The moment I arrived at camp, I was seized and accused of a crime I didn’t commit.”

You looked over the courtroom slowly, eyes landing on those who had whispered about you for years.

“I am many things,” you said. “Unliked. Sharp-tongued. Stubborn. But I am not a liar. And I am not a killer. I saved the Crown Prince’s life. And if he wakes… he’ll tell you the same.”

You didn’t flinch when you stepped back.

The silence was deafening.

Even Adrian—seated near your father—was watching with something unreadable behind his eyes.

But you didn’t look at him.

You just returned to your seat. Hands folded in your lap again. This time, not silent out of defeat.

But out of choice.

Let them squirm now.

You had spoken.

Just as the murmurs in the courtroom began to swell again, the magistrate raised a hand. “We will now hear testimony from one of the palace guards,” he announced. “Assigned to Lady Virelle during her disappearance. Escort the witness.”

You turned your head as the guard was led in—a burly man with sunburnt skin and a rigid posture, his armor dulled from long use. He avoided your eyes as he took the stand.

“State your name and position,” the magistrate said.

“Captain Durnham Hale. Senior field guard of the Crown’s Second Watch,” he replied with a crisp nod.

“And your connection to the accused?”

“I was assigned to accompany her into the outer forest. I turned for a second, and she was gone.”

A collective exhale from the room.

“Tell us what you found after she returned to camp.”

Rion cleared his throat. “A guard—one of the newer recruits—had collapsed near the supply wagons. He was sweating, convulsing. He died an hour later. After inspection, it was determined he’d been poisoned. Traces of an herb were found in his canteen, and that same herb was discovered in Lady Virelle’s satchel. I saw it myself.”

Your heart started pounding in your ears. “What herb?” you asked without permission.

The judge narrowed his eyes, but gestured for the guard to answer.

Rion shifted uncomfortably. “Wild deathcap, they’re calling it. Common name’s—”

“Starshade blossom?” you whispered, your mouth suddenly dry.

He nodded.

And the world tilted.

You couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t speak. Could barely feel your own limbs. Because that plant—the one they were claiming was poison—was not. It was a remedy. One you’d used before.

You’d learned it in the game. In the library. In your old life.

“It’s… not poison,” you whispered, louder now, voice shaking as you stood. “Starshade isn’t poisonous. It treats headaches. It was for my father. I was going to dry it and crush it into his tea. It was supposed to be a present.”

The prosecutor scoffed. “A likely story.”

“No, she’s right,” came a voice from the gallery.

Heads turned.

An older physician stood up slowly, looking down at the court from the second tier.

“Starshade is not poisonous,” he said, tone clipped with the weight of authority. “It’s a medicinal herb. Used for generations to treat pain. The leaves can irritate the stomach if taken raw—but it is not lethal. Not unless paired with wolfthorn root.”

You stared, breath caught.

“But…” the captain blinked, “that’s the plant we found—starshade. I swear it. I’ve seen it growing wild in the hills near my post.”

“If someone died after consuming it,” the physician said slowly, “then someone else poisoned that canteen.”

Gasps rippled through the room.

The judge straightened in his chair.

Your hands trembled at your sides.

That meant—someone else had done it. Someone had deliberately framed you. Someone who knew you would return to camp with the herb. Someone who’d been watching.

“Lady Virelle,” the magistrate said, his voice suddenly more cautious, “do you have anything further to say?”

You raised your chin, barely able to hear over the roaring in your ears.

“Yes,” you said softly. “Find out who packed the guard’s supplies.”

And then you sat back down, blood pounding, head swimming.

Someone wanted you gone.

And they had almost succeeded.

You stood before the court, heart pounding as the prosecutor’s voice echoed through the chamber.

“If you didn’t poison the guard,” he pressed, voice slick with implication, “then explain why you disappeared for two days… with the Crown Prince.”

A hush fell over the courtroom. You felt the heat rising under your skin, sweat trailing down your spine like a warning bell. Your fingernails dug into your palms, and for a long moment, you said nothing. You could still see him, pale and sweating on the cave floor, whispering through clenched teeth for you to leave him behind.

Why was this relevant? Why was your loyalty now being painted as treason?

“That’s irrelevant to the charge,” you said, trying to keep your voice level. “The matter at hand is the poisoning of a guard—”

“It’s entirely relevant, Lady Virelle,” the prosecutor interrupted. “You were alone with His Highness, hidden from court, after a guard was poisoned with the very plant you were seen harvesting. What were your true intentions?”

You swallowed. Telling the truth—about the tiger, the assassins, the fall—would make him look weak. The prince didn’t need weakness added to his image, not with enemies lurking in his own bloodline. And if word spread that he'd almost died protecting you?

No. You couldn’t let that happen.

So, instead, you stepped forward, hands tightening at your sides.

“I was with the Crown Prince,” you said slowly, letting the words land one by one. “Because we like each other.”

Gasps burst across the courtroom like firecrackers. Dozens of heads whipped toward each other, whispering frantically. Some gasped your name. Others hissed theirs.

“The ball,” someone whispered. “They first spoke in the palace garden. I saw them.”

“She didn’t serve his table—he approached her.”

“The Crown Prince was found in the cave she mentioned!”

You didn’t flinch. You stood straighter.

“Yes,” you added. “He met me in the forest after the hunt dinner. I went to gather herbs—yes, herbs, not poison—and we planned to meet privately. We were caught in a storm and took shelter. That’s all.”

It was a risk. A dangerous, incendiary one. But it was better than letting them pick apart the truth like vultures, better than feeding the prince to rumors of fragility and failure.

The prosecutor leaned in slightly, eyes narrowing. “And how did His Highness sustain his injury?”

You hesitated. For a moment, the courtroom held its breath.

“We fell,” you said simply. “It was an accident.”

They didn’t need to know about the assassins or the cliff or the lake. Let them call it foolish love. That, at least, was survivable.

Before the prosecutor could press further, the heavy oak doors at the back of the courtroom creaked open with force. Heads turned. Every noble, official, and scribe paused as a royal guard—adorned in the deep crimson and black of the inner palace—strode purposefully down the aisle. His sword glinted at his hip, the royal crest stamped into the silver of his shoulder plates.

He didn’t bow. He didn’t wait to be acknowledged. He went straight to the magistrate’s dais and handed over a sealed letter, then turned to face the entire court.

“I come bearing a declaration from His Royal Highness, Crown Prince Robert, sealed by his own hand not one hour ago.”

A stir rushed through the room. The magistrate slit the envelope open and quickly scanned the page. His expression flickered—surprise first, then something resembling unease.

The guard cleared his throat. “By order of His Highness,” he began, voice loud and clear, “this court is to cease all prosecution of Lady Virelle of House Withers immediately. Any attempt to continue this farce, or to further smear her name in connection to the events of the past week, will be met with the full wrath of the Crown.”

The courtroom erupted.

“The full wrath—?!”

“He intervened in a trial?”

“The prince never speaks at hearings—”

“Didn’t they say he wasn’t awake?”

The magistrate slammed his gavel against the wood, demanding silence.

But the royal guard continued, undeterred. “Furthermore, His Highness states: ‘She is to be left alone. She acted under my protection. Any grievance against her is a grievance against me.’” He paused, gaze flicking toward you, then added with firm finality, “This is not a request. It is law.”

The silence that followed was thunderous.

The prosecutor’s lips parted, but no words came. The nobles in the jury box exchanged frantic glances. And in the chaos of it all, your father stood frozen, as if struck by lightning.

You didn’t move. You couldn’t. The world had shifted under your feet.

Robert was awake.

And he had chosen to protect you.

Not because you were noble. Not because of politics or scandal or pressure.

But because he wanted to.

After you were acquitted and set free, the carriage rattled down the cobbled palace road, the creak of the wheels and the clatter of hooves the only sounds breaking the brittle silence. You sat across from your father and Adrian, the bench beneath you too stiff, too close, too suffocating. The air inside was so thick with tension it could’ve been carved into blocks. Neither man looked at you.

You stared at your gloved hands, fingers clenched hard in your lap. They were trembling. You didn’t bother to hide it.

Not from them.

Not anymore.

No one spoke.

Not even after what happened in that courtroom—after the royal guard had invoked the wrath of the Crown, after your supposed family had nearly let them drag you off in chains, straight into a padded cell.

It wasn’t just betrayal. It was humiliation. Abandonment. You’d gone to collect herbs to help your father’s migraines. You had risked your life to find help for a man they were now all scrambling to bow before. And for what?

So Adrian could spit more poison in your name?

So your father could plan your institutionalization?

You bit the inside of your cheek until it bled.

No wonder the original Virelle Withers turned out the way she did.

This family would have done the same to anyone. Smothered them in judgment, in silence, in cold glares and expectations until all that was left was a sharp edge and a bitter tongue. You were starting to think the real miracle was that the original Virelle hadn’t burned this entire estate down in her time.

The worst part? You had tried.

You had tried so hard to be good. To stay quiet. To act the part. But even when you bent backward until your spine was cracking—when you bled just to earn a fraction of care—they still looked at you like rot clinging to the foundation of their perfect life.

A family that would’ve watched you be locked away for good.

You turned your head to the window, lips trembling, jaw clenched.

The reins outside snapped. The horses huffed.

You said nothing.

Because you were done explaining yourself.

You were done begging.

If the volcano inside you hadn’t erupted yet, it was only because it was waiting for the right moment.

And gods help them all when it finally did.

The carriage rocked to a stop at the Withers estate, its grand facade looming like a mausoleum. You didn’t wait for the footman to open the door. The moment the latch clicked, you pushed out and down, skirts sweeping the stone steps as you marched inside. Neither your father nor Adrian called your name. Not yet.

Let them stew in the silence.

You were already climbing the staircase when you heard it—Adrian’s voice, low and skeptical behind you.

“Was it true?” he asked. “What you said in court. About the Crown Prince. That the two of you liked each other?”

You froze on the stairs.

The audacity of it. The gall to ask that of all things.

Your fingers curled around the carved wooden banister. You didn’t turn around.

“Do you think this is about liking someone?” Your voice came out hoarse, shaking. “Do you think any of this was about some summer romance?”

Adrian said nothing.

And so you turned, slow and sharp like a blade unsheathing itself. Your eyes met his. And whatever he saw in them—it made him take a step back.

“No,” you hissed, “the Crown Prince and I don’t like each other. But he found me in the woods, half-dead from a tiger mauling, and he saved me. He carried me away, protected me, gave the order for me to go get help even when he was bleeding out.”

You descended one step, then another, voice rising.

“Meanwhile, you—you—left me for dead. You and your precious family name were ready to drag me off to an asylum for something I didn’t do. Again.”

His jaw clenched, but you didn’t stop.

“I said I was innocent. Over and over. And you looked me in the eyes and told me I wasn’t your sister. That I was a stain. That I should’ve stayed in the streets where I belonged.”

You reached the base of the stairs and stood toe to toe with him.

“Fine,” you whispered, a tremble just beneath your rage. “Maybe I should’ve. Maybe the old me should’ve, too.”

Adrian’s brow twitched.

“Because whatever my sins were, I lived in this house. With this family. With a father who looked through me and a brother who hated me from the moment I arrived. I understand now. I see why I burned everything I touched.”

You stepped back from him, your voice going eerily quiet.

“Do you?”

His throat worked. But there was no answer.

So you gave none either.

You turned and walked away, this time without hesitation, without regret. Your boots hit each stair like war drums, and when your bedroom door slammed shut behind you, it was not a retreat.

It was a declaration.

The girl they thought they could silence was gone.

Only fire remained.

The knock was soft.

Almost hesitant.

It came again after a pause, a dull rap against the heavy oak—barely loud enough to be heard over the storm still thundering in her chest.

“Virelle,” came the Duke’s voice—quiet, not commanding. “May I come in?”

You sat at the edge of your bed, staring down at your hands. They were trembling. Not from fear. Not anymore.

You stood slowly and walked to the door, not bothering to smooth your dress or wipe your face. You opened it—not wide, just enough for him to see your face.

The Duke looked… tired. Older. As if the trial had aged him ten years in the span of a week. His voice was nearly a whisper.

“I want to talk. Just talk.”

You didn’t answer. But you stepped back, and he took it as permission.

He entered and stood by the window, then turned to you, holding his hands behind his back in that distant, noble way of his. As if that posture could mask a father’s failings.

“I know I haven’t been the easiest man,” he began. “And I know you think I failed you—”

“You did fail me,” you said.

He froze.

And now that the words had broken through, you couldn’t stop them. They surged forward, jagged and hot and bleeding.

“You didn’t just fail me. You forgot me. You ignored me. For years. I was a child—gods, I was a child—and every time I looked up at you, hoping you’d look back, you only scolded or frowned. Never once did you see me.”

The Duke’s lips parted slightly, as if to speak, but you held up a shaking hand.

“And the worst part?” Your voice cracked. “The worst part is… I loved you.”

He blinked. “What?”

You looked away, eyes burning.

“I spent years trying to be enough. Learning everything, doing everything right. Even when it hurt. Even when I hated myself. I thought… maybe if I was smart enough, perfect enough, quiet enough, someone would finally look at me and say, ‘I’m glad you’re here.’”

Your voice broke.

“But they never did. You never did.”

The Duke's face had gone pale. His mouth tightened, but he didn’t speak. He just stood there, frozen in place like a statue built of regret.

And you laughed—cold and bitter.

“You know what hurts the most? That I wasn’t surprised. Not at the trial. Not when you said nothing. Not when Adrian said I was a stain. I just sat there thinking, of course. Of course this family would throw me away to save itself. Because that’s all I’ve ever been to you—something you tolerated. Something you wish you hadn’t picked up in the first place.”

Tears slipped down your cheeks.

“I tried so hard to be part of this family,” you whispered. “I fought for it, even when the past me wouldn’t have. Even when I wanted to run. But you made me wish I’d never come here. Just like he did.”

The Duke took a shaky breath, stepping forward. “Virelle, I—”

“No,” you said. “You don’t get to fix it now with an apology. You don’t get to start being a father just because your reputation nearly crumbled.”

You looked him dead in the eyes.

“Where were you when I cried myself to sleep for months, thinking there was something wrong with me? When your servants mocked me? When your son told me I didn’t belong? Where were you when I was bleeding in that forest?”

Silence.

And finally, your voice dropped to a near whisper.

“Do you know why I picked that flower?”

He nodded.

“It wasn’t poison. It was for headaches. You said once you’d been getting them. And I thought… maybe if I gave you something useful, you’d look at me and see someone worth keeping.”

The Duke’s shoulders dropped like the weight of your words had shattered his spine. For a long moment, he said nothing.

Then, he whispered—more to himself than to you, “I didn’t know.”

“I know,” you said. “You never did.”

And this time, you were the one who turned away.

But before you closed the door behind him, you added softly, “Don’t come back. Not until you figure out whether you ever actually wanted a daughter.”

The door clicked shut.

And for the first time in both of your lives, the Duke of Withers did not argue.

You hadn’t left your room in days.

Not since the trial. Not since the carriage ride. Not since you told your father everything—the things Virelle had buried and the things you had carried for far too long. You’d spoken your truth and slammed the door behind it, and since then, the silence had become your only company.

Well—silence, and Marcia.

Your maid brought your meals at regular intervals and never once asked you to speak. She didn’t scold, didn’t pry. She merely adjusted the curtains when the sun shifted too harshly through the window and made sure the tea never went cold. A quiet loyalty, unspoken but deeply felt.

So when she knocked gently one morning and entered with no tray in hand, you looked up.

There was something different in her face. Not alarm, exactly. But tension. Like she was holding her breath.

“This came by royal courier,” she said, holding out a cream-colored envelope sealed in gold wax. The sigil pressed into it was unmistakable.

Your fingers hesitated only briefly before taking it. The seal broke with a crisp snap, and you unfolded the parchment.

Each word felt like a thunderclap against your skin.

To Lady Virelle of House Withers, By royal decree, you are formally summoned to attend the Ball of Triumph, held in honor of His Royal Highness, Crown Prince Robert, for his return and service to the realm. You are to appear at his side. As his chosen guest. As his date. Failing to comply will be considered a public slight against the Crown.

Your hand trembled slightly as you read the final line. Not because of the formality, or even the implied consequences. But because it was his handwriting at the bottom—unmistakable even in its neat, practiced calligraphy.

Robert.

You stared at it, heart thudding.

For days, you had wondered what he remembered—if anything. You’d wondered if he would deny it all, if he’d pretend the forest and the fall and the heat of his breath as he carried you across stone and water had all been nothing. Just a side mission. A mistake.

But this—

This was not silence.

This was not rejection.

This was the Prince—the man—summoning you into the center of the world’s gaze. Not in secret, not in shame. But beside him. As his date.

And suddenly, it wasn’t silence in your chest anymore.

It was thunder.

You lowered the letter slowly, unsure what expression you wore. Marcia didn’t speak, just reached for the parchment with careful hands and set it down on the vanity.

There would be another storm in this house once they heard.

But this time, you weren’t afraid.

The corridor outside the drawing room was quiet, save for the echo of your heels on marble. You were on your way to wait for the carriage that would take you to the palace — the summons from the Crown Prince nestled inside your reticule like a burning secret. You were to accompany him to the ball in his honor, the whole family had been invited but you? You were the only one that got a personal letter.

It should’ve felt like victory.

But the estate had grown colder by the hour ever since the letter arrived. And now you knew why.

“Elira Withers,” the maids whispered.

The Duke’s real daughter. She had returned.

And she stood before you now.

Her long, straight pink hair shimmered like delicate silk in the light, her eyes a wide, crystalline blue. Her gown was pale and soft, meant to dazzle gently — the very picture of modest nobility. She was beautiful in the way storybooks insisted good people should be.

“Oh,” she said, blinking as if surprised to see you already in the hall. “You must be… Virelle.”

You matched her stare, giving only a polite nod. “I am.”

Her gaze drifted to your hair, your reticule, the glint of silver stitching on your dress. The corners of her mouth lifted in something that barely qualified as a smile.

“You’re… different than I imagined.”

You didn’t smile back. “Likewise.”

A glance at your hand. “Are you going somewhere?”

“To the palace,” you said coolly. “I’ve been invited to the ball.”

She tilted her head. “By whom?”

“The Crown Prince.”

You let the silence ring.

“I’m his date.”

And there it was — the crack behind her eyes. It flickered too fast for someone untrained to notice, but you saw it. That twitch of disbelief. The sudden heat of jealousy. She hid it well, you’d give her that.

“…His date?” she repeated softly, as if saying it again would make it sound more plausible.

“Yes. He invited me himself.” You didn’t look away. “After the hearing.”

She faltered, and just as she opened her mouth to respond—

“Virelle.”

Adrian’s voice sliced through the tension like a blade.

You didn’t turn. You didn’t need to. You could feel the weight of his disapproval already.

“Don’t bully her,” he said sharply, stepping between you and Elira like a self-appointed shield. “She’s only just returned and you're—”

You laughed — short, humorless.

“Ah. There it is,” you said, turning your gaze on him slowly. “Not even five minutes back, and already you're back to form.”

Adrian stiffened. “What are you talking about?”

You leaned in just slightly, your voice low and biting. “You never believe me. Never. Not once. Not when I was accused. Not when I begged to be heard. Not when they nearly sent me to rot in a cell for something I didn’t do.” You motioned toward Elira, who watched with those wide blue eyes still pretending not to understand. “But the second someone else blinks in my direction, you throw yourself in front of them like a knight on a chessboard.”

His brows knit, anger flaring in his eyes. “That’s not fair—”

“No,” you snapped, stepping past him, “what’s not fair is having a brother who only sees what he wants. What a good brother you are, Adrian. So loyal. So blind.”

The words left him stunned. You felt him reach out — maybe to grab your arm, maybe to apologize, maybe to say something kind, too little, too late.

But you pulled away before he could touch you.

Your shoulder bumped his as you passed, sharp as a slap.

And when you turned your head just enough to look back at him — the icy stare you gave made him flinch.

Elira’s silence was deafening behind you.

Neither of them spoke again.

You didn’t give them the chance.

You walked to the carriage as if nothing had happened — as if your blood wasn’t boiling, as if your throat wasn’t raw from years of screaming behind your ribs.

Let them watch you leave.

You weren’t walking away.

You were rising.

The ride to the palace was suffocating.

Not because of the gown cinching your ribs, nor the carriage’s stale velvet, nor the creak of wheels grinding across cobblestone like a countdown to war — no, it was the silence.

The kind of silence that hummed in your teeth and tasted like venom.

Adrian sat across from you, jaw clenched tight, his arms crossed like a man trying to hold together the remnants of dignity. The Duke, beside him, stared out the window like you weren’t even there. Elira sat next to you — too close — her perfume soft and floral, her posture so dainty it might’ve been charming if not for the dagger buried beneath it.

You kept your eyes on the window. You didn’t speak. What was the point?

No wonder the original Virelle turned into what she did. This family — this house — was poison dressed in pearls. At least your father back home had yelled. Hit things. Made his hatred obvious. But this?

This was a slow, elegant drowning.

They had been ready to condemn you to a madhouse. The Duke’s signature was on the order. Your brother had stood silent while they questioned your sanity in front of nobles. And now here they all were, perfectly composed in the afterglow of their betrayal, like nothing had happened. Like you hadn’t been moments from losing your life and name.

You blinked hard.

It wasn’t just Virelle’s fury anymore. It was yours. And it was ancient.

You didn’t speak the rest of the ride. Not until the carriage rolled to a stop in front of the palace.

Golden light spilled from the windows like honey, and the sound of distant violins trembled in the night air. Nobles descended marble steps. Lanterns glowed with enchantments. Guards flanked the grand entrance, dressed in ceremonial crimson.

You waited until they stepped out first.

Let them parade in.

You took your time.

Once inside, you were led not into the ballroom but to a side chamber — a dressing and preparation salon for honored guests. A maid waited with final touches: powdered shimmer for your collarbones, a jeweled pin for your hair. You stood before the mirror as she worked in silence, adjusting your gown, fixing every fold.

Your own reflection stared back at you, unfamiliar and striking.

Wavy pink hair tumbled down one shoulder like a trail of rose silk. Your dress was deep violet, embroidered with silver vines that shimmered like moonlight. You looked like royalty. A villainess from the stories, elegant and dangerous.

You let out a slow breath. Your hands trembled.

“He’ll be waiting just inside the ballroom,” the maid said softly. “His Highness asked for you to be announced.”

You nodded, lips parted slightly but voiceless.

And then you were alone.

You touched the side of the vanity, grounding yourself. The stone was cool. Solid.

You had been thrown off a cliff.

You had almost died to a tiger.

You had stood trial for a crime you didn’t commit.

You were still here.

Tonight — tonight you would rise above the whispers. You would face every stare and every smile meant to cut you down.

You were Virelle Withers, adopted daughter of a Duke, summoned by the Crown Prince himself.

And you would not shrink.

“Announcing Lady Virelle Withers, guest of His Royal Highness the Crown Prince.”

The doors opened wide.

And you stepped through them like a blade drawn from velvet.

The ballroom fell silent, as though the music itself bowed before your entrance.

You descended the marble staircase without a falter, your violet gown gliding behind you like a living thing, like smoke from a fire long suppressed. Every step, every breath, was a declaration: you survived. You would not bow, not to them, not to anyone.

Eyes followed. Mouths whispered.

“There she is…”

“Didn’t she claim the Crown Prince—?”

“She looks far too calm for someone nearly locked away.”

You ignored them. You always had. But this time, you ignored them because of him.

At the foot of the stairs stood the Crown Prince himself, his gaze fixed solely on you. His attire was a deep obsidian with threads of muted gold, royal without excess, restrained without weakness. He looked like war dressed as peace. And yet, when you reached him, when his hand lifted to take yours, he smiled.

“You’ve caused quite the scandal, Lady Virelle,” he murmured, tone too warm to be truly scolding.

Your fingers curled into his — not out of affection, not yet — but out of necessity. He had become your only tether to a world that wanted to consume you whole.

“I didn’t mean to,” you said quietly, letting him guide you onto the dance floor.

“Hm,” he mused, his other hand settling at your waist. “Then why is half the court whispering that we were meeting in the woods because we liked each other?”

You froze.

He was grinning. Not cruelly — no, it was softer than you'd expected. Teasing. Almost fond.

A flush rose to your cheeks before you could catch it. “That was… the least damaging lie I could think of. You were unconscious. I was accused of attempted murder and treason. Forgive me for thinking a romantic rendezvous was easier to explain than ‘I was tossed off a cliff by the Crown Prince to escape assassins.’”

He laughed — openly, like it surprised even him.

“I see,” he said. “So I was your lovestruck accomplice.”

“You were unconscious,” you repeated dryly, “so you’re welcome for the flattering promotion.”

The music had begun, and the two of you swayed to its rhythm — a practiced waltz, elegant and distant on the surface, but beneath it was a kind of heat. A truth that buzzed beneath your skin.

“I only survived because of your letter,” you said after a moment, voice quiet. “They would’ve locked me away, declared me mad. You threw me a rope when I was already halfway buried.”

His smile faded. In its place: a heaviness, a fury, carefully concealed.

“They never should’ve touched you,” he said. “If I had been awake—”

“But you weren’t,” you cut in, sharper than intended. “And I’m not blaming you. I’m thanking you.”

He fell silent for a beat. Then, “You still came.”

You looked up at him. “Because you asked.”

His breath caught. He turned you slowly in the circle of the dance, his fingers brushing the back of your hand with more care than you thought royalty was capable of.

“I’m glad,” he said. “Because if you hadn’t, I would’ve stormed that manor myself.”

You couldn’t help it — the laugh escaped, soft and stunned. “You’re serious.”

“I am,” he said, then leaned in just enough for you to feel his breath. “If anyone else had claimed to like me, I might’ve let it go. But you? You made it sound almost believable.”

You met his gaze, refusing to flinch. “Don’t let it go then.”

His smile flickered again, but this time it didn’t fade.

And all around you — in Elira’s seething envy and Adrian’s confusion and the crowd’s speculation — you danced with the man whose name had saved your life. Not because you loved him.

But because, for the first time, you might.

The final notes of the waltz lingered in the air as the Crown Prince guided you gently back to the edge of the ballroom. His hand lingered in yours just a moment longer before he released it with a small, almost reluctant smile.

The crowd’s whispers rippled around you like a wave, but you barely noticed. Your heart was a storm inside your chest—part relief, part dread.

Because now came the part you feared most.

The Crown Prince turned away, his gaze sweeping the room. Then, as if following some unspoken command, he approached your family.

Your stomach twisted. This was the moment the original story was supposed to unfold: Robert’s eyes drifting toward Elira, falling for the Duke’s true daughter, the bright, perfect girl with the straight pink hair and blue eyes.

But that didn’t happen.

Elira stood nearby, her posture flawless, her smile sweet and practiced. She caught Robert’s eye and gave a delicate nod, but he didn’t return it. His attention didn’t flicker.

Instead, his gaze fixed on you—calm, focused, unyielding.

You felt the weight of every eye in the room, but the only thing that mattered was the steady, unblinking look from Robert.

Your breath hitched, a silent panic rising in your throat. This wasn’t how it was supposed to be.

He greeted your family with a curt nod, his manner respectful but distant. Your father gave a stiff smile, while your brother Adrian’s jaw clenched visibly, eyes sharp as they flicked between you and the Prince.

Elira’s smile tightened ever so slightly, her hands gripping her fan a little too tightly.

Robert’s presence was magnetic, and he pulled the entire room’s attention toward you—even when others tried to draw it away.

For a brief moment, you dared to hope.

He didn’t fall for Elira tonight.

He was here. With you.

Robert’s sharp gaze didn’t waver as he spoke to your father. His tone was formal but carried an undercurrent of respect that surprised you. The tension in the room thickened, but you could feel your father standing a little taller, as if this moment mattered far more than he’d let on.

“So,” Robert said, eyes briefly flicking to you, “I trust Virelle is well cared for? It would trouble me greatly if harm came to my... date.”

Your father’s lips twitched into a knowing, almost proud smile. “She is our daughter, Your Highness. We do our best to protect her. Though, as any father would admit, there are times when a daughter’s will is far stronger than a father’s caution.”

The subtle warmth in his voice caught you off guard. He sounded like a man who, beneath all the political games and cold eyes, was still a father — a man who wanted to keep his daughter safe, even if he barely knew how.

You glanced at Robert, whose eyes held something unreadable, perhaps approval—or maybe a quiet warning. You swallowed the sudden lump of uncertainty in your throat.

Adrian’s posture was rigid, cold as always, but there was a flicker of something less hostile in his eyes when they landed on you. His voice cut through the silence sharply, “You’re playing a dangerous game, Virelle. But if the Crown Prince trusts you, then perhaps there’s hope you’re worth the risk.”

Your heart jumped. That was… unexpected.

Yet, beneath it all, confusion roiled inside you like a restless tide.

This isn’t how the story goes. Robert falling for Elira. The Prince’s adoration shifting to her, not me.

You caught Robert’s eye again and the steady way he looked back made your chest tighten.

He doesn’t care about Elira.

Your father’s next words jolted you from your thoughts. “Now, Robert, if you ever hurt my daughter—there won’t be a kingdom left standing to protect you. Remember that.”

The small smile tugging at Robert’s lips was both amused and serious, and you felt a flicker of warmth bloom inside you.

This family, this life—it’s messy and hard and nothing like the story. But maybe, just maybe, it’s yours now.

You slipped away from the cluster of noble families and courtly chatter, the weight of the room pressing on your chest. The ornate punch bowl, glimmering with fruit and spiced wine, called to you like a brief reprieve. Maybe a moment alone with something sweet would steady your nerves.

As you reached out to fill your glass, a soft voice stopped you.

“Fancy seeing you here all alone, Lady Virelle.”

You turned slowly, heart hitching just slightly. Elira stood there, all innocent smiles and wide, blue eyes that didn’t quite reach their edges. Her pink hair was perfectly straight, framing her flawless face as if painted on.

“I was just getting some punch,” you said carefully, your grip tightening on the glass.

Elira stepped closer, her voice sugary but laced with ice. “Is that why you’re avoiding everyone? Or just me?”

You blinked, caught off guard. “I’m not avoiding anyone.”

“Oh, but you must be,” she said, tilting her head with a mock pout. “Everyone’s been whispering about you—how you and the Prince are quite the... interesting pair.”

You swallowed hard, trying to keep your expression neutral. “Rumors spread fast. I’m sure none of it’s true.”

Elira’s smile sharpened. “Is that why you’re so eager to get away? Afraid the truth might slip out? Or maybe you don’t want anyone to see who you really are.”

Your jaw tightened. She was trying to get under your skin, poking at the fragile threads holding your new life together. But you were no stranger to games like this.

Raising your chin, you said coolly, “If I wanted to be seen, I’d find a better place than a punch bowl.”

Elira’s eyes glittered dangerously. “Be careful, Lady Virelle. People like us—they don’t get to rewrite the stories written for us. Not without consequences.”

The words hung between you, a clear challenge wrapped in polite venom.

You took a slow sip of your punch, meeting her gaze without flinching. “I’m not interested in your stories. I’m writing my own.”

Elira’s smile faltered, but only for a moment. “We shall see.”

The evening stretched on, heavy with golden light and murmured conversations that slipped through the grand ballroom like silk threads. Elira’s presence hovered close, an ever-looming shadow weaving between you and the Crown Prince with practiced grace. Each time Robert turned his attention your way, Elira seemed to anticipate it, stepping just a little too close, laughing a little too brightly, as if daring you to contest her.

You caught the subtle tightening of Robert’s jaw beneath the finely embroidered sleeve of his coat. His calm, courteous demeanor never faltered, but the flicker in his eyes was unmistakable: irritation simmering just beneath the surface. You sensed him holding back something fierce, biting his tongue to avoid the scandal of a public outburst—not just for Elira’s sake, but for yours as well.

You knew what he was thinking: I will not be rude to the Duke’s daughter’s sister. Not here. Not now. But every time Elira leaned in, every forced smile she sent his way, it chipped away at his patience.

When she interrupted the dance floor again, stepping between you as Robert extended his hand, you could see the moment the strain became nearly too much. His fingers twitched as if itching to pull away, but he held himself with a deliberate grace, like a blade sheathed but ready to strike.

“That’s quite enough, Elira,” he said softly, voice low and smooth but carrying a sharp edge beneath the polish.

Elira blinked, surprised by the firmness in his tone.

“I was merely hoping for the next dance, Your Highness,” she said, voice sugary but brittle, as if fragile glass teetering on the edge of breaking.

Robert’s gaze sharpened. “If you continue to interfere, I won’t hesitate to send you away. Consider this your final warning.”

There was a long pause—a delicate silence pregnant with tension—before Elira’s smile flickered and faded, the fight draining out of her. She retreated with a small, tight nod, melting back into the sea of courtiers.

Only then did Robert turn toward you, the edge in his eyes softening into something quieter, more genuine.

“Shall we?” he asked, extending his hand, voice lowered to a murmur meant only for you.

You slipped your hand into his, the warmth grounding you, a tether in a night so full of smoke and mirrors.

For the first time since the game began, you felt seen—not as a pawn, not as a shadow of someone else, but as yourself.

The cool night air greeted you as Robert led you out onto the balcony. The murmurs of the ball softened into a distant hum, replaced by the quiet rustle of leaves and the stars glittering above like scattered diamonds.

You leaned against the railing, the tension of the evening slowly melting away. Robert stood beside you, a faint smile playing at the corner of his lips, eyes scanning the moonlit gardens below.

“So,” he said, nudging you gently with his elbow, “what do you think of tonight? Survived the court intrigues and the poison tea, I trust?”

You chuckled softly, elbowing him back. “Barely. I’m considering bringing a sword to the next tea party.”

He laughed, a rich sound that felt like warmth against the chill night. “I’d say that’s probably wise.”

You glanced at him sideways, heart unexpectedly light. “You know, for someone who’s supposedly the stoic Crown Prince, you’re surprisingly fun.”

Robert’s eyes flicked to you with a spark of mischief. “Only when I’m around worthy company.”

Your smile widened, breath catching slightly in your chest. The closeness, the way his gaze held yours—it was dizzying.

Then, with that same playful tone, he said, “We should get married.”

Your heart stuttered, skipping a beat so loud you thought he must hear it. Did he really mean that? Was this some cruel game or a fleeting jest?

“Married?” you breathed, voice barely above a whisper, eyes wide and hopeful.

“Why not?” he shrugged, though the teasing light in his eyes flickered with something harder to read.

A thousand thoughts collided inside you: Does he love me? Could someone like him ever love someone like me? Am I even worthy of that kind of affection?

Gathering courage you didn’t know you had, you looked up at him with the eagerness of a schoolgirl. “Do you… love me?”

For a heartbeat, the world held its breath.

Then his answer came, calm and almost cold.

“Is love really necessary for marriage?”

The words hit you like a cold wind, shattering the fragile hope you’d been nursing.

You blinked, heart sinking, the bright possibility dimming in an instant.

Yet, beneath the sting, a part of you whispered—this is only the beginning. There’s more to him, to us, than this night reveals.

The words echoed in your mind, cold and sharp, carving away the fragile warmth that had blossomed inside you. Is love really necessary for marriage? His voice had been calm, almost indifferent, as if love was some trivial luxury you weren’t meant to expect—or worse, something he never wanted to offer.

You blinked rapidly, the sting behind your eyes threatening to spill over. Your chest tightened, breath hitching in a way that made the night feel suddenly heavy and suffocating. The stars above blurred as tears welled, slow and unbidden, tracing hot paths down your cheeks.

Hope — that elusive, trembling hope — was slipping through your fingers like sand. You had dared to dream, just for a moment, that someone like Robert might see you—not as a pawn, not as a shadow of the Duke’s lost daughter, but as you. And now that dream lay shattered at your feet.

The emptiness seeped in, cold and relentless. Always the bridesmaid, never the bride. The one who stands in the wings, watching others step into the light of love and happiness, while she remains forever on the outside, waiting for a chance that might never come.

You swallowed hard, voice barely above a whisper but fierce in its finality. “I wanted someone who loved me. Someone who chose me—not because of duty or strategy, but because of… me.”

You looked up, eyes glassy yet resolute, meeting his gaze with a quiet strength he hadn’t expected.

“We’re not a good match. Maybe we never were.”

The words hung in the night air, heavy and painful, but true.

Robert’s eyes searched yours for a flicker of hesitation. There was none.

You stepped back, turning away as the tears finally spilled free, blurring the world around you.

And for the first time, you let yourself mourn—not just the man who didn’t love you, but the girl you used to be who had dared to hope.

Robert’s eyes darkened, a flicker of something raw stirring behind them as he opened his mouth to speak. His voice, usually so steady, caught in his throat. Words faltered—defenses ready on his tongue but unable to form.

“I—” he started, hesitation thick in the air. “It’s not like that. You have to understand—”

But you turned away before he could finish, a soft, broken smile lifting at the corners of your lips. Tears slipped freely now, trailing down your cheeks like quiet rain.

“Please,” you said gently, voice trembling but steady. “Tell my father I’ll be going home.”

The words were simple, yet they carried the weight of everything unsaid—of all the hope you’d held and lost, of the walls you’d built and now quietly closed behind you.

Robert stood frozen, eyes locked on your retreating form, caught somewhere between regret and helplessness.

And as you walked away, heart aching yet resolute, the cold night air swallowed the space where hope once lived.

Note: So, please stay with me because REDEMPTION IS SWEET and angst that is coming is even sweeter.

[thepiinkpages]

AlternateUniverse!Bob (Sentry/The Void) x AlternateUniverse!Reader Part 1

Edit: I've been cooking up this one since I dreamt it the other day. In this version, Bob does not have powers, but everything else stays the same. This will be a multi-part series! There's not much of Bobert yet, but I promise there's going to be more of him.

Part 2 Part 3

You were supposed to be asleep two hours ago.

The sun hasn’t risen, but the pale glow of your laptop screen casts a sterile light across the room, making everything look flatter, grayer, like a scene you’re not quite inside anymore. You haven’t moved in hours, save for the twitch of your fingers on the mouse, the occasional sip of lukewarm instant coffee, the hollow sighs that fog your lips in the silence.

You're so tired your skin hurts. Your eyes sting every time you blink, and your heartbeat feels too slow, like your body’s been running on fumes and poor choices for longer than it can sustain.

Just one more try.

That’s what you told yourself at midnight. It’s 4:32 AM now. The only thing keeping you upright is spite, and the fact that you’ve come this close, so many times, to saving her.

Or saving yourself.

SLASH.

“The Crown Prince does not suffer liars.”

Game Over.

You don’t even flinch anymore. The line plays like clockwork; silken, cold, final. The screen bleeds red, and somewhere behind your dry, burning eyes, a familiar helplessness pools. You’re so used to losing, it’s started to feel normal. Inevitable. Like gravity.

Still, it stings.

You didn’t even make it halfway through the day this time. You thought if you picked the modest dress and stayed out of sight, avoided the second-floor hallway, ignored Elira’s little trap with the broken vase, you could slip by unnoticed. You even skipped the choice to argue with the knight who calls you “witchspawn” under his breath.

You tried to be good. You tried so hard.

And you died anyway.

Every route in Save The Villain feels rigged. That’s part of what made the game go viral, this brutal little otome-style sim where you don’t play the radiant heroine or the destined saint. You’re the villain. And no matter what choices you make, the Crown Prince always seems to find a reason to execute you. Publicly, quietly, mercilessly. Sometimes with a blade. Sometimes with poison. Once, it was a balcony.

And he’s always so calm about it. So beautiful.

You hate how beautiful he is.

The Crown Prince, tall, broad-shouldered, silver-eyed, is everything the game’s fandom screams about. Fanart of him clogs your feed constantly. His hair is dark brown and falls like waves against the high collar of his military jacket. He has the kind of face sculptors dream of chiseling from marble, the kind that makes people believe in gods and punishment. He is duty-bound, brilliant, endlessly composed… and the personal executioner of your character.

You’re not sure what bothers you more: how much he hates you in every route, or how much you’ve started to dream about him anyway.

Pathetic.

You rub your eyes, hoping to scrub that thought away, and peel yourself out of your chair. Your spine cracks like dead branches. Everything aches. You think you’ve been running on caffeine and adrenaline for almost twenty hours, and now it’s caught up to you, buzzing behind your teeth, thick in your throat like bees. You need to sleep. Or shower. Or cry. But you won’t.

You’ve got work in an hour.

You slap your laptop shut. You’ll save later.

Throwing on yesterday’s hoodie and a pair of leggings that might as well be pajamas, you dig your keys out of the couch cushions and shuffle into your sneakers without untying them. The apartment is still, dim. The refrigerator hums. A neighbor’s dog barks once, then goes quiet.

You step outside into the fog.

It’s cold, biting through the fabric, needling at your cheeks. The streetlamps cast orange halos in the mist, and your breath clouds in the air, too warm, too human. There’s no traffic. Just a sleepy hush over the street, like the whole city is holding its breath.

You don’t look both ways before crossing.

You never do.

Your head is pounding. The world feels heavy and far away, like you're watching yourself through someone else’s eyes. Maybe if you keep walking, the fog will carry you into another version of your life; one where you’re not tired, not alone, not always trying and failing and failing.

Then— A flicker of headlights. A horn.

A sound like thunder and bones shattering.

You don’t even have time to scream. Your body lifts from the pavement, weightless for a heartbeat. Something warm floods your chest; red, red, red; and the sky overhead spins.

Oh.

You’re dying.

Just like that. Not even dramatic. Just stupid. You should’ve looked. You should’ve slept. You should’ve eaten something, called your mom back, deleted the game.

The world fades. Not black, but white.

Blinding, endless white.

But there’s something in the light. A pressure. A sound. A voice, echoing through the marrow of your bones:

“Villain. The game has begun.”

You fall again; down, deeper, into silk and perfume and firelight; and when your eyes open, they are not your eyes. Your hands are smaller. Paler. Clutching sheets that smell of rosewater and vanilla.

You sit up.

Your neck aches like it’s been cut before.

And somewhere in the mansion beyond your door, a servant knocks and calls you by a name that isn't yours.

You don’t scream right away.

You just stare.

The mirror doesn’t blink. Doesn’t glitch. Doesn’t crack like a screen should.

The reflection staring back is still you, and not you. A stranger made of glass and cold beauty, draped in soft lavender silk that clings to skin too pale to look alive. Long, pastel-pink hair tumbles over your shoulders, rippling like water with the smallest movement. Your face looks like something out of a gothic painting. Delicate. Sharp. Not quite human.

But it’s the eyes that make your breath catch.

Black. Not dark brown. Not hazel in the wrong light. Black. Glossy and glassy, from lid to lid, like two polished stones stuffed into a porcelain doll.

You stagger back. Your heel catches on the hem of your nightgown, and you drop hard onto the rug, bare knees burning from the impact, the fall jarring enough to make you gasp. You reach for your chest like you’re trying to feel your real heart, but all you find is silk, bone, breath. Everything real. Too real.

“No, no, no—what the hell is this—what the fuck is this—”

You crawl toward the vanity table like you might find answers in its drawers. But it’s just powders, brushes, bottles of perfume you’ve never owned, little jeweled pins laid out like offerings. You yank open a drawer; gloves. Another; letters, some sealed in wax. You pick one up, and your name is written in calligraphy so elegant it almost mocks you.

Lady Virelle Withers.

Withers.

The name hits like a stone to the ribs.

Your skin goes cold.

You know this room. The violet drapes. The red velvet ottoman. The glinting vial of sleep elixir on the nightstand.

This is her room.

You’re her.

You’ve played this game enough times to know exactly where you are. Exactly who you are.

Virelle Withers. Adopted orphan. Unwanted replacement. The nobleman’s charity case taken in after his daughter disappeared at age seven, only to be shoved into a forgotten corner of the estate once the mourning turned cold. The Duke never looked at her without a frown. The brother never spoke without some venom. The staff treat her like vermin dressed in pearls.

You never even made it far enough in the game to find out her birthday.

You only knew her death days.

A knock slices through the silence.

You freeze.

“Lady Virelle,” a voice says through the heavy wood of the bedroom door. It’s high-pitched, reedy, sharp as a pin. “You are expected downstairs for breakfast.”

You don’t answer.

You’re still on the floor, gripping the rug with hands that feel too small, too soft. You’re lightheaded. Drenched in sweat. You might throw up. You might pass out.

But you know what happens if you don’t move.

You know.

If you’re late, the maids will leave your food in the sun. Your brother will remind the table that you aren’t truly family. The Duke will sigh and scold you like a stray dog with no manners. And no one, no one, will look you in the eye unless they’re waiting for you to snap.

You remember it all now. Every cruel little detail, not from the tutorial, but from memory.

This isn’t a cutscene.

This is your life.

“I said, breakfast is ready,” the voice huffs again, colder this time. “Shall I tell His Grace you’re too tired to obey his house rules?”

You swallow hard.

“Coming,” you croak.

Your voice sounds strange. Still yours. Still hers. Somewhere in the middle, trapped like a bug in amber.

You pull yourself up, one limb at a time, body trembling with shock and silence and raw, uncut dread. Your reflection waits for you, pale and perfect and wrong, but you don’t look at it again.

You don’t want to know who’s really staring back.

You don’t know how to be her.

But you do know one thing.

If you mess this up… If you draw too much attention…

You’re going to die.

Again.

The door opens before you can reach it.

Two maids bustle in without asking, young, crisp, and dressed in charcoal uniforms with lace collars and polished boots that click too eagerly against the floor. Their hair is pinned too tightly. Their smiles don’t reach their eyes.

They don’t look at you when they speak. They never do.

“Late again,” the taller one mutters, already heading for the wardrobe. “You’d think with all this luxury, the rat would at least learn to wake up on time.”

“Maybe she was too busy screaming in her sleep again,” the other one snorts. “Saw her last night from the hall, tossing like a mad dog in silk.”

They laugh, soft and sharp, the way people do when they’ve convinced themselves the cruelty is earned.

You don’t say anything.

You’re still standing in the middle of the room like a puppet unstrung, too aware of your new skin, your alien reflection, the panic trapped in your lungs like steam behind glass.

“Sit,” one snaps. You obey.

The stool by the vanity is cold under your thighs. You fold your hands in your lap like you’ve done this before, but everything is surreal, your limbs too light, your vision too sharp. They begin brushing your hair, murmuring to each other like you’re not there.

“You really ought to cut it. This pink makes her look like a cheap valentine.”

“Please. That’d be a waste of scissors.”

The brush catches a knot near the nape of your neck and rips. You flinch.

The taller one sighs dramatically. “Don’t squirm, Lady Virelle. It’s just hair. Not like you need your dignity anymore.”

They snicker again.

One of them moves to dress you. Layers of corsetry, fabric, and ribbon are yanked tight without care. You’re still too out of it to resist, too scattered to say anything. Your body is handled like it’s not yours, just a shape they’re paid to shove into gowns.

Then—

Pinch.

A sharp nip of fingers under your arm, too forceful to be an accident. A strap tightens hard around your ribs. A needle stabs as they tug a brooch into place.

“Ow,” you breathe, blinking.

“Did that hurt?” one asks sweetly, with the fakest voice you’ve ever heard.

They expect a shriek. A slap. A cutting insult, just like she would’ve given them.

You stare at the wall.

“…It’s fine,” you say, quietly. Automatically. Your voice barely sounds real.

They freeze.

The taller one looks down at you like she misheard.

“…What?”

You blink again, lips parted. It takes a few seconds to realize she’s waiting for the usual venom, the explosion, the tantrum that gets you punished later but gives you something, anything, to control in the moment.

But you’re not her.

You’re just someone who died and woke up in a stranger’s body wearing lavender silk and someone else’s skin.

You look at her. The maid. The one who just pinched you on purpose.

And you say, “…Don't let it happen again.”

Quiet. Flat. Like it doesn’t matter. Like you don’t matter.

The two maids exchange a look.

Not fear, not quite. But discomfort. Uncertainty. Like you’ve just spoken in a language they don’t know. They finish the rest in silence.

When they leave the room, they don’t smile. They don’t bow. They don’t even say goodbye.

You’re left standing in front of the mirror again, swaddled in satin and perfume and dread.

You don’t look at yourself. You can’t. Because whoever’s in that reflection isn’t you. She’s someone the world wants dead. And now you have to survive being her.

The dining room feels like a courtroom.

The windows are high, the table long, the silence stretching like tension drawn across a bow. At the head of it sits the Duke of Withers, tall and weathered in his embroidered coat, already thumbing through a folded letter with more interest than he’s shown you since you walked in.

You know him, even before this moment. Even outside the game.

Because he looks too much like someone else. Like the man who signed your adoption papers at twelve years old, who gave you the world and then never looked back. Your father. Your real-world father. He never raised his voice, never struck you, never spoke cruelly.

He simply forgot to care.

“Sit,” the Duke says absently, without raising his eyes.

You obey, folding into the chair with careful posture, not too stiff, not too casual. You know how a noblewoman should sit, even if Virelle never bothered. You studied it. Watched hours of cutscenes. Took mental notes on which choices raised approval and which led to open scorn. And having your father pay thousands of dollars for etiquette classes so your prissy posh classmates wouldn't complain anymore helped too.

Across the table, Adrian is already watching you.

The Duke’s true son.

Tall, clean-cut, immaculate in his military-green jacket with its silver buttons and shoulder braid. His dark hair is combed neatly back, and his pale fingers curl around his teacup with practiced ease.

Your chest tightens. Because you know him too.

Or at least, you've met the echo of him. Your brother back home wore that same cool smile. That same mask of polite tolerance, with judgment stitched into every glance. He never called you a mistake, but he never let you forget you weren’t his blood. Every birthday gift late. Every family photo with you just slightly out of frame.

Adrian meets your eyes once, only once, and then looks away, like someone instinctively dodging a snake’s gaze.

“Up early,” he says mildly, with a faint lift of his cup. “Miraculous.”

“I didn’t want to keep anyone waiting,” you reply smoothly.

Adrian pauses. His eyes narrow, just slightly.

Virelle never spoke like that. She would’ve snarled. Mocked him. Thrown a fork, maybe.

But you aren’t her. Not really.

The food arrives without a word. You thank the maid with a nod and catch the subtle hesitation in her step. She wasn’t expecting manners. You can almost feel the shift ripple through the room. Quiet. Tiny. But real.

Your plate is still a little too cold. The tea is steeped too long. The butter tastes like someone scraped it from the bottom of the dish. A petty insult, executed with a servant’s smile.

You eat anyway.

Your mind is elsewhere, whirring, calculating, remembering bits of lore and context the game fed you over time. The Withers estate is famous for its private gardens. Virelle rarely explored them in-game, but you would’ve. Botany was your first love. You could name any root or leaf by scent alone. That's how you escaped your father's house in the real world, by gaining admission to a reputable university through a botany scholarship.

More than that, you remember something most players didn’t care about: the court calendar. Today is an administrative day. No guests expected. No formal diplomacy. Which means the Duke is unlikely to leave the estate.

You can avoid attention, at least for now.

“Lady Virelle,” the Duke says suddenly, glancing at you for the first time. “Your instructor mentioned you’ve been avoiding your lessons in economics.”

Not me, you think. But you smile faintly, respectful. Thank you Miss Gadora for the agonizing politics and economics classes. Her making you study so harshly in the real world might just finally come into play.

“I reviewed the House budget reports last week,” you say instead. “There’s a surplus this quarter. Our textile partners in the south had an early spring.”

The Duke blinks. It’s brief, barely a twitch of surprise, but you see it.

Adrian’s teacup stills mid-air.

You continue, careful but precise. “If I may, Father, we could leverage that momentum by renewing the irrigation grant to the border farmers. Their harvests bolster our wool exports, and a dry year would slow distribution to the capital.”

Silence. You’ve stunned them.

The maids have stopped pretending not to listen. The Duke’s lips part slightly, but no answer comes.

Because Virelle, the real Virelle, never studied. Never read reports. Never cared.

But you did.

Because you watched this world through a screen for hours on end, cataloguing every political branch, every rumor, every flash of lore that hinted at the coming war arc. You remember the council meetings. The way the economy shifted during the famine arc. You didn’t think it mattered before.

Now it might be the only thing keeping you alive.

“…I’ll consider it,” the Duke says finally, folding his letter with a thoughtful frown. “I hadn’t realized you were so invested.”

You bow your head slightly. “It’s my home.”

You don’t say: I’d like to keep living in it.

From the corner of your eye, you feel Adrian watching you. His smile is gone.

Now, he’s studying you like a puzzle someone switched overnight.

You press your teacup to your lips and sip slowly, hiding the tremble in your fingers.

They’ve noticed.

Not enough to accuse. Not yet. But enough to be wary.

And you know what happens to people who make powerful men uneasy in this world.

They disappear.

The air has turned brittle with surprise.

You’ve barely touched your eggs, but the balance of the room has shifted. You can feel it in the quiet of the servants, in the way Adrian’s eyes haven’t left you since your last sentence. The Duke sips his tea a touch slower now, his gaze occasionally flicking back to you, as if weighing something that wasn’t on the scales before.

A strange feeling coils in your chest. Not victory, not yet, but something close to stability. Like you’ve found the thread in a fraying tapestry and, for now, it’s holding.

That is, until the maid returns.

She glides in with the silence of routine, carrying a fresh tray of honey cakes and warm cream. Her eyes dart briefly to yours, calculating. Her posture is perfect. Her grip on the teapot, less so.

She leans in, reaching to refill your cup, but her hand slips.

Or perhaps it doesn’t.

The scalding-hot tea pours across your lap, a wicked splash that soaks through your dress, stings the skin beneath your knees, and floods your senses with pain.

You gasp softly, more from shock than heat. Your hands clutch the edge of the table, white-knuckled. You force your shoulders still. Not a flinch. Not a cry.

The maid recoils with theatrical horror. “Oh—my lady, I—!”

You blink once. Twice. The pain is sharp, but so is your clarity.

You know what this is. Bait.

The real Virelle would’ve snapped. Screamed. Flung the tray or the cup. Cursed the servant, made a scene, and earned herself another scolding for "behaving like a street urchin."

But you’re not her.

You are an intelligent woman in borrowed skin. You know exactly what kind of eyes are watching you.

You lift your chin.

“Thank you, Marianne,” you say calmly, your voice like cool silk gliding over glass. “Though next time, I would ask you to check the angle of your wrist before pouring. Precision is a virtue.”

The maid freezes.

It’s not the words, it’s the tone. The poise. You didn’t scream. You didn’t curse.

You outclassed her.

The Duke lowers his cup. Slowly. A strange expression flickers across his face; concern? Confusion?

Then it hardens into something else.

“Marianne,” he says, his voice a thread of thunder under velvet, “is this the second time this week you’ve mishandled hot tea in this household?”

The maid’s face pales. “Your Grace—I didn’t—”

“Be silent.”

His voice doesn’t rise. But it doesn’t need to.

Adrian sits back in his chair with a glimmer of amusement he doesn’t bother to hide. Not from her, at least.

“You will report to Head Steward Timar after breakfast,” the Duke continues, “and explain in full why my daughter is soaked in burns.”

Marianne opens her mouth, but nothing comes out. She bows deeply, trembling, and flees the room like the walls themselves have grown eyes.

And for a moment, you can’t speak either.

Your daughter.

Not “that girl.” Not “the orphan.” Not “Virelle.”

My daughter.

It lands in your chest like a warm coal, painful and bright. You swallow hard, trying not to betray the sting behind your eyes. Not even your real father had ever called you his daughter. Only "you there" or "the girl".

The Duke stands abruptly.

“I’ll have new tea sent,” he says, still not quite looking at you. “And someone to clean you up. That was… unacceptable.”

He leaves the room without waiting for a reply. His footsteps echo down the hall, quick and purposeful.

You don’t know what to say.

You sit there, drenched in lukewarm tea, the scent of bergamot curling off your skirt, the burn still needling faintly through the fabric. Adrian finishes the last of his breakfast with aristocratic indifference.

“…You’re not her, and you're never going to be her,” he says after a long pause, dabbing his mouth with a cloth napkin.

You freeze. He doesn’t elaborate. He doesn’t need to.

He rises, buttoning his jacket. His expression is unreadable. But as he passes, he stops just long enough to glance at you again.

And this time, his voice is quiet. Low enough that the maids in the corner won’t hear.

“I don’t know what game you’re playing, Virelle,” he says, “but be careful. Father’s affection is not armor. And the court eats sudden transformations alive.”

He walks out.

You sit still, spine straight, chest aching. The tea is cold now. But your mind is burning. You need allies. And fast. You don’t go back to your room.

Not yet.

The weight of Adrian’s words clings to you like the steam still rising faintly from your tea-stained skirts, but it’s not fear that guides your steps; it’s instinct. A whisper in your chest you’ve learned to obey. When the world turns unkind, find the silence first. Just like that hell hellhole you thought you had escaped so long ago.

So you walk. Past the marble archways and the long stretch of white-tiled halls, past the guards who glance but don’t speak, and through the side corridor that leads into the east gardens—Virelle’s favorite hiding place, ironically enough. You remember it from the game. The way this route curves discreetly toward a small greenhouse and breaks into a wild sprawl of manicured chaos.

And there it is.

A gazebo tucked far enough from the main paths that it feels like it belongs to no one, half-covered in climbing roses, wisteria curling around its columns like lilac smoke. The flowers in this corner bloom in deliberate contrast: blood-red tulips, gentle bluebells, violets, foxglove, creeping honeysuckle. A witch’s bouquet, elegant and strange.

You step inside, inhaling the scent of dew and old wood. For a second, it doesn’t feel like a cage.

A maid finds you eventually. Not Marianne, someone newer, younger, clearly unsure of whether or not you’ll bite her hand off.

“I—My lady, are you unwell?” she asks.

You blink slowly, then answer with surprising calm. “I need a pen. And paper. Please.”

She looks startled but nods. “I—I’ll fetch it right away.”

It takes fifteen minutes.

By then, you’ve memorized the shape of every flower in sight. You could tell them all apart in a field; by scent, by leaf texture, by how much sunlight they crave and how easily they wilt.

You used to dream of this kind of garden.

When the maid returns, you thank her and gently wave her away.

Only when she’s gone do you curl your legs beneath you and set the paper on your lap. The pen feels strange in your hand. Like it belongs to a different time, a different self. You brace the parchment against a book left behind on the bench and begin to write.

Not prose. Not a letter home. It's not like you even had one outside of here...

Just… possibilities.

“Every possible ending.” You underline it twice.

Then you start listing.

Executed for treason against the crown (triggered if you speak to the envoy from Norvain in Chapter 3)

Executed for attempted murder of Elira (triggered if you’re seen anywhere near the Crown Prince’s quarters during the masquerade)

Poisoned at a royal banquet (if favor drops below 10 with Adrian + Elira still missing)

Banished to the borderlands (if you survive to Chapter 7 with zero allies)

Assassinated in the woods (bad end path after the feast escape)

You pause.

The list is already too long.

Your hand trembles slightly as you go back and underline one word again: executed.

Over and over again, the game taught you this girl was meant to die. The system was rigged, the dialogue options weighted like loaded dice. Everything pulled the player into hatred, into impulsive cruelty, into martyrdom or madness.

And now you are her. A bitter breath escapes you.

You glance at your reflection in the silver handle of the pen. The long pink hair, the color of apple blossoms in spring, feels unreal every time it brushes your shoulder. The black eyes, round and eerie, not like yours at all. Not from the world you knew.

You look like a character who was designed to be blamed for everything. You close your eyes. Let the wind rustle the paper a little. Then you flip to a new sheet.

“Victory paths.”

This time, you hesitate before writing.

Because there weren’t any. Not that you found. Not in dozens of failed playthroughs.

But you refuse to accept that. So you begin anyway.

Survive until Elira is found. (She might be the key to clearing your name.)

Earn the Duke’s full trust. (Not just tolerance. Make him see you.)

Learn the truth about Elira’s disappearance. (Maybe she wasn’t taken. Maybe she left.)

Win over the Crown Prince. (If you can find a way. Somehow. Slowly. Carefully.)

You stop there, pen hovering. Your heart pounds in your throat.

Because the last entry is the most dangerous of all. The one the old you would’ve laughed at. But you’re not her anymore. Not the girl who was too afraid to speak, too desperate to be wanted by people who never saw her. And you weren't Virelle either with the temper and the anger.

This time, you will be seen. You lower the pen.

Outside, the sun peeks through the vines, casting soft gold across the pages.

You sit alone in that secret garden, surrounded by flowers and perfume, and decide:

If this is a game, you will break it. And if this is a life, you will live it. But not recklessly. Not like before.

Because you remember now, too vividly, how every path that brought you near him ended in death. Whether by blade or decree, it was always him. The Crown Prince, with his quiet fury and unforgiving eyes, never hesitated to cut Virelle down. Every mistake, every rumor, every whisper of conspiracy led to the same thing: execution.

So no. You will not follow his story. You will not chase redemption through his mercy.

You will avoid him entirely.

If survival is the goal, then love is the enemy. No matter how beautiful he looked in the palace courtyard, how gentle his voice could be when speaking to someone he cared for, not you. Never you.

You draw a clean line on the page.

Then, beneath “Victory paths,” you write again.

Avoid the Crown Prince at all costs. (Do not speak to him. Do not look at him. Do not give him a reason to see you.)

Craft a likable noble persona. (Charming. Educated. A little eccentric. Easy to dismiss, difficult to hate.)

Gather subtle favor within the court. (Servants, tutors, old scholars. Not the elite, not yet.)

This won’t be a battle of brute force. You’re not a hero, or a warrior, or some saint who reforms the system with tears and heart. You’re a woman born twice. And this time, your survival will come from shadows and smiles. From knowing when to play the fool, and when to strike like a serpent in silk.

You look at your reflection again in the pen’s polished silver.

The black eyes. The pink hair. The face of a villainess crafted by developers to be hated.

You offer yourself a faint smile, thin and practiced.

Fine.

Let them underestimate you. Let them sneer behind their fans and call you strange, cruel, unloved. They won’t see the checkmate until it’s far too late.

The next morning, the parlor smells faintly of citrus and old paper. The rain had been kind during the night, washing the garden paths into clean slate. Somewhere in the east wing, bells ring the hour, late enough to be fashionable, early enough to show you’re serious.

You arrive ten minutes ahead of your scheduled etiquette lesson. Not Virelle’s style, from what you recall. She was always late. Always in a state. Always had a complaint on her lips before she even sat down.

But you?

You’re already seated when Madame Roille arrives, trailing the scent of aged perfume and mothballs, her posture as rigid as the lacquered bun atop her head. She pauses when she sees you, prim, poised, hands folded, back straight.

The older woman narrows her eyes.

"Lady Virelle," she says cautiously, like a horse trainer addressing a notorious biter. "You’re… early."

"I thought it best not to waste your time," you reply smoothly, voice gentle but firm.

That alone seems to disturb her. She falters for half a second before recovering.

Madame Roille glances at the maid in the corner, as if to confirm she isn’t dreaming. The maid shrugs, equally baffled.

The instructor steps carefully around your table, lips pursed. "Very well. Then we shall begin."

She produces a fan from her handbag, then a set of porcelain cups, placing them down one by one. Her hands are practiced but wary. She’s clearly waiting for you to do something, scoff, snap, roll your eyes, the usual routine.

Instead, you reach for the teacup with perfect posture, fingers delicately curved. You do not grip it like a brute. You do not slouch. You do not speak out of turn.

"Elbow closer to your waist," she mutters automatically.

Already there. She stiffens.

You lift the cup to your lips, blow gently to cool it, and sip. It's bitter, perfumed, expensive. You don’t flinch. You simply lower it again with a grace no one in this house seems to expect from you.

The silence stretches. Finally, Madame Roille clears her throat.

"I must say, you’re… unusually attentive today."

You smile at her—not smug, not sweet. Controlled.

"I’ve simply come to understand that I will need to be better," you reply, as if it's obvious. "So I will be."

Her hands still on the table. A crack in her usual steely detachment.

She blinks, then leans forward slightly, eyes searching yours. "Are you feeling well, Lady Virelle?"

You hold her gaze. No twitch. No tremble. Just quiet resolve. “Perfectly.”

She doesn’t believe you. You can see it in the stiffness of her shoulders, the way she reverts to her notes as if grounding herself in something normal. Something sane.

Good. Let her think you're broken or bewitched. That’s safer than being suspected of plotting.

You complete the lesson flawlessly. You take correction with grace. You curtsy at the end, not too low, not too shallow. She nearly drops her fan.

As she gathers her things to leave, she pauses in the doorway and glances back.

"You know," she says slowly, “if I didn’t know better… I’d say you were someone else.”

You only smile, tilting your head ever so slightly.

"Wouldn’t that be a mercy?"

And with that, the door shuts.

The maid lingers a little longer than usual when clearing the table. Her hands are quick, but her eyes are wide.

You don’t speak to her. Don’t need to. Because you can already feel it shifting. The whispers will start today. Something’s changed in Lady Virelle. And the best part? No one knows what to do with that.

The whispers begin at lunch.

Too subdued to be gossip, too deliberate to be coincidence. The butler glances at you twice instead of once. A maid pauses mid-curtsy, nearly forgets to offer your napkin. Someone down the hallway calls you "milady" with an edge of caution, like they’re not sure it still applies.

You keep your chin high and your tone light. Nothing rattles you. That is the point.

By midafternoon, you’re summoned for a "casual introduction" to Lord Astemir, the Duke’s long-standing political advisor and an absolute relic from the previous reign. He’s known for his rigidity, his disdain for melodrama, and his razor-sharp instincts. Virelle, as far as the game files went, loathed him. The feeling was mutual.

You expected that.

What you didn’t expect was to be sitting across from him so soon, in the east drawing room lined with war maps and polished heirlooms, sipping bitter ginger tea while the old man squints at you like he’s searching for a lie tucked behind your pupils.

"You’ve studied court etiquette recently," he says flatly. Not a question.

"Yes, my lord," you say, folding your hands atop your lap. "It seems prudent, considering my position."

He makes a grunt of disapproval, though you note, he doesn’t immediately cut the meeting short.

"You’ve never cared for prudence before."

"Perhaps I’ve come to see its usefulness."

He narrows his eyes. "You’re not acting like yourself."

"No," you admit easily. "But my past self has brought nothing but shame and ruin. I thought I might try something else for a change."

A flicker of amusement in the corners of his mouth. Not approval. But not disgust either.

"You speak with a diplomat’s mouth now," he mutters, turning to pour himself more tea. "Let’s hope it isn’t a borrowed tongue."

He doesn’t dismiss you.

Instead, he begins to quiz you, softly at first, then with growing interest. Trade routes between Erelith and the northern archipelago. The root cause of the border dispute with Valgrim. The history of the Queen Mother’s failed diplomatic marriage thirty years ago.

You answer with cool precision.

Not perfect, but smart. Smart enough to show you’re paying attention. Smart enough that this Virelle has learned to listen.

When you leave, he does not offer praise. But he says, with a tone almost grudging:

"I’ll expect to see you at next week’s council banquet. Wear something red. That court is full of jackals."

You curtsy, more deeply than expected. “Thank you, my lord.”

Checkmate begins in inches.

Later that evening, you’re returning from the library, two botany books in your hands, one of them scribbled full of herbal diagrams you recognize from the game and from your own memories.

You pass through the servants’ corridor to avoid the main staircase. That’s when you find her, the same young maid from this morning. The one who brought the tea you spilled.

She’s on her knees, gathering spilled cleaning oils from a shattered glass vial. Her hands are shaking. The scent is sharp, stinging. Her eyes widen when she sees you.

You pause.

She clearly expects you to sneer. Or worse, report her. This hall, after all, isn’t one nobles frequent.

But you crouch.

Carefully, you set your books aside and pull a clean cloth from your sleeve, one you tucked there out of habit, and begin helping her clean.

"That oil’s corrosive to wood," you murmur. "There’s a root blend that can neutralize it before it stains."

She stares at you. She looks like she’s about to cry.

"Lady Virelle—"

"Don’t speak." Your tone is soft, not cruel. You meet her gaze. "Just help me clean it before anyone comes."

For several heartbeats, she doesn’t move. Then, hurriedly, she obeys. Together, the two of you scrub the floor until the scent fades.

When it's done, she looks at you with something cautious. Uncertain.

"Why did you help me?"

You brush a strand of pink hair behind your ear and rise to your feet with practiced grace.

“Because I know what it’s like when no one helps.”

You take your books and leave. No smile. No explanation. Let that act echo through the servant quarters like a pebble dropped in still water.

Kindness, weaponized.

You will win no wars by charging in. But by changing hearts one at a time? You just might survive the prince.

A week passes, and the estate has not yet decided what to do with you.

You rise early. You speak softly. You study for hours and walk the gardens like a specter, trailing pale skirts through flowerbeds you used to trample. You say “please” and “thank you.” You write in a private journal filled with escape routes, and you do not raise your voice even when maids mutter behind your back.

And that, more than anything, has unsettled the house.

Lady Virelle, for all her faults, used to be predictable. Sharp-tongued. Explosive. Dismissive of nobles and servants alike. She used to send maids running with a single glare and spit poison across dinner like it was wine.

Now, you sit in silence with your teacup perfectly aligned to your saucer, ankles crossed, hair brushed to a glossy sheen, answering questions with sharp, calm answers that make no room for mockery.

The staff doesn’t trust it.

The maids who used to smirk behind your back now whisper louder, witch, fake, what is she planning now?, but they tread more carefully. A few still try to provoke you. A snide insult here. A chilled bath that arrives ten minutes too late. A half-cleaned dress. But their efforts bounce off you like pebbles against steel. You’re no longer trying to win against them. You’re playing a much, much bigger game.

And then there's your father.

Since the tea incident, since the moment you simply blinked at a burn and offered restraint over fury, he’s... changed.

Not drastically. But the air around him has cooled, softened in places you hadn’t expected. There is a pause now before he leaves a room you enter. He doesn’t call you dear, but he doesn’t forget your name anymore either. He’s even taken to glancing at you during breakfast, once, even lowering his paper to ask if you slept well.

You did not. But you smiled and said yes.

Duke Withers is not cruel, you’re beginning to understand. Just... overwhelmed. Perhaps grief-blind. The real Elira had gone missing when she was seven, and somewhere in his heart, he still believes she’s out there. And you, this pink-haired stranger who looks like her but never acted like her, you were a painful, living reminder that he had failed twice.

So he ignored you. Not because he hated you.

Because if he didn’t, he might begin to love you. And that would be far, far more dangerous. Adrian, on the other hand, remains untouched by your newfound poise.

He watches you at meals with hawkish precision, his gaze full of cold dissection. He speaks around you, never to you. And when you do address him, with your best poised smile and carefully chosen words, he responds in clipped civility that drips with suspicion.

He’s not stupid. He’s waiting for the old Virelle to snap. He’s going to wait a long time.

That afternoon, you sit alone in the study, poring over a collection of pressed herbs from the palace gardens: marenthel, bleeding star, weeproot. All of them have uses. All of them have poisons. You catalogue them neatly on fresh parchment, drawing from memory and instinct both, eyes narrowed, quill moving fast.

It’s not escape you’re planning. Not yet. It’s insurance.

A backup plan for when charm and grace and cleverness aren’t enough to save you from the blade. And you know it will come, eventually. After all, it always does.

The Withers estate was quiet that late morning, the kind of hush that settled only when the staff were too afraid to rustle a curtain or scuff their shoes on the polished floors. You hadn’t meant to eavesdrop, but you’d learned early, both in life and in Save The Villain, that survival depended on what you knew, not what you were told.

The moment you heard Crown Prince Robert spoken on the other side of the slightly ajar study door, your steps slowed to stillness.

“He’s done it again?” your father’s voice rumbled low, tired.

“Yes, Your Grace,” said the visiting noble. “Another execution. A steward this time. Closely tied to Prince Caelien, if the rumors hold any truth. Apparently, the Crown Prince uncovered evidence that Caelien sent an assassin after one of the border lords, and the steward helped cover the tracks.”

You leaned slightly closer, careful not to breathe too loudly.

A pause followed, heavy with implication. Then your father sighed. “And the King still allows it?”

“What choice does he have?” the noble said with a shrug you could hear in his voice. “Crown Prince Robert is efficient. Controlled. And he gives every criminal a chance to confess before judgment is passed. The court may flinch at his coldness, but they don’t question his integrity. Not when corruption festers everywhere else.”

There was a silence. You imagined your father frowning into his tea, lines etched deeper between his brows. “And now I’m told he plans a ball?”

“For Caelien’s name day, yes,” the noble answered, almost amused. “Public goodwill, perhaps. Or maybe just keeping up appearances. Either way, every noble family with daughters to parade is already preparing.”

You stepped back from the door, the coldness of polished stone seeping through your slippers. A ball. Of course there’d be a ball.

You remembered it clearly now, every variation, every route, every mistake. The ball was a turning point. Sometimes it was where you were accused of treason for speaking to a foreign envoy. Sometimes you were seen flirting too brazenly with the wrong noble. Once, Robert himself had overheard you mocking his late mother’s tapestries.

Every time, you were dragged from the ballroom in chains before the roses had even wilted.

You knew better now. This time, you would not be careless.

You would not get close to him, not until you had gathered your pieces. Not until you had softened every edge of your reputation, planned every word like chess moves two steps ahead. You were not Virelle Withers, the brash and spoiled antagonist who insulted royalty and cried foul when crushed beneath it.

You were you. And you had the knowledge of every possible route that led to ruin.

So you would not be the fool who walked into Robert’s sights too early. You would make yourself untouchable. Charming. Useful. You would weave yourself into the court like silk thread, delicate and impossible to pull out without unraveling the whole tapestry.

You would survive the ball. You would survive him.

And when the time came, if it came at all, you would look Crown Prince Robert in the eye and not tremble. Because this time, you were going to win the game.

In due time after the letter, the entire estate was in a frenzy.

Maids rushed down the halls with bolts of fabric in pale blue and emerald green. The head butler was seen snapping at a footman for improperly folded guest correspondence. And from your seat by the library window, a steaming cup of lavender tea untouched in your hands, you watched it all unfold like a detached spectator in a play you weren’t supposed to star in.

The ball was in three days.

You had known it was coming, but now it loomed like a final boss fight with no save point in sight. And yet, you reminded yourself, this time you have the walkthrough.

At precisely noon, as expected, you were summoned for dress fitting.

The seamstress who entered the sitting room was the same one who had been dressing Virelle since childhood, and it showed in her forced smile and the faint way her left eye twitched when she curtseyed.

“Good day, Lady Virelle,” she greeted, tone cautious. “We have a few gowns prepared from the usual silks… Shall I show you the rose-pink one first?”

In the old routes, Virelle would’ve scoffed. Demanded gold, maybe, or accused the poor woman of sabotage. That was how the reputation had been cemented, day by day, complaint by complaint.

You only nodded. “Please do. And if you have a charcoal or ink-blue option, I’d like to see that as well.”

The seamstress blinked. Slowly. “Y-yes, my lady. Of course.”

The gowns were beautiful. Too beautiful, in fact, excessive in ruffles, embroidered with dragons and glittering beads. All of them the kind of dresses that screamed Look at me. Admire me. Despise me. But you were no longer playing the villainess card for show.

When they brought out a simple yet elegant gown in deep dusk-blue with off-the-shoulder sleeves and a high waistline trimmed in silver embroidery, your breath caught faintly.

“That one,” you said, brushing your hand across the sleeve. “But remove the crystals at the hem. Too noisy.”

The seamstress looked vaguely ill. “Too noisy?”

You met her eyes, expression polite but firm. “I want to be remembered, not gossiped about.”

She scurried away with the gown in hand, and you exhaled slowly once the door shut behind her.

Later that evening, you asked your father, calmly and without a trace of your usual dramatics, if you could review the list of noble guests attending the ball. He had raised a thick brow, confused but not unkind.

“Curiosity,” you told him, placing your tea gently down. “If I’m going to be paraded around a ballroom like everyone else, I’d prefer to at least know who I’m dancing with.”

He gave a gruff, almost amused nod. “You’re not wrong. I’ll have my steward make a copy.”

Knowledge is power, you reminded yourself. And you’d use every sliver of it.

You spent the next two nights in secret candlelight studying noble names, alliances, rumored court spats, and which families had reason to hate or love the Crown Prince. You didn’t flinch at the mention of Robert now, not even when you saw the note scrawled in the margin of the registry: He prefers to never dance with anyone unless you catch his eyes. Pray you do not.

That meant you had to ensure it wasn’t you.

You would wear a dress elegant enough to be praised but not envied. You would speak gently but only when addressed. You would not raise your voice, your glass, or your profile.

You were not Virelle Withers. You were a you.

The ballroom glittered like a dream painted in gold and wax. Chandeliers hung from vaulted ceilings like constellations, casting flickering warmth across gowns and jewels and whispered ambition. A string quartet played from the gallery above, the melody light and forgettable, exactly what the nobility liked. Something lovely that required no thought.

You had entered as instructed: fashionably late but not too late, enough to be seen and then swiftly forgotten. The dusk-blue gown was everything you had asked for, elegant, silent, unthreatening, and your hair had been pinned with delicate silver combs that caught the light without blinding. It was a chess move in silk.

And it was working. No one greeted you. Which was perfect.

You made your way around the edge of the ballroom like a shadow in heels, careful not to linger too close to any clusters of conversation. A few eyes turned your way, narrowed in suspicion, and then looked past you entirely. A few others murmured behind fans or tilted heads. You caught the words “Withers girl” and “still invited?” and “should’ve been sent to the country.”

Good. Let them talk. Let them write you off. You took a quiet sip of your wine and settled near a marble column by the terrace doors, half-hidden by the floral arrangements.

The orchestra shifted key. Someone laughed, too loudly, from the other side of the room.

You sighed.

Maybe if you stayed here long enough, the Crown Prince would never even notice you. You’d go the whole night unremarked upon, untouched, and un-danced with. The very definition of survival. You lifted your glass again—

CRACK.

The double doors at the head of the ballroom swung open so violently that one slammed against the marble wall, making every guest flinch. Your wine nearly sloshed over the rim as your body tensed, fight-or-flight surging like electricity beneath your skin.

You didn’t have to guess. You didn’t have to look. You knew who it was.

Crown Prince Robert.

You had never seen him in person in this timeline. Not yet. But you had seen him in every version of the game. Standing over your body. Giving the order. Staring down at you like you weren’t even worth the blood on the carpet.

Now, he walked into the ballroom with the quiet force of an earthquake. Tall. Controlled. Unreadable. His military-cut coat gleamed with polished silver clasps; his boots clicked like clockwork against the floor. Dark brown hair. Pale blue eyes that looked almost white in the light. He looked like someone built to carry a nation on his shoulders, and someone who’d do it without blinking while burying traitors beneath it.

Your hands clenched around the stem of the wineglass before you could stop them.

He doesn’t recognize you. You remind yourself that over and over. He doesn’t even know who you are. Not yet. He has no reason to hate you. Not unless you give him one.

And sure enough, as his eyes pass over you, cool, indifferent, almost mechanical, you feel…

Nothing. No heat. No hatred. No disgust. Just a moment. And then it’s gone. You let out a quiet, shaky breath. Neutral. That was his default in the game. Always neutral, until she arrived.

Elira. The real daughter of Duke Withers. The crown prince’s future favorite. His quiet obsession. His reason to destroy you in every route.

Your stomach twists.

If Elira is alive in this world, and you know she is, even if she won't appear until a year from now, you’re on a ticking clock. For now, though… you’re just another noblewoman.

As Robert moves past you without pause, his attention shifts instead to the circle of nobles near the dais, Prince Caelin among them, flanked by his mother, the King’s first concubine.

The court bows in a ripple of synchronized grace.

"Brother," Caelin greets, voice warm but cautious.

Robert stops just short of the group, tilting his head slightly, almost like a curious predator.

“I heard someone died here last week,” he says calmly. “One of the stablemen. Stabbed. Poisoned. Something like that.”

A nervous silence follows. You don’t dare breathe.

“But I suppose justice was done,” Robert adds, his smile never reaching his eyes. “And here we are again, celebrating.”

“It’s for Caelin,” Lady Sylencia says, “and a perfectly innocent gathering.”

Robert’s gaze lingers on her. Then flicks briefly to his brother. “Hm.”

He turns back to the room.

“Carry on, then. By all means. Drink. Dance. Smile.”

He raises a glass plucked from a passing servant’s tray.

“We’ll see who’s still smiling by dawn.”

The music stumbles back to life. The tension doesn’t. And you?

You’re still standing at the edge of the ballroom, wine glass trembling slightly in your grip.

For now, you’re safe. You know that. He doesn’t know you. Doesn’t see you as a threat.

But if, when, Elira returns… you will be. And that’s what terrifies you most.

You tip the glass to your lips and drink; no, chug down the rest of the wine. It burns on the way down, far too dry for comfort, but you need something to calm your shaking hands. Your heart is still thudding against your ribs like it’s trying to claw its way out of your chest.

You keep your eyes on him, on Crown Prince Robert, as he moves like a blade through the crowd.

He doesn’t dance. He doesn’t smile. He barely speaks.

But people make room for him. Like they can feel it, that sense of tightly leashed power simmering beneath the surface. You remember from the game how terrifying that stillness was, how he could deliver death without ever raising his voice. How his silence was the warning.

And he’s here. Right now. Just across the room. You’ve died by that man’s hand more times than you can count. And yet he looked right at you earlier and saw nothing.

Good. That’s what you want. You need to stay invisible. You need to keep your head down, play the perfect noblewoman, a reformed shadow who knows her place and speaks with grace. Every smile, every nod, every curtsy, it’s all part of the game now. You’re not playing to win his heart.

You’re playing to survive him.

When he finally drifts toward the far end of the ballroom, slipping into conversation with a few minor ministers, you seize the moment like a drowning woman lunging for a lifeline. Your skirt swishes as you move, smooth and silent, threading through the room like smoke. You don’t glance back, don’t say a word. You just go.

Through the side corridor. Past the guards. Down the marble steps and into the evening air.

The garden is quiet.

Moonlight spills across beds of lavender and climbing roses, spilling over the edges of marble planters. You breathe it in, the coolness, the silence, the distant whisper of violins behind you, and follow the path deeper, to the far side of the grounds where the shadows are thick and the flowers grow wild.

And then you see it: the little gazebo tucked behind a cluster of bluebells and ivy. You duck inside and collapse onto the bench, exhaling like you’ve been holding your breath for hours. Maybe you have.

Your hands are still trembling.

Your head falls back against the painted wood, and you stare up at the ceiling like it might offer answers. “Okay,” you whisper to the dark. “That happened.”

He was real. Robert. Not pixels, not cutscenes. Not death screens. Real.

And he didn't even look at you.

You inhale through your nose and steady yourself. One hand clenches around the folds of your skirt as if anchoring you to the earth.

You came here to escape death, not dance with it.

He’s neutral. You remind yourself. Always neutral until you become a threat. In the past, the real Virelle couldn’t help herself. The moment Elira came back into the picture, she let her jealousy destroy everything. She snapped, screamed, raged, and Robert didn’t even blink. He just eliminated her.

But you… you’re not Virelle.

You’re not some girl trapped by pride and temper and desperation. You are a survivor. A strategist.

A woman who has died enough times to know that love isn’t the goal here. Not now.

Avoid the Crown Prince. Avoid Elira, if and when she returns in a year when the game starts.

Keep your head down. Make allies. Build sympathy.

And if anyone in the court dares paint you as a villain again… then they’ll do it while smiling to your face and toasting your kindness.

You smooth your dress. Brush off a speck of garden dust. Exhale again.

“You’re not dying this time,” you murmur.

Because you’ll make sure of it.

The deeper you wandered, the more the party blurred behind you like a half-forgotten dream. A bend in the hedge path, a soft rustle of leaves, and you stumbled into a hidden corner of the estate grounds. A flower garden, wilder than the ones nearer the ballroom, left to grow a little freer. Vines curled up the stone trellises, midnight roses nodding beneath the silver light of the moon. Lavender and white jasmine filled the air with their scent, so heady and nostalgic it almost made you dizzy.

You inhaled deeply and tilted your head back, gazing up at the stars. The moon hung heavy above you, larger than life, a cold and beautiful eye staring down in judgment.

Your chest ached.

A week ago, you were sitting on your couch, legs tucked under a blanket, juggling leftover noodles in one hand and your phone in the other. There were dramas to catch up on. Stupid memes. Grocery lists. Work alarms.

Now? You were standing in a corseted gown in some fantasy realm that wanted you dead.

And your phone? Gone. Takeout? Nonexistent. Wi-Fi? Please. Here, rumors were currency and survival was a strategy.

You let out a breathy laugh that almost sounded like a sob.

“I miss coffee,” you whispered to no one, voice cracking. “And indoor plumbing that doesn’t involve five maids.”

You stared up again, your throat tight. Would anyone miss you? Would they even know you were gone? Had time kept going in your world, or had it stopped with your last breath? Maybe someone had found your body in the street. Maybe your soul really had just slipped into the code of the game.

You reached down to brush your fingers across a blooming iris, but—

Shff— A sharp, glinting pain kissed the side of your neck.

You froze.

Steel. A blade. Cool against your skin. Light pressure, just enough to threaten. Not enough to kill. Yet.

Your lungs forgot how to function. Your spine locked in place.

Then, behind you, came a voice. Calm. Cold.

“Who sent you?”

Terror slammed into you like a wave.

You didn’t need to turn. You knew that voice. You knew the stillness it carried, the weight of it. It was the voice that had passed sentence in so many routes. The last thing you’d heard before the screen went black.

Robert. The Crown Prince.

He was behind you. Close. A shadow pressed against your back like a second skin.

“I—I…” you stammered, your tongue suddenly a knot. “No one sent me. I swear, I was just—”

The blade pressed slightly harder.

“Then why,” he said, each syllable slow and precise, “did you follow me into the gardens?”

He thought you were a spy. Or worse. And why wouldn’t he? Virelle was known for her attitude throughout the kingdom. A creature of pettiness and deceit.

You remembered now, this was a secluded spot. The one where he liked to vanish when court became unbearable.

You’d wandered here like a fool.

Your pulse thundered in your ears. You felt your knees go weak, your breath shallow. There were no save points here. No do-overs.

He could kill you. Right now.

“No—I mean—” you started, then cut yourself off.

You needed something. Anything. Some reason that would make him pause. That would make him not run you through.

“I—I…” Your throat bobbed, but nothing else followed. Your tongue was dry. Your body refused to stop shaking.

“I followed you because…” you blurted, heart lurching into your throat, “because I like you.”

Silence.

But you didn’t want to die.

His silence was a cavern. Vast. Endless.

You breathed like a cornered animal, shallow, ragged, loud in your own ears. The moonlight glared down on the garden, but his blade still hadn’t left your throat. You could feel the steel, unmoving. Cold. Patient.

A heartbeat passed. Then another. Then—

“Why?”

The word dropped like a stone in still water. His voice was steady, unreadable. Almost bored. As though your life or death was just a passing curiosity.

You blinked rapidly. “W-What?”

“Why do you like me?”

Your lips parted, but no sound came out. The question was absurd; terrifying in its gentleness. There was no mercy in his tone. No amusement either. Just a test. A knife’s edge.

Your mind reeled. What would he want to hear? What was the right answer?

You couldn’t breathe. Couldn't think. But you had to say something.

“I—I…” Your throat bobbed, but nothing else followed. Your tongue was dry. Your body refused to stop shaking.

Say something. Anything. Or he’ll think you’re lying. Or worse, mocking him.

“I like your… swordsmanship,” you blurted.

A pause.

Still the sword didn’t move.

“And you’re handsome,” you added in a rush, the words tumbling out like broken glass. “That’s—That’s all, I swear. I wasn’t following you. I just—I admire you. I really do, Your Highness.”

Your voice cracked. The heat of shame and fear burned up your cheeks, behind your eyes. It was humiliating, groveling like this. Lying. Telling him you liked him...the part about the handsomeness was the truth, but still. You hated it.

But you didn’t want to die.

His silence was a cavern. Vast. Endless.

You dared a breath, barely a whisper.

You couldn’t think. Your breath came in panicked, shallow bursts. The blade still hadn’t moved.

The Crown Prince finally moved.

Not the sword, no, that stayed firm at your neck. But you felt the subtle shift of his body, the low exhale of a man mildly entertained.

“Is that so?” he murmured.

You tensed. His voice had changed, cooler now, laced with something dark. Amusement, yes. But not the warm kind. The kind you might use with a cornered animal too pathetic to pose a threat.

“I see,” he said softly, almost to himself. “Swordsmanship… and my face.”

You dared a breath. Just one. Maybe he believed it. Maybe that was enough.

Then came his next words, smooth and lethal:

“You’re lying.”

Your heart stopped.

He leaned in, not close, but enough to make the sword press just slightly harder to your skin. Enough that your body knew this man could end you with no more effort than flicking away a fly.

“I don’t care why you’re really here,” he said, voice low. “But the next time we meet, you’ll give me the truth.”

The garden was dead silent. The flowers didn’t move. The air didn’t stir. You couldn't even remember how to swallow.

“If you don’t…” he added, the barest hint of a smile in his voice, “I'll carve the real answer out of you myself.”

And then, finally, the sword withdrew.

By the time you turned around, shaking and wide-eyed, he was already walking away beneath the silver wash of moonlight. Silent. Regal. Unbothered.

He didn’t look back.

But you… you were still frozen in place, hand pressed against your throat, blood roaring in your ears.

You had no idea if you’d just survived a close call or walked straight into a longer, slower death.

The moonlight faded behind the tall hedges as you stumbled through the garden path, one hand clutching the fine lace handkerchief to your neck. Blood had already seeped through the fabric, warm and slick between your fingers. You didn’t know if it was a shallow cut or something worse. Everything felt slow. Far away. Your legs felt like porcelain, hollow and fragile beneath the weight of your dress.

You’d escaped him. Somehow. But the dread hadn’t lifted.

It lingered like the scent of steel on your skin.

The moment you reached the ballroom’s outer corridor, the shift in atmosphere hit you: music, laughter, the clinking of goblets. Light and life returning all at once. You swayed, disoriented. No one noticed you at first. No one ever did.

You told yourself you just needed to find a seat. Just sit. Just breathe.

But when your blurred gaze lifted and found him, Adrian, your adoptive brother, something in you crumpled. He stood beside a cluster of nobles, the picture of composure, holding a wine glass like he was born for it.

He saw you before you could even try to look away.

His eyes narrowed, brows knitting not with concern, but confusion at first. Maybe annoyance. Like you were about to make a scene.

You opened your mouth, but your tongue felt heavy. Your vision swam.

You took a step toward him.

“Adrian,” you breathed, voice barely audible over the violins and laughter. “I think… I think I made a mistake…”

The blood-drenched handkerchief slipped from your fingers as your knees gave out.

Gasps rose like a wave behind you. You didn’t feel the floor as you collapsed, only the chill of marble against your cheek. The room spiraled above you, gilded ceilings spinning like a carousel.

In the flurry of noise and rushing footsteps, you heard your brother’s voice, not cold this time, but sharp with alarm.

“Someone, get the medic, get my Father!” Adrian’s voice cracked for the first time. “She’s bleeding! What the hell happened?!”

You wanted to answer. You wanted to say the Crown Prince tried to kill me. But the words wouldn’t come. The pain pulsed with each beat of your heart, and blackness crept up from the corners of your vision like a rising tide.

And then, darkness.

The first thing you noticed was the stillness. No music. No voices. Just the faint creak of wood shifting in the walls and the slow, steady throb in your throat.

You blinked up at the gauzy canopy above your bed, then turned your head with effort. The room was dim, a lamp burning low on the table beside you. You were warm beneath the sheets, but your body felt like it had been stitched back together with glass.

A dull ache pulsed across your neck, wrapped in tight, clean bandages.

Then you saw him.

Adrian.

Slumped in a velvet chair beside your bed, his posture rigid even in sleep. His dark coat was wrinkled, and his arms were crossed tightly, like his body had refused to fully relax despite exhaustion. His face, so often marble-cold and unreadable, was softer now, the lines between his brows eased.

You stared for a long moment, unsure if you were dreaming.

Then you reached out, your fingers brushing the back of his hand.

His eyes snapped open.

He jolted upright, blinking at you with startled relief quickly smothered by formality.

“You’re awake,” he said, standing abruptly.

Your throat was dry and sore, but you nodded.

He didn’t sit again.

“You’ve been unconscious for three days,” he said, tone clipped. “The physician was summoned the moment you collapsed. Father…” He paused, jaw tightening. “Father was… worried.”

You didn’t reply. Your gaze dropped to your lap where your hands sat trembling.

“But of course,” Adrian added, as though forced to re-center himself, “you’ve once again caused trouble for the family.”

Your jaw clenched, but you kept your face still. Composed. Just like the etiquette lessons had taught you. Just like your childhood had taught you.

This wasn’t new.

Back home…

You thought of your old life, apologies at the dinner table, the long silences after misunderstandings. The way you’d learned to smooth things over, even when it hurt. Even when it wasn’t fair.

You curled your fingers into the sheets.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered.

Adrian’s expression flickered, unreadable.

“If… if there’s punishment for this,” you continued, voice low, “I’ll accept it.”

That stunned him.

Truly, visibly stunned him.

His shoulders stiffened, but his mouth parted ever so slightly in shock, as though he couldn’t comprehend what he’d just heard.

He stared at you, speechless, for a long moment—then slowly looked away, hiding whatever it was that crossed his face.

“I’ll… inform Father you’re awake,” he said at last, retreating toward the door. But then, before exiting, he added, "Next time, tell me when someone bothers you...even if it's the crown prince."

And you, still trembling beneath the layers of silk and gauze, laid back down with your eyes to the ceiling, wondering how many more times you would have to say sorry to survive. As if you were going to tell him anything.

Recovery came in quiet, cautious steps.

The days passed like slow-moving clouds, one after another, a rhythm of silence and cautious beginnings. You remained in your chambers for the first week, weak from blood loss and dizzy spells, your neck bandaged carefully by a physician who never asked too many questions.

The pain faded slowly, but the memory, the cold steel at your throat, the lethal gleam in Crown Prince Robert’s eyes, never did.

But something strange happened in the stillness of your convalescence.

The young maid you had knelt beside on your first morning, the one you’d helped scrub the floors, began appearing with your meals instead of the older, crueler staff. Her name was Marianne, you learned. She was barely sixteen and terribly shy, but from the moment she saw you awake again, something in her gaze shifted from cautious obligation to... fierce loyalty. Quiet and unspoken, but solid. She fluffed your pillows with care. Left you extra sweets, she pretended not to notice. Warned you in whispers when a particularly sharp-tongued servant approached.

In a house full of eyes that watched for your failures, Marianne looked at you as though you were worth saving.

Then came the afternoon tea times.

It started one afternoon without warning. A knock on your chamber doors, then the Duke himself, your father, entered with a small silver tray in hand, a stilted smile on his lips.

“I thought we might drink tea together,” he said. “If you’re feeling well enough.”

You had stared at him for a long moment, unsure if you’d misheard.

He rarely sought you out, and when he did, it was usually with a sigh or a reprimand. But now, he stood with fine porcelain cups and quiet eyes, like he was trying. Clumsily. Sincerely.

So you agreed.

It became a ritual. Once a week, tea in the garden or the parlor, where he asked stiff questions about your studies and tried not to look too startled when you responded eloquently about trade routes and noble alliances, topics the real Virelle would’ve scoffed at.

You noticed the furrow in his brow gradually smoothing with each meeting. Not pride, not quite. But curiosity. The kind that might grow into warmth, if given time.

Your brother was... less convinced.

Adrian attended one of the teas. Only one.

He drank in silence, watching you with that sharp, suspicious glint in his eye that always made you feel like prey in a trap. When your father complimented your improvement in posture, Adrian scoffed.

“She’s still not family,” he said with the same ice you'd come to expect. “Our real sister is the only one who belongs here.”

The words hurt, cut deeper than the sword ever had, but you didn’t flinch.

You smiled politely, bowed your head, and replied, “Of course. I understand.”

But still, you noticed. The fact that he came at all. That he sat through the tea, even if only once. That when you coughed into your napkin, he glanced over with a flicker of something; not warmth, not affection, but... hesitation.

It was enough to make you wonder.

A month passed in this new rhythm. Study, walk, write. Marianne at your side. Your father’s hesitant attempts at closeness. Adrian’s blade-sharp words paired with his rare, wary silences.

You almost forgot the sword at your throat.

Almost.

Until the letter came.

You’d been sketching plant specimens from the garden when Marianne entered your room with wide eyes and a trembling silver tray.

“My lady,” she said, nearly dropping it. “It’s from… the Crown Prince.”

Your hands froze over your parchment.

There it was. A deep red seal, unbroken. The royal insignia pressed into wax like a warning. You stared at it like it might explode.

“Leave it on the table,” you whispered, throat dry.

Marianne obeyed. You didn’t touch it for hours.

It wasn’t until nightfall, your room lit only by the soft glow of the fire, that you finally opened it with shaking hands.

Lady Virelle Withers, You are cordially invited to attend a private gathering hosted at the imperial hunting estate in celebration of Prince Caelin’s birthday. It would be most ungracious of you to decline. —Crown Prince Robert

You stared at the words, unable to breathe.

Unspoken in the letter, but clear as day in your gut, was a threat. A summons.

And you were too terrified to answer it.

So you did what any rational, terrified woman would do in this situation.

You faked an illness.

Headaches. Fever. Chills. You threw in a fake fainting spell for dramatic effect. Marianne helped you dose your skin with cold cloths so you’d feel clammy to the touch, and you stayed curled under thick blankets with your face flushed and pale.

When your father entered, he frowned with concern. “You’ve taken ill again?”

“I’m terribly sorry,” you murmured weakly. “I’m afraid I’ll have to miss the Prince’s celebration…”

He nodded solemnly. “Then rest.”

And just like that, you’d delayed the game.

Not forever. But for now. You’d bought yourself time. Time to learn the board. Time to figure out the Crown Prince’s next move before he made it.

And most of all, time to survive.

By night, you wrapped your cloak tightly around your shoulders, hood drawn low over your brow, heart thudding in rhythm with each quiet footstep you took down the dim stone hallways of the manor. Moonlight spilled through the windows, silvering the tiled floors. The estate was asleep, lulled into peace by the illusion that the Duke’s troublesome ward had grown docile. Predictable.

Let them think that.

You knew what was coming. In the game, once the real Elira returned, she’d venture into the city and find them, the outcasts, the unpolished diamonds. A ragtag guild operating out of a half-collapsed clocktower on the edge of the merchant district. She would sponsor them, give them uniforms, funds, even protection, and they would grow into something legendary. She would win the hearts of the people by lifting up the ones no one else saw.

But they would never have gotten there without that first encounter. Without being found.

And you… you were going to beat her to it.

The guards didn’t expect you to leave the estate grounds. Why would you? You'd never been allowed to before. In their eyes, you were a ghost haunting your room, and tonight, you were counting on that assumption.

The servant’s door creaked softly as you eased it open and slipped out into the night.

The town glittered in the distance, oil lanterns glowing warm and golden through the winding streets below the manor hill. You breathed in the air, cool, touched with summer warmth, and for the first time in this cursed world, you felt something like freedom. Real and fragile and fleeting, but real.

You reached the base of the path when—

"Going somewhere?"

You jumped, heart leaping into your throat.

Your brother stood just off the main road, half-shadowed by a tree, arms crossed over his chest. His hair was down, as if he’d just come from bed, but his tone was alert, dry, and far too amused for your liking.

“Adrian,” you said, hastily lowering your hood. “What are you—”

“I might ask the same thing,” he interrupted, raising a brow. “What trouble are you getting into now? Going to set the marketplace on fire? Slap a merchant? Kick a beggar for looking at you wrong?”

You winced. “I’m not like that anymore.”

His gaze remained skeptical.

You let out a breath. “I just… I want to see the town. That’s all.”

He didn’t speak, so you went on.

“I’ve lived in this estate for almost a decade. I know every inch of these walls, every crack in the ceiling. But I’ve never stepped past the gates. Not really. Not freely. And now that I’m finally… lucid, I want to see it. The city. The people. The world I’m supposed to live in.”

You didn’t mention the guild. You couldn’t, not yet. But your voice carried the truth. He must have sensed it, because after a moment, Adrian exhaled slowly and stepped aside.

“You’ll get mugged,” he muttered. “Or worse. Do you even know how to haggle?”

You blinked. “...No.”

He sighed like you were the biggest burden in the world, then looked away. “Stay where people can see you. Avoid dark alleys. If you get into trouble, don’t cry about it when you come back with a missing shoe.”

Your lips parted slightly. “Wait… are you letting me go?”

“I’m not your warden,” he said. “And it’s your funeral.”

And with that, he turned and walked back toward the estate.

But you stood there for a moment longer, stunned, watching his retreating form. Something about it lingered in your chest. No warmth, no affection, not even acceptance, but maybe, just maybe, a sliver of recognition.

He didn’t stop you.

That, in itself, felt monumental.

So, cloak tightened, heart steeled, you turned toward the glowing city.

Tonight, the game was yours to rewrite.

And fate, twisted, strange, beautiful fate, was waiting in the shadows of a half-broken clocktower.

You hadn’t expected it to be so alive.

Even this late into the evening, the city pulsed with movement. Lanterns dangled from the eaves of buildings like tiny suns, flickering in reds and ambers. A child darted past you chasing a wooden hoop, laughter echoing behind him. Market stalls were closing down for the night, their owners counting coins and wrapping leftovers in cloth. A woman selling roasted chestnuts flirted with a guardsman at the corner, and two drunk nobles in half-undone cravats shouted about poetry on the steps of a fountain.

It was a world brimming with warmth and color and chaos.

You wandered.

In a bookshop, you traced your fingers along spines older than your entire other life. At a silk vendor’s stall, a kindly woman insisted you’d look radiant in a blue sash, until you realized she was talking about burial shrouds. You bought a small pouch of candied almonds from a girl with a missing tooth who offered you a crooked smile and said, “You look tired, miss. Want me to curse someone for you?”

It was overwhelming.

It was beautiful.

And it was dangerous.

Because for the first time in this world, you didn’t feel like a piece on a board. You felt like a person.

But then came the crash.

A sharp noise, metal clattering and wood cracking, just down a narrow alley past a crooked tavern. Instinct said walk away—but your feet were already moving. You turned the corner just in time to see three armed men surrounding someone kneeling, their back to the wall.

No, not someone. A girl.

Small, wiry, blonde hair tied back, one arm raised to block a blow.

The thugs leered, laughing. “You think a runt like you can spy on our deal?”

You didn’t think. You reacted.

“Hey!” you shouted. “Duke Withers Guard’s on patrol tonight!”

It was a lie, of course, but a confident one. You’d learned from dramas that it wasn’t always the sword that saved you. Sometimes it was the bluff.

They turned. The girl on the ground blinked at you in disbelief.

“Get lost,” one of the men growled.

“Get caught,” you snapped back.

And in that split second, from a window above, a ceramic pot dropped and shattered at the thugs’ feet.

A low, masculine voice followed: “She told you to leave.”

The men cursed, spooked now, and one of them hissed, “Not worth it. Come on.”

They bolted.

The girl was breathing hard, scraped but not seriously hurt. You rushed forward, offering a hand.

“You alright?”

She took it hesitantly. “Who are you?”

“Someone who’s very late for a very fake appointment,” you said. “Come on.”

Before she could ask more, the alley door creaked open behind her.

Out stepped four others, each of them completely out of place, completely different from each other, and entirely unforgettable.

A lean, quiet man with a knife still half-drawn, eyes sharp as glass, he’d been the one who dropped the pot. Another with a shaved head and the aura of a soldier, arms crossed like a human wall. A tall woman in a ragged cloak who watched everything like a fox from beneath her hood. And finally, a scruffy older man who looked like he’d been drunk for most of his life but stood like he used to be royalty.

And somehow, they all knew each other.

“You’re late,” the man with the knife told the girl.

She rolled her eyes. “I was gathering intel.”

“You were gathering bruises,” muttered the soldier.

Then their eyes shifted to you.

You smiled nervously. “Hi.”

“Who’s this?” asked the cloaked woman.

“Someone who saved me,” the girl said, brushing herself off. “You believe that? In this town?”

There was a long silence. Assessing gazes. You could practically feel their collective judgment pinning you to the ground.

And then the older man chuckled. “Well, anyone who scares off that pack of jackals is worth a drink.”

The girl grinned. “I’m Yelena. That’s Ghost, Walker, Bucky, and our resident philosopher is Alexei.”

“Philosopher?” you echoed.

“I drink and say wise things,” Alexei said solemnly. “Not always in order.”

You couldn’t help it. You laughed.

Something clicked. Not fully. Not yet. But there was a rhythm here, chaotic and sharp and real, that pulled at you like gravity.

You straightened your shoulders and smiled.

“I’m Virelle,” you said. “And I think we might end up being friends.”

The so-called "guild base" was nothing more than a two-story ruin of a building wedged between a butcher shop and a shuttered apothecary. The wood floor creaked ominously with every step, and there was a constant dripping from somewhere above that no one bothered to fix. A rat darted across the floor, unbothered by the new guest.

Still, you didn’t mind.

It was warm in a way the Duke’s estate hardly was.

Yelena flopped onto a broken sofa with the ease of someone who belonged to the place, while Walker and Ghost leaned against opposite walls, watching you like wolves sizing up a sheep. Bucky sat at the table, silent, slowly cleaning a dagger with a scrap of cloth. And Alexei, who had, without your permission, already poured you something that smelled like vinegar and regret, grinned from his seat by the hearth.

“You really want to sponsor us?” Yelena asked, one eyebrow arched so high it nearly touched her hairline.

You nodded. “Yes. I’ve… seen your potential.”

That made Walker snort. “You’ve known us for an hour.”

“But I’ve known people like you for a long time now.” You kept your voice level, folding your hands. “I know strength when I see it. And heart.”

Ghost blinked at you slowly. Bucky didn’t look up. But no one scoffed this time.

“A noble with coin and too much free time,” Alexei muttered, swirling his drink. “What’s the catch, little dove?”

“There isn’t one.” You looked around at each of them. “You’ve been overlooked. But I see what you could become. I’d like to support you, discreetly.”

“And what do you get out of it?” Bucky’s voice was soft, but it hit like flint striking stone.

Your smile was faint. “Hope, maybe.”

There was silence. Then, Yelena leaned forward with a grin and said, “Well, I vote yes. I like her.”

Ghost sighed. “Fine. But if she betrays us, I’m stabbing her.”

“Reasonable,” you said brightly.

“Then it’s settled,” Alexei said, raising his drink. “We’re sponsored.”

You stayed longer than you meant to; talking, laughing a little, just listening to them bicker and scheme and dream. It felt like the beginning of something rare.

But eventually, you stood, brushing the dust from your cloak. “I should go. Before someone realizes I’m missing.”

Yelena gave you a lopsided smile. “Come back soon. Bring snacks.”

You slipped out into the alleyway, head buzzing, not from Alexei’s drink, but from the strange thrill of connection. You had just done something meaningful. Something the real Virelle never would’ve considered. And it felt—

That’s when you saw him.

At first, you thought it was a trick of the light. A shadow too tall, too composed. But as you weaved past the vendors and into the wealthier district, your eyes locked on the figure emerging from a weapons store.

It was him.

Crown Prince Robert.

His golden hair was pulled back, a few strands catching the moonlight. His coat, deep navy trimmed with gold, clung to his tall frame like it was cut by divinity itself. He was holding a long case, probably filled with something sharp and expensive, more things to kill you with, no doubt.

He didn’t see you.

Not yet.

But you didn’t wait for that to change.

Your heart leapt into your throat as you turned on your heel and ducked into the nearest crowd, weaving through the press of bodies as fast as you could without breaking into a sprint. Every step felt too loud. Every breath felt like a gamble.

Please don’t see me. Please don’t see me.

You didn’t stop until the gates of the Duke’s estate loomed ahead.

Safe, for now.

But your hand was trembling as it gripped the iron latch.

Because now he was no longer confined to the palace.

Now he was roaming freely.

And if you crossed paths again… You didn’t know if liking his swordsmanship would be enough to save you next time.

It had been three days since your escape into town, three days since you'd sent the promised sum to the budding guild under an alias. You were careful; no one in the Duke’s estate would ever suspect you capable of philanthropy, let alone sneaking through the capital’s maze of alleys like a fox on borrowed time.

Now, you sat in the ornate dining hall, its vaulted ceilings casting everything in a cold, reverent hush. A long mahogany table stretched between you, your father at the head and your brother to your left, as always. The porcelain clink of teacups and the polite murmur of servants were the only sounds for a while. Roast duck in citrus glaze, buttered root vegetables, and wild mushroom soup sat steaming on your plate, but you barely tasted them.

Your father had already asked you twice, first about your health, and then if you were sleeping better.

Which was… unusual.

He didn’t look at you with warmth, not quite. But there was a quiet, measured attentiveness in him now. An absence of scorn. That, in itself, was jarring.

You responded softly, “Yes, Father. I’m much better.”

Your brother didn’t speak. He chewed methodically, silverware clicking in steady rhythm. Occasionally, you caught his eyes drifting to the bandage still faintly visible beneath your high collar. But he never asked. You didn’t expect him to.

Then, a steward entered briskly, bowing before extending a letter on a silver tray.

“From the Royal Court, Your Grace.”

Your father took it, cracking the seal with a decisive thumb. His brows furrowed as he read. Then his lips twitched in a rare, unreadable expression, half intrigue, half surprise.

“Well,” he said at last, setting the letter down. “It seems the annual royal hunt will be taking place next week.”

You froze mid-sip. The hunt. How could you forget?

Every year, the palace hosted a ceremonial hunt in the late autumn, a tradition where nobles' children showed off their skills, formed political alliances, and vied for favor. A show of strength, cunning, and social maneuvering.

And every year since Virelle turned sixteen, you’d been banned from it.

“Wait,” you said slowly, eyes narrowing. “Does that mean I…?”

“Yes.” Your father’s tone was even. “Your participation ban has been lifted.”

You blinked. That didn’t match the game. The game never explained the ban, only that it existed. It was just one of those buried mechanics, a narrative pothole that had never been explored.

“But why was I banned in the first place?” you asked, setting down your spoon.

That was when your brother finally looked at you, really looked. His face was unreadable, but there was something harder in his gaze than usual. A wall sliding back into place.

“You don’t remember?” he asked.

You shook your head.

He set his fork down, fingers folding together.

“You threatened Lady Emerinne with a sword,” he said quietly. “No one knows the reason, but Lady Emerinne said you'd gone crazy after she'd simply tried to fix your dress.”

The words hit harder than you expected, like a ghost of humiliation echoing down the corridors of time. That… sounded like something the original Virelle might’ve done. Prideful, temperamental, desperate to prove she belonged. You imagined a girl cornering a younger noble, blade trembling in her hand, mascara smudged by unshed tears, wounded, feral, and looking for someone to hurt back.

You swallowed.

“I see,” you murmured.

Your father’s expression didn’t shift. But his next words came gentler than expected.

“You were a child. Children make mistakes. But this year… perhaps it is time you demonstrate growth.”

Your heart panged at that. The game had never given you such a chance.

You gave a small nod. “Yes, Father.”

But inside, your mind was already racing.

Because if the hunt was coming… that meant he would be there too. Crown Prince Robert always presided over the final challenge.

And this time, he’d already drawn blood.

You weren’t going to participate in the hunt.

Not because you couldn’t, your ban had been lifted, and your invitation sealed in gold filigree was waiting on your vanity, still unopened.

But because you valued your life.

You’d already been stabbed once by the Crown Prince’s absurdly beautiful sword and lived to tell the tale, well, not tell the tale, lest you wanted to get stabbed again, but you were not about to press your luck in a royal-sanctioned blood sport where half the contestants looked like they’d kill you for stepping on the hem of their cloaks.

So, no. You were going to spectate, look pretty, clap when someone killed a boar, and stay very, very far away from anything with tusks, claws, or blonde hair tied back with a ribbon of impending death.

Still…

You brought a weapon. Especially after the letter you got the other day from his royal pain in your butt, the Crown Prince Robert. Or Bob, like his fans called him in the real world.

The seal was plain red wax, no crest, no embellishments, only your name written in stark, elegant ink.

You hadn’t opened it at first. You’d stared at it in your room for almost an hour, trying to decide if you were being cursed, threatened, or summoned to your death. Real life had never prepared you for this kind of mail.

When you finally broke the seal, the parchment inside carried a faint scent of cedar, and something colder beneath it, like steel left out in the snow. The handwriting was precise, beautiful even, with an old-fashioned formality that made your skin crawl in a way you didn’t quite understand.

Lady Virelle, I hope this letter finds you in better health than when we last met. I admit I have thought of your answer often, and I find myself curious still. I trust you have not forgotten the promise you made me. I have not. Do bring the truth next time we meet. I will be looking for you at the hunt. Do not skip out on this one. Or else I would be terribly upset. —Robert

It had started sweet. Almost courteous. And then like a candle snuffed mid-sentence, it chilled. A twist of the knife under the ribcage that left no blood, just implication.

You stared at the letter for far too long before folding it and hiding it under your mattress like a teenager hiding love notes or threats, in this case. Depending on your luck.

So no, you weren’t going to participate in the hunt. You weren’t going to run around with bloodthirsty nobles and wild animals and possibly cross paths with the man who had once held a sword to your throat and made you admit he was handsome just to survive. You weren't dumb nor naïve.

But still… you brought a weapon.

A bow and quiver; simple, utilitarian. Not nearly flashy enough for a noble daughter, which was why you liked it. No one paid attention to someone with unadorned yew wood.

It reminded you of another life, one with fluorescent lights and vending machines and the sting of your father’s disapproval when he found your old archery gear and called it a waste of tuition money. That version of you had quit to avoid the argument.

This version, whatever you were now, strapped the bow to your back like a lifeline and climbed into the carriage beside your father and brother without complaint.

The hunting grounds were already a frenzy by the time you arrived. Nobles in rich velvet laughed too loud and compared their imported steeds. Armor glinted. Perfume mixed with the scent of polished leather and freshly sharpened blades.

And somewhere among them, he was here.

You hadn’t seen Crown Prince Robert since that night in the garden, since he’d pressed steel to your neck and asked you to confess your affections like a confession before execution.

He said he’d find you today.

Your heartbeat climbed, your skin tightening like it knew danger before your eyes could find him.

You adjusted your quiver.

You weren’t going to die. Not today.

You arrived with your family in a grand carriage emblazoned with the Withers crest, the wheels crunching over gravel as the estate hosting the royal hunt came into view. The grounds were sprawling, forest on one side, stables on the other, and the manor gleaming like it had been scrubbed by angels. Banners fluttered. Guards snapped to attention. And nobles turned to stare.

Whispers spread like spilled ink. You heard your name muttered beneath fans, tucked between chuckles, tucked beneath the gossamer shade of parasols and veils.

“Is that her?”

“She wasn’t banned this year?”

“I heard she stabbed someone for stepping on her dress—”

You exhaled slowly. They weren’t saying anything new.

Let them talk. As long as they didn’t approach you, you could survive this evening with dignity intact and your jugular unperforated.

Dinner came first, a formal affair held on the open-air balcony of the estate. Silverware chimed against porcelain as the great and gilded of the kingdom dined under lantern light, the air rich with spice and summer breeze. You sat stiffly between your father and brother at one of the long tables, your fingers barely touching the goblet of wine before you.

Your father was in a better mood than usual, smiling, chatting with a nobleman across the way. Your brother remained cool, but he hadn't said anything sharp yet, which was... progress.

You were just beginning to think the night might pass without incident when the air shifted. A hush swept through the crowd like a ripple across still water.

Then the doors opened.

And in walked the Crown Prince.

He looked carved from marble and myth, regal, composed, a study in danger draped in black and silver. His sash bore the royal emblem, and his gloved hands rested lightly behind his back as he strode in like he owned the sky. His gaze swept across the tables, indifferent to the gasps, the bows, the girls suddenly sitting straighter and smiling wider.

And then his eyes paused.

On you.

Your spine locked. You looked away.

If he weren’t such an insufferable, sword-wielding butt, you might’ve actually been infatuated with him. He was, objectively, beautiful. Poised. Terrifying. The kind of man girls fell for in books. The kind of man you learned to run from in real life.

But you valued your head.

And you were only alive right now because you hadn't crossed some invisible line he hadn't drawn yet.

Thank goodness your father or your brother didn't leave your side. You forced your gaze to your plate. Focus on your fork. On the food. On—

“Excuse me,” your father said beside you, rising.

You blinked. “What—?”

“I have business to attend to,” he said, already walking away.

“Don’t cause trouble,” your brother muttered, standing to follow a group of his friends who waved him over.

And just like that—

They left you.

Alone.

Wide open.

A shiver crawled up your back. You could feel his presence, like a storm waiting to strike.

You didn’t have to look to know.

The Crown Prince was coming.

And there was no one between you and him now.

You didn’t need anyone to announce the Crown Prince’s as coming in your direction. The shift in the room said it all. The music stumbled. A few women sat straighter. Others immediately began whispering, their fans fluttering like butterflies in a storm. You kept your eyes firmly on your plate and prayed to every deity in every pantheon that he wouldn’t—

“Lady Virelle.”

Damn it.

You stood slowly, like a condemned noble climbing the gallows, and faced him.

“Your Majesty,” you murmured, keeping your head politely bowed. You reminded yourself that eye contact was not worth your life. Neither was breathing too loudly.

He regarded you in silence, eyes flicking over you in that unreadable, calculating way of his. He didn’t look like someone who belonged at a party. He looked like someone who’d been dragged here and was only entertaining himself by mentally listing the people he could kill in under a minute. And somehow, you knew you were high on that list.

“No fainting tonight?” he asked, voice cool and smooth, like chilled steel.

You gave a nervous laugh. “I ate beforehand.”

Why did you say that? What did that even mean?

He gave the faintest hum, as if you’d passed a test you didn’t study for. His eyes lingered on your neck for a fraction too long—specifically, the ribbon choker hiding what little remained of your scar.

“I see you’ve recovered,” he said. “A shame.”

Your smile died on your lips.

He continued. “I was beginning to think you were avoiding me.”

Because I was, you wanted to shout. I’ve been dodging your presence like it’s arrows in a tutorial level. You nearly killed me over a simple mistake!

“I wouldn’t dare,” you said instead, your voice too high-pitched to sound convincing.

He took a step closer. You did not. Your spine was straight. Your brain, meanwhile, was spinning like a roulette wheel of panicked thoughts.

“You said last we spoke,” he murmured, “that you liked me.”

Technically true. You had, under duress. With a sword to your throat.

“I believe,” he went on, “you mentioned my swordsmanship.”

You laughed, giddy with nerves. “That was adrenaline. And possibly moon delusions.”

Another step. Closer. You tried not to take one back.

“So you don’t like me anymore?” he asked.

Your heart skipped, and your soul prepped itself for departure.

“I… don’t.”

The silence was immediate.

And then came it, the twitch. Subtle, but there. Just beneath his left eye.

“You don’t like me,” he repeated, not as a question.

You nodded, mostly because you weren’t sure your mouth would work anymore.

“Who is it, then?” he asked.

“Excuse me?”

“The man you like,” he said. “If not me, then who?”

This isn’t happening. This was not in any of the game scripts you remembered. The prince never showed this kind of interest. Not in you. Not in anyone unless Elira was involved. So why now? Why this strange line of questioning?

“There’s no one,” you said quickly.

He didn’t blink. “You’re lying.”

“I'm not!”

He reached toward his sword.

And the world fell apart.

Your blood went cold, your vision spotted, and before he could say another word, you sprang to your feet and bent into a low bow so fast you nearly knocked your head on the table.

“I’m sorry, Your Majesty!” you blurted. “You don’t need to get your sword—I swear I wasn’t implying anything offensive! Please don’t kill me—I just wanted to enjoy—!”

You heard a chair scrape. A pause. Then:

“…I wasn’t going to draw it.”

You peeked up, blinking. He stood there, eyes narrowed,not in anger, but confusion. He looked down at his hand, still resting on the hilt, as though it had moved without his permission.

“I do that when I think,” he said. “It’s a habit.”

Your heart was still trying to evacuate through your ribs, but you nodded solemnly. “Right. Totally normal. I also like to, uh… wring my hands and spiral into existential panic. We all have our little quirks.”

He blinked at you.

You were going to die. You were going to die from awkwardness before he could even draw his sword.

But then, miraculously, he stepped back. Released the hilt. And gave you a slight bow that somehow conveyed both aristocratic formality and complete emotional detachment.

“I’ll see you in the forest, Lady Virelle,” he said, as though they were the most innocuous words in the world.

And then he turned and walked away.

You collapsed back into your seat, your legs wobbling beneath you like pudding. Your hands trembled so badly you nearly spilled your drink, and your heart was still rattling around your chest like a loose marble.

You stared down at your soup.

You would never complain about anything again. But that was short lived when later in the night, you get an invitation.

You knew the moment you stepped into the Everleigh gardens that this wasn’t a tea party.

It was a lion’s den. And you were the goat.

The chairs were set in a perfect circle under a trellis of flowering vines, sunlight filtered just right to catch the sheen of every jewel and comb and embroidered stitch on the noble daughters’ gowns. At least five of them looked you up and down the moment you arrived, and not one smiled.

You ignored it. You’d dealt with worse.

You’d worn a deep maroon dress with simple embroidery and a small bow slung neatly across your back, which had earned you stares the moment you stepped from the carriage.

“Lady Virelle,” came the high-pitched, over-sweet voice of Lady Charis Vale, daughter of the Marquis of Everleigh. “What a… bold accessory.”

You smiled thinly. “Thank you. I find it helps cut down on boring conversation.”

A few of the girls blinked. One outright gasped. Charis only blinked slowly like a cat watching something small and edible scurry across her marble floors.

“You must be very confident,” another girl murmured from her seat. “To come armed to a tea party.”

“I was told there’d be wild animals,” you replied coolly, settling into the empty chair they’d left, naturally, right in the center.

And you weren’t wrong.

The conversation that followed was thinly veiled mockery wrapped in etiquette and lace. They smiled as they spoke, but every word had a serrated edge. The temperature didn’t drop, but the air felt cold.

Then she spoke.

Lady Emerinne.

The girl you’d apparently pulled a sword on in a previous life—or, well, a previous incident. She was beautiful in that sugar-coated way that makes it easier for people to believe her. But when she smiled at you now, her eyes held that same simmering contempt you recognized from a thousand office politics back home.

“Virelle,” she said lightly. “I’m so glad to see you… behaving today. I still have a scar from our last encounter, you know.”

“Really?” you asked. “You should get that looked at. Sometimes phantom pain can feel real when the injury never existed.”

Gasps fluttered through the circle. Illoria’s expression flickered.

“Ladies,” Charis warned, though she was smiling into her teacup. “Let’s not start at the table.”

You gave a polite chuckle.

“Don’t worry,” you said. “I don’t bring blades to tea. Just arrows. Much cleaner.”

And then came the tea itself. Poured delicately by servants. Dainty cups. Flowery porcelain.

And the moment you raised yours, you smelled it.

It was faint. Barely there. But beneath the perfume of roses and citrus, there was something sour. Metallic.

You didn’t flinch.

Instead, you swirled the cup lightly and looked around with a serene expression. Half the girls were already sipping. The others were watching you.

Especially Emerinne.

You offered her a smile so empty it was almost gentle.

“Curious,” you murmured, loud enough to be heard.

Charis glanced over. “Is something wrong?”

“I suppose it depends,” you said, still not drinking. “Do your kitchen staff often prepare the same blend they use to polish silver?”

A nervous giggle escaped one of the younger girls. Another choked mid-sip.

Charis's brows twitched. “It’s imported.”

“I’m sure it is,” you said. “Though next time, do warn them that I have a very sensitive nose. I’ve trained it well. You’d be surprised what you can catch in a room full of flowers.”

Emerinne’s smile was growing thinner by the second.

“Perhaps you’re just nervous,” she said. “Paranoia can do strange things.”

“Paranoia,” you repeated softly. “You know, when your used to everyone being against you, you learn to pick up a couple things.”

That got their attention. You held the teacup up, letting it catch the light.

“Funny thing is,” you continued in a calm, almost dreamy voice, “when you know what to look for, you don’t need to drink it to prove a point. You just let the others watch you not drink it—and wonder why.”

You set the cup down, untouched.

Charis gave a tight smile. “Are you accusing one of us?”

“Of course not,” you said sweetly. “I’m just very particular about what I consume. Poison tends to ruin my whole day.”

And with that, you crossed your legs and folded your hands in your lap, completely composed.

No one laughed this time. No one blinked. Emerinne's cheeks had flushed a lovely shade of red.

You didn’t smile. You didn’t gloat.

But you’d won.

And as the breeze picked up and ruffled the lace at the corners of the tablecloth, you caught the hushed, vicious whisper from your right:

“She’s not the same anymore.”

And from your left, even quieter:

“She’s dangerous.”

You pretended not to hear. But as the conversation stumbled back into motion and Charis tried to salvage the air of civility, you let yourself exhale slowly.

Maybe, just maybe, you were starting to enjoy this.

You had no intention of joining the actual hunt. Gods, no.

You weren’t trying to prove anything to anyone, least of all the bloodthirsty aristocrats who treated the annual event like a twisted marriage market where the best shot, or biggest kill, got the most suitors. Let the others play predator in silks and smugness. You’d be perfectly content finding a quiet patch of woods far from the madness, with your bow, a few arrows, and zero human interaction.

And so you arranged for a personal guard, just one, an older man named Durnham who’d served your house for decades, to escort you to a peaceful ridge where the deer rarely passed and the hunters never looked. He was quiet, respectful, and you trusted him as much as you trusted anyone in the estate. Which was to say: just enough not to assume immediate betrayal.

The woods were cool and damp, thick with birdsong and filtered sunlight. The undergrowth here wasn’t disturbed, not yet, and it was a little beautiful, in the way forgotten places are. When you reached the small clearing you’d marked on the map, you dismounted and began to set up a spot to sit, perhaps sketch, maybe even try shooting at a tree knot or two.

“Will you be close by?” you asked without looking back, testing an arrow’s spine with your fingers.

“Yes, my lady,” came the low voice. “Just checking the perimeter. Shouldn’t be more than a few minutes.”

You nodded, distracted, already kneeling to set up your small leather quiver and a folded blanket. You didn’t notice the way his voice wavered. You didn’t hear the quiet sigh, almost regretful, before he turned and walked into the trees.

You didn’t notice that he never looked back.

It wasn’t until fifteen minutes had passed, then twenty, that you looked up again. The breeze had shifted. The birds had gone quiet.

You stood.

“Durnham?”

Silence.

You moved to the edge of the clearing, peering between the trunks.

“Sir Durnham?”

Still nothing.

Your fingers curled around your bow. Just precaution. Just nerves. He was probably relieving himself behind a tree somewhere. Or perhaps he’d gone a bit farther than intended.

Except… you’d been forgotten before. And the air here didn’t feel like an accident.

You circled the clearing once. Twice. No sign of hoofprints but your own. No flattened grass. No lingering echo of armor shifting or boots dragging through underbrush.

He was gone.

No message. No marker. No mistake.

Your mouth went dry as you scanned the forest. A chill slithered up your spine, not from cold, but from the unmistakable weight of being watched.

You weren’t alone.

And now, it seemed, the hunt had come to you.

Note: Part 2 is already underway and will feature a lot more of Bobert!

[thepiinkpages]

Johnny Storm x Reincarnated!Reader Part 2

Note: Okay, now we get to the good stuff. Part 1 was majority past life now heres present time.

Part 1

She died. Not once, but again. And again. And again.

In one life, she was a fox who roamed the cold northern woods, stealing scraps from camps and keeping watch over golden-haired hunters. In another, she was a poor child in a salt-rusted village, coughing through the winters, working herself to death before reaching thirteen. She remembered a boy with fire in his voice and sunlight in his eyes, though she had never met him in that life. And still, she whispered his name into her fevered sleep.

Jonathan.... Johnny

Once, she was a hawk. Another time, a soldier’s horse who kicked at the gates of war. She had been a starving servant who scrubbed stone floors until her bones gave out, and she had been a noblewoman who carved his name into her mirror every morning, waiting for someone who never came.

No matter who she became, she remembered. Every sword drawn in his name. Every heartbeat she’d given to protect him. Every death she’d taken just to keep him safe. Her soul clung to him like gravity. Like gravity... and grief.

But he never remembered her.

She would see him in glimpses. Men with blond hair. Laughter like his. Warm hands that pulled at the fragments of something lost. But their voices never made her ache, not the way his once did. Their eyes never widened at her face like they knew her. Her hope cracked a little more each time.

One life, she was hung for madness. Branded as a lunatic because she stood in the town square screaming the name Johnny, swearing he was real, swearing she would find him again. That death was not her worst. But it was one of the loneliest.

And yet... she came back.

Because love like hers did not die. It reincarnated.

But the price was memory. Memory in a world that would not remember her back.

Until this life.

She was born in a hospital under flickering lights, a frail, too-small child with underdeveloped lungs and no cry strong enough to assure the doctors she’d make it through the night. Her mother called her a miracle. But the miracle was bitter. Because her first memory wasn’t of her parents or the sterile nursery. It was of blood. Of flame. Of crumbling stone and a broken crown and the soft tremble of his voice as he held her dying body and said, “I’m sorry. Please, don’t go.”

She was six when she first told her teacher she had been a soldier. That she had died for a king. They thought it was imagination. She never said it again. Not aloud.

As she grew, her body remained weak. Her bones too fragile, her chest tight in the cold. But her mind carried every scar, every name, every fragment of war and love and death. There were days she could barely breathe, not from sickness, but from the weight of it all. The ache of waiting. The silent scream of knowing who you were, and no one else remembering.

By twenty, she had stopped hoping. She worked a small job in a repair shop, fixed things with her hands to keep herself from shattering. She still looked at strangers in the street, hoping for a flicker of recognition. She still watched the sun rise and wondered if he was somewhere under it too, thinking of her without knowing why.

And then one day, numb and exhausted, she stepped into a corner café. The news played softly in the background, barely louder than the whirring espresso machine. But then came a roar. Fire lit up the screen. People screamed. Buildings collapsed.

And then she saw him.

A man bathed in flame, gold and light and heat, soaring through the sky and reaching into the rubble to lift a crying child into his arms. The same voice. The same eyes. The same protective fury that once made him throw himself between her and a blade.

Johnny Storm. The Human Torch. A hero, they called him.

She didn’t breathe. Didn’t blink. Tears slid down her face before she even realized she was crying.

Because the world had changed, steel and glass instead of castles and swords, but she would know him in any age. In any form. In any life.

And this time, he was real. Alive. And maybe... just maybe... he remembered too.

She whispered it to herself, her fingers shaking, her heart breaking open in her chest.

"I found you."

She didn’t sleep that night.

The image of him burned behind her eyelids, more vivid than any dream. Not the flaming spectacle that left the city gasping, but him; beneath the smoke; behind the flames. The way he held that child like they were made of glass. The way his brow furrowed, even in victory. He looked older now, of course, but she could still see him through time; her king, her light, the one who had held her broken body in his arms and begged her to stay.

She stayed up for hours replaying the news segment on loop. Then she searched his name.

Johnny Storm.

There were pages, articles, interviews, magazine spreads, and every headline painted him as loud, reckless, cocky, fast. The firebrand of the Fantastic Four. The golden playboy. A man made of heat and headlines.

But when she watched the footage, really watched him, she saw the truth beneath the noise.

He laughed louder than he meant to, like he was trying to drown something out. He flirted with reporters and posed for cameras, but his gaze always flickered to the edges of the crowd, like he was searching. For what, she didn’t know. Maybe for her.

God, please let it be for her.

She kept a notebook beside her, one of the old leather-bound ones she always gravitated to in every lifetime. She wrote down every place he was seen. Every team he worked with. His known hangouts. The Baxter Building. Charity events. Interviews. And birthdays, she paused when she saw the date.

He had the same birthday. Different century. Same stars.

That couldn’t be coincidence.

Her hands trembled as she scribbled across the page. Maps. Dates. Possible sightings. It became obsession fast, but it had always been obsession. It had just never felt possible before.

This time, it was.

But how could she reach him? What could she possibly say?

Hi. I died in your arms five hundred years ago after the princess you liked stabbed me. I’ve been reincarnated more times than I can count. I’ve lived as a falcon, a beggar, a nun, and a mute kitchen maid, and I remembered you every single time. You’re the only thing I’ve ever remembered.

No one would believe her. Not even him. Especially not him. Not when his life was filled with cameras and fame and missions that saved the world. She was no one now. Just a quiet girl with too many memories and a heart that still beat for a man she hadn’t spoken to in centuries.

But still… she planned.

She researched charity galas, award ceremonies, events where he was confirmed to appear. She studied his body language in every interview, looked for signs, any signs, that he might be waiting too. One night, she stayed up watching a slow-motion video of him exiting a jet, sunglasses on, hand brushing absently at the air near his side. She wept because it looked like the way he used to reach for her sword, to steady her in battle.

Was it ridiculous? Was it madness?

Maybe. But she had lived as a woman who carved his name into the stone walls of her prison. She had been burned alive for claiming a love that stretched beyond time. This life was gentler. The stakes were different. But the ache was the same.

She had to try.

She circled a date on her calendar. A gala. She wouldn’t even be close. But she could be there. In the crowd. Breathing the same air as him again. Watching him laugh. Watching him live.

She told herself it was enough. Just to see him. Just to know he was real.

But it wasn’t.

Because if she saw him... and he didn’t see her?

She didn’t know if she could survive that again. That was why she was going to try to at least get his attention at the gala this weekend.

She circled the date three times.

Her pen bled through the paper, but she didn’t stop. It wasn’t just any gala — it was his. Hosted in his honor. A humanitarian fundraiser tied to the Fantastic Four, filled with the rich, the brilliant, and the beautiful. A golden evening made for him. She had no invitation, of course. Not to enter. But she could get close. She could stand outside in the cold and watch the limousines roll in. Maybe catch a glimpse of him on the carpet, bathed in lights and laughter. Maybe hear his voice again. Maybe… maybe something more.

She told herself not to dream. But it was already too late.

The night before, she didn’t sleep. Her body was exhausted, but her heart kept pounding in her throat, dragging her awake each time she closed her eyes. What would she do if he looked different? What if he looked the same? What if his eyes passed over her like she was a stranger?

You are a stranger now, she told herself bitterly. You’ve been a stranger for centuries.

Still, she rose with the sun and began to prepare.

The apartment was too quiet, too sterile, modern in that lonely kind of way. But she had brought pieces of her past into it, little tokens that never made sense to others. A candle with the scent of rosemary. A hand-carved pendant of a griffin. A sword-shaped letter opener that no one believed was real steel. She lit the candle and let herself pretend it was incense from the temple where she once trained. Let herself breathe in something that felt familiar.

She stood in front of the mirror and stared at herself for a long time. The same eyes. The same soul. But the body was different again. Different skin, different voice, different scars. She reached for the makeup she barely ever wore, hands trembling.

“He always said I was too serious,” she murmured aloud, trying to smile. It didn’t quite reach her eyes.

She dressed carefully. Not to be noticed, but to be there. A simple black dress, tailored just enough to pass for evening wear. Flat shoes, because old instincts never died. A single braid down her back, a soldier’s memory she couldn’t unlearn. She added earrings last, her fingers shaking as she clicked them into place. She had worn jewels before, as a guard in disguise, infiltrating royal courts in lifetimes long gone, but this felt heavier somehow.

Like every adornment might be a lie.

As she waited for the train into the city, she memorized the layout of the gala’s venue. The museum had been remodeled since the fire five years ago, but the entrance was the same. The public wouldn’t be allowed close, not unless they were press or part of the entertainment. Still, she’d found a high ledge across the street, a place she could perch quietly, just watching. That would be enough.

It had to be.

She stood there an hour before the first guests arrived, the wind tugging at the hem of her coat. Her body was tense with old instincts; she scanned every roof, every window. Not for danger. For him. Always for him.

He might not remember, her mind whispered again. He might not even look up.

But when the black car pulled to the curb and he stepped out, radiant and burning like the sun, her knees nearly gave out.

He was laughing. That same stupid, careless, beautiful laugh. Like nothing in the world could touch him. He wore a suit of navy blue, crisp and tailored, with a pin on his lapel that caught the flash of the cameras. His hair was shorter now. More styled. But it was him.

It was him.

She couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t cry. Couldn’t move.

Not even when a woman in crimson silk swept up beside him, touching his arm and whispering something in his ear. He grinned down at her. Smiled the way he used to smile at noblewomen in the old courts, charming and bright, but never true. At least, she hoped it wasn’t true. She had no claim. No right. But her heart clenched anyway.

She pressed a hand to her chest and closed her eyes.

He was alive. He was real. And she was here.

The war wasn’t over. But the battlefield had changed.

She stood frozen in the shadows just beyond the barricade, fingers twitching at her sides. The crowd was thinner now. The main stars had already arrived, and only a few stragglers lingered, hoping for selfies or last-minute glimpses. She hadn’t moved in nearly twenty minutes. Her legs were numb. Her heart was something worse.

He was only a few feet away. That same crooked smile tugged at his lips as he chatted with photographers, as effortlessly golden as he’d always been. But this Johnny was different too. There was no crown on his head, no burden of politics or war in his eyes. There was light in him now, a weightless ease that had never existed in their time. She had fought through lifetimes to find him, clawed through fire and silence and death itself, and here he was. Happy. Free. Untouched by tragedy.

She could call his name. She could reach for him. It would take only a single breath to shatter the space between them.

But what if that breath broke him?

What if her voice dragged him back into memories better left buried? What if her presence unraveled the peace he had clearly found in this life?

Her hand reached for him instinctively, just a flicker of movement, but she stopped herself short. Her fingers curled inward until her nails pressed into her palm.

She turned to leave.

“Did my fan not want an autograph?”

Her breath hitched. She hadn’t imagined it; that voice was his, low and amused and directed at her. She turned slowly, cautiously, praying and panicking all at once.

He was looking straight at her.

His brows were raised playfully, head tilted in that familiar teasing way, as if she were some curious puzzle he meant to solve. “You’ve been standing there like you’ve got something to say,” he said, eyes scanning her face. “Or maybe just a pen.”

She realized too late that she had, in fact, brought one. And a photo, a glossy printed shot of him in his Fantastic Four uniform. Just in case she got close. Just in case she got brave. Her hands trembled as she pulled both items from her coat, avoiding his gaze as she stepped forward. The crowd had mostly dispersed. It was just the two of them now, a strange hush between flashes.

“Big fan?” he asked gently, accepting the photo.

Her throat was dry. “Yeah. Something like that.”

He uncapped the marker and began to sign, but his eyes flicked up toward her again. He squinted, his smile faltering just slightly. “You look… familiar. Have you been here before?”

Her chest clenched so hard she almost folded.

“No,” she said quickly. Too quickly. Her voice cracked as she added, “We’ve never met before.”

He stilled for half a second, as if trying to place something, but the moment passed. He handed the photo back with a crooked smile that felt like a dagger in her chest. “Well, if we had met, I’d probably remember.”

She laughed, or tried to. It came out strangled.

“Thanks,” she murmured, stuffing the photo back into her coat before turning away. Her steps were light, but each one felt like dragging a grave behind her. She didn’t look back. She wouldn’t survive it if she did.

But she felt him. Felt the weight of his gaze between her shoulder blades, not like heat, but like gravity. Heavy. Reluctant. Searching.

She kept walking anyway.

He’s happy, she told herself. He doesn’t remember. And that’s okay.

Even if it shattered her into a thousand pieces all over again, she would carry it, as long as he never had to.

_____________________

Johnny's POV

Johnny could not shake the feeling that something had gone missing. It started the morning after the gala, a dull ache right behind his sternum, not the burn of overusing his powers or the sting of bruises earned in a mission, but something quieter, heavier. It followed him through coffee with Reed and sparring with Ben, through a midday press appearance where cameras flashed and he grinned on reflex. The ache refused to fade. It pulsed behind every laugh, tugging at him while Sue rolled her eyes at another of his jokes. He had known grief before, but this was different. This felt like waking up to discover a song he had always loved was no longer playing, and yet he could not remember the melody well enough to hum it back into existence.

By the second night, sleep came in fragments. He dreamed of grand halls made of dark stone and torchlight. He saw himself wearing clothes from some other era, formal garments heavy at the shoulders, and he felt the weight of duty that should have belonged to a man far older than he was. Servants whispered in corners. Nobles bowed or glared. A woman moved just beyond his reach, her face hidden by a shadow. A sense of profound responsibility pressed on him. When he woke, the ache in his chest throbbed harder, but there was no helmeted guard in sight, only the sterile glow of the Baxter Building hallway and the soft hum of machinery through the walls.

The third night brought worse. Johnny closed his eyes, and the dream did not wait. It dragged him immediately into chaos. Marble shattered under the force of an explosion and smoke choked the air. He felt heat that was not his own power scorching his skin. Voices shouted around him. Then he heard her scream. He turned to see her, the woman in the helmet, body half buried under fallen stone. She looked up, blood staining her lips, and reached for him. Without hesitation he knelt beside her, lifted her in shaking arms, and pressed a hand desperately against the wound blooming scarlet across her ribs. He kept saying something, but the words slipped away on waking. All he remembered was the weight of her head against his shoulder and the warmth of tears on his cheek as the world darkened.

He woke gasping, hand still clutching the phantom of her tunic. Sweat slicked his temples, but the ache in his chest felt colder than ice. He tried to laugh it off. Dreams are strange, right? Reed offered a medical scan, worried that subterranean stress from recent missions might be messing with Johnny’s heart rate. Johnny waved him off, teased Ben a little louder than usual, and focused on training until every muscle burned, but the hollow place inside him only widened.

Night after night, the dreams returned, each time clearer. He began to remember snatches of dialogue, the rasp of her voice calling him Majesty, the smell of rain on broken stone, the metallic tang of blood that was not his. Sometimes he saw her standing alive, sword drawn, shoulders back, eyes locked on something behind him. Sometimes he felt her fingers slip from his and he woke with a sob stuck in his throat. In one dream he pressed his forehead to hers, whispering an apology he could not finish before her eyes dimmed. He jolted upright in bed, fists clenched, heart pounding against his ribs, an unfamiliar name on his lips that dissolved into silence before he could speak it aloud.

Daylight offered no relief. He would catch himself scanning crowds, searching faces he could not quite picture. He tried describing her features to himself: strong cheekbones, eyes that held storms and solace in equal measure, a scar under the jaw perhaps. Whenever he tried to assemble a complete image it blurred, as if the memory were wrapped in gauze. Still, he could not forget the expression she wore in those dreams: fierce devotion laced with sorrow, as though she knew she was running out of time and chose to spend every remaining breath keeping him alive.

The ache became a constant companion. At interviews, reporters asked why he seemed more subdued, and Johnny deflected with a grin that felt brittle. In missions, fire roared from his limbs more violently as if his powers sensed his turmoil. Sue pulled him aside after a battle with a rogue Doombot, concern etched across her brow. He joked that he just needed a day off. She did not believe him, but she let him go.

One afternoon he sat alone on the observation deck, city lights glowing beneath the glass. The ache twisted again, sharper than before. He closed his eyes and in that quiet moment the gala flashed across his mind. Cameras. Velvet ropes. A woman in black standing at the edge of the crowd, shoulders tense, eyes bright with something he could not name. He remembered pausing, pen in hand, because her presence felt significant in a way he could not explain. His heart had stuttered, then settled when she smiled with a sadness deeper than any autograph seeker should carry. He remembered thinking she looked exhausted, yet indomitable. Familiar.

Now he wondered if familiarity had whispered through him because she was the woman in his dreams, stripped of steel and helmet and centuries. Fear stirred. Had he let her walk away? Had he lost her a second time without ever knowing her name? The notion was absurd, impossible. Yet the ache throbbed in agreement, a silent testimony to a bond he could not grasp.

That night he dreamed once more. Torches guttered on dungeon walls. Chains clanged. He rushed through a heavy door and found her on the ground, blood pooling beneath her. He gathered her up, shouting for help that never came. Her eyes opened, soft and sorrowful. “It doesn’t hurt,” she whispered, voice rasping. “I’m dying in the hands of my first and only love.” Her head dropped against his chest. Johnny felt a crack inside him, a splitting along a fault line he never knew existed. He woke screaming, tears streaming, the ache bursting open into a grief so raw he could taste it on his tongue.

Morning sunlight filtered through the blinds, but nothing felt bright. He pressed trembling fingers to his sternum, half expecting to find a wound. There was none, yet the pain remained. He tried to analyze it like Sue would, to compartmentalize like Reed, but the heart does not obey quantum logic. Somewhere, lost in centuries or hidden in plain sight, was a woman whose death still bled inside him. He did not know who she was. He did not know if she was real. He only knew he had to find her, because if she was alive in this world, he would not fail her again.

He rose, wiped the tears from his jaw, and headed for the door, a single vow crystallizing in his mind. He would search every street, scan every crowd, and burn through every shadow until he understood this grief and found the face that haunted every midnight.

The pain wasn’t just in his dreams anymore.

It started as a flicker in his chest, like a heartbeat skipping out of rhythm, then returned days later with a vengeance; sharp, sudden stabs behind his ribs that made him gasp in the middle of training, during press conferences, even once while he was flying above the skyline. He could hide the tremble in his hands with a clever smile, a forced laugh, a well-timed one-liner. But the pain, he couldn’t hide from that. It came like a phantom, no pattern, no logic, like something inside him was tearing itself open from the inside out.

Reed checked him over, of course. Machines hummed around him for hours. Scans lit up. Charts printed. Reed adjusted his glasses four different times, murmuring calculations Johnny couldn’t follow.

“There’s nothing wrong with your heart,” Reed said finally, eyes narrowing in a way that meant even he was stumped.

Johnny barked out a laugh; bitter, hollow, not his usual kind. “Well, it sure as hell doesn’t feel fine.” He pressed a fist to his chest and winced as another sharp stab twisted through him. “Feels like something’s trying to claw its way out.”

He left the lab without another word. Sue called after him, her voice thick with worry, but he couldn’t stop. He didn’t want to explain it anymore. He didn’t know how.

The dreams continued. That woman, the one with the storm-lit eyes, always dying in his arms. Every night she fell, and he caught her too late. Every night she whispered something about love, and loss, and fate, her voice echoing like a bell he couldn’t silence. He started sleeping less. Then barely at all. And then the hallucinations began.

At first, it was just the sound of metal scraping stone.

He’d walk the hallways of the Baxter Building late at night, trying to clear his head, and he'd hear the faint drag of a sword somewhere behind him. He’d turn. Nothing. Sometimes a flicker of shadow just around a corner. Once, he caught his own reflection in the mirror and froze, because over his shoulder stood a figure with a blade, her eyes luminous with grief. When he spun around, the hallway was empty.

He told no one.

What could he even say? That he was seeing ghosts in armor? That sometimes he walked into rooms and felt the air shift like someone had just left? That he’d pass strangers on the street and stare at their eyes, searching for a color he couldn't quite describe but knew he'd recognize if he saw it?

The worst part wasn’t the hallucinations.

The worst part was the feeling that he wanted to see her. That her presence; terrifying, surreal, impossible; felt like the only thing that made sense anymore. In dreams, he held her broken body and screamed her name, though he never remembered what it was. In waking life, he wandered halls like a man possessed, hoping to catch another glimpse of her. Hoping for one more second of those eyes before she disappeared again.

He tried to push it down. Threw himself into missions. Pushed his powers harder, higher. Burned until his skin blistered and the world went white. But when the flames died down, when the adrenaline cooled, she was still there, standing just at the edge of his vision, watching.

Once, he followed her.

He was halfway through the hallway when he saw her, a flicker of silver, the edge of her sword gleaming as she turned down a corridor. He chased after her like a man starved, not thinking, not blinking. But when he turned the corner, she was gone. Only empty silence, and that godawful weight in his chest, heavier than before.

He leaned against the wall, panting like he’d been running for miles. His hand pressed to his ribs. The pain was worse now, deep and low, like mourning. Like someone he loved had just died and he’d only now remembered to feel it.

He sank to the ground, head resting against the cold wall, and tried not to cry.

It didn’t work.

And somewhere deep in the back of his mind, under the pain, under the dreams, under the hollow ache of her absence, was the thought that destroyed him most.

What if she was real?

What if she had been here once, with him, in another life? What if he had let her die?

And what if now, when she’d finally come back to find him, he hadn’t even recognized her?

That night, long after the wind stopped helping and the city lights blurred beneath his flight path, Johnny landed on the rooftop of the Baxter Building and stood motionless in the darkness. The ache in his chest hadn’t faded, it had deepened. It had settled like grief in his bones. Like love curdled into regret.

And then, without warning, the memory came.

It crashed into him not as a dream or a whisper, but as a storm, vivid and full and true, dragging him down into a moment that didn’t belong to this life, but was written somewhere deeper. Older. Sacred.

He stood on a stone balcony overlooking a garden dressed in moonlight. The world was different then, quieter, ruled by breath and blade and blood-bound loyalty. He wore royal blues and gold trim, a ceremonial sword at his hip, and he’d just finished laughing at something, what was it? A jest? A toast? The wine was still warm in his throat, and the night air was soft. A rare moment of peace.

Until it wasn’t.

A shadow moved behind him, silent, fast, and the world snapped into sharp relief. There was no time to turn, no time to shout.

But there was her.

She moved like lightning struck to human form, her blade unsheathed before her feet hit the stone. She collided with him just in time, shoulder against chest, body turning midair to shield him, and then he felt it.

The sound of steel meeting flesh.

The gasp she didn’t quite finish.

And her knees buckling as blood bloomed down her back like a poisoned rose.

He caught her before she hit the ground, his arms around her trembling frame, fingers already stained in crimson. Her sword clattered away, forgotten. The assassin was dead, slain by another guard, or maybe his shadow, but Jonathan didn’t look. He only saw her.

Her face.

Her face.

Gods, her eyes were so calm.

“You’re safe, Your Majesty,” she whispered, her voice strained but steady, as though the agony didn’t belong to her. “That’s all that matters.”

“No,” he choked. His voice was hoarse, thick with something he couldn’t name. “No, don’t—why would you—why would you do that?”

She smiled, and it ruined him.

Even now, centuries later, it ruined him.

Because in that moment, holding her body as the blood seeped through her uniform, Jonathan felt something in him expand—some unnamed star collapsing and being born at once. His throat burned. His vision blurred. He had never, never, felt this kind of fear before. Not even as a child. Not even in war. This was different.

This was her.

And the thought of losing her—this guard, this woman, this fearless, foolish, beautiful shadow who threw herself into death for him—shattered something inside him that would never, ever be whole again.

“You shouldn’t have done that,” he whispered into her hair. “You shouldn’t have taken that blade. I didn’t ask you to.”

“You didn’t have to,” she breathed. “It’s my duty.”

“No,” he said, voice cracking, his hands clutching her tighter. “No, it’s more than that. You’re more than that.”

She blinked up at him, pain painting her expression but never dimming her grace. And just before she lost consciousness, just before the healers arrived, he saw it, a flicker of something in her eyes. Not duty. Not fear.

But love.

And he had no words for it then. Only a feeling. A flame in his chest so bright it hurt to breathe.

Back on the rooftop in the present, Johnny’s hand flew to his sternum as if to press down on the memory forcing its way into his body like a second soul. He collapsed to his knees on the gravel rooftop, gasping for air as that final moment played again, her falling, him catching her, her blood staining his palms like guilt that never faded.

“I knew you,” he whispered to the empty sky. “I knew you…”

But he didn’t know her name.

Only her eyes.

And the way he’d felt in that moment when she bled for him.

Like he would burn down the world just to hold her one more time.

The city lights blurred as they rolled past the transport windows, but Johnny barely saw them. The laughter of his teammates echoed in the background, Ben cracking jokes, Sue giving him her usual dry replies, but it all filtered through like wind through chainmail. His mind was elsewhere. Backward. Elsewhen.

“Matchstick,” Ben said from across the aisle, nudging him with a grin that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “You good, man? You’ve been quiet since takeoff. And I mean quiet quiet.”

Normally, Johnny would’ve lobbed something sarcastic back, something dumb and fire-tinged, just to make Ben huff, but tonight, the spark wasn’t there. He only gave a wordless wave of dismissal, dragging his hood lower and letting the conversation move on without him.

By the time they returned to the Tower, the tension in his chest had grown tight and dry, like paper held too close to flame. He walked the corridors alone, each footstep echoing faintly behind him, and slipped into his quarters without a word.

The moment the door sealed shut behind him, he exhaled. The city was waiting beneath his window like always, glittering and cold, endless in its blinking, living sprawl. He leaned a forearm against the glass and let his forehead rest there, the chill biting softly at his skin.

And that’s when the memory crept in.

It never arrived all at once; it unfurled like a ribbon, tugging from some hidden place in his ribs. That morning. The one that changed everything. The one when he first saw her.

The memory opened with the soft knock.

He had been speaking to his newly appointed shadow guard, pacing near the hearth, tension laced in every step. The words exchanged were tight with anger; news had just arrived that the girl who had taken a blade for him on the balcony had been ambushed by her own unit.

By her own damn trainer.

Because Jonathan had chosen her. Because he'd dared to publicly thank her, to ask for her report before the others. That was all it took for men to bruise her out of spite.

His jaw clenched at the recollection of it, the ghost of rage curling under his skin like flame waiting for permission.

“She’s just outside,” his shadow guard had said quietly, unreadable as always.

Jonathan didn't even glance toward the door before saying, “Come in.”

And then—she entered.

For all the ways he’d imagined this moment, none of them prepared him for the truth of her face. She walked in as if nothing had happened, spine rigid, wounds hidden expertly behind the curve of her uniform and the cool precision of duty.

But he saw it all anyway.

The faint bruising at her temple, half-faded. The way her posture was a fraction more upright than natural, compensating for pain in her ribs, perhaps. The echo of restraint in her eyes, like she was holding something back. Rage? Shame?

No. Not shame. Pride, maybe, wounded and raw, but still hers.

He turned toward her fully, and for a moment, everything else fell away. He barely registered the guards, the air, the papers scattered behind him. Just her.

She bowed low, voice steady despite whatever hurt clung just beneath her skin.

“Your Majesty, I am your loyal guard, sworn to serve and protect you in your secret service. I am honored by your summons.”

Jonathan waited until she straightened, his throat tight. Then, with a small breath, he broke protocol entirely.

“You don’t need to be so formal around me.”

Her eyes flicked up in the smallest blink of surprise, and that, that, was when the first fissure cracked through the wall he hadn’t known he’d built around his own chest. He watched the way her brows lifted, just barely, as if unsure whether she’d heard him correctly. He smiled, not the one he used for press or noblewomen, but a smaller thing. Something unarmored.

“I looked into your past,” he said softly. “Your family. The slums. Everything you survived.”

She flinched. Not visibly, but emotionally, as if the truth of her life had been a blade she carried tucked under her ribs.

“You were the first woman in the secret service. They hated you for it. But you didn’t stop. You clawed your way into legend.”

The room was silent. Neither of them moved.

“My shadow guard told me what happened,” he added, voice low. “You came back worse than when you left after saving me. I won’t ask you to explain. I just need you to know, I see you now.”

Her throat moved like she was swallowing down glass. And still, she held herself together with a soldier’s discipline.

“I never asked to be seen,” she said finally. “I only ever wanted to protect you.”

And somehow, those words, those exact words, landed harder than any confession of loyalty he’d ever heard. They rang through his skull long after they left her lips. Maybe because they were so simple. So real. And because he believed her.

More than anything else, he believed her.

He stepped forward, slow and careful, and held out his hand.

“I don’t want you to protect me from afar,” he said. “I want you by my side. As my personal guard. My eyes where I cannot go. My ears where silence lives. You’ll have full clearance, resources, and my trust. But it has to be your choice.”

For a long breath, she didn’t move.

Then, with the quiet steadiness of someone who had already made her decision long before he asked, he got closer to her.

“I accept.”

He felt it then, that impossible swelling in his throat, the rush of something too warm to name. Placing his hand in hers, something made his fingers tighten gently around hers, as if to anchor the moment in place.

“Thank you,” he whispered.

Not because he was king. Not because of politics or plots. But because she’d thrown herself in front of a blade for him. Because she was standing here, bruised but unbroken, and because when she looked at him… he didn’t feel alone anymore.

The memory slipped from his grasp like a silk ribbon tugged by the wind.

Johnny blinked, the present sliding back into focus with a sharp inhale. The lights of the city still glittered beneath him, but they felt different now; colder, smaller, dimmer than they had a moment ago. The room around him was still and dark, the only sound the faint hum of traffic far below, as if the world outside refused to care about the war happening in his chest.

He turned from the window, hands curling into fists at his sides.

He wasn’t crazy. He couldn’t be. The memory had been too vivid, too much. He could still feel her hand in his, phantom warmth blooming against his palm, so real it ached. The pressure in his throat lingered, the echo of words he hadn’t spoken in centuries, maybe more. It wasn’t just a dream. It wasn’t.

But then what the hell was it?

The doctors had said his heart was fine. Reed had run every scan, every test, and still came back with nothing but a tight-lipped shrug. “Maybe stress,” he’d said. “Maybe nerves.” But that didn’t explain the dreams. Or the hallucinations. Or the way he sometimes saw her, those eyes, in reflections, in the corners of rooms, in the crowd at a distance like a fading shadow slipping away before he could reach it.

Something was happening to him. Something real. Something ancient. And if he couldn’t explain it with medicine or science, then maybe it was time to look somewhere else.

He crossed the room in two strides, yanking open a drawer and pulling out his tablet. The screen lit his face in pale blue as he opened a search bar, fingers hesitating for only a second before typing:

“Historical records, ancient monarchies + shadow powers + royal guard female warrior”

He hit enter, chest tightening with the ridiculousness of it—and the aching hope that maybe, maybe something would show up.

Page after page of nonsense scrolled by. Myths. Folklore. Fiction. But something in him refused to stop.

He changed tactics, searching through historical archives. Secret monarchies, forgotten kingdoms, ruins and uprisings. Scribes' notes in dead languages. Paintings of kings with golden hair and women standing behind them in armor, eyes like sharpened stars, but no face. Most of it was blurred, speculative, incomplete, but it felt familiar. Too familiar.

He barely noticed the time passing. The sky began to bleed into violet outside his window, the first hints of morning pressing against the horizon, and still, he searched.

If this was madness, it had a shape. It had her.

And if she was real, if any part of this was real, then he needed to find her.

Even if it meant remembering every death before he ever saw her face again.

He hadn’t slept properly in weeks.

Every time Johnny closed his eyes, it was the same thing. Not one dream, not even variations, but a sequence, playing on repeat. That woman again. Her voice. Her blood on his hands. The taste of panic in his mouth, metallic and suffocating. The memory, if it was a memory, felt too detailed to dismiss. It wasn’t like his usual nightmares, the ones that came and went with missions, close calls, near-death moments. These had weight. Continuity. The same faces. The same kingdom. The same burning in his chest every time she died.

He’d thought about seeing a therapist, just to rule things out, but the idea made him feel sick. What if they told him it was all in his head? What if they said she wasn’t real?

So instead, he drowned himself in research.

He poured over ancient legends, digitized archives, online university forums, anything he could get his hands on. He stopped going out with friends. He stopped making jokes. He spent nights with his laptop open and lights off, the screen glow casting shadows over his gaunt face as he scrolled through centuries of forgotten lore.

Then one night, deep in a mythology thread about reincarnation and cursed soul pairs, he found a fractured translation.

A northern kingdom, long lost. A young ruler. A bodyguard who died protecting him from an internal betrayal. And the aftermath… that’s what made his breath catch.

“It is said the king lost his mind with grief. He hunted the traitors, burned their bloodlines, and cursed the stars for taking what was his. He was never seen outside besides on days filled with the most stars outside. He would go outside and beg the gods for her return. Begged to the stars to give back what they'd taken: his fallen star. The people called him mad. But his final words, whispered before he died, were not of vengeance. They were of her. ‘Let the stars keep me alive, only until I see her face again.’”

Johnny sat frozen in his chair.

His heart was pounding. His mouth was dry. He couldn’t explain why, but something inside him cracked open at those words. Like something old had been waiting to be heard again.

He reread the passage a dozen times, hoping, needing, it to sound fake, made-up, too far-fetched to matter. But it didn’t feel like fiction. It felt like a scar being touched. A bruise beneath his ribs that had always been there.

He leaned back slowly, staring up at the ceiling like the answers might be scrawled in starlight.

Was he losing his mind? Or remembering another one?

His head dropped into his hands. He wanted this to be a coincidence. A misfire in his brain. A symptom of overwork, too much adrenaline, too little rest. But it didn’t feel like that. It felt like gravity itself had shifted around her, the woman in his dreams, the eyes he could never name, the sword she always carried, the look on her face when she stepped between him and death.

He’d felt it. He'd felt her.

And now?

Now he was terrified he’d never find her again.

Or worse, what if he already had… and let her walk away?

The sun had barely risen when Johnny left the Baxter Building.

He didn’t even tell Reed. Didn’t check in with Sue or Ben. He just left a note saying he’d be back. That he needed space. The lie clung to him like static.

The truth was, he needed answers.

The story he’d read last night wouldn’t leave his chest. It played behind his eyes with every blink. Let the stars keep me alive, only until I see her face again. It was too specific. Too right. The timeline, the emotion, it matched everything that haunted him. The girl, the sword, the stars. The grief.

And the ache in his chest that flared up when he thought of her eyes.

He’d found a name buried in the footnotes of that translation: Dr. Imani Redd, a mytho-historical scholar who specialized in reincarnation lore and ancestral memory. She’d written dozens of papers and even consulted on a few films, but more importantly, she believed in the possibility that souls could travel through time, leaving echoes behind.

Her office was in a cluttered building tucked between a psychic shop and a defunct cafe in lower Manhattan. When Johnny knocked on the door, he half-expected no answer. What academic would take him seriously? He looked like hell, dark circles under his eyes, tension in his jaw, his hoodie halfway soaked from the rain.

But when Dr. Redd opened the door, she just blinked once behind her thick glasses and stepped aside to let him in.

"You’re not the first," she said simply, leading him into a room filled with scrolls, books, and softly glowing candles. "But you might be the most desperate."

Johnny swallowed thickly. His voice didn’t work at first. When it did, it cracked.

"I’ve been having dreams," he began, rubbing his thumb against his palm like it would stop the shaking. "Nightmares. Visions. I don’t know. And I keep… seeing her. I don’t know her name. I don’t know anything except that she always dies. For me."

Dr. Redd said nothing, just gestured for him to sit.

He told her everything. The hallucinations. The memories. The woman at the gala. The ache in his chest that Reed couldn’t explain. How his reflection sometimes didn’t feel like his own. How the dreams weren’t fading, they were growing louder, more painful. More real.

"And the story I read... it matched," he said finally, his fingers clenching the fabric of his pants. "A mad king, a dead lover, stars and grief and death. It’s too much of a coincidence."

Dr. Redd studied him in silence for a long time before she finally stood. She moved slowly to a locked cabinet and pulled out a worn leather-bound book, its edges brittle, its cover scorched at one corner. She set it down in front of him and opened to a bookmarked page.

"You’re describing what some cultures call a ‘soul-bonded loop,’" she said. "Two spirits intertwined across lifetimes. One always finds the other. One always dies too early. It repeats. Over and over."

Johnny’s eyes didn’t leave the text, even though it was in a language he couldn’t read. "How do I break it?"

Her voice was quiet. Not cruel, not kind, just honest.

"Most don’t."

His stomach dropped.

"But," she added, "some believe that if the soul who carries the memory remembers in time, if they find the other and protect them before history repeats, then the loop can be severed. Rewritten."

He stared at her. His voice felt foreign in his throat. "What if I already failed?"

Dr. Redd looked at him then, really looked at him, and something softened in her gaze. She reached across the desk and handed him a thin slip of parchment with a name written on it.

"Then you’ll just have to find her again in another life."

Johnny’s days blurred together as he chased fragments of the past. Every dusty tome, every faded manuscript he could find on the ancient northern kingdom pulled him deeper into a story that didn’t feel like history anymore. It was a life, a love, a tragedy bleeding through centuries, whispering his name in the spaces between reality and dreams.

Johnny’s fingers trembled as he traced the brittle edge of the ancient manuscript. The library around him had dimmed into an echo, time folding inward until nothing existed but that faded portrait, an impossibly detailed painting of a king and his guard, bound by duty and something unspoken, something deeper. The king’s face was sharp, regal but haunted, and behind him, a figure stood in the shadows. She was the embodiment of resolve, her dark armor worn but immaculate, her eyes burning with fierce loyalty. That face, etched in his bones without a name, hit him like a dagger.

A sudden, jagged bolt of pain exploded behind his temples, twisting cold and fire in equal measure. His vision blurred; the manuscript slipped from his grasp as his knees nearly gave way. The world shattered and reassembled in violent flashes, memories that weren’t just echoes, but wounds still raw beneath centuries of dust.

He saw her again. Not as the shadows had shown him before, but in unbearable detail.

The first time he had dared to ask her to be his personal guard, the way his hand had hovered, uncertain, before hers, the warmth of her skin igniting something fierce and forbidden in his chest. The weight of her silence when he flirted with princesses, the sharp pang of betrayal that twisted inside him whenever her eyes flicked away, unreadable but full of quiet agony. How she bore it all, her heartbreak buried beneath iron discipline.

Then, the betrayal; the memory crashed into Johnny with unforgiving force, vivid and merciless. She lay crumpled in his arms on the cold dungeon floor, her body broken and bleeding, the life fading fast from her eyes. Her breath was shallow, fragile like a whisper against the heavy silence that surrounded them.

He held her tightly, rocking her back and forth as if the motion could stave off the darkness swallowing her whole. His hands trembled, desperate to keep her with him, to will her back from the edge of death. His voice broke through the silence, raw with grief and disbelief.

“This can’t be real. You’re not going to leave me. Please... don’t leave me.”

Her fingers weakly brushed his cheek, warm despite the coldness that seeped from her. Her lips parted in a fragile smile, eyes full of a bittersweet calm that pierced his heart deeper than any wound.

“I’m not in pain,” she whispered, voice soft but resolute, “because I’m dying... in the arms of my first and only love.”

The words struck him like a cruel truth carved into his soul. His tears fell without control as he pressed his forehead against hers, the weight of her loss crushing him utterly.

“No,” he choked, voice cracking, “don’t say that. You’re going to live. You have to.”

But she was already slipping away, fading into the shadows, her final breath a whisper against his skin.

“I love you,” he sobbed, holding her close, rocking gently, “I’m sorry. I should have saved you.”

Her eyes closed slowly, her hand falling limp in his grasp, and the cold silence that followed screamed louder than any cry.

Johnny’s body shook with grief, the unbearable truth searing through every fiber of his being. The pain of losing her, his guard, his love, his everything, the star that shone the brightest in his sky, was a wound that would never heal, a scar etched deep into the fabric of his soul.

He screamed into the void, a sound torn from the deepest places inside him. But no answer came, only the ghost of her final words echoing endlessly: “I’m not in pain because I’m dying in the arms of my first and only love.”

Johnny’s hands trembled as he cradled her fragile body, the weight of her slipping away like sand through desperate fingers. He rocked her gently back and forth, as if that motion alone could steady the fading pulse, but the life was draining fast, too fast. His lips trembled as he whispered frantic pleas, words laced with raw desperation.

“Please... don’t leave me. Not like this. You can’t... you’re not—”

His voice broke, hoarse and ragged, swallowed by the oppressive silence that mocked his pain. Tears spilled unchecked, carving hot trails down his cheeks as he pressed his forehead to hers, trying to will warmth back into her cold skin.

He rocked harder, clutching her like a lifeline, the sobs wracking his body as he pleaded with a merciless fate.

“This can’t be real. It’s a nightmare. Wake up. Please... just wake up.”

His fingers trembled, brushing the stray strands of hair from her pale face, memorizing every detail, the details of her face as if she'd disappear, the slow fading of color in her eyes. His world contracted to the small space between them, filled only with unbearable loss and the desperate hope that time could be reversed.

Behind them, the echoes of betrayal lingered, of the princess who smiled too sweetly, the noble who watched with cold satisfaction. Their shadows haunted the edges of his mind, fueling the firestorm of rage and grief that consumed him.

He screamed into the emptiness, a sound torn from the deepest parts of his soul. “Why? Why did this happen? I should have protected you. I should have been better!”

The weight of his failure crashed down with crushing force, and in that moment, all the years of distance, all the harsh words and silent pain, collided in a single, shattering realization: he had lost her not just to enemies, but to himself.

His tears fell freely as he held her close, rocking back and forth in the cold dungeon, the king undone by the only love he had ever truly known, broken, desperate, and utterly alone.

The memory lingered like a wound, raw and aching, but the fire it ignited within Johnny blazed brighter than ever. The weight of her final words, the sight of her fading in his arms, became the steel that forged his resolve. There would be justice. There would be reckoning.

Days later, as shadows lengthened over the castle halls and the court’s usual chatter turned to whispers of unrest, Johnny moved with purpose. His eyes, once clouded with grief, now burned with relentless determination. The nobles who had orchestrated the conspiracy, those who had sent assassins to silence the king and tear apart his protector, were hunted down one by one.

The noble, whose smiles hid venom, was the first to fall. Caught mid-deception in his private chambers, he was dragged before the throne, his mask stripped away to reveal the coward beneath. His denials were hollow, his allies few, and as the evidence stacked against him like cold stone, the weight of his treachery crushed whatever pride he had left.

The princess, draped once in finery and false innocence, was next. The very woman who had smiled sweetly at Johnny while her hands orchestrated ruin was exposed, her duplicity laid bare. Her once poised facade crumbled as witnesses came forward, guards who had turned their blades, servants who whispered secrets, and the silent, grim proof of betrayal.

Even some of the king’s own guards, corrupted and complicit in the deadly plot, were swept up in the purge. The palace, once a bastion of trust and loyalty, revealed its rot beneath layers of velvet and gold.

The day these traitors were unmasked, arrested, and cast out, or worse, became known in the annals of history as “The Day the Stars Stopped Shining.” A kingdom that had once soared under brilliant rulers, rich with promise and prosperity, was shaken to its core. The betrayal not only fractured its nobility but tore open the heart of the realm itself.

Johnny stood in the great hall, the weight of his crown heavier than ever. His gaze drifted to the empty space beside him, her place, forever vacant, a constant reminder of the price paid in blood and tears. The kingdom’s glory had faded, but in that loss was the painful truth: love and loyalty, when betrayed, could bring even the brightest stars to their knees.

And yet, despite the ruin, he clung to the memory of her, the first and only love who had died in his arms, vowing silently that no shadow, no conspiracy, would ever snatch her from him again.

Johnny sat alone in his dimly lit chambers, the weight of the past pressing down on him like an unbearable shroud. The flickering candlelight cast trembling shadows across his face, each flame a silent witness to the storm raging inside. Memories, the sharpest and cruelest tormentors, battered his mind relentlessly, dragging him back to that cold dungeon floor where she had slipped through his fingers.

His hands clenched tightly in his lap as the vision of her frail form in his arms came alive once more, vivid and relentless. The softness of her final whisper echoed louder than any scream, piercing through the walls he had built to hold back the pain.

I’m not in pain... because I’m dying in the arms of my first and only love.

The words reverberated, a haunting melody of loss and devotion that tightened like a vise around his heart. The silence that followed, thick and suffocating, seemed to mock his desperation, the cruel emptiness where her warmth once lived.

Johnny’s breath hitched, tears tracing silent paths down his cheeks. His shoulders shook with the weight of grief, a broken king brought low by the one he had sworn to protect. The sorrow that seeped from his soul was raw and unyielding, threatening to drown him in a sea of regret and longing.

He closed his eyes, fighting the urge to scream out her name, to rage against a fate so cruel. But all that escaped was a whispered, trembling plea, “I’m sorry... I’m so sorry.”

The room seemed to close in, the walls narrowing as the flood of memories overwhelmed him; the betrayal, the bloodshed, the kingdom’s fall. His tears fell unchecked now, a testament to a heart shattered but still beating, aching for a love lost to time yet never forgotten.

In that solitary moment, Johnny was not a king, not a ruler burdened by crown and duty. He was a man undone, a soul laid bare by grief so profound it touched the very core of what it meant to love and lose.

And somewhere deep within the shadows of his pain, the faintest ember of hope flickered, the promise that one day, somehow, they might find each other again.

Johnny’s mind drifted back to that night; the gala, shimmering with lights and music, the air thick with perfume and whispered conversations. Amidst the swirling crowd, his eyes had caught something unexpected: a girl, standing quietly at the edge, her presence familiar yet elusive. She hadn’t spoken to him, only watched from afar, and yet something deep inside him stirred, a pull he couldn’t explain.

The moment their eyes almost met, a strange current surged through his chest, a sharp pang of recognition, like the flicker of a distant flame reigniting after years of cold darkness. It was after that night the dreams began, fragments of memories flooding back with painful clarity, haunting visions of a love lost but never forgotten.

He needed to find her.

Every sleepless night, every restless moment, was consumed by the search. She was the key, the thread that could unravel the tangled web of his past, the only hope of bridging the chasm between who he was and who he once had been.

His fingers tightened around his glass, determination hardening his gaze. No matter the cost, no matter the time it took, Johnny vowed he would find her. Because in the depths of his fractured soul, he knew the truth he dared not speak aloud: she was the one who could heal the wounds that had never truly closed, the one who had haunted his dreams and stolen his heart across lifetimes.

The hunt was just beginning, and he would not rest until the girl from the gala, the keeper of his shattered past and the hope of his future, was finally by his side once more.

Johnny gathered his team in the dimly lit war room, the weight of his request pressing heavily on the air between them. He said little, only that he needed them to search for a woman, a woman he had seen once, fleetingly, at a gala. He didn’t explain why, kept the details close, but his voice carried an unusual gravity that was impossible to ignore.

“This isn’t just some fleeting fancy,” he said quietly, eyes locked on each of them. “It’s… love at first sight. Something I can’t shake, and I need your help to find her.”

At first, his team exchanged skeptical glances. Johnny Storm, the notorious flirt, the carefree spirit, talking about love? It didn’t add up. Yet the intensity in his gaze, the way his usual spark was replaced by something raw and vulnerable, made them hesitate. The usual smirk was gone, replaced by a tension that rippled through his entire being.

Reed adjusted his glasses, his voice steady but with a hint of concern. “Johnny, if this means that much to you… we’ll help. But are you sure this isn’t just another of your distractions?”

Johnny’s jaw tightened. “I’m sure. For once.”

Ben cracked a small grin but nodded. “Alright, Johnny. We’re with you.”

Sue gave him a look full of quiet understanding. “We’ll start digging.”

The room filled with a renewed sense of purpose, the team mobilizing to chase down leads and scour every possible source. They didn’t fully understand the depth of what Johnny was chasing, but they saw the man behind the mask, and that was enough to believe.

As the night deepened, Johnny stood a moment longer, staring out over the city lights. Somewhere out there was the woman who had stirred his soul, the key to memories he barely dared to face. And now, with his friends by his side, he finally had hope.

The team threw themselves into the search with unwavering determination, scanning every corner of the city and every scrap of information that might lead them to the mysterious woman who had captured Johnny’s heart. Reed combed through social records and guest lists from the gala, cross-referencing names and faces with relentless precision. Sue tapped into her network, following whispers and rumors like a bloodhound on a scent. Ben and Johnny himself canvassed the neighborhoods, chasing down leads with an intensity that bordered on obsession.

But the woman remained elusive, a ghost slipping through their fingers no matter how tightly they tried to grasp. No photographs bore a name; no social media accounts, no whispered mentions in the halls of power. It was as if she existed only in fragments of memory and fleeting shadows.

Every night, after the bustle of the day faded, Johnny would retreat to his private chambers.

Johnny sat alone in the quiet of his chambers, the soft glow of the city lights spilling through the tall windows like distant stars beckoning him to a world he could no longer fully grasp. In his hands, he held the photographs from that gala; faint, glossy snapshots that bore the faces of guests caught mid-laugh, mid-conversation, their smiles frozen in time. And among them, the one image that refused to fade from his mind: her silhouette, cast in the warm light, just barely visible enough to haunt his every thought. His fingers trembled as he traced the outline of her form, the only clue to the mystery that haunted his waking hours.

His fingers traced the edges of the photograph with a trembling reverence, as though the paper held the weight of all the memories he struggled to reclaim. There was a raw ache lodged deep in his chest, a mixture of hope, frustration, and an unbearable loneliness that had wrapped itself around his soul like a vice. Each night, he was drawn back to these frozen moments, searching desperately for a clue, a hint, anything that could unravel the mystery of the woman who had quietly infiltrated his heart.

The city outside his window buzzed with life, oblivious to the tempest raging inside him. But Johnny’s world had narrowed, constricted by this single obsession. Every whispered rumor, every shadow at the edge of his vision, was scrutinized with a fevered intensity that left him exhausted and hollow. He was chasing a ghost, an apparition who danced just beyond his reach, and the torment of not knowing whether she was real or a figment of his fractured mind gnawed at him relentlessly.

He recalled the sudden rush of emotions that had swept over him the night of the gala, the inexplicable pull toward her, the way her presence had unsettled the carefully constructed walls around his heart. It was love, pure and raw, but love shadowed by doubt and fear. What if he reached out and found nothing but silence? What if the memories that clawed at the edges of his mind were nothing more than illusions spun by his own desperation?

His breath caught as another wave of longing surged through him, the hollow ache pressing harder against his ribs. He wondered if she felt it too, the echo of a past life, the thread that bound them beyond time and reason. Was she searching as desperately as he was? Or had she given up, resigned to a fate where their paths would never cross again?

Despite the weight of uncertainty, Johnny refused to surrender. He was a man forged in fire, a king burdened by duty and loss, but beneath it all beat a heart unyielding. The photographs were more than just images; they were his tether to hope, the fragile lifeline that reminded him he was not alone in this vast, indifferent world.

He closed his eyes, clutching the pictures to his chest, whispering into the silence, “I will find you. No matter what it takes.”

And in that vow, fierce and unbreakable, the first glimmer of light pierced the darkness, an ember of determination that promised one day, somehow, the ghost who haunted his dreams would step out of the shadows and into his arms once more.

Weeks passed like a slow ache, each day blurring into the next as Johnny clung to the brittle thread of hope, grasping at whispers and shadows that led nowhere. The city around him pulsed with life, its light and sound a cruel reminder of all the moments he was missing, the chance to find her slipping further away with every heartbeat.

Then, in the stillness before dawn, his phone vibrated softly on the nightstand. The screen glowed with Sue’s name, breaking through the haze of his restless mind. Her voice, urgent but gentle, stirred something deep inside him. “Johnny... we found her.”

The words hit him like a jolt of electricity, snapping him fully awake. Without hesitation, he threw off the covers and was on his feet, adrenaline surging through his veins as he dashed through the dark corridors of the compound. The world outside blurred into streaks of shadow and light, but nothing mattered except reaching Reed’s lab, the heart of their painstaking search.

The door slid open before he could even knock, and Reed met his eyes with a mixture of exhaustion and something else; relief, perhaps. Johnny barely heard the usual technical jargon as Reed pointed toward the holo-screen displaying a flurry of data. His eyes immediately locked onto a familiar face: her face.

There she was, clear and unmistakable in a grainy photograph clipped from an old newspaper. Her name printed beneath it: the young girl who had won history awards in high school, the very same one Johnny had been chasing through memories and dreams. The past and present collided in that moment, overwhelming Johnny with a tidal wave of emotion he barely had the strength to contain.

He stared at the image, the flood of memories rushing back like a dam breaking. The girl who had saved him, the guard who had become his shadow, the love he’d thought lost to time, all suddenly within reach.

His breath caught. The search was no longer a dream, it was real. And now, nothing would stop him from finding her.

Johnny’s breath hitched as the image and name burned into his mind; the woman who had slipped through the cracks of the world and into his heart. The data showed her last known location: a secluded, aging library on the far edge of the city, its windows streaked with grime, the faded sign barely clinging to the frame. A place nearly forgotten, struggling to stay alive. Yet somehow, she was there.

Without hesitation, Johnny bolted from the lab, his footsteps pounding against the cold stone as the city blurred past him. The distant hum of life faded beneath the thunderous beat of his heart. Every second felt like a lifetime as he raced toward the one thread connecting him to her.

He skidded to a stop just outside the ramshackle library, the weight of uncertainty settling on his shoulders like a suffocating cloak. The streetlights flickered dimly, casting long shadows across cracked pavement. For a moment, the enormity of it all hit him, after years of searching, she was here, somewhere inside, and yet still out of reach.

Before he could push open the door and call her name, a firm hand landed on his shoulder, steady and grounding.

“Johnny,” Ben’s voice was calm but laced with concern. “What are you planning to do?”

Johnny turned, eyes wild with desperate hope and fear. “I have to find her. She’s here. I can’t lose her again.”

Ben’s gaze searched Johnny’s face, trying to pierce the veil of obsession swirling around his friend. “You’re not thinking this through. You barely know anything about her. What if she doesn’t want to be found? What if this… this love at first sight, it’s just that—an illusion?”

Johnny swallowed hard, the weight of Ben’s words colliding with the fire inside him. “Maybe. But it’s the only chance I have. If I don’t try now, I’ll never forgive myself.”

Ben sighed, then nodded slowly, recognizing the unbreakable resolve in Johnny’s eyes. “Alright. But promise me you’ll be careful. And that you’ll let us help.”

Johnny nodded, the storm inside him settling into a fierce calm. “I promise.”

The library door creaked open before them, swallowing them into the quiet shadows within, where answers, and maybe heartbreak, awaited.

____________

Readers POV:

The faded scent of old paper and polished wood wrapped around her like a comforting shroud as she moved quietly between the towering shelves of the library. Dust motes danced lazily in the shafts of light spilling through grimy windows, the quiet only broken by the soft rustle of pages turning and the occasional creak of the aging floorboards beneath her feet.

Months had passed since she last allowed herself to hope, to search for him. The endless chase had finally worn her down until she surrendered to a quiet resignation. Johnny was out there somewhere, living a life she no longer dared to disrupt. She had decided, painfully but resolutely, that if he was happy, then that was enough. She would carry the memory of him, the flickers of laughter, the weight of his gaze, the echo of his hand in hers, as a precious secret tucked deep inside her heart.

The library had become her refuge, a sanctuary where the world’s noise softened and her tangled thoughts found space to breathe. Here, she was just a woman who loved stories, who treasured knowledge, and who could lose herself in the timeless escape of books. The worn wooden desk where she worked was scattered with journals and notes, relics of a life once lived in shadows and danger now replaced by quiet routine.

Still, sometimes in the deepest hours of the night, the memory of him would rise unbidden, the flash of his smile, the fleeting warmth of a hand brushing hers, the aching distance that had never quite healed. She’d close her eyes and imagine what might have been, a bittersweet ache settling low in her chest.

But even as the melancholy tugged at her soul, she kept moving forward. She was no longer chasing ghosts. She was living for herself, piecing together a future one small moment at a time.

Yet, somewhere deep beneath the calm surface, a fragile ember still glowed, a whisper of hope that maybe, just maybe, the threads of their lives would weave back together again.

The evening air was cool and quiet as she walked the familiar streets toward her small, worn apartment. The city hummed softly around her, lights flickering in windows and the distant murmur of life drifting through the fading daylight. Her footsteps slowed without her realizing it when she found herself standing before a modest flower stall, its battered wooden crates spilling over with blossoms of every hue and scent.

Her fingers hesitated over a small bouquet of pale roses, delicate and fragrant, and a sharp ache pierced her chest. It was a memory that came unbidden, King Jonathan talking about how his mother loved flowers. A symbol of beauty and life in a world that often held so much darkness when she died protecting her son in an assassination attempt.

The memory was fleeting, but the twinge of pain lingered. With a sigh that tasted of quiet longing, she reached into the worn pocket of her coat and pulled out the last of this month’s meager earnings. Without another thought, she handed the coins over and accepted the flowers, their sweet scent a fragile comfort in the weight of her solitude.

Carrying the bouquet, she moved again through the streets, her mind empty yet heavy with emotions she could neither name nor release. The flowers felt like a small rebellion against the coldness of the world, a simple gesture of hope and remembrance.

Then, without warning, the shadows shifted. A sudden force pulled her into a narrow, dark alley, and panic surged through her veins like ice. A sharp glint caught her eye, a knife, cold and unforgiving, pressed against her side.

Her body tensed, muscles weak from months of quiet living, so different from the fierce, trained form she once possessed. Fear flickered in her eyes as the cold reality pressed in: she was vulnerable now, fragile in ways she had never been before.

The weight of the moment crashed over her, a stark reminder that the past was gone, and survival here would demand everything she still had, and perhaps more.

The robber’s breath was ragged, his eyes dark with desperation as he pressed the cold blade harder against her side. “Money. Now,” he demanded, voice rough and unyielding, the shadows swallowing the alley’s narrow confines like a trap.

She shook her head weakly, the last shreds of her strength slipping away like sand through trembling fingers. “I… I don’t have any,” she whispered, voice trembling with fear and exhaustion. “Please… don’t hurt me.”

Her plea hung fragile in the air, fragile as the flowers clenched loosely in her hand. She swayed on unsteady legs, the world tilting dangerously as dizziness flooded her senses. The edges of her vision blurred, colors bleeding together, sounds muffling as if she were sinking beneath an endless sea.

Though the robber had done nothing more than demand, her body betrayed her, succumbing to the overwhelming weakness that had shadowed her since childhood. A faint groan escaped her lips, words slurring and fading as her knees buckled.

“No… please…” she murmured, voice slurred and barely audible, before darkness started to fully claim her.

The cold alley swallowed the moment, and in that suspended silence, both predator and prey were left suspended between the fragile lines of mercy and survival.

The darkness wrapped around her like a suffocating tide, swallowing every ounce of strength she had left. Her breaths came shallow, and the world spun in a dizzying blur, edges melting into a haze of shadows and distant sounds. Then, faintly at first, a whisper broke through the void, soft, urgent, a plea that felt like both a lifeline and a wound.

“Please...”

The sound was fragile, like a fragile thread pulling her back from the edge of oblivion. Her eyelids fluttered, heavy and reluctant, as if weighed down by grief itself. Shapes began to form from the swirling gloom, a figure standing close, trembling with urgency and raw desperation. His face was hazy, but the anguish etched in his features was unmistakable.

His eyes, wide and glistening with unshed tears, searched hers with a frantic, aching intensity. “Don’t leave me. Please, not again. I can’t lose you—not like before.”

Her lips parted in a faint, trembling smile; half pain, half recognition. The sound of his voice, desperate and broken, carved a hollow deep within her chest, a hollow that echoed with the memory of love lost and pain endured.

He reached out, hands shaking, fingers brushing against her cheek with a tenderness that belied his desperation. His touch was a silent promise, an unspoken plea to stay, to fight against the darkness that threatened to claim her once more.

“I was so scared,” he whispered, voice cracking beneath the weight of his sorrow. “I couldn’t save you then... but I won’t lose you now. Please, hold on. Don’t leave me alone in this.”

The world around her trembled, the space between them folding as memories surged, of shared glances in moonlit corridors, of battles fought side by side, of moments stolen in the fragile silence between chaos.

Her heart, fragile and raw, beat faintly in response, a fragile spark flickering against the crushing night. In that fragile moment suspended between life and death, love bloomed in the shadows, painful, fierce, and impossible to let go.

And as the darkness began to close in once more, her final thought was not of fear or regret, but of the man whose desperate plea echoed in her soul, her first and only love, the reason her heart still ached against the void.

The beeping was persistent but oddly soothing, a steady metronome against the soft hum of the room. Slowly, consciousness crept back like a cautious tide, tugging her from the depths of darkness. Her fingers twitched, curling around a familiar warmth. As her eyelids lifted, the blurry shapes of blonde hair caught the pale light, soft strands falling across a face etched with quiet vigilance.

Her heart surged unexpectedly, a frantic beat that echoed loudly in her chest, threatening to burst free. The sudden spike set off the alarm, the monitor’s sharp, insistent beeping pierced the stillness like a scream. Johnny’s eyes snapped open, wild and desperate. His hand clenched hers tighter, as if trying to tether her back to this world, and his breath hitched with raw relief and fear.

She saw the sharp line of his jaw, the tense muscles beneath his skin, and the way his gaze flickered between her face and the machines. He was there, right there, watching over her, waiting for this fragile moment when her eyes would meet his again.

Before the silence could return, the door burst open with a sudden crash, and Reed appeared, face pale and eyes wide with alarm. “What’s going on?!” he demanded, rushing forward as if to shield her from the invisible threat only he sensed.

Johnny barely glanced away from her, voice hoarse, “She’s awake. She’s fine, but—” His words broke as panic clawed at his throat. “Check her. Please, make sure she’s okay. She shouldn’t be waking like this.”

The tension in the room thickened, every breath and heartbeat magnified in the heavy air. Her pulse thundered unevenly, crashing against her ribs like a desperate storm. Yet in the midst of it all, the simple warmth of Johnny’s hand was a tether, an unspoken promise that she was not alone.

His gaze was locked on hers, fierce and trembling with emotions unspoken, relief, guilt, fear, and something softer that threatened to break through the armor he wore for the world. The sterile lights above flickered, casting shifting shadows across their faces as the room held its breath, suspended between past pain and fragile hope.

And in that quiet, electric moment, she felt the fragile thread of connection bind them anew; raw, unsteady, and utterly impossible to ignore.

Reed moved with practiced efficiency, his fingers gentle but thorough as he checked for any hidden injuries beneath the thin hospital gown. His eyes scanned every inch of her pale skin, searching for bruises, cuts, or anything that might explain the sudden spike in her heart rate.

But Johnny didn’t step back. Instead, he hovered just over Reed’s shoulder, his gaze sharp and restless, eyes flicking between Reed’s hands and her face. His jaw clenched tightly, the tension in his posture unmistakable. Every so often, his gaze sharpened with silent questions, as if daring Reed to miss even the smallest detail.

Reed felt the weight of those eyes; heavy, insistent, and utterly unyielding. His breath hitched, irritation flickering through his usually calm demeanor. “Johnny,” he said quietly but firmly, not looking up, “I know what I’m doing. If you have a problem with how I’m handling this, then I suggest you step back.”

Johnny’s lips pressed into a thin line, but he didn’t retreat. Instead, he leaned a little closer, his voice low and rough with worry. “I’m just making sure. She’s not just anyone.”

Reed shot him a pointed look, frustration bubbling beneath the surface. “Neither am I, but that doesn’t mean you get to question my every move.”

The two men held their tense standoff for a heartbeat longer, neither willing to back down, before Reed finally turned his full attention back to her, pushing aside the edge of exasperation in favor of focus.

Johnny’s fingers didn’t loosen from hers, though, and despite the clash of wills, the unspoken truth lingered between them: she was worth every ounce of their worry and every moment of this silent battle.

Reed finally stepped back, smoothing the front of his coat with a sigh, clearly done with the unspoken contest. “She’s stable for now. Keep an eye on her vitals, and don’t let her overexert herself. I’ll check back soon.”

Johnny gave a curt nod but kept his hand wrapped around hers, unwilling to let go just yet. As Reed turned to leave, Johnny’s shoulders relaxed just a fraction. The sharp edge of his worry softened into something almost like humor.

With a small, half-smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, he looked down at her and said quietly, “Well… it looks like you found me first instead of the other way around.”

The words hung in the air, breaking the silence like a gentle breeze. She blinked up at him, the faintest smile flickering across her lips despite the ache still lingering in her body. It was the first crack in the heavy shell they’d both been wearing for so long.

Her voice was barely above a whisper, fragile yet steady as she asked the question that hung heavy in the space between them. “Do you remember everything?”

Johnny’s gaze locked onto hers, his eyes shimmering with a raw, vulnerable honesty. He nodded slowly, the weight of years of pain and longing pressing down with every breath he took. Without hesitation, he closed the small distance between them, pulling her into a deep embrace that spoke of relief, regret, and an unspoken promise.

His arms wrapped around her as if afraid to let go again, and she felt the steady beat of his heart against her own; steady now, but filled with the echoes of every moment lost.

“I’m so sorry,” he murmured, his voice thick with emotion, trembling with the truth he’d held inside for so long. “I never protected you like I should have. I never stopped caring. I never loved anyone else. You were the only one... always.”

Her voice was soft but steady, a bittersweet smile touching her lips as she met his gaze. “I already know everything,” she said quietly. “Not just from you… from the history books. The stories that tell of a mad king who lost everything because he begged the stars to bring back his fallen star.”

Johnny’s breath hitched, the memories flooding back with an unbearable weight. She squeezed his hand gently, grounding him.

“I remember all my past lives,” she continued, voice trembling with a mix of sorrow and resolve. “Because of your plea to the stars, your desperate hope. I was always searching for you, through every life—animal, human, even in the spaces between.”

Her eyes flickered with a sadness deeper than words could hold. “But when I saw you in this life, so happy, so content... I stopped. I wanted you to be happy, even if it meant letting you go.”

Johnny’s chest tightened, and his voice was rough but honest, “I didn’t remember you… not until that night at the gala. You were like a spark in the dark, pulling the memories from deep inside me. You made me remember what I had lost.”

He paused, his fingers tightening around hers. “You woke something in me I thought was gone forever. I never stopped searching after that.”

She rested her head against his chest, heart pounding in quiet rhythm with his. In that moment, the vast expanse of time and pain seemed to fold into something fragile and whole, two souls finally finding peace in the midst of all they had lost.

She looked up at him with a fragile kind of bravery, her voice a hush between them. “When did you start loving me? Back then… in your past life?”

Johnny’s expression softened, the light behind his eyes dimming with memory. He exhaled slowly, as if the truth had been waiting all this time for permission to surface. “It started the day you threw yourself in front of me on the balcony,” he said, voice thick. “You didn’t even hesitate. You just… acted. I remember thinking you were terrifying and beautiful all at once.”

He paused, gaze falling to their intertwined hands before lifting again to meet hers. “But I think I really started falling in love after that, when I’d catch you training with your sword in the courtyard at dawn. You thought no one was watching,” he said with a soft, wistful smile, “but I was. Every time.”

His thumb brushed over the back of her hand as if trying to reassure himself she was real. “You were fierce. Focused. But there was something delicate about the way you moved, something graceful in the violence. I used to stand behind the archway just to get a glimpse of you. You’d wipe the sweat from your brow, sigh like the world was too heavy, then keep going like you could carry it anyway.”

He swallowed hard, emotion rising behind his words. “After a while, my favorite part of every day wasn’t the councils or the celebrations, it was you.”

A quiet silence stretched between them, the kind that felt sacred. She smiled through tears, her heartbeat echoing the ache in his words. In that moment, the centuries between them fell away like dust, and love stood eternal, aching and alive.

Johnny’s hand trembled slightly in hers, his thumb still brushing gentle, grounding circles over her knuckles. But there was something shifting behind his eyes now, something darker, older. Like an eclipse rolling slowly over the sun.

He let out a breath. It wasn’t steady.

“You want to know what I felt the day you died?” he asked, voice low, cracked like old stone. “It felt like the world stopped spinning.”

She didn’t speak, couldn’t. His eyes were far away now, locked on a ghost only he could see.

“You were lying there, bleeding on the ground. That red... it didn’t belong there. It didn’t belong on you.” He swallowed hard, his jaw locking as he tried to keep his voice even. “I remember falling to my knees and thinking—this has to be a dream. That any second, you’d blink or give me a half smile, saying this was your job... protecting me.”

His voice broke then, quiet but sharp.

“But you didn’t. You looked at me and said you weren’t in pain… because you were dying in the arms of your first and only love.... and then you died.” His grip on her hand tightened like he could still feel her slipping away. “And I begged you. I begged you not to go. I rocked you back and forth like that would shake life back into your body. I screamed your name until my throat bled.”

Her breath caught, tears sliding silently down her cheeks. He reached out and brushed one away with his thumb, even as his own eyes glistened with unshed tears.

“And then... the silence came,” he said, voice hollow. “It was like the world had gone deaf. There were no birds. No wind. Not even the sound of my own breathing. Just... silence. And you were gone.”

He looked away for a moment, trying to keep himself from falling apart. But the dam was cracking.

“I hunted them down. Every one of the bastards who had a hand in it. The noble. The princess. The guards who looked away. I remember dragging them into the throne room, and I didn’t feel anything. No satisfaction. No relief. Just a pit where everything used to be.”

She reached out with her free hand, fingers ghosting over his chest like she could feel the hollow space he was describing.

“They called it the Day the Stars Stopped Shining,” he whispered. “Historians write about how the kingdom fell because of war, or politics, or drought. But I know the truth. It fell because I did. Because I couldn’t breathe without you.”

His voice trembled, ragged and wet with tears. “Do you know what it’s like to live after that? I’d wake up in the middle of the night gasping your name. I’d walk into empty rooms expecting to see you. Sometimes I’d see someone in the crowd who looked like you, and I’d run like a madman just to find it was a stranger.”

Her heart broke all over again for the boy he had been. For the man he had become. For the soul that remembered love in its purest, most devastating form.

“I talked to the stars every night,” he murmured. “I begged them to bring you back. Just once. Just let me see you again. Let me say what I never said. That I loved you more than life. More than duty. More than anything.”

There was a pause, heavy and still.

“They didn’t answer me then,” he whispered. “But I guess… they did now.”

He finally looked at her again, really looked, like she was both a miracle and a wound.

And in a voice barely above a breath, he added, “I didn’t just lose you. I lost myself. And now that I have you back… I swear I won’t lose you again.”

She didn’t speak. She couldn’t. Her soul remembered everything. But hearing it, hearing him, made it real. And in that ache, something inside her healed, even as the tears kept falling.

The past wasn’t just a memory anymore.

It was alive again. In his voice. In their tears. In the silence between their heartbeats, finally beating in tandem after five hundred years of grief.

The soft hush of the hospital room wrapped around them like a blessing, the dim light glinting off tear-streaked cheeks and trembling smiles. They didn’t move at first—afraid, perhaps, that if they did, the dream would fracture. That the fragile tether between past and present might snap.

But it didn’t.

Johnny’s fingers were warm around hers. Steady. Devoted.

She closed her eyes, just for a moment, and let herself bask in the miracle that was him: alive, here, holding her like she was both starlight and gravity.

And then—

A knock. Light. Familiar.

The door creaked open, and Sue Richards peeked her head in with a knowing smile. “You’re awake,” she said gently. “And causing all kinds of cardiac alerts, apparently.”

Johnny turned toward her, not letting go of the hand he held, his face still glowing with the kind of joy that seemed carved from the heavens themselves. For once, he looked like more than just the firebrand the world knew. He looked anchored. Radiant in a way that wasn’t flashy or loud, but true. Undeniable.

“Sue,” he said, voice calm and reverent, “I want you to meet the love of my life. My only shining star.”

Sue’s brow arched slowly, smile faltering in confusion. “Wait. The girl from the gala? The one we’ve been chasing down for months? That’s the love of your life now?”

Johnny turned to look at her again, heart in his eyes. “No,” he said softly. “She always was.”

That earned a long pause. Sue stepped inside slowly, folding her arms as her gaze bounced between them. “You… didn’t even know each other before the gala. Johnny, are you having a post-stress delusion? Because this sounds like something out of a romance novel from—”

“—another life,” he finished, cutting in with that strange calm he’d only found when holding her hand. “I didn’t remember at first. Not until she looked at me that night like I was something sacred. Not until I saw her walking away and felt something ancient breaking in me.”

He looked at his sister now with quiet conviction.

“We knew each other a long time ago. Longer than this life can measure. We were lovers in a forgotten kingdom. We lived and died with our hearts still tethered to each other. And now, we’ve found each other again.”

The room fell silent, the weight of his words pressing into every corner.

Sue’s mouth opened. Closed. Then opened again. “Okay,” she said slowly, arms dropping to her sides. “That… is probably the most honest thing I’ve ever heard you say.”

He smiled, the kind that reached the corners of his soul.

“She saved me, even before this life. And I think I’ve been waiting to find her ever since.”

Sue looked over at the girl in the bed—still pale, still exhausted, but glowing with the same impossible light her brother now carried. And for all her skepticism, for all her logic… she believed him.

Not because it made sense. But because he made sense in a way he never had before.

Sue stepped forward and extended a hand, softening. “Well, I guess a welcome back is in order. I’m Sue. Sister, worrier, and professional disaster-mopper.”

The girl smiled faintly, slipping her fingers into Sue’s in greeting. “It’s nice to meet you… finally.”

Johnny beamed between them, his hand still warm in hers.

The world had shifted. The past had bled into the present.

And for the first time in five hundred years, the stars had aligned again.

Note: I had time today! I finished part 1 AND part 2 impressively by my standards. Maybe it's because im gnawing on the bars on my enclosure every time I see Joseph Quinn as Johnny....

[thepiinkpages]

Johnny Storm x Reincarnated!Reader Part 1

Note: So, I just watched Fantastic Four and I knew immediately whom I wanted to write a fic about! This'll prob flop but I like it, it's cute. Thats my story and i'm sticking to it. This part is mainly their past life... anyway I am experimenting so if this is shyte, pardon me I tried to write my vision.

Part 2

The news was on again. Her apartment was small, half studio, half memory, but the volume of the TV always sounded louder at night, when the only other sound was the hum of the fridge and the creaking of old wood beneath her bare feet.

“…and here’s footage of the Fantastic Four arriving on scene. That’s Johnny Storm; yes, the Human Torch, circling above the collapsing structure…”

Her breath caught before she could stop it. She knew his voice before she heard it. Knew the way he moved, the reckless grace, the cocky smile meant to distract from the shadows behind his eyes. They called him a hero now. The world’s golden boy. A man made of fire.

But she knew better. He wasn’t born from science, or fame, or some cosmic storm. Not really.

He was born in another life, centuries ago, in a kingdom that no longer existed, on a throne carved from obsidian and sun. His name had been King Jonathan. And she had once sworn her life to his.

The screen flickered. Flames roared from his body as he launched into the sky, light trailing behind him like a comet. People below screamed in awe. Reporters spoke over the chaos. But her body didn’t move.

Her hand tightened around the chipped ceramic mug she hadn’t taken a sip from. She stared until the screen cut away to another anchor. Until it was safe to breathe again.

Her chest hurt.

And it always did, every time she saw him. Every time she remembered what it felt like to kneel before him in another lifetime, head bowed, sword ready, the scent of lavender oil and burning parchment lingering in the royal halls.

That had been her first life. The first time she met him. Before everything burned. Before she died.

She wasn’t meant to be seen.

The King's Sword, they called her, one of the palace’s two covert guardians trained not to be saluted, not to be named. The other guard was mainly watching over the cities secrets. But her post was the throne itself.

She moved behind the tapestries. Above the chandeliers. Beneath the hidden walkways carved centuries ago for assassins and spies. If she was doing her job right, no one would know she existed.

Especially him.

Her orders were clear: intervene only if his life was at immediate risk. Otherwise, observe. Protect. Disappear.

It should have made things easier. It should have made the ache of loving him bearable, to never hear his voice, never tempt herself with words he’d never mean.

But it didn’t. It made it worse.

He was everywhere. In the mirrored corridors of the palace, laughing with visiting envoys. In the archery fields, stripped to his waist under the sun, golden and untouchable. In his private solar, reading old war texts with his head in his hand, unaware that she crouched behind a carved lion’s head in the wall, watching the rise and fall of his breath.

She bled for him in silence. Fought bandits on shadowed roads. Took a dagger meant for his heart during a failed attempt in the eastern wing, and no one knew, not even him. The blade had sliced into her side just deep enough to steal her breath, but she’d pressed her cloak into the wound, swallowed the pain, and vanished before the guards arrived.

Her reward? A sleepless night and a fever, alone in the catacombs below the barracks, stitching herself up with shaking hands.

She was trained not to want. Not to feel. But she remembered the first time she truly broke that code.

It had rained for days, the kind of storm that turned palace stones to slick obsidian and drowned the city below in grey. From her perch high in the rafters of the great hall, she watched the nobles come and go in drenched cloaks and dripping boots, muttering about trade delays and flooded roads.

She was soaked through. Her leather gloves squelched when she tightened them. Her cloak stuck to her skin, blood from an earlier skirmish mixing with mud along her side. She hadn’t had time to stitch it, not when her orders kept her tethered to him, always.

He was late returning from the outer provinces. Rumors of an uprising in the west had kept the court anxious, their eyes trained on the great doors as if sheer will might summon him.

When the doors finally creaked open, no fanfare followed.

No procession. No trumpets. Just him.

King Jonathan, rain-slick and breathless, with something cradled in his arms.

She leaned forward instinctively, eyes narrowing. It wasn’t gold or a scroll or a foreign artifact.

It was a child. Small. Starved. Limp.

She could barely see her, a girl no older than six, her limbs thin and bruised, a threadbare shift clinging to her skin. One eye swollen shut. Her feet bare.

Jonathan didn’t hand her off to a servant. He didn’t bark orders. He didn’t even flinch when the chamberlain began sputtering about “disease” and “appearances.”

He simply said, “Get me warm water. And clean bandages. Now.”

The nobles froze, wide-eyed. No one moved.

So he shouted: “Now!”

The hall snapped into motion.

From the shadows, the guard watched him kneel on the stone floor, the hem of his cloak pooling in the mud still clinging to his boots. He murmured something soft to the girl, brushing wet strands of hair from her face with surprising gentleness. His hands, hands that wielded power and command and law, trembled as he wiped the dirt from her mouth.

He had passed through the slums on his return. She knew. She’d followed his trail through the city’s edge. Watched as his eyes lingered on the broken shacks, the children too tired to beg. And when the rains came harder, she thought he’d ride faster.

Instead, he had stopped.

Carried her the whole way back himself. Her heart clenched.

Because that was the moment she knew her love was doomed.

Not because he didn’t see her. But because he was good.

Because he deserved someone who could stand beside him, not crawl behind walls like a ghost, bleeding in silence.

She was a shadow. A weapon. A secret. And he was light.

Even during training days, he was always on her mind. Tattooed on her soul.

The training yard didn’t smell like victory. It smelled like blood, copper-slick on stone, sour in her nose, thick in her mouth when she bit her tongue to keep from crying out.

“Get up.”

Her vision swam. Rain clung to her lashes, mixing with sweat. The bruise along her jaw throbbed in time with her pulse.

“I said, get up.”

She pushed her palms into the mud, coughing hard enough to see red. Around her, the other guards had already stepped back, circling like wolves. They wouldn’t help her. They weren’t allowed.

She was the only woman among them. The first. The mistake. The experiment.

No one said it to her face anymore. Not since she broke an officer’s arm during a spar. But they all thought it. She could see it in their eyes every time she walked past, that twisted mixture of resentment and condescension. She was a symbol. A threat. A crack in the foundation of centuries-old tradition.

She didn’t belong.

They reminded her of it daily, in how they paired her with the cruelest opponents, in how her meals were halved “by mistake,” in how her victories were met with silence, but every stumble was punished like treason.

Today, her punishment was for losing focus.

Again.

Because he had passed by the yard, unaware, flanked by advisors. And she had looked up.

Just for a heartbeat.

But in a heartbeat, everything changes.

The wooden practice sword had slammed into her shoulder before she could parry. Then another to her ribs. Then a foot to her back, slamming her into the mud.

She hadn’t screamed. Wouldn’t give them the satisfaction. But now, as she climbed to her feet, something flickered in her chest, not rage, not shame, but that same ancient ache that never seemed to fade.

She loved him.

Foolishly. Desperately.

She loved the way he asked questions no other king dared ask. The way he stopped to listen when a stablehand offered advice. The way he spoke of peace even in rooms full of men drunk on conquest.

But love, in her world, was a luxury.

She was a sword. Swords didn’t love. Swords didn’t get distracted. Swords didn’t bleed over daydreams of a hand they could never hold.

The instructor stepped forward, eyes like flint.

“You think you'll ever be anything?” he sneered, loud enough for the other men to hear. “You'll never be anything but the dirt under my shoe!”

There was laughter. It cut deeper than any blade.

She said nothing.

He struck her hard across the jaw with the wooden hilt. It snapped her head to the side, blood filling her mouth. Her knees buckled.

“Again,” he growled. “If you can’t kill your softness, I’ll beat it out of you.”

Later, in the shadowed quarters beneath the barracks, she sat alone on the stone floor, wrapping her bruised ribs in silence.

She hadn’t cried. She wanted to. Not for the pain. Not for the humiliation.

But because tomorrow, she would see him again. Passing through the court in gold and red, smiling that effortless smile. And he still wouldn’t know she existed.

And if he did?

He would look at her the way all the others did.

Not as someone capable. Not as someone loyal. Not as someone worthy.

But as a girl with blood on her lips, reaching for something she had no right to want.

The day of the masquerade ball, started with a lie. A beautiful one, all candlelight and crushed velvet, perfume and powdered masks, but a lie nonetheless. The court loved to forget the wars outside its walls, the hunger in the lower cities, the whispers of rebellion growing bolder with each taxed season. And tonight, they would dance as if none of it mattered.

She was not meant to be seen, so she was given a dress instead of armor.

Tonight, she had to be admired, without being known, without being remembered. That was the cruelty of the assignment. To become beautiful enough to belong… and invisible enough to vanish the moment the music stopped.

The gown they gave her was nothing like the armor she lived in.

It was a Tudor-cut masterpiece of dark sapphire velvet, heavy as guilt, its bodice structured with whalebone that pressed her ribs until her breath came shallow. Black pearl beading traced up her sleeves in thorns and vines, like bruises that bloomed instead of bled. Her waist had been cinched tight with a brocade stomacher, embroidered in gold to reflect a random House crest, she had none. The only thing she was loyal to was King Jonathan.

Her collar ruffled high against her neck, stiff and precise, framing her face like a martyr’s frame.

Her mask was delicate, filigreed silver, shaped to evoke mourning rather than allure, twin teardrop sapphires dangling from either side like frozen sorrow.

Her dagger, of course, was hidden beneath her skirts. She walked with its weight pressing against her thigh like a secret.

And her hair, once always braided and bound for battle, had been woven into a crown of pinned coils, softened with powdered pearl-dust until it gleamed beneath the chandeliers.

She looked like a ghost of someone else’s story.

No one recognized her as she entered the ballroom. Not even the guards who nodded with courteous indifference.

Good. That was the point.

The ball was a display of power, a night of silk diplomacy and masked flirtation, orchestrated to soothe foreign tensions and keep alliances pliable. But it was also a trap. The king would walk among those who would profit from his death. And her job, tonight, was to make sure none of them succeeded.

So she stayed close.

Never close enough to be noticed. Always near enough to strike.

The order had come down only hours before: the king would be most vulnerable during the masquerade. He’d be circulating among guests, unarmored, unmanned. His elite guards were too obvious in their armor, and he’d refused to be shadowed like a hunted man.

So the command had fallen to her.

Blend in. Stay close. Be unseen, even when standing inches away.

He stood near the dais at the center of the room, King Jonathan, a figure of command and heat in rich crimson velvet, gold piping catching the firelight. His half-mask was obsidian, shaped like a hawk, sharp at the cheekbones, austere and striking. He laughed with diplomats, danced with duchesses, and smiled with practiced ease.

But she saw it, beneath the polish.

His eyes flicked constantly around the room. He hadn’t touched a single goblet himself. His left hand never strayed far from his belt.

He didn’t trust them.

And he was right not to.

He danced with five women that night, each more stunning, more delicate than the last, and yet never once did he leer, or mock, or make promises he wouldn’t keep. Even when a visiting noble’s daughter pressed her fingers to his jaw and whispered something honey-sweet, he only bowed, kissed her gloved knuckles, and turned away with grace that never crossed into indulgence.

She loved him for that.

And hated herself for how much it mattered.

At one point, as he crossed the floor near her post by the tapestry-draped archway, he looked in her direction.

She froze. Not visibly. Not outwardly.

But something inside her stilled, breath suspended, ribs caught in their own cage.

Their eyes met. Just briefly.

A flicker of curiosity, a subtle narrowing of his gaze, like a question he wasn’t quite sure he wanted to ask.

And then he was gone again, swallowed by the crowd, courtiers sweeping him away on a tide of silk and sycophancy.

She stood there, aching in silence, drenched in velvet and sweat and grief. A soldier costumed as a noble. A girl in a dress that fit her like a funeral shroud.

And he would never know.

He would never know that the one guarding his life tonight was the same shadow who bled for him in the dark. The same phantom who saved him from a poisoned goblet last spring. The same girl who, in another life, would have died gladly if it meant sparing him a single wound.

He would never know what it cost her to stand that close. And not reach for him

The ballroom faded behind her like a fever dream, candlelight flickering gold and red, laughter swelling until it curdled in her chest. She stepped through one of the side corridors, past a line of marble columns, until she found herself on the west balcony, alone beneath the open night.

The chill wrapped around her like a balm.

Up here, the sounds of the masquerade were muffled, distant. The music became a ghost. Her breath came easier, shallow though it was, laced with the ache of corset stays and unspoken longing.

The stars glittered above like tiny, silent gods. The moon was full, silver-edged, sailing high above the kingdom she would die for.

She gripped the stone railing with gloved fingers, leaning forward just enough for the wind to catch the edge of her velvet skirts. Her heels ached. Her ribs ached. Her heart—

She closed her eyes.

She had watched him smile at other women tonight. Had listened to the words he gave so easily; warmth, charm, attentiveness. And though she knew it was part performance, part necessity, it still burned. Because none of it was ever hers. It never would be.

She wished she were beautiful like they were; radiant and easy, born to be seen. She wished she had the power of the lords who spoke in his ear, whose opinions shaped the tides of war and peace. She wished she could be something more than a blade pretending to be a girl.

Would he have loved her then? If she had been born noble, delicate, dangerous in a way the court applauded?

The thought was a blade in her throat.

And then—

“Are you all right?”

The voice cut through the night like lightning.

Low. Familiar. Roughened by laughter and command, but softened by something gentler now.

She froze.

Every muscle in her body turned to ice. Her hand instinctively dropped to the dagger strapped beneath her skirts. She didn’t pull it, not yet, but her fingers curled around the hilt, steadying herself as her heart began to hammer.

Because she knew that voice. Of course she did. It was the voice of the man she was sworn to protect.

King Jonathan.

He was standing just behind her.

She could feel him, the heat of him, even in the cool night air. The weight of his presence, no longer dressed in power and performance, but in something quieter. Curious. Concerned.

She didn’t turn. She couldn’t.

Her mind raced, calculating every possible escape. If she faced him, if he saw her up close, he might recognize the shape of her jaw beneath the mask. The curve of her mouth. The faint scar on her throat from the mission three winters ago. He might see too much.

And yet…

She had dreamed of this. A thousand times. What it would be like to be near him, truly near, not as a shadow, not as a weapon, but as someone.

Now it was happening. And she was terrified.

“Forgive me,” he said behind her, voice gentle. “I didn’t mean to intrude. You looked—” A pause. “—alone.”

She swallowed. Her grip on the dagger eased. Still, she didn’t turn.

“My apologies, Your Majesty,” she said softly, changing her voice just enough to mask its usual tone. “I… needed air.”

He didn’t leave. Instead, she heard his boots move slowly forward — just a step. Then another.

“I did too,” he admitted. “The room… chokes you after a while.”

A breeze lifted between them, catching her curls, teasing the powdered strands loose from their pins.

And then, silence. A long, delicate silence. As if he were trying to place her.

“You didn’t dance,” he said finally. “Not once.”

She closed her eyes.

“No,” she whispered.

Another pause.

“You don’t speak like the others,” he said.

Her throat tightened.

“I’m not like the others,” she answered — before she could stop herself.

He chuckled softly. “No. You’re not.”

And for one unbearable moment, the world stopped. She was no longer a soldier, bleeding in silence. She was just a girl. On a balcony. Under the moon.

Seen. By him.

The ballroom faded behind her like a fever dream — all candlelight, perfume, and laughter that left her dizzy and empty. She slipped away through one of the side corridors, her steps quiet, rehearsed. Beyond a heavy velvet curtain and a set of tall doors carved with gilded vines, the west balcony opened to the night.

The air hit her like a blessing.

It was cold and clean, kissed with distant rain, and she let herself breathe deeply for the first time in hours. The sounds of the masquerade became a soft, distorted hum behind her, like a memory dulled by time. Out here, the only music was the rustle of her gown and the faint whisper of wind catching at the ruffles of her collar.

The moon hung full and pale above the rooftops, casting silver light across the marble floor. Stars shimmered like a thousand untold stories, and for a moment, she could almost pretend she wasn’t wearing a dress that didn’t belong to her, a mask that made her a stranger, and a title that no one would speak aloud. Her hands gripped the edge of the balustrade, fingers stiff in their gloves. The rings they’d adorned her with for the evening were beginning to bite into her knuckles. The fabric of her sleeves was too tight, her bodice laced too cruelly, and her heartbeat had not slowed since she stepped into the room where he danced with everyone but her.

She had stood mere paces from him for over an hour. Close enough to hear him laugh, to see the curve of his mouth when he smiled, to know exactly when his shoulders tensed and why. She had watched him accept the touch of women who looked effortless in their silks, who knew how to flirt with their eyes and speak in half-truths meant to charm. She had watched him lean just enough to be polite, but never so much that it became indulgent. And though he was playing a part like all royalty must, it didn’t lessen the sting. The ache of being so near and still forgotten made her chest feel like something was splitting down the center.

She wished, more than anything, that she could’ve been born different. Perhaps if she had been delicate instead of deadly, soft instead of forged, she could have stood among them as one of their own. Perhaps if she had been beautiful in the way that held power in court — not hidden strength but visible grace — he might have looked at her with something more than passing politeness.

But she wasn’t beautiful like they were. She wasn’t even seen.

As her thoughts spiraled into places they shouldn’t go, the weight of her own heart threatening to smother her from the inside out, she heard it — a voice.

“Are you all right?”

The question cut through the quiet like a blade through silk. Her spine locked, shoulders tensing in the velvet cage of her gown, and her hand slipped beneath the thick folds of fabric to close around the dagger strapped to her thigh. Her fingers curled around the hilt out of instinct, not intent. She didn’t draw it.

She didn’t need to. She knew that voice.

She had heard it hundreds of times from doorways, through marble walls, across the echoing halls of the palace. It was the voice of the man she was sworn to protect. The voice of the one she had followed into battlefields, shadowed through ambushes, and saved from death more times than he would ever know.

King Jonathan stood somewhere behind her — not close enough to touch, but near enough that the warmth of his presence rolled toward her like heat from a flame.

She didn’t turn. She couldn’t. The mask protected part of her face, but not all. The curl of her mouth, the slope of her cheek, the scar just below her jaw — any of it might give her away if he looked too long. Her pulse pounded in her ears, a thunderous warning.

“Forgive me, Your Majesty,” she said, her voice carefully even, pitched just above a whisper, softened into something foreign to her own ears. “I needed air.”

There was a pause. He didn’t leave.

“I understand,” he said after a moment, his voice quieter now, thoughtful. “The room does feel heavier than usual tonight.”

She said nothing. The words stuck in her throat like stones.

The silence that followed was not awkward, but it was dangerous. She could feel him behind her, not moving, not speaking. The distance between them seemed to stretch and shrink at once, a breath apart, and yet lifetimes away. She gripped the edge of the railing tighter, knuckles aching beneath her gloves.

She stood perfectly still, but inside her head, a storm raged.

Why was he here? Why was he talking to her? Why wasn’t he surrounded by his usual guards, the ones that shadowed him like cloaks stitched from shadows and loyalty? Where were the others? The ones they’d trained to replace her when she was ordered to watch from afar? Why now? Why her?

Had she done something wrong? Had she been recognized?

Her mind clawed through the possibilities, each thought louder than the last, until they drowned out the hum of music still floating in from the ballroom. The cool air did little to calm her; her skin prickled beneath the gown, sweat curling at the nape of her neck despite the chill. Her heart hammered in its cage of bone and silk and fear.

She was trained for ambushes, for sudden blades in alleyways, for poisoned goblets and assassins in priest’s robes, but not this. Not him, speaking gently beside her in the dark. Not him noticing her.

Her fingers twitched at her side, instinctively brushing the hilt of the hidden blade strapped to her thigh, not from threat, but from grounding. It was the only familiar thing left.

She hadn’t meant to speak.

Truly, she hadn’t. But the question leapt from her chest like a wound breaking open.

“Why is His Majesty here… alone?”

It was the first thing she had said to him directly — not part of an oath, not shouted in command across training fields, not whispered through secret channels in the castle walls.

It was her voice. Fragile. Frayed. Real. The moment it left her lips, she wished she could claw it back.

Johnny turned his head slightly — not enough to meet her eyes, but enough to show he’d heard her. The faintest smile ghosted across his lips. Not the roguish kind he wore in court. Something quieter. Less rehearsed.

“Well,” he said, “that’s a rather good question.”

He let the pause stretch, as if considering whether to give her a real answer.

“I was meant to be flanked by two guards and two advisors. One fell asleep drunk in a carriage, the other got distracted by a duchess in a scandalous gown.” A soft huff of amusement followed. “The advisors are too busy arguing about war taxes to notice I disappeared.”

He tilted his head toward the stars. “Besides… sometimes it’s nice not to be followed. Even if only for a few minutes.”

There was something about the way he said it, the flicker of exhaustion beneath the charm, the loneliness behind the smile, that made her breath catch.

He sounded… tired. She’d never heard that in his voice before. Not in court, not in passing, not even from afar.

“Do I frighten you?” he asked suddenly, his tone more curious than cruel. “You’ve been so still.”

She gripped the edge of the balcony again, steadied her breath.

“No, Your Majesty.”

He glanced at her, not quite looking into her face, but enough to note her rigid shoulders, the way her chin tilted just slightly downward. His eyes narrowed with something like understanding.

“Hmm,” he said. “Then perhaps I should be the one afraid.”

And before she could reply, before her panic could surge into another wave of questions and doubt, he added softly, “Don’t worry. I won’t stay long. You looked like you needed the silence more than I did.”

Then he returned to watching the sky; respectful, careful, still close enough to share the quiet.

He didn’t press. He didn’t stare. He simply remained beside her, as if he, too, had spent a lifetime pretending not to be seen.

There was a flicker of movement in the rose bushes below.

At first, it was subtle, a mere shiver of leaves, too rhythmic for wind, too slow for any bird. She didn't blink. Didn't breathe. Her entire body locked into stillness. The training buried in her bones, her blood, ignited like a lit fuse. Beneath the soft murmur of the King's voice, her eyes sharpened, pinned to the shadows.

Something was wrong.

Johnny, oblivious, chuckled softly beside her, his voice warm with that playful drawl, as if trying to charm the stars themselves.

“You ever wonder,” he mused aloud, “why the moon never turns its back to us? Or maybe it already has and we just think we’re lucky to see its face.”

Her hand moved quietly, gliding down her thigh beneath the folds of her gown. Her fingers wrapped around the hilt of her hidden blade with the same reverence as a priest gripping his rosary. She didn’t answer. Couldn’t.

Because there. In the corner of her vision, moonlight caught on something sharp. A glint of steel. Fast. Intentional.

Her body moved before thought could intervene.

The knife was out in an instant, but her other arm was already snapping across his chest. She shoved him back, hard, tackling him to the stone floor with a thud that echoed into the night. He grunted in confusion as they hit the cold marble, the breath stolen from his lungs.

Then the pain came.

Hot. Deep. White.

A blade drove into her left shoulder from behind; not clean, not perfect; just under the clavicle, where the collar of her gown met bare skin. The force pinned her for half a heartbeat before she twisted violently, dislodging the weapon with a wet, sick sound.

Johnny’s eyes went wide as blood splattered across the pale blue silk of his sleeve. He tried to sit up, but she shoved him down again with her forearm across his chest, shielding him, body already shifting to protect.

“Stay down,” she hissed.

He froze at the tone, not just the command, but the voice itself. Not a noblewoman. Not a guest. A soldier.

Her entire weight shifted to a crouch beside him, left arm limp and bleeding, knife clenched in her right. She stared into the shadows beyond the balcony’s edge, chest heaving, eyes feral.

There was nothing now. Just the roses. Swaying. Mocking.

Gone.

“Guards!” Johnny roared at last, his voice echoing off stone walls and down corridors.

Steel boots thundered down the hall.

She didn’t move. Not until the flicker of moonlight no longer danced on blades.

Not until she was certain the threat had passed.

Not until she felt her knees begin to give out beneath her from blood loss.

Only then did she allow herself to collapse beside the King, hand slick with crimson, shoulder trembling as the pain truly registered.

He caught her before she could fall fully.

“Gods—” he whispered, one hand pressing to the wound, the other cradling her neck. “You… You took that for me—”

She stared ahead, unfocused, as warmth soaked through the fabric between them. Her lips parted, but no words came.

She didn’t need to speak.

Not yet.

Her blood already had.

The copper taste of blood was thick in her mouth, though she hadn't bitten her tongue. Not this time. Her shoulder throbbed, a deep, wet ache that pulsed behind her ribs with every heartbeat. But she didn't fall. She wouldn't. Not in front of him.

Not when her very existence depended on being invisible, forgettable, and above all, unbreakable.

Her vision swarmed in and out, the balcony warping at the edges, lantern light curving like smoke. She focused on a single point to stay upright: the hard, polished stone beneath her boots.

She could feel him behind her before she heard him, the stomping stride, the rattling chainmail, the ever-present sneer of someone who hated that a woman wore the same colors he did. The head of the royal guard. Her trainer.

His hand clamped down on her injured shoulder pulling her from the King, spinning her around so her bleeding wound was front and center. His eyes were sharp and disgusted, the scent of ale and steel close enough to burn.

“What the hell was that, girl?” he spat. “You're disguised as a guest, and you still can't keep a low profile? You just had to draw attention, didn’t you? Gods, you bleed like a bitch in heat—”

Her expression didn't change.

Not even as the blood ran freely down her arm.

Not even as Johnny, still on the ground, snapped, "Enough."

The man turned with a scoff. “Your Majesty, with all due respect—”

“She’s a guest tonight,” Johnny said, rising to his feet with unnatural grace, brushing blood from his sleeve. His voice didn’t rise, but it cut sharper than a blade. “You don't bark orders at my guests. You get them help.”

“She’s no guest,” the guard muttered darkly. “She's a mutt we let wear a sword.”

That word cracked something behind her ribs, but she didn’t let it show. Instead, her hand gripped tighter around the torn fabric of her shoulder, blood wetting her palm, and she stepped forward.

She didn’t wait for permission.

She didn’t wait for kindness.

She stood as tall as she could with the wound tearing through her muscle and locked her eyes on the space between their boots, the way she’d been trained to.

“There was movement in the western rose bushes,” she said. Her voice was flat, clipped, forced to be level. “A metallic glint followed by rapid motion. I engaged in reflex. His Majesty was in the line of attack. I intercepted.”

The air went still.

For a heartbeat, all that moved was the wind curling through the arches and the soft rustling of the leaves.

Johnny stared at her. Not the way nobles stared, with disdain or idle curiosity. No, this was something colder. Slower. Like he was reevaluating everything. Like he’d just witnessed something that rattled the very foundation of what he assumed to be true.

“Your name,” he said quietly.

She hesitated, blood dripping from her fingers onto the stone.

The head guard sneered again. “She doesn’t get one, sire. She’s number 43.”

He flinched at that, barely, but she saw it, just for a moment.

Johnny turned toward the corridor, jaw set, his voice already echoing down the marble hall.

“Fetch the royal medic. Now. And get a fresh guard to cover the garden, no less than four men. If I so much as smell rose petals again tonight, someone's getting discharged.”

Then, back to her.

He took a step forward, one hand reaching, not to touch her, but to hover, like he wanted to and didn’t dare.

“You should sit.”

She shook her head.

“If I sit,” she whispered, “I won’t get back up.”

His throat worked.

And for once, King Jonathan, had no flirt, no joke, no witty comeback.

Just a deep, unsettled silence… and the ghost of awe in his eyes.

The sound of fast-approaching boots echoed through the corridor before the royal medic even came into view, a thin man with clever eyes and blood already staining his sleeves, having been pulled mid-duty from tending the infirmary.

His eyes scanned the scene quickly, professionally. A flash of surprise crossed his features when they landed on her, bloodied and slumped but still upright, a silk train torn around her feet. He clutched his satchel close, already reaching for salves and scissors.

"I'll need privacy," he said with brisk authority. "This is a woman, not a corpse. Either turn around or leave the room."

The guards snorted.

One of them chuckled, not kindly. Another muttered something under his breath about "things pretending to be women." The head guard didn’t even bother to hide his sneer.

“She’s used to getting undressed in front of men. Don’t flatter her.”

The words didn’t hit her like before. They didn’t have the sharpness of surprise anymore. She’d been forged in worse fires. But still, the shame itched under her skin like something alive. She kept her face blank, blood dribbling down her arm and soaking the edge of the brocade.

Then the air shifted.

A bootstep forward. A different kind of stillness.

King Jonathan moved; slowly, deliberately, his hand closing around the head guard's armor strap with just enough force to be noticed. His smile was gone. So was the flirt. So was the charm. His voice, when it came, was the kind you read about in war songs. The voice of a man who ruled.

“You will leave, Commander. Now.”

The guard stiffened.

“Your Majesty, I was only—”

“I said leave. Or I’ll have your name stricken from the guard registry by sunrise. And I’ll do it without a shred of guilt.”

There was a pause. A long one. And then, muttering curses and biting his tongue, the head guard jerked away from Johnny’s grip and shoved past the others. The remaining men followed, slower, some still sneering, but none dared stay behind.

And suddenly, it was quiet.

The medic turned to her gently now, kneeling beside where she stood still upright. His voice was softer than before, and he didn't look at her like she was a mistake in a dress.

"May I?"

She nodded. Her legs no longer felt solid enough to carry her weight. She sank to the floor without grace, the bloodied skirts pooling around her as the pain roared in her nerves like a rising tide. Her arm trembled as the medic touched the gash, slicing away delicate layers of fabric to reach the wound.

Cool air kissed her torn skin. The sting of disinfectant made her flinch, but she kept her jaw clenched tight, her eyes trained on the dark marble of the floor.

She couldn’t look at him. She wouldn’t.

And yet she felt him.

The king hadn’t left.

She could feel the weight of his gaze as surely as the blade that had pierced her. Something about it burned hotter than pain, more dangerous than humiliation. She squeezed her eyes shut, not from fear, not from agony, but from everything else.

Why did he stay?

Why hadn't his guards come?

Why her?

She was nothing. An "it." A forgotten number in a system of perfect soldiers. She’d been trained to die with dignity, not bleed in front of kings.

And yet he stayed.

She didn’t dare cry. Not here. Not now. But her nails dug crescents into her palm as she forced her breathing to stay steady. The pain was easier than his presence.

The medic whispered, "It’s deep, but not deadly. You got lucky. Had it been an inch higher—"

"I know," she said quietly.

Behind her, she heard the rustle of fine fabrics as the king stepped forward. His voice was gentler now, but no less certain.

“You didn’t hesitate.”

She said nothing.

"You could've run," he added. "Could’ve let it hit me."

Still, she remained silent.

Then, softly, as if trying not to break the air between them, he murmured:

“You’re not invisible, you know.”

Her fingers curled tighter.

She said nothing.

But a single, silent tear slipped down her cheek, and she prayed to the gods that no one, especially him, had seen it.

Before she could even respond to the king’s words, before she could gather her breath beneath the layers of pain and shame, he turned slightly, his gaze focused on a patch of velvet darkness behind the garden trellises.

“Report,” he commanded.

The shadows moved.

Not with a rustle. Not with a footfall.

They simply shifted, and then a man was there, standing in front of the king as if he had always been there, waiting in the dark like a ghost given orders.

He wore black-on-black, no heraldry, no visible rank. His cloak did not glint. Even his boots made no sound. But there was a stillness about him that made the hair on her arms lift. Not the calm of peace, but the kind before a blade sank into flesh.

The figure knelt, head bowed low. When he spoke, his voice was a low, guttural rumble, emotionless, as if carved from the stone beneath the palace.

“Assailant apprehended, Your Majesty. Poisoned blade. No insignia, no house colors. Dead before questioning. Jaw crushed.”

Her blood ran cold.

She looked at him fully now, barely able to keep from staring. There was something wrong with him, or maybe something too right, too honed. His skin was pale, like candle wax, but his eyes, She hadn’t even noticed his eyes. They gleamed like moonlight off obsidian, inhuman, unblinking. This was no ordinary man.

Mutated.

She’d heard of them. Whispered legends among soldiers — of those who were born different, enhanced, twisted by sorcery or fate or unnatural science. Rare. Feared. Some kings had entire armies of them. Others had them executed at birth.

Apparently, her king had one. And she — who was trained to know everything — hadn’t even sensed his presence.

The man rose silently and melted back into the dark without waiting to be dismissed.

She swallowed hard. Her shoulder throbbed with every beat of her heart. But it was the revelation that hollowed her out even further, that reminder that she was not the sharpest blade in the king’s sheath. Not even close. She wasn’t trusted with his real security. She was just a shadow of a sword. Decorative. Disposable.

Of course.

She shouldn’t feel this... sting. She was alive. She did her job.

But the truth settled in her gut like stone.

The king had never needed her. And yet... he stood there.

He hadn’t left. He hadn’t looked away.

He still watched her now, not with pity, not with pride. But with something else. Something quiet and unreadable.

“Do you know why I keep that one?” he asked suddenly, as if catching the direction of her thoughts.

She said nothing.

“He can’t be bribed. Can’t be seduced. Can’t be seen. He’s loyalty bred into bone.”

A silence passed between them. The medic continued working, his hands efficient, movements clean.

Then Johnny’s voice dropped again, soft, but heavy with intent.

“But tonight, you were faster.”

The words stabbed her sharper than any blade. Because they were kind. Because they made something dangerous flutter in her chest, hope. Hope was always crueler than pain.

She bit the inside of her cheek and bowed her head slightly, letting her hair fall like a curtain between them.

“Your Majesty,” she said, voice level.

He didn't push. He didn’t touch her. He simply remained there, a breath away from her unraveling, watching the blood on her silk-draped shoulder and the quiet fire in her eyes.

And for one suspended moment beneath the moon and the weight of everything she’d ever wanted, he simply stayed.

The medic finally finished stitching her shoulder, his hands quick but respectful now that the king’s presence lingered like a sword over every move. The silk of her gown had been sliced clean, blood seeping into the intricate embroidery that once disguised her. Her shoulder burned with the ghost of the blade, but it was nothing compared to the heat building in her chest.

She could feel him watching her.

Not just as a king surveying his guard, not just as a man taking stock of a situation. He was watching her, as though she were some strange, unreadable book written in a language he had just realized he might want to learn.

She couldn’t breathe.

“I want her taken to the royal infirmary,” Johnny said suddenly. His voice was calm but final, the kind of command that peeled through marrow. “And have her stay in the royal guest room."

Her pulse stuttered.

No. No, no, no.

“That won’t be necessary, Your Majesty,” she said quickly, rising to her feet. Her voice stayed steady, but her hands trembled at her sides, fists clenched tightly to her skirts. “The standard barracks infirmary will do just fine.”

Johnny turned to face her more fully now. His brow furrowed, just slightly. “You’re injured.”

“I’m a soldier. Injuries are expected,” she replied, bowing deeply despite the sharp pull in her shoulder. “I thank you for your concern, sire.”

Her stomach knotted violently. If she stayed a second longer, if she felt the warmth in his voice again or met the subtle flicker of curiosity in his face, she was going to combust from the inside out. She could not take more than this. Her body could handle wounds. Her heart? Not so much.

“Very well,” Johnny said, though the word came out reluctantly.

She straightened. Nodded once at the medic, then turned toward the balcony.

“What are you—?”

Before he could finish the question, she moved.

She sprinted forward and leapt clean over the edge of the stone balustrade. Her boots struck marble, then air, freefall. The night air rushed past her, the pain in her shoulder flaring, wind catching the ruined fabric of her gown like torn wings. Then, impact. Her feet hit the garden stone with practiced grace, knees bending slightly as she absorbed the fall.

Behind her, above, a startled sound left the king’s throat—half surprise, half something else.

Worry?

She turned her head, breath catching in her lungs.

He stood at the edge of the balcony now, one hand resting on the railing, cloak catching faint moonlight. His eyes found her through the shadows. She couldn’t read his expression—not exactly. Not from this distance. But something about the way his head tilted, the way his brows furrowed—not with confusion, but focus—made her stomach twist.

It was a look she hadn’t seen before.

Not pity. Not amusement. Not dismissal.

Intrigue.

She lowered her gaze immediately. That was dangerous. More dangerous than any blade she could ever face.

Without another word, she turned on her heel and disappeared into the garden, her silhouette swallowed by hedge and shadow, her pulse still pounding, not from the wound, not from the leap, but from that look.

Because if he ever looked at her like that again... she didn’t know whether it would kill her or make her live.

The trek back to the barracks was long, her footsteps hollow against the stone corridors. Her blood had slowed to a trickle beneath the makeshift bandages the medic left her with, but every movement pulled at the wound. She ignored it. Ignored the ache in her legs, the dizziness curling at the edge of her vision, the echo of the king’s gaze still haunting her from that balcony.

She just needed to make it to her cot. Just a few more steps.

But fate, it seemed, wasn’t done with her tonight.

The moment she turned the corner behind the storage building, shadows shifted. Too fast. Too many.

She had a knife in her hand before the first blow landed, but it didn’t matter.

One of them slammed her back against the stone wall, making her cry out as the freshly-stitched wound tore open. Another grabbed her wrist, twisting until the blade clattered to the ground. She kicked blindly, elbowed someone in the ribs, dropped to the ground and swept a leg out hard.

Two bodies fell. She struck one in the throat, then rolled and snatched her knife back.

It didn’t save her.

A boot slammed into her ribs, sending her crumpling. She curled instinctively, shielding her side, her fingers bloodied and shaking. Someone grabbed a fistful of her hair and yanked her up.

And then she heard it—the voice she dreaded more than any assassin’s.

“Well, if it isn’t His Majesty’s little heroine.”

She froze.

Her trainer.

Captain Rholden’s voice was like gravel soaked in venom. “Tell me, girl… did it feel good? Showing me up like that in front of the king? Hmm?”

She didn’t answer. Her lips were tight, blood dribbling from a cut along her jaw.

“No?” he sneered. “Too proud now? Think you’re better than the rest of us because you jumped in front of a pretty boy and took a knife?”

Another hit; blunt, cruel, crashed into her side. She gasped but refused to scream. She wouldn't give them the satisfaction.

“I trained you harder than the rest because you had to be better. You’re not like them, you’ll never be. You’re a girl in a man’s post, and don’t you forget who let you into that uniform.”

She barely registered the next blow. Her body had gone numb.

“I expect you at training at dawn,” he hissed into her ear. “You’d better not bleed all over my floors again. If you can fight for the king, you can crawl for me.”

They left her there.

She didn’t know how long she lay in the dirt, knees drawn to her chest, blood soaking into the hem of the ruined gown. Her stitches had reopened, and bruises bloomed along her ribs and cheek, swelling fast under the cold night air.

She couldn’t move.

She just stared up.

The moon stared back, silent and cold and far too bright for a world this cruel.

Tears slipped past her lashes, quiet as breath. There was no one to see them. No one to hear her.

No family. No coin. No past. No... anything.

Only this place, this pain, and the impossible ache of guarding a man she could never have.

She closed her eyes.

The king would never know. And even if he did… what would it matter?

She was nothing but a shadow. One that bled quietly in the dark...

The chill bit into her bones as she woke, long before the sun dared show its face.

She hadn’t slept, not really. Her body had shut down, nothing more. Curled like a wounded animal in the corner of the barracks, her tattered dress half peeled from her skin, dried blood crusted beneath the seams. The moment her lashes lifted, pain cracked through her ribs and shoulder, radiating outward like a second heartbeat. But she didn’t make a sound.

She didn’t get the luxury of pain.

Gritting her teeth, she sat up; slow, measured; and hissed as the bandages clung too tightly to the reopened wound. She peeled the wrap from her shoulder, saw the blood had seeped through the fabric and left a rust-colored bloom over her skin.

There was no time to wince.

She needed to move. She needed to be clean. Captain Rholden had made it very clear: if she wanted to survive training, she better not show weakness. And weakness stank like blood.

She pulled herself to her feet, legs trembling under her own weight, and left the barracks silently. No one stirred. The corridors were still steeped in that eerie darkness before dawn, when even the guards posted on watch seemed half-asleep. Her boots were quiet against the stones, muffled by exhaustion and instinct.

When she reached the washing quarters, the air was icy. The stone walls, always damp, pressed close like they were trying to squeeze the breath from her lungs. The torches hadn’t been lit yet, it was too early, even for the kitchens.

It was empty.

Good.

She stripped quickly, flinching as the ruined uniform peeled away from bruised ribs and the ragged shoulder wound. She didn’t look at herself in the cracked mirror. She knew what she’d see; purple blooms, torn muscle, finger-shaped bruises along her arms. Her lip had swollen, and there was a fresh gash just beneath her left eye.

But none of it mattered. She wasn’t here to feel. She was here to survive.

She stepped beneath the freezing stream of water pouring from the ancient pipe and bit the inside of her cheek to keep from gasping. Her fingers scrubbed at the dried blood, at the dirt embedded in her skin, moving quickly, mechanically. The silence felt strange. Too quiet. Usually, this place rang with groans, chatter, laughter, and barking orders.

But now?

Now it was just the slap of water against stone. Her pulse in her ears. Her own breath.

She closed her eyes for a moment and leaned her forehead against the wall, just to remember what it felt like to be still.

Why was he even talking to me?

The thought came unbidden, sharp as the blade she’d used the night before. She hadn’t slept, but his voice still echoed clear as silver in her mind. That teasing lilt. That low chuckle. That strange look he’d given her when she stood with blood dripping down her side, all bones and defiance.

She swallowed hard.

It had to mean nothing.

Kings didn’t look at shadows.

She turned off the water quickly and reached for the rough cloth beside her. The quiet still hadn’t lifted. Even the castle rats seemed to be holding their breath. She dried fast, fumbling to bind her wound again with what little fabric she had stashed in the corner. Her ribs ached with every twist. Her arm barely lifted above her waist.

Still, she moved.

Still, she endured.

She had just tugged her tunic over her head when the door creaked.

Her spine snapped straight. Her fingers twitched toward the knife at her thigh, but it wasn’t there. She cursed silently and turned with a forced calm.

A figure entered.

And for a moment, her breath locked in her throat.

The door didn’t slam or creak, it opened as though the room itself exhaled a quiet warning. She froze, her heart pounding painfully as her eyes snapped toward the sound. A figure stepped forward from the doorway, one whose presence blended with the darkness despite a uniform that spoke of elite training. This was the King’s mutant guard; a silent, almost otherworldly presence known simply as the shadow guard from last night. He moved with a predatory grace that was neither crude nor dismissive, his dark features obscured beneath a hood that did little to hide the sharp intensity of his gaze.

Without any needless flourish, he spoke in a low, measured tone. “The King requests your presence in his office at dawn.”

Her stomach twisted. The message was clear, Johnny wished to see her. That single command, delivered in a voice that brooked no argument, sent a shock of both dread and something unplaceable through her, as though she were being summoned not just as a soldier, but for something far more personal.

She swallowed hard, fighting the tremor in her voice before it could betray her. “Understood,” she managed, bowing her head in the customary gesture of deference, even though her pride burned as fiercely as the pain in her shoulder.

The guard’s eyes flicked briefly over the bruises marring her skin; the torn stitches and the smear of dried blood telling a silent story of the night’s violence; then, without another word, he melted back into the corridor as silently as he’d appeared. His departure left behind only the sound of his fading footsteps and a lingering chill that crept along her skin.

Alone again, she forced herself to steady her ragged breath. The warning now echoed in her mind. Dawn would come too soon. Every moment until then would be a trial, an effort to cover her wounds and to calm the storm of questions raging in her head. She had to prepare herself, not just the body, but her soul, for the King's summons, for she knew that his call was seldom simple.

With trembling fingers, she pressed a hand to her bandaged shoulder and whispered to herself, “I must be ready.” She could not afford any more mistakes. For in the cold light of day, in his private office where the weight of his gaze might see every shattered piece of her spirit, she would have to stand tall, as the only soldier in His Majesty’s secret service, and as the one person whose very existence was both a duty and a wound that refused to close.

Her hands trembled as she hurried through the small chamber, fingers fumbling with the heavy brush she rarely had time to use. The tangles in her dark hair caught stubbornly, but she forced the strands to obey, pulling them back into a tight braid that wouldn’t betray the fatigue and bruises beneath. Each stroke was a silent attempt to smooth away the chaos inside her, the ache of last night, the weight of the king’s summons, the impossible knot of dread and something else she barely dared to name.

She peeled off the bloodied remnants of her gown and carefully pulled on the cleanest uniform she owned. The fabric was stiff and unfamiliar against her bruised skin, but she welcomed the illusion of control it gave her. She fastened the buttons with steady fingers, adjusted the high collar to conceal the bruises along her neck, and smoothed the creases along the sleeves. This was the armor she wore now, not just against enemies but against herself.

A last glance in the cracked mirror showed a face marked by shadows and resolve. She swallowed hard, inhaled a shaky breath, then slipped her dagger into its sheath strapped firmly at her thigh. She had no time to second-guess herself.

The door closed quietly behind her as she stepped out, her boots echoing softly against the cold stone. Her pace quickened as she moved past the training arena where early risers were already sparring, their blows ringing sharp in the crisp morning air. She ignored the curious glances, focusing instead on the path ahead.

The gates to the royal grounds loomed before her, massive ironwork etched with the sigils of the crown. Two guards recognized her immediately, nodding respectfully before swinging the heavy doors wide. The castle grounds stretched out like a kingdom within a kingdom, stone walls rising high, gardens hidden in secret courtyards, and the low murmur of early bustle carried faintly on the breeze.

She knew every corner, every shadow, every whisper of these halls. It was her duty to memorize the maze, to move unseen yet always ready. No one needed to direct her.

As she entered the castle proper, the long corridors swallowed her in their cool embrace. The walls were draped in rich tapestries, their intricate weavings telling stories of ancient battles and long-forgotten kings. Flickering torchlight cast wavering shadows that danced like ghosts, tracing the carved wooden panels and polished stone floors worn smooth by centuries of footsteps.

Her boots clicked steadily, a solitary rhythm in the vastness. The scent of burning wood mingled with aged parchment and the faintest hint of lavender from the royal chambers beyond. Heavy oak doors lined the passageway, their iron hinges creaking softly when someone passed behind them.

She passed beneath high vaulted ceilings, where carved angels and beasts gazed silently down, their stone eyes watching every step. The silence pressed against her ears, broken only by the soft echo of her own breath, sharp with anticipation.

Ahead, the door to the king’s study awaited; ornate, solid, and unyielding.

She paused a moment, gathering what remained of her composure before knocking gently.

She pressed her back lightly against the cool wooden door, steadying her breath as she waited for any sign of movement inside. The silence stretched taut, filled only by the faint echo of her heartbeat pounding in her ears. Every second felt like a lifetime, time dilating, thick with unspoken fears and hopes tangled so tightly they threatened to unravel her.

A soft murmur reached her, low and urgent. At first, she thought the room was empty, but then she realized it was him, the king, speaking in hushed, sharp tones to someone she couldn’t see. The words were muffled, carried just out of reach, but the anger in his voice cut clear through the shadows, raw and unyielding. It wasn’t the playful, flirty cadence she had come to recognize; this was something darker—something fierce.

Her stomach twisted painfully. Who was he speaking to? Was it one of his advisors? One of his guards? Or was it a confrontation with demons she could not glimpse? The thought that she was an intruder in a world of secrets too deep to penetrate made her chest tighten as if the air itself had thickened.

Her fingers clenched into trembling fists at her sides. The clean uniform she’d painstakingly donned felt suddenly like a costume, a fragile mask stretched thin over the rawness of her bruised skin and bruised heart. How could she walk through those doors, knowing she was nothing more than a ghost in his storm?

She swallowed hard, fighting the urge to flee, to vanish into the corridors she knew so well and never come back.

But she had come this far.

Whatever waited behind the door; anger, disappointment, or something else, she would face it.

She lifted a hand, steadying it against the heavy wood, ready to knock again.

Just as her knuckles lifted to rap once more on the heavy door, a soft voice cut through the silence from within.

“Come in.”

The words were calm, patient, and carried a gentle warmth that made her heart catch off guard. She exhaled, a mix of relief and apprehension flooding her, then pushed the door open carefully.

Inside, King Jonathan stood by a tall window, the soft dawn light spilling across the room and casting his sharp features in a softer glow. His eyes, always so piercing, now held a kindness that unsettled her more than his anger had moments before. A slow, easy smile curved his lips as he turned fully toward her.

She bowed deeply, voice steady despite the tremble in her chest. “Your Majesty, I am your loyal guard, sworn to serve and protect you in your secret service. I am honored by your summons.”

Jonathan’s smile widened, his gaze never leaving hers. He waited patiently for her to finish, as if each word mattered deeply. Then, with a gentle shake of his head, he said, “You don’t need to be so formal around me.”

The corners of his mouth twitched upward in a knowing, almost teasing grin that made the weight pressing down on her chest lift just a fraction. In that moment, she realized that behind the king’s titles and crowns was a man who wanted her to be more than just a shadow in his service.

Jonathan stepped closer, the morning light softening the sharp angles of his face as he regarded her with an intensity that made her skin prickle. His voice dropped to a gentler tone, free of ceremony but still commanding.

“I looked into your past,” he said quietly, as if revealing a secret not meant for many ears. “Your family is gone. You grew up in the slums, surviving on scraps and stolen bread, clawing your way through a life that wanted to crush you.”

Her breath hitched at the bare truth of it, the memories she had tried so hard to bury, the cold nights curled in alleys, the hunger gnawing at her insides, the bruises earned not from training but from desperate fights just to stay alive.

“But you showed promise,” Jonathan continued, his eyes never leaving hers. “During boot camp, even when your superiors refused to believe a girl could belong in the king’s closest guard. You became the first woman in the secret service... a service I didn’t even know existed until yesterday.”

He shook his head slowly, a wry smile tugging at his lips. “You’re a ghost who walked right past me, and I only just realized you were standing there all along.”

For a long moment, she said nothing, caught between shame and a fragile flicker of something like pride. The walls she’d built around herself; the silence, the distance; began to crumble in the presence of his unexpected understanding.

“I’m not sure whether to be angry at myself for missing you, or at them for ever doubting you,” Johnny said softly, the warmth in his voice breaking through the cold weight in her chest.

Her throat tightened, but at last, she found the courage to meet his gaze and speak, “I never asked to be seen. I only ever wanted to protect you.”

Jonathan’s smile deepened, gentle now and real. “And that’s exactly why I’m glad you’re here.”

Jonathan’s eyes darkened with a seriousness that settled deep in the room, replacing the softer warmth moments before. He took a slow step closer, lowering his voice until it was barely above a whisper.

“There’s a conspiracy,” he said, the words tasting bitter on his tongue. “Someone within these very walls wants me dead. Why? I don’t know. Not yet. But the threat is real, and it’s closer than anyone admits.”

Her breath caught, the weight of his confession crashing into her like a cold wave.

“That’s why I need you,” he continued, locking eyes with her. “Not just as a guard, but as my personal protector and investigator. Someone who can move unseen, listen to what others don’t say, and uncover the truth beneath all the smiles and silks.”

He gestured toward the faint bruises barely hidden beneath her uniform, a silent acknowledgment of the toll the job had already taken.

“My shadow guard reported you came back worse than when you left last night. You’ve been risking too much alone. I want you close, closer than ever before. If you accept, you’ll have my full trust, my resources, and my protection.”

She felt the gravity of the offer settle over her, heavier than any armor she’d ever worn.

“To keep me alive, you want me to watch your back—and watch for enemies in places no one else dares to look.”

Jonathan’s gaze softened fractionally. “I don’t expect you to say yes immediately. But know this, you’re not just guarding a king. You’re guarding the future of this kingdom. And I can think of no one better suited for the task.”

She stood frozen for a moment, the echo of his words reverberating through her chest like a war drum muffled beneath flesh. A conspiracy. Treason in the heart of the palace. Her instincts screamed to weigh every angle, to step back and calculate, but another part of her—the part that had leapt in front of a blade without thought—was already deciding for her.

He trusted her. He needed her.

Her eyes dropped to the floor briefly as the silence stretched between them. She thought of the bruises, of the hands that had left them, of the look of surprise on his face when she jumped from the balcony, the strange curiosity in his expression as he watched her from above. She thought of all the years she had clawed her way from filth to rank, every humiliation, every punishment—and now, this.

“I…” she began softly, her voice not uncertain, but stunned by the weight of it all. “I’ll do it.”

Her eyes finally lifted to meet his. “I accept.”

A breath left him that she didn’t realize he had been holding. Relief passed through his shoulders, softening him before something far gentler bloomed across his face; a real, unguarded smile. It wasn’t the charming lilt he gave the ladies of court, nor the smirk he wore in battle. It was something quieter. Human.

He stepped forward, close enough that she instinctively straightened, but not close enough to breach her space. His hands, warm and calloused, gently found hers. She stiffened again, but he didn’t press.

“Thank you,” he said, and his voice was nothing like the ruler of a nation. It was soft. Raw. “Truly. For what you did that night… for throwing yourself between me and the blade. I don’t take that lightly.”

She stared at their joined hands, her thoughts tumbling into chaos. No one had ever touched her like that, like she was something worth thanking.

Then, almost imperceptibly, he chuckled.

“Your hands are freezing,” he said, not mockingly, but like an observation he couldn’t help but speak aloud. “Next time, I’ll try to nearly get assassinated in the summer.”

It startled something like a breath of laughter from her lips, but she caught it before it could escape fully. His smile deepened just a fraction, as if he’d seen the flicker of it anyway.

Her mind was still spinning when he stepped back and released her hands with a final squeeze. His expression softened once more, just before he nodded toward the tall gilded doors.

“Go,” he said, still wearing that rare smile that made her forget he was a king and not just a man. “Pack your things. My steward will have a room prepared for you by the time you return. It’s close—just across from mine. That way, you’ll be within reach should anything… arise.”

She nodded before she fully processed the words, heart skipping with the promise of proximity. Across from his room? She couldn’t think, so she didn’t. She bowed low with military precision, gave a stiff “Yes, Your Majesty,” and turned on her heel before the warmth in his eyes burned straight through her.

The moment the heavy doors clicked shut behind her, the breath she’d been holding shattered from her lungs. Her legs folded before she could think to stop them, and she slumped against the marble wall of the corridor, arm draped loosely over her knees. Her heart pounded, wild and uncontrollable, in her chest like a bird desperate to escape its cage.

What had she just agreed to?

Guarding the King? Investigating a conspiracy? Sleeping steps away from his chambers?

She blinked hard against the sting in her eyes. Not from weakness, just the sheer, disorienting whirl of everything. For so long she had been the invisible thing in the shadows. A name scribbled low on rosters, a body expected to take damage without complaint. Now suddenly, he saw her. Spoke to her with respect. Held her hands. Told her thank you like she mattered. It didn’t make sense. None of it made sense.

And gods, her face. It had burned. She could barely look at him. Couldn’t string two words together without nearly stammering. What kind of elite guard lost her composure because a man smiled at her?

No… not a man. Him.

A whisper of movement echoed down the hallway, and she scrambled to her feet, posture stiff and composed once more. But inside—inside, she was still curled on the floor, trying to catch her breath.

Weeks passed.

She walked beside him now.

Not three paces behind, not lingering in the shadows like a forgotten name in the roster. No, she walked with him, shoulder to shoulder, just close enough that her hand hovered near the hilt of her blade, and close enough to hear the soft exhale he gave when he thought no one was listening. He never said it aloud, but the weight of the crown pressed on him more with each passing day. She could feel it in his silence. See it in the way he lingered by windows too long, or the way his eyes searched faces with caution that hadn’t been there before.

She had memorized his footsteps. His patterns. His silences.

It was her job.

But it became more than that.

Johnny no longer introduced her. He didn’t need to. Her presence had become a fixture, the fixture. She stood at his side in every council chamber, at every formal gathering, by every carriage he boarded. Where he was, she was.

And yet, she was not invisible.

The others saw her. Some respected her.

But many did not.

At first, it was subtle. A shoulder bump in the hall that nearly knocked her into a column. A laugh behind her when she passed the training yard. Cold looks. Whispers. Someone moved her boots. Cut the laces. Poured salt into her canteen. Once, when she walked through the guard wing, a foot snuck out in front of her. She caught herself mid-fall — perfect balance, trained reflexes — but didn’t turn around.

She could’ve broken his nose.

Instead, she kept walking.

The man laughed behind her, victorious.

She let him.

Because that moment, her thoughts were already ahead, on the sun’s position in the sky, and how that meant the King would be finishing his second council meeting by now. If she hurried, she could be at the hall entrance before he rose from his seat.

Every morning she woke with a single thought: get to him.

It didn’t matter how many muttered insults they slipped under their breath. It didn’t matter how often she was “accidentally” nudged, blocked, ignored. Her duty wasn’t to them.

Her duty was to the King.

And that duty had become something sacred.

She guarded him in daylight, listened to his voice in moonlight.

He talked too much, and yet, she never wanted him to stop. The way his thoughts wandered between kingdom law and the stars, to stories he made up on the spot just to see if he could make her laugh. He always tried. And when she finally let out the smallest chuckle on a cold morning while they waited for a late ambassador, he’d looked at her like he’d won something far greater than a war.

He called her by name now.

He stopped asking if she was tired or if she needed rest. He knew better. Knew her better. And slowly, his gaze softened in her presence. Not because he saw her as lesser, but because he saw her as she was.

Her few belongings were now tucked neatly into the room next to his. The butler checked on her regularly. Her meals no longer tasted of salt and shame. The shadow guard; the silent, merciless one; nodded at her now with something close to respect.

But she didn’t allow herself to feel too much.

The investigation had dragged on, crawling through layers of palace politics and whispers in torch-lit corridors. Whoever had tried to kill him was smart. Careful. Either highly paid or personally motivated.

No new attempts had been made.

Which made her more uneasy.

Threats that wait are always worse than those that lunge.

Everywhere they went now, she followed him like a ghost carved from steel. Council meetings. Ceremonies. Walks through the garden when he couldn’t sleep. Training arenas when he watched the young ones spar. He stopped introducing her after the first week; everyone already knew. She was his sword. The blade he trusted. The woman who took a knife for him and kept walking like her soul had been cut far deeper long before that night.

She said little.

At first, it was out of instinct. It wasn’t her place. And yet, slowly, like morning fog that rolls in without warning and softens the sharpest things, her silence became companionship.

He filled it with stories.

Nonsense ones, usually. His favorite constellation and how he used to think it looked like a spoon. Ridiculous things he overheard from the nobles. Scandals. Poems he liked. How he once tried to learn the flute and made every dog in the palace howl.

She rarely responded. When she did, it was with a blink of surprise, or a soft comment that made him laugh too hard. But he never stopped talking to her. Never treated her like she had nothing to say.

“You’re terrifying, you know that?” he told her once while passing through the Great Hall, his voice low enough that only she heard. “You don’t even try. You just look and people flinch.”

“I don’t mean to.”

“That’s the best part. You’re not even trying. I’d hate to see you when you are.”

He grinned then. She didn’t smile back, but her eyes betrayed her, just slightly.

The investigation, meanwhile, clawed forward like a beast with broken legs.

The assassin had been hired, that much was certain. Poison residue in the blade, but the signature was common, mercenary-level, low-tier work. Which meant it was either a cover-up or a test. And neither option made Johnny sleep well at night.

The list of suspects inside the palace was long. Too long. Nobles who’d been denied favor. Distant cousins with claims to some shadowed throne. Military advisors who didn’t trust his new approach to rule. Guards with loyalty not to the crown but to their own kind.

She followed every lead given to her.

Searched boots for trace chemicals. Questioned servants, casually and with care. Memorized footsteps in halls that were too quiet. She stayed up long after others fell asleep, drawing lines across parchment in her head, trying to predict where the next thread would come from. But it remained elusive. A ghost inside a locked room.

And yet, despite the weight of it, her worst days weren’t spent chasing whispers.

Her worst days were in plain sight, when some of the older guards passed her in the hall and muttered insults under their breath. When her old trainer tripped her during drills or “accidentally” struck too hard in mock combat. When she found her locker tampered with again and again, nothing stolen, but everything touched.

She said nothing.

She never said anything.

But Johnny noticed.

He always did. Whether it was the slight tremble in her fingers as she served him tea or the wince she tried to hide when reaching for a report. Once, he even reached out to help her dismount from her horse; a harmless, instinctive gesture; but when she hissed softly and jerked away, he saw the fresh bruises hidden beneath her armor.

He didn’t say a word.

But that night, a different guard was dismissed permanently. No trial. No discussion.

Just gone.

One night, she found herself walking beside him in the royal gardens after a banquet. His cloak draped lazily over one shoulder, his steps uneven from exhaustion, or perhaps wine.

“You don’t speak much,” he murmured, watching her from the corner of his eye.

She said nothing.

“I like that. Means when you do, it matters.”

She almost smiled.

He stopped walking, turned slightly to face her. The moonlight caught his hair, the faint bruises beneath his eyes.

“I trust you,” he said softly.

Her throat tightened.

She couldn’t remember the last time someone said that to her without suspicion behind the words

The night began like any other.

Cool air sifted through the marble corridors, the castle sleeping in uneasy quiet. From her post beside the King's chamber doors, she counted each tick of the silver pendulum clock down the hall. Johnny had retired early after a long audience with foreign envoys. He hadn’t spoken much before bed, just a weary smile and a soft “Goodnight,” like he didn’t want to burden her with anything more.

But something was off.

She felt it before it happened.

The silence.

Too perfect.

Too controlled.

And then—the click.

Not from the King’s room. From the corridor window across the hall. Her hand flew to her sword as the glass burst inward with a dull crack, the frame creaking. A figure dropped into the hallway in full black garb, silent as smoke. A second followed. Then a third.

Her mind didn’t question.

She moved.

The first assassin saw her too late, she was already on him, blade drawn and slashing upward in a calculated arc. Metal met metal in a clash, the intruder parrying with a curved dagger. But she twisted her wrist mid-swing, feinted, dropped low, and swept his legs. He hit the ground. Her boot crushed his windpipe before he could cry out.

The others lunged. One from behind.

She spun, elbowed him in the throat, ducked the blade meant for her ribs, and jabbed a hidden knife from her boot straight into his thigh. He screamed.

Mistake.

Doors opened.

Johnny stumbled into the hallway in a half-loose tunic and wide eyes.

“What—?”

“Back inside!” she barked, voice sharp and not her own. It was the voice she used only in battle. The voice of instinct, of command.

But another assassin was already breaking off toward the King.

No.

She ran.

Not moved. Not sprinted. Ran like an animal out of its cage.

She hurled her sword.

It speared the attacker’s side — not lethal, but enough to stagger him. Johnny backed into the doorway, his shadow guard nowhere in sight. The attacker turned, limping now, and pulled a vial from his cloak. Glass glinted—poison? Smoke? She didn’t wait to find out.

She was on him in a second.

Tackled him to the floor.

The vial shattered between them, hissing violently. She didn't flinch, using her sleeve to block the fumes. The assassin tried to crawl away, she grabbed his collar, slammed his head once, twice against the stone. He went limp.

The air was thin.

Her head spun.

Another hiss behind her.

The last one had circled back, now only a few feet from Johnny, blade drawn, curved like a fang.

She saw red.

Her body reacted before thought.

She launched herself between them, taking the blade to the arm, deep, white pain tearing through her. But she didn’t stop. She yanked the assassin forward with her wounded arm, drove her knee into his chest, and roared as she slammed him through the doorframe.

Wood cracked.

The assassin wheezed once. Didn’t move again.

Silence returned.

She stood, barely breathing, arm dripping red.

And behind her, Johnny stood frozen, shocked, half-lit by the hallway torchlight. His hands trembled faintly at his sides.

She turned slowly, every limb screaming. But her back straightened anyway.

“I told you to stay in the room,” she said, voice low, half-panting.

He didn’t answer.

His eyes were on her wounds. On the three motionless bodies around her.

“…That was you not holding back?” he said, barely audible.

She didn’t reply.

There was blood on her face. Not hers. Her knuckles were bruised, torn. Her arm hung at an odd angle, likely dislocated. But her eyes, her eyes were steady.

She wasn’t trained.

She was forged.

Johnny stepped forward, slowly, like approaching a wild thing. “You threw your sword,” he murmured, half in disbelief. “You were unarmed and you still—”

“I had to,” she said, almost too fast. “He was going to reach you.”

“You could’ve—died.”

She blinked once. Then twice. “That doesn’t matter.”

Johnny stared at her, something twisting in his chest. Not awe. Not shock.

Something deeper.

“No one… No one has ever protected me like that,” he whispered.

She swayed where she stood.

“You’re bleeding—” he took a step forward.

But she held up a hand.

“I’m fine.”

“You’re not—”

“I said, I’m fine.” Her voice cracked. “Please, just… let me be fine right now.”

He stopped.

She was still in the haze of combat. Still an animal, caught between instinct and aftermath. Her body shook, but she held her posture like she might collapse if she let go of that single thread of purpose.

Then—

She sank to her knees.

Not in surrender, but because her legs finally gave in.

And still, her eyes went to him.

Only him.

And by the time the guards and medics got there, he’d sent them away.

All of them; the medics, the guards, even his own shadow who arrived late and breathless, only to be met with Johnny’s sharp glare and a terse command: “Lock the palace down. Now.”

The doors shut with a resounding boom that echoed through the royal chamber like a war drum. Outside, boots thundered down the halls as orders were shouted, alarms rang, and soldiers sealed every corridor, gate, and window. Inside, it was just the two of them, her slumped against the cushioned bench near the fireplace, and Johnny, pacing like a man possessed.

She tried to speak.

He dropped to his knees in front of her before the sound left her mouth.

“No. Don’t say a word,” he breathed, his voice hoarse, hands already working to undo the buckles of her arm guard with fumbling, frantic fingers. “Let me—just—please.”

She watched him in stunned silence. His brows furrowed in pure concentration, frustration lacing every movement. Her blood stained his sleeves, smudged across his palm as he pulled the ruined gauntlet off and revealed the deep slice down her forearm. He sucked in a breath between his teeth.

“Gods, it’s deep,” he whispered.

“I’ve had worse,” she said softly, voice distant.

“I haven’t.”

That caught her.

His gaze met hers; raw, shaken, fiercely present. He’d never seen someone bleed for him. Not like this. Not without command, not out of duty, but instinct.

He grabbed a clean towel from the water basin, dipped it, and pressed it gently, far too gently, to her wound.

She hissed. He pulled back instantly, panic flashing in his eyes.

“Shit—I’m sorry. I don’t—I’m not—dammit.” He bit the inside of his cheek, jaw clenched.

“You’re doing fine,” she lied.

He gave her a look that said he absolutely knew she was lying.

Still, he tried again, pressing firmer this time, wrapping her arm with trembling fingers. The bandage was uneven, loose in places, too tight in others, and yet she didn’t flinch. She let him try, let him kneel in front of her like she wasn’t a soldier, like she wasn’t the weapon between him and death, like she was someone.

“I didn’t want them to see you like this,” he said suddenly, voice hushed. “Vulnerable.”

She blinked slowly. “…I’m not.”

He looked up at her again, chest heaving with unspoken things.

“I know that. I know you’re not. But they would’ve… misunderstood.” His fingers brushed her wrist, a gesture almost tender. “They don’t see what I do.”

She swallowed hard, throat burning. “What do you see?”

His hand stilled.

“…You,” he said finally, voice barely audible. “Not a guard. Not a title. Just you.”

For a moment, the sound of the palace fell away, the stomping boots, the clanging gates, the hurried voices.

All she could hear was him.

He finished the bandage with a makeshift knot and pulled her cloak over her shoulder to hide it, smoothing it carefully like a nervous tailor. Then he sat back on his heels, hands still hovering like he wasn’t ready to let her go.

“You’re staying in here tonight,” he said firmly.

She stared at him. “Your Majesty, I can’t—”

“You will.” His tone left no room for debate. “You just fought off an assassination attempt with your bare hands. You’re bleeding. You can barely sit upright.”

“I can still fight.”

“I know,” he snapped, then softened. “But you don’t have to. Not tonight.”

She hesitated, caught between duty and something else, something warm and terrifying.

Then, finally, she nodded.

Johnny let out a slow breath and looked around the room like it would somehow protect her better if he just willed it to. Then he grabbed a spare pillow from his bed and slid it behind her back. It was the first time she’d seen him this unguarded, this unpolished. No crown. No title. Just a man trying to keep someone safe.

The fire crackled.

She leaned her head back, exhaustion dragging her down.

And Johnny… stayed kneeling by her side.

Just in case.

The fire had long since died to embers. A red, smoldering heart in a blackened hearth.

Outside, the palace slept beneath layers of stone and steel. Inside, two people sat in the silence of their shared shadows, not as king and guard, but as two broken children with wounds that never healed properly. The night was so still it felt sacred. Like the air itself was holding its breath for them.

Johnny sat on the floor, elbow on his knee, chin in his palm. His hair had come loose, the faint gold catching what little firelight remained. He didn’t look at her. He hadn’t looked at anything in some time.

“My father was a giant,” he said finally, voice low and cracking like old wood. “Not just in name. In presence. In rage. In mercy. He could silence a room by entering it. He could start a war just by looking the wrong man in the eye.”

She said nothing. Let him speak. Let it hurt.

“But he was kind. Kind in ways I didn’t understand until it was too late. He used to read to me every night. He didn’t have to, gods know he had better things to do, but he did. Always smelled like smoke and leather and something warm. Home, I guess.”

A pause.

“My mother… she was the quiet strength. Never raised her voice. Never needed to. She just was. Every room she stepped into felt calmer. Like a storm had just passed.”

He blinked slowly. His jaw clenched, throat working around something heavy.

“That day, I was just a stupid kid. Trying to make her proud. We were picking roses. She said the red ones were blooming early, and I thought if I brought her the biggest one, she’d laugh and call me her brave little knight.”

He inhaled a slow, shaking breath.

“The first arrow took one of the guards through the throat. He fell like a rag doll. I remember the sound, not the body hitting the ground, but my mother’s gasp. She reached for me and shoved me behind a stone basin. Told me not to move, no matter what.”

His hand curled into a fist on his knee.

“Three of them. Black hoods. Silent. Not soldiers, assassins. They didn’t speak. Didn’t hesitate. The second guard tried to draw his sword, and they gutted him like cattle.”

The words were detached. Too clinical. That meant they were real.

“I watched from the flowers. I watched them grab her. She didn’t scream. Not until the knife went in. And even then, even bleeding, even choking, her eyes were on me.”

He finally looked at her. His gaze was sharp, wet, broken.

“I didn’t move. I couldn’t. I was frozen. My hands were shaking so hard I couldn’t even grab the little dagger at my belt. I could’ve done something. Anything.”

“You were a child,” she whispered.

He shook his head. “I should’ve been more.”

Silence stretched.

“And then he came. My father. Like the storm itself had been waiting. He burned the man holding me alive. Snapped the spine of another with his bare hands. I don’t even remember how he got there. Just the blood. The smell of it. Her blood on his cloak when he knelt in the roses and held her.”

Johnny looked back down at his hands.

“She was already gone. But he held her like he could still bring her back.”

His voice broke.

“I didn’t cry. Not once. Not then. Not at the funeral. Not when they crowned me. I just kept thinking that if I could be better, stronger, faster, smarter, maybe none of it would’ve happened. Maybe she’d still be here too.”

She could barely breathe. Her chest ached like something had cracked open.

“I’m not half the man my father was,” Johnny whispered, barely audible now. “But I’m trying. Gods, I’m trying.”

He looked like a boy again.

She wanted to hold him. Wrap her arms around him and say the words she never had growing up. That he was enough. That he deserved to be held. That it wasn’t his fault.

But all she could offer was presence. So she reached out and touched the back of his hand; gently, trembling.

She didn’t speak right away. Just sat there beside him, the firelight flickering across her cheek. Her hand still rested gently over his, but her eyes had drifted somewhere far away, past time, past place. A thousand miles deep.

“I remember my mother’s singing,” she whispered at last, voice soft enough to break. “It was always in the early hours. She had this tune… wordless, really. Just a melody. Gentle. The kind of thing you hum when you’re too tired to cry.”

Johnny glanced sideways at her, his grip tightening ever so slightly.

“She used to hum while scrubbing blood out of my father’s clothes,” she continued, as if afraid to pause. “While boiling stolen potatoes. While stitching up her own arms after a raid. That song… it lived in the walls, I think. It’s the only thing that kept me from going mad.”

She swallowed. Hard.

“My father was a rebel. Not a hero. Not a soldier. Just angry. Angry enough to pick fights he couldn’t win. Angry enough to think fists could fix hunger. He died when I was five. Throat slit behind a tavern for cheating at dice.”

She inhaled, eyes shimmering.

“They brought his body back in a sack. Dumped it at the door like garbage. My mother... she didn’t scream. Didn’t weep. Just stood there, shaking, and said, ‘Get him off my doorstep.’”

The flames popped in the hearth. She barely blinked.

“She buried him alone. Dug the grave with her bare hands. I tried to help, but I wasn’t strong enough to lift the shovel. She never let me touch it again.”

There was something hollow in her voice now, like an old lullaby echoing through a broken church.

“She started selling soup after that. Said she’d rather beg for kindness than steal someone’s bread. I used to sit on the counter and stir the pot with a wooden spoon while she braided my hair.”

She smiled faintly. But it didn’t reach her eyes.

“One day, the soldiers came. Said she hadn’t paid her market dues. That she’d been stealing firewood from the palace forest. She begged them, begged, said she didn’t know. Said we’d return it. Said she’d pay.”

Her lips trembled.

“They dragged her outside. I clung to her skirts so tight she couldn’t walk, so they beat me first. Kicked me across the stones like I was a dog. My vision went red. My ears rang. I couldn’t move. Just watched.”

Johnny’s hand was stone beneath hers.

“They tied her to the well. I remember her trying to smile at me, even then. With blood in her teeth. And then… they lit the fire.”

Her voice cracked. She pressed her palm to her lips, holding it in, suffocating on the memory.

“I screamed until my voice broke. I screamed until I couldn’t breathe. They made me watch. Said it would teach me respect.”

Tears were streaming down her cheeks now, but she didn’t notice. She stared blankly into the dark.

“She never stopped looking at me. Not even when the flames reached her hair. Not even when her skin blistered. She just kept looking.”

A long silence stretched.

“I was six.”

Her voice was barely a breath now.

“I lived on the streets for months after that. Eating scraps. Sleeping in the sewer tunnels. I forgot what warmth felt like. What softness was. No one would touch me. I think they thought I was cursed.”

She finally looked at him. Her eyes were red and raw, but steady.

“They were right.”

Johnny said nothing. Could say nothing. His throat was too tight, his eyes burning.

But in that awful, suffocating silence, something passed between them. Not pity. Not sympathy. Recognition. A mirrored ache. A bone-deep knowing.

And the two of them just sat there. Not speaking. Not moving. Only breathing the same air, like that might keep the memory from swallowing them whole.

As if the fire wasn’t in the hearth anymore, but in them.

Johnny shifted beside her, his hand twitching under hers like he wanted to move, wanted to do something, but didn’t know what. His face was caught in that terrible in-between space where guilt meets helplessness, jaw tight, brow furrowed, eyes darting over her as if trying to stitch the wounds her words had left behind.

Then, slowly, as if the idea might crack beneath the weight of it, he turned toward her and awkwardly opened his arms. Not wide. Not expectant. Just enough. The offer hung there in the air, tentative.

She blinked at him. For a moment, the thought of falling into someone’s embrace; of collapsing into warmth instead of stone; was so alien it almost made her laugh. She didn’t move. But she didn’t flinch either.

Johnny hesitated… then gave up and settled for something simpler. He leaned forward and gently, gently, tugged the ends of her cloak back over her shoulder where they’d slipped, his fingers barely brushing her collarbone. As if that one motion might somehow shield her from all the horrors she had endured.

“...I’m sorry,” he said quietly. “That’s all I can say, and I know it doesn’t help. But I’m sorry.”

She looked at him... this man, this king, with his heart bleeding out across his face like he wished he could burn the world down just to rewrite her past.

And despite herself… she smiled.

Not a grin. Not a smirk. Just a fragile, surprised little curve of the lips, tender and tired and real.

Then a small sound escaped her. A breath that turned into a chuckle, soft and dry, like her chest couldn’t decide whether to laugh or cry.

Johnny’s expression flickered, then bloomed with something golden.

“There it is,” he said, the corners of his mouth tugging upward. “You have a nice smile.”

She gave him a look that might’ve once been teasing if not for the thousand-pound sadness in her bones. “It’s a rare export.”

“You should do it more often,” he murmured.

She shook her head, that bittersweet little grin still tugging at her mouth. “I was trained not to feel anything. Not joy. Not fear. Not grief. Emotions were liabilities. Compassion made you hesitate.”

He went quiet at that, watching her.

“But…” she added after a moment, her voice quiet and distant, “even the strongest men cry.”

Her eyes flicked toward him, not accusing, just truthful. And Johnny didn’t deny it. He didn’t look away. If anything, he sat straighter, prouder.

“Then they’re stronger than they think,” he said.

Another silence passed. But this one felt softer. No longer suffocating—just sad and warm and terribly human.

For the first time, she didn’t feel alone in the dark.

The days bled into one another after the second assassination attempt, each one longer, each one more watchful. The palace halls grew tenser, the guards sharper, the staff quieter. Every corner became a shadow to study, every face a potential liar. She moved through the storm like a blade; silent, polished, unyielding; always within three feet of the king, always watching. Waiting.

They worked in tandem now.

Johnny trusted her with everything. Every document of interest. Every scrap of rumor. Every new name whispered through the grapevine of the court. Together they combed through intelligence in the quiet hours after meetings, after ceremonies, after banquets where he charmed noblewomen and she stood like a statue in the corner, hands folded behind her back, expression carved from stone.

In public, they were king and guard.

In private, they were something else.

But only just.

By candlelight, they sat shoulder to shoulder over maps, letters, sealed evidence reports. Her voice was low, calm, precise as she traced patterns of conspiracy through noble houses and money trails. His was thoughtful, unhurried, occasionally interrupted by a sharp joke that made her lip twitch, if not quite smile. He spoke to her like an equal, asked her what she thought, not what she should think. Never ordered. Only asked.

And yet, despite the quiet warmth, despite the way his eyes lingered too long sometimes when she wasn't looking—she never let herself think it meant more.

Not when he laughed with her, low and private, in the empty archives.

Not when he walked her back to her new quarters every night and lingered a moment too long at her door, always looking like he had something more to say.

Not when, during a royal ball, a princess from the coastal kingdoms clung to his arm like ivy and whispered into his ear, and he smiled.

She didn’t flinch.

She didn’t breathe.

She only turned her head, scanned the crowd, and bit the inside of her cheek until she tasted blood.

Because she was his guard. Nothing more.

She was trained not to want. Not to feel. And certainly not to hope.

That night, when they returned to the office to continue investigating, she could still smell the perfume the princess had left on his robes. Lavender and silk. It clung to him like a ghost.

He didn’t mention the girl.

Instead, he poured her tea.

“You haven’t eaten today,” he said, a quiet frown between his brows.

She said nothing. Just bowed her head in thanks and took the cup from his hand.

He sat down across from her, studying her face like she was another cipher in the puzzle they were trying to solve.

“You do too much,” he said after a long pause.

“I do my duty.”

“I know.” His voice dropped, almost reverent. “You always do.”

The air shifted. Just a little. Just enough.

But she didn’t meet his eyes.

She couldn’t.

Instead, she opened the next report. Focused on names. Timelines. Motives.

She reminded herself of who she was.

Who he was.

She reminded herself that none of this was for her.

No lingering glances. No warm tea. No quiet laughter or late nights or stolen glances over glowing candles.

She was a sword.

He was the sun.

And a sword that reaches for the sun will always burn.

A few days later, a letter came sealed in navy wax. Slipped between two routine courier letters, addressed to no one, signed by no hand.

She read it in silence.

The candlelight made the words shimmer, ink smudged by what could have been sweat or rain. But the message was clear:

“At the Duchess’s Ball, beware the rose and the blade. The princess is not the prize; they will come for the king.”

She handed it to Johnny without a word.

His brow furrowed as he read, jaw tightening as he sat back in his chair. “How credible is it?”

Her answer was immediate. “Credible enough that I’ll be at your side the entire night.”

He nodded slowly. “And if it’s a distraction?”

“Then I’ll still be at your side.”

He smiled faintly, more tired than amused, but she could see something else flicker in his eyes. Trust. Or maybe fear. Or maybe just the weight of knowing someone would kill to see him gone.

“They really want me dead, don’t they?” he muttered, half to himself.

She said nothing. She didn’t need to. He already knew the answer.

The ball arrived three days later.

It was held in the sea-glass palace of Duchess Merelaine, an old vulture wrapped in satin and false affection. Gold bled from the walls, chandeliers like ice dripped from the ceiling, and every noble in the kingdom seemed to be in attendance. But the centerpiece, undeniably, was the princess of the coastal kingdom, adorned in pearls and soft-spoken smiles.

The princess clung to Johnny’s arm the moment he arrived.

She stood at his flank, cloaked in formal armor, sleek, ceremonial, but concealing a dagger at her wrist and a second blade at her spine. Her eyes scanned the room. One hand stayed near his shoulder at all times, the other on her waist, ready.

Through it all, Johnny smiled.

He played the part of a charming king flawlessly, laughing softly, bowing graciously, sipping wine, and saying all the right words. The princess whispered in his ear again. Her hand trailed along his arm, down to his fingers.

It burned.

The reader didn’t move. Didn’t breathe too deep. She simply followed him like a shadow, unacknowledged, unseen.

She didn’t belong in this glittering world of silks and perfumes.

But she would die to protect it.

“Are you well?” Johnny murmured when they paused near the balcony, his voice just low enough for her to hear beneath the string quartet’s hum.

She nodded stiffly. “Eyes on everything. You?”

He glanced toward the princess, now dancing with the duke’s son.

He shrugged. “I’ve had better evenings.”

She almost smiled. Almost.

But then she saw it.

Across the ballroom, too fast for anyone but someone trained to kill to notice, two figures. One by the wine table. One blending in with the orchestra. Both watching Johnny. Neither touching a drink nor glancing toward the royalty.

She stiffened.

“Trouble?” he asked quietly.

She didn’t answer.

Her fingers twitched, brushing the hilt at her back.

The lights flickered once.

Then again.

Then they went out entirely.

For one breathless second, the ballroom turned into a tomb, nothing but shadows, gasps, the rustle of silk and steel. Then came the scream.

A noblewoman shrieked as the chandeliers flared back to life, and in that frozen moment, the reader saw it: a flash of silver, the glint of a blade, and two figures moving in opposite directions.

One toward the King.

The other toward the princess.

She had to choose.

Her training screamed at her, instincts honed over a lifetime of blood and loss, but there was no room for debate in her mind. She shoved Johnny behind her, just in time to intercept the attacker with her forearm, the blade grazing through flesh before she slammed her elbow into the assassin’s throat and spun him to the marble.

He groaned once. Then went still.

Another scream. This one feminine, high-pitched, and not the sound of danger, but grief.

The princess.

The reader turned sharply, already running, and spotted the second assassin collapsed in a heap beside the duchess’s throne. Blood painted the floor where a maid’s body lay still, eyes wide and sightless. The princess crouched behind a column, trembling violently, her pale blue dress darkening with red at the knee.

Too much red for such a small wound.

She rushed forward, barely registering the cut on her own arm now, and took the second attacker down with a quick twist of his wrist and one merciful snap of his neck. No more hesitation. No more mercy.

When she turned, the princess was crying. Loud, delicate sobs like shattering porcelain.

Johnny was already there, brushing her hair back gently, his expression twisted with worry.

“I think she's dead,” the princess wept. “He killed Mara—she was my maid since I was born!”

“I know,” Johnny murmured, helping her to stand. “I know. You're safe now. It’s over.”

The princess flinched as her leg throbbed.

The cut was shallow. Barely skin-deep. But her cries grew louder, her hand clutching at his arm like she might fall apart in front of him.

She stepped closer, blood still dripping from the wound at her waist, panting slightly from the effort.

“Majesty—are you harmed?”

He turned to her slowly.

His jaw was tight. His expression unreadable.

“I told you to protect the princess.”

She stiffened. “I couldn't defend both of you at once. You were the primary target, I ensured your safety first. Then—”

He raised a hand. “So you left her to be slaughtered?”

The words slammed into her like a blade through bone.

“I neutralized the threat—”

“After her maid was killed!” he snapped. “After she was injured.”

The princess whimpered softly behind him, dabbing delicately at her knee.

“I did my duty,” she said, lower now. “My job is to protect you.”

“You’re useless if you can’t follow a direct order!” he hissed, each word slicing clean through what little distance remained between them.

She didn’t speak.

Didn’t breathe.

Didn’t let herself cry.

Instead, she bowed slightly, never meeting his eyes, and turned away without another word, blood still running in rivulets down her side as she made her way through the still-shaken ballroom. Whispers followed her. None dared stop her.

Behind her, Johnny’s voice was gentler again.

“You’re safe now. We’ll have the healers come. I promise no one will ever hurt you again.”

But it wasn’t to her.

It was for the princess.

And as she walked away, she didn’t look back.

Not even once.

The door to the guest chamber shut with a quiet click.

She hadn't asked for it, only said she needed to tend to her wounds. It was the first time she’d left his side since being assigned to him, and it felt… wrong. But she couldn’t let him see her like this. Not again. Not bleeding in more ways than one.

Before she left, she’d called his shadow guard by name, her voice tight, unwavering, and asked him to stay with the king while she stepped away. He’d studied her longer than necessary, something unreadable flashing across his face, but nodded and disappeared without a word. A loyal shadow. A better one than her.

The guest room was well-furnished but cold. A fine four-poster bed with thick drapes. A gilded mirror she refused to look at. And a small washbasin that she hovered over now, knuckles white as she gripped its edge.

She didn’t cry.

She hadn’t cried in years.

Not when they broke her ribs in training. Not when they laughed as they called her pet names and made her clean the blood from the sparring floor. Not even when the noblemen spat at her for walking too close to the king.

But his words?

You’re useless.

She hadn’t known how deep they would bury themselves until she was alone.

Her hands moved with the same mechanical detachment she always used for field dressings. She peeled back the ruined fabric of her tunic, revealing the angry red graze across her ribs. The assassin had been close. Close enough that if she’d miscalculated, if she hadn’t trusted her body more than her heart, Johnny might’ve been the one bleeding right now.

And still.

Still, he’d yelled at her. For choosing him over a crying princess with a scratch and a corpse at her feet.

Protect them both, he’d said. As if she could split herself in two. As if she hadn’t already tried. He should've called for his loyal shadow guard instead of letting her fight by herself.

She washed the wound. The sting bit into her, but she didn’t wince. Wrapped it tight with the linen cloth from the shelf, biting it in her teeth to knot it down. She’d be bruised and stiff by morning, but that was nothing new.

The hard part wasn’t the injury.

It was the echo of his voice. Sharp. Cold. Full of disappointment.

She sank onto the edge of the ornate bed, armor abandoned on the floor, blood drying beneath her tunic. Her hair stuck to her neck. The moonlight streamed through tall windows and washed her in silver, but even that felt too soft. Too gentle for someone like her.

What had she done?

Not tactically, she’d made the right call. She knew she had. But emotionally? Letting him close, letting him see her smile, laugh, soften.... she should’ve never—

Her fingers trembled in her lap.

She’d fought tooth and nail to climb from the gutter to the throne room. Endured things no one should’ve survived. And still, somehow, the cruelest pain she’d ever known was watching him cradle another girl’s face while looking at her like she’d failed him.

Not a thank you. Not a nod. Not even a glance.

Just—

Useless.

Her throat burned, but no sound came.

She sat in silence, surrounded by golden drapery, too heavy for a room so hollow, and stared at her hands. The same hands that had cut down assassins. That had shielded him with her body. That would die for him without a second thought.

But he didn’t see that.

He didn’t see her.

And for the first time since she was seven years old, she wished she didn’t feel anything at all.

The ride back to the palace was quiet.

He didn’t speak to her, not once. Not when they loaded into the carriage. Not when she flanked his side in the corridor. Not even when her hand brushed his as she handed him the latest coded report about the growing conspiracy.

Where once his glances lingered, now his eyes barely skimmed her. Where he used to laugh under his breath at her dry remarks, now he passed her in the halls with a polite nod, as if she were any other servant. Where he used to sit beside her at night, sipping wine and trading stories in the low candlelight, now he sat beside the princess.

Always the princess.

The girl with gold-dusted cheeks and tear-glass eyes who flinched at swordplay and still clutched Johnny’s arm when the wind howled too loud.

She didn’t hate the girl. Not really.

But she hated what she saw reflected in her.

Softness. Fragility. The kind of woman kings crossed battlefields for. The kind of woman who could be held in public. Claimed without shame. Protected, cherished, adored.

She was none of those things.

She was armor. Silent. Watchful. A sword in the dark.

A ghost that existed only to keep him alive.

And she did. Again and again.

There had been two more attempts since the ball. One in the garden, where an arrow whistled toward his chest and she stepped in, blade flicking it aside like a breath. Another in the dining hall, where a serving girl had tried to slip poison into his wine, and she, silent as ever, had knocked the goblet from his hand before the first drop touched his lips.

He never thanked her.

Not anymore.

He only looked at her with quiet, unreadable eyes. Not cold. Not cruel. Just… distant. Like she was slowly fading into the wallpaper.

And maybe she was.

It was raining when she saw them laughing together. Johnny and the princess beneath a garden awning, his coat draped around her delicate shoulders, her hand resting lightly on his chest as he leaned in to whisper something close.

She didn’t stop walking.

Her boots were soaked, her uniform stained with blood from the morning patrol, and she had three cracked ribs from the last skirmish on the west wall, but none of that stung half as much as the way Johnny smiled.

A smile he hadn’t offered her in weeks.

She rounded the corner and pressed her back to the cold stone, shutting her eyes. Just for a second.

Then she pulled the report from her belt. Three more names tied to the conspiracy. Nobles. Guards. One who once stood outside the king’s own chamber.

She’d burn the whole damn kingdom to the ground to keep him safe.

Even if he no longer remembered what her smile looked like.

Even if his warmth had long since turned to frost.

Even if she was just a shadow in the corner now, bleeding quietly in her guest rooms while he doted on a girl who hadn’t taken a blade for him even once.

The report came folded into a square, stained with ash and sealed with the crude mark of a lower-tier watchman; a boy barely old enough to grow a beard. It had been slipped into her hand during shift change, passed like a secret no one wanted to carry.

Inside, scrawled in uneven ink, were five words: One of the nobles. Tonight.

No signature. No elaboration.

But her blood ran cold.

She was moving before she could think, strides cutting through corridors, soaking wet from the outside patrol and still bruised from yesterday’s scuffle. The bruise on her side ached. The gash across her shoulder pulled with every breath. But none of that mattered.

Because she knew what it meant to be too late.

She reached the royal wing, breath held, heart braced.

He was in the garden atrium again. Laughing. Fingers curled gently around the princess’s wrist as he helped her balance a flower crown on her head. The princess giggled and leaned against him like they’d known each other for years.

"Your Majesty," she said from the edge of the marble threshold, forcing stillness into her voice. "A word. Please. It’s urgent."

Johnny didn’t even glance at her.

He waved a hand instead. "Later. I’m in the middle of something."

"But—"

The princess turned, her eyes narrowing as they swept over the reader’s battered face. "She reminds me of that day with my maid," the girl murmured with a shudder. "The one who—who bled all over me."

Johnny's jaw clenched. "You’re upsetting her. Gods, can you not take a hint?"

And that was it.

The sword of his words slipped between her ribs, far cleaner than any dagger. She stood perfectly still, hands clasped behind her back to hide the tremble in her knuckles.

"Apologies, Your Majesty," she said softly. "It won’t happen again."

Then she turned and left, her steps neither quick nor slow — the perfect rhythm of someone who’d mastered silence. A guard passed her in the hallway, wide-eyed and confused, and she caught his arm.

"Keep an eye on His Majesty," she said. "Report anything suspicious to me. Don’t ask questions."

"But where are you going?"

She slipped the folded report into his hand.

"To find out who wants him dead."

And without another word, she vanished into the storm.

Rain bit at her cheeks as she followed the narrow trail through the back corridors of the estate, paths not on any official map, known only to staff or smugglers. The tip had led her to the east cellar, the one locked with iron and “under repair.” She'd picked the lock in seconds.

Inside, her blade drawn, she found nothing but crates of wine.

And then—

A whisper behind her. A flicker of motion.

She spun just as a blade sliced across her ribs. It wasn’t deep — she could handle that, but then came the burn. The venom was fast. Her limbs gave out like loose thread.

She staggered. Slumped. Cold swept her lungs.

Footsteps closed in.

The last thing she heard before blacking out was a voice she thought she recognized murmuring, “Told you she'd come sniffing.”

When she came to, the world was cold stone and darkness.

Her wrists were chained above her head, her boots missing, armor stripped down to her underlayer. Her muscles ached. Blood dried against her temple. She tested the chains, wincing. Nothing budged.

Then came the footsteps again; calm, unhurried.

And into the torchlight stepped the noble whose name she hadn’t yet known to suspect.

But he wasn’t alone.

Beside him, veiled in silk and draped in mourning gray, stood the princess of the coastal kingdom, the same girl who had wept into Johnny’s shoulder. She wore no tears now. Only a look of amusement, like this was all a game.

"She’s awake," the princess cooed, kneeling just enough to meet the reader’s gaze.

"You were a thorn in our side for far too long," the noble said flatly. "You made things... difficult."

"Impossible," the princess added, pouting. "We couldn’t get close enough to him. Not with you always watching."

Getting up, she yanked at the chains, teeth bared, muscles straining because of the poison. "If you so much as lay a finger on him—"

"Too late for threats, beast," the noble interrupted. "The plan is working. The king is smitten, isolated, vulnerable."

"You’ll die screaming," she growled.

The princess laughed; a bright, musical sound that echoed off the stone.

"Oh, sweetheart. You still don’t get it, do you? We don’t need you dead. We just need you gone."

The pain came first, not the sting of the blade, not even the pressure of the wound, but the pain of betrayal. At the moment, she saw the princess's face, twisted into something inhuman. Gone was the porcelain mask of gentle smiles and demure laughter, replaced now with a cold, sharpened sneer as the poisoned dagger slipped between the reader’s ribs with surgical cruelty.

Her legs gave out. Her body dropped with a thud, the chains on her wrists clattering against the dungeon stone. Breath hitched in her throat, ragged, burning. Her mouth opened to scream, to fight, to curse them with every word she had left, but her lungs failed her. Her arms trembled beneath her, muscles refusing to obey.

“You really were a beast,” the noble drawled with mild distaste, brushing invisible dust from the fine red velvet of his sleeve. “We knew you’d be a problem. Always lurking too close. Always watching him.”

The princess stood behind her uncle, chin raised as if she were already wearing a crown. “He looked at you like you mattered,” she spat, each word a venomous arrow. “I couldn’t stand it. You didn’t belong. You weren’t anyone.”

The reader choked back blood, pressing her cheek against the cold floor, still trying to move, still fighting. Her vision swam in and out, the torchlight above her flickering like a dying star.

She wanted to curse them. She wanted to drag herself up and rip them apart. She had taken blades for kings, bone breaks for comrades. She had bled in snow and desert, she had drowned once and crawled back out because she still had a job to do.

But this time… her limbs no longer listened.

The noble crouched beside her, his tone almost kind, almost pitying. “All this sacrifice. All this loyalty. And for what? You were never going to be anything but his guard dog.” He reached out and brushed blood-matted strands of hair from her face like a father saying goodbye to a daughter he never wanted. “Don’t worry. He’ll mourn you. And then he’ll forget.”

He stood. She tried to raise her head, just once more, but the princess knelt beside her and whispered with venom soft as lace, “He was never yours.”

Darkness came then. Not sleep. Not peace. But a slow, quiet silence as the world muted around her. The footsteps faded. The door creaked. The light from the torches died one by one.

But before the last one went out, the stone door slammed open. Heavy boots pounded the ground. Voices shouted. A sword clattered.

And then—his voice.

“Where is she?”

She tried to breathe. She tried to speak. Something in her chest spasmed.

Then suddenly there were warm hands lifting her gently from the stone floor, calloused thumbs wiping blood from her cheeks. Arms wrapped around her like she was something precious, something irreplaceable, not a soldier. Not a shield.

His hands trembled as they held her against his chest.

“Gods… no. No—please—” Johnny’s voice cracked, low and terrified. “Stay with me. Just stay with me.”

Her eyes fluttered open, barely. His golden crown had fallen to the floor beside them, abandoned. His cheeks were streaked with tears, and his lips were saying things too fast to understand. She smiled, barely, small and broken.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t protect you—I didn’t see—I thought you were going to be—”

Her hand, slick with blood, rose slowly, fingers brushing the line of his jaw. “You don’t have to be sorry,” she whispered, voice gurgling faintly from her lungs. “I’m not in pain.”

His forehead dropped to hers, shaking. “Don’t say that. Don’t—please don’t say that.”

She exhaled slowly, eyelids drooping.

“It doesn’t hurt,” she murmured. “Because I’m dying… in the hands of my first and only love.”

His breath shattered. He pulled her tighter, but her hand slipped from his cheek. Her head fell limp against his shoulder, her last expression soft, almost peaceful.

And in that dungeon, under the flickering light of dying torches, King Jonathan held the only woman who ever truly loved him. And for the first time in his life… he wept like a man who had lost everything.

Note: There is alot more to come. I just cant fit everything in one part. I am already writing part 2 vigorously. I have a vision, I just don't know if it'll translate to writing well.

[thepiinkpages]

Bob (Sentry/ The Void x Soulmate!Reader Part 2

Note: So, uh, I tried my best to recreate the feelings from part one so... I tried. I listened to Religion by Lana Del Rey when I was writing some of the scenes so I took from that. AND bless Lana Del Rey, Adele and Billie Eilish for getting me in the feels to write my favorite genre. ANGST.

WARNING: This fic contains things like implied s*cide, depression and lot of angst.

Part One

Readers Pov:

The first thing she noticed was the weight. Not in her arms or legs, but in her chest. Like something had been carved out of her and replaced with something heavier. It took several minutes before her eyes adjusted to the pale lights above her. Cold fluorescents buzzed softly, too calm, too clean. It reeked of antiseptic. Machines hummed quietly in the corners like voiceless sentinels. She knew this place. The S.H.I.E.L.D. med wing.

Which meant she was alive. Back. But how far?

She sat up slowly, muscles aching like they hadn’t moved in years. Her fingers curled into the hospital blanket as her brain struggled to catch up. She was in the right place, but she didn’t feel like herself. Not the version of her that had stood on the edge of everything and watched it all burn. She tried to remember what had happened, what had she done?, but her mind refused to hold the shape of those last moments.

A knot twisted in her stomach.

Her thoughts spiraled darker the longer she sat there. Something had shifted, something enormous, but she couldn't touch it. Not yet. She just knew he wasn't here. She felt it.

And then came the footsteps.

Not rushed. Not light. Firm, measured, boots on tile. The slow, steady gate of someone who had seen too much and trusted too little.

She didn’t look up until the curtain pulled back.

“You always wake up like that?” came the familiar voice, low and dry. “Like the world just lost?”

Nick Fury stepped into the room, coat still on, one hand buried in a pocket while the other tugged the curtain aside. His gaze settled on her with unreadable intensity, but she knew him well enough to feel the tension underneath.

“I guess it kind of did,” she rasped, voice rough.

He didn’t answer right away. Just stared at her like she was something he couldn’t quite classify anymore. Like she didn’t fit in the folders S.H.I.E.L.D. kept. She’d seen that look before, on people trying to understand the divine.

“How long?” she asked, eyes not leaving his.

“Three days,” he replied without flinching. “You collapsed. Scans fried. Every piece of tech around you went dark. Med team barely got to you in time.”

Her heart thudded in her ears.

“And Bob?”

Fury’s expression didn’t change. But his posture did, his shoulders drew tighter, jaw clenched like he was weighing how much to say.

“He woke up when you did,” he said. “But not in the way you’re thinking. It wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t… human.”

She held her breath.

“The moment you hit the ground,” he continued, “something in him snapped. He screamed and the mountain almost cracked in half. Rock split like it was paper. Energy spiked off the charts. The rain, hell, the sky shifted. No one could get near him. Every step closer felt like walking into an explosion waiting to happen.”

Her eyes widened slowly.

Fury gave a humorless chuckle, but there was no amusement in it.

“Do you know how hard it is to sedate a god?” he asked, tilting his head slightly. “We keep some stuff for ‘in case of divine emergency’—serums not even Stark had clearance for. Celestial-grade dampeners. Cosmic sedatives. You know, just in case Thor ever decided to go full Ragnarok on us.”

She swallowed thickly.

“It took four injections and two sonic nullifiers just to get him to stop screaming your name.”

Her hands were trembling now.

“And once he fell over,” Fury added, voice quieter, “you know what he did? Nothing. Not a damn thing. Just lay there, quiet. But the kind of quiet that makes every room colder. Like grief was a radiation coming off his skin.”

She couldn’t speak. Her throat had closed entirely.

Fury finally sat in the chair beside her, exhaling hard. He didn’t look at her when he said the next part.

“I’ve seen a lot of things,” he muttered. “Aliens. Monsters. Men in metal suits. Women who could rewrite reality with a thought. But I’ve never seen anything like what he did, for you.”

She blinked hard. Her vision blurred.

“And I’m not a man who throws around words like ‘soulmate.’” Fury’s eye finally met hers again. “But I’ve been in war zones. I’ve seen people fight for their country, for their families, for their lives. I’ve seen love make people do incredible, stupid things.”

He leaned forward, voice gravel now.

“But only once have I seen a man ready to burn the sky because someone touched the other half of his soul.”

The words hit her like a wave. And still, he didn’t know the whole truth.

She turned her head away slightly, biting the inside of her cheek to keep from shaking.

He didn’t know that she remembered a world that no longer existed. That she had lived a life beside Bob that no one else had seen. That time itself had bent around them and left her behind with every memory still intact.

But he knew this much. He had felt it.

And that was enough for now.

Fury stood, quietly.

“He’s still under,” he said. “Dampeners are holding, but it won’t last forever. You’ll have to talk to him eventually. Just… don’t do it until you’re ready.”

She didn’t look at him, but her hand twitched slightly under the blanket. Fury paused at the door, then added:

“Some men were built to carry the world. But he only wanted to carry you.”

Then he left.

And she was alone again, with nothing but the weight in her chest and the memory of a god who had screamed her name like it could unmake the stars.

As the door slid shut behind Fury, the room fell into a silence so thick it felt like suffocation.

She didn’t move. Couldn’t.

Her fingers tightened on the blanket curled in her lap, knuckles pale and bloodless. The soft hum of the fluorescent lights above did nothing but remind her she wasn’t dead. Again.

She should’ve been used to this by now, waking up in unfamiliar beds, surrounded by walls that didn’t remember her name, heart heavier than her body could carry.

But nothing about this felt survivable anymore.

Her throat felt tight. Swollen. Like her body was warning her of an oncoming wave she didn’t have the strength to outrun.

She blinked. Once. Twice. Her vision went blurry, but she bit the inside of her cheek until she tasted blood. She didn’t want to cry. She was so done crying.

Still, her shoulders shook. Barely at first. Just the smallest tremor, like her body remembering grief before her brain could catch up.

Then her breath hitched. Her hand flew to her mouth, trying to stifle the sound. But it came anyway, that awful, gasping sob. Ugly and broken and real.

“No,” she whispered to the empty room. “No, not again.”

But the tears came anyway.

Hot. Relentless. Furious.

She doubled forward, arms clutched around her stomach like she could hold herself together if she just squeezed tight enough.

“I can’t do this again. I can’t.” Her voice cracked, brittle as glass.

She had clawed her way through years of fire and ash. She had bled for people who never knew her name. She had died for him.

And now here she was again. Back at the start. New time, same curse.

And Bob?

Sedated. Unreachable.

Just like before.

Even if he wasn’t, what would it change? He never came to her bedside in the future, when she was hooked to IVs and machines after missions that shattered her ribs and soul alike.

Why would he come now?

A hollow, miserable laugh broke from her chest. It tasted like bile and heartbreak.

“Of course he didn’t,” she whispered, wiping at her face with the back of her sleeve. “Why would he? Why would anyone?”

She looked around the infirmary like maybe someone would answer her. No one did.

Her arms dropped to her sides. Her body slumped back against the pillows, heavy like stone. Her eyes stared blankly at the ceiling tiles.

She was so tired.

Not the kind of tired that sleep could cure, but the kind that lived in your bones. The kind that made you wonder if you'd really survived at all, or if you were just dragging a ghost of yourself through the motions.

She had survived more than anyone should. But all she wanted now was to stop surviving.

For one moment. One breath. To not brace for pain. To not anticipate being left behind. To not carry the weight of a war only she remembered.

Her lips trembled.

“If anyone’s listening,” she whispered to no one, “just let me rest this time. Please. I’m so tired.”

And for a long, still moment, there was only the sound of her breathing, shallow and uneven.

She curled onto her side like a child, letting the pillow soak in the tears she couldn’t stop anymore.

No screaming. No violence. Just quiet devastation. The kind that doesn’t look like a breakdown, until you realize the silence is the loudest scream of all.

She didn’t remember falling asleep.

The room hadn’t changed when she woke, same muted lighting, same sterile scent of disinfectant and metal, same quiet ache in her chest like her ribs were made of bruises.

But something inside her had changed. Slightly. Like a wound scabbing over, still raw but no longer bleeding.

Her eyes cracked open slowly, lashes clumped from tears that had dried on her cheeks. Her throat was sore. Her body ached in places she didn’t even know had tensed. The blanket still clung to her legs like a second skin, and for a moment, she debated not moving. Just staying there. Letting herself rot in the warmth and forget the world existed.

Then the door hissed open.

She tensed, breath caught mid-inhale, expecting Fury again, or worse, someone coming to shove her back into the chaos she’d tried so hard to crawl out of.

But it wasn’t that.

A young agent stood in the doorway, nervous in the way people get when they’re walking into someone else’s grief.

He looked barely twenty. Fresh out of training, probably never seen what death looked like behind tired eyes. He was holding a clipboard that trembled slightly in his hand.

"Ma'am?"

“I wouldn’t bother,” she muttered hoarsely. “If Fury sent you to brief me, tell him I’m unavailable.”

The kid fumbled over his words. “No—uh—it’s not that. It’s… he—uh. Sentry. He woke up. About two hours ago.”

Her heart didn’t leap.

It sank.

She stared at the ceiling again, her face unreadable.

The agent shifted uncomfortably. “He’s asking for you. Specifically. Won’t speak to anyone else.”

Of course he was.

She dragged a hand over her face and sat up slowly, as if gravity had doubled just for her. Her shoulders curled inward, every movement brittle.

“I’m not going,” she said flatly.

The agent blinked. “I… sorry?”

“I said I’m not going.” Her voice was like broken glass: quiet, jagged, and final. “You can tell him that. Or not. I don’t care.”

The agent stood there like he’d been smacked with a clipboard instead of holding one. “But he’s… I mean, he hasn’t stopped asking. He seems—”

“I know how he seems.” Her voice cracked, but the anger in it wasn’t for the kid. It was for herself.

For the girl who once waited by infirmary doors like a ghost. For the woman who stood by a man who shattered every piece of her and never looked back. For the fool who thought love meant suffering through silence and still staying.

She shook her head. “He didn’t come for me then. When I was bleeding. When I was screaming into empty hallways and pretending I wasn’t. He never came.”

The agent took a step back.

Her hands were trembling in her lap, fists curled into the thin sheets like they were the only thing keeping her tethered.

“I am not doing it again,” she whispered. “I won’t become her.”

She looked up, eyes bloodshot and blazing. “So if that’s all, you can go.”

The agent hesitated like he wanted to say more, but thought better of it. He gave a small, apologetic nod and stepped back toward the door.

“I’ll… I’ll let them know,” he said softly, and slipped out without another word.

And then she was alone again.

Not because she wanted to be.

But because he didn’t come before, and now that he finally had, she didn’t trust herself not to go anyway.

And that terrified her more than anything.

The agent came back. Again. And again. Four times in total.

Each time, his footsteps grew louder in her mind, like an echo she couldn’t outrun. His knock on the door no longer gentle, but persistent. Like a tide pulling her back to a shore she didn’t want to revisit.

“Miss, he’s asking again,” he’d say the first time, voice hopeful, unsure if she’d listen. The second time, “He’s still asking. Insisting, actually.” The third, “He’s refusing everyone else. Said it’s only you.” The fourth, a little desperate, “Please, he’s not like this. Not since—”

Every time, she buried herself deeper in silence. She told herself it was his problem, not hers. That she had already lived the pain once, and that was enough. That she couldn’t go through that endless loop again.

But the shadows in the corners of the sterile room kept creeping closer. Memories like rain on a windowpane; soft, relentless, cold.

She was tired. So tired. Her soul had been bruised raw by a god who never saw her as anything more than a duty. A burden.

And yet, with every knock, with every plea, a strange thread of something else tugged at her; A fragile, trembling hope.

By the fifth time, she was already walking toward the door before the knock came. The weight of years pressing down with every step. She didn’t bother to look back.

The agent’s voice followed her down the sterile hall, like a fading song she wasn’t ready to hear.

“Miss, I’ll show you where he is....where Sentry is waiting.”

The word hung in the air between them, heavy with unspoken promises and shattered pasts.

She pushed the door open, stepping out into the cold, fluorescent light of the corridor.

She wasn’t ready to go back. Not really.

But sometimes, the past doesn’t wait.

It doesn’t forgive. And it certainly doesn’t forget.

The sterile corridor stretched ahead like a tunnel into a past she desperately wanted to leave behind. Her footsteps echoed hollow against the polished floors, each step a reminder of the road she didn’t want to walk but couldn’t refuse.

The agent fell into step beside her, silent now, perhaps sensing the fragile tension radiating from her. She barely registered his presence, her mind elsewhere, tracing the tangled web of memories she’d tried so hard to bury.

She thought about the first time she saw him fully awake, radiant like a god, but cold like a star too distant to touch. The way he smiled at everyone else, a bright beacon to the world, while she remained invisible, an afterthought buried beneath layers of power and pain.

She remembered the weight of his silence, how it pressed down on her like a storm cloud refusing to break. How she had fought for his acknowledgment, only to be met with distance and indifference. How she had clung to the fragile hope that maybe, just maybe, one day he would see her as more than a tether, his soulmate.

But hope had a cruel way of twisting into despair.

She was tired of waiting. Tired of being the one left standing in the ruins. Tired of the ache that never faded.

And yet, here she was, walking toward the room where he was held, a god brought low, sedated, stripped of light and strength.

Her heart pounded unevenly, a dissonant rhythm of fear and something else, a faint, reluctant flicker of something that might still be called love.

She swallowed hard, her throat suddenly dry, and glanced down the endless hallway, the white walls blurring at the edges like a faded photograph.

If only things could be different.

But they weren’t.

The past was a shadow that stretched long and cold, and no matter how far she ran, it always found her.

The door to his containment room loomed ahead, heavy, unyielding, like the barrier between what was and what could never be.

She stopped for a breath, steadying herself, feeling the weight of every choice pressing down on her chest.

She wasn’t the same woman who had once woken him.

She wouldn’t be.

Not this time.

Because sometimes, even love isn’t enough to break the cycle.

She took one last step forward, pushing open the door, and crossed the threshold into the quiet where Sentry waited.

The door slid open with a clinical hiss, revealing the harsh, sterile light of the containment room. Nurses and doctors hovered like anxious shadows, their voices hushed, threading around the heavy silence that clung to the space. They were trying to coax Sentry—Bob—into eating, drinking, to wake from the cocoon of sedation and broken divinity. But the figure on the bed wasn’t Sentry. Not really.

It was the Void.

Darkness pooled beneath his skin, a living shadow twisting and writhing with unbearable weight. The familiar golden light was gone, replaced by something hollow and infinite, something that seemed to carry all the loneliness of a god who had lost his world.

Her chest tightened until it felt like her ribs would crack. Why now? The Void was supposed to be silent, dormant, locked away since the last time they’d lost each other. But here he was, the rawest, most tormented piece of him filling the room with a suffocating presence.

She swallowed the lump in her throat and called softly, voice trembling just enough to reveal the ache beneath her resolve. “Sentry.”

The moment her voice touched the air, he snapped his head toward her, eyes blazing with crimson fire; a god called from the edge of oblivion, drawn back by a tether no darkness could sever. His gaze locked on hers with desperate intensity, as if she were the only solid thing left in a crumbling universe.

Slowly, painfully, he rose from the bed, his movements uncertain but filled with purpose, as if each step toward her was a battle fought and won against his own despair. The fragile light in his eyes searched her face, as if trying to convince himself she was real and not a memory slipping through his fingers.

Her breath hitched. Her heart thundered loud enough to drown out the quiet beeping of machines. She saw the god she had loved; broken, haunted, and stripped bare; and all the walls she had built around her heart began to crumble.

Without warning, he sank to his knees before her, his arms wrapping around her like a drowning man grasping for air. His touch was desperate, trembling, like he feared if he let go, she would disappear forever.

His voice came, ragged and raw, barely more than a whisper yet carrying the weight of a thousand lost years.

“Thank you… for being alive.”

The words shattered something inside her. A mixture of anguish and relief and a bitter, unbearable longing. The universe felt as if it held its breath, hanging on that fragile moment where god and mortal met, not as savior and supplicant, but as two shattered souls desperately clinging to the fragile thread between them.

Tears welled unbidden in her eyes, blurring the harsh lines of the room until all she saw was him; vulnerable, broken, real.

And for the first time in what felt like forever, she let herself feel the ache she’d buried so deep: the torment of loving someone who had nearly lost himself trying to hold onto her.

That moment of vulnerability, so raw and unguarded, was more than enough for her. For the first time in what felt like forever, she let the walls around her heart soften, just a fraction, allowing the flood of emotions she’d kept bottled inside to seep through.

She cleared her throat, the sound rough and hesitant in the heavy silence. Slowly, she looked down at him, Bob, not the god or the Void now, but the man who stared up at her with eyes wide and searching, as if terrified she might vanish at any moment.

“You need to eat,” she said quietly, voice steady despite the storm of feeling beneath. “You have to be healthy if you want to be a hero for Earth.”

His gaze didn’t waver, burning into her like a desperate plea.

“Are you going to stay with me?” he asked, voice fragile, raw, trembling with hope and fear all tangled together.

Without thinking, before her heart could catch up with her mouth, she answered flatly, “No.”

The words felt like a blade, cold and sharp between them.

“My mission is done,” she said, turning away slightly, afraid to meet his eyes. “I’m done with all this. I want to quit. Find new opportunities… somewhere I’m not haunted by the past.”

She didn’t want to hurt him. She didn’t want to push him away.

But the memory of her previous self; the broken, desperate woman who had waited in vain for his love; was a warning flashing bright and clear.

She couldn’t go back there again.

Not now. Not ever.

And so she held her ground, even as her heart shattered beneath the weight of her own words.

Her jaw clenched as the silence stretched.

She looked away, biting down the burn in her throat. Her fingers curled around the hem of her sleeves, knuckles white.

She said no.

It landed in his chest like a meteor; sharp, searing, absolute.

Bob didn’t breathe. Didn’t blink. The air in the room felt thinner now, as if her words had burned up all the oxygen.

No.

She wasn’t staying. She was done. Done with this life. Done with him.

He rose slowly to his feet, his movements disjointed like he’d just been pulled from the wreckage of something that used to resemble hope. His hands trembled at his sides, but his eyes never left her, drinking in every detail of her face like a dying man desperate for sunlight.

“If you want to quit,” he said, voice hoarse, cracking under the weight of a thousand unsaid things, “that’s fine.”

He took a step forward.

“Then I’ll quit too.”

Another step.

“Why would I keep saving the world,” he breathed, “if you’re not in it?”

He was unraveling; slowly, heartbreakingly; with every word.

“I’ll follow you. Wherever you go.” His voice was a vow, even if it shook like a leaf in the wind. “You think I can just… let you walk away? After everything? After what I did—what I became—because you weren’t there?”

His fingers curled into fists as the room began to thrum faintly with power, not the Void’s chaos, but Bob’s own barely restrained grief. A sadness so deep it warped the very air around him.

“Every time you look away from me, it hurts,” he whispered. “When you’re in the same room and won’t speak to me, it hurts. When you pretend I’m just some stranger, it kills me.”

He looked down, his chest heaving as he tried to steady himself. He couldn’t. He was trembling too much.

“I wasn’t strong enough for you,” he said, meaning her future self, the one she no longer remembered but he could never forget. “I let you break alone. I watched you fade and I did nothing.”

Tears welled in his eyes, silent, slow, like surrender.

“But I’m not going to do that again,” he said. “You’re here. You’re alive. And if that means giving all this up just to walk beside you as a nobody in the middle of nowhere, I’ll do it.”

He looked up at her again, and this time, it wasn’t with desperation.

It was with devotion.

Raw, fierce, and excruciating in its honesty.

“Please,” he said. “Don’t make me watch you walk away again.”

Her jaw clenched as the silence stretched.

Of course he would say that.

Of course he would throw away everything she sacrificed, without a second thought.

She looked away, biting down the burn in her throat. Her fingers curled around the hem of her sleeves, knuckles white.

“You don’t get to say that,” she whispered.

Bob flinched at her tone.

She took a shaky breath, then looked back at him. Her voice sharpened, cutting through the air like glass.

“You don’t get to stand there and romanticize quitting everything when I spent years convincing the world you were worth saving. I painted you as a hero. I bled for that image. I sold pieces of myself so they wouldn’t be afraid of you—so they would see you as something other than a ticking bomb.”

She took a step closer, eyes glassy, voice rising.

“Do you have any idea what it cost me to make the world forgive you?! What I had to give up to keep your name clean?!”

Bob opened his mouth, but no words came. Only guilt.

She exhaled a bitter, broken laugh. “And now you want to throw it all away. Just like that. Because I don’t want to stay?”

She hated how her voice cracked.

“You were supposed to be their future. You were supposed to matter long after I was gone.”

She turned her back to him, biting her lip, trying to breathe through the ache swelling in her ribs.

“But I guess it’s easier to follow me around like a puppy than face what the world actually needs from you.”

He said nothing.

That silence made it worse.

She spun around, eyes wet now. “Don’t you get it?! I didn’t go through all that hell so you could be mine. I did it so you could be free. So you could be better. So you could matter to people who needed you more than I ever did.”

Her voice dropped to a whisper.

“If you stop being a hero… then what the hell was all of it for?”

Bob's lips parted, but the words didn’t come.

Not yet.

Because even if he wanted to be the world’s savior again, he knew deep down—

He never asked for any of that.

He just wanted her.

And that might be the most selfish thing he’d ever admit.

Bob swallowed, hard. His voice trembled when it came, thick and ragged, like it had been scraped raw from somewhere buried deep.

“I loved being a hero,” he said, quietly. “I loved it because you were the one who made me believe I could be one.”

She froze mid-step.

His eyes searched hers—desperate, unguarded, devastatingly sincere.

“But what’s the point,” he continued, taking a step closer, “of saving the world if the one person I was supposed to protect isn’t beside me?”

Her chest rose with a sharp breath.

“If you want me to be a hero,” Bob said, softer now, “I won’t quit.”

He meant every word.

“But that means… you have to stay.”

Her eyes widened. It wasn’t the words. It was the audacity.

She turned, cheeks flushing with heat—not from embarrassment, but from rage.

“No,” she snapped, voice cracking with fury. “No! Don’t you dare put that on me.”

Bob blinked. “I just—”

“I am not your condition,” she bit out. “I am not your ultimatum.”

Each word was venom, laced with years of buried exhaustion.

“You don’t get to hang your redemption on me like a leash. You want to be a hero? Then be one. But don’t you dare make it contingent on whether or not I stay.”

Her vision blurred. She hated that. Hated the tears pooling from anger she couldn’t swallow down.

“Because I’m tired, Bob. So fucking tired. Of carrying this... of carrying you.”

He looked like he’d been punched in the chest. His expression faltered, lips parting slightly as though her words knocked the air right out of him.

She didn’t wait for a response.

Her boots hit the floor hard as she turned on her heel and stormed for the door, fury rising in her throat like a scream she wouldn’t let out.

And behind her, he didn’t follow.

Not yet.

Because even though it shattered something inside him, he knew—

She needed the space.

Even if every second away from her felt like hell.

___________

Bobs POV:

He hadn’t moved since the door closed.

Not even to breathe.

Because breathing felt… indulgent, somehow. Selfish. Like a sin he hadn’t earned the right to commit anymore. The air in the containment room sat stale around him, heavy with sterilized nothingness. Her scent was already fading, and with it, the only warmth he had left.

His knees still ached from the impact. The tile was cold, but not as cold as the way she looked at him before she turned away. And now... now the silence was louder than any scream the Void had ever summoned.

She was gone.

Not just out of the room. She was gone. Like the timeline was finally correcting itself and wiping away the one mistake it had allowed him to cling to all this time.

He blinked slowly, his body still shaking from the aftermath of her words.

“I’m done. I want to quit.”

Not us. Not you. I want to quit.

She was done with him.

With everything they could have been. Everything they almost were.

He let the thought chew through his ribs until it scraped bone. It hurt. It hurt so badly he almost welcomed the Void’s creeping return, the quiet invitation to dissolve, to fade, to become nothing again. But even the Void didn’t rise the way it used to. Even that darkness seemed quieter without her there.

Because she was the anchor. The tether. The only voice that could pull him out of the madness and remind him that he was still a man beneath the god.

And now she had left him, not with hatred. Not with finality. But with disappointment.

The worst kind of abandonment.

He closed his eyes and remembered the way she looked at him. How she said no before her mouth could even think. How quick her voice was. How sure she had sounded when she tore out the last thread he’d been clinging to.

She wasn’t coming back.

She wasn’t going to save him.

And he couldn’t stop her.

He sat back on the floor, curling his massive frame like a wounded animal in a cage far too small to hold something divine. His shoulders shook, not from fear, not from rage; but from sheer loss.

Because if she wasn’t beside him… what was the point?

What good was a god who couldn’t protect the only person who ever made him feel real?

He turned his face to the wall and finally let the tears come. No sound. No sobs. Just a quiet, constant stream. A man unraveling, thread by thread.

She’d made him human again.

And now, without her, he would slowly become myth once more.

Something unrecognizable. Something unbearable. Something alone.

He stopped talking.

Not out of defiance. Not as a statement. There was simply nothing left in him to give. No words, no breath, no shape to the ache carving through his chest like an old, rusted knife.

The walls didn’t answer back anymore. The bed had become too big. The silence felt like a scream that never stopped.

She was gone.

And the worst part, the part that made his ribs feel cracked and his lungs collapse every time he remembered, was that she had chosen to go.

Losing her to death had been agony. He knew that. Had tasted it once before in a thousand fragmented futures. He mourned her until his body gave out, buried himself in the sky, let the stars burn him clean. But that would’ve been final. That kind of loss has an ending.

But this?

This was something crueler.

Because she was still alive. Still breathing, still laughing somewhere beyond these steel walls. Just not for him. Not anymore.

She hadn’t died this time. She had left.

And somehow, that was so much worse.

It wasn’t the Void that undid him—it was her absence.

He’d lived with monsters in his mind, gods in his bones, galaxies in his blood. But nothing, nothing, had ever hollowed him out like this. She had walked away with that look in her eyes. Final. Cold. And it didn’t matter how much she’d once cared, or how many times she’d stayed late by his side whispering soft, angry hope into him like it was a language only they shared.

She was done. And so was he.

The world outside could have burned and he wouldn’t have noticed. They tried to call him to briefings. Tried to ask him questions. Some even dared to tell him to “get it together.”

He didn’t answer.

He just sat; shoulders hunched, hands twitching, breath shallow and uneven; as if bracing himself for the next moment he’d remember she was gone.

Because it hit in waves.

And every wave felt like drowning.

There were moments he tried to tell himself she was safe, at least. That should be enough. That should be everything. But it wasn’t. Not when he couldn’t see her. Not when he couldn’t hear the sound of her voice saying his name like it meant something. Not when every version of his future that had kept him tethered; every hope and dream and reason; had walked out of his room with fire in her eyes and finality in her voice.

He still sent her things.

Not because he thought it would win her back. That would have been a foolish kind of hope. But because he didn’t know what else to do. A flower each day, left quietly by her apartment door. Sometimes a daisy. Sometimes a rare mountain lily. Once, a blue hydrangea because she had once told him in a soft breath that blue made her feel calm.

He hadn’t eaten since she left. But still, he made her meals. Just in case she needed them. Just in case she saw them and thought of kindness, even if it wasn't enough.

He would save the world a thousand times over if she asked him to. But if she didn’t want him, not even as a hero, then what was the point?

They told him Earth needed him.

He told them nothing.

Because he’d already lost it.

He wasn’t afraid of death. He wasn’t afraid of destruction. He wasn’t even afraid of becoming the Void.

But he was terrified of this emptiness. This sharp, quiet ache that came from knowing she was out there, living, choosing a life that didn’t include him.

And every day he woke up in that gray-lit room, he asked himself the same question with blistered breath:

“Why is this happening again?”

He would’ve preferred death.

At least that would’ve been honest.

He learned the rhythm of her days the way most men might learn prayer.

Every morning, she stepped out of her building around 8:07 AM, headphones in, the same soft, determined scowl pressed between her brows. Sometimes her hair was pulled back. Sometimes it wasn’t. On Fridays, she wore her black boots with the scuffed toe. On Wednesdays, she got coffee from the place on 3rd because she didn’t like the bitterness of the agency brew.

Bob knew all of it.

And he kept his distance.

He never let her see him, not directly. He stood on rooftops, behind mirrored windows, above streetlights where the sun caught on gold just enough to blur the outline of his cape before he moved again. She would never feel him. Never know he was there.

But she was safer because of it.

He made sure of that.

There were threats she never even knew existed. Ones that never reached her because he reached them first. A bomb rigged under the 6 train platform. Neutralized. A sniper posted above the eastern garage when she left a briefing late one night. Gone. A pair of shapeshifting mercs posing as street cleaners who got a little too close during a mission extraction, removed before she could even blink.

He kept her life quiet. Untouched. Safe. Exactly the way she wanted it. Exactly the way she didn’t want him.

It was agony. But it was also, strangely, purifying.

Like confession. Like self-flagellation. Like penance.

He could still see her laugh sometimes. Watch the little smile she gave the coffee vendor she liked. The way her eyes crinkled when she held in a snarky remark during meetings. The way her shoulders tensed when she thought no one was watching, like she was still bracing for the next war, the next disappointment, the next betrayal.

He never wanted to be one of those again.

So he stayed back.

Even when he missed her so badly it felt like the world had shifted out of orbit. Even when the ache in his chest made it hard to breathe.

Every mission she took, he read the brief before she ever stepped on the jet. He’d already memorized the layouts, the weather, the enemy file. And then he followed, quiet as death, sharp as wrath.

She didn’t know that the third time she was nearly pinned under a crumbling structure in São Paulo, it was his arms that caught the slab before it fell. She never saw the streak of golden light vanish behind the storm. But she lived. And that’s all that mattered.

He saved her a thousand times without ever letting her know he was there.

Because that’s what love looked like now.

Not kisses or soft moments or shared coffee cups. But silence. Distance. Sacrifice.

He gave up every piece of himself that longed to touch her again, just to make sure she never got hurt. Not again. Not because of him.

He used to think the hardest thing he’d ever done was contain the Void. But this, watching her smile at the world like she hadn’t once torn him apart, watching her walk past him and never look back—this was infinitely worse.

Still, he never missed a day.

Not one.

He’d rather suffer in secret than risk her ever being alone.

Because if she fell, if anything happened to her, and he hadn’t been there?

He wouldn’t survive it.

He was already barely holding on.

The mission that he'd followed her on was unraveling faster than she could manage. From his hidden vantage, Bob’s eyes traced her every move; sharp, precise, fierce as always; but even the fiercest storm had limits. She was trapped, a cornered lioness surrounded by enemies, cold metal aimed at her from every direction. The click of guns being readied echoed through the damp rooftop air, a cruel countdown to violence that made his chest tighten with dread. She didn’t flinch. She never did. But strength, no matter how fierce, was not an impenetrable shield.

Bob’s breath hitched involuntarily. His muscles coiled, not in hesitation but in instinct born from every desperate moment he’d spent watching over her from the shadows. She was strong, unbelievably so, but it wasn’t enough this time. She was too vulnerable here, exposed to the sharp edge of danger, and despite everything, he wasn’t willing to lose her again. Not like this.

The second the gunfire erupted, time slowed and his body launched forward with a force he barely recognized as his own. Golden light streaked across the sky as he closed the distance, his arms reaching out to catch her, to protect her, to hold her like the fragile, precious thing she was. The cold spray of bullets slammed into him, a shower of violence that bounced harmlessly against his shield, but none of it registered. His focus narrowed to the warmth pressed against him, the quick pulse of her heartbeat, the faint scent of rain clinging to her skin, the softness of her body folding into his.

His heart pounded so fiercely it drowned out the chaos around them. He felt her, a presence that was both agony and salvation, and for the first time in what felt like an eternity, he allowed himself to believe that maybe, just maybe, he hadn’t lost her completely. His breath caught when her fingers twitched against his side, a small, electric spark of life that tethered him back from the edge of despair. This closeness, this stolen contact, was a cruel reminder of all he had lost and all he still longed for. It was terrifying and beautiful in equal measure.

The world around them; the mission, the enemies, the gunfire; faded into a blur of noise and shadows. All that existed was the warmth of her body pressed against his, the fragile thread of connection between two souls shattered and frayed by time and pain. In that moment, the walls he’d built around his heart cracked, and the raw ache of love and loss came crashing through in a wave so powerful it nearly broke him. He was not a god here. He was a man undone, caught in the terrifying possibility that she could still be his salvation, or his destruction.

Even as adrenaline surged, a cold truth gnawed at the edges of his mind. This moment was borrowed, a fragile gift he wasn’t sure he deserved. She had already turned away once, and the thought of losing her again, of watching her walk out of his life, was a torment so deep it threatened to consume him entirely. Yet here, wrapped in his arms, she was real. She was alive. And for now, that was enough to keep the darkness at bay.

Bob didn’t say a word as he swept her off her feet, the wind roaring in their ears as they ascended beyond the chaos of the city. The cold bite of altitude mingled with the warmth of the rising sun, painting the sky in hues of gold and soft pink that stretched endlessly across the horizon. They landed quietly on a secluded mountain ridge, where the world seemed to breathe around them, ancient trees standing tall, wildflowers nodding in the gentle breeze, and a river sparkling like liquid glass far below. The beauty of the place was undeniable, a sanctuary carved out by time itself, but to Bob, the most breathtaking sight was the woman standing before him, her arms crossed, jaw clenched tight in anger and confusion.

She glared at him, voice sharp with accusation. “Why did you follow me? You promised you wouldn’t. Why can’t you just leave me alone?”

Bob’s gaze didn’t waver. He was silent, not because of shame or fear of confrontation, but because his eyes were captivated by the way the sunlight kissed her face, highlighting every delicate line and curve that he had no right to admire. How had he ever lived without seeing this—this real, breathing version of her—five years ago? How had he been so blind, so cruel, so cold?

The answer clawed at him like a wound too raw to touch. He had pushed her away, thinking he didn’t need her—that his godhood was enough. But now, as the dawn spilled over the world and lit her from within, he understood the depth of his mistake. The distance between them was not just physical, but a chasm carved by his own fear and pride. And the pain of that realization was almost unbearable.

He swallowed hard, fighting the tremor in his throat, and finally met her gaze. “I was wrong,” he admitted quietly, voice rough but steady. “You were always the one I needed. Not some distant duty, not the endless battles… You.”

The silence that followed was thick with unspoken apologies and lingering pain. Yet in the glow of the morning, under the vastness of the sky, there was a fragile hope, one neither of them dared speak aloud but both desperately wanted to believe.

Bob’s lips curved into a sad, fragile smile as he reached into the folds of his coat and pulled out a worn, leather-bound diary. Its edges were softened by time, the pages yellowed but carefully preserved. He held it out to her with trembling hands, as if offering the most precious thing he owned. “I’ve kept this since the day I first woke,” he murmured, his voice low and thick with emotion. “It traveled with me through every moment; every loss, every memory, every breath.”

Slowly, he folded her hands over the diary, his fingers warm and gentle against her skin, grounding her in the present despite the storm raging between them. “This is the time I promised I would show up. The time I was supposed to find you again. I never thought I’d deserve it, not the chance to stand here, to breathe your scent, or to see the beauty you carry like light in the dawn.” His gaze softened, flickering with a mixture of awe and sorrow. “You don’t know how much my chest aches because of you, the way just being near you feels like both punishment and salvation.”

He swallowed hard, as if the weight of his words threatened to break him. “I don’t deserve you. I never did. But I’m here. And for whatever time you’ll let me, I want to try, just to be close. To be yours.”

The diary rested in her hands like a fragile bridge between past and future, hope and heartbreak, a testament to a love that had survived even the cruelest of fates.

After a long, heavy silence, Bob gently withdrew his hands, leaving the diary resting in her palms like a fragile promise. His eyes searched hers one last time, filled with a storm of emotions he couldn’t fully voice—regret, longing, and an overwhelming love that tethered his soul to hers despite the distance and pain between them. Without another word, he stepped back, the weight of the moment pressing down on them both like a suffocating silence.

Then, with a graceful motion, he rose into the sky, the wind catching his cape as he ascended above the mountain ridge. His voice, soft yet resolute, carried on the breeze behind him, reaching her ears like a whispered vow. “I love you more than life itself,” he said, his words trembling with all the intensity and fragility of a heart laid bare.

As he vanished into the endless expanse of dawn, she was left clutching the diary—holding not just his memories, but the fragile hope of what might still be.

______

Readers POV:

The city blurred past the windshield as she drove away from the latest mission site, her hands gripping the steering wheel with a tension that mirrored the tight knot coiling deep in her chest. These missions, once the fire that fueled her purpose, now left her feeling like a ghost wandering through a life that had lost all meaning. The adrenaline that used to surge through her veins like liquid flame was now just a dull pulse, a faint echo of something long extinguished.

Every step she took in the field felt hollow, a mechanical dance devoid of the passion and conviction that had once defined her. She was strong, yes, but strength had become a mask she wore to hide the cavernous emptiness inside. The laughter, the triumphs, the camaraderie, they all felt distant, like memories of a life that belonged to someone else.

Since that day on the mountain, when Bob had swept her into the sunrise only to leave her standing alone with the weight of his absence pressing down like a stone, she had cursed him fiercely in the quiet corners of her mind. How could he just leave? How could he abandon her to a solitude that felt colder and more suffocating than any battlefield? The wound he left wasn’t just in her heart, it was in the very air she breathed, an ache that settled into her bones.

And the diary; the fragile, leather-bound reminder of everything he had confessed and left behind; remained untouched. It called to her from the drawer where she had hidden it, whispering promises of healing, of connection, of answers she both feared and desperately needed. But every time she reached for it, her fingers trembled with a mixture of longing and fear, and she pulled back. What if opening it meant confronting the love she had tried so hard to bury? What if reading his words meant facing the unbearable truth that she still needed him, more than she was willing to admit?

So she kept the diary closed, her heart a fortress of silence, even as the world around her moved on without her.

In this dream, she was falling. Falling through endless darkness, a void colder than death itself. There was no ground beneath her, no sky above; just a suffocating nothingness where time had lost all meaning. And somewhere in that crushing abyss, she heard a voice fragile, fractured calling her name with desperate hope. It was his voice. Her Sentry. But it was slipping away, drowning in silence.

She reached out, trembling, fingers clawing at the void until she finds herself standing in the middle of a broken battlefield, the air thick with smoke and the acrid scent of burning. The sky above was a bruised, angry gray, thunder rolling like the mournful echo of a world tearing apart. And there, amidst the chaos, was him—Bob—his golden armor cracked and smeared with blood, his breathing ragged and shallow. His eyes, once fierce and bright, now flickered weakly like a dying star.

“Bob…” The name escaped her lips, a whisper crushed by the weight of disbelief and fear. She staggered toward him, heart pounding so fiercely it threatened to burst free from her chest. His body was broken, trembling beneath her hands as she cradled him, her fingers trembling against the warmth that was slipping away like sand through desperate grasping fingers.

His gaze met hers, full of pain, regret, and a love so fierce it shattered her soul into splinters. “I’m sorry,” he gasped, voice barely more than a breath. “I… never wanted this.”

Tears streamed down her face as she shook her head, desperate to deny the terrible truth. “No, don’t… please, stay with me,” she pleaded, the terror in her voice raw and unfiltered. “You can’t leave me. Not like this.”

But his strength was fading, and with every shallow breath, the distance between them grew. She felt the crushing weight of helplessness settle over her, a cruel echo of the same agony Bob must have endured when she slipped away from him. Was this what it felt like for him? To lose the one he loved, powerless to stop the darkness swallowing her whole?

Her sobs tore through the air, jagged and broken, as she pressed her forehead against his, willing the world to rewind, to rewrite this cruel fate. But all she could do was hold him as he slipped further away, the light in his eyes dimming until there was nothing left but an unbearable, soul-crushing void.

She was there; alone; watching the man she loved, the god she had awakened, fall into death. His final breath a cruel whisper, a song of loss and despair that broke her heart into pieces too small to ever find again.

Tears welled in her eyes, blurring the nightmare further until it all dissolved into one aching cry; raw, desperate, endless. Her sobs tore through the night, ragged and broken, as if screaming could stitch together the fragments of her shattered world.

And then she woke.

Cold sweat clung to her skin, her body trembling uncontrollably, heart hammering like a war drum. The darkness of her room was no refuge, only a mirror of the void inside her chest. Tears streamed down her face, hot and merciless, as she curled into herself, the weight of grief dragging her under. Every breath was a battle; every heartbeat a painful reminder of the love lost and the unbearable silence that followed.

Her hands shook as she wiped away the tears, but the anguish was relentless, an ocean of sorrow that drowned her in memories, regrets, and the cruel echo of a future that might never be. The nightmare had bled into reality, leaving her raw, exposed, and aching for a touch, a word, anything to remind her she was not truly alone.

She curled into herself in bed with a strangled gasp, drenched in sweat, heart pounding so violently against her ribs it felt like it would split her open. Her breath came in ragged gulps as if she had just run for miles barefoot across broken glass. Tears clung to her lashes and soaked her cheeks, hot and salty and endless. The nightmare...no, the vision, still clung to her like smoke in her lungs, and she couldn’t breathe around the memory of Bob’s dying eyes.

She scrambled to her feet, breath ragged and uneven as she tripped forward in the dark. Her bare feet slapped against the cold floor, her limbs shaky and half-numb. The nightmare still clawed at her chest, whispering his name in echoes that wouldn’t fade. She could still see him, blood soaking his golden hair, his arms slack, his eyes wide and empty as the light bled out of him.

She reached the cabinet on instinct, crashing to her knees before it. Her fingers dug beneath the clutter, frantic and unthinking until they brushed against the leather cover. The diary. His diary.

She hadn’t touched it since the mountain. Couldn’t. Wouldn’t. She had left it to gather dust and silence, too afraid to know what truths lived inside those pages. But now her hands gripped it with the desperation of a drowning woman, and when she opened it, it felt like her heart forgot how to beat.

The first entry was dated a few days after he had awoken—after she had stormed into that sterile containment room and demanded answers from a man who barely knew his name.

“She walked in like a flame; too bright, too fast, too full of fury. I couldn’t stop shaking after she left. Not from fear. From something else. Something worse. Something like... wanting. I shouldn’t want her.”

She turned the page. Her fingers trembled.

“She came again today. She talks like no one’s ever silenced her. I didn’t say much. Just listened. She has this way of filling the room even when she’s quiet. I don’t deserve to hear the sound of her laugh.”

Tears slid down her cheeks before she realized she was crying again. They fell hot and soundless onto the page.

“I think I’m falling in love with her. That’s wrong, isn’t it? People like me aren’t supposed to love. I can feel it. This thing inside me, this god or monster or void, and it wants to take everything from me. But when she’s in the room, it’s... quiet. She makes the darkness stop whispering.”

Another page, this one more erratic. His handwriting shook in places. There were smudges where it looked like ink had been blurred, by his hand or by tears, she didn’t know.

“She smiled at me today. I wanted to tear my own skin off. How can someone like her look at someone like me with kindness? I wanted to tell her I’m dangerous. I wanted to tell her to run. But I couldn’t. Because I wanted her to stay.”

She clutched the diary tighter to her chest as a sob broke from her throat.

“She touched my hand.”

“God, I can still feel it.”

“It’s going to destroy me, isn’t it? Loving her like this?”

Each line struck like a blade to the ribs, carved with such quiet desperation that she almost couldn’t breathe.

“I would rather be locked away for eternity than risk hurting her. If it meant she could be safe, happy, free... then let them cage me like a beast. I’ll rot smiling if she gets to live without fear.”

“But some nights... I wonder if she’ll forget me. If she’ll find someone better. Someone human. And I want to scream. But I don’t. I just write it down.”

And then—

“Today, I think I made her angry. I wanted to reach out. Apologize. Tell her I was only distant because I’m afraid of her seeing what I really am. But she looked at me like I’d already failed her. Maybe I have.”

She dropped the diary, covering her mouth with her hands as her body curled forward, rocking with quiet, heaving sobs. Her knees pressed into the floor like penance. Each word burned like a memory she’d tried to kill. How had she never seen it?

But then, something twisted in her gut.

If he had loved her… why had he ignored her?

Why had he let the others talk to her like she was disposable? Why had he stood there in silence, not even looking at her, as if she were just a flicker in the corner of his vision? Why had he let her break, alone?

Frowning through the tears, she reached for the fallen diary and flipped forward, searching for answers. The dates jumped. Weeks, then months. The handwriting started to change; sloppier at first, then sharper. The prose grew erratic, sentences clipped, tone defensive. Almost manic.

“They don’t know what I am. What I could be. But I do.”

“Maybe I’ve been wasting my time pretending to be something smaller just to make them feel safe. Maybe it’s time they understood what I am.”

Her blood went cold.

“She keeps looking at me like I’m not enough. Like I’m supposed to apologize for what I am. But I’m not sorry. I’m tired of being sorry.”

She turned another page, the pit in her stomach growing heavier.

“They talk about me like I’m dangerous. Maybe I am. Maybe they should be afraid.”

“She flinched when I walked in today. Good. Maybe that means she finally understands.”

Her throat closed. She read the last line three times, waiting for it to shift, to change into something softer. Something more like him. But it never did.

“If she wants someone who bleeds, she should find a mortal. I was never meant to be loved.”

The room tilted. She set the diary down slowly, her fingers pale and shaking. The person who had written the first pages; terrified, tender, full of aching wonder at her existence; wasn’t the same man who had written this.

This version of Bob… he hated himself. He had decided, at some point, that if he couldn’t be loved, he would be feared instead. And maybe, just maybe, that was how he coped with losing her.

He had buried his love beneath bitterness. Built walls out of apathy. Let power wrap around him like armor because it was the only thing that made him feel like he couldn’t be destroyed.

And the worst part was… she had believed the mask.

She flipped through the rest of the diary with trembling fingers, unsure what she was even searching for now. Answers? Redemption? A sign that some piece of the Bob she loved had survived whatever darkness had swallowed him whole?

The entries jumped again—this time further into the future.

The handwriting steadied, strangely neat. The tone was subdued. Gone was the bitterness, the rage, the godhood. These words felt... quieter.

"Spoke at a science convention today. Pretended to care. One guy asked what my favorite breakfast was. I said oatmeal with blueberries. Didn’t mention I haven’t tasted anything in years."

"They want me to do another interview next week. Said my 'calm presence' is good PR. Wonder if they’d still say that if they knew what was rotting behind my eyes."

"Saw a woman at the park with white earbuds and a pink scarf. For a second I thought it was her. My whole body stilled. It wasn’t. Of course it wasn’t."

She paused, breath catching.

The entries became smaller. More fragmented. Thoughts jotted in the margins. Half-finished sentences. Doodles. Little diagrams of clouds, birds, constellations. The quietest pieces of a man who’d run out of things to say aloud but still needed to speak.

And then she turned a page and stopped.

There, carefully folded into the spine, was a sketch. Pencil. Smudged from age and the soft wearing-down of being looked at too many times. It was her.

Not a posed or dramatic version; just her, sitting cross-legged on a couch, head tilted as she looked off to the side like someone had called her name. There was a soft crease between her brows. She looked confused. Curious. Alive.

Her fingers trembled as she reached out and traced the line of her cheek with a single fingertip.

This wasn’t drawn from memory.

This was something he had seen.

The pencil work was careful, almost reverent, each line etched with a patient, aching attention. Her ears. Her lashes. Even the way her hands curled over her knees, like she was holding herself together. Every detail was captured like it was precious. Like he hadn’t just seen her that day, he had memorized her.

At the bottom of the page, in faint handwriting:

“She’s so beautiful when she thinks no one is watching.”

She curled forward around the diary like it was a lifeline, hot tears streaming down her cheeks, falling onto the paper, warping the sketch.

She didn’t know when he had drawn it. Didn’t know where he had been standing. But she knew this much:

He had never stopped watching. And he had never stopped loving her.

Even when it twisted him into something cold. Even when it destroyed him from the inside out. Even when she hated him.

He had carried this sketch, this version of her, like a prayer he wasn’t worthy to say out loud.

And now here it was. In her hands.

The next several pages of the diary were warped with water damage; some entries nearly illegible, others raw and jagged, the paper thin from having been turned too many times or maybe crumpled in anguish. The ink bled and pooled as though it had been written in a shaking hand during the end of the world.

And in a way, it had been.

The first entry came days after a gap in time. Before this, the pages had been filled with mundane scribbles. Notes about breakfast. Doodles of her sleeping on the couch. A list of names she once said she’d give their future dog. Then—

“Do you know how it feels to hear that the person you love is dead from someone who won’t meet your eyes?”

“Yelena stood in the doorway and held your name in her mouth like it was made of glass. She said you were gone. She said you’d… you’d used the scarf.”

“The scarf I had even you.”

“She didn’t have to say more. I could see it all. The way your hands would have trembled. The way your eyes would’ve searched the room one last time for something...anything... to hold onto.”

“And there was nothing.”

“Nothing left of me worth clinging to.”

“So you let go.”

The page beneath was warped, the ink bleeding into desperate spirals. He must’ve written while crying. Or shaking. Maybe both.

“The room was cold when I got there.”

“They’d moved your body already.”

“But the impression on the floor. The curve of your knees, the quiet shadow of where your head hung, was still there.”

“I dropped to my knees and kissed the spot where you died.”

“I laid down like you had. Tried to understand. Tried to feel what you felt in those last moments.”

“And I did.”

“It felt like my own blood was turning to ice inside me.”

“Like the world had tilted and I was sliding off the edge.”

“I screamed until my throat bled.”

“No one came.”

“No one came for you either, did they?”

There was a break in the page. As if the pen had stopped. The next sentence was nearly illegible, just barely ink instead of claw marks.

“I should’ve died with you.”

She covered her mouth, shaking. The diary was shaking too, no, that was her. She hadn’t realized her tears were falling onto the page until the ink began to blur again. Her fingers tightened over the edge, knuckles white, breath ragged.

But the entries weren’t done.

“You told me once that you were scared of being forgotten.”

“That you didn’t need to be remembered by the world, just by someone.”

“I told you that someone was me.”

“And then I stopped speaking to you. I let the world scream over your silence, and I didn’t shield you from it.”

“I should’ve carried you out of there. Out of that tower, out of those missions, out of everything that made you feel small.”

“I should’ve held your hand every time it shook.”

“But I wanted to be a god. I wanted to be adored.”

“And I traded the only heaven I ever knew, you, for applause.”

“I killed you.”

The air around her fractured. The silence in the room pressed like a weight against her chest, suffocating. Her arms wrapped around the diary like it was him. Like if she held it tight enough, he’d whisper back. That deep, low voice. That warmth she hadn’t felt since he’d wrapped himself around her and taken bullets meant for her. Since the mountain.

Then came the final entry.

This one was dated just before he'd gone back.

“I don’t know if this will work.”

“Maybe I’ll land in the wrong year. Maybe I’ll never find you again. Maybe I’ll tear the whole timeline apart and become the monster they always feared.”

“But if there’s a sliver of a chance that I can hold your hand again, hear you hum while you bake, feel your head fall against my shoulder—”

“I’ll break every law of physics and fate to get there.”

“I love you more than life itself.”

“And if I die before I find you, let this book be proof.”

“You were loved by a god.”

“But even gods fall to their knees for the ones they can't live without.”

“I fell for you.”

“And I never stopped falling.”

She collapsed onto the floor, the diary crushed to her chest like an anchor keeping her from floating off into the grief. Her body shook with sobs that didn’t sound human, cries torn from the deepest part of her soul, where his name was still carved into every shattered piece.

This pain, this unbearable, endless ache, was what he had felt the day she died.

And now she understood.

She understood all of it.

She stayed on the floor long after her knees had gone numb.

The apartment was quiet, but not peaceful. It was the kind of quiet that follows a scream. That lingers like smoke after a fire, proof that something had burned, and nothing was coming to save it. Her hands were still wrapped around the diary like it was a heartbeat, like it would stop if she let go.

Her own pulse was a fragile, trembling thing. Stuttering. Hollow.

How could he have loved her like that? With words that tore through time, with grief so deep it carved holes in the page?

Why had he treated her like a ghost while she was still breathing?

Why had he let them tear her apart piece by piece, why hadn’t he looked at her?

Why had he waited until she died?

Her voice cracked out of her without warning; a sob, a scream, a noise so broken it didn’t sound human. She stumbled to her feet, clutching the diary so tightly it left ink stains on her skin. She staggered back, hitting the wall, sliding down again as her whole body folded in on itself.

It wasn’t fair.

She didn’t want this.

She didn’t want him to be in pain, even though he’d left her, even though he’d made her feel invisible, even though he’d disappeared again, because she’d loved him every second, even when he forgot how to love her back.

And now she knew what that had cost him.

And it hurt. It hurt like nothing she’d ever felt. Not even death had been this loud.

She clawed at her own chest as if she could rip the ache out of her ribs, the weight pressing on her lungs until she couldn’t breathe. Her sobs came harder now, shoulders shaking, mouth open in a scream she couldn’t force out. She curled in on herself, forehead against the wood floor, wishing she could go back in time too, back to the moment he’d left her on that mountain, back to the rooftop where he shielded her, back to the night she ended her life.

She wouldn’t do it this time.

She would choose him. Every time. Even if he never chose her back.

Even if it killed her again.

Her hand slid over the final page. Over that last sentence.

“I fell for you. And I never stopped falling.”

Something snapped.

She stood, too fast, legs shaking, hands still curled around the diary like a lifeline. She didn’t care what time it was. Didn’t care that she was still in her oversized hoodie and sleep shorts and mismatched socks. She didn’t care that her face was soaked with tears or that her hair was matted to her temples. Her chest still heaved, her breath shallow, but she knew what she had to do.

She needed to find him.

No, she needed to see him. To hold his face in her hands and tell him everything. That she hated him for leaving her. That she loved him anyway. That she forgave him, not because he deserved it, but because she couldn’t carry this weight anymore. Because she had finally remembered how to choose life again.

She grabbed her keys. Forgot her phone.

And in her pajamas, clutching a diary filled with the ashes of the man who loved her across lifetimes, she stepped into the night.

The cold kissed her cheeks like grief itself.

But for the first time in a long time, her heart was moving.

The Tower was quieter than it should have been.

She hadn’t even thought of how she’d get inside, hadn’t planned any of it. Her body had moved without her mind’s permission, instinct dragging her to the one place that still smelled like him. She must’ve looked feral: wide-eyed, tear-streaked, hair tangled, standing barefoot in the Tower lobby in nothing but pajamas and a hoodie clinging to her like a second skin.

But someone let her in.

She didn’t see who. Maybe it was a security guard who knew her. Maybe it was mercy. Or maybe fate had finally stopped being cruel.

The elevator doors opened with a sigh. Every floor passed like a heartbeat skipping. She clutched the diary to her chest the whole way up, like if she let it go, her resolve would shatter with it.

When the doors opened to the residential level, she ran.

Her hand slammed against his door. No answer.

She called his name.

Once. Twice. Three times.

Still silence.

When she pressed her ear to the door, there was no hum of breath, no creak of movement, no heartbeat on the other side.

He wasn’t here.

Her stomach dropped, a cold panic racing up her throat.

She turned and went to Yelena’s room. Her knock was frantic, knuckles raw from how hard she’d hit Bob’s door.

It took a minute, but the Russian opened the door in a tank top, her eyes immediately narrowing at the sight of her.

“Where is he?” she rasped. “Please. Yelena, where’s Bob?”

Yelena blinked, slowly waking up. “He’s not in his room?”

“If he was, would I look like this?”

Yelena scanned her. Pajamas. Messy hair. Diary clutched like a holy thing. “You look like shit.”

“I don’t care. Where is he.”

Yelena sighed. Her expression softened, but only slightly. “He hasn’t come back in a few days. I figured he was brooding again. Or… somewhere only he can get.”

“Only he—?”

“You know how he is.” Yelena shrugged. “He disappears. Like fog. You blink, and he’s gone.”

“But where does he go, Yelena? I need to find him. I need—” her voice cracked. “I need to see him. Please.”

Yelena hesitated. Then: “The roof. That’s all I can give you.”

She didn’t wait to hear more.

She sprinted for the stairs.

The climb felt eternal. Like every step higher made the air thinner. Her lungs burned, but she couldn’t stop. Couldn’t pause. What if he was up there now? What if he was just about to leave again? What if she missed him by a second?

What if she never saw him again?

She shoved open the rooftop door with a desperate, shaking breath.

And—

Empty.

Just the wind. Just stars that blinked like broken promises. Just the skyline stretching out like a silent witness to her unraveling.

She let out a sound like a sob and a scream at once. Her knees hit the concrete, her fingers white-knuckling the edge of the roof as she looked out at the city like he might be hiding behind a cloud.

Where was he?

Had he disappeared again?

Had he meant to leave her this time?

She clutched the diary harder, knuckles aching.

Somewhere out there, he was watching. She knew it. The way her soul ached couldn’t be a lie.

“Bob,” she whispered into the dark. “I’m here. Please…”

The wind answered.

But not him.

Not yet.

She slipped off the rooftop and into the night, the city’s glow a cold beacon against the darkness pressing on her skin. The streets hummed with distant sirens, honking cars, and the murmur of lives moving forward, lives that didn’t know she was unraveling, that didn’t know her whole world had narrowed to a single, impossible hope.

Each step was a sharp contrast, the pounding in her chest like a war drum, the empty ache in her stomach like a wound reopening.

She walked through familiar neighborhoods, places where she and Bob had once shared stolen moments before he changed, a quiet café where he’d laughed at her clumsy jokes, the park bench beneath the blooming trees where he’d caught her hand in his, the bridge where she’d watched him fly off into the sunset, disappearing like a myth.

Every shadow seemed to stretch and twist, playing tricks on her mind, making her half expect him to emerge from the mist. Her fingers trembled around the diary pressed to her chest, the edges soft from her constant grasp.

She stopped at a busy intersection and let the crowd push her forward, but even surrounded by strangers, she felt achingly alone. Her eyes caught reflections in the glass; a silhouette, a flicker of movement; and her heart leapt, only to crash as she realized it was just a trick of the light.

Her throat tightened, tears threatening to spill, but she blinked them back, swallowing the lump like bitter medicine. She couldn’t break down here. Not yet.

She thought of the missions they’d fought side by side, the moments when he’d shielded her with his very being, the warmth of his presence that had been her anchor. She cursed herself for letting him go, for hiding from what they were. For all the pain that had built between them.

But she had to find him.

Because if she didn’t, if she let him slip away again, she wasn’t sure she’d survive the loss this time.

Hours slipped past like ghosts as she wandered deeper into the city’s veins, the diary her only tether to the man who loved her across time and tragedy.

She whispered his name into the cold air, a prayer and a plea. The city answered with indifferent lights and distant thunder, but she held on.

She would find him. She had to.

The streets stretched endlessly before her, each corner turning into another chance to find him, or lose him forever. The night air was thick with the scent of rain-damp concrete and distant exhaust fumes, blending with the sharp sting of her own breath. Every footstep echoed like a countdown, the uneven rhythm matching the rapid beating of her heart.

She moved through the throng of late-night wanderers and hurried commuters, their faces blurring into a faceless sea of strangers, none of whom held the answer she desperately sought. Neon signs buzzed overhead, flickering and casting harsh glows on the cracked sidewalks, illuminating the exhaustion etched deep into her skin.

Her hands trembled, clutching the diary tighter as if it were a talisman, a map that might lead her to the fractured god who haunted her dreams and memories. The city felt both alive and suffocating, a sprawling maze of light and shadow that mirrored the turmoil within her.

As she neared the edge of the park, the hum of traffic softened, replaced by the rustling of leaves and the distant call of a lone owl. The cool breeze wrapped around her, whispering secrets she longed to hear but feared to believe. Her breath came in shallow gasps, each one a fragile thread holding her resolve together.

And then, through the misty veil of night, she saw it—a single, golden pool of light spilling from a solitary lamp post, cutting through the darkness like a spotlight on a stage.

There, beneath the glow, stood a lone figure. The long trench coat and wide-brimmed hat cast deep shadows over his face, but the stance, the slight slump of his shoulders, the hesitant tilt of his head, was unmistakable.

Her heart clenched painfully. This was him. Her Sentry.

For a moment, she just watched, breath held tight in her chest, afraid that the slightest movement might shatter the fragile connection between them.

The city around her faded, the noise dimming until all that remained was the quiet hum of her own heartbeat and the distant echo of a life that might still be hers to claim.

She took a slow, cautious step forward, then another, the gravel crunching beneath her shoes sounding impossibly loud in the stillness. Her voice, barely above a whisper, trembled as she called his name.

"Bob..."

The figure stiffened instantly, like she had struck a chord deep within him. He slowly lifted his head, the brim of his hat casting shadows over a face marred by exhaustion and pain. His red, puffy eyes were rimmed with dark circles, swollen cheeks betraying countless sleepless nights and tears shed in solitude. He looked as though he had fought with fate itself, and lost.

For a long moment, they simply stared at each other, the distance between them shrinking with every heartbeat yet weighed down by the heavy silence of everything left unsaid.

His voice cracked through the night air, rough and raw, calling her name like a desperate prayer. “You’re here... in your pajamas? What are you doing out here? It’s dangerous at night.” But the words barely registered, swallowed by the storm of her own emotions and pounding heart.

She gripped the diary tighter, her knuckles white against the worn leather, and cut him off, voice trembling but fierce. “Is everything in here true? All of it? The laughter, the silence, the moments you kept hidden... did you really feel all that? Or was it just… something you wrote down?” Her eyes searched his face, burning for answers she wasn’t sure she could bear.

For a long moment, the silence stretched between them, heavy and suffocating, as if the whole world was holding its breath. Then, like a dam finally giving way, Bob’s shoulders slumped, and the weight he’d been carrying shattered into shards of raw confession.

“I never wanted to hurt you,” he murmured, voice ragged with the strain of years spent burying his own torment. “But I was terrified. Terrified that if I let you in, really let you in. I’d lose myself, lose control of the power I barely understand. I thought I was protecting you by pushing you away, by pretending I didn’t need you.”

His red-rimmed eyes bore into hers, vulnerability flashing through the storm of pain. “Every time I ignored you, every cold word, I was fighting the part of me that screamed you were my soulmate. That you were everything I was missing, everything I needed but was too afraid to admit.”

Tears spilled down her cheeks, raw and unforgiving. “I was drowning in silence, watching you slip away while the world tore me apart. I thought if I stayed strong, if I stayed distant, I could survive the pain of losing you.”

Her voice broke as she stepped closer, desperate for the truth to stitch together the pieces of her shattered heart. “You let me fall, Bob. You let me fall into darkness alone. And when I reached out… you weren’t there.”

A bitter laugh escaped him, hollow and broken. “I thought I was saving you from me. But I was only saving myself from the nightmare of losing you... but even then, I couldn't even save myself.”

The night air trembled with the weight of their shared agony, the closets of doubt and fear flung open, exposing wounds raw and bleeding. Two souls, fractured but irreparably bound, standing on the edge of a fragile reckoning.

“I don’t know if I can forgive myself,” he whispered. “But I need you to know, every beat of my heart has been for you. Every moment I was silent was because I was scared to love you the way you deserve.”

She reached out, trembling fingers brushing his cheek, tracing the tears she knew had no end. “I don’t know if we can fix this. But I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.”

For a long moment, the silence stretched between them, heavy and suffocating, as if the whole world was holding its breath. Then, like a dam finally giving way, Bob’s shoulders slumped, and the weight he’d been carrying shattered into shards of raw confession.

“I never wanted to hurt you,” he murmured, voice ragged with the strain of years spent burying his own torment. “But I was terrified. Terrified that if I let you in, really let you in, I’d lose myself, lose control of the power I barely understand. I thought I was protecting you by pushing you away, by pretending I didn’t need you.”

His red-rimmed eyes bore into hers, vulnerability flashing through the storm of pain. “Every time I ignored you, every cold word, I was fighting the part of me that screamed you were my soulmate. That you were everything I was missing, everything I needed but was too afraid to admit.”

Tears spilled down her cheeks, raw and unforgiving. “I was drowning in silence, watching you slip away while the world tore me apart. I thought if I stayed strong, if I stayed distant, I could survive the pain of losing you.”

Her voice broke as she stepped closer, desperate for the truth to stitch together the pieces of her shattered heart. “You let me fall, Bob. You let me fall into darkness alone. And when I reached out… you weren’t there.”

A bitter laugh escaped him, hollow and broken. “I thought I was saving you from me. But I didn't save you from everything else.”

She reached out, trembling fingers brushing his cheek, tracing the tears she knew had no end. “I don’t know if we can fix this. But I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.”

In that fragile, aching moment, the walls crumbled, and for the first time in a long time, they weren’t alone in the dark.

He held her a moment longer, voice low and earnest as he whispered against her hair, “If you’ll have me, I’ll spend every day making up for every mistake I’ve ever made. Because you—you're not just anyone. You’re my soulmate. My one and only.” The weight of his promise hung between them, fragile yet unwavering.

She smiled softly, the warmth of hope blooming in her chest as she lifted her forehead to rest gently against his. “That’s a start, Bob,” she murmured, her breath mingling with his.

A laugh, light and genuine, broke free from him—relieved and tender. He pressed a gentle kiss to her cheek, then another, each one filled with quiet joy and the beginnings of something beautiful. They stood there, wrapped in each other’s arms, laughter and love blending seamlessly into the night and even more so as the sun rose to greet their found again love.

Edit: Is this as good as the first part?? I have no idea. But I did cry again proofreading this so at least that counts for something. I had writers block so it took me some time to write this and when I did, I restarted because it wasn't going in the direction I want it to. Anyways, I was thinking about writing some Superman stuff next since I just watched the new one...

[thepiinkpages]

Bob (Sentry/ The Void) x Soulmate!Reader Part 1

Note: Heyyy so I didn't think anyone would see my last fic.... i'm shocked yall liked it tbh. Anyway, I don't know if this is good but I hope it's at least decent? TBH im kind of hesitate about posting this because of its themes... so yeah but before we start a BIG BIG BIG:

WARNING: This fic has things like implied s*cide, depression and lots of angst and devastation.

Yet another note: So, the songs that got me through this is the greatest by Billie Eilish and I love you by Billie Eilish... yeah. I cried.

Part2

Readers POV:

The city outside Avengers Tower glimmered beneath a washed-out afternoon sun, its skyline a fractured halo of chrome and distant light. You stood still before the floor-to-ceiling window, forehead resting against the cool glass, watching the golden blur of him below. Wind danced in his cape as he descended into the crowd, swallowed in applause before his boots even touched pavement. Cameras flashed. Children screamed his name. Reporters craned to be closer, to inhale the divinity clinging to his shoulders like sunbeams. Sentry. Earth’s brightest. Their god in motion. The man who once looked at you like you hung stars in his heavens.

Your breath fogged the glass. It faded almost instantly.

He hadn’t looked up. Not even once.

He stood in the middle of the square like he belonged to everyone and no one, grinning for strangers, shaking hands, crouching so a boy no taller than his knees could pat the emblem on his chest. It was gold, polished, unmarred; untouched by the horror he’d carried, the monster he kept caged behind the smile. And still, somehow, you envied that boy. Just a little. Maybe more than a little. Not for his innocence, but because Bob had made room for him in that shining moment.

You wondered what that felt like, to be chosen. Even if just for a second.

Sometimes you liked to pretend you weren’t born tethered to someone else’s heartbeat. That you weren’t forged in the same starlight as a man who would go on to change the world, while you remained a bystander to your own destiny. You liked to think that if fate had been a little less cruel, a little more merciful, he might’ve reached for your hand the way he reached for the crowd’s now.

But fate hadn’t been merciful. And Bob never reached for you.

He smiled for the cameras instead.

You closed your eyes for a long breath, but even the darkness behind your lids was tinged with gold.

You had been the one to wake him.

That truth stayed buried in the quietest part of your soul, a place even you rarely touched anymore. A memory so sacred, so aching, that speaking it aloud would somehow cheapen it; make it unreal, or worse, remind you just how thoroughly it had been forgotten.

When you first met him, he had been lost in a fog of himself, half-asleep in the ruins of memory and identity, a god pulled into human skin by cosmic design. Others hadn’t known what he was. Some called him strange. Others sensed something beneath the surface; something ancient, coiled, watching. But you knew. You had felt it the way one feels a storm just before it arrives: deep in your marrow, in your lungs, in your blood. Your soul had trembled in recognition before your mind caught up.

The universe had laws for beings like Bob. Ancient ones. Unwritten, but absolute. Soulmates, and only soulmates, could awaken gods. And by accepting each other, Bob would grow in power and slowly gain control over emotions like sadness, compassion, and love.

And you had awaken him. With a voice he said reminded him of the ocean in winter. With a touch he called steadying. With a presence that calmed the raging, golden sea inside him long enough for him to remember who he was.

For a time, you were the only thing he trusted. The only voice he listened to. The one anchor he clung to when the Void howled like a storm behind his ribs.

Then came the headlines. The missions. The costumes. The speeches. The praise.

And eventually, you became just another member of the team.

He never said it, not directly, but you felt it in the way he stopped sitting beside you during meetings, in how your name was left off interviews, in the way his eyes passed over you like you were furniture instead of fate. He outgrew the need for you as quickly as he’d grown into his role. Not out of cruelty. That would have been easier, in a way. But with quiet dismissal. That uniquely polite neglect only gods could afford to give.

That was the part that hurt most. Not that he forgot. That he remembered, and still chose not to care.

Below, the cheers rose again. You opened your eyes, throat tight, vision blurring around the edges. Bob was laughing now, head tipped back, golden hair catching the light just so. Perfection in motion. Designed to be adored. A thousand eyes on him, none of them yours. Not really.

You pressed your fingers to the glass. Just the tips. They looked small against the city, against the sky, against the god you were never enough for. There had been a time you’d given him everything. Every version of your heart. Every vulnerable part of yourself you had never shared with another. You loved him without needing him to earn it, because that’s what soulmates did.

And he had taken that love and worn it like armor when it suited him, then discarded it without ever asking where it left you bleeding.

Now, you bled in silence.

In meetings, you smiled on cue. On missions, you saved lives like a machine programmed to keep going. In the eyes of the world, you were loyal and brave and lucky to be at the side of a god.

But at night, you stared at your ceiling and wondered if the universe had made a mistake. If maybe, just maybe, you were never meant to wake him. That some other woman, softer, stronger, brighter, might’ve been waiting in another life to be loved the way you never were.

Maybe he was never supposed to love you back.

Or worse. Maybe he did, in some buried, monstrous part of himself, and he was too afraid of becoming human to admit it.

You didn’t know which version of the truth would break you faster.

He hadn’t looked up once.

You stepped back from the window and let the curtain fall into place.

Let them cheer for him. Let them touch the hem of their golden god. Let them feel chosen.

You had stopped hoping for that a long time ago.

But the ache didn’t leave. It never did.

And you didn’t know how many more days you could take, loving someone who had once called you his light, only to pretend now that you were no one at all.

The first time you noticed he was avoiding you, it felt small. Almost accidental. A missed glance in the hall. A message left on read a little too long. You told yourself he was busy. He had responsibilities. He was saving the world. But then it happened again. And again. And again. And eventually, the absence became something louder than presence ever was.

He didn’t speak to you anymore, not unless it was necessary. Not unless someone else was in the room. And even then, his voice never settled on you the way it used to. He looked through you now, polite and distant, like a man shaking hands with a stranger he swore he’d met before.

You didn’t understand why.

There hadn’t been a fight. No words exchanged sharp enough to cut. No confessions. No mistakes you could point to and say there, that’s when I lost him. He had simply drifted, wordless, unreachable, until one day you realized you hadn’t heard him laugh in your direction in weeks.

But worse than the distance was the humiliation.

People noticed.

They were too tactful to say it outright, but you saw it in their expressions. In the way conversations shifted when you entered a room. In the way some of them, usually newer team members or support staff, talked about him in front of you like you weren’t still breaking open beneath your skin.

It happened again today.

You were in the rec lounge, pretending to read an outdated mission report while two junior agents near the kitchenette whispered too loudly for their own good. You didn’t know their names. They weren’t part of the core team. Just auxiliary support, floaters assigned between teams, always eager for gossip.

“Did you see the footage from yesterday?” one asked, chewing her thumbnail. “Sentry looked pissed the entire time. And he just flew off right after, didn’t say a word to anyone.”

The other scoffed. “He’s always like that lately. Everyone acts like he’s some enlightened being or whatever, but he’s rude as hell. You’d think being worshipped all the time would make someone nicer.”

A laugh. “Honestly? I bet he thinks he’s too important to waste time talking to us. Or anyone who’s not on his little worship list. What’s that one girl’s name? The one who always trails after him?”

You set the file down quietly.

“She’s got that weird smile. Always defending him even when he’s being cold as ice. Can’t tell if she’s obsessed with him or just delusional.”

The other one snorted into her coffee. “Both.”

You rose slowly, deliberately, and crossed the room to refill your mug. They stiffened when they saw you. One opened her mouth, but you didn’t give her the chance.

“If either of you ever spoke to him, you’d know he doesn’t waste time with people who only want proximity to power,” you said, voice even, eyes steady. “And if you spent half as much time doing your job as you do talking about people out of your league, maybe you’d be more than just benchwarmers with opinions.”

Their silence was satisfying. Briefly.

You left the room without finishing your coffee.

Loyalty wasn’t a choice. Not when it came to him.

It was carved into you, etched bone-deep, stitched into your soul with threads older than logic or dignity. Even now, even when he hadn’t said your name in weeks, you would still defend him. Still fight for him. Still bleed for him, if it came to that.

Because gods didn’t always know how to love. And you had long since accepted that loving him meant expecting nothing in return.

But you were tired.

You were so tired.

Back in your quarters, you shut the door and leaned against it, letting your bag slide from your shoulder to the floor. The room was dim, lit only by the gold-pink light of early evening pouring through your window. You didn’t move to turn on the lamp.

Instead, you sank slowly onto your bed, staring at the wall where the faintest outline of his shadow had once stretched in golden twilight. Back when he used to visit. Back when he used to knock.

Your fingers trembled as they traced the edge of your bedsheet, grounding yourself in the smallest movement. The silence around you felt cruel tonight, pressing in like an old bruise being poked just to see if it still hurt.

It did.

You hated yourself for how much it still did.

You didn’t understand what you had done wrong. And that unknowing, the aching vacuum of it, was beginning to unravel you in ways you couldn’t explain.

There were mornings now where getting up felt like pulling yourself from a grave. Nights where your chest burned with the need to cry, but your eyes remained dry out of sheer exhaustion. You were unraveling slowly, and he didn’t even seem to notice.

You didn’t want pity. You didn’t want to be rescued. But you did want, just once, for him to look at you the way he had when you first woke him. When he reached for your hand like it anchored him to this plane. When his voice cracked as he whispered, “You brought me back.”

You had. You remembered the feeling of his soul shaking awake under your fingertips, the heat of him rising like a tidal wave that only you could calm. The divine recognizing the divine. The bond, cosmic, ancient, absolute, had sparked alive in that moment. It had been real. It had to be.

So how could he forget?

Why would he choose to?

That question haunted you most of all. Because if he did feel it, and you were sure he had, once, then this silence wasn’t ignorance. It was rejection. It was avoidance with intent. A dismissal not of circumstance, but of you.

Your hands clenched in your lap, knuckles whitening. You didn’t want to cry, but your body was tired of holding it all in. Still, no tears came. You’d passed the point of tears days ago, maybe weeks. What was left behind now was something hollow and quiet, a silence that lived beneath your skin and whispered that it would always be like this. That even fate could be cruel.

You had nothing left to give him but your loyalty.

And still, you gave it.

You defended him when others called him cold, distant, arrogant. You silenced gossip in rooms where no one else did. You swallowed every sharp word spoken about him like it was your own guilt to carry.

Because love; true, soul-woven love, didn’t vanish just because it wasn’t returned.

But devotion like that had a cost. And you were starting to feel it in your bones. The weight of it. The aching dissonance of loving someone who no longer looked at you like you were part of his world.

Maybe he never would again.

That night, you stood in the shower for longer than you needed to, letting the water run down your face until you could pretend it was just steam fogging your vision. You dressed in silence, crawled into bed, and stared at the ceiling until the dark softened around the edges.

Outside, the city pulsed with distant life. Down the hallway, you imagined his door, still closed, still cold. Still too far.

You turned over, buried your face into the pillow, and whispered the same thing you had whispered for the last seven nights:

“Please just say something.”

But the room stayed quiet.

And he didn’t knock anymore.

The first meme was a harmless thing. Just a blurry photo of you trailing a few paces behind him after a press conference, eyes down, hair wind-swept across your cheek, and a caption that read:

when ur simping for the sun god but he doesn’t even know u exist

You saw it by accident. Someone tagged you, probably out of morbid curiosity. Maybe to be cruel. Maybe just because they didn’t think you’d actually see it.

You wished you hadn’t clicked it. Wished you hadn’t seen the comments.

“He left her on read in real life” “Can someone check if she’s ok??” “She’s like a cult member at this point.” “I’d kill myself if someone looked through me like that 💀”

You didn’t respond. Of course you didn’t. You closed the app. You breathed. You told yourself it would pass. Internet people moved on quickly. That’s what they were good at. But by the end of the week, there were more.

Someone made a compilation: Clips of Bob speaking at interviews, eyes scanning the crowd and never landing on you. Shots of you in the background of mission footage, always hovering just behind him, silent, waiting, hopeful. One video zoomed in on your face as he turned away from you mid-conversation, brushing past without a word. Someone added sad music over it. It went viral.

You stopped checking your phone. You stopped checking the news. It didn’t stop them.

In the training bay, an intern chuckled as you walked past. In the cafeteria, a tech whispered something you couldn’t hear, then fell silent when you looked up. Even the team… even they hesitated now. Spoke to you gently, like you were fragile glass etched with his initials, one breath away from breaking.

You didn’t defend yourself. Not once.

You couldn’t.

Because the worst part wasn’t that the world thought you were pitiful. The worst part was that they were right.

You still loved him.

You still loved him, and he still wouldn’t look at you.

You didn’t know what you had done to deserve this exile, this purgatory of half-existence, where your soulmate lived down the hall and still felt lightyears away. You clung to the memory of his voice in the beginning, rough and disoriented when he first opened his eyes, your name the first sound he spoke aloud. The way he held your wrist back then, thumb brushing your pulse, like he was trying to memorize the beat of the only thing grounding him to earth.

Where had that gone?

What had changed?

Was this your punishment for needing him too much? Or for believing that loving him meant he’d love you back?

The spiral came in small ways.

You stopped going to the mess hall. You skipped movie nights. You began staying in your room between assignments, pretending to be asleep when teammates knocked. You told yourself you were just tired. Just busy. Just focused. But you stopped brushing your hair some mornings. You started forgetting meals. Some days, you stared at the wall for hours and didn’t realize the sun had moved.

And he never came.

He never checked.

Not once.

It wasn’t until Wanda found you in the archives, sitting on the floor between storage shelves, knees tucked to your chest, eyes red from crying you hadn’t even noticed, that someone finally said something out loud.

“Why are you still here?” she asked, voice gentle, not unkind. “What are you holding onto?”

You didn’t know how to answer her. Not in a way that made sense. Not without sounding foolish. Not without sounding broken.

So you whispered the only truth you had left: “I think I was meant for him.”

Wanda crouched beside you and didn’t say anything for a long time.

Eventually, she said, “That doesn’t mean he was meant for you.”

You think that was the moment something cracked.

That night, a box arrived at your door.

Plain. Unmarked.

Inside: a scarf. Navy blue. Cashmere. Soft enough to make your breath catch. You lifted it slowly, fingers trembling, heart stuttering against your ribs.

There was no note. No explanation. But you knew who it was from.

You knew.

You held it to your chest. Closed your eyes. And let yourself believe, for just one aching second, that maybe this meant something.

That maybe he hadn’t forgotten. That maybe he’d seen you all along. That maybe—

You buried your face in the fabric. And for the first time in days, you wept.

The scarf lived on your desk for three days.

You couldn’t bring yourself to wear it, not yet, but you also couldn’t look away from it. It became an altar of sorts. A soft, quiet thing you kept returning to like prayer. It was the first thing he’d given you since everything fell apart, and it had arrived so suddenly, so gently, you’d convinced yourself it meant something. It had to.

There was no card. No explanation. No signature. But you knew it was from him.

The color was too specific. The fabric too fine. The scent of it—faint and clean and barely there, reminded you of the room he used to keep in the western wing. He always smelled like that. Like static. Like morning wind. Like the edges of a storm that never quite touched ground.

You had held it to your face the moment you opened the box and breathed him in like a drowning thing.

It was the closest you’d felt to him in weeks.

You imagined his hands folding it. Imagined him wrapping it carefully. Imagined him, alone in his room, feeling just enough guilt to send you something warm. You told yourself it meant something. Not everything. Not yet. But a beginning. An apology, maybe. An unspoken truth.

You had spent so long being nothing to him. It felt unbearable to receive anything at all.

On the fourth day, you wore it.

Just around the Tower. Just softly tucked under your coat. You didn’t tell anyone. You didn’t post. You didn’t smile, not really. But you walked differently. A little taller. A little less like you were bracing for the floor to fall away again.

You passed him in the hallway. He looked up. Briefly.

Your eyes met.

For one slow second, you thought he might say something. Your heart climbed up your throat. You waited.

He looked away. Said nothing. Kept walking.

You stood there long after he’d gone. Frozen. Stupidly cold despite the fabric wrapped around your neck.

You waited all day for a follow-up.

A message. A knock. A reason. A hint of what the scarf had meant.

It never came.

Not that night. Not the next morning. Not ever.

By the end of the week, you’d convinced yourself it was a pity gift. A silent offering from a man too burdened by your presence to speak aloud the one truth you were now certain of:

He didn’t love you. He never had.

Not when you woke him. Not when he called you his constant. Not when he swore, once long ago, that he’d never leave you behind.

The scarf had been a kindness. A soft, wordless goodbye.

You should have known better than to think it was anything else.

The Tower became unbearable after that.

The rooms too wide. The halls too loud. Everyone moved like they were full of noise and light, and you had long since become a shadow at their edges. You started sleeping through briefings. Stopped returning texts. Took showers too hot and too long because they numbed the aching places inside you.

The jokes online kept coming. The clips. The comments.

People said you were delusional. That you had latched onto the first person who made you feel seen and mistook it for love. That Sentry had outgrown you and you hadn’t noticed. That he was too powerful, too godly, too good to be with someone like you.

Somewhere along the way, you started believing them.

You didn’t know when the sadness turned into something else. Something colder. Heavier. The quiet kind of despair that lives in the bones. The kind that wakes you up in the middle of the night without reason. The kind that makes food taste like nothing. Music feel like static. Time like a cruel trick.

It was worse because no one noticed. Not even him.

Especially not him.

You told yourself you were being dramatic. That you were just tired. That things would feel better eventually, even if you didn’t know how or when.

But then the thought came.

Not loud. Not sudden. Not with a scream.

It arrived soft. Lingering. Familiar.

What if I just stopped?

What if you stopped waiting. Stopped hoping. Stopped waking up to the same ache every day.

You didn’t want to die. Not really.

You just didn’t want to be like this anymore.

And sometimes, the difference felt too thin to matter.

That night, you took the scarf from your desk.

You held it for a long time. Sat on the edge of your bed. Thought about nothing and everything. The weight of a thousand tiny humiliations stacking in your chest like bricks.

You had loved him. Truly. Completely. Without condition.

And he hadn’t even said goodbye.

You wrapped the scarf around your fingers and wept into your hands like it was the first time.

You didn’t write a note.

You didn’t need to.

–––––––––––––––––––

Bobs POV:

Bob hadn’t spoken to her in weeks. He hadn’t touched her, hadn’t looked her in the eye, hadn’t lingered long enough in a room to let her presence mean anything more than incidental. She had been around, always there in the periphery, doing her job, completing missions, sitting quietly at meetings while others bickered and postured. He never gave her more than a nod or an unreadable glance. He told himself she didn’t need more. Told himself she understood.

It was easier to believe that than admit he was avoiding her.

She was his soulmate. The pull between them had been undeniable from the moment she touched him, waking him from that long, cosmic sleep, a sleep only a soulmate could break. The others in the Tower never said anything, but they all knew. They must have. No one questioned why it had been her. Why it had been a girl with tired eyes and a kind smile who brought a god back to life.

He’d felt the shift immediately. The static in the air. The unnatural stillness of his powers coiling around her in silence, as if waiting for permission to soften.

He had resisted it.

Soulmates were dangerous. Not because of weakness, but because they made gods feel things they had no idea how to live with. Love brought consequence. Attachment created vulnerability. He was already powerful. He didn’t need her to complete him. That was a lie mortals told each other to endure their loneliness. He didn’t need to feel anything more than duty. Certainly not affection. Certainly not want.

So he kept her at arm’s length and never let her know how often he noticed the way she looked at him when she thought he wasn’t paying attention.

He didn’t hate her. That would’ve been easier. Instead, he did worse—he treated her like she didn’t matter.

The summit in Geneva had lasted three days.

Three days of cold rooms and overcooked speeches, of diplomats smiling too widely and photographers trying to capture divinity in flattering lighting. Reporters had asked about global crises and threats beyond Earth’s atmosphere. One had asked if he believed in fate.

He had said no.

No one asked about her. No one ever did. Not even the team. Not directly.

Everyone assumed it was his business and his alone. If a god didn’t want his soulmate, who were they to question it?

The Tower was silent when he returned.

Not just still. Silent. The kind of silence that suggested something had ended.

He entered through the lower deck, greeted only by a nod from one of the junior security agents. There were no comments about the press photos, no teasing from Alexei, no sarcastic welcome from Yelena. He assumed they were tired. Maybe offsite. Maybe something had happened while he was away.

He didn’t check the mission logs. He didn’t ask.

He dropped his bag in his quarters, changed into sweatpants, and wandered to the kitchen with the vague intention of eating something warm. His body ached, not from injury, but from the weight of too many hours pretending to be more human than he felt.

He found the good bread, your bread, tucked behind a stack of canned soup. The kind you used to protect like treasure. His fingers paused over it, thumb brushing the edge of the twist-tie before he looked away and grabbed it anyway. Two slices. Pickles. The sharp mustard you once said made your nose sting. He used too much and didn’t care.

The kitchen was cold. He didn’t realize until he sat on the couch, sandwich in hand, and pulled the pink blanket over his lap, the one you’d insisted on keeping in the common area, even when others mocked its color.

The television blinked to life, and your show was already queued up.

He didn’t change it. Just clicked play and settled back, chewing mechanically, watching characters smile and trip over themselves for love they thought they didn’t deserve. You used to laugh at those parts. You always said people like that were the worst, so scared of feeling anything that they ruined something beautiful before it could begin.

He hadn’t laughed then. He didn’t laugh now.

The elevator opened sometime after episode two.

He barely looked up.

He expected Yelena, maybe Sam, someone holding a takeout bag or complaining about sore shoulders. Instead, what he saw didn’t make sense at first.

Yelena stepped out first. Then Bucky. Then Alexei, Ghost and then Walker.

All dressed in black.

Not training uniforms. Not combat gear.

Formal black.

They looked like a line of gravestones; somber, upright, immovable. Their expressions were tight, their eyes rimmed red, their mouths set as though they’d all bitten into something bitter they couldn’t spit out.

Bob sat forward slowly. “Hey. Uh... did I miss something?”

No one answered.

He tried to lighten it. “Whose funeral is it?”

Yelena’s eyes welled instantly. Her mouth trembled, and she looked down.

Something sank inside him. “What—what’s going on?”

Walker opened his mouth, then closed it. Bucky turned away. Alexei’s jaw clenched.

Yelena stepped forward and said your name.

Just your name.

He blinked. “Where is she?”

“She’s gone,” Yelena whispered.

He stared at her, chest growing tight. “What do you mean gone?”

“She used the scarf.”

The words landed flat. He didn’t understand.

“The one you gave her,” she added, voice breaking.

His head shook automatically. “No. That’s not—she wore it the day I left. She smiled. I saw her.”

“She used it, Bob.”

The silence after that was deafening.

“She's. Gone. Bob.”

His knees buckled before the thought could fully take shape. He gripped the back of the couch and laughed once, dry, panicked. “No, she wouldn’t... she wouldn’t do that. Not her. She was stronger than that. She was strong.”

No one said otherwise.

No one blamed him.

No one needed to.

Because they all knew.

She had waited.

And he had turned his face from her, day after day, as if love was a weakness he couldn’t afford.

As if she hadn’t been made for him.

He didn’t say a word as he walked down the corridor to her room.

His steps felt mechanical, arms numb at his sides, breath coming in shallow bursts he couldn’t slow. Every door he passed felt unfamiliar. The Tower itself, which had always felt like his, like home, suddenly pressed in on him with a suffocating kind of silence. Like it knew something he didn’t. Like it had been holding its breath, waiting for him to finally arrive too late.

He opened her door without knocking. No one tried to stop him.

Her room was clean. Too clean.

The bed was made, corners tucked neatly like she always did when she was anxious. Her books were stacked beside her window seat, a half-burnt candle resting in a pool of hardened wax. Her shoes were lined up by the closet, perfectly straight. The stuffed rabbit Yelena had won her at a fair sat quietly on the pillow.

And there, at the end of the bed, was the scarf.

The same one he had sent her. Pale gray. Soft. Still holding its gentle folds like it had been carefully laid down by hands that didn’t want to disturb a single thread.

He stared at it, every nerve in his body twisting slowly inward.

Something low and cold began to bloom in his chest.

He had thought it was a kind gesture. He’d sent it without a note, without warning, after weeks of giving her nothing, no affection, no explanation, not even basic warmth. It had been a moment of guilt, maybe. A flicker of what he hadn’t been brave enough to name.

And she had worn it.

She had smiled.

She once had looked at him like that small gift meant the world.

He backed up a step. The air felt too thin. His eyes burned, but he didn’t blink. Didn’t dare.

His heart began to pound in his chest, not like fear. Not like adrenaline.

This was different. This was collapse.

The kind that wraps around your lungs and tightens until your own breath becomes a stranger.

He turned slowly and sank to the floor just outside her doorway. His back hit the wall. His palms pressed into his eyes. He kept seeing the scarf, over and over, like it had branded itself into his vision. His mouth opened, and for a moment, no sound came.

Then it did.

A broken, shuddering sound tore from his throat; raw, guttural, halfway between a sob and a scream.

He covered his face with his hands and leaned forward, his forehead nearly hitting his knees as the first real sob cracked him open from the inside. It wasn’t dramatic. It wasn’t cinematic. It was helpless. Ugly. Silent, then loud. Then silent again.

His chest felt like it was being crushed under the weight of a world he could never lift.

He had done this.

He had made her feel alone.

He had made her believe that even her soulmate, a being cosmically bound to love her, couldn’t bring himself to care.

And now she was gone.

She was gone, and the world hadn’t stopped spinning.

The sun hadn’t burned out.

The city lights still flickered through the windows, indifferent.

He clawed at his own scalp, as if digging through his skull could undo the memory. As if he could rip the silence from his brain and throw it somewhere else, anywhere else.

Because that silence had killed her.

His silence.

His refusal to feel.

His fear of being human.

The tears came in waves. Hot and endless. Not graceful. Not poetic. Just raw and real and full of everything he had never let himself say when she was still alive.

He had denied her because he believed he was already whole. Already powerful. Above mortal feelings. Above needing anything.

But now, it felt like he needed her more than oxygen. And he would never hear her voice again.

And she would never know.

The sun rose like it didn’t know what had happened.

Bob woke curled on her floor, wrapped in her hoodie, surrounded by the quiet hum of a room that no longer belonged to anyone. He had passed out at some point the night before, though he couldn’t remember when. His cheek was pressed to the edge of her bed frame, legs tangled in one of her blankets, the one that still smelled faintly like lavender and whatever soft, warm thing she always carried with her. His fingers were clenched around the scarf, the scarf, his knuckles white with the grip even in sleep.

It was too quiet.

The kind of quiet that didn’t just happen, it lingered. Heavy. Like the walls were holding their breath.

For a moment, he didn’t move.

Then it all came rushing back.

He sat up slowly, bones aching from the awkward angle, chest tight, heart thudding against the cage of his ribs. The weight hadn’t gone away. If anything, it had settled deeper, coiled low and cold in his stomach like lead. His head throbbed, his throat burned, and his mouth was dry in a way that had nothing to do with thirst.

She was gone.

She was gone, and the room hadn’t changed.

The candle had melted a little more. That was all.

Everything else was still as she had left it. The bed made. The closet half-open. The bunny plush still perched against the pillow with its little bent ear leaning sideways. Her presence was still everywhere, stitched into the fabric, clinging to the air, haunting the silence like an accusation he could never answer.

He didn’t know what he was doing when he moved toward her closet.

He wasn’t thinking. Thinking hurt.

His hand reached out. Brushed a jacket. Then a sweater. Then that stupid oversized hoodie she used to wear when she wanted to feel invisible. He took it. Folded it once. Clutched it to his chest like a child.

And then he started pulling more down; sweaters, shirts, anything soft. He moved slowly, deliberately, never looking away from the folds of fabric in his arms.

He set them down beside her bed. Made a small pile. Then another. Then he unfolded the pink blanket from her chair and pulled it on top. At some point, he moved to the dresser. Took the scarf. Held it like it could explain something.

He didn’t fold it.

He buried it in the center of the mess he had created and crawled after it.

It wasn’t a ritual. It wasn’t catharsis.

It was instinct. Pure, animal desperation.

He made a nest out of her. Out of what was left. He didn’t care how it looked. Didn’t care that the sleeves trailed across the floor or that her perfume had already started to fade. He just needed it. Needed to be in it. Needed to smell her and feel her, even if it was only cotton and static and the cruel echo of memory.

He sank into the center of the nest, pressing his face to one of her sweaters. Her scent hit him so hard he gasped.

She had been here.

Not long ago.

Walking, breathing, laughing. Always smiling at him, even when he didn’t deserve it.

The sob that tore out of him came without warning. It shook his whole frame. The hoodie muffled the first one, but not the second. Or the third. His ribs hurt from it. His fists twisted into the scarf and squeezed until the blood fled his knuckles.

She had worn it. The scarf. She had thought it meant something. She had hoped. And he hadn’t followed up. Hadn’t checked in. Hadn’t said a single word that might have reached her when it mattered.

Instead, she died thinking he didn’t care.

The guilt burned up his spine like acid.

He pressed his forehead to the floor and let the grief come. Not neatly. Not cleanly. Just in long, messy gasps that wracked through him like they were trying to undo everything inside his chest. His shoulders shook, and still he didn’t leave the floor. Didn’t uncurl himself from the warmth of the nest he had built out of the only thing left of her.

He deserved this.

All of it.

And no matter what power he had; how fast he could fly, how much light he could carry in his hands, none of it could reach her now.

Not where she was.

Not anymore.

His breathing had steadied, not from calm, but from exhaustion. The sobs had hollowed him out until only the silence remained, raw and echoing in his chest like a cavern too wide to be filled.

He curled tighter around the hoodie clutched to his chest, dragging the sleeves against his mouth to try and smother the broken noises still trembling out of him. It didn’t work. Nothing worked. The air still tasted like her. His hands still smelled like her. Her scent clung to everything, soft and innocent and so alive, it made his bones hurt.

Something crackled beneath the fabric.

He stilled.

Slowly, he sat up, pulling back the folds of the hoodie. A soft sound, paper, shifting, rose in the quiet. His hands fumbled for the source, fingers trembling as they brushed the inside of the kangaroo pocket.

There, hidden in the stitching of the worn cotton, was a folded piece of paper. Cream-colored. Fragile. Tucked away carefully, almost shyly. Like she hadn’t wanted anyone else to find it but knew someone eventually would.

His name was written on the front.

Just Bob.

His breath caught.

No one else ever called him that in writing. Not on paper. Not with that delicate, looping script. She hadn’t signed it with sarcasm. Hadn’t written Sentry. Hadn’t added a heart or a smiley or a farewell.

Just his name.

He sat still for a long time, staring at the way the ink had smudged slightly, like her hand had shaken.

Then, finally, he opened it.

The words were simple. No preamble. No bitterness. Only softness. Like she’d written them in the dark, whispering them through the paper, unsure whether she had the right to say them at all.

“I know you didn’t ask for this. I know you didn’t want someone like me for something so cosmic and important. But I loved you anyway. Quietly. The way you look at stars you’re not allowed to touch.”

His eyes burned.

“I tried not to hope. I really did. I tried to be patient. You never owed me anything. But I think we’re born needing certain things. And I was born needing you.”

His hands shook harder. The words were beginning to blur, lines swimming under his eyes, ink breaking apart.

“The scarf was beautiful. Thank you. For that. For all the things you didn’t say but maybe almost meant to. I wanted to believe you cared. Even if it was just a little. I’m sorry I wasn’t strong enough to wait longer.”

Bob let out a quiet, broken gasp, like the wind had been knocked from him.

“This isn’t your fault. You were always going to choose the world. And I was always going to hope you’d choose me, too. I just ran out of time. I’m so sorry.”

He couldn’t read the rest. He pressed the letter to his chest and folded over it, the hoodie clenched in his arms, her scent still clinging to his hair, his clothes, his mouth.

She had thanked him.

She had loved him.

And she had died thinking she wasn’t enough.

He didn't know how long he lay there.

The paper was still pressed against his chest like a wound he didn’t know how to stop bleeding from. The hoodie had lost its warmth, but he couldn’t let go. Not yet. Not ever. He’d buried his face in it again and again, searching for some lingering trace of her, something real, something alive, but the scent was already fading. Like everything else.

His mind kept playing tricks on him. He swore he heard her footsteps in the hall. Her soft laugh in the kitchen. The quiet way she’d breathe when she slept beside the wall, curled in on herself, trying not to take up space.

He used to think she was just shy.

Now he understood. She was trying not to burden him with her existence.

And he had let her.

The thought came suddenly, sharp and cold, She died thinking she wasn’t wanted.

His stomach turned violently. He shot up, stumbled to his feet, and barely made it to the bathroom before he was on his knees, retching until his ribs screamed. Nothing came up. Just bile and spit and sounds that weren’t human.

He slammed the door behind him, then punched the tile wall hard enough to crack it.

It wasn’t enough.

He hit it again. And again. And again. Bone split. Blood smeared. His knuckles broke, healed, broke again, over and over until he couldn’t even feel the pain, just wanted to feel it. Needed to. Something had to hurt as much as his chest did.

His reflection stared back at him from the fractured mirror. Wide eyes. Swollen. Red-rimmed. He looked like a man who’d clawed his way out of a grave, and in a way, he had. But what had come out wasn’t whole.

It wasn’t him anymore.

“I should’ve said something,” he whispered hoarsely, voice shaking. “I should’ve told her she mattered. That she—God, she—”

He sank to the floor, back sliding down the bathroom wall. His head hit the tile with a dull thud. His hands clenched in his hair.

“I thought I had time.”

Time to get used to the bond. Time to figure himself out. Time to learn how to care without destroying everything he touched.

He thought she’d wait forever.

But she hadn’t.

Because she wasn’t some celestial concept. She was human. And she had been hurting. And he had known—and done nothing.

That night, he tore apart his room looking for more. Another letter. A journal. A message. Anything.

There was nothing.

So he went back into hers.

He didn’t leave for days. Not that he cared to count.

He pulled the remaining sweaters off the hangers, her hoodies from the drawers. He built a pile of them in the corner of her room and curled into it like an animal, trying to disappear into the scent, the warmth, the memory.

He didn’t eat. Didn’t sleep. His healing factor kept him alive. But his mind wasn’t in his body anymore. It was stuck in every moment she smiled at him and he looked away. Every time her voice trembled and he didn’t ask why. Every time she stood just a little too long in the doorway, waiting for him to say stay, and he never did.

And through it all, the letter repeated in his head, over and over, like a song he couldn’t stop humming.

“I loved you anyway. Quietly.”

The guilt was eating him alive. Devouring him from the inside until all that remained was a black hole where his chest used to be. There wasn’t enough air in the tower. Not enough space in the universe.

And under the crushing weight of it all, something inside him shifted.

Something ancient. Something buried.

The Void, silent and watching, stirred.

It was a different feeling this time. It was as though his entire being was being torn apart by the pain. By the guilt. And that included The Void.

But it stayed where it was, for now—because it felt like The Void was also mourning a love he had lost.

And the next time he whispered her name, there was a tremor in the air, like reality itself flinched.

It was sometime past midnight when he saw her.

The room was dark, lit only by the faint glow of the city beyond the window. He hadn't moved from the nest of her clothes. His knees were drawn to his chest, arms wrapped tight around them, hoodie sleeves pulled over trembling hands.

And then—quiet.

Utter stillness.

He felt it before he saw it. A shift in the air. A subtle pressure in the atmosphere, like the world had stopped breathing.

He looked up.

She was standing in the doorway.

Barefoot. Wearing that oversized sweater she always used to sleep in, the one with the frayed cuffs and worn collar. Her hair hung loose around her face, the strands catching the moonlight. Her eyes—God, her eyes—looked right at him. Soft. Knowing. Sad.

He stopped breathing.

His heart stuttered violently in his chest.

“…You’re not real,” he whispered.

But his voice cracked like he wasn’t sure.

She stepped forward.

Every movement was slow, careful—like she was afraid she’d frighten him. Or maybe like she wasn’t sure she had the right to be near him anymore. She didn’t speak. Didn’t smile. Just watched him, that same expression she always wore when he was trying to hold himself together, gentle, but never pitying.

He blinked and she was gone.

His breath hitched, rough and shallow. He scrambled to his knees, crawling toward the doorway like maybe she was just out of sight, like maybe if he looked fast enough—

“Please,” he choked out, tears spilling freely now, throat raw from hours of silence. “Please don’t go. I didn’t mean to—I didn’t know. I didn’t know it would break me.”

He slumped against the doorframe, clutching the wall like it could anchor him to something real.

But she wasn’t there.

Of course she wasn’t.

She had been nothing but a flicker. A projection. His grief molding itself into what he wanted most and feared most all at once.

His fingers slid down the wall. “You were right in front of me,” he whispered, “and I kept choosing to look away.”

He laughed bitterly, low and hollow. “I thought I had time. But time didn’t want me. Time wanted you.”

The floor beneath him felt cold. Too solid. Too now.

And then the hoodie she’d always worn was in his hands again. He held it to his face, breathing in what little scent remained, and curled in on himself.

He stayed there until dawn, half-asleep, half-hoping he'd see her again, but knowing if he did, it would only be the weight of everything he lost, dressed in her shape.

A week later, the rooftop was slick with rain, water pooling in silver veins between the concrete tiles. Bob stood alone, unmoving, a dark silhouette against the glimmering sprawl of the city. Storm clouds hung low and heavy above, as if mourning with him. The downpour soaked him to the bone, but he didn't care. He barely noticed.

The air was thick with the scent of ozone and something else, something that pulled at the edges of his memory like claws.

She used to love the rain.

He could still hear her; bright, foolish, irritatingly gentle.

“Bob, come outside,” she had chirped once, palms pressed to the glass like a kid. “Come feel it! It’s warm.”

He had scoffed without even turning his head. “You’re not five. Grow the fuck up.”

She’d flinched.

God, he remembered that now. The way her smile faltered before she masked it again. She always tried to pretend it didn’t bother her. Like she thought that if she just kept showing up, he’d eventually give in.

He never did. Not once. And he made sure she knew it.

He didn’t just ignore her, he resented her.

When she’d call him her soulmate, even just in passing, his tone would sharpen like broken glass. “I’m not yours,” he had said once, cold and flat. “You’re a mistake. A glitch.”

She had stared at him, blinking. “Bob, I—”

“You’re not mine, your nothing to me. Don’t say that again.”

She hadn’t.

Not after that.

He’d won that round. He’d pushed her far enough that she finally stopped trying to reach for him like he was worth something. And for a while, he thought he’d done the right thing. Soulmates were for humans. Weaklings. He was beyond that, wasn’t he?

But now...

Now, the silence screamed louder than anything.

He could feel her absence in his bones.

His fingers curled at his sides, nails biting into his palms. The storm battered against him, and he welcomed it, every drop like a lash against skin. A punishment. A prayer. A confession.

He could’ve been kind. Just once.

He could’ve answered the door when she left food for him on holidays.

He could’ve looked up when she passed him in the halls instead of pretending she was air.

He could’ve said thank you. Just once.

But instead—

“I told you I didn’t need you,” he whispered bitterly, jaw trembling. “I told you to stay away, and you did.”

His voice broke. So did something inside his chest.

He sank down, knees hitting the wet concrete with a thud. The rain poured harder, blurring the skyline into a smear of lights and shadows. He clutched at his chest like he could tear it open and crawl inside the hollow where she used to be.

“I didn’t mean it,” he gasped, voice raw. “I didn’t mean it. I didn’t—I didn’t know—”

But he had meant it. Every word. Every cruel dismissal.

He had known what he was doing.

He just hadn’t thought it would matter.

Because gods don’t need anyone.

But he wasn’t a god right now. He was just a man on a roof in the rain, grieving the one person who had ever looked at him like he was something soft. Something safe. Something lovable.

He tilted his head back toward the sky, eyes burning.

“Come back,” he whispered. “Please. Come back and I’ll—I’ll say it. I’ll tell you I’m sorry.”

Thunder cracked across the heavens as he took off into the dark sky.

The sky cracked open, and the storm poured like judgment.

Bob flew through it like a man fleeing from the edge of the world, except there was no edge anymore. It had caved in behind him. The wind screamed in his ears, cold and punishing, but he didn’t slow down. Couldn’t. Grief dragged him like gravity toward the only place that still mattered.

Her grave.

He dropped from the sky like a stone. His knees hit the earth so hard they splashed mud, and he didn’t flinch. He didn’t notice the way his hands trembled as he crawled the last few feet. He didn’t care that he was soaked to the bone, hair plastered to his face, rain mixing with tears he hadn’t realized were falling.

He reached the headstone and collapsed against it, like a sinner at an altar, forehead pressed to cold granite.

“I didn’t want you,” he whispered, voice cracking. “I didn’t want a soulmate. I didn’t want to need anything.”

The thunder rumbled.

“I told myself I was better off alone,” he choked, hands curling into fists. “I thought you were a weakness. I thought if I let you in, I’d lose control. That I would disappear.”

He drew in a trembling breath, and the pressure inside his chest built like a dam ready to break.

“But you were the only one who ever saw all of me. And I still pushed you away.”

The wind whipped around him.

Then something shifted.

It wasn’t rage this time.

It wasn’t power.

It was sorrow.

The Void had stirred.

Not in violence. Not in chaos.

But in pain.

For the first time since her death, Bob felt the Void—not as the monster he feared, but as the piece of himself he’d always denied. The part that had been watching. Listening. Loving.

And the pain hit like a tidal wave.

Because the Void had loved her in silence.

Had understood her loneliness.

Had seen her rejection mirrored in its own creation.

“You were kind,” a voice said—low, velvet-dark, from inside him. “You stayed... even when he ran.”

A shudder wracked Bob’s spine. The Sentry rose up inside him too—golden, broken, radiant—and fell to his knees beside him in that silent place where souls spoke.

They had never stood together before.

Not like this.

Not in grief.

Not in unity.

But now they did.

Bob. The Sentry. The Void.

Three names. One heart. Crushed under the weight of what they’d lost.

Together, they mourned her.

Together, they cried.

“I'm sorry,” Bob whispered, forehead still pressed to her name. “All of me. Every piece. We’re sorry.”

The lightning faded to a glow on the horizon, a pale echo of a god who no longer felt divine. The rain thinned to a gentle fall, soaking the wildflowers someone had left weeks ago.

“We should’ve told you.”

A long silence.

Then, for the first time, The Void wept.

And the three pieces of him—warrior, protector, shadow—merged into one man curled in the dirt before her grave, begging for a second chance no one could give.

But gods do not beg.

They undo.

And from the depths of that shared grief, a thought took root. Dangerous. Blasphemous.

What if this wasn’t the end?

What if time could bleed backward?

What if godhood meant something after all?

Bob’s eyes opened slowly, still wet with tears, still glowing faintly gold.

“I’ll fix it,” he whispered. “Even if it kills me.”

The rain had dulled to a steady patter now, washing through the cracks in the pavement like a wound bleeding into the earth.

Bob knelt there for a long time, forehead still resting against her grave. Soaked. Frozen. Empty.

But not quiet.

His thoughts screamed.

Over and over and over again:

Bring her back.

Fix this.

Undo it.

His chest ached, but not just from grief anymore. A new ache bloomed beneath it—a sick hope.

He had heard Reed Richards talk once, in passing. A project they’d been working on. Time. Threads. Chrono-manipulation. “Theoretical,” Reed had said. “Still volatile. Still dangerous.”

Bob had barely listened.

Now it was the only thing in his mind.

A thought that seared through the static:

If I die trying... then I’ll get to see her.

He stood.

Not slowly. Not cautiously.

He stood like a man condemned with purpose.

The wind howled around him as he took flight, rain trailing off his body in a wake. His golden aura sparked once—then vanished. There was no heroism in this flight. No mission. Just desperation. Just longing.

The city below was a blur.

But she wasn’t.

She was everywhere.

Perched on rooftops.

Standing at the corners.

Wading through traffic.

Her ghost.

Her.

Looking at him with wide, pleading eyes.

“Bob,” her voice whispered in his ear. “Don’t do this.”

He swallowed hard, jaw clenched. “You’re not real.”

“Please,” she said, floating beside him midair now, like light refracting through grief. “You can’t go back. You can’t fix it. You’ll die.”

“I don’t care,” he snapped, voice hoarse with tears. “I can’t do this without you. I don’t want this, any of this, if you’re not in it.”

“Then live for me,” she whispered.

He squeezed his eyes shut. She was still there when he opened them.

Her ghost tilted her head. Sad. Soft.

“I am living for you,” he said, voice barely audible. “I’m going back. I’ll find a way. Even if it rips me apart. Even if it shatters time. Even if I never come back.”

The ghost touched his cheek. Her hand passed through him like smoke.

“I forgive you,” she said.

And that—that—broke him all over again.

“No,” he muttered, flying faster now, cutting through the storm. “Don’t say that. I don’t deserve that.”

The Baxter Building was coming into view now.

He wiped at his eyes, fury and heartbreak burning together in his chest like acid.

You haunted every cloud. Every glint of glass. Every heartbeat.

He didn’t want to move on.

He didn’t want to heal.

He just wanted you.

And if time was the only thing in the way, then god help time.

_______________

Readers POV

You woke with a sharp gasp, like the air was being pumped back into your lungs all at once. Your chest heaved, your skin clammy with sweat, and the sound of your own pulse thundered in your ears. For one horrifying moment, everything was just black. You couldn’t remember who you were or where you were. Just the overwhelming sense of falling, of being swallowed whole by something unrelenting and final.

Then warmth.

A flicker of something familiar. A scent. A feeling. A whisper of a presence that had been with you right at the end. You clung to it like a lifeline as you sat up, hands scrambling over the blankets. Blankets?

You looked around.

You were in a room.

An old, cramped apartment bedroom that felt hauntingly familiar. The fan above creaked with the same off-tempo groan it always had. The curtains you hadn’t seen in years, those awful faded yellow ones with tiny embroidered suns, swayed in the breeze. And then your eyes landed on the old alarm clock on the nightstand. The one you’d thrown across the room so many times out of frustration back when—

Your breath caught.

You leaned closer.

The date.

The year.

Your vision blurred.

Five years ago.

That wasn’t possible.

You pressed your trembling hands to your face, trying to breathe, trying to understand, but your chest just kept tightening. You remembered dying. You remembered the cold. The finality. The quiet after the scream.

You remembered... nothing after that.

Just grief. And peace. And then this.

You stumbled out of bed, still in your old hoodie, the one you used to wear when things got really bad, when you needed to feel like yourself. Your fingers found the seams and pockets instinctively, searching for something to anchor you. But the room around you didn’t change. Nothing flickered. Nothing shattered.

This wasn’t a dream.

This was real.

You were back.

Five years in the past.

And you had no idea why.

You didn’t go outside the first day.

Not after waking up gasping for breath, heart pounding, lungs burning like you’d clawed your way back from something unspeakable. You’d barely stood up before your knees gave out. You crawled to the window in a panic, pulled open the curtains with trembling hands—

And saw the date on the corner of a passing digital billboard.

Five years ago.

That was impossible. That wasn’t right.

You should have been; what? Dead? Gone? You remembered... darkness. Then warmth. Then waking up in your old apartment like nothing had ever happened.

But everything had happened. He had happened.

You paced the room like a hunted thing, muttering to yourself, checking clocks, rereading the same calendar. Tomorrow was the day you’d first met him. The day you’d been pulled into his orbit. The beginning of the end. You remembered how he looked at you then, like you were a parasite.

The bond meant nothing to him.

You tried to sleep. You couldn’t. Every time you closed your eyes, his voice echoed in your head:

“I don’t need anyone.”

You didn’t cry. Not yet. The anger kept your chest full. Kept you sharp.

You swore you’d stay hidden this time. No more chasing the future. No more looking for meaning in scraps. You wouldn’t be the fool again. Not for him.

But then you woke up, and it was Wednesday. Again.

The same dog barking outside. Same couple arguing over morning coffee in the building across the street. Same text from your phone carrier. Same everything.

The universe had reset.

You stared in numb silence as your alarm clock ticked to 7:00 AM. The same notification blinked on your screen: Wednesday, June 12.

You screamed. You trashed the apartment. You broke the mirror. You sobbed until your stomach cramped.

But when you opened your eyes again—it was Wednesday. Again. Again. Again.

Four identical Wednesdays. Four repeated mornings dragging you closer to the day he would re-enter your life. Not because you missed him. Not because he loved you. Because the universe was cruel.

Because destiny refused to let you slip away.

You stood barefoot by the window on the fourth Wednesday evening, watching the rain roll down glass, and whispered through clenched teeth:

“I’m not going to be her again. I’m not.”

But your voice trembled. And the silence that followed sounded too much like fate holding its breath.

You woke up before sunrise.

Same room. Same creaking radiator. Same dull light bleeding through the blinds like diluted milk. Your hand reached for your phone before your mind caught up. You already knew what it would say.

Wednesday, June 12.

For the fifth time.

You lay there, staring at the ceiling, chest hollow, breath shallow. You weren’t scared anymore. You weren’t even angry. There was nothing left in you but a quiet, exhausted resolve. You couldn’t live through this loop again. You wouldn’t.

You were done.

The thought came to you with such finality that it didn’t even feel like a choice. It felt like survival.

You stood slowly, got dressed in the same hoodie and jeans, the same shoes you’d worn the last four Wednesdays. Every movement had the weight of ritual. But this time, you moved with purpose.

You remembered what you’d done five years ago.

The day before you woke him.

You remembered heading into the mountains, deep into the Appalachians, to that cold, desolate S.H.I.E.L.D. facility where they kept him locked away, sleeping like a forgotten god beneath the earth.

You hadn’t known then what he was. Not truly. You’d only known the tug in your soul that said he’s close. He’s yours. Back then, that had felt like something beautiful. Back then, you were still naïve.

Now, you were just tired.

You had one goal: wake him. And leave. You didn’t want a reunion. You didn’t want closure. You didn’t care what version of Bob was in that crypt; Sentry, Bob, Void. None of them had wanted you. Not when it counted.

You’d walk into that bunker, give fate what it demanded, and walk back out into the world. This time, it would keep spinning without him. Or you. Or love.

Because whatever love had once lived between you… he had buried it first.

The drive into the Appalachians was long and winding, each curve of the road wrapped in trees that whispered like ghosts through her cracked window. The scent of rain clung to the soil. Birds called out occasionally, but the deeper she went, the quieter everything became, like the whole forest knew what slept beneath it.

She didn’t bother blasting music. She’d tried that on the second Wednesday. It had only made the screaming in her chest worse.

She gripped the steering wheel harder as the S.H.I.E.L.D. checkpoint came into view. She didn't need to flash her badge; they knew her. Everyone here did. Most thought she was here on assignment. Some nodded in silent recognition, their eyes flicking to the security clearance on her badge and then away, as if refusing to meet her gaze could spare them from whatever strange, classified thing her presence meant.

Getting into the facility was easy.

It always had been.

The real problem lay underground.

She moved through the security scanners like a ghost, silent and unchallenged, her boots echoing off the sterile tile. The walls grew colder the deeper she went, steel replacing drywall, frost clinging to the corners of pipes that ran like veins through the building’s bones.

But it wasn’t the cold that had her struggling to breathe. It wasn’t the altitude or the claustrophobic corridors or the knowledge of where she was going.

It was him.

It was what he was.

And worse… what he wasn’t.

Her chest ached the closer she got to the vault. Her breath hitched in her throat, and she had to pause halfway down the final stairwell, hand gripping the railing, knuckles white.

“Get it together,” she whispered.

But her throat was tight. There was a knot behind her sternum that wouldn’t loosen no matter how many slow, steady inhales she took. Her legs trembled. She was shaking.

Why?

He’d never loved her. He’d made that perfectly clear. The last time they’d spoken, really spoken, his words had left scars deep enough that she still flinched in her sleep. She should hate him.

But her body didn't listen to logic. Her heart still thudded with the same ache it had five years ago.

And for what?

For someone who never looked back.

Her hand hovered above the biometric scanner. Just above the vault door that held him in stasis.

Her pulse fluttered in her neck like a trapped bird.

It wasn’t too late to turn back. To drive into the rain. To disappear.

But she already knew.

If she didn’t wake him, the day would reset.

And she couldn’t live through another Wednesday.

Not again.

So she pressed her hand to the scanner, watched the red light swirl green, and listened as the bolts unlatched with a hydraulic hiss that sounded too much like a sigh.

The door opened.

Inside was silence. A chamber bathed in pale, blue light. Wires. Machines. The air cold enough to fog her breath. And in the center—

There he was.

Floating in suspension.

Hair golden and wild, body curled faintly like he was dreaming. Peaceful. Unbothered. Untouched by the weight of the world he’d left behind.

Or the woman standing in front of him, heart in pieces, mentally five years older and infinitely more tired.

She stepped closer.

This was the last time she’d see him.

She would wake him. She would fulfill whatever cosmic rule the loop demanded. And then she would vanish.

Before he had the chance to reject her again.

Before he could ever see what he did to her.

She didn’t wake him. Not yet.

The soft hum of the chamber filled the room, the kind of mechanical white noise that faded into the background the longer you sat with it. She sank to the floor, slow and careful, her back against the cold wall beneath the glow of suspended light.

And she just… stared.

His face hadn’t changed. Not even a little. His features were still heartbreakingly beautiful, like something chiseled from light and tragedy. Long lashes. A soft jaw. Lips barely parted in stasis, like he was just about to breathe her name.

She used to trace the curve of that jaw in the dark. Used to press her forehead to his and whisper promises they were both too scared to believe in. She used to laugh into the crook of his neck when he mumbled awkward confessions, always shy, always unsure if he was allowed to want her back.

Before everything cracked.

Before that awful day. Before he looked at her like she was nothing. Before he left her outside that door with shaking hands and a voice hoarse from begging.

Her throat tightened at the memory. But she didn’t cry.

She was too tired for that now. The ache inside her chest was old and settled, the kind of pain that made a home out of your bones. There wasn’t room for tears, just the weight of remembering.

She drew her knees up to her chest, folding in on herself like she used to in the early days, before she learned how to smile in front of others again. Her boots squeaked slightly against the floor as she turned to face him fully, curled like something small and brittle beside a sun she could never touch again.

Her eyes traced his silhouette.

And all the memories came, slow and relentless. The way he held her wrist so gently, like even her pulse was precious. The way he said her name when he didn’t think she was listening. The way he refused to let himself want her — not because he didn’t care, but because he cared too much.

Then came the others.

The cold words. The rejection. The way he shattered her with restraint, not cruelty — but it hadn’t mattered. It still broke her.

She buried her face in her knees.

And she whispered, “You bastard. I loved you.”

The room didn’t answer. Neither did he.

Eventually, her breathing evened out. Her limbs slackened, and her head tilted against the wall. Her thoughts grew foggy and slow, wrapped in warmth and memory and exhaustion.

She didn’t want to wake up on another Wednesday.

She didn’t want to keep hurting. Or hoping. Or remembering.

In her original past, she’d fallen asleep right here, in this room, just like this. And on that Thursday morning…

She had opened the chamber.

So tonight, she curled up in silence. And she let herself rest, for whatever tomorrow would bring.

Please, she begged to whatever god might listen. Let it finally be Thursday.

She woke with a start.

A gasp tore from her throat as her body jolted upright, heart racing, eyes wide and searching the dimly lit room. For a second, she couldn’t remember where she was. Her head spun. Her limbs ached from the cold floor.

Then she saw the chamber. Still sealed. Still glowing. Still holding him.

She scrambled for her watch with shaking fingers, the digital display flickering to life with a single line of text.

Thursday.

A breath punched from her lungs, a silent, disbelieving laugh caught in her throat. Her eyes burned. Her hand flew over her mouth to keep any sound from escaping, and she slumped back against the wall like the tension had been yanked from her muscles all at once.

It worked. It finally worked.

She sat there for a moment, trembling from the inside out, holding back the desperate little sob of relief rising in her chest. She’d made it through the loop. Four hellish Wednesdays of false starts, wrong choices, and that endless feeling of being watched by fate itself, and now, finally…

Today was new.

Today was real.

Her breath shuddered as she ran her hands over her face, scrubbing away the sweat and sleep with almost frantic force. There was no time to fall apart.

In her past, the chamber would begin Bob regained full power within the hour. That gave her just enough time to disappear.

And this time, this time, she would stay gone.

She wasn’t here for closure. She wasn’t here for one last look. She didn’t need to see him open his eyes or hear him say her name or feel that sharp, sick hope twist through her ribs again. She’d done that once. She’d lived through the heartbreak. The rejection. The silence. She knew how it ended.

She was done letting the universe set her up for tragedy.

This time, she’d leave before the story could start again.

She pushed herself to her feet, knees stiff from the cold. Her hands still trembled, but her jaw had set. Her movements were automatic, driven by survival, not bravery. She turned from him without a final glance.

Because if she looked at him now, serene in that suspended light, so achingly familiar, she wouldn’t leave.

And she had to leave.

Before the hour was up. Before destiny caught her by the throat. Before he opened his eyes.

She stood before the chamber, pulse pounding in her throat as the stasis console flickered to life. The pale blue lights inside the glass cocoon dimmed one by one, the soft hiss of decompression exhaling into the silence like a held breath finally released. Her hand hovered over her chest, steadying her resolve.

Steam rose in gentle curls from the seal. The glass retracted with a slow, mechanical groan, revealing him, exactly as she remembered, exactly as she wished she didn’t.

His lashes twitched. A soft sound rasped in his throat as his chest lifted with the first conscious breath he'd taken in years. He didn’t move. Couldn’t. His muscles trembled under the weight of his own body, too long in suspended stillness. He turned his head an inch, sluggishly, pupils adjusting to light.

She didn’t move closer. Didn’t greet him. Didn’t ask if he was okay.

He blinked, gaze swimming until it found her in the doorway. Her outline was a ghost in his blurred vision, familiar and far away all at once. His dry lips parted, but nothing came. No sound. No name. Not even breath.

She hesitated just a moment, long enough to absorb the sight of him awake but helpless, a god brought low by the very time he once bent. Then she turned away.

She walked down the corridor with arms crossed over her chest, faster with each step, as though putting distance between them could quiet the ache in her ribs. Her boots echoed on the polished floors. She didn’t stop.

At the exit, she paused. Rain tapped against the high windows like a second ticking by. She glanced over her shoulder, not far enough to see him, just enough to whisper to the air between them.

“I hope you have a good life, Robert.”

Then she left.

Outside, the world was dim and gray. The clouds wept. She climbed into the car, hands trembling as she gripped the steering wheel.

No destination. No plan. Just escape.

She pulled away from the facility carved deep into the Appalachians, engine humming as the mountain road wound on like a lifeline fraying by the mile.

And inside the chamber, Bob lay still, eyes wide open, staring at the place where she had been. The name caught in his throat, unsaid. His body wouldn't move, wouldn't obey, but his mind screamed into the silence.

He was too late.

Again.

And the rain kept falling.

The wipers swayed rhythmically, squeaking faintly over the windshield. Light music, something piano-heavy and wordless, floated from the speakers, but it barely reached her ears.

She drove without thinking, headlights cutting through the misty woods, one hand slack on the wheel, the other curled uselessly in her lap. The rain was steady now. Not angry. Just persistent, like it didn’t know how to stop.

An hour passed before anything registered beyond the blur of grief and trees.

A shape.

Kneeling in the middle of the road.

She blinked, foot slamming the brake. The tires skidded slightly on the slick asphalt before the car eased to a stop. Her heart thumped once, hard. She grabbed the umbrella from the passenger seat and shoved the door open, the cold rain instantly latching to her skin.

Her boots splashed through puddles as she ran toward the figure.

“Hey—are you hurt?” she called, voice muffled by the downpour.

The figure didn’t move.

As she neared, her breath caught. Her pulse stuttered, as if her body understood before her mind did.

It was him.

Bob.

Soaked to the bone, golden hair plastered to his skin, shoulders trembling under the weight of something more than rain. His eyes lifted slowly; red-rimmed, distant and wide.

And when he saw her, something cracked.

Not a sound. Not a word. Just pure, open awe. Like he’d seen a goddess descend through the clouds. Like she wasn’t supposed to exist and he was terrified that if he blinked, she’d vanish.

She stared back, stunned and drenched, clutching the umbrella that did little to stop the sky from crying all around them.

“Bob?” she breathed, barely audible.

His lips trembled, and he reached out, not quite touching her, just hovering. Like he was afraid.

As if one wrong move would shatter everything.

As if he didn’t believe she was real.

And maybe, for a second, neither did she.

She didn’t move.

Not even an inch.

The rain poured between them like a curtain, yet she stared straight through it, lips pressed into a thin, unshaking line. Cold eyes. Not cruel, but cautious. Guarded. A far cry from the woman Bob remembered. No, not remembered. Still felt. Still bled for.

Her voice cut through the storm, low and even. “Why are you here?”

Bob blinked slowly, like he didn’t understand the question. His brow furrowed, mouth parting as if to speak, but no words came for a beat too long. Then, hoarsely, broken: “Why did you run?”

The thunder cracked above them.

Her jaw clenched. She stepped forward, not to close the distance emotionally, but practically. With measured ease, she lifted the umbrella and placed it above his head instead of hers.

Rain soaked into her hair immediately, plastering it to her temples and spine.

“I woke you up,” she said calmly, icily, “because my mission was finished. You should’ve waited for your soulmate at the building like a good boy.”

Bob’s body flinched.

Then he stood.

Abruptly. Almost violently.

His soaked clothes clung to his tall frame as he rose to his full height, eyes narrowed—not in anger, but disbelief. There was a flash of something in his face she’d never seen before. Raw. Twisted. Something unhinged just beneath the surface of his grief.

“I already have a soulmate.”

His voice cracked on the word have. Not had. Have.

She blinked, stunned for a second. Her stomach twisted.

Did… did he mean in this timeline? Did he already find someone else?

She shook her head and turned away before the thought could hollow her out. It wasn’t her place to ask. Not anymore.

“I’ll take you to a hotel,” she said quietly, walking back toward the car without looking at him. “Get you dry. Get you some sleep. I’ll take you to S.H.I.E.L.D. headquarters tomorrow.”

He didn’t move at first.

Didn’t say anything either.

Just stood there in the middle of the road, watching her as if she were a dream walking away again.

She didn’t look back.

Her hand trembled slightly as she reached for the car door.

Her fingers curled around the car handle, cold metal beneath clammy skin, but before she could pull it open, a shadow moved.

Bob was there.

Right there.

Boxing her in.

His arms caged her without touching her, one palm on the doorframe, the other braced against the roof of the car. His presence was sudden, hulking, and close enough that she could feel the rain sliding off his clothes, hear the ragged wheeze of his breath.

“Move,” she said lowly, trying to keep her composure.

But when she looked up—

She froze.

Her whole body stopped working.

His face…

She had never seen devastation like that on anyone. Not in loss. Not even when her world had burned down.

This was different. This was annihilation in a human face.

His golden eyes were rimmed in red, tears lost in the rain, mouth trembling as if even breathing hurt.

And the way he looked at her—

It wasn’t confusion. It wasn’t longing.

It was recognition.

She swayed on her feet. Something twisted in her gut like a knife. No… it couldn’t be…

But what if he was from the future too?

What if he remembered?

His lips parted. “Are you going to stay with me?”

Her mind scrambled. No words came. Her mouth opened, but nothing formed. Her chest tightened, her lungs forgotten. Her knees buckled.

Blackness crept in around the edges of her vision. Not from fear. Not even from exhaustion.

Just… the weight of it all.

Of love, and time, and pain that refused to heal.

She collapsed.

Bob caught her before she hit the ground, arms scooping her up with a strength that trembled under too much emotion.

“Don’t—don’t leave me,” he gasped, clutching her against his chest like something sacred. “Please. Don’t leave me again. Please.”

But her eyes didn’t open. Her head lolled. Her body, still breathing but unresponsive, laid limp in his arms.

That’s when it happened.

The scream ripped out of him.

A scream that wasn’t human. That wasn’t divine. That wasn’t anything the world could name.

It was the sound of a god mourning a galaxy.

A blood-curdling, soul-shattering cry that tore out of his throat like it had been locked behind centuries of silence. It echoed through the woods, sent crows flying from trees, shook the bones of the earth. A scream that said this is what it sounds like when everything I love dies in front of me again.

“No—no—NO!” he howled, voice cracking mid-bellow, clawing her closer to his chest as if holding her tightly could undo whatever cruel twist of fate was unraveling her. “Don’t leave me—don’t leave me again!”

The rain poured. Lightning cracked. But nothing was louder than his anguish.

He rocked her back and forth like something broken and sacred, forehead pressed to her temple.

“Please,” he choked, again. And again. “Please don’t leave me…”

But she was already gone.

Not dead. Not this time.

Just lost to the dark.

Note: Originally this was only suppose to be one part but I underestimated how much i needed to pack into this so I was forced to make another part. DO NOT FRET, its already in production. Also, sorry is this sucks buns... I tried.

[thepiinkpages]

Bob (Senry/The Void Fanfic) x Reader

Note: Soooo I was listening to Take me Back to Eden by Sleep token and got inspired to write this fanfic... imo, I think this albums just SPEAKS Bobs name. You can't tell me that the underlying tones of this album isn't Bob coded. And if this absolute shite, sorry bout that.

Bobs POV:

He never knocks anymore. Not since they started leaving the door cracked open.

Not for anyone else.

Just him.

Bob notices things like that—small, human things. A dented mug always left out for him after missions. The hallway light dimmed after sunset because they said it was too harsh on his eyes. A folded blanket on the couch, even when they knew he never really slept.

He pretends he doesn’t notice. That’s easier. Safer. A kindness left unnamed is one that doesn’t need to be returned.

And yet, he lingers there, outside their door, like a man waiting for permission to breathe.

It’s nearly three in the morning. The Tower is asleep, or at least pretending to be. Ghost hums softly in her room two floors down. Walker’s heartbeat is annoyingly steady. Yelena kicks in her sleep. But everything else is still.

Except for them.

Except for you.

He can hear the music through the wall; quiet and pulsing, something heavy and slow, like the thrum of a wound beneath skin. You always play something at night. Sometimes jazz. Sometimes string quartets. But tonight, it’s low and mournful. Almost sacred.

He wants to knock.

He doesn't.

He turns away and walks the other direction, each step deliberately quiet, measured like a monk carrying a relic too holy to speak of. His bare feet make no sound against the polished floor, but his mind is thunderous. Endless. A tide pulling him under.

He hates this part of himself, this half-life, this stalking shadow of a man who used to be someone. Or maybe he never was. Maybe there was no real version of him before the ruin. Maybe the closest he ever got to innocence was the moment before he existed. The silence before the scream.

He slips into the atrium, into the moonlight, into the next day when the sun it filters through the high glass like water.

The city sprawls below, brilliant and uncaring, a thousand glowing windows filled with people who don’t know his name. Don’t know what he is. He prefers it that way.

Bob sits with his back to the wall, long legs drawn up like he’s trying to fold himself into a smaller shape. Something less terrifying. Less wrong. He rests his forehead against his knees and exhales slowly, like maybe if he breathes gently enough, the thoughts won’t come.

They come anyway.

Your face. The way you looked at him last night. Not afraid. Not worshipful. Just… soft.

He doesn’t understand softness. He doesn’t know what to do with it. He knows how to destroy things. How to hold a man’s skull in one hand and make it silent. How to tear through dimensions like tissue. How to scream into the sun and have it scream back.

But he doesn’t know what to do with someone touching his wrist like it’s not dangerous. Or the way you spoke his name like it was gentle. Not sacred. Not tragic. Just a name. His name.

Bob.

He lifts his head. Rubs his palms over his face. It’s damp. He hadn’t realized.

Gods don’t cry.

He used to believe that. That if he could just be cold enough, contained enough, the world would be safer for it. He was a caged nuclear sun with a trembling heartbeat, and if he just stayed still, he wouldn’t burn the ones who came too close.

But then you came too close.

And you didn’t burn.

You stayed.

And now everything inside him itches.

He wants to reach for you. He wants to rest his head in your lap like a penitent thing and tell you everything. That he forgets what laughter feels like. That when he dreams, it’s in screams. That sometimes he stares at the stars and doesn’t feel wonder, he feels homesick. Even though he doesn't know where home is. Maybe he never had one.

Maybe you’re the first place he’s ever wanted to stay.

His hands flex against his thighs.

You make him feel human.

And that is the most dangerous thing anyone has ever done to him.

He remembers your smile; half-tired, soft-edged, the kind of thing that should be mundane but knocks the air from his lungs. He remembers your voice, unafraid, telling him he doesn’t have to be alone. That he could come to you. That you wouldn’t run.

You don’t know what you're offering.

You don’t know what lives inside him.

The Void hums in his spine sometimes. It stirs when he gets too happy. It watches through his eyes, murmurs in his bones, aching for him to be lonely enough to let go.

He won’t. Not again. Not after New York.

Not after the disappearing.

He curls in tighter, knuckles white.

But your voice echoes in him like scripture.

“You’re still here. Not the Void. Just you.”

He wants to believe you.

He wants to press his face against your chest and let that be his prayer. Let your heartbeat be the thing that brings him back. Not the team. Not the Tower. You.

Just you.

But he can’t. Not yet.

He doesn’t trust himself.

So he sits in the cold, listening to your music drifting down the hallway, and pretends it’s enough.

Pretends he’s not imagining your hand sliding into his. Pretends he’s not wondering what your lips would feel like against his temple. Pretends he’s not unraveling just at the memory of you looking at him like he wasn’t broken.

And when he finally stands, long past sunrise, the city blushing pink beneath him—

He still doesn’t knock.

But he touches the doorframe with his fingers before he walks away before muttering:

“Even in the silence, I found new ways to ruin you.”

And that statement became his truth when within the next week, he watched it happen on the screen.

That was the first mistake. Sitting in front of the monitors like a ghost at his own funeral, pretending that the glass and the signal delay and the sterile silence would be enough to keep him safe. To keep you safe. He hadn’t wanted to see this mission. He rarely did. Not because he didn’t care, because he cared too much. Every operation carved him open, but not in the way they used to. Not in the red haze and fractured ground and roaring sky kind of way. No. Now the pain was quiet. Smaller. Sharper. Watching you walk into danger while he remained in the Tower felt like being buried alive with his hands folded neatly across his chest. Dignified. Dead. Helpless.

The screen flickered. First, static. Then, your body dropping out of frame.

A blood-spattered wall. A blur of motion. Then your voice—clipped, breathless, not quite a scream but not your usual calm. "I'm–shit... I’m down."

For a moment, he thought the sound was someone else's. One of the others. Ghost. Yelena. Even Walker. He could handle that. He could breathe through that. But when the comm line cut and no one responded, when the camera feed spun and he caught a glimpse of your limp body half-crushed beneath debris, something inside him turned to glass and shattered.

He didn’t move right away. He couldn’t. His hands, resting on the desk, had gone still, fingers curled tight against his palms, nails biting into skin. He didn’t even notice the blood until much later. The Tower’s surveillance room, so full of blinking lights and static hums, suddenly felt miles wide and utterly hollow. The hum wasn’t outside—it was in him. A frequency rising behind his ribs, beneath his teeth, something that didn’t speak in words but in pressure. In ache. In fear.

He stood only because his legs made him. Mechanically. Quietly. His chair scraped backward but made no sound, not over the thunder building in his chest. He didn’t rush. That was the worst part. He walked calmly through the hallway, past the elevator, past the walls he'd once helped build back after the last disaster. He moved like a man possessed by stillness. Not urgency. Not rage. Restraint.

Because if he lost control now, it would be over.

He had known, from the beginning, that this would happen. Maybe not like this—not a jagged beam through your shoulder, not blood on your lips or your name swallowed by static—but something. Always something. Always his fault, even from a distance. Especially from a distance. His power was a tide. His love was a contagion. Even when he tried to keep his hands clean, everything he cared about bled eventually.

By the time you arrived at the Tower, carried by Yelena and flanked by two panicked medics, he had already been waiting. Standing still in the corridor like a statue with a fractured heart, barely breathing, barely there. He watched them bring you down the hallway, your body limp, your skin waxen, your blood soaked through your uniform. The others tried to reassure him. “She’s stable,” Ghost said. “Conscious for a minute,” said Walker. “She’ll pull through.”

But their voices didn’t reach him. Not through the sound of your blood in his ears.

He didn’t follow them into the medbay. He couldn’t. He stood at the threshold, one hand braced against the frame like it was the only thing holding him upright. He could have gone in. They wouldn’t have stopped him. You wouldn’t have turned him away. But something in him recoiled from the door, like it led into fire instead of healing. It felt like a test. One he couldn’t pass.

He watched through the glass. Watched the slow rise and fall of your chest. Watched the machines blink. Watched your hand twitch as they cleaned your wounds and stitched your side and reset your shoulder. You were sedated now, quiet, distant, untouched by the chaos that had brought you here. But he wasn’t.

He stepped back. His reflection met him in the window—hollow-eyed, jaw tight, sleeves rolled to the elbows, blood drying on his knuckles. He hated the man in the glass. Hated the silence he'd clung to. Hated the cowardice that had kept him here while you bled somewhere far away, believing, perhaps foolishly, that he was doing the right thing by staying behind. Because what would’ve happened if he went with you? If he’d panicked mid-mission? If the Void had taken hold again, if the field had run red not with enemy blood but with his own guilt?

He sat down slowly in the hallway, back against the wall, head in his hands. And then—for the first time in a very long time—he cried.

Not the tears of a god. Not something poetic or cinematic. Just raw, exhausted sobbing, as quiet as he could manage, as private as a man like him was allowed to be. He cried because he hadn’t gone. Because he hadn’t saved you. Because he might’ve, could’ve, but didn’t. Because he had let fear dictate mercy. And now mercy looked like your blood on someone else’s hands.

He stayed outside the medbay all night.

No one asked him to leave. No one had the heart.

And when the sun finally rose, blinding through the east windows and warm against the Tower’s steel, Bob closed his eyes and whispered the only prayer he still knew: Let them wake up. Let them be angry. Let them scream. Let them say I failed. But let them wake up.

He would have carried your pain if he could. All of it. Every break. Every bruise. But he was too afraid to touch you.

So he stayed outside.

Watching.

Bleeding in silence.

Just like always.

The infirmary is too bright.

He hates it.

It’s cold, clean, sterile in the way that reminds him of labs and containment bays and war rooms. The walls hum with quiet electricity and the faint scent of antiseptic clings to everything like a warning. Machines blink steadily, measuring pulse, oxygen, blood pressure—as if your life can be quantified, reduced to numbers on a screen.

Bob stands in the doorway for a long time before moving. Not because he’s unsure, but because he knows—knows—once he crosses that threshold, something in him will break. Maybe permanently. Maybe in a way he can’t fix. But he steps forward anyway.

The door hisses shut behind him.

You lie there, still beneath the thin white blanket, the wires tucked carefully around your wrist, an IV line trailing from your arm like some quiet tether between this world and the next. There’s a bandage across your brow. Your lips are cracked. Bruising has bloomed along your collarbone, dark and deep, like fingerprints left by fate itself.

His chest constricts at the sight.

He moves to your bedside slowly, the way one might approach a sacred monument. His hand hovers inches above yours. He doesn’t touch. He never does. But God, he wants to. Not for his own sake. Not for comfort. But because if he doesn’t feel your warmth, if he doesn’t know you’re still tethered to this Earth, he thinks something in him might unravel for good.

You breathe—shallow, but steady. He watches your ribs rise and fall with the devotion of a man who’s never worshipped anything properly in his life. For all his godlike power, he has no prayers. Only silence. Only trembling. Only this.

He pulls the chair closer and lowers himself into it with the same care someone might lower a body into the ground. He leans forward, elbows on his knees, hands clasped tightly—tighter than he realizes, until his knuckles go white.

“I should’ve been there,” he says, barely above a whisper. “I should have.”

The words feel like stones in his mouth. Sharp. Unwelcome. Heavy. But they come anyway. He has no one else to say them to.

“I thought staying behind was the right thing. I thought if I stayed out of the field, I couldn’t hurt anyone. Couldn’t... lose control again.” He closes his eyes, jaw clenched. “But it turns out I hurt people just by not being there too.”

His voice cracks on the last word. He hates that.

He lifts his gaze back to you. There’s a smudge of blood beneath your fingernail. The sight of it undoes him in a quiet, devastating way. You always keep your hands clean. Always wiping things, organizing, tending, touching. You live in motion, in kindness. And now you’re still.

And he did this.

Maybe not with his hands. But with his distance. With his fear.

“You looked at me like I was someone,” he says, breath catching. “Like I was worth trusting. And I let you down.”

A beat of silence.

Then another.

He rises.

He doesn’t want to. Every cell in his body is aching to stay right here, to watch over you, to guard your sleep like something holy. But that would be selfish. He tells himself that now. He repeats it silently in his head as he adjusts the blanket over your shoulder, smoothing the fabric gently, not daring to touch skin.

“I’m not going to come back,” he says quietly, almost to himself. “You’ll be better off.”

His voice doesn’t shake this time. It’s low. Resigned.

“I thought I could be close to you without breaking something. But I was wrong. I don’t belong in this part of the world. Not in your part. You’re... light. And I’m just the thing that blocks it.”

He steps back. The chair remains facing the bed, a quiet artifact of his failure.

“This is the last time.”

He doesn’t look back when he walks to the door. Doesn’t trust himself to. If he sees you again, even still, even silent—he might forget why he came to say goodbye in the first place.

The door hisses open.

A rush of cooler air from the hallway touches his face. It feels like being exiled.

As he steps across the threshold, he whispers it, not for your ears, but maybe for some kinder version of himself that might be listening, somewhere far away.

“Take me back to Eden. Before I knew what it meant to lose you.”

And then he’s gone.

At least, thats what Bob told himself. He wouldn’t go near you again.

He told himself it was the right thing. That stepping away, staying hidden, letting you heal without his shadow curling around your shoulders was an act of mercy. And for a few days, it almost felt like strength. He stayed in the upper levels of the Tower, where the wind pressed harder against the glass and the sky seemed close enough to touch. He wandered the far hallways at night when everyone else slept. He didn’t eat. Didn’t sleep. Didn’t speak unless required. And never of you.

But then you got out of the infirmary.

And everything began to fall apart.

He didn’t mean to see you. That first time. He was just passing through the training wing after hours, some half-conscious impulse pulling him toward the quiet. And there you were. Sitting on the bench by the window with your legs pulled to your chest and your arms wrapped tight around your ribs like you were holding yourself together.

Your face was different.

Not physically. You still had the same eyes, the same slope to your mouth, the same soft curve of your shoulder where the bandage peeked out from your shirt. But something beneath the surface had shifted. You looked... lost.

And worse, like you were waiting.

He stayed in the shadows, his heartbeat like thunder in his throat. You didn’t see him. But he didn’t need to be seen. The image of you curled in on yourself, looking toward the door like maybe someone might walk through it, wrecked something sacred in him.

He left before you could turn.

He tried not to return. He really did.

But two nights later, he found himself on the rooftop across from your window, crouched beneath the frame, watching the soft golden spill of lamplight paint the walls of your room. You were reading—barely. Your eyes scanned the page, but your mind was elsewhere. He could see it in the way you stared too long at the same line. The way you blinked slowly, distracted, before gently closing the book and pressing it to your chest.

You sighed.

You looked at the door.

And he hated himself.

You were searching for him.

Still.

After everything.

After his silence and his cowardice and his endless orbit of guilt; you were still looking. Still waiting.

That night he barely made it back to his quarters before the grief hit him like a freight train. He dropped to his knees beside the bed and pressed the heel of his palm against his chest like it might stop the ache if he could just push hard enough. His breath came ragged, sharp, shallow. Not panic. Not quite. Just grief. Something deeper. Like mourning something he wasn’t allowed to name.

Because he missed you.

He missed you with the kind of ache that gods were never meant to feel. The kind of ache that built temples and then burned them down.

The next day, you passed him in the corridor.

You didn’t speak.

You didn’t have to.

Your shoulders tensed. Your eyes flicked toward him like a wound. Not angry, hurt. Confused. Like he’d vanished from your world and left nothing in his place but silence. You gave him a breath of a smile, small and strained and so full of hope it made his stomach turn.

He didn’t smile back.

He kept walking.

And that night, he stood outside your door.

He didn’t knock.

He didn’t even raise his hand.

He just stood there, tall and still and hollow, like a monument to some ancient failure, carved in quiet shame. He could hear your music playing. It wasn’t one of your upbeat ones this time. No jazz. No lo-fi. Just something slow. Instrumental. Lonely.

A part of him screamed to go in. Just once. Just to tell you it wasn’t your fault. That it was him. That he was poison in a golden shape and he just couldn’t bear the thought of you bleeding again because of him.

But he stayed outside.

Because what if this was how he saved you?

What if this was the only way?

He leaned his forehead gently against the door, eyes shut.

“I’m still here,” he whispered. “Even if you don’t see me.”

And when he turned to leave, he didn’t notice the way your breath hitched on the other side of the wall.

But he felt it.

Because that’s what you were now, his gravity. His center. The only real thing left.

And he was already starting to fall again.

He saw you before you saw him.

That’s how it always happened. He kept to the edges, moved like shadow through the architecture of the Tower. Even without tapping into his powers, he could track the rhythm of your footsteps, the shift in your scent when you were nervous, the way your heartbeat skipped when you caught his eye in a crowd.

He told himself it was harmless. That he was just making sure you were okay. That if anything happened, anything, he’d be there. Even if you didn’t know it.

But this time, you turned the corner too fast. Too close.

And there you were. Just a few feet away.

The hallway stretched between you like a fault line.

You paused, just a breath, and your face lit up. Not fully. Not the way it used to. Not that open joy he remembered. But still. Something flickered. Relief, maybe. A hesitant hope.

You said his name.

Softly.

“Bob.”

And everything inside him twisted.

He could have walked past you. Pretended not to hear. He’d done it before, shame curling like smoke through his chest after every failed moment. But this time, you moved toward him. Just a step. Barely. But it was enough. Enough to knock him off balance.

“Why are you avoiding me?” Your voice wasn’t sharp. It wasn’t desperate. It was… tired. Confused. A wound trying not to reopen.

He couldn’t take it.

The sound of you—you, the only person who had ever looked at him without flinching—asking why he’d disappeared when you needed him the most. It splintered something in his spine.

So he said the one thing he knew would kill the light in your eyes.

“Don’t talk to me. Your so fucking annoying. Leave me alone for Gods sake.”

You blinked.

The silence hit first. And then the look. That look.

Not anger. Not even shock.

Just pain.

You looked at him like he’d just knocked the air from your lungs.

He wanted to take it back immediately. To grab the words and shove them back into his mouth and fall to his knees and beg. But he couldn’t move. He was frozen in place, in armor made of guilt and cowardice and desperation. His jaw locked. His hands curled into fists.

“Seriously?” you said, your voice thin. “That’s what you’re going to say to me? After everything?”

He didn’t answer.

You stared at him, waiting. He felt it in every inch of his body, how badly you wanted him to fight for this. To say it was a mistake. To explain. To be honest.

But he wasn’t honest. He was scared.

So he looked away. Said nothing.

And you stepped back.

Your mouth tightened, your eyes glistened, but you didn’t cry. You nodded once, as if confirming some unspoken truth to yourself, and walked away.

He didn’t stop you.

He just stood there, alone in the corridor, pulse roaring in his ears, the echo of your footsteps the only thing anchoring him to the moment.

And then, when you were gone.

He sank to the floor like a man shot through the chest.

His body folded in on itself, one hand clawing at the back of his neck, the other fisted against the floor, and for a moment, he didn’t feel like Sentry or Bob or anything in between.

He just felt small.

Smaller than he’d ever been.

Because you had looked at him like he was someone.

And now you looked at him like he was nothing.

The weight of it was unbearable.

And he deserved every second.

He almost didn’t notice what was being said. Even the next day, he hadn't slept a wink when he walked into the lounge.

The lounge was half-lit, washed in dusk-light and half-hearted laughter. Yelena’s voice came from somewhere behind him, sharp with opinion as always. He’d only come down for water. Not conversation. Not this.

“She left.”

Those two words slid beneath his ribs like a knife. He turned his head, slowly, the way someone might glance toward a siren, uncertain whether they were imagining it or not.

Walker sounded half-asleep when he answered. “Who?”

“Y/N.”

Bob’s breath hitched quietly in his throat, but he kept his eyes forward, watching the condensation gather on the side of his untouched glass. He didn’t move.

“Wait, what?” Ghost asked.

Yelena didn’t lower her voice. She never did. “Gone. Packed up yesterday. Didn’t tell anyone where she was going. Said she needed to go somewhere else. Somewhere... quieter.”

“Shit.” Ghost leaned back in her chair. “I thought she was just staying off comms.”

Bob said nothing.

He wanted to. He wanted to ask what you meant by quieter. Where you went. If you were okay. If you were eating. If you were cold. But his mouth refused to open.

Yelena continued. “Said she thought she was the reason Bob won’t leave his room. That she’s the reason he’s been shutting everyone out.”

That made him blink.

“She thought she was making him feel unsafe or something. Can you believe that?” She gave a soft, frustrated scoff. “She left thinking it would help him.”

The words hit him with such strange violence that it took a full second for them to register as real. A slow burn started behind his eyes—slow not because it lacked intensity, but because it wasn’t rage. It wasn’t grief. It was realization.

You thought this was your fault.

You saw him retreating into himself and assumed it was because of you.

You left not in anger, not in resentment, but because you were trying to save him.

Bob set the glass down.

His hands were steady. Too steady. That was how he knew something inside him was coming apart. The steadiness wasn’t control, it was absence. A stillness born from dissociation, from grief so vast it eclipsed sensation.

“She left for me,” he said, quietly. No one responded. Maybe they weren’t meant to.

He stood still as the weight of it settled.

You were gone. Not because he’d pushed you away. But because he hadn’t been brave enough to reach for you when you needed it most.

He’d let you look at him with softness and guilt. He’d let you think you were unwelcome, when you were the only thing that made him feel human in the first place. He’d let you leave without ever explaining what he was running from, and now you were out there, blaming yourself.

He closed his eyes.

Inside, the pressure built, not a scream, not a surge, but a slow, unbearable drowning. The kind of grief that fills the lungs quietly. The kind of love that collapses in on itself without oxygen.

He wanted to scream. But the sound wouldn’t come. He wanted to hit something. But it wouldn’t help. Nothing would help.

Not now.

He sank into the nearest chair, hands braced against his knees, eyes locked on the floor.

“Bob?” Ghost’s voice was gentler now.

He shook his head. Not at her. Not at anyone. Just at the world. At himself.

“She thought she was the reason I was staying away,” he said again, more to the air than anyone present. “And I let her believe that. I didn’t say anything. I didn’t explain.”

Yelena hesitated. “You can still reach out.”

He didn’t answer.

His voice, when it finally returned, was quieter than before; like it had been hollowed out by something ancient and aching.

“She left to give me peace,” he whispered, “and all I did was grieve her like a ghost I buried with my silence.”

No one dared say another word.

And Bob, for the first time in weeks, did not retreat to his room.

He sat there long after everyone had gone, long after the sun set and the Tower fell quiet, staring at the empty glass he never drank from, hands clasped in front of him like a man at prayer.

But he had no words left.

Only longing.

Only guilt.

Only the knowledge that you were gone because he never said you were the only place he felt safe.

And now, he wasn’t sure you’d ever come back.

_____________________________________________

Readers POV:

The wind out here was different.

It howled in bursts against the side of the cabin, like it didn’t want to be forgotten. Like it was angry with you for coming back alone.

You sat on the edge of the cot with your knees pulled to your chest, one hand curled in the collar of your hoodie; his hoodie, the one you stole on the third night here the first time, when the air got cold and the firewood ran low and he didn’t hesitate before wrapping it around your shoulders. It still smelled faintly like cedar, ash, and something distinctly him: warm, clean, quiet.

You should’ve burned it.

You should’ve stayed away.

But you didn’t know where else to go.

This island was the only place on Earth where you and Bob had ever felt free. No earpieces. No directives. No surveillance. Just a cabin, two mugs, mismatched socks, and silence that wasn’t loaded with fear.

You came here when it all started to hurt too much, when your own thoughts were too loud, when the pain in your chest felt like a scream with nowhere to go. You’d built this place with him. Hammered the beams together with splintered palms and crooked nails. He was so proud of the leaning frame. Said it had “personality.” You told him it looked like it was about to fall over. He smiled like you’d just kissed him.

And now?

You were alone with it.

Alone with the memories, the ghosts of moments that hadn’t meant enough to him to stop him from leaving you behind.

He hadn’t said goodbye.

He hadn’t even said don’t go.

You thought maybe that meant he hated you. Or resented you. Or just couldn’t stand being near you anymore. But when Yelena asked you why you were leaving, you hadn’t said any of that. You told her it was because he needed space. Because you were making it worse. Because the way he withdrew wasn’t just his way of protecting people—it was a response. To you. To your presence. To the weight of your love.

He didn’t know that last part, of course.

You’d never told him.

Because you knew, deep down, that he didn’t feel the same. He couldn’t. The way he looked through you in the hallway that last time, the way he turned his face as if your voice stung, that was the confirmation you’d been dreading.

Bob wasn’t cruel. He just didn’t want you the way you wanted him. And he didn’t owe you anything. You told yourself that every time your chest cracked wider.

But that didn’t stop the ache.

That didn’t stop you from crying into the pillow at night, curling around the fabric like it could hold you tighter than he ever did. It didn’t stop you from waking up at 3 a.m. in this drafty wooden box and reaching for a presence that hadn’t been there in months.

He was your best friend. Your anchor. The one who made the world quiet when you needed it to be. The one who gave you back pieces of yourself you didn’t even know you’d lost. And you had loved him, still loved him, with a patience and tenderness you’d never known you were capable of.

You thought that maybe if you just left, if you gave him space, he’d find himself again. He’d go outside. He’d talk. He’d smile.

You didn’t expect that it would destroy you in the process.

The fireplace crackled weakly in the corner. You hadn’t eaten in over a day. Your phone was off. You hadn’t looked at it since stepping off the boat. You didn’t want to see if he’d reached out. You weren’t strong enough to know that he hadn’t.

You wrapped your arms tighter around your legs.

Your mouth was dry. Your face was raw from crying. You were trying not to think about the way he used to look at you across the campfire when you were both too tired to speak. The way his fingers would twitch, like he wanted to reach for you, but didn’t know if he was allowed.

He never did.

You never asked him to.

And now… you never would.

Outside, the rain began to fall, soft and bitter. It tapped against the roof like fingertips. Like maybe the sky was grieving too.

You closed your eyes and rested your head against your knees.

And for the first time since you left, you let yourself whisper it out loud.

“I miss you, Bob.”

And in the stillness that followed, the cabin did not answer.

Because the only one who ever did was gone. Even when it had been raining for hours. That was the only answer you'd heard.

Not the gentle kind, the kind that hums you to sleep. This was relentless. Cold. Ugly. The sort of storm that makes the walls creak and the wind feel personal. You hadn’t slept. Not really. You’d dozed, curled beneath that same blanket, breath fogging against the chilled air as the fire cracked and died sometime before dawn.

When you finally rose, your body felt hollow, like you’d shed something essential while you slept; something like courage or hope. You moved on instinct more than desire, dragging yourself to the window not to look, but just to see anything that wasn’t the inside of your head.

The sky outside was steel. The trees swayed in silhouette. And–

You screamed.

Your knees hit the floorboards hard, your breath knocked clean from your chest. For a moment, you thought it was a hallucination. That your mind had conjured him out of grief, the same way it did in dreams you woke from sobbing. But your heart didn’t lie. It panicked.

You crawled back toward the window, slowly this time, the throb in your kneecaps secondary to the thunder now grumbling through the air.

You lifted your head.

And the lightning answered.

Bob.

Standing just beyond the tree line. Soaked to the skin. Motionless.

Your fingers flew to the lock. The door groaned as you flung it open. The cold hit you like a slap. Your body moved faster than thought, grabbing the old wool blanket from the cot, feet slipping on the damp steps as you bounded outside barefoot, legs numb from the shock.

“Bob!” you yelled, your voice cracking around his name.

He didn’t move.

You ran harder.

The blanket dragged behind you like a flag. The rain hit your skin like ice, but you didn’t care. Not when he was there, real, standing in the exact place he once stood when you first told him this place felt like home.

You stopped inches in front of him.

He looked... wrecked.

Water clung to his hair in heavy strands, plastering it to his forehead. His clothes were soaked through, sticking to his frame like a second skin. His eyes, though, his eyes were the worst of it. Empty and wide and shining. He looked like a man who’d walked through every kind of hell to get here. And maybe he had.

“Bob,” you said again, quieter now, breathless.

Still, he didn’t speak.

His mouth opened. Closed.

Like he wanted to say something and couldn’t find the words. Like language had abandoned him completely.

Without thinking, you threw the blanket over his shoulders.

It clung to him instantly, drinking the rain like thirst.

“Come inside,” you said. “Please. You’ll get sick.”

He didn’t move.

He just stared at you, trembling, like you weren’t real.

Like if he reached out, you might disappear.

His voice came broken and soft, so soft you almost missed it beneath the thunder.

“I didn’t think you’d let me come back.”

You blinked, and something cracked inside your ribs. The cold no longer mattered. The wind could’ve ripped the trees apart and it wouldn’t have mattered.

Because Bob, your Bob, was here, in front of you, with regret dripping from his eyelashes and sorrow blooming in his throat.

“I didn’t think you wanted me anymore,” he whispered. “After what I said. After how I disappeared. I thought I ruined everything.”

Your hands trembled as they reached up; hesitant, reverent brushing soaked strands of hair away from his forehead.

“You didn’t ruin anything,” you said, the words catching. “I just... I thought I was hurting you by staying.”

He closed his eyes like the truth physically wounded him.

“You were the only thing keeping me sane.”

And that’s when the tears came.

You didn’t know whose came first, his or yours, but they mingled with the rain, indistinguishable in the storm, soaking your cheeks and your sleeves and the threads between your hands as they finally, finally, reached for each other.

He collapsed against you, folding his arms around your frame like it was all that kept him from falling into the earth.

And this time, you let him. Even when the rain didn’t let up.

It was cold enough to numb the skin, loud enough to drown the world out. But you barely felt it. Not when his arms were around you like he was trying to memorize the shape of your spine. Not when his forehead dropped to your shoulder, and his entire body shuddered like something inside him had just finally given out.

You’d never seen Bob like this.

You’d seen him quiet. You’d seen him solemn. You’d seen him haunted in silence, as if every breath he took was permission he hadn’t earned. But you’d never seen him break.

And yet, that was what this was.

His chest trembled against yours. His fingers clutched at the blanket you’d thrown over him, gripping it like it was the last tether he had to this plane of existence. You held him tighter, one hand cradling the back of his head, the other curled against his spine as if you could protect him from the rain, from himself, from everything.

“I couldn’t breathe without you,” he whispered.

You froze.

He didn’t lift his head.

“I thought if I stayed away, I’d stop wanting. That if I stopped wanting, I wouldn’t be dangerous anymore. I wouldn’t… crack open. I wouldn’t hurt anyone.”

Your throat ached, raw and tight.

“But it didn’t stop,” he continued. “I couldn’t shut it off. You were still in everything. In the air. In my hands. In the quiet. It got worse. So much worse. And when they said you left…”

He finally looked up.

His eyes were glassy, red-rimmed, leaking. But not in bursts. Not like a storm. They were the kind of tears that had been waiting—carved deep and long ago, the kind that erode from the inside until the structure fails.

“I thought you left because of me. Because I made you feel small. Because I didn’t say anything when I should’ve.... because I was a coward.”

You wanted to speak, to stop him, to soothe, but he wasn’t done.

“You were the only person who looked at me like I was still human. Even when I didn’t believe it anymore. You–” His voice cracked, his brow furrowed like it hurt to say your name aloud. “You were the only one who never flinched. I didn’t even know what to do with that.”

You held his face between your hands, gently, as if you were afraid he’d crumble if you weren’t soft enough. His skin was ice-cold, rain dripping from his lashes, lips trembling.

“I thought I’d make you into ash,” he whispered. “Like everything else. That if I let myself love you out loud, you’d end up destroyed by it. That’s what always happens. I only break the things I touch.”

Your fingers moved to his cheeks, thumbs brushing away the tears that refused to stop.

“But I did it anyway. I loved you anyway. Even when you looked through me in that hallway. Even when you didn’t speak. Even when it felt like I was the only one holding on.”

His jaw trembled.

“I never stopped reaching for you. Not once.”

And finally, finally, his forehead dropped to yours. A breath passed between you. Your chest ached from how tight your heart was clenched around his pain.

“You could’ve come to me,” you said, voice barely audible over the rain.

“I was afraid if I touched you, I wouldn’t stop,” he whispered. “And that you’d vanish in my arms. That I’d wake up and the world would be gone. That you’d be gone.”

You let your hand slide down to his, threading your fingers into his soaked, shaking ones.

“I’m right here, Bob.”

He nodded against your forehead.

But even then, his grip didn’t loosen. Even then, he held you like a drowning man clings to the last breath in his lungs. Like letting go would mean death. Or worse; emptiness.

And so, in the middle of a storm on a forgotten island, the strongest man alive broke quietly in your arms, not with fury or gold-light eruptions, but with the fragile confession that he loved you so much it almost killed him to say it.

“Come inside,” you murmured again, your hands still wrapped around his as if the storm would steal him away the second you let go.

Bob didn’t move.

His body was trembling—not from cold, not really. His skin was soaked, his hair slicked down in heavy waves, but the shaking wasn’t physical. It was emotional. It was the tectonic consequence of restraint finally fracturing.

“I can’t go in yet,” he said, breathlessly, eyes locked on yours like they were the only thing tethering him to the ground. “Not until I tell you what I came here to say.”

You swallowed hard, your throat raw from the air and tears alike.

“I’m listening.”

Bob stepped closer.

The blanket slipped slightly from his shoulders, rain tracing down his jaw, and you didn’t dare breathe. He looked at you with a gentleness that made your knees feel soft, like your bones weren’t sure if they were supposed to hold you anymore.

“I’ve spent my whole life terrified of the things I feel,” he said. “Because every time I’ve loved something, I’ve lost it. Every time I’ve wanted something, I’ve ruined it. So I told myself wanting you was selfish. That if I touched you, if I let myself have even a piece of you, the rest of you would disappear.”

He took your face in his hands.

Slow. Careful. Like you were made of something precious and fraying.

“But you never disappeared. Not even when I pushed you away. You stayed. You loved me in silence. And I saw it. I saw all of it. And I was too scared to reach back.”

You blinked, the tears warm even as the rain chilled your cheeks.

Bob leaned in. His forehead rested against yours again, but this time it wasn’t in collapse.

It was in reverence.

“And I love you,” he whispered. “I love you so much it doesn’t fit inside me. I love you so much I didn’t know if I could live with it. And now, I don’t think I can live without it.”

And then, then, he kissed you.

It wasn’t tentative.

It wasn’t hesitant or shy or clumsy.

It was reverent.

Like a man finally stepping into light after years of darkness, terrified and full of wonder. His lips were soft, wet with rain and tremor, but the moment they met yours, the rest of the world fell away.

The thunder didn’t exist.

The cold didn’t touch you.

It was the kind of kiss that bloomed behind your eyes, that lit up your chest like a star collapsing into beauty instead of destruction. A kiss that tasted like survival—like all the words he didn’t know how to say had found their way into the shape of your mouth.

You gasped softly into it, and his hands trembled against your skin, pulling you closer like he still didn’t believe you were real.

When you finally broke apart—barely, your foreheads still touching, your breaths shared like vows—he whispered it again, the rain catching on his lashes.

“I love you.”

“I know,” you whispered back. “I loved you first.”

And with that, he let out a shaky breath that sounded like release.

You smiled through the ache, then tugged gently on his wrist.

“Now come inside before you catch pneumonia, Bobert”

He let out a wet, helpless laugh. But he followed you anyway.

[thepiinkpages]

I have neglected this blog like a middle child. In my defense, I haven't read a lot lately. I've been on a bad incline.

RATING: 4.5 OUT OF 5

GENRE: VAMPIRE, FANTASY, ROMANCE, REVERSE HAREM.

ଘ(੭ˊᵕˋ)੭━☆ﾟ*:. ੈ✩‧₊˚⁺✧.｡+.｡☆ﾟ:;｡+☆ﾟ¨ﾟﾟ･:..ﾞ

.ೃ࿐

Is this book the best book i've read this year? No. Was it entertaining and NAUSTY? Yes.

Multiple reviews clearly have not read trashy romance fantasy books and it shows. PEOPLE. This is not going to be the next ACOTAR or Fourth Wing. Not saying the writing is bad or anything but it isn't up to that level in my opinion.

I loved the dynamic between the three out of four ML. And before you ask, yes there is sword crossing.

This was romantic in the sense of "forced addiction" if that makes sense. Out of the 4 ML, only 1 truly liked her before they all drag her blood and became addicted to her ergo ravishly in love with her. And I do mean ravishly. Ophelia must need orange juice and a cookie every morning with how much blood they take from her. If this was anyone else they would've been sucked dry like a caprisun.

On addition to that, I felt the romance was soooo rushed. If all it took was to let someone suck my blood to fall madly in love with me I would've done that years ago. Also Ophelia comes so hard she causes earthquakes. They must be giving her a good time then if she's causing natural disasters.

Am I the only one that got Discovery of Witches by Deborah Harkness vibes? Except with more ML and more sexy fun time.

I audibly gasped when Xavier suggested making her tampon a popsicle. THATS SICK. I almost threw up. That alone would've sent me running to my maker.

Here are some quotes:

𐙚₊˚⊹"...There is no me without you, Ophelia. There is no separate. Not anymore..."𐙚₊˚⊹

𐙚₊˚⊹"...It didn't matter where I lived when i could curl up in my bed in Hogwarts or visit Victorian England. Books have always been my only constant..."𐙚₊˚⊹

𐙚₊˚⊹"...'Fuck cupcake'...'You have no fucking idea, do you?'...'No idea about what?'...'How much the three of us want to fuck you'..."𐙚₊˚⊹

Am I the only one who kept singing Ophelia by The Lumineers? No? I guess i'm just crazy then.

[thepiinkpages]

I find the time to read books even when I'm writing my own book. Call it research or whatever.

RATING: 3.5 OUT OF 5 STARS

GENRE: ROMANCE, MILITARY, DARK, MENTAL HEALTH.

ଘ(੭ˊᵕˋ)੭━☆ﾟ*:. ੈ✩‧₊˚⁺✧.｡+.｡☆ﾟ:;｡+☆ﾟ¨ﾟﾟ･:..ﾞ

.ೃ࿐

First of all. What the fuck did I just read? I'm all over the place just like this book. Am I the only one that thinks that?

Why does every book that says that the male lead "has no emotion" or "doesn't feel anything" end up being the one to cry the most? I'm like 90 percent sure that this kind of romance is almost like stockholm syndrome or something?? Cuz why would she fall in love with the man who cut her up and repeatedly said she needed to leave or die? No ma'am.

The overall storyline is kinda all over the place. I was confused on who was the 'villian' during most of this book. Was the the brother? Was the Hades group? WHO?

Not to mention that she claims to love him yet still says she she would've rather died with Jinkens or whatever his name is.

At one point I thought this book was gonna become a reverse harem or something cuz she slept with his twin brother. DAMN.

It's not a bad read, it's more like a hehehaha read with dark romance of course. I did not appreciate her being lovey dovey with Jenkins in front of Bradshaw (even at a distance). Like I understand that it must be done but damn girl, you couldn't of held off for a while and I dunno fought him off with her so called amazing fighting skills? I don't know.

The ending was absolutely insane. In my opinion, it was heavily rushed. Everyone died but at the same time no one died. I don't know how landmines work but i'm pretty sure Eren was suppose to, ya know, explode instead of just one leg being amputated. But shiet. What do I know? It's not like i'm not a nurse or anything...

Yeah. Fun read. Yeah.

[thepiinkpages]

I have in fact neglected this blog. I'm sorry but my books have been dwindling down massively despite me reading like 5 books at once.

RATING: 1 OUT OF 5 STARS.

GENRE: ROMANCE, RELIGIOUS TRAUMA, DARK

ଘ(੭ˊᵕˋ)੭━☆ﾟ*:. ੈ✩‧₊˚⁺✧.｡+.｡☆ﾟ:;｡+☆ﾟ¨ﾟﾟ･:..ﾞ

.ೃ࿐

I have never in my life had such a bad time reading a book but I guess I should know better than to get my books from TikTok.

This book traumatized me in ways I have never been traumatized before. I'm talking the fully nine yards. Never in my life have I been shocked the entire book. It was just hit after hit after hit. I will not be moving on to book two. I barely finished the first one with my life why the fuck would I subject myself to further traumatization? No sir. Give it to the next bitch.

Sometimes I think the trigger warnings are a bit much for some books yet they are exceedingly well deserved for this book. The fuck I look like joining a cult, letting a man take out my diva cup and drink it, further religiously traumatize me, torture my ex boyfriend, and take out a man's eyeballs for fingering me? I feel bad for the girl.

I didn't think I knew what bounds were but this book is where I say FUCK NO. The only reason I even fully read this book was because I could not believe my eyes that this is a book with a three star rating. Do yourself a favor and save yourself this trash read. If I could give it a negative rating I would but i'm stuck with a 1 star rating.

She's a VICTIM. And you know what? Fuck it, I'm a victim too for reading this shit.

MAMA there's trauma behind you! RUN.

[thepiinkpages]

Its okay to cut off friends and family who hate what you stand for.

Only I would try to read a physical book, read a kindle AND listen to a audio book.

GENRE: ROMANCE, VAMPIRES, FANTASY, ROMANTASY

RATING: 4 OUT OF 5 STARS.

ଘ(੭ˊᵕˋ)੭━☆ﾟ*:. ੈ✩‧₊˚⁺✧.｡+.｡☆ﾟ:;｡+☆ﾟ¨ﾟﾟ･:..ﾞ

.ೃ࿐

One thing I will say about this book is it moved incrediblely fast. One chapter, Sebastian was saying that the last person he loved died and he would never love again and then the next chapter he said, I love this girl to moon and back or something. My mans did a 180 so fast it gave me whiplash.

The story doesn't make much sense right now but it's only because this is the first book.

I wrote so many things and the things that i kept rewriting was that Luna is a selfish and stupid. She says and does before she even thinks. For someone who thinks herself as a well rounded person who is very educated, she sure is dumb asf. She believes anything they tell her even if its just rumors and when Sebby corrects her its like she just can't believe... girl you need evidence for whatever Sebby says but you believe what everyone else tells you without evidence? Make it make sense. *insert disappointed sigh here*

Honestly, do I think the tether and the bounding have anything to do with what they’re feelings for each other? Yes. Do I feel that if they wasn't a factor they wouldn't like each other? Yes. It would be misunderstanding central if they weren't tethered and bound.

I want to ask a fair question. Wouldn't it be better for whoever doesn't have wings to ride on the back of whoever has the wings instead of clutching on her dear life on the bottom? Does that make sense or am I just dumb?

At the end of this it was a clusterfuck of events all mashed together. One minute they go into the dungeon to question a prisoner the next they were somewhere else fighting ending in Luna dying and Sebby making her a vampire. Woof.

Here are some quotes:

𐙚₊˚⊹"...While the romantic love of ballads did not exist, bravery certainly did. People were brave every day even when they felt like their lives couldn't go on..."𐙚₊˚⊹

𐙚₊˚⊹"...I need you...All of you. You're driving me mad. The way you taste. Your smell. Sitting across from you in the library for the past twenty-one days, sleeping in the same room as you, refraining from touching you has been the most agonizing experience of my entire existence..."𐙚₊˚⊹

𐙚₊˚⊹"...Make no mistake, darling, you are mine. My wife. My princess. Your enemies are my enemies. Your problems are now my problems. I will destroy anyone who threatens you. I will tear them limb from limb, painting the snow with the blood that runs through their veins before presenting you with the stakes used to pierce their blackened hearts..." 𐙚₊˚⊹

Overall enjoyed this book mostly because I love a good vampire romance book. Like I wasn't gagged and gooped but it was okay. Carry on then.