#i have a lot of thoughts about it and they're more complicated than this but as a general overview this is how i feel

[dova-kiin-got-bored]

This got so long, whoops. Everything is under the cut because I don't feel like clogging everyone's feeds.

I am STEALING THIS but also have so many thoughts as to how it could work for adoptions and other such complications

Is it even possible for an adopted child to see the ghosts, like is there a certain ritual they can do to officially magically adopt a child that's older than their birth children(or maybe they have no children, what if they're infertile? Coming back to that thought) so they're recognised by whatever magic tomfoolery is happening here? Or do you have to share DNA for it to work? Could the adopted kid like. Drink their adopted parent's blood everyday to see the ghosts temporarily?(if so that implies that it's possible for more than one kid to see the ghosts at once if they consume the blood)

What if the oldest kid dies, does it go to the next oldest kid? Would that create a type of hierarchy among the kids? It would certainly effect the social habits of the upper class and royalty. Or does the ability just stop point blank if the eldest dies? That would greatly incentivise parents to prioritise the eldest. Would they hide the pregnancy/existence of the kid for the first few years so they aren't just assassinated? If you had multiple children in a short span of time but only revealed them when they were 8-10 you could lie about who the eldest is, which has a lot of social implications of how lying and deciet between families is treated and alliances are handled. What if one royal family is told their oldest will marry the oldest of another family but they instead marry the second oldest?

Would alliances be formed by promising the eldest to another royal family? They would have to have a contract for that surely, to make sure that if lied to they'll receive justice or compensation. Then there's a whole bunch of things to think about regarding royals interacting with each other and how betrothal works and whether or not inbreeding is a Thing they do often to preserve the family ghosts among the bloodline despite the risk of death for the children(pretty counter protective. Coming back to the infertile thought.) And higher possibility of infertility. Many dynasties have probably fallen due to the ruler just not being able to have kids. If the passing-to-the-next-oldest applies, do relatives try and straight up assassinate the current ruler so a younger sibling can take the throne and have kids.(that has SO MANY implications).

Actually on the topic of relatives;

Actually scratch that thought for a minute thought of something else.

HOW would marriages between royal families work? Because if only the oldest child can see the ghosts, then only one family would be able to see both families' ghosts which generally seems to be a terrible idea if you want to keep control of your kingdom in the family. Maybe it only happens in the case of two kingdoms forming an empire that want to combine their lines(this also implies a black hole of sorts, as one family can just keep taking ghosts from other families. Also implies a lot in regards to kidnapping and forcibly taking ghosts from other families via rape. That made think of something else actually will pick that thought up again later). Right. Where was I?

Ah yeah. Ok so if the eldest child can see the ghosts, that means one family will have multiple lines of ghosts that only certain people would be able to see

If you've got 3 brothers who conquer a kingdom to start with, some 6 generations down the line you'll have 3 distinct lines of ghosts, which is such a juicable concept all on it's own. Specialised branches of the family tree for warfare, for agriculture and inter-kingdom relations. Your entire royal council just being the 8 current leaders of each branch, their oldest children and the 200 ghosts is an amazing writing idea and could lead to some true comedy gold with the constant game of telephone as the current leaders have to tell each other what all their ghosts said(it's own telephone game) and then pass it onto the relevant generation of someone else's ghosts. Heck, imagine the generational gossip. The potential never ends.

Tangentially related(this is all just one big tangent), how are ghosts present in the world? Can they physically interact with objects like quills, sticks, coins etc. to communicate with others or do they have no physical presence in the world and rely soley on their descendant? That would give even more of a monopoly to the eldest child if they're literally the only one who can commune with the family ghosts.

Are the ghosts stuck in one place? If they remain tethered to the place/area they died then that would be such a pain in the ass, imagine needing to travel like 200km to a different castle just to ask your great-great-grandmother where she hid her sister's how-to-kill-a-fuck-off-big-dragon handbook, or to ask your great-grandfather about a law he made. Or always needing to go to one particular bathroom to talk to your mother who died of dierriah. If one of them died over seas in enemy territory then your out of luck, lol.

Could the ghosts be bound into a particular item that's significant to them for easy travel? Imagine a ruler with a belt full of keys and spyglasses and knick-knacks with a whole arsenal of heavy, thick rings on their hands and a magically ghost infused sword with the whisper of their ancestors in their ears telling them how best to kill and conquer.

Or are they bound to significant places instead of places of death? Coronation grounds, wedding grounds, childhood get away, etc. You'd have the same problem as the above.

Oooh, what if they were bound directly to the person? Like they can't go any further than 200m away from the currently living ruler because they're all bound to their kids who were alive when they passed. That'd be cool.

You could have them be free roaming, work as the world's best spies and informants. That would be bothersome though, if you needed them in an emergency unless you had a way to snap them back to you.

Ok, tangent over. Where the fuck was I at. Right yes. Could a royal family have a harem of noble families that they rotate through for marriage? So they keep all the ghosts and don't massively inbreed with each other. For that to actually work you'd have to have at least 12 noble families you rotate through. Hm, what was the average number of noble families per country in history? Ok don't want to go down a rabbit hole, let's just say that there'd be a hierarchy difference even between nobles - those in the marriage rotation and those not. It'd probably be a great honour to be in the rotation, and there'd probably be a lot of bragging about how recently a family was married into royalty or if they married a particularly prominent figure in history. There'd also be shame of a sort if you hadn't been chosen for a long while or married a particularly rotten ruler.

What of the topic of bastard/illegitimate children? How would Sex Ed be affected by this concept? Oh, now that is something oozing potential. Young ruler-to-be is enamoured by some farmhand and gets her pregnant or gets pregnant. Imagine the possibilities. Ruler dies but his eldest can't see him - oh whoops turns out he has a bastard child out there somewhere and they have to track them down to get their ghosts back. Imagine some carpenter or farmer out there who can suddenly see the ghost of the dead king and knows exactly what that means. They could feel crippling anger and sadness that their mother got pregnant by a king when she had been with their dad (a nice carpenter/farmer with a heart of gold) longer than they've been alive. Utter dispare that they won't see their aging father when he dies and instead they're stuck with a bunch of uptight rulers. The alienating and humiliating process of being dragged from everything you've ever known and shoved into royal attire and stared at by nobles and your apparent siblings and relatives for the rest of your life while learning manners and knowing nothing about ruling. Ohh the POTENTIAL.

On that same note(and what I thought about earlier when I mentioned the black hole bit), can you magically disown your eldest child or have them pass the ability onto the next in line, to avoid needing to kill one of your beloved family members or to side-step the above scenario. If that was a thing the ritual would probably be very difficult/expensive to set up and most likely very overwhelming and dangerous.

Ok I think that's all the ideas I can squeeze out of my head for the moment. Phew.

actually fuck you worldbuilding

world where lines of succession and first-born are extremely important (not just for royalty, but also for common folk, but more emphasis is placed on royalty) because when you die, you can choose to stay behind as a ghost. except only your firstborn child can see and hear you.

royal families are built on this, with long lines of ghosts standing behind whoever the current ruler is. craftspeople who always have their parents in their ear telling them exactly how to be perfect.

this is consistent; a ghost can only see the ghosts it would have been able to see in life, so passing information from generations past is always a game of telephone.

of course this whole thing can be bluffed and exploited in a variety of extremely fun ways.

[npookie0]

Hello Nate! I hope you're doing okay ^^

This might be a boring ask but I've been thinking about it for some time haha. Which is:

Headcanons for the lis with a reader who is like, obsessed with rhythm games? As an example pjsk >.< so like, a hardcore rhythm game player :3 Idk, I just love the idea haha. Hope I wasn't disturbing you! Have a nice day/afternoon/night! ૮₍ • ˕ - ₎ა ♡

Feel the Rhythm

headcanon hour because i have a lot of headcanons in my inbox (be scared of me after i wake up cause i plan to do all of them then <3)

Ronin

he watches you whenever you play, he's not all that interested in the game or chart itself, he's more interested in your expression.

If he knows that you're getting real serious he'll try to tease you so you'd mess up your super high combo, unless you're in some competitive mode that is.

Ronin would challenge you to play against him "maybe at least once you'd win with me, hm?"

Angel

She's curious about the games you play, so she watches the screen and shows how impressed she is whenever you have an all perfect, full combo on a chart that she thought of as complicated.

Angel would try to learn to play the game as well to spend time with you like that, she'd get hooked and actually want to have all perfects on all songs.

She'd take care of your poor hands to make sure they're okay after all that tapping and clicking.

Misaki

"Omg you too???? Yay!!!" You'd gain a new play buddy,

Misaki is super competitive in rhythm games so playing with them would feel like a real fighting match instead of a casual game.

If it's something like pjsk, Misaki would match characters with you as her favourite ships, units etc.

V

He wouldn't understand it at first, but overtime he'd grow to understand the appeal of rhythm games as he sees you play them more often,

He'd encourage your spirit of competitiveness and willingness to perfect everything, but if he sees that you're going too far he'd stop you from playing.

He'd actually try playing a few times, but he'd only like songs that are classical, jazz like.

Luca

Plays them with you, thought he'd have a hard time playing

He'd swear that he can beat you in a match, but when it comes to the actual match he'd die and lose many times, but he won't give up

Feli

Likes to listen to the sound of your tapping/clicking as you play

Is able to actually have better scores than you in the game and tease you about it

sorry for them being so short </3

a) it's 2 am b) i honestly dont know what more to put here </3

goodnighttt

byeee

nate <3

[mulletmitsuya]

random tokrev rant ahead !!

when i first started this blog it was going to be for random shitposts, groupchats once in a while, and mostly tokrev analysis but i was so scared of discourse that i just chose to do the funnier stuff 😭. when tokrev was at it's peak i'd be reading 20k+ words of analysis and it was so fun!! but i felt like i couldn't word what i wanted to say properly so that discouraged me but i wish i'd ignored that because there would have been at least one person who understood what i was saying yk?

[veilk]

one of these days i will make a post on my thoughts abt romantic vs platonic i think. that day isnt today but itll probably come eventually

[stardustsea]

My overall opinion on the rwrb movie is that it's very good as a standalone romance movie (not perfect but I wouldn't expect it to be) but it's not a very good adaptation of the book

[why-animals-do-the-thing]

I promised you some lions! Let's talk about manes, males, and management.

This is Tandie, the current male lion at the Woodland Park Zoo.

Notice anything odd about him? He's got one of those hilarious awkward teenager manes. Except... this cat is nine years old.

I was, of course, immediately curious.

Manes serve a lot of purposes for male lions, including being an indicator of health and fitness - it's actually a sexually selected trait and a social signal. Mane texture / hair quality / length is dependent on nutrition and the body having energy to grow (and carry around!) that much hair! The color is also a signal: males with darker manes have been found to have higher testosterone levels.

In one research report, wild males were much more likely to avoid a lion decoy when it had a longer or darker mane - but the girls really loved a dark mane. It's thought this is because a long, dark mane is an indicator of mate quality. Males with longer, darker manes have higher testosterone and were pretty healthy: meaning they had more energy for fighting, had a better chance of recovering if they got injured, and generally had a higher rate of offspring survival. Manes matter!

So, back to Tandie. He was actually born at the Woodland Park Zoo in 2014 alongside two brothers, to dad Xerxes and mother Adia.

This was Xerxes (rip).

Obviously, a very large, dark, lush mane on Xerxes here. So where did these blond muttonchops come from on his son?

I asked the zoo docents and got an answer that didn't make a lot of sense. They told me that after the three cubs grew into adolescents, they were moved to the Oakland Zoo together. But living together suppressed his testosterone, and he never grew a mane.

Hmmmm.

Here's a photo from 2016, when the brothers debuted at Oakland. They're a year and a half old in this photo.

(Photo Credit: Oakland Zoo)

And here's from an announcement for their third birthday.

(Photo credit: Oakland Zoo)

Okay, so these dudes obviously all were growing manes as of 2017. I think Tandie is the one on the left in the first photo, and laying down in the middle on the second. What happened?

I was just in the Bay Area for a zoo road trip, of course I went to Oakland and tracked down a docent to ask some questions.

It turns out that shortly after the brothers turned three, they started acting like adult male lions: they started scuffling regularly. It's a normal social thing for male lions to live in groups, called coalitions, but according to my lion experts there's generally a baseline level of some social jostling within them. It wasn't quite clear from what the docent said if they couldn't manage the boys together, or if they just wanted to avoid the scratches and small wounds that result from normal lion behavior. Regardless, they put all three of the boys on testosterone blockers in order to be able to keep them together as a social group.

Now, I don't know a lot about the use of hormone alteration as a form of captive animal management, except in the case of birth control. I don't think it's something that's unethical - there was just a webinar on it that I saw go by - but I don't think it's commonly done with big cats. Lions have kind of complicated reproductive cycles, and for instance, we've been learning that female lions can take much longer to come into estrus again than expected after coming off hormonal birth control.

In males, testosterone blockers (or being neutered) means they lose their manes. This is why a lot of rescues will do a vasectomy on their males instead of a neuter - it allows them to keep their mane and the social signals that accompany it.

Tandie returned home to Woodland Park Zoo after Xerxes passed in early 2022, and the docent told me all of the lions had been off their blockers "for while." I'd guess those things happened around the same time, since bringing the trio down to a duo at Oakland would reduce some of the social tensions.

Hormones are such interesting things, though. One of Tandie's brothers has a full mane again, and the other is still totally mane-less.

As for Tandie, his mane is growing back in, and it looks like he might rival his dad for length and coloration.

He started here, in February:

Yesterday:

What a difference four months (and maybe proximity to a girl) makes!

[saja-star]

I've had a hard time articulating to people just how fundamental spinning used to be in people's lives, and how eerie it is that it's vanished so entirely. It occurred to me today that it's a bit like if in the future all food was made by machine, and people forgot what farming and cooking were. Not just that they forgot how to do it; they had never heard of it.

When they use phrases like "spinning yarns" for telling stories or "heckling a performer" without understanding where they come from, I imagine a scene in the future where someone uses the phrase "stir the pot" to mean "cause a disagreement" and I say, did you know a pot used to be a container for heating food, and stirring was a way of combining different components of food together? "Wow, you're full of weird facts! How do you even know that?"

When I say I spin and people say "What, like you do exercise bikes? Is that a kind of dancing? What's drafting? What's a hackle?" it's like if I started talking about my cooking hobby and my friend asked "What's salt? Also, what's cooking?" Well, you see, there are a lot of stages to food preparation, starting with planting crops, and cooking is one of the later stages. Salt is a chemical used in cooking which mostly alters the flavor of the food but can also be used for other things, like drawing out moisture...

"Wow, that sounds so complicated. You must have done a lot of research. You're so good at cooking!" I'm really not. In the past, children started learning about cooking as early as age five ("Isn't that child labor?"), and many people cooked every day their whole lives ("Man, people worked so hard back then."). And that's just an average person, not to mention people called "chefs" who did it professionally. I go to the historic preservation center to use their stove once or twice a week, and I started learning a couple years ago. So what I know is less sophisticated than what some children could do back in the day.

"Can you make me a snickers bar?" No, that would be pretty hard. I just make sandwiches mostly. Sometimes I do scrambled eggs. "Oh, I would've thought a snickers bar would be way more basic than eggs. They seem so simple!"

Haven't you ever wondered where food comes from? I ask them. When you were a kid, did you ever pick apart the different colored bits in your food and wonder what it was made of? "No, I never really thought about it." Did you know rice balls are called that because they're made from part of a plant called rice? "Oh haha, that's so weird. I thought 'rice' was just an adjective for anything that was soft and white."

People always ask me why I took up spinning. Isn't it weird that there are things we take so much for granted that we don't even notice when they're gone? Isn't it strange that something which has been part of humanity all across the planet since the Neanderthals is being forgotten in our generation? Isn't it funny that when knowledge dies, it leaves behind a ghost, just like a person? Don't you want to commune with it?

[lovelyhan]

— starcrossed losers ⟢

one night was all it took for your world to unravel. you live now as a princess with no kingdom, a daughter without a family. but when jeonghan reminds you what it feels like to be selfish again, you're torn between reclaiming your birthright and surrendering to the comfort of his arms forever.

★ FEATURING; jeonghan x reader

★ WORD COUNT; 23.8k words

★ TAGS; princess!reader, enemies to lovers, arranged marriage, magic & fantasy, angst, grief/mourning, slow burn, yearning if you squint i guess, smut (MINORS DNI)

★ NOTES; remember when i said this was going to have two parts only? yeah about that... :') the lore was just A Lot, so to speak LOL. it's nigh impossible to conclude in two chapters, so surprise! there will be part three hehe (this is real, no more additions i PROMISE). and just a heads up to those seeing this fic for the first time, this is PART 2!! not a lot will make sense if you don't read part 1 (as linked below hehe).

this is part of the it’s complicated series.

PART ONE | PART TWO | PART THREE

★ SMUT TAGS; oral (f receiving), intercrural sex, drunk sex, they're both just yearning so much for each other your honor, jh still calls you 'your grace' in bed lol, explicit letters? they're freaky with their correspondences (think: medieval sexting), masturbation, fantasizing abt ur lover who's half a kingdom away

The portrait hall was colder than you remembered.

Your steps didn’t echo much across the marble, muffled by the hush that clung to the air like dust. It smelled of polished stone, old candle wax, and something harder to name. You weren’t supposed to be here, not alone and not this late, but no one stopped you anymore.

You walked the corridor slowly, trailing your fingers along the stone. Paintings lined both sides—every monarch who ruled before your father, frozen in oil and velvet, with stiff collars and colder eyes. You didn’t know all their names, but they were not the ones you came here for.

The last portrait at the end of the hall is framed in gold. Lit by a dozen quiet candles, it hung just a little higher than the rest.

Your mother.

You tilted your head back to see her face. She looked taller in the painting than anyone ever described—poised, regal, with a kind of beauty that didn’t invite affection so much as reverence. She looked like you. Or maybe you looked like her. You’d heard it since you were old enough to understand words—how you were her mirror. Her shadow. Her echo.

For a long time, you simply stared, hoping something might change. That if you stood still enough, the memory you never had might rise out of the quiet. That she might turn her head to smile and speak with you. 

“Your Highness.”

You didn’t turn right away

Siwon stepped closer, his shoes making no more noise than yours, and bowed low. Neither formal nor stiff, but familiar—the same way he always did with you and your father.

“You take after her more than you know,” he said softly. 

You kept your eyes straight. “But I never met her.”

“No.” Siwon stood beside you as he folded his hands behind his back. “But she’s with you, all the same.”

You hesitated. “What was she like?”

The king’s advisor was quiet for a long moment. When you looked up at him, he was watching the painting with something gentle in his face—like even now, after all these years, he was still trying to remember the sound of her voice.

“The queen was a quiet woman,” he said. “The court often mistook that for softness, for weakness, but it was far from that. I’d daresay, what she had was strength. She didn’t have to raise her voice to be heard.”

You didn’t answer, but you listened anyway.

“Her magic is… unique,” he said. “She could speak to animals.”

Your brow furrowed. “People can do that?”

He smiled faintly. “Not most people. But your mother could.”

Your chest tightened. The thought felt too large for you, too wild and far away.

“Do you think I can speak to animals too?” you asked.

Siwon turned to you fully, studying your face in the candlelight. His expression was unreadable, but not unkind.

“I do not know,” he told you honestly. “What I do know is this, Your Highness—you will be great. Just as the queen was. In your own way.”

You nodded, slowly, but your eyes were already drifting back to the painting. Her eyes were the same color as yours. But hers knew more. As if they had already seen the road waiting for you.

A faint breeze stirred through the corridor. One of the candles flickered, its flame bowing low before righting itself again. The shadows on the queen’s painted cheek shifted just for a moment, as if she’d breathed.

You stood very still.

Beyond the glass, an owl perched silently on a high branch, its feathers blending into the dark. You didn’t see it, but it watched you with eyes the color of tarnished gold—patient, ancient, and strange.

Siwon said nothing more. He only bowed once, and left you alone in the hush. You stayed a little longer to gaze up at your mother, memorizing the lines of a face you somehow already carried. Then, without a word, you turned and walked back down the hall. 

Behind you, the owl did not blink. Its eyes held no judgment. 

Only memory.

The road was longer than it should’ve been.

Ancarra sat beside Seraphia on every map you’d ever seen, but tonight, it felt impossibly far—like a dream slipping out of reach. Ahead, Soonyoung gripped the reins tight as the coach hurtled forward, the horses driving through the dark as if speed alone could outrun the ruin swallowing your homeland.

Minghao’s scheme was an attack on all fronts. He didn’t just seize the capital, he struck it like a blade to the heart, then sent his forces spilling outward into the neighboring cities before anyone could react. Fires erupted within hours. Screams echoed through the streets. Those who resisted were cut down without mercy, their bodies left where they fell as a message.

You hated that you were fleeing while your people suffered. The guilt clawed at your chest, louder than the thunder of hooves or the distant roar of collapsing stone. You should’ve stayed. Fought. Died, maybe. Anything but this helpless retreat into the night.

The carriage jolted over uneven ground, wheels rattling as it sped through the dark. Inside, it was tense and still, save for the tremble in Joshua’s clasped hands. He sat across from you, his usual calm replaced by something sharper. You’d never seen him this shaken before, but how could he not be? He came to this kingdom to partake in your name-day celebration, and now you were all escaping from the ashes of the capital—its streets overrun, its people scattered, its sky lit with fire. 

Every now and then, Joshua looked like he might speak. A prayer, maybe. A scrap of comfort. He was good at those. But you didn’t move. Didn’t meet his gaze. Didn’t say a word.

So he stayed silent too.

Each breath you took was shaky as the night’s events replayed in your mind. From the argument that broke out between Jeonghan and Minghao, to leaving your father and Siwon and Reya behind. You wanted to scream, to cry, to tear the world apart until it made sense again. A pit had settled in your stomach, cold and unmoving, as if grief had anchored itself there before you’d even had time to mourn. 

You hadn’t even noticed Jeonghan shifting closer until you felt the warmth of his shoulder brushing yours. There were no clever remarks. No biting retorts. This silence was unlike him. Jeonghan had always met fear with wit, always masked discomfort with a smirk or a well-timed jab. Now, he just sat beside you like he understood. Like he knew that if he spoke, the weight you were carrying might shatter into something neither of you could hold.

You only realized you were shaking until Jeonghan shifted beside you, just enough that his voice could reach you without disturbing the hush in the carriage.

“Back in Seraphia,” he said quietly, “Joshua and I used to sit through hours of meetings. Couldn’t speak. Couldn’t even glance at each other without getting called out.”

Joshua stirred across from you, lifting his head just slightly at the mention.

“So,” Jeonghan went on, “we came up with a system.”

He reached down and tapped your knee once, light and deliberate over the fabric of your dress.

“One tap means ‘okay.’ Or ‘understood.’”

Then he tapped twice.

“Two means ‘I’m here.’”

You blinked, the simplicity of it landing with more weight than it should’ve. You turned to look at him, but Jeonghan wasn’t watching you—his eyes stayed focused somewhere just past the smoke-fogged window. He wasn’t trying to fix anything. He was just… offering.

Across from you, Joshua gave a faint, weary smile. “He’d overuse it,” he said softly, his voice hoarse but laced with familiarity. “Especially when he wanted me to lie for him.”

Jeonghan didn’t deny it. But he tapped your knee twice again.

I’m here.

You didn’t know where a trick like that would ever be useful again. But something about it made the carriage feel a little less cold. A little less like a coffin.

With a quaint sigh, you leaned into him just a bit, and finally let your eyes close as the carriage hurtled deeper into the night, toward a future that hadn’t yet begun—and away from everything you could never return to.

You fled Ancarra at midnight. You arrived in Seraphia at midnight, too.

Weary didn’t begin to describe it—there was a bone-deep exhaustion no salve could soothe, no rest could touch. But still, you pressed on because you had to. Because turning back was no longer an option.

The royal gates opened in silence.

No guards shouted. No horns were blown. Only those within the highest circle had been told of your arrival. Soonyoung stayed close. He hadn’t let go of your hand once since you left the carriage. Even now, as the royal halls unfolded before you, too lavish and too golden in the low candlelight, his grip was still tight, still trembling.

Jeonghan and Joshua led the way. Their home was pristine, but it was the tension in the air that choked you. Familiar, but no longer comforting.

You’d been to this castle before—more times than you could count. You’d played in these halls. Danced in that ballroom. Once tripped down those stairs and cried into the queen’s lap until she bribed you with an entire tray of sweets. And still, you’d never felt smaller than you did tonight.

The Seraphian king and queen were already waiting when you were ushered into one of the drawing rooms. They looked exactly as you remembered them: regal, elegant, kind. But this time, the queen didn’t reach for your cheek with a gentle tease. She reached for you like a mother.

“My dear,” she whispered, folding you into her arms. “Oh, my poor girl.”

That was all it took. Your knees nearly gave way, and you had to grip her robes to keep yourself upright. But you didn’t cry just yet. You just clung to her like a lifeline.

Soonyoung bowed hastily, words pouring from his mouth before anyone else could speak. “Your Majesties, I—please forgive me. If Renxing learns you’ve taken us in, they’ll see it as an act of war. We didn’t mean to bring that to your doorstep. We’ll leave at first light—”

“Nonsense,” said the king, rising to his feet. “You will do no such thing.”

The queen nodded. “You are children. Brave, loyal children—but still children. You should not have to live on the run. Not like this.”

Joshua stepped closer to your side, quiet but watchful. Jeonghan on the other hand, hadn’t moved far either—lingering near the door, as though still expecting trouble to follow through the threshold. But the queen looked at him then. 

“Jeonghan. Take them to the west wing. Let her rest,” she said all while smoothing a hand across your hair. “Tomorrow we’ll speak with the court, but tonight… She's home.”

Home.

You didn’t know if this place still qualified as that. But you let yourself be led away anyway, the promise of a bed and safety something you no longer had the strength to refuse.

Shortly after stepping into the west wing, Joshua handed you a change of clothes. The fabric was soft, finer than anything you remembered from Seraphia’s stores—lavender-dyed linen, threaded with silver at the hems. Fit for royalty. 

You barely registered it when he placed the bundle in your arms. Your eyes kept flickering to the stonework. The sconces. The tapestries. All things that reminded you of home.

Of a home that was no longer yours.

Jeonghan said nothing as he walked ahead, guiding you and Soonyoung down the hall. He knew these corridors like the back of his hand. You remembered once accusing him of being born with the entire palace floor plan stamped into his skull. Now you trailed behind him like a ghost, your hand still clasped around your advisor’s. When you reached the two doors at the end of the hall, the older prince opened both. 

“These rooms are yours for as long as you need them.”

Soonyoung started to step away, finally giving you a little space. But your grip tightened, your breath catching in your throat.

“No,” you said quietly, urgently. “Don’t.”

Your advisor blinked. “...Princess?”

You turned to Jeonghan. You hadn’t called him by name once since fleeing the castle, but now, your voice cracked under the weight of formality. “May I share a room with him? Just for tonight.”

It was strange. The way the words sounded in your mouth, like they belonged to someone else. But you couldn’t bear the thought of sleeping alone. You were used to the velvet canopy of your bed. The tinkle of windchimes outside your window. Reya curled beside your feet, a silent guardian through the night. Tonight, you had nothing. 

No father. No Reya. No home.

You were a princess without a kingdom. A daughter without a family. And Soonyoung—

He was the last piece of Ancarra you had left.

“Of course.”

Your eyes met Jeonghan’s for only a moment. He didn’t press. Didn’t question. Didn’t flinch at the unspoken wound in your gaze. He simply told you, “Rest easy. I’ll be right next door if you need anything.”

And then he turned and left, the door clicking shut behind him.

Joshua quickly excused himself to his own bedchambers down the hall as well, bidding the two of you a good night’s sleep. The concern lingered in the younger prince’s gaze, but like Jeonghan, he knew better than to press. You wouldn’t know how to respond in your current state either.

So for tonight, you clung to what was left. To Soonyoung’s hand, and the sound of your own breath.

The council chamber was stifling. Heavy with incense, arguments, and the scent of fear. Seraphia’s nobles lined the carved obsidian table, draped in silk and pride. The royal mages sat to the side, faces sharp with suspicion. You stood beneath their scrutiny like a shadow that did not belong.

“…and still, we do not know the full scope of the damage,” one mage—high-collared and ageless—was saying. “No formal declaration. No surviving messengers. Instead, we’re relying on the testimony of fugitives.”

You flinched at the word.

Soonyoung stepped forward immediately, jaw tight with barely restrained frustration. “Her Highness is not a fugitive. She is Ancarra’s rightful heir.”

“And Ancarra,” one noblewoman drawled, “may very well be gone.”

Jeonghan, seated beside the Seraphian king, said nothing. But you felt his gaze flick toward you, subtle and reassuring. His fingers drummed once, then again, against the dark wood of the table. Two quick taps.

It came and went like a ripple in still water. But you caught the message, and with it, the ache in your chest lightened just slightly. Jeonghan couldn’t speak now, not when the room brimmed with eyes trained on every twitch and breath. But he had found a way to reach you anyway. 

I’m here.

His father leaned forward.

“We have no confirmation,” the king said. “There have been no proclamations from Renxing. No movement at our borders either. Everything surrounding Ancarra has been… suspiciously quiet. We mustn’t act hastily.”

“You are asking us,” another noble spat, “to shelter the target of an imperial coup. The general of the Renxing army ransacked her castle—what happens when he turns his gaze here?”

“And what happens,” Soonyoung countered, “if we do nothing? If we let Renxing consume one kingdom after another while we pretend not to see?”

A harsh silence fell.

Someone muttered under their breath, “We are not ready for war.”

“We don’t have to be,” Jeonghan said at last, voice calm but deadly precise. “Not yet, at least.”

All heads turned.

“The princess and her advisor will remain under our protection,” he went on. “If Renxing wanted to make a move, they would have done it already. Minghao isn’t a fool—he’s waiting to see how the other kingdoms respond. How we respond.”

“And if our response is weakness,” someone murmured, “he’ll strike.”

You didn’t speak. You couldn’t. Not with the sight of your father’s blood still fresh in your memory. Not with Reya’s last words still echoing through you like the toll of a funeral bell. But you felt Jeonghan’s gaze on you again, a flicker of warmth in a room gone cold.

Two taps on the table.

I’m here.

Time passed like molasses. Slow and suffocating.

In the weeks that followed, you learned what it meant to haunt a place while still being alive. You were a ghost in the Seraphian castle—seen but untouched, spoken of but rarely spoken to. After that council meeting, the king swore every noble and mage present to silence. A blood oath of secrecy. Your name, your survival, your very presence within Seraphia’s marble halls became a state secret punishable by death.

You knew it was necessary. Still, it left a hollow sort of guilt in your chest. How many of them resented you for it? How many feared the noose for sheltering the broken thing Ancarra left behind?

You had nowhere else to go.

So you stayed. Hidden.

Some days, you didn’t rise from bed. Others, you sat at the same window for hours, watching the sunlight shift across the floorboards without ever touching your face. Birds came sometimes—tiny, curious things you would have spoken to once without thinking. But now their songs only deepened the quiet inside you.

You didn’t speak to them.

You didn’t speak much at all.

Soonyoung tried, in his quiet and patient way. But even he couldn’t always get through. He gave you space, and Jeonghan filled in the spaces you didn’t know how to ask for. He never pushed. Never chided you for letting yourself drown in your grief. 

Instead, he left things for you to have. A fresh cup of tea on your bedside table. A shawl when the castle halls turned bitter cold. A book he thought you might like, even if the pages remained untouched for weeks. Joshua would come by to spare you the exact same kindness every now and again, but it was different when it was Jeonghan. 

You weren’t used to this version of him. It even unsettled you at first. You’d built your walls tall and sharp, braced for the inevitable moment he’d strike a nerve just for the fun of it. But it never came. Jeonghan did not demand anything from you. Not even conversation.

He simply remained.

Sometimes, you would catch him watching you from the doorway of whatever room you’d choose to linger in that day. Not like a hawk, but like a boy who’d once laughed too loud and too often, now standing very still for fear of making you disappear. You weren’t sure what to make of it, but you let him linger. 

One morning, you actually made it to the dining hall.

You weren’t even that hungry, but Soonyoung had pressed gently and Jeonghan had waited in the corridor without saying a word, just long enough for you to force yourself out of bed and into something clean. That was how most things happened lately. Not because you wanted them to. But because the people who hadn’t left you yet… waited long enough.

You sat alone at a small table in the far end of the hall, poking at a bowl of warm barley stew. The fire crackled in the hearth, and the morning sun slanted through stained glass in ribbons of gold and violet. You barely noticed.

“Princess?”

You looked up.

The woman that approached you was unfamiliar. Mid-thirties, maybe. Her pale robes were brushed with ink black sigils and constellations. You’ve studied Seraphia's geography before, so you vaguely recognized the embroidered crest on her clothes. She was a royal mage of Aragorn, one of the southern cities.

You blinked at her, unsure what to say. The woman didn’t bow, but she placed her hand gently over her chest in a gesture of greeting.

“I hope I’m not intruding, Your Highness. My name is Taeyeon,” she said softly. “I just wanted to see how you were doing.”

You stared for a second too long, then dropped your eyes back to your half-eaten bowl. 

“I’m… still alive.”

The words escaped your lips with no real thought. You hadn’t meant to say them aloud, but they were true. And in some small, exhausted part of you, it felt like that was enough. However, Taeyeon didn’t smile at your answer, nor did she grimace. All she offered in response was the slightest nod of her head. 

“It’s a relief that you’re very much alive,” she said. “But, Princess, are you truly living?”

You couldn’t answer.

Because that sentence cut straight through you like a drawn blade. Your spoon fell gently back into the bowl as your chest started to ache. Your breath hitched before you could stop it, and in that flicker of pain, you remembered:

Ancarra will never die as long as you live.

You had survived that night; you were surviving still, but you weren’t living.  Not in a way Reya would have believed in. Not in a way your father would have wanted for you.

Taeyeon didn’t press you for an answer. She simply stood there, hands folded loosely in front of her, watching with the kind of stillness that made you feel like she saw more than she should. Not just your body seated at the table, but the frayed thing beneath it trying not to come apart.

After a moment, she spoke again. 

“In Aragorn, when we lose someone,” she said, “we say: May your shadow return when your heart is ready to follow it.”

You lifted your head. Taeyeon gave a small smile before continuing.

“It means there’s no shame in not feeling whole,” she explained. “Sometimes the part of us that knows how to live stays behind with the ones we lost. But that part can find its way back, when we’re ready to want it again.”

You couldn’t respond, but you didn’t turn from her, either.

Taeyeon inclined her head again. “Forgive me for interrupting your morning, Princess. I’ll take my leave.”

And just like that, she turned and walked off, robes trailing soft behind her, the sigils on her sleeves catching light like starlight on ink. 

That evening, the castle was quiet. 

You sat by the window, letting the breeze pull through in slow, whispering drifts. Moonlight spilled across the floor in a soft silver veil. You hadn’t lit a candle. The dark felt easier somehow—like it knew how to hold the ache without asking you to explain.

Taeyeon’s words still echoed in your chest.

May your shadow return when your heart is ready to follow it.

You repeated it in your head like a spell, tracing it over the ache in your ribs, the hollow behind your sternum. And for the first time in weeks, you felt… lighter. As if some part of you was no longer curled in on itself.

A knock at the door broke the quiet.

Soonyoung stepped inside after your soft murmur of permission. His brows were drawn, a solemn expression fixed to his face as he closed the door behind him. He looked exhausted—but it wasn’t just that. You recognized it now. Determination. The kind that didn’t come without a cost.

“…There’s something I need to tell you,” he said.

You looked at him. And your stomach twisted before he even began.

“I’ve made the decision to return to Ancarra. Or beyond, if that’s where the truth leads.” His voice was calm, but beneath it, his hands were clenched. “It’s been more than a month, and we still don’t know what Minghao truly wants. Or if the Renxing emperor is even complicit in his actions. That silence is not mercy—it’s misdirection.”

“... So you’re leaving me?” Your body tensed, the words spilling from your mouth before you could stop them. “You’re leaving me alone?”

Soonyoun’s expression grew even more pained. “I must, Your Highness. It’s the only way we can take back the kingdom.”

You stood too quickly. The chair screeched behind you.

“But you don’t even have magic, Soonyoung!” Your voice cracked like glass. “How will you protect yourself? What if—what if—”

“He won’t go alone, Your Grace.” 

The interruption came from the doorway.

Jeonghan leaned against the frame with his arms crossed. You didn’t even notice him slipping into your bedchambers. 

“Soonyoung asked for my counsel before he made this decision. Seraphia will assign him two of our finest knights. They’ve been given clearance to act under our name, and they shall die before they let harm come to him.”

But none of that comforted you. None of it made the hollow, aching grief in your chest feel any less unbearable. Because it wasn’t just about strategy or survival.

It was about losing the one constant you had left.

“I can’t…” Your voice was hoarse as tears slipped past your lashes. “I can’t lose you too.”

Soonyoung crossed the room in three strides, and this time, he didn’t wait for permission. He held you as your breath shook, as your hands clutched at his sleeves, as all the agony you’d kept buried for weeks came tumbling loose from your chest.

“You won’t lose me,” he murmured into your hair. 

You pulled back just enough to look him in the eye. “Swear it. Swear you’ll come back to me alive. Swear you won’t even think about letting yourself get killed out there.”

Soonyoung  raised a hand to his heart and bowed his head solemnly. 

“I swear it. “On Ancarra. On my life. I will return to you.”

At that moment, you believed him.

Because you had to.

The library was quiet this afternoon.

You sat tucked into your usual corner, nestled between shelves that reached toward the vaulted ceiling like ancient sentinels. A book rested open in your lap—one Jeonghan had brought you days ago—its pages worn at the edges, words curling like ivy down the margins. The scent of dust and cedar wrapped around you, warm and unintrusive.

You'd begun venturing beyond your chambers more often now. Not much. Not far. But it was something. The worst of the weight had lifted, even if grief still hung from your shoulders like a veil. You could breathe again, even if each breath was fragile.

But you still kept your distance.

The Seraphian nobles who roamed the castle in silks and polished boots looked at you like a stain on the tapestries—an echo of a ruined kingdom. Their glances were sharp and slick with quiet disdain, and so you’d learned to disappear before they could speak your name.

Here in the library, though, no one expected anything of you.

You had just tucked your knees beneath you, settling deeper into the window seat’s cushions, when the door eased open with a soft creak.

Jeonghan stood in the doorway with a bundle of red roses in his hands.

You blinked. “What… is this?”

The prince stepped inside, the edge of his cloak brushing the floor like a velvet shadow. “What does it look like?” he said, one brow lifting. “Am I not allowed to bring flowers to my betrothed?”

You stared at him. Then at the roses. Then back again. “…Did you pick those from the palace gardens?”

“Not quite. Shua bought them for me from a florist in the city.” A crooked, boyish smile tugged at his lips. “So maybe it’s a gift from him, too.”

You took them slowly, careful not to crush the velvet petals. The scent was unexpectedly sweet—deep, almost honeyed. “They’re beautiful,” you murmured. Then, with a bitter little laugh, “But… can I still be called your betrothed when my kingdom is in ruins?”

Jeonghan didn’t even hesitate. He crossed the room without hesitation and sank into the seat beside you, close enough that your shoulders touched.

“I’m betrothed to you,” he said, brushing your cheek delicately with his knuckles. “Not your crown. Not your court. You.”

The roses trembled slightly in your grip. You looked down at them, then at his other hand resting between you. That warmth beneath your ribs stirred again. Like the first hint of spring in frozen ground.

You lowered your gaze, letting the silence settle between you.

The roses in your lap were the same deep red as the ones that always bloomed late in your garden back home. You hadn’t thought about those roses in months. Maybe longer.

Your fingers tightened slightly around the stems.

You’d spent over ten years loathing Jeonghan. Not because he was a stranger. but because he never missed a chance to get under your skin. He’d tease you until your temper frayed, smirk when you snapped, and always walked away looking far too pleased with himself.

And by some twist of fate, the two of you fell into each other in ways that would have made his mother faint. You hadn’t stopped being confused. Not when he kissed you back behind that statue of a winged-lion. And certainly not now, with red roses in your lap and his breath soft beside your cheek.

If only he’d been like this from the start, you thought. We would’ve been married at eighteen.

But you didn’t say it aloud. You didn’t dare. Because what if this was just another version of him you didn’t know how to keep?

“…Thank you,” you said finally, voice barely above a whisper.

Jeonghan didn’t look away when you voiced your gratitude. He just nodded once and then leaned back slightly, letting the weight of the moment stretch into something more familiar. 

“You know… since you’ve been out and about lately, I was wondering.”

“Wondering what?”

“If you’d be interested in getting a bit of exercise.” His mouth twitched. 

You blinked. “What kind of exercise?”

“The kind that gets your blood moving. Not a walk in the gardens or a stroll in the city,” he added, as if reading your mind. “Something a little more… hands-on.”

You arched a brow. “Are you offering to fight me?”

“Please.” He huffed a laugh. “I like my bones unbroken.”

You snorted despite yourself.

“I was thinking,” he continued, “the captain of the royal guard is in the capital for once. He’s only around for a few days, and I figured… he might be a good sparring partner. If you’re interested.”

Your fingers tightened slightly around the roses in your lap. You hadn’t picked up a sword in—gods, months now. Maybe longer. Before everything fell apart, you’d been too busy preparing for your name-day. For the wedding. For the future you were supposed to have. But now that future was uncertain, and you were tired of feeling like a ghost inside it.

You let out a slow breath. “All right. It’s about time I stretched my legs.”

“Perfect. Seungcheol gets cranky in the mornings, but it’ll be worth your time,” he reassured.

That’s how you found yourself following Jeonghan to the castle’s training grounds. You were given a set of training clothes before you left—the fabric lighter than your usual garments, loose enough for movement, fitted enough not to snag. 

The castle’s training grounds were nestled behind the east wing, flanked by low stone walls and a cluster of blooming trees that masked the sound of the city beyond. A rack of weapons stood at the far end, well-maintained and meticulously ordered. You could see chalk lines on the ground, which Jeonghan said were for marking the sparring space.

Everything here breathed discipline.

The captain of the royal guard was already at the center of the yard, shirt damp with sweat, muscles taut with the effort of repetition. He held a longsword in one hand, his other arm wrapped loosely behind his back, and swung with precise, unhurried control—over and over, like a pendulum. 

“Seungcheol does that a thousand times every day,” Jeonghan whispered. “Exactly a thousand. He won’t stop until he hits the count.”

You watched the glint of the blade arc through the air again. “Why?”

“He says if his body forgets how to move, his men might not live long enough to remind him.”

At the sound of your footsteps, Seungcheol paused mid-swing. He didn’t sheathe the sword—just lowered it, slow and steady, turning to face you both. His expression was unreadable. Eyes sharp beneath dark brows, jaw set in a way that suggested he didn’t approve of being interrupted.

“Captain,” Jeonghan greeted, polite but casual. “Hope we’re not intruding.”

Seungcheol’s gaze flicked between the two of you before sparing a shallow nod. “Your Highness.”

The prince gestured toward you. “We were hoping you’d spare some time. She wants to spar.”

Seungcheol’s frown deepened. His eyes settled on you again, more pointed now. “Pardon the bluntness, but I’ve heard from the staff you’ve barely left your bedchambers these past few weeks. You’ve been… recovering.” His tone didn’t mock—but it didn’t soften either. “You’re in no condition to spar.”

You met his scrutiny with a calm smile.

“Then,” you said gently, “would you please help build my strength back up?”

For a moment, the only sound was wind through the leaves, and the faint creak of leather as Seungcheol’s grip tightened on his sword.

He didn’t answer right away. He studied you for a moment, like someone measuring the weight of a blade before deciding if it would bend or break. Then, wordlessly, he turned and walked toward the weapons rack.

Jeonghan leaned in, voice low beside your ear. “That’s as close to a yes as you’ll get from him.”

You followed the captain, pausing at the display of steel. Seungcheol gestured for you to take your pick, and you scanned the rack quietly until something caught your eye. 

A light looking blade with a slender edge and a modest curve—closer in length to a saber than a broadsword. It wasn’t built for brute force. It was built for speed and control. For footwork and momentum. You tested the balance with a quick flick of your wrist, feeling it settle in your palm like it belonged there.

“I’ll go easy,” Seungcheol said once you faced him across the chalk-marked sparring circle. His tone wasn’t patronizing, just careful.

“Don’t,” you replied simply. “I won’t learn anything that way.”

His eyes narrowed just slightly. Then he lifted his blade.

You moved before he did.

Not because you were faster, but because it was how you fought. Nimble and reactive. Fencing had been etched into your body since you were a child; every muscle remembered the rhythm of lunge and parry, advance and retreat. That grace had bled into your swordsmanship over the years, giving you a certain elegance that traditional soldiers often lacked. Where Seungcheol’s footwork was grounded and economical, yours was fluid—almost like you were dancing. You ducked and pivoted, letting your momentum carry you in and out of reach.

Still, the difference in strength was undeniable.

Even with Seungcheol clearly restraining his strikes, each blow sent shockwaves through your arms, your shoulders, your core. You felt it everywhere—sinew, bone, the spaces between your ribs. It didn’t help that your body was still readjusting to this level of activity. Your blade met his again, sparks flaring where metal scraped metal. You twisted your body, slipped past his side, and landed a touch against his arm. It wasn’t a real wound, but a point nonetheless.

Seungcheol adjusted his stance, looking more serious.

Despite his earlier protests, it was clear he wasn’t holding back where it counted. He saw you not as a princess, or Jeonghan’s betrothed, or a grieving shadow—but as a fighter. And he responded accordingly.

It wasn’t easy. But that was the point.

For the first time in weeks, you felt something more than the dull ache of loss. You felt fire in your muscles, purpose in the press of your feet against the dirt. Your pulse thundered in your ears—not with fear, but focus.

By the time the sparring session wound down, your limbs ached in the best possible way—burning from use, not from injury. Seungcheol lowered his blade and gave you a curt nod, sweat darkening the collar of his tunic. 

Jeonghan, ever dramatic, clapped twice as he stepped back into the ring. “I thought nothing could top your archery, but clearly, I was mistaken. If I’d known you could dance like that with a blade, I might’ve started picking fights even sooner.”

You gave him a flat look, but the smile you tried to suppress betrayed you.

Nearby, the palace maids arrived with a tray of refreshments: cool water, fresh fruit, and honey-dusted pastries. Jeonghan plucked a slice of melon and collapsed dramatically onto the grass, gesturing for the two of you to join him.

Seungcheol accepted a waterskin and sat with a soldier’s ease, posture still straight. He glanced at you over the rim as he drank. “You don’t fight like most nobles, much less a princess. Who trained you?”

You wiped your brow with a cloth, accepting a small plate from one of the maids. “The captain of the royal guard in Ancarra,” you replied, selecting a piece of apricot. “Yesung. He was my master since I could walk straight. My father trusted him a lot.”

Seungcheol paused mid-chew.

“You know him?” you asked, catching the subtle shift in his eyes.

“I’ve heard of him,” he said eventually, voice neutral. “Respected name, even here in Seraphia.”

But there was something else—something he didn’t say. The tension around his jaw hinted at it. His gaze drifted off, distant, like he was weighing the risk of continuing.

You watched him carefully, but he said nothing more.

Instead, you exhaled and reached for your cup. “I regret not spending more time training,” you said softly. “When I got older, there were just… too many duties. My blade started collecting more dust than not.”

Seungcheol looked at you then. “You’ve still got the edge. It’s not gone. Just dulled from disuse. You get it back by doing what you did today.”

Jeonghan leaned his head back on the grass and let out a satisfied sigh. “And by winning dramatically in front of handsome soldiers,” he added unhelpfully. “That helps.”

You snorted into your drink. Seungcheol rolled his eyes.

The walk back to your bedchambers was quiet, the sun already dipping behind the spires of the palace, painting the corridors in molten gold and deepening shadows. The soreness in your shoulders had begun to settle into something warm and satisfying, and your thoughts floated somewhere between the scent of red roses and the weight of Seungcheol’s blade against yours.

Jeonghan walked beside you with an easy, unhurried gait, arms folded behind his back. For a while, he said nothing.

Then, casually, “You two got along fast.”

“Hm? Who?”

He glanced at you. “You and Seungcheol.”

You laughed. “You set that match up, remember?”

“I did,” he said simply. “Still. You didn’t hold back.”

“Neither did he.”

You stopped at the entrance to your chambers and turned to him with a no-good smile. “Wait—are you jealous?”

The prince scoffed. “I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t have to.” You stepped forward, narrowing the gap between you, your voice dropping into something deliberately teasing. “Prince Jeonghan of Seraphia, green with envy because someone dared to match me blow for blow.”

“I’m not envious of Seungcheol.”

“Oh? Then why the face?”

“I do not envy his swordsmanship,” he clarified slowly. “But I don’t particularly enjoy watching someone else touch what’s mine.”

You opened your mouth to remind him that one: you do not belong to anyone; and two: sparring with Seungcheol was his idea, but Jeonghan moved before you could get the words out.

The prince pushed you gently but firmly against the nearest wall, the cool stone kissing your spine through the thin fabric of your tunic. Your eyes widened instinctively, darting down the hallway for any unfortunate witness. But no one was there. 

“Jeonghan—”

His face was too close. You could see the mischievous glint in his eyes now edged with something darker, something you weren’t used to from him. His palm rested just beside your head, the other curling lightly around your hip.

“I may not be a fighter,” he whispered, “but you know very well how good I am as a lover.”

Your breath caught in your throat.

And just like that, Jeonghan stepped back, smirking faintly as if nothing had happened at all. “I’ll let you have your bath,” he said lightly, already walking away with a brief wave. “Enjoy the rest of your day, Princess.”

Your heart hammered in your chest as he disappeared around the corner, carrying the heat of the moment with him.

To Her Highness, the Princess of Ancarra,

I hope this letter finds you in a place of quiet strength. It has been a few weeks since we last spoke, but your presence has lingered with me. I write to you not only to offer my continued condolences, but also to speak plainly of something I withheld during our first meeting.

You see, I sought you out not only because of political curiosity—but because I had heard whispers of your beast magic. There are few in this realm who bear such a gift. Beast magic, as I know it, is more than just communication or communion with the animals you encounter. And in the right hands, it can move worlds.

Forgive my boldness in bringing this to you now. I know you may still be in mourning. I know healing rarely follows a straight path. But if your heart is ready—if your spirit stirs with the thought of reclaiming that part of yourself—I wish to offer something more than words.

There is a mage here in Aragorn. Older than most, and not fond of titles, but a veteran in every sense. She has mentored magi of all kinds, but has always been drawn to those with wild souls, whose power doesn’t stem from structure, but from instinct. I believe she would take you as a student, if you so wish. You will have space, safety, and the freedom to shape your magic on your own terms. 

Should you agree, sign the edge of this letter in ink. I have enchanted the parchment to alert me of that choice, and I will come to you shortly, wherever you may be. But please only do that when you’re certain that you wish to leave the capital. My method of travel takes quite a toll on me, and I must prepare accordingly. I ask for no immediate answer. Only that you consider what your power might become, and what peace you might find in knowing it better. 

May your shadow return when your heart is ready to follow it.

With respect and warmth,

Kim Taeyeon Royal Mage of Aragorn

You had already read the letter by the time the light slanted low across the windows, gilding the old stone floors in gold and ash. It lay open on your lap, creased in the middle where your fingers had pressed too tightly—half from surprise, half from the rush of hope you hadn’t meant to feel.

When it first arrived, you thought of Soonyoung. Your heart had leapt, sharp and high into your throat. But no, Soonyoung wouldn’t send letters. He wouldn’t risk a paper trail, not when enemies watched every corridor and whisper. 

Still, the disappointment lingered. And yet... Taeyeon’s letter had been a surprise. 

She’d written with care, but she hadn’t danced around her purpose. You read the letter twice. Then a third time. The ink smudged faintly where your thumb had lingered too long.

Now, hours later, you sat in the small borrowed study near Jeonghan’s wing, the one with the wisteria vine crawling halfway across the outer windowsill. The Seraphian castle was beautiful, but it wasn't home. You missed the way the light fell in Ancarra’s hallways. You missed Soonyoung’s presence like a missing sleeve in winter—a functional, familiar part of you.

You’ve been training your swordsmanship again even when Seungcheol had already departed for his next mission. But gods knew that adjusting had been slow for you. On top of the fact that you were practically inconsolable for the first few weeks, the guards didn’t know how to speak to you, the maids were too kind, and the Renxing forces remained ghastly quiet. Taeyeon’s letter didn’t fix any of those things. But it gave you something you hadn’t had in a long time: direction.

A quiet knock stirred the air. You tucked the letter under a book, as if it were a secret.

The door creaked open to reveal Jeonghan, relaxed as ever in a loose cream shirt and embroidered vest. Behind him trailed Joshua, who offered you a polite smile, hands folded behind his back.

“Fancy going out for a drink?” Jeonghan asked, like he was inviting you to a garden stroll and not suggesting a public outing for a supposedly hidden political exile.

You stared at him. “A drink?”

“Mhm. In the city.”

“You mean the city city? Where people... live?”

Jeonghan tilted his head. “Well, yes. Unless you’ve found a secret tavern in the catacombs.”

You glanced from him to Joshua, as if the latter might somehow provide clarity—but Joshua only gave you a sheepish little shrug, like he’d already tried and failed to talk Jeonghan out of this idea.

“Jeonghan,” you said slowly, “your father threatened the entire royal council to keep my presence here quiet. And now you want to parade me around in broad daylight?”

He snorted. “First of all, it’s past dusk. Second, I’m not parading anyone. Third,” he clapped a hand on Joshua’s shoulder, “this one sneaks around all the time and hasn’t been caught once. If anyone can get you in and out without raising suspicion, it’s him.”

Joshua rolled his eyes but didn’t argue. “We’re going to The Bitter Swan. My—uh, my lover works there. She’s a bartender. Best in the kingdom.”

That actually made you pause.

Joshua had been engaged some time ago—before Ancarra fell, before the world started collapsing beneath your feet. You didn’t know the full story, only that it hadn’t ended well. But now, he looked... different. Not visibly changed, but lighter in a way you hadn’t seen before.

“You’re seeing someone?” you asked, more surprised than you meant to sound.

He scratched the back of his neck. “Yes. For a while now.”

You nodded, something soft brushing against your chest. It was relief, you realized. You were glad for him.

You glanced at the hidden letter, then back at the two boys. “Fine,” you said, rising reluctantly from your seat. “But if I get recognized and we end up sparking an international incident, I’m blaming both of you.”

Jeonghan grinned, wholly unrepentant. “Noted.”

The Bitter Swan was tucked between two shuttered bakeries and lit by a pair of storm glass lanterns swinging above the doorway. The place was alive with sound—laughter, the shuffle of boots on worn floorboards, the clink of glass—and warm in a way that most Seraphian halls, no matter how finely gilded, never quite managed.

You kept your hood up until you were past the threshold, nerves twisting sharp beneath your ribs. But no one gave you a second look. No one whispered. No guards came bursting through the door with drawn blades.

Joshua led the way, weaving easily through the crowd with Jeonghan at his heels. You followed, careful not to draw attention. Then you saw her—behind the bar, sleeves rolled to her elbows, hair tied back with a leather cord. Her smile cracked open the moment she spotted Joshua.

“Well?” she called. “Did you bring me anything worth my time or just more of your sweet talk?”

Joshua grinned and flicked his fingers, conjuring a small daisy out of thin air. It hovered for a moment, pale and delicate, before he caught it and stepped behind the bar to tuck it behind her ear.

His lover groaned. “Every time. It’s always a daisy.”

“And you always keep it,” he said, smug.

You tried not to stare. Not at her, or at the way Joshua’s magic came so easily now. You hadn’t realized how long it had been since you saw him do that. Since he let himself do that.

Then he turned to you. “This is Yoona,” he said, gesturing proudly. “Yoona, this is—”

“Yes, yes, I know.” She rolled her eyes and wiped her hands on a cloth. “You already told me. Don’t say it out loud or you’ll blow her cover.”

That startled a laugh out of you. “You told her?”

“I trust her,” Joshua reassured. “Besides, she would have figured it out before I even said anything. Might as well cut to the chase.”

Yoona winked. “Your cloak screams ‘I’m totally not a royal in disguise.’ Kind of reminds me of someone who used to do the same thing around these parts.”

You blinked. Then laughed again when Joshua’s ears flushed red. 

Jeonghan slid onto the barstool beside you like he belonged there. “Could I get an Oak Walker for myself and the lady? Shua said he’ll be our designated chaperone for the evening.”

You blinked. “You just decided I’d like it?”

Jeonghan shrugged, a faint glint of mischief in his eyes. “Everyone likes an Oak Walker.”

The night unfolded slower than you'd expected.

At first, you stayed stiff, elbows tucked, back straight, eyes flicking toward the door every time it creaked. You scanned faces, counted exits. Even as Yoona poured drinks with practiced ease and Joshua lingered at her side like a puppy off-leash, you couldn’t quite unclench your shoulders. You kept your hood up for the first half hour.

But then Yoona started talking.

She shared funny little anecdotes from her years working the bar. About a traveling bard who sang so terribly he cleared the room, or the night a drunk warlock accidentally enchanted every pint glass to sprout legs and sprint off the counter. Her storytelling was effortless, the kind that made even strangers lean in. Somewhere between the second and third tale, you realized you'd relaxed. Your hand had drifted away from your hip. You weren’t glancing at the door anymore.

The Oak Walker helped, too.

It was deceptively smooth—sweet with oak and vanilla, warm with something spiced—but it hit harder than it had any right to. You told yourself you were sipping, pacing yourself, being careful. Then your empty glass would surprise you again and again.

Yoona snorted every time you ordered another. “You’re going to end up horizontal if you keep that up,” she warned, sliding yet another refill your way.

You stuck your tongue out at her.

At some point—when exactly, you weren’t sure—Jeonghan had moved closer. He was sitting right beside you now, his thigh brushing yours every so often as you shifted. His posture was lazy, but there was a sharpness to his eyes that suggested he’d been tracking your slow descent into tipsiness for some time.

“You’re swaying,” he murmured near your ear.

“I’m not,” you argued before promptly hiccuping.

“Gods, you’re such a lightweight.”

You glared at him. Or tried to. “Shut up or I’ll stab you with a sword next time I get my hands on one.”

Jeonghan barked a laugh. “Drunken threats. Very classy.”

But his arm, which had come to rest around the back of your chair somewhere between the second and third drink, stayed where it was. Steady, warm, and protective. You didn’t even notice when you let yourself lean into the space he made for you. Just a little.

The three of you left Bitter Swan not long after your fifth—sixth?—Oak Walker.

To be fair, it wasn’t your idea. You were perfectly content demanding another glass while challenging a very large, very confused sailor to an arm-wrestling match you absolutely would have lost. But Joshua caught Jeonghan’s eye across the bar, and that was all it took.

“Time to go,” Jeonghan said, patting your shoulder lightly. You squawked in protest but didn’t resist too hard when they flanked you—Joshua at your right, Jeonghan at your left—as if you were some rare treasure they had to smuggle back to the castle.

The streets outside were quieter than you expected. Somewhere in the distance, bells were ringing curfew, and the fog had begun to settle low over the cobblestones.

You, however, were a menace.

“I’m not drunk,” you declared at one point, even as your boot missed the edge of a step and Joshua had to steady you with a hand to your elbow.

“Of course not,” Jeonghan said. “You’ve just decided stairs are beneath you.”

“They are. Stairs are a scam. A royal scam. Heh, royal. That’s funny.” You paused, frowning. “Wait, no. That was supposed to be a joke. Go back.”

“I’m afraid we can’t rewind time, Princess,” Joshua said patiently.

By the time they got you to the carriage, you had insisted on giving a passionate speech to a very disinterested cat, tried to compliment a streetlamp, and proclaimed your full, undying allegiance to the Bitter Swan and all its patrons.

Inside the carriage, nestled between velvet seats, the city slowly falling away behind you, you finally slumped back with a long sigh.

“This was nice. I never got to go out like this back home,” you mumbled, head tipping toward Jeonghan’s shoulder. “I also like when you’re like this. All... not princely.”

He made a quiet sound in his throat, something between a scoff and a laugh. “I’m not sure if I should be flattered or offended.”

“No, you don’t get it,” you said, voice softer now—slurred at the edges, but anchored by something true. “You walk around like nothing touches you. You flirt like it’s a game, like none of it matters. But it’s like… no one actually knows you. Not even me, and I’ve been engaged to you for ten years.”

A breathy laugh slipped from your lips before fading into a quiet, almost wistful smile.

“But when it’s just you like this... it makes me feel like I can breathe.”

Jeonghan stilled beside you.

Joshua’s brow furrowed across the seat. He looked at his brother, then back at you. You didn’t seem to notice. Your head lolled back against the cushion, eyes fluttering shut.

“Even if you’re a smug bastard,” you added faintly. “Don’t get ideas.”

The silence stretched, thick with something unspoken. Joshua turned, meeting Jeonghan’s stunned gaze with one of his own. Neither of them said anything.

But the look they shared said enough.

Back at the castle, the journey to your room was a blur of hushed giggles, missteps, and Jeonghan hissing at you to keep your hood up while Joshua kept watch for wandering guards.

By the time the three of you reached your door, you were hanging heavily off Jeonghan’s arm, still swaying from the Oak Walkers. Joshua muttered something about returning to the pub to keep Yoona company until closing before slipping away into the shadows like he’d done it a thousand times before.

Inside your chambers, Jeonghan helped you sit at the edge of your bed. “You’re going to regret all six of those drinks in the morning,” he said mildly, crouching to unlace your boots.

“Mm, but they tasted like joy,” you mumbled, tugging at the laces of your bodice.

Jeonghan helped with the ties carefully, without looking where he didn’t need to. He passed you your nightgown and turned his back while you changed, though that didn’t stop you.

“You’re very noble all of a sudden,” you said, grinning lazily. “Trying not to peek?”

“I’m showing you the courtesy of basic decency.”

“You didn’t care about basic decency when we—” you hiccuped, then giggled, “—when we kissed behind that statue of a winged lion. You still remember, don’t you?”

He paused, his back still turned, jaw tightening faintly.

Once you were dressed, Jeonghan turned to tuck the covers around you. “Get some sleep,” he said quietly, smoothing the blanket near your shoulder.

But before he could pull away, your arms slipped around his waist from behind.

“Are you really going to go,” you murmured against his back, “just like that?”

He sighed, long and steady. “You’re drunk, Your Grace. It wouldn’t be proper.”

You tilted your head, voice featherlight and slurred with sleep and something else. “It wasn’t proper either,” you said, “when you touched me like that in the solarium. What’s your point?”

He stilled.

Then slowly—almost reluctantly—he turned to face you. His hands found your shoulders, firm but not rough. His expression had lost all pretense of ease. For once, Jeonghan didn’t smile.

“You don’t know what you’re saying,” he said firmly.

But he didn’t move away.

You could feel his heartbeat beneath your fingers when you reached out to touch his chest. His pulse rabitted beneath his sternum, like this moment held more weight than the two of you were willing to admit. Jeonghan didn’t move. He could only grip your shoulders like you might shatter if he didn’t. Or maybe the one he’s keeping from unraveling is himself. 

You watched him through half-lidded eyes, your breath warm against the hollow of his throat. “You haven’t kissed me in so long,” you said softly. “Why is that, Jeonghan?”

His jaw tensed. “You’re mourning. It isn't the right time.”

You tilted your head, defiant despite the haze in your mind. “When is it ever the right time with you?”

“Princess—”

“You always hold back,” you murmured, stepping closer, your voice a thread pulled tight. His grip on your arms tightened just enough to betray the shift in him. “You flirt. You tease. But you never let yourself go too far. As though anything beyond stolen trysts is suddenly too dangerous for you. Tell me—” your eyes searched his, “is that why you haven’t married me yet? After all this time?”

Jeonghan was right. You didn’t know what you were saying at all. 

If you were sober, these words would’ve stayed buried behind the iron seal of your mouth. You hated the thought of being bound to Jeonghan. It was why you’d begged Soonyoung to delay the wedding for as long as he could.

So why were you spouting all this nonsense now?

“That’s not true,” Jeonghan said hoarsely.

You leaned in, lips brushing the corner of his mouth—not quite a kiss, but enough to burn like one. And with a quiet, tantalizing whisper, “Then prove it.”

That did it.

His restraint, so carefully held, snapped in an instant. His hands slid to the sides of your face, cradling it like something precious right before his mouth crashed against yours. There was nothing tentative in it—no diplomacy, no distance. Just months of longing, of near misses, of moments swallowed by duty and danger, unraveling all at once.

When you gasped against his lips, his hand curled around the back of your neck, and you thought, dizzy and triumphant: 

Finally.

You reached for the buttons of his shirt, fumbling. The fabric shifted under your clumsy fingers, but coordination was beyond you now—your limbs soft, your blood warm and slow with drink and heat. Jeonghan caught your hands gently. 

“Be patient,” he murmured, brushing a kiss to your knuckles.Then he moved slowly, guiding you back against the pillows. You shivered as his hands slid down your sides, a reverent touch that made your breath hitch.

You could only arch into him as he settled between your thighs, drunk not just on the Oak Walkers but on the ache of him, on months of silence breaking like a tide. And when his mouth found your skin, your name a prayer between his teeth, you thought:

Let them find out. Let the whole castle burn. Just not this. Don’t take this away from me.

His lips traced fire along the inside of your thigh, and you bit down on a moan—more out of disbelief than modesty. Jeonghan, with all his control and quiet arrogance, was unraveling before you, piece by piece.

“Say something,” he murmured. “Tell me this isn’t just the alcohol acting out for you.”

You blinked down at him, flushed and breathless. “It’s not. And you know it.”

“If I keep going, I won’t be able to pretend nothing’s changed tomorrow.”

Jeonghan met your eyes, and without thinking, you reached for him—hands threading through his deep red hair. 

“Then don’t pretend.”

Once the words left your lips, he surged upward to kiss you again. It was deep and consuming, like a dam finally giving way. You clung to him, pulling him closer, and the weight of him, the feel of his breath tangled with yours, made your head spin more than the whiskey ever could.

You felt the tremor in him, not from fear, but from feeling. From how deeply this meant something.

“I should’ve said something,” he murmured into the curve of your neck, voice wrecked. “Back in Ancarra. Before everything fell apart.”

“You still can,” you whispered, tilting his face to yours. “We’re not gone yet. I’m still here.”

Maybe that was the most dangerous truth of all—that despite the kingdoms collapsing, despite Renxing’s siege and the shadows gathering at every border, this moment felt more real than any prophecy, any throne. Just skin and breath and the way Jeonghan looked at you like you were the only thing tethering him to this world.

He pressed his forehead to yours. “You don’t know what you do to me.”

You smiled faintly, heart thudding. “I think I’m starting to.”

Then he kissed you again—fierce and open and hungry for all the time you’d lost. And this time, you didn’t hold back either.

Not when his hands tangled with yours above your head, not when his mouth trailed lower, slower, lingering in places that made you gasp his name like a prayer. 

When his mouth finally touched where you wanted him most, it was with unbearable tenderness. A gasp escaped you, sharp and involuntary, your hips twitching toward him. He moaned softly at the sound, as if the taste of your pleasure was more intoxicating than wine.

Jeonghan didn’t rush. He mapped out your cunt with his mouth, tongue tracing patterns that made your legs shake. His lips sealed around the most sensitive parts of you like he wanted to unravel every breath, every thought, until only he remained.

And you let him.

Your back arched as a wave crested inside you, and still he didn’t stop—drawing moans from you like music. His hands anchored your hips, firm but never demanding. 

It wasn’t control. It was devotion.

When release finally came, it tore through you like a storm, and Jeonghan held you through it, never looking away—his gaze dark, intense, and awestruck. You reached down breathlessly, pulling him up to you. His lips were wet, his cheeks flushed. You kissed him without hesitation, tasting yourself on his tongue.

Jeonghan’s breath was still heavy as he hovered above you, eyes searching your face like he was memorizing every inch. His hand cradled your cheek, thumb brushing over your lip. 

“Tell me what you want,” he murmured. 

You tilted your hips toward him, guiding him between your thighs. His breath caught as he realized, as your legs pressed around him, skin on skin, warm and slick and aching.

“This,” you whispered, voice trembling. “I want you like this.”

For a moment, something flared behind his eyes. Hunger, need, maybe even love. But then he huffed a soft laugh and shook his head. 

“Not when you’re drunk, Your Grace.”

You blinked up at him, still breathless, heat pulsing in every part of you as disappointment started to simmer just beneath the lust. “But—”

“I can give you something else,” he said, and leaned down to kiss your cheek—gentle yet maddening. “Something that can make you feel good regardless.”

Confusion started to seep into your face, but Jeonghan answered by grabbing both of your thighs as he let both of your legs dangle across one shoulder. The angle was odd, but something told you he wanted your thighs pressed closely together. 

You were about to let out a quiet protest until he undid his trousers, hauling his cock from the confines of his clothes with a sigh. 

His eyes fluttered shut for a moment, like the weight of your mutual desire was too much. Then, tentatively, he slid his length between your thighs, fitting perfectly into the space where your heat welcomed him, even without the final joining.

The friction was maddening.

He rocked forward, slow and careful at first, your slickness easing every motion. The head of his cock dragged against the seam of your sex with every thrust, the pressure hitting just right, over and over. You squeezed your thighs tighter, gasping his name as he groaned—low and hoarse, like the effort of holding back was burning him from the inside.

“Gods, you feel—” He cut himself off with a sharp exhale, hips stuttering against you. “I’m not going to last if you keep looking at me like that.”

“Then don’t,” you breathed. “Don’t hold anything back.”

And he didn’t.

His rhythm grew faster, desperate. The sounds he made were nothing like the prince the world saw. This was Jeonghan stripped bare, undone by the feel of you, by the friction, by the intimacy of it all. Your hands gripped his back, your bodies flush, breath tangled between moans and whispers of each other’s names.

His thick head caught on your clit with each pass. Part of you just knew Jeonghan deliberately did that to spur your pleasure just as much as his own. And as he continued to piston his hips, you found yourself growing dangerously close to the edge once again.

“J-Jeonghan,” you whimpered, tears streaking your vision. “I… I—”

The words were lost as your orgasm crested like a tidal wave, washing over your entire body until the water pulled you under. You shook beneath him as ecstasy rushed  through your veins, but Jeonghan remained steadfast in fucking himself between your thighs, letting you ride it out.

When he came, it was with a trembling cry whispered into the air, spilling between your thighs as his body shuddered against yours. You held him through it, stroking his arm, grounding him all while he collapsed into you.

You stared at the ceiling, the soft hush of dawn just beginning to graze the edges of the sky. There was no clock here, no crown, no war bleeding at the borders of your memory. Only the warmth of his body, the scent of him lingering on your skin, and the echo of your name on his breath.

And for a moment, you wanted to stay like this.

You wanted to forget Ancarra. Forget Minghao’s blade slicing through everything you’d ever built. Forget the looming war and the kingdom you were supposed to save. You wanted to let the world burn and bury yourself in this fleeting mercy.

You shifted slightly, curling closer to Jeonghan.

Maybe just a little longer.

The capital of Ancarra was a corpse wearing its own crown.

Soonyoung kept his head low beneath the hood of a merchant’s cloak, blending into the flow of hushed voices and weary footsteps. Smoke still clung to the skyline, the charred bones of once-proud towers jutting upward like broken fingers. The flags bearing the royal crest were torn down, replaced with strange foreign emblems—Renxing’s deep red and black, fluttering like bloodstained silk in the wind.

Where once there had been music, laughter, street hawkers and flower-sellers, now there was silence. Watchful, suffocating silence. Soldiers patrolled every alley, every market. People avoided eye contact. The bakeries had stopped baking. The temples stood shuttered.

The king was dead. 

The princess had vanished. 

And Minghao had claimed a throne he never earned.

Soonyoung moved quickly through the ghost of the city he once knew, slipping through side streets and old guard passages, the kind of hidden routes only a fixture of the palace could recall. He’d asked his knightly chaperones—the ones Prince Jeonghan loaned—to stay back for this one. They’d refused at first, but Soonyoung always had a gift for convincing others to his whims.

He reached the outer walls of the castle, scaled the crumbling servant stairwell, and ducked behind fallen scaffolding before finding a familiar breach behind the armory—one that led straight into the lower corridors.

Inside, the air was damp with mildew and blood. Tapestries had been ripped down, and the scent of iron lingered in the halls. He heard boots echo overhead and paused, listening. Then, with careful precision, he descended into the dungeons.

That’s when the strangeness began.

Locked behind rusted bars weren’t just criminals or dissenters—but beasts. Hunched and hostile things with glowing eyes and matted fur. Creatures with scales, tusks, or too many limbs, some caged and chained, others muzzled or sedated. All trembling in the cold. All watching. It made no sense.

And then came a low growl.

Soonyoung turned just in time to dodge a lunging wolf—wild-eyed, massive, its teeth bared. It would’ve ripped his throat out if not for the blast of cold that knocked the beast backward. Ice exploded against the wall, sending a dusting of frost across the floor.

“Easy,” came a low voice from behind another cell. “You’ll spook the rest of them.”

Soonyoung turned, breath caught. “Siwon?”

The older man looked tired but alive, dark hair damp with sweat, his hands bound but his magic clearly not entirely suppressed. “Nice disguise,” he muttered. “You always did look better in rags.”

“You’re alive.” Soonyoung rushed forward, already brimming with questions. “What happened? Why are there beasts in the dungeon? What the hell is Minghao planning?”

But Siwon raised a hand, glancing toward the stairwell. “Quiet. They’re keeping me alive for now—to broadcast Minghao’s ‘generous new rule’ when the time comes. And for when the princess resurfaces. I’m leverage.”

“Leverage and locked up with beasts?” Soonyoung hissed.

Siwon nodded grimly. “They’ve been experimenting. Testing something. I don’t know what it is yet, but—” His eyes flicked to a cage where another animal that looked too much like Reya lay unnaturally still. “I think it has to do with cursed magic.”

Soonyoung paled. “Cursed magic? But that’s—”

He didn’t finish. Footsteps echoed down the corridor accompanied by shouting. Torchlight flickered around the corner as Soonyoung felt his stomach drop.

“Go,” Siwon said, voice urgent. “You can’t be caught.”

Soonyoung hesitated, hand curling into a fist. “I’ll come back. I’ll get you out.”

Siwon gave him a thin smile. “Just bring her back in one piece. That’ll be enough. Oh, and Soonyoung?”

“What?”

“...Tell the princess it was Yesung who did it,” he said with bated breath, “The one who betrayed us. The one who sold the kingdom off to Renxing.” 

The information struck Soonyoung like lightning in the middle of summer. Yesung? The captain of the royal guard? But as much as he wanted to probe Siwon for more details, time was running out.

With one last glance at the wolf pacing behind the bars, Soonyoung turned and vanished into the shadows.

Morning hadn’t come yet. The world outside was still cloaked in that hushed, pre-dawn blue, the kind that made you wonder if time had stopped altogether. Your head pounded and your body ached in places you didn’t expect, even though Jeonghan was careful. Even though you didn’t go all the way.

He was still asleep beside you, one arm draped lazily across the bed, red hair spilling over his cheek like spilled ink. His face looked softer in sleep. Open, vulnerable. You found yourself staring too long.

You didn’t hate yourself. Not like you thought you would. Instead, you felt something worse. The slow, terrifying crawl of something tender. Something like the beginning of love.

Because for a moment, you forgot everything that mattered. Jeonghan let you forget what it meant to survive, and helped you remember what it felt like to simply exist.

But now, in the quiet, it hit you like cold water: staying here made you complacent. Safe. Soft. You were a princess without a kingdom. A daughter without a family. And every second you spent here pretending otherwise was another second lost.

Your gaze drifted to the window. The letter still sat on the table beside it, right where you left it. You rose without a sound, careful not to disturb him, and took up the quill and ink.

Taeyeon warned you that her method of travel required preparation, that you should only sign when you were sure. You expected it would take a day or two—maybe more. So you thought you’d have time. Time to think, time to say goodbye. Time to figure out how to look Jeonghan in the eye and explain why you couldn’t stay. You thought you could sign it now and still have a moment to breathe.

But the moment your name met the parchment, the magic activated with a pulse of light.

The letter glowed gold, the ink lifting from the page like threads spun from starlight. Then it curled in on itself, folding and folding until it collapsed inward and blossomed into a glowing portal—right there, in your room. You stumbled back in disbelief, heart hammering, the rush of air from the magic tousling your hair.

And then, from the other side of the portal, Taeyeon stepped through.

There was no fanfare, no sound but the hum of power quieting in the air around her. The royal mage surveyed the room calmly—eyes briefly catching on the prince still fast asleep in your bed, shirtless and oblivious—before settling on you with a look somewhere between curiosity and disapproval.

“You were going to leave without saying anything?”

You hesitated. You planned to write him a letter. Maybe to wake him with a kiss, or not at all. You hadn’t decided. But none of that mattered now, not with Taeyeon already standing there, the magic still warm and thrumming behind her like a living thing.

You glanced at Jeonghan, at the peace on his face you almost convinced yourself you deserved to see one last time. 

Then you nodded.

“It’ll be easier that way,” you murmured. “It’s not like I have anything to bring with me anyway.”

Taeyeon didn’t argue. She only lifted her hand toward you.

You took it.

And with one final glance at the life you nearly let yourself want, you stepped into the portal. The air folded around you like silk and silence.

The letter vanished. The portal closed. The room was empty.

And all you left behind was the shape of your absence.

You stepped out onto the balcony and caught your first real glimpse of Aragorn.

The southern city stretched far beyond what you expected—sunlit and sprawling, built into cliffs and winding hills, with a hundred mismatched rooftops like shattered pieces of stained glass. It didn’t have the symmetry of the capital, or the soft elegance of Seraphia. It was a riot of color and sound even from a distance. Banners flapped. Smoke curled from chimneys. Somewhere below, someone shouted, and laughter followed like a wave.

It was chaos. But it felt alive.

You’d bathed and changed in Taeyeon’s estate, which wasn’t so much a home as a half-forgotten villa carved into the side of a ridge, overtaken by vines and mountain wind. It had a well-worn warmth, like someone had lived here a long time and only kept what they needed.

Taeyeon joined you on the balcony, pulling her hair into a loose twist. Out of her usual robe dotted with magic sigils, she didn’t look like a royal mage. She looked like someone’s older sister. Someone who could disappear into a crowd.

“Southern cities like Aragorn are free,” she said, following your gaze. “Too far from the capital for the crown to keep a firm grip. That’s why I brought you here.”

You blinked. “And the king?”

“Doesn’t know.” She smiled faintly. “Nor does the queen.”

Your chest tightened. The guilt sat bitter on your tongue, but before you could speak, she added, “There’s another reason.”

You glanced at her, and she said, quietly, “Refugees from Ancarra have been trickling into the southern cities. Mostly women and children. Soldiers who deserted. Farmers who fled. Those far enough from your capital to not be held hostage by that tyrant general.”

The words knocked the wind out of you.

“What—why didn’t you tell me?”

“I’m telling you now,” she said calmly. “But you’re not ready to see them. Not yet.”

You tried to object, to insist—but your voice caught, and she looked at you like she could see every fracture in your heart.

“I know it’s been a while, and you’ve been waiting on news from Ancarra as much as the rest of us. But even I can tell you’re still bleeding, Princess,” she said. “There’s a time for reunions. And a time to gather yourself. Let’s start with food.”

Taeyeon led you down into the city, into the belly of Aragorn, where stone staircases spiraled through sloped streets, and balconies overflowed with drying laundry and flowerpots. She took you to a tavern built into the bones of what might’ve once been a watchtower. 

It was cramped, loud, and the air was thick with spice and woodsmoke. You couldn’t imagine someone like her here. But Taeyeon walked in like she’d been coming for years.

“Lady Taeyeon!” a woman called from behind the counter.

Another man shouted, “She’s brought a friend! Should we be nervous?”

The royal mage raised a hand in greeting, utterly unfazed.

You watched in quiet disbelief as the room seemed to fold around her presence, not with reverence, but with the easy familiarity reserved for someone who belonged. No one bowed to her or whispered about her greatness. They greeted her like someone who knew the names of their children and the best time to buy peaches at the market. 

It was strange to see someone like Taeyeon received not as a myth, but as a neighbor.

She didn’t hesitate. She ordered for you both without ceremony—“You need to try the stuffed flatbread,” she said—and waved off your hand when you reached for coin. With practiced ease, she slipped through the crowd and guided you to a table tucked beneath a cracked window, where the breeze carried in the mingled scents of rosemary and dust.

As you settled into the corner seat, your plate still steaming between your hands, a flutter of movement caught your eye. A small brown bird—scruffy, no larger than your palm—landed neatly on the cracked windowsill beside you. It tilted its head, eyes trained on the food, and let out a sharp chirp. You smiled, at first thinking nothing of it. But then the bird spoke.

That smells like heaven. Is that stuffed with cheese? I’d kill for cheese.

The voice was bright and insistent in your mind, clear as thought but not your own. For a moment, you froze—your fingers tightening around your fork. It had been so long since you let yourself listen. You’d shut that part of yourself away the moment you left Reya behind, too afraid that hearing the voices of animals would remind you of everything you abandoned.

But here, now, something in you had gone quiet enough to let it in again. No pressure. No grief. Just the sound of the wind, the hum of the tavern, and a hungry bird with far too much personality.

Without thinking, you broke off a corner of your flatbread and offered it up. The bird hopped forward with greedy joy, clutching the crust in its beak before flying off again, wings catching the light like a wink. When you turned back to the table, Taeyeon was watching you with an amused look.

“You haven’t been listening lately,” she said.

It wasn’t a question.

You looked down at your plate. “No.”

“Why?”

You didn’t answer right away. “Because if I heard them, I’d remember Reya. And if I remembered him, I’d start mourning. And mourning takes time I didn’t want to lose.”

Taeyeon nodded, slow and knowing. She leaned back in her chair, arms folded loosely across her chest. “Instinct magic like yours is a funny thing. It doesn’t demand permission—it just lies in wait until you’re ready to use it again.”

You paused, fork halfway to your mouth, the word catching like a splinter in your thoughts.

“Instinct magic?” you echoed. “Is that what I have?”

Taeyeon didn’t answer immediately. She was watching the bird again, which had settled on a rooftop across the street, fluffing its feathers against the wind. When she finally spoke, her voice was quiet—not lecturing, not grand, just a simple truth shared over brunch.

“Magic like mine—you study it, shape it, discipline it until it bends to your will. It’s rigid and mathematical. A spell goes here, a sigil there. If you mess up the sequence, things fall apart.”

She looked at you then.

“But yours… yours doesn’t wait for a spell. It listens. It lives in your body, in your breath. It’s older than theory; wilder, and much closer to the roots of things.”

You frowned slightly. “But I can’t control it.”

“No,” she agreed. “You don’t control it. You coexist with it. That’s why it scares people, or why they don’t think it’s real magic. And probably why you stopped trusting it.”

You turned her words over, trying to fit them into the corners of yourself that had long gone quiet. You’d never thought of your gift as anything so dignified, it was just something you had. Like a birthmark. Something no one else quite understood, even when they pretended to.

But instinct magic—that felt like a name you hadn’t known you needed.

After brunch, Taeyeon turned to you with that same unreadable calm. “Do you want to meet Hanya now? The veteran mage I mentioned in my correspondence?”

You didn’t have anything better to do. And something in you—maybe curiosity, maybe restlessness—said the sooner, the better. You nodded.

Taeyeon gave a short hum. “Then we better bring her a gift first.”

She led you into a narrower, more tangled part of the city, where the buildings leaned in on each other like gossiping friends and flowering vines crept along every fence. A painted sign above a crooked door read Vines & Embers.

“The shop’s run by a plant elemental named Hyejin,” Taeyeon explained as she pushed open the door, “and her husband Chan—he’s a fire elemental. Bit of an odd couple, but they make it work. Somehow.”

A little bell jingled overhead, and a young man with tousled hair and a permanently sunburned grin looked up from the doorway.

“Lady Taeyeon?” he greeted, eyes lighting up. “What can we do for you today?”

Behind him, a woman waved lazily from the counter, where she was pruning something that looked like a rose crossed with a starfish.

“Just the usual for old Hanya,” Taeyeon called back.

Hyejin gave a knowing nod and disappeared into the back room.

Chan lingered near the door, folding his arms as he looked between the two of you. “And this must be…?”

Taeyeon didn’t miss a beat. “My niece from the coast. She’s visiting for a while. Poor thing needed some fresh air after the capital.”

You blinked once, then remembered to smile. “Nice to meet you.”

“Ahhh, makes sense,” Chan said, beaming. “You’ve got her eyebrows. And the general look of someone who's been breathing too much palace air.” He winked.

You didn’t know what that meant, exactly, but you let it slide.

As Hyejin worked in the back, Chan kept the conversation going, bouncing from gossip about the midday heatwave to which blossoms had opened early this year. Eventually, the topic veered toward the refugees.

“Some of the Ancarra folks came through here last week,” he said. “Quiet lot. Tired eyes. They don't ask for much—just space to rest. Hyejin's been growing nightshade and balm to help with the headaches. Too many of 'em wake up screaming.”

You kept your face as still as stone. 

Taeyeon didn't look at you, but you felt her shift ever so slightly—her sleeve brushing yours in what could have been an accident. Or not.

Just then, Hyejin emerged with a bundle wrapped in waxed paper and tied with gold thread. It smelled of lavender, iron, and something like starlight or ozone. A few pale blue feathers, still shimmering faintly, had been tucked beneath the twine.

“She’ll know what it means,” Hyejin said simply.

“Of course she will,” Taeyeon replied, reaching for the package. “Thanks, Hyejin. And tell your husband to stop setting fire to the begonias.”

Chan coughed. “I swear they like it. It’s character-building.”

You followed Taeyeon out of the shop with the bundle in hand, still wondering what kind of person received a gift like this—and what exactly you were walking into next.

Taeyeon brought you to the edge of the mountains the same way she fetched you from the capital—through a shimmering cut in space. You stepped through the tear in the air and landed on solid ground, but she stumbled slightly as the portal winked shut behind her.

“You okay?” you asked, catching the way her hand gripped her hip a second too long.

She straightened, gave a breathless laugh. “I’m fine. Spatial magic has its price. It would be too powerful otherwise.”

You frowned. “What kind of price?”

Taeyeon shrugged. “Call it the law of equivalent exchange. Power doesn't come from nowhere. I burn a little bit of myself every time I open a gate like that.” She glanced back toward the now-empty air. “Doesn’t mean it’s not worth it.”

You didn’t press further. Because ahead of you, nestled into the foothills, was a crooked little house stitched from stone, ivy, and old wood, half-sunken into the slope like it had grown from the mountain itself. A windchime of bones clicked gently from the awning. Chickens wandered the yard, unpenned. A goat napped on the porch. A monkey dozed in the rafters.

You could hear them all. Thoughts like quiet murmurs in the back of your head—curious, distracted, and alive. It had been so long since you let yourself listen to animals, yet here, among the clamor, you felt your magic stir like an old song.

Taeyeon stepped onto the porch and knocked once, sharply. No answer.

She knocked again.

A rustle, then a grumble. “Go away! I’m not buying anything and I’ve got enough potions to last through winter.”

Taeyeon didn’t flinch. “It’s me. I brought someone who wants to study under you.”

For a while, there was only silence. But then came the groan of old hinges. The door creaked open to reveal an elderly woman with tangled gray hair and a face carved deep with lines. She squinted at Taeyeon first.

“I told you, I’m too old to be anyone’s damn teacher.”

You stepped forward quickly, holding out the bouquet from Hyejin’s shop. “These are for you, ma’am,” you offered.

Hanya didn’t even look at the flowers. Her gaze landed on you—and stopped. Her face went still. For a second, it was like she didn’t see you at all, but something beyond you. 

Then she slammed the door shut.

“Teacher,” Taeyeon said flatly, rubbing her temple, “that’s not very polite.”

“Get that girl away from here.”

“She came all the way from the capital.”

“I don’t care if she came from the moon. I’m not touching that cursed magic. You hear me?” A pause. Then quieter, like a huff of disappointment: “You should’ve known better.”

You stared at the door, still holding the flowers. “What does she mean?” you whispered. “Cursed magic? I just talk to animals. That’s all I can do.”

Behind the wood, Hanya hissed, “That’s not all you can do at all. And if you don’t know it yet, you will. And when that happens, you’ll wish you’d never come knocking.”

Taeyeon only sighed, her shoulders rising and falling with quiet resignation. “Leave the gift,” she murmured. “There’s no getting through to her today.”

You hesitated, glancing again at the shut door. But you obeyed, setting the bundle of paper and twine neatly by the threshold. The goats watched you with interest. The monkey stretched out a lazy limb and scratched its side. You stepped back down onto the grass and asked, “What even is it? The gift, I mean.”

“She’ll feed her beasts with it,” Taeyeon said.

You blinked. “Beasts?”

Taeyeon nodded, gesturing toward the scattered creatures dotting the property. “Hanya practices beast magic. Like you, she can understand and talk to animals.” Her eyes lifted toward the awning, where the monkey now dangled by its tail. “These ones? They’re naturally drawn to her. But sometimes, more dangerous ones come too. Wild wolves. Mountain cats. I’ve even seen a wyvern once.”

You stared. “And she just… lets them near her?”

“They come and go. She doesn’t cage them. She tames them.” Taeyeon smiled faintly. “They all love those flowers we brought. It’s called cindersong. Has a scent only beasts can smell, something sweet and strange and grounding. Hyejin grows them by hand. That bundle will be gone by nightfall.”

You looked again at the door, now just a closed shadow in the stone. “If our magic isn’t so different… why’d Hanya refuse to teach me?”

Taeyeon was quiet for a long time.

Then she glanced once more at the shut door and said, “Let’s head home. We’ll talk more there.”

Back at the estate, the portal spit you out into stillness. The sun was lower now, and so was Taeyeon’s energy. You noticed the tremble in her fingers as she straightened her robes, the slight wobble in her step. 

But before you could offer help, a maid appeared—someone you hadn’t seen this morning, with cropped hair and quiet hands. She moved without a word, as if she’d known what was needed long before you arrived.

A steaming towel was pressed into Taeyeon’s palms. A small vial uncorked beneath her nose. A flask of something bitter and glowing, passed from hand to hand as she gulped it down. By the time you reached the study, Taeyeon looked a little less hollowed-out, though her eyes were still rimmed with strain.

You both sat. She didn’t waste time.

“She was from Ancarra too, you know,” the royal mage said quietly. “Hanya.”

Your breath caught. “She was?”

Taeyeon nodded. “She never talks about it. I didn’t even know for years. I only knew her as the former royal mage here, in Aragorn. She was the one who taught me everything I know.” She exhaled slowly. “But beast magic... that’s an old kind of magic, almost ancient. It was hers long before she came here to Seraphia.”

“She said I’ll regret coming to her,” you murmured.

Taeyeon’s eyes softened. “She doesn’t mean that. But there’s a theory—just a whisper, really—that instinct magic, beast magic, whatever you want to call it, was born in Ancarra. That it came from there and nowhere else. But no one remembers how. Or why.”

You tilted your head. “No one?”

“I tried looking,” she said. “I went to Ancarra once. Searched your libraries. Your temples. Nothing. No records. Not even mentions. It’s like the world agreed to forget it.”

Your chest tightened. “So now they call it... cursed?”

Taeyeon’s lips pressed into a line. “That’s the word people use. Cursed. Dangerous. Unnatural.” She shook her head. “But I don’t know why. Teacher never explained.”

The silence came like a tide. You let it wash over you.

Then, softly: “But she recognized you. Your blood. That voice inside you. It frightened her. Maybe you reminded her of who she used to be. Or what she ran from.”

You looked at your hands. They didn’t feel cursed. But they didn’t feel innocent either.

Before you could form a proper response, there was a knock at the study door. Taeyeon raised her head. “Come in,” she called, and the quiet maid from earlier slipped in with barely a sound. She didn’t speak. Just walked up to you, placed an envelope in your hands—not Taeyeon’s—and bowed before disappearing again.

You stared at the envelope, then at Taeyeon, who was already laughing under her breath. “Minjeong,” she explained. “A woman of few words. But I promise she knows everything before the rest of us do.”

You barely registered the words. Your gaze had dropped to the wax seal now pressing cold against your thumb. The crest of Seraphian royalty gleamed there in deep red, too familiar to mistake.

Your heart sank. “Oh.”

Taeyeon’s smile faded into a sigh. “That boy’s fast. I thought we had at least a week.”

You blinked. “What?”

She didn’t elaborate. So you cracked the seal and opened the letter.

Jeonghan’s handwriting was sharp as ever—elegant and scathing in equal measure.

Dear Princess,

Congratulations on your daring escape. Truly, I admire the stealth. Slipping away in the morning without so much as a goodbye kiss? Bold of you. One might say... cowardly, but let’s be generous.

I’m writing this from my private study, where I’ve spent the last several hours wondering if you were kidnapped, murdered, or simply decided I was a regrettable phase of your mid-royal crisis. I even considered the possibility that you ran off with Choi Seungcheol, but he just came back to the castle again, equally clueless of your whereabouts. 

In case you're wondering how I tracked you down: say hello to Dandelion. He’s the highly trained storm petrel currently biting your finger, unless someone else suffered that fate and handed this to you instead. He can locate anyone in the world by scent. (Yes, even yours, and yes, you smell like roses and rain, it’s weird.)

Now. If you do not respond—promptly—and assure me that you have not been carted off by Minghao’s forces or worse, eloped with a royal mage named Kim Taeyeon, I will stop at nothing to find you.

I am, after all, a very concerned fiancé.

Yours unwillingly, Jeonghan

By the time you reached the bottom, Taeyeon was sipping her tea again, trying to hide a smirk behind the cup. 

“Storm petrel?” she asked mildly.

You stared at the paper. “He named it Dandelion.”

Taeyeon hummed. “Affection is such a strange language.”

Later that evening, you decided to dignify the whining prince with a correspondence of your own, lest he level his own kingdom the same way Minghao did to yours. 

You lit the candle with a flick of your fingers and settled at the desk in the bedchamber Taeyeon lent you. The flame wavered with the breeze drifting in from the open window, casting long shadows over the parchment. Dandelion the storm petrel hadn’t left yet. He perched like a judgmental gargoyle on the bedpost, fluffing his feathers with great, self-important fuss.

“I’m not writing a novel,” you muttered.

I’ve been waiting, he chirped back, more sullen than stern. The eldest prince said I’d be plucked and roasted if I returned without your reply.

“Dramatic as always,” you sighed, but the guilt twisted in your stomach anyway. You pulled the blank sheet toward you and smoothed it flat. The ink smelled sharp, like iron and smoke.

And then, under the dim, flickering light, you began.

Jeonghan,

Thank you for your concern. Truly, the mental image of you pacing around your study, catastrophizing my disappearance, is something I’ll cherish. 

I’m safe. Not kidnapped. Not murdered. Not swept away by a charming stranger (though Taeyeon did try to buy me stuffed flatbread, which I’m beginning to suspect was a bribe). No need to summon the cavalry.

You may relax your Very Concerned Fiancé act. I didn’t vanish to hurt you. I left because I needed clarity—on my magic, on myself, on what all of this means now that Ancarra isn’t mine to call home. I didn’t say goodbye because I knew you’d try to stop me, and I didn’t want to leave angry. I wanted to leave clean.

But you found me anyway. Of course you did.

I’ll write again soon. Don’t storm the continent in the meantime.

Not yours, Go Die

P.S. You are the regrettable phase of my post-royal crisis. Get your timeline straight.

P.P.S. Dandelion lives in constant fear of becoming your next lunch. He’s feathered, not marinated. Be nicer to animals, Your Highness.

You tucked the letter into the envelope with a final sigh, sealing it with the wax Taeyeon had left on the writing desk. Dandelion, still perched on the bedpost like a little sentinel, fluttered down as you approached.

“Here,” you said, offering him the letter. “To Jeonghan. Straight to the capital.”

The storm petrel took it delicately in his beak, clamping down with practiced care. But when you eyed him skeptically, wondering how on earth a creature his size could cross a continent with a letter in his mouth, he made a raspy scoffing sound that sounded an awful lot like offense.

“Right. Sorry for doubting you,” you muttered, raising your hands.

He tilted his head. You’re not so bad, he seemed to say. Tell that fiancé of yours to feed me something better than dried sardines next time.

With that, Dandelion turned, wings unfurling in one smooth movement. He took off toward the open window, a flash of white feathers disappearing into the night sky. You watched him vanish into the starlight, feeling oddly... lighter.

Still alone in the room, you crawled back into bed, the mattress soft but unfamiliar. You lay in the dark, arm tucked beneath your head, and tried to make sense of the day. The bizarre flower shop. Hanya’s slammed door. Taeyeon’s reluctant honesty. You still had no leads on improving your magic, not when your supposed mentor treated you like a plague, so maybe you’d go back to the one thing you could rely on—your body. Training. Swordwork. Something solid. Something that didn’t vanish the second you thought you understood it.

Just as your thoughts began to settle into that decision, the sound of flapping wings returned. You sat up, expecting to see Dandelion again. Maybe he forgot something.

But it wasn’t him.

An owl now perched on your window’s edge, dark-feathered and still as a shadow. Its eyes gleamed gold in the candlelight. It didn’t blink. It didn’t move. And yet, it didn’t feel ominous. Quite the opposite. You couldn’t explain it—but something about its presence was… calming.

You barely noticed the way your eyelids started to droop. A deep, sudden fatigue swept over you like mist.

When you finally fell asleep, it was under the owl’s silent, unblinking gaze.

It had been a few days since you arrived in Aragorn, and the stillness was starting to press in around the edges. Jeonghan hadn’t written back—not a word, not even a feather—and though you tried not to let it bother you, his silence echoed louder than you expected.

Taeyeon was doing what she could. She promised she’d talk to Hanya again, try a gentler approach in-between her duties as a royal mage. But even magic couldn’t untangle years of someone else’s pain overnight.

And you… you’d been trying too. You'd crept through the market in borrowed clothes and a pulled-down hood, heart racing, hoping to slip by unnoticed. The refugee quarter wasn’t far. You made it to the edge more than once—close enough to hear voices in your own dialect, smell the cooking you remembered from your palace kitchens—but each time, something in you buckled. You turned back. Not yet. Not today.

So instead, you trained.

Taeyeon had told you that Chan trained under a warrior named Jongkook, and now here you were—bruised, panting, and flat on your back in the dirt.

"You're dead again," Chan said sheepishly, hovering over you with a hand outstretched. "Sorry about the fire."

You blinked up at him, still trying to catch your breath. The edge of your tunic was charred, the singed fabric curling at the hem like dead petals. He’d almost set your entire sleeve ablaze during a block that got a little too passionate. Again.

"I noticed," you muttered, grasping his hand and letting him haul you to your feet.

Jongkook only watched from the edge of the clearing, arms crossed, unreadable behind his weather-worn face. “How many times do I have to tell you—you’re relying on your feet like they’re swords.”

“Force of habit,” you said through clenched teeth.

“No habit survives the battlefield if it gets you killed.”

You didn’t argue. You couldn’t. Not when you knew he was right. You'd been trained in precise swordplay, elegant footwork, and quick reflexes—all the hallmarks of a princess pretending to be a warrior. But Jongkook wouldn’t let you touch a blade, not until you learned to fight with your body alone.

No weapon. No titles. No shortcuts.

Only fists, breath, and bruises.

Back in Ancarra, the very idea of you brawling would’ve caused a scandal. Fencing was already a rebellion in silk; hand-to-hand combat would’ve been cause for exile. And yet, here you were, sweating like a farmhand and aching in places you didn’t know existed.

Jongkook finally grunted and motioned for the two of you to follow. “Enough for today. Come eat.”

You didn’t expect lunch to be anything more than a few dried rations or stew on a stone fire, but Jongkook surprised you. His home was humble, tucked into a cluster of pine trees, but the smell of simmering broth and grilled meat hit you before the door even opened.

"You cook?" you asked, incredulous, as he set down bowls with a practiced hand.

“I fight. I eat. I survive.” His voice had no hint of ego—just fact. “Same as you’ll do.”

Chan handed you a bowl and gave you a crooked smile. “I can’t feel my shoulders.”

You lifted your own bowl, still wincing as you sat. “I can’t feel my dignity.”

Chan snorted. Jongkook said nothing, but you swore you saw the corner of his mouth twitch. You might’ve been losing the fights, but something told you that you were starting to win something else.

You returned to Taeyeon’s estate just before sundown, dust and sweat clinging to your limbs after another brutal round of training. The moment you stepped past the threshold, Minjeong was already there—silent as ever, like she moved on ghosts’ feet.

“My Lady won’t be back until morning,” she said.

You blinked. “Sorry—what?”

It was the first time you’d heard Minjeong speak. Her voice was soft but steady, like a stream running beneath snow. She tilted her head at your reaction, not bothering to answer.

“Any requests for dinner?” she asked next, as if nothing strange had just occurred.

You shook your head. “Anything will do.”

Minjeong nodded once and disappeared into the house, leaving you standing there with the peculiar weight of her words hanging in the air. Taeyeon wouldn’t be home tonight. That… felt strange. She’d been a constant since your arrival—a reliable north. The house felt too large without her.

You marched up to your bedchambers, peeling off your outer tunic, planning to draw a bath after grabbing a change of clothes. Taeyeon had filled the wardrobe with outfits tailored for your size—soft cottons and loose robes you wouldn’t have been allowed to wear in Ancarra. She really had thought of everything. You were in her debt more than you could say.

But before you could open the drawers, you noticed the flick of movement by the windowsill.

A storm petrel.

Not Dandelion. This one was sleeker, darker, its feathers almost blue in the candlelight. It perched stiffly, an envelope clenched between its beak.

“Are you alright?” you asked gently, stepping closer.

No answer, just a quiet ruffle of wings. You took the letter from its beak and the bird lingered like some feathered guardian by the window. Even if it didn’t bother talking to you, you could tell that this one was waiting for you to write up a response as soon as you could, too. 

You turned the letter over, and your heart stuttered when you saw the same dignified wax seal as before. You broke it with one finger.

Princess,

So you can write. I was starting to worry the storm petrel union had gone on strike. You know, I thought I’d be angry when your letter finally arrived. But I read it three times instead. I think I hate how well you know me.

Dandelion is alive, thank you very much. Traumatized, perhaps, but alive. He’s been flapping around like a nervous maid since his return. The cook offered to pluck him for stew and I haven’t had the heart to correct her yet. I might. Depends on my mood.

As for you—don’t vanish again. Not without telling me first. It’s very hard to be a dramatic, wounded fiancé without an audience. Also, if you think you can just slip away from me after that very passionate night we shared, you are sorely mistaken. My spine still hurts, by the way. I’m convinced you were trying to kill me.

I miss you. That’s the part I wasn’t going to write, but here we are.

I’m glad you’re safe. Even if you’re halfway across the continent dodging affection and soul-searching.

Your eternal headache, Jeonghan

You didn’t realize you were grinning until the nameless storm petrel let out a low coo from his perch—watching you with the bored impatience of someone who had five more deliveries to make and a schedule to keep.

So you picked up your pen and got to it.

Jeonghan,

Three times? That’s almost romantic. I would accuse you of sentimentality, but we both know your ego would never survive the scandal.

I’m glad Dandelion survived his brush with death and domestic labor. He deserves better than you, frankly. If you let him become soup, I’ll never speak to you again. 

As for that very passionate night—I wasn’t trying to kill you. If I were, you wouldn’t have walked again, let alone written me such a smug letter. But I’ll take the compliment. I’ve been told I leave an impression.

Don’t worry. I won’t vanish again. Not without warning. Not unless I have to. (There it is, my honesty for the week.) I didn’t expect your letter to hit as hard as it did. You miss me—and I believe you. That’s the part I wasn’t going to write. But here we are.

I’ve been training these days, sparring with my fists instead of a sword. I lose a lot, but I think that’s the point. You’d laugh if you saw how bruised I am right now. My fellow mentee said it builds character. I told him I liked mine just fine before.

I miss you too.

Don’t let them make a martyr out of you while I’m gone.

Still not yours, Ancarra’s rightful heir

You didn’t sleep well.

The letter from Jeonghan sat folded beneath your pillow, like a charm you pretend didn’t matter. You read it again before the sun rose, and again while pulling on your boots. 

Every morning since arriving in Aragorn, you told yourself tomorrow. Tomorrow, you would go to the quarter Taeyeon had quietly given to the displaced people of Ancarra. Tomorrow, you would face the ones you’d left behind. But “tomorrow” kept slipping further out of reach, buried under bruises, training drills, and the uneasy ache of being both too much and never enough for the person you used to be.

Taeyeon had done more for them than you could have asked before you even set foot in the city. The district she gave them had once been a lively hub of artists and potters, abandoned years ago after a flood rerouted the river. Now it stood reclaimed—tent cloth strung across old balconies, makeshift hearths glowing behind broken windows, and gardens sprouting defiantly between the cracks of sunbaked stone. 

The people of Aragorn had helped them, quietly and without fanfare—sharing food, teaching them how to barter, offering stories instead of suspicion. Their reception of your people was so much warmer than how the royal council welcomed you and Soonyoung the day you arrived, and you received that knowledge with quiet relief.

You didn’t know what you expected to feel, walking into that space. Guilt was a given. Shame too. But the nausea that coiled in your gut—that was new. You kept your hood up and your hands hidden, as if either could disguise the lineage stamped across your face.

Hyejin spotted you first.

She stood beneath the faded awning of an old workshop, sleeves rolled high and violet-stained hands doling out jars of nightshade balm. Her presence was a calm one, even surrounded by the sick and weary. You watched her laugh gently with an elder as she re-wrapped the woman’s wrist, murmuring something too soft to hear.

Then her eyes flicked up.

“Oh!” she called, brightening. “You’re Lady Taeyeon’s niece, right? What are you doing all the way out here?”

You froze. Right. That was the description Taeyeon gave to them—her niece, a woman just visiting from the capital. Nothing more. It was safer that way.

You opened your mouth, but then someone else called out to you.

“…Princess?”

You turned.

A middle-aged woman stood at the edge of the path, a basket of foraged roots slipping from her arms. Her eyes widened as if she were seeing a ghost. You didn’t know her. Not by name, not by face. She was one of thousands you’d failed to protect. But the way she looked at you made your throat tight. It wasn’t just recognition, it was faith. And that was harder to bear.

Now she fell to her knees.

“Princess,” she choked, tears welling fast. “It’s really you. Thank the gods, you’re alive. We—we thought you were gone. We thought they—”

Her voice broke, and you dropped beside her, grasping her hands before she could press her forehead to the dirt.

“Please,” you whispered. “Don’t. You don’t have to—”

But more eyes had turned. More voices picked up. Murmurs of your title wove through the narrow street like wind in dry leaves. And the nausea returned when you dared to look at Hyejin.

She stood very still, a jar of balm still cradled in one hand. Her gaze swept from the kneeling woman to you, her expression unreadable. You braced for a question. A quiet who are you, really? But it never came.

Instead, Hyejin held your gaze for a moment longer, then offered a small, knowing smile. With a slight dip of her head, she turned and slipped away into the crowd, leaving you exactly what she had given the others: space.

You stayed kneeling beside the woman longer than you meant to, your hands still wrapped around hers. She was trembling, her tears falling silently now, one after the other.

Then the others began to gather.

They didn’t crowd, not exactly. But one by one, they drew closer—shuffling feet and hesitant steps, eyes wide with something like reverence. One man offered you a stool. A girl no older than ten held out a cup of watered tea with both hands. Someone murmured something about fanning you, someone else about soup.

You tried to stand, to wave it all off, but the attention followed like a tide. Hands reached to steady you, voices overlapped.

"Let her sit, she must be exhausted."

"Princess, do you need anything? Say the word—"

“No,” you said, gently but firmly. “There’s no need for that.”

They quieted.

You looked around at the faces—lined with fatigue, hollowed by worry, but still somehow soft. Still kind. “I’m no different from any of you,” you said. “Titles don’t matter now. I’m just another child of Ancarra who had to run.”

A few exchanged glances, unsure. Still, the space around you loosened. Their fussing eased, retreating into murmured apologies and lowered gazes. You hated the way the word princess seemed to build a wall no matter how gently you tried to tear it down.

You accepted the tea from the little girl with a nod of thanks and turned to the group.

“Has there been any word?” you asked, voice quiet. “From home?”

The silence that fell was louder than words.

A few exchanged glances before a younger man finally spoke. He had a bandage along his forearm and eyes that looked far older than his face.

“There’s been nothing since we crossed the border. No letters, no couriers. Not even smuggled word from the traders. It’s like the land itself closed up behind us..”

He paused, voice growing rougher. “But before that... we saw enough.”

Another woman nodded, arms wrapped tightly around herself. “The new king… He’s changed everything. The patrols. The laws. People vanish, sometimes whole families if they so much as defy him. The soldiers say it’s for peace and order—but they act more like hunters than guards.”

Your heart ached with every word. For the longest time you could only assume that Minghao would seize the throne the moment he’d killed your father, but hearing from the citizens’ mouths that he’s been bastardizing the place you called home… You couldn’t even begin to fathom how to feel about it. 

All of a sudden, someone else muttered, “And the animals...”

You turned toward the speaker, a boy barely in his teens.

“They're not right,” he said. “Things from the mountains and the marshes showing up in the city. Creatures we’ve only heard in stories. I saw one—twice the size of a horse, with eyes like glass. The guards didn’t even flinch. They walked it like it was trained. And when they ordered it to kill my parents…” 

Your hands tightened around the cup.

“Minghao has been gathering beasts all across the kingdom, Your Highness,” said an elderly man, leaning on a carved cane. “My daughter told me that his armies brought them into the capital in droves. Those that he wasn’t interested in experimenting on were given as pets to his high-ranking soldiers…”

Experimenting? For what? 

Minghao had always been a steady, gentle presence in your life. Despite the harshness of his upbringing as a Renxing royal, he never let it harden him, at least not with you. He was the one who first placed a bow in your hands, one of the few who stood beside you when others scoffed at the idea of a princess learning to fight. He never saw you as less for wanting more. And for a long time, you remembered what it felt like to trust him.

So why did this sound like something he’d planned for a very long time?

Your people’s eyes clung to you, heavy with hope that hadn’t been asked for, but had somehow taken root the moment they recognized your face. It wrapped around you like ivy, quiet and persistent, tightening with every breath.

You could feel your heartbeat in your throat.

“You’re the rightful heir,” the woman in front of you whispered with hope. “We don’t ask for miracles. Just… tell us you haven’t given up. Tell us we’re not waiting for nothing.”

A few others murmured in agreement.

You met her eyes. Then the eyes of the boy who’d lost his parents. The man with the bandaged arm. The old man with the cane. Each one etched with wounds and wear, and yet—each one daring to hope again.

And in your chest, something twisted.

I don’t know what to do.

The thought tried to rise, thick and shameful. You didn’t know how to reclaim a kingdom, or face someone you once trusted with your own life. You didn’t know what it meant to be queen, or even if you wanted to be.

But you remembered your father—how even in the face of every problem the throne had to face, he never once let the people see the storm in his heart. His spine had been a spine for all of Ancarra. When grief nearly drowned you, his voice was still the one you searched for in the dark. 

You rose slowly to your feet, pressing the tea back into the girl’s hands with a soft smile. The circle around you widened just slightly, respectful and watchful.

“I know it’s been hard,” you said, your voice calm, steady—more than you felt. “For all of us. We’ve lost so much. But we’re here, we’re still alive. That means something.”

A few people nodded faintly. Others just watched, unmoving, like they were afraid this moment would vanish if they blinked.

You turned to look at them one by one, drawing strength from their presence even as their weight settled deeper on your shoulders. “We may not be in Ancarra anymore, but Ancarra still lives—in us. In our choices. In what we fight for. That hasn’t changed. That won’t change.”

You breathed in slowly, deeply, like your father used to before addressing a court that expected miracles. You remembered how he never flinched when the weight of the country bore down. How he didn’t always have the answers, but he never let them see his doubt.

He was gone.

Now it was your turn.

“We don’t know what’s coming next. But I promise you—” You paused, squaring your shoulders. “Whatever it is, we’ll meet it. Together.”

A long silence followed. Then someone whispered, "For Ancarra."

Another voice echoed it. Then another. Until the street hummed with the quiet beginnings of belief. You didn’t let yourself cry, though you wanted to. Because you were not just some girl lost in a country that wasn’t her own. 

You were Ancarra’s future. 

The sun had begun to dip when you returned to Taeyeon’s estate. The cobbled path was golden in the light, and the silence of the grounds wrapped around you like balm. You half-expected to find the courtyard empty again, but as you stepped through the arched gate, a familiar voice called out:

“You’re just in time for tea.”

You blinked, surprised.

Taeyeon sat on the front porch, a delicate porcelain cup in one hand, the other resting loosely across her lap. She looked far too serene for someone who had been managing half the city’s magical logistics. Her dark hair was pinned back today, but loose strands shimmered around her face in the late light. A second cup sat beside her, already steaming.

“I thought you were still out,” you said, walking closer. 

Taeyeon smiled apologetically and gestured to the seat beside her. “I had to tend to some administrative tedium. The mage’s guild gets skittish every time I miss a meeting—afraid I’ve gone off to start a war, probably. But now I’m back. And far more free to help you with the Hanya issue.”

You sank onto the cushion beside her with a sigh and reached for the tea. “Minjeong’s cooking was plenty company,” you said truthfully, a little grin tugging at your mouth. “Seriously. I’ve never had noodles like that.”

“She takes it as a personal offense if anyone walks away hungry,” Taeyeon said fondly.

For a few beats, the quiet settled in. Then you set your cup down and turned toward her, more serious now. “About Hanya…”

Taeyeon arched her brow.

“I wanted to tell you… you don’t have to scheme on my behalf.” You hesitated, choosing your words carefully. “I want to speak to her myself.”

“Oh?” She tilted her head, lips twitching. “What spurred this on?”

“I met with some of the Ancarrian refugees today,” you said quietly. “They’re still holding on. Somehow. And they looked at me like I’m still someone worth believing in.”

Her smile deepened, warm and proud. “You are someone worth believing in.”

You looked away, the words settling somewhere too close to the bone.

“Okay,” Taeyeon said. “I’ll take you to Hanya at first light. But for today—rest. You still have bruises from your sparring sessions at Jongkook’s. I’m afraid Prince Jeonghan will have me maimed alive if he finds out I permitted those blemishes on you.”

You snorted, the tension easing from your shoulders. “He would not.”

“Speaking of that prince,” she added, “he sent another letter for you. The bird’s already waiting by the window of your room.”

You blinked. “Already?”

Taeyeon laughed cheekily. “I think he’s working through separation anxiety in written form.”

You thanked Taeyeon quietly and slipped back into the house, the scent of roasted nuts trailing from the kitchen. As you passed, Minjeong barely looked up from her chopping, but she gave a small nod, and the faintest smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. You returned it before heading upstairs.

Your room was bathed in amber light. The shutters had been opened just enough to let the sun filter through, casting golden stripes across the floor. Perched on the windowsill was a familiar bird—indignant, and unmistakably sulky.

“Dandelion,” you breathed.

He stared at you like he’s been waiting for hours.

Took you long enough.

You raised an eyebrow. “You’re in a mood.”

You would be too if someone plucked you out of the royal aviary at an ungodly hour reeking of alcohol. Dandelion fluffed his feathers with great offense. Is that guy really your type? He’s a little insane, you know.

“He’s plenty insane,” you corrected, not bothering to answer his question as you reached for the letter he’d placed on your nightstand. “Jeonghan woke you up just for this? Couldn’t even wait until morning?”

With no bribe, too! Not even the crust of a honey biscuit. Ungrateful bastard.

You stifled a smile, already recognizing Jeonghan’s dramatic scrawl on the parchment. But as your eyes parsed through the words he’d written, a scowl slowly rooted itself on your face.

Princess,

Do you know what the problem is with Oak Walker? It makes a man honest.

I was going to write something refined. Polished. The sort of letter your new mage friends would be proud of. But then I started thinking about the way you looked the last  night we were together—moonlight on your collarbone, moaning like the pretty thing you are—and suddenly, grammar didn’t feel that important anymore.

Do you ever think about it? The way you ruined me?

I haven’t slept a full night since. My bed’s cold. My back still aches. My staff won’t meet my eyes. They think I’m possessed. And maybe I am because every time I close my eyes, I see you beneath me, skin flushed, breasts bouncing, my cock nestled between those supple thighs of yours.

You should come home. I promise to let you pin me to a wall as revenge for the last time I did that to you. Or the floor. Or the damn balcony—I’m not picky.

Yours in body and soul,  Jeonghan

P.S. If you burn this, I will know. I will feel it.

You stared at the letter.

The words were very much still there.

Your ears burned. Your soul burned.

“…He did not just—”

Your voice strangled itself in disbelief as your gaze flitted wildly across the page, trying to make sense of the absolute audacity bleeding from every line. And oh, there it was again—my cock nestled between those supple thighs of yours—and—

You slapped the parchment face down on your desk like it had personally wronged you.

From the desk, Dandelion ruffled his feathers. You alright? Did he insult your ancestors or something?

You made another strangled noise and slapped the letter facedown, as if that would undo the image now seared into your brain. Gods, you could see it all again—Jeonghan’s mouth on your skin, the way his voice had gone hoarse whispering your name, the heat of his body against yours, the—

You groaned and pressed the heels of your palms to your eyes. “He’s actually insane.”

You keep saying that, Dandelion said dryly, and yet you’re redder than a boiled beet.

“I’m not—! Shut up.”

Just say the word and I’ll drop something in his bathwater. Maybe something that turns his voice high-pitched for a few hours.

You gave him a look. “You’re supposed to be neutral.”

I’m not that neutral. A pause. So. Am I taking a response back? Or should I just cough dramatically near his ear for a full day and let him know it’s from you?

You groaned again—but this time, you reached for a fresh sheet of parchment. “He’s not getting the last word.”

Dandelion chirped happily. That’s the spirit.

Jeonghan,

Have you completely lost your mind?

Actually, don’t answer that. I already know the answer. No sane person sends that kind of letter via bird in the middle of the night, without so much as a crumb of food for the courier. Dandelion is offended. I am mortified beyond belief. 

Do you even remember what you wrote? You’d better hope not, because if you ever say any of that out loud to my face, I’ll make good on the “pinning you to the wall” part, but not the way you meant.

Gods, Jeonghan. I came to Aragorn to figure out who I am outside of what the world made me. To breathe for a moment. To think clearly. And then you go and send that? You really are the most ridiculous man I’ve ever met.

But since I’m concerned that my lack of a direct response to your… debauchery might result in further punishment for Dandelion, then yes. I think about that night more often than I’d like to admit. However, unlike you, I don’t write important correspondences while under the influence of Yoona’s evil Oak Walker, so that’s all you’re getting out of me. 

Sincerely, Dandelion’s only friend

P.S. Your staff thinks you’re possessed because you are. I should know. I’ve spent more than enough time in your orbit to recognize the symptoms.

P.P.S. Get some sleep. I mean it.

You folded the letter with great precision, like you were packing away something volatile. Sealed it with the little copper signet Taeyeon had given you, stamped with Aragorn’s flame. Then you turned to Dandelion, who was very visibly preening like he hadn’t just been dragged into a royal sex scandal against his will.

“Here,” you said, handing over the rolled parchment. “Straight to the prince. No stops. No flirting with the bluebirds on the southern cliffs.”

I have done no such thing! 

You shook your head, trying not to laugh. “Just go. And if he tries to read this out loud to anyone, claw his face off.”

Dandelion took off in a sweep of dark wings and indignant muttering, leaving you alone once more in your sun-dappled chambers.

For a moment, you simply stood there, the silence hugging your shoulders. Then you sank into the bed, curling onto your side as your eyes drifted toward Jeonghan’s most recent letter. You’d tossed carelessly on your quilt like it wasn’t responsible for the blush creeping up your neck.

You reached for it. 

(You shouldn’t have. You absolutely shouldn’t have.

But you did.)

Your gaze traced the lines again, the scrawl that grew progressively less elegant the filthier it got. You could almost hear his voice in it—drawling, drunk, and smug. And unfortunately for you, your treacherous memory filled in the rest.

The curve of moonlight over his skin. The way your names had blurred on each other’s tongues. The pressure of his mouth between your thighs, and your fingers tangled in his red hair as you gasped for—

You groaned into a pillow, mortified.

What was wrong with you?

Why did your body remember every second with such vivid, burning clarity? You pressed your legs together and tried not to think about the fact that you were embarrassingly warm all over. You’d literally just met with the remnants of your people this morning, and now you’re fantasizing about an uncouth prince?

He’d ruined you, and he wasn’t even in the damn room.

You buried your face deeper into the pillow, as if suffocating yourself could somehow drown out the memory. It didn’t. If anything, the darkness behind your eyelids made it worse. You could still feel Jeonghan bracing himself above you with that maddening smile before stealing the breath from your lungs. You reached blindly for his letter again, the parchment crackling beneath your fingers. Read the lines a third time. Maybe a fourth. Your thighs shifted.

“Stop,” you groaned at yourself.

But the memory was a wildfire now, licking across your skin—his mouth, his hands, the weight of him, the way he'd said your name like it was holy. And gods help you, your hand started moving before you could talk yourself out of it.

You bit your lip as your fingers brushed over the waistband of your trousers, breath catching in your throat. 

But your body didn’t seem to care—because your mind was already there. Back in his arms. Back in that room lit by moonlight and madness, where the air had smelled like sandalwood and wine and something distinctly him. 

Tell me what you want.

You slipped your hand lower, hips shifting as heat pulsed through you.

“I hate you,” you whispered.

Your fingers moved slower, firmer, guided by the rhythm of memory. His hands on your thighs. His mouth at your neck. You moaned softly, biting down on the edge of the pillow as your heart  raced. The ache built steadily—hot, urgent, and overwhelming. His name fell from your lips again, this time as a whimper.

That night you hadn’t gone all the way. But what if you did? What if Jeonghan had sunk his cock into your needy heat? You just knew he’d fuck you until you saw stars; knew he’d whisper how good your tight cunt felt around him. And then you’d take everything he gave, let him mark you, make you his—

And when the wave crested, when it shattered through you like a tremor beneath the skin, you clung to the sheets like they were him.

You lay there for a while, panting, flushed, half-glaring at the ceiling.

Jeonghan. That infuriating man. 

Even half a world away, he still had you wrapped around his goddamn finger.

The morning sun hadn’t yet burned off the dew clinging to the leaves when you and Taeyeon stepped through the shimmering veil of her portal, landing on the mossy path outside Hanya’s crooked little house.

You still couldn’t meet Taeyeon’s eyes.

Not after last night.

Every time your thoughts wandered, they wandered—and your cheeks burned hot all over again. If Taeyeon noticed anything strange about your stiff posture or the too-casual way you’d greeted her this morning, she didn’t mention it. She just handed you a piece of toast, opened a portal, and strolled through it like nothing was out of the ordinary.

Which, thankfully, gave you room to pretend nothing was.

The animals were already stirring around Hanya’s porch. You saw the same monkey from last time perched on the railing, along with a sleepy fox curled beside the doorstep. As you approached, the fox cracked open one eye and regarded you lazily.

Most give up after the first rejection, it said.

“I’m not like most,” you murmured back, steeling your resolve as you lifted your hand to knock.

The door creaked open as Hanya filled the doorway like a shadow, her sharp gray eyes already narrowed in irritation. Her lips curled into something resembling a snarl.

“I thought I made myself clear last time,” she said. “I don’t want your cursed magic anywhere near me.”

You met her gaze head-on, spine straight. “But don’t you carry the same cursed magic too?”

There was a pause. Barely half a breath. But you saw it—the way her shoulders tensed, the way her eyes widened slightly, just for a second. Behind you, Taeyeon gave a quiet, knowing laugh. Hanya’s glare returned full force, but something about it had changed. She muttered something under her breath—probably a curse—and turned with a huff.

Honestly, this was a bit of a surprise. You didn’t think that was all you had to say to change her mind.

“Well,” she grumbled, stomping inside. “Don’t just stand there.”

You exchanged a glance with Taeyeon, your chest still tight with nerves. But you followed, stepping into the home of the one mage who might finally understand what had always made your magic feel wrong.

Hanya stepped back with a grunt and a reluctant flick of her wrist, gesturing for you and Taeyeon inside. “Don’t touch anything,” she muttered. “Especially if it hisses.”

The moment you crossed the threshold, the air changed.

The interior of the house felt less like a home and more like the heart of a living, breathing wildwood. The scent of moss, singed herbs, and fur lingered in the air. Wooden shelves lined the walls, cluttered with bundles of dried grasses, enchanted bones, claws from creatures you couldn’t name, and glowing vials that pulsed with slow, otherworldly light. 

A spiral of thick roots twisted up through the center of the room, acting as a natural column. Hanging from it were dozens of charms: teeth strung on thread, bits of crystal, and bells that rang with no breeze. A fat marmalade-colored cat blinked at you from the top of a high shelf. The fox from outside slinked past your ankles like mist, its nine tails fanned with interest.

Hanya poured steaming water over crushed bark and a cindersong bloom in a chipped stone teapot. The scent was bitter, like burned honey and pine. She set it on the hearth without ceremony, then turned to you.

“If you want me to teach you, girl,” she said, “you need to know where you come from. What you carry.”

Taeyeon gave you an encouraging nod, stepping aside as if to say: this part is yours.

Hanya motioned for you to sit. “There are two kinds of beast mages left in Ancarra—those who speak, and those who become. You think you’re the first kind. But you need to understand both.”

You sat down, back straight, heart pounding.

“In the beginning,” Hanya said, settling across from you, “beasts ruled those lands. Not animals, but spirits. The First Beasts. Embodiments of instinct and truth. They were united by a trifecta: the Owl of Wisdom, the Tiger of Loyalty, and the Serpent of Vengeance. Humans were nothing but prey. Until some brave soul knelt before the trifecta and listened instead of running away from them.”

“A covenant was made between the First Beasts and the Ancarrans of old, and two kinds of magic were born,” she continued, “The Tongue of Beasts—this is yours; the path of the Speakers, of empathy and true listening. The other is the Shape of Beasts, which belongs to Shapeshifters. Borrowed form. Physical memory. The two were meant to exist in balance.”

“But something happened,” you murmured, voice hushed.

Hanya nodded, dark eyes unreadable. “A warlord rose and called himself the Beast King. He thought speaking was weak—why whisper when you can devour? He took the forms of the spirits without their permission, without their wisdom. Killed them. Absorbed them. And in doing so, shattered the pact.”

The fire popped behind her, sending sparks up the hearth. 

You thought about Hanya’s words long and hard. The two kinds of beast magic, the story of the Beast King usurping the First Beasts… Was this what Minghao was planning? The reason why he was bringing those creatures to the capital of Ancarra?

“Your mother was a Speaker, too,” Hanya said. “She may not have worn the title openly, but she carried the gift. So did her mother before her. The Royal Bloodline wasn’t just made to rule humans—it was made to speak to what came before humans. The First Beasts. Your voice can stir them from slumber.”

You swallowed, a lump forming in your throat. “Why… why didn’t anyone tell me? About the truth behind our magic? All I was told was that Mother could speak to animals, too…”

“Because the world calls it cursed now,” she said, voice cool. “Because after the Shapeshifter betrayal, they lumped all beast magic together as dangerous. Dirty and forbidden. And so the stories died. The line was broken. And you, little Speaker—” her gaze flicked over you with something between scorn and pity—“were left to figure it out alone.”

A kind of aching clarity poured in. You had spent your entire life speaking to animals in whispers, never knowing why the birds sang back, or why Reya’s voice rang louder in your heart than most people’s ever did. You’d been told it was a blessing, then a curse, then something to be hidden. Now, finally, it had a name—a legacy. You weren’t broken. You weren’t a mistake. 

You were part of something ancient.

“I want to learn,” you said, quietly. “I need to.”

Hanya gave a slow, grudging nod, already rising to her feet with a determined look on her face.

“Then let’s see if your blood remembers what the crown forgot.”

The castle halls were quieter than usual when Joshua went looking for his brother. Morning light filtered through the tall stained-glass windows, casting blue and gold patterns on the stone floor. When he asked after Jeonghan, the maids exchanged uneasy glances.

“His Highness left at dawn,” one whispered. “Didn’t say where.”

Joshua sighed. Of course he didn’t. Jeonghan hadn’t been himself since you disappeared. He told everyone you were safe—that you’d gone somewhere to train, and that your letters proved you were alive—but even Joshua could see the cracks beneath that assurance. His brother doubted it. Every second of every day.

So he followed instinct, rather than logic. Out past the castle gates, through the eastern woods that had long since been declared off-limits to servants and guests. There was a place there that no one else knew about; a clearing only he and Jeonghan used to sneak away to when they were younger.

And there, in the center of that clearing, was a black dragon.

It lay curled in a bed of flattened wildgrass, wings folded tight to its back, smoke curling from its nostrils. Massive and ancient, yet somehow familiar in posture. A creature no longer supposed to exist. Joshua froze, breath caught in his throat. Then his boot crunched softly against a patch of dried leaves.

The dragon cracked open one enormous eye, golden and slitted. It narrowed slightly at the sight of him, but did not move. Joshua swallowed and smiled, trying not to be overwhelmed by awe. 

“You know,” he said, voice casual, “you’re a lot more talkative when you’re human.”

A puff of smoke answered him. Clearly irritated.

Joshua tilted his head. “Come on, brother. I know it’s you. Talk to me in a form I can actually understand.”

There was a pause.

Then, with a low rumble that shook the leaves, the dragon began to shift. Bones and scales folded inwards; wings collapsed; the long tail vanished in smoke. What remained, standing amid the dissipating steam, was a man—naked, barefoot, breathing a little too hard. His hair was black again, same as the dragon’s scales.

Joshua stared at him. “Really?”

“You came looking for me. You get what you get.”

The younger prince tossed him his cloak. “I swear to the gods, I’m the only thing standing between you and a dozen traumatized gardeners.”

Jeonghan caught it, but didn’t laugh. He sat down in the grass, folding the cloak loosely around him, gaze lost in the distant treetops.

Joshua sat beside him, knees drawn up. “You didn’t even tell me you could do that. Back then you only transformed into… simpler things. A dog. A squirrel. But a dragon?”

“It’s not exactly something I advertise.”

“No,” Joshua said quietly, “but it’s something you should have told me.”

Jeonghan didn’t answer. The wind stirred the grass. Smoke still lingered faintly in the air, curling around them like memory. Joshua leaned closer to feel for his temperature with the back of his hand, the fussy brother that he was.

“You’re burning up from the inside,” he frowned. “That form… You shouldn’t hold it for too long.”

“I know.”

“Then why use it?”

Jeonghan looked down at his hands, still trembling. “Because when I’m a dragon,” he said, voice soft and raw, “I don’t have to feel how much I miss her.”

Joshua blinked, taken aback. Not by the words themselves, but by how easily they’d fallen from his brother’s mouth. Jeonghan wasn’t one for confession. He wore his emotions like armor: controlled, polished, impossible to pierce. But here, now, stripped of everything—title, pride, even clothes—he looked like a boy again. 

A boy mourning something that hadn’t died, just disappeared. And Joshua, who had always been his quiet shadow, his tether to the world, suddenly felt the full weight of that love. Not just longing, but devotion. The kind Jeonghan had never been able to unlearn, no matter how much time passed or how far you had gone.

Jeonghan let out a shaky breath. “And gods help me, Shua… The longer she’s gone, the harder it is to believe she’s coming back.”

Joshua didn’t answer him.

He had always known his brother loved you. That part had never been a mystery. It was in the way Jeonghan lingered at the edge of your world—never gentle, never far. Even as children, he needled and provoked, the way some boys do when affection is too sharp to name. He kept you close by keeping you off balance. He orbited you like gravity—not because he was soft, but because he didn’t know how to let go.

And he’d known about the shame, too. About the curse.

His shapeshifting magic had always been a secret, one locked behind palace doors, spoken of only in whispers within their family. Their parents never acknowledged it directly, but Joshua had seen the signs. The fear in Jeonghan’s eyes after a transformation gone wrong. The burn marks on his skin that no one ever treated aloud. The way he would disappear for days whenever the magic overwhelmed him. Their mother’s cold silences. Their father’s refusal to meet his gaze.

So no—none of this was new to Joshua.

But what he hadn’t understood, not until now, was how tightly Jeonghan’s self-hatred was knotted around the fact that he loved you.

Being betrothed to the girl he adored should’ve been a blessing. But it became a terror. And so he did what he did best: pushed, provoked, made himself unbearable. He gave you every reason to hate him. Because if you loved a cursed thing, maybe the curse would claim you, too. And Jeonghan—fool that he was—would rather be unloved than be the reason you were ruined.

Joshua reached over, not saying a word, and rested a hand on his brother’s shoulder. In the quiet, the trees swayed. Somewhere far off, a hawk cried.

And the two princes sat alone in the clearing—one still smoking from old magic, the other quietly holding him together—as the last vestiges of dragonfire cooled to ash.

PART ONE | PART TWO | PART THREE

⟢ end notes: i'm having SUCHHH a ride writing this, you guys have no idea lmfao!!! and if you noticed, joshua's mc from his fic in the series finally has a name too + chan and hyejin appearance, who else cheered? i was supposed to have this up next week, but today's a holiday for me, so i got around to editing and finally cleaning up this part :3c i really really tried to make two parts work but... :( however, like in my jeongcheol x reader fic, inflection point, all the best things come in threes! that said, thank you oh-so much for the overwhelming reception on the first part T T i was gone for more than a year, so i didn't expect people to like my stuff after all this time UEUEUEUE see you in the finale!!!!

this is part of the it’s complicated series.

[morning-fragility]

What remains of you and me

Grian is a geologist helping out his archeologist friends for a season; Scar is an artist and landscape designer, who joined the archeological expedition as a volunteer to unwind and paint some local views.

Or, a (soulmates) reincarnation AU

A bit more context:

A group of archeologists, geologists and a couple of volunteers are excavating what used to be a small town. The longer they spend on the sight, however, the more oddly familiar everything seems to some of them; it's almost like some people know exactly what they're looking for, what it looked like originally and where to find it. They don't need this deja vu to tell something tragic caused the end of this settlement, though: with the remains of soot and ash, things scattered and some skeletons without a sight of proper burials, it's pretty obvious.

All lifers are there, of course, but only the winners become haunted; the earlier was the win canonicaly, the sooner they get affected by the visions/hallucinations on sight.

Sometimes they have dreams of this place many centuries ago, bustling with life, a blurry shadow of unknown threat looming over it. Sometimes they see eachother, in those dreams. And sometimes they'd swear these are not dreams, admitting reluctantly they hear distant voices speaking in a language none of them speaks, laughing, screaming, calling out to them. Sometimes it feels personal. Sometimes they look at eachother silently and mourn something that happened so long ago none of them can remember (and probably wouldn't want to).

Grian gets affected first and it hits him like a truck. Scar starts seeing/hearing things much later, already assuming something's up, judging by how the rest of the winners act and the way Grian looks at him when he thinks Scar's not noticing.

They dig out their own bones and attempt to discover their past lives, together.

(Maybeee at the start of the expedition scarian are in and out of a relationship (you know, the complicated mess they are in life series) ?? I'm not sure, but, in any case, as the summer goes by they grow closer than ever, realizing a lot of things and ending up Properly Together.)

___________________

It's bare bones of an au, really, and I'm not sure if I'll ever do anything else with it, but the idea has been living in my head for a while and I thought it's about time to get it out 💃💃💃

UPD.: SECOND POST

[the-raindeer-king]

Imagine Simon's mom doesn't die with Tommy and Beth. Maybe she was out of town, or at a friend's house, and Roba's men were sloppy and missed her. Anyway, so it's just Simon and her now, and because he blames himself for what happened, he's pulled away from her.

He pays her rent, even if he wanted her to live in a nicer apartment complex. And he visits during her birthday and Mother's Day, and sometimes just randomly stops by. But he never stays very long, and he doesn't tell her a lot about his new life. It's a very one sided relationship, but she tries to make the best of it.

And then you move in next door, during one of Simon's deployments. You feel bad for the sweet lady that lives next to you. She never seems to have much company, and you take it upon yourself to befriend her, spending more time in her apartment than your own.

You learn about her ex husband, her sons, the tragedy, and most importantly, you learn about Simon. And you hate him. Mrs. Riley (she insists you call her Sarah) is such a lovely woman, and it's clear how much she cares about her living son, how hard she's trying to keep their relationship alive.

It's the second Mother's Day after you move in when you finally meet Simon. Your relationship with your own mother is complicated, so you've opted to spend the day with Mrs. Riley. You'd gotten her a small present, and had planned to spend the day drinking wine and watching historical romance movies.

You're thoroughly shocked when you knock on her door, and a man answers. Six feet, built like a brick house, but under his scowl, you recognize Sarah's eyes.

“You must be Simon.”

His scowl deepens, but before he can say anything, Mama Riley is pushing past him, pulling you into her apartment to fuss over you.

She apologizes for not telling you sooner, but your plans will have to be rescheduled. Simon's back early, and she can't waste a precious second.

You're understanding. You've listened to her worried rants, given her space to cry over how things have turned out. You know she loves spending time with her son, even if the visits are short and he doesn't talk much.

Simon doesn't miss the way you glare at him. There's a fury in your eyes, even as you cheerily wish his mother a happy mother's day. For a moment, he wonders if you're a spy. But that thought is quickly diminished, when you verbally eviscerate him at the door.

You're quiet, not wanting to upset his mom, but your anger is clear. It may not be your business, but Mama Riley is your friend, and you adore the older woman. And you cannot stand by while he treats her like this. She loves her son so much, and he needs to step up and try harder.

As you're chewing him out, Simon's already head over heels, planning your wedding as the seconds tick by.

(A/N: You can read this as a stand alone piece, but I did write 3 more drabbles (four in total!) for this! They're all on my blog under the tag mama riley au. Thank you for reading!)

Part 2 Part 3 Part 4

[dreaming-of-tae]

♡ skz finding out they're dating an idol

How'd They Find Out? How'd They React? How'd They Handle It?

➜ fluff/angst w/ comfort . gn!reader

ch : bangchan . leeknow . changbin . hyunjin . han . felix . seungmin . i.n

warnings : emotional conflict / angst , mild cursing / intensity: (very mild) , romantic themes , mentions of fame/idol industry pressures

[﹒notes] - My first straykids post!! hope you guys enjoy this as I put a lot of time in ✩ as of now my requests are open so if you have any requests feel free to send them in~ These headcanon/stories are written in a more angsty way, because of how serious being an idol is ♡

Bang Chan (방찬)

You and Chan had been dating in private for nearly a year. It wasn’t exactly a secret relationship, but both of you kept it far away from the public eye. You were always vague about your career, describing yourself as “in the entertainment industry” but never elaborating. You always told yourself you’d come clean eventually — once the time was right.

But the truth was, you were an idol preparing to debut with a major company. And when your group finally debuted, everything changed.

The news came out not from you, but through the industry grapevine. JYP staff began murmuring about a new rookie group shaking the charts — and Chan’s ears perked up when he heard your name associated with them.

At first, he thought it was a coincidence. Maybe someone who just had the same name. But then he saw the teaser.

Your face.

Your voice.

Your debut.

He watched the performance in his studio late one night, headphones in, heart pounding. He didn't even realize he was gripping the armrest of his chair until his fingers went numb. It wasn't just that you were an idol. It was the fact that you'd kept it from him — someone who prided himself on being open, trustworthy, and understanding in relationships.

When you finally walked into his studio the next day, it was quiet. Too quiet.

He didn’t yell. Chan never did. But his silence was louder than any shouting could be.

“You debuted,” he said, not looking up from his laptop.

You tried to explain — how scared you were, how much pressure you were under, how much you wanted to tell him but didn’t want to ruin your shot or involve him in any scandal. Your voice cracked, but you kept going.

“I wasn’t hiding you, I was hiding me,” you told him, near tears.

He leaned back, staring at the ceiling, exhaling slowly.

“You know I’d never be mad at you for chasing your dream,” he said softly. “But... I thought we were in this together. I thought we shared everything.”

That line stung more than anything.

It takes time. Chan isn’t one to hold grudges, but he feels things deeply. He spends days reflecting — not just on your relationship, but on what it meant for you to feel like you couldn’t trust him with something so big.

Eventually, he reaches out, asking to meet. This time, he's warmer, a little more relaxed.

“You looked incredible on stage,” he admits, smiling shyly. “I’m proud of you.”

He apologizes for his coldness, but also asks you to let him in — even when things are messy, complicated, or scary. “We’re idols,” he says. “We know this life isn’t easy. But I want to share it with you.”

From that point on, he’s your biggest supporter — attending shows in secret, leaving notes in your dressing room when he can, and giving you vocal tips late at night.

He doesn’t love that your schedules now clash and your careers are public property, but he accepts it. Because at the end of the day, you’re still you — and he’s still the guy who fell in love with you, long before the world knew your name.

Lee Know (리노)

Minho had always suspected you were “more than you let on.” The way you carried yourself, the way you avoided certain questions, the way your phone always lit up with messages from people labeled only with emojis. You were mysterious — something he found intriguing.

You’d been together quietly for a little over six months, and while Minho wasn’t the kind of guy to push boundaries, he was observant. Very observant.

Then it happened — your group dropped a surprise debut showcase.

And there you were. Center stage. Flawless. Charismatic. An idol.

Minho sat there in his dorm room, your face filling his screen, members buzzing around him, exclaiming “Wait — isn’t that…?”

He didn’t say a word.

Just stared.

And then left the room.

You knew you had to tell him — and you were already on your way over when your phone started buzzing. A message from Minho: “We need to talk.”

When you arrived, his expression was unreadable. Arms crossed, leaning against the wall like he’d been waiting hours.

“So,” he said, voice clipped. “Anything you want to share?”

You tried to explain — the contracts, the company’s PR strategy, your own fears. But Minho’s eyebrows raised.

“Don’t tell me it was all about timing. You had months.”

His voice was sharper than usual. He wasn’t angry in the explosive way — he was angry in the quiet, disappointed way that only someone who’s truly hurt can be.

“I don’t care that you’re an idol,” he finally said. “I care that you didn’t trust me enough to be honest.”

You stood there, feeling like the world had dropped out from under you.

But you didn’t give up. You reached for his hand. “Minho… I didn’t know how. I didn’t want you to think I was using you. Or lying. Or trying to compete. I was scared I’d lose you.”

Something shifted in his expression at that.

Lee Know doesn’t forgive easily — but he does listen.

It takes a long conversation, a lot of silence, and a few sarcastic jabs (“So do I have to call you sunbaenim now?”), but eventually, he lets down the walls again.

Minho is surprisingly vulnerable when you crack through the tough outer shell. He opens up about how he’s always struggled with trust — how hard it is to feel close to people when the industry is full of masks.

“But I want to trust you,” he admits quietly, “so let me.”

From then on, he becomes fiercely protective. He never shows it in dramatic ways, but it’s there — the texts checking in after your late-night schedules, the hand squeeze before a big stage, the teasing messages when you post a killer performance.

He’ll never say “I’m your number one fan” out loud, but he doesn’t have to.

He’s the one watching your fancams at 2 AM when he thinks no one’s looking. The one who subtly retweets your group’s success through fan accounts. The one who learns your choreography just to mockingly dance it in front of you — only to get every step exactly right.

Changbin (창빈)

Dating Changbin had been like finding home. He was warm, goofy, emotionally intelligent, and one of the few idols who knew how to switch off the performance face when the cameras were gone. You met him through a mutual friend, and your relationship bloomed over late-night ramen, playlists, and gym sessions.

He knew you were “in music,” but you always steered the conversation away when it got too close to your career specifics.

You’d rehearsed how to tell him the truth so many times. But your company’s unexpected early debut announcement forced your hand before you were ready. One minute, you were planning your next date with him; the next, your debut stage was trending on Twitter.

He didn’t find out from you.

He found out on Instagram, scrolling through hashtags, when a photo of you in full stage makeup from a press showcase filled his feed. He blinked, confused.

Wait. That was you. Center stage. Surrounded by dancers. Dressed in a designer outfit.

The caption read: [Name], center of [Group Name], the next big thing in K-pop.

He sat in stunned silence, your unopened text from earlier still sitting on his phone screen.

It read: “Can we talk later tonight? Please.”

You showed up to his studio hours later, already anticipating the hurt in his eyes.

He wasn’t angry — not in the explosive sense. But Changbin felt things deeply, and that depth was now tinged with betrayal.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” he asked softly, fingers fiddling with the drawstring on his hoodie. “Was I… just someone to pass time with until you debuted?”

You rushed to explain — how scared you were of being seen as someone using him, how your company warned you not to get involved romantically before debut, how you’d planned to tell him when the timing felt safer.

“I didn’t want you to see me differently,” you whispered.

“I already saw you,” he said. “The real you. That’s why it hurts.”

Changbin spirals a bit. Not dramatically — but internally. He overthinks, questions every moment, replays your interactions, wondering if there were signs he missed. But despite all the confusion and hurt, he doesn’t give up on you.

He just needs time.

You give him space, unsure if he’ll reach back out — but a few days later, he does. He texts you a selfie of him holding up your debut album, captioned: “I still meant it when I said I liked you. That hasn’t changed.”

When you meet again, the air is gentler. You talk — really talk. He admits his insecurities. You show him your practice clips and share how long you’ve dreamed of this.

From that point on, he becomes your unofficial hype man. He studies your choreo so he can do your fanchants, sneaks your songs into his playlists, and even writes a verse about you for a mixtape — cryptic enough not to be obvious, but personal enough that you know.

His love is loud, even if his pain was quiet. And in the end, he never stops believing in you — or the version of you he fell for long before the lights hit your stage.

Hyunjin (현진)

Being with Hyunjin felt like walking through an art museum — every moment was soaked in feeling, beauty, and subtle intensity. He was affectionate, expressive, and deeply attentive. He'd write little poems for you, draw doodles on your hands when you were bored, and always looked at you like you were a masterpiece.

You adored him for that. And it made keeping your secret even harder.

Your debut had been quietly brewing for over a year, and your company was famously strict. Dating wasn’t just frowned upon — it was a career risk. So you said nothing, afraid to jeopardize your shot or his.

But when your group's debut MV dropped and the internet lit up with reactions, it didn’t take long for Hyunjin to put the pieces together. He knew your mannerisms, your eyes, the tilt of your head. He recognized you instantly.

But what crushed him wasn’t that you were an idol.

It was that he had to find out with the rest of the world.

You found him in his apartment the next evening — music off, curtains drawn, sketchbook open but untouched. He looked up when you entered, his eyes unreadable.

“Why didn’t you trust me with this?” he asked, voice barely above a whisper.

You sat beside him, heart thudding, and told him everything — the fears, the company’s threats, the guilt. You confessed how each day that passed without telling him made it harder to come clean. How you hated yourself for not trusting the person who treated you like you hung the stars.

“I wanted to protect what we had,” you said. “But I ended up hurting you.”

He didn’t respond for a long while. Then, slowly, he handed you his sketchbook.

Inside was a drawing of you — in your debut outfit, mid-performance, surrounded by stage lights. But your eyes in the sketch were sad. Lonely.

“I drew this after I saw the video,” he said. “Because I knew you weren’t celebrating.”

Hyunjin is emotional, yes — but he’s also wise beyond his years. He doesn’t push you away. Instead, he leans into his feelings, into the pain, and finds a way to make art out of it.

He asks for honesty moving forward, no matter how difficult. And you promise.

He becomes your quiet anchor — someone who understands the duality of fame and intimacy. He starts leaving notes in your bag before fanmeets, texts you affirmations after live stages, and watches your content with tears in his eyes and a smile on his lips.

Sometimes, it’s hard — when your names are trending for different reasons, when rumors swirl, when the distance grows. But Hyunjin never stops showing up. He creates playlists titled “For When You’re Tired” and draws little comics of your imaginary life if you were just two art students instead of idols.

And though he found out the truth in a way that broke his heart, he still chooses you — every version of you.

The star version of you.

And the person behind both.

Han (한)

Dating Jisung was like living in a comedy-drama series with the most chaotic yet golden-hearted lead. He was silly, loud, unpredictable — but beneath it all, he had the most fragile heart and softest soul. He constantly sought reassurance and was always the first to make you laugh when things got heavy.

You connected through mutual friends at a casual get-together, and from day one, he made it clear how serious he was about you — in his goofy, offbeat way. You’d always deflected questions about your career by saying you were “training in music production” or “working behind the scenes,” and he never pushed you too hard.

Until your debut hit the internet.

Jisung wasn’t scrolling for gossip. He was looking for new music releases when he saw the thumbnail: your name — your face — and a “Debut MV” tag.

He clicked without thinking. Half-curious. Half-worried.

As the video played and your voice rang through his speakers, reality cracked open.

His first reaction? Shock — mouth open, hands paused in midair, eyes wide.

Then came confusion. And then silence.

When you texted him later that day with a simple: “Can we talk? Please.” — he didn’t answer right away.

Not because he was angry.

Because his brain was moving at 200mph, and his heart was dragging behind.

He met you that night outside the dorms — hoodie on, hands in his pockets, face unreadable.

“You’re an idol?” he asked softly. “All this time?”

You explained everything — the contracts, the NDAs, your fear of losing him. The guilt of holding something so big back.

His lip twitched. “You thought I wouldn’t be okay with it? Or… you didn’t trust me enough to try?”

The pain in his voice wasn’t loud. It was wounded, quiet, like a joke that didn’t land.

“I tell you everything,” he added. “Every stupid fear. Every song lyric I write. Every dream. You’ve heard me at my worst.”

He wasn’t yelling. He was disappointed. And that hurt more than if he had screamed.

Jisung needs time to process. He hides in his music — writes endless lyrics about masks, mirrors, and miscommunication. He makes jokes to his members to downplay how confused he feels, but you can tell it sits heavy on his chest.

Then one night, he calls you — just your name, softly.

“Come to the studio.”

When you arrive, he plays you a demo — raw vocals, stripped beat, lyrics that feel like reading his heart on a page.

“You danced in the dark / while I thought we were in the light / I loved you blind / but now I see in black and white…”

You sit in silence when it ends.

“I wrote it the night I found out,” he says. “But it’s not a goodbye song.”

You exhale shakily. “Then what is it?”

“It’s a ‘try again’ song.”

From then on, he’s different — more open about his fears, but also fiercely protective of your dream. He teases you about “idol mode,” helps you brainstorm stage names, even gives you random awards like “Best Outfit Slay” and “Most Likely to Outshine Me.”

He’s scared, yes. But love — real love — makes him brave enough to stay.

Felix (필릭스)

Dating Felix was like basking in warmth. He had that rare kind of energy — grounding, healing, and gentle. You met during a joint industry charity event, and your connection was instant. He was attentive, deeply curious about you, and always made you feel like the most important person in the room.

But from the start, you knew he was honest to a fault. Felix didn’t play games. He gave love openly, and he expected that same vulnerability in return.

Which is why you feared telling him the truth: that you were on the verge of debuting as an idol, that your company had forbidden any public or even private relationships without disclosure, and that you were falling for him faster than you ever expected.

Felix found out through a mutual friend — accidentally.

Someone sent him a message: “Isn’t this your girlfriend?” with a screenshot of a teaser poster.

Your face. Center of a highly anticipated girl group debut.

He stared at it, brows furrowed, phone shaking in his hand.

He didn’t speak to anyone about it. He waited until he could see you.

When you met up, he didn’t waste time. He held up the image on his phone.

“You’re debuting?” he asked, tone heartbreakingly calm.

You nodded, ready for the storm. But it never came.

He took a step back, swallowing hard. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

You fumbled for the words — how you feared jeopardizing your career, how you thought if you waited just a little longer, it would be easier.

“But you let me love you,” he said quietly. “Without the truth.”

The pain wasn’t in his words — it was in his eyes.

Felix isn’t someone who gives up easily. But he also doesn’t let himself be treated like an afterthought. He takes a step back — not to punish you, but to center himself.

He talks to Chan. To his sister. He journaled a lot. He tried to understand whether your secrecy was about mistrust, or fear, or something else entirely.

Eventually, he meets with you again — on a quiet rooftop, where he used to go when the trainee life felt too heavy.

“I’ve had my own secrets too,” he says, staring at the skyline. “But I’ve always believed love needs honesty, or it won’t last.”

You nod, tears in your eyes. “I’m ready to be honest. Now. With everything.”

He looks at you then — really looks. And he smiles.

Not his fan-service smile.

But his smile. The one only people he loves get to see.

“You were always a star,” he says. “I guess now the rest of the world gets to see it too.”

From that point on, Felix becomes your safest place. He watches all your stages, encourages your self-care, and finds clever ways to support you publicly without ever exposing your relationship.

He’s proud of you.

And he reminds you every day: that you can shine in the spotlight and still be held in love — safely, quietly, fiercely — when the lights go down.

Seungmin (승민)

Seungmin wasn’t the type to fall easily, but when he did, it was intentional. You’d met him through a friend who worked in radio, and what started as casual banter turned into long coffee shop dates filled with dry humor and quiet companionship.

He liked that you were grounded. You shared thoughts about music, books, even your frustrations with the entertainment industry. But whenever he asked specifics about your work, you deflected — said you were “support staff,” or “still finding your path.” He respected your privacy. He always did.

That is, until your face showed up unexpectedly on a massive LED screen in Hongdae — part of a pre-debut countdown campaign for a new girl group.

It took him a few seconds to register that it was you.

Wearing stage makeup. In costume. Smiling like the whole world was finally seeing the dream you’d been hiding.

That night, you showed up to his apartment without asking. You knew he’d seen it.

He didn’t yell. That wasn’t Seungmin.

He opened the door, stepped aside, and let you in. The silence wasn’t cold — it was focused. You sat across from him on the couch, bracing yourself.

He finally spoke, voice calm but painfully steady: “How long were you going to keep it from me?”

You tried to explain — the non-disclosure, the risk of rumors, the company’s iron grip on trainee relationships. But as you spoke, he stared down at his hands, barely blinking.

“Do you know how many people I’ve pushed away because I didn’t think they could handle my world?” he asked quietly. “I chose you. And you couldn’t even give me the truth.”

It stung. Not because he was angry — but because he wasn’t. He sounded tired.

You reached out to touch his hand, but he gently pulled it back.

“I just need time to think,” he said. “About whether we’ve both been in the same relationship this whole time.”

Seungmin goes quiet for a few days. Not out of malice, but because he doesn’t do emotional decisions impulsively. He talks to his members. He takes long walks. He listens to music without lyrics — classical, instrumental, film scores — trying to find his own voice in the noise.

Eventually, he texts you: “I want to talk. In person.”

When you meet again, he’s still calm — but different. Not guarded. Resolved.

“I’m not angry that you’re an idol,” he says. “I’m proud. I’ve always known there was something special in you.”

He takes your hand.

“But I need honesty. Even when it’s messy. Even when it might hurt.”

You promise — this time without deflection.

From then on, Seungmin becomes your quiet protector. He won’t show it in grand gestures, but in consistent ones — sending you your favorite coffee before music shows, editing your practice videos with helpful notes, reminding you not to lose yourself in the chaos of fame.

He’s still skeptical sometimes — especially when fans speculate, or when your schedules keep you apart. But his love isn’t loud. It’s reliable.

And when he sees you on stage for the first time, he smiles — not because you’re an idol, but because you’re still you. And that’s who he fell for.

I.N (아이엔)

Jeongin had always been playful, gentle, a little shy in interviews — but in real life, he’d grown into someone confident and self-aware. He laughed easily, cared deeply, and had a surprisingly steady presence beneath the youthful energy.

You met him during a vocal workshop and bonded over late-night convenience store runs and shared Spotify playlists. He admired how humble and grounded you were — never knowing that underneath it all, you were hiding a career just weeks away from exploding.

When your debut came, it wasn’t a slow reveal.

It was a bombshell.

You were the surprise center of a new girl group with a viral pre-debut TikTok campaign. Fancams. Headlines. Trending hashtags.

Jeongin was in the dorm, half-laughing with Han over snacks, when Felix’s phone buzzed.

“Wait — isn’t this Y/N?”

And the room went quiet.

He didn’t text you.

He didn’t call.

Instead, he waited — unsure whether to confront you, or wait for you to explain.

You beat him to it, showing up the next evening with a bag of tteokbokki and a soft apology.

“I didn’t mean for you to find out this way.”

His smile was polite, but distant.

“I guess I never really knew you, huh?” he said, softly.

That broke your heart more than yelling would’ve.

“I didn’t lie,” you said. “I just… hid. Because I thought if you saw the whole picture, you’d treat me like a brand, not a person.”

His expression softened, but he looked down at his hands.

“I didn’t fall for a brand,” he whispered. “I fell for someone who laughed at my dumb jokes, who sang off-key with me at karaoke, who looked me in the eye like I mattered.”

You blinked back tears.

“And you still matter,” you said. “More than any debut. More than any stage.”

Jeongin surprises you.

He’s more mature than people give him credit for. After a few days of reflection, he comes to you — with questions, yes, but also with his heart open.

He asks about your training. About your fears. About your dreams — not your image.

Once he understands it wasn’t about deceit, but about survival, he forgives you. Fully.

And from that moment on, he becomes your safe place. He checks in before every big performance. Sends you goofy voice notes to cheer you up. Hypes you up anonymously online with burner accounts. Leaves little gifts in your locker when your schedules cross paths.

But he also keeps you accountable.

“When we’re together,” he says, “it’s not idol to idol. It’s just you and me. Real. No masks.”

He doesn’t treat you like glass. He treats you like a partner. Equal. Respected.

And when he watches you on stage, he claps the loudest — not because he’s watching an idol rise.

But because he’s watching his person do what they were born to do.

[balioc]

Looking at the world from a manager's perspective, you can productively model the pool of workers as being divided into a few basic groups, which are defined and characterized by their driving motivations.

Insert all the usual disclaimers for this sort of thing - this is the roughest type of rough typology. I pulled these categories out of my raw intuition, and possibly a few more would crop up with some additional thought. In reality, the boundaries of these categories are incredibly fuzzy, and almost every individual is actually going to be motivated by a complicated mix of all the relevant motivations; we're talking REALLY SIMPLE HEURISTICS here. Etc.

There have been other well-known worker typologies that share a lot in common with my thoughts here; this is mostly not novel, it's mostly meant to refine a few ideas for particular purposes.

Hustlers are motivated by concrete personal advantage. Most commonly, and most straightforwardly, they want money - as much of it as they can get. They may also be interested in fame, idiosyncratic perks, etc. They do whatever they have to do in order to get what they want.

No surprise: you see huge preponderances of these guys in fields that provide outsize concrete rewards, e.g. finance, the upper echelons of management, etc. But not every natural-born Hustler is in a position to enter a glitzy high-paying field, and in fact you find Hustlers all throughout society and all throughout the economy, finding or making hustles wherever they go.

Having Hustlers working for you is mostly pretty great. They get shit done. They can be induced to work incredibly hard - probably harder than anyone else, under most circumstances - and they'll shank their own mothers if the price is right. If you need anything really important from them, anything at all, it's just a matter of bribing them enough.

...they will also, of course, cheerfully shank you if the price is right. Hustlers aren't the only wellsprings of institutional politics and infighting, but they're the most dangerous ones; they're always potential rivals to everyone around them. Also, you need to keep the tangible rewards flowing in a steady stream in order to get anything out of them, or else they'll put most of their effort into jumping ship (one way or another).

Craftsmen are motivated by the desire to do good work in their chosen fields, for its own sake and for the sake of their treasured self-image as people who do good work.

As you'd expect, for the most part, they're excellent workers and should be prized. But they're not perfect workers. Common weaknesses and downsides include:

They tend to have their own ideas about How Things Should Get Done; they're often resistant to externally-imposed product/service requirements or process changes (and bad at implementing those things) (no matter how important or well-conceived they are), and they're very resistant to "just get it out the door, right now done is better than good."

Being driven chiefly by internal motivation is great, but sometimes it's useful to be able to push things along with external motivators, and Craftsmen are pretty resistant to those. They don't like working more or harder than they're naturally inclined to work, they mostly sneer at carrots, and sticks make them sad and unproductive.

It's important to note that, while noteworthy skill within a field correlates with having a Craftsman temperament and motivation suite - for obvious reasons - those things are not identical at all. Plenty of Craftsmen are bad at their jobs, or just average, and plenty of the best workers are most motivated by things other than the Excellence of the Work Itself.

Fanatics are a relatively rare and specialized group, whom you find mostly within a few specific sorts of culturally-valorized fields. They're motivated by a desire to be part of something Important and Good in a Broader Sense: to Save the World, or some smaller-bore version of that.

They make amazing front-line soldiers, in the sorts of institutions that have "front-line soldiers." They work super hard, and you don't even need to bribe them, you just need to keep them hopped up on inspiration.

The big problem with them is that they're mostly motivated by a feeling - the feeling of Being Righteous - and it's not easy to control where they get that feeling, in any kind of precise way. They're just as resistant to external motivators as Craftsmen are, or even more so, but they're also not being guided by an ideal of effective quality. (No, not even if their chosen cause is theoretically all about an ideal of effective quality, hem hem.) They will happily waste vast amounts of time and money doing useless things, or even counterproductive things, so long as they're engaged in tasks that hit the right psychological buttons for them. There's also a constant risk that a Fanatic will decide that his employer is unrighteous, or that one of his coworkers is unrighteous, and start an internal conflict; the risk scales in a more-than-linear fashion with the number of Fanatics you keep around.

The biggest group, unsurprisingly, is the Normies. In most fields, it is much the biggest group. Normies are motivated by the desire to be members in good standing of their communities, to have positive relationships with the people around them, and to live up to basic norms and expectations.

Managerial skills, in the traditional sense, are incredibly important with Normies. If you want them to do good work for you - and you should want that, as a manager, you've almost certainly got a whole bunch of them - not only do you have to keep them pointed in the right direction, you have to make sure that they're supporting each other. With Hustlers, you just have to throw money at them (and avoid their power plays); with Craftsmen, you just have to let them do their thing, and occasionally badger them into giving you what you need; with Fanatics, you just have to be inspirational; but with Normies, you have to lead, and construct a productive community. You have to set reasonable, achievable norms and expectations that will get you what you need.

This wouldn't be complete if I didn't talk about the Defectors. The Defectors are motivated by not working. They don't want to be there, they resent having to do their jobs, and their primary goal is to shirk as much as possible. They will, by default, put much more effort into shirking than into their assigned tasks.

Obviously, managers don't want to have to deal with them, for good reason. But they're out there, in large numbers - not always in the places and fields where you'd expect to find them - and learning to manage them is sometimes more viable than trying to get rid of them. ("Moving Heaven and Earth to find them jobs that will change their attitude" is often a good plan, although of course it's not always possible and not always worth it.)

Crucially, Defectors are not Normies. If you start with the assumption that the average baseline worker is lazy and sour, you will make some incredibly stupid decisions. There are some fields where, for structural reasons, you can expect that a very large number of your workers will be Defectors; this is a huge and complicated challenge, well beyond the scope of this post, and good luck to you if you have to handle it, but it's not the default.

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Once you have those categories in your head, and can play with them, a number of obvious-seeming ideas present themselves. Just a couple, for now:

Most high-level executives are Hustlers, or have strong Hustler tendencies, for obvious reasons. Most of the people around them are Hustlers, or have strong Hustler tendencies. This means that they tend to overweight the Hustler outlook, by a lot, when they try to model what their workers are like. More specifically, I'd wager that a lot of them intuitively divide the world into "good workers" ( = Hustlers) and "bad workers" ( = Defectors). This will lead to a heavy overreliance on tangible rewards, a systematic shortchanging of community-building, etc. Which is in fact just what we see.

In particular - crucially - Hustlers and Defectors are the only worker types who ever become more productive under heavy stress. Hustlers actually benefit from it, because it raises the stakes of the game that they're already playing. (If you succeed, you'll be king of the world! If you fail, you'll be shark food! Go go go!) Defectors suffer terribly from stress, of course, but they can sometimes be spooked into doing their jobs as opposed to doing nothing, and sometimes that's the best/easiest way to get something out of them. But stress is terrible for everyone else. Craftsmen lose their focus. Fanatics lose their hope. It's worst of all for Normies, because they take all their cues from the vibes around them; they're productive when they learn to associate work with comfort and happiness, and when you fill their working world with frantic desperation, you just put them in a permanent cringe state.

stop trying to pit your Normies against each other in competitions for status and rewards dear God what are you stupid

To some extent, you can control your institution by controlling what types of workers you have. But only to some extent. There are only so many Hustlers and Craftsmen to go around, and if you want them, you will have to (a) be able to identify them reliably on little information [HINT: you are probably very bad at this], and (b) provide them with what they want [tangible rewards / comfortable security and interesting work]. "We are going to employ only the good special people" is feasible if you're an outfit of four workers; at a dozen, it's already become a stretch; at a few hundred, uh, pfffffffft. If you want to operate at scale, you need to be able to make Normies do good work, there is no substitute for it.

[dimeadozencows]

My best explanation of our newest resident freak; Ramb.

Character analysis, loose ends, and questions.

I hope you like long winded “under the cut” posts about the obscure lore of irrelevant side characters.

(don't worry, I'm adhd, there's pictures and gifs.)

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This is both an outlet for me to yell my thoughts and emotions about a fictional British power strip into the void, and an explanation on what the fuck happened to me for the people who followed me for gaster (sorry to those people, btw :’))

This will be divided into sections so that if you're specifically interested in one topic about him, then you could just skip to it! :]

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The sections are:

First impressions; sword-route first timers VS casual players

Character analysis

The matter of ERAM.

Red flags (the red stands for “is this the secret boss?”)

Red flags 2 (the red stands for “is he okay”)

He's just a red herring, right? (well…)

What he is in this story, and will he be more? (Conclusion)

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Let's get cracking.

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First impressions; sword route first timers VS casual players.

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This section will go over what you'd see from him on a standard run, and won't go too into analysis. It's mainly here if you aren't very familiar with his appearances in the game or need a refresher! 

Feel free to skip to Character Analysis if you think this section will be redundant for you :]

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(I really wanted to have this section be a part of the full post, but it's. Almost half of the entire thing. Also it ate up the 30 images limit.)

(So here, I posted it separately! Have a read through it if you wanna! <3)

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Character analysis:

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So… we sure do learn a lot about this random guy, huh?

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First off, you’ve probably noticed that he’s very contradictory; 

He’s caring and kind towards Kris, but he fully believes his intuition about them, and never thinks he might be wrong and should hear them out (although, with how much he’s shown to care about them, I'm sure that if Kris could and would speak out, he’ll listen to them. But they can’t, because of us)

He's extremely confident, overly self assured, to the point of getting perceived as egotistical by the other darkners, but he doesn't think of himself that highly, equating himself to his light world counterpart many times as if he isn't a person now, and being fully willing to give his life up for kris.

He’s said to be condescending to others, at least at first, but we’ve only seen kindness and care from him, probably because we’re talking to him as Kris. But his jokes and down to earth attitude seem integral to his character, and we know he didn't do anything worse than just look out for Kris.

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These contraindications are a part of why he seems so shady to people, how can he be all these things at once? He has to be lying. 

But this is just being a complicated person, like everyone else. And if you'll continue reading you’ll see that these inconsistencies actually make a lot of sense :] i’ll try my best to go through everything! 

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(this segment is a bit all over the place since it’s the first one i wrote, but there's a summary at the end :])

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Let's start with how he confident he is about his beliefs;

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I saw someone say that he's acting in the way a parasocial fan would, and while I get where they're coming from what with him reiterating "I know what you really want" a lot- 

but it feels less like he's putting them on a pedestal and objectifying them (in fact, he's doing the complete opposite and objectifying himself) and more like he's that well meaning, distant older relative who adored you when you were younger, and hasn't yet caught up to the fact that you grew up. 

A person who used to know you, who knew the child you were, and their love for you from back then still blinds them to how you've changed.

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Mixed with his overconfidence, it makes sense that he’d believe that he knows Kris as well as they know themselves, while completely oblivious to his own blindness.

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But how can he be so self assured but still view himself as lowly?

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That's because we're playing as Kris! I doubt he’d talk about himself that way to anyone else. 

Kris, and how they made him feel important, is the source of his confidence. He was loved and wanted by them, and so he feels like he owes them everything. Even his own life.

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Another interpretation is that his loneliness (which we will get to) lowered his self worth outside of being Kris's toy, and he feels like that is the only thing that gives him value. 

So his personality isn't completely demolished, but he doesn't really invest much time or thought into himself as a person (evidenced by how he never talked about himself to the other darkners, only about Kris.)

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you'd think that a character with an inflated ego, like he’s said to have, would be self-absorbed and egotistical, but not him. He seems to diminish his presence when speaking with Kris, never going into detail about himself. 

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But with how off putting his behaviour is, it's really hard to believe he has our best interest at heart- he constantly remarks how he knows what kris “truly wants”, and he really wants us to play the creepy game in the console room-

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We’ll get to the nature behind the game in a future segment (the matter of Eram), but for now let's just assume he really does want us to have fun;

His off putting behavior stems from a lack of tact. He's stuck in the memories of the Dreemurr family’s past, and he’s sure that Kris remembers him fondly. And maybe they would’ve, but I doubt they want to think about anything from their past considering… everything. 

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Speaking of their past! We weren't there! We didn't see the playing and fun they had together, most of the time when we play Deltarune we don't even think about kris- we just play the game. 

To us Ramb is a stranger being overly familiar- to Ramb, he’s catching up with an old friend, and he has no idea how much they’ve changed.

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Also, he doesn't force you to play the game! He doesn't even bring it up in the green room until after round 2, and only if you tell him you aren't having fun with Tenna. There's no pressure on you to finish all the levels if you only started one, either. 

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(telling him that you are having enough fun with Tenna)

It's on our terms, and for our fun. He keeps going with it because we keep coming back. By his own admission, his purpose is to let us (Kris) have fun. 

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Additionally, we can't ignore the silly. He's implied to be a jokester! The classics you've come to expect from these games; like sans, jevil, and even spamton, a little guy who makes funny faces and tells jokes. 

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I also want to bring up his expressions; half of his sprites have that worrying, almost troubled expression, that gives the things he says a caring and gentle feeling. It's a part of the over-familiarity. From someone you know this would be fine, but he’s this way with us from the second we meet him.

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Now, let's bring up this bit of dialogue from before you start the second level of the mantle game:

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The first time I read this dialogue I was stun locked for a moment. He could've just admitted to feeling lonely. He could've just outright said it, it wouldn't feel out of place in this story, Tenna admitted to it multiple times even. But Ramb didn't.

Instead, he said that if after the fountain is sealed, then if Kris felt like waking up their house again then they could. If they wanted that to happen.

Fine, weird line from him, he's got plenty.

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"Sorry Kris. I don't know what I was saying there. Just go and enjoy the games, eh? cheers."

He felt embarrassed about admitting to feeling lonely! He always puts Kris first before anything else, and for a moment, he didn't. For a moment he mentioned that he'd like it if Kris came back after this was all over. That was weird, I'm sorry for saying that.

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From this we can learn that he really does feel alone. His one friend will be gone soon, and that's okay, they have to leave. But it’d be nice if they came back one day. not that he’s comfortable with admitting this to us. 

(This is also a hint that he knows Kris created the fountain!)

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His similarities to Tenna :

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Looking at the core of their characters, Ramb was written as almost another version of what Tenna is. They both care about Kris so much, they’re both lonely, ageing and growing obsolete and they know it. The differences are in how they take it. 

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Tenna is trying his best to cling to the past in fear of being thrown away, he's trying to prove to Kris that he's useful, fun, and could give them what they've been missing. This joyous nostalgic feeling they left in their childhood alongside everything that made them happy. 

Throughout this entire chapter Tenna is trying to drag Kris back to that, back to him. He forces it on them when they don't comply, and fights them when they want to leave. 

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and yes a part of that is because of the knight's promise, that if he’ll do this he’ll be adored again. But to ignore the part of his motivation that's specific to Kris and the Dreemurr family as a whole would be a disservice to his character. He cares about Kris and he misses them so much, he misses what he was to them back when they needed him. He wants them to need him again.

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Meanwhile Ramb is just as aware of his growing obsolescence as tenna is, but he seems to accept it. knowing that eventually, naturally, they’ll all be worthless. 

It's a part of his role as a secret boss red herring (which I will elaborate on in its own section), a darkner who mentions their own insignificance and nihilistically accepts it naturally makes us wonder what else they're thinking about and what they know.

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Ramb accepts his approaching end and decides to go out with a bang. He sets up another game like the ones they loved playing and gives them the option whether to actually play it or not.

Don't get me wrong, he absolutely clings to kris (or more like the memory of them as a child) just like Tenna does, but there's a difference in how they go about their emotions that sets them apart as characters, and makes it so understandable that they wouldn't be fond of each other.

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While Tenna is stuck in the past because his self worth is dependent on it, Ramb is stuck in the past because instead of trying to make new connections in the new place he was brought to, he clung to and still clings to the first and only person who showed him love.

Ramb is completely okay with becoming obsolete, while Tenna’s life spiraled because he couldn't handle it. Tenna is desperate and controlling (fits his position as this dark world’s ruler and also his deal with the knight), while Ramb only gives you one hint to get S-rank, and only if you tell him you think Tenna's games aren't fun.

Tenna is constantly second guessing himself and worrying over doing a good job, while ramb’s excessive confidence makes him 100% sure that he knows exactly what Kris wants, and that they’ll love the games he’s offering more than Tenna’s. 

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They originate from the “same root” in a sense, but due to their different personalities, they’re complete opposites in the way they handle knowing they’re no longer as meaningful to their loved ones as they used to be. 

Also, I'd feel remiss not to mention that Ramb quit his job while on a call with Tenna, then hung up on him. 

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We don't talk about this enough me thinks. He's such a piece of shit sometimes lmfao 

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I wish we got to see Ramb interacting with other people besides Kris, I think it would tell us a lot. Because he made so much of who he is about Kris, then of course his behavior would be one way with them, and different with others. How drastically it would change would say a lot about him as a person. 

We did get it with Tenna a little, but he generally doesn't like him for reasons that seem to be unrelated to kris

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In conclusion:

To us (Kris), Ramb is a friendly, self-assured (if a little bit arrogant) guy. 

He clearly cares about and loves Kris a lot, calling them luv at every opportunity and trying to better their experience in this dark world by giving them access to what he thinks is a better game than what they got. 

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The things he says to Kris and his worrying expression give him a caring and gentle air, which can have the opposite effect and come off as too forward and overstep boundaries for a lot of people.

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He's acting overly familiar with Kris, remembering them fondly from their time together as lightner and toy, and he’s sure that Kris is on the same page as him. 

And although we can't really know for sure, because Kris doesn't express their feelings or thoughts, we can assume that their bond fizzled out on Kris's end. because since the last time Ramb knew them, they’ve put everything that made them happy as a kid aside.

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He's extremely confident, believing himself to be the one who knows Kris the best out of anyone here, and he’s sure they’ll love the original game from before Tenna messed with it a lot more than what they got in his game show.

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Even though he’s very confident, and it's viewed as him having an ego by his peers, he's not egotistical. as his confidence stems from being loved by Kris, and believing himself to know them the best, not thinking that he’s the best, as would be assumed of a character with an “ego”.

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Additionally, despite his obvious confidence, he seems to have relatively low-self worth outside of being Kris's toy, equating himself to his lightworld form often and never elaborating on himself as the person he is now, to us or the other darkners.

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As time goes on we learn that he's deeply lonely, doesn’t have any friends or anyone that really likes him, and it has been that way for a while. Pretty much since he was brought to the dreemurr house.

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Despite how lonely he is, and how much of his life revolves around Kris, he never imposes himself on them. There’s no point in the game where we have to speak with him.

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We don't know much about his side in his relationships, but he specifically doesn't really care for his boss Tenna, and thinks he and his games are boring. 

Maybe he never really wanted the job that was given to him to get rid of him, since he’s the first one to actively tell Tenna that he’s quitting. He then proceeds to hang up in his face. 

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Despite knowing that Kris is the creator of his fountain, he doesn't worship them or objectify them as a god, nor does he treat Kris the way darkners created by the knight treat the knight, their creator, with fear and admiration. 

He acts more like one of your detached older family members who don't yet understand that you grew up. (His self diminishing seems to stem from low self worth and not worship.)

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Additionally, Ramb seems to not really care about respecting authority, a trait that is rare for darkners. 

like how he treats Kris like family and not authority, And how he gives us access to the original game against Tenna’s wishes. Although it's important to mention that he thinks of himself as lesser than Kris.

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He's fully willing to sacrifice himself for us, to give himself up completely, if there is a chance that his efforts will work and Kris will have fun. 

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The matter of ERAM.

And why they're not actually the same person (hear me out it makes ramb a better character.)

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I get why people are fond of it. Ramb being the person behind eram would be awesome and a cool twist for his character and add to his significance in the story. 

And by all means! Go for it! It makes for an awesome visual and cool art!!

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But hear me out… when it comes to the intent of the story… narratively, it doesn't make any sense. 

Sometimes kindness and seemingly well meaning actions in this game really are just that.

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Now before we begin, let's establish some things;

First of all; without anyone asking him to, Ramb has sacrificed a lot for Kris. 

He gave up the opportunity to make any connections in the new place he was brought to, by always commenting on others and their work. This made him alienated from anyone he could've been friends with, because he staked everything he is and could’ve had on his purpose to his lightner.

In the path where you don't humor him, you end up learning how lonely he truly was, how no one could stand him, and how much his caring for and loving you alienated him, to the point of complete social isolation. To the point where he felt like he didn't belong where he was, and was already turning to stone on the inside a long time ago.

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His ostracization was mostly his doing, and it is rooted in caring.

(If there was any other reason that Ramb was outcasted, then the pippins who clearly disliked him wouldn't protect his image and would tell us.)

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And secondly; The mantle game changes with the insertion of the oddcontroller.

When you first turn on the console, the title screen comes up just like it does at the beginning of “The legend of Tenna”, Tenna’s version of the game. But no controller is connected and the console turns off. Leaving the room, we find the oddcontroller on the ground, it is said to have pink and yellow buttons. 

When the oddcontroller is connected to the console, The game immediately glitches out and shows our soul, us, inside 8bit kris. That never happens in any other variation of the game. 

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Everytime you play the game again, the title screen comes up like normal. Kris then connects the oddcontroller, the game glitches out, and shows us the soul. It seems that the thing causing the difference is the act of connecting the controller. 

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Here are the main reasons i've seen for why people think Eram is Ramb:

Ramb is very off putting

They have similar names

Ramb really wants us to play his game, and it turns out to be a horrifying experience for kris

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Let's tackle em’!

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Ramb is very off putting.

That's by design! He’s supposed to evoke that feeling you get from distant family relatives who remember you from when you were younger, but you have no memory of them. 

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Kris has been through a lot, we still don't know the exact events, but trauma is obvious and prevalent in their character. They've since put a lot of their joy aside. Their room is empty, they don't watch tv or play games anymore, they don't visit noelle, even just to play her piano, preferring the one in the hospital.

And Ramb is an old toy of Kris', from when they were a child. It wouldn't be unlikely that the last time they played with him was before they put their joys aside. 

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Ramb would have no way of knowing everything that's gone on with Kris since they last saw each other, and he’d assume that their life’s just naturally continued without him, but remain sure that they still remember him fondly.

He views himself as your old friend, because that's what Kris and him were before, he doesn't know who Kris is anymore, and he has no idea. 

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And on top of that, YOU as the player weren't there for it all- you didn't see Kris playing with Ramb, and you didn't see Ramb being happy to assist Kris in having fun. To you, Ramb is a stranger, and him acting overly familiar with you causes discomfort and unease.

And Ramb is only speaking with Kris, because he has no idea you're there controlling them.

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They have similar names

That they do, Eram and Ramb are only one letter apart. But does Ralsei having a name that's a 1 to 1 of Asriels, and even seemingly having similar personalities make them the same person? No, and I hope to god you don't still believe that. Please believe me when i say that Toby wouldn't put incest in his game.

Eram and Ramb are opposites. Ramb only wants Kris to have fun, while Eram is obsessed with making Kris suffer. Ramb wants us to play a game where we get to make choices, and Eram forces us to play the one route the oddcontroller allows for.

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(Also, stupidly, Eram isn't british)

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3. Ramb really wants us to play his game, and it turns out to be a horrifying experience for kris

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It's a little weird that Ramb tells us that this is a game where we decide what to do, but the only way to progress is through killing. Which is part of why people think he’s very sketchy and a liar.

But what if the original game, before the insertion of the oddcontroller, was exactly that? A game similar to undertale, where there are different paths you can take, where your choices determine the kind of game you play? A game where you CAN make choices? 

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But with the oddcontroller, there’s only one path. only one option, a glitchy, game breaking option, the weird route. 

I'd also like to bring up the name “odd controller”, in relation to what we do in the game and what that stands for- Odd is another word for weird.

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But sure, maybe Ramb was the one who put the odd controller in the hallway outside the console room, he is standing right outside the door after all. But if it's true that Ramb’s intention was for us to play the game with this controller, why not give it to us when we enter the room? We have to speak with him to enter anyway. 

And why say that he “set up the game for us” if there's no controller connected? Just to wait a few seconds to leave it in the hallway? 

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This is a story, fully written in advance. If the intention was for us to suspect or think this corrupt version of the game is what Ramb intended for us to play, why not have the oddcontroller already connected to the console? Then we as players would have no doubt that this experience was this character’s full intention.

That part, where you have to leave the room to find a controller that is different from the ones you're used to, seems to be there to separate Ramb from whoever wants us to play the mantle game’s version of the weird route.

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But hold on, what if Ramb is intentionally putting on a front, acting and lying to make us believe his two personas?

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…why? What would he gain from that? He already gets us curious enough to play the game as Ramb, why continue to put up a front even when he and Kris are completely alone, even at the very last moments of his life? 

Speaking of which, how is he able to battle Kris as Eram when he’s shown to be almost fully stone, and unable to move himself enough to unblock the entry? To turn and look at us? How would he use a controller? 

If he’s faking being stone too, then how? And what’s the reason? What does he gain? 

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Also, if we are assuming he’s lying; then everything, his feelings, his character and his emotional issues, None of it was real. All that nuance, depth, character, It was all fake, a lie. For the plot twist that in fact he actually… thinks we're weird for enjoying the game? 

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Narratively, it doesn't make sense. If he’s lying, why not reveal it? In his last moments with us, as Eram or Ramb, why not reveal that this entire time he just wanted us to suffer? 

If he’s lying, then why are we repeatedly told, so many times, how lonely he was? How much he cared about Kris? Why is it said to us after he’s already gone, on the path where you don't even play his game, when the lie wouldn't matter? 

The story doesn't benefit from the unclarity that this brings once Ramb and Eram are both already gone.

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I know that the main reason behind this theory is Ramb’s off-putting over familiarity, combined with the horrors the game harbours and how happy he is to show it to us. 

But if you take his word that he really didn't see anyone come in (maybe whoever is behind Eram doesn't need to use the door), and look at the context of his life as this lonely guy suddenly seeing the god who gave him purpose as their toy, and brought him to life with the fountain, and understand that yeah, he’d be ecstatic. 

Then him honestly looking out for Kris at every opportunity, even before he saw them again, makes a lot more sense than an unprovoked backstab.

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Eram has no issue with harming the real kris, both physically and emotionally. Before the fight begins, Eram taunts Kris, goes along with the game that's slowly changing from a standard rpg to a horror show about Kris's life and struggles. 

If the player is on the weird route, they even accuse Kris of being a hypocrite, saying they’re blaming the soul for all the harm they caused, trying to feel better about themselves. And in the fight against them Kris takes real damage and can die. 

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If Ramb were actually the one behind eram, then he was lying when he was looking out for what's best for Kris even when they weren't there… because? He alienated himself by constantly lying about caring for Kris… because??... and him letting himself die for us to continue having the fun he’s sure we're having… just to make fun of us- why??

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Remember that pippins who tells us all about how much ramb sucked and everyone hated him- If there was malice in Ramb’s intentions or behind his actions before we entered the dark world, that pippins would be the last person to hide it from us! Y’know, cus they hate him!!

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Ramb’s story is empty on purpose, it's supposed to be like this. It's supposed to give you the feeling of “this isn't all he is, right?” It's abnormally sad and I wish I could say that this is just me going overboard with my analysis of him, but this is literally just his actions and what we were told about him.

Ramb was written as the red herring for this chapter's secret boss, to me the twist about him was that after all of that he ended up to not be important, that after all of the hints and the winks, it turns out he doesn't know shit. 

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Making him the person behind a character that clearly knows a lot and doesn't much care for Kris's well-being, erasing and warping the sincerity of everything he did, would take away from the gut punch that his last conversation with Kris or the explanation from that Pippins is trying to give us.

 It would make for a hell of a twist, but is it worth it narratively? Does it make sense? Like no not at all. We're learning about this sad older guy trying to make the one person he’s sure still likes him happy no matter the cost, even if it costs him his life.

Just for a twist that he thinks they're weird for enjoying the games that he wanted them to play??

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So if Ramb isn't eram, who is? 

I don't know, this post is about Ramb!! 

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But I do have a guess that I'm rather confident about. I won't go into detail about it here cus i already derail this post at every opportunity, and also I want to write another dissertation of the mantle games specifically, separate from Ramb, so I'll save this for another time. 

But in short, it’s Friend. And this was our first real look at them as a character and their role and purpose in this story.

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Red flags (the red stands for “is this the secret boss?”)

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I'm sure that a large majority of first time players looked at this manlet going on and on about “freedom”, and immediately thought that he’ll be the secret boss. Since, y’know, that was by design!

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Ramb was written to tick all the boxes of a secret boss. he’s short, hinted at being knowledgeable about things he shouldn't be, “freedom”, constantly referring to kris by name, quoting both Jevil and Spamton, playing a role only outside the main story, hell even the fact that he speaks differently than the rest of the darkners- 

We're meant to look at him and immediately assume that at some point we’ll fight him and get the shadow crystal. Just like we assumed we’ll seal the fountain at the end of the chapter, and get a light world segment before going back home, watch Kris rip out their soul, and roll credits.

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Chapter 3 throws all of that out the window! And Ramb is a part of it. We assumed we know the way secret bosses work and will play out for the rest of the game, a part of the “Deltarune formula” that we were so convinced of. But we were wrong!

The way chapter 3 flirts with it and then completely shatters it and our expectations of what will be is a part of why i love these games so much. 

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When a player stumbles upon a petrified Ramb, the thought that they messed up the sequence that leads up to the secret boss might cross their mind. While a player who got to the end of the sword game and watched as Ramb disappeared after the shadow mantle was acquired might feel confused; 

yeah i just finished a cool mini boss, but that's hardly a secret boss, and i didn't even get a shadow crystal. wasn't that the lead up to something with the little guy?

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And when the lord of screens is cleaved red by blade is when it all shatters- we’d assume that after the fight with Tenna, Ralsei and Susie will talk to him, he’ll want to come to our castle town, we seal the fountain, ect ect. But instead, he falls to the ground, unconscious, and we are faced with the knight. 

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We don't get to seal the fountain, we don't get a light world segment, and we don't get to see Kris rip us out. We don't get a secret boss. Deltarune was never meant to be predicted!

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Ramb, as the character that he is, is a part of the aforementioned flirting with the concept of a formula. Cus we do get a weird little guy who's spouting nonsense and acting odd- but he's not the secret boss, because we don't get one this chapter.

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(you might say that the knight is the secret boss… but aren't those supposed to be like… secret? The battle with the knight is unavoidable, and CAN be beaten without the shadow mantle if you just don't get hit- so… it's just a regular battle like Tenna or Queen. Just an extremely tough one that you're meant to die to at the end. 

If you survive for long enough you get a weapon and a crystal, but guys- 

The fight isn’t hidden. It's unavoidable. It can be beaten even without the shadow mantle. The flavor text “The air crackles with freedom” doesn’t show up in the fight. The knight doesn't have the freedom leitmotif in its theme.

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Before the chapter came out I was lamenting on what “no mantle, no crystal.” means. I thought that we’d acquire the shadow mantle somehow and only then will the battle be able to trigger, like without it there wouldn't even be a fight! (Like how you can’t climb without the gear that jackenstein gives you.)

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I'm of the opinion that we shouldn't expect all the chapters to play out exactly the way we thought, not having a standard secret boss encounter this chapter was intentional, and there's no real reason to try and fit the knight or Eram into boxes they don't fit- 

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So… what all this talk about Ramb as if he actually was the secret boss? If he truly is just a red herring gotcha moment side character npc, why the 16K words essay?

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As much as I want to keep my expectations grounded, there are certain things that don't fit the description of just “red herring”. I truly wish he was just that, and could be spared from the horrors of being a shadow crystal bearer, or being a significant character in this story (that never seems to be easy), and I could be spared from writing the rest of this. 

But there are just too many loose ends, questions, information we were given for seemingly no reason- that make me wonder what Toby has in mind. 

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Red flags 2 (the red stands for “is he okay”)

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This section will go through and analyse the more emotional aspects of his character and what he is in this story. Less “why was he put here” and more “how does he feel about being put here”. The feels, if you will.

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Let’s start by bringing up the infamous roast session;

While we do learn a lot about Ramb when talking directly to him, we learn a whole lot more after he’s gone, from the random pippins that seems to stand in for the rest of the darkners that knew him.

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First of all, just the fact that we learn more about ramb from someone else rather than himself says a lot. I already mentioned it in the character analysis part, but he seems to never really focus on himself during our conversations with him, and would much rather talk about Kris and what they want and how they feel, in a way that is reminiscent of ralsei. 

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One of the differences between them being that while ralsei is truly trying his best to look for kris through our inputs on their behavior, building them up and cheering us both on, 

ramb, thanks to how confident he is, thinks he knows exactly what kris wants without second guessing himself for a second (until the very end) 

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(he was somehow right? Which adds to how he was made to make people think he’ll be the secret boss because he knew Kris wanted “freedom”. but this is just his lucky assumption, and has to do with what games Tenna is allowing Kris to play, not how Kris wants to be free from our control. Ramb had no idea.)

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(not to even get into how the mantle games vs Tenna’s version of them are a meta commentary on Deltarune’s linear story and how breaking out of if and achieving “freedom” comes at a great cost for the characters, that is a WHOLE other conversation and we’re talking about power strip mental health right now not this-) 

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Just for a second, I wanna bring up the fact that he's a plugboy. While yes the plugboys from chapter 2 do differ from each other visually, they’re all clearly the same darkner species, and they all resemble plug types that would be of the same, mostly american socket type.

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While Ramb is a European plug type. He’s fundamentally different. (Note how different Ramb looks to the other plugboys, and his smiling expression vs the original plugboys naturally ‘surprised’ look)

It's impossible to connect an American plug to this type of socket. What I'm trying to say is; he couldn’t connect with anyone.

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Back when I played chapter 3 for the first time and learned Ramb was from the library, I thought it was really weird. What, he was essentially kidnapped and no one in chapter 2 said anything? 

No one mentioned a plug named “ramb”, not even talked about a purple plugboy who used to live here. Not even “a plugboy” who’s now gone. I shrugged it off as extremely light retconning, maybe he was written after chapter 2 was completed.

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But when I think about it now, it makes total sense. The reason he didn't seem to mind being taken from his original dark world, his home, the reason he adores Kris so much, and why no one in cyber world mentioned him or said anything about him being gone;

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it's because he didn't matter to anyone back there either. The first time he felt loved and wanted was as Kris's toy. 

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Of course he'd get attached to them, I'm honestly surprised he isn't constantly imposing himself on us- there isn't a single point in the game where you have to talk to him, if you never choose to do that, you don't even learn his name.

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Similarly to Tenna, Ramb clung to the past, to that time in his life he felt happy and loved. He couldn't (or wouldn't) move on. 

No one in Cyber world liked him, no one in the dreemurr house liked him, so he gave up. He no longer tried to make connections with new people. Instead of retaining who he is and living for himself, even if no one likes it, he let himself get stuck in the memories of being loved, once, a long time ago.

—----

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Inside, he was probably stone already.

Back to the infamous roast session, specifically to the last thing that was said about him there;

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“Inside, he was probably stone already.” 

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Have you ever seen a more obvious depression metaphor? 

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In chapter 3, a darkner turning to stone was revealed to be connected to a mental and emotional state, and not just where the object is originally from, which to be honest, in retrospect makes a lot more sense. 

(What if an object was somewhere it didn't belong when a fountain was created, then brought back to the place they belong, would they turn to stone just because they happen to be somewhere else first? Also turning to stone being more about feelings just fits these games doesn't it. anyway)

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One of the very first things that we learn about Ramb, straight from him, is how Kris and Asriel brought him to their house from the library, maybe around the time Noelle and Kris played make believe with other objects from there and the unused classroom. 

But that's all we learn from him about why he's here and how he feels about it. Which is to say we learn nothing because he never elaborates about himself-

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Then, after he’s turned to stone, we learn from the pippins that after Ramb was brought here by kris, he cared about them so much that he made sure the others are thinking about them and what's best for them too, because to him their plans weren’t good enough for kris. He wanted the very best for them. 

His fixation on Kris and his condescending attitude that was perceived as ego isolated him as he turned insufferable in their eyes. 

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Tenna wanted to get rid of him, no one liked his humor, he rarely got any customers, and no one will even care that he’s gone. Other newcomers in the house fit in fine, while he never truly belonged. The pippins is relieved if you tell them that you don't wanna hear more about him.

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Turning to stone on the inside. Being stone as you still continue to live. A darkner turns to stone when they feel like they don't belong, when even if they try their hardest to fit in, they don't have a place that’s for them where they are. When their connections can't save them and they want to be somewhere else, someone else.

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Ramb felt like he didn't belong here so badly that the feeling manifested, turning him to stone from the moment the fountain opened, maybe even before. 

It's depression. Moreover, it's like smiling depression- he never lets us see any of it, he smiles and is friendly with us, there's no reason to think anything is wrong until you learn more about his situation. 

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Kinda reminds you of someone, right?

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“How about the usual?”

That joke should be familiar to true truck freaks;

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“i’ll take the usual.”

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It's the same joke Sans made when he first came to Grillby’s. The differences being that while sans told it as a first time customer, Ramb told it as a first time bartender. And of course, people laughed at Sans's joke, and immediately accepted him as the old timer he joked about being, while no one laughed with Ramb.

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The similarities between sans and Ramb are kinda like when you learn a new word and start seeing it everywhere;

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They're both shorties 

They both mask their depression with humor and an unassuming, modest attitude

They both constantly smile

They both wink a lot

Both are in worlds they don't belong in

Both never go into detail about themselves

Both refer to the player character as a friend immediately

Both seem to build up all they are around someone else (Sans with Papyrus and Ramb with Kris)

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It's not that this implies they know each other or anything- the only thing these similarities tell me is that we’re given more about Ramb's personality and ‘vibe’ through a character he’s similar to and we're already familiar with.

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Like, what if sans didn't have papyrus constantly at his side? What if no one liked his jokes? What if he couldn't make friends? What if he didn't have the ability to control where he went? What if he felt truly, deeply, alone? 

While their personalities and circumstances are obviously not identical, I think these similarities are very interesting. 

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(Just for the sake of not mischaracterizing sans, we're in 2025 not 2016, I wanna clarify that I'm aware a big part of sans' pain stems from his inability to go anywhere outside Undertale as a universe (wherever or whatever “going back” means), but I was thinking more like. What if he was just stuck inside MTT resort, y’know?)

—-

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Implications that he doesn’t value himself as a person

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If you were suddenly face to face with the one person who ever liked you, after years of being apart, if under their gaze, you felt more appreciated as a person than you have in all the years since you've last seen them, what would you do?

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I'd hope to god your answer isn't anything close to what Ramb did.

Because this guy gave up on so much of his life for Kris, even before he saw them again, until he gave up his life for them completely.

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In his last moments with us, he continues to try and make sure Kris has fun. 

Knowing he will soon turn to stone, as far he knows, forever, He still continues to try and please Kris. 

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He’ll watch out for Kris for as long as he's conscious enough to see and speak.

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He sees his own uncooperative body not as a detriment to himself, but a bother for Kris, who now has to shove him out of the way, because he started to die before he could unblock the entry to the room.

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Instead of doing anything for himself before he fully turns to stone, he chooses to set up one last game for us. His smile never falters and he wishes us a fun time.

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I mentioned this before, but this part of his behavior is very reminiscent of Ralsei. 

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Ralsei’s beliefs about himself and how much of a person he should be allowed to be finally started to get challenged in chapters 3 & 4, to the relief of everyone who knew he wasn't evil. 

But before those beliefs started to get questioned by the game, he constantly allowed himself to be walked over, hurt, and ignored by everyone.

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The way he behaved was incredibly off putting, making a large portion of the community think he’s secretly the villain and will have a heel turn in the story where he backstabs us all- but it turns out he hid information from us because he views the knowledge he has as a burden. He doesn't want us to know what he knows because he cares about us. 

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He’s okay with getting hurt, he’s okay with taking pain meant for us, protecting us from harm's way, because he doesn't yet view himself as a person worth protecting. He doesn't even view himself as a person.

When we learned this, suddenly all the oddities about him and the way he acted made sense. No one still believes he’s secretly evil.

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Ramb is similar in a way. He views himself as a darkner, an object, first, and a person second. He exists for his lightner, the kid who gave him purpose as a toy, an item of play and fun. 

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He’s aware that in reality, he's just a power strip. and because he knows that while the lightners change, darkners don't, he understands that Kris views him as obsolete. He doesn't see himself as someone (something) worth saving. 

His purpose, a darkners purpose, is to assist his lightner. His self proclaimed purpose is to let Kris have the fun they want. What he wants is irrelevant, he shouldn't even have needs or wants in the first place, there's no reason for it. 

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It's okay if he’s dying. It's okay if he’s already stone on the inside. He keeps setting up the levels in the console room because we keep coming back to play, because we’re having fun. Whatever Ramb wants doesn't matter as much as Kris's fun does.

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While Ralsei thankfully has Susie and Kris by his side to constantly remind him that he matters, until the day he’ll hopefully fully believe it himself, Ramb is completely alone. He doesn't have anyone who cares about him, likes him, or would cry for him once he’s gone.

He hasn't yet realized, or maybe he’s never been told that he matters outside of his “role” as a darkner. And maybe he never will.

—--------

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No one will shed a tear for him

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This part may be a bit more speculative of me and not really something that's out right said, but it's important for me to mention

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Before you finish the mantle game and Ramb disappears, if you hug the hall in front of where he guarded the door, you walk through a hidden hallway and enter his stand.

You can watch Susie and Ralsei play the game they were talking about, but you're unable to interact with them. Just watch as they’re having fun without you.

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It's an adorable Susie and Ralsei moment that I'm glad we got, look at them go! It's nice to actually see the characters doing the things they say they do. But i think that maybe we got the option to walk here for another reason

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This is Ramb’s point of view. His name is above where you stand. This is how he experiences the world. He's in the background, in the darkest area of the green room, looking at all the folks coming and going, laughing, smiling, bonding, while he’s unable to join. 

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Fully his own decision by the way, you can leave this room and go back to your adventures with your friends, he can leave his stand too. 

Not that anyone is waiting for him to, though. So what's the point?

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Loneliness is overwhelming. It's an all encompassing feeling that paints everything and everyone you see, and once it's got its talons in you, it begins to feel impossible to overcome. 

Even at times where you could fight it and win, if it sunk in already, it may just feel pointless, and you chose to lose a winnable battle.

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I doubt that in the entirety of Kris's house, there isn't a single darkner who would, at the very least, tolerate him. At best, genuinely like him and enjoy being his friend. But ramb knew loneliness in Cyber world, and its familiar sting found him in the Dreemurr house. Why try again? 

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it's not like he needs it from the other darkners anyway, right? After all, he has someone who likes him. His lightner likes him, and that's more than enough. 

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It's okay if they've not seen each other in years. It's okay if they never will again after the fountain is sealed. He has fulfilled his purpose in making sure they're happy. 

That's more than enough. Nothing matters more than their happiness, not even him.

—-----

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So let's walk through what we can assume his life was like;

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He arrived at the library, as the only European plug there. Maybe he was accidentally purchased by someone who didn't notice that he had a socket type that they couldn't use with the rest of the plugs there.

He couldn't bond with any object in the library because he wasn't compatible with them, maybe they just didn't get along or the conversations didn't flow. No one there really cared about him, and he remained alone.

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Then, one day, a monster and a human decided to take him and bring him home with them. 

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The human treated him like any one of their toys, and they played with him. He assisted them in having fun. He felt wanted, appreciated, useful, this was the first time in his life that he felt loved. He finally had a purpose.

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The other objects in this house just didn't get it, did they? this wonderful human was kind enough to give himself and all of them a home, they should be everyone's priority! 

He tried to get them to focus their efforts on making the human happy, but nothing they ever did was good enough for them, he felt like he was the only one that really knew them, the only one who cared.

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The other objects started to get sick of him. and while they adjusted to their new life here just fine, finding friends and things to do, a place for themselves, he didn't. Again, he couldn't make a single friend.

He stuck to his beliefs, never questioning himself; if caring for my lightner is what got me to this point, then I don't regret it for a second. The one person who ever loved him deserves the best the world has to offer. He did not flinch when, from within, slowly, he began to turn to stone.

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The human grew up, and stopped playing with toys. Ramb continued his life as it was before, always thinking of his lightner, wondering how they're doing. 

Until, one day, he saw them opening a dark fountain.

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His lightner is back! What joy! The one person who ever loved him, the one who gave him purpose, is right here! 

He wondered why they opened a fountain right now, maybe it was fun that they were missing? And with the mind-numbing games his boss is making them play they're not getting any fun anytime soon.

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So he decided to fulfill his purpose. He set up the game that Tenna changed into that snooze-fest. The original version. The kind of game where you get choices. The story isn't linear, you can fight your way to the ending, or make friends that carry you through it. 

(not that he knew of the controller he set up disappearing, and a corrupted one being left in the hallway by someone else)

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But if they choose not to play the game, that’s fine too. If they actually are having enough fun on Tenna’s game show, then that's fine. He won't force them to play his game, his purpose is to make sure Kris is having fun, not to be the fun they have. 

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But if they do want to play his game? He’ll make sure they can until his very last moment. As he’s fully turning to stone, he doesn't care. His personhood doesn't matter, it never did. The only thing of value he has ever done was assist his lightner in their fun, way back when.

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He just wants them to have the fun they deserve, again.

—--------

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That's who he is in the story of chapter 3. A lonely darkner stuck in the past, who gives himself up for you to be able to have the fun you used to have, the fun you had back when he was useful, unwilling to move on from when he was loved by you. 

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In a more meta sense though, he was also the perfect secret boss red herring;

A lonely, abandoned toy, with unexplored thoughts and feelings about his worth as a toy and what he means in the grand scheme of things. Seeing him in this chapter was supposed to make us believe, because of past experiences with these types of guys in this game, that he’ll be the secret boss. 

But he wasn't, that’s a part of his character of being forgotten, and it's intentional.

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

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Okay, so he's not the secret boss, he's not Eram, and he was written to just be a red herring. 

That's all he is in this story. 

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Right?

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He's just a red herring, right? (well…)

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Then:

Why did we need to know so much about him?

Why isn't he in castle town?

Why doesn't he fully turn to stone?

Why was it important that we know he saw Kris make the fountain?

Why was it important to imply that something happened to him after the sword route?

…Why doesn't the knight make the air crackle with freedom?

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----------

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Why did we need to know so much about him?

Beyond being a red herring, we learn so much about him as a character that doesn't go anywhere. Like his story was supposed to be something but got cut short. 

Imagine if after Spamton gave you all this weird information in his shop, he turned to stone and THEN all the Addisons would show up and talk about him. It feels empty, like something was meant to be there, alongside all the information. some big break or moment that would give the character we slowly learned about over the course of the chapter closure.

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If he truly isn't and wasn't meant to be anything significant, then why are we given so much information on him? Why are we being made to wonder about him? Why are we being made to care? 

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Even in runs where you don't play the mantle games, and all Ramb was to you was the funny little guy giving you prizes in the green room, you end up getting so much information about him out of nowhere. I know first time players that were genuinely weirded out by it- why is it there by a point where his importance really wouldn't matter to you??

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But that could be a part of him being a red herring, we're learning about him as a character and thinking “oh this guy is absolutely the secret boss”, then the twist is that he isn't. 

And that's true! That seems to be the idea Ramb was created for. But I wouldn't write all this if there wasn't more 

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Why isn't he in castle town?

We didn't get too many unique characters in chapter 3; Tenna, Lanino, Elnina, Shuttah, and Ramb are really the only significant ones, they all even show up at the beginning of the chapter before the first board.

Ramb is one of the 5 unique characters we got in chapter 3, they're all in castle town, except him, no matter if we do the sword games or not. there was no reason not to put him there and give him like 2 lines of unremarkable dialogue.

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Spamton was a unique character in chapter 2, but he doesn't show up in castle town either, even if we don't fight him as spamton neo. 

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“certain bosses are excluded.” as if Ramb was meant to be something he ended up not being.

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Why doesn't he fully turn to stone?

(original image by @/unikhroma)

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If it was just 1 pixel I wouldn't mention it, if it was two I'd be surprised that the flood fill tool the deltarune team is using is so uncooperative. If it was three I'd raise an eyebrow but not proclaim anything. 

It's four. It's four uncolored, obvious pixels on his petrified sprite??? One of them is a part of his mouth and very visible???? 

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Not to mention how his eyes are still black like they were before- when lancer turns to stone, the big spade on his face that acts as an expressive mask of sorts turns gray like the rest of him, making him look much more like a statue. 

But ramb looks awake, just frozen and grayscale. (I find it interesting that in his half stone sprite his left eye is obscured in shadow, would it be black or gray?)

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And why is it that when we interact with him behind his stand, instead of getting “Some kind of stone statue”, we get blocked by the pippins, as if when we’d interact with it we wouldn't get that description? 

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Why was there a need to imply he's still conscious? Why did we need to wonder if he heard everything that was said about him?

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Why was it important that we know he saw Kris make the fountain?

While it is very possible that other characters are aware that Kris made the fountain- even Tenna, who's the ruler of this dark world, doesn't outright call Kris their creator. 

For some reason, this little british guy, supporting cast member no.5, is the only darkner as of yet, in the entire first half of the game, to knowingly speak with their creator on screen, and outright say they saw them make the fountain. 

Why him? Why now? Why no one else?

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Why was it important to imply that something happened to him after the sword route?

When we exit the console room after getting the shadow mantle, Ramb is gone. He could've been outside as he was before, just fully turned to stone and giving the same prompt of “Some kind of stone statue”. But sure, maybe he's gone for tonal reasons. We leave right after the scene with Susie after all.

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But it was so important to Toby that we know Ramb didn't just walk away off screen or disappear without a reason, that he gave the dust bunny in the s rank room a unique shocked sprite so we’d know to talk to it. 

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“I was so scared, Ramb was..” doesn't tell us much. Did something scary happen to him? Did he do something that scared them? 

And why do we need to think about that in the first place? Isn't he supposed to just be an irrelevant statue by this point? Why was it important enough to be told to us?

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Why doesn't the knight make the air crackle with freedom?

Think about it. When spamton turns into the dealmaker/puppet scarf he becomes a little glimmer and falls down to us, and we get both the item he turned into and the shadow crystal he held. 

The part that chipped off the knight's sword was the Black Shard, not the shadow crystal. They were just holding it, it wasn't a part of them. 

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And, they don't have the freedom motif in their theme… 

And “The air crackles with freedom” doesn't show up during their fight…

and they’re an unavoidable battle, unlike Jevil, Spamton, or Gerson. 

And… They’re repeatedly said to have arrived late. Almost as if, if they had arrived in time, and Tenna wouldn't have had to stall the show so much, they could do what they came to do, whatever that was.

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The knight didn't mean for things to happen the way they did! 

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I think the implication is that, if the knight wasn't late, one of the probable many dastardly activities it would be up to, would be to give Ramb the shadow crystal it was holding.

Interesting too that their plan this chapter is prophesied to fail (lord of screens, cleaved red by blade), while we're trying to break the prophecy. 

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If the prophecy was broken this chapter and the knight did all they wanted perfectly, would we have fought Ramb? 

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You might notice that most of these end with questions, and that's the point. We're not being told everything there is to know. For some reason, we're being made to ask questions. 

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I'll be honest, if you make some assumptions you could probably find answers to most of these, but I can't, even with assuming things like; he's Eram, or he's truly not someone we're meant to care for- (those cancel each other out btw) Find an explanation to everything. 

If you figure out an answer to one, another falls apart.

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And I'm not trying to find the answers to these questions, I'm just pointing them out, because for an irrelevant side character those are a shit ton of loose ends. That's what's weirding me out! Why are we being made to ask questions about someone who's made to be insignificant??

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This isn't a Mike situation where the answer was just “we don't know” and a pun about “real mike” (brilliant, btw)

Mike was a question for years at this point, but he had no answer because there wasn't meant to be one, we made the question of “who's mike” up!!

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But with Ramb we're given the character and the questions at the same time, something is being built, but there's no way for us to know what right now. For now we just have the questions.

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Isn't he a cryptic shopkeeper and that's it?

Not really? he doesn't have a shop menu, there's no option to sell him anything, there's no extended talk option, and you can't even buy anything from him and it's being pointed out in game;

“Gotta use that vending machine though, Tenna doesn't like us… touching the points.”

“Mixing drinks for himself, he wasn't allowed to handle the points”

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He's the least shopkeeper a shopkeeper ever was. Even the old man in chapter 4 had a more proper shop.

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Alright, so he’s a shopkeeper narratively, not literally. the Seam to Jevil, Swatch for Spamton. 

Is he Eram’s shopkeeper? 

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Seam hinted at Jevil’s existence the very first time we met them, they gave us a part of the key to his cell, and once we beat him they expanded on his story and downfall.

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Swatch hinted at someone stealing their look, breaking into the mansion, they shush you up if you bring up the basement. And after you beat spamton, they tell you what they knew of him, and how they saw everything as it went wrong.

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Ramb didn't know Eram existed. He didn't understand why Kris thought someone was in the back with them, he didn't see anyone come in. 

In Ramb's mind he just gave Kris a classic NES game like the ones they played as a kid, where you can go around with your sword and level up, or play peacefully, completing side quests and talking to the characters. 

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With how much he cares about kris, it's obvious he had no idea there would be a harmful taunting creature in there, calling their name and changing the game to give them a worse time, he didn't have to tell us that to his knowledge no one was back there with them, but he still did. 

Sometimes things should be taken at face value.

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The shopkeepers to secret bosses dynamic seems to exist so that we could learn more about the secret bosses stories and about them as characters. We've seen two instances where the shopkeeper and the secret boss knew each other, but because they're there just to give us more information on them, then they don't really have to. 

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Ramb could’ve given us information in a backwards way, saying things that include game or lore hints that would make sense to us but still show that he has no idea he's filling the role of a guide. 

(think about Noelle's line in chapter 4; “we’ll know it's there if it makes noise.” she didn't know the soul was in the closet, she didn't know she was giving the player a hint! She was just telling Susie that if they heard a mouse squeak or something then they’ll know it entered Dess’s room.)

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And yet Ramb wasn't even that! We didn't learn anything about Eram from him, even after reading all his lines of dialogue about the game!!!

Ramb is not the battleable secret boss obviously, but he’s not even the shopkeeper to one!

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What he is in this story, and will he be more? (Conclusion)

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So… what is he supposed to be? Is he just a red herring? Is his only purpose in this story to throw us off and be a part of this chapter’s expectation subversion? 

So why the loose ends? Why the information?

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Like I said before, deltarune is not meant to be predicted. It can't be! Whatever all of this was for, if it was for anything, what it will be, when it will be and how, it's all up to toby. 

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Originally, I wanted to bring up a theory I really believe in about the future of deltarune. If you're familiar with mollystars’ “the device theory”, you'll know all about it. New-game-plus.

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(In short, it's about how currently we're playing by the prophecy, (think of it as a flawed undertale neutral run), and once we reach the end of deltarune, we could break the prophecy, and have an extra epilogue chapter, or play the whole game again, and have a timeline where the prophecy is broken. (like resetting a neutral undertale ending and playing pacifist))

(watch the device theory trilogy on yt if you're interested, it's awesome and like 10 and a half hours long.)

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At first, this theory had a whole segment here, explaining it at length, and why ramb seems to fit it perfectly-

But… I decided not to do that. Sure, Ramb’s weird existence kinda does make me think about the new game plus theory, but… no. I'm not gonna assume anything more about him. 

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We were given the character, then the questions. We can rack our brains trying to find the answers and feel as confident about them as we can be, but we were so off about Tenna before the chapters came out you guys. 

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A lot of people tend to dismiss Ramb as just another character in this chapter that happened with nothing much more to him. 

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The purpose of this essay, alongside compiling the information about Ramb and analyzing it and his character, was to point out and bring attention to the questions that his odd existence in this chapter raises, not try to answer them.

 just show how strange it is that this character, that's supposed to be a red herring and nothing more, has this many questions regarding him, his existence in this story, and his unclear end. 

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Something is being planned here, and we have no way of knowing what.

All we can do is sit with this character, the questions, the loose ends, the clues … and wonder.

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Posts i used as a reference, or influenced my view on things, or are just awesome to read if you want more Ramb:]

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What's the Deal with Ramb? - by koimethehorizon:

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Why it's important that ramb isn't an American plug - by Askerror87’s;

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We are Studying Ramb Again - by lost-seal:

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Thinking about ramb by meatcarnival3000:

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RAMB VS ERAM - by frankent1ts:

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Ok, we need to talk about Ramb - by todaslocas:

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(Short but really influenced how I think about Ramb and Tenna's relationship!) - by meatcarnival3000:

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Ramb tenna lore Supercut - by unikhroma:

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thank you for reading! <3

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[verdurous-heaven]

Pick a pile: What does your crush think of you?

Hello everyone! Hope everyone's doing fine. Please pick one or more than a one pile you feel the most drawn towards or u can simply use a random number generator for it and enjoy your reading. Like and reblog to claim.

Pile: 1

Your crush sees you as an absolute sweetheart who's gentle, kind-hearted, and generous to the world. They perceive you as someone deeply spiritual or traditionally religious, almost divinely protected, as if the universe walks with you. There's a quiet reverence they hold for you, admiring your serene yet powerful presence.

Interestingly, they also view you as someone who's strong, perhaps physically skilled in combat or self-defense. Maybe they've witnessed you during athletic activities, martial arts, or even standing up fiercely in a confrontation. They deeply admire that strength, especially because it contrasts with your otherwise calm and composed demeanor.

However, despite their admiration, they choose to admire you from a distance. In their eyes, you appear to have many admirers, options that seem far more suitable and they wonder why someone like you would ever choose someone like them. (As I write this, the clock just struck 11:11- a sign of divine confirmation.)

But don't be mistaken, they're not just passively watching with no intention. Deep down, they're waiting. Waiting for the right moment, the perfect opportunity when no one else is in the way and they can shoot their shot without any fear. They do want to make a move, but they're overwhelmed by nervousness. You have a dominating/commanding presence that makes them hesitate not because they lack confidence but because they think you might reject them as soon as they step forward.

They protect their heart n feelings by keeping their distance. You might've noticed a gaze lingering on you when you weren't looking or a quiet presence watching from afar or even subtle signs of someone frequently viewing your social media. That's them silently admiring n observing u from afar.

They're also intimidated by your communication style. Perhaps you're really cold with your words. You might come across as sharp or blunt with your words and that too paired with a resting face that seems cold or unreadable, only makes it harder for them. They think you might walk away without a second thought n that's a risk they're not sure they can handle.

From their perspective, you seem incredibly dedicated to your goals. Your focus and commitment to your work are admirable, but it makes them feel like a confession from their side might just be a distraction in your life. So, rather than risk creating unnecessary complications, they choose to silently step back, prioritizing your peace over their feelings since they feel you alr have a lot on your plate in your personal life.

There's a quiet sadness in this unspoken affection. They often find themselves thinking about you late at night, letting time pass as they continue to care for you from afar. Even if it means never confessing, never getting close, they seem willing to wait or even let you go and just to keep loving you in silence, without causing you any distress.

Channeled song: Halazia by ateez

Pile: 2

Your crush perceives you as someone incredibly calm and composed, someone who values their peace and privacy deeply. They think you're not actively seeking a relationship at the moment, instead choosing to focus on your own space and growth. Yet, despite this, they feel an undeniable magnetic pull toward you, an intense, almost surreal connection that feels too powerful to be a mere coincidence. To them, it's as though you've met before, perhaps in a past life. They fantasize about you day n night.

They dream of crossing every barrier that separates you from them just to hold you close. You've consumed their thoughts completely, day and night, you linger in their mind like a beautiful melody. They envision a future where you're together in a loving marriage, building a peaceful home filled with love, laughter and little versions of you both running around. These daydreams have become their emotional sanctuary n they're afraid it's just a dream or a facade they're seeing n won't come true irl.

They actually wonder if you've cast some kind of love spell on them, because no matter how hard they try, they can't seem to think of anything or anyone else. Just kidding lol. To them, you're the guiding light in their life, the one person they believe can lead them through the darkest path of their life. They're completely enchanted by you, so much so that it' feels like a borderline obsession. But beneath that intensity lies a genuine sadness, the fear that this connection may never become reality.

And yet, they remain hopeful. They want to step forward, confess everything, and build a life with you. They're willing to face any challenge, overcome any circumstance n do whatever it takes to be by your side. There might be a chance that someone else may also be trying to win your heart but rather than engage in conflict, your crush wants to show you through actions that they are the one most worthy of your love. Am I sensing a love triangle here???👀You are their shining star, and they are determined to earn your trust and affection. They genuinely wanna woo you with their love.

To them, you're precious, delicate even. They adore you with a purity that feels like a puppy love. Every time they see you, their heart melts. They look at you with heart eyes. They wanna protect you from the world n hide you in the warmth of their hugs. You're someone they would treasure with utmost care, almost afraid that if they touch you, you might slip away like a dream. You're their wish come true, and they're scared of doing anything that might hurt you. So, they keep you in their thoughts, cherishing you in silence, day after day.

Channeled song: Smart by lesserafim

Pile: 3

Your crush sees you as nothing less than a queen who's graceful, powerful, and accomplished. You give off the energy of a self-made CEO, someone independent and self-sufficient, almost as if you're too strong to fall in love. They view you as someone intuitive perhaps even spiritually gifted, as though you simply know things without needing to be told.

They feel that you're currently focused on your own growth and healing, not seeking any romantic connections. There's a sense that you've been through emotional turmoil possibly betrayal or heartbreak in the past due to past relationships or situationships if any, that has made you hesitant, maybe even fearful, of opening your heart again. They sense this pain and genuinely want to step in and help heal those wounds with their love.

They think you've surrendered everything to the divine, trusting in fate to bring the right person into your life. Yet, they feel a bit shut out like you don't want them close or perhaps that you're unaware of their feelings. Despite that, they think you are the one, their one true soulmate sent by the universe. Their love for you feels sacred, almost spiritual. They don't just want to love you, they want to woo you, court you, and remind you of what real, gentle love feels like.

They sense you're going through or have gone through a major transformation. You're not in a space to pursue romance right now, maybe waiting for something or someone extraordinary to come along and sweep you off your feet. And they are more than ready to be that someone. They believe you are divinely protected and carry a mysterious, almost ethereal aura. There's a part of you the world hasn't seen, a hidden softness or vulnerability n they're eager to discover it and protect it with everything they have.

To them, your connection feels pure and destined. They're angered by the thought of anyone who has hurt you in the past and feel a strong urge to protect and nurture you. While they know there may be other people interested in you n fear you might not choose them, they're still gathering the courage to express their feelings. Expect a heartfelt confession soon. Their love is patient, determined, and ready to prove to you that love can be safe, healing, and magical. Gosh, I'm so happy for you guys. Goodluck<3

Channeled song: Young and beautiful by Lana del rey

Thankyou sm for reading. Have a good day/night ahead🫶🏼🧿

Credits giving section:

Divider used within the post is from the cutest @thecutestgrotto

Post pictures taken from pinterest do not belong to me n the credit goes to their original creators n rightful owners

© All rights reserved to verdurous-heaven. Please refrain from reframing, reposting, stealing or copying my work without my permission. ©VH 2025

[meetmeinanotherworld]

Guess who just came up with a new super simple "method" to help people affirm and shift to their desired realities!!!

(I'll give you a hint. It's me.)

So, obviously we all know that methods are absolutely unnecessary when it comes to shifting. Like COMPLETELY unnecessary. They're just tools to help, but they aren't what make you shift. YOU make you shift.

But with that being said, I did just think of something that I believe will help a lot of people. Because we all know that there are still a lot of shifters that overcomplicate shifting, even if they aren't intending to. I think some people aren't even aware of it. But when you try for a super long time, I think some people subconsciously think it's more difficult than it is and struggle to believe that they'll shift during their attempt, even if they do believe in shifting. So I thought of this last night, and I think a lot of people will find it useful because it makes it feel a lot less complicated and lower stakes (in my personal opinion).

So I was thinking last night about how weird it is that I struggle with lucid dreaming more (don't worry, this is not about the lucid dream method), even though I have always had super vivid dreams my whole life and will even sometimes find myself in a dream partially aware that it's a dream, but still not really lucid. And I was thinking about how many times I've had dreams based on just thoughts I had before bed or like content I was interacting with before I fell asleep. Like I'll watch something and it'll be in my dreams, or I'll think of someone and they'll be in my dreams.

So I started thinking, why not use that to my advantage? I'm not even talking about using it to lucid dream and using the lucid dream method. I feel like that might work for some people, but it hasn't worked for me. No, this is much simpler. I was thinking, why not think of a specific thing to incorporate into the dream and when you see it in the dream, you know you'll shift. Hear me out for a second because this might be a bit hard for me to explain.

My theory for this method sort of follows the theory that sometimes when you're dreaming about your desired reality, you've actually shifted to that reality but you don't realize because you woke up in your cr. So dreaming is a process that involves your consciousness. Shifting is also something that involves your consciousness. When you communicate an idea to your subconscious, it holds onto that and it's part of how you get the dreams that you have. So for example, if you set your intention to have part of your dream take place in a grocery store, you can tell yourself that when you have that dream, you are in your desired reality. That your consciousness will know that when you dream that you're in a grocery store, you're actually in your desired reality and you will wake up there.

It's sort of like the lucid dream method, except you don't have to worry about the step of becoming lucid. Because I know part of the lucid dream method that a lot of people follow is that they'll make a portal and they'll shift through the portal. But a lot of people will use the lucid dream method to just set the intention of waking up in their desired reality and affirm to themselves that they're just dreaming in their desired reality at that moment. So it's like that, except you don't even have to become lucid.

So basically, all you have to do is think of something before bed. It can be a person, a place, an object, whatever. You could think of being in a store, or a friends house, or an open field, or think of talking to your s/o, or a family member, or a friend, or you could be around lava lamps, or a sword, or a basketball. Whatever. Just relax before you go to bed and affirm to yourself that something will be in your dream and let it happen. And maybe you'll become lucid too, which would also be great because then you can use the lucid dream method. But you don't have to. Just trust that it'll happen and that your consciousness will know that once you see xyz in your dream, that you are in your desired reality already.

I thought of this because I was thinking about how many times I've just thought of something and then it ended up in my dreams and I realized a good practice for affirming/setting intentions would be to just affirm what I want to see in my dreams and let it happen. But then I took it a step further and thought about applying it to shifting. It is a super simple, low stakes, lazy girl method. You don't have to do anything except relax, trust yourself, and dream. No laying in a specific position, no counting to 100, no subliminals or anything necessary (unless you want).

I just think it's such a great practice for anyone who has any doubts. I mean, you know that dreaming is real, right? You know that when you sleep at night, you'll be able to dream, right? So you can at the very least practice setting your intentions for your dreams. So even if you end up not waking up in your desired reality, you're at least getting in practice for affirming and setting your intention. And if you can do it in a dream, you can do it for shifting. Because it's all just tied to your consciousness.

A step by step example for anyone who needs a little extra clarity-

(And remember to take what resonates and leave what doesn't. You can do whatever feels right for yourself.)

Step one: do what you normally do to go to bed. You don't have to do anything extra unless you want to do anything extra. Do whatever you need to do to relax. I enjoy watching asmr before bed until I start feeling super relaxed and like I could fall asleep and then I'll turn on rain noises or brown noise or something like that to keep me in a relaxed state.

Step two: as you're relaxed, start thinking about what you want to see in your dream before you fall asleep. For this example, we'll say that I want it to snow in my dream. So I'll affirm to myself that it will snow in my dream. I'll say things like "I want it to snow in my dream" "at some point, it will be snowing in my dream" "it will be snowy in my dreams tonight" etc. Just do whatever works best for you.

Step three: as you start affirming and setting your intention, start incorporating shifting. Tell yourself that when you have that dream, you'll know you've shifted and you will wake up in your desired reality. I'd tell myself things like "when it's snowing in my dreams, I know I'm in my desired reality" "I am already asleep and dreaming in my desired reality" "I will wake up in my desired reality" "when I see the snow, I am already there" etc. Again, just say whatever you want.

Step four: go to sleep. That's it. Think about snow as you fall asleep (or whatever you want) and just trust yourself. This is a sleep method. Don't worry about "symptoms." There are no symptoms. Shifting is not a physical process. Don't worry about shifting while you're doing the method. You will shift in your sleep and wake up in your desired reality. That is the point. Trust yourself and really, genuinely believe that it will happen. Honestly, try not to even think about the act of shifting and focus more on just knowing that you'll wake up in your desired reality. Trust that when you're dreaming, you are dreaming in your desired reality.

If you decide to try this, let me know how it goes and how you like it. Remember, methods are not at all necessary to shift. And if you don't feel like this resonates with you, you don't need to try it at all. I just like it because it's simple, just like shifting is. You don't need elaborate methods. Just trust and intention.

[mindfulmindthief]

How to be good for your hypnotist

I've had a few experiences lately, as an erotic hypnotist, that left me feeling a bit used and disappointed, and which made me not want to work with that person again.

So, I thought I'd put a little post up describing a few completely non-financial ways that subjects can leave their hypnotists feeling rewarded, and help to ensure that one-off sessions have an optimal chance of being repeated in the future:

1) Honesty

Honesty is hard, I know, and I know that many people come to hypnosis when they're struggling to be honest with themselves about who they are and what they want. But please, be honest with your hypnotist, even and especially if the truth is complicated and nuanced.

If I ask you a question, please answer it honestly, as it'll help me do my work inside your mind. If you're not willing to answer, that's fine, say that, but don't lie to me. Similarly, if I ask you if you're feeling that tingling on your neck, and you don't, be honest. This doesn't mean I'm a bad hypnotist, or you're a bad subject, just that a different approach is needed, and knowing how you actually react makes it easier to do my work.

Also, be honest about who you are. You don't have to be society's 'perfect' image of masculinity or femininity to be desirable. People love and play with people from all backgrounds and walks of life, and if you're a 60 year old man who wants to feel like an 18 year old cheerleader, say that, because somebody might be game, and they'll do a better job if they know that's what they're doing. But it's disheartening when the '25/F' you're talking to eagerly sends you pictures of some plasticky influencer as 'selfies she just took', and I'd rather hear "I don't feel comfortable sending pics" than be lied to. It's also really disconcerting when you realize that the person you just took time to talk with was 45 on their blog a few months ago, and suddenly became 20 within a few weeks of posting, because then, who knows how old you really are.

Please note, it's not a good idea to give identifying information to somebody you don't trust very much, so I will never fault somebody for using a fake name or a fake city or withholding information about work and life, but where it's safe, be honest.

2) Stick around until the end

I cannot express how disappointing it is when subjects cum and run. Going from 'Wow, this is going great' to 'Oh, they've stopped responding' is an unpleasant way to pay back somebody who put in actual work to get you there. Men, particularly, seem to do this a lot, and it's so predictable that it makes my bisexual self a bit less likely to play with men. So, even if you happen to finish, stick around, let us bring you back, give us feedback, say thank you, and then roll over and fall asleep.

3) Give good Feedback

For me, one of my favorite parts is hearing about your experience. Not only does it turn me on, but it helps me understand what I did which went well, went poorly, and what blew your mind. So, the very best way you can thank me for a great experience is by telling me, in vivid detail, how you experienced it. What was arousing, what was distracting, what made you drop, and what made you explode. Even if you're exhausted, or have to be up early, or just need to run, take the time later to tell me what happened. So, if you want to do this again sometime, tell me how it was, in vivid, useful, and ideally lewd, detail. If I trance you, and get erotica about it the next day, you're on the top of my list.

4) Referrals

Even if, like me, you don't care for the 'good toys bring more good toys' approach or 'building a harem', for many, it's quite flattering to have somebody in your DMs saying "Oh, my friend said you're incredible to play with, I'd like to play too if you're open." So, if you like to share, you could always ask your hypnotist if they'd like you to do some recruitment. But again, this is not everybody's taste.

5) Sharing parts of yourself

This can mean many things. If you're in the same room as your hypnotist, well, I suspect you both can negotiate ways to share parts of yourself. But online, there are many ways to share yourself. Maybe this is by being open and exposing your mind and your desires and your thoughts. Maybe this is by being open and showing your body, in photos or video, if you're comfortable. Maybe this is by chatting on voice, and letting me hear your moans. Maybe you're even open to chatting on video, and letting me watch you melt. Once you get on video, maybe you want to be comfy, or maybe you want to be porn. And maybe you want to share yourself for just my eyes, or post your exploits for the world. You don't have to share yourself in any of these ways, but it sure is more fun to have a bit more of you, and both audio and video make doing my hypnotic job much, much easier.

Please be conscious about your face or identifying tattoos, as Facial recognition exists. So, even with somebody you trust, a cute mask, a careful camera angle, a bit of blur, or a tightened hoodie are not out of line. There should be no shame in anything between consenting adults, but that doesn't stop people from shaming or threatening, and your hypnotist should understand if an ounce of prevention makes you more comfortable for a pound of trance.

6) Cooperation

This part sort of goes without saying, but we are in it for control, and we want our toys to follow our directions. So, if we ask you not to touch, sit on your hands if you have to. If we ask you to lay down, do so. If we ask you to do 'homework' between sessions, please do your best to do it. Life happens, but 'no lol i didn't practice the mantra just maek me say it now im horny' is not a great feeling. Similarly, if you're asked to listen to a file between sessions, either do so, or explain why you're not comfortable doing it. But just ignoring an order is disrespectful, and if you don't do the work for me, why should I do the work for you?

Yes, we're hypnotists, and if we want to, we can make you obey anyway. Sometimes, that's the fun. And, of course, there's a place for brats and resistance, but unless we negotiate that you want to brat or resist, being a brat is just being unpleasant. That's a game we must both play.

So, even if you want to be forced to obey more later, obeying the little directives is a good way to show respect, it helps me control you better, and it makes it clear that you're such a good little subject, who merits to have their brains thoroughly scrubbed.

Of course, there are other ways, and the best way to find out is to ask. But if you're doing some or all of these things well, there's a good chance you'll be seen as a wonderful, desirable subject.