This is the thumbnail piece I made for Project Silver's Gameplay Reveal today! I'm currently working as an illustrator and concept artist for the fan game and you can even see some of my concept art pieces in the video. Please check it out!
"Is luxury worth these shackles?" he murmured to the empty air, his voice tinged with a rare, raw vulnerability. ❄️
"You could always try wearing inexpensive shirts," a filtered, deadpan voice replied from the shadows. "After all, linen breathes better than silk. Less existential dread, I hear. 🕸️
Unraveling, (stylized as ᴜ ɴ ʀ ʌ ᴠ ᴇ ʟ ɪ ɴ ɢ) is a series of drabbles featuring aristocrat Arte Kingsley and his bodyguard Ivy the Spider. The title is a reference to spiderwebs and has two meanings: 1) breaking apart and 2) revealing, which are key themes.
I write these drabbles whenever inspiration strikes, so there is no particular order. In fact, each one can exist on its own. This is intentional as I find the idea of continuity stressful; one-shots allow me to write freely.
I did try to write a novel some time ago--with one overarching story, chapters, and such--but it hit a wall and stopped me from writing for a while. I have a vague plot and a lot of ideas (some more fleshed out than others), but I have a hard time weaving them together. Maybe one day...?
(I'm rereading some of it now and ughghh... SO. CRINGE. 💀)
Once I have enough drabbles, my goal is to design them into a book and print a physical copy for myself 💖
Arte wields a rapier and, later on, a magical focus called the Phantom Diamond (hubby's birthstone). These elements can combine to form a staff to cast spells, inspired by the Red Mage job in Final Fantasy XIV.
I like the idea of him being swift, light, and elegant, as if battle were a dance.
Because Arte has a bodyguard, he doesn't often draw his weapon. But when he does, it is typically in defense. The scene of Shiro in K Project where he is fighting defensively with his parasol is a perfect example. As a king, he does so with grace.
I've also added scenes of Weiss from RWBY to showcase how Arte would weave his ice powers in combat seamlessly.
Ivy wields a glaive, inspired by my favorite weapon in Monster Hunter. I find the staff elegant and the blade deadly, which mirrors her perfectly. Her glaive bears the Phantom Topaz (my birthstone).
I imagine her to be effortlessly brutal yet calculated.
These examples are scythes, but the idea is similar: Shinoa from Seraph of the End, and Maka from Soul Eater.
Ivy has a small frame, and I like the idea of her wielding a big weapon for contrast.
I did consider giving her a Kinsect (arachnid + kin... Arackin? Kinnid?) like the game, but decided against it as it made her design busier than it already is 🫠
Could the gemstones be related to the Phantom Ruby? 👀
He was her charge. She was his guard. Lines existed for reasons—professional, political, practical. She had built her identity on discipline, on control. Temptation was a liability.
Yet here he was, asking—not assuming, not claiming.
Waiting.
Her gaze dropped briefly to his lips. A mistake.
Ivy could feel her pulse in her throat. “My lord—”
The feline shook his head. “I'm not asking as your lord,” he said gently. “I'm asking… as Arte.”
The lake at the edge of the manor caught the sunset as if it were something precious and fragile, something meant to be guarded. Gold spilled across the water’s surface in trembling ribbons, and the forest beyond stood in patient silhouette. It was quiet in that particular way evenings could be, where even the breeze seemed to lower its voice.
The arachnid stood at the shoreline, her boots firm against the damp earth. Her glaive rested upright beside her, silver crescent blade reflecting the dying light like a captured moon. The metal was polished enough to mirror the sky, though she would deny any aesthetic motivation in its upkeep. A weapon should be maintained. That was all.
Her braided silver hair stirred over her shoulder. The mask that covered her mouth hid any trace of expression, though her amber eyes were fixed on the horizon with unusual stillness.
Footsteps approached from behind.
She did not turn.
There were few people in the world who could approach her without earning a reflexive swing of steel. Fewer still whose gait she could identify from memory alone—confident, unhurried, as though the earth existed primarily to be walked upon by him.
He emerged from the treeline in the last blaze of sunlight, the gold catching in his platinum blond hair until he seemed momentarily carved from light itself. Arte Kingsley of Truehaven—aristocrat, duelist, insufferable flirt—stopped beside her.
“Evening, Ivy.”
With eyes still on the lake, she asked, “Aren’t you supposed to be at your birthday gala?”
“Yes,” he replied simply. “Though it feels more like a Valentine's Day gala.”
He was used to it; sharing a birthday with a holiday made it very easy to feel like an afterthought.
And on a day meant to celebrate love, its absence was all the more hollow.
The distant music of the manor—faint violins, laughter, the clink of crystal—carried across the fields like a reminder of obligations abandoned. The cat placed one hand on his hip and followed her line of sight toward the horizon. The wind toyed with his hair. He did nothing to restrain it. He rarely did.
“How did you know I’d be here?” she asked.
“If like attracts like, I knew I'd find you somewhere breathtaking.”
Unfazed, she glanced sidelong at him.
“That, and Shadow told me.”
Silence settled between them, soft but heavy. He waited, patient.
Ivy’s shoulders rose and fell in a soundless sigh. She would have preferred combat. Combat was simple. Combat did not ask questions about why her heart raced when their fingers brushed, why her chest felt tight when he smiled at someone else, why she dreamt of him even when the sky was awake.
“I figured,” she began carefully, “that you would be busy tonight. Entertaining nobles. Dancing with suitors. Accepting praise you pretend to dislike.”
“I do dislike it,” he said mildly. “I merely tolerate it with style.”
She ignored that. “So I gave you space. You’re in the capable hands of the other guards.”
“Is that so?”
She did not answer.
Arte stepped closer, boots brushing the grass. The air between them shifted, subtle and cool.
“What if,” he said softly, “I didn’t want space?”
Ivy turned then.
For the first time that day, she really looked at him.
He was dressed in an immaculate suit—more ornate than usual—threaded with fine chains and scattered crystals that caught the light with every movement. The hems shimmered faintly, revealing a subtle snowflake pattern worked into the fabric.
It was striking, undeniably. But even with all that careful detail and quiet extravagance, it wasn’t the suit that held her attention.
It was his eyes.
Their cyan hue caught the last of the sunlight, glacial and bright. They were unfair eyes. Eyes that saw too much. That laughed too easily despite his misshapen pupil. That now searched her face with a sincerity that made her pulse betray her.
He blinked when he caught her gaze.
Something was different.
Not the sharp, fiery vigilance he was accustomed to. Not the stoic wall she wore as naturally as armor. There was hesitation there. Vulnerability, thin as spun glass.
“At the risk of sounding vain,” he dared, “were you thinking about… me?”
“No,” she replied far too quickly.
Arte tilted his head. “Then about us?”
Her breath hitched.
It was small. Nearly imperceptible. But he had dueled men who telegraphed their strikes less obviously.
A slow smile curved his lips. “Ah, my poor, lovestruck bodyguard~”
Her amber eyes flared. “I am not—”
He lifted something between them, and the protest died on her tongue.
A rose.
It was blue—not the pale imitation of dye or trickery, but a deep, luminous sapphire. The petals, full and vivid, seemed almost unreal in the fading light, as though they came from a distant world.
Ivy blinked. “What is this?”
“A blue rose,” he said helpfully.
She refrained from rolling her eyes.
“I see that,” she said flatly. “Blue roses are nearly impossible to find. But not only have you acquired one,”—she spotted its thin sheen of sparkling permafrost—“you've also preserved it. How?”
Arte shrugged with casual elegance. “It was simple. I began by planting white rose seeds, encouraging certain traits to introduce a purple lineage—a very particular cultivation, mind you. Then I crossbred red and yellow to achieve the correct shade of orange. From there, a hybridization process involving—”
“Kingsley.”
He stopped mid-lecture.
“Why,” she asked, voice quieter now, “would you go through such lengths?”
The humor in his expression softened.
For a moment, he almost deflected. Almost made another joke. It was easier that way. Easier to be the charming aristocrat with a rapier quick tongue and a laugh to disarm any threat.
But this was Ivy.
He had faced blades without flinching. Faced political rivals with a smile. Yet standing before her now, heart thrumming in his chest, he felt suddenly, absurdly young.
“Well,” Arte began lightly, and then faltered. “I—”
The words tangled.
What if she rejected him? What if she stepped back? What if the space she had so carefully offered was the space she truly wanted?
He swallowed.
The lake stilled, as though holding its breath with him.
“I wanted,” he said at last, voice steady despite the tremor beneath it, “to ask you to be my Valentine.”
The confession hung between them, heavy yet fragile.
Ivy did not move.
There were very few times she was caught off guard. Fewer still that left her speechless.
“What,” she asked carefully, “does that entail?”
His smile returned, softer now. “Whatever my lady desires.”
Her gaze dropped to the rose.
It was beautiful. Not merely rare—but intentional. Every petal represented time. Patience. Effort. He had cultivated something impossible because he wanted to give it to her. Preserving it was also an impressive feat, for it was a skill no ordinary cryokinetic could do.
Her shoulders eased without her permission. She had not realized how tightly she had been holding herself.
Slowly, she reached out and took the rose.
His grin was immediate, boyish despite his aristocratic poise. “So that’s a yes?”
She nodded once.
Then promptly avoided his eyes.
“I must confess,” she muttered, “I did not procure a gift for your birthday.” After all, what was one supposed to give a man who already had everything?
He laughed softly.
“Ivy,” he said, stepping closer—close enough that she could feel the warmth of him despite the cool breeze that always seemed to follow in his wake. “You guard my life. You argue with me. You prevent me from doing anything catastrophically foolish.”
“That is a full-time occupation,” she agreed.
“And,” he continued, “you stand beside me when I am merely Arte, not Lord Kingsley of Truehaven. You are the best gift I could ask for.”
Her breath caught again—but this time it did not betray fear.
He reached for her gloved hand, hesitating just long enough to allow refusal.
She did not refuse.
His fingers laced with hers. The contact was warm. Real.
“Besides,” he added lightly, “if you insist on compensating me, you may attend the remainder of my gala as my Valentine. I assure you, watching the nobles attempt to decipher your expression will be the evening’s finest entertainment.”
She arched a brow. “You wish to parade me before them?”
“I wish,” he corrected gently, “to stand beside you.”
The distinction settled into her like sunlight.
From the distant manor came a swell of music—something grand and theatrical. Arte grimaced.
“I suspect my aunt has begun the speech portion of the evening. If we do not return soon, she will begin inventing dramatic reasons for my absence. Kidnapping. Scandal. Perhaps elopement.”
Ivy’s eyes flicked to him. “Elopement?”
He cleared his throat. “Hypothetically.”
She considered him for a long moment.
Then, in a rare and dangerous act of mischief, she stepped closer and adjusted the lapel of his coat with deliberate care.
“Very well,” she said. “I will attend. As your Valentine.”
His answering smile could have rivaled the sunset.
They began walking back toward the manor together, hand in hand. The path shimmered faintly beneath their steps, the grass dusted with a whisper of silver that melted as quickly as it formed.
Above them, the first stars emerged, cool and bright against deepening blue, witnessing the couple’s union.
“Kingsley,” Ivy said after a moment.
“Yes?”
“If any noble dares question me, I will challenge them to a spar.”
He laughed, giving her hand a light squeeze. “Remind me never to fall out of your favor.”
For the first time in ages, Ivy allowed herself to smile beneath her mask.
And Arte, though he could not see it, felt it all the same.
~
The gala did not end so much as it unraveled.
Music softened into wandering melodies. Laughter thinned into murmurs. One by one, carriages rolled away from the manor, their lanterns bobbing like fireflies retreating into the dark. The chandeliers inside still glittered, but the frenzy had faded, leaving behind the pleasant exhaustion of a night well spent.
Arte and Ivy slipped away unnoticed—or at least politely ignored—through tall glass doors that opened onto the balcony.
The night air greeted them with open arms.
Moonlight spilled across marble tiles, painting the balustrade in silver. The gardens below were hushed and dreamlike, hedges trimmed into obedient shapes that now seemed softer beneath the stars.
A wrought-iron bench curved along the far end of the balcony. Arte gestured with exaggerated gallantry.
“My dearest.”
She gave him a look that suggested she would absolutely shove him over the railing if he bowed any lower.
Still, she sat.
He joined her, a careful inch of space between them at first—proper, composed, aristocratic.
For approximately five seconds.
Then he leaned back, stretching his arms along the bench’s backrest. “Well,” he sighed, “you survived.”
“I was never in danger.”
“Oh, I disagree,” he said gravely. “Lady Erika attempted to engage you in a discussion about lace patterns. I saw your hand twitch toward your glaive.”
“She was testing me.”
“She was complimenting your attire.”
“Suspiciously.”
Arte laughed, the sound warm and unguarded in the quiet night. “And when my cousin suggested you might smile more often?”
Ivy’s amber eyes narrowed at the memory. “I informed him that my expression is optimized for battlefield efficiency.”
“You terrified him.”
“Good.”
He turned his head, studying her profile in the moonlight. The silver of her hair seemed almost luminous; it contrasted with her obsidian mask, which heightened the amber of her eyes.
“You were magnificent tonight,” he said softly.
“I simply monitored potential threats.”
“You danced.”
She stiffened. “You insisted.”
“And you did not step on my feet once.”
“A tactical triumph.”
He smiled again, quieter this time. “You laughed.”
Her gaze flicked toward him. “When?”
“When I told Lord Dominick that you once disarmed three mercenaries with nothing but a dinner fork.”
“You exaggerated.”
“Only slightly.”
Her eyes betrayed her then—warming at the memory. “You looked ridiculous trying to reenact it.”
“I am deeply offended.”
“You should be.”
He grinned. The edges of her eyes crinkled—evidence of a smile, the kind that came easier now—less guarded, less restrained.
The night seemed to fold around them, intimate and vast all at once. A breeze drifted across the balcony, carrying the faint scent of roses from the garden below. Somewhere in the distance, a final door shut. Silence settled—not awkward, not heavy. Just present.
Arte’s arm, still stretched along the back of the bench, hovered behind her shoulders. Not touching. Close.
Too close.
Ivy became acutely aware of it.
The world felt smaller in the absence of noise. The moonlight gentled the sharp lines of him. Without the grand hall, without the watching eyes of nobles, he was simply Arte—hair slightly tousled, coat loosened at the collar, cyan eyes reflecting silver instead of chandeliers.
“Ivy.”
The way he spoke her name now was different. Not teasing. Not theatrical.
Just… her.
She regarded him.
The distance between them had narrowed without either of them acknowledging when. Her knee brushed his. The contact sent a traitorous warmth through her.
“Yes?” she asked, though her voice had softened.
He hesitated—not from uncertainty of desire, but from reverence for the moment.
“May I kiss you?”
The question was quiet. Earnest.
Her breath stalled.
They shouldn’t.
He was her charge. She was his guard. Lines existed for reasons—professional, political, practical. She had built her identity on discipline, on control. Temptation was a liability.
Yet here he was, asking—not assuming, not claiming.
Waiting.
Her gaze dropped briefly to his lips. A mistake.
Ivy could feel her pulse in her throat. “My lord—”
The feline shook his head. “I'm not asking as your lord,” he said gently. “I'm asking… as Arte.”
The honesty in it unraveled her.
She closed her eyes for a fleeting second, as if bracing against a blow. When she opened them again, the battle was over.
“Yes,” she whispered.
He moved slowly.
So slowly she could have stopped him. Could have stood. Could have turned away.
She did not.
His hand lifted—hesitant at first—fingers brushing the edge of her mask. A silent question.
She answered by untying it herself.
The fabric slipped away, revealing the curve of her mouth he so rarely saw. For a heartbeat, he simply looked at her—as though she had entrusted him with something sacred.
“I have imagined this,” he confessed softly.
“Foolish,” she murmured.
“Undoubtedly.”
And then his hand cupped her cheek.
The first touch was gentle, almost chaste—his lips brushing hers as if testing whether she would vanish.
She did not.
Her fingers found the front of his coat, gripping lightly, anchoring herself.
The kiss deepened—not hurried, not desperate, but deliberate. Slow. Exploratory. The world beyond the balcony dissolved into the deep night and distant stars.
His lips were cool against hers, mirroring the faint chill that always lingered at his skin. She felt his breath mingle with hers, felt the careful restraint in the way he held her, like he feared pressing too hard would turn her into ice.
She leaned into him.
That was all the permission he needed.
His other hand settled at her waist, drawing her closer. The space between them disappeared entirely; she could feel the steady rhythm of his heart against her palm.
For someone so composed, she kissed him with surprising intensity—years of unspoken feeling distilled into one lingering moment. Controlled, yes. But no less consuming.
Arte smiled against her lips, and she slightly drew back.
Breathless, Ivy asked, “What exactly is so amusing?”
“Nothing,” he insisted. “I've just… I've never seen you so… needy.”
She reddened, turning away.
But he gently guided her chin forward, whispering as if sharing a secret:
“I like it.”
He kissed her again as proof.
When they finally parted, it was not abrupt. It was a reluctant easing, foreheads resting together, breaths shared.
The air felt cooler now.
Or perhaps it was simply that she was warmer.
“Ivy,” he murmured, voice slightly unsteady.
“Yes?”
“If this is a tactical error…”
“It is,” she said.
“Ah.”
She brushed her thumb along his collar, smoothing fabric that did not need smoothing. “But I find,” she added quietly, “that I do not particularly care.”
His answering grin was radiant—boyish and triumphant and utterly in love.
“Well,” he said, pressing a softer kiss to her forehead this time, “that is fortunate. Because I have no intention of regretting it.”
She rested her head lightly against his shoulder.
Below them, the gardens of Truehaven slept beneath the moon. The last of the lanterns flickered out inside the manor.
On the balcony bench, beneath a sky dusted with stars, an aristocrat and his bodyguard sat entwined—no longer merely lord and protector, but something infinitely more dangerous.
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