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readerforexiao · 2 months ago

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𝐔𝐍𝐓𝐈𝐋 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐄𝐍𝐃: 𝒘𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒆 𝒊𝒕 𝒃𝒆𝒈𝒂𝒏 | 𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָ

⌗ Sung Jinwoo x Fem!Reader | romance, angst, fluff | childhood friends to lovers, denial + unspoken feelings + mutual pining, hurt / comfort, canon universe, emotional vulnerability and isolation, trauma ... tba

⌗ "I am human regardless of the power running through my veins. It lies within my heart, my human heart which feels ever so deeply, that I am bound to feeling emotions such as fear, hatred, greed, and love"

⌗ Word Count: 3.3k

⌗ Synopsis: Despite knowing that everything given demanded a price, and everything taken had a cost, Jinwoo would have done everything for you, relinquished all he had. But when granted power without end capable of continuous growth beyond that of limitation, he feared before he reasoned, and in his panic had he pushed you away. Still, you could love him no less even as his presence thinned into absence. Eventually, Jinwoo realized he could only run as far as you'd let him.

⌗ A/n: been working on this since feb. i am as hopeless with my writing as i am hopelessly in love with Jinwoo 💙

THEY MADE, AND IN THEIR MAKING, THEY UNMADE. And it became their legacy retold in history.

For the greatest of empires had they built upon the spine of the land, upon the hum of the earth’s uneven breaths and the shifting of its sands. But as they raised them into lofty castles of grandeur, into bridges that crossed ravines and forded gushing rivers, they had brought them to ruin by the thirst for more. Even the alliances forged by the blood of sacrifice— meant to be immortalised in legend— were cleaved apart with the blade of mistrust wedged deep between the scapula.

Once, when the fields of flowers had been kissed by the sun and caressed by the moon. When forests of old sheltered life beneath the canopy of their trees, and streams of pure birth coursed outward, nourishing all they touched. Light felt softer then. And time must have moved without urgency, too. For even the silence was sure to have been alive, full of meaning, full of breath. Until their petals were plucked and their rivers bloodied.

Trees were splintered. Wings clipped. Skin carved. And it had been such that nothing ever remained untouched. For the blame worthy were indeed beings of flesh— mortal… frail. Frail in what lies inside unspoken of. What mattered most.

They trample and are trampled by what lies beyond their control. And they break and are broken by the hands of those they love, envy… fear.

When the gates appeared and hunters rose from among the panic with powers beyond their grandest desires, disaster had been mistaken for salvation. Hunter Guilds were established to combat the monsters. But beneath their banners, division grew. Subtle at first, then swift, accelerating the downfall of what was already fraying at the seams.

In a cruel game where the strong preyed upon the weak, the greedy devoured the humble, and the wicked turned their blades to the innocent. Sins were repeated, not repented. For the power that descended upon them, disastrous in their hands, would be their undoing.

And so it was to be, as if writ by fate’s hand— humanity were forever doomed to become the ruin of every story. A final chapter none could ever rewrite.

❝𝙷𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚛𝚢 𝚗𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚛𝚎𝚙𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚜 𝚒𝚝𝚜𝚎𝚕𝚏. 𝙼𝚊𝚗 𝚊𝚕𝚠𝚊𝚢𝚜 𝚍𝚘𝚎𝚜❞

❝𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚘𝚗𝚕𝚢 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚗𝚝 𝚒𝚗 𝚕𝚒𝚏𝚎 𝚒𝚜 𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚐𝚎.❞ - 𝙷𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚌𝚕𝚒𝚝𝚞𝚜

— 𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐎𝐍𝐄

THE SUN TOOK LEAVE OF THE WORLD, bequeathing to the veil of shadow. The traffic lights turned green, engines stirred, and wheels began rolling. Uproar hurled through the streets as a motorbike wove between the blurred cars, its growl reverberating down the asphalt vein.

In the merging of headlights, you had seen his eyes; the speckle of blue within the grey that surfaced when caught in the gleam of luminosity. Those eyes sought you out, flicking from face to face with urgency, like a caged bird who mourned for the sky. He moved through the world shaped by his tragedies and misfortune, brave yet labelled weak and mocked as a coward.

Life altered him more times than one could count, wearing him down in the most horrid ways. He was the boy who knew pain too intimately, considered it a companion even if it had never been a desired one.

His smile had always held too much apology, stretched over a face that had forgotten genuinity. His shoulders drew taut and his spine locked in rigidness beneath a jacket worn and torn by responsibility and fight; the posture of someone taught by repetition to brace for the worst and never expect anything better, for the clothes on his back and a growing stack of unpaid bills were all he had.

Like a shadow, he carried himself, bowing his head as if he might offend the light. And though he had tried to stay small, to slip by unnoticed, mockery found him like a breath upon his neck all the same, as if daring him to think he deserved even that.

Their words cut deeper than any beast ever did. The sharpness of their laughter and ridicule hollowed him out, but he did what he had to do, even if it made him fold into himself and apologise for being weak and a pathetic stain on the world.

Your hand, cold against the heat of skin, held your neck where the phantom ache of his name still echoed alive.

You remembered the night the call came. When the hospital’s number flashed across your screen and how it hadn’t startled you at first because he had been in and out of emergency rooms enough times for it to feel like a routine. Bruises, fractures, and the occasional concussion, but he never stayed long. He had always walked out alive in the end. But that night had been different when Jinah’s voice, strangled by apprehension, threaded through the call.

The memory became one impossible to shake, for you had leaned close to his motionless body and inhaled the scent of ash and iron until it could not be forgotten. The image of him, every inch of exposed skin buried under gauze and wrapped so thickly it seemed he might disappear beneath it, burned into your mind.

"You idiot... stupid… stupid…" You hadn’t meant to say it in anger, but the words slipped from your quivering lips anyway, too heavy to hold back because so foolish, he was. Always so stubborn and persistent to a fault.

You couldn’t call it strength— what he did. Could not deem such reckless behaviour noble, even if he had done it all to provide for her, to ensure she had what she needed. To carry a burden that should not have been his alone. There was nothing noble about the way his body lay there, broken and unrecognisable beneath the bandages. Nothing admirable in the way he hadn’t stirred for days, no sign that the man you knew was still fighting to come back while his sister, whom he had done it all for, was left with nothing but the unbearable routine of waiting.

She had spent her days running back and forth between the hospital and home despite your protests. Nights were lonely, though she had grown accustomed to it. She always had her phone nearby as she waited for you to call with any change or any sign he would wake. She didn’t have the luxury of giving up. Not while her brother lay there, just like her mother. Not while he had made sure she wouldn’t have to.

Neither of them deserved this. And yet, here they were.

Red lights blinked overhead and as the cars rolled to a stop, you stepped off the curb, swept into the tide of pedestrians, moving like rain dissolving into the ocean, loose, unbothered, flowing with the kind of ease that comes from having somewhere to go but no urgency to get there. But you moved differently, slipping between them, quicker, with purpose. A single note out of tune. Your pace outmatched theirs. You couldn’t walk slowly— not tonight.

Bit by bit, the press of bodies thinned and the noise of car horns and voices had fallen away like smoke in the wind. Eventually, only the quiet rhythm of your breath and your footsteps remained.

Your knuckles struck wood, once, twice, then once more, until after a pause, the door creaked open.

“You're late."

“Work ran overtime," the warm ambience of her home welcoming you as you entered.

"You don't have to lie, you know." She wiggled her brows, a knowing grin tugging at the corner of her mouth. "Jinwoo will be happy to see you"

“Dumbass” you muttered more to yourself than her, closing the door behind you.

Jinah went back to her show, drawing her knees up beneath her on the couch. The hum of the program filled the room but your attention drifted elsewhere, onto the shelf where dust clung faintly to the edges of picture frames, untouched for who knew how long. One in particular caught your eye. It was of Jinwoo and Jinah, years younger, caught mid-laughter, their faces bright and unburdened with a joy that no longer visited, a kind that did not belong to the present.

The second frame held a photo of Jinwoo and his mother. He couldn’t have been more than five, clinging to her with the easy trust of a child. His small chin rested against her shoulder as his feet dangled behind her, a supportive hand keeping him steady and sure, as if she’d always known exactly how to hold the weight of someone else’s world.

She was beautiful. Truly beautiful. Touched by the rare grace that only motherhood could shape. Time had aged her in each photo, but not unkindly for she wore her maturity well, like silk and aged wine, bearing those marks with pride. You saw a woman who lived, perhaps not perfectly, but wholly. A woman who had loved deeply, lost deeply, and still found a way to keep going.

When your eyes opened, the memory had receded. Still, her eyes sought yours in the familiar blur of your vision. But as your focus returned fully, you realised you had mistaken Jinah for her mother. Had come close enough to forget just how long it has been since.

You ruffled Jinah’s hair, like her mother had once done to you and she swatted your hand away, urging you to her brother’s room before you could do it again.

You made your way down the hallway, where the walls had been lined with so many memories, some of which you could only vaguely recall. Crayon drawings curled at the edges, left untouched since their mother fell ill. Neither of the siblings had the heart to take them down, despite how much they grew to hate them, for she loved those scrappy stick figures and food-stained paper. Above those childish doodles there hung a neat row of school certificates tucked into tarnished gold frames. Jin-ah’s name had stood out in bold across them, impossible to miss. Achievement after achievement. You loitered there in search of a name that never appeared and never would, and you moved on… what else could you do.

The door to Jinwoo’s room stood ajar. You peered inside. Livid greys and a gentle white light bled from the computer screen where he sat hunched over, his shoulders slouched and his spine curved in a way that suggested he’d been sitting there for hours staring at the monitor yet not really seeing it.

You didn’t knock. You hardly ever did. You offered the door a cursory nudge with your knuckles at most, but even that was rare. More often, you pressed it open the rest of the way and slipped inside if he hadn’t already been the one to draw you in first.

The creaking hinges might as well have been a greeting.

“Jinah was right…” you walked in, “You are brooding."

The mattress dipped beneath your weight with a muted groan, but still had he yet to acknowledge you. For a bated breath, nothing changed.

“What are you doing here?” He asked, swivelling his chair to face you. When his voice came to be, it came with the faintest brush of retraction and you were caught off guard by the low timbre.

Caught in a moment of process, you hadn’t replied, but your attention directed elsewhere, and Jinwoo followed your gaze to his desk where the clutter offered an unmistakable answer to his own question.

He understood immediately.

You wouldn’t have come all this way, at this hour by choice, not when he had made his distance so glaringly evident. He thought.

His eyes faltered on the cans of beer strewn across the surface, then moved to the one in his hand. A fleeting twitch of his fingers betrayed the desire to sweep them aside, out of your view, but he reined it in and tilted his head back, his throat working with practised ease as took a large gulp.

There had been no visible sign of intoxication on him, nothing in his posture to suggest the careless abandon of too much drink, and his movements, too, were steady and unshaken as he lowered it and settled it amongst the rest, making you pause because you knew something hadn't been quite right; you just couldn’t prove it beyond mere speculation.

“… You always had a bad sense of timing,” he said, blinking in short intervals until the distance in them fled, and he'd been something other than what was in front of him.

For some reason, discomfort slithered up your spine at the way he looked at you, the way he said that, as though a centipede had begun its crawl with a thousand legs prickling your nerves and seeking to burrow beneath your skin.

“I wasn’t planning on coming”, you confessed reluctantly, unable to voice what troubled you. Only that it had been marked in the fringe framing his eyes and in the finger tapping against the second-hand clock on his thigh.

“Then why did you?” he prodded.

“Because I gave you two weeks”

So you had known.

Part of him felt relieved, but the rest simmered with frustration. “So it’s not because Jinah called you?”

“She did, yes,” you admitted, “but I would have come around sooner or later”

All this time, Jinwoo believed he was successfully avoiding you when really you had only been allowing him that.

He stared at you.

You had always managed to complicate things for him and all along had he known your presence to be too much for him to resist, that a second in your company and he’d be bound to your every whim and tied to a mess of emotions he spent too long pretending he could move beyond. But in truth, he hadn’t because he knew he could not. Not really.

He lifted the can to his lips when your hand came upon his and stilled his movement. He smiled then, behind the metal. Though not with joy or relief or even bitterness, but because your touch aroused what he knew he was at present and perhaps for much of his life he would be undeserving of.

“You never ask,” He uttered in a breath almost missing, a breath nearly lost.

“Would you have answered?”

Fair enough.

He’d give you that.

Still… You never pried. Never pushed him into corners where he had to confront things he wasn’t ready to face, as if you perfected the balance of letting him come to you while at the same time knowing when to pull him by the ear and rein him in, and that frustrated him as it did attract him.

You took the can from him.

Although he hated it, he knew you were right. There was no use pretending anymore. No use keeping up the act. You had obviously caught on, and Jinwoo, astute and self-aware, knew better than to waste time on futility. He couldn’t push you away any further. And honestly, he no longer wanted to.

Annoying. His head fell against your stomach. Did you always have to be so... you?

“I would have answered,” he affirmed, “If only you had been the one to ask.”

Jinwoo’s hands encircled your wrists, his hold gentle and his touch almost pleading, like someone drowning alone for far too long. As if he had weathered shifting tides that pulled the shore from beneath him, endured squalls that reshaped the very landscape around him.

Like a man who clawed for the surface, desperate for the blaze of the sunlight in his eyes, for the agony of breath to tear through his lungs and burn the salt from his throat, he needed proof that he was still alive. That the scars and shattered bones, torn limbs and bloodied tears, all meant something.

Then again, it’s not like he gave you the chance to ask.

With your heart racing ahead of your breaths, your palm smoothed over his head. He hummed low in his throat, pressing closer to your abdomen. Close. Maybe too close. But not uncomfortable. Not awkward. You were still the same to him, in all the things that stirred his memories with fondness.

“I like the haircut, by the way,” you remarked, still threading gently through his hair, curling at the ends, scratching lightly at his scalp in a way you knew he liked.

“Don’t make fun of me,” he said flatly, leaning back.

“I’m not, you look good. Like you aged overnight in a cool, ‘I’m a reliable older brother who has his act together and is single-parenting his teenage sister while somehow managing not to emotionally combust’ kind of way.”

You tried to ruffle his hair, but he caught your wrist, slightly irked. “That was oddly specific and sounded much like an insult”

“I didn’t say it was a bad thing. You look the part of a mature young man, put together and all. Girls like that sort of thing.”

His grip tightened slightly in warning, not enough to hurt.

“Okay, okay,” you laughed, tugging your hand back. “But seriously, how many poor souls fainted?”

Jinwoo was unimpressed. “You’re the worst.”

“That’s not a number,” you replied in a sing-song.

He exhaled through his nose, the closest thing he ever got to a laugh when you really pushed him. “You are worse than Jinah”

“High praise,” you grinned.

Jinwoo dropped onto his bed without ceremony, back hitting the mattress with a soft thud, one arm tucked behind his head. “That wasn’t a compliment”

Oh, but it was. You sank into his chair.

Jinwoo turned onto his side to face you.

The fear that had gripped him each time death pressed so near he could taste it always ended the same: with a final prayer. For himself. For the ones he’d leave behind. His mother and father would never see the boy who had raised himself into a man worthy of their pride. Only Jinah would remain to walk a path alone, chasing dreams they might never witness unless some cruel mercy woke their mother from her endless sleep, or brought their father from wherever he had disappeared to.

And you… whom he had loved longer than he had dared to breathe it aloud.

Back when, in the muck and dust of your childhood, your small fists had burrowed into the sand, not knowing the handfuls you threw found their way to him. He could only stand there taking it, his eyes wide but in awe, as if the hole you dug were a hundred-dollar bill placed into the hands of a struggling man. He had known it then, even. Perhaps not as love entirely, but as something precious to him.

The tide rose and washed into the holes he carved out since the disaster of the double dungeon, and further, into the fissures time had hidden and never healed. The fear of losing you had kept him at bay as he grew because it was better to remain your friend than to gamble and lose what little joy life had given.

Jinwoo exhaled, long and dreary, letting the dolefulness fall with the breath, he called your name so softly, so full of care and affection.

“I missed you”

You swallowed hard, blinking like it might steady the way the room tilted around your heart.

It wasn’t fair!

The way he said things like that and didn’t seem to realise they landed like an arrow between your ribs. Like he could just drop a quiet I missed you after pushing you away and not expect the ground to shift under your feet and unsettle you.

But that was Jinwoo, wasn’t it? Never loud about what mattered, but never careless either.

“I missed you, too” you whispered.

And he smiled.

He smiled. His eyes fluttering close, lashes falling against the tops of his cheeks, and for once, there was no tension in his brow, no shadows carved beneath his eyes. Just the slow, steady rhythm of his breathing as sleep found him.

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potatoplace · 6 months ago

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A Place In This World

The Afterthought: Chapter 5 | series masterlist

ACOTAR x Archeron!Reader

chapter 4 | chapter 6 | ACOTAR x reader masterlist

Story Summary: Working at Sevenda's is a welcome escape from the River House, where you've become little more than a ghost after Starfall.

Warnings: toxic family, depression, self deprecating thoughts (none of them are too terrible this chapter)

Words: ~8.4k

Author's Note: I never seem to get as far in the plot as I want to in every update... This chapter isn't too crazy exciting, but there's some sweet moments and a little bit of angst with the sisters. I hope you all enjoy this update! Title is of course from Miss Swift 🫶

18+ only pls

🤍🤍💔🤍🤍

Your neck was stiff when you came to, the beginnings of the morning sun spilling across your face.

The ground outside was glistening with a fresh layer of snow, nearly untouched at this time in the morning. It seemed even the early risers had chosen to sleep in today, after the revelry of Starfall last night.

You, however, wouldn't stay asleep any longer. Not with the cold numbness slithering through your chest, curling itself around your heart, your lungs, your ribs. An absent hand came to rub at your chest, to bring some semblance of life into your hollow heart once more.

No such luck.

A glance at the clock that had recently been placed above your bedroom door told you that it was half past six.

That gave you two and a half hours to bathe, drink tea, possibly eat something, dress, and make your way to Sevenda's.

You did just that, sinking down into hot water, a sigh leaving your lips as your body soaked in the heat. You could almost pretend you felt alive.

After forcing yourself from the bath, you dressed in a simple, dark green dress. It was made of cozy wool, and the long sleeves were easily pushed up to make whatever work Sevenda would give you easier. It fit you loosely and reached to just above the tops of your feet, something you were grateful for after last night.

The feel of all those males' eyes on you... It was unsettling then, and unsettling to think about now. You could hardly imagine wanting to be looked at like that by someone you actually liked, let alone by strangers... How could Feyre stand it? How could anyone stand it? You supposed each person was different...

You shook your head, clearing those thoughts away. No need to contemplate how inexperienced you are in the romantic world, despite what Nesta claims.

Quietly, you crept downstairs, keeping an ear out for anyone who might be awake, teapot in hand. Thankfully, no one was in the kitchen yet, and you were able to prepare a pot of tea with no interruptions. Safely ensconced in your room again, you sipped at the lovely orange and cinnamon tea you had made.

As you stared out at the still-sleeping city, your mind drifted to last night. How Feyre had had no time for you, and Mor hadn't appeared while you had been in the House of Wind. Feyre had been crowded by the citizens of her city, that was understandable... Mor not showing up worried you though, but you were sure there was an explanation. And your other sisters and their mates, well, you hadn't believed they would interact with you anyways.

Azriel had been... Surprising. Caring. Sweet, almost. Him noticing that you had left wasn't something you had even considered, with how close he had been with the pretty redheaded friend of Nesta's. And... You had become accustomed to not having your absence noticed.

Your eyes closed for a moment, a wave of sadness washing over you.

You still felt so alone.

The minutes continued ticking past as you stared blankly out the window, sipping on your tea when you remembered to.

Soon enough, it was fifteen minutes until nine, and you peeled yourself out of the armchair. Boots first, then the short cloak, scarf, and mittens Azriel had given you for Solstice- also the ones that he had draped around you last night in the cold.

You wondered how he had gotten them...

You just barely remembered to grab the cup that Sevenda had lent to you before you snuck out of the River House, into the snowy city.

The walk to Sevenda's was peaceful, quiet. Most citizens of Velaris seemed to still be sleeping, and the blanket of snow on the ground muffled everything. The silence of the normally bustling city matched the feeling in your heart.

Empty. Cold. Quiet.

Sevenda's was warm already, the smell of spices lingering pleasantly in the air when you pushed your way in through the door.

"Ah, Y/N! Lovely to see that you decided to come in," Sevenda's warm voice greeted you from the left, a hand waved in greeting.

"It's nice to see you too, Sevenda. And thank you, again. I really appreciate the offer. I brought back your cup," you added, raising your hand to show it.

"Thank you, dear," Sevenda said, taking said cup from your hands. "Would you like to get started?"

You nodded your head, and let the fae lead you to the back of the restaurant, into the kitchens. It was large, with multiple shiny, silver stoves along the back wall, three matching cold boxes, a wall completely taken up by pots, pans, anything that you would need to cook. There was also counter space galore, with two other fae already working dough in the far corner.

"For today, I'm going to see how you do with prep work, mainly with fruits, vegetables, and meats. If you do well, I'll keep you on full time, if you'd like," Sevenda said, her words sparking a bit of hope in your chest.

Chopping, dicing, cutting. You could do that.

"That sounds perfect, Sevenda. Thank you for giving me this chance."

Sevenda smiled warmly at you, and placed a gentle hand on your shoulder. "Of course, dear. Now... Are you feeling alright?" She asked more quietly, a concerned look in her eyes.

You nodded. Even though you weren't, you didn't want to rehash last night's events. "Yes, thank you." You even shot her a smile that you hoped was at least half-convincing, relieved when she returned the expression. "What should I start with?"

"First, you'll need an apron and to wash your hands," Sevenda said, leading you to the large sink, which conviently had a plethora of aprons hanging on hooks next to it.

You did as she asked, scrubbing your hands under hot water halfway up your forearm, dress sleeves already pushed up to your elbows. You tied a dark blue apron around your neck and waist, and faced Sevenda, who was pulling a cutting board from a cabinet. You noted the location, wanting to be as useful as possible as often as possible.

"I'll start you off by demonstrating how I like everything to be cut, and you'll do the same thing right after. I know it will be a lot to take in, but most of it is fairly simple. Let me know if you have any questions, alright?"

"Alright," you said resolutely, nodding your head.

The hours passed quickly, filled with you absorbing the information that Sevenda was feeding you through her demonstrations, taking in every angle that she used the knife at. You did decently, your cuts a bit clumsier than Sevenda's but still accurate enough. She was kinda, reassuring you that in time, you'd gain confidence and surety in your movements.

It was lovely.

Feeling needed. Feeling useful. You had entirely forgotten how that felt over the last two years, being the extra sister with no magic to help in a way that someone else couldn't.

By the time your shift was finished, Sevenda had pulled you aside to speak with you, anxiety building in your gut even as she smiled warmly at you.

"I'd like to hire you on immediately, full-time if you'd like," Sevenda offered, a twinkle in her eyes. "You've already got the basics down, and you're on track to catch up with my other prep cooks so long as you keep at it with the same enthusiasm you showed today. So... Would you like to have a job?"

A smile- a true, unburdened smile spread over your lips. "I'd love to, Sevenda. Thank you so, so much for this opportunity."

"Thank you for solving my dilemma of hiring a new prep cook, Y/N! Now, do you have an account with the Bank of Velaris already?"

You thought for a moment before answering. "I do... But it's the one that Rhys and Feyre set up for me. Would I be able to make a new account?"

You still felt like such a child, knowing so little about how the city you lived in worked. You had spent so long wishing and longing to leave that you'd hardly taken the time to learn about Velaris. Seeing how you were stuck here, likely permanently... The thought sent a pang of sickness to your stomach. But still, since you were stuck here, you might as well start learning about the city in which you will die.

"I'm sure that could be set up... Would you like any help with it?" Sevenda asked.

"That would be amazing, but you don't have to," you said, hoping that she didn't feel forced to help you, after your breakdown last night.

"Oh, nonsense, I'd love to help you Y/N. We can go in a few minutes, I just have a few more questions for you. Now... Would you like to work five or six days a week?"

That was an easy choice. "Six days would be best, I think." Less time in that house, waiting to be left out of events and dinner conversations.

"Alright, and if you ever want to go down to five days, just let me know and we can work something out. Do you have a specific day that you'd like off?" You shook your head. "Would Mondays be fine with you?"

"Mondays would be just fine," you replied. "Do you..." You paused, rolling the question over in your head. "Do you know of any apartments for rent? You don't have to answer, of course, I just thought I would ask," you said quickly, already regretting the question.

Sevenda merely smiled at you. "I do know of a few close by. Once you have a week or two of pay in your account, we could go look at a few sometime, if you'd like?"

You nodded quickly. "That would be amazing, Sevenda. Did you have any other questions for me?"

Sevenda closed her eyes for a moment before fixing them on you once more. "None that I can think of at the moment, but you'll be back tomorrow in case I forgot anything. Now, let's go get you a personal bank account," she said cheerily, rising from the table you had sat at. You followed her lead, letting her take you to the large, white marble building that had a large matching sign with, presumably, its name written in the large gold lettering on it.

Making an account was easy enough, and within the hour you had a small metal card, magically linked to your bank account in hand, your first day of pay already deposited by Sevenda.

You walked back to her restaurant with her, parting with a brief hug, initiated by Sevenda.

"I'll see you in the morning, Sevenda," you said, the words repeated back to you by the kind, chocolate eyed fae.

And then your legs carried you without thinking, back to the River House. The snow had melted just slightly, and was significantly more trampled than when you had arrived this morning. The sun was nearly set already, casting a pretty orangey-pink glow over the city.

Pretty.

The River House was warm when you entered, and thankfully there was no boisterous laughter coming from the living or dining rooms.

A part of you still longed for someone to ask where you were, what you had been doing all day.

But you knew better by now. And you were proven correct when no one came to greet you, even while you made a small dinner of rice with grilled vegetables. You even ate in the dining room, a rarity for you in the past months, the tiniest part of you hoping that Feyre might come in to talk with you. Or that Mor would show up, and you could spend part of the evening together.

Neither happened, and soon enough you were back in your room, a fresh pot of tea in hand, soothing, calming lavender and chamomile again.

You had enjoyed your day at work, but it had exhausted you. All you wanted at the moment was to fall asleep, but you chose to do something else before crawling into your makeshift bed in the tub tonight.

You would try to read. With your gift from the twins in hand, you pulled the cookbook that Nesta had gifted you, filled with lovely illustrations of soups and stews from all corners of Prythian.

Slowly, you let the magnifying glass read out the title a few times, your brain trying to make sense of the letters on the cover turning into the words you were hearing. It was embarrassing, how long it took you to be able to understand a sentence, even with it being read aloud to you. Heat rushed to your face, even with no one in the room to witness your shortcomings.

You tried reading a recipe, going one word at a time with the glass. That... Sort of worked, though it was slow going. And you felt like the only reason you were mildly successful was that the words were being read aloud to you.

How pathetic.

You sighed heavily before draining your last cup of tea and shutting the recipe book. That was enough of disappointing yourself for the night.

You stripped yourself of the dress you'd donned the morning, changing into a soft, long sleeved white cotton sleep dress that met the skin of your ankles, swishing softly against them with each step.

Sleep came easily to you that night, your body tired from doing so much work when it had grown accustomed to sleeping all day and rarely moving. It was a pleasant kind of tired, though, letting you drift into a peaceful sleep.

The next morning went much the same, with you rising before the sun to bathe and have a soothing pot of tea. Work flew by, with you completely focused on improving your knife skills for the seven hours you were there, determined to not let Sevenda down.

Before you knew it, you'd already worked three days in Sevenda's homey restaurant, settling in comfortably, even with the other fae you now worked with. Josi and Torma were the other two prep cooks, and both of them had been warm and welcoming to you. Sevenda's sous chef, Wren, had been a little less friendly, but you'd noticed that he was like that with everyone except Sevenda. He wasn't rude, or anything, just quieter.

It was on your fourth morning of work, a Saturday, that your routine was interrupted.

Azriel was in the kitchen, patiently watching a pot of oatmeal cook, shadows playing around his wings and over his shoulders, a couple of them breaking away to crawl up to his ears.

"Good morning," you said quietly, going to the cupboard that housed the kettle.

"Good morning, Y/N. You're up early," Azriel remarked in a neutral tone, neither judging nor questioning.

"Mm, thought I'd have a cup of tea before everyone else was buzzing around..." You said, feeling mildly guilty that you hadn't told him the full truth. You set to filling the water and setting it on the burner next to the one Azriel was using, then turned to grab your teapot. "Would you like a cup?" You asked before you could stop yourself and consider the possibility of being rejected, even for a simple cup of tea.

"I would very much, Y/N, thank you. Would you like some oatmeal? I'm afraid I've made too much..." Azriel said softly, a tiny frown on his face as he stared at the pot before him.

A small smile grew on your face at his reaction. "That would be nice, thank you." You pulled two of your teacups out of the cupboard. A few minutes later, the two of you were sat on stools at the kitchen island, a bowl of oatmeal and a cup of tea in front of each of you. The oatmeal was delicious, flavored with cinnamon and brown sugar, which paired well with the apple cinnamon tea you had brewed.

You ate in a comfortable silence, occasionally stifling a giggle when a shadow brushed over you, their cool touch tickling the back of your neck and your ankles. Curious little things...

Soon enough, though, it was time for you to depart from the River House, and return to the one place that you felt wanted in this city. Azriel had finished his breakfast as well, so you grabbed his dishes, ignoring his protests in favor of washing them.

"You don't have to do that, you know."

You rolled your eyes playfully, even though he couldn't see your expression. "I know that, I wanted to." Bowls, cups, silverware were all placed in the dish rack, clean and shiny from the water dripping off of them. Once that was finished, you returned to your room for a brief moment to grab your scarf and hat, and when you returned downstairs Azriel was lingering near the front door.

"Going somewhere?" Azriel asked neutrally, only a bit of curiosity in his tone.

You blinked at him once, twice. Strange, that it would be him who would know that you were employed first. "Yes, I'm going to work," you said plainly, hoping that his neutrality would continue. While you wanted your sisters to know... You wanted them to find out because they paid attention, not because Azriel had.

"Oh? Could I walk you there?" His question caught you off guard- if anything, you had anticipated him asking if Feyre or Rhys knew or had approved of the job. In your surprise, you nodded in agreement, and moments later the two of you were out the door, walking through the fresh layer of snow that had fallen overnight. You noticed a few of his shadows moving in front of you, pushing some of the snow from your path.

Cute.

"How long have you been working?" Azriel asked from your right, following the path you were taking.

"Just a few days, so far," you replied, trying to give the minimum information so you wouldn't bore him... Starting a new job was hardly an accomplishment for a fae of his age.

"Are you liking it?"

You nodded immediately. "I'm loving it already, working with food is probably the most natural choice I could have made." Too many words...

"That's wonderful, Y/N. It's nice to see you smile again," Azriel said softly, drawing your eyes to him. He was wearing a small smile on his lips, one that you realized matched your expression. A light flush spread over your cheeks- was your happiness always so obvious?

"It's nice to feel like smiling again..." You said quietly, more to the air around you than Azriel himself.

Sevenda's was in sight now, and you slowed your pace. While Azriel may just be being nice... He was still being nice to you. And having someone be kind to you was something you craved nearly every second of every day, so you wanted to savor it, even if it was selfish.

"Do..." Azriel paused, as if he was considering his words carefully. "Does Feyre know that you're working? She hasn't mentioned it."

"Uhm... No, I haven't told anyone yet," you admitted.

You saw Azriel nod his head in your peripheral, and you hoped it was one of understanding.

"Do you want them to know?"

You hesitated. "If you're asking if you can tell them... I'd rather you not."

Another nod as you approached the door to Sevenda's, stopping in front of it. "I won't tell them, then. Sevenda's, hmm?" You bobbed your head in confirmation. "That's good, she's a great boss from everything I've heard."

"She's amazing, if I can be honest," you said, gratitude in your voice. And she was. She had been so kind to you, and so helpful.

"I'm glad, Y/N," Azriel said, his voice the warmest that you had ever heard from him. "I'll let you get inside. Have a good shift."

"Thank you, Azriel. Have a good day," you said, waving goodbye to him before entering the warm restaurant, a smile on your face.

Your day passed quickly, filled with the delicious smell of spices and fresh cut vegetables, the sounds of sizzling meats and bubbling stews. This job at Sevenda's was truly a blessing, distracting both your mind and body as you listened to the friendly chatter between your coworkers and focused on what you were doing.

The River House sounded empty when you returned, completely devoid of sound. No running water, or voices in the living room. The entire night, you saw no one, not even Nuala or Cerridwen. You even spent a few minutes sipping tea in the living room - though you left quickly, feeling out of place even while alone - hoping to see Feyre for a moment. You hadn't seen her since Starfall, and... You wanted to see her. You also would have been able to ask her where Mor was, but alas, the question would have to wait.

The next evening, after your final day before having a day off, you saw Feyre for the first time in five days. She was glowing with happiness, both naturally and from the magic you knew she had gotten from... One of the High Lords - you still weren't sure which.

"Y/N! Come, sit with me for a little bit," Feyre said, dragging you onto the couch in the living room with her. You had just barely gotten your boots and scarf off before she met you in the entryway. "I feel like I haven't seen you in forever."

"It has been a bit," you agreed, settling in beside her. You glanced around, noting that Nesta and Elain were seated next to each other on the love seat, angry stares trained on you.

At least they weren't glaring yet...?

"So, how have you been?" Feyre asked you, drawing your attention away from your other sisters and back to her.

"I've been fine, Fey. Just..." You debated telling her about your job. That would also mean Nesta and Elain knowing... But... You wanted Feyre to know. "I've been... I've been working."

Nesta scoffed from where she was seated, whispering something to Elain. You frowned. What problem could she possibly have with you having a job?

"Really?" Feyre asked skeptically. "You... Where are you working?"

Her tone, the sheer disbelief in her voice had you regretting ever opening your mouth. Being honest was obviously not a good choice for you anymore. "At Sevenda's restaurant..." You said quietly, met with a dainty snort from Elain. Heat rushed to your face, especially when Feyre frowned at you, as though she didn't believe you.

"Really? That's... That's really nice, Y/N. I'm happy for you," Feyre said with a strained smile. You didn't believe her for a second.

Still... "Thank you, Feyre. What about you? How have you been feeling?"

"Tired," Feyre moaned dramatically, a hand on her forehead. "The little one seems to be draining all of my energy, I've had to start eating double what I normally do just to feel like I can function."

"Maybe you can stop by Sevenda's when Y/N is working," Nesta suggested in a snarky tone, causing Elain to giggle into her hand. "If she even works there... What Sevenda would need with you, I have no idea."

Tears pricked at your eyes, though you fought them. Why were they so mean to you?

Feyre glared at Nesta, but said nothing in your defense.

She probably agreed with Nesta's words.

"I'm sorry that you're feeling so exhausted Feyre. Maybe there's something that could be taken off your plate for a little bit, until you're feeling better?" Another scoff from Nesta.

"I don't think there is, Y/N. It takes a lot to run a court..."

You knew that. Of course you knew that. "Oh... Well, I hope that you feel better soon, then. I'm... I'm going to go take a bath. I'll see you later?"

Feyre nodded. "I'll see you later. At dinner?"

There was no way in hell you would be showing at dinner tonight. "Maybe," you said, standing from your place next to her. You made your way out of the living room, ignoring Nesta and Elain's glares, up the stairs and into your room.

Happy. You had been happy when you returned home. You were proud of the fact that you had gotten a job. And yet the three people that should have cared, should have shared in your happiness and pride? They couldn't care less. They didn't even believe you.

That only served to solidify your choice to leave this cursed house as soon as you could, to continue in your plan to have your own living space. And, of course, it put tears on your cheeks, on the blanket that you curled into as you laid in the bathtub.

🤍🤍💖🤍🤍

In your first three weeks of work, you never saw Mor. You did, however, receive a letter from her on your first day off, read to you by the glass the twins had gifted you. She had apologized profusely for not showing up to Starfall, though she had a good reason. The citizens of the Hewn City had demanded to have a member of the High Lord's Inner Circle stay with them through the celebration, and as the only one already there, that duty had fallen to her. And in the week since, she had been constantly fighting with Keir over the upcoming election that was planned, hardly having a moment to herself.

Which was why the letter had taken so long to be written.

You felt horrible for having thought she had abandoned you, though you knew there was a reason you had jumped to such a conclusion.

Every week since then, Mor had managed to find the time to write you a letter, each one asking about how you had been, informing you of the lastest bullshit her father had put her through. You looked forward to each letter from her, but wished that you could see her in person, or at least write a letter in response. You missed your friend. According to her most recent letter, the one that had arrived two days ago, she would be returning to Velaris for a few days in the next week.

You were excited to see her again, but more than that, you were excited to move into your apartment today.

Sevenda had shown you to two different available apartments last week, and on Monday you had signed your lease. The building was only a couple of blocks away from Sevenda's, and it was a cute little place on the third floor, with a balcony that had a decent view of the mouth of the Sidra and the harbor. You already knew that you would be taking your tea on it once the weather had warmed, the view was too amazing to pass up an opportunity to look over.

The walls inside had already been done in a shade of light pink the day before, the cabinets of the kitchen coated in a pale lavender, a move in gift from your new landlord. It was a small space, that was true. Besides the bathroom and built in closet, the apartment was one large room, with no walls separating the living room from the kitchen, the kitchen from the bedroom.

But you didn't mind.

Because it was yours.

And truly, how much space did you need? There would be enough room to have a small dining table, a loveseat and a couple of armchairs in front of the fireplace - which you had been absolutely delighted to see - and a large bed. You could even put up screens or curtains to partition off your bedroom, if you felt like it.

The possibilities felt endless as you lugged your small amount of belongings over to your new place, bursting at the seams with happiness.

Today, Sevenda had given you the day off so that you could move in, though you had tried to insist that you wouldn't need the whole day. Still, she had made it clear that you deserved the day to settle in and purchase whatever you needed, even going as far to give you a week of advanced pay.

Moving your belongings took you less than an hour, even in the snow, and only three separate trips between the River House and your apartment. The presents you had recieved for your birthday and Solstice, the clothing that you couldn't part with, skincare items, and your hairpin all went with you, but everything else in your old room stayed.

You had decided against informing anyone of your move, choosing instead to quietly remove your things. If they truly cared about you, they would notice your absence soon.

If they didn't... You would deal with that if it came.

By midday, you were shopping in the Palace of Hoof and Leaf, on the hunt for cookware. You already had the wonderful measuring cups and spoons that Nuala and Cerridwen had gifted you, as well as your tea set from Azriel, but you would need a bit more than that to be able to cook at home.

That lead to you entering a lovely little shop, filled to the brim with pots, pans, and cooking utensils in every color of the rainbow.

For now, you only bought one frying pan and one pot with a lid, both in a shade of pink that matched your measuring cups. You also purchased a set of three mixing bowls in the same shade, made of a light but durable clay. A spatula, wooden spoon, whisk, and a set of silverware also came home with you, along with a few cleaning supplies that the store happened to carry, but anything else could wait for now.

You carried your bounty home, arms sagging under the weight of your purchases as you climbed the stairs to your apartment. Everything was put away in a matter of minutes, and you allowed yourself to relax on the floor for a bit, letting your arms flop out to the sides.

You could hardly believe it... A smile crept across your face as you lay on the floor of your own apartment, that you had earned the money for. You had done this for yourself, all on your own.

Once your arms felt less weak and tired, you sat up and looked around the room. It was... Fairly barren. Your pink bedding set and blanket from Mor were in the far right corner of the apartment, the box of your clothing placed next to it. Near the door to the bathroom you had placed your box of toiletries, and in the kitchen you had already stacked your cookbooks and teas on the counter and placed your dishes in the cupboards.

You needed some kind of furniture tonight, if you could manage to find something your weak arms could carry home.

And towels! How had your forgotten about towels? Oh- and food, you would need something at least for tonight.

You let out a breath. Maybe Sevenda was right, that you would need most of the day to get settled. You got up after another moment and put your boots back on, along with your hat and scarf.

A trip to the Palace of Thread and Jewels provided you with the towels you needed, in an assortment of pastel shades and sizes, as well as a fluffy purple bath mat. You even remembered to pick out two fluffy pillows as well, just in case you slept on the floor or in the tub tonight. As you were leaving the Palace, you couldn't help but pick out a soft, sky blue blanket one of the outdoor stalls, the green skinned fae bidding you farewell with a kind smile. You walked home, snow beginning to fall just before you entered the building.

You deposited your bags on the floor to the left of your front door, and set down the stairs immediately after locking up. Before the snow started to accumulate, you wanted to get a chair or something so that you would have a place to sleep for the night. If you couldn't find anything... Well, the bathtub looked to be the same size as the one in the River House.

When you had been out earlier, you thought you had spotted a second hand store, filled with mismatched furniture. You retraced your steps, and found it to be in the middle of the Palace of Thread and Jewels.

Inside, it was cluttered, with small paths leading through the building. It was near the back of the store that you found something you might like- a tall backed, wooden chair with a pink velvet cushion and backing, the legs of the chair curved and elegant.

Why would someone ever part ways with this?

You continued to the back of the store, finding a pale, short fae male sitting behind a counter, reading a book.

"Hi, I'd, uhm... I'd like to buy a chair that you have?" You asked shyly.

"Which one?" He asked, without looking up from his book.

"The uh. The wooden chair with pink velvet on it."

"Fifty gold marks," the male said shortly, a hand extending to take your bank card and press it to his ledger, all while continuing to read. He handed it back a moment later. "Have a good day, miss."

"Thank you," you said quietly before leaving the counter, going to collect the chair into your arms.

The walk home was slow going, the chair decidedly too big for you to comfortably carry for more than a few steps at a time. But still, you made it, dragging the piece of furniture up the stairs and through your door. You managed to lug it in front of the fireplace, settling into it for a moment.

You almost decided to skip getting ingredients for dinner... But your stomach rumbled in protest, at the thought of continuing to neglect your health in favor of avoiding discomfort. So instead, you pulled yourself from your new chair, then went back down the stairs and into the snowy city one last time today.

The Palace of Hoof and Leaf was a bit further than the Palace of Bone and Salt, but you knew where to find what you were planning to cook for dinner. It was easy enough to find rice, chicken, zucchini, broccoli, and a small set of spices, a large enough selection to satisfy you for at least your first month. Snow had begun to fall heavily while you had been in and out of shops, already covering the tracks that had been on the bridge when you had crossed it earlier, and when you finally made it up the stairs and through your front door, you were feeling tired.

Tired enough that for the moment, you placed the chicken in your cold box then walked over your chair, and plopped down.

You would consider today a success, even with how tired you now were. After all, you were tired in your chair, in your apartment.

🤍🤍💙🤍🤍

Two days after you moved, you had an unexpected knock on your door, just a few minutes after you returned home from work.

Perhaps it was finally Feyre, realizing that you had moved.

You were proven wrong when you opened the door, however, to see Azriel standing before you, a cloth bag filled to the brim with little jars.

"I- Hello," you said, surprised at him being here, even if he had taken to walking you to work on the mornings he was in town. "Can I- Can I help you?"

"I just returned from Illyria, only to find one of my shadows to be very frantic over the sudden emptiness of your room," Azriel said, though there was no accusation in his tone. "And after I spoke with Sevenda, she... She directed me here. I hope that's alright?"

You were even more surprised by the efforts he had gone to to find you, than his presence at this point. "That's fine, Azriel. Was there a reason you wanted to see me?"

"I... Yes," Azriel said, somewhat shyly, and you swore that you almost saw a flush covering his cheeks. "You never did tell me which teas you enjoyed, so I brought you a jar of each. I thought you might like to have a bit more, now that you're living on your own."

That was... Incredibly sweet of him to do. You were running low on your tea stash at the moment, and knowing that he'd thought of you...

Don't get any feelings, or hints of feelings, you reminded yourself. Humans and fae don't belong together, no matter how kind and attractive they are.

"Thank you, Azriel," you said, stepping aside to let him through the doorway. It was only polite, after all, to let him in. "I'll take those," you said as you grabbed the bag from his hand, moving into the kitchen to take arrange the little jars on your counter.

"You don't have a bed," Azriel observed from behind you, a hand on your chair, where your blankets were still piled.

"Oh, I'm uhm... I'm still working on that," you said sheepishly, abandoning your task of organizing the jars. Your eyes darted over everything, looking for anything else he could find issue with.

"Let's go solve that, then."

"I- What?" You asked, thoroughly confused. He was offering to go shopping with you...?

"We can go find you a bed today, Y/N. You need something to sleep on, and while a chair is fine for a little bit, it really would be best for you to have a bed," Azriel said simply. You were still staring at him in shock, so he sighed lightly and said, "Think of it as a housewarming gift, Y/N. You can pick out whatever you want, and my shadows will bring it here for you."

"I- But... Why?" You managed to get out, even as you mentally kicked yourself for being so awkward.

Azriel's mouth turned up in the corners at your reaction. "You need a bed, and I'd like to know that you're sleeping comfortably."

"But... Why?" You repeated, still confused.

Azriel sighed and shook his head. "You're my friend, Y/N, I like to know that my friends are well taken care of. And that starts with a good night's sleep, which starts with a bed," he explained as he walked over to your closet, pulling out the scarf and hat that he had gifted you. He wrapped the scarf around your neck and put the hat on your head, lips turning up more as you stood there and let him. "Now get your boots on, unless you really don't want to go."

Your eyes narrowed playfully at him, but you did as he said, slipping your boots on and lacing them up. "Alright... Thank you, Azriel."

His lips turned up into a full smile this time, a beautiful sight on his face. "You're welcome, Y/N. Now, let's get going before it gets too dark."

You let him lead you across the Sidra, to a shop in the Palace of Flame and Steel that specialized in wooden furniture.

"Pick out whichever one you like most," Azriel had told you, with a pointed look telling you that he would know if you tried to pick the least expensive option.

He watched as you went from bed to bed, mattress to mattress trying to find the right combination. You had been in the store for nearly an hour by the time you made your choice, settling on a walnut frame. It had a nice headboard, with little creatures carved into the posts on both sides, a feature that was continued at the corners of the end of the bed. Some of them looked like little cats, a pet that you had always wanted to have but never could afford in the human lands, and when you had been able to, your family had firmly shut the idea down.

For the mattress, you had laid on one that felt like a cloud, supporting your body in a way that you had never experienced. Perhaps... Perhaps Azriel was right, after all.

You felt dreadful, though, as he paid for your new furniture, even as he reassured you that it was a housewarming present and he was more than fine paying double the amount if he had needed to.

He walked you back to your apartment, and, as promised, your new bed was already set up along the back wall, looking extremely inviting even without bedding on it.

"You should let me repay you," you insisted to Azriel, a hand on his forearm stopping him from leaving. "I can't... This is too much," you said.

Azriel's eyes shined with understanding as he read the guilt in your own. "It's okay, you know. To be given things, without the need to reciprocate. But... If you still feel that you need to repay me, I suppose you could make me dinner some time," Azriel suggested.

You narrowed your eyes at him. "Are you sure I can't pay you back?"

He shook his head. "The only payment I will accept is in the form of food, Y/N. Again, this is a housewarming present, it is a gift that I am giving to you of my own free will. I am, however, partial to your cooking, which is why I would accept that as payment."

You sighed, but nodded your head. You would pay him back with food, as often as he liked. "What days are you in the city?"

🤍🤍❣️🤍🤍

It took two more days before Mor was in town, which you found out about two hours into your shift when she burst into Sevenda's, speaking loudly enough that you could hear her in the kitchen.

A moment later Sevenda appeared, your blonde friend in tow.

"Y/N!" Mor exclaimed, pulling you into a hug once you had set down your knife. "Oh, girl, I have missed you so much!"

You squeezed her back tightly, overjoyed to see her again. "I've missed you too, Mor!"

Mor pulled away a moment later, her face serious. "Where are all of your things? I went up to your room in the River House to see you, and none of your stuff is there! Feyre had no idea either..."

A flush spread over your cheeks. "Oh, uhm... I moved out?" You said hesitantly.

Mor blinked at you a few times before a smile slid over her face. "You... Moved out?" She giggled. "And you didn't tell anyone? Was it this morning?"

You shook your head. "No, it was on Wednesday," you admitted softly, turning your gaze to the floor.

"And Feyre didn't... Oh, sweets," Mor cooed, pulling you into another hug and stroking your hair. You pushed her away after a moment, face bright red at being comforted in front of your coworkers.

"It's okay, Mor, really. I've already accepted that they don't notice me," you said, hoping that you had successfully hidden your pain. You may have accepted that your sisters pay you no attention, but it didn't mean your heart didn't hurt.

Mor frowned at you, but accepted your answer for the time being. "Well, when are you off work? I can stop by again, and you can show me your apartment!"

"I'm normally off right around five, you could come back then."

"Sounds like a plan, sweets!" Mor said brightly before leaving the kitchen, waving at you before being shooed out by Sevenda.

You quickly got back to work, determined to make the day pass by quickly.

And it did. The next five hours went by fast, filling you with a feeling of accomplishment as you finished everything Sevenda had asked you to do a few minutes faster than usual. Something as simple as that made your day so much brighter, easier to fight away the feeling of loneliness that followed you most hours of the day.

Mor met you outside as she'd said she would, a shining ray of sunlight even as the sun had begun to set.

"So- I leave town for a few weeks, not that I wanted to," Mor grumbled as you linked arms with her and began to lead her to your apartment. "And when I come back, you've already had a job for three weeks and you've moved into your own apartment? I am so proud of you Y/N."

You blushed at her words, but still allowed yourself to soak them in. "Thank you, Mor. I'm glad that you're okay with it."

Mor frowned. "Why wouldn't I be okay with it? I think it's amazing that you decided to move out, everyone deserves their independence."

You nodded, but your thoughts were on your sisters... What they surely thought of you, leaving without a word... "It's just... I don't know. My sisters... Weren't very supportive of me even having a job, let alone having my own apartment."

"Oh, hon, don't worry about them. I think they're just jealous of you having your own life outside of our little circle. Now, Nesta and Elain... They could certainly use a talking to," Mor hissed. "And Feyre isn't much better, letting them get away with their behavior."

You shook your head. What would they have to be jealous of? Being lonely? Having at most three friends, if you were being generous with the term? "It's fine, Mor, really. I've stopped expecting them to act any certain way, it's just... Easier."

Mor sighed next to you. "I suppose so... Anyways, tell me what's been going on!" Mor said cheerily, sensing your hesitancy to speak about your sisters.

"Well... Not much, beyond the moving out and getting a job. Although..." You thought about Azriel, how you now considered him a friend- and he thought the same of you. "Azriel has been very nice, he brought me some tea blends when he found out I moved. And helped me find a bed."

"Oh, I'm sure he did," Mor said suggestively, wiggling her eyebrows at you. You smacked her arm lightly and shot her as much of a glare as you could muster.

"Not like that Mor!" You exclaimed, blood rushing to your cheeks at her insinuation. "He helped me go to a store and his shadows brought it back to my apartment."

"Oooh," Mor laughed. "Okay, I misunderstood, Y/N. I'm glad that he's been a good friend to you while I've been away."

"I am too, Mor," you said softly, a hint of a smile on your lips.

You unlocked the front door of your building, letting Mor pass through the doorway before you, then led her up the stairs.

"Three flights? I must be spoiled, only having a flight to go up one at my place," Mor said by the time you reached the top, your fingers fumbling for the correct key.

"It's not all that bad, Mor," you giggled as you swung the door open, letting her go in first, and closing the door softly behind you.

"Oh, Y/N! This apartment is so you!" Mor said brightly as she looked around. "The bed looks amazing." She flopped down on it, sighing happily after she did. "You chose good, sweets."

"Thank you," you giggled, plopping down next to her. "I'm so glad the owner was willing to paint, it saved me from trying to do it myself."

"And it looks lovely too, and as I said, very you. So," Mor started, a hand flung onto your thigh. "I thought, if you have a day off while I'm in town, we could do a sleepover again! Either here or at my apartment, whichever you'd prefer."

"That sounds lovely Mor. If you're still here tomorrow, and you don't have plans tonight, I have tomorrow off," you offered.

"That's perfect! I'll go get a change of clothes and pick up some food on my way back, if that works for you, Y/N."

You nodded. "That sounds like a plan to me, Mor. I'll see you in a little bit?" The two of you stood from your bed, Mor's hair the tiniest bit rumpled from being squished against your mattress.

"Yep! Any preferences on food?"

You shook your head. "Anything is fine by me Mor, get whatever you've been missing while in the Hewn City."

Mor's face scrunched up at the mention of the Hewn City. "Don't remind me," she groaned. "I think I'll get some kind of pasta. Pasta sounds perfect for a sleepover."

"That sounds good to me. Walk safely, Mor, it's been slick out at this time recently," you warned, smiling when Mor winked at you playfully.

"I'm always careful, sweets. See you in a bit!"

You shut the door behind her, a smile on your face. You hadn't realized just how much you had missed your friend until you saw her again.

Not wanting to waste your alone time, though, you pulled yourself into the bath, determined to finish before Mor returned. While you didn't feel disgusting, you felt a bit dirty from work still, and if you're spending the night with Mor you'd like to smell decent.

Still, you let yourself relax in the steaming water for a few minutes, bubbles coating the water's surface. Your lungs expanded and collapsed rhythmically, lulling your heart into a state of peace.

Maybe... Maybe you could belong in Velaris.

Maybe it was your sisters that you didn't belong with, any more.

But with Mor? With Azriel? At work? You felt like you had begun to carve out a tiny little place for you to exist peacefully, if not happily.

A deep sigh left you.

You wished... You wished you could belong with your sisters once more. Your heart longed to see them, to share your joy with them. But... They never seemed to share in it with you.

So, you would settle for carving out a space for yourself.

No, it's not settling, you told yourself as you began to scrub at your body with a cloth. It's choosing to live, not to merely exist.

You may not know what you want out of life, but you're willing to find out now.

You willing to try your hand at living once more.

🤍🤍💝🤍🤍

General Taglist: @daughterofthemoons-stuff @lilah-asteria @meritxellao

The Afterthought Taglist: @darkbloodsly @angelbunny222 @uniquedreamsblog @romantasyreader28 @that-one-bibliophole @idkmyoldonewasembarassing @deathtopistachios @saltedcoffeescotch @sleepylunarwolf @babypeapoddd @kingshitonly @bravo-delta-eccho @bluebries81 @liahaslosthermind @deepestmentalitypersona @historygeekqueen @hermajestysworld @marina468 @esposamultifandom @astrokitty18 @larissa01-blog2 @acourtofbatboydreams @angel-graces-world-of-chaos @thelov3lybookworm @weekendlusting @dxjaaaa @thejediprincess56 @casiiopea2 @butterfix @sirenpearldust @marrass @satiresunflower @mae-foster @boo-shalala @optimisticbabydreamer @sttvrdustt @bunnybella186

#the afterthought #a place in this world #acotar x reader #archeron!reader #acotar x archeron!reader #acotar x reader angst #angst #fluff #acotar #acotar fic #acotar fanfic #toxic inner circle #tato writes

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shelovesosa · 24 days ago

Text

BE A MAN, YOU MUST BE SWIFT AS A COURSING RIVER…

pairing: PRINCE!GOJO X F!KNIGHT!READER

SUMMARY! In a kingdom ruled by tradition, you are the daughter of a famed knight, fighting to prove your worth in a world that sees only your gender—not your blade. Prince Gojo, proud and untouchable, initially sees you as nothing more than a symbol of defiance. But war, fate, and stolen moments on the battlefield entwine your paths in a forbidden love neither of you dares name.

Contains: tension, gender stereotypes, gender roles, misogyny, misogynistic men, gojo is an asshole at first, ANSGT, ANGST NO COMFORT, pure tension nothing happens, yearning, love that’s too late.

cw: 10.1k

A/n: see you at the end!

The clang of steel rang out over the training yard like a challenge to the sky. You drove your sword into the ground, panting, chest heaving beneath layers of chainmail and plate. Around you, the noble sons of Astraea lay sprawled in the dirt—sweaty, bruised, and too stunned to move. None of them had lasted more than three minutes.

Their pride lay broken beside them. And still, none looked as furious as the one who hadn't lifted a blade. You heard his boots first—deliberate, soft-footed despite the polished heel. Then his voice, as clean and cutting as the edge of your sword.

“Impressive,” he said, “for a circus act.”

You turned. Standing on the edge of the sparring ring, arms crossed and expression unreadable, was Prince Satoru Gojo, heir to the throne of Astraea.

He looked down at you from behind a curtain of snowy white hair and the kind of pale blue eyes that belonged in oil paintings, not battlefields. His royal cloak of Astraean white shimmered in the sun like silk. Not a speck of dirt dared cling to it. Unlike you.

“Your Highness,” you said stiffly, nodding.

You didn’t kneel. Not here. Not in armor. You had bowed enough in your life.

Gojo tilted his head. “You didn’t answer.”

“Was there a question, sire?”

He smiled—without warmth. “I suppose not. I was merely wondering how long it will take before you’re sent home in pieces.”

Around you, the other knights chuckled. Most were too winded to speak, but a few grunted their agreement. The girl had gone too far today. Knocked down Lord Garrick’s boy, disarmed the son of the Chancellor, and split open some poor baron’s lip in a clean strike.

She wasn’t supposed to be better than them. She wasn’t even supposed to be here.

You straightened your spine. “I’ve trained for this since I was a child.”

“Yes,” Gojo drawled, “but training in your garden with wooden sticks and indulgent tutors isn’t quite the same as war. You’ll see.”

“My father was Ser Aldric,” you replied, voice sharp. “He trained me with steel. Every day until the day he died.”

For the first time, Gojo blinked. A faint pause. He said nothing to that.

But then, just as quickly, his mask returned.

“Ah, yes. The fallen knight. A man of great renown.” He glanced at the bruised nobles still catching their breath. “I wonder what he would think of his daughter bruising the kingdom’s future like spoiled fruit.”

You stepped forward. Not threatening. Just enough.

“He’d say they should learn to fight better.”

A low murmur passed through the crowd. Prince Gojo’s gaze lingered on you, cool and calculating. And then he turned his back.

“Dismissed.”

The captain of the guard—Commander Nanami—stared after him, expression unreadable. When Gojo disappeared behind the stone archway leading back to the palace, Nanami approached you.

“You didn’t make a friend today,” he said, voice low.

You wiped sweat from your brow. “I’m not here to make friends.”

“Good,” Nanami replied. “Because you’ve already made enemies.”

He paused, then added with a strange softness: “That was foolish, Y/N. But brave.”

You glanced down at your hands, still trembling faintly from the fight. “He looked at me like I was dirt.”

“He looks at everyone like they’re dirt. Don’t take it personally. He was raised to see the world beneath him.” Nanami nodded once. “Get cleaned up. You’ll be guarding his chambers tonight.”

Your breath caught.

You? Assigned to the prince’s wing?

“That’s—punishment?”

“No. It’s politics.” He lowered his voice. “The King insists you be seen. Visible. Capable. They won’t say it, but half the council wants you gone.”

You nodded slowly. You knew this. You had known it the moment you stepped onto the palace grounds.

They didn’t want a woman in armor. They wanted a story to mock. A scandal to crush. But you weren’t going anywhere. Not until they gave you a sword and called you knight. And not even then.

Night fell like a black veil over the silver towers of Astraea. You stood at the top of the marble staircase that led to Prince Gojo’s royal wing, your armor catching the torchlight. The hallway beyond was quiet, too quiet, the kind of silence that pressed against your ears like a held breath.

Two guards nodded to you as they passed. Neither smiled. Your post was clear: stand outside the prince’s chamber doors until dawn. Say nothing. Do nothing unless summoned. You were not to move unless there was a threat.

But the threat had already passed hours ago—when you dared to embarrass a room full of noble sons. Now, this post felt less like a guard detail and more like a test. Or punishment.

You didn’t care. You adjusted the sword at your hip and stared straight ahead. The door creaked open behind you. You didn’t turn. Not at first.

Then his voice came, sharper in the dark than it had been in daylight.

“You?”

You turned slowly. There he was. Prince Satoru Gojo, standing in the doorway in soft linen nightclothes, hair slightly damp, a crystal glass in hand. His expression was unreadable.

“Is this a joke?” he asked.

“No, Your Highness.”

He raised a brow. “They sent you to stand guard over my chambers?”

“They assigned me here,” you replied calmly. “Commander Nanami gave the order.”

Gojo studied you in silence for a moment, then stepped forward—just enough that you could smell the clove and citrus on his skin. His lips curved in a smile that wasn’t kind.

“They must think very highly of you. Or they’re hoping I’ll throw you off the balcony.”

You didn’t flinch. “I’ve stood my ground against worse than words.”

A flicker passed through his eyes—annoyance? Amusement?

“You should be grateful,” he said coolly. “You’ve made quite the name for yourself in the span of one week. I’m sure the court is absolutely enchanted.”

“I didn’t come here for enchantment.”

“No. You came here to play knight.”

You said nothing.

“I wonder,” Gojo said, tilting his head, “what it is you’re really after. Your father’s glory? Or are you trying to prove something to yourself?”

The words stung in a way they weren’t supposed to. You looked him in the eyes.

“I came here to serve Astraea. I don’t care what you believe.”

He gave a small, disbelieving laugh.

“No. You came here to fight Astraea. The Astraea that was built by men like my father. Like me. You don’t belong here, and deep down, you know that.”

Silence stretched between you. Then, without waiting for your reply, Gojo turned and walked back inside. The door shut with a soft thud.

You exhaled slowly and returned to your position, hands resting on the pommel of your sword. The moon climbed higher. Time crawled. And yet, beneath your steady heartbeat, you could still hear his voice, echoing like a blade drawn in the dark.

Inside the prince’s chambers, Satoru stood by the window, untouched glass in hand, watching your shadow through the frost-painted glass. She didn’t flinch. Not once. He didn’t like that.

He wasn’t supposed to see you. Not the shape of your shoulders in armor, not the clean burn of fire in your voice, and certainly not the ghost of your father’s courage in your spine.

You were a symbol. An insult. And yet… somehow, you’d stood your ground.

The grand hall of Astraea was all gold and candlelight.

Long tables glittered with crystal goblets, silver forks, and the kind of soft fruits that bruised under the gentlest touch. Every chair was carved oak. Every smile rehearsed. This was not a battlefield, but it was still war. And you had arrived in armor.

Your boots echoed against the marble floors as you entered, all heads turning your way. The clinking of forks against plates slowed, then stopped entirely. You kept your chin high.

You had been summoned—not invited—by the King himself. An official decree had come that morning. One knight from the King’s Guard was to dine with the royal family and its court. They had chosen you.

Or more likely, someone had.

As you reached the long table, a noblewoman leaned toward her neighbor, whispering behind a jeweled fan. Another chuckled into his wine. Someone coughed to cover a laugh. You were led to your seat—at the very end, opposite the prince.

Prince Gojo sat at the center of it all, clad in dark silk and boredom. He sipped his wine slowly, watching you from over the rim of his glass like a cat watching a mouse that wouldn’t run.

“Ah, the Lady Knight,” someone near you said lightly. “Or do you prefer Ser?”

You didn’t respond. Another voice chimed in. “Are you here to eat, or to slay the roast with that sword of yours?”

Laughter followed. Your fingers tightened around your knife. Gojo said nothing. He did not defend you. He didn’t laugh either. He simply watched.

As the first course was served, the tension around you thickened like soup. Forks scraped. Conversations moved on—most of them about you.

"She knocked poor Lord Garrick’s boy to the ground in three strikes," someone gossiped. "I heard she trained in secret—can you believe the nerve?"

"Her father must be rolling in his grave."

“Or smiling. Who knows what kind of madman he was to teach her.”

You sat still, hands folded over your lap, armor creaking with every breath.

Only when the third course arrived did the King speak.

“Ser Y/N,” he called warmly from the head of the table. “How do you find service in the Guard?”

All heads turned to you. You rose carefully, every eye burning into you like flame.

“It is an honor to serve the crown, Your Majesty,” you said. “And I will give everything I have to protect it.”

The King nodded, satisfied.

But Gojo—still watching—finally spoke.

“Everything?” he asked.

The table fell silent again.

He leaned back in his chair, wine swirling in his hand.

“Even your pride? Even your life?”

You looked at him, steady.

“Yes.”

Gojo’s expression didn’t change. But something in his eyes did.

He looked away first.

The conversation resumed. You sat. The rest of the evening passed like a wound that wouldn’t bleed.

Later that night, you returned to your quarters.

The hall outside the prince’s chamber was empty. Your shift had been reassigned for the evening—no explanation given. You removed your armor piece by piece, each plate clattering like a defiance laid to rest.

You thought of the prince’s eyes. The way he’d studied you, waiting for you to break. He hadn’t broken you. Not yet. But something had cracked open between you. And you didn’t know what it meant.

The courtyard filled with tension before a single blade was drawn.

It was midmorning—sunlight sharp, shadows long. The royal guard had gathered in a wide circle around the sparring ring, their boots planted firm, voices hushed. Nobles watched from the balcony, draped in silk and judgment.

You stood alone in the sand. Across from you, Prince Gojo stepped into the ring with a practice sword in one hand and a smirk that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“I hear you’re undefeated among the guard,” he said, casual and cruel. “Let’s test the rumor.”

You knew what this was. Not a match. A message. He didn’t just want to beat you. He wanted to break you—show everyone that the girl in iron was nothing more than a girl in costume.

Commander Nanami stepped between you both, eyes stern.

“This match ends at first blood, or when one yields. Do you both understand?”

You nodded.

Gojo’s smile widened. “Perfectly.”

Then—Nanami stepped back.

And Gojo lunged. He was fast. Faster than anyone you’d sparred with. His strikes were elegant, practiced, almost lazy—but each swing carried the weight of someone who had trained not just to win, but to perform.

The crowd watched, rapt. You blocked three blows. Then four. Your boots slid in the sand as you ducked one swing, countered another, kept your blade tight and controlled. Gojo pushed harder. You matched him.

And for a moment, it wasn’t about the court, or the crown, or the whispers in the corridors. It was just you and him. Blade to blade. Breath to breath.

Then—you saw it. He left his side open. A trap, probably. But you took the chance. You twisted, shifted your grip, and brought the flat of your blade across his ribs in one clean motion. The sound echoed—crack—through the courtyard. Gojo stumbled back. The crowd gasped. And then—it was quiet.

He straightened slowly, eyes unreadable, chest rising and falling with sharp, controlled breaths. You lowered your sword.

“I yield,” he said softly.

You blinked.

He said it again, louder this time, voice clear:

“I yield.”

The ring broke into whispers. Some disbelieving. Others, shocked into silence.

Nanami nodded, stepping between you again. “Well fought. Match ends.”

You looked to Gojo, expecting bitterness. Fury. But what you found instead was worse: Something like curiosity. Something like the beginnings of respect.

He gave you a slight nod before turning and walking off, white uniform catching in the breeze. He had come to shame you. And instead, he’d offered something rarer. Surrender.

That evening, there was a knock at your chamber door. You opened it to find no one—only a folded scrap of paper resting on the floor. One sentence, written in a hand too elegant to be anyone else’s:

“You fight like someone who’s never had a place. That’s why you win.”

You read it twice. And then, carefully, you tucked it into your breastplate. You didn’t know what he meant. But you knew it wasn’t the end.

The capital faded behind you in a blur of mist and stone.

You rode beside Prince Gojo in silence, your horse keeping steady pace with his pale steed. Guards trailed behind, but the road stretched long and empty ahead. To your left, the forest thinned into low hills. To your right, the river glittered in the light like a ribbon of steel.

The northern province of Emberkeep was a quiet, loyal stronghold—known for its trade, its iron mines, and its relentless snow. The King had sent Gojo to negotiate a winter treaty with their duke. You had been assigned to guard him.

You, of all people. Neither of you had spoken for the first hour. Then:

“You ride like a soldier,” Gojo said flatly, without looking at you.

You didn’t glance at him. “That’s what I am.”

“No,” he said. “You’re something else. Soldiers don’t stare at the trees the way you do.”

You tightened your reins. He wasn't wrong. You had grown up outside the city walls, riding along riverbanks, climbing trees with a wooden sword on your back. You knew the rhythm of the land before you ever learned court etiquette.

“You never stop watching,” he continued, softer this time. “Even when you think no one notices.”

“Isn’t that what I’m here for?” you said.

Gojo hummed. “I used to think so.”

You looked at him then—really looked. He wasn’t in silk anymore. His cloak was dark and travel-worn, his gloves leather. His white hair was tied loosely at the nape of his neck, and for the first time since you'd met him, he looked less like a prince… and more like a man pretending to be one.

“You always sound so certain,” you said.

“I have to.”

“Why?”

Gojo didn’t answer.

The road curved. Your party made camp at dusk beneath a canopy of red trees, the leaves whispering secrets above your heads.

Gojo sat across the fire from you, his sword propped beside him, legs stretched long. The other guards had drifted off to sleep or patrol. You sat sharpening your blade with slow, methodical strokes, the rhythm steadying your thoughts.

He spoke without looking up.

“Do you hate me?”

You paused.

“I don’t know you well enough to hate you.”

His mouth lifted in the ghost of a smile.

“That’s the most honest answer I’ve had in weeks.”

You watched the flames dance between you, licking at the cold.

“You tried to humiliate me.”

“I did,” he admitted.

“And now you’re being civil.”

“I am.”

“Why?”

He looked up then, and his voice lost all pretense:

“Because I saw you bleed for this kingdom before it ever bled for you.”

The wind stilled. For a long moment, neither of you spoke.

Then he added, more carefully, “And maybe because you remind me of who I was before they told me who to be.”

You stared at him, armor cold against your skin, heart colder still. He wasn’t supposed to say things like that. Princes weren’t supposed to speak like they were unrevealing.

That night, as you lay beneath a starless sky, the space between your sleeping rolls wide but not far enough, you listened to the quiet rhythm of his breath. Not steady. Not sure. Just real.

And for the first time, you wondered if you could let your guard down. Just once.

The castle at Emberkeep loomed like a fortress carved from frost. It wasn’t beautiful like Astraea—there were no jeweled towers or silk banners—but it had its own quiet majesty. Stone walls darkened by snow, iron sconces blazing against cold stone, guards who didn’t bow so much as nod. This was a city of soldiers. And they looked at you like you were made of glass.

You stood beside Prince Gojo in the duke’s hall, armor polished, chin high. Your sword hung heavy at your hip, the weight a comfort. Gojo stood tall at your side in a dark velvet tunic and silver mantle—formal, but not royal. Not today.

Duke Arwin descended from his dais with a politician’s smile. His son, Lord Cassian, flanked him: tall, sharp-jawed, smug in the way only sons who had never been denied anything could be.

“My prince,” Arwin greeted. “We’re honored.”

Gojo bowed with just enough grace to suggest boredom. You bowed too. But Cassian’s eyes found you, narrowed, and stayed there.

“You’ve brought your court,” he said dryly. “Though I’m surprised to see one of your ladies in armor.”

Gojo didn’t blink.

“She is not a lady,” he said. “She is my sword.”

The room stilled. Your pulse thudded in your ears. Cassian laughed. “A sword with painted lips and polished nails, then?”

You stepped forward once, instinct tightening your fingers. But Gojo’s voice cut clean across the hall.

“Do you fear her, Lord Cassian?”

The noble faltered. “Excuse me?”

Gojo turned toward him with the calm of someone who knew exactly what he was doing.

“You speak with the comfort of a man who has never seen war,” he said. “But I have. And I would rather have her at my back than any of your blustering knights.”

A hush fell over the court. Cassian flushed. The duke’s mouth opened—but Gojo raised a hand.

“Should we spar for it?” he said lightly. “Your best against her. If she loses, we’ll all pretend your jokes had merit. But if she wins…”

Cassian laughed nervously. “My prince—”

“If she wins,” Gojo continued, “you’ll apologize. Properly.”

Your breath caught. He wasn’t supposed to do this. Not here. Not for you. But he had.

They set the spar for sunset. You stood in the stone yard of Emberkeep’s training circle, where banners flapped above and the air smelled of smoke and steel. Lord Cassian stripped to his training gear, sword gleaming. You didn’t bother changing. Your armor was answer enough.

The crowd leaned in. Gojo stood at the edge, arms crossed, saying nothing. The whistle blew. Cassian charged.

He was fast—too fast. Sloppy. You let him come, parried once, then let him stumble on the backswing. He made the same mistake every arrogant man made: he underestimated you. Three moves in, you had him off balance. Five moves, he was bleeding from the lip. Seven— He yielded. It was over before it ever really began.

Cassian didn’t speak for a long moment.Then, red-faced, he looked at Gojo—and nodded once to you.

“I apologize,” he said. “Ser.”

Your name wasn’t spoken. But the title was. And somehow, that mattered more.

Later, as you stood at the parapets overlooking the snowy fields of Emberkeep, Gojo approached without his cloak, pale hair mussed by the wind.

“You didn’t have to do that,” you said quietly.

“No,” he replied. “But I wanted to.”

You looked at him.

His voice was calm—but his eyes were fierce. Honest. He wasn’t mocking you. He wasn’t playing. Not anymore. Then, softly, like a truth he hadn’t meant to say:

“You shouldn't have to earn your right to stand beside me with blood.”

You turned away—because if you looked at him any longer, something would crack. And you weren’t ready for that. Not yet.

The wind howled through Emberkeep like a beast denied.

Snow slammed against the stone walls in thick, blinding waves. The mountain pass was gone, swallowed whole by white. No one left. No one arrived. You were stranded—along with the prince. And of all the places to take shelter, it was the old high tower.

You’d followed Gojo there after the council meeting was dismissed early. The keep was too cold, and the rooms too crowded with tension. Someone had mentioned the view from the observatory. Gojo wanted air. You wanted silence. And so you both climbed.

But when the storm hit, the trapdoor slammed shut—iced over, immovable. You tried forcing it open.

“I’d rather not die up here,” you muttered, hands braced on the rusted latch.

Gojo sat cross-legged in the center of the room, watching the snow whip past the narrow window. “You won’t. I’m too important. They’ll dig us out eventually.”

“Good to know you’re worried about yourself first.”

“I’m always worried about you,” he said, so simply it almost didn’t register.

You turned.

“What?”

Gojo didn’t look at you. “You’re the only one I’ve met who doesn’t flinch when I speak my mind.”

You crossed your arms, pacing.

“Maybe I should start.”

He smiled faintly. “Too late for that.”

Hours passed. The fire you built sputtered from an old brazier in the corner, flickering gold over stone. You sat near it, knees pulled up, cloak wrapped tightly around your armor. Gojo leaned beside the window. He hadn’t moved much—just watched the sky disappear.

Finally, he spoke.

“My father used to say love is a distraction.”

You blinked.

“I didn’t know you listened to your father.”

“I didn’t. But I remember what he said when he thought I wasn’t listening.” Gojo’s voice was quiet, almost lost in the wind. “He said a prince must never love what he cannot protect. And he must never protect what he cannot keep.”

You were quiet. Then you said, “And what do you believe?”

Gojo looked at you. Longer than he should have. Sharper than he meant to.

“I believe I’m starting to lose.”

Your heart stuttered.

“Lose what?”

His answer was a whisper.

“Myself. Around you.”

You stood quickly. Too fast.

“That’s not fair,” you said, voice shaking. “You don’t get to say things like that.”

“Why not?”

“Because I’m a knight,” you snapped. “I was raised to bleed for you. Not to… not to feel for you.”

His eyes never left yours.

“And what if I’m tired of people bleeding for me?”

The room was quiet. The fire hissed low.

“I can’t be what you want,” you whispered. “I don’t even know what you want.”

Gojo stepped toward you. Not arrogantly. Not boldly. Just… carefully.

“I want the person who looks me in the eye. Who tells me when I’m wrong. Who never bowed.”

You took a breath. He reached out—and touched the edge of your armor. Not your skin. Not yet. Just the cold metal that wrapped around your shoulder. His hand hovered there.

“You wear this like a wall,” he said.

You met his gaze.

“It’s all I have.”

He didn’t say take it off. He didn’t say stay. But he didn’t move either. And neither did you.Because something between you had begun. Not with fire. Not with fury. But with stillness. And stillness, you knew, was more dangerous.

The storm passed. But the silence it left behind clung like ice in the bones of the keep. By the time you and the prince were seen again, the servants were already whispering. The guards looked twice when you passed in the halls. A noblewoman from the duke’s court stopped speaking the moment you entered a chamber.

You did not ask what they thought. You already knew. And still, you wore your armor. Still, you stood by the door at every council meeting, silent and watchful, as if the hours trapped in the tower had never happened at all.

The prince did not speak of it either.

He kept his words measured, his hands folded, his face unreadable. But every time your eyes met across the long council table or through torchlight in the corridor, something sharp flickered between you—like a sword still half-drawn.

Then, she arrived.

Princess Hana of the Southern Isles rode into Emberkeep behind a carriage of rosewood and silver, cloaked in white furs and nobility. She descended the steps with the poise of someone born in a palace and kissed the air beside the prince’s cheek with practiced grace.

“Your Highness,” she said with a curtsy deep enough to impress the court.

He offered a nod. You stood at your post, expression carved from stone, hands clasped behind your back. The herald’s voice echoed across the hall:

“By decree of the Crown, a union between Prince Gojo of Astraea and Her Highness Hana of the Southern Isles shall be forged this spring, to ensure peace and strength between kingdoms.”

A murmur passed through the room. You didn’t react. Didn’t move. But inside, something caved.

Later that evening, the armory was quiet as you worked. You oiled your sword slowly, as if the repetition could drown out the ache in your chest. The door creaked open behind you. You didn’t need to turn to know it was him.

“Is it true?” you asked without looking up.

The silence was answer enough.

“I see,” you said flatly. “So that is the cost of peace.”

“She was sent without my knowledge.”

You looked up at him, finally.

“But she will leave with your name.”

The prince’s jaw tightened.

“I never agreed to it.”

“Have you refused?”

“I’m being watched.”

“So am I,” you said. “But I don’t hide behind it.”

His eyes flickered. “This wasn’t my choice.”

“No,” you said quietly. “But it will be your crown. And she will be your queen.”

He stepped closer.

“Do you truly believe I wanted this?”

“What I believe,” you said, “is that there was a time I thought I could trust you to fight for what mattered.”

“And you do not believe that anymore?”

“I believe you are a prince,” you said, voice low. “And I am a knight. That has always been the difference between us.”

His gaze stayed on yours—blue ice over fire.

“You stood beside me when the snow came. When the world was silent.”

“And now?” you asked.

He didn’t answer.

He didn’t have to.

That night, music rose from the great hall below your window—lilting and perfect. You stood alone, high above the light and laughter, as Princess Hana’s laughter echoed like bells through the stone. And across the ballroom, the prince stood beside her. Smiling. Silent. Bound by duty. And you—forgotten by name, remembered only by your armor.

The winds shifted in the east. Scouts rode through the frost-bitten gates with reports of foreign banners near the border—black and gold, bearing no known sigil, only fire. Villages near the Vale had gone silent. Trade routes shuttered overnight.

By the time the war council met, the air in Emberkeep was thick with the scent of smoke and fear. You stood at attention behind the prince as the room argued over troop numbers and grain stores, supply lines and siege walls. Your armor was newly repaired, your blade sharpened. You had made your decision before the council ever began.

When the table fell quiet, you stepped forward.

“If you need someone to lead the first deployment,” you said evenly, “I volunteer.”

The words dropped like iron. No one moved. Not even him. Then the general spoke.

“You are the prince’s guard.”

“I am the realm’s knight.”

The general looked to the prince. The prince said nothing. Only his hands betrayed him—gripping the edge of the table, white-knuckled, silent.

Later, you prepared in the barracks by torchlight, alone. You removed your ceremonial plate and packed the older armor you trusted more. One extra tunic. Two rations. The envelope in your bag bore no seal, only the word “In case.” You didn’t cry. There was no room left for softness in war.

The knock came at the door just as you sheathed your sword. You didn’t speak. He stepped inside anyway. The prince wore no crown. No guards followed him. The firelight painted his face with shadow.

“You shouldn’t go,” he said.

You turned to him. “It’s not your choice.”

“You serve me.”

“I serve this kingdom.”

His jaw clenched. “There are others—”

“Others who have families. Others who might hesitate. I won’t.”

“I didn’t ask for this.”

You stared at him.

“No,” you said. “But you also didn’t ask me to stay.”

He looked at you like something was tearing behind his eyes.

“I cannot stand beside you in war,” he said. “Not as I want to. Not as I—”

“Don’t say it,” you interrupted. “We both know it’s forbidden.”

You expected him to retreat. To drop his gaze. To leave. But he stepped closer instead.

“You keep saying you know your place,” he said. “But you don’t.”

Your breath caught.

“You were never meant to follow behind me. You were meant to be beside me. You are the only one who sees me.”

He reached into his coat—and pulled out a folded piece of parchment, stamped with the royal seal.

You frowned. “What is that?”

He held it out.

“An official royal order. I wrote it myself.”

You didn’t move to take it.

“What does it say?”

“It says you are to remain at court. Effective immediately.”

The silence between you shattered.

Your voice rose. “You would order me to stay behind like a coward?”

“I would order you to live.”

You stared at him. And he didn’t flinch. So you took the paper. Tore it in half. Then dropped the pieces at his feet.

“If I die on the battlefield,” you whispered, “I’ll do so knowing I was never yours to keep.”

And you walked past him. Out the door. Into the cold.

The battlefield was not a place for legend. And yet, your name was becoming one. It began in the southern outpost—where your battalion arrived just as the fires broke through the treeline. The enemy came in fast, mounted and masked, a brutal kind of clever. Officers hesitated. The chain of command faltered.

You didn’t. You rode to the front and raised your blade, no herald, no fanfare.

You only said, “With me.”

And they followed. Because your voice didn’t shake. Because you bled with them. Because your armor bore the same frost and ash as theirs, and you never wore the colors of the royal house—not once.

They called you the White Rose, not for peace, but for the way your cloak moved like a banner through the smoke. For the way you did not wilt. Not even when arrows fell. You fought.

You survived. But every night, when the fires burned low and the tents grew quiet, you reached for the wax-sealed parchment in your pack—the one he wrote. The one you tore. The pieces now tucked side by side, pressed flat between pages of your old field journal.

You hadn’t thrown them away. You told yourself it was for recordkeeping. You lied.

Back at Emberkeep, the prince could not sleep. He walked the halls like a ghost, ignoring courtiers, snapping at advisors. His meals went untouched. His letters, unopened. Princess Hana tried to speak with him once. She found him standing alone in the training yard, blade in hand, slicing at the air as if fighting something no one else could see.

“You shouldn’t be out in the cold,” she said gently.

He didn’t answer. She paused. “I heard news from the south. They say the White Rose leads your armies.”

He stopped.

“They say,” she added, “your knight saved over a hundred men.”

Still, he said nothing.

She offered a soft smile. “You should be proud.”

He lowered the blade.

“I’m not proud,” he said. “I’m terrified.” And walked away.

The letters arrived a week later. Written in charcoal on scraps of cloth. Stamped with ash. Smuggled in by injured soldiers who limped past the gates with whispers of victories hard-won. And every single one carried your name. The generals praised your tactics. The people praised your bravery.

But the prince—he read them alone, behind closed doors, where no one could see the way his hands shook when your name appeared again and again like a wound that would not close. His advisor warned him not to show favoritism. He dismissed the court for three days.

And then, without announcement, he descended into the royal vault and retrieved the ancestral sword—one not drawn in over a century. The guards said nothing as he walked past them.

Only the wind whispered, and the ravens watched.

They struck at dusk. Silent. Swift. Cloaked in fog that smelled of iron. You had just finished stitching a wound above your knee when the scout stumbled into camp, his armor scorched and his face white as snow.

“They’re coming,” he rasped. “From the east. Not one banner. All fire.”

You gave no speech. No commands. Only a quiet, “Mount up.”

And they followed. Because you always led from the front.

You rode straight into the heart of it—flames licking the sky, screams rising through the smoke. The enemy had doubled in number, their blades gleaming with something dark. Not steel. Something fouler. The sound of war was not thunder—it was teeth. You fought. Blade against blade. Shield splintered. Blood running warm down your wrist.

You did not count your wounds. You didn’t notice the one that mattered most—not until your knees hit the earth and your vision blurred. You tried to rise. Your hand slipped.

You heard someone scream your name. And then—nothing.

They carried your body back to camp half-conscious, your armor cracked, your pulse faint. Someone shouted for the medic. Someone else lit a torch. But the firelight was dim, and your breath came slow. And then— A rider. No banner. No guards.

Just one horse, galloping through the fog. The soldiers tried to stop him—until they saw the crest on the blade he carried: the royal sigil of Astraea, pressed into silver that had not seen daylight in a hundred years.

The prince dismounted before the horse had even fully stopped. He shoved past the healers. He dropped to his knees beside you. Your blood had soaked through your tunic. Your skin was ice. And still—your fingers twitched when he took your hand.

“Open your eyes,” he said.

You didn’t.

“Open your eyes.”

And somehow—you did. Your vision was cloudy. His face a blur. But his voice was clear.

“I told you not to go.”

You wanted to laugh, but the pain made it catch in your throat. He held your hand tighter.

“Stay with me.”

You exhaled.

“Your Highness shouldn’t be here.”

“And you should not be dying in the mud,” he said sharply. “But here we are.”

You blinked slowly. “You disobeyed the council.”

“I disobeyed everyone.”

“Why?”

He looked at you like the sky was falling.

“Because I could not bear the thought of a world where you died never knowing that I—”

But he stopped. The words were too dangerous. Even now.

He pulled you against him carefully, pressing your body close to his cloak, to his warmth.

“You will not die,” he whispered. “Not here. Not like this. Not when I’ve just begun to lose the courage to leave you alone.”

And for a moment, you let yourself rest. Not as a knight. Not as a soldier. But as something else. Something softer.

You woke to the sound of rain. Not thunder. Not steel. Just rain—soft and steady against glass. The ceiling above you wasn’t canvas. It was carved oak. Painted with stars.

You were back in Emberkeep. Alive. Your body ached in ways you couldn’t name. A tight bandage bound your ribs. Your sword arm throbbed like it had been set in fire and cooled in salt. But you were breathing. You were home.

Only… it didn’t feel like yours anymore.

A servant sat beside your bed, eyes wide when you stirred. She scurried off with a quick bow, and moments later, a physician entered—followed by a handful of royal guards who stood by the door but did not look you in the eye.

You asked for your armor. They told you it had been taken for repairs. You asked for your sword. They told you it was under lock, by royal order.

And when you asked who had brought you home— They hesitated.

“The prince,” the physician finally said. “He carried you from the battlefield himself.”

Your breath stilled. Of course he did. Of course he shouldn’t have.

The next few days blurred together.

Physicians came and went. Nobles stopped by with flowers and false concern. You nodded through every visit, said nothing. Not to the court ladies whispering about the prince. Not to the generals questioning your survival. Not to the princess who visited your chamber in silence and left with her eyes downcast.

And not to him. Because he didn’t come. Not at first.

When he did, it was midnight. No guards. No ceremony. Just him—standing in your doorway like a man who’d been at war with himself. You sat upright.

“Your Highness.”

He flinched.

“You shouldn’t call me that,” he said quietly.

“I shouldn’t do many things,” you replied. “But I was told I’m quite good at disobedience.”

A breath of something—almost a laugh—ghosted across his lips. He stepped closer. You stayed still.

“You should have let me die,” you said.

“No,” he said. “Never.”

“You’ve jeopardized everything.”

“I don’t care.”

“You should.”

“I don’t,” he said again. And there was something broken in his voice when he added, “I can’t.”

Silence stretched between you like a rope pulled taut.

Then you looked away. “The court is turning on me.”

“I know.”

“They think you’ve chosen me.”

He didn’t deny it. Instead, he sat beside your bed. And said the one thing that finally made you break.

“I did choose you.”

Your throat tightened.

“Don’t say that.”

“It’s too late not to.”

You turned your face from him.

“You’re betrothed.”

“It was never my will.”

“But it is your crown.”

He said nothing. Because there was nothing left to say. And yet— When he left, he pressed something into your hand.

A strip of parchment, still warm from his palm. Unmarked. You waited until the door shut to open it. Only three words were written there.

“Name the day.”

The summons came on parchment edged in red. Your name was not written in ink—it was carved. The royal court demanded your presence.

You dressed slowly. Not in your armor—it remained locked away—but in the simple wool uniform worn by squires. No blade. No sigil. Just cloth and silence.

As you walked through the marble halls, heads turned. Servants fell quiet. Nobles whispered behind gloves.

“She was carried back by him.”

“They say she bled for him.”

“No knight returns with a prince at her side.”

You kept walking. You didn’t look down.

The throne room was colder than you remembered. You stood before the gathered council like a statue, spine straight, face unreadable. The prince sat beside his father, hands folded, mouth set. He would not look at you.

Nor could you look at him. The king didn’t speak first. The High Chancellor did.

“Lady knight,” he said, voice sharp as wine, “you stand here not for failure, but for your… entanglements.”

You said nothing.

“Your proximity to the Crown Prince has become a matter of public concern.”

You didn’t flinch.

“The court must ask—has your service to this realm been compromised by personal feelings?”

Still you remained silent. He stepped forward.

“Have you or have you not shared a private vow with His Highness?”

This time, your lips parted. But only three words came out.

“I have not.”

And though your heart stammered like a broken drum, your voice did not shake. Because it was the truth. No vow had been spoken aloud. No promise exchanged beneath gods or stars. Only silence. Only longing. Only everything unsaid.

The court let you go. But the damage had already been done. Later, you escaped the stares and slipped into the lower garden—where the trees grew wild and the roses climbed marble like they meant to swallow it whole.

You thought you were alone. Until you saw her. Princess Hana stood beneath the pergola, her cloak drawn tight against the wind. Her eyes, when they met yours, were not cruel. They were kind. And that, somehow, hurt worse.

“You fight like a storm,” she said.

You paused. “I was trained to.”

“I believe it,” she said. “I’ve heard the soldiers speak of you. The White Rose of Astraea. They say you don’t bleed until the battle is over.”

You said nothing. She approached.

“I know about the letter,” she added softly.

You froze.

“The one he gave you. The one that said, Name the day.”

Your throat dried. She wasn’t supposed to know. She smiled, but it was fragile. Like something had cracked inside her long ago.

“I think he means it,” she whispered.

And then—she stepped closer.

“Do you love him?”

You couldn’t speak. You didn’t have to. She nodded.

“I do too,” she said quietly. “But I think I love the idea of him more than the boy who would throw away everything for a girl with ash on her boots.”

You looked at her then. And she at you. And in that quiet moment, two women stood before each other—not as rivals. But as mirrors. Each bound to a man neither could truly have.

“I will not stop the court,” she said. “Nor will I help them.”

“Why?”

“Because he’s already chosen,” she whispered.

Then she turned—and left, never to be seen by the palace walls again . And you were alone. But not untouched.

The palace had not been this bright in years. The ball was announced as a celebration of the southern campaign’s success. Lanterns hung from crystal arches. Musicians tuned their strings with trembling hands. The court shimmered in jewel-toned silks and hunger.

But the guests weren’t here for the music. They were here for the war hero. They were here for you. You weren’t supposed to attend. The invitation never arrived.

But a dress had been sent to your chambers anyway—stitched in deep navy, with silver trim and no embroidery. Unfeminine. Practical. A quiet message from someone who knew you would never come in satin.

You told yourself not to go. You told yourself it would make things worse. But something inside you ached. You had been the kingdom’s blade. Let them now look you in the eyes.

When you entered, the room fell quieter than music could explain. The nobles didn’t know what to do with you. You were not wearing a gown meant for flirting. Your hair had not been pinned into court-approved curls. You walked like a soldier, not a lady. But the thing that unnerved them most—

Was that the prince noticed. He turned to you the moment you arrived. As if his soul had sensed the shift in the air before his eyes ever found you. He said nothing. Did nothing. But he didn’t look away. Neither did anyone else.

You stood at the edge of the ballroom, near the colonnade where shadows clung. The dance floor gleamed beneath the chandeliers. Couples spun like clockwork—elegant, practiced, perfect. And you watched. You were not jealous. You were simply… outside. Always outside. Until—

The room shifted. Gasps rose in waves, not of horror, but of stunned disbelief. You turned—slowly. He was walking toward you. Alone. No guards. No princess at his side.

Just the prince, dressed in midnight blue, with silver embroidery curling up his sleeves like stormclouds. He stopped in front of you. Close enough to break every rule in the book of old kings. You bowed slightly, because that’s what knights do.

“Your Highness.”

But he didn’t let the title settle. He looked at you as if it hurt not to touch you.

“I should’ve done this long ago,” he murmured.

“Done what?”

And then— In front of the court.

In front of every whispering mouth, every watching noble, every scheming duke and polished lady— He held out his hand.

“To dance,” he said softly. “If you’ll have me.”

Your breath caught. You didn’t reach for him at first.

You couldn’t. You were a knight. He was a prince. And every person in that room had waited for this—for the scandal, for the fall, for you to say yes so they could say traitor behind your back.

But none of them knew the hours you’d bled in his name.

None of them knew the look in his eyes when you’d nearly died. And none of them could know the way your heart broke just to see him standing there, hand open, trembling slightly—not from fear of the court.

But from fear of you saying no. So you placed your hand in his. Slowly. Carefully. Like drawing a sword from its sheath. And the moment your fingers touched—

The music changed. A new song, low and slow and devastating.

He led you to the floor. And you danced. Not like lovers. Not yet. But like two people who had been at war with their own hearts for far too long.

Morning came without song. The lanterns from the night before still hung across the palace windows, swaying gently in the wind. But the gold had dulled. The flowers had wilted.

And in the throne room, no music played.

Only accusations.

“She embarrassed the crown.”

“She undermines tradition.”

“She is not one of us.”

The words came from every direction.

From generals in brass buttons and duchesses painted in powdered fear. From men who had never seen war, and women who had waited too long for their sons to return from it. They had not seen you on the battlefield. But they saw you on the dance floor. And that was all they needed.

The king said nothing. He watched his court erupt from the high seat, his fingers steepled, his expression unreadable.

And the prince? He stood still. Silent.

A muscle in his jaw ticking with every venom-laced word. But he did not speak. He did not interrupt. Because he knew if he did—he would be forced to choose. You or the crown. And the room was full of ears.

You, of course, were not there. You had not come to court. You had not been seen since midnight. And by the time the palace guards went to your quarters… You were already gone.

Your room had been left untouched. No signs of a struggle. No note.Only the small silver ring that once held your family crest—laid gently on the pillow. A symbol of service.

And goodbye. Your horse had been taken before dawn. No one had seen you pass through the lower gate. But the gate was open. And the wind had shifted.

The prince found the ring himself. He stared at it as if it were a blade.

“She wouldn’t run,” someone said behind him.

But he knew better. You hadn’t run. You had stepped down. So he wouldn’t have to. So the court wouldn’t force his hand.

So he could keep his crown. And you could keep your pride. He didn’t speak for a long time. Only closed the door to your chamber. And sat in the quiet. With your ring in his hand. And his heart in pieces.

The highlands were colder than you remembered.

Gone were the stone corridors and whispered judgments of the court. Here, the wind sang its own truths. You wore no crest. No title. Only your sword and silence.

The villagers in the northern provinces did not ask your name. They only saw your callused hands and the scars across your knuckles. They gave you work. Bread. A place to sleep by the fire. You took it all with quiet gratitude. And tried not to look south.

But war does not honor the quiet. Nor does it forget its soldiers.

You heard the rumors before the blood: border camps razed by rebel fires. Children taken. Lords executed. And one name—yours—spoken with reverence by those who still remembered the way you fought at the River Vale.

You had fled royalty. But they still called you knight. And when the call came—a messenger trembling on horseback, begging for help after a nearby town was taken—you did not hesitate. You buckled your blade. And rode into smoke.

The ambush came swift. Too swift. The road was narrow. The hills boxed you in. And the men who met you there were not peasants—they were trained. Masked. Paid.

You realized, too late, that this was no ordinary raid. This was an execution. Meant for you.

Your sword struck true. You fought like a cornered wolf. But there were too many. Too fast. And when the blade sliced through your shoulder, your knees finally gave out—

And the snow turned red. You fell with your hand still wrapped around your sword. Teeth clenched. Eyes blazing. You would not beg. Not now. Not ever.

You don’t remember the fire. Only the thunder of hooves. The crash of steel. The scent of a royal standard blazing in the wind. And then— His voice. Sharp. Furious. Desperate.

“Get away from her!”

You tried to lift your head. Couldn’t.

Everything blurred—until it didn’t. Because suddenly, he was kneeling over you. Not in gold. Not in velvet. But in a soldier’s cloak soaked in blood and ash.

“Your Highness—”

He shook his head. “Don’t call me that.”

“Go back,” you whispered, barely able to speak. “They’ll take the crown from you—”

“Let them try.”

His hands were on your face now, trembling.

“I won’t lose you twice.”

The battlefield raged around you, but he didn’t move. Didn’t blink.

“I will burn this kingdom before I bury you,” he said. And he meant it.

You knew it in your bones. And for the first time in weeks—maybe longer—you let yourself believe… That someone might fight for you, too.

You return to Emberkeep beneath a sky the color of bruised lilac. The palace gates open not in celebration, but in silence.

No banners fly. No music greets your arrival. Only the shiver of wind. Only the guards flanking your horse, their eyes downcast. They do not chain you. But they do not look at you either. As if you are already gone.

They take you to the healer’s wing, far from the royal chambers. Your name is struck from the knighthood rolls. Your sword is locked away in the war vault. You are neither traitor nor hero now. Just a shadow with a heartbeat.

He comes in secret. Dressed in riding clothes. No crown. No titles. Just him. And the guilt in his eyes.

“You shouldn’t have come for me,” you whisper, voice raw with fever and restraint.

He kneels by your cot.

“I would come for you again,” he says. “Every time. Until they hang me for it.”

You turn your face away. “They might.”

“I don’t care.”

“You should.”

He says your name. Not ‘knight.’ Not ‘soldier.’ Just your name, like a prayer he can’t stop saying even if it damns him.

And still— You don’t turn. Because you both know what this is. A fire waiting for air. A love born too late. A tragedy aching to unfold.

That night, the king summons him. Not as a father. As a monarch.

“You will marry the princess from Nevara,” he says. “The treaty depends on it.”

“I love someone else,” the prince replies.

“You love yourself, if you think you can have both your heart and the crown.”

He says your name. Softly. Firmly. Like an oath.

“She saved my life.”

“And now you’ll repay her by destroying hers?” the king snaps. “Do you think they’ll let her live once you break the betrothal?”

Silence falls.

Heavy.

Unforgiving.

“She’s already been sentenced,” the king says at last. “She just hasn’t been told.”

You wake that night with your chest aching—not from pain, but from knowing. Something has shifted. You feel it in the cold stone beneath your hands. In the echo of footsteps in the hall.

And when you press your hand to the window, you see it: A single royal carriage preparing at the gate. Bound for Nevara. And him— Standing beside it. Back straight. Face pale.

Eyes searching the palace walls, as if he might still see you one last time. You do not go to him. You do not call his name. Because in another life, maybe you would have ridden beside him.

In another story, maybe he would have chosen you without losing everything. But this is not that tale. And dawn does not wait for lovers. Only history.

The weeks that follow his departure are drenched in quiet. You are not imprisoned. You are not thanked. You are simply… erased.

The servants who once called you milady no longer speak your name. The knights avert their eyes. Your sword remains locked beneath the palace.

You exist like a ghost. Alive, but untethered. No longer of the court, nor of the field. A knight without a banner. A heart without a claim.

You hear whispers. He has arrived in Nevara. The princess is fair. Clever. Chosen by kings long before love was even a question.

The engagement is announced with gold leaf letters and ringing bells. Your name is not mentioned. But you do not cry. Not where anyone can see. You bleed quietly. You mourn like a soldier.

The rebellion strikes again before spring’s end. This time, they breach the border. They ride through the lowlands, leaving fire behind. The crown scrambles. The prince cannot return without shattering the treaty. The general is old. The court is afraid. And the soldier they need most— Is the one they tried to forget.

You ride out without orders. You do not ask permission. You don the armor your father once wore—the crest dulled, the steel worn thin at the elbows. You braid your hair like he taught you.

And you ride.

You ride for the village that still remembers your name. You ride for the people who left bread at your door. You ride for the child who handed you a wildflower with hands still too small to grip a sword.

You do not ride for him. You cannot ride for him. Because if you think of his eyes, of the way he looked at you across that ballroom floor, you will fall from the saddle and never rise again.

The battlefield is a ruin of smoke and iron. You are one against many. But they know your name. And still they run.

You take the hill by nightfall. Alone. Wounded. Triumphant. And when the banner is raised above your body— Torn, soaked red, trembling in the wind— The rebels vanish like ghosts. But so do you.

You are found at dawn. Lying beneath the tree where you made your stand.

Your sword is broken beside you.

Your hand is curled around a bloodstained flower. And your lips are parted as if you were whispering his name just before the end.

The message reaches Nevara three days later. He doesn’t speak. Not for hours.

Not even when the princess calls his name. He only clutches the seal on the letter, his knuckles white, and whispers:

“She was supposed to live.”

The statue stands in the courtyard now. Marble. Silent.

Carved in your likeness, though the sculptor never saw your face. Only heard the stories. Of a knight with fire in her eyes and blood on her hands—not from cruelty, but from every kingdom she tried to save.

You wear no crown in the statue. Only a sword at your hip. And a rose carved into your palm.

Each year, on the eve of the battle, a single white bloom is placed at your feet. Always fresh. Never seen delivered. And no one dares to ask who lays it.

The kingdom tells children your story. They leave out the prince.

They leave out the dance. They leave out how love is sometimes not enough. But he remembers. He always remembers. He abdicates not long after the war.

Says nothing of it. Leaves the crown in a circle of firelight and shadow, and walks away like a man shedding a second skin. No one stops him. They know better now. Some grief cannot be ruled.

The statue still stands. Unchanged. Wind-polished. Waiting.

And one day—quiet as twilight—a man approaches it.

His hair is streaked with silver. His hands are roughened by years that did not heal what they were supposed to. But he still walks like royalty. Even if he wears no crown.

He kneels before your stone likeness. And places the rose at your feet. No guards. No court. Just him. And a small silver ring he slips from his finger, placing it beside the bloom.

“I should have run with you,” he whispers.

“I should have burned it all down.”

He presses his forehead to the base of the statue. And says your name one last time. Not like a vow. Not like a prayer. But like an apology carried too long.

And when he rises— There is no triumph. No music. Only the wind. Carrying the scent of a white rose far, far across the hills.

The cottage is small. The kind of place a king would never have entered in his youth.

But he is not a king anymore. Just a man. A man who spends his mornings tending vines and his evenings writing to someone who cannot write back.

Each day ends the same. With ink. With silence. With your name.

Letter 37

I saw a hawk today, circling above the cliffs. You would have known the species. I didn’t.

I wonder, often, what else I never knew about you.

I knew the way you held your sword. The way you stood when they doubted you. The way your voice trembled only when you wanted it to—but not when you were afraid.

But I didn’t know the color you dreamed in.

I didn’t know which name you would have taken if we had ever... if I had ever...

I didn’t know how to say don’t go without betraying everything you fought to protect.

And by the time I learned—it was too late.

I hope you forgive me.

Or if not that—then at least remember me gently.

Letter 52

The sea is violent tonight.

I thought, once, that I would die in battle. Then I thought I might die beside you.

Now I think I’ll die like this. Quiet. Forgotten. Dreaming of a girl with ash on her armor and a crown in her bones.

They say you’re a legend now.

That the children touch the statue’s sword for courage. That girls whisper to it before entering training halls.

You would have hated the way they softened your edges.

You were never a symbol.

You were a storm.

And gods help me, I loved the way you burned.

Letter 96

I still wear the clothes from the day I left court.

They’re threadbare now. But they feel like penance.

Some days I wonder what would have happened if I’d spoken sooner. If I had called you back at the gates. If I had stepped down before you ever could.

But regret is a wheel I spin endlessly.

I have no crown now. No audience.

Only you.

And this old, shaking hand.

Still writing your name long after the world has forgotten it.

Letter 103

This will be my last.

The wind is colder. My legs ache more each morning.

I don’t fear dying.

I just fear dying with your voice still trapped in my throat.

There is a place beyond the cliffs where the flowers grow wild. I’ve chosen it. For the view. For the quiet.

If there is a next world—wait for me.

Not as a knight. Not as a prince.

Just as two people who once met too late.

And maybe next time, we’ll get it right.

Until then—

With all that I was,

With all that I ruined,

With all that I loved:

Yours.

Always.

A/n: whos your favorite Disney princess?! Hope you enjoyed!!!

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