its-de

[its-de]

♥︎Amore Immortale♥︎ Ch.5

Chapter Title ♥︎ Ruby Red ♥︎ chapter index

♡︎ synopsis: You came to Linkon with one man—and left with revelations, more questions, a dagger, and someone else at your side.

♡︎ pairing: vampire!Xavier, vampire!Zayne, vampire!Rafayel, vampire!Sylus x fem!reader (separately and together)

⚠ MINORS DNI (18+ ONLY) ⚠

♡︎ tags: fluff i guess

♡︎ word count: 10.5k

♡︎ Thanks to my dearest friend and beta reader ♡︎@its-de♡︎ for helping.

pomegranate divider by @fae-and-wolf

That night, you dream of Rafayel’s lips - brushing slow over yours, grazing along your jaw, featherlight kisses pressed to the hollow of your throat, the soft skin of your collarbone. His hands glide over the curves of your body, his fingers slipping beneath the fabric of your underdress. The kiss you shared in your bedroom lingers, and you chase it, even in sleep.

And when your eyes flutter open, a flush spreads across your cheeks and warmth pools in your belly.

But before your mind can dive deeper into those half-formed images, a knock breaks the silence.

Light, rhythmical.

“Cutie! Wake up, cutie!” Rafayel’s voice slips through the door.

Still drowsy, you sit up. The room is cool, and your skin prickles as your feet touch the floor. You reach for your silk robe and wrap it around yourself in a hurried knot. Then, rubbing the sleep from your eyes, you pad barefoot to the door to open it.

And there he is. Fully dressed, his travel bag resting at his feet. He’s smiling, his eyes flicking over your face and your loosely tied robe.

“Morning, darling,” he says, voice warm.

You blink at him, confused on why he looks like he’s about to leave. You don’t remember him mentioning anything to you.

Rafayel offers a crooked smile. “I’m sorry for waking you so early,” he says, gesturing toward the travel bag resting by his feet. “But I’m needed elsewhere.”

The words sink in slowly.

Sleep vanishes from your mind entirely, replaced by a quiet twist in your chest. You don’t mean to show it, but your features betray you—lips parting slightly, brows drawing in.

Before you can voice any protest, he continues, voice lower, more careful now. “You won’t be alone, of course. I wouldn’t do that to you.” He shifts his weight, watching your reaction. “Sylus will be keeping you company. He’s here already, sleeping in my room.”

You stare at him.

“Oh.” is all you manage.

Not Zayne. Not Xavier. But Sylus – the one whose presence is heavy, voice low, the one who always just watched from across the room.

You try to change your face into something neutral, but it doesn’t quite land.

Rafayel sees it immediately.

He takes a slow step forward. “If I didn’t trust him completely, I wouldn’t leave him with you,” he says. “But if he makes you uncomfortable in any way—”

“It’s not that,” you cut in, shaking your head. “It’s just… I wasn’t expecting another change in plans.” You offer him a crooked smile that doesn’t quite reach your eyes. “Again.”

Rafayel exhales through his nose, the smile returning. “If I could postpone my plans, I would. Believe me.”

He raises a hand and gently cups your cheek, the pad of his thumb brushing just beneath your eye. The contact is simple, but it quiets some of the ache in your chest. When he leans in and places a kiss on your cheek, you find yourself smiling in spite of yourself.

Then he steps back, picking up his bag and adjusting the collar of his coat. “Let him sleep in,” he says with a smirk as he backs toward the hallway. “Wake him up after lunch if you want to be merciful.”

He pauses, glancing at you one last time. “Or don’t,” he adds, with that wicked glint in his eyes. “He’s adorably grouchy when he’s sleep-deprived.”

A breath of laughter slips out of you.

With a wink, he disappears down the corridor.

You close the door, and you're left with nothing but his kiss lingering on your cheek—and the sudden awareness that you’re alone in an unfamiliar city, with Sylus.

༺｡° .ᘛ𓆩♡𓆪ᘚ. °｡༻

You don’t crawl back into bed. You refuse to let the disappointment anchor you there.

Instead, you breathe deep, shake off the lingering haze, and retreat into the bathroom to start getting ready for the day. You slip into one of the prettier dresses you brought with you, and then you head downstairs for breakfast—simple, warm, a little too quiet without him sitting across from you. But it’s enough to replenish your energy, if not your mood.

Though you’re still a little sleepy, you decide to go back to your room only to retrieve your coat. You’re in Linkon, after all.

You tell yourself you’ll stay near the inn – you’ll take a short walk, and try to enjoy this gloomy day.

But the city breathes in color, even on a grey day like this. The market banners sway in the breeze, stained-glass signs gleam in the mist, and the shop displays call to you. And so you wander, each street pulling you a little farther than you meant to go.

It’s the bookstore that finally stops you.

You step inside, and your breath catches. Wooden beams stretch high overhead, chandeliers hanging like low stars, and every wall is covered in floor-to-ceiling shelves. The scent of paper, leather, and time surrounds you, and your shoulders drop, the tension lifting off of them before you even realize it was there.

Your little shop back home suddenly feels like a mouse hole compared to this temple.

Then, your thoughts drift to Xavier.

You picture him here. How his fingers would glide over the spines, how he’d pause to read the first line of a novel, how his eyes would light up at the mention of a rare edition. You think about the promise you made—to help him restore that beautiful, neglected library in the mansion. And so, instead of simply browsing, you begin taking mental notes - how the shop arranges books by theme rather than title, how there are rolling ladders, velvet armchairs, even a reading nook tucked behind a stained glass panel.

In the far corner, your eyes catch a section marked “New Arrivals.” You wander over, studying the shelves. A few were published right before the mansion became your world. You consult with the shop clerk, describing Xavier as best you can—his taste, his mind.

The clerk browses through the new titles and then hands you a leather-bound novel with delicate gold lettering and a purple ribbon bookmark tucked inside. “This one,” he says. “For someone who belongs in a fairytale.”

༺｡° .ᘛ𓆩♡𓆪ᘚ. °｡༻

As you step out of the bookstore, the ribbon-wrapped gift in your hands, your feet take you further, towards the fog-shrouded market square. The scent of roasted nuts and polished wood drifts on the chill air. Stalls stretch in every direction, crowded with items that glitter in the soft grey light—mirrors framed in gilded scrollwork, ceramic animals painted with loving precision, towers of feathered quills, delicate music boxes. It feels like stepping into a collector’s daydream, each item whispering its own story.

Your pace slows before a table with seashells. Among them, one catches your eye—a large pink conch shell, smooth and iridescent. You pick it up gently, press it to your ear, and hear the faint hush of imagined waves.

A smile rises to your lips before you can stop it. Rafayel.

You picture his sea-covered canvases and the way he speaks about it as if he belongs there. The shells and coral fragments scattered across his studio. He would never ask for something like this—but you know he would appreciate it.

You cradle the shell carefully and step toward the vendor. It’s not much, not compared to the silk dresses or the shimmering opera night he gave you. But it’s something. A token of your gratitude.  And you hope, somehow, that when he presses it to his ear, he’ll think of you.

You don’t notice how much time has passed—how high the sun is climbing behind the veil of clouds. You continue wandering with a lightness in your step, a small woven basket now hooked over your arm, carrying the gifts you’ve collected.

That’s when the scent stops you. Sweet, warm, impossibly inviting—a patisserie. You can’t resist stepping inside.

The warmth wraps around you instantly—sugar and spice, fruit and chocolate, the faintest hint of rosewater—and you stare in wonder. The counters are stacked with sugarplums shimmering in crystal dust, golden-crusted pies with maple syrup, thin squares of pomegranate-dark chocolate and so much more.

But it’s something new that pulls you closer to the glass display.

Round, delicate, pastel-colored cookies, sandwiched around cream fillings of pistachio, lemon, rose, chocolate. They look too soft to bite, too elegant to eat. You lean forward to read the tiny label – ‘Macarons’.

You’ve never seen them before.

Intrigued, you ask the young woman behind the counter for a sample. She smiles and selects a pale lavender one, placing it on a porcelain saucer with a silver fork. The taste of balanced flavors and airy texture convinces you to get them.

You buy two of each flavor, carefully packed in a box tied with a blue ribbon. You can already picture Zayne sampling them one by one, his thoughtful expression as he considers each flavor. You’ve seen how he lingers over sweets and you know some of these will be just right for him.

You tuck the box into your basket, smiling to yourself.

Even in a city bursting with new wonders, it’s strange how often your thoughts return to them—all of them.

You glance down at the small bundle of tokens in your basket and feel a sense of satisfaction… until a single, conspicuous absence makes itself known.

Sylus.

Your steps slow. You stare into a shop window without really seeing what’s inside, thoughts drifting toward the most mysterious of the four. The one who barely spoke when you first arrived. The one who always seemed to linger on the edge of your awareness—close enough to notice, but too distant to understand.

You frown softly. What could you possibly get him?

You know he plays the organ—though you only learned that from Rafayel, not from Sylus himself. But you don’t know anything else beyond that. No favorite foods. No trinkets. No books.

A music box seems… too sentimental. An old sheet of music from the market? Perhaps. But would he appreciate the gesture?

A slightly frustrated sigh leaves your lips.

Your feet keep moving as your mind spirals, turning corners without thought, weaving through streets you haven’t passed. The fog has grown thicker now, the crowds thinner. The chatter of vendors fades, and the shop signs are fewer, the city growing quieter.

It takes a moment before you realize what’s happened. You stop in your tracks.

Somewhere along the winding path of your thoughts, you’ve wandered farther than you meant to. There’s no inn in sight. No bakery, no bookstore, no sound of the bell above the patisserie’s door.

Still, you don’t panic.

You’re in a city, not a forest. People still bustle nearby, though fewer than before. The streets aren’t dangerous—just unfamiliar. You take a slow breath, calming the sudden flutter behind your ribs. It’ll be fine. You’ll find your way back.

You turn on your heel—and immediately collide with a chest that feels more like stone than flesh. A gloved hand steadies your shoulders before you can stumble.

You blink up, startled. And find yourself staring directly into Sylus’ eyes.

“Are you lost, kitten?”

Sylus stands before you, broad-shouldered and still as stone.

Now that you’re this close, your eyes can’t help but trace over the sharpness of his cheekbones or the elegant line of his nose. But then you notice the dark shadows beneath his eyes, smudged like soot across pale skin. He looks exhausted, his complexion washed out in the silver light of the fog-drenched street.

You wonder if it’s just the weather casting him in such dim hues—or if he always looked like this and you never noticed.

But even under that veil of weariness, he’s stunning. Devastatingly so. You feel your pulse stutter as your eyes linger longer than they should—on the shape of his mouth, the sharp cut of his jaw. And then, back to his eyes. Those striking ruby-red eyes.

You realize, then, that you haven’t answered him. Worse—you’ve been shamelessly staring.

Your cheeks flush hot with embarrassment as you blink, clearing your throat and trying to summon a shred of composure, as if you hadn’t just devoured the man with your gaze.

“How did you find me?” you ask, stepping back, creating enough space between the two of you.

Sylus chuckles, low and quiet. “I just asked myself - where would someone with a talent for getting lost end up?”

Your cheeks burn. He’s not wrong. That very instinct is what carried you into this unfamiliar part of the city. And, once upon a time, into the orbit of the four strangers who now occupy your thoughts.

Before you can answer, he continues. “I’m going to assume you skipped lunch.”

At the mention of it, you notice the slight pang of hunger in your stomach. You hadn’t felt it until now, too absorbed in wandering around.

You nod, averting your gaze. “I… might have forgotten.”

As if expecting that answer, he tilts his head, gesturing toward the quieter end of the street behind you. “Come on,” he says. “Let’s go where the steak is good.”

You fall into step beside him, heading toward whatever hidden corner of the city Sylus has deemed worthy of your first shared meal.

༺｡° .ᘛ𓆩♡𓆪ᘚ. °｡༻

The air outside is crisp and damp, autumn's chill threading through the mist as you step out of the secluded dining establishment.

You glance sideways at Sylus, wondering if he’s ever lived in Linkon. He found you with ease earlier, even though you had wandered far from the bustle of the crowd. And this dining place… it felt like the kind of place known to maybe a dozen people. Two dozen, if they were lucky.

The lunch itself had been delicious. You’d eaten until you were full. But Sylus… he barely touched his steak, even though it had arrived cooked perfectly, the smell alone enough to make your mouth water. A man of his stature, you thought, would need more sustenance.

But you hadn’t asked. And so you both ate mostly in silence, the kind that teetered between awkward and somewhat comfortable. You hate to admit it—even to yourself—but there's still something about him that unsettles you.

As you step back into the more crowded streets, beside you, Sylus reaches into the inner pocket of his coat, pulling out a folded slip of parchment. You catch only a glimpse—slanted, barely readable script, unmistakably Zayne’s.

“We’re going to stop by the tailor’s,” he says, breaking the silence between you.

He doesn’t look at you as he speaks, already striding toward a storefront with a window display of fine waistcoats.

While you sat on a chair near the entrance of the tailor’s shop, your gaze wandered—but your ears remained sharp. The muffled rustle of fine fabric, the clipped voices exchanged in the back of the store—Sylus speaking with the tailor in that low, assured tone of his—drifted easily across the space. You hadn’t meant to eavesdrop, but it was difficult not to, especially when his order grew… peculiar.

He wasn’t just buying a new coat or a shirt. He listed nearly everything a man might need: silk sleepwear, shirts, pants, a long wool coat, gloves. When asked to step forward to have his measurements taken, Sylus clarified—quietly, but not quietly enough—that the clothes are not for him, and he is content with whatever is already made.

That alone sharpened your curiosity. You couldn’t help but glance toward the back of the shop, wondering. If not for him, then who? The list had been written by Zayne—perhaps it was for him? But even that felt unlikely. Zayne didn’t strike you as the type to request nearly an entire wardrobe at once, nor would he require Sylus to act as a courier.

Still, you didn’t press. Sylus paid, handing over what could have been a month’s salary to most, ensuring the order would be delivered to the inn by nightfall.

When you stepped back into the street, you continued on toward the apothecary. Again, Sylus offered no explanation, merely stepped inside and checked off the second half of the list.

You lingered near the glass jars of dried flowers, pretending to browse, but your mind spun with questions. If these were Zayne’s supplies, why wasn’t he the one here? Why send Sylus, of all people—the one who always seemed least inclined toward errands or small talk?

When you step outside, the air is cooler now, night sky already settled above. Sylus tucks Zayne’s list back into the inner pocket of his coat, and then he says your name. It makes your heart skip a beat.

You glance up at him.

A subtle smirk touches the corner of his mouth, “I might need your help with something,” he says. “Do you remember where the modiste from yesterday is?”

The question catches you off guard. You blink, confused. “You need to order clothes for a woman as well?”

That earns you a quiet chuckle. “Not quite. Rafayel already placed an order for you. We’re just picking it up.”

You blink again, more stunned than before. Rafayel hadn’t mentioned anything of the sort. You’d been with him nearly every moment—how had he found time to do this? And how had he managed to keep it a secret?

He’s so sneaky.

You clear your throat, trying to stifle the ridiculous little grin tugging at your lips. “I think I remember the way,” you say, and somehow—miraculously—you don’t get lost.

The box of your new dresses in Sylus’ hands is much heavier than you expected. You offer to carry it more than once, and each time he silences you with a single glance. You’re grateful he insists, though—after hours of wandering cobbled streets and browsing through shops, your legs are aching and your shoulders stiff.

“I assume we’ll be leaving after breakfast tomorrow?” he asks, his voice pulling your attention.

You glance up, a subtle frown touching your features. You’d known this trip wouldn’t last forever. It was meant to be a brief detour. But you hadn’t expected to feel so reluctant to go.

Still, you nod. “Of course.”

He says nothing more, and the silence that follows feels a little heavy.

As you near the inn, your eyes catch on a jewelry display in a storefront. You slow, without meaning to, drawn to the glint of precious metals and gemstones.

“Did you forget to pack your jewelry?” Sylus asks after a moment, a hint of curiosity in his tone.

You shake your head. “No,” you say quietly. “I sold some of it. The rest I gave to Luke and Kieran. They’re watching my cottage while I’m gone, and I wanted to thank them. I didn’t really need any of it anymore.”

He hums in response and says nothing more, and you continue walking.

When you reach the inn, Sylus carries the box up the stairs and stops in front of your door. He hands it to you carefully.

“After dinner,” he says, “I’ll come by to pick you up.”

You pause, brow furrowing. “For what?”

He tilts his head slightly, amusement clear on his face. “Wear one of your new dresses,” is all he says, and before you can utter another word, he turns and disappears down the corridor.

You stare after him, still cradling the box, your door half-open behind you.

And you wonder what on earth you’ve just been invited to.

༺｡° .ᘛ𓆩♡𓆪ᘚ. °｡༻

Sylus’ sharp knock against your door makes you flinch just as you were checking yourself in the mirror. You smooth your palms over your dress and take one last glance at your reflection. You have no idea where he plans to take you tonight, but you had followed his instruction - you chose one of your newly tailored dresses, something formal enough to look presentable, yet far less intricate than the silk gown you wore to the opera with Rafayel. Still, as you study your reflection, you cannot help wishing for some jewelry to complete the look.

You sigh quietly, steeling yourself, and open the door.

Sylus stands there, and you immediately notice he’s holding two items - one a small velvet box, the other something wrapped neatly in dark cloth. Then your gaze meets his, and the faintest smirk tugs at his lips.

Without a word, he holds out the velvet box. “Open it.” he says.

You take it carefully. Even before you lift the lid, you know what it must contain. Still, when you open the box, the breath catches in your throat. Nestled inside, is a necklace with a single ruby pendant, glistening under the light.

You open your mouth to say something, but nothing comes out, as you’re utterly at a loss for words. The dresses Rafayel ordered had already overwhelmed you with the unexpected generosity. But this—this, from Sylus—leaves you almost dazed.

Before you can muster a protest or even an expression of thanks, he steps closer, taking the necklace from the box. His fingers brush the nape of your neck as he fastens it, his touch so light it sends a shiver dancing down your spine.

“The place we’re going to tonight aren’t exactly crawling with pretentious aristocrats,” he murmurs as he settles the pendant against your skin. “But I won’t have my company looking like she lacks anything.”

Your throat works around a knot of emotions—gratitude, wonder, and something else. You lift your hand, fingers grazing the ruby’s cool surface.

You step inside your room just long enough to place the box on the nightstand and catch a glimpse of yourself in the mirror. The necklace glows against your skin, and for the second night in a row, you feel beautiful—not just dressed, but adorned. Treasured.

You move to thank him, but before the words leave your lips, Sylus speaks again, offering the second object—the one wrapped in leather cloth.

“Be careful.” he says simply.

Brows furrowed in confusion, you unwrap the package, peeling back the folds until a gleam of steel catches the light.

A dagger.

Slim, sharp, tucked in an understated sheath.

You stare at it for a heartbeat too long before returning your wide-eyed gaze back to him.

Sylus chuckles quietly at the expression you know must look utterly ridiculous on your face. “This city is safe enough, most days,” he says. “But even safe places have their wolves. It’s unwise for a lady to wander alone... especially when she looks like a lost kitten.”

A laugh escapes you. The gift is strange, yes—but it is thoughtful in a way that sends another warm ache through your chest. Still cradling the dagger in your hands, you lift your eyes back to him—and find that he is already looking at you not as an obligation, not as a burden... but as something worth guarding.

You run your thumb over the strap attached to it, noticing how it is clearly meant to be fastened to your thigh.

“Go ahead,” Sylus says, voice low but firm. “Put it on.”

You blink at him, caught off guard. “Now? Why?”

He only tilts his head slightly, ��Yes. No better time.” When you don’t move, completely confused, and a little anxious, he shakes his head with a smirk. “Don’t worry, we’re not going anywhere dangerous.”

It’s not the most thorough reassurance, but you do as you’re told and slip back inside your room, closing the door behind you.

It takes you a moment longer than you care to admit to figure out how to fasten the strap securely around your thigh. The dagger’s weight is unfamiliar but strangely comforting against your skin.

When you emerge again, Sylus silently turns, and leads the way toward the stairs.

As your steps fall into rhythm behind him, his voice floats back to you. “When we have time, I can teach you a few self-defense techniques. If you’re comfortable with that.”

“I’d like that,” you admit. “I’m sure I’ve become a little rusty.” You let out a small, self-deprecating laugh.

Sylus glances over his shoulder, catching your eye for a fleeting second before facing forward again. “Oh?” he drawls, a flicker of interest in his tone. “Someone has already taught you.”

You nod. “Yeah. A long time ago. An old friend, when we were younger.”

The answer seems to satisfy him, as he doesn’t prod further. Instead, his steps slow just slightly, enough that you can walk beside him now rather than trailing behind. “Then we’ll just refresh your memory.” he says quietly.

Just in front of the entrance, you pause, and he does too. You lift your head to meet his gaze.

“Thank you... Sylus.” you say, your voice a little softer than you intended.

He inclines his head, a simple acknowledgment, before you continue walking, side by side.

༺｡° .ᘛ𓆩♡𓆪ᘚ. °｡༻

After a short walk through narrow alleys, you find yourself in front of a plain wooden door. Sylus merely nods at a man who guards the entrance and murmurs a password low enough that you barely catch the words. With that, the man opens the door, revealing a staircase spiraling downward, the stone steps worn smooth by countless secret visitors.

Your heart beats a little faster as you descend, trailing behind Sylus. The narrow corridors, the muted lighting, the distant hum of unseen voices—peak your curiosity with every step.

And then—you walk inside.

Your eyes widen at the sight before you.

It is not the dingy, forgotten cellar you feared, but a breathtaking theater, small enough to feel private, yet dripping with opulence. The rows of velvet seats are few but elegant, arranged in an arc before a modest stage framed in heavy red curtains.

The audience is no less remarkable. Men and women are dressed in fine garments, their laughter soft, their movements languid, and the air around you is perfumed with scents so rich and layered.

As you take your seats, you turn to Sylus, voice low. "What is the play about?"

He only gives a soft shrug. "I don't know," he says. "That's part of the fun."

The lights dim further and the chatter dissolves into expectant silence. And then, the actors step onto the stage, their presence commanding even in this intimate space. Their performances are unlike anything you have seen—raw, beautiful, almost too real—and the story, you realize with delight, is an original script.

As the first act unfolds, your body settles deeper into your seat. Your earlier anxieties dissolve with each scene. Beside you, Sylus sits silent and still, as if he belongs to this hidden world far more than you ever could. But tonight, he brought you here. And tonight, you are part of it too.

There are moments that coax soft laughter from you, the kind that slips out before you can stop it. The actors deliver their lines with such flair that even Sylus, ever composed, lets out a quiet chuckle beside you. You steal a glance at him out of the corner of your eye—his sculpted profile bathed in low golden light, the curl of amusement at the edge of his lips. You look away just as quickly, hoping he didn’t notice your moment of indulgence.

He did.

Slowly, the tone of the play shifts. Two lovers finally have a private moment, away from others. Their movements become slow and the kisses grow deeper, more fevered. The woman moans softly, and then, with practiced ease, the man slips her bodice down exposing her breasts, bare and unapologetic in the low light.

A sharp gasp escapes you before you can catch it.

Your hand comes to your mouth, and you shift in your seat, suddenly aware of the heat flushing your cheeks, your neck, and the tips of your ears. No one around you reacts, as if this kind of scene is perfectly natural in a theater like this, in a city like this. And perhaps it is.

But you aren’t used to such boldness on stage.

You risk a glance at Sylus, unsure what you’ll find. He’s already watching you, his lips curled into a smile, his eyes gleaming in the dark—not mocking, but amused, clearly entertained by your reaction. Your embarrassment deepens tenfold.

You turn back toward the stage, spine stiffened as you try to focus on the performance. The couple continues their passionate display, and you hold back any further reactions.

You feel his eyes on you a little longer, but it doesn’t feel unwelcome.

༺｡° .ᘛ𓆩♡𓆪ᘚ. °｡༻

As the applause softens, the space is lit up again. One by one, the audience begins to stand. You rise with them, your pulse steadying from the earlier scene that left your skin warm and your thoughts tangled.

With Sylus, you head toward the door through which you first entered. But then you notice something odd - most of the guests aren’t following that path. Instead, they’re moving toward a second entrance along the side wall, half-concealed by a velvet curtain.

Before you reach the exit, Sylus pauses. One hand moves to open the door for you, but he doesn’t push it yet. Instead, his eyes flick toward the other doorway.

“I can walk you back to the inn,” he says. “If you're tired and ready to sleep.” Then his gaze returns to yours. “But if there's a part of you that doesn’t want the night to end yet… there’s another door.”

You hesitate. Your body aches with fatigue—you’ve been awake since before Rafayel knocked on your door. You’ve wandered unfamiliar streets, soaked in more sights and sounds than you have in months. And Sylus himself, quiet and intense, has been its own kind of energy drain.

But this is your last night in Linkon—for now. And something in you, a part of yourself that slept too long back in the quiet of the village, doesn't want to go to sleep just yet.

You turn to him. “I want to stay.”

He watches you for a heartbeat longer than necessary, perhaps searching for hesitation. But when he finds none, he nods.

“Good.”

And with that, he gestures toward the hidden door, and the two of you step beyond the velvet curtain.

༺｡° .ᘛ𓆩♡𓆪ᘚ. °｡༻

Never in your carefully coordinated life did you imagine stepping into a place like this—let alone being welcomed. You’d only heard of such gatherings – the exclusive lounges where gentlemen drank fine liquor, wagered fortunes over cards, and exchanged secrets. But this space before you is a bit different - women are welcomed too. They sip from crystal glasses and lean in to whisper something that makes their companions smirk. It isn’t just men here—it’s anyone bold enough to stay awake past society’s bedtime.

Sylus’ gaze traces your wide eyes, the awe written across your face.

“I take it this is your first midnight assembly.” he murmurs, his tone far too amused.

You mean to scowl at him, to say something clever, but all you manage is a nod.

Moments later, you’re handed the drink of your choice in a crystal glass.

Sylus turns to you with a swirl of wine in his glass. “Would you like to join the gambling table?” he asks.

Your gaze flicks to the corner where a table is already crowded with mostly men. You hesitate. The energy in that corner is different, heavier, and you’re not confident enough in your gambling skills.

You shake your head, your lips tugging into a polite smile. “I’ll watch, if that’s alright.”

As if he expected it, Sylus only nods. With a gentle touch over your shoulders, he leads you closer, and you find a plush armchair just behind his seat. Sylus, whether intentionally or not, leans just enough to one side that his cards catch your eye. You can see the numbers, the suits, the subtle twitch of his fingers as he slides a coin forward or taps it in thought. It feels like you’re part of his hand without needing to play it yourself.

But after a while, your eyes wander.

Someone’s laughter, bright and sincere, draws your attention across the room, to a figure seated on a tufted chaise. The girl has short hazelnut-brown hair, and her hands shuffle a deck of what your think are tarot cards.

You linger, not meaning to stare, but you’re caught up in her energy.

And then she looks up.

She meets your gaze, and you immediately brace for embarrassment, cheeks beginning to heat from being caught in your quiet observance. But instead of frowning or looking away, she smiles. She lifts a hand and waves, then gestures to the empty space beside her.

Your heart skips, just a little. A stranger, inviting you like an old friend. After a moment of hesitation, you stand up and cross the distance.

Once you settle onto the space beside her, the woman greets you with a grin, her voice bright and honey-sweet. “It’s almost a crime to be bored at a gathering like this.” she says. “I’m Tara.” she adds, gesturing toward her chest.

You offer your name with a sheepish smile, trying not to fidget with the stem of your glass.

She nods toward the woman next to you, sitting on a chair. A raven-haired beauty, and you realize, after a moment, that you’ve seen her on stage. “Simone.” Tara says. “One of tonight’s stars.”

Simone offers you a nod, and then your gaze drifts to the third woman next to Tara, who’s expression is more guarded. “Jenna,” Tara introduces her. “The brilliant director behind all of this.”

They don’t interrogate you, don’t pepper you with the usual questions—where are you from or what do you do. Instead, Tara begins shuffling her deck of tarot cards.

Her eyes lift to yours with a glimmer of mischief. “So,” she says, “shall I give you a reading?” She leans in slightly. “Maybe a love reading?” Then, without subtlety, she nods toward Sylus.

You feel the heat rising to your face, and like a reflex, your eyes flick toward him. He’s still seated at the gambling table, the very picture of unreadable calm. And yet—he looks up, and just for a moment, your eyes meet.

You turn back to Tara. “Maybe just a general reading.” you murmur.

Her smile doesn’t falter. “Of course.” She begins to shuffle again. “Let’s see what the cards want to whisper to you tonight.”

Tara draws the first card and she places it face-up between you. Her voice softens as she studies the image. “Ah… The Moon,” she murmurs, almost to herself. “This card usually means you’ve come from a place where things weren’t as they seemed. Like you were walking by moonlight—seeing only half the truth. Everything touched by silver instead of sunlight. Things hidden in plain sight.”

Your breath catches.

Because even though her tone is gentle, there’s something about her words that strikes too close to the heart. You think of the mansion—the warm food and strange silence. You think of your life before the mansion, before the village. You realize how often you’ve had to read between the lines. How often you’ve been left to wonder what truth lies just outside your reach, obscured by shadows.

Tara hums as she turns over the second card. “The Fool.” she says. Then, her smile falters for a moment as she adds, “Reversed.”

You lean forward to get a better look—an elegant figure mid-step, eyes skyward, teetering on the edge of a cliff.

Tara’s voice is softer now, more careful. “You’re being pulled toward something new. Something that feels like the start of a journey.” Her eyes flick briefly to yours. “But reversed, this Fool is... careless. Gullible. She should be cautious of situations, or people, that sound too good to be true.”

An unwelcome flush rises to your neck. You think of how easily you followed Rafayel across the countryside. How you stepped into the lives of four men. How Sylus handed you a dagger, and you thanked him for it.

Tara doesn't press. She just waits, giving you a moment to collect your thoughts.

And then she reaches for the third.

Tara places the third and final card, and her tone softens as her eyes fall on it.

"Ten of Cups," she murmurs with a genuine smile. “Now that’s a beautiful pull.”

You lean in, instinctively drawn to the card’s image—ten golden chalices arched like a rainbow over serene scenery – a beautiful garden and a home. A pair standing in a loving embrace, their backs to the viewer, gazing at the sky.

It doesn’t make sense, not right away. Not after the unease of the first card, the sting of the second. But Tara’s fingers tap the card gently.

"This one means fulfillment. Happiness. Lasting emotional joy. Safety. Whatever road you’re on, wherever you’re heading... this card says it leads to a kind of love that feels like home.”

The words make your chest feel lighter. Hopeful.

You blink down at the spread before you. The Moon, with its secrets. The Fool reversed, with its reckless naivety. And now—this. This possibility that maybe the confusion will end. That your heart, still raw and searching, will find where it belongs.

You swallow the small lump forming in your throat. “I didn’t think a card like that would show up.” you say quietly, more to yourself than to her.

Tara gives you a gentle look. “The cards know what we need to hear to guide us towards the right path.”

You nod, slow, eyes on the last card.

Maybe the road ahead is still misted. Maybe the choices will still ache. But it might be all worth it.

After the reading, the conversation turns light. Jenna and Simone, while both intimidating to you at first, are very warm and funny. Tara leads the conversations for the most part and you enjoy listening to them talk about the play, how the rehearsals can be so stressful and what books inspired Tara to write the original. She was delighted when you told her that you work in a bookstore and there the conversation just effortlessly flowed about books.

Sylus, when he won more than enough coins, stopped by to check if you want him to bring you anything, either a drink or a snack, to which you gladly accepted another drink. He then found his place in one corner, occasionally chatting with some people. But you caught him more than once gazing at you, making your cheeks heat up every time without fail.

Hours passed almost in an instant. Lost in drinks and good company of the women you just met, you haven’t noticed that there were only a few people left.

Jenna checks her pocket watch. “We should leave soon,” she murmurs, glancing at Tara. “It’s nearly sunrise.”

Your eyes widen at that. There are no windows in this space, making it easy to lose track of time. You then look at Sylus, who is more than content in his armchair, his head resting on his hand as he swirls wine in a glass. A pang of guilt pokes your chest at the realization that you spent the whole evening with others, without even checking in on him. He hasn’t rushed you or complained, just sat back and let you enjoy yourself.

When he looks up, meeting your gaze, he gives you that charming smirk, but you see the tiredness in his eyes.

You bid your goodbyes with a soft, reluctant smile, your hand holding a folded slip of parchment where all three of them wrote down their addresses. It was a promise of new letters and perhaps more meetings in the future.

As they walk away, you go toward the shadowed corner of the room where Sylus waits.

You give him a sheepish smile. “I didn’t mean to stay this long,” you murmur. “Sorry for making you wait.”

He shakes his head. “I wasn’t in a rush.” But then he adds, more dryly, “We’ll be sleeping in the carriage though. Sunrise caught up with us.”

You grimace just slightly at the reminder. The idea of curling up in a cramped space instead of sinking into warm sheets makes your shoulders tense, but you nod anyway. You won’t complain. The night was worth it.

༺｡° .ᘛ𓆩♡𓆪ᘚ. °｡༻

As you settle into the velvet-lined seat of the carriage—wider than the one you’d shared with Rafayel – the weight of being awake the whole night begins to press behind your eyes. Beyond the glass, Linkon slumbers under a blanket of the pale morning fog. You already feel it slipping away, and a veil of something like nostalgia settles over your chest.

The brisk morning air on the walk back had helped clear your head, and a smidgen of energy to quickly pack everything in your room. And now, here you are – tucked into a carriage with Sylus, the scent of the street-bought bread still lingering faintly in the air, your coat wrapped tightly around you.

Across from you, Sylus has already closed his eyes, arms crossed. You watch him for a moment – you’ve spent hours near him, trailing his footsteps through streets and shops, watching him linger in corners like a shadow more than a companion. A steady presence, but a distant one. He’s been kind, never cold, yet something about him remains just out of reach. Sleeping here, mere feet away, feels strangely intimate. You don’t know him well enough to let your guard down completely. But you’re too tired.

Your head leans back and your breath begins to slow.

༺｡° .ᘛ𓆩♡𓆪ᘚ. °｡༻

A long sigh escapes your lips as you place your luggage on the floor of your room. The space is modest, but warm thanks to the fireplace already burning low. You kneel in front of it, the heat soaking into your legs and palms as you hold your hands out toward the flame. The ache in your shoulders and spine isn’t just from travel, but from holding your body too rigid for too long.

The trip here had been more uncomfortable than you’d expected. Though you’d been exhausted, true sleep had stayed out of reach. The carriage was cold and your posture, slumped and curled in the seat, was barely tolerable. And while Sylus sat mostly in silence across from you, his presence, still enigmatic and intimidating, kept your nerves on edge just enough to prevent you from slipping into deep sleep. You stirred often and woke more than a few times. Once, half-dreaming, you remember the sensation of his coat draped over you. You never opened your eyes, but the gesture comforted you a little.

Eventually, after a brief stop for food—which Sylus barely touched—you abandoned the idea of sleep entirely, and spent the rest of the trip reading.

Now, night has fallen completely. The inn you’ve stopped at is unfamiliar, and you’re grateful for that. You don’t think you could bear the embarrassment of being recognized—of being seen by the innkeeper from just days ago, this time accompanied by a different man.

Sylus had already told you he’d be skipping dinner. Whether it was disinterest, fatigue, or something else, you couldn’t tell. He hadn’t offered more than a “I’ll pass,” before retreating to his own room. So you stand up, smooth your dress, and step out into the hallway—seeking a warm meal, and a moment to yourself.

༺｡° .ᘛ𓆩♡𓆪ᘚ. °｡༻

After dinner, just as you reach for the handle of your room, a soft click draws your attention. Across the hallway, Sylus’ door open, and he steps out with his coat already draped over his shoulders. He catches your eye immediately and offers that familiar half-smirk of his.

“Care to join me for a night stroll?” he asks.

You pause for a moment, mulling over the invitation. Then you nod, “Just let me grab my coat.” you reply.

༺｡° .ᘛ𓆩♡𓆪ᘚ. °｡༻

Accepting Sylus’ invitation should have come with a clearer warning label.

At first, the walk through the town was peaceful, even charming. But the sense of ease quickly vanished the moment he turned sharply down an unlit lane. You followed him, hesitating as the iron gates of a graveyard appear before you.

Your pace falters, unease coiling in your stomach. “Do we really have to go in there?” you ask quietly.

Sylus glances over his shoulder. “Are you scared, kitten?”

You narrow your eyes at him, but you don’t stop following.

At the gates, you watch him approach an elderly woman bundled in layers, sitting behind a bucket of roses wrapped in old newspaper. Sylus hands her a handful of gold coins, and you hear the low murmur of his voice—gentle, telling her to head home and warm herself. She thanks him with a smile, and begins packing up her things.

He turns back to you, roses now cradled in the crook of his arm. “You can wait here, if you want. There’s no one else around.”

You cross your arms, frowning. “You don’t know that.”

He chuckles, then turns and begins walking between the headstones. But he doesn’t walk far without glancing back. His gaze finds you more than once, checking that you’re still there.

Your boots crunch against frostbitten grass and your nerves bristle at every unfamiliar shape in the dark, swiftly making you walk closer to him, close enough that your shoulder brushes his arm more than once.

If he notices, he says nothing.

The silence and stillness of the graveyard is both soothing and unnerving. The beauty of tombstones, flowers, burnt candles, and some trinkets is what makes your gaze linger and admire the sight. Yet, knowing that this is the place where people are put to eternal rest is what makes you uneasy.

Sylus wanders towards tombstones that are old, worn from time and neglect. Yet, a single vibrant red rose makes them seem more beautiful, important, remembered. You don’t pry, don’t ask, but after the third one your eyes go over the years displayed. Though you can barely see the numbers, it is clear that those people were alive long before you were even born, and you assume before Sylus as well.

You follow Sylus’ steps, making almost no distance between you. “Is this what you do? Leave fresh roses on old graves?”

“Yes.” He answers, his voice low and soft. “Human life is short and fragile. But, it deserves to be honored.”

Your eyes linger on his face for a moment, as he places another rose. The night before, you were looking at him in the theater, his face bathed in warm light of candles, with that smirk tugging at the corners of his lips. Now, with moonlight illuminating his sharp features, he looks almost solemn.

Here, you finally get a glimpse of a different side of him. Where there is more softness, more sincerity, more melancholy.

When he places the last rose, Sylus straightens slowly. For a moment, you think he’ll simply start walking back the way you came. But instead, he pauses, his gaze finding yours, and he offers you his arm.

You blink once, surprised—but there’s no hesitation in your limbs, no instinct to keep the distance. You slip your hand into the crook of his elbow, your fingers resting lightly against the fabric of his coat.

༺｡° .ᘛ𓆩♡𓆪ᘚ. °｡༻

You close the door of your room with a soft click. After whispering soft goodnights to each other, you and Sylus parted ways in the hall and returned to your rooms. You start filling the bathtub with hot water and after preparing the soaps and towels, you strip the layers off yourself before sinking into the water. With a sigh of relief, you sit back and try to relax. Your eyes flutter closed for a moment, and your mind drifts back to the quiet walk back to the inn.

Sylus suggested leaving at the crack of dawn again, since the days are so short this time of the year. You agreed and you slipped into comfortable silence again. But then your mind drifted to the room of the inn, the room you shared with Rafayel.

You glanced at Sylus, “Would we be able to return to the mansion tomorrow?”

Sylus shook his head, “If it was spring or summer, maybe. But the forest around the mansion is too thick and too unpredictable at night. It’s safer to spend another night at an inn.”

You fell silent for a moment. Now that you left Linkon, you’re itching to return to the mansion. Then, you came up with an idea. “My village is pretty close to the mansion.” You faltered for a moment, unsure if Sylus would accept your suggestion, “How about we spend the night in my cottage instead?”

Sylus turned his head for a moment. “Oh? You’re inviting me over?”

Heat flooded your cheeks, “I mean, I know the trip might take longer tomorrow, but I want to check on the state of my home – “

Sylus chuckled softly at the obvious fluster in your voice. “I don’t mind at all. We’ll make the detour.”

You nodded, not trusting yourself to speak again without flustering more.

Now, reclining in the warm bath, you feel a little bit anxious about tomorrow. Not in an unpleasant way, just… different. You inhale as you lift your arms and stretch your muscles.

༺｡° .ᘛ𓆩♡𓆪ᘚ. °｡༻

A soft exhale slips past your lips as you lower your arms—only now, you're curled against the carriage seat, the morning chill slipping through your coat. The sun is barely above the horizon, but the carriage is already moving just as Sylus steps inside.

He’s holding a blanket that he passes to you.

“You might want this.” he murmurs, settling into the seat across from yours.

You run your fingers over the familiar fabric. “Did you take this from—?”

“I paid for it, of course.”

You murmur a soft thank you, cocooning yourself in the soft fabric that smells like soothing herbs. Your eyes drift across the window, then back to him. His eyes seem more tired than yesterday.

“Did you manage to sleep last night?” you ask gently.

He shakes his head. “I usually sleep during the day.”

“Ah.” You nod, more to yourself than him. Maybe that’s why he always felt distant at the mansion, why you rarely saw him.

A yawn escapes before you can stop it.

Sylus chuckles, “It seems you didn’t sleep either.”

You groan softly, letting your head rest back against the cushioned seat. “Didn’t get a blink. I read my book instead.” You close your eyes for a moment, recalling the turning of pages under the lamplight. “Finished it just in time to see the sunrise.”

Sylus shifts, one leg crossing over the other. “Was it the graveyard?” he teases.

You crack one eye open and narrow it at him, your mouth twitching. “No.” you say. “I think the last night in Linkon scrambled something in my head. I’ve traded night for day.”

“I see my company has a positive influence on you.”

You laugh a little at that before closing your eye again, and slipping into comfortable silence. And so is the presence of the man across from you.

This time, you don’t fight the sleep.

༺｡° .ᘛ𓆩♡𓆪ᘚ. °｡༻

After a long day of travel and daylight sleep, the carriage finally stops at the familiar gravel path. Your hand trembles slightly from the cold as you reach for the doorknob of your cottage, and you wince when the door hinges groan in greeting. A shiver runs through your whole body at the freezing air that sank into the walls of your cottage, though you’re relieved that the air is fresh and not stale. You step aside, holding the door open for Sylus, who carries nearly your entire luggage without protest.

The entrance leads straight into your modest central space—a kitchen, dining area, and living room all in one. Familiar and small, and now completely engulfed in darkness. But before you can even think about searching for a match, Sylus moves ahead of you and lights the nearest candle.

With a few more candles lit, you can properly see the space. You are half-expecting to see things out of place, dust lining the shelves, any sign of neglect. But everything seems to have stayed the same, just as you left it. And yet…

Self-consciousness creeps up on you. There’s something humbling about having a man like Sylus—elegant and dressed like he stepped out of a painting—here in this quiet little house of yours. You know it’s clean and cared for, but it suddenly feels too small, too simple.

Your gaze flickers toward him just as he swipes a gloved finger along the edge of your coffee table. He lifts it and examines the tip.

“No dust.” he says, voice low, as if he expected to find the opposite. Then he strides toward the fireplace, crouching down to inspect the stack of wood piled neatly beside it. He takes off one glove and rests his hand on the top log, thumb pressing against the grain. “And the firewood is dry. Not affected by the humidity.”

He glances over his shoulder. “It seems that those two are capable of taking care of your home.”

You can’t help the small smile that rises to your lips. You didn’t doubt the twins, but hearing the confirmation from him gives you a sense of relief. That’s when your stomach betrays you with a loud rumble.

You start unbuttoning your coat, the lingering cold making your fingers clumsy. “I’ll go heat up the food we picked up earlier.”

Sylus doesn’t reply, already preparing to start the fire.

After washing your hands, you head towards the kitchen to prepare dinner for the two of you, but Sylus politely declines. You want to ask why, but he seems too engrossed in inspecting almost every corner of your living room.

“Do you at least want some tea and fruit?”

Sylus hums, “Only if you’re preparing it for yourself as well.” He answers absentmindedly.

So you eat your dinner quickly, and then put a teapot on the stove. You walk towards the fireplace to get some smaller logs, where Sylus shifted his focus to tending to the fire. He is crouching, sleeves pushed up, coat slung over a nearby chair. You catch the low gleam of firelight along the strong lines of his forearm as he shifts a log deeper into the flame. His hand moves toward the old iron grate to adjust it—he’s trying to brace it, it seems, one hand gripping the poker, the other steadying the side of the frame. That grate has always been old and stubborn. You’d meant to replace it.

And then – a dull metallic snap breaks the quiet. A brittle piece of the iron edge shears off under pressure, catching Sylus across his left hand.

He doesn’t flinch, but the dull clink of iron breaking is sharp enough to freeze your breath in your throat.

Your stomach turns as you rush forward, eyes on his hand. “Sylus—?”

Sylus lifts it slowly, inspecting the angry slice across his knuckles. His voice is calm, but there's an edge of irritation beneath it. “You should’ve replaced this grate,” he murmurs, flexing his fingers. “It’s rusted clean through. You could’ve cut yourself worse than I did.”

You open your mouth to reply, to defend yourself, but your attention fixes on his wound.

There’s no blood.

Your brow furrows as you stare. A clean slice, red and deep—but dry. Not a single drop rises to the surface. It should have.

“You’re not bleeding.”

His eyes meet yours. The fire casts soft amber across his features, but his gaze looks darker than before.

But then it softens as he shrugs. “Thick skin,” he says simply, and hands you the bundle of kindling you came for. “Go warm your teapot. I’ll handle the rest.”

You don’t take the wood. Instead, you turn on your heel and cross the room to the cabinet near the sink, pulling out a cloth and the small glass bottle of alcohol.

“You don’t have to—” he starts.

“I know,” you cut in gently. “But let me.”

You move back and kneel beside him, gently taking his hand. He watches you as you dab the cut, his hand completely still, even when the alcohol hits.

The wound doesn’t close, not visibly, but it doesn’t weep either. Still, you wrap his hand in bandages.

Your fingers linger a beat too long on his. He says nothing and his hand doesn’t move until yours does.

After that, he insists on filling your largest pot with water so you can take the first bath, and you know better by now that he will do it whether you protest or not.

Before you retreat to the bathroom, you stop by your bedroom to fetch a change of clothes—undergarments and a fresh dress. The door creaks faintly as you open it, and a wave of biting cold sends another wave of shivers through your body. You wonder if there’s enough firewood to heat both this room and the living area for the night—but the answer feels obvious. Probably not. And it doesn’t matter, as you might not sleep tonight anyway.

༺｡° .ᘛ𓆩♡𓆪ᘚ. °｡༻

While Sylus retreats into the bathroom, towel and change of clothes in hand, you continue preparing the tea. While the herbs simmer in the water, you serve the pomegranate seeds in two small ceramic bowls. The sight of Sylus cutting open a pomegranate, as you stepped out the bathroom, made your heart flutter. You hadn’t asked him to, yet he still did it.

As you pour the tea into the cups, a soft thud echoes from the bathroom, like someone bumping against something hard. You freeze for a second, brow furrowing, then dismiss it. But then, a few minutes later – another bag. This time louder, a distinct and awkward sound of something meeting the wood. You raise your head, ears perking.

Another minute. Another thud followed by what sounds like a very quiet, very exasperated sigh. Your lips twitch as you try to hold back laughter.

Still smiling, you settle in the blanket nest you made in front of the fireplace.

When the bathroom door finally creaks open and Sylus steps into the light—you’re already staring at him, the amusement plain on your face.

“Your cabinets attacked me.” he says dryly, running a hand through his hair as he crosses toward the fireplace, “Repeatedly.”

You grin as you watch him take a seat on the armchair next to the fireplace. “I guess this place wasn’t built with tall men in mind.” You hand him his teacup, the porcelain comfortably warm now and he accepts it with a soft thanks.

You can’t help but notice how he looks worse than he did the day he found you in Linkon—even under the warm glow of the room, he looks pale, the shadows beneath his eyes seem darker now, as if sleep never really found him at all.

“Sylus?” you murmur, the name soft on your lips. His gaze lifts to meet yours, and you can clearly see how tired he truly is. “I don’t mean to be rude, but you seem… exhausted. Do you want to sleep? You can use my bedroom. Though, it’s freezing in there.”

At that, his lips curve into a half-smile. “You’re sweet, kitten.” His eyes drift towards the fire. “I’d feel better if we could go for a walk. Fresh air, stretch the limbs. But… you probably don’t want your neighbors to see you with someone like me.”

He’s not wrong. Someone likely saw you return with Rafayel. And now you’re with another man. You don’t want to be the talk of the month.

You shrug lightly, tugging a blanket over your legs. You’ve already warmed up in this nest, which is big enough to fit one more person. “Well,” you offer, shyly, “you can join me, if you want. It’s warm in here.”

For a beat, he says nothing, and you already start to regret it. But then he rises slowly, setting the cup on the table behind you.

“It’d be rude to refuse your invitation.” he murmurs.

You shift to make room for him, moving aside a few pillows and adjusting the blanket. He settles beside you, his shoulder brushing yours once. Butterflies suddenly flutter in your belly as you get the pleasant whiff of your soap on Sylus’ skin. Ignoring the sensation for now, you throw the other half of your blanket across his legs, earning a soft chuckle from him.

You want to offer him to read some of the books you fetched minutes earlier from one of your shelves. But, you feel the need to say something, to lift his mood a little.

“I have to confess something to you.” you say, finding the courage to hold his gaze even as your cheeks start to burn.

He arches a brow. “Go on.”

You shift slightly beneath the blanket, suddenly aware of how close he is, how relaxed you’ve become without even noticing. “You used to scare me.”

“Used to?” He asks in mock surprise.

You nod with a sheepish smile. “You don’t scare me anymore.”

His hum is noncommittal. “You’re not the first to say something like that.”

You stifle a laugh, then offer him the truth, even if it makes you sound ridiculous. “Listen, I had a high fever. You were lurking in the shadows while the others tended to me. I think I mistook you for Death himself.”

That earns a real laugh, earnest and rich, the sight and the sound making you grin in delight.

You sink deeper into the nest of blankets. “I’m still a little intimidated by Zayne,” you admit, watching the flames. “He’s too composed. Like he’s waiting for someone to say something stupid.”

“He is.” Sylus replies without missing a beat.

You glance sideways at him, and he’s still watching you.

He continues, “But he hears something stupid from the rest of us every day. At some point, his disappointed sigh becomes entertaining.”

That makes you laugh harder than you expect.

A moment passes and your laughter softens. You shift slightly, shoulder brushing his.

“I’ve had a nice time with you,” you say gently. “You’re just a big softie underneath.”

“Don’t say that out loud,” he murmurs. “At least not in front of others.”

You settle into comfortable silence. You hand him a book to read, and that is how you wait for the sunrise – while sipping tea, reading, eating pomegranate seeds. In the quiet that follows, not even the fire crackles too loud.

And sometime in the night, you don’t even know how, you rest your head on Sylus’ shoulder, feeling completely at ease.

⊹₊ ˚‧︵‿₊୨୧₊‿︵‧ ˚ ₊⊹

@verynormalsstuff @eliasxchocolate @haal07erlj @libriomancer @howvoiceless @celestialforce @tbaluver @zaynesjasmine1 @ladyparamount @xxfaithlynxx @totallytaurus4 @s-ugu @evil-mei @whatarewe-choppedliver @imeverycliche @blackwell-ninja @secretkiseki @stellablobboo @ssetsuka @celestemcbrim @m00nchildwrites @yournextdoorhousewitch @mysticcoffeebean @beewilko @harmonyrae @animecrazy76 @hanamanefateris @itsmeaudrieee @gravity-valley @raiyuxa @skylaryoung2002 @dekiruxxx @angel-jupiter @daturasflower @shipping-is-life-1-0-1 @imissnanami @gojosballsack69 @typhloticassent

[its-de]

it doesn’t have to be good it just has to be done

[its-de]

reverse gatekeeping. I am on my knees begging people to engage with the source material

[its-de]

reblog to give warm bread to your mutuals

[its-de]

i hate when you google a word and some fucking company comes up instead. Do you think you are more important than the english dictionary you piece of shit corporation

[its-de]

[its-de]

my cake (colors picked by my friend) and card for Sylus ✨

[its-de]

♥︎Amore Immortale♥︎ Ch.4

Chapter Title ♥︎ Silk Dress and Soft Lips ♥︎ ch.3

♡︎ synopsis: Your first steps beyond the mansion lead to more than you ever anticipated.

♡︎ pairing: vampire!Xavier, vampire!Zayne, vampire!Rafayel, vampire!Sylus x fem!reader (separately and together)

⚠ MINORS DNI (18+ ONLY) ⚠

♡︎ tags: there's nothing that spicy going on here

♡︎ word count: 7.3k

♡︎ a/n: i'm so sorry for the delay. this chapter had at least ten different outlines, and when i finally settled on one, i had to plan an outline for the chapter five. i hope you'll enjoy this chapter.

♡︎ Thanks to my dearest friend and beta reader ♡︎@its-de♡︎ for helping.

divider by @/strangergraphics

When your eyes flutter open, morning light has already begun to bleed through the heavy velvet curtains. The bed beneath you still holds the warmth of sleep, cocooned in sheets that smell faintly of lavender and rose. For the first time since arriving at this secluded manor, you wake without fear. There's a faint ache in your muscles that reminds you of the day before. A dull throb stirs behind your eyes - an echo of overstimulation, as if your body is reminding you that too much pleasure, too much attention, comes with its own price.

Your mind, still fogged with sleep, begins to gather specks of memory:

Xavier’s fingers tracing underneath your blanket, Rafayel’s teasing grin, Zayne’s attentive gaze.

And then it dawns on you -

Today, you are meant to return to your home in the village. Zayne will accompany you. You hadn’t set a time, but you already feel a flicker of guilt at sleeping in. With a small sigh, you throw the heavy duvet aside and swing your legs over the edge of the bed, letting the chill of the floor remind you that this house is never fully warm.

That’s when your gaze falls on the nightstand.

A single folded note rests atop the dark wood. It hadn’t been there when you fell asleep.

You reach for it, fingertips brushing the thick parchment as you unfold it. The handwriting is neat and formal, though a bit hard to read. The small flicker of excitement you hadn’t even realized you were holding begins to dim.

I’ve been called on an emergency case.

I sincerely apologize for breaking our agreement.

I hope you will understand.

- Zayne

Your shoulders sink before you’ve even reached the signature. Zayne is a doctor, or something close to one, as he’d said. His schedule must be unpredictable. Emergencies do not wait for convenience.

You understand this. And yet…

You were looking forward to this morning. Not just to seeing your house again, but to his company.

You fold the note carefully and set it back on the nightstand.

Perhaps Xavier has returned from wherever Sylus dragged him last night. Maybe he would accompany you. If only you knew where you were - if the roads from the mansion weren’t still a mystery - you would go alone.

With a deep sigh, you rise from the bed, reach for your silk robe, and gather yourself for the day. The hallway is still dim when you step toward the bathroom.

༺｡° .ᘛ𓆩♡𓆪ᘚ. °｡༻

You emerge sometime later refreshed, having washed away some of the disappointment.

Then you stop - a yelp escapes you before you can suppress it.

Leaning casually against the wall across from the bathroom door with arms crossed is Rafayel.

You exhale, one hand flying to your chest.

His grin widens, entirely too pleased. “Didn’t mean to scare you.” he says, in the tone of someone who absolutely meant to scare you.

You glare, but your pulse is already calming.

“Well,” you murmur, “I’m fully awake now. So… mission accomplished.”

You notice, then, his appearance - less careless than usual. His shirt is buttoned properly, with a tailored vest snug over his waist, and his long coat folded over one arm. His boots are laced, polished. He appears as if he’s ready to go somewhere.

Which is more than can be said for you.

You tug your robe a little tighter around yourself, suddenly too aware of the thin silk clinging to your skin, the lace at your collarbone. He’s seen you like this before - ill, half-conscious, far from alluring - but now there’s no fever, no excuse. And his eyes… though they wander, they don’t linger. He lets you keep your dignity.

“Do you want breakfast before we leave,” he asks, with casual smoothness, “or in the carriage?”

You blink. “Leave?”

He chuckles as he pushes off the wall and straightens. “I’ll be your escort today.” he says, with a mock bow. “Try not to look so shocked. I can be reliable. Sometimes.”

Your mouth opens and then closes again. Not because you disapprove - but because Rafayel, of all people, seemed the least likely to volunteer for the duty. He doesn’t strike you as someone who wakes up early or offers rides out of the goodness of his heart.

“Oh,” you manage, “Alright.”

Before you can gather your thoughts, he adds, “Also – I need new brushes and decent parchment, so I thought we might take a small detour to Linkon. It's a charming city. You’ll love it.”

A sudden invitation to the city you’ve always wanted to visit. As enticing as it sounds, you should ask questions.

Instead, you say –

“Give me fifteen minutes.”

༺｡° .ᘛ𓆩♡𓆪ᘚ. °｡༻

In the carriage, as the village fades behind you, a swirl of emotions brews within you - surprise, relief, and something like confusion. You sit in the comfortable velvet-lined seat, fingers curled loosely around your skirt, watching the trees blur into dusk - stained light.

Your first stop that morning had been your little house. Nothing waited inside but stale air, a thin layer of dust that settled on your furniture. You moved through it methodically, sealing every window, locking every latch.

While Rafayel ventured into the village to gather lunch for the road, you used the time to pack. His voice echoed back to you when you reached for a fifth dress –

“Don’t pack too many. There are beautiful ones in Linkon. ”

You’d protested, of course - you couldn’t afford such luxuries. But he’d only sighed, theatrical and exasperated, like a man offended by your frugality.

“Please,” he’d said. “I would never suggest you spend your own money.”

So you packed only four of your best dresses, the ones you wore rarely. You added underclothes, a shawl, a few trinkets from your shelves, and your journal - still mostly blank.

You were nearly finished when you paused.

The truth was - you didn’t know how long you’d be gone. And you still hadn’t asked the bookstore owner for more time off. You’d meant to use your supposed head injury as an excuse, but now… you wondered if perhaps something truly had been knocked loose inside you.

Despite the comfort of the mansion, despite the attentiveness of the men beneath its roof, you still know nothing about them. You’ve seen their smiles, felt their touch. But you haven’t seen what’s behind the curtain.

You shake your head.

Across the room, your jewelry box glinted on the nightstand - a small reminder of why you fled here in the first place. Inside the bag, the journal, whispered its encouragement. Go. See. Let it unfold.

You’ve been offered something people only read about. Why not take it? How bad can it be?

With a trembling breath leaving your lips, you reach for the bottom drawer of your desk.

From it, you pulled a small bundle of old letters, their pages yellowed with age, tied together with a faded orange ribbon. Though you never wish to return to the life you left behind, there is one part of it you’ve never been able to let go of. You placed them gently on top of your belongings and closed the bag.

Now, the trees whip past the window. The sun is sinking low, spilling hues of rose and amber through the glass, warm light casting soft halos along the velvet seats. Rafayel dozes across from you, arms folded, head tilted against the padded wall of the carriage. Asleep like this, bathed in the pale blush of sunset, he looks ethereal - as though painted in some forgotten century by hands that knew beauty was not simply meant to be seen, but worshiped. You allow yourself a longer glance than you should. A small, involuntary smile tugs at your lips before you quietly look away.

He’d returned from the village with a basket of fresh food wrapped in cloth. You had asked him to wait in the carriage while you stopped by the bookstore - he agreed with a wink, but didn’t hide his amusement at your request.

“You’re worried I’ll draw attention?”

“You do look like someone who stepped out of an opera stage.”

“Flattering.”

And so, he waited, lounging inside the too - grand carriage parked in front of your modest home while you walked to your workplace.

You’d expected the worst - scrutiny, resistance, judgment.

But the bookstore owner had barely blinked. He’d nodded as you explained, gesturing vaguely to the fading bruise on your forehead. He’d even offered to find a temporary replacement, suggesting that you return only when you felt fully recovered. You’d stood there in mild disbelief, muttering your gratitude as a strange pressure rose in your chest - a tight, unfamiliar weight that tasted like freedom.

Now, seated in the carriage, the wheels humming softly beneath you, you lean your head back against the velvet and exhale.

Maybe - for once - the world is giving you permission to want something more. Maybe the stars have aligned, if only for a moment. Maybe this isn’t danger.

Rafayel stirs, his eyelashes fluttering before his eyes open fully.

“Are we there?” he murmurs, voice rough with sleep.

You smile faintly. “Not yet.”

He stretches, long and catlike, spine arching until the seat creaks beneath him. His coat falls off one shoulder, exposing the fine linen beneath. He blinks at you, then turns his gaze to the window.

“We should reach the inn before dark,” he says, rubbing at one eye with the back of his hand. “Supposedly has a very charming garden view.”

Then he makes a small pause before his gaze returns to you, steadier this time. “Are you truly content leaving your house like that? Unattended, I mean?”

You nod. “I arranged for someone to keep an eye on it.”

He raises a brow. “Someone?”

“My neighbors. Two boys - Luke and Kieran. They live alone, I think. Still young and mischievous, but clever. I paid them while you were out hunting down our lunch.”

Rafayel hums, tilting his head. “I admire your pragmatism. Though I’m now picturing your little cottage being turned into some kind of goblin den by a pair of unsupervised village imps.”

You laugh. “They’re harmless. Just a bit wild. But they’ve always been kind to me.”

His expression softens, just slightly. “Kindness is underrated.”

He shifts again, reclining once more but this time keeping his gaze on the window. His voice is quieter now, almost thoughtful. “Let’s hope they stay that way.”

You glance over, lips parting to ask what he means - but he’s already closed his eyes again.

༺｡° .ᘛ𓆩♡𓆪ᘚ. °｡༻

By the time you arrive, the sky has fallen into that soft blue hour between dusk and true dark. The carriage slows to a creaking halt before the inn - a modest two-story house, its stone walls covered in ivy.

Rafayel hops down first, then turns and offers you his hand.

Inside, the inn is warm in that old, lived-in way. The scent of stewed root vegetables, fish, ale, and beeswax candles fills your senses as you walk inside.

The innkeeper is an older woman with tired eyes but a kind smile. She welcomes you both as you approach her. When Rafayel inquires about rooms, she shakes her head with an apologetic look.

“I’m afraid there’s only one room left for the night,” she says. “It’s small but comfortable. Meant for two - but only one bed.”

Rafayel turns his head toward you. “Is that alright with you?” he asks, voice low.

There’s a flicker of warmth blooming beneath your skin. You swallow it down, lift your chin just slightly.

“It’s fine,” you say, maybe too quickly. “I don’t mind.”

He nods once and reaches for his coin purse.

༺｡° .ᘛ𓆩♡𓆪ᘚ. °｡༻

The room is small but charming. The bed sits near a narrow window with a lace curtain swaying faintly from the breeze. The innkeeper lit the small fireplace, its glow painting the walls in gold and its warmth seeping into your limbs. There’s a single armchair, and a small desk.

You set your bag down beside the wardrobe, dust motes flickering in the firelight. Rafayel rests his coat across the armchair’s back, then turns to survey the room.

“I’ll take the floor,” he says after a moment. “Or the chair. Honestly, I may not sleep at all. I spent half the ride unconscious. I might end up sketching until sunrise.”

You glance at him, then nod after a moment, unsure what else to say yet, heart beating a little too fast.

He gives you space, stepping aside to let you prepare however you like. There’s still dinner to be eaten, and bathing to be done.

༺｡° .ᘛ𓆩♡𓆪ᘚ. °｡༻

You sit curled on one side of the bed, your knees tucked beneath the duvet, the fabric of your nightgown rumpled from being in your bag. The neckline slips a little with each shift of your shoulders, but you are too tired to fuss with it.

A single candle flickers on the nightstand beside you, casting amber light across the open pages of your book. The words blur slightly at the edges of your focus, not from exhaustion, but from distraction. Your eyes read - your mind does not.

Across the room, Rafayel sits in the armchair near the hearth, his posture languid, one leg crossed over the other. He has changed into silk pajamas, the robe over his shoulders loose and open, revealing his collarbone. One hand holds a sketchbook balanced on his knee while he’s sketching something.

The only sounds are the turn of your pages and the soft scratches of his pencil.

You shift beneath the covers, smoothing the sheets over your lap, watching him settle into the armchair once more. You glance toward the hearth, then back to him.

“You barely touched your food earlier.”

His eyes flick toward you. “The fish disappointed me,” he says simply.

You blink. “How so?”

He lifts one shoulder in a shrug. “It was too dry and too seasoned for my taste.”

You adjust your pillow and lie back. “Are you truly going to sketch the whole night?” you ask softly.

His pencil stills. He glances up, a small smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “That depends. I might borrow your book once you’ve fallen asleep.”

You smile and shake your head. “You’ll be disappointed. There’s not a single scandalous scene in it. No opera ghosts. No masked lovers.”

He chuckles, “I suppose it will lull me to sleep then.”

You watch him another moment. He’s still lounging, still pretending to be perfectly content away from the bed. But the fire is burning low now. The armchair doesn’t look nearly as inviting as the mattress beneath you.

“You know,” you say gently, your eyes returning to your book, “it’s perfectly fine if you want to sleep here. The bed’s large enough.”

There’s a pause, and you can feel his eyes on you. “Are you sure?”

You nod, and then proceed trying to read the words in front of you.

༺｡° .ᘛ𓆩♡𓆪ᘚ. °｡༻

Rafayel slowly slips under the covers, cautious not to disturb your sleep. He lies on his back at first, his arms fold loosely across his chest, and for a long moment, he doesn’t move - doesn’t even breathe deeply.

Then, slowly, his head tilts. Just enough for his eyes to find you in the half-light, drawn irresistibly to the slow, steady rhythm of your sleeping breath. His gaze traces the line of your shoulder where the blanket has slipped down just slightly, the delicate arch of your collarbone.

And then - your neck. The exposed stretch of skin, soft and unguarded, glows faintly in moonlight. He stares, not because he wishes to - but because he cannot resist.

He swallows.

Then, with a breath so quiet it might have been imagined, he turns away, and his eyes close.

༺｡° .ᘛ𓆩♡𓆪ᘚ. °｡༻

The road to Linkon city is far longer than you anticipated.

You’d always known the city was distant, but somehow, since moving to the quiet village nestled in the woods, you had assumed it was closer. More reachable. More real.

And now, here you were, halfway into the journey, with another inn stay ahead of you before you’d even glimpse its skyline. Another night, another bed.

Hopefully there will be more than one room available, or at least a room with two separate beds.

Though… you can’t say you’re entirely opposed to sharing again. If you even shared at all last night. You fell asleep with Rafayel still curled in the armchair, and when you awoke this morning, the other side of the bed was cold.

But still - somewhere in the haze of sleep - you remembered shifting in the night. A subtle dip in the mattress. A breath not your own. The faint warmth of someone retreating just before your awareness returned.

Or perhaps it had been a dream.

“Cutie, are you listening to me?”

The sound of Rafayel’s voice draws you back. You blink, lifting your eyes to find him watching you from the seat beside you, head tilted in theatrical disappointment.

He has his sketchbook open across one knee, a pencil poised in his fingers. The carriage sways gently beneath you, but his hand remains steady.

“Sorry,” you murmur, offering a sheepish smile. “I lost my focus.”

His brow furrows, faint and brief. Just a flicker of concern. “Did you not sleep well last night?”

You hesitate, but only for a second. “I did. I think I’m just anxious. I keep wondering when we’ll finally reach Linkon.”

He glances out the window, his features bathed in the golden morning light that makes his skin look almost too smooth, too perfect, like something carved and painted rather than born.

“We should arrive tomorrow before lunchtime,” he says, then looks back at you. “I didn’t know you were that excited to see it.”

You sigh softly, your gaze drifting to the scenery rushing past the window. The world out there feels both impossibly far and achingly close.

“It always sounded like a place where life happens. Loud, inspiring, brilliant,” you say. “A complete opposite of where I’m from.”

You don’t realize you’ve gone quiet until Rafayel shifts beside you, watching you with an unreadable expression.

You blink, shake your head, and smile at him.

“I think I’m ready to draw you.”

That earns you a defeated sigh, yet he hands you the sketchbook.

“Since you were so eager.”

He leans back into the cushioned seat, arms crossed. You start with the shape of his face, tracing the curve of his jaw. You mark the arch of his brow, the slope of his mouth. But nothing sits right. Everything comes out just a little off. His lips are too wide. His eyes too hollow. His nose - good gods, what is that?

He watches the entire time.

At first, he’s quiet, eyes flicking between your hand and your face as if studying which one is struggling more. You can feel the weight of his gaze - not heavy, not judgmental, but patient.

Your strokes grow slower. More hesitant. It’s harder than you expected. He’d made it look effortless - lines gliding into shape, expression emerging from nothing. But now, your pencil skips, your fingers cramp, and the image looking back at you is not him. Not even close.

You stare at it for a long moment, then try to hide it behind your palm.

“No,” he says softly, amusement in his voice. “I saw that. Show me.”

“It’s terrible.”

“I’m your teacher. You must let me critique you.”

You shake your head, but he leans closer.

“Come on, darling. I can handle a poorly drawn nose.”

You exhale, defeated, and slowly turn the sketchbook toward him.

He takes one look, then raises his hand to cover his mouth. Not fast enough.

The laughter doesn’t quite escape him, but the betrayal is written in every twitch of his lips, every tremor in his voice.

He clears his throat, and composes himself. “It’s - charming.”

“Don’t lie.”

“No, no, I mean it. It’s… very expressive.”

You squint at him. “You’re holding back laughter.”

He holds up his hand. “Only because I respect your effort.”

Your cheeks flush, but despite yourself, a laugh bubbles up. “You’re impossible to draw.”

“You’re telling me. I’ve spent ages avoiding mirrors.”

༺｡° .ᘛ𓆩♡𓆪ᘚ. °｡༻

After the laughter faded and the sketchbook was tucked firmly back into his satchel, you returned to reading your book. Rafayel didn’t push you to try again. He didn’t tease. He simply went quiet as he started reading a book he picked out before you departed, and the hours slipped by.

Now, you stand before the window of your room in the second inn - a taller, older building with high, arched ceilings. The curtains are pulled aside as you gaze at the deep navy sky. You’re not tired exactly, but there’s a weariness in your bones. It’s the kind of weight that arrives after trying, failing, and wondering if you should have tried at all.

You’d wanted to draw him. Not just because you wanted to learn - but because it felt like a way in. And you failed. You had felt incompetent - with the way your pencil refused to cooperate, the way your hands couldn’t capture a smidgen of his essence.

So, you had just laughed it off. And now… you don’t know what to make of it.

You turn around, ready to curl up in the bed with your book, but a knock on the door stops you. The familiar and distinct knock.

When you open it, you see Rafayel leaning casually against the doorframe, holding the sketchbook and a pencil. His sleeves are rolled to the elbows, and the collar of his shirt is loose.

His eyes meet yours. “Let’s try again.” He continues, as you step aside to let him in. “You do realize drawing a portrait in a moving carriage is something even trained hands deem a challenge?”

There’s no trace of mockery in his voice. “You were ambitious,” he says, setting the sketchbook down at the edge of the bed. “Not foolish.”

With your permission he settles onto the bed, balancing the sketchbook on one knee. You follow, smoothing the fabric of your nightdress as you sit beside him, close enough for the heat of his thigh to brush yours when either of you shift.

“Start with pieces,” he says, glancing at you. “They’re easier to focus on. Less overwhelming than the whole.”

Then he begins to draw. You watch as a single eye begins to take shape on the page. First the almond curve of the eyelid, then the sweep of lashes, the iris unfurling effortlessly.

You can’t look away. It isn’t just how well he draws. It’s how easily it comes to him, how everything seems to obey his hand.

“Here,” he says, nudging the sketchbook gently toward you, “your turn. Just replicate this eye. Nothing more.”

You take the pencil from him, your fingers brushing his. You try to draw it exactly as he did. But it is so embarrassingly different than his.

He leans in - breath soft against your ear.

“Don’t think about making it beautiful,” he murmurs. “Just make it real.”

You nod, biting your lip slightly, and start over.

Somewhere between the third and fourth sketch, he shifts, stretching out his legs with a quiet groan, and you do the same, both of you sliding down off the bed to sit on the floor, backs resting against its edge. Now, you’re shoulder to shoulder.

You start to feel more confident, and now you’re itching to try your hand at drawing his eyes again. You steal a glance upward, then look away too fast. You try again, tracing the shape in your mind before putting it on paper. But when you lift your eyes for the third time, he’s already watching you.

“You’ll have to keep looking,” he says, voice teasing. “It’s difficult to draw something while avoiding it.”

Your eyes meet his. The candlelight reflects in his irises, painting them with impossible color-ocean blue melting into fuchsia dusk. They look unreal. Like they were never meant to be captured by anything as clumsy as your hand.

Your breath catches. You glance back down at the page, heart skipping once. But you try again.

His gaze doesn’t waver. He doesn’t smile, doesn’t tease - he simply lets you look.

You lose track of how long you spend on his eyes. The candle burns lower, the air cooler, and yet the heat in your cheeks doesn’t fade.

When at last you stop, your hand aching, your page smudged and worn at the edges, you look up at him. He leans closer, observing your work.

Then he nods once, “You’ve learned,” he says, his voice quieter now. “It’s good. Truly.”

You sigh in relief.

He looks at you a beat longer, then glances down at the sketch again.

“Shall we move onto the lips?”

The heat floods your cheeks at once. You close the sketchbook a little too quickly and give a small, flustered laugh.

“It’s late,” you murmur, unable to meet his eyes. “I think… we should leave that for tomorrow.”

You can hear the amusement in his voice. “Of course.”

He stands up from the floor, and then extends his hand. “Come on, artist.”

You take it, your fingers slipping into his palm, letting him pull you upright. His strength is effortless, his grip warm.

“Thank you,” you say, still holding his hand for a moment before letting go. “For the lesson.”

His brows lift slightly, and then he gives a soft laugh, “Cutie,” he murmurs, stepping back toward the door, “I’m more than happy to be your inspiration.”

When you reach the threshold, he doesn’t move immediately. He pauses, one hand resting against the doorframe as he turns to face you again. The corridor beyond him is dim and quiet, lit only by a line of low-burning sconces.

He looks at you then - not with mischief, not with bravado, but with something that feels almost like admiration and makes you hold your breath. He leans in, and then - his lips find your cheek.

He pulls back slowly, and he meets your eyes again, “Goodnight.” he whispers.

༺｡° .ᘛ𓆩♡𓆪ᘚ. °｡༻

The kiss still lingers, somewhere beneath the surface of your skin.

You didn’t need to dream about it - the memory was vivid enough, playing on a loop behind your eyes as the morning sunlight spilled through your window, as your breakfast was served, as the two of you sat across from one another at the carriage. He hadn’t mentioned it. Neither had you.

And yet every glance, every word passed between you was tinged with something new.

Now, the city opens before you like a stage, and you step into it not as a dreamer but as a living part of it. Linkon.

It does not welcome you gently.

The streets are alive in a way you’ve never known - the clatter of hooves on stone mixes with the thrum of chatter and bartering voices, the rustle of silk skirts and crisp boots, the slap of linen being drawn back from market stalls. Color spills from the awnings of cafés and apothecaries, bookbinders and watchmakers, their storefront windows glowing with early afternoon light.

Perfumes drift through the air, mingling with pipe smoke, expensive leather, roasting nuts, varnish, the sweet tang of grapes and pomegranates from a vendor’s cart. Somewhere not far, a woman is singing in another language, her voice soaring above the clamor with eerie beauty, like a siren refusing to be drowned out.

Your steps are slow. You want to see everything. And you do - but perhaps too much.

You try not to show it. You keep your shoulders back, your hands at your sides as you walk, your eyes wide but not darting. Still, the sheer density of the world pressing around you begins to press inward. There are too many windows to peer into, too many conversations half-caught, too many directions to look.

And all of it is beautiful.

But it is also… loud. You’ve spent too long in rooms where the loudest thing was your own breathing. The hush of your cottage. The murmur of turning pages. The quiet hands of four strange men who moved with fluid elegance.

You should feel exhilarated. Instead, your breath quickens in your chest, just slightly. The noise doesn't grow louder, but it closes in. Your thoughts scatter like spilled seeds, struggling to hold onto anything grounding.

Rafayel, walking beside you with one hand in his coat pocket, slows his pace. He glances at you sideways, with quiet attention.

You feel his presence shift closer. Then, his voice - silky as ever - “Would you like to take my arm?”

You blink, staring at him for a moment. Then you nod, looping your hand around his elbow, the gesture settling in your chest like a soft exhale.

He leads you through a narrower street now, the crowd thinning just slightly. He guides you beneath a small archway, the stone overhead carved with faded floral reliefs. At the end of the alley is a wooden door painted in rich red color. A bell chimes when he opens it.

Inside, the air shifts and the city falls away.

The art supply shop is quiet - saturated with the earthy scent of aged wood, varnish, paper, and pigments. Shelves rise to the ceiling, stacked with hand-bound sketchbooks, jars of powders, brushes, wooden palettes.

A silver-haired man lifts his head from behind the counter, his face brightening with a respectful smile. “Ah. Mister Rafayel. It’s been too long.”

Rafayel inclines his head, smile faint but genuine. “You know how it is. I lose time when the seasons change.”

The man’s eyes drift to you, polite but curious. “And is this your apprentice?”

You flush at the word. Rafayel glances at you, amused.

“Something like that.”

You look around slowly, drinking in every corner of the shop. You exhale, deeper this time, and only then do you realize how tightly your lungs had been held.

༺｡° .ᘛ𓆩♡𓆪ᘚ. °｡༻

In your hands, you hold a new sketchbook and a couple of new pencils, wrapped neatly in brown paper. Rafayel carries his own bundle beneath one arm, mostly brushes. The two of you return to the busy city center, and your hand found its place back around his arm.

Then, a smooth, male voice calls out from behind.

“Rafayel!”

He stops mid-step, spine straightening with an audible sigh that seems to come for exasperation.

“Thomas,” he says, turning on his heel with a tight smile.

You turn as well, and your gaze lands on a tall, hazelnut-haired man in a crisply tailored suit.

Thomas’ attention turned to you for a moment as Rafayel introduced you, and then it returned almost immediately to Rafayel.

“I was going to send a letter,” he says, “about the new patrons. A few rather wealthy collectors with a particular interest in your work.”

Rafayel exhales through his nose, his voice dry. “Sending a letter still sounds good.”

Thomas lets out a slow, theatrical sigh. You catch the dynamic between them immediately -business tangled with camaraderie, wrapped in mutual irritation. It makes you bite back a smile.

“How about tonight?” Thomas offers, brushing imaginary dust from his lapel. “My wife and I will be attending the opera. You’re both invited to our box.”

You feel your expression brighten before you can stop it - Rafayel notices at once.

With a soft shrug that was far more graceful than indifferent, he says, “That might make the conversation tolerable.”

Thomas nods. “We’ll see you there. Half an hour before curtain. You remember the place.”

With a small bow he walks away, disappearing into the crowd.

Your excitement is short lived as reality settles in.

“Rafayel?”

He slows beside you, eyes flicking to you. “Yes?”

“I don’t have anything suitable to wear. Not for the opera.”

He chuckles and then without a word, slides his arm gently across your shoulders. The pressure is light, but firm enough to turn your path.

“That is easily remedied, cutie.”

༺｡° .ᘛ𓆩♡𓆪ᘚ. °｡༻

You sink into the soft, velvet-lined chair beside Rafayel. Just in front of you, seated slightly lower in the the private box, Thomas leans toward his wife - a sweet-faced woman with a softly rounded belly, her gloved hands folded neatly atop it as she murmurs something to him.

You glance down at your dress, still in disbelief that you’re wearing it.

It had all happened so quickly. Once you and Rafayel arrived at the atelier, he had requested something ready-made and elegant, but capable of last-minute alterations. The dress he picked out from the selection for you was a silk unlike anything you’d worn before, paired with gloves with pearls for buttons.

You had tried to protest, voice wavering with unease as the seamstress circled you, pins in her teeth. You’d told him the dress was too much. That you didn’t need it. That you’d rather miss the opera entirely than having him spend so much on you.

But Rafayel hadn’t even looked at you when he responded - just nodded at the modiste to continue, and said, simply, “No one should miss beauty for the sake of modesty.”

And now, here you sit, the silk with intricate details molded to your figure.

The opera house itself feels like another world entirely - its domed ceiling painted in lavish murals of gods and goddesses, the balconies dressed in red velvet and trimmed with gold, chandeliers gleaming like constellations overhead.

On stage, the first act unfolds in a fever of color and music.

You hadn’t expected to be captivated. Opera, in your memory, had always been too distant, too slow, even boring. But here, in Linkon, it’s different. The voices rise and fall like ocean waves, filling every corner of the space with raw, glittering emotion. You don’t even realize you’re holding your breath until the curtain lowers at the end of the first act and the world exhales around you.

Beside you, Rafayel’s attention remains elsewhere. He speaks with Thomas, the two men conversing in low, imperceptible voices. You try not to listen, and even if you wanted to, you wouldn’t be able to comprehend their words.

Meanwhile, Thomas’ wife battles against sleep, her posture slowly slumping, her fan drooping ever lower with each yawn. By the end of the second act, during the intermission, she lets out a delicate sigh and leans toward her husband, murmuring something you don’t quite catch.

The two of them rise from their seats, and Thomas turns to Rafayel.

“We shall take our leave. You two stay and enjoy the rest.”

With that, he offers you both a shallow bow, and leads his sleepy wife out of the box, her gloved hand curled around his arm, her eyes already half-lidded.

The two of you are left alone in the private box - surrounded by hundreds of people, and yet cloaked in velvet shadows.

The third act unfolded in slow, aching brilliance.

The soprano’s final aria echoed through the vast chamber, her voice breaking just enough on the final note to shatter the silence before the ovation. You sat still, breath caught, eyes wide. You’d never seen anything like it. You weren’t sure you ever would again.

Beside you, Rafayel didn’t move.

He remained composed, hands folded, posture relaxed, but more than once you felt his gaze shift to you.

༺｡° .ᘛ𓆩♡𓆪ᘚ. °｡༻

The air outside had cooled considerably, but you barely notice it. Not with your skin still tingling from the heat of the performance, from the music that still rings in your chest. Now, with your arm tucked through Rafayel’s once more, you walk through Linkon’s midnight streets, and it feels like the entire city had softened.

“Did you hear the way she held that note?” you ask, turning to him, your voice bright with awe. “I thought she would lose breath.”

Rafayel chuckles low in his throat, his gaze resting on you rather than the road ahead.

“Her name is Angelica. She’s very good at pretending to die.”

You laugh and continue talking - your words a cascade of impressions, hands gesturing as you try to describe the sets, the costumes, the singers.

“I thought I’d be bored,” you admit, shaking your head. “Or lost. Or tired. But I couldn’t blink. I didn’t want to miss a single moment.”

“I noticed,” Rafayel murmurs, a smile pulling at the corners of his mouth. “You leaned forward so far, I thought you might tumble from the box.”

“You wouldn’t have let me fall.”

“No,” he says softly. “I wouldn’t.”

You falter for just a breath. But the moment passes quickly, with the next wave of your excitement. You tell him about your favorite line - you try to quote it, mangling the phrasing, and he corrects you with the original cadence, eyes glittering when your laughter echoes the quiet street.

You didn’t realize how much you’d been smiling. How light your body felt, even in the heavy silk of the new dress. How much the city stilled, becoming nothing more than lamplight and his presence beside you.

Rafayel said very little. You didn’t notice it, but his gaze was warm, indulgent, like someone being handed the chance to rediscover the beauty of something he thought he’d grown numb to.

༺｡° .ᘛ𓆩♡𓆪ᘚ. °｡༻

The hallway of the inn is quiet, dimly lit by wall sconces casting golden light across marble floors and rich green wallpaper. Your steps slow as you approach your door, but you hesitate for a moment.

Your hand lifts, to the base of your spine, where the fine silk of your dress was drawn tight with laces and buttons. You were too wrapped in the performance, in the city, in him, to think about changing out of the dress.

You turn toward him.

“Rafayel,” you say, your voice quiet.

He turns to you.

You try to sound casual, your hand gesturing vaguely behind you.

“Would you… mind helping me with this? I just need someone to… free me from the dress.”

The silence that follows isn’t long. Then he nods.

You open your door and let him inside.

Drawing the curtains closed and lighting the candles, while he sets up the fireplace for you, you stand in the center of your room, your spine impossibly straight as you turn your back to him.

You remind yourself that this isn’t new. He’d seen you sick. He’d brought you warm cloths, tucked you beneath blankets. He’d seen your bare shoulders before. Yet your heart fluttered in your ribs as he moved behind you without a word.

The first button slides free with a delicate tug, and then another. But it’s the laces he pauses over, his fingertips resting just below the knot.

When he finally begins to loosen the laces, he does it slowly - painfully slow. The fabric resists at first, tight from the wear of the evening, but his hands are diligent. With every loosened part, your breath deepens, your chest swelling against the bodice as it begins to give. Cool air brushes your skin where the fabric parts, making your skin prickle, but you don’t shiver.

With a slow exhale, you let the dress slide over your hips, letting it pool around your feet, leaving you in the soft silk underdress, the shape of your figure no longer hidden.

“Thank you,” you say quietly, your back still turned to him, as you step over the dress. “For helping. And… for tonight.”

He doesn’t answer at first. Instead, you feel him step closer, your bodies only a breath away now. You turn to face him, and he is so close you catch the firelight in his eyes, the bright blush high on his cheekbones, even the tips of his ears.

He doesn’t try to look away, and you don’t think you can.

Without a word, he reaches for your gloved hand. His own are steady, but there’s a tremor in his breath as he works the pearl buttons free. When the second glove finally peels away, his lips meet your knuckles. Then, he turns your wrist upward. The kiss he leaves there is hotter, hungrier, his tongue grazing the blue river of your pulse. The skin there is sensitive, thinner, and the way his lips brush across it makes your knees go weak, but you stay still.

His mouth travels higher. Another kiss, slow and careful, against your forearm. Then higher, where the strap of your underdress rests on your shoulder. His lips press there, and he breathes you in, like he’s trying to commit the scent of you to memory. A fractured sigh escapes him.

His other hand rises, steady and warm, and finds your chin. His thumb brushes your cheek, tilting your face up until your eyes meet his. His eyes are midnight storms, flickering to your mouth.

And suddenly, the world narrows.

All you can see are his lips - soft, parted, so close you can almost taste them. He doesn’t move yet. He waits. He gives you one last breath to choose.

You don’t step back. You don’t break his gaze.

So he leans in, and kisses you.

It doesn’t feel real at first. His mouth finds yours with a tenderness that steals your breath, his lips pressing softly.

Your heart stutters, and yet the rest of you goes still - utterly still. Because it’s him. Rafayel.

The one who always seemed a little too perfect. Too brilliant. Too untouchable. The man who filled a room with laughter but somehow remained just beyond your reach. And now - he’s kissing you like you’re the one he’s been reaching for all along.

You didn’t expect this. Not from him. Not like this.

His hand stays at your jaw, his thumb brushing lightly across your cheek as his lips move over yours. And when his tongue brushes softly along your bottom lip, slipping past it to meet yours, tasting you for the first time - you melt completely.

Your hands float upward, unsure at first, then instinctive. They curl around his neck, sliding into the soft waves of his hair.

His kiss deepens - still tender, but deeper. He pulls you closer by the waist, your bodies flush now, the hard plane of his chest pressing against your breasts, his breath and yours mixing in the space between open-mouthed kisses.

One of his hands drifts lower, fingers slipping down the arch of your back before splaying at the top of your buttock. The touch sends a jolt of molten heat low into your stomach, coiling tight and needy. Your fingers tighten in his hair, pulling him impossibly closer. The kiss turns a little messier, your mouths opening wider, breaths coming faster, his grip pressing you against the hard ridge of his thigh.

But he starts slowing down. Bit by bit, the kiss turns liquid, the hand on your butt slides upward, fingertips brushing the sensitive dip of your spine.

He pulls away just far enough to rest his forehead against yours.

His thumb traces your swollen lips, his voice low and ragged. “You should sleep, darling.”

After a moment, you nod, though your eyes remain closed, lips still tingling, breath still uneven. When they flutter open, they meet his. The usual mischief in his eyes has dissolved, replaced by tenderness that makes your heart flutter. Moonlight spills through the window, glinting in his irises, and for a heartbeat, you see a flicker of something unreadable, that he quickly smothers beneath a slow blink. You don’t know if that was even real, or if your mind is playing tricks on you.

Then he leans in and presses a delicate kiss to your cheek, then the inside of your wrist. He wishes you sweet dreams, and steps out of your room.

When you lie in your bed, your body is still thrumming, your chest impossibly full.

And even as sleep pulls you in, the warmth of his kiss stays with you - on your lips, your cheek, your hand - as if he left pieces of himself behind to keep you company until morning.

⊹₊ ˚‧︵‿₊୨୧₊‿︵‧ ˚ ₊⊹

@verynormalsstuff @eliasxchocolate @haal07erlj @libriomancer @howvoiceless @celestialforce @tbaluver @zaynesjasmine1 @ladyparamount @xxfaithlynxx @totallytaurus4 @s-ugu @evil-mei @whatarewe-choppedliver @imeverycliche @blackwell-ninja @secretkiseki @kaya-nets @stellablobboo @ssetsuka @celestemcbrim @m00nchildwrites @yournextdoorhousewitch @mysticcoffeebean @beewilko @harmonyrae @animecrazy76 @hanamanefateris @itsmeaudrieee @gravity-valley @raiyuxa @skylaryoung2002 @dekiruxxx @angel-jupiter @daturasflower

[its-de]

gagging you with our red string of fate to shut you up for one fucking second

[its-de]

To anyone who sees this, I wish you warm fuzzy blankets and your preferred choice of milk or tea. Now go sleep sleep!!

[its-de]

WARNING do NOT start reading books and comics or watching movies or looking at art!!! you will start wanting to create art yourself. or god forbid. writing.

[its-de]

Somewhere between shadow and light

[its-de]

neeeeeeed a boy to shush and whisper me to sleep and tell me he loves me and kiss me on the forehead and

[its-de]

was gonna make a post about The Character but then i looked at my dash for 5 seconds and it would appear that everyone is also having the same experience so

[its-de]

reblog to gently bonk your mutuals on the head with a palm leaf this palm sunday

[its-de]

𝔪𝔞𝔤𝔫𝔬𝔩𝔦𝔞 & 𝔳𝔞𝔫𝔦𝔩𝔩𝔞

[its-de]