vaerin

20+ || i repost fluff i love !! 🍎🌿

[ceaseless-edge]

“In Another Life—”

Blade loathes this.

No, not this. He loves the bonds he’s created with his fellow Stellaron Hunters. They’re irreplaceable, far too significant to compromise on. And he’s gotten used to the precision that’s often called upon by the script, making sure not to tread further than required. Do what needs doing, then wait for further instruction, whenever it comes.

What Blade loathes is that the work he does means his time with you is often fleeting.

Most of his missions are far too dangerous to bring you along. His excursions to other planets take somewhere between days and weeks, occasionally even longer. And when he does find the time to seek a haven in your arms, he cannot afford to be seen, lest a target is drawn on your back.

He worries for you. Every single moment apart from you is like an individual nail being driven into his heart, crushing and consuming.

And despite it all, you never fail to greet him with an eager smile and hands that are always so soft and warm, just for Bladie.

It’s one such moment of respite that he’s with you, dried blood streaked on the side of his face (it’s not his, and he couldn’t wait to wash it off before seeing you). You had wasted no time in getting him cleaned up, and now he sits by you, curled against you so tightly his body might consume yours.

“In another life,” he sighs into your hand cupping his cheek, “I would spend every waking moment of mine with you.”

“That would be the dream,” you hum, smiling as he kisses your hand. “What would you be? A weaponsmith full-time?”

“Yes.” His phone buzzes. A message from Kafka, likely pertaining to his next script. It buzzes again. And again. But he doesn’t pick it up, not immediately. “I would take commissions from clients of all walks of life.”

You giggle. “And work yourself to the bone as always?”

Blade’s eyes narrow, but only just. “…Perhaps. But with you by my side, I doubt I’d feel drained. We would live somewhere—peaceful. Not noisy, but not isolated either. Just sufficient enough for me to work.”

You squeeze his hand lightly. “That sounds nice.” Contentedly, you rest your head on his shoulder, closing your eyes in bliss as Blade reflexively reaches to draw circles on your shoulder. “What kind of house would it be?”

Blade’s phone buzzes once more. But he ignores it in favour of telling you of the kind of abode he would like to live with you in. The colour of the curtains, the fabric of the bedsheets, the kinds of flowers you would care for.

Only after you fall asleep does he quietly pull away, resting your head on a pillow before grabbing his phone and slipping away into the quietude, slated only to return Aeons-know-when.

When you wake, the only reminders of his presence are a handmade brooch he’d left for you, and the ghost of his lips along your skin.

[bloomingtorii]

when they overhear you talk lovingly about them [genshin men]

⋗ ft. alhaitham, ayato, baizhu, dottore, flins, neuvillette, pantalone, tighnari, zhongli

⋗ ~0.3k | fluff | gn!reader

Alhaitham

It’s… honestly not even the first time this has happened to him.

There’s been plenty of instances when he overheard someone talking about him, although mostly it wasn’t the kindest words - perhaps because the person usually happened to be his roommate. Then again, a lot of what he happened to hear were also other students fawning over him, whispering their desires like that was the most important thing on their minds. Alhaitham never understood why they couldn’t just focus on their research and studies. 

But with you, he lowers his gaze and listens. He doesn’t make his presence known, simply takes in your words without shaking his head, without the familiar feeling of irritation rising through him. In fact, he notices his body getting warmer. A soft, cotton-like sensation in his chest that makes him feel light. 

The scholar analyzes that feeling, where it comes from. Is the difference, perhaps, because you are already his? This is you, sharing something precious that feels too vulnerable to admit to him - a feeling he knows very well - not a stranger gushing over him without properly knowing him.

When you meet next time, Alhaitham seems lost in thought. Yet at the same time, you feel his gaze following your every move. Because he is. He notices everything. Between the two of you, you might be the more outspoken one, the one who tends to confess your feelings more directly. Right now, though, he can see you speak his language of love fluently too - more than he gave you credit for, too blinded by how easily you seem to express your emotions aloud and trying to meet you there.

Now he sees it, though. Every little gesture, every lingering touch, every indirect admission that you care. You startle when he slides his hand across the table to catch yours. Maybe this is enough, maybe just as he knows now, you understood his feelings the whole time.

Ayato

It is not his style to be hiding in the shadows but Ayato always keeps his mind open to trying new things. Such as now, biding his time in the cool shade the tree offers while he listens to the voices approaching. There’s something about the hushed excitement with which his sister speaks that already piques his interest, yet it is only when he hears the unmistakable shyness and panic in yours that he considers abandoning his previous plan of making a surprising appearance. He’s a curious man and if you’re not careful enough to make absolutely sure nobody hears what you’re saying, it can’t be that important after all.

And thinking that is his undoing. He has to stifle a laugh. How foolish he was for dismissing what he’s going to hear as a simple ammunition for teasing. His posture shifts, now he leans against the trunk comfortably as he gets lost in your sweet confessions. He stares up at the sky obscured by the leaves. You’ve said those things before, maybe not with the same words, but he’s never doubted your feelings. So why does he feel this way now?

His surprise is postponed. Instead of scaring you by jumping out of the shadows, Ayato surprises you with dinner ready on the table, the servants dismissed for the remainder of the day. Your home is quiet, safe for your husband describing the delicacies on the table and teasing the special dessert he prepared for later - no doubt something he thought of himself. And while it’s not unheard of for him to make romantic gestures such as this, something feels off.Yet when you press him about it, Ayato offers only a mysterious smile and a playful can’t i adore you for no special reason? accompanied by a fleeting kiss to the corner of your lips.

Baizhu

“You have to promise not to tell anyone.”

“Qiqi will forget this conversation soon. Your secret is safe with her.”

Intrigued, Baizhu ducks closer to the wall. Secrets? Secrets between his two favorite people? He’s curious and amused at the same time. Should your voice be strained, he would worry and interrupt whatever was going on, but seeing as you were giggling along with the little girl, he barely expected more than a silly exchange that would warm his heart and provide him with sufficient energy to push through his tasks for the day.

Instead, what he hears makes his heart stop for a moment and his legs weaken. Perhaps he should make his presence known. Perhaps he won’t need to, simply collapsing on the spot should be enough. 

Once the dramatics leave his body with a quiet, shaky breath, he carefully peeks into the room. His eyes land on you in a second, on the shy, embarrassed smile and eyes, fortunately, closed while you laugh with Qiqi about the foolishly sweet things you’ve said. Baizhu bites back a smile and finds another route to his destination.

Later, however, while you’re getting ready for bed, he comes up behind you and wraps his arms around you. His lips leave a trail of soft kisses from your shoulder to your jaw, no different than if he was running a feather over your skin. But his arms, they keep you in place without fail. 

“The effect you have on me is concerning, my heart,” Baizhu whispers into your ear before you can voice your surprise.

His hand finds yours and guides it to his wrist, allowing you to feel his racing pulse. He feels your confusion growing, but he doesn’t explain - how could he? He will treasure the secrets he heard, although they’ve perhaps never been secret at all. Not when he can see them all now that he looks into your eyes.

Dottore

He bristles when he hears a voice responding to yours, and soon the irritation is doubled. Dottore assigned you a task of utmost importance and time sensitivity. It’s a test of sorts, sure, yet the notion that you’d fail and what’s more - that you’d skirt your duty to mindless chatter makes a confusing mix of irrational feelings well up in his chest.

Yet he’s stopped in his tracks before his steps can get within your earshot. His enhanced senses can perceive what a regular human couldn’t, such as your voice, calm and poised, explaining the inner workings of your heart to the other person. 

It makes his face contort like a child’s after drinking a bitter medicine. Then an incredulous laugh bubbles quietly up his throat. The world tilts on its axis, nausea follows. Those words are not unheard; they’re simply usually heard much more quietly, privately, behind locked doors and between the sheets. You whisper them to him, mumbling them against his skin because he won’t meet your gaze or acknowledge them. He never thought he’d hear them aloud - spoken without hesitation, doubt or shame. 

You don’t flinch when you find yourself trapped between his body and the desk a minute later, the other bolting away the moment he appears. He doesn’t feel you stiffen or tremble at all when his breath hits the vulnerable skin of your throat, nor when he bites down on the side of your neck. Not hard enough to draw blood and, he realizes belatedly, not hard enough to hurt. Only enough to leave a faint mark. Somehow his fingers find their way between yours, pinning you to the desk. He’s already panting so hard it makes him laugh. 

This is not the experiment he had in mind for today, or any other day for as long as he lives, but inspiration is known to strike at the oddest of moments.

Flins

He wakes up to a voice. Which is strange because he also wakes up to a feeling of safety, and Flins has grown so used to safety meaning loneliness. It takes him a moment to fully process all that he can hear and feel, and for the time being he remains still as if he was resting. First is the touch - a hand combing through his hair slowly, which threatens to lull him back to sleep. Then the voice gets clear enough. Your voice, your words. Suddenly, sleep is no longer tempting.

Fortunately, his face is hidden against your stomach enough that he can allow himself a secret smile. He has to express himself somehow without also being discovered. It’s been so long since he’s known intimacy such as this. Compromising this moment is the last thing he wants. He promises to himself he’ll make it up to you somehow, he has to, but for the time being he chooses to stay as he is. 

You don’t seem any wiser when Flins pretends to wake up. Very slowly, uncharacteristically affectionate. So much so that you don’t tease him, skipping straight to suspicion and mild concern. But he only reassures you, telling you about a beautiful dream he had while kissing your wrists, your hands, all the way to your fingertips. He doesn’t let you pull away - every attempt is met with a gentle squeeze and a pleading look. And you’re no monster to say a no to that.

Despite his best efforts, he can’t quite figure out how to make you feel as loved as your words spoken while he was supposed to be oblivious to them made him feel. He ends up hovering around you, and it’s so unfair how effortlessly you pile onto that feeling with every touch, every word of concern. He doesn’t think you understand why he holds you so much tighter when he finally breaks and pulls you close.

Neuvillette

He knows it’s wrong. The Iudex of Fontaine, listening in on hushed voices, albeit voices behind his closed doors, inside of his own office. There’s already been a precedent of a secret being kept from him, and he’d rather not think about an event of similar severity being repeated when the voice he recognizes is yours. The gasps of the melusines do nothing to calm his beating heart, he can only press his ear to the wood of the door and close his eyes.

They don’t stay closed for long. It makes little difference as Neuvillette stares blankly at the ground, his sight unfocused and shaky. He holds his breath, he doesn’t mean to, but if he misses a single word of your confessions he feels he’d regret it for eternity.

The moment passes too soon. Steps get closer to the door and he does his best to act as if he witnessed nothing. He thinks he must be doing fine until you stand in front of him - he feels the facade crumble. Neuvillette leads you back into the office despite your playful scolding that you’ve already held up his work enough. 

He confesses to listening in before you can decode the expression on his face. The tips of his ears turn red, his voice wavers. Then the silence stretches, before he eventually, softly, admits how hearing you speak that way about him has affected him. Like you couldn’t tell from the uncertainty radiating off of him. 

So now it’s your turn to take his hand and pry details from him. With utmost patience despite your racing heart, you delve to the root of the issue - that he feels just as strongly about you too, yet struggles to come up with a way to show you. The realization comes with a self-depreciating chuckle and an apologetic smile that becomes a little more relaxed when you inform the hydro dragon that a simple kiss will suffice.

Pantalone

It’s almost time to leave. The annual ball is about to start and Pantalone means to be fashionable late. He is the main star, so to speak, after all. Your handmaiden should also be aware of the time, and so he sees no point in knocking-

“I’ve wished the marriage wasn’t a matter of convenience for a long time now.”

His hand hovers above the doorknob and retracts. His brows furrow. While your voice is somber, almost desperate, the voice of your handmaiden is excited, albeit concerned. He doesn’t understand.

It’s only when, upon the woman’s insistence, you let the floodgates of your feelings open that he gets the full picture. 

Smirk tugs at his lips, one he can barely contain. A man should not feel as he feels hearing such confessions from the one he’s wedded to, yet here Pantalone is. Pride soars through his chest, a sense of victory, the satisfaction of a beneficial deal struck. And all the while - peace. Like a guard dog with no master stumbling upon a lamb, given purpose anew.

There seem to indeed be some things the value of which cannot be expressed or evaluated.

Nobody, of course, dares to comment that your late arrival at the ball borders on rude instead of fashionable. The talk of the town, or rather the content of the hushed whispers that the speakers think cannot be heard over the music, is all about you and your husband.

About the way the regrator’s hand remains possessively on your lower back, both seemingly to guide you and to prevent you from straying too far away. In fact, it seems the closer you remain, the better. They talk about the many instances when his lips brush right against the shell of your ear whenever he’s talking to you privately. 

The whole hall wonders - did the ninth harbinger fall in love?

Tighnari

His ears twitch and turn in the direction of the sound that does not belong this deep in the forest. A smile’s already tugging on Tighnari’s lips when he listens for a moment longer and recognizes the voice as yours, accompanied by another’s. It’s impossible to keep you away from the more dangerous parts of the forest, he’s made peace with that, but he’s at least relieved you listened to him and didn’t venture this far alone. 

He finishes the task he was devoted to and is about to greet you and join you, should his company be welcomed, when he hears it. The way your voice drops lower, barely heard above the songs of the birds and the hum of the trees, and how it grows softer, fonder. For a moment he hesitates, some part of him worried about what he might hear because a tone like that is supposed to be reserved for him. Only it turns out it is.

He breaks into a wider smile - then he reels himself in. He shouldn’t be listening in on your private conversation, even if he’s the topic of it. A very, very cherished topic it seems. But his body won’t listen. His tail has a life of its own and his feet remain stuck to the ground. His expression grows softer, fonder. He might’ve remained there, staring in the direction of your voice like a fool if it wasn’t for his emotions simply growing too overwhelming. 

Tighnari grins sheepishly when you yelp the moment he appears from between the trees, more so when your friend suddenly has a very convenient excuse to flee - though he calls after them that they shouldn’t be by themselves in these parts. Even if he prefers to have you to himself. Suddenly it seems like all your eloquence disappeared. But that’s fine - that’s cute, he chuckles. He can do the talking now, if you only take his hand.

Zhongli

Idle chatter is a rare occurrence without the director around. Any sort of lively energy, really, especially on days like this one. And so with her out on business, Zhongli is intrigued by what made hushed conversation resonate through the empty halls of the parlor. Above all, he picks up your voice, strained by emotions. Hardly a surprise after the display you’ve all bore witness only hours prior.

Meaning to check on you, he approaches slowly. Yet finding himself to be the topic of the conversation, his steps pause, then stop altogether. His brows furrowed. It’s not that he doesn’t understand why the sudden outburst or why you’d feel the need to talk about your feelings with a third party - what he doesn’t understand is the trembling of his own heart. How can it still be so fragile after aeons of heartbreak?

Later, in the quiet privacy of your bedroom, Zhongli comes clean. It remains a mystery to him why his heart flutters again when he watches you get flustered - first by the realization, then by him recounting similar sentiments to you. It only gets strangers, the feeling shifts into an ache first, then into a stable pressure that feels almost crushing.

You’re lying on his chest, at his insistence as much as your desire to remain close to him. It’s been hours since he coaxed you to sleep but he himself can’t bring himself to drift off. He’s watching you, marvelling at the feeling stirring inside of him. Perhaps it is because of the funeral and the young widow you’ve all witnessed earlier, sobbing at her husband’s grave, that you are - that he is - so desperate to make the feelings you harbor for each other known. 

Zhongli turns his head, allowing himself to bury his face into your hair. The pressure in his chest doesn’t ease. His fingers itch to bring you closer, to hold you tighter.

[jenniemiller777]

ꜰᴀᴛᴜɪ ʜᴀʀʙɪɴɢᴇʀꜱ & when they realize they fell in love with you

Pulcinella is not included! All x Fem Reader.

Some very ooc- First time doing something like this so be nice :D

Accepting requests in the comments!

THANK YOU FOR THIS REQUEST @koshiroyuzu

₊˚ ✧ ━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━ ✧ ₊˚

⋆˙⟡ ℭ𝔬𝔩𝔲𝔪𝔟𝔦𝔫𝔞⋆˙⟡

Columbina didn’t realize it all at once.

There was no dramatic moment where everything suddenly clicked into place. Love, for her, came quietly. Softly. Like something that had always existed and simply waited for her to notice it.

At first, she just liked being near you.

She would drift into rooms you were in without thinking about it. Sit beside you in comfortable silence. Listen to you speak with that distant little smile on her face, humming softly whenever you laughed.

And one day, you reached over absentmindedly and fixed one of the feathers near her shoulder.

Such a small thing.

Barely anything.

Yet Columbina went strangely still.

“You looked crooked,” you murmured casually.

She stared at you for a long moment after that. Not unsettling. Just… thoughtful.

Because nobody had ever touched her so gently without fear before.

Later that night, she found herself replaying the moment over and over again in her head. The warmth of your fingers. The easy affection in your voice. The way you didn’t hesitate to touch her at all.

That was the first crack.

The realization came later.

You had fallen asleep beside her, curled comfortably against her shoulder while rambling halfway through some story. Your words had slowly faded into quiet breathing, and Columbina simply sat there listening to it.

Listening.

Watching.

Feeling something ache softly in her chest.

Not unpleasant.

Just… deep.

She looked down at you resting against her and whispered quietly, almost surprised by the truth of it.

“Oh.”

That was all.

No panic. No denial.

Just understanding.

Then her fingers carefully brushed through your hair as she smiled faintly to herself.

“So this is what it is.”

And from that point on, her devotion became absolute.

⋆.˚𝒜𝔯𝔩𝔢𝔠𝔠𝔥𝔦𝔫𝔬⋆.˚

Arlecchino noticed it long before she admitted it.

That was the problem.

She started making exceptions for you first.

Small ones.

Insignificant ones.

Allowing you to interrupt her work. Letting conversations go on longer than necessary. Memorizing details about your habits without meaning to.

At first, she told herself it was practicality.

You were useful to keep close. Pleasant to tolerate. Nothing more.

Then one evening, you arrived injured.

Not severely. Just enough to matter.

And Arlecchino reacted before thinking.

The moment she saw the blood on your sleeve, her expression sharpened instantly.

“Who did this?”

The question came out cold enough to freeze the room.

You tried to wave it off with a laugh. “It’s not that seriou—”

“It is to me.”

That silence afterward was what finally unsettled her.

Because she meant it.

Entirely.

She patched you up herself despite insisting someone else could have done it. Her hands were precise as always, but noticeably tighter than usual whenever you winced.

“You’re glaring at the bandages like they insulted you personally,” you teased softly.

“I dislike carelessness.”

“That wasn’t my fault.”

“I am aware.”

Yet she still looked irritated.

Not at you.

At the fact that you had gotten hurt at all.

And when you smiled at her afterward—warm, trusting, completely unaware of what you were doing to her—something in her chest pulled painfully tight.

That was the moment she understood.

Not attraction. Not attachment.

Love.

Deep enough to make her afraid for you.

Deep enough to make her dangerous about you.

Arlecchino went very still after that realization.

Then she sighed quietly and pressed a final bandage into place.

“…You are becoming a problem.”

You blinked at her. “Excuse me?”

Her gaze lingered on your face for one long second too many.

“…Nothing,” she answered flatly.

But her hand stayed on yours a moment longer than necessary before she finally let go.

✧.*𝔓𝔦𝔢𝔯𝔯𝔬 ✧.*

Pierro realized it in the worst possible way:

Through fear.

Not fear for himself.

For you.

He had spent centuries mastering restraint, distancing himself from attachment, burying softer emotions beneath duty and ambition. He considered it necessary. Efficient.

Then you walked into his life and quietly dismantled all of it without even trying.

At first, he appreciated your presence because it was calming. You spoke to him normally. Not with fear. Not with worship. Just honesty.

It became… addictive.

He began seeking you out without consciously meaning to. Asking for your opinion. Allowing you to remain beside him during long stretches of work neither of you needed to discuss.

And one night, you didn’t show up.

Simple as that.

You were late.

Objectively, it meant nothing.

Yet Pierro found himself unable to focus.

Every passing minute irritated him further. He reread the same document three times without absorbing a single word. His thoughts kept circling back to one thing:

Where are you?

Then the door finally opened.

“There you are,” you sighed, stepping inside. “Sorry, I got held up—”

Pierro stood so abruptly the chair scraped harshly against the floor.

You froze.

“…Pierro?”

The relief that hit him was immediate. Violent.

And horrifying.

Because in that moment, he understood exactly how deeply you had rooted yourself inside him.

You looked confused by his expression.

“You thought something happened to me?”

He said nothing.

Which was answer enough.

You softened instantly. “Hey… I’m alright.”

You stepped closer carefully, placing a hand against his arm.

And Pierro—normally so composed, so untouchable—closed his eyes briefly at the contact like it physically grounded him.

That was when he knew.

Not because you were there.

Because the thought of losing you had genuinely frightened him.

He opened his eyes again slowly before murmuring in a low voice:

“…Do not do that again.”

You smiled a little. “Be late?”

“Disappear.”

The word came out quieter than expected.

More honest, too.

And from then on, Pierro carried the unbearable truth with him constantly:

His heart no longer belonged entirely to himself.

꩜ S𝔠𝔞𝔯𝔞𝔪𝔬𝔲𝔠𝔥𝔢 ꩜

Scaramouche realized it slowly.

Then all at once.

And he hated every second of it.

At first, he only noticed the irritation.

You occupied too much of his attention. Your voice lingered in his head after conversations ended. He kept finding himself looking for you in crowded rooms without meaning to.

Annoying.

Pathetic.

Weak.

He told himself that repeatedly.

Yet somehow, it only got worse.

He became territorial without understanding why. Short-tempered whenever someone got too close to you. Irritated when you smiled at other people for too long.

“You’re glaring again,” you pointed out one evening.

“I always glare.”

“…Not usually at innocent civilians.”

“They looked at you wrong.”

You blinked.

“They asked me what time it was.”

“Exactly.”

He turned away immediately after saying it, clearly irritated with himself for even speaking.

Because deep down, he already knew.

He just refused to call it what it was.

Love felt dangerous to him. Stupid. Reckless. The kind of thing people used against you.

And Scaramouche had spent far too long surviving to willingly hand someone that kind of power.

Then one night, you laughed.

That was it.

Not at him. Not because of anything important. You were sitting beside him rambling about something completely ridiculous, and suddenly you laughed so hard you leaned against his shoulder without thinking.

And Scaramouche froze.

Completely.

Because his first thought wasn’t to shove you away.

It was:

Stay.

The realization hit him so hard it made him feel physically ill.

His chest tightened painfully. His stomach twisted. He looked at you like you had personally betrayed him by making him feel something this raw.

“…You’re insufferable,” he muttered bitterly.

You snorted. “You say that every day.”

“I mean it every day.”

Yet he didn’t move away from you.

Didn’t stop you from leaning against him.

Didn’t stop staring at your smile when you weren’t looking.

And eventually—after days of anger, denial, pacing, and internal screaming—Scaramouche came to one miserable conclusion:

He would rather have this painful, terrifying thing than lose you.

That was the part that finally broke him.

Because once he accepted that?

There was no going back.

One night, completely unprompted, he suddenly muttered:

“…I hate what you’ve done to me.”

You blinked at him. “What did I do?”

He stared at you for a long moment before looking away sharply.

“…Made me care.”

And despite how angry he sounded—

His hand still reached for yours beneath the table.

𖤓 𝒯𝒶𝓇𝓉𝒶𝑔𝓁𝒾𝒶 𖤓

Tartaglia fell in love with you like getting hit in the face with a brick.

Fast. Hard. Immediate.

There was no denial stage.

No fear.

Only overwhelming certainty.

One day he was teasing you over dinner, grinning like usual while you rolled your eyes at him—

And the next, he was staring at you halfway through your sentence thinking:

I want to marry her.

The realization was so abrupt he almost laughed out loud.

Because of course this would happen to him.

You looked at him suspiciously. “Why are you staring at me like that?”

“You’re pretty,” he answered immediately.

“That’s not new.”

“No, but right now it feels like a personal attack.”

You burst out laughing.

And that was it for him.

Done.

Finished.

Gone.

Tartaglia loves loudly by nature, and once he realized what he felt for you, it infected everything about him. He wanted you involved in every part of his life immediately.

He talked about the future without even thinking about it.

“You’d love my siblings,” he says casually one afternoon.

You blink. “Your siblings?”

“Mhm.” He smiles lazily. “You’d fit right in.”

Then, after a pause:

“You’d look good with my last name too.”

You nearly choke.

Meanwhile, he’s completely serious.

That’s the terrifying part.

Tartaglia becomes almost love-drunk once he falls. Softer around you. Happier. More reckless with affection.

He drapes himself over you constantly. Grins whenever you walk into a room. Brags about you to other people like it’s his favorite hobby.

And when he realizes you’re looking at him with the same warmth he feels for you?

God.

He practically glows.

One evening, while you’re half asleep against his chest, he suddenly blurts out:

“I think I want everything with you.”

You mumble sleepily, “Everything?”

“House. Family. Matching old people chairs.” He presses a quick kiss against your forehead. “All of it.”

You laugh softly.

Tartaglia just smiles into your hair with the most devastatingly sincere expression imaginable.

Because he means every word.

₊⊹ ℑ𝔩 𝔇𝔬𝔱𝔱𝔬𝔯𝔢 ₊⊹

Dottore knew almost immediately.

The difference between him and everyone else is that he didn’t panic about it.

He identified the feeling, analyzed it, accepted it, and moved on with surprising ease.

Interesting.

That was his first thought.

Not because he considered love trivial—but because he considered his own reaction to you fascinating.

He liked you too much.

Thought about you too often.

Found himself distracted by the sound of your voice.

Objectively speaking, those were symptoms.

And Dottore was very good at recognizing patterns.

One day he simply looked up from his work and said calmly:

“I appear to be in love with you.”

You stared at him.

“…That’s how you confess to people?”

“I was not aware there was a required format.”

The worst part?

He was completely genuine.

After realizing his feelings, Dottore became painfully obvious about them. Not romantically obvious in a normal way, of course. He’s still Dottore.

But suddenly gifts start appearing.

Rare books. Jewelry. Strange little inventions he claims “made him think of you.”

“This reminded you of me?” you ask, holding up something incredibly expensive and vaguely dangerous.

“Yes.”

“…Why?”

“You seemed like you would enjoy it.”

And he says it with such genuine hope that it completely disarms you.

That’s the thing nobody expects from Dottore once he falls in love:

He gets excited.

Not childish exactly, but close enough sometimes that it catches you off guard.

He genuinely likes making you happy.

If you smile at something he gives you, his entire mood noticeably improves for the rest of the day.

“You like it,” he observes one evening after handing you another gift.

“…I do.”

His mouth curves slightly.

“Excellent.”

The satisfaction in his voice is almost unfairly soft.

And when you thank him affectionately—touching his arm, smiling warmly at him, praising something he made—Dottore looks genuinely delighted beneath all that composure.

Like a man who discovered something wonderful and has no intention of ever letting it go.

One night, while watching you ramble excitedly about something completely unrelated, he suddenly says:

“You are disastrously easy to adore.”

You stop mid-sentence.

“…What?”

Dottore just smiles faintly behind his hand.

“I said what I meant.”

Capitano

Capitano realized it quietly.

There was no panic. No dramatic revelation.

Just certainty.

He noticed it through instinct first. The way his attention followed you automatically in crowded spaces. The way he relaxed slightly whenever you entered a room. The way he always positioned himself between you and danger without thinking.

At first, he believed it was habit.

Then one evening, you fell asleep against him during a long journey.

Your head rested on his shoulder, breathing soft and even, completely trusting him to stay there.

Capitano looked down at you for a long moment beneath his helmet.

Then very carefully adjusted his cloak around you so you would not get cold.

That was when he understood.

Not because of the affection.

Because protecting you suddenly felt more important than anything else.

You stirred slightly against him. “Mm… sorry…”

“There is nothing to apologize for,” he said quietly.

His hand rested against your back afterward, steady and warm.

And from that moment on, everyone around him noticed one undeniable truth:

Capitano’s patience for the world became significantly thinner whenever you were involved.

꯱ׁׅ֒ɑׁׅ֮ꪀׁׅժׁׅ݊ꭈׁׅᨵׁׅꪀׁׅꫀׁׅܻ

Sandrone realized it through jealousy.

Which irritated her beyond belief.

At first, she thought you were simply tolerable. Easier to be around than most people. Less annoying. Less incompetent.

Then she started wanting your attention.

And that was the problem.

One afternoon, you spent nearly an hour talking to one of her assistants while she worked nearby.

By the end of it, Sandrone was in a horrible mood.

Tools slammed onto tables harder than necessary. Her responses became clipped and sharp. One poor assistant nearly fled the room in tears.

You finally looked over. “Are you okay?”

“I am perfectly fine.”

“You look mad.”

“I am not.”

A pause.

“…Why are you glaring at him?”

“I dislike his face.”

Which made absolutely no sense because she had employed him herself.

That night, Sandrone sat alone trying to figure out why seeing you smile at someone else had made her chest feel tight with annoyance.

Then it hit her.

And she immediately hated it.

“No,” she muttered aloud.

Unfortunately for her, denial did not fix anything.

If anything, she became worse afterward.

More possessive. More attentive. More obvious.

She’d pretend not to care while quietly building things for you in her workshop for hours.

When you thanked her warmly for one of them, she looked away immediately.

“It’s not a big deal.”

“It’s beautiful.”

“…Well. Obviously.”

But her ears turned pink anyway.

𝕻𝖆𝖓𝖙𝖆𝖑𝖔𝖓𝖊

Pantalone realized it embarrassingly fast.

The moment you smiled at him sincerely for the first time, he was practically doomed.

At first, he found you charming.

Then fascinating.

Then suddenly he was rearranging entire schedules just to spend more time with you and buying you gifts because he liked the look on your face when you received them.

One day, someone jokingly asked him why he was so generous toward you.

And before he could stop himself, he answered:

“Because she deserves everything.”

The room went quiet.

Pantalone blinked once.

Then sighed dramatically into his wine glass.

“…Ah,” he murmured. “That explains quite a lot.”

Unlike some of the others, he was not ashamed of being in love. If anything, he leaned into it immediately.

He adored loving you.

Adored spoiling you. Adored hearing your laugh. Adored the feeling of your hand on his arm during conversations.

He became almost insufferably affectionate afterward.

“You’re staring again,” you teased one evening.

“Can you blame me?”

“You’re impossible.”

“And yet you continue to indulge me.”

He smiled lazily, reaching over to take your hand and press a kiss against your knuckles like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“You should understand,” he said smoothly, eyes half-lidded with amusement, “that once I decide something has value, I invest heavily.”

You laughed.

Pantalone smiled right along with you—but softer.

Because unlike money, power, or influence…

You were the first thing he had ever wanted simply because you made him happy.

----------------

Ugh, I love them all. ACCEPTING SUGGESTIONS FOR SCENARIOS!! No NSFW rn, just fluff and angst :D

[vriezennn]

based on a personal experience

[vriezennn]

based on a personal experience

[rockingbytheseaside]

✦ Four notes, four unspeakables

[rockingbytheseaside]

Desperately clinging to your fics for comfort at this point LOL

✦ Ageless Metamorphosis

OG Zandik x immortal Reader witnessing him in different stages of life with segments. Reader is gn. Warning: Longer fic idk why I wrote this 

When Zandik was scarcely 18, he sat across from you as a junior Trainee Dastur. 

Tepid sunlight cascaded over an endless sea of book spines, towering rows undulating like hypnotic waves. If the sound of your quill scribbling across the parchment paper were akin to the sound of splashing waves, then Zandik would wish to stay on this shore. You amended his notes, and the junior sat silently, nervously adjusting the golden trims of his emerald uniform when usually vanity meant little to him. However, with you, things were different. 

“I see now why you wanted me to read it,” – you told him. “I believe this outline holds merit. I corrected some basic equations you wrote down, but I can say you're on the right track.”

His hands clench into fists in his lap, knuckles whitening with suppressed excitement. Was it foolish hope, or had you truly begun to believe his work on longevity might stand in defiance of Eleazar itself? Even so, you cautioned him gently, reminding him that the Akademiya’s six cardinal sins were not transgressions his supervisors would overlook: 

“You should've been my supervisor,” – he quickly interjected, arms crossed. “At least, a senior co-author. Are you truly certain you intend to leave after graduation?” 

Alas, your wistful smile confirmed you had already made that decision. 

Though Zandik inclined his head with due respect, the cast of his lowered gaze betrayed how bitterly he cursed fate once more. Had he only belonged to the same academic year as you, he might have shared so much more with you: his scholarly frustrations, sleepless research, the burdens of looming deadlines, and endless debate during field trips amongst the dunes of Deshret’s old kingdom. Lamentably, a young heretic like him could only covet an equal like you. 

You are far more intimidating than he expected. You sat there so calmly, pen moving across parchment like this is just another Tuesday. Yet when you stand back up, offering a gentle tap on his shoulder, Zandik’s face broke into an unfiltered smile he rarely wore in his scholarly career. It transforms his usually intense ruby eyes, rendering him to look exactly what he is – a mere young boy. 

“I'll take your words of encouragement at face value. Otherwise, I hope not all long-lived individuals such as yourself dispense polite encouragement to humor naive mortals?” “Maybe when I reach several centuries of age, Zandik. I am not that ancient yet.” 

When Zandik was 25, you watched him work tirelessly in Dar Al-Shifa’.

With a notebook in hand and chalk in the other, he scribbled tirelessly on the board in front of him. A crease formed on the bridge of his nose, right underneath his glasses. A white medical lab coat has replaced his once-pristine Akademiya uniform. 

"If I adjust the plasma conductivity here... no, this won’t do," – He mutters to himself as he scribbles furiously. Realizing he was far from alone in this room, he felt self-conscious of you watching him after hours again. A habit of yours lately, one he proudly memorized, even when your footsteps were soundless and your breathing undetected. "Oh! You're still here. Great, I will wrap it up to show you my progress."

You watch him fuss and mutter over cellular samples of the recent Eleazar patient. Simply resting your head on your palms, you remained seated by a medical table behind him. Any attempts to convince him that he was way overqualified for this run-down hospital remained futile.  

"If it keeps me afloat, then so be it. And it’s not like I can scavenge better opportunities elsewhere after my expulsion," – Zandik's shoulders tensed slightly, chalk dusting the fingertips of his gloves. "They're building a new wing for experimental treatments. More patients with Eleazar are coming in… This would be the perfect opportunity to experiment on the condition. What do you think?” 

You paid little heed to his pleas. Instead, you busied yourself checking the formulas written on the board here and there. Then, without warning, you turned to stare at him with such profound astonishment: 

“... You wear glasses now.” 

Zandik blinked at you. An embarrassing exhale escaped him, a sound halfway between frustration and affection. He abandoned the chalkboard entirely now, walking over to where you sit – "You're avoiding the topic again, aren’t you? I do not ask you out of whimsy, dear. I want to hear your opinion first and foremost. Always have." 

But both you and Zandik could already guess what you would utter. You knew these parts of rural desert villages. People here do not look kindly upon those who meddle with Eleazar, nor upon anyone who tampers with the ancient Khaenri’ahn machinery buried beneath the sands. To do so was akin to cursed omens. You shook your head: “Do something reckless, and they will exile you like Sumeru city did.”

The young man crossed his arms – “And is concealing your true age and origins from the villagers not equally reckless of you?”

Your eyes widened before your gaze drifted away in solemn silence. Indeed, neither of you was innocent, and the doctor sighed before leaning closer towards you.  

For seven years, since that golden afternoon at the Akademiya, through his exile, to your frequent visits to this remote hospital, the young doctor would gaze at you with an encumbered yearning. His desolation from Sumeru city was his burden alone, yet somehow, you’d return after him to ensure his well-being. Perhaps the shared disdain for the Akademiya’s taboos was what brought you to him as a senior, but to the young man, you were an image of everything he’d hoped to achieve. Was it immortality or change? His brilliant mind couldn’t grasp for an answer. 

"You think I care about exile?" he asked, voice low but intense. "They cast me out once already for pursuing forbidden knowledge. I was hoping that maybe after seven years, you'd see me as more than a puny junior. We can go together, it doesn’t matter where, even in the worst possible outcome. 

Silence followed. 

“... Eh? It's been seven years already?! Since when?!” 

You were helpless despite your seniority, Zandik concluded. 

When Zandik was 35, he proudly bore the title of the 2nd Fatui Harbinger before you. 

The luxurious Fatui facilities dwarfed the desert hospital; his excitement is ever maddening despite the decades. You, however, remained ageless and unchanged beside him. 

"You're looking at phase one of an artificial electrolyte solution," he said eagerly, gesturing to glowing vials on a lab table while you two toured his new laboratory. "Based on Khaenri'ahn bio-tech but adapted for human physiology. This allows for a better preservation of the segments I told you about."

He presented his first progress with confidence. Imitating ancient Khaenriahn alchemy as a framework for creating clones resembling him was a new idea, finally entering experimental phases rather than remaining theoretical. You, in the meantime, wandered the polished floors of his lab, a heavy Fatui coat draped over your shoulders as you read his notes on transferring embodied experiences and memories. 

“Mortality is nothing but a shackle, and for a segment it would be no burden,” – you remember he said. “Why would it be a shackle, Zandik? Immortality is more cursed when a person acquires it. After all, a human mind cannot comprehend so many centuries without any side effects.” “And would you consider your longevity a curse, then?” – He dared you, but you fell silent. 

He leans back against the lab counter, arms crossed as he studies your unchanged face. An eternity of familiarity in this world that keeps moving without you, while everyone you’d know and love would pass and fade away. 

"The segments would gather information from different times and different perspectives. Yet here I am at my height as a Harbinger, feeling more contempt than ever. None of it bears meaning if you're just going to outlive me by centuries."

Once more, you offered him that easy, distant smile: “You have much more to achieve than pursue me throughout centuries. You are a scholar after all, so I can only advise you so much as a senior. Besides, you now look more mature than I am. Had we remained at the Akademiya, most would mistake you for my senior instead.” 

Naturally, a scoff escaped him. Lately, you’ve been using quips about him looking older than you. He hovers close, hand cradles your jaw with careful, gloved hands as if cautious you’d vanish like a mirage in the desert he once fled from.

“If I'm to tear down and spite this decaying world,” – He whispered. “...I can't imagine wanting eternity with anyone but you. Be it through my own flesh or through my segments."

“What if multiple clones of you existed, which one of them would be the closest to the real Zandik?” 

He takes another step closer, close enough now that if either of you breathed deeply, your chests might brush: "Does it matter?”

Burdened with decades of unspoken admiration, the Harbinger leaned in to seal his lips with yours. And tragically for you two, you leaned in. 

Every time that young junior presented his work, he hoped for your approval. Every coffee break, he sat by your side but never touched. That night at the desert hospital, when it hit him that you'd never age like ordinary people, and never see him as an equal in mortal life, it became a condemnation to yearn for you more. It was his unspoken ‘I've loved you since forever’ – except for a mortal, his forever was merely decades, a minuscule blink of an eye for an immortal like you. Still here you were, hands clutching at his coat as you kissed him back. The Harbinger only pushed on with hunger to pour all his unspoken words against your lips, grasping your body flush against him even when pulled away in search of air.

“We shouldn’t, you know why,”

He knew. But his gaze hardened with pain of the expected rejection: “Do you regard me as a small blink in your life? Do not pity now, you of all people…”

“No, no,” – you shook your head, forehead pressing against his chest as your shoulder shook. “Don’t act as if I am an untouchable being incapable of understanding love. You know we shouldn’t because I-”

“Because you will outlive me, and it will break us both?”

Your eyes glistened at the thought. The Doctor only drew you closer, his head pressing to the crown of your hair.

“Or… you wish not to meddle with a heretic and let him grow old on his own?”

Thinking about it now, you should've smacked Zandik on the head more often for such words. Instead, you yielded, if only this once, to the desire between you, letting him lift you onto the table as he devoured your breath with a hunger shaped by years of discretion. Just this once, even if it meant your refusal would fracture yet another part of him. 

When Zandik was 80, you watched him create segments from various stages of his life. 

The lab grows ever more fervent with work and experiments. The various fragments of his own becoming have now meticulously embodied his personality and ticks from different thresholds of his life. Through it all, Zandik himself grew older. He may not have achieved immortality to stand beside you as an equal, but you chose to remain as an enduring friend. The day when he was 35, a Harbinger in his prime, you refused him. Not out of antipathy, it was a mutual decision you both agreed to. Would a heretic allow himself to wallow in his own longing till his elderly years? Each Dottore segment will give you a different answer.

Today, a familiar chorus of boisterous chatter spills into his lab. You had arrived for a visit. The youngest of the segments, the 8-year-old little Zandik, runs quickest to cling to your legs. The 18-year-old follows suit, already eager to show you his recent essay and research notes. Perhaps some things never change. “Easy, easy there! One at a time!” – you laugh, holding packed baklava confectionery away from 8’s grabby hands as you greet everyone with little treats from your travels. Even the 65-year-old segment cannot help but play the old charmer when greeting you with a bow of his masked head. 

Old man Zandik will have to reprimand his segments to respect your personal space. What a bunch of flocking children.

“You spoil the youngest too much,” – His voice rasped as he set a cup of coffee for you. Taking his seat opposite, he kept his cane in his grasp. “But I see you are eager to correct 18’s research notes. He says if he can’t get others to advise him, he’ll have you as his supervisor instead.”

You chuckled, a cup in hand.

“Ah, doesn’t it remind you of someone when they were a Trainee Dastur?”

Old man Zandik scoffed. Of course, they inherited his bodily experiences, perhaps even their adoration is part of him. Notably, you no longer looked as intimidating as you had when he remembered you from his youth. Poised as always, you sat ever the same, physically unchanged in posture and youth. Meanwhile, Zandik aged; his hair grew longer, and his skin wasn’t spotless. It’s basic biology; his reflection did not offend him.

“You know, I think you have changed,” – The Harbinger noted.

“...Me? Do we have matching wrinkles at last?!”

“Do not mock me now,” – he shook his begrudgingly, until his weary gaze settled deep into your eyes. “You look different. Your eyes look ever more distant. I assumed it was fatigue in your eyes at first, but you are not one to skip leisurely repose.”

You said nothing. Your gaze was indeed distant, despite the ever-gentle smile.

“Maybe you should get back to wearing glasses, then, because nothing in me has changed. Which, by the way, they looked good on you when you wore them at 25.”

“Hmph, my eyesight is perfect. At least you remember the years now. It’s unlike you.” 

The bickering between the senior and their junior resumed back and forth. Except that by this coffee table, it looked like an old man scolding an ignorant juvenile for being absentminded, while you chuckled and humored him over coffee. 

“Then in that regard, you haven't changed at all despite your years.” – your youthful hand came cradling his wrinkled one. “It's like I'm looking at the same 18-year-old I first met who sat across from me in the Akademiya library.”

The contrast was clear in your shared touch; his skin was now papery with prominent veins against your ageless one. Alas, you refuse to concede that your accumulation of decades had numbed you with inferential grief. He turned his palm upward to intertwine fingers with yours. For a moment, neither of you spoke.

“We didn’t meet at the Akademiya first.”

You blinked in confusion, “Eh? Yes, we did. You shared your outline papers and whatnot. That’s the first time I met you.”

The old man regarded you with a wistful smile, “Hm, are you certain? I recall it differently.” 

“Hey now, don’t pull my leg. We were both Akademiya students, though I was about to graduate when you were still a junior. I know that much for certain!”

“Ah, you are right, you are right. Never mind, perhaps my mind was just wandering.” – Zandik didn’t insist on the topic, softly deriving a different question quickly, "Will I see you tomorrow? The younger clones always ask when their senior advisor is coming by."

“Same time, as usual,” – You stood up. “I need to check on Feofan again since his corneal repair surgery. He seems to be faring well so far. But I will see you tomorrow.”

“Suit yourself.” 

With a quick peck to his temple, you scurried off without further words. His cup of coffee remained untouched till it cooled, while Zandik watched you silently depart. Once again, the heretic would rather let decades go by instead of confessing the unstated. He did not lie - he actually knew you before the Akademiya.

When Zandik was 8, you stumbled upon him as he ran away from a swarm of kids hurling rocks at him. You, of course, don’t remember it, for you never asked for his name then.

Tears blurred his vision when he ran. Scratches stung skin until little Zandik collided with your legs by accident. Fallen backward, he remembers lying there sniffling. With a stern bark, you reprimanded the street children and shooed them off. And why would you remember a fleeting encounter where you kneeled by a small kid, checking his scratches and mending him? The little child only stared at you with big ruby eyes that day, shakily explaining what happened.

When Zandik died on his 85th birthday, you didn’t come to visit. 

[rockingbytheseaside]

Desperately clinging to your fics for comfort at this point LOL

✦ Ageless Metamorphosis

OG Zandik x immortal Reader witnessing him in different stages of life with segments. Reader is gn. Warning: Longer fic idk why I wrote this 

When Zandik was scarcely 18, he sat across from you as a junior Trainee Dastur. 

Tepid sunlight cascaded over an endless sea of book spines, towering rows undulating like hypnotic waves. If the sound of your quill scribbling across the parchment paper were akin to the sound of splashing waves, then Zandik would wish to stay on this shore. You amended his notes, and the junior sat silently, nervously adjusting the golden trims of his emerald uniform when usually vanity meant little to him. However, with you, things were different. 

“I see now why you wanted me to read it,” – you told him. “I believe this outline holds merit. I corrected some basic equations you wrote down, but I can say you're on the right track.”

His hands clench into fists in his lap, knuckles whitening with suppressed excitement. Was it foolish hope, or had you truly begun to believe his work on longevity might stand in defiance of Eleazar itself? Even so, you cautioned him gently, reminding him that the Akademiya’s six cardinal sins were not transgressions his supervisors would overlook: 

“You should've been my supervisor,” – he quickly interjected, arms crossed. “At least, a senior co-author. Are you truly certain you intend to leave after graduation?” 

Alas, your wistful smile confirmed you had already made that decision. 

Though Zandik inclined his head with due respect, the cast of his lowered gaze betrayed how bitterly he cursed fate once more. Had he only belonged to the same academic year as you, he might have shared so much more with you: his scholarly frustrations, sleepless research, the burdens of looming deadlines, and endless debate during field trips amongst the dunes of Deshret’s old kingdom. Lamentably, a young heretic like him could only covet an equal like you. 

You are far more intimidating than he expected. You sat there so calmly, pen moving across parchment like this is just another Tuesday. Yet when you stand back up, offering a gentle tap on his shoulder, Zandik’s face broke into an unfiltered smile he rarely wore in his scholarly career. It transforms his usually intense ruby eyes, rendering him to look exactly what he is – a mere young boy. 

“I'll take your words of encouragement at face value. Otherwise, I hope not all long-lived individuals such as yourself dispense polite encouragement to humor naive mortals?” “Maybe when I reach several centuries of age, Zandik. I am not that ancient yet.” 

When Zandik was 25, you watched him work tirelessly in Dar Al-Shifa’.

With a notebook in hand and chalk in the other, he scribbled tirelessly on the board in front of him. A crease formed on the bridge of his nose, right underneath his glasses. A white medical lab coat has replaced his once-pristine Akademiya uniform. 

"If I adjust the plasma conductivity here... no, this won’t do," – He mutters to himself as he scribbles furiously. Realizing he was far from alone in this room, he felt self-conscious of you watching him after hours again. A habit of yours lately, one he proudly memorized, even when your footsteps were soundless and your breathing undetected. "Oh! You're still here. Great, I will wrap it up to show you my progress."

You watch him fuss and mutter over cellular samples of the recent Eleazar patient. Simply resting your head on your palms, you remained seated by a medical table behind him. Any attempts to convince him that he was way overqualified for this run-down hospital remained futile.  

"If it keeps me afloat, then so be it. And it’s not like I can scavenge better opportunities elsewhere after my expulsion," – Zandik's shoulders tensed slightly, chalk dusting the fingertips of his gloves. "They're building a new wing for experimental treatments. More patients with Eleazar are coming in… This would be the perfect opportunity to experiment on the condition. What do you think?” 

You paid little heed to his pleas. Instead, you busied yourself checking the formulas written on the board here and there. Then, without warning, you turned to stare at him with such profound astonishment: 

“... You wear glasses now.” 

Zandik blinked at you. An embarrassing exhale escaped him, a sound halfway between frustration and affection. He abandoned the chalkboard entirely now, walking over to where you sit – "You're avoiding the topic again, aren’t you? I do not ask you out of whimsy, dear. I want to hear your opinion first and foremost. Always have." 

But both you and Zandik could already guess what you would utter. You knew these parts of rural desert villages. People here do not look kindly upon those who meddle with Eleazar, nor upon anyone who tampers with the ancient Khaenri’ahn machinery buried beneath the sands. To do so was akin to cursed omens. You shook your head: “Do something reckless, and they will exile you like Sumeru city did.”

The young man crossed his arms – “And is concealing your true age and origins from the villagers not equally reckless of you?”

Your eyes widened before your gaze drifted away in solemn silence. Indeed, neither of you was innocent, and the doctor sighed before leaning closer towards you.  

For seven years, since that golden afternoon at the Akademiya, through his exile, to your frequent visits to this remote hospital, the young doctor would gaze at you with an encumbered yearning. His desolation from Sumeru city was his burden alone, yet somehow, you’d return after him to ensure his well-being. Perhaps the shared disdain for the Akademiya’s taboos was what brought you to him as a senior, but to the young man, you were an image of everything he’d hoped to achieve. Was it immortality or change? His brilliant mind couldn’t grasp for an answer. 

"You think I care about exile?" he asked, voice low but intense. "They cast me out once already for pursuing forbidden knowledge. I was hoping that maybe after seven years, you'd see me as more than a puny junior. We can go together, it doesn’t matter where, even in the worst possible outcome. 

Silence followed. 

“... Eh? It's been seven years already?! Since when?!” 

You were helpless despite your seniority, Zandik concluded. 

When Zandik was 35, he proudly bore the title of the 2nd Fatui Harbinger before you. 

The luxurious Fatui facilities dwarfed the desert hospital; his excitement is ever maddening despite the decades. You, however, remained ageless and unchanged beside him. 

"You're looking at phase one of an artificial electrolyte solution," he said eagerly, gesturing to glowing vials on a lab table while you two toured his new laboratory. "Based on Khaenri'ahn bio-tech but adapted for human physiology. This allows for a better preservation of the segments I told you about."

He presented his first progress with confidence. Imitating ancient Khaenriahn alchemy as a framework for creating clones resembling him was a new idea, finally entering experimental phases rather than remaining theoretical. You, in the meantime, wandered the polished floors of his lab, a heavy Fatui coat draped over your shoulders as you read his notes on transferring embodied experiences and memories. 

“Mortality is nothing but a shackle, and for a segment it would be no burden,” – you remember he said. “Why would it be a shackle, Zandik? Immortality is more cursed when a person acquires it. After all, a human mind cannot comprehend so many centuries without any side effects.” “And would you consider your longevity a curse, then?” – He dared you, but you fell silent. 

He leans back against the lab counter, arms crossed as he studies your unchanged face. An eternity of familiarity in this world that keeps moving without you, while everyone you’d know and love would pass and fade away. 

"The segments would gather information from different times and different perspectives. Yet here I am at my height as a Harbinger, feeling more contempt than ever. None of it bears meaning if you're just going to outlive me by centuries."

Once more, you offered him that easy, distant smile: “You have much more to achieve than pursue me throughout centuries. You are a scholar after all, so I can only advise you so much as a senior. Besides, you now look more mature than I am. Had we remained at the Akademiya, most would mistake you for my senior instead.” 

Naturally, a scoff escaped him. Lately, you’ve been using quips about him looking older than you. He hovers close, hand cradles your jaw with careful, gloved hands as if cautious you’d vanish like a mirage in the desert he once fled from.

“If I'm to tear down and spite this decaying world,” – He whispered. “...I can't imagine wanting eternity with anyone but you. Be it through my own flesh or through my segments."

“What if multiple clones of you existed, which one of them would be the closest to the real Zandik?” 

He takes another step closer, close enough now that if either of you breathed deeply, your chests might brush: "Does it matter?”

Burdened with decades of unspoken admiration, the Harbinger leaned in to seal his lips with yours. And tragically for you two, you leaned in. 

Every time that young junior presented his work, he hoped for your approval. Every coffee break, he sat by your side but never touched. That night at the desert hospital, when it hit him that you'd never age like ordinary people, and never see him as an equal in mortal life, it became a condemnation to yearn for you more. It was his unspoken ‘I've loved you since forever’ – except for a mortal, his forever was merely decades, a minuscule blink of an eye for an immortal like you. Still here you were, hands clutching at his coat as you kissed him back. The Harbinger only pushed on with hunger to pour all his unspoken words against your lips, grasping your body flush against him even when pulled away in search of air.

“We shouldn’t, you know why,”

He knew. But his gaze hardened with pain of the expected rejection: “Do you regard me as a small blink in your life? Do not pity now, you of all people…”

“No, no,” – you shook your head, forehead pressing against his chest as your shoulder shook. “Don’t act as if I am an untouchable being incapable of understanding love. You know we shouldn’t because I-”

“Because you will outlive me, and it will break us both?”

Your eyes glistened at the thought. The Doctor only drew you closer, his head pressing to the crown of your hair.

“Or… you wish not to meddle with a heretic and let him grow old on his own?”

Thinking about it now, you should've smacked Zandik on the head more often for such words. Instead, you yielded, if only this once, to the desire between you, letting him lift you onto the table as he devoured your breath with a hunger shaped by years of discretion. Just this once, even if it meant your refusal would fracture yet another part of him. 

When Zandik was 80, you watched him create segments from various stages of his life. 

The lab grows ever more fervent with work and experiments. The various fragments of his own becoming have now meticulously embodied his personality and ticks from different thresholds of his life. Through it all, Zandik himself grew older. He may not have achieved immortality to stand beside you as an equal, but you chose to remain as an enduring friend. The day when he was 35, a Harbinger in his prime, you refused him. Not out of antipathy, it was a mutual decision you both agreed to. Would a heretic allow himself to wallow in his own longing till his elderly years? Each Dottore segment will give you a different answer.

Today, a familiar chorus of boisterous chatter spills into his lab. You had arrived for a visit. The youngest of the segments, the 8-year-old little Zandik, runs quickest to cling to your legs. The 18-year-old follows suit, already eager to show you his recent essay and research notes. Perhaps some things never change. “Easy, easy there! One at a time!” – you laugh, holding packed baklava confectionery away from 8’s grabby hands as you greet everyone with little treats from your travels. Even the 65-year-old segment cannot help but play the old charmer when greeting you with a bow of his masked head. 

Old man Zandik will have to reprimand his segments to respect your personal space. What a bunch of flocking children.

“You spoil the youngest too much,” – His voice rasped as he set a cup of coffee for you. Taking his seat opposite, he kept his cane in his grasp. “But I see you are eager to correct 18’s research notes. He says if he can’t get others to advise him, he’ll have you as his supervisor instead.”

You chuckled, a cup in hand.

“Ah, doesn’t it remind you of someone when they were a Trainee Dastur?”

Old man Zandik scoffed. Of course, they inherited his bodily experiences, perhaps even their adoration is part of him. Notably, you no longer looked as intimidating as you had when he remembered you from his youth. Poised as always, you sat ever the same, physically unchanged in posture and youth. Meanwhile, Zandik aged; his hair grew longer, and his skin wasn’t spotless. It’s basic biology; his reflection did not offend him.

“You know, I think you have changed,” – The Harbinger noted.

“...Me? Do we have matching wrinkles at last?!”

“Do not mock me now,” – he shook his begrudgingly, until his weary gaze settled deep into your eyes. “You look different. Your eyes look ever more distant. I assumed it was fatigue in your eyes at first, but you are not one to skip leisurely repose.”

You said nothing. Your gaze was indeed distant, despite the ever-gentle smile.

“Maybe you should get back to wearing glasses, then, because nothing in me has changed. Which, by the way, they looked good on you when you wore them at 25.”

“Hmph, my eyesight is perfect. At least you remember the years now. It’s unlike you.” 

The bickering between the senior and their junior resumed back and forth. Except that by this coffee table, it looked like an old man scolding an ignorant juvenile for being absentminded, while you chuckled and humored him over coffee. 

“Then in that regard, you haven't changed at all despite your years.” – your youthful hand came cradling his wrinkled one. “It's like I'm looking at the same 18-year-old I first met who sat across from me in the Akademiya library.”

The contrast was clear in your shared touch; his skin was now papery with prominent veins against your ageless one. Alas, you refuse to concede that your accumulation of decades had numbed you with inferential grief. He turned his palm upward to intertwine fingers with yours. For a moment, neither of you spoke.

“We didn’t meet at the Akademiya first.”

You blinked in confusion, “Eh? Yes, we did. You shared your outline papers and whatnot. That’s the first time I met you.”

The old man regarded you with a wistful smile, “Hm, are you certain? I recall it differently.” 

“Hey now, don’t pull my leg. We were both Akademiya students, though I was about to graduate when you were still a junior. I know that much for certain!”

“Ah, you are right, you are right. Never mind, perhaps my mind was just wandering.” – Zandik didn’t insist on the topic, softly deriving a different question quickly, "Will I see you tomorrow? The younger clones always ask when their senior advisor is coming by."

“Same time, as usual,” – You stood up. “I need to check on Feofan again since his corneal repair surgery. He seems to be faring well so far. But I will see you tomorrow.”

“Suit yourself.” 

With a quick peck to his temple, you scurried off without further words. His cup of coffee remained untouched till it cooled, while Zandik watched you silently depart. Once again, the heretic would rather let decades go by instead of confessing the unstated. He did not lie - he actually knew you before the Akademiya.

When Zandik was 8, you stumbled upon him as he ran away from a swarm of kids hurling rocks at him. You, of course, don’t remember it, for you never asked for his name then.

Tears blurred his vision when he ran. Scratches stung skin until little Zandik collided with your legs by accident. Fallen backward, he remembers lying there sniffling. With a stern bark, you reprimanded the street children and shooed them off. And why would you remember a fleeting encounter where you kneeled by a small kid, checking his scratches and mending him? The little child only stared at you with big ruby eyes that day, shakily explaining what happened.

When Zandik died on his 85th birthday, you didn’t come to visit. 

[holyisthenameofmyruthlessaxe]

after a suicide attempt in 2016

[holyisthenameofmyruthlessaxe]

“When Daddy comes in, he carries you to bed. Is there anything you feel like you could eat, Pokey? Anything at all? All you can imagine putting in your mouth is a cold plum, one with really tight skin on the outside but gum-shocking sweetness inside. And he and your mother discuss where he might find some this late in the season. Mother says hell I don’t know. Further north, I’d guess. The next morning, you wake up in your bed and sit up. Mother says, Pete, I think she’s up. He hollers in, You ready for breakfast, Pokey. Then he comes in grinning, still in his work clothes from the night before. He’s holding a farm bushel. The plums he empties onto the bed river toward you through folds in the quilt. If you stacked them up, they’d fill the deepest bin at the Piggly Wiggly. Damned if I didn’t get the urge to drive to Arkansas last night, he says. Your mother stands behind him saying he’s pure USDA crazy. Fort Smith, Arkansas. Found a roadside stand out there with a feller selling plums. And I says, Buddy, I got a little girl sick back in Texas. She’s got a hanker for plums and ain’t nothing else gonna do. It’s when you sink your teeth into the plum that you make a promise. The skin is still warm from riding in the sun in Daddy’s truck, and the nectar runs down your chin. And you snap out of it. Or are snapped out of it. Never again will you lay a hand against yourself, not so long as there are plums to eat and somebody-anybody-who gives enough of a damn to haul them to you. So long as you bear the least nibblet of love for any other creature in this dark world, though in love portions are never stingy. There are no smidgens or pinches, only rolling abundance. That’s how you acquire the resolution for survival that the coming years are about to demand. You don’t earn it. It’s given.”

excerpt from Cherry by Mary Karr, context being after a suicide attempt at age 13

[elfwreck]

Some context: Texas and Arkansas share a corner border. Now, Texas is FECKING HUGE and there are many, many parts of Texas that cannot visit Arkansas overnight, but there are parts where it’s no trouble at all.

However, those places of Texas that are close to Arkansas, do not include “close to Fort Smith, Arkansas.”

The closest Texas gets to Fort Smith is about 185 miles (about 300km), at “a little closer than Texarkana.” (Dallas, fwiw, is about 275 miles/450km from Fort Smith.)

So the dad in this story drove at least SEVEN HOURS round trip, to pick up a bushel of plums for his little girl, in the hope that some almost-out-of-season fruit would convince her to go on living.

[aeternatv]

So I looked up the author of this book, Cherry, and it’s a memoir. Mary Kate grew up in Groves, Texas. Which is nowhere near the Arkansas border.

Seven hours wouldn’t even get you all the way there.

[holyisthenameofmyruthlessaxe]

after a suicide attempt in 2016

[holyisthenameofmyruthlessaxe]

“When Daddy comes in, he carries you to bed. Is there anything you feel like you could eat, Pokey? Anything at all? All you can imagine putting in your mouth is a cold plum, one with really tight skin on the outside but gum-shocking sweetness inside. And he and your mother discuss where he might find some this late in the season. Mother says hell I don’t know. Further north, I’d guess. The next morning, you wake up in your bed and sit up. Mother says, Pete, I think she’s up. He hollers in, You ready for breakfast, Pokey. Then he comes in grinning, still in his work clothes from the night before. He’s holding a farm bushel. The plums he empties onto the bed river toward you through folds in the quilt. If you stacked them up, they’d fill the deepest bin at the Piggly Wiggly. Damned if I didn’t get the urge to drive to Arkansas last night, he says. Your mother stands behind him saying he’s pure USDA crazy. Fort Smith, Arkansas. Found a roadside stand out there with a feller selling plums. And I says, Buddy, I got a little girl sick back in Texas. She’s got a hanker for plums and ain’t nothing else gonna do. It’s when you sink your teeth into the plum that you make a promise. The skin is still warm from riding in the sun in Daddy’s truck, and the nectar runs down your chin. And you snap out of it. Or are snapped out of it. Never again will you lay a hand against yourself, not so long as there are plums to eat and somebody-anybody-who gives enough of a damn to haul them to you. So long as you bear the least nibblet of love for any other creature in this dark world, though in love portions are never stingy. There are no smidgens or pinches, only rolling abundance. That’s how you acquire the resolution for survival that the coming years are about to demand. You don’t earn it. It’s given.”

excerpt from Cherry by Mary Karr, context being after a suicide attempt at age 13

[elfwreck]

Some context: Texas and Arkansas share a corner border. Now, Texas is FECKING HUGE and there are many, many parts of Texas that cannot visit Arkansas overnight, but there are parts where it’s no trouble at all.

However, those places of Texas that are close to Arkansas, do not include “close to Fort Smith, Arkansas.”

The closest Texas gets to Fort Smith is about 185 miles (about 300km), at “a little closer than Texarkana.” (Dallas, fwiw, is about 275 miles/450km from Fort Smith.)

So the dad in this story drove at least SEVEN HOURS round trip, to pick up a bushel of plums for his little girl, in the hope that some almost-out-of-season fruit would convince her to go on living.

[aeternatv]

So I looked up the author of this book, Cherry, and it’s a memoir. Mary Kate grew up in Groves, Texas. Which is nowhere near the Arkansas border.

Seven hours wouldn’t even get you all the way there.

[barusoons]

A long day in the liminal pool space

[aerosteria]

—a distant home

—————————————————————————

[prophecyplease]

Because I Care

Sebek Zigvolt x Reader

~2k words

A/N: can u tell I’ve been watching Bridgerton. I love an angry confession

The first thing you notice is how loud he is.

Not just in voice (though that alone could shake windows) but in his presence. There's an intensity he carries with him. 

And right now, all of that intensity is pointed directly at you.

“You have been avoiding me.”

It isn’t a question. Of course it isn’t.

You don’t look up from your book. “I’ve been busy.”

A lie. A weak one, too.

You can feel the way his glare sharpens, like a blade being dragged slowly across stone. The air feels heavy. Charged and crackling. 

“Busy,” he repeats, voice dropping into something more dangerous than his usual shouting. “That is a poor excuse.”

You turn a page, deliberately calm. “It’s not an excuse. It’s just what’s been happening.”

A beat of silence follows your response.  

Then a sharp slam.

Your book is ripped out of your hands, snapped shut with enough force to make you flinch despite yourself. You finally look up, irritation flashing, only to be met with something that stops the fury of words rising in your throat.

He’s furious.

Not the loud, blustering anger everyone else sees, the kind you’ve gotten used to. Not the kind that comes with lectures, dramatic declarations, and commands no one takes very seriously. 

No.

This is quieter.

Worse. It’s frightening.

“You think I would not notice?” he demands. “You think I am so oblivious that I would fail to see you slipping away like a coward?”

Your brows knit, and a scoff escapes your throat. “Excuse me?”

“Do not play dumb!” he snaps, stepping closer. “You avoid me in the halls. You leave when I arrive. You barely speak when I address you, that is if you acknowledge me at all.”

Each accusation lands harder than the last. Settling somewhere uncomfortable in your chest.

“And now,” he continues, voice tightening, “you sit here pretending nothing is wrong.”

“I’m not pretending,” you fire back, finally standing. “I just don’t see why it matters so much to you!”

The words hang there.

For a split second, something flickers across his face. Shock, maybe? Or something even more fragile.

Then it’s gone.

“It matters,” he says, low and sharp, “because your behavior is unacceptable.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” you shoot back, anger rising to meet his, “I didn’t realize I needed your approval for how I spend my time.”

“You do not,” he bites out immediately. “But when your actions are so blatantly disrespectful-”

“Disrespectful?” you laugh, short and disbelieving. “Sebek, I haven’t done anything to you!”

“That is precisely the problem!”

His voice echoes off the walls, and for a moment, it feels like the entire room trembles with it.

“You have done nothing,” he repeats, stepping even closer. “Nothing but pull away without explanation. Nothing but treat me as though I am… insignificant.”

Your breath catches.

That wasn’t what you expected.

“I don’t-”

“You do,” he cuts in. “And I will not tolerate it.”

“You don’t get to decide what I do!” you snap, even as your chest tightens. “You don’t own me!”

“I am well aware of that!” he snarls. “Do not twist my words!”

“Then what do you want from me?” you demand. “Because all you’ve done is yell and accuse me of things I didn’t even realize I was doing!”

“Then perhaps,” he says, voice dropping again, “you should have been paying more attention.”

The tension between you is suffocating now.

He’s too close. Too loud. Too much.

“Why?” you ask, frustration cracking through. “Why does it bother you so much? Why do you care if I’m not around you all the time?”

He freezes.

Just for a second.

But you see it.

And suddenly, something shifts.

“…Because it is improper,” he says stiffly.

You stare hard at him. 

“…That’s it?”

“Yes.”

“That’s the reason?” you press, disbelief creeping in. “Because it’s ‘improper’?”

His jaw tightens. “Yes.”

You shake your head, stepping back. “That’s ridiculous.”

“It is not.”

“It is!” you argue. “You’re acting like I betrayed you or something, when all I did was what? Spend time somewhere else?”

“You avoided me.”

“Maybe I needed space!”

“From what?” he demands. “From me?”

You hesitate.

That’s what does it.

His expression twists, a pitiful, raw look slipping through the rigid pride he clings to so fiercely.

“…I see.”

“No, you don’t,” you say quickly, but it’s too late.

“You find my presence so unbearable,” he continues, voice quieter now. He’s shaking with something far more volatile than anger, “that you must actively distance yourself.”

“That’s not what I said-” you spit out quickly

“You did not need to say it!” he snaps. “Your actions were more than sufficient!”

Frustration surges again. “You’re twisting everything!”

“And you are refusing to explain yourself!” he fires back. “Do you expect me to simply accept that?!”

“I didn’t think it would matter this much to you!” you shout.

Silence.

Heavy, crushing silence.

And then-

“That,” he says slowly, “is where you are wrong.”

Your breath falters.

Because suddenly, this doesn’t feel like a normal argument anymore.

It feels like something else.

Something bigger.

“You assumed,” he continues, each word deliberate, “that your absence would go unnoticed. That I would not care whether you stood beside me or vanished entirely.”

His fists clench at his sides. His chest rising and falling at a deep and constant pace. 

“You assumed,” he repeats, voice tightening, “that you meant nothing.”

“I didn’t say that-”

“But you thought it,” he cuts in, sharp as a blade. “Or you would not have acted this way so carelessly.”

You open your mouth, then close it again.

Because how do you respond to that?

He takes your silence as confirmation.

Of course he does.

A bitter sound escapes him. Not quite a laugh.

“…Unbelievable.”

“Sebek-”

“Do you have any idea,” he interrupts, stepping forward again, “how infuriating it is to be treated as though I am irrelevant by someone who-”

He stops.

The words die in his throat.

Your heart stutters.

“…By someone who what?” you ask, softer now.

He doesn’t answer.

His gaze shifts, like he’s fighting something. Like he’s trying to shove it back down where it belongs.

But it’s too late.

You’ve already seen it.

“Finish that sentence,” you press.

“No.”

“Sebek.”

“I said no.”

“Why?” you demand. “You’ve been yelling at me this entire time, but now suddenly you don’t want to talk?”

“Because it is not necessary,” he snaps.

“It clearly isn’t!”

“It is!” he insists. “This conversation has already gone too far-”

“No, it hasn’t gone far enough,” you counter, stepping closer despite the way your pulse pounds. “You’re upset. Really upset. And it’s not just because I wasn’t hanging around you as much.”

“That is exactly why-”

“Then look at me and say it doesn’t matter if I stay away,” you challenge.

He freezes.

“Say it doesn’t bother you,” you continue, voice quieter but steadier, “and I’ll drop it.”

Silence.

“Say it,” you push.

His jaw clenches.

His hands curl into fists.

And for a long moment, it looks like he might actually do it.

Like he might force the words out through sheer stubbornness alone.

But then-

“…I cannot.”

Your breath catches.

“What?” you whisper.

“I cannot say that,” he repeats, voice strained and hoarse. 

All at once, everything feels very, very still.

“Why?” you ask.

And this time he answers.

“Because it is a lie!”

The words come out sharper than anything he’s said before. It’s raw and unfiltered and reckless, entirely un-Sebek.

“It does bother me!” he continues, voice rising again, but not in the same controlled way as before. “It is insufferable! Your absence is distracting, your silence is aggravating, and your refusal to even acknowledge me is-”

He stops, breath hitching.

“-entirely intolerable.”

You feel your breathing stutter.

“Why?” you ask again, barely above a whisper.

And this time he doesn’t dodge it.

“I do not know!” he snaps, frustration spilling over. “Do you think I enjoy this?! Being affected by something so trivial?!”

“It’s not trivial,” you say quietly.

“It should be!” he argues. “There is no logical reason for your presence to matter to me to this extent!”

“But it does,” you point out.

“Yes!” he shouts. “And that is precisely the problem!”

He runs a hand through his hair, agitation written into every movement.

“I cannot focus when you are near,” he admits, voice tight. “And when you are gone, it is… worse.”

Your heart skips.

“I find myself searching for you,” he continues, almost like the words are being dragged out against his will. “Noticing your absence. Wondering where you are. Who you are with.”

There’s something dangerously close to jealousy in that last part.

“And when you avoid me,” he adds, quieter now, “it is… infuriating.”

“Because?” you ask, even though you think you already know.

He looks at you.

Really looks at you.

And for once, there’s no pride shielding him. No arrogance. No carefully maintained composure.

Just something honest.

Something messy.

Something real.

“…Because I care,” he says.

The words land between you like a crack of thunder.

“And I do not care lightly,” he continues, voice lower now, rougher. “I do not form attachments without reason. I do not concern myself with people who are unworthy of my attention.”

Your breath feels unsteady.

“But you-” he stops, jaw tightening again.

“…You are different.”

Silence.

“…So when you pull away,” he says, quieter now, “it is not something I can simply ignore.”

Your throat feels tight.

“I didn’t realize,” you admit softly.

“Clearly,” he mutters.

You almost laugh, but it catches somewhere in your throat.

“I wasn’t avoiding you because I didn’t care,” you say after a moment. “I just… thought maybe I was bothering you.”

That gets his attention.

“…Bothering me?” he repeats.

“Yeah,” you shrug, suddenly feeling a little self-conscious. “You’re always so intense. I figured maybe you just tolerated me.”

For a second, he looks genuinely stunned.

“Tolerated you?” he echoes, like the concept itself is offensive.

“Yeah?”

“That is the most absurd thing I have ever heard,” he says flatly.

You blink. “Wow. Okay.”

“I do not ‘tolerate’ you,” he continues, stepping closer again. Slower this time. “If that were the case, your absence would have been a relief.”

“It wasn’t?” you ask, a small smile tugging at your lips.

“No,” he says immediately. “It was not.”

There’s no hesitation this time, his pride not getting in the way.

And somehow, that feels more overwhelming than all his yelling put together.

“…So,” you say, tilting your head slightly, “what now?”

He hesitates.

Just briefly.

Then-

“…Now,” he says, voice steady again but softer than before, “you will stop avoiding me.”

You raise an eyebrow. “That sounds less like a request and more like an order.”

“It is both,” he replies without missing a beat.

You huff a quiet laugh.

“…Fine,” you say. “But you have to stop yelling at me every five seconds.”

“I do not yell-”

“You literally shouted my name across the courtyard yesterday.”

“That was necessary.”

“It wasn’t!”

“It was.”

You shake your head, smiling despite yourself.

“…You’re impossible.”

“And yet,” he says, gaze fixed on you, “you are still here.”

Your heart skips.

“…Yeah,” you admit softly.

“…Try not to disappear again.”

It’s not an order this time.

“…I’ll try,” you say.

He studies you for a second.

Then nods, just slightly, a small smile peeking through.

“…See that you do.”

But he doesn’t step back.

And neither do you.

[izekoi]

Hiii....is it's alr I'd like a sebek x reader where it's Sebek trying to court the reader but he keeps failing in dearingly pathetic ways

Courting 101

feat. Sebek Zigvolt x gn!reader

words: 1.9k+

a/n: Hi anon!! Aaa thank you so so much for your request I had so much fun writing this. I did leave a lot of aspects to my creativity so I hope that’s ok! Since reader is unspecified, reader is human (or not a fae since that’s what Sebek calls everyone who’s not a fae) can be read as Yuu or not Yuu. I WINGED the letter (and a lot of other stuffs) please be kind to mew 😂 ends with reader realizing and a confession. Anyway no proofread we die like me when Sebek’s birthday card came out.

Sebek Zigvolt was certainly a capable man of passion and dedication. What he was not, however, was a man with romantic experience.

This had never been a problem before. He had not needed it to be otherwise. He had his training, his duties, his liege, a full and purposeful life that left very little room for anything else.

And then you happened. Sebek Zigvolt had made exactly three attempts to confess.

You found them on your desk one morning. A beautiful bouquet, tied with a neat bow. The flowers were fresh and perfectly arranged in colors and sizes. Somebody had clearly put much effort in.

The card tucked between the stems read:

To the individual of my esteem,

I have deliberated at length over the appropriate means of conveying this. I have selected these flowers following a rigorous evaluation of available specimens. They are the finest I could find.

It has come to my attention that my lungs expand with greater force when you are in the vicinity. Furthermore, You possess qualities I have found myself unable to disregard no matter how I have tried. I notice you. More than is perhaps reasonable.

Do not mistake this for weakness! It is a declaration of fact! I will be expecting a direct response.

…and it was unsigned. You only stared at it for a long moment.

"...Okay."

The way of words certainly feels familiar but you couldn’t quite put your finger on it. There was no recipient, no sender. You had no idea if you were even supposed to receive this. How were you supposed to give a direct response?

You almost bumped into Sebek when you turned the corner. You held the flowers carefully in your arms because whoever it was for, the sender had clearly poured a lot of effort and feelings into it. It was most definitely something precious either way.

Sebek had purposely been standing nearby your classroom. Waiting. He grew both giddy and flustered when he saw you appear, flowers in hand.

“Oh, Sebek. I didn’t see you there.” You apologized for almost bumping into him. “Someone left these on by desk. It’s not signed so I don’t even know if it was even for me.” You gestured towards the flowers. “It’s a shame though. I’m sure whoever sent it poured a lot of love.”

Sebek mentally cursed himself. He had, as it would turn out, forgotten to sign it. He had written three drafts. The first one had been too long. The second one had accidentally turned into a speech about Malleus. The third one, the third one was good. He had hand-picked only the best of flowers in full bloom, but he had forgotten to write his name. Or yours for that matter. And now he was faced with this predicament.

“HUMAN—“ he really was about to confess, but Malleus just so happened to have turned around the corner and approached them with great interest. Most likely because you had a beautiful bouquet in hand.

Sebek’s words caught in his throat. Instead what came out was,

“WAKASAMA?”

Malleus had made comment about how the entire ordeal was ‘very interesting indeed’ with a knowing expression. The entire encounter left you very confused and with a very beautiful bouquet of flowers.

He had caught you the next day after afternoon lessons, fell into step beside you, and delivered the sentence with all the confidence of someone announcing a military victory,

"Your academic performance this term is above average. It reflects well on your overall character."

You looked at him. He looked back.

"...Thank you," you said slowly, slightly confused at the sudden compliment "Yours too?"

"Mine is exceptional," he said, because apparently he could not help himself, "as Young Master Malleus’ retainer anything less than perfect would be a disgrace.” He paused, “But that is beside the point. The point is. You are commendable."

"Commendable?”

"Yes."

You pressed your lips together. "Sebek."

"What is it, human?”

"You’ve been acting weird lately. What’s up?"

Sebek grew flustered at the comment. Because apparently you noticed something was up but not quite exactly what is up. “NOTHING IS OF YOUR CONCERN” He straightens his jacket, “I SHALL TAKE YOU TO YOUR NEXT CLASS.”

You only watched in confusion as he stomps, now a few steps in front of you. His ears were bright pink though.

His next attempt was Lilia's idea. Which, in hindsight, should have been the first warning sign.

"A serenade," Lilia had said, eyes gleaming with mischief. He definitely thought this was going to be very funny. "Nothing says devotion like music. Young Master Malleus plays strings beautifully, does he not?"

This was, objectively, a trap. Sebek walked into it completely. He borrowed a violin.

Day one, the strings. Day two, the bow hold. Days three to five, a sound that Malleus, had described as ‘spirited’. Lilia had only looked at him with the expression of a man clearly very entertained, which was worse.

Malleus had offered, out of the kindness of his heart, to help him. But how could Sebek receive such kindness from his liege. Silver had additionally made some kind of comment, as Sebek would interpret, about ‘courting someone with one’s own effort’. Since then, Sebek has been very clear he’d win you over with his own.

You were passing by the practice room on your way back when you heard him. You heard a sound then a glimpse of green hair as you passed by and decided to take a peek. He was standing inside with the posture of a man going to war —back straight, chin up, violin tucked under his jaw. He drew the bow across the strings.

It was... some kind of sound.

You leaned closer to the open door.

He played exactly eight notes. They were not the right eight notes, but they were committed. Then he looked up, he saw you standing by the door with a big smile on your face. You see his face go crimson, seemingly surprised by your presence and lowered the bow.

"HUMAN, IT IS COMMON DECENCY TO ANNOUNCE ONESELF WHEN YOU ENTER" he was very obviously trying to hide his embarrassment by increasing the volume of his voice.

“You were performing.” You couldn’t help but giggle, he was being, oddly enough, cute.

“HOW MUCH DID YOU HEAR!?”

"All of it.” You added before he could scream again, “It’s admirable. Your dedication to it.”

His jaw tightened. "Young Master Malleus plays strings with extraordinary refinement. I am in the process of… developing the requisite.”

A pause,

“I am… practicing for someone.”

“Malleus?”

Sebek looks rather defeated at this point. You were not completely wrong, but necessarily right. “OF COURSE THERE IS NO ONE MORE ADMIRABLE THAN YOUNG MASTER MALLEUS ahem—“ he coughs as he —miraculously— stops himself from going into another monologue about the young prince of Briar Valley, “I am practicing to serenade someone else.”

“Oh?” That last bit caught your interest.

"I have devoted considerable effort to this endeavour. And yet it occurs to me that I may lack fundamental comprehension of human courtship customs. The results have been... insufficient." You almost felt bad because he seemed to be genuinely working through it.

“And what have you tried?” You tilt your head at his words, genuinely invested in whatever he had going on. Sebek on the other hand, was screaming inside because you asking that specific question meant you have realized exactly none of his efforts.

“Flowers, letters, compliments. All which should have been on par to human standards, but perhaps.. it is I who is lacking”

You could almost see Sebek sulking at that point. He had tried really hard. At least that was what it seemed like. What kind of person would have had flowers and love letters thrown their way and not realize of existing romantic intentions from the other party. And seeing that he is still trying, it seemed like whoever this person was had not given him a proper rejection. Then at that exact moment, the gears in your head turn. Flowers… letters… the compliments he kept giving you lately.

oh.

And then it clicked. You gasped at the realization,

“Okay, don’t scream to the heavens if I’m wrong, but by any chance” Your words left your lips as you thought of the best way to ask,

“Sebek, is it me you are trying to court?”

Your guess must’ve hit the mark because he went bright red and if you only had a tomato in hand right now they’d be twins.

You were sure you were also red. Maybe not as red, but definitely red.

“Sebek… I am so sorry.” You were mentally beating yourself up over the entire situation. You had put the poor boy through a field day —weeks of them apparently. But you also felt, really, really happy because he had put so much effort and it was clear he didn’t want to present anything to you that was less than perfect.

"I HAVE NOTHING TO BE PITIED FOR—" he caught himself, he has been doing that a lot lately. He’s been so aware of you and of himself in extent. And then at a lower volume, "I am not so easily deterred."

You looked at him.

He looked back, ears still crimson, eyes burning into you like a man who had decided that dignity was the hill he was going to die on.

"I had accounted," he continued, very carefully, "for the possibility that my initial efforts were lacking and had intended to improve them. I still intend to improve them."

"Sebek."

"I have not yet played the violin correctly."

"Sebek—"

"I have not yet played it once correctly," he said, with the gravity of someone filing a formal complaint against himself, "and I refuse to consider this concluded until I have done so at least.”

"Sebek, I like you."

He stopped. The practice room was very quiet.

You were definitely red now. Fully, completely red. But you had started it so you kept going.

"I didn't realize," you said, "and I'm sorry it took me so long. But I— yes. It's yes. If you are asking what I think you’re asking."

Sebek stared at you. You watched him have a complete melt down.

"...You," he started. Stopped. "You are —"

Stopped again.

Then, because apparently it was very important that he finishes what he started,

"I HAVE NOT YET SERENADED YOU PROPERLY.”

You laughed before you could stop it, you were sure you snorted and when you looked back at him he was still not looking at you but he seemed to be… almost relieved.

"Then come find me," you said, "when you have."

He looked back at you then. He looked so terribly, earnestly happy that it made your chest ache a little.

"I SHALL HOLD YOU TO THAT." he said.

"Have you tried singing? Perhaps that would be a better option.” you suggested. Then you added shyly because you figured after everything it was best to be direct, “I would not like to wait too long to date you. To be honest.”

You just threw whatever composure he had gathered in the short moment out the window because he went right back to being bright red. “HUMANN—“

“I’M SAYING. I’m being direct. Like you said in your letter.”

Sebek had considered what he wrote then decided, perhaps, this once, “I will consider the singing…”

“Good.” You smiled and walked towards him, then planted a short kiss on his crimson cheek. “Good luck charm.”

He really, really almost fell back at that and you quickly skipped away before he could yell in your ear,

“HUMAAANNNN—“

[zeka-maki]

ʚɞ My moon, my moon, my man ʚɞ

⚘ Pairings: Ashveil x Reader

⚘ Summery: A strange phenomenon has occurred, one that you thought only happened in novels— you have been transported to a novel yourself! The memories of it vague to you but you only remember your favorite character, Ashveil. The narrative has doomed him, now it is your duty to save him.

⚘ Tags: SFW, fluff/light angst, fem!Reader, isekai'd!Reader, Duke!Ashveil, slow burn, arranged marriage/marriage of convenience, mentions of death, war, wounds and stuff of this kind, Boothill and Rappa are his children, Reader and Narrator are stressed tf out, very light suggestive themes, writer cannot write

⚘ Word count: 16k

⚘ Side/mentioned characters: Rappa, Boothill, Coria, Cole, Robin Hood, Loretta, Robin, Tiernan, Acheron, Argenti, Evanescia, Narrator, Dan Feng

⚘ A/N: this took like a bazillion years to write and im still not proud of it sigh, forgive me if this is ass ong I can actually write 💔

“Marry me, Grand Duke.”

The words leave you before hesitation can catch up—firm, unwavering, laced with a strange, almost reckless determination that surprises even yourself.

And then, silence.

It falls heavy across the room, thick enough to suffocate. The man before you—the infamous Wolf of the North—stares as though you’ve just uttered something incomprehensible. His eyes, sharp yet dulled by exhaustion, widen ever so slightly. It’s subtle, fleeting… but it’s there.

Beside him, Narrator stiffens. His brows knit together immediately, the disapproval clear in the way his gaze flickers between you and his master. Neither of them speak. Neither of them look pleased. Of course they wouldn’t be.

The Wolf of the North— Ashveil.

An isolated Duke, seldom seen, rarely heard—more rumor than man in the eyes of society. The nobles whisper of him like a ghost that never quite passed on. A living corpse, they say. A man who never attends gatherings, never mingles, never even steps beyond his dukedom unless absolutely necessary.

A presence so absent that he becomes forgettable. Less memorable than even a passing commoner. And yet, you had just proposed marriage to him.

To anyone else, it would sound like madness. Marrying the Duke of Kronstadt was no different than sentencing yourself to a slow, suffocating existence. A loveless union in a land stripped of warmth—hell disguised in nobility.

But those warnings barely register in your mind.

How could they?

You know this world.

You know him.

Because this is a story you’ve already read.

Fragments of it linger in your memory like fading ink, incomplete and unreliable. You don’t remember everything—far from it. The plot escapes you in places, details slipping through your grasp no matter how hard you try to recall them.

But there is one thing—one person—you never forgot.

Ashveil.

The very man sitting before you now. Your favorite character. A minor role in the grand scheme of the novel. A tool. A key to push the plot forward.

And yet, the one who stayed with you long after you turned the last page.

Ever since you settled into this unfamiliar world, adapting to its rules, its etiquette, its suffocating expectations—there has been one thought that refused to leave you.

His ending. That cruel, quiet ending.

They say his land is cursed with gloom, that his territory resembles the aftermath of a battlefield long abandoned. Lifeless. Hollow. Forgotten.

But that image is nothing more than a narrative shaped by shallow standards. Because in this world, liveliness is measured in extravagance. The louder a noble flaunts their wealth, the more “prosperous” they are deemed. And Ashveil he does none of that.

So, they call him dying. They say he has been gravely ill ever since the war—since the moment he narrowly escaped death. It is a convenient explanation and a believable lie. But you know better— there is no illness. There is only a beast.

A thing that lives within him, born from the very moment he stood at death’s door and refused to cross it. A power that was never meant to be his salvation, yet became both his armor and his cage. You remember it vaguely—the way the story described it as both a blessing and a curse. His soldiers had feared him. Feared him enough to nearly label him a monster. Until they realized that he was still conscious. Still human.

To carry something like that alone— to be reduced to whispers and isolation because of it…you can’t let that happen.

Not again.

Not when you have the chance to change it.

This isn’t pity. It's something softer yet firm at the same time. Something far more stubborn.

If everyone else in this story gets their happy ending, why can’t he?

“…An elaboration would be appreciated.” The voice pulls you back.

Ashveil speaks at last, breaking the tension that had stretched unbearably thin between you. His tone is composed, quiet—but there’s a weight to it now, something more deliberate. His gaze settles on you fully, no longer caught off guard but searching. What lingers is a careful and measured search.

Hope hits you so suddenly it almost hurts. He didn’t refuse nor did he dismiss you.

You almost laugh. You almost cry. Instead, you clear your throat, forcing your expression back into something dignified—something befitting the noble you’ve learned to become.

“Gladly, Your Grace.” The words come easier now, steadier, as you grasp onto the logic you prepared—no matter how hastily it was formed.

“For the past few months, I’ve been reviewing the economics of Kronstadt,” you begin, your voice calm, controlled. “While it remains stable on the surface, it has been steadily accumulating risk. Trade routes have weakened, resource distribution has grown uneven… and your people—”

You pause, lifting your gaze to meet his directly.

“—are beginning to fall into poverty.”

There. It’s out in the open now.

“I assume,” you continue, softer but no less firm, “that Your Grace has been unable to address these matters due to your… prolonged recovery.” A careful choice of words, a lie you knowingly play along with.

“I propose a marriage,” you conclude, your fingers curling slightly against your dress, “with the intent of assisting both you and your territory. With my position and resources, I can help stabilize what has begun to falter.”

When you finish, the silence that follows feels different. Though less suffocating, it felt more… weighted.

A quiet breath escapes you, relief brushing past your chest as you resist the urge to slump in your seat. Internally, you cling to the argument you’ve just constructed, pieced together in the moment yet grounded enough to stand.

Not perfect but not bad either. Across from you, Ashveil falls silent once more. He is lost in thought. Because everything you said—

is true.

He has seen it. The slow decline. The strain placed upon his land, his people. The burden he has gradually shifted onto Narrator as his own strength wanes—not just physically, but mentally.

It is exhausting.

Everything is.

His gaze shifts to the side, landing briefly on his assistant. Narrator meets his eyes and gives a small nod. The gesture was a mix of approval, practicality, relief even.

This marriage would ease the weight pressing down on them both. Your status alone would bring stability, your involvement a solution he can no longer provide on his own.

It makes sense.

So why does he hesitate?

Because beneath all of that logic lies something far less rational. Something far more dangerous.

You.

His hand tightens almost imperceptibly against the armrest, tension coiling beneath his otherwise composed exterior. Political marriages are nothing new. No one would question his choice—not with his reputation, not with his isolation.

No one would care.

But you would be the one standing beside him.

Would you still look at him like this if you saw what he truly was? If the thing inside him stirred—

if it lashed out— What if he hurts you?

A hand rests on his shoulder, a firm yet grounding touch. Ashveil blinks, the spiral of his thoughts abruptly cut short. Narrator’s presence anchors him back to reality, reminding him—quietly, insistently—that you are still here.

Still waiting.

Still watching him with that same unwavering gaze. You haven’t looked away. Not once. You've been eagerly waiting for his answer.

Slowly, he straightens. The hesitation doesn’t disappear—but it settles, pressed down beneath something heavier. Something final.

A decision.

“I accept the proposal.” The words fall cleanly between you, sharp and absolute—like a blade severing what once was.

There is neither hesitation or retreat. And though neither of you say it, the moment lingers.

Because this is where everything begins.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

The wedding proceeded as smoothly as one could expect. Truthfully, there was no reason for it not to. By the Grand Duke’s order, your guest list had been limited to no more than two—a restriction you accepted without protest, for there were only two people you would have chosen regardless: your parents.

For him, the number barely rose to three. Narrator’s presence was non-negotiable, a constant shadow at his side, while the remaining two guests were far more… intriguing.

One stood draped in muted tones of grey and black, their presence quiet yet undeniably sharp, like a blade hidden beneath cloth. The other was their complete opposite—pink, neon, loud even in stillness.

You recognize them, not fully, not clearly, but enough for fragments of memory to stir. Pieces of a story you can no longer fully recall. And yet, instinct tells you one thing with certainty: if you wish to truly reach Ashveil, you will have to earn their acknowledgment first.

The wedding night, however, fails to live up to its name. It is Ashveil himself who requests separate chambers—a decision that, under any other circumstances, would birth endless rumors and quiet ridicule among noble society.

But you say nothing, because you understand. This is not reluctance, nor is it rejection. It is restraint—his body, not his will. The arrangement does little to bother you. If anything, it grants you a strange sort of ease, a space to think, to plan, to settle into the life you have willingly stepped into. Unfortunately, the same cannot be said for the servants.

The maids whisper constantly. Their voices weave through the halls like threads of silk—thin, persistent, impossible to fully ignore. Speculation, curiosity, amusement… all of it spills freely behind careful hands and lowered gazes. You find it entertaining, more than you probably should. At times, you even pause to listen. Because truly, what better way to understand the nature of royalty than to experience both its reverence and its ridicule firsthand? A dream and a nightmare, intertwined so seamlessly that one cannot exist without the other.

The first few days of your marriage pass within the confines of the Wolf Palace, and it is exactly as you expected. For a Duke who rarely leaves his chambers, whose presence lingers more as an idea than a reality, your expectations had never been particularly high.

The nights you once spent recalling what little you knew of him had not painted a hopeful picture. If anything, they had prepared you for this quiet distance. Still, reality settles heavier than imagination, and amidst the growing weight of responsibilities and the suffocating stillness of unfamiliar halls, you find yourself with an unexpected source of company.

The head maid— Loretta.

Her first appearance is nothing short of proper. Polite, attentive, efficient—and yet, you see it. That flicker of mischief beneath the surface. “I’ll be at your service, Grand Dutchess,” she says with a graceful bow, her posture impeccable.

It catches you off guard for only a moment, a brief reminder that despite your confidence, this life is still new. You clear your throat, slipping back into composure with practiced ease.

“And your name may be?” you ask, as though the answer is not already known to you.

Loretta lights up instantly—too instantly. “It’s Loretta, Your Grace—!” Her hands come together in an almost excited clap, the formality of her position momentarily forgotten. And just as quickly, realization dawns on her. Embarrassment floods her expression. “Ah… my apologies. That was improper of me.”

A soft chuckle escapes you before you can stop it, and she freezes at the sound. You shake your head, easing your expression as you gently stifle your laughter. “Do not be afraid,” you reassure her, your tone warm despite the setting. “I truly don’t mind.”

Relief washes over her so visibly it’s almost amusing. And truly—it is. Because this is the same woman who, under the cover of night, becomes something else entirely.

A silent overseer. A quiet hunter within palace walls. You’ve heard the whispers, the stories—of how she identifies disloyalty with frightening precision, how thieves disappear, how unfaithful servants are plucked from their positions as if they had never existed at all. And yet, before you, she stands like this—gentle, careful, almost endearing.

You nearly laugh again. What an interesting place you’ve married into—a palace of wolves, and a head maid who purrs like a cat.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

A sigh escapes your lips as your gaze lingers over the letters spread neatly across your desk. The handwriting is clean, precise—line after line of carefully constructed words that carry more weight than they appear to. You aren’t even sure how the news reached them. As a low-level noble, you had never been important enough to warrant such attention. And yet now… now that you bear the title of Duchess, it seems the world has suddenly remembered you exist.

Even so, the attention does little to ease your mind. If anything, it adds to the pressure.

The workload is heavier than you anticipated, though not unexpected. You had prepared yourself for this—mentally, strategically—and so you do not complain. The real issue lies elsewhere.

You rarely see your husband.

The thought lingers longer than you’d like.

It leads you to quieter suspicions—whether the maidservants have been following your instructions properly, whether he’s been eating at least three meals a day as you had ordered, whether anyone is truly keeping track of him at all.

Your eyes fall back onto the papers. The words remain unchanged. Unfeeling.

The invitation resting among them feels especially cold. Its polite phrasing does nothing to mask what lies beneath—whispers, judgment, quiet scrutiny waiting for you the moment you step into noble society’s gaze. It promises nothing but observation, nothing but the slow dissection of your choices.

Progress is slow. Painfully so. And time will not wait for you.

If things continue like this, then the path ahead will remain unchanged. The same path that led him—led all of them—toward endings you refuse to accept.

No. This won’t do.

You rise before you can second-guess yourself. Your chair shifts softly against the floor as determination settles into your movements. Without hesitation, you make your way toward Ashveil’s study, your pace steady, purposeful.

Behind you, Loretta follows faithfully. Ever since she had been assigned to your service, she has trailed after you like a loyal wolf cub—sharp-eyed, attentive, and far more observant than she lets on.

Your thoughts swirl endlessly as you walk. Fragments of the novel, your own actions, the possibility of suspicion, the fragile connections between Kronstadt and the rest of noble society—they all blur together into a restless storm.

And then, you collide with something. Someone.

“Muddlefudger!” The gruff exclamation snaps you from your thoughts. You look up, meeting a familiar sight—grey and black streaks of hair, sharp eyes filled with irritation.

Ah. Boothill. — the Wolf Duke’s so-called eldest son.

Born among rogue cowboys, dragged into a war that never should have touched him. A child forced into a battlefield by nobles who deemed the aftermath too filthy for their own soldiers. You remember this part clearly—the fragments of his past etched deeper into your memory than most.

A near-broken body. A boy left to die. And Ashveil— who had found him.

Rumor had it that the Duke postponed an entire ambush for a single day, just to ensure the medics were fully devoted to saving the child. A decision that made no sense strategically, yet defined everything about him.

No formal adoption ever followed, no official papers and yet, the entire kingdom knows. Boothill is his son in every way that matters. And just like his father, his fate in the novel had not been kind.

“Hey, bow to the Duchess!” Loretta’s sharp voice cuts through the moment, pulling you from your thoughts. Before she can continue, you lift your hand, silencing her with a simple gesture.

Boothill huffs, clearly unimpressed. But then, he looks at you. Not a passing glance, not a dismissive stare, he actually looks.

For a moment, the two of you simply stand there, studying one another in silence. His brows lift slightly, surprise flickering across his expression as though reality has failed to meet his expectations.

“That’s the Duchess?” The bluntness earns him no favor, but it does not surprise you.

This defiance—this sharp-edged attitude—is exactly as you remember. The same boy who once stood against nobles during a rogue mission, the same one who refused to bend even when surrounded by authority.

And yet, you smile. It is soft, welcoming, unexpected. If it weren’t for the novel, you might have answered differently.

“That is the Dutchess, Boothill,” you reply lightly, your tone carrying a quiet ease that contrasts his roughness. Then, tilting your head ever so slightly, you add, “Pray tell, have you been skipping training as well?”

The glare he sends your way could freeze lesser men. You remain unmoved.

“What’s it to ya’?” he shoots back, his voice sharp with challenge. “Ya haven’t been here for even a month.”

The words are blunt. They would sting, to most but not you. This is expected— necessary, even. If you want him to warm up to you, then this phase must be endured. And perhaps, nudged along.

“What’s it to me?” you echo, a faint gleam of mischief flickering in your eyes. “Let’s see… even within my short stay, I’ve managed to build connections with the Oak Family.” You tilt your head, your voice dipping into something almost playful. “Which means… no more Miss Robin’s assistance for you.”

The reaction is immediate. Subtle but unmistakable. For just a second, you catch it—a faint flush creeping onto his cheeks, embarrassment slipping through the cracks of his defiance. You almost laugh, but manage to hold it in.

Boothill clicks his tongue, turning his gaze away. “Ya don’t gotta threaten me like that.”

And just like that— he’s gone. Running through the halls as if the conversation had never happened.

You watch him leave, knowing you’ve struck something—not the deepest nerve, but enough. The Oak Family… or rather, Robin, has always been a constant in his life. You remember that much. Her presence during the aftermath of the war, the quiet bond formed through shared vulnerability.

And more importantly— her role in what was to come. Or at least— what you think you remember.

Barely a minute passes before the silence is broken again. “Young master, please return to the Knights!” The shout echoes through the halls as a group of knights rush past, their leader standing out immediately.

Argenti.

Rose-haired, composed, and painfully earnest.

It is not a surprising sight. Boothill’s aversion to discipline—especially anything resembling noble restraint—has already made itself clear. At this point, you suspect this is a daily occurrence.

Argenti stops before you, posture straight despite the clear frustration lingering in his expression.

“I apologize for the disturbance, Your Grace,” he says, his tone sincere. “I did not wish to interrupt your conversation, and thus… I was unable to catch him.”

This time, you laugh. Soft, but unmistakable.

The sound catches him off guard entirely. His brows lift, surprise flickering across his face as though he cannot quite process the reaction.

You shake your head gently, calming your laughter.

“A dutiful knight you are, Argenti,” you say warmly. “Truly admirable.” The effect is immediate. Surprise gives way to something softer—something brighter.

“How…?” the question lingers unspoken, but you can see it in his expression. How do you know his name? How are you so familiar?

A genuine smile blooms across his face regardless. “I appreciate the compliment, my lady.”

Earnest, contained, rare, but peace, as always, is fleeting.

The knights urge him onward, reminding him of his unfinished task. His expression shifts once more, duty reclaiming its place. “I shall take my leave.”

You nod, watching as he departs with the others in pursuit. And then, Loretta's laughter follows. It's a sudden one, amused even.

“Both of them will hear quite the scolding from the Duke today,” she remarks, her eyes gleaming with mischief.

You hum softly, your gaze drifting down the now-quiet hallway.

Yes, you’re certain of it.

Something, at the very least will dawn upon you all.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

The door creaks open to the overly cold study, the sound stretching thinly through the still air. A chill greets you immediately, seeping into your skin and settling deep in your bones. If one didn’t know better, they might have mistaken this place for a morgue rather than a workspace. How such a temperature is maintained without any modern technology remains a mystery, but right now, it’s the least of your concerns.

Carefully, you ease the door shut behind you, ensuring it makes as little noise as possible. The soft click echoes faintly, swallowed by the quiet. Your steps are slow and deliberate as you move further into the room, your gaze scanning the dim interior before settling on the figure slumped in the chair.

Ashveil sits there in silence, one hand supporting his head, his posture caught somewhere between rest and deep thought. He’s too still—so still that you hesitate, unsure whether he’s truly asleep or merely lost in his own mind. You circle him quietly, watching for any sign of movement, but he doesn’t react. Not a twitch, not a breath out of place.

Encouraged by his stillness, you take another cautious step closer.

Up close, he’s… prettier than you remembered.

The soft fall of his lashes against pale skin, the strands of black hair streaked with white slipping over his face—it all feels unfairly beautiful. Even the faint flush along his cheeks seems almost delicate. It’s surreal, really. Once upon a time, he had been nothing more than a character in a story, a passing fixation, someone you admired from afar. Now, he exists right in front of you, close enough to touch.

And that thought alone is enough to make your hand lift before you can stop yourself.

It hovers just above his bangs, your fingers trembling slightly with hesitation. Just one touch, you tell yourself. Something grounding. Something to remind you that this is real. Entirely for therapeutic purposes, of course—not because he looks devastatingly handsome while asleep.

Gently, your fingers brush against his hair.

It’s soft.

Softer than you expected.

For a man rumored to house a beast within him, there is something strangely gentle in the way he feels beneath your touch. His temperature is cool—noticeably so—but not unpleasant. Your fingers linger, trailing lightly along his features, tracing the faint lines of his face as though committing them to memory. The thought settles quietly in your mind, heavy with disbelief.

You are married to this man.

You pause at his cheek, your touch hovering as you debate whether to go any further—

—and then a hand catches your wrist.

You freeze.

His grip is firm yet controlled, holding you in place without hurting. When you look up, his eyes are already on you—sharp, aware, and far too awake. The intensity of his gaze sends a jolt through you, like a wolf observing even the slightest movement of its prey.

Instinctively, you try to step back, but his hold stops you.

“My apologies, Grand Duke! I didn’t mean to—” The words spill out in a rush, tumbling over each other in your panic. Heat floods your face as embarrassment and fear intertwine, your thoughts spiraling. Is this it? Have you already ruined everything?

But then—

he laughs.

The sound is soft, unrestrained, and so unexpected that it startles you more than his grip ever could. There’s a lightness to it, a rare trace of amusement that feels almost out of place on him. Slowly, he releases your wrist, allowing you the space you had tried to claim moments before.

“My own wife touching me in my sleep,” he muses, his voice tinged with quiet teasing. “Had you not considered the consequences of such actions?”

Your embarrassment deepens instantly, your composure crumbling further. You’re the Duchess—this is not how you’re meant to behave. You scold yourself internally, trying to gather what little dignity you have left. Yet Ashveil seems to pick up on your inner turmoil with ease. He straightens in his seat before leaning slightly closer, closing the distance you had just created.

“Come now,” he continues, his tone softer, almost coaxing. “What’s with the silence? You’re making this awkward. We are married, are we not?”

You nod, still recovering, your voice quieter when you answer. “We are.”

But your attention drifts again, not to his words, but to him. The subtle tension lining his expression, the faint stress that lingers beneath his composure—it’s clear, at least to you, that he hasn’t been resting properly. The realization settles heavily in your chest.

He hasn’t been sleeping.

And just like that, a plan begins to form in your mind.

It’s not a safe one. Not a cautious one. But you’ve never been particularly good at standing by and doing nothing.

Before you can second-guess yourself, you reach out and take his hand.

The reaction is immediate.

Ashveil stills, his eyes widening just slightly as a faint flush creeps onto his cheeks. The shift is subtle, but unmistakable. You don’t give yourself time to dwell on it.

“I have a request, Your Grace,” you begin, your grip tightening just enough to steady your nerves. And before he can interrupt, you continue, “I want to share a bedroom with you tonight.”

A heavy, suffocating silence follows.

He stares at you as though you’ve just committed treason, while you internally marvel at your own boldness. Really, there’s no turning back now.

“I don’t think that would be a good idea, my lady,” he finally replies, his tone gentle—careful, even—as if trying to guide you away from something dangerous.

Your fingers tighten around his hand. You know what this implies. You understand the risks, the implications, the boundaries being crossed.

And yet, you refuse to let him face another night alone.

“It’s a great idea, Your Grace,” you insist, your voice steadier than you feel. “Do you not hear the whispers? People are already saying our relationship is fractured within days of our marriage.”

It’s a stretch—an outright exaggeration, really. You heard one person mention it once and decided to run with it. But desperate times call for desperate measures.

Ashveil watches you, unconvinced. Has he heard such rumors? No. And frankly, he doubts they exist at all. As for why you would make something like that up… well, his thoughts drift briefly in directions he pointedly refuses to acknowledge.

He exhales slowly, the sound carrying a quiet exhaustion.

“Sharing a bedroom will not bring any good,” he says, his voice softer now. “Especially with an ill man.”

You shake your head immediately, your determination unwavering. “Please, Your Grace.”

The shift in your tone is subtle, but enough.

And that is what breaks him.

After a moment of hesitation, he nods—reluctant, faintly flustered, and still entirely too aware of your hand holding his.

Relief and triumph bloom in your chest all at once. “Thank you!” you beam, your sincerity only serving to fluster him further.

As you step out of the study, leaving the biting cold behind, you faintly hear him call for Narrator, his voice quieter, almost resigned.

His poor advisor.

Tonight, he will undoubtedly be preparing for the worst.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

The words spread across the palace within hours. Arrangements begin as though something grand is to take place—servants moving in hushed urgency, attendants whispering behind gloved hands, preparations unfolding with an almost ceremonial weight. Yet neither of you speak of it. Neither of you acknowledge it. Because you both know this is nothing like what they believe it to be.

Following your usual routine, you retreat into your study once more. A part of you clings to this constancy—this quiet, unchanging rhythm. It is a rare comfort, one you never had in your previous life, where silence was always fleeting and thoughts were never given room to breathe. Here, at least, you can think.

But peace has never been something that lingers long at your side.

A firm knock breaks through the stillness, knuckles rapping sharply against the door. You do not need to guess who it is. With a quiet sigh, you grant permission, and the door opens almost instantly—as if there had been no space between the knock and his entrance at all.

From the moment he steps in, you can tell something is wrong. Narrator looks… unsettled. More than that—distressed.

“Your Grace,” he begins, his voice strained, “why was I not informed of this?”

For a brief moment, his composure cracks so visibly that it startles you. He looks as though he might grab you by the shoulders and shake sense into you if propriety did not chain him in place.

You tilt your head, taken aback by the sudden intensity. Still, beneath the surprise, you understand. “I did not think I needed to inform anyone,” you reply evenly, “that a married couple would share a bedroom.”

The words land heavier than intended.

You are aware of that. They sound entitled—sharp, almost—but there is little else you can say. This marriage has given you leverage, a foothold in a story that was never meant to belong to you. For that alone, you are grateful to the version of yourself that made this choice.

Narrator exhales, long and weary, pinching the bridge of his nose as though warding off a headache. “You know the Grand Duke is not in the best condition,” he says, voice quieter now but no less firm. “Why place more strain on him?”

Strain.

The word feels misplaced, yet not entirely wrong. If it comes from him, then it likely comes from Ashveil as well.

You watch Narrator carefully, and it is almost as though you can hear the thoughts he refuses to voice. He is afraid—afraid that this will push the Duke too far, that allowing someone so new, so unfamiliar, into such a vulnerable space will undo everything he has spent years trying to preserve.

“Mister N,” you call, and he looks up immediately.

“I know you care for him,” you continue, your voice steady but softer now, “but please… do not mistake me for a fool.”

That catches him off guard. He straightens slightly, pushing his glasses up in a reflexive gesture. “I didn’t mean to—”

You raise a hand, gently cutting him off. “I know you didn’t.” You take a step closer—not enough to threaten, but enough to make your words impossible to ignore.

“I will be gentle with him,” you say, quieter now, yet unwavering. “Trust me. I was not married into this house without knowing what awaits me.”

Silence settles between you.

Narrator’s gaze drops, his expression a tangled mess of hesitation and reluctant acceptance. He has stood beside Ashveil for decades—watched him fracture, watched him endure. He has shaped the Duke’s life into something survivable, something controlled. And now, you have stepped into that carefully constructed world.

He does not know whether to fear you… or to hope.

Slowly, he lifts his gaze again. “I understand,” he murmurs at last. “Please… take care of him. Do not push him.” His voice falters slightly. “He is more fragile than he appears. One wrong step… and he may crumble entirely.”

Those words linger, heavy on your shoulders, as you make your way to the bedroom. Each step feels deliberate, like walking toward a stage where the outcome has yet to be decided.

When the door opens, you find Ashveil already there.

He sits stiffly on the edge of the bed, posture awkward, as though he does not quite belong in his own space. His shirt is buttoned unevenly, hair slightly disheveled—strands falling in a way that almost resembles wolf ears. Whether he had only just woken or had been hurried into preparation, you cannot tell.

The thought warms you more than it should.

You step closer. Immediately, he tenses.

“No need to be so wary, Grand Duke,” you say gently. “Think of this as nothing more than a natural part of our marriage.”

He nods—too quickly, too stiffly. His prosthetic hand moves, patting the space beside him in a silent invitation. You accept, though you keep a careful distance as you sit.

For a moment, he says nothing. Then, haltingly, “You must be tired… we should sleep.”

The words come out clumsy, stripped of elegance. Years of isolation have worn away at him, leaving his voice unfamiliar with softness, with ease.

You listen, you understand. But you also see what he does not say. And you have never been one to retreat.

Slowly, you reach out, your hand coming to rest against his cheek. He stiffens immediately—but he does not pull away.

Your fingers trace along his skin, familiar in a way that transcends this life. A faint smile touches your lips. “I am tired,” you admit softly, “but it would be a waste to simply sleep through the time I asked for.”

His breath catches. His hand rises, wrapping around your wrist—not harsh, but uncertain, as though grounding himself.

“Why?” he asks, voice barely above a whisper. “Why marry me? Why take on the burden of Kronstadt?”

The question does not surprise you.

But answering it… is another matter entirely.

“Is it so strange,” you say after a moment, “to wish to care for a fallen land?”

The lie slips out too easily. Because the truth has always been him.

Something flickers in his eyes—something unreadable. Then, slowly, he smiles. It mirrors yours, but where yours conceals, his reveals. There is something soft in it. Something… relieved.

And then, he gasps. The shift is immediate. His grip tightens before releasing, his body faltering as his hand flies to his chest—then to his arm.

“You should go,” he says, voice sharp now, strained. “Leave.” His nails dig into his own skin. “Leave,” he repeats.

He expects you to run. Anyone would. But you do not move. Instead, when his strength falters and he collapses forward, you catch him. His weight drives you back onto the bed, breath knocked from your lungs as he trembles above you, fighting something unseen.

His hand finds yours again—this time not gentle. Metal edges press into your skin, biting, threatening to break.

You almost flinch. But you don’t. Your focus remains on him.

“Why won’t you leave?” he demands, though his voice wavers, fractured between control and something far more dangerous.

“Because I chose to stay,” you answer, without hesitation. There is no fear in your voice; a little room for doubt, certainty present in its glory.

For a moment, something in him stills. His teeth graze over your neck, you can feel it vividly, heavy breaths fanning your pulse. He's waiting to bite, to satisfy the hunger of the beast. Then he leans closer, his body pressing against yours, breath ghosting your ear.

“You will stay with me,” he murmurs, low and raw, “forever.”

And then— He goes limp.

Silence crashes down all at once, heavy and suffocating. You do not move. Do not breathe. For a moment, you are not even sure if your heart is still beating.

Then, slowly—carefully—you inhale.

You made it. You endured the flare-up. You changed the course of the story.

The realization hits you all at once, sharp and overwhelming. Something inside your chest tightens, threatening to spill over. Years of preparation… all for this single moment.

And now, there is hope.

Your hand stings.

The pain registers belatedly, and when you lift it, crescent-shaped wounds stare back at you—angry, bleeding. You let out a quiet breath, almost a laugh of disbelief.

Carefully, you ease yourself out from beneath him, shifting his weight with more effort than grace. You guide his head onto the pillow, movements clumsy but gentle.

Once he is settled, you search the room, recalling fragmented details from the story—until you find what you need.

Sitting at the edge of the bed, you clean the wounds. The alcohol burns, sharp enough to make you bite down on your lip, but you endure it in silence. When you finish wrapping the bandages, a knock sounds at the door.

Just once.

You pause, then rise, opening it slightly.

Narrator stands there. His expression is tense—but the moment he sees you, sees your calm, sees the quiet behind you—something in him eases.

You offer a small smile, pressing a finger to your lips.

He understands immediately. Relief softens his features, and for the first time, his smile carries something genuine.

He does not need to ask. Ashveil is safe. And for the first time in a long while— he is not alone.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

Morning light seeps through the curtains, spilling across the bedsheets in a quiet warmth. It reaches you before your thoughts fully surface, coaxing your eyes open as you slowly adjust to the brightness filling the Duke’s chambers.

You turn your head to see Ashveil laying beside you, still and undisturbed, as though the night had never unraveled him at all. In the gentleness of morning, he looks… almost unreal. The sharpness that once defined him has softened, leaving behind something deceptively peaceful.

Radiant.

It feels wrong, somehow, to see him like this after what happened. You can’t tell if this calm is his own… or something you had a hand in. After all, you were the one who stopped him. The one who kept him from tearing himself apart any further.

The thought lingers longer than it should. But duty does not. As much as you want to remain—just a moment longer, just enough to convince yourself this quiet is real—you force yourself to rise. The world beyond these walls is already waiting, and it will not wait kindly.

You slip from the bed, making your way toward the door. With each step, your mind begins its usual tally—letters unanswered, reports untouched, obligations stacked one atop another until the weight of it nearly turns you back.

As your hand rests on the handle, you hesitate. There's a feeling in your gut that something troublesome awaits you outside the door— but then again, when have you not gotten involved into something troublesome?

Then you open it. The door creaks softly as it gives way. You expect to see Loretta as you always do.

Instead, you’re met with someone else entirely.

A girl stands in the corridor, pink hair catching the light, streaked with neon that seems to hum with restless energy. There is something loud about her presence—something that refuses to be ignored even in silence.

And the moment she notices you, that silence shatters. Her gaze drops immediately to your bandaged hand before snapping back to your face.

“Moonveil Warden.”

The title hits you abruptly. For a second, you don’t respond. Your mind stumbles over the unfamiliar weight of it, instinctively searching for someone else—someone it could possibly belong to.

But the hallway is empty.

There is no one else. It is meant for you.

Slowly, you lift a hand, pointing at yourself as if to confirm. “...Yes?” you answer, hesitant, your voice betraying the uncertainty you try to mask. “Were you calling for me?”

She doesn’t answer right away. Instead, she looks at you—really looks. Her gaze drags over your figure, sharp and assessing, before flickering briefly toward the bedroom behind you. And then, back to your hand. Her eyes narrow, curiosity sharpening into something far more dangerous.

“What,” she begins, tone dipping into something almost conspiratorial, “did you and Solostar Wolfshade do?”

Your heart skips and you don’t let her finish. “Nothing!” The response comes too quickly, too forcefully, the word nearly tripping over itself in your haste. You straighten slightly, forcing composure back into your voice. “Forgive me—I was careless. It was dark, and I injured myself trying to find my way.”

The lie slips out with practiced ease, you barely even feel it anymore. At this point, you’ve lost count of how many times you’ve twisted the truth since arriving in Kronstadt… and something tells you that number will only grow.

Rappa watches you intently, the way that would make only Coria sweat. For a moment, it feels like she might press further—like she’s already imagined ten different possibilities and is simply waiting for you to confirm one.

But to your relief, her shoulders ease. Not yet convinced but she's willing to let it go for now. She steps closer instead, her attention shifting. Her eyes flicker down—this time not to your bandages, but to the ring resting on your finger. When she looks back up, there’s a glint in her expression. Amusement and interest.

A smile curls onto her lips. With exaggerated flair, she places a hand over her chest and dips into a half-bow, every movement brimming with theatrical pride. “It’s an honor to meet you, Moonveil Warden,” she declares brightly. “I’m Rappa—the Dazzling Hero!”

The name settles into place. Ah— Right. Rappa.

Ashveil’s eldest daughter—though still younger than Boothill. A child once raised to be an assassin, shaped by blades and silence… only to abandon it all in favor of freedom. You remember the rumors—how she had turned against the very life forced upon her, how she had tried to ambush Ashveil’s soldiers out of desperation.

And how he had found her, eventually taken her in.

Now, she stands before you not as that frail, struggling child—but as something vivid. Unrestrained. A noble cloaked in brightness, even as the remnants of her past linger beneath the surface.

You realize, faintly, how little you remember of the others. Except Ashveil.

Clearing your throat, you offer a polite nod, waiting for her to finish her display. “May I leave now?” you ask, already glancing down the corridor. “I’m afraid I haven’t freshened up yet.”

And more importantly— Where is Loretta? Of all times to disappear.

Strangely, your question seems to brighten Rappa even further. She steps closer—close enough that you barely have time to react before her hand catches yours, warm and firm. “Does that mean the Moonveil Warden will be joining us for breakfast?” she asks, eyes gleaming with excitement.

Breakfast.

The thought hadn’t even crossed your mind.

Everything else had taken priority. You hesitate for a moment—then give a small, uncertain nod. “...Yes. I suppose I will.”

That is all she needs.

She releases you just as quickly and turns, already dashing down the corridor with uncontainable energy. “Silvergun Shura!” her voice rings out in the distance.

The hallway falls quiet again. And just as you turn— there she is.

Loretta stands waiting, as composed as ever, as though she had been there the entire time and simply chose not to intervene.

A dull headache begins to form. “Now you decide to show up?” you mutter, unimpressed.

She laughs softly, her smile tinged with something almost apologetic—almost. “You had someone waiting for you,” she replies. “It would have been rude to take you away from her, Your Grace.”

You don’t buy it though, not for a second. But you let it slide for now— of all the storms coming today, this should be the least of your priorities.

The next thirty minutes pass in the familiar rhythm of preparation.

For a duchess, even the smallest detail is never truly small. Every fold of fabric, every strand of hair, every accessory must be corrected, adjusted, perfected—until nothing remains that could be deemed careless. Not when the maidservants of Kronstadt turn imperfection into entertainment.

Loretta trails behind you as always, silent and unbothered, as you finally step into the dining hall.

It is a vast room— far too vast. A table designed to host a court, yet occupied by only three people. The emptiness is hard to ignore. It always is. There is something about this dukedom that makes even abundance feel hollow.

Your gaze finds Ashveil immediately. He is already eating.

Of course he is.

No greeting. No acknowledgment that you were ever absent to begin with. You file that grudge away for later.

“Moonveil Warden is here!” Rappa announces brightly, as though your entrance is an event worth celebrating.

Boothill lets out a short laugh. “What kinda name is that supposed to be?”

You offer a small smile instead of a response, taking your seat beside Ashveil. Behind you, Loretta quietly chooses to stand near Boothill rather than behind you. You don’t question it— you rarely question her relationships with the staffs, or even the nobles. You do not possess much knowledge for someone who has been living here for only a month.

Your attention drifts, as it always does, back to Ashveil.

He is avoiding you.

He's trying to do it not openly nor dramatically, hoping to do it in the quiet, deliberate way of someone who keeps his eyes fixed on anything that is not you— his plate, his hands, the edge of the table. Anywhere else.

You do not press him yet. Instead, you let the noise at the table fill the space between you.

Rappa talks like silence is a crime. Boothill answers like every word is a calculation. Their voices overlap constantly—half argument, half laughter, entirely familiar in a way that makes the emptiness of the room feel slightly less suffocating.

Rappa is louder, more open, her emotions worn plainly across her face like armor she refuses to hide behind.

Boothill, by contrast, watches more than he speaks. Measures before he reacts.

They are different and yet not. Despite being more of a quieter one among the two, Boothill rarely stops when he opens his mouth— tales of the past and his skills fall out of his mouth before he can register.

Your gaze lingers between them briefly, observing their close relationship. You'd expect them to be close— especially given their past in the war, they bond over the hellish times well. Then, your focus inevitably returns to Ashveil.

He has gone quiet— more than usual. Your observant gaze pins him, dissecting every movement and behavior. His eyes are not on your face but on your hand. He seems to be specifically eyeing the bandages.

There is something there that he does not voice. Something that presses heavier than words would allow. Guilt, perhaps. Or something sharper, more self-directed than that.

It settles uncomfortably in your chest. You exhale softly, your mind a troublesome tycoon of thoughts and the need to act. Without overthinking it, you move your hand. It rests over his. It is a simple gesture, standing barely anything but his entire body tenses the moment you do it. His hand twitches once, yet he doesn't seem to attempt to pull away.

You keep your expression neutral and continue eating as if nothing has changed, even as awareness sharpens at the table.

Rappa's keen eyes are the first one to catch it. Her gaze flicks immediately to Boothill. Boothill, in turn, glances at Loretta. Loretta, infuriatingly, offers nothing in return.

No one understands. Good. Or perhaps… inconvenient.

“Moonveil Warden,” Rappa says suddenly, breaking the moment with practiced ease, “Silvergun Shura and I will be starting training in an hour. This Dazzling Hero requests your presence as an honored spectator.”

Despite yourself, your lips soften. It is impossible not to. “Of course,” you reply gently. “I would be happy to watch.”

The reaction is immediate from him. You know that he's quietly observing everything like a wolf. You feel Ashveil’s hand shift slightly beneath yours—fingers tightening just enough to be noticed, just enough to mean something he does not say aloud. Even as you do not look at him, there is a quiet understanding between you. Somewhere beneath all of this, he is pleased. Relieved, even.

The idea of his children—his fractured, scattered family—finding something resembling connection in your presence is not lost on him.

Rappa and Boothill are the first to leave, still bickering even as they exit. Loretta follows shortly after, leaving the hall with the same composure she arrived with. And just like that— It is only the two of you.

The silence that follows is heavier than before.

Ashveil does not speak immediately. He lets you decide what comes next— so you do.

“You didn’t tell me you were awake.” You take a bite of your food as you speak, keeping your tone casual.

His answer is paused, as though he does not want to say it out loud. “Didn’t think it was necessary.” The response is short— harsh even. Truth be told, he felt ashamed of the previous night to even confront you.

You accept it without comment, letting the conversation settle rather than forcing it open.

After a moment, you return to your meal.

It is… easy, in a strange way, to fall into silence with him.

You find yourself noticing small things again—his habits, his rhythm. The way he eats without pause, as though rest itself is something he has never fully learned how to do without. The sheer, almost unsettling consistency of it.

Like something that cannot be satisfied.

You do not dwell on it. Instead, you eat quietly. The thoughts will not leave you as long as it can, the swirling dissatisfaction in your heart will not be settled either. Yet, you keep quiet— for he, too, is in a predicament.

Outside the hall, something else begins to unfold.

“Did ya see that? Her hand’s bandaged.” Boothill’s voice drops into a whisper, though the hallway is empty.

Rappa leans in immediately. “Moonveil Warden said she hurt it last night. Accident in the palace.” she pauses her words. “I don’t believe her.”

Loretta hums softly, thoughtful rather than dismissive. “Something did happen,” she agrees. “Though I doubt it was anything severe enough to warrant concern.”

Boothill folds his arms. “So she’s lyin'.”

“No,” Rappa counters quickly. “She just didn’t tell us everything.”

Silence follows that— an uncertain silence that can only be achieved once you've gathered clues that don't connect at all. The kind that refuses to settle into a single conclusion.

The conversation continues for a while longer, looping through theories, half-guesses, and dead ends. But none of it leads anywhere solid.

No one knows. No one can.

Because only three people in this entire dukedom carry even a fragment of the truth—and none of them are speaking.

So the mystery remains what it has always been. Unresolved, unseen and carefully, deliberately buried beneath everything else.

By the time you finish answering the last of the letters and finalizing the month’s financial accounts, the sky beyond the tall windows has already surrendered to a dull, suffocating grey. What little light had filtered through earlier in the day is swallowed whole, replaced by heavy clouds that seem to press down upon the estate itself. The rain begins not long after—first as a distant murmur, then as a steady descent, and finally as a relentless pour that blankets everything in a muted haze.

It does not belong here.

In a land where life rarely blooms and warmth is more memory than reality, the rain feels almost intrusive—like something alive entering a place that has long forgotten how to be. The air thickens with dampness, carrying a faint, musky scent that clings to the stone walls and lingers in your lungs. It is a stark contrast to your father’s territory, where rain had always felt cleansing, almost comforting. Here, it only deepens the gloom.

You should have left earlier. The thought comes too late to matter now.

It takes Loretta’s quiet reminder to pull you back to your responsibilities beyond paper and ink—the promise you had made to visit the training grounds. You do not argue, nor do you delay. Rising from your seat, you move almost immediately, the urgency in your actions mismatched with the distant, unfocused state of your mind.

Even as your feet carry you forward, your thoughts drift elsewhere. There is something unsettled beneath the surface of the day—something that lingers just out of reach, as though the world itself is quietly shifting into a shape it was never meant to take.

The training grounds come into view through the curtain of rain, their outlines softened by the constant downpour. The earth beneath your feet is damp but mercifully firm, each step sinking just enough to remind you of the water saturating the soil without trapping you in it. The sounds reach you first—sharp, rhythmic, unyielding. Steel striking steel in measured intervals, arrows slicing cleanly through the air before embedding themselves into distant targets, voices rising and falling with effort and correction.

And yet, even surrounded by it, you feel oddly detached.

The noise does not quite reach you.

Your thoughts remain louder.

You stop at the edge of the field, Loretta’s presence steady behind you as she lifts the umbrella above your head, shielding you from the worst of the rain. Before you, the scene unfolds with practiced familiarity. Argenti stands beside Boothill, correcting the angle of his grip with patient precision, while the cowboy—true to form—continues to complain about the absurdity of wielding a sword when a gun would suffice. Not far from them, Robin Hood oversees Rappa, his posture relaxed yet unwavering as he observes her form.

Your gaze shifts to the target. Five arrows, all buried into the center.

Perfect.

The realization settles quietly—impressive, but not unexpected. There is a reason Robin Hood regards her so highly, a reason her confidence borders on theatrical certainty.

You find yourself watching longer than intended, your thoughts slipping once more into that distant, untethered space. So much so that you fail to notice the presence approaching you.

The sound of footsteps is lost beneath the rain, the shift in air too subtle to draw your attention—until it is already too late. A shadow merges with yours.

You only stir when the faint brush of fabric against your arm pulls you back into yourself. The contact is light, almost hesitant, yet enough to ground you instantly.

Ashveil stands beside you. Closer than he usually allows himself to be. He does not speak at first. Instead, he simply stands there, his presence quiet yet unmistakable, his gaze resting not on the training grounds but on you. There is a stillness to him—an awareness that feels deliberate, as though he has chosen not to interrupt whatever thoughts had claimed you.

The silence stretches. You break it without thinking. “Did you need something, Ashveil?”

The name slips from your lips before you can stop it, natural in a way that feels far too intimate for what it should be. You realize it a moment too late but he does not correct you.

Instead, his hand comes to rest on your shoulder. The touch is gentle—careful, almost uncertain, as though he is testing the boundary rather than claiming it.

“No,” he answers, the word coming quickly, yet not entirely steady. There is restraint in his voice, something held back just beneath the surface. “I just wanted to spend time with you, [Name].”

The world stills for you.

Your name.

Not your title. Not the role you have been forced into. Not the distance that has always existed between you and everyone else in this place.

Just you.

The warmth that follows is immediate and unwelcome in its intensity, spreading through your chest before you can brace yourself against it. It lingers there, soft yet insistent, refusing to be ignored.

You can feel his gaze. It is steady and unwavering. As though he is committing you to memory.

You look away first, unable hold the intensity. “I see…” Your voice is quieter than you intend, and you clear your throat in an attempt to steady it. “I’m glad you would want to.”

The words feel insufficient. Too small for something that suddenly feels far larger than it should be.

You force your attention back to the training grounds, grasping at something safer—something familiar. “Letting them train in this weather… don’t you think you’re being too harsh?”

Ashveil doesn't answer immediately, not that you expect him to answer at all. A soft sound escapes him. A laugh.

It catches you off guard.

It is quiet, nearly lost beneath the rain, but unmistakable all the same. There is something fragile about it, as though it has not been used in a very long time.

“I suggested they rest,” he admits, his tone lighter now, if only slightly. “They refused. Both of them.”

You hum softly in acknowledgment, unsurprised. Stubbornness, it seems, is a trait that runs deep within this household—whether by blood or by circumstance.

The two of you fall into a quiet rhythm after that, standing side by side as you watch the training continue. Time passes in small, unmeasured increments, marked only by the repetition of movement and the steady fall of rain.

“There used to be another one.” His voice breaks through the calm without warning.

You turn to him, your attention sharpening instantly.

His hand withdraws from your shoulder as he exhales, his gaze shifting away from both you and the field, as though the memory itself demands distance.

“Acheron,” he says, the name carried quietly between you. “She was skilled with a blade… though her taste in everything else was...questionable.” A faint attempt at humor. Though, it does not last.

“She left after a few months,” he continues, the words slower now. “No letters. No explanation. Nothing.”

The name settles into your thoughts like a key turning in a long-forgotten lock.

Acheron.

Fragments begin to surface—scattered, incomplete, yet unmistakable. A wandering noble with no true home. A remnant of a fallen estate. A figure destined to move between territories without ever belonging to one. You remember enough to know that her path was never meant to stay here… that her story lies elsewhere, intertwined with a future that has yet to unfold.

“But that’s in the past,” Ashveil murmurs, though there is a quiet weight beneath the words that suggests otherwise. “Wherever she is… I hope she’s safe.”

Bound to cross paths with the novel's protagonist— Evanescia, you are not certain that she is as he wishes. Crossing path anyone from the Xianzhou at this point of the plot may not be the best way to guarantee your safety, especially after their previous leader, Dan Feng's execution. But you say keep it to yourself.

The rain grows heavier, filling the silence in your place. For a moment, the world feels suspended—caught between what was and what is yet to come.

Then the thought breaks through.

“A soldier has died of poisoning in Moria.”

The words leave you abruptly, as though pulled from you rather than spoken by choice. There is a heaviness behind them, a quiet guilt that lingers in your tone despite your efforts to suppress it. Even now, after years of adapting to this life, there are parts of it that still feel foreign—parts you are never quite prepared to face.

Ashveil does not react outwardly. “I know,” he responds shortly, the words stinging in his mouth.

There is no surprise in his voice, he's expected this. “Cole reported it this morning. Mister N is investigating.”

Of course.

Cole—the poet who became a messenger of war, carrying reports in place of those who could no longer return. Since Acheron’s departure, he has filled a role that was never meant to be his, bridging absence with duty.

Your gaze drifts briefly across the field again, catching a familiar figure among the shifting forms.

Coria, perhaps. Even through the rain and distance, her presence feels distinct. There is something about her that lingers—like a melody that refuses to fade completely, even when unheard.

But your focus returns quickly.

“What did the report say?” you ask, quieter now, bracing yourself for what follows.

Ashveil takes his time to contemplate the ways to answer your question. There is a pause—long enough to feel deliberate. Long enough to suggest that the truth is something he weighs carefully before offering.

“Slow poisoning,” he says at last.

The words fall heavy, despairing and final.

“The culprit is among them. And by now…” He exhales softly, the rest of the sentence settling into implication rather than sound. “It may have already spread further than we can contain.”

The weight of it presses between you, silent yet suffocating. When you glance at him, his expression remains composed—but not untouched. There is something deeper beneath it all. Guilt, weariness and beneath both, something quieter still. Relief— not for the situation but for the fact that he is no longer bearing it alone.

The rain intensifies, blurring the edges of the world as the training below begins to dissolve. Knights retreat toward the palace in scattered formations, their movements hurried but familiar. Boothill and Rappa follow not far behind, their voices still carrying through the storm as they argue over something neither seems willing to concede.

“We should return,” you say at last, the words grounding you back into the present.

Ashveil does not argue, simply following you. Close enough that you can feel him there, just behind you—never quite beside you, yet never distant either.

You have noticed it. The way he adjusts himself around you. The way he lingers, wanting to be subtle. The way he almost—almost—closes the distance, only to stop short each time.

It makes your chest tighten in a way you cannot easily explain. You tell yourself it is nothing, that it is simply habit. Perhaps it is companionship that he seeks— the purpose of marriage was this. Something harmless.

But even as you walk through the rain, you can feel his gaze settle on you once more—steady, searching, unguarded in a way that feels far too intentional.

And the question lingers, quiet but insistent..

Why does he look at you—

as though you are the final piece of something he has been trying to complete?

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

The rain does not stop.

Days pass, yet the sky remains sealed beneath a suffocating blanket of grey, as though the heavens themselves have chosen to abandon this land to its own decay. What began as a distant murmur has grown into a constant presence—rain tapping endlessly against the tall windows, seeping into the stone, clinging to the air with a damp heaviness that never quite leaves. Even within the palace walls, the scent of it lingers, mixing with old wood and colder things, creating an atmosphere that feels less like a home and more like something quietly rotting from the inside out.

And with each passing day, another name is added to the list.

At first, it had been manageable—tragic, but contained. A single report from Moria. A single soldier lost to something no one could immediately identify. But the pattern does not hold. It fractures, splinters, spreads. The deaths grow in number, then in frequency, each one slipping through the cracks before anyone can properly react. By the time the pattern becomes undeniable, it is already far too late to pretend this is coincidence.

You stand alone in the study, the latest report trembling slightly between your fingers despite the stillness of your body. Your eyes trace the words again and again, searching for something—anything—that might make sense of what is unfolding.

But there is nothing familiar here.

Nothing you recognize. Nothing that aligns with what you remember.

This wasn’t in the novel.

The realization no longer arrives as a shock. It settles into you like something colder, heavier—something that refuses to leave. Up until now, every step you had taken, every decision you had made, had been guided—anchored by the knowledge of what was meant to happen. Even when things felt uncertain, there had always been that quiet reassurance in the back of your mind: this is how it goes.

But now, there is nothing. The comfort of the script has long left you. And you are reminded once more that you are a stranger to this world. Caught in a future that refuses to unfold the way it should.

Your fingers tighten around the parchment. For the first time since you arrived in this world, you are truly, completely on your own.

The palace feels it. Even if no one speaks of it openly, the shift is undeniable. Conversations grow shorter, quieter, weighed down by something unspoken. Servants move with more urgency, yet less noise, as though afraid that any disruption might draw attention to something lurking just beyond their understanding. The vast halls, once merely cold, now feel hollow—like something has been carved out of them, leaving behind only an echo.

And within it all, the people closest to you begin to change.

Boothill and Rappa no longer train for the sake of improvement—they train as though survival depends on it. Their usual arguments still exist, but they lack their former ease, their edges sharpened by something far more serious. Boothill’s movements grow more precise, more deliberate, his eyes constantly scanning even when he pretends not to care. Rappa, on the other hand, throws herself into every motion with unwavering intensity, as though sheer will alone might be enough to outrun whatever is coming.

They linger around you more now.

Not in a way that draws attention.

Not in a way that disrespects your position.

But you notice it in the small things—the way Boothill adjusts his pace to match yours when you walk, even if he pretends it’s coincidence. The way Rappa insists on accompanying you under flimsy excuses that neither of you bothers to question. Even Loretta, ever composed and mischievous, has begun to remain at your side longer than necessary, her quiet presence grounding in a way that feels both comforting and unsettling.

They are protecting you. And the realization does not bring relief. Only the weight of understanding just how serious this has become.

The autopsy room is colder than the rest of the palace, as it always is. The scent of iron lingers thick in the air, layered beneath the sharp bitterness of medicinal herbs meant to mask what cannot truly be hidden. You stand over the body in silence, your gaze fixed, your mind working tirelessly to assemble pieces that refuse to fit together cleanly.

Another soldier.

Another victim.

Another life reduced to a report.

Your hand hovers just above the pale skin, unmoving as your thoughts spiral deeper into the problem. The symptoms are consistent—pain, deterioration, eventual collapse. The onset is delayed, carefully timed, as though designed to avoid immediate suspicion.

The reports point toward neither food nor water. The causes are inconsistent, an illusion of an airborne disease.

Your brows draw together as frustration builds, tightening slowly within your chest.

Then what?

Your fingers curl slightly. Think, think, think— figure something out. There are people awaiting your hopeful words that haven't reached your throat yet. You force yourself to step back, to look beyond the surface, beyond the obvious. You replay every detail, every report, every name.

Just as you uncover another sheet of report, your hand stills and your breath catches.

“…No.”The word leaves you before you can stop it.

You turn sharply toward the scattered reports, your movements quicker now, more urgent. Your eyes scan through them again, but this time with purpose—with direction.

Names, units, histories.

Your heartbeat quickens. “…They’re all connected.” The realization settles with terrifying clarity.

It's not random, never random. Every single victim—every soldier who had fallen, they all served under him.

Your grip tightens against the edge of the table.

“…Ashveil.” The name leaves your lips in a whisper.

This isn’t an attack on the dukedom. It’s an attack on him.

You don’t remember leaving the room.

Only that you are moving—fast enough that your thoughts struggle to keep up, your mind racing ahead even as your body tries to follow. The halls blur past you, familiar yet distant, your focus narrowing to a single point.

His office.

You don’t slow down, your steps catching it's pace with your heartbeat. By the time you reach the door, your hand is already raised, your breath uneven despite your effort to steady it. You knock—once, twice—but the sound feels insignificant compared to the urgency thrumming through you.

Patience fails you and the door opens beneath your hand.

The room is dim. The curtains remain drawn, shutting out what little light the storm might offer, leaving the space cloaked in shadows that stretch long across the floor. The desk is covered in papers—maps, reports, letters—each one a fragment of the chaos unfolding beyond these walls. None of them are neatly arranged. None of them are entirely out of place either.

It is the work of someone trying to hold everything together.

Alone.

Ashveil stands near the window, his figure half-obscured by the faint light that manages to slip through the gaps in the curtains. He does not turn immediately, his posture still, rigid in a way that feels less like calm and more like restraint.

“…You should be resting.” His voice is quiet. The distance in it dims your hopes by a grain. The walls you've worked so hard to chip away can rebuild itself with one wrong word.

You step inside anyway, closing the door behind you with a soft click. “And you should be eating,” you reply, your tone steady despite the tension coiling in your chest. “Yet neither of us seems particularly interested in doing what we should.”

That draws a reaction—subtle, but present. A slight shift in his shoulders, a quiet exhale that barely reaches you.

When he turns to face you, the sight alone is enough to make your breath falter.

He looks… worn. Not in the way of someone who simply lacks sleep, but in a way that feels deeper, heavier. There is a strain beneath his composure now, something that lingers in the set of his shoulders, in the faint tightness of his expression. He still stands tall, still carries himself with the same quiet authority—but it is no longer effortless.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he says, though the words lack any real force.

“I figured it out.” You don’t give him the chance to continue.

The words land between you, immediate and unyielding. That stops him completely.

“…What?”

“The poison,” you continue, stepping closer, your voice firm despite the storm raging within you. “It isn’t random. The victims—they’re all connected. They served under you during the war.”

Your gaze locks onto his. “This is about you.”

The silence following is heavy. unavoidable. He seems hesitant, unwilling to bear the burden of your words. “…I know.”

The answer hits harder than you expect.

You stare at him, disbelief flickering across your expression. “…You knew?”

“I suspected,” he corrects quietly, his gaze lowering slightly. “I didn’t want to act on assumption alone.”

Frustration rises quickly, sharp and immediate. “You should have told me—”

“And burden you further?” he interrupts, his voice still calm, but firm in a way that stops you short. “You already carry enough.”

The words linger. Because they are not wrong. But they are not enough either.

“I am your wife,” you say, softer now, but no less resolute. “This is mine to carry as well.”

Something in his expression shifts then—subtle, but undeniable. The distance he had been holding begins to falter, just slightly, as though your words have reached somewhere deeper than he intended to expose.

“I’m failing them.” The confession comes quietly, carrying guilt wrapped in white silk, stripped of its ink before you.

“I couldn’t protect them during the war,” he continues, his voice steady but thinner now, stretched by something heavier beneath it. “And now I can’t even protect the ones who survived it.”

Your chest tightens.

“I keep thinking…” His gaze drifts, unfocused, as though searching for something beyond the present. “What would Tiernan have done?”

The name settles between you. It's new to you— not one that was mentioned in the novel. Though you have to give yourself a pat on the back for touching those books in the palace library.

Tiernan. The previous Duke of Kronstadt— a foreigner who had caught the Duke's eyes at that time, enough to be bestowed the position after his death. Ashveil is nowhere related to that man— all they share is a past and a friendship that shares this title of a 'Duke'.

“He never hesitated,” Ashveil murmurs. “Never doubted. Everything I am now—this title, this responsibility—it was his first.”

His hand tightens slightly at his side.

“And I can’t help but wonder if I’m disappointing him.” The vulnerability in his voice is quiet but it is unmistakable.

You close the distance between you fully this time. “You’re not him,” you say gently, your voice steady despite the weight of the moment. “And you were never meant to be.”

His gaze lifts, meeting yours. He doesn't miss the firmness in your voice, the determination he lacks lies within you.

“You’re carrying something he never had to,” you continue. “The aftermath of a war, the weight of an entire dukedom—and something inside you that he never had to fight.”

Your expression softens. “And you’re still standing.”

The silence that follows is different now. A fragile silence. Before you is not just the Duke of Kronstadt, but your husband. The comfort he brings almost scares you, his very being rapidly carving the unspoken words out of you like a gushing wound.

“I need to tell you something,” you start quietly.

That catches his attention, his ears perk up like a wolf hearing its favorite word.

“I’m not… from here,” you admit, your fingers curling slightly at your sides. “This world—it isn’t mine. Not originally.” The words feel surreal even now. “I knew things I shouldn’t have. About you. About everyone. Because… I read it. This life—this story—it was something written.”

Your gaze holds his, the eye-contact is the only thing keeping you courageous thus far. “I’ve been following it since the beginning.”

You feel as if you've reached a wall, beyond it is a future you can no longer forsee. And you can only look at the sky, count the stars that speaks of the unchanging past.

“But this… none of this was supposed to happen.” Your voice trembles, you almost fail to get them out. But it is out— the truth laid bare before him.

“…I know.” Is all you hear that deep voice mumble out. The lack of surprise doesn't miss you, he barely gives a reaction.

“You… what?”

A faint, tired smile crosses his lips.

“You always knew too much,” he states bluntly. “It was only a matter of time before I realized it wasn’t coincidence.”

You glance toward him as if he's spouted out a forbidden spell isolated from the world. (WHA ref...) Have you truly been so careless? The question bugs you more than it should.

“Right now,” Ashveil continues, his voice softer, steadier, “you’re the only one who’s helped me make sense of any of this.”

Something in your chest tightens. You exhale slowly to steady yourself. To let yourself falter here is to reach another wall.

“We can stop this.” You blurt out without giving him a chance to reconsider his earlier words. His attention sharpens instantly.

“The poison isn’t spreading randomly,” you explain, stepping toward the desk as your thoughts begin to align with clarity. “It’s being administered selectively. That means the culprit needs access—close, controlled access.”

You gesture toward the reports. “We isolate your former unit. No shared supplies, no unsupervised contact. We monitor everything.”

The pause almost concerns him, yet you push on. “And we draw them out.”

The Wolf Duke's gaze does not avert your face. He evaluates your strategy, his mind desperately searching for hope. “…How?”

“They want you,” you say simply. “So we give them what they’re after.”

Understanding dawns slowly to him. “…Me.”

“Yes.” You respond firmly, certain of your idea.

A shaky breath escapes his lips and his eyes wonders to somewhere else, perhaps nowhere just to avoid you. “…That’s risky.”

“Yes,” you agree. The plan in itself isn't the best option, but it is the only one you have so far.

“…It might work.” You attempt to convince him once more.

Truthfully, there is only a little room for rejection in this situation. Ashveil has faced this situation only a handful of times, the hunt for him has never left his side. In the past, he'd avoid it all— letting Narrator take over the course. And now, there's you.

The distance that once lingered is gone now, replaced by something steadier. Stronger. Built not on obligation or title, but on something far more fragile—and far more real.

Trust.

Ashveil looks at you differently now, not as someone to shield but as someone who stands beside him.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

The plan does not unfold in a single decisive moment, nor does it arrive with the kind of clarity that stories often promise. Instead, it settles slowly into the bones of the palace, threading itself through routines so familiar that no one beyond your circle would think to question them. At a glance, everything remains unchanged—the same quiet halls, the same measured footsteps of servants, the same distant rhythm of daily life continuing as it always has. Yet beneath that carefully preserved surface, something far more deliberate takes shape, something watchful and unrelenting.

Every movement is noted now, every presence accounted for. Conversations are no longer just conversations; they are observed, weighed, remembered. Even silence has meaning. The palace, once merely cold and distant, begins to feel like a living thing holding its breath, waiting for something unseen to reveal itself.

And at the center of it all stands Ashveil.

He plays his part with a precision that would be almost unsettling if you did not understand the cost of it. To anyone watching, he is unchanged—composed, reserved, untouchable in the way a Duke must be.

He attends meetings; a new yet understandable sight, reviews reports, allows himself to be seen in places he had quietly withdrawn from in the days prior. He becomes visible again, deliberately so, placing himself back into the flow of the palace’s daily life as though nothing has shifted at all. It is a performance, but not a false one. Every step he takes is grounded in intent, every glance calculated just enough to appear natural while revealing nothing of what lies beneath.

Yet you see what others cannot.

You see the tension that never quite leaves his shoulders, the way his stillness is not rest but restraint. You notice how his gaze lingers a fraction too long on unfamiliar faces, how his awareness stretches outward, constantly searching, constantly measuring.

There is something heavier within him now, something that stirs more frequently beneath the surface, agitated by the pressure closing in from all sides. And still, despite it all, he follows through with the plan without hesitation.

Because he trusts it.

Because he trusts you.

It is that trust, quiet and unspoken, that steadies you even as everything else threatens to unravel.

The first sign appears so subtly that it might have gone unnoticed on any other day. A maidservant you do not recognize lingers near the inner corridors longer than her duties require, her movements just slightly out of sync with the natural rhythm of the palace. There is nothing overtly wrong about her, nothing that would immediately draw suspicion, and yet something about her presence feels misplaced, like a note just barely off-key in an otherwise perfect composition.

Then another appears.

Assigned to a wing she should not have access to, her explanation quick but lacking the ease of truth. A third follows not long after, her behavior unremarkable in isolation, yet increasingly difficult to ignore when placed alongside the others.

Individually, they are nothing.

Together, they form a pattern too precise to dismiss.

You do not act on it immediately, and neither does Ashveil. Instead, you wait, allowing the pattern to develop, to solidify into something undeniable. The tension builds quietly, coiling tighter with each passing hour as more pieces fall into place. It is not impatience that guides you, but certainty. Acting too soon would risk losing everything. Acting at the right moment ensures that nothing slips through.

When that moment comes, it does not announce itself— as though a fleeting bird set free.

The guards move with a quiet efficiency that speaks of careful preparation, sealing exits before the targets even realize they have been identified. There is no chaos, no raised voices echoing through the halls—only swift, controlled motion that leaves no room for escape. You watch from a distance, your expression composed even as your pulse quickens beneath the surface, as the truth unfolds exactly as you had anticipated.

They are not servants.

Not truly.

The uniforms are convincing, their behavior practiced, but the illusion fractures under pressure. Their answers falter, their composure slips, and the carefully constructed façade begins to crumble. It does not take long before hesitation gives way to contradiction, and contradiction gives way to something far more revealing.

A title emerges from the cracks.

“The One-Eyed Owl.”

It is spoken with reluctance, the words carrying a weight that lingers long after they have been said. Fear follows it, quiet but unmistakable, settling into the space like something alive.

You feel Ashveil’s attention shift beside you, subtle but immediate. The title is unfamiliar, yet the presence behind it is not. There is something deliberate in the way it is spoken, something that suggests distance rather than absence, as though the one it belongs to has never needed to stand at the forefront to exert control.

They are not the source. That much becomes clear almost immediately.

What little they know is fragmented, limited to orders given and tasks assigned. They were never meant to succeed, only to observe, to gather what they could, to wait for an opportunity that never came. Their purpose was never to act decisively, but to exist as expendable pieces, placed where they were needed and discarded just as easily.

Which means the true threat remains untouched. Unseen and watching from somewhere beyond your reach.

Later, within the quiet confines of Ashveil’s office, the weight of that realization settles between you once more. The storm outside has yet to ease, the steady rhythm of rain against the windows a constant reminder of everything that still lies unresolved.

“It’s a start,” you say at last, your voice softer now, shaped more by thought than urgency.

Ashveil exhales slowly, his gaze distant as he considers the implications. “It is,” he agrees, though there is a quiet heaviness beneath the words. “But it’s not enough.”

“No,” you admit, your fingers brushing lightly against the edge of the desk as you steady yourself. “But it gives us direction.”

The title lingers between you.

The One-Eyed Owl.

It does not feel like a person so much as it does a presence, something that exists just beyond sight, pulling threads from the shadows without ever revealing the hand behind them. An enemy that does not need to stand in the open to be dangerous.

And yet, the Wolf Palace finds life within itself once again.

The changes that follow are immediate and uncompromising. The soldiers are reorganized, their routines stripped down and rebuilt with precision, every interaction monitored, every resource accounted for. Food supplies are handled with near surgical care, each ingredient traced, each preparation observed under watchful eyes. Nothing is left to assumption, nothing allowed to pass without scrutiny.

It is exhausting work; relentless to the point a blink can have it all washed away. But it yields results.

The deaths stop completely, as though the invisible hand that had been tightening around them has suddenly withdrawn.

And in that absence, there is room, however small, for something else to take its place.

You find yourself visiting them more often than expected, not out of obligation, but something quieter, something that draws you there without needing a reason.

Coria accompanies you most days, her presence as gentle as the music she carries, her melodies weaving softly through the open spaces, lightening the air in a way that feels almost foreign after everything that has passed.

The soldiers are different here, away from the rigid structure of the palace and the unseen threat that had once loomed over them. They are still marked by what they have endured, still carrying the weight of battles fought and losses suffered, but there is something steadier in them now. Something that resembles peace, even if only in fragments.

Cole is there as well, as he always seems to be.

The poet who once delivered news of death now offers something else entirely, his voice threading through the quiet with words that do not dwell solely on grief, but on memory, on endurance, on the fragile persistence of life beyond war. His verses are softer now, less burdened by finality, and more open to what still remains.

Sometimes Coria plays, her music flowing gently between the pauses in conversation.

Sometimes Cole recites, his words settling into the spaces left behind.

And sometimes, the soldiers themselves speak, their voices rising with stories that feel less like recounting and more like reclaiming. Laughter slips through where silence once lingered too heavily, small and fleeting, but real all the same.

You sit among them more often than not, no longer as a duchess observing from a distance, but as someone present within the moment itself, listening rather than leading, sharing rather than directing.

There is one afternoon where the rain begins to ease.

It does not stop entirely, but it softens, the steady downpour fading into something quieter, something less suffocating. The sky lightens just enough to allow a pale, distant glow to filter through the clouds, a reminder that even the longest storms are not without end.

Coria’s melody drifts through the air, gentle and unhurried, while Cole’s voice follows, weaving something quieter than before, something that speaks not of endings, but of what lingers afterward.

You look around, your eyes shifting toward the soldiers. At the subtle ease in their movements, the faint smiles that pass between them, the way their shoulders seem just a little less burdened.

And for the first time in what feels like far too long— You allow yourself to breathe. The threat within the palace has been removed. The poison has been contained and the plan has succeeded. But even as the tension loosens its grip, the name remains.

The One-Eyed Owl— is not gone. Their keen eye is awaiting another moment to strike.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

The days that follow do not return to what they once were. They become something softer. Not untouched by what had happened, not free from the weight of it all—but steadier, as though the storm that had once threatened to swallow everything has finally loosened its grip just enough for life to settle back into place. The palace no longer feels like it is holding its breath. The tension that once lingered in every corridor has eased, replaced by something quieter, something almost… warm.

And within that fragile calm, the people around you begin to change in ways you hadn’t quite expected.

Rappa is the first to have shown her fondness— unveiled from suspicion. She drags you—there is no gentler word for it—out into the training grounds with a determination that leaves little room for refusal. What begins as a simple suggestion quickly turns into something far more consistent, her enthusiasm unwavering as she insists on teaching you archery alongside Robin Hood, who watches the entire ordeal with an amused patience that never quite fades.

Your stance is corrected more times than you can count, your grip adjusted, your posture nudged into place with firm insistence. Rappa talks the entire time, her voice bright, animated, filled with a pride that borders on theatrical every time you so much as improve by a fraction. She celebrates your smallest successes as though they are grand victories, her laughter ringing clear across the field whenever your arrow lands even remotely close to where it should.

Robin Hood, in contrast, offers fewer words, but when he does speak, they carry weight. His guidance is precise, his corrections subtle yet effective, his presence grounding in a way that balances Rappa’s boundless energy. Between the two of them, you find yourself improving without quite realizing it, your movements growing more confident, your aim steadier with each passing day.

Boothill, of course, refuses to be left out. He rarely joins the lessons directly, preferring instead to linger nearby, leaning lazily against whatever surface he can find as he watches with a half-amused, half-critical eye. But his silence never lasts long. It never does.

He talks endlessly.

Stories spill from him as easily as breath, tales of dusty roads and endless skies, of duels fought and won, of mistakes made and lessons learned the hard way. His voice carries a rhythm of its own, something rough yet familiar, as though every word has been shaped by the life he once lived. Sometimes his stories are exaggerated, sometimes they contradict themselves, but there is always something genuine beneath them—something that speaks of a past he does not often show so openly.

And somehow, without realizing it, you begin to listen.

Not as an observer. But as someone who belongs there, within that moment, within that shared space of laughter and stories and quiet understanding.

Even Argenti finds his way to you more often now.

His visits are never intrusive, always timed in a way that feels almost intentional, as though he understands the balance between presence and distance better than most. He speaks with you about many things—about duty, about honor, about beauty in places where it is often overlooked. His words are thoughtful, measured, carrying a sincerity that never feels forced.

There is a calmness in those conversations, something that allows you to breathe a little easier, to step away from the weight of everything else, if only for a moment.

And then there is Loretta.

Quiet, observant yet mischievous Loretta, who rarely asks for anything.

Until one day, she does.

It is a small request, almost hesitant in its delivery, her usual composure faltering just slightly as she mentions the idea of accompanying you into town. Shopping, she calls it, though the word feels almost foreign within the context of everything you have been dealing with.

And yet, there is something in her expression, something hopeful, something almost… excited.

You find yourself agreeing without hesitation. Because for the first time in a long while, it feels like something normal.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

It is on a night like any other that the letter arrives.

There is nothing particularly unusual about it at first glance. The paper is familiar, the seal unmistakable, bearing the quiet authority of the Duke himself. And yet, the moment you take it into your hands, something about it feels… different.

You break the seal carefully, your curiosity already beginning to stir.

The message inside is brief.

The words written are not of formality but a personal invitation. To the palace gardens, he invites you.

You stare at the words for longer than necessary, your brows drawing together in faint confusion. There is nothing preventing him from asking you directly, nothing that would require something as deliberate as a letter. You had seen him earlier that day, spoken to him, stood close enough to feel the quiet presence he always carried with him.

And yet, he chose this. You are not sure why but you accept it anyway— who would be mad enough to refuse an invitation from the Wolf of the North himself?

The gardens are quieter at night. The rain has long since passed, leaving the air cool and clean, the earth beneath your feet still faintly damp from what had come before. The sky above is clearer now, scattered with stars that feel distant yet present all the same, their light soft against the darkness that surrounds you.

You find him there, awaiting your arrival.

He stands near the center of the garden, his figure framed by the faint glow of lantern light, his presence as steady as it has always been. There is something different about him tonight, though you cannot quite place it at first. Something softer, perhaps. Something less guarded.

“You sent me a letter,” you say as you approach, the hint of amusement in your voice doing little to mask your curiosity. “You do realize you could have simply spoken to me.”

A faint smile touches his lips. “I do.” The nervousness that envelopes him is too sudden— how can he not, you're looking at him with those mesmerising eyes as if he's spoken the words of a fool. “I— is this not a thing in those romance novels you read?”

That catches you off, more than it should have. You can't tell what's further ridiculous, that he's read those novels to do this or the fact that he's picked up on you reading them.

“You've read romance novels?” you accuse softly, raising your brows. To picture the Wolf Duke sitting at his desk with a book of endless sap is a thought that would've never arrived to you in a thousand years.

A tint of pink scatters across Ashveil's cheeks and the tips of his ears. “I— ugh... You—... How else was I supposed to figure out how to court a lady?”

He immediately averts his gaze afterwards, hoping to gain some composure from this flustered mess that he is. You can only quietly laugh— it feels like a breath of fresh air, to finally laugh and banter with the man you've been sharing a ring with.

For a moment, neither of you speaks.

The silence that settles between you is not uncomfortable, nor is it heavy. It feels… natural. Easy in a way that had once seemed impossible between the two of you.

“You’ve changed things,” he says at last, his voice quiet beneath the open sky.

You tilt your head slightly. “Have I?”

“The soldiers are alive,” he continues. “The palace is standing. And for the first time in a long while…” His gaze shifts slightly, softer now. “It feels like something more than just survival.”

The words settle gently.

You exhale, your expression easing. “I didn’t do it alone.”

“No,” he agrees. “You didn’t.”

Another pause follows, quieter this time, filled with something unspoken yet understood.

“Do you ever think about it?” you ask softly. “Before all of this, before the war. Before everything became… this.”

His gaze drifts, just for a moment. “…Sometimes.” He does not elaborate, it pains him to do so. Thus, you don't press further, some things are better left unsaid.

And for a while, you talk about small things. About memories that feel distant yet not entirely out of reach. About moments that shaped you both into who you are now. The conversation flows more easily than it ever has before, unguarded in a way that feels unfamiliar, yet right.

In the breath of the moment, you hear Ashveil make a request you never expected. “Would you like to dance with me, [Name]?” The words are spoken with a gentleness you have not heard since stepping into this world of venomous nobles.

You nod without hesitation, placing your hand in his offered one. He draws you a breath closer, and you allow it, your movements falling naturally into his. The melody lingers like a distant memory—one of Coria’s songs—resting quietly in both your minds, as though you share a single thought between you.

Your steps follow his in a soft, unbroken rhythm, each turn guiding you back into his arms. Your eyes drift shut, unaware of the way his gaze lingers on you. In the stillness of that moment, without your voice to distract him, he takes you in fully—your form, your presence, your very being—and to him, even the brightest stars pale in comparison.

When your eyes flutter open, all you see is him.

He leads you with a care that feels almost reverent, the dance unfolding into something endless, something woven with unspoken words. Moonlight spills over his dark locks, catching on the lighter strands and making them gleam faintly in the night.

You do not step back when his hand comes to rest against your cheek, his touch warm, grounding. His lips meet yours—slow, uncertain, a little clumsy. The rhythm falters for a moment, until your hand lifts to cradle the back of his neck, steadying him, guiding him. You can feel his hesitation, his nerves, and to his quiet relief, you take the lead.

With each gentle press of his lips against yours, a calm settles deep within you. The lingering fog in your mind begins to clear, replaced by him—by this moment, by the place you have carved out for yourself in this once unfamiliar world.

You are no longer a stranger in a foreign land, no longer an accidental reincarnation drifting without purpose. You have found something here—earned it, even. Love, respect, a place to belong.

And it is everything you have ever wished for.

[zeka-maki]

ʚɞ My moon, my moon, my man ʚɞ

⚘ Pairings: Ashveil x Reader

⚘ Summery: A strange phenomenon has occurred, one that you thought only happened in novels— you have been transported to a novel yourself! The memories of it vague to you but you only remember your favorite character, Ashveil. The narrative has doomed him, now it is your duty to save him.

⚘ Tags: SFW, fluff/light angst, fem!Reader, isekai'd!Reader, Duke!Ashveil, slow burn, arranged marriage/marriage of convenience, mentions of death, war, wounds and stuff of this kind, Boothill and Rappa are his children, Reader and Narrator are stressed tf out, very light suggestive themes, writer cannot write

⚘ Word count: 16k

⚘ Side/mentioned characters: Rappa, Boothill, Coria, Cole, Robin Hood, Loretta, Robin, Tiernan, Acheron, Argenti, Evanescia, Narrator, Dan Feng

⚘ A/N: this took like a bazillion years to write and im still not proud of it sigh, forgive me if this is ass ong I can actually write 💔

“Marry me, Grand Duke.”

The words leave you before hesitation can catch up—firm, unwavering, laced with a strange, almost reckless determination that surprises even yourself.

And then, silence.

It falls heavy across the room, thick enough to suffocate. The man before you—the infamous Wolf of the North—stares as though you’ve just uttered something incomprehensible. His eyes, sharp yet dulled by exhaustion, widen ever so slightly. It’s subtle, fleeting… but it’s there.

Beside him, Narrator stiffens. His brows knit together immediately, the disapproval clear in the way his gaze flickers between you and his master. Neither of them speak. Neither of them look pleased. Of course they wouldn’t be.

The Wolf of the North— Ashveil.

An isolated Duke, seldom seen, rarely heard—more rumor than man in the eyes of society. The nobles whisper of him like a ghost that never quite passed on. A living corpse, they say. A man who never attends gatherings, never mingles, never even steps beyond his dukedom unless absolutely necessary.

A presence so absent that he becomes forgettable. Less memorable than even a passing commoner. And yet, you had just proposed marriage to him.

To anyone else, it would sound like madness. Marrying the Duke of Kronstadt was no different than sentencing yourself to a slow, suffocating existence. A loveless union in a land stripped of warmth—hell disguised in nobility.

But those warnings barely register in your mind.

How could they?

You know this world.

You know him.

Because this is a story you’ve already read.

Fragments of it linger in your memory like fading ink, incomplete and unreliable. You don’t remember everything—far from it. The plot escapes you in places, details slipping through your grasp no matter how hard you try to recall them.

But there is one thing—one person—you never forgot.

Ashveil.

The very man sitting before you now. Your favorite character. A minor role in the grand scheme of the novel. A tool. A key to push the plot forward.

And yet, the one who stayed with you long after you turned the last page.

Ever since you settled into this unfamiliar world, adapting to its rules, its etiquette, its suffocating expectations—there has been one thought that refused to leave you.

His ending. That cruel, quiet ending.

They say his land is cursed with gloom, that his territory resembles the aftermath of a battlefield long abandoned. Lifeless. Hollow. Forgotten.

But that image is nothing more than a narrative shaped by shallow standards. Because in this world, liveliness is measured in extravagance. The louder a noble flaunts their wealth, the more “prosperous” they are deemed. And Ashveil he does none of that.

So, they call him dying. They say he has been gravely ill ever since the war—since the moment he narrowly escaped death. It is a convenient explanation and a believable lie. But you know better— there is no illness. There is only a beast.

A thing that lives within him, born from the very moment he stood at death’s door and refused to cross it. A power that was never meant to be his salvation, yet became both his armor and his cage. You remember it vaguely—the way the story described it as both a blessing and a curse. His soldiers had feared him. Feared him enough to nearly label him a monster. Until they realized that he was still conscious. Still human.

To carry something like that alone— to be reduced to whispers and isolation because of it…you can’t let that happen.

Not again.

Not when you have the chance to change it.

This isn’t pity. It's something softer yet firm at the same time. Something far more stubborn.

If everyone else in this story gets their happy ending, why can’t he?

“…An elaboration would be appreciated.” The voice pulls you back.

Ashveil speaks at last, breaking the tension that had stretched unbearably thin between you. His tone is composed, quiet—but there’s a weight to it now, something more deliberate. His gaze settles on you fully, no longer caught off guard but searching. What lingers is a careful and measured search.

Hope hits you so suddenly it almost hurts. He didn’t refuse nor did he dismiss you.

You almost laugh. You almost cry. Instead, you clear your throat, forcing your expression back into something dignified—something befitting the noble you’ve learned to become.

“Gladly, Your Grace.” The words come easier now, steadier, as you grasp onto the logic you prepared—no matter how hastily it was formed.

“For the past few months, I’ve been reviewing the economics of Kronstadt,” you begin, your voice calm, controlled. “While it remains stable on the surface, it has been steadily accumulating risk. Trade routes have weakened, resource distribution has grown uneven… and your people—”

You pause, lifting your gaze to meet his directly.

“—are beginning to fall into poverty.”

There. It’s out in the open now.

“I assume,” you continue, softer but no less firm, “that Your Grace has been unable to address these matters due to your… prolonged recovery.” A careful choice of words, a lie you knowingly play along with.

“I propose a marriage,” you conclude, your fingers curling slightly against your dress, “with the intent of assisting both you and your territory. With my position and resources, I can help stabilize what has begun to falter.”

When you finish, the silence that follows feels different. Though less suffocating, it felt more… weighted.

A quiet breath escapes you, relief brushing past your chest as you resist the urge to slump in your seat. Internally, you cling to the argument you’ve just constructed, pieced together in the moment yet grounded enough to stand.

Not perfect but not bad either. Across from you, Ashveil falls silent once more. He is lost in thought. Because everything you said—

is true.

He has seen it. The slow decline. The strain placed upon his land, his people. The burden he has gradually shifted onto Narrator as his own strength wanes—not just physically, but mentally.

It is exhausting.

Everything is.

His gaze shifts to the side, landing briefly on his assistant. Narrator meets his eyes and gives a small nod. The gesture was a mix of approval, practicality, relief even.

This marriage would ease the weight pressing down on them both. Your status alone would bring stability, your involvement a solution he can no longer provide on his own.

It makes sense.

So why does he hesitate?

Because beneath all of that logic lies something far less rational. Something far more dangerous.

You.

His hand tightens almost imperceptibly against the armrest, tension coiling beneath his otherwise composed exterior. Political marriages are nothing new. No one would question his choice—not with his reputation, not with his isolation.

No one would care.

But you would be the one standing beside him.

Would you still look at him like this if you saw what he truly was? If the thing inside him stirred—

if it lashed out— What if he hurts you?

A hand rests on his shoulder, a firm yet grounding touch. Ashveil blinks, the spiral of his thoughts abruptly cut short. Narrator’s presence anchors him back to reality, reminding him—quietly, insistently—that you are still here.

Still waiting.

Still watching him with that same unwavering gaze. You haven’t looked away. Not once. You've been eagerly waiting for his answer.

Slowly, he straightens. The hesitation doesn’t disappear—but it settles, pressed down beneath something heavier. Something final.

A decision.

“I accept the proposal.” The words fall cleanly between you, sharp and absolute—like a blade severing what once was.

There is neither hesitation or retreat. And though neither of you say it, the moment lingers.

Because this is where everything begins.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

The wedding proceeded as smoothly as one could expect. Truthfully, there was no reason for it not to. By the Grand Duke’s order, your guest list had been limited to no more than two—a restriction you accepted without protest, for there were only two people you would have chosen regardless: your parents.

For him, the number barely rose to three. Narrator’s presence was non-negotiable, a constant shadow at his side, while the remaining two guests were far more… intriguing.

One stood draped in muted tones of grey and black, their presence quiet yet undeniably sharp, like a blade hidden beneath cloth. The other was their complete opposite—pink, neon, loud even in stillness.

You recognize them, not fully, not clearly, but enough for fragments of memory to stir. Pieces of a story you can no longer fully recall. And yet, instinct tells you one thing with certainty: if you wish to truly reach Ashveil, you will have to earn their acknowledgment first.

The wedding night, however, fails to live up to its name. It is Ashveil himself who requests separate chambers—a decision that, under any other circumstances, would birth endless rumors and quiet ridicule among noble society.

But you say nothing, because you understand. This is not reluctance, nor is it rejection. It is restraint—his body, not his will. The arrangement does little to bother you. If anything, it grants you a strange sort of ease, a space to think, to plan, to settle into the life you have willingly stepped into. Unfortunately, the same cannot be said for the servants.

The maids whisper constantly. Their voices weave through the halls like threads of silk—thin, persistent, impossible to fully ignore. Speculation, curiosity, amusement… all of it spills freely behind careful hands and lowered gazes. You find it entertaining, more than you probably should. At times, you even pause to listen. Because truly, what better way to understand the nature of royalty than to experience both its reverence and its ridicule firsthand? A dream and a nightmare, intertwined so seamlessly that one cannot exist without the other.

The first few days of your marriage pass within the confines of the Wolf Palace, and it is exactly as you expected. For a Duke who rarely leaves his chambers, whose presence lingers more as an idea than a reality, your expectations had never been particularly high.

The nights you once spent recalling what little you knew of him had not painted a hopeful picture. If anything, they had prepared you for this quiet distance. Still, reality settles heavier than imagination, and amidst the growing weight of responsibilities and the suffocating stillness of unfamiliar halls, you find yourself with an unexpected source of company.

The head maid— Loretta.

Her first appearance is nothing short of proper. Polite, attentive, efficient—and yet, you see it. That flicker of mischief beneath the surface. “I’ll be at your service, Grand Dutchess,” she says with a graceful bow, her posture impeccable.

It catches you off guard for only a moment, a brief reminder that despite your confidence, this life is still new. You clear your throat, slipping back into composure with practiced ease.

“And your name may be?” you ask, as though the answer is not already known to you.

Loretta lights up instantly—too instantly. “It’s Loretta, Your Grace—!” Her hands come together in an almost excited clap, the formality of her position momentarily forgotten. And just as quickly, realization dawns on her. Embarrassment floods her expression. “Ah… my apologies. That was improper of me.”

A soft chuckle escapes you before you can stop it, and she freezes at the sound. You shake your head, easing your expression as you gently stifle your laughter. “Do not be afraid,” you reassure her, your tone warm despite the setting. “I truly don’t mind.”

Relief washes over her so visibly it’s almost amusing. And truly—it is. Because this is the same woman who, under the cover of night, becomes something else entirely.

A silent overseer. A quiet hunter within palace walls. You’ve heard the whispers, the stories—of how she identifies disloyalty with frightening precision, how thieves disappear, how unfaithful servants are plucked from their positions as if they had never existed at all. And yet, before you, she stands like this—gentle, careful, almost endearing.

You nearly laugh again. What an interesting place you’ve married into—a palace of wolves, and a head maid who purrs like a cat.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

A sigh escapes your lips as your gaze lingers over the letters spread neatly across your desk. The handwriting is clean, precise—line after line of carefully constructed words that carry more weight than they appear to. You aren’t even sure how the news reached them. As a low-level noble, you had never been important enough to warrant such attention. And yet now… now that you bear the title of Duchess, it seems the world has suddenly remembered you exist.

Even so, the attention does little to ease your mind. If anything, it adds to the pressure.

The workload is heavier than you anticipated, though not unexpected. You had prepared yourself for this—mentally, strategically—and so you do not complain. The real issue lies elsewhere.

You rarely see your husband.

The thought lingers longer than you’d like.

It leads you to quieter suspicions—whether the maidservants have been following your instructions properly, whether he’s been eating at least three meals a day as you had ordered, whether anyone is truly keeping track of him at all.

Your eyes fall back onto the papers. The words remain unchanged. Unfeeling.

The invitation resting among them feels especially cold. Its polite phrasing does nothing to mask what lies beneath—whispers, judgment, quiet scrutiny waiting for you the moment you step into noble society’s gaze. It promises nothing but observation, nothing but the slow dissection of your choices.

Progress is slow. Painfully so. And time will not wait for you.

If things continue like this, then the path ahead will remain unchanged. The same path that led him—led all of them—toward endings you refuse to accept.

No. This won’t do.

You rise before you can second-guess yourself. Your chair shifts softly against the floor as determination settles into your movements. Without hesitation, you make your way toward Ashveil’s study, your pace steady, purposeful.

Behind you, Loretta follows faithfully. Ever since she had been assigned to your service, she has trailed after you like a loyal wolf cub—sharp-eyed, attentive, and far more observant than she lets on.

Your thoughts swirl endlessly as you walk. Fragments of the novel, your own actions, the possibility of suspicion, the fragile connections between Kronstadt and the rest of noble society—they all blur together into a restless storm.

And then, you collide with something. Someone.

“Muddlefudger!” The gruff exclamation snaps you from your thoughts. You look up, meeting a familiar sight—grey and black streaks of hair, sharp eyes filled with irritation.

Ah. Boothill. — the Wolf Duke’s so-called eldest son.

Born among rogue cowboys, dragged into a war that never should have touched him. A child forced into a battlefield by nobles who deemed the aftermath too filthy for their own soldiers. You remember this part clearly—the fragments of his past etched deeper into your memory than most.

A near-broken body. A boy left to die. And Ashveil— who had found him.

Rumor had it that the Duke postponed an entire ambush for a single day, just to ensure the medics were fully devoted to saving the child. A decision that made no sense strategically, yet defined everything about him.

No formal adoption ever followed, no official papers and yet, the entire kingdom knows. Boothill is his son in every way that matters. And just like his father, his fate in the novel had not been kind.

“Hey, bow to the Duchess!” Loretta’s sharp voice cuts through the moment, pulling you from your thoughts. Before she can continue, you lift your hand, silencing her with a simple gesture.

Boothill huffs, clearly unimpressed. But then, he looks at you. Not a passing glance, not a dismissive stare, he actually looks.

For a moment, the two of you simply stand there, studying one another in silence. His brows lift slightly, surprise flickering across his expression as though reality has failed to meet his expectations.

“That’s the Duchess?” The bluntness earns him no favor, but it does not surprise you.

This defiance—this sharp-edged attitude—is exactly as you remember. The same boy who once stood against nobles during a rogue mission, the same one who refused to bend even when surrounded by authority.

And yet, you smile. It is soft, welcoming, unexpected. If it weren’t for the novel, you might have answered differently.

“That is the Dutchess, Boothill,” you reply lightly, your tone carrying a quiet ease that contrasts his roughness. Then, tilting your head ever so slightly, you add, “Pray tell, have you been skipping training as well?”

The glare he sends your way could freeze lesser men. You remain unmoved.

“What’s it to ya’?” he shoots back, his voice sharp with challenge. “Ya haven’t been here for even a month.”

The words are blunt. They would sting, to most but not you. This is expected— necessary, even. If you want him to warm up to you, then this phase must be endured. And perhaps, nudged along.

“What’s it to me?” you echo, a faint gleam of mischief flickering in your eyes. “Let’s see… even within my short stay, I’ve managed to build connections with the Oak Family.” You tilt your head, your voice dipping into something almost playful. “Which means… no more Miss Robin’s assistance for you.”

The reaction is immediate. Subtle but unmistakable. For just a second, you catch it—a faint flush creeping onto his cheeks, embarrassment slipping through the cracks of his defiance. You almost laugh, but manage to hold it in.

Boothill clicks his tongue, turning his gaze away. “Ya don’t gotta threaten me like that.”

And just like that— he’s gone. Running through the halls as if the conversation had never happened.

You watch him leave, knowing you’ve struck something—not the deepest nerve, but enough. The Oak Family… or rather, Robin, has always been a constant in his life. You remember that much. Her presence during the aftermath of the war, the quiet bond formed through shared vulnerability.

And more importantly— her role in what was to come. Or at least— what you think you remember.

Barely a minute passes before the silence is broken again. “Young master, please return to the Knights!” The shout echoes through the halls as a group of knights rush past, their leader standing out immediately.

Argenti.

Rose-haired, composed, and painfully earnest.

It is not a surprising sight. Boothill’s aversion to discipline—especially anything resembling noble restraint—has already made itself clear. At this point, you suspect this is a daily occurrence.

Argenti stops before you, posture straight despite the clear frustration lingering in his expression.

“I apologize for the disturbance, Your Grace,” he says, his tone sincere. “I did not wish to interrupt your conversation, and thus… I was unable to catch him.”

This time, you laugh. Soft, but unmistakable.

The sound catches him off guard entirely. His brows lift, surprise flickering across his face as though he cannot quite process the reaction.

You shake your head gently, calming your laughter.

“A dutiful knight you are, Argenti,” you say warmly. “Truly admirable.” The effect is immediate. Surprise gives way to something softer—something brighter.

“How…?” the question lingers unspoken, but you can see it in his expression. How do you know his name? How are you so familiar?

A genuine smile blooms across his face regardless. “I appreciate the compliment, my lady.”

Earnest, contained, rare, but peace, as always, is fleeting.

The knights urge him onward, reminding him of his unfinished task. His expression shifts once more, duty reclaiming its place. “I shall take my leave.”

You nod, watching as he departs with the others in pursuit. And then, Loretta's laughter follows. It's a sudden one, amused even.

“Both of them will hear quite the scolding from the Duke today,” she remarks, her eyes gleaming with mischief.

You hum softly, your gaze drifting down the now-quiet hallway.

Yes, you’re certain of it.

Something, at the very least will dawn upon you all.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

The door creaks open to the overly cold study, the sound stretching thinly through the still air. A chill greets you immediately, seeping into your skin and settling deep in your bones. If one didn’t know better, they might have mistaken this place for a morgue rather than a workspace. How such a temperature is maintained without any modern technology remains a mystery, but right now, it’s the least of your concerns.

Carefully, you ease the door shut behind you, ensuring it makes as little noise as possible. The soft click echoes faintly, swallowed by the quiet. Your steps are slow and deliberate as you move further into the room, your gaze scanning the dim interior before settling on the figure slumped in the chair.

Ashveil sits there in silence, one hand supporting his head, his posture caught somewhere between rest and deep thought. He’s too still—so still that you hesitate, unsure whether he’s truly asleep or merely lost in his own mind. You circle him quietly, watching for any sign of movement, but he doesn’t react. Not a twitch, not a breath out of place.

Encouraged by his stillness, you take another cautious step closer.

Up close, he’s… prettier than you remembered.

The soft fall of his lashes against pale skin, the strands of black hair streaked with white slipping over his face—it all feels unfairly beautiful. Even the faint flush along his cheeks seems almost delicate. It’s surreal, really. Once upon a time, he had been nothing more than a character in a story, a passing fixation, someone you admired from afar. Now, he exists right in front of you, close enough to touch.

And that thought alone is enough to make your hand lift before you can stop yourself.

It hovers just above his bangs, your fingers trembling slightly with hesitation. Just one touch, you tell yourself. Something grounding. Something to remind you that this is real. Entirely for therapeutic purposes, of course—not because he looks devastatingly handsome while asleep.

Gently, your fingers brush against his hair.

It’s soft.

Softer than you expected.

For a man rumored to house a beast within him, there is something strangely gentle in the way he feels beneath your touch. His temperature is cool—noticeably so—but not unpleasant. Your fingers linger, trailing lightly along his features, tracing the faint lines of his face as though committing them to memory. The thought settles quietly in your mind, heavy with disbelief.

You are married to this man.

You pause at his cheek, your touch hovering as you debate whether to go any further—

—and then a hand catches your wrist.

You freeze.

His grip is firm yet controlled, holding you in place without hurting. When you look up, his eyes are already on you—sharp, aware, and far too awake. The intensity of his gaze sends a jolt through you, like a wolf observing even the slightest movement of its prey.

Instinctively, you try to step back, but his hold stops you.

“My apologies, Grand Duke! I didn’t mean to—” The words spill out in a rush, tumbling over each other in your panic. Heat floods your face as embarrassment and fear intertwine, your thoughts spiraling. Is this it? Have you already ruined everything?

But then—

he laughs.

The sound is soft, unrestrained, and so unexpected that it startles you more than his grip ever could. There’s a lightness to it, a rare trace of amusement that feels almost out of place on him. Slowly, he releases your wrist, allowing you the space you had tried to claim moments before.

“My own wife touching me in my sleep,” he muses, his voice tinged with quiet teasing. “Had you not considered the consequences of such actions?”

Your embarrassment deepens instantly, your composure crumbling further. You’re the Duchess—this is not how you’re meant to behave. You scold yourself internally, trying to gather what little dignity you have left. Yet Ashveil seems to pick up on your inner turmoil with ease. He straightens in his seat before leaning slightly closer, closing the distance you had just created.

“Come now,” he continues, his tone softer, almost coaxing. “What’s with the silence? You’re making this awkward. We are married, are we not?”

You nod, still recovering, your voice quieter when you answer. “We are.”

But your attention drifts again, not to his words, but to him. The subtle tension lining his expression, the faint stress that lingers beneath his composure—it’s clear, at least to you, that he hasn’t been resting properly. The realization settles heavily in your chest.

He hasn’t been sleeping.

And just like that, a plan begins to form in your mind.

It’s not a safe one. Not a cautious one. But you’ve never been particularly good at standing by and doing nothing.

Before you can second-guess yourself, you reach out and take his hand.

The reaction is immediate.

Ashveil stills, his eyes widening just slightly as a faint flush creeps onto his cheeks. The shift is subtle, but unmistakable. You don’t give yourself time to dwell on it.

“I have a request, Your Grace,” you begin, your grip tightening just enough to steady your nerves. And before he can interrupt, you continue, “I want to share a bedroom with you tonight.”

A heavy, suffocating silence follows.

He stares at you as though you’ve just committed treason, while you internally marvel at your own boldness. Really, there’s no turning back now.

“I don’t think that would be a good idea, my lady,” he finally replies, his tone gentle—careful, even—as if trying to guide you away from something dangerous.

Your fingers tighten around his hand. You know what this implies. You understand the risks, the implications, the boundaries being crossed.

And yet, you refuse to let him face another night alone.

“It’s a great idea, Your Grace,” you insist, your voice steadier than you feel. “Do you not hear the whispers? People are already saying our relationship is fractured within days of our marriage.”

It’s a stretch—an outright exaggeration, really. You heard one person mention it once and decided to run with it. But desperate times call for desperate measures.

Ashveil watches you, unconvinced. Has he heard such rumors? No. And frankly, he doubts they exist at all. As for why you would make something like that up… well, his thoughts drift briefly in directions he pointedly refuses to acknowledge.

He exhales slowly, the sound carrying a quiet exhaustion.

“Sharing a bedroom will not bring any good,” he says, his voice softer now. “Especially with an ill man.”

You shake your head immediately, your determination unwavering. “Please, Your Grace.”

The shift in your tone is subtle, but enough.

And that is what breaks him.

After a moment of hesitation, he nods—reluctant, faintly flustered, and still entirely too aware of your hand holding his.

Relief and triumph bloom in your chest all at once. “Thank you!” you beam, your sincerity only serving to fluster him further.

As you step out of the study, leaving the biting cold behind, you faintly hear him call for Narrator, his voice quieter, almost resigned.

His poor advisor.

Tonight, he will undoubtedly be preparing for the worst.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

The words spread across the palace within hours. Arrangements begin as though something grand is to take place—servants moving in hushed urgency, attendants whispering behind gloved hands, preparations unfolding with an almost ceremonial weight. Yet neither of you speak of it. Neither of you acknowledge it. Because you both know this is nothing like what they believe it to be.

Following your usual routine, you retreat into your study once more. A part of you clings to this constancy—this quiet, unchanging rhythm. It is a rare comfort, one you never had in your previous life, where silence was always fleeting and thoughts were never given room to breathe. Here, at least, you can think.

But peace has never been something that lingers long at your side.

A firm knock breaks through the stillness, knuckles rapping sharply against the door. You do not need to guess who it is. With a quiet sigh, you grant permission, and the door opens almost instantly—as if there had been no space between the knock and his entrance at all.

From the moment he steps in, you can tell something is wrong. Narrator looks… unsettled. More than that—distressed.

“Your Grace,” he begins, his voice strained, “why was I not informed of this?”

For a brief moment, his composure cracks so visibly that it startles you. He looks as though he might grab you by the shoulders and shake sense into you if propriety did not chain him in place.

You tilt your head, taken aback by the sudden intensity. Still, beneath the surprise, you understand. “I did not think I needed to inform anyone,” you reply evenly, “that a married couple would share a bedroom.”

The words land heavier than intended.

You are aware of that. They sound entitled—sharp, almost—but there is little else you can say. This marriage has given you leverage, a foothold in a story that was never meant to belong to you. For that alone, you are grateful to the version of yourself that made this choice.

Narrator exhales, long and weary, pinching the bridge of his nose as though warding off a headache. “You know the Grand Duke is not in the best condition,” he says, voice quieter now but no less firm. “Why place more strain on him?”

Strain.

The word feels misplaced, yet not entirely wrong. If it comes from him, then it likely comes from Ashveil as well.

You watch Narrator carefully, and it is almost as though you can hear the thoughts he refuses to voice. He is afraid—afraid that this will push the Duke too far, that allowing someone so new, so unfamiliar, into such a vulnerable space will undo everything he has spent years trying to preserve.

“Mister N,” you call, and he looks up immediately.

“I know you care for him,” you continue, your voice steady but softer now, “but please… do not mistake me for a fool.”

That catches him off guard. He straightens slightly, pushing his glasses up in a reflexive gesture. “I didn’t mean to—”

You raise a hand, gently cutting him off. “I know you didn’t.” You take a step closer—not enough to threaten, but enough to make your words impossible to ignore.

“I will be gentle with him,” you say, quieter now, yet unwavering. “Trust me. I was not married into this house without knowing what awaits me.”

Silence settles between you.

Narrator’s gaze drops, his expression a tangled mess of hesitation and reluctant acceptance. He has stood beside Ashveil for decades—watched him fracture, watched him endure. He has shaped the Duke’s life into something survivable, something controlled. And now, you have stepped into that carefully constructed world.

He does not know whether to fear you… or to hope.

Slowly, he lifts his gaze again. “I understand,” he murmurs at last. “Please… take care of him. Do not push him.” His voice falters slightly. “He is more fragile than he appears. One wrong step… and he may crumble entirely.”

Those words linger, heavy on your shoulders, as you make your way to the bedroom. Each step feels deliberate, like walking toward a stage where the outcome has yet to be decided.

When the door opens, you find Ashveil already there.

He sits stiffly on the edge of the bed, posture awkward, as though he does not quite belong in his own space. His shirt is buttoned unevenly, hair slightly disheveled—strands falling in a way that almost resembles wolf ears. Whether he had only just woken or had been hurried into preparation, you cannot tell.

The thought warms you more than it should.

You step closer. Immediately, he tenses.

“No need to be so wary, Grand Duke,” you say gently. “Think of this as nothing more than a natural part of our marriage.”

He nods—too quickly, too stiffly. His prosthetic hand moves, patting the space beside him in a silent invitation. You accept, though you keep a careful distance as you sit.

For a moment, he says nothing. Then, haltingly, “You must be tired… we should sleep.”

The words come out clumsy, stripped of elegance. Years of isolation have worn away at him, leaving his voice unfamiliar with softness, with ease.

You listen, you understand. But you also see what he does not say. And you have never been one to retreat.

Slowly, you reach out, your hand coming to rest against his cheek. He stiffens immediately—but he does not pull away.

Your fingers trace along his skin, familiar in a way that transcends this life. A faint smile touches your lips. “I am tired,” you admit softly, “but it would be a waste to simply sleep through the time I asked for.”

His breath catches. His hand rises, wrapping around your wrist—not harsh, but uncertain, as though grounding himself.

“Why?” he asks, voice barely above a whisper. “Why marry me? Why take on the burden of Kronstadt?”

The question does not surprise you.

But answering it… is another matter entirely.

“Is it so strange,” you say after a moment, “to wish to care for a fallen land?”

The lie slips out too easily. Because the truth has always been him.

Something flickers in his eyes—something unreadable. Then, slowly, he smiles. It mirrors yours, but where yours conceals, his reveals. There is something soft in it. Something… relieved.

And then, he gasps. The shift is immediate. His grip tightens before releasing, his body faltering as his hand flies to his chest—then to his arm.

“You should go,” he says, voice sharp now, strained. “Leave.” His nails dig into his own skin. “Leave,” he repeats.

He expects you to run. Anyone would. But you do not move. Instead, when his strength falters and he collapses forward, you catch him. His weight drives you back onto the bed, breath knocked from your lungs as he trembles above you, fighting something unseen.

His hand finds yours again—this time not gentle. Metal edges press into your skin, biting, threatening to break.

You almost flinch. But you don’t. Your focus remains on him.

“Why won’t you leave?” he demands, though his voice wavers, fractured between control and something far more dangerous.

“Because I chose to stay,” you answer, without hesitation. There is no fear in your voice; a little room for doubt, certainty present in its glory.

For a moment, something in him stills. His teeth graze over your neck, you can feel it vividly, heavy breaths fanning your pulse. He's waiting to bite, to satisfy the hunger of the beast. Then he leans closer, his body pressing against yours, breath ghosting your ear.

“You will stay with me,” he murmurs, low and raw, “forever.”

And then— He goes limp.

Silence crashes down all at once, heavy and suffocating. You do not move. Do not breathe. For a moment, you are not even sure if your heart is still beating.

Then, slowly—carefully—you inhale.

You made it. You endured the flare-up. You changed the course of the story.

The realization hits you all at once, sharp and overwhelming. Something inside your chest tightens, threatening to spill over. Years of preparation… all for this single moment.

And now, there is hope.

Your hand stings.

The pain registers belatedly, and when you lift it, crescent-shaped wounds stare back at you—angry, bleeding. You let out a quiet breath, almost a laugh of disbelief.

Carefully, you ease yourself out from beneath him, shifting his weight with more effort than grace. You guide his head onto the pillow, movements clumsy but gentle.

Once he is settled, you search the room, recalling fragmented details from the story—until you find what you need.

Sitting at the edge of the bed, you clean the wounds. The alcohol burns, sharp enough to make you bite down on your lip, but you endure it in silence. When you finish wrapping the bandages, a knock sounds at the door.

Just once.

You pause, then rise, opening it slightly.

Narrator stands there. His expression is tense—but the moment he sees you, sees your calm, sees the quiet behind you—something in him eases.

You offer a small smile, pressing a finger to your lips.

He understands immediately. Relief softens his features, and for the first time, his smile carries something genuine.

He does not need to ask. Ashveil is safe. And for the first time in a long while— he is not alone.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

Morning light seeps through the curtains, spilling across the bedsheets in a quiet warmth. It reaches you before your thoughts fully surface, coaxing your eyes open as you slowly adjust to the brightness filling the Duke’s chambers.

You turn your head to see Ashveil laying beside you, still and undisturbed, as though the night had never unraveled him at all. In the gentleness of morning, he looks… almost unreal. The sharpness that once defined him has softened, leaving behind something deceptively peaceful.

Radiant.

It feels wrong, somehow, to see him like this after what happened. You can’t tell if this calm is his own… or something you had a hand in. After all, you were the one who stopped him. The one who kept him from tearing himself apart any further.

The thought lingers longer than it should. But duty does not. As much as you want to remain—just a moment longer, just enough to convince yourself this quiet is real—you force yourself to rise. The world beyond these walls is already waiting, and it will not wait kindly.

You slip from the bed, making your way toward the door. With each step, your mind begins its usual tally—letters unanswered, reports untouched, obligations stacked one atop another until the weight of it nearly turns you back.

As your hand rests on the handle, you hesitate. There's a feeling in your gut that something troublesome awaits you outside the door— but then again, when have you not gotten involved into something troublesome?

Then you open it. The door creaks softly as it gives way. You expect to see Loretta as you always do.

Instead, you’re met with someone else entirely.

A girl stands in the corridor, pink hair catching the light, streaked with neon that seems to hum with restless energy. There is something loud about her presence—something that refuses to be ignored even in silence.

And the moment she notices you, that silence shatters. Her gaze drops immediately to your bandaged hand before snapping back to your face.

“Moonveil Warden.”

The title hits you abruptly. For a second, you don’t respond. Your mind stumbles over the unfamiliar weight of it, instinctively searching for someone else—someone it could possibly belong to.

But the hallway is empty.

There is no one else. It is meant for you.

Slowly, you lift a hand, pointing at yourself as if to confirm. “...Yes?” you answer, hesitant, your voice betraying the uncertainty you try to mask. “Were you calling for me?”

She doesn’t answer right away. Instead, she looks at you—really looks. Her gaze drags over your figure, sharp and assessing, before flickering briefly toward the bedroom behind you. And then, back to your hand. Her eyes narrow, curiosity sharpening into something far more dangerous.

“What,” she begins, tone dipping into something almost conspiratorial, “did you and Solostar Wolfshade do?”

Your heart skips and you don’t let her finish. “Nothing!” The response comes too quickly, too forcefully, the word nearly tripping over itself in your haste. You straighten slightly, forcing composure back into your voice. “Forgive me—I was careless. It was dark, and I injured myself trying to find my way.”

The lie slips out with practiced ease, you barely even feel it anymore. At this point, you’ve lost count of how many times you’ve twisted the truth since arriving in Kronstadt… and something tells you that number will only grow.

Rappa watches you intently, the way that would make only Coria sweat. For a moment, it feels like she might press further—like she’s already imagined ten different possibilities and is simply waiting for you to confirm one.

But to your relief, her shoulders ease. Not yet convinced but she's willing to let it go for now. She steps closer instead, her attention shifting. Her eyes flicker down—this time not to your bandages, but to the ring resting on your finger. When she looks back up, there’s a glint in her expression. Amusement and interest.

A smile curls onto her lips. With exaggerated flair, she places a hand over her chest and dips into a half-bow, every movement brimming with theatrical pride. “It’s an honor to meet you, Moonveil Warden,” she declares brightly. “I’m Rappa—the Dazzling Hero!”

The name settles into place. Ah— Right. Rappa.

Ashveil’s eldest daughter—though still younger than Boothill. A child once raised to be an assassin, shaped by blades and silence… only to abandon it all in favor of freedom. You remember the rumors—how she had turned against the very life forced upon her, how she had tried to ambush Ashveil’s soldiers out of desperation.

And how he had found her, eventually taken her in.

Now, she stands before you not as that frail, struggling child—but as something vivid. Unrestrained. A noble cloaked in brightness, even as the remnants of her past linger beneath the surface.

You realize, faintly, how little you remember of the others. Except Ashveil.

Clearing your throat, you offer a polite nod, waiting for her to finish her display. “May I leave now?” you ask, already glancing down the corridor. “I’m afraid I haven’t freshened up yet.”

And more importantly— Where is Loretta? Of all times to disappear.

Strangely, your question seems to brighten Rappa even further. She steps closer—close enough that you barely have time to react before her hand catches yours, warm and firm. “Does that mean the Moonveil Warden will be joining us for breakfast?” she asks, eyes gleaming with excitement.

Breakfast.

The thought hadn’t even crossed your mind.

Everything else had taken priority. You hesitate for a moment—then give a small, uncertain nod. “...Yes. I suppose I will.”

That is all she needs.

She releases you just as quickly and turns, already dashing down the corridor with uncontainable energy. “Silvergun Shura!” her voice rings out in the distance.

The hallway falls quiet again. And just as you turn— there she is.

Loretta stands waiting, as composed as ever, as though she had been there the entire time and simply chose not to intervene.

A dull headache begins to form. “Now you decide to show up?” you mutter, unimpressed.

She laughs softly, her smile tinged with something almost apologetic—almost. “You had someone waiting for you,” she replies. “It would have been rude to take you away from her, Your Grace.”

You don’t buy it though, not for a second. But you let it slide for now— of all the storms coming today, this should be the least of your priorities.

The next thirty minutes pass in the familiar rhythm of preparation.

For a duchess, even the smallest detail is never truly small. Every fold of fabric, every strand of hair, every accessory must be corrected, adjusted, perfected—until nothing remains that could be deemed careless. Not when the maidservants of Kronstadt turn imperfection into entertainment.

Loretta trails behind you as always, silent and unbothered, as you finally step into the dining hall.

It is a vast room— far too vast. A table designed to host a court, yet occupied by only three people. The emptiness is hard to ignore. It always is. There is something about this dukedom that makes even abundance feel hollow.

Your gaze finds Ashveil immediately. He is already eating.

Of course he is.

No greeting. No acknowledgment that you were ever absent to begin with. You file that grudge away for later.

“Moonveil Warden is here!” Rappa announces brightly, as though your entrance is an event worth celebrating.

Boothill lets out a short laugh. “What kinda name is that supposed to be?”

You offer a small smile instead of a response, taking your seat beside Ashveil. Behind you, Loretta quietly chooses to stand near Boothill rather than behind you. You don’t question it— you rarely question her relationships with the staffs, or even the nobles. You do not possess much knowledge for someone who has been living here for only a month.

Your attention drifts, as it always does, back to Ashveil.

He is avoiding you.

He's trying to do it not openly nor dramatically, hoping to do it in the quiet, deliberate way of someone who keeps his eyes fixed on anything that is not you— his plate, his hands, the edge of the table. Anywhere else.

You do not press him yet. Instead, you let the noise at the table fill the space between you.

Rappa talks like silence is a crime. Boothill answers like every word is a calculation. Their voices overlap constantly—half argument, half laughter, entirely familiar in a way that makes the emptiness of the room feel slightly less suffocating.

Rappa is louder, more open, her emotions worn plainly across her face like armor she refuses to hide behind.

Boothill, by contrast, watches more than he speaks. Measures before he reacts.

They are different and yet not. Despite being more of a quieter one among the two, Boothill rarely stops when he opens his mouth— tales of the past and his skills fall out of his mouth before he can register.

Your gaze lingers between them briefly, observing their close relationship. You'd expect them to be close— especially given their past in the war, they bond over the hellish times well. Then, your focus inevitably returns to Ashveil.

He has gone quiet— more than usual. Your observant gaze pins him, dissecting every movement and behavior. His eyes are not on your face but on your hand. He seems to be specifically eyeing the bandages.

There is something there that he does not voice. Something that presses heavier than words would allow. Guilt, perhaps. Or something sharper, more self-directed than that.

It settles uncomfortably in your chest. You exhale softly, your mind a troublesome tycoon of thoughts and the need to act. Without overthinking it, you move your hand. It rests over his. It is a simple gesture, standing barely anything but his entire body tenses the moment you do it. His hand twitches once, yet he doesn't seem to attempt to pull away.

You keep your expression neutral and continue eating as if nothing has changed, even as awareness sharpens at the table.

Rappa's keen eyes are the first one to catch it. Her gaze flicks immediately to Boothill. Boothill, in turn, glances at Loretta. Loretta, infuriatingly, offers nothing in return.

No one understands. Good. Or perhaps… inconvenient.

“Moonveil Warden,” Rappa says suddenly, breaking the moment with practiced ease, “Silvergun Shura and I will be starting training in an hour. This Dazzling Hero requests your presence as an honored spectator.”

Despite yourself, your lips soften. It is impossible not to. “Of course,” you reply gently. “I would be happy to watch.”

The reaction is immediate from him. You know that he's quietly observing everything like a wolf. You feel Ashveil’s hand shift slightly beneath yours—fingers tightening just enough to be noticed, just enough to mean something he does not say aloud. Even as you do not look at him, there is a quiet understanding between you. Somewhere beneath all of this, he is pleased. Relieved, even.

The idea of his children—his fractured, scattered family—finding something resembling connection in your presence is not lost on him.

Rappa and Boothill are the first to leave, still bickering even as they exit. Loretta follows shortly after, leaving the hall with the same composure she arrived with. And just like that— It is only the two of you.

The silence that follows is heavier than before.

Ashveil does not speak immediately. He lets you decide what comes next— so you do.

“You didn’t tell me you were awake.” You take a bite of your food as you speak, keeping your tone casual.

His answer is paused, as though he does not want to say it out loud. “Didn’t think it was necessary.” The response is short— harsh even. Truth be told, he felt ashamed of the previous night to even confront you.

You accept it without comment, letting the conversation settle rather than forcing it open.

After a moment, you return to your meal.

It is… easy, in a strange way, to fall into silence with him.

You find yourself noticing small things again—his habits, his rhythm. The way he eats without pause, as though rest itself is something he has never fully learned how to do without. The sheer, almost unsettling consistency of it.

Like something that cannot be satisfied.

You do not dwell on it. Instead, you eat quietly. The thoughts will not leave you as long as it can, the swirling dissatisfaction in your heart will not be settled either. Yet, you keep quiet— for he, too, is in a predicament.

Outside the hall, something else begins to unfold.

“Did ya see that? Her hand’s bandaged.” Boothill’s voice drops into a whisper, though the hallway is empty.

Rappa leans in immediately. “Moonveil Warden said she hurt it last night. Accident in the palace.” she pauses her words. “I don’t believe her.”

Loretta hums softly, thoughtful rather than dismissive. “Something did happen,” she agrees. “Though I doubt it was anything severe enough to warrant concern.”

Boothill folds his arms. “So she’s lyin'.”

“No,” Rappa counters quickly. “She just didn’t tell us everything.”

Silence follows that— an uncertain silence that can only be achieved once you've gathered clues that don't connect at all. The kind that refuses to settle into a single conclusion.

The conversation continues for a while longer, looping through theories, half-guesses, and dead ends. But none of it leads anywhere solid.

No one knows. No one can.

Because only three people in this entire dukedom carry even a fragment of the truth—and none of them are speaking.

So the mystery remains what it has always been. Unresolved, unseen and carefully, deliberately buried beneath everything else.

By the time you finish answering the last of the letters and finalizing the month’s financial accounts, the sky beyond the tall windows has already surrendered to a dull, suffocating grey. What little light had filtered through earlier in the day is swallowed whole, replaced by heavy clouds that seem to press down upon the estate itself. The rain begins not long after—first as a distant murmur, then as a steady descent, and finally as a relentless pour that blankets everything in a muted haze.

It does not belong here.

In a land where life rarely blooms and warmth is more memory than reality, the rain feels almost intrusive—like something alive entering a place that has long forgotten how to be. The air thickens with dampness, carrying a faint, musky scent that clings to the stone walls and lingers in your lungs. It is a stark contrast to your father’s territory, where rain had always felt cleansing, almost comforting. Here, it only deepens the gloom.

You should have left earlier. The thought comes too late to matter now.

It takes Loretta’s quiet reminder to pull you back to your responsibilities beyond paper and ink—the promise you had made to visit the training grounds. You do not argue, nor do you delay. Rising from your seat, you move almost immediately, the urgency in your actions mismatched with the distant, unfocused state of your mind.

Even as your feet carry you forward, your thoughts drift elsewhere. There is something unsettled beneath the surface of the day—something that lingers just out of reach, as though the world itself is quietly shifting into a shape it was never meant to take.

The training grounds come into view through the curtain of rain, their outlines softened by the constant downpour. The earth beneath your feet is damp but mercifully firm, each step sinking just enough to remind you of the water saturating the soil without trapping you in it. The sounds reach you first—sharp, rhythmic, unyielding. Steel striking steel in measured intervals, arrows slicing cleanly through the air before embedding themselves into distant targets, voices rising and falling with effort and correction.

And yet, even surrounded by it, you feel oddly detached.

The noise does not quite reach you.

Your thoughts remain louder.

You stop at the edge of the field, Loretta’s presence steady behind you as she lifts the umbrella above your head, shielding you from the worst of the rain. Before you, the scene unfolds with practiced familiarity. Argenti stands beside Boothill, correcting the angle of his grip with patient precision, while the cowboy—true to form—continues to complain about the absurdity of wielding a sword when a gun would suffice. Not far from them, Robin Hood oversees Rappa, his posture relaxed yet unwavering as he observes her form.

Your gaze shifts to the target. Five arrows, all buried into the center.

Perfect.

The realization settles quietly—impressive, but not unexpected. There is a reason Robin Hood regards her so highly, a reason her confidence borders on theatrical certainty.

You find yourself watching longer than intended, your thoughts slipping once more into that distant, untethered space. So much so that you fail to notice the presence approaching you.

The sound of footsteps is lost beneath the rain, the shift in air too subtle to draw your attention—until it is already too late. A shadow merges with yours.

You only stir when the faint brush of fabric against your arm pulls you back into yourself. The contact is light, almost hesitant, yet enough to ground you instantly.

Ashveil stands beside you. Closer than he usually allows himself to be. He does not speak at first. Instead, he simply stands there, his presence quiet yet unmistakable, his gaze resting not on the training grounds but on you. There is a stillness to him—an awareness that feels deliberate, as though he has chosen not to interrupt whatever thoughts had claimed you.

The silence stretches. You break it without thinking. “Did you need something, Ashveil?”

The name slips from your lips before you can stop it, natural in a way that feels far too intimate for what it should be. You realize it a moment too late but he does not correct you.

Instead, his hand comes to rest on your shoulder. The touch is gentle—careful, almost uncertain, as though he is testing the boundary rather than claiming it.

“No,” he answers, the word coming quickly, yet not entirely steady. There is restraint in his voice, something held back just beneath the surface. “I just wanted to spend time with you, [Name].”

The world stills for you.

Your name.

Not your title. Not the role you have been forced into. Not the distance that has always existed between you and everyone else in this place.

Just you.

The warmth that follows is immediate and unwelcome in its intensity, spreading through your chest before you can brace yourself against it. It lingers there, soft yet insistent, refusing to be ignored.

You can feel his gaze. It is steady and unwavering. As though he is committing you to memory.

You look away first, unable hold the intensity. “I see…” Your voice is quieter than you intend, and you clear your throat in an attempt to steady it. “I’m glad you would want to.”

The words feel insufficient. Too small for something that suddenly feels far larger than it should be.

You force your attention back to the training grounds, grasping at something safer—something familiar. “Letting them train in this weather… don’t you think you’re being too harsh?”

Ashveil doesn't answer immediately, not that you expect him to answer at all. A soft sound escapes him. A laugh.

It catches you off guard.

It is quiet, nearly lost beneath the rain, but unmistakable all the same. There is something fragile about it, as though it has not been used in a very long time.

“I suggested they rest,” he admits, his tone lighter now, if only slightly. “They refused. Both of them.”

You hum softly in acknowledgment, unsurprised. Stubbornness, it seems, is a trait that runs deep within this household—whether by blood or by circumstance.

The two of you fall into a quiet rhythm after that, standing side by side as you watch the training continue. Time passes in small, unmeasured increments, marked only by the repetition of movement and the steady fall of rain.

“There used to be another one.” His voice breaks through the calm without warning.

You turn to him, your attention sharpening instantly.

His hand withdraws from your shoulder as he exhales, his gaze shifting away from both you and the field, as though the memory itself demands distance.

“Acheron,” he says, the name carried quietly between you. “She was skilled with a blade… though her taste in everything else was...questionable.” A faint attempt at humor. Though, it does not last.

“She left after a few months,” he continues, the words slower now. “No letters. No explanation. Nothing.”

The name settles into your thoughts like a key turning in a long-forgotten lock.

Acheron.

Fragments begin to surface—scattered, incomplete, yet unmistakable. A wandering noble with no true home. A remnant of a fallen estate. A figure destined to move between territories without ever belonging to one. You remember enough to know that her path was never meant to stay here… that her story lies elsewhere, intertwined with a future that has yet to unfold.

“But that’s in the past,” Ashveil murmurs, though there is a quiet weight beneath the words that suggests otherwise. “Wherever she is… I hope she’s safe.”

Bound to cross paths with the novel's protagonist— Evanescia, you are not certain that she is as he wishes. Crossing path anyone from the Xianzhou at this point of the plot may not be the best way to guarantee your safety, especially after their previous leader, Dan Feng's execution. But you say keep it to yourself.

The rain grows heavier, filling the silence in your place. For a moment, the world feels suspended—caught between what was and what is yet to come.

Then the thought breaks through.

“A soldier has died of poisoning in Moria.”

The words leave you abruptly, as though pulled from you rather than spoken by choice. There is a heaviness behind them, a quiet guilt that lingers in your tone despite your efforts to suppress it. Even now, after years of adapting to this life, there are parts of it that still feel foreign—parts you are never quite prepared to face.

Ashveil does not react outwardly. “I know,” he responds shortly, the words stinging in his mouth.

There is no surprise in his voice, he's expected this. “Cole reported it this morning. Mister N is investigating.”

Of course.

Cole—the poet who became a messenger of war, carrying reports in place of those who could no longer return. Since Acheron’s departure, he has filled a role that was never meant to be his, bridging absence with duty.

Your gaze drifts briefly across the field again, catching a familiar figure among the shifting forms.

Coria, perhaps. Even through the rain and distance, her presence feels distinct. There is something about her that lingers—like a melody that refuses to fade completely, even when unheard.

But your focus returns quickly.

“What did the report say?” you ask, quieter now, bracing yourself for what follows.

Ashveil takes his time to contemplate the ways to answer your question. There is a pause—long enough to feel deliberate. Long enough to suggest that the truth is something he weighs carefully before offering.

“Slow poisoning,” he says at last.

The words fall heavy, despairing and final.

“The culprit is among them. And by now…” He exhales softly, the rest of the sentence settling into implication rather than sound. “It may have already spread further than we can contain.”

The weight of it presses between you, silent yet suffocating. When you glance at him, his expression remains composed—but not untouched. There is something deeper beneath it all. Guilt, weariness and beneath both, something quieter still. Relief— not for the situation but for the fact that he is no longer bearing it alone.

The rain intensifies, blurring the edges of the world as the training below begins to dissolve. Knights retreat toward the palace in scattered formations, their movements hurried but familiar. Boothill and Rappa follow not far behind, their voices still carrying through the storm as they argue over something neither seems willing to concede.

“We should return,” you say at last, the words grounding you back into the present.

Ashveil does not argue, simply following you. Close enough that you can feel him there, just behind you—never quite beside you, yet never distant either.

You have noticed it. The way he adjusts himself around you. The way he lingers, wanting to be subtle. The way he almost—almost—closes the distance, only to stop short each time.

It makes your chest tighten in a way you cannot easily explain. You tell yourself it is nothing, that it is simply habit. Perhaps it is companionship that he seeks— the purpose of marriage was this. Something harmless.

But even as you walk through the rain, you can feel his gaze settle on you once more—steady, searching, unguarded in a way that feels far too intentional.

And the question lingers, quiet but insistent..

Why does he look at you—

as though you are the final piece of something he has been trying to complete?

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

The rain does not stop.

Days pass, yet the sky remains sealed beneath a suffocating blanket of grey, as though the heavens themselves have chosen to abandon this land to its own decay. What began as a distant murmur has grown into a constant presence—rain tapping endlessly against the tall windows, seeping into the stone, clinging to the air with a damp heaviness that never quite leaves. Even within the palace walls, the scent of it lingers, mixing with old wood and colder things, creating an atmosphere that feels less like a home and more like something quietly rotting from the inside out.

And with each passing day, another name is added to the list.

At first, it had been manageable—tragic, but contained. A single report from Moria. A single soldier lost to something no one could immediately identify. But the pattern does not hold. It fractures, splinters, spreads. The deaths grow in number, then in frequency, each one slipping through the cracks before anyone can properly react. By the time the pattern becomes undeniable, it is already far too late to pretend this is coincidence.

You stand alone in the study, the latest report trembling slightly between your fingers despite the stillness of your body. Your eyes trace the words again and again, searching for something—anything—that might make sense of what is unfolding.

But there is nothing familiar here.

Nothing you recognize. Nothing that aligns with what you remember.

This wasn’t in the novel.

The realization no longer arrives as a shock. It settles into you like something colder, heavier—something that refuses to leave. Up until now, every step you had taken, every decision you had made, had been guided—anchored by the knowledge of what was meant to happen. Even when things felt uncertain, there had always been that quiet reassurance in the back of your mind: this is how it goes.

But now, there is nothing. The comfort of the script has long left you. And you are reminded once more that you are a stranger to this world. Caught in a future that refuses to unfold the way it should.

Your fingers tighten around the parchment. For the first time since you arrived in this world, you are truly, completely on your own.

The palace feels it. Even if no one speaks of it openly, the shift is undeniable. Conversations grow shorter, quieter, weighed down by something unspoken. Servants move with more urgency, yet less noise, as though afraid that any disruption might draw attention to something lurking just beyond their understanding. The vast halls, once merely cold, now feel hollow—like something has been carved out of them, leaving behind only an echo.

And within it all, the people closest to you begin to change.

Boothill and Rappa no longer train for the sake of improvement—they train as though survival depends on it. Their usual arguments still exist, but they lack their former ease, their edges sharpened by something far more serious. Boothill’s movements grow more precise, more deliberate, his eyes constantly scanning even when he pretends not to care. Rappa, on the other hand, throws herself into every motion with unwavering intensity, as though sheer will alone might be enough to outrun whatever is coming.

They linger around you more now.

Not in a way that draws attention.

Not in a way that disrespects your position.

But you notice it in the small things—the way Boothill adjusts his pace to match yours when you walk, even if he pretends it’s coincidence. The way Rappa insists on accompanying you under flimsy excuses that neither of you bothers to question. Even Loretta, ever composed and mischievous, has begun to remain at your side longer than necessary, her quiet presence grounding in a way that feels both comforting and unsettling.

They are protecting you. And the realization does not bring relief. Only the weight of understanding just how serious this has become.

The autopsy room is colder than the rest of the palace, as it always is. The scent of iron lingers thick in the air, layered beneath the sharp bitterness of medicinal herbs meant to mask what cannot truly be hidden. You stand over the body in silence, your gaze fixed, your mind working tirelessly to assemble pieces that refuse to fit together cleanly.

Another soldier.

Another victim.

Another life reduced to a report.

Your hand hovers just above the pale skin, unmoving as your thoughts spiral deeper into the problem. The symptoms are consistent—pain, deterioration, eventual collapse. The onset is delayed, carefully timed, as though designed to avoid immediate suspicion.

The reports point toward neither food nor water. The causes are inconsistent, an illusion of an airborne disease.

Your brows draw together as frustration builds, tightening slowly within your chest.

Then what?

Your fingers curl slightly. Think, think, think— figure something out. There are people awaiting your hopeful words that haven't reached your throat yet. You force yourself to step back, to look beyond the surface, beyond the obvious. You replay every detail, every report, every name.

Just as you uncover another sheet of report, your hand stills and your breath catches.

“…No.”The word leaves you before you can stop it.

You turn sharply toward the scattered reports, your movements quicker now, more urgent. Your eyes scan through them again, but this time with purpose—with direction.

Names, units, histories.

Your heartbeat quickens. “…They’re all connected.” The realization settles with terrifying clarity.

It's not random, never random. Every single victim—every soldier who had fallen, they all served under him.

Your grip tightens against the edge of the table.

“…Ashveil.” The name leaves your lips in a whisper.

This isn’t an attack on the dukedom. It’s an attack on him.

You don’t remember leaving the room.

Only that you are moving—fast enough that your thoughts struggle to keep up, your mind racing ahead even as your body tries to follow. The halls blur past you, familiar yet distant, your focus narrowing to a single point.

His office.

You don’t slow down, your steps catching it's pace with your heartbeat. By the time you reach the door, your hand is already raised, your breath uneven despite your effort to steady it. You knock—once, twice—but the sound feels insignificant compared to the urgency thrumming through you.

Patience fails you and the door opens beneath your hand.

The room is dim. The curtains remain drawn, shutting out what little light the storm might offer, leaving the space cloaked in shadows that stretch long across the floor. The desk is covered in papers—maps, reports, letters—each one a fragment of the chaos unfolding beyond these walls. None of them are neatly arranged. None of them are entirely out of place either.

It is the work of someone trying to hold everything together.

Alone.

Ashveil stands near the window, his figure half-obscured by the faint light that manages to slip through the gaps in the curtains. He does not turn immediately, his posture still, rigid in a way that feels less like calm and more like restraint.

“…You should be resting.” His voice is quiet. The distance in it dims your hopes by a grain. The walls you've worked so hard to chip away can rebuild itself with one wrong word.

You step inside anyway, closing the door behind you with a soft click. “And you should be eating,” you reply, your tone steady despite the tension coiling in your chest. “Yet neither of us seems particularly interested in doing what we should.”

That draws a reaction—subtle, but present. A slight shift in his shoulders, a quiet exhale that barely reaches you.

When he turns to face you, the sight alone is enough to make your breath falter.

He looks… worn. Not in the way of someone who simply lacks sleep, but in a way that feels deeper, heavier. There is a strain beneath his composure now, something that lingers in the set of his shoulders, in the faint tightness of his expression. He still stands tall, still carries himself with the same quiet authority—but it is no longer effortless.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he says, though the words lack any real force.

“I figured it out.” You don’t give him the chance to continue.

The words land between you, immediate and unyielding. That stops him completely.

“…What?”

“The poison,” you continue, stepping closer, your voice firm despite the storm raging within you. “It isn’t random. The victims—they’re all connected. They served under you during the war.”

Your gaze locks onto his. “This is about you.”

The silence following is heavy. unavoidable. He seems hesitant, unwilling to bear the burden of your words. “…I know.”

The answer hits harder than you expect.

You stare at him, disbelief flickering across your expression. “…You knew?”

“I suspected,” he corrects quietly, his gaze lowering slightly. “I didn’t want to act on assumption alone.”

Frustration rises quickly, sharp and immediate. “You should have told me—”

“And burden you further?” he interrupts, his voice still calm, but firm in a way that stops you short. “You already carry enough.”

The words linger. Because they are not wrong. But they are not enough either.

“I am your wife,” you say, softer now, but no less resolute. “This is mine to carry as well.”

Something in his expression shifts then—subtle, but undeniable. The distance he had been holding begins to falter, just slightly, as though your words have reached somewhere deeper than he intended to expose.

“I’m failing them.” The confession comes quietly, carrying guilt wrapped in white silk, stripped of its ink before you.

“I couldn’t protect them during the war,” he continues, his voice steady but thinner now, stretched by something heavier beneath it. “And now I can’t even protect the ones who survived it.”

Your chest tightens.

“I keep thinking…” His gaze drifts, unfocused, as though searching for something beyond the present. “What would Tiernan have done?”

The name settles between you. It's new to you— not one that was mentioned in the novel. Though you have to give yourself a pat on the back for touching those books in the palace library.

Tiernan. The previous Duke of Kronstadt— a foreigner who had caught the Duke's eyes at that time, enough to be bestowed the position after his death. Ashveil is nowhere related to that man— all they share is a past and a friendship that shares this title of a 'Duke'.

“He never hesitated,” Ashveil murmurs. “Never doubted. Everything I am now—this title, this responsibility—it was his first.”

His hand tightens slightly at his side.

“And I can’t help but wonder if I’m disappointing him.” The vulnerability in his voice is quiet but it is unmistakable.

You close the distance between you fully this time. “You’re not him,” you say gently, your voice steady despite the weight of the moment. “And you were never meant to be.”

His gaze lifts, meeting yours. He doesn't miss the firmness in your voice, the determination he lacks lies within you.

“You’re carrying something he never had to,” you continue. “The aftermath of a war, the weight of an entire dukedom—and something inside you that he never had to fight.”

Your expression softens. “And you’re still standing.”

The silence that follows is different now. A fragile silence. Before you is not just the Duke of Kronstadt, but your husband. The comfort he brings almost scares you, his very being rapidly carving the unspoken words out of you like a gushing wound.

“I need to tell you something,” you start quietly.

That catches his attention, his ears perk up like a wolf hearing its favorite word.

“I’m not… from here,” you admit, your fingers curling slightly at your sides. “This world—it isn’t mine. Not originally.” The words feel surreal even now. “I knew things I shouldn’t have. About you. About everyone. Because… I read it. This life—this story—it was something written.”

Your gaze holds his, the eye-contact is the only thing keeping you courageous thus far. “I’ve been following it since the beginning.”

You feel as if you've reached a wall, beyond it is a future you can no longer forsee. And you can only look at the sky, count the stars that speaks of the unchanging past.

“But this… none of this was supposed to happen.” Your voice trembles, you almost fail to get them out. But it is out— the truth laid bare before him.

“…I know.” Is all you hear that deep voice mumble out. The lack of surprise doesn't miss you, he barely gives a reaction.

“You… what?”

A faint, tired smile crosses his lips.

“You always knew too much,” he states bluntly. “It was only a matter of time before I realized it wasn’t coincidence.”

You glance toward him as if he's spouted out a forbidden spell isolated from the world. (WHA ref...) Have you truly been so careless? The question bugs you more than it should.

“Right now,” Ashveil continues, his voice softer, steadier, “you’re the only one who’s helped me make sense of any of this.”

Something in your chest tightens. You exhale slowly to steady yourself. To let yourself falter here is to reach another wall.

“We can stop this.” You blurt out without giving him a chance to reconsider his earlier words. His attention sharpens instantly.

“The poison isn’t spreading randomly,” you explain, stepping toward the desk as your thoughts begin to align with clarity. “It’s being administered selectively. That means the culprit needs access—close, controlled access.”

You gesture toward the reports. “We isolate your former unit. No shared supplies, no unsupervised contact. We monitor everything.”

The pause almost concerns him, yet you push on. “And we draw them out.”

The Wolf Duke's gaze does not avert your face. He evaluates your strategy, his mind desperately searching for hope. “…How?”

“They want you,” you say simply. “So we give them what they’re after.”

Understanding dawns slowly to him. “…Me.”

“Yes.” You respond firmly, certain of your idea.

A shaky breath escapes his lips and his eyes wonders to somewhere else, perhaps nowhere just to avoid you. “…That’s risky.”

“Yes,” you agree. The plan in itself isn't the best option, but it is the only one you have so far.

“…It might work.” You attempt to convince him once more.

Truthfully, there is only a little room for rejection in this situation. Ashveil has faced this situation only a handful of times, the hunt for him has never left his side. In the past, he'd avoid it all— letting Narrator take over the course. And now, there's you.

The distance that once lingered is gone now, replaced by something steadier. Stronger. Built not on obligation or title, but on something far more fragile—and far more real.

Trust.

Ashveil looks at you differently now, not as someone to shield but as someone who stands beside him.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

The plan does not unfold in a single decisive moment, nor does it arrive with the kind of clarity that stories often promise. Instead, it settles slowly into the bones of the palace, threading itself through routines so familiar that no one beyond your circle would think to question them. At a glance, everything remains unchanged—the same quiet halls, the same measured footsteps of servants, the same distant rhythm of daily life continuing as it always has. Yet beneath that carefully preserved surface, something far more deliberate takes shape, something watchful and unrelenting.

Every movement is noted now, every presence accounted for. Conversations are no longer just conversations; they are observed, weighed, remembered. Even silence has meaning. The palace, once merely cold and distant, begins to feel like a living thing holding its breath, waiting for something unseen to reveal itself.

And at the center of it all stands Ashveil.

He plays his part with a precision that would be almost unsettling if you did not understand the cost of it. To anyone watching, he is unchanged—composed, reserved, untouchable in the way a Duke must be.

He attends meetings; a new yet understandable sight, reviews reports, allows himself to be seen in places he had quietly withdrawn from in the days prior. He becomes visible again, deliberately so, placing himself back into the flow of the palace’s daily life as though nothing has shifted at all. It is a performance, but not a false one. Every step he takes is grounded in intent, every glance calculated just enough to appear natural while revealing nothing of what lies beneath.

Yet you see what others cannot.

You see the tension that never quite leaves his shoulders, the way his stillness is not rest but restraint. You notice how his gaze lingers a fraction too long on unfamiliar faces, how his awareness stretches outward, constantly searching, constantly measuring.

There is something heavier within him now, something that stirs more frequently beneath the surface, agitated by the pressure closing in from all sides. And still, despite it all, he follows through with the plan without hesitation.

Because he trusts it.

Because he trusts you.

It is that trust, quiet and unspoken, that steadies you even as everything else threatens to unravel.

The first sign appears so subtly that it might have gone unnoticed on any other day. A maidservant you do not recognize lingers near the inner corridors longer than her duties require, her movements just slightly out of sync with the natural rhythm of the palace. There is nothing overtly wrong about her, nothing that would immediately draw suspicion, and yet something about her presence feels misplaced, like a note just barely off-key in an otherwise perfect composition.

Then another appears.

Assigned to a wing she should not have access to, her explanation quick but lacking the ease of truth. A third follows not long after, her behavior unremarkable in isolation, yet increasingly difficult to ignore when placed alongside the others.

Individually, they are nothing.

Together, they form a pattern too precise to dismiss.

You do not act on it immediately, and neither does Ashveil. Instead, you wait, allowing the pattern to develop, to solidify into something undeniable. The tension builds quietly, coiling tighter with each passing hour as more pieces fall into place. It is not impatience that guides you, but certainty. Acting too soon would risk losing everything. Acting at the right moment ensures that nothing slips through.

When that moment comes, it does not announce itself— as though a fleeting bird set free.

The guards move with a quiet efficiency that speaks of careful preparation, sealing exits before the targets even realize they have been identified. There is no chaos, no raised voices echoing through the halls—only swift, controlled motion that leaves no room for escape. You watch from a distance, your expression composed even as your pulse quickens beneath the surface, as the truth unfolds exactly as you had anticipated.

They are not servants.

Not truly.

The uniforms are convincing, their behavior practiced, but the illusion fractures under pressure. Their answers falter, their composure slips, and the carefully constructed façade begins to crumble. It does not take long before hesitation gives way to contradiction, and contradiction gives way to something far more revealing.

A title emerges from the cracks.

“The One-Eyed Owl.”

It is spoken with reluctance, the words carrying a weight that lingers long after they have been said. Fear follows it, quiet but unmistakable, settling into the space like something alive.

You feel Ashveil’s attention shift beside you, subtle but immediate. The title is unfamiliar, yet the presence behind it is not. There is something deliberate in the way it is spoken, something that suggests distance rather than absence, as though the one it belongs to has never needed to stand at the forefront to exert control.

They are not the source. That much becomes clear almost immediately.

What little they know is fragmented, limited to orders given and tasks assigned. They were never meant to succeed, only to observe, to gather what they could, to wait for an opportunity that never came. Their purpose was never to act decisively, but to exist as expendable pieces, placed where they were needed and discarded just as easily.

Which means the true threat remains untouched. Unseen and watching from somewhere beyond your reach.

Later, within the quiet confines of Ashveil’s office, the weight of that realization settles between you once more. The storm outside has yet to ease, the steady rhythm of rain against the windows a constant reminder of everything that still lies unresolved.

“It’s a start,” you say at last, your voice softer now, shaped more by thought than urgency.

Ashveil exhales slowly, his gaze distant as he considers the implications. “It is,” he agrees, though there is a quiet heaviness beneath the words. “But it’s not enough.”

“No,” you admit, your fingers brushing lightly against the edge of the desk as you steady yourself. “But it gives us direction.”

The title lingers between you.

The One-Eyed Owl.

It does not feel like a person so much as it does a presence, something that exists just beyond sight, pulling threads from the shadows without ever revealing the hand behind them. An enemy that does not need to stand in the open to be dangerous.

And yet, the Wolf Palace finds life within itself once again.

The changes that follow are immediate and uncompromising. The soldiers are reorganized, their routines stripped down and rebuilt with precision, every interaction monitored, every resource accounted for. Food supplies are handled with near surgical care, each ingredient traced, each preparation observed under watchful eyes. Nothing is left to assumption, nothing allowed to pass without scrutiny.

It is exhausting work; relentless to the point a blink can have it all washed away. But it yields results.

The deaths stop completely, as though the invisible hand that had been tightening around them has suddenly withdrawn.

And in that absence, there is room, however small, for something else to take its place.

You find yourself visiting them more often than expected, not out of obligation, but something quieter, something that draws you there without needing a reason.

Coria accompanies you most days, her presence as gentle as the music she carries, her melodies weaving softly through the open spaces, lightening the air in a way that feels almost foreign after everything that has passed.

The soldiers are different here, away from the rigid structure of the palace and the unseen threat that had once loomed over them. They are still marked by what they have endured, still carrying the weight of battles fought and losses suffered, but there is something steadier in them now. Something that resembles peace, even if only in fragments.

Cole is there as well, as he always seems to be.

The poet who once delivered news of death now offers something else entirely, his voice threading through the quiet with words that do not dwell solely on grief, but on memory, on endurance, on the fragile persistence of life beyond war. His verses are softer now, less burdened by finality, and more open to what still remains.

Sometimes Coria plays, her music flowing gently between the pauses in conversation.

Sometimes Cole recites, his words settling into the spaces left behind.

And sometimes, the soldiers themselves speak, their voices rising with stories that feel less like recounting and more like reclaiming. Laughter slips through where silence once lingered too heavily, small and fleeting, but real all the same.

You sit among them more often than not, no longer as a duchess observing from a distance, but as someone present within the moment itself, listening rather than leading, sharing rather than directing.

There is one afternoon where the rain begins to ease.

It does not stop entirely, but it softens, the steady downpour fading into something quieter, something less suffocating. The sky lightens just enough to allow a pale, distant glow to filter through the clouds, a reminder that even the longest storms are not without end.

Coria’s melody drifts through the air, gentle and unhurried, while Cole’s voice follows, weaving something quieter than before, something that speaks not of endings, but of what lingers afterward.

You look around, your eyes shifting toward the soldiers. At the subtle ease in their movements, the faint smiles that pass between them, the way their shoulders seem just a little less burdened.

And for the first time in what feels like far too long— You allow yourself to breathe. The threat within the palace has been removed. The poison has been contained and the plan has succeeded. But even as the tension loosens its grip, the name remains.

The One-Eyed Owl— is not gone. Their keen eye is awaiting another moment to strike.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

The days that follow do not return to what they once were. They become something softer. Not untouched by what had happened, not free from the weight of it all—but steadier, as though the storm that had once threatened to swallow everything has finally loosened its grip just enough for life to settle back into place. The palace no longer feels like it is holding its breath. The tension that once lingered in every corridor has eased, replaced by something quieter, something almost… warm.

And within that fragile calm, the people around you begin to change in ways you hadn’t quite expected.

Rappa is the first to have shown her fondness— unveiled from suspicion. She drags you—there is no gentler word for it—out into the training grounds with a determination that leaves little room for refusal. What begins as a simple suggestion quickly turns into something far more consistent, her enthusiasm unwavering as she insists on teaching you archery alongside Robin Hood, who watches the entire ordeal with an amused patience that never quite fades.

Your stance is corrected more times than you can count, your grip adjusted, your posture nudged into place with firm insistence. Rappa talks the entire time, her voice bright, animated, filled with a pride that borders on theatrical every time you so much as improve by a fraction. She celebrates your smallest successes as though they are grand victories, her laughter ringing clear across the field whenever your arrow lands even remotely close to where it should.

Robin Hood, in contrast, offers fewer words, but when he does speak, they carry weight. His guidance is precise, his corrections subtle yet effective, his presence grounding in a way that balances Rappa’s boundless energy. Between the two of them, you find yourself improving without quite realizing it, your movements growing more confident, your aim steadier with each passing day.

Boothill, of course, refuses to be left out. He rarely joins the lessons directly, preferring instead to linger nearby, leaning lazily against whatever surface he can find as he watches with a half-amused, half-critical eye. But his silence never lasts long. It never does.

He talks endlessly.

Stories spill from him as easily as breath, tales of dusty roads and endless skies, of duels fought and won, of mistakes made and lessons learned the hard way. His voice carries a rhythm of its own, something rough yet familiar, as though every word has been shaped by the life he once lived. Sometimes his stories are exaggerated, sometimes they contradict themselves, but there is always something genuine beneath them—something that speaks of a past he does not often show so openly.

And somehow, without realizing it, you begin to listen.

Not as an observer. But as someone who belongs there, within that moment, within that shared space of laughter and stories and quiet understanding.

Even Argenti finds his way to you more often now.

His visits are never intrusive, always timed in a way that feels almost intentional, as though he understands the balance between presence and distance better than most. He speaks with you about many things—about duty, about honor, about beauty in places where it is often overlooked. His words are thoughtful, measured, carrying a sincerity that never feels forced.

There is a calmness in those conversations, something that allows you to breathe a little easier, to step away from the weight of everything else, if only for a moment.

And then there is Loretta.

Quiet, observant yet mischievous Loretta, who rarely asks for anything.

Until one day, she does.

It is a small request, almost hesitant in its delivery, her usual composure faltering just slightly as she mentions the idea of accompanying you into town. Shopping, she calls it, though the word feels almost foreign within the context of everything you have been dealing with.

And yet, there is something in her expression, something hopeful, something almost… excited.

You find yourself agreeing without hesitation. Because for the first time in a long while, it feels like something normal.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

It is on a night like any other that the letter arrives.

There is nothing particularly unusual about it at first glance. The paper is familiar, the seal unmistakable, bearing the quiet authority of the Duke himself. And yet, the moment you take it into your hands, something about it feels… different.

You break the seal carefully, your curiosity already beginning to stir.

The message inside is brief.

The words written are not of formality but a personal invitation. To the palace gardens, he invites you.

You stare at the words for longer than necessary, your brows drawing together in faint confusion. There is nothing preventing him from asking you directly, nothing that would require something as deliberate as a letter. You had seen him earlier that day, spoken to him, stood close enough to feel the quiet presence he always carried with him.

And yet, he chose this. You are not sure why but you accept it anyway— who would be mad enough to refuse an invitation from the Wolf of the North himself?

The gardens are quieter at night. The rain has long since passed, leaving the air cool and clean, the earth beneath your feet still faintly damp from what had come before. The sky above is clearer now, scattered with stars that feel distant yet present all the same, their light soft against the darkness that surrounds you.

You find him there, awaiting your arrival.

He stands near the center of the garden, his figure framed by the faint glow of lantern light, his presence as steady as it has always been. There is something different about him tonight, though you cannot quite place it at first. Something softer, perhaps. Something less guarded.

“You sent me a letter,” you say as you approach, the hint of amusement in your voice doing little to mask your curiosity. “You do realize you could have simply spoken to me.”

A faint smile touches his lips. “I do.” The nervousness that envelopes him is too sudden— how can he not, you're looking at him with those mesmerising eyes as if he's spoken the words of a fool. “I— is this not a thing in those romance novels you read?”

That catches you off, more than it should have. You can't tell what's further ridiculous, that he's read those novels to do this or the fact that he's picked up on you reading them.

“You've read romance novels?” you accuse softly, raising your brows. To picture the Wolf Duke sitting at his desk with a book of endless sap is a thought that would've never arrived to you in a thousand years.

A tint of pink scatters across Ashveil's cheeks and the tips of his ears. “I— ugh... You—... How else was I supposed to figure out how to court a lady?”

He immediately averts his gaze afterwards, hoping to gain some composure from this flustered mess that he is. You can only quietly laugh— it feels like a breath of fresh air, to finally laugh and banter with the man you've been sharing a ring with.

For a moment, neither of you speaks.

The silence that settles between you is not uncomfortable, nor is it heavy. It feels… natural. Easy in a way that had once seemed impossible between the two of you.

“You’ve changed things,” he says at last, his voice quiet beneath the open sky.

You tilt your head slightly. “Have I?”

“The soldiers are alive,” he continues. “The palace is standing. And for the first time in a long while…” His gaze shifts slightly, softer now. “It feels like something more than just survival.”

The words settle gently.

You exhale, your expression easing. “I didn’t do it alone.”

“No,” he agrees. “You didn’t.”

Another pause follows, quieter this time, filled with something unspoken yet understood.

“Do you ever think about it?” you ask softly. “Before all of this, before the war. Before everything became… this.”

His gaze drifts, just for a moment. “…Sometimes.” He does not elaborate, it pains him to do so. Thus, you don't press further, some things are better left unsaid.

And for a while, you talk about small things. About memories that feel distant yet not entirely out of reach. About moments that shaped you both into who you are now. The conversation flows more easily than it ever has before, unguarded in a way that feels unfamiliar, yet right.

In the breath of the moment, you hear Ashveil make a request you never expected. “Would you like to dance with me, [Name]?” The words are spoken with a gentleness you have not heard since stepping into this world of venomous nobles.

You nod without hesitation, placing your hand in his offered one. He draws you a breath closer, and you allow it, your movements falling naturally into his. The melody lingers like a distant memory—one of Coria’s songs—resting quietly in both your minds, as though you share a single thought between you.

Your steps follow his in a soft, unbroken rhythm, each turn guiding you back into his arms. Your eyes drift shut, unaware of the way his gaze lingers on you. In the stillness of that moment, without your voice to distract him, he takes you in fully—your form, your presence, your very being—and to him, even the brightest stars pale in comparison.

When your eyes flutter open, all you see is him.

He leads you with a care that feels almost reverent, the dance unfolding into something endless, something woven with unspoken words. Moonlight spills over his dark locks, catching on the lighter strands and making them gleam faintly in the night.

You do not step back when his hand comes to rest against your cheek, his touch warm, grounding. His lips meet yours—slow, uncertain, a little clumsy. The rhythm falters for a moment, until your hand lifts to cradle the back of his neck, steadying him, guiding him. You can feel his hesitation, his nerves, and to his quiet relief, you take the lead.

With each gentle press of his lips against yours, a calm settles deep within you. The lingering fog in your mind begins to clear, replaced by him—by this moment, by the place you have carved out for yourself in this once unfamiliar world.

You are no longer a stranger in a foreign land, no longer an accidental reincarnation drifting without purpose. You have found something here—earned it, even. Love, respect, a place to belong.

And it is everything you have ever wished for.

[solxamber]

Feel It || Deuce Spade

You're the only one who can make him feel alive.

or: Delinquent! Deuce on my mind

w.c: ~1.6k

The first time Deuce realizes he's in trouble is when you laugh with blood on your teeth.

Some guy twice your size had shoved you outside the convenience store, and you'd shoved back harder, and now there's a split in your lip that's going to bruise ugly by morning. You're grinning anyway. Deuce can feel his heart doing backflips in his chest and it has nothing to do with the adrenaline still singing through his veins from the fight.

"That was so dumb," he says, breathless, and you're still smiling at him.

"He started it."

"You finished it."

"Someone had to." You wipe your mouth with the back of your hand, smearing red across your knuckles, and Deuce has to look away before he does something irreversible. There's a hum under his skin that won't settle. He wants to grab your face and check the damage properly. He wants to follow you into every stupid dangerous thing you do for the rest of his life.

He does none of those things. Instead he shoves your shoulder and says, "C'mon, let's get out of here before someone calls the cops," and you follow him down the street, still laughing, and he tells himself that this is enough.

The blastcycle is older than both of you combined and sounds like it's going to explode every time Deuce kicks it into gear, but it goes, and that's all that matters.

You're pressed against his back, arms locked around his waist, shouting something he can't hear over the wind and the engine. He takes a turn too fast on purpose just to feel you tighten your grip, and when you smack his shoulder in retaliation he can't stop grinning.

There's nowhere to go. That's the thing about nights like this—there's no destination, no point, just the road and the speed and the way the city blurs into streaks of neon when he pushes the bike past any reasonable limit.

You never complain. You just hold on and trust him to keep you both alive, and that trust is a weight he carries everywhere.

He pulls off onto some empty overlook, kills the engine, and the silence that follows is so sudden it makes his ears ring.

"Again," you say immediately, breathless and electric, and Deuce laughs because of course you want to go again. Of course you do.

"We're gonna run out of gas."

"So? We'll figure it out."

You always say that. Deuce doesn't know how to tell you that he's already figured it out. That he's been trying to figure it out for months. That the answer to every question he has starts and ends with you, and he still doesn't know what to do with that.

So he just kicks the bike back to life and says, "Hold on tight," and you do.

There's a house party in some warehouse on the edge of town, the kind of place that's half-abandoned and smells like rust and spilled beer. Someone's rigged up a speaker system that's blasting music so loud Deuce can feel it vibrating in his bones, and there are too many people crammed into too little space, and it's perfect.

You drag him into the center of it all, pulling him by the wrist, and Deuce goes because he'd follow you anywhere. The music is all bright synth and thumping bass, and you're moving to it like you don't care who's watching. You probably don't.

Deuce isn't much of a dancer, but he tries anyway because you're laughing at him and the sound cuts through the noise. You grab his hands and spin yourself under his arm, stumbling a little, and he catches you before you can trip over your own feet.

"You're terrible at this," you shout over the music, and he can see the grin splitting your face wide.

"Yeah, well, you're not much better!"

"I'm way better!"

You're not. You're both disasters. But you're disasters together, and that's all Deuce has ever wanted.

Someone jostles him from behind and he nearly loses his balance, but you steady him with a hand on his chest, and suddenly you're close enough that he can smell the faint trace of your shampoo under the warehouse stink. His heart kicks up in a way that has nothing to do with the music. He wonders if you can feel it under your palm.

You don't move your hand.

He doesn't move either.

The moment stretches and Deuce thinks maybe this is it, maybe he should just say it, just tell you that he's been carrying this feeling around for so long he doesn't remember what it's like to not want you. But then someone cranks the music up even louder and you step back, laughing again, and the moment snaps.

"Come on," you say, tugging him toward the makeshift bar in the corner. "I need a drink."

Deuce follows.

The diner is open twenty-four hours and serves the greasiest food Deuce has ever tasted, which means it's perfect for nights like this when it's 3am and neither of you can sleep.

You're sitting across from him in the booth, stealing fries off his plate even though you ordered your own. There's a bruise blooming across your cheekbone from earlier—some fight Deuce can't even remember the details of anymore, just the way you'd grinned at him afterward.

"You're staring," you say without looking up, and Deuce blinks.

"No I'm not."

"You definitely are."

He was. He knows he was. He can't help it. You've got ketchup on your thumb and your hair's a mess and you look like you've been through a war, and he's never seen anything better in his life.

"Just thinking," he says, which isn't a lie.

"About?"

You. Always you.

"Nothing important."

You hum, unconvinced, and steal another fry. The fluorescent lights overhead are buzzing faintly, casting everything in a sickly yellow glow, and there's a couple arguing in the booth behind you, and the whole place smells like burnt coffee and fryer oil. It's objectively miserable.

Deuce has never been happier.

"Hey," you say suddenly, looking up at him with those eyes that make his chest feel too small. "Thanks for tonight."

"I didn't do anything."

"Yeah, you did." You're smiling at him, soft and sincere, and Deuce feels something crack open inside him. "You always do."

He doesn't know what to say to that. He doesn't trust himself to say anything at all. So he just kicks your foot under the table and says, "Shut up and eat your fries," and you laugh and do exactly that.

The roof of the parking garage is technically off-limits, but the lock was broken months ago and no one's bothered to fix it, so it's become your spot by default.

You're lying on the hood of someone's car—not yours, not Deuce's, just some random sedan that's been parked here for days—staring up at the sky. Deuce is beside you, close enough that your shoulders are almost touching, and he's trying very hard not to think about how easy it would be to close that gap.

"Do you ever think about leaving?" you ask, and your voice is quiet in the dark.

Deuce turns his head to look at you. "Leaving where?"

"Here. This town. All of it." You gesture vaguely at the sky, the buildings, the world in general. "Just getting on the bike and going until we run out of road."

"Sometimes," Deuce admits. He thinks about it more than he should. Thinks about the two of you disappearing into the horizon, no plans, no responsibilities, just the wind and the endless sprawl of highway. "You wanna go?"

"I don't know." You're still looking at the sky. "Maybe. Would you come with me?"

The question shouldn't hurt, but it does. Because of course he would. He'd follow you to the end of the world if you asked. He'd follow you into hell. He'd follow you anywhere.

But he doesn't think that's what you're really asking.

"Yeah," he says, and his voice comes out rougher than he meant. "I'd come with you."

You turn your head then, just enough to look at him, and there's something in your expression he can't read. The streetlights below cast long shadows across your face, turning everything into sharp angles and soft curves, and Deuce is staring again. He knows he's staring. He can't stop.

"Deuce," you start, and his heart is pounding so hard he's sure you can hear it.

And then you kiss him.

You lean over and press your mouth to his like it's the easiest thing in the world, like you've been thinking about it as long as he has, and Deuce's brain stops completely. His hand comes up to cup your jaw on instinct and he can feel you smiling against his lips.

When you pull back, you're grinning.

"Catch me if you can," you say, and then you're sliding off the hood and running, your laughter echoing off the concrete walls of the parking garage.

Deuce sits there for half a second, stunned, and then his body catches up to what just happened and he's moving. He vaults off the car and takes off after you, his blood pumping hot and wild through his veins, and he can hear you laughing ahead of him, can see the shape of you disappearing around the corner.

He's going to catch you.

He's going to catch you and kiss you again and tell you everything he's been too scared to say.

He's going to catch you and never let you go.

Deuce runs, and the sound of your laughter pulls him forward like a lifeline, and for the first time in months he feels like he can breathe.

Masterlist

he's been on my mind for days and i had to get it out of my system to move on with my life