#aethera | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

hyukascampfire · 4 months ago

Text

THE TERRIBLE HALF-TRUTHS OF THE UNDEAD ҜING

⠀(🍂 ) 𝓡EVENANT in folklore, a revenant is a spirit or animated corpse that is believed to have been revived from death to haunt the living ... ( 𝑝𝑙𝑎𝑦𝑙𝑖𝑠𝑡 )

1︎5.5k revenant!yeonjun · ƒ ! r ft. soobin ⸺ ✴︎ 𝖿𝖺𝗇𝗍𝖺𝗌𝗒 ... smut, violence, angst, death, animal death & vivid descriptions of animal death, major character death, unprotected sex, cumming inside, dry humping (because bring it back), biting, dom yeonjun sub reader, mentions of death in childbirth, reincarnation, teasing, breast worship, yj calls reader ‘my love’, def some typos

🪶 ⦂ how fun is this collab? :,) this fic was so fun to write. i personally believe that tsfawc enjoyers will love this one,, but you'll have to read it to confirm that, right? hehe. and of course, go read everybody else's if you love this one! they're all set in the same world, and everybody worked so hard on these fics. send some love their way!

rꫀׁׅܻblogs & asks arꫀׁׅܻ always apprꫀׁׅܻciatꫀׁׅܻd!

𝒪𝑁𝐶𝐸 𝒰𝑃𝑂𝑁 𝒶 𝒯𝐼𝑀𝐸, in a land far, far away, where the treetops touched the soft clouds of the sky and the water sparkled under the glowing sun, where mountains rose high, and long, deep caves ran through them, where the sea met shore in collisions of swirling, foamy punches, where the undead walked among the living, where the winged flew above the finned, there was a land where things beyond reason and rhyme existed perfectly true. Among those strange beings and within the veils of Aethera, there was a girl loved by death.

He sits on your shoulder, a dark, boding shadow and glared at those around you with promise in his eyes.

That’s how it seems, anyway. That’s how everybody looks at you. They dodge you, whisper about you, evade your gaze as if he might reach his claws for them next if they linger for too long.

Crows with dead eyes arrive at your doorstep like some lover’s cheeky gift, other poor creatures like fat grey mice are left to rot in the wheatfields, and yarrow stocks wilt outside the wall of your room. If Death thinks that you are flattered, he misunderstands you. You are terrified of nothing more than dying. The first time, it was a sly joke. Then it happened again, and you watched their eyes change. And it happened again and again, and your people are a suspicious type. Something can only be a coincidence so many times.

When you began to sneak into a little shack with a village boy, you thought that maybe, somehow, this would all pass. He died too. There’s really no coming back from that, is there? You don’t blame them. You’re not the freak that they all believe you to be—none of them get close enough anymore to know that, though.

The wickerbasket’s handle creaks under your fist. You usually only forage along the shallow line of the forest; you pluck from bramble bushes topped with plump berries that crawl between trees during the summer, and when the crab apple tree’s branches hang heavy with the fruit, you snatch those up too. You’re more useful to your family out here, in the woods that they deem just as cursed as you. Where you won’t be their burden.

Crisp autumn leaves crunch under your boots. You scan between them—more grey and rotted this late in the season than fresh and orangey—for the edible mushrooms and roots that you usually forage at this time of year. The basket’s already pretty heavy with a variety, black morels and sorrel and burdock, as you bend down to pull a truffle from the dirt against a tree.

You drop it down with the rest of your finds. The basket smells like earth, no doubt your hands do too. You dust your palms off on your skirts and go to rise back from your squat.

A deep, billowing horn pierces the forest’s silence. It’s both far away, wiggling between the whispers of rustling leaves, and much too close. It draws out. Long. Bone-chilling. You freeze, scanning between each tree trunk and praying that you won’t find what you fear you might.

You are much deeper into the woods than you usually are. Than you ought to be. And you know what that horn means—you know that it means something far worse than what you’d been afraid of, coming into these woods. Much more primordial than the hide-behinds you were scared you might find this deep, much less avoidable than the faerie rings you stepped around.

Why would The Wild Hunt be here? A shudder runs down your spine, and you curl your fingers into your skirts and lift them as if to prepare to run, but you don’t. Your feet find root in the forest floor and all you can do is stand terribly still in catatonia. Their horn sounds again, and a procession of wicked whoops and howls follow. Wild hoofbeat rumbles under it all—the hunt and their rides. You hope that they’re just passing through, and you won’t so much as see one of those wild riders. There were plenty of folktales that the matrons of your village would bolster to terrify you as children, but you knew even then that their stories of the riders, with their flesh falling away from them and their pale or beady eyes and their gnarled maws and frightening figures as they rode on the backs of equally terrible steeds, were not fabricated. They are not a bogeyman or a wailing banshee; they are death made in the flesh, and they are here. In your forest.

Your legs won’t work. You curl your clammy fingers tighter around your basket and lean into the tree beside you. How deep had you wandered into the forest? Hopefully not too far; when you gain the courage to run, you hope that they do not send their hounds to snap their foul breath on your heels. Maybe just standing here and blending into the trees is best. The Hunt would love a chase, and you don’t want to become their next.

The next call comes and you throw that all to the wind. Your heart pounds against your ribcage as you let your basket clatter to the leaves and you take off. You fly over roots and shrubbery and between the trees, your blood roaring in your ears faster. You’d oblige if you could.

Above the loudness of your frantic mind, the harrowing whinnies and The Hunt’s ruckus dulls until it’s faraway again, and then it’s gone. Well, you don’t stop to check if they’ve really passed through the forest. You just run.

“There you are, love.”

His voice cuts through your frantic escape and stops you dead in your path. You almost go crashing down over the ground with the force that you dig your heels into it. Though the voice is non-threatening, you don’t turn to face the source.

He speaks again. You already know who it is. He, old as the earth you stand on itself, leads that band of wild riders. Is the king of the undead, collects souls for reaping.

And he’s the one who’s plagued you with his attention. Death.

“Why do you keep your back turned to me?” he says. “I frighten you. That hurts.” His voice lilts with amusement and sharpness. “I wish that you would face me.”

You’re not fond of the way that he speaks to you with a familiarity. But then again, you’re not fond of dying, either. Your legs are boneless beneath you. Turning, you slowly indulge him, though it takes a great amount of willpower to not run again like your jittering jaw and trembling hands ask you to.

The King of Death stands tall and utterly preternatural, leaned against a crooked tree in the woods behind you. His smile cracks across his face in a jagged way that suggests he finds you amusing, but none of that meets his eyes. They’re the color of the greyish, rotted leaves beneath you. The dark shadows beneath his eyes are the only thing belying the weight that his infinite life might have on him. That, and the hollowness that rings from him.

And though he sounded entirely playful, you are shaken by the sorrow that you find in him now that you’ve turned. Even more so, you’re not sure why you feel it echoed somewhere in the hollows of your bones. “I’m sorry,” you say. It trembles terribly. You want to say that you’re sorry you caught his attention, but it seems you’ve always had his attention. It’s more that you are petrified down to your marrow that the time’s come that you face this… strange infatuation. Here he stands: the one who leaves hollowed out husks of creatures at your doorstep. Should you run or thank him? Is Death as prideful a creature as the other kinds that inhabit Aethera? “I don’t mean to…”

He pushes off his tree, fixing his cape that cascades over only one of his shoulders. It’s tattered and falling apart like the rest of his clothing, though you think that the bronze stitching and swirling oakleaf patterns in the black say that they might have been immaculate at some point. Or maybe they weren’t, and they had started that way. He is Death, anyway. “You’re sorry?” he says. “Why are you apologizing to me? You’ve hardly done a thing to warrant it.”

Faltering, you wet your chapped lips. You’re not really sure. Holding back another apology for fear that you’ve offended him and he’ll now strike you down for it, you say, “I thought that, maybe the hunt was…” Wow, you sound stupid. You can see in the sly smile his lips form that it amuses him. That’s almost worse than angering him: intriguing him. What you really should be doing is boring him so that he’ll find you a waste of his time. Then, maybe, he’d give up haunting you.

“After you?” he finishes. Shaking his head, he says, “My hunters only answer to me.”

“Oh,” you say plainly. Part of you wants to ask why that should comfort you, especially when you’re the one that he sends little bits of death to, but rationality keeps those words in the back of your throat. You don’t really want to know. “Why are you passing by here?”

Something akin to old longing passes through those witty eyes, and then he eats up the distance between you with languid steps of his long legs until he’s nothing more than one last step in front of you. The closeness consumes the air in your lungs, leaving nothing for you but short and shallow drags. The forest has gone dead silent aside from the sound of it. His voice is even more magnetic now that he’s so close.

You recoil when he brings a hand up to brush the pad of his thumb over your cheek and then cup your jaw, as if afraid that he might snuff you out here and now. His fingers are softer than you thought they might be, and the lines of his face sharpen into what you think is hurt. Hurt that you flinched?

“We go here and there,” he says, “but it’s been a very long time since we came here.” There’s a certain thickness to his words; a certain tension coiled over them from something that you’re not privy to. And yet, there’s a farawayness, too. You bet he’s full of a lifetime of secrets. Lifetimes of secrets. “But I think I’ve found myself a reason to finally return.”

Breathy and still struggling to flatten out your breathing, you ask him, “Why?”

The Undead King’s smile turns wicked once more, and he doesn’t answer you. It’s awfully eerie.

“Do you have… business here?” you try again. It’s a roundabout way of asking, do you have someone to take away?

“I have business wherever the living go,” he says, letting your face go but not giving you any more room. You narrow your eyes. He’s quite good at non-answers. “Nothing is more certain than that I will greet every living thing eventually. I’ll come to take you, too, when the time comes.”

Your mouth dries up. The entirety of your home, all the people you’ve ever known, fear you for all the death you bring. Not one of them fears it more than you do. You’ve seen it enough to fear its frightening finality.

The drop of your face must’ve told him how much that scared you. “Dying is not such an awful thing, love. Living pales in comparison.” Searching your eyes, he adds, “But I’ve not come to take you.”

That’s easy for him to say: that death isn’t something to fear. His words don’t calm your thundering heart, but you offer him a, “Thank you…” It trails off toward the end when you realize that you don’t have his name. If he has one, anyway.

“Yeonjun.” He tilts his head, strands of sparrow hair brushing over his watching eyes. “Most don’t know it, but you’re not most people, are you?”

Your breathing had just begun evening out. It’s a shame, the way that it kicks back up at the way he looks at you. “What do you mean?” you say, but of course you know. Nobody else is given dead things like you. It’s not like you yourself are very strange; you like pretty dresses and sharing gossip with friends just as much as any other girl your age.

Giving you another one of those knowing smiles that he uses just like words, he steps back. “I’m sorry that I scare you how I do.”

You don’t answer him. What could you say to that? That he doesn’t? That would be a lie, and he would know it.

Yeonjun’s eyes flit over your face, over your cheeks made pink by the autumn cold, lingering on your lips for a few unexplainable beats, and then landing on your eyes where he searches and finds something that sends his throat bobbing with a thick swallow. “I don’t mean to be your monster. It’s only that…” He steps back again. “You remind me a terrible amount of someone I once knew.”

“Who?” Though your shoulders relax a bit with some distance between the two of you, you do your best to not let your guard down. All the stories that you recall being told, all those cautionary tales passed down through word of mouth around a fire, end with some stupid girl thinking that the monster could be changed or tricked. You’re willing to bet that the man in front of you, no matter how human he looks or how enchanting his words are, could be neither.

That doesn’t explain the ache in your chest when he holds your eyes for too long. But you shove that feeling way, way down. It’s nonsensical.

His voice takes on a parting tilt when he says, “It doesn’t matter anymore. Death takes us all.” Yeonjun dips his head at you. His smile wavers. You’d think that crooked smile on his mouth was indelible had you not seen it twitch down at the corners only for a moment. If you’d have blinked, you’d have missed it. “You think I’ll hurt you,” he says, “well, don’t let me stop you. Go ahead, run. I apologize for your basket.”

Death takes us all. You’re not sure what that’s supposed to mean, coming from him, but it sends a cold wind up your spine and goosebumps crawling over your skin.

He watches you go. You don’t look back when you do, but his gaze sits on your back until you’re sure you’re out of his sight. When you return to your home, your mother asks where the basket full of ingredients for supper went.

You imagine what her face might look like if you told her the truth. But that was impossible, so instead you tell her some stupid story about a wolf that startled you so bad that you ran home paying no mind to where your basket was. It’s close enough to the truth.

༺ ꘏ ༻

It doesn’t matter what you do; you can’t get his face out of your head. While you cut butter into flour and then roll out dough, simmer fruits over flame and you slice cheese off blocks, you replay that meeting in the forest. The memory spins and turns over no matter how hard you try to put it away from your thoughts.

It’s not every day that somebody meets the likes of him. You can’t blame yourself; he had such captivating eyes. Dark, playful, and endless. There they are again. You sigh and dust your hands off. Maybe you are just as strange as they all think that you are. Morbid curiosity is like that, though. Taking the most normal of us and making you wonder what you absolutely should not wonder about.

And you absolutely should not wonder about him.

The sun has begun to hang high in the sky, but the breeze that crawls through the window you pulled open before you got to work is a crisp one. Autumn’s really come, now. Outside the window, a huddle of children play around in the leaves that you’d raked up. You’ll have to rake those back up, but you hardly have the heart to tell them to take their playing elsewhere. Their giggles and small voices waft in with the breeze, and a traitorous part of you yearns for a family that you know you’ll never have. No man would risk that fate, not after what happened to the last man who paid you any attention. You grit your teeth at the memory.

Having a face for the thing that’s made your life the way it is is strange. Seeing him in the flesh, with handsome eyes and a taunting mouth, looking something near human, you think you’ve come to resent him for it. How dare he ruin your life? He, more than anybody, should know how fleeting life is. What is in it for him to deface what little time you have? You keep going back to that thought: why did he ever even appear to you in that forest? There is not one story in which you remember Yeonjun showing his face to those he hasn’t come to claim. Death makes his visits swift and purposeful.

Moreover, why on earth would he even look your way? You wish there was a plain way to ask him why, or even to plead with him to stop. Whatever it is he’d ask of you, you think you might give him. To get back to living, you would.

A deep, familiar voice from behind you gives you pause. “Want some help with that?” Soobin says. He stands in the doorway, his head nearly brushing the top of the frame. It’s made too small for him. Most things in your tiny village were made too small for Soobin. There had been a time where you’d been taller than him, that had hardly lasted long enough.

“As if,” you dismiss and gesture at his dirty hands. He’d no doubt been out working his family’s field, his tunic sleeves rolled up to his elbows. “Cow shit isn’t an ingredient.”

Anybody else might’ve scoffed or taken offense, but he just laughs and invites himself in anyway. It never fazes Soobin. He doesn’t let you push him away.

It’d be better if he did. How long before he ends up dead, too? Alive one moment, and then a husk without a soul next. You don’t think you could handle seeing cold, dead eyes where the annoying, warm shine should be. Of course it would be better if he stayed away, if he had half the mind to. Even most of the children have heard enough from their mothers to stay a healthy distance. He’s not too much better than a child, though.

“Isn’t it?” he says. His cheek is smudged with whatever sort of dirt he’s got on his hands and under his nails. “I’m done with work for the day. Want to go out to the field?”

You two have always ran off and avoided your life in between willowy, flaxen wheat stocks. They were just tall enough at this time of year to hide you away. But, for some reason, your stomach does a quick flip at the thought of being outside. It’s silly; couldn’t he find you here, too? “I’m busy,” you say. You’d already kneaded this roll of dough plenty, but you dig your fingers into it and begin again.

“Busy?” he scoffs, “Since when are you too busy to get away from work?”

Gritting your teeth, you let the sounds of your kneading answer. Now, more than ever, he should keep his distance. You know one thing that you’re sure nobody else does: Death’s come to visit.

His brows shoot up in your peripherals. “I don’t get answers today?”

“I’m sorry,” you say, giving up working the over-kneaded dough only because your arms ache. “Why don’t you go talk off the ear of some other poor village girl? I’ve heard as much as I can handle today. And then when that one’s tired, you can bother the next, I’m sure.” You soften the words with a quick smile his way. No matter how many times you say something sour in hopes that it’ll send him away, as soon as you glance up at his face, you reel it in.

His company is all you’ve ever had. The least you can do for him is make sure he doesn’t end up like carrion, even if he chooses to take that risk himself. You don’t know why he does.

Voice playful, he says, “I’m glad to hear that you believe I’ve got ladies falling at my feet, but I’d rather not annoy a pretty girl, so you’re my only option.” He pokes at the sleeve of your simple cotton dress. “Should I drag you out of here? Don’t your arms hurt doing all that?”

“Oh, you are a refined man, aren’t you?” you say, shuffling out of his reach. Damn him, he makes it difficult. “Well, I am a pretty girl, so you should take yourself elsewhere.”

Soobin smiles easy. “I’m bored out of my mind. You’re just going to let me suffer?”

“That’s not my issue.”

“I’d argue that it is,” he says. “Come on. Why are you giving me a cold shoulder?” Leaning, he tries to get a look at your face. “Did I upset you? I wasn’t aware that you cared much about what I thought.” When you spare him a sharp glance, he says, “I think you are very, very beautiful. Would you stop ignoring me, now?”

You wish you could fall into the easy banter that comes with being around Soobin, but you can’t. You can’t let him be around you. “Soobin, stop it,” you say, draining your voice. You don’t look at him while you say it.

Going quiet, he seems to notice that today’s different. His gaze is heavy as he stares at you for a few long moments. Crossing his arms over his chest, he asks, “What happened?”

You swallow. “Nothing. I’m just doing something.”

“Oh, alright,” he says, tone inflicting in a way that says he doesn’t believe you one bit. He pushes off the counter. “I’ve put up with you pushing me away for years. You think I don’t know what you’re doing?”

“Soobin,” you warn. If you look at him, you fear you’ll be forced to watch the only one who never cared much what a risk it was being around you leaving. So you don’t.

Your friend raises his hands in the air defensively. “Okay, then.” He makes for the doorway with languid, lingering steps. As if he doesn’t want to leave. “Tomorrow..”

That’s both a threat and a promise, knowing him. Sighing and watching the rowan tree out your window sway, you bid him a curt goodbye.

If only that jerk took offense to things. It would make things an awful lot easier for you.

༺ ꘏ ༻

Being out in the wheat fields brings you peace when you’re alone, but you find it to be terribly lonely. The earthy, sweet scent of it wraps around you, and the stalks whisper against each other in a soothing way.

When you look beside you, the patch of wheat imprinted with the shape of your bodies is empty on his side. You are quite weak; it makes you want to go knocking at his door for his company. But that would be the selfish thing to do, so you card your fingers between the golden straw instead.

A chill trickles down your spine. You feel his presence before you even see him; it’s a feeling that you used to get fleetingly, as if something far away was tugging at you. But then he became real, a living thing in front of you that can touch, and that is much different.

“Why is it that I always find you out in the wilderness?” Yeonjun says. His voice comes from behind you.

Has he been watching you? You stand and dust your bottom off, heart kicking to life. “It’s nice out here,” you say. In truth, you haven’t come outside since that day. You’ve dodged Soobin and made a million excuses as to why you won’t go anywhere past the fences of your home. “I like to… watch people go about their days. It’s interesting.” It’s true—you always watch from afar how the village folk interact. How groups of girls your age link arms and whisper to each other, how neighbors come together to fix up a shoddy fence. You watch them be a community that you are not a part of. Watching it tastes bitter sometimes, but mostly you take pleasure in imagining yourself there with them. You’re not sure why you try making small talk with him, but what else? Should you go running again? If you were to listen to your pattering heart, maybe that’s what you’d do. He’s hardly shown you any bad will, though, and he’s the one that’s come to you. Maybe it’s silly to wait until something bad happens to be cautious.

A thousand pounds in stones sit at the center of your chest, though, and his voice makes them feel lighter. Why on earth that is, you’re not sure. It’s a nice relief regardless.

He smiles. It's different from the ones he showed you before. It’s knowing; more sweet than cracking over his face like the smile you would expect from the likes of him. What use might he have in being sweet? “Could I join you?”

Blinking dumbly at him for a second, you nod. “Oh, uh… Yeah.” Settling back down into your spot, you spare him a few curious sideways glances.

The breeze billows over the gold stems, moving them like gentle waves over the ocean and blowing your hair in it too. The flattened bits rustle under his weight. He doesn’t even turn his face toward the village; instantly, his gravitational eyes are on you.

“Do you come here often?”

“I do,” you answer. Mostly when you and Soobin have too much to do and not enough will to do it. “It’s nice. The village doesn’t like me much, so it’s easier out here.” You don’t mention that mostly you don’t come here alone.

Yeonjun’s face becomes far away. It looks strikingly like somebody forced into an old, unpleasant memory. “Don’t like you?” he asks, “What reason would they have for that?”

“They fear me. Things go wrong around me, that’s all.” You pluck at the hay absentmindedly. “Things die. They’re smart to stay away.”

The hay whispers much louder for the long moment he remains quiet, digesting what you’ve said. Maybe deciding what to say, considering that it’s his fault.

“Die?” he asks, voice inflected with surprise.

Turning to him, your brow creases. Shouldn’t he know? He’s the one that’s done it to you. “Everything that gets too close ends up dead. Everything,” you say, resting your temple on your knee. “So, I guess, I just keep it all at arm’s length.” You look back at your tiny village, a collection of familiar, un-familiar thatch-roof homes.

Continuing to blink at you, his eyes narrowed in a strange grimace, Yeonjun says, “Death follows me, too.”

What? A laugh of disbelief bubbles up in your chest. Of course, death follows him. You cover your mouth with a hand to obscure your laugh, but you just giggle at him harder.

A laugh twitches at the corners of his mouth, too. “I mean it,” he says. The lines of his face become distant again, eyes both trained on your face and melancholic as if the sight reminds him of something.

It ignites a question in your mind about something he said in the forest. “You said that I reminded you of somebody,” you say, testing the waters. “Who?”

A muscle feathers in his jaw. He looks away, as if he can’t look at you while he says it. “I loved a girl from this village once. When I was human, no less than you.”

You falter, mouth falling open to ask all the questions that flurry through your thoughts. You settle on one. “You were human?”

“I was,” he says ruefully. “And I had everything. I had the love of my life. I think that even the most bitter of creatures on this island had envy for our love. She would braid dandelions into my hair, and then I’d braid them into hers.” He swallows thickly and pauses, as if the wound was still festering and fresh. “And then she died. She died starting our family. She died because of me, in my arms.”

You don’t know what to say, so you just look into his shining eyes as if that’ll help. You’re not very useful with people, much less comforting them.

“I couldn’t accept that. I wouldn’t. So I went where I shouldn’t have gone, and angered something much bigger than myself. They thought it would be a fitting punishment for me to live an eternity, the King of Death who could not bring back his dead lover.” The harrowed look that he gives you, only briefly, has your chest heavy all over again. “They have a sense of humor, the forces.”

You imagine what it would’ve been like for him to lose his lover in that way. How far he’d gone to try and have her back, but death does not give back. Where had he gone to have been turned into this? An immortal thing, forced to roam the world and scoop up the souls of the living for an eternity? To be bound in ancient bones and made to remember forever how you had lost your lover?

The grandness of what you want to say is too big, but all those words feel pitying and patronizing in a way that you don’t think will actually bring him any comfort. Rather, you doubt anything you say will be able to patch up a wound older than you could imagine. Simply, you offer him a raw, “I’m so sorry.”

Yeonjun lets a crooked smile replace the trembling at his lips. “As long as I live, so too will she,” he says, placing his palm over his heart. “Death doesn’t so much happen when we leave behind our bodies, but when we’ve left the minds of the living.” Narrowing his eyes at you, he brushes hair behind your ear with his knuckles. “I know she lives on, somewhere out there. Somewhere. I’ll find her.”

That intrigues you. “Is there some way that you could bring her back?”

The grim light in his eyes tells you his answer. “My curse is to take life,” he says, “not to give it. But the one who made me this, he is cruel in a twisted way. If I were to find her, as a human or an animal or a blade of grass in the forest, only then could I rest.”

It is cruel. “You’ve been searching, then,” you conclude. “When you find her, you’ll both be able to rest.” But how could he find her, if as he says, she could be any living thing? Where would he even begin?

Slowly, he shakes his head, throat bobbing. “Death needs a farrier.”

She would become what he is. You swallow thickly. Was it not him who caused the deaths that follow you? Or, at least, it was not on purpose?

Opening your mouth, you go to tell him that you’ll help him look. You’re sure you’ll be of no help. He’s spent an immortal lifetime searching, and he still hasn’t found his dead lover. Nobody would know better than him where to look.

The ground shakes beneath your palms with impact, and something cuts through the wheat. The noise of its bleating becomes nearer until the both of you scramble up to find out what’s in such distress.

A deer stumbles around wildly. It looks lame, but you don’t see anything wrong with its legs. Your throat tightens at the awful sound, piercing and sad. Frozen, you watch it try to stay upright before it finally collapses down, legs still kicking as though it still wants to run but its body has begun weakening on it. “Oh my god,” you say, stumbling back. The sounds; its sounds are awful, echoing in your bones and constricting your thoughts until they’re a pinched panic.

There’s an arrow lodged into its ribcage, deep and at a terrible angle. You already know that it’s pierced some vital organs, if not its heart. It continues to writhe on the ground, not ready to give up. You’re not sure if you should approach it—you don’t want to scare it, and you can tell by the look in its wet eyes that it already wants to be away from you.

Or, maybe it had come to you. How else had it found the two of you in the middle of this field?

Yeonjun’s already on it. He puts his knees into the dirt and dried wheat to kneel by it, running his hand over the beast's pelt in long strokes. The small buck flinches at first but relaxes once he learns that his touches are gentle, not the gnashing of hungry teeth ready to make him a meal.

Blood runs like lead through your veins. You say, “Can we help it?”

He shakes his head. “He’ll die.”

Whip-lashed, you swallow thickly. He says it so unphased, and you’re sure he is. You can hardly make yourself mirror that serenity that he exudes as he runs his hand over its flank, but you get on the ground beside him anyway.

The buck’s breaths slow to desperate drags for breath. For a few long minutes, the two of you sit in silence and stay with him until he no longer fights, until his breaths are ragged. You feel his side, still warm and alive, but you see the life going from his eyes. You sit here, talking to each other about nothing just so it hears gentle voices as it goes, for a while.

Eventually, he’s gone. Quiet and at peace, no longer hurting. This time, when you look over to Yeonjun who still smooths over the deer’s skin even as he goes, guiding him delicately into whatever greets us when we go, you see death as a gentle thing.

༺ ꘏ ༻

Though you never seek him out, Yeonjun always finds you. In hidden places, away from prying eyes, he appears behind you and makes himself known. Well, you have a feeling that he watches you for a while before saying anything. It’s hard not to feel the strange tingling of his gaze over your form. It’s akin to the sixth sense that’s supposed to keep you safe out in the dark hearts of forests, an innate feeling that tells you some beast with a rotten, pale maw watches you between the trees.

Yeonjun doesn’t feel rotten, though, preternatural and eerie as he is. As you shirk your duties and talk with him for hours, you stare into ancient eyes and watch his crooked mouth move around his words and you feel an odd comfort. As if he’s the only one who’s ever understood you, or maybe that your strangeness pales beside him and for once you’re nothing but who you are. So many nights, the sun fell on your talking until the night insects buzzed from the grasses and your eyes were heavy.

Sometimes, as you dozed off with your back to a hay bale or a hardwood wall of the abandoned home beside yours with its sagging thatched roof, you caught such festering longing in his his eyes that you’d let your lashes fall and pretend to sleep so that you could imagine what it was that he longed for. No doubt his lost lover. When you imagine him, bound in bones and coming back to haunt the living for an eternity as he mourns her infinitely, searching for her in impossible places, your chest aches with a gnawing intensity.

It’s a terrible, cursed existence. Even the nothingness of death becomes a paradise beside it.

“Is it scary?” you ask into the air, sat criss-crossed on the thick duvet of the bed. He sits across from you, looking perfectly lazy. Moonlight pools in like sterling mist through the shutters.

“What?” He watches you, sitting in your plain dress, as though you’re the only thing in the world.

You’ve begun to wonder. Wonder about those looks he gives you.

Shifting, you fix the shoulder of your soft chemise where it’s slipped down when you catch his eyes lingering on it. His throat bobs. “Dying,” you elaborate. “Is it really nothing? After we go, all of it was for nothing?”

A slow smile tugs his full lips, made a bit red in the middle where he likes to worry it. It’s such a human habit to see on something so far from human. “Hardly,” he says. “It’s like going home, right where your soul is supposed to be. Who do you think rides with me?”

Furrowing your brows, you tilt your head toward one shoulder and let your hair pool there. “The riders are dead?” You had thought they were undead in some way like Yeonjun, other sorts of revenants come back to life with their own purposes. Then, are their creepy horses dead, too? A chill goes down your arms. Sometimes, sitting here with him when his face is made soft by the orange glow of the fire he puts on, you forget what he is.

“They are.” He nods, leaned back onto his elbows, his eyes alight with a hunger that makes your insides feel funny. “It doesn’t stop once we’ve died. You don’t need to be scared, my love. So many things end, but then so many things begin. The earth no longer holds you down, the weight of being is gone. You don’t know anything like it; you don’t know leaving behind the pleasures of earth to know the ones that only the afterlife can show you.”

His eyes laced with something entirely else, he adds, “And it’s not the end. Not for everything. For some it’s only the beginning, and for others, those who have not yet fulfilled their purpose, they come back to the flesh. They return.”

You can’t tell if he means himself, or something else. The weight in his eyes, dark, endlessly swirling pools, makes you wonder again why it is that he’s lingering here: the place that he had not visited once since the death of his lover, for the fact that it still hurts too much. Why his shadow of death, his fault or not, was tangled in your soul enough to brush its fingers over the things around you.

“It’s scary,” you say, breathy. The thought of eternity.

Soft hairs brush over his eyes as he tilts his head at you. “Do I scare you?”

“No.”

“No?” he echos, pushing himself up so that he leans back onto his palms. “Isn’t that strange? Pretty little thing says she’s not afraid of death, but her heart races when I’m near. Her sweet heart jumps at just the brush of my leg. Are you sure you’re telling me the truth, love?”

Your blood roars in your veins, inflaming your cheeks and making your head dizzy. Nobody’s ever looked at you like that before. Hair prickles on your skin. “Yes,” you breathe.

Feral delight sparks in his eyes, black as pitch. His smile turns up all feline at the crooked corners. “Crawl to me, then.”

Like how fire licks up oxygen in any room it is in, his words steal the breath right from your lungs. What does he think you are? You blink at him wide-eyed and dumb for a moment.

How can he say that as though it were nothing? Moreover, how does the ravenous flare in his eyes, his head tilted back as he watches you down his nose expectantly, do that to your belly?

Your mind glazes over with something thick and heady, and you damn the nerves in your belly and begin to crawl from your end of the bed to his. His tongue darts out to wet his lips, making sure you feel every inch of the taunt in his eyes as he trains them on you. When you’ve gotten to him through the thickness in the air, you settle into his lap and bracket his waist with your thighs.

Yeonjun takes the soft fat of your hips in his fingers. “Fuck,” he says. It sounds like he’s barely holding the gates on something endlessly consuming. Something that might break loose on the two of you, and leave you changed forever with its hungry, gnashing teeth. His head hits your collarbone. “Tell me to stop. Please, tell me to go. Because I don’t know how.”

“Don’t,” you say. “Don’t stop. I want it, Yeonjun. I want this.”

He straightens, pupils blown and eyes as tense as his set jaw. “No, you don’t understand what you’re asking for. All I’ve ever done is ruin. All I’ll ever do is ruin. I won’t ruin you; not again.”

That rings bells somewhere outside the heavy fog that’s infiltrated your mind, but they don’t sound too alarming when he looks as though he wants to drag his teeth over your heart to taste its beating. It doesn’t touch the ground, when you want him to, so badly. So badly that you taste it on your tongue and it tinges your words as you tell him, “I do know what I’m asking for. I want you. Yeonjun. Don’t you want me too?” Voice and confidence wavering, you pull back. Maybe you’ve read this all wrong. A tickling shame crawls over your skull. “Do you not want me?”

“You think I don’t want you?” he says, straightening up and meeting your gaze. His breath is hot on your mouth. “I want you so fucking bad. You are in the marrow of my bones. Fuck, I have done nothing but want you, but I am foul. I will only hurt you.”

He takes your hand and places it over his chest, where a heart should be. Beneath your palm, you do not feel the thumping of an alive thing. Yeonjun has no heart. You knit your brows and examine the strain of his features. Does he think that you’ll be disgusted? Maybe the girl you were in that forest might’ve been, but being near Yeonjun has changed you in ways you couldn’t start to put your finger on. “I’m asking you to,” you say. “Show me what you want to do to me. What you’ve wanted to do to me.”

Searing silence burns between you as he drinks that in, and then he shoves you onto your back. Supporting himself with an arm beside your head, he curls his fingers into your hip and nudges your thighs wider. He doesn’t lift the hem of your chemise like you expect him to. No—Yeonjun begins to grind himself into your cunt through all the layers of your clothes. Though your dress is bunched up and his pants lay between any real contact, Yeonjun’s hard and that friction tastes fleetingly sweet.

“I want you to beg me for it,” he says, grinning down at you with cruel intention. “Beg me, and make it so pretty.”

You let little sounds linger in that back of your throat and become hungrier each time he grinds against you. It’s so much, mind swimming and sparks spraying up your spine, and yet each time it is not near enough. Damn that foxish smile on his face; you beg for him anyway. “Yeonjun,” you breathe, curling your fingers around the wrist of that hand with which he pins your hip. “P…lease, will you help me? It feels so good; I want more, please.”

He raises his eyebrows at you and an eager grind comes right over your throbbing clit.

You know he wants more than that, but mortification already is making your voice unsteady and your cheeks burn. “Yeonjun,” you huff, hips wiggling.

The king of the undead delights fully in your shame and rewards you with more of those pointed, dry grinds. Your legs tremble; he’s giving you so little, and yet your need takes it and magnifies it into something grand.

Though he pretends he’s on some high ground, you hear his shuddering breaths each time his fucks his hips against you. He feels that roiling, liquid need in his belly just as vehemently as you do. The room fills with your breathy pants and grinding bodies. You catch your lip in your teeth and begin to meet him half-way. Your moans are low and sweet, and each one sends his jaw tighter.

You twist and grind against each other like fumbling teens until you’re coiled up so tight that he has to pull himself away. Your throbbing cunt protests, but you know he doesn’t want you cumming like this.

“You want me to show you what I’ve wanted to do to you?” he says, working at his pants. His eyes are so drunk on you, and his cheeks betray his state. “Open your legs, my love. Let me show you a little death.”

Throat gone dry, you slowly let your thighs fall open. The dull throbbing between your thighs roars to life. He slides your skirt up your leg, stopping when he frees your knee to pepper a few hot kisses into it. Once he’s got it bunched up at your ribcage, he runs his tongue over his dry lips to wet them. “Fuck. Such a pretty pussy. I want to fucking eat you up.”

“Yeonjun,” you whine. His name is all you can muster out, anticipation sharpened to a knife point.

Flashing his teeth, he purrs, “You like that, you filthy thing. I bet you’d like for me to fuck you till your brain’s gone and all that’s left is my name. Isn’t that right? Is that what you want?”

Your thoughts stall and you nod, making your mouth into a filthy pout. God, how you want that. Maybe he’s right about you being filthy. Coming from him, it sounds like a delicious thing to be.

The pretty, leaking tip of his cock brushes your clit as he slides it up and down your slit to collect the mess there. Your thighs jump to close before your mind gets the better of it. He does this a few times—up and down, letting you feel and get used to the size and length of him all the way till his cockhead kisses your clit and you squeak.

“Are you comfortable, love?” he asks, shifting your hips with strong hands. “Do you need anything from me?”

It’s so at odds with his other, nastier words. Your head spins, the moonlight blurring. “I’m okay,” you tell him. “I… just want you. Want you to put it in, want to feel you.”

His cock catches on your hole, and he begins to push forward with promising pressure. But then he pulls back, smiling downturned. You whine; why can’t he save his capriciousness for later? You’d almost had it…

“I could give it to you, or I could not…” He hums. “Wouldn’t that be so cruel of me? To leave you wanting?”

You flutter around nothing. Every inch of your body buzzes. Alive. You are more alive now, at the promise of Death’s touch, than ever before. The irony might be something to wonder about if you weren’t dribbling down onto the bed sheets with crude need. “Stop it,” you say. Your voice is whiny. You’re glad you can hardly hear yourself past the pounding in your bloodstream.

That delights the King of Death. He wrinkles his nose at you, burning you alive with his eyes as he presses his palm to your belly and guides himself into you with his free hand. You wrap around each inch of him slowly. The air between you bows under the weight of your gazes; he holds your eyes the whole way, inch by inch until he’s seated fully into you with his groin flush to your body. He stretches you to fit, and yet it’s just right. You could ask for no more or no less; you might even think your body was made for him, were you not too busy circling your hips to feel him.

“Good?” he says, squeezing your hip. “Do you need a moment?”

Pursing your lips, you test out the shape of him with another wiggle. “Maybe… Maybe a second.” Truth be told, you need a moment to grapple with the sparks sprinkling over your mind more than you need a moment to adjust to his stretch. You let out a shuddering breath.

He traces circles into your belly, just beneath your navel. The pad of his thumb goes round and round, warm on your flesh. “As long as you need,” he says, but it’s more like a triumphant, playful coo. There’s that lopsided smirk. One day, you’d like to kiss it off him. Taking that hypnotizing finger, Yeonjun trails it up your stomach, over your ribcage. He hooks it beneath your dress and drags it higher, revealing the soft swells of your breasts to the air. You shudder, body so, so hot that your nipples peak and tighten against the cool air.

“Such pretty tits,” he says, brushing his knuckle up the underside of one. “Everything about you. Such a pretty, pretty body. God, I don’t know if I want to worship it or ruin it.” His breaths fan over your skin as he bends down and pops an eager nipple into his mouth, lavishing it before releasing it with a lewd pop and letting his mouth fall all over your breast. Lick here, nip there, until you’re squirming adequately and squeezing him like a virgin. Then he blows cool air over it and watches with eyes like a cat toying with its prey as you shudder harder, your chest jumping. “Fucking look at you,” he sneers.

“Junnie,” you say, lost for breath. You think you’ve walked yourself into the lion’s den.

His breathy laughs fall over your breast. Taking his teeth, he drags them over your skin, right over where your heart thunders a rhythm fully for him, and then he bites. Nothing more than a shallow mark, the shape of his teeth in your soft tit. He lingers there, admiring the sight before he straightens himself up again.

“Fine.” He pulls out of you slowly, but you know what comes after that, so you savor every second of it. “I suppose you’ve wanted after it long enough. Let me hear your sweet voice again, my love.”

Yeonjun fucks you just right. His cock nudges right up on your sweet spot as if he’s done this before. Like he knows where to find it. You gasp and whine—you’re just happy he’s finally giving you something.

“Oh, fuck,” you mewl. His shoulders wear the red crescent marks of your nails. “That’s—so good right there.”

Ever egotistical and cocky, he croons, “Yeah?” Rolling himself back, he makes it his mission to hit it ruthlessly.

A sharp, pitchy sound comes tumbling past your lips. You bring your hand up over your mouth, letting your eyelids dust your burning cheeks so that you can brave the flipping in your spine and deep in your belly. It’s nearly insufferable—the way pleasure licks up your spine, how it spreads out into your veins and takes control of you.

“No,” Yeonjun growls. “Don’t you dare close your eyes. Let me see that look in your eyes when you cum.”

Your eyes are heavier than they’ve ever been, but you open them. The sight that greets you is worth the effort. Yeonjun’s lip twitches and then he throws his head back, the column of his neck on display as his Adam's apple jumps around a thick swallow.

If that sight wasn’t enough to send you teetering down into whatever depths of lust and ecstasy that he crawled out from, then the angle he hits as he pushes one of your thighs to your chest is. The world frays, deep tremors starting at one small point in your cunt and then exploding up through your stomach and down the back of your thighs. Your chest arches off the bed and you mewl helplessly, fighting and embracing your orgasm in an intoxicating death.

“Oh, fuck,” Yeonjun growls, strained with something whinier as he watches you shake beneath him. “Fuck. I’m gonna—fuck, I’m gonna cum…” His voice chokes as his hips become stuttered more than pointed, the slick sounds of your own release tangling up with his grunts and pants until he shudders and stills, cumming into your puffy, fluttering cunt.

You both catch your breaths as if there’s no air in the room left for a while. His hair’s damp on his forehead, as is yours on your neck, and his eyes droop lazily. More lazy and content than you’ve ever seen him.

Collecting you to his chest, where only your heart thumps away frantically, he presses his mouth to your ear and says, “Do you think death is so scary now?”

With your limbs nothing more than boneless and liquid pleasure floating slowly through your thoughts, you smile.

A little death can be more visceral than living, you think.

༺ ꘏ ༻

The tree stump beneath you makes your tailbone ache. You sit criss-crossed, watching Soobin work away at the soil and tend to that section of the fence that’s begun to rot and sag. Your mouth moves endlessly, filling the space that would otherwise just be made up of his grunts of hard work.

“You know, you ought to help me if you’re just going to sit and watch,” he says, straightening to swipe at his forehead, sweaty despite the cold in the air.

“Totally improper,” you say, smiling at him cheekily. “Are you saying that you can’t handle yourself, strong man?”

He glares at you with the venom only somebody made to put up with hours of chatter could muster. “What’s got you so talkative?” he says.

You know he means why you’re suddenly not glaring him away. You can’t tell him that you’ve spoken with Death himself, so instead you say, “Nothing.” Letting your legs dangle down, you smile at him.

Yeonjun hadn’t done any of it. It’s a comfort, to some degrees, to know that. It’s not your fault that they died. Being around them, being around Soobin, won’t make them turn up dead. The rest of them still don’t know that—and they wouldn’t believe it, anyway—but the black shadow hanging over your shoulders dissipates.

For the first time in so, so long, you do not feel marked by death.

“Sure.” His smile tilts. “A week ago, you wouldn’t even look at me.”

Rolling your eyes, you decide to give him a hard time. “Not true. You just have a way of getting on my nerves.”

“I take pride in that.”

“Take pride in what? Being insufferable?”

Crinkling his nose, he says, “Knowing how to bother you best.”

“Get back to work, stupid.” Your heart soars. It’s good to have friends. To let yourself have friends is an ever better thing. Is this how it is? To be with others and not feel like their burden, or like they’re crossing their fingers behind their back to ward off whatever bad things you might bring onto them? He’s made it his mission to hover around you no matter what, but this feels different.

Maybe, for so long, part of it has been your own gloom that��s obscured it all. Maybe if you didn’t bare your teeth to anybody who got too close, it could’ve been like this always. You hate to think that your own isolation could be some part your own fault. But how were you not to show your teeth when someone tried to reach their hand out to you?

It doesn’t matter now. You shove that all down and let yourself feel the slight warmth of the sun’s glow on your skin where it peeks through the clouds. It’s a nice day, you shouldn’t ruin it with those thoughts.

The sun’s begun making its descent when Soobin’s done. He takes a long drink of water, hissing with relief and crumpling down to the ground with his back to your stump.

“Are you making any way with that girl you were talking to me about?” you prompt.

Giving you a long look over his shoulder, he says, “Don’t.”

“What?” You laugh a little, raising your brows down at him. “I’m not doing anything.”

“You know what you’re doing,” he says, voice flat as he picks stickers out of his fingers.

Soobin’s had a thousand different crushes. There was that daughter of the shepherd, and then the wealthy merchant’s daughter and her long pretty hair, and then the neighbor… Well, you could go on. None of them ever really came to fruition for the poor guy. He thinks that it’s because he’s a poor farmer’s son, but you always tell him that it’s because he’s got an insistent mouth, and that he should be more grateful that you deal with him. Your lips turn up at the corners a little thinking about it—he’ll find the one eventually, but you like the indignant look on his face when you say it.

“I mean it!” you say, nudging him with your leg. “Tell me. I want to know.”

“You won’t even tell me what’s happening with you. Until one of us quits keeping secrets,” he says, placing accusation heavy over the words, “I’ll keep my dealings to myself. What’s it to you, anyway?”

Feeling the weight of his head as he lets it loll lazily against your thigh, you decide that it couldn’t hurt to tell him. The itch to tell somebody crawls under your skin. Especially to tell him. “You know the other day? When I was… being awful?”

His body shakes with a vindicated laugh. “If you’re nothing else, at least you’re self-aware.”

You skirt around that with your own, more awkward, laugh. It’s nice that he thinks so, but you don’t feel it. “Stop,” you huff and nudge him again. “I was foraging out where I usually go. But I guess I wandered out farther than I thought I did. You remember when they used to tell us stories, right? Like the bogeyman. That he’d come snatch us up if we didn’t listen.” Your mom especially had loved that one, back when she cared what became of you. Would she care again, if you told her that everything was fine? “Well, I don’t know if you remember the one about The Wild Hunt, but… Anyway, I was picking some stuff, and…”

Sitting up from his exhausted slouch, Soobin looks like he’s suddenly come back to life. “What?” he interrupts. His voice is strangely serious.

“What?” you say, brow creasing. “They travel here and there… but they were here. In the woods. Like, I heard them.”

Tersely, he asks, “What were you doing that deep in the woods?”

“I mean, I just kept on finding nice stuff until I just… was deeper.” You survey him. You hadn’t thought that he’d react like this. “So I ran, and then there was this guy,” you say, watching realization fall over his face. He knew those stories as much as you do—knew where you were going with this. He is as starkly superstitious as the rest of your people, you forgot. Pushing past the grimace on his face, you say, “And I knew that he was the king. The one from the stories. It was so weird; it’s like you can feel it. And I spoke to him, and then…”

Stood up now, he cuts you off once more. “Are you kidding?”

“Why are you being like that?” you say, messing with your skirts to quell the defensive bite in your tone. “I didn’t do anything.”

“You didn’t do anything? Are you trying to get killed?” He throws up his hard-working hands. “We have rules for a reason. Don’t go out into the forest, don’t make deals with faeries, don’t follow a banshee scream. And then you go and talk to the king of death? How am I not supposed to be upset about that? You know that…” Soobin blinks a few times as if second-guessing what he’s about to say, but he says it anyway. “You know that he’s the reason that they treat you how they do. You know that he’s the one who ruined your life. Why would you ever mess with that?”

You push yourself up from the ground, eyes burning. That stings like a cut. “He didn’t do it. None of it is his fault,” you say, furrowing your brows. “What are you trying to say, Soobin? Just say what you want to say. Come on.”

“He didn’t do anything?” He scoffs, letting a heavy silence hang suspended in the air for a moment before saying, “Is that what he told you? And you just believed it? Listen to yourself, does that make any sense? He’s played with your life like it’s some fucking toy, and now he’s come to rub it in your face. Think about it: do animals just fly into anybody else’s windows and die? Do the trees that they pick from just end up dead? It’s his fault that they all treat you the way you do.”

Mouth opening and closing, you don’t know what to say.

He sees the hurt in your burning eyes and tries to reel it back in. “What I’m trying to say is—”

“I know what you’re saying,” you say, grabbing up the lunch you’ve been nibbling on. “I know exactly what you’re saying. I just never thought you’d say it out loud.”

“Say what?” Soobin says, his voice raising behind you as you storm off.

That you think it’s my fault, you want to say. That they all die because I am a plague, and you are a charity worker for being my friend. Instead, you just leave and try to choke down the tightness in your throat.

༺ ꘏ ༻

You curl your arms around yourself, the night biting cold. Yeonjun had dragged you from bed, and who knows what hour of the night it is? If the heaviness beneath your eyes is to judge it by, it’s far too deep in the dead of night to be outside with your boots half-laced and nothing but your sleep chemise on.

You might’ve just stayed wrapped up in your blankets if you weren’t so lonely as you’ve been. Soobin’s been scarce. The most you see of him is in the fields from morning to afternoons. You hope that he’ll stop by your doorstep and knock so that you can groan about it but swing the door open anyway each time, but he doesn’t. He thinks that you won’t want to see him, and so he allows you your space.

That couldn’t be further from the truth. It’s hard to be the one to come back after a conversation like that, though. You watch him from the windows and hope he understands at some point instead. It’s an awful lot easier.

Other than preparing meals and window watching, you’ve been up to nothing much at all. You hadn’t realized how much you had, but you feel him in his absence.

“It’s cold…” you say. The fog of breath that punctuates it makes your point. Whatever he’s brought you out here for, you have no doubt it’ll be something strange. The grin on his face tells you as much.

Leading the way, he heads for the Darkwood. “Only you would come rushing out without a cloak for your shoulders.”

“Well, only you would drag me from my nice, warm bed at this time of night. For what?”

“Can’t anything be a surprise with you?” he says, shooting you a cheeky glance over his shoulder. “Surprises are fun.”

“Surprises!” you say, working your legs to catch him. “Not surprises that involve you bringing me out into the woods. You know, it’s awfully suspicious. Somebody who sees this might think that I am the type to… sneak out with men.”

“Aren’t you now?”

Your lips tug down. “You know what I mean.”

He laughs in his airy way, a twig snapping under his foot. You’re well in the woods, now. Probably somewhere near where you’d first met him.

Lifting a brow, you look at him expectantly. Maybe a will-o’-the-wisp will come floating through with its light bouncing off the trees. That would be a nice surprise, you admit.

Yeonjun circles you. His presence behind you tingles in the way it always does, but true chills erupt when his breath puffs against your ear. “Close your eyes. I have something I want to show you.”

Your mind wanders back to what Soobin had gotten so twisted up about. It might be naive and reckless and against everything you ever learned, but you let your eyes fall shut to blackness. If he was going to hurt you, you imagine he’d have had that opportunity a mind-numbing amount of times before.

“Are they shut?” he asks, waiting for your nod. His voice comes from in front of you now. “I want you to keep them shut. You can’t open your eyes, or it will all go away. Okay?”

“Okay,” you breathe, mind full of a bounty of questions. You don’t even know where to begin to assume what he’s got going on, so you stand there shifting your antsy feet.

There’s a strange, rustling sound that catches you off guard with your eyes closed. It drags on for a long moment. Curiosity pries at your eyes; you want nothing more than to just crack an eye open to spy the source of the ruckus.

It’ll be gone if you do, anyway.

You let out a surprised squeak as something rises up beneath you, as if risen from nothing more than the dirt and roots of the forest floor, bringing you up from the earth. You wobble and send your hands out to find a perch.

A horse. It’s a horse, its mane so tangled and windswept, but matted and clumped with leaves that crunch under your palm when you find them. It reeks of mud—everything around you begins to smell of earth and decomposition.

You know that if you open your eyes, you’ll find yourself sat upon the pale white steed of the Undead King, its eyes white and its knobby knees almost as famous as the leader of The Hunt himself. It chuffs beneath you.

“Are you ready?” Yeonjun says over your shoulder. You can hear the feral grin in his voice. It’s the leader of The Hunt, a creature of folklore, that sits behind you now. He curls an arm around your waist and tugs you closer to him, securing you against the wall of his chest. “Hold on tight, my love.”

The call of the wild, that horn, bellows again like it had the first time you heard it. Rather than coming from nearby as you thought it would, it dances between trees far off just like it had that time, too. Your heart jumps up into your throat.

Taking off with a howl, the Wild Hunt follows it.

You dig your fingers into Yeonjun’s at your waist. Weight melts away, and you know you’re in the air. Your belly swoops in tandem with the howls and hoots of the riders, heart palpitating to the hoofbeats. How there’s hoofbeats as you ride through the air, you’re not sure. The ghostly fleet manifests around you in vivid imagery, though you squeeze your eyes shut. They are wild enough to imagine just what they might look like: with their clothes and flesh in tatters, with their eyes beady or pale, with their hounds piercing the air with their calls and running alongside them, they are a perfect personification of freedom.

Whip-lash sends you reeling, body going rigid. You grit your teeth and squeeze your eyes harder, wishing that you’ll touch ground soon and that everything would become real again.

Yeonjun feels you go stiff. Bringing his head back to your shoulder from his own delight, he says, “It’s okay. You’re okay. Let it into your bones. Do you think I would let it hurt you?”

He is their leader. If it got too much, you know Yeonjun would be there to catch you. Curling your fingers into his, you release that tension and allow their drumbeat to echo through you.

And when it does, your blood begins to sing along. The wind whips your cheeks and your hair, and you begin to laugh with them. The Hunt twists and turns and dances through the air, an apparition in the night, but nothing more than that.

It comes to a slow, eventually, until the noise and even your steed crumbles back down into the dirt it appeared from. Your eyes pop open hoping to catch at least a glimpse of them, but only the dark forest and pale moonlight answer. Your legs threaten to give out on you, veins still thrumming, but, oh, do you feel alive.

You feel more alive than you ever have, more than you ever could have hoped to have known. Mind spinning, you stumble. Yeonjun catches and steadies you before you can go scraping your knees on a rock.

“Oh my fucking god,” you say.

The laugh that Yeonjun breaks into has you sending him a glare, but you break too. Everything about him is ironic; and how ironic indeed that Death himself should show you how to be alive, rather than to just live?

༺ ꘏ ༻

The air is so fresh in your lungs when you step outside that it nearly burns. You clutch your basket of warm fig tarts. Songbirds trill and fly between tree tops that slowly become more bare the deeper you fall into the season, singing their sweet songs that sound like new beginnings.

Raising your hem from the ground churned up into mud from the afternoon’s trickle, you prance into town with a lively pep in your step. You spent all last night making these—Yeonjun had kept you company, watching you how he always does as you pored over making them just right. His cruel snicker when the jam had simmered over flame for too long and became too thick bounces off your bones in a sweet melody. You’ve come to adore his wicked delight, the way his smile cracks over his face and the facetious raise of his brows, more than you fear it.

Sending small smiles to the people that you pass, you stop by a huddle of kids digging sticks into the mud. They look up at you with curious eyes, stopping to gawk.

“Hey, guys,” you say, pulling back the cloth laid over the sweets. “I’ve made some fig tarts. Do you like fig? I bet you’ll like them; they’re sweet.”

The kids stand up, eyes big as they share a look. They don’t let out so much as a peep before they scurry off home.

You blink. Well, you’re used to weird reactions, but that was… different. Picking up your deflated shoulders and hesitant limbs, you make a shoddy attempt at not letting it dampen your good morning. You were expecting wary looks, anyway.

You head down a little further toward the far side of your home village, the side that breaks off after a fenceline into a great, grassy field. There’s a bustle, mothers washing their clothes in pails and hanging them up to dry and a few others whispering at each other lowly as they go about their days.

An old woman so old her back curves and her fingers have gone knobby makes her way to wherever the day’s duty demands her to be. Your neighbor—an eccentric old lady bound in her times. You decide on her: the elderly are forgotten by the young. She might enjoy knowing that her neighbors still know she exists.

“Hello,” you say, showing her your basket with a hopeful, excited heart. “I have some treats that I was wanting to give out. I know they might not be much, but would you like one? I’m not the best baker, but I do it often enough.” A face like that, dragged down by her years on this earth and not long to death, has no doubt spent many years making meals for her family. You imagine your goods would be nothing beside hers, but it’s the gesture, no?

“Oh, girl,” she says, voice crackling as she clutches her shawl tighter around her shoulders. “I’m afraid it’s best if you found yourself missing from this place. Hurry yourself up and spare the drama.”

The incessant cawing of a crow from a clawed tree fades into the background as you furrow your brows and lower your basket to ask, “...Huh?” Your belly goes up in knots; terrible knots done up tight and fast. You haven’t got a clue what she’s talking about. Elders always did speak a bit strange, though. It could be nothing much; she’s a stern old lady.

But her eyes are not angry and glaring in the way that a harrowed old hag might turn her nose up at the youth. They drag down with a cold pity.

“Listen to me, girl.” She points at you with one of those worn, sun-spotted hands. “You had best leave. The boy’s gone, and they are already not fond of you. Who will they point their fingers to?” the woman says. “I hardly know you, but I would hate to see it.”

The rest of her words fade into the roaring in your ears, the feral drumbeat of your heart like a wardrum in the cage of your ribs as it beats against them as if to escape from you. You don’t feel the basket in your hands, don’t feel the solidity of the earth beneath your feet, and don’t feel a single one of your thoughts like tangible things. They flit as if liquidated into a rotten, sick mush.

Nothing. You can think of nothing. Nothing real; nothing holding you to the earth.

“What?” Your voice hardly reaches your ears, but what does is weak and broken and like a plea for her to tell you that it’s not really what you think it is.

And if you could see or hear anything beyond your fraying little rift in reality, you would’ve heard the man coming up to you. You would’ve heard the words coming from his angry, sneering mouth, and would’ve done something when he picked up a pail of water, and you would’ve been shaken by the nasty ice water that runs down your frozen body and plasters your hair and clothes down as he pours it over you. But none of it cuts through your stupor.

He yells some awful, stabbing things at you, and a few others join him. They tell you that you are nothing but a plague, tell you to leave and to not come back here.

But this is your home. Where else would you go?

With your sopping wet dress clutched in your shaking fists as though that might keep you grounded, you choke down the tightening of your throat and sift through their faces, searching for his face. Those brown eyes, brown and always shining with nagging playfulness, do not come up anywhere. Jaw trembling, you search harder. Out on the field where he should be at this time of day, at your doorstep demanding that you go spend the day doing nothing with him, in someone’s yard helping them fix up a broken fence, no matter where you look, neither his broad silhouette nor his cheeky, dimpled face is there. You continue to stand stricken dumb, looking for him even though you know by the churning in your belly that it’s true, and you’re just hurting yourself trying to find him right where he should be.

Fine. Alive. Untouched by your disgusting, destructive presence.

When you can no longer fight the strangling tightness in your lungs and your dress is as heavy as your heart, you take off. The hem of your dress drags in mud and sticker bushes and catches on stray twigs, and you don’t know where you’re going, but you just run. You’ll give them what they want.

You stumble, probably like some lost, undead thing, until you find yourself at the edge of the forest. Only then do you let the wall of whittle-edged tears roll down your face. And you assume you sound like a choking, dying animal with how you choke and heave on them, but he was the one you might’ve dropped your head and cried to, so what’s the use of making it pretty? No; you let it all fall as it is.

Soobin’s dead. Soobin’s dead, and it’s nobody else’s but your own fault. You clutch your chest to staunch that old ache that’s grown teeth and tears at your heart; you have and will always be the end of everything that comes near. You are just as much the plague that you began to pretend, to believe, you weren’t. It was your stupid hope that maybe you could have something and not watch it become carrion that drove that pick. It was by your hope that he’s gone.

The hair on your arms begins to raise. You pick your head up and find Yeonjun standing in front of you.

There’s a few beats of long, dreadful quiet as he takes in the state of you. He drags his eyes down and they become liquid flame—something different from the impious delight that he is made of. He becomes the King of Death.

“What happened?” he says. The chills on your arms prickle furiously at the words, furling out distant and yet furious like the center of the fire.

You shake your head, wiping your soaked cheek.

“What the fuck happened?” he growls again, taking your face into his hand. “Who did this? Who did this to you, my love? I need you to tell me who the fuck did this to you.”

Letting the venom in your mouth out, you shove his chest and say, “Get away from me. Don’t fucking touch me.”

Yeonjun’s face twists up, looking scalded. Not surprised, though. “Don’t do this,” he says. “Let me hold you while it hurts. Don’t push me away. I can’t… I won’t lose you again.”

All the pieces that you had been putting into the corners of your mind snap together at that. As many suspicions as you had, though, it feels sour hearing it confirmed from his mouth. That you are his dead past lover, reincarnated or whatever you are. That it was his presence—because even though he stayed away for centuries, a part of him still lingered with you—that now has torn down everything you ever thought you could love. He, standing there in front of you like a kicked puppy, is the ruination of your life in the flesh. The flipping of your stomach is nauseating.

“I hate you,” you spit. “I hate you so much.” You repeat it a few more times, and you sob it into his chest as he takes you into his arms. “Is this what you wanted? You’ve been waiting for this forever, haven’t you? To find me again, so that you can die and fucking leave me here. So that you can make me exactly what you are, while you get your peace. You are a liar and a thief. All you’ve ever done is steal and take. How could you do it? Huh? Tell me…” Your voice trembles and staggers off. “Tell me how you made love to me, how you made me believe that you loved me, and all you ever wanted was to save yourself? You betrayed me.”

Pulling back, Yeonjun says, “No.”

“Yes,” you say, stumbling back away from him with a shaking, accusatory finger pointed at him. “Yes you did.”

Fingers itching to reach out to you, he holds them back by curling them into fists. “No. That’s not fair. I have spent an eternity loving you. I spent the entirety of my immortal, monstrous life searching for you, just so that I might find you in any form. I would have been glad to find you as a leaf in a tree, as long as I found you. But, then, I find you alive. Alive and back, as if… it never happened.” He steps toward you, aching to be near you. His voice wavers. “Please, don’t do this to me, love. Please, just let me have you again. I’ve waited… I’ve waited and I’ve waited, and I finally have you, and now you’re looking at me like I… Like I’d ever hurt you. Finding death—finally getting to die would be worth nothing if you weren’t there with me. It was never about that.”

“I could never love you,” you say, matching his steps forward with steps away from him. “I could never love a monster that does… Does nothing but kill. Take.” You know your words are cruel, but you need them to be. You need him to hurt, you need him to go so far away from you that never again will you cause another living thing’s death.

“You did.” Yeonjun’s mouth cracks into a pained smile, sharp at the corners. “You loved me just as much as I love you, once.”

“Just leave me. Leave me, and I wish to never see you again. If you love me, then you’ll give me that.”

He looks at you, clever eyes intense and glassy, for a long time. And then he says, “Would that make you happy? Would it make it so that you could live a happy life, and find yourself something to live for?”

What’s left for you? A small village that won’t ever embrace you? No, it wouldn’t fix your life. But you open your mouth and tell him, “Yes.”

“Okay,” he says, brushing his knuckles over your cheeks reverently. He swallows in your features, running over them for what he knows is the last time he’ll be seeing you—the very last time he’ll see the face of his undying love. When he finally opens his mouth again, his voice is gentle. “I’ll leave you. If my being here hurts you, then I won’t be selfish. I love you, darling.”

Don’t go, you want to tell him. Please don’t leave. Please, hold me. But your mouth is dry, and you let the radiant hurt in your chest stop you. You let him go.

༺ ꘏ ༻

There’s only one place you can think of going to. It’s the only place your vagrant feet take you.

His spot still is held sacred by the flattened, gold wheat stalks. Your best friend, still living here on Earth in at least one way even if he’s not here to listen to your stupid rambling. And he would maybe complain, but he’d always listen.

The last thing you’d done was fight with him. What an awful thing—what an awful way to repay him for being the only one who ever dared to get close.

You sit in your spot, beside his, and rest your chin on your knees. If only the ground beneath you would open up and swallow you whole. You’d deserve it.

What’s left for you? Is there a place in the world that would keep you happily once they see what you do? No. There is not. You wish you knew what to do; you wish you had somebody to ask.

Releasing a long, tight breath, you just sit and wait for something to give you answers. A gentle breeze makes your hair dance, but it does not whisper anything to your ears. Something’s circling over head, but it doesn’t caw in the cadence of his laughter.

The day moves along without you. You’re not sure how long you sit, but it stretches somewhere between a few minutes and eternity. No matter how long you wait, there are no answers. No matter how long you mull over it.

Conceding, you begin to push yourself up from the ground. A rustle in between the foliage stops you before you stand.

A tawny hare leaps out in front of you. It sniffs around you, nose twitching. Then it stands back on its haunches. It stares straight at you, an intelligent light in its eyes that knits your brows. The wild thing stands there with a purpose that is uncharacteristic of a forest animal.

But entirely familiar in the face of your best friend. That shine in its eyes as it stands there, nose still twitching, makes your chest tighten up.

“Hey,” you say, as if it might answer you. Your eyes well up with hot tears again. Of course, it doesn’t.

Maybe you’ve gone mad, but you know that it’s him. That idiot, coming to show you that he’s okay in the afterlife—to visit one last time and to let you know that you shouldn’t worry for him or cry for him. Look at me, full of life once again, he seems to say. The hare blinks its beady eyes. It lingers there for a long time, the ease of peace found in his gaze that Soobin hadn’t had in this life, saying that there is still something waiting out there for us once we go. You reach out a hand. He does not flinch as you scratch behind his ear.

“Okay,” you whisper. “I’m glad to know you’re alright. I know what I need to do, now.”

He blinks.

You laugh a hoarse, breathy laugh, familiar in only the way that Soobin could achieve. “You look stupid.”

Indignantly, the hare stomps a bratty foot in a way reminiscent of one of Soobin’s huffs before it settles back down onto its forelegs and scurries off. He goes to live out this new form of life, because it’s true: life does not end in death. He’s shown you that.

Maybe, like this, he’ll find that pretty lady that loves him the way he deserves. That loser.

༺ ꘏ ༻

You spend only one night in your home and you know that what you’ve chosen is right. After spending your day out in the field, you sneak under night’s cover into your husk of a room and let yourself sleep there under the covers one last time. When morning breaks through the window, you gather your weary bones up and leave.

You run into your mother on the way out. She doesn’t yell at you to leave, but her eyes have gone cold. Colder than you��re used to. You’ve killed again, in every way that counts. So you don’t bother with bidding her or any of them any grand goodbyes. You couldn’t handle the relief you might find falling over them, should you.

Plopping down to the floor, you take a few bites of the cheese and bread lathered in sweet jam that you’d swiped from the kitchen. The grass is long and willows in the wind, bending and dancing prettily. It’s so soft; you enjoy the feeling of it beneath your fingers in your quiet serenity. The scent of it, fresh over the baseness of dirt, you breathe into your lungs.

It would be the loveliest place to spend the rest of eternity.

For the first time, Yeonjun appears in front of you rather than behind you. He materializes from nothing, his elbow on his knee as casual as if he’d been sat there the whole time. The darkness beneath his eyes seems heavier, but then again you know that exact heaviness. It sits right in the very center of you.

You both are quiet for a bit. You let the tall grass whisper, instead.

“Bread?” you say and slant your lips into a smile. Bringing it up, you offer it to him.

His smile wrinkles his nose and curls at the edges. Entirely him. Yeonjun accepts the bread, ripping a bite out before throwing it away into the sea of green. Once he’s chewed, he leans in and captures your lips in a kiss that’s utterly at odds with his sharp mouth. Your lips move over each other gently, save for an indulgent nip or bite here and there.

He pushes you back into a bed of sweetgrass, never letting your lips go. Not to breathe, not to say something that’ll pale in comparison to the sweetness of your mouths on one another. He kisses you until he’s had enough to fulfill a lifetime without it, and then some more.

“My love,” he whispers into your skin, his breath hot on your collarbone. “Mine,” he says, pressing a kiss into the column of your neck, and then he says it again with a hot kiss to the place where your dress suggests your breasts. He says it a handful more times as he pushes your skirts up your thighs. “My love forever. I waited for you so long, and I would do it again.” Lowering his voice to a honeyed whisper, he adds, “I would find you no matter what.”

Laughing softly, you run your fingers through his raven hair to better see his eyes. You know he would.

Gently giving you one more of his lingering kisses that make your skin tingle, right into your bare shoulder, he presses into you. You loose a soft breath, wrapping your arms around his shoulders. The beating in your chest slows to a content purr as he begins languid thrusts in and out of you, rolling pointedly and unhurried.

Yeonjun makes love to you in a thousand dusted kisses and sweet words, your hands holding each other’s soft edges. Yeonjun traces the lines of you, taking the pads of his thumb down your cheeks and your lips and then his hand over the swell of your breasts and down your belly and over your thighs. Clamping down on him as your belly grows tight in the way it had the first time you had done this, your thighs begin to shake.

Breathlessly, as you hurdle over the edge, all that you can say is, “I love you, ‘Junnie.”

Yeonjun smiles at you and then presses his face into your neck. He doesn’t even brace himself against the grass to chase his own peak. Neither of you want this to end; you want to hold on to this moment and let it span forever. Slowly, Yeonjun rolls up into you until his hips finally stutter and he cums into you, his cheeks pink. The weight of him above you as he shakes with your shared ecstasy, and even as you both have come down and are nothing but lazy, is the only thing in this world. He is the only thing in this world.

Once you’ve both evened your breathing out, you roll apart and face each other, still just two forms bending the grass into your shapes. Blinking slowly and digesting his features one at a time—the angle of his eyes, softened but never tamed, the line of his nose, the line of his mouth always so proud and playful, and that pretty dot below his left eye—you let them solidify fully in your mind.

“Yeonjun,” you say, finally meeting his eyes across from you. “I want to go. I’m ready.”

The gentle, knowing look that he gives you soothes over the way your heart begins to race in your chest in rebellion. “I know,” he says.

Of course he had known. Yeonjun had been called here to ferry you into the afterlife. He had known the moment he appeared in front of you that his last soul to reap would be you; an ironic circle of karma that should be cruel, but you two make it something sweet. Chewing on your lip, you will your hands to not shake as you curl toward him. You’re no longer scared of going. You know that if you’ll be with him, it will be okay. It won’t be so scary. A hot tear rolls down your temple and then drops into your hair. “Will you be with me? I won’t be there alone?”

He tucks some hair behind your ear reverently and then leaves his hand there. “I don’t know,” he answers. “But I won’t leave you. I’ll stay right here with you.”

You lay there for a long time. Chatting and giggling and just looking into each other's eyes, until your heart becomes slow and all you feel is the wind singing in your blood. Yeonjun presses one final kiss to your forehead.

Maybe, in some years, somebody might dig up your bones and find you immortalized like this in your love. Your bones bowing toward each other, as if even death were not enough to stop you from reaching for each other. Or maybe they’ll just find yours, and Yeonjun still curling into them how you know he will for an eternity more.

Either way, the going is still slow and gentle, as death always is.

🪶 ⦂ tears. omfg i cried writing this which could totally be me being a bitch baby but it DAMN. omfg.

rꫀׁׅܻblogs & asks arꫀׁׅܻ always apprꫀׁׅܻciatꫀׁׅܻd!

▸ tׁׅagᥣׁׅ֪ꪱׁׅstׁׅ @lvrs-street2mmorrow , @soohashits , @f4iryfever , @arcturus444 , @linqed , @serenityism00 , @immelissaaa , @luv4cheol , @lickingan0rchid , @20-cms , @hhoneylix , @beestvng , @hyucktapes , @bewitchless , @prince-jjae , @blankliving , @yaoizee , @stormy1408 , @missychief1404 , @izzyy-stuff , @miukuui , @lunesdesire , @sunoolver , @cherricola-star , @xylatox , @filmnings , @hearteyes4hobi , @hyunj00 , @kangtaehyunfan029 , @caratcakemoa, @usuallyunlikelyfox , @zi-vian , @brrytears , @stormy1408 , @soobabby , @nshmrarki , @dontwannacry04 if your tag isn't working, check the mentions part of your settings!

636 notes · View notes

biteyoubiteme · 4 months ago

Text

with wings of wax and thread

angel!huening kai x demon!fem!reader

‧₊˚ ⋅ synopsis: In the kingdom of Aethera, an angel is pushed from the heavens. Wings torn and feathers spilling, he finds himself in the den of a demon who wishes to have never been found. Long having lived with your own fall from grace, wingless and bloody just as he is now, you help stitch back up what once was. Can nurtured understanding be crueler than nature? ⸝⸝⸝⸝⸝⸝⸝⸝⸝ warnings: 🔞!!!demon fem!reader, angel!huening kai, angst, blood, depression, mentions of death and gore, reader talks about being violently attacked, cpr performed, slight open ending that could lead to mc/member death if interpreted that way, unprotected sex, no pull out mention, prob forgot some sorry

⊹₊ ݁ . wc: 19.6k . ݁₊ ⊹

𓅪 ⸝⸝⸝ now playing: I, carrion (icarian) - hozier an: im so in love with this event, the work that all these amzing writers put into this is so astonishing- it’s so wild to participate in something like this when I still feel like a baby writer with so much to learn but thats always the fun bit I guess lol im so happy we could all stretch our creative abilities to come together and make this work <333 thank you for reading!!

[m.list] [aethera!event m.list]

ONCE UPON A TIME… In a land far far away, where the treetops touched the soft clouds of the sky, and the water sparkled under the glowing sun. Where mountains rose high and in which long, deep caves ran. Where the sea met shore in a collision of tall waves. Where the undead walked among the living. Where the winged flew above the finned. In a land where things beyond any reason and rhyme existed. And amongst those very beings, within the veils of Aethera, there was…

Feathers, soft and white, twisted in the golden glow from the slow-setting sun. Raining down like a thrown stone, sinking and littering the waiting ground.

The fall from grace had been sickly sweet. The shock of that first second of flightlessness was frightening enough to cause Kai to sink his teeth into his tongue. Holding back the staggered scream he wanted to let out, still protecting the ones who wronged him. Who had sent a blistering pain down his back, the cracking of cartilage ringing in his ears as he screwed his mouth shut, pleading with glistening eyes, forgiving them the second that his foot had met nothing but air.

His mouth had filled with blood, the ichor more sugar than iron, his stomach turning from the flavor, or maybe it was the feeling of falling. Flying had been something like this, the air rippling in his hair, every strand kissed with the soft hands of the north wind, a mother's touch. Flying had felt so close to life that even in falling he understood what it meant to have all your memories rush in front of you one last time. Because falling was like the memory of flying, the echo of it so close it was like a shout right in his ear.

And he laughed, the sound a strangled choke, fighting its way out from between his lips, teeth stained and heart sinking. He had never felt heavy, not when lifting off the ground was second nature. Kai had imagined his bones had been hollow like a bird's, but plummeting only showed him how led he was lined. Heavy, too much for even the mother's air to carry him, slipping through fingers, through feathers.

He didn't think that having a wing ripped right from his back would have made so many of his feathers come free, whirling around him, in a thick plume. Maybe it was his wing's way of bleeding. He had witnessed the damaged appendages before on others and they never bled, not unless wounded at the base, right at the shoulder blade. But even his feathers now were dotted with thick spots of blood, the droplets rising instead of falling with him, lighter than his lead bones. He reached out, trying to catch any feathers he could, trying to grasp them as if they would be the edge of a cliff he could pull himself back up from. But he came away with nothing but understanding.

This was a brutal way to make a grave but it was the hand he had been dealt, the cards pushed into his waiting palms without question. He only hoped the ground wouldn’t damage his wings worse than they already were. Half hanging on by tender threads of pink life, he hoped to tuck whatever was left around him like he had when he was a child, creating a small cave for him and him alone.

Kai was thinking in full circle thoughts, that crippling adult understanding washing away to childlike hope as he counted the seconds down to when someone would realize he wasn’t catching air, their rush to reach him deterred by the weight of him hurtling towards the waiting dirt. If his bones were not lead-lined they had been made of magnets, his ruined wings having kept him from the realization sooner; the grave always called the body.

The carrion had made the decent look appealing. Kai had grown up seeing the demons sore up only to tuck their tar-colored wings close to their bodies, looking freer than when Kai stretched his out, the span of his shadow over the sea. If they could feel the thrill of descent he could find it in him to enjoy the last of his sorry life.

The wind picked up, spinning him, round and round, dizzying and giggling. It was his twinkling laugh that made you look up. The jagged rocks circling his falling form, the ceiling of your cave the perfect opening for him to find himself invading. The sun was setting just enough so that the shadow of him cut deep into you, palms slick as you pushed up from where you sat at the edge of the moon pool, sand coating your fingers as you pressed a hand to your racing heart. Blood rushing in your ears, serpentine fear wrapping around your limbs running a chill down your spine.

They had come, found your hiding spot, and planned to finish you off, that laugh was only the start. It had not yet turned cruel as it was that day, the parroting of the group still ingrained right behind your ears, following you around no matter how you tried to shake the thoughts. And now they were coming down like a meteor into the only safe space you had ever known. The entrance was hard to maneuver with wings; it only made sense they would have a rough time with landing except there was a giant splash, the water in the moonpool lapping up, the crashing sound like the waves hitting the rocks only now echoing in the carved out cave.

Everything was getting wet, the water cold to your skin as it dotted your legs, feeling like a burn when you were so shocked. Because as the water settled, the churning sound still worked its way through your skull and it began to rain. The soft white feathers swung down billowing side to side, drifting as if they were a newborn butterfly, always knowing flying was in their bones but never knowing they could do it alone. Drifting to a final stop on water starting to calm. And there sinking to the bottom, face up and eyes closed, was an angel.

His white wings torn and weighed him down lower and lower to the sandy floor of the pool, the plume of derby shadowing him as he hit the bottom. Hands out on either side of him like someone welcoming in the sun after a long winter, the look you saw before a much needed embrace, not as if you had ever seen it before.

Stepping to the edge where sand turned to rock you looked back up at the sky, the fading light of the day slipping into hazy darkness, the blue hour working its way over the land before the moon fully made its appearance. But you could only see the slow falling feathers, catching wind and making way in other directions far from where you stood now. If he had been pushed by a demon they would have been on their kill without a second thought, they tracked them without mercy, like the hunters who aimed to play with their food instead of showing it the grace of kindness. If they had hit to watch him run they would have chased until it was over not let him sink in this water so far from home. They would have wanted the angels to see what they had done to such a pretty face.

Because he was pretty, even in dying. The last bubbling breaths fluttered to the surface until they broke through the tension. You trembled, cold all over from the moment's rush of fear that was still coursing through you, hands clenching and unclenching as you thought over what to do with him. In the water he could rot without much worry to you, the fish would pick him over but it wasn't as if you got many swimming around anymore. The sea folk had warned of swimming too close to your pool, for the first couple months of you finding shelter in the hollow cave, the fish had been your only source of sustenance. But the sea folk kept to their own, even the lowest of the food chain, warning them about you had been easy enough. So his body would rise unless his wings found themselves lodged under a rock.

You were ready to turn, find company in him even if he was at the bottom of the water until a single lone feather caught your attention. Eyes tracing the swaying descent like a cat following the trail of a mouse. Bleached white like a bone, pearlescent once it landed on the now still water, cupped like a curved leaf or petal. And there, dotted like a heart, was a single spot of blood. You could remember the way your own feathers looked, black enough for the blood to seep in and disappear like it had never existed.

It had felt like drowning the day you found yourself here. Falling from where they had dropped you had hurt, the salt water burning your open wounds like a quick scratch from a cat. Your mouth full of the ocean, choking and suffocating you as you claw for anything to grasp. They had left you, the rain of black feathers not unlike this angel's white ones now. Only you had been still fighting, ripping at the hold that death had on you because in death you would have to go back to some kind of hell and you wouldn't be able to survive an eternity with your worst moments, not when at that peak they felt that excruciating.

The angel now had given up, his twitching hand slowing to a stop. If the day you had found yourself drowning in this very pool had been your worst you would not let the same death kill someone else when you knew that it had been survivable. You would not take the name of your brethren as a brand but only the burden as it was, this action a shoulder shake to lessen its hold. So you dove in.

You had reached the bottom before, the sandy ground only six feet deep, a proper grave for when your arrow rang true on the rare fish that came in. They sank from how heavy the weight of their death hit them. But they had never been truly heavy and you still felt weak in comparison to the other demons you should have taken after. It wasn't until you reached him that you realized you would have to touch him to take him to the surface.

Your hands slid around his wrist, trying to lift him just enough to get your arms under his. Legs kicked behind you as you struggled to keep yourself in the right position, lungs constricting. He was lighter than you imagined and it was mostly because of the water's help, but his wings, broken, bent, and barely hanging on, weighed him down, hanging behind him like a sheet torn to bits.

Kicking and kicking you went, feet pushing against the rocky walls lined with coral, sharp enough to cut into your feet. Blood was darkening the small space, his and yours, mixing as you went. The need to breathe begged at your aching lungs, throat tight with the need. He was so limp, no help as you finally broke the surface, gasping air by the mouthful as you reached an arm out for the edge.

It hasn't crossed your mind how you would pull him out only that it was better to have his head above the water than below it. But you tried, not caring if he got scratched up as you pushed him needing to get him halfway out of the water so he was easier to pull out. Your grunts turned into near cries, he was heavier and heavier the more you pushed him out of the water, sopping body, wings, and clothes adding on to the bricks piled up you felt you were pushing out. When he was halfway up when your arms weak, you pulled yourself out of the water. No time to take a breather as you wrapped both your hands around his wrists. You groaned, putting all your weight back, tugging and tugging until he was just feet resting in the bloody water.

Your arms are trembling, half limp only held up with the adrenaline crossing through you from the fear that was still making its way through your veins. Pushing him onto his back his partially open mouth looked as if he had already gone and died, effort wasted if you gave up now. You had never been taught the art of saving anyone but you knew what you would want if someone had been kind enough to lift a hand to help you. Fingers locked together you press on his chest, shoulders burning with the effort. Dripping water fell from your chin as you went, the droplets sliding down his cheeks like tears as you cursed. “Don't,” it was all you could make out from your clenched teeth, a demand that he not die right here, right now. Sand digging into your legs, grains between each feather pressed under him, turning them golden as the fading light hit in just right.

You pressed so hard you felt your arms out snap, elbows locked, chest heaving in the way you wanted him to and then he coughed. The strangled choke like a morning bell, that slim chance of promise of another day. His body jerked to life, shocked like lightning he bolted, turning to the side and vomiting a mess of sea. Your nose scrunching as you sat back, joints electrified and shot, you fell back into the sand, watching the high mouth of the cave as you listened to him continue his fit.

In the time you had spent in the Moolpools cave it was easy to only make small movements, you hardly went out unless you were truly hungry enough to risk it. This had been the most motion you had done in a long time, and now you knew exactly why it was easy for them to target you. You felt weak, you were weak, this was only proof enough. But you had saved him, if even for a second, and they would have thought you weak for that too.

You could hear their laughs right behind your ears. You had not been facing the sky then, but you had hoped, their hands forcing your face into the dirt. Childish demon cruelty taken a step too far even in the eyes of the elders. It had taken you a long time to catch your breath then, your lungs never obeying you but it's another reason why they had believed you dead, the sudden stillness that had taken over your body as the pain made its way through you. You wondered if your angel felt that way now. Only you had been kind enough to let him see the sky before he slipped into unconsciousness.

Because he had, as you regained your strength to look at him, eyes closed, breathing rapid and uneven. You had given him a chance and now you didn't know what to do with him. His wings were bent and broken. Hardly any feathers clinging to the frail bones they had been attached to. It would be hell to fix them, pain unimaginable to bind and snap them back into place, stitch them together, and pray for some way to make them better again. You stood over him, the white shirt that had once been billowing in the wind was now transparent and clinging to his skin, the thread strong and fine.

When they had ripped your wings off you had nothing left to attach, not that you haven't tried, but alone with no help there was no way to reattach wings with your hands. No way to reach behind yourself except to feel the spots they had once been, the jagged scars still there now, the ghost pain of that day still shooting down your back every time you dreamt of that day. And on the worst days, you could imagine them still behind you, heavy and protective, enough to curl yourself into your personal space, alone in the dark velvet home you had been born with already built in. Wishing they were back was worse than knowing the pain of them being taken away. And even as a demon, you would not be so cruel as your brethren had been to leave you without so much as the one thing that should never be taken from a person, angel or not.

You still had your embroidery kit, the soft bag had been tied to your finger the day they had ruined you. The thread was dark, dyed to match the rocky mountains you had been sewing into the fabric. You wonder if they had burned your work after you were gone. All the hard hours doing the thing that you had hoped would get you by in the underworld. People loved to be flashy, spend on extravagant things, and there had been nothing more extravagant than the garments you had embroidered.

Tucked in the bottom of the small pouch was a thin sharp pair of scissors, the handle shaped like a bird, wings laid back with its beak glossed in gold. They had been a gift when you started to learn, your needles next to them clicking around, silver and all different sizes. Everything was so small, your only weapon that day as if it would hurt them. They Had been useless but they would be put to work now. He would need to be wiped of the sand before you went in and started to clean the wounds enough to see where you would have to help sew him back together.

You had collected a fair amount of things having lived in the cave for so long, your stash that was similar to a magpies, pretty but never something you used. Sometimes you would find things and keep them just because you might want them because it was better having something over nothing. The crate of glass bottles filled with alcohol is one of those things. It had washed up on the beach after a ship had hit the rocks, too close during a storm to leave anyone alive in the mess. You had picked over the wreckage just as the carrion you were nicknamed after. Someone would have wanted it and so you had taken it just because of that fact, if the gold meant nothing to you but everything to another you would have it, as was your nature. Now you could use it, uncork the bottle, and pour it over his back if you could get him to roll over again.

Kai did not see you move to the dark corner where your stash was hidden when he blinked himself awake. In his confusion his lungs still felt full, his throat constricting as if he was waking in the water and not beside it, choking because his mind was trying to catch up to his reality. He hurt all over, his chest and stomach scratched and burning, heavy with an ache of bruised ribs. His back was on fire, screaming at him, begging him to scratch and rip at the pain. It made him whimper, the only sound that could come out from his raw throat.

He could not think past anything but the look of the sky above him and not behind him as he fell. And when you showed yourself, a bottle of clear liquor in one hand and a small pouch in the other, he believed you to be a human stumbling upon him on a lone beach. He had not seen many humans, accustomed to staying up in the heavens with his brethren. And how could he have known what you really were when you were wingless? You had not grown the horns that most of the demons possessed, you could feel the spot they must have wanted to sprout through if they had been given the chance, the area always colder than the rest of your scalp. It had been one of the things they had picked at when taking their dues.

To them, you had been no demon without the markers they had been so used to seeing, your wings the only thing tying you down to their depths. Even your power had been faint, strong enough to only wave a candle's flame to life, no roaring forest fires and destruction. To Kai, in that moment you were nothing more than a girl who looked like the saving grace he had been begging so fiercely for when falling.

For an angel, his dark eyes cut through you like knives. You had not been looked at so intensely since the attack, people who caught a glance had known to keep going and turn away. This gaze was a line of glimmering hope that he had thrown around your shoulders tightening until it was nothing but a collar of expectations tugging you forward. You had been taught to crush looks that felt suffocating, praise broken bonds, and burnt bridges before ever letting someone take you for a helping hand and honest heart. “Do not look at me like I'm something to be thankful for,”

It was not the first thing that he had expected you to say to him. Not when he was so close to thinking you to be some sort of angel like him without the matching wings. Your voice cut through him, sharp and demanding, nearly as painful as it had been to wake up like this. Everything was falling apart; his body, his grip, which he had believed to be tight, around his good faith in people. But you had pulled him out of the water and maybe he had come to expect too much from people. A package deal that had been wrapped up in the warped expectations of the angels. Not that most of them followed the rules, but it was better to hide behind the guise of kindness than the truth of wrongdoing and instinctual indifference.

The fallen angel only blinked back at your words instead of taking them in, eyes softening at the realization that it had been you alone to pull him out, your chin still dripping with the saltwater that stung the open wounds on his back. He could not do anything but look at you thankfully because it was the only thing he could focus on feeling without turning back into a pit of despair that had let him give up the second he had hit the water. Thinking even about that second of thought that would have led to forever was nothing but crushing rocks landing on his back heavier than the wings still trying to hang on by nothing but thin ribbons of flesh.

And in truth what the look did was make you nervous. Like some lone schoolgirl who couldn't be under the pressure of her class watching a presentation. It frustrated you to no end, twisting a bloody knuckled hand around your insides and tugging them down to your knees. He was in no way able to make a move to hurt you that you wouldn't see coming first. You knew the small cave better than anyone alive and he was weak, his hands opening and closing limply like the steady wings of a butterfly resting. And all his feeble voice could muster up in response was, “Thank you,”

The words strung together felt like thrown stones hitting you one after the other. You had been kicked out of your home and told you were no more demon than the humans roaming the castles pretending to play ruler and kingdom. To be told thank you for saving anyone, or even more specifically an angel’s, life was the final nail in your coffin. Every last thing they had said to you as they ripped your wings from your shoulders buried deep enough to burn, those two words sprouting from the grave to show the fruits of your tormentor's labor. The final stamp to seal the truth of your wrongfulness.

It would have been easier to kill him then, easier than having to hold him down as you tried to help him, and easier than pulling him up from the depths of the moon pool. But they had been right to call you a sympathizer, right in calling you weak because looking at him needing you it was impossible to turn him away. “I'm going to hurt you,” it was a warning bell, the echo of your voice mimicking the sound of some faint prophetic truth. It was not your intention to cause pain on him but the only way that you could help him. It was easier to confess to that than to say you would try and fix him.

But Kai did not listen, he did not care if you hurt him so long as it made his mind stop working over his last thoughts. The blinking of tears the second he had been pushed had made him feel little again, a child wondering why bad things happened at all. Why would someone push him, why would someone rip his wings until they were nothing but dead weight trying and failing to hold on to their last breath, drowning him, pulling him under into nothing but darkness? He had been wronged more than he thought would ever happen to him and if those who claimed to be honest, kind people,were the ones who hurt him, what was there to believe when those claiming to hurt him had done nothing but pull him free from death? It was a mess of contradictions and his gut was not helping him pick sides. He was a mix of emotions that felt hollow like a long dead tree waiting for a victim to fall into and perish just the same. Being hurt meant nothing to a newly found desolate creature, betrayed, and seeking grace.

And so he would let you hurt him because he had nothing to lose, no more to give but turn over and let you try whatever it was that you had planned to help fix him. It was like a mutual understanding had fallen over the two of you like a blanket. He saw the bottle in your hand and knew, watched your fingers as they pulled out the needle, watched the way the metal turned red and you started to heat it enough to sterilize it. It was then that he knew what you were.

It did not make him cringe, not when he knew that to have a demon at his back was akin to death incarnate welcoming themselves to twist a knife right into his spine. He knew that there were hardly enough people on this island who would have helped him enough to the point that they wouldn’t have gotten ill at the sight of his blood. Demons had steady hands; they did not tremble and they did not cower away from gore. To have been stumbled upon by a demon as generous as you were was a blessing he could not fight back against.

So he let you turn him over, your warm hands working to take off his shirt, cutting it away until it was nothing but scraps, his face pressed into the sand, the grains catching in his lashes. You were gentle with him, laying out his wings that had lost most of their feelings, numb all the way up until they hit the spots right where they were supposed to be connected. It was the only place he could feel the pain anymore, his lungs and throat secondary to the pain he was feeling right there at the root of him. If everyone else had worn their hearts on their sleeves angels had found a way to wear their hearts on their back, their life source, and now it was screaming at him.

You picked over the scraps of his shirt, peeling away the thread in long stands, looping the thread around your fingers, and making a small ball for you to pull from as you worked. He kept his eyes closed, lashes laying so peacefully across his cheeks as if he was dreaming in the moonlight and not waiting for you to put him back together. There was no going back the second you started, not unless you picked him apart again just to see the way he looked again while hurt. The thought made you feel a bit sick. The intrusion of it is either your mind trying to work around the situation or your faint demon instinct kicking in, playing with the idea until you fall into the trap of it.

But it was still enticing even if it was sickening. You were so alone and bored, with nothing to do and no one to see. You had been hurt and had not yet found the outlet for that pain even years later, this was the perfect opportunity and yet you could not bring yourself to do anything but cringe the second you straddled his back. Holding him down with the weight of you as you poured the liquor over his wounds and watched him writhe from the pain. There was little enjoyment to find here.

Kai tried to keep his mouth shut nearly as tight as his eyes but the second the first wave of the anesthetic washed over him he could not help himself from screaming. It echoed around the cave, loud enough to find itself spilling from the cave's top entrance. If anyone had been walking around they would have run, believing some wolf had gotten too far from the woods and taken a victim. You did not try to shush him, just placed your warm palm in the center of his back and pushed him back down, trying to keep him still even if it was an impossible task at that point.

Then the first stitch came. It was easier to hold back, easier to try and focus on anything else but the blinding pain he was feeling, it was something other than the emptiness settling over him. He could not think of anything good coming from this, could not see himself going home again, to see his friends, the ones who had pushed him, his mother, his sisters. There was nothing but shame and treachery. They would have welcomed him back even wingless but there was no way for him to ever feel at home again, not when he knew what it was like to be nothing but air and death.

He did not care if he did not move from that spot, the sand the only thing grounding him as he sunk his fingers in curling them until he could feel nothing but his mind trying to work and count every grain he could imagine on his skin. It was nothing but a tactic to let the pain wash away for even a second. He didn't even realize he was crying until the wetness was making more sand stick to his cheek. The soft rumbling of his whimpers mixed in with the faint groans he would release after a particularly tender part of the stitching.

“You are very lucky to have me, when they took my wings I had nothing to do but bury the one they had left hanging. I don't know what it had looked like but I do know that it felt like this,” you were muttering, talking to yourself and letting the words come out without a filter just as you did when he hadn't been here. “I would have wanted even the one to be stitched back but I remember the pain and I'm-” The word sorry was not one that came from you often or at all, there was little you could do but say it now but still your throat caught. “I would not wish it on anyone,”

Your fingers worked fluently, picking up the memory of the old stitches you had perfected long ago in a life you did not care to remember. This was nothing but an old way of passing time that you had practiced over and over again. You had never stitched up flesh and blood but it was no different now than it had been then. In a way, it was a comfort you should not have found in the task but it was impossible not to.

“I do not know how well this will work but I will try,” his wings, covered in sparse feathers, twitched every once in a while as you carefully threaded your needles, tightening the stitches and watching the way the wings came back to life like a marionette doll pulled at its strings. It was hope and nothing more.

Kai couldn't grit out any more words, the sound of your voice washing over him like a balm but nothing more. He wanted to hate you but knew it was necessary to feel this way when it came to pain. They had told him never to bite the hand that fed him but this was a forceful hand coming out to get him, twisting its fingers in his hair and pushing his face in the dirt until it was nothing but a given that he had to eat whatever it was that was handed to him. But he listened, taking in each word and trying to keep them as close as he could get them.

Tried to imagine you with dark wings at your back. The silky feathers always shined so nicely in comparison to his white ones. His wings had looked plush and downy, nothing like the oily temptation of the demons. But he could not get the image around his head, could not see what it looked like any more than what it would look like to go home again. It was with you in his mind that he passed out, eyes closing until there was nothing but peaceful darkness where he had no reason to think of hurtful homecomings and angels dressed as death.

You noticed almost as soon as he fell into the pain. Body going slack underneath you, all of his muscles loosening before he was nothing but twitching nerve ends from each insertion of the needle. It was not delightful work but clean and concise, the expert precision of a fiber works artist long since skilled in their field. Every so often your fingers struggled to keep hold of the slipping needle, the tips of each digit dipped in crimson as you went on with your task. And even as he lay there you went on with your muttering. “We will have to look for more feathers, only a few fell in here, I still have a couple but I don't know how well you will feel looking spotted like a pigeon,”

For a long time, you had been sick at the sight of the clutch of feathers that you had kept from your wings long gone. It had been nothing but pain to see them, the sight cutting into you like a knife just sharpened on a whetstone. You had wanted to bury them right along with the wing you had put to rest, ripped the rest of the way from your back from your own hands, and yet you couldn't part with them just as you couldn't let go of the needles from your past life.

Helping him right now, pinching skin to pierce through and thread, felt like it was somehow stitching up a bit of yourself. You acted fast almost as soon as he was out of the water because it was the way you would have wanted someone to help you. Without discrimination, just understanding. They had given you no chance and if you could not give it to yourself you would give it to someone not far off from you. Because you knew what it was like to live here stuck wingless with nothing to do but try not to rot like some discarded apple. It had taken everything in you to help yourself once you had let go of your past life. The feeling was nothing like you had ever felt before.

It was emptiness, no more and no less, just an expanse of nothingness that unraveled the farther and farther you went into the recesses of your mind. To pull yourself from that pit and find some kind of routine was nothing short of a miracle. But if someone had been waiting here, even if they didn't pull you out of the water but took the wing you had and gave you the hope to live with that once comfort would have been better than nothing. Even if he didn't have full control over his wings like before he would still have his childhood home still there right at his back protecting him when no one else had. If you could give him that it was enough.

But then when the sewing was done there was nothing to do but let him rest. The work you had done was as neat as it could be, the prickling skin around the base of each wing would hold steady and let the skin heal. You stood looking over him, sleeping with his soft cheek on the sand, his hair once wet now dry and resting against his sleeping brow. Angelic was the only word that would surface and it felt silly to attach something so obvious to him. He was nothing but angelic down to the bone; to his blood. But even still freckled in dried blood and his half-feathered wings you could tell it was written all over him fallen or not.

You had seen little of the angels when growing up but occasionally they made a pass over the moonpool's mouth. Their bell-like laughter twinkled like the stars in the night that they flew with. They had seemed so far off and distant. But what you had been told about them was that they were nothing but selfish and self-righteous. Underneath the beauty was callous arrogance, they helped others but only if they had already achieved more and found that they could take the last step without them. Take help but never give credit unless it is beneficial to them to say, drop everything to look good, or fend for themselves.

They had said all demons had shared blood with the angels, until one was banished, the bitterness infecting their souls until their wings turned ebony with rage and the promise of revenge. The story had been on your mind the second they had picked on you for being weak, wondering if somehow your blood had run thin and showed assets of your long since dead ancestors who had seen the heavens and walked with wings of ivory at their backs. Because although you found yourself thinking cruel things you did not dream to be a cruel person.

So you cleaned him up as best you could, cleaning the blood from your hands and his back, taking the time to take your wet cloth over his feathers to try and clean them as best as you could. You watched his wings twitch in response every so often but he did not stir, there was little you could do in terms of his pain, little more you could do if he found himself with an infection. You could hardly keep yourself alive in the space, you don't get many fish unless you make it out to the beach at night, or find a rabbit in the woods easy enough to catch with a trap. Two mouths to feed was a limit you would have to push yourself to reach.

But it was something you would think about in the morning, not when the sun was gone and the cave was dark enough that the only thing you could see was the faint glow of the moonpool. The water reflected onto the walls of the cave, washing everything in an eerie blue hue that minced what it would have looked like if you plunged in and swam with the sea folk. It was one of the few beautiful things you could indulge in and yet now you could add to the list because you had him to look at.

Without turning your back to him you found your usual spot against the wall, the perfect place so that it was just hidden in the dark with the view to see the ceiling's entrance. There was nowhere else to look with him blocking the water as you lay down, back pressed up against the smooth stone wall, washing your heated skin with the faint coolness it had been seeking. You traced the lines of his sleeping face, scared to fall asleep with him so close. Wishing that in that moment you had your own wings to wrap you up, block you from the fear of waking up with him so near with nothing but questions and demands.

You curled up with your small blanket, tucking it under your chin keeping the angel in sight. It was only when your lashes were fluttering closed that you noticed his eyes start to peek open. He only blinked faintly, a tremble starting in his arms but he was unable to move them. Kai felt weak, drained of everything, vision blurry with the sight of you lying down in the blue darkness.

Whatever fear you had before was slowly washing away with the look of pain written all over him. He had no way of hurting you when he could hardly breathe properly from the pain. “What is your name?” you could not keep calling him the angel in your head or out loud.

Your whisper carried in the room and he closed his eyes at the sound, it had been what he had heard before he passed out and it only made his mind feel at ease, something to grab onto in the pain. “Huening kai,” it was low and the only thing in the whole room besides the two of you.

“You need to rest Kai, tomorrow we have to look for any feathers that may have dropped around the beach or the woods,” but Kai didn't care about that, not when he was still trying to find more of you to hold onto.

“What’s-” he couldn't think of the rest of the sentence, not until it was tumbling into him like the rocks off the side of a cliff. He wanted to know your name and hold onto it so he could attach it to the thoughts and memories he was building of you in his head. “What's your name?” He was looking through his lashes only able to keep his eyes open the smallest bit because even that had felt like it took too much energy, the small twitches of his fingers taking most of the rest of his will.

For a second you could not remember what you had been called before you were just you, because in here, alone, no one asked and no one cared. But it came back to you like the moon had come back each night, there was no forgetting it even if it sounded foreign on your tongue after so many years. Saying it, Kai could hear how unsure you felt until you repeated it again for him.

So that's how he said it in his head, the slight second between the two the repentance following the state of his mind, that question lingering at the last syllable, and the sigh of content following the tail end when he said it again. So he let it go over and over in his head, counted the letters like sheep jumping over him, letting the thought of you lull him back to sleep instead of the pain. And you followed right after him, sleeping fitfully because every time you heard a small hitch in his breathing you had to make sure he was still alive. Make sure that your effort has not gone to waste.

And he did live through the night and with your aid you helped him sit up in the morning. Watching him ball his fist and rub at his cheek to rid it of the sand that had built up. He looked like a cherub fallen to the stone and looking up in the foreground of the painting waiting for someone to notice his absence. Because all he could think about was if anyone missed him, if they knew what had happened to him and how he had been pushed instead of just caught in some wind he could not find control in as if he was little and learning to use his wing again. They must have said something, maybe they had blamed a demon for what had happened.

But now with your eyes on him, watching him as you made to clean his back again, checking if in the night there was no more redness or sign of illness, he could not think to see a demon the same again. Here you were being a complete contradiction to everything he had ever been told in his life. Demons were nothing but troublemakers who thought nothing about others. They kept to themselves and made fun by bringing people down. There was no room for him to think about how good a demon could be to anyone let alone an angel like him.

Sitting up, letting your warm hands look over his back, he wanted to lean into the touch, let you care for him until he could find a way to fly right out of here. There was no way that he could repay you for something like this, nothing for him to do but sit in the silence you had built around you. But he wanted to break it, crack against the hold that the stillness had over him, and scream at the top of his lungs and curse the heavens even if he had forgiven them for so much already.

He did not know if he deserved what had happened to him but he understood that it had happened and there was nothing for him to do but take it. Cursing and screaming would do nothing but make him bitter and bitterness took too much from the soul, it drained people and he needed all the energy he could get. “Thank you,” it was again the only thing that he could think to say.

“I told you it would hurt,” because every brush of your fingers to check your work was making him suck in the air between his clenched teeth, the sound fast and snakelike.

“Would there have been another way to do it without pain?” it was nothing but a question to poke fun. Kai wanted to lighten the mood but it did not help the situation.

“Do you think my kind would have taken it if so?” you didn't care to look at his blinking reaction, because as much as he knew you were his only option he still held some kind of grudge against demons. It was written all over his face and you didn't even have to see it to know. It shut kai up in a slip second of shame for thinking the instant no.

“You're helping me nonetheless,” his hand reached across his body to press at his shoulder, delicate fingers so close to the torn flesh.

You waved his hand away, “don't touch it, the worst thing would be an infection,”

“The worst thing would be to lose them all together,” he did not say it to be mean or pick at you, he was not like your kind in that way where they know the thing that would tear you down and pick that option every time. No, he was just stating his truth and he was not lying. Infection could be helped but losing them would be closer to death. It was nothing but words but it made your back burn.

You had heard of ghost limbs, the feeling of a hand still being there after it had been cut clean off. People believed they could scratch the limb if they thought hard enough to get rid of the feeling. You didn't know how real the feeling would be until you were there with your wing buried in the woods, the other long lost and tossed in a fire if you knew how any of them would have cleaned up the mess they made. If anything was to tear into you it was that first night where everything ached. Your back where the scabs started to turn to scars began to itch and the feeling traveled down to where there was nothingness but the hope of where your wings would resprout if that was ever an option. You wanted to wrap them around you and wished if you felt the ghost of anything it would be the home they had helped you feel but all you had felt was pain. A pain you could not help because there was nothing to do but let it work its way through your system. The pain was not an itch; not so easily taken care of.

“That would be horrible and if you don't listen to me they will be gone, keep your hand away,” you left no room for argument in your tone and Kai listened. He curled his hand into a fist and sat it in his lap. “Today we will let the area breathe and while I’m out we can get whatever we need to make a salve to help the healing process,” Kai nodded knowing that you were right. He didn't even have the first thought of where to start to find out how to help himself.

“Can you try and pull your wing in,” you didn't want to push him so early but you needed to know if it was worth the trip to even go out and look for feathers if he could not use them.

For Kai, it felt like an impossible question to answer. He felt distant from his heart back, like he was cut in half but then he felt your fingertips, the feeling of them dragging along the edge of his wings, tracing the span of them and following the curve. “Can you feel that?” This was easier because it was the only thing he could focus on. The heat of you was constant, radiating from your body onto his like a blanket he wished he could pull in closer.

“Yes,” it was shallow as he followed the feeling in his mind. He had never been sensitive to touch on his wings, he knew others could feel any brush of their feathers but he felt nothing until now. If he had lost the ability to fly he had gained the ability to have sensation right along the spot he feared he would lose anyway.

You curled your fingers around the top of his wings slowly following the natural way they folded into themselves and helped him push them close to his back. Kai groaned but it was not as horrible as he expected it to be. With your help, he found whatever connection he had lost because now he could keep them pulled in without your help. But you still helped to tuck the other one close just as neatly, checking around his stitches to make sure they could handle the movement without being impossibly stiff.

The sight made you clench your jaw. Jealousy had not been a familiar feeling here but it was alive and well now. But it did not matter, you could be jealous and still help him. But you had to get up and turn away, busy yourself with finding your own feathers, the ones you kept at the bottom of your stash of things, making sure they didn't accidentally get seen by you when you didn't want the reminder.

It had felt easy to say you would give them to him in the moment but the second you pushed aside the spare clothes you had and laid eyes on them it was like saying you would clip off your fingers and let him use them on his own hands. You let the stack of clothes fall right back into place, picking up the loose shirt you could find that would button over him. He would have to wear it backwards because it was not made with wings in mind but there was nothing else for you to do unless he wanted to walk around shirtless.

But Kai was thankful pushing his arms through the sleeves and leaving the buttons for you to do up for him. You made sure to keep yourself from brushing him accidentally, no need to touch him more than you needed to as you secured the fabric around him. But Kai instantly missed your warmth the second you pulled away.

“The only way out is up but it's nothing too bad, you only need to raise your arms about this high,” you demonstrated, “it's mostly leg work,”

“You want me to leave?” he didn't know why it was the first thing he would think, you had just told him about collecting materials to help him but as soon as the words left your mouth all he could think was no don't kick me out don't push me like them, as if you could hear him you shook your head.

“Do angels only sit around when faced with adversity or do they get up and work?” you slung your bag over your shoulder, slipping both arms in to have it securely against your back. When going out it was the only thing that felt comfortable enough to have at your back when you had little else. “If you want to stay, I say we work together to make sure that we can keep you here for a bit longer, but I cannot do everything and you cannot stay forever. Tonight we only need a few things,”

“Okay,” Kai stumbled to stand, feeling unstable and wobbly enough to reach out for the walls to hold him up.

“You can stay here for tonight, rest more if you're not up for it,”

“No,” it was a slight snap back against the way he was feeling. It was not only because he was feeling weak but because he did not like to sit around doing nothing, he did not want to wait for you to come back or worse wait and think that you were never coming back for him. He's sure that is something a demon would do, leave him here without help just to see how long he would stay without the help. But he was thinking badly because he didn't want to face his own truth, “I need to do something,” anything would be better than sitting around and thinking up ways to hate you over nothing at all. Because there was nothing to hate you over, you had done nothing that would make him hate you but the longer he stayed up with his thoughts they seemed to poison the image of you slowly. And he could not do that to his savior.

“Fine, you can go first so that I can make sure you don't fall back,” and you had been telling the truth about the way out, the grooves of the walls made perfect spaces for his feet to fit. Only after a few steps up did he have to raise his arms to try and hold himself steady as he kicked his feet out the top of the opening. It was only possible because the side you had set him to get out of was shorter than the rest of the jagged ring of rocks forming the entrance of the cave. And as soon as he was out it was easy to sit and rest with his legs dangling into the open mouth as if he would just jump right into the water he had nearly died in.

You had no trouble pulling yourself up and out, the rock smoothed down from the amount of time that you had made the trip up even if you avoided it most times. “There is no other way in or out?” Kai asked as you showed him the way down to the grassy underbrush.

“You could swim in and out, it's not very practical but it's better that way if you want to make sure no one sees you coming in. But I don't think that would be good for you and you have to hold your breath for a long while,” Kai could not think about what it would be like to go back into the water after yesterday, he's sure he would instantly imagine himself drowning again.

Instead, he focused on following you and your steps through the thick mess of trees surrounding the spot where you had made your home. Distantly he could hear the sea, the soft crashing of waves on the shore lightening as the two of you went until he saw the first blood-dotted feather.

His wings twitched at the sight, the soft white tucked in between the branches and leaves of a tree. He was silent as he watched you pluck it between your fingers, reaching it like you were picking up a gold coin found on heads for luck. “You will tell me eventually why it is you fell from the heavens won't you?” he watched you twist the feather, examining the dark dried crimson stains.

“There is little of a story there,” he was clenched all over, fists and jaw tight as you held the feather out for him to take, “you hold it,” he jutted his chin out, the only movement he could bring himself to make or else he would fall apart.

Kai had gone through many feathers of different sizes growing up. Preening them and feeling grateful to have grown fully so that they did not fall out as often as they had when growing from downy softness to strong enough to let him fly. But it was different to see them like this. He knew they should not be in your hand, or even his. They should not be spread around the woods like bunches of snow that had not yet melted with the coming spring. But it was as if the longer he looked out over the expanse of woods in front of the two of you the more speckles of white he caught mixed in with all the green.

He was frozen in his spot, stuck just looking out at all the pieces of himself spread out like nothing more than a chess board thrown to the ground, with no intention of being picked up after a soiled game. You could see in him the same kind of evil that was in you twisting itself around your brain the second you moved that stack of clothes and saw your own feathers. When you were young they meant nothing because they had always been there but once it started to go away, once it was nothing more than a pile in front of you it made you feel small and insignificant.

“When they first ripped my wing it didn't hurt like I had imagined it would have,” you had been frozen, stuck like a kitten who had been picked up by the scruff of its neck. You had looked up with eyes that nearly rolled in your skull the second you realized what had happened. How could you not have felt something so huge? Maybe it was because you could not see it, your mind not catching up with your body until seconds later and it was all you could think to feel. There had been blood, slick down your back and on your fingers as you reached to try and hold onto anything that was left. “For a second you almost think you can fly away from the pain,”

Kai watched your eyes go unfocused, lost in a thought that had been his reality just the day before. It was almost as if he could feel that foot pressed right into his back again. His ‘friend’ with the heel of his boot cutting into Kai’s spine. He had asked him to look out over the edge of the last cliff, claiming to have seen carrion flying around too close for comfort. It was only a second, looking over the edge so high up he knew that if he flew down and caught the wind that it would be a rush he could never replicate.

The boot had been nothing but a second before his hands had been on his wings pulling them back until that sickening crunch and tear. It had happened so fast kai had felt nothing until it was all too late.

“There is always a story and you don't have to tell me yours but know that if I could get revenge on the ones who took my ability to fly, I wouldn't hold back from repeating over and over the same pain they inflicted on me,” you tucked his feather into your bag, “they wouldn't think twice about you so don't give them the grace of never speaking up for what they did to you,”

“You’d think that because you're a demon,” and for the first time Kai saw you crack a smile, a twisted tarnished thing.

“We are not too different, the only thing that sets us apart is you thinking you are any better than me. You forget we both woke up in that cave only I was alone and you had me, and how lucky for you that I'm nice and don't just build you up to pull you right back down again,” you turned walking because you needed the distance, “go back if you can't see that we are the same,”

“My first thought wouldn't have been to hurt someone I helped,” Kai kept pace with you, watching you pick up each one of his feathers as you went.

“Just because I say I resist hurting you physically does not mean that what you say or think cannot hurt me. You want to freely throw your judgment around and stick a label onto me, reducing me to nothing but blood I did not ask to be born with and still you cannot see how we are exactly the same. We are only doing the same thing in different seasons, only one of us is plain as day and the other is hidden behind some thick smokescreen allowed in whatever game we have found ourselves,” he could tell there was no room for argument with you. Set in some demon way that made you want to burn instead of heal. But even he knew he was just being bitter, proving you right even if he didn't say it out loud.

He was grateful and he was upset, he had been a pot of water his whole life and it had never been set above a fire until right now and the bubbling was unwelcome and made him itch all over. He didn't see the reason for revenge when there was no way for him to get back up to the heavens without walking up the stairs and that would feel more shameful than coming back wingless. The only thing he could feel about the topic was that if it had been him or you he's not too sure that it would have been him you would have picked to help. But even he couldn't hide from the truth of wanting to pick himself every time.

So he kept his mouth shut knowing there was nothing he could say that would make him look better and nothing he could say to make you look worse because faintly you were right about the both of you being so similar. He followed you like a lost puppy, watching you pick over the brush, collecting pieces of him until you found every part of the set to make enough of a picture. You were careful with them, fitting them all together in a neat stack and wrapping a loose string of thread around them to keep them from spilling all over again.

By the time you two had combed most of the area, the sun was setting into nothing but stars. Two handfuls of feathers and a pit in Kai’s stomach made for little conversation. Keeping his eyes on his footfalls he did not see what it was that made you tense up until it was right there burning in the distance.

A little ball of fire, dancing seemingly above nothing but the air. A Willo-the–wisp, bright enough to feel like a beacon one could not turn to look away from. But you hissed at the thing, reaching down to pick up a rock, smooth in your palm before you threw it. “Hey!” Kai's voice echoed in empty woods, previously the only sound heard was his crunching footsteps. Your years of walking down here had taught you how to keep yourself light as you made a journey this far out from your home. “See only proving my point, hurting things without reason, what did they ever do to you?”

But you didn’t feel like explaining yourself to him, it felt silly to believe in rumors about the little creatures but it was impossible not to feel conflicted about bad signs when your life had been full of misfortune. “Its bad luck to see them,”

“Well it showed up there was no need to throw a rock at it, bad luck or not it was given the second it popped up,” his statement made you roll your eyes. What was there to do but watch the flame snuff out? It felt better to make the flame extinguish the second you saw it as if they were the thing that leached luck from you the longer they stayed around.

“I'm not going to sit and let the death promiser dance around and curse me, or you for that matter, I don't know how I would pull your corpse from the cave if you were to die from the infection they wanted to warn you about,” you watched his face pale, your eyebrows lifting letting it known that you had seen that you had won written on him, “see, so let me throw stones, I'm doing it for both of us even if you don't believe it,”

“It's only an omen, it doesn't mean anything real,” but he was trying to convince himself to fear the little flame, small and weak enough to be taken out by nothing but a pebble.

“You know we have people who read the stars? Creatures deep in the sea, the woods, the kingdom, even your precious sky. They all have stories and folklore that came from some kind of truth,” you picked up another stone in case you saw another little flame lingering around not wanting to risk a sighting even if you could help it.

“How are you planning on getting the feathers back on?” Kai wanted anything else but to talk about being the same or not, about folklore and truth. He was tired and didn't want to think about anything else besides what was supposed to come next.

“Wax, I have lots of candles stored up that will do, if I get the layers thin enough it shouldn't weigh you down. It's also soft enough so that it won’t restrict any growth when they start to grow back,” it felt far away to think about having to go through the process of aging all over again, he had been through the phase of watching his feathers transition he did not want to wait again. The wax would give him an option, anything that would help to keep him from feeling as if he fell so far back from everything he had ever known.

He wonders if you had thought through the same things with your wings before it was too late. If the idea for the wax had come before or after you buried your last option. He did not think it would be okay to ask that, not when you were helping him already. Demons being fickle was not uncommon; he wouldn't be surprised that you tossed him aside for something new to tinker with if given the option. Rather he gets as much information for you on how to help himself before you leave him with nothing at all.

You showed him the way back up and down into the cave and for a sickening second, he thought you would push him while he looked for a way to make it down without landing in the water. Your hand had been on his back to steady him and yourself on the edge together. His flinching from your touch only registered as pain and not fear. You jumped down angeling yourself so that you landed right at the edge of the water and you looked up, stepping out of the way waiting for him to follow your lead.

Kai pushed himself down feeling nothing but air for only a second but it was a second too long. He stumbled as soon as his legs hit the ground, leaning back and looking at you for a sickening moment before he was ready to accept falling back into the water, but you reached out making a fist in his shirt as his arms waved trying to find something to hold onto. The heels of his feet almost tipped him into the water, his wings shuddering and trying to pull in closer, hiding back away as if they could when this damaged. The buttons on the back started to pop with the strain of his weight and he had to reach out for you, hands wrapped around your forearm as you pulled him back to the safety of the sand.

“You're very clumsy on your feet,” you muttered, pulling yourself away from him and his tight grasp. He was embarrassed but only because he was washed in fear and being caught for it on his face.

“There was not one time you fell while jumping down?” he waved at the short distance that was available for him to land.

“Once or twice but you get used to the angle and learn,” you don't put your bag down, not when you have to turn around to look for your candles, keeping your back covered even if now you knew he would do little to hurt you physically. Everything you had picked up from your conversations and just watching him walk around made you realize just how his label fits him so well. He had been more upset over the will-o-the-wisp than his own ruining. But it still didn't make you drop your guard.

Finding your stack of candles you tucked them under your arm and turned to find Kai sitting in the sand all over again, looking out at the water and watching the way it swayed. He traced the dark outline of the opening leading out to the sea, hardly noticeable if you hadn't said there was a way out before. He would have believed there was only the two of you and not the world's ocean just a few feet away from him. So much just inches away from his tomb that he believed he would have been stuck in until someone found his heavy lead-lined bones.

“We don't have to do it tonight if you don't want to,” your voice was soft as if you knew he was stuck in some darkness in his mind, struggling against the hold of some blanket of depression he had thrown over himself and couldn't find his way out of. “It would be better too because we need the light and I can hardly make a fire big enough to produce enough,”

Light, once so easy to produce on the edge of his fingertips, wasted power on his childhood innocence trying to find ways to light up his bedroom when he was supposed to be sleeping. It had been easy back then and now sitting here wanting to get it all over with he couldn't get up enough energy to heat his skin. He was cold all over, blood leached, and hollow. Lifting his palm he focused in on his hands, the soft ridges tracing around the center supposed to be the lifeline or so he had been told. That was where he had always watched the light come from first, starting right at his wrist and working its way up curving between his thumb and pointer finger before it was nothing but light held in his hand like he had caught a star.

Now it was nothing. Not a flicker of illumination nor a hum of warmth. He balled his fist clenching until he felt his nails digging into his supposed lifeline wishing that if he squeezed hard enough he could find a single drop of anything left in him. And still nothing. Not even enough to help him now when he wanted it, needed it most. “Tomorrow,” the word was a bitter thing, in his chest and making it sound rough with hatred.

“It takes a bit to get back,” you tried not knowing why you didn't just curl up in your spot and wait for the rest of the sun to set so that you could sleep. Ignore him and his well-deserved mood. But you had done the same thing, sitting in the dark trying to make even the smallest flame and nothing would come, “I was never the best at lighting anything on fire, not even the blades of dry grass they let the little ones practice with,”

Kai listened, watching you from the corner of his eye as you took a seat next to him, legs crossed just like his, your knee so close to hitting against him he could feel the heat from it. “I should have known then that I wasn't like the rest of them, tailless, hornless, powerless,” you gave a dry humorless laugh, fiddling with the candle sticks you had, letting them spill into your lap picking one only one up and examining the wick. He traced the side of your face, following the bridge of your nose right till the end and watching you blow so softly it wouldn't have taken down the light of a birthday candle.

But a flame bloomed, catching on the wick, and dancing in the coming darkness. It lit up the features of your face, your eyes shining in the light as you watched the small reflection of your power. You had little to give, children had been playing with fire long since they were learning to crawl and you had only come to master a few tricks. “The only thing that had labeled me a demon were my wings, and they had been…” the edge of your lips wobbled, your jaw clenching closed at the itching in your throat as if this was even too much to say to him. “They had been beautiful,” it was said just as softly as the exhale you had done to light the candle, hardly there and weak.

“I didn't even care about the fire, anyone can light a match or strike flint and create a spark. But…”

“Not everyone can fly,” he could feel the way you struggled to say it as if it was traveling from his mind to yours. In the firelight he watched the tear fall, tacking down your cheek faster than you could wipe it away. But you caught it erasing it as if that would take your feelings away from you as if it would keep those intrusive memories from surfacing. Because no one would know how it felt to be that high, physically and mentally, unless they had been up there with you catching air with a laugh bubbling up from your chest like it was coming from a faucet that could never be turned off.

You blew out the candle, sticking it in the sand and pushing yourself to stand, letting the rest of the candlesticks stay laid out for tomorrow. “Don't worry about what you don't have just yet and be thankful for what you're still holding onto. I'm going to bed.” No more was needed to be said when the two of you both knew it hurt too much to find yourself in the mix of confessions and shared sympathy. So you tossed your bag to the side, turning your back to the wall and closing your eyes so that you couldn't look at the blessing you had given him and hadn't received from anyone else.

But it was incredibly hard, there was nowhere to look except him or the back of your eyelids and all you could see when you closed your eyes was the vision of you in the sky. It ached to remember and the pain was fresh looking at his new stitches that you had done even with his wings pulled in and sparse of feathers. Because he sat there at the edge of the water trying and failing to open his wings up again without your help this time.

He could tell they were stiff and he was unfamiliar with the feeling. Before it had been second nature, his wings moving as his lungs did without the need for his mind but now that he focused on them it was like they couldn't work and wouldn't unless he focused on not paying any mind to them. But it was hard to do that when his healing stitches were itching and he was told over and over again by you not to touch them. So he sat there watching the water with his back to you as if that would keep him accountable for not messing up your hard work.

All that was keeping him up was the promise of tomorrow when the sun would come out and you would help him put his feathers back even if he felt that it wouldn't work. In a way he worried it was too unnatural to work, that somehow it would just fail because it was not right, the wind would not agree and still, if it did work he had no intentions of going home. To go back with wings made of nothing but wax and thread felt like a lie of himself. Some imposter trying to pass as himself to fit back into the same life he had before. But with his wings stuck together like a forged abomination felt like he was never going to find himself comfortable there again.

He didn't care if they took him in as he was, whispered behind his back, because he knew they would, and let him pretend that everything was the same when it so clearly was not. He knew little of the world below and even less of the world below that one from where you came from, leaving home would be an adjustment but necessary. He just needed his wings healed enough to hide them back inside of him wherever it was they unfurled from when he wanted them. It had been uncomfortable back in the heavens because there was no need to hide who you were. He would have to get used to the feeling but it would not be something as horrible as this ache was now.

It wasn't until the morning, the sun just peeking over the edge of the cave's mouth that he realized he had not gotten any sleep at all. He listened to the water, the chitter of the animals in the distant woods, and the sound of your easy breathing while you dreamt. He wondered if you would have dreams of flying, if they hurt just as bad as the pain of knowing you never would fly again but he knew they must have been tethered feelings; unable to have one without the other.

He pictured you over and over again in his head. Imagined you with your wings of night in the air next to him, that laugh you had turned his way unlike the one he heard but one he wished you would give him so that he would know something in his dream would be real. This laugh was somewhere caught between a giggle and a sprinkle of light from his fingertips. He locked in on thinking of the laugh over the feeling of flying because it was impossible to not hurt when thinking of the air. But you, thinking of you, felt safe even if it was some kind of hope caught in a dream.

Because you would never fly again he knew that much because you were so certain of it. He had known of people who wanted to mimic the feeling of flight. Making things out of clockwork and magic as if it would help them but that felt worse than having to go home stitched up. To walk in with wings not even close to the ones you owned, or were born with, felt like the worst kind of death. You wouldn't have even known that you had died, that the only thing keeping your body animated and moving were the strings of your delusion tied so tight around your joints that you never got a chance to look down and realize this was not you at all.

So he tried to grasp that laugh because it was the only thing that felt close to real; the only thing that felt close to happening at all even with all the distant hope he was supposed to be having. And when you woke you could see it all over him, the failure written on every inch of him. It fueled an anger you had not felt in years, the simmering pot inside you turned up to boiling over nothing more than an empty glance.

You kept to yourself, let him stay seated by the water, and went about to find the two of you food. And it wasn't until the two of you had eaten that you set into getting yourself ready for the long days work waiting for you. Candle in hand you watched him look back out over the water and you couldn't take it anymore. Kicking at the sand you watched the grains puff up in a plume around his legs his hands waving away the dust, brows scrunched as he scowled at you, “Stop looking as if I'm a failure already,”

“I didn't say anything,” but he knows what you're talking about, the thought had infected him and was spreading as rapidly as the infection you had warned him would happen if he touched his back.

“You didn't have to say anything, trust me if saving your life meant little to me I wouldn't have done it in the first place, I wouldn't waste my time,” you grab the handfuls of feathers, his eyes locking in on them in hand.

“You have nothing better to do,” he didn't mean to say it but it was true he felt it and it made him believe it was the only reason why you were helping him. Because you were bored here, sitting in a cave doing nothing that he could see because there was nothing to do but sit. He had made it so that you had something to do. In a moment you would turn him away and tell him not to come back, to find someone else willing to help him. But you wouldn't let him give up on you.

“No, I don't but I could have done anything else besides this. Hell it might be more fun watching you fall again than it would be to watch you actually fly but I guess we won't know unless we try,” but Kai’s scowl was back and it was better than seeing him feel nothing at all.

“Why would you say that? You know what it's like-”

“Exactly why would I help you for nothing at all but boredom? I wouldn't help if I didn't want to see you succeed, I wouldn't be doing this at all I would have let you die. So stop wasting my limited kindness and accept my effort without believing it will lead to nothing but failure,”

“You would do that, wouldn't you?” because it had caught on him, the idea of being watched as he fell again by someone who would enjoy it. Unlike the first time, it would be worse, he would never come back from that fall, because even if he had forgiven the person who had pushed him he had known the second he felt their foot on his spine that it had been out of pure evil, if it were you doing all this just to watch him fail again it would be worse and there would be no forgiveness. “Build me up only to prove I should never fly again,”

“You are incredibly cynical,” you blow on your candle, watching the flame heat the ivory colored wax so close to matching the color of his feathers. “Did you ever think that maybe I want you to succeed? That it would help me see you make it out of here more yourself than I ever would have left this place?” you stand behind him, pushing back the first row of feathers as gently as you can before placing the feather over the node you knew a new one would find to grow. You tilt the candle just enough until the wax drips, translucent dots pattering around the area as you watch the way they dry the color blending in perfectly. You let the feather go watching the way it sticks and stayed in place, right where it looked like it had never been gone.

Kai could not feel the process, not when he was lost in his thoughts. He tried to separate the knowledge of you being a demon away from the proof he had of you being nothing more than someone who was lost. The two could be synonymous is what he reminds himself over again. He had his back to you and was hoping you wouldn't shove a knife right through him but that didn't mean he wasn't worried.

He did not bring up his thoughts again, he let you work and passed himself off as being hopeful when it was the last thing he felt he was. He was grateful that you cared enough to try even if he believed you had ulterior motives but he would not say out loud that he had any hope when it was not true and if it was it felt wrong to jinx it.

And so you worked, the slow repetitive motions evening out your heartbeat. And even when the wax fell to your fingers you did not flinch, taking the slight burn and continuing. Even Kai did not back away from the fallen wax when the sparse drops landed on his back. Anything was better than the pain he had felt before and now this felt pleasant, trembling from the shock the first time and accepting any other spot that made itself known to him.

Then the two of you began to talk, small things that felt so insignificant when you were alone. His first question filled up the silence, “What's your favorite color?” you had not been asked in years something so lighthearted, there was no need to have a favorite when you wouldn't seek it out.

“I don't know,” you had shrugged, dripping the wax over the next feather in the lineup. By midday, you had done one whole wing. The way the feathers overlapped made it so that you never even saw the wax since most of the top feathers had stayed in place.

“You don't know? How could you not know your favorite color?” It was hard to explain to him how it didn't matter because Kai would take nothing short of an answer he saw as being good enough. He asked again, asked what it had been like when you were a child, and he listened as you tried to explain. Answering his own questions and trying to take everything off his mind besides you and who you were.

He asked you everything and anything he could think of until it was too late and the only thing he could think about was the fact you had stopped and were looking over his stitches again. “Is it bad?”

“No,” it was the opposite of bad, he healed exceedingly fast because of his angel blood, the once torn flesh already looking a day away from having the stitches removed. “It's doing well, but I ran out of feathers for your right wing,”

“Oh,” he felt like he had been deflated, his shoulders already bent forward so that you could have the best access to his back and he did not think he could sag anymore, yet he did. Periodically as you added more feathers in you would tap your wax-coated fingertip against his spine asking him to stretch his wings out. In the length of a day, he felt stronger and more like himself as the time passed. He could hold the weight of his wings up fine even with the thread still pulling him together bit by bit. And now he couldn't even finish what had been started.

You had not thought before you spoke up next, the words spilling out as easily as the continued answers to his constant questions, “I still have a few from my wings if you don't mind the color,” but once it was said it felt right. You had no need for the feathers anymore, the only thing they did was bring you pain. They should have been buried right along with the rest of your wing and now you knew that there was some reason out there why you had kept them besides the reminder of a painful past. If they could help it felt right just as it felt right the second you pulled him out of the moon pool. You could give them up because in some way healing him was healing you. What better than to let your feathers fly again when you could not?

And Kai did not mind, not when now he was itching to fly again, the hope somehow filtering into him the second you had told him to stretch his wings out again, to try. He let you put the feathers on, looked at the glossy ink color, and had not turned away because now he was tying the strings of his delusion on and he could not bring himself to stop.

You did not feel loss this time around when seeing your past spilled out in a heap in your lap as you took wax to each one, fastening it to the angel boy's wing to give him one last chance that you wish you could have had. It felt cathartic, watching the way the colors contrasted and blended so well together. Your fingers ran over the line of them the second you had finished. A soft sad smile on your lips as you told Kai to stretch one final time before trying to fly.

It felt so sudden, so soon from the last time he had taken flight. He hadn't even realized it was his last time at least before the fall. He wondered if you remembered your last time, what it had been like, and if it felt just as insignificant to you as it had to him. Wondered what you would have preferred your last flight to have felt like, where you would have gone. But the thoughts were a distraction to him trying to fly now.

Kai stretched his wings, the white expanse only broken up by the tip of black at the end of his right wing. He couldn't remember what it felt like to lift off the ground instead of hurtling towards it but then he felt it, his heels lifting first, and the soft beat of his wings echoing in the small space. You stood back watching with a blank expression, tingling all over because you couldn't believe you had done it. He was up, the tips of his shoes just hitting the stirring sand before he felt his wings give out.

Shouting he fell, the distance nothing but a foot but feeling like he had come crashing all the way back down the side of a mountain. His back ached but not from pain but the strain of weakness. “You can try again tomorrow, we just have to keep at it even if it's a little bit every day,” Kai had fallen to his knees, looking up at you with his slumped shoulders and puppy dog eyes.

“Thank you,” the words still tumbled into you, but it was easier to accept when the fruits of your labor were still right at the forefront of your mind. He had flown even if it was just a foot, it had been more than what either of you had expected. You had worried of his stitches ripping, worried of the feathers falling with only a few beats of wind and they had not, both holding stronger than your conviction.

Your smile could not be contained, the edges of your mouth trying to hold it back like a stranger at the door because it had been far too long since the last time you felt this happy about anything. “It worked,” disbelief made itself known in your tone but Kai was just as surprised. He did not care at that moment if he got any higher off the ground, only that he did not have to lose so much of himself. “It worked,” he mimicked his smile wobbling as he fought back his tears, “it worked,”

It was the way he said it last that hit home. You did not think about it hurting so bad to see him succeed, jealousy thick and alive in your blood. You wanted that feeling, you wanted those words to come from you not just from being an aid but from being the project. The words were felt all throughout you as he whispered them, just enough to watch the stress of never again flying dissipate into nothing but happiness. He had been empty and you had tipped in a bucket of everything you had to give, he had gained so much and you lost more than you had to offer him.

There was nothing more to call it besides envy; sickening jealousy. If you could rip the wings right off his back and give them to yourself in that split second you would have. It was not productive but it was the only thing you could see when you looked at him. But you shook your head as if you had been caught in the rain and needed to get the water from your hair, pushing the thoughts to the side. You would never have what he did, no way for you to have given yourself the chance in the way that you had given it to him.

So you squashed the feeling, talked yourself out of the need to cry once the two of you had laid down. Your back to the wall again as you look at him with that faint smile on his lips because he was getting to sleep peacefully since the first time he had come here without the aid of his pain. The outline of his wings in the darkness made them look just like a shadow behind him. And it was so hard not to cry as soon as you knew he was asleep. Wanted to turn and face the wall to give yourself the illusion of privacy in your struggle to keep the burn in your throat from turning into a sob you had fallen into to fitful sleep.

What had awoken Kai was the strain in your voice, the way you muttered, again and again, the word no, the noise of it getting louder and louder until it was impossible to ignore the sound as if it was nothing more than the hum of a mourning bird's song. He opened his eyes and there you were on your makeshift bed, your face pressed into the blanket, your back turned to the sky and you reached back trying to scratch at your shoulder blades. But even in sleep, he could see the way it pained you, hands only just brushing over your shoulders when you found yourself pinned down in sleep. You were whining, crying in your sleep, and it was full of pain.

Because in your sleep you had dreamt of that first night without your wings. You could not lay on your side, could not lay any other way but with your face to the ground like they were pulling your wings from you all over again. Back facing the sky praying that they didn't come in because you had no strength to turn over, no strength in you except to try and restrain yourself from scratching at the healing wounds, unaided by careful stitches.

It had been a long time since you had felt the dream so real that it made you believe there was something wrong with your back. Because you were somewhere on the edge of your dream telling yourself it was real, that the pain was right there at the surface and you didn't know it unless you woke up. If only you could just wake up instead of struggling as you had back then. And when you looked to your side there was no kai, just the outline of that wing, the one you had to pull off there dead and waiting for its burial.

But Kai would not let you sleep through it, not let you scratch at your shoulders and wade through the dreamscape colored in nothing but the shade of a nightmare. He grasped your sleeping hand, the one fluttering at your back like a moth to a flame and curled his fingers between yours. Your hands fit neatly against his, locking in place as if you had been reaching out for him the whole time. His free hand was at your lower back, keeping away from the top where he knew you were trying to reach. And when your eyes opened your gasp followed the way you shot up, back pressed back to the wall and you tried to cure the burning.

You knew this feeling, the momentary ghost wings pretending they still had feelings for which could be hurt. Everything about you felt as if it was shaking, like a rattling cabinet of glass in an earthquake because your world was shaking at your feet telling you something was wrong but you couldn't tell what it was. “It's okay it was only a nightmare,” Kai tried to sooth, thumb running over the back of your hand that he held in both of his.

In your dream you had been alone, so much of it had been like it always was. Pain circling around everything you had come to know. But now there had been pain but the faint hurt that Kai had not been there to help you. As if he could go back in time and do what you had for him even if it was no use you had just wanted him to be there next to you. But he hadn't been and in the mix of the sobs you had found his name and prayed he would hear because if they were your dreams you should have been able to grab them by the neck and control them, not follow them down the dark hall that felt neverending.

But waking up to know he had been here the whole time, knowing that if he had been there he would have helped just the same, settled something inside you that had been overrun with worry. You unfurled your arms from around yourself, throwing them around Kai’s neck and pulling him into a hug.

He did not freeze up under your hold but melted into you, sliding his hands around your back and pulling you closer to him, your face pressed into the space between his throat and his collarbone. He hadn't known how much a hug would have helped him just as it was helping you. You were warm and clinging to him in a way no one had ever needed him.

Kai could have sat like that with you in his arms until the sun came up and you would have let him because you needed to be closer and needed something that only he could give you. Your fingers ran through his hair, his hands sliding down your lower back pulling you to straddle his hips because he needed you chest to chest, needed to feel the weight of you against them to make sure that he knew it was real just the same as you did. “You're okay,” he whispered the words, a hammer against the dam you had walled up in place to keep you from ever getting close to anyone ever again.

It was so quick you are unsure why it was your instant reaction. Your lips kissed over the mole he had right along the column of his throat. The feeling of his words pressed right to your mouth when he hummed your name. Everything was so much easier to do in the half dark, the room alight in that blue glow of the water, the moon still high in the sky as he slipped his hands under your shirt, cool against your heated skin and only making you arch further into him, hips sinking as you kissed up his neck.

Neither of you stopped the other from the exploration, you curled your fingers in his hair right at the base of his neck and he found any expanse of skin that he could let his fingers touch. And when you finally made your kisses stop right at the edge of his lips he couldn't help but turn his head, chasing after your mouth with his desperate desire to get lost in you. Because once you started neither of you could pull yourself away from stopping.

He tasted like nothing short of twinkling light filling the darkness that you had let wash over you for far too long. His soft moans caught in your mouth with each drag of your hips now perfectly placed over him and his wanting need. It was the only way to describe the way he was feeling, he did not just want you, he needed you, so hard from just a few devouring kisses that you couldn’t resist.

You pulled away for only a second standing so that you could take the few clothes you had on off. Kai sitting there watching in awe as you peeled off your shirt, his hands itching to have you back on him with no layers between the two of you, chest to chest but closer now being skin to skin. He reached out for your hips pulling you closer to him so that he could rest his chin on your stomach, looking at you like the fallen angel he was, like you were the only savior he had written in his stars.

He let his lips pepper over you, your hands brushing the hair from his brow, his fingers dipping into your waistband holding the fabric in a way that asked you for permission to tug them down and off. “Please,” he whispered check pressed to your hip, “I need you,” and you would give him everything he asked for if he continued looking at you in that way as if nothing in the world mattered but you at this moment, not your blood or cruel words, just a boy and a girl seeking out the pleasure of another.

You let him take your pants off just as easily as he had let you tug him free from his. And when you sank onto him, took all of him in with a gasp at the stretch working its way through you, nothing had felt more right. Because he was curving into you, your lips were his only salvation as you slowly rocked your hips back and forth on him. His face washed in the pleasure of having you his hands growing warmer and warmer as they held your back. You did your best to avoid his stitches, ignoring his wings that twitched along with his body every time you found a new slow rhythm to move to.

The angle the two of you had was grinding against your pleasure point, your moans so sweet and rumbling against him. He traced up the line of your spine with one hand, keeping the other wrapped around your back to make sure you stayed in the circle of space the two of you had created. You whimpered when he brushed over the scars on your back but did not pull away, letting him have a part of you that you would never give to anyone else because he knew what it was like, he knew what it meant, this level of trust rushing into you almost as fast as your coming orgasm. And right behind him the soft blue light of a will-o-the-wisp on the water, gone as quickly as it had come into your field of vision but you would not have cared in that moment anyway.

Both of you neared the end, and when you came, the feeling in your belly took all the space to think because it had been reduced to feeling only him and the pleasure he was giving you. His hands felt hot and alive with the power he had believed had been lost to him as you trembled in his hold, swallowing down each little noise you made. He guided you down to the blanket stretched out on the sand, rocking his hips now chasing after his own high watching the hazy look wash over your face as you held onto his shoulders. And behind him his wings spread covering the two of you in that safe space you had craved more than anything, his panting breaths pressed to your neck as he spilled all he had into you.

You could only focus on him and the way he brought you the closest you had ever felt to being whole again. Wrapped up in nothing but him was close to being saved because you both knew how similar you were and to be seen like this, to be understood, was healing all on its own and you welcomed everything he had to offer. You would let him take you again and again because you felt linked, the jealousy washed away because being held like this was enough to sedate the torment you had found yourself subjected to being here alone for so long.

And in the morning, when the sun came in on the new day you never felt as excited to see the light as you did in that moment. Because Kai was grinning looking over at you knowing what it meant. He would go out and try again and again until he knew that he could fly even if it took time but here starting today would be the beginning and he would be starting it all with you at his side.

He did not need help out of the cave's mouth this time, pulling himself up as easily as if he had been doing it his whole life. And he stood, looking out over the water below him and knowing that if he fell he had you there willing to pull him out if he needed it. He looked to the sky the second you pulled yourself up next to him, his wings spreading out and beating softly enough to draw your attention. “We don't have to start so high up. I know it's a short distance to the ground and it won't hurt much if you fall but just in case it might be better to go to the beach,”

He should have listened to you but he was too excited to think about where he was when all he wanted to do was fly. “Just this once and we can go to the beach and try again if not,” he reached his hand out at his side, low enough to find yours and your welcome squeeze in support.

“It's okay if you don't get up too high so long as they can carry your weight that's the main issue at the moment because of the stitches,” Kai nodded along half listening as he focused in on the clouds. He pulled your hand to his mouth, kissing the back of it before letting it go once more before trying.

Both of you held your breath, the seconds passing slowly as you waited for his heels to lift again only this time it was so much higher, Kai was rising, each beat of his wings only raising him and widening your smile. You had done it, you had made him fly again and it didn't hurt but made you elated.

Kai could feel the wind welcoming him, pushing him up and up until he could see nothing but the expanse of blue and you were gone. It was that thought that had him going back. He could have spent all day up there if he could, if he knew that it wouldn't hurt him if he pushed himself so far but thinking of you watching him without being able to feel it tore into him. He flew back down landing right where he had started and laughed like it had caught him by surprise.

And he looked at you, his arms open enough for you to run into them, that smile you wore was going to be tattooed along the insides of his eyelids because it was the only thing we wanted to see. Because you had done this for him, you had given him his flight back, his hope, and wrapped in nothing but sarcasm and truth because it was your way. So he hugged you tight, kissed you until your arms were locked around him just right and he took you with him.

It had only been in dreams that you felt the faint feeling of being weightless. The wind hits your face as you let the laugh bask in the morning sun with you. It had been everything Kai had wanted, his dreams coming to reality as he caught the wind to carry the two of you higher and higher, until it felt as if you both would be made of nothing but clouds and happiness. He knew what it meant to be up in the sky like this again for you and knew that it would never be much of a thank you in return for what you have given back to him.

And when he found a place to be steady, beating wings behind him, no pain in sight as the two of you looked out over the green and blue land and water below you. He held you close, arms keeping you up and in place even with your dangling feet picking up the memory of what it had been like before when you were a child with nothing to be scared of because you had not been wronged yet, you had only been a girl with wings happy to be in the air.

Kai pressed his forehead to yours, nose dipping and bumping your cheek as he kissed the edge of your smile. And it didn't matter anymore if you felt weak, or had been told it was all that you had ever been because you had saved someone worthy of being saved, picking up yourself along the way and flying through him when flying was only a word thrown around to hurt you. You had put his wings back when they had been nothing but torn flesh and nothing made you feel this good, only the knowledge that you knew he would take you again if you asked.

The trail of your fingers did not cross your mind when you felt this good, your subconscious working over the thoughts you were having and putting together the puzzle you had made by following the seam of his stitches. You could feel the knot you had tied to secure the wing in place, the spot you would have to cut away when pulling the thread free after you had checked again that his fast healing had done its job.

But the ghosting of your touch on the closed wound was akin to you pushing him into a frozen lake, the ice breaking beneath him and reminding him just how heavy he had been when he had nothing behind him to support his body. It was the fear mixed with your words that you had said what felt like ages ago, as if when the two of you had shared then you had been different people. But here at his core, he felt it, that foreboding and gut-turning maggots wiggling into his skin and poisoning his already made-up mind. ‘Hell it might be more fun watching you fall again than it would be to watch you actually fly but I guess we won't know unless we try,’ you had said those words, he had rolled them over in his head over and over again because it had not sit right with him, but he could not remember the rest of the conversation, not when your fingers were messing with the stitches right on his back like you were fulfilling a promise.

It had been quick, the intrusive thought taking over because all he could think again was that you two were similar. He would have helped you yes but if it had been him or you at the bottom of the water and both of you had to pick who got their wings back he would not hesitate to make sure he felt this feeling again. And having you here, threat alive in his mind he could not help himself from leaning into the cruelty if it meant saving this.

And so he let you go.

When in his arms it had been the illusion of flying, still grounded to him just by holding on but falling from this height was even closer to the feeling of flying. The wind rippled around you as you fell in slow motion, his sweet angelic face washed in shock at what he had done and all you could do was think about how you would forgive him because you knew that if it had been you in his place, demon or angel, you would have done the same.

You did not feel heavy, you felt free and the laughter echoed around Kai as he realized his mistake. His fear had control over him in ways he had not expected it to and his shouting did nothing to make it any closer to you as he tried to catch up to your falling form hurtling closer to a waiting grave that had once had a tombstone with his name written on it. You had missed this feeling of freefall and descent, missed the open arms of the wing kissing your skin in the same way Kai’s hands had only the night before.

And then the feathers started to rain. A few white tumbled down along with you as you looked up at him, wax melting from being so close to the sun for only a short time. The edge of his right wing was still tipped in black as if your feathers had infected his mind and thoughts as if they had been the cause of the drop and not the sickening worry he had of losing everything that had just been returned to him. But you could not stop yourself from thinking again of the story you had been told as a child. That demons had been the same as angels, cast out for the bitterness lingering in their near-empty hearts. You two were the same, cast out, and only now did he truly see it.

The last of his feathers started to come free, his control over his wings lessening as the two of you fell, the sky a perfect image of just you and him with feathers all around as it had always been. The spotting of inky black feathers floating around you, finally ready to be buried alongside the body they had come from. You reached out, Kai’s hand already trying to find anything on you to grasp but was just far enough to miss by the brush of his fingertips. The expanse of blue widens around you and is impossible to tell if you were rising in the sky or sinking closer to the waiting ocean.

If falling felt like flying you would welcome the feeling because anything was better than nothing at all.

<333 thank you to @beomiracles who wrote the opening paragraph that is italicized for this event so that we could all start on the same page- taglist 🏷: @kissmekissykissme @bts-txt-ateez @apeachty @seungfl0wer @lunesdesire @no1likemybbgcharlie @chasingthatjjunie @taegyutomorrow @izzyy-stuff @yeoningz @filmnings @jellymochii @dawngyu @bamgyuuuri @lickingan0rchid @felixleftchickennugget @thetxtdevil @luvsicktyun @hyukascampfire @prince-jjae @liverspaghett want to be added to the taglist? check out my rules to see how to join!want to be taken off the taglist? send an ask!

281 notes · View notes

beomiracles · 4 months ago

Text

𝓞𝐅 𝓢𝐍𝓞𝐖 𝓐𝐍𝐃 𝓢𝐇𝐀𝐓𝐓𝓔𝐑𝓔𝐃 𝓦𝓘𝐍𝐆𝐒

𝓓𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐌 𝓔𝐍𝐓𝐑𝐘 ⸝⸝ Foolish girl. You should know better than to wander up the snowy and cold mountains all by yourself. Yet you march onward, not caring for the biting frost as you draw your coat tighter around yourself. The tales told by your old grandfather had been enough to fuel your curiosity, to push the bounds of danger as you sought to see the dragons for yourself. — Perhaps you got more than you bargained for when you suddenly stumble across the one everyone thought to be extinct; the ice dragon. ⸝⸝

𝓹airing dragon!taehyun x human!reader (f) 𝔀arnings descriptions of injuries/blood, supernatural au, kissing, character death (not main), shitty and poor writing, lowkey rushed toward the end, kills myself.

𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָ wc, 14.1k ་༘࿐

#serene adds ✎.. my contribution to The Veils Of Aethera which is kind of very shit and probably the worst piece I have ever written (I'm exaggerating, maybe..) no but theres a lot of plot holes, which I did not have time to fill out but could definitely explain if someone wants me to, because in my head I have all the answers and um yes. I haven't proofread this once and I'm not going to because im nic sick off my ass and also on the verge of just falling asleep hm, anyway I love u guys heh please don't be mad at me for posting something so below my usual level >-<

FIRE, burning hotter than the sun. Orange and yellow flames dancing before your very eyes, their warmth caressing your face, shunning the cold around and embracing you. Fire warm enough to kill, if they wanted to. — Turning forests into ash, melting even the firmest of steel armor, incinerating entire kingdoms with one mere breath.

The dragon’s powerful roar echoes over the mountain tops, loud enough for trees to shake. Even the wind gave way as they soared through the sky. Large wings slapping against the cool air as they danced through the clouds. Untamed beasts, that’s how most described them. Wild and fueled only by their desire and rage to destroy everything around them.

Few humans were fortunate enough to face one of these creatures and live to tell the tale. But the ones that did were graced with luck for many generations to come. These humans, those who sought not to fight but to learn about these beasts, were a different kind of people. Reckless in the eyes of other humans but courageous in the eyes of the dragon.

Together they conquered the skies, not as two but as one. Their souls connected with one another as they played a game of perfect synchronization. Moving swiftly in the dark, silently communicating with nothing but the twitch of a muscle. It was a different kind of understanding, a mutual one, a bond that ran far deeper than any other.

A raspy cough slices through the image of the dark fiery dragon gliding through the sky and your attention immediately shifts to the old man in front of you. — “Grandpa! Are you alright?” Quickly rising to your feet, you scurry toward the old man as you kneel before him. He gives a weak nod, dismissing you with the wave of his wrinkly hand.

“I’m fine, dearest..” He mutters, though the strain of his voice betrays his words. Still, you nod as your thumbs caress the back of his hand. “Now, where was I? — Ah yes, the dragons..” He shifts in his chair, the blanket slipping from his legs, and you rush to shove it back in place. Your old grandpa clears his throat as he prepares to continue.

“You see there were these formations they would do in the air and–” — “Alfred, that’s quite enough.” The brisk voice of your aunt, Fiona, pierces through the air. She sways by the doorway, her arms folded neatly across her chest as her dark gaze narrowed on your grandpa. With a small grumble he adjusts himself in his seat, muttering something about Fiona being “a persistent know-it-all.”

Your aunt doesn’t seem to care for his bitterness, for she did not enjoy hearing him talk about those “creatures” as she referred to them as. Instead she brushes past you, her arms wrapping around the old man as she helps him to his feet. “Enough about those lizards, come to bed.” — With a small glance over her shoulder, she addresses you in a most derogatory tone. “Make use of yourself out in the garden will you? Your grandpa needs to rest.”

The sun is warm against your face as you squint toward it. Your aunt had a lovely garden, situated just on the edge of the forest, by the very far end of the kingdom. Humming along to the soft tune of a slow melody, your hands busy themselves with hanging the damp garments on the clothesline that was tied between two posts.

A gentle breeze makes the wet fabric sway in the wind and you skip out of its way as you reach for one of the dresses. — “Thought I told you to let those things go.” The voice of your aunt slices through the relaxing atmosphere. She bends down to pick a pair of smaller pants from the basket, belonging to your younger cousin.

Even if her words remained vague and dismissing, there was no doubt that she was referring to the stories she’d walked in on your grandpa sharing, yet again. When your silence has gone on for a good minute she continues, “You know how he gets, going on and on about that nonsense..” Fiona huffs as she gives the pants a harsh shake before folding them across the string.

“But I should like to hear him out- His stories are beyond interesting, and he’s delighted to share them!” You chime in, a small, hopeful smile stretching across your lips. It was true, to reminisce about the tales of his youth seemed to be the only thing that brought your grandfather any sort of joy these days. It made the wrinkles around his eyes deepen when he smiled, a low breathy laugh rumbling within his chest.

Your aunt Fiona shoots you a pointed look, her attention then drifting back to the damp clothes. “That is all that they are, stories. But your old grandpa does not seem to know the difference between tales and truth anymore.” She heaves a sigh as she turns to you, “Lest us not make matters worse by encouraging these…fantasies.” Her tone was final, like a large wooden door being slammed shut in your face. You held your tongue, returning to your chores as the day continued on.

Dinner was chaotic, as it always was. With plates clattering against the small wooden table and glasses being tipped over. Your younger cousins bickered, their loud and whiny voices filling the cramped room. “Boys! Enough.” Fiona looks tired when placing the large pot of soup on the middle of the table, in the center of the whirlwind. The twins however, immediately quiet down though they continue to glower at one another.

“He started it!” William shouts as he points to his brother, Theodore, who merely shakes his head. “Did not!” — “Did too!” For each time their whining voices grew all the louder, soon overpowering any coherent thought you might have. A small tap to your side diverts your attention from the arguing taking place. Mira, your youngest cousin, points to the jug of water, silently requesting you give her some.

She was quiet, awfully so, in fact you don’t think you’d heard hear utter more than three words during meal time. You oblige by pouring her a glass, setting the jug back just in time for your aunt to give the twins a harsh tug to their ears, making them protest loudly. — “Give your mother a break will ya?” Her voice is harsh, leaving a thick silence behind as she lets go of her sons and takes a seat by the high end of the table.

Opposite your aunt Fiona, sits your grandfather. He seems lost in thought as his wrinkly fingers play with the spoon on his hand. Everyone is now turning his way, waiting patiently for him to begin eating. It was customary to let the oldest man of the house eat before anyone else, and usually your grandpa was not late to indulge… Today, he seems distracted.

“Father, are you not hungry?” Your aunt tries as she leans forward, gripping her own spoon tightly. You watch as his brows raise on his aged forehead, and your grandfather hums as his gaze drops to the bowl before him, as if he’d just realized its presence. — “Huh..” He huffs, readjusting his grip on the silverware as he stirs the warm soup. “Oh yes..” He murmurs, bringing a spoonful to his lips as he begins to eat.

Everyone sighs in relief, all following as they, too, begin to feast. For some reason you find yourself unable to. Your gaze lingers by your old grandpa, noting the slight tremble to his hand and the effort it took for him to swallow. Often did you worry for his health, for how long you had left with him. Regardless of his condition, there was little you could do for him. It pained you greatly.

Just like everynight, you tucked your grandpa in before bed. He’d gotten quite disoriented during later months and needed help getting from one place to another. With your arm around his weak frame, another one waiting to assist, you move him from his rocking chair and over to the soft mattress. — “There you go, pops. — Careful with your knees.”

Your grandfather scoffs as he waves a dismissing hand your way. “Enough dear, these legs used to conquer battlefields, they shan’t submit to a short walk..” Still, there was an undeniable tremble to him as he slowly lowered himself onto the bed. — Only once you’d drawn the thick blanket over him, did he finally seem at ease once more.

He hums to a foreign melody as you fiddle with the oil lamp on his bedside table. — “Ah, did I tell you about that one time… The one where I met a sundragon head on?” Your grandpa stifles a cough against his palm before shaking his head lightly. Though his train of thought was cut short when you place a gentle hand on his chest.

“It’s getting late pops, you need to rest.” The smile you send him is far from convincing and you quickly avoid his piercing gaze as you adjust the lamp one final time. You never turned down one of his stories, even if you’d heard it a hundred times before. He was bound to catch onto it, and he did. The sounds of sheets rustling rings in your ears as he props himself up on a weak elbow.

“Did my daughter tell you to stop encouraging me?”

It wasn’t a question but a statement. Despite your reluctance, you slowly admit to it as you give a meek nod. Your gaze trains to your hands as they rest in your lap, seated on the edge of his bed. Your grandpa makes a small noise of disbelief as he thumps back against the mattress. “Just as stubborn as her mother..” He mutters as he gazes up at the ceiling.

For a moment, a still silence fills the small bedroom, nothing but the wind tearing through the trees outside to be heard. Then your old grandfather suddenly speaks again. “Your aunt has every reason to resent those creatures, given what happened to my father..” — Your ears perk up at the mention of your great grandfather. He was, according to your grandpa, a man like no else. One who not only faced the dragons but even soared through the sky alongside them.

Well, at least until… Your grandpa’s hoarse voice interrupts your scattered thoughts. “I do not blame her”, he murmurs, sounding almost melancholic. Yet you’re able to catch the undeniable glint in his eyes, the one that would shine whenever he spoke of his past. “Still…”, he coughs, a low and weasel sound, “I would like to see them one last time.”

“To see the dragons once more, that is my final wish.”

𓍼ོ

The very next morning is cold, a lot colder than a typical summer one in Aethera. You tug your coat tighter around yourself, even your gloved hands slowly succumbing to the biting frost. It’s early, much so that the sun itself has yet to rise over the horizon. — Quietly, you slip out of your aunt's small cottage, sealing the door shut behind you as you give a final glance over your shoulder.

Your footsteps crunch against the leaves and twigs as you make your way through the thick and dense forest. Nature around you was still asleep, at least, most of it. You did not dare stop to think about what kind of creatures roamed these woods, what kind of entities lingered in its shadows.. A shiver runs down your spine and you shudder before pushing those thoughts aside, marching forward with hasty steps.

And soon enough, the trees part, making way for the large mountains ahead. With newfound eagerness, you rush forward, more than ready to leave the dark forest behind as you emerge from the treeline. — You pause, finding yourself in complete awe as you stare up at large stones, crafted by nature itself, their tops covered in a bright blanket of white snow.

Here you were bound to find what you were looking for. Dragons. Determined to fulfill your grandfather’s dying wish, the least you could do was set out to bring back the one thing he sought to see the most. You knew a lot about dragons, well, as much as he’d let on to in his stories. Still, the thought of seeing one up close.. It made your stomach tingle.

But the mountain is a lot crueler than you’d anticipated. The hike to the top is unforgiving, tearing your limbs apart as your body aches. You’re panting, knee deep in thick snow as you battle against the harsh winds. In spite of it being late July, the harsh conditions of the Frosty Peaks seemed to know no bounds as it served you whiplash after whiplash.

Frantically your gaze searches for an entrance, for any way to access the mountain. Your grandpa had long ago told you about the dark caves dragons resided in. “They’re quite tricky to find, not something you would just stumble upon. — A dragon’s nest is its most treasured place.” That’s what he’d said.

You knew to look for small, almost unnoticeable anomalies. Something that any other bypasser would mistake for nature's misfortune. A twisted branch, a cracked stone.. The cold wind hurls against you, making an almost ear piercing screeching noise. You can no longer feel your face as you keep your gaze trained to the ground, intently looking for something, anything that would give way to an opening.

But you come up short. There was nothing here. It felt like you’d been climbing this mountain for forever. It was never ending, everywhere you turned there was just snow upon snow upon snow. Every rock and every tree looked the same, perhaps you’d been walking in circles. What if you couldn’t find your way home, what if you were to freeze to death upon this quiet mountain, all alone and shivering as you take your last breaths.

The lantern you had brought along had burned out, yet you clutched it tightly as you stumbled forward. With your head bowed and your desperate eyes seeking what you thought to be the impossible, you’re unable to foresee the snare that protrudes through the white snow, not until it’s too late. It catches around your wrist, causing you to yelp as you fall forward.

It’s cold, it’s so cold that it burns. The hard ground caresses your tired body, the soil beneath welcoming you. With shaky hands you brace yourself against the mountain, daring to lift your head only an inch, wincing at the pain that throbbed within. “Ow..” You whine, clutching your temple as you screw your eyes shut.

When you open them again is when you see it. At first you didn’t know whether to cry or to laugh. In disbelief your gaze flickers between the lily that was currently in full bloom, thriving in deep snow, and over to the opening presented before you. — Unbelievable.

Excitement coursed through your veins as you scramble to your feet, eager to escape the menacing wind. It’s without thinking twice that you dart for the cave’s opening, throwing yourself inside with a relieved sigh. Your soft pants leave small clouds of cold in their wake, and you lean against the wet stone walls as you catch your breath.

With wary eyes you survey your surroundings, taking in the endless pit of darkness that awaits you. The cave curved in a C-like shape, and the sounds of water quietly dropping from its ceiling fills the otherwise eerie silence. — It takes you a moment to re-light your lantern, but once you have, its warm glow manages to bring you at least some sense of comfort.

Your hesitant footsteps bounce off the wet cavern walls as you delve deeper into the mountain. With your lantern held high, it guides you through the passages, an unexplainable tug at your chest urging you forward. Perhaps you should turn back, perhaps this had been a bad idea. After all, you did not know anything about dragons apart from what your grandfather had told you.— Was this really such a good idea?

A turn to your left leads you onto an even darker path, and you feel a shiver crawl down your spine, sending a shockwave of nervosity through you. With a small gulp, you readjust your grip on the lantern, its light casting your face in yellow-ish hues. — So far there was not a single sign of any other living being, and you had been listening to nothing but your own shaky exhales for the past twenty minutes.

Just when you had begun to consider retreat, did the tip of your shoe crash against something hard. Not being able to catch yourself in time, you stumble forward a second time that day. But this time, there’s no snow to catch you, and you hit the hard and cold cave floor with a loud crash.

“Ow..” Your groan pierces the thick silence, and you wince as you grab ahold of your already pounding head. Not again you sigh. Everything hurt, your body felt sore and bruised, you could only imagine how you looked beneath all your layered clothes.

Upon turning around, you find that what you had tripped over had been not a stone, not an overly large branch or any other of nature’s call. No, this was something entirely different… With squinting eyes you peer down at what appeared to be scales covering something the size of a smaller tree trunk. Confused you glance around in search of your lantern, it had slipped from your grasp during your fall.

You find it a few feet away, gingerly shuffling over as you retrieve it. Thankfully the flames within were still alive and you cradled it close as you turned back to the strange scaled thing you had tripped over, only to find it gone. — Your heart catches in your throat, making your eyes widen and the lantern threatening to crash against the ground once more.

A cold and harsh puff of air hits your back, hard. You gulp, slowly and carefully turning around as you clutch the lamp in trembling hands. Immediately your gaze falls on the exact same scales you’d seen just moments prior. White and smooth, perfectly covering four large legs, your attention fixates on the long and sharp claws on its feet. Then over to the almost translucent and magnificent looking wings, neatly tucked against its sides.

Dread fills you when you realize that what you had tripped over had been its at least 10 ft long tail. With a gawking expression you watch as said tail curls around its body. In almost cinematic slow motion does your gaze shift toward its head, where sharp canines rested in its mouth. There was no doubt that this was exactly what you had come here looking for.

“A dragon..”

The words leave your lips before you can stop them. Your soft whisper of disbelief carrying out into the cold air. It looked stoic, yet far from the dragon's your grandfather had described. This was not the dark and fire-spitting beasts he’d told you about, this was… A wet droplet splashes against your cheek and you glance up to find icicles peering down at you from the ceiling, their pointy ends looking ready to pounce.

A low huff brings your attention back to the creature before you, just in time to watch as it cracks an eye open. Its ice blue irises a stark contrast to the narrow slits of its pupils. This dragon did not hold the gaze of warmth and fire. — It held one of ice cold death.

You stumble backward on trembling legs. The wet and hard cave wall feels like daggers against your back when you crash against it. Your breath comes out in jagged pants, your heart beating through your chest as you realize the dangers of your situation. The plan had been to watch them from afar, to silently slip away as if nothing had happened when you had gotten what you’d come here for. The plan did however, not include coming face to face with one of them. To become trapped within the cold and eerie darkness of these caves with the very beings that ruled them.

With fear in your eyes, you watch as the dragon rises to its feet. Cold blue eyes locked on your small figure as you stay pressed against the wall, cowering before it. The sounds of its heavy steps echo between the icicles hanging from the ceiling, it makes the floor shake and rocks move as it slowly makes its way closer.

You can feel its chilly breath all over you, freezing your already damp and shivering body tenfold. You screw your eyes shut as you turn your head away, preparing yourself for the fate inevitably to come. — Stupid, stupid, stupid girl. You should’ve listened to your aunt. You had been a fool to believe your old grandpa. You should have never come here and you should have never woken this beast.

But the sharp and soaring pain of its large canines never came. And when what feels like an eternity has passed, you finally dare crack an eye open. Your vision is clouded by blues and whites, its nose hovering inches from your face. You couldn’t understand why it hadn’t made another move to attack you, to snap your frail body in half and rid itself of your invading presence.

The dragon only watches you, the slow waves of cold air washing over you when it exhales. You swallow, gaze drifting down its long and majestic body as you wait for death to come. It is then you realize that something was wrong. There, tarnishing the translucent hue of its large wing is a large and ugly crack. Dark crimson spills from it in dramatic fashion as it taints the dragon’s shattered wing.

It was hurt.

A pang of sympathy washes over you at the sight. The frantic beating of your heart faltering for a short moment as you exhale the sigh you’d been holding in. The dragon seems to notice where your attention lays and immediately covers itself up by tucking its wing to its side. — A low, predatory sound builds in its chest, causing the hairs on the back of your neck to rise as you will down a gulp.

It pulls back, and for a second you think it might retreat. But instead it opens its terrifyingly large jaw, presenting you with rows upon rows of teeth sharp as swords. You want to scream, but the dragon beats you to it as it lets out an ear piercing roar. — It makes the icicles above you shatter, their splinters flying everywhere. Even the walls tremble under the powerful sound and you find yourself darting for the exit without a second thought.

The sound continues to plague you as you run through the murky and long cavern walls, fighting your way through the maze you had once entered with curiosity and hope. Now you claw onto the desperate feeling of life, with tears streaming down your cheeks and your heart in your throat.

It’s not until light presents itself and you catch the sun on your face that you breathe out. Your lungs burn, your legs ache and your head pounds. The snow feels warm and inviting, and your knees sink to the ground as you plummet toward it. — One glance behind your shoulder shows the entrance gone once more, and you sigh, whether it was in relief or not, you can’t tell.

But as you make your way home that day, you can’t help but think of the dragon up in the mountain, and the large wound on its side.

𓍼ོ

Your grandpa accompanies you as you prepare dinner that night. Your aunt Fiona was out gathering wild berries and fruits along with your younger cousins, and so the kitchen had become a peacefully quiet and inviting space. The air is warm, the steam coming from the hot stew cooking over the small fire, caressing your face.

Perched on his stool by the high end of the table, your grandfather watches as you prepare plates and spoons for the family. His expression is calm, serene even. He doesn’t look as exhausted today, and you’re glad. These quiet and tender moments with him were ones that you cherished, for you didn’t know how many you had left.

Yet you can’t help your mind from wandering toward the mountain on the other side of the forest. Your thoughts are plagued by the lonesome creature hidden within the stone. “Grandpa…” Your fingers drum against the rim of the glass you were wiping down, a small frown tugging across your brows.

The old man hums as he shifts his gaze over to where you’re standing, obviously waiting for you to continue. It’s just… You don’t know how to. With a small, almost inaudible sigh you set the glass down. “Did you ever.. I mean was there ever such a thing as… ice dragons?” — The question catches him off guard, sure your old man was used to your inquiries about both the dragons and his past life. But something like this had never been brought up.

“Ice dragons?” He echoes, and you think you catch a flicker of intrigue behind his otherwise pale eyes. “Where have you heard about those?” He then murmurs as he attempts to sit a little straighter. You immediately rush to his side as you place an arm around him, “Careful.” But your grandfather only swats your helping hands away as he stifles a cough.

You purse your lips, but keep a steady grip on his shoulder as you hand him a glass of water. “I’ve just… Been doing a bit of research, and I stumbled across the topic.” You bite the inside of your cheek before adding, “There was hardly anything documented, so I was hoping you knew more..”

Your grandpa hums, the sound long and drawn out as he takes a sip of his water. “Well of course there’s nothing documented, ice dragons have been extinct for centuries.” He says it so calmly, like it was the most casual thing in the world. But it wasn’t. You had just seen one, you were sure you had seen one.

Images of the dragon up in the mountains flash before you. The blue and white scales, its frosty breath, its icy and penetrating gaze. But that would be impossible then.. It shouldn’t exist if they were extinct. — “Are you sure?”

With a small scoff, your grandfather sets his glass down. “What kind of question is that?” He quirks a bushy brow, his expression gauging as he studies you closely. “If there was as much as a single ice dragon left, I would be sure to know of it”, he states with a huff. You did not want to argue over the matter any further, and thus kept your silence as you continued setting the table.

Perhaps it had been a flicker of your imagination. The cave had, after all, been dark. It was possible that what you thought was real could have been all but an illusion. — But the ice cold shiver that ran down your spine as you recall its cold breath on your skin was most real. You think of the blood, of the large wound slashed across its side. How defensive it had gotten when it caught your gaze lingering.

You pitied the being. What awful it must be to feel pain like that.

“Why do you want to know about ice dragons?” The hoarse voice of your grandfather pierces the warm air and you turn to him with a small almost helpless smile. “I don’t know… Curiosity I suppose. ” You mumble, choosing to not bring up the day’s events in front of your old man. Your grandpa nods, his face looks sunken as his eyes drop to his empty plate.

Outside, you can hear the faint noise of your aunt and younger cousins as they approach the small cottage. “Curiosity will get you far”, your grandpa agrees, though his voice sounds almost solemn now. — “But we should not let our thoughts linger in the past.”

𓍼ོ

You find yourself setting out early in the morning that follows as well. But this time, you’ve brought more than a small lantern. The bag you carry is heavy on your back, making each step up the steep and snowy mountain twice the labour. Yet you persist, stubbornly trudging through the thick snow that reaches all the way to your knees.

The cold and harsh winds make for a narrow view as you squint against them. Your nose has lost all its feeling, and you’re certain that you’re developing frostbite on parts of your body. Frantically you search for the tiny lily. You had tried your best to retrace yesterday’s steps, wantonly stumbling back and forth as you scour the ocean of bright white.

“Where is it… Where is it..” Your lips are numb, your tongue feels way too big for your mouth and your words come out slurred. Never in your life had you been this cold before, and only God knows how much longer you’ll be able to carry on forward.

But then you see it, its bright pink hues lighting up your world like fireworks in the night sky. And just a few feet away, the familiar entrance presents itself. — Despite your better judgement you had returned. Pity, that’s what you told yourself. Pity and empathy, that’s what you felt for the lonely dragon. It was why you had come here, with the intention of helping, as best as you could. It would’ve been what your grandfather would have wanted.

Guilt weighs you down. It weighs heavier than the large bag on your shoulders. This secret you kept, it was bound to kill you. But such a thought seems small in comparison to the large cave that awaits you. — One final harsh thrust of the wind wins you over as you hurry inside, desperate to get out of its claws, even if it means finding yourself in the grasp of another.

The maze-like system that was the dark and wet cave is strangely familiar, even though it shouldn’t be. Your feet move on their own, carrying you through the long and narrow labyrinth. For each step you take, your heart beats a little faster. Fear and anticipation courses through you. — Scared as you may be, but this time you had come prepared. This time you knew what waited around the corner, and as you made a final turn to the left, you exhaled.

It’s dark, but now you know to watch where you place your feet. You’re silent, moving carefully through the cold air. Your lantern casts the cave in a warm and yellow glow, a stark contrast to the murky greys surrounding you. The icicles are sending gentle droplets of water down your way, one by one they splash against your cheek, the soft noise filling the open space.

You had expected it to be there, you had tried to imagine it over and over for the past day. But the large dragon still catches you by surprise when your gaze falls upon it. Hurled up by one of the rocky and uneven walls, its large wings folded over what you presumed to be its wounded side. Its chest rises and falls with each slow breath it takes, the dragon appears to be in a calm slumber. Cold puffs of air shoots through its flared nostrils, the condensation vanishing in the darkness.

It takes but one misstep on your part, the sound of rocks being crushed beneath the sole of your shoe echoing out into the silence. The disturbance wakes the sleeping dragon, and you find your gaze glued to its icy eyes as they snap open. Naturally, you expect for it to come lunging at you, just like it had the day before.

But the dragon remains oddly still, slowly exhaling yet another wind off freezing air as it watches you with an almost expectant glint. It was impossible to read the creature, no matter how hard you tried. Your grandfather’s stories only did so much, and it was admittedly far different to come face to face with one on your own.

“Hi.”

The greeting comes without you even thinking twice, it’s quiet, soft and timid. You’re surprised by your own rush of calmness at its semblance of indifference. For some reason, you did not feel threatened by the dragon today.

With slow and gentle movements, you let the bag slip from your shoulders, placing it down on the hard stone surface beneath you as you begin rummaging through it. You had not known what to bring along, for anything involving medicine was far from your expertise. The moss you’d brought from just within the forest line was thick and wet, but you vividly remember your aunt dressing your scraped knees in such.

Gauze was sacred, you had to venture all the way to the kingdom in order to acquire some. It was why you had taken as little as you could from your aunt’s medicine cabinet, hoping and praying that she wouldn’t be able to tell. — It wasn’t much, but it was something.

You feel the dragon's intense gaze on you as your trembling hands undo the roll of gauze, you wondered if it’d be enough to even go around its large body once. It was worth the shot. — You stand up straight, clearing your throat as you draw in a short breath. “I uh, I’m here to help you..” You give the dragon an awkward smile. It was impossible to know if it could understand you or not, but judging by the way its gaze narrowed at your words, you would guess it did.

It’s okay, you tell yourself, gripping the supplies in your hands tighter. You take a hesitant step forward, gauging its reaction as you keep your eyes on its head. But the dragon remains unmoving. Alright. Three more steps. Still good. — It’s not until you reach its side, your outstretched fingers reaching for the shattered wing, that the dragon flinches.

A low, menacing growl builds in its chest. The sound makes you falter, your eyes widening as you swallow the shriek about to escape your lips. “I…” Your mouth opens and closes repeatedly as your heart hammers in your chest. Had you taken it too far? Your intentions were pure, sure, but could this beast see that?

“I mean no harm…” You say as you let the moss and gauze drop to the ground, presenting your now empty hands before the dragon. The creature watches you with pupils that are narrowed into slits, clearly untrusting of your ways, but makes no move to snap you in half. — It meant something, at least so you thought.

Your attention slowly returns to the pale wing pressing against its side. If only you could get a closer look. Your palm graces the smooth and cold scales, fascinated by the foreign texture. But the action is almost immediately met by a harsh snarl from the dragon as its large head jerks your way.

Its breath is just as freezing as you’d remembered it, coming out in harsh puffs against your already shivering body. You’re so close that if you leaned forward as much as an inch, your foreheads would meet. — Your gulp is painfully audible inside the dark gave and you fumble for words.

“Y-You’re hurt…” Your shaky finger points in the direction of its wing and the dragon follows your direction. You watch in slight bewilderment as it flexes the broken wing. The wound looked harsh and deep, you were sure it restricted most of its movements, not to mention causing it great pain.

The dragon makes a small noise that sounds almost like a human grunt. The sound catches you off guard and you turn back just in time to catch its head shifting forward again, its attention seemingly fixed on something far away. It looked almost… defeated. You wondered for how long it’d been isolated up here, how many sleepless and painful nights it would’ve had to endure.

When it doesn’t make a second attempt to snap you in half, you take it as your sign to move forward. A brief inspection of the long cut helps you determine that it would probably not need any stitches. Said discovery relieved you as you had little clue of how to work both needle and thread, especially on dragon scales.

You pick at the moss you’d previously discarded, bunching the wet plant up in your hands as you sought a suitable approach. It would’ve been easier had this dragon been slightly smaller, or you slightly bigger. — Nonetheless you give it your best shot. The dragon hisses when you press the cold moss against the crimson cut, but you try your hardest to ignore the way it tenses beneath your touch, praying and hoping that it would remain as still as it had up until now.

Once the thick layer of moss is in place, your foot blindly reaches for the gauze as you roll it over. With the help of your teeth, and a lot of effort as your arms fought to keep the earthy moss in place, you managed to throw the small roll over its wing, only to catch it as it came down on the other side.

The process was tedious, and due to the size of the wound, it required you to repeat your original move a multitude of times. You work quietly, biting your lip in concentration as sweat pooled on your forehead. To try and get your mind off of the situation and task at hand, you try to figure out just what could’ve caused an injury like this.

Had the dragon taken a fall? Gotten in a fight with another of its species, or even worse, a completely different creature? You were no fool, and you knew that dragons were far from the only spirits that roamed this forsaken island. There were beings far more dangerous than a pair of claws and a large jaw. The thought alone made you shiver.

A loud thud snaps your attention to your left, your heart leaping out of your chest. But the terror subsided just as it had surfaced when your gaze fell on the dragon's head, resting atop the cold and hard cave floor in an exhausted manner. It exhales, the condensated cold air blowing from its nostrils like smoke out of a chimney.

It was impossible not to pity the lonely creature, and you feel your stomach twisting as you watch its defeated expression. There was much you wanted to ask, things you longed to know. For now, you were content with not getting torn in half as you tended to the crack on its wing. It was enough, you tell yourself.

Once you're done, you take a step back to inspect your work. It looked… messy. The gauze was wrapped in uneven layers, with moss peeking through here and there. An amateur's job, that much was evident. But the dragon doesn’t seem to mind, for it spares no more than a quick glance toward the now dressed wound. Instead, its cold and harsh gaze lingers on your fidgety frame as you debate your next move.

Your eyes dart around the dark cave, lingering on its sharp and rough edges. You wondered how uncomfortable it must be to live like that. The lack of sunlight, the lack of warmth.. Not that this dragon seemed to need it. — But there was really nothing here. And as you fetch your lantern once more, throwing the now empty bag over your shoulder, you turn to meet the dragon’s icy gaze.

“I’ll be back”, you say, and though it did not reply, you caught the faint shimmer of its once tired eyes.

𓍼ོ

You return to that same dark and cold cave for many days to come. As time passed, you found yourself growing all the more comfortable in the dragon’s ever looming presence. You would bring fresh moss, making sure to check on the wound as best as you could. — And though your bag weighs half a ton, you still managed to bring some nutrients all the way up the mountain.

“Here”, you had said as you threw the bag on the stone floor. The dragon had given you a small glance, its expression appearing almost judgemental before its gaze had flickered to the fish you’d brought along. — “Why come on, you must be hungry.” You motioned toward the fresh meat, feeling rather proud of the accomplishment. The dragon had let out a huff, blowing a cold puff of air your way before begrudgingly indulging in the food.

Conversation was difficult to make. You often talked to yourself, thinking out loud as you rambled on about whatever topic came to mind. Sometimes you didn’t speak at all, instead choosing to let a comfortable silence envelop the two of you. You did not know if the dragon enjoyed your company, perhaps it only put up with you because it had too little strength to snap you in half.

Yet the creature continued to occupy your thoughts. Its almost translucent wings, the pale scales covering its body, the sharp pair of icy eyes. One day you’d brought a small notebook along. Using a piece of charcoal, you sat perched against the opposite wall as you drew the dragon to the best of your abilities. You found it to be a great excuse to watch it for long periods of time rather than stealing subtle glances.

Truth was that no matter how many times your eyes fell on the dragon, you still found it hard to believe just what you were seeing. Suddenly your grandfather’s stories all made sense. The suspense and thrill of the dragons. The dangers and the courage it took. You understood why he enjoyed talking about them so much, you could feel his passion as you sat in silence with something so sacred.

But for each day that passed, the large gash on its side lessened in both size and severity. You wondered how much time you had left before it eventually spread its wings and took off. The thought plagued you more than you’d like to admit…

The morning is crisp, the moist and warm summer air had yet to fall over the small cottage you resided in. Just like any other morning you’re up and about, quietly shuffling throughout the tiny space as you pack today’s essentials. You were thinking of bringing along a book, perhaps you would read out loud to the dragon, any form of entertainment would surely brighten its mood.

Your eyes roam the crowded bookshelves, stuffed with literature of all kinds. From herbal tea recipes to novels and history books. The pad of your finger stops atop one of the shorter pieces, something you’d easily be able to finish within the day or the next. But before you can as much as pull it from its spot, squeezed between two thick history books, the sound of a floorboard creaking startles you.

“It’s a little early to be up reading.” Your aunt Fiona sounds like she’s just caught a thief in the midst of its burglary. And when you turn to face her, you find a satisfied smirk stretched across her thin lips. — “I…” Your words fall short, your throat suddenly thick with a fear you couldn’t quite place. “Well I was just-”

“You know I’ve noticed you sneaking around lately.” Fiona takes a step forward, and you start to wonder if she’d perhaps gotten up early solely with the intention of catching you. Her eyes gleam with satisfaction when they land on the book you had been reaching for just moments ago. — “Gone all day without as much as a word, you worry you old grandpa.”

Your aunt would often use your grandfather as a pressure point, knowing that the mention of him would get you to crack. She takes another two steps forward, stopping a mere feet away. “Perhaps you’re trying to get out of your chores”, she nods toward the garden outside, even though it had been left unattended for a mere week.

You shake your head, immediately trying to deny the accusations she was pinning on you. “It’s not-” — “Then what?” Fiona cuts you short, her voice snappy as her face twists into a small grimace. “What could be keeping you from your frail and old grandpa?” She had a point, and the fact that she did was a bitter thought indeed. You should be spending more time with your grandfather, you should be helping your aunt around the house, there are a lot of things you should be doing.

The sound of your swallow is painstakingly loud, shattering through the brief silence. “I know…” You bow your head, shame trapping your will to go see the dragon up in the mountain. “I’m sorry.”

Fiona seems satisfied with your answer. She purses her lips, humming to herself as she eyes the bag flung over your shoulder. “Leave it here”, she points to the sofa on your right, “You won’t be needing it for now.” — Reluctantly you do as she says, letting it drop to the soft cushion before turning to your aunt with disappointment surely written across your face. If she catches it, she doesn’t bother to acknowledge it. Part of you is relieved that she seems to have little interest in prying further.

“The garden needs tending to”, she states before turning on her heel and heading for the stairs, likely with the intention of waking your cousins. But as she reaches the first step, she throws a glance over her shoulder, her sharp gaze landing on your still unmoving frame. Her eyes narrow, “And don’t even think about leaving the house until you’re finished.”

You could understand your aunt’s reasoning. Raising three children and taking care of her sick dad would surely take its toll on anyone. Fiona was strong, a lot stronger than most people seemed to think. Usually you did not mind helping her, for it made you feel useful. — But today your heart yearns to be elsewhere. You find yourself glancing toward the mountain, your thoughts occupied by the pale dragon, the image of its icy gaze burned into your mind.

Because of that you find yourself hurrying through your tasks. Your fingers pull carrots from the moist soil, they pick basil from the fresh plants and pluck ripe apples from the old apple tree that leans to the right. Sweat dribbles down your forehead, and you mindlessly wipe it with the back of your hand as you carry on forward.

The work felt tedious today, and you stole peeks at the kitchen window, trying to catch a glimpse of your aunt as she moved about the house. When finally, after what felt like decades, your basket is filled to the brim with fresh nutrients, and the plants had all been watered and tended to, you return inside.

Setting the heavy bag down on the kitchen table, you look for Fiona, but she’s nowhere to be found. Your eyes drift toward the living room, lingering on the book you’d reached for that morning. You had done your chores for the day, so there was technically no harm in sneaking away, if only for a few hours.

𓍼ོ

Your way up the steep mountain feels lighter that afternoon. Your steps have a slight skip to them as you bounce forward. Nothing seemed to weigh you down, not even the full on scolding that you might receive from your aunt upon your arrival back home.

By now you find the lily with ease, its familiar and bright pink hue standing out perfectly among the clear and white snow. You’re excited, giddy even. The thought of spending time with the grumpy dragon brought you a kind of joy that should definitely concern you, and had you been any wiser, you probably wouldn’t have entered the cave that afternoon.

It was even colder than last time, yet the air was still, not a single gush of air hurling your way. You creep forward, without getting lost, because you’d acquainted yourself with the layout of the maze-like mountain. Now every twist and turn felt like a familiar face, one you’d seen so many times before and would always remember with a nostalgic smile.

You enter the opening that leads into what you had begun to call ‘the dragon’s nest’. The name was quite silly, but you didn’t mind since you were the only one to use it. But a frown quickly finds its way to your face as you regard the empty space. — The dragon was nowhere to be seen. Confused, you take another couple of steps forward, instinctively calling out for it, “Hello?”

There was, of course, no answer. You didn’t know what you had expected to come out of the simple greeting anyway. Rocking back and forth on the sole of your shoes, your mind rakes with different possibilities of what could have happened. Had it taken off? Maybe someone had found it, even worse, killed it.

No, that couldn’t be right.

Then you spot it, light. That was new, for the cave had been nothing but a room of complete darkness, ever since you first stepped foot here. Eager, you approach the source, forgetting all about your lantern as you discard it on the floor. Due to your previous visits being spent in such dim light, you had never noticed that the cave curled in on itself, leading even deeper than you’d originally thought.

The squeeze to get through however, was tight. There was no way a dragon would be able to fit through here. Rough and cold stone scrapes against your chest and back as you push yourself between the rocks, determined to find your way to the other side, to the light. — With a heavy sigh you finally stumble free, bracing your hands on your knees as you allow yourself to catch your breath.

When you glance up you realize that what you had stepped into was an even bigger part of the cave. But this one was basked in the warm rays of the sun. You’re almost blinded by the bright light, and you shield your eyes with your arm. Half the cave opened up and out into the sky. From here, the snowy mountains looked absolutely breathtaking.

And as you regard the snow coated treetops, the way the sun reflected off the white surfaces, it suddenly hit that you had never actually stopped to admire your surroundings. Each day had been a battle to the top, never once had you taken a break to glance around, to appreciate nature in its truest and rawest form.

But your moment of serenity is quickly broken by the sound of what you assumed to be a rock rolling across the cavern floors, the noise ripping you from your trance. You spin around, eyes wide as you try to locate its source, all to no avail. This part of the cave seemed just as empty as the last and the frown on your face only grew.

The dragon was really gone.

Then, just as you’re about to turn back, all air was knocked out of your lungs. The first thing you feel is pain, sharp and flaring through your body when your back is slammed against the cave wall. Your scream never makes it past your lips. And suddenly, the light that had previously enveloped you whole, was gone, shielded by something – by someone.

Your jaw hangs slack, the same terror you had felt on your first encounter with the dragon returning. It takes a moment for your flimmering eyes to adjust, but when they do you finally see the man before you. His face is dark, clouded by rage. The almost pitch black hair on his head falls in front of his eyes but you can hardly focus on his complexion, much too aware of the large hand he had wrapped around your throat.

Your breath hitches, a faint and helpless gasp escaping your open mouth. Who was he? Why was he here… How did he know about this place? — But then your gaze falls on his naked chest, there, covered in gauze and moss, the very same gauze and moss you had so carefully wrapped around its once large wing.

Finally, you catch a glimpse of his eyes. They’re dark and gloomy, but they’re familiar. As they narrow on you, there’s an undeniable hint of blue, shining within their irises depths – an icy and cold blue.

You realize then that the man before you was the dragon himself.

“I…” Desperately your fingers claw at his hand, trying to pry him off of you. The urge to speak is strong, but his vice-like grip overpowers it. His chest heaves, his breaths coming in ragged and rough, his hand around your throat tightening with deadly force. — “Why did you come back?” It’s the first time he utters as much as a word. It sounds strained, as though he’d gone years in silence.

When he finally releases his hold on your neck you fall forward, clutching at your throat whilst gasping for air. He watches you soundlessly, his expression twisted into a scowl. “W-What..?” You finally manage to croak out, feeling as though your wobbly knees were about to give out any second now.

The man scoffs, his fist connects with the cave wall next to you and the stones crack under his knuckles. “You should not have come here”, he barks, fury radiating off of him. “You do not belong here, human.”

He says the term with such distaste, making it sound derogatory. Perhaps it was. Yet you couldn’t seem to wrap your head around it. This was the very same dragon you’d been tending to for almost a whole week now. The creature in which you’d poured your love and affection onto, carefully building what you thought to be a relationship based on trust.

But as he stands before you in his human form, you hardly recognize him.

The man takes a step back, leaving you to exhale in relief. He turns away from you, as if trying to disregard your presence completely. You watch as he approaches the edge of the cave, where the bright sky meets the dark mountain. — Even with his back turned, you could tell that he was beautiful, breathtaking.

“I don’t understand…” Your quiet whisper seems to echo, a sound that you should be used to by now. Still, you can’t help but cower at the intensity of your words. The drag- man, does not turn to look behind him, does not spare you as much as a single glance. “It is not for you to understand”, he firmly states, his tone holding a bitter and resentful edge.

You shake your head, “I helped you-” — “You humiliated me.” He’s looking at you now, his cold gaze reaching you from across the cave. Your stomach drops at the statement. Have you done something wrong? You thought you were helping… “You degraded me by putting your filthy human hands on me.” He spits the words out, his voice laced with a venom so poisonous that it sunk into your veins.

“You were hurt-”

“I would have been fine”, he snaps. You feel frozen under his stare, unable to move as you shrink against the cave wall. He glances toward the bandage around his chest, the traces of what you had thought to be a gesture of kindness and empathy was something he regarded with hatred. It hurt. His jaw clenches, his hands curling into fists by his side.

“You should leave.”

Your blood ran cold at that and your lips part, an objection ready on your tongue. But he’s quick to realize that you won’t budge. With a small grunt he turns his back on you a second time, as he does, you catch a glimpse of the many scars slashed across his skin. They were a bright white, appearing healed though it seemed not even time could make them fade completely.

Before you can get another word out, before you can reach for him – he leaps off the edge. A terrified scream leaves your lips, and you slap a hand across your open mouth in shock. For a second you thought that he might have actually taken his own life, right before your very eyes. Everything is silent at that moment, and you do not dare move.

The sound of wings, slapping against the cold air is what gives you new hope. You see him, the pale blues easily giving him away as he pierces through the clouds, riding out the hurling winds. Your heart aches at the sight, for reasons unbeknownst to you, reasons you don’t think you wanted to get to the bottom of.

Suppose you would miss him, the lonely dragon.

𓍼ོ

Days passed. Days that would soon turn into weeks. The reality of your otherwise mundane life slowly sunk in, like fog easing its way from the ground after a rainy day. Only there was no sun to greet you after such gloomy weather. Your life seemed bleak these days. You did not know if that had to do with the absence of the dragon, whose name you never got, or your grandfather, whose health was declining each day.

Your days had shifted, and you no longer spent as much time in the garden. Hours upon hours were passed in the presence of your grandpa. His hand in yours as your thumbs caress his old and wrinkled skin. — He would cough a lot, and you could tell that it his condition was starting to wear him out. Regardless of that, he continued to drag on his long stories about the dragons, only with slightly less action.

Because even his stoires had found new attention.

“You know, they were actually quite crafty too.” Your grandpa’s voice is hoarse, and sometimes you need to strain your ears in order to hear him. Nevertheless, you sit by his rockingchair as he inistied on not spending his entire days bedridden. A blanket is placed over his lap, for he easily got cold these days, despite it being late summer still.

“The dragons?” You ask, to which your grandfather nods. “Ineed, in their human form of course. - And they were quite talkative too”, he recalls with a smile on his lips. You wanted to disagree on the matter, for the ice dragon you met had been anything but friendly. You thought you could still remember the glare he’d sent you, one that had stung through flesh and bone.

Your grandpa is attacked by another fit of coughs, and you help as best as you can by gently patting his back. “They sound lovely”, you murmur when readjusting the blanket over his legs. He gives your hand a thankful squeeze, humming in agreement. — “They are. Oh how I wish you should have known the gentle ways of a dragon, I think you would like it.”

He remains silent for a brief moment, his tired eyes lingering on the open window. The soft and warm summer breeze occasionally brushed past, sending a refreshing wave of air your way. Outside your younger cousins play, their screams of both joy and youth bounce off the trees. “Even my daughter might come to terms with it, had she just given them a chance.”

Something in the warm summer air shifted then, a darker cloud pulling over the otherwise clear sky. For long you had avoided the subject, danced around it because you were afraid, not of asking, but for receiving an answer. Still, your curiosity could not be contained, and as you witness your grandfather in his final moments, you realize that there might not be another oppurtitny for you to ask.

You clear your throat, shifting on your own chair as your hands remained clasped around your grandpa’s. “Say… What happened with my great grandfather?” You present the questions calmly, yet you avoid his eyes, your attention fixed on your intertwined fingers. — With a wheeze-like inhale, your grandpa sighs.

“You have not asked about him before”, he states and you can feel the slight tremble to his hands as they rest in your own. “No”, you say, “I haven’t.” You knew that avoiding this could not go on for forever, he knew it too. Your grandfather nods, taking another deep breath that seemed to cost a lot of effort.

“My father was a fearless man..” He begins telling it like he would any other story, but there’s a definite melancholic edge to his tone. “He was the closest our family ever got to the dragons”, he pauses, eyes flickering to met yours for a brief second, “Some even speculate that he fell in love with one of them.”

Your jaw slacks at that, the surprise evident on your face. “In love?” You echo, to which your grandfather chuckles. “She was a most beautiful woman, a man would be stupid not to recognize such, and my father was far from stupid.” He leans back in his rocking hair, it makes a creaking noise beneath his weight as it shifts backward every so slightly.

“They did spend a great deal of time together, much so that it worried the others.” — “Days could pass without my father returning from the mountains once. It’s quite confusing for a young boy such as myself to be left with his absence. - But I knew then, that my father’s love for the dragons was something I should aspire for myself.”

He made it sound beautiful, a lot more than it should have been. This was no fairytale for its ending was most gruesome. You knew that without having to ask. And with a heavy sigh, one that made his chest puff out before it shrunk again, your grandpa seems to come to terms with how the story had ended.

“Despite their love she still carried the deadly traits of the dragon. - But his death was never her fault.” Your grandpa turns to you with a solemn smile, “That’s what he would have wanted me to say.”

He doesn’t continue, even though you thought that he might. No, for once, your grandpa seems content with a shorter story, one that spoke for itself. Strangely enough it made you think of the dragon up in the mountain, he was not the same yet he was everything a dragon represented. He confused you, you told yourself that it was the reason he lingered in your mind, even when he shouldn’t.

𓍼ོ

Ingredients for your grandfather’s medicine were of best produce if you harvested them yourself. Your aunt Fiona had therefore urged you out the house that morning, making you embark on a rather long walk as you searched for the plant she desired. It was of magical properties supposedly, and therefore it grew only under magical conditions.

Lunarspore, or something along those lines was what it was called. A small, purple mushroom that thrived best in the murky waters of warm lagoons. Such a place did indeed exist on the island of Aethera, and as all humans, you knew its dangers. — Mushrooms weren’t the only thing that fed off of the almost glowing water. Beneath the surface lurked creatures far beyond any will of good.

Your feet come to a halt by the edge of the lake, your eyes narrowed as they peered across the thicker layer of fog that coated the misty surface. An uneasy feeling bubbles within your stomach, but you don’t turn back around despite your gut instinct screaming for you to do just that. Instead, you crouch down by the water, gaze searching for the round and plump mushroom.

It takes a while, but soon enough you stumble across one. With a relieved exhale you reach for the small knife stashed in your belt, flicking it in your open palm before reaching out to snag tha plant. You’re disappointed by its size, you would have expected them to be bigger. “This thing would barely last us a week..” You mutter as you begin searching for another one straight away.

To your surprise you find a second mushroom almost immediately. But to your dismay it was further out in the lagoon. You hesitate, gaze flickering between the safety of land and the need for the mushroom ahead. These waters scared you, and you did not want to wade out further than absolutely necessary. — In the end your desire to help your sick grandfather wins you over. With one tug, you pull your dress above your knees as you begin your descent into the lagoon.

For each step you take forward the water seems to get warmer. A strange and almost calm feeling washes over you, it puts you at ease, even as your mind yells for you to turn back. You ignore the strange sensations and keep your eyes set on the target ahead. Finally, as you reach the mushroom, you reach for it, but before the blade of your knife can slice it from its roots, a quiet whisper pulls your attention to the left.

Nothing but still and purple water fills your vision, yet you can’t shake the feeling that you weren’t alone. Something, someone, was there with you, lurking and stalking where your weak human eyes couldn’t see. The whisper is soft, it sounds almost like a melody, a sweet and enticing tune. You know you shouldn’t listen, you should scream for its silence and beg for your life.

But you can’t help but fall under its trance.

The water moves, gentle waves brushing against your naked legs. Your dress falls from the now loose grasp of your fingers, the cotton immediately being soaked up by the lagoon. The mushroom is long forgotten and the knife threatens to slip from your hands.

You see it now, long and flowy hair reaching the surface, its arms outstretched as it approaches. But you do not feel fear, in fact your whole body is calm, frozen in place as you watch the siren approach. You knew what was coming yet you couldn’t find it in you to lift as much as a finger in order to stop it.

Its wet and long fingers lock around your wrist, slowly tugging you toward the murky water. Its song rings clear in your ears now, but you cannot make out as much as a single word. You allow yourself to be pulled, the water is warm and inviting, enveloping you whole. For a moment you forget about everything, nothing exists and time is not real.

But then, just as your head was about to submerge under the surface, something hard and sharp hits you across the stomach. You’re lunged backward, snatched from the siren’s gentle but firm grip and hurled into the sky. At first, you’re too dazed to even realize what had just happened, but when your vision finally clears, and you behold the ground so far beneath you, is when you scream.

Everything was moving at an alarming speed, the wind whistling in your ears, the sound followed by that of winds slapping against the air. You glance up only to be met by the very same dragon you thought you had seen for the last time. He’s looking straight ahead, clearly unbothered by your terror as you squirm in the gras of his long claws.

If he let go now, you would fall to your immediate death, reduced to nothing more but a pile of shattered limbs as you melt against the ground. The thought scared the living daylights out of you and you stop fighting and instead cling onto him with all your might.

You’re… confused. Why was he here? After your last encounter you’d been certain that you were to never cross paths again. Yet here he was, not only that… He’d saved you. You dare another glance down, beneath you your surroundings are changing quickly. From up here they all seemed small and insignificant, even the lagoon which you had almost fallen victim to.

Your eyes shift toward the dragon, watching as his now healed wings tore through the sky, carrying you to a destination still unknown. You swallow, feeling at loss for words. His hold on you was firm, but it didn’t hurt but you felt pathetically weak squeezed between his claws. — The questions of why and how continue to run through your jumble of thoughts, even when the snowy mountain comes into vision.

Up here, the mountain seems a lot smaller, lesser. Fog covers the bottom half of it, making it impossible to even get a peek of the ground itself. He aims for an opening, one so familiar that your stomach dropped all the way to your toes. You knew exactly where he was taking you now.

He slows down, large wings twisting in the air as he comes to an almost abrupt halt. You shriek when the claws around you loose, making you slip from their hold. But the wet and cold cave floor isn’t far, and you land on wobbly feet with a small thud. The dragon quickly joins you, but the sound of him landing is not the loud and powerful noise you’re expecting, and when you turn around, you find him in human form again.

He runs his fingers through his dark hair with a small shake off his head, it looked almost as though he was dusting himself off. Your eyes trail across his muscular frame, something you had barely allowed yourself to look at last time. Briefly you wonder why he always seemed to appear without a shirt or any garment to cover his chest, but when your gaze flickers over his toned stomach, you find that you did not mind.

Dark yet cold and almost icy eyes flit over to you, and they narrow as he catches you staring. You blink, pulling your invading gaze from him as it jumps across the cave, one you had been in before, both of you. It’s then that reality slowly washes over you, you were here, with him, and he’d just saved you from a fate worse than death. There was only one thing to say.

“Thank you.”

You smile, hoping that the sincerity and your gratitude would show. But the man only frowns, his stoic features twisting into confusion as he watches you from the other side of the cave, a far and safe distance from you. “What for?” He grunts, the disbelief in his voice clear as day.

With parted lips you find yourself mimicking his perplexed expression. “You saved me…” Because he did, right? But he only shakes his head, emitting a small scoff as his jaw clenches. “The siren, the lagoon, I was… I would be..” — “You would be dead”, he calmly states, the simplicity to his tone made you want to shiver.

“I paid my end of the bargain”, he then says and for a moment you could not wrap your head around what he meant by that. Then it all came together. He was making amends for his broken wing, the one you had so carefully tended to, even without his compliance or permission.. Still he was willing to do the same for you, even if only to pay back the debt that seemed to weigh him down.

“Now we no longer have any reason to see each other”, he states as a matter of factly. You can’t tell if he looks relieved or merely tired, or perhaps maybe just at peace. He turns from you, and you panic, worried that he was about to take off once more. You don’t think you could stand seeing him leave, not again. Truth was, you had grown quite attached to the dragon… Yet you knew so little about him.

“You have yet to tell me your name.” It was the first question that came to mind. You bite your tongue, but when his eyes only narrow you quickly add, “You know mine.” It was true, you had told him your own name on your third or fourth encounter, for it had felt rude not to introduce yourself when tending to his wounds.

He scoffs, averting his gaze as it roams the now pink sky, painted by the warm hues of the slowly setting sun. His cold skin looked raw under the orange rays, and you find yourself mesmerized by everything that is him. You had so many questions for him, so many answers you longed to hear. Was he really the last ice dragon? How did they all die, and why had he lived?

Everything is silent for a minute, much so that you swore you heard the song of birds in the far distance. Then he exhales, a long and low breath. Without looking at you he says, “Taehyun.”

“Taehyun is my name.”

You instantly smile, practically beaming toward him. “That’s a beautiful name”, you hum. Taehyun snorts, giving a small roll of his eyes as he turns away from you to peer out over the sky. “There’s hardly anything beautiful about a dragon.” He says it so quietly, almost a whisper. It was probably never intended for your ears, but you hear it.

Why did he loathe his own kind? How could he be ashamed of something so majestic as himself. It made no sense. — Your feet move on their own, slowly carrying you across the cave. You never stop to think, and Taehyun does not turn your way. Then, before you know it, you’re beside him.

His skin is cold against your lips when you press a hesitant kiss to his cheek. His jaw twitches, and you feel his heavy gaze on you once you pull back. His dark brows are furrowed into a confused frown, but he doesn’t look angry. “It’s how we say thank you.” You smile in a way you hadn’t in ages.

Taehyun watches you, his eyes studying your face intently, as if considering his next move carefully. “You humans are strange”, he mutters, but there’s an almost teasing edge to his tone, much different from his usual gloomy demeanor. “A good strange or a bad strange?” You ask as you nervously pull your bottom lip between your teeth.

He shakes his head, turning to face your way and you suck in a sharp breath when you realize just how close you were standing. His expression is still hardened, as if stuck in a permanent frown. Within his dark irises swirl strings of cold blue, and they seemed to shimmer under the setting sun.

You tense up when he suddenly moves even closer, his ice cold chest brushing against your flaring hot one. “Good”, he exhales, his cool breath slapping your across the face when he leans in to press his lips against yours. His kiss is not the same sweet and hesitant gesture you’d given, but it’s not rough either. It’s… him.

A single shiver runs down your spine when his hand snakes to the back of your neck. It was so very different from when he’d had his fingers wrapped around it, squeezing with all his might. He touched you like you were made of porcelain, one push too far would make you shatter in his palm, and he would be unable to piece you back together.

The kiss goes on for forever, time slows down until it ceases to exist. You want to watch him, drink in his almost serene expression. Yet your eyes flutter closed as you return the gesture. Never did you question why he did it, because that didn’t matter. He felt so perfect against you, as if he was made for you and you only. Perhaps in another universe he was, in a universe where you were just like him, and not a weak and frail human.

He pulls back, lips parting only an inch from your own, his forehead resting against yours. He’s breathing softly, the tension washed from his face as he regards your flustered one. “That’s how we say thank you”, he murmurs.

“Why are you thanking me?” You whisper, your wide eyes peering into his. Taehyun sighs, blinking slowly as he swallows. “I don’t know. Why are you thanking me?” — You smile, your shoulders slumping into a shrug. “I don’t know.”

You saved him, and he saved you. A favor for a favor. You were no longer bound to the other yet it somehow felt like your heart was going to break into a million pieces if you let go now. Taehyun inhales slowly, his nostrils flaring when he does. “Can I kiss you again?” He wonders, and the question makes you almost delirious.

“Yes.” You’re already pressing your lips against his, desperate to feel him on you once more. He smiles into the kiss, a gesture so warm and contrasting to the cold and freezing layer of ice covering him. — Your hands are on his naked chest, fingers splayed across the now healed scar. The soft groan he emits vibrates on your tongue, urging your bodies flush against one another.

“You’re so warm”, he murmurs against your skin as his kisses move to your cheek and down your jaw. Your head falls back, the sunset basking the two of you in color, the world outside silently watching. — “You’re cold..” You whisper, your fingers intertwining in his dark hair regardless.

Taehyun chuckles, a sound you’d never before heard him make, it made your heart flutter. “I am”, he hums, his own hands trailing down your sides, relishing in the way you shiver as you stubbornly cling to him. The cold could not deter you, it never had and it never would. For Taehyun’s heart held all the warmth you should ever need.

The kiss ends for a split second in order for you to catch your breaths. Soft sounds of heavy panting fill the large cave, echoing off its dark and wet walls. You swallow, taking the moment to find your bearings as you gaze into his shimmering eyes. You knew then that he was someone you could trust, with your life if need be. It made your next move all the more obvious.

As you brush a dark strand from his face, you exhale. “I… There’s someone I want you to meet.”

𓍼ོ

“Careful”, you murmur as you lead your grandfather through the high grass. He coughs and tries to swat your hands away but you insist on keeping a firm hold around his shoulders. “There, there, don’t wear yourself out.”

“Pfft-” Your grandpa scoffs, shaking his head as he trudges on forward. “I haven’t been out and about like this in weeks, I’ve saved plenty of energy for the occasion.” He assures you. But you could tell by his laboured breathing and trembling arms that he was tired. You would have felt bad bringing him out here, wasting his precious energy like that. — But today was different.

“Why are we even out here anyways? You can hardly expect me to help harvest any herbs..” He mutters as his tired eyes flicker across the open meadow. It was calm, the late summer air basking the two of you in a warm glow. “No grandpa”, you smile as you pat his shoulder, “That’s not why we’re here.”

Your old man hums, giving a small nod as you come to a stop in the middle of the opening. “I have seen grass before, dear.” He gives you a pointed look and you can’t help but giggle as you shake your head. “I know, you’ve seen what I’m about to show you before too… But I still think you’ll like it.”

Your grandfather raises a brow your way, his lips parting as if to say something, but before he gets the chance to, the trees ahead rustle. The sound snaps both of your attention that way, and you manage to catch a glimpse of your grandpa’s curious eyes just as Taehyun emerges from the forestline.

When you’d first asked him, the request felt pushy, perhaps a little too much, but to your greatest joy, he’d agreed. The white and blue scales on his skin shimmer in the sunlight, and his nearly translucent wings seem to sparkle when he moves closer. He looks magical, hauntingly beautiful. But you force your gaze away from him and over to your grandfather.

He was watching Taehyun with a slack jaw, his eyes wide as sausages and you’re glad that you’re holding on to him when his legs buckle. “That..” He begins, his mouth dried up and his voice hoarse. He turns to you, as if in disbelief before quickly glancing back toward the dragon before him. “Is he real?” He quietly whispers and you bite back a giggle.

“Of course”, you say as you take his hand in yours. “Do you want to get closer?” The question was hardly needed for your grandfather moves with both newfound strength and speed as he approaches Taehyun who’s standing a mere ten feet away. He stops only when the dragon’s cold breath caresses his old and wrinkly face, a smile unlike anything you’d seen before etching its way across his lips.

“He’s real”, your grandpa states, and you swore you could see the happiness blooming in his heart. His gaze wanders across Taehyun’s blue scales, a small frown tugging on his brows. “He’s…” — “An ice dragon”, you nod, “They’re not extinct.”

Taehyun makes a small sound that comes across as half a grunt, half a snort. Your grandfather doesn’t seem to mind, far too preoccupied with taking in the sight before him. “How?” He whispers as he reaches a trembling hand out to touch the very tip of Taehyun’s cold nose. The action is intimate, and it makes your heart swell.

You never give him an answer, you’re not sure what you could even say. All you knew was that you had made his final wish possible, nothing else could make you feel better. — He spends the entire day with Taehyun, and when he shifts into his human form the two converse for hours on end. You watch them, wordlessly admiring the two. From the way your grandpa’s face lit up whenever Taehyun spoke of his life, to the dragon himself when he listened to your grandfather’s stories.

As the sun set you practically had to drag your old man home, promising that Taehyun would visit as soon as he had the chance. — Even though such a time never came.

Your grandpa died that night, it was a peaceful death, one kind and gentle. You watched with tears in your eyes as he inhaled a last time, his chest rising as he did. And when he finally exhaled, everything stopped. Every story and every adventure of his were reduced to just that… tales. Something to remember and to cherish.

You cried until the sun rose on the naked sky, your tears drying just in time for fresh ones to spill. You cried until your chest hurt and your lips were bitten bloody. You grieved your grandfather with every fiber of your being, until there was nothing left but large and hollow holes in your body, filled with an eternal sadness.

Taehyun was there, he came when he heard your cries. Even though his embrace was cold and his arms freezing as they wrapped around you, there was never a moment where you felt yourself shiver. For there was warmth in his heart, enough for it to spread to your own. — Taehyun would help you live, just like you had helped him.

taglist ✎... @liaatiny @Izzyy-stuff @Saejinniestar @Hyunelixbun @lunesdesire @n0-thisispatrick @lickingan0rchid @tyunderella @fancypeacepersona @hyunj00 @hwang-choon @soohashits @xylatox @lilbrorufr @ezeert @blossommi @beestvng @minji-willstay @sunoolver @yeoningz @beombunni @zi-vian @usuallyunlikelyfox @brrytears @stormy1408 @dontwannacry04 @soobabby @nshmrarki @dawngyu

(if your tag is not working please check your settings to make sure that your blog is not hidden!)

213 notes · View notes

downbadbytheriver · 1 year ago

Text

[WIP] "Safe"

Oops I've got Tav/Astarion/Halsin healthy throuple brainrot. <3

I'm really terrible at sharing art; the RSD scares me out of it every time. But here's the line art to push me to finish and post the finished piece, and in the hope that there's any other feral BG3some shippers out there...

Anyway. Properly kendolled/semi-clothed the boys for Tumblr rules. I might post the NSFW version if anyone wants it, but I'm not sure yet where.

74 notes · View notes

carnivorous-arboretum · 8 months ago

Text

nov 1st on spotify and probably some other places @farthys

#grab your headphones developed specifically for elf ears #apparatus aethera #<- sorting for me and me alone #cA's art

9 notes · View notes

sadioradio · 2 years ago

Text

getting better at line art me thinks

#sword art online #shikimi kamura #the aethera girls are destroying me again #I found old sao fanwork in my closet omg the comparison is unbelievable TOT

12 notes · View notes

moonlightchild77 · 8 days ago

Text

youtube

#aethera et terra #magna canta #spiritual chill out music #Youtube

0 notes

storiesfromthemusicbox · 7 months ago

Text

high ish stakes thought

im just realizing how easy it would probably be to get lillie to believe team plasmas whole stuff. all things considered. traumatized little creature finally seperated from the aether foundation and from her bitchass "mother" could pretty easily get sucked into that if talked to the proper way. thats not how i wanna play lillie (at least not this one, i wanna be a little nice to her. for now.) but. damn.

#lillie--m--aethera blog #higher stakes thoughts

0 notes

whatsourmotto-whocares · 11 months ago

Text

this blog is not dead!!!

...but someone in my life is, so... sorry I fell off the face of Tumblr for a month+ and I'm sure my position in the algorithm is nonexistent now, but fandom is my happy place, so I be back now. love you all. Idgaf if we've never spoken directly, I love you if you're here. esp since I know us queer and neurospicy people tend to find each other and the world is extra hard for us and so if that's why you're on this page, extra love for you. and for everyone... hug the people who matter to you, take care of each other, and/or always say what you have to say *today*. life is brief yet beautiful, my friends. 🖤

#aethera #sorry this is personal and heavy #it's been a black summer #i love you all #please take care of yourselves and those you love and nurture your communities

7 notes · View notes

heesmiles · 29 days ago

Text

BOUND BY BLOOD AND VENGEANCE ˚୨୧⋆｡˚ ⋆ l.hs

》 In the kingdom of Aethera, the shadows whisper tales of revenge, betrayal, and forbidden magic. A cunning witch with a flair for deception, has spent years honing her craft for one purpose: avenging her parents’ deaths at the hands of the King. Disguised as a visiting princess from a distant realm, She charms her way into the castle, weaving lies and illusions to mask her true intent—murdering the king. Her plan is flawless, or so she believes, until she crosses paths with Heeseung, the brooding captain of the royal guard. Tasked with protecting the "princess," Heeseung finds her insufferable, too sharp-tongued and confident for his liking. But as they’re forced to spend time together, her wit begins to spark something deeper in him, despite his better judgment. - THIS IS A REPOST

pairings » witch hunter!heeseung x witch!reader 𝔤𝔢𝔫𝔯𝔢 » smut » fantasy » forbidden romance » angst warnings » smut, oral fem rec, angst, gore, death, murder, dark themes, dark magic, mcd, angst, parental death, 1500s royal ideologies (not entirely accurate), blood, graphic depiction of some death scenes, mainly in reader's pov second person "You" but some scenes in Heeseung's pov, longing, lots of longing.

word count «30.1k »

Prologue.

The midnight sky hangs heavy over the sprawling coven hall, its black-stone spires clawing at the heavens like skeletal fingers. The air inside is thick with incense and whispered spells, a choking blend of power and menace. You stand hidden among the crowd of robed witches, your heart hammering as your aunt, Mira, ascends the obsidian dais at the center of the room. Mira moves with the precision of a predator, her sharp features twisted into a mask of triumph. Her voice rings clear, cutting through the murmurs of the assembly like the slash of a blade. "Let it be known," Mira declares, her tone dripping with venom, "that my sister, Esme, was a fool. Her lust for power led her to defy the council—to act alone, recklessly, against the king. And now, she is dead."

The word strikes you like a physical blow. Dead. The room blurs as tears sting your eyes, but you refuse to blink them away. You can still picture your mother’s fiery gaze, her defiant smile. Gone? It doesn’t seem real. Mira’s voice rises, commanding the attention of every soul present. "Esme’s actions have left a stain upon this coven, a mark of disgrace that threatens to unravel all we have worked for. The council must act wisely to ensure our survival. As her successor, I motion that we abandon this foolish vendetta against the royal family. Let the king and his ilk live." A wave of murmurs ripples through the hall. Your fists clench at your sides as you listen to the witches’ agreement. Your aunt, the woman who had coldly informed you of your parents’ deaths only hours before, now calls your mother power-hungry and selfish.

"My sister sought glory and brought ruin upon herself," Mira continues, her lips curling into a cruel smile. "Let her fate serve as a warning to those who would seek to defy this council." The crowd erupts in murmured assent, some nodding gravely, others casting wary glances at one another. You shrink further into the shadows, your nails digging into your palms until crescent moons of pain etch into your skin. Your mother wasn’t power-hungry. She wasn’t selfish. She had been brave, determined to rid the world of the tyrant king who had oppressed your kind for decades. How dare Mira speak ill upon her only hours after her death. The council’s seal burns bright upon Mira’s palm as she raises her hand, swearing her oath to uphold the coven’s decisions. The crowd roars its approval, but your ears ring with the sound of your own heartbeat. You watch your aunt with burning eyes, feeling the injustice of it all sear into your very soul.

They are cowards, every last one of them. But not you. You won’t let your mother’s death be in vain. You step back into the shadows, your heart a furnace of grief and fury. One day, you vow, you will finish what your mother started. You will avenge your parents and bring the king to his knees—even if it means standing against the coven itself. As the council hall fills with chants and the rustle of robes, you slip away, unseen. Your path is set, your purpose clear. The king’s days are numbered, and you will stop at nothing to see justice served.

The cold night air bites at your cheeks as you sneak through the hidden tunnels beneath the coven hall. Every step echoes in the silence, but you’re too determined to let fear stop you now. The moonlight above guides your way as you slip out into the open, the dark forest swallowing you whole. You’ve heard whispers in the coven—rumors of a royal procession. The king is welcoming a princess from a neighboring kingdom to learn the traditions and history of Athera. The thought is your first glimmer of a plan. If you can reach the castle, you can get close to the king. And if you can get close to the king, you can kill him.

The journey to the village square is long, but you’re light on your feet, moving through the shadows like a wraith. When you arrive, your pulse quickens at the sight of the royal carriage docked outside the saloon. Its intricate gold detailing gleams in the torchlight, and the sound of boisterous laughter drifts from inside as the guards enjoy their meal and drinks. You approach cautiously, your heart pounding. The guards are distracted, but you can’t afford any mistakes. Muttering a quiet incantation under your breath, you weave a charm spell, your words wrapping around the nearest guard like a silken thread. His expression slackens, and he gestures for you to pass, oblivious to the danger. What a punk. So easily taken down, is the king so stupid as to not have his guards under protection that wavers spells. Amateur. You scoffed at your hatred for him.

The carriage door creaks softly as you open it. Inside, the princess sits on a plush seat, her gown shimmering like moonlight. Her eyes widen in alarm when she sees you. Her blonde hair bright under the minimal light seeping through the closed curtains of the carriage. Her chest heaved at the sight of you, clearly frightened. Just how you liked it. A scared little privileged girl who had not even the slightest idea of how cruel the real world is. Growing up with a king for a father and a queen for a mother, spoon fed with a gilded spoon. You tsked at the thought. It made your next move all that easier to accomplish. "Who are you?" she demands, her voice trembling. "Guards!"

Before she can scream again, you lunge forward, your dagger flashing in the dim light. Sinking the knife into the side of her chest without so much as another protest. The struggle is brief, her cries fading into silence. You catch your breath, staring at her lifeless form. There’s no time for hesitation. Stripping her gown, you exchange your rough clothes for her regal attire, pulling the hood of her cloak low over your face. With practiced efficiency, you shove her body to the far side of the carriage. You’ll deal with it soon enough. Moments later, the guards return, oblivious to the change. The carriage lurches forward, and you wait until the village lights are distant before opening the door and pushing her lifeless form out into the night. You had no regrets. None. This is what needs to be done, for your parents. The world is now rid of one less pretty princess who had lived and loved ten times more than you ever had. You fought a smirk from gracing your lips, pure evil instincts kicking in.

The muffled thud of her body hitting the ground is followed by distant shouts of alarm. You don’t look back. The screams of the villagers grow fainter as the carriage speeds toward the castle, carrying you closer to your destiny. You sit back against the cushioned seat, your fingers tightening around the dagger hidden beneath your cloak. Soon, the king will pay for everything. For taking your parents far too early. For being an arrogant, no good tyrant. You couldn't wait to spill his blood. You were actually giddy. The towering gates of the castle loom before you, their iron bars glinting in the moonlight. The carriage comes to a halt, and the driver announces your arrival with a booming voice. You steady your breathing, keeping your head bowed as the door opens. A pair of guards escort you inside, their armored boots clanking against the stone floor. The grand hall is a marvel of opulence. Chandeliers dripping with crystals cast a warm glow over gilded walls and intricate tapestries. Your eyes catch every detail, memorizing the layout as your heart pounds beneath the layers of the princess’s gown.

The king and queen stand at the far end of the hall, their regal presence commanding the room. The king’s sharp eyes study you as you approach, his mouth curling into a welcoming smile. The queen’s gaze is softer, but no less piercing. They are everything you expected—and everything you loathe. Tall, graceful. As hard as stone. Your heart leaped in your chest but you would not allow the disease of anxiety to plague you. You were stronger than that. "Welcome to Athera," the king says, his voice rich and commanding. "We are honored to have you here." You forced a snarl down at his voice alone.

So instead you curtsy deeply, keeping your expression demure. "Thank you, Your Majesties. It is an honor to be here."

"You must be tired from your journey," the queen says, her voice as smooth as silk. "We have arranged for a nursemaid to attend to you. She will show you to your chambers and ensure you have everything you need."

"You are most kind," you reply, forcing a polite smile. Your hands are steady, but the weight of the dagger hidden beneath your cloak reminds you of your true purpose. The king steps closer, his imposing frame towering over you. "We look forward to hearing about your homeland and sharing our traditions with you. Tonight, you will dine with us. It will be a chance to begin your education in the ways of Athera."

"I would be delighted," you say, inclining your head. The thought of sitting across from him at the dinner table, so close yet unable to strike, makes your blood boil. But patience is a weapon, one you are learning to wield. Even if your hatred for him is at an all time high you must remind yourself of the ultimate goal here. Not only do you want to kill the king, you also wish to make him suffer, in the most unimaginable ways. You had never known how your parents died, or what the nature of it was but based on the horrifying stories told about the king's prisoners you could only assume the worst. You were dealing with pure evil, good thing you had been made straight from hell clawing at the cage of your soul to pull him down there with you. A maid appears at your side, bowing low before gesturing for you to follow. You allow her to lead you through the labyrinthine halls of the castle, your mind racing with possibilities. Each step brings you closer to the moment you’ve dreamed of: the moment the king pays for his crimes. For now, you must play the part of the princess, but soon, the mask will come off—and the real game will begin.

The maid leads you to your chambers, a room so grand it feels like stepping into a dream—or a trap. The ceiling arches high above, painted with scenes of celestial beauty, and the furnishings are fit for a queen: a massive canopy bed draped in silk, a polished mahogany desk, and a window seat overlooking the sprawling castle gardens. You fight to keep your expression neutral, though the opulence threatens to overwhelm you. "This will be your room during your stay," the maid says with a bow. "A bath has been prepared for you. Shall I assist you, or would you prefer privacy?" You had never had someone to dote on you, even when your mother was alive. You sure as hell wasn’t going to start now.

You give her a small, dismissive wave. "I can manage for now. Thank you." She nods, retreating with a final bow. Once alone, you let out a breath, shedding the heavy cloak and feeling the weight of your dagger hidden in the folds of your stolen gown. The luxurious bath beckons, but you remain cautious, examining the room for anything amiss. When you’re satisfied that no prying eyes or hidden spells lurk, you strip off the dress and slip into the steaming water. The warmth eases the tension in your muscles, but your mind remains sharp, replaying every moment since you entered the castle. The king’s piercing gaze. The queen’s soft, calculated smile. They seemed so at ease, so secure in their kingdom, but that security would be their downfall. When the water begins to cool, you step out and wrap yourself in a robe. A knock sounds at the door before the maid returns, this time with a tray of delicate bottles and brushes. You're especially jumpy. Learning to be extra cautious. You were in enemy territory completely undetected.

"I’ve come to prepare you for dinner," she says, setting the items down. She moves with practiced efficiency, brushing and arranging your hair into an elaborate style that feels foreign on your head. Her hands are gentle, but the intrusion feels invasive, a reminder that every moment here is a performance. You could never be fully comfortable, fully relaxed. Not under the watchful eyes of the royals and all who serve them. "Do you like it?" she asks when she’s finished, holding up a gilded mirror.

You glance at the reflection of a girl you barely recognize—poised, elegant, nothing like the witch who crouched in the shadows of the coven. "It will do," you say curtly, standing to allow her to help you into another dress. This one is finer than the last, adorned with jewels and embroidery that shimmer in the candlelight.

When you’re finally ready, she steps back with a small smile. "You look lovely, Your Grace. The king and queen will be most pleased." You nod, hiding the dark satisfaction that simmers beneath your calm exterior. Let them be pleased. Let them believe I am harmless. A pair of guards and the nursemaid walk you to the dinning hall where your dinner will take place. The dining hall is a spectacle of wealth and grandeur. A long table stretches the length of the room, laden with golden plates and crystal goblets. Servants move like shadows, ensuring every detail is perfect. The king and queen rise as you enter, their smiles warm and inviting. "Ah, our honored guest," the king says, motioning for you to sit beside him. You glide to the seat, each step measured and deliberate.

"Thank you for this generous welcome," you say, your voice soft but steady. The king studies you as you begin to eat. His questions come slowly at first—polite inquiries about your homeland and upbringing. You answer carefully, spinning a web of half-truths and vague pleasantries.

"And what do you hope to learn during your time in Athera?" he asks, cutting into a piece of roasted meat.

You pause, as though considering your words. "Your Majesty, I wish to understand the traditions and history that make this land so revered. To gain the wisdom that only a kingdom as ancient as yours can provide." The queen smiles at this, but the king narrows his eyes slightly, as if testing the sincerity of your response. Before he can press further, he gestures to a man standing near the far wall.

"This is Captain Lee Heeseung," the king says. "He is my most trusted guard and will oversee your safety during your stay." Heeseung steps forward, bowing slightly with an air of quiet authority. His dark eyes meet yours, and you sense he’s already assessing you, searching for weaknesses.

"An honor to serve, Your Grace," he says. His voice is steady, but there’s a spark of curiosity in his tone. You incline your head, feigning disinterest. "The honor is mine, Captain." The king seems satisfied with the exchange and continues speaking. But when you inquire about magic in the kingdom, his expression hardens. You ask of magical beings he has here, perhaps prying too far but you did not care much. Being here meant making sacrifices.

"Magic is not a matter for you to concern yourself with," he says, his tone firm. "Your focus should be on diplomacy and tradition."

Your lips tighten, but you force a smile. "Of course, Your Majesty. Forgive my curiosity." You bit back every harsh wish you could utter at him, biting your tongue almost to the point of bleeding. The conversation drifts to other topics, but your mind lingers on his dismissal. Magic is none of your concern. The words echo in your thoughts like a challenge, feeding the embers of your anger. You’ll prove him wrong. You’ll prove them all wrong. Magic was your entire being. It coursed through your veins at this very second. Born and bred a witch, the king didn't know the true first thing about what Magic truly was. Not unless the asshole possessed it himself, which he didn't. As far as you heard he did his bidding in the creatures he held captive in this very castle. He was a coward.

The evening wears on, and when the meal concludes, the king rises to offer a toast. His words are full of pride and hope for the future, but you hear only arrogance. You lift your goblet, hiding your true thoughts behind a mask of gratitude. One day, this kingdom will bow to you. One day everyone will know of the Bloodborn witch who outsmarted and conquered the tyrant king. For now, you bide your time. Tonight, you’ve taken your first step into the heart of Athera. Soon, the real work will begin.

After dinner you're more than eager to get out of the confines of your room, you were just itching to scope out the castle and what it entailed. There was just one tiny problem. Your guard dog Heeseung was permitted to walk with you every step you took. The moon hangs high over the castle as you step out onto the garden path, the crisp night air brushing against your skin. The opulent gardens are a labyrinth of perfectly trimmed hedges, vibrant blooms, and marble fountains that glimmer under the silvery light. It should be peaceful, the perfect setting for you to gather your thoughts and refine your plan, but the sound of boots following closely behind shatters the illusion. "Is this truly necessary?" you ask, throwing a glance over your shoulder at Heeseung, who trails a few paces behind.

"The king insisted," he replies, his tone clipped. He doesn’t bother to hide the annoyance in his expression as his dark eyes meet yours. "I don’t particularly enjoy babysitting, either."

You huff, turning away from him and focusing on the path ahead. "I hardly need a babysitter."

"Then why am I here?" Heeseung mutters under his breath. You fought the urge to crack him over the head with a tight closed fist. You didn't need a low life guard treating you like some weak girl who couldn't hold her own head up. Fuck that.

You shoot him a sharp look. One laced with venom, and ash laden tongue. "Because the king is clearly overprotective."

"And because you're a guest," he counters, his voice edged with sarcasm. "Guests don’t wander around royal gardens unescorted, no matter how stubborn they are."

You stop abruptly, forcing him to do the same. "Stubborn?" You crossed your arms over your chest, your nails digging into the skin of your arm to stop yourself from lashing out on him and doing something irreversible. Heeseung folds his arms across his chest, just like you had. "That’s one way to describe it. Most princesses would relish the chance to stroll under the stars with the captain of the guard. You seem more annoyed than honored."

"Honored?" You scoff, your eyes narrowing. "To be followed around like a child who can’t be trusted to think for herself? If that’s what you call honor, I’d rather not have it." Heeseung’s brow arches, and for a moment, his irritation gives way to curiosity. "You’re not like other princesses, are you?"

"Perhaps that’s because I’m not as complacent as they are," you snap, taking another step forward. "I’ve seen enough of this world to know that women are treated like ornaments—delicate, fragile things meant to be admired and controlled. It’s infuriating." His gaze sharpens, and a faint smirk tugs at the corner of his lips. "Strong words for someone dressed like a jeweled ornament herself." You let a low hiss leave your lips at your growing frustration.

Your hands clench at your sides, but you hold your ground. "This gown doesn’t define me. And neither does your opinion." Heeseung chuckles dryly, though there’s a flicker of something else in his expression—respect, perhaps, or maybe amusement. "You’ve got spirit, I’ll give you that. But spirit doesn’t mean much in a place like this." He was giving you some kind of rundown you hadn't asked for, treating you like an idiot.

"And why is that?" you ask, your voice icy. Your body cold from the fury swirling in your veins. "Because this kingdom isn’t built on ideals. It’s built on power, control, and tradition." He steps closer, his tone dropping to something quieter but no less intense. "If you want to survive here, you’d better learn to play by the rules."

"I make my own rules," you reply, lifting your chin defiantly. You’d be cursing yourself for your behavior later, but now you couldn't help but let the spit fire fall from your lips. The tension between you crackles like lightning in the air, but neither of you looks away. Finally, Heeseung sighs and takes a step back, his expression hardening again. "You’re going to make my job difficult, aren’t you?" he says, shaking his head.

“Yes.” was all you responded with. And you'd give no other explanation to it. Heeseung probably wondered what kind of trivial trouble he faced ahead but he surely didn't know it was much more dangerous than that. This wasn't just some head strong princess fighting to stay somewhat afloat in a world akin to men. You were a bloodthirsty, wishfully avenging witch who would stop at nothing to see her enemy, the King, dead. He had not even an inclination of a clue. The silence stretches between you as you continue your walk, the garden’s beauty muted by the clash of wills. Heeseung doesn’t speak again, and you’re grateful for the reprieve. Every step solidifies your resolve, every glance at the castle walls a reminder of the kingdom you’ve infiltrated. Heeseung might think he understands power and control, but he knows nothing of the storm brewing inside you. Let him underestimate you. Let them all underestimate you. Soon, they’ll realize the true extent of your will—and the price of underestimating it. When you finally return to your chambers, you glance back at Heeseung, who remains at the door, his expression unreadable.

"Goodnight, Captain," you say, your voice laced with the faintest hint of sarcasm. But also a bit of amusement.

"Goodnight, Your Grace," he replies, his tone matching yours. As the door closes behind you, you can’t help but feel the night has been a small victory. You’ve made your first impression on the castle—and its people. And though Heeseung may prove to be an obstacle, he’s also a challenge, one you’re determined to overcome. For now, you let your thoughts settle as you prepare for the days to come. The game has begun, and you’re ready to play it to win. The heavy oak door closes with a quiet thud behind you, sealing off the noise of the castle. Your chambers are grander than anything you’ve ever known—rich velvet drapes, a bed large enough to drown in, and shelves lined with books whose gilded spines catch the flickering light of the fire. But none of it feels real. The luxury, the warmth, the illusion of safety—it’s all a lie.

You slip out of the heavy gown, casting it aside as if shedding a skin that doesn’t belong to you. Your reflection in the ornate mirror catches your eye, and for a moment, you stare. The princess’s face looks back at you, her delicate features framed by your freshly styled hair, but the defiance burning in your gaze is all your own. You turn away, pulling a well-worn leather satchel from beneath the bed. Its contents are simple but vital: a few personal belongings, a small book of spells, and a dagger you’d hidden before anyone could search your things. The weight of the dagger is comforting as you place it on the bedside table, a silent reminder of your mission. The fire crackles softly as you settle onto the plush rug by the hearth, spreading a stack of books in front of you. You’ve managed to gather a modest collection about the castle, the royal family, and the kingdom’s history—enough to keep your mind occupied, or so you thought.

Your fingers trace the faded ink of an old map of Athera, your lips silently forming the names of its towns and landmarks. But no matter how hard you try to focus, your thoughts keep drifting back to him. Heeseung. The way he’d looked at you in the garden, his dark eyes sharp and unreadable, as if he could see through your every facade. The way he’d dismissed you as stubborn and spoiled, as if you were no different from the pampered nobles he’d sworn to protect. The way his words had challenged you, igniting a spark of defiance you couldn’t shake. You scowl, slamming the book shut with more force than necessary. "Infuriating," you mutter under your breath, as if saying it aloud will exorcise the thought of him from your mind. It doesn’t. Instead, you grab your spellbook, flipping through its pages with restless energy. The familiar symbols and incantations should be a comfort, but even your magic feels dull tonight. You murmur a spell to conjure a small orb of light, watching it hover in the air like a firefly, but the satisfaction is fleeting. The orb winks out, leaving you in the dim glow of the fire.

Why does he bother you so much? He’s just another guard, another obstacle in a castle full of them. And yet, his words linger, needling at the edges of your thoughts. You hate the way he made you feel—challenged, unsettled, seen. Shaking your head, you push the thought aside and return to the books. The king is what matters, not some arrogant captain of the guard. You remind yourself of the plan, of the vengeance that fuels you. You’ll learn everything you can about this castle, this kingdom, and the man who sits on its throne. Heeseung is nothing but a distraction, and distractions have no place in your mission. Still, as the fire dwindles to embers and the castle settles into silence, his voice echoes in your mind: “You’ve got spirit.”

You grit your teeth, shoving the memory aside as you extinguish the lamp. Tomorrow will bring new challenges, and you can’t afford to let him—or anyone else—get in your way. As you lay down, the shadows of the room seem to whisper promises of the chaos you’ll bring to Athera. And yet, somewhere in the back of your mind, a quiet, infuriating thought remains: Heeseung may not be as easy to forget as you’d hoped.

The next morning arrives with the soft knock of your nursemaid, her presence dragging you from a restless sleep. The golden sunlight streaming through the tall windows feels almost mocking, a stark contrast to the cold determination that weighs heavy in your chest. You dress quickly, donning yet another gown far too frilly for your taste, and endure the nursemaid’s fussing over your hair with forced patience. By the time you arrive at the study hall, you’re already in a foul mood. The room is grand, with floor-to-ceiling windows draped in fine silks and shelves brimming with ancient tomes. At the far end of the room, a frail man in scholar’s robes stands by a chalkboard, his spectacles perched precariously on the tip of his nose. His presence is as unimposing as the droning voice that greets you. "Ah, Princess," he says, bowing stiffly. "We shall begin with a comprehensive overview of Athera’s founding and its noble lineage."

You sigh inwardly, suppressing the urge to roll your eyes. As you take your seat at the front of the class, you catch movement out of the corner of your eye—Heeseung, leaning against the wall near the door. His arms are crossed over his chest, his expression a mixture of boredom and irritation. He’s clearly as thrilled about this arrangement as you are. The scholar drones on, his voice a monotonous hum as he recites the kingdom’s history. Something about treaties, alliances, and a war long past. You try to focus, but the words blur together, slipping through your grasp like sand. Your gaze drifts to the window, where the gardens stretch out in the morning light. The vibrant colors of the flowers and the rustling of the leaves call to you, a welcome escape from the suffocating walls of the study. He talks of magical beings. Dragons, werewolves, creatures in the sea, creatures in the sky. "Princess, are you paying attention?" the teacher’s voice snaps you back to the present. His stern gaze pins you in place, and you force a polite smile.

"Of course," you lie, straightening in your chair. But your mind is already elsewhere again, plotting and scheming. How could anyone care about the history of treaties when the present holds so much more promise for chaos? In the corner, Heeseung shifts, his boots scraping lightly against the stone floor. His gaze meets yours for a fleeting moment, and you catch the faintest glimmer of amusement in his eyes. Is he laughing at you? You bristle, sitting up straighter.

The teacher drones on, oblivious to the silent exchange. "And so, The King’s unification of the eastern territories laid the foundation for the peace we enjoy today..." You stifle a yawn, your gaze flicking back to Heeseung. He looks as disinterested as you feel, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword as he leans against the wall.

"Do you find this as thrilling as I do, Captain?" you mutter under your breath, barely audible.

His eyes narrow slightly, but the corner of his mouth twitches upward. "Riveting," he murmurs back, his tone laced with sarcasm. "Though I imagine it’s more tolerable when you’re not staring out the window." Your cheeks heat, and you turn your attention back to the teacher, unwilling to give him the satisfaction of a retort. The exchange leaves you flustered, though you can’t quite decide if it’s from embarrassment or irritation. The lesson drags on, and by the time the scholar finally sets down his chalk, you’re convinced an entire day has passed. "We’ll continue tomorrow with the origins of the royal family’s insignia," he announces, as if that’s something to look forward to.

You stand quickly, smoothing your skirts as you prepare to leave. Heeseung falls into step behind you, his presence a constant shadow. As you walk through the corridors, the silence stretches until you can’t bear it any longer. "You seemed awfully comfortable back there," you say, your tone sharp. "Do you always hover like a ghost, or is it just for me?"

Heeseung glances at you, his expression unreadable. "It’s my job to keep you safe. I don’t have to enjoy it."

"Safe from what?" you scoff. "The dust on those books? The unbearable monotony of castle life?"

He stops abruptly, his dark eyes locking onto yours. "Safe from whatever danger your enemies might bring. Or," he adds, his voice low, "whatever danger you might bring yourself." The weight of his words hangs in the air, and for a moment, you’re at a loss. Then your lips curl into a smirk. "I’ll be sure to keep that in mind, Captain." You continue down the hall. Heeseung may be a nuisance, but he’s also observant—and that makes him dangerous. You’ll need to keep your guard up around him, even if he’s nothing more than an obstacle in your greater plan. The day isn’t over yet, and you still have work to do.

After the lesson, you wander down the grand corridors of the castle, the heavy weight of boredom pressing against your chest. The day has been insufferable—yet another dull recounting of history delivered in a monotonous drone, the same names and dates hammered into your skull until they blurred together. You’re not sure if it’s exhaustion or frustration that drives your next decision, but the thought of retreating to your chambers feels unbearable. "I want to go to the library," you declare suddenly, glancing back at Heeseung, who’s trailing behind you with the enthusiasm of someone heading to their own execution.

He raises a brow, not even trying to mask his irritation. "The library? What for? Didn’t you just spend hours listening to all that history nonsense?"

"I didn’t ask for your opinion, did I?" you reply sharply, spinning back toward the hallway ahead. "Some of us like to expand our knowledge." There was a lot you needed to learn about the king and more specifically this castle if you were going to properly find a way to kill him. "You mean some of us like to make other people’s lives harder," he mutters, loud enough for you to hear.

You stop abruptly, turning to face him with an arched brow. "Oh, I’m sorry. Is being my guard not entertaining enough for you? Should I organize a parade in your honor?" Heeseung rolls his eyes, falling into step beside you instead of keeping his distance. "Entertaining is the last word I’d use to describe this job. Babysitting a princess who doesn’t act like one isn’t exactly the highlight of my career."

"Good," you say with a saccharine smile. "Because I’m not a complacent little princess who needs constant coddling." You held your hide with triumph. Heeseung was just another man who had thought you weak, he was in for a rude awakening that was for certain. "That’s obvious," he mutters, but you catch the hint of a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. When you reach the library, the grandeur of the space strikes you all over again. Towering bookshelves stretch to the ceiling, their dark wood polished to perfection, and the scent of parchment and old ink fills the air. It’s quiet, serene, and exactly what you need after the grating monotony of the lesson.

"Stay there," you order, gesturing vaguely to a corner. "You’ll ruin the atmosphere if you breathe too loudly."

"Believe me," he says, leaning casually against a pillar, "I have no desire to ruin whatever grand intellectual pursuits you’re pretending to have." Ignoring him, you approach the nearest shelf, your fingers grazing the spines of the books as you scan the titles. But after a moment, your curiosity gets the better of you. "Speaking of pursuits," you say, casting a glance over your shoulder, "why is it that no one here seems to talk about magic?"

Heeseung’s posture stiffens slightly, the smirk fading from his face. "Why do you care?" It was an odd reaction, one you were watching closely. Why did everyone seem to tense up when magic is talked about? Isn't Aethera filled with endless amounts of magic and creatures unhuman. This was not something that was taboo, it should be normal. "Because it’s fascinating," you say, turning to face him fully. "Magic is power, creation, mystery... Why wouldn’t I care?" You knew everything about magic, how much of magic did Heeseung really understand? It was obvious he did not possess any magical abilities and unless he could shapeshift into a man it didn't seem he was a magical being at that.

"It’s dangerous," he replies curtly. "That’s why." The answer was short and it annoyed you. Who was he to tell you? You had to remind yourself that he didn't know who and what you really were. "Everything is dangerous," you counter. "Swords, fire, ambition. That doesn’t mean we ignore it. I’d think someone like you would understand that."

"Someone like me?" he echoes, his eyes narrowing. "You’re a soldier, aren’t you? A protector. Surely you see the value in power," you press, taking a step closer. "Unless, of course, you’re afraid of it."

Heeseung’s jaw tightens, but he doesn’t take the bait. Instead, he crosses his arms, his tone clipped. "Magic has its place. But you seem a little too interested in it."

"Why shouldn’t I be? Don’t you ever wonder about it?" you ask, watching him carefully. "Or are you just another guard who sees the world in black and white?" He doesn’t answer immediately, and the silence stretches between you. Finally, he sighs, his gaze hardening. "I don’t have magic, if that’s what you’re asking."

The admission doesn't surprise you, causing a laugh to bubble up inside of you "None at all? That’s... unfortunate." The corners of his mouth twitch downward, and his eyes darken. "What’s that supposed to mean?" You decided to tease him, to rile him up a bit.

"It means," you say with a shrug, "I would’ve thought someone with your... demeanor might have at least a little magic. Even the tiniest spark."

"Not everyone needs magic to survive," he says sharply, his voice lowering. "Some of us rely on skill and discipline. But I guess you wouldn’t understand that."

"Skill and discipline?" you echo, unable to resist pushing further. "Is that what you tell yourself while others wield power you can’t touch?" As far as he knew, you didn't possess a magical ability but still teasing him was the highlight of this dreadful day. His glare is sharp enough to cut, and he takes a step forward, closing the distance between you. "I don’t need magic to be stronger than most people you’ll ever meet. And I don’t need it to see through people like you."

"People like me?" you ask, tilting your head. You were appalled at his blatant candor. It was almost insulting. "You hide behind clever words and fake smiles, pretending you’re better than everyone else," he says, his tone as biting as his stare. "But you’re just as flawed as the rest of us—if not more."

His words hit harder than you expect, and for a moment, you falter. But then you square your shoulders, lifting your chin. "At least I’m not afraid to reach for power when I see it. Unlike you." Heeseung exhales sharply, his frustration visible in the tight set of his jaw. "You think you know everything, don’t you? But let me tell you something, Princess—power without control is just chaos waiting to happen."

"And control without power is just cowardice," you shoot back. Your blood boiling, heat soaring through your veins, heating your cheeks. The air between you crackles with tension, neither of you willing to back down. Finally, Heeseung turns away, his voice quieter but no less firm. "You don’t know what you’re talking about."

"Maybe I don’t," you say, retreating to the shelf you were examining. "But I know enough to see that you’re scared of something you can’t admit." He doesn’t respond, and when you glance over your shoulder, you catch the faintest flicker of something in his expression—resentment, maybe, or something deeper. It vanishes just as quickly, replaced by his usual stoic mask. You pull a heavy tome from the shelf, the weight of it grounding you as you carry it to a nearby table. As you settle into the chair and open the book, you steal another glance at Heeseung. He’s still by the pillar, arms crossed, his gaze fixed on a distant point in the room. For once, the thought of irritating him doesn’t bring you any satisfaction. Instead, his words linger in your mind, echoing louder than the scratch of your pen against the paper as you take notes. You tell yourself it doesn’t matter. You’re here for a purpose, and nothing—not even an infuriating guard—will distract you from it.

The sound of boots against marble echoes faintly as Heeseung strides through the castle halls toward the king’s private chamber. He moves with purpose, his posture straight and disciplined, but his mind is far from focused. The conversation with the princess in the library still lingers, her biting words replaying in his head like a song he can’t escape. "Power without control is just chaos," he mutters under his breath, as if reaffirming the truth to himself. He shakes his head, forcing the distraction aside. There are more pressing matters to deal with.

The guards stationed outside the chamber bow their heads as he approaches, stepping aside to allow him entry. Heeseung pushes open the heavy wooden door, the warmth of the king’s study enveloping him. The room is richly appointed, filled with books, maps, and the faint scent of parchment. The king sits behind a wide desk, his imposing frame leaning over a document, but he looks up as Heeseung enters. “Heeseung.” the king greets, gesturing for him to approach. "What news do you bring?" Heeseung crosses the room, bowing slightly before standing at attention. "Your Majesty, the witches have remained quiet for now. The council is still fractured after what happened with Esme. Most of them are cautious, unwilling to draw attention."

The king leans back in his chair, his sharp eyes narrowing. "And the daughter?" Heeseung hesitates for a fraction of a second, his expression tightening. "She went missing not too long ago. No one knows where she is or what she looks like. The coven has done an exceptional job of erasing her trail. We’ve searched the surrounding areas, sent informants to neighboring regions, but nothing has turned up."

The king’s lips press into a thin line, and he drums his fingers against the armrest. "That girl is a threat. Her bloodline alone makes her dangerous. If she’s anything like her mother, she’ll be biding her time, waiting to strike when we least expect it."

"I understand, Your Majesty," Heeseung says, his voice steady. "I’ve increased surveillance on the coven. If they make a move, we’ll know about it immediately." The king rises from his chair, pacing slowly across the room. His hands clasp behind his back, his expression thoughtful. "Good. But I want you to remain vigilant, Heeseung. The witches are not as divided as they may seem. Their hatred for this crown runs deep, and I will not let another insurgent rise under my watch."

Heeseung nods, his fingers twitching slightly at his side. "Understood, Your Majesty. I’ll continue monitoring them closely." The king stops in front of a display case, its glass gleaming under the warm light of the room. Inside rests a single weapon—a dagger with an obsidian blade that seems to absorb the light around it. The hilt is engraved with ancient runes, and the very air near it feels charged with power. "You haven’t had to use it yet, have you?" the king asks, his voice carrying a hint of curiosity as he nods toward the blade.

"No, Your Majesty," Heeseung replies, his gaze briefly flickering to the weapon before returning to the king. "Not yet." The king exhales, his expression hardening. "Good. Let’s hope it stays that way. But if the girl—or any other witch—dares to challenge us, I expect you to use it without hesitation. That blade is our safeguard against their kind. It’s the only thing that can cut through their spells and end them before they wreak havoc."

Heeseung’s hand unconsciously brushes against the hilt of his sword, though he feels the weight of the king’s words more than his weapon. "You have my word, Your Majesty. I won’t let them get close."

"See that you don’t," the king says, turning to face him fully. His gaze is sharp, his tone commanding. "The witches are not to be underestimated, Heeseung. Their magic is insidious, and they’ve infiltrated kingdoms before. We don’t even know how many of them might be near us, hiding in plain sight. Keep your eyes open—and your blade ready."

Heeseung inclines his head. "Of course, Your Majesty." The king studies him for a moment longer before nodding in dismissal. "Go. Report back to me if there’s any sign of activity from the coven." Heeseung bows deeply before turning on his heel and exiting the chamber. The weight of the conversation settles over him like a shroud, the king’s words ringing in his ears. As he makes his way back through the castle, his thoughts drift to the princess. Her sharp tongue, her probing questions about magic... and the way her eyes seemed to burn with a defiance he couldn’t place. He shakes his head, pushing the thought away. She was a complication he didn’t need right now. The witches were still out there, somewhere, and one of them could be closer than anyone realized. Heeseung tightens his grip on the hilt of his sword, his jaw set. He couldn’t afford to lose focus—not now, not ever.

The morning sun spills golden light across the castle grounds as you stand by the grand entrance, waiting for your reluctant escort. The crisp air carries the distant hum of the city waking beyond the castle walls—the sound of merchants setting up stalls, the laughter of children, the scent of fresh bread drifting from the bakeries. You can almost taste the freedom of the outside world. Almost. But, of course, you aren’t truly free. A sigh escapes your lips as you hear the familiar sound of armored boots approaching. Heeseung stops beside you, arms crossed, looking as thrilled about this excursion as he has about every other time he’s been assigned to you. His expression is one of pure exasperation, like he’d rather be facing a horde of assassins than babysitting a foreign princess in the city streets. "Let’s get this over with," he mutters, adjusting the sword strapped to his hip. "Where exactly do you need to go?"

You tilt your head, feigning innocence. "I heard there’s a traveling carnival near the market today. I’d like to see it." His brow furrows. "A carnival?" He looks you up and down, as if trying to decide whether or not you’re serious. "You mean to tell me you want to waste time with games and fortune tellers?"

"You say ‘waste time,’ I say ‘cultural experience,’" you counter, offering a saccharine smile. "It would be a shame to visit Athera and not witness such a grand attraction." Heeseung sighs through his nose, clearly debating whether or not to argue. "Fine," he grumbles after a long pause. "But don’t wander off." You hum in agreement, already planning exactly how you’ll do just that. The carnival is a whirlwind of color and sound. Performers juggle flaming torches, musicians play lively tunes, and vendors shout over the crowd, boasting their wares. Children run past, their hands sticky with honeyed treats, and silk-clad fortune tellers beckon visitors into their tents. It’s an assault on the senses—but more importantly, it’s a perfect place to disappear.

"Stay close," Heeseung warns, scanning the crowd with practiced vigilance. You pretend to admire a display of glass trinkets, then gasp as if something catches your eye in the distance. "Oh! A mirror maze!" You turn to him, feigning excitement. "Let’s go in!"

Heeseung groans. "You’ve got to be kidding me."

"Oh, come now," you say, grabbing his wrist before he can protest. "Surely a fearless captain of the guard isn’t afraid of a few reflections?" His jaw tightens. "I’m not afraid of anything."

"Then prove it," you challenge, pulling him toward the entrance. His grumble is lost beneath the laughter of passing carnival-goers as you drag him inside. The moment you step into the maze, you’re surrounded by endless versions of yourself, your reflections stretching infinitely in every direction. The air is thick with the scent of candle wax and aged wood, and the flickering lanterns overhead cast eerie shadows along the mirrored paths. You take a slow step forward, the sound of your boots muffled against the carpeted floor. The maze is designed to disorient, to make one question what’s real and what’s merely a reflection. Even the flicker of candlelight bends strangely, making it hard to tell if the passage ahead is truly open or just another illusion.

Heeseung exhales sharply behind you. "This is ridiculous," he mutters, glancing around warily. His reflection appears hundreds of times over, each version of him scowling in frustration. You can’t help but smirk. "What’s the matter, Captain? Losing your sense of direction?"

He glares at you through the glass. "No. But I know a trap when I see one." You press a hand against one of the mirrors, watching as the pressure sends a ripple through the illusion. "And yet, you walked right in with me," you tease, stepping forward with confidence. "That means either you trust me or you’re a fool." Heeseung doesn’t reply, but his silence is answer enough. The two of you move deeper into the labyrinth, the paths twisting in unpredictable patterns. At one point, you think you see the exit, only to step forward and bump into cold glass. Another time, Heeseung’s reflection appears beside you, making you jolt—only to realize he’s actually several feet away. The maze is playing tricks, forcing both of you to second-guess every turn.

But unlike Heeseung, you know exactly what you’re doing. You let your fingers graze the mirrors as you walk, feeling for subtle shifts in temperature and texture. It’s a trick your mother taught you long ago—how to sense when an illusion is stronger, when the air bends just slightly differently. Your way out is clear. You just need to make sure Heeseung doesn’t follow. "Stay close," he orders, his voice firm. You smile to yourself. "Of course." Your voice like silk as you mutter the words.

You take a sharp turn, slipping through a narrow passage where the reflections fold over themselves like endless corridors. You move faster now, ducking under one of the low archways of glass, letting the maze do its work. Heeseung hesitates behind you, briefly lost in the overlapping images. Then, you act. You dart into one of the mirrored alcoves, pressing yourself against the cold surface. The way the mirrors are angled makes it seem as though the passage continues straight, even though you’re standing just off to the side. Heeseung rushes past you, too focused on keeping up to notice that you’ve stopped.

A few seconds pass. Then, his footsteps fade. You let out a slow breath, stepping out of your hiding place. The reflections shift again, swallowing Heeseung deeper into the maze while you double back toward the hidden exit. By the time he realizes he’s been tricked, you’ll already be gone.

You slip through the narrow streets of the market, weaving between clusters of merchants and townsfolk, the scents of roasted nuts, spiced cider, and fresh bread thick in the air. The colorful banners overhead sway lazily in the breeze, casting shifting shadows over the cobblestone path. But your focus remains sharp. You know exactly where you’re going. Behind you, Heeseung is pushing through the crowd, his irritation palpable. He hasn't realized yet that you lost him in the mirror maze on purpose, only that you’re suddenly too far ahead for his liking.

You pick up your pace, slipping into a cramped side alley where a wooden sign hangs above a darkened shop. The paint is faded, but the symbol etched into the wood is unmistakable—an open palm with an eye in the center. The sign of an apothecary. You step inside, and immediately, the scent of dried herbs and aged parchment wraps around you like a cloak. The shop is dimly lit, with shelves stacked high with jars of powders, roots, and liquids. Small bundles of lavender, sage, and bloodroot hang from the ceiling, their fragrance mingling with the faintly acrid smell of something more potent.

A hunched old woman stands behind the counter, her fingers gnarled like tree roots as she grinds something into a fine powder with a mortar and pestle. She doesn’t look up as you approach. "You're late," she rasps.

You hesitate for only a fraction of a second. "Am I?"

Her milky white eyes flick up to meet yours. "No. But I like to keep customers uneasy. It keeps them from wasting my time." You smirk despite yourself. "Then I won’t waste yours."

You lower your voice, leaning in slightly. "I need something strong. A poison. One that can kill quietly, without immediate suspicion." The old woman tilts her head, her sharp gaze scrutinizing you. Then, with slow deliberation, she sets down her pestle and shuffles to a shelf behind her, running her fingers over rows of tiny glass vials. "Death comes in many forms," she murmurs. "Painful or painless. Swift or slow. Do you wish them to suffer?"

“Yes.” You answered honestly. “I want it to hurt.” The words leave your lips like a blade unsheathed, sharp and final. The old woman pauses, then turns slightly, considering her selection. "Painful, then. I have something fitting." She plucks a dark glass bottle from the shelf, turning it in her hands before setting it on the counter between you. "Widow’s Thorn. It seeps through the body like fire, tightening the lungs, sending agony through every nerve. A slow, excruciating death. He will beg for it to end before it takes him."

A cold smile tugs at the corners of your lips. "Perfect." The woman watches you for a long moment. "You carry great hatred in your heart, girl." Her tone was not that of judgment but of curiosity, and i bit of understanding. You meet her gaze evenly. "And he carries greater sins."

She hums in approval before placing her gnarled hand over the vial. "It is not cheap," she warns. "Nor is it a toy." You slide a coin pouch from your sleeve, setting it on the counter with a soft clink. "I understand." The woman studies you for another long moment before removing her hand. You pick up the vial, feeling the cool glass between your fingers.

"You’re no ordinary noble," she muses. "Your eyes are too sharp. Your hands too steady." You meet her gaze evenly. "And you ask too many questions." You hiss, your jaw tense. The old woman chuckles, a dry, rasping sound. "Perhaps. But take care, girl. Poison is a cruel death, and cruelty has a way of staining the soul." You slip the vial into the folds of your cloak, nodding once before turning toward the door.

As you weave your way back through the winding streets, the hum of the carnival grows louder, the scent of roasted nuts and melted sugar filling the air. Lanterns sway overhead, casting flickering patterns along the cobblestone paths. You slip effortlessly into the crowd, blending among the laughter and shouts of eager festival-goers. Just as you step past a fire-breather’s act, a strong hand clamps around your wrist. You spin, already knowing who it is.

Heeseung glares down at you, his jaw clenched tight, his dark eyes burning with irritation. “Where were you?” You tilt your head, feigning innocence. “I was right where you left me.”

His grip tightens slightly, not enough to hurt, but enough to make his frustration clear. “Don’t play games with me,” he hisses. “You disappeared.” You pull your wrist free, dusting off your sleeve as if his mere touch sullied it. “Maybe you were the one who got lost.”

His brows furrow, the muscle in his jaw ticking. “I wasn’t the one who suddenly vanished into thin air.”

You smirk. “Then maybe you should be better at your job, Captain.” Sending him a mocking nod just to further piss him off. Heeseung exhales sharply, stepping in closer, lowering his voice so only you can hear. “Do you think I don’t know what you’re doing?”

Your smirk doesn’t falter, but inside, a flicker of unease coils in your stomach. “And what exactly am I doing?” He studies you, his gaze raking over every inch of your face like he’s trying to decipher some hidden code. Then, he shakes his head. “I don’t know yet,” he admits, voice low and firm. “But I will.” You hold his stare, refusing to be the first to look away.

Then, with a casual shrug, you turn on your heel, striding toward the heart of the carnival. “Try not to lose me again, Captain,” you call over your shoulder. His sigh of frustration is lost beneath the clamor of the crowd, but you don’t need to hear it. You know he’s fuming. And you relish it.

The vial of poison sits heavy in your pocket, the glass cool against your fingertips as you walk through the dim corridors of the castle. The evening hums with quiet activity—servants moving about with trays of food, guards standing at their posts, the murmur of distant conversations blending into the ambiance of wealth and order. You keep your pace measured, controlled, your heart steady even as anticipation thrums through your veins. The kitchens are alive with motion, filled with the mouthwatering aroma of roasted meats and warm bread. Flames crackle in the hearth, casting flickering light over the bustling staff. No one notices you lingering near the long oak table where steaming pots of stew are being ladled into bowls for the servants' evening meal. No one sees the small flick of your wrist as you pull the vial from your sleeve, tilting just enough for a single drop of the deadly liquid to disappear into the bubbling broth. it dissolves instantly, colorless and scentless. Perfect. Satisfied, you slip away, vanishing into the corridors before anyone can notice your presence.

Dinner in the grand hall is an affair of indulgence and formality. The king sits at the head of the table, the queen beside him, both of them poised in their regal authority. The table stretches long, lined with glistening silver and crystalline goblets brimming with wine. Candles flicker against the polished surface, casting an intimate glow over the lavish setting. You are seated further down, close enough to play the role of the polite, eager-to-learn princess, but not too close to draw unwanted attention. Heeseung stands by the wall, arms crossed, his sharp gaze sweeping the room. You can feel him watching you, though you do not meet his eyes. Your hands rest lightly in your lap, your fingers curling against the fabric of your gown as you wait. And then it happens. The sound of hurried footsteps. A muffled cry from the hallway.

The heavy doors burst open, slamming against the stone walls. A maid stumbles in, her face ashen, her apron twisted in her trembling fingers. Her breath comes in sharp, panicked gasps. “Your Majesty!” she cries, eyes wild. “A-a servant—he collapsed! He’s dead!” The room stills. The queen sets down her goblet with quiet precision. The king barely moves, his gaze turning toward the distraught woman as if she were little more than a nuisance.

“What did you say?” His voice is calm, almost lazy, but there is an undercurrent of something else—something cold, something dangerous. The maid’s throat bobs as she swallows. “T-they say… it was poison, Your Majesty.”

You suck in a breath, widening your eyes just enough to sell the performance. A low murmur rises among the nobles at the table, whispers of concern and speculation threading through the air. “Poison?” you echo, your voice trembling ever so slightly. You place a delicate hand over your chest, as if the very notion disturbs you. The king exhales slowly, setting his goblet down with deliberate grace. He does not look surprised. He does not even look angry. He looks bored.

He lifts his fingers, and the nearest guard steps forward. “Bring me the chef.” The murmurs grow louder as the order is carried out. The tension in the room tightens, a string pulled taut, ready to snap. Servants shift uncomfortably, the flickering candlelight making their faces look gaunt and uneasy. You sit perfectly still, your posture straight, your expression frozen in careful distress. Minutes stretch long before the doors open again, and the head chef is dragged into the room, his face pale with sweat. His apron is still dusted with flour, his hands trembling as he is forced onto his knees before the king. The silence is suffocating.

The chef’s lips tremble. “Your Majesty,” he gasps, bowing his head so low his forehead nearly touches the marble floor. “I swear upon my life, I would never—” The king tilts his head, studying the man as one would study a fly that has landed in their wine. “Do not lie to me.” His voice is quiet, but the weight of it crushes the air from the room. “A man is dead. Someone is responsible.”

The chef shakes his head violently. “It wasn’t me! I have worked in this kitchen for years! I would never—” The king lifts a hand, a simple flick of his wrist. The command is unspoken, but the nearest guard knows what it means. Steel flashes in the candlelight. A single stroke. A sickening, wet sound. The chef’s head hits the polished marble floor with a dull thud. Blood pools in thick, slow streams, spreading out like ink on parchment. A servant gasps. One of the nobles flinches. But no one speaks. You inhale sharply, letting your fingers tremble as you press them to your lips, your eyes wide with horror. Inside, your heart races—not with fear, but with something else. Power.

The king sighs, as if exhausted by the whole ordeal. He picks up his goblet and takes a long, unbothered sip of his wine before turning his attention back to the table. “My apologies for the disturbance,” he says smoothly. “Shall we continue?” And just like that, the feast resumes. Conversation stirs back to life, noble voices rising once more, the clinking of silverware against porcelain filling the void left by the dying man’s last breath. You lower your gaze, the picture of a shaken princess, but inside, your mind is alight with possibility. The poison worked. Now, all that’s left is to decide when the king will drink his own dose. And when he does, you will make sure his suffering is slow. Painful. Unforgettable.

The morning light filters softly through the high windows of your chambers, casting delicate golden patterns across the marble floor. The events of last night linger in your mind like the ghost of a dream, the image of the chef’s head hitting the cold stone floor replaying itself over and over. The king’s lack of hesitation, the way the entire room returned to feasting as though nothing had happened—it only fuels the fire within you. Today, you will continue your plan. After dressing, you step into the hallway where, as expected, Heeseung is not waiting for you.

Instead, another guard stands in his place—a man taller, broader, but lacking the quiet sharpness that Heeseung always carried like a second skin. His armor gleams, freshly polished, his stance stiff and professional. You slow your steps, letting irritation seep into your voice. "Where is Heeseung?" you ask, folding your arms as you tilt your chin up slightly.

The guard, clearly not accustomed to being questioned, hesitates for a moment before responding, "Captain Heeseung is taking a personal day, Your Highness." Your brows lift in surprise. "A personal day?" The words feel foreign in relation to Heeseung. He never struck you as the type to take time for himself, not when he carried that ever-present scowl and duty as if they were armor.

The guard shifts slightly, looking uncomfortable under your scrutiny. "Yes, Your Highness. He did not say when he would return, only that he would be back when needed." You study the man, noting the slight tension in his stance, the way his hand stays a little too close to the hilt of his sword. You’re not the only one unsettled by Heeseung’s absence. “Interesting,” you muse, keeping your voice light, as if this information does not bother you. But it does. Something is off. Heeseung doesn’t just disappear. He doesn't get days off. And though you should welcome the reprieve from his constant watchful presence, you find yourself… unsettled. Not because you miss his company—certainly not—but because Heeseung’s absence means unpredictability. And unpredictability is dangerous.

For now, you will play along. You give the guard a measured look before sighing dramatically. “Well, I suppose that means you will have to endure escorting me today.”

The man straightens. “It would be my honor, Your Highness.” Annoyingly polite. You roll your eyes. “How unfortunate for you.” And with that, you turn on your heel, already planning your next move. Wherever Heeseung is, you will find out soon enough.

You had to get away from this guard. He was dumb, unmoving. He didn’t speak and barely moved. You could outsmart him, escape. There’s no time to waste. “I’m going to the washroom” You spoke quickly, not giving him much time to respond. “Wait-” The guard said, hand stretched out.

“Would you really stop a lady who’s in her bleeding from using the bathroom guard?” You had made uncomfortable with your talk of women's duties. He bowed his head, eyes not meeting your own. Coward. Pathetic coward. What kind of man gets squeamish at the thought of blood? The guards stationed outside the hall barely acknowledge you as you sweep past them, your head held high, posture regal. The trick to sneaking around isn’t to skulk in the shadows—it’s to make people believe you belong wherever you are. And right now, you belong anywhere you damn well please. The deeper you go into the castle, the more the corridors narrow, the lavish decorations thinning out as you approach restricted areas. You slow your steps, eyes scanning for anything useful—an unguarded door, an overlooked passageway, something that will lead you closer to the king’s private quarters.

You turn a corner and pause. Through an open archway, the scent of steel and sweat lingers in the air. The sound of a blade slicing through air, followed by the heavy thunk of metal embedding into wood, echoes through the hall. You step closer, careful to keep yourself hidden behind a pillar, and peer inside. There he is. Heeseung stands in the center of the training room, sleeves rolled up, his tunic damp with sweat. His usual pristine appearance is gone—his hair tousled, his expression hard with focus. But it’s his hands that capture your attention. A dagger twirls effortlessly between his fingers, moving so fluidly it’s as if it’s an extension of his own body. He flicks his wrist, and the blade slices through the air before burying itself into the target at the far end of the room.

Bullseye.

Without hesitation, he pulls another dagger from his belt. Spins it. Throws. Another perfect hit. Again. And again. Each throw is precise, calculated, deadly. You watch in silence, captivated despite yourself. You’ve seen skilled fighters before—your own mother had trained you in combat, in magic—but Heeseung moves with an effortless grace that is as infuriating as it is impressive. You wonder if he even realizes how dangerous he looks right now. Then, as if sensing your gaze, Heeseung stills. Your breath catches. For a split second, you think he’s caught you. But he only exhales, rolling out his shoulders before retrieving his knives from the wooden targets. The tension in your body eases slightly, though your mind remains alert. You shouldn’t be here. You should be searching for the king’s quarters, not watching the irritating captain of the guard train like some entranced fool. The rhythmic thunk of steel embedding into wood echoes through the training yard. Heeseung moves with effortless precision, each throw of his blade landing dead center on the target. His stance is steady, his expression unreadable, but there’s a sharpness in his eyes—a quiet intensity that speaks of years of discipline.

You watch from the shadows, hidden behind one of the stone pillars framing the open-air training ground. He doesn’t notice you at first, too focused on the fluidity of his movements, the weight of the blade in his grip. But after a few minutes, his motions slow. His shoulders tense ever so slightly. Then, as if some unseen force pulls his gaze, he turns. His eyes lock onto you, narrowing the moment he registers your presence. For a flicker of a second, surprise flashes across his face, but it’s quickly replaced by something sharper—anger.

“Why are you alone?” he demands, striding toward you. “Where’s your guard?” You shrug, feigning nonchalance. “Somewhere, I suppose.” Heesseung looks angry; you wouldn't tell if the redness was from his prior workout or anger. His jaw tenses. “And he just let you wander off?”

You offer him a lazy smile, tilting your head. “I suppose he did.” Heeseung exhales sharply, running a hand through his hair before shaking his head. “Unbelievable.” His voice is low with frustration as he moves to usher you back inside. “Come on, let’s go. You shouldn’t be out here.” But you don’t budge. “No.”

His steps falter, his brows knitting together. “No?” You cross your arms. “I want to spar.”

He scoffs. “Absolutely not.”

“I insist.”

“I don’t care.”

You tilt your head, eyes gleaming with something he can’t quite place. “Afraid I might win?”

His expression darkens. “Afraid I’ll break you.”

You step closer, raising your chin defiantly. “Try.” For a moment, he says nothing. There’s a war in his gaze, hesitation battling irritation, but something about your confidence—your audacity—chips away at his resistance. Finally, with a heavy sigh, he relents. “Fine,” he mutters, rolling his shoulders. “A few rounds. That’s it.”

The sparring circle is a wide-open space in the center of the training grounds, enclosed by a low fence. Heeseung steps in first, rolling his sleeves up as he retrieves two training daggers. He tosses one to you without warning, but you catch it easily, twirling it once in your grip. He eyes the movement with quiet appraisal before stepping into position. “Try to keep up,” he says.

You smirk. “Likewise.” Then he moves. He’s fast, striking without hesitation. You barely dodge his first attack, sidestepping at the last second before blocking his next strike with your blade. The clash of steel rings through the air. Heeseung doesn’t let up, forcing you backward, testing your reflexes. You knew he was skilled, but this—this is something else. Every move is calculated, precise. He’s relentless, but so are you. You don’t fight like a princess. You fight like a survivor. And soon, Heeseung realizes that. The match intensifies. You anticipate his strikes, dodging just enough to throw him off balance, forcing him to adjust. He sees it now—the sharp intelligence behind your movements, the way you don’t just react, but plan. And then, just as he thinks he has you cornered—you outmaneuver him.

With a sharp pivot, you twist out of his reach, knocking his blade off course. Before he can recover, you close the distance, pressing your dagger against his throat. Heeseung stills. The only sound is your heavy breathing, the pounding of your heart, the weight of the moment hanging between you. His dark eyes search yours, something unreadable flickering in them. Then, his voice—low, measured. “Who are you?” You tilt your head, pressing the blade just a little closer, enough to make a point. Then, voice soft, you ask,

“I don’t know. Who are you? Do you ever truly know who you really are?” The question lingers between you like smoke, curling into the air. His breath is shallow, his gaze locked onto yours, and for a moment—just a fleeting moment—you both forget yourselves. Your faces are close. Too close. The sharpness of the fight melts into something else, something neither of you acknowledge but feel all the same. His eyes flicker to your lips. Your grip on the dagger tightens. But before anything can happen, before the tension snaps—you pull away. Slowly, deliberately, you lower the blade, stepping back just enough to let the moment pass. Heeseung exhales, something unreadable in his expression. You smirk, tossing the blade back to him. “Good match.” Then, without waiting for a response, you turn on your heel and walk away, leaving him standing in the circle, breathless and utterly at a loss for words.

That night, the castle feels different. A hush has settled over its grand halls, a silence deeper than usual, as if the walls themselves are holding their breath. A storm churns in the distance, flashes of lightning illuminating the arched windows, followed by the low rumble of thunder rolling across the land. The wind rattles against the stone, whispering through the cracks, but inside, everything remains still. It is the perfect night to disappear. Hushed whispers of a ball being thrown had been thrown about the castle like a plague. Every staff member was occupied with making it as grand as possible for the king and queen, no one would even notice you moving throughout the castle like a wraith in the night. You move like a shadow through the corridors, your cloak wrapped tightly around you, masking the movement of your form. The guards are stationed at their usual posts, their movements predictable, their patterns unchanged. You’ve studied them, memorized them, and now you slip past with ease, ducking into alcoves and timing your steps to the rhythm of their shifting patrols.

The grand halls of the upper castle give way to narrower passageways as you descend, leaving behind the golden glow of chandeliers for the dim flicker of torches. You pass cold stone walls lined with forgotten paintings, their gilded frames dulled with dust, their subjects long since faded into irrelevance. Down here, the air is thick with something ancient, something heavy that clings to your skin and settles in your lungs. You need to go deeper. You recall the books you pored over in the library, the pages that spoke of the castle’s underbelly—of vaults hidden beneath layers of stone, of corridors long abandoned by those who walk in the daylight. The king is a collector, a hoarder of power. His vaults hold relics of immense magical strength—artifacts stolen, bought, or seized by force. Somewhere in this castle, he has hidden them away, locked behind spells and steel, guarded by something more fearsome than any soldier. The thought of it quickens your pulse. A kitsune.

The old texts mention it only in passing, never in detail. A fox spirit of great power, bound to the king by means unknown. A guardian of his most prized possessions, watching over them with an unwavering gaze. The mere idea of it is enough to make most people turn away, abandon their curiosity. But you are not most people. Your fingers brush against the cool stone wall as you tread carefully down a spiraling stairway, your ears straining for any sound beyond your own heartbeat. The deeper you go, the more the castle shifts. The polished grandeur of the upper levels fades, replaced by something older, something untouched by time’s gentle hand. Here, the walls are raw, uneven, carved by those who built the kingdom’s foundations centuries ago. The torches burn lower, their light flickering against carvings worn down with age. Whispers of history cling to the very air, as if this place remembers all that has passed within its depths.

Then, a feeling washes over you—like a change in pressure, like stepping into the eye of a storm. Magic. It hums in the air, subtle yet undeniable. The taste of it lingers on your tongue, thick and electric, coiling through the corridor like an unseen force. You are close. Your breath is steady as you move forward, every step measured, every sense heightened. You know better than to rush. Whatever lies ahead is more than mere locked doors and guards with steel. This place breathes magic. And somewhere in the depths of this castle, hidden behind layers of spellwork and shadow, the kitsune waits. You continue in the shadows until you come upon a door. The heavy door looms before you, thick with iron reinforcements and etched with sigils of protection. It’s unmistakable—this is where the king hides his most treasured artifacts, his most dangerous secrets. But it’s not unguarded. Two men stand at either side, their hands resting lazily on the hilts of their swords. They’re not expecting trouble—why would they? No one should be foolish enough to wander this deep into the castle, let alone pose a real threat. That works in your favor.

You take a steadying breath, smoothing out the frantic beat of your heart before stepping forward, letting panic seep into your features, widening your eyes, letting your breath hitch as if you've been running for your life "Please!" Your voice is rushed, desperate. "I— I think I’m lost. I don’t know how I got down here, I was just trying to find my way back, and then—" You swallow, letting your hands tremble. "There were voices. I heard something. I got scared."

One of the guards furrows his brow. "How did you even get down here?" He eyes you warily, shifting his stance. "I— I don’t know," you stammer, stepping closer, your body language frantic. "I was exploring, and then I took a wrong turn, and then suddenly I was just… here." They exchange glances, their suspicion flickering into something softer—concern. You’ve played your part well. "You shouldn’t be here, Princess," the other guard says, his voice gruff but not unkind. "This area is off-limits. We’ll escort you back—"

Before he can finish, you move. A whisper of power curls from your lips, the incantation slipping through the air like a snake through grass. The first guard barely has time to react before his head jerks violently to the side, the sickening crack of bone snapping echoing through the stone corridor. His body crumples to the ground. The second guard recoils, horror flashing in his eyes. "Witch!" he bellows, drawing his sword and charging at you. You barely have the strength to lift your hand, but you don’t need much. Another whisper of your spell, and his charge is cut short—his neck twists sharply, and he collapses in a lifeless heap beside his comrade. Your breath comes ragged and uneven. Magic floods through your veins, but it takes from you as much as it gives. Your limbs are heavy, exhaustion pressing down on your shoulders like a weight. The price of your power. You don’t have time to dwell on it. Stepping over their bodies, you press a hand to the iron door. Magic thrums beneath your fingertips, woven through the metal itself. The king is cautious—he wouldn’t leave his treasures unprotected. But you are not just anyone.

Summoning what little energy you have left, you press your palm against the seal and begin to whisper another spell. The lock trembles. The air crackles. Then, with a final pulse of energy, the door groans and clicks open. You push forward, slipping inside, knowing your time is running out. The chamber hums with power, its air thick with ancient magic, the weight of centuries pressing down on you. The sconces along the walls flicker with eerie blue fire, casting shifting shadows over the stolen artifacts—daggers humming with curses, crowns still stained with dried blood, vials of glowing liquid that pulse as if alive. Your fingers skim over them, barely paying attention. None of it matters. None of it will help you kill the king.

Then you see it. A small glass case, set apart from the others. You step closer, your breath catching in your throat. Inside the case, a severed finger rests on a velvet cushion. For a moment, your mind refuses to understand. The skin has shriveled with time, the bone just barely visible beneath. But your eyes lock onto the ring—silver, inlaid with dark opal that shimmers with hues of deep purple and green. It was your mothers ring, your mothers finger. A sharp inhale stabs through your ribs. You know this ring better than anything. You remember tracing the intricate metal work as a child while curled up in her lap. You remember the way she twisted it absently when she was lost in thought, the way candlelight flickered against its surface as she cast spells in the dead of night. And now, it sits before you—severed, encased, displayed like a grotesque trophy. Your hands shake as you press your fingers against the glass, breath fogging up the surface. No. No, no, no. A cold, empty feeling spreads through your chest, then morphs—growing hotter, sharper. Your vision blurs, rage and grief mixing into something unbearable.

Your fist slams against the case. Nothing. Again, harder. The glass doesn’t even crack. "Open," you whisper, voice raw. "Open, damn you." The magic inside you stirs, a furious storm barely contained. You summon it, let it coil in your palm before slamming your magic against the case. Sparks crackle against the glass, but it remains untouched. Spell-locked. A sob of frustration bubbles up, but you swallow it down. Hot tears slip down your cheeks, your breathing ragged. They mutilated her. Desecrated her. Took her apart and locked away a piece of her like some sick prize. You grip the edges of the case, nails digging into the wood. The weight of loss, of helplessness, crushes down on you, threatens to drag you under. You want to destroy everything in this room, rip apart the shelves, burn this entire wretched castle to the ground. But you don’t have time. Not now. But soon. Your mother’s ring—her body—will not remain here. You will come back. You will tear this place apart if you have to. But first, the king must die.

Your shoulders heave as you force yourself to turn away, scanning the shelves with red-rimmed eyes. Then, something catches your attention. A slender vial, shimmering deep crimson in the dim light. You reach for it, your fingers brushing over the cold glass. The moment you pick it up, you feel the power inside—dense, ancient, raw. Dragon’s blood. A weapon unlike any other. Your grip tightens around the vial. The grief clawing at your chest hardens, sharp and unyielding. This will have to be enough. With one last glance at the case—the last piece of your mother left in this cursed place—you turn and slip out of the chamber, your pulse a war drum in your ears. You don’t look back. But you swear, with every shattered piece of your heart, that you will return.

The next morning, the castle is a different place. Tension clings to the air like a storm about to break. The usual murmur of servants and guards is replaced with sharp orders and hurried footsteps. Every corridor you pass seems to hold hushed voices, uneasy glances, hands gripping weapons a little too tightly. Something is wrong. When Heeseung arrives at your chambers, his expression is carved from stone. His dark eyes, usually filled with a mixture of irritation and exasperation when he looks at you, are unreadable. "Get up," he says shortly. "You're expected at breakfast."

You stretch your arms above your head lazily, feigning disinterest, but you study him closely. His jaw is tense, shoulders rigid beneath his uniform. "What’s with the fuss this morning?" you ask, tilting your head as you sit up. Heeseung doesn’t answer right away. He exhales through his nose, as if debating what to tell you. Finally, he settles on: "There was an intruder in the castle last night." Your stomach twists, but you keep your expression neutral. "An intruder?" you echo, feigning mild curiosity. His eyes flick over to you, sharp and assessing. "Two guards were killed. Their bodies were found near the lower levels of the castle."

You force yourself to frown as if this is just terrible news and shake your head. "How awful," you murmur. "Who would be foolish enough to break into the king’s home?" Heeseung is still watching you. Too closely. "They don’t know yet," he says after a moment, his tone carefully measured. "But the king is furious. He’s ordered every entrance locked down. No one enters or leaves without permission."

You hum, slipping out of bed. "Good thing I have no reason to leave, then." Heeseung scoffs, shaking his head as if he finds you exhausting. "Just get dressed," he mutters. "You're not skipping breakfast." As you move to change, your back turned to him, your mind races. They're already searching. They're already tightening security. If they realize why someone broke in—if they even suspect it was for the vault—you might not have as much time as you thought. You press your lips together. No. It doesn’t matter. The plan hasn’t changed. If anything, this only confirms what you already knew—this kingdom is built on blood and fear. You need to be careful, but you won’t stop.

As you fasten the last piece of your attire, you catch Heeseung watching you in the reflection of the mirror. He looks as if he wants to say something—his brow furrowed, his mouth pressing into a line—but he says nothing. You turn to him with a smirk, masking the unease curling inside you. "Lead the way, my dear guard," you say lightly. Heeseung rolls his eyes, but he doesn’t argue. You follow him out into the castle halls, stepping into a kingdom on edge.

You stand before the ornate mirror in your chambers, staring at your reflection. The grand dress draped over your body is a masterpiece—rich fabric embroidered with delicate golden threads, dark as midnight yet shimmering under the candlelight. You look every bit the part of a royal guest, a princess attending a grand ball. But beneath the surface, beneath the layers of silk and jewels, you are something else entirely. Tonight, you are a weapon. Your fingers tighten around the small vial hidden in your palm. The Dragon’s blood. The forbidden elixir, the essence of an ancient and untamed power. You uncork it carefully, the scent metallic and sharp, like the crackle of fire before it engulfs everything in its path. Slowly, you tilt the vial, letting a single drop roll onto your tongue. The effect is instant. A current of heat rushes through your veins, not burning, but igniting something deep within. Your magic, once a slow ember, roars to life, curling through you like smoke, like lightning trapped beneath your skin. Your fingertips tingle, your senses sharpen. You feel more. More alive, more powerful, more capable. The exhaustion from the night before—the drain of breaking into the king’s vault—fades into nothing.

You exhale, gripping the vanity table to steady yourself. You had been unsure, hesitant even, that you were strong enough. But now? Now, there is no doubt. Tonight, you will make your move. You turn back to the mirror, watching as your expression settles into something unreadable. Calculated. Regal. Deadly. The ballroom will be filled with nobles, lords, ladies, and dignitaries from far-off kingdoms. A perfect spectacle. A perfect place for a queen to fall, for a kingdom to be thrown into chaos. For a tyrant to meet his end. Straightening your posture, you give yourself one last look. This is it.

The ballroom is alive with opulence—golden chandeliers dripping with light, polished marble floors reflecting the grandeur of silk and velvet swirling across them. The music is intoxicating, the scent of perfumed nobles and honeyed wine thick in the air. Laughter rings out, conversations swirl around you, but you hear none of it. Your mind is elsewhere. Your pulse pounds like war drums beneath your skin. You move through the crowd with effortless grace, a smile painted onto your lips as if you belong here. As if you’re not plotting the death of a king. But Heeseung is there. As always. His presence is suffocating, shadowing your every step like a second skin. His dark eyes flicker over you, unreadable, his stance tense yet controlled. He doesn’t speak much, but his gaze tells you enough. I’m watching you. You raise your chin, offering him an easy smile before returning to the conversation at hand. A nobleman drones on about trade routes, his voice a low hum beneath the sound of the orchestra. You nod, feigning interest, but your thoughts are far from politics. You need a distraction. Your fingers twitch at your side, hidden beneath the folds of your gown. You reach for the magic simmering beneath your skin, feeling it coil and tighten, waiting to be used. Just enough to pull Heeseung away—to make him focus on something else. You cursed yourself for the tiny bit of shame you felt for using magic on Heeseung but you had to do it, you had no other choice.

You glance toward the great dais, where the king sits, adorned in his gilded robes, his expression that of a man who believes himself untouchable. Disgust coils in your stomach, but you keep your expression neutral. Soon, he will fall. You slip away from the conversation, weaving through the guests, searching for the right moment. The right opportunity. The plan was simple: a small, unseen pulse of magic. A subtle stroke of power, like a whisper through the wind, meant to strike the king down where he sits. Undetected. You reach deep, letting the dragon’s blood hum within you, amplifying the magic you summon. Your lips barely move as you utter the incantation beneath your breath, sending the spell toward the king, unseen and deadly. But something is wrong. The moment the spell leaves your fingertips, something repels it. A force stronger than your own—like an invisible wall caging him in. Your power slams into it, rebounding with such force that the air crackles, sending a ripple of energy through the room.

And then— The chandeliers flicker. The music halts. A gust of unseen force whips through the ballroom, unsettling gowns and ruffling hair. A gasp spreads through the crowd like wildfire, confusion crackling in the air. The king is unharmed. And your magic has failed. Panic seizes your chest. All around you, nobles murmur in confusion, their gazes darting about the room, trying to make sense of the disruption. Chaos brews. Guards immediately rush forward, swords drawn, shouts echoing against the gilded walls. The tension is thick, palpable, the scent of fear curling through the air. "Find the culprit!" someone yells. Your breathing is unsteady, your pulse racing. This wasn’t how it was supposed to go. And then A hand clamps down on your wrist, strong and unyielding. Heeseung. And before you can say another word he’s pulling you outside towards the grand doors of the ballroom amongst the chaos. The night air is crisp, wrapping around you in cool tendrils as Heeseung all but drags you out of the grand ballroom. His grip is firm but not bruising, a silent urgency radiating from him as he pulls you through winding hallways and out into the open garden. The moment your feet hit the damp stone path, the doors click shut behind you, muffling the panicked voices and frantic movements inside.

Moonlight washes over the garden, casting silvery shadows across the sculpted hedges and trickling fountains. The scent of night-blooming flowers clings to the air, but there’s no time to admire the beauty around you—not when Heeseung turns to you with that sharp, assessing gaze, his chest rising and falling just a little too fast. "Sit," he commands, his voice clipped and breathless. You scoff, arms crossing over your chest. "Excuse me?" Instead of answering, he steps closer, his eyes sweeping over you with meticulous precision. He looks frantic, almost wild, like a man searching for something just out of reach. His hands hover, unsure, before finally settling on your wrist, fingers pressing against your pulse as if to confirm that you are, in fact, still alive. "I'm fine," you snap, trying to pull away, but his grip tightens just enough to stop you.

"Stop," he murmurs, and this time, his voice is different. Lower. Almost pleading. Something in you hesitates. His hands move with surprising gentleness, brushing over your arms, ghosting across your shoulders, grazing your waist. Every touch is clinical, precise—searching for wounds, hidden injuries, anything that could explain the tension in his jaw, the way his brows remain furrowed even as he finds nothing. A strange warmth pools in your stomach. You shove it down. "You’re acting like you care," you say, the words sharper than you intend.

His jaw clenches, his fingers twitching before he pulls away like you've burned him. "Don’t flatter yourself," he mutters, raking a hand through his tousled hair. Your lips curl in amusement despite yourself. "Then stop acting like you were about to have a heart attack over me." His gaze flickers, something unreadable passing through his expression before it hardens. "You could have been hurt," he grits out, like admitting it leaves a bitter taste in his mouth. You blink. The sincerity in his voice catches you off guard. A beat of silence stretches between you, thick and charged.

Then, slowly, you step closer, tilting your head up at him. "Were you worried, Heeseung?" His throat bobs. His eyes flicker down to your lips—just for a second, barely noticeable—before snapping back up to meet yours. "I'm doing my job," he says, but the words sound hollow even to him. You hum, unconvinced. "Are you?" Silence. The space between you feels impossibly small. Heeseung is still close, his breath warm against your skin, his scent—something dark and woodsy, laced with steel—curling around you. Your pulse pounds in your ears, the remnants of adrenaline mixing with something else. Something more dangerous. For a fleeting moment, you wonder what would happen if you reached up, if you closed that final inch between you. If you tilted your chin just a little higher— no.

“Yes, doing my job.” He said again not meeting your piercing gaze. You scoff. "Your job? Is your job doting on me like I’m some fragile, innocent, doe-eyed princess?" You take another step toward him, closing the space he’s put between you. "Why are you so obsessed with making sure I’m okay?" Heeseung clenches his jaw, his eyes dark and unreadable. For a moment, you think he won’t answer. But then— "It’s my duty," he grits out. "As the king’s guard, it’s my responsibility to protect the people."

You roll your eyes. "The people. How noble of you." You cross your arms over your chest. "That doesn’t explain why you—the ever-dutiful Heeseung—seem to be more concerned about me than anyone else." He stares at you, his nostrils flaring slightly, tension coiling in the set of his shoulders. His lips press into a thin line like he’s fighting something, some war within himself. Then, finally, he exhales. And when he speaks, his voice is lower. Rougher. "Because I care about you." Your breath catches. His confession hangs between you, raw and unguarded. He looks almost regretful for saying it, as if the words left his mouth before he could stop them.

You swallow, heartbeat hammering. "You—"

"I care about you," he repeats, like he’s forcing himself to admit it, to say it out loud. His brows knit together, frustration laced in his voice. "And I hate that I do. But I can’t stand the thought of something happening to you." You should say something. You should throw some quip back at him, something sharp and taunting. But the way he’s looking at you now—dark eyes flickering with something intense, something dangerous—steals the words from your tongue. The air between you shifts. Neither of you move, but the gravity between you pulls tighter, like a thread stretched to its breaking point. You can feel the heat of his body, the restrained tension radiating from him like a caged storm. His gaze dips to your lips. You don’t think. You just act. You grab the front of his shirt and pull him down to you. His lips crash against yours, rough and unrelenting. It’s not soft. It’s not slow. It’s desperate. You hadn’t been touched for what seemed like forever, the feeling of a man's hands running up and down your body had felt foreign. You were not experienced but you weren't a virgin eachother. Action was hard to come by in the coven believe it or not. Heeseung makes a low sound in the back of his throat, something between frustration and need, as he presses you back against the stone wall. His hands are on you—gripping your waist, sliding up your arms, fingers pressing into your skin like he’s trying to ground himself, to remind himself that you’re real.

Your own hands tangle into his hair, pulling, needing him closer, needing more. He growls against your lips, his grip tightening on your hips as he pushes against you. The warmth of his body seeps into yours, and you swear you can feel his heartbeat pounding just as wildly as your own. The kiss deepens, turns hungrier, more fevered. You nip at his lower lip, and he exhales sharply, his fingers tightening on your waist. His control is slipping—you can feel it in the way his breathing turns ragged, the way his hands grip you like he’s afraid to let go. For a moment, the rest of the world ceases to exist. There is no ball, no king, no duty or vengeance. Just this. Just him. His hands grip your waist, fingers pressing into your hips as he backs you against the cold stonewall of the secluded garden. Your breath hitches as the contrast between the chill of the stone and the heat of his body sends a shiver down your spine. Heeseung feels it—his grip tightening, his fingers curling into you as if he wants to pull you closer, eliminating the space between you entirely. You don’t speak your tangle of tongues and teeth speaking for you.

You respond in kind, your hands sliding up his chest, over the rapid rise and fall of his breaths, until they find their way to his hair. You tug—harder this time, just to see what he’ll do. Heeseung groans against your lips, the sound reverberating through your bones, and in retaliation, he presses his body flush against yours. A gasp slips from you at the overwhelming sensation of him—his warmth, his strength, the way he fits against you so perfectly it almost feels inevitable. You’re drowning in him, lost in the way his lips move against yours—urgent, searching, like he’s trying to memorize the taste of you. The air between you crackles with something electric, something undeniable, something that neither of you can ignore anymore. His hands wander, sliding up your sides, over the delicate fabric of your gown. When his fingers skim the bare skin of your arm, you shudder. Heeseung notices. He pulls back just enough to look at you, his dark eyes flickering with something unreadable, something dangerously close to reverence. "You shouldn’t do that," you murmur, your voice breathless. "Do what?" he asks, his lips hovering just above yours, his breath warm against your skin. "Look at me like that." Heeseung exhales a quiet laugh, the sound tinged with something like frustration. "Then stop making it so damn hard."

Your heart stutters. And then his lips are on yours again, softer this time—lingering, savoring. His hands cradle your face like he’s afraid you’ll disappear, his thumbs brushing gentle strokes along your jaw. It’s different now—less rushed, less desperate, but no less intense. He pushes you up against the moss covered wall of the royal garden, his breathing slightly labored. “We should stop.” He pants out his breathing hitting your face, his lips hovering over yours.

“We should.” You nodded, “But I don't want to.” You muttered. You reattach your lips to his refusing to acknowledge the world around you, to ignore the fact that you very well could get caught in this garden with the captain of the king's guard lips attached to yours. You found it hard to care, not when his hands were roaming your body like he owned it. Like he wanted to eat you whole and you’d let him. You’d let him skin you alive, picking at you layer by layer until you laid bare in front of him. You didn't have the time for that. No matter how badly you wanted to take your time with him you simply couldn't. You had to be quick and you had a sharp feeling that wouldn't bother Heeseung much.

“I want you.” You hissed out. Your hands reach to cup his face. “Let me have you.” Heeseung’s face changed from shock to lust in such an instant you thought you might have imagined the change.

“This is wrong.” He shook his head, stepping back not even an inch. It looked like it pained him to move even the slightest. Like it would kill him to not be touching you. You felt the same. “Who cares.” Your voice was light, airy. It almost sounded desperate, a tone you had never heard from yourself. You didn't know whether to be embarrassed or not. Standing here begging a man to take you. You had never been so vulnerable before and it scared you. This wasn't what you were here for, you had one mission and that was to kill the king not fall in love. Your mouth and body seemed to have a mind of its own. You shook your head, stepping forward, your hand landing on Heeseung’s arm.

“It’s Okay.” You whispered. “Do you want me, Heeseung?” You asked, your voice stern as your eyes searched his.

“I-” He started out but you shook your head, asking him once again. “Do you want me?”

“Yes.” Heeseung said without much more hesitation. His lips were back on yours before you could utter another word. His tongue mingled with yours. It was exhilarating and mind numbing, a great escape away from everything that plagued your mind as of late. His hands pawed at your skirts, inching them up slower and slower. It was if he was hinting at it, like you both hadn’t just agreed to do this. Your hands reached for your skirts pulling them up hastily.

“Don’t beat around the bush.” You pant. “Fuck me.” Your words served as a catalyst for Heeseung’s growing lust. His hands worked on his belt and then his pants yanking them down just enough to free himself. Your chest heaved up and down feeling constrained in your very tight corset. “You’ll have to pull out. I cannot become with child Heeseung.”

Heeseung nodded his head but said nothing, almost as if he wanted to ignore the topic. You understood that completely. You didn’t want to stop and think of what the two of you were actually doing and what it would cost if you were caught, no that would be disastrous. It would ruin your entire plans and everything you had worked so hard for you. You shook the thoughts away, you didn't need to over complicate things now. Heeseung’s lips met your neck in a haste. His lips trailed down the column of your neck until it reached your collarbone and lower. His mouth attaching to your cleavage and hands cupping your breasts over your dress.

“Are you ready?” He asked you, his eyes meeting yours. You nodded at him. You needed him to do something, now. You watched only his face as you felt him lift your skirts a bit more for more access. His hands sliding over your bare thighs. His eyes flicked down only for a moment before you felt him at your entrance. The two of you were silent but the sound of your silence was loud enough. You didn’t need words, not when your need for each other spoke for you. You felt him slide into you with slow ease. His breath catching but his eyes never leaving yours.

“Oh god.” You muttered out. Your voice was wispy and almost airy but you couldn't help it, just the initial stretch of Heeseung had felt like a tiny piece of heaven that you hadn't known you needed until you got it. “Is this ok?” He asked as he made shallow thrusts into you with only his tip going in and out of you.

“Yes.” You hissed. “More.” Heeseung’s hips moved faster against yours. You tried your best at keeping your noises low in your throat. You didn't know if guards were wandering around the garden or not. Heeseung’s soft moans are the main source of noise between the two of you as he hurriedly rutted into you like a ravaged dog in heat. Your back bumping against the moss covered all over and over as Heeseung worked himself over you.

You looked up at Heeseung with doe-like eyes. Sweat dripped from his brow, his mouth slightly agape. “That feel good?” You asked him with a slight smirk. Heeseung’s eyes met your own with a bewildered look.

“So fucking good.” He grunted, slamming his lips against yours more rough than before. A squeak left your lips at the contact bracing your hand behind you on the wall. “Such a pretty pussy for a pretty little princess too.” His words caught you off guard, he was dirty talking to you. And it was so fucking hot.

“Yeah?” You asked breathily, running your hands over his clothed chest. “You like using my tight little princess pussy don’t you? Fucking me so good.” Heeseung groaned, groping at your ass over your dress. His thrust became less coordinated, more rushed.

“Fuck. Yes.” Heeseung grunted each snap of his lips bringing you that much closer to your end, heat bubbling in your core ready to explode. And explode it did, like a blinding light you reached your end convulsing around Heeseung’s cock like a starving whore. Your hand stuck to your mouth to cover the sounds that spilled from your lips. Heesung watched you intently, his eyes drinking in your haze of lust like he was under a spell and he didn't care. Soon Heeseung was pulling away in a haste causing a gasp to leave your lips. His hand moved up and down himself, a groan leaving his lips as he spilled his spend all over his hand, making a mess of himself.

Only silence hung in the air after as the both of you caught your breath. Heeseung washes his hands off in the fountain in the garden. Heeseung turns to you, his face flush, he reaches a hand out to you cupping your cheek gently, still no words fading between the two of you. Still, you’re silent, so silent you could hear a pin drop. You stared up at him watching as his eyes intently bounced around your face, probably taking what had just happened between the two of you. You could feel the shifted energy between the two of you. Things have changed, no matter how much you didnt want them to, they did. A distant noise from the castle—a door opening, the faint sound of voices—pierces through the haze, snapping you both back to reality. Heeseung tenses first. He pulls back slowly, his breathing heavy, his lips still parted as if he might say something. But he doesn’t. Instead, he releases you and just like that, the spell between you breaks. You stare at each other, caught in a silence thick with unspoken words. Then Heeseung swallows, straightens his posture, and takes a step back. "We should go inside," he says, his voice rough. You nod, though your body still hums with the memory of his touch. Neither of you say anything else as you make your way back toward the castle, but one thing is clear—whatever just happened between you, whatever this is…it’s far from over.

The war room is thick with tension, the air heavy with the weight of failure. Heeseung stands rigid before the king, his jaw clenched, hands behind his back in a position of forced composure. Across the long table, the king and queen sit side by side, their expressions carved from stone—one of fury, the other of calculation. "How," the king begins, his voice dangerously even, "was there an intruder in my castle, undetected, and yet none of you useless guards managed to catch them?" No one dares to answer. The other high-ranking guards are present, standing along the edges of the room, their heads slightly bowed in shame. The captain shifts uncomfortably beside Heeseung, but he too says nothing.

The king slams a fist onto the table. "A witch," he seethes. "We know it was a witch. What we don't know is how they got in, how they killed my men, and what the hell they were looking for!" Heeseung remains silent, staring ahead at the flickering torches along the stone walls. His mind replays the scene over and over—the slaughtered guards, their twisted bodies, the power that had killed them. It was magic. Dark magic. "We found no trace of them," The captain finally says, his voice tight. "No lingering presence of a spell, no indication of their path in or out. It's like they vanished into thin air."

"They used magic," The queen interjects coolly, her eyes sharp as a dagger. "That is what witches do." Her tone had Heeseung’s skin prickling with a sense of fear. "Then why didn't we sense it? Why didn’t our barriers—" He started.

"Because they are getting stronger," The king snaps. His gaze falls to Heeseung now, pinning him in place. "You have been keeping tabs on them, have you not? Watching their movements, ensuring they don’t have the power to rise again? Did you fail me, Heeseung?" The weight of the king’s words settle deep in his chest, heavy and suffocating. Heeseung straightens. "No, Your Majesty," he replies firmly. "We have been monitoring the council and the remaining witches closely. There has been no sign of a rebellion, no whisper of an attack. If there is an unknown witch at work, then they are acting alone."

The king's lip curls. "And yet they managed to infiltrate my home." Heeseung has no response to that. The king exhales sharply, pinching the bridge of his nose. He is furious, but there is something else beneath his rage—something colder, something more dangerous. A deep-seated hatred, burning just beneath his skin. The queen tilts her head, studying Heeseung carefully. "And what of the stolen artifacts?" she asks. "Has there been any sign of what was taken?"

"A vial of dragon’s blood," One of the guards answers. "Nothing else was missing." The room goes deathly silent. Heeseung curses under his breath. The king's fingers twitch against the table. "Dragon’s blood," he murmurs, his tone turning sharp. "And you all think nothing of this? Do you not know what that blood does?!" A shiver rolls through the room. Everyone knows. Dragon’s blood enhances magic. Strengthens it. Sharpens it. The king rises from his seat slowly, his gaze flickering toward the shadows of the room. "This was no ordinary thief," he says, more to himself than anyone else. "This was a witch preparing for something." His voice hardens as he turns back to them. "Find them. I don’t care what it takes—double the guards, search every crevice of the castle, and burn every witch’s den in this kingdom if you have to. I want their head."

A chorus of "Yes, Your Majesty," follows. Heeseung says nothing, simply inclining his head. He should be agreeing. He should be vowing to track this witch down, to put an end to this threat before it grows. And yet, Something gnaws at the edges of his mind, an uneasy whisper he refuses to acknowledge. The magic. The precision. The cleverness. His thoughts flicker—just for a second—to her. To the princess. To her uncanny way of maneuvering around the castle, her endless curiosity, the way she always asks about magic, as if she understands it more than she lets on. The way she had moved against him in their sparring match—controlled, sharp, deadly. And last night. The way he had kissed her. The way she had felt against him when they were intimate. Could it be—? No. He shoves the thought away before it can take root. It’s impossible. The princess was raised in the east, far from the magic-infested ruins of this kingdom. There is no way she could be tied to witches. No way she could have been the one to— No. Heeseung forces the thought from his mind, locking it away. It’s just a coincidence. That’s all. Nothing more.

The castle is restless the next morning, an undercurrent of tension crackling through the air like a coming storm. Servants rush about, their voices hushed, their movements careful. Guards patrol every corridor, hands tight around their weapons. The nobles murmur amongst themselves, their eyes darting toward the throne room as whispers slither through the grand halls. "A witch," someone hisses near you as you glide past. "Inside the castle. Undetected. Can you imagine?" Another voice responds just as high pitched "Brazen enough to try and kill the king!" You roll your eyes, a smirk on your face. "They should burn them all, just like before." Your jaw tightens, your nails pressing into your palms so hard they nearly break skin. You keep walking, silent, unassuming. But with every step, the whispers become harder to ignore. Then– words that would make any daughter break. "It’s just like what happened years ago... with her—with that whore of a witch."

Your breath halts. Ahead of you, a gilded sitting room lies open, sunlight spilling through arched windows onto plush velvet furniture. A small group of noblewomen are gathered there, draped in silks, laughter like chiming bells. They sip from delicate porcelain teacups, their words laced with venom, utterly unaware of the storm they are inviting upon themselves. "She thought she could kill the king—thought she was worthy of a crown instead.”

"And look where she ended up—stripped of her magic, betrayed by her own people, her head taken before she could even beg for mercy." The edges of your vision darken only anger simmering in your blood. You step closer, silent as a shadow. "They should have burned her body instead of scattering it like filth." Your blood roars in your ears, your heart pounding in your chest. "At least the king took a trophy," one of the women sneers, swirling her tea idly. "That ring of hers—how pathetic. As if a simple bauble could ever make a witch a queen." The world around you stills at the realization. Your mother. They were talking about your mother. Your breathing slows. The fire inside you, carefully stoked and contained for so long, now flares into something feral, something uncontrollable.

But they don't know. They don't know who you are, what you're capable of. They don't know that your anger speaks for itself and that your magic is the greatest weapon you yield, but they were about to find out. A slow, measured breath slips past your lips. The air hums with power as you lift your fingers, just enough to let your magic slither through them. Invisible. Deadly. The woman in the center, the one with the sharpest tongue, freezes mid-sip. Her teacup hovers just below her lips. She gasps, eyes going wide but then her whole body stiffens. A shudder rolls through her frame, the muscles in her throat working against an invisible force. The porcelain cup slips from her fingers, shattering against the floor. A single crack, and then—snap.

Her head jerks violently to the side, the sickening sound of bone breaking echoing through the room. She crumples instantly, collapsing forward onto the table, lifeless. There was a moment of silence, a fleeting moment you quite enjoyed. But then– screams. Blood curdling screams that brought you only joy. The other women scramble back, knocking over teacups and trays in their blind panic. One of them shrieks, hands clamped over her mouth as she stares in horror at the limp, twisted form before her. You let the sound wash over you, slow satisfaction curling through your chest. Without a word, you turn on your heel and walk away, your steps light, effortless. The wails of the noblewomen ring through the corridor behind you, a discordant symphony of fear and hysteria, but you don't look back. You don’t have to. Because for the first time in years, you feel like your mother’s daughter.

Evening descends upon the castle, casting long shadows through the stone corridors. You sit by your vanity, absently tracing the rim of a goblet with your fingertip, waiting. The distant sounds of hurried footsteps and hushed voices in the halls tell you the kingdom is still shaken, still trying to piece together what happened this morning, and at the ball. A knock raps at your chamber door and you already know who it is. You can sense, feel him. "Come in," you call, voice smooth, controlled. The door creaks open, and Heeseung steps in, his usual composed demeanor in place, but there’s something tense about the way his shoulders sit. His eyes flick over you—your carefully arranged hair, the gown draped over your form, the utter calmness in your posture. His gaze lingers on your face a beat too long before he clears his throat. "Dinner," he says simply.

You arch a brow. "Just us?" This would be the first time since you’ve arrived where you wouldn't be having dinner with the King and Queen. "The king and queen are otherwise occupied. Security measures." Heeseung mutters his gaze avoiding yours. "How intimate," you remark dryly, standing and brushing past him. His scent lingers—leather, steel, something faintly smoky. You don’t miss the way he exhales sharply, as if steeling himself, before following after you.

The dining chamber is much smaller than the grand halls you’re used to. The table is modest in comparison, only set for two. Silver candleholders flicker between the untouched dishes. The air is thick—too quiet, too heavy with something unspoken. You take your seat, watching Heeseung as he settles into his own across from you. He’s stiff, guarded, too preoccupied with the food before him to even look at you. You let the silence drag, waiting for him to say something. But of course, he doesn’t. You stab a piece of meat with your fork. "Are we going to pretend it didn’t happen?" His eyes snap up to you narrowing slightly as if to dare you to keep going. So, in turn you do. Testing the limits was your favorite pastime after all. You tilt your head, feigning innocence. "The sex," you clarify, twirling the utensil between your fingers. Heeseung tenses. "This is neither the time nor the place."

"Then when is, Heeseung?" You lean forward slightly, voice laced with challenge. "After another failed assassination attempt? Perhaps over breakfast? Maybe I should schedule it between my courtly duties and plotting treason." His jaw tightens. "Don’t," he warns. His cool tone had you hot. You had to remind yourself that this was not the time for that. You roll your eyes, exhaling dramatically. "You’re being ridiculous."

He sets his knife down with a sharp clink, the muscles in his arms flexing as he pushes his chair back. "Come with me." You blink, caught off guard as he stands abruptly and moves to your side. Before you can protest, his fingers curl around your wrist—not harsh, but firm. "Heeseung—"

"Not here," he mutters, already dragging you from your seat. You follow, your pulse a slow, deliberate thrum beneath your skin. He doesn’t let go, guiding you through the corridors with determined strides, past watchful guards and dimly lit hallways. Then, The library doors swing open, swallowing you both into the quiet expanse of towering shelves and candlelight. The scent of parchment and ink wraps around you, thick and familiar. Heeseung doesn’t stop until you’re deep inside, far from any prying eyes. He finally releases you, exhaling sharply as he runs a hand through his hair. "You shouldn’t talk about it so carelessly." You cross your arms. "Why not?"

"Because it’s dangerous." His voice is low, but edged with something raw. "Because it shouldn’t have happened."A slow smirk tugs at your lips. "But it did." Heeseung looks at you then—really looks at you. His expression flickers between frustration and something else, something that makes your breath hitch for just a fraction of a second. "Tell me," you continue, stepping closer, forcing him to meet your gaze. "Are you regretting it?" His lips part slightly, but no words come out. His fingers twitch at his sides, as if resisting the urge to reach for you. You tilt your head. "Or are you afraid of what it means?" His silence is answer enough.

The tension in the library crackles like a storm on the verge of breaking. The dim candlelight flickers, casting shadows across the towering shelves and the ancient tomes lining them. Heeseung is still standing stiffly before you, arms crossed, jaw clenched—like if he lets himself relax for even a moment, everything will spiral out of control. “We can’t,” he says finally, his voice tight, like he’s forcing the words out. “If anyone caught us—if the king found out—we’d both be dead.” You let out a soft, amused laugh, tilting your head. “Is that what you’re so worried about?” You take a step closer, watching the way his body reacts—how his breath shortens, how his fingers flex. “Death?” His brows knit together. “It’s not funny.”

“On the contrary,” you murmur, your voice teasing, edged with something darker. “It’s absolutely hilarious. The great Heeseung, right-hand to the king, reduced to a nervous wreck over a kiss and a quick fuck.” His eyes flash with irritation. “That’s not—”

“Not what?” You’re in front of him now, close enough to catch the faint scent of steel and cedarwood clinging to him. “Not true?” He swallows hard but doesn’t move away, anyone could see that he wanted you just as much as you wanted him. He craved you and you were in no position to deny him of that satiation

“We can’t keep doing this,” he grits out, though the way his gaze flickers to your lips betrays him. “It’s dangerous.” You hum, tilting your head, running your fingers down the front of his shirt like you’re smoothing out invisible creases. His breath catches. “Dangerous is what makes it exciting,” you whisper, fingers drifting lower, pressing lightly against his stomach. His muscles tense under your touch, like he’s fighting himself, fighting this, fighting you. “Stop,” he breathes, though he makes no move to actually stop you.

You smirk. “You don’t want me to stop.” His hands clench at his sides, a war waging within him, but you know you’ve already won. You can feel it in the way his body leans ever so slightly toward yours, in the way his breath turns heavier. “Tell me to go,” you challenge, your voice softer now, but no less daring. “Tell me you don’t want this.” Silence. And suddenly, A sharp inhale, a flicker of something feral in his eyes. And then his hands are on you—gripping your waist, pulling you forward in one swift motion until your back is pressed against the bookshelf behind you. Your breath stutters just as his lips crash into yours, no hesitation this time, no careful restraint. It’s all heat and desperation, months of tension unraveling at once. He kisses you like he’s trying to memorize every inch of you, like he’s making up for lost time, for all the times he’s told himself no when his body screamed yes.

Your hands tangle in his hair, fingers pulling, dragging him impossibly closer. He groans against your mouth, the sound vibrating through you, sending heat pooling low in your stomach. You press up against him, feeling the way his body shudders at the contact. His fingers dig into your hips, bruising, possessive, like he’s trying to imprint himself onto you. It’s reckless. It’s foolish. And neither of you care. Too caught up on the feeling of one another to carefully consider what you could lose, only what you could gain. The library was quite save for the two of you. Your heavy breathing the only sound in the grand room. Heeseung’s hands gripped at your skirts much like he did the other night.

He lifted them high enough to expose you. “I’ve been thinking about this pretty little pussy since the other night.” He grunted. “We don’t have enough time but I think I can take a little taste can’t i?” You were nodding before he could even get the words out, your head bobbing up and down in excitement. Pure unadulterated excitement. It was comical, almost pathetic but you didn't care, you needed him anyway you could get him. Heeseung fell to his knees, your skirts still tightly gripped in his hands.

“I love when a man kneels to me.” You snicker, a laugh falling from your lips in a cascade. “Just a second ago you were pulling away, now look at you.” You were teasing with him, toying around with him. His small smile told you he didn't really seem to mind your teasing, if anything it fueled his desires for you.

“I may be kneeling princess but soon you're going to be the one begging like a peasant.” He smirked up at you, the edges of his mouth slightly curved sexily. The heat simmerring in your belly only heightened your need for him and soon you were whining, lifting your hips to show him just how much you needed him to do just something, anything. “Don’t you worry.” He tsked “I’m going to take such good care of you.”

Without another words his mouth was on you, his tongue lapping at you like no tomorrow. Your hands found purchase on his shoulder as you steadied yourself. “Oh my god.” You hissed, biting your lip to keep your noises at bay. Heeseung groaned against your core, the vibrations sending tingles up your spine and furthering the pleasure coursing through your veins. His hands found your hips gripping them tightly in his hands under your gown skirts.

Your hands made their way from the bookshelf behind you down your own body until they reached your breasts cupping them in your hands for extra stimulant, Heeseung’s tongue explored every inch of your most sensitive bud sucking on it like his life depended on it. You tried your best to keep your noises at bay as you occasionally let a squeak and small moan out here and there.

Heeseung continued to suck and lick at you, your end hearing like a freight train. “I-i’m almost-” You gasped, finding it hard to cough the words out. “I know.” Heeseung said smugly as he came up for air. Your legs shook, thankful for Heeseung’s hands holding you upright. If it weren't for that you would surely be a puddle of yourself on the floor before you. It took almost no time for your end to slam into you. A single squeak left your lips before you're clamping your hand over your mouth to silence yourself. Heeseung continues to work on you throughout your orgasm granting you a spectacular end.

Heeseung let go of your thighs, straightening himself out as you caught your breath. Much like the garden the two of you only stared at each other in silence, not daring to utter even a single word. The silence was short lived as the sound of rustling outside the library tore the two of you apart, breaking the haze you were currently in. Luckily whoever was outside didn't feel the need to enter the library but the noise itself had Heeseung on edge. “We should get you to your chambers.” He mumbled, reaching a hand out for you to take. You stared at it for a moment as if it were a foreign object you had never seen before. You took his hand in yours letting him guide you out of the library doors.

The candlelight flickers in Heeseung’s chambers, casting restless shadows against the stone walls. He lays on his back in bed, eyes trained on the ceiling, his body exhausted but his mind refusing to quiet. He knows what they’re doing is reckless. Stupid, even. He runs a hand down his face, trying to scrub away the memories of her—her scent, her warmth, the way she pressed against him in the library as if she knew exactly what kind of power she had over him. Heeseung has always prided himself on his discipline, on his control. But with her… He groans and turns onto his side, staring at the dying embers in the fireplace. His duty is to the kingdom. To the king. To law and order. If anyone found out about this—about them—there would be no mercy. No hesitation. The king would have his head on a spike, and hers—hers would be paraded through the streets as a warning.

His stomach churns at the thought. But then, a far more dangerous thought slithers in, unbidden. What if they ran? The idea is so ridiculous he almost laughs. He doesn’t run. He doesn’t abandon his duty. But then he thinks of her again—of the fire in her eyes, of the way she moves like she belongs to no one but herself. She’s different. Not just from the princesses he’s known—meek, obedient, trained to be silent. No, she’s different from everyone. The way she speaks. The way she carries herself. The way she looks at him like she’s measuring him up, testing him, waiting to see what he’ll do next. The way she knows things—things she shouldn’t. A seed of suspicion takes root in his mind.

What if she’s not who she says she is? He thinks of the whispers, the rumors in the castle, the king’s paranoia about witches. He thinks of the way the attack at the ball had no clear culprit, no weapon, no trace. And then he thinks of her—of the way she smiles to herself when she thinks no one is looking, like she’s keeping a secret the world isn’t ready for. No. Heeseung shakes his head, as if to physically push the thought away. He’s being ridiculous. She’s just… unpredictable. Stubborn. Impossible. But not a witch. He refuses to believe that.

The next morning, the castle is alive with tension. Servants whisper behind cupped hands, guards double in numbers at every corridor, and the heavy clang of armor fills the halls. At breakfast, the king and queen stand before the court, their expressions grave. The king’s voice is sharp, cutting through the uneasy murmurs. "Until we discover the source of this treachery, the castle will remain under lockdown. No one leaves, no one enters without my explicit permission. Anyone found conspiring against the crown will be executed on sight." A chill runs through the room. Your grip tightens around your fork until your knuckles ache. Lockdown. The word presses against you like an iron cage, closing in.

This means you're getting closer. The king is scared. He knows his time is running out. You just need one final way to get to him. But then, your mind betrays you. Because instead of the king, instead of strategy and bloodshed, instead of magic—your thoughts drift to him. Heeseung. You can feel his eyes on you, watching from across the room. Even now, you know he’s keeping track of your every move, shadowing your steps in silence. You remember the way his touch lingered, the way his lips felt against yours, the way he made you forget—just for a moment—who you are, what you are meant to do. And for one foolish, fleeting second, you let yourself wonder. What if things were different? What if you weren’t bound by revenge, by the weight of your mother’s legacy? What if you were just a girl, and he were just a boy? But you are not just a girl. And he is not just a boy. You shove the thoughts down, swallowing hard. You call yourself a fool for falling into something so dangerous, so impossible. For even considering the possibility of anything beyond this mission. You are here for one purpose. And soon, the king will be dead.

The silence between you is louder than it has ever been as you walk to your rooms. The castle corridors stretch long and empty, the flickering torchlight casting your shadows against the cold stone walls. Each step echoes, the sound ringing in your ears, a cruel reminder that this night is slipping away too fast. Heeseung walks beside you, quiet as ever, his posture rigid with something unreadable. But you can feel it. The weight of the things left unsaid. The hesitation in the way he slows his pace just enough, like he’s not quite ready for this walk to end. Neither are you. And yet, the door to your chambers appears before you too soon.

You stop. Heeseung does too, standing just a breath away, his gaze unreadable in the dim lighting. Your heart hammers against your ribs. It feels unbearable—this thing stretching between you. The knowledge that the moment you step inside this room, something will shift. You won’t be able to undo it. So you do the only thing you can. You grab his collar and pull him to you, crashing your lips against his.

Heeseung tenses, his breath catching against your mouth. For a fraction of a second, he doesn’t move, stunned by your sudden desperation. Then, he breaks. His hands find your waist, gripping tight as he kisses you back with something raw, something close to ruin. It’s not soft, it’s not slow—it’s everything you’re both afraid to say. It’s everything you’re about to lose. our fingers tangle in the fabric of his shirt, anchoring yourself to him, trying to pull him closer, closer, closer—because this is the last time. You feel it in the way his hands tremble against you, in the way his breath shudders when he pulls away just slightly, his forehead pressing to yours. "Wait—" he starts, his voice hoarse, hesitant, but you shake your head instantly, your grip tightening on his shirt. "Don’t—" your whisper barely makes it past your lips. Your eyes burn, your throat tight. "Please don’t say anything."

Heeseung swallows thickly. His hands twitch at your waist before they slowly fall away. You take a step back. Then another and the distance feels unbearable. Your fingers ghost over the doorknob, hesitating for a fraction of a second before you turn it, stepping inside. You don’t dare look at him again. You can’t. The door closes between you with a soft, final click. You lean against it, pressing your forehead to the wood, your breath shaking as you squeeze your eyes shut. On the other side, you know he’s still there. You can feel him. Standing in the hallway, hands clenched into fists, fighting the same war you are. Seconds pass. Then minutes. And then—his footsteps, Slow. Hesitant. Fading. When he finally walks away, he takes a piece of you with him. And when you slide to the floor, pressing your trembling fingers to your lips, you wonder if you’ll ever get it back. You wonder if what you were doing was worth it, and you determine it is. This was bigger than you, bigger than what you felt for Heeseung and you had to continue no matter how much it hurt.

You sit there for what feels like hours, your back pressed against the door, your fingers still tingling from the ghost of Heeseung’s touch. You curse yourself. How could you be so stupid? Falling in love with the captain of the guard—the king’s most loyal soldier. It was reckless. Dangerous. A mistake you never should have allowed to happen. You clench your fists against your dress, trying to push away the warmth still lingering on your skin from where his hands had been. But no matter how much you tell yourself it was foolish, your heart still aches. Because for a moment, just a moment, you had allowed yourself to feel. You shake your head, jaw tightening, because love just wasn’t enough. Love wasn’t enough to stop you, it couldn't be. Not when the weight of your mother’s death still sat heavy in your chest. Not when the memories of your people being hunted and slaughtered played over and over in your mind like a curse that would never leave you.

The king needed to die and you needed to be the one to do it. If not for your mother, then for yourself. You push yourself up from the floor, shaking off the weakness trying to sink into your bones. You weren’t weak. You weren’t fragile. You were ruthless. A damn good witch. No matter what your aunt had said. No matter how the coven had doubted you. No matter how Heeseung had looked at you as if you were something to be protected, when all your life, you had fought to stand on your own. You move across the room, mind already calculating. You would need to act fast. The castle was locked down, but that meant the king’s guard would be scattered, spread thin. You could use that. You could use them. A smile, slow and sharp, spreads across your lips. No matter how much your heart screamed against it—no matter how much Heeseung’s face haunted you—you would not falter. Because this was your destiny and you would see it through to the end.

Morning light filters through the grand windows of your chambers, casting golden streaks across the floor, but you don’t move from the edge of your bed. Your plan is set. You should feel ready. Steady. But instead, your hands won’t stop trembling. You press your palms against your lap, willing the weakness away. A knock sounds at your door. You know who it is before he speaks. “Princess.” Heeseung’s voice is firm, but there’s an underlying softness beneath it. “I brought you breakfast.” You force yourself to stand, moving with a measured slowness as you approach the door. You can’t afford to falter now.

When you open it, he’s standing there, tray in hand, gaze unreadable. His dark eyes search yours for something—maybe a sign that you’re okay, maybe something more. You don’t give him anything. You reach for the tray, but before you can grab it, Heeseung’s foot moves forward, blocking the door from shutting in his face. You sigh sharply. “Move.”

“No.” His eyes narrow, suspicion creeping into his voice. “You’ve been locked away all morning. What’s going on?”

“Nothing.” You hiss, silently begging for him to just leave. Heeseung scoffs. “You expect me to believe that?”

You glare at him. “Why do you care?” He steps inside before you can stop him, setting the tray on the nearby table. Then, without hesitation, he turns to you and takes your hands in his. You stiffen. “Let go.” He doesn’t. His grip is warm, steady—just like it was the night before when you tried to push him away. “Tell me the truth,” he says. “What’s wrong?” You grit your teeth. “I told you, nothing is—”

“I don’t believe you.” You yank your hands away, stepping back. “Then you’re a fool.” Heeseung exhales sharply. “Maybe I am.” You scoff, crossing your arms. “Everything we did was a mistake.” Something flickers across his face, quick and sharp. Hurt. Good, it's better this way. You’ve been selfishly allowing yourself to fall in love with someone you can never truly have. You lift your chin higher, forcing yourself to deliver the final blow. “I used you, Heeseung. You were convenient. That’s all.”

His jaw tightens, but he doesn’t move. He doesn’t lash out. He doesn’t give you what you want. He just looks at you. It infuriates you. “You should be angry,” you snap. “You should hate me.”

“I don’t.” He argues, his voice rough with unshed emotion. “Why not?” You asked. You were desperate for him to stop, to give up. But he doesn't. “Because I know you.” His voice is quiet now, but there’s an undeniable strength beneath it. “And I know you’re lying.” Your breath catches.

Heeseung steps closer, gaze never wavering. “If you want to hurt me, you’ll have to do better than that.” You clench your fists. “I don’t care about you.” His lips twitch, and then he laughs. Heeseung’s laugh was a melody you wished you could bottle and keep forever, in a tiny little vial tucked away to keep the memory of this moment and how you felt in it alive. Even if fleeting, it would be worth it. To remember that even when you wished he would give you up and leave, he wouldn’t. “You really expect me to believe that?”

“Yes.” He just stares at you. Unmoved. Unyielding. And then he does something unexpected—he lifts a hand and gently cups your cheek. Your entire body locks up. His touch is careful, hesitant, like he’s waiting for you to pull away. But you don’t. His thumb brushes along your cheekbone, voice dropping lower. “Tell me you feel nothing, and I’ll leave right now.” You swallow hard. The words are right there. You can say them. You should say them. But your throat closes up. Silence stretches between you. Heeseung exhales, a ghost of a smile tugging at his lips, but there’s no humor in it. Just quiet understanding. “You can lie all you want,” he murmurs. “But not to me.” His hand falls away. You don’t realize you’re holding your breath until he steps back. “If you don’t want me here, say the word,” he says. “And I’ll go.”

“Don’t go.” The words slip from your lips before you can stop them, quiet but heavy with meaning. Heeseung freezes. His hand, which had been reaching for the door, stills. The tension in his shoulders tightens as he slowly turns back toward you, his dark eyes searching yours. He looks almost hesitant, like he’s bracing for something. He waits for you to take it back, for you to tell him he misheard. But you don’t do that, instead you stand there looking at him like he’s the only thing keeping you tethered to this world. And maybe, for tonight, he is.

Heeseung crosses the room in a heartbeat. His hands come up to cradle your face, his touch firm yet gentle, like he’s afraid you’ll shatter. And then his lips are on yours—hot, desperate, claiming. You kiss him back just as fiercely, your fingers tangling in his hair, pulling him impossibly closer. You can taste the longing, the fear, the hunger between you, and it terrifies you how much you need this. How much you need him. Clothes fall away, fingers trace over bare skin, mapping out the parts of you no one else has ever touched. His lips leave a burning trail along your neck, your shoulders, your collarbone. Every kiss feels like a promise neither of you can keep. This is different from the garden and the library. The emotions are stronger, the need more than just lust. He lays you down with a reverence that makes your chest ache, his body covering yours, warm and solid and real. And for a little while, just a little while, you allow yourself to forget. Forget why you’re here. Forget what you have to do. Forget that you’ll never get to have this again. Forget that, that thought scares you more than anything else. And when it’s over, when you’re lying in his arms, listening to the slow, steady rhythm of his heartbeat, the weight of reality crashes down on you.

Tears slip from your eyes before you can stop them. Heeseung notices immediately. He shifts beside you, propping himself up on his elbow to look down at you. His fingers trace lightly over your cheek, catching a stray tear. “What’s wrong?” His voice is hoarse, gentle. You shake your head, forcing a small, unconvincing smile. “Nothing.” Cursing yourself for looking so brittle, so weak. His brow furrows, unconvinced. “You’re crying,” he says, brushing another tear away with his thumb. “That’s not nothing.”

You inhale sharply, turning your head away. Because if you look at him—if you really look at him—you’ll break. You can’t afford to break. Heeseung shifts again, his body warm against yours. Then, out of nowhere, he says something that steals the air from your lungs. “Let’s leave.” Your breath catches in your throat. You turn your head back toward him, your lips parting in disbelief. “What?”

“Let’s leave,” he repeats, his voice surer now. “Tonight. Right now. Just the two of us.” You sit up, clutching the sheet to your chest. “Heeseung, you don’t know what you’re saying.” Leaving would mean that coming here was for nothing. You couldn't do that, you needed to see this through for your mother. “Yes, I do.” He sits up too, his hands reaching for yours. “We can leave this place behind. Disappear. Go somewhere no one will find us. We’ll figure it out. Together.”

Your heart clenches so hard it’s painful. He means it. He really means it, and you’re going to have to deny him. You can see it in his eyes, the unwavering sincerity, the quiet desperation. He’s not just saying it to comfort you. He truly believes you could run away, start over, be free. And for a fleeting moment, you want to believe it too. But you can’t. You squeeze your eyes shut. “You don’t know the real me, Heeseung.” He exhales a soft, disbelieving laugh. That goddamn laugh. “Of course, I do.”

“No,” you whisper, shaking your head. “You don’t.” Heeseung lifts your hand, pressing a lingering kiss to your knuckles. His lips brush against your skin as he speaks. “I know that you hate being treated like you’re fragile. That you sneak out just because you can. That you act like you don’t care, but you do. More than anyone I’ve ever met.” His voice lowers, softer now. “I know you pretend to be heartless, but you’re not. You’re stubborn and reckless and the smartest person I’ve ever known.” Heeseung tilts your chin up, forcing you to meet his gaze. “I know you,” he says. “And I love you.” Your breath shudders.

Heeseung has no idea how much those words shatter you. Because for all the ways he knows you—for all the truths he’s uncovered—he’s still blind to the one that matters most. You swallow against the lump in your throat. “I can’t.” His brows draw together. “Can’t what?” You don’t answer. You can’t. He studies you for a long moment, realization flickering in his gaze. “There’s something you’re not telling me,” he says quietly.

You close your eyes, gripping the sheets beneath you. Heeseung’s voice drops lower. “What is it?” Silence stretches between you, thick with unspoken words. Then, finally, you whisper, “Please… just go.” The pain from the moment was unbearable. Having to turn him away when you didn't want to. When your heart screamed at you to pull him close and never let go. Pain flashes across his face. His jaw clenches, his throat bobbing with the effort to swallow whatever he wants to say. He stands, gathering his clothes in silence. You stay where you are, gripping the sheets, digging your nails into the fabric to keep from calling him back. Before he leaves, he pauses at the door. He turns his head just slightly, his voice barely above a whisper. “I love you.” Then he walks out. And this time, you let him go.

Something was wrong. Heeseung could feel it. Being called to the King’s quarters almost immediately after returning to his rooms after his night with the princess. Something was wrong. Heeseung barely makes it to the king’s quarters before the weight in his chest starts to crush him. The halls are lined with guards, their grips tight on their weapons, their expressions grim. The air crackles with tension, heavy and suffocating. It feels like a noose tightening around his throat. He forces himself forward, each step heavier than the last. The moment he steps inside, he sees them. The King, the Queen And a group of high-ranking officials gathered around a long table, their faces drawn in grim lines. The candlelight flickers ominously, casting eerie shadows across the room. The doors slam shut behind him and Heeseung swears his heart in his stomach bile rising up his throat.

“My king,” he greets, bowing his head. He was trying to be graceful, trying to mask the pure terror coursing through his veins. The king doesn’t acknowledge the gesture. Instead, he lifts his gaze, sharp and knowing, and says, “Captain. Tell me… what do you know about the princess?” Heeseung’s heart stutters in his chest. He swallows thickly, keeping his voice steady. “What do you mean, Your Majesty?” The king doesn’t answer right away, furthering Heeseung’s racing heart. Something was wrong. Instead, he picks up a folded parchment from the table. Heeseung notices the broken wax seal—an unfamiliar crest pressed into the dried crimson wax. “These letters,” the king begins, “have come from her kingdom.” His tone is measured, calm—but there’s something deadly lurking beneath the surface. “They have been arriving for weeks. All addressed to the princess.”

Something cold curls in Heeseung’s stomach. “Then… why hasn’t she responded?” Heeseung asks carefully, forcing the words past his lips. “That is the question, isn’t it?” the king muses. Then he slams something onto the table. It’s a portrait. The parchment unfurls slightly from the impact, revealing a detailed oil painting of a young woman. Heeseung’s breath catches. It’s her. Or at least… it’s supposed to be. But it isn’t her. Not the woman he kissed. Not the woman he made love to. Not the woman he held in his arms. His stomach twists violently. The girl in the portrait has the same regal posture, the same air of nobility, the same crown resting atop her carefully styled hair. But the features are all wrong. The shape of her nose, the curve of her lips, the sharpness of her jawline—none of them belong to the woman he knows.

The realization crashes into him like a blow to the chest. “No,” he breathes, shaking his head. “That’s not—” “Not the girl staying in our castle?” The King finishes, his lips curling into something almost amused. The room feels like it’s closing in. His lungs won’t fill properly. His ribs feel too tight, too constricted. His world is breaking apart piece by piece. How could she have lied so long? To everyone. To him? Is that what she meant when she said he didn't know the real her? The king leans back in his chair, tapping his fingers against the wooden armrest. “This is the real princess,” he says, voice laced with cruel amusement. “The one we were supposed to receive.”

The blood in Heeseung’s veins turns to ice. His ears ring. His heart pounds so loudly it’s deafening. “She’s an imposter,” The King states plainly, his voice hard and unwavering. The Queen makes a disgusted noise. “Not just an imposter,” she sneers. “A witch.” The word slices through Heeseung like a blade toppling his world over. Shattering his entire being. A witch? No. It couldn't be. Something.is.wrong. He doesn’t move. He doesn’t speak. He can’t.

“She’s been hunting me,” the king continues, his voice dripping with satisfaction, as if he’s already won. “Planning my execution under my very roof.” Heeseung wants to deny it. Wants to fight it. Wants to claim it’s impossible. But deep down, something inside him unravels. Because it is possible. It makes sense. The late-night disappearances. The questions she never answered. The flashes of power he felt but ignored. The way she always seemed to have a secret buried behind her eyes. The realization knocks the air from his lungs. He had suspected. He had wondered. But he never believed. Because believing would mean losing her. And now—Now, he has lost her. A sharp breath rattles through his chest. He forces himself to stay still, to keep his expression unreadable, to keep the pain from showing. But it’s there. It’s tearing him apart from the inside out.

He can still feel her touch, still taste her on his lips. Still hear the way her voice broke when she told him she couldn’t. She had known this moment was coming. That’s why she kissed him like it was the last time. That’s why she cried. She knew. And she let him love her anyway. “Find her,” the king commands, dragging Heeseung back to the present. “Search the castle. The kingdom. I want that witch’s head.” Heeseung stiffens. The words are an execution order. His pulse roars in his ears. He forces himself to bow, to keep his voice steady as he murmurs, “Yes, Your Majesty.” But his hands tremble as he clenches them into fists. Because for the first time in his life, he doesn’t know what to do. His loyalty is to the king. His duty is to the crown. But his heart— His heart belongs to her. And no matter how much he tries to bury it—no matter how much it kills him— It always will. Heeseung feels like he’s standing outside of his own body, watching the scene unfold as if it’s happening to someone else. The king’s voice slices through the thick silence.

“The body that was found, dumped from the carriage that night…” He leans forward, his expression grave yet victorious, as if he’s piecing together a puzzle he’d been struggling with for too long. “It was her. The real princess.” A sick, suffocating weight crashes down on Heeseung’s chest. He remembers that night. The gruesome discovery. The way the body had been barely recognizable, left for the elements like discarded waste. At the time, they had assumed it was the work of bandits, of those who wanted to send a message to the crown. But it wasn’t. It was her. She had done it. She had killed the princess. Taken her place. Deceived them all. She had deceived him. Heeseung sways slightly, his grip tightening at his sides.

“Captain.” His head jerks up at the king’s call. The king watches him carefully, expression unreadable, before he asks, “Do you have it on you?” For a moment, Heeseung doesn’t understand. Then the king clarifies. “The witch’s knife.” The words nearly send Heeseung to his knees. His fingers twitch at his belt, where the blade sits, unseen but ever-present—a weapon forged to cut through the magic that ran through the veins of people like her. He feels sick. Heeseung grits his teeth, schooling his expression into one of careful indifference. “Yes,” he says, forcing his voice to remain even. “I have it.”

The king hums in approval. “Good,” he says. “Then it’s time to put it to use.” The words ring through Heeseung’s skull like a war drum. “Bring her to me,” the king orders. “I want that witch dragged before me in chains.” His gaze flickers to Heeseung’s belt, where the blade rests. “And you will be the one to strike her down.” The world tilts. Heeseung can hear his own breathing, shallow and uneven. He has killed before. It is his duty. His purpose. His role. But never like this. Never her. Never the only person who has ever made him feel. He forces himself to nod. It is the only response he can manage without his voice betraying him. The king smirks in satisfaction, leaning back in his chair. “Go,” he commands. “Find her.” Heeseung turns stiffly, barely hearing the murmurs of approval from the gathered officials, The Queen’s quiet mutter of disgust. He walks toward the doors, each step heavier than the last. His fingers brush against the hilt of the knife. The one meant for her. The woman he kissed. The woman he loved. His heart cracks wide open, but there is no time to bleed. Because the next time he sees her— He will have to kill her. Something was wrong.

The air is thick with dampness, the scent of mold and stone clinging to your skin as you navigate the winding tunnels beneath the castle. Your heart pounds against your ribs, steady and strong, the only thing grounding you as you press forward. You don’t have much time. If everything goes according to plan, the king won’t see the next sunrise. The thought steadies you. You move like a shadow through the catacombs, tracing the steps you memorized, hands gliding along the rough walls. You can feel the pulse of magic thrumming in the stone, remnants of old spells woven into the foundations of the castle. If you close your eyes, you can almost hear whispers, ghosts of the past murmuring secrets only the dead could know.

You shake off the feeling. There’s no room for hesitation. Not now. Your plan is simple—efficient. Slip into the king’s chambers through the passage hidden beneath the castle, snap his neck, and vanish before anyone can piece together what happened. No spells. No weapons. Just you. Just justice. The idea of feeling his life slip between your fingers, of watching the fear dawn in his eyes when he realizes his power can’t save him—it’s almost intoxicating. But then he flickers in your mind. Heeseung. For a single, damning moment, you think of the way he looked at you last night, the way his hands held you like you were something precious. How his voice had cracked when he told you he loved you. And how you said nothing in return. Your throat tightens, but you shove it down. Love is not enough to stop what must be done. You push forward. The tunnels twist and stretch before you, endless in their darkness, but you know exactly where you're going. The passage that leads into the king’s private chambers is ahead. You’re nearly there— Cold steel presses against your throat.

You stop. Your body tenses, every instinct in you screaming to move, to fight, but the blade is firm, unforgiving. A single wrong move could end it all before you even reach the king. You feel power coming from it. Radiating off of it. It stung like poison. Was this a witch killing knife?

"Going somewhere?" The voice is low, familiar, and it guts you. Your pulse jumps. Slowly, carefully, you tilt your head just enough to see him. Heeseung. Oh god it was Heeseung. His face is carved from stone, eyes dark, unreadable. The knife in his hand does not waver. He looked destroyed, shattered against beyond repair. But he also looked angry, he knew. He knew who you were and even though that should scare you it didn't. You had oddly felt a sense of overwhelming relief. You weren't hiding from him anymore. Your breath comes slow, measured. “Move.”

He doesn’t. You try again, this time sharper, steel behind your words. “Move, Heeseung.” His grip tightens. “Tell me where you’re going.” His voice is quiet, but there’s something underneath it, something raw. A slow, careful inhale. “You already know.” There was no use in lying to him anymore. You refused to do it, you owed him that much at least. His jaw tenses. A muscle in his cheek jumps. But he doesn’t move the blade. The cold metal seeping into your skin stinging you and boiling your blood. A small part of you knew you deserved this. For lying to him for so long, for allowing yourself to fall in love with a man who you could never have. A man who would hate the person, the thing you truly were. He didn't know the real you. You had warned him. for the first time since you entered the tunnels, doubt creeps in. Not in your plan. Not in your abilities. But in him. Would he really stop you? Would he really— would he kill you?

The reality hurt. You’d kill him if you had to, no matter how much you didn't want to. No matter how much it would hurt you, end you even. You'd do it. For your mother and her legacy you'd do what you had to do. It's what you came here for. “You don’t want to do this,” you whisper, softer this time. Heeseung exhales sharply through his nose. “Don’t I?” The words land like a blow. Your fingers twitch at your sides. You could use magic. Could throw him back, run before he can get up. But you don’t. Instead, you say, “I know you.” Heeseung flinches. Not visibly—no, no one else would notice—but you do. You see the slight hitch in his breath, the way his grip falters for just a moment. Then, in a voice barely above a whisper— “You don’t know me at all.”

The words sink into your skin, cold and unrelenting. Your chest tightens. And for the first time— You wonder if you've already lost. No matter what happened in this tunnel you were losing. The blade at your throat is trembling. Not steady. Not certain. Not like Heeseung at all. His breath is ragged, uneven, as if the very air around him is too thick to swallow. His grip on the hilt of his knife is white-knuckled, his knuckles straining under the force of it, but it’s not just from anger. It’s something deeper—something fragile, teetering on the edge of breaking.

“Is it true?” His voice is hoarse, almost quiet, but the weight of it crashes into you like a tidal wave. You don’t answer. You can’t. Not when you knew he already knew the answer. Vocalizing what he already knew would make it too real for him. You were a betrayer, a murder, a witch. His chest rises and falls too quickly, his breath coming in sharp, uneven bursts. His fingers flex around the knife, and when you still don’t respond, something in him snaps. “Is it true?!” His voice cracks, raw and agonized, and it cuts through you like a blade sharper than the one at your throat.

Your heart hammers against your ribs. Your mouth is dry. Your hands are shaking, but you force yourself to meet his eyes—his desperate, frantic, broken eyes. You should lie. You should tell him no. You should take the last remnants of his belief in you and hold on to them—but it’s too late for that. The truth is already there, clawing its way out of you, forcing itself into the space between you. You can’t lie to him anymore. You wouldn’t. Your lips part. Your voice is barely a whisper. “…Yes.” The silence that follows is suffocating. Heeseung stares at you, wide-eyed, as if you’ve just struck him. His grip on the knife wavers, but he doesn’t lower it. He doesn’t move. He doesn’t breathe. His Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows thickly, his gaze never leaving yours. He looks at you like he doesn’t know you. Like everything you were to him has just unraveled at his feet, piece by piece, until there’s nothing left but the ruin of whatever you were. “Why?” His voice is barely there, hoarse and hollow.

The lump in your throat grows, threatening to choke you. You don’t want to tell him. You don’t want to tell him. But there’s nothing left to hide. The weight of your past has already reached him, coiling around his throat just as it has yours. Your hands tremble, your nails digging into your palms, as you force yourself to speak. “He murdered my mother.” but he knew that already? Didn’t he? The words taste like ash on your tongue. You watch as Heeseung’s entire body goes rigid. His expression—pain, anger, disbelief—flickers for only a moment before he schools it into something unreadable, something distant. But you can still see it. The horror. The realization. The unbearable ache. Your voice wavers. “The king ordered her death. He butchered her, Heeseung.” You take a shaky breath, one that barely fills your lungs. “He tore her apart. Took her from me. My father too.”

Heeseung doesn’t speak. He doesn’t move. You take a step closer. He doesn’t retreat, but the hand holding the knife lowers—just slightly. “I was just a child,” you whisper. The words crack at the edges. “I had no one. My coven abandoned me. I had to make my own way in this world, and every single day, I have had to live with what he did.” Your breath shudders in your chest. Your eyes burn. “I was never going to be a princess, Heeseung.” There is no anger in your voice anymore. No rage. No fire. Just grief, raw and aching, an open wound that never healed Heeseung clenches his jaw so tightly that the muscles twitch, his hands trembling at his sides. His grip on the knife loosens. He looks at you like he’s trying to understand. Like he’s trying to see you through the haze of betrayal. Then, after what feels like an eternity, he whispers, “I’ll let you go.” Your stomach plummets. His gaze is pained, torn apart at the seams, but he holds it steady.

“I’ll tell them I couldn’t find you.” His voice shakes. His lips press into a thin line as he swallows down something thick and heavy. “I’ll let you escape, just—” He takes a deep breath, ragged and uneven. “Just leave. Never come back.” Your heart pounds, hammering against your ribs with a force that steals the breath from your lungs. His hand twitches. His free hand almost reaches for you, but he stops himself, curling his fingers into a fist instead. “So I don’t have to hurt you,” he murmurs, voice breaking. His eyes flicker over your face, memorizing you. Holding on to the pieces of you he still recognizes. “Please.” You should take the offer. You should run. But you can’t. Not anymore. You were way too far in. You weren’t a quitter. You weren’t weak and you’d fight until your dying breath. Killing the King was the only option for you. Not running. You’d never run. Never.��

The silence between you stretches like a blade—thin, sharp, and deadly. Heeseung is still trembling, his breath unsteady, his fingers twitching as if he doesn’t know whether to reach for you or push you away. His body is tense, wound so tight it looks like it might snap under the weight of what you’ve done—of what you’re about to do. You can see the war raging behind his eyes. The part of him that wants to trust you. The part of him that still loves you. And the part of him that has been trained his whole life to protect his kingdom—to protect the king who raised him. He takes a step closer. The knife is still in his hand, but his grip is loose, uncertain. “One last time,” he says, voice cracking under the weight of it. “I’m begging you. Please. Just leave. Disappear. Run. I’ll make sure no one follows you. I’ll say you vanished into the night, that I searched and searched, but I couldn’t find you.” His voice wavers, but the desperation in his eyes is unwavering. “Please,” he begs again, quieter this time. He might as well be on his hands and knees.

For a second you imagined a life where you agreed where you left and lived a hate free life. Where you lived a life not plagued by an unruly anger for the one who took your mother from you. How would it feel to hide away from the rest of the world and be content. Maybe in a small cabin, under the mountains. With Heeseung. Heeseung would be there. And you'd be married with so many children you could never be bored. That life wasn't possible. You’d be an idiot to have such fantasies because life was never fair. The ache in your chest is unbearable. You wish you could lie to him. You wish you could tell him what he wants to hear, just to take the anguish out of his voice. But you can’t. You take a shaky breath, trying to steady the storm inside you, but it’s impossible. “I can’t.” He flinches.

“I’m sorry, Heeseung,” you whisper, your throat thick with emotion. “I can’t leave. Not if he’s still alive.” His expression twists, pain flashing through his face like lightning across a stormy sky. His hands clench into fists, his whole body trembling, and for a moment, you think he might drop the knife. But he doesn’t. His jaw tightens. His breath shudders in his chest. “Why?” His voice is barely a whisper, but the agony in it cuts through you like a thousand knives. “Why is your revenge more important than your life?” You swallow hard, blinking back the tears burning in your eyes. “Because it’s all I have left.” The words hang in the air between you, suffocating. Heeseung stares at you, his face unreadable, but his eyes—his eyes—they are shattered, hollowed out by something deeper than just heartbreak. His grip on the knife tightens.

“My mother deserved better than to die screaming, being torn apart” you whisper, voice shaking. “She deserved justice. And if I don’t do this—if I let him live—then I am nothing. I will have nothing.” Heeseung’s face twists with something you can’t quite name. And then, in a voice so low and broken it barely reaches your ears, he murmurs, “And what about me?” Your breath catches. “What am I to you, then?” He swallows hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “Am I nothing?” The tears you’ve been holding back finally spill over, slipping silently down your cheeks. “You’re everything to me,” you choke out.

And it’s the truth. Heeseung’s face crumples. His shoulders shake. His entire body is wrecked with the weight of those words, of what they mean—of what they don’t mean. Because love isn’t enough. Not for you. Not for him. Your need to fight for your mother’s memory is stronger than the love blooming between you. And his duty—his oath—to protect his king is stronger than his love for you. It has to be. It has to be. Heeseung lets out a choked breath, somewhere between a sob and a broken laugh. He drags a hand through his hair, gripping at the strands like he’s trying to rip himself out of his own body, as if he can’t stand the weight of his own thoughts. “Tell me you hate me,” he whispers suddenly. You stiffen. “Tell me you used me.” His voice is thick, unsteady. “Tell me none of it meant anything, and I’ll—” He shakes his head, voice trembling. “I’ll let you go.” You squeeze your eyes shut. You could. You could say the words and make it easier for him. You could cut him open and make sure he never has to grieve you. You could turn him against you so he doesn’t have to hurt when this ends. But you’ve already hurt him enough.

You open your eyes, looking at the man who has made you question everything. The man who, against all odds, made you feel again. The man you love—but can never have. And you shake your head. “I won’t lie to you.” A tear slips down Heeseung’s cheek. He doesn’t wipe it away. And then, after a long, shuddering breath, he lifts the knife once more.Not trembling this time. Not uncertain. Because if love isn’t strong enough to stop either of you—then neither is hesitation. The dagger slides between your ribs, sinking into your flesh with a slow, devastating finality. The pain is instant—white-hot, searing, an agony unlike anything you’ve ever felt before. But what truly breaks you isn’t the blade. It isn’t even the poison, creeping through your veins like liquid fire. It’s the look in Heeseung’s eyes. So devastatingly beautiful. So, broken. You broke him, you are exactly who you’ve always been. A monster. And you were going to die the death you deserved, in the arms of the man you loved but by the hands of the man you loved.

Tears stream down his face, his lips parted in silent devastation. His hands tremble as he lowers you gently to the ground, cradling you like you’re something fragile, like you aren’t already breaking apart in his arms. “I’m sorry,” he chokes out, his voice barely more than a breath. He presses his forehead against yours, his body shaking with grief. “I had to. I—I didn’t have a choice.” You can feel the poison sinking its claws into you, stealing the strength from your limbs, making it harder to breathe. The world around you begins to blur at the edges, fading like a dream unraveling into nothing. You reach up with what little strength you have left, your fingers curling over his. He’s still holding the dagger, his grip tight like he can’t bear to let go. Blood spills between your fingers, warm and thick, but you don’t care.

You squeeze his hand. “It’s okay,” you whisper, voice weak, shaking. “This was the only way to stop me.” And it was the truth. You would only give him the truth. Heeseung lets out a broken sound, something between a sob and a gasp. His other hand cups your cheek, his thumb brushing over your skin like he’s trying to memorize the feel of you before you slip away. “I wouldn’t have stopped,” you confess, blinking through the haze clouding your vision. “You know that, don’t you?” You let out a sharp breath “Because-..because you know me.” You laugh a little, it's short and winded but it's a laugh and it was real. He nods, his shoulders heaving with every ragged breath. More tears slip down your face, mingling with the blood pooling beneath you. “You did the right thing.”

Heeseung flinches, his grip on you tightening like he can somehow keep you here. “No,” he whispers, shaking his head. “Don’t say that.” his voice trembled, tears still falling from his eyes and down his cheeks. “But you did,” you insist, coughing as blood spills from your lips. You can taste the bitterness of it, the iron tang. “You did the right thing, Heeseung. I—I’m glad you did.” Your chest rises and falls in shallow, uneven breaths. The darkness is creeping closer now, curling around the edges of your vision, but you fight to keep your eyes open. Just for a little longer. Just to see him one last time. “I love you.” The words come out in a fragile whisper, but they are real. They are everything. A sob tears through him, raw and wrecked. He presses his lips to your forehead, his tears falling against your skin. “I love you too,” he breathes, voice shaking.

You smile, just barely. And then your body stills. Heeseung feels it the moment you slip away. The last breath leaving your lungs. The way your fingers relax, the light in your eyes dimming until there’s nothing left but the hollow, empty silence. His heart shatters. A broken, strangled cry rips from his throat, and he pulls you into his arms, holding you against him as if that will bring you back. His whole body shakes with grief, his face buried in your hair. The dagger is still in his hand. The blood is still warm. And the weight of what he has done—the weight of losing you—crushes him whole.

Epilogue.

Heeseung kneels before the king, head bowed, hands clenched so tightly at his sides that his nails threaten to pierce his skin. His face is carefully composed—stoic, unreadable—but inside, he is unraveling. “I failed, Your Majesty,” he says, voice low, heavy with carefully measured regret. “The witch is gone.” Silence falls over the throne room, thick and suffocating. The king’s fingers drum against the armrest of his gilded throne, his expression dark with fury. Heeseung does not flinch beneath his gaze, does not waver even as the weight of his own lie threatens to crush him.

“Gone?” the king finally echoes, his tone sharp. “How?” Heeseung lifts his head slightly, just enough to meet the king’s eyes without betraying the storm of emotions raging inside him. “By the time we reached the catacombs, she had vanished without a trace. The guards and I searched the tunnels, the corridors, the perimeter of the castle. There was no sign of her.” The queen scoffs, folding her arms across her chest. “And you expect us to believe that a single witch, after all the effort she put into infiltrating our home, simply decided to flee?”

Heeseung forces himself to nod, his jaw tightening. “Yes, Your Majesty.” The king exhales sharply through his nose, his displeasure clear. He shifts in his seat, fingers stilling against the polished wood of his throne. “No trace at all?”

“No.” The lie tastes like ash on Heeseung’s tongue. The king curses under his breath before waving a dismissive hand. “Find her.” Heeseung bows his head again. “Yes, Your Majesty.” He doesn’t wait to be dismissed. He knows the conversation is over. The king is furious, but he believes him. Or, at the very least, he has no choice but to. Heeseung turns on his heel and strides out of the throne room, keeping his shoulders squared and his pace steady. Every step feels heavier than the last. Because the truth is buried deep beneath his feet.

The forest is quiet, the only sounds are the whisper of the wind through the trees and the distant calls of night creatures stirring from their slumber. The moon hangs low in the sky, casting silver light over the clearing. Heeseung stands at the edge of the earth he has disturbed, his breath unsteady as he looks down at the freshly turned soil. This was where the king had left her mother to rot. A shallow grave in an unmarked place. Forgotten, discarded like she was nothing. Heeseung couldn’t give her justice. He couldn’t save her. But he could give her this. He had carried her here himself, long after the dagger had stolen the last warmth from her body. He had cleaned the blood from her skin, brushed the hair from her face, whispered apologies that she would never hear. And then, with shaking hands, he had laid her to rest beside her mother. Not in an unmarked grave. Not forgotten. He had carved a name into the wood he placed at the head of the mound of earth. Not the name of the princess she had stolen, not the lie she had lived. Her true name.

The name that had been taken from her the night the king slaughtered her mother. Heeseung takes a shaky breath, sinking to his knees beside her grave. He presses a hand to the cold ground, his vision blurring. “I’m sorry,” he whispers, the words barely a breath. The wind moves through the trees, rustling the leaves like a sigh. Heeseung closes his eyes. For the first time in his life, he wishes he had never been born in this kingdom. That he had never sworn an oath to the king, never pledged his loyalty to a crown soaked in the blood of innocents. For the first time in his life, he wishes he had been brave enough to run away with her. But there are no second chances. No rewinding time. So he sits in silence, keeping vigil over the woman he loved, mourning the life they never got to have. And when the sun begins to rise, painting the sky in shades of gold and crimson, Heeseung finally forces himself to stand. He does not say goodbye. Because he knows he will return. Because he knows he will never stop loving her. Because even in death, she is the only truth he has ever known.

(♬) - @beomiracles @biteyoubiteme @hyukascampfire @dawngyu @izzyy-stuff @1-800-jewon @xylatox

#enhypen #enhypen imagines #enhypen smut #heeseung #heeseung imagines #heeseung smut #heeseung x reader #heeseung enhypen

433 notes · View notes