#overthrowned

[minecraft-fanfiction-house]

Gore' Over Minecraft

As always Credits were credits are due; Goretober Prompts By @cartexcreationsart & Oc-tober writing prompts from kharmio_’s

Overthrowing the government goals

Tw & Prompt

Decapatation

Aspirations<3

An illager crowned by old jewel of a royal guard uniform from a fallen empire, sat at their desk, stained exp on the floor, and heavy footsteps echoes behind their door. A flood of guard pushed the door open, shocking the crowned illager in disgust.

======

The light shined through the open gates, to the crown illager, and two evokers behind him.

“I am not a humble corrupt, but i am quite frankly overworked and young.”

The normal un-gemmed fitted illager waved their hand. The armoured guards beside the evoker with an unkempt brow, robed in black and gold with black entrails of potion effects in their golden trim, with their glasses in their pocket broken.

Crowned illager looked glanced back at their evoker on their right. Evoker priestess looked down, with all the self-awareness of their sins. The dullend clothing that comparatively had a bigger gold trim didn't shine as nicely.

“Tch” The crowned illager stared at the lower class guard worker, peeking at the modest maid walking outside the gates, “You have no loyalty, or any respectable understanding of why I controlled this region.”

The worker glanced down at them, their eyes bothered by the sun. Being disturbed in their conversation in the mother tongue, far from the illagerish the once ruler of the land knew.

"My loyalty’s is towards nature, she is a ruthless controller. This is only natural, for fear of you taking away my children, this is for their survival."

They walked out the gate, a cobblestone stage of execution. How wonderful!

==

A basket, dried, used and worn. It had a rag, smelling similarly to some soap with leaves and lemon skin.

Their fresh dried leaves, and there's dust of withered leaves from falls 3 months ago.

A dead wild wasp leg sticks out, or was it a queen bee kicked out my a sister or a hidden code from the workers to overthrew the long emperor.

And with that, the neck hanging over the guillotine dripped out exp into the basket.

The confetti from the witches was the only loudest ones there all the way in the hills, quite far but as visible as the moon. You could still be able to hear a thump of the head go into the basket.

Watery red blood stained the ragged, and dropped head. The heads whittend eyes, seeping to go back in their head. The vocals chopped off of the pittering quietness of and the breezes overshadowed with the quiet and peaceful crowd attachment to the over-excitement of a dead king.

--

Yay 421 words <3

Decapitation, Overthrowbed.. that's the only thing i came up for aspirations <3

[keylimeart]

could i interest you in my space regency au

[burningcheese-merchant]

Ok Beast x Ancient fans, everyone get in the summoning circle and hold hands, we're going to start manifesting the five (5) post-game wedding cutscenes for the five pairs now. I said that before as a joke but I now I actually think we have a shot. Silent Salt is going to ask White Lily to marry him next episode, that's a given now, come on gang we just need to get in a circle and start chanting, we WILL have our wedding cutscenes it's nonnegotiable

[blergityblargh]

"Harm reduction" as a concept comes out of the field of drug addiction. It was a response to decades of the "war on drugs" locking people up, screwing up their lives, and not doing anything to reduce addiction. It's an appeal to dramatically rethink the problem, to bring a proper scientific understanding to it, and shift the method of dealing with drugs entirely from the criminal justice system to the healthcare system. It's looking at what had been done for decades, saying "well that's not working" and changing tracks entirely.

Do you see how it's not analogous to voting Democrat? How it doesn't just mean "pick the least bad option in a shitty system"? How instead it means "the system isn't working, so let's change it"?

Like if the current political understanding of "harm reduction" were applied back to drug addiction, people wouldn't be advocating for it to be treated as a health problem instead of a criminal problem, they'd be advocating for drug offenses to get $100,000 fines instead of prison sentences. Because that's on the surface a less bad option within a bad system, but that still fucks up people's lives anyways and in a lot of cases will probably mean that someone just ends up in jail for some other reason.

What a real application of harm reduction logic to politics would mean is acknowledging that the American political system doesn't work, thinking about what would actually improve people's lives, and organizing to do that instead.

[jazzy-a]

Since Hermes is essentially the god of tricks/wit, and Ody is his descendant, I just love the idea of him watching parts of Odysseus' journey and excitedly pointing and slapping the god or goddess next to him, like "DID YOU SEE THAT!?"

Think about it: Odysseus literally sacking Troy by hiding in a giant horse; bluffing so well that Athena- goddess of wisdom- falls for it; drugging Polyphemus with lotus wine (Hermes would be proud).

You can't convince me that Hermes wasn't somewhere eating popcorn during "Ruthlessness" and that when Ody opens the mother f-ing wind bag like a cocky little sh!t, Hermes didn't burst out laughing and start applauding.

He fluttered down to Uncle Poseidon after that, like, "Ohoho! My darling little grand-baby just schooled you!"

[cherryite]

overthrown - part 1. the twins

summary. tragedy strikes your home, a prophecy leading you to the viltrum empire where you encounter people who you are bound to by fate. (word count. 4.3k)

content. princess!reader x prince!mark, fem!reader, strangers to lovers, slow burn, angst, hurt/comfort, fantasy au, saving the world, war time activities, found family

warnings. MDNI!!, depictions of violence, blood and injuries, loss of family, grief, rex being a dickhead lowk, survivors guilt, eventual smut (not until the last part hehe)

author's note. well.... you know how i said this may take a bit to come out? here it is because i'm crazy apparently. the content tag and the warnings tag will get things added to it as the story progresses, just to keep certain things a secret mwahahah >:) once again if you have any questions feel free to ask! i also LOVE reading comments so dont be afraid!

next

plot/ world info character index

“Your Highness, the castle walls have been breached.” 

The sound of glass shattering echoed throughout the large and extravagant dining hall. Glass and blood red wine from the king's cup lay scattered across the stone floors. The royal family had been enjoying their usual late night dinner when the member of their royal guard burst in with the news. A panicked soldier stood at the large, wooden oak doors of the hall, breathing heavily. The royal family of Ephia, a kingdom in the realm most respected, sat stock still. The younger twin of the king and queen glanced at his parents, soup dribbling from his lips from the dinner they were enjoying just a second before, suddenly upright. 

The eldest daughter, you, sat silently, stroking a small white feline, orange patches coating its fur. Your eyes showed the emotions stirring within; panic. After the fall of the Grand Duchy of Durna and the most recent fall of Kaltia, the Dark God’s army had laid in wait. They had been driven to the outskirts of the realm a few months ago, and had been quiet… until recently. In the past few weeks, there had been reports of the Dark God’s people slinking around the border between Ephia and Kaltia, and it was even rumored that they were plotting to take over the northern border between Ephia’s own kingdom and the Viltrum Empire. Thought no one had thought the supposed invasion would become a reality; until now. 

As the  heir to the throne, you  knew how stressed your parents had been as of late, as evidence of the upcoming attack piled up. They had been preparing battle strategies and possible outcomes of this possible war day and night. They rarely got more than four hours of sleep, and it worried the staff and their children, who were worried their parents were working themselves to the bone. Eventually, the king stood with determination in his eyes as his queen rose beside him. She worriedly set her aging hand on the soft fabric of his cloak that covered his broad shoulders. 

“Malchor, what do we do?” She questioned in a hushed tone, her eyes flickering between her husband and the palace soldier. You stayed glued to your seat, continuing to stroke the cat’s back that sat in your lap. It seemed as if it calmed you, running your delicate hands through the animal's long, fluffy pelt in a way made you more mellow. The king didn't even seem to think about what to do next. He turned to his wife, a serious look on his face. 

“Take the children, you must get out of Ephia, it's no longer safe for you. Go to Viltrum, the High Queen will ensure your safety,” the queen shook her head, loose strands of her hair, tinged with grey fell on her face. A tense aura filled the room. You rose from you seat, still grasping the cat in your arms. Your face was solemn, knowing what had to be done. The blue dress you were wearing swept at your ankles as you strode to your mother, resting a hand on the older woman's shoulder.

“Mama, we have to go,” You soothed in an attempt to convince your mother to do as your father instructed. This would be proven difficult, knowing your mother was a stubborn woman and wouldn't back down. As the princess, you would have to take the situation into your own hands if you wished to keep your family alive and away from the Dark God's forces for as long as possible. You notice your younger twin run off, most likely, to grab his traveling cloak and his sword. Not that he really needed such a thing, as he could wield his magic instead. Your parents continued to bicker between themselves about the situation they were in. Your eyes landed back on the palace guard, who was looking even more fussy as they continued with their battle of words. 

You inaudibly scuttered over to the young man as your parents continued to dispute. He seemed to sputter at the sight of a royal family member before him, as he was about to bow, but you stopped him. You crossed the room quickly, your movements soundless. 

“Go,” you instructed the guard in hushed tones. “Find the staff. Ensure their safety. Then return for us.”

As you  turned from the guard, who was now leaving, you saw the athletic build of your brother come running back as he carried his cloak as well as yours and your mother’s.

Aaric threw his cloak over his shoulders, clasping the metal clamp into place. You stiffened, watching as your brother slipped your Mother’s elegant shawl over her now quaking body. You couldn’t bear to stay still, almost as if you had just taken a shot of the fresh brew your family stored in the cellar. Shuffling over quickly, you neared your family mutely, turning to your father.

“I’ll look after them,” you spoke softly, as if someone else was listening. Your father’s normally hard eyes were soft, like the mashed potatoes that lay abandoned on their dinner plates. The weight of his hands resting on your shoulders was comforting. You two weren’t the closest, never truly got along. Now you both stared at each other, a mutual understanding bringing you close for the first and last time. Your eyes started to well with tears as you forced out the word that hung on your tongue. 

“I will avenge the crown.”

The old king, your father, nodded stiffly, his own eyes brimming with regret. He released your  shaking shoulders, chastely planting a rough kiss to the side of his wife’s temple, while his rough hands ruffled his son’s head of ragged hair. You turned, the spotted cat gently brushing at your feet. Your heart pounded, eyes fixated on the wood doors instead of your mother’s gut wrenching wails. How long did they have, how long ‘til it was too late, how long ‘til you all were doomed to expire instead of just one of you? Pulled from your thoughts, your brother’s comforting hand slid into yours. His other hand firmly grasped the withered and taunt hands of your mother. The cat nimbly leaped into your other arm, as you started out the door, not looking back, ignoring your mother’s shrieks to her husband. You silently hoped one day you could love someone like that, love so fiercely.

The guard from earlier had returned and escorted them throughout the winding halls of the castle, passing rushing cooks and handmaids who were gathering their things in sheer hysteria. You could hear your heart beating, but almost nothing else. Your family's worst fears had happened, your most ghastly of dreams couldn’t even come close to competing with this. A rumble shook the castle, arousing shrill cries and screams from staff and your family behind you.

“Quickly! We must get to the stables before-,” the guard manages out, his voice choking, before he screams and you can feel the pressure of his hand on your back, shoving you forward. The crashing of stone, of terrified screams ring through the halls. Your knees and hands collide with the ground. Blood rushes from your hands, the skin of your palms and kneecaps burning. A sharp and distasteful scent washes over you as you raise your head wearily. The walls of the castle are crumbling around you, ancient brick exploding as a ball of what she can only assume to be dark magic, comes crashing through the structure where you had grown up. You know you need to get up. Stumbling to your feet, you swivel, the fabric of your dress skims the cuts on your knees. You note how it stings. It doesn’t hurt nearly as much as the scene before you. The air exploded with dust and rubble. One moment, your family was just feet away. Now, only broken stone and swirling darkness stood between you. Their voices pierced the chaos.

“Mama! Aaric!”

Your scream tore through your throat, raw and desperate. On the other side of the fallen wall, muffled cries of horror and frantic spells crackled in the air, the unmistakable hum of Aaric’s magic battling the unseen enemy. Smoke stung your lungs. You clawed at the debris, but the stones would not move. You were trapped, separated. Alone.

“No, no, no!” Your fingers bled against the jagged stone. You could still hear them, still feel them so close.

A weak cough pulled your attention. A few feet away, the guard lay, half of his body crushed under the rubble. Still in a panic, You rushed over to his side, grasping his hand with horrified eyes. His grip was weak, the coarse skin of his hand brushed your cuts. The guard’s lips opened, blood was smeared across his white teeth and dripping out the corner of his mouth, words tumbling out of his throat like the stones that crushed his spine. 

“Get to… the Viltrum Empire, it’s your only chance, they’re expecting you. You can’t wait, go,” he urges with as much force as his dying body willed him to. His eyes glazed over and lolled back into his head, and the last words he spoke died on his lips with him. The blood seeped into your dress, staining the fine linens more than they already were. The breath from your lungs rattled out as you leapt to your feet, mind a mess of panic and determination. Bodies shouldn’t be scary to you anymore. The cat sat a few feet in front of you as you stumbled forward. It seemed to be nursing a hurt paw, watching the scene without much worry. Scooping up the cat, you ran, your skirts nearly tripping you as you bolted to the stables. Tears stung your eyes, pain throbbed throughout your body. Your life was crumbling around you, and you weren't sure you were going to make it out alive. 

With the stables in view, you scampered to your riding horse. Castle staff were running around, not sure what to do, unsure of what was happening. You reached for the reigns of the dark horse, pulling yourself and the cat up onto the beast. The ebony creature took off as soon as you found yourself in the seat, silently begging the horse to go faster. You burst through the stables into the murky air. A metallic smell hit your nose, causing it to wrinkle with disgust. Blood. 

The horse's hooves thundered against the ground as it sprinted from the siege, its nostrils flared and puffing out hot air. In a moment of clarity, you turned your head to stare at your home. Fires were raging from the towers, the beautiful tapestries and garlands that collected around the castle's walls had begun burning, a dark smoke rising from the carnage. Magic was flying everywhere, tearing down the stone brick fortress slowly. The air was lit up by the purple shine of spells. It would have been beautiful if under different circumstances. 

Loose strands of your stuck to your face like glue, tears clearing the dirt and grime from your face. Your people cried in the distance as you retreated. A sob dropped from your mouth, eyes screwed shut in pain, your heart aching. You thought of your mother, your brother, your father. Trapped behind the rubble. Fighting. Dying. Stuck in the crumbling walls of the castle your family had cherished. You had run, you left them all. And what for? You couldn’t lead, that was your father’s job, not yours. 

Your sobs became broken, as your horse continued on at a fast pace. You brought your eyes forward, staring into the night, your surroundings blurred by tears. The guard's words hung in your mind. ‘It’s your only chance, they’re expecting you.’ Your grip tightened on the reins, your shoulder moving up hastily to dry your tears, the soft silk of your dress providing you comfort. A labored breath escaped your lips, wetting your lips with the tears that soaked your face. The night air stung your face. Only one thought was on your mind though. 

‘I will avenge the crown.’

~

Mark traverses the halls of the castle he knows so well he could walk them blindfolded, every step falling into rhythm with the memories etched into the stone. William, his best friend and gentleman-in-waiting, walks beside him as they near the war room. The air hums with the quiet bustle of attendants, their hurried steps echoing through the grand corridors. Golden sunlight filters through the stained glass above, dappling the polished marble in shifting hues of ruby, emerald, and sapphire. Servants weave between one another, their arms burdened with silken drapes and gilded chairs, still making accommodations for the excess of heirs now housed within these ancient walls.

Mark doesn’t like admitting he’s nervous, but he is. He twists a house emblem ring around his finger absentmindedly. The cool metal grounds his thoughts, his mind drifting to the oracle visiting him late in the night not even a fortnight ago in his chambers. A faceless being, a shadow physical form, its essence swirling with constellations of sapphire and midnight, had woken him from the fragile grasp of sleep. Its voice, layered like a chorus from beyond the veil, had unraveled a prophecy before him; a warning veiled in the form of a poem.

" when shadows stretch across the skies,

and darkness wakes with heavy sighs,

five souls shall rise from distant lands,

to hold the fate within their hands.

through trials deep and hearts undone,

their unity will see the sun.

if they should fail, the world will fall,

but if they stand, they’ll conquer all.

the dawn shall break, the dark shall cease,

and light return, bringing peace."

He half thought he was dreaming, until the formless being started listing heirs, the remaining living generation who was next to ascend their thrones. After calling a small council meeting and explaining the figure that spoke to him the night before, his mother’s brows pinched together and Cecil, the hand of the Queen, immediately got to work on locating the heirs Mark had recounted. And so, as if the looming threat of the Dark God’s army and the volatile magic crackling through his veins were not enough of a burden, Mark now had to grapple with the knowledge that destiny had marked him to either save or fail the world as they knew it. Fantastic.

Mark’s eyes fall to his feet as he and William approach the war room, his brown eyes flickering down to the dark material of his slacks. The heavy sword still sheathed at his side from training earlier. Even after training, the remnants of magic thrum beneath his skin, simmering in the aftermath of exertion.

William turns to look at him out of the corner of his eye. “You know, people get nervous when they see the crown prince of the Viltrum Empire just as nervous as they are,” he chides, his voice a mix of wry amusement and vague concern, a smile on his lips. Mark exhales sharply, turning his head to level his friend with a weak glare that borders on a pout.

“My people can’t see me right now, I can be nervous,” he breathes out, his hand clasping against the cool hilt of his sword, Steelsworn, as his fingers drum against it. William studies him again, pieces of his sandy blonde hair falling over his forehead.

“Just take a breath. How hard can it be to tell a princess who just lost her home and family that she’s now a part of a prophecy to save the world.” 

Mark groans, his hand fragging down his face in frustration. 

“You are not helping right now in the slightest,” he mumbles, turning to weakly glare at William, who just shrugs his shoulders, gesturing for the prince to enter the war room.

“Whatever you say your Highness,” he responds as Mark places his hands on the large, carved wooden doors.

Inside, the grand round table is already occupied. Princess Eve sits poised, sharp eyed and composed, while Prince Rex lounges back in his chair with infuriating ease, balancing on the back two legs as if he hadn’t a care in the world. His tunic hangs open, baring tanned skin that gleams in the torchlight, his posture more befitting of a tavern rogue than a royal. Across from him, Princess Rae fidgets with the green lace at the hem of her sleeves, absently adjusting the round spectacles perched on her nose. The bickering has already begun.

Mark can already feel his blood pressure rising as he sits at the far end of the table, William standing close by as he hears the prince of Troylos yapping loudly. Mark can’t help but roll his eyes unceremoniously.

“Do we really need nameplates?” Rex scoffs, “I think I know all your names by now after dining with you lovely lot for the past week. Shouldn’t we spend our efforts on saving the Realm or something,” Rex chucks the yellowed, triangle of parchment over his shoulder that had his name printed on it. Eve rolls her eyes next to him, throwing an annoyed look his way. 

“Are you thick in the head? The princess of Ephia has never met you-”

“At least I hope she hasn’t,” Rae pipes up beside her, pushing her round glasses up her nose. 

“Well maybe she should have done her research on the way here,” Rex shrugs his shoulders, paying no mind to the words of the women beside him. Mark tries to ignore the fact that the prince is completely unsympathetic to the fact that you had just lost everything you’ve ever known, not even mentioning you are wholly unaware of how your fate is intertwined with the rest of theirs. Mark’s hands fold in front of him, his elbows resting on the wood table as he thinks, tuning out the bickering between Eve and Rex, his deep brown eyes locked on the tapers that flickered in the center of the table. 

Even though he’s never met you, he knows just a fraction of what you’re feeling. When his father died, the world as he knew it shattered. Suddenly he couldn’t dilly dally with WIlliam all day, couldn’t train whenever he pleased; he had to help his mother, strong in her grief as she managed leading the Empire, taking care of the realm. 

He remembers the small council meeting after the siege on Grayson’s Stronghold, the one that resulted in the death of his father, High King Nolan, First of His Name, Uniter of the Realm, the God’s Born, where his mother, in all her grief stood at the head of the table with her head held high. Her posture was tall and regal, immediately diving into the actions that should be taken promptly in the wake of her husband's death, planning with Cecil until dawn broke over the horizon. And with the new knowledge of the prophecy, it just made his life that much harder.

The grand doors push open, pulling Mark from his thoughts. He immediately rises at the sight of his mother. Queen Debbie, regal and unyielding, carries herself with effortless authority. A delicate crown encircles her head, her hair twisted into an elegant updo, her deep purple gown pooling like liquid night around her feet. But it is the figure beside her that draws his gaze.

 Mark’s eyes coming face to face with the princess of Ephia. 

He takes in your appearance, he’s only ever seen paintings when you were a child or heard about you from his mother. Debbie and your mother Shallan were apparently quite close, queens of neighboring kingdoms and such. He remembers seeing them walking the halls of the castle when he was only knee high, giggling between themselves. Now, before him, you are no longer a figure in a story but a presence in your own right.

Your hair is loose over your shoulders, midnight blue silks drape your form, the off-the-shoulder design baring the elegant slope of your collarbones. The fabric moves like water, rippling with each step, darker threads woven throughout like veins of glittering night sky. There’s something haunting about you, it sucks the air from his lungs, seizes his heart. An unexpected vulnerability tugs at Mark, like the room has suddenly become too small for him to occupy without being painfully aware of her every movement. A beautiful princess, plagued with guilt, walking into a room where they meant to tell her that her whole life was about to change again in the span of only a week. 

The Hand of The Queen, Cecil Stedman walks in neutrally from behind them. He nods to you and Debbie as he passes, greeting you both in a hushed tone,”Your Majesty. Your Highness.”

He is barely seated at the grand table, Cecil is quick to speak as soon as he lowers himself into the chair, his voice measured, professional. "Now that everyone is here, we can begin."

He does not waste time. The prophecy is repeated, each word like a stone added to the growing pile of burdens resting on your shoulders, it suffocates you. The flickering candlelight catches in your eyes, but you remain silent, attempting to absorb it all without interruption. Words are thrown out, so many people speaking, you hardly even twitch when you hear the Queen’s hand speak of their next steps. 

“What we need is action, especially in light of recent events in Ephia. Each of you has a role to play in this, and we do not have the luxury of hesitation.” The older man lays out maps, highlighting weak points in borders, battle routes, and other important information your brain struggles to decipher.

“Thankfully, you lot are some of the most powerful magic users in the Realm-,” Cecil continues on plainly, starting to speak again before a quiet voice interrupts him.

“What are you talking about?” Your words are hoarse, tired eyes going over to Mark in confusion. Debbie tenses beside you, her frail hand moving to rest on your arm as Mark searches your face from beside his mother. 

“With all due respect your Highness, maybe you should pay attention better,” Rex responds, drumming his fingers on the arm of his chair. Your eyebrows furrow, shaking your head and Mark nearly tells him to stop being an ass for once, holding his tongue so as to not add to the tension of the moment.

“I am listening, I just-,” you pause, turning to look at Cecil, who is staring at you with expectant patience, his eyebrow raised as he fiddles with the corner of some browning parchment paper. 

“Princess, now is not the time to be humble, just accept the compliment please. We have a lot of issues to tackle right now.” Cecil pinches the bridge of his nose. You stand suddenly, your hands slamming on the table, your eyes frantic, brimming with grief.

“Would you please just listen to me!” She cries out, staring down the old man, who sits partially shocked at her outburst shaking his head. Everyone shifts at the table uncomfortably, tension hangs thick in the air. Your breathing is coming out in ragged gulps  and Mark can tell you’re trying to control your breathing.

The room is so quiet Mark almost thinks he can hear the way the fire wicks at the tapers.

“Aaric,” you whimper out, your voice cracking, Debbie rises to grip at your shoulders because you are starting to look faint, swaying at your upright position. Eve furrows her eyebrows in concern at the scene playing out in front of her, throwing a glance at Rae, who shares a similar expression.

“Aaric, my twin, he’s the magic user.” 

Cecil stares at you, cogs turning in his head, he turns to Mark as you continue to puff out heavy breaths. Debbie, in all her queenly glory, soothes you in a hushed voice, but it doesn’t seem to get through, “I-I’m not, I’ve never been able to use magic, I can hardly manage to use a sword half the time.” Your voice echoes in the quiet hall, hardly keeping your composure. 

“You got the wrong twin.”

Mark stands as well, the movement of his chair scraping against the stone floors. He tries to catch your gaze, but your eyes remain fixed on the cool wood of the table beneath your fingertips, as if grounding yourself in its solidity will steady your emotions.

“The oracle said your name, not your brother’s,” he says, voice low, careful, as if speaking too harshly will shatter you completely. “I heard it myself.” You shake your head, staring down at your hands and their place on the table below. 

“Aaric,” you choke back a sob in your throat, thick and suffocating, “Aaric is the strong one. Aaric should be here.” Your knees buckle, the strength leaving your body in a sudden wave. You fold inward, collapsing under the unbearable weight of your loss. Like a baby deer learning to walk, your legs betray you, wobbling and weak. But unlike a newborn, this isn’t something you’ll grow out of, this is something you must learn to live with. Because Aaric is gone, along with your mother and father, bound to forever rest in the ruins of your old life.

The queen steadies you, her embrace warm and comforting, motherly, your grief stricken cry continuing to bounce off the old stone walls. “Oh Gods, it should have been me. My baby brother, my Aaric, oh Gods. He should be here right now.” The words tear from you, raw, broken, each word dripping with anguish.

Mark now realizes the impact the news has on you, the news of your destiny; because it doesn’t involve your brother. He watches closely as Debbie leans down to speak to Cecil, her hands still cradling your form as you gasp for air. The Queen’s Hand can only nod in understanding. Mark’s mother nods to him, before leading your shaking figure out of the war room, the oak door swings shut, and your wails echo in Mark's head long after the meeting is over.

[littledemo0n]

In honor of killer of killers finally out (and my brokeass not planning on buying any supscriptions anytime soon which means imma have to wait to pirate it) here's more of my Yautja's OC crew + the kids of red boy

[bearloonz]

No one did it quite like wolf 359. While i do think its strengths (individual stories, enclosed metaphors, single episode monologues) may have in part led to the struggles it dealt with in the final season (lack of closure and an increase in narrative struggle with dissatisfying payoff) i genuinely cant care because at its core wolf 359 has such a beautiful way of showing off its characters to you and describing exactly who they are to themselves and to others. It has marvel ass dialogue and a dedicated “cut to a funny contradiction” sound effect and also it has memoria and variations on a theme and they were only reaching out to find out what music was and so so many really compelling questions about humanity and it genuinely struck so many wonderful fucking chords. It’s such an interesting piece of media to me in one thousand different ways.

[smokbeast]

more digimon, my beelzemon ocs...yeah you can tell which are my favs PFF

[visenyaism]

Do you think the hotd showrunners are biased towards the blacks? They made such a big deal about the ratcatchers yet no aftermath for rhaenys flattening hundreds of commonfolk during coronation? Where is the outrage after that? The people of kings landing should be cheering to see meleys dead.

Do you think they'll decide not to adapt the negative looking parts for rhaenyra? Like how the iron throne cuts her or how the commonfolk hate her for increased taxes or how she grows paranoid and turns on alyn?

everyone says they’re biased towards one side but i’ve heard both in equal amounts. the tradeoff seems to be the blacks get to be on the right side of narrative herstory while the greens get to be fathomlessly more interesting characters.

[hana-bobo-finch]

Bug fables feels so dystopian not because it’s literally set in a post apocalyptic world where humans are extinct but because Oh Dear the social bug societies (especially the hives) sound SO hellish. You’d better hope you have some extraordinary talent that can land you a special job because otherwise Off To The Amazon Factory You Go

[windcarvedlyre]

>Haha you know how Sumeru has mortal expies of their dead gods? And how the Lawrences use Decarabian's symbol for some reason? What if Eula has the same relationship with him lmaooo

>looks at her idle featuring said symbol

>looks at her deeply ingrained need to maintain a perfect image

>looks at her isolation from Mondstadt because most people hate her even though she wants to help, made worse by her being too out of touch to connect with most people

>looks at her coping mechanism revolving around 'vengeance'

>

>idk if this is a joke anymore

[for-the-love-of-this]

How is it that Jax managed to be less mean than Ragatha?

(This sort of serves as a part two to my tadc main theme analysis post)

Jax uses the words "like" and "sad."

Ragatha uses the words "annoying" and "happy."

Like and sad contradict each other.

Annoying and happy contradict each other.

(The word annoying could've been "I don't like it," but intentionally wasn't)

All in all, both have a positive and a negative connotation, but one line is meant to be hurtful.

Jax (unintentionally) was being nice. If what I said in my prior post applies here, this means that he was simply saying that he likes Gangle better when she's being herself; when she's not hiding her true identity. The main face she's stuck with every time the comedy mask breaks is the real her, and she shouldn't keep hiding herself.

You can argue that she's used to Jax's rudeness. Either way, Gangle is able to stand her ground even after hearing something that (on the surface) sounds pretty mean. And Jax has always managed to keep the mask away from her.

But when Ragatha spoke to her in a similar fashion, Gangle's reaction changed. She has to walk away.

Here's the difference. Ragatha states that Gangle is annoying when she wears her happy mask/fake personality (yes, she calls Gangle annoying AND fake in the same breath, subliminally).

It's a more cruel version of what Jax said. She is someone who has shown little to no lack of concern with most characters, but the truth serum (a.k.a the pink sauce) caused Ragatha's irritation to rise to the surface... and perhaps a character flaw akin to jealousy? This was after Ragatha told her she's way more responsible... "Why are you even the boss anyway?"

[relmint-draws]

LOOK ON MY WORKS ALL YE MIGHTY AND DESPAIR

Tag for this AU: overthrown!malevolent Link to my fic

[flat-neines]

Ok. Polychromy got hands to spare. But I did say that I'd talk about nyx being a nightmare kid but not in a cool way.

(This has some references to abuse, racism, sa and systemic misogyny that happens in canon, this could be triggering to read for people. Rant is under the cut)

It's often discussed or speculated in anti spaces (and fellow mutuals) on how nyx possibly grows up to be everything rhysand hates, rebelling against the night court for illyria, etc. all while lamenting that it would never be canon and I find myself enjoying them all the same but.

What if nyx grows up to be worse than feysand could ever be?

Like. It wouldn't even unrealistic for it to happen either, just unforseen from the perspective of feysand. Imagine this: a tentative peace has settled over prythian despite the growing conflicts in the continent and human lands or the looming threat of the deathless. Rhysand and feyre promise to do better and never be like their parents.

This is a nice sentiment, and nyx grows up wanting for nothing* (to the visible eye) due to both his parents being daemati. Nyx has every comfort. And every entitlement.

Children are mirrors and sponges with people not realizing how much a kid can internalize from watching an adult behaves towards someone else. And it almost always, always starts with the family.

I don't believe feyre (or rhysand for that matter) would immediately mistreat their own child**. But I don't think they'll ever grow up, change their behavior towards anyone else and take accountability. This is where the problem lies.

Nyx would be taught to be kind and compassionate but watch as his father coldly allows innocent people to rot underneath a mountain or the steppes and his uncles callously using them for cannon fodder. He would be told to treat others with respect as he watches his aunts constantly trampling the boundaries of his other aunt and his entire family disregarding sovereignty of other courts and nations. He would be taught to be just, and see how his family shackles his own aunt (and cousin possibly) into a life debt over something that wasn't even her fault. Nyx wouldn't grasp treating women well with how feyre herself looks down on femininity and does fuck all for the women in her court. And consent and privacy? Out the window the moment he had enough consciousness for rhysand to claw into.

And this is the tip of the iceberg too, as I don't really want to touch on feysand's personal issues (or the political implications). Nyx is going to be taught to be a good person as he observes how his family enforces segregation, child marriages, misogynistic violence towards women and institutional abuses both domestically and internationally with their behavior. He's going to internalize this as normal. "It's just a mask" does not work as an explanation to someone who wouldn't completely understand the concept. Besides the obvious 'cool story, you still killed people though'.

Nyx is going to grow up having entitlement worse than feyre and deliberate cruelty that makes rhysand pause because he believes that this behavior is acceptable, correct even. And while feysand and the ic would shield him from actual consequences (reinforcing the attitude) they'll also be scratching thier heads "on how did he get so bad??" while never examining their own actions.

Evil and cruelty are ultimately banal things. Rhysand and his little circle aren't special for being snarky, unfunny assholes; you can find them a dime a dozen. And if you [feyre], who has given them the world on a golden platter, has no motivation to make an effort to be better; why should your child have it either?

*this talking about physical safety and needs, not emotional ones, though meeting both is necessary for raising healthy children. Feysand are incredibly emotionally immature people and wouldn't be able to meet that requirement irregardless of what they do.

** I'm not going into the fact that rhysand would drop his kid into a war camp or blood rite and thinking it's perfectly acceptable to do so. Or the fact that feyre might groom her kid into a clone of her mate and think it's a good thing which is why I say immediately not intentionally here.

[cherryite]

overthrown - part 2. the sword

summary. in your grief, mark offers a shoulder to lean on and a visit from the oracle provides a way to even the odds against the dark gods army (word count. 5.8k)

content. princess!reader x prince!mark, fem!reader, strangers to lovers, slow burn, angst, yearning, hurt/comfort, fantasy au, saving the world, war time activities, found family

warnings. MDNI!!, depictions of violence, blood and injuries, loss of family, grief, rex being a dickhead lowk, survivors guilt, eventual smut (not this part)

author's note. omg it's finally here!! it only took me 5 million years lol. but we're getting into the thick of it now and i'm SO excited heheh! as always, i live for comments and stuff so feel free to discuss with me!! enjoy!

taglist. @pickledsoda @heartfully10

previous/next

plot/ world info character index

It’s been a week since you’d last truly talked to anyone other than High Queen Debbie and Pippin (though you aren’t sure that counts, since Pippin is a cat). You attend meetings with the rest of the heirs. You sit there, quiet, distant. Cecil drones on about battle formations, supply lines, magical contingencies, anything, any strategy that might buy more time until they know what to do. Everything goes in one ear and out the other. You nod when you’re expected to, speak only when you absolutely have to, and leave before anyone can even attempt to talk to you.

You always return to your quarters as soon as you can. Sometimes you cry, sometimes you just stare up at the ceiling. Debbie, in all her loveliness, visits on and off. She typically doesn’t knock anymore, just slips inside like she belongs there, providing you silent companionship. She never asks you to talk. She just sits, quiet and calm, and brings you small things she thinks will do you some good. A fresh set of paints to get smeared on the many canvases that litter the room. Clay you haven’t used yet sits in the corner, mocking you.

Once, she left a note folded beneath a box of pastels. It read: “Make something.”

Art has always been your way out. When you were younger, it helped you pretend. You drew dragons in the margins of your scrolls, painted your dreams across the walls of your room until the maids started complaining. Aaric had incantations. You had brushstrokes and your mind.

Now, painting is all that keeps your hands from shaking. You paint your brother, over and over, chasing the way his eyes gleamed when he smiled. You can’t get his eyes right and it devistates you. You paint your mother, her eyes, her hands, the way her hair used to fall in soft waves when she wore it loose. 

Debbie doesn’t say much. She’ll sit beside you, close but not crowding, her presence solid and unshakable. She’s grieving too. You know that. You forget, sometimes. But she lost someone as well, her husband, the father of her children. You can’t imagine how hard it must be to carry all of that. To lose so much and still wear a crown, still represent the crown. Debbie never falters. She still holds court. Still attends council. Still rises with the sun. Doesn’t wander the halls like a ghost.

And you can barely leave your room.

Pippin curls at your feet as you press your forehead against the crook of your arm. His purring fills the air, calming you, pulling you to sleep. You tell yourself you’re just tired. That you’ll get up tomorrow. That you just need time. Perhaps you’ll just fall asleep here, on the small desk of your quarters, amongst the paintings of your family.

~

“Mark!”

Hearing his name, Mark turns, his eyes landing on his younger brother, Oliver, who’s bounding down the stone corridor to him. Considering how young he is, he’s stayed fairly positive in his father’s absence. He’s young, only seven, and endlessly curious. Most days he’s too caught up in practicing his magic to notice the tension in the air. Or at least that’s what Mark tells himself. The small boy bounces towards him, he’s clutching a lopsided bouquet of flowers in his hands, which are covered in dirt. His smile is so wide and warm that Mark can’t help but grin in return.

“What’ve you got there, Oliver?” he asks, voice soft and warm as he ruffles his brother’s already messy black hair. Oliver beams up at Mark, obviously unphased by the fact that his white tunic is soiled with earth. 

“I went to the gardens,” he explains proudly, his little hands wrapped around the stems of the flowers, “Mama said the Princess is sad. So I made her this!”

Mark tenses and bites his lip. 

You.

He hasn’t seen you, really seen you, since the day you arrived in Viltrum, over a week ago. Aside from small council meetings, you’ve been absent from the training sessions the rest of the heirs partake in. Mark can hardly blame you though. Rex drives him up a wall half the time, Rae and Eve are both nice, but because of his duties he doesn’t know either of them well yet. He’s not sure they would understand the turmoil you're going through, the magnitude of your grief. You walk the halls like a ghost. Always quiet. Always distant.

Your dresses always flow around you as you walk, always dressed in blue, the deep, stormy hues of your homeland, like the sea had followed you here, curling around your ankles and pulling you under. Mark thought you were floating once when he caught you wandering the halls, before he remembered you possessed no magic, only a captivating loneliness.

“That’s very kind of you, Oliver,” Mark murmurs, though something in his chest pinches as the boy tugs insistently at his hand. “I’m sure she’ll like them.” 

Oliver pulls him along before Mark can think to protest. Mark’s eyes widened as his younger brother pulled him towards the grand staircase that led to the living quarters. At first Mark thinks Oliver is taking him to his room to play, he veers right instead of left down the hall, down to where your quarters were. Mark feels his heart stutter in his chest.

“You’ll go with me right Mark?” Oliver says, peering up at him with wide, expectant eyes. “Mom said you would!”

Mark just nods and his throat has suddenly gone dry. Nervousness prickles over his skin as he finds himself and Oliver right in front of the room you’ve all but holed yourself up in. Oliver peers into your room, the door is ajar, that alone is surprising to see.

Oliver knocks his little fist softly against the door. There's no response for a second and Mark almost leans down to tell Oliver that they can give the flowers he picked to you another time, when a soft voice calls out.

“Come in.”

Mark feels his heart pound in his chest, his heart leaping against his ribs.

Oliver drags him across the threshold of your quarters, directly into your safe space. They’re much like his own, beautiful bay windows, a large bed, ancient stone lining the walls. But there's one thing in the room that Mark doesn’t have; nearly a dozen canvases littering the floor, propped up on furniture. Swaths of color crawl across canvas and wood. There’s a pulse here, steady and quiet and aching. His dark eyes finally land on you, Oliver lets go of his hand, bounding over to you cheerfully. 

You’re sitting at a desk near the window, a large lump of clay resting on what looks to be canvas to protect the wood underneath it. The lump of wet earth roughly looks like a bust, much like one of the sculptures that lined the walls of the castle. It doesn’t have a face yet, but there’s care in the shape of the brow, the line of the jaw. Your hair is tied up, away from your face, a few flyaways framing your face. You’re wearing a simple dress, light blue like the ocean in the early morning. The sleeves are pulled up, revealing your clay covered hands, grey reminisce coating your nimble fingers as they slide over the brow bone of the sculpture.

Mark stays in the doorway. He feels awkward, out of place, because this is your safe haven. Because he feels like an intruder. He nearly winces at the thought of him possibly invading your privacy. 

Oliver reaches you, and you turn to look at the young boy as he holds out the flowers he massacred the palace garden over. Mark can see the weariness in your eyes, the way you don't seem fully there. And yet, a soft smile quirks at the edges of  your lips at the sight of the young prince in front of you.

“Hi Princess,” Oliver starts, his voice is boyish and excited as he speaks, “I picked these for you! All by myself too!” His tiny hands shove the flowers out to you, an array of sunset yellows, blues, and soft purples, much like a sunset in Ephia. Mark watches as your tired expression softens, dipping your hands in a basin of water to rid your skin of the clay.

“All by yourself huh?” you question gently as the young boy nods, rising from your chair. “Why don’t we put them over here, by the window?” 

You retrieve the empty vase from the corner of the desk, lifting it carefully with one hand, your other still wrapped around Oliver’s small fingers. His grip is warm and sticky with garden dirt, the flowers crumpled slightly from his excitement. Clay dust streaks your arms, smudges your pretty dress, accompanying some of the dirt from Oliver’s hands. Mark watches from the doorway, struck by how little you seem to notice, or just how little you care. After the flowers find their home in the vase, sitting prettily in the bay window, Mark watches as Oliver looks up at you. 

“Do they make you feel better?

You don’t answer right away. And then, gently, you crouch down to his level. The soft fabric of your skirt pools around you like ocean foam. You rest your hands on your knees, fingers still streaked with clay and ash, and you nod. 

“They help.”

It’s quiet again, though it’s not uncomfortable. Oliver breaks it.

“I’m sorry about Aaric.”

The name hits the air like a stone dropped into still water. You tense, just barely, but Mark sees it. Of course he sees it. Your brother's name sounds strange when spoken aloud, stranger still coming from a child who never knew him.

“I’m sure you miss him. It’s hard not to miss brothers.”

Mark watches the interaction, the air of his lungs caught in his throat. You continue to look at the young boy, your expression seemingly unchanging. But Mark sees the way your lashes lower, the way your breath catches, the way your hand twitches slightly, like you're restraining yourself from reaching for something that isn’t there.

“Thank you Oliver,” you respond, “Nothing is as special as a brother.”

There’s a pause again. You’re still crouched there, on the balls of your feet. And then Oliver, full of innocence and something akin to wisdom, tilts his head.

“I could be your brother too, if you want,” Oliver says, innocently, like he doesn’t know the weight it holds, “I’ve never had a sister before.” 

You stare at him, your mouth parted slightly. Even from his place at the doorway, Mark can see how your eyes water ever so slightly, as they glisten in the light from the sun. The silence hangs in the air again, before you break it.

“Okay,” you respond, your voice quiet and soft. “You can be my brother.”

Oliver makes a quiet but pleased voice in this throat, a mix of a giggle and a hum of agreement. The boy turns to look at Mark, seeking his older brother's approval with a smile. Mark can only manage a nod and a soft smile, trying to bury the thick ache that’s rising in his chest. You’ve looked so unreachable since you arrived in Viltrum, a drifting, distant presence in the castle walls. This is the first time he’s seen you here, truly here. 

“I should go tell Mama,” Oliver says brightly, already turning to the door. “She said it would cheer you up and I knew she was right!”

You stand, watching his tiny form as he exits your orbit, brushing your palms against the fabric of your skirts. “Thank you again, Oliver. I’ll take good care of them.”

The boy just nods, like it wasn’t the single brightest movement of your week so far. And with that, he’s out the door, brushing against Mark as he leaves. His small feet patter down the hallway, little clicks of his shoes, as he leaves a lingering warmth in his absence.

The quiet that settles after his departure is different than before. Not empty, just still, natural. A kind of hush that makes you aware of your heartbeat, the soft creak of the castle stone, the way Mark is still standing in your doorway like he’s unsure if he should step further in or leave you to your solitude.

You don’t meet his gaze right away. Instead, you busy yourself with the water in the basin, dipping your hands into the water again, swirling your fingers to rid them of the remaining clay that may have lingered. 

“I wasn’t sure if you’d want company,” Mark says, finally finding his voice; it’s low, a bit awkward, but careful, “I, um… I hope that was okay,” he says, scratching the back of his neck. “He wanted to bring them himself, and… he thought it might help.”

You turn your head, flicking your hands to rid them of water, your eyes meet. “It did”

Mark can’t help the shy smile that curls at his mouth, “That’s good then.”

There's a beat of silence again

“He’s sweet,” you murmur, glancing at the vase in the window, “You’ve done well as a brother.”

Mark tentatively breaches the entrance to the room, a few steps inside your sanctuary. His dark brown eyes skim over the canvases that litter the room, the sculpture by the desk, finally landing on you.

“That’s all my Mom for the most part,” he replies, pausing a second before speaking again, “but thank you.”

You nod softly, like your thinking to yourself as Mark slowly steps further into the room, his boots tapping against the floor. He leans, almost nervously, against the frame of your large bed, his eyes still on you.

“I-uh- I see him in your art,” he says gently, gesturing towards one of the many paintings that rests by your feet. “Your brother. Aaric.”

Mark can see the way your breath hitches as he says your twin’s name, but you don’t turn. You don’t hide like you’ve been doing since you’ve arrived. You’re quiet again before speaking.

“Everyone keeps saying how sorry they are,” you whisper. “But no one says his name.”

Mark’s voice is soft as he responds. “Names are heavy. But they deserve to be carried.”

You finally meet his eyes again, and for a long moment, you don’t say anything. He doesn’t rush you. He just waits.

“I feel useless,” you admit, the words like glass in your throat. “All I can do is sculpt. Paint. I don’t have magic. I can't fight like the rest of you. I can’t protect anyone. Not even him.”

Mark steps forward, closer this time. “You’re not useless.” His heart is racing, beating heavily in his chest, because he can barely believe you’re confiding in someone. Confiding in him.

“Then what am I, Mark?” you question, your voice is quiet and hollow.

“You’re someone who’s grieving. And still breathing. Still trying.” 

The silent part goes unsaid, the part where he says, ‘just like me’. Your spiraling and he can tell, just by how your head tilts to the side slightly, how your hands grip at the fabric of your dress. You blink hard at him, as he continues to speak.

“I could help you,” he says carefully. “If you wanted.”

He watches as your brows furrow slightly, pinching together on your face. “Help me?”

“With your swordsmanship,” he offers, his fingers twitching from nerves. “I mean. If you want. I’m not saying you need it. I just thought, it might make you feel safer, or more prepared, then I’d be happy to help.” He clears his throat as he finishes, watching you to see what reaction you’ll have.

Your lips part slightly in surprise, the emotion flickering across your expression. He can feel you studying him, his face, his body language, like you’re trying to decipher the sincerity behind his offer. He wonders if you see it how he meant it. If you see no pity. No expectation or pressure. Just something solid, something for you to lean on.

You nod slowly, “Okay.” Mark barely sees it, but he notices the dash of light in your eyes. It’s fragile, but very real. He can feel the tension roll off his shoulders, the weight not so heavy anymore. 

“Okay,” he repeats, and there’s something sweet and boyish in the way he speaks. Almost like it's a relief you didn’t push him away, extending your loneliness. The light of the sun tickles the vase in the window, full of flowers, shining around the room. Neither of you moves, basking in the scent of clay and the fresh smell of flowers.

“Meet me down in the training yard tomorrow morning?” he offers you, treading carefully as to not overstep. “Cecil said we could have the day off from council meetings.”

“Okay.” Your words are quiet, hesitant, but not in a bad way. He nods and Mark takes this as a cue to leave you to your thoughts, backing slowly to the door. He places a hand on the frame, glancing at you again.

“Rest well tonight,” he says gently. “It’s… good to see you out of bed.”

You give him the barest, tired smile. “Don’t get used to it.” He nearly feels his heart stop, because you haven’t smiled like that since you’ve got here. His eyes linger on your face for a second, trying to chase the smile on your lips, remembering the moment you joked and smiled, despite your grief. Mark inhales sharply, and then he’s gone, the door clicking softly behind him. He leaves and you’re left with your sculpture, your clay covered hands, and the faintest flicker of something warmer than grief. Hope.

~

The sky is still caked in a pale haze of the morning when you make your way down to the training, the soft glow of the rising sun creeping through the windows. The birds chirp sweetly and mist rolls over the cool castle walls. You walk onto the grounds, hesitant, but as soon as your boots hit the dirt, you steady yourself. This isn’t the first time you’ve wielded a sword, certainly not the first time you’ve been in a training yard either. You used to watch Aaric train with your father in the training grounds back at home, magic heavy in the air. This feels different though. It doesn’t take you long to realize Mark is already here. 

He stands near the far corner of the yard, his own sword held comfortably in one hand. You can feel the crackle of magic emanating from him, drifting through the air. It almost makes you stop, because you can just tell it’s strong, powerful; much stronger than any magic user you’ve ever met. You push the thought aside despite the shiver that runs down your spine, taking in his appearance. He’s in simple clothing, navy tunic, dark trousers tucked into worn boots, and the sight of him, so unassuming despite the weight of what he carries, makes something shift quietly in your chest. He’s a prince, an heir, and even in simple clothes he looks it.

You had half expected him to have not shown, had second thoughts on training a princess who’s been wandering the halls like she’s half dead when she should be helping with a prophecy to save the realm. But as you look up, Mark has already spotted you and straightens instantly, eyes slightly wide. His lips curl into a small, uncertain smile when you meet his gaze. He lifts a hand in greeting.

“Hey,” he says, voice laced with something between relief and anxiety, “you came.”

You nod, “You said tomorrow morning. Would be rude to not come” A tiny smile quirks at your lips.

His smile is a little sheepish, but bright, “Right. I did.” He walks over to you, his sword still clutched in his hand by his side. He raises his arm, holding out an extra sword to you. You observe the sword he’s extended to you; it's a bit dull and not flashy, perfect for practicing. You reach for the hilt, something about the way his fingers brush against yours sends a shot of warmth up your arm. It’s nothing, nothing at all, but your heart skips a beat anyway. He silently observes your stance, your grip on the blade, your demeanor. He looks like his hands are twitching, his fingers itching to correct.

“Here,” he murmurs, adjusting your feet gently with his boot, then your shoulders with the lightest touch of his hand. “There. That’s good. You’re holding it a little tight, though. Try to loosen your grip. You’ll tire out faster if you’re too tense.”

You glance down at your hands, feeling the tightness in your fingers. You breathe deeply, trying to take his advice. Mark watches, his gaze softening as he waits. The air between you shifts, he’s giving you space, but it’s a space that feels kind. You adjust your stance based on his instructions, and you feel lighter, more confident.

You attempt to swing, like you were taught as a young girl, a small twinge of confidence in your movements. But the sword feels heavy again, and the movements feel awkward. You mess up your first few swings and the blade doesn’t connect properly during a few basic strikes. Your breath catches in your throat, frustration creeping in like a shadow. You feel embarrassed, because Mark is watching you struggle. And because you caught sight of the other heirs watching from above, leaning on the guardrails of the hallway above that's exposed to the training yard. You puff out a heavy breath of air.

“Maybe I’m not cut out for this,” you mutter under your breath, sword drooping slightly in your hands. You try to hide the frustration creeping into your voice, but it’s there. You want to be good. You want to prove that you don’t need magic to stand on your own, to prove you do belong in this prophecy, but everything feels foreign, awkward. 

Mark takes a step toward you, shooting a glare up to the balcony when he hears Rex laughing, followed by a shriek because Eve elbowed him in the side. Mark opens his mouth to speak and you prepare for him to be upset but his voice is gentle, like he’s unsure of how to approach. “You’re doing great,” he says softly, low enough so only the two of you hear. “You really are. And… I know it’s frustrating. But the thing about learning is that it’s okay to struggle with something at first. You don’t have to be perfect.” You glance at him, a small breath catching in your throat. You look down at the sword in your hands, trying to breathe through the knot in your chest.

“Really?” you ask, not quite believing him, but you deeply want to. To take his words as law, provide yourself some comfort. “You think I’m doing well?”

Mark nods, his gaze is soft, in the morning sun his eyes are like the chocolates your mother would make for your birthday; dark brown with wisps of caramel throughout. “Yeah. Definitely. You’re not giving up, and that’s what counts.”

You stare at him for a second longer than you should, gripping the hilt of the sword so tightly your knuckles burn white. His words, simple as they are, fill something empty inside you, a little more than you expected. Something tight eases in your chest.

“Thanks, Mark,” you say quietly.

He flushes, averting his eyes away quickly, his hands shifting nervously. “Of course,” he says quickly, clearing his throat. “You just need to keep going, alright? Keep practicing. You’re doing fine”

You nod, your feet now planted in a steady stance. It’s not perfect, but it feels solid. His words provide reassurance, any anxieties or fears you had melted a bit. You square your shoulders, lifting the sword back into position, the cool metal shines in the sunlight. “Okay. Let’s try again.”

Mark smiles, his eyes flickering back toward you, warm and reassuring. He steps back into his own stance, sword raised, and waits for you to move, only nodding his head slightly.

You swing and you find that the next few strikes come more easily. You’re still clumsy, still unsure, but with Mark beside you, guiding you without being overbearing, helping you without pushing too hard, it feels more like something you can manage. You even hear a few quiet cheers from above, Rae and Eve calling down to you in encouragement.

“That was a good hit!”

“Nice one!”

After a while, you pause, lowering the sword. Your muscles ache from swinging the heavy weapon around. You’re breathing heavily now, but there’s a sense of accomplishment that’s starting to creep up your spine. You wipe at your forehead with the sleeve of your tunic, brushing fallen strands from your eyes. Mark watches you for a moment, his expression unreadable. Then, he steps forward again, his voice quieter than before. You can tell he’s barely even winded by the way he speaks, his chest rising and falling steadily.

“You’re getting it,” he says, his words like a balm to the anxiety swirling in your chest. “You’re really getting it.”

You exhale deeply, the smallest of smiles curving your lips. “Thanks. I don’t think I could have done it without you.”

Mark’s face flushes again, you would just chalked it up to exertion but there’s something deeper in his gaze now. You see something soft, maybe even vulnerable. You’re unsure what to do with that, so you fiddle with the hem of your sleeve. He looks like he wants to say something more, but then the moment passes and he clears his throat, awkwardly running a hand through his black hair.

“Want to keep going?” he asks, his voice almost sheepish now.

You nod, already feeling the faintest spark of hope that maybe, just maybe, you might be able to do this after all.

~

You stir from the kind of sleep that’s so heavy it swallows you whole. The kind that only comes after exhaustion has settled deep into your bones. A day of training with Mark had left your muscles aching in a strangely satisfying way, a reminder that you are slowly becoming someone else. Someone capable. After weeks of training, most of your days are spent sparring with Mark under the realm’s pale sun, you’ve grown stronger. Eve often joins when she can, striking precise, pink colored magic curling around her like a second skin. Rae pops in now and then, when she feels like it. Rex mostly watches, leaning on the stone walls of the courtyard, eyes lingering just a little too long when it’s Rae beside you. But you try not to think about that part though.

You sit in council meetings now. You speak, often of plans, possibilities, ideas. Debbie nods when you talk. Sometimes she even smiles, in that quiet way she does when she’s thinking of something long ago. You wonder if she sees your mother in you. You walk the gardens with her and Oliver, whose tiny hands are always full of flowers by the time you return to your chambers. He insists you need more color in your room. You don’t argue. Not when he calls you ‘Sis’ and begs.

Mark visits more often too. At first, it was just to ask if you wanted to train more with him. Then it was to bring you an extra ration of sweets from the kitchens to cheer you up on bad days. Then, as your friendship progressed, it turned into sitting on the balcony with you at night, your cat curled in your lap, the stars blinking sleepily above. He listens when you talk about Aaric. About your parents. About Ephia and the salt in the air back home. About how you miss it. And he speaks too, about his mother, about the weight in his chest when he sees her trying not to cry. About his father, the ache of not knowing where he went wrong, not knowing how to cope with him dying. His voice is soft when he talks. Kind. A little unsure, sometimes, like he’s afraid you’ll think less of him. You never do.

Though hope shines amongst the darkness you had found yourself in since arriving at the Viltrum Empire, you still struggle, grief is still a heavy weight around your neck. Aaric’s face is still painted on canvas, sleep still evades you like a deer avoids open fields in hunting season. You still wake up crying some nights. You still feel painfully, cruelly plain in a castle full of magic. 

You still question your place in the prophecy, especially when you witnessed Mark and Eve training a few days ago. Watching from afar, you couldn’t help but feel out of place again. Their magic had crackled like lightning, sparking against the sky with such ferocity it had made you shudder. Eve floated above the ground, runes circling her hands. Mark had burned with power, casting light and shadow with every breath he heaved. And you… you had just stood there. You, with your sword and your aching muscles. A girl with no magic. Just grief and cool steel and paint stained fingers.

As you lay in bed, contemplating the past month, sleep has come easily to you after what feels like a lifetime. After stripping off your clothes, releasing your hair from its constraints, the plush of your pillow brought you to a deep slumber. You think you get a few hours in, but you aren’t sure, because when you open your eyes it’s dark.

Your training sword leans beside the bed, its blade glinting faintly. Something feels wrong. Off. There’s a prickle on your skin, a shift in the air. 

Rubbing your eyes, you peer out into your room. Your eyes widen instantly, snapping open at the sight of… you aren’t even fully sure looming at the foot of your bed. It glows faintly, its form shifting and vast, made of deep, swirling blues and purples. It looks like a figure sculpted from the stars themselves. The air leaves your lungs in a single, sharp breath. A scream tears free before you can stop it, echoing through the stone halls.

You grab your sword without thinking, adrenaline coursing through your veins. In one swift motion, you swing the blade up, trembling, pointing it at the figure before you. Your breaths come quick, panic gripping you like a vice. 

“Who are you?” you demand, your voice shaky and your hand that's grasping the hilt of the blade trembles. Even though you shake, you hold your ground.

It’s voice speaks, but it makes your head hurt with how it sounds; it sounds like billions of voices, all kinds, mixed together, speaking at the same time. Ancient and childlike, feminine and deep and strange. The sound scrapes against the inside of your skull.

“I am the Oracle,” it says, it’s tone neutral, flat. “And you are the princess of Ephia.” You can faintly hear a commotion down the hallway, you wonder if you’ve woken people up with your scream.

“I am,” you say, voice quivering, “what do you want?” Your throat feels impossibly dry.

“I want to assist,” the Oracle says and the air feels thick, “I have information for you. That will ensure your victory against the Dark God and his army.”

You’re quiet, eyes trained on the Oracle, your sword still pointed directly at it.” Footsteps grow louder in the fall, you can fairly hear Mark, Rae, and Debbie’s voices. You must have woken them. 

“I thought you only aided House Grayson,” you say cautiously, choosing your words carefully, “I’m not one of them.”

The form is quiet, almost like it’s assessing you before it speaks again.

“I may speak to whomever I please,” its voice is despondent, causing a shiver to run up your spine. You stay quiet, your heart racing in your chest.

“Thala’s Blade,” it whispers, like it’s a secret, “will be  the key to your success.”

You almost falter. Thala’s Blade is a fairytale. For those who believe the story about the Gods’ sacrifice, how magic came about the realm, Thala’s Blade is well known. It's said it once belonged to Thala, the Goddess of Hope. The legend says she hid the blade, one that could resist magic, crumble even the strongest spells, right before the Gods’ gave their magic to the realm; a safeguard in case someone became too powerful for their own good. A blade from the last breath of a God. Your head spins, because the Blade is fiction, a legend, a fairytale mother’s told their children when they were young. But the Oracle stares at you like it's the truth. Your fingers tighten over the hilt of your sword. 

“How do we find it?” you say slowly, testing the waters. The Oracle is quiet for a second.

“Where the Gods’ once rested their heads,” it says, cryptically. “That is where you will find it. Hope must wield the Blade, or the realm will fall.”

With a crash the door to your room bursts open, Mark and Rae stand in the doorway, magic crackling at their fingertips. Mark freezes when he sees the Oracle, who simply shifts to look at him.

“Hello Gods’ Born,” it says, barely audible before it disappears, the space it occupied empty. The room is still. 

Your sword lowers, your knees give way, and you collapse onto the bed in a daze. Adrenaline still courses through your veins, your skin still tingles. Mark rushes to you, falling to one knee at your side. His hair is messy, black strands fall over his forehead.

“Are you alright?” he asks, his voice thick with concern. You see Debbie enter out of the corner of your eye, lingering by the door. You can tell she’s unnerved. “You screamed. We… I thought-are you hurt?”

You shake your head, still trying to catch your breath. “It was the Oracle,” you whisper. “It was here. It spoke to me.”

Rae exhales sharply, stepping forward. But Mark is still kneeling beside you, his warm hand hovering near yours, uncertain, afraid to overstep.

“I’m okay,” you breathe. “I think.”

Mark doesn’t say anything for a moment. His brows furrow. He’s thinking, he appears far away for a moment.

“What did it say?” Rae questions, her voice is soft with sleep as she adjusts her glasses on her face. You swallow, your eyes flitting between everyone in the room.

“Thala’s Blade, it’s real,” you swallow thickly. Mark’s dark eyes search your face, an unreadable expression on his face. “We have to find it. The Blade is how we win.”