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[jinxecret]

Crowns of Laurel Chapter 4

“Take care of him.”

The words lingered in Galenthes’ mind, an echo of a promise spoken beneath the glow of lantern light.

He could still picture it—Pyrus’ grandfather standing at the open archway, his gaze steady as they watched over the boy who had sculpted him to life. The warmth of the moment felt distant now, but the weight of those words remained.

“He can be reckless sometimes, you see.”

Galenthes had only smirked then, brushing off the concern with easy confidence. “Leave it to me.”

At that time, it had been just words. But now, three weeks into living in Renkli Rüzgar, he found himself watching over Pyrus more than he cared to admit. Not because he had to. Not just because of the promise.

But because stepping too far away didn’t sit right with him.

Galenthes exhaled, stretching out lazily on the bench, his arms resting behind his head as he watched the training grounds before him. The air smelled of sweat, burning incense, and the faint spice of street food drifting from the nearby marketplace.

The soldiers of Renkli Rüzgar moved in perfect rhythm, their curved swords clashing like a dance. Each step was calculated, each strike flowing seamlessly into the next.

But Galenthes wasn’t paying attention to the fight.

His focus was elsewhere.

“Galenthes.”

Hazel eyes. Warm under the afternoon sun.

Pyrus stood before him, arms tucked into his sleeves, his presence cutting through the haze of Galenthes’ thoughts with ease. Behind him, the sound of sparring continued, but Galenthes barely registered it.

His smirk returned, slow and familiar. “Welcome back, hay-boy. How was the meeting?”

Pyrus exhaled, rolling his shoulders before sinking onto the bench beside him. “Nothing special, just updating the King about this… arch I’ve been working on.”

Galenthes tilted his head, studying him. “Is that so?”

Pyrus hummed. “It’s a good pay, though.” He stretched his legs out, his posture finally easing as he glanced toward Galenthes. “How about you? I thought you were training.”

“I’m human, remember? Your bodyguard needs some rest too.”

Pyrus raised a brow, a teasing smirk curling at his lips. “I thought pushing you into training would give you a break from me.”

Galenthes scoffed, smirk unwavering. “More like giving you a rest.” He replied as he lowered his arms onto the bench. “Besides, three weeks ago, I promised your grandpa I’d look after you.”

Pyrus snorted, bumping his leg against Galenthes’ playfully. “More like I would look after you.”

Galenthes only smirked in response, but before he could fire back, a voice called out across the training grounds.

“Galenthes!”

Both of them turned as a young soldier approached, sun-kissed skin dotted with freckles, a confident grin plastered across his face. He carried himself with the easy swagger of someone who enjoyed a challenge, his curved sword balanced lazily against his shoulder.

“You up for a match?” the soldier asked, tilting his head. “You’ve been making a name for yourself. Thought I’d test you out.”

Galenthes’ lips parted, a cocky retort already forming. His fingers twitched slightly against the bench—a habit, whenever the itch for competition settled in his chest.

It would be fun. He did enjoy it.

But then—

His gaze flicked back to Pyrus.

Galenthes sighed, smirk softening.

“Nah,” he said, stretching his arms behind his head. “I’ll join you guys next time.”

The soldier raised a brow, clearly surprised, but shrugged and jogged back toward the sparring circle without argument.

Pyrus shot him a sideways glance. “You sure? Didn’t think you’d turn down a fight.”

Galenthes turned to him, smirk returning—slower this time, almost teasing.

“And let you wander off alone?” His voice dipped slightly, low and smooth. “Not a chance.”

Pyrus blinked, warmth flickering in his chest before he scoffed, shaking his head. “Gods...”

Galenthes grinned, pushing himself up from the bench and then stretching again with an exaggerated groan. “Alright, what’s for dinner?”

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Pyrus and Galenthes stepped into the house—or what used to be a dormitory.

Now, it was something else.

Once a shared space for scholars, the building had transformed. A library where old conversations once lingered. An onsen where late-night studying used to take place. It was quieter now, filled only with footsteps that never strayed too far apart.

His room and workshop remained untouched, as if he still needed something to feel the same.

Pyrus exhaled, rolling his shoulders as he stepped into the kitchen, lantern light flickering against the stone walls. The warmth of spices lingered in the air, comforting in a way he wasn’t ready to admit.

Behind him, Galenthes followed.

Always following.

He leaned against the counter, watching with that same insufferable smirk as Pyrus pulled out ingredients, moving with muscle memory.

Then—

“Can I try?”

Pyrus didn’t even look up. “Nope.”

Galenthes raised a brow. “Why not?”

“You must be tired from all that training.”

That was a lie.

A terrible one.

Last week, Pyrus had let him near the stove. Once. And Galenthes had almost burned their entire kitchen down.

Galenthes smirked, like he could hear every word Pyrus wasn’t saying. “Is it because I burned something?”

Pyrus cleared his throat. “Nope. Just… rest, haha.”

“Hmm.” Galenthes didn’t budge. Instead, he tilted his head, watching him too closely. “I won’t learn if you don’t teach me.” His voice dropped slightly, smooth as silk, but something about it felt dangerous. “Humans make mistakes, right?”

Pyrus stiffened.

That tone. That damn tone.

He should say no. He should definitely say no.

But something in the way Galenthes said it—like a challenge, like a dare—like he already knew he would win—made refusal impossible.

Pyrus sighed, dragging a hand down his face. “Fine.”

The smirk that spread across Galenthes’ face was unfair.

He stepped forward, rolling up his sleeves too slowly, his movements too easy as he passed Pyrus to stand in front of the stove.

Too close.

Pyrus hated how casual he was about it.

“Alright, chef,” Galenthes murmured.

Pyrus crossed his arms. “If you burn it, I swear—”

“I don’t mind serving my King.”

Pyrus froze.

His stomach flipped.

That shouldn’t have made him react. It shouldn’t have.

And yet, something about the way Galenthes said it—too smooth, too certain—made it feel like something else entirely.

Pyrus forced out a laugh. “Nah, I don’t wanna be killed.”

Galenthes turned his head slightly, their eyes meeting. Too close. “Impossible,” he said smoothly, gaze steady. “As long as I’m here.”

Pyrus hated how easy it was for him to say things like that.

“Cringe.” He forced out another laugh, rolling his eyes.

Then—

The food nearly burned.

Pyrus reacted on instinct, reaching for Galenthes’ hand.

Their fingers collided.

Galenthes stilled.

So did Pyrus.

His breath caught—not just from the mistake, but from the sudden warmth.

When did Galenthes get this warm?

His palm was rough, fingertips calloused from training, yet Pyrus could feel the steadiness beneath his grip. Their hands were pressed together, fingertips brushing—lingering.

Galenthes wasn’t moving.

Neither was Pyrus.

His pulse pounded in his ears. He should let go. He should let go.

But he didn’t.

“Like this,” Pyrus murmured, voice barely above a whisper.

He guided Galenthes’ fingers, slow, deliberate, his own hand curling just slightly around his—steadying him. Or maybe steadying himself.

Galenthes watched him.

Not the stove. Not the food.

Him.

Pyrus was aware of it—painfully aware—but he refused to look up. Refused to acknowledge that something about this felt different.

Their fingers moved in sync, the spatula pressing into the pan, flipping the food with ease.

Perfect. Of course it was.

And yet—Pyrus felt like he was the one being turned over.

The moment stretched too long before he finally pulled away.

His hand fell to his side, cold where Galenthes’ warmth had been.

The smirk was gone.

And that was the most terrifying part.

Pyrus forced out a breath, dragging a hand through his hair. “See? That’s how you do it.”

Galenthes still hadn’t said anything.

Then—

BOOM!

A burst of gold and blue light flickered outside the window, the unmistakable sound of fireworks.

Pyrus turned to look, lips parting slightly. His heartbeat was still uneven— but for a different reason now.

Galenthes, however, wasn’t looking at the fireworks.

He was still looking at him.

Pyrus exhaled sharply, shaking himself out of it. He flicked his wrist, using his stone magic to extinguish the fire beneath the stove— clumps of rocks forming magically. Then, before he could overthink it, he grabbed Galenthes’ wrist.

“Let’s go,” he breathed.

Galenthes didn’t even hesitate.

He followed.

And as they ran through the streets, Pyrus wasn’t sure if he was running toward something—or away.

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The night air buzzed with energy, the scent of spiced nuts and burning incense thick in the air as Pyrus and Galenthes wove through the bustling town square. The crowd pressed around them, excitement rising with each flickering burst of fireworks overhead.

Golden embers scattered against the deep indigo sky, each explosion of color illuminating the awed faces around them. Pyrus, still gripping Galenthes’ wrist from their hurried escape, finally slowed, exhaling a quiet laugh.

“We made it,” he muttered, half to himself.

Galenthes, on the other hand, didn’t respond.

Instead, his gaze was fixed on the sky, blue eyes reflecting the golden hues of the fireworks, his expression—unreadable. This time, Pyrus turned his head slightly, watching him.

It was strange. Galenthes had only been alive for a few weeks, but in moments like these, it was easy to forget that. There was something deeply human about the way his lips parted ever so slightly, the way the light flickered across his sharp features, his shoulders completely at ease as he took in the sight.

Pyrus swallowed.

He should be watching the fireworks. Instead, he was watching Galenthes.

Before he could stop himself, his grip on Galenthes’ wrist loosened—lingered. But just as his thoughts began spiraling, the last explosion of fireworks burst in the air, sending golden streaks raining down before vanishing into the night.

Then—

Drums.

The crowd shifted, cheers rising as figures emerged onto the main road—sword dancers.

Dressed in dark blues and gold, the performers moved in perfect sync, curved swords flashing under the lantern glow as they twirled. Each movement was sharp yet fluid, a deadly elegance. The rhythm of their footwork, the way their swords caught the light—it wasn’t just a performance. It was a display of control, of grace, of something both ancient and alive.

Galenthes had gone still.

Pyrus glanced at him and immediately recognized that look—the sharp focus, the slight widening of his eyes, the way his smirk had faded into something softer, something more captivated.

Of course. Galenthes liked swords.

Pyrus had noticed it before, in the way he trained with the soldiers, the way he always ran his fingers over the hilt of a blade when he thought no one was looking.

So Pyrus made a decision before he could think better of it.

Without warning, he grabbed Galenthes’ hand and pulled him forward.

“What—?”

“No time,” Pyrus said over the music, his grin widening.

The moment they neared the dancers, one of the performers—an older man with sun-darkened skin and a knowing smile—extended his hand, offering them each a sword.

Pyrus took his without hesitation and turned to Galenthes, lifting a brow. “You coming?”

For a split second, Galenthes hesitated, glancing from the dancers to the blade being offered to him.

Then, as if a switch had flipped, his smirk returned.

“Try to keep up, hay-boy.”

He took the sword.

And just like that, they stepped into the dance.

The open space shimmered under the glow of lanterns, casting long shadows across the polished stone floor. The rhythmic clash of swords echoed through the night.

Pyrus moved with careful steps, his grip firm on the hilt of his borrowed sword. Galenthes danced beside him, his movements fluid, effortless—each strike and parry more like a performance than combat. Around them, other sword dancers moved in tandem, some experienced, others newly joining, their silhouettes blending into the flickering light.

It should have felt exhilarating. Freeing.

But Pyrus couldn’t quiet the weight in his chest.

He recalled the moment earlier—how Galenthes had turned down the duel. How he had dismissed an opportunity to prove himself in combat simply because Pyrus was waiting for him.

Was it really his own decision? Or was it because Pyrus had sculpted him to be this way?

A man devoted to him. A man who existed for him.

His hands tightened around the sword, jaw clenching. He had never thought about Galenthes beyond the perfection he had carved into him—his strong frame, the smooth planes of his muscles, the confidence in his stance. He had sculpted an ideal. But had he sculpted a person?

What if Galenthes only loved combat because Pyrus had made him physically suited for it? What if every choice he made, every moment of care, every word of affection—what if none of it was real?

But Khalen never—no. Pyrus shook the thought from his mind. He shouldn’t compare. Shouldn’t bring him into this. Galenthes was here. Galenthes was a gift.

“You’re thinking again.”

Pyrus jolted at the familiar voice, startled out of his thoughts. Galenthes smiled at him, tilting his head as he swayed his sword, his body still moving with the rhythm of the dance. His blue eyes were steady, watching him with something unreadable—something that made Pyrus’ stomach twist.

Pyrus forced a small smile, loosening his grip. “The swords are heavy, that’s all.” A weak excuse. “But I’d rather focus on this moment with you.”

Yeah. No thinking. No doubts. No guilt. Just movement.

Galenthes hummed in amusement, stepping in closer, his arm brushing against Pyrus’ shoulder as they turned. “So,” Pyrus spoke again, needing a distraction, “your training with the royal soldiers has been fun, huh?”

“It is.” Galenthes adjusted his stance with ease, his blade catching the light. “But I’d enjoy it more if you trained with me.”

Pyrus scoffed, shaking his head. “I’d break. My body isn’t made for fighting.”

“I don’t mind fighting for you then.” Galenthes said it so simply, so easily, as if it was the most natural thing in the world.

Pyrus swallowed hard. “Then, why didn’t you accept the duel earlier?”

“What, you think I’d let some nobody swing a sword at me while you’re stuck watching?” Galenthes twirled his sword, the motion smooth, controlled. “Besides, I didn’t want to keep you waiting.”

The answer made Pyrus’ chest tighten.

I didn’t want to keep you waiting.

That was it. That was all it took for Galenthes to cast aside his own desires. Had he truly wanted to fight? Had he wanted to stay in the training grounds longer? Pyrus would never know, because Galenthes had made his decision based on him.

Is this what I’ve done to him?

The guilt hit him like a strike to the ribs. He had sculpted Galenthes from longing—his longing for romance, for devotion, for someone to look at him and never look away. And Galenthes did. Without question. Without hesitation. But was it his choice? Or had Pyrus stolen that from him before he had ever drawn breath?

His fingers tightened around the hilt. He exhaled through his nose, steadying himself, before murmuring: “But does it make you happy?”

Galenthes turned slightly, as if the question had caught him off guard. His blade slowed for half a beat before he responded.

“Making you happy makes me happy, hay-boy.”

The answer settled like a stone in Pyrus’ stomach.

That wasn’t what he had asked.

Their movements shifted as the dance neared its final steps. Pyrus inhaled sharply, feeling the weight of everything—the sword in his hands, the way Galenthes moved so easily beside him, the gnawing guilt pressing into his ribs.

He turned his head slightly, just enough to catch Galenthes’ gaze between movements.

“I want to make you happy too,” he said, his voice quieter now, raw in a way that made his throat tighten.

Galenthes blinked at him, as if momentarily caught off guard.

“You are human, Galenthes.”

The final movement of the dance came—a slow, sweeping arc of their blades as they lowered them in unison, the last step settling into stillness.

Pyrus turned fully now to see Galenthes, heart pounding.

For a moment, Galenthes only smirked, tilting his head. He rolled his shoulders back, adjusting his grip on his sword, spinning it once with effortless control before setting the tip lightly against the ground.

Then—finally—he spoke.

“Well then, if you want me to have fun that badly, I suppose I don’t mind putting on a show for you next time someone challenges me.”

His voice was smooth, laced with amusement, but something about the way he said it made Pyrus’ heart ache.

A show.

Like he was performing. Like his choices were meant to be entertaining.

Pyrus forced a chuckle, though it came out weaker than he intended. “You don’t have to do anything just for me, you know.”

“And yet, I do.”

The words were lighthearted, playful. But they lingered.

Pyrus swallowed, turning away before he could dwell on them any longer. His stomach twisted—whether from hunger or something heavier, he wasn’t sure.

He exhaled sharply, forcing himself to move. “Come on. Let’s eat.”

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Pyrus stood before the arch, its towering form carved from pure Fate’s Zultanite—a precious stone known to shift colors under different lights. Even now, under the early morning sun, faint hues of gold and violet shimmered across its surface.

A few more refinements, and it would be complete.

Sweat trailed down his temple, but he barely noticed. His fingers curled tightly around the chisel and hammer in his hands—both forged from Zultanite as well, the only tools capable of shaping the sacred stone.

The arch was grand, its structure mirroring the elegance of Patria’s finest monuments (despite being in Renkli Rüzgar). The swirling carvings along its columns made the stone seem almost weightless, as if it had been sculpted by the wind itself.

A voice broke the silence.

“It’s almost complete, isn’t it?”

Pyrus tensed slightly at the sound, his grip tightening before he turned. A cloaked mage approached him, the deep folds of her robe swaying as she stepped beside him. Though her face remained obscured beneath her hood, her voice was unmistakably feminine.

“A few more days,” he muttered, running a hand over the carved surface. “I appreciate you teaching me more about stone magic these past three weeks. It made finishing this easier.”

The mage chuckled softly. “No need for thanks, child. I am the Royal Mage, after all. It was my duty to mentor you.”

She paused, tilting her head slightly. “Though I wonder—have you considered combat training? It may prove useful should you ever need to defend yourself.”

Pyrus let out a quiet exhale, rubbing his thumb along the edge of the chisel. “I’m not good at fighting.”

“We all have our own way of fighting,” the mage replied smoothly. Then, without waiting for his response, she turned, the edges of her cloak whispering against the stone floor.

“Come.” She gestured for him to follow.

Pyrus hesitated. Then, reluctantly, he set down his tools and stepped forward.

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The two watched from the sidelines as soldiers clashed in the training grounds. Galenthes was among them, his sword a seamless extension of his body. His movements were effortless, precise—more like a dance than a fight.

Pyrus’ gaze followed the flow of his strikes, the sharp angles of his form, the way adrenaline coursed through him, igniting something raw.

Then, without thinking, his eyes trailed lower—too low.

His breath hitched. Oh.

His face burned as he looked away too fast, as if the others might have caught him staring.

“Fortuna!” a soldier suddenly called, dragging him out of his thoughts.

A ripple of excitement spread through the training grounds.

“Teach us more of your magic, will ya?”

The commotion grew, eager voices rising. In the midst of it, Galenthes had gone still, his gaze flicking toward Pyrus. Their eyes met.

And then—he smirked.

Pyrus’ heart stuttered, but Fortuna spoke before he could recover.

“My, my,” she mused. “I would love to, but I was actually planning to teach Pyrus how to defend himself today. You’re all welcome to watch—or keep training, if you’d rather.”

“We can watch!” someone shouted immediately.

The soldiers crowded onto the benches, all eyes now locked on the two standing in the open space.

Pyrus shifted uncomfortably under the attention, gripping his chisel like it was an anchor.

“Alright,” Fortuna began, “as we all know, magic for humans is fueled by mana. Moreover, your intent must be clear. However, pushing beyond your limits leads to burnout—which drains you physically, mentally, and emotionally.”

She lifted a hand. A diamond sword shimmered into existence in her palm.

Pyrus nodded and extended his own hand—but as soon as he felt dozens of eyes on him, hesitation crept in. His stomach tightened, embarrassment prickling at his skin.

Then, without thinking, his gaze flicked toward Galenthes.

The swordsman sat among the others, arms crossed, watching him intently.

The smirk was gone now, replaced by something calm, expectant.

Pyrus exhaled slowly. His pulse steadied.

“Don’t worry about them,” Fortuna said. “Start with a dagger instead.”

He swallowed. “But… how did you create something out of thin air?”

“Remember,” she smiled, “Mana powers us.”

Pyrus nodded, closing his eyes. He focused—not on the pressure, not on the others watching—but on the weight of the weapon he wanted to create.

And then—he felt it.

When he opened his eyes, a diamond dagger rested in his palm.

Excitement flickered in his chest, but before he could react, Fortuna lunged at him.

“Now defend yourself!”

“What the—?!” Galenthes’ voice cut through the air.

Pyrus barely had time to register what was happening before he flung himself to the side, dodging her attack—only to stumble and land flat on his ass.

He groaned. “Hey! I told you—I’m not fit for fighting!”

Fortuna didn’t let up. “Then learn!”

She lifted a hand, and in an instant, clumps of daggers materialized in the air.

They rushed toward him.

Pyrus’ breath caught—too fast, he couldn’t—

Before he could react, Galenthes was already moving.

The world blurred as a strong arm crashed into his side, shoving him away.

Most of the daggers whizzed past them—but one struck.

A thin cut, slicing against Galenthes’ cheek.

Pyrus gasped, still winded from the impact. “Are you—”

Then—he saw it.

At first, he thought it was just a trick of the light. A faint glow along the cut.

Then, a single drop slid down Galenthes’ skin.

Not red.

Gold.

[jinxecret]

An oc

[jinxecret]

Crowns of Laurel Chapter 3

“So,” Galenthes—shockingly at ease for someone who had just been born—flopped onto his back, arms tucked behind his head, a lazy smirk curling his lips. He looked comfortable. Like this was the most natural thing in the world. “Basically, I was a statue, and you brought me to life?”

His piercing blue gaze followed Pyrus, who was pacing the length of the dimly lit room like a trapped animal. The moonlight caught in his disheveled hair, casting restless shadows along the walls.

Pyrus refused to look at him. Looking would make this worse. Much worse.

“Uh… yes?” His voice wavered slightly.

Galenthes hummed, stretching slightly like a satisfied cat. “Weird,” he mused. “Why do I feel so alive when I was just born?”

Pyrus stopped dead in his tracks.

Then—

“Galenthes, I don’t know!” His voice cracked, hands flying up in frustration as he finally turned toward him.

Their gazes met—blue against hazel.

And for a moment, the storm of panic in Pyrus’ chest stilled.

Like an anchor. Like something meant to be there.

It made no sense.

He ripped his eyes away.

Galenthes exhaled, unbothered. His expression remained unreadable, his smirk ever-present but softer now. “You made me.”

The words settled between them, heavier than they should have been.

Pyrus swallowed.

Galenthes shifted, resting an elbow against the pillow, head tilted in quiet amusement. “I assume I’m your ideal man.”

Pyrus blinked. What.

Galenthes studied him, slow and deliberate, like a puzzle he was eager to solve. “Well,” he continued smoothly, too smoothly, “I came from your hands. Your mind. Your vision.” He smirked. “So maybe my personality is your type.”

Pyrus malfunctioned.

Did he… even think about Galenthes’ personality when making him? What kind of men did he actually like?

Oh.

Thrill.

And Galenthes—was nothing but thrill.

His grip tightened at his sides. “You—” His teeth clenched, heat rushing to his face. “You’re too cocky.”

Without thinking, he grabbed the nearest book from the bedside table.

“You’re annoying.”

THUD!

The book soared toward Galenthes—only for him to effortlessly dodge, his smirk never once faltering.

“Aww,” he cooed, voice dripping with amusement. “You triggered, hay-boy?”

Hay.

WHAT.

Pyrus gawked at him. “Where did you even get that from?!”

Galenthes grinned, stretching again, clearly enjoying himself. “Surely you can see it.” He flicked his gaze over Pyrus’ wild, tousled hair.

The realization hit, and Pyrus wanted to scream.

Just like that, it didn’t even feel like Galenthes was born today.

He felt alive.

Too alive.

“And,” Galenthes mused, “I can see you’re red as a tomato.”

His blue eyes never left Pyrus.

Scowling, he crossed his arms, gripping his sleeves so tightly it almost felt like a shield. “You’re infuriating,” he muttered.

Galenthes merely chuckled, shifting once more like he was settling in for a long, long conversation. “And irresistible.”

“Oh my gods.” Pyrus dragged his hands down his face, groaning. “You were supposed to be just a sculpture. An art piece. Not a menace.”

Galenthes grinned, all teeth. “Maybe I’m both.”

Pyrus finally turned to glare at him, prepared to launch another book, but—

The smirk on Galenthes’ face faltered.

Just slightly.

Something shifted.

His expression softened, curiosity flickering behind his blue eyes as he tilted his head.

“You really don’t get it, do you?”

Pyrus frowned. “Get what?”

Galenthes didn’t answer right away.

Instead, he pushed himself up, his movements slower, more deliberate. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees.

The shift was subtle, but it changed the air between them.

Pyrus’ throat suddenly felt dry.

Galenthes watched him. Not with amusement. Not with teasing.

With… something else. Something heavier.

“You created me,” he said again, quieter this time. “Not just as a sculptor. You brought me to life. No magic circles, no grand rituals. Just… you.”

His voice was calm. Too calm.

Pyrus stiffened.

Galenthes was still watching him. Studying him. Searching for something in his face. “That means something, doesn’t it?”

The words sank into Pyrus like cold water.

He knew what Galenthes was getting at. Of course, he did.

Because in Patria, there was only one kind of person who could breathe life into stone. Pygmalion. One kind of person who could do the impossible.

And if anyone found out—

Pyrus forced out a laugh, too quick, too forced. “Don’t flatter yourself.” He turned away, rubbing the back of his neck, trying to shake the weight pressing against his ribs. “I was probably just lucky. An accident.”

Galenthes hummed, unconvinced. “Sure. If you say so, hay-boy.”

Pyrus groaned, finally dropping onto the bed next to him and burying his face into the nearest pillow. “I hate you.”

“Again, you are my sculptor,” Galenthes countered smoothly. “Which means you kinda love me, actually.”

Pyrus let out a muffled scream against the pillow.

Galenthes just laughed.

Pyrus groaned again, voice muffled. “Why are you still talking?”

Galenthes, sprawled comfortably beside him like he belonged there, didn’t even blink. “I’m trying to understand the circumstances of my existence.” His smirk was effortless. “And I figured you—the one who created me—would have a decent answer.”

Pyrus turned his head just enough to glare at him. “You figured wrong.”

Galenthes clicked his tongue, unimpressed. He propped himself up on one elbow, tilting his head slightly, watching Pyrus like a puzzle. “Why did you make me?”

Pyrus froze.

His fingers curled into the sheets. His body tensed at the question—not because it was unexpected, but because he did know the answer.

And he was terrified of it.

The silence stretched between them.

“…Well?” Galenthes prompted again, still watching him.

Pyrus swallowed hard, heat rising to his face. “I… I don’t know.”

Galenthes sighed, as if disappointed. “Liar.”

Pyrus shot upright, eyes blazing. “Oh, shut up—”

But Galenthes only smirked wider, his voice dipping lower. “You didn’t just sculpt me,” he murmured. “You obsessed over me. You carved every detail with care.”

He stretched slightly, his well-defined form shifting under the dim light. “You gave me this—which, if I may say, you did an excellent job on.”

Pyrus opened his mouth—closed it.

Damn it.

Galenthes’ smirk softened. “You thought about it, didn’t you?”

Pyrus’ stomach flipped.

Galenthes wasn’t teasing anymore.

He was warm. Too warm. Real. Too real.

And Pyrus had no idea what to do with that.

And just like that, exhaustion finally claimed him.

Nine weeks. Nine weeks of sculpting, of sleepless nights, of chiseling away at both marble and his own sanity. Now, for the first time, his body surrendered.

His breathing slowed. The weight of his limbs sank into the sheets.

For the first time in weeks—Pyrus rested.

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The first thing Pyrus registered was warmth.

Soft sheets tangled around his legs, the scent of stone dust and oil lingering faintly in the air. His body ached in that familiar way—the kind that came after weeks of pushing himself too hard. For the first time in forever, he had actually slept.

Then—

“Morning.”

A voice. Smooth. Amused. Way too close.

Pyrus’ mind hadn’t caught up yet, still lost in that hazy space between sleep and wakefulness. His body remained heavy, unmoving, but the words slowly seeped in, dragging consciousness with them.

The problem was… that voice didn’t belong to his grandfather.

Nor to any of the scholars.

His brain caught up.

Oh no.

A rush of memories from last night slammed into him all at once—the sculpture, the explosion, the golden light, the impossible warmth against his lips—

Not a dream. Not a dream. NOT A DREAM.

His breath hitched.

His eyes shot open—

TOO CLOSE.

Pyrus screeched.

“I—IIIEEEH!”

Pure panic shot through his limbs, his body reacting before his brain could catch up. He flailed, twisting away so fast that the sheets tangled around his legs, sending him crashing off the bed in a heap of blankets, limbs, and sheer terror.

A deep chuckle followed. A laugh.

A very human laugh.

Pyrus’ face was buried in the sheets, his limbs sprawled in the most undignified position possible. His heart slammed against his ribs, his breath coming in frantic wheezes.

“Was that a scream or a dying animal?”

Pyrus peeled his face from the sheets, glaring up through his mess of hair.

Galenthes.

Alive. Smirking. Stretched out across the bed like he owned it, arms tucked behind his head. Like some lounging prince. His blue eyes gleamed with amusement, his expression painfully relaxed for someone who literally didn’t exist yesterday.

Pyrus’ mouth opened—nothing came out. Too many emotions.

Then—

“Pyrus?”

His grandfather’s voice, from just outside.

SHIT.

Panic spiked. His entire body went rigid.

“In a minute!” he blurted, still a mess on the floor. His pulse roared. “You go first with the others!”

A pause.

“But we have to go to the museum—”

“NO. You all go first!” He was scrambling now, barely keeping his voice steady. “I—I slept like a baby last night! Super well-rested! So, uh, just go!”

Another pause. A long, doubtful pause.

Then, footsteps fading down the hall.

Pyrus let out a sharp breath, still kneeling on the floor, gripping his own hair. Crisis averted.

For now.

“You’re kind of dramatic, huh?”

Pyrus snapped his head up to find Galenthes watching him, unbothered, still lounging on the bed like this was the most natural morning of his life.

His patience snapped.

He lunged.

Galenthes let out a surprised oof as Pyrus grabbed him by the wrist and yanked him upright. “GET UP.”

“Woah, okay—” Galenthes laughed, stumbling as Pyrus dragged him toward the closet. “Are we running from something? A secret lover? A jealous husband?—”

Pyrus shoved him into the closet. “CLOTHES. YOU NEED THEM. NOW.”

Galenthes barely had time to react before Pyrus was already rummaging through his clothes, his hands moving on pure adrenaline-fueled instinct.

Patrian robes wouldn’t work (he’s already wearing one)—too obvious.

Something else, something larger—

There.

A Renklian tunic, a gift from one of the scholars. Too big for him, but perfect for Galenthes. He snatched it, shoving it at him.

“Put this on.”

Galenthes turned it over in his hands, examining it like it was some rare artifact. “Not bad. You have taste.”

Pyrus was already moving. “SHUT UP AND CHANGE.”

“You’re really bossy when you’re flustered, huh?”

“Galenthes, I SWEAR TO EVERY GOD—”

Galenthes grinned, utterly entertained. But, to Pyrus’ relief, he actually listened, shrugging on the tunic without further comment.

Pyrus bolted.

He didn’t think—didn’t hesitate—he just moved.

He sprinted out of his room, feet skidding against the polished floor as he rushed into the workshop—his open, doorless workshop. The cold morning air bit at his skin, the faint scent of stone dust and oil still lingering from last night’s work.

No time.

Galenthes was right behind him, his bare footsteps unnervingly silent as he followed.

Pyrus didn’t stop. He headed straight for the massive double doors leading to the main hall.

His pulse roared.

He threw them open.

The hall was clear.

Good.

Without a second thought, he grabbed Galenthes’ wrist again and yanked him forward, earning a confused grunt as they sprinted toward the side exit of the dormitory.

They needed to get out.

Now.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

This was a terrible idea.

Pyrus barely registered the world around him as he sprinted through the streets, dragging Galenthes behind him. His heart was still racing, lungs burning from how fast they had run from the dormitory.

He hadn’t thought. He hadn’t planned. He had just reacted.

The moment he heard his grandfather’s voice back at the dorm, his body had moved on pure instinct. Get out. Get away. Before the questions, before the suspicion—before the reality of what he had done fully caught up to him.

But now?

Now, they were standing in the middle of Renkli Rüzgar’s town square—crowded, loud, too exposed.

Pyrus let go of Galenthes’ wrist as if burned, running both hands through his hair in frustration. What am I doing?

Around them, the city pulsed with life. Market stalls lined the stone roads, draped in vivid fabrics of crimson and gold. The scent of warm spices and roasting meat filled the air, blending with the distant melody of a lute being plucked somewhere in the crowd. Merchants called out their wares, trying to lure in customers with promises of silk, jewels, and exotic trinkets.

It was everything Renkli Rüzgar was known for—magical and overwhelming.

And Pyrus was panicking.

“Alright,” he muttered under his breath. “Alright, just… think.”

He braced his hands on his knees, trying to catch his breath. “What now? What the hell now?”

Beside him, Galenthes stood completely unbothered.

“This is incredible,” the statue-turned-man mused, taking in his surroundings with childlike wonder. His piercing blue eyes flickered over every detail—the shifting crowd, the swirling patterns of the mosaic tiles beneath their feet, the golden domes of the buildings glinting under the sun. He inhaled deeply, as if savoring the very act of breathing. “So much color. So much life.”

Pyrus snapped his head toward him, eyes wild. “Are you insane?!”

Galenthes raised a brow. “Debatable.”

Pyrus groaned, “We’re supposed to blend in, not look like you’ve just seen the world for the first time!”

Galenthes blinked. “I have just seen the world for the first time.”

Pyrus opened his mouth—closed it—then groaned even louder. “I hate you.”

“No, you don’t.”

Pyrus ignored him, turning away sharply. His thoughts were a tangled mess, colliding into each other at full speed. He needed to think, needed to figure out what to do next.

He should have stayed in his room. Should have locked the doors. Should have—

A hand suddenly grabbed his wrist.

Pyrus froze.

When he turned back, Galenthes was watching him—his smirk was gone, replaced with something quieter, something almost… concerned.

“Breathe,” Galenthes said, his voice steady, unwavering.

Surprisingly, Galenthes knew exactly what to do. Not through logic, not through understanding, but through instinct. As if something deep within him—something beyond mere thought—recognized the tension in Pyrus’ body, the way his breath hitched unevenly, the way his fingers twitched, desperate for control.

Pyrus sucked in a sharp breath, but it was too shallow, too quick. His chest tightened, his thoughts raced—too many at once, colliding and overlapping until they were impossible to untangle. His hands trembled at his sides, fingers curling into the fabric of his robes as if that alone could steady him.

No. No, no, no—this was too much. What was he supposed to do now? Where could he go? How was he going to hide this?

A hand settled against his back—firm, grounding. Warm.

“Breathe,” Galenthes repeated, slower this time.

Pyrus tried. He dragged in another breath, but it was uneven, shaking on the way out.

Galenthes exhaled softly, then did something unexpected. He guided Pyrus’ shoulders down, just slightly, like he was easing tension out of stone. “Look at me,” he murmured.

And somehow, Pyrus did.

Blue met hazel—sharp, focused, anchoring.

His heartbeat, once erratic, slowed by a fraction. His breathing, uneven just moments before, settled into something softer and deeper— replaced with each quiet inhale, each careful exhale. The tension gripping his shoulders loosened, his fingers unfurling from the fabric of his robes.

He didn’t even realize it at first but slowly, his body remembered what it felt like to be still. To not be drowning in panic.

And just like that, the chaos inside him stilled.

Galenthes tilted his head. “See? Better.”

Pyrus scowled, yanking his wrist back. “Shut up.”

He’s back.

Galenthes just chuckled. “So. Now that you’re no longer malfunctioning—are you going to tell me what all of this is?” He gestured vaguely at the market, the people, the world around them.

Pyrus exhaled, rolling his shoulders. “It’s a town square,” he muttered. “Market district.”

Galenthes gave him a look. “Yes, I gathered that much. But how does it work?”

Pyrus stared at him. “…You really don’t know?”

Galenthes arched a brow. “Do you remember being born?”

“…Fair point.”

Pyrus sighed, rubbing his temples. Fine. If I’m stuck with him, I might as well teach him something so he doesn’t look like a complete idiot.

Pyrus gestured for Galenthes to follow, leading him deeper into the square, though his pace was quick and uneven—like he still wasn’t sure if stopping was the right idea. The streets bustled around them, filled with the scent of roasted nuts and honeyed pastries, the chatter of merchants haggling, the clinking of gold exchanged between hands.

His nerves still buzzed, his thoughts tangled, but at least they were away from the dormitory. At least no one was chasing them down—yet.

Then, out of the corner of his eye, he caught movement.

He turned just in time to see Galenthes reaching toward a tray of pastries displayed at a vendor’s stall, fingers mere inches from plucking one straight off the pile.

Pyrus reacted on instinct.

Smack!

Galenthes flinched, jerking his hand back as Pyrus swatted it away.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Pyrus hissed, barely resisting the urge to grab him and drag him off before someone noticed.

Galenthes blinked at him, head tilting. “Touching it?”

Pyrus inhaled sharply. “You can’t just take things—”

“Why not?”

“Because that’s stealing.”

Galenthes frowned, eyes flicking back to the food. “But if you wanted it, why not just take it?”

Pyrus groaned, already feeling a headache forming. He grabbed a handful of coins and shoved them into Galenthes’ palm. “Because you pay for things. Here. If you want something, buy it.”

Galenthes studied the coins in his palm, weighing them between his fingers as if trying to understand what made them so important. Then, without hesitation, he turned back to the vendor.

“I will buy this.”

The vendor, a woman with sharp eyes and an amused expression, raised a brow. “Three gold coins.”

Without even questioning it, Galenthes handed them over.

Pyrus stared.

No hesitation. No confusion. Just a simple exchange.

The vendor gave Galenthes a honey-glazed pastry, still warm from the oven. He took it with careful hands, turning it slightly as if analyzing its texture, then glanced back at Pyrus.

“…Now what?”

Pyrus let out a slow, long-suffering breath. “You eat it, you idiot.”

Galenthes lifted it to his lips, taking a slow, experimental bite.

The moment the flavors hit him, his blue eyes widened, something in his face shifting—like he had just discovered something far greater than mere food.

Pyrus watched, raising an eyebrow. “Well?”

Galenthes swallowed, still staring at the pastry like it had just changed his entire perspective on life. “…I think I might love food.”

A small, unwilling laugh slipped out of Pyrus before he could stop it. “Welcome to the world, then.”

As they continued through the square, Pyrus couldn’t help but steal glances at him.

Galenthes had no knowledge of the world. No understanding of how things worked. But he knew how to count? He knew exactly how many coins to give without hesitation.

It wasn’t just luck. He wasn’t guessing. He just… knew.

Pyrus frowned, his mind racing with questions he didn’t have answers to.

Galenthes, on the other hand, seemed entirely unaware of the way Pyrus was staring at him. He moved through the square like everything was new—because it was. He paused to run his fingers over rich fabrics, tilting his head at the sound of metal clinking in the distance, watching the way lanterns flickered in the evening wind like they were alive. He was captivated by everything, absorbing it all like a sponge.

Pyrus sighed every time he had to stop and explain something, every time he had to yank him away before he caused another scene—but somehow, the frustration wasn’t frustrating.

Somewhere between the exasperation and the teasing, the tension faded.

Somewhere between the rushed escape and the impromptu lessons on the streets, Pyrus stopped panicking.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The two sat beneath the moonlit sky, the distant hum of the city melting into the crisp evening breeze. The square had quieted, the earlier rush of merchants and shoppers replaced by the softer rhythm of the night—low murmurs, the clinking of plates, the occasional laughter from a nearby table.

Between them sat an array of dishes—savory pastries, stuffed vegetables, spiced meat still steaming from the grill, and cups of fragrant tea.

Pyrus barely touched his food.

Galenthes, on the other hand, was completely absorbed in figuring out how to eat. He frowned at the spoon and fork in his hands, flipping them between his fingers like he was testing a new weapon. The fork wobbled, barely hooking onto a piece of meat before slipping off.

Pyrus fought the urge to laugh.

Galenthes huffed, adjusting his grip, determined. This time, the bite made it to his mouth.

He chewed slowly, thoughtfully. Then, after a beat, he gave a small nod. “Not bad.”

Pyrus smirked. “Not bad?”

Galenthes gestured vaguely to his plate. “It feels interesting. Warm too. That spice—” He paused, letting the heat settle on his tongue. “—makes my mouth tingle.”

Pyrus rolled his eyes. “Again, that’s called flavor. You’re experiencing a meat’s taste for the first time, and all you have to say is ‘not bad’?”

Galenthes hummed, unconcerned. “I have high standards.”

Pyrus let out a quiet, amused breath. Of course he did.

Galenthes took another bite, then looked at Pyrus. “So, tell me something. Why are we here?”

Pyrus raised an eyebrow. “Because you were hungry?”

“No, hay-boy.” Galenthes leaned forward, resting his chin on his palm, smirking. “I meant here. This kingdom. This place. You.”

Pyrus shifted slightly. “I’m a scholar,” he answered, picking at his food. “An artist. A sculptor. I was chosen for an international program that sends artists across different kingdoms to study different forms of art.”

Galenthes raised a brow. “Fancy.”

“It’s my final year,” Pyrus continued. “I’ve been here in Renkli Rüzgar the longest.”

Galenthes tilted his head slightly. “And after that?”

Pyrus blinked. “What?”

Galenthes popped another bite of food into his mouth, chewing lazily. “What happens after? What’s next?”

Pyrus opened his mouth—then closed it.

A strange, uncomfortable weight settled in his chest.

What was next?

He had spent years traveling, sculpting, studying. But after this? After Renkli Rüzgar?

He didn’t know.

He should know.

His grip on his cup tightened. He had avoided thinking about it.

“Plus…” he started, then stopped again.

Galenthes’ smirk faded slightly, his blue eyes sharpening. “Plus what? What’s stopping you?”

Pyrus swallowed. The question sat heavy in the air.

His thoughts spiraled. He remembered his grandfather—kind, patient, always supportive. His grandfather had never pushed him, never demanded anything. But still, Pyrus couldn’t shake the nagging feeling—the quiet fear of disappointing him.

He remembered Galenthes—this impossible thing, his creation, sitting across from him as if he belonged in this world. A statue brought to life. A legend made real.

What would his grandfather think if he saw him?

Pyrus felt his throat tighten.

Then—

“You’re thinking too much again,” Galenthes murmured.

Pyrus startled slightly, snapping out of his thoughts.

He looked up to find Galenthes watching him—not with smug amusement this time, but with something quieter. Something unreadable.

Galenthes rested his chin on his hand, studying him. “You do that a lot, don’t you?”

Pyrus scoffed, trying to shake the feeling. “I have to think.”

“Mm.” Galenthes swirled his tea absentmindedly. “Sounds exhausting.”

“It is.”

“So don’t.”

Pyrus blinked. “Don’t what?”

“Don’t think so much.” Galenthes sat back, stretching. “Just do what you want.”

Pyrus let out a laugh, dry and disbelieving. “It’s not that simple.”

Galenthes smirked, tilting his head. “Isn’t it?”

Before Pyrus could answer, a familiar voice cut through the air—low, firm, and impossible to ignore.

“Pyrus.”

Every muscle in his body tensed.

The warmth completely vanished.

Slowly, dread curling in his stomach, Pyrus turned—

And there, standing just a few steps behind him, was his grandfather.

Watching.

Waiting.

The moonlight cast sharp shadows across his face, making his expression unreadable.

But his voice—his voice was heavy.

“To the dorm.”

Pyrus’ breath hitched.

His fingers curled around the edge of the table. He didn’t even glance at Galenthes. He didn’t have to.

The air had changed.

The fragile moment between them shattered in an instant.

He swallowed hard. “Grandpa… I can explain—”

“To the dorm,” his grandfather repeated.

And this time, there was no room for argument.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The lanterns flickered softly, casting long shadows across the room.

Pyrus sat on the edge of his bed, head down, fingers twisting into the fabric of his sleeves. Beside him, Galenthes lounged with unnerving ease, hands braced against the sheets behind him. He looked utterly unbothered, his sharp blue eyes studying the older man across from them.

Pyrus’ grandfather sat in the lone wooden chair, arms crossed. His bald head gleamed under the lantern light, deep lines of age cutting across his face. But despite his stern posture, his expression wasn’t angry—just tired.

“Why didn’t you tell me earlier?” His voice was steady, but there was an edge to it. Not quite reprimanding, but close.

Pyrus forced a stiff smile, glancing at Galenthes as if searching for an escape. “About my… uh…” He hesitated. “My friend?”

His grandfather’s brow twitched. “Stop lying, Pyrus.”

Pyrus flinched.

“I know he’s your statue.” His grandfather exhaled slowly, rubbing his temple. “The moment Khalen went to check on you, he told me you were gone. And when I went to your workshop myself?” He leaned forward, fixing Pyrus with a pointed stare. “Not only were you missing—so was the statue.”

Pyrus’ stomach twisted. Khalen. That name stung, but not as sharply as before. Even so, his gaze dropped to the floor, hands curling tighter in his lap.

His grandfather continued, voice quieter now. “I didn’t expect it would come to this…”

Pyrus’ head snapped up. “Come to what?”

A pause.

Then—

“Pyrus,” his grandfather murmured, “we are direct descendants of King Pygmalion.”

Something inside him froze.

Galenthes, who had been watching the exchange in amused silence, tilted his head slightly. But Pyrus—Pyrus felt the words settle in his chest like a stone. Heavy. Unavoidable.

His grandfather let the truth hang between them for a moment before he spoke again. “For eighteen years, after the last King died without an heir of his own, the council has been searching for an excuse—a way to decide the next ruler. And so they declared that whoever brings a statue to life… is the true king.”

Pyrus felt his blood run cold.

“I know,” he admitted, voice barely above a whisper. “That’s why I lied.”

His grandfather’s jaw tightened. “And what happens when people start asking questions? Everyone knows you were working on a statue for months—its sudden disappearance will cause suspicions. And worse, you’re bringing it with you.”

His gaze flickered to Galenthes, still looking comfortable on the bed, as if this conversation wasn’t deciding Pyrus’ entire future.

“We’ll… we’ll come up with an excuse,” Pyrus tried.

His grandfather shook his head. “I already handled it.”

Pyrus blinked. “What?”

“I accepted King Aslan’s offer for your stay.”

His breath caught.

“What?” he repeated, heart lurching painfully in his chest.

His grandfather finally met his gaze. “You’re staying here, Pyrus. You’re safer in Renkli Rüzgar than you ever will be in Patria.”

No.

No, no, no.

“But—” Pyrus’ voice cracked. “What about Mom? What about Patria?”

His grandfather’s expression softened, but he didn’t waver. “Pyrus—”

“Patria is my home!” His voice came out louder than intended, but he couldn’t stop himself. “I belong there—I can’t just stay here!”

His grandfather’s face darkened slightly. “Pyrus, your father was killed by the council. Not because he was defending them.” A pause. A breath.

“But because he was defending us.”

Pyrus’ chest tightened.

“You… You lied,” he whispered.

“I had to keep you and your mother safe,” his grandfather said quietly. “And now, I have to keep you safe.”

Silence pressed down on them. Pyrus felt suffocated.

He shook his head, gripping his robes so tightly his knuckles burned. “Screw that. I need to go back. I need to see Mom. I haven’t seen her in four years!”

His grandfather exhaled slowly. “Your mother and I would prefer you alive.”

Pyrus’ breath caught.

Alive.

That word—that damn word—twisted something inside him. Something bitter. Something unfair.

He turned away, blinking furiously, his vision blurring.

Then—his voice, small, broken.

“I don’t want to be the King.”

His grandfather hesitated.

Pyrus finally turned back toward him, his hands trembling in his lap.

“I don’t want the throne,” he whispered. “I don’t care about Pygmalion’s legacy. I don’t care about the council or their stupid contest.” His voice cracked. “I just want to go home.”

His grandfather said nothing.

Instead, he reached into his robes and pulled out a golden brooch.

The shape of a hand. A symbol of Renkli Rüzgar.

The moment he placed it into Pyrus’ hands, the finality of it sank in.

His citizenship. His new life.

Pyrus’ fingers trembled around the cool metal, his chest tight, like something was collapsing inside him.

His grandfather placed a hand on his shoulder.

Tears stung Pyrus’ eyes.

The weight of the brooch pressed into his palm.

And for the first time in his life—

He felt like he was losing everything.

[jinxecret]

Just wanna drop some unfinished artworks... and will never finish them haha

[jinxecret]

I always spam dash... 🤡

"If you use em dash in your works, it makes them look AI generated. No real human uses em dash."

Imaging thinking actual human writers are Not Real because they use... professional writing in their works.

Imagine thinking millions of people who have been using em dash way before AI becomes a thing are all robots.

REBLOG IF YOU'RE A HUMAN AND YOU USE EM DASH

[jinxecret]

being a writer is constantly google the definitions of words you already know the meanings of because your brain's always paranoid and telling you maybe you've been using them wrong your entire life

I can excuse misusing words in my daily life but my mlm slow-burn enemies to lovers smut has to be perfect

[jinxecret]

Once I "made" a custom emoji for my mum by crudely drawing a hijab on it and now whenever she wants me to buy a coffee for her I get a text like this

[jinxecret]

How to Write a Character Who Feels Like Throwing Up

When fear, dread, or guilt gets sickening—literally—your character is consumed with a gut-clenching feeling that something is very, very wrong. Here's how to write that emotion using more than the classic "bile rose to the back of their throat".

Start with the Stomach

This isn’t just about discomfort. It’s about a complete rebellion happening inside their body.

Their stomach twists like a knot that keeps pulling tighter

A cold sweat beads on their neck, their palms, their spine

Their insides feel sludgy, like everything they’ve eaten is suddenly unwelcome

They double over, not from pain, but because sitting still feels impossible

Add Sensory Overload

Vomiting isn’t just a stomach reaction—it’s the whole body.

Their mouth goes dry, and then too wet

Their jaw tightens, trying to contain it

A sudden heat blooms in their chest and face, overwhelming

The back of their throat burns—not bile, but the threat of it

Breathing becomes a conscious effort: in, out, shallow, sharp

Emotional Triggers

Nausea doesn’t always need a physical cause. Tie it to emotion for more impact:

Fear: The kind that’s silent and wide-eyed. They’re frozen, too sick to speak.

Guilt: Their hands are cold, but their face is flushed. Every memory plays like a film reel behind their eyes.

Shock: Something just snapped inside. Their body registered it before their brain did.

Ground It in Action

Don’t just describe the nausea—show them reacting to it.

They press a fist to their mouth, pretending it’s a cough

Their knees weaken, and they lean on a wall, pretending it’s just fatigue

They excuse themselves quietly, then collapse in a bathroom stall

They swallow, again and again, like that’ll keep everything down

Let the Consequences Linger

Even if they don’t actually throw up, the aftermath sticks.

A sour taste that won’t leave their mouth.

A pulsing headache

A body that feels hollowed out, shaky, untrustworthy

The shame of nearly losing control in front of someone else

Let Them Be Human

A character feeling like vomiting is vulnerable. It's real. It’s raw. It means they’re overwhelmed in a way they can’t hide. And that makes them relatable. You don’t need melodrama—you need truth. Capture that moment where the world spins, and they don’t know if it’s panic or flu or fear, but all they want is to get out of their own body for a second.

Don't just write the bile. Write the breakdown.

[jinxecret]

Chapter 1.

Nox waited outside his office till his R-driver came to pick him up. As the car started moving, he could see the busy people on the snowy streets, going about their day, they almost looked like little coloured dots against the white skies and grey streets. It was an especially harsh winter in the S-88 business district, something that hadn't been seen in centuries. Even the big Church which loomed in the distance appeared colder and distant than usual.

Besides, he had to change his schedule for the next few weeks, because of the predicted blizzard and it was a huge inconvenience. He had thought that it was just false news from an everyday news channel that his secretary had told him urgently, but when he saw today's weather for himself, he had to admit that the possibility of the blizzard was high and he was glad that he had postponed his meetings, atleast for the timebeing.

When he finally reached his penthouse, he freshened up and sat down at his desk. He checked his emails on his laptop and his phone dinged all of a sudden. He noticed that it was a message from his father, so he put aside his work for the moment. His father, Edward Wilkins, was a respected figure in the technological world and even when he had stepped down from the position as CEO when Nox had inherited it, he still hadn't given up on work, since he was the leader of one of the founding families of the entire sector- E-745.

But it was odd, even if him and his father were on good terms, his father still didn't message him on workdays, and even if he wanted to contact him, he always gave him a call. He noticed this especially since there weren't a lot of people who would message him privately, except his secretary and his employees in a few groups, rest all communication with his business associates happened through QuickMail. Still, he opened the messaging app to see what had happened.

Father: Meet me tomorrow at our house, 7:00 pm. Do not be late, it's an important matter and I cannot call you about it, I hope you understand. - Edward.

Nox: Alright. I'll be there.

×××××××××××××

The next day, Nox went about his day as usual- checking his workplace performance, watching reports from his company and attending a few meetings about the latest prospects of improving technology. He tried not to worry about what would happen in the evening, but even still, his employees and secretary easily noticed his bad mood and were more than happy to steer clear from him whenever he approached.

He reached his old manor at 7:00 pm sharp, letting himself in with the spare key. To his surprise, his father and mother were waiting for him in the living room, so he assumed that yesterday's message wasn't really a hoax.

Edward noticed his son, speaking up about the message as he arrived, "I'm surprised you responded to my message, considering that I always call you," he paused, taking a moment to think about the situation.

"It was your mother's idea, by the way, she thought that a call wouldn't be safe and I agree with her." He added, smiling at his wife, Mira.

Nox sat down beside his father, shaking his head and taking off his glasses to clean them. "Don't worry father, I did think it was a hoax at first, but I decided to visit you anyway." He greeted his mother with a small smile. "What did you want to talk about?" He asked his father, feeling curious. Something that couldn't be disclosed on a simple phone call like they did usually, meant that there was something serious going on and he didn't like being kept in the dark.

Mira sighed, she knew this was going to be a difficult part and she was glad that her son was here in person, because it would be easier to talk to him rather than on a call. She and Edward both knew how the event back in his highschool regarding his friend had affected him and since then, they both had been careful to not mention it. But since they had to talk about it today, she was nervous. Edward spoke up first, sensing his wife's discomfort. He wanted to start with a different topic, which would help them both discuss that difficult topic later on. "Son, you know I've always prepared you to be the future prophet from this family, if you were picked by the Church, right? Well, that's about to change, unfortunately."

"What do you mean?" Nox was careful enough to keep his voice neutral, although he wasn't really happy to hear the news. Every century, the Church selected a member of the four founding families to become the Prophet of God, the ultimate religious representative. Even though his family and the Kang family were the only ones left, this position hadn't become any less important.

The other family, the Lee family was destroyed by the greedy White family, after the righteous and clear leader of the Lee family, Ruby, had opposed the leader of the White family, John, in his political decisions as the Prophet, fearing that he would eventually bring corruption and evil towards the common people, using his influence and his followers- Starlight Group.

Nox snapped out of his thoughts however, when his father shook him again. This was just a thing of the past, which wasn't important to him or his plan, so he focused on listening to his father instead.

Edward sighed and continued speaking, after he had made sure that his son was listening. "The son from the Kang family, as you know, went missing in high school," Edward observed his son's neutral expression at the news, and he said his next words carefully, leaning back against the couch. "He still hasn't been found yet. And the Church has decided that it cannot host a fair contest when only one of the heirs of the family is present. Therefore the selection of the Prophet will be postponed until we find Eris."

Nox stiffened at the name and he stopped just as he was about to reach for a glass of water. *Eris*

*His friend.*

He still remembered, how he'd failed to save him, the last time he'd seen his face and no matter how much he tried, he couldn't forget it. The matter seemed almost stupid and childish in retrospect- Eris and his friend group had decided to follow a mysterious dark magic book from their highschool library, rumoured to have been left by the Starlight Group. It had become a big rumour in their school and everyone thought that it was false, but Eris wanted to take it a step further and actually investigate about it. Since he had been the one to suggest it, he was the one who took the responsibility to go first. Fearless and with a smile on his face, he performed the first ritual, only to find out that the book was indeed cursed by the Starlight Group, which allowed the Group to open a gateway to hell, only once in two centuries and he had performed the very same thing, hence ending up trapped in hell. Nobody had seen him after that, not even Nox.

"You know he cannot come back father. You know it. Once a person goes to hell, they never come back. The Church already has banished the Starlight Group and anyone associated with it. I have to admit, the Starlight Group was clever to hide their book in the restricted section of the school library by bribing the Headmaster, where no one would try and see it, except well, him, Eris." He replied bitterly, clutching the glass of water tightly in his hand.

Nox didn't want to remember the moment when he'd lost his only friend in front of his eyes, so he just stopped talking. Whatever this was, he didn't want to deal with it. He responded firmly to his father before standing up from his seat, not even drinking the water from the cup that he'd picked up before.

"I don't want to talk about it, father. He'll never come back, so tell the Church to make a decision and stop waiting for the impossible."

×××××××××××××

Author's note-

*This is the first chapter of my story, even if it's currently still a draft and doesn't have a chapter cover yet. I'd love to see any comments or feedback , greatly appreciated!*

[jinxecret]

Yes. Book cover. Final.

[jinxecret]

Finally decided to go back to my old cursed name, Jinxecret

Yes, I'm changing the name weltyzzoki to Jinxecret again

[jinxecret]

Crowns of Laurel Chapter 2

Pyrus moved through the crowded streets, his steps quick and purposeful. Bazaars lined every road, merchants shouting over one another to draw attention to their wares. The scent of spices, fresh bread, and hot stone filled the air, but he barely noticed. His focus was set.

People watched him pass—some smiling, some whispering behind cupped hands. Word had already spread. He ignored them. He was here for one thing: to find the perfect stone.

He slowed as he reached a shaded stall, its tables stacked with cut stone—alabaster, onyx, pristine white marble. He ran his fingers over the smooth surface of a block, testing its quality. A merchant in simple linen robes watched him with quiet amusement.

“You have a sculptor’s gaze,” the merchant mused.

Pyrus grinned, brushing dust off his hands. “Hah… I need something worth sculpting with. Better than Patrian Marble.”

The merchant studied him, then leaned in slightly. “There’s a new find. A marble black as night. When cut, it bleeds gold—the ichor of the gods.”

Pyrus blinked. His grin faltered. “Wait—what? A stone that bleeds?” He let out a short laugh, shaking his head. This has to be a scam. But he was desperate.

The merchant smirked. “See it for yourself.”

He turned to a nearby crate, unlocking it with a key that had been hanging from his neck. With a quiet click, the lid swung open, revealing jagged chunks of dark stone. Carefully, he picked up a piece and set it on the table. Then, from seemingly nowhere, he produced a hammer and handed it to Pyrus.

“Hit it.”

Pyrus raised a brow. “Excuse me?”

The merchant simply nodded.

Shrugging, Pyrus adjusted his grip and brought the hammer down hard. The stone cracked with a sharp snap—and then, impossibly, gold welled from the break, spilling onto the table like blood.

His breath caught. He stared as the golden liquid slowly faded, sinking into the stone, the fracture darkening as if healing itself. But the gold left a stain where it had spilled.

Pyrus finally looked up. “Where did you say this was from?”

The merchant chuckled. “Not everything’s free, child.”

Pyrus scoffed, already reaching for his coin pouch. He counted a few coins into the merchant’s hand, watching his face closely.

The merchant’s smirk deepened. “Renkli-Patrian Border.”

Pyrus froze. Then, he exhaled sharply. “You’re joking. That’s—what? A month’s journey?”

The merchant just smiled. 

“I’m feeling generous today,” the merchant mused, grabbing a quill and parchment from a nearby shelf. He scribbled a few numbers, speaking as he wrote. “I’ve got more of those, but in chunks. If you want a full block, I can fuse them with stone magic— but that’ll cost extra.”

He finished writing and slid the paper across the table.

Pyrus took one glance and nearly choked. “Six thousand?!”

The merchant only shrugged. “It’s rare. It bleeds gold. And you want enough for a statue.”

Pyrus exhaled, shaking his head. “Two thousand.”

The merchant grinned. “Five thousand, five hundred.”

“Two thousand, five hundred.”

“Four thousand. Last call.” The merchant’s tone was light, but there was a challenge in his eyes.

Pyrus clenched his jaw. Shit. “I—”

“Sold. Make three blocks.”

Both men turned. An old man stood nearby—Pyrus’s grandfather. Perfect timing.

The merchant straightened, recognition flashing across his face. Pyrus just blinked. “Grandpa?”

The old man stepped forward, running a hand over the uneven black stone. “Black Ichored Marble.” His voice was thoughtful, almost nostalgic. “Last time I sculpted this, it was Ivory.” He chuckled. “Brings back memories.”

Tick.

A tap from his chisel.

Tick.

Another.

Tick!

Gold seeped from the black rock, glistening under the dim light. It bled like something alive.

Pyrus barely noticed. He was already deep in focus, his hands steady as he chipped away at the stone. The room was quiet except for the rhythmic taps—his own little world, separate from the days he had spent doing nothing.

He sat slouched in his chair, his posture lazy but his hands precise. The block he worked on was small, a test piece, but he treated it with the same care he would a masterpiece. Bit by bit, he carved, his patience surprising even himself.

Footsteps.

Soft but deliberate, approaching from behind. He knew who it was, but he didn’t turn.

“You do know we have to research those first, right?”

A woman’s voice. Familiar. Warm. 

Pyrus stilled for just a second before exhaling sharply through his nose. Of course, it’s her. Khalen’s love.

“They’re extremely rare,” she continued, undeterred. “Our mentor said so.”

Pyrus gave a slight nod, unbothered. Too drained for a conversation—especially with her. He still couldn’t bring himself to look at her, not after everything. She was too kind, too beautiful, too… perfect. And he hated that he noticed.

He tapped his chisel against the stone again, letting the sound fill the space between them.

From the corner of his eye, he caught her smiling. Not out of mockery, but amusement.

“Yesterday’s event was nice, wasn’t it? You impressed the king.”

“Mhm.” His response was a quiet hum, barely above a breath.

“Imagine if you were related to… Pygmalion, wasn’t it?” Her accent curled around the unfamiliar name, a reminder that she was foreign—Berian.

That made him chuckle. A small, genuine sound.

“Must be nice to be royalty,” he muttered.

She tilted her head. “Well, people think you act like one—especially with your connection to your grandfather. Our mentor.” That felt like a beat. “I think they’re just envious.”

Pyrus scoffed, finally pausing his work. “Envy? What’s there to envy about me?” His voice dipped lower, quieter. “I have no love, Barbara.”

Then, a deep voice cut through the air.

“I have been looking for you, sculptor. Have you reconsidered my request?”

Pyrus and the blonde woman turned toward the grand archway. She stiffened before lowering into a graceful curtsy. Her gaze met Pyrus’s—brief but knowing—before she turned and exited, leaving the two men alone.

The workshop was vast, designed for both practicality and grandeur. Pyrus sat at his workbench, which, despite its heavy build, felt almost small in comparison to the open space around him. The desk was cluttered yet organized—chisels of various sizes, sculpting knives, and wooden mallets neatly lined up next to small bowls filled with crushed stone dust. Sketches of figures and unfinished designs were scattered across the surface, some pinned under smooth pebbles to keep them from catching the breeze. A half-carved piece of Black Ichored Marble rested in front of him, its dark surface reflecting the glow of lanterns hanging overhead.

Beyond the workbench, the massive marble block he had purchased earlier stood untouched, waiting.

The domed ceiling above was adorned with mosaic designs, depictions of winged figures and celestial patterns blending into the architecture, matching the heavenly light of the lanterns. Golden inlays shimmered along the walls, tracing the geometric carvings and embroidered textiles that softened the otherwise stone-heavy space. Despite the grandeur, this was still a place of work—powdered stone dust lingered in the air, coating the floor in a fine layer that had been disturbed by his movements.

One side of the workshop was completely open to the city, supported by tall, slender columns that let the fresh air roll in. From this height—the third floor of the building—Pyrus had a clear view of Renkli Rüzgar stretching into the distance. The rooftops of domed buildings, market squares, and temple spires spread below him, the distant hum of life drifting up with the wind. The scent of spices, oil, and sun-warmed stone filled the air, mixing with the faintest trace of incense from the temples beyond.

To his left, an arched hallway led deeper into his private space—his bedroom and office, where he often sketched or painted before bringing his creations to life in the workshop. But here, in this vast, open space, was where he shaped stone into something eternal.

And now, he wasn’t alone. His guest stood waiting, the weight of his presence settling into the room.

“Thank you for the kind offer, Your Majesty. However, I must decline once more.”

Pyrus forced a smile, though the air between them had grown heavy. He could feel the tension, the weight of expectation pressing against his ribs. He just wanted to sculpt. That was all.

“My mother’s waiting for me at home.”

The King hummed, trailing his fingers along the smooth surface of the huge block of Black Ichored Marble. “A mother only wants the best for her son, doesn’t she?” He gave a knowing smile. “As a parent, I would say the same.”

Pyrus nodded slowly, unsure how to respond. First Barbara, now you. Leave me alone and let me sculpt my ideal man in peace, oh my lord.

The King continued, voice warm yet deliberate. “Surely, she would want you to live a better life. With a grand position.”

Pyrus blinked. Was that an insult?

Clink. Clang. His chisel slipped from his grip, landing against the floor.

“Pardon?” His tone was sharp now, the mask of politeness starting to crack.

The King chuckled—not kindly, but with an edge of amusement. “Magic flows within us all, as long as we have Will. Yet Patria restricts that potential, doesn’t it?” He gestured vaguely. “A sculptor of your talent, forced to work by hand. Unable to use magic without some… supervised ‘license.’” He scoffed. “Here, there is no such thing—only discipline.”

Pyrus said nothing, but his jaw tightened.

“And tell me, what has that system done for you?” The King stepped closer, his voice lowering. “A waste of time. Lesser productivity. And for what? A Council that rules instead of a stable Royal Family? A government too busy with its own infighting to recognize your gift?” He tilted his head. “Tell me, sculptor—how long until Patria tears itself apart?” 

Pyrus froze. His throat tightened, words failing him.

The King studied him, eyes gleaming with satisfaction. He had struck something.

“Or…” His voice turned smooth, almost teasing. “Are you still chasing fairytales? Love?” He let the word linger, letting it seep into the silence.

Pyrus swallowed. His grip on the table tightened.

“I’d be happy to arrange a marriage for you,” the King continued, tilting his head. “One of my daughters, perhaps? You would live in comfort. Admired. Wanted.”

Pyrus’s fingers curled into a fist. Wanted. 

I’m into men, you bozo. 

“How generous of you,” Pyrus hummed, keeping his irritation buried under forced politeness. “But my mind is set. I’ll be returning home—to my mother—soon.”

The King’s smile didn’t falter. He had gotten under Pyrus’s skin, and he knew it. With an air of satisfaction, he turned on his heel. “Very well. I’ll return later to change your mind.”

His footsteps faded down the hall.

Pyrus let out a sharp exhale, shaking his head. No more interruptions. Please. He crouched down, picking up his fallen chisel, his fingers tightening around it. The weight felt grounding. He turned back to his work, gripping the tool like it was the only thing keeping him sane.

He took another deep breath—it didn’t work. 

A year ago, all the scholars had been commissioned to present a gift for the royal wedding. Orders from the King. Pyrus had been assigned a sculpture—a grand piece, paid for in gold. Back then, he hadn’t thought much of it. It was just work. Something to keep him busy. Something to distract him. And for a while, it worked. He chiseled away at the marble, letting his focus drown out everything else. 

But by the time he finally stepped back to admire the finished masterpiece, he was already tangled in something far worse—weeks of dealing with a complicated, unrequited love story. He scowled at the thought. 

Khalen, you jerk. But fine. That was over now. He had moved on. He wanted to sculpt for himself, to create something without expectations, without obligation.

 And yet, here he is. Instead of the freedom he had been waiting for, he is now dealing with something even more annoying—a King who refused to let him leave. 

Problem after problem. Wow.

For the first two weeks, Pyrus worked tirelessly, shaping the rough form of his sculpture while adjusting to the Black Ichored Marble. He tested its weight, learned its density, and searched for its weaknesses—where it might crack under pressure, where the grain ran strongest. Every mistake was met with swift correction. A thin thread of magic, barely controlled, acted as a temporary adhesive whenever he carved too deep or struck too hard.

Magic wasn’t something he used often. In Renkli Rüzgar, he was free to practice without the Council’s restrictions, without his mentor—or grandfather’s—watchful eye reminding him of his unlicensed status. But none of that mattered now.

What else had he done? Ah, right. The King.

For three consecutive days, the King had appeared in his workshop, repeating the same polite but insistent request. A generous offer. A golden opportunity. A future in Renkli Rüzgar. Pyrus had stopped listening by the second visit.

By the third, he had enough. He commissioned a door—a grand, heavy barrier to seal the open archway leading to his workspace. The message was clear: He had no time for persuasion. No interest in politics. Only the sculpture mattered. He had also installed a lock, ensuring that for the first time since arriving, he could work without interruption.

As for his studies? Bare minimum. His mentor—his grandfather—had noticed. Of course, he had. But for once, Pyrus didn’t care. The sculpture came first. Everything else could wait.

The third week arrived. Galenthes was finally taking shape. The figure was recognizable now, human features clear but still incomplete. Even without the finer details, his posture was confident, his muscles defined—a presence, even in silence.

By the fourth and fifth weeks, Pyrus had begun carving the details—the curve of the lips, the angles of the jaw, the slope of the nose. His favorite part? The abs. Obviously. Not that he’d ever admit it out loud.

The statue’s pose had been carefully chosen. Galenthes sat in a relaxed yet striking position—one leg bent at the knee, foot planted firmly on the base, while the other extended outward, grounding him. His arm rested lazily over the bent knee, fingers barely curled, while his other hand pressed against the base as if holding his weight. The posture was effortless, almost too natural for something made of stone.

It was the pose of someone completely at ease, yet aware of his own presence. As if he knew he was meant to be looked at.

However, he was working longer hours than ever, barely sleeping, sometimes forgetting to eat. Not enough to collapse, but enough that people noticed. His fellow scholars barely saw him anymore. He turned down invitations, waved off concerned glances, ignored knocks at his door.

Even his grandfather had spoken up once. Just once.

“You’ve been skipping meals.”

That was all he said. No lectures. No orders. Just an observation. But Pyrus could hear the warning behind it.

He didn’t answer. He just kept working.

By the eighth week, Pyrus stood in the center of his workshop, arms crossed as he studied the statue from a distance. It was nearly finished.

Nearly.

He reached for his sketchbook, flipping through the pages. Drawings upon drawings of the same face, the same posture, the same intense gaze. He muttered under his breath, testing the sound.

“Galenthes.”

It fits.

Still, more details. The hair. The fingers. The eyelashes—should they be longer? He’d figure it out. He always did.

The ninth week arrived. To everyone else, the statue was beautiful, a flawless masterpiece. To Pyrus, it was almost there.

But almost wasn’t enough.

He was sitting on the floor, legs stretched out, studying Galenthes’ face. The last part—the eyes—still weren’t carved. He kept putting them off. Not out of laziness, not out of hesitation, but because…

Because it needs to be perfect.

A knock on the door broke his thoughts. He exhaled, irritation flaring.

Not again.

“Your Majesty, I alrea—”

“Pyrus.”

He froze.

That voice wasn’t the King’s.

It was his grandfather’s.

The two stood by the open arch, the cool evening breeze rolling past them, carrying the distant voices of merchants still calling out their wares below. The scent of spices lingered in the air—warm, sharp, unmistakably Renkli Rüzgar. The sun had begun its slow descent, casting deep orange hues across the city, washing it in gold.

“I’ll be straightforward with you, kid.” His grandfather exhaled, arms crossed. “You’ve been obsessed with that statue.”

Pyrus forced a smile. “Uhm…” His voice came out lighter than it should have—casual, as if he wasn’t already bracing for this conversation.

He kept his eyes on the horizon. Didn’t even glance at him.

His grandfather wasn’t fooled.

“Before the wedding, you were barely sleeping. After the wedding, you weren’t sleeping at all.” His voice was steady, but persistent. “You’ve always thrown yourself into your work, but this—this is something else. What’s wrong?”

Pyrus gave a weak chuckle, rubbing the back of his neck. “Nothing. I just wanted to sculpt, haha.”

His grandfather exhaled through his nose, nodding slightly. Like he had expected that answer.

“Then let me ask you something else.” A pause. “Why are you sculpting?”

Pyrus’ stomach twisted.

A flicker of déjà vu ran through him, the weight of a familiar question pressing down on his shoulders.

He swallowed, but his throat felt dry.

Still, his pride refused to let him answer.

The silence stretched. His grandfather didn’t push—just waited. Patient. Steady. Unshaken.

“…What are your plans?” he finally asked. “I’ve been wondering. Why not take the King’s offer—”

“I don’t know.”

The words slipped out before Pyrus could stop them. A crack in the dam.

He exhaled once more, slower this time. “Back then, at the wedding… that was the only thing I knew. I sculpt for love. I fantasize about romance.” His fingers gripped the fabric of his robe. “Other than that… I don’t even know what my plans are.”

The admission left a strange weight in his chest.

His grandfather hummed, then looked out at the city below. He was quiet for a moment, as if considering something. Then, finally—

“Kid,” he said, voice quieter now. “Life is so much more than love.”

Pyrus’ breath caught.

He wasn’t sure why, but the words hit something deep—something raw, something he wasn’t ready to face yet—

“…And life is so much more than Khalen.”

His stomach dropped.

His fingers curled further, twisting the fabric of his robes before he even noticed. A strange pressure built up in his chest—tight, uncomfortable, like a chisel pressed too hard against stone. He swallowed, forcing himself to stay still.

Slowly, he turned to his grandfather, wishing for his expression to remain steady. But his eyes betrayed him for a fraction of a second—widening, then quickly narrowing, masking the shock before it could settle.

His voice came quieter this time. “How did you know?”

His grandfather hesitated.

His lips parted slightly, then pressed shut again. His brow furrowed, deep lines casting shadows over his weathered face. His fingers twitched as if debating whether to keep his arms crossed or let them drop to his sides.

Then, finally—

“You two were… close before.”

Pyrus stiffened.

Before.

Past tense.

A door already shut. A moment already gone.

He forced out a scoff, arms crossing over his chest. “Yeah? And?” His voice came out sharper than he intended. “I moved on.”

The words left a strange weight behind them. They felt like a shield. Something flimsy. Something weak.

His gaze flickered toward the unfinished sculpture. An excuse. A way out.

“I have better things to do, like this sculpture.”

He turned sharply, walking back toward his workspace. If he focused—if he worked—maybe the ache in his chest would fade.

His grandfather didn’t stop him. He didn’t need to. His voice followed after him instead, steady and unwavering.

“Then why are you obsessed with it?”

Pyrus froze. His fists clenched.

“I’ve never seen you like this before,” the old man continued. “You’ve barely touched your part in our research. I even bought extra blocks of that marble for you—thought it might help, or at least make you happy. But you aren’t happy, Pyrus.”

“It’s been months,” Pyrus snapped, too fast, too sharp.

Had it?

“I already moved on from Khalen.”

His heartbeat pounded against his ribs. His grandfather didn’t even need to say anything immediately. He just looked at him.

“Then why does it still hurt?”

The words hung heavy in the air.

Pyrus gritted his teeth. He couldn’t say anything.

His grandfather let out a slow, measured sigh. “Kid… do you even love yourself?”

It stung.

Most of his peers had someone. Everyone had someone. Even his own sculptures had love stories carved into them.

And him?

Is Fate really that cruel?

A hand settled gently on his shoulder. “Instead of chasing romance, maybe try looking at the people who already love you.”

The words settled in his chest, heavy and unshakable. The realization came slow, creeping in like the tide—steady, undeniable, pulling him under. His breath hitched, shallow and uneven. His vision blurred at the edges, but he refused to blink, as if that could hold it all back.

But before he could stop it, a single tear slipped down his cheek.

His fingers twitched against his robes. Slowly, hesitantly, he lifted his gaze.

His grandfather watched him—not with pity, not with expectation, just quiet understanding. He didn’t reach out. Didn’t offer empty reassurances. Instead, he pulled a chisel and hammer from his belt, setting them down on the workbench with a quiet clink.

“Well then,” he murmured, voice steady. “I don’t mind helping you with your statue. But you need to rest.”

Pyrus stared at the tools for a long moment. Then, finally—finally—he nodded.

And when he smiled, it wasn’t forced.

It was real.

The grandfather and grandson duo sat on the floor, a mix of exhaustion and relief coursing through their bodies as they looked at the finished statue—black as night, just as the merchant had described.

Veins of gold streaked through the marble, catching the dim light, giving the illusion that something pulsed beneath the surface. Even in stillness, the figure carried an undeniable presence.

Pyrus exhaled, rolling his stiff shoulders. His hands, coated in a fine layer of stone dust and gold, rested limply in his lap. He had spent weeks chiseling every detail—the slope of the nose, the curve of the lips, the relaxed yet confident posture. And now, it was done.

For a moment, neither of them spoke. His grandfather studied the statue, fingers absently running over his knee. Then, with a low hum, he finally broke the silence.

“You never told me you were into men with longer hair.”

Pyrus snorted, letting his head drop back towards the cool stone floor. “I’m into refined muscles,” he corrected, then shot a smug glance at the sculpted figure. “Which, might I remind you, are also very obvious.”

His grandfather shook his head, the corners of his mouth twitching in amusement. “Maybe if you joined the military, you’d find one like your ideal man.”

“Pfft. Me? Military?” Pyrus scoffed, waving a hand dismissively. “You said it yourself before, absolutely not. Besides, I’d snap like a twig.”

The old man let out a chuckle but said nothing more, his gaze lingering on the finished work. He studied the sharp jawline, the carved smirk, the deliberate tension in the muscles. Then, after a moment, he spoke again.

“You’ve named him, haven’t you?”

Pyrus hesitated, then nodded. “…Galenthes.”

His grandfather raised a brow. “Galenthes?”

“It suits him,” Pyrus said simply, staring at the statue’s face.

The old man hummed, his expression unreadable. Sounds like Galatea— and a Patrian-ized version of Khalen. He thought it, but wisely kept it to himself.

Instead, he stretched out his legs with a quiet groan, pushing himself up to stand. “Well then. Congratulations, kid. You’ve officially named a statue.”

Pyrus huffed. “It’s called a vision. Besides, you do it too.”

His grandfather smirked but didn’t argue. He ruffled Pyrus’ already messy hair before turning toward the archway. “Just don’t forget to sleep, alright?”

“I will,” Pyrus muttered, though they both knew that was a lie.

His grandfather chuckled softly—like he knew better—but didn’t push. He walked away, his footsteps slow and steady.

Tap.

Tap.

Tap.

The sound of footsteps faded down the hall, swallowed by the vast silence of the workshop. The door had barely shut, yet the absence it left behind was heavy. The lingering warmth of another presence vanished, leaving only the distant murmur of the city below. But even that, too, felt distant. Muffled.

And just like that, Pyrus was alone.

His gaze remained fixed on Galenthes—studying every fine detail, every carved imperfection, every delicate curve. He had spent weeks chiseling those lines, smoothing the marble, shaping each feature with precision, yet even now, his fingers itched for the tools. The statue was still. Lifeless. Cold. And yet, standing there, staring at the motionless figure, Pyrus felt something stir inside him—something he couldn’t quite name.

The room felt quieter than before. The flickering lanterns above cast elongated shadows, the warm glow barely reaching the vast space. Outside, the world carried on, with merchants calling out their wares and laughter drifting through the air, but within these walls, everything else ceased to exist. Just silence. Just him and Galenthes.

His breath came slow, uneven. The weight of exhaustion clung to his limbs, but his hands moved of their own accord. His fingers brushed over the statue’s cheek—cool and unyielding beneath his touch. Smooth as river stone. He lingered, letting the pads of his fingers trace the sharp cut of the jaw, the slope of the nose, the gentle curve of the lips. It was a perfect face, one sculpted from his own vision, yet somehow… it felt unfamiliar now. 

A strange thought stirred at the edges of his mind, unbidden yet persistent—what if he came to life? Like Pygmalion’s Galatea.

His gaze softened. A quiet, almost wistful smile tugged at the corner of his lips. It was a ridiculous fantasy, something straight out of myths and fairy tales. And yet, the thought refused to leave him.

He should have stepped back. Should have laughed at himself. Should have ignored the strange pull at his chest, the restless ache buried deep within him.

But he didn’t.

His eyes fluttered shut.

And then—his lips met stone.

For a moment, there was nothing. Just the familiar, polished surface beneath his touch. Cool, unmoving, unyielding.

Then—there.

A spark.

A flicker of warmth, so faint he almost convinced himself it wasn’t real. A tingling sensation ghosted across his skin—subtle, lingering, like something unseen had stirred. His breath hitched, fingers pressing against marble for confirmation.

Had he imagined it?

Then, a glow.

Gold.

It was brief, barely more than a whisper of light against the marble. The faintest shimmer along the carved lips. It flickered, dancing in the dim lamplight, and for the smallest fraction of a second, it almost felt as though the statue itself had responded.

And then—it was gone.

Pyrus jolted back, heart slamming against his ribs. His breath came in short, sharp bursts, his fingers tingling as if the magic had lingered just a moment too long. His body tensed, every nerve alight, waiting, expecting something—anything—to happen.

His gaze snapped to Galenthes’ face, searching desperately for a sign, some indication that what he saw wasn’t a trick of the light. But the statue remained still, carved lips frozen in that same smirk, unmoving as ever.

Had he imagined it?

His mind spun, logic and fear warring inside him. His hands trembled, the tips of his fingers grazing his own lips as if they could still feel the warmth that had no right to be there.

His throat bobbed as he swallowed hard.

That… that couldn’t have been real. Could it?

Crack.

A thin fissure split across the bridge of the statue’s nose, a spark of gold flickering from within.

Crack.

The fracture widened. Light bled from the break, pulsing, growing—alive.

Pyrus took a step back, instinct overriding reason.

Then—

A blinding flash erupted from the statue, swallowing the room in gold.

Pyrus let out sharp, uneven breaths, his chest rising and falling as he frantically waved away the golden dust lingering in the air. His vision swam, still adjusting to the aftershock of the explosion of light, but even through the haze, he saw it—

A figure.

A silhouette moving through the golden mist, walking toward him.

Pyrus’ breath hitched. His heart slammed against his ribs. No. No, no, this wasn’t possible.

The figure stepped forward, slow and deliberate, until the light finally faded enough for Pyrus to see.

A man.

Tall. Confident. His bare skin, rich like cinnamon, carried an unnatural glow, as if the remnants of magic still clung to him. His dark hair, long and tousled, framed his sharp features—high cheekbones, strong jaw, lips curled into a faint smirk. But his eyes—

His eyes were blue.

A shade that burned like ice, cutting through Pyrus like a blade.

Alive.

Pyrus staggered back. His lungs struggled for air, but it was as if the whole room had collapsed around him. This wasn’t real. He had read about this. Joked about it. Dreamed about it in fleeting, foolish moments.

But that’s all it was supposed to be. A dream.

Not this.

Not a statue stepping forward like he had always belonged in this body. Not a pair of blue eyes staring at him, seeing him.

The man’s lips parted. Then—

He smirked.

“So this is what it feels like to be handsome and alive.” His voice was deep, rough at the edges, like he had just woken from a long sleep.

Pyrus’ stomach plummeted.

His body screamed at him to move, to do something—but he was frozen, caught in the space between fear and disbelief.

No. No, no, no.

His gaze darted wildly, looking for proof that this wasn’t happening. That he was imagining things. The tools on his desk were still there, untouched. The marble dust from his last carving session still coated the floor. Everything in the room was normal.

Everything except this.

The man—his man—tilted his head slightly, watching him with amused curiosity. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

Pyrus opened his mouth, but nothing came out.

The stranger took another step forward—then stopped. His smirk faltered for the first time. His brows furrowed, his body shifting as though something unseen had just pulled at him.

And then—

He knelt.

Pyrus’ blood ran cold.

It wasn’t a graceful motion. Not a bow. Not an act of submission. It was instinctive—as if something in his very being had commanded it before his mind could catch up.

Slowly, he lowered himself, head slightly bowed. His strong frame dipped with eerie ease, the movement carrying weight, something ancient—something Pyrus did not want to name.

“My King,” the man murmured.

The world lurched.

Pyrus felt his chest constrict, his stomach twisting violently. His knees nearly buckled. The title rang in his ears, louder than anything else in the suffocating silence of the workshop.

No. No, no, he didn’t just say that.

“I—I’m not—” Pyrus’ voice cracked.

The man’s brows knit together. He blinked, as if waking from a trance. His lips parted slightly, confusion flickering across his face.

“…Why did I say that?”

Pyrus’ breath came short, shallow. His head spun. His hands trembled at his sides.

The stranger glanced down at himself, flexing his fingers like he was testing their movement for the first time. His gaze flickered back up to Pyrus, studying him with genuine curiosity.

“You look shaken,” he noted, tilting his head slightly. Then, as if completely unaffected by the weight of this moment, he smirked again. “Is it because I’m devastatingly attractive?”

Pyrus’ brain short-circuited.

His face burned—not from embarrassment, but from sheer, absolute disbelief.

This is not what he should be worried about.

He should be worried about the fact that he just brought a statue to life.

He should be worried that this man—this thing—had instinctively knelt before him.

He should be worried that nothing about this made sense.

Instead, he was blushing.

Gods, I need to get my priorities straight.

Pyrus took a sharp breath, gripping the sides of his robe as if that alone could ground him. He needed to think.

He needed to figure out what had just happened.

Because if this was what he thought it was…

Then he was in more danger than he could even begin to comprehend.

[jinxecret]

JINXECRET Works

Hello! I'm a writer and an artist, currently making my novel,

"Crowns of Laurel"

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

More chapters to come!

[jinxecret]

Crowns of Laurel Chapter 1

Romance. That’s all that he wanted. 

Far from home— his kingdom, a lone figure slouched over his mahogany desk, its surface littered with crumpled papers. Strands of ashy brown hair fell messily over his face, casting shadows over his exhausted features. Contrary to his fair and soft skin, dark circles were carved beneath his eyes, telling a story of sleepless nights.

The room around him was grand. Tall marble columns lined the walls, their surfaces carved with intricate floral patterns, remnants of an older era. The domed ceiling was painted in faded blue and gold leaf, the edges chipping away like dead leaves in autumn. Heavy silk curtains in deep crimson and midnight blue framed the arched windows, though they were drawn half-shut, somehow suffocating the room with stagnant air. The scent of burnt incense clung to the rugs, woven with geometric designs, and the cool tiles beneath bore the weight of history—stories whispered by the feet of scholars and poets.

A familiar sensation stirred in his chest, pulling him from his restless slumber. His eyes fluttered open, greeted by the golden morning light. However, ironically, warmth did not follow. Instead, the sunlight only deepened the ache inside him, dredging up something unwelcome. A silhouette. A memory. A face he could almost touch. Frustration curled in his gut, and with a groan, he buried his head in his arms.

 "Damn it, I need to stop this." His voice was hoarse, barely above a whisper. "We weren’t even together. Not even close." He let out a bitter chuckle, shaking his head. "And it’s not like I could’ve known he was…” 

He exhaled sharply instead. The weight of the past clung to him, thick as the incense-laden air. He tilted his head and let his gaze drift to the ceiling, where faded gold and blue met in swirling patterns of a forgotten work of art.

What a cruel joke.

A faint knock broke the heavy silence, barely enough to pull him from his thoughts. It grounded him—if only for a moment—forcing him to push away the lingering haze of his emotions.

“Pyrus, we’ll be leaving in ten minutes.”

The voice was muffled through the thick, varnished door of deep chocolate wood, its intricate carvings barely visible in the dim light.

He exhaled slowly, his head still resting on his forearm. Do I have to? The thought pressed against his already weary mind. He had neither the energy nor the will to move.

His gaze drifted to the parchment sprawled across his desk—a letter made of fine papyrus, edges slightly curled. The scholarship letter. A reminder of why he was here in the first place. An international fine arts student, handpicked for a prestigious program, given the chance to travel the world and study beauty in its purest form. For seven months, he had chased the art his homeland once worshiped.

It had been thrilling at first—wandering through foreign streets, tracing his fingers over the sculptures of forgotten masters, breathing in the scent of oil paints and chiseled stone.

But falling in love?

That had never been part of the plan. And it had ruined everything. 

“Remember, you are chosen.” 

This phrase alone (even if it was hardly heard) from the old man behind the door felt like a snap. 

Khalen may not have chosen him, but he was chosen by the program— by his kingdom. He won’t let any foreigner drag him down.

He rushed to his bed, reaching for his trunk—its wooden surface adorned with golden laurel carvings. He refused to wallow in his emotions; tonight, he would present himself at his best. As he turned to the side, his gaze landed on a tall figure draped in patterned textile—a concealed surprise waiting to be unveiled.

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Far beyond his reach, a man stood, all mushy andlovesick with his date—at least, that’s how Pyrus bitterly thought of it. Yet, despite the ache twisting in his chest, his hazel eyes refused to look away. They traced every detail of the man he could never have.

Khalen.

Dark hair like polished ebony. Warm, cinnamon-toned skin. Pyrus remembered that scent well—cinnamon. Not because Khalen wore it, but because Pyrus had.

And everyone hated it.

“Gods, Pyrus, what is that smell?” someone had groaned once, waving a hand in front of their nose. “You smell like a spice rack.”

“It’s disgusting. Too strong.”

“It clings to everything—do you bathe in it?”

He’d almost stopped wearing it after that. Almost.

But then—

“It suits you,” Khalen had said, in that calm, sure voice. No mockery. No disgust. Just certainty. Back then, he had stood close—closer than usual. And Pyrus had been stupid enough to hope.

Or maybe that was just wishful thinking.

His thick eyebrows gave him a naturally strong presence, making him seem even more composed in the dim lantern glow. And tonight, dressed in the finery of Renkli Rüzgar, he looked perfect. His short, fitted kaftan, woven in dark shades with silver embroidery, struck the balance between subtlety and elegance. The structured cut suited him, sharpening his already poised stance. Beneath it, loose silk garments softened the look, the contrast making him seem effortlessly refined. A sash of deep reds and blues wrapped around his waist, adding a touch of vibrancy.

And then there was the pendant. A precious jewelry from his home, Akhenaten. This smooth carnelian stone rested against his collarbone, catching the light as he absently adjusted it—an unconscious habit Pyrus had seen a hundred times before.

And next to him…

Pyrus swallowed hard.

The woman was beautiful. Undeniably, unfairly beautiful. Blue eyes bright as sapphires, long golden locks cascading down her back like a fairytale princess. Her skin was smooth, flawless, her lips a plump shade of ripe apples, curved into a soft, effortless smile. She radiated warmth. Softness. A dream standing beside him.

And Khalen—he looked at her lips.

Pyrus felt something crack inside him.

Then, as if sensing it, Khalen’s gaze suddenly flickered—meeting his.

For a heartbeat, Pyrus froze. Hope sparked in his chest, something reckless urging him to raise his hand, to wave, to acknowledge that moment.

But then Khalen looked away. Cut the eye contact like it burned.

And in his eyes, Pyrus swore he saw unease—

He shook his head, trying to snap out of it, and telling himself he never had the right. It feels wrong.

Ting!

The chime of glass cut through the air, silencing the quiet murmurs of the crowd. Pyrus’s wandering thoughts scattered, yanked back to the present.

The grand hall of the palace felt like stepping into a living painting—every corner adorned in gold and deep jewel tones, the walls covered in shifting geometric patterns that seemed alive under the candlelight. Towering marble columns lined the perimeter, each carved with floral motifs. The domed ceiling stretched high, a masterpiece full of shimmering mosaics, depicting blooming gardens and mythical birds spreading their gilded wings across the surface.

The hall was arranged in a manner befitting royalty. At the front, the banquet table stood elevated on a low platform, reserved for the royal family. It was a long, lavish spread—platters of roasted meats, fresh fruits, jeweled rice, and golden pastries gleamed under the candlelight, their rich aromas mingling with the scent of incense that drifted through the air. Engraved silver goblets stood beside porcelain plates, and silk napkins embroidered with golden thread rested neatly beside them.

Beyond the banquet table, round tables filled the hall, draped in deep crimson cloth and set with polished silverware. Nobles, scholars, and esteemed guests sat in elegant chairs, their laughter and hushed words adding a quiet undertone to the atmosphere. Servants, dressed in muted tones to contrast the dazzling attire of the guests, moved gracefully between tables, refilling goblets of honeyed wine and placing fresh dishes before the attendees.

At the center of the hall lay an open space—a polished floor, its surface gleaming like still oceans of gold. Patterns of intertwining vines and stars were embedded into the stone, reflecting the candlelight from the grand chandelier above. The space was meant for celebration, where dancers would soon twirl to the rhythm of drums and lutes, their silk garments billowing with movement.

Above it all, a grand chandelier of pure gold hung at the center of the dome covered in mosaic. The chandelier is massive and ornate, along with its many arms cradling flickering candles. Their soft glow cast waltzing shadows across the hall, dancing between the elegantly dressed guests.

At the banquet table stood the man who had silenced the room with a simple raise of his glass.

His crown was a work of art, carved with complex patterns that told stories of lineage and power. 

Beside him, the queen sat with quiet poise, her embroidered veil cascading over her shoulders like a river of silk. Next to them, the newlywed couple stood in their wedding attire, their garments rich in color and meaning. Gold and deep crimson adorned their robes, the embroidered patterns whispering of prosperity, unity, and the heavy legacy now resting upon their shoulders.

Together, they were the very image of power.

As he gave a speech, Pyrus couldn’t help but not listen— he can hear but not listen to every word. His mind is clouded once more with his own problems— like the fact that a different chorus reached him instead—hushed voices, sharp as knives, whispers are slithering between his colleagues like venom.

“Men shouldn’t date men.”

“Didn’t he try to steal—”

“Shh! He’ll hear you!”

The words clung to him more than the speech ever could. Their weight pressed against his spine, each syllable seems like a quiet accusation and an unspoken exile. He knew better than to react, but his fingers curled slightly against his silk sash, gripping at nothing.

They know nothing.

“Did you sleep at all?”

A familiar voice cut through his thoughts, warm and steady.

Pyrus turned instinctively, a flicker of hope crossing his eyes before settling into relief. “Grandpa.” He exhaled, his posture loosening—though the awkward stiffness in his shoulders remained. “A little. Just… nervous about today, haha.”

It was a lie. It’s not about the wedding.

His grandfather hummed knowingly. “I’ve known you too long to believe that.”

Pyrus swallowed. “Mhm.” He nodded, forcing a small smile on his lips. His grandfather had been his anchor ever since his father—once a soldier—had died defending the council. The thought lingered in his mind before a question surfaced.

“You never asked me to join the military like he did. Why?”

His grandfather sighed, looking at him with something between fondness and certainty. “Because I know you, Pyrus. You’ve lived under my mentorship for a decade.” He paused for a moment.

“And it’s always been obvious—your place is in art.”

His grandfather then gave him a look. A knowing one. The kind that made Pyrus shift uncomfortably before the old man smirked.

“Besides,” he continued, voice light with amusement, “most boys your age were staring at paintings of goddesses. You? Abs made of marble.”

Pyrus choked on air and took a step back, “What?”

“Oh, don’t ‘what’ me. You call it ‘appreciating fine art.’ I call it staring at sculpted men for too long.” 

“That is not—”

“You spent more than three hours sketching one statue’s proportions.”

“It was a detailed study!”

“Right. Very detailed.” His grandfather laughed, giving him a pat on the back before taking a sip from his goblet. “I knew before you did, kid.”

His grandfather only chuckled, taking another sip from his goblet. “You’re up.”

“What?”

“The gift.”

Pyrus’s eyes widened in recollection. “Oh, right!”

He jolted upright, heart skipping a beat as the realization hit him. In all his sulking and self-pity, he had almost forgotten the flow of the program—the reason he was even here in the first place.

Straightening his posture, he made his way to the front, slipping past nobles and scholars alike. At the back of the grand hall, he spotted it—the veiled masterpiece he had spent weeks perfecting. With a hum of magic, the floor shimmered, a glowing portal opening beneath it. Slowly, the sculpture began to ascend, carried forward by invisible forces, until it emerged just behind the royal family, positioned for its grand reveal.

The hall hushed in anticipation.

Pyrus took a deep breath. This was it.

Pyrus pulled the patterned cloth away, unveiling his masterpiece.

Gasps rippled through the hall as candlelight danced across the sculpture’s surface, illuminating the lifelike details of the newlyweds cast in stone. The figures stood in an intimate embrace with a single crown resting between them, as if they were sharing it—equal in power, bound by love.

Golden embellishments adorned their clothing, catching the flickering light. Their robes bore the geometric patterns of Renkli Rüzgar, each design painted with delicate strokes of gold, a tribute to the kingdom’s artistry. The fine lines weaved across the fabric in dazzling symmetry, their beauty making the figures feel less like cold stone and more like something alive—something divine.

For a moment, there was only silence. Then, a slow clap rang through the air, breaking the stillness. Another followed. Then another.

Applause swelled, rolling through the grand hall like a crashing wave. Nobles and scholars murmured in admiration, leaning forward to take in every detail. Some whispered about the craftsmanship, others about the sheer devotion captured in the sculpture’s stance. The way the figures seemed to breathe, the way their love was carved so tenderly into unyielding stone—it was something beyond mere talent.

Pyrus let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. His heart pounded in his chest, but not with nerves anymore. This—this moment—was his.

The applause gradually faded, but the admiration lingered in the air like the scent of burning incense. The king, who had been standing all along, took a step closer to the sculpture, his golden crown catching the candlelight as he examined the details with an unreadable expression.

“This…” he said at last, his voice rich and steady, “is not simply a gift. It is devotion carved in stone.”

The queen tilted her head, a pleased smile playing on her lips. “Such precision,” she mused, tracing the air with her fingers as if outlining the golden geometric embellishments. “You do not just sculpt, young man. You breathe life into art.”

The prince, still in awe, walked closer to the statue and ran his hand gently over the painted folds of his stone counterpart’s robes. “You have honored us beyond words.” he said, his tone filled with genuine appreciation. 

His bride, her eyes gleaming with delight, turned to Pyrus with a radiant smile. “Generations from now, when they see this, they will not just remember our wedding,” she said softly. “They will remember the artist who made it.”

A murmur of agreement spread through the nobles, admiration flickering in their gazes—though some held a more calculating gleam.

Then, the king spoke once more, his voice carrying through the hall. “With skills such as this…” He turned his sharp gaze to Pyrus. “It is a wonder Patria has not already raised you to a position of greatness.” He let the words settle before continuing, “A sculptor of your talent deserves more than fleeting recognition. Renkli Rüzgar could give you something greater. A place among us.”

A hushed ripple went through the hall. This was not mere praise. This was an invitation. A temptation.

And suddenly, Pyrus felt the weight of every eye in the room, waiting for his answer. 

He placed a hand on the back of his head with a forced smile—a habit he had developed whenever he felt pressured—before saying, “I appreciate your invitation, but I must humbly decline. I already belong to Patria.”

Gasps filled the air. How could someone say no to the Royal Family?

The King responded with a smile, but his eyes told a different story. 

“Tell me, boy,” he said, his voice steady, carrying the weight of authority. “What is it that you truly desire?”

Pyrus hesitated. He knew what was expected of him—a polished answer, a firm declaration—but the words caught in his throat. Did he truly know?

The silence in the hall stretched, thick and unyielding. A flicker of something—doubt, curiosity—passed through the King’s expression before he spoke again, his tone measured yet insistent.

“Speak truly, sculptor. What is it that you seek?” the King asked, his voice calm yet commanding. His gaze bore into Pyrus, as if peeling away any rehearsed answers before they could form.

Then, after a pause, he spoke again.

“Why do you sculpt?”

Pyrus swallowed hard, his throat suddenly dry under the weight of the King’s gaze. His pulse quickened, but he steadied himself, forcing his voice to remain even.

“In my homeland, there is an old legend,” he began, his fingers twitching at his sides. “A tale of a king who carved the figure of his ideal love from stone. And in return for his devotion, the Goddess Aphrodite took pity on him—she breathed life into his creation, answering his prayers.”

He hesitated for a moment, then let out a small, sheepish chuckle. “I suppose, in a way… I sculpt for love.”

Silence hung in the air for a moment—until a sharp cackle broke through the stillness. Laughter rippled through the hall, guests chuckling in unison, their amusement filling the space.

Everyone except the King.

Pyrus felt heat rise to his face, his gaze dropping as embarrassment crept in. I should have kept that to myself.

Then, with effortless authority, the King raised a hand. The laughter died instantly—a single gesture was all it took to command the room.

Pyrus lifted his chin, forcing himself to meet the King’s gaze once more. The King studied him for a moment, unreadable as ever, before finally speaking.

“Have you found this love you seek?”

Pyrus’ heart sank. By instinct, his eyes swept across the grand hall, searching—until they landed on a familiar figure amidst the crowd. Khalen. But the moment their gazes could have met, the other man looked away, lost in conversation, unaware—or perhaps unwilling—to acknowledge him.

A dull ache settled in Pyrus’ chest. He forced himself to swallow it down.

“…No,” he admitted, his voice quieter this time, the weight of the word pressing heavy on his tongue.

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Pyrus flopped onto his bed, the moonlight casting pale streaks across his room, despite its colorful paints and textiles. His mind replayed the night’s events—the way laughter had echoed through the grand hall, the weight of the King’s words, and his own foolish admission. He had embarrassed himself, voicing a fantasy that could never be answered with a mere prayer.

But it was the truth.

Art had always been his solace, his way of translating the emotions he couldn’t speak aloud. Every brushstroke, every chisel against stone—it was all an attempt to capture something just out of reach.

Love.

And yet, no matter how many statues he carved, how many faces he painted with longing, the warmth he sought remained absent. 

He tilted his head, his gaze landing on the painting resting against the floor, leaning carelessly against the wall. It was freshly finished—depicting a couple entwined in an intimate embrace, half-submerged in a river that shimmered under an unseen light. Lotus flowers floated idly across the water’s surface, their petals delicate and open, symbols of longing and purity.

Pyrus exhaled, his chest rising and falling with the weight of unspoken emotions. He had poured everything into that piece—every stolen glance, every quiet yearning he had never dared voice. But no matter how much warmth he painted into their embrace, how much tenderness he traced into their expressions, it was still just a painting. A love that would never be his.

He curled his fists, inhaling sharply before forcing himself to his feet. Enough. He couldn’t keep moping like this.

With renewed determination, he strode toward his desk, yanking open a drawer and snatching a sheet of paper. The drawer slammed shut with a loud thump, but he barely noticed. His fingers curled around a pencil, pressing it against the page with an almost reckless energy.

“Screw Khalen,” Pyrus huffed, gripping his pencil like a dagger. Frustration burned in his chest, but instead of sulking, he channeled it into something better. His hand flew across the page, lines forming with reckless speed. “Fine! I’ll just make my own perfect man—way better than him!”

His strokes were bold, fueled by spite and a touch of manic energy. The shape of a face emerged—strong, confident. Thick brows. He paused. His eye twitched. No no no not him— Damn it. Fine. He can keep the brows. But the rest? Oh, the rest was going to be superior.

A sharper jawline. A more intense gaze. He sketched broad shoulders, toned arms, and a smirk so devastating it could break hearts on sight. And since this was his creation, why stop there?

Longer hair. Better hair. A warrior’s build—defined abs, obviously. His pencil moved faster. Khalen could never have abs. His grin widened. And, well… might as well go all out.

And obviously… he bit the inside of his cheek, hesitating only briefly before sketching lower. 

“Oh,” he whispered, staring at his work. 

By the time he lifted his pencil, his heart was pounding—not from heartbreak, but excitement. Love.

[jinxecret]

Crowns of Laurel

Final book cover for a legend that repeats.

[jinxecret]

Art style change... again... wow...